#rayleigh sharpe

[lvmimis]

cw: during the 2-year time skip. reader is a member of luffy's crew and was staying on amazon lily. fluff. selfship-coded.

You wonder sometimes if a small part of you is being cruel.

After all, the Pirate Empress is overt and honest about her feelings, written clearly on her features, her heart on her sleeve, and you… you remain complicated, poorly understood within the realms of follower-like devotion, platonic love and romantic obsession. Coming to her like this, head lowered and on your knees is a foul move, knowing that no matter how much you irk her, you’re protected by the fact that Luffy cares about you and would not be happy to see her harm you, which only serves to torment her more.

“What do you want?”

She asks, but she already knows. Why else would you prostrate yourself before her like this, rather than remain politely amongst her ranks as the Kuja, learning under the medicine women and the trained fighters?

Your head remains lowered politely as you keep your eyes focused on the ground before her dangling foot, the other leg crossed. The two of you speak notably privately, her entourage of sisters and close attendants no longer around her. Oil lamps flicker around you two almost ritualistically, the shifting shadows adding dimension to her already ethereally beautiful face.

“I know Rayleigh said no visitors, but I just wish I could-”

“No.”

Hancock’s voice is sharp, and a lump forms almost instantly in your throat, but you expected no less. Letting out a deep inhale, you look up at her immediately, and to both of your surprises, your voice is steady as you insist.

“Please let me see him.”

Boa blinks once, then matches the fierceness of your gaze. Leaning forward, her hand stretches out to you, fingers cupping your face as you stand rock steady, manicured fingernails grazing gently on your cheeks.

“Are you arguing with me?” The coolness of her voice is evident, and she’s sultry enough that it’s hard to ascertain whether or not she sees you as a romantic rival or an easy conquest, a fleeting thought of whether or not her Mero Mero no Mi could work on you, turning you into a statue and no longer an eyesore. You can feel your heart rate begin to pick up, but you don’t avert your gaze. Not now. Cool extremities turn warm again.

When you were a child, your mother told you you had a funny internal clock. Timing that was always a little too correct, an intuition for your loved ones that was a little too precise. 

That internal timekeeper says now is the time to see him. Now is the time that Hancock will agree, and now is the time a familiar face will renew Luffy’s resolve, and now is the time you should settle your worry to rest.

“No. I am only asking for your help.”

Hancock’s blue eyes attempt to pierce through your very soul, her palm ice cold. Yet something she sees in your eyes for a moment causes her to soften, like something sharp yet pliable running up against resistance. You’re going to go no matter what, she realizes. Whether she likes it or not, and if you hurt yourself in the process, it only makes her life more difficult.

Will you promise to be nice to her while I’m gone?

Boa sighs. Her hand slips from your face despondently and she settles back in her throne.

“Get up. You look pathetic.”

You pause for a moment, and she hisses a repeat order. You move faster this time.

She looks you up and down once again, and attempts to look bored, but the truth is your eyes bother her when you’re like this.

“Rayleigh leaves in a week. We can make a quick trip to the island, going no further than the shore. You may confirm that Luffy is alive from afar. It’ll be a short visit as I can only take the blame from Rayleigh for so long. After all, I am not helping you. I’m also interested in seeing him as well.”

Boa finishes her sentence, aiming to sound flippant, and lets her gaze shift back to yours but is quickly bothered by how quickly your eyes seem to shine with emotion. Her stomach turns, but she understands.

“Get out of my sight,” she hisses.

You nod, overjoyed. Taking two steps away that appear too energized, you pause then stand still. Turning back to her, you can see her bite her lip. Perhaps regret. Perhaps annoyance.

And somehow it doesn’t stop you from running back over to her and wrapping your arms around her against your better judgment for just a moment, and whispering a ‘Thank you’ before running out of the room before she can decide to turn you to stone for real and apologize to Luffy later.

—

If you were even a second late, Hancock’s crew would have set sail without you. 

Coming down to the dock early with a woven sweater and a pair of cloth shoes feels ridiculous after not having seen each other for 18 months, but it’s all you felt you could produce in such a short time.

Unlike you, Hancock has money and power, and the ship is loaded with fruits, vegetables, and of course meat, bundles and bundles of warm clothing and other linens despite the fact that Rayleigh strictly forbade it, and it makes your own offering seem meager. Wrapping them carefully in a blanket, you wonder if you should leave it on the ship as you sail through the Calm Belt.

The Gorgon sisters watch your every move a little too carefully while Marguerite and Sweet Pea are kind enough to ask you how you’re feeling. The pitter patter of your heart and the warmth of your ears when Marguerite gives you a knowing smile is almost unbearable. She’s seen through you faster than you could see through yourself. 

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, is something she should only know of in books, and yet she can see your heart growing all this time.

“Fine! Just making sure he’s alive, he’s my dear friend and my captain and all, why would I be nervous, I’m sure he’s fine?” you stammer but the jig is obviously up.

Marigold, overhearing, rolls her eyes but Sandersonia smiles. You wonder why Hancock ultimately chose to stay behind, but remain thankful just the same.

Just a short visit. In and out.

…

The ship lands on the shore of a peaceful Rusukaina by noon, the sun high overhead. You’re not sure what you expected to see, aside from a brief stretch of sand melding into dense brush. Despite what you were told about storms, it seems like there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, much like Amazon Lily itself. You realize you might have forgotten what rain felt like or snow.

Luffy lives here somewhere, you think as you take the stairs down from the ship, your sandals sinking a little too deeply into the sand once you touch down. You take another step and Sandersonia reminds you that the island teems with dangerous wildebeests. 

“We have to wait for him to find us,” she adds as the others unload food in large parcels from the ship and set it on an almost comically large picnic blanket.

“If he doesn’t make it down here in the next 3 hours, we’re leaving.” Marigold adds. 

3 hours is not a long wait, you think, and the island is so large you wonder how long it takes to travel along its circumference, likely on the order of days at your own pace. But you nod, it’s not like there’s much else you can do.

—

Luffy finds you, the surprise visitors, probably lured by the scent of roasting meat on the beach, in less than an hour.

You see him from afar, possibly before he sees you, and the first thing you notice is that his straw hat is nowhere to be found. But that’s the least of your concerns.

Your legs move before you can really think about it, and you find yourself stumbling on the sand, but too stubborn to let yourself fall, you continue to scramble, running towards him, screaming his name.

“Luffy!”

To him, your voice is unmistakable, something he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

“____!!!!!”

Luffy is faster than you, impossibly fast. You may be running towards him, but he’s crossed 90% of the distance, pulling you towards him with a quick wrap of his arms all at once. You snap against his chest almost painfully, the wind knocked gently out of you, but soon you find yourself bursting into laughter, as if it’s just been a couple hours since you last shared a hilarious joke. Pulling apart in seconds to look back at each other, his smile is wide and you realize you haven’t seen it since even before you left.

But one thing first.

“Luffy… you’re kind of-” you choke out.

“Oh!”

His arms loosen quickly and you can breathe easy again. Wiping small tears of joy from the corners of your eyes, you ask each other the first pressing question in unison:

“Have you been well?”

Your face warming as you stop but him grinning widely, he nods, and his eyes slide quickly past you to the food behind you, nose sniffing the air almost puppy-like.

“You brought food?” he asks, pulling you along by the wrist already, and quickly waving at the remainder of the crew coming over.

“Hey everyone!!!” He’s calling all their names incorrectly somehow - all but yours - but is cheery nonetheless, and the entire time you’re hyper-aware of the calloused fingers closed around your wrist, and the absence of bandages around his torso. He’s no longer facing you, but the rough edges of an x-shaped scar on his chest are new to you, as is the new definition in his back and shoulder muscles, and there’s a new peace, the kind that comes from processed grief and renewed steady confidence, that emanates from him. His dark, spiky hair remains roughly the same, perhaps slightly overgrown but evident from the jagged ends that it’s been cut at least once.

The crew greets him kindly, and soon, you’re sitting next to each other as he eats, and it occurs to you don’t know what to say now because you have far too much to say.

He notices your quiet but doesn’t say anything, too eager to stuff his face with properly seasoned foods he hasn’t seen in forever, but kind enough to push bread onto your plate and wave away bold seagulls that would ruin your meal. 

The chatter from the rest of the crew starts to sound far away as you struggle for something to say. Soon, the conversation goes to a lull - he’s asked about Hancock, and why she isn’t here, and why you’ve been allowed to come, and why you have that look on your face like you feel out of place - and while the food is all gone and he’s been encouraged to make it just another six months, the time allotted is up.

Sandersonia is the first to say that it’s time to leave.

“___ wanted to see you, but otherwise we have to go back.”

Luffy turns to you, who has found yourself clumsy with your tongue suddenly. All manner of thoughts over the past 18 months, and suddenly you can barely speak.

“If you were worried, I’ll survive,” he says. “I’m strong now!” He’s cheerful, flexing an arm but it doesn’t reassure you enough, the smile on your face doesn’t have enough depth.

That’s not it. Not all of it at least.

“Hey. There’s more you want to say, isn’t there?” he asks.

Ever since Luffy practically dragged you onto his ship, he’s been pulling the truth out of you like a magic trick. The Kujas are starting to clean up and load the ship but the two of you remain together, quietly. You think before speaking, then lie by omission through your teeth.

“No, I’m just really happy to see you.”

It’s true but it’s not everything.

Luffy tilts his head as he listens to you then crosses his arms over his chest.

“I am too, but…” 

He trails off. You snuff out the lunch fire, the same way you snuff out the yearning in your chest, then rise to your feet.

“I’ll see you when you’re done with your training, Luffy.”

You grin at him, as best you can, and offer him a hug that is slightly less enthusiastic than earlier but still heartfelt. Luffy’s arms linger a little longer by the time you want to pull away, and you sense it.

The loneliness he hasn’t thought about in months, but has been unearthed just with the sight of your face.

His chin presses against your shoulder gently.

“Do you have to leave?” 

It’s barely a whisper, but you hear it as though sucked into a vacuum, loud as if spoken from inside your own head. Unintentionally, you pull back and give him an odd look, as if you’re questioning whether or not he knows.

He has to know.

“If you stayed, I could keep you safe, and I promise you wouldn’t distract me. You don’t even have to stay the whole time. I just miss you. So much.”

Luffy’s face is softer now, and he’s not truly pleading - his smile is careful not to apply pressure with his feelings, stating a genuine fact as opposed to making a plea. Whether you decide to stay with him or not is purely your decision; that he wants you to stay is all he wants you to know.

Your heart races.

Marigold suddenly yells for you to come aboard the ship before they take off. You look at her, then look right back at Luffy, and there’s a quick panic that forces you to blurt out words you don’t mean immediately.

“I… can’t.”

“Okay.” Simple as that.

Luffy offers you a small smile in understanding. “But don’t worry about me. The crew will be together again in 6 months. I’ll come find you, and I’ll be stronger. I promise.”

“I…”

Your mouth opens and closes. You can’t tell him you love him, not now.

But it’s all you want to say, and nothing else wants to come out except that simple fact.

You nod instead, and run back towards the ship.

Luffy waves back at the ship, at you, up until you’re out of sight.

—

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Hancock says to you upon this audacious next request, finally at the end of her patience.

And yet, a week later, you arrive back at the shore of Rusukaina island, this time with no one else but Boa Hancock and her sisters. Hancock can’t help but wave at Luffy from the boat, the obvious deep girlish blush obvious in her cheeks, but she doesn’t set foot on the island.

Instead, you are the only one who descends, a small bag strapped to your back and enough food to last a week practically tossed onto the sand before the ship sails off.

Sandersonia can barely hold in her laughter, and Marigold’s deep frown is evident as they sail away. Hancock turns haughtily once Luffy and you are out of sight.

“Maybe she’ll get eaten by beasts and I won’t have to see her ever again,” she murmurs under her breath. 

“Unlikely.” Sandersonia quips quickly. Marigold rolls her eyes.

“Are you just going to allow this?” she asks finally. Hancock gives her a look, then leans onto the railing of the ship and sighs in defeat.

“God forbid a woman have good taste. Unfortunately, Luffy seems to care about her too.”

Sandersonia slides next to her sister, bumping shoulders with her.

“I’m getting the feeling he’s not the only one who might like her. Maybe he’s the one with the shared good taste.”

Hancock raises an eyebrow, and Sandersonia giggles again. “Never mind me.”

Not another word is said.

…

“So… I did remember how to make a house from when I was a kid but not how to make a comfortable bed…” he reminds you, sheepishly, as the offered tour of the island comes to a close and you end up right back at the center he’s designated home base. He hadn’t thought about it before but now that you’re there, physically there, it’s occurred to him that maybe you don’t want to sleep on the ground and you don’t want to eat meat from sun-up to sundown, that it’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and rainy and wet and the thunder is too loud, and you’re not built like him.

But selfishly, he wants to be with you, and you want to be with him.

“We’ll figure it out,” you say.

To this, Luffy grins and, unable to contain his joy, his hands are on you again, grabbing you and spinning you around, until the whole island is filled with the sound of your laughter.

Once you’re all calmed down and the sun is about to set and you’ve had your final meal of the day, you realize that despite the fact that the words ‘I love you’ have yet to come from your lips, perhaps it’s understood with your choice to stay with him for the next few months.

Luffy is half-asleep by the fire, laying on a pillow of wadded-up cloth. Your eyes focus on the large scar on his chest you’re still getting used to. 

The big X that’s his trauma worn proudly on his chest. And yet, to you, that X marks your very greatest treasure, Luffy, the man you love.

[luxthestrange]

OP Incorrect quotes#67 Ballsy sea men

Giant Kraken Mermaid/Triton Monster Y/n, The number one star ruler of all the seven seas...flipping Cala Maria...if you will...and the BALLSY pirate men trying to hit that-

Younger!Whitebeard: Me sweet, I present to ye…

Kraken!Y/n*Hisses, looking down at the ship and a loud human*

Younger!Whitebeard: …a token of my love.

Whitebeard holds out a big, heart-shaped box

Younger!Whitebeard:- A symbol of my enduring devotion, my undying affection!-

Kraken!Y/n*Unimpressed by him* You talk too much.

You swim away, leaving a large tidal wave that trembles the ship, the Whitebeard pirates gasp in horror, from the giant wave as you leave

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kraken!Y/n*Is sitting on the island shore, allowing...kid shanks and Buggy to be cradled in their hand to sleep*You know fear is a useful survival response Roger...like...RIGHT NOW?~

Your eyes turn snake-like, mouth opening to show rows...and rows of sharp teeth and hair turning into snakes...the roger pirates feeling the atmosphere drop...the air is thick...with dread as your hissing voice shakes the island...

Kraken!Y/n:CAN YOU FEEL IT?~

Roger*Feeling his hands tremble*....

Rayleigh*Feels his whole body paralized by instict on fear*

(6)Buggy*Sneezes awake*...??

Kraken!Y/n*Notices the pretty hair child is awake and returns to "normal", paying attention to the children*

Roger:...Do they scare you just a tiny bit?...

Rayleigh:...Who?Them?...Yes

Roger:...Pretty hot huh

Rayleigh:...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cried the Sergeant looking up Our hero feebly answered: Yes, and then they stood him up He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked And he ain't gonna jump no more

Garp*Starring at the terror monster of all the seven seas, sending ships to their ends in tides, doing the math in his mind...between you and him*....

Kraken!Y/n*Facing the hot shot new hero of the marines, seeing him holding a ring*....

Garp*Punched the hell outta ship steering while into a ring big enough for your hand , holding it up to you ,saluting his men*

Marines*Looking at their leader...saluting him back...outta respect for shooting his shot*...

Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die

*Sees old men*...doing gods work here-

[moonydustx]

Thought for the day - I believe there are two types of boys in One Piece in their relationships with girls, let me explain.

There are those where, outsiders, would never say that the two of you are in a relationship. You walk steps apart, exchanging only the essentials of words between you. However, anyone who looked closely could see that many times, some favors were done just for you, that his eyes always seemed to follow you at every step, protecting you even from afar. It was the type of situation in which the person who dared to mess with you would barely know where the blow would come from. However, when the two of you are alone, prepare for a clingy pair. He loves to make up for all the moments away when it's just the two of you - he holds you in bed for a few more minutes, stealing several kisses before facing the reality of the day, he always offers to accompany you on your explorations, just so he can drag you to hidden places in the city and enjoy the time alone, he will love you (aka fuck) as if that were the last night he would have you in their bed, after all, the next day, you both would just be crewmates again.

Law, Zoro, Marco, Killer, Katakuri, Mihawk, Smoker, Rob Lucci, Sabo (u can't tell me this loverboy wouldn't be the clingest guy in the alone time)

These people practically have your name tied to their existence. He don't exist without remembering your name immediately, accompanied by a smile, after all, anyone who saw - even if they didn't know you two - would know that you were made for each other - even if you are copies of each other's personality or are completely the opposite - you spark something in him that is sharp. They are super protective, yes, but they don't need to worry about following you far away, they know that no one would have enough balls to mess with his girl. Whenever they got into trouble, they immediately asked you for help after all you were one of the people he trusted most. With everyone already knowing about the two of you, he didn't need to make an effort to hide something, whether when he walked hand in hand with you, when he took the lead and asked who dared to interfere with their partner, or when they took advantage of any time free to love you (again, aka fuck) in a messy way, leaving marks and not sparing the noise. After all, everyone already knew that you belonged together.

Luffy, Crocodile, Ace, Kid, Sanji, Katakuri (he can be both versions, I'm sorry whoever disagrees), Franky, Shanks, Rayleigh, Buggy, Sabo (again, this sweetie fits for any side here)

-

a/n: I don't think anyone was missing, but if you have any suggestions, feel free to leave them here

[sanjisleggy]

let your husband help you (red-haired shanks x reader)

req: [...] with a fem!reader (if possible) that has wings and sometimes the wings with feathers require molting and there are areas that cannot be reached closer to the back and requires help to remove the loose feathers

a/n: (i am playing valorant as i write this help) ty for the request anon! :D the enthusiasm is very endearing ;;0;; hope you enjoy reading! also man i love writing for Shanks :3c

contents: a bit of angst (fem!reader is having a hard time), descriptions of itchiness and pain, comfort, fluff :D, a tad bit suggestive bc it’s Shanks

wc. 1.2k

wanna be on my taglist?

i.

these past few weeks have been torture. today especially so.

alone in your bedroom aboard the Red Force you writhe in itchiness and pain as your back aches in a way it hasn’t in a long time. lying face-down on your bed, you feel your wings twitch and tremble as you contort your arms to reach behind you as far as humanly possible; only to groan in defeat when the most you can do is brush the offending feathers with your fingertips.

for days now a small part of your brain has been nagging at you to go get Shanks for the sake of your poor back and wings but you’ve heard from your crewmates how busy he’s been so you’ve pushed the urge aside. now, though, the idea has forced its way to the forefront of your mind out of desperation, no doubt.

holding back a sob of frustration that threatens to make its way out of your throat, you nuzzle your face into your husband’s pillow, hoping that his scent can serve as a distraction of some kind. more than anything though, it simply acts as a poor placeholder for the real thing and only makes your aching heart (and wings) yearn for him even more.

“c’mon, (Y/N), don’t be shy,” his gentle voice called from outside the utility closet in which you’d chosen to hide–away from him. you felt your face heat up at Shanks’ persistence to help with something he wasn’t even totally aware of; he just knew you were in pain so he had to help.

“it’s okay, i can deal with it myself,” you lied, wincing when one of your wings brushed against a shelf behind you. most of the molting feathers had already been dealt with but your wings had grown a lot since the last time you molted and now they were far too big for your hands to reach. “just leave me alone.”

“if you don’t tell me what’s up, i’ll tell Rayleigh.”

“no!” you protested instantly. as much as you trusted the first mate of your crew with your life, this was far too embarrassing to get him involved. “if you tell anyone i’ll leave the crew, you asshole.”

you had meant it only as a false threat but the sudden silence told you Shanks took it a bit more seriously than you thought he would.

“okay, fine,” he replied and you could hear the pout on his face. “i just wanna help. there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you know you can trust me to take care of you.”

a particularly sharp pain shoots through your spine from your right wing and the whine of discomfort slips past your lips before you can help yourself. too far gone to care about anyone hearing from outside your quarters, you let yourself sob aloud, the relief from crying doing little to ease your discomfort. 

the immense helplessness of your situation makes you realise how pampered you’ve been all these years. how lucky you are to have had such a loving friend-turned-lover who always took it upon himself to care for you. now here you are: alone in your bedroom, struggling with a task that you long should’ve learned how to deal with yourself.

you nearly give in to the urge to seek out the one person you trust to alleviate your pain but at this point, you’re too tired to even get off the bed. maybe it’s for the best, you wonder to yourself. your eyes flutter closed as you pull Shanks’ pillow a bit closer and bury your face deeper into it as you allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by your exhaustion, hoping that at least you can sleep away the next few hours of aches and itching.

ii.

letting out a sigh of relief, the one-armed Emperor takes his time returning to his ship after a grueling few weeks of settling disputes between several smaller pirate crews. normally such tasks would never take this long–hell, most of the time he didn’t even have to step in–but civilians’ lives were at stake so he had no choice.

now, as Shanks nears the dock and sees the Red Force coming into view, all he can think about is taking a nap with you. not only have his duties kept him away from you all day every day, he’d also been going to bed at ungodly hours, crawling under the sheets beside you long after you’ve fallen asleep. though he can’t wait to spend some quality time with you, he wants nothing more than to rest by your side with the knowledge that he’ll finally be able to wake up after you for once.

“hey Captain,” Benn calls out from aboard the deck once Shanks reaches speaking-distance. “i think (Y/N) needs your help.”

“see, what’d i say?” you could practically hear him smiling as he sat behind you, tenderly plucking out the final few loose feathers. “there’s no need to be shy around me.” Shanks tugged at a particularly stubborn feather and when it finally came loose, you couldn’t help the moan of relief that came out of your mouth.

you felt your cheeks rapidly heat up in shame as you buried your face in your hands, fully prepared for the boy to make fun of you. but it never came. instead, Shanks stayed quiet as he soothed the particular spot of skin with his fingers in a manner so tender you couldn’t believe it was him.

“there, all done,” he said. you were grateful but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around and face him even though you knew you had to in order to thank him properly. 

as though sensing your dilemma, Shanks leaned forward to press his lips against your shoulder blade, right above where your wings sprouted from your back. it sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps appeared all over but you didn’t tell him to stop, if anything, you wanted him to continue.

you’re ripped out abruptly from your dream when the door of your quarters slams shut. from your face-down position in bed, you’re unable to see who it is but only one person in this world would be brave enough to make such an entrance.

“welcome back,” you groan, using your arms to push the upper half of your body off the mattress as you turn your head to glance over your shoulder.

“why didn’t you call for me?” your husband responds, tossing his cape onto the floor before rushing over to guide you back down into a resting position. Shanks pulls over two other more pillows and places them in a way he knows, from years of experience, makes you the most comfortable. “how long have your wings been molting?” 

there’s a slight hint of frustration in his voice but you know it’s not directed at you. it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty, though.

“it started… two weeks ago…” you mumble into Shanks’ pillow.

“you–” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh before he says anything impulsive. the Emperor understands you just didn’t want to disrupt his work and he appreciates the sentiment greatly, he’d just hoped that after all these years of marriage, you’d know how he’d do quite literally anything for you. this, he decides as his eyes scan your twitching wings and tangled feathers, is a conversation for another day though.

“poor thing,” Shanks coos instead, leaning down to press kisses all over the back of your neck and around your shoulder blades as he runs his hand down your side. you can feel his lips smile against your skin when your body shivers in response. “you must’ve been in so much pain, hmm? let your husband help you out.” 

—

taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui

[gav-san]

Cook Wanted, Crisis Found: 1/2

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Two-shot: Prime!Silvers Rayleigh x reader Length: 7 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language & Slight sexual content)

All Gol D. Roger wanted was a decent cook. Unfortunately, you fed them once. Now you’re emotionally held hostage by the most chaotic crew on the sea, being aggressively courted by a half-shirted war criminal with excellent manners and terrible timing. Rayleigh doesn’t just flirt. He haunts your kitchen like a respectful poltergeist, makes eye contact like it’s foreplay, and threatens anyone who compliments your hands.

You guys see in the latest OP SBS that Rogder didn't have a cook? Congrats, you are now the cook.

@thatanonymouschocolate

PART TWO

“I Asked for a Cook, Not a Crisis” —as told by the Pirate King, who is clearly not in control anymore

The first time you met them, you thought they were a plague.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. A genuine, loud-mouthed, sunburnt infestation with too much gold and zero sense of portion control. The kind of pirates who walked like the world was theirs by default, and anyone not handing them a drink was an obstacle.

They arrived in the middle of the lunch rush, clattering down the dock like the worst kind of omen. You caught the sound of them first: boots on splintered wood, laughter far too confident for a group that had evidently just rolled off a ship. They smelled like the sea, sweat, smoke, and freshly acquired trouble.

Your stall wasn’t much. No sign. No clever name painted on driftwood. No chalkboard menu with quaint little sketches. Just a rusted stove, a chipped wok, and your cutting glare, which you used as both weapon and deterrent. You weren’t running a restaurant so much as defending a sacred outpost of sanity. And then they showed up.

The one in the straw hat—Roger, though you didn’t know it yet—flashed a grin like a man who thought charm could substitute for manners. He leaned across the counter and tried to flirt, completely undeterred by your dead-eyed stare.

Scopper Gaban followed suit, slinging his arms onto the counter and asking, with all the self-satisfaction of a man who’d never been hit with a ladle, whether you were on the menu.

A red-haired child knocked over an entire pot of soup in his enthusiasm, scrambling to apologize while slipping on spilled broth and yelling about how it wasn’t his fault.

The blue-haired one took a single bite, declared the seasoning overrated, then immediately choked on a rogue pepper flake and turned an impressive shade of crimson. You stood there, arms crossed, watching him wheeze with complete disinterest.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept stirring, your ladle scraping the bottom of the wok in slow, steady circles, like a countdown to something unfortunate.

And while the others filled the space with noise and ego, one man said nothing at all.

He sat at the far end of your stall, elbows resting on the counter, and ate like he had been starving for something specific and had finally found it. No commentary. No swagger. No smug remark.

Just silence, and eyes that didn’t leave you once.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t ask for anything.

He simply ate, slow and careful, like the food you’d made deserved reverence. Like you did.

And when he looked up, it wasn’t with surprise or delight. It was with something heavier, like recognition. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

You should have kicked them all out. Should have dumped the pot, closed up early, and let them find someone else to bother.

Instead, you slid another bowl toward the quiet one.

He called himself Rayleigh.

You should have known better than to appreciate a pirate. But gods, you looked.

Tall and broad, weathered skin weathered by sun and salt, golden hair falling over sharp eyes like something out of a myth. He wore his confidence like it had been custom-stitched to his bones, every movement unhurried, every breath measured. Swagger poured into sinew and sin.

His voice hadn’t even touched your ears yet, and already your knees were whispering mutiny.

He leaned close once, reaching for a spice jar above your head. His arm brushed your back in passing. The contact was brief, almost careless, but your soul immediately exited your body and filed for early retirement. You didn’t even pretend to be composed. Just stood there, blinked once, and tried to remember what your own name was.

Then he called you “sweetheart.”

You nearly dropped the cleaver.

Your brain hiccupped so hard it forgot how to form opinions. It was less a reaction and more a full-body short circuit, the kind of internal meltdown that made you question if years of self-discipline could be unraveled by one word in that tone from that man.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even seem to be trying.

Rayleigh just ate. Quietly. Slowly. Every bite unhurried. Like the food in front of him was sacred. Like he wasn’t just refueling after a fight or soaking up rum with starch, but discovering something rare. Something real.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t praise the flavor. Didn’t lick his lips and wink like the others.

He just looked up when he was finished, eyes lingering on you, and in that moment, the world seemed to tilt slightly off its axis.

He stared like a man might look at a storm rolling in over open sea. A storm he’d already decided to walk into. Calm. Certain. Almost grateful. As if he knew exactly what it would cost him and had made peace with it.

You told yourself you weren’t flustered, and that your hands that didn’t tremble a little when you turned back to the stove. That you weren’t tracking the sound of his breath behind you with every move you made.

You should have known then. Should have locked the spice cabinet, packed up your knives, and vanished before anything could slip beneath your skin.

But instead?

You fed them.

And that was the first mistake.

The next time they showed up, they were half-dead.

They staggered in just after dusk, trailing blood and seawater, limping like they had fought the ocean and lost. Clothing torn, weapons missing, one of them missing a boot. They smelled like smoke and brine and something far too close to cannon powder. You weren’t sure who was supporting who, or if they were all just leaning on each other out of stubborn pride.

Roger was shouting something incoherent about Marines, sea kings, and a completely unnecessary bet involving dynamite and a pack of wild dogs. Buggy was pale and wheezing, clutching his side like he was holding in his own liver. Shanks looked like he’d fallen off a cliff. Twice.

You didn’t ask.

You just sighed, kicked open the door to the back of your stall, and started dragging them in by the collar one at a time. You swore the entire time. Loudly. Fluently. With real creativity. Muttered something about pirates being the worst kind of customer and demanded to know if anyone had filed a damn insurance policy. No one answered.

You threw them onto spare cushions, slapped bandages over whatever was bleeding the worst, and brewed a broth so potent it might have been considered medicinal in certain parts of the world and outright illegal in others. You shoved ladles of it between cracked lips and threatened to strangle anyone who complained about the salt.

Rayleigh was the last one through the door.

He leaned against the frame like he wasn’t entirely sure it was real. His shirt was soaked through with blood, half of it his, the rest probably someone else’s. He had a deep cut along his ribs, a fading bruise across his jaw, and the same calm expression he always wore. Like none of this was urgent, like pain had agreed to wait until he was done with whatever he had to finish.

You cursed under your breath and caught him just before he slumped to the floor.

It took effort to drag him across the threshold. He didn’t resist, only blinked at you through the haze, unfocused and slow. You dropped him onto a pile of laundry that hadn’t made it to the basin yet and crouched beside him, already reaching for clean bandages and your strongest antiseptic.

The steam from the broth curled in the air between you. Rayleigh turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, and looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“My sea-blessed angel,” he whispered, voice warm and wrecked. Then his eyes rolled back, and he passed out in your laundry like he had just found heaven.

You sat back on your heels and stared at him.

And then, instead of shoving him outside or pouring cold water over his head, you exhaled slowly, pressed a hand to your temple, and muttered a curse you hadn’t used in years.

You didn’t kick him out. You didn’t even try.

That, as you would later learn, was your second mistake.

He woke the next morning to the scent of citrus soap and the low clatter of pans from the front of the stall. The light filtering through the warped wooden slats was soft and golden, catching on the fresh bandage wrapped snug across his shoulder.

Then your foot nudged his ribs.

He blinked up at you, still groggy with sleep and blood loss, and watched as you dropped a hunk of bread into his hands without ceremony.

“Eat,” you said, voice flat. You looked like you hadn’t slept, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, apron already stained from a morning’s worth of effort. You didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked away.

Took his time, too, like the food owed him something personal.

Then he wiped his mouth, looked up at you with that smug, sea-worn grin, and said:

“So, you spoken for or did I show up right on schedule?”

That smile did something awful to your spine. You felt it crack straight through your resolve like pressure on thin ice. You cursed yourself, turned away, and made the mistake of speaking.

“I’m not interested in pirates.”

Rayleigh didn’t miss a beat. “Liar.”

You scowled. “I like smart men.”

He took another bite and shrugged lazily. “Darling, I’m the reason maps have warnings.”

You hated how that made you pause. Hated that your heart skipped, just once. He wasn’t even trying, and he still knocked the wind out of you with a single sentence and that half-lidded grin.

He was the worst kind of man: sun-gold and storm-silver, sharp-eyed and slow-moving, like the floorboards were lucky to have him. He didn’t walk so much as saunter. Leaned on doorframes like they owed him rent. Stared at you like he was letting you in on a secret just by breathing in your direction.

He didn’t talk often, but when he did, it was in that velvet-wrapped drawl, the kind of voice that made you want to spill a drink just to shut it up. Or maybe to hear more.

Once, he passed behind you to reach for the spice rack. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t touch you.

But you felt him.

The shift of air. The warmth of his arm just behind yours. The slow certainty of someone who knew exactly how close he could get without crossing a line. You burned the rice, and then glared at the scorched bottom of the pan like it had personally betrayed you.

Later, he called you “sweetheart” in passing, his voice soft and wicked, as if he were whispering something.

Your knees betrayed you. They actually did the thing.

You told yourself it was just the voice. Just the swagger. Just the smell of rum and sea wind and the kind of bad decisions that involved midnight walks, stolen kisses, and regrettable mornings.

You weren’t going to fall for him.

You weren’t.

You may have admitted, once, very privately, that you might sit on his lap. Hypothetically. For scientific reasons. But only with limits.

And then, that afternoon, he walked by shirtless again.

You dropped your knife, cursed under your breath, and seriously considered throwing the entire stove into the harbor.

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

Of course he did.

Roger just wanted to eat.

That was it. That was the whole goal.

A good, solid cook. Someone who wouldn’t poison the crew. At least not on purpose. Someone who understood the difference between salt and sugar, unlike Buggy, whose last attempt at stew had turned into a war crime in liquid form. Someone who wouldn’t serve the same bizarre, spotted fish four days in a row and claim it was gourmet just because it “tasted fine grilled,” as Shanks so valiantly insisted.

Someone like you.

He showed up one morning grinning like the sun was in on his joke, boots loud on the planks, hands on his hips in that ridiculous Captain Pose you’d come to associate with either disaster or persuasion. Or both.

“Join the crew,” he said, beaming. “We’ll give you treasure. Fame. A room with a locking door so men stop trying to sneak into your hammock.”

Rayleigh, standing just behind him, immediately turned away and pretended to be highly interested in a barrel. He wasn’t subtle about it. In fact, he somehow managed to radiate guilt without changing expression, posture, or tone.

You looked between the two of them.

Then narrowed your eyes.

“I already told you,” you said, wiping your hands on a dishcloth and leveling a flat look at Roger. “I’m not a pirate.”

Roger opened his mouth.

You cut him off with a raised finger. “And before you say whatever reckless, golden-hearted nonsense you’ve got chambered in there, let me clarify. I cook. I keep my head down. I like quiet. And I don’t want to be kidnapped by lunatics who chase sea kings for fun, and apparently, how to bandage a wound without using someone’s shirt.”

“That was one time,” Shanks mumbled behind him.

“Twice,” you corrected without looking. “You used Buggy’s cape the second time.”

Buggy’s voice shrieked from offscreen. “You said you liked that cape!”

“I lied.”

Roger laughed as if it were the best day of his life. “You’d fit right in!”

You stared at Roger for a long, unimpressed moment. He didn’t flinch. Just kept smiling like the sheer force of his enthusiasm might eventually wear you down.

It wouldn’t.

Probably.

And yet, somewhere in the quieter part of your brain, your eyes had already flicked toward the spice rack. Just once. Just long enough to wonder if it would travel well. Most of the jars were sealed tightly, but the cinnamon always leaked. You could fix that. Maybe.

“You’re worse than a pirate,” Scopper muttered around a mouthful, clutching one of your fried rice balls with both hands like it was sacred. “You made food taste like feelings. I cried twice.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” you replied, folding your arms.

Scopper took another bite and muttered something reverent under his breath.

From the corner of the stall, Shanks chimed in through a mouthful of dumplings. “But what if we make it your problem? Like, permanently?”

You turned your glare on him, slow and deliberate.

He blinked, swallowed, and offered a grin so wide it was nearly apologetic. Nearly.

You didn’t answer right away. Just wiped your hands on your apron and looked at the half-devoured chaos of your lunch service, the ridiculous crew sitting elbow-to-elbow at your counter like they’d always belonged there.

You should have said no again.

Should have kicked them all out and barred the door.

Instead, you reached behind you and adjusted the spice rack. Just a little. Just in case.

After that, the crew continued to come back. Not every day. Not with announcements or fanfare. Just every so often, like a tide returning in its own time. Sometimes it was Roger, booming with laughter and trying to barter sea stories for seconds. Sometimes it was Shanks and Buggy, bickering their way through your lunch line. Sometimes it was Scopper, grumbling about something you had no context for while devouring half your stock.

But more often than not, it was Rayleigh.

He never said much. Just showed up near closing, pulled up a stool at the far edge of your stall, and sat there. Quiet as sea mist. He’d watch the wind for a while, gaze trailing out over the harbor like he was tracking something far beyond it. Then, eventually, his eyes would drift back to you.

He never asked for anything.

Sometimes he cleaned. Silently wiped down tables, stacked bowls, and swept where you couldn’t reach. Once, when your hands were trembling from exhaustion, he took the knife from you with a touch so light it didn’t feel real, and chopped the vegetables without a word.

He even took over the stove once, when you were too tired to argue. He’d watched you enough times to know the basics. Or so you thought.

He burned a rice ball so thoroughly that it resembled a fossil.

You raised an eyebrow. He stared at the blackened husk in his hand for a long moment, then turned and bowed his head in shame like he had dishonored the gods themselves.

The laugh that escaped you was loud, sharp, and completely unguarded.

It startled even you.

Rayleigh looked up as if that sound had broken something open inside him. He didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a shift. A softening in the lines around his eyes, a flicker of something quieter than joy but deeper than amusement.

From that day forward, he never tried to cook again. But he stayed longer.

That was how it was with Rayleigh. No declarations. No promises. Just presence.

And maybe a little jealousy.

It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t flirted. The merchant had only winked. Just a passing compliment about your hands while paying for lunch, something about how they looked too soft for kitchen work.

Rayleigh hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t interrupted.

He had simply appeared behind the man. Silent. Solid. Eyes unreadable.

The merchant took one look at him, went pale, stuttered something incoherent, and practically sprinted down the dock like he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.

You turned, arms crossed, and narrowed your eyes at Rayleigh.

“Was that necessary?”

He tilted his head, utterly calm. “They’re mine.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…My hands?”

He didn’t clarify.

He just turned away, reached for a rag, and began wiping down the counter like he hadn’t just claimed ownership of your limbs and scared a grown man out of his shoes.

You stood there, staring at his back, half-annoyed and half-flushed, and realized with quiet horror that you didn’t mind it nearly as much as you should have.

One morning, you decided to wear one of your favorite shirts.

It wasn’t a statement. Not a plan. Just a choice made halfway through wiping your forehead on your sleeve for the third time before noon. The kitchen was sweltering, the stove was relentless, and your usual apron felt like a wool blanket soaked in steam. So you reached for something lighter. Breezier. A sleeveless, low-cut shirt that clung in all the places heat liked to settle. It wasn’t scandalous. Just comfortable. Practical. Your own little mercy.

Rayleigh did not handle it well.

He bumped into three walls before noon. Missed a step on the stairs and nearly took out a barrel. Forgot how to ask for tea halfway through the sentence and had to restart twice. At one point, he turned to say something, looked directly at your chest, and went completely silent.

Ten full seconds passed.

Then he blinked. His eyes darted away like he’d been caught in a crime scene photo. And then, without meeting your gaze, he mumbled a soft, “Apologies, love,” to your sternum like it was a sentient creature he had just deeply offended.

You stared at him in disbelief.

Then you handed him a drink to shut him up.

He took it gingerly, fingers brushing yours, and stared down at the cup in his hands like it was something sacred. Something far more than citrus and ice. As if you’d just proposed. Or wrote him poetry. Or handed him a deed to a quiet little cottage on the sea.

All because you wore a shirt.

You told yourself not to read into it. Not to linger on the way his hands tightened just slightly around the glass. Not to notice the way he hovered near the stove that day, silent and watchful, like he couldn’t decide if you were real or dangerous.

You told yourself it was just the heat.

But he never took his eyes off you for long.

Even when he tried to be subtle, even when he turned his back, you could feel it. The quiet awareness, the magnetic pull of his gaze like a tide tugging at your ankles. And he bumped into one more wall before dinner. Didn’t even try to explain it.

You figured the two of you could use a little breathing room. If a glimpse of cleavage was enough to compromise the composure of one of the most infamous pirates on the sea, perhaps some temporary distance would help recalibrate whatever strange, unspoken thing was blooming between you.

You weren’t even gone.

Just slipped into the next market stall over for half an hour to help a friend clean and season a fresh catch. It wasn’t anything dramatic. You were still within shouting distance, still in view if someone had bothered to lean out far enough.

And yet, when you stepped back into the main thoroughfare, Rayleigh looked like a man who had survived three wars, a personal betrayal, and seven days of nothing but hardtack and spiritual erosion.

He turned toward you with a sharp breath, shirt halfway unbuttoned, hair a wreck from where he’d raked his fingers through it too many times, pupils wide like he’d seen God and she had refused to season anything.

“Where were you?” he asked hoarsely, like he hadn’t been sure you’d ever return.

You blinked. “Helping a friend. Living a normal life. Cooking, once again.”

Rayleigh exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. He looked genuinely relieved.

“Thank the stars,” he muttered. “I almost had to eat something Buggy cooked.”

From somewhere across the deck, Buggy screamed, “IT WAS JUST SPAGHETTI!”

“IT WAS SWEET,” Shanks hissed, clinging to the hem of your apron like a starving child. “LIKE. ACTUAL. DESSERT. SPAGHETTI.”

You didn’t ask for clarification. You didn’t want it. The horror in Shanks’ eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Later that night, just after the lanterns had been dimmed and the waves had quieted into their usual lull, Rayleigh knocked on your doorframe. He leaned against it like he wasn’t entirely sure how to stand anymore.

His shirt was still open. His hair was still a mess. He looked like he’d been dragged backward through a wind tunnel of domestic chaos and existential dread.

“I will literally wash every dish on the Oro Jackson with my tongue if you join.”

You stared at him.

He blinked. “Okay. Maybe not with my tongue. That’s… not sanitary. But—look.”

He stepped into the light, looking tired and profoundly sincere.

“They’re trying to replace you with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how’d that go?”

He held up a scorched pan with both hands, as if it were damning evidence. Something black and grainy clung to the inside like the remains of a failed summoning circle.

“We had to bury it,” Rayleigh said again, holding the scorched pan like it was a war memorial. His voice was grim. Quiet. The kind of solemn usually reserved for funerals or broken swords.

Before you could respond, Roger appeared beside him like a human avalanche of good intentions and poor impulse control.

He was holding three things.

A friendship bracelet, frayed and crooked, made of mismatched string and probably tears.

A crew application form that looked suspiciously hand-drawn and entirely unofficial, signed by what appeared to be half the ship in various levels of spelling competency.

And a crayon portrait, bright, clumsy, and endearingly awful, labeled in oversized lettering: Best Cook Ever (pls don’t leave us).

Rayleigh stood beside him, arms crossed, still shirtless, radiating dignity as if this entire scene wasn’t unfolding next to a glitter-glued drawing of you holding a spoon.

“If you don’t join,” he said, voice flat and heavy, “I will die.”

You stared.

“Possibly dramatically,” he added. “Possibly on purpose.”

You squinted at him. “You’ve survived the Grand Line. Sea Kings. God Valley. An actual volcano.”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “But not without your cooking.”

You frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

Rayleigh tilted his head, that slow smirk just beginning to curl at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a threat.”

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

He smiled.

Somewhere behind you, Shanks tripped over a mop bucket while trying to rewrite the last line of the crew song to include your name.

You exhaled slowly. Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Something between surrender and acceptance.

Because this wasn’t a crew.

It was a goddamn circus.

And somehow, without your permission, they’d made you the main act.

You sighed. “I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

Rayleigh’s grin nearly split his face. Roger threw the bracelet like confetti.

Technically, you said maybe to joining them.

Not yes. Not yet. Not even close.

Just a vague, tired murmur at the end of a long day, muttered more out of exhaustion than intent. You’d been wiping down the stall when Roger caught you off guard, elbow propped on your counter, voice soft and far too hopeful for a man wanted on every sea.

Maybe, you said. Perhaps you’d think about it. Maybe you’d consider sailing with them. Maybe you’d figure it out tomorrow, after a night of sleep and some time to weigh what it would mean to leave behind the one small corner of peace you’d built for yourself.

You had meant to take your time.

They didn’t wait.

They took your maybe as a yes, a declaration, a done deal.

And so you woke the next morning not in your cot. Not in your stall. Not to the familiar creak of the shutters or the hiss of your stove warming up.

You woke up on a ship.

Their ship.

The Oro Jackson.

You sat up slowly, blinking in disbelief, surrounded by the unmistakable scent of sea air and aged timber. The room swayed gently beneath you, hammocks creaked somewhere nearby, and seagulls cried in the distance.

There were sacks of flour stacked neatly near the wall. Your spice rack had been bolted to a shelf with what looked like hand-carved brackets. Your knives were lined up in a row, gleaming and familiar. And your best apron (washed, pressed, and folded) sat neatly beside a tin of your favorite tea leaves, tucked into the corner like a quiet apology.

Someone had even left you a cup of warm sake.

When you stormed above deck to confront Roger, he greeted you with a wave and a grin like this was all perfectly reasonable.

“You belong with us,” he called, as if that explained everything.

You stared at him, stunned. Furious. Confused.

He beamed harder.

And when you turned, slowly, toward Rayleigh, your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t grin. He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

Softly. Steadily. Like you were already home. Like this had always been the end of the road, and all your resistance had been nothing more than a scenic detour.

You should have yelled. Should have demanded they turn the ship around, dock immediately, carry every damn sack of flour back to your stall by hand.

But instead, you stood there in the morning light, the wind pulling gently at your shirt, and didn’t say a word.

And, well… they had brought your knives.

They had packed your spices, folded your apron. Tucked your good ladle into your satchel like it might be needed on the road. You’d told yourself it was practical. A precaution. A habit.

But maybe it had been hope.

Maybe it had been instinct.

Or maybe it had always been him.

Roger stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, grinning like a man who had just won a game no one else knew was being played. He waved when he saw you on deck, beaming, as if you hadn’t just woken up to find your entire life shifted under your feet.

And Rayleigh?

He was already watching.

Leaning against the mast with a calm that didn’t quite reach his eyes, arms at his sides, shirt half-unbuttoned from the morning sun. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood there, quiet and waiting, gaze steady and unreadable.

Like he’d been waiting for you to open your eyes and finally see the truth that had always been there. Not a choice, not a trick. Just something old and simple. Something that fits.

Slow. Certain. Already home.

You stared back.

And you didn’t say no.

Because, if you were honest… The decision had already been made the moment you looked up and saw him in your kitchen, eating your food like it meant something.

Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping.

Not really.

Maybe it was fate.

Or, worse.

Maybe it was Rayleigh.

That smug, maddening bastard with a voice like honey and a smirk that promised back pain, bad decisions, and a long, glittering trail of beautiful regrets. The kind of man who didn’t steal hearts so much as unlace them slowly, carefully, with velvet hands and wandering eyes. Then pretended he hadn’t done a thing.

The kind of man who made surrender feel like your idea.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You turned on your heel, marched into the kitchen, and started to cook.

Your hands found rhythm in the familiar: chopping, stirring, seasoning. The motions were grounding, automatic, built into your bones. The scent of simmering broth rose around you, thick with spices and something a little like pride.

Rayleigh was nearby.

Suspiciously still.

Too still.

You heard him sigh behind you. Deep. Long. Heavy with something that was definitely not culinary despair.

Then silence again.

And then, another look. You could feel it, that slow, deliberate glance.

Because he was middle-aged, not dead.

You tried to ignore him. Truly, you did. Focused on the stew, the pot, the way the spices bloomed in the heat. But Rayleigh was still standing there. Quiet. Too quiet.

That was never a good sign.

When Rayleigh was that still, it meant one of three things: he was calculating, remembering, or fantasizing. Possibly all three.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He wasn’t moving. Just watching you, arms folded across his chest, one brow slightly drawn like he was thinking very hard about something he shouldn’t be thinking about in the galley.

Your ladle slowed in the pot.

His eyes didn’t leave you.

Neither of you spoke.

And beneath all of it—the soft hiss of the stove, the gentle creak of the ship, the low, steady bubbling of the broth—there was heat that had nothing to do with fire.

You recognized that look.

It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t idle thought.

Rayleigh wasn’t thinking about navigation. He wasn’t calculating coordinates or weather patterns or where they’d be by sunrise.

He didn’t blink.

His jaw tensed, ever so slightly.

And just like that, you knew: he was losing the battle with his imagination.

You let the silence stretch, then glanced over your shoulder with one brow raised, ladle paused mid-stir.

“Rayleigh?”

He snapped out of it fast. Too fast.

Looked startled. Looked guilty. Shrugged like the answer didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just mentally undressed you six different ways and married the idea for good measure.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the pot.

Kept stirring.

And the next morning, your name was on the crew ledger.

Scrawled in someone’s best attempt at fancy handwriting, ink still drying, written directly beneath the official line for the quartermaster.

It read: Ship’s Goddess, Culinary Class. DO NOT ANGER HER.

Right where Rayleigh insisted it belonged.

Roger claimed it was a joke. Shanks swore it was a sign of respect. Buggy tried to add “Also immune to mutiny laws” until you threatened to feed him to a sea king with one hand tied behind your back.

But the truth was more straightforward. You cooked.

Not just food. Real food. Edible. Hot. Properly seasoned. Something with texture and flavor and love in it, even if you’d denied the last part.

You had made the stew.

And nobody cried. Well, Buggy cried a little, but that was more from emotion than spice.

You didn’t flinch when Gaban called you sugarcakes for the third time in a row. You didn’t bat an eye when Roger stole the entire tray of dumplings, shouted about divine revelation, and proposed to your curry. You just cooked, sighed, and kept moving, the same way you always had.

And for Roger, that was it. That was the win. The victory. The final proof that bringing you aboard had been the right call.

Until he looked up mid-meal and saw Rayleigh staring at your chest like it held the coordinates to Laugh Tale.

Not subtly.

Not briefly.

Roger dropped his spoon.

Rayleigh didn’t even notice.

He just kept looking, like your neckline was whispering secrets, like your collarbone had started a treasure hunt, and he was already halfway to drawing the map.

Roger cleared his throat. Loudly.

Rayleigh didn’t blink.

Shanks leaned in and whispered, “Should we… stop him?”

Roger just sighed, long and defeated. “He’s too far gone.”

And you?

You kept ladling soup.

Because someone had to.

It started with a look.

You were reaching for a spice jar. Nothing scandalous. Nothing theatrical. Just stretching toward the top shelf like any normal person trying to make dinner on a ship full of unsupervised pirates.

Your shirt rode up slightly.

Rayleigh choked on air.

You turned, jar in hand, eyebrows raised. “Are you dying, or just perving?”

He coughed once. Tried to recover. Failed. “Both,” he rasped. “Respectfully.”

You stared. Rayleigh looked away, as if the basil had personally betrayed him.

Rayleigh, for all his composure, had a mental list.

Not a vague idea.

Not a loose collection of thoughts.

A list.

Cataloged. Prioritized. Updated nightly.

If she trips and falls into my arms, marry her.

If she kisses me over soup, retire immediately.

If she moans while taste-testing: abandon all morals, sail directly into temptation.

If Gaban flirts again: duel to the death, consequences be damned.

He also had a backup hammock built.

You’d never seen it.

No one had.

It lived somewhere deep in the storage hold, hidden behind barrels of rum and denial. Carefully tied. Weatherproofed. Reinforced.

He called it The Matrimonial Option.

He’d told Roger once, offhandedly, during a storm.

“I’m not a complicated man,” he’d said. “I just need her, a skillet, and one flat surface big enough to build a life on.”

Roger had taken a long sip of his drink.

Then muttered, “Shouldn’t you be going a little slower?” before walking into the rain.

Rayleigh hadn’t answered.

He was too busy carving your initials into the frame of the spare hammock.

Captain’s Log: Subject: First Mate is Down Cataclysmically

Symptoms include:

– Eye contact paralysis

– Selective hearing when boobs are present

– Full-body flinch response every time she says his name in that sweet voice

– Butter knife threats at Gaban levels of violence

Roger stared down at the page, then slammed the logbook shut like it had personally insulted his leadership.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

Gaban leaned back in his chair, arms folded, sipping something with far too much rum and even more judgment. “He’s in love,” he said, entirely too smug.

“He’s in lust,” Roger shot back.

Behind them, footsteps echoed across the deck. Rayleigh passed by in a loose shirt and sharper frown, one hand outstretched to shield your body from a gust of sea wind like it might bruise you. He didn’t even break stride.

Roger watched him go, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “See? That. That right there.”

Gaban raised his drink. “Still in love.”

Roger shook his head. “He’s just in it for the boobs.”

There was a pause.

Gaban tilted his head thoughtfully. “I mean… they are pretty nice boobs.”

Roger hesitated. “Yeah. They are.”

Both men nodded, solemn.

“But someone’s gotta tell him to stop staring,” Roger said after a beat.

Gaban took another sip. “You.”

“No, you.”

“Not a chance. He’s been sharpening that cutlass.”

Roger stared at him.

Gaban shrugged again. “I like my limbs.”

There was another silence.

From across the deck, Rayleigh paused mid-step and glanced over at you again. The same look. Soft. Starstruck. Catastrophically doomed.

Roger sighed so hard it became a prayer.

Rayleigh was doing his best not to be a lech. Women didn’t like that, so it was of the utmost importance that he showcased his other skills to entice a mate.

Truly. With every ounce of discipline honed over decades at sea, he was trying.

And you were talking about something important, probably even urgent. But he couldn’t focus. Not when your shirt had all the structural integrity of a loose sail in a storm. 

Who designed that thing? Was it legal? Was it certified to be worn in the presence of emotionally compromised first mates?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he could massage the filth out of his brain.

It didn’t work.

You leaned forward.

The neckline shifted.

He looked away so fast that his chair tilted. One leg lifted off the floor before he righted it with a grunt, fingers tightening on the armrests like he was bracing for impact.

You, oblivious or not, continued. You were holding a map, damn it. A map. Pointing to wind currents and pressure zones, and how the Grand Line bent physics over a table and made it beg.

And he was staring at the topographical miracle of your chest.

Not even intentionally. That was the worst part.

It just… pulled his eyes. Like gravity. Or divine punishment. He tried to focus on the latitude line. He really did.

But all his brain could think was: Those aren’t just mountains on the map.

He coughed violently, trying to cover the sound of his soul short-circuiting.

You paused mid-sentence.

And caught him.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him. One brow lifted, hand on your hip, the other still holding the map like it was a fan in a play, and you were definitely using it as a weapon now. A prop. A trap.

Rayleigh stared at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then closed his eyes like a condemned man making peace with the gallows.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, voice low and rough, scraped raw from the weight of restraint, “I have fought emperors. I have out-drunk fleets. I have escaped execution naked and barefoot in the snow.”

He opened his eyes.

“But if you don’t put a different shirt on, I am going to sin so profoundly the sea will split down the middle just to avoid watching.”

You smiled.

Didn’t move.

You were doing it on purpose.

Absolute menace.

It didn’t take long for word to spread across the Grand Line.

You had legendary tits and could make a stew that made hardened pirates weep like children.

Naturally, this was a problem.

Not for you, of course. You were fine. Thriving, even. But for everyone else—specifically, anyone with the misfortune of standing too close, staring too long, or daring to compliment the way you stirred a pot—life had become significantly more dangerous.

Because Rayleigh had entered what the crew was now referring to, in hushed tones, as feral husband mode.

It had started subtly.

A glance here. A hand resting at the small of your back when another captain passed a little too slowly. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes when a merchant offered you a “free sample.”

But subtle didn’t last.

Not when he realized other men were looking at you the same way he looked at dessert, like you were a rare indulgence, warm and soft and just waiting to be devoured.

One poor bastard in Water 7 asked for your recipe and your measurements in the same sentence.

Rayleigh didn’t speak.

He just handed the man a spoon.

Then took it back.

And bent it in half.

With one hand.

You hadn’t even noticed the offense. You were too busy yelling at Shanks for stealing dumplings again.

But Rayleigh?

Rayleigh was watching the world like a man prepared to kill for love and soup in equal measure.

And heaven help whoever thought they could separate the two.

Exhibit A: Buggy

“Wow,” Buggy said brightly, leaning across the table with the most respectful expression his face could manage, “you’ve got a great—”

Clink.

Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his map. He simply reached out and placed his sword on the table. Calm. Precise. A gentle tap of steel against wood. The kind of motion that didn’t scream threat so much as whisper it with murderous confidence.

Buggy froze mid-sentence.

“…smile,” he finished weakly.

Rayleigh raised one eyebrow. Slowly. Deliberately.

Buggy backed away with the careful movements of a man realizing he had just complimented the moon in front of a werewolf. And the werewolf was holding a blade.

Exhibit B: Gaban (Again)

“I’m just saying,” Gaban mused, leaning lazily against the ship’s railing as you bent over a basket of spices nearby, “if she wanted to lean over me like that in the kitchen, I wouldn’t mind.”

He grinned to himself. It was a very self-satisfied kind of grin.

Rayleigh appeared behind him like a spirit summoned by lust and poor timing.

“Funny,” he said, tone pleasant, almost conversational. “I was just thinking you looked flammable today.”

Gaban turned.

Saw the look in Rayleigh’s eyes.

And promptly excused himself to go fall off the ship on purpose.

Exhibit C: A Bounty Hunter Who Looked for Too Long

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t whistle. Didn’t catcall. Didn’t utter a word.

He just stared. A little too long. A little too low. While you were hauling in a crate, bouncing slightly from the effort, sleeves rolled up, neck glistening with sweat and sea spray.

Rayleigh didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t warn.

He just picked the man up and dropped him into the ocean like a sack of potatoes that had committed a felony.

Splash.

Roger leaned over the railing, tankard in hand, and shouted cheerfully, “She’s taken, mate!”

Rayleigh didn’t look away from the water. “She’s mi—ours.”

You, five feet away, still holding the crate: “I’m literally right here. Do I get a vote?”

Rayleigh: “No.”

You: “Rude.”

Rayleigh: “Correct.”

And then he handed you a clean rag for the sweat on your brow, kissed your cheek like a man unbothered by legal definitions of ownership, and went right back to charting a course like he hadn’t just waterboarded a stranger with possessiveness.

The Grand Line got the message.

[lumiileth]

let you break my heart again: part iii

part 1 part 2

pairing: Shanks x Marine!Reader, Garp’s Daughter!Reader, Familial!Luffy x Reader,

tags: Bittersweet, Angst, Requited Unrequited Love, Angst, Non-Sexual Tension, No Use of Y/N,

Manga spoiler warnings

word count: 8.200

summary: She was an anchor, foolishly reaching for the tide, but Shanks was the sea—vast, restless, and never meant to be caught.

or: She realized that Shanks and Luffy were the same - both too wild and free-spirited to be held back, they were always going to chase their dreams, while she just had to accept being left behind.

“So your dad is Garp?!” Shanks gawked, eyes wide at the aftermath from the chaos erupted before them, specifically, a brawl between Vice Admiral Garp and their captain, Gol D. Roger.

It wasn’t much of a fight. Fists flew, grunts echoed, and it ended rather abruptly when a small, furious voice rang louder than either of the two legends.

“ I don’t wanna go back yet !!”

There she stood, barely reaching anyone’s shoulder, arms crossed, cheeks puffed with defiance. Garp turned to his daughter, visibly flustered. He was caught off guard by his only daughter’s request. 

The Roger Pirates watched, utterly entertained, as the Marine Hero, the same man feared across the seas, crumbled at the hands of one little girl. His face twisted with frustration, muttering half-baked scoldings, while his eyes shimmered suspiciously.

And when Roger let out a booming laugh, the rest of the crew followed suit.

“ Oi, Garp! Looks like you’ve met your match !” Roger cackled.

“Yeah,” she muttered, propping her chin on her palm, elbow balanced on the edge of the ship’s rail. Her voice was calm, too calm, given what had just come out of her mouth.

Across from her, Buggy let out a shriek so loud it startled nearby seagulls into flight.

“SO IT’S TRUE?!” he howled, his body exploding apart in every direction like fireworks in a panic. His head spun midair, hovering with wild eyes and twitching lips. “No wonder you’re scary, Garp? The Garp that’s always on Captain’s tail?”

She blinked at him, unimpressed. “I guess so,” she said, brushing a stray hair behind her ear with a casual flick.

Buggy’s floating head nearly dropped from the sky.

“C-Crazy, you’re crazy!” he stammered, “That man’s a monster! A living legend! You’re saying that guy is your dad?! So what are you doing on this ship?!”

She leaned back against the rail, gazing out toward the endless stretch of sea. “Hm… Out of all the ships I saw, the red sails looked the most exciting!” 

Her gaze lifted to the sails above, bright red and billowing against the wind, a shimmering glint of admiration.

“It looked way cooler than the other ships.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “I didn’t even realize it belonged to the infamous Gol D. Roger. I just thought it looked like it could take me somewhere I hadn’t been before, super flashy!”

Buggy’s head bobbed midair, the wonder in her voice catching him off guard.

“R-Right, right!” he said, recovering fast and puffing out his chest, well, where his chest would’ve been. “Our captain’s the flashiest of them all! You’ve got good taste!”

“So, why aren’t you going back?” Shanks asked, inching a little closer to her on the deck, curiosity tugging at his features. Up close, he was reminded again just how tall she was, Garp’s blood ran strong, apparently.

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s fun being pirates.” Her lips curled into a small, teasing smirk. “Why? Want me gone that badly?”

“Yes!”

 “No!”

The two answers clashed in the air instantly.

She didn’t even need to look up, she already knew who said what. Her sharp glare zeroed in on Buggy, whose face had already contorted into an exaggerated grimace.

“But you’re basically a Marine! ” Buggy protests, flailing dramatically as he frantically turns to Shanks. “What if she rats us out?!”

“Oh, shut up, you’re just scared” she snapped, eyes narrowing.

Rayleigh’s voice cut through the tension, calm but pointed. “Did you know your father made it his life’s mission to capture our captain?”

He stepped into the conversation like he’d been listening the whole time, because he probably had. Rayleigh looked at her with just a small amount of curiosity, after he had checked in with his careless Captain who had just fought her father. 

“How do we know you’re not feeding him information behind our backs?” he added, expression unreadable.

“Come on , Rayleigh,” another crew member, Taro, she recalled, interjected with a huff. “If that were true, Garp would’ve been breathing down our necks a long time ago.” He ruffled the girl’s hair. 

“Exactly!” she threw up her hands. “As if I’d let him get information that easily. No way in hell I’d give him the satisfaction.”

Once things settled, the conversation drifted naturally back to the trio, to their familiar corner on the deck of the Oro Jackson. The wind had calmed, but the curiosity between them hadn’t. It wasn’t quite an interrogation, but she could feel the way their eyes lingered on her, wanting to ask more questions. 

Especially now, knowing who her father was, someone even Captain Roger spoke of with an odd mix of exasperation and respect.

“Why don't you wanna be a Marine?” Buggy asked, tilting his head with a finger pressed to his chin. “You’d probably get a high rank right off the bat! You’d be rich!”

She gave him a flat look, the kind only someone used to his antics could muster. “Buggy, that’s called nepotism.”

He shrugged unapologetically. “So?”

“I don’t know…” she sighed, toying with the loose threads on the hem of her shirt. Her voice softened. “I… got onto this ship just for fun, I thought one day I’d just leave and continue my way through my dad.” 

“But?” Buggy tilted his head, intrigued by her answer, her dad is a scary man with scary potential, he needs to know these things. 

“Sailing with you guys is so fun,” She mumbled, her voice had a slight tremble to it as she still didn’t want to look straight in the eyes at the other apprentices. 

“My older brother’s a Marine.” Her thoughts briefly flicked to Dragon, once a loving brother figure to her, now an increasingly distant one. She recalls her childhood where Dragon and her would scavenge through the forests in Dawn Island, waiting for Garp to finally show and do some training. 

“Rarely saw him after, and when I do, he looked like shit!”

“You mean that Dragon guy?” Shanks asked, blinking as if trying to remember something, “I think you mentioned him before.”

“Mhm,” she nodded. “Never home. Even Dad visits more.”

“You sound like a brat throwing a tantrum,” Buggy chimed in again, grinning. “So you do act like a girl sometimes, I thought you’re just a brute.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Excuse you?! ”

“Now, now,” Shanks stepped in quickly, arms between them like a referee. “Let’s not start a war on deck, alright?”

“She started it,” Buggy mumbled under his breath.

“You provoked me!” she shot back, leaning forward with a glare.

“Alright, alright,” Shanks laughed, placing a hand on her head and ruffling her hair. “Let’s take it easy, marine spawn.”

“Hey!” She shot up, clearly offended, a frown scrunching up her face. “I’m a pirate through and through now, okay? I hate Marines.” Her arms crossed over her chest with the full drama of someone thoroughly committed to the bit.

Buggy blinked at her, unimpressed. “So you hate your family?”

“That’s different!” she huffed, turning her nose up. “They don’t count.”

-----

“How ya feeling?” Hongo asked, standing beside the bed with his arms loosely crossed, his expression gentle but observant. He had just finished checking her vitals, carefully, given how frantic Shanks had been when he all but shoved her into his care. It had taken a lot to calm the captain down.

The girl blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling before letting her gaze drift around the room. Clean. Nautical. Slightly chaotic. She didn’t recognize a single thing, except for the man watching her with quiet patience.

“Hongo,” she finally said, her voice dry but teasing, “I see you got your teeth back.”

“Hey,” he replied with a short laugh, clearly not offended. “We can trade barbs when you’re not halfway to the grave. Let’s not make my captain worry more than he already is.”

A pause, then a soft murmur: “I’m on the Red Force, huh?”

“Yeah.” Hongo nodded, but then narrowed his eyes slightly. “If you’re not gonna answer my questions, I’ll go get Shanks.”

“No!” she blurted, sitting up too fast before wincing at the effort. “No, I’ll answer. Just… please. I need to be away from Shanks for a bit. If that’s okay?”

Hongo eyed her, reading more between the lines than she realized. Then, with a small smile, he said, “Can’t reject a lady’s request.”

He pulled a chair closer to her bedside, his tone gentle but firm. “So… what happened?”

She stared down and then she told him. Everything. (or at least stuff that are relevant)

-----

“Hey, Capt.” Hongo greeted as he stepped out of the room, only for Shanks to immediately crowd him, hand still half on the doorframe.

“How is she? Is she okay?” Shanks asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant, he failed miserably. Everyone on the crew knew just how much the girl meant to him. He might’ve tried to act cool about it, but the fact he’d been standing outside the door the entire time, down to the second, said everything.

Hongo sighed, his hands on his waist. “She needs rest. Her health isn’t great. She told me a few things, but… I don’t think it’s the full story. I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle all of it.”

“She’s awake?” Shanks asked, eyes lighting up, completely ignoring the rest of Hongo’s words.

“Yes, she’s awake, but—”

Before Hongo could finish, Shanks had already turned to push the door open, only to be yanked back by Benn Beckman with one hand. It looked comical, like someone dragging back an overexcited cat.

“Whoa there. Listen to the doctor, she needs rest,” Beckman said, calm but firm.

“Ugh, fine,” Shanks groaned, deflating like a sulking kid.

“Never thought I’d live to see Pouting Shanks,” Yassop muttered to Lucky Roux with a smirk.

“We���re gonna be seeing a lot of that,” Roux whispered back, both of them shaking their heads with amusement.

“Hm, I think Limejuice is calling for me,” Shanks blurted out, already half-turning to flee down the front of the deck, clearly hoping no one would question why Limejuice, of all people, would ever need him urgently.

Behind him, several senior officers exchanged knowing smirks, low chuckles echoing through the corridor. Watching their proud captain all but retreat because of a woman? Now that was a sight.

“So,” Benn Beckman called out casually, arms crossed, “What did she actually say, Hongo?”

Yassop and Lucky Roux blinked, then leaned in like kids overhearing gossip for the first time.

Hongo, ever calm, adjusted the strap of his med kit and sighed. “She asked me to keep Shanks out of her room for a while.”

That made the air shift slightly.

“Not sure what happened between them back on that island,” he added, voice just low enough to make it sound important, “but whatever it was… it definitely something .”

The silence that followed was punctuated only by Shanks’ very unsubtle footsteps retreating down the Red Force, faster than any pirate captain should ever be walking.

----

“Now,” a voice called from the doorway, smooth, teasing, yet unmistakably firm. “Why did I hear from my doctor that Ms. Patient in here doesn’t want my presence?”

The air shifted.

She flinched before she could catch herself. That voice, low and careless, threaded with an old warmth that unsettled her more than she'd admit, dug into her chest like a dull blade. She didn’t turn toward him. She didn’t want to.

“Because Ms. Patient ,” she said tightly, her eyes fixed on the wooden planks, “ explicitly does not want your presence. Is that too hard to understand, Red-Hair ?”

Shanks stepped inside anyway, she had been cooped in the room for awhile, but guessing from the silence on deck and the night sky, it was around dawn, she finally saw that familiar smirk was already tugging at his lips, boyish and far too charming for someone so infuriating.

“Yeah,” he said with a mock sigh, “I guess it is. Y’see, I’ve never really had women reject me before.” His voice dipped with amusement, eyes scanning the room before locking onto her still form. “Kind of a new experience.”

She rolled her eyes, slowly turning her head to glance at him, just a little. “Glad I could be your first,” she muttered.

“I’d love for you to be my firsts,” He had jokingly said, but was met up with a glare from the bedridden patient so Shanks immediately deflected, “So,” he said, gaze drifting around before settling back on her. “How’ve you been?”

The silence between them stretched.

“Peachy,” she answered curtly, her voice clipped, eyes already drifting back toward the ceiling as if it could shield her.

Shanks inhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Right. Should’ve expected that.”

There was a flicker in her gaze then. Still, her voice was softer this time. “Luffy missed you.”

Shanks’ face shifted, just slightly. His grin widened at the name being dropped, he thinks of the little guy who had dreams like his former captain, who’s now wearing his hat like a legacy. 

“Missed that little anchor too,” Shanks said with a smile. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The name alone was enough to carve silence between them.

But Shanks pushed forward anyway, taking a cautious step closer, his eyes scanning her face like he was searching for something left unsaid.

“But I asked about you , sweetheart,” he said gently, his voice lower now. No grin. Just rawness.

“Never better,” she bit out, her voice thick with sarcasm as she shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the sting that laced through her ribcage. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Shanks didn’t flinch, but something tightened in his eyes. His arms were still crossed, his stance relaxed—but only on the surface. “I want to hear the truth, at least,” he replied, tone softer now, stripped of that usual teasing lilt.

She stared at him, and then, without warning, glared, sharp, unfiltered, exhausted.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word like a blade, “I feel like shit. My head’s pounding, I can’t feel half my fingers, and I think I might hurl in about two minutes. So if you’re done playing pirate therapist, could you please get me a bucket?”

Shanks blinked once. “Why a bucket,” he said, already walking over to the gaped door with a nonchalant tilt of his head, “when you’ve got a perfectly good sea right outside this room?”

Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. 

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, “As if I’d dare tarnish your beloved sea.”

He turned back, just in time to catch the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t bitter. Just a flicker of something long buried between them, genuine, if fleeting.

Her words held no venom now, only the dry edge of someone too tired to pretend and too familiar with the person standing before her. It was the kind of banter only shared between people who had once known each other too well and maybe still did.

Shanks leaned against the wooden walls of the room, watching her with a quiet fondness. “My sea’s been through worse,” he said, “It can handle a little heartbreak.”

“How ‘bout you?” she asked suddenly, voice casual but eyes carefully trained on him, like she was daring him to be honest. It caught Shanks off guard, but he recovered with a tilt of his head and a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How’s the big scary Yonko faring in his beloved sea?”

A laugh erupted from him, loud, familiar, and echoing with that signature Red-Haired charm. It rumbled from his chest, deep and full, and for a fleeting moment, she saw not the infamous Emperor of the Sea, but the boy who once dangled his legs off the Oro Jackson beside her, carefree and bright-eyed.

“This big and scary Yonko,” he said, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye, “was absolutely terrified for a certain patient’s life. Scariest I’ve ever felt, I fear.” His voice dipped with quiet sincerity toward the end, a tremble of truth hidden in the humor.

She held his gaze, her smile softening just slightly before her tone leveled into something more grounded.

“I’m fine, Shanks,” she said, but it was too clean, too rehearsed. Her posture had stiffened, the slight tremor in her fingers betraying the calm she tried to maintain.

He watched her closely, unconvinced. The image of her back on that bloodstained island, crumpled beneath the weight of everything she carried, played on repeat in his mind.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, his voice low and earnest, no longer laced with his usual levity.

“I’m not pretending,” she lied.

“Here’s some tangerine, your favorite,” Shanks suddenly said, setting down a small woven basket on the bedside table with a casual air that didn’t quite mask the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “A bit sour since it’s not in season, but still sweet enough to eat. Don’t worry.”

She blinked at the offering, then at him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in annoyance, but in curiosity. Her fingers reached toward the fruit instinctively, brushing against the coarse skin of one of them. The scent was immediate, bright, citrusy, familiar.

“You have a tangerine tree on your ship now?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if trying to place the absurdity of it. Her voice was light, teasing, but her gaze stayed fixed on his face.

Shanks just hummed in response, a noncommittal sound paired with a shrug.

But you don’t like tangerines.

She didn’t say it out loud. It stayed trapped in the back of her throat like so many other things she didn’t allow herself to speak. Shanks never liked tangerines. Too acidic, he used to say. Always gave her some every time the three pirate apprentices scavange through a new island they just docked in. 

“Thanks…” She quietly said as she watched Shanks leave the room.

----

“Look who’s up!” Lucky Roux bellowed from the edge of the deck, waving one thick arm toward the figure emerging from the cabin. A broad grin stretched across his face, and several heads turned in her direction.

“I’m not that sick,” she called back with a small smile, the breeze catching strands of her hair as she stepped fully into view. Sunlight kissed her skin, and for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was suffocating.

“For the lady,” Roux said, presenting her with a skewer of freshly grilled meat, steam still rising from it.

As a Monkey D., she knows better than to reject a peace offering. Especially if it’s meat. She takes the meat with little to know grace, munching on it immediately. 

The crew chuckled, a few raising their mugs in a lazy salute.

“Not pairing my meat with beer? That’s preposterous,” she added with a mock frown, biting into the meat again. It was warm, juicy, something she missed. 

“We’re gonna dock soon,” Lucky Roux said, shifting beside her. “Might take a couple of days.”

She arched her brow. “One of those usual remote islands you lot crash on for rest and reckless drinking? Or something different?”

“Nah, captain said we needed to restock,” Yassop chimed in, puffing lazily on a cigarette. “Supplies, medicine, the works.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she inhaled deeply. The scent of the sea filled her lungs, salt and wind and wood and freedom. The breeze danced over her skin, she closed her eyes briefly, letting it wrap around her.

Being on a pirate ship felt different. It was different.

Even as a Vice Admiral, she never got to experience this, the quiet laughter, the sun-warmed deck beneath her feet, the unspoken bond between people who’ve risked their lives together not for duty, but for choice.

This wasn’t obligation. It was freedom.

And god, how she missed it.

“Now look who’s finally out of their room!” Shanks shouted, his voice booming with playful exaggeration as he strode across the deck. Without hesitation, he slung a heavy arm over her shoulders.

The gesture, so familiar yet distant, made her shoulders tense instinctively. Her balance wavered, just for a moment. She wasn’t as steady on her feet as she thought she’d be, her recovery is growing less and less each day. 

“Shanks,” she murmured, her voice low but not cold. A soft smile ghosted across her lips before she could stop it, brief, fleeting, but real. The man beside her still carried the same spark in his eyes, the same lopsided grin that used to drive her mad. 

“Oh~?” Shanks leaned closer, his red hair brushing her cheek as he tilted his head with mock disbelief. “Was that a smile I just saw? Are you actually happy to see me now? Miracles do happen.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed, loud, unrestrained, like a certain captain they sailed under from back then, Shanks nudged her gently with his elbow. “You wound me. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“Your everything ain’t much if I’m being honest,” She jabbed at red-haired.

“Hey!” 

Choruses of laughter from his crewmates erupted.

----

Roger’s execution wasn’t a celebration, no matter how the world painted it.

The crowds in Loguetown had gathered like it was a festival, eager to see the Pirate King die, their voices loud with awe and hunger for a new era. Some cheered. Some jeered. Some clung to hope for the treasures whispered in dying breaths. But for her, for them, it was mourning in the truest form.

Heavy rain fell like judgment. Cold, sharp, relentless.

She stood in the shadow of the gallows, soaked through, her coat clinging to her frame, fists clenched at her sides. Beside her, Shanks was silent, red hair plastered to his face, lips drawn tight. He had cried, she realized, but now that it was raining heavily, she couldn't quite decipher it as well.

Buggy had just run off, screaming something about Shanks being a fool, his figure vanishing into the storm.

“Buggy rejected you, huh?” she said at last, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the patter of rain. It wasn’t mockery, far from it. Her tone was flat, like she had already expected it.

A beat of silence passed between them, and then Shanks took a hesitant step closer.

“I was gonna wait to ask, but…” He extended his hand, trembling just barely. “The offer’s for you too. Come with me. Let’s be pirates together.”

She looked down at his hand. It was the same hand that had once pulled her up when she stumbled on the deck of the Oro Jackson. The same hand that offered her meat when she hadn’t eaten. The same hand she used to sneakily reach for during storms when she was scared.

Now it was shaking.

Her eyes flicked toward the empty scaffolding, the wooden beams stained with rain—and Roger’s blood.

“Shanks…” she whispered.

“Don’t say no,” he said quickly, almost desperately. “Not after everything.”

She exhaled, slow and shaky. “Sha–”

Shanks interrupted, not wanting her rejection and excuse to be verbalized, “You wanted to, you wan–”

“I’m going to be a Marine,” she cut in, her voice firm, though her lips quivered. “I’ve already decided.”

His hand faltered in the air.

It made sense to her. It was the rational thing to do.

She had just watched a man—no, the man who had changed her life—die at the hands of the system her family served. A system her father upheld. A system her brother once fought for.

A system she had no choice but to return to.

To her, becoming a Marine was the only way to keep what little stability she had left. Garp was a Marine. Dragon was a Marine. Her blood was steeped in justice, in duty, in structure. Her and the naive dream to be able to change it.

But for Shanks?

For Shanks, it was betrayal.

He had just witnessed the World Government and the Marines steal the life of the only man he ever called Captain. He had lost Buggy. He had lost Roger. And now, he was losing her too.

“Decide differently,” Shanks said, the words sharper than he meant them to be. His voice was tight, strained.

She blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone.

“You think this is easy for me?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t raised, but it was cold. Steady.

“You think it’s easier for me?” he shot back.

“I have ties in the Marines,” she said, stepping back as if putting physical distance might temper the fire in his chest. “I’m not meant for your kind of freedom, Shanks.”

His hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, why it felt like her words were slicing open old wounds he hadn’t known he still carried.

“You don’t know a thing,” he muttered.

She frowned. “I know enough.”

She didn’t. She didn’t know that Shanks came from a past as stained and fractured as her own. That he wasn’t born free. That Roger saved him from a fate darker than most could imagine. That one day he had to step inside the place of his lineage, as much as he hated it. 

“You’re going to regret it,” Shanks said, not as a threat, not as spite. His voice was low, roughened by rain and grief. There was no smugness in his tone. He wasn’t warning her out of arrogance, he was mourning her before she even left.

She didn’t meet his eyes. If she did, she knew she’d shatter.

Shanks stepped forward, just once, but stopped himself from reaching out. They had touched so many times before, laughs shared under starlight, bruises exchanged during sparring, warmth passed during cold nights at sea.

But now?

Now his hands stayed at his sides. Anchored.

“I know you better than you think,” he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly, pained. “You’d hate yourself.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep it together. One second longer and she’d break.

“Goodbye, Shanks,” she said instead, turning and walking away from the comfort. “See you at sea.”

----

They met again for the first time in years.

----

The bitterness that had once wrapped around their hearts like iron had eroded, softened by time. With distance came clarity. With maturity came yearning, not the painful kind, but the quiet ache that settles in the chest when you realize the person you once pushed away is still part of your soul.

She hadn’t expected to hear her name that way, called out so openly, so joyfully. It echoed across the harbor, cutting through the noise of the port town.

And when she turned, blinking under the sun, there he was. A flash of crimson, a familiar grin, a mop of unmistakable red hair. Shanks.

“Shanks??” Her voice pitched up with disbelief and delight, her smile radiant, blooming like spring after a long winter.

Before she could say more, he was already there, arms around her, spinning her off the ground in a hug that pulled the breath out of her lungs and replaced it with laughter. She clung to him without hesitation, surprised by how natural it still felt.

“What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly, once her feet found the earth again.

Shanks, still holding her elbows, looked at her with stars in his eyes—his grin boyish, just slightly crooked. “Docked here for some supplies,” he said, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, “but rumor had it there was a very charming and dangerously competent captain in the area.”

She snorted. “Who would that be?”

“I wonder who?” he said with a lopsided grin as they stood there for a moment longer than they should’ve, in the middle of a bustling dock, hearts caught somewhere between nostalgia and something dangerously close to hope.

“Huh,” Yassop muttered, eyes narrowing as he watched the woman who had been lingering near their captain ever since they docked. His arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable expression painted across his face. “You don’t look like the Captain’s type.”

She turned toward him, a brow arching. “Your captain has a type ?”

“N—” Limejuice tried to interject, perhaps to soften the blow, but Yassop barreled right over him.

“Petite,” Yassop began, counting on his fingers with theatrical flair. “Cute. Small. Maybe even a little helpless. You know, that damsel in distress effect.”

Each word stabbed just a bit sharper than the last.

She blinked. Her lips parted slightly, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh…” she exhaled, her mouth agape just enough to hide how that landed, deep and uncomfortable. Convenient , she thought. That’s… everything she wasn’t.

Too tall. Too harsh. Too stubborn. Just gr—

“What are you guys talking about?” Shanks asked, flashing his usual boyish grin as he approached the small gathering.

“Nothing!” Yassop and Limejuice chimed in unison, a little too quickly. The woman beside them merely smiled with quiet amusement, clearly enjoying their flustered state. For all his carefree charm, it was easy to forget how much Shanks was respected by his crew, despite his young age. But now that they’d reunited, she could see how much he’d grown. 

“Really?” Shanks tilted his head, raising a brow in suspicion.

Before the others could dig themselves into a deeper hole, she casually looped her arm around his and leaned into him with a playful bump of her shoulder. “Exactly that. Nothing.”

Shanks glanced down at her, teasing warmth in his voice. “You’re getting awfully chummy. How would the world react, seeing their beloved Marine Captain arm in arm with a pirate like me?”

“They’ll live,” she quipped, her tone light but steady. “Besides, it’s not like you’re pillaging this island, right? Normal people know you don’t do that. I think.”

Shanks let out a laugh, light and windblown, “You think, huh? You sure you’re not ruining that pristine Marine record of yours by hanging around me?”

“Oh come on, your being noisy," She rolled her eyes , "let’s go and eat something. There’s this nice place that sells lobster, you still like that, right?” she said casually, though her eyes flickered with something softer, nostalgic.

Shanks’s face lit up like the sun hitting open waters. “I could never reject a woman’s offer to eat lobster,” he grinned, already falling into step beside her.

The streets of the island were warm and busy, dotted with cheerful chatter and the occasional cry of seagulls. They didn’t talk much as they walked, comfortable silence now filled the space between them.

When they reached the restaurant, Shanks looked around in delight, already imagining a seat by the window, B ut she surprised him. “To-go, please,” she told the vendor instead, then turned to Shanks. “We’re having a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Shanks raised a brow but didn’t protest, already intrigued.

“There’s a spot nearby, by the cliffs. I sit there when I needed to clear my head.” Her voice lowered, just slightly.

He smiled, following without another word.

As they found the perfect place overlooking the ocean, she spread the food between them on the grass, the red of the lobster almost glowing under the sun.

“If this keeps going, my crew’s gonna start calling me a neglectful captain,” Shanks teased, taking a generous bite and groaning with exaggerated delight.

“It’s been years since we ate together like this,” she said, smiling as she picked at her lobster with delicate precision. “They’ll live.”

Shanks let out a hearty laugh, the same laugh she remembered from what felt like a lifetime ago. “You really look like a reliable captain now,” she teasingly said out of the blue, taking a big bite of his own.

"While you still eat like an animal,” He said back, watching her with a playful smirk.

For a moment, the world around them faded, no Yonko, no Marines, no war or duty or time. Just them, sitting cross-legged on a faded cloth under the shade of an old tree, salt on their lips and sea breeze in their hair.

They talked like no time had passed. Jokes about Buggy’s tantrums. Memories of Roger yelling at them to “hold on tighter” during storms. The nights spent huddled beneath the stars, whispering dreams and dumb ideas to each other.

Shanks was the same. Older, yes. Stronger, yes. But his spirit? Still that scrappy, sharp-eyed boy, S he caught herself watching him too long, too softly. The way the light hit his hair, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way he still made her laugh without trying.

And then she felt it, that tug in her chest, that familiar ache.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Not again. But sitting here, with him, the years peeled away like they never existed.

She can’t help but fall in love with him all over again. 

----

That’s why, after a few weeks of The Red-Haired Pirates docking in this quaint island, she had decided to do something quite reckless.

She had kissed him, and he could only look at her with widened eyes. She was hoping for warmth, a laugh, a grin, maybe even the rare sight of the infamous Red-Haired Captain flustered.

But what she got was silence. His fingers rose, gently brushing against his lips, as if trying to hold onto something already fading.

“I can’t,” Shanks murmured, barely above the sound of the sea between them.

Her heart dropped.

Her love was answered with an I can’t . With rejection.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting salt that wasn’t from the ocean.

She thought of the nights wrapped in the same blanket, their knees touching beneath a shared silence. The soft laughter. The reckless teasing. The vulnerable conversations under the stars, whether it was yesterday or ten years ago, it all remained etched in her, stubborn and beautiful.

She had believed that maybe, maybe, some part of him held onto it too.

But now, with a kiss she never meant to be a goodbye, she knew, this moment would shift everything.

And that was the last moment they had with each other.

She knew then, as his laughter from his ship faded into the night and the scent of salt clung to his cloak, that she had never stood a chance. Not truly. Not against the pull of the horizon, not against the freedom in his veins.

He belonged to the sea.

And the sea never shared.

----

“Men!” Shanks called out, voice cracking ever so slightly as he raised a half-filled mug toward the sky. His usual grin was replaced by something softer.

“Let’s drink!”

----

Years later, when they meet again, it will be beneath the sun that shines over hometown, and standing beside her will be a wide-eyed, grinning rascal, pestering Shanks with unrelenting energy, who will soon inherit the will that’s the Straw Hat.

----

“Shanks…” Hongo’s voice came out low, hesitant, as he stood just outside her door. He couldn’t meet his captain’s gaze—how could he, with the weight of the news sitting like lead on his tongue? “I’m sorry.”

Shanks turned to him, smiling out of habit, though something uneasy tugged at the edges of his chest. “What is it, Hongo?”

The ship doctor hesitated for just a moment longer before the words dropped, heavy and final.

“She only has a few months left to live.”

The smile on Shanks’ face faltered, no, shattered. One word slipped from his lips, barely audible over the crashing waves beyond the deck.

“…What?”

----

“You knew?” Shanks’ voice was low, but there was something sharp in it, something that cracked beneath the surface. His eyes, usually warm with mischief or mirth, had gone cold. Focused. Piercing.

She didn’t flinch.

“Yes, I knew.” Her voice cut back with equal weight, though not as steady. “And I knew the real reason you kept docking on islands with no real trade value.” Her hand dragged down her face, wearied more by the conversation than her illness. “You weren’t looking for food or supplies. You were looking for a cure.”

Shanks stared at her, the silence stretching between them like a taut rope. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hongo’s your senior officer,” she replied flatly. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to hear it from him?”

“You don’t believe that,” Shanks said. “Do you?” Shanks would much rather listen in on the person with said illness, the same person he had cared for as well. 

She didn’t respond, and in her silence, Shanks sighed, long and tired, the sound of a man who’s been fighting something he can’t punch away.

His voice dropped. “So… you knew from the beginning. That’s why you asked me, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flickered, the briefest trembling in her fingers before she folded them into her sleeves. “I said what I said and I’m not going to take it back,” she murmured, “because I trust you more than anyone in this world.”

She looked at him then, not fragile, not even afraid, but unguarded.

“I can’t rely on anyone else to do it right.”

“You’re a cruel lady,” Shanks said, and though his voice held a teasing lilt, it faltered at the edges. There was a bitter smile on his face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, because deep down, he knew: he couldn’t win with her. Not in this. Not ever.

She let out a lifeless chuckle, dry and hollow, despite wanting to ease the tension. “If only you knew what they call me in the Marines.”

“I don’t need to know,” he replied, softer now, searching her face for something, anything, beneath the cracks. “cause I know what you are.”

“Oh?” she raised a brow, dragging her gaze up to meet his. “And what am I, Red Hair?”

Shanks hesitated. The truth itched at the back of his throat.

“You’re someone who carries the world on her back, smiles like it’s light, and dares anyone to notice the weight.” He exhaled slowly, his words sincere. “A reckless woman indeed.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. But it passed quickly.

“That’s funny,” she murmured. “Because when I look at you, I see a man who sailed the seas to outrun the things he couldn’t fix. We’re not so different, you and I.”

Shanks looked away for a moment, jaw clenched, tongue caught behind words he wanted to say. That’s not true, if you knew what I’ve been doing these past few years…

“But you still asked me,” he said quietly, unsaid words remain unsaid. 

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

“You know I love you, right?” Shanks whispered, as if the words themselves might crumble under their own weight. His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, like he was afraid of what the sentence might become once spoken. 

She didn’t answer at first.

Brows furrowed, she blinked slowly, as if trying to decipher whether she had truly heard him right. She thought she had misheard the man she had known since childhood. 

Then after a few pauses, she answers, her hands clenched onto the bedding, glaring at the man, not believing a word that had left his lips. 

“No,” she said, curt and steady. “I don’t.”

Shanks blinked, surprised by the bluntness of it. He wasn’t expecting that type of answer.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” she continued, her voice cold under the silver gleam of moonlight. “Don’t you dare ever say you love me.”

Her words hit like a blade, it started blunt, yet it got sharper the more she says and she didn’t stop.

“Love is unconditional. Love is warm,” she said, jabbing a finger into her own chest. “You want to talk about love?”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“I’m afraid to die, no because of the pain, or what hell or judgement I’d face, but because I want to see Luffy become Pirate King. I want to see Ace carve his name into the world leaving his own legacy. I want to see the day my brother and my father finally reunite.”

She got out of bed, stepping forward towards where Shanks is, and now her finger pressed hard into his chest.

“They left me. Over and over. And still, I wait. Like some loyal fucking dog.” She took a shaky breath. “That’s love.”

Her hand fell back to her side, clenched into a trembling fist.

“That’s fucking love, Red-Haired.”

Shanks stood there, silent. Taking it. Letting her speak, letting her bleed it out, because he knew he had no right to interrupt.

“And you?” she laughed bitterly. “You brought me nothing but confusion. Silence. Half-truths. Heartbreak.”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes wet but blazing.

“So don’t you dare tell me you love me now, when you couldn’t even give me the dignity of closure.”

She turned her back slightly, her voice growing smaller, but no less furious.

Shanks tried to reach for her arm, her name softly leaving his lips, but she continued.

“You’ve always loved the sea more than me. And that’s fine. I made peace with that a long time ago.” She laughed, 'cause what can she do? The man she had painfully pined over the years and in the end rejected her, says that he loves her, when she was running on limited time.

“What I can’t forgive,” A pause, “what I’ll never accept is you standing there with those sad fucking eyes, telling me you love me... like it makes things better between us.”

Shanks didn’t say anything for a long time.

The night wind moved around them through the open door. brushing past her like an apology, rustling the red hair that earned him his name, now shadowed by guilt.

He stepped forward once.

Then stopped.

His hands clenched at his sides, not out of anger, but restraint, because the part of him that wanted to reach out, to hold her, to pull her close and say I’m sorry , was still the same part that had left her all those years ago.

"I don’t expect you to forgive me," Shanks said at last, his voice low, honest in a way that felt almost cruel.

She didn’t turn to face him. Her shoulders remained rigid, like the tension alone was holding her together.

"And I won’t insult you by asking for it."

Silence. But her breathing wasn’t steady anymore.

“I meant what I said,” he continued, each word heavier than the last. “My love for you… it was consuming.”

She furrowed her brows, a bitter scoff caught in her throat. Another excuse. Another romanticized lie.

“What I wanted was to live a quiet pirate life, just the three of us,” Shanks started out, a smile etched on his face as he thought back the memories they had in the Oro Jackson, the happiest moments of his life. 

“But then there were times I imagined something else. A quiet life. You and me. A farm, maybe. A family.” He shook his head, bitter at the dream. “And that's what terrified me.”

Her silence stung. So he kept going, the only way he knew how, forward, even if the ground was falling apart beneath him.

“I’m a pirate. The sea calls for me. But you—” Shanks looked at her, really looked at her— “You were like my anchor. You pulled me in, even when I didn’t want to be caught.”

She turned her head slowly, just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “I was your anchor? So I was the weight? The thing that held you back from chasing your grand adventure?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

But she wasn’t convinced. Her fingers twitched at her sides, trembling from holding back too much for too long.

Shanks stepped forward, his voice quieter now. “You were my freedom too. I just didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

That’s when she turned fully. Her gaze met his, glassy but sharp.

“Do you think that makes it easier?” she asked, voice frayed at the edges. “Hearing that now?”

“No,” he whispered. “But you deserve the truth. Even if it’s a thousand years late.” Eyes yearning for a future they never get to live in.

The wind picked up slightly, pushing the salty air against her cheeks, but it did nothing to cool the fire inside her chest. She hadn’t meant to say any of it, not to Shanks, but the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. She didn’t want his pity, she never did, but it felt like the weight of everything was finally collapsing on her.

“I lived a life where everyone I love left me,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words made them more real. 

“My mom, my dad,” She pressed her hands to her forehead, shielding her eyes from Shanks, the tears falling freely now, “My brother.”

Shanks didn’t move. He didn’t speak, but his eyes never left her, his presence quiet and steady.

“I gave up my freedom for Garp and Luffy,” she choked out, her breath hitching. “I stuck with Luffy because... because I grew up alone, and I didn’t want that for him. His dad... my brother left to do something greater, something important.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop.

“I wanted to do the same,” she continued, her chest tightening, her grip on her hair becoming more desperate. “But I just can’t leave Luffy alone.” She shut her eyes, biting her lip so hard that it almost hurt, willing herself to stop the flood of emotions. She didn’t want him to see her this way. She didn’t want to break down in front of him.

But he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Then he found himself his own family,” she continued, her words bitter with the sting of truth. “And he’s leaving, too, to be a pirate. And in the end... I’m the idiot who’s left behind, waiting for everyone to come back. I’m the one who stays, Shanks. I’m the one who stays .”

Her breath was ragged now, tears still falling, though she no longer cared.

Shanks didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He simply moved closer, his large presence both grounding and comforting.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, his words quiet, but firm. “You’re not waiting. You’re living. You’ve been living, fighting for those you love, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering in her eyes, but Shanks didn’t meet her gaze. 

“I never wanted to leave you behind,” he murmured, “I never wanted to make you feel like that. But the sea... the sea calls, and we have our paths. We all have our own journeys. But that doesn’t mean you’re not important. You’re more than just someone left waiting. You’ve taken a piece of my heart with you, whether you believe it or not.”

“I don’t,” she whispered softly, “I don’t believe it.”

For a moment, the two stood there, locked in the silence of everything they were and everything they could never be.

----

“Boss?” Lucky Roux called, stepping toward Shanks the moment the red-haired captain emerged from the room she’s staying in. The sea breeze tugged at his coat, but Shanks didn’t seem to feel it.

Shanks stood still for a beat, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hat. His jaw was clenched, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

“Find a remote island,” he said, voice low and cold— resigned. “We’re doing this.”

A beat of silence.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” his crew echoed, voices steady but weighed with unspoken understanding.

----

Her fingers trembled by her sides, but her eyes, her eyes were still. Steady. They gleamed under the soft light with a clarity Shanks hadn’t seen in her for a long time: resolve, and something heavier, something final. He hated that look. It meant her decision had already been made. She wasn’t waiting for him to change it, just to accept it. Still, Shanks looked at her as if the weight in his chest might lift if he could just say it, if he could finally admit what he’d never been brave enough to before.

“I love you,” he said, quieter this time. No grin, no teasing lilt, just the truth. Raw and bare, stripped of everything he usually used to protect himself. It was the only thing he had left to give her.

There was a pause. A silence so thin it could’ve split open if one of them so much as breathed wrong.

“Yeah,” she said, voice soft, a smile tugging at her lips like it had been stitched there with thread too weak to hold. “I love you, Shanks.”

But she didn’t say 'too.'

And that absence meant everything.

Not because the words weren’t true. They were more than anything else she’d ever said. But because acknowledging it, admitting it fully, would’ve broken her. Would’ve tied her down to something she could no longer afford to chase.

She believed he said it to make her feel better. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter.

Because in the end, this was it for her. 

He felt it, every trembling breath she took, every flicker of pain she tried to bury beneath that ever-steady gaze. It took everything in her just to stand, to speak, to let him see her like this: fragile, fading, but still proud. She never begged. Never cowered. Even now, at the end of everything, she clung to the last remnants of who she was. That was her final act of defiance.

“I’m asking you to set me free,” she said, cutting through the silence, her voice steady, almost gentle. “Before it gets to me. Before I forget who I am.”

Shanks’s hand curled into a fist. His jaw tightened so hard it ached. “Change your mind,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Don’t ask me for this.”

But she only looked at him, unwavering. “I made up my mind, I trust you, Figarland Shanks.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes, refusing to fall, not yet. Not until she meets her peace. 

“Make it fast?” she asked, and this time her voice wavered.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice breaking around the edges, but still he meant it. With every aching bone in his body, he meant it.

She closed her eyes.

And then, with the quiet grace of a man who had carried the sea in his chest, Shanks drew his blade, not with anger, not with grief, but with reverence, as if he were not ending a life.

She waited for it, waited for the sharp, clean edge of mercy. But instead, he stepped forward. Gently, without a word, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

It shattered her.

The intimacy, so simple, so tender, caught her off guard. Especially after everything that had passed between them in their last encounter: the distance, the denial, the years filled with unspoken longing. The affection she had buried deep in her ribs, pined for in silence, was suddenly returned. But at what cost?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice low, raw.

Her tears came in torrents, freely now, spilling down her cheeks as she managed a breathless, “I know.”

Then—

The blade slid through her heart like a whisper.

No sound. No resistance.

Only the wind remained.

And when it passed, she was gone.

Shanks stood there, unmoving, holding her close even as the warmth slipped from her limbs. For a long time, he said nothing. Did nothing. The sea was quiet, almost reverent, mourning with him in stillness.

And then, he wept.

Not loud. Not wild. Just a single tear, slipping down a face that had braved storms and gods.

Even the sea could not carry this loss.

----

“Men!” Shanks called out, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he raised a half-filled mug toward the sky. His usual grin, wide and reckless, was replaced by something more hollow, 

He could not hide his sorrow, not tonight. Despite the cheery lilt in his tone, his cheeks were stained with tears, carved by grief like rivers over weathered stone. 

“Let’s drink!” he declared, loud and bright, as if the sheer force of his voice could drown out the ache swelling in his chest.

“To her,” he said, quietly this time, to himself, voice nearly lost to the wind,

----

[swampstew]

Dark King Brat Tamer

Summary: Inspired by this gif submitted by @indydonuts (sorry I prematurely deleted the ask and couldn't find the original!)

Warnings: Silvers Dark King Rayleigh X F! Reader, modernish AU, consent is implied, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, vaginal penetration/fingering.

Minors DNI - my content is for mature audiences only

“You’re a real brat,” ice cubes clinked in your glasses as Rayleigh set his drink down. Rising to his feet, he caged you in your seat with an arrogant smirk on his face.

“Don’t condescend to me, you’re not my dad,” you stuck your tongue out at him, refusing to surrender to the tingling in your stomach at the escalating tension. Every conversation with him turned into this – face to face battles to see who would break first.

Who would make the first move.

“No, I would have taught you better manners. However, I’m not above giving some course correction, and I definitely use the spanking method for brattiness.”

“You wish your hands could spank this ass,” you flit your dilating eyes away, trying to suppress the excitement glowing on your cheeks at the thought of his large, worn hands running up your body.

“You’re too much of a gentleman.”

Rayleigh’s dark eyes widened at the accusation, aghast that you thought so highly of him.

“That’s the thing Y/N, you don’t know me that well,” his body shifted so fast you almost missed him, had you blinked your eyes.

One moment, he was standing in front of you and the next he had taken your seat and sprawled your body over his thighs. A sudden crack in the air followed the sharp slap against your cheek, the feeling of blood pooling in the area was soothed with a heavy hand that gently rubbed the spot.

“You don’t know me at all.”

You let out a gasp as you felt his hand caress the globe of your ass, lowering to the peak where your thighs met. Your ruffled skirt hid his hand as he slipped it under the fabric to feel you better.

Pressing the pad of his finger against your clothed core, your excitement from his touch had left a gooey spot that leaked through. Rayleigh teased his fingers between your covered lips repeatedly before pushing down on the button of your clitoris, which caused your hips to buck. He didn’t stop, grounding his palm against your aching center, pushing the panty aside so he could lubricate his hand.

With the easy access, he started sinking his fingers deep into your cunt until each long digit was soaked with your essence. Watching him lick them made your mouth water until you let out a low whimper for more.

Casting you a proud glance, “Oh does the brat want something?”

You let out a huffed pout, refusing to give him a real answer.

Another crack, your ass cheeks clapped from the force and your throat betrayed you as you let out a mewling yelp.

“Speak up, I’m an old man you know!”

Another smack, but this time his hand was under your skirt as he massaged your puckered flesh. With a gentle nudge of his fingers, your thighs parted slightly and his hand slid down your slit.

Rayleigh let out a low whistle at the pool of slick that had dribbled out of you. The whistle caused some heads to turn at you both, but a single glare from the legend was enough to make all voyeurs around the small, darkened dive bar pass out. Bar tender included.

“Now, where was I?” the lilt in his voice made your body squirm. “Oh right, you were going to say something?”

No the fuck you weren’t. You were many things, and a quitter wasn’t one of them.

Instead, you gave him a challenging smirk.

“Ohhh, you’re in some desperate need of house breaking…” he growled, spreading your legs wider.

Hopeful that he would touch you more, you didn’t expect what came next. Stinging rippled between your legs and the shout you let out echoed in the silent bar.

Rayliegh’s thumb gently rubbed your swollen clit from the mean slap he gave it.

“Let’s try that again. Does the brat have something to say?” “Y-y-yeeeessssss sirrr❤️~”

[quinloki]

Kink Headcanon request: Spanking, Roleplay, and CNC for Rayleigh, Beckman, and Marco please

>.>

okay but Marco sandwiched between--

AHEM.

This is a great collection of blorbos and kinks, and before my mind goes down a rabbit hole, I should probably work toward focusing on the actual kinks XD

Benn Beckman:

CNC - Yes- Free Use might rank a little higher for him, but not by much honestly. He enjoys the consent. I mean, well, you know what I mean, but specifically he likes having you ask for it. He likes asking, or telling you that he's going to do something and have you agree.

He could probably get it with CNC or Free Use, making you agree even though you don't have a say, but that's not really what he's after. Even if you do say no, he's not going to take the first no as gospel. He won't do anything until he gets that yes, but he's not negatively coercive about it.

He'll just plead his case, explain in detail exactly what he means to do, and how you'll react, and well, I mean, maybe the CNC has its uses if you're nervous.

Roleplay - Yes - He's not against it, but for the most part I feel like time can be of the essence for this man. He's got ample enough down time to take care of you, but you never know when there's going to be a battle. When his captain's going to come calling for him, or when one of the crew is going to knock on the door.

He's more than happy to play at interrogation, or let you pretend to be a maid and serve him, but what he really wants is to buried deep inside you, telling you how good you are, how good you feel, how much you've begged him for this.

Spanking - Yes - He does love the way it makes you squirm. the sharp gasp of surprise, the sweet mewl of pleasure, the way you wiggle when it starts to sting, the way you cling to him when he squeezes your red cheeks with his hands.

He certainly has nothing against it, that much is clear. He'll pepper it in between other things, but unless he's using it as a kind of punishment, it's not something he does often.

>.> Ask him to spank you though, and watch that tanking tick up a notch or two.

Marco:

CNC - FUCK Yes - There's a good bit of overlap between Free Use and Consensual Non Consent, but there's definitely a difference in vibes. At least from my perspective, and I think from Marco's too.

Enough that Free Use is a rank higher than CNC, though if you start taking different Marcos into consideration it would waffle a bit XD but Free Use sounds like something you volunteer for, and CNC is something you're volunteered for. (I'm sure others see it in the other directions because things that overlap this much can have very personally variable nuances.)

But I'll say - Good Marco isn't too different between Free Use and CNC, though he might be a little meaner with CNC, reminding you that you conceded your right to consent.

BAD Marco, however, might be all smooth and gentle with a Free Use agreement, "reluctantly" listening when you ask him not to. But with CNC he's going to have you so tied up you won't be able to ask him anything.

Roleplay - FUCK Yes - Ranked a little lower when it came to Teacher/Doctor specifically, but I do think Marco likes the idea of roleplay overall. He might get hung up on some of the details, but he's more than happy to indulge in it.

He does need some time to really get into it. The first time you can see that usual confidence slip a little. Maybe he's the big bad pirate, and you're the poor, helpless marine recruit. Maybe after a few tries he's the corrupt Marine Captain, and you're the poor helpless little villager. This time there's outfits, and he's wearing the cape he took off a captain or admiral.

Role Playing certainly awakens Marco to how fun it is to bully you.

Spanking - FUCK Yes - I think he's fairly neutral about it until he lands a good slap on your ass and you make a sound you did not mean to make. You both expected a squeak of surprise, and instead it was one of those kinds of moans that rolls around in your bones and makes your back arch involuntarily.

Next thing you know he has you over his knee, legs locked with his, one hand at the back of your neck holding you in place and the rubbing your ass cheeks while he's telling you that he needs to see exactly how much you enjoy this.

For science. Nah, he's not going to lie, he's doing this until he knows how to bring you pleasure or pain exactly as he wants. Maybe you'll cum from it if he gets good enough.

Silvers Rayleigh:

CNC - Yes - Rayleigh is the kind to check in once and probably not worry about it after that. Between his experience and his skills, he can pretty much guide you to where he wants you. That makes something like CNC or Free Use not all that different from how he operates.

But if you talk to him about doing either beyond just a session, he's happy to oblige. The way he'll rut against you from behind, holding you in place with one hand, kissing your neck with his lips, and fingering you with his other hand. Bringing you to orgasm while you've got dishes in your hands from the chores you were in the middle of, and once you're satisfied he'll go back to what he was doing before.

If he desires more, he'll take more, and probably take over doing the dishes if he's railed the life out of you. He's a good guy like that XD

Roleplay - Oh god you don't even know - He's probably pretended to be all manner of things that weren't pirates, spending years by Roger's side. He probably had a good number of jobs before he even met Roger, and more after he retired. And the jobs he hasn't worked I imagine he knows a lot about.

He'll be a marine, a teacher, doctor, captain, etc. etc. He's more than happy to oblige. You won't get him to break character either. The one time he played a priest, you ended up spending the entire day completely nude in penance for your naughty thoughts. Sitting on his face while you tried to get through prayers without cumming certainly off set him making you pull weeds in the garden for an hour, swatting your ass when he felt like it.

Spanking - Yes - Oh he is good at it, don't doubt that, but it's just a little lower on the list for him over other things. He'll pepper a swat in here and there as he does other things. A sharp slap on your ass to get you to focus, a precise smack of your pretty pussy to push you over the edge despite your babbling that you can't possibly cum anymore.

He may, on occasion, bend you over his knee and give you a full and proper spanking, but he's more likely to spend more time fingering you while you're in that position. Forcing you to squirt while you're bent over, or prepping your ass for the next round.

If you ask him nicely, however, and you've been good for him, he'll spank you until you're crying for him to stop.

How May I Kink Your Head Canon?

[shuggymaniac]

Ghost ship!Oro Jackson AU

You know Davy jones cursed ship/crew from the franchise “Pirates of the Caribbean” ?

Well, this AU is inspired by it!

Yandere Roger Pirates?

—-

Imagine Roger and his crew they obtained the title of “King of the pirates” and instead of retiring Roger picks up his boys and continues sailing the sea as a pirate crew.

But one night something bad happens, they are attacked by a rival pirates, a merciless one that to Roger’s horror seemed to gain on them. Many thoughts ran through his and his crews head but one thought stood on the top to all of them…

“Save our boys”

Roger signaled to whatever left of the crew to ensure the safety of Shanks and Buggy that even if this night was there last none of them accepted the young teens to perish with them. However, many things happened that separated them from the cabin boys, the last thing Roger remembers was Calling his boys names before everything went dark.

When he woke up again everything was different.

His body felt, cold and stiff. His ship was destroyed but somehow still floated above the isolated sea. When he looked around he saw his crew, they were waking up and seemed to be as confused as him but what drew his attention was how they looked odd. Those who lost limps during the battle got a replacement one which was in the form of a crab claw or other sea creature���s limp. Their skin were gray, and some had sharp teeth as if they were fish men. The more he searched the more differences he found and the more confused he got. He ran to his cabin and saw himself on the broken mirror. His fears were confirmed he too was changed.

He then remembered Shanks and Buggy and climbed back up again and ordered everyone to search for the boys. Everyone seemed to be alerted as they ignore the odd feelings of their new bodies and started marching among the ship, calling for Shanks and Buggy. Rayleigh even threw himself in the water in a desperate attempt to find them, but the only thing he found out is that they don’t need to breath anymore.

When they gathered, Roger explained how he too doesn’t know what happened or why this happened to them. Did someone use a devil fruit power on them? Did the sea gods curse them? Was this just a miracle in disguise? They don’t know.

All they know is these few things.

First, they are back from the dead and in a twisted way stronger than before.

Second, despite their ship being an absolute wreck it somehow still floats,which is a good thing.

Third, they all agreed to stay away from any land sense they felt themselves grow weak when they attempted to reach shore, meaning something bad could happen if they truly reach the shore.

Finally, and most importantly!!

Shanks and Buggy are not with them, and they NEED to find them, they NEEDED to know where they are, whether they survived or worst died and their bodies are somewhere in an unmarked watery grave. They didn’t care, all they wanted is for Shanks and Buggy to board this ship with them because they are part of them. They weren’t just Cabin boys, they were their sons, their precious boys whom they raised.

And they NEEDED THEM BACK!

meanwhile, Shanks and Buggy did survive but not without a heavy loss.

When Buggy opened his eyes he found himself on the shore of an unknown island. He threw up water and was disoriented, but his thoughts quickly reminded him of Shanks. He stood up to look for the red hair, which wasn’t difficult to find him since he was a few feet away but the condition he found him in was terrifying.

Shanks’s eye was scared and his left arm seemed to have been torn out, his skin was deathly pale and Buggy thought the worst, but his stubbornness was what saved the red hair.

Buggy denied Shanks’s death and used whatever power he had to carry Shanks for hours to the nearest village where he collapsed after making sure that Shanks did have a heartbeat and could be saved. The bluenette maybe didn’t lose a limp but that didn’t mean he didn’t sustain some internal injuries.

It took weeks but the boys were finally awake.

After crying over the loss of their crew they discussed what they should do next. Buggy didn’t want to be a pirate anymore, especially after the fight they somehow survived and how everyone is now deciding to become a pirate after learning of Roger’s death.

Shanks tried to argue, saying how this was their legacy and destiny to be great pirates. But Buggy remembers how Shanks was so close to death that it is a miracle he was still talking and continued to refuse the idea.

He begged Shanks not to sail away to leave him, that he didn’t want to lose anymore of his family and wants Shanks to stay with him. Shanks loved Buggy and would do anything for him, but he also loves to be a pirate and can’t let go of what his soul is calling for, and right at that moment his soul was torn between staying with Buggy or sailing away.

In the end Shanks compromised that he will stay with Buggy but he won’t stop being a pirate but this time a land pirate. ((A bandit??))

—-

To the present where Luffy sails the sea to be the next king of the pirates, inspired by red hair Shanks from the traveling circus, who told him stories of his time on the sea and how misses it sometimes, but that being with his husband the ringleader was enough.

But Luffy saw beyond that he didn’t want to settle being on land, he wanted to sails the seas!!

So he goes through his adventures, forms his crew. And someday he comes across a haunted Ship, they have a fight but considering Luffy and Roger’s nature the fight would probably end up in a small party where the strawhat pirates are scared sh*tless of the undead ghost pirate. Of course learning the they are the infamous pirate king crew makes Luffy go on a hyperdrive.

Some questions are asked and stories are told, but it all comes to a stop when Luffy shares the story of how he became a pirate and the mention of the pirate named shanks and his blue haired husband. The environment becomes hostile as the Roger pirates starts asking where they are, which sea are they in right now, what is the fastest route to find them. Husband? Did they get married? They got that old already? Maybe we should get a gift for them on the way.

Now, at first the strawhat pirates thought that maybe they wanted to say hello and have a proper goodbye with their sons, but the Roger pirates only laugh at that idea, why would they say goodbye? They want to get their kids back. They have a life of their own now? Their lives started on the Oro Jackson and should continue/end there. They would fight back? Why would they? We are their family they always depended on them they can’t live without them.

And if they did ended fight back… well, let’s say the Roger pirates would go to an unwanted length to ensure their boys return after they one of the things they discovered is that whoever dies in the Oro Jackson always comes back to life and be part of them….forever.

[cryingpariah]

As March is just around the corner, I would like to bring it to your attention that there is a considerably high chance that Shanks, younger twin of one Figarland Shamrock, has a birth certificate up in Mariejois that has him down as Saint Figarland Patrick.

Garling seeing the first Shanks bounty poster be like

PATRICK IS INSANE WORK OH PLEASE MAKE IT REAL ODA PLEASEEEEEEEEEE

I’d like to think little baby Shanks was wrapped in one of those embroidered blankets when they found him in that treasure and Roger and co looked at the name, looked back at Shanks and were like

“Nah we can think of something better than THAT he doesn’t even look like a Patrick!”

How they stumbled on Shanks as his new name is probably a silly story like infant Not-Patrick (as they called him at the time) had somehow gotten hold of a dagger and was swinging it around with reckless baby abandonment. Rayleigh (being the responsible parent) immediately separated baby from knife and began lecturing the tot (he knew not-patrick couldn’t understand but it was therapeutic in a way).

“You’re too young to be swinging around sharp shit like this kid! What are ya tryna do, shank someone-?!”

Sudden as lightning, Roger appeared.

“THAT'S IT!”

“What’s it? And don’t shout in front the baby, his ears are sensitive!”

The captain at least had the decency to look sheepish before administer a soft hair ruffle. “Oops, sorry kiddo! Papa Roger didn’t mean to hurt ya~! He was just excited cause we've got you a name~!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! We’re gonna call him Shanks!”

“…WE'RE GONNA CALL HIM WHAT?!”

“Shhhh! Don’t shout in front of the baby, they’ve got little ears!”

Rayleigh's fight left him in that moment, rubbing his face as he watch the red-haired infant.

“…I guess it’s better than Not-Patrick.”

“Exactly! Now we gotta throw a party to celebrate! Isn’t that right Shanks~?”

The newly dubbed baby squealed with delight in response.

[dfortrafalgar]

I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling The Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem.

Warnings: Read chapter 1 for warnings.

Taglist: @phsycochan | @mirillua | @augustanna | @chaixsherlock | @whore-of-many-hot-men

Chapter 19

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28 hours.

Those were Law’s least favorite shifts.  Where his bedroom was a temporary call room with a stiff twin-size mattress and a single flat pillow, and where his companion was his hospital pager and not the warmth of your body next to his.  Not like he got much sleep to begin with, not with his pager going off in the ungodly hours of the morning due to the sheer spontaneity of cardiac events.

After 28 long, grueling hours, the warmth of the summer sun finally graced the skin of his exhausted face as he stepped through the hospital’s entrance doors and walked through the parking lot to his car, placing his work bag in the passenger seat.  Normally, he’d head straight home to hold you in his arms and bury his face in the flesh of your belly where you were the most soft and warm, but today he had a different plan.  From the inside of his bag, he procured a small box, placing it securely in the empty cup holder below the center console before putting his car into gear and driving to his destination.

It didn’t take him too long to get across the city where he miraculously found street parking in front of his destination.  He placed the box safely inside the pocket of his slacks, reaching into his car’s ashtray to procure a few coins for the parking meter.  Stepping out of his car and onto the sidewalk, he gazed at the sign of the building in front of him.

SABAODY’S JEWELERS

A longtime, family owned business known for their exceptional craftsmanship of handmade jewelry, Law was very familiar with the owners.  After all, it was where he had your engagement ring made.  He palmed the box in his pocket as he took a deep breath and walked through the entrance.

A black-haired older woman sat behind the front counter, casually flipping through a newspaper as she moved an unlit cigarette around her lips.  Her sharp, analytical eyes darted upward at the sound of the bell on the door signaling Law’s entrance.  She smiled upon seeing the man, folding the newspaper and uncrossing her legs to stand from the stool she was perched on.

“Trafalgar Law, it’s been a minute!  How’ve you been?”  She excitedly leaned over the counter, her v-neck tank top revealing a bit more cleavage than Law was comfortable with, but he smiled fondly at her enthusiasm.

“I’ve been well, Shakky, thanks.  How’s Rayleigh?”  The man kept his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with the box.

“Oh you know, can’t get him to sit down.  Not even for a moment,” Shakky joked, removing the unlit cigarette from her lips and placing it on a small napkin behind the checkout register.  “How’s the wife?”

Law’s smile grew a bit wider at the mention of you.  “We could be better, that’s kind of what I came in here for.”

The older woman’s eyebrows quirked upward in confusion as she watched Law pull the small box from his pocket, opening it and placing it on the counter.  Inside was a tiny plastic bag filled about halfway with a dusty, gray powder.

“Are those…” she started.

“Ashes,” Law replied, finishing her sentence for her.  “We’ve… uhm… we’ve been having some fertility issues, to keep the story short.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” her voice was quiet and apologetic as she stared down at the tiny bag.  It seemed she picked up on what the ashes were from almost immediately, making Law relieved that he wouldn’t have to explain any further, not thrilled about reliving the sight of his dead baby in a bedpan.

“I was wondering if you would be able to make these into two pieces, I’m thinking of a ring and a necklace.  I don’t really know how jewelry works, but I figured you’d be able to come up with some ideas,” he offered, keeping his hand on the box as if to protect it.

Shakky’s eyes lit up at the prospect.  “Of course I could, I’ve done many cremation pieces before.  Do you mind if I take a look at them?”  She made a small motion towards the box, catching on to the way Law’s fingers remained positioned around the tiny bag to snatch it away for safekeeping.

He pushed it forward, wordlessly giving her permission.  Shakky’s long fingers gently picked up the bag from inside of the box.  It was astronomically tiny, the small amount of ashes barely being more than a teaspoon in size.  Her heart clenched at the sight.  She was always so fond of you and Law, owing the heart surgeon a great deal for assisting with treating her own husband’s atrial fibrillation.  To think that such a sweet couple have had to go through something so traumatic, it made her soul weep at the thought.

“I have a fantastic idea,” she piped up, looking at Law.  “Come with me to the back, I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

Law followed her as she rounded the counter and trekked through her small storefront, past display tables full of handmade bracelets, earrings, and necklaces.  She pushed open a metal door in the far back of the shop, entering what Law presumed to be her workshop, or at least a small part of it.  He watched as she placed the box with the ashes down onto the countertop before she approached a small plastic storage container and procured a tiny fabric drawstring bag.  She emptied it into the palm of her hand, revealing a small, simple gold ring band with a flat, circular pendant in the middle.

“This was an experiment I was doing with plant ashes, so it’s not for sale, but I’d be able to do something like this.  I melted down glass, mixed the ashes into the glass, and cooled and shaped it to fit into the face of this ring, similar to a gemstone.  I’m able to change the color of the glass depending on what you might want,” she explained, moving the ring around under the light so Law could get a good look at the details.  “Considering how there’s… well… not many ashes, I think this might be the best choice.”

The tiny piece of jewelry was indeed quite beautiful, even if it was just an artistic test.  The way the ashes were embedded into the colorful glass gave it a quartz-like appearance that glittered under the fluorescent lights of Shakky’s work room.

“What kind of colors can you do?” he asked, officially intrigued.

“All kinds, but I typically do white and blue for glass pieces,” she offered.  “The blue is a light, sky blue color, similar to an aquamarine.”

Law nodded, contemplating.  “Are you able to do one that’s more plain?”

“I’m able to do whatever your little heart wants,” she teased.

The black-haired man grinned.  “Can you do blue glass for the ring and white for the necklace?  The necklace is for me,” he asked, tracing his collarbone with the pads of his fingers.

Shakky smiled from ear to ear, clutching her test ring in her palm as she excitedly nodded.  “Law, dear, I’d be honored to do this for you and your wife.  If you want to hang around, I can have them done in about two hours.”

“That quick?” he asked, exasperated.  “I don’t want you to have to drop your current work just for me.”

“Boy, did you see me doing work when you walked in?  If you call doing the daily crossword ‘work’ then I’m concerned about what you do on your breaks!”  She tossed a joking smile at the man as she slipped her test ring back into its fabric bag, placing it back into the storage container it came from.

“I’ll meet you by the front to pay–” Law began before Shakky cut him off.

“Nope, on the house.”

“Shakky, this is work,” he argued.

“It might be, but this is special for you and your wife.  Consider this part of a gift from me for all you’ve done for myself and my family,” she said, her words laced with tenderness.  “If you really want to repay me so badly, bring me a six pack later tonight before I close.”

Law smirked.  “You got yourself a deal.”

Shakky sealed their arrangement with a hearty, friendly smack to his shoulder, making him wince slightly.  She was far stronger than her outward appearance let on.  “See you in two hours, kid.”

Law exited her back room, making his way past her various display tables and shelves to the front of the store before exiting out the front.  He pulled his phone from his pocket, navigating to your contact and calling your cell phone.

It rang about three times before the receiver clicked and your voice spoke through the speaker.

[Hi, baby!  Are you on your way home?]

Law thought you must have had some form of supernatural ability, the way your voice was able to consistently brighten his day every time he heard you.  “I’m actually downtown, are you free right now?”

Small shuffling sounds could be heard in the background.  [Once I’m done cleaning out the cabinets I will be!  Do you wanna meet somewhere?]

The man chuckled.  “Why are you cleaning out the cabinets?”

[I was bored and didn’t want to be alone with my own thoughts.]  You had a point.

“Well stop cleaning, meet me at Cafe Brook.  I want to see you,” he chided through the phone, his voice giving away the smile on his face as he spoke to you.

[Aye aye, captain!  I’ll see you in a bit, I love you!]

“Love you, too, baby,” he replied before the call was cut off.  He shoved his phone into his pocket and began the short walk to the agreed upon location.

—

Law was waiting outside the restaurant for you and grinned as you approached, a sundress adorning your body and your bag slung over your shoulder as you walked with a slight skip in your step.  While your husband wasn’t much for PDA, that didn’t stop you from taking his hands in yours and pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Hi,” you said with a small giggle.

“Hi,” he replied, wrapping his arm around your waist to guide you into the small cafe.

It was late in the morning nearing the end of the brunch hour, so many of the tables were empty leaving you and Law with a wonderful table in the corner by the sunlit window.  You hung your bag on the back of your chair before you took your seat, adjusting your dress under your legs while Law immediately took a sip of the complimentary tap water on the table.

“This was such a nice surprise!” you said, jovially.  “Why were you downtown?”

Your husband shrugged, keeping his smile content, trying to hold in what he was scheming.  “Just had to run some errands, that’s all.”

You rested your head in the palm of your hand on the table, your eyes gazing at him knowingly.  “You’re not trying to surprise me, are you?”

“I would never.  You don’t need surprises,” he replied, tossing a mischievous smirk at you.

You laughed, poking your tongue out at him.  “Well, whatever you were doing, I’m always happy to get brunch with you.  Especially after such a long shift… how was it, by the way?”  Your own hand clutched your cup of water, your fingers releasing some of the condensation and causing droplets of water to flow down the outside of the glass.

Law groaned as a response to your question, making you smile sympathetically.  “28 hours of pain,” he griped.  “Everyone always waits until three in the morning to have urgent health issues.”

You reached your hand across the table to pat his forearm.  He responded by adjusting his arm so his hand could hold yours.  “Well, now you have two days off!”

A waiter came by and passed out some small paper menus, but the two of you almost immediately decided on what to order.  A plate of curly fries to split, a hearty breakfast sampler for Law after having eaten very little in the last 28 hours, and a toasted blueberry muffin for you.  A comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you gazed around the interior of the restaurant.  The entire joint was trying to be old-school rock and roll themed, but it harshly clashed with the rustic wooden entryway and wall sidings.  The entire establishment was a strange cacophony of design choices, made even more humorous with the multiple posters and framed platinum records of the famed jazz musician Soul King Brook, who’s name was the inspiration for the establishment.  (No one actually knew if Brook had anything to do with the place, though.)

“Hey, remember how my friends came over last week and left that basket of stuff?” you asked, alerting Law’s worried attention from the frightening poster of the almost skeletonized pop star.

“Yeah, what about?” he asked, giving you his full regard.

“So I was actually texting Vivi again yesterday,” you stated.  “She gave me the names of a few counselors in the area who specialize with women’s health and pregnancy issues… and I think I’m going to try one of them out just to see what’s up.”

Law straightened his shoulders.  “That… sounds like a fantastic idea.”

“You think?” you asked, slightly nervous about his opinion.

“Of course, I think that’d be really good for you to help you adjust to everything that’s happened,” he clarified.

You smiled, feeling your chest flutter with his support.  “If my first appointment goes well, would you want to maybe come with me?” you asked.  “I mean… you know… you deserve support, too.”

Law felt his own chest clench at your words.  You were right, he was just as damaged as you were over the whole situation.  His mind flashed back to Shakky’s jewelry store, where the woman was most likely hunched over her work table shaping hot glass as they spoke.  He nodded slowly, albeit enthusiastically.  “I think that would help me a lot, if I went with you.”

“Even just to talk everything out with a professional,” you added, hoping to solidify his decision.

Your husband nodded once again.  “Exactly.”

The smile you gave to the man made his face flush with heat.  Your beaming grin, a sight he seemed to have missed more often since your second miscarriage, the smile that bore the heat of one thousand suns and yet filled his entire soul with the fuzzy comfort that only you could provide.  He fell in love with you more and more each time he saw that brilliant smile.

Your food came out from the kitchen and was passed toward you, Law’s mouth instantly beginning to salivate at the sight of the greasy bacon and eggs spread out on the porcelain, next to a generous helping of homefries and whole wheat toast.  He watched with a small smile as you took a delighted bite out of your blueberry muffin that was cut in half down the middle and slathered with a smear of butter on each side.

—

“Law, why are we at Sabaody’s?” you asked, your voice riddled with skepticism as your husband led you by your hand the few blocks it took to get from the restaurant to the jeweler’s.  Law had received a text during your meal that made him appear jumpy, and he remained that way until you had finished eating and paid the bill.

“No reason,” he replied, the weakest excuse known to man as he pushed open the door to the storefront, beckoning you inside.

Shakky rounded the corner out of her work room, smiling upon seeing you.  She held two boxes in her hands, but quickly placed them safely in a small brown paper bag which she promptly handed to Law.  

“Oh, dear, it’s so good to see you!” she called, making you smile as she dipped down for a friendly hug.

“You too, Shakky!  How’s your husband?” you asked, figuring the same question must have been asked by your own man.

“Constantly running at 100% capacity,” she responded with a sarcastic eye roll.  She turned her attention back to Law and tossed him a wink.  “All set!”

“Thank you so much, Shakky, I really appreciate it,” he answered, reaching over the checkout counter to shake her hand.  

You watched their interaction with profound confusion.  “What are you two scheming without me?”

“Nothing,” the older woman responded, a coy grin on her face as she waved the two of you out of the storefront.  

Law kept the bag clenched in his hand as he walked, his opposite hand holding you as he led you back to his car.

“Law, I parked down the road,” you indicated, but he quickly opened his passenger side door and ushered you inside.

“I know, but this is important,” he uttered.  His words sounded rushed, almost panicky, making worry begin to sprout in your mind.  What in the world had he done?

You watched as he rounded the front of his car and plopped himself into his driver's seat, closing and locking the doors around you with the switch below the handle.  He nervously fumbled with the bag, pulling out the two boxes that had been handed to him by the older woman.

“So… I… uhm…” he was frantically tripping over his words, a far cry from the man you had met for brunch almost three hours prior.  “I might have gone behind your back and done something.”

You stared at him with concern.  “... Okay…?”

Law’s hands were slightly trembling as he opened the smaller box, revealing a brilliant silver banded ring with a small blue glass pendant in the middle.  It glittered in the sunlight, the tiny but stunning faux gem casting blue hues reflected from the sun on the top lid of the box.  He passed it over to you, watching as you gently took it in your hands and gazed with wide eyes at the subtle piece of jewelry.

“Law…?”  You looked over at him as he opened the second box, revealing a similar small pendant necklace on a thick, sturdy silver chain.  The stone on the necklace was a simple white stone that looked similar to an opal.

“At the hospital, after you fell asleep and before we went home that night, I tracked down the nurse that took our baby and asked her to bring me to the mortuary to have someone cremate him,” he explained.  “His ashes are in the jewelry.”

Your eyes were wide as you took in his words, gazing back at the bright blue glass pendant on the ring.  Your voice was trembling as you struggled for words.  “You… it…”

Law reached his shaking hands over to you, pulling the ring out of the box and taking your right hand in his.  He slipped the ring over your right-hand ring finger, feeling inwardly satisfied as it fit perfectly on your digit.  He laced his hand with yours, your eyes never tearing away from the pendant on the ring.

“I got the ring for you, and the necklace for me,” he whispered, leaning closer to you over the center console.

Your eyes darted upward to meet his own, tears brimming in the corners as you bit your wobbling lip.  With a blubbery laugh, you gave him a small, playful shove on his shoulder.  “You need to stop making me cry!”

Law chuckled himself, pulling you in for an uncomfortable hug over the center compartment in his car.  You eagerly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your head into the junction of his neck.  He could feel your smile on his skin as you sniffled into his shirt.

“Law…” you mumbled, pulling away from him to gaze at the ring.  “I can’t… I can’t believe it…”

Your husband was smiling, a content grin that held the same amount of sadness that you still felt in your heart after losing your unborn 12-week-old.  His attention was torn from your soft face as you reached over for the other box in his lap, pulling out the necklace and unlatching the clasp.  Your hands trailed around his neck to link the chain around him, watching with fondness as the white pendant sat perfectly in between his collarbones.

“Looks good on you…” you sighed, your hands tracing the tan skin around the pendant, the feeling making goosebumps rise on Law’s skin.  “Our baby…”

“Now he’ll still be with us wherever we go,” he whispered.

You wiped away your tears with the collar of your dress.  “When did you get so sappy?” you asked, jokingly.

Law grinned.  “Well, admittedly, one of my nurses gave me the idea.  She told me her sister lost a pregnancy, and they had the remains cremated and made into little rocks that they spread through their favorite hiking trail.”

“That’s so beautiful,” you cooed, your tears slowing down.  The new ring on your finger brought you a strange sense of comfort you had yet to feel, something almost akin to closure.  It was a small patch in the cracks that made up your broken heart, cracks that your husband was slowly learning to rebuild, and that you were doing to his own.

“God,” you sighed, leaning back in your seat.  “What did I do to deserve you?”

Law’s hand brushed over your cheek.  “I should be asking the same thing.”

You stared blankly out the front windshield before asking, “Can we just have Shachi or Penguin pick up my car?  I don’t want to leave you.”

Your sudden question made Law snort out a laugh as he pulled out his phone.  “I’d be more than happy to ask, my love.”

[xislyns]

Hello! How are you? I hope you're well! I have a request, and of course if you're busy you don't have to write it! About a reader who works in the Navy as a captain on the Sabaody Archipelago and arrests a suspicious old man in the bar (Rayleigh). I don't have any other ideas, but I'd like to see this in your style.

>>hi there anonn , thanks for askingg im doing good ^^, honestly i didnt know where to end for this fic , i have some ideas but im not sure which one yet. if i do find the motivation and the storyline i wanna tell i might make a part 2 to finish this fic but for now this is where im gonna leave it off 😢

WHEN DUTY CALLS

ft: Silvers Rayleigh x !Navy captain Reader

op masterlist : 𐙚🧸ྀི

The warm, bubbly air of the Sabaody Archipelago clung to everything, mingling with the faint scent of mangrove resin. Captain _____, a distinguished and well known Navy officer in sabaody, stood at the helm of their patrol ship. Life in Sabaody was nothing short than chaotic, pirates seeking safe passage to the New World, slave traders operating in the shadows, and civilians trying to scrape by. For _____, it was just another day maintaining order amidst the chaos.

When the sun has just gone below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and orange, _____ decided to visit one of the local bars to take a short break and also to get information. As a captain, mingling with the locals and keeping an ear to the situation in town was part of the job. The dimly lit establishment was packed with all manner of shady characters, their voices blending into a low hum of conversation.

But one man caught the captains eye. He sat in the corner, holding a drink with the sort of calm confidence that could only come from someone who had seen more than most. His silver hair gleamed faintly , and his piercing eyes glinted in the dim lights of the bar. He looked out of place yet somehow perfectly at home.

Curiosity piqued the captain, they approached the bartender and asked, “Hey , Who’s the old man in the corner?”

The bartender stayed silent for a bit before answering , glancing nervously at the silver haired stranger before whispering, “They call him Rayleigh. I’ve heard stories… dangerous ones. But he’s a regular here.”

“Rayleigh?” The name rang a bell for the Captain, but they couldn’t quite place their finger on it . their instincts told them this was no ordinary civilian. As a Navy captain, it was their duty to investigate.

Approaching the man’s table,_____ straightened their coat, their Navy insignia catching the light. “Mind if I join you?”

Rayleigh looked up slowly, an amused smile curling his lips. “Well now, a Navy officer in a place like this? Quite the bold move. Sit, if youd like.”

you sat, maintaining a steady gaze. “You’re quite the interesting figure. Silver hair, sharp eyes… and a reputation that precedes you. Care to explain what someone like you is doing here?”

Rayleigh chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Drinking, same as everyone else. Do I need a reason to drink now?”

“You don’t strike me as just another customer,” you replied evenly. “The name ‘Rayleigh’ carries weight. Tell me, have you been involved in anything… questionable?”

His smile widened. “Questionable? Oh, Captain, Tell me, do you always arrest someone based on gut feelings?”

you narrowed your eyes. “If there’s reason to believe they’re a threat, yes. And you’re giving me plenty of reason to be suspicious of you.”

The tension in the air was like a bubble fragile and almost poppable. Conversations around them hushed as curious eyes turned to the table you both are sat on . Rayleigh set his glass down, his demeanor calm yet commanding. “You’re sharp. I’ll give you that. But do you really think dragging me in would end well for you cap' ?”

you hesitated, your hand hovering near the hilt of your weapon. Something about this man was different. Still, your duty was clear.

“I don’t care who you think you are,” you said firmly. “You’re coming with me for questioning.”

Rayleigh sighed, obleig slowly. The bar fell silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, Captain. Lead the way.”

As you escorted him out of the bar, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were leading a wolf into the lion’s den. The whispers of the bar patrons followed you two out to the humid night air.

“You’ve got guts, Captain,” Rayleigh said as they approached the Navy outpost. “But you should be careful about poking around where you don’t belong. The truth can be… overwhelming. ”

_____ ignored his words, pushing the door open and leading him inside. But as they prepared to start the interrogation, a nagging thought lept tugging at the back of their mind.

[gav-san]

Soul Shanked 2/4

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Screaming, Glowing, and Other Signs of Affection Length: 7.5 K+

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Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo

The call was arranged through a cautious web of intermediaries.

Neutral waters.

Strict conditions.

No ships within ten miles.

No weapons drawn.

Just a snail line.

Shanks.

Boa Hancock.

Simple. Respectful. Diplomatic.

It went to hell in less than a minute.

The snail’s eyes narrowed.

It began with Shanks, trying his best not to set fire to anything.

Shanks, leaning casually over the transponder snail. “First of all, thank you for not killing the messenger. Or the snail. Probably not in that order.”

Boa Hancock’s voice came in sharp, cold, and bore no idiots.

“You have sixty seconds.”

A nod. A title. A silence thick enough to choke a Sea King. He cleared his throat.

“I have… a respectful-”

Then Hancock tilted her head, cut him off and said, “So. You’re the reason.”

Shanks raised a brow. “Reason for what?”

“For her disgrace. For her distraction. For her embarrassment before the Rayleigh man-creature, who no women with honor should have to endure.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“You don’t deserve to know.”

“I—look, I’m not here to start a fight-.”

“She’s sighing,” Hancock snapped, voice curling with venom. “Do you know what that means?”

Shanks hesitated. “That she’s, uh… tired?”

“It means you live on borrowed time.”

Shanks fumbled. “Look, I just wanted to suggest—ask, really—if we might arrange a brief, nonviolent, non-magical meeting to discuss the soulmark situation and maybe the implications of a shared destiny and whether—”

“So you can hex her again?”

“Uh. No?” He said hopefully.

She hissed.

He pulled at his collar. “I wasn’t even trying to seduce her. I would just like to introduce myself-.”

“That’s seduction.”

“It was an observation!”

“Your mere existence cursed her.”

“I prefer the term fate-adjacent inconvenience—”

A chair was thrown. A snail near-departed the world.

Somewhere, someone screamed and dropped a fruit basket.

“If you come within five miles of Amazon Lily,” Boa Hancok threatened, voice suddenly calm in that terrifying way, “I will consider it an act of war.”

Benn Beckman lit a cigarette with the air of a man who’d seen this coming from miles away. “Well,” he muttered, “there it is.”

Shanks blinked. “Wait, really?”

“You’ll be turned to stone. Your ship will be turned to stone. Your entire crew’s bad decisions will be turned to stone.”

Benn sipped his coffee. “She’s not bluffing.”

Shanks whispered, “Yeah, but she’s kinda poetic about it, right?”

He raised his hand, forgetting no one could see him.

“Okay, okay. No visits. No Red Force docking. What about just sending her my letters—?”

“That’s what the last snail tried. I drowned it.”

“…Right.”

He inhaled slowly, then tried one last card—his most sincere, tragic, lovesick voice.

“I just want to see her. Can’t you respect that I’m actually asking? Not just taking? It’s a real show of my goodwill to not do what I want.”

Silence.

Boa Hancock’s voice came low, cold, and deeply done with this entire reality.

“You will stay far, far away.”

Another chair flew. Another snail screamed. The line cut.

The Red Force snail sagged like it had aged ten years. So did Shanks.

Benn didn’t look up. “Forty-two seconds.”

A new record.

Diplomacy, Red-Haired style. Cutting edge.

The snail shuddered. 

Benn gave it rum.

“Ya know,” Yasopp popped his head in. “She didn’t technically say no.”

Lucky Roux strolled in with snacks. “That’s a maybe.”

Benn groaned. “That’s what threats indicate!”

Yasopp clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Captain. You’ve had worse odds.”

“How romantic!” someone yelled from the hallway.

“Raise a toast!” another called. “To cursed proximity and mutual scarring!”

“Send her flowers!” Howling Gab shouted. “Or a fruit basket! No—send a plague fruit. That’s more personal.”

“Write her a poem!” Rockstar added. “A sexy one! About tattoos and destiny and… ships!”

Maybe I should write a poem,” Shanks muttered. “A love poem-”

“Then let us ghostwrite it,” Yasopp offered solemnly. “With our hearts. And zero grammar.”

Benn slumped lower in his chair.

“We could just-” Shanks mused thoughtfully. “Casually pass by. Just to say hi. Not to start a national disaster, but just-”

The crew erupted into cheers again, banging mugs on walls, stomping boots, one of them breaking out a lute.

Benn groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do none of you know what implied means?”

The snail slowly slid off the table in despair.

Hancock stood at the lookout tower, eyes locked on the distant red speck bobbing on the sea.

The Red Force.

Six miles out.

Exactly.

He was flaunting it.

That red-haired menace with the audacity—the gall—to romance her envoy. Her sweet, rational, paperwork-loving envoy. The only one she trusted not to fall for pirates, buy cursed trinkets, or accidentally spark soul bonds in foreign ports.

And now he was hovering like a lovesick plague just out of cannon range.

Her fingers curled around her glaive.

“He’s lingering like a disease.”

Behind her, Sandersonia peered through a spyglass. “He brought snacks. And a banner.”

“A banner?”

“It says, ‘Just Talk?’ There’s a heart. And glitter.”

“How-“ Hancock’s grip tightened. “He dares.”

“Also, I think the rotund one is waving at us. Politely, with meat.”

Hancock’s eye twitched.

Sandersonia cleared her throat. “The mutual subject of this siege still doesn’t know, Empress. But she’s going to see the ship at one point. And the banners.”

“Then keep her away,” Hancock snapped. “Distract her with scrolls. Put her in the archive pit. Chain her to a filing cabinet.”

“She likes the archive pit.”

“Then put snacks in there. Seal the doors.”

“She’s going to realize at some point there’s a blockade forming around her.”

Hancock’s jaw clenched. “She is too gentle. Too trusting. She doesn’t understand what it means when an Emperor starts loitering.”

Sandersonia squinted again. “He’s sending up flares now. They spell out: ‘Soulmarks Are Valid.’”

Hancock roared and kicked the spyglass off the tower.

Exactly Six Miles Offshore, The Red Force bobbed gently on the sea, anchored just beyond the invisible line of death Boa Hancock had carved into the ocean with pure reputation.

Shanks stood at the prow, wind in his hair, cloak fluttering like a dashing hero awaiting his damsel. He may have also said this thought aloud.

Eyes on the mist-veiled cliffs of Amazon Lily.

He wasn’t smiling. Not right now.

“She’s there,” he said softly. “I can feel her. The mark… It’s warmer.”

Benn Beckman didn’t even look up from his book. “You know she probably thinks that’s an allergic reaction.”

“Then I’ll bring the itch cream.”

“If you set one foot closer, the Empress will personally drop-kick you into the Calm Belt.” Benn drawled, probably wishing he had opted to stay with Rayleigh to shit-talk his captain.

Shanks grinned faintly. “She said five miles. I gave her six.”

“Magnanimous,” Benn muttered.

“Suicidal,” Lucky Roux agreed, polishing his gun.

Yasopp leaned over the rail with a spyglass. “Oho. Someone’s on the eastern ridge.”

Shanks perked up. “Is it her?”

“No. Big hair. Might be the angry one. She’s holding a cannon.”

“Ah.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “She watches over her. Fierce loyalty. Beautiful.”

“She’s aiming,” Yasopp added.

Benn flipped a page. “You should move.”

“I brought flowers this time,” Shanks said, proudly gesturing to a sad bouquet taped to a barrel. “Symbolic. Elegant.”

“It’s duct-taped. Fancy.” Yassop chimed in.

“They’re handpicked,” Shanks said proudly.

“It’s seaweed.” Benn took a long sip of rum.

“They floated toward me, Benn. That’s fate.” A warning shot blasted past the mast, shearing off a flag. “That was a love tap.” He continued to explain. “Very in line with Amazon Lily customs.”

Benn didn’t look up. “She’s angry. Which means she’s feeling cornered.”

“Howling Gab is writing your will,” Lucky Roux said.

“He left a blank space for ‘Cause of Death,’” Limejuice chimed in, “So far we’ve got: ‘shot,’ ‘stoned,’ ‘emotionally vaporized,’ and ‘hugged too hard by an oversized snake.’”

“She won’t let them kill me,” Shanks said firmly. “Boa’s got too much sense to try.”

Pause.

“…Right?” he asked, suddenly unsure.

No one answered. Even the snail turned away.

Shanks, undeterred, stood with windswept nobility and a death wish.

Somewhere behind him, someone was playing a sad violin. Possibly ironically.

“My soulmate is thinking about me,” he whispered, slightly in denial. “Probably.”

“She’s thinking about vaporizing you,” Benn corrected. “Which happens to also be my train of thought.”

Yasopp lowered his spyglass. “She’s probably looking at you. That’s half the battle.”

Lucky Roux nodded. “Eyeballs mean emotional investment.”

“Exactly,” Shanks said, emboldened. “We’ve moved from apathy to murderous intent. That’s progress.”

“Truly the language of love,” Benn muttered.

Rockstar came charging up the steps, carrying what looked like a flaming bottle. “Captain! I made you a message bottle full of poetry and highly flammable hope.”

Shanks took it with reverence. “You’re a true romantic.”

Benn blinked. “That’s lamp oil.”

“Her love will light the way,” Shanks said solemnly, shaking it slightly. It sloshed with danger.

Howling Gab raised a flag they’d painted that morning: a stick-figure drawing of a heart, a sword, and a very buff woman holding hands with a pirate.

“We’re ready to deliver your declaration of affection via cannon,” He said proudly. “Non-lethal. Probably.”

“Or a glider,” Yasopp suggested. “We could strap him to a glider. Drop him right in her courtyard like a flaming love letter.”

Benn lowered his book. “Do any of you want to survive this?”

“We believe in love, Benn,” Lucky Roux said with the serene righteousness of a man who once wooed someone with pickled fish and a smile.

Shanks turned to face his men, eyes shining. “Thank you for standing with me. For understanding that soulmarks are not a joke—they’re destiny. They’re poetry written on the body by fate itself.”

“You’re gonna die,” Benn said flatly.

Shanks nodded. “But romantically.”

The crew roared in approval.

You sat on your bed, staring at your palm, which had once again started to glow—just faintly—through wraps, salves, and what you were pretty sure had been mayonnaise at one point.

It wasn’t just heat anymore.

It was pulling.

A strange sort of tug in your chest. Longing. Recognition. Like someone had whispered your name from across the sea with pirate breath and questionable intentions.

You pressed your fingers to your chest, unsettled.

The name hadn’t faded.

Not with the cleansing herbs.

Not with the tea rituals.

Not even with the salt baths, venom rubs, or Boa’s “spiritual aura suppression treatments,” which had escalated from polite chants to full-body scroll assaults.

And now?

Now it wasn’t just glowing. It was like a living, breathing curse.. The name, the one you refused to say aloud, was blooming like a smug little sun tattooed into your soul.

And at this point, it was easier to lie and say you were “healing.” The venom baths were liable to dissolve your hand off, but you doubted they would fundamentally turn off the soul-bonding shenanigans. You’d rather not lose a hand to test it.

A bird cawed next to your window, startling you.

Then another.

Then a whole flock took off at once, wheeling into the sky like something had spooked them. The breeze shifted and carried a strange scent.

Rum.

The kind aged in oak and poor decisions.

Below, you could hear the quiet metallic shhhhink of whetstones dragging across blades. The warriors were sharpening their spears again, murmuring under their breath:

“It’s happening again.”

That was concerning.

What was more concerning was the click of your bedroom door locking.

From the outside.

You stared at it for a long moment. Then slowly turned toward the window.

“Suspicious,” you muttered.

Ten minutes later, you’d scaled the palace wall, bypassed two guards, and climbed barefoot to the cliffside above the cove—heart racing, trying to clear your head.

That was when you saw it.

The ship.

Massive. Gaudy. Flying a black flag stamped with a skull slashed three times, mounted on crossed swords.

Anchored.

Waiting.

You blinked. Rubbed your eyes.

Still there.

Lurking off the coast like a very patient, very stupidly romantic predator.

Like a lovesick shark.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

It all clicked—the breakfast tray. The oddly compelling stack of logistics reports. The suspicious silence from Hancock all morning. The sudden interest in locking you in closets.

They were distracting you.

She was stalling.

Because Hancock knew something you refused to admit. She knew the second you saw that flag, you’d start spiraling into self-sacrificing, chaotic decision-making.

Which was precisely what you did.

You bolted.

Straight down the cliffside, crashing through underbrush and startled birds, mud on your shins and panic in your throat. You burst out of the trees, barefoot and wild-eyed—

And skidded to a halt directly in front of a fully armed war council.

Dozens of warriors stood on the beach, spears ready, faces grim.

Boa Hancock didn’t look at you.

She just said, coolly, “She escaped the closet.”

One of the generals muttered, “I told you we needed two locks.”

Another sighed. “Too late now.”

Then the lookout shouted, “They’re lowering a rowboat!”

And you could already hear male laughter. Familiar. Infuriating.

The war council turned in eerie unison.

Every general, elder, and captain was already in formation, weapons gleaming and eyes narrowed—except for one warrior, who had her hands on her hips and was giving you the flat look of someone who definitely tried to lock you in that damn closet.

Boa Hancock stood in the center, resplendent and furious. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping. “I told you to stay inside.”

“I thought there was a bird emergency!” you blurted. “And then someone lured me with spreadsheets! I thought it was a fiscal summit!”

There was a long pause. Someone coughed. Another warrior muttered, “She did look excited about the logistics…”

Behind you, the wind shifted.

The scent of salt and citrus hit first. Then the rum. Then the distant sound of a man laughing; loud, warm, and terribly familiar, like you had heard it in a dream.

Your heart stuttered. Then bloomed with an involuntary rush of warmth.

So did your hand.

You looked down. Glowing. Again.

“No,” You muttered, rubbing at it like that would help. “No, no, no—don’t you dare start glowing right now.”

It only pulsed brighter.

Across the beach, the warriors bristled. Spears lifted. Murmurs rippled through the ranks.

And at the center of it all stood Boa Hancock.

Unmoving. Immaculate. Glaive sunk into the sand like a declaration of war. Or a promise.

She didn’t look at you at first. Just stared out at the distant ship, jaw tight.

You stared too.

At the ship.

At your hand.

Back at Hancock.

She closed her eyes for one long, brittle second and exhaled through her nose like someone forcibly swallowing rage.

“…Damn it,” she said, quiet and sharp.

You stomped up beside her, heart doing awful things inside your chest.

“So that’s absolutely his ship.”

“Yes.”

You blinked furiously. “But it can’t be.”

“It is,” Hancock said flatly.

“But the reports said he was headed toward Elbaph—”

“He redirected.”

You bit your lip, hands clenched at your sides, your glowing palm betraying you like a snitch with a crush.

“So, an Emperor of the Seas is just sitting offshore and lets the pressure of a diplomatic crisis reel me in?!” You cried out. “And you didn’t tell me?”

There was a long pause.

Then Marigold, gently, “To be fair… that’s very respectful. For an Emperor of the Sea.”

“Very romantic,” Sandersonia added dreamily. “He hasn’t even fired a single cannon today.”

You whipped around to stare at them, scandalized.

“How long has he been here??? He shouldn’t be firing cannons! We’re not at war!”

Hancock didn’t move. “We will be if he sets one foot on this island.”

Nyoka chimed in, “He sent snacks. They floated over in a barrel. There was a note. It was spelled wrong but… earnest.”

You swore, pacing a trench into the sand.

“You couldn’t have told me?!”

“I’m not about to let any man, especially a Red-Haired Emperor, march in and lay claim to one of mine,” Hancock snapped, rounding on you like thunder in heels. “Least of all you.”

Another warrior jogged up, scroll in hand.

“He’s six miles offshore. Exactly. Won’t move. He’s built a fruit altar on the deck. Burned incense. Possibly praying.”

“To me?!” you croaked.

“He’s courting you via ship blockade,” Sandersonia declared proudly, as if you’d won a festival prize.

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. 

I asked you to tell me if something happened!”

“I did tell you,” Hancock said dryly. “I told you it was nonsense. Then he arrives, and that damn mark started glowing. Then you started glowing. And now he’s glowing. With emotional instability and extremely questionable poetry.”

You froze. “Oh god. He wrote poetry?”

“We intercepted a bottle,” Nyoka said with all the gravity of a funeral dirge. “It was labeled ‘Private: Feelings Inside.’”

“You read it?!”

“Of course. We’re not savages. It was terrible. But intense. He rhymed ‘eternal’ with ‘infernal.’”

You staggered. “I am being emotionally besieged by a Yonko.”

The mark on your palm flared.

Hancock’s eyes sharpened. “He’s thinking about you again.”

You spun. “How can you possibly tell?!”

“Because I want to punch a palm tree,” She hissed. “And that usually means a man is somehow involved.”

A low horn echoed across the water.

“They’re cat-calling via Den Den speaker,” someone shouted.

You turned to your Empress in horror.

“Empress Boa. Please. I cannot let him harass the whole island just because-”

“I will die on this beach before that ginger demon sets foot near you,” Hancock vowed, tightening her grip on her glaive. “And if he tries to wave another treaty shaped like a love letter, I’m setting it—and him—on fire.”

“Boa-”

“I am warning you,” she snapped. “Go. Inside. Before that sea rodent gets dramatic and sends a singing snail. ”

You blinked, breath catching. “He wouldn’t.”

A scout came sprinting up, pale and trembling. “He did. It’s rehearsing.”

You nearly sobbed.

Hancock’s expression softened. Just a hair. “I care about you. I’m protecting you. Clearly, fate wants to feed you to that man like bait. But I won’t let it.”

You stood frozen, a tragic statue of disbelief and humiliation.

“And if you don’t go inside this second,” she added, raising her voice, “I will personally drag you by your glowing hand and lock you in the archives.”

That was enough.

You nodded, half-choking on a laugh that felt far too close to a breakdown, and turned for the temple.

Behind you, someone activated the anti-longboat net launcher.

And another Kuja warrior lovingly etched the words “For Love Prevention Only” into the side of her spear.

“Scope.”

Shanks held out his hand without so much as a glance.

Lucky Roux passed the spyglass with the reverence of someone performing a sacred rite. There were no words, just understanding.

Benn Beckman stood behind them, taking a long, unimpressed sip of rum. It was his second bottle of the day.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

“She’s my soulmate,” Shanks murmured. “I haven’t even seen her up close. She ran before I set foot on shore. That’s not rejection. That’s heartbreak.”

“That’s a restraining order waiting to happen,” Benn muttered.

Shanks lifted the spyglass, scanning the shoreline with a romantic intensity that made everyone nearby deeply uncomfortable.

Sand.

Warriors.

Tall woman in purple. Boa Hancock, looking like she was about to end civilization with a swing of her glaive.

And then—

There.

Middle of the beach.

Hair wild. Pacing fast, sharp little loops in the sand like she was preparing to cast a curse. Hands flailing. Voice raised. Possibly yelling at the ocean. Possibly yelling at fate.

She screamed.

A seagull screamed too.

Both of them sounded equally offended.

She threw a hand at the sky like she was trying to banish destiny.

And somehow, across miles of sea and layers of denial, he felt it.

That tug.

That sudden, painful warmth.

The unmistakable pull of the red thread—buzzing with Haki and something worse. Something terrifying.

Hope.

Ah, so it was you.

Finally.

You rubbed your palm like it stung, oblivious to how much he could see. You were glowing.

Not just literally.

Emotionally.

Also, yes—literally.

Shanks lowered the scope slowly, like he’d just witnessed a divine moment.

“…She’s beautiful.”

“She’s actively threatening our ship,” Benn said, not looking up from his book.

Shanks smiled, soft-eyed and helpless. “She’s everything.”

“God help me,” Benn muttered, turning the page.

Lucky Roux leaned in. “She looks like she eats pirates for breakfast.”

“She does,” Yasopp chimed in, chewing dried squid. “I read about it. Headlines don’t lie.”

“I love that,” Shanks sighed, clasping the spyglass like it was a holy relic.

Benn finally looked up. “And what, exactly, is the plan?”

Shanks straightened, noble and unhinged. “I give her a token of my love. A rose. A letter. A seashell with a poorly carved limerick.”

“Then what?”

“She sees it. She reads it. She understands.”

“Understands what?”

“That we’re destiny,” Shanks said, already drifting into a sea-shanty cadence like he was narrating a tragic opera.

“You’re going to die,” Benn said flatly.

“Hopefully,” Shanks confirmed with pride. “Between her thighs.”

Roux leaned toward Yasopp. “He’s got that tone again.”

“Yup,” Yasopp nodded. “Dinghy time.”

Later that evening, Shanks stood beside what could only be described as the world’s most suspicious dinghy—small, creaky, and held together with optimism and bad decisions. He slung a rope over his shoulder like he’d done this sort of thing a hundred times.

He had not.

Benn didn’t even glance up from the flask he now drank from, like it was morphine. “You’re going to get turned to stone.”

“If I don’t fall off a cliff first,” Shanks said brightly, adjusting a rose no one told him to bring and definitely didn’t need.

Yasopp leaned over the side of the Red Force, squinting. “Or eaten by a snake. Or stabbed by a spear. Or exploded by feelings. Pretty sure she had at least three knives when she started yelling at the moon.”

“I’m begging you to stop,” Benn muttered. “You’re trespassing. Spiritually, emotionally, and frankly? Offensively.”

“I’m visiting,” Shanks replied, tucking a rose behind his ear with the self-assurance of a man who believed florals had diplomatic immunity. “Respectfully. Romantically.”

“You’re an Emperor of the Sea. That’s not visiting. That’s looming.”

“It’s not like I’m invading,” Shanks offered, shrugging one arm like that helped.

“You are. You literally count as a natural disaster on most naval charts.”

“A one-armed natural disaster,” Shanks corrected cheerfully.

“Semantics,” Benn growled. “You saw this woman for eight seconds and she screamed at the sky like God owed her rent.”

“Best eight seconds of my life,” Shanks said dreamily.

Lucky Roux gave him a thumbs-up. “If she turns you to stone, we’ll sell tickets.”

“We already printed merch,” Yasopp added. “We got merch. First batch says ‘Love Ruined My Life and All I Got Was This Shirt.”

Shanks saluted, pushing off with dramatic flair. “Tell the boys that Benn warned me, and I didn’t listen. Again.”

The dinghy groaned like it wanted no part of this.

But still, he rowed.

One glowing hand on the oar.

Flower behind his ear.

Prepared to scale cliffs, dodge spears, get hit with righteous feminine fury, and maybe—just maybe—win the heart of a woman who’d already started sharpening something in his general direction.

You couldn’t sleep.

Your hair was still damp from a bath that did nothing to soothe the burn in your palm. You sat on the balcony, brushing it out, watching the moonlight spill over the thick, lush gardens below—gardens that ended in a sheer drop into the sea.

The comb offered some comfort. Familiar. Ritual. Something drilled into you as a child.

The mark on your hand pulsed again—not painful, but alive. Buzzing faintly, like something across the sea was thinking too loudly about you.

You were just about to head back inside when you heard it.

A soft crunch in the garden below.

Your comb froze in place.

Then… a sneeze.

You crept to the edge of the balcony and looked down.

A man stood in your courtyard.

An actual man.

Shirt open, one hand resting lazily on his hip, the other raised in a casual wave. The moon hit his hair just right—brilliant red, windblown, absurd. And he was smiling. Like this was a social call.

That was red hair. His hair.

You had assumed Shanks—the Red-Haired Shanks—would be some grotesque brute. Bald. Scarred. Unpleasant.

Instead, a sun-browned pirate in a long black cloak stood in your moonlit garden like he’d stepped straight out of a bard’s fever dream. And worse—he was in sandals.

Scandalous.

You gaped.

You stared at the cliffs behind him, heart pounding.

Because there were only two ways into this garden: through the palace tunnels… or by scaling the cliff face of Amazon Lily—jagged, vertical, and lined with blades.

He had done the latter. In the dark. With one arm.

And sandals.

You nearly screamed. If you weren’t already frozen in rage and secondhand embarrassment, you would have.

He beamed up at you. “Hi.”

His voice echoed up, low and warm. The kind of deep that didn’t belong in your garden.

You flailed, dropping your comb. “This is sacred land! Men die here! Like, professionally! Do you want to die?”

“Not really,” he said, unbothered. “Just wanted to meet you. Properly.”

You ducked behind the balcony wall, hyperventilating.

Of course. 

Of course, fate gave you a soulmate who scaled cliffs like a goat, smiled like a myth, and showed up personally to ruin your peace.

“You okay up there?”

You popped back up, scowling. “Go away!”

“No.”

“I’m not emotionally stable enough for this today.”

Shanks scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly sheepish for someone who regularly punches sea gods.

“Your name showed up on me. Felt rude not to meet the person it belonged to.”

You stared at him like he’d confessed to eating cursed fruit on a dare.

“That’s not romantic. That’s a curse.”

He grinned—of course he did.

“I like curses. Especially the ones with attitude problems and dangerously pretty eyes.”

You pointed at him with the force of a divine warning.

“Back. Up. I bite when overwhelmed.”

“So do I,” he said brightly. “Should we match?”

You shrieked and hurled a potted orchid at his head.

He dodged with far too much grace for a man who’d just scaled a death cliff and trespassed into your solitude. Worse, he looked pleased about it, like he enjoyed being violently welcomed.

“How the hell did you climb that cliff? With one arm?”

He flashed a grin. The kind that made knees wobble and reputations suffer.

“Want a demonstration?”

Your jaw dropped. “You look like someone who causes problems professionally.”

He actually laughed. Loud, unbothered, sinful.

You turned on your heel, grabbed your sword—mostly for comfort—and then peeked back over your shoulder.

He was still smiling. Leaning casually on a boulder like he hadn’t just crawled up from certain death to flirt with you.

Uninvited.

Unbothered.

Unreasonably attractive.

You stared at him, sword half-raised. He winked.

“Let me get this straight,” you said, slow and flat. “You’re an Emperor of the Sea. One of the most dangerous men alive. You command a legendary crew. Your bounty is over five billion—”

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 “It’s a little… performative. Marine dramatics. You know how they are.”

You stared. “Not as dramatic as scaling a cliff just to watch a woman brush her hair.”

He grinned like you'd paid him a compliment.

“I have priorities.”

“You have issues.”

He stepped forward slightly, cocking his head. “Says the woman who threw an orchid at me.”

“It was ceremonial.”

“It missed.”

“Unfortunately.”

His grin widened like you’d just given him permission to keep being a menace. The breeze caught his cloak, and his hair shimmered in the sun like firelight—because of course it did. Nature was clearly conspiring with his ego.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low and maddeningly sincere. “You were glowing. Felt rude not to admire the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You squinted at him, deeply unimpressed. “They said you were charming.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

“Warning.”

He pressed a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “Ouch.”

“Good.”

He smiled wider.

You hated how good it looked on him.

He stepped forward slowly, like a man approaching something wild—something that might bolt or bite.

You growled low in your throat and leveled your sword at his chest.

“I’m harmless,” he said gently, voice velvet-soft and far too dangerous. “Unless you’re paper. Or a treaty.”

“You’re trespassing.”

He raised his single hand, palm open in mock surrender. "For a good cause. I did try diplomacy first.”

You frowned. He didn’t feel like a threat.

He felt strange, like the ghost of music you hadn’t heard in years. Familiar in a way that made your grip tighten instead of ease.

“I just wanted to see you.”

You didn’t lower your sword.

But you didn’t strike, either.

And his eyes said he noticed.

He looked at you like you weren’t a prize or a trophy.

Just something rare.

Something real.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” His voice trailed off, softer now. Then a quiet smile. “So beautiful.”

You blinked.

Your hand pulsed—warm where the mark sat like a secret.

And you hated that your first thought was: He sounds sincere.

“Stop talking,” you snapped, too fast.

“Why?” he asked, brows lifting.

“Because you’re charming.”

He winced like you’d accused him of a crime. “I’m trying really hard not to be.” “Try harder.”

A beat of silence. Then, with that unmistakable glint—

“You’re staring at my hair.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

“It’s unnatural.”

“Most people say it’s striking.”

“Most people aren’t trained to spot pirate illusions.”

His grin widened. “Then why stare?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“You look like someone who fell into a fire at birth.”

He laughed—loud, shameless, real. The sound hit you like a warm wave. Unfair. Unwelcome. Comforting in a way it shouldn’t be.

He took another step forward.

“Want to touch it?” he asked, far too casual for someone actively being threatened with steel.

“Excuse me?”

“My hair,” he said smoothly. “Go on. Satisfy your curiosity.”

“I’m not curious.”

“You sure? Could be your only chance to ruffle an Emperor’s hair.”

You blinked. Just once. He caught it, of course he did.

“You like the color.”

“I do not.”

(You did. Obviously. You hated that you did.)

“You stared at it.”

“I stare at all dangerous things. Fires. Shipwrecks. Rabid dogs.”

He chuckled. “You’ve got excellent taste in disasters.”

Then he stepped closer—too close. Cloak rippling. Hair catching the wind like it had a flair for theater. It fell over one eye, casually criminal.

You tried not to look. You failed.

“…How is it that red?”

He smiled—slow, knowing, just short of obscene.

“Want to find out?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

“Sure you don’t want to touch it?” he coaxed, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “I’ll even stand on my tippy-toes for you.”

“No.”

“You looked at it like it owed you money.”

“That’s not how debt works—”

“Here. One touch.” He leaned in just enough, resting his elbow against the edge of the balcony, hair temptingly within reach. “Just to say you did. Brave warrior and all that.”

It wasn’t fair.

His hair looked… expensive. Like it had never known hardship. Like it was washed in melted sunsets and smugness. The kind of red silk nobles begged pirates not to steal.

It was shockingly clean for a male creature.

And worse—it looked soft.

Too soft.

Your fingers twitched.

You hated yourself a little.

One touch. Just to disprove the rumors.

You leaned in—just a little—fingers outstretched.

You brushed the tips of his hair—

Warm. Silken. Alive.

And then—

Your palm burned.

His chest lit up in response, symbols flaring like ink set aflame. You jerked back, gasping, but too late.

The marks on your skin spiraled outward, curling and fusing, mirrored between you.

Chains. Rings.

A single word, seared in fire across both your bodies:

BOUND.

.

.

.

Silence.

You stared.

He stared.

“…Well,” Shanks said softly, still breathless, eyes locked on yours. “That escalated beautifully.”

You yanked your hand back so fast you nearly toppled over the balcony.

Below, Shanks staggered a half-step, his hand pressed flat over the glowing mark on his chest. His expression wasn’t afraid. Just stunned. Like something sacred had touched him.

Like you had.

You were already gasping, heart hammering, voice rising with panic.

“What—what was that?! What did you do?! What did I do?!”

He looked up at you with a grin, but not his usual grin. This one was softer. Slower. Unarmed.

Not cocky. Not smug. Warm.

It sat wrong on his pirate face. Too sincere. Too open.

Like he’d waited years just to see if you felt exactly like this.

Wonderstruck.

You backed up a step.

Your voice cracked.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

He had the nerve to look pleased.

“It’s a harmless little side effect. Of, you know—full contact,” he said cheerfully, like you hadn’t caught fire together. “Didn’t realize it was a real thing myself. But I’m not disappointed.”

“What side effect?” you growled.

He held up two fingers, casual as ever. “One: we now match. Fashionable, right?”

You drew your sword.

He gave you a sheepish little shrug. The kind that screamed, ‘please don’t stab me, I’m cute.’

Then you took a single step back—

And a sharp tug snapped through your chest, like someone had lassoed your ribcage and yanked hard.

You gasped, hand flying to your sternum. “Ow—what the hell—?!”

“Yeah,” he winced sympathetically. “That’s the part I maybe forgot to mention.”

You stared at him. Horrified. Betrayed. Mildly nauseated.

And just as you opened your mouth to yell again—

He crouched.

And sprang.

He landed gracefully on your balcony like some unholy cross between a pirate, a cat, and a romantic liability. No rope. No warning.

This man had no respect for doors, boundaries, or your rapidly unraveling sense of reality.

“We can’t be more than ten feet apart now,” he said brightly, still holding his chest like he’d just won a prize at a festival. “Think of it as… spatially enforced bonding.”

You blinked.

Then screamed.

Not a gasp. Not a squeak. A full-body, soul-shaking scream that echoed through the trees, reverberated off the cliffs, and probably startled Neptune himself.

Birds scattered. A baby wailed. Somewhere in the distance, a goat keeled over.

Shanks flinched—not from fear. Just from sheer decibel shock.

Later, he’d describe it as “kind of adorable… in a deeply traumatized way.”

You backed away, waving your glowing hand like you could physically fling the situation off your body. “NOPE. No. No, no. Undo it. Take it back. Rewind the curse!”

“It’s not a curse,” Shanks said gently.

You jabbed a finger at the burning sigil on your palm. “THIS SAYS OTHERWISE.”

“…Okay, fair.”

Then you ran.

You bolted like the forest owed you sanctuary.

Slammed through your room, flung open the inner doors, and sprinted straight for the far wall like you could physically outrun a magical contract.

You made it twelve feet.

Then—snap.

A vicious pull ripped through your chest like a tether gone taut. You were yanked clean off your feet, flung backward like a ragdoll of denial, and hit the floor in a heap of limbs, curses, and existential despair.

You lay there, gasping. Dazed. Emotionally concussed.

And of course—of course—Shanks was already there, crouched beside you like this was just another Tuesday.

“Hey—hey, easy now. You can’t pull that hard,” he said gently, like you hadn’t just been magically body-slammed. “Ten feet. That’s the limit. Think of it like… a soul bungee cord.”

You blinked up at him, flat on your back, eyes wide with horror.

“You’re a magical anchor,” you wheezed.

He laughed—hard. Couldn’t help it. You could see it in the way his shoulders shook.

“That’s… not how most people introduce themselves to their soulmates,” he said between wheezes. “But I respect the poetry.”

You glared.

He offered a hand.

You slapped it away.

So, naturally, the idiot pivoted to drama.

He placed a hand over his chest, straightened, and gave you a half-bow so theatrical it could’ve summoned fog.

“I’m Shanks. Captain of the Red Force. Emperor of the Sea.”

He winked.

“And, apparently… yours.”

You stared at him.

Still on the floor. Still glowing. Still cursed.

“Hancock is going to kill you,” you whispered.

Shanks smiled like a man halfway through composing the sea shanty about his own death. “That’s fair.”

The doors slammed open like the wrath of heaven descending.

“WHERE IS HE?!”

There she was.

Boa Hancock. Empress. Warlord. Fury in heels.

Glaive in hand. Hair swirling despite the absolute absence of wind. Eyes locked on Shanks with the focused intent of a woman ready to obliterate his entire bloodline from existence.

She lunged.

You didn’t even have time to blink.

She was on him in a flash, striking like vengeance forged into flesh.

Shanks didn’t move.

His Haki surged—quiet, ancient, coiling. It cracked the stone beneath his feet, winding around him like a leviathan that didn’t need to scream to remind the world it ruled.

Hancock froze mid-swing.

Her glaive trembled in her grip. Her fury did not.

“You dare trespass. Touch her. Curse her with your filth?” Her voice was low. Lethal. “I will turn you to stone.”

She unleashed her power like a tidal wave.

And…

Nothing.

Hancock faltered. Just slightly.

You stared. Hancock stared. Shanks raised an eyebrow, like someone had just complimented his shoes.

“…Huh,” he muttered, glancing at his very much still-flesh hands. “Still flesh.”

“You—” Her expression twisted, fury barely contained. “You should have crumbled.”

“Sorry,” he said, scratching his head. “Guess you’re just not my type.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You—she—you resisted her?!”

“I didn’t resist anything,” he said simply. Then looked at you. “I’m just already cursed.”

Your soulmark flared—bright and traitorous.

Hancock’s eyes narrowed. She looked between you, then back again, lip curling. “So. That’s what it is.”

“Apparently,” you muttered, utterly humiliated.

“I hate it,” she snapped. “You can’t even be turned to stone like a normal intruder.”

Shanks shrugged. “That’s the price of loyalty, I guess.”

“Loyalty?!” you barked. “You broke into my room!”

“True,” he said, with a sage nod. “But I didn’t touch anything. Not even the pillow I caught. I’m house-trained. Rayleigh made sure.”

Silence.

Complete, nuclear silence.

Even the torches dimmed, like they no longer wished to witness this plane of existence.

You slapped a hand over your face. “Oh gods…”

Hancock’s eye twitched. She looked dangerously close to achieving spiritual enlightenment through pure, concentrated fury.

Then—with the elegance of a queen and the rage of a continent—she inhaled deeply through her nose.

“I will have you physically removed,” she said coldly. “I will punt you back to your ship myself.”

Shanks gave her the most maddeningly polite smile ever committed to sin.

“I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Why not?!” Hancock hissed.

He looked at her.

Then at you.

Then back again, resting his arm on his hip.

“Because for the first two weeks, if soulmates are forced more than ten feet apart…” He raised his brows. “We snap back together.”

A stunned beat.

Then—he added, almost delicately:

“And if one of us dies…” A faint smile curved his mouth. “We both do.”

Chaos. Utter, spiraling, gods-abandon-us chaos.

Hancock shrieked.

You screamed—again—because clearly once wasn’t enough.

Marigold hit the floor like a sack of emotional potatoes.

Sandersonia shouted, “He’s bluffing!”

But the royal scrollkeeper, pale and trembling, whispered, “Actually… that is in the old texts…”

What followed was an operatic mix of shouting, cursing, veiled threats, open threats, and Hancock attempting to vaporize Shanks with nothing but the fury in her pupils.

Eventually, after what might generously be called negotiations, a compromise was reached:

The rules:

Shanks was not to leave Amazon Lily.

You were not to be closer than nine feet to him.

The two of you would be:  • Chaperoned by the most humorless guards Hancock could assign  • Forbidden from sharing rooms, blankets, baths, or “soul-binding gazes”  • Monitored for “suspicious behavior,” especially hand-holding, hair-touching, or prolonged smiling, and definitely no shared pillows.

No soulmark glowing in front of palace staff, because it was “sending the wrong message.”

And under no circumstances was Shanks to call you “his.” Not “his soulmate,” not “his problem,” not “his little sunbeam.” Ever again.

He immediately broke that last one. Twice. With flourish.

Marigold, still woozy, swore the snake hissed in Morse code for “kill him anyway.”

Hancock paced like a war god forced to sit through a dinner party.

“I want it annulled,” she snapped. “Broken. Banished. I don’t care if we have to summon an elder sea witch—I want this bond severed.”

“Respectfully,” said the royal scrollkeeper, who had not blinked in twenty minutes, “doing so within the first cycle would, ah… implode her soul.”

“She’ll regenerate,” Hancock growled.

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Hancock narrowed her eyes at you. “You should’ve stabbed him on sight.”

“I tried!” you cried, gesturing wildly. 

The next morning, you sat in the garden, hand still glowing faintly.

Shanks sat beside you.

Nine feet away.

Hands folded politely.

He glanced at you and said, voice soft, almost reverent:

“So… this is a very romantic start, don’t you think?”

You threw a fruit at his face.

He caught it.

Still smiling.

The Den Den Mushi aboard the Red Force clicked to life, glowing softly in the moonlight as the ship bobbed six miles off the coast of Amazon Lily.

Benn Beckman answered with the sigh of a man far too old to be cleaning up another diplomatic incident. Pipe lit. Rum nearby. Resigned dread in his bones.

“Red-Hair?”

Static.

“Hey, good news. I’m not dead.”

Around the deck, the crew froze mid-motion.

The card game stopped. One of the dice rolled off the table and hit the deck with an ominous clack.

Yasopp muttered, “Oh no.”

Lucky Roux sat up slowly, eyes wide. “Oh oh hoooo!”

Benn rubbed his face with one hand. “Define ‘not dead.’”

“I’m technically alive. Emotionally? Unclear. Spiritually? Debatable.”

“Where are you?”

A pause.

“…Inside the palace.”

Benn stared at the snail. “Inside the palace. Of Amazon Lily. The one guarded by an Empress who turns men to stone.”

“Right, her,” Shanks chirped. “Funny story—”

“Shanks.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you do?”

Another pause. Then:

“…Got cursed. Bonded. Technically trespassed. Accidentally soulmated the Empress’s favorite.”

Silence.

Then—

“GOT WHAT?!” came the collective scream from the rest of the crew, echoing across the deck.

Yasopp buried his face in his hands. “This is going to be worse than the time with the nuns, isn’t it?”

“Worse than the treasure priestess,” Limejuice leaned in to say, all smiles.

Lucky Roo froze mid-bite, a meat skewer dangling from his mouth.

Benn exhaled slowly. “Okay. That’s… not bad.”

“Also,” Shanks continued, voice drifting in with just the slightest edge of guilt, “I’ll be staying here for about two weeks.”

Silence.

“YOU WHAT?”

“Are you kidnapped?!”

“Do we need to launch a rescue?!”

“Wait—are you finally getting married?!”

“Don’t tell me she actually touched you—”

“She did,” Shanks said, pure smug. “My hair. We immediately bound.”

The crew lost it.

Yasopp howled. “HE WEAPONIZED THE HAIR!”

Lucky Roux spun in a slow, delighted circle, humming something dangerously close to a wedding chant. Someone near the helm shouted, “Call the tailor!”

“Of course she likes my hair!” Shanks called over the rising din, beaming like a man personally blessed by the gods of delusion. “Who doesn’t?!”

Benn groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining a migraine. “You soul-bonded with a woman who ran from your name, weaponized your ego, and now you’re stranded on an island full of elite warrior women who all have kill orders with your face on them. For two weeks.”

There was a heavy pause.

Then Shanks, utterly unbothered and clearly thriving, shrugged and said, “Best vacation I’ve ever had.”

Benn didn’t look up. Just took a slow drag from his pipe and asked flatly, “So how’d you convince Hancock not to split you in half and roast you over ceremonial fire?”

“Ten feet apart or we die,” Shanks chirped, like he was announcing the weather.

Benn slowly lowered his head to the table and let it rest there. “Gods save me from romantics.”

“Technically,” Yasopp added from the side, “that makes him the most successful trespasser in Amazon Lily history.”

“I’m not trespassing,” Shanks called helpfully. “I’m emotionally docked.”

Benn groaned louder.

On deck, pirates placed bets and hollered like it was festival night. Bets hit the floor. Someone pointed at the stars and swore they saw a constellation shaped like a wedding bouquet. At least three were already arguing odds on whether Hancock would personally chuck Shanks into the ocean before sunrise, or delegate it to one of her taller sisters.

Through it all, Shanks just waited.

Calm. Quiet. Still smiling like a man who’d accidentally touched a stove and decided it was fate.

Finally, Benn spoke again, lower now. Serious.

“…You good with this?”

Shanks leaned against the receiver, voice dropping into something softer. Less pirate. More man.

“You should see her, mate,” he murmured. “She’s everything.”

Benn didn’t answer right away.

He just lit another pipe, slow and heavy, like a man preparing to witness the most romantic shipwreck in history.

“…We’ll hold position. Two weeks. Maybe sail to port. Drink your funeral early.”

“Thanks, Benn.”

“Try not to die, Captain.”

“No promises.”

[ideas-4-stories]

One piece story idea where Buggy has had medical issues since he was a baby, but most of them went unknown, undiagnosed, or not caught early enough to "make a difference".

Buggy with an autoimmune disorder of some kind (leaning to fibromayalgia bc I love projecting on my baby blue blorbo, but also the overactive nerves would tie in nicely with his devil fruit)

Buggy with hypermobility at the very least, possible Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, but it's damn near impossible to properly diagnose due to his DF and the tech available by and large.

On the Oro Jackson, few genuinely believed when Buggy would say something hurt or felt wrong or when he was more foggy headed than usual. Shanks could always read him like an open book. Roger could hear the changes in his youngest's Voice. Crocus did the best he could, but his options were limited and his attention was split. It was Roger, Rayleigh and Shanks who were Buggy's main support system.

Roger absolutely cried the first time Buggy got injured in a big fight and casually relocated a joint with just a soft hiss. That alone had been jarring, but Buggy's response to Shanks' worried question of "are you okay, does it hurt-," left the captain biting back tears. How else is a father supposed to feel when his little boy simply rolls hod eyes and says "not much more than normal"

When Roger disbanded the crew, the plan was to leave the boys on Drum. It had good doctors, Buggy would get more support, and it was rarely an island under siege due to the medical renown it had. They of course did not tell the boys as such, and it was only through a series of wacky events that lead Kureha to meeting them and taking a liking to their sparks. Shanks wasn't the most interested in medicine but he learned some things, specifically first aid and some things to help Buggy. He actually found psychology pretty interesting when he had the patience and attention span to spare. Buggy on the other hand took to it all like a fish to water.

They were there for almost two years when the newspaper was delivered and both boys lost their SHIT when the headline announced the execution of their captain, their father. Kureha sent them off, arguably with more supplies than they needed, and gave them her Denden number to reach her if they needed anything at all. She couldn't go with them, but she refused to send them truly alone.

They have their fight in the plaza, but it doesn't end with a monumental break up. They meet back up the next day, and they bite the bullet together and talk.

They take some time to come to a decision moving forward.

They ultimately decide to go with the co-captain avenue but with careful misdirection and smoke and mirrors. To the world at large, they will seem completely independent and unrelated. In truth, they will be leveraging their independent skills to further themselves and each other. The brains and brawn, as it were.

It works out in their favor for a good deal of time until the cluster fuck that is marineford. Secrets are out, identities revealed, and Buggy is having 6395716 panic attacks stacked up like Legos.

He and Shanks roll with it as best they can, trying to salvage what they feasibly could.

Two years later, Cross Guild is formed and begins rolling. Buggy's crew knows of his illnesses/disabilities, but he has a strict set up to address them. It's on a need to know basis.

Crocodile and Mihawk just so happened to swirl in like a hurricane and never got the memo until there was an attack on the island.

Somehow, someway, Buggy got absolutely soaked in sea water, but he's still fighting, knives in hand, bobbing and weaving with a trail of blood in his wake. It's as he pivots to lunge that Mihawk catches sight of him suddenly paling, a minute flinch, but beyond that, Buggy doesn't react, instead throwing the knife, reaching down and making a strange move at his knee before he cringed, took a sharp inhale, and dove back into the fray.

Upon asking why, hours later in the meeting tent, the swordsman and mafioso present blink when Buggy shrugs and says "oh, my knee cap tried to dislocate. Couldn't disconnect with the sea water so I had to push it back by hand."

"Pardon?"

"Hm?" Buggy glances up from where he's brushing some dried remnants of the battle from his locks, one eye shut against the debris. "What?"

"What caused the injury? I did not see any attacks to your legs in the chaos."

"Oh, it just happens sometimes," Buggy says casually, as if this were knowledge the other two ought to know. "I'm used to it."

They are not sure what to do, nor how to respond. They let it rest for the time being but they do keep a closer eye on their chairman following this.

They learn Buggy is rather adept at working with and around his unusual burdens, either disconnecting a joint or alleviating pressure on it until it can be addressed, even chop-chopping the offending area back to the proper place. They catch sight, now that they know to look, of hints of braces, wraps, the way Buggy occasionally presses his iced drink to a knee, a wrist, on an ankle in movements familiar but exceedingly casual, never belying their true purpose.

It is then that the two dark haired men realize there is much more to their clown than they first assumed.

I agree that overactive nerves would tie nicely with his Devil Fruit. Buggy having medical issues that went unknown, undiagnosed, or wasn’t caught early enough would make sense after all if the HC that Buggy was with the Roger Pirates as a baby or even if he wasn’t with them during his infant stage. These are pirates, how are they supposed to know that they need to look for things that could be wrong with the two babies they now have?

I’m sure some of them have things that have went unknown and undiagnosed. Anyway, back to Buggy, I had to look up Ehlers Danlos Syndrome because I didn't know what it was. I agree that it would be nearly impossible to diagnose properly because of no good tech around, as well as the fact he is on a pirate crew, I assume for the most pirate crews they don't stick around island for very long. I HC that Buggy swallowed the Bara Bara Fruit when he was nine.

Poor Buggy, I want to think that more people on the crew understood that Buggy has problems but didn’t how they could help him. Because acting like Buggy was fragile would make Buggy become angry because kid doesn’t want to be treated like that.

Poor Roger, having to watch that without saying anything, with all the other times it happened. Then after he disbanded the crew. Leaving them on Drum Island is a good choice and it makes sense that they didn’t tell the boys (I feel like they don’t tell the boys many things that should of been talked about, but this might be a good thing they didn’t say anything about. But who knows)

I wonder what the series of wacky events were to the meeting between them and Kureha? To me, they seemed like it there in this AU.

I think anyone would lose their shit if they see someone, they really love is getting murdered in front of so many people. I feel that Kureha only let them go because she knew they would go anyway, and this way let’s her give Buggy and Shanks the supplies they need.

I believe that with all the stress and pain of losing someone they hold dear in their hearts. I think Buggy wasn’t in the right mind set nor was Shanks in a way. Anyway, Love that they came back around to talk about it. I think the smoke & mirrors co-captain route they have… or is it more like Buggy and Shanks are allies? They have their own crews, but they still have each.

Then Marineford happened, poor Buggy and Shanks. I hope in this AU that Ace lives, but it was never stated so I don't know.

The idea that Buggy's crew knows about his illnesses/disabilities makes me feel that his followers would say he so strong to overcome them or we just talking about Buggy's crew from East Blue. Then yeah, those folks definitely know about his illnesses/disabilities.

Mihawk and Crocodile coming in without any knowledge and it took a battle to find out. I can see Buggy is nonchalantly about it as Mihawk did a doubletake when he said ‘Pardon?’ Crocodile did a doubletake too, because with those two didn’t know.

Once Crocodile and Mihawk know about what’s going on with Buggy, they see that the signs were always there. It’s just they didn’t paid attention to those signs, but they are.

[hayhenna]

Echoes of Regret 🩵💔

_a shanks and his thoughts for buggy fic_

Why I think he started drinking

----

Shanks wasn’t sure when exactly the bottle had become his most trusted companion. Maybe it was that one night on the Oro Jackson, when he was just a boy barely tall enough to reach the counter at the ship’s bar. He had stumbled upon Rayleigh sitting there alone, staring into a half-empty glass of rum as if the answers to all of life’s mysteries lay at the bottom.

“What’s wrong, Rayleigh?” Shanks had asked, his youthful innocence shining through.

Rayleigh had smiled then—a small, sad curve of his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes, kid, life gets heavy. You lose people. Things don’t go the way you want. And when that happens…” He lifted the glass and took a slow sip. “This makes it easier. Just for a little while.”

Shanks didn’t understand then, not really. But he had tucked the moment away, filed it under “grown-up things” and moved on.

Years later, the memory came rushing back with the force of a tidal wave. He and Buggy had gone their separate ways—not with a fond farewell, but with sharp words and wounded pride. Shanks could still hear Buggy’s voice, laced with venom but cracking at the edges: *“We’ll never see eye to eye! Just go, Shanks! Leave me the hell alone!”*

The first drink he took after that was supposed to be celebratory. They had survived another day, another adventure, and his crew was starting to come together. But the glass in his hand felt heavier than it should have, the laughter of his new crewmates a little too loud, a little too hollow.

He tried to toast, to cheer, to laugh with them, but his heart wasn’t in it. All he could think about was Buggy’s face—red from anger or embarrassment, he could never tell—and the way his hands used to flail dramatically when he got worked up.

One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. And before long, it was a habit he couldn’t break.

Now, years later, Shanks sat alone in the captain’s quarters of the Red Force, a bottle of sake in one hand and his head resting against the other. The room was dimly lit, the only sound the faint creak of the ship as it swayed with the waves.

The drink burned as it went down, but it was a familiar burn, one he welcomed like an old friend. He stared at the bottle, his thoughts clouded but painfully sharp all at once.

*What are you doing now, Buggy? Are you laughing? Are you happy?* He closed his eyes, letting the memory of Buggy’s laughter wash over him. It was loud and obnoxious, but gods, it was beautiful.

He lifted the bottle again, taking a deeper sip this time. The alcohol didn’t dull the ache in his chest, but it made it easier to pretend.

*Maybe if I’d fought harder, you’d still be here. Maybe if I’d said the right things, you wouldn’t have walked away.*

Shanks let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Damn it, Buggy,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why couldn’t we figure it out?”

He thought about all the things they used to talk about as kids—their dreams, their plans, the way they’d conquer the world together. He had believed it back then, so deeply it was almost a part of his bones. But dreams had a way of shattering when reality set in.

The worst part wasn’t the loss. It wasn’t even the regret. It was the hope that lingered, like an ember that refused to go out. Every time he drank, every time he thought about Buggy, that hope flared up again, painful and bright.

He wanted to see him again, to tell him… what? That he missed him? That he still thought about him every single day? That every time he laughed, he wished Buggy were there to hear it?

But the years had passed, and the distance between them felt insurmountable. Shanks didn’t even know if Buggy would want to see him again.

He finished the bottle, letting it slip from his fingers to the floor. His vision blurred, but whether it was from the alcohol or the tears, he couldn’t tell.

“Come back, Buggy,” he whispered into the emptiness. “Just once. Let me see you again.”

The room offered no response, only the faint echo of his own voice. And so, Shanks did the only thing he knew how to do. He reached for another bottle and took another sip, letting the memories drown him once more.

---

Did you like it ? What would you like to read next?

Lemme know :3

[quinloki]

Hi 😊,

I kinda feel bad for asking again but i tried the generator just for fun and I needed to ask you this for the kinky head canon event

Obedience training, forced orgasm, interrogation scene for Rayleigh, Izou and Beckman please 👉👈 (I'm sorry in case you already did one of these)

Don't feel bad at al \o/

Especially not with a line up like that, hot damn.

Beckman, Izou and Rayleigh with Forced Orgasm, Interrogation Role play and Obedience Training. Hngh. Just end my line now, I'm not surviving this. What a wonderful collection 🥰

I think I've touched on a few of these already, but that's okay. I have a master project rolling for this, so a little copy/paste and not a minute to waste <3

Benn Beckman:

Forced Orgasms - FUCK Yes - the way your toes curl, the way your eyes roll back. The way your tongue hangs out of your mouth, drool passing your lips and mixing with tears. The way sweat looks on your skin when you’re shivering from overstimulation and trying desperately to beg him to stop.

The way your voice sounds when the sweet sounds of that first orgasm have turned into gritty swears ripped from between clenched teeth.

The way he knows you’re okay despite the sobs, because when he asks if you can give him one more you nod, spreading your legs and presenting your messy body to him, desperate for all the attention he gives you.

Interrogation Role Play - FUCK Yes - One of his favorite forms of role play, because he can lean back and do very little and it is Very Effective.

It’s not the questions. It’s the silence.

It’s the way he sits across from you and lights his cigarette and doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes are telling you that the game is on. By the time he asks his first question the nerves are already rolling in your gut.

The way he’ll bring Hongo in to “search you”, leaving you naked and covered in lube, letting you sit on that cold metal chair with nothing on. If you start to shiver he’ll warm you up, wouldn’t do to have his little suspect catch cold, would it?

Obedience Training - Yes - (So I realize that I got Discipline for Benn at some point, and had effectively answered it how I would've answered Obedience Training (vs answering it as "Disciplining") so please don't mind the wording used here, the vibes are the same!)

Beckman is certainly here to teach you discipline. He can't lie though, the only reason he really wants to instill any discipline, or protocols, is so that he can punish you when you lapse. Maybe you like being bad for him, and maybe those punishments are more funishments than anything else, but the point is that Discipline is just a means to other ends.

Izou:

Forced Orgasms - Oh god you don’t even know - orgasm control is definitely the crux for him, and denial as much as forced. He’ll restrain you and drive you mad, enjoying the mess you make as you fall apart because of him.

The whining, desperate, gasping breaths coming from you as you beg him to stop, but it’s only been three. That’s hardly enough. You’re stronger than that, you can give him more, certainly. You don’t even have to do anything just endure what he does to you.

When he leans in and whispers endearments in your ear later on, and your legs tremble because he calls you that when you’re sobbing from pleasure, he’ll think maybe next time you can handle a couple more.

Interrogation Role Play - FUCK Yes - Much like Beckman, Izou enjoys a good role play where he can sit back and let the atmosphere do most of his work.

Izou is more likely to start restricting you as the conversation progresses. Tying your limbs, covering your eyes. He’ll make a pot of tea while you try to sort out what those sounds are. His fingers will drag over your skin.

So sharp is the knife that cuts your clothing that you don’t realize he has access until his fingers tease your skin directly. By the end of it you can’t speak for the gag in your mouth, but it won’t stop him from asking you questions, and warning you that untimely answers can result in punishments.

Obedience Training - Oh gods you don’t even know - there’s a proper way to make tea, there’s a proper way to put on clothes, a proper way to clean a gun, a proper way to do everything. I think Izou finds comfort in the ritual. It’s part of why I think he enjoys shibari so much.

It’s not the control, not entirely, it’s the grounding nature of the ritual itself. Instilling that in you, and getting the pleasure of Correcting you or Praising you, is a new layer to all his rituals, and it is divine in his eyes.

Just because he tasks you with making tea while your arms are bound behind your head, doesn’t mean he expects you to fail.

Silvers Rayleigh:

Forced Orgasms - Oh God You Do Not Even KNOW -

You’re going to think you’ll die orgasming.

He won’t stop. You cannot cry and beg enough to deter him. The way you squirm, and sob and whimper is the greatest delight. You won’t die, he won’t allow it, but you might pass out, waking up to find him between your thighs, that easy smile on his face. Welcoming you back before he returns to what he had been doing before.

Every moment is precious and you deserve to know all the pleasures he can give you. By the third days or so he might even start filling you up, instead of just licking and kissing all the sensitive places on your body until you cum in ways you didn’t know you could.

Interrogation Role Play - Yes - he’ll get into it, for sure, but it’s not too high on his list. He’s not against role play in general, but he prefers to get to the point.

He would rather play the rich business man, the undeterred noble, or even the cruel pirate - but he can play the part of interrogator. The hard part for him will be walking the right side of the line. The Dark King could have you admitting to killing a Celestial Dragon if he’s not careful.

All he wants is for you to say you want him.

Obedience Training - Oh god you don’t even know - I think Rayleigh likes teaching people things. Whether it's haki, fighting, cooking, survival, or more… intimate things, he's delighted to pass on his knowledge. So teaching you how to be disciplined, how to serve, how to act and speak, how to follow protocols, and all the fine details of the poise and grace involved in it - he's here for it.

It rates so high because not only does he get to teach you, but it also opens avenues for punishments, praising, and rewards, and it's the whole package kind of deal. More than the sum of its parts kind of thing. No matter how well you learn he's going to enjoy every aspect of the process.

How May I Kink Your Head Canon?