#exploder shank | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

2b4st4r · 5 days ago

Note

Heyo! Spot here! (^v^)/

Surprisingly, I'm not doing one of the ASL for this request. Shanks has been the one that's been in my head rent free this time.

It's just Shanks and Reader being friends in their youth. Reader is landbound, while Shanks is with the Roger Pirates. They're both rowdy kids and have a playful 'hate'-fueled competitive relationship (Poor Buggy getting caught up in their competitions, lol). Then they slowly drifted away (maybe because of having to leave further from Reader's island or because of Roger's execution, all up to you to be as specific or vague as you want), reminiscing about eachother as fond memories. And then meet up later in life with Reader helping out with Makino in Foosha Village.

I'm such a sucker for redemption of the 'one that got away' trope. It can be as angsty or fluffy as you want, and, most importantly, have fun! :3

Ties That Time Couldn’t Cut

Shanks x Reader

‧₊˚ ⛲️ ‧₊𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐

ᯓ ✈︎ Words: 9,337

ᯓ ✈︎ Warnings: emotional nostalgia, alcohol, fem reader!

ᯓ ✈︎ A/N: Hey Spot! I hope you like this. I had fun writing it and may have added my own little touches, and I hope you are okay with that!

‧₊˚ ⛲️ ‧₊𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐

From the moment you were a scrappy, defiant ten-year-old, full of fire and fight, Shanks exploded into your world. He swaggered into town with the boisterous Roger Pirates, all gold-toothed grins and raucous laughter, slinging tales and barrels of booze with equal abandon. You despised him instantly. Not for any particular wrong he’d committed, but for the sheer audacity of his presence. He walked off that ship barefoot and sun-kissed, a sword ridiculously oversized for his youth casually slung at his hip. That smug look, as if he'd already conquered the world and found it entirely unimpressive, was just too much. Within the hour, your foot found his shin.

"You little land leech!" he’d bellowed, hopping on one foot while Buggy shrieked with laughter, and you bolted as if the devil himself were at your heels. From that moment on, it was an unspoken war.

Whenever the Oro Jackson graced the port��sometimes once a year, sometimes twice—Shanks would return, a storm in sandals, seeking you out. There were no grand reunions, no warm embraces, no whispered "I missed you." Just the sight of that rusty mop of red hair across the street, a clear signal of the impending skirmish.

“Oi, anchor-brain!”

“Rotten seaweed!”

“You still can’t climb that cliff without crying halfway, can you?”

“You still cry when you win, crybaby!”

It was an endless war of muddy races behind the market, wrestling matches ending in triumphant howls and bruised limbs, and breath-holding contests. You even competed to see who could insult Buggy the worst—poor Buggy, you actually rather liked him, but he was never safe from your playful torment. Your clandestine meetings behind the old bell tower would end with both of you waking amidst hay, drool dampening your arms, despite sworn promises to stay awake.

Shanks pretended to be indifferent to the island, but you saw the subtle way his gaze would drift towards the hills, a hint of longing for solid ground, perhaps even for you. He’d never confess it, of course. Instead, he’d elbow you a little too hard when you grew quiet and laugh a little too loud at your jokes.

Once, just once, you confessed your own yearning for the sea. His laughter died. The way he looked at you then wasn't with pity, but as if he were etching your features into his memory, a silent farewell. “They don’t build ships for people like you,” he’d murmured, a whisper lost in the storm. You spat at his feet. “Then I’ll build one myself.” A wide grin split his face, as if you’d uttered something sacred. You’d never admit it, but in his absence, the island felt too still, the sun too muted. Nothing quite burned with the same intensity. You resented how deeply you craved the chaos he brought, and he, in turn, silently yearned for yours.

One scorching summer, the air hung heavy with heat and the scent of smoke from a burning cart in the village square. But none of it registered. Shanks had returned. He was taller now, imperceptibly so, but his shoulders had broadened. A fresh nick adorned his brow, a testament to some forgotten skirmish. His laugh, however, remained unchanged—wild and boisterous. Your chest tightened painfully at the sound.

There was no race that time. You simply walked together, climbing the cliff he always insisted you couldn’t conquer (you’d since mastered it, a silent victory). At the summit, the sea unfurled before you, a vast, living entity of blue and unknowable depths. The Roger Pirates’ ship bobbed lazily in the harbor below, sunlight glittering on the waves like scattered fire.

“You gonna join someday?” he asked, idly plucking at a loose string on his sleeve. “The sea.”

You shook your head. “Too far. Not enough coin. No ship, remember?”

He glanced at you. “I’d find a way if I were you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You turned fully to face him, and for once, the wind didn't separate you. You breathed in the salt in his hair, noticed the smattering of freckles on his nose. The words tumbled out before you could stop them: “You ever gonna stay?”

Shanks didn’t answer immediately. He picked up a rock, tossing it off the cliff's edge. You waited. “I don’t think I know how to,” he finally said. You nodded. It was the closest you’d ever come to a truly vulnerable moment. Neither of you spoke again, simply sitting with legs dangling over the precipice, watching the tide roll in as it always had.

At first, you didn’t notice the drifting. The visits grew more sporadic—months bled into years. The first time, you convinced yourself they’d simply altered their course. The second, you waited at the harbor anyway. By the third, you stopped counting. News traveled slowly, but it always found its way. Roger was ill, then dead, executed. The Pirate King, gone. You didn’t cry, but the news settled deep within you, heavy as dust on the forgotten places where you once met.

A young kid passed through your town once, chattering about the red-haired man who had now captained his own ship, forging a legend just like his predecessor. You listened from the shadows of the tavern. Red-Haired Shanks. A Yonko now, they whispered. A king in his own right. The boy you once punched for stealing your lunch.

You still walk the cliff sometimes. Not to wait—never that. Just to sit. Just to look. The wind still carries voices, and every so often, you swear you hear his, still too loud, still calling you “anchor-brain” from somewhere beyond the tide.

The years didn’t wait for you. You blossomed like fire catching dry grass—swift, brilliant, and a little dangerous. Your body matured, your bones stretching to match the sharpness of your tongue. The scrappy, dirt-smudged girl who once bit pirates for fun transformed into a woman with calloused hands and fierce ambition in her eyes. Your face, elegant and angular like your mother’s, belied a spirit that remained stubbornly untamed. No one dared tell you what to do—not the mayor, not the dock workers, not the old men in the tavern who muttered about women having no place in trade. Their whispers ceased the day your wine reached Sabaody and sold out before noon.

You named it Anchor’s Breath. A sharp, crimson red with a lingering bite. People loved the story behind it: an island girl, ship-less, who transformed grapes and grit into gold. Your barrels traveled farther than you ever had. Skypiea, Water 7, even Fish-Man Island, if the rumors held true. You built it all from the ground up: the vineyard, the cellars, the ships. You worked from sunup to sundown, meticulously tasting every batch, swatting away overly familiar dockhands, and still finding time to curse at storms that threatened your deliveries. You now wore long coats, dark lipstick, and boots that added an intimidating height. You had mastered the art of looking important, carrying yourself as if you belonged at any table, because by damn, you did. Yet, even at your grandest banquets, with nobles sipping from crystal and whispering your name like a spell, an empty space persisted. A part of you still yearned for a barefoot boy with a booming laugh and no manners to crash through your doors and liberate a bottle.

Meanwhile, Shanks bled. He drank with giants, feasted with emperors, and inadvertently ignited wars. His ship became his sanctuary, his crew his chosen family. He made the world tremble with a mere grin. You always knew he would. But with each battle, he shed a piece of his former self. A little more of that reckless boy burned away, buried beneath titles, scars, and crushing responsibilities. He still laughed just as loud, but sometimes, the mirth didn't quite reach his eyes.

The day you sold your millionth bottle, Shanks lost an arm. It made headlines in some corners of the world; in others, it was merely a whisper: “Yonko injured while saving a boy.” You read the reports once, then again, before folding the paper and tucking it beneath the counter as if it held no significance. The day your wine graced a Celestial Dragon’s gala (a fact you’d never openly advertise), Shanks faced down Kaido on a battlefield and emerged victorious. The sky cracked. The sea screamed. That night, he raised a silent toast to your health, though he’d never utter the words aloud.

Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered the cliff. The muddy races. Your laughter. You wondered if he ever thought about the girl who once bit his arm and hurled insults with her fists planted on her hips. You wondered if he knew that the label on every Anchor’s Breath bottle bore a tiny, hidden symbol: a barely visible red dot, tucked discreetly under the corner of the wax seal. Not many noticed. But Shanks would. He always did.

You didn’t dream much anymore. Too much work, too much wine, too many endless nights poring over shipment ledgers and stifling grief with corkscrews. But some nights, when the rain drummed against your windows just right and your hands were too weary to move, your mind would wander. It always found its way back there: to sun-kissed skin and the sting of saltwater; to barefoot races and dirt beneath your fingernails; to Shanks, who always vanished before you could properly say goodbye. You'd sit at the edge of your vineyard, gazing out at the sea, a glass of your own crimson vintage cradled between your fingers. Your staff knew not to disturb you during those hours—the ones where you seemed too quiet, too distant, as if the ocean itself whispered secrets only you could hear. "Bet you’re drunk off cheap rum somewhere," you’d mutter once, to no one. "Still laughing like an idiot." The wind offered no reply, but somehow, it felt like him. Loud and warm. Gone too fast.

Shanks, on the other side of the world, leaned on the railing of the Red Force, a bottle dangling from his good hand. Stars hung low over the water as his crew’s boisterous laughter and singing filled the air. But his thoughts were elsewhere. They were with you. Not on the Grand Line, or some distant battlefield, or the next port. But there, with you. At the cliffs, in the mud, in the way your voice would crack when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. He took a long drink, letting it burn.

“Captain,” Lucky Roux said, appearing beside him with a new barrel under one arm and a wide grin. “You hear about that wine company? Anchor’s Breath?”

Shanks tilted his head. “What about it?”

“Making waves. Selling in every major port, even Mariejois, if you can believe it. The owner’s some firebrand woman out of a little island town near Loguetown. Barely lets press near her, but folks say she’s sharp as hell and built the whole thing herself. Name ring a bell?”

Shanks said nothing, simply watched the endless sea. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d seen the red dot under the wax seal years ago. The first time one of his crewmates brought a bottle aboard, he nearly choked. He hadn’t even tasted it—just stared at the logo as if it were a phantom. He never let them see his face. He told himself it was better this way. If they asked—if the world asked—he’d simply say, “Don’t know her. Must be a coincidence.” But he remembered the precise curve of your scowl. The way your hands moved when you spoke too quickly. How you used to hurl grapes at his head before you ever turned them into a business. And in his mind’s eye, you were still that sun-kissed, furious kid with scraped knees and a chip on your shoulder large enough to sink ships. You probably still were, beneath all the fine coats and polished boots. He smiled faintly to himself.

Meanwhile, in a gold-lit room above your winery’s main cellar, you were sifting through your usual stack of correspondence: orders, invitations, gala requests. You skimmed most of them until one caught your eye: a request to sponsor a diplomatic feast hosted by the Red-Haired Pirates. You stared at the name for a long, long time. The room felt unnervingly silent. You said nothing, merely folded the letter, re-sealed it, and slid it into the bottom drawer of your desk—the one you only opened when sleep eluded you. You pretended you didn’t know the name. Pretended you hadn’t whispered it once, years ago, into your pillow when the wine offered no solace and your heart ached like a fresh bruise. "Red-Haired Shanks," people called him now. But in your mind, he was still just Shanks. The one who tripped over his own sandals trying to out-climb you, the one who always lingered before returning to his ship, unwilling to stop laughing. He had outgrown you, certainly. But you had never quite outgrown him. And neither of you ever spoke a word of it.

It happened in a bustling port town on the edge of the New World—one of those places too busy to notice who walked through its streets, too old to ask questions, too perpetually drunk to remember faces. You were there for business, purely business. A Dressrosa client desired more of your summer blend, with its lighter finish and hint of stormfruit. You were impeccably dressed, your long coat sweeping the cobblestones, your boots clicking like distant gunfire. As you walked toward your ship, a ledger in one hand, a crate being carried behind you, a flash of red and blue in the crowd caught your eye. Gaudy red. Bright blue. White face paint. A booming, unmistakable laugh that you’d recognize even if you were half-deaf and buried in the sand.

You froze mid-step. "…Buggy?" you murmured.

He didn’t see you at first, too engrossed in yelling at some hapless merchant, arms flailing, nose even redder than you remembered. His voice hadn't changed—still whiny, theatrical, high-pitched when angered. The only difference was his uniform. The men surrounding him wore clown-like coats and pirate insignia, and people gave him a wide berth. You remained motionless. You hadn’t seen anyone from that era in years, not even a whisper. Shanks never showed his face in your world, not in ports like this. But Buggy? It felt like encountering a ghost in full makeup.

He finally noticed you when you didn't move out of his path. “Oi, watch where you—” he began, then his eyes landed on your face. He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…No way,” he breathed.

You raised an eyebrow. “Still yelling, I see.”

“You—YOU!” he shrieked, pointing a gloved hand, his voice shrill with disbelief. “The ankle-biter! The grape-throwing devil! You’re alive?!”

Your lips twitched. “Didn’t know I was supposed to be dead.”

Buggy clutched his chest dramatically. “You’re you! You’re her! I’ve had nightmares about you climbing the rigging and dumping mud on my bunk—how are you here?!”

You leaned against a barrel, a smirk playing on your lips. “I run a business now. Wine.”

“No—no, that’s you?” he gasped. “Anchor’s Breath is you?! I—I was blacklisted from that brand in three ports!”

“Yeah, I requested that personally,” you said smoothly.

Buggy sputtered. His men whispered amongst themselves, confused but not foolish enough to interrupt. For a moment, it was as if you were transported back to the old days, with Shanks always a step ahead, both of you using Buggy as a chew toy in your endless games. Then, a silence crept in.

“…You see him lately?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Buggy didn’t pretend to misunderstand. For all his theatrics, he wasn’t an idiot. “Not in person,” he said. “But I hear things. He’s… he’s doing well.” His voice dropped, the usual drama fading. “He doesn’t let people close anymore. Not like he used to.”

You looked down at your gloves. “That makes two of us.”

Buggy hesitated. Then, to your complete surprise, he grew serious. Truly serious. He stepped closer, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “You were the only one he used to look back for, you know?” he said. “Even when we were kids. Even when Roger was alive. Shanks never turned around. Never hesitated. Unless it was you. Then he always looked over his shoulder. Like he was waiting for you to come running after him.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. Your throat felt impossibly tight.

Buggy shifted uncomfortably. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he muttered. “I’ve got a reputation. Don’t go ruining it.”

You offered a small, dry laugh. “Your secret’s safe.”

He paused, then glanced at you again, as if wanting to say more but unsure how. “Take care of yourself, alright?” he said, devoid of any mockery. “The world’s changed. It’s… it’s not safe for people like us anymore.”

You nodded once. “You too, Buggy.” And then he was gone, vanishing into the crowd as if he’d never been there, only a lingering memory of red and blue paint. That night, you sat on your ship with an unopened bottle, staring at the stars. And you remembered. Not the Yonko. Not the legend. Just the boy who used to call you anchor-brain and let you win when he thought you were crying. You hoped—just a little—that wherever he was, he remembered you too.

You traveled far. That was the double-edged sword of your business—your wine rode the currents of the Grand Line, and you followed. Some ports you visited for profit, others for politics. Some, like Water 7 or Alubarna, dazzled you with their beauty and gold, but they never truly captured your heart. No, your favorites were the quieter places. The ones with crooked docks and clamorous seagulls. The ones where people didn’t bow in your presence but waved as if they’d known you forever. You loved the scent of the sea and baked bread in Cocoyasi. The bright, reckless music in Mock Town (when it didn’t lead to bar fights). Even the sleepy, humid air of Ohara, before— Well. Before it was gone.

But your absolute favorite? Foosha Village. It wasn’t vast, nor particularly remarkable, but it offered a warmth your bones craved. The wind there was gentle, the grass soft even in the off-season. The bar was perpetually stocked, and the people remembered your name without needing to remember your brand. That’s where she was, too. Makino. You loved Makino.

You met her years ago, when you were just starting out. You were sweaty, short-tempered, and sunburned after a shipment mishap, and she offered you a drink and a quiet place to sit as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Since then, she became something you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for: a friend with no conditions. She never asked for discounts. She never fawned. She simply made space.

The first time you returned after a long haul, she nearly dropped the bottle she was cleaning. “Y/N?”

You flung your arms open. “Still prettier than me, I see.”

“Still dramatic as ever,” she laughed, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling you into a hug. “I thought I saw your label in town last week. You’re famous now, huh?”

“Ugh, don’t start.” You leaned against the bar. “I’m just tired and sunburned and hoping you’ll give me a drink and let me rot here for three days.”

“As long as you want,” she said with a smile, pouring you the house red—not yours. That was another thing you liked. She didn’t serve your wine unless you brought it, and even then, she treated it like any other bottle on the shelf. You sat at the bar, drinking in silence. You listened to the soft murmur of the village. You let your shoulders slump. This was the only place in the world where your title didn’t follow you. Where people simply called you by your name, not Miss Y/N or Anchor’s Lady or Wine Witch of the West Blue (thanks, Buggy).

You didn’t know that Shanks had been there, too. That sometimes, late at night, Makino would wipe the bar down and pause at the very stool you sat on—because he had once sat there too. You didn’t know that when you left, the townspeople whispered about how much you resembled that other one, the one with the wild hair and even louder laugh. And Makino didn’t tell you. Because Makino was smart. She saw the weary way you smiled when someone mentioned “the Yonko.” She saw the way your eyes drifted to the sea when the sun dipped just right. She noticed the small red dot under your cork seals when you left her a sample bottle.

So she never said, “Shanks was just here two months ago.” Or “He asks about you, sometimes, but never by name.” Or “He told me he used to know someone like you once.” Instead, she said: “There’s a new pie place down the road. You’ll love it.” Or “Your room’s still upstairs. I aired the sheets.” Or “I’ll wake you up when it’s sunset.” And you’d smile. Because you didn’t need the world in that moment. You just needed here. The bar. The village. Makino. Foosha felt like something you’d lost and accidentally rediscovered. And a part of you stayed there, even after you left.

It was late afternoon, the kind where golden sunlight spilled through the open windows, transforming dust motes into dancing magic. You were perched on your usual barstool, a glass of something local in your hand, your coat slung over the back of the seat. The breeze carried the scent of sea salt and citrus. Makino hummed nearby, a towel slung over her shoulder, stacking clean glasses. You were engrossed in conversation with a carpenter from the shipyard—a kind, sun-weathered man who profusely apologized every time he swore in your presence. You waved him off with a grin. “Trust me, I’ve heard worse. I’ve said worse.”

The door burst open with a bang and a gust of raucous laughter. Boots stomped on wood, loud voices flooded the room, and the very air seemed to shift. You didn’t look up immediately. Boisterous crews weren’t uncommon. Foosha was small, yes, but still a port town. You took a slow sip, letting the liquid slide down your throat like liquid armor.

“Oi, Makino!” someone bellowed with a voice like a storm wrapped in a grin. “You still got that ale that tastes like regret?!”

Your breath hitched. That voice. You froze. Time seemed to slow. The carpenter continued talking beside you, something about his niece, but his words dissolved into meaningless static. Because you knew that voice. Knew it deep in your bones, like a scar you never stopped touching. A voice that once shouted across a cliff, laughed as you tripped him in the mud, teased you for being “land-stuck,” and cheered when your punch actually landed.

Shanks.

You didn’t look. Not yet. Instead, you slowly set your glass down, your fingers gripping the rim a little too tightly. You heard chairs scrape, men laugh, boots thud. You heard the unmistakable weight of a king walking as if he were still a boy. Then—

“…Hey, Makino.” His voice again. Softer this time. Like he meant it.

And she answered. Calmly. Warmly. “You’re early.”

“Didn’t want to miss the sunset this time.”

You clenched your jaw. Your heart pounded in places it hadn’t in years. You still didn’t turn, staring at the bar as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. Makino’s voice floated toward you. “Shanks,” she said, casual, almost amused. “Look who’s in town.”

Silence. You felt it. That pause. The heavy weight of realization. Then his voice—closer now. “…No way.”

You turned. Slowly. There he was. Standing in the doorway as if he’d walked straight out of your memories. Same hair, longer now. Same eyes—sharp, unreadable. The scars on his face were new, but the grin was the same. Still boyish. Still too big. Still undeniably his. He didn’t say your name, merely stared at you as if trying to piece you together from the fragments of time.

You stood slowly. “You owe me,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging within.

Shanks blinked. “What for?”

“For every time I cried after you left and didn’t say goodbye.” He exhaled as if someone had punched the wind out of him. The grin faltered slightly. You crossed your arms. “And the cliff. You owe me a rematch.”

A beat passed. Then he laughed. Loud, reckless, golden. The sound punched straight through your ribs. “Still got that fire,” he said. “I was hoping you would.” You didn’t smile, not yet. But your shoulders relaxed, just enough.

“Buy me a drink,” you said, sliding back onto your stool. “Then maybe I’ll consider forgiving you.”

He sat beside you, and suddenly, everything felt a little less distant. As if the years hadn’t been so long. As if you were just two rowdy kids again. But older now. Sharper. And maybe—just maybe—ready to see what came next.

It was a slow evening, the kind where the sea seemed to sigh against the docks and the sky wore the bruised peach hues of twilight. You were at the bar, in your usual spot, legs crossed, your coat neatly draped behind you. Makino had poured you something dry and bitter—just as you liked it. You’d been in Foosha for three days now, savoring the quiet. The stillness. You were mid-conversation with a visiting merchant, someone you vaguely recalled from Loguetown. He was charming in that harmless way businessmen became after too many years negotiating on uneven docks. His voice filled the space between you, calm and even.

Then— The door slammed open, and the bar exploded with noise, as if a cork had just popped off a bottle of chaos.

“MAKINO!! Tell me you’ve still got that barrel I left last time—the one that nearly blinded Lucky Roux!”

Voices burst around the room. Boots scuffed against wood, laughter bounced off the beams. A surge of wild energy rolled in behind them, as if the tide itself had followed them through the door. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Your fingers tightened around your glass. You knew that voice. Knew it like a scar you never stopped touching.

The man across from you continued talking, oblivious. Something about trade routes. You nodded blindly, his words drifting past your ears like smoke. Then another voice—Makino’s this time. “Oh, Y/N,” she called gently, just as she always did. “Would you mind grabbing another bottle from behind the counter?”

A pause. Then Shanks again, just behind her. Closer now. “…Y/N?”

Your name dropped into the room like an anchor through the floor. Everything stilled. You didn’t move. Didn’t look. A part of you longed to stand and storm out. Another part—the more treacherous part—wanted to turn and see that freckled-faced boy who used to trip over his own feet trying to impress you. But you knew better. That boy was long gone. He was a legend now. A Yonko. A man who could split the sky and halt wars. And you? You ran a winery and clung to memory as if it owed you something.

Still, hearing your name in his voice again cracked something open inside you. Makino, ever tactful, handed the bottle to you herself, her knuckles brushing yours in silent support. You took it. Said nothing. Behind you, you felt him shift. Felt the tension wrap around the room, coiling like a rope being pulled taut. The bar chatter resumed, but softer, as if the villagers sensed something unfolding but dared not name it.

You stood slowly. Turned. He was watching you. Standing there in his long red coat, with that damned easy smile that never seemed easy to you. His crew flanked him—giants, legends, men whose faces haunted bounty posters. But he only looked at you.

“…Hey,” he said softly.

You stared at him for a long moment. “You look the same,” you lied.

He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Surprised?”

“You don’t,” he continued. “You look like you finally got what you wanted.”

You tilted your head, amused despite yourself. “And what’s that?”

He glanced around the bar—the shelves of wine, the soft light, the way the villagers nodded to you as if you belonged to the very walls—then met your eyes again. “Everything.”

The glass in your hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. You took a long sip. Then another.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” you said finally.

Shanks took a slow step closer. “I never stopped.”

That hurt more than it should have. You set your glass down. “Then why didn’t you come back?” you asked. Not angry—just tired. “Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

His voice was low now. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t have left again.”

You hated how honest that sounded. The silence between you was thick, unspoken things blossoming like storm clouds in your chests. Then Makino, dear Makino, behind the counter, cleared her throat, smiling lightly. “There’s stew in the back if anyone’s hungry,” she said. “And wine, of course. Plenty of wine.”

You exhaled slowly. Picked up your glass. Glanced back at Shanks one more time. “…I’ll stay for one drink,” you said.

His grin widened. “I’ll take it.”

You sat. He joined you. And for a while, nothing needed to be said. Because sometimes, after all those years and all that drifting, just sitting beside each other again was enough.

The bar settled around you like warm wool—loud enough to hide in, soft enough to breathe. You sat beside him again, after all those years. Shanks leaned an elbow on the bartop, turning his glass in his hand as if he couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t a dream. Neither could you.

You watched him from the corner of your eye. He looked older—scarred, a little more hollow around the eyes, the weight of a thousand storms etched into his posture. But he was still him. The boy who once slipped in the mud trying to chase you up a hill. The one who never looked back for anyone—except you. He was quiet for a moment, then tilted his head toward you, his voice low and warm. “You wanna meet the crew?”

You blinked. “…They don’t already know?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Nah. I never told ‘em.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not even my name?”

He shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. “Didn’t have to.”

You didn’t understand what that meant—not yet. But you followed him anyway. He stood, motioning casually to the small group clustered at the back of the bar. Half of them were already halfway through dinner, laughing over a card game with a pile of Beli between them. The others were drinking, talking, relaxed in a way only men accustomed to danger could be. As soon as they saw you walking beside him, the change was immediate. No one said anything—not at first. They just… looked.

You weren’t sure what you expected. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. But what you saw instead was something different. Something soft. Recognition. The broad man with a hat and a toothpick—the one you vaguely remembered as Lucky Roux—raised his brow as if he’d just watched a puzzle piece click into place. A few others—Yasopp, Bonk Punch, Howling Gab—exchanged knowing glances, the kind of looks people give when a secret has finally named itself aloud. One of them murmured, “So that’s her…”

You stiffened slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shanks scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I, uh… might’ve mentioned someone. Once or twice.”

The crew chuckled quietly. Nothing mean about it. Just that gentle ribbing of people who had known for a long time and were glad to see it finally true. “Captain’s ghost,” one of them said, tipping their glass in your direction. “Didn’t think you were real.”

You crossed your arms. “Depends on the wine.”

They liked that. The whole table chuckled, the tension breaking just enough for you to feel your shoulders relax. You didn’t exactly fit with them, not yet—but you didn’t feel unwelcome, either. Just… observed. Studied. Understood.

Then Lucky Roux raised his drink. “To the one who got away.”

There was a pause. You felt your heart stutter. But Shanks didn’t correct him. He didn’t deny it. He just smiled. That small, sad kind of smile—the one you remembered from the cliff, from the time you asked if he’d ever stay. You didn’t raise your glass. You just looked at him. And he looked at you.

“…I’m still here, aren’t I?” you said softly.

And something in his expression cracked—open, raw, almost boyish. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You are.”

No one spoke after that. They didn’t need to. Because they knew what he had never said aloud. That you weren’t just anyone. You were the one. The one who made him look back. The one he didn’t take with him, because if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to let go. And now you were here. A little older. A little wiser. Still stubborn. Still you. And maybe… just maybe… you weren’t getting away this time.

The air buzzed low with warmth and laughter. The rest of the crew eased back into their drinks and games, but every so often, you caught one of them sneaking a glance your way. Not nosy—just curious. Protective, maybe. They knew, now.

You and Shanks sat at a small table near the window, the sea stretching out beyond the glass like an old secret neither of you were ready to speak yet. A quiet flicker of sunlight bounced off his earring, and you hated how it made your chest twist. He leaned back in his chair with the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect he had on people.

“You still roll your eyes the same way,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass.

You didn’t even look up from your wine. “You still talk like you’re charming.”

“I am charming,” he shot back.

You glanced at him. “You’re loud, Shanks. That’s not the same thing.”

He grinned. “Loud and charming aren’t mutually exclusive. I’ve been told I have a certain… pirate appeal.”

“You’ve been lied to.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but if it gets me a smile out of you, I’ll take it.”

You gave him nothing but a blank stare. Then your lips curled. Just a little. “…Still so full of yourself,” you said, shaking your head.

“And you’re still as difficult as ever,” he replied, eyes glinting.

“Would you like me better if I wasn’t?”

“I’d be terrified.”

You laughed—genuinely this time—and he soaked it in like a man starving. The candle on the table between you flickered. A soft golden glow cast against the planes of his face, and for a moment, it wasn’t Red-Haired Shanks sitting across from you. It was just him. The boy who used to throw sea snails at your window when he got bored. The rival who always let you win, but never admitted it. The friend who left, and never quite stopped looking over his shoulder after he did.

His voice dropped a little. “You’ve changed,” he said. Not as a compliment. Not as a regret. Just… a truth.

“So have you,” you said, matching his tone.

His gaze traced your face—not in the way a man looks at a lover, but in the way someone stares at a map that used to be etched into their hands and can’t quite believe the lines are still the same. “Do you still hate me?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head. “Sometimes.”

He nodded. “Good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good?”

He leaned forward, lips curling. “Means I still matter.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just reached forward, picked up his glass instead of yours, and took a sip—keeping eye contact the entire time. “You’re not as important as you think,” you said, handing it back.

His smile only widened. “I’m exactly as important as I think.”

You shook your head, fighting another smile, but something stirred in you. Like a current tugging under the surface. The way he looked at you now—it was different. A little heavier. A little more careful. Like he didn’t want to scare you off. Like he wanted to stay. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

So you leaned back, crossing your legs with calculated calm. “One drink,” you reminded him.

“Yeah,” he said. “One drink.” But the way he was watching you—like he’d just caught sight of the North Star after years of fog— It didn’t feel like one drink would ever be enough.

Turned out to be more than one drink. Of course it did. One drink turned into two. Then three. Then Makino cut the rest of the crew off with a smirk and a towel to the head, but left you and Shanks untouched, two half-lit ghosts with full glasses and too many unsaid things between them. The bar emptied slowly, chairs flipped, floor swept, lanterns dimmed. You didn’t remember agreeing to stay late. You didn’t remember leaning in, either—but suddenly you were closer. Closer than you’d ever let yourself be again. He smelled like salt and old sun. A little smoke, a little citrus. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your throat ache. It was dangerous—how easy it felt. How easy he made it feel.

Makino gave you a look when she came over with the keys and a quiet “lock up when you’re done.” She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. Her eyes said it all: He hasn’t changed. But neither have you.

Once the lanterns were snuffed and the door swung closed behind you both with a soft click, you found yourselves beneath the stars, streets empty and quiet, the sea air curling through the village like breath through cupped hands. You walked side by side without saying anything for a while. Just the sound of your footsteps and the hush of waves somewhere nearby.

“Feels the same,” he murmured eventually, shoving his hands in his pockets. “The island. The air. Even the damn wind.”

You glanced at him. “You say that like you didn’t help change it.”

“I didn’t. Not really. I just passed through.”

You gave him a look. “You don’t just pass through, Shanks. You uproot.”

He chuckled, eyes squinting with the kind of laugh that pulled from deep in the chest. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who took the wine world by storm.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched. “It wasn’t a storm. Just a breeze.”

“‘Sharp Whine,’ right?” he said, tilting his head with that grin that always meant trouble. “Still the best name I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you. It’s a pun.”

“I know. That’s why it’s brilliant.”

You kicked a pebble with your heel. “You didn’t even drink wine back then.”

He shrugged. “I do now.”

“Oh? Red or white?”

“I drink whatever reminds me of you.”

You tripped a little—just barely—but you caught yourself. “…You haven’t changed.”

“And you have,” he said, looking sideways at you. “But in the right ways.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you walked. The village slept around you in muted pastels—blue windows, pink lantern light, a few plants swaying softly on balconies. You passed the well you used to dare each other to jump over. The wall you both climbed and fell off. That tree you once carved a heart into as a joke, then scratched out just to one-up each other.

You paused beneath it now, staring up into the canopy. “…It’s still there,” he murmured behind you.

“What is?”

He reached past you, fingers brushing bark, and traced a half-faded line. “Your half.”

Your breath caught. He looked at you, soft. “I never touched mine.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “Why?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged, but the truth was in his eyes. “Felt wrong. Like… like I was carving you out.” That shut you up for a while.

You walked again. His hand brushed yours once, twice, and neither of you moved away. You didn’t reach for him. He didn’t force it. But something hung between you now. Something warm. Tense. Old and brand-new at the same time.

When you reached the edge of the village, right where the path dipped down to the cliffs overlooking the sea, he finally stopped. You stopped with him. He looked out at the water. “Ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“If I’d stayed.”

You were silent. Then— “…No. I thought about if I’d gone with you.”

He turned toward you slowly. You didn’t look at him. “But I wouldn’t have made it. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You were stronger than any of us,” he said, voice low.

“You don’t know that.”

He hesitated. Then—softly, almost broken: “I do. That’s why I didn’t ask.” The sea roared below you. You finally looked at him—and there it was. That same boy. The same look. A little older. A little sadder. A little more desperate to fix something that couldn’t be undone.

You whispered, “I used to hate you for that.”

“I used to hate me for that.”

You stared at each other. Neither of you moved. Until— He grinned suddenly. “Still have the ugliest laugh I’ve ever heard, though.”

You elbowed him, breath catching in your throat. “And you still flirt like a soggy sponge.”

“But it’s working,” he said, grinning wider.

You tried not to smile. And failed. God, you failed. He leaned in just a bit closer, shoulder brushing yours. “Can I see you again?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just turned toward the sea. And said, “You’re going to anyway.”

That made him laugh. Really laugh. And maybe… just maybe… you didn’t mind.

The wind had changed. You could feel it in the way your hair lifted gently off your shoulders, how the salt didn’t sting as much as it used to, how the night didn’t feel like something to hide from anymore. You stood at the edge of the cliff until your legs ached, until Shanks stopped laughing and just stood beside you in silence. His presence was so… loud even when he wasn’t saying a word. You could always feel him. That had never changed.

“Are you staying long?” you asked, your voice quiet. You didn’t look at him.

“Few days,” he replied, not looking either. “Luffy’d kill me if I didn’t show face for a while.”

You smiled faintly. “He’s gotten big. All the kids here talk about him like he’s some kind of god.”

“He kinda is,” Shanks said with a laugh. “In the same way I was your god when I beat you in every single race we ever had.”

You turned your head so slowly it made your neck crack. He was already grinning. “You cheated,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

He tilted his head dramatically. “Never. I simply used my environment wisely. Buggy was a wonderful distraction.”

You snorted. “You threw sand in my face. That’s not ‘using the environment.’ That’s just being a bastard.”

“Semantics.”

You laughed before you could stop it, covering your mouth with your hand like it might muffle the years between now and then. “Where even is Buggy these days?” you asked eventually, more to yourself.

Shanks sighed. “Oh, around. Making headlines. Still loud. Still ridiculous. Still makes a scene every time I show my face like I’m haunting him.”

You smiled to yourself. “I saw him once, you know. Years ago. In Loguetown. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

Shanks burst out laughing. “You are a ghost to him. He probably thought you were there to curse him.”

“I nearly did.”

He laughed harder.

You fell quiet again. The stars were shifting overhead now—slow and drowsy in their dance. The night smelled like honeysuckle and the sea. He shifted closer to you, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the pull. You didn’t move away.

“You still dream about it?” he asked suddenly. “Back then?”

You nodded, barely. “Only when I forget to lie to myself.”

He smiled—soft and sad and something else you couldn’t name. “I still see you as that girl,” he murmured. “Braids messy. Dirt on your face. Grinning at me like you’d eat me alive.”

You turned to him then. “I still see you as that boy. Too tall. Too loud. No sense of personal space.”

He leaned in just a little, voice low. “I’ve gotten worse, you know.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You were quiet. The moon sat full and fat on the horizon, and the sea shimmered beneath it like someone had scattered silver coins across the waves.

“I should walk you back,” he said eventually. “Before Makino starts sharpening knives.”

“She already does that,” you replied with a half-smile. “For fun.”

“Right,” he chuckled. “My kind of woman.”

You raised an eyebrow. “…Not like that,” he said quickly. “I’m already dying here.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. The walk back was slower than the one before. Less aimless, more… reluctant. He stopped at the door to your inn and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. His hair was damp from the sea breeze, and there were tiny lines by his eyes that hadn’t been there all those years ago—but they suited him. He looked like someone who’d lived. And lost. And still laughed anyway. You liked that about him.

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don’t know what to say.”

You leaned against the doorframe. “That’s a first.”

He chuckled, then sighed. “You gonna be here a while?”

“I might.”

“Would you tell me if you were leaving?”

You tilted your head. “Would it matter?”

He didn’t answer right away. “To me?”

Your lips parted—but no sound came. He stepped back finally, as if forcing himself to. “Goodnight, brat.”

You smirked. “Goodnight, old man.”

He walked off without another word, boots echoing on the empty road. But just before he disappeared around the corner— He turned. And gave you a smile so familiar it hurt. “Don’t run from me next time,” he called softly. “You’re not as fast as you used to be.”

You stared after him long after he was gone. And whispered to the wind, “…Neither are you.”

The door closed behind you, and you leaned against it. Your heart was racing. And somewhere, under your ribs, a flame that hadn’t burned in years crackled quietly back to life.

The morning sun spilled across Foosha Village like honey, slow and golden, warming the stone streets and glinting off the sea. Dew clung to the edges of the windowsills. Roosters crowed in the distance. Someone was already sweeping the inn’s porch, humming out of tune. You hadn’t slept much. Too many thoughts had crawled under your skin after last night. Too many memories that felt too close. Too many words that never made it out of your mouth.

You stepped out into the light, your coat thrown on over a simple top and trousers, hair still slightly damp from a quick rinse. A cup of coffee steamed in your hands. You didn’t think—you just walked. You told yourself you were going to Makino’s early. For breakfast. For something warm. You weren’t going to see him. Definitely not. But your steps shifted toward the docks anyway.

And there he was. Standing with one boot propped on a barrel, tying the laces in lazy loops, hair still windblown from the early gusts off the ocean. His long coat shifted around his legs, and his sword hung easy at his hip, like it belonged there more than anything else ever had. He was laughing at something Benn said—but the moment his eyes flicked up and found yours— He stilled. So did you. No one else noticed. His crew kept talking, loading supplies, exchanging jokes. But Shanks straightened, like something in his chest had just clicked into place. You almost turned around. Almost. Instead, you took a slow sip of your coffee and walked toward him.

“I see you’re still alive,” you said, your voice calm but dry.

Shanks gave you a crooked smile. “Surprised?”

“Disappointed.”

He grinned. “There she is.”

You stopped a few feet from him. Close enough to smell the salt on him, the faint scent of old rum and warm spice. His crew threw subtle glances your way—none daring to interrupt, but you could feel the weight of their curiosity. He scratched behind his ear. “Didn’t think I’d see you again this morning.”

“Neither did I,” you said. “But I remembered something.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You leaned forward a bit, keeping your voice low. “You still owe me a rematch. From that race. You know—the one you cheated in.”

Shanks let out a laugh, tipping his head back. “You’re holding a grudge for twenty years?”

“I’m holding a record. One I never got to settle.”

He smiled, eyes soft. “You want to settle it now? Before I sail off again?”

You looked past him at the ship. The sails were already hoisted. The breeze tugged gently at the ropes. You shook your head. “No. Not today.”

He tilted his head. “Then when?”

You met his eyes. “Next time you show your face around here.”

A pause. His gaze searched yours like he wanted to say something heavier. Something slower. But he just smiled again, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ve got a reason to come back.”

You glanced at the Red Force behind him. “You already did.”

He stepped forward just slightly, not enough to close the distance—just enough that you felt him again. The heat. The pull. He reached into his coat and held out something small between his fingers. A folded piece of paper. Simple. Worn. You raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“A letter,” he said. “From me. In case you forget me again.”

“I didn’t forget you,” you murmured.

He smiled. “Didn’t say you did.”

You took it carefully, slipping it into your coat pocket without another word. He stepped back at last. “Take care, brat.”

You smirked. “You too, pirate.”

He walked back to his crew then, the moment slipping away like foam on the shore. And as you watched the Red Force slowly drift from the docks, sails swelling in the morning wind, you pressed your hand against your pocket— And felt the weight of something old, Something real, Something that maybe, just maybe, Wasn’t finished yet.

The seasons passed in quiet turns—some loud with storms, some hushed by still tides. You returned to the sea with your wine ships, carving out more of the Grand Line under your name. The barrels carried your mark, and with time, so did the ports—fine-dressed merchants nodding with respect, rowdy sailors murmuring stories about the “sharp woman with sharper taste.” You were no pirate, but your influence drifted through the world like smoke. And still, sometimes, his voice echoed in your head. Sometimes you’d glance out at the ocean just a little too long. And sometimes—just sometimes—you’d catch wind of red sails in the distance and pretend you didn’t feel anything at all.

But letters began to show up. Always folded once. Always without a name. Left in Makino’s bar, tucked into the hem of a barrel on your ship, or pressed into the spine of a book you hadn’t opened in weeks. Simple letters. Short. Messy handwriting. Sometimes just a joke. Sometimes a complaint about Buggy. Sometimes one sentence: “I saw a place that reminded me of that cove we raced in.” Or: “I dreamt of your voice last night. Woke up angry at the sea for not sounding like you.” You never responded. But you kept every single one.

Years passed like that. Until one day, the Red Force docked in Foosha again. You weren’t there. Shanks didn’t ask Makino where you’d gone. But when he stepped into her bar, sat in that same seat from all those years ago, and saw the new wine bottle behind the bar with your crest etched into the glass— He smiled.

"She's doing alright, then?" Shanks asked, a question more than a statement.

Makino’s gaze was unsmiling. "She's tired."

Shanks looked down at his hand, then towards the door. "Do you think she's waiting?"

Makino, ever pragmatic, dried her hands on a cloth. "You should go find out."

It didn't take him long. He found you on a small, unassuming island, a quiet haven, half sabbatical, half strategic retreat. Your boots were kicked off, sleeves rolled up, hands stained with the rich, dark juice of the fruit you'd been helping to pick. He discovered you crouched in a sun-dappled grove, humming an ancient, forgotten tune. You didn't hear his approach, but you felt him—that sudden, profound stillness behind you, as if the very world had drawn a collective breath.

"I was wondering how long it'd take you," you said, your voice calm, without turning.

He chuckled softly. "Years, apparently. I'm getting slower in my old age."

You rose to your feet, brushing your palms together, a faint flush of fruit juice still clinging to your skin. Then you turned to face him. He was older, yes, with new lines etched around his eyes and a certain ruggedness that hadn't been there before. But those eyes—those damn eyes—still saw you with the fierce, unwavering clarity of a sixteen-year-old, as if you were both still running barefoot through sun-baked alleyways, pockets bulging with stolen bread and hearts brimming with too much pride.

"So," you said, a challenge in your tone. "Did you come all this way to lose another race?"

"I came to surrender," he replied, his voice unexpectedly soft.

You blinked. "What?"

Shanks stepped closer, his smile a complicated blend of hope and unwavering seriousness. "I've been running a long time," he began, his gaze steady on yours. "From people. From peace. From anything that felt permanent. And I think I finally figured it out."

You crossed your arms, a familiar defense. "Figured what out?"

"That maybe," he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant murmur, "what I want isn't out there on the sea anymore."

You simply stared at him. A gentle breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves above. Deep within your chest, you felt something shift, a long-dormant mechanism clicking into place.

"I'm not giving up my work," you stated slowly, firmly. "I still have an empire to run. Wine doesn't ship itself."

He grinned, the familiar glint in his eyes. "I'd never ask you to."

"And I won't follow you around like some lost girl from the past, Shanks."

"I wouldn't want you to," he countered, stepping forward and extending his hand. "I'd rather build something with you."

You narrowed your eyes, a hint of vulnerability in your gaze. "Like a home?"

"No," he said, his voice rich with conviction. "Like a life."

You looked at his outstretched hand, then past it, to the distant horizon. And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, you reached out. And took it.

They say the sea itself settled for a few fleeting moments the day the Red-Haired Pirate Captain and the Wine Merchant Queen declared their quiet alliance. There was no grand wedding. No official papers. No loud, world-shaking proclamations. Just two lives, finally catching up to each other after years of independent journeys. Two hearts, weathered and wise, walking side by side, their shared past a foundation for an unexpected future. And on rare nights, when the stars burn clear and cold, and the wind is warm with the scent of distant shores—if you sit close to the docks and listen carefully—you can hear two people laughing again. Running again. Racing to see who will love harder first.

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