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gav-san · 18 days ago

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Soul Shanked 3/4

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Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Ten Feet of Shirtless Chaos and Absolutely No Peace Length: 11 K+

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Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo

You sat at the edge of the palace terrace like a diplomat carved from marble. Back straight, hands folded, shoulders coiled so tight they might snap if anyone so much as exhaled too loudly.

Flanking you were your appointed chaperones: Sisca the Silent and Jai the Judgemental. Boa’s finest. Her favorites. Her blades.

They didn’t blink. They didn’t speak. You weren’t entirely convinced they breathed. Each held a spear that looked less like a weapon and more like divine retribution forged in steel. Both radiated the kind of calm that promised they’d vaporize Shanks without breaking a sweat. Or protocol.

Naturally, that only seemed to encourage him.

He lounged by the nearest pillar, leaning just enough to seem relaxed but not sufficient to trigger instant death. A perfect 9.8 feet away.

Shanks leaned against the balustrade like he owned the view, one boot hooked casually over the other, the picture of arrogant ease. The sea breeze played with his hair and the ends of his coat, catching on the amused tilt of his mouth like even the wind had a crush on him.

“You always this formal, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Or is it just me?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you lacked a retort but because you couldn’t afford to play the game. Not here. Not with him playing with both of your lives. Not with Boa’s honor quietly weighing itself across your shoulders like a ceremonial yoke.

One wrong move, and Sisca would drive a spear through his lung faster than a heartbeat. One wrong word, and Jai would file the paperwork for your funeral,neatly, alphabetically, and in triplicate.

Still, Shanks smiled. Like a man who’d never met a warning he couldn’t charm his way past.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flicking you a wink. “I’ve had worse reception. Once got stabbed before the hello. This is practically a warm welcome.”

Sisca’s grip on her weapon didn’t so much as twitch.

You sighed, spine still iron-rod straight. “You were told this wasn’t a social visit.”

“I thought we’d multitask,” he said. “Politics and flirtation—two of my strongest suits.”

Jai inhaled sharply through her nose. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or the prelude to divine smiting.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re very confident for a man surrounded by women who could, and would, fold you like laundry.”

“Ah,” Shanks murmured, grin widening, “but I’ve always liked dangerous women. Especially ones who sit like they’re one insult away from murder.”

The mark on his collarbone glowed faintly, catching the dying light. And he was smiling, like a man born for slow-motion disasters and thoroughly delighted to be starring in one.

“You know,” he said, voice dipped in moonlight, “I like your name.”

You didn’t answer.

He glanced sideways at the guards. “Ladies. That wasn’t flirting. Just a compliment. Zero seduction, full respect. No stabbing necessary.”

Neither woman moved.

Not a blink. Not a breath. One of them might have narrowed an eye. Or maybe the light shifted. Or maybe it was divine wrath, quietly calibrating.

You remained still. Unmoving. Impeccable. If posture could kill, yours would be dragging his soul to the underworld.

Shanks, of course, looked like a man lounging in the middle of a dream he had no intention of waking from. Ten feet of glittering threat. Ten feet of controlled power. Ten feet of pirate emperor clearly thriving under scrutiny.

“I mean it,” he added, voice low. “Your name. It suits you.”

Silence.

Then, to the guards, gently, as if addressing a bear mid-nap:

“Still not flirting. Just being polite. Totally platonic appreciation of her identity.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. His one hand. Easy, casual, the motion somehow cocky and graceful all at once.

Sisca’s knuckles flexed on her spear.

Jai inhaled. Once.

You didn’t move. But your eye twitched. Barely.

Shanks lit up like he’d been handed a personal victory. “Progress.”

You finally spoke, your voice as flat and cold as the marble beneath you.

“If you die, I still die. That’s the only reason you’re not impaled.”

He grinned, entirely unbothered. Possibly more pleased.

“So you’re saying… I’m protected by fate.”

You turned your head slowly. Deliberately. “I’m saying don’t push it.”

Sisca’s spear shifted forward by a single, terrifying millimeter.

Shanks immediately lifted his one hand in surrender, elbow tucked loose at his side like he was halfway to curtsying.

“Not pushing,” he said cheerfully. “Just standing. Respectfully. Handsomely. Supportively.”

You inhaled through your nose and began calculating the moral logistics of screaming directly into the sea. Would Boa fine you? Would it echo?

Silence.

He glanced back, chin tilted, that damn glimmer in his eye. “Do you always wear your hair like that?”

Your head turned just slightly. “You’re not allowed to compliment me, man-creature.”

“I’m not?”

“It counts as manipulation.”

He laughed, low and amused, like he’d just watched a nobleman trip down palace stairs. “Fair point. But I am allowed to say I’m glad it was you.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars filed a formal complaint.

“I wanted a quiet weekend,” you hissed. “Not to be soul-tethered to a sentimental pirate with seaweed for brains. I’ve adopted a glorified fruit peddler with a superiority complex.”

“Hey,” Shanks replied, utterly unbothered, “I’d make a terrible vendor. I’d eat the stock. Plus the hair causes riots. Pretty sure it’s a war crime in at least five ports. Seven if I style it.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face, smearing invisible frustration like war paint.

“Divine punishment,” you muttered. “That’s what this is. The gods got bored and picked me for enrichment.”

You fixed your eyes on the sea like it might swallow him whole if you stared hard enough.

It didn’t help.

Mostly because he wouldn’t shut up.

The guards were already tired of him.

“I have to say,” he murmured, casually leaning back against a pillar and crossing his legs at the ankle, “that’s an impressive spear. Subtle. Elegant. Bit terrifying. I like that in a woman.”

Sisca didn’t blink. But her grip tightened by exactly two degrees.

Then he turned to Jai, smiling with the patience of a man trying to charm a crocodile in formalwear. “And you. That stance? Flawless. I feel safer already. I think we’re really building something here.”

Jai blinked once. Slowly. Like an apex predator watching its lunch make too much noise.

You exhaled through your nose. Loudly.

Shanks tilted his weight, one-armed balance casual as a cat, and crossed his legs the other way.

“You know, I think I’m growing on them.”

“They’re deciding who gets to stab you first,” you said flatly.

He shrugged. One shoulder, one arm, all relaxed nonsense.

““Ah,” He said, all charm and chaos wrapped in sunburnt sea king energy “The classic affection-to-homicide pipeline.”

You said nothing.

He glanced again at Sisca. “Let me guess, former special ops?”

Silence.

“Silent type. Love that. Mysterious. Dangerous. Probably writes poetry in secret.”

Still no response.

Shanks beamed. “See? We’re bonding.”

You turned your head just enough to glare. “You’re antagonizing trained killers.”

“I’ve lost my arm and my ability to openly flirt,” he said, solemn as a monk. “Entertaining trained killers is all I have left. Unless you’re willing to bend the rules—”

Jai’s spear shifted. Sharply.

Shanks raised his hand, palm out like he was surrendering to divine judgment. “Flirting is off the table. I’m aware. Just being respectful. Loudly.”

You turned your gaze back to the horizon, jaw locked so tight it could cut rope. “If you get impaled, I’m not helping.”

“Good news,” Shanks said brightly. “We’d die together.”

That earned him something unexpected: Sisca looked at him.

Just a glance. Brief. But not blank. Something flickered behind her eyes, and she was clearly trying very hard not to show it.

You nearly slid off the terrace in pure, unfiltered despair.

Then, movement.

Both guards shifted. Subtly. Like the air had changed.

Sisca cleared her throat. “We’re due for a perimeter loop.”

You blinked. “You just checked the perimeter.”

“Regulation,” she said crisply.

Jai turned her head, fixing Shanks with a stare cold enough to halt blood flow. “Five minutes. Touch her, and I remove a limb.”

Shanks saluted with two fingers. “You’re both doing incredible work. Love the structure. I feel very safe.”

They turned and walked off. Slowly. Too slowly. Like they were trying not to smirk. Or listen.

You stared after them, slack-jawed. “…Did you charm my guards?”

Shanks tilted his head, all innocence and mischief, the wind toying with his hair like it liked him more than it should.

“Define charm.”

“…”

“Not on purpose,” he added quickly, lifting his hand again in mock surrender. “I just asked Jai if she was the deadliest woman on the island, or if that title still belonged to you.”

You blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, raised one hand to point at him. “That was absolutely on purpose.”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

You hissed through your teeth, a sound somewhere between a threat and a prayer.

“Right,” he nodded, all mock gravity. “Silent admiration. Got it.”

You turned away before the guards returned and found you mid-yeet, launching a pirate emperor off the terrace in front of the royal koi pond.

You had once been a functional human being.

You rose with the sun. Drank your tea. Did your stretches. Negotiated trade deals. Smoothed over diplomatic fires. Once disarmed a bounty hunter using nothing but a rolled scroll and three precisely chosen insults.

But now?

Now you had Red-Haired Shanks, Emperor of the Sea, walking disaster, and your newly soul-bound curse, trailing after you like a golden retriever made of rum, grins, and catastrophic impulse control.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look bad doing it.

Never more than ten feet away. Constantly testing your ability to gauge exactly how long ten feet is.

A little later, in a valiant attempt to salvage a shred of peace and dignity over a quiet cup of tea, you finally managed to steal a moment alone.

The breeze was calm. The tea was warm. You were seated, upright, composed.

“Is that tea? Smells incredible. Or is that just your natural scent?”

His voice rang out behind you. Bright, chipper, and unmistakably cursed.

You flinched.

Missed your mouth.

And poured scalding tea directly down your front.

There was a moment of silence. A beat of disbelief.

A horrified gasp. “Oh no. Was it my voice? Do I always have that effect? Is this normal? Should I warn people?”

You stared down at the wet, steaming mess. Then upward, toward the heavens, as if appealing directly to whatever deity was clearly trying to humble you through long-form emotional comedy.

You briefly considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment.

Behind you, Shanks hesitated. Then padded forward with exaggerated caution. Like you were a wounded animal and he was the world’s most insufferable veterinarian.

“Okay,” he said softly, “not a compliment this time. Just an observation. You’re very composed under extreme tea trauma.”

You didn’t answer. Just plucked a napkin from the tray and began blotting your dress like a corpse preparing itself for burial.

“I have water,” he offered, holding up a flask. “Possibly. It might also be sake. Or really brave juice. Would you like to gamble?”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him with pure, exhausted fury.

Shanks winced. “Okay. Not the time for jokes.”

He scratched the back of his neck with his one hand, then awkwardly mimed offering a second before realizing, again, that he didn’t have one.

“Right. Just the one hand,” he muttered. “Still getting used to the dramatic pause when I go for the other.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping, dignity trailing away like steam from your tea-soaked lap.

“I was alone for three minutes,” you said, voice hollow. “Three.”

“That’s on me,” he said sincerely. “I sensed the peace and got jealous.”

You looked back down at your tea. Lukewarm now. Ruined.

“…I despise you.”

Shanks sat cross-legged beside you, entirely too comfortable for a man who just verbally ambushed your afternoon and indirectly baptized you in boiling oolong.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging his shoulder against yours. “But I’m growing on you.”

You stared down at the dripping mess. Then at the heavens. And seriously considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment. You picked up your cup again, stared into its depths, and quietly whispered, “Please drown me.”

If you so much as dared to stretch in your own yard, he’d be there.

Perched on a bench. Ten feet away. Unblinking. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

“Wow,” he murmured one morning, eyes fixed on you like you were a rare comet or divine omen. “Do all the warriors here bend like that, or are you showing off just for me?”

You promptly collapsed sideways into the grass and didn’t get up for a full minute.

Not because you were injured.

Because your soul needed time to reboot.

From somewhere disturbingly nearby, his voice drifted again, chip-cheerful and ruinous.

“Careful. If you keep moving like that, I might have to throw my only hand in marriage.”

You screamed into the lawn. Quietly. With dignity.

Sort of.

Reading in the library?

Impossible.

He sat behind you quietly humming, hand tapping books, watching the sunlight catch in your hair like it was the grand finale of a celestial event.

Every time you turned a page, you could feel him watching. Not leering. Not even flirtatious.

Just warm. Focused. Like a man who had discovered his new favorite hobby was you, sitting still and trying not to scream.

You made it halfway through a paragraph.

Then launched the scroll across the room with the emotional control of a goat on a cliff.

From somewhere behind you came his gentle, infuriating voice:

“That one must’ve been a tough read, huh?”

You considered throwing him next. Preferably out the nearest window.

At dinner?

You dropped your chopsticks. Twice. Because of his humming.

The first time, you brushed it off. The second, you stared at your own hands like they had personally betrayed you.

He picked them up both times, smiling like you were starring in some tragic romance where the heroine had been bested by wood and song.

As he handed them back the second time, he leaned in and whispered, “If I’d known chopsticks were the way to your heart, I would’ve started humming years ago.”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a war crime.

He stared back, looking unreasonably pleased for a man with one arm and zero shame.

You ate the rest of your meal with a fork.

From the dessert tray.

Alone.

In a separate room.

With the door locked.

And a chair wedged under the handle.

But Shanks' worst trait wasn’t the bad one-arm puns and unmanned one-liners.

He just talked. Constantly. With that maddening, wind-in-your-sails voice. Like he hadn’t trespassed, soul-bonded himself to you, and turned your carefully structured existence into a cursed honeymoon with color commentary.

You were an envoy. A negotiator. You liked things calm. Predictable. Quiet.

Now he sat across from you at meals grinning, polite, one leg swinging like a bored child with no grasp of war crimes. While he complimented the oils, the stars, or how “fascinating” your face looked when you were trying not to throw him out the nearest window.

It was getting to you.

You were chewing too loudly. Breathing weird. Sweating from existing.

Meanwhile, he looked like he’d just stepped off a wanted poster and onto a luxury resort flyer titled “Surprise! It’s Your Problem Now.”

One evening, walking the inner path with your ever-silent guard a few paces behind, he glanced over.

“You know… if it weren’t for the deadly tether curse, this would kind of feel like a romantic getaway.” He said, casual as sin.

You choked on your own breath. “Don’t say things like that.”

He held up a hand, palm out, innocent as a storm cloud. “Just trying to break the tension.”

“The tension exists because of you!” you snapped. “You scaled a wall, broke into sacred grounds, and committed a forbidden bonding ritual that rewrote my soul!”

He had the gall, the utter, seafaring gall, to smile.

Like he hadn’t metaphysically hijacked your future and turned your destiny into a sitcom with no laugh track.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

Shanks tilted his head, the breeze catching his hair like he’d paid it to. Still smiling. “To be fair, I asked the wall for consent before I scaled it.”

You gawked at him. “You are impossible.”

“I’m consistent,” he replied brightly. “That counts for something.”

Your soulmark flared again. You slapped your hand over it like it owed you money.

“Stop agreeing with him!”

Shanks looked delighted. “See? Even fate likes me.”

You considered throwing him off the balcony. And briefly mourned that you’d be yanked right after him like an angry, cursed kite.

You wanted to scream. Or faint. Or punch a shrub. Possibly all three. In that order.

Then, like it was nothing, he plucked a flower from a nearby hedge and offered it to you with the absentminded ease of a man who had never once faced a consequence in his life.

You took it.

Paused.

And hurled it, with deadly precision, straight into the koi pond. The splash was divine.

The look on his face? Transcendent.

“Symbolic,” he murmured, deadpan. “Bold. Rebellious. I respect it.”

You turned and stormed off so hard you hit the tether. It snapped taut with a jolt that nearly yanked you backward. Shanks just called after you cheerfully, “Teamwork makes the soul-work!”

You screamed into your sleeve.

The koi pond rippled in sympathy.

He laughed.

That night, flat on your back on your designated side of the room, because tether, you stared at the ceiling and whispered into your pillow,

“He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. Not from swords. From exposure. Exposure to a feral, unrepentant pet male creature.”

Across the dark room, entirely too awake, his voice drifted softly:

“You breathe really loud when you’re thinking.”

You shrieked.

The guards groaned in unison from their post just inside the door.

And Shanks?

Shanks just laughed.

Low. Warm.

Utterly delighted to be alive. Utterly delighted to be here. Utterly delighted to be yours.

Your downfall started with a twitch.

Barely anything. A flicker at the corner of your mouth.

You were seated at the edge of the courtyard, clinging to your last scraps of dignity and a lukewarm cup of tea, while Shanks lounged ten feet away under a cherry tree, hurling berries at a squirrel and losing every round.

He was humming again.

Some quiet, sea-worn tune that didn’t belong here, low and unpolished, a melody born of open water and wind, but somehow, it didn’t feel out of place. Like it had slipped through the cracks of this refined world and decided to stay.

Like him.

You did not notice.

You were drinking tea.

Not listening.

Definitely not watching him stretch in the sunlight like some maddeningly relaxed, gilded menace.

His coat had been tossed over a stone bench, long-sleeved and worn. He stood barefoot in the grass, back to you, shirt wrinkled and only half-tucked. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Slow, fluid, and entirely unbothered by the weight of your silence.

You did not look up when he rolled his shoulder, or when he tilted his head just so, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

You were an envoy. A diplomat. A professional. Your fingers wrapped delicately around the porcelain cup, posture perfect. You were not distracted by the way the sunlight caught the edges of his hair like a halo of rust and fire.

Or by the line of muscle just visible beneath the hem of his shirt when he reached behind his neck with his one arm, spine arching in a lazy stretch.

You certainly didn’t notice the way his hum dropped into something deeper, rougher, ust before it faded out entirely.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, soaking in the morning warmth like a creature made for summer.

And you?

You sipped your tea. Calmly. Carefully.

And told yourself that your heartbeat hadn’t changed at all.

Then he said, almost to himself,

“You ever notice squirrels don’t like sharing? I offered him half. He judged me. Like, visibly. With his little squirrel eyes.”

You didn’t mean to react.

But your lips twitched.

Just a little.

Too little to matter.

His head turned, slow and triumphant.

“Was that a smile?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was a spasm.”

“A very pretty spasm.”

“Die.”

He grinned and leaned back on his elbows, sun catching in that ridiculous red hair like it had been personally blessed by the gods for the sole purpose of testing your restraint.

“I’m just saying,” he said, all casual mischief, “if you laugh, I won’t report you to Hancock.”

You hissed like he’d insulted your bloodline. “I am not laughing. I’m surviving. Barely. You’re not a soulmate. You’re a feral pet I am unable to return who follows me like a leased beast.”

He looked radiant. Absolutely thriving on your suffering.

“I’d wear a real leash,” he said brightly. “If it’s you holding it.”

You made a noise so undignified even the birds paused.

One of the guards flinched.

A squirrel launched itself off the balcony like it wanted no part in what was unfolding.

Shanks, meanwhile, looked like he’d just won a chest of gold, a festival, and your eternal suffering all in one.

Utterly victorious.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were frozen between outrage, embarrassment, and the overwhelming urge to commit leash-related violence.

The next time your composure broke, it was a full-blown near-snort.

He’d been telling the guards a story. Something about a crewmate, an exploding pie, and a very poorly timed sneeze.

You were meditating. Not listening.

Until he said, “—and then the chef yelled, ‘It’s not seagull! That’s my wig!’”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Too late.

Your eyes widened at your own betrayal.

He turned. Slowly. That stupid, knowing twinkle in his eye already dialed up to unbearable.

“…You liked that one.”

“I pity-laughed,” you hissed. “Because your crew sounds educationally unsupervised. It’s the same as patting a dog on the head when it defecates on itself.”

“Still counts.”

You spun away sharply, tea sloshing over the rim of your cup like it, too, was trying to escape this conversation.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

You slapped a hand over it like it owed you money. “I swear to every god listening, if this thing glows again, I’m sawing it off with a spoon.”

Behind you, you could practically hear the grin.

You stared at the koi pond. Peaceful. Serene. Full of fish who didn’t speak, flirt, or forcibly bind themselves to your metaphysical existence.

You briefly considered diving in headfirst and letting the koi raise you.

You would be their strange, furious sibling. They would accept you. They would understand.

Then his voice, soft, amused, carried over the garden again.

“Y’know, if you do go in, I’ll probably have to follow. We’re kind of tethered.”

You didn’t turn around. You just raised your teacup in a silent toast to the sky and whispered, “Release me.”

And then came the moment that undid you.

Late evening. Opposite sides of the same room. The air was soft with the scent of rain, earthy and clean, like the whole palace was holding its breath.

He was on the floor with an old scroll spread across his lap, mumbling as he read. You hadn’t realized how often he talked to himself until now. Quiet little nothings, half-thoughts and sea-worn mutterings, like the words kept him company. Like silence wasn’t something he was built to trust.

You were pretending to read something, anything, not watching him tilt his head like a curious crow, not watching the furrow of his brow as he traced some ancient diagram with a single, careful finger.

Then, still completely focused on the scroll, he frowned and said, perfectly serious:

“What’s a ceremonial frog bowl? And why does it have four steps?”

You didn’t giggle.

You burst out laughing.

It hit like lightning. Sudden, bright, straight out of your chest before you could stop it. Loud and real. The kind of laugh that unhooked something in your ribs. You clapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with betrayal at your own joy.

Across the room, he looked up.

Slowly.

His eyes met yours, startled, but soft. Gentle.

And then something else flickered behind them.

Not smug. Not amused.

Devastated.

The kind of devastation only hope can bring.

It nearly broke you in half.

You stood so fast your chair wobbled. “I’m going to meditate.”

“In the hallway?”

“I need…” Your voice cracked. You cleared it. “I need air. More air.”

He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak again. Just smiled.

And somehow, that was worse. So much worse.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said softly. “Always.”

You left before the soulmark could flare again.

Before the rest of you did.

You slipped behind the nearest pillar, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. You clutched your glowing hand like it was bleeding, like you could somehow smother the truth pulsing beneath your skin.

“You cannot do this,” you whispered.

The words tasted desperate. Fragile. Like if you said them enough times, they might become real. Like sheer willpower could undo destiny.

“You cannot fall for him.”

But your soulmark disagreed.

It stayed warm. Steady. Bright.

As if it already knew.

As if it had chosen long before you ever had the chance.

You pressed your back to the cold stone and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe, to think, to remember who you were before all of this. Before him.

And Not in a rush. Not in a blaze. But in that slow, inevitable way waves claim the shore. Over and over. Until the sand forgets it was ever anything else.

Something inside you, quiet, traitorous, unbearably tender, had already begun to unravel.

The Den Den Mushi buzzed.

Benn sighed, pulled the receiver off its hook, and turned the volume dial all the way down before answering.

“…What.”

Shanks’s voice came through, distorted but still far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.

“Benn. Benn. Listen. I did it.”

Benn pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods. What.”

“She smiled.”

“…You woke me up for that?”

“No, no. You don’t get it. It wasn’t just a smile. It twitched first. Right corner. Like she was trying not to. Benn, it was transcendent.”

Benn groaned, adjusted the snail again, and lowered the volume another notch. Just in case it could still offend his ears.

“Was she choking?”

“No! I was mid-battle with a squirrel.”

“…You picked a fight with a squirrel?”

“He was judging me, Benn. I offered him berries, and he looked at me like I’d proposed tax reform.”

“This is why these women call us animals,” Benn muttered.

“Bold language from a man who once declared war on a garden party.”

“They set fire to my coat, Shanks.”

“Semantics.”

Benn sighed harder. “Does she still refer to you as her temporary man-pet?”

“Yes, but she said it with feeling.”

“Feeling like.., contempt?”

“Feeling like possessive contempt. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, but she twitched! Then she glared. Then—then, Benn—she told me to die. Like… fondly.”

Benn set down his pen and slowly turned away from the mountain of reports he’d been trying to finish for the past three days.

“Shanks.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Time zones are a social construct.”

“You are whispering into a snail about a woman who actively wants to launch you into orbit.”

“She smiled, Benn.”

Benn stared into the middle distance. He could feel his eye twitching. Somewhere in his soul, a vein burst.

“You’ve fought admirals with less emotional investment.”

Shanks’ voice softened. Honest. Wrecked.

“…But none of them had her laugh.”

A pause.

The Den Den Mushi blinked once. Twice. Mimicking Shanks’s dreamy, far-off expression.

“…She laughed?” Benn asked. Immediately regretted it.

“‘Ceremonial frog bowl.’ Classic. She exploded, Benn. Tried to pass it off, but I saw. Then she bolted like I’d proposed marriage. Beautiful.”

Benn reached for the nearest blanket and dragged it over his head like it might protect him from whatever spiritual contagion this was.

“You’re the worst long-distance girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

“You’re going to help me write her a love letter.”

“I’m muting this snail.”

“I already picked a pen name. Very tasteful. Red-Haired Regret.”

Click.

The Den Den Mushi sighed. Loudly, passively, like it, too, was exhausted, and went dormant in the kind of theatrical silence reserved for cursed romances and doomed friendships.

You were getting comfortable. Way too comfortable. That’s why it happened.

On your so-called “fresh air stroll,” you made the fatal mistake of thinking out loud.

You and Shanks sat beneath the garden arbor. Guards nearby. Watching. Pretending not to listen. Absolutely listening.

The sun hung low over the gardens. Your chaperone, Jai, stood just far enough away to ignore anything subtle and hear everything.

You sat prim and dignified on the stone bench. Shanks lounged beside you, shirt slightly open, posture criminally casual. Menacingly comfortable.

You cleared your throat. Twice. “Can I ask you something?”

He turned to you instantly, expression softening like you’d asked him to stay forever. “Of course.”

You looked anywhere but at him. “It’s… about the differences. Between men and women.”

A beat.

“Darling,” he said, voice like velvet sin, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Your soul flatlined.

“I meant minor biological differences!” you snapped. “Anatomical reference! Like—a battle map!”

He chuckled, dark and delighted. “Even better. You want me to describe our physical differences like a tactical field?”

“That would be acceptable,” you said, with the dignity of a woman praying for death.

He leaned in, just slightly. Arm draped over the back of the bench. Voice low. Dangerous.

“Well then… my shoulders are broader. Years of swordwork. Chest is flatter, though I’ve heard it's very comfortable to lean against.”

You twitched violently. Somewhere behind you, a guard coughed judgmentally.

“My voice sits lower,” Shanks continued, undeterred. “Rumbles more when I whisper—”

He growled, just to prove it.

You stared straight ahead, radiating the kind of heat normally reserved for volcanic eruptions.

“That’s not—,” you managed. “That’s flirting.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No.”

He hummed, pleased. “But you’re still listening.”

You stood so fast that the bench screeched in protest. He rose with you, leisurely. Unbothered. Like temptation on vacation.

“I could draw you a diagram,” he offered innocently. “Or show you in person. Purely educational.”

“You are a menace.”

He leaned in, just enough. Voice low, velvet-soft.

“And you are adorable when you’re curious.”

You nearly launched him off the nearest cliff with sheer indignation.

But your soulmark pulsed. Warm.Content. Betrayer.

And your mouth, traitorous, foolish, weak, was dangerously close to smiling.

“Oi, quiet down, it’s the captain—”

“He survived another day?”

The Den Den Mushi clicked to life mid-laugh.

“Put down your drinks, gentlemen. History was made.” Shanks drawled, smug enough to curdle milk, charm a snake, and bankrupt a monastery. “I’ve got a status report from the front lines of romance.”

He then, shamelessly, launched into a dramatic play-by-play like a romantic war report.

On the other end, Yasopp wheezed. “She what? She asked you to describe your body like a battle map?”

“She did!” Shanks beamed. “Said it like she was ordering a strategic report. Full dignity. Absolute panic in her eyes.”

“Gods,” Lucky Roux muttered between bites, “and you answered?”

“I leaned in,” Shanks said proudly. “Gave her the full velvet voice. Told her my shoulders were broad from years of swordwork. The works.”

Benn’s voice cut in like static, low and done. “Did you say that out loud?”

“’ Course I did.”

“Why,” Benn groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“She twitched, Benn. I saw it. Full system shutdown. Red ears. Twitchy fingers. It was beautiful.”

“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Yasopp cackled. “Wait. Boss—wait—what’d she say?”

“Told me that’s not anatomy, that’s flirting.”

“And you said?”

Shanks grinned. The Den Den Mushi mimicked the expression with idiotic devotion.

“‘Can’t it be both?’”

The crew howled.

“I offered to draw her a diagram,” Shanks added helpfully. “Purely educational.”

“You’re not a man,” Benn muttered. “You’re a walking incident.”

“I’m an academic resource,” Shanks corrected. “She was curious. I was helping.”

“You were preening.”

“Semantics.”

A pause.

Then Benn again, dry and on the edge of despair. “…She didn’t hit you?”

“No,” Shanks said, absolutely thrilled. “She almost spoke to me willingly.”

Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

“She’s cracking!” Yasopp howled.

“She’s snapping!”

Limejuice hooted.

“Into love,” Shanks sighed dreamily.

“Into homicide,” Benn snapped. “How long until Hancock throws you off a balcony?”

“Two days,” Shanks said. “One if I use finger gestures.”

Yasopp was crying. “Please. Please tell me you made finger gestures.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did! I labeled the chest ‘elevated terrain.’”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE,” the whole crew screamed in unison.

The call ended with the unmistakable sound of Benn slamming his face into the table.

Boa Hancock was furious.

Not irritated. Not mildly put out.

Furious.

She stormed in tight, echoing circles across the palace floor, the click of her heels like warning bells before a siege. Her robes billowed behind her like war banners, her glare sharp enough to cut marble.

“He’s charming,” she seethed, like the word itself was a disease. “Like a bard with a sword and no impulse control.”

“Empress—” one guard dared, before being silenced with a single, withering glance.

“Dangerously charming,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room. “Worse than any warlord. Worse than flattery. Worse than men who try! He doesn’t even try! He just smiles like he’s entitled to happiness!”

She spun on her heel like she meant to decapitate fate itself.

“And the worst part? He’s getting results.”

You stood nearby, hands folded, soulmark glowing like a smug torch under your sleeve.

“I haven’t encouraged him,” you muttered, a bit too defensively. “He just… exists like that. It’s his natural state. An ape without violence. It’s not flirting, it’s zoological observation. I can’t help it if the absurdity is… oddly compelling.”

Outside the door, Shanks whistled something chipper. Possibly a sea shanty. Possibly the soundtrack to your downfall.

“Yet!” Hancock whirled on you, hair fanning like a snake ready to strike. “You laughed yesterday.”

“I choked on my tea.”

“I saw teeth.”

“It was a wince.”

“It was a giggle,” She accused. “A feminine lapse of judgment. Next comes the touching.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She pointed. “You let him sit under the arbor.”

“I didn’t let him. He follows me like a lost parrot with abs.”

“And yet it happened!”

A servant dropped a tray in the distance and sprinted for their life.

“Do you know how many good women I’ve seen fall because of pretty men with red hair and decent shoulders? Too many!”

You clenched your fists. “I am not ‘falling.’ I am holding up the emotional stability of this nation on my back.”

“Then why,” Hancock growled, stalking closer, “is your soulmark glowing like a lovesick firefly whenever he says your name?”

You looked down. Your hand was lit up like a festival lantern.

Outside, Shanks could be heard whistling again. Cheerfully. Possibly shirtless.

Your eye twitched.

Hancock snapped her fan open like a weapon. “He must leave.”

“I tried!” you hissed. “I tried to exile him! He just waved and unpacked! He doesn’t even have a pack!”

“He’s trespassing!”

“He called it a diplomatic nap.”

Hancock paced in agitated circles. “He’s smiling too much. That’s how it starts. First, it’s harmless humor. Then, favors. Then marriage. And by the time you realize he’s rearranged your entire life, you’re helping him pick curtains!”

You blinked. “Curtains?”

“Love is an ambush!” she declared, stabbing her fan into the floor. “And you’re walking directly into the trap.”

You glanced toward the window. Shanks was helping one of the guards rehang a wind chime. He gave you a lazy salute. The chime made a lovely sound.

Your heart fluttered.

You crushed it mercilessly.

“I will not fall for him,” you said, clutching what was left of your composure. “I am a proud, stable, intelligent woman.”

From somewhere just beyond the door, Shanks shouted cheerfully, “You said it, sweetheart!”

Boa Hancock didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

She just turned, ever so slowly, eyes glowing with the kind of rage usually reserved for divine smiting.

You felt your soul leave your body as amusement escaped you.

“…He has excellent hearing,” you whispered.

“You just laughed.”

“I gurgled.”

“You blushed at his joke about squirrels.”

“It was a biological malfunction.”

Hancock narrowed her eyes. “You’re defrosting.”

“…What?”

“Your mental defenses,” she said coldly. “You are rapidly defrosting. I give it four days before you start braiding his hair.”

You looked genuinely horrified. “That’s slander.”

“You’ll ask him to sing,” She continued mercilessly. “Then you’ll start singing back. And by the gods, if he builds you a bench, I will have no choice but to launch both of you into the sea.”

The soulmark on your hand pulsed again.

You slapped it.

Hard.

“Get it together,” You hissed at yourself.

Hancock crossed her arms, glowering. “You’re banned from arbor strolls. And poetry.”

“Fine.”

“And no more questions about anatomy.”

Your face turned bright red. “He exaggerated! I was curious for educational reasons!”

“Oh, he educated you, all right.” She hissed.

You groaned and covered your face.

“I hate everything.”

Hancock sighed, sweeping toward the door. “Come. We’re training until you can recite every war crime in history without flinching.”

Outside, Shanks was whistling something suspiciously romantic.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

A sanctum of solemn texts, forbidden histories, and dust older than the concept of shame itself.

No laughter echoed here. No innuendo dared linger beneath the petrifying gaze of the ancient librarian. An immortal presence whose eyes had watched empires fall and whose sighs could flay ego from bone.

Somewhere behind you, in a distant alcove, Shanks was valiantly trying not to whistle.

You could feel him. Lurking. Orbiting. A cursed moon tethered to your dwindling patience by fate and mutual legal consequence.

But no flirting, no matter how persistent, could survive the death-glare of the librarian, a woman whose soul had fossilized into passive-aggressive silence sometime before the Void Century.

You were not avoiding the inevitable moment he’d make you smile again.

You were reorganizing. Respectfully. Heroically. As any noble scholar would.

The scrolls were misfiled. The chaos was offensive. The alphabet deserved better.

Which is how, entirely by accident, you found it.

A scroll. Stuffed behind Forbidden Marriage Lore: Volume VII – Emergency Binding and the Unwilling Heart.

Which, in hindsight, really should have come with hazard tape and a licensed chaperone.

You unrolled it, mildly intrigued (and absolutely not emotionally invested), fully expecting some dusty Celestial ramble about dowries or noble inbreeding rituals.

“Coital Harmony & Male Anatomy: A Primer for Warriors and Necessary Evil.”

…Pardon?

You read the first line.

“Though rarely encountered, the male form is functional, if external and often inconvenient.”

There were diagrams.

Hand-drawn diagrams. With arrows.

Labeled pressure zones.

A full-color cross-section titled: “The Battle Stance.”

There were instructions. Warnings. At least two footnotes referencing something called an “emotional dismount.”

You stared.

You recognized one of the positions as something a human might survive. The rest would require divine assistance, three spare joints, and a forgiving chiropractor.

The angles.

Labeled. Measured. Wildly optimistic.

You blinked.

Then blinked again. Still there. Still real. Still color-coded.

“…What is that?” you asked aloud, genuine confusion in your voice, as though the scroll might answer and explain itself.

You had questions. So many. Too many.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Too pleased.

“Foreshadowing.”

You turned. Slowly. Like a woman facing fate, or maybe just a deeply stupid ghost.

There he was.

Shanks leaning too close, against a shelf like a smug demon cosplaying a scholar, one brow raised, eyes twinkling with absolutely criminal delight.

Your soulmark pulsed. In protest.

“Studying up on me?” he asked, the smirk audible.

You shrieked. The scroll launched skyward in panic.

He caught it, one-handed, like the world was a reflex test and he’d been training for this exact nightmare.

“I’ve heard of this one,” he said cheerfully, already unrolling it. “The infamous Karma Kuja scroll. Thought it was destroyed.”

“Why would you sneak up on me?!”

“To see what made you scream like that,” he grinned. “Worth it, by the way.”

“I am horrified!”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

You lunged for the scroll. He held it aloft, flipping it open like a cursed cocktail menu.

“Which part confused you?” he asked sweetly. “The angles? The Sacred Spear of Lineage?”

“I don’t want to know what that means!”

“But you do.”

You reached again. He lifted it higher.

You groaned, pointing in scandal. “Why is it outside the body?! That seems vulnerable!”

“It is,” he agreed. “That’s why men are emotionally unstable.”

Your finger shot to another section. “And this part…‘rising to meet the occasion’?”

He gave you a look that should require permits in six kingdoms. “That means exactly what you think it means.”

You shrieked. Again. Louder.

He offered the scroll back, far too pleased with himself. You accepted it with tongs.

“If you ever want a live demonstration, purely educational—”

You hurled the tongs at his face. He dodged. Laughing.

You slammed the scroll shut like you were sealing away an ancient evil, shoved it into the shelf, and slapped a fresh label over the entire section:

Man-Creature Delusions – DO NOT ENGAGE.

You tried to forget.

You really did.

You scrubbed your hands. Shoved the scroll back under Diplomatic Rice Offerings: A Study. Stormed into the garden with diagrams burned into your memory like divine punishment.

Unfortunately, ten feet is not enough distance to escape Shanks.

“I’m not thinking about it,” you muttered. “I’m not thinking about his shoulders. Or spears. Or—ugh—rising occasions.”

You walked directly into a pillar.

The guard didn’t blink.

That afternoon, you made another fatal mistake.

You turned to the guard, stoic, veteran, terrifyingly calm.

You cleared your throat. “Hypothetically… if someone asked about male anatomy…”

She blinked. “You mean the bits?”

You flinched. “Please don’t call them that.”

“They’re mostly external,” she said helpfully. “Hang like ceremonial bells. Or sad gourds.”

You stared. Unblinking.

“Occasionally they rise,” she continued. “That’s how you know the male’s ready to engage.”

You squeaked. “Engage… what?”

She gave you a look. Flat. Direct.

“Copulation.”

You shrieked.

Shanks leaned on the balcony, hand over his heart like he’d just witnessed a sunrise.

“Adorable,” he murmured.

That night, you lay in bed, glowing faintly, face buried in your pillow, chanting softly to yourself:

“He is a soul parasite. He is not a spear god. He is not a spear god.”

From across the room came a smug, “You okay over there?”

You screamed into your pillow.

Breakfast arrived with you exhausted and Shanks glowing like he’d just had eight hours of sleep and a dream about victory.

You stared into your rice like it might offer divine wisdom.

Shanks sat across from you, looking disgustingly well-rested. Smiling like a man with no remorse.

“Morning,” he said, all warmth and no shame.

You didn’t answer.

He reached for a slice of melon. Bit in. Chewed thoughtfully. “Still thinking about the scroll?”

You choked on your rice.

“I’m always available to clarify,” he added helpfully. “Civic duty.”

“Eat your melon.”

He did. Slowly.

Then, far too innocently, “For example, did the scroll mention that during arousal, the sacred spear can actually—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth.

He blinked. Pleased.

The guards didn’t flinch. They’d evolved past caring.

“If I hear ‘sacred spear’ one more time,” you growled, “I will throw you into the koi pond.”

He licked your palm.

You shrieked, tripped over your chair, and hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and vengeance.

Shanks leaned forward, chin in hand, grinning like a devil on vacation.

“You’re adorable when you’re violently flustered.”

“You’re a soulbound menace with dimples!”

The guards sighed. Loudly. In sync.

A squirrel stole his melon.

And your soulmark? It glowed a little warmer.

The traitor.

Shanks convinced the guards, again, to let him walk beside you. Not behind. Not ten paces back. Right beside you.

He’d worn them down with a lethal mix of compliments, pirate charm, and somehow teaching one of them to whistle like a songbird.

You didn’t bother arguing. Not this time. You were too tired.

Too many sleepless nights spent thinking about sacred spears, gourd metaphors, and why that cursed scroll had so many labeled angles.

And now… Now you’d snapped.

Mid-walk, arms folded, face burning, you turned to him.

“You’re lying.”

He blinked. “About?”

You waved vaguely at his general person. “The… layout.”

Another blink. Then a slow, infuriatingly pleased smile.

“I assure you, darling, I’m alarmingly real.”

“You said things move and shift and rise like tidewater. That can’t be right. That’s not science. That’s theater.”

“It’s biology.”

“It’s performance art.”

He tilted his head, voice dipping. “Would you like to verify that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He raised his sassy, sassy hand. Gentle, dangerous, and unmistakably smug. “If you’re that skeptical, I’ll let you check. With your own hands. Medically.”

You stared at him. “You want me to examine you.”

“For educational purposes,” he said solemnly.

He gave you the most outrageously innocent look in recorded history, like a temple acolyte caught with a flask of rum and the high priest’s daughter.

“Like a physician,” he added. “Or a sculptor with very important questions.”

You glanced around. One guard was chasing a feral chicken off the dining table. Another tripped over a bench.

No one was looking.

You narrowed your eyes like a general preparing to inspect enemy territory.

“No tricks.”

“None,” he said, placing a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.

“No flirting.”

“I will be as stoic as a temple statue.”

You gave him one final look. The kind reserved for disasters about to unfold. Then sighed, long and weary, like a woman willingly stepping into battle for the sake of science.

You grabbed him by his empty sleeve, spun on your heel, and hauled him behind the nearest garden wall. The stone radiated sun-warmth. The shade, at least, was cool. Vines rustled. Birds chirped with suspicious enthusiasm.

It was private. It was quiet. It was cursed.

You turned to face him, jaw tight, dignity dangling by a thread. “Disrobe from the waist.”

He blinked. Actually stunned for once. “You are… aggressively curious.”

“Pants. Off.”

“Say please.”

You took one deliberate, threatening step forward.

“Right, right. No jokes. Educational purposes,” he muttered, already undoing his belt, far too smoothly. Like he’d rehearsed this moment in a mirror. Twice.

“You know,” he added, tone maddeningly light, “most people at least buy me a drink first.”

You didn’t flinch. You were a scholar. A researcher. A vessel of cold, clinical detachment. Mostly.

Until he dropped his trousers. You stared. You froze. Your soulmark gave a single, deeply unhelpful pulse of warmth.

“…It is external,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s real?”

Shanks looked absurdly pleased. “Told you.”

“It just… hangs there. Like a… a like a cursed sea cucumber.”

He laughed, quiet and delighted. “That’s a new one. I’ve heard sword, spear, divine scepter—”

You pointed, scandalized. “It moved.”

“It does that.”

You stepped back, as if it might lunge.

“You said it rises? Like tidewater? How is that structurally sound?”

“Well, there’s blood flow, and you know, internal works.”

You threw your hands up. “Why does it have texture? What biological function does that serve?”

“Grip?” he offered, far too helpfully.

You covered your face. “I’m going to die.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“I already regret everything.”

“Just for science.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly, reached out with two fingers, like you were poking a jellyfish.

It twitched.

You shrieked.

Shanks doubled over laughing, hand on his knees. “You poked it like it owed you money!”

Mortified, you turned and stormed off, tripping on a vine, face blazing. Behind you, laughter echoed like a curse.

He called after you, smug and singsong, “You touched it! You can’t un-touch it!”

“I DID IT FOR SCIENCE!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“And I thank you for your service!”

You walked faster. Soulmark burning. Dignity in tatters. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fell out of a tree. Possibly in shock.

Behind the garden wall, Shanks pulled his trousers back on, still grinning like a lunatic. The soul tether hummed like a pulled string.

“I think I’m in love,” he murmured.

“…She what?” Benn stared.

“Touched it,” Shanks repeated, grinning like a man who had personally invented chaos and filed the patent.

“Two fingers. Like she thought it might explode. Then she screamed.”

He radiated smugness like the sun. If the sun were deeply unhelpful and endlessly pleased with itself.

“Was this voluntary?”

“She requested anatomical clarity. I provided a... hands-on educational opportunity. A handy, if you will, for those of us lacking.”

“You’re gonna get stabbed by Hancock.”

Shanks raised a finger. “Not if she’s impressed by my commitment to science.”

Benn exhaled smoke like a man preparing to witness war crimes. “One day, you’re going to die stupid. And I won’t even blink.”

From nearby, Hongo muttered, “That was textbook malpractice.”

Lucky Roux yelled from the galley, “Did she faint?!”

“No,” Shanks said, practically glowing. “But she walked away suspiciously fast. Didn’t insult me. Accidentally activated the tether limit.”

He kicked a boot onto the table, soulmark faintly aglow beneath his collar.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, uninvited, “I am winning.”

Yasopp shouted down from the rigging, “Did she slap it?!”

“Nope,” Shanks called back. “She poked it. Like she was testing a hot bun.”

The deck erupted in cheers.

Someone passed grog. Someone else had already started a sea shanty-in-progress titled The Brave and the Blushing.

Hongo groaned. “You’re a menace to medicine.”

Benn stared into the middle distance, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop harassing the poor girl. She’s got enough on her plate without you parading your cursed anatomy like it’s a diplomatic credential.”

“You do realize this means she’s thinking about it,” Yasopp added, swirling his drink. “Constantly.”

Shanks’ grin faltered, shifting. Less pirate. More poet.

Smug melted into something quiet. Soft.

Benn looked up. The Den Den Mushi had gone still.

“I know,” Shanks said.

The crew erupted again.

You lay in bed, face half-buried in your pillow, eyes wide and haunted.

You’d done it.You’d touched it. Disobeyed Boa Hancock and all reason.

For science. For research. For medicinal clarity. Because you were a too-curious person on a woman-only island.

And you were never going to recover emotionally.

“It twitched,” you whispered into the void.

Your soulmark glowed gently under your palm, mocking you. Amused.

Your brain had been spiraling for hours, trapped in an endless, sleepless loop of trauma and unwanted fascination.

It was real. It was external. It moved. It had… texture.

You screamed silently into your pillow again.

Somewhere in the storm-wracked shipwreck of your chest, a thought tried to surface, traitorous, horrifying.

“…It was kind of interesting.”

You kicked the blanket off like it was responsible. Rolled over like a thundercloud with regrets.

“I touched it like a fish,” you hissed. “A cursed, blushing fish.”

You vowed, then and there, hand over your soulmark and dignity leaking out your ears. That you would never speak of it again.

Until, of course, you remembered it five minutes later.

Which you did. Loudly. In the middle of lunch.

Thank the gods there were only a few days left.

Because if this kept up, Hancock was going to kill you. And honestly? Fair.

The sun sank low, bleeding warmth across the horizon. It bathed the cliffs of Amazon Lily in molten gold, gilding every vine and carved pillar in light. The sea lapped gently at the island’s edge, glittering like it was trying to mimic the sky.

Inside the palace, everything held its breath.

The kind of stillness that came before storms.

Shanks moved quietly through the corridors, his boots soft on stone worn smooth by generations of queens and warriors. He didn’t belong here, and he knew it. He felt it in the way the guards tracked his every step, in how the vines seemed to lean away from him, in the subtle thrum of the soulmark beneath his collarbone, pulsing like a ticking clock.

Two weeks.

That had been the limit. The early stage of the curse. The distance clause. Ten feet or less, or they’d both collapse. If one of them died, the other followed.

It had been laughable at first.

A game.

He’d treated it like a tethered flirtation. Testing the limits with winks and terrible jokes, watching you flush, fluster, hurl scrolls and fruit like weapons.

But now…

And now, only two days left.

Now the bond felt less like a joke and more like a hinge. A door he hadn’t known he’d been waiting to walk through.

And on the other side, You.

The truth was simple, impossible, and already carved into him.

He couldn’t be happy without it.

Without you.

His steps slowed as he neared the garden wall. The wall with the vines where you’d poked him like cursed seafood and fled like a scandalized saint. He could still hear your shriek ringing off the stone. He could still see the sharp line of your back as you marched away, soulmark glowing like it was preparing to file a formal complaint.

He touched his own mark without thinking, fingers brushing the low warmth beneath his collar. It pulsed, soft, steady, unrelenting.

A quiet tether.

And he wasn’t sure he was selfless enough to let it go.

But the truth curled low and constant in his chest, a weight he carried like treasure smuggled too long. He wanted to steal you.

Not just your laughter or the way your eyes lit up when you were annoyed. Not just the sharp little scowls you threw like daggers or the way your soulmark flared when you were caught off guard.

No.

He wanted all of you. Wanted to keep you. Wanted to kiss you until you forgot you hated him. Wanted to tangle your fingers in his and never explain it. Wanted to take you far from Amazon Lily, from rules and threats and thrones and scrolls and curses,and wanted to make you his.

And he knew how that sounded. He was a pirate. A war criminal. A flirt. But this? This wasn’t charming. It wasn’t teasing. It was greed. The kind you don’t recover from if you don’t take what you want and hold it close..

He tilted his head to the sea, jaw tight, breathing like it hurt because it did. Because the more he thought of letting you go, the more he thought of keeping you about doing something irreversible.

Of saying your name like a vow. Of slipping his hand beneath your soulmark and pulling you in, closer, tighter, and never letting the world take you back.

He was trying so hard to be good.

And then he heard your voice, and like a man caught in a siren’s pull, he was helpless to resist. He hadn’t meant to linger, hadn’t meant to listen. But he was a pirate. And pirates took.

Your voice drifted to him behind a curtain of vines, low, thoughtful.

“He’s… kind. Strange. Not what I imagined. Less like a beast and more like… a companion. Like Shakky’s man-creature, but less irritating.”

For a woman of Amazon Lily, it was practically a love confession.

He couldn’t wait to hand-deliver that insult to Rayleigh like a gift-wrapped curse.

Across the chamber, Hancock’s voice floated out, cool, measured, just this side of cutting.

“Remarkable progress. But tell me… did you tame him, or did he tame you?”

“I just mean—”

Boa cut in, sharp as a blade and twice as merciless.

“You imagined a monster. He’s worse.” A pause. A breath. “A man who knows how to say the right things. A true viper, waiting with poison and promises.”

Your laugh followed, not the brittle kind you used when he teased, but something gentler. Wary. Almost unwilling.

“Maybe he is taming me.”

“He’s time is almost up.” Boa snapped. “So get it together.”

He closed his eyes.

The soulmark beneath his collar flared, quiet but firm. Not pain. Not fate.

Just there.

Steady. Glowing.

He should have left. Should have turned away, should have honored the privacy you deserved.

But then Hancock’s voice followed,a little softer like she was soothing your feelings.

“It’s best we remove him as soon as the tether ends. Quickly. Before that sickness settles. If you fall in love, it will be impossible to leave him.”

Love Sickness.

Usually it would only affect an Amazon Lily Empress, but who knew what soul mark would do to you.

His heart clenched.

And then your voice, softer than it had any right to be, like a secret you hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Yes. I think it would end that way if given enough time.”

His heart jumped.

Boa didn’t argue. She only sighed.

Shanks’ hand found the stone column beside him, gripping hard. Anchoring himself. Trying, failing, not to move. Not to react. Not to feel like the world had just shifted underfoot.

Because now?

Now he knew you were wobbling on the edge of affection. You were as good as afflicted, and he had a moral duty.

And something inside him shifted.

“Don’t tell him,” Boa said sharply. “Or we’ll never be rid of him.”

That did it.

Not in some grand, swashbuckling, wine-smashed-against-a-wall kind of way. But in the quiet way. The irreversible kind. The kind that undoes men like him.

He pressed his palm to the mark beneath his collarbone.

And he walked.

One hand steady over the soulmark, feeling it burn. Not from the curse, but from the truth trying to claw its way free. Every step vibrated with the tether’s pulse. The ten-foot pull. The weight of what bound them.

He stepped onto the moonlit terrace.

His boots touched the sacred stone. And the mark snapped.

Not in pain. Not in punishment.

But like a ribbon loosening a bit

He staggered, caught himself. The glow beneath his collar dimmed to a slow, steady shimmer. Not gone. But waning.

Time was running out.

He stood still for a long moment, staring out at the sea. The wind pulled through his hair, cool against his skin. He breathed it in like a man preparing for battle.

A door opened.

He turned. Not quickly. Not startled.

Just hopeful.

You stood at the far edge of the terrace, breathless, uncertain of what he’d heard. Of what he knew now, and what he might do with it.

Of course he’d followed. He always would.

Wind threaded through his hair, brushing strands across his brow as he watched the tide slip low on the horizon. The sea mirrored the sky in molten silver; the cliffs burned gold as the sun retreated.

You sat beneath the terrace eaves, half-curled in the roots of the garden’s oldest tree, back tense, hands resting on a scroll you hadn’t read in hours. From his vantage, he could see it clearly. How the breeze tugged at your hem but not your focus.

You weren’t reading. You were waiting.

He approached, footsteps soft over crushed stone, each one tugging tighter at the thread between you. The soul tether that had bound him long before either of you admitted it. As he passed, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of your skirt. Not to startle. Just to anchor himself.

You didn’t look up.

The orchids were in bloom, thickening the dusk with scent. Vines curled around the lantern tree like watchful arms, casting dappled light across your skin.

He saw your eyes flick toward his hair. Still bright, even in the fading day. You pretended not to notice. But you always noticed.

He stopped just short of you, standing at the edge of sacred light.

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” you asked, voice clipped. Half a joke. Half a dare. Like if he smiled, you’d survive it.

He didn’t smile. “There’s only one thing here I want to take.”

Your jaw tightened. The ache behind your eyes sharpened. You closed them and exhaled, like someone bracing for cold water.

“That’s not your choice.” You say quietly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve made it anyway.”

You looked up.

He stood in the threshold between lantern light and shadow, coat loose at the shoulders, collar undone. No grin. No bravado. Just the brutal stillness of a man who had already made up his mind.

You rose slowly. “You said you weren’t here to start a war.”

“I lied.” It didn’t land like a threat. It landed like a truth, quiet, and crushing.

Your mouth fell open and he struggles not to bite you.

Before you could retreat, he stepped closer. “I heard what you said. To Hancock.”

Your spine went rigid. “You were listening?”

“I was hoping,” he said, another step closer, “and now I’m done hoping.”

You stood frozen in that strange, suspended space between fight and surrender. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

“I came here to behave,” he murmured. “To follow the rules. Give you my best. But I’m not a hero. I’m a pirate. And pirates take what they want.”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “And I think we both know what I want.”

Now you saw it, the faint tension along his jaw, the crease at his brow that came only with danger. Or honesty. And he was both.

“If you never want to see me again,” he said, “say it. Say it now. Make it hurt. I’ll go.”

The silence stretched. Your pulse thundered. But no words came.

You didn’t want him to go.

A breath above cracked the stillness.

“Red-Hair.”

You looked up.

Boa Hancock stood on the high balcony, wrapped in imperial silk, her gaze cold as the night tide. Arms folded. Voice layered in thunder.

“You presume too much.”

Shanks didn’t flinch. “Maybe,” he said, eyes on you, making you blush. “But I’d rather beg your wrath than walk away empty-handed.”

“She is not foolish enough to belong to you.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I’m foolish enough to keep trying.”

You turned, heat rising to your cheeks. The scroll slipped from your lap, forgotten. Your soulmark pulsed beneath your skin.

The Empress’ gaze lingered on you. Then him.

“Be careful, Red-Hair,” she said coolly. “I won’t forgive such candor.”

With a final sweep of her hair, she turned and vanished into the palace above.

The moon hung low, a blade drawn clean across the sea. Its reflection trembled on the water like a warning left unsaid.

The palace held its breath.

Even the guards, exceptionally vigilant due to Boa’s new orders, had grown complacent. dulled by the stillness of two long weeks. They had mistaken peace for surrender, forgotten he was as wily as he was charming.

Shanks moved barefoot through the inner halls, his coat trailing like a whisper across stone. His shirt hung open, salt still clinging to his skin from a late swim meant to calm him. It hadn’t worked. The glow of his soulmark, your soulmark, flickered low and steady beneath his collarbone, like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t rush. Every step felt like a promise unraveling.

His fingers grazed the walls as he passed, as if to apologize to the island itself for what he was about to do. He’d sworn to respect their terms. To stay within bounds. To give you time. But time had become unbearable.

And you had given him so much hope.

He stepped into your room like a tide returning.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and rain-polished stone. You lay curled on your side, lost to sleep, cheek against the curve of your hand. The soulmark beneath your palm beat in rhythm with his own. He watched it, watched you, for what felt like hours in the span of a minute.

You looked soft. And it broke him.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not how a love like this should begin, if it was actual love and if he hadn’t simply lost his mind to longing. But it was the only goodbye he could bear to give, one that was selfish, cruel, and entirely within his control.

Hancock had triples the guards after the terrace incident. He didn’t blame her.

But it didn’t matter.

His Haki rolled out gently, like a lullaby. Not sharp or punishing. Just… absolute. A blanket of silence settled over the palace like sleep.

No alarms. No footsteps. No one to stop him.

You didn’t stir when he knelt beside you, didn’t flinch when he touched your arm and gathered you against his chest. His embrace was careful. Reverent. As though you were something divine, he had no right to hold.

But he held you anyway.

A thief and a guardian both.

And then he moved you over his shoulder.

His pulse roared in his ears as he carried you through marble corridors strung with moonlight, past murals of queens and legends, past the inner sanctum where Hancock once vowed she’d never let him win. Past every line he’d be warned not to cross.

He crossed them all.

Outside, the tide welcomed him with foam-flecked arms. The dinghy waited where he’d hidden it, tucked against the rocks like a secret too dangerous to name. When his foot touched wet sand, the soulmark beneath his collarbone burned bright. On his shoulder, you stirred faintly. He patted your thigh.

Your lips parted, your brow creased. “...Shanks.” You sighed dreamily.

He faltered.

The sound of your voice, still asleep, nearly undid him. He should have stopped. Should have laid you down, whispered a truth, and let you go. But he was already knee-deep in the one sin he could never regret. Wanting you.

He pressed his cheek against your temple, the night wrapping around both of you like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “But it’s not kidnapping if the universe agreed.”

Then he stepped into the boat, settled you across his lap, and pushed off into the tide. The oars moved silently through silver water. The soulmark tether glowed between your skin and his, a thin, radiant thread stretched taut between fate and rebellion.

You didn’t wake.

Not yet.

But you would.

And when you did, he would be there, waiting to face whatever came next.

Likely, your wrath.

#romance #gav story #red haired shanks #shanks x reader #one piece shanks x reader #unhinged romance arc #non-sanctioned touching #pirates with no boundaries #Shanks #boa hancock #benn beckman #red force

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