fjitora

[fjitora]

pairing : shanks x gn! reader

a/n : yet another small shanks fic! got a little more emotional with this one idk | wc : 1.2k

—

There are days like this, where you remember the full extent of what you agreed to when you became a pirate.

Days just like this one, when the word goodbye becomes full of meaning, full of little silent pleas you hope will reach the other person. Please let me see your face again. Please be safe.

After all, you could be drinking tea on a beautiful morning, reading the newspaper and coming across an article covering the death of somebody you had happily waved goodbye to just a few months prior.

So the word always sat heavy on your tongue. You’d sometimes catch yourself doing the most mundane things — discussing the latest news with one of your shipmates, breaking up a drunken fight, laughing at someone on the ship having cut their finger and acting like they lost a whole arm — and suddenly thinking ‘please let us live to have more of this’.

So looking at Shanks right now, you don’t know what to say.

“I can’t know when I’ll be back for sure.” He had said with that solemn tone that let you know you were looking at Shanks the Emperor, the captain of your ship.

“It might be weeks or months. I’ll try to be back as soon as possible.” He added.

You looked at him without responding. You know Shanks is strong. More than you can even fathom. And you know he’s not one to be carefree when surrounded by danger. He’s probably safe. But—

“Don’t do anything stupid.” You didn’t know how else to put it. You didn’t want to be too gentle, too caring when talking to him. He’d become insufferable.

“Please.”

Well, you could still be polite.

Slowly, his lips stretched into a grin — the grin you tried to avoid bringing to his face as much as possible. You could almost see the seriousness and sternness in him evaporate in fumes. Shanks the Big Strong Man was gone.

You already rolled your eyes in anticipation.

“Oh, but would you look at that?” He said, feigning surprise like the annoying pest he was.

“Is this you worrying about me?” He titled his head. “You don’t want me to go?”

“I don’t remember saying that.” You deadpanned.

His grin turned into a soft smile.

“Okay. I won’t be stupid.” He tells you after a few seconds.

His voice was soft but it still had a grave quality to it, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it meant that he dreaded goodbyes as much as you did. Except when it comes to Shanks, you don’t really know what anything means anymore.

“Don’t be too reckless when I’m gone.” He speaks out again after a little while.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Well, now that I won’t be spending my time stitching you up, I don't know. Might throw myself in a fire.”

Shanks laughs.

“I’ll make sure to come back with enough wounds to make you tend to me for a good while after I return.”

You feel like he’s only half joking.

“Can’t have you forget about me.” He adds.

You hate how you immediately think you could never forget about him. You despise, really, how you know you could try to scrape every trace of him off yourself, and you still never could.

You got so close to the sun the burn is irreversible. And the fall is inevitable.

And when it’s that bad, you have no choice but to try and salvage yourself — at least the parts of yourself that can be salvaged — by covering it all up. Bandage it ‘till it stands on its own.

“I’ll try not to.”

Shanks smiles his knowing smile, the one you might hate even more than the others, because it feels like he’s telling you he sees right through you. Feels like he can plant his eyes so deep down your ribcage he’s able to see your soul along with a reflection of himself. You won’t.

Then you remember.

“Your shirt!” You blurt out.

You turn around and reach out to where the shirt lays at the back of the cabin, clean and folded on your bedside table.

“I found it yesterday, someone used it as a rag- I guess they were drunk. I washed it.”

You don’t know if it’s Shanks’ favorite shirt, but it’s the one you see him in most often. You’d personally hate to go on a long trip without the one piece of clothing you feel most comfortable in.

Shanks holds one hand out, his palm facing you.

“It’s fine. I’ll leave it here. I’m trusting you with it.”

“You’re not taking it?”

“No.” He turns around and opens the door, already on his way out.

You suddenly feel like there’s sand slipping through your fingers, and it makes you uneasy. Maybe you should kneel down and salvage what you can, gather it and never let it go again.

For now though, you just watch as Shanks’ cloak follows after him, exiting the room airily before the door closes. You just stand there for a few seconds, eyes on the wooden wall.

You wait some more, then your legs start moving towards the exit of the cabin. Outside, the air feels crisp. Shanks is leaving with summertime.

You step on the deck, walking to the top of the stairs. Although he’s taking his time, he’s already reached the last one. He turns to look at you. He almost looks like a stranger like this, though he’s dressed like he usually is.

His bag hanging off of one shoulder, legs slightly parted, back straightened, he stands tall and proud. He feels warm and too far away. You’re starting to get cold.

“I’m not taking it so you won’t have an excuse to avoid me when I’m back.” He speaks from down the stairs, and you realize how new it feels to hear his voice from afar.

How used you were to him standing directly next to you, or in front of you — closer.

He almost looks like a stranger like this, because you’d never felt this way while seeing him off before. But he certainly doesn’t feel like one. He feels warm and too far for you to catch. But Shanks is strong, and clever, and there’s no reason for you to worry. Still—

“Be sure to be back soon, then. I might take it with me when I throw myself in a fire.”

He smiles yet another one of his smiles, only this time, it’s rarer. It’s the one that makes you feel like your heart is stretching in sync with his lips. So warm it makes you remember why you even got this close to the sun in the first place, makes your burns awake and tingling all over.

You know the seas are wide and unforgiving, you know they take and they swallow without a second thought. You know how cold, how scary, how lonely it gets. You’ve experienced it. But—

Shanks is strong. So strong he can rival with this infinite void. So warm he can laugh you both past it. So there was never a goodbye spoken between the two of you. And you plan on keeping it that way.

[fjitora]

pairing : shanks x gn! reader

a/n : reader getting drunk and… messy? | wc : 700

—

Your hand closes on the shirt and you feel its material crumple between your fingers. Still, your palm feels empty. So you try again, grabbing a bigger chunk of cloth, paying attention to the feeling in your hand. Not enough. Maybe you don’t want the shirt.

“What are you trying to do here?”

What a pretty voice, you think. I like the voices in my head.

You smile to yourself, giggling a little. Then you look at the man standing in front of you. You’ve seen him before. Tall, broad, tan. Red-hair, devastating smile, awfully radiant. And awfully close. When did he get so close?

“Why are you so close?” you ask, seeming genuinely confused.

The words didn’t come out like you thought they would. They sounded slow, and slurred.

Shanks chuckles.

“Okay, I didn’t know you had that much wine.”

“I didn’t have that much.”

He looks at the glass bottle at your feet and almost sighs in relief when he sees it knocked over on the floor, all remaining liquor now forming a dark red puddle on the wooden deck.

“Y’know if you wanted my shirt, you could’ve just said so.”

Your brain takes a few seconds to register the words. When it’s done, you frown.

“I don’t want your shirt.” You mutter in a rather childish way. “Smells like you.”

He laughs. It’s irritating and beautiful.

“Okay, so give it back, will ya?”

You frown a second time. Your hand moves before your brain does, and you feel it letting go of something. When you glance down to see where it was, you see the piece of crumpled shirt.

The white shirt. That was just in your hand. You look back up.

“Oh. Sorry.” Still kind of childish, and a little bashful.

“‘S okay. So, tell me…” Shanks crouches down to make his face level with yours. “Do you often hear my pretty voice in your head?”

“What?”

“You just said my voice was pretty.”

You look at him, perplexed.

“No.”

He chuckles. It’s annoying. And also beautiful.

“Yes. You must be used to my voice being in your head then.”

“No. And well, yeah.”

The red-haired man looks surprised. He didn’t expect this answer.

“Yeah?”

“You have the same voice as my captain. What kind of pirate would I be if my captain’s voice wasn’t imprinted in my brain?”

You explained this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Shanks looks at you for a few seconds before exploding in laughter.

You frown for the third time. Your eyebrows are starting to hurt. You look at the man, who’s still laughing, and wonder what his problem is.

“Oh yeah? What do I say?” He says after having calmed down.

“Not you, dummy! My captain!” You exclaim before continuing.

“And I often hear him say the things he usually says, y’know ‘fold the sails!’ — you try to take an authoritarian voice to imitate your captain —, ‘we’re casting off!’, ‘more booze!’, ‘cause these are things he always says.”

Shanks smiles, looking amused.

“But sometimes it’s just…”

You look down on your folded knees.

“Like, ‘good morning’, or ‘what do you want for breakfast?’. I don’t know. ‘S weird.”

His smile softens.

“It is weird. Ever thought of getting your head checked?”

He puts his pointer finger just above your right ear.

“Might be really bad, y’know.”

Shanks really tries not to tease you. He does. But before he can say anything else, he feels something tugging at his shirt. Looking down, he sees your hand, doing the same thing it had done just before : gripping his shirt, letting go, then gripping some more.

“That tickles. You sure you don’t want my shirt?”

“Yeah. I just… I don’t know. Don’t move.”

The feeling in your hand still isn’t enough : everytime you grab the shirt, you feel like something is missing. Maybe you don’t want the shirt. You want the warmth.

And Shanks isn’t used to seeing you like this at all, but still, he lets you crumple his shirt and pull him towards you, and he stays crouched down next to you. He lets you borrow some of his warmth.

“Careful now, your captain might get jealous.”

[fjitora]

pairings : shanks x gn! reader

a/n : well… here’s another short shanks fic | wc : 1.2k

—

Your eyes had just opened and everything went to shit already.

You felt like someone was screaming inside of your head and you had cramps all over your body, especially on your legs. You also felt a bit nauseous, and as you let your body wake up, trying to feel if there was any part of it that didn’t feel horrible, you wondered : has anyone ever felt this angry this early after waking up?

Your vision was still blurry when you rolled on your side and caught a glimpse of bright red, so close to you it almost tickled your nose.

You squinted your eyes.

Bright red…

Carefully, you sat up straight, trying to spare yourself from an even bigger headache. You squinted even more, at this point almost shutting your eyes.

Bright red…

Was your body so damaged your brain decided to signal it to you by making this bright shade of red magically appear at random? Unlikely.

Then your vision cleared. Bright red all over the pillow next to yours. Bright red now moving, slowly departing from the pillow and rising up to reach your level.

Bright red … hair? On a head? On a human body?

The human body you did not want to see this early in the morning, especially when you felt like this?

As your eyes finally started functioning like they were supposed to, you were greeted by Shanks, proud owner of the red hair that almost made you question your grasp of reality, and captain of the ship you found yourself on.

Well, you weren’t exactly greeted by Shanks, as his back — shirtless, bandaged and muscled — was facing you.

You wonder if the person you were last night found it as enticing as you do right now, which could explain most of your cramps and help with some of your memory problems.

You really hope there’s another explanation to this.

“You tryin’ to burn a hole through me?”

You forgot the walking problem sitting in front of you could talk. And you can hear the smirk in his gravelly voice, his morning voice. Slightly deeper than usual, and the words he spoke were a little lazy, a little slurred.

“I’m trying to guess which one of us fucked up.”

A slight head turn. A glimpse of the left side of his face. A smirk and a hum.

“I mean, I wouldn’t call this fucking up.”

“So it was you.”

He puts a shirt on, an actual tee-shirt, not his usual unbuttoned white shirt. You don’t mind the change.

The red-haired man stands up, and you’re reminded what a tall and broad problem he is as he fully faces you. You feel like the room has shrieked, and everything in it is gravitating towards him. That might just be you.

“And good morning to you too!”

He flashes you his signature easygoing, nothing-bad-could-ever-happen-ever smile, and you make sure he knows just by looking at your face that nothing about this morning is good.

You turn around to look through the small window at the back of the cabin. Were your head not pounding like it was trying to kill you from inside, you think this actually could’ve been a beautiful morning. The rising sun was kind enough to bless the ship with some of its golden beams, and when filtering through the glass window, they appear almost crystalline. Divine even, yet they look like they belong amidst the very human mess that crowds the cabin you’re in right now.

The very human mess being scattered papers, pens and clothes, coffee mugs turned cold at the edge of a wooden desk, crumpled sheets and many, many questions.

So you put the cold coffee mug on the desk, sit down, and start trying to make sense of this.

“What- put some pants on, please. What are you doing here?”

To your surprise, Shanks obliges without a word, reaching down to grab his pants and put them on with a slight smirk plastered to his face.

Once again standing straight, he looks right back at you.

“You know I would never invite myself in your bed.”

“Well I would never invite you in my bed either, so what happened?”

He barks out a laugh. The tall and broad and disheveled red-haired man standing in front of you laughs, like he always does. Beautiful sight. He also belongs with the divine sunbeams and the messy human things. Your headache still intensifies at the sound though. This could’ve been such a beautiful morning.

“You drank last night.” He starts.

“Too much. I took you here. I stayed the night.”

By being so matter-of-factly, it felt like he was telling you there was nothing to worry about. Had something more happened between you, you assume he would’ve been way more teasing about it, so you relax a bit.

“Did I… ask you to stay?” He can probably hear the hint of anxiety in your voice.

Shanks smiles, but not in the way he often does. It’s softer than usual.

You didn’t really give me a choice, he says internally, thinking back to last night.

•

This is new, Shanks thinks as he lets you down gently on the bed.

‘This’ being you drinking enough to start feeling sick and him carrying you to your cabin. Although, you drinking at all was pretty unexpected already. Did something happen? He had a hard time believing you’d just start drinking, especially this much, simply because you felt like it.

As he was slowly retrieving his arm from its supporting stance under your head, you changed positions to make yourself more comfortable. You went from laying on your back to laying on your side, facing him, one folded leg over the other, turning your head to make your forehead rest on his wrist.

You seemed to find pillows made of rough, scar-littered skin and human flesh more comfortable than actual ones. Shanks’ mouth formed a round shape as his eyebrows raised in surprise.

I see you’re trying to hold me hostage, he mused, smiling.

And really, who was he not to comply with your whims?

So he laid next to you in bed, his arm supporting your head, and he wondered what would make you, of all people, put yourself in such a state, and if it could be fought with his strength or with his Emperor status, or if his arm under your head and his eyes watching over you were enough.

•

“Don’t worry, you’re a calm drunk.” Shanks now told you, still standing in front of you.

That reassured you a bit. You were hoping he wasn’t going to tell you that you made a fool of yourself while drunk.

None of this explains the cramps on your legs, or how Shanks’ pants came off, but you don’t feel like asking.

Shanks heads towards the door, looking back at you just before exiting the cabin.

“You can keep my shirt. I like it better on you.”

You frowned and looked down at your chest. An unbuttoned white shirt was sitting on your shoulders, unmistakably Shanks’ white shirt as it was floating around your form, material so light you almost felt shirtless.

How perfectly fitting here amidst the divine sunbeams giving it a golden glow, and the empty coffee mug sitting on the wooden desk, and the tall and broad and somewhat intoxicating red-haired problem that just escaped the cabin.

[fjitora]

pairings : shanks x gn! reader

a/n : going crazy for shanks rn! need to get him off my mind so here’s something (also first fic on here) | wc : 800

—

Not fair. Not fair.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough for Shanks to get under your skin, he also had to be inside it, pumping through your veins, filling your head and all of your senses with his presence, his scent, his touch.

This is so unfair, you thought, and that was pretty much the only thought your brain could formulate at the moment. Your mind played these four words, a breathless complaint, over and over. Like a chant, like you were waiting for something to save you from this, although the last thing you’d want right now is to be saved.

Both your sharp brain and tongue were long forgotten as Shanks trailed light kisses along your jaw, until he reached your sensitive spot and started nipping at it. Your hand went from his chest to his hair to grab a handful and pull softly, then more harshly, which earned you a low growl.

With his thumb on your chin, he lowered your head to look down at him and he detached his lips from your neck to meet your lips, the kiss hungry and demanding. He wanted more of you, more of this, more.

You knew Shanks had the potential to wreck you the first time you saw him. In that moment, the only question you asked yourself was : would you let him do it ? And you always liked to think that you wouldn’t, that you were better than this, stronger than this. The past year certainly has been one of self-discovery for you.

And well, you might discover even newer and dumber parts of yourself tonight, because now Shanks is talking to you, speaking likely filthy words against your lips, and your brain is so scrambled you don’t get any of it.

You use the hand that’s still in his hair to pull his head back a little, parting your lips from his.

“What?” You ask, panting softly.

And of course, the red-haired wolf whose lap you’re straddling starts grinning, a slow grin that tells you he’s absolutely loving this.

Slow and careful, his right hand goes through your hair, gathering a handful, twirling it then putting it behind your shoulder before interrogating you almost innocently.

“Weren’t you listening?”

The same hand then cups your face and tightens his hold just a little, slightly squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.

“I’d hate to think your attention’s being taken away from me.” The sound of his voice, the words he speaks, the tender way in which he adresses you all make your insides sizzle. So very unfair.

His lips direct themselves at your earlobe then start biting softly. His voice speaks directly into your ear, his breath a sweet breeze on the side of your face, so warm it burns through your skin to reach your brain and make it melt.

“What do I need to do to make you focus on me?”

You exhale slowly as if to keep control, though you know that any sense of control you once had on the situation is now completely gone. Shanks smiles and his gaze falls upon you, and right then you think you could never hide anything from these eyes, that if you did – if you so much as tried – they would come pick you apart and find it anyway.

“Talk to me, beautiful.”

It’s unfair, really. By now your neuronal functions are so mushy you don’t even know what to say to him. But you know he’s waiting for you.

“What do you want from me, Shanks?” is all you find to say. You didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but you don’t think he cares anyway.

As his nose caresses your neck, you can hear him hum in response, the sound of it so low you almost didn’t catch it. And then he inhales, taking his time in doing so as if to breathe you in entirely and cage your scent in his veins. Scattering little pecks on your throat, your chin, your lower lip, his answers comes muttered in between your lips.

“Everything you’re willing to give me.”

He’s trying to be good. Greedy pirates like him don’t ask for permission to take what they set their eyes on. But he takes your word, your boundaries and chooses to make them his.

That’s when you stop thinking this is simply unfair. Despite the fog in your mind, you start relishing his attention, and his eyes, and his hands — all of it — on you. There’s a whole world outside, a whole world that fears this particular shade of red hair and these broad shoulders, these fierce eyes and these rough hands.

You value the moments where all of this belongs to you. Greedy pirates like you will take whatever they can get.