Conservative Christans are a virus in their own way
Listen to women, especially women of color
Everyone's mental health matters
Fuck capitalism for trapping the world in this endless cycle
Fuck ICE
Free speech is a given right
No body is illegal on stolen land
Censorship of any kind is bad in some way
AI should never ever be in spaces where it shouldn't, especially creative ones
AI users are lazy
If you want to protect the children from things on the Internet, enforce parental controls
The healthcare system is so fucking unfair
Everything, everything, traces back to white supremacy
Eat the rich
Make those who are supposed to make us scared, terrified (the kkk, politicians, men, etc.)
Community is everything
It is that damn phone
No one should own any type of firearm
Fuck 12
Fuck aesthetics
Anything and everything is political to someone
There are ways to end hunger, homelessness and such crisis(especially?)
Politicians work for the people not for themselves
Any rape or sexual assault case should end up with the assaulter in jail for life, death, or circumcision(if it applies)
Separate religion from education and state(if you want your child to have religious based education enroll them in such school(s), Christian schools exist)
Trans women are women and trans men are men
The LGBTQIA+ community and it's people should be treated as any other regular person
The lack of accommodations and support for disabled people is disgusting
Not all aspects of culture are meant to be shared
To continue living, we need to save the fucking planet
Nepotism ruins every career and opportunity
Ban guns
This list will be growing, I can guarantee you. But if you follow me or we're mutuals read this and understand.
I'm going on another hiatus. Another one? Yes, another one. Why? Because my mental health has taken a dive, like it attached an anvil to itself and tossed itself off of Niagara Falls. I tried to convince myself that I was ready to come back, but it was easier said than done. I feel like I'm drowning, like someone took my soul out with a rusty spoon. But more importantly, I'm tired. Very very tired, not sleep wise unfortunately.
So, I'm gone. I'll be outta here by next Saturday tops. I'm going to try to take up journaling, cause I can't afford therapy at the moment. Who knows? Maybe it's summer depression or maybe it's regular depression or maybe I just need cheesecake? Who knows but I do know this. I don't know when I'm coming back, not even a clue. So, for my moots, please please message me so that I can send you my other account where I'll most likely be more active than here. To my followers, I'm sorry for leaving you.
I wouldn't say that I stan anyone personally, as stan means one being extremely devoted to something or someone. But I guess I'd say that I stan Ateez, P1harmony, Xikers, Nmixx, Stray Kids, and Xlov. You can say that I'm a multistan.
Hello 👋! This is my first time putting a request for anyone so I do apologize if anything seems unclear. I would like an usopp x reader, preferably fluff with a little crack or fluffy comfort(towards usopp). Reader is a strawhat they're recovering after a big fight and reader got hurt. Usopp is dealing with the guilt of not being brave enough to prevent reader from getting hurt, which leaves usopp to distance himself from reader. Then reader is hurt and wants to know why, they kiss, they make up. They both promise to make sure to be brave for one another and for themselves. It's okay if you don't want to do this request it's perfectly fine but thank you for reading this anyway! I enjoy your fics too
—YOU DIDN'T FAIL ME—
PAIRING: Usopp x reader WORD COUNT: 2.5K WC: Injury's/physical harm, guilt, emotional comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, kissing and post-battle trama OPHELIA'S NOTE: Thank you for the idea, i hope i wrote it just the way you wanted.
The first thing you’re aware of is the familiar, gentle sway of the Thousand Sunny, cradling you in its rhythmic embrace. The second thing is the ache—a deep, throbbing pulse that seems to radiate from your ribs, your shoulder, down your left side. It’s a dull, insistent reminder, wrapped in the clean scent of antiseptic and fresh linen. You blink against the soft light filtering through the porthole of the infirmary, your vision swimming into focus on the wooden ceiling beams
“Ah, you’re awake! Good!”
Chopper’s cheerful, relieved voice cuts through the fog. He’s perched on a stool beside your bed, his little hooves adjusting a thermometer. He pulls it free and squints at it. “Temperature is normal! That’s a great sign!”
Before you can croak out a greeting, the door opens, and Sanji sweeps in with a tray, a heavenly aroma preceding him. “For our most precious patient,” he sings, his eyes morphing into hearts before he regains his composure, setting the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of steaming, fragrant soup sits there, chunks of vegetables and tender meat visible. “A restorative broth. You need to rebuild your strength.”
You try to sit up, a sharp twinge in your side making you wince. “What… what happened?” you manage, your voice raspy.
Chopper’s expression turns serious, his big eyes filled with professional concern. “We got into a big fight with that Marine Commodore at the last island, remember? The one with the chain-fruit powers. You took the brunt of his final attack shielding Nami and Usopp from a direct hit. You’ve got two cracked ribs, severe bruising all along your left flank, and a concussion. You’ve been out for a while.”
As if summoned, Nami peeks into the room, her face lighting up when she sees your open eyes. “Oh! You’re awake! Thank goodness.” She steps inside, her movements gentle. “We were all so worried.”
“How long was I sleeping?” you ask, accepting the spoon Sanji is insistently trying to hand you.
Sanji answers, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wrist. “Only for a day. Chopper here gave you a strong anesthetic to keep you under so your body could focus on healing without you moving around and making it worse.”
“Oh,” you murmur, taking a tentative sip of the broth. It’s delicious, warming you from the inside out. But your mind, clearing from the medicinal haze, immediately snags on one absence. One very specific, long-nosed absence. You look around the infirmary as if expecting him to materialize from a corner.
“Where’s Usopp?” you ask.
A subtle, almost imperceptible shift passes between Sanji, Chopper, and Nami. A shared glance, a slight hesitation. It lasts only a second.
Nami is the one who speaks, her tone breezy, too breezy. “He’s in his room. Probably tinkering with his gadgets. You know how he gets after a fight—just tired.”
You do know how he gets. He usually gets loud, recounting his (exaggerated) part in the battle, or he’s buzzing with nervous energy, checking on everyone, especially you. Not hiding away.
“Is everything okay?” you ask, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth.
“Everything’s fine!” Chopper says, a little too quickly.
“Perfectly fine,” Sanji echoes, blowing out a stream of smoke.
“Just peachy,” Nami adds with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
It’s the unified front that confirms it. Something is wrong. You set the spoon down with a soft clink. “I need to see him.”
You push the covers back, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. A fresh wave of pain lances through your ribs, and you suck in a sharp breath
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy!” Sanji is at your side in an instant, a steadying hand under your elbow as you stand. The world tilts for a second before righting itself.
Chopper scurries in front of you, his hooves raised. “Wait! You’ve just woken up! You need rest!.
“I know,” you say, your gaze fixed on the door. “I’ll rest after I speak to Usopp.”
You walk out of the infirmary, ignoring the protests behind you. The corridor of the Sunny feels longer than usual. Each step sends a dull ache through your side, but you brush it aside, focusing on the door to the men’s quarters. You raise your hand and knock.
A beat of silence. Then, “Come in.”
His voice sounds… flat.
You push the door open. Usopp is sitting on the edge of his hammock, not tinkering, not drawing, just staring at his hands in his lap. The sight of him, safe and whole, makes a relieved smile break across your face despite the pain.
“Hi.”
He jolts as if shocked, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, shadowed. “Y/N! Y-you’re awake!” He scrambles to his feet, his movements awkward.
“Of course I am,” you say softly, taking a step into the room.
But as you get closer, you see it. The way his own smile flickers and dies before it can fully form. The way he won’t quite hold your gaze. He’s not himself. The usual vibrant, expressive energy that is Usopp is dimmed, muted under a layer of something heavy.
“Are you okay?” he asks, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Are you h-”
“I’m fine, silly,” you cut him off gently, closing the distance. You reach out, taking both of his hands in yours. They’re cold. You start fidgeting with his long fingers, a familiar, comforting habit. “A little sore, but your face is all better.” You try for a joke, hoping to see his real smile.
Instead, his face drops further. He looks down at your joined hands as if they burn him.
“Usopp?” you whisper, your own smile fading. You take another small step closer, your ribs protesting. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, finally pulling his hands from yours as if stung. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the door, to the floor, anywhere but at you. “Nothing! I-I’m fine. I just realized I need to go help Luffy with… something. On the deck. Rigging. Or something.”
He’s a terrible liar. Always has been. Your heart gives a painful squeeze.
“Usopp, wait, but—”
“Gotta go now, sorry! So, so busy!” he blurts, and before you can say another word, he sidesteps you and is out the door, leaving it swinging in his wake.
You stand alone in the middle of his room, surrounded by his half-finished inventions and scattered sketches, feeling utterly dumbfounded and cold.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of well-meaning suffocation. Sanji brings you five more meals. Chopper takes your vitals every hour. Nami brings you books and oranges. Luffy bounds in to declare you ‘super tough’ and try to steal your bandages to use as a hat before being dragged out by an exasperated Zoro.
You appreciate it. You do. But your eyes are constantly scanning, searching for a flash of a yellow bandana, the sound of a familiar, boasting laugh.
And every time you find him—across the deck, in the galley—the moment your eyes meet his, he flinches. He turns away. He suddenly finds the rigging fascinating, or he dives into an intense, mumbled conversation with one of his pop greens. He avoids you with a dedication that would be impressive if it didn’t feel like a knife slowly twisting in your gut.
It hurts. It confuses you. What did you do? Did you say something while you were concussed? The uncertainty eats at you worse than the pain in your ribs.
You have enough.
The next morning, you wake up determined. The ache is still there, but it’s a manageable background hum. You dress slowly, carefully, and make your way to the galley for breakfast. The chatter and clatter of cutlery greets you. And there he is, at the far end of the table, shoveling food into his mouth with unusual intensity.
Your focus locks onto him immediately.
He must feel it. He pauses, peeks over his bowl, and sees you standing in the doorway. His eyes go wide with something like panic before he ducks his head again, using his bowl as a shield.
You roll your eyes, the frustration boiling over. You walk into the room, your path a straight line toward him.
You’re halfway there when Usopp suddenly shoots to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. All conversation stops. Everyone looks at him.
“I—I just remembered! I have… uh… important sniper maintenance! Very crucial! Can’t be late!” he announces to the table at large, his voice pitched too high.
He doesn’t look at anyone as he speed-walks out of the galley.
Zoro, who had been dozing against the wall, cracks one eye open. “Since when did he ever have anything to do?” he mutters.
That’s all the confirmation you need. You turn on your heel and follow him out.
“Usopp!” you call down the sunny deck.
He doesn’t stop, pretending not to hear, making a beeline for the stairs to the lower deck.
“Usopp!” you call again, more forcefully, picking up your pace. The twinge in your side flares, but you ignore it.
He reaches the stairs and starts descending. You’re at the top as he hits the bottom. Without thinking, you grab the railing and half-slide down after him, landing on the quieter lower deck just as he’s about to escape into the storage room.
“Usopp, stop!” you demand, and this time you reach out, your fingers closing firmly around his wrist.
He freezes. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t turn around either. His shoulders are tense up to his ears.
“Look at me,” you say, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and frustration.
Slowly, he turns. He still won’t meet your eyes, looking at a point somewhere over your shoulder.
“Why are you doing this?” The words burst out of you. “Why are you avoiding me? Being so… so dismissive? It’s annoying me, Usopp! And it hurts!”
He flinches at your tone. “I’m not… I’m not avoiding you,” he mumbles.
“Don’t!” you snap, stepping closer. The space between you crackles with unsaid things. “Don’t lie to me. Not here. There’s no point. I know I did something to you, and you’re just… you’re just stupidly refusing to tell me what!”
He shakes his head violently, finally looking at you, his eyes full of a anguish that takes your breath away. “It’s not you!” he insists, his voice cracking. “It was never you!”
“Okay,” you scoff, the sound watery. Your own eyes are stinging. “Then why? Why do you keep ignoring me? Why can’t you even look at me?”
The silence stretches between you, filled only with the sound of the waves against the hull and your own unsteady breathing. You watch the war play out on his face—the fear, the guilt, the desperate need to run warring with something else.
He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at your hand still on his wrist. When he speaks again, it’s so quiet you have to lean in to hear.
“I… I couldn’t do anything.”
You blink. “What?”
“When that chain came for you and Nami,” he whispers, the words spilling out now like a dam breaking. “I saw it. I saw it coming. And I… I froze. My legs just locked. My voice got stuck in my throat. I was so scared. And you… you pushed us out of the way and took it.” He finally meets your eyes, and his are shining with unshed tears. “You got hurt because I wasn’t brave enough. Because I’m not brave enough.”
He pulls his wrist from your grasp to gesture helplessly. “All I could do was watch. And then afterwards… seeing you lying there so still… I thought…” His voice breaks completely. “I feel so guilty. Every time I look at you, I just see my own failure. So I thought… if I just stayed away… maybe it wouldn’t hurt you so much. Maybe I wouldn’t be a reminder of how I let you down.”
Your heart doesn’t just melt; it shatters and reforms all in an instant. The anger drains away, replaced by a wave of such fierce tenderness it makes your chest ache more than your ribs ever could.
“Oh, Usopp,” you breathesw.
You step forward, closing the last bit of distance between you. You raise your hands, cupping his face, forcing him to hold your gaze as a single tear tracks through the freckles on his cheek.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” you say, your voice firm and soft all at once. “It was my choice. I saw the danger, and I reacted. That’s what we do for each other.”
“But I was scared—”
“Everyone gets scared!” you interrupt gently, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Everyone. Even Luffy gets scared sometimes. Being brave isn’t about not feeling fear, Usopp. It’s about what you do despite it.”
You search his wide, vulnerable eyes. “You think you failed me? You haven’t. You being here, being my friend… that’s never been a failure.”
He lets out a shaky breath, leaning into your touch almost imperceptibly.
“We’re a team,” you whisper, making a promise there on the quiet lower deck. “We’ll be brave for each other. And we’ll be brave for ourselves. Okay? No more hiding. No more running.”
A small, real smile finally touches his lips—wobbly, hesitant, but real. He brings his own hands up to cover yours where they hold his face.
“Okay,” he whispers back, his voice thick.
You smile, feeling a tear of your own escape. You lean in slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He meets you halfway.
The kiss is soft. A little salty from shared tears. It’s a promise sealed, an apology accepted, a distance closed. It tastes of broth and the sea and the unique, warm scent that is purely Usopp. When you finally pull back, resting your forehead against his, the world feels righted again.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
He lets out a wet laugh, wrapping his arms carefully around you, mindful of your injuries, holding you as if you’re something precious he’d almost lost. “I missed you too. I’m sorry I was an idiot.”
“You were,” you agree softly, snuggling into his embrace, the last of the pain fading into the background. “But you’re my idiot.”
A.nd for the first time since you woke up, with the sun warming the deck and his heart beating steady against yours, you both finally feel like you’re truly recovering.
Summary : You think someone has been following you. You were right.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Antihero! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger who has a prior relationship with Dex, morally grey characters, freak4freak. Sub!Dex and he has a praise kink. mutual obsession, stalking, mentions of violence, consensual but morally complex sexual dynamics, nudity. Ava and Yelena has a cameo! (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 6.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : It's my first time writing for Dex and of course it’s a Freak4Freak. The title is inspired by a line from the song Candy by Paolo Nutini. Enjoy!
The bar was alive, bathing you in violet lights while the bass was heavy enough to settle in your ribs. The sound of pool balls cut clean through the noise every few seconds. It smelled like cheap alcohol, citrus, and rusted metal.
You leaned over the table, lining up a shot you weren’t fully concentrating on, while Yelena paced slowly behind you like a critic waiting to tear you apart.
“If you miss this,” she said, voice dry, “I will revoke your right to hold that cue ever again.”
After all, it was you and Yelena against Ava, for lack of a fourth person. You just figured you’d take turns on a 2 v 1.
“Whatever,” you muttered, squinting down the line.
From the other side, Ava clicked her tongue softly, already unimpressed. “Just take the goddamn shot.”
You did.
The ball clipped the edge. It was close, but not enough, as it veered off uselessly.
Yelena made a satisfied sound. “Embarrassing.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” you laughed, straightening, heat in your face. “You’re both insufferable.”
“At least we are skilled,” Yelena shot back.
Ava smirked. “We?”
Girl’s night out with your new teammates had been fun. It had kept you distracted for months, and for a second, you had a taste of normalcy.
Only for a second, though.
“Okay, fine,” you said, grabbing your drink and leaning back against the table. “If we’re ranking insufferable, can we talk about the team?”
Yelena’s ears perked up immediately, like a puppy hearing the word snack. “Yes. We can always talk about this.”
“Thank you!” You exclaimed, rolling your shoulders from the strain last week’s mission gave you. A couple of rogue mercs in the Atlantic, but it was nothing you weren’t used to. “I have been dying to talk about how much John yapped during yesterday’s meeting.”
Ava snorted from the other side of the table, chalking her cue. “He does love the sound of his own voice.”
Yelena scoffed, crossing her arms. “At least he has a voice. Bucky just sulks in corners like a depressed statue.”
“And Bob—” Ava started.
“Oh, Bob is trying,” you said quickly, laughing. “We’re not dragging Bob.”
“Fine,” Ava allowed. “But Alexei...”
Yelena straightened immediately, eyes narrowing. “No. No one shit talks my papa.”
You raised a brow. “You do.”
Yelena waved her off. “It is different. When I do it, it comes from a place of love.”
You laughed again, shaking your head, warmth settling in your chest. The noise and banter grounded you. It kept things simple.
For a second, it almost felt like you could forget that feeling.
That sinking feeling like a silk ribbon pulling tight behind your ribs that someone was watching.
Your smile lingered a second too long as your eyes drifted, not enough for Ava or Yelena to notice, but enough that you were already scanning the perimeter. You clocked in every person, every door, every exit point.
Nothing.
It was early in the evening after all, maybe twelve other customers in the bar? If anyone was looking too long or out of place, it would be painfully obvious.
Still, you didn’t fully relax.
It wasn’t really a sight thing. It was the absence of feeling you couldn’t name. There was a gap in the noise, picked up by the kind of instinct you didn’t learn. You had survived long enough that the skill had carved itself into you subconsciously.
You adjusted your stance slightly, back no longer fully exposed to the room.
Ava was lining up her next shot. Yelena was mid-rant about John’s weird breakfast habits, hands moving as she talked.
Right. You must be imagining things.
Because if it was real, if someone was actually watching, you wouldn’t be the only one noticing it. Yelena and Ava were two of the best field agents you knew. They were stealth specialists, they would know, right?
You exhaled slowly, forcing your grip on the glass to loosen.
This was just stupid fucking paranoia. You chalked it up to a residual instinct you hadn’t shaken since before the team.
Besides, who the hell would be dumb enough to stalk three former assassins in a Soho bar?
No one, you concluded. At least, no one that wanted to live.
But still, your eyes flicked once more toward the mirror behind the bar.
And for the briefest moment, you could’ve sworn you weren’t alone in it.
—
By the time the three of you finally stepped out into the night, it was nearly two in the morning.
It had been a good night, and it turned out to be a loud one.
As it got later and more crowded, a handful of guys had circled in and out of the group. They were the only downside to the evening, as they were all too confident, too curious, too annoying. One had tried to lean over your shot like that would impress you. Another had slid a drink toward you without asking, already expecting a yes.
You hadn’t given either of them much more than a flat no before they could even try again.
Ava had noticed. Yelena had enjoyed it.
“‘You look like trouble,’” Yelena repeated now, her voice dripping with mockery as you all slowed on the sidewalk. “What does that even mean?”
“It means he thought he was being original,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.
“It means he was idiot,” Yelena corrected.
Ava huffed a laugh. “The second one was worse.”
You groaned. “Don’t.”
“‘Can I buy you a drink?’” Ava mimicked, glancing at you. “While you were literally holding one.”
Yelena nodded, delighted. “And you just...” she made a dismissive flicking motion with her hand, “…’no.”
You shrugged, unable to help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Anything more entertaining,” Ava said.
“I’m not here to entertain them,” you shot back.
“No,” Yelena agreed, eyeing you knowingly. “You are here to intimidate them.”
You snorted. “Please.”
Ava tilted her head slightly, studying you. “So what would work?”
You tilted your head. “What?”
“You shut them down so fast,” she pointed out, “there’s gotta be a reason.”
“They’re…” you shrugged as you passed a street lamp. You had to be very careful of what you say next. “…just not my type.”
Ava scoffed. There were a couple of men that seemed genuinely nice that you didn’t have a second look at. And she knew it wasn’t about looks, you weren’t that shallow. “And that is…?”
Yelena lit up immediately. “Oh, I know.”
You groaned, bracing for whatever over-the-top assumption she was gonna make. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, stepping in front of you like she was presenting a case. “Girl like you?” She pointed vaguely. “You like… how you say… pet psychopath.”
You barked out a laugh. “A what?”
“Pet psychopath,” she repeated confidently. “Someone unhinged.” She crossed her arms. “I think you like reigning them in. You keep them on leash.”
Ava snorted. “I can see that, actually.”
You rolled your eyes hard, walking past her. “Sure.”
“Am I wrong?” Yelena pressed.
You didn’t answer, and didn’t want to.
They didn’t know much about your past love life. Not the full story, not even half of it, to realise her statement wouldn’t fit neatly into a joke.
So you let them have it. Let them speculate, let them laugh. It was easier that way.
As you reached an intersection, you stopped.
“I’m heading home,” you said after a moment, checking the time out of habit. Sure, you lived part-time in the tower now, but you still kept your apartment. Rent control, you’d say. That, and just in case shit hits the fan with the team. “Got some paperwork to finish. I’ll be back for briefing tomorrow.”
Yelena made an exaggerated, offended sound. “Again with paperwork.”
You chuckled but said nothing.
Ava narrowed her eyes on you. “If you are lying and just want to avoid us, we’ll know.”
“Noted,” you said, already stepping back.
Yelena crossed her arms, muttering something under her breath before sighing dramatically. “Fine. Go. Be boring.”
You smiled faintly. “Night,” you said as you waved, watching the disappear into little dots in the distance, heading for the safety of the watchtower.
—
You walked on autopilot, familiar turns and cracked sidewalks guiding you home. And still, even now, the feeling was there. You were either experiencing a psychotic break or someone was following you just beyond the edges of perception, and based on experience, you knew that neither thing was preferable to the other.
You scanned your surroundings, checking darkened windows, reflections, and passing figures.
Nothing.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. You were an Avenger. You’d handled worse than a vague, creeping sense of being watched, worse than a few idiots at a bar.
When you got to your door, you didn’t have to look to open it like muscle memory. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have as you turned the key in the door.
This place has always been your apartment, ever since you moved to New York. No one else’s.
Yet he had stayed over, he slept over, he left traces of himself behind like a stubborn echo. He was the only one you ever let in your oh-so-sacred personal space.
You shoved the door open and stepped inside, shedding your coat. The noise of the city outside leaked through the cracked windows, and for a moment, everything felt… familiar.
Still, you looked over to see the couch he’d sprawled across. To your right was the imperceptible dent he had left on the wall where he’d leaned too hard one night. To your left was one of his shoes you never bothered to throw away.
You dropped your bag by the entrance, kicking off your own shoes.
Again, you’d told people, often, that you kept this apartment because of rent control. Truthfully, it was the excuse that stuck, but you knew better.
It had never been about the money. It was the memories, the spaces he had inhabited, however briefly. The way the apartment had felt alive when he was there, chaotic in the worst possible way, and you still couldn’t shake that feeling off.
You dropped onto the couch, letting the silence settle. You were safe here. You should feel safe here.
But even as you sank into the cushions, that thread of unease from earlier hadn’t gone away. You shook your head. Not real. Not real!
“Fuck,” you whispered out loud, before reaching for the stack of bills on the counter. If you said you were going to do paperwork, you were gonna do paperwork.
You were not a liar.
…Anymore.
—
You had peace for exactly thirty-two minutes. Thirty-two whole, perfect minutes where you could pretend that nothing from the past could touch you.
And then came the knock.
It was insistent. Every muscle in your body tensed before your brain even caught up. That rhythm was familiar, though your brain refused to supply who it was.
Whoever it was kept knocking, and they were knocking right out of your apartment door— which meant they either had the ability to pick the lock or they live in the building.
Was it Yelena or Ava? Did you accidentally take their access card in your bag? Was it your lovely old neighbor Mr. Finch? Did he want to borrow a bit of sugar again?
Still, you walked over. Your fingers hovering over the doorknob. A part of you screamed not to, that this was a trap, that this was your instinct telling you that whoever was on the other side of that door, was the one behind your uneasy feeling all night.
But you opened it anyway.
And standing there, bruised and a little bloodied, was Dex.
He had that sheepish, boyish grin tugging at the edges of his lips. Blood streaked across his cheek, fabric torn in places. He wasn’t injured enough to be dying, and certainly not enough to warrant your panic, but enough to make your stomach drop.
“No. Absolutely not,” you said, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
You should’ve known. You should have known if anyone were to stalk you, it would be him.
You could hear him chuckle on the other side, infuriatingly familiar. You pressed your back against the door, forcing your shoulders to relax, telling yourself you were an Avenger. You could handle this. You could.
Five minutes later, there was a second knock. This time at your window, the one opening onto the fire escape.
It was an annoying little tap tap tap, and he just wouldn’t stop.
You should tell him to fuck off. You should tell him that this was insane, that whatever part of him was out there bleeding, emotionally or physically, was not your problem.
You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, muttering, “Get lost, Dex.”
But he was there, balancing effortlessly on the fire escape like he’d done a thousand times before, body backlit by the moonlight. His grin was infuriatingly boyish, arrogant in a way that made your heart beat quicker. “Kicking me out of my own apartment?” he asked, muffled through the glass.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “It was never yours. You just… slept over.”
His eyes looked to the side, smirking. “Huh. That’s why you still keep my old clothes in the drawer?”
“Fuck. off,” you said, drawing the curtains shut. Even as you did it, your chest felt tight, your stomach twisting, because you knew. You knew you’d never really stopped letting him in.
Your hand hesitated over the fabric of the curtains.
A part of you knew you shouldn’t. A part of you was angry at yourself for even considering it. And yet, you knew you wanted it. You wanted him.
You knew he could just break in, that he didn’t need your permission to go in. But he wanted it. He wanted your approval, he craved it, he fed off it.
Cussing yourself, you opened the curtains and window again and gave him exactly what he wanted, cold air rising into your heated space.
Almost surprised, he stepped inside. Your chest tightened as you let him in. You hated how your body betrayed you, how your mind scrambled for rationality while your instincts leaned forward, wanting to be close to him.
“This is a bad idea,” you said, more to yourself than to him.
“Is it?” he asked, just close enough that you could feel his breath on your neck.
You didn’t answer. And in that charged silence, in the small space of your apartment, you could feel him watching you. It should be sinister. It should be uncomfortable. But instead, your twisted mind thought it was flattering.
As you forced yourself to look at him, it became obvious that the cuts weren’t just superficial. Bruises darkened under his shirt, his hands trembled slightly as he ran them along his sides, and the faint hitch in his breath told you he’d been pushing himself a bit too far and wouldn’t admit it.
“Jesus…” you breathed, stepping closer, eyes wide. “What happened to you?”
He gave a faint shrug, almost casual, and the ghost of that old, nervous grin touched his lips. “Killed a couple of AVTF agents,” he said lightly. “Some of them fought back.”
You blinked, heart lurching. He said it like it was nothing, like it was a joke.
“You’re… in worse condition than I thought,” you said, voice tight, and you guided him to the couch before he could protest. He sat, one arm slung over the backrest.
You knelt in front of him, already tearing open the first strip of gauze from the first aid kit you kept under your coffee table, lifting his shirt up halfway. “Fuck, Dex… you can’t seem to get outta trouble. Killing task force? Come on, I…” Your voice broke off. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say anymore. Protect? Scold? Save?
“You would’ve done the same,” he interrupted, shrugging again, that lazy, self-assured tilt of his head. “Just because you’re part of this reformed antihero bullshit… doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”
A tight ache squeezed your chest.
No, you haven’t. Not really. You were more aware of that than anyone else.
He just smiled at that, like he knew exactly what you were thinking and thrived on it.
You tore another strip of gauze, dabbing at the blood along his side. “Yeah, but you’re doing it in broad daylight,” you said quietly, voice tinged with frustration and disbelief. “I would’ve done them in on the down low.”
There it was, the truth. You hated how much you recognized a piece of yourself in what he’d done.
“That’s my girl,” he said, voice soft but certain, and the possessive smile returned. “You were so good. You would’ve made it seem like a freak accident.”
You rolled your eyes, pressing a little harder than necessary against the gauze at his side. “Don’t start,” you warned.
He hissed faintly at the pressure, but the grin didn’t leave his face. If anything, the pain just made him more present. “You let me in,” he said simply, watching you like that answered everything.
You didn’t look up. “You would’ve broken in.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, tilting his head. “But this is nicer.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing and the city noise bleeding through the window. Then you leaned back slightly, tossing the bloodied gauze aside.
“Agents, Dex,” you said, voice flat. You finally met his eyes. “In the middle of the street? Really subtle. Real low profile.”
“They were sloppy,” he shrugged. “And annoying.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
You finally looked up at him then with a sharp glare. “The point is you’re making noise. And when you make noise, people look. And when people look, they start connecting dots. And when they connect dots—”
“They find me?” he cut in. “Or they find you?”
Your jaw tightened. “You know I don’t care if they find me. You know I can take care of myself.”
His smile flickered dangerously. “You can pretend all you want— with the Avengers, paperwork, with girls' night outs— but you still think like this.” He tapped a finger lightly against your temple, and it felt so tender. He was always tender with you. “Like me.”
You grabbed his wrist, a little too fast, a little too tightly.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his eyes dropped to your grip, then back up to your face, interest settling in.
“See?” he murmured. “There she is.”
You shoved his hand away, standing abruptly. “Shut up.”
But you didn’t step back. You didn’t even put distance between you.
“You’re mad,” he said, pushing himself up despite the injury. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“I’m mad because you’re reckless,” you snapped. “Because you’re stupid enough to think you can just, what? Walk back in here like nothing’s changed?”
“Something hasn't,” he countered, almost joyfully in how much of you has stayed the same.
Your breath hitched. It was barely noticeable, but he caught it.
He stepped closer.
You should’ve moved. You knew you should’ve. Every trained, survival-built instinct you had told you to create space, to regain control, to shut this down before it spiraled.
Instead, you stayed rooted.
“Those agents,” you said quickly, forcing the conversation back into a safer, tactical topic. “Fisk’s getting sloppy if that’s who he’s sending after you.”
That earned a scoff.
“He should’ve adapted by now,” you went on. “Instead, he’s sending uniforms into open streets like it’s gonna end clean.”
Dex smirked. “It didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t,” you agreed, meeting his eyes. “And now you’ve got even more heat on you. Congratulations.”
He didn’t look bothered. If anything, he looked amused.
“Maybe I don’t mind the heat,” he said.
“Yeah?” you shot back. “Because it’s not just you who gets burned.”
That landed in his heart as hard as a plane crash in the middle of a forest. But then his expression shifted again, softer, but in that calculated way he had, like he was choosing exactly which version of himself to show you.
“Maybe I don’t have to be on my own,” he said.
There it was.
You exhaled slowly, already shaking your head before he could even finish the thought. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me pitch it.”
“I know the pitch,” you said flatly. Of course you did. You’d helped write it.
The whole Bonnie-and-Clyde fantasy. You used to breathe it in like a drug you just can’t quit. You used to kiss the shell of his ear, biting his earlobe as you mapped out the idea of the two of you against the world, leaving nothing behind but wreckage of rotting bodies. His hands would roam on your body just the way you liked it, both of you half-drunk on adrenaline and the promise of violence dressed up as devotion.
Back then, it felt inevitable, like there was no version of you that didn’t end up there with him, in the dark, laughing at the fallout.
But you should know better by now.
Clinging back into that fantasy would not only be a disservice to your progress, but also to your friends.
It would be a disservice to Yelena, who was trying to shed her inner child assassin. It would be a disservice to Ava, who was trying to pay back all the things she’s done in search for a cure. To Alexei, who was finally becoming the hero he claimed he was.To Bucky, who was atoning for sins his mind wasn’t even responsible for. To John, who was trying to be a more present father, and to Bob who was simply trying to get clean.
You were trying, too. Maybe not as obviously, but you were. You were dragging yourself, piece by piece, away from that edge.
There was no balance here. No safe middle ground.
If you slipped back into that life, even a little, you wouldn’t just visit it. You’d sink.
If you started killing for sport again, Anti-Vigilante Task Force or otherwise, you can't be sure you’d even want to come back. Not if you were doing it with him.
Your voice came out quieter this time, but steadier for it. “I don’t want that anymore.”
After all that inner turmoil you had, he had the audacity to wink. “Sure.”
You wanted to slap him.
Before you could respond, he reached out quickly, fingers brushing your wrist, then sliding up just enough to feel your familiar pulse. He tilted his head, studying you again like a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
“You miss me,” he said simply.
Your stomach twisted. “No.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You do.”
You stepped into his space before you could stop yourself, grabbing the front of his shirt and pushing him against the wall. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” you snapped.
The impact knocked a breath out of him, but the look on his face?
He looked thrilled, as if your anger, your control, was exactly what he’d been starving for.
“I should put you in the fucking Raft,” you snapped, breathing uneven, your forehead nearly pressing against his. “Get a cell warmed up just for you.”
Dex didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to take it seriously.
Instead, his lips curled crookedly. “Then who’d watch over you?” he murmured, eyes drifting down to your lips before looking back in your eyes. “Who’d take care of you?”
Your grip faltered, just slightly. What? What did he mean by that?
“Who’d be killing the task force for you?” he added, softer now, like it was intimate. Like it was a secret meant only for you.
Your stomach dropped. There were no right words for what you were feeling. Guilt, maybe, for feeling good about it at all.
“…y-you did that for me?” you asked, the words smaller than you meant them to be.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened, just a fraction. In his eyes was the same dangerous devotion threading through everything he did for you.
“I know you’d want to,” he said, looking up at you with wide eyes. “So I did it for you.” He paused, only for a decor. “To prove I’m one of the good guys now.” His eyes flicked over your face, searching, craving. “Like you.”
Your lungs felt twisted in your chest. You did. You wanted to. You’ve argued with Val countless of times, but she said the same thing: it wasn’t good for optics.
“Jesus, Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head, frustration and a little bit of admiration boiling up under your skin. “You’re so… ugh— you’re just so fucking—”
Dex breathed in, those hazel eyes that you adored so much darting anxiously, as if waiting for a final verdict, a final judgement that would make or break his heart.
But that was the problem. You didn’t have a word for him.
There was no clean, clinical label that could contain what he was to you, what he had always been. Obsession felt too shallow, addiction felt too passive, and even love felt too tame.
“Jesus, baby…” you exhaled, not really meaning to call him that again, your grip tightening in his shirt instead of letting go. “You’re so—”
You’re so… wrong? Sick? Familiar?
You made a frustrated sound, that sounded like it belonged somewhere between a laugh and a curse, and before you could stop yourself, before you could talk yourself out of it…
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle or careful by any means. It wasn’t anything you could chalk off as a mistake.
You pushed up onto your toes, dragging him down into it, your mouth crashing into his like you were trying to shut him up, erase him, consume him.
Maybe all three at once.
For a split second, he froze. Not out of hesitation, but out of shock. It was as if he hadn't even expected you to give in first.
It didn’t take long for him to break, though, to melt into you.
His body gave way under your hands, tension unraveling so fast it was almost unsettling. A tiny, almost adorable, wrecked sound slipped from him. His hands came up like instinct, like muscle memory, settling at your waist, splayed over your skin, under your shirt. He did so gently, as if he needed permission even now.
The world knew him as unhinged, uncontrollable, but with you? He folded every time.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt as the kiss deepened, messy and heated, all teeth and tongue and frustration. You could feel the way he leaned into you, not taking, but responding, chasing whatever you gave him like it was oxygen.
And you hated it, because it meant you knew exactly what you were doing to him. It meant you liked it.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips barely leaving his, your forehead brushing his as your chest rose and fell too fast.
“This is—” you started, voice cracked. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have opened that window.”
“But you did,” he whispered, already leaning in again, chasing you without even realizing it.
Your stomach twisted because he was right.
You could lock doors, build distance, join teams, attempt to rewrite your life into a clean slate, but the second he was there, bleeding on your fire escape, looking at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world, you opened it. Every fucking time.
Your hand slid from his collar to his jaw, tracing his raised scar with feather-light touch. “Dex,” you muttered, searching his face like you might finally see something that would make this easier. “You killed them and —what? You call that a favor?”
“If it keeps you safe,” he said simply without a shred of hesitation.
Your chest tightened, air clawing its way up your throat. “I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You let out a shaky breath, your grip loosening for half a second, just long enough to feel that familiar pull. That old gravity that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the parts of you you pretended didn’t exist anymore.
He had never created that darkness. He had just matched it.
“I hate that you think like that,” you said, quieter now.
His eyes softened. “You don’t,” he said. “You just don’t get it yet.”
He made this so unbearable, so inescapable. He saw every ugly, buried instinct you’d tried to outrun, every thought you’d trained yourself to suppress, every violent, intoxicating urge you’d dressed up as restraint.
And instead of being repulsed, like any sane man at the bar would, he loved it.
“Dex…” you started, but there was no argument left in you.
His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, right over your pulse, like he was feeling it race. “You miss me,” he said again.
You should’ve denied it. You should’ve stepped back, shut this down, reminded yourself of everything you’d built without him.
Instead, you leaned in again.
The second kiss wasn’t explosive.
It was worse because it was slower. It was deeper. It wasn’t as careless.
And he broke for it completely.
That same wrecked sigh left him again, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands tightened slightly at your waist just anchoring himself there like you were the only solid object left on earth. Like he’d finally gotten something he’d been starving for.
And the most fucked up part, was that finally, so had you.
No one else ever met you here. No one else had ever met you in the dark, in the contradiction, where wanting something didn’t make it right, but didn’t make it any less real either.
You exhaled against his lips, barely a whisper. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” he breathed back.
Neither of you let go, though.
Before you knew it, space between you collapsed again like it was never meant to exist.
You didn’t remember deciding to move, you just did. Your hands fisted further into his shirt, dragging him with you as you stumbled back toward your bedroom like gravity has shattered and he was the only thing pulling you down.
Dex followed without resistance, like a lost puppy.
There was something almost reverent in the way he let himself be guided, even now, unsteady from blood loss, from exhaustion, from you, but still so focused. Like every nerve in his body was tuned to find you, waiting, anticipating.
You shoved him down onto the bed harder than necessary.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a split second he just looked up at you. His breathing was uneven, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s waiting for a command.
“Look at you,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, chest rising and falling too fast. “You’re so easy.”
His throat bobbed, a fragile look flickering across his face, and it definitely didn’t belong to the man who laughs while bullets fly.
“Yeah?” he breathed.
You climbed over him before he could say anything else, pressing him back into the mattress, your hand sliding up his chest, over the bruises, the bandages you placed.
He hissed at the contact, but didn't dare pull away. If anything, he leaned into it.
“Stay still,” you murmured, but your voice has no real authority left in it.
“I am,” he said quickly, like he needed you to know, like he needed to get it right, to not fuck up this time.
Your fingers caught under the hem of what’s left of his shirt, dragging it up, exposing more of him. He was marked and bruised, and wrecked.
And he still came here. For you.
“You’re a mess,” you whisper.
A small, breathless laugh left him. “You like me like that.”
You said nothing, because you did.
Your nails pressed lightly into his skin as your hands moved over him, mapping his body. You already knew him too well. He responded immediately, back arching just slightly, breath catching, like every touch landed deeper than it should.
“Say it,” he started to beg, almost hesitant. “Please.”
“What?”
“That I’m…” he trailed off, swallowing, suddenly shy. “That I did good.”
There it was, that need.
“Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head. You shouldn’t give it to him, but you wanted to.
“You did good,” you said, unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers. “So good for me, baby.”
And he fell apart. You could feel it in the way his hands tighten at your sides, in the way his breath choked out, in the way his head tipped back against the mattress like he’s overwhelmed by something as simple as your approval.
“Yeah?” he whispered, desperately tugging up your shirt like a cat pawing at his meal. He didn’t stop until your skin was bare, naked, and so… exposed.
“Yeah,” you repeated, your voice lower now, closer, your lips brushing just barely against his jaw as you climbed on to him. “You’re so eager to please, it’s pathetic.”
He let out a broken little sound and didn't even try to hide it.
Your nails dragged down his abdomen as you pressed closer, and he gasped, unfiltered. His fingers clutched at you like he was grounding himself, like he needed physical contact as he toyed with the band of your sweats.
“You want it off, sweetheart?” you murmured against his ear.
“Yes,” he breathed, and it came out too fast, too honest. “Yeah, whatever you want— just—”
He cut himself off with a sharp inhale as your hands tighten again, your nails leaving faint, angry trails down his skin.
“Use your words, baby,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
The room felt too small for the way everything had been building. It was tight, too hot, too full of everything you’ve both been holding back for way too long.
It was messy and desperate in a way that had little to do with the physical and everything to do with the fact that neither of you knew how to want the other halfway.
—
By the time you both came undone, by the time you chased each other’s high, it was already too late to come back down. He lit up all your senses at once, your hands gripping, his breath breaking, your nails dragging down his back as he clung to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And maybe you were.
And after your legs gave out, you collapsed against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, both of you breathing like you’ve just survived it all. Or ruined it. Or both.
His hand came up, resting against your back as you curled into him.
You reached and kissed the corner of his lips, tasting the blood and sweat on his skin. “I’ve missed you.”
All of his neurons lit up in happy colour, like a Christmas tree. It hit him all at once, like a switch flipped behind his eyes. You felt it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his fingers tightened just slightly where they rested against your waists
“You mean that?” he asked.
You hummed, brushing your mouth against his again, not quite a kiss this time, letting him feel it without giving him enough. “I said it, didn’t I?”
A disbelieving smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not fully. Those stayed locked on you, dark and hungry and searching, like he was trying to figure out if this was real or just another thing he made up about you in his head.
You traced your thumb along his collarbone, watching him break for it in real time.
“So…” you whispered, lips brushing just beneath his ear, “how long have you been watching me?”
Dex’s hand flexed once against your side.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “A month, two?”
His eyes had gone darker, but there was not an ounce of guilt or regret there. It was the absolute conviction of possession.
“How long?” you pressed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look you in the eyes.
“…A while.”
You let out a breathy laugh, like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed or concerned.
He was fucked up. You were fucked up. It made a kind of sense.
“Yeah?” Your head tilted, studying him. “Is that where my neighbor went?”
He held his eyes on you.
You tilted your head, struggling to remember what the scumbag looked like from memory. “You know, the insurance creep. The one who wouldn’t shut up about taking me out to dinner?”
Dex said nothing, which was answer enough.
You should’ve been horrified. You knew that. You should’ve been disgusted and angry because he did something in your name that you didn’t do anymore.
Instead, your fingers slid up into his hair.
“Of course you did,” you said, almost amused.
Dex watched you carefully now, like he was waiting for the moment you’d turn on him.
“You liked him?” he asked.
The idea alone made you want to lurch.
“Please,” you scoffed, shifting closer, your knee pressing into his thigh without thinking. “He made a living denying people the help they needed and bragged about it to anyone who would listen.” Your nails dragged lightly against his scalp. “I was two drinks away from breaking his fingers myself.”
Your grip tightened slightly in his hair, claiming.
Dex watched you like he was bracing for impact, like this was the moment you’d push him away. Instead, your thumb brushed over his lower lip, dragging it down just a little before letting it snap back.
“You really thought he had a shot?” you asked quietly.
His teeth tightened. “He thought he did.”
You leaned closer, your lips ghosting over his again, just barely there. “Mm,” you hummed. “That’s cute.”
Dex’s breath hitched.
“He talked too much,” you added, your voice dropping, your mouth brushing the corner of his lips again.
Your fingers slid from his hair to his throat, resting there, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your palm.
Dex didn’t move away. He even tilted into it. “I didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.
“They never just look at you," he said with absolution in his eyes. Oh, so there were more? “They think things.”
“And you don’t?” you shot back.
For a second, something flickered across his face, almost self-aware. Then it was gone.
“I’m allowed,” he said, resolute.
Fuck, he was impossible.
Your fingers slid back into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head so you could kiss him properly this time.
He melted into it immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, like he’d been starving and you’d finally decided to feed him. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer now as you slid your legs further in between his, not holding back as much.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.
“He didn’t deserve to look at me like that,” you mumbled.
Dex’s eyes darkened. “No.”
Your thumb brushed his cheek affectionately.
“But you do,” you added.
He relaxed, like his entire body had to catch up with what you just said.
“Yeah?” he asked, as if for permission.
You smiled faintly, leaning in until your noses were almost touching. “Yeah.”
Your hand slid from his face down to his chest, pressing him back into the mattress just slightly. It wasn’t forceful at all, but enough to remind him where he was. Who he was with. Who he belonged to.
“You always have,” you whispered.
Dex exhaled like you’d just undone him completely.
After all the sins you’d committed, all the lines you’d crossed and never once thought to step back from, you knew there was a special place in hell for both of you.
But if you were going to burn for it, you hoped it wasn’t cold or empty.
You hoped it came with a bed that never cooled, sheets that would still straighten even after it was twisted beyond saving, and restraints strong enough for him. You hoped that place wouldn’t try to fix you, wouldn’t try to separate you, and you hoped that it would let you drown in every wrong thing that ever felt right.
Because if this was damnation, if this was the price of loving him exactly as he was, you didn’t want salvation. You just wanted him.
And maybe, that was the most unforgivable sin of all.
♥︎PAIRING: Vinsmoke Sanji x black!reader
♡︎GENRE: Fluff and Romance
♥︎WORD COUNT: 1.1K PAIRING:
♡︎CW: insecurity, self-doubt, overworking, soft comfort, established relationship, fluff, light angst with happy ending. ♥︎OPHELIA'S NOTE: I kinda rushed to write this but I hope yall like it. Feedbacks and reblogs are appreciated.<3
♡︎OVERVIEW: In which you find Sanji overworking at night. He admits he feels not good enough and you comfort him and make him dance you which makes him more relaxe as you two share a soft moment.
It was late at night on the ship, everyone was already asleep, but you woke up to the feeling of emptiness of sanji's side of the bed.
Your hand drifts across the sheets, fingertips brushing nothing but cool fabric where Sanji should be. A quiet sigh escapes you before you even fully open your eyes. You don’t need to check the time since you already know. This has been happening for four nights now.
It wasnt the first time that you've notice his random disappearance. Not just at night but in crew meetings and some time during the day.
You would normally find him just burying himself in the kitchen, cooking obsessively every second of the day. This drastic change in his behaviour got you skeptical at first and had you ask him if everything was okay but he would change the subject or ressure you everything was fine with a smile that never reached his eyes.
You quickly got up, grabbed a lamp that was on the bedside and walked to the place you knew he would be in. The kitchen.
As you walked through the hallways in the the ship that led to the kitchen you could already hear the sound of never ending chopping cominf from the kitchen door that had a dim light spilling into the corridor.
Once you were close enough you stopped to listen to the faint clatter of utensils. The low hum of the stove. The unmistakable rhythm of someone working when they should be resting.Sanji.
Concern settles heavy in your chest as you slowly open the kitchen door and peaked before opening it wider to walk in but you pause at the doorway for a moment.
Sanji moves quickly, almost too quickly his usual grace replaced with sharp, restless motions. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, and there’s an edge to him you’ve never seen before. It was not like him at all. The calm, passionate chef you love looks frayed.
As you walk further away from the door letting your deep brown skin glowing softly under the dim kitchen light the floor creaks softly beneath your foot, but it’s enough to startle him. He turns abruptly, eyes wide for a split second before he smooths everything over with a familiar smile too quick, too practiced.
“My love,” he says, voice lighter than it feels, “what are you doing up this late?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you gently placed the lamp on the kitchen counter, your gaze steady, searching.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” you reply softly. “Cooking at this hour?”
He exhales, turning back to the stove like it might save him from your questions. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters.
Your brow furrowing. “For four nights straight?” you press gently. "I'm fine baby, no need to worry about me." You then walked toawrds him, slowly as his back was toward you. "How could i not? There is clearly something going on with you and it pains me that i don't know it."
His hands tighten against the counter, knuckles paling as he grips it. "Y/n i'm not in the mood right now, i-i just-" Y/n cut him of saying "need space?" For a moment, you think he’ll brush you off again but then his shoulders drop, just slightly. He turned toawrds you and ran a hand through his golden locks before replying "no, no, no i just somehow haven't been feeling like myself lately."
Your brows raised as you stared at him, in suprise by his reponse. "What do you mean, sanji." She softly held his right hand, rubbing his knuckles with her thumb, as a silent ressarance. Sanji voice cracks and that alone makes your chest ache. "i-i just contantly feel like i need to pressure myself in my cooking."
You freeze.
He lets out a shaky breath. “What if my cooking isn’t enough? What if I'm not worthy enough of finding the All Blues?” He shakes his head, frustration bleeding through. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Your heart breaks.
Without hesitation, you step forward and wrap your arms around him pressing yourself gently against his chest. You rest your chin on his shoulder, holding him close.
“Oh, Sanji…” you murmur. “Your cooking is extraordinary. You are enough. You’re more than enough.”
He trembles slightly in your arms. "Your just saying that."“ He mutteres as his cheek pressed lightly against your curls…”
“No, not at all. You’re truely the best chef I’ve ever known,” you continue softly. “And I’d bet everything you’re the best in the world.” A quiet, shaky breath leaves him, and you tighten your hold just a little. "I hate seeing you like this,” you whisper.
Then, suddenly an idea sparks in your head.
You pull away just enough to reach for Usopp's radio, flicking it on. Soft, soothing music fills the kitchen, warm and gentle against the tension in the air.
Sanji glances at you, confusion flickering across his face as you take his hand and tug him away from the counter.
“What are you doing?” he asks, a faint smirk already threatening to return.
You grin, placing his hands on your waist before looping your arms around his neck.
“I’m fixing this,” you declare lightly. “As an expert in dancing, I can confirm it cures everything.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, something real this time. “You think so, huh?”
You nod, eyes bright. “Trust me, Chef.” For a second, he hesitates.
Then he gives in.
His hands settle more naturally against your waist, thumbs brushing gently over your soft brown skin as he begins to follow your lead. You guide him into a simple rhythm, swaying gently with the music. Step by step, his movements soften. The tension eases from his shoulders. His breathing steadies.
You move closer and he lets you.
And then, just as you think you’ve got him fully relaxed he twirls you around.
A gasp escapes you as the world spins for a moment, only for him to pull you right back in. His hand slides to your lower back, steady and sure now, and before you can react—He dips you.
A laugh bursts from your lips, your head falling back as his face hovers above yours. His eyes are different now lighter, warmer, alive again.
“There you are,” you murmur softly. A small, crooked smile tugs at his lips.
“Whatever you say, beautiful,” he replies, before he kisses you. It’s soft. Lingering. Grounding. You melt into him, your hands tightening slightly around his neck as he holds you close. In that moment, nothing else matters.
As you pull him back into the rhythm of the music, you make a quiet promise to yourself that if this is what it takes to bring him back to himself, then you’ll dance with him every night.
Who's accepting OPLA requests at the moment? I would like to submit a usopp request! If no one is accepting requests, can you point me in the direction of usopp x reader fics? Please and thank you
Please keep Mexico in your prayers. They’re going through an awful time right now and probably will for possibly the next couple weeks. The Mexican Army has killed ‘El Mencho’ . The citizens are unfortunately being affected by the massive fires the cartel has started. They have set fires in multiple gas stations, grocery stores and have blocked roads with burning cars,trailer and buses. Airports have been targeted and multiple planes have been set on fire. Sorry to put this on anyones feed but its truly terrifying that they’re at war. Please please pray for the citizens of Mexico and their safety.
Honestly, I don't plan on sticking for long I am back to get a few things off my chest(personal ones will be on my personal account, moots you can message me for the account name), post a few discussions and I'll mostly likely dip again. Who knows anymore.
Thank you all for being patient with me, I greatly appreciate it. To those who'd still like a list of fic recommendations, do put in a request. I'll put them together and try to put them out before I go back into hiatus. I especially focus on kpop; stray kids, ateez, p1harmony, seventeen, and &team. Just tell me the idol and anything extra and I'll get to it.
Hello everyone I come with some news, whether or not it's good is up to your interpretation.
I'm taking a hiatus, I just need a break. Due to problems at home on top of the problems of the world, I have begun to stress out significantly(I have relapsed(I have dermatillomania)) and I'm bouncing between stressed to depressed to frustrated to anxious to claustrophobic, repeatedly. I know that I said that I would start my fanfic recommendations but shit has gone south since. I'm deeply sorry to those who were expecting some recommendations, you will have to wait unfortunately.
To the club/community, I will be doing my best to stay on top of community problems but there's no guarantee. I do know that I will not be posting though. I do know that you all will be fine, I trust that y'all can handle yourselves and each other.
I'll be back(hopefully) within the next couple of weeks. You can fill my request box until then.
with all due respect, can people please stop using AI pictures of idols? my pinterest have been filled with these AI pics of enhypen and some of them are way inappropriate—from being topless to heavily edited biceps—like, where is the consideration and respect for privacy?? it isn’t even ethical in the first place to feed someone’s face into AI and make them pose or dress a certain way.
i meant for this blog to be a comfort place where i share content i like but i’ve seen too much to not say anything about it. it’s worse that sometimes i even see some enhablr authors using AI pics of enha in their fic.
Bubble in a Void @abubbleina-void - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
