Robert Robertson’s got a whole lot of baggage. You’re something of a bellhop yourself.
part of a mini series of one shots where your life’s about to get a whole lot more interesting.
You hate to talk about it.
Something felt off that night, so off that your lips were sore and bruised because you couldn’t help but gnaw on them to coax some relief out of you. Your arms were crossed over the other, pressed against your chest as your gaze shuffled to your phone atop the kitchen counter far too often for your liking. The chirps once frequent—at least a text or two in under half an hour—came to an abrupt stop. You were checking obsessively once, but the word doesn’t quite describe it now; your phone would not leave your hand as you traced your footsteps along the floor of your living room. The last text received?
“Should’ve just got an apartment on my own.”
You may have overstepped by asking Robert to bring home some oat milk… no, you overstepped when he shot you a text saying he couldn’t and you responded with a, you literally used the last of it, then, whatever don’t get it then. Your reasoning for this was once that he can get his ass beat by someone he pissed off at the bar another day. Because that is what’s taking up his nights, and you figure this because Robert comes home and he reeks of alcohol and sweat since he has so much difficulty getting out of trouble. You plead that he shuts up for once when the nights are worse than usual, when he returns and his shoulders are deflated and he doesn’t have the strength to fight you on it.
Beef was as tolerant as ever that night, all wrapped up in his bed in front of the television—a bed that is courtesy of you and a blanket from your childhood that is no longer yours. His eyes didn’t stray from the screen, nor did he even look at your form in its peak anxiety, too engrossed at what was so familiar to him. His whine was what grabbed your attention, yet you were quick to wave him off with acknowledgement that both of you were missing the man of the house. Beef definitely supported this claim, judging by another whimper out of him, but then he began to howl and release a breath. That was what you couldn’t help but dwell on, when his noises strayed from the usual pants from too much activity, when he began to scratch at the floor to lay on his bed with a tremble. The boy huffed and puffed, at the corner of his eye a shooting star that brightened the sky above a blood orange hue.
Quite the sight. So striking of a vision that you picked up your keys, your grip on them tight. “Beef.” His ears perked up. “Beef, I think Robert’s in trouble.”
The woes of wanting to be right all of the time.
Your shoulders are slumped, palms in your lap dirtied with dirt, crumbs, and cuts that nick your fingertips. You wait with agony in a room without privacy, cramped between walls that are a boorish white that warn that a flu shot is in your future. Your right palm is sliced open, lacerations peeking out of a bandage wrapped around your hand in a hurry; the splotches of crimson are a stain atop the off-white barrier from outside elements, more bright than the disgusting brown that coats the rest of your hand and eggs you towards memories you’d hate to dwell on. The sight you paint such a perfect picture of is shared with the conversations that happen around you, the cries and whimpers of terror and the unspoken fears of leaving forever. You sit beside an older woman who is patient beside you, but occasionally spares a glance or two over at you, especially because word travels fast and the room heard five minutes ago that you claimed yourself as Robert’s wife… oh, so you’re like, Mecha Man’s wife?
That’s okay though because you look up and for some reason what’s on the television is not of the anxieties of having to mourn a superhero, but breaking news that’s way more important and way more juicy: “see, she’s cradling his face– the world wants to know who Mecha Man really is and his little girlfriend’s got him hidden from everybody.” Your fear stricken, wet with tears face is plastered at the corner like you’re some fugitive, and you look even more insane when the asphalt burns under your knees and the fire burns so bright around you but all that matters is that Robert’s chest is ever so still and you can’t breathe under the smoke and the flames. You’re biting out a warning to those who approach, his head against your chest as the red and blue lights begin to blind you and you realize how much trouble Robert’s got himself in.
One who dares to take a step forward, her body saturated with a gold hue surrounding her, takes a kneel in front of you as the sobs begin to escape you and you curse at the world because you don’t have any of the answers. Your skin bears a chill as a spotlight shines on you from a helicopter overhead, the wind current pulling at your sweater and threading into the strands of your hair. Your response is to tighten your hold on him, but unlike him you’re gasping for air through pleads that she go away. You want the whole world to go away. You want him to be conscious so he can explain himself and you can claim you don’t want him to be your roommate anymore but… but not really, you want him to be something else, something more official. You want pictures of him, of the two of you, in an apartment you share because you love him so much that maybe he’d love you back and if he’s home more maybe this would never happen again–
Blonde Blazer is in front of you in the hospital again, calling your name softly to bring your attention from the screen. Behind her blue eye mask are eyes just as much striking, eyes that are gentle but lacking any fear. She is hesitant to place her hand on your knee, a connection somewhat severed by royal blue gloves that pack a punch, but she does anyway because your eyes shuffle to your hands again and you’re at a loss for words. Blonde Blazer is quite the sight, but is otherwise not overwhelmed by paparazzi like you were outside, being graced with murmurs upon her arrival and not incessant inquiries on who you were and what your relations to Mecha Man were. For once, she was not the object of attention; you fell victim to that once when the sky was falling around you, and once again when the front desk put their foot down and reminded you that visits were family only and then you double downed and claimed that you were his wife and Mecha Man is too busy saving the city and the ring will come soon for sure.
“We’re gonna go see him now, okay?” You nod and the hero raises as you do. “Shame the whole wife thing didn’t work out.”
You can’t help but chuckle, but your throat is tight and you can taste salt on your tongue. “Shut up.”
Robert Robertson’s got a whole lot of baggage. You’re something of a bellhop yourself.
part of a mini series of one shots where your life’s about to get a whole lot more interesting.
“You’re never fuckin’ here– look at him, look at your son!” The child you share with your opponent is always the subject of conversation, pudgy cheeks trembling with unabashed confusion. His taupe irises shuffle to you, then to his father, and he looks as if he wants to hide in a crevice that he can shimmy his behind into. This is an often occurrence, especially because you tend to fall to your knees in dramatic fashion to beg that your other half stays, to plead that you’re not left alone again. Your hair is in tufts bunched up in your fists, cries of anguish because all your partner does is walk out without saying goodbye, without easing your worries, and certainly without a quip on when he will return. Cheeks puffed and brushed with crimson, you don’t dare close the distance because the silence that follows surely outmatches the expletives that may escape you.
He averts his gaze from you to stuff his hands in the pockets of his sweater, white knots pulling at the holes of a hood overcasting his face. He is so far from your reach when he turns from you to spare a peek between the cracked window blinds behind him, his eyes narrowed like he’s looking for another fight. He leaves you lonely when night’s fallen long ago, when the lights begin to dim and the wolves come out to play. Sometimes he’s gone by the time you’re home, and the apartment’s quiet, so empty, and you worry because it’s so late but he’s back by morning. You’re so far removed from him, so ignorant to the blight he faces. You live a life so much without him but you can’t lose him, you couldn’t bear it.
Robert does what you ask, as to look into the gaze of his boy is to marvel in the aurora borealis when the time is right, his fists loosening before the rage returns and consumes him just as quickly. His eyes roll to the back of his head, hand trailing slow down his face, his shadow still while his body shivers in the light. A curse falls past his lips but his hand shields you from the blunt of it, a word or phrase that is rendered unheard because you turn your back to him to swear you can’t look at him anymore. So what if he doesn’t stay? So what if he leaves and he doesn’t come back? The one whom he loves most is in the hands of someone he trusts, someone whom he’s sharing a life with. The idea lulls in his thoughts, and his eyes are downcast as if contemplating what that might look like.
“So, you got Beef or what?” Here’s what it looks like: you can be a real annoying bitch. “And the dishes? And, y’know, the fuckin’ scuffs on the floor by your room?”
“Oh, who gives a fuck about the scuffs–”
“I paid the deposit, you selfish fucking asshole!” Your hands pull at your scalp, but you’re quick to cease lest you lead yourself to psychosis. Instead, your fist knocks at the wall beside you, once, twice, your drawn out hum the calm before the storm. “Some fuckin’ roommate. I should’ve gotten myself a dog!”
You love that line, don’t you? The fights have grown in frequency as Robert’s departures have, as the dishes in the sink piled up, as the nights babysitting that clueless fucking dog increased. The dog’s gaze aligns with yours, longingly, for the treats that you leave beside your bed because he’s yours too, damn it, and he knows it. Because you’re the next best thing to his owner who raises him high above his head like he’s the king of the wild, even if the scars and imperfections all over his body permits it sometimes. Robert’s a personality you’ve found on Craigslist in search for a roommate for a two-bedroom in the heart of the city, and yes, he has told you he’s out a lot, but the man drinks coffee and he’s eating food you’ve cooked on his own time. He has a dog with no thoughts in his tiny ass brain, who also acts as an insanely useful vacuum. He has a roommate that would sure love to relax sometimes after work, or maybe go out clubbing or wherever at night, but no.
Robert Robertson the Third’s gotta go get some more bruises on himself before you can do any of that.
Robert closes the distance for the two of you, to ignore your existence as he walks towards the front door, but not before kneeling to relish in the licks from the very special boy in his life, whom you love to quip that he leaves behind every night, but never to question how much he means to him. He must not love him enough to name him Beef, that’s a nice tidbit from you, but otherwise Robert accepts his kisses with a wish without much promise: I wish I could take you with me. A smile is on his face for but a moment, but he then stands with conviction, and that is what is so nerving. He strides past you, and begins to tell you not to wait up, but he stops just short when your back is turned to him yet again to tap your head against the wall.
You inhale cedar and splinters. “Robert.” A beg. “The dog pees in my bed.”
Your name comes as a warning. “It’s work.”
“Work my ass.”
Across your bedroom is the bathroom he’s claimed as his, and you find him hours later as the sun rises at your periphery, but he’s the brilliance that captures your vision. He’s so still when you’re slow to come out of your room, with Beef first to greet him by shimmying between the door and the frame to look at his dad with stars in his eyes. When you follow, the heel of your palms rub the slumber out of your eyes, and you too can’t help but stare as your roommate announces his arrival with a murmur: “Fuck.” Because he’s always sure to return with a tiptoe, to open doors slowly and carefully. If you ask him, he’ll say it’s because you’re super fuckin’ cranky when you’re woken up, and you’ve got some mouth. He doesn’t believe it much when he cracks open the door to your bedroom to find you so peaceful, without worry, because it’s almost as if he never sees it.
The man is bare from the waist up, scars like mountain peaks all over his body. Most of them are shades darker than his skin, yet some are hard to notice unless you’re brave enough to step forward. Some of them hide behind his arm burdened with more proof, whether it looks as if it’s left from a bullet or from a knife that cut too close. It is not a foreign sight to you, as you’ve seen him without clothes on accident and have lived these moments before; Robert always returns, chiming that you should’ve seen the other guy, but nonetheless littered with bruises and tiny nicks that imperfect his body once again. He doesn’t ask but you come to the rescue anyway.
He can’t help but grunt when you pull his arm away, your fingertips forever stained with his blood. The gash is a nasty one this time, although he never will tell you who caused it and what, just that he’s close. Soon he won’t leave you and Beef so late in the night so often. He tells you he’s got it, once let slip that he’s found him, and soon your stupid dish problem will be a thing of the past. It’s his attempt to make you laugh. Nothing is funny when it’s five-forty-seven in the morning and he’s come back to you in so much disrepair. Never does he flinch, or reject your attempts to help because the adrenaline still races along his veins. Your touch is heavy handed, but without hurry or panic, just the occasional tremble that reminds him why he wishes he’s never woken you up. His hands are wet with crimson and spurred by the notion that he’s lived to see another day, whether he deserves it or not. Another reminder is the cool spritz against his wound, a cold nip that burns at his skin. He is alive.
If something were to happen to him, well… you couldn’t imagine it.
The night is a sigh of relief, like waves that crash and recede from kept sand. The calm that lulls followed a typical Friday night, strife with men who couldn’t keep their dicks or hands to themselves, with girls who missed a step in their routines and hoped the audience didn’t notice. Not like they care because they see perky breasts and sequins brushing against the curves of asses they love to grab despite the sign in bold, all caps, laminated beside the entrance doors. You allow the occasional twenty dollar bill stuffed against your tits, but that’s your limit, and only in the middle of peak. Cheers are in order, although you’ve gone and gotten yourself a headache after hearing it the last four hours, because the night rush is over and reprieve is in your grasp. The music is turned down a notch at your request–and it is what you deserve after dancing for an hour straight–enticing visitors somewhere else completely.
The bartender whistles as he clenches his fist into a rag to clean the glasses before him, throwing his head over his shoulder at the private rooms. “Sweet Ride,” he calls you, the pseudonym third on the schedule for tonight. Of course you huff because your shift ends in two hours and it is much preferred that you play waitress and butter up men who you are convinced absolutely hate their partners. It’s so much fun, because a pole dance takes trips to the gym and sometimes you prefer to go grocery shopping. You can fake it, you can climb on a man’s lap and bat your eyelashes and tell him you love him, but sometimes it becomes unbearable. The thought of it becomes static, boorish, and you think a bit more about how desensitized these people are at any aspect of you being human.
“Y’know, you’re the only girl ‘round here’s that got regulars.”
“That’s ‘cause we suck.” There is a pep in your step now.
With a hop and a skip, you throw the curtains aside of the private room at the end of the hall to your left, reaching behind you to reunite the two. Before you, your regular stands and his grin grows at your presence. He calls you by your real name, a bit jarring, but he’s the exception. Adrian fiddles at the frame of his glasses upon your arrival, a brush of crimson atop his nose, his gaze hungry as he stares unabashedly at the outfit tight against your skin. His hair stands up, as if once flattened by a mask, no less mirroring the goosebumps along his arms. He is so boyish, so innocent, so fucking cute. He doesn’t look at you as if you’re a quick fuck, as if you’re some girl at a strip club buying him time. He reminds you of a doe when his eyes widen at you, like you’ve made his day with a smile.
Jesus. “You’re early, kid.” You push against his chest, a giggle escaping you when he falls against on the couch with a pout, and you relish in the ghost of a grin on his lips when you crawl on his lap and cage his legs in between yours. “Thirty-one,” he chimes, his hands falling to your hips as his gaze lingers at your chest. His thumb traces circles on your skin, fingertips rough with callouses, nonetheless following the grind of your hips with a cheery, “so how’s it been tonight?” His lips find the lining of your bralette, teething at the wrinkles of a fifty dollar bill stuffed inside. His eyebrows raise, wiggle even, and his smile grows wider. Adrian is fortunate, and he knows it, because you’re lucky if you even get a ten from him and you’re still hooked.
He’s already hard when your lips are an inch from his, and he coughs out a gasp when you roll your hips over him once more and he brushes against your panties. The grip he has on your butt is possessive, but he knows the arrangements, just likes what you like. He can’t help it, though, and his head rises to attempt to crash his lips against yours and taste you as if he hadn’t ever before. He craves it, as much as he craves when his head is between your legs but you’re begging that he fucks you already because he’s so perfect, he knows you so well, that he’s your favorite. He wants to shout it on top of rooftops that he’s got quite the woman and that he’s her favorite guard dog. That she could put a collar on him and he’d crawl to her knees and pant for more.
You shake your head, pulling yourself off of him, inhaling a drawn out breath before brushing the remnants of him off your outfit and chiding him with a, “down, boy.” Adrian obliges by relaxing his bite, allowing you to take back what’s yours, what you’ve worked all night for. He leans back in response, arms splayed out atop the cushions, his cock straining against the buttons of his jeans. He’s more than happy to be put on display, to be marveled at, because you did that to him and you’re quite the looker. The nights usually don’t include this in the plot; usually the man is damn near on his knees, and he begs.
“Same time tonight, sweetcheeks?” You cock your head at the nickname, but you smile and nod nonetheless, turning your back to him so he has one last look at you. He has to tell you this, though, before you leave to return to shit: “You’re a fuckin’ babe.”
The night ends the same, with a climax. His hand grips at the flesh of your thigh, head sinking into the pillows as you roll your hips on top of him and drag your fingernails up his bare chest. He bucks his hips upwards, something he is not allowed to do, pleading to be so deep inside you that you’re “like, fuckin’ conjoined twins or something I dunno.” The air is thick, hot, and beads of sweat trail down your chest as his hands then cup at your breasts and squeeze. He’s so thankful for you, his praises a chorus of expletives, and he tells you you’re so tight that he can’t even think straight. You’re sure of this, because one time he’s asked you if you’d like to be fucked by Vigilante and you… you have no idea who that is.
Your back is arched because you like to fuck Adrian Chase, that’s for sure, and you feel so full and so delightful. You continue to bounce on his cock, each movement a crack in the levee, pulling out all the way so you can sink on top of him and you can relish in how his eyes roll to the back of his head. He grips at your wrist, his other hand all over your body, pulling yours to his neck so you can give it a squeeze; the stunt leaves him motionless, too caught up in how you wrap around him so well, too engrossed in how he lucky he is. He tells you to go harder, too, that he’s used to this. He doesn’t give a fuck how the bedframe creaks and bangs against the wall, and he certainly is not at all mindful of neighbors above, below, or next to you.
But, boy, does he want to make you cum. His hands leave imprints on your skin, and you imagine how much it aches him to not dominate you completely and turn the tables so that he’s the one taking care of you. Sometimes he pleads, the common line being, “I can make you feel so fucking good, babe, I swear. So, so fucking good.” Sometimes he threatens you, which is for a laugh, his lips inches from yours because he’s gonna kiss you whether you like it or not. You nonetheless refuse, because him having power over you brings him somehow closer to you and you’re not ready for that.
“Ffffuck, I– You feel so good, you’re so fuckin’ good.” He pulls you down, again, not with your consent. “I’m close, fuck, keep going. Shit.” His skin is sheen with sweat, his movement becoming erratic and hurried; he pounds up into you, but you don’t mind it, too enthralled in how he rests on his elbows to lock eyes with you to boast how much he loves Fridays. Best day of the week. He even prefers Fridays to the days his best friend is free, and that’s saying something. You’re honored, especially because he throws you that same line every week: “Why can’t it be Friday every fuckin’ day?”
Take a chance, you told him. Chance presumed there was humor by that statement, by that little snicker that followed, and he huffed at the smug grin atop your lips. That was a good one, he admitted, picking up the die that gives him life to toss it in the air and catch it with the same hand. His face turned from yours, to not only avert his gaze from the twinkle in your eyes but to conceal the brush of red that burns at his cheeks. He feels like throwing his hood up, wrinkles and all like a ruined folding job, so he can pretend for a little while longer that you don’t ruin him completely. Then, you go and snort when it’s really not that funny anymore, and his heart grows two sizes and he’s forced to allow you to consume his thoughts on a daily basis.
You straighten your glasses, rose colored, leaning back into a chair that groans when you stray too far from your desk. The red shirt that accentuates your chest is a fantastic choice, and Chance’s gaze can’t help but linger on how your top rides up and reveals skin privileged to those who see the worst and best of you. Her arms are above your head as you stretch, your eyes closed as you whimper at the crack of your back; your head falls against the headrest as you let out a low exhale and says Chance’s name. Like a statement, he supposed, his name fell three more times from your lips in rapid succession and with a shake of your head. Wyndolyn blessed you today, cracked open just enough to allow the rays to fall past the owner of the house and hail you as if you were a god.
You were… perfect.
But you weren’t his. “Coax ‘em into a session.” You entwine your hands and bring them to your lips in contemplation. “Start getting a lil’ flirty, then maybe they’ll really get into it.” The glimmer behind your glasses is not lost on the D20 die, and his head falls into his hands in response. He tried that once already, maybe three times, inching to your side during those G&G sessions to begin a tall tale of a maiden of no relation to you but sharing many traits that caught the hearts of the masses. Perhaps she had caught the attention of the master once or twice, a story told as an escapade in hushed whispers and breathless pleads for more. You, of course, would lean close to him as his voice lowered to a murmur, tone sultry as he would tease and give you a taste of this fair maiden.
“She must be somethin,’” you remarked once. Dense.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “She’s a beauty.”
So, no, Chance prefers not to take any chances. You stand up to reach his level, pushing your chair in but not before murmuring an apology for pushing too aggressively, twirling the D20 he tossed at you; the die, despite life born from it, ultimately belongs to you and your tendencies to spend money you don’t need to. You fling the twenty-sided die above your head, marveling at the sparkle when the sun catches it at the right time, reaching up to grasp it in your other palm. Chance groans when you begin the spiel again: “I sure wish my dice knew how charming he was. Explains why all of the others are so boring.” He can’t help but smile as you do, and he gives you a hear, hear in agreement as he leans against your desk and his gaze lingers on all of you as you leave. The dateviators come off your face by then, and Chance is fully aware that he’s in the caress of the back pocket of your jeans for a little while.
He’s separated from you when you undress, hours later when the sun falls behind the trees and you finally allow yourself time to breathe. He eyes the soap suds that wrap your body in an embrace through the flame of a strawberry pound cake scented candle. The dateviators that rest by the sink glimmer under the moon that complements your silence, much needed after Sinclaire decided to involve you in his delirium when you accidentally left the sink on for too long. You lean your neck against the edge of the bathtub, eyes lidded as you sink further into the warmth and the quiet. The die twirls between your fingers all the while, orange hues against numbers that control fate, a coolness atop your fingertips as the heat rises around you. Chance dissolves into putty in your hand, the ghost of him captivated by how perfect he fits against your skin.
More than perfect is the way your tongue trails across the natural 20, the line of spit that lingers warm and slow. The roll off your tongue is as deliberate, and you let out a little whimper as the thought excites you: a taste of the real thing on your lips. Chance plagues your thoughts, so much that others who bear witness don’t matter, so much that the hairs of your skin rise and your shoulders disappear under the waves. You like when his tone drops, when his voice slows during a session and he leans into you and you can smell him… the die traces the column of your neck and along your collarbones before you bring it–him–lower. Chance, beyond your knowledge, shudders between your thighs and he sucks in a sharp inhale when he’s pressed into you. He slaps his hand over his mouth upon his mistake, but he can’t help the bite of his bottom lip when your hands move and you’re throwing your head over the tub in a silent plea. He feels like falling to his knees and crawling across the tiles so his touch can set fire to the rest of your skin. All he wants is to prod at your lips and kiss you slow, curling his tongue against yours as he swallows your low whines.
You stop.
You gasp. “Fuck. What am I thinking.”
So does he. The breath he exhales is shaky, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Holy crit…”
Nothing but Atoms and the Void || Bob Reynolds x Reader (Prologue)
and what separates the light from the dark?
“It’s like some ffffuckin’ cloud over me, and, by the way, nothing is going wrong with my life. Like, it’s like… it’s like this weight on me and all of a sudden I’m thinkin’ ‘bout all the times I’ve fucked up and—” Sigh. “‘S’like some bad omen. Like I get that dream job, that dream apartment and so something’s gotta go and mess it up like… like—”
You’re told you’re dramatic, and your response is a wide, toothy grin and a giggle to boot. That’s the facade people want to see from you, the aura people expect from you. What surrounds you are flowers, unveiled by the sun that casts the shadow no one sees. You nod, and you remind yourself who you are; your posture straightens, and you lean in as if putting all of the cards on the table. You remind yourself who sits across the table from you, someone who can’t see below the iceberg of a pretty face and a pretty personality at its surface. “You’re right.” You laugh, throwing your hands in the air like you’re pondering how you could ever speak such a thing. “I’m totally goin’ crazy.” Bitch.
The response in return is a wry grin, as your friend laughs at your impending doom. You’re so crazy, she tells you, but she likes that you’re crazy. She likes that you’re so goofy that you lack the humility to not spin your finger around your temple to signal that you’re cuckoo in public. She likes that she can talk to you about anything, that you’re the one people look for at a function, and you’re so bubbly that it is so, so infectious. Oh, but you know, you have been a little off lately now that you’ve mentioned it. You just… you don’t have that same vibe and it’s weird. You’re not as sunny. Something bothering you?
That.
Your chair drags across the granite floor with a jolt, your jolt, as the feeling washes over you as if a cloak shielding you from good vibrations. It’s a familiar feeling, to your misfortune, in a familiar place where it’s become your favorite despite the occasional dissociation from pastels and everyday chatter. The café you inhabit shrinks, shadows creeping up the walls, past the coves, and along the ceiling where you follow the movement like a woman possessed. The hairs of your skin raise all the while, chills crawling underneath the sleeves of your sweater, and the shuffling of gazes at the interruption come to an abrupt halt. Your body feels heavy without these watchful eyes, overcome by the dread. Your own squeeze shut to hide from the darkness, only for you to be surrounded by it.
You meet Bob when you crack one eye open, the lone figure in the void that exacerbates it. It’s not as if he’s plucked from reality like you are, he’s one with the idea that nothing ever mattered, that nothing exists. He lacks any color on him at first glance, but you open both eyes to hone in on the distance between the two of you. You stand from a chair that doesn’t exist in this vision, and you take one step back as he does forward. The man tugs on forest green sleeves that fall to his knuckles, his gaze falling to his dark caramel corduroy bottoms only to return to you in an effort to see the lone figure before him. Brunette waves fall past his face, and he’s alive, he is the one who exists, because he raises his hand to tuck them behind his ear. He reminds you that you’re made up of atoms, molecules, and whatnot when his own conjure up the sense to raise his hand in a polite yet short wave.
Bob recalled later on that he saw flowers surrounding you too. “... looked a little wilted, though.”
Summary: “He’s so good. He’s so good at making you feel good. He’s so good at taking your pain away.”
*NSFW*
Sparks linger along his Cupid’s bow, his lips flushed with a desire to be enveloped and tasted. For once, he can prove the bullies wrong; yes, he can kiss a girl and yes he can feel it, but the feeling that lingers is but a coalescence of ecstasy he has yet to overcome. Perhaps he never will, as he is too engrossed in the way you sink onto him and meld with him so perfectly, so beautifully, so much— “fffffuckkk. Fuck, you’re tight.” His palms trail down your back to find the curve of your butt, fingertips digging into your skin. You arch your back and it’s an invitation for his arms to wrap around your tailbone and pull you ever so close to him.
“Does this—“ Wait. You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel this?”
His acknowledgment is an eager hum, as his tongue wraps around your nipple, cut fingernails tracing the moles that line your upper back. His drawn out exhales escape through his nose as he relishes in your body without movement, your scent exhausting every nerve in his body. You’re drawn to him by your fingers curled up in his hair, by your knees caging him in between as the two of you are sat on the couch with a documentary playing faint in the background. Prior to this was a recommendation to continue somewhere more comfortable, perhaps a bed, but Nathan Caine proclaimed there was “too much in his way.” Apparently, he meant too much in your way.
It went something like this: “Yeah, I’m not really liking the whole idea of picking up my girlfriend and accidentally ramming her into the kitchen counter ‘cause while I won’t feel it, something tells me you’ll definitely feel it.”
He hums again and goes, “whatcha’ thinkin’ about?” while he tugs on your nipple with his teeth.
“Thinking about how you’re inside me and you’re just… not moving.” You smile nonetheless.
As if a Eureka! moment crossed his brain, his eyes lit up and his hands fell to your waist as he lifted you up and back down onto him, inciting a whimper from you. His head falls to the cushions behind him and he repeats the movement again, and again, and again while his eyes flutter shut and he longs for your heat further. Another expletive falls from his lips, and the pace the two have set for yourselves is a sensual, yet deep dance. He sinks into the couch as he does this and offers an “Ohhh… yeah, I feel this,” as proof of his pleasure, gnawing on his lip as he opens his eyes to get a good look at you.
Your mouth is agape, your head lulled back as you take over and lift your body so you can lower back down and take him deep. His eyes fail to have reason or care; they shuffle upon your breasts they bounce, to the sweat at the column of your neck, all the way down to where your bodies meet. His cock is slick with your juices, which must be why hips hips can snap up to yours so easily, why he’s constantly rewarded with your whines and moans. He sings praises to you, how you’re so damn good at this, how beautiful you are on top of him, and he has yet to have the idea that that’s why you clench around him as he speaks these words to you. He’s so good. He’s so good at making you feel good. He’s so good at taking your pain away.
After all, you were on your knees pleading for him to, your big toe throbbing while a coy smile fell upon your lips when your boyfriend ran to your side with a “oh, that’s gotta hurt.” Ran to your side is exaggerating, as the man stepped out of the bathroom with a shake of his head and a chuckle while he prodded the stuffed animal back in its place—a marvelous idea, your apartment and his office have never been so childproof. He took one look at your wounded foot, then back at that same corner, before shaking his head one last time. Ruffling up his hair and pulling at the droplets with his towel, clothed in just Christmas pajamas when it was March, he paid no mind to the bead of crimson on his neck as he made his way toward you with a grin.
“Nate,” you began, wiping at the stain with your thumb, “ya’ missed a spot.”
“Sorry, uh, had to rush.” His grin only grew, and he poked at your leg. “Princess in my castle and all.”
Fuck if that mattered, because he didn’t have the time to dry his body completely. That meant that what was shook from his hair was trailing past the lines of his tattoos, past his chest, magnifying the art that painted his body and outlined his talents. His upper body was bare, and it was unknown to you if that was on purpose or if the curse upon your mother was the reason for it. Did he feel how lukewarm the water was on his skin? Did he feel the bumps littering his skin when you let a shiver go?
Your grin grew wider. “And will you tend to this princess? Will you make her feel better?”
“Of course,” he said so earnestly.
You grabbed at his wrists to intertwine your hands with his, the two of you reaching under your shirt to brush against the line of your breasts. “Pretty please?”
Summary: Chai, ambassador of Vandelay Technologies, certainly has his ways of communication. You, living in the suburbs outside the campus, don't even have a cell phone. You know what they say about relationships…
Chapter One: Time Slip
Chapter Two: #E67451
Chapter Three: Daisies
Chapter Four: Sweet Dreams
Chapter Five: Synesthesia
Chapter Six: On Mercury
Chapter Seven: One of These Nights
*slight sexual content ahead*
It’s nothing. It’s whatever.
So you thought to yourself: are you reading this correctly? Your thoughts were of the utmost importance, so much that you left behind the comfort of your blankets and onto the floor where your thoughts could remain better situated. With a squint, as the bright screen of your cell reflected the lack of illumination in your apartment, the rather rude message was but an inch from your irises. The bubbles are prolonged, enlightened by your lack of response, and the meaning causes you to seethe. “What does that even mean?” You ask nobody, looseleaf paper torn from your notebook crumpled up inside your fist as the words sitting at the tip of your pen disappear with the distance between you and your pen pal. With the point of contact on an errand, as a result of your pleas that fast food chicken nuggets sound delicious at two o’clock in the morning, the context and tone of that message is lost to you. You hope it buries itself into the heart of the man who should rethink what he says, and perhaps unsend.
Whatever? You type. Do you think I’m stupid?
You pause. Stupid.
The pen, however, is mightier than any name you can call him at this point. Can you believe that? I feel when a guy says it’s nothing it’s really, like, everything. He’s being so weird about it. I mean he is the first guy I’ve dated with a robotic arm so that’s something but he doesn’t talk about it. His friends are all weird about it too… it’s like it’s some forbidden topic that gets him fucked up. Sorry. For ‘cussing’. Again. Anyway, he’s twenty-six years old and I’m sure we’re grown enough to talk about our pasts like adults. Like, if he came back right now, I’d definitely tell him all about my past boyfriends and… no I won’t actually. I will not do that. That’s embarrassing. Especially because I perhaps may have told him I wanted to be left alone so go me. I make smart decisions.
You were pushing the subject again, like Peppermint warned you not to, through text no less. You could not help your eyes lingering on the scars that burdened Chai’s back when he pried himself from your arms, his shoulders stiff with prior events. He relished in your return when your fingertips traced the delicates of his upper back, your lips pressed against a beauty mark that freckled him with love. As your forehead fell against him, his hand grasped at yours pressed against his chest; with a twirl of your arm and the dip of your body against his, he pecked your lips before a cheeky: “Babe I’d so serenade you if it wasn’t for those delicious cheeseburgers calling for me.” His feline friend, once curled up in a ball atop her cat tower, zoomed to the front door upon the aspect of leaving on an adventure. When Chai pulled you to your feet, one swipe of his nose against yours and he was no longer facing you, his back once again on display as he shot finger guns at a cat standing on her hind legs to return the favor.
Cute. You were still a dog person, though.
“Baby where’s my—” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his head falling to his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Are you on your… y’know…”
You cry out in frustration, your fists clenched. Of course he shrugs you off, choosing to hide the identity of the Chai before he became one of the faces of Vandelay Technologies. Of course he doesn’t trust you enough to recall those events, how tragic they must have been because why would he tell you? After all, you’re just some girl he must be on the brink of moving on from… you’re overthinking again. A nasty habit of yours, you think, considering his clothes are thrown beside your underwear and the pillow beside yours is fluffed in a way that refuses you sleep. His guitar leans against the cushion of your loveseat, once strummed with picks that litter your end table and douse it with color. That guitar sits beside a scarf that 808 loves to rest her paws on when she grows tired of the toy mice that are spread out all over your rug. However, you’re just some girl whose space he happens to share with, someone of whom you believe to be insignificant, boring, and out of time. With a shake of your head, your hands trail down and stretch at the skin of your cheeks, loathing at the eleven months with him that border on the best eleven months of your life. You can’t help but groan with mist in your eyes, body deflating as you subject yourself to inhales through your nostrils that are ragged and stuffed with impending sniffles.
Your phone chimes. Oi. Korsica. I need flowers.
Pepper. Mint. Peppermint.
Peps.
Wtf do I get her? Korsica unsent a message. Ask Chai please.
You sigh, your response slow and steady, incorrect letters in between. You return to your side of your bed, the cool air a blanket over the array of knit sunflowers you sit on. The peonies beyond the crack of your window sway to your right, cars with the Vandelay logo driving at a speed beyond the limit to disturb an otherwise mundane night. Those headlights are blinding, illuminating the suncatcher that hangs above your head and paints the moon and the stars all over your skin. They flicker like following a person’s footsteps, and one car halts in front of your building with a bass that hums and rattles your bones. The neon glows along the lines of the vehicle, fading in and out to different colors, the person inside dumbfounded upon the wrong turn toward the suburbs.
Your peace is disturbed by a, “I’m not stupid, I’m a dumbass!” Chai slams the door open to your apartment, no chicken nuggets or cat in sight. His breaths are a struggle for air, but he begins the revelation with a hurried, “I killed Kale Vandelay who, plot twist, was Peppermint’s brother! And— and I have this cool implant in my chest that makes everything sync to me ‘cause of this thing—I dunno if you know Project Armstrong—but the guy threw my music player and it got stamped to my chest or… or something and so I got this really cool arm ‘cause fun fact I actually did not have any feeling in this arm right here before and so I ended up having to kill all of these crazy bosses ‘cause it turns out Kale actually used this weird AI thing to take over bodies and that’s where Roxanne—”
“What? Chai, wha— what are you even talking about?”
His body shakes as the distance between you decreases, and you eye the trembling of his hands as they brush against your face. Chai’s breathing is ragged like yours was, and he then clutches his chest as if alluding to his sprint back home to you. He huffs and puffs out pleas that you hold on just one second, just let him get it together, and in that one second he raises one finger to confirm that yes, indeed, he’ll be but a second. He radiates the heat you’ve missed in the time he was away, despite the chill that floods his lungs, and your fingertips itch to be linked with his once more.
So he goes on, your question above your heads like vapor, sputtering out the facts of people you only heard in passing conversations and observed on billboards tainting your small town. Chai holds up fingers as if counting down the obstacles: the head of production, the head of research and development, Korsica, the head of marketing, the head of finance, the head head… the name that sticks out the most beside of the known redhead’s is Mimosa’s, whose face is plastered on every bus and train you step on. Her luscious, blonde locks were the standard years ago, so evident that customers in your flower shop would share the hairstyle despite blonde not at all being their color. You can’t dwell on that thought for long, for he chronicles his battles as if he were the protagonist of some role-playing game, taking hits and dealing with them along with the beat to his own drum. He was the star of the show, the main character of a daydream, and you owned a flower shop and wailed off-key and off-beat in the shower. It was only a matter of time before he thought you too boring, too mundane, and walked away toward a life that was certainly more exhilarating.
Chai cups your cheeks in his hands when you shake your head. The thought of him leaving you behind terrifies you. His thumbs traced the line of tears that fell before tapping at your lips with an implied shush. “Lemme finish! Anyway I had to fight like a crazy amount of robots ‘cause Kale took ‘em over along with the others and yeah, I almost died but I beat him and I saved everyone and you’re right. You’re right! It’s not nothing, it’s not whatever, it’s something that I want you to know about me ‘cause I wanna know everything about you ‘cause I kinda’ love you… scratch that, forget what I said.”
“I love you.”
He blinks, flexing the cool metallic of his fingers. “Also I have this super awesome weapon. We can take the bad boy for a test drive if you want…”
Your gaze passes by the rise and fall of his chest, by the dust of pink across his cheeks. When they align with his own, you bear witness to a truth that can’t be rescinded. His laugh trails off into racing thoughts, judging by the way he commits to eyeing at your rug. The chestnut hues of his irises are dimmed by the shadow of your ceiling, the sunrise edging past the lower half of his body with the minutes that pass with no words being shared. He tests the silence with: “Wow. I, uh… the cat’s out of the bag, huh?” He cages you between him and daybreak, the repeating silence evident with the words said, deafening with the implications; he loves you, so that must mean he can’t imagine a life without you.
What does it mean?
“Chai, c’mon… you kidding me?” You sniff, unable to resist the trembles that wrack your body, unable to refrain from the attempts to push him away. His grip on you is unwavering, however. “What is wrong with you?”
“N-N-No, you’re supposed to laugh at me, not cry! Maybe tell me you love me too? You love me, right? Ya’ gotta tell me you’re feeling some way about me.” Your name follows. “Baby, please. You feel the same way… right?”
You nod, and the first declaration of love out of you is but a whisper, said again once your confidence grows. “Yes, Chai, I love you.”
He surges forward to press his lips against yours, breaths leaving his nose in slow, deep exhales. Your left cheek is chill with the remnants of morning dew on his cool, metal fingertips but his mouth is warm over yours and you’re swallowed whole. His strength cranes your neck back, longing to envelop you with lips that search for every part of yours in desperation, and you surrender yourself to him even when the breaths are so far in between. The taste of salt remains on your tongue, but Chai exhibits his love next by nipping at your tastebuds and wrapping his arms around you to pull you further into his embrace. Your chest pressed against his, your tongues interlock in a hypnotizing dance; the hum that escapes you elicits one from your lover.
He pulls his lips an inch from yours, low huffs gliding across your cupid’s bow. Your hands fall to his sides, sliding up his shirt, bunched up white cotton rolled up into your fist. His hands mimic your movements all over your lower back, and his voice lowers to a tone unheard of him. When he tells you how hard it is to breathe, yet how much he can’t stop kissing you, what leaves you is a pathetic whimper. The feeling is mutual but you have no complaints. Your lips are dry with his scrutiny, quivering as he brushes his against yours like a feather grazing your skin. What fogs your brain is the thought of his shirt over his head and messing with tufts of brown hair you will ruin later anyway.
“Y-You, uh— umm—”
You’re breathless when you confirm, and you all but give into him when he hurries you into the entanglement of your body against his.
That took pretty long, but I think you’ll be stoked to hear I finally told him I love him. I sent you two letters to chronicle the night I had so, like, I hope you read that other one first. It was a great night. We’re just gonna leave it at that. Anyway, you’ve said before you know him from somewhere right? He’s, like, the ambassador for Vandelay Technologies. Isn’t that crazy? They’ve only started putting him up everywhere, though, so I guess the switchover happened recently. I kinda don’t get how I won him over; I guess it was my anxiety of being alone and the scent of my flowers. Regardless, I feel as if I understand him so much better now. It’s nice. I hope he stays with me. I hope his friends like me. I hope one day you can come by and we can really meet and you can meet him too. You’d probably like him, Rekka.
Reply soon! So much is happening and I need someone to talk to!!
P.S. I got a phone now. Please give me your number.
Summary: Chai, ambassador of Vandelay Technologies, certainly has his ways of communication. You, living in the suburbs outside the campus, don't even have a cell phone. You know what they say about relationships…
Chapter One: Time Slip
Chapter Two: #E67451
Chapter Three: Daisies
Chapter Four: Sweet Dreams
Chapter Five: Synesthesia
Chapter Six: On Mercury
The liquor slid down your throat finally, once trapped brushing over your taste buds when the Vandelay sister excused herself from the bar and took you with her. Sure, you could have took some cues from the drama class you forced yourself to take during your freshman year; perhaps then you could have spared the other two from assuming you couldn’t take it by nearly spitting it out all over the countertop. Peppermint, upon your wince and your lips flattening, fished around in the pockets of her cyan flannel to hand you a tiny bottle of tequila with a: “Here, you’re gonna need it.” You echo her sentiment with a whisper under the buzzing of flickering lamps above your head, nonetheless screwing off the lid, clinking the bottle with her own, and downing it in one shot. The bathroom wall is chill against your scalp as the buzz began to envelop you, your groan insignificant to the cries of frustration from the woman before you. Behind you was all of the action, beyond those doors music deafening to the ears and parties looking for a thrill or someone to spend the night with. Too loud, too overstimulating, but your boyfriend promised to make the night worth it by opening a tab under his account and then following the excitement with a night at your apartment. A night undoubtedly beginning with him rolling you up into a burrito under a blanket that was once his, with your cheeks squished against his as you two watch an action movie… his choice. You couldn’t help but count the minutes even if the alcohol turned minutes into seconds.
The idea to invite Korsica and Peppermint was not yours, nor was it entirely unwelcome. No double date was planned but the hang out of four friends; two of you so happened to be dating, and it would’ve been really cool if we were dating and all of us could go on, like, double dates, according to Chai. That would actually be pretty dope, you would respond. No one says that anymore hun. Say it with me: cool. Peppermint and Chai just so happened to frequent this place, the crowd practically anticipating their arrival, with the man swearing that one day this will be his first gig in show biz. You count yourself fortunate that no one followed the two of you into the bathroom, most likely instead fawning over…
You stiffened. “Don’t you and Korsica work together?”
“Something like that,” she began, hands gripping at the edges of the sink. “But—“
You huffed. “So what’s the issue?”
“The issue—“ Her grip tightened before she balled her hands into fists. Your gaze shuffled to her knuckles, her skin white with exertion, and you find her gaze again. “The issue is that I think I already love her.”
A lot to unpack there, but no time; your phone vied for your attention from the pocket of your jeans, no doubt your boyfriend in search for updates. His best friend knew this, was positive that was him, and she looked to you and shook her head in a plea for you to hear her out. “We’ve hooked up once before,” she revealed to you. Your eyes were wide with the revelation and her gaze found your pocket, no doubt aware of where your head was. The response was: “Don’t tell him or I’ll kill you,” and no matter the outcome of the night, that was now one less thing to giggle with him about. Peppermint confiding in you was an honor, however, and was a pact you intended not to break. Chai would not know unless, well, that buzz progressed a bit further than feeling nice.
She sighed, handing you another bottle. “We were drunk.” Before she took her swig, she raised an eyebrow at your posture leaning to your left. “You still with me?”
You paused, raising the rum above your head. “Cheers to being drunk and hooking up I guess.”
Chai was always too oblivious to notice it. To you, it was evident: the passing of glances from the two, the swift return to routine with but a brush of red on their cheeks. Peppermint, unable to process such emotions, would take it out on her roommate by jostling at his shoulders for reasons she should be long used to. Korsica would utter her name and seem deep in thought as if she was dwelling on how it sounded on her tongue. The affinity for the candy was sudden, as if the very plant itself reminded her of her crush. The hopeless romantic in you couldn’t help but think it was more than a crush; a love blossoming was more like it, well beyond of you and your boyfriend’s.
Oh, now you were feeling nice. You smiled. “You should just be natural. I think she, uh, likes you natural.”
The trek to the highest point of the dome was not an effortless one, and was not without its disadvantages: your knees aching and cracking as you threw your leg over one ledge after another. Your vision blurs when you blink and you do miss a step or two, but you nonetheless make it with a few cackles from your lover. It is only when you and Chai reach the surface that his eyes shut and he presses his lips against yours, streetlight overhead casting a shadow over lips hungry for affection. Your hand rests on his knee when he does so, the warm yellow hues enveloping the two of you on top of the world. The autumn breeze slithers up your sweater causing your body to quiver against the cool metal of the jungle gym, and Chai in response drags you toward his embrace by wrapping his arms around you and sharing his heartbeat with yours. His lips are cold, his breath escaping past him and dissolving into mist, but he continues to shower you with kisses that tempt you with a good time. With the prior decision for the four of you to abandon the bar at Peppermint’s request, you and Chai bask in the indulgences of a past once carefree and abundant with uncertainty.
He distracts you so much that the couple below you is forgotten, and your mission to third wheel a romance about to blossom is all but abandoned when Chai’s fingers grasp at your chin to focus your attention back at him. The second it takes the distance to grow between the two of you is the same as the second your boyfriend does not take for granted; he captures your lips once more before asking: “Wanna climb up that one?” Behind you is a dome twice the height of the one you two are situated on, and his response to your rebuff and your proclamation that he absolutely cannot make it up there is a smooth, “I bet I can.” However, Chai is lazy and it nonetheless shrouds his confidence; the man does not move, nor does he make the effort to be apart from you.
“Chai, do you think—“
“That they’re definitely over us kissing? Yes! I do.”
You groan. “That this double date worked?”
“Ohhh! Right… prolly not.” However, he sneaks a peek over your shoulder, and he grins. “Or maybe…”
You expect the two of them to huff below you, feet planted on the ground as their eyes roll to the back of their heads with the obscenity of the two of you lip-locking. You expect to turn and find them throwing their hands up and stomping to the truck, grumbling about how much of a waste of time today was. When Chai grips at your chin to steer you towards his line of vision, you find the two lovebirds against the trunk of Peppermint’s truck as their lips touch for the first time. If you squint, you can feast your eyes on the beauty that is Korsica’s hands cupping her lover’s cheeks; their noses touch, and you’re reminded of the first kiss you and Chai shared all of those months ago.
“Holy shit.”
“Holy shit is right! Can’t believe we pulled that off!” His hand is raised, awaiting a high-five, but your fingers instead intertwine with his. He says your name, fingers tracing his own across the cloth that warms your thigh. You eye at the hairs that stand in response to his touch, at the metallic that pricks at the thread of your jeans as he spells out another word in time with the swift waving of your hand clasped with his.
He then shakes his head and goes: “Nah. Just counting myself lucky.”
I need a tavern brawl where Karlach hears someone insult Tav or cat call them and she’s enraged because no one should ever even think about Tav like that and she growls and—
ME WJEN NEW TIME SLIP :DDDDDDDDDD I was grinning like an idiot the whole chapter
Also for clarification this is before the first "I love you"? And thats why Pep is annoyed? Sorry I'm just bad with context sometimes :p
This is before the first I love you!!! I totally get that the way I write can be a little confusing sometimes so maybe I can work on that!! I’m so excited that you’re excited oh my goodness
I write for funsies and to see people react to my stuff is soooo nice 🥹 I’m so glad you’re enjoying my story, I really hope to finish something for once starting with him!!! I have plans already for the next two or three chapters so I hope you stay along for the ride!!! Thank you so much ❤️❤️
Summary: Chai, ambassador of Vandelay Technologies, certainly has his ways of communication. You, living in the suburbs outside the campus, don't even have a cell phone. You know what they say about relationships...
Chapter One: Time Slip
Chapter Two: #E67451
Chapter Three: Daisies
Chapter Four: Sweet Dreams
Chapter Five: Synesthesia
When the sun begins to set is when Chai begins to squeeze at your fingers like the beat that grants him life. One heartbeat, two heartbeats… a song from the late seventies that he begs you to never skip when you tune into the radio. He swings your arm back and forth with the tune, walking with a swagger unlike you, basking in the summer breeze that caresses your skin and draws out the beauty marks and imperfections–a sketch across your skin. The glances up and down is the tell, except his eyes don’t gloss over the flush of red all over your face. Yours can’t help but notice, the casual, “Me and a pretty girl out on a date? Who would’ve thought… and she’s my girlfriend!” sinking into your stomach like butterflies.
The date is like your first, with the visit to that same cafe except Chai wills himself to order a pumpkin spice latte he mentioned seconds ago released too early. However, his tongue relishes in the whipped cream reduced to foam atop his drink; the man raises his free hand to slurp at the topping before groaning in satisfaction. His eyes roll to the back of his head every time, and you imagine the reaction is amplified by the fact that the two drinks did not come out of his wallet. His hand does not let go of yours, the two of you across an overpass that overlooks the sun in the distant horizon. The time of day calls for a movie night, perhaps at a local theater where the experience is so real and imperfect and humans provide the service.
He pulls you along the sidewalk of the overpass but you halt your movements to observe the trail of train tracks descend towards a sky of violet hues and summer blues. The path grows narrow as the distance between increases, and behind the two of you is the sound of a drawn out horn. Your gaze is through holes of a fence, a wall before you dragging you from the unknown. What is now is the garden of tulips that surround you, the scent that represents the present more than any other invention that attempts to replicate what is real. What is real is the arm that hangs over your shoulder, following your gaze out into the distance, as real as the refuge Chai provides you.
You hum, and because that doesn’t get his attention, you call out his name. “You gotta’ take me to that place. Y’know, with the view.”
His arms wrap around your shoulders, his chin resting on your left. “That’s off limits but I guess I can take you.”
So he does. The route there is as mundane as the life he lived as a child, a conclusion you jump to upon the tapping of his feet on the train car floor. His prosthetic taps at the metal bar above your head, regardless of the huffs that escape you, yet they falter at the first sight at the place he calls home: the campus that houses him and his roommate Peppermint. The buildings, although imitating, tower above the railway with the interest in housing for those desiring to be close to work. Ahead of you is the spot you have dreamed of since the photo Chai sent you of him and his friends with the ocean behind them; the shine of the sun’s rays across the water is a sight you want to experience for the rest of your life. Perhaps there is the romantic getaway the hopeless romantic in you have always wished for.
You don’t think there’s a sight that can compare, especially because the tips of the grass glows and tickles at your ankles with a sway that rivals Chai’s incessant rocking. You taste the breeze atop your lips, the chill brushing past a cupid’s bow chewed on the more Chai reminds you how much you are loved… without saying it, of course. You scramble to your knees, to embrace the tufts of grass in your fists, to savor the distance between you and the sun setting to meet you. Ten steps forward and it is you against the ocean, waves crashing against the rocks below as the ascent to reach you begins. Nothing is past your vision except the possibilities and the stories untold; you haven’t a clue what is out there, and perhaps that is what’s most exciting. The young man behind you throws his hands up in the air as if to say, “Welp, this is it!” yet he underestimates the glimpse of the wonders of the world he bestowed to you.
“You like it, huh? Did good, right babe?” He then sits beside you, a guitar he picked up from a nearby rock resting atop his crossed legs. The streaks of red and white are his match, as are the stickers he slapped on with the most notable being a holographic black cat and a fragment of you outlined as a flower. Chai’s shoulders are relaxed, a sigh escaping past the grin that cements itself on his lips. When his eyes begin to glisten, no doubt the reason being the attempt to see the world in your eyes, he turns to find you sparing a glance at him at the corner of your eye. You share the sentiment, your vision shuffling to the guitar in his embrace, and your smile grows with the shade of pink that warms up his face.
With a hurried strum of his guitar, he warns you with a, “This isn’t finished, but—” He shakes his head. “I really want you to hear it.”
Synesthesia is the name of his work in progress. He looks into your eyes as he begins, a gaze so tender that it’s as if the song is written for you, and you edge closer as if the warmth stems from only him. His voice is soft, low enough that the waves crawling towards the bottom of the cliff threaten to drown out his tune. He whispers at times, mumbling words here and there, and he remedies his nerves by closing his eyes and allowing his body to sway with the chords. The grass follows his movements, and what surrounds you two is an audience that resonate with Chai’s words so much they sing along ever so quietly, a murmur swallowed whole by your humming. As if familiar with the song, a chorus is raised around the two of you as the outro begins, the wind picking up despite the heat nipping at your skin.
When we're together, I'm all the color
When we're together, I'm all the color
When we're together, I'm all the color
You repeat the lyric back to him, effortless enough to memorize. Your lips are centimeters from his when he opens his eyes again, your vision flickering to his lips wet with anticipation. Like yours, they begin to flutter close with what’s about to come, both of you confident that the two of you will align with a kiss that is as perfect as this view. This one promises to be different from the rest, edging toward the abstract of love without the words being spoken. You imagine it’s another step toward that three word phrase, one you’ve said so many times and too quickly for your own good. His breath hot on the tip of your nose, his hand threads itself past the knots in your hair to the back of your head, pulling you close. For now, you can tell him you love this, that you love that it seems as if each kiss will be better than the last. You hope it’s enough for him, if you remind him that—
“Oh dear! It looks like we’ve interrupted something between Mister Chai and Miss—”
Chai groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the sight of his trusted friends. Peppermint is the first to approach you two, followed by her love interest Korsica, their guardian Macaron, and his whimsical analyst CNMN. Of course, 808 follows suit with a nuzzle against Chai’s back, vying for his attention once again. However sheepish the big guy is, Macaron tends to the curiosity of his friends by tagging along with an apology and a scratch of his scalp. Peppermint, with her hands on her hips, relishes in the embarrassment of her friend with a smirk tugged on her lips, cackling when Chai answers with a, “Yeah, CNMN! You kinda’ did!” They definitely did, as his head drops with a drawn out huff. The robot taps at his arm to grab a marker from a slot in his forearm, then drawing eyebrows on his face that resemble two meeting sides of a triangle above eyes that emit a bright yellow glow. He is thrilled, surely because he spends too much time with someone who very much finds joy in seeing her friend too red in the face.
Korsica stoops down to your level. “Thought we’d find ya’ here!” Then, to Chai. “You finally showed her the spot, eh?”
“Yes!” CNMN nods, his excitement concerning. “Did she like the song you wrote for her, Mister Chai?”
Your boyfriend, with another groan, buries his face in his hands. You giggle in response, evolving to a snort when you lunge forward to attempt to pry his hands away from his burning cheeks. Only then, despite the burning of your own, do you throw your arms around him to pull him into an embrace. The left side of his face is squished up against yours in the process, and despite voicing his complaints, no effort is made to distance yourself from you. His complaints, mind you, are at the mercy of a smile so wide they stretch at his cheeks.
The rest of them can’t help but share the sentiment, but the second you notice the lingering gaze of Peppermint’s towards Korsica, you are at the mercy of her glare. Her eyes narrow, as if already knowing your not so well-kept secret.
Hey. Stop messing around and go tell him you love him already.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 as much as you wanted to stay by his side, you couldn't bear the thought of watching him fall in love with other women while you're stuck at the kitchen washing dishes and measuring ingredients. so you dreamt of leaving, of traveling to different islands to share your lovely songs and tunes; but the more your desire to leave grows, the more sanji finds himself drowning in your warmth.
or,
you and sanji over the years, wherein five times you tried to leave him and the one time you finally did, despite his refusal to let you go.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 musician reader, 5 + 1 things, pining, unrequited love, not actually unrequited love, heavy (kind of) angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 HERE IT IS! the response to the sneak peek was crazy, and so i rushed to get this done. i only watched the live action so beware of minor mistakes if you ever saw one. english is also not my first language and you are welcome to correct me anytime for any grammatical errors. title is a lyric from the last time by taylor swift ft. gary lightbody. this fic is also posted in ao3 with its full summary and WITH A BONUS CHAPTER. enjoy reading!
𝐰𝐜 11.3k
"There you are."
Your soapy, wet hands almost dropped the ceramic plate you were currently washing in the dirty kitchen sink as soon as you heard a familiar smooth and honeyed voice. Abruptly turning off the sink so that the sound of his approaching footsteps were clear to your ears, you wiped the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand before turning your body towards him.
He was carrying a stack of plates, a fresh batch to add to the pile you had to wash, with an obnoxious yet handsome smile plastered on his lips. You took a deep breath to calm the growing irritation at the bottom of your stomach, reminding yourself that this was your job and you only had a couple of hours to endure until you're free to lock yourself up in your bedroom. You were particularly looking forward to writing today, and the thought of finishing the lyrics to your new song tonight slightly eased your mood. Accepting your fate, you pointed to the remaining space beside the sink.
"Place it there." You told him, albeit begrudgingly as you turn on the sink again and pour more soap on the battered sponge.
You took a mental note to ask Zeff later about buying new sponges, and if you were lucky to catch him in a good mood, you'll put in a request to get the sink fixed and cleaned. Your eyes scanned over the grime and rust around the area. If you were going to spend the rest of your life washing dishes, then you might as well get a proper kitchen sink to do so.
An amused laugh fell out of the golden haired man you grew up with, surprised at your compliance to do the job you hated. The sound nearly sent your poor heart into a dizzying whirlwind of little nuisances called emotions. "What a hardworking woman."
"I could say the same to you. It seems like you have a new record today." You said while you splashed dirtied bowls with soap water, smiling at him teasingly, "Thought you would've been kicked out of the line by now."
"The old man just can't help but to accept the fact that I am a greater cook than him." He smirked, wiping a knife with a dish cloth. Trying not to roll your eyes, you shook your head at his usual display of arrogance, yet you can't help but to grin as you began to hear scratching sounds against the floors.
"Then you better get those chopped carrots ready." You replied, and when you got to finish your sentence, the doors to the kitchen swung open, revealing the head chef.
Zeff's cold and steely eyes immediately landed on the blond. He walked towards him with a fast pace despite only having one leg, his braided mustache bouncing in each step.
"Aye, aye, aye. Why haven't you started on the carrots yet, little eggplant? Can you get any slower?" He scolded, loud enough for the whole staff to hear, but none of them even flinched. You returned back to your plates and glasses, smiling softly. This was part of your routine everyday: to listen in their silly arguments.
However, before the younger chef can reply, you butted in, "Sanji fetched some of the plates for me. Since there's a lunch rush, I couldn't leave the kitchen."
Zeff let out a low hum. You couldn't even see Sanji's face, but you knew him well enough to know that he was smiling triumphantly, knowing that he won this time. After a few minutes of contemplating, the head chef clicked his tongue. "Don't defend him, little lass. But I'll let it slip this time. What are you waiting for, then? Start cutting them!"
"Yes, chef." Sanji answered in a jovial manner, placing the carrots on a chopping board.
Twisting the faucet lever so that the water flow from the sink is gentle and quiet, you then paid attention to their little banters every now and then. You brought up a wine glass and positioned it by your side to try to get a glimpse of the two most important men in your life. Through their reflection on the glass, you can see Zeff hunching over Sanji's knifework, nodding every time the vegetables were correctly sliced.
On the other hand, Sanji was unbothered by the head chef's observations and continued to cut the ingredients calmly. Some of the strands in his hair fell down on one side of his face, covering an eye, and most people would think that it was an unusual way of styling hair; yet it was one thing out of many that you loved the most about him.
You accepted it years ago.
You accepted the fact that you somehow fell in love with Sanji Vinsmoke along your weird journey of working in a sea restaurant full of former pirates and making music while at it. How the pesky feelings grew and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. Maybe it was when he learned to cook your favorite food and gave it to you afterwards, or the way his crystal blue eyes reminded you of snowflakes every winter.
Or maybe it was when he pulled your hair out of jealousy the moment he learned that Zeff would be taking in another child in his care, but brushed it and even braided it after the latter cleared the misunderstanding. Maybe it was when he supported you in your dreams and told you they weren't silly, maybe it was when he fought off drunk men that were trying to hit on you. Or maybe it was the way his voice would drop an octave lower whenever he asks you for a favor. The list could go on and on and you still wouldn't know the reason why. It doesn't matter anyway. You tripped, you fell, and now you're pining.
Drying off the last of the plates, you washed your own hands after and patted them dry on your skirt. You were the last one to leave the kitchen, the other staff already back in their quarters after a long, exhausting day of cooking. You fixed the signature blue bandana tied in your hair then went on your way towards the upper deck.
You weren't blessed with a talent in cooking, so you offered to do chores instead. Washing the dishes, cleaning the restaurant, and doing the laundry were few of the things you do in the Baratie. You can't say that you enjoy it, but you were beyond grateful that Zeff gave you a chance despite his opposition to let a woman work inside his restaurant.
As you were about to go to the newly laundered clothes you hung on a thin wire earlier that morning, you heard two voices speaking. You also smelled cigarette smoke wafting through the air, and you only knew one person who could be smoking at this hour. Your breath hitched in anticipation.
"You bringing a woman to your bed again, Sanji?" The other person asked playfully, but there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. You carefully took a peek so you won't accidentally reveal yourself and be accused of eavesdropping. Two people came into view with their backs facing you.
"Now, what are you talking about, Patty? I am a gentleman. I only had a nice chat with the lovely lady and escorted her back to her ship." Sanji interjected, a cigarette hanging on his lips.
Patty huffed. "I didn't know that chatting included kiss marks on jawlines."
This caused Sanji to laugh and say, "Not my fault she was charmed by my food."
"The boss man ain't gonna like it when he finds out about this."
"He's not gonna find out." Sanji assured him, wiping off the said kiss mark on his jaw. You stared at him as he did so, and you pitied the woman who planted that kiss, knowing she was just one of the many beautiful ladies Sanji had flirted with before. However, a tinge of pain in your chest said otherwise, taunting you that it was not pity you're feeling, but foul jealousy.
"Why don't you look for more decent women, eh? How about 'little lass' for a change?" Patty suddenly suggested.
It was like someone had hit your stomach with one of the metal pans in the kitchen with the way it lurched in surprise and nervousness. Your heartbeat started to quicken the longer you waited for his response, making your grip on your skirt tighter. In moments like these, you allowed yourself to hope, to wish that he saw something in you and that he finds you beautiful and lovely enough to be the person standing by his side.
But his answer made all that hope crumble down into nothing but dust.
"I don't see her that way." Sanji said after a long stretch of silence, taking a long drag from the cigarette then releasing the smoke in a single breath.
Ah.
You blinked repeatedly, trying to keep the tears from forming. It's always been like this, so why can't you get used to it? Taking a deep breath, you gulped away the knot forming in your throat and decided to leave. You can grab the clothes later.
"You're too kind for him." Someone behind you spoke, making you jump and tense up. Turning around, you saw Zeff looking at you with an unreadable emotion in his eyes and his hands on his hips, almost like he knew your secret. Of course he does. He always sees everything.
You stumbled on your words. "Sir?"
"That boy is always up to something." He began, switching his attention to Sanji. "One minute he's stubbornly immature in the kitchen, and the next he'll be a thirsty man staring at women like they're liquid booze."
Clearing your throat, you forced a smile.
"Well, he can be a lot sometimes." You agreed, remembering the days when the two of you would fight over irrelevant matters. Then you chuckled and continued, "But he's kind. He's gentle, and lovely, like a freshly made poem you keep repeating in your head. But then he's also confusing, hot-headed, and reckless. He's like the sea, isn't he? Calm yet wrapped with mystery, dangerous yet beautiful..."
You trailed off, an unbearable heat rising up your cheeks and neck once you slowly began to realize that you just ranted out your feelings to the head chef. You glanced at him with wide eyes, preparing to see a disgusted look on his face; however, Zeff didn't appear to be repulsed by your little speech. In fact, the corners of his lips were slightly quirked up.
"But I cannot swim. If I were to drown, he wouldn't save me." You quickly added, hoping to shut down the topic.
He sighed. "You will meet someone who deserves you as much as you deserve them, little lass." He simply said. He then laid his hand out, and on his palm was a little box poorly tied with a ribbon. "Here, for you."
Altnough you were a bit confused at the random gift, you accepted it and cradled the box to your chest. "I'll be okay, Zeff." You insisted, grinning cheekily. "When I become famous, I'll sing my songs here in Baratie, and people would flood the restaurant to hear my singing. And to eat your food too, of course."
The head chef nodded, relief flooding his expression. "I look forward to that." He said while awkwardly returning your smile.
That night, when you were sure that everyone in the Baratie was asleep, you opened the loose floorboard on the floors of your bedroom and grabbed the wooden box you kept hidden for a long time now. You opened the lid and began counting the Berry you saved for the past few months.
Tomorrow was the perfect day to leave.
You just can't stay here. Yes, you had a roof over your head, delicious food to eat everyday, and clean clothes to wear but you were so miserable. This wasn't the life you wanted. You wish to go out there, sing your heart out, and fall in love with someone who actually loves you back.
A knock on your door made you freeze. You held your breath as the person on the other side continued to knock a few more times. "You awake?"
Pain surged through your veins, your chest twisting in agony. Sanji.
"You didn't come down for dinner. I guess you're too tired, hmm?" He said, his muffled voice gentle, and the sound almost prompted you to stand up and open the door for him. But you dug your fingernails in your palms and resisted, because you can't just let this opportunity pass by.
You heard a brief clinking sound before Sanji spoke again, "Sweet dreams, ange."
Once his footsteps faded away, you cautiously moved towards your door and opened it as quietly as you can. There, on the floor, was a small plate with a slice of your favorite desert: angel's food cake, topped with fresh cream and strawberries.
You bent down and saw a note beside the plate. And when you got to read the contents of the note, you burst into tears and sobs that wracked down your entire body.
Happy Birthday
— S.
You ate the cake with tears silently falling down your cheeks, and that was the first time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.
⸻ • ⸻
Today was the day, and you won't allow anyone to ruin it for you.
You had saved enough Berries to travel around the world and sustain yourself for the upcoming months. Your notebook containing the lyrics of the songs you wrote laid open on top of your bed as you spent all night revising them while planning out an itinerary. Then you'll find a place to settle in, a stable job that required doing what you loved the most, and overall just be peaceful and free from pirates and chefs and pirate chefs. It was perfect.
Folded clothes surrounded you everywhere, ready to be packed in your bags. Once you finished stuffing them all in, you grabbed your treasured instrument, the one thing you couldn't live without: your guitar, which has been with you since you were a little child. It was given by your mother and you've been attached to it ever since.
It has scratches all over its wooden surface, and the strings needed some fixing occassionally, but you wouldn't trade it for the greatest treasures in the world. You ran your fingers over it, suddenly feeling like it was lacking something. Seeing the paint chipping off at the corners, you figured that it needed a little color. You'll need lacquer, and paint if you managed to find some.
You set the guitar aside and left your bedroom to head downstairs to the kitchen. As you were about to push the doors open, a loud, angry shout made you stop in your tracks.
"I won't ever become a pathetic waiter for you!" Sanji's thunderous yells can be heard from outside. Your shoulders tensed up. It was a good thing that brunch was over and all the customers had left.
Zeff's own furious voice followed, "Leave then, for all I care! You can do anything you want, but don't you ever serve one of your shit dishes in my kitchen!"
A frown settled on your face. Their fights were a normal occurrence to you, but this one sounded more grave than usual. Crossing your arms, you stepped in closer to the entrance and hesitated whether you should go in or not. Before you could make a decision, Zeff beat you to it by pushing the doors open, rage emanating from his figure as he ignored and walked past you.
Without hesitation this time, you entered the kitchen, greeted by the sight of Sanji bowing over the counter, breathing heavily, his face covered with his hair. He didn't move an inch even as you approached him, the clacking of the heels in your boots echoing throughout the room.
Both of you were silent as you rummaged through cabinets, trying to find lacquer to cover your guitar with, while he tried his best to calm himself down after his outburst. Many cupboards later, you finally found a small can of used up lacquer, but as you started to reach for it, your hand completely stopped mid-air.
You looked over your shoulder, and found Sanji already recovered from the argument seeing that he was on the move again, preparing a cut of beef tenderloin and other ingredients he needed for tonight's dinner.
Slowly, you closed the cupboard and went closer to him. He still refused to look at you. And so you watched him place a bag of flour on the countertop, slices of cold butter, and a variety of spice bottles to season the meat with.
Sanji began to wrap twine around the beef tenderloin. You sighed, and before you could stop yourself, you grabbed a bowl and decided to help him. Your guitar can wait.
It was rare for you to cook inside the kitchen, having so little knowledge about food and how they were prepared, but you knew this recipe well. You poured two cups of flour through the sifter, followed by placing heaps of the cold butter in the mixture.
The moment you started to mix the dough for the puff pastry, Sanji quickly pointed out in a monotone voice, "You're adding too much butter."
You raised your head and glanced at him, his attention now on the meat he was searing on a skillet. You smiled, glad that he was speaking again.
"You're beginning to sound like the old man himself." You joked lightly.
His jaw clenched. "Don't compare me to that shitty geezer."
In a softer voice, you asked, "What happened?"
"The usual." He replied curtly. "Didn't approve of my dishes."
You perked up upon hearing about a dish he made himself. Sanji was talented when it comes to creating his own recipes, and sometimes, you would be the person he chooses to test them out. Every time he lets you taste them, your chest would feel warm and you wouldn't be able to sleep for days because you'll keep replaying it in your head. "What did you make this time?"
"It doesn't matter. He'll never agree to any of them."
"Maybe I can—"
"Drop it. Don't poke your nose in things you're not involved." Sanji cut you off, his hardened gaze meeting your concerned stare. You only blinked at him, straightening up.
"I see." You muttered, eyes landing on the bag of flour. You looked at him, then at the flour, then back at him. A smile began to form on your lips as a devious plan formulated itself in your brain. Sticking your hand inside the bag of flour, you took a fistful of the pillowy powder and threw it straight into his face.
Sanji jumped back, flinching and closing his eyes when some of the flour's particles managed to enter them. His jaw dropped open in surprise, hands quickly removing themselves from the skillet's handle to dust off the flour that rested on his now white hair. You tried to stifle a laugh as you watched him struggle getting the flour out.
Once he managed to clean himself, he stared straight at you and said in the calmest way possible, even if you knew deep inside that he was fuming, "What was that for?"
A high-pitched snort left your mouth. You covered it to prevent yourself from laughing.
You cleared your throat and smiled at him innocently. "Am I involved now?"
His piercing blue eyes then started to sparkle with mirth, amusement replacing the vexation previously swimming in them. He also looked to be trying to push down a smile, and that made your heart skip a beat. "You're insufferable."
He reached for the bag of flour. You squeaked and took off running, trying to escape from his attack, but he still managed to throw a small amount on you. Giggling, you ran the opposite direction to confuse him, and yet he caught up with you, throwing another round of flour. This time, it hit your cheeks, making you laugh loudly. He laughed along, pointing a finger at you because you probably looked crazy at the moment.
You tried to take the bag of flour away from him, but he just took it an as opportunity to catch your arm and grip it firmly. He pulled you into his chest, caging you completely.
With your cheeks warm and your breaths short, you tilted your head up and looked at him, noticing the way that you were both covered in flour; and not only that, you also noticed the short distance between your bodies and how your noses were almost touching. His pupils were dilated, black dominating the alluring blue shade that kept haunting your dreams. You drank in the attention he was giving you, the breathing coming out from his soft lips, and the comfortable silence that wrapped around the both of you like a safe little bubble.
"Caught you." Sanji muttered, voice deeper and huskier, making you let out a quiet sigh. His arms snaked around your waist as he leaned in closer. A million questions started to run inside your head, begging to know what this situation was and how you got into it. "Nowhere to run now, darling."
A slamming of doors shattered the secret moment you shared, and you immediately pulled away from each other. You pushed down your disappointment and hid it in the secret crevice in your heart as the two of you faced your intruder.
Zeff observed your flour-laden figures, his thick eyebrows scrunched together in irritation. He then demanded, voice seething and dripping with anger, "What in the hell are you two little brats doing?"
Sanji blurted out in defense, "Zeff, we—she was the one who started it!"
"And you went along with it!" You accused incredulously, grinning from ear-to-ear. Sanji grinned back, shaking his head and biting his lower lip.
"Oh, shut up before I stitch your mouths! Just by looking at you two, I already know that you snot-nosed shits are both at fault!" Zeff shouted, clicking his tongue at the sight of the half emptied flour. "Wasted them good flour for your childish fights. You're even worse than fatwits. Get out and clean the toilets!"
"Not the shitty toilets!" Sanji groaned, and you couldn't blame him for it. The bathroom area smelled revolting and the floors were always wet for some reason.
"I don't wanna hear complaints from you when you've dirtied my kitchen! Off you go!" Zeff dismissed, and you can't help but to laugh again when you saw Sanji pout like a little kid.
The head chef watched the two of you leave the kitchen together while giggling and exchanging fond looks. Patty, who also saw the whole situation unfold, suddenly appeared beside him, snickering, "I can already hear the wedding bells ringing."
Zeff took a deep, tired breath.
"Oh, they're ringing alright."
You cleaned and scrubbed the toilets the entire afternoon with the man you're in love with, flushing your plans down the drain and forgetting all about them, and that was the second time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.
⸻ • ⸻
You didn't know how you ended up in a ship full of pirates.
Well, maybe you knew. A little. But it wasn't supposed to be like this.
Your knuckles were beginning to turn white with how tight you were clenching them. A mix of emotions swirled around in your chest, namely confusion, impatience, and hesitation, pondering about whether you should be irritated at yourself or at Sanji.
The opportunity was there, handed to you like a steak on a golden platter, or a miracle that suddenly fell from the sky. The day you met Luffy and his strange pirate crew was the day you immediately realized that he was the key to your exit from the Baratie. He was friendly; a good pirate, according to his own words, so you figured he would allow you to tag along for a while until you find an island to get off to. You just had to ask for his permission and wait for his reply.
Luffy agreed. And you were ecstatic. You were finally going to leave Sanji Vinsmoke and your pathetic, unrequited feelings behind.
Or so you thought.
You watched in horror as he followed you when you boarded the Going Merry, also carrying a bag of his own. He said something along the lines of Luffy needing a cook for the journey to the Grand Line but you couldn't care less. You got here first. Why was he here?
So here you were, sitting in a corner, lonelier than ever and regretting your life decisions. You watched Luffy and his friends celebrate after defeating the pirate Arlong and saving Coco Village from his inhuman hold over its people, but Sanji and the beautiful orange haired Nami were nowhere in sight.
The thought of them being gone together at the same time left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue.
Nami. The first time you laid eyes on her, ethereal was the word that came up to your mind. With soft deep saffron locks that framed her small face and a wide blue eyed gaze, she would have the cruelest of men begging for mercy and affection at her feet.
Unfortunately, Sanji was one of those men.
Fuck, you cursed mentally, rubbing your face with your hands to try and forget about the times he flirted with her and the moments he wouldn't stop talking about her or kept asking about her favorite food or dessert or if she's into blonds. Your already battered heart doesn't need the usual reminder that he'll never see you that way, that you weren't going to experience his sweet words and his loving gazes.
You took a sharp breath. It's okay, you tell yourself over and over again until they were buried in your heart. They'll make a great pair, Sanji the cook and Nami the thief. A strong man with an equally strong woman. Yes. That makes sense.
You'll leave soon anyway, and you'll no longer have to worry about seeing them or how they were going to end up together.
And yet you can't help but to think about the things that could've been if you were the one he was in love with instead.
You were crossing your arms and hugging yourself as the crisp afternoon air was getting chilly when a hand gripping a shot glass filled with amber liquid appeared in front of you. Looking up, you saw Luffy smiling widely at you, waving the glass encouragingly.
"Come on, just one drink! Usopp poured this for you!" The captain exclaimed heartily, obviously trying to uplift your spirits and to make you feel welcomed in his crew, even though you did nothing but to guard the Going Merry while they were fighting for their lives.
You shook your head and smiled politely. "No, I don't drink. Sorry."
Luffy's smile faltered, but he recovered quickly. He nodded, setting the glass down on top of a barrel. "Well, okay." He said, then turned to Usopp, who was currently downing a whole bottle of whiskey. "Hey, where's Nami?"
"Oh, she's with the cook," Usopp replied cheekily, wiping his mouth after drinking. There was a teasing tone in his voice as he continued, "Someone's getting a boyfriend tonight!"
With that said, you reached for the shot glass that Luffy was offering you earlier, grabbed it swiftly, and poured the whole thing down your throat. The whiskey tasted unfamiliar, and it burned and made you dizzy at first taste, but it doesn't matter; as long as it can make you forget just for a little while, you were willing to drink more of the horrible beverage.
Zoro, the green haired swordsman and the captain's first mate, stared at you as if you had lost your mind, but a tinge of concern was visibly written on his face. "Woah, slow down." He warned sternly.
"I thought you didn't drink." Was all Luffy said, blinking in confusion. You chuckled tiredly.
"Now I do."
Drink after drink, glass after glass. You lost count on how many times Usopp poured whiskey for you, or how many times Zoro shook his head in disbelief. Luffy was the same old happy-go-lucky captain throughout the disaster that was starting to brew inside you, turning your brain into mush. You can barely lift your head or your fingers as you asked for another shot in an incoherent voice. Luckily, Usopp was still able to understand you, tipping the whiskey bottle yet again towards your glass.
You started to raise the glass to your lips, eager to just get severely drunk and be over with it already. However, you suddenly felt strong fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from drinking; and when you caught sight of a familiar silver ring with Baratie's jolly roger inlaid upon it, you didn't need to look up to know who it was.
Sanji's voice was unnervingly calm as he questioned the crew, but the slight shake in his words lets you know otherwise. "Which one of you allowed her to drink?"
"No one. She took the glass and made the decision herself." Zoro drawled, challenging the chef, "The last time I checked, waiter, you were supposed to be the one responsible for her."
Sanji ignored him and turned his attention to you. He stole the shot glass away from you, then kneeled and held your hands comfortingly, smiling. "Come on, ange. It's time for you to rest now." He said quietly, yet loud enough for only you to hear.
You stubbornly shook your head repeatedly and whined loudly. "No! Don't touch me!" You cried, prying your hands away from his, "I don't like you...!"
Zoro huffed in amusement at your declaration. Sanji glared at him for a short second before looking at you again. This time, he stood and gently placed his arms under your shoulders to raise you up. Once you were standing on your feet, he swept you up and carried you bridal style with ease. Another whine escaped your lips.
"Put me down! I want another drink, please, just one more!" You pleaded while throwing weak punches on his chest. Sanji only smiled and began to lead you towards the sleeping quarters. You continued to thrash in his arms as he walked slowly and in small steps so he wouldn't drop you.
Sanji carefully set you down on your hammock. "No drinks for you until you actually learn how to take them." He told you, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. His thumb caressed the soft skin of your cheek and rubbed it in circles, noting how fast you were heating up due to the alcohol. You pouted.
"Pretty please, Sanji...please..."
He chuckled, staring at you intensely. "Maybe some other time, ange."
You went quiet, staring back at him with half-lidded eyes. Then, you crossed your arms like a child and asked, "Why do you keep calling me that?"
Sanji raised a brow. "Call you what? Ange?"
You nodded. "I don't like it."
He began to smile, the dimples on his cheeks appearing. You briefly wondered if he'd allow you to poke and feel them. "Why?"
"I don't know what it means. Is it an insult?" You wondered aloud, your eyes widening in curiosity.
A hearty and warm laugh came out from Sanji, his eyes forming half-moons as he cackled at your words like they were the biggest joke he heard in his entire life, "Oh, my dear girl, how could I possibly insult you?" He managed to speak between laughs, "It means angel. You're an angel, to me at least. My angel."
Oh.
Your lips parted in surprise. Blinking, you simply said, "You're not Sanji."
He's not Sanji. He wouldn't call you angel; you're not even sure if he found you beautiful or attractive. You wear the same old tattered dresses that Zeff bought for you a long time ago, and you didn't even bother to style your hair or put on face powder like all the other beautiful ladies do. You look nowhere near to an angel.
But Sanji only grinned. "I assure you, I am very much Sanji. The little brat who pulled your hair when we were barely eleven years old."
Your breath hitched at the thought of him remembering one of your fond memories in your childhood. "You remembered."
"Of course I remembered." He whispered, cupping your cheek one last time before he got ready to leave. He turned on his heel and was about to walk away when you spoke.
"Are you going to see her again?" You asked, and he quickly noticed how broken your voice sounded. Sanji faced you in concern and was taken aback with how deep you were frowning. He figured that you were just drunk and women tend to be different when they were intoxicated. You were no exception to that, it seemed.
"Hm?" He hummed, prompting you to elaborate further.
Tears began to form in the corners of your eyes. You shakily mumbled, "Nami...you're going to Nami, aren't you?"
Sanji froze, an icy cold rush filling up his body. A knot formed in his throat, and it continued to tighten the longer he stared at your face. You looked so hurt—like he just destroyed your beloved guitar into pieces. Your lower lips were trembling, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, he couldn't find the courage to answer you, feeling like he could die at any second now if he answers your question.
But the answer was simple.
"Yes." He breathed out, a sharp pain stabbing through his heart.
And it only became worse when a teardrop finally rolled down your cheek. "Why?" You rasped, and Sanji didn't know that a single word can hurt this much.
He tried to give you a reassuring smile but awfully failed to do so. He started to explain, "We were just discussing something—"
"Why not me?"
Those three words coming out of your mouth felt like a final blow to his heart. He can feel himself bleed, drained of life and soul because of you and your words alone, and he let you. He let you kill him, he let you make him swim in his own guilt and he doesn't why, why, why.
More tears fell out of your angelic eyes, staining your cheeks with wet trails, and he tried to hold himself back from wiping them off. You choked out, "Why not me, Sanji? I have been asking myself that question for the past decade, and it eats my brain every night like some kind of plague, but I let it anyway. Because why? Why can't you just recognize me and appreciate me and see me? Why can't you go to me if you want to talk about your dreams, or what dish you're planning to create? Why do you have to seek solace in other women when you have me standing by your side everyday, me who is willing to listen to you and whatever you have to say?"
Angry, red rimmed eyes glared at him. Your hair strands stuck to your skin and framed your face as sweat began to form on your forehead. Teardrops clung to your wet eyelashes and your face was drenched like you just took a swim in the ocean. You were burning with fury and rage and want, struggling to breathe properly after your little rant, and Sanji thought you couldn't be more beautiful. You were so beautiful.
"Oh but I couldn't blame you for that. She's just so beautiful, so perfect, and so strong. She could give you anything you wanted and she could be anything that I never was." You hiccuped, smiling forcibly, "But in the end...I will still love you. I will always love you. I think."
You scooted closer to him, leaning in until your faces only had a few inches apart between them. You didn't notice how his lips were slightly parted in shock, nor his eyes that were starting to glisten with his own tears. "No matter where I flee to, or where I lay my heart on, or which skies I look at—it's always you, Sanji. It's always been you."
"I had been so selfless all these years, Sanji. So please, can you pretend to like me too, just for today, before I leave?" You whispered meekly, cupping his cheeks with both of your hands. Numb and completely speechless, Sanji simply gave you a single nod as a response.
You gingerly pressed your lips against his, and he immediately tasted the saltiness of your tears. But your lips were soft, as he expected from an angel like you. And so he couldn't help himself; he closed his eyes and delicately kissed you back, repeating your name in his mind like a sacred prayer and wishing to the stars above to not let the moment end.
However, you broke the kiss by losing consciousness and falling down on your hammock, knocked out and peacefully snoring.
Sanji spaced out, not moving from his position. No. It's not that he didn't want to move—he couldn't move. He couldn't feel anything except for the drumming of his heart, knocking on his chest desperately. His lips were still tingling and his ears and neck were warming up.
He gulped, loosening the collar of his shirt to cool himself down. He needed a cigarette. And a drink.
Scrambling to get up even with his trembling legs, Sanji managed to stand properly. He avoided your sleeping figure and decided to get out of the room as soon as possible. However, when he took a step forward, his foot touched a notebook lying on the floor.
Sanji bent down and took the notebook. He flipped it open, and after reading only the first page, he finally came into a conclusion.
Heartbroken, drunk, and unaware, you dozed off the rest of the afternoon. When nightfall settled on the azure horizon and dusk fell on the rough surface of the sea, you missed the chance to walk away from the crew yet again; and that was the third time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.
⸻ • ⸻
The next morning, you woke up feeling much better with only the memory of you drinking and crying yourself to sleep and nothing else. Everything was normal, and the crew began to make plans for their next adventure during breakfast.
Everything was normal, except for Sanji, who was quiet throughout the whole discussion. And of course, just like always, you were the only one who noticed his strange behavior. You tried to catch his eyes, but he looked at everywhere except you.
When he finally met your gaze, you gave him a soft smile, hoping he would smile back and everything was fine and you were just overthinking it.
He doesn't.
⸻ • ⸻
"Are you really going to leave?"
Taking your gaze away from the heart shaped cloud you spotted on the clear blue sky, you faced the person who asked the question you were dreading for some time now. Luffy was staring curiously at you, awaiting your answer. You can't help but to smile softly at the captain, whose kindness you have yet to repay.
"I believe we already talked about this, captain." You said, recalling your short conversation last night. He kept asking you if you were really sure about your decision while his eyes darted to a certain blond haired chef every time he shoots you the question. It was strange, and you felt even more suspicious when Sanji pretended not to hear your answer and even refused to glance your way.
Luffy put his hands on his hips. "You know, you're welcome to stay and be a part of my crew."
You crossed your arms, smile growing wide. "And what, pray tell, is my role? Sing battle songs and chant your names while you swing your gummy arms at pirates?" You joked playfully.
The young captain stroked his chin in deep thought, almost like he was considering your suggestion. "That's not a bad idea."
You bursted out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief, "I'll leave first thing in the morning. I told Nami to dock at a nearby island."
"What about Sanji?" He suddenly questioned, leaving you flabbergasted for a split second. You weren't prepared to hear Sanji's name after days of not talking to him properly.
Him not speaking with you wasn't a strange occurence at all; back when you were still in the Baratie, there would be days when Sanji wouldn't bother to acknowledge your presence and would completely ignore you. This would happen whenever he was extremely busy with his cooking or he had a disagreement with Zeff.
And it seemed like this was one of those days, seeing that he had been ignoring you for about a week now. Yes, you have been keeping count. Although he doesn't appear to be angry with you, the short-lived exchanges and the abrupt cut-offs before you could say anything deeply concerned you more than it should have.
You tried to rack your brains for reasons on why he was acting like this. Maybe Nami had rejected him for the hundredth time, or Zoro kept throwing insults in his direction—or maybe his cigarette packet had ran out. Maybe his kitchen knives weren't sharp anymore and he was struggling in the kitchen.
Should you ask him? Should you go to him and demand him to tell you what's wrong?
You pressed your lips together. It sounded like the worst idea you've thought of so far. You convinced yourself that Sanji was fine and he'd be back to normal in no time; there would no need to talk to him.
"What about him?" You faltered, chuckling to ease the tension in your body.
"You care for each other." Luffy explained bluntly and matter-of-factly, "What does he think about you leaving?"
A shaky sigh made its way out of your lips. How will you tell the captain that his cook has been avoiding you like you were some kind of rotten fish these days?
"I..." You stammered, gathering the courage to lie to Luffy even if you thought it would be the gravest sin you could commit, "He...agrees. Yeah. No need to worry."
Luffy grinned, but it didn't look normal at all. You winced in embarrassment. He knew that you were lying and was totally unconvinced.
Luckily, he didn't voice it out. He only nodded and said, "Great! Oh, I have an idea! Why don't you sing for us before we part ways? Think of it as a farewell party for the crew."
Hearing the pure and genuine excitement dripping from his voice, you couldn't turn him down. It was a good idea too, and now that you thought about it, you haven't performed for them yet. "Sure." You agreed, shrugging.
He raised his fist up in the air and cheered. You smiled, watching as he shouted for his crewmates' names to come down and listen to you sing. You prepared yourself for an impromptu performance, making sure that your guitar was properly tuned and your voice was clear enough to give you the best version of your singing. Sitting on top of a barrel, you faced your audience of four, all their eager eyes watching your every move.
As you struck the first chord to your song, you tried hard not to think that Sanji wasn't there to watch you sing the song you secretly dedicate to him.
In the kitchen, Sanji busied himself by plating the food that he'll serve to his fellow crew mates for dinner. He grabbed a large plate and placed the chicken drumsticks that his captain favored, but Luffy wasn't the one in his mind when he cooked those. Looking at the food, he wondered if you would love them too.
He shook his thoughts off and took the plate with him outside. Approaching the crew, his steps slowed down when he heard a familiar singing voice and a melodic tune of a guitar.
Sanji almost dropped the plate.
It was you. Of course it was you, you were the only one he knew who had a voice like that. It was you, and you were singing with a lovely smile painted on your sweet lips, the very same lips that touched his a few days ago, resulting in him not getting a wink of sleep every night. The beam of the sunset right behind you colored your hair in the different shades of the sky as the dulcet-filled notes you made echoed throughout the vast sea. For a moment, he was worried that you were going to attract ferocious sea beasts with your angelic voice and steal you away from him.
He could hear his blood pound in his ears the longer he observed you from afar. You looked happy. Happier than you were when you stayed with him and Zeff. His chest tightened, knowing that you leaving and go on adventures on your own was probably the best decision you could make, even if that means leaving him too.
You were finishing up your song by the time you saw Sanji standing behind Usopp, silently listening. He met your gaze, and for the first time ever, you couldn't read his mind. His expression was blank as you stared at each other, and as you opened your mouth to say something, he cut you off.
"Dinner's ready." Sanji announced shortly, setting down the plate in front of Luffy and then walked away without saying another word.
That was your final straw. You immediately put down your guitar and followed him into the kitchen. You didn't care about how you felt Nami's watchful eyes on you as you went after him, nor how Luffy was scarfing down the dinner and was definitely going to finish it all before you could take a bite; you just chased the blond with determination oozing out of you.
You roughly pushed the door open and found Sanji washing the pans he used for cooking. He glanced at you briefly then quickly looked away after. This irritated you even more as you demanded, "Is there something bothering you?"
"You should eat before the food gets cold." He said with an empty voice.
"Sanji!"
He stiffened. You rarely raised your voice at anyone. Sighing in defeat, he dried off his hands and fully faced you.
Your eyes were sharper than his knives, cutting straight into his soul. "I've known you for a long time now, do you think I don't notice whenever you have a problem?" You glowered, taking a step closer to him, "You have a problem. What is it?"
It happened fast. His hand landed on the small of your back and pulled you to his chest, and the other was placed on top of your cheek, and in a single motion, Sanji captured your lips with his. You gasped in the kiss, your heart dropping to the soles of your feet when he tilted his face to deepen it. Your fingers tightly grasped the sleeves of his shirt for support as he passionately moved his lips against yours. A pleasant heat ran down your spine, your whole body tingling and warming up. You were simply drowning. There was no other way to describe it, and it was only caused by his fervent kisses.
Sanji pulled away, resting your forehead on top of yours, and you took it as an opportunity to breathe in air that you lost. "You are the problem." He murmured lowly, eyes darting down to your swollen lips. Confused and lightheaded, you didn't get the chance to retort.
"Ever since that night, ange, you occupy my thoughts. You gave me a taste of your lips and you didn't even remember the next day. Do you know how that feels, hm?" He said, pecking your lips once again. You made a noise in the back of your throat, turning your head sideways so he couldn't kiss you anymore, but he took your chin and hungrily connected both of your lips.
He spoke between kisses, "You torture me. Ever since I read those songs you wrote about me in that little notebook of yours, you torture me with your presence."
That was when you snapped out of your daze. With all the force you could muster, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him away. Sanji stepped back, surprised at your reaction.
Without giving him a chance to ask you anything, you ran off and left the kitchen, slamming the door loudly so you wouldn't hear him calling your name and be tempted to go back in his arms again.
You arrived in the sleeping quarters, locking the door behind you. You were sure that the others would understand you needing your alone time. Once you made sure you were on your own, your body collapsed altogether, your back sliding down against the door as you panted heavily.
He knows, was all you could think about. He knows about the songs. He knows about your feelings.
Well, you finally got your answer to your previous question, but a more complicated one replaced it. With trembling hands, your fingers raised themselves to your lips, touching its surface. You hated the way that you still felt his warmth on top of them.
A lone tear slid down the side of your nose. He was cruel. Sanji was cruel.
You didn't come out of that room for days, refusing to talk to anyone as you gathered your scrambled throughts and pulled yourself back together, and that was the fourth time you failed to leave Sanji Vinsmoke.
⸻ • ⸻
A stack of books, most of them being a collection of maps compiled in one, rested beside you while you flipped through the pages of the one you chose among them.
Nami has been lending you her books ever since you shut yourself out from the crew. You ignored all of them and only let Nami in, hoping that she'll be able to understand you; and she did. She was a good listener. Although you weren't particularly close with each other, you trusted her and told her everything: your dreams, your problems, your feelings, and Sanji. In return, she confided in you too.
"Here. So you can finally decide on where you will go to," You recall her saying while she handed you her collection of world map books, "and to distract yourself, of course."
"You're too kind, Nami." You said in admiration. Maybe this is why Sanji was enamored with her. She was a beauty inside and out.
Nami shrugged, yet she was smiling. "Just helping a fellow woman out."
The books did take your mind off the stubborn blond haired man that was still resting inside your heart, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. You tried to search for islands that will be suitable for you to start your career, narrowing some of them down into choices, but your eyes wil always lead back to where the Baratie was stationed.
You leaned back against your chair, letting your head hit the wall with a soft thud as you released a sigh of frustration. Not only will you need to prepare yourself for a journey all alone, but you also have to talk to Sanji sooner or later, whether you like it or not. The kiss distracted you more than the books Nami gave you. You think of it in the morning and dream of it at night, and it only got worse every time you remembered that he kissed you like he loved you.
Relaxing in your seat, you closed the book and listened to the silence.
The Going Merry docked for a quick trip to a market to gather fresh ingredients for food. Sanji will be gone for the meantime and you were free to roam around the ship without his heated stare boring holes in your skin.
But the peace was ruined by rushed footsteps and Usopp breaking into the room, almost destroying the door with his brute force. You frowned, standing up on alert when you saw how nervous he looked.
"Sanji's injured!" He exclaimed, which got your brow raising, knowing that he had a long history of lying to people. However, he forcibly pulled Sanji inside, and you were greeted by the sight of a bruised man, whose lips were bleeding and cheeks were starting to yellow.
You immediately sprang into action. You took the first aid kit you packed in your bag and grabbed his arm, making him sit down on your chair.
"How did you get into a fight in just a span of ten minutes?" You asked in irritation, wetting a cloth with saltwater to wipe off the blood on his lips.
Sanji grunted, tensing up when you took a hold of his face and dabbed on his lip using the cloth. "Some petty vendor was selling overpriced onions, and they weren't even the best of quality."
You stopped for a minute, glaring at him. "So you decided to punch them instead of talking it over?"
He only huffed in reply. Pursing your lips in annoyance, you continued to treat his wounds in silence, noticing him flinching and wincing in pain whenever you compress the bruised area with ice. "Who's being petty now?" You scolded impatiently, "Stay still."
The only sound that filled the room was you hastily rummaging your kit trying to find an ointment and an awkward silence that made you want to jump into the sea and never swim back to the surface. You unscrewed the lid of the jar of ointment and scooped some with your finger, looking at Sanji as you did so. He looked back at you quietly, and you tried hard not to think about the fact that you have to touch his lips in order for you to apply it.
It seemed like he realized that too, glancing down at the dollop of ointment on top of your finger, then back to you. You just gave him a small, uneasy smile, showing him that you weren't uncomfortable even though you were, and shyly took a step forward.
As gently as you could, you spread the ointment on the wounded area on his lips, reminding yourself to not be distracted on how soft they looked.
"A busted lip because of overpriced ingredients...it almost feels like you're doing this on purpose so I wouldn't get the chance to leave you." You half-heartedly joked to lighten up the atmosphere. However, you were greeted by nothing, not even a smart comeback or a funny joke from the blond. You hesitantly observed his reaction, and saw that he was grim and serious, guilt swimming in his beryl blue eyes.
The realization began to sink in.
Oh.
You should've known from the start. Sanji was a great fighter; he wouldn't be injured in the first place. "Sanji..."
Sanji took your wrist and held on it tightly. Your breath hitched, only then realizing how much you missed his touch, his warm, gentle, and loving touch.
"Let me go." You weakly said, even though deep down, you didn't want him to.
"Tell me you're not in love with me." He said, sounding utterly desperate that it almost made you fall down to your knees, "Tell me, and I'll let you go."
When you didn't answer, he stood up and cupped your cheeks with both of his hands. He pleaded, "Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me you don't love me."
"Please don't do this." You whispered in pain as you tearfully shook your head.
"Stay. Please, stay." Sanji begged, pressing his forehead against yours, "What can I do to make you stay? Tell me. I'll do anything. Do I need to kneel? To beg for your forgiveness? Tell me what you want. I'll do anything in my power to make you the happiest woman in all of East Blue. Just please, don't leave."
"I can't." You answered, closing your eyes, a few tears streaming down your cheeks. You hate the way he was making this so hard for you.
He only continued, "Hate me, curse me, shout at me, if you must. Anything but you leaving me. Or do you want to make me yours? Then I am letting you. Whatever you want, mon ange—my heart, my soul, my attention, they're all yours. I'm all yours."
"No..."
"The crew will be incomplete without you." Sanji insisted in anguish.
"I have dreams, Sanji. Just like you and the rest of the crew." You explained softly, placing your own hands on top of his in attempt to comfort him and relieve him from his confusion.
However, he was persistent, "You can achieve your dreams without leaving. You can stay, and I will support you in everything you do. You're better off staying with me—with us."
You said firmly, "I will not spend the rest of my life doing what I don't want."
"Even with me by your side?"
A few second pass before you finally reply, "I'd be miserable."
Pain flashed on his face, making you want to take back your own words, yet you remained strong and unyielding. Sanji took a deep breath and stepped away from you, saying, "I'd rather have you miserable here than go out there and encounter ruthless pirates."
The statement quickly irritated you, frowning at him deeply. "You think I'll have problems with pirates when I've been serving them for years?"
"Oh, darling, you wouldn't be able to say that once you've encountered worse ones, with bounties higher than you could ever imagine." He snapped, voice raising with each word.
"I can manage on my own!" You bit back frustratingly, your tears evaporating into anger.
Sanji scowled at you, impatiently running his fingers through his hair. "You can't fight!" He shouted, voice breaking in the process, and with it, your heart too. It shattered like glass and the shards landed and pierced through your lungs, rendering you breathless. Your eyes widened, mouth dropping open in shock.
Seeing your expression, he immediately snapped back to reality, regret writing itself on his face. You shook your head in disbelief and let out a humorless laugh, "Are you telling me that I'm weak?"
"I didn't say that." Sanji quickly said in a hushed manner.
"But you're implying it!" You choked, still can't believe that he doesn't trust you. He doesn't trust you enough to accomplish your dreams on your own, and that he was not confident that you'll succeed without him by your side.
You wanted to ask him about the passionate kiss you two shared, about his loving gestures that confused the hell out of you, about his fresh bruises that he received on purpose so that he can get you to stay, and why he did all of that. You needed confirmation. But the question that left you was, "What am I to you?"
Sanji stayed quiet, and your heart broke again once more. Deciding that this was the last time he breaks it, you walked away and left him alone to tend to his own injuries.
He lit up a cigarette as he listened to your fading footsteps. A single teardrop fell down from his eye the moment he placed the cigarette between his lips, and all he could think about was that you hurt more than the bruises on his cheeks.
You packed your bags and spoke with Nami, telling her that you were ready, and that was the fifth time you tried to leave Sanji Vinsmoke—and tomorrow, you'll finally succeed.
⸻ • ⸻
The sun had just risen, and the early morning breeze smelled of the ocean, the calming sound of waves filling your ears. It was one of those days when the sky was clear and the sunlight wasn't harsh but pleasantly warm on your skin, making it the perfect day to start working on a new song and strum on your guitar for the melody.
But today was different. You were standing on the first step of the ship's staircase that leads to a docking station and a wooden walkway towards an unfamiliar island that was soon to be your new home. Your fingers clenched on the strap of your bag, finding this moment to be surreal. You have tried many times to leave, and here it was, right on the palms of your hands.
"So. This is it, huh?" Your trance broke as Nami commented beside you. She was the only one to bid you farewell and watch you leave, since the others were still asleep. You thought of Sanji and how he looked like when he was sleeping, staring at his handsome features so you can memorize them and implant it in your mind. He was your first love; you didn't want to forget him.
You smiled. "Thank you, Nami." You said earnestly, "I would've liked to spend more time with you. It's tiring to speak to men sometimes, don't you think?"
She laughed. "Yeah." Then, she caged you in her arms and hugged you tightly, surprising you for a second before you laughed too and returned the hug. "Stay safe out there."
"I will."
"So you planned to leave? Without saying goodbye?" A new voice interrupted, breaking the hug you and Nami both shared. You swiveled to look behind you, and there stood Sanji, appearing to have just woken up, with the strands of his blond hair sticking up in different directions. You observed his dejected expression, the downward tilt of the corners of his lips, and the glistening of his tired eyes. You stared at his crumpled suit and his crooked necktie. Despite how messy he looked, he will always be perfect to you.
You walked forward and looked at him fondly, with your eyes full of so much love reserved for him and him only. "Thought it would hurt less." You said, raising your hands to touch his hair and brush it down, "And I was right. How can I leave now when you're standing in front of me?"
He sighed shakily as he felt your soft fingers threading through his hair. "Then don't." He whispered. You only smiled at him. He didn't smile back, but that didn't stop you from taking both of his hands and caressing his knuckles using your thumb.
"Every night, I'll look at the moon and think of you. I'll tell my stories, sing my songs, and whisper my secrets to it. Just like what you and me would do when we were little." You told him softly and endearingly, "Would you be so kind as to look at the moon too and think of me?"
Sanji's eyebrows were scrunched together in agony, muttering, "I can't make you stay, can I?"
When you didn't answer, he just nodded his head, understanding what you wanted to stay. He forced a smile and tightly squeezed your hands. "I'm sorry."
"I'm yours." You answered, placing a soft kiss on the back of his hands. After letting your lips linger on his skin for a while, you slowly let go, and with one last glance at his face, you stepped back and made your way downstairs to the docking area, leaving before you could change your mind.
Sanji watched you go. While you walked away from the Going Merry, from the crew, and from him, not once did you look back. He just watched as you went farther away and became smaller in the distance, until you blended in with the crowd and you were just another person in a sea of people. And then you were gone.
It was the sixth time you tried to leave Sanji Vinsmoke, and this time, you finally did.
⸻ • ⸻
The red velvet curtains began to draw in front of you, gently falling back down on the stage as you said your final good-byes to your audience for tonight, a bouquet of roses cradled in your arms while you blew delicate kisses towards them. You can still hear their loud cheering and clapping even as you retreated to your personal room backstage.
A middle-aged woman greeted you inside when you stepped in the room and closed the door behind you, whistling. "There she is, our talented rising star!"
You only laughed at the silly nickname, setting the bouquet of roses that one of the people gave you in tonight's show on top of your vanity table. "You exaggerate, Madam. I have only performed two shows in your beautiful theater."
The madam, who was the owner of the theater you were currently working in, shook her head in disagreement. "And those two shows are sold out!" She informed you proudly, placing her hands on your shoulders, "Let me know if you want to add more, you are welcome to perform here anytime."
"I'll think about it." You replied, smiling. The madam patted your shoulder twice before she left you alone, humming happily to herself. You huffed in amusement, fully aware that she doesn't appreciate your talents at all, but only cared for the money.
Regardless of that, you were happy. It has been a couple of years since you left the Strawhat Pirates and pursued your dreams all on your own, and you've been traveling to different islands across the seas to perform. You never had a permanent home; being a musician meant going to many places from time to time to share and spread out your music.
Yet you can't help but miss life on the sea.
You missed washing dishes on the Baratie and the late night conversations you had with Zeff. You missed Luffy and his weird antics, Usopp and his jokes, Zoro and his blunt comments, and Nami and her kindness.
You missed Sanji and everything that he was.
You stared at your reflection in the vanity mirror on your desk. Your hair was pinned neatly, you had make-up on and you were dressed fancily for your performance. Years ago, you wouldn't look like this. It was hard to believe how much you've grown and changed, but these days, you felt like you wanted your old self back. Slowly, you took the itchy pins off your hair, and cleaned your face with warm water and a cloth. You replaced your dress in a more comfortable one and went outside.
Looking up at the night sky, you saw a bright full moon with no stars in sight. It was just the moon and its beauty, illuminating the pitch black sky with its glow. You silently watched it, a smile growing on your lips as you felt a tug on your heart.
"I wonder what you're up to, Sanji." You thought aloud, cheeks heating up at the memory of your first love and his golden hair and his contagious smiles. Then, to your surprise, a voice spoke unexpectedly.
"Well, I am fortuitous to have met such a beautiful angel."
You froze. No one referred to you as angel except for one.
Sanji.
As you turned around, he was already walking towards you. And there you both were, bathing under the moonlight, with him grinning at you mischievously and you looking at him lovingly. You didn't know how he found you, but what mattered was that he searched for you and now he was here, and he was still making your heart beat fast in your chest just like all those years ago.
How the pesky feelings stayed and wrapped themselves around your aching heart, you didn't know. But maybe it was because he was standing in front of you, and the way his next words made you run into his open arms and kiss him until you were both breathless,
can we expect anything new from you for the manga or have u fallen out of love with it
oh man I haven’t thought of it in a while, I’m still shocked people even react to my old posts 🥹 unfortunately I don’t think that’s likely, unless out of nowhere I have a burst of inspiration and I write one more piece with Ohma (still a FINE man but I digress) but I believe I’ve completely moved on! Thank you for reading!!!!
