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Cosmic Joke: 'Black Leg' Sanji (3/3)

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Sanji x Reader Length 21K+

Rating: 18K+ Warnings: Slow Burn, Jealousy, Strong Language and Profanity, Sexual Content including humor and description, Objectification, Gender and identity themes, Alcohol and smoking references, Violence and battle imagery, excessive flirting,

for @vaniiiavengeance

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The ferry to Whole Cake Island cut steadily through calm seas, its paddle wheels churning like a slow heartbeat against the endless horizon. The air was heavy with salt and the distant cry of gulls, though neither sound managed to drown out the chatter of merchants, emissaries, and opportunists crammed into the vessel’s broad decks. This was no ordinary passenger ship but a government-licensed leviathan of timber and steel, a floating inn and carriage all at once, tasked with bearing the bold or the foolish through the treacherous waters of the New World.

Morgans had claimed the seat beside you from the very start, his plumage rustling with self-importance, his golden eyes darting like coins spinning in sunlight. He had the greedy glint of a man who believed every cough, every whispered aside, every twitch of a stranger’s eyebrow might be spun into tomorrow’s headline. It made him insufferable company and yet fascinating. Whenever you thought he might finally tire of cataloging, his head would swivel again, searching, measuring, filing away.

He always insisted on traveling this way when he could, not in his private ship, not with the shadowy speed of underworld couriers, but here among the masses. He claimed it was to “smell the story where it lived,” although you suspected he simply relished being the largest and loudest presence in any given room. A week on a ferry was, for him, a stage.

It took nearly seven days to reach Whole Cake, the journey dragging on in a haze of shipboard meals, half-slept nights, and the murmur of tides. You spent much of it seated on the upper deck, notebook balanced on your knee, staring at the white line of wake stretching toward the horizon. The ferry was meant to be safe, a government guarantee of passage across waters claimed by emperors, but even so, every creak of the hull reminded you where you were. Deep in Yonko territory, every sound carried more weight than it should have.

You had been given many assignments in dangerous waters before, yet none had ever carried you so directly into the heart of peril. Whole Cake Island was Big Mom’s jewel, her throne, her home. You had never dreamed your work would require setting foot on her archipelago. It was the sort of place reporters spoke of in rumor, not itinerary.

From what you had managed to pry out of Morgans during a particularly tense evening of shared silence and locked gazes, it was not a sanctioned assignment at all. Not officially, at least. This journey, he had finally admitted, stemmed from a personal invitation. Not from the World Government. Not from any editor or publisher. But from his other network, the one buried in shadows, held together by bribes, threats, and promises. His “less legitimate connections,” as he had called them with a laugh that did not quite reach his eyes.

You had heard whispers of Morgans’ underworld dealings before. Now you saw the proof firsthand. A bird like him, fattened on secrets, could never resist a feast as rich as this.

After you let him have a piece of your mind, and after he promised a big fat bonus for your silence, you settled. The bargain was thin, more a truce than an agreement, but it gave you room to breathe. You could not fight every battle, not when you were already sailing toward the heart of a Yonko’s empire.

So your first impression of Whole Cake Island was sparkling and dreamlike, if not somewhat terrifying. The horizon began to change color as the ferry cut closer. The sea shifted from a steady gray-blue into strange bands of pink and lavender. Towers of spun sugar seemed to grow out of the mist. Mountains gleamed like candied almonds. The scent in the air changed as well, sweet enough to sting the back of your throat, as though the entire archipelago was exhaling sugar.

Passengers rushed to the rails, pointing and marveling. Even Morgans leaned forward with the restless excitement of a predator about to pounce. His quills bristled as he muttered half-formed headlines under his breath, already shaping the spectacle into a story.

For you, it was harder to put into words. The island looked enchanted, alive, like a child’s wild dream. Beneath the shimmer, something was wrong. Too many guards on the shore. Shadows too long. Teeth painted as frosting.

It was beautiful. It was grotesque. And it was very clear that once you stepped onto that glittering shore, you were committed.

Morgans laughed loudly, feathers shivering with the force of it, and nudged you in response to your open astonishment. He was already in his element, strutting with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. “You will taste something spectacular,” he crowed, as though the island itself had risen from the sea for his benefit.

You said nothing, too aware of the sugar-sweet air filling your lungs and the way your stomach knotted around it. With your notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, you followed him down the gangplank. Each step carried you closer to a land that seemed built from dreams but promised nightmares in equal measure.

The dock itself looked carved from gingerbread, with lampposts twined in what appeared to be candy canes. Children of the archipelago shrieked with laughter as they darted between the guards, plucking chunks of frosting from the railings as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Soldiers in polished armor stood watch, their spears sharp despite the frosting swirls painted across their shields. Their eyes followed every passenger disembarking, weighing, measuring, deciding.

The crowd ahead pushed forward eagerly, a tide of traders, emissaries, and wide-eyed tourists desperate to glimpse the promise of Big Mom’s paradise. You forced yourself to keep pace. Morgans walked with a puffed chest, his golden eyes scanning every corner of the dock, already dictating headlines to himself in quick, hungry bursts.

You had covered wars and famines, trials and coronations. You had even watched a Marine admiral take the sky. None of it had ever looked quite like this. Whole Cake Island was alive in a way no place should be, a kingdom of sweets wrapped around a core of menace. And you were here, pen in hand, as though a notebook could protect you from an emperor of the sea.

And almost the moment your foot hit the ground, your soulbond twitched. It was subtle at first, a shiver in the back of your skull, like the brush of cold fingers. You froze mid-step, lungs catching. Then it struck harder.

You gasped. Morgans glanced over, almost worried, his feathers shifting uneasily. His golden eyes lingered on you for a fraction too long, searching for weakness before masking it with disdain. “Do not faint on me now,” he muttered, but his voice was clipped, as though he sensed something was wrong.

Then the real pain came. With a violent wrench, it was like the entire length of the bond was torn from you. Not severed cleanly, but ripped, dragged as if from the marrow of your bones and the folds of your brain. Your knees buckled. For one awful heartbeat, you thought you had gone blind, because the world blurred, smearing into streaks of color.

The sugar-sweet air turned acrid on your tongue. A wave of dizziness struck, enough to send your notebook clattering from your grip. Morgans swore under his breath and crouched beside you, his wings twitching in agitation as he scanned the crowd for watching eyes.

“Pull yourself together,” Morgans hissed, though there was an edge in his tone that betrayed unease. “This is not the place to collapse.”

“Sorry,” you spat between clenched teeth, forcing air into your lungs as the ripping agony dulled into an empty ache. “Next time I decide to faint, I will do it on schedule.”

The words were sharper than you intended, but they were the only thing you had to hold onto. The bond was gone. Your Sanji, your soulmate, torn out of you like someone had reached into your chest and stolen a part of yourself you had never imagined losing. The silence where he had always been rang was unbearable, an emptiness that made the world tilt.

The next thirty minutes were a blur. Colors bled into one another, bright candy towers warping into grotesque shapes that seemed to breathe. Scents grew thick and cloying, too sweet, clinging to your throat until it felt like you were drowning in sugar. Every laugh in the crowd twisted sharp as glass in your ears.

You stumbled after Morgans, eyes fixed on the shifting sway of his coat as he cut a path through the throng. He never slowed, never looked back, as though the only thing that mattered was reaching his contact. You followed because it was all you could do, notebook pressed to your chest, your vision narrowing to that single anchor point.

Behind your eyes, your mind clawed at what had been taken. A warmth. A spark. A tether you had always thought was simply part of yourself. Now it was gone, ripped away, and you were left hollow, stumbling through a wonderland that had turned into a nightmare.

And no matter how hard you tried, you could not remember his face. The thought gnawed at you as though your own memory had betrayed you, as though someone had reached into your heart and scrubbed clean the one thing that mattered.

After a few moments of stumbling through the kaleidoscope haze of the streets, you and Morgans reached a bakery tucked between two towering candy-colored buildings. The bell above the door chimed in a sweet, tinkling note as you entered, and the smell of warm bread and sugar swept over you in a dizzying wave.

The interior was tall, built for giants or at least the larger folk you had seen wandering the streets, yet for all its height, it was narrow, cozy even. The shelves climbed high, stacked with buns glazed in syrup, loaves frosted with icing, and cakes that glittered with candied fruit. Only a few chairs were scattered across the room, one enormous and meant for someone far larger than you, and several small ones almost comically undersized in comparison. You tucked yourself into one of the tiny tables, head sinking into your hands as the ache behind your eyes pulsed again.

Morgans was already strutting to the counter, puffed feathers shaking as he greeted the woman behind it. She was lovely in a warm, simple way, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, a neat apron tied around her swelling belly.

“Ah, welcome! I’ve been waiting for you!” she sang out, her voice bright as sunlight.

“I must compliment you, madam,” Morgans boomed, wings spread as if the room were his stage. “It is very generous of you and your husband to have offered us lodging. I hope we are not displacing you!”

She smiled, and to your alarm, her arm stretched out far past its length to seize a tray of fresh bread, the limb extending like dough pulled thin before snapping back into place. She carried the tray with ease, as though nothing strange had happened.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said warmly, sliding the tray onto the counter. “This is my little bakehouse here on Whole Cake. When my husband has to leave for long periods of time, I stay here and run it myself. We will be staying at the place for the wedding, but afterwards, we will return to our home on Komugi. I doubt he will let me leave once I get closer to the due date.” She patted her stomach fondly, flour dusting her fingertips.

Morgans nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming as if her words were already inked in a headline.

“Now, let’s get you settled—oh, are you okay?” Her voice softened as she turned to you. A gentle hand brushed your back just as another bolt of pain tore through your head, sharp and final, as though someone was closing the last door in your mind.

You bit down on a cry, clutching your notebook with trembling fingers. The warmth of her touch was comforting, yet it only seemed to highlight how hollow you suddenly felt, how much had been stripped from you. Somewhere deep inside, a tether that had once held fast was gone, and you were left alone in the silence.

You forced yourself upright, pressing a weak smile onto your lips as you waved away her concern. “I am fine,” you lied, though your voice was raw and shaky. The woman gave you a searching look, clearly unconvinced, yet she did not press. Instead, she lifted the tray of bread from the counter and balanced it against her hip with surprising strength for her slight frame.

“Come,” she said gently. “You should rest. The ferry can take it out of anyone, especially on a first visit.” She guided you toward a narrow staircase tucked at the back of the bakery, her hand firm at your elbow. You clutched your notebook to your chest as though it were your lifeline, each step up the stairs blurring with the pounding of blood in your ears.

Behind you, Morgans and the woman spoke on, their voices drifting up the stairwell.

“Ah, yes, the wedding,” Morgans boomed with his usual bravado, his voice carrying over the clink of dishes. “The entire world will be watching. It will be a story for the ages, and I intend to give it the coverage it deserves.”

“Oh, it will be grand,” the woman replied with cheerful certainty. “The islands are already overflowing with guests. No one has ever seen such preparations before. Mama insists it will be the most magnificent wedding in all the seas.”

The words scraped at your skull, though you did not know why. Something about the wedding, the way they spoke of it with such pride, made your chest ache.

At the top of the stairs, she led you into a small, tidy room. A single bed pressed against the wall, the quilt patched but clean. The window overlooked a narrow alley where sweet-smelling steam drifted up from vents below. She fussed with the quilt for a moment, then turned back to you with that same warm, steady smile.

“Rest here. I will fetch you something light to eat,” the woman said, her hand brushing her belly as she added almost absently, “And I will send for a family member to look in on you. Can’t have Morgans’ infamous critic be too sick to eat.”

You managed a nod, though the weight in your chest made it feel as though you were sinking deeper into the bed. The quilt smelled faintly of sugar and yeast, comforting and cloying all at once.

An hour or so passed in uneasy silence. The sweet perfume of the bakery below drifted through the floorboards, mixing with the ringing ache behind your eyes until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. You drifted in and out of half-sleep, startled awake each time by the memory of a face you could not remember. At last, footsteps sounded on the stairs, measured and light. The door eased open without a creak, and a young woman stepped inside as if she belonged there. She had soft brown hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, a ribbon holding back stray strands. Her dress was modest, the color of cocoa, and she carried herself with the grace of someone accustomed to being both overlooked and obeyed.

Despite Morgans’ squawking protests from below, she closed the door with deliberate care, sliding the lock into place. The sound was quiet, almost delicate, yet it struck you as final, like the turning of a key on a prison cell.

“I will handle this,” she called gently through the wood, her tone warm enough to soothe and sharp enough to end the conversation. Morgans’ voice faltered, then fell silent. You could almost hear him shifting his feathers, uneasy but unwilling to argue with the authority in her tone.

The young woman turned back to you. A polite smile curved her lips, but her eyes gave away nothing. They were a rich amber-brown, soft at first glance, though you noticed the way they lingered too long, studying you, weighing you. There was something behind them that felt sharper than courtesy.

She approached your bedside, unhurried, her hands folded before her as though she were a hostess come to check on a guest. “You must forgive the intrusion,” she said kindly, her voice lilting with practiced warmth. “I was told you were feeling unwell.”

You shifted uneasily under the quilt, clutching your notebook closer. “It was nothing. Just the ferry. The air here… it is different.”

Her smile deepened at that. “It does take some getting used to. Whole Cake can be overwhelming at first, but it is home to me.” She let the word home linger, her gaze flicking briefly toward the window, where the candied spires of the town gleamed faintly in the light.

There was a pause, the kind that seemed to stretch, filled only by the soft hum of ovens somewhere below. Then she placed a hand delicately against her chest. “I should introduce myself properly. My name is Pudding.” Another pause, this one weighted. “One of Mama’s daughters.”

The title landed heavily, as though it were meant to explain everything—the bakery, the strange warmth of the woman downstairs, the way the guards outside had glanced at her with deference when she passed.

You sat up a little straighter, the quilt rustling as your heart thudded in your ears. Of all the people who might have come to check on you, you had never imagined her—the bride herself. Your throat tightened, dry as ash. “Pudding,” you echoed, the name catching awkwardly on your tongue. You tried for careful neutrality, though it sounded more like disbelief.

Her lashes lowered in a graceful flutter, and when she looked at you again, her smile bloomed, perfectly sweet. “And,” she added, her tone soft and deliberate, as though she enjoyed the weight of each syllable, “the bride-to-be.”

Your lips curved automatically, a reflex you could not restrain even as your thoughts reeled. Of course, you should congratulate her—anything less would be unthinkable—but the words felt strange and distant in your mouth. “Congratulations,” you murmured. Polite and automatic.

The smile on her face did not falter. If anything, it deepened, but there was a tension behind it you could not name. She tilted her head just slightly, as though testing the sound of the word, as though your attempt at courtesy was an insult only she could hear.

“You congratulate me,” she said softly, almost to herself, as though she were speaking to the air rather than to you. Her voice was sweet, lilting, but there was something brittle beneath it. “And yet you are the one who had his heart first.”

Alarm prickled at the base of your neck, sharp and immediate. Your fingers tightened on the quilt. “What do you mean?”

Her gaze snapped back to you, steady and unblinking. She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. “Sanji,” she said, as if the name alone was explanation enough. “He is your soulmate.”

The name cracked something inside you. For the briefest instant, the fog in your mind parted and warmth flooded through you—a memory of laughter in a kitchen, the rhythm of his voice, the weight of his presence beside you. It was so strong that your breath caught. Then it slipped away again, leaving you clutching at nothing.

“I—” The word stuck in your throat. The world tilted. “How could you possibly know that?”

Pudding’s smile sharpened, teeth flashing in a way that was almost too bright. “Because Mama knows. Mama can taste the bonds. She sensed him the moment he arrived, and she traced it back to you. You.” Her voice dripped with a mix of pity and accusation. “The critic with the sharp tongue. The one who should never have been here in the first place. Funny how these things happen.”

Your stomach twisted. The pain in your head surged again, like a warning bell. You tried to sit up straighter, to push back, but her presence pressed against you like the weight of the whole island. “Do not look so surprised,” she went on, her tone softening to something almost gentle. “I am to be his bride, and you—” her eyes flicked over you as if weighing, as if cataloguing every imperfection “—you are the complication that Mama refuses to allow. However, I am kind. I don’t want you dead. It’s too much trouble.”

You gasped, the sound raw, your fingers clenching tight around the quilt as though it could anchor you. For a heartbeat, the memory was there, trembling like fragile glass—the warmth of his smile, the echo of laughter in your mind, a hand that should have been in yours. Then it slipped, shattering into fragments too small to hold. You pressed your palms against your temples, trying to force the pieces back together, but they scattered, leaving only the echo of his name.

Pudding shifted closer, her skirts rustling softly against the wooden floor. She knelt beside the bed, her head tilted in a mockery of compassion. Her face was suddenly soft, almost tender, and she reached out with a careful hand to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch might have been comforting, had her eyes not gleamed with something sharp and cruel just beneath the surface.

“Shh,” she soothed, her voice honey-sweet. “I know it hurts. I know you feel torn in half. That is why I came. You are weak now, and it is easier this way.”

Then, with a practiced motion, she brushed her bangs aside, revealing a perfectly centered third eye gleaming from her forehead. It blinked once, slow and deliberate, and the air in the room seemed to tighten. Your breath caught. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to flee, but your body felt heavy, pinned under the velvet press of her gaze.

You tried to push yourself upright, forcing every ounce of strength into your arms, but she pressed a cool hand to your shoulder. The strength behind it shocked you. It was iron strength wrapped in silk, impossible to resist. You sank back against the quilt, trapped beneath her touch.

“Do not fight it,” she whispered, and her tone was almost kind, almost loving. “Between Mama and me, we will take this pain away. We will erase your worries for him, so you do not suffer. So Mama’s plans may go forward without… interference.”

Her third eye glowed faintly, and you felt pressure stir at the edges of your mind. It was like hands rifling through the pages of a book you had not meant anyone to read. Images threatened to rise: fingers that smelled faintly of spice and smoke brushing yours, the warmth of a smile that had once been only yours. Yet every time you reached for them, they slipped farther away.

Her voice dropped lower, honeyed and sharp, the kind of sweetness that rotted at the core. “Do not fear. You will forget, and it will be easier. You will not lose Morgans’ favor, and Mama will not lose her contact. Everything will be perfect.”

The word perfect rang inside you like a nail being driven into wood. Perfect for them. Perfect for her. But not for you. For you, it meant the death of everything that mattered.

You clawed at the memory, desperate, the shape of his name breaking through your lips in a whisper before the weight of her gaze crushed it into silence.

And Pudding smiled, her third eye gleaming, as she began to strip him from you.

The next thing you remembered was sleep.

Not the drifting kind that comes after exhaustion, not the slow surrender of a body giving in to rest. This was sudden, absolute, like a curtain dropped across your mind. One moment, you were clawing at the memory of him, grasping at fragments that slipped like water between your fingers.

Next, there was nothing but darkness, heavy and complete.

It was a sleep without dreams, without anchors. The warmth that had always lived somewhere inside you, that hidden thread tying you to someone unseen, was gone. You stirred once, your body twitching as though trying to wake, but the weight pressing down was too strong. The silence where the bond had been was smothering, and you sank deeper, unable to fight it.

When you finally surfaced, you had no idea how much time had passed. The room smelled of sugar and bread, the quilt still tucked neatly around you. Your notebook rested on the bedside table where you had left it, untouched. Everything looked the same. Yet you felt lighter, emptier, as though something had been stolen in the night and carefully swept away so you would not notice.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, you tried to recall what had unsettled you, what had made your chest ache so violently, but the memory danced out of reach. All that remained was the faint sting of tears at the corners of your eyes, and a hollow ache you could not explain.

-X-The Cold War-X-

A month ago, when the crew finally reunited, Sanji had thought he was ready for anything. Two years on Kamabakka Kingdom had carved him leaner, sharper, and meaner in ways he hated to admit. He had cooked, fought, bled, and survived on sheer stubbornness, and he had done it all with the bond closed tight inside his chest like a locked door.

Closing it had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Harder than fleeing Enies Lobby. Harder than bleeding in a duel. Harder than every humiliating lesson drilled into him by Ivankov’s people. To cut himself off from his soulmate, his “bro” as he had convinced himself you were, had left him ragged. But at the time, he had thought it necessary.

You had hurt him without even meaning to. He could still feel the sting of it, the echo of laughter or carelessness. It had festered until he shut the door completely. What twisted the knife most was the Baratie. His Baratie. The place that had made him, the place that was sacred to him. He had been so proud of every plate he carried out, every fire lit in that kitchen, every dream folded into the dishes he cooked. Then he had discovered that the sharpest critique ever written of the Baratie had come from you—his soulmate.

And you had never told him.

So he had poured himself into training. To become stronger, faster, and better. He had learned to cook with flames that bent to his will. He had perfected kicks that could crack stone. He had ignored the emptiness where your voice should have been.

Except he had not ignored it, not really.

Every so often, when the loneliness pressed too sharply against his ribs, he had almost reached out. When despair clawed at him, or when a beautiful woman with perfect curves passed by, he would catch himself thinking, Oi, did you see that pair of— before the words faltered. He would remember the sting of your silence, the hurt of your omission, and he would stop, choking the thought down with a cigarette and a laugh that sounded too forced.

Yet even as he held back, the truth nagged at him. You had never meant to wound him. That much he knew now, with distance. Looking back on the bond with clearer eyes, he could see how much of it had been his own insecurity, his own hunger for connection twisted into something brittle. You had been good, more often than not. You had been uplifting. You had been the one bright presence that steadied him in the darkest moments—on the damn rock, in Enies Lobby, and even in Sabaody when the world was on fire around them.

That realization came slowly, like dawn breaking, but when it hit him, it almost floored him.

Because the truth was simple and ridiculous and absolutely crushing.

He was hurt because he loved you.

The thought made him gag at first. He had clutched his face, doubled over, groaning like a man stabbed. “God, no, no, no,” he muttered into his hands, staggering around the Sunny’s deck like a drunk. He had wanted to vomit, to crawl into the sea, to drown the shame of it. To love someone he had never even met, someone who was a man.

But then it had settled into him, and it had felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It was freeing. It was right.

The ridiculous playboy act, the swooning over every woman he passed, none of it carried the same weight as the thought of you. It was theater. His heart had already chosen, and now he knew why nothing ever filled the emptiness inside him.

The big problem was that he realized how little he truly knew about you. A tenuous voice in his head, a bond on his soul. That was all. He did not know your face, your real job, your life. By god, he had called you bro so long he hadn’t even bothered asking your name.

And the audacity he had to be surprised you weren’t who he thought you were? He hadn’t even tried to know you the littlest bit.

He was too nervous to open the bond he had closed with any sort of casual interaction. And you had been too kind to force it open.

So he started searching in the one way he could. He began reading the papers. At first, it was a habit, scanning for bounties, news of the crew, recipes tucked into columns. Then he noticed the reviews. Not your name—never your name—but the words. The thoughts. They were yours. He knew the rhythm, the sharpness, the warmth tucked beneath the criticism. He heard you in every line.

He read every word. He argued with your points aloud, muttering as he stirred a pot. He laughed when you skewered some pompous chef, shaking his head and thinking, That is exactly like you.

And in those moments, for all his suffering, for all the hurt, he found himself smiling.

And so, as he landed on Zou, he had made his decision. He was going to open the bond again. He had spent two years locking you out, two years convincing himself it was better to be alone, but now he knew better. Whatever came of it, he needed you back in his life.

When he finally reached inside himself, tugging at that hidden thread, it was like drawing in a long breath after nearly drowning. The bond opened, oh so quietly, and suddenly you were there again.

It was incredible to feel you. The relief hit him so hard his knees almost gave out. For so long, he had carried only silence, and now the connection pulsed again, soft and alive. He pressed a hand against his chest, inhaling shakily, as though he could catch the warmth before it slipped away.

But it was strange.

The way you felt now was different. Softer. Gentler. The sharp, brotherly edge he had always told himself defined you was… gone. The bond brushed against him like silk, steady and warm. He frowned, confused but desperate not to question the gift of having you back.

Then, without warning, he slipped further.

The bond opened wider than he had intended, and suddenly he caught a flood of sensations that were not his own. Warmth. Steam. The gentle splash of water. He froze, cigarette slipping from his fingers.

The bath. You were in the bath.

His eyes widened, his face turning scarlet as he staggered back against the wall of the Sunny’s corridor. He had not meant to intrude, but you had left yourself wide open, unaware he was even there. He tried to pull back, he really did, but then your thoughts brushed against his, light and careless. You were humming. Humming and relaxed, as though you had no reason to guard yourself.

And that was when he realized.

You were a woman.

Sanji went rigid. His cigarette fell from his lips and burned out against his shoe, but he felt nothing. His entire body seized like someone had replaced his blood with champagne and set it on fire.

His heart thundered so loudly he thought the Minks on Zou could probably hear it. His eyes rolled back, his jaw dropped, and his knees buckled. “WOMAN. SHE’S A WOMAN. MY SOULMATE IS—SHE’S—BATHING—” He clutched his chest, staggering in a daze across the Sunny’s corridor like a man shot. “THE SEA ITSELF IS NOT READY FOR THIS. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS.”

He crashed to the floor, limbs splayed like a fallen saint.

“Oh merciful heavens, forgive me, for I have trespassed where only the foam of the ocean should dare to touch. Strike me down where I lay! No, wait, spare me, for I have finally seen the truth of my soul!”

He sprang up again, pacing in frantic circles, tugging at his hair. “All those years calling out, bro. All those nights punching my pillow, wondering why it hurt so damn much. All that pain, all that heartbreak. IT WAS BECAUSE I LOVED HER. OH GOD, I LOVED HER.” He dropped to his knees again, pounding the floor with both fists. “WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. WHY THE BATH? WHY THE HUMMING? WHY THE—THE—” He gagged, blushing scarlet, flailing backward like he had been electrocuted.

Sanji’s thoughts ran faster than his mouth could keep up. She’s a woman. She’s the woman. She’s the only one. My soulmate. My angel. My everything. And I just blundered in like a peeping-tom ghost in her bathwater. I should be killed. I should be married. I SHOULD BE BOTH.

He curled up, rocking back and forth, eyes wild and shining. “I want to throw myself into the sea. I want to kiss every plank of this ship. I want to scream until the heavens acknowledge me as the luckiest fool alive.”

And through it all, your presence remained steady, warm, and soft, humming as you soaked, utterly unaware of the hurricane of men that was Sanji collapsing into himself outside the bond.

You somehow did not realize it, and Sanji, despite his own catastrophic meltdown, managed to keep the cardinal rule of bathroom peeping with the precision of a lifelong expert: do not get caught.

He lay flat on the deck, panting like a dying fish, whispering prayers to every saint, devil, and passing sea king. “Thank you, gods of every religion, for sparing me the shame of her knowing. Take everything else from me. Take my smokes, my wine, my eyebrows. But please, do not let her realize her soulmate is a supernatural peeping tom.”

Then the anger hit.

Years. Years of him tossing boobs your way, yelling through the bond about curves and cleavage, trying to corrupt you with his worship of the female form… and you had said nothing. Nothing. Not a peep. His eye twitched, his lip curled, and he groaned into the floor. “You… you kept this secret from me? All this time? While I was pouring my soul out, ranking every bosom in the East Blue?!”

His body convulsed, caught between betrayal and rapture. “You’re a goddess. You’re hyper-intelligent. You tricked me. You kept your secret under lock and key while I, the fool, the clown, the pervert, danced like a trained dog at the sight of every beautiful woman. Please. Step on me. Step on my worthless, ignorant skull.”

Then it hit him like a cannonball.

He had seen you.

The memory flashed in his mind, sharp as glass. The mysterious girlfriend he had once glimpsed in your thoughts, the one he had assumed was some phantom of your private life. The shape of you, the curve of you, the very same presence he now felt through the bond. His jaw dropped, his soul left his body, and he began kicking his own shins in despair.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you tricked me. You made me rate your boobs. You let me think they belonged to someone else. You let me be the idiot! The hopeless idiot!” His voice cracked as he wailed, tears shooting from his eyes like twin fountains. “You didn’t tell me because you thought I was too perverted! You thought I was too obsessed with women to be trusted with your secret! You thought you weren’t good enough and I—Sanji, disaster of all disasters—proved you right!”

He flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the dramatic exhaustion of a Shakespearean hero stabbed by fate. “I am the problem. I am the clown. I am the rotten shrimp. Let the waves drag me to hell, let the kitchen knives of every chef pierce my chest, for I have wounded my goddess with my idiocy.”

And still, you hummed softly in your bath, blissfully oblivious, while Sanji died a thousand deaths at your feet.

On Zou, once his pulse finally slowed to something resembling human rhythm, Sanji dragged himself upright. He had admired you, your hum, your warmth, your absolute perfection, ten more times, and each time left him blushing and whispering frantic apologies into the bond.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he did what hurt most. He shut the bond.

It was polite, careful, like closing a door quietly instead of slamming it. Not because he wanted to lose you again, but because he could not trust himself not to fall apart every time he brushed against your presence. Not while his head was a storm of lust, love, guilt, and revelations.

He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, smoke curling from the forgotten cigarette at his lips. “Forgive me, just for now. I will come back. I swear it.”

Once the bond was quiet, his mind exploded with a thousand plans.

Plan one: apologize forever, on his knees, forehead pressed to the floor, until you accepted he was the world’s biggest idiot and forgave him anyway.

Plan two: cook you the most fantastic meal the seas had ever seen, one so perfect it would say what words could not.

Plan three: write poetry, bad poetry, beautiful poetry, poetry so overwhelming it would melt you instantly.

Plan four: duel every man alive until none remain, then present you with the empty world as proof of his devotion.

Plan five: simply listen, speak honestly, and prove he could be the kind of man you trusted with your heart.

Every plan contradicted the last. Every plan made him groan into his hands. Yet every plan came from the same truth. He had to fix it. He had to mend what had been bent, no matter how long it took.

Sanji tilted his head back, staring up at the endless sky above Zou’s ancient elephant back, eyes blazing with romantic determination.

“I will redeem myself. I will win her heart. I will prove myself worthy.” His voice cracked, then rose louder. “This is my noble mission.”

A few of the Minks passing by slowed to watch him drop to one knee in the grass like a man proposing to destiny itself.

Sanji did not notice. He was already lost in planning his thousand-and-first scheme.

But Sanji’s thousand-and-first plan never had a chance.

On Zou, Capone Bege arrived under Big Mom’s flag. Sanji was handed the letter sealed in wax, the order clear: he was to marry Charlotte Pudding. Refusal meant death for his crew. His Germa bloodline had already sealed the bargain.

Dragged into Bege’s castle and taken from Zou, Sanji was horrified. He had only just reopened the bond, and only just felt you again. And now he was shackled in a cage he could not break.

From there, he was delivered to Germa, bound by Judge’s will, then ferried to Totland itself. The candy-colored nightmare of Whole Cake Island opened before him, every street a reminder of what he had lost.

When Sanji finally stood before Big Mom, her laughter filled the room like thunder. She welcomed him as family, as if he were already her son. All Sanji could do was bow, hide the fury in his chest, and pray no one could see how much he wanted to tear it all down.

The hall reeked of sugar and smoke, the sweetness so heavy it turned rancid in his lungs. Big Mom’s laughter rolled over him like thunder, rattling the floor beneath his shoes.

“Vinsmoke boy,” she said, her eyes narrowing to slits of candy glass. “You reek of divided loyalty. I can feel it humming inside you.”

Sanji’s stomach turned to ice. His hands curled into fists, but he did not move.

Her grin stretched wide, jagged and bright. “I despise scraps. Useless fat should always be trimmed.”

Before he could draw breath, her will came down.

The bond screamed inside him. Not cut clean, but crushed, folded into itself until it was nothing but a ragged thread. Sanji’s chest convulsed, air tearing from his lungs in a sharp, helpless gasp. His knees nearly buckled under the sudden, suffocating pressure. The silence that followed was worse than any wound he had ever taken.

He could not breathe. The hollow ache clawed through his ribs and sank deep, deeper than fists or blades could ever reach. Every nerve burned. His vision swam. It felt like being skinned from the inside, like something sacred had been ground underfoot.

Horror struck him as the truth sank in. If it hurt him this much, then anyone else bound to it would feel it too.

His teeth clenched hard enough to crack. He forced his spine straight, his fists unclenching only by will alone. Rage burned under his ribs, but terror bound it fast.

He bowed low, the motion mechanical, the words scraping out of his throat. “As you wish, Mama.”

Big Mom laughed, delighted, the sound booming through the hall as though she had plucked a string just to enjoy the discord. She turned her focus elsewhere, but the weight remained, pressing down in every beat of his chest.

Sanji stayed bent, his jaw locked, every breath shaking. The hollow gnawed deeper with each heartbeat, a raw wound he could not close. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw it back open. Instead, he knelt, silent and obedient, the cage clanging shut around him.

And it was then that he finally cried.

Not the hot tears of rage that came with fists and fire, but the quiet kind that tore him apart from the inside. His shoulders shook, his breath hitched, and the salt blurred his vision until the world swam.

He turned his face down, hiding it from the towering figure above him. He bit his lip hard enough to bleed, desperate to keep it silent, but the sound still escaped; a broken gasp, raw and unguarded.

The tears fell anyway, burning paths down his cheeks. They slid into the corner of his mouth, bitter as ash, bitter as every vow he could not keep. He hated it, hated her power, hated himself for bending at all. But more than that, he hated the pain, the hollow gnawing in his chest that refused to be ignored.

Sanji pressed a trembling hand to his heart, as though he could hold it together by sheer force. His knees touched the polished floor, not in devotion, but because he no longer had the strength to keep himself upright.

His pride had carried him through everything. His pride had survived Judge’s fists, Germa’s cruelty, the starving years on the Baratie, and the battles that should have killed him. But here, in Big Mom’s hall, with her shadow swallowing him whole, his pride was finally shattered.

And so he wept, quiet and broken, while her laughter echoed above him.

-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-

The three days before the wedding passed in a blur of dining halls and crowded streets. Morgans had dragged you from one restaurant to the next with feathers ruffling in excitement, every plate arriving with pomp and flourish. The chefs beamed at him, eager for a word of praise, and at you, half-afraid of your pen.

The food was dazzling at first glance. Sauces gleamed like jewels, sugar spun into impossible shapes, seafood cooked in ways you had never seen. Yet with every bite, you found yourself frowning, notebook open but your pen hesitant. The flavors were strong, the textures perfect, but something sat wrong in your chest as you ate. It all lacked something you could not name.

Morgans never noticed. He devoured plates like a king at a feast, quills scratching furiously as he wrote notes between gulps of wine. “This will sing on the front page,” he boomed more than once, spraying crumbs in his excitement. “They will eat it up, critic. Eat it up!”

But when the meals ended and the tables cleared, you always closed your notebook slowly, unsatisfied, a faint ache humming inside you.

On the third evening, after another lavish dinner, Morgans excused himself with a flap of wings. “Sightseeing!” he declared. “There is nothing like watching the streets breathe after dark.” He was gone before you could argue.

You lingered behind, notebook heavy in your lap, until the bakery owner padded over. Her belly had seemed rounder since you first met her, the apron stretched taut across her middle. She carried a tray of bread still warm from the oven and smiled kindly when she saw your face.

“Not to your taste again?” she asked, sliding the tray onto the counter.

You hesitated. “It is not that the food is bad. It is…” You faltered, searching for the right word, but nothing came.

She laughed softly, smoothing her apron with one flour-dusted hand. “Sometimes it is not the food at all. Sometimes it is the company.” Her eyes softened as she said it, a touch of something wistful in her voice.

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked down at your notes.

The woman tilted her head, then brightened. “Why not come with me tomorrow? To the Château. The wedding preparations are nearly finished, and the kitchens there are unlike anything else. Perhaps if you taste what Mama’s palace has to offer, you will finally find what you are searching for.”

You looked up, caught between caution and curiosity. The thought of stepping inside Big Mom’s Château was daunting, but the ache in your chest and the hollow notes in every meal gnawed at you.

You found yourself nodding before you could stop. “Yes. I… I would like that.”

Her smile widened, and she gently patted your arm. “Then it is settled. Tomorrow, you will dine at the heart of Totland.”

Tomorrow came quickly.

The Château pulsed with life. Servants hurried down marble corridors with towers of spun sugar, croquembouches taller than children, and fountains of cream that wobbled dangerously with every step. The air was heavy with caramel and baked bread, sweet enough to cling in your throat. Laughter and shouted orders echoed together until the whole castle seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

She brought you into one of the kitchens, a warm and frantic space that smelled of butter and chocolate. Her belly curved round beneath her apron, yet she moved with calm, unhurried steps. Where others stumbled or rushed, she carried herself like she had nothing to fear.

You noticed how the staff responded. Most brightened when they saw her, offering smiles or quick greetings, some even slipping her small gifts from their trays. Her presence eased the pressure in the room, as if her steady warmth made the work lighter.

Not everyone dared to look her in the eye. A handful of cooks kept their gazes low, their movements clipped and precise, as if afraid of being noticed at all.

It was not long before you overheard why.

“She’s his wife,” a boy whispered as he stacked trays by the door. His companion paled, eyes darting toward her before snapping back to the floor. “Katakuri’s. No one crosses her. Not if they want to keep their skin.”

That gave you a start.

But the revelation explained much. The order in her voice, the way her presence seemed to calm the storm around her, the way even the busiest kitchen hands relaxed when she drew near. It also explained the hush that followed her steps. Because to cross her would mean crossing not just a baker’s wife, but the wife of a Sweet Commander.

You kept watching her, noticing the quiet shift in the air whenever she passed. She carried trays, patted shoulders, and reminded apprentices to mind their timing, all with an ease that made the frenzy of the Château feel almost orderly. No one questioned her, and no one dared oppose her.

She caught you staring and slipped to your side, her smile bright and easy. “You still look dissatisfied,” she teased, lowering her voice so the cooks could not overhear. “Have you not found a flavor to match your heart?”

You hesitated, then admitted the truth. “It is not that the food is bad. It is perfect, in a way. Every sauce shines, every pastry balances just right. But…” You frowned down at your notebook, frustration creeping into your voice. “It does not feel alive.”

Her eyes sparkled as if with a secret. “Then perhaps you need a different hand at the stove.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she turned toward one of the guards loitering near the doorway, his spear tipped with sugar-crystal shine. “Fetch the Germa boy,” she said, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed. “I hear he was a chef on a pirate ship—I’m sure he’d appreciate some time out of that room.”

The guard hesitated, shifting his weight as if the request pressed against rules he did not want to break. But the woman’s gaze pinned him, her smile warm and unyielding all at once. He gave a stiff nod and left without another word.

Murmurs rippled through the kitchen. A few cooks exchanged wide-eyed looks. Others bent their heads lower, suddenly busying themselves with pastry cream or batter, as if pretending they had not heard. The room tightened with curiosity and unease.

You blinked at her, unsure whether she was joking. “The groom?”

She tilted her head, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips. “Why not? If the food feels hollow, perhaps you should try something made by hands that have seen adventure.”

You closed your notebook slowly, heart skipping. A pirate groom-turned-chef, summoned like another ingredient to test. The thought was absurd, but the bakery owner’s smile made it sound inevitable.

The door creaked open. Heavy steps echoed across the polished floor. Then you saw him, flanked by two guards as though he were dangerous. His hands were in his pockets, a cigarette burning at the corner of his mouth. Blond hair framed a sharp face. His coat was pressed, his stride smooth, but there was something restless in his posture, a tension wound so tight it hummed in the air around him.

The moment his eyes found you, he stopped. The cigarette slipped, dangling by a breath, his expression breaking open into something raw and unguarded.

And then he moved.

He strode forward, ignoring the guards as though they were invisible. So fast that before you could react, he stopped in front of you and dropped into a bow so deep it startled you back a step. His head was bent low, shoulders shaking faintly as though he had to fight to steady himself.

You clutched your notebook tighter, alarm prickling at the back of your neck. Nobody had bowed to you like that before, not with such gravity and respect.

Slowly, he lifted his head, and his eyes met yours. Smoke curled from the forgotten cigarette still clinging to his lips, but his gaze was clear and burning. Reverent. Devastated. Relieved.

He took your hand so gently it was as if he feared you might shatter, then brought it close to his lips. His voice was low and unsteady, trembling with weight.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I was unprepared for you. Enchantée, mademoiselle. I am Sanji Vin—just Sanji.”

The words struck through you, strange and unfathomable. You froze, unsure whether to pull back or to ask what he meant.

Your gaze flicked to the bakery owner, desperate for guidance. She only smiled and shrugged, as though none of this was unusual.

“Thank you for coming,” she said brightly, her tone as casual as if she were asking someone to fetch flour. “Could you perhaps help my friend? She’s quite the food critic and is looking for the perfect meal.”

He rose at once, pressing a hand to his chest, bowing his head again, but this time his eyes never left yours.

“What is your name, my dear?”

You haltingly gave it to him, watching how his eyes warmed. You tensed at feeling the squeeze of warm fingers enveloping your own. He was very friendly.

“It’s perfect,” he said. His voice was still unsteady, but there was steel in it too. “I will give you everything I have.”

You shrank back another step, your notebook pressed tightly against you. Morgans was eccentric, but this was something else entirely. The way he spoke it was like he was speaking in two separate tongues. One was the polite answer to the bakery owner’s request. The other… You could not place it. It carried a weight you did not understand, as though the words were meant for you alone.

You watched the way his face fell as he pulled back, wounded, as if you should have held him there.

The kitchen had gone quiet. A few cooks exchanged glances, then turned back to their work with forced concentration, pretending not to notice. The guards at the door shifted, restless, unsure if they should intervene.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice into something steady. “It does not need to be everything,” you said, hoping to lighten the air. “Only something…that was.”

His expression flickered, almost breaking, as though the words cut deeper than you meant them to. Then he smiled, too sharp, too fragile at the edges.

“Then that is what I will give you,” he murmured. “A memory of an older happiness.”

Sanji moved with quiet precision, and the entire kitchen seemed to shift around him. The other cooks, who had been bustling and clattering moments before, slowed their work just to watch. He did not reach for the gilded jars of candied almonds or the sparkling towers of sugar glass, nor the exotic meats and fruits Totland flaunted like trophies. Instead, he rolled his sleeves neatly to his elbows and chose a basket of vegetables, a small cut of fish, and a pinch of herbs so ordinary they looked almost plain beside the Château’s luxuries.

You frowned at the simplicity of it. Here, in Big Mom’s palace of excess, the pirate groom had chosen a dish so unremarkable it almost seemed like a joke. You opened your notebook, pen poised, ready to note down your skepticism.

But when he began to cook, something strange happened. His movements were unhurried yet exact, each slice of his knife clean, each motion practiced until it looked effortless. The air filled with the light scent of seared fish and citrus, the faint sweetness of carrots and onions sweating down in the pan. It was not the overwhelming perfume of sugar you had grown used to in Totland—it was cleaner, sharper, like breathing after rain.

When he set the plate before you, your pen hovered uselessly in midair. It was simple. Modest. A plate that would have looked at home in any seaside inn rather than the palace of a Yonko.

You took a cautious bite.

The flavor bloomed, soft at first, then spread warmth through you like a wave. The fish was delicate, the vegetables tender and bright, the herbs grounding it all into something that felt… honest. It startled you so entirely that you froze mid-bite. It was your favorite kind of dish, the sort of food you craved when your soul was tired and you wanted something that would hold you together.

Your chest tightened.

He leaned lazily against the counter, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing his cigarette between two fingers. His grin was crooked, but his eyes tracked every flicker of your reaction. “Well?” he asked, his voice calm, teasing. “Not bad, huh? Or are you going to tear me apart like every other poor bastard lucky enough to serve you? How was the soup?”

“Ah, yes, soup, the surest sign of good taste.” You said blithely, and he broke into a sparkling grin, so wide it made your heart skip.

He really was so handsome. The bride was a fortunate girl.

You blinked, lowering your notebook slightly. He sounded casual, but the weight behind his gaze made your throat dry. You cleared it and forced your voice steady. “It is… good,” you admitted, words sticking in your throat. “Balanced. Clean. Almost too simple, yet it lingers.” Your brow furrowed. “It reminds me of home. My favorite restaurant is in the East Blue, though…” You trailed off, frowning as you tried to picture it. The sign, the tables, even the coastline around it slipped away like mist. “…for some reason, I cannot remember its name.”

For a split second, something flickered across his face. The grin faltered. His cigarette burned low, smoke curling up between you, and in his eyes there was something sharp, something almost pained. But before you could catch it fully, he masked it again with a small, lopsided smile.

The bakery owner, who had been quietly watching from her chair, chuckled softly as she smoothed a hand over her belly. “She has been feeling sick since she arrived,” she said warmly, as if to explain the faint weariness in your face. “Even Pudding tried to help her, bless the girl, but nothing worked. When I first got here, even my soulbond went insane."

Sanji’s gaze shifted to her, eyes widening. You tapped your pen on your journal, still more focused on why your memories seemed so fuzzy.

“Pardon? Your soul bond?” He asked, alarmed.

The woman nodded

The bakery owner gave a soft laugh as she brushed flour from her apron. “There is even talk about the family. Even about Pudding.” She winked at Sanji, who looked less like an excited groom and more like an alarmed dog, “There was a rumor that she can shift memories, pull them apart, and put them back in a new shape.” She waved it off, smiling. “Nonsense, surely. Kitchen gossip.”

His gaze flicked to you.

You were bent over your notes, lips pressed tight in thought, frowning at the page as though frustrated with yourself. Earlier, when you had admitted you could not recall the name of your favorite restaurant in the East Blue, it had startled him. That place was carved into both your lives. For you not to remember it…

Sanji straightened suddenly, his face going carefully blank when the bakery owner’s eyes flicked his way.

You bent over your notebook, but the pen slipped uselessly across the page. The harder you tried to recall the restaurant in the East Blue, the more it blurred, until the memory unraveled into nothing.

Frustration rose hot in your chest. With a sharp snap, you closed the notebook and stood. Both Sanji and the baker looked up, surprise flickering across their faces.

“Excuse me,” you managed, your voice tight. “I need some air.”

Without waiting for a reply, you crossed to the back of the room. The balcony doors opened with a low groan, hinges protesting against the quiet. You slipped outside and let them fall shut behind you, the chatter and clatter of the kitchen muffled to a distant hum.

The balcony stretched wide, overlooking Totland’s glittering streets. Sugar lamps lined the avenues like constellations, their golden glow shimmering against the candy-colored rooftops. From here, the island looked like a painting: bright, decadent, and utterly unreal.

The air was cooler, but not clean. It clung to your throat, thick with the sweetness of frosting and caramel. You gripped the rail until your knuckles ached, leaning forward as the ache in your chest broke loose. Your eyes stung, and before you could stop them, tears blurred the lights below into streaks of gold.

You swallowed hard, dragging in breath after breath, but the heaviness refused to lift. Everything here was too much—too sweet, too loud, too polished. And you, with your memory slipping like sand through your fingers, felt too small for it.

Behind you, the door opened again, quieter this time. Soft footsteps approached, steady and unhurried, the weight of each one deliberate.

You did not turn. Not until the faint curl of cigarette smoke drifted past your cheek, cutting through the syrup-thick air with the bitter tang of tobacco. The sweetness clinging to your lungs gave way to something sharper, grounding, almost welcome.

Sanji moved with quiet certainty, coming to rest against the stone railing a few feet away. The golden light from the hall spilled over his shoulder but left the rest of him in shadow, as if he belonged to both worlds at once. He exhaled slowly, the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing like a watchful eye in the dark.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sounds were the distant echo of music from the Château, the muffled laughter of unseen guests, and the faint hiss of his cigarette.

Then his voice came, low and rough, as though each word had to fight its way out of his chest. “Do you know what a soulbond is?”

You blinked through your tears, startled by the question. The word itself made your pulse jump. You turned your head slightly toward him, though your hands still clutched the railing. “Yes,” you said softly. “I’ve heard of them. Why?”

Sanji’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the faint orange glow of his cigarette painting the lines of his face in fleeting light. His jaw tightened, smoke curling from his lips in a steady stream. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, long enough that you began to wonder if he might not answer at all.

At last, he drew in another drag, shoulders rising and falling with the breath. He exhaled toward the dark sky, and his voice came out low, raw around the edges.

“I have one. Not my fiancée.”

Your brow furrowed. “But—why are you getting married then?”

You turned more fully toward him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, uncertain where this was leading.

He chuckled.

“I should say I did have one. And she hurt me more than anyone else ever has,” he continued, each word casual like he was talking about the sky, and not a deeply personal revelation. “Without meaning to. It was like being carved open and told to smile through it. I shut her out for years, told myself I was better that way.”

The corners of his lips twitched, though it was nothing close to a smile. The look was pained, half-bitter, half-defiant, as if he were daring the night to call him a liar.

“And then I tried again, and turns out she had one last lie.”

You twist to fold your arms, unsure why the groom getting married tomorrow was telling you all this.

“But I still love her,” he admitted at last, so softly you almost thought he meant it for himself alone. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, and the sharp smell of smoke clung stubbornly to the night air. “Love doesn't give a damn about pride. You can bleed and curse and turn your back, but the bond will still be there. They remind you of everything you lost, and everything you still want, whether you deserve it or not.”

Your throat tightened. The words were raw, heavy, nothing like the flamboyant bravado he had carried in the kitchen. “That’s… that’s awful. I’m sorry.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Awful, yes. Turns out that it’s part of the charm, though. She lied because I was awful as well. Because I made her feel too uncomfortable to be honest.”

“So it was… a misunderstanding? Can it be resolved?” Your voice shook as you asked, and when he did not answer right away, you looked away, staring at the glittering streets below.

He gave a quiet, broken laugh, the kind that carried no joy. “I don’t know. It feels like an impossible task. I don’t even think I’ll last through tomorrow, much less through this heartache. And truth be told…” His voice dropped lower, so soft you barely heard it. “I don’t think I’m even worth it.”

Your head snapped back to him.

You did not know this man. It baffled you that he would bear his pain so openly to you, as if he trusted you with wounds that had no name. Perhaps he saw your own frustrations mirrored in his, two people fumbling against weights they could not name.

But you were not stupid.

This man was good. Anyone with eyes could see it, anyone with ears could hear it in his voice. And he deserved to hear it back.

“Don’t you dare give up. You are worth it.” His head snapped up, eyes wide. Down your face, fresh tears fell, ugly tears that no person wanted another to see. You turned to him, your voice breaking under the force of it. “And very much a prince to care so deeply, even when it costs you everything. Even if your soulmate is an idiot, I cannot imagine anyone knowing you and not seeing how good you are.”

For a heartbeat, he froze. His eyes flicked to yours, and the mask he wore cracked wide open. A dot of something wet fell on your face, but this time, it wasn’t tears. The sky opened up, and it began to rain.

But neither of you moved.

Slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish, he reached for your hand. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly as they closed around yours.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, the words almost breaking. “For not giving you the perfect meal tonight. But I will—one day. When that is done, I will become the best cook the seas have ever known, and you will finally taste happiness again.”

He lifted it with reverence, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss against your knuckles. Then his knee touched the wet stone floor, and the gesture carried such gravity that your breath hitched in your chest.

The warmth of that kiss lasted the rest of the night.

-X-The Slip Up-X-

You cried most of that night. The tears came in ragged waves, each one heavier than the last. For the groom, for the love he had lost before the wedding could ever bloom, and for yourself, for the hollow ache that settled in your chest and refused to leave. For the small, bitter pieces of joy you could no longer taste in anything—even the sweet confections that had once made your tongue sing. You cried until your throat was raw, until your pillow was damp and cold beneath your face, until the stars outside the window had wheeled silently across the sky and you barely noticed.

By the time you finally forced yourself into sleep, your eyes were swollen and puffy, streaked with the evidence of your grief. They were ugly eyes, heavy and red, the kind of eyes you had never wanted anyone to see, and yet you had no energy left to care. Morning came with an indifferent light, warm on your cheeks and cruel in its persistence, and you woke far too late for the ceremony. You stared at the ceiling, numb, your chest hollow, before finally dragging yourself upright.

You didn’t fuss over it. The dress had been chosen and laid out for you already, a small mercy in a day that offered few. You pulled it on slowly, smoothing the fabric over your damp skin, feeling its weight and its neatness and its indifference. Your hair, stubborn and untamed, yielded to the pins in your drawer, and you swept it back without ceremony, securing it with the practiced motions of someone who had long ago learned to make themselves presentable even when they felt far from it.

Even as you stood there, brushing imaginary dust from your shoulders, a strange, hollow quiet settled over you. The world outside had gone on without pause, the flowers were arranged, the guests were arriving, and somewhere the sound of laughter carried on the wind. And yet, inside, you felt the lingering echo of everything you had lost, of everything that could never be reclaimed, pressing like a weight against your ribs.

The Château’s halls had been a labyrinth of silk banners, servants, and guards, and by the time you found the great doors to the wedding hall, the ceremony had already begun. The air inside was thick with perfume and sugar, the sound of music and murmured excitement nearly swallowing you whole.

You slipped in quietly, notebook clutched to your chest, hoping Morgans had not noticed your absence. The crowd’s attention was fixed on the stage, so your tardiness went unseen.

Almost immediately, you felt the faint pull of eyes on you. A group of colorful figures, standing together near the back of the hall, their gazes sharp and unmissable. The Vinsmoke Family, you deduced.

You didn’t recognize them, and their attention meant nothing to you, though something about the five of them—slight in posture, sharp in gaze—struck a faint, uneasy chord. There was a resemblance, you realized, to the groom, subtle and undeniable: the same jawline, the same measured carriage, the same glint of mischief in one brother’s eyes. Vinsmoke, you thought, and decided it was best ignored.

You kept your chin high, shoulders squared, and let your steps carry you past without a flicker of reaction. One of them gave a slow, deliberate wink, as though it were a personal challenge or an invitation you were expected to acknowledge. You didn’t. The gesture brushed past you like a shadow across the floor—noticed only by the corner of your mind, but ultimately inconsequential. Their scrutiny, sharp and calculating, blended into the hum of conversation and the swell of music, nothing more than background noise to the pressing rhythm of the ceremony.

Notebook pressed tight against your chest, you felt the familiar weight of paper and pen against your ribs, a tether to your own focus, your own world, your own matters. Every heartbeat was a quiet reminder that, here and now, the ceremony and its orchestrated grandeur demanded your attention more than any stranger’s eyes.

You maneuvered through the crowd with deliberate care, skirts brushing the marble floor, the rustle of silk and taffeta echoing softly around you. The music shifted, a waltz weaving through the air, pulling a collective breath from the attendees.

Sliding next to Morgans, you offered a fleeting, perfunctory smile. He cast you a quick look—one eyebrow raised, a silent question lingering—but it was immediately swallowed by his attention turning back to the blonde woman seated next to him. He spoke with her quietly, laughter sparking in the curve of his mouth, and for a moment, you felt invisible, tucked neatly between obligations and observation. The hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the soft clinking of glasses all fell away into the background, leaving only the press of your own thoughts and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

On top of a cake were the pair of to-be-weds.

The bride, Pudding, stood in her gown, a vision of delicate perfection. The veil fell like lace mist over her shoulders, drifting with every small movement, catching the light and scattering it in glimmers across the polished floor. Her smile was sweet, flawless, the kind that demanded admiration without effort, and it landed squarely on her groom. The applause of the guests faded into a hushed reverence as the vows began, the silence settling like a warm, heavy blanket over the hall. Despite her kindness in coming in person to check on you, you felt like she seemed a little off.

The groom, Sanji, faced her and stood impeccable in his tailored suit, his golden hair gleaming under the bright sunlight. Every line of him, from the slope of his shoulders to the tilt of his chin, spoke of careful preparation, of a man who had studied this moment for months. His smile was soft enough to fool the crowd, delicate and practiced, and yet it seemed to you like a mask, one that didn’t quite hide the shadow beneath. It looked perfect. It looked rehearsed.

It was by far the weirdest celebration you had ever attended, and you’ve visited Fun Fun Island during their ‘Celebration of Pickles’ week.

You edged into an empty seat along the side, careful not to draw attention, notebook still clutched against your chest. Your pulse thudded erratically, a drumbeat of something you could not name: anticipation, fear, guilt, longing, all tangled into one sharp, overwhelming ache. Just as Sanji began to recite his part of the vows, your eyes flicked up, catching the movement of his lips, the subtle lift of his hand, the careful ease of his gestures.

Then it happened. His words stopped.

His head turned, just slightly, and his eyes swept over the crowd with the precision of a ship’s prow cutting through water. And then, impossibly, his gaze found you.

It was like gravity had shifted. The hall, the chandeliers, the delicate notes of the harp and violin—everything blurred at the edges. The murmurs of the crowd dulled, the sugar-sweet scent of perfumed air seemed to fade, and even the stage itself seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, frozen, his lips parted in a silent question, as the rest of his vow vanished from the world.

A single heartbeat stretched into an eternity. Your own chest trembled as if it had recognized him first, your hands tightening involuntarily on your notebook, knuckles white. Every thought, every carefully suppressed memory, surged and recoiled in a rush of confusion and clarity you weren’t ready for.

The officiant cleared his throat, the sound sharp and intrusive against the charged silence, and the hall rippled with a wave of whispered confusion. Pudding’s smile faltered, fragile as spun sugar, her veil trembling with the motion of her sharp intake of breath. Her eyes darted toward him, panic and disbelief sparking in the depths of her gaze, searching for what he had seen that had broken his composure so completely.

A murmur swept through the guests like a ripple through water, growing louder, more insistent, until Big Mom’s laughter cracked over them, sharp and grating. She clapped her massive hands together, booming, “What’s the delay?”

The sound shattered the fragile tension, reverberating through the hall like a hammer striking crystal. Pudding stiffened, her fingers tightening around the bouquet she hadn’t meant to clutch so tightly; her eyes narrowed as the shadow of something cruel flickered beneath the delicate façade of her bridal mask. She leaned toward Sanji, her voice low, fierce, a hiss hidden beneath the softness expected of a bride. Her words were sharp enough that you caught the tremor in his expression—the brief flicker of hesitation before his lips curved into a smile. Soft, dazzling, heartbreakingly false.

And for reasons you couldn't name, the sight of him there—so practiced, so careful, so restrained—felt like a torment pressed into your chest, a weight you couldn’t lift. You could feel it in your bones: this was not a performance for the crowd. This was a war of unspoken words and restrained emotion, one you were trapped in the audience of, powerless.

The other guests, however, sighed in relief, mistaking the tension for nothing more than nerves. Whispers dwindled, the room relaxing as the expected ritual seemed poised to continue. And yet, you knew—knew with a certainty that made your stomach churn—that this was only the calm before the storm.

Then Pudding pushed her hair to the side.

And then everything fell apart.

The first crack came like a tiny, ominous hiccup: a harp string snapped in the corner, pinging like a disgruntled cricket, and silk rustled somewhere in a warning whisper.

Pudding’s veil twitched violently as she stepped back, her smile faltering for a heartbeat before she yanked it back into place with the precision of a woman who knew everyone was watching. Sanji’s hand twitched, subtle enough that most would have missed it—but in this charged hall, it was like dropping a pebble into a storm. The hush faltered. Eyes ping-ponged from him to her, from her to the guests, uncertainty spreading faster than spilled champagne.

Big Mom’s laughter roared again, but this time it was… off. Sort of like a cat trying to sing opera. Uneven. Slightly scary. Definitely not the joyful, booming thunder they’d expected. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like confused minnows. You pressed your notebook tighter to your chest, aware of every heartbeat, every shallow breath, and every pulse of panic radiating from the stage.

And then the world tilted. The music faltered, the chandeliers seemed to wobble, and the room shrank into a tight spotlight focused on the gathering storm at the altar.

A gunshot.

Heads jerked. Pudding screamed a startled squeak, Sanji froze mid-smile, and the minister behind them crumpled like a poorly made marzipan figurine.

Then the pièce de résistance: the giant, luscious wedding cake they were standing atop erupted in a thunderous, sticky explosion. Frosting flew like confetti gone rogue, chunks of sponge collided with terrified guests, and Big Mom shrieked loud enough to rattle the chandeliers—and probably some nerves you didn’t know existed. Tables flipped, crystal glasses shattered, and what had once smelled like vanilla and sugar turned into the acrid chaos of caramelized destruction.

“Holy SHIT!” Morgans cawed, ducking just in time to avoid a flying éclair. “Is that Strawhat? A dozen Strawhats??? WHY IS HE EATING THE CAKE?!”

Another chunk of dessert shot past, narrowly missing your notebook, now more frosting than paper. The hall had officially descended into full-blown bedlam—a perfect storm of horror, hilarity, and utter disbelief.

You were shoved sideways by a flailing guest and toppled into a table. Your hands immediately froze, glued to frosting and panic. Looking up, you realized you had landed smack in front of a family who did not look pleased.

One was a massive man with slicked-back blonde hair, a mask, and a scowl that could punch holes in walls. Next to him, a young woman with long, pink hair stared at you like she’d just discovered an alien in her dining room. Following that was one with spiky red hair, one with green hair, and a boyish one with bluish hair; all had their eyes locked on you, the confusion and irritation radiating off them like heat from a furnace.

You didn’t know them, and apparently, they didn’t know you either. Their expressions screamed a single, unspoken question: Who the hell are you, and why are you in our chaos?

The blonde one’s eyebrows knitted together. The pink-haired woman leaned back, arms crossed, voice sharp even without words. The spiky-haired ones glanced between each other, clearly thinking the same thing: Shit. We’re all stuck. Who the fuck is this person?

Morgans appeared at your side with a dramatic flourish, feathers and ink flying, wings puffed wide enough to knock over another table entirely. Golden eyes gleamed with manic delight.

“Kuahahaha! Big News! Time to write—,” he crowed, voice booming over the chaos. “Now this is a turn of events! A Yonko’s wedding crashing into carnage, assassination plots unraveling, the groom staring off at—” He waved a wing vaguely at you, beak clicking in glee. “—a mystery in the crowd. Oh, the headlines write themselves!”

The five of them shared a look that perfectly captured the moment: This is not happening. We’re stuck in the middle of someone else’s disaster. Who even are you? Why now? Is that a giant albatross slinging headlines?

And you? You pressed yourself into the table, notebook useless, heart hammering, secretly hoping this encounter would be filed away somewhere in their brains as just another weird shitshow—and that you’d survive long enough to escape it.

You stared at him, breath still uneven, notebook hanging limp at your feet. “Morgans, I am TRAPPED in CANDY—”

“Yes, yes, tragedy, panic, blah, blah.” He waved a claw dismissively, already scribbling into his own notepad with wild, chaotic energy. “But do you see it, critic? History! Right here under frosting and fire. This will sell papers for decades. And you, darling, are right in the middle of it.”

“I am in danger.” You cried out, flipping your head around to try to register the chaos. “Did someone just BREAK a picture? What did the picture do?”

“CATASTROPHE AT THE ALTAR! BLOOD AND FROSTING FLOW TOGETHER! THIS IS HISTORY, PEOPLE!” Morgans cried aloud, entirely lost to his own scoop, as he barreled past tables, narrowly missing a spiky-haired man who yelped in indignation.

“MOTHER FUCKING FEATHER!” You yelled, scrambling backward, only to freeze as a sound unlike any other pierced your eardrums—a low, wet, horrific squelch followed by a drawn-out, warbling shriek that made your teeth ache.

Images pummeled your brain, so much so that your knees collapsed, leaving you shaking in pain.

Big Mom’s scream shook the Château to its foundations. The cake was gone, reduced to a frosted ruin across the marble, and her roar for more shook the chandeliers—guests scattered like frightened birds, the underworld’s finest tripping over their silks in panic.

You struggled against the candy, limbs stuck in a gooey, sugary deathtrap, when suddenly a pair of warm, fuzzy ears brushed against your face. You blinked, startled, and looked over to see a reindeer giving you the most ridiculous, toothiest smile.

“What the hell?” you squeaked, half laughing, half panicking.

But any conversation was immediately cut off as a streak of gold and black tore across your field of vision.

It wasn’t just fast. It was impossibly fast, like someone had decided to bottle a lightning bolt and give it a suit and hair that gleamed like spun sunlight. One foot slammed onto the table beside you, snapping it in half with a satisfying crunch, while the other shot forward, kicking a rogue mound of sugar that had threatened to smother your notebook.

His coat flared dramatically, catching the light like the finale of a fireworks show, and his hair shimmered like a halo as though even the wedding hall itself recognized him as the protagonist. And then, with breathtaking suddenness, you felt yourself lifted into a princess carry, sharp and urgent, every second of it screaming, “you are getting the hell out of here right now.”

You clutched at the table, notebook slipping from your candy‑smeared hands, heart hammering in pure disbelief. The reindeer blinked at you, unimpressed, as if this kind of chaos were just another Tuesday in its long, absurd life.

He didn’t even glance at the Vinsmokes, frozen in stunned confusion, or at the flying dessert debris that littered the hall like some confectionery apocalypse. He just moved, a golden streak against the collapsing sugary battlefield, every step precise, fluid, and terrifyingly confident. The sound of splintering wood and squelching sugar barely registered against the rhythmic thunder of your own pulse.

Then you looked up.

And there he was—Sanji, the former groom, standing tall amid the chaos, his white and gold tailored suit perfect despite the hall’s transformation into a disaster, its coat flaring like a banner in a storm. He was the eye of the hurricane, serene in a way that made the world around him blur into insignificance.

Your gaze locked with his, and for the briefest heartbeat, it was as if the entire wedding hall, the screaming guests, the shattered cake, the others gawking in confusion, didn’t exist. There was only him. His hair gleaming like spun sunlight, eyes sharp and bright, a faint curve of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

He lifted a hand, palm out, a gesture small and commanding at once. Your brows furrowed, squinting against the overwhelming urge to collapse into him, your heart a riot inside your chest. You couldn’t hear his words over the chaos; the crashing chandeliers, Big Mom’s furious bellowing, the general disintegration of all things sweet—but the movement of his lips, the tilt of his head, the intensity of his gaze—it was as if he were speaking directly to the part of you that had been silenced for too long.

“Behind me, my love.”

The thought wasn’t spoken, not in any language you could define, but it thundered inside your chest with absolute clarity. Time slowed. Every ounce of fear, every pulse of panic, every sticky, frosting‑smeared panic in your limbs—the world condensed into a single, burning truth: he was here.

Not that you knew why he was being so specifically kind, but it did feel… right?

You didn’t question it. You couldn’t. You simply pressed closer, letting the chaotic, impossibly fast current of his movement carry you forward, a golden lighthouse in the storm of sugar, fire, and fury.

“Get out of here. I’ll find you later.”

You snapped up to look at the blonde. It was as if he spoke in your head. Suddenly, Morgans was in your vision, and had your arm on his claw.

You didn’t have time to process the words—or the thought—before he surged forward, carrying you like an arrow through the hurricane of sugar, splintered wood, and shrieking guests. The Vinsmokes, still frozen in confusion, were nothing more than background blur. Tables toppled beneath his boots, chandeliers swung violently overhead, and the very air seemed to hum with the force of his presence.

Your notebook was lost somewhere in the wreckage, forgotten entirely as your pulse threatened to outpace your heartbeat. You clung to him, wide-eyed and utterly helpless, your mind a storm of disbelief, terror, and something sharper, deeper, aching in your chest.

Then, finally, the exit. The cool night air hit you like a relief so sharp it made your lungs seize, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint whisper of freedom. You blinked, seeing the courtyard sprawling beneath the moonlight, open and chaotic, but safe.

Morgans had pushed you out, to the street, so he at least got credit for not being the worst boss ever.

For the briefest second, you thought it was over.

But then a deep, rumbling groan tore through the night.

Your eyes shot back to the Château. The massive structure shuddered violently, the skeletal remains of the wedding cake smoking and crackling like a cursed pyre. Then, with a sound that made your teeth ache, the entire top level erupted in a spectacular explosion. Fire, sugar, and debris shot into the air, the walls trembling under the impact. Marble and shattered glass rained down, and for the first time, it hit you that nothing in this city would survive another second.

But before you could react, before you could scream, a slender, white‑gloved hand shot into your field of vision, gripping your wrist with a precision that both startled and unnerved you.

“Move!” a voice hissed, low and sharp, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t expected.

A familiar face came into view—Pudding.

Of all people. The bride? And yet here she was, yanking you out of the blast radius with a force that left your chest pressed against hers, every instinct screaming trust no one, even as her expression was calm, controlled, almost… friendly.

The courtyard floor trembled beneath you as a massive chunk of the Château’s upper wall collapsed, sending clouds of dust and shards of stone hurtling past. You staggered, mind reeling, when Pudding’s arms tightened around you like an anchor in the storm.

“We’ve got to go,” she muttered, voice low and clipped. “Hop on, Rabiyan will give us a ride out of here.”

Your eyes widened as she gestured toward a rolled carpet lying nearby. Before you could question it, she yanked you onto it. The fabric was rough beneath your hands, but impossibly sturdy, and your stomach lurched as the rug lifted into the air.

“FUCK!” You cried out, clutching it like a witch on a broom. “What the hell is it with this place? And why the hell are you helping me?”

Pudding’s lips twitched, just enough to hint at amusement—or maybe irritation at your shouting. “Because if you stay there, you die,” she said bluntly, eyes scanning the fiery debris of the collapsing Château. “And I’m not in the habit of letting people die in my wedding. Stay low, hold on.”

You blinked at her, wide-eyed and still processing that the scheming, memory‑erasing Pudding—the bride—was now literally saving your life. “I… I don’t even—”

“Not your time for philosophy,” she interrupted.

The massive, winged magic carpet homie soared under you, skimming the ground, eyes gleaming with what could only be described as utter disdain for your screaming.

You almost tripped over your words. “Seriously? I’m stuck with the bride, being chased by collapsing castles and a flying… carpet? I’m—I can’t even…”

Pudding rolled her eyes, adjusting her hold on you. “I know I’ve done a lot of crappy things. More than a lot. But this one—I owe Sanji.” Her tone was clipped, but there was a weight to it that made you pause.

Your heart stuttered. “Owe… Sanji?”

“Yes. Don’t get sentimental. Just hold on.” She pushed off slightly, giving you enough room to cling to the carpet while she leaned forward, scanning the fiery chaos for threats. Rabiyan swooped, catching the carpet midair, and the two of you were lifted skyward.

The Château groaned one final time, then exploded in a spectacular shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar, raining down behind you like a grotesque fireworks display.

You clutched the edge of the carpet with white-knuckled terror, notebook long forgotten and likely ruined by frosting, while Pudding held you like a lifeline. Her arms were firm and immovable, an anchor in the storm of airborne debris.

“I have no idea how I’m involved with any of this,” you gasped, voice shaking as the carpet dipped and swerved around a flaming chunk of roof.

Pudding went red—both from exertion and something else, something unreadable.

“Of course you don’t,” she said, voice clipped but sharp, almost scolding. “I took your memories. I doubt your soulbond is back to normal quite yet, either. You’ve got to get out of range of Big Mom’s Haki for her influence to fade.”

You blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Wait. Wait. Excuse me? You took my memories? Ma’am, how? When? What–where–”

She shot you a glare sharp enough to cut through the smoke and fire. “Shut up!” Her voice cut through the roar of collapsing marble and the distant, panicked screaming. “Not important! What is important is that you happen to be Sanji’s soulmate, and I cannot fix you right now! And Sanji—Sanji was kind to me and I didn’t deserve it, so this is how I make it better!”

You stared, heart hammering, trying to process the absurdity: saved by the bride, flying on a sentient carpet, escaping an exploding wedding cake, and now told that your soulmate’s memories had been meddled with by none other than the scheming bride herself. Somehow it was both terrifying and ridiculous.

“And just what, pray tell,” you muttered through gritted teeth, “am I supposed to do with that information while hurtling through the air on a magic rug?”

Pudding didn’t answer immediately, instead leaning forward slightly, eyes scanning the burning Château behind you. The wind whipped her veil and hair around her face like a dark halo. Finally, she said, low and clipped, “Survive. Keep your heart in your chest. Trust no one until you’re clear. And whatever you do… don’t touch anything that looks remotely edible back there.”

You swallowed hard. “Right. Got it. Survive. Don’t touch sugar debris. Trust the person who erased my memories. Check.”

Pudding’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she muttered, “You’ll thank me later. Or scream at me later. One of the two.”

The carpet banked sharply, Rabiyan’s flying hard against the night sky, carrying you further from the chaos below. Behind you, the Château groaned one final time before collapsing completely in a shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar. The scent of burnt frosting hung thick in the air, clinging to your hair and clothes. Your notebook, already ruined by flying cake, flopped uselessly at your side.

-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-

You weren’t expecting to pick up another Charlotte sister. Certainly not one who came lumbering along in a walking tank that clattered like a parade drumline gone rogue.

You definitely weren’t expecting her to find Sanji as he and his crew ran along, his suit jacket flaring, cigarette smoke curling, voice pitched low and sharp as if he knew exactly when the curtain was meant to rise. For a second, the battlefield felt like a stage play, and he was the only one with a script.

Your stomach pitched. It had been fifteen minutes—barely enough time to breathe—since Pudding had looked you dead in the eye and accused you of being her ex-groom’s soulmate. You hadn’t known what to say, not with her words ricocheting around in your head like loose shot.

And now here he was. And after a performance of flirting of such an unnatural nature between Pudding and Sanji that you felt second-hand embarrassment that would probably be passed down your bloodline.

The magic carpet wobbled beneath you, threads of sorcery tugging at your balance, the tank’s racket fading into the background. Soldiers shouted. The ground shook. But all you could see was him—Sanji, looking at you like he’d expected you all along.

And you absolutely were not expecting to be roped into helping bake a wedding cake to stop a yonko’s rampage.

So, of course, you sat a little away from the group, feeling incredibly awkward as they made plans. It was like stumbling into a kitchen rehearsal mid-performance, everyone throwing out measurements and ingredients as if the world wasn’t cracking at the seams outside. Pudding was furiously scribbling recipes across parchment, while Sanji paced like a general, mapping out troop movements.

You folded your arms tighter, pretending to be fascinated by the scuffed edge of the carpet. The voices blurred together: eggs, flour, cream, chocolate, all barked like military codes—and you nodded along as though you had the faintest idea what was going on in the cooking.

But your heart kept tugging sideways, back to the blond man issuing orders with smoke curling from his lips. His confidence made the absurdity worse, like he could command a cake into existence fast enough to quiet an emperor.

You looked away. “You should all know that I’m usually the one critiquing the food. I’m literally just a critic. Nothing else.”

You tried to shrink further into yourself, silently praying they wouldn’t notice you weren’t contributing. Because if Sanji so much as looked your way, you weren’t sure if you’d combust from embarrassment—or be handed a whisk.

His cigarette glowed faintly as he exhaled, eyes narrowing with a flicker of amusement before softening into something warmer. “Just a critic, huh?” His voice cut through the chaos, smooth as cream. “Then you’re not useless at all. You’re the most important person here.”

Pudding and Chiffon turned your way, and your ears burned. Important? You wanted to sink into the carpet. “I meant—” you started, but Sanji’s smile only sharpened.

“You’ll tell us if it’s worthy or if we’re doomed,” he said matter-of-factly, as if this had already been decided. “That’s the only job that matters right now. Leave the baking to me.”

And just like that, he turned back to Pudding, rattling off another set of orders as though he hadn’t just disarmed your entire attempt at self-deprecation with a single compliment.

Mother-fucking charmer.

Your heart gave an unhelpful lurch. Maybe you weren’t here for kicks and giggles after all.

Pudding’s pen scratched harder against her parchment, lips tightening just enough to betray the smile she pasted back on when Sanji glanced her way. For all her theatrics, you caught the flicker in her eyes—a sharp, sour note that landed squarely on you. As if you’d stolen a line from a script she thought belonged only to her.

You decided right then your safest option was silence. Silence and pretending the scuffed edge of the magic carpet was endlessly fascinating.

And that was your contribution until you landed.

Cacao Island rose like a confection from the sea, ovens already blazing, bakers scrambling in every street. The moment you stepped into the grand kitchen, the air grew heavy with the scent of chocolate and cream, heat rolling off copper pots and firelit stoves.

Sanji moved at once, his coat cast aside, sleeves rolled up. He was in motion before anyone else had found their place. Every gesture was sharp, every order precise, his desperation buried beneath elegance. Even in the chaos, he carried himself like the kitchen was a ballroom and he was the only one who knew the steps.

And, maddeningly, Pudding stayed glued to his side, watching, smiling, every few moments throwing a glance your way as if daring you to try and keep up.

You quietly looked for exits until a bowl was pushed into your hands.

“Whisking duty,” Sanji said, eyes twinkling. “Time for the critic to be the one judged.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Listen, asshole, I will get us killed. I am not qualified.”

“Then learn,” he instructed firmly, but not unkindly. “If you can judge, you can taste. If you can taste, you can balance. Now move.”

You scoffed but obeyed, stirring with irritation.

And still, your hands began to move with a rhythm that felt too familiar. You whisked with an ease you could not explain. You folded the batter as though you had done it before. With every scent that filled the air, something inside you stirred—cocoa, citrus, almonds, cream. The aromas pried open doors you had not known were locked.

Memories leaked back like water through cracks. A boy at a stove. A kitchen filled with laughter and fire. A bond threaded tight between you, humming with warmth.

You gripped the whisk tighter, blinking as the present blurred with the past. The copper pots clanged around you, heat pressing at your back. Pudding’s voice was sharp and insistent as she rattled off another instruction to Sanji. Yet you barely heard her.

Because Sanji had turned, just enough to watch you, smoke curling in the corner of his smile. For a flicker of a heartbeat, the whole mad kitchen seemed to fall away.

The kitchen was a storm of sugar and fire. Bakers rushed in every direction, carrying trays of cream and stacks of chocolate bricks, their voices rising in frantic rhythm. Sanji moved among them like a maestro, never missing a beat, guiding you and Pudding with sharp precision.

“Taste,” he said for the sixth time.

“Balance it with citrus,” you replied, sliding a spoon his way.

“Keep whisking,” he ordered you, his eyes never leaving your face.

You tried to argue, but your body betrayed you. Your hands folded batter with ease, your wrists flicked the whisk into perfect rhythm, your nose caught flaws in balance before the spoon even reached your tongue. It was muscle memory you did not know you had with every aroma—almond, citrus, cocoa—memories stirred like shadows at the edge of sight.

It was like a dance between you both, despite your clumsiness.

Sanji stepped closer, his hand brushing yours as he adjusted the angle of the bowl. His touch lingered for a fraction too long, warm even through the heat of the kitchen. “Gentle,” he murmured, his voice carrying over the clang of pans and frantic shouts. “The batter listens to how you move.”

You laughed nervously, the sound too thin, but he smiled as if it was the only answer that mattered. When he handed you a spoonful of filling, his gaze never left your face, watching not just for judgment but for recognition. You tasted the flavors bursting across your tongue and nodded slowly.

“Perfect,” you whispered.

Sanji exhaled like he had been holding that breath for hours, shoulders relaxing, eyes softening into something that felt far too tender for the chaos surrounding you. For a heartbeat, you swore the kitchen was no longer a storm but a waltz, the two of you moving in step without ever meaning to.

Pudding stopped beside a cooling rack, the light catching the sheen of chocolate on her fingers. She pressed her hands together, as though steadying herself, and for once her smile slipped entirely.

“You…” Her voice caught, and she started again. “You are not supposed to be here.”

You hesitated, but her tone was different now. Not sweet, not smug. Something in her eyes flickered, conflicted and almost kind. You followed her to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the clatter of pans and Sanji’s sharp commands.

You blinked. “Trust me, I agree.”

Her laugh was short and bitter, but her gaze stayed fixed on you. “And yet… he looks at you like you’ve always been here. Like he’s been waiting.”

Your stomach lurched. “What are you talking about?”

Pudding’s jaw tightened. She studied you for a long moment, then raised her hand as if she meant to strike—yet her fingers only hovered near your temple, trembling.

“You don’t remember him,” she whispered, eyes glistening in a way that didn’t suit her sharp edges. “Because I took it. I made sure of it. And still… look at you.”

Heat prickled at your skin, confusion tangling with fear. “You… what?”

Her hand trembled once more, then steadied. “I wanted to believe he could love me. That if I erased you, it would be easier. But even I cannot rewrite the way he looks at you.” She exhaled, shaky and resigned. “So take it back. I don’t want it anymore. He’ll never look at me that way. Not while you exist.”

Before you could protest, her palm pressed firmly against your temple.

The world cracked open.

Scents, voices, laughter, heat; memories flooded through you in a rush so violent your knees buckled. Sanji’s smile, his voice calling your name across a crowded kitchen, the bond that had always thrummed beneath your skin, the boy at the stove with dreams of fire and freedom. All of it crashed over you in a wave too vast to hold.

Your vision blurred, the ground tilted, and Pudding’s face twisted with equal parts jealousy and sorrow.

She turned to face you, her voice low. “Hold still.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she lifted her hand. Her bangs shifted, and the third eye at her forehead opened.

A chill shot through you. You stepped back, but she caught your shoulders with surprising strength. “Have guts,” she whispered. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Her fingers brushed against your temple. A rush like fire and ice flooded your skull. The world twisted, blurred. Memories surged, breaking through like waves: a boy cooking at a stove, a bond threading through your mind, laughter across oceans, the ache of being shut out, the hollow loss when it was crushed.

Your knees buckled. The kitchen spun, voices warping into a blur of shouts and clattering pans.

Before you could hit the floor, strong arms scooped you up. The world steadied against the press of a broad chest, the scent of smoke and citrus clinging to him. You were weightless, carried effortlessly, his stride sure and unhesitating.

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to see his face above you, sharp with worry yet softened by something raw and unguarded. His jaw clenched as though holding back words, his breath uneven as he adjusted his grip to keep you steady.

“Easy,” he murmured, the sound low enough to anchor you. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go again.”

You tried to speak, but the words tangled, slipping away as exhaustion dragged you under. The last thing you felt was the steady beat of his heart against your ear and the warmth of his hold, fierce and unyielding.

The frantic kitchen hushed for a heartbeat as he gathered you into a princess carry. Bakers stared, spatulas frozen mid-whisk, trays forgotten in their hands. Even Pudding stood rooted where she had touched you, her veil askew, her expression unreadable.

Sanji’s jaw was tight, but his eyes never left your face. He shifted you carefully against him, one arm steady under your knees, the other braced at your back as though you were fragile glass.

“Keep working,” he barked at the stunned bakers, his voice sharp as steel. “The cake will not bake itself.”

The room jolted back into motion at once, the storm of sugar and fire resuming, though now every glance flickered nervously toward the man carrying you.

Sanji lowered his voice, so soft only you could hear it. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

The last thing you felt was his heartbeat, quick and unsteady beneath the steady mask he wore for everyone else.

Darkness tugged you under, but this time it was different. The bond hummed in your chest like a chord finally resolved, no longer muffled, no longer broken. And even as your body went limp with exhaustion, the warmth of his hold followed you into the dark.

-X-The Climax-X-

But the next time you opened your eyes, the Château, the kitchens, and the roar of Big Mom were just gone. You would hear how it all ended later. How Sanji and Pudding baked the cake in a frenzy, how the crew fought their way through the island, how the Yonko’s rage had been momentarily stilled by sugar and cream. The escape.

You were lying in a hammock that swayed gently with the rhythm of the sea. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed wood, the cloying sweetness of Totland finally behind you. Above, wood creaked, and beyond the porthole, the sky stretched endlessly and was blue.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as you sat up too fast, memories crashing over you all at once: painful, sweet, overwhelming. The bond was there, steady and alive again, thrumming like a heartbeat that was not yours alone.

And there was a hand. Warm, steady, holding yours.

Sanji.

He sat beside the hammock, his coat discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Exhaustion clung to him in every line, his posture loose, shadows darkening his eyes. Yet the moment you stirred, he straightened, his hand tightening on yours as if to anchor you.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice rough but steady, a faint smile curving his lips. “You’re awake.”

Your throat ached, caught between everything you remembered and everything you wanted to say. All you managed was a whisper. “I… remember.”

Something flickered in his gaze—relief, ache, hope all tangled together. He lifted your hand and brushed his lips across your knuckles with a tenderness that stole your breath.

The bond hummed between you, steady and sure, carrying not only his voice but the weight of everything unspoken: his fear, his relief, his love.

“Sanji—”

And that was enough. He saw the recognition in your eyes, and his own filled with tears. He raised a hand, briefly covering his face.

“Give me a second,” he murmured, voice trembling with restraint. “I need a moment to… let this out.”

When his words came, they were quieter still, almost reverent.

“I will admit something to you. When I first realized the truth, I went through hell. Humiliation. Shame. Anger. I thought I had been made a fool of. I thought you laughed at me every time I called you ‘bro.’ Every time I went on about women. About Nami. About… jiggle physics. All of it.”

You closed your eyes, the memory of those exchanges now unbearably sharp in your chest.

He let out a low, broken laugh, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as if to anchor himself. “I’m a fool. Because when the truth settled in, when I stopped thrashing against it, I felt… relief.”

Your breath caught. “Relief?”

He looked at you then, nothing guarded, nothing hidden. “Because it meant you were mine all along. That no matter how stupid I made myself look, I wasn’t wrong to keep reaching for you. The bond was still there, even when I thought I’d lost it.”

The hammock rocked gently between you, the sea humming with the bond’s steady rhythm, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“Yes.” He gave a shuddering breath. “Relief that you are not a man. Relief that I could have it all. I am ashamed to admit how much lighter it made me. Guilt that I knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but I’m so broken, it did.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Sanji…”

“But,” he went on, softer now, “the truth is, I doubt it would have changed much. Even if you had been a man, even if you had been everything I told myself you were… I think I would still feel this way. That is what terrifies me most. You were never the problem.”

You pressed both hands to your face, sobbing quietly. The bond thrummed steady between you, stronger now than ever, carrying not just his shame and his relief but also the trembling thread of hope he had buried for too long.

“I am not sure how to proceed from here,” he admitted. “Because I am entirely in love with you. But I have spent so long praising other women, worshiping them out loud, that you will not believe me when I say it.”

You pressed your palms harder to your face, shaking, unable to look at him. “Sanji… you will always be yourself. That is who I met. Who I listened to. Who I trusted.”

There was a pause. The waves slapped against the hull in the silence. Then, faintly, a grim note entered his voice.

“That self,” he said, “is not a man I am proud of. But I have another question. Answer me truthfully. Do you like women romantically?”

You gave a strangled laugh. “No. I do not.”

He choked, and the bond shivered with his outrage.

“See, this is what pisses me off—Mon Dieu! Then why did you let me rate other women’s boobs in your head? Why let me ramble on about cleavage, about legs, about—”

You laughed harder, tears wetting your cheeks. “Because I admired what I lacked. And you got so excited. I loved it.”

For a long moment, the air was filled with his stunned silence. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rich and bright, the kind you had not heard in so long. You pressed your hand to your chest, clutching the sound like a lifeline.

It was not perfect. It was not easy. But in that laughter, something fragile finally began to heal.

You could feel it in the bond. A shift. Not sharp or sudden, but gentle, like a tide turning. The sorrow and shame that had weighed him down ebbed back, replaced by a lighter current. His voice carried it when he spoke again.

“You should know,” he said, almost thoughtful, “that there are consequences for lying to me this long.”

Your stomach knotted. “Consequences?”

“Yes.” You could feel the grin even before he let out a low laugh. “Thanks to you, I am a pervert. One who will be concentrating his entire focus on you. Every word. Every sigh. Every damn heartbeat. I will be relentless.”

Heat rushed up your neck. “Sanji—”

“No, no, do not try to stop me,” he teased, his voice turning silk-smooth as his hand cupped your face. “This is justice. You hid from me, you let me think I had a mere friend-in-titty. Now you are going to endure everything I ever poured out on other women, only it will be ten times worse, because it will all be for you.”

You covered your face with both hands, cheeks burning with shame. “I am not the busty goddess of your dreams. You can do better.” Your hand made a weak, embarrassed gesture toward your chest.

Sanji swore so fiercely it made you jump.

“Do better?!” His voice cracked with disbelief as he turned to look at you, utterly offended. “You, insane, beautiful, cruel woman. You think you can say that to me? After all that you have been, what are you now? Do not insult me. Do not you dare.”

His words came hot and ragged, like smoke curling from a flame. “You are mine, and you are more than everything. Better than anything I dreamed. Better than anything I ever deserved.”

The bond thrummed, fierce and undeniable, wrapping around his voice like a vow. His hand trembled slightly where it cradled your cheek, not from weakness but from the force of what he held back.

You lowered your hands slowly, meeting his gaze through blurred lashes. His eyes were burning, not with lust alone but with devotion so sharp it almost hurt to look at.

“My angel. My muse. My darling flame. Every second I wasted on other women was a crime against my own heart. Allow me to repent properly, by spending the rest of my life praising your every inch, from the tips of your fingers to the curve of your—”

“Sanji,” you groaned, your face burning. “Sir, please. We are having a soft moment.”

He laughed, warm and shameless, the sound rolling through the bond like sunlight. “Soft moments are for poets, my love. I am a cook. And the only thing I want to simmer over a slow flame is you.”

You buried your face in your arms, torn between laughing and sobbing.

“You cannot stop me now,” he declared dramatically, kneeling before you. “Every word, every breath, every syllable will belong to you. You think you are safe, but just wait until you get better. I will lay roses at your feet. I will compose sonnets. I will make every man jealous that you chose me.”

You groaned again, but your chest ached with joy. “You are impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he said, his voice softening at the end, playful bravado dipping back into something tender.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers along the back of his hand. “I do.”

For a moment, he froze, as though the world had stopped around him. The sea, the sail, and the creak of the hammock all faded. Then his breath escaped in a shaky rush, his forehead pressing lightly to yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Your smile widened despite your tears. “I love you, Sanji.”

The bond surged between you like a heartbeat shared, pulling him closer until the space between your lips vanished. His kiss landed softly at first, almost trembling, as though he feared you might disappear if he pressed too hard. But when you leaned into him, his restraint shattered. The kiss deepened, hungry and reverent all at once, his hand sliding from your cheek to cradle the back of your head.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging as the world tilted with the force of it. Every ounce of his devotion poured through the bond, wrapping around you, anchoring you. When he finally drew back, his lips brushed yours again and again, unable to stop. His breath came ragged, his eyes hazy with need, and he tried and failed to smother.

“Mon Dieu…” he muttered, ducking his face into the crook of your neck as if ashamed of his body’s urgency. The bond quivered with embarrassment, but beneath it burned raw, unfiltered longing. “Forgive me. I cannot help it. You undo me.”

You laughed softly, your hands smoothing over his shoulders. “Sanji… it is all right.”

He cleared his throat, ears pink. “I do not want to ruin this. I have waited too long. You deserve—” He faltered, fumbling for words, then gave a weak, self-conscious laugh. “The truth is, I have no idea what I am doing. Not with you. Not like this.”

The admission was so vulnerable that it made your chest ache. “Sanji,” you whispered, “are you telling me you want to—”

“Yes?” He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. “Yes. Yes, all right. Do you know what happens when you spend your whole life cooking, fighting, and dreaming of a perfect woman you never thought you would meet? You end up saving yourself without meaning to. And now… please save me from my own pathetic nature.”

You stared at him for a long moment, and then laughter burst out of you, helpless and bright.

His head snapped toward you, scandalized. “What—why are you laughing?!”

“Because,” you said, climbing into his lap and cupping his shocked face between your hands, “that’s it. I’m riding you.”

His eyes nearly rolled back in his head, the bond lighting up with stunned arousal. “Mother of God—”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re mine. That’s more than enough.”

The bond thrummed between you, steady and warm, wrapping around his doubts and silencing them in a way words never could. Sanji’s breath caught, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue, but the certainty in your voice left him undone.

His hands finally settled against your waist, firm but shaking, as though he was terrified of breaking you. You kissed him again, slower this time, guiding him back down into the sway of the hammock. His body arched beneath yours, trembling with restraint. Every sigh, every ragged breath echoed in the bond, filling you with the sheer depth of his longing.

You rolled your hips against him, and the sound that tore from his throat was raw, almost pained with how much he wanted. His eyes fluttered open, wide and wet, as though he could hardly believe this was real.

“Mon ange,” he whispered, voice breaking. “If this is a dream, do not let me wake.”

You cupped his cheek, brushing away the tear that slipped free. “It isn’t a dream. It’s us.”

And when you finally let go, drawing him closer, the bond surged bright and whole. It carried every truth he had ever hidden, every vow he had ever left unspoken. Sanji kissed you like he was sealing a promise, and you held him as though you would never let him go.

When he joined with you, his whole body jolted, a helpless cry escaping him as he clutched at you like you were the only anchor he had left. The bond flared hot and radiant, filling you with his awe, his wonder, his overflowing love.

“Mon chéri, mon cœur, ma moitié,” he gasped, trembling beneath you. “My All Blue. I am yours. Always yours.”

You steadied him, your hands pressed to his chest, your lips soft against his jaw. “Sanji,” you whispered, and the single word made him shiver.

You moved together slowly, as if learning each other for the first time, coaxing him past his nerves into something tender. He kissed you through it, over and over, unable to stop, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he did. His hands traced the curve of your back, the line of your arms, the silk of your hair, touching every part of you he could reach with reverence.

He whispered your name like a prayer, again and again, as though speaking it aloud was what kept him alive. There was nothing practiced in him now, none of the charm or flourish he wore for the world. Only Sanji, laid bare and devoted, giving himself to you without hesitation.

He didn’t last five minutes. Not even two.

When the release came, it was not sharp but overwhelming, like sunlight breaking across the sea. The bond blazed through both of you, searing and cleansing until all that remained was love; pure, steady, absolute.

Afterward, he held you close, his arms tight around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder. His voice was hushed when he finally spoke, but every word rang with certainty. “I have waited my whole life for this. For you.”

And when you kissed his hair and whispered that you had too, he didn’t need to believe you. You had been with him, and his whole heart, and had waited for him.

He already knew that you did.

-X-Honeymoon-X-

Morning sunlight spilled across the Sunny, bright against the waves. The smell of butter and coffee drifted from the galley as Sanji moved like a whirlwind at the stove, whistling under his breath. You sat at the counter, watching him with a smile, the bond steady and warm in your chest.

Settling into the Sunny had been more than easy, and they had accepted you with almost too much enthusiasm, causing more than a bit of jealousy from your Sanji.

He turned every few seconds just to flash you a grin, sliding a plate in front of you first before the rest of the crew got a whiff. “For my beloved,” he declared dramatically, setting down a perfect omelet. “And the rest of you can wait your turn.”

Luffy wailed, already half climbing over the counter. Brook groaned about favoritism. Chopper pouted until Sanji added a dish of sweet bread just for him.

Through it all, Nami and Robin watched with quiet amusement.

Later, when the chaos settled and Sanji was busy chasing Luffy out of the pantry, Nami leaned against the rail beside you. Her lips curved in a sly smile. “I have to admit, you being here has been… helpful.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Helpful?”

Nami’s eyes flicked toward the galley door where Sanji was loudly scolding Luffy for eating dried meat straight from the barrel. “He’s calmer. More focused. Still ridiculous, of course, but it feels different. Like he finally stopped performing for the world and started living for someone.”

Your cheeks warmed. The bond pulsed in quiet agreement, echoing with Sanji’s voice from the kitchen, still ranting about rationing.

Nami nudged you gently. “I don’t know what you did, but… keep doing it. We’ve all noticed.”

Robin’s voice floated over from her chair, where she was reading in the sun. “Yes. It is rather endearing, seeing him so transparent. He used to scatter his affection like petals in the wind. Now it seems he has chosen to plant a garden instead.”

Your heart stumbled at their words, the warmth of the crew’s acceptance sinking into you like sunlight.

Your face burned. “I did not do anything.”

Nami chuckled, tapping your shoulder. “You gave him somewhere real to pour it all. You saved the rest of us a lot of trouble.”

Robin’s smile was warm, her gaze thoughtful. “And perhaps more importantly, you gave him a place to rest. He has chased so many things. Now he chases you.”

You swallowed hard, staring out at the sea as your heart swelled.

Behind you, Sanji’s voice rang out, furious and flustered as Luffy tried to steal from the pantry again. “Hands off, you bottomless barrel! That food is for my soulmate!”

The women laughed, the sound soft and knowing, and you covered your face with your hands.

Sanji was still himself. Loud, dramatic, shameless. But he was yours. And somehow, that made all the difference. When he kissed you later, sunlight bright on the waves and the crew’s laughter carrying through the ship, the world was perfectly, utterly right.

And his food was always perfect.

-X-Epilogue-X-

The Baratie was as noisy as ever. Pots clanged in the kitchen, waiters shouted across the floor, and the smell of frying fish filled the air. Zeff sat in his usual chair near the galley doors, pipe in hand, scanning the latest issue of the World Economy News.

Across the front page, in bold, Morgans had splashed it: “Straw Hats Claim Another! Critic Turned Pirate Reporter Joins Crew!” The photo showed Sanji mid-dramatic flourish, cigarette glowing, arm tight around you, while the crew squabbled in the background.

Zeff grunted around his pipe, smoke curling into the air. “Idiot kids.”

One of the line cooks peeked out nervously. Patty raised a brow. “Uh… Chef? Something wrong?”

Zeff slapped the paper against the table, scowling. “He finally found her, that’s what’s wrong. Means he’s going to be more of a lovesick fool than ever. And that poor girl is going to have her hands full.”

Patty blinked. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Zeff’s scowl softened for just a moment. He tapped ash from his pipe, eyes lingering on the photo. Sanji’s grin was wide, unguarded in a way Zeff had not seen since the boy was small. And the woman at his side looked just as undone, notebook forgotten in her lap, caught in the bond of a man who would never let her go.

“Yeah,” Zeff muttered, quieter now. “It’s a good thing.”

He folded the paper, set it aside, and barked for someone to bring him his dinner. But his one good eye lingered on the headline a little longer, pride flickering beneath the gruffness.

Zeff exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the rafters. His scowl softened into something closer to thought. “All these years,” he muttered, “that brat ranted about the All Blue. Swore he would not be satisfied until he cooked for everyone, until he proved himself. But looking at this…” He tapped the photo with a calloused finger. “Looks like he found himself another dream… and it seems like you achieved your dream too, girl. You did not have to wait until the All Blue to have him cook for you. To be fed by him. To have his whole damn heart served on a plate.”

He leaned back, pipe resting against his teeth, his one good eye glinting in the lamplight. “Maybe that’s the dream worth chasing after all.”

The dining hall clamored around him, waiters shouting, pans clattering in the kitchen. But for a few quiet moments, Zeff sat with the paper folded carefully in front of him, pride and relief tucked into the corners of his gruff smile.

Cosmic Joke Status: Ifrit Jambe!

Congratulations!

You’re now stuck with a flammable chef who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% flambé himself just to make eye contact with you while carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. (Especially the part where he snarls at people who flirt with you, like a tuxedo-clad second coming who recites poetry, cooks a five-course meal, and faints dramatically if you so much as smile at him.)

He has exactly three modes:

Cooking like his soul depends on it.

Flirting like he’s auditioning for a romance novel cover.

Collapsing in a cloud of hearts because you said “thank you.”

And the worst part?

You like it.

-X-The End-X-

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