one is not on mars

pgr brainrot, reblog spam, occasional art (⁠๑⁠¯⁠◡⁠¯⁠๑⁠) ic: yashiro-00

[katsuonemars]

yo! welcome to my blog!!

— Info

call me One! ★ she/they ★ bi mess

will occasionally post art (oc/fanart)

mostly multifandom reblog spam

main fandoms: Punishing Gray Raven, Gundam, Vocaloid, various anime/manga/video games. i love anything and everything mech

PGR Global (Asia-Pacific) — 13276125 been playing since around launch :P

if you also like PGR, let's be mutuals!

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co-owned: @panini-eden

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katsuonemars//art — stuff i made

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art inspo — bookmarked art refs

misc — miscellaneous bookmarks

[userfpurteen]

taking suggestions on instagram part 5

this was my fave omgggg

the suggestion was "chopper and zoro munching watermelon because it's too hot out"

i snuck in sanji and luffy too for good measure

[vruderry]

Guess who finished their junior year of college and is up to trouble 😏

☕ 📸 🐦

[katsuonemars]

"I hear something. It's the voice of God."

Colored pencils, silky crayons, and tears on A5 sketchbook paper. (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠)

[mooncleaver]

He's Kind of Cute.

ღ summary: Your (not so) quiet crush on Sanji through Nami’s eyes

ღ pairing: Sanji x fem!reader

ღ warnings: Disgusting(ly bad) flirting :D not an established relationship but they act like a couple anyway! reader with long-ish hairr, she's chalant af

Nami finds out about your crush on Sanji during girls night. 

You don’t know what was better, when no one knew about this thing you had for him, or having your best friend aware, which meant that you finally had someone else to rave on about Sanji and everything that he is. 

She calls you “lame”, but the truth is that you are helpless. 

You’re seated on a twirly chair in front of the vanity, right foot up on the cushioned surface to better polish your toes. They’re a vivid coral, matching the ones on your fingers. Nami’s lying upside down on her cot across from you, hands behind her head and feet up against the wall like it’s nobody’s business. She's finished her toes already, all coated in a beautiful teal that compliments her hair.

Everything is perfect tonight. As perfect as being bountied pirates on a ship can get. The flower scented candles around the girls’ cabin run warm, making sweetness blossom around the room. Your beds are made perfectly, pillows fluffed up just the way you like it. You and Nami move with an unspoken understanding, of unwinding and finally taking time to yourselves after a day full of adventure. 

The sound of the sea has been quietly lulling the two of you into peace, though you have to delay your sleep for an extra hour of chatting away your complaints.

Girls night always welcomes honesty—when you and Nami can talk about everything the boys would never understand. And she’s being real truthful alright, hand enthusiastically waving around like a maestro to her own words. 

And of course, the current topic of conversation was the blonde, women-loving cook in your crew. 

Nami can be blunt, to say the least. It’s what you appreciate most about her, although you wish she’d soften her words up just a little bit. 

Or maybe try to see him the way you do.

“He’s a lot.”

She’s talking about typical Sanji behavior. The incessant flirting, the hovering and his I-live-to-serve-women attitude, which she’s convinced is some type of overcompensation. 

You definitely don’t think it’s annoying. If anything, you think it’s really sweet that he tries his hardest to impress Nami. 

Matter of fact, you love it when he tries to impress the girls on this ship. Fortunately for you, the only two available ones include an independent, no-bullshit navigator who doesn’t easily fall for his smooth-talking. Now that just leaves him to focus more of his affection onto you, and you absolutely love being the center of his attention.

You bite your lips, trying to hold back your laughter. “I mean, he’s intense for sure.”

She rolls her eyes at your attempts to soften her complaints, and she truly can’t find it in her to understand why you would defend the cook. “Annoying.”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

A beat of silence. 

And then Nami literally whips her head to face you so fast you’d think you were a treasure made of a trillion berries.

The sight she’s greeted with is one she will never forget. And not in a pleasant way, because you look positively, 100%, absolutely sure about the words you just uttered out of your mouth.

You’re hugging both your legs up to your chest, lips still bitten in a silent restraint. You’re actually melting into yourself, lost somewhere in the clouds as you swing yourself right and left in your chair. 

Where do you even begin? 

From memorizing your likes and dislikes,—and not just about food—attending to your needs, whether you voice them or not, and genuinely wanting to know you for who you are. Sanji somehow manages to embrace who you were, who you are now and who you hope to become in the future, all in the same breath. 

He is never quiet with the way he loves. God forbid he doesn’t worry about others for even one day. He’s dramatic, over-the-top, theatrical. All the synonyms of spectacular you can find in the dictionary. But also grounded, selfless, and so genuine that it makes your teeth ache and your heart clench erratically. 

Sanji treats you with a kind of gentleness that makes you think you’re the most precious diamond in the Blue Sea. You are. To him. He never ceases to convince you of so. 

So it’s an absolute no-brainer that you think he is the one for you. If not the only man ever. And, the fact that you aren’t alone in this fortifies your belief. You and Sanji have your own thing. A quiet game that only you seem to understand the rules of. A kind of connection that isn’t defined by or bound to labels; one that grew from quiet glances and secret smiles. The others may not notice—for now. They’d probably brush it off as you being kind to Sanji and finding genuine friendship in him. 

But you like it that way, and you really, really like him. You don’t need to say it out loud, because you’re sure he knows you do. You’re content with what you have because you can feel it that he reciprocates. 

You are his just as much as he is yours. 

“Say that again.” Nami pumps out the sentence like she can’t believe her own ears. She’s fully upright now, propping her upper body with her hands. She leans towards you as if it’ll make her hear better. 

“I think..” you mimic her pose and lean your chest forward, palms resting on both knees as if preparing to tell her a secret, “—that he’s kind of cute.”

It’s he, now. Not it, anymore. 

God, you are hopeless. And crazy. 

“You’re kidding.” The navigator hits you with the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen her muster in her life.

Nami tries to look back at all your past interactions with Sanji. From the first time you joined the crew to the most recent ones. Then it all clicks for her—like a puzzle piece to answer a question she’s never bothered to ask. 

It starts with the way you get quiet when Sanji’s around, a secret smile and an undeniable warmth seldom missing from your face. Gosh, you’re so shy when he talks to you sometimes. It’s crazy that it didn’t register to her because you’re typically always so sure of yourself. Then it’s how you never, ever brush off his attempts at flattery. How your sweet compliments always seemed to be drowned out by Luffy’s shouts and Zoro’s arguing. She looks back at the way you naturally gravitate towards him. It didn't matter if you were on the ship, jumping from island-to-island, in the middle of a fight or simply lounging around with the rest of the crew, you always found your way right beside him. 

Huh. 

It was all in her face the entire time. Loud and apologetic. She feels silly at the fact that she’s never thought to even look because she couldn’t fathom that any woman could genuinely put up with him. And you never denied anything either—not when there wasn’t anything to deny in the first place. 

Her words set you off like a pirate looking for the one piece. 

“Nami don’t you ever dream of a guy who’ll sweep you off your feet?”

You’re breathless, absolutely lost in your own daydreams as you twirl around your chair with a force that could blow the Going Merry across the Grand Line. There are stars in your eyes, genuinely. Your hands shoot up in a rainbow above your head, and your body melts further into the seat. 

Something’s definitely gotten into you.

“And Sanji’s that guy for you?!” She exclaims. You watch her go through all the 7 stages of grief in the span of 3 seconds. 

You laugh at her silliness, and then you’re back to swooning again.

It was as if she’d unlocked your inner beast. A lovesick, crazy girl who was spouting her dreams of romance and everything that was butterflies and rainbows. A woman who was absolutely mooning over Sanji.

From then on the navigator makes it her mission to uncover where this crush of yours came from. She can try asking the rest of the crew, but she’s 98% sure the boys are oblivious to this, or simply aren’t as perturbed as she is. (Because how has no one questioned this before?!)

Starting wasn’t hard. At all. Turns out you and Sanji are shameless. It just takes the right time for someone to pay attention and see how deep the connection runs between the two of you. 

It happens bright and early a few days later. Nami—by instinct or intuition—woke up to an empty cabin. Your bed looked freshly mussed, like you couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up before getting up. She looked through the small window, greeted by the sight of the barely peeking sun in the darkness of the horizon. Way too early for anyone to be up. Except for Sanji, who she knows is already prepping for breakfast in the galley. And conveniently, you seem to be missing in action as well. It doesn't take much to put two and two together. 

She catches you right as you are entering the kitchen.

Of course, Sanji is already busying himself on the counter, chopping an array of fresh fruits into—what Nami can’t see—hearts.

“Mon trésor.” 

It barely takes a second for you to enter before Sanji is calling out to you, gaze immediately snapping towards your figure. He doesn’t need his sight to know that it’s you. He can’t admit that it’s because he’s memorized the weight of your steps on the ship, and the sweet scent of your perfumed clothes. 

A lit cigarette hangs off from his lips, though he quickly puts it away when you make your way to the dining table. 

You rub your eyes tiredly, hand then moving down to hug yourself closer in an attempt to chase some warmth. “Hi, Sanji.”

He’s melting at the sight of you. 

This might just be his favorite part of the morning, second only to when you start talking to him. You’re in your pajamas still, shirt hanging loosely over your bare shoulders. Absolutely radiant, and so domestic. You can barely open your eyes in the morning sun, and the way you carry yourself feels heavier, but more honest. Relaxed. A good sign that you slept well. 

Sanji doesn’t fight off the small flush that makes itself known across his face.

“Do you know that every time you say my name an angel gains its wings?”

You grin at the early morning flattery while you settle down on your seat. You could look like the messiest thing on the ship and Sanji will find a way to compliment you regardless. “Heaven must love me,”

“Heaven would be a fool not to love you, darling.” It doesn’t take even a beat for him to answer, and the cook puts down his knife to come closer. He makes a point to lean his face down to yours to greet you with an open teeth grin. 

And that genuinely brings a giggle out of you, leaving Nami mildly disgusted. 

When he's finally seen your smile, he returns back to the stove, slathering butter over the surface of a pan. The familiar rich aroma and the oddly calming sizzling sound makes you soften into yourself. You slouch onto the countertop, folding your elbows into each other and laying your chin on top. “I take it that this is a good morning for you?”

“Everyday better when I see your beautiful face.” He curls his lips into a smile, sneaking a quick glance at you before winking. 

Thank goodness he goes back to focusing on the pan because you are already throwing your face away to the sea, pursing your lips in a barely restrained smile before burying yourself into the crook of your arms, releasing a hidden breath. 

Sanji, that sly man, takes a quick peek from his shoulders. Seeing you, confident you, turn into a flustered puddle from his words makes him puff up so quickly. He wears his pride so boldly on his chest. No one could tell him anything for the rest of the day, and it was insufferable. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s already started on your breakfast. He knows that you’re an early riser, and that you will almost always seek him out first thing in the morning. So everyday he sets out your breakfast ingredients and preps as much as he can. He doesn’t start cooking them before he sees your face, because he only wants the most warm and freshly cooked meal for you.

You notice it though, the way he always serves you first, no matter the time and place. Dinner? A plate of the finest meat for you first (Luffy hates it.) Going over logs with Nami? All the snacks you like are immediately placed in front of you, and a drink to compliment it following behind. He always thinks about your needs first, and if that isn’t love then you don’t know what to believe. 

Just as you are in the middle of your daydreaming, Sanji interrupts with the sound of cutlery against porcelain. He’s plating up your mouth-watering breakfast, made to absolute perfection. 

“For you madam, golden brown honey toast with freshly whipped cream on top,” he dishes out the plate in front of you, and the aroma itself sends you straight to heaven. “—extra fruit, just the way you like it.”

You didn’t think it was possible to fall deeper in love with him, but you’re proven wrong once you see the fruits that decorate your toast, all of them heart shaped. Both hand-cut and perfectly uniform using the cutter he specifically bought to use for your meals. 

You gasp in exaggeration, though deep inside you’re aching about how sweet he is to remember your preferences. “You spoil me,”

“Only the best for my favorite Strawhat.” He answers, pouring you a glass of freshly brewed coffee. 

You’re in the middle of cutting your toast in half when you look up at him, teasing by saying, “Don’t let the captain hear you say that.”

Sanji exclaims back to you in all his confidence, turning away as he places the pot on the counter. “Bah! One sirloin steak and he’ll forgive me like it never happened.”

Your giggle is like the brightest melody in his ears, and the words that follow it could bring him back from the dead. “Thank you, my chef~”

“You know my heart can’t take it,” He playfully sighs out your name, clutching his chest. Sanji stands across the table now, resting his chin on his hand against the counter top. Just happy to watch you.

“Delicious!” You continue to shoot honeyed words at him, not just as a means for him to keep sweet-talking you, but also because you think Sanji deserves all the love and goodness of this world. 

“Sing me your praises, my angel of music,”

Nami can almost see him propel himself to the sky with giddiness. 

“So perfectly crunchy,”

“—and I’m yours forever.” He takes your hand in his from across the aisle, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles as he looks up at you. 

Nami felt chills sweeping up her spine. 

You guys were so cheesy. But sort of.. cute. That was something she couldn’t deny. She’s never seen Sanji this genuine, and when someone actually reciprocates, it makes him look less like a fool. 

And the way you were bouncing back and forth on each other was like a sick game of ping-pong she couldn’t look away from.

She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why you two aren’t together already. It’s perfectly clear that you both feel the same way, and aren’t afraid to act upon it. A small part of her wants to meddle, and she’s halfway into a plan that’ll somehow get either of you to confess to each other, but then she abruptly stops.

Eh, you guys will sort that out yourselves. Eventually. You look like you’re exactly where you want to be. So, Nami shrugs and beelines into the kitchen, hoping to get a fresh plate of breakfast seeing that he’s already started with yours. 

The next time Nami catches a moment between the two of you wasn’t intentional. Right, because she wouldn’t be caught dead seeking the conversations you and Sanji had after that traumatizing event. 

It was late at night. For once a quiet one between all the chaos that seemed to follow the Strawhat Pirates. Luffy was snoring away somewhere with a full belly, Ussop tinkering away in his cabin, and Zoro likely in the crow’s nest. Nami decided to look for fresh air, feeling a little bit holed up inside her room. Between the gentle rocking of the sea and the soft melody of the waves, it was the perfect atmosphere to spend watching the horizon. 

She didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, but the door was open and a ship doesn’t exactly leave much room for privacy. She tried to leave the two of you alone at first, but found herself leaning against the galley wall to listen in in the end. 

When she takes a peek through the door, she finds you seated still and pretty on the stool close to him, cross-legged in your pajamas. Like a sous chef who wasn’t really a sous chef but boosted the cook all the same—if not a million times more. 

When you first got to the galley, you paid mind to his laser-focused expression. You didn't want to break his flow, so you stuck yourself against the counter at a distance. You were content with the picture of him from afar, but Sanji had absolutely none of it. He began your conversation of the night while silently dragging a stool and placing it right next to him by the stove. Safely away from getting blasted by the heat, but close enough to where he could feel you around him and talk to you without feeling a million miles away. 

He’s got on one of your top favorite get-ups: a classic blue striped dress-shirt unbuttoned just the right amount and his pink Doskoi Panda apron tied around the back. Sleeves deliciously rolled up to his elbows for a bonus. Though Nami isn’t attracted to him the way you are, she isn’t blind. She has to admit that the image of his forearms are a sight for sore eyes. Sanji can be quite charming at times, mostly when he keeps the talking to a minimum and does what he does best. 

You’re not even hiding it at this point, gaze tracking every languid move of his hands like you were hypnotized. 

It’s not hard for you to admire him when he’s deep in his element. You find yourself going quiet, not because you don’t want to talk to him, but because it’s mesmerizing to see the way he commands the kitchen like his own battleship.

There’s a small smile on your lips as you take in the passion he carries, and on your lap you fidget with the shiny silver ring on your thumb. It’s his ring—your favorite one that's shaped like a skull—that he gave to you for “safekeeping”, even though Sanji never ever takes them off. Even when he’s cooking. It’s incredibly intimate; a symbol of his trust for you.

He’s just finished cooking a dish of his own creation. A classic menu made of meat, but a little more experimental with the seasoning. You can only describe it as heaven in a plate, sweet and savory at the same time, with a hint of something that you can't fully describe with words. Yet, you enjoy it for all that it is, and the delectable fragrance isn't something to complain about, either. It’s almost shocking that Luffy hasn’t come running down the kitchen from the smell alone. Sanji isn’t technically done with the recipe, seeing as he’s trying to perfect the ingredients being used. He has his worn-out notepad by the counter, filled with endless scribbles and notes of improvement. The cook will come back to it once you’ve given your own comments on the taste.

Once finished turning down the heat, he takes a clean spoon out of the cabinet and offers you a small portion fresh out of the pan, where the dish was still simmering in the heat. 

You feel honored that you are Sanji’s unofficial taste-tester. The first time you came across the cook experimenting with new creations was a complete coincidence. That particular night you’d been restless in bed, stomach aching for a bite of food. You ended up pattering into the galley to get maybe a few crackers, a slice of bread or cheese or something that’d temporarily distract you. But you didn’t expect to feast on a five star meal once Sanji found out you were hungry. You? His precious princess starving? Not on this ship. 

What began as compliments to the chef turned into fully fledged reviews of each flavor profile, and eventually became something more intimate. A space for honesty just for you and Sanji. 

You like to think that’s where you found the real Sanji. The kind heart beyond the ladies man, the truths behind his endless honeyed words. 

You sought him out like a moth to a flame, and every night Sanji welcomed you with open arms. 

Most of the times you were there to actually be his taste-tester, which is just his excuse of having a private late dinner with you. But, other times he’s prepping meals for the next day and you’re simply there to keep him company. Either way, you’ll never skip out on an opportunity to spend time alone with Sanji.

Funnily enough, more than once you’ve caught Luffy sneaking in and rummaging through the pantry, already halfway stuffing his face with something that makes Sanji tick before he notices that the two of you are occupying the room. It’s a bit adorable that he doesn’t make a fuss about it. He never questions anything beyond “Hey… are you sneaking for snacks too?!” and then an “Okay!” followed by his high pitched laughter after Sanji kicks him out for offering you the stolen goods from his sticky hands. 

You take notice that he never lets Luffy get a bite of his cooking. Sure, if the captain asks, Sanji will make him something, but not from the same pan. A different dish all together. You think that maybe it’s because he isn’t open to someone tasting something he considers isn’t “perfect” yet, but another part of you just believes that it’s because he only trusts you to give him the honest truth. 

Still, you find it hard to believe he’d ever need one, considering everything that he makes turns out flawless. 

“More seasoning?” The cook watches as you chew on the meat slowly.

You shake your head in disagreement. “No, this is perfect, Sanji.”

“Not too sweet for you?” 

Nami sees you visibly recoil at his questions, body moving as if he was spouting blasphemy. 

He’s got his back turned to you while he rinses his hands over the sink, so he can’t see the flabbergasted frown on your face.

“This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” You make an emphasis on the word “best”, sticking the wooden spoon back at him to signal that you wanted more.

“You flatter me, angel.” He grins, pulling the dish towel from his shoulders to wipe his hand. Then he goes straight to follow your command exactly and dips right back into the pan, scooping up a portion before blowing it softly to cool it down. 

You’re practically vibrating in your seat, legs bouncing and arms holding up the weight of your body as you lean towards him. 

“Nope. I’m just sayin’ the truth!” The words come with a pause as you’re swallowing your last bite, and the brightness comes right back up your face while you praise Sanji.

By the All Blue, he just wants to scoop you up and squeeze you in his arms for all eternity. You can be so shy around him, but also incredibly animated when expressing yourself. 

Once Sanji deems it the perfect condition for you, he motions the spoon to your mouth.

It’s a stupidly sweet gesture, and also his way of stopping you from eating the whole thing. You can just take the spoon from him and feed yourself, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like being pampered by Sanji. You’re not ashamed to admit that it makes you feel very special. If you truly weaponized your voice and asked him for the whole pan, he’d give it to you without a single doubt. But, it’d be a shame if he didn’t wait until he could properly serve it with some rice so you could have your very late dinner “date”.

He holds the spoon out for a beat longer to look down at the way your lips wrap around the surface, turning away only when you finish munching happily at the taste. After all, your satisfaction is his number one priority. Nami can’t see your face from where she’s at, but she can absolutely make out Sanji’s, and the way he’s staring is sensual, borderline debauched. It makes the navigator feel like she’s intruding on a private moment.

You are none the wiser to this, Sanji needs to get it together, and Nami’s very close to throwing up in front of the galley. 

Your eyes are closed as you hum contentedly once the flavors settle nicely in your stomach, and it’s then when you start to feel the weight of his stare. 

You’re only chin level on this short stool, so you have to look up to meet his eyes.

He's quiet and awfully still, taking you all in and leaving no part of you starving for his attention. There's an evident tension swimming around the kitchen, and it makes you acutely aware of just how close you are to him. Inches away. The position is a tad intimate, to say the least.

“What? Is there sauce on my face?” 

You know there isn’t anything on your face except for pure happiness, though you’re a tiny bit flustered by his attention. 

“Sorry, darling,” He's not sorry at all. He leans in to wipe the non-existent sauce, and for a second you think he’s going to deny his obvious admiration of you but then he pivots into something that is so Sanji it makes your brain melt. 

“Your beauty demands to be seen. I can’t deny you that.” He traces the back of his finger over your cheek before tucking a stray hair behind your ear. 

Time and time again, Sanji is able to surpass your every expectation. You continue to feel the weight of his stare, now much different than before because he looks at you with deep, unabashed, reverence. Not hidden, and not in halves. A softness he reserves only for you.

You’re speechless for a moment, but then he cups your face into his palms and it feels like everything just melts away. 

Now Nami understands. Why you adore him so much. Why you don’t need to scream it out to the world that you love him (although you would love to). The two of you aren’t “together” officially not because you don’t want to, or are too shy to say it out loud. But because you enjoy every part of who he is. The chasing, the teasing, the thrill; it’s everything in him that makes you feel alive. You don’t need words for him to understand that you love him, just as he doesn’t. 

Nami watches the way you look up at him, positively beaming. The silence is broken away when you start giggling to yourself, and it only makes Sanji move closer to you, his forehead bumping gently against yours as he sports an identical grin on his face.

She shakes her head, both astonished and happy to see you flourishing in his presence, before walking away with an affectionate eye-roll.

Yeah. You two are the lamest.

Mon trésor: My treasure

Aaah I couldn’t really decide which sanji to base this fic off of. I ended up doing a bit of both 🍽️

masterlist @ pls don't repost or feed my works into ai thaaank you

[gav-san]

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

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

Pictures from Pinterest

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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Previous

-X- Soulglitch -X-

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 resta with 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-

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: 'Black Leg' Sanji (2/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

Pictures from Pinterest

Sanji x Reader Length 13.5 K+ Rating: 18K+ Warnings: Slow Burn, Jealousy, Strong Language and Profanity, Sexual Content including humor and description, Objectification, Lying for a cause, Gender and identity themes (cross-dressing, mistaken identity, teasing about gender roles), Alcohol and smoking references, Violence and battle imagery, Psychological distress, Captivity and slavery context

for @vaniiiavengeance

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

Previous / Next

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

The Baratie was louder than you expected. Sailcloth painted like a carnival tent stretched across the rafters, snapping as the wind slipped in from the sea. Chandeliers swung like lanterns in a storm, shedding crooked light across crowded tables. Waiters charged between benches with the speed of deckhands, shouting orders like commands from a captain’s mouth. The smell of frying oil and garlic clung to the air, richer than perfume, and the clatter of pans from the kitchen was as constant as waves on the hull.

It was chaos, but it was alive. Plates arrived heaped with color and steam, soups frothing in bowls that rattled with the impact of each step, meat still hissing from the fire. Diners roared with laughter, drinking like sailors ashore, while somewhere in the kitchen, you swore you heard someone singing out curses over a pan.

You sat tucked in a corner booth, notebook hidden under your sleeve. Your fork moved with caution, tasting, pausing, scribbling. You had done this before in dining halls dressed in white linen, where silver spoons reflected crystal chandeliers and nobles whispered like snakes. The Baratie was different. Its food was not delicate. It was bold, unruly, full of heat. It was honest enough to be charming. Almost.

“Too much garnish on the apéritif,” you muttered, tilting the glass. “Bitterness clings at the back of the tongue, and the plating is uneven. The sauce should be swept left to right, not spilled.”

The shadow fell over you before you realized it.

“Thought so. You are the damned reviewer.”

Your glass froze in your hand. A man stood over you, broad as the mast of a ship, one eye sharp as a cleaver, one leg carved wood.

Zeff.

“You are the critic,” he said in a voice that carried gravel and salt.

Your stomach turned over. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do not bother lying.” He jerked his chin. A waiter swept by and drew the curtains closed around your booth. The roar of the hall dulled into the sound of the tide outside. Zeff sat across from you with a grunt. His arms folded, his wooden leg planted firm against the floor like the root of a tree.

“So. The little pen-pusher tormenting my idiots.”

Your cheeks heated. “Tormenting is a strong word.”

“Is it?” His eyes narrowed. “You sent half the East Blue here with your scribbles. Turned my dining hall into a circus. Worse, you had my boy storming around the kitchen, cursing your name like you had spat in his soup.”

You winced. A guilty laugh escaped before you could stop it. “To be fair, I only edited that review. I didn’t taste it myself till now.”

Zeff’s beard twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Fine then. You have guts. Review me to my face.”

He barked an order, and food began to arrive in a parade. Plates of steaming fish, bowls of broth so hot the surface trembled, baskets of bread with crusts that cracked under the knife. Zeff explained each one himself. The fish, he said, was caught that morning from the fin of the Grand Line current. The broth simmered with bones and seaweed until it took the flavor of the tide itself. The bread had been kneaded by knuckles strong enough to break teeth.

You tasted slowly, pen scratching, voice low. The fish was crisp, though the oil was heavy. The broth had depth, though the salt dragged on the tongue. The bread was near heaven, golden crust, steam sweet as memory when you tore it apart.

It was good. Very good. But it was not perfect.

“The seasoning is stronger than you realize,” you murmured after the third course. “It sings on the tongue, but nobles will call it brash.”

Zeff grunted. “Good. Let them choke.”

The meal continued. Knife cuts gleamed sharp in the lamplight, meat rested until its juices ran clear, and sauces smoothed with the back of a spoon. Zeff watched every bite you took as though you were a thief sneaking treasure.

At last, he leaned back with a sigh, pipe glowing faintly at the corner of his mouth. 

“You are young, but not wrong. I am good. I have been at this longer than most. But my boy…” His gaze softened, though his voice stayed rough. “He has gone to sea now, but his food—he’s a damn fool who makes mistakes, drives me mad, and puts women before knives. But his food will outshine mine one day.”

The pride in his words caught you by surprise. You smiled before you could stop yourself. 

“It will. But when he gets too cocky, I just tell him his soup is flat and he’ll sulk for hours.”

The air stopped moving.

Zeff’s one eye narrowed. “…What did you say?”

Your heart stumbled. “I mean—if I ever meet him, that is what I would say.”

The sea crashed against the hull. Zeff’s gaze pressed down on you, heavy but not unkind. Slowly, he shook his head.

“You are not here for the food.”

“Heh, sure I am,” you insisted. “What else would—”

He waved you off and ordered wine. When it came, he poured it himself and set a glass in front of you.

“Drink. You will need it.”

You obeyed.

“Now, Miss Critic. Do not try to trick an old pirate. I know who you are. You are the one my fool boy never shuts up about. The soulmate who nags him over onions and lectures him like a schoolteacher.”

Heat shot through your face. “He does not know I’m a...”

Zeff took his time with his wine, swirling it in the cup as if he had all the tides in the world to consider. The atmosphere stiffened and became more serious.

“Clearly. He is thicker than clam chowder when it comes to these things.” Zeff barked out a laugh that shook the table. “All this time swearing his soulmate was some lad who ‘gets it,’ and here you sit with your pen and your palate, prim as can be.”

“Please,” you whispered, mortified. “Do not tell him.”

Zeff chuckled, beard shaking. “A bond like that is not for an old man to meddle with. But when that fool finally sees, the look on his face will be worth more than treasure. I don’t know how you’re hiding anything with a soulbond.”

You huffed.

“The only thing he asks to see is my food. He isn’t… interested in me personally. I guess he doesn’t want even to imagine me as anything real.”

The sound of the sea filled the silence that followed, waves slamming against the hull, steady and endless. You sat caught between dread and relief, unable to breathe, unable to relax.

“Ah, I see. You want him to like you for who you are. Not just because you are a girl.” Zeff asked, pouring another glass. His tone had shifted, weight heavy as an anchor. “But he’s probably too stubborn to ever think of you as anything besides competition. So if he doesn’t ever see you as something more, will you tell him?”

“I don’t…know,” you admitted.

He studied you, pipe smoke curling like storm clouds. “You care for him already—enough to hide, enough to lie. But, girl, if you think this will protect him, it will not. That boy already believes he does not deserve good things. If he learns you kept yourself in shadows, he will believe it is because you never wanted him.”

The words struck hard. You half rose, blurting, “I do want him—” then sank back, voice shaking. “I mean—As a boy, he trusts me. If he knew the truth, he would put on a mask. He would push me away.”

He poured another glass of wine with a care that seemed out of place for a man so rough, sliding it toward you without breaking his smirk. He raised his own cup and gave you a look that was equal parts warning and amusement, as if he had just discovered the punchline to a joke no one else had heard.

Zeff’s wooden leg tapped slowly against the floor. His eye pinned you in place. “Fear will not save either of you. A bond that grows stilted will drag the truth into daylight. Wait too long, and you may lose the chance to be honest when it matters.”

The sting lodged in your chest.

“I… I just want him to see me as a person first.”

After a long silence, Zeff barked a laugh. “You’re a fool, just like him. Perhaps that is why it works.” He drained his glass in one swallow.

“Will you tell him?” You whispered.

Zeff’s smile softened, pity and pride tangled in it. “Keep your secret. But remember this. When the time comes, you had better be ready to bleed for him. Because when he knows, he will not forgive half measures. If he knew who you were, he would be a prince among men for you.”

The words left a spark glowing in your ribs.

Zeff rose, adjusting his coat. “Go write your review, little squash. Do it right. No sweetening for my sake. And then go chase down the best cook on the seas, if a perfect meal is what you are looking for.”

You set your pen down, throat tight. 

“I’ll get it. Sanji will make it. When he reaches the All Blue.” 

For a moment, his eyes shone, bright with unshed saltwater.

“I look forward to hearing about it.”

-X-A Pirates Life-X-

Life with his new crew suited Sanji almost too well. You could feel it in the bond. His thoughts, once restless and edged with impatience, now crackled with energy like sparks dancing off a hot pan. Where silence used to hang heavy, laughter spilled in. You heard the clash of steel followed by the swordsman’s dry barbs, the captain’s booming declarations about dreams and freedom, and the clatter of dishes and mugs as a shipful of misfits made the Going Merry their home.

He carried it all to you without meaning to: the salt wind, the crash of waves, the scrape of knives against chopping boards as he cooked, the rhythm of a galley that finally felt alive. There was a joy in him now that he had never had on the Baratie, not even in the brightest of days. It wrapped around you through the link, warming places in you you had not known were cold.

And then there was her.

Nami.

Her name colored his thoughts like spilled ink. It seeped into every corner, staining the bond in ways that made your stomach twist. He spoke of her legs, long and sunlit on the deck. He marveled at her smile, sly and clever, as if she had always known the punchline before he told it. He praised her hands, quick on the wheel, quicker on a chart, clever enough to read the sea itself.

Each word was a knife you could not block.

You tried to laugh it off, as though his starry-eyed raving was just Sanji being Sanji. As though it was harmless, no more than the smoke of a candle already burned down. Yet each time he lingered on her, each new gush reopened the same gash.

It was ridiculous. You told yourself this again and again. You were his friend. You were his tether. You were the one who had pulled him through the rock and the hunger and the grief, who had listened when his world had been only storm and starvation. That should have been enough. That should have meant something.

And yet, here you were, jealous of a woman who had no idea you even existed.

You drowned the feeling in your work.

Morgans sent you farther and farther afield, your pen carving out a reputation sharper than you ever expected. Restaurants opened their doors to you as though you were royalty, chefs bristled or preened at your praise, and readers clamored for each new review. Quietly, beneath it all, you began to shape your assignments to follow Sanji’s trail.

If he had passed through Loguetown, you would have booked passage there under the pretext of reviewing the port’s taverns, which served smoked fish and barrel-aged rum. If the Straw Hats docked at a market town, you trailed them weeks later, tasting stews ladled by cooks who gossiped about the strange little crew with their green-haired swordsman and the boy captain who laughed like thunder.

Sometimes you thought you caught a shadow of him. A warmth in the air when you enter a kitchen. A swirl of smoke rising from a pan that smelled too much like the spices he loved. The faint echo of a laugh, carried over from a story told by someone who swore they had eaten the best meal of their life from a blond cook with a quick smile and quicker temper.

He never suspected.

“You must be living in a palace,” he teased once through the bond, after you described a multi-course dinner with wine pairings. His voice was bright with mockery, edged with affection. “Some rich little snob with gold cutlery and nothing better to do than eat fancy meals all day. Meanwhile, I’m breaking my back feeding idiots who don’t know a soufflé from a sandwich.”

You forced a laugh, light and careless, though your throat felt tight. “Something like that.”

He sounded smug, pleased with his own picture of you. “Figures. My soulmate’s living easy while I slave away. Typical.”

You let him believe it. Because what else could you do? Telling him the truth, about the critic’s pen in your hand and the trail you were carving in his wake, would unravel everything.

So you smiled politely at noble tables while chandeliers sparkled overhead, scribbled notes as chefs poured their pride onto your plate, and pretended you were there only for the food. In truth, every article you wrote, every review you sent back to Morgans, was another step in the long chase after him. 

Through the bond, you remained only what he thought you were. A nameless, faceless friend. The boy he trusted. The one who laughed at his boasts when he swore his cooking could tame the sea itself. The one who listened when the waves felt too wide and the nights too long.

Even when his thoughts turned to her.

Every time he whispered Nami, your chest ached. You clenched your fists in silence and forced yourself to respect it. Because she was not only beautiful in his eyes, she was someone who pushed him. Someone who drove him into the kitchen, made him polish his knives sharper, and stir his sauces longer. A woman who wrung out his very best. You could respect that, even when jealousy burned through you like salt in a wound.

You knew you should take Zeff’s advice. You knew you should tell Sanji the truth. You could still see the way the old man had leaned forward across the table at the Baratie, eye gleaming like a whetted blade, telling you not to waste time.

And still you hid.

Because hell, you were an idiot. And the risk of losing what you already had felt worse than swallowing glass.

Because when a man mentally tossed you a pair of perfect triple E cups and shouted “jiggle physics” across the bond, there were no words you could reply with that made any sense. Sometimes silence was the only option.

Thankfully, and somewhat worryingly, his journey often took him… places. That was the only word you could think of to describe the things he sometimes sent you. Bursts of madness, half-seen disasters, the taste of blood, the scent of frying onions, and in between all of it, the insane color of his crewmates’ antics.

You overheard a lot of the Straw Hat Pirates and their shenanigans as you followed them.

“Does your ship actually have a destination,” you asked him once, pinching the bridge of your nose as another chaotic wave of impressions tumbled through, “or are you guys just harassing the locals for giggles?” 

You queried somewhat seriously inside a small café in Loguetown after a local relayed a harrowing tale including some familiar characters and a cooking competition.

Sanji’s laugh rang bright in the bond. “Piracy is a varied experience. Also, you should-“

“No,” you cut him off quickly, “you are still in titty-time out. You flashbanged me the other night when I told you I needed quiet. Give it a rest, Mr. Prince.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a wounded cry. 

“Bro, please, do not leave me. The others do not understand—”

You sighed, already hearing the clatter of pots and the roar of Luffy’s voice echoing through his side of the bond. “You are unbearable.”

“Unbearably handsome, you mean.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, choosing not to answer. He could feel your exasperation anyway, and you knew it only made him grin wider.

If nothing else, you had finally wrestled a few new boundaries into place. You had phrased it as maturity, as the possibility of forming attachments with other people. What you meant was that you needed friends who were not chest-obsessed, news coos, or a seven-foot sentient albatross delivering Morgans’ requests across the East Blue.

He assumed you meant girlfriend.

You could feel the shift in his thoughts the moment the word landed in his imagination. Girlfriend. It blazed like a neon sign in his head, bright and smug, draped in red silk and perfume. He started lecturing you about being respectful, about proper dates and flowers, about how you needed to treat women like treasures of the sea.

You tried to explain that what you actually meant was friendship, community, a chance to breathe outside the bond. What he heard was romance. What he wanted to hear was romance.

So he filled the silence with elaborate fantasies on your behalf, every detail drenched in his idea of charm. He conjured candlelit dinners and long-legged women leaning across tables. He drew mental pictures of you standing awkwardly with roses in your hand, being schooled on how to bow low enough.

“Give me every detail,” he demanded through the bond, practically vibrating with nosy energy. “What is she like? A leggy beauty? A goddess who makes the heavens weep?”

“I am not giving you details, Romeo.”

“Oui, you wound me,” he groaned, and you could almost see him clutching his chest like a dying actor on a stage. “Are we not in this together? Soulmates united across sea and sky? This cursed bond never allows me to break into your mind!”

“Which I appreciate,” you said flatly. “Please focus on not being swallowed by a whale again. That visual was very alarming to wake up to. I can not believe you idiots got to the Grand Line.”

There was a pause, then his sheepish laugh crackled through, mingled with the faint clang of pots and the captain shouting something about meat in the background.

“You saw that?”

“Yes. All of it. The teeth. The stomach walls. The smell. Thank you for that immersive experience. I am also alarmed at the man living inside the whale. Someone should call the Liberation Army because that dynamic has to be unhealthy.”

Whiskey Peak hit you like a blur of hangovers and bruises. His thoughts were muddled with wine, women, and the captain shouting something about pirates who were not pirates after all. You squeezed your chin and muttered, “How are you still alive?” He only laughed, unrepentant.

Little Garden was worse. You jerked awake to images of giants, teeth the size of ships, and meat roasting over a bonfire large enough to cook you whole. “That is not a camping trip,” you hissed. “That is prehistoric malpractice.” Sanji only hummed proudly about the dinosaur steak.

And then there was Chopper. You opened the bond and nearly fell off your chair. “Why is there a reindeer? Why is it wearing a hat? Why is it talking?” Sanji’s laugh boomed through.

“He is our doctor.”

You pressed your palms to your eyes. “You oversalted the onigiri, but this is what breaks me.”

He gasped, scandalized.

“I did no such thing—”

But nothing clued you quite like Alabasta that this may not be the average crew of misfit pirates. That was when you began to understand that the Straw Hats were more competent than you expected.

Hell, even you had heard of Baroque Works. For them to have somehow taken out an entire criminal organization was frankly unbelievable.

Through Sanji’s eyes, you glimpsed heat waves rolling across endless sand, the taste of dust clinging to his tongue, the sound of rebellion boiling in every street. And at the center of it all, a woman with midnight hair and eyes too clever to ever be safe. She stepped into their circle like a snake uncoiling, and Sanji’s thoughts about her were a tangle of admiration and unease.

You felt your stomach drop. Another one. Another beautiful, dangerous woman—and this time she was no passing stranger. She was joining them.

“You cannot be serious,” you whispered into the bond, though you knew he could not fully process the words. “Do not swoon over a wanted criminal.”

He was smitten, of course. Smitten with her mystery, her knowledge, her poise. You could feel it in every thought he brushed against her shadow. It was the same pattern you had already lived through with Nami: admiration, infatuation, devotion.

And all you could do was sit at your desk, quill scratching across parchment, pretending your own glances at your lackluster boobs weren’t becoming more frequent.

You returned to Big News Morgans headquarters after a grueling review tour, your satchel heavy with ink-stained pages and your head still full of Alabasta’s desert heat and spice. The newsroom was a storm of feathers, presses hammering out fresh sheets, and Morgans himself booming orders from the rafters like an admiral at war.

“Back at last, eh?” he crowed when he spotted you, wings flaring. “Perfect timing! East Blue trash making waves, rookie crew punching above their weight, the world’s already eating it up!” He thrust a paper into your hands before you could even set your bag down.

No official pictures yet, but you personally knew the names. Sanji, of course, but also Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Chopper, and the still mysterious Robin.

“Holy shit.” You said, blinking, “They’ve got multi-million beri bounties already?”

Morgans chirped. Literally.

“Yep, looks like you were just behind them. Funny how life works.” He said, turning, immediately delving into another story. 

You ducked behind a stack of presses, trying not to get crushed under the constant pounding of the printing machinery. Taking a deep breath, you reached into the quiet, private corner of your mind where the Echo Link lived. “Sanji,” you sent your thoughts slipping like silk across the miles. “heard anything about a bounty coming your way?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make your stomach knot. Then, in that smooth, teasing, impossibly flirtatious tone that only Sanji could pull off, his reply drifted back. “A bounty? Me? Someone finally noticed how dangerously handsome I am, huh?”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “No, you idiot. I mean your crew—the East Blue rookies you’re hanging around with. They’re all listed in the papers here. Million beri bounties. Thought you might get dragged along.”

“Million beri,” he murmured, voice low, a little more serious now, a little too aware of the gravity. “And here I was thinking I’d just be remembered for my cooking.”

You rolled your eyes, letting a slight smile creep into your thoughts.

“You’ll be remembered for less than your cooking if you don’t keep your head out of trouble. Try not to get on the wrong side of any Marines.”

“Pfft,” he replied lightly, but you could hear the spark in his mind, the rush of that familiar confidence. “With this crew, I may actually be able to find the All Blue. But…” There was a pause, heavier this time. “You'd better not get into trouble either. I’d hate to have to rescue you first. Stay in your castle, rich boy.”

You shook your head, muttering to the newsroom chaos around you. Million beri pirates and a flirtatious cook. Perfect. Absolute chaos. And yet, somehow, entirely logical.

You tucked the papers under your arm and whispered back: “Yeah, yeah. Stay out of trouble, chef. Or the next headline might be about you getting roasted instead of your food.”

“I’ll consider that a friendly warning,” he sent back. 

It was smoother sailing until they hit Jaya Island.

Things really began picking up from there. Bigger pirates, more dangerous locations. You sat at your desk, pen hovering, bits and pieces of stories coming out of Sanji’s brain.

Skypiea was a concept you had yet to wrap your head around, though Morgans vouched for its existence.

On Long Ring Long Land, you felt giants moving across the waves, the smack of fists, too cold to belong to an ordinary man. Sanji’s speed stretches further than you thought possible. The bond flared bright, then cut back into silence as he hurried into the next fight. 

Sanji was busier now. You could feel it in the bond, the way his thoughts came fractured, crowded with the noise of his crewmates. He cooked more, fought more, argued more, and had less time to sprawl his nonsense across your mind. Where once he narrated everything —the way the wind caught the sail, the shine on Nami’s hair, the exact arc of Zoro’s stupidity —now you only caught flashes.

At Water 7, the bond carried less of him than ever. He was stretched thin between cooking and searching, his voice only brushing against you in passing. A taste of salt-heavy air. The shriek of the sea train. Luffy’s roar cracked like thunder. You found yourself writing his crew’s names in the margins of your notes, half without thinking. Shipwrights, assassins, betrayals whispered in alleyways. This was more than a wandering band of misfits. They were shaking a city.

And then Enies Lobby.

You had grown accustomed to his noise: the clang of pans, the smug boasts, the occasional mental ‘titty tease. But what reached you now was different. The sound of iron doors slamming. The roar of battle. 

The will of a captain who declared battle: the clang of steel, the pounding of his heart, the distant cry of his name, Robin's. Enough to leave your meals tasting flat, your notes scattered. Sanji was surprisingly tight-fisted about letting you see his fights. Perhaps because he knew those glimpses you saw did unsettle you.

“Did you just kick the shit out of a member of Cipher Pol? Why only the feet? Is this a fetish thing?”

“A little busy now, asshole! And you, there, stop running! Get back here, you shit-wolf and taste this kick—”

“My bad.”

You started to notice how people talked when you followed in the crew’s trail. Not just gossip about a ship with a sheep’s head bolted to the front, but actual legends-in-progress. Whole islands left upside down. Marines humiliated. Enemies flattened like bad laundry. Always told with that same wide-eyed tone of disbelief, like the storytellers weren’t sure if they’d just seen pirates or some kind of traveling circus.

You were parked in a Water 7 tavern under a wall already drowning in wanted posters when a marine strutted in like he owned the place. With all the self-importance of a man who’d just ironed his socks, he began slapping up fresh bounties. The glue dripped. The paper smacked. The tavern groaned.

You leaned in closer.

One glance, and your stomach lurched. Straw Hats. All of them.

You stood abruptly, knocking into the blond man at your elbow. He looked down at your shorts as though you’d personally declared war on his moral compass.

Yep. There was Monkey D. Luffy himself, beaming from a glossy new 300,000,000 bounty like it was his school picture day. You spotted the swordsman’s eternal scowl. The navigator, the doctor, the rest. And then—

A snort beside you.

“Pfft. What the hell is that?” the blond muttered, jabbing a finger toward the corner.

You turned.

Your heart stopped.

Sanji.

Or… well. The name said Sanji. The poster screamed SANJI. The sketch, however, was a crime scene. Two furious circles masquerading as eyes, a nose scribbled by someone who had clearly lost a duel with perspective, and hair that looked like overcooked spaghetti hurled at a wall.

You sucked in a breath so deep it rattled your ribs. And before reason could stop you, you reached for him.

“Sanji.” 

“Oui? You need something? Make it quick, I’m mid-sauté, and if you tell me again that a mushroom is not a meat substitute, I will hang up this bond forever—”

You flattened him like a carriage wheel.

“My friend. My brother-in-boobs. The tyrant of titties.”

He gasped. A sharp, offended intake like you’d just kicked a soufflé. “Mon dieu… you’ve used all my ceremonial titles at once! What calamity requires this???”

“Brother,” Your chest hitched, laughter already threatening. “… I see you finally got a wanted poster.” 

You slapped a hand over your mouth to muffle the snort.

“No—wait—non—”

You exploded into laughter, bending double as the mental line between you quaked.

Sanji’s voice cracked like a frying pan in oil. “It is slander! Lies! Propaganda! I am not a pumpkin with pasta hair, I am a gentleman! A vision! Tell me you don’t believe it!”

You laughed harder, doubling over until the nearest patrons began edging their stools away.

“Why is your face a POTATO?!” you shot back, half-wheezing.

He screamed in tongues, a guttural howl that rattled down the bond like a man being spiritually exorcised.

“IT IS A FAKE! I DO NOT LOOK LIKE THAT!”

You yanked the poster off the wall, ignoring the nasty glare from the marine who had just glued it up. Tears blurred your eyes as you stared at the sketch. The artist had clearly glimpsed him once, through a storm, possibly drunk, then drawn him from memory using their non-dominant hand. The jaw was crooked, the eyes uneven, and the hair resembled a mannequin dragged through soup and trauma.

“They did you dirty,” you whispered, shoulders shaking as you buried your face in your notes. “This is going to be infamous. You look like a rejected doodle from a tavern toilet.”

Laughter tore through you, sharp and helpless, and for once, you prayed the bond wouldn’t betray just how ugly the world now believed him to be.

“Mon dieu, have you no mercy! My essence is elegance, passion, soufflé-level sophistication—not—not compost heap couture!” You wheezed so hard your chair scraped backward, nearly tipping. Someone muttered that you’d lost your mind, and you couldn’t even disagree. “That is not me. That looks nothing like me! The hair is wrong, the jaw is crooked, and what is that nose supposed to be?!”

“Brother,” you choked, “this poster is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. They didn’t just assassinate your face, they massacred it. This is a war crime.”

He made a strangled noise. 

Through the bond, you felt his pride bruising, hot and sharp. “I slave in the kitchen, risk my life fighting Baroque Works, keep these idiots alive, and this is how the Marines immortalize me? As a… as a tumbleweed with eyes!”

“Do not be dramatic,” you said, failing to hide your amusement. “The tumbleweed has more symmetry.”

“Non! You must stop! They will think it is true! Do you not understand the power of propaganda?!” His voice rose in your head, pitch climbing. “My romantic legacy is at stake! What woman will swoon for a man who looks like a… like a… haunted vegetable?!”

You slammed the poster down on the table, gasping for air between cackles. “Oh god, oh no—don’t say haunted vegetable—I can’t—”

“This is not funny,” he snapped. “This is slander!”

Your laughter smudged ink across your notes, blotches blooming like evidence of your crime. Through the bond, his scowl pressed against you, wounded pride puffed up like a drenched cat.

“Cute,” you crooned.

“IT IS NOT ME!” His outrage nearly cracked the link in half. “I do not look like that, you creature!”

You wiped tears from your eyes. “You saying the Marines wouldn’t get an accurate photo?”

“NON! My jaw is elegant. Refined. Chiseled like marble!”

“Chiseled like a badly cut potato,” you tittered, in pain from laughing too hard.

The gasp that followed was so violent you swore you heard a pan hit the galley floor. “Take that back! You wound me! Deeply. Do you have any idea how important first impressions are? What if a beautiful woman sees this travesty?!”

“Then she will think you are very… approachable.”

He groaned like a man stabbed through the heart. 

“Approachable?! I am supposed to be devastating, not approachable!”

You leaned back in your chair, grinning at the ceiling.  

“You are devastatingly… potato.”

So of course, you sent him copies whenever you found one, nailed to a board or curling at the edge of a tavern window. Each time, without fail, his voice tore through the bond like a thunderclap.

“STOP SENDING ME THIS GARBAGE!”

“Brother,” you would answer, solemn as a priest, “your legacy must be preserved.”

“Legacy?! It is vandalism! It is defamation! It is—”

“A work of art.”

He screamed in French. Actual, furious French that bled into nonsense. Pots clanged. Knives hit cutting boards like punctuation marks to his despair.

One time, you sent him a copy folded neatly into your journal. He went silent for a full minute before hissing, “You’re collecting them?!”

“For history.”

“For mockery!”

Another time, you described to him, deadpan, how a group of children were pointing at his poster and laughing. He nearly combusted. “They are innocents! Their minds are impressionable! You cannot let them think I resemble… THAT!”

“Too late. They said you looked like a turnip with legs.”

His despair practically rattled your teeth, but underneath the dramatic groans and outraged vows of vengeance, there was always that flicker; warm, begrudging, tethered to you. The truth was simple: no one else could laugh at him this way, and no one else’s laughter would have made him secretly happy to hear.

-X-Home Invasion-X-

While the Straw Hats pinballed across the seas like a drunk man on stilts, your own travels took you back and forth through Sabaody, where Big News Morgans had temporarily nailed down his nest of chaos.

On one of his infamous “walls of shame,” the bird had plastered the newest Straw Hat bounties in all their ink-stained glory. From your desk, you could stare straight at Sanji’s disaster of a poster. When the bond grew too quiet, when Sanji was humming contentedly over onions or feeling far too peaceful, you would casually mutter things like “potato” or “curly-whirly” at his expense.

It kept him loud. It kept you entertained. Perhaps a little too much.

Morgans was not blind. The great albatross watched your quill scratch, his sharp eyes noting every time your gaze flicked back to the wall. Each time, the corner of his beak twitched like he was fighting laughter or maybe preparing to bite.

Morgans’ voice boomed through the office, rattling inkwells and buzzing the floorboards. “You seem invested in those Straw Hat Pirates. Not your usual ink, hmm?”

You tore your eyes off the spaghetti-haired monstrosity on the wall and forced your face into bland neutrality. Stacking your notes with great dignity, you said, “Occupational hazard. Ink stains, bad posture, and bounty posters.”

Morgans narrowed his eyes. His feathers puffed. His talons clicked across the desk as he leaned in. “Funny. Because every time I look at you, you’re staring like they’ve personally offended you.”

Your gaze flicked—traitorously—back to the corner where he was. Sanji’s glorious disgrace. Crooked jaw. Uneven eyes. Hair like someone had glued pasta to a pumpkin. You tried to smother your grin, but Morgans’s beak curled into something far too knowing.

“You’re laughing,” he accused, voice sharp. “At news. My news.”

Through the bond, Sanji erupted. “You dare laugh at the scourge of my dignity again?!”

“Curly-whirly,” you whispered, lips twitching.

“I HEARD THAT!”

Morgans cocked his head. “Who are you talking to?”

“Uh.” You coughed, ducking behind your notes. “Myself. Coping mechanism.”

His beak snapped shut, then spread into a delighted grin. “Excellent. I shall run a feature on it. ‘The Madness of the Ink-Stained Critic.’ Front page.”

In your mind, Sanji shrieked so hard a pan clattered to the floor. 

“Potato,” you murmured sweetly, just to watch Morgans squint at you. “Let’s not. I do have a reason.”

“Oh?”

Sanji’s scream rattled the link so hard that your inkwell toppled, ink spilling across your notes in a black wave of disaster. You dabbed at the mess, keeping your tone light, as though nothing was amiss. “The cook interests me. Rumor says his food is excellent.”

Morgans threw his head back, feathers quivering with mirth. His wings spread wide, cackling so loud the rafters shuddered and the smaller news coos scattered like startled pigeons. 

“The cook with the shitty bounty illustration?” He slapped a wing against the wall, feathers stabbing toward Sanji’s lopsided face. “That one caught your attention?”

You pressed your lips into a polite smile, forcing yourself to look unbothered. “Food speaks louder than portraits.”

Morgans cocked his head, golden eyes narrowing, the edges gleaming with mischief. “You might be right. Still…” His grin widened until the hook of his beak gleamed. “I will have to test that food myself. Imagine it. A review of a pirate’s galley. That would sell faster than war.”

Heat prickled at your cheeks, so you ducked your head, hiding behind your notes. Morgans’ laughter rolled on, carrying through the office. It was the laugh of a man who smelled a story before the world even realized it was happening.

You bent low over your page, willing him not to notice the flush in your face.

But Morgans’s chuckle faded to a knowing rumble. His feathers smoothed back, his wings folded close, and still his gaze stayed sharp on you.

“Tell me,” Morgans said, his voice dropping lower, “have you heard the latest? Word is that your Straw Hats declared war on the World Government. Bold little rookies, almost to Sabaody now.”

Your pen slipped in your fingers, leaving a streak of ink like a wound across the page. “…I beg your pardon?”

Morgans beak curled into a grin, feathers ruffling with satisfaction. “You heard me. That scrawny crew you have been following? They are not just troublemakers anymore. This is the kind of stunt that makes headlines in every sea. Heard that they just took down Gecko Moria! Ha! You will not find that in your little restaurant reviews.”

Your throat tightened. The words rattled in your chest like loose dice. “They…” You faltered, tongue thick, “they cannot possibly—”

“Ha! They can. And they did.” Morgans barked another laugh, sharp enough to cut you off. “The question is how far they will go before the world finally notices what they are becoming.”

His wings spread wide, casting a brief shadow across your desk, and his golden eyes gleamed as he tipped his head toward you. “Maybe your cook will finally have a bounty poster worth printing.”

Your pen fluttered in your hand, ink bleeding into dark blotches that spread like spilled secrets.

The newsroom buzzed around you, presses hammering out another edition, type clattering, news-coos shuffling papers in their claws. Yet all of it dimmed under the weight of his words. You sat still, pen idle, ink drying at the tip.

Articles rustled, presses pounded, Morgans barked orders across the newsroom, but all of it faded. You sat frozen, pen poised uselessly above the page, ink drying to a crust.

Through the bond you reached out, tentative, like touching the edge of something fragile. For a breath, there was nothing. Just silence. Just the terrible thought that maybe you would not find him at all.

Then came the spark. A sharp inhale.

“Did you take down a Warlord of the Seas?” you whispered, your pulse hammering so loud it drowned the room.

His answer was instant, reckless, and dripping with devotion. “For my beautiful Robin-swan? I’d do it again.”

You dragged your hand down your face. “And you think you’re just gonna stroll into Sabaody?”

His voice slid against your mind, warm and casual, careless as cigarette smoke curling through the galley.

“Of course. What’s a stroll without a little danger? You worried about me, bro?”

Your heart lurched hard against your ribs.

“You idiot. Of course I am. Good news is that I work near Sabaody, so when your dumbass crew lands, we should meet. To avoid catastrophe and property damage.”

A pause followed, sudden and heavy. Surprise flickered through the bond, sharp as a knife dragged over stone.

“You’re on Sabaody?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to steady yourself. “Yes. Me. Living, breathing, regretting this bond every day, me.”

Sanji’s presence wavered, teetering between delight and panic. “Mon dieu… You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

There was another pause, but this one buzzed like static. Then his laughter brushed across your mind, half-wild and half-incredulous. 

“You’re really here? After all this time, after every potato joke, you’re in the same sea as me?!”

“Don’t make it weird,” you muttered, though your pulse was a hammer in your throat. “This isn’t fate. This is logistics.”

“Logistics?” His joy was bright enough to make you grit your teeth. “Call it what you want, brother. I call it destiny.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “If it’s destiny, then destiny needs glasses. Look at your wanted poster. That’s what fate gave you.”

“Do not speak of the poster!” he snapped, scandalized. “I will burn every copy. Every single one.”

“Good luck,” you said sweetly. “I wallpaper with them. And when we go get food, you’ll understand true cuisine.”

There was a beat of silence, then Sanji’s laughter flared bright. 

“I knew this was a play to brag about how good you eat. Snob.”

Your stomach twisted, caught somewhere between fear and relief. For the first time since the bond had begun, you were done pretending. You would finally tell him the truth.

And so you started planning.

Morgans’ headquarters was close enough. The islands were only days apart if you booked the right ship, and you knew how to pick one. For the first time since you had picked up the critic’s pen, the chance to stand in front of him was real.

You swallowed hard, palms damp against the cover of your notebook. The thought of his face, his voice unfiltered by the bond, the way his eyes would catch you whole. The inevitable moment when he saw you for what you were—not a nameless boy in his head, but a woman. A woman who had followed his shadow across the seas, who mocked him with potatoes, who shared his brain wave whether she liked it or not.

And when that moment came, you would not be able to hide behind ink or jokes.

You stepped off the ferry into the tangle of roots and bubbles that was Sabaody, notebook tucked under your arm, heart pounding harder than it had in years. The air shimmered with drifting soap bubbles and rang with the chatter of merchants shouting about coated ships and island delicacies. For once, your pulse raced not from nerves but from something far sharper—anticipation.

The plan was simple. You would find him, walk up, and say his name aloud—no more hiding. No more pretending to be a boy in his head.

It unraveled immediately.

The bubbles floated so thickly you could barely see two steps ahead. Vendors bellowed from every corner, hawking food and trinkets in voices like cannon fire. And everywhere—everywhere—men who looked like they had crawled straight out of Sanji’s hideous wanted poster. Crooked jaws, straw-colored hair, gawky scarecrow frames. It was as though the artist had wandered through Sabaody and used the first fifty men he saw as inspiration.

The bond hummed with his presence, maddeningly close but never close enough. You darted into taverns and ducked through markets, craning for a familiar face, holding up the awful poster for comparison. Each time, the resemblance was uncanny. Each time, wrong.

“I told you, you should have stayed at pier 12, and I was going to find you there–”

“I was there! For thirty minutes!”

“No, you weren’t, I searched every last corner—”

“Yes, I was! Do you know how long thirty minutes feels when you’re standing by the fish guts stall?!”

Through the bond, his thoughts skimmed against yours like knives through butter, sharp with concentration. He was looking, searching, and chasing you too.

But he was not hunting for you.

In his mind’s eye, you felt the outline of what he expected: a tall, lean figure draped in silks, polished shoes that never touched mud, silver fork still in hand. A spoiled heir who had wandered out of a wine cellar and into his head.

Not the truth. Not a girl weaving through the press of bodies with ink on her fingers, hair plastered by humidity, and smudges across her jaw where she had rubbed at the page too hard.

You swallowed, pressing your notebook tighter under your arm. With every step forward, the hum of him grew stronger. With every turn of the market, your chest clenched tighter.

Marines marched in formation, boots pounding like war drums through the roots. Slavers prowled with chains gleaming, searching for their next catch. And above it all, the shadow of the Celestial Dragons loomed, suffocating as storm clouds, making the air heavy and unbreathable.

Then the bond jolted.

A spark of panic, sharp as glass. Sanji’s thoughts slammed into yours so hard you staggered.

The island erupted. A single shot cracked like thunder, echoing through every alley. Panic swept the streets. Bodies shoved and collided in a tide of fear.

You stood in the crush, notebook forgotten at your side, heart hammering until it felt ready to split. And in that instant, you knew—there would be no meeting here. Not now. Not in this chaos.

“Shit,” Sanji hissed, his voice raw through the bond. “Got to go—My captain just hit a Celestial Dragon.”

You froze mid-step, notebook slipping from your hands. “He what?”

“He hit him. Square in the face.”

“Your captain punched a Celestial Dragon?” Your voice cracked in disbelief, though the bond carried it like a scream. “Here? On Sabaody? Are you insane?”

“Not me!” Sanji barked back, the edge of exasperation seeping through. “I would never touch those pigs. I have class. But Luffy—ah, mon dieu, that idiot has a right hook blessed by fate itself—”

Another blast rattled the air, rattling you. You pressed against a tree root as the wave of panic surged again, people shoving past, the air thick with screaming and smoke.

“Do you know what happens when someone hits a Celestial Dragon?” you snapped, fighting to keep your thoughts from unraveling. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS NEARBY?”

“Yes,” Sanji said grimly. “Marineford.”

The word sent a chill down your spine that no heat or crowd could smother.

“Go,” he urged, his voice lower now, stripped of its usual bravado. “Find a ship, find cover, I do not care. Just get off this island before the hammer drops.”

“And you?” Your throat felt tight, every word dragged out like thread through a needle.

“Me?” He laughed, quick and reckless, even as the bond trembled with battle. “I am going to hell with the rest of them, of course.”

Screams ripped through the crowd as nobles scattered like startled birds. Marines poured out of the barracks, rifles raised, boots hammering the roots of the mangrove. Alarm bells pealed again and again, the sound sharp enough to rattle your teeth. Slavers abandoned their chains in panic, dragging captives back into the shadows. Merchants slammed shutters, stalls collapsing, bubbles bursting in frantic showers until the air was wet with foam.

Through the bond, you felt Sanji’s thoughts darting like fish in a net, rapid and sharp. He was moving fast—fighting, kicking, shouting orders to the others. The scent of gunpowder and salt clung to every flicker that broke across your mind.

And then the air shifted.

The pressure rolled over the island like a wave, crushing and relentless. People dropped to their knees, gasping. Steel screamed against steel. Sanji’s mind went bright with urgency—names shouted—then a single impact hit the bond like a hammer. White pain.

Sanji swore, sharp and guttural. “Fuck—”

A name followed, blurred by panic. You could not hold onto it, but it landed in your chest like a stone. Before you could understand, the sound of violence tore through the bond: impact, steel on steel, stone shattering beneath impossible strength.

His panic slammed into you, jagged and wild. He was fighting harder, harder than you had ever felt, his mind ragged with urgency. Shouting names. Calling out. You could not catch the words, only the raw desperation that lay beneath them.

And then it hit.

A single, massive blow. The force of it tore through the link as if the air itself had split apart. For a single, unbearable heartbeat, you felt everything: the weight, the crushing pressure, the white-hot pain blooming through every nerve. And then, nothing.

The silence that followed was worse than the chaos.

You stood frozen in the street, ink smearing your fingertips, bubbles bursting against your cheeks like cold rain. Around you, the island screamed. Soldiers barked orders, captives wailed in terror, and merchants slammed shutters and sobbed over their ruined stalls. The storm of fear and fury rolled on, but all you could hear was the hollow ringing of absence.

Someone seized you by the collar and yanked you into a bookshop just as your knees gave way. You collapsed against a stack of papers, breath tearing through your throat. The stranger muttered something—stay down, keep still—but you barely heard them. All you knew was the unbearable emptiness thrumming where his voice should have been.

The bond, once bright and constant, now hung in tatters. A broken instrument, strings snapped, humming with faint echoes that died the moment you reached for them.

You staggered back into the streets, notebook pressed tight against your chest as though it could keep your ribs from splitting. The noise of Sabaody battered you on every side: Marines marching in force, merchants fleeing with their wares, slavers snapping chains in panic. Yet beneath it all, you strained for the faintest thread of him.

For hours, you searched.

You stumbled through the tangle of roots and alleys, eyes stinging with salt and smoke, lips raw from whispering his name. The bond felt like a frayed wire, every reach sparking nothing but emptiness. You whispered until whispers turned to mutters, then mutters to hoarse cries.

“Sanji. Please—Sanji.”

Nothing.

You pressed your forehead against the bark of a mangrove, the sap sticky under your skin, your notebook digging into your ribs as though it could anchor you. The air reeked of smoke and iron. The sound of chains being dragged across wood echoed far too close.

Again, you reached.

“Sanji! Sanji, I swear to god—”

“Oi! Quit screaming. Head hurts.”

The voice cracked across your mind like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.

Your knees buckled. Relief and fury tangled in your throat. “You absolute bastard!” you shouted into the bond, half sobbing, half laughing. “I thought you were dead! Do you know how long I’ve been calling for you?!”

“Do not yell,” he groaned, every word slurred with exhaustion, but unmistakably alive. “Feels like someone dropped a battleship on me.”

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth, tears burning hot at the corners of your eyes. “You went silent. I thought—”

“I know,” he said softly, the bravado stripped bare. For once, no swagger. Only honesty. “I was out cold. Couldn’t answer. Sorry, mon ami.”

Around you, Sabaody still seethed with chaos; slavers shouting, Marines marching, the looming presence of power pressing down, but none of it mattered in that instant.

He was alive.

Your grip tightened on your notebook until the leather creaked. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

His laugh brushed weakly through the bond, weak but warm. “I’ll try not to get knocked unconscious by a walking natural disaster next time.”

“Where are you?” you demanded, the words raw, spilling out before you could stop them. “Tell me, now.”

“Hell if I know,”  he muttered. His voice was scratchy, weighed down with salt and exhaustion. “One second I was on Sabaody, now I’m eating dirt on some island. Very…Pink.”

You froze, breath caught in your chest. “You’re not on Sabaody anymore?”

“Pretty sure.” He groaned as though he were dragging himself upright. “Unless Sabaody grew mountains and decided to make them heart-shaped while I was out. Don’t think so.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “How—how did you get there? That doesn’t make sense, you were—”

“Fighting,” he interrupted, his voice flat. “Getting my ribs turned into kindling, apparently. The guy named Bartholomew Kuma just hit me and then… nothing. Out cold. Next thing I know, I’m here, with sand in my teeth and something in the bushes that sounds like it wants to wink at me.”

Your hand pressed to your chest, ink smudges black against your skin. “You’re sure?”

“Unless I’m lying in the world’s weirdest mating zoo, yeah.” His humor flickered faintly but stubbornly. “Congratulations, mon ami. You’ve got yourself a pen pal who travels by mystery mail delivery. Today’s destination: the ass-end of nowhere.”

Your relief cracked into shaky laughter, though your throat still burned with fear.

“I guess we are not meeting after all.”

You laughed despite yourself, a thin, broken sound that still eased the ache in your chest. The bubbles of Sabaody still burst overhead, the Marines still shouted in the distance, but through the bond, you had him again. Bruised, furious, lost—but alive.

Then the bond jolted, ringing with images that made no sense.

“WHAT THE HELL—NO—NONONONO—”

“Sanji?” you gasped, clutching your notebook tighter. “Are you ok—What—what am I seeing?”

Towering figures in heavy makeup. Men in gowns sprinting through forests in high heels. Perfume clinging thick to the air like smoke. Music pounding, voices raised in wild chorus.

“They’re everywhere!” His voice cracked high, like glass under strain. “They’re huge, they’re wearing DRESSES, and they’re chasing me! In heels!”

You blinked hard, the images flooding you in jagged bursts: glitter, lace, lipstick, laughter. “Wait—are those… drag queens?”

“DO NOT SAY THAT WORD!” His panic flared into outright despair. “They want me to wear eyeliner! They tried to fix my hair! I barely escaped with my tie!”

You bit down hard on your lip, laughter bubbling up even as tears still streaked your cheeks. “Oh my god, Sanji, you got sent to the island of fabulous men.”

“I AM IN HELL!” he wailed. “A FABULOUS, SPARKLING HELL!”

The bond quaked with his distress, but under it all, his pulse was steady. Alive. Furious. Out of his depth in ways you never could have imagined—but alive.

And that was enough to make you laugh until your ribs hurt. Sanji’s panic slammed into you in a wave, frantic and horrified.

“That ass sent me to the Kamabakka Kingdom!!” he shouted, voice breaking. “A kingdom of… of okama! They want me to wear eyeliner! They want me to dance! They— they keep asking if I am ready to awaken my inner self!”

You clutched your face with both hands, half to stifle your laughter and half to hold your skull together. “You are joking. You are absolutely joking. There is no way this is real.”

“IT IS REAL!” His voice cracked like thunder, followed by the crash of him tripping over something and a chorus of delighted voices shouting encouragement in the background.

For the next few days, it was nothing but his furious narration of being chased across flowery fields, ambushed with lipstick, and cornered with perfume bottles. Every time he tried to hide, a massive figure in heels would find him, wagging a painted finger while cooing about embracing his inner beauty.

At first, you thought he was exaggerating. Surely no island could be that surreal. But the bond betrayed him, bleeding through flashes of glitter and lace, bursts of perfume thick enough to make your own nose itch, and one particularly haunting image of Sanji’s horrified face reflected in a compact mirror. At the same time, someone dabbed rouge onto his cheeks.

You wheezed so hard you nearly fell out of your chair. “You look… look like a doll. A very angry doll.”

“DO NOT PEEP!” Sanji’s outrage flared, though the bond carried the unmistakable sound of him scrambling away from another pack of pursuers. “They tried to put me in a dress! A pink dress!”

“I’m going to die,” you gasped, tears streaming as you clutched your sides. “I’m actually going to die.”

“Good! Bury me in your notebook!” he howled. “Because I will not survive this island!”

One evening, his thoughts wobbled through the bond like a drunk man trying to walk a straight line. The images came slowly and sugary—soft-focus sparkles, flower petals drifting on a breeze, the shimmer of sequins catching candlelight.

His voice was dreamy, almost reverent.

“You know… maybe the heels are not so bad. The glitter… the glitter catches the light in a nice way. Perhaps a touch of blush could—”

“Sanji.” 

“—accentuate my cheekbones. Nothing heavy, just a little dusting to—”

“Sanji.”

“—and if the lipstick is not too bold, it could pair well with a dark suit, yes? A sort of… balance of masculinity and flair, très chic—”

“Sanji!” You burst out laughing. “Oh my god, they got you!”

The bond jolted as though you had grabbed him by the tie and yanked.

“They did not get me!” he roared, snapping out of it instantly. “I am a MAN! I am STEEL! I am not— not—” His sputtering was so furious you could barely catch the words.

You wheezed through your laughter. “Just for a second, you looked so happy! Oh, Sanji, it’s okay to express your feminine side! Be the princess you want—”

“STOP TALKING!”

He blinked hard, the images snapping back to reality: him, disheveled, sprinting through a meadow while a towering figure in stilettos chased him with open arms. His scream cracked in your ears. 

“They brainwashed me!”

You collapsed over your notebook, howling with laughter until tears ran down your face. “You were complimenting the glitter! You were complimenting the heels!”

“Lies! Delirium!” he shouted, tripping audibly over something. “They got to me when I was weak, mon ami! They poisoned my brain with rhinestones!”

You could barely breathe. “You’re going to come back fabulous, aren’t you?”

“Over my dead body!” he snapped, but the bond betrayed him.

There it was—a flicker he hadn’t meant to share. A sharp, glittering image of himself in a perfectly tailored black suit, silk tie gleaming, hair swept back, and… just the faintest hint of eyeliner sharpening his gaze. It was gone as quickly as it came, shoved deep under layers of outrage, but you had seen it.

“I appreciate you, no matter who you decide to be.”

“I will end you.”

“Sometimes,” you mused, ignoring his sputtering, “we must shift expectations of who we are to discover what we need… like a princess. Madam Princess.”

The bond quaked with the force of his scream. “BRO, DO NOT CATCALL ME!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, but laughter still spilled through anyway. “Oh, forgive me, Your Highness, I did not realize you were too delicate for compliments.”

“I AM NOT DELICATE! I AM A MAN! A MAN WHO COOKS WITH FIRE AND KICKS WITH POWERFUL LEGS, NOT—NOT A—” His words broke off into another shriek as an intrusive memory slipped through the bond: him being twirled effortlessly in a waltz by a massive figure in sequins, lipstick pressed against his cheek as they declared him “a natural.”

You were on the floor, laughing so hard you could barely choke out the words. “Oh my god. They made you the belle of the ball!”

“STOP TALKING!” he howled, voice cracking. “I WILL NEVER BE A PRINCESS!”

But in the quiet edges of the bond, where he could not entirely hide himself, you felt a begrudging flicker of amusement.

When Sanji finally stopped running from the Okama, you almost did not believe it.

The bond no longer crackled with the frantic rhythm of boots pounding through flower fields, nor the shrill echo of queens chasing him with mascara brushes. The chaos quieted. Instead, there was steel in him now. He had gone still and stubborn, like he had planted both feet in the ground and refused to move.

The current Queen, Caroline, had found his true weakness. Not eyeliner. Not heels. Not glitter. Food.

You saw glimpses through the bond. Caroline’s towering frame, skirts that swirled like banners, her voice booming with terrifying authority. She put knives in his hands and demanded precision. She measured his steps, his balance, his speed. She tore down his shortcuts, scolded his pride, and rebuilt him with sharper edges.

It was brutal. And it was effective.

Through his thoughts, you caught flavors, hints of dishes unlike anything he had made before. Layers that sang together instead of clashing. Spices coaxed into harmony. Techniques that cut cleaner, faster, and sharper. Sometimes it was so vivid you swore you could smell the dishes in your own kitchen, warm and fragrant through the bond.

Sanji was being forged into something new.

And though he grumbled every step of the way, though you heard him curse Caroline’s drills, complain about the gowns, and moan about “hell in sequins,” beneath it all, you felt the truth. The Kamabakka Kingdom was breaking him down and building him up. Forcing him past what he thought he was and into what he could be.

Which, naturally, gave you more material.

“So,” you said one evening as he collapsed after training, shirt plastered to his skin with sweat, “have you considered embracing womanhood? You know. For the cause? The dress would improve the face.”

There was a long pause. You could practically feel his jaw clench through the bond.

“I do NOT look like that bounty poster,” he said with deep animosity.

You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. “No, really. Imagine it. High heels, a nice skirt, maybe some blush. You would look radiant. Think of the morale boost for your crew.”

“Keep talking, and I will personally hunt you down,” he snapped. “And I mean it, bro. I do not care how far you run. I will find you.”

“You sound very defensive for someone who was almost brainwashed into an alternative lifestyle,” you said slyly. “Whomever you choose to be, I am here fully supportive. Dress and all.”

His groan came sharp, exasperated. “Do not bring that up again!”

“Embrace your inner need to grow boobs. You did not want the boobs; you needed to have a pair of them.”

“Fuck OFF!”

You laughed until your ribs ached, your joy spilling down the bond so bright it drowned out the ache of distance. But under the laughter, something else pressed against you. A quieter realization. He was not particularly upset at your teasing. Not really.

He did not even hate the Okama, not truly. For all his dramatic screaming about glitter ambushes and mascara attacks, there was no venom in him. Only exasperation, embarrassment, and a grudging respect that leaked through when he thought you were not paying attention. He had come to accept their food, their strength, their strange lessons in survival. He might curse them every hour, but beneath it, you felt the truth. They were reshaping him, and he was letting them.

Awed, even. Not many men could take this sort of thing in stride. Frankly, it was exceptionally attractive, notwithstanding the alleged potato face.

“Your face thanks the effort the rest of you puts in.”

“YOU ASS,” he snarled through the bond, pride bristling, “Feast your eyes on this!”

The image slammed into you with such clarity that you almost dropped your notebook. Sanji stood before a warped mirror, bare-chested, the low light catching on every line carved into him by weeks of Caroline’s merciless training. Sweat traced the ridges of his muscles, rolling slowly down the cut of his shoulders, slipping across the tight plane of his stomach. His shirt was gone, his tie discarded in a careless heap. His trousers hung dangerously low on sharp hips, clinging in all the wrong places, as he flexed like a man daring the world to look at him and try to mock him again.

He was all lean power now, fire in every angle of him. The cigarettes, the sleepless drills, the punishment of Kamabakka had forged him harder, sharper, but not at the cost of grace. He was still Sanji—always posing, always vain—but there was something new in him too—something raw, something dangerous, something magnetic.

And his face—his face was devastating. Hair clinging damp across his forehead, jaw shadowed, mouth pulled into a smirk so sharp it was practically a weapon. His single visible eye gleamed, daring you to look away, daring you to deny him.

Your entire body went hot. Blood rushed so fast to your face that it burst from your nose in a messy spill. You fumbled for a cloth, pressing it against your skin as you half-choked and half-sputtered, your pulse crashing so loudly you swore he could hear it.

“That enough manliness for you?” Through the bond, his voice curled with smug satisfaction, velvet and smoke. “Ha! Look at you, bro. Speechless. Admit it. I am tougher than you thought.”

You pressed the cloth tighter, as if you could smother the heat rising within you, praying he couldn't feel the real reason for your silence because you were not a boy at all. Because seeing him like that—sweat-slick, raw and intense, flushed with fire—made your pulse stumble and your thoughts scatter in ways you had never let him suspect.

“Bro?” he pressed again, suspicion sharpening, a dangerous edge to his tone now. “What, no smart remark? No crack about glitter? Say something!”

Your throat worked, your voice emerging hoarse, strained, betraying more than you wanted it to.

 “Very… manly. Congratulations.”

He preened instantly, smugness rolling through the bond like perfume.

“Thought so.”

You slumped forward against your desk, cloth pressed to your nose, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the newsroom chaos around you. Your notebook slid askew beneath your arm, pages smudged with ink and blood alike.

And this, absurd as it was, became the beginning of the most embarrassing incident of your life.

Because Sanji did not stop.

For days afterward, he kept testing you. A shirt tugged low to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. A flash of muscle as he balanced knives with new precision. Sweat glistening on the cut of his back as he trained. He would toss the images into your head casually, like cards thrown down on a table, his laughter warm and smug every time you stalled for an answer.

“You still breathing, bro?” he would ask, sly amusement dripping from every word. “Or did I kill you with my sheer masculinity?”

Clearly, the Okama had fried his sense of discretion along with everything else.

And you, ink-stained and exhausted, nose stuffed with tissues more than once, could only mutter strangled half-praises, desperate to keep your composure.

What he never realized, what you prayed he never would, was that every image seared itself into you. Every smirk, every flex, every flash of fire-forged strength struck deeper than his glitter panic ever had.

And if he ever learned the truth —that you were not a boy at all, but a girl unraveling piece by piece under the weight of him —you knew you would never live it down.

The image of his body haunted you. You told yourself it was just the shock of finally seeing him for what he had become: muscle built through brutal training, sweat clinging to him, the stubborn tilt of his chin, that irritatingly pretty face.

But the truth was harder to ignore.

The lean and cut lines of his body stirred feelings you had never let yourself name. Feelings that might have been abstract before, half-dreamed and dismissed, but that now burned sharper than you could control.

Enough that one night, he bled straight into your dreams.

The dream was too vivid. Shadows pressed close, the air thick with heat. Black lace clung to Sanji’s thighs, ropes cut across his wrists where they were fastened to a headboard. His golden hair spilled across the pillow like molten silk, his chest rising and falling as quickly as you held him down. His lips parted, breathless, eyes wide and unguarded, fixed on you as if you were the only thing in the world. He was helpless. Beautiful. Yours.

And in the dream, you wore the shape you often slipped into without thought. A man’s silhouette, because it was easier. You had played the part for so long that even in your own fantasies, you sometimes forgot yourself.

The bond convulsed.

Your eyes flew open with a gasp. You thrashed upright, sheets tangled and twisted around your body, skin damp with sweat. Your notebook clattered from the desk onto the floor.

Through the link, Sanji’s presence burst in like wildfire. His emotions struck raw and unshielded: shock, shame, fury, horror.

“What the hell was THAT?” His voice cracked through your skull like a whip, sharp with panic. “Mon dieu—what did you—why did I see—”

You clutched the sheets to your chest, heart battering against your ribs. He had seen it. The bond had carried what should have stayed locked inside your head.

“Sanji—” you started, throat raw.

“I—I was there. I saw it. I felt it! You had me—” his voice pitched high, breaking, “tied up? In lace? Under you?!”

Your face burned so hot you thought you might combust on the spot.

“You—” his thoughts stumbled over themselves, collapsing into disbelief, “you want me like that?!”

Heat scorched up your neck, your chest tight. “It was just a dream—”

“Don’t!” he snapped, too sharp, too hurt. “Don’t lie to me. You wanted me. I felt it—You—” He faltered, stuttered, the words jagged and raw, “you think of me as weak. Helpless. Like I’m—”

His breath caught. Through the bond, you felt it: the flinch of a man struck clean across the soul.

“Like I’m not a man at all.”

The words pierced you straight through, leaving you reeling.

“Sanji, no, that’s not it—”

But he was already unraveling, spinning too fast for you to catch. His thoughts burned through the bond, a wildfire of humiliation, self-loathing, and terror. Not a man. Not strong enough. Not worthy. Just a joke. A pretty toy to be dressed up and laughed at.

“All this time,” he whispered, his voice ragged and cracking, “I thought you were my brother. My comrade. And this—this is what you want from me?”

Your throat closed, the words clawing at you but fathoming no way be named. You reached for him through the link, desperate to hold him, to soothe the wound you had carved open, but he recoiled as if your touch scalded him.

“Please, understand, this isn’t what you think–”

He huffed, sounding incredibly hurt.

He huffed, sharp and broken, his pride bleeding out between each syllable. “And what am I supposed to think? You should have told me. You should have told me that you… felt this way. That this was going to be a problem—”

The word hit like a whip.

“A problem?” you rasped, your chest burning. “Is that all I am to you? A problem? What makes me less important than another? Would you treat your precious Nami this way?”

The bond snapped with tension. Sanji’s thoughts flared, tangled, and ugly. “Do not bring her into this! Nami-swan is—” He cut himself off, choking on the words. His shame flooded through the link, bitter as smoke. “You are not her. You are not any of them. You are… You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be the one person I did not have to think twice around.”

The emptiness throbbed like a wound, heavy and raw. You could not stand it. Your chest burned with the need to explain, to make him understand, but the words tangled until they came out wrong.

“I never thought twice around you either,” you blurted. “Not even when I rewrote the Baratie review, not even when Zeff himself—”

You froze, the blood in your veins turning to ice.

Sanji’s thoughts jolted, sharp with shock. “…What did you just say?”

Panic clawed at you. “I—nothing. I meant—”

“Do not lie to me.” His voice was razor-sharp, brittle with disbelief. “You said Zeff. You’ve spoken to Zeff.”

You tried to reel it back, tried to smother the slip. “It was nothing, a chance meeting—”

The bond trembled as his fury flared, white-hot. “You knew him? You were there? All this time you were the one—” His voice cracked, breaking into raw disbelief. “You were the critic. The one who tore apart the Baratie’s food, who mocked everything we built. That was you.”

The words felt like stones in your throat. “Sanji, I didn’t write that—I never meant for you to find out like this.”

His thoughts convulsed, horrified. “You sat there and laughed with me. You teased me about my bounty, about Kamabakka, and all the while you were following me? Hiding what you really are? You’re no rich kid, you’re just an asshole.”

You pressed your palms to your eyes, desperate to stop the ache spilling out of you. “I wasn’t hiding from you. I just… wasn’t ready. Not then.”

“When were you going to be ready?” His voice cut like a knife, low and ragged. “When I was nothing but a fool in your notes? After you were done turning me into a joke for your papers?”

The bond quivered, brittle and fraying. You reached out, frantic. “No. Never. You were never a joke to me. You were the only thing that was real.”

But Sanji pulled back, his thoughts searing with humiliation and betrayal. 

“I can’t,” he breathed, raw and broken. “I can’t do this. Not with you. Not like this.”

His presence trembled, thinning, pulling away from you thread by thread.

“I’m—” his voice cracked one last time, low and agonized, “I’m closing this. I can’t feel this way about someone like you.”

You lay there, staring into nothing, your chest heaving as if the world itself had been ripped in half. Behind your eyelids burned the ghost of lace and his wide, wounded eyes, a look so raw it cut deeper than any blade. He had seen too much, and what he thought it meant had sunk its teeth into scars he had carried long before you ever touched his life.

And now he was gone.

The bond that had once hummed like a lifeline was severed, locked away somewhere you could not reach. You whispered his name in the days that followed, sent apologies down the thread, begged him to answer. Nothing came back. It was like pressing your palms against a stone wall that would never open again.

You watched the world shift around you. The Straw Hats scattered to the wind, the newspapers blaring with their disappearances and the chaos left in their wake. Rumors drifted in from every sea. And Sanji—Sanji likely trapped on Kamabakka, hounded through perfume fields, his pride flayed raw by dresses, drills, and food he once spat at but eventually mastered.

You knew all of it only through fragments. A line in Morgans’ sheets, a slip of gossip from a ship passing through Sabaody, a scrap of rumor carried in the mouths of traders. He never came back to you. The bond stayed silent. No laughter. No swagger. No clumsy affection or long-winded complaints about perfecting the perfect croquembouche. Just absence. Sharp. Endless.

And through it all, the memory of that night never dulled. His humiliation. His heart breaking with the words. The way he had recoiled when you reached for him, as though your touch could only burn.

By the time those two years ended, the ache of him was still as raw, as immediate, as the night he shut you out.

-X-Two Years Later-X-

Quiet had become your companion. 

Each morning, you still reached for the bond out of habit, and each morning, you were met with nothing but stone. Your notebooks grew heavier, filled with words you could not send, letters you would never post. Sanji’s absence carved at you until it was simply part of the air you breathed.

So when Morgans stormed into your office, feathers puffed to twice his size, his booming voice rattling the inkpots, you were unprepared.

“Big news!” he crowed, his beak splitting in a grin. “The kind of scoop that will shake the seas!”

He slapped a rolled assignment onto your desk with such force that half your notes fluttered to the floor. “Pack your bags. We are going to Whole Cake Island for some pre-game dining!”

Your pen slipped from your hand and clattered against the wood. “…Whole Cake?”

“The grandest tea party the world has ever seen,” Morgans declared, chest puffed until his feathers nearly brushed the ceiling. He strutted a tight circle around your desk, wings spreading wide as though he might launch himself across the room at any moment. Inkpots rattled with every heavy step. “Big Mom herself presiding. Tables groaning under sweets, fountains spilling chocolate, towers of spun sugar so tall they will blot out the chandeliers. And all of it gilded with politics. A union between her house and Germa’s iron-fisted royals.”

He stopped suddenly, looming across the desk. His golden eyes caught the light, sharp and merciless, gleaming with triumph. “A wedding. And I want you at the table.”

The word reverberated through the office. Wedding. A Yonko’s tea party. Germa’s cold, mechanical legacy. The weight of it pressed against your ribs until your pen slipped in your grip.

“…And the groom?” you asked carefully.

Morgans waved a wing with careless dismissal. “One of Judge Vinsmoke’s brood. A soldier boy polished for politics, nothing more. Not important until he is.”

You stared.

“You are sending me to a Yonko’s island… to review the food?”

“Exactly!” Morgans bellowed, his voice a clap of thunder. He flung his wings wide, the gust scattering half a stack of papers across the floor. Junior reporters scrambled to grab them, but he ignored the chaos. “What better story than cuisine fit to ransom kingdoms? A royal feast, plated like art and spiced with power! You will eat like nobility, and the world will gorge itself on every word you write.”

You hummed, pen tapping against the desk. “And is there… a reason for this?”

Morgans froze mid-preen and leveled that look at you—the one that meant you were straying too close to asking questions he had no intention of answering. His beak curled into a grin that never reached his eyes.

“Kuwaaahahaha! You’ve been off for a while,” he rumbled, feathers puffing. “Your reviews have gotten meaner, which is excellent for sales, but I personally bet Attach that you’d like the food there.”

You scrubbed your face. “Jesus, you old bird. Quit pulling Attach into your schemes. The man lives too much on the edge as it is.”

From the corner of the room, Attach groaned, muttering something about overdue photographs. Morgans only cackled harder, his laughter rattling the rafters.

Morgans was still crowing over his own brilliance when your gaze drifted to the far wall. Fresh bounties covered it corner to corner, the ink still smelling sharp, the paper curling where it had dried too fast.

Your eyes flicked over the usual suspects. Straw Hat Luffy, grinning widely with teeth like a mad dog. Pirate Hunter Zoro, scowling like he had been born that way. Cat Burglar Nami’s smile sharpened into a warning, Chopper looking like a little Christmas plushy. Usopp caught mid-yell, and Franky, honestly, was killing it.

And then—Sanji.

You swallowed hard.

The new poster had captured him in one of those ridiculous moments only he could create. Heart eyes, drool practically sketched down his chin, both hands clasped under his face as if he were worshipping the nearest woman in sight. It was meant to be a joke. It was a joke; a silly photo of a cook who let beauties sweep him off his feet and out of his mind.

The sight made your chest ache.

Because you remembered the truth of him, the fire in his voice when he defended his captain, the bruises he took with a grin, the quiet pride he carried under all that bluster. Two years of nothing, and this was all the world had to say of him: a lovesick fool with hearts for eyes.

He clearly hadn’t missed you.

Your throat tightened. Longing pressed sharply against guilt, a weight that had not lightened since the night the bond broke. He had shut you out, yes, but he had been right to. You had given him every reason to.

You pressed your lips together, willing the ache back down. Morgans’ booming laugh filled the office, drowning out the sound of your own pulse.

But your gaze lingered on Sanji’s silly, lovesick face until the edges blurred.

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[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: 'Black Leg' Sanji (1/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

Pictures from Pinterest

Sanji x Reader Length 17 K+ Rating: 18K+ Warnings: Slow Burn, Jealousy, Starvation and survival, Childhood Trauma and Abuse, Language, BOOBS, Angst, Sexual Content, Identity Theft, Objectification, Lying for a cause

@vaniiiavengeance

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Next

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

Normal may be relative, but by all accounts, you would have considered yourself such. You only had your dad, but he was a good man. Together, you wandered ports and towns, traveling farther than most families ever dreamed, even passing through the Grand Line. He made a living reviewing restaurants, scribbling notes on everything from the broth’s clarity to the crispness of tempura, and you, by default, became his little apprentice.

It gave you a refined palate earlier than most children, an odd blessing. While other kids fought over sweets, you sat at his elbow, analyzing the miso depth or the subtle chew of perfectly proofed bread. Your world was filled with flavor, laughter, and the hum of waves against the ship. By your measure, things were good. Steady. Safe.

Then the soulbond hit.

You were ten when it began. At first, it was faint, a half-formed whisper slipping into your mind, someone else’s thoughts bleeding uninvited across the edges of your own. You had heard about soulbonds in passing, tales traded at ports or written in cheap magazines, but those were for exceptional people. The Warriors destined for greatness. Saints meant to change the world. Or, sometimes, the quiet sort who lived unremarkable lives and needed one tether to make them whole.

You had not imagined average kids like you could have one. But the universe had a knack for lacing drama where it was least expected.

The boy was nine. Younger than you. And he was very, very annoyed. Especially at those of the same gender as him. You knew this because he thought you were a boy.

-X- A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript; Chef’s Cut -X-

“Why do they always harass me? Just because I’m a better chef—” The voice cracked through your mind one night as you dozed against your father’s shoulder. It was small and uneven, like it had been crying for hours. Bitter. Desperate. Bruised in ways your nine-year-old self could not comprehend. “At least I have perfect rice. No one can deny that.”

You sat upright, heart hammering, eyes darting around the hotel room where you and your father were staying. The whisper had no sound. It came from within, a raw pulse that did not belong to you. A foreign thought pressed into your head like a shard of glass.

“Hello?” you whispered aloud, voice tight, as if the boy might step out from the shadows of the room. “You okay, bro?”

Your father stirred and gave a startled snore, tugging the covers closer. You froze, half hoping he had heard it too, half terrified he might ask what you were doing awake. But the room stayed ordinary. The lamp on the nightstand glowed faintly. The hum of traffic drifted through the window. Nothing answered you.

The silence pressed in, thick and strange. You held your breath, waiting. Then the boy’s voice spilled through your mind again, quieter this time, as if he were speaking into his own darkness.

“Mon dieu—”

You clutched the blanket to your chest, shivering though the hotel room was warm. The sound wasn’t sound at all, but it thrummed inside you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Oh my god. You had a soulmate.

Your heart raced like a runaway train. Suddenly, every story you had ever overheard about bonds came rushing back: romantic tales in magazines, whispered promises in ports, even the silly playground chatter about how people knew. You readied yourself in a panic, words already lining up in your head. You would introduce yourself, list your family history, gush about your favorite food, maybe even blurt out your social security number if that helped prove you were real.

However, the boy cut you off. Immediately.

It was nothing like the gentle spark those stories promised. No warm flutter, no poetic music swelling in the background. It was jagged and furious, a boy’s voice cracking with emotion and slamming through your skull like a door being kicked shut.

“Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed. A soulmate. And it’s a guy. Figures. All guys suck.”

You froze, mouth hanging open, then blinked at the sudden venom. “Excuse you?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Are you really there?” His voice sharpened, horrified, disbelief dripping from every word. “Oh, no. This is real. I really got stuck with a dude soulmate. My life is over.”

Your temper flared, hot and sharp.

 “I don’t suck.”

“You do,” he snapped back instantly, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You sat there in the dark hotel room, blanket bunched in your fists, staring at the quiet walls that had suddenly become a prison of voices. You had imagined soulmates might feel magical, that you would wake up in the middle of the night with someone whispering kind words across the stars. Instead, you had gotten this: an angry, dramatic little boy who already hated you without even knowing your name.

Something in you bristled. You could have told him the truth right then, that you were not a boy at all, that he was wrong and unfair. But his tone had been so drenched in loathing, so ready to shove you away, that your pride took over.

“Big deal. And I don’t suck. You’re just rude. Happy?”

The silence on his end stretched long, heavy, and skeptical. You almost thought he had vanished completely. Then, at last, a mutter slid through the bond, quiet and grudging.

“Not really. But at least you’re honest.”

And then he was gone. Whatever mental equivalent of a door he had, he slammed it shut with finality.

You sat blinking into the darkness, stunned. It wasn’t the warm, dreamy connection you had always heard about. It was prickly, sour, and utterly insulting. Yet beneath the malice lingered something else, something that caught at your chest. His thoughts had sounded ragged, desperate, like someone who had been burned too many times already.

When your father stirred awake with a groggy yawn, you wasted no time. You immediately launched into the story, recounting every detail in a rush of words: the voice, the insults, the strange way it all worked. He rubbed his chin with one hand, eyes half-lidded in the hotel’s dim light, and let you finish.

Finally, he sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry the weight of far-off storms and unanswered questions. His hand scrubbed down his face before settling on his knee.

“Well,” he said softly, voice thick with sleep, “soulmates don’t always start like fairy tales. Sometimes they’re just people. And people… can be complicated.”

“He’s an ass,” you muttered hotly, clutching your blanket like it might shield you from the memory of that voice.

“Language, my dear,” your father warned, though his tone was more weary than sharp. He shifted on the mattress, trying to wake fully, and gave a low groan. “And I can’t say I approve of it. Kids shouldn’t be talking this young through a bond. It takes years sometimes, years. But he sounds hurt.” His brows knit, shadowed in the faint lamp light. “You’re sure he’s a kid?”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “I said I’m a boy.”

That pulled him up short. He blinked, then gave you a long, level look. For a heartbeat, you thought he might scold you, but instead, he chuckled, warm and tired and proud all at once.

“Of course you did,” he said, shaking his head as if the answer had been obvious. “That’s my kid.” He leaned back against the pillows, the lines around his mouth easing. “Just be his friend, if he talks again. You shouldn’t be anything more than that. Not now.”

You sagged into the covers, chewing your lip, his words echoing in your chest. Friend. Not more. You wanted to believe it would be that simple.

But as you lay there in the dark, listening to your father’s steady breathing return to sleep, you could still feel the boy’s ragged voice like a bruise pressed against your ribs.

He didn’t talk much for the first few weeks. Just bitter little thoughts that leaked through: salt spray, shouting sailors, the clang of a galley kitchen. You pieced together that he worked on a ship, cooking for people who probably didn’t appreciate him.

The unfairness of it burned. He was only nine, and already he sounded like the world had chewed him up and spit him out.

And he thought a lot about food. To the point that you were sure he was doing it to ensure he didn’t think of anything else. So much so, you’re pretty sure he didn’t even touch your thoughts unless you metaphysically pushed them on him. He made it, honestly, a little too easy. You immediately clocked that the child had no self-esteem.

One night, when he was thinking about how much he hated peeling potatoes, you slipped in, thoughtfully observant. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want them to cook evenly, you have to keep the slices the same size. My family… my dad knows a lot. He taught me.”

The boy bristled instantly. “Oh, well, excuse me, rich boy. I didn’t realize my soulmate was some fancy brat.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to cook, do it right.”

“I’m on a ship full of idiots who can’t boil water! Cut me some slack!”

The weeks after that were strange. His thoughts dripped in now and then, like someone muttering behind a wall. Shouting sailors, waves slamming against wood, the stink of fish. Pots banging in a kitchen in rhythm. 

He worked on a ship. Obviously. 

One night, while he was grumbling about overcooked vegetables, you said, “You know, you’re supposed to salt it before you blanch it. Then only cook till it gets bright, not soggy.”

The sharp pause that followed made you grin.

“Oh, really? Did your butler teach you that?” 

You snorted.

“I don’t have a butler. But I know what I’m talking about.”

The snort on his end was pure scorn. “Oh, no. My soulmate’s a snob. Perfect. Just perfect. A snobby boy who thinks he knows food better than me.”

“I didn’t say better,” you shot back. “I said right.”

“Listen, rich boy. I’m already cooking circles around whatever chef feeds you.”

That ass. Even worse, despite his piss-poor attitude, he did seem to have the makings of a good chef. A hard worker who took criticism well and responded to it perfectly. And whenever you dared to press him for details—what he cooked, how he cooked it—his descriptions weren’t childish. They were vivid, technical, full of detail, and love. He knew food. He lived it.

Still, you had a critic’s tongue. And you weren’t going to let him off easy.

“You see, the broth’s rich, but if it’s that oily, it’ll coat the tongue and drown the flavor. Balance matters.”

“Don’t tell me about balance, snob. I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to walk. You wouldn’t know real food if it bit you.”

“Better than listening to a nine-year-old who thinks pepper is spicy.”

The bond vibrated with his indignation. “You take that back!”

You smirked into your menu. “Make me.”

He cooked. You critiqued. He threw temper tantrums when you poked holes in his pride, and you secretly admired the way he cared so much about getting every dish right.

The two of you were children bickering across a bond, but somehow, in the rhythm of recipes and insults, you gave him what no one else did: someone who saw him not as a burden, not as a tool, but as a boy who wanted to be more.

Even if he still thought you were just another boy. Sanji was a rude little jerk about that, very specifically. That much was clear.

He constantly insulted you, snapped at every correction, and treated your input as an annoyance. But you could hear the cracks in his pride. The way his stomach growled louder than his bravado. The way he thought about food was not just with skill, but with desperation, like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the world.

So you were kinder than he merited, but you could spot a child without a childhood from a mile away.

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” you told him once, after he’d cursed his soup for the tenth time in a row.

“Shut up, rich boy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The silence stretched, then he muttered, “…It’s not enough. I want it to be enough.”

It was moments like that that kept you from snapping back at him. Because underneath all the vinegar, he was just a boy who wanted someone to like what he made.

“Don’t be friendly, butt-face. I don’t make friends with guys.”

You almost laughed, but you bit it back. Because the truth was…he cared. You could feel it in the way he thought about food, even when he was cursing the sailors or grumbling about their empty stomachs. His voice came alive whenever he planned a dish, even the simple ones.

That was the first thing you admired about him. Not his manners, not his attitude, but the way he lit up at the thought of feeding people.

Age 11:

When the shipwreck came, you felt it through him; the slam of panic, the wrench of hunger, the bleak, endless churn of the sea pressing against him like a weight. Then, silence. Not that he was gone, but that he had nothing left to think with but emptiness. The kind of silence that filled your chest with cold dread, that made every heartbeat loud and accusing.

When his voice finally cracked back through, it was raw, thin, frayed around the edges. 

“I hardly have anything left. Just water. I’m gonna die here.”

The words were not just spoken—they were carved into your mind, each one a blow. What were you supposed to say to that? Comfort him? Promise him miracles? You swallowed, your throat tight. 

“No, you won’t—can’t—You’ve got me—I’ll keep you company.”

He huffed, a bitter sound, as if he would rather simply let the ocean claim him than hear your voice. But you stayed. You held the line, even when your own stomach twisted with emptiness, even when your hands shook because you hadn’t eaten, because you felt the ghost of his pain in your own body. Your father would later tell you how worried he had been for you at this age. You barely touched your meals. You’d become so skinny he could see your ribs through your shirts.

But at the moment, how could you bear to eat when your friend could not?

When he was starving on that rock with the old pirate Zeff, you became the echo that refused to leave him. You kept him talking, coaxed him out of the silence that threatened to swallow him whole. You asked him what he would cook if he could, the one thing that made him feel alive again. You made him describe every step: the way he’d chop onions, how the broth would simmer, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan, the smell of garlic and butter melting together. You painted the kitchen with your voice. You filled the bond with imaginary flavors, coaxing him to remember the things he loved, to taste them again with his mind even when his body could not.

You imagined the heat of the flames, the shimmer of oil on the pan, the soft thump of bread dough under practiced hands. You watched him through the bond as his voice, so faint at first, grew steadier, sharper. For a moment, you could almost hear him laughing at himself, nearly taste the sweetness of a meal long imagined.

And in that fleeting, miraculous space, hunger didn’t rule. Fear didn’t rule. The ocean was still endless and cruel, but between you, between your voices and shared breaths, there was a small, defiant warmth.

You weren’t there to save him from the sea, or from Zeff’s harsh lessons, or from the gnawing ache in his belly. You were there to keep him alive in the only way you could. And in keeping him alive, you were also teaching yourself how to endure.

“Grill a fish for me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Come on. Humor me.” 

A pause. 

Then, grudgingly, “…Fine. I’d score the skin so it doesn’t curl, brush it with oil, salt it—just enough, no more—and cook it over open flame. The fat would crackle. The skin would blister and pop. It’d smell like the ocean got better.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in the imagined aroma. You could almost feel the warm flesh flaking off the bone, the sharp tang of salt on your tongue. 

“That’s better than the stew I saw tonight.”

He laughed, weak and ragged, a sound that made your chest ache. 

“Finally. You admit I win.”

But the days stretched on. Weeks blurred into one another. The hunger was relentless, gnawing at him, molding him into someone thinner, bitterer, more fragile than the boy you knew. His laughter came less often, his voice quieter, and every word felt carved from exhaustion.

All you could do was talk. Ask questions, coax stories, imagine meals, tease memories. You wove entire feasts in the bond, from tiny flicks of bread crust to oceans of soup steaming in an imagined kitchen. You told him he couldn’t give up, even when his own mind was fraying. You tried to make him remember that the world could still be good, even if the sea refused to be kind.

And you hated it. You hated the warmth of the sunlight on your skin, the bite of real food in your mouth, and the comfort of your own bed. You hated being alive, fed, safe, while he withered on that rock, the salt of the ocean in his hair, the bitter tang of survival in every breath. Every bite you swallowed felt like theft, every laugh a betrayal.

So one night, you said out loud at dinner, the words tumbling out before fear or caution could stop them, “I’m going to sea. I’ll find him.”

Your father froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Absolutely not,” he said, the strain in his voice sharp with worry. “Do you even know where he is? The seas are dangerous. Pirates, storms…you could—”

“It’s not okay!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the weight of weeks of imagined horror. “He’s starving! He’s—he’s going to die if someone doesn’t—”

The words caught in your throat, the taste of helplessness bitter on your tongue. You could feel him, weak and ragged and alone, through the bond, and it made your chest ache with panic.

Your father’s face softened, but it was a sad, almost broken kind of softness. His eyes looked right through you, seeing the child you were, the limits you couldn’t yet surpass. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and the weight of it fell like stone in your stomach, “but… There are some things you can’t do.”

Your hands clenched in your lap. The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet. The silverware clicked against the plate like a metronome marking time you didn’t have. You could almost hear the sea, hear the ache in his voice, hear the hunger that would not wait for permission or logic.

And yet, your father’s words were final. You could not deny the truth in them. You could not yet change the world, no matter how loudly your heart demanded it.

That night, you lay awake, the bond humming faintly in the darkness. You could feel him, a ghost of desperation and fatigue, and though your body stayed in your warm bed, your mind ran wild across storm-tossed waters. Every wave that threatened him was a punch in your gut. Every ragged breath of his was a knife against your ribs.

You hated the helplessness. You hated the restraint. You hated that the world was large, cruel, and indifferent, and that he, your nameless friend, your echo in the storm, was out there, suffering, and you could do nothing.

“I want to help you.”

Sanji scoffed, though weakly, the sound brittle, like dry leaves. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Understandably, he raged. The rock was merciless, the sun relentless, and the hunger gnawed at him until every thought became a knife twisting in his chest. He cursed at you, barking and trying to push you away through the bond. “You don’t get it! You’re probably eating three meals a day, stuffing yourself while I rot out here!”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t even try. You just listened.

“I’m sorry,”  you whispered once, voice trembling as it traveled across the invisible thread that tied your minds. “I wish I could give you mine. “I wish I could give you mine. I’d hand it to you if I could.”

That silenced him. He didn’t thank you, of course. There were no polite courtesies to be found out here. But after that, the edges of his anger dulled, like waves wearing down stone. A small crack opened in the armor of bitterness he had wrapped around himself, and you filled it with words.

The longer it went on, the gentler you became. You told him stories, anything to distract him from the gnawing emptiness in his belly. You described the way the stars looked from your window, silver against the velvet black sky. You described the gardens near your house, how the roses smelled sweet after rain, how the sun warmed the stone paths. You told him about blankets fresh from the sun, the smell of bread baking, the way a breeze could make a room feel alive.

You became soft in ways you didn’t even recognize. You wrapped words around him like a quilt, stitching warmth into the emptiness, filling silence with presence. You were a hearth, a steady flame, the one thing unyielding in the chaos of his starvation.

And slowly, he let himself lean into it. Slowly, he let himself lean into friendship, allowing the bond carry more than panic, more than anger, more than despair. He began to speak in quieter tones, to answer with memories instead of curses, to breathe alongside your steadiness instead of against it.

It was not a sudden thing. There were still flares of rage, nights when he lashed at the bond like a trapped animal. But you were there. You were patient. You were soft. And he began to trust that you would not leave, that you would not falter.

And in that fragile, trembling trust, the first seed of hope took root.

One night, when his voice was quieter than usual, it came like a thread of smoke through the bond.

“It doesn’t matter if I get lost out here. My family won’t care.”

The words were so flat, so casual, so achingly resigned, that your stomach turned. Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, you thought he might retreat into silence. But the words came out anyway, like poison he had carried too long, each one leaving a bitter taste in your chest.

“Nothing. I don’t have anyone.”

You couldn’t breathe. Ten. He was ten. Ten years old. And he said it like it had been carved into his bones, a truth he had carried through fire and starvation. You pressed your hands to your chest, feeling the ache of helplessness, the impossible urge to reach across the seas and hold him.

“Can… will… will you tell me your name?”

He paused long enough for your heart to hammer against your ribs, long enough for the silence to throb. Then, quietly, almost afraid, he said, “Sanji. Just Sanji.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. The bond hummed faintly with the tremor of your grief. “Sanji.” You whispered it again, letting the name roll over your tongue, grounding him, giving him weight, giving him life.

“Sanji.”

He startled at the sound, as if hearing it from you—really hearing it—made him real. His voice cracked. 

“Yes?”

“Thanks for giving me your name.”

From then on, the sharp edges between you dulled. He was still rude, still short-tempered, but you saw through it now. You understood why his walls were made of barbed wire. And he understood, in some quiet part of himself, that you weren’t going anywhere.

The rock was merciless.

The sun burned until the stone itself seemed alive with heat. The waves gnawed endlessly at the edges, as though the sea meant to swallow what little remained of them. Days bled into one another, each longer than the last, and the boy on the other end of your bond grew thinner in voice as surely as he was wasting away in body.

Sometimes he raged. His words cracked like a whip across your mind, hot with fury, raw with frustration. Sometimes he fell into silence so heavy you feared you’d lost him altogether. Always, you stayed. Always, you whispered back, held space for him, gave him a tether to the world you could not reach.

You filled the emptiness with the only things you had: stories, memories, ordinary fragments of life. The smell of fresh bread from the oven. The way butter melted into a warm crust and left your fingers slick. The sound of wind rattling dry leaves along the stone path outside your family’s house. The hum of your dad’s voice when he thought no one could hear.

He mocked you for it. He called you a snob, a spoiled boy, a nuisance who knew nothing of hunger. His contempt was sharp, yet fragile. You could hear it in the cracks, in the way he repeated your words back to himself when he thought you couldn’t hear. Each echo betrayed the loneliness behind his anger, the secret longing to be comforted, to be remembered as more than starving flesh on a rock.

One night, when the silence had gone on so long you thought he’d finally slipped beyond your reach, his voice came trembling, raw.

“He gave me everything. He shouldn’t have. I don’t deserve it.”

Your hands curled tightly against your knees, small and trembling, because you were nine years old and not nearly equipped to understand the enormity of what he carried. You had no answer for the depth of sacrifice, no words fit to mend the wounds carved so deep into a boy’s life by hunger and neglect. Still, you whispered the only truth you had, the one thing that felt solid in the shifting tide of despair.

“It’s not your fault.”

Days turned into nights. Nights bled into the thin light of dawn, and still, you stayed. You didn’t pretend the rock was soft, didn’t gloss over the hunger, didn’t flinch from the cruelty of the sea. But in the bond, you created small sanctuaries: the scent of bread, the feel of a sun-warmed blanket, the distant laughter of your father in a room you could never enter. He listened, at first because he had nothing else to cling to, but slowly because he began to crave it.

And one evening, almost imperceptibly, he let himself lean a little closer, letting your words settle into the raw spaces inside him. He still raged at the world. He still yelled into the wind, into the waves, into the void. But when he returned to the bond, he returned to you. Not because he had to, not because the hunger demanded it, but because he had discovered that your presence, your ordinary, human warmth, was a place where he could rest, even for a moment, without fear.

“Maybe you’re not as bad as the rest. Maybe… we can be friends.”

It wasn’t much. Not a confession, not an oath, barely more than a begrudging scrap tossed into your hands. But on that barren rock, beneath a merciless sky, it meant everything.

You marked the days in your journal—almost three months.

The silences were stretching too long.

You pressed your palms together under the thin covers, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. You tried again and again to reach him, to pierce the distance that stretched between you. Nothing came back but the hollow echo of the bond. It was like shouting into a well and hearing only your own voice bounce back, faint and distant.

When his voice finally returned, it was ragged, barely more than a breath, and it made your chest tighten painfully.

“I can’t… I can’t keep this up.”

Your throat caught. You forced the words past the lump of fear rising there.

“Don’t say that. You can’t give up. You can’t—”

“What would you know about it?” His voice snapped suddenly, sharp and bitter, slicing through the fragile silence. “You’re safe. You’ve got food. You’ve never been starving on a rock with nothing but bones for company. You don’t know what it’s like.”

The bond trembled, frayed, and stretched thinner with every passing day, but you clung to it anyway. You could not let him fall into the empty dark.

When his voice scraped across the silence again, it was broken, raw, too ragged to be anger alone. “If I die out here, maybe it won’t matter. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Your breath caught in your throat, small and shallow.

“Don’t say that. You matter. You’re my friend. You can’t just—”

“You sound like a baby.” He spat, the insult sharp and hollow at once. It had no cruelty behind it this time, only the brittle edge of fear.

You pressed your fist to your chest, willing the ache away, forcing your voice to stay calm and steady even as your stomach twisted. 

“Then I’ll be a baby. I don’t care. You’re still not allowed to give up.”

He did not laugh, not really. But something in him softened, loosened, just enough for the truth to slip past the walls he had built so carefully.

“My family hated me.” The words came low and bitter, coated with a poison he had swallowed for years. “My father called me a failure. Said I was weak, useless, not fit to stand beside them. Told me I killed mom. Locked me away like I was filth. My brothers—”  His voice faltered, thick with shame. “They laughed at me. Hurt me. I thought… maybe they were right. Maybe I am nothing.”

“Sanji,” Your eyes stung with tears you could not shed, burning for him, for the boy who was only ten, yet carried the weight of a hundred lifetimes. “You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved that. You’re not a failure. You’re—” you whispered, saying his name with the gentleness that seemed almost impossible to find in your own small body. “You’re brilliant. The way you talk about food… the way you care about feeding people… You’re good.”

The bond went quiet, taut and trembling, as if holding its breath in disbelief.

He just whispered, barely audible, “…You think so?”

The bond went quiet, taut with disbelief.

“You’re good,” you told him. Steadier now, because he needed it steady. “I don’t care what they said. You care about feeding people. You care about making something beautiful out of nothing. That makes you good. Better than any of them.”

For a long while, he said nothing. You thought maybe he had turned away again, closed himself off, retreating behind the walls he had built so carefully.

But then, faintly, softer than the tide brushing the edges of the rock, a voice.

“…No one ever said that before. Thank you.”

You shut your eyes tight, holding on to him as hard as you could through the bond. 

“Then they didn’t know you like I do.”

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It was full, fragile, and uncertain, yet it carried weight and warmth.

The days blurred together. Hunger gnawed at him until even anger seemed too heavy to carry. You stayed anyway, whispering fragments of life to keep him tethered: the way the sun dappled through your window, painting the wooden floor gold, the scent of tea steeping and curling through the morning air, the faint creak of your house settling at night, the steady hum of your father’s voice as he worked unseen in another room. Every small detail, ordinary and human, became a lifeline.

One evening, when the wind had calmed and the waves lay like dark silk against the rock, his voice came trembling, hoarse and raw with wonder.

“Zeff says there’s a sea where every fish in the world gathers. All of them. Every flavor, every recipe. He calls it the All Blue.”

You smiled softly, pressing your hands to your cheeks as warmth unfurled in your chest. “The All Blue? It sounds… like a place made for you. I bet you’ll find it. I bet you’ll see it one day.”

There was a pause, then a hesitant whisper, almost a laugh, carried along the fragile thread of the bond. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you told him, letting the certainty of your voice wrap around him like a shield. “And when you do, you won’t be alone. You’ll always have someone who believes in you.” Your chest tightened. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering through the bond with all the certainty he didn’t yet have. 

A pause. His breathing came uneven, shaky, but it was alive. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, his thoughts carried more than despair. They carried eagerness.

“All Blue,”  he murmured again, almost to himself, tasting the words like they were fragile treasures. “Maybe… maybe I really can live. When I find it, we can meet, and I’ll cook you the best food you’ve ever tasted.”

“You will,” you told him, fierce now, because he needed someone to say it without hesitation. “And I promise to eat every last bite.”

And in that moment, you made your promise, sealing it in the quiet between your hearts.

After three months, he was finally rescued.

You felt it before he said a word; an eruption across the bond. Yelling, the clatter of boots on wooden planks, the chaotic tangle of voices after so many weeks of emptiness. The sea had been his only companion, its rhythm steady and merciless. Now the noise of life came crashing back all at once, so loud it made your own ears ring as though you stood there beside him.

Relief poured through him in a wave so strong it left you dizzy. The sharp burn of salt and fear still clung to him, but under it all was the thrum of disbelief, the fragile, reckless hope of a boy who had finally been pulled from the dark.

“I made it,” he whispered, voice so thin you almost didn’t catch it. The words trembled with awe, with exhaustion, with the kind of wonder that comes only when someone honestly hadn’t expected to survive. 

“I didn’t die.”

Tears welled before you could stop them. For a heartbeat, you nearly broke. You almost told him the truth you’d buried since the day the bond had snapped and reformed into something you didn’t fully understand. The lie weighed heavily, sour at the back of your tongue.

But he sounded so small, so breakable, as if even the wrong word might unravel him. He needed certainty, not confession. So you smothered the truth and forced steadiness into your voice.

“Of course you didn’t,” you told him softly, as if it were a guarantee. “You’re going to find the All Blue.”

Age 12:

Recovery made Sanji restless. His body lagged behind the fire in his spirit, and through the bond you never had to guess at his moods. Every stubborn flare, every frustrated surge forward when his limbs trembled too soon, struck you like ripples across still water. His will to move burned bright, but his body had not yet healed enough to carry it.

“Careful,” you warned one morning when his thoughts tilted with dizziness. His pride had been swelling for days, and the pulse of impatience was impossible to miss. “If you fall flat on your face, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

A brush of dry amusement touched the tether, chased quickly by his voice. It was thin with exhaustion but still sharp, still determined.

“Please. I’ve survived worse than a tumble. Don’t worry your stupid head about moi.”

“That is debatable,” you muttered, though warmth crept in as relief. The chuckle that followed was faint but steady, and the sound carried like a lantern flame in the quiet of your mind.

He grew quieter then, his thoughts settling into a steadier rhythm, as if the very act of sharing them out loud helped.

“Old man Zeff says I’m a pain in the ass. But… he’s keeping me.”

“Keeping you? What are you, a stray cat?”

Pride flared across the tether, bright and sharp, almost enough to make you feel the grin tugging at his lips. His heartbeat quickened in the background, a rush of excitement thrumming through the connection.

“No. An apprentice cook. He’s the real deal, and he’s building something—a restaurant on the sea. A place where anyone can come from anywhere, sit down, and eat good food.”

The bond swelled with the image in his mind, so vivid it almost became your own. Ships drifted toward a floating haven, lanterns glowing across polished wood. Shutters opened wide to release warmth and laughter into the night air, while the scent of fire and spice curled into the salt-heavy wind. Beneath that vision was the sharp edge of hunger, carried quietly so you would not feel it too keenly. Yet even that hunger was tempered with pride. A boy once stranded on a rock with an old pirate now dared the ocean to bear witness to his dream.

“The Baratie,” he whispered into the bond, reverent. “That’s what he’ll call it. And I’ll be there. I’ll be the best damn cook anyone’s ever seen. Just watch me.”

Your heart clenched at the raw certainty in his voice. 

“Right now, you can barely stand.”

“Details,” he shot back, pride untouched. His voice brightened with a spark of mischief. “When I am strong again, I will cook. Something incredible.”

“Better than hardtack?” you asked, dry amusement coloring the words.

The tether flared with such mock-offense it nearly bowled you over. His indignation was a vivid rush, half fire and half laughter.

“I told you. It’ll be better than anything you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

The sound of your laugh escaped before you could help it, and it lingered between you like sunlight breaking through cloud. Beneath his bravado you felt the steady burn of his determination. It glowed fierce and unyielding, bright as a flame that no hunger, no pain, and no storm at sea could ever snuff out.

And when Sanji was well, he did cook again. A lot.

Recovery was slow. Zeff drove him hard, not with cruelty, but with conviction born of his own scars. Sanji cursed him constantly in his head, and often cursed you, too for listening.

“He is going to kill me with onions. I swear, I have chopped more in one day than I will ever need in a lifetime.”

“That’s called training, Sanji.”

“That’s called torture.”

The bond filled less and less with hunger, replaced instead by an endless stream of grumbling, complaints, and the fiery stubbornness of a boy determined to prove himself. Yet beneath the noise there was something softer. Gratitude laced through his thoughts in quiet waves, surfacing most often in the late hours when the kitchen fires had gone out and the sea hummed in the distance. He never said it outright, but you felt it all the same.

You were not the family that had cast him aside, or the sailors who had mocked his weakness, or even the teacher who barked orders with a peg leg and a scowl. You were simply there. Unmoving. Steady. And in that steadiness was a kind of healing neither of you had language for yet.

When his brain grew tired and his focus began to fray, you would casually picture the next step of whatever he was cooking and send it through the bond, a quiet reminder not to mess it up.

He usually swore at you, but the curses came softened with a warmth that made them sound almost like thanks.

And not once did you clarify that you were anything other than a boy. At this point, you were invested.

It was easier for him to believe you were just another boy, a friend who mocked and encouraged, who never left when others had. He needed to believe that he could have a companion who was male and not cruel, not dismissive, not a disappointment. And so you let him think it.

Time sharpened him. Hunger gave way to strength, and strength gave way to skill. By thirteen, his thoughts no longer trembled with despair. They carried a steadier pulse, burning with the heat of ambition and the rhythm of knives against chopping blocks.

One evening, in a lull between the chaos of the kitchen and the crash of waves against the hull, he shared the thought that had been lingering in the back of his mind. His tone was casual, but the bond hummed with a strange sort of finality.

“You know… I apologize, but I don’t think I’ll love anyone unless it’s a woman. I know we have a soulbond, but Zeff says it doesn’t always mean romantic. I think we’re one of those friend ones.”

“Ah–” 

You hesitated, your thoughts catching in your throat. Perhaps this was the moment—

“Yeah. It’s just how I am. Maybe it’s because of everything before, maybe not. But are personalities aren’t a match.” His voice was calm, steady, almost reassuring, but there was no hesitation in it. “So don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend. But that’s all it’ll be.”

You made yourself laugh, light and easy, though the sound scraped thin in your own ears. You did not let him hear the way your shoulders slumped, or the sharp, fleeting sting in your chest that you swallowed down before it could rise.

“I get it.”

And you did. At least, that was what you told yourself.

Later, when the bond dimmed to quiet for the night, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. His absence felt strange, as though he had shut a door behind him that you had not realized was there until it closed. The silence pressed down heavy, not the peaceful quiet of rest but something lonelier, something that made your ribs ache.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That his words had been honest, and honesty was something to respect. But in the hollow stillness of your own thoughts, you kept circling back to the small, unspoken truth you could not yet name.

Somewhere along the way, you had grown too soft for him. Too careful with his moods, too invested in his laughter, too warmed by his stubborn fire.

Well, damn.

You might have a little crush on Sanji. And now you had no way out but forward, pretending you were a boy, pretending it was simple, pretending the crack in your chest was not there at all.

Age 13:

He officially recovered. His bones no longer ached with every step, the lines of hunger softened into wiry strength, and the tremors in his thoughts had quieted. He still stumbled sometimes, but now it was from throwing himself too hard into the kitchen, not from weakness. Zeff barked at him daily, and Sanji barked back with twice the volume. The bond no longer carried despair or pain but sparks of energy, confidence, and a kind of mischief that was new.

Sort of recovered, then.

“Okay,” he announced one evening, voice solemn in a way that made you suspicious. “We are bro’s now, right? Brethren. Comrades. Warriors of the woman-appreciating arts.”

“...What?”

“Let us forge a new bond. You and I, respectfully, will observe boobs together.”

You dropped your fork.

“Sanji, did you trip again?”

“I have feelings.”

“You have problems.”

But here was the thing. You also admired breasts. Just, not in the way he did. For you it was more… aesthetic. You thought they were fun—A+ symmetry. Excellent form. You respected the craft. Got to admire what could be.

So a strange little alliance formed. A truce of the tit-minded. A psychic pact of boob-based brotherhood.

His commentary ran through the bond like a sports announcer, and you nearly snorted into your sleeve. You teased him for the overblown dramatics, but the truth was, this odd little ritual became a comfort. His enthusiasm was ridiculous, yes, but it also meant he was alive, recovering, burning with something other than hunger or grief.

And so you let it happen. You were his audience, his partner in the art of admiration. You kept your responses wry and unflappable, though sometimes the bond carried a flicker of his gratitude, quick and embarrassed, before he buried it under another volley of praise.

It was absurd. It was juvenile. And yet, in its own way, it stitched the two of you closer together, and you found yourself craving it for no good reason. His chatter, his nonsense, even his ridiculous devotion to breasts—all of it was proof he was still moving forward.

“That one has an arc like a crescent moon. Silk top. No bra. Controlled bounce. Elite tier.”

“Shaped like fate and a bad pick-up line.” you affirmed, deadpan.

“You’re the only one who understands me.” His tone rang with mock-seriousness, but the flicker of warmth in the bond betrayed how much he meant it.

So you offered practical analysis: comments on symmetry, fabric choices, and the way posture could affect the line of a figure. Half the time it was to tease him, but half the time it was because you wanted to see his laughter brighten the bond.

He whined at you in return, overdramatic, like you were the villain for not properly revering the holy subject.

He was still “recovering,” or so he liked to say when Zeff shoved extra work his way. But you began noticing something else. He had started to call you “bro.” Not once or twice, but often, like the title itself was a shield he was building. A word that meant trust. A word that gave him permission to lean on you without looking weak.

And every time he said it, the word settled against your ribs with a strange weight. You laughed, you played along, you answered like it was nothing. But some quiet part of you ached with the reminder that for him, you were a brother and nothing else.

He was still “recovering.” But you started noticing he referred to you as bro.

A lot.

A suspicious amount, the kind of frequency that felt less like casual slang and more like a public service announcement. As if he needed to gently, repeatedly, remind you that he liked girls and not you. Man-dude-brotherhood-bro-man.

And the thing was, you understood. He obviously had a lot of feelings bound up in being that open and vulnerable, and you were not about to take that from him. Okay. Whatever. That was fine.

Until he pushed it.

“Thanks, bro. You’re my best friend, bro. If I ever meet you in real life, we should—like. Hang out. Very platonically.”

You froze halfway through chewing, the bond buzzing with his sincerity like it was meant to be comforting. For him, it was. For you, the words landed like a slap wrapped in a smile.

“Very platonically,” you repeated, trying to keep your tone dry, like you were rolling your eyes. Like your chest did not sting.

He chuckled, pleased you were in on the joke, utterly unaware of the quiet splinter his certainty had left in you.

Later that night, when the bond dulled into silence, you lay awake staring at the dark ceiling again. His laughter still echoed faintly in your head, golden and unguarded. You should have been glad for it. Instead you bit the inside of your cheek and thought, Platonically. Right. Got it.

And then it hit you with dawning horror. He had adopted you. You were not his secret, not his crush, not his great romance. You were his platonic emotional support soulmate.

Meanwhile, he was becoming increasingly unhinged about girls.

“She said she only dates guys over six feet. I am five feet tall. The betrayal.”

You rolled over in bed and muttered, “Drink some water.”

“Thanks, mon ami. You are always there for me, bro. Even though I—” his voice dipped with melodrama, “I mistook your kindness for years. You are solid.”

You almost felt guilty. Almost.

Then, at two in the morning, he moaned out loud over crab bisque. A long, drawn-out sound of reverence that carried through the tether like a lover’s sigh.

Any trace of guilt evaporated.

Because you realized something crucial.

If Sanji kept believing you were a dude, he would not try to woo you like a starved poet begging a sandwich to elope.

And instead… you got a strange little friendship.

A greasy, puberty-soaked, psychic disaster of a friendship.

He was still a menace. But he asked for advice. You traded notes on girls. You dared each other to eat questionable things from the pantry. He narrated the glory of cleavage like a poet describing sunsets. You offered practical commentary like a weary art critic. You were twelve. It was unhinged. It was messy. It was, against all odds, kind of sweet.

He still made you scream at least once a week, whether from the sheer volume of his dramatics or because he would not shut up about thighs at two in the morning.

But it was manageable.

And then you started growing things.

Things that were inconvenient.

Things that could not be explained away as bro.

Cue your puberty arc.

It began subtly, at first. A strange heaviness in your chest. A new awareness of your body that you tried to ignore. The bond didn’t carry physical details unless you pushed, but the emotions… those were harder to hide. You kept your side of the tether tight, guarded, but sometimes he caught the edge of your self-consciousness.

“Bro, are you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound weird.”

“You sound weird.”

And just like that, the danger would pass.

But still—your shirts began to fit differently. Your reflection started betraying you. And all the while, Sanji was leaning harder and harder into his woman-obsessed arc, narrating the curve of every waitress and noblewoman like a scientist presenting field notes.

Age 14:

He told you he was growing. Taller, stronger, sharper with every pan he wielded. His voice carried pride now, not just stubbornness. You had grown used to the rhythm of his days; the way dawn began with the clang of pots and the mutter of Zeff’s curses, the sting of blistered hands pressed into the bond, the quick rush of satisfaction when a dish came out perfect.

You felt like you were watching someone stitch himself back together, piece by piece. His despair had been replaced by grit, then by fire, until at last there was something almost golden about him.

And then came the day he let slip a thought that hit you like a brick to the chest.

“You know what’s really going to make all this worth it? Women. Someday, I’ll cook for the most beautiful woman alive, and she’ll fall in love with me the second she tastes my food.”

The bond rang with his conviction, his delight in the fantasy. He was utterly sincere, the image as vivid as the flavor of butter and garlic still clinging to his thoughts.

You made a noise you hoped sounded like amusement. “A bold strategy.”

He laughed, bright and unguarded. “You’ll see. That’s what food is for, isn’t it? To make people happy. And women deserve the best.”

The warmth of his dream should have lifted you. Instead, you felt the weight of it settle into you, low and heavy. You told yourself you were only imagining the sting, that it was natural for him to think like this, that you had always known he saw you as a brother and nothing more.

He paused, the bond hitching slightly.

“You good? I just… you just felt a little down.”

You raised a brow at the ceiling. “Ah, no worries. Just, uh, the usual growing pains.”

He chuckled.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t like girls.”

“I—” You scrambled, because the truth wasn’t an option. “…I guess I do?”

Technically, it was not a lie. You liked girls the way you liked a good meal or a piece of art. You could appreciate them, admire them, even joke about them with him. But not in the way he meant. Not in the way that made his pulse quicken through the bond.

He snorted, triumphant.

“Not enough, apparently. Me, though? I’m going to love every single one of them. Every woman I meet, I’ll treat like a queen. That’s my new vow.”

You shut your eyes, groaning silently into your pillow because of course. Of course his recovery arc had to include developing a crippling devotion to women. Of course he had to declare it like a knight swearing fealty before a holy relic. And of course, you had to feel that vow burn through the bond like a brand pressed against your ribs.

Because that crush thing you were inflicted with was getting worse.

Sanji’s voice in the bond had changed. It was lower now, rougher at the edges, less like a boy clinging to survival and more like someone bracing to chase life headlong. You felt it the way you felt a storm rolling across the horizon; inevitable, electric, impossible to ignore.

His hunger for food had steadied into discipline, but now his thoughts carried a new appetite.

“I saw her again today,” he murmured one evening, his mind hazy with fatigue after a long shift in the kitchen. “One of the regulars. Gorgeous. Perfect legs. I swear the world stopped when she walked in.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your hand flat against your chest as if that would steady the sting.

“She smiled at me, too,” he added, pride flooding the tether so hard you could practically hear him grinning. “Do you think that means something?”

You forced a chuckle. “Probably that she’s polite.”

He groaned dramatically, but underneath it there was a note of hope, the kind that lit him from the inside.

“Where’s your sense of romance?”

“Don’t be an ass. Focus on serving, not peeping.”

“What? You don’t notice women like that?”

Your pulse tripped. Years of pretending to be a boy and now you were cornered by this. The last thing you could do was ruin the illusion.

“…Uh. Sure. Yeah. All the time. Constantly. I notice… uh, women every day. You know. Classic guy stuff.” There was a pause, and you panicked, scrambling for cover. “But every guy knows women need to be worshipped and not drooled over. That’s, uh, guy wisdom. Girls don’t like creeps.”

Sanji hummed, satisfied, like a teacher hearing the right answer on a test. “Huh. I knew you couldn’t be completely hopeless.”

You resisted the urge to slam your head against the wall.

You thought that would be the end of it. But Sanji, once handed an inch, never settled for less than a mile.

One evening, while he was half-burning soufflés in the kitchen and muttering half-formed pickup lines under his breath, you lamented,“If you’re going to chase every woman you see, maybe practice being charming first. Otherwise, you’ll just look like a fool.”

You regretted it instantly.

Because Sanji took those words like holy scripture.

The very next night, the bond lit up with dramatic speeches, practiced lines, and exaggerated praise you could practically hear him rehearsing in front of a mirror.

“Ah, mademoiselle, your beauty eclipses even the stars themselves!”

 “Sanji—”

 “Your smile, a radiant dawn that banishes all sorrow from this cruel world—”

“Sanji.”

“Permit me, fairest one, to kneel before you and offer my undying devotion to your left shoe—”

He ignored you completely, the bond overflowing with passion as if the kitchen itself had become a stage. You could almost hear him flourishing a towel like it was a cape.

By the time he got to “your elegance rivals even the grace of a swan gliding across moonlit waters,” you were ready to scream into your pillow.

 “Bro, Stop. Please.”

“Non! A gentleman never stops wooing a lady!”

You buried your face in your pillow, grumbling. What had you done?

From then on, his puberty years became a parade of absurd declarations. Every girl who stepped foot in the Baratie instantly transformed into, in his mind, the love of his life. A rich woman with a feathered hat, a fisher’s daughter with sunburned cheeks, a traveler with two teeth missing—none were safe from his hopeless devotion.

And every evening, you were the first to hear about it. The bond swelled with his practiced speeches, his endless metaphors, his desperate need for critique.

“Too much?”

“Way too much.”

“Perfect. I’ll say it exactly like that.”

“For Zeff’s sanity, please don’t.”

But he did anyway. And then he came back, giddy or sulking, depending on how badly he had embarrassed himself, and you had to listen to the post-mortem analysis of every failed attempt.

You suffered in silence, because what else could you do? You had built your own prison. The lie of being a boy. The softness you could not take back. The friendship he needed too much to risk breaking.

And Sanji, blissfully unaware, leaned on you as his confidant, his partner in practice, his “fellow admirer of women.”

It was a special sort of hell.

You were just trying to brush your teeth when your soulmate started narrating—again.

“Her hands brushed mine. Soft. Like marshmallows dipped in grace.”

You spat into the sink. 

“She said thank you.” 

“I think I’m in love. Do I name a pastry after her? Is that weird?”

You gagged on your toothpaste.

“You are a child.”

“And?” His voice carried genuine confusion, tinged with indignation. “Love is timeless, bro.”

You wiped your mouth with a towel and glared at the ceiling. “So is stupidity. You cried last week because a girl said you had nice eyebrows.”

“It was INTIMATE.”

And you were far, far too deep to climb out now.

“Brother.”

“No.”

“We are kin. Warrior spirits bonded across time and soup.”

“Shut up.”

“I still see beauty in the world. I’ve merely changed lenses. My heart has expanded. Bro.”

“You cannot telepathically call me bro every five seconds and then immediately describe boobs as 'God’s softest punch.'

“Boobs transcend all.”

"This is true. But unnecessary to say every day.”

It did not matter. Because that night, while you were trying to go to sleep, Sanji started sending mental updates like a sports announcer covering cleavage.

“Ten o’clock. Red dress. Moderate sway. 8/10 bounce, but tasteful.”

You rolled onto your side and dragged the blanket over your head. 

“Correction. I need a witness. You are my witness.”

You buried your face into the review you’ve been editing, snorting. He did not stop. By the end of the week, he had expanded into nicknames, tossing them at you with the same fervor as his boob reports.

“King.”

“My dude.”

“Weaponized vibes.”

You cracked one eye open at the ceiling in the dark. “You are unbelievable.”

“I am a visionary,” he replied smugly.

It was ridiculous. It was exhausting. It was Sanji. And somehow, that alone made it bearable.

Age 15:

At fourteen, Sanji was a menace. And he was developing style.

“Oi’. Broski. Titties, man. Classic. Anyway, you see that one server in the green dress? Perfect. Like two scoops of gelato blessed by Aphrodite.”

He no longer just muttered about women. He sang their praises through the bond, reciting poetry so dramatic you could practically hear him falling to one knee with every word. Every customer who came through the Baratie became a goddess, a queen, a divine miracle who, apparently, required his undivided devotion.

“Her smile, my brother-in-tits. Her smile could cure wars.”

 “She asked you for water, Sanji.”

 “And I gave it to her with my whole heart!”

You had stopped trying to talk him down. Instead, you learned to play along. Not for the same reasons, but because it kept him busy.

“Well, she didn’t have much to look at. 

 A horrified gasp. 

“Are you blind? Her curves were—”

 “I just meant… they weren’t very… notable.”

A stunned pause, then laughter so loud it filled the bond. “You absolute gremlin. You do have a preference!”

You coughed, eyes darting toward your own chest. “I’m allowed to have a preference. Besides, girls with ass are better.”

“My soulmate is a degenerate. I can’t believe this.”

From then on, he teased you mercilessly, accusing you of being “hopelessly shallow.” You countered with smug commentary every time he got rejected. It became its own rhythm: strange, ironic, two “boys” talking like the world’s greatest connoisseurs of women when in reality one of you was just trying to keep your cover intact.

Meanwhile, your own world moved differently. Your dad’s work kept you seated at white-clothed tables and beneath chandeliers, tasting menus designed to impress lords and merchants. You learned to sit quietly while your father scribbled notes, dissecting flavors with the precision of a painter.

Sanji always listened when you described the meals. He was convinced you were wealthy and spoiled (neither true). Sometimes he even asked, eager and jealous, begging you to tell him the details so he could memorize the dishes. But one night, after you recounted the sauces and spices of a grand restaurant, you let the critic rumor mill slip:

 “I read the big critics don’t think the Baratie is popular enough to visit. Not yet.”

The bond went very still.

Then came the explosion.

“What?! Those stuffed aristocrats wouldn’t know real food if it kicked them in the teeth! The Baratie isn’t good enough? I’ve bled for every plate that leaves our kitchen! Zeff lost his leg for this dream! How dare they—”

You winced, though a smile tugged at your lips. 

“I didn’t say it.”

Technically, your dad did.

“I don’t care who said it! They’re wrong! They think food is about gold leaf and porcelain, but food is about heart. About feeding people until they’re whole again. You tell them—” He stopped short, realizing you probably couldn’t actually repeat any of this at the dinner table.

His voice softened, though the fire was still burning hot underneath. “…You tell them they’ll eat their words one day. When a real critic comes, they’ll beg for a seat at the Baratie.”

You shut your eyes, warmed by his conviction. 

“I’ll put in a good word.”

Which was about as much as you telepathically gave him, because he was not getting any memories these days. Not a glimpse. Not a hint. Your own body had begun betraying you. Puberty had hit like a freight train, and you were scrambling to keep the wreckage hidden. Your boobs were real now, undeniable, inconvenient—and Sanji, blessedly, had no clue.

At least… not consciously.

But he was getting weirdly twitchy. It was like his boob radar had somehow become telepathic, as if he could sense through the bond that something was off.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m doing things.”

“…Your voice is different. Lighter?”

You immediately dropped your tone two octaves, telepathically forcing it down until you sounded like a twelve-year-old Batman.

“It’s a cold.”

He didn’t buy it. 

“You didn’t rate Bodega Babe’s strut yesterday.”

“Didn’t see it.”

Silence. Then, in the most serious tone you had ever heard from him, “Bro… are you okay?”

“I’m getting a mustache.”

“…Liar. You're lying. I feel lies in my sternum.”

“You have heartburn from sipping tequila and flirting with that barista.”

“…Her apron said ‘Anna’ and she looked at me like she knew I was broken.”

“She was trying to see the menu behind you.”

He groaned like a widower in a tragic opera. “No. No, there was heat in her gaze. The way her eyes lingered… she knew my soul.”

“Bro. Just give up.”

“Never.”

Age 16-17:

By sixteen, the bond had become its own language.

You and Sanji had built an unspoken routine. Whenever you saw a woman you thought he would appreciate, you sent him the image; a mental snapshot, the slope of a shoulder in candlelight, a flash of laughter caught in passing, the swish of a skirt in summer air. In return, he sent you whatever goddess had graced the Baratie’s doors that day.

It became a game. A trade of devotion. His mind brimmed with waitresses and travelers, merchants’ wives and noblewomen who barely noticed him. Yours offered fleeting glimpses of strangers at white-clothed tables, a baroness with pearls, a maid balancing too many trays, a girl ducking into a carriage before the rain.

Each “delivery” came with commentary.

“Perfect symmetry, mon ami. Like gelato crafted by divine hands.”

“She was holding soup, Sanji.”

“And yet she elevated it.”

Or:

“She was laughing. Not at me, just… laughing. Freckles. She’s a goddess.”

“Her shoes were mismatched.”

“Unnatural grace and style. An icon.” Then Sanji upgraded the system. He started sending you boob reports.

“Saw some today. Real ones. Bounce: controlled. Shirt: lavender. Nine out of ten.”

You nearly dropped your spoon. “Sanji, I’m eating cereal.”

“Respectfully, I cried.”

The reports did not stop.

“Waitress, navy dress. Bend-and-reach maneuver. Ten out of ten. Possibly life-changing.”

You rubbed your eyes. “I was trying to book a ticket and had to hang up.”

“This is more important, bro. The geometry alone.”

By the third week, you were convinced he thought he was running an international broadcast.

“Breaking news: traveler in a sundress. Subtle sway. Excellent posture. That’s a nine-point-five.”

“Breaking news: shut up.”

And still, you laughed. Because underneath the ridiculous commentary, there was the steady thrum of his pride, his joy, his eagerness to share his world with you.

Then the nicknames began.

It became ritual. He would announce himself through the bond at random hours like he was stepping onto a stage. “Greetings, my Bro-mate, Chest Wingman, Prophet of Sauce. Today I bring tidings of cleavage most divine—”

“Shut it, Milk Brain.”

“I am wounded. A dagger to the soul.”

“Good. Emergency Mute Mode: activated.”

He laughed so hard you could feel it shaking in your own ribs, a joy so loud it almost made the ridiculousness worth it. Almost.

It was absurd. It was crude. It was also your favorite game.

Your dad caught you more than once staring off into space at dinner, brow furrowed, lips twitching. He thought you were daydreaming.

You were not daydreaming.

You were arguing telepathically with a tiny French pervert about whether boobs were better framed by overalls or sundresses.

You failed an entire tasting test because he yelled “CUP SIZE!” mid-aperitif, nearly making you choke on your water. Your father circled something in his notes with a frown while you fought not to slam your head on the table.

Through it all, you remained his mysterious “bro.” His fellow appreciator of form. His sacred partner in bounce. The Brotherhood of Boobs, sworn and eternal.

And it was ridiculous. He still thought you were a guy. Meanwhile, you were actively growing boobs of your own. It was getting harder to hide. But somehow, the Brotherhood endured.

“Look at her. She’s magnificent! That smile, that dress—”

“Her bust is the only magnificent part. Ass is zero out of seven.”

 “You shameless little bastard.”

 “Takes one to know one.”

You were “boys-boys,” as Sanji once put it, laughing until his sides hurt. Two comrades-in-arms, endlessly cataloging the wonders of womanhood like explorers mapping out forbidden lands.

And yet… it was not the exact truth for you. Not anymore. His laughter lit the bond in ways you could not laugh away. His pride, his joy, the way he let you glimpse his dreams and frustrations—it all pressed too close to the parts of you you could not admit.

The Brotherhood was real. But so was the ache it left behind.

Your own body was changing, and you hated it. You stood in front of the mirror some nights, pressing your palms flat against your chest, willing yourself to grow into the kind of curves Sanji adored. Triple JJJ’s, impossible, cartoonish, but still you wished. The reflection only disappointed you. Too slow. Too uneven. Too far from the illusion of the “bro” you pretended to be.

And worse: your heart stuttered for men, not women. You could admire a lovely figure, sure. You could acknowledge beauty the way one admired a painting or a jewel, but the fire Sanji felt, that restless hunger, never came to you.

But when a handsome waiter leaned over your table at one of your dad’s dinners, you went scarlet so fast you nearly choked on your drink.

And in the bond, Sanji’s voice was laughing and bright, oblivious.

She must’ve been stunning. Tell me, what did her legs look like?”

You forced a laugh, forcing the lie with it.

“Perfect. Great rear end.”

The word scraped your throat raw as it went out.

And Sanji, satisfied, launched into another ode about curves and goddesses, while you sat under the chandelier with your pulse still racing, wishing the truth did not feel so sharp.

Age 18:

It happened at a random dinner, or at least it felt that way to you. The chandeliers burned bright above, spilling gold across polished wood and crystal glass. The guests were not ordinary diners. They were the names behind columns, the voices that could crown a chef or sink an establishment in a single night. Each laugh, each whispered aside carried the weight of authority.

And then there was… the bird.

Amid the swirl of velvet coats and silk gowns sat a giant white bird. Not a roast pheasant on a platter. Not a metaphor. An actual bird. His feathers caught the candlelight in gleaming arcs, his wings folded with precise neatness as if they had been tailored for the chair he occupied. A crisp suit clung to his frame, the silver buttons polished, the fabric dark enough to make his plumage blaze like snow. A monocle gleamed on one sharp eye, and every so often, he tapped his beak against the rim of his wineglass like he was testing its acoustics.

“Is that… a giant bird?” you whispered.

As if on cue, the bird dipped his quill into an inkwell balanced beside the breadbasket and began scribbling in a leather journal, pausing only to sample the soup with exaggerated delicacy. The monocle flashed. The soup trembled. The bird sighed.

“Christ,” you muttered, leaning back. “I’m going insane.”

Sanji’s voice buzzed through the bond, curious. “What’s wrong?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Nothing. Just… an albatross in a tuxedo judging consommé.”

There was a pause. Then, delighted laughter. “Bro. Introduce me immediately.”

Your father noticed your stare. He did not look surprised. He only leaned slightly toward you, his voice pitched low so it folded into the murmur of the hall.

“Big News Morgans,” he said, with the calm certainty of a man naming the weather. His gaze lingered on the avian guest, then returned to you. “He is likely looking for new talent. Perhaps you could impress him.”

You blinked. “The bird writes?”

“With impeccable scandal. And he’s a man, likely ate a devil fruit. Be careful, but I hear he has a soft spot for hiring young women.”

The words carried more weight than the clinking glasses and murmured reviews around you. In a room full of critics, here sat the one who could spread a story across seas, who could make an unknown name a legend before dessert was cleared from the table. The very thought made your stomach tighten.

By eighteen, you had developed a skill your father now openly bragged about. You were no longer simply listening at the table. You were tasting, weighing, dissecting dishes with a tongue sharpened by years of watching critics work. You knew the way salt could drown rather than lift, the way an herb could be wasted if torn instead of bruised, the way fire left its mark in bitterness or brilliance, depending on the cook’s hand.

And Sanji, nosy as ever, chimed in across the tether. “Okay, but does the albatross wear pants, or just the tuxedo jacket?”

You bit back a laugh into your napkin. 

“Sanji. This bird could end your career before it starts.”

“Then I must woo him. Brother, tell him my soufflés weep for recognition.”

You had to block him, clamping down hard on the tether before you burst out laughing in front of half the nation’s food elite.

“Focus, my dear,” your father said, eyes bright. “Show these amateurs true taste.”

Your father leaned back, watching with a glint of approval as you delivered your verdicts. Sometimes you flayed a dish with a single phrase sharp enough to make the chef pale. At other times,, you praised with a precision that made even the most jaded critic pause, made even the proudest chef glow. You were not a mimic, not a parrot of the older voices around the table. You had developed a style all your own, one that cut straight to the marrow of a meal.

And hilariously, Sanji had no idea why you knew food so well. He could not stand it. 

“Bro, how the hell do you know what a reduction is? You’re a liar.”

“I read things.”

“You’re a fraud. You don’t even cook. You’re just sitting in some velvet chair sipping soup while real men blister their hands in the kitchen.”

“Real men don’t cry because a girl said their eyebrows looked nice.”

“Low blow, you snobby moron.”

He called you that three times a week now. Snobby moron. And every time, you grinned into your napkin, because it was the closest he had ever come to admitting he was jealous.

The bond crackled whenever you corrected him. He would plate something too quickly, a hint of bitterness lingering in the sauce, and your thought would slip through before you could stop it.

“Too much zest. It drowns the cream instead of balancing it.”

His pride roared back instantly. 

“What do you know?”

“Enough to taste your mistake without even touching the plate.”

“Liar,” he snapped, but there was a waver of uncertainty, a boy who hated that you could pinpoint the very flaw gnawing at his own tongue.

You did not gloat, but you did not soften either. You had been raised in a world where words could elevate or destroy, and when it came to food, there was no space for half-truths. Precision mattered. Honesty mattered.

Sanji seethed, furious that someone so far away could dismantle him more cleanly than Zeff’s barked orders ever could. His outrage poured through the tether like smoke, thick and bitter.

And yet beneath it, buried deep under the heat, there was something more dangerous. A reluctant edge of pride. Grudging respect.

Because the worst part, the part that made him hiss “snobby moron” like a curse and a prayer all at once, was that you were good enough.

And you were good enough.

That dinner had been loud with laughter and the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, but it was your words that cut clean through the noise. You had spoken without hesitation, your critique balanced between precision and bite, and the table had gone still enough that even the quartet faltered mid-note.

Across the hall, the great white bird leaned forward. His monocle caught the light as his keen eye fixed on you. For a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped, if your father’s approving smile was not enough to shield you from the sudden attention.

Then Big News Morgans laughed. It was a booming, unapologetic sound that silenced every other conversation in the room. He clapped his feathered wings together once, a gesture that was strangely elegant despite the force behind it.

“Big News! A sharp new talent,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “The tongue of a critic, but not the stale kind. Young, biting, fresh. I like it.”

Your father inclined his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Morgans’ gaze returned to you, pinning you in place as surely as talons. “You will dine with me again. And not just here. I want you under my wing.” His beak curved in something between a grin and a threat. “The world runs on words, and mine run faster than anyone’s. A voice like yours belongs in print.”

There was no question in his tone, only certainty. Around you, murmurs began to ripple, critics shifting uncomfortably at the thought of a seventeen-year-old being plucked from the table and lifted straight into Morgans’ empire.

You swallowed once, pulse quickening, then inclined your head. “If you think I am worth the ink.”

The bird’s laugh thundered again. “Ink is the cheapest part. Talent is the rarest.”

And just like that, you were hired.

You barely made it back to your room before you shoved the news across the bond, your excitement spilling over before you could rein it in.

“I got hired.”

There was a beat of silence, then Sanji’s laugh slid into your head, smug and sharp. 

“Of course you did. Rich kid like you? Daddy probably lined something up so you can sit in a big chair and look important.”

Your smile tightened. 

“It was not my father.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” he scoffed. “Let me guess. A nice office, some tea poured for you, perhaps a pretty secretary taking notes while you nap? Sounds exhausting.”

“You really are an ass.”

“I am just saying,” he replied, utterly unbothered, “People like you do not actually work. You just… attend things. Sit in rooms. Pretend it is hard.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping. “You will eat those words.”

“Yeah? How? Mail me a snack schedule?” He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.

You cut the bond with a sharp tug, leaving him in the dark. Let him stew. He had no idea what you were really capable of.

And so you sharpened your pen.

When a colleague’s notes on a restaurant crossed your desk, you recognized the name instantly.

The Baratie. Zeff’s floating dream. Sanji’s pride.

You should have set it aside. You should have let another writer take it. Instead, you read every line of the notes, every dish described in painstaking detail, every weakness scribbled in the margins. You pictured them in your head, weighed them as though the plates were set steaming before you.

Your words spilled onto the page like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

By the time you finished, your critique was scathing enough to sting but precise enough to stand the test of time. You did not lie. You did not invent. You simply pressed your advantage, every word honed sharper than the last. The seasoning was uneven. The bread lacked air. A sauce overreduced and saved too late. All true. All damning.

When the piece went to print, you sat back and stared at your reflection in the ink-stained window. The press clattered behind you, sheets still wet with fresh black letters, your byline gleaming at the top of the page.

Somewhere across the sea, Sanji would read it. Somewhere across the bond, he would not know it was you.

And yet you could already imagine his outrage, the way it would crash into you like a storm.

It was only a matter of time.

And you wondered, just for a moment, if you had gone too far.

A month passed.

Sanji read it.

And fumed.

The bond quivered like it might snap under the sheer heat of his outrage.

“WHO THE HELL DOES THIS CRITIC THINK THEY ARE?!” His voice blared into your skull, raw and furious. “They called our bread FLAT. FLAT! Zeff nearly broke his teeth on the counter when I read that out loud!”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, fighting a laugh. “Well… was it flat?”

“That is not the point!”

“It kind of sounds like the point.”

“A point?” His fury spiked, every word shaking with disbelief. “A point?! He called us clowns! A clown in my own kitchen! Do you know what that means?”

You hummed lightly, hiding your grin behind the quiet. 

“Maybe they were just… honest.”

The bond nearly caught fire. 

“Honest? That was slander wrapped in smug punctuation! Zeff worked on that menu for days, and this smug quill-pusher tears it all apart as if it were a joke! He does not know a damn thing about sweat, about knives, about fire—”

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad. Maybe he has high expectations?”

“Shut up!” Sanji barked, though his voice cracked more like a sulky boy than a hardened chef. “He said the only redeeming thing was the dining hall! The hall! As if Zeff’s dream is just a pretty room, and my food is the circus inside it. I swear, when I find him—”

“What will you do, cook him to death?”

There was a beat of silence, the bond tight with sputtering indignation. Then he exploded again, louder than before.

“I’ll break his hands so he can never write again! I’ll throw him in the pantry and drown him in cream sauce! I’ll—”

Ah, vengeance.

You were already laughing, the sound ringing bright and merciless between you.

Sanji seethed, pacing like a caged lion on the other end of the tether, his fury spilling in jagged bursts you could barely keep up with. Every insult from the article echoed through his mind, as if he were being stabbed with them anew.

“You’re sounding very colorful for someone who insists he’s not a clown.”

That only stoked the flames higher. Sanji raged louder, inventing punishments, swearing vengeance, and declaring that he would track the writer down and force him to beg for forgiveness with a mouth stuffed full of failed soufflé.

To him, you were only laughing in the wings, needling him while some faceless, feather-penned villain ruined his reputation before it even had time to grow. He had no idea you had sharpened the ink yourself, that your words had been the blade.

And Morgans’ paper sold more copies than ever. The review spread like fire through the city, carried by hawks and whispered in taverns. Chefs argued, critics gossiped, patrons demanded to see the floating restaurant for themselves. Zeff scowled at the attention, Sanji boiled with humiliation, and Morgans smiled like a king counting coins.

Your name was not attached, of course. Critics like you purposely remained faceless, your power magnified by anonymity. Diners argued over which paper you belonged to, chefs cursed your unseen hand, and Morgans reveled in the sales spike each review brought.

Sanji had no idea.

However, that never stopped you from criticizing him inside his head. If anything, you relished the privilege.

“Too much pepper.”

He cursed you, seethed at you, accused you of being possessed by the ghost of some cranky Parisian food critic. But beneath every insult was the truth he could not shake: you were right.

And you knew it.

“What do you mean the soup was unbalanced?” he snarled one evening, practically shaking through the bond. “I balanced the stock perfectly!”

“Balanced for peasants, maybe,” you teased, lips curving against your glass of wine. But it lacked depth—no layering of flavor. A critic would call it pedestrian. I saw that oily sheen. No wonder the review was poor.”

“Pedestrian?! I’ll show you pedestrian! One day you’ll eat my cooking and beg for forgiveness, snob.”

You only laughed, and he could feel it, which made him angrier. Which made you laugh harder.

“Do you want some consolation boobs?” you offered sweetly.

There was a long beat of sulky silence.

“…yes.”

“Okay, but only if you stop moaning over soup.”

The bond went quiet, sulk melting into reluctant laughter, and you smiled into your wineglass.

Age 19:

You were both working. You were also both unwell.

Sanji had taken to writing tragic haikus about cleavage.

“Two orbs of sorrow / Lifted by the gods of light / My heart collapses.”

You were collecting them in a notebook titled He Needs Help But I Can’t Afford Therapy. It already had a table of contents and an appendix.

People thought you were talking to your imaginary friend. Which… you were. He just also happened to be real, French, and one wrong flirtation away from a restraining order.

It was the era of shame.

At least once a week, someone caught you mid-conversation with him.

A waiter: “Can I take your order, miss?”

You: “No, Sanji, you cannot compare her legs to linguine.”

The waiter: “…I’ll come back.”

Your dad: “What did you just mutter?”

 You: “I said… ah… metaphors are inappropriate in braise.”

Your dad: “…Right.”

Sanji, delighted, never stopped.

“Bro, listen: ‘Her beauty—like a fine béchamel, warm, silky, devastating.’”

“Stop.”

“Write that down.”

“I am not enabling you.”

You groaned into your sleeve, because the worst part was, you did write it down. And the notebook grew heavier by the day.

The era of shame grew.

Eventually, you gave up entirely. You were now a man. Resistance was futile. You leaned into the madness.

The two of you began sharing live field reports like wildlife documentaries—except pervier.

“Observe, brother, the rare Café Waitress in her natural habitat. Note the impeccable posture as she balances three lattes, each step a testament to grace.”

You whispered back, crouched over your desk, trying not to laugh. “Yes, and notice the bounce. Controlled. Efficient. The herd respects her dominance.”

“Magnificent.”

By mid-summer, the broadcasts had gone fully David Attenborough.

“Ah, Bro, a bookstore maiden approaches. Sundress, floral print, hemline breezy. Watch closely as she bends for the bottom shelf.”

“Copy that. Arc noted. Display: subtle. Would rank in the lavender blouse tier.”

“You are a scholar. A prophet.”

And the shame deepened. Because not only were you participating, you were good at it. Too good.

The notebook was no longer just a log of tragic haikus. It was an encyclopedia. A field guide. A collaboration.

You had stopped fighting. Somewhere along the way, resistance crumbled, dignity collapsed, and you accepted your fate: you were now a man. Or at least, you were Sanji’s man. His partner. His “bro-mate.” His fellow soldier in what had become the Brotherhood of Bounce.

Sanji, smug bastard that he was, had never been prouder.

It began casually, as everything did with him. A stray comment here, an enthusiastic note there. But by nineteen, the two of you had perfected an unholy art: live field reports. Delivered in solemn tones, with the gravitas of wildlife documentaries—except, of course, much, much pervier.

“Monday. Three seventeen,” he whispered into your skull one afternoon. “Lady at the fruit stand you saw. Bent over. Full coverage but optimal curve.”

You sighed, trying not to choke on your tea.

“That’s Brenda. She gave me a grape once.”

“Saint Brenda.”

And so it went. The Brotherhood developed a sacred code. This was no longer about lust. No—it had transcended that. This was about form. Motion. Physics. Respect. Perhaps even, in the strangest corners of your soul, a slight fear of God.

Naturally, a system emerged. Bounce Quality. Support Integrity. Style-to-Movement Ratio. Spiritual Impact. Reports came coded, assessed, debated, and filed.

“Babe in the hallway,” you murmured once, sitting stiff-backed at a dinner you were meant to be paying attention to. “Slow sway. Cardigan over camisole. Hidden but felt. Eight out of ten.”

Sanji’s breath caught. “Emotional resonance?”

You swirled your wine, contemplative. 

“Haunting.”

He practically clutched his chest. “Poetry, bro.”

You stopped blinking when he started screaming reports like battle cries.

“White blouse with buttons—UNSTABLE STRUCTURE. Wool sweater, minimal effect but loaded potential. Maiden of First Class just dropped a form. Heaven wept.”

You whispered, “Sanji, please,” into your sleeve during a fancy work event, praying no one noticed your shoulders shaking.

But more often than not,, you found yourself reporting in, too.

You were mid-bite into a sandwich once when instinct overtook you. “Middle-aged lady in yoga pants just power-walked past me. Unreal bounce. Like—built-in metronome.”

The bond went silent. Then, soft as confession, he spoke.

“…I love you, man.”

You scowled at your bread. “Don’t make this weird.”

“No,, I mean platonically. Like, I’d kill for your insight.”

“That’s worse.”

And still, you kept going. Once, you described a tank top so moving Sanji burst into song. Out loud. To himself. In public. He was slapped by the sous-chef for “inappropriate humming,” and you laughed until your ribs hurt.

By then, the system had been formalized. Reports came with sign-offs. He would end transmissions with: “Bounce: logged.”

You start replying: 

“Approved.”

“Noted.”

“Emotionally scarring.”

“Filed under religion.”

It was absurd. It was cursed.

He still didn’t know. He still thought you were a boy. He still thought you were just another cretin in this glorious puberty war. Meanwhile, you were growing actual boobs; real, undeniable, inconvenient. And every day, you prayed he never mentioned you in a field report by accident.

You lived in fear of the day he said, “Found the All Blue. We should meet. Like true bro’s. For good food. To judge the tits in person. Like true bros.”

Because you knew, when that day came, you’d have to bury your face in your pillow, punch it once, and scream yourself hoarse.

-X-Branching Out?-X-

Your days had settled into a rhythm, if a rhythm could be called exhausting. Mornings meant bantering with Morgans, the bird leaning back in his chair like a feathery king, dictating headlines with the imperious air of someone who knew the world bent around his words. Afternoons were for playing editor, scouring drafts, trimming excess adjectives, sharpening the knives of other critics’ work. Evenings were for planning. Restaurant review trips had to be mapped in secret, your face tucked behind menus and veils, slipping into dining rooms as if you were nothing more than another guest.

And then came the writing. Always the writing. Words bled out of you in midnight hours, your pen slicing through dishes with precision, your voice honed until it was sharp enough to make chefs sweat oceans away.

Sometimes, when the ink dried and the city slept, you let the bond tug you back toward Sanji. But it was less frequent now, a thread you picked up only when the silence felt too heavy. You could not tell him much. Not that you were a girl. Not that you were a reviewer. Not that you were the one critic whose words still festered in his chest like a wound he could not close.

Other reviews of the Baratie had surfaced in lesser papers. Pale imitations, lacking Morgans’ reach or your bite. But none carried the same clout. None traveled the seas with the speed of the World Economy News.

And Sanji held a grudge.

Against Morgans. Against the paper. Against the mysterious critic whose name never appeared in print but whose words burned themselves into his pride.

“They will come back,” he muttered once across the bond, his voice low and stormy. “That critic. They will write about us again. And this time, I will make them eat every single word.”

You bit your lip, staring at the draft on your desk, your own handwriting damning him all over again.

“…Maybe.”

However, it seemed you did not need to worry about critics for the moment, because something far more interesting happened. Sanji’s thoughts came crashing into yours like a tray of plates dropped from the second floor, loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. He was not thinking about sauces or balance or vengeance anymore. He was thinking about people. A whole table of them. And from the sheer drama pouring through the bond, you braced yourself the way one might before a storm or a stage play that promised disaster.

“You should see these guests. Zeff’s going to blow a gasket. There’s one with a Straw hat that walked in like the king of the sea. .”

You set your pen down, already suspicious. “Straw hat?”

“Yeah, loud brat with a stomach bigger than the sea. He ordered enough food to bankrupt a kingdom and then asked if we could put it on credit. Credit! Who does that?”

“Apparently your new best friend.” 

Sanji scoffed.

“Do not curse me like that. He smiled at me. Like I was family. He doesn’t even know me. I hate him.”

The way his thoughts tripped over themselves told you he did not hate him at all. Maybe even respected him.

“And the swordsman,” Sanji went on, fury building. “Green hair. Dead eyes. Orders more booze than food. Calls me waiter like I’m not an artist. Fell asleep at the table with his swords still out. I should strangle him with parsley.”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

“He is the bane of my existence. He chews like a cow and he has no appreciation for women. None. Zero. The man is a barbarian. If we were not in public I would have kicked him through the wall by now.”

“And the long nose?”

“Oh, him? He cried when the bill came. Actual tears. Claimed he had some tragic medical condition called Broke Disease. The chef almost kicked him overboard.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Sanji…”

“And then there is her.” His voice softened instantly, dazed and reverent. “Ginger hair. Eyes like midnight. She walks like the sea parts to let her pass. A goddess among mortals. She is the one. I will devote my life to her. I will die for her.”

You groaned aloud. “What did she say to you?”

“She asked for breadsticks.”

“…Breadsticks?”

“Yes. Breadsticks! And when I brought them, she nodded. Nodded, bro. Like I was nothing. Like I was beneath the very floorboards she stood on. I have never known such heavenly cruelty. I love her.”

Of course.

His thoughts flickered in and out for the rest of the day, bright bursts of absurd declarations followed by long silences that made you uneasy. At first you dismissed it as typical Sanji melodrama, but soon you began to sense that something was different. His thoughts were unsteady, restless; like a boy pacing in circles, waiting for a decision he didn’t know how to make.

“They’re idiots,” he muttered through the bond at one point, his voice ragged with fatigue and irritation. “Loud, reckless… that swordsman eats like a wild dog. And the captain? He’s insane.”

You almost smiled despite yourself.

“You like them.”

“I don’t!” His protest came too quickly, too sharp, as if he was trying to convince himself more than you. “They’re trouble. They’ll sink within a week. And yet—” 

He cut himself off, but the bond carried what his words did not: the hum of curiosity, the restless tug of something he couldn’t shake.

From what you could glean, the Baratie that day was chaos incarnate. Clattering pans and barking orders. The stomp of boots on deck. The perfume-slick laughter of women drifting in from the dining floor. Sanji thrived in it, a young man with fire in his hands and foolish poetry on his tongue. Yet beneath all of that, the bond hummed with unease.

You felt it before he ever said a word: the restless pacing of his thoughts, the way he turned one possibility over and over until it bruised.

And then he closed himself off. Not completely, but enough that you felt the pressure of his silence, like a locked door pressed against your palms. He was thinking something over. Something heavy.

“You okay?” you asked gently, pushing aside the mounds of paper on your desk so you could focus.

Sanji startled, his thoughts jerking open with a flash of panic. “I’m fine, it’s just…” He hesitated, the pause thick with things unsaid. “I was asked to join a crew. Those diners I mentioned earlier? Pirates. The idiot in the hat was their captain, and I guess they were looking for a cook. But I can’t just leave here—”

Zeff’s presence filled the bond, a looming figure shadowing every word. The Baratie was more than a restaurant to Sanji. It was his home, his proving ground, his stage. The dream he had bled for. Your own reviews had sent streams of new customers through its doors, and though Sanji cursed the critic responsible (unknowingly cursing you), he also thrived on their praise. Each full dining hall set his pride ablaze.

Yet beneath that blaze another feeling stirred, quieter but sharper.

Trapped.

The Baratie, for all its good, was also like a cage. Another call whispered to him every time he glanced at the horizon: the sea, endless and untamed, the promise of the All Blue waiting somewhere out there. Not to be served to him, not to dock at his door, but to be hunted, chased, claimed with his own two hands.

He finally admitted it one night, his voice heavy in the bond, words dragged out of him like secrets from the deep.

“They are going to the Grand Line. Where the All Blue is.”

You smiled into the quiet of your room, eyes sparkling despite yourself. He did not see what you saw. In his restless frustration and scorn, there was a pull he could not hide. Curiosity, hope, even longing.

“You do like them,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he shot back, but the denial rang hollow, the bond humming with contradiction.

“You want to go,” you pressed gently, your voice soft but steady. “Go with them, Sanji. They’ll take you farther than the Baratie ever can.”

For a long moment, the bond was still. Then you felt it; the shudder of fear, the sharp ache of loyalty, the heavy weight of Zeff’s dream pressing down on him like an anchor.

And underneath it all, the tiniest flicker of possibility—bright, fragile, hampered by guilt.

“If I walk away after everything Zeff did for me… isn’t that betrayal?”

You had felt the question for weeks before he finally spoke it. It had gnawed at him quietly, surfacing in the restless pacing of his thoughts, in the way his pride wavered when the Straw Hats came to mind.

The question struck hard. You let him sit with it, let him wrestle with it in silence, because it was not an answer he could swallow if you fed it too quickly. He had to arrive at it himself.

And now, as he stood trembling in a kitchen that smelled of home and goodbye, the weight of onions and seawater thick in the air, you answered steady as stone.

“You can ask him. You should. But I don’t think Zeff saved you so you could live his dream. He saved you so you could find yours.”

The bond went silent, not in resistance, but in shock. Like he had never once considered that possibility. He bristled, clinging to the fear that had always shadowed him. 

“And if I never find it? If the All Blue’s just a dream?”

You closed your eyes, whispering into the dark. ‘

“Then at least you’ll have lived trying. And that’s worth more than staying still.”

He didn’t answer, but the bond shifted. No longer storm-tossed, no longer thrashing against its own cage. Quieter now. As if the sea inside him had found its tide. You felt the change ripple through him. The Straw Hats’ laughter bled faintly into the bond, bright and chaotic, full of life. For the first time, he let it in.

The bond went still. For a heartbeat, you thought you had lost him to silence.

Then he laughed. Sharp, defiant, brittle with the weight of tears he refused to shed. 

“Tch. Don’t think you’re the reason I’m going, dude. I’m only going because the All Blue’s out there, and so are a million beautiful women waiting to be swept off their feet.”

You smiled into your pen, a smear of ink on your fingers and cheek, even as your chest ached with something you could not name.

“Whatever you say.”

The bond pulsed once, warm with a pride that was almost tender, and then it faded back into the background hum of pots clattering, voices shouting, and a boy stepping toward a future he could not yet see.

But the next morning, he was packed and ready to go.

The Straw Hats were waiting at the dock, their ship bobbing bright against the horizon like a promise. Zeff barked at him in his usual gruff way, calling him an ungrateful brat, a fool, a cook barely fit to chop onions. The crew jeered, waving pans like banners, throwing insults meant to hide the shine in their eyes.

On the deck, Sanji bowed low to Zeff, his forehead almost touching the boards. His voice broke against his will as he thanked the man who had given him both a dream and a life. He swore he would never waste either. The cooks heckled him louder, hiding their grief behind mockery, and Zeff kicked him in the ribs one last time just to prove the point.

And then he turned. His hand waved in the sea wind, legs steady even as his heart stuttered, and he walked toward the Straw Hats.

Every step carried the echo of your whisper. Every step was yours as much as it was his. And when he turned at last to follow them, his heart pounding with fear and fire.

“Go, Sanji. Chase what you love. Chase the All Blue.”

The bond thrummed, bright and wordless, and for the first time in years, he did not argue.

The next day, you booked a trip to the East Blue.

[gotaksboyfie]

trinkets

pairing vasco x gender neutral reader

summary vasco is a simple man. he sees a pretty item, he brings it to his prettier partner

word count ~900

warnings/tags fluff, established relationship, j high arc (no crews) written partially in vasco's pov

there's not much in vasco's mind these days. there's his marriage to the burn knuckes, and his affair with you.

jace has been on his ass about it recently.

it should feel like cheating (but it's not his fault!) because these days it feels like the burn knuckles are put on the back burner with how much he thinks of you — all jace's words.

it doesn't matter to vasco, you are much prettier and cooler and awesomer than anyone else. his own y/n, all his!!! how cool is that? of course he'll put the burn knuckles aside for you.

but that's not to say vasco is ignoring his burn knuckles duties, he's still doing all of them! so what if he's just constantly blabbering about you to his members?

anyways, that's not the point. the point is: vasco can't stop thinking of you.

you're in his head when he wakes up ("i wonder what y/n is eating for breakfast?")

you're in his head when he's riding his bike ("does y/n like riding these?" vasco mutters outloud.

"i'm sure they like riding something else," a cheeky member jokes)

and you're especially in his head when he sees something that reminds him of you. it ranges from a very shiny rock, to a stupid looking hair clip he sees in a store. anything that's cute, he stuffs it into his y/n pocket. he's saved his left pocket solely for items to give to you.

(sometimes there's so many items stuffed in there that it bulges out, and jace can't help but think it looks like he has a very oddly shaped boner.)

it's all just little items he finds throughout the day, but there's so much you don't know what to do with it sometimes.

there's a bit of a routine now. vasco saves everything in his pockets—just lugging it around incase he sees you a little earlier than expected—and does a debrief of everything he found during lunch.

the first time it happens, it's a little jarring.

the moment vasco spots you during lunch break, his face is so bright it's nearly blinding.

"y/n! y/n-ah, come look what i found today," vasco excitedly says, shoving zack out the way and sitting down next to you.

"the fuck–" zack grumbles, but pauses when he sees the amount of rocks that vasco is pulling out of his pockets. it seems never ending, and zack is just more confused how the fuck vasco fit all of that in there.

there's over a dozen rocks, all ranging from small to the size of your fist.

"vasco..? what's this?" you ask, confused.

vasco lays it all out in an orderly manner, arranging the rocks by size.

"this one is shiny, so i brought it to you. same with this one and this one. for this rock, the color was really nice and i liked it." vasco points to each rock, listing out his reasons for bringing them.

"that's nice, what about these then?"

and the cycle continues. vasco comes everyday with more and more items. crumpled candy wrappers with cute designs, keychains, plushies, three stickers he peeled off a vending machine, just about anything he can find.

you have to start bringing another small bag to fit them all—which makes you wonder, how is vasco rawdogging it all in his pocket? is every day leg day for him?

still, vasco never fails to show up. it's reminiscent of a penguin mating ritual, especially with how vasco puffs up with each "aww!" and "thank you!"

daniel says it's cute, zack thinks vasco has a hoarder problem, jay doesn't say anything but daniel claims he meant to say "vasco is doing a good job of being y/n's boyfriend".

mira thinks it's a little obnoxious but still cute, and zoe is starting to copy vasco's techniques to use on daniel—which makes jay start to one-up her. suddenly daniel's desk looks like yours every lunch now.

and you? you love it. it's endearing how excited vasco is to present his findings to you. the sparkle in his eyes rivals the newest rock he brings you (does he polish them in his spare time?) and he waits like a puppy for your compliments.

one day, curiosity gets the better of you.

you're eyeing a neon frog keychain he brought you, with googly eyes and and a pullable tongue, while vasco is yapping away.

when vasco finishes you finally ask him, "why do you actually bring me these?"

vasco quiets down, and you can see him staring at his feet. he's scratching his neck, slightly embarrassed as he starts mumbling.

"well, it makes you smile so.."

you blink at him.

"that's it?"

he nods, and his ears are pink. "yeah."

you let out a small laugh, "you've been stuffing yourself full on junk just to see me smile?"

"it's not junk!" vasco frowns, feeling a little offended.

"sure, vasco." you have to bite your lip to stop the giggle threatening to bubble out your mouth. vasco looks like a kicked puppy from you telling him that. his shoulders droop a little, and you can see his imaginary puppy ears wilting.

"mission accomplished, then." you wrap your arm around his, interlocking your fingers.

vasco perks up again, a smile gracing his face. "really? you like them?"

"i love them."

just seeing how happy he gets makes you already anticipate what he's going to bring tomorrow.

fin

a/n i actually don't remember if vasco rides a bike/motorcycle but we ignore that little bit near the beginning LOL i could've sworn he did when he's training fat daniel but that was too many chapters ago 😓 i think he's a Little ooc but i just love this version of vasco🤞

[jkmc]

are u ok kid?

[eld-creative]

Lee sketch

[randomghostfriend]

Sorry I’m so late to the party, I just saw your Valentines’ Day event and thought it was so cute! I hope it’s okay that I’m submitting this on the 11th of February 🤗

From: Rina (BLLK OC)

To: Yukimiya Kenyu (BLLK)

💌

Happy Valentines’ Day, Yuki! I have lots of chocolates and flowers for you. I even have a little penguin plushie, since they’re your favorite animal! They’re almost as adorable as you are~ keep on being your amazing self.

He left the plushie and flowers right next to his bed 🥹

Thank you for participating and sorry for taking longer to finish it ;w; I wonder how Rina would react hehe

[digid0g]

Strawpage request

[gouachest]

one of my favorite moments (as a meeks fan)

[sirrosalind]

Dps x Peanuts Pt.3

The sillies <3

Drew this back before Christmas as a gift ✨

Props if you recognise each dance

[sirrosalind]

DPS X Peanuts

A style study while drawing my fave poets

This probably one of the funnest things I’ve drawn in ages

[softlyre]

—❝LOVES MY HEART-SHAPED GLASSES!❞

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 steven meeks x female!reader, nerdy cheerleader!reader au, fluff, 6.1k+ wc. 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 after being dragged off to a party by knox, steven encounters someone he believes is his twin flame.

IN EVERY FRIEND GROUP, there was that one person whose smarts, wits, and knowledge were just above the rest of the group.

It was less something to brag about and more a fact. Most of the time, it was in the academic field, not always, though mostly.

Like in Steven's case. He was all brains in the small group of dead poets. He, with all his essence, is an amazing student and friend. A perfect blend of rebellious and studious.

Though neither really made him popular with the ladies. Meeks said it didn't bother him — women were Charlie's thing. Well, yeah, women were.

Steven didn't want women, he wanted a woman, his woman — a girlfriend, one who'd later be his wife: Steven craved to find his twin flame.

What he didn't expect was for that prayer to be answered, really anytime, let alone that quick.

The encounter occurred at a random party Knox had him tag along to. Crowded, smelling like booze, and way too loud — it all gave him a headache. And he'd blame it all on Overstreet tomorrow.

As he stepped out of the threshold of the house to smoke his pipe, he got knocked onto the ground by a smaller body rushing into the house.

The collision in the empty yard made quite a noise, both parties groaned as they reached for the floor. Both in need of their fallen belongings.

Steven's eyes hurt as he put on his glasses, he took them off, only to realize they weren't his glasses in the first place.

"Uh...those are mine. I'm guessing these are yours."

Before he can react, a warm pair of hands puts on his actual glasses onto his freckle-littered face. It's only when the person took their own glasses out of Steven's hands that the boy looked at them — at her.

Steven could've sworn that if he wasn't already knocked down, that might as well have been when his eyes met the most breathtaking pair of other.

"I— uh— let m-me help you up!" his arms gently gripped her under the arms, helping the girl, and himself, really, stand up.

"Are you alright? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

The stranger in front of him laughs lightly at his questions, her delicate hands fixing her cheer skirt.

"Hurt me? I'm the one who rammed into you, silly!"

Oh God, Steven felt himself grow weak all over again, under zero pressure. Her laugh was so mellow, it took milliseconds for it to evaporate into the midnight air, but it kept ringing in Meeks' ears — like wedding bells, no, he needed to snap out of it!

"Rammed is too strong a word. I b-barely felt it!"

Although the reply was there to soothe her worries, the boy's nervous stutter only seemed to intensify them — dammit, don't look at me like that! Don't worry about me, I just don't know how to talk to princesses reincarnated!

To make matters worse, both decided to reach for Meeks' pipe at the same time, resulting in a small thump echoing through the night as their foreheads collided — this really wasn't his most suave move.

"Ow—"

"—Sorry, I'm sorry. I just wanted my pipe—"

"—I wanted to give it to you—" she explains,

"—I-I know! I'm so sorry!"

The two rubbed their foreheads simultaneously, the pipe still lying between their feet, like it was mocking them…

Without much thought, his calloused hands gently gripped both sides of her face, smushing her rosy cheeks together as he inspected the reddening on her forehead.

"I'm fine. Really." She mumbled out, her cheeks still squished together. Steven's hands felt on fire, and it soon spread to his face, making him red like a tomato as he backed away.

What was I thinking, touching her like that?! He bent down and, at last, picked up his pipe.

"Did you see the cheer team in there?" Her sudden question made him raise a brow. But he nodded nonetheless. He leaned against the side of the house as he lit the pipe.

"They're playing quarters."

The girl groaned at that.

"Ugh— again? They always do that. And then I'm the one picking them up like a taxi because they're—" the girl stops herself, aware that she was about to spill her guts to a complete stranger.

"Heh. I'd always ride with a taxi driver as cute as you." Was it Meeks speaking, or the tobacco? Both. Meeks connected the words that the tobacco allowed him to utter.

Her small smile, both annoyed and bashful now, made his heart skip a few beats. She leaned against the wall next to him. Slightly shivering as a breeze picked up. Which made the boy drape his Welton uniform around her.

"Thanks. And for the record— you'd be the most tolerable client. I'd never miss picking you up. I'm..." she introduced herself, gripping the uniform tighter around herself.

"Are you always the taxi of the friend group?" He asks, taking a drag from the pipe.

"Taxi, calculator, encyclopedia, cheer-choreography spreadsheet — yeah..."

He nudges her gently, letting her rest her head on his shoulder after the frustrated admission.

"Sounds like you need better friends."

"Maybe. But I'm not the most interesting to befriend."

He scoffs lightly. That statement didn't sit right with Steven. The girl in front of him, for the small conversation they held, was plenty interesting and approachable, even for an introverted guy like him.

"Then the people at your school are stupid, doll." The nickname left his mouth smoothly, soothing the girl's worry.

"Lucky you. You go to a private school. Must be nice."

"So-so. It's all studies, sports and occasional rebellion." Meeks answers. His free hand gently brushed against her soft one, sending zaps through his fingers.

"Just so-so? I'd die happy to get my hands on the Welton library's poetry collection."

He chuckled at that; his laugh deep, raspy, and boyish. Steven couldn't help but agree on that matter; Welton's library was nothing short of impressive.

"You like poetry?" he asks,

"I do. You?"

He nodded.

"I do. Write it as well."

Her excited gasp nearly made him drop the pipe. Meeks looked down at her, noticing the sparkle in her eyes and slightly parted, pink lips.

"I write too! Ugh— I didn't bring my notebook with me. I write dramas, poetry— anything I can grasp really!"

"Hey, hey— no need to brood over it, darling. I'm sure we will meet again. We aren't worlds apart now, are we?"

She paused before giving him a slow nod. She still seemed a bit defeated as her head lulled back against his shoulder.

Serene quiet eloped them. Trees moving along the wind, nearby streetlights illuminating old benches, a few dogs howling somewhere far off.

Steven's heart was nowhere near calm, but with her, it was a good excitement that rushed through his veins — it was something real.

"What kind of poetry do you write?"

The boy smirked at that, looking down at the girl in front of him. He leaned down.

"Let me whisper it to you." he murmured against her ear, sending a shiver through her own body, her cheeks becoming more rosy.

"Oka—"

A small gasp left her as Steven tilted her head to his; his lips finding hers. Kissing her softly, reverently, once, twice — before pulling back with a quiet pop.

"W-what was that for?"

"A doll like you, with a heart even sweeter, shouldn't doubt her capabilities of making friends."

A small spark emitted in her wide eyes, clearly touched by his words. Steven could almost hear the gears turning in her head, trying to grasp at what had just happened, and he himself could barely believe it.

The moment was broken by an angry Knox coming out of the house, with a small 'let's go', he was already leading Steven away from the girl whom he had just oh-so-sweetly kissed.

"—Wait! What's the rush, Overstreet!?"

But Knox stayed quiet, not even acknowledging his friend's protests over his own anger.

"—Your uniform!"

Steven's gaze finds her again, waving a hand as if to say it's nothing. It looked good on her, and she was cold. She practically took his heart; the least of his concerns was a blazer—

"Keep it! I have several of them! The name's Steven Meeks, by the way! —Hold on, Knox! Meeks as in being meek! But I'm anything but meek for you! We'd have the funniest, prettiest little things!—"

He yelled as his friend continued to pull him along.

"No doubt!" Is all he heard last from her.

𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑦𝑟𝑒©

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 <𝟑