Nat

Yumeshipper🇯🇵 Tumbler beginner I write x reader fun-fiction novel Usually tweeting a lot↓ https://x.com/madmaxshis6691?s=21&t=GfvY0so8SrHGnWvx4iyQrQ

[nat1229]

Sanji × Reader

A girl raised as Sanji’s spare survives by clinging to his words, until he returns to free her from living for him and helps her reclaim her own life

***

“I Can’t Live for You”

At sea, a person’s worth sometimes becomes a number. A bounty. A wanted price. A transaction sum. A ransom. A life is assigned the value of a single slip of paper, and someone, somewhere, puts yet another price on the blood that spills from another person’s wound.

She had been one of those numbers.

A child given a model number before she was given a name. Blood type, antigens, genetic sequence, presence or absence of rejection response, biological compatibility rate. Every last one of them matched, to an almost sickening degree of perfection, with one certain boy - Vinsmoke Sanji.

Back then, she had not known what that name meant. She only remembered the adults in white coats lowering their voices slightly whenever they said it, as if reciting a prayer, or perhaps reading aloud the appraisal of some troublesome jewel.

“Just in case.”

She heard those words many times.

Just in case. Meaning, if he were ever injured. If he were ever on the verge of death. If some part of his body were ever broken. Her body would be used to keep his life tethered to this world.

At first, as a child, she did not understand what that meant. Her meals and sleeping hours were simply fixed. Her condition was recorded every day. She was raised in such a way that she would never be injured. Falling was forbidden. Running was forbidden. Seeing the sea was forbidden.

If she caught a cold, she was scolded. If she cried, she was scolded. She was being preserved for a life that was not her own. She thought she had realized that fact when she was seven or eight years old.

The corridors of the research facility always smelled of chemicals. Disinfectant and iron, and the scent of dry paper. Inside her room, she often looked down at her own wrist. At the veins showing bluish beneath the skin, and at the thing flowing within them that did not belong to her. Like medicine sealed in a bottle. Like bandages put away on a shelf. She was waiting for the day her life would be used solely for someone else.

The first time she saw him, it was through iron bars.

One night, she slipped out into the corridor while the guards were distracted. The cold floor clung to the soles of her bare feet, and with every step she took without making a sound, her heart thrashed near her throat.

The boy there had golden hair. His bangs fell as though hiding one eye, and his body was thin.

“You hungry?”

It was the first time anyone had asked her that.

People had recorded how much she ate. They had checked her nutritional condition. But no one had ever asked whether she was hungry.

She did not answer. She did not know how to answer properly. He lowered his brows in a troubled sort of way, then held out a small piece of bread.

“Eat this.”

She did not take the bread. She was something preserved. For someone else, she had to remain clean, complete, undamaged. Her body, taught to believe that over and over, was frightened that a single piece of bread from him might change it.

“You don’t want it?”

He tilted his head slightly. At last, she opened her mouth.

“Are you Sanji?”

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

She could not answer. She thought she might have had a name, but what people called her was a specimen number, what they recorded were her values, and what they praised was her compatibility rate.

Sanji did not hurry her even as she fell silent. He simply waited, still holding the bread. In this place, no one ever waited for her. Every moment was predetermined. There had never been any room to say no. And yet he was there, simply existing beside her, until she found her words.

“They said I’m your spare.”

The moment she said it, the bread fell from Sanji’s hand with a dry little sound.

“My spare? What the hell does that mean?”

She did not answer. She did not really know whether she was a person or a tool. A part kept in storage. A component set aside.

Sanji gripped the bars so hard his fingers turned white.

“Don’t screw with me. You’re you, aren’t you?”

No one had ever taught her such a thing.

From that night on, she fell in love with Sanji.

Without knowing the word love, without knowing how to handle the feeling called affection, she simply began to wait for his voice.

He was always angry. When she wavered after a blood draw, he got angry. When she said she was used to it, he got angry again. When she said, “It’s for you,” he looked as though he might cry.

“It’s not for me. You live for yourself.”

Each time, she was at a loss.

What did it mean to live for herself?

To want to see the sea. To want to drink warm soup. To want someone to say good morning to her when she woke. To wish to see the same person tomorrow. All of those things seemed too luxurious for someone like her.

But Sanji taught her luxury. He gave her half his bread. He talked to her about cooking. He told her that the sea was full of all kinds of fish, that there were fruits she had never even seen, and that someday he would find a sea called the All Blue. Only when he spoke of that did light mingle with his voice. She loved that light.

“Then, when you find it someday, tell me about it.”

“Just tell you? That’s all?”

“Because I can’t go outside.”

“We’re getting out of here. You too.”

She believed him.

The things one must not believe are the things that soak sweetest into a child’s heart. He was hope. Hope keeps people alive, but it also breaks them.

Even now, she remembered the day Sanji disappeared.

The whole facility had been in an uproar. Angry shouts and footsteps filled the corridor, and the researchers who were normally expressionless searched for something with pale faces. She heard them through the door of her room.

“He’s disappeared.”

“Where?”

“A ship.”

“After him.”

“Put the spare under stricter management.”

She understood. Sanji had escaped. He had become free.

She was glad. Truly, she was glad. Glad that he had escaped that place. Glad that he had gone out to sea with that golden dream still held inside him. She was glad, and yet she could not breathe.

Years passed after that, but she survived.

She was abandoned, her owner changed, her documents passed through the black market, and she herself was passed through countless hands. Still, her value did not change. As long as the man named Vinsmoke Sanji lived, she continued to have worth.

The fact that he was alive was both her salvation and her chain.

Once, she saw his name in a newspaper scattered across the floor. Pirate. Member of the Straw Hat crew. Black Leg Sanji. The man on the wanted poster was only a drawing, but he was no longer a child.

Sanji was living freely, crossing the sea, with companions at his side. He was chasing his dream. She wanted Sanji to be happy, from the bottom of her heart. If he was smiling, eating, needed by someone, loving someone, and standing on his own two feet upon the wide sea, she thought there could be no greater joy than that.

Sanji had not forgotten her. There was no way he could.

His crewmates often ate the food he made. Luffy swallowed meat with such force he seemed ready to eat the plate too. Usopp praised him with extravagant enthusiasm. Nami was sensitive to seasoning that suited her tastes, and Robin thanked him with a quiet smile.

Sanji loved those moments more than anything. Whenever he saw someone eat their fill, he felt as though some missing place inside him was being filled, little by little. But when he was alone in the kitchen at night, he would suddenly remember.

The girl on the other side of the bars. The small hand that had not taken the bread. The voice that said, “They said I’m your spare.”

Back then, he had not been able to take her with him. He had not given her freedom. He had only said, You’re you, aren’t you, and then gone out to sea alone. No matter how much his friends saved him, no matter how much he treasured the present, that fact alone never disappeared.

That was why Sanji’s breath turned cold whenever he saw a man treat a child or a woman carelessly. Why he could no longer smile at methods that stole someone’s will. Against those who treated people like tools, his leg moved before reason could. At the root of his anger, she was always there.

It took him a long time to admit it had been his first love. It was not pity from childhood. It was not only guilt. It was not only regret over failing to protect her, nor a duty born of wanting to save her. He had simply wanted her to smile. To eat until she was full. To see the sea.

And though he wished for that, somewhere in his heart, Sanji could not let go of a foolish kind of happiness. If she said she could die for him, if she smiled and called that happiness.

Sanji knew he would be wounded to the bone, and at the same time, he might feel a joy so terrible it made him sick. That was why Sanji hated himself.

“…I’m the worst.”

In the night kitchen, the ember of his cigarette flickered faintly. The smoke he exhaled reached nowhere, dissolving into the ceiling. He wanted her to be happy. Somewhere he did not know, cherished by someone, smiling freely, living freely. That was his true feeling.

And yet there was a part of him that could not end it there. He wished for the curse of himself to disappear from her life, while also hating the fact that she had lived for him, and clinging to it all the same. His first love had long since begun to rot.

On a certain island, Sanji met a black-market doctor who knew the name Germa. Remnants who had commodified the Vinsmoke bloodline. They were not trying to kill Sanji. They wanted to capture him alive.

“You’ll fetch a high price. And the parts to keep you alive still remain.”

The instant Sanji heard those words, all the warmth vanished from his body.

That girl was alive.

“Let me see her.”

Sanji’s voice was so low that it surprised even him.

The man laughed.

“So even a weapon can grow attached.”

In the next instant, Sanji’s foot smashed through the man’s face. There was the sound of a wall breaking, shouts rose, and enemies surged toward him.

In the middle of it all, there was only one thought in Sanji’s mind.

This time, he had to find her.

When he kicked open the door to the room at the back, there was a white bed inside. Walls without windows. The smell of chemicals, and at the center of it all, she was there.

She had grown into an adult. Her features had changed, her hair had grown longer, and there was nothing childlike left in her expression. Even so, there was no mistaking her.

“…Sanji?”

The moment she called his name, everything Sanji had forced down into the depths of his heart for years and years came flooding out with a sound.

I wanted to see you.

I wanted to apologize.

I wanted to save you.

I never forgot.

Even if it wasn’t for me, I wanted you to live.

And yet the only thing that came out of his mouth was a single hoarse sentence.

“…Sorry I’m late.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Sanji closed his eyes. Those words made him happy, and hurt so much he wanted to die.

“No, you shouldn’t be. What the hell is there to be glad about when you’re in a place like this?”

Countless IV tubes stretched from her arms.

Sanji knelt beside the bed.

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go see the sea. I’ll cook for you. I’ll feed you until you’re full. Anything you want to eat, I’ll make it. I’ll take you anywhere. So…”

His voice caught.

“So don’t live for me.”

Her eyes trembled.

It was a trembling like wind touching, for the first time, the surface of water long shut away.

“…I…”

She drew in a small breath.

“I always thought I’d be willing to die for you.”

Sanji’s fingers shook. He knew that she would think that. He knew there had been years when she could not survive unless she thought that.

“But because you told me to live…”

Slowly, she touched Sanji’s hand. Her strength was far too weak.

“I kept living without knowing how.”

Sanji closed his hand around hers.

“Then learn from now on. …I’ll teach you.”

It was the continuation of an old promise.

The continuation of that night when he had said he would tell her about the All Blue once he found it. A promise made when they had been far too young and powerless. Words meant to make that promise real, this time.

Quietly, deep inside his chest, Sanji swore.

He would never again think of her willingness to die for him as happiness. He would spend as much time as it took untying the curse of himself that remained inside her.

Even if, at the end of that, she chose a happiness without him, that would be all right. She was finally trying to reclaim her own life. He must not lay his own desire over her freedom.

And so Sanji simply held her hand gently, carefully, so he would not break her.

“Let’s go back to your life.”

After a long silence, she smiled, just a little. This time, her smile was far clumsier than it had been long ago.

“…Will you be there too?”

Sanji held his breath.

If he answered wrongly, he would bind her again. So he chose only the truth, with such care it almost made him tremble.

“If you want me to be.”

She lowered her eyes. The shadow of her long lashes fell across her cheeks, and tears slipped down them, but Sanji did not wipe them away.

He did not want to take crying from her too.

Those tears were not for him. It was the first tears she had ever shed for herself.

[nat1229]

Luffy x reader

A story of Luffy and the reader's shared bond over a diamond found in a mountain of treasure.

***

“Oi! Over here! This is amazing!”

The voice echoing from the depths of the cave sent a jolt through my legs, pulling me forward. I squeezed through a narrow fissure in the rock wall and emerged into a vast, hollowed chamber.

High above, sunlight pierced through cracks in the ceiling, casting golden pillars down upon a mountain of riches.

Gold coins were piled high like frozen waves, with necklaces and loose gemstones spilling across the floor. Against the walls, ancient chests sat flung open, their contents scattered as if a tide of wealth had burst from within.

“Wow…”

The word escaped my lips as a faint breath. I stood frozen, captivated by the sheer unreality of it all. Luffy stood right in the center, grinning with the pure, unbridled joy of a child.

He scooped up armfuls of gold coins and tossed them high into the air, laughing as they rained down around him like metallic hail.

“I don’t really care much for owning this stuff,” he called out, “but I guess I like watching it sparkle.”

Something caught the light at his feet, flashing with a brilliance that outshone the gold. Luffy crouched down and picked it up.

“Whoa, look at this. I thought it was a shard of ice.”

It was a massive diamond. As he held it up, the stone caught the light, translucent and shimmering like a fallen star.

Luffy rolled it between his fingertips, studying it for a long moment, before turning his gaze toward me.

“Hey. Do you… like this kind of thing?”

“Eh?” The sudden question caught me off guard.

“Back at that shop, remember? You were staring at that sparkly hairpiece for the longest time. While Sanji was busy picking a fight with the street vendor.”

“You… you remembered that?”

“‘Course I did,” he said, letting out a sheepish little “Heh.” He walked over and held the diamond out to me. “Here. It’s yours.”

“Wait, Luffy… are you sure? This is a serious treasure…”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway,” he shrugged. “Besides, I think it’d look better if you had it.”

As I took it from him, the stone was colder than I expected, but its weight felt significant in my palm. I never imagined a single gem could make my heart race like this.

“Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

For a fleeting second, Luffy’s expression softened into something uncharacteristically serious. He looked at me as if there was something more he wanted to say, but he kept the thought unspoken. Then, with his usual boisterous energy, he threw his hands up.

“Alright! Next, let’s find a golden skull!”

He dove back into the piles of gold, and I couldn't help but laugh as I watched him. In my hand, the diamond threw shards of sunlight across my skin.

A few days later, the ship was cutting through calm waves toward the next island. It was a quiet afternoon, the deck cooled by a steady breeze. I sat in a corner, struggling with tiny jewelry tools and focusing intently on the diamond.

I didn't want to just tuck it away in a drawer. I wanted to wear it, to keep it with me in my daily life. So, I decided to turn it into an earring. My fingertips were covered in tiny nicks from the silver wire, but I couldn't bring myself to stop.

“Watcha doing?”

Luffy’s voice came from right behind me, nearly making me drop my tweezers.

“Whoa! You scared me!”

“Hehe, sorry. You just looked like you were having fun.” He leaned down, peering curiously at my hands. “Is that the stone from before?”

“Yeah. I’m making an earring.”

“Huh. Let me see it on you.”

He said it so naturally that I felt a flush creep up my neck. I nodded, carefully sliding the stud into my ear. A stray beam of sunlight hit the gem, making it shimmer subtly against my skin. Luffy stared at it, uncharacteristically quiet.

“…Well? How is it?”

“Yeah. It definitely suits you.”

I expected him to laugh or make a joke, but his voice was unexpectedly soft.

“It’s way better than that whole mountain of treasure.”

I let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?”

“I mean it.” Luffy rubbed the back of his head, looking a little embarrassed, and leaned against the ship’s railing. “I’m gonna be the King of the Pirates, right? That means I’m gonna find way bigger treasures than this.”

“I know you will.”

“And when I do, I’ll give you something else. Something that suits you even more. So… just stay here and keep smiling like that, okay?”

It was a clumsy promise. But it rang truer and deeper than any ocean. The sound of the wind and the lapping of the waves seemed to harmonize around us.

On my ear, the tiny spark of light was now the most precious thing in the world—shining not just with its own brilliance, but with the feelings of the one who gave it to me.

[nat1229]

Sanji x reader

A quiet love begins between a port-town tailor and Sanji, drawn together through scent, silence, and so on.

***

On the corner of a quiet harbor town where the sea breeze always carried the scent of salt and fabric, there stood a modest tailor shop.

Push open the wooden door, and the warm scent of cloth welcomed you—faint hints of wool, starch, and something floral beneath. Bolts of fabric lined the walls, arranged with meticulous care, a spectrum of textures and colors in soft natural light. At the back of the shop, the tailor—a woman with steady hands and a calm gaze—was running her fingers over a new roll of cloth, sketching designs in her mind.

It was a peaceful afternoon, the kind where time seemed to breathe a little slower, when the small bell above the door chimed.

She looked up. A man had stepped inside, golden-haired, with a quiet, pleasant smile. He wore a tailored black suit and a slender tie—refined, but marked by travel. There was dust on his sleeves, wear at the hem of his jacket. She could tell, at once, that he was a traveler of the sea.

After glancing around the room, the man offered a polite bow and spoke with an elegant tone.

“Good afternoon, my lady. I go by Sanji. I was wondering if I might ask you to tailor a suit for me?”

“Of course,” she replied, her own smile soft and composed.

She led him to a table in the center of the room, already setting aside a tape measure and fabric samples.

“What sort of suit are you looking for?”

Sanji sat down, crossing one leg neatly over the other.

“To be honest,” he began, “I’ve been searching for the right one for a long time.”

He told her about trying on ready-made suits in ports across the sea—none quite right. He was a cook by trade, but found himself needing to move freely, even fight, at times. A custom suit, one that moved with him, not against him—that’s what had brought him here. He had heard of her shop’s reputation, even across the nearby seas.

As he spoke, a quiet sense of pride stirred in her chest. To have someone travel this far, seeking her craft—it was the greatest honor for a tailor.

His words were thoughtful, his manner refined. He looked her straight in the eye as he added, “I’ve heard many good things about your work. You’re the tailor, aren’t you?”

His gaze held a sincerity that caught her slightly off guard. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes. Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”

There was a hint of bashfulness in her voice, the kind that sometimes slipped through when a stranger offered unexpected kindness.

“Shall we begin the measurements?” she asked, rising to her feet.

Sanji stood as well. She moved around him with practiced precision, tape in hand—shoulders, chest, waist. The silence that settled between them was neither awkward nor cold. It was the silence of craft, of focus.

She was used to taking a man’s measurements, but something about him was different. Not just the body, lean and toned beneath his shirt, but the way he carried himself. Like someone who knew discipline. Grace. Maybe both.

Sanji, for his part, tried not to breathe too loudly. The scent of her hair, brushing past him, made his chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t explain. But when he saw the calm concentration on her face, he let out a quiet breath and composed himself.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, gently lifting his arm to measure sleeve length.

Her touch was firm, professional. Still, there was a grace to the way she moved—years of experience woven into her fingers.

By the time they finished, he felt oddly at ease.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing over her notes. “Now, about the design. Do you have anything in mind?”

Sanji paused, then nodded.

“I’d like a double-breasted jacket. Something elegant, but functional. I move around a lot—my work can be… intense.”

“You’re a chef, you said?” Her eyes lit up.

He nodded, smiling with the faintest embarrassment. “That’s right.”

She thought back to the tension she’d felt under his shirt while taking measurements. The strength in his arms, the balance in his stance. It made sense now.

“Then we’ll need something flexible and breathable,” she said. “Let me show you a few fabrics I think would work well.”

She returned with a handful of sample books, flipping through them to reveal high-quality wool blends and stretch weaves, durable yet soft to the touch.

“This one has just the right amount of give,” she said. “Great for standing long hours—or sudden movements.”

Sanji ran his fingers over the swatch. “This is… perfect. Strong, but light.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she smiled. “And as for the color—shall we keep it black, like what you’re wearing now? Or would you like to try something different? A navy? Charcoal?”

Sanji tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’m fond of black. But… I’d like to hear your opinion. What color do you think suits me?”

The question caught her off guard. To be trusted like that, to be asked as an artist—that was rare. She studied him again. His golden hair, sun-kissed skin. His eyes were sharp, but warm.

A deep navy—like the sea just before nightfall. Yes, it would bring out the blue in his gaze.

“How about this shade?” she offered, holding up a swatch. “It’s deep, almost black, but with a hint of ocean. Elegant—with just a bit of play.”

Sanji’s eyes sparkled. “I like it.”

They finalized the selection, and she offered a respectful nod.

“It will take a little time to complete. Thank you for your patience.”

Sanji stood, gave a small bow, and offered his thanks once more.

As he left, she watched him go—something warm lingering in her chest. Not just pride, but… something quieter. Softer. She turned back to the table, picked up her shears, and began to cut.

⸻

A few days later, the shop bell rang once again, right on time.

Sanji stepped through the door, dressed in a dark navy shirt and vest—both sharp, but clearly chosen for ease of travel. In his hands, he held a small, neatly wrapped parcel.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he greeted, offering the package with a warm smile. “I found this on my last stop. Some tea leaves I thought you might enjoy—fragrant and calming.”

She blinked in surprise, then smiled as she accepted it. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Sanji.”

The ribbon came undone with a gentle tug, and at once, the delicate aroma of premium tea leaves drifted into the air—soft, floral, and subtly spiced.

“I love tea,” she said, inhaling deeply. “I’ll save this for a quiet evening.”

“I’m glad. It reminded me of your shop,” he said lightly. “Warm, elegant… and slightly intimidating.”

She laughed, not quite expecting the tease. “Only slightly, I hope.”

He gave a playful shrug. “Only just enough to keep me in line.”

She gestured toward the back room. “Shall we try the fitting?”

Sanji slipped off his coat and stepped into the changing area. When he emerged a few minutes later in the half-finished suit, she felt a small gasp rise in her throat—swallowed before it left her lips.

Even unfinished, the suit framed him perfectly. The shoulders aligned just so, the waist shaped to his form. As he stood before the mirror, adjusting the lapels, he looked at home in it—as though the fabric had been waiting for him.

She circled behind him, gently smoothing the back, checking the seams, marking adjustments with quiet precision.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Sanji rotated his arms, then bent slightly at the knees. “I’m… honestly impressed. There’s no resistance at all. This might be the first time I’ve worn something that actually feels like it was made for me.”

She smiled, pleased. “You mentioned you move a lot, especially your legs. I gave the trousers extra ease around the knees. The lining’s silk—it helps with range of motion.”

He nodded appreciatively, running his fingers down the lapel. “It’s incredible. Truly.”

As she crouched to mark a hem, her hand brushed his ankle. For a moment, she was aware of his warmth, of the quiet stillness he held. And yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it strengthened the resolve in her fingers. She wanted this to be perfect.

“Sanji,” she heard her name escape his lips, softly.

She looked up, caught off-guard.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the care, and the craft. But more than that—thank you for seeing more than just a customer.”

The sincerity in his voice struck something in her. She reached for the pincushion beside her, half to hide the warmth rising to her face.

“You flatter me,” she said, deflecting with a quiet laugh. “But… I’m glad you feel that way.”

⸻

As the days passed and the final adjustments began, Sanji’s visits became more frequent. Between fitting sessions, they shared tea at the workshop table—the same leaves he had brought her, steeped in a porcelain pot that had once belonged to her mother.

Their conversations gradually loosened. The formal tones gave way to softer rhythms, laughter slipping between sips of tea.

“So when the sea’s rough, cooking must be a challenge,” she said one afternoon, cupping her tea.

Sanji chuckled. “Oh, it can be chaos. But when my crew’s eating well, nothing else matters. A good meal makes any storm easier to ride.”

She could picture it then—Sanji in a rocking galley, knife in hand, steady amidst the chaos. There was love in his voice when he spoke of them—his crew.

“They’re lucky to have you,” she said, smiling.

“They’re worth the effort,” he replied, the same way she might have spoken of her craft.

In his presence, she found a calm she rarely experienced. In her presence, he found a pause between waves.

Their conversations stretched longer with each visit. A friendship bloomed, steady and quiet. Yet neither said aloud what had begun to take root between them.

⸻

One evening, after a final fitting, Sanji lingered by the shop’s front window. His gaze had drifted to a mannequin near the entrance, dressed in a striking crimson gown trimmed with black lace. It stood in elegant contrast to the rest of the shop—bolder, almost daring.

“This dress,” he said, tilting his head. “Did you make it?”

She followed his gaze, surprised by his curiosity. “I did. Just something I made for myself, really. I enjoy sewing women’s clothing now and then. There’s more freedom in it, more room for whimsy.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, stepping closer. “It would suit you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Oh—no, it’s just for display. I’ve never had an occasion to wear something like that.”

Sanji turned to her, grinning. “Then we’ll have to find you one.”

She laughed nervously, heat blooming in her cheeks. “I’m not sure I’d know how to wear something like that anymore.”

“I’d like to see you in it,” he said simply, sincerely.

His words hung in the air, suspended in that strange space between casual and intimate. She looked down, unable to meet his eyes, and murmured, “Maybe… someday.”

⸻

The morning his suit was finished, she found herself more flustered than she’d expected. She checked every seam, brushed away invisible lint, smoothed the fabric one last time. Even her elderly regular teased her—“Big client today, hm?”

At the appointed hour, the bell chimed. Sanji entered, dressed neatly in a black vest and navy shirt, and in his hand, he carried a single flower—pale lilac with delicate, ruffled petals.

“A little something for your hard work,” he said, offering it with a boyish smile.

She took it, struck speechless for a moment, then smiled. “It’s lovely… Thank you.”

He followed her into the fitting room where the finished suit awaited—deep navy wool that shifted between black and blue depending on the light, with golden thread stitched subtly into the lining. It was classic, but quietly bold.

Sanji took it into his hands and stood still for a moment, as if the suit itself demanded reverence.

“It’s perfect,” he said at last. “It almost feels like a shame to wear it.”

“Wear it,” she replied, laughing. “That’s the only way it truly comes alive.”

When he emerged from the changing room, fully dressed, she caught her breath.

The way the suit fit him—elegant, powerful, natural—made her forget, for a moment, that she had made it. He wore it not like a costume, but like an extension of himself.

“…You look incredible,” she said before she could stop herself.

Sanji turned, spun once with theatrical flair. “Thanks to you,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never had a suit that felt so… mine.”

She nodded, pride blooming in her chest.

He lingered at the door, fingers brushing the lapel as if reluctant to leave.

And she, standing behind the counter with the lilac bloom in her hands, found herself not wanting him to.

⸻

Days passed. Then came a letter.

Neatly folded, sealed with care. The envelope bore the name of a ship she didn’t recognize at first. But when she opened it, the handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, clear, tinged with warmth.

He thanked her again. Spoke of his crew. Of distant ports. And of how much he had enjoyed their conversations.

Her hands trembled slightly as she read, then reached for her pen.

She wasn’t a practiced letter writer. But she had always known how to stitch feelings into fabric—and letters, she realized, weren’t so different. And so began a slow, thoughtful correspondence.

The letters continued.

They came folded in fine stationery, always smelling faintly of sea salt and smoke. From faraway ports and tucked corners of the Grand Line, Sanji wrote with careful elegance—recounting tales of exotic spices, wild storms, and the crew he called family. His words were both vivid and tender, as if he were letting her into a world that spun fast and loud, yet always made room for one quiet seat beside him.

She replied in kind. At first, her letters were formal—grateful, composed. But slowly, they grew warmer. She found herself sharing pieces of her day, little sketches of half-finished dresses in the margins, musings about the rain, or which tea she was drinking when his envelope arrived.

Neither said what lingered between the lines. But both knew.

⸻

One evening, well past midnight, as she was closing up the shop, the den-den mushi in the corner let out a soft, scratchy purururu.

She froze. No one ever called.

“…Hello?”

Static crackled.

Then a voice she hadn’t realized she missed so terribly reached through the line.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

Her heart leapt.

“Sanji?”

He laughed softly. “Sorry for the hour. I wasn’t sure the connection would work out here, but… I wanted to hear your voice. If only for a minute.”

She sat down at the counter, heart pounding as she relit the lamp. His voice, even filtered through the shell, felt impossibly close.

“I’m glad you called,” she said, cheeks warming. “I’ve been thinking of doing the same.”

“Then I guess we’re in sync,” he replied. There was a quiet vulnerability in his tone, one she hadn’t heard before. “We had a rough morning out at sea. Everyone’s fine, but… I just needed to hear something soft.”

They spoke for nearly an hour. About nothing and everything—suit linings, burnt fish, dreams they hadn’t yet named. There were silences, soft laughter, and small confessions neither had dared put into ink.

When the line finally began to crackle again, and Sanji said, “I hope we can talk again,” she replied without hesitation.

“Anytime.”

⸻

Months passed, and the letters grew thicker, fuller.

By the time the town began preparing for its annual Sea Blessing Festival, the tailor found herself wondering, against her better judgment, if he might come.

She had mentioned it casually in a letter once. A colorful celebration, full of music and dance, thanking the sea for its blessings. She’d be busy preparing dance costumes and decorating the square. Sanji had responded with his usual charm—“One day I’ll see it for myself.” She had read and reread that line more times than she cared to admit.

The day before the festival, after a long day helping vendors and finishing embroidery, she returned to the shop and found an envelope in the post.

It was short.

“If the winds are kind, we’ll be close to your port. It may only be a few hours, but I’ll come if I can. I’d like to see the lanterns.”

She dropped the letter and ran.

Out through the twilight streets, toward the docks glowing in the amber light of the setting sun. Somewhere far off, a ship’s silhouette was taking shape on the horizon, sails catching the wind like wings.

⸻

The festival arrived in a rush of color and noise. Drums echoed through the cobbled streets, paper lanterns swayed overhead, and the air was filled with the scent of grilled fish and cinnamon sweets.

Dressed in a handcrafted gown of sapphire silk stitched with silver waves, she moved between dancing crowds and glowing torches, her eyes scanning the harbor again and again.

“You waiting for someone?” the fishmonger’s wife teased, elbowing her gently.

She flushed. “No… I mean—maybe.”

Then a shout rang out from the crowd.

“Pirates!”

And then, a beat later—

“Straw Hat Pirates!”

The crowd surged toward the docks in a ripple of laughter and curiosity. She froze, chest tight, before rushing to join them.

The Thousand Sunny had docked.

Luffy was at the helm, waving like a child. The others—Zoro, Usopp, Chopper, Robin—descended one by one, blending into the festival with ease.

And then he appeared.

Golden hair tousled from the wind, a cigarette resting between his lips, dressed in a black suit that shimmered slightly under the lantern light. His eyes scanned the crowd once, twice— And landed on her.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Then he smiled. She waved, breath caught in her throat.

He crushed the cigarette beneath his heel, then strode forward—fast, purposeful. And when he reached her, for the first time, they didn’t say anything.

They simply looked. And smiled.

“I came,” he said, softly.

“I see that.”

“You look… breathtaking.”

“I wore this for the festival,” she said, then added, quieter, “but also… maybe, a little for you.”

He laughed—soft, boyish, touched. “Well, then I’ll have to earn the right to see you in it.”

⸻

The evening deepened. Music lifted into the air. Around them, couples had begun to dance beneath the lanterns.

He extended a hand.

“May I?”

She hesitated only a moment, then placed her hand in his.

They danced. Slowly at first, then with more ease. He led gently, keeping pace with her steps, making her laugh when she stumbled, catching her when she lost rhythm. Around them, the festival blurred. In his arms, time felt less like a tide, and more like a slow breath.

When the song ended, he didn’t let go. He leaned in, voice close to her ear.

“I’m glad we started writing. I’m glad I walked into your shop. And I’m even more glad I came back.”

She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, steady and warm.

“I feel the same,” she whispered. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Their hands stayed together as the music played on.

And somewhere, above the crowd and lanterns and soft tide below, a new story was beginning—not with a letter, but a dance beneath the stars.

[nat1229]

Doflamingo x reader

As she slowly loses her sight, Doflamingo creates a garden of scents to help her navigate the world without him. Even after he’s gone, she follows the path he left behind—guided by the fragrance of his love.

***

The first thing she noticed was the candlelight. It should have been burning—but all she could sense was its flicker, no flame, no color. His coat, his silhouette against the dying sun—all of it blurred at the edges. Her vision was sinking, slowly, into the depths of night.

“…Can’t see well, can you?”

The voice came low from where he sat at the edge of her bed. She couldn’t even nod in response.

Doflamingo’s touch was never gentle. But the fingers brushing her cheek trembled, as if he were holding himself back with such force, it hurt. He didn’t snap. Didn’t mock. He only laughed—that deep, unreadable laugh of his.

“Shame you won’t get to see this beautiful face anymore, huh?”

It was true. His smirk. The glint in his eyes. Even the roughness of his hands. All of it—his presence—was best understood through sight.

And now, that was slipping away. Quietly. Unstoppably.

From that day on, he started going outside more often. As king of Dressrosa, the thought of Doflamingo buying flowers for anyone had always seemed absurd. But the servants whispered things.

“The soil in the garden’s been changed—he did it himself.”

“This morning, he carried in three new pots. With his own hands.”

She began listening closely, from the depths of her room. When she opened the window, the scent of earth came through. A sweet, citrusy aroma, laced with morning dew, brushed against her nose.

One day, she found a single flower placed gently on her bed. She didn’t know what it was. But the scent—bright, vivid—lingered deep in her chest.

That night, he returned. Footsteps echoed through the hall, and then he was there, standing in front of her. He didn’t say anything at first—just took her hand and led her outside.

“Where are we going?”

“If you can’t use your eyes, then use something else. I’ll teach you how to walk by scent.”

She understood the moment the door opened.

It was a vast garden. The one she had once described to him, back when she still painted—her idea of a perfect landscape.

He had recreated it. Not in image, but in scent. Jasmine, mint, neroli. Every bloom, every placement—he hadn’t forgotten.

“These ones bloom at night. So even after sunset, they’ll be waiting for you.”

“And this?”

“Citrus. For waking up. So even if you’re half-asleep, you’ll find your way back to me.”

The way he said it made her laugh—and when he joined in, she realized how rare his laughter had become.

He changed after that.

He started walking the garden each morning, checking the scents. He’d guide her through it, too—sometimes lending a silent shoulder.

“If you’re gonna lose your sight, then burn it into your bones now—shape, texture, everything. Useless if you forget.”

He made her memorize his face with her hands. The line of his nose. His brow. His cheekbones. His mouth. She swore to never forget. He never explained, but she could feel it. He was preparing for something.

The night before the final battle, he stood in the garden one last time and plucked a night-blooming flower for her.

“I’ll be gone a while. But with this, you won’t lose your way.”

He never said he’d come back.

She didn’t know if that silence was uncertainty or certainty. But even now, she walks the path he left her—slowly, carefully, scent by scent.

A season passed since he disappeared. The News Coo delivered the report.

“Former Warlord Donquixote Doflamingo, captured by the Marines.”

She understood the words. Her mind did. But her body refused to believe them. His presence still lingered in the garden.

Every evening, she walked through it. The feel of the cobblestones beneath her shoes. The shifting air. The warmth of the setting sun.

The moment she stepped into what he once called the “night garden,” the air changed. Shell ginger. Night-blooming cereus. Arabian jasmine. They marked the passage into night—not by light, but by scent.

“…Almost time,” she whispered, reaching out.

The leaf beneath her fingertips reminded her of his warmth.

Memory was cruel. Just a touch, and his voice resurfaced.

“Walk straight. This path was made for you.”

But she would never hear him again.

The government placed her in a protected estate. Lavish. Politically convenient. Shielded from danger, as Doflamingo’s wife. But she didn’t know if it was safety or just another prison. In her sightless world, the only thing she could still trust was the garden’s scent.

He had built it. He had left it—for her. The guards avoided it. “Too full of his presence,” they said.

But that was exactly why she found peace there. As if part of his rule still lingered among the flowers.

One day, the wind was strong. The citrus scent reached her earlier than usual.

She stopped.

That smell… It was the one from when he used to wake up near her. That drowsy, intimate closeness. The way he’d tug at her hair, grumbling, “No good morning today?”

She breathed in—once, twice, again and again—trying to shake off the illusion.

“…Where are you, Doffy?”

The words disappeared into the wind. No reply. Only the night garden remained. The scented map he had planted with his own hands. And that was enough. Even without her sight, she could walk.

Through the path he made, just for her.

As long as she could do that—she was still alive.

[nat1229]

Sabo x reader

A girl loses all memory of those she touches—but Sabo keeps returning, reintroducing himself each time.

***

She didn’t remember the first time they met.

“…Is this our first time meeting?”

Turning toward the voice, she saw a man standing in soft straw-colored sunlight, squinting as if the light hurt her eyes. A wide-brimmed hat rested in his hand, and unruly blond hair caught the breeze. He looked peaceful—no traces of battle on his body—but his eyes held a strange, quiet depth. The kind that came from having seen, and carried, too much.

Dust swirled lazily in the sunbeams filtering through the eaves. She folded a bandage on her lap, thick gloves still on her hands.

“Do I… know you?”

It wasn’t awkwardness. Just something close to habit. She was used to unfamiliar faces. Used to missing pieces. Fear no longer clung to the holes.

His gaze drifted to her hands—pausing, just slightly, on the worn fabric that hid old scars.

Then, he smiled.

“Sabo. I’m with the Revolutionary Army. I already know you.”

There was a muffled sorrow and quiet warmth in his voice. Like a line repeated many times, practiced until smooth—but still aching in its familiarity.

The next time he appeared, it was nighttime.

A knock at the door, a strained voice: “Help me.” Under the dim moonlight, he carried a soldier whose breathing was shallow, lips cracked and dry.

She worked quickly. No hesitation. Water. Medicine. Cloth. Her hands moved through the motions like muscle memory, touching his arm more than once—the man who had called himself Sabo.

By morning, she had forgotten him again. Sitting with tea between them, she glanced up at the man across the table.

“…Who are you?”

Steam curled from the cup. The hush of dawn lingered in the room. A clock ticked softly on the wall.

“Sabo,” he said. “This is probably the fifteenth time.”

Her brow twitched, almost imperceptibly. As if the name stirred something deep beneath the surface.

“And every time,” he added with a dry laugh, “you give me that same ‘first meeting’ look.”

It sounded like a joke, but something heavy clung to the edges of his voice. He smiled, but his eyes were distant. And for some reason, her heart gave a small, startled lurch.

There was a story, she realized. A continuation. One only he remembered. He set the cup down gently.

“I’ve gotten used to introducing myself. But… each time, it still feels like I’m meeting you all over again.”

She couldn’t reply. Her eyes dropped to the trembling reflection in her tea. As if even that couldn’t hold shape.

She forgot people she touched. When skin met skin—when warmth lingered too long—the memories slipped away, like a dream unraveling at its edges. That’s why she never reached for anyone. No grateful handshakes. No comforting touches. No gestures of love.

“The harder I try to hold on, the faster it falls apart,” she once told him. “It’s not a curse anymore. It’s just life.”

She had learned to live expecting loss. But Sabo—Sabo smiled like it was nothing at all.

“Then I’ll just introduce myself every time,” he said, eyes steady. “Even if you forget me… I’ll remember you.”

He met her eyes each time with a look that said not hello—but welcome back.

“…You’re strange,” she’d sometimes whisper. Her voice held a quiet awe, touched by something she didn’t yet understand.

They spoke with distance. Sat across from each other with firelight between them. Never touching. And yet, he stayed.

One afternoon, when the wind rustled through the trees, he said softly,

“You can forget me. That’s okay.”

There was heat in his voice. Not anger—something deeper. A vow.

“But I’ll remember you. Your voice. The way you speak. Your name. I’ll carry all of it.”

That night, lit by the glow of the fire, his profile looked carved in shadow. His voice, his gestures, never changed—but his eyes always seemed to be searching for something.

Being forgotten didn’t hurt as much as how he kept returning. Gently. Relentlessly. It was that constancy that pierced her most.

She nodded. Silent. No words to give—only warmth in the space between them that was stronger than the flame.

Seasons turned. Flowers bloomed and fell. And somewhere along the line, she noticed something.

—When he said her name, the world grew more vivid.

Light sharpened. Sound deepened. The air warmed.

The name Sabo wasn’t a memory. It was something else. Not in her mind, not on her skin—but somewhere deeper. In her chest, like sediment, settling into place.

The thirty-second time they met was in spring. Beneath a tree just beginning to bud, he smiled and held onto his hat.

“Think you can say my name this time?”

Her fingers trembled. Not her head—her heart—responded to that voice. Heat welled in her throat.

“…Sa…”

The word dissolved. The sound rose slowly from her chest.

“…Sabo.”

As she whispered it, the wind stilled. Sound, color—everything fell silent.

He stared, eyes wide. She removed her gloves. Calmly. And reached out, touching his cheek. His warmth met her palm—soft and real. Something might have slipped away with that contact. But even more settled in.

“You said I could forget. But if you’re willing to stay… maybe I can learn to remember.”

Her voice shook, but it reached him. Sabo’s eyes softened. He nodded.

After that, things changed—just slightly.

“What’s my name?”

“…Sabo.”

Even if memories slipped away, her heart recalled. Even if she forgot, he would return. Even if they touched, he would still say it.

Time stopped taking. It began layering.

And someday, echiven if she didn’t speak it, even if he never had to say it again, she would still know his name.

And when that day came, Sabo would smile and say,

“Still, I want to say it first. I’m Sabo. And I’m glad I met you.”

[nat1229]

Trafalgar Law x Reader, AU

A quiet med student and a music major connect through shared melodies, rediscovering emotion and closeness as their duet becomes the start of something more.

***

Winter in New York showed no mercy. The sun dipped behind the skyscrapers before five, surrendering the city to dusk long before nightfall. In a quiet corner of the university, far from the chaotic energy of downtown, stood the library—a sanctuary of silence amidst the noise.

On the third floor, tucked in the farthest end where almost no one ventured, a young man sat alone by the window. He wore a black hoodie, the hood pulled up loosely, his shoulders hunched as he pored over a thick medical textbook.

His name was Trafalgar Law. A foreign student in the medical department, known for his precision, composure, and unwillingness to engage in conversation unless absolutely necessary.

His long, pale fingers turned the pages soundlessly, jotting down notes in both English and Latin with a steady hand. Not even the tremble of the windows under the wind drew a flicker from his expression. Every movement, every breath, seemed calculated—measured, silent, and exact.

That stillness was broken by the quiet patter of footsteps and the creak of the old door.

Law’s ear caught the sound. His eyes lifted—just barely.

A young woman stepped in, wrapped in a pale blue coat, a music folder peeking from her shoulder bag. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and she looked around the unfamiliar space with hesitant curiosity, her gaze eventually meeting his.

“Is this seat taken?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked her over, then returned to his book without a word.

A silent permission.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she said softly, placing her belongings gently on the table.

A roll-up piano case. A pencil. Her slender fingers trembled slightly as she removed her gloves.

Law retreated into his world again—but the scratching of her pencil across sheet music began to subtly interfere with his rhythm. She seemed to mouth silent notes to herself, writing along the lines of a piano score.

It didn’t bother him. Not exactly.

“Sorry. Am I… being too loud?”

The question pulled his gaze up slowly. Her expression was apologetic, eyebrows drawn together. Her eyes were large, unusually clear.

He let his eyes wander briefly before replying, voice low.

“…Not really. As long as you’re not throwing off your own rhythm, it’s fine.”

“Wait, was that… a compliment?”

She let out a small, surprised laugh, her posture relaxing. Law said nothing, returning to his notebook.

The pencil sounds resumed. So did the hush of wind against the window. But now, something about the silence felt different—somehow warmer.

⸻

A few days later, snow dusted the world white again. The library’s windows were frosted with soft light, and the campus, quiet on a weekend, felt suspended in stillness.

Law sat in his usual seat, but his focus was scattered. His movements were slower, his eyes reading without really absorbing.

“Are you feeling okay? You look kind of pale today.”

The voice across the table was familiar now. She had begun showing up regularly, as if this seat were somehow theirs.

Law furrowed his brow and muttered,

“Dorm heating broke last night. Didn’t sleep much.”

“That’s rough… My apartment’s still warm. If you’re feeling really bad, you could crash in one of the practice rooms in the music building. Some of them lock. You know—if you can handle the noise.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a quiet breath, he replied,

“…The noise isn’t the issue.”

“Huh?”

“If the performance is bad, that’s the issue.”

She burst into laughter, and for the first time, Law’s mouth curved—barely, like sunlight slipping through winter clouds.

⸻

That afternoon, she led him to a small practice room in the music building. A single grand piano stood in the middle, and an old violin case rested against the wall. Outside, snow still danced in the air, turning the windowlight soft and white.

“I’ll go make some tea. Just a sec.”

She left. Law’s eyes drifted to the violin case. It was worn, but well-kept. He opened it slowly, reverently. The feel of the bow in his hand stirred something dormant.

He lifted the bow, pressing it lightly to the strings. No sound. Just the promise of one.

By the time she returned, the violin rested on his shoulder.

“You… play?”

She stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed. He met her gaze briefly.

“Used to. A long time ago.”

Then—he drew the bow.

The first note was quiet, yet sharp as ice. A winter’s breath, sliced by sound. Every movement of his fingers seemed to whisper a story too long buried. The tone was precise. Beautiful. Laced with solitude.

“…It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Law lowered his eyes.

“I gave it up when I decided to become a doctor.”

“That’s a shame. Sounds like you practiced a lot. Most people can’t play like that.”

Her voice was gentle, as always—but something about it cut straight through him.

Since that day, she began to feel his gaze during her piano practice. And Law, too, began to notice something awakening—something that had long since gone silent.

⸻

The basement practice room. Pale grey walls. An old music stand. A lonely upright piano in the center. No windows—only sound.

“Want to try a duet?”

Her question hung in the air. Law raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t play piano.”

“Just your left hand. I’ll take the melody. You play the chords.”

She sat at the far right end of the bench, smiling gently—eyes daring him not to run.

With a sigh, he took the spot beside her. Closer than expected. Close enough that their hands might touch. Her shampoo was faint in the air. He caught his breath without realizing it.

“Okay. Ready?”

Her fingers struck the first note.

It wasn’t flashy—just warm, and strangely nostalgic. He added soft chords with his left hand, uncertain at first, then steadier.

It was strange. Her sound filled in the gaps of his silence. He was following, yet it didn’t feel like losing control. Somehow, it felt right.

She glanced up with a teasing grin.

“You’re watching my pace. Didn’t think you’d be that precise.”

“I’m a med student. Precision’s part of the job.”

“Maybe. But your hands feel totally different.”

“…?”

“Cold. Like ice. Nervous?”

Law let out a soft breath of laughter. He’d spent years avoiding touch—yet here she was, brushing past his walls.

“You’re the one closing the distance.”

She blinked, then smiled.

“Sorry. But that’s what music does, right? Brings people closer.”

Their notes aligned again. Even their breaths seemed in sync.

When the song ended, silence returned—but it wasn’t empty.

Law lifted his hands and murmured,

“…Not bad.”

“Right?”

She smiled, sensing that maybe—just maybe—her music had warmed a small corner of him.

That day, for a fleeting second, Law’s hand brushed against hers. Long enough not to be an accident.

And neither of them pulled away.

⸻

Rain fell in the courtyard—gentle, like the first sign of spring. Three days before the recital. She sat alone in the library, music scores in her lap.

Law hadn’t come for days.

Word spread that their replacement violinist had dropped out. Her chest tightened—not just with nerves, but something else.

He could’ve played. But maybe… he was really gone.

She leaned back, thinking of the cool touch of his hand during the duet. It hadn’t been rejection. If anything, it had felt like hesitation—quiet, restrained.

“…I’ll do it.”

The voice came from behind the door.

She looked up in disbelief.

There he was. In his black hoodie, not a suit. But his eyes—his eyes were steady.

“Seriously?”

“I owe your music something.”

And with that, he picked up the violin case.

⸻

Backstage hums with nervous energy. Her fingers felt damp with nerves.

Law stood beside her, tuning his bow with silent focus.

“Why… did you come back?”

His voice remained low, his eyes on the strings.

“Because if I don’t play now… I might never move forward.”

Music had been his past. Something buried the moment he chose medicine. But meeting her, hearing her sound—it had stirred life into that silence.

The recital began. Her melody on the piano. His on the violin. The sound they created wasn’t perfect. It was raw, gentle, occasionally stubborn—but always in harmony.

As the applause swelled, she turned to him. He had his eyes closed, as if letting something go.

⸻

Backstage again. The crowd’s claps still echoed faintly. But what lingered in her chest was not the applause—it was the final note they had played together. That quiet harmony, dissolving into stillness.

Law packed up slowly, his hands hesitant.

“Hey… will you come back to the library?”

He turned away, lips pressed in that usual unreadable line.

She braced for silence. Then— “…Yeah.” She blinked.

“Really?”

He looked back, half-smiling.

“I thought I could leave it all behind after the performance. But I can’t.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a folded score.

“A piece I wrote—for you. I want to play the rest… together.”

The final bar was left blank. She took it, unable to speak.

“…So, are you asking me out?” she teased, trying to break the tension.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, the corners of his mouth tilting.

“You’re a music major. I’m a med student. We move at different paces. But I’ll try to match yours.”

That was his confession—the best way he knew how.

She smiled.

“Then I’ll match yours too.”

They stood at the edge of the stage, the echo of music still lingering. The applause had faded—but the prelude to something new had only just begun.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of their story.

[nat1229]

Portgas D. Ace x Reader, AU

Through the Lens, Into the Fire : A local firefighter Ace and the director assigned to document his days find more than just footage between them.

***

The locker room smelled like smoke, sweat, and something permanently scorched into the walls.

A small radio someone had forgotten to turn off was murmuring from the far corner, its voice bouncing off the steel head of an axe leaning against the wall.

Ace sat beneath it, a towel slung over his shoulder, half a bottle of water already gone. He swallowed, exhaled through his nose, and glanced at me.

“No idea if this is the kind of story you’re looking for,” he said, voice low, slightly amused. “But I don’t mind running into fire. Guess I kinda like it.”

His laugh wasn’t loud, but it reached me—rippled through the heavy air and settled somewhere below my collarbone.

He always spoke more freely when the cameras weren’t rolling. Or maybe it wasn’t a matter of freedom—maybe he just didn’t know how to hold things back. He was the kind of man who answered simply because someone asked.

Direct. Unfiltered. Earnest in a way that left nowhere to hide. I stared down at my reporter’s notebook, pretending to scribble something useful. In truth, I was just trying to distract from the flush rising beneath my ears.

My throat tightened—just slightly.

The worst part was not knowing if it was because of what he said, or because of the interview itself. Most people tense up the moment you say you’re from a TV station.

But Ace didn’t. He never looked away. Never put on a mask. It was like he didn’t feel the need to perform.

“Your style’s… intense,” he’d told me once. “Kinda no-bullshit. I respect that.”

When he said it, there’d been something in his eyes the lens couldn’t catch—something too warm, too unguarded, too real. And for a second, I’d found myself terrified.

Not of him. But of how rarely someone let themselves be seen like that.

**

When Ace’s name first landed on my desk, it was the numbers that caught my eye.

“Most dispatch calls in the city.”

“Highest civilian survival rate.”

That’s not statistics—that’s borderline mythology.

The file came with a single photo: A soot-covered fire jacket, a half-burned helmet, a kitten perched on his shoulder. He wasn’t smiling, but somehow, his face still looked bright.

“Great face, young, saves lives. That’s a win,” my boss had said at the editorial meeting, waving a hand. I’d nodded like I wasn’t already seeing it—seeing the image in my head before we’d even shot it.

Not drama, not variety, not manufactured emotion. Just the weight and quiet of someone walking out of fire with another life in his arms.

**

After one shoot, right after a fire call, he crouched down on wet concrete, holding a stray dog close to his chest.

His breathing was heavy, his hands smudged with ash. He kept his eyes on the dog, murmuring something I couldn’t catch—until suddenly, he looked up.

Our eyes met. The flickering red sky lit the curve of his cheek, the line of his brow, the parts of him hidden beneath his helmet. I didn’t realize until later that the camera had still been rolling.

And in that frame, he looked—irrevocably, frustratingly—cinematic. So much so that one of our junior editors let out a breathy, almost reverent, “Shit… this looks like a drama pilot.”

“Don’t you dare pitch anything,” I muttered, pretending to laugh. My voice came out lower than I expected.

I didn’t want to admit it—but I’d thought the same thing. People like him weren’t supposed to exist outside of scripts.

**

We followed him for a week. Morning inspections. Afternoon lectures at local schools. Late nights on standby. Most of it was painfully ordinary—“the unglamorous machinery of public safety,” I called it in my notes. There were long stretches of nothing worth filming. But Ace never seemed bored.

“Just act normal, right?” he’d joke, flashing peace signs at the lens while sorting paperwork.

A nightmare for editors. But on screen? It worked. Too well.

He didn’t need a script.

He was the story.

**

The final day. We were driving back from another call—no casualties, minor damage. The sun was melting into the horizon, casting everything in a dusky gold.

Our cameraman had dozed off in the back seat, snoring softly. I sat in the passenger seat, notebook balanced on my thigh, watching Ace’s profile from the corner of my eye.

The window was cracked, letting in the thick, humid breath of a New York summer night. Ace leaned into the breeze, eyes half-lidded.

Then, casually, without even turning his head, he said “You know, you could compliment me even when the cameras are off.”

His voice was low. Rougher than usual. It caught me off guard. Took me a second too long to respond.

“I wasn’t complimenting you,” I said finally. “Just stating facts.”

He didn’t argue. Just smiled—a small thing, barely there. Kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward, unmistakably warm.

“So… that means you’ve been watching me.”

It wasn’t a line. It was too quiet for that. Too honest.

I didn’t answer. Just looked out the window, at the glowing blur of taillights and storefronts rushing past. And in that silence, it hit me—sharp and undeniable:

I liked him.

**

The piece aired the following week.

Ratings were solid. Social media picked it up fast. Upper management was already pitching a follow-up series.

But I felt… off. Like something had shifted. Maybe because, now that it was done, I no longer had a reason to see him. And that realization stung more than I wanted to admit.

So when he showed up at the studio that Friday—paper bag of donuts in one hand, hoodie half-zipped, helmet in the other—I almost forgot how to breathe.

“Thanks,” he said. “For making me look that cool. For seeing me like that.”

He didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t fidget. Just gripped the edge of the paper bag like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

“I realized… I really like the way you see the world. And I like that I get to exist in that frame. So yeah—I think I like you.”

He didn’t overplay it. Didn’t push. Just said it the way he said everything else. Like it was true.

I almost laughed—out of nerves, out of sheer disbelief. But what bloomed in my chest wasn’t funny. It was heavy, warm, unshakably real.

He didn’t stay long. Just handed me the bag, nodded once, and disappeared behind the automatic doors. But that sentence—his voice, the way he’d looked at me— that’s the one thing I couldn’t cut in post. The clearest thing I captured in the whole damn show.

So maybe next time—no camera.

Just you.

And that smile.

[nat1229]

Portgas D. Ace x Reader, AU

A story where my ex Ace shows up at my family’s Christmas dinner

***

It was Christmas Eve in Brooklyn. Strings of quiet, understated lights blinked softly along the porches of brownstones, each one dressed just enough to feel festive but not enough to call attention to itself.

Frost clung stubbornly to the sidewalks, and with every step up the stone stoop of my parents’ townhouse, the rubber soles of my boots squeaked faintly against the cold.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d stood in front of this door. But every time I did, my breath would catch—just slightly—like something in my lungs knew that stepping inside meant walking back into a version of myself I thought I’d grown out of.

A self who still lived in old arguments and Sunday brunches, in sweaters left on the radiator and footsteps on creaking stairs. Into a house filled with people who knew too well who I used to be.

My fingers reached out to knock on the door, where a small wreath hung off-center like always.

But before I could touch the brass, I heard the lock click from the inside. The door swung open.

“Hey. There you are.” And there he was.

Standing in the doorway, like he belonged there. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Merry Christmas,” he added, grinning. “Come on in.”

Portgas D. Ace. My ex.

Not someone I hated. Not someone I wished badly things had ended differently with. Just someone who shouldn’t—by any stretch of reason—be answering the door at my parents’ house.

“What—what are you doing here?” I managed, still holding the handles of my tote bag like they might anchor me to some version of reality.

He shifted the six-pack in his hands and grinned wider.

“Your mom invited me. Said it wouldn’t be Christmas without me. Even picked up Lagavulin for your dad.”

“My… mom did?”

“And your dad texted. Asked if I was bringing the turkey rub again.”

He jerked his chin toward the warm air spilling from inside. “Come on. You’re letting the heat out.”

Before I could process it, he was already stepping back, waving me inside like some kind of host.

Inside, the air smelled like roasted garlic and thyme. Holiday jazz played from my dad’s ancient Bose speaker, the one he always said had “warmer tone” than anything made after 2005.

The candles on the table were perfectly spaced—too perfectly, which meant Mom had done it.

And Ace… he fit into the room like he’d never left.

⸻

“Think the turkey’s ready?”

“Uncle Ace! I got a rare card—look, look!”

By the time I made it to the dining room, he was already deep in conversation.

Mom was leaning over his shoulder asking him to check the turkey, her face lit up like she’d just won a prize.

My nephew clung to his leg, waving a trading card.

My dad was already talking about next season’s Knicks tickets like he was prepping Ace to join the family fantasy league.

He wasn’t just included—he was central. Like he’d been written back into the script without anyone asking me if I was okay with the rewrite.

“Why are you acting like this is normal?” I asked, pulling him aside just enough to hiss the words without alerting the entire dinner party.

He blinked at me, utterly unbothered, and popped a chicken wing into his mouth.

“I mean… your family Christmas? It’s kind of an annual tradition.”

“We broke up.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t break up with me. Your mom made me a room. I’m pretty sure I count as a tenant at this point.”

“You are not a tenant. You’re an ex. That’s like… lease terminated, keys returned, moved out, emotionally and legally.”

He gave a casual shrug. “Technically, I still have the spare key.”

“You what—”

“From your mom.”

“DO NOT ACCEPT KEYS FROM MY MOM.”

From the other side of the table, my nephews burst into laughter. My mom was slicing cheese, smiling like we were some sitcom couple exchanging banter in the kitchen.

What was this? How had I become the outsider in my own house?

We were the ones who ended things. This wasn’t his place anymore—it wasn’t supposed to be.

I made a beeline for the kitchen, escaping behind the excuse of water, or cutlery, or air. But before I could disappear entirely, I heard Mom call out behind me.

“You know, sweetie… he still thinks about you.”

I paused at the counter. “Mom, not now.”

“When he stayed over last month—just for one night, when the flights were grounded—he used your mug. The one you gave him years ago. The one with the stupid little constellation print.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Didn’t even ask. Just reached for it.”

Please, I wanted to say. Don’t touch my memories in places I can’t see.

Christmas is supposed to be a season. But sometimes, it’s a trap—one you walk into willingly, only to realize too late that the ghosts of past selves are already seated at the table.

Back in the dining room, I caught myself watching him. Laughing. Talking. Bending slightly so my nephew could whisper something in his ear. Like he belonged there.

He was holding a beer, and just as I looked, he glanced up too. Our eyes met. Just a second—maybe two. And then he smiled. Not wide, not showy. Not the kind of grin you flash at a room. But soft. Like it was meant only for me.

And just like that, I felt the balance shift again. Like the room pulled closer. Like I was the one breaking the rules, not him.

God, he hadn’t changed at all. That smile. That stupid, easy warmth. That way his hand would always find its place on your back when the wind picked up.

It was all still there. Christmas is so unfair. And once again, I’d failed to stop liking him.