Pebs [BB]

Pebble/Pebs- -She/They- -Bi- -Enby- -Art requests are OPEN- -19- <33 :))

[narnian-neverlander]

Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow [Vinsmoke Sanji x GN!Reader]

“I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is.”

Genre/Tropes: hurt/comfort, established relationship

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: mentions of canon typical injuries

A/N: Rewatching Whole Cake always makes me wanna wrap his self sacrificial self in a blanket and keep him safe even more than I usually do, so here we are. Written with anime Sanji in mind, but could be read as OPLA Sanji, too, I think??

The food in front of you must’ve grown cold by now with how long you’ve been pushing it around your plate listlessly, any appetite replaced by anxiety induced nausea the moment Usopp had found you stumbling out onto the deck, still bleary eyed and only half awake, and had told you to pick up the pace if you still wanted any breakfast. The buzz and chatter of the crew has faded to not much more than static in your ears as you keep stealing glances at the blond serving food and bright smiles like nothing’s wrong in the slightest. It takes several calls of your name to realize Luffy is talking to you, desperately wanting to know if you’re gonna finish your breakfast, so you end up shoving your untouched plate in your captain’s general direction, harsher than strictly necessary, before falling back in your seat heavily, arms crossed over your chest, eyes downcast and overall radiating discontent and restlessness. It earns you a concerned gaze from the cook, one you’ve become so accustomed to you can feel it, yet you refuse to lift your head or react in any other way.

The rest of the crew catches on to the tension between you both quickly, all filing out of the kitchen one after the other with flimsy at best excuses, except for Luffy, who has to be dragged out by Zoro, bless the swordsman’s heart. Silence settles over the room, awkward and strained, so unlike the comfortable warmth that usually occupies the quiet spaces between you.

“Angel, you didn’t eat a single bite. Would you like me to make you something else?”

His voice is low, soft, careful, meant to calm and reassure you. Any other day, it probably would, as it usually does.

Today?

Today, it makes you want to strangle him.

“Are you serious right now…?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

“Why wouldn’t I be? We’ve had a rough couple of days and are all still recovering, you need to keep your strength up, ma chérie.”

Tipping your head back, you exhale the anger burning you from the inside out in a long breath before leveling him with a disapproving glare.

“Exactly. So why are you standing here, first day out of a coma, still covered in bandages, pretending like it’s just any other regular morning? Like nothing at all happened?”

The soft smile slips from his face, replaced by a worried frown as he runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaning against the counter across from you.

“It’s not that big of a deal, we’ve had close calls before.”

“Not that close.”

“Sweetheart, please, I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

“You almost died, Sanji!!” you finally explode, shooting up from your seat so fast, your chair goes tipping over and clattering to the ground loudly. “Your fucking heart stopped and you were out cold for days!! I don’t— Why— How can you just brush that off like it’s fucking nothing?!”

You cross your arms over your heaving chest, a false, thin layer of security over your aching heart, nails digging crescent idents into your arms while you desperately hold on to the anger, lest the grief and fear of the last few days take over again.

Seeing you so upset because of him pains Sanji more than his actual injuries and he just barely resists the urge to wrap you in a hug, fully aware that you won’t let him lull you back into familiar security and comfort through honeyed words and gentle touches this time.

“I am so sorry, my love, I never meant to frighten you like this, but I don’t regret any of it and even if I could go back I would not change a thing.”

Terror comes creeping back into your veins, mingling with the rage to burn like poison, same as the tears you can feel building, threatening to spill from tired eyes as you throw your hands up in exasperation.

“Does your own life really mean that little to you?!”

There’s a tick in his jaw from grinding his teeth too hard, crossing his arms over his chest while he stares right back at you, eyes pleading, but stubborn.

“No. But I’d rather have it be me than you. I’ve been made the luckiest man on the Grand Line solely through you choosing to love me, so if I take my last breath protecting you, I’ll do so gladly.”

You bark out a laugh, short and humorless, the first tears finally falling and leaving streaks across your cheeks.

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. And I don’t think you understand how absolutely terrifying and daunting that is, to be absolutely certain that I can trust you with my life, but not with your own! And I get that it’s not your intention to make me feel like this, that it’s just in your nature to want to protect the people you care about and Sanji, let me make it clear to you that I have not felt unsafe or uncared for for even a single second since meeting you, but when you push it to such extremes, do you have any idea what that ends up doing to me?! I don’t want to lose you in some honorable, heroic act of self sacrifice, I want a future with you!!”

All color drains from his face rapidly, shock taking over his features so instantly and completely, you clamp your mouth shut fast enough for your tongue to get trapped between your teeth, the coppery taste of blood not enough to distract you from realizing what you’ve just let slip - or from how utterly terrified he looks at hearing it. Averting your gaze, you swallow hard around the lump in your throat and wipe a sleeve over your eyes, futilely trying to stop the tears from flowing.

“I guess… I guess you don’t… think about that. I just— never mind, forget I said anything.”

You make for the door as fast as humanly possible, hand already on the knob when he calls out to you. “Don’t. Please. Don’t leave, not… not like this.”

Heeding his request, you turn and let your back collide with the door heavily, sniffling while you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort, but your eyes stay locked on the floor. It’s not like you actually want to leave, you hate arguing with him, as rare as it is, and you’ve never parted ways upset with each other, it’s not how your relationship works. But the shock of almost losing him is still gnawing at your bones, not to mention your own injuries haven’t fully healed; you’re exhausted, mentally and physically, and now the added humiliation of exposing a wish for a future he seemingly doesn’t want is making you want to crawl into a small, dark space to hide.

A pair of black shoes enters your field of vision, followed by slender fingers reaching for your hand, still tightly clamped around your own arm. His movements are slow, careful, giving you ample time to pull away if you so choose. When you don’t, he gently rests his hand over yours in a barely there, featherlight touch and the second his skin touches yours, warm and familiar, relief floods your system, everything else falling away.

He’s okay. He’s alive. He’s right here with you. Nothing else matters right now.

You weave your fingers together, grip like a vice, tight enough that you’re certain it has to hurt, yet he doesn’t let go, in fact, he steps closer and brings your intertwined hands to his lips, pressing chaste, soft kisses to each of your knuckles individually.

“Mon cœur, will you look at me, please…?”

One, two, three deep breaths, in and out through your nose, that’s how long it takes to work up the courage to do as he asks and you’re immediately met with anguished blue eyes, wet with unshed tears. His free hand comes up to brush a gentle thumb over your cheek, wiping away some of the salty tracks still clinging to your skin.

“I have so obviously failed you in countless ways, I couldn’t expect forgiveness, not even from someone as benevolent as you.”

“Sanji—”

“No, let me speak, please, my darling.” he interrupts softly, but doesn’t continue until you give him permission in the form of a small nod. “Not only did I cause you grief and pain through my actions, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been, I also have been negligent enough in my affection and devotion to have you truly believing that I don’t desperately desire a future with you.”

“Y-You do…?” It’s a hoarse whisper, quiet, but oh so hopeful.

“Embarrassingly much.” he confirms with a low chuckle, accentuated by the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’ve thought about introducing you to Zeff, at some point. I’m… still trying to figure out how to set that up without the old geezer sending you bolting in the opposite direction the second he opens his damn mouth…”

That earns him a huff of a laugh, along with the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards and it’s enough to assuage the ever present fear of overwhelming you, of being too much with his version of fondness and love.

“Thinking about finding the All Blue? That dream isn’t complete anymore without picturing you by my side. Getting to be with you long enough to see your smile lines deepen and the first glimpses of gray appearing in your hair, even if I might be the cause of some of them? Nothing would make me happier.”

“Probably all of the gray hairs that Luffy doesn’t cause, let’s be honest.” you mumble, brushing his bangs away from his eyes and cupping his face, heart fluttering when he nuzzles into your touch and presses a quick kiss to your palm.

Then you watch his brows furrow in deep thought, gears in his head clearly turning as he figures out the best way of phrasing his next words.

“I… I don’t want to die, please never think that. And I know you’re perfectly capable of looking out for yourself and that we have a crew that would move heaven and earth for each other, but… if there’s something, anything, I can do to save you when you’re in danger, even at the risk of my own life, I can’t just… uselessly stand by and watch it happen. Not again.” You immediately open your mouth to interject, to remind him that what happened to his mother was not his fault and that there was nothing he could’ve done, but you don’t get the chance before he’s speaking again. “I hate that my actions scared you, mon étoile, but I don’t think… I’m not sure that’s something I can change about myself.”

The poor cook looks so utterly lost and apologetic, hunched shoulders, trembling fingers and glossy eyes, your heart lurches in your chest, rattling around your rib cage, leaving bruises in it’s attempt to get to him. You never meant to make him feel like he has to change such a core aspect of himself just to keep you happy.

“I’m not asking you to, my light. The fact that your kindness knows no bounds, to the point where you would sacrifice anything for the people you care about is one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I now asked you to erase that? I just wish you would think about yourself, too, every once in a while. If not for your own sake, then… then maybe you could do it for me? And for the future we both want? Because, Sanji, none of what you talked about can happen without you.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, he ends up dropping his forehead to yours, eyes falling closed while he threads his fingers together behind your lower back in a loose hug.

“Yeah, I… I know. And I’ll do better. Well, I… I promise I’ll try. For you. For us.”

He can quite literally feel the tension bleed from your form at his words.

“That’s all I ask,” you murmur, leaving a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

His answer comes in the form of little kisses, ghosted over your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach, and just as he leans in to capture your lips, your stomach very loudly reminds you that you’ve barely eaten anything proper in days. Sanji freezes at the sound, which has heat crawling up the back of your neck and stealing into your face instantly, but it only lasts a second, then he’s already laughing, quiet and soft and warm, before pressing a final chaste kiss to your warm cheek. “Will you please let me make you some breakfast now?”

He has already turned around, halfway to the stove, so he completely misses how you purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. “No, I won’t, actually.”

“So what would you— No?”

The blond whips back around so fast it’s downright comical, blue eyes wide and confused and looking so much like a kicked puppy you almost consider taking it back. Almost.

“You heard me, no. We might’ve made up, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t mess up and that has consequences. So you are going to sit,” you gesture at one of the stools at the counter, confidently striding past his bewildered form and beelining towards the cupboards, “and let me make breakfast, because I know for a damn fact that you haven’t eaten either.”

He blinks owlishly, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream, rooted to the spot, long, slender fingers flexing at his sides, utterly unsure of what do with himself now. “Love, don’t be ridiculous, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I know you are, that’s not the point.” you interrupt him, shutting one of the drawers as you jab a spoon in his direction as threateningly as possible and yet again motion for him to take a seat. “This is your punishment so sit down before I make you, you know I can and will.”

Color blooms across his cheeks, stuttered half sentences dying on his tongue as he tries to come up with a defense he already knows you wouldn’t fall for anyways. Defeated, he drops himself down at the counter, chin propped up on one hand, watching you pull a bowl and flour from the cupboards, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the counter top, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in thought.

“Darling, not to throw a wrench in your oh so carefully crafted plans, but being taken care of by you can hardly be considered a punishment.”

Turning back around from where you’ve grabbed a pan, you regard him with raised brows: head cocked to the side, nestled into his palm, blond hair illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the bullseye on the door almost halo like, blue eyes warm and bright like the sky on a clear spring day and a smile so genuine and soft, your heart just about melts through your rib cage.

Sighing, you deposit the pan on the still cold stove, then meander over to stand opposite of him, forearms coming up to rest on the counter and then leaning in close enough for your breaths to mingle, one wave rocking the ship away from having your lips on his.

“For you, Mister ‘Acts of service are my love language and if I don’t take care of my loved ones constantly I will implode’? Yeah, this’ll do just fine. Nice try, though.” A condescending pat to his cheek paired with a smug grin follows, then you return to the station he usually occupies and start dumping ingredients into a bowl.

“Worth a shot.” Hands raised in surrender with his own grin tugging the corners of his lips upwards despite himself, he seemingly finally settles into his seat, albeit temporarily.

Of course you’re not wrong in your assessment, he does get antsy when prohibited from showing his affection through care, but when it’s you reversing the roles, he never actually minds, and you know this; it’s what has him analyzing the entire situation all over again. Sapphire eyes observe you carefully, the way you so comfortably move around a space that’s usually his like you’ve never belonged anywhere else, humming contently under your breath, calm and at peace for all the world to see, but that’s not what Sanji sees. There’s the slightest tremble in your hands, the inside of your cheek occasionally getting trapped between your teeth, gaze flicking over to him every so often, a shaky, little smile as his reward when you catch him staring - and the truth finally hits him like a slap to the face. No matter what you may claim, this isn’t some actual form of punishment, this is you, still trapped with the fear and panic from the last few days, and not knowing where else to put it all besides making sure he’s safe and sound and cared for. Of course you’re not going to let him lift a single finger. Of course you’re not going to let him out of your sight, the need to reassure yourself that no harm will ever befall him again too great. It’s exactly what he would do in your position and he’s long since learned that you can be scarily similar to each other.

Wether Sanji likes to admit it or not, he had in fact almost paid for his chivalry with his life this time around; had almost gone somewhere you would not have been able to follow, something he’d promised you he’d never even think of. In the moment, he’d told himself it’d be okay. That he’d live and even if he didn’t, you would be alright and that’s all that mattered. You’d grieve him for a while, or so he hopes, and then you’d heal. Move on. Find someone else, someone better, to spend your life with and make you happy. He would want you to. After all, you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life wishing for ‘What ifs…?’ with someone who’d never been worthy of your affections and love in the first place, would you?

In his mind, it had all seemed so easy.

Would it have been easy for him if your roles had been reversed?

The answer is as clear as he pictures the waters of the All Blue and just like that the world tilts on it’s axis, shifting into focus, bathing everything in a different light and Sanji feels nauseous with the weight of what he put you through. His ailing heart drives him from his seat despite the reprimands already falling from your lips, molding his body to yours, arms tightly wound around your middle and head buried in the crook of your neck. The complaints die on your tongue when you realize he doesn’t try to pry the spatula away from you, lets you flip your pancake in peace, no indication that he’s about to take any of the work from you, only a gentle, reassuring presence, strong, steady heartbeat at your back.

“Tu es mon univers entier, mon avenir…” It’s not much more than a quiet murmur against your skin, soft and reverent. “I was… blind to you seeing me as yours. And that is not your fault, my inner demons and insecurities should not have to be your burden and yet—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, arms tightening around you. “I’ll never know what I did to deserve my very own guardian angel, but… thank you, my beloved. For looking out for me.”

Reaching back, you tangle one hand in his soft hair, gently scratching at his scalp and he immediately goes snuggling into you further, eliminating any nonexistent remaining space. “Someone very clearly has to.”

A barely there huff of a laugh, dry and joyless. “There ought to be much better uses of your precious time.”

You hum quietly in mock thought. “Can’t think of a single one.”

The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he spins you around to face him, consciously moving you away from the hot stove and trapping you between him and the counter now digging into your back. There’s nothing but devotion, downright worship, written all over his pretty features, eyes shining like the rays of the sun reflecting off the waves, then, “I really want to kiss you, mon amour, please can I—”

You beat him to it, yanking him forward by his shirt, all too happy to oblige, the movement so hasty and desperate you end up clashing your teeth together. The recovery is quick, seamless, the kiss becoming less frenzied, passion and adoration taking center stage instead. A low groan from the back of his throat has you looping your arms around his neck to drag him impossibly closer, helplessly addicted to anything he gives you, his own hands reaching up to cradle your face in turn, thumbs softly brushing over your cheekbones and angling your head to deepen the kiss further, your surroundings falling away as the world shrinks down to just the two of you.

The need for oxygen is what regretfully forces you apart eventually, yet you stay tangled together, heaving chests pressed against the other, both unwilling to allow even an inch of space to disturb the little corner of the world you’ve carved for yourselves.

His warm breath fans over your face and then he moves lower to busy himself with leaving little nips and kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. “Heavens above, I adore you…” he sighs against your skin.

“Hmmm, lucky me, cause that’s just about the only thing that’s gonna make these pancakes edible.”

Confusion furrows his brows as he straightens back up, watching you reach over to grab the pan, depositing the charred victim of your distraction onto a plate you’d already set aside. When he actually has the audacity to laugh, you level him with an icy glare and jab an accusing finger into his chest. “This is your fault, you know. You distracted me.” Still chuckling, he lifts said accusing finger to brush his lips against it in apology. “Oh come now, love, there’s still batter left, everything’ll turn out fine. Besides, I’d happily eat poison if you were the one to serve it to me.”

You almost feel your knees buckle at hearing that, immediately reaching for his cheeks to pinch both of them in frustration. “I— You can’t— What did we just talk about?! Good grief, you are incorrigible!!” There’s no real bite to your words, only very real, very fond exasperation.

Clearly amused, he’s grinning while he pries your hands off his face and returns them to their previous position comfortably settled at the back of his neck. “And yet…” he starts, leaning forward to leave a small, soft kiss on the corner of your downturned lips, which has them quirking upwards despite your best efforts, “here you are.”

Shoulders dropping in defeat and rolling your eyes at his antics, you try your utmost best to appear cross with him, but you’re already mirroring his smitten, lovesick expression before you know it. “Here I am. And I’m not going anywhere.” A beat of hesitation, your voice growing quiet with the true weight of what you’re about to ask. “Are you?”

His teasing grin softens into something gentle and warm as he regards you: worry and uncertainty creating a crease between your brows, beautiful eyes pleading and fingers anxiously fidgeting with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Carefully unclasping your hands, he brings them to his chest instead, right over his heart, steady and strong against your palms, it’s rhythm trying to prove his next words true, to leave you certain that he means them mind, body and soul.

“No, mon étoile, I’m not. Not now, not ever.”

[peony-veins]

Hello hello, I saw u had matchups open and i wanted to send smthn in for Obey Me! And Twisted Wonderland!! Apologies in advance if this is long, I tend to be kinda rambly :))

MBTI/personality: INXP (every time I’ve done the test it’s been a 50/50 between thinking and feeling). I tend to rant a lot and I am very emotional, if I love something I will not stop talking about it, it is very easy for games/shows/movies to make me cry, and if I hate something I will loathe it with all that I am.

I have quite a few interests but I will regularly start a hobby for a few months and then drop. I will often swing between being very sociable (initiating interactions with strangers, going to a friends party) to being very closed off (spending hours on my own with my headphones on, sitting in the corner at said friends’ party). I also figured out recently that I have a decently poor memory and an absolutely horrendous sense of direction and I have always been a huge romantic

Hobbies/interests: I’m rly into a lot of things, but the main ones are: art, gaming (mostly gacha and dating sims but I also love BG3, rhythm games, and YTTD), watching long form videos, fantasy movies, horror in general, analysing shows, literature, and characters, baking, going on lovely little walks outside, walks in the woods especially, and I will also regularly rewatch things dozens of times (I’ve seen the LOTR trilogy at least 15 times and do planning on watching it way more times)

Biggest passions : My main “thing” has always been my art, I have drawn my whole life, it’s what I studied in college and it’s what I’m gonna study in uni. I draw all the time and the characters I make are one of my favourite things to talk about.

Besides that, I also super love fashion and getting dressed up for every and any occasion. I do not stick to a specific aesthetic and have outfits that range from fairy like to neon everything to straight up vampire.

Biggest pet peeves/fears : my biggest pet peeves are being interrupted and people not taking my fears seriously. My biggest fears are bugs, the dark, and on a more philosophical note, I’m often scared of introducing my friends to one another in case they like each other more than they like me (something something anxiety and depression)

What do you value in partners?: someone who will push me to be a better version of myself, I love a man comfortable with exploring their feminine side, someone who will cook because despite me baking I hate cooking, someone who’ll listen to me rant, who won’t mind how forgetful I am, will watch my favourite media with me over and over, someone who’s a huge romantic and will initiate physical affection, will support through mental struggles and match my energy when I’m really passionate about something.

On a slightly more shallow note, I also love someone who will get me gifts just because (especially jewelry, sweets, or bouquets). I’d also need someone who wouldn’t mind me drawing them a lot!! And they do have to be super mega in love with me also, head over heels devoted

What do you avoid in partners?: not much here but anyone overtly rude or too controlling, someone who doesn’t take my fears seriously (as previously alluded to), anyone too emotionally closed off

Fun facts/extra tidbits you wanna add in! : I own 2 cats and would like a partner who doesn’t mind pets (I have attached photos of them). I do not want kids in the future so my partner would also have to be someone who doesn’t mind not having kids and who isn’t really expected to have kids. I dream of having a big fancy wedding in a beautiful cathedral with stained glass windows and a lush, gorgeous garden and it would be in the spring and my dress would be beautiful and flowy and lacy and I would need my potential partner to be the one to propose (and probably confess too honestly, no way I’m gonna be the one to confess, I’d be way too scared of rejection).

Also, a few of my other favourite characters (to get a better picture of what I enjoy) of mine are Argenti from HSR, Kaveh and Venti from Genshin, Sanji One Piece, Rarity MLP, and Astarion from BG3

This is not necessarily all I could think to write but I did not want to make this too long, sorry again that it’s kind of lengthy!! Take ur time, thank you so much in advance, and I hope ur doing good :)) <33

(Just checked word count, I wrote so much more than I thought I would…)

Kitties as promised! Beetle is my stupid orange little boy and Millie is my pretty princess!!

First off , never apologise for being rambly. Detail is the aim of the game with matchups!

Second off. Oh my god. YOUR CATS ARE SO CUTE OH MT DAYS <33333333

Third off , ONE PIECE MENTION ARARRARARARARRARARARARARAA (it’s my fav anime)

Fourth off , heres the matchups!

For Twst : Cater Diamond or Mozus Trein

Cater , despite his persona , is a very introspective man. He wants you to be the best version of yourself and is such a genuine man behind his mask. If you manage to break through and see it you’ll always feel safe. He loves all your styles and all your art. He shows it off not only for views but because if you ever see him taking the photos of the art where he isn’t in the frame you can see the sheer pride and love on his face. He adores it

Most people sleep on Trein but im locked in alright? He’s a cat man for one so he’s already inclined to enjoy your company. He’s a very deep thinking so when you open up about your fears he takes it seriously. He won’t mind your forgetfulness too because once you get to know him you know he loves to go on and on so he never minds telling you something a million times over y’know? He’s romantic he’s content , he’s very casual but his loyalty and commitment is absolute.

For om : Leviathan

He loves your passions and while he’s extremely embarrassed and tries to run away halfway through Levi tries his hardest to be romantic and confess (I’m convinced he would set up this whole romantic evening but when it comes to it he screams that he loves you and runs away about to die of shame and embarrassment) and he shares a lot of your fears and worries! While he can be a liiiiitle controlling at times early on he calms down because he wants to be the best partner he can for you

[tearsoftae]

OKAY OKAY im sorry for killing u ill get 2 work but FAWK i havent wrote in 5ever pls spare me if this is cringe okay 12 hours before my shift

cole is an eater.

on the list of things he likes to eat, he’d probably say chen’s noodles, cake (his second love, you’ve learned to accept it), and, only when you’re around, you are at the top of that list.

you could be cooking, training, sitting around when he’s coming up behind you, biceps closing in around your form as he lifts you up with ease. “wanna get something to eat?” he asks so sweetly that you know what he really means, but like hell you’re gonna refuse. even lifts you up in his arms, insisting that you don’t lift a finger (or foot) as he carries you to bed. 

it’s embarrassing, how he treats you like something to savor. with how eager he finishes his plate at dinner, how does he now have the patience to tease you? sliding off whatever you wore that day— doesn’t matter, since he’s pressing kisses to your bare skin, an appetizer for what’s to come. up and down and in your thighs, eyes half-lidded until a firm hand on his hair drags his attention with it.

“”mmf?” he mumbles, tugging himself closer with his hands hooked around your thighs. you wanted eye contact? you got it, with sleepy hazel eyes putting all of its focus on you. his kisses become sloppier, drool slipping out of the corners of his mouth. until finally, finally he’s breathing you in; half of a main dish is the smell, after all. you open your mouth, to beg maybe, but a choked out moan leaves your lips instead. 

he’s licking up everything that slipped out in those few, long minutes of teasing before sucking right on your clit. maybe to draw more of your taste out. wet and sloppy, face practically motorboating your pussy as he licks, slurps, moans into you like he’s the one getting head. it would make you giggle seeing him so concentrated, but when he’s gripping your squirming thighs, murmuring quiet praises from “don’t you dare, you’re so pretty, best thing i’ve ever tasted…” nothing is funny. 

even when you cum, hips bucking upward into his mouth, he’s the loud one. tongue getting even sloppier, hips rutting against the sheets under him to try and ease some pressure. pushing your thighs up to your stomach, so he can drink you in like he’s trying to be a part of you. when you finally slump back on the bed, that doesn’t mean he stops.

“c’mon… one more time. for me?” he begs lowly, sticking to kitten licks and puppy eyes to get you to give in. it’s a trap, not like his hands squeeze your thighs any less. “please, mommy?” he adds, and fuck, you can’t say no to that.

needless to say, he got his dessert (he fed you after, don’t worry).

-- 💕

😛🤤🤤🤤 ouuuu he’s so good for me

[capri-ramblings]

When their Yuu is stressed due to work... (Duo Ver.) *but as husbands.

Starring; Leona ★ Vil

notes: the kiss with vil has tongue. leona's is comfy cause I am a believer that he's a good hugger. Sorry for Leo's dialogue tho,his lingo too tuff for me fr.

Leona Kingscholar

He's so obnoxiously amused by this at first. Yuu comes home one day and instead of their cheery "Here, kittyyyyyy" there's a loud thud as they leave their work bag at the entrance and when they come into the living room, Leona was sprawled on the couch with a book in one hand and the other underneath his head.

He peered over the book and there was a slight surprise in his eyes when he caught the frustration in theirs.

"Someone's lookin' awfully ruffled," he said, grinning. "Where's all ya whimsy gone? Left it at work?"

Leona wasn't sure which word set them off but the second Yuu's eyes flashed he knew this was definitely not a joking matter and did his best to still appear unbothered when he moved to sit up and placed his book face down onto the coffee table.

"....What, did someone tick ya off or something?"

"Leona, what would you do if someone's messing up your routine because they refuse to take theirs seriously?"

Yikes. First name and not their usual cheeky nicknames? Yeah, someone was definitely on their nerves.

"Drop em'." He said, simple and unimpressed. But this further frustrated Yuu whose expression darkened even more.

"But I can't do that.". They said, and Leona immediately tensed when he caught the strain in their voice, the ever so subtle waver in their eyes. "I mean I wish I could but that just means I'm letting them get úto me right? And I hate that. God. I hate that I let them get to me!"

Yuu moved as if to turn away but Leona was faster and he was up on his feet before he even knew what he was doing and pulled them into a hug.

"Quiet with all that tremblin' in ya voice." One hand came to hold the back of their head as if he was cradling something fragile while the other was wrapped around their waist.

"So, ya have an annoying vulture at work? Is that it?"

Yuu sniffled. Leona sighed.

"And how come this is only coming out now?"

He knew the answer to that but it was more a distraction rather than an actual question; something he hoped would keep your mind off whatever deadbeat was giving you trouble.

"...I didn't want to seem like I was complaining. Like I couldn't handle the job."

Of fucking course. Why did this not surprise him? They were always going on and pulling their own weight, even when it was clear they reached their limit. Leona wasn't the traditional caring type but he'd be damned if he let anyone take advantage of his partner.

"Ha? Of course ya can handle it. What sort of an idiot would think that just cause yer out of breath means you've stopped runnin'?" His hold on them tightened then, his voice dropping into what sounded like both a growl and a coo. "What did I tell ya about actin' all goody-goody with people ya hardly know for a week?"

Yuu opened their mouth to reply but Leona interrupted.

"I said not to do it cause then it'll be like telling everyone yer a house pet."

"...I'm not a house pet."

Leona laughed at that, pulling away just so he could stare down at them.

"Exactly. So like I said, quit bein' nice to everyone. Got it?"

There's a slight hesitance in their eyes but they nod and immediately nuzzled back in for another hug.

"Got it."

Vil Schoenheit

"Ah,so this is where you scurried off to?" Vil's voice was as calm and collected as always but when Yuu looked up from their wallowing, the steely look in his eyes was enough to tell them he was upset.

He had been chosen to help host a small banquet of his father's close friend and although the night was still young, it was undeniably a success on Vil's part. The guests were blissfully enjoying each other's company coupled with the pleasing ambience of the banquet hall and the classically lofty quartet playing in the background.

When the crowd had settled down and they thought no one would notice, Yuu decisively slipped away to sit with their aggravation from a week of work with a junior branch of their current agency which was basically a hellish experience.

"Vil...I'm sorry I just needed some fresh air."

When Vil found them, Yuu was out on one of the balconies which had a chaise for any guests that needed a momentary escape.

They had their head in their hands, the veins behind their eyes seemingly feeling like they'd burst. They didn't think they'd be found so quickly.

"Hm, you could have said so hours ago." Vil said with his raised brows and thin frown. "You didn't think I wouldn't notice your wilting form? Are you truly in the mood of insulting me,my love?"

"Of course not." Yuu said as they chewed on their bottom lip which had Vil frowning even more as he walked up to sit beside them so he could cup their face in his hands. The fact that they were too tired to even put up a resistance to this was more than enough to confirm his initial readings on them.

"what aren't you telling me,hm?" His voice wasn't exactly gentle but it held a certain weight to it which Vil rarely expressed unless it was with them. The soft pads of his thumbs as he traced slow and small circles on the sides of their cheeks was an immediate balm to Yuu who leaned into the touch as their eyes closed.

"... It's nothing." They said rather unconvincingly.

"Don't make me kiss you until you lose all that colour from your face,Yuu." Vil rebuked, although it sounded more like a secret indulgence to him rather than a threat to them.

Yuu smiled, the anxiousness pooled in their stomach turning warm with expectation.

"If it means getting kissed by you, I don't even mind if I drop dead the next second."

Vil pinched their cheeks at that, and Yuu's eyes fluttered open to see Vil looking at them disapprovingly.

"What a morbid thing to say. You do have a knack for making me upset,don't you?" Vil sighed,the expression of exasperation not even coming close to dampening his beauty, in fact, on him even repulsion seemed heavenly. And as if he sensed these thoughts of theirs from just meeting their eyes, a wry grin curled on his lips and Vil shook his head.

"Honestly. Aren't you just an adorable anomaly. You're looking at me like I'm your only saving grace."

Yuu pursed their lips at that,moving their head slightly so that they were able to press a kiss into the palm of Vil's hand on their cheek.

"It's because you are."

"Then, why did you decide to run away and not tell me what's wrong,hm? If I'm what you need to save you, why are you avoiding me?"

Vil moved quickly yet gracefully as he leaned in to press their foreheads together,his breath warm against Yuu's lips which were mere inches away from being kissed.

"The whole week I've been keeping an on you and not once did you try to even say anything about your troubles. I was besides myself with irritation and worry." Vil then tilted their head back ever so slightly, just enough so that when he finally dipped his head down for a kiss, his tongue slipped in all the more easier.

Yuu sighed into the kiss as their hands came up to hold onto Vil's arms as if their life depended on them. They let him guide the exchange until he had them pressed against the chaise they were on and that when they pulled away from each other the only thing audible to them was the sound of their own breathing.

Yuu looked at him then, flustered and panting.

Vil was so beautiful that even the word itself failed to emphasize the very essence of that beauty and each time Yuu gazed at him, it was like being swallowed up by a light which blinded them and filled their own core with brimming life.

Overwhelmed yet far from satiated, Yuu reached up to pull him down for another kiss but Vil, despite his gracious smile, promptly covered their mouth with his hand. The scent of mulberry and milk invading their senses albeit not unpleasantly.

"If only you were as eager to spill your troubles to me as you are with lapping up my kisses, it would definitely save me the trouble of worrying about you. Don't you know stress increases the rate of wrinkle formations?"

Even with them you'd be the fairest of them all is what Yuu wanted to say but when Vil pulled his hand away, the genuine concern in his eyes and expression made Yuu guilty.

"It's nothing major. Just work. I'll be fine once this week is over and I'm back to my usual schedule."

"Hmph." Vil scoffed indignantly. "When I married you, we vowed to be with each other for better or for worst, and yet here you are going back on those very words."

"...!" Alarmed, Yuu straightened themselves up and held onto Vil's arm with even more desperation.

"I would never do such a thing! I just didn't want you to have to dote on me when you already have so much on your plate!"

"But isn't that the whole point of our union together,Yuu? We're partners, aren't we? You're not the only one who has someone they want to care for." Vil's voice, often so composed held a slight strain in them now as he said these words and his eyes narrowed with an emotional vehemence which instantly struck a chord in Yuu as they fell silent.

Vil then took that chance to pull their hands away from his arms so he could instead hold them in his,his grip tender and strong all at once.

"I don't care if I'm running multiple events or even in another country altogether, if you need me and I hope you always do, I will be there for you, do you understand? If I'm the means to save you, then by all means let me save you."

Yuu didn't have the right words to even express how in that moment Vil's proclamation banished every hint of negativity they had weighed on their shoulders and so, wordlessly they pulled him into an embrace and wept.

Rambles;

This was supposed to be an assorted drabble with Trey and Rook but Vil's cut got unexpectedly longer,like he possessed me fr idk what happened and then I still tried to include the other two but augh it felt too forced so I had to scrap it. I'm sorry Trey and Rook stans, I swear I'll make it up to you guys somehow.

Honorary tags; @aivy-saur for Leona cause I kept reading how drained you've been so hopefully this cheers you up!

[onyanjuu]

Thinking of tiger hybrid!Minajael x reader.

Once again, set out to just write some blurbs but got greedy. I have too many ideas for hybrid Minaj!! This one is pure fluff, but I do have a yandere concept of this too. I'm just posting as much as I can while I'm on break lol. Please lmk if there are any grammatical or spelling errors or if it just reads weird. I wrote this in one sitting with 20% battery and a dream.

Prized tiger hybrid Minajael, whose personality is regal as befitting of his lineage. He's bred to be displayed as a trophy in some wealthy mansion or penthouse apartment, born to sit pretty among embroidered silk cushions and jasmine blooms, his owners not caring that such an environment doesn't supply him with the necessary intellectual and physical stimulation. He was cared for in the shop, his gilded cage more extravagant and luxurious than the others. His fur and hair were always conditioned and brushed, scented with fragrant oils and decorated with intricate scarves.

Minajael who grows increasingly frustrated with his potential owners. Owners -- that's all that they've been to hybrids, and all they'll ever be. They don't view him as something capable of speech and feelings, instead only worrying about the next pretty thing they showcase on their shelf. They treat him as a prize to be won.

He decides to escape into the streets, shocking the caretakers when they realise his claws and muscles are not just accessories to beautify his physique. They learn the true ferocity and magnificence of tigers there and then. It was foolish of them, but fortunate for him, that they didn't microchip him, believing that a tiger will be tamed by the weight of a collar, one that he easily tore off.

Minajael is finally caught and threatened by humans when he steals some apples not for himself, but for others kits and pups, abandoned and kicked by society. He manages to escape, but the furious vendors had wrestled a muzzle on him and left him bruised and bloody. He left them with a number of vicious scars as well. Up til that point, he's evaded every capture with his sharp wits and deftness, but he's finally been beaten while caring for mutts so different from him, their paths never supposed to cross.

Minajael meets you, fresh from the fight and licking his wounds. You were walking home, along the usual path you take that, albeit longer, you took so that you could feed the strays. You offered him with a place to rest while his injuries healed, and although prideful and cautious, Minaj had seen the care you held for hybrids, mutt and purebred alike, and he accepted.

Your housemate, tiger hybrid Minajael, who over time, grows fond of your small apartment which was not meant for two occupants, much less a fully grown tiger hybrid. He started off by sleeping on your couch while you two were still strangers. Many nights, he opted to stay awake, unaware if you had any ulterior motives for taking him in. It was only after you almost had a heart attack, seeing his eyes glow in the darkness of your living room when you went to get a drink in the middle of the night, that he finally lowered some of his guard. What could a measly human like you do against an intelligent hybrid like him anyway?

He notices the things you do out of consideration to his presence in his household. The tabs you left open on your laptop on how to care for hybrids, tigers' diet, etc. You share your first aid kit with him, and when he's comfortable enough with the idea of it, you help him apply ointment and bandages to the wounds he can't reach. You understand how vulnerable he's being, and he appreciates and starts to enjoy the touch of your hands on his back, slow and gentle in an effort to help him.

Minaj started doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood when he looks presentable again, his fur not as shiny as back in the shop, but clean and soft from the soap that you bought just for him, with money that you should've saved instead. His charisma and amicability endears everyone to him, and he quickly repays his debt to you.

Even after he's recovered, he stays with you in your measly, old, one bedroom apartment. He scares off any shop and hybrid owners that approach him, they are the true mutts, greedy to own and claim him. He can only see you as being anything close to resembling an owner, but the two of you are equals in the relationship, companions and quickly becoming more than friends. Minaj truly can't imagine a life without you, and his displays of affection grow everyday.

Thanks to your apartment being small, it's easier to find you in the house and follow you as you go about your day. He's definitely scented the entire apartment, rubbing against every surface and most of all, your bed.

Minajael loves curling up next to you on the couch, his tail wrapping around your waist while the two of you watch something. In fact, his tail is an incredibly expressive part of him, as expected of any hybrid. He'll wrap it around your thigh or leg as you're standing in the kitchen grabbing something, and he can't stop the quivering when you brush his hair, or when you pat and scratch him.

He may appear suave, but he's really whipped for you, and he finds it increasingly hard to control his more animalistic side in moments of pure happiness and contentment. The little purrs he make when you scratch between his ears, or under his chin are too cute, and his tail will hold you captive if you try to leave before he's had his fill.

Minajael, who's a tiger hybrid, formerly fated to be sold to the highest bidder, but who escaped and managed to find the love of his life, you.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

[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

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

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-

[sleepingdeath-twst]

yuu ! s/o who speaks quebecois french headcanons for rook hunt

or; how the differences in the languages you both speak makes you all the more alluring to the hunter of beauty

featuring rook hunt and a gender neutral reader

requested by lacunaanonymoused

see my pinned post or my pomefiore masterlist

from the moment you stumbled out of the coffin during the opening ceremony you had already captured rook’s interest — as, after all, what could possibly be more interesting of a quarry than a magicless student from another world? — but when he, over the course of multiple weeks of stalking close observation and actual conscious bonding with you, learned that you spoke a whole new dialect of french that doesn’t exist in twisted wonderland? oh you officially became the most interesting person in rook’s life

to the point where he started to forgo following his beloved roi du poison around more often than not in favour of spending more time with you and learning more about your world, your country, your language, and you as an individual

and while those interrogations conversations could get rather lengthy and tedious — rook is pretty notorious for the fact that he can keep on talking for hours if he’s in the mood, and with you he always is — he manages to make them feel more lighthearted and fun. so much so that you actually start to look forward to spending more time with him

because for as homesick as it can make you to reminisce on the sights and people you’ll possibly never see again, and to mourn the fact that you’re the only speaker of your native dialect in the entire world, rook’s earnest interest and passion for learning about you — and his efforts to try and adapt to your dialect himself to make you feel more at home — does well enough to soothe that hiraeth… enough for you to keep regaling him with stories of everything you can recall, anyway

and after you two enter a relationship and you start sleeping over at his dorm more often you even catch sight of a little notebook he has tucked carefully away beside his bed — labelled in his messy cursive and full to the brim with every little observation he’s made about your language and the trivia tidbits about your home that you shared alongside his own earnest and excited commentary

which persists even through what you might perceive as the more boring things you told him or the more subtle differences in the syntax of your sentences compared to how he learned to structure and speak the language

and you can feel his love and passion almost bleeding out from the pages as you skim through everything he’s written so far — love for you, love for your language, love for the world you come from and how beautifully different it is from his own, love for all the tiny forgettable things that make you you and that make your french so distinct from his own

frankly it’s enough to bring a tear to your eye by the time you reach the end

but such is the risk of dating someone as earnestly passionate and dramatic and wholeheartedly loving as rook hunt. so perhaps you should have thought about that before being so beautifully interesting and opening up to him as much as you did because this boundless curiosity is a beast of your own making — because, rest assured, he will not stop until he is as fluent in your native tongue as he is his own and he will stop at nothing less (because, after all, you only deserve his best after sharing something so personal about yourself with him, no?)

he’ll go fetch the tissues for you, don’t worry. he’s a gentleman like that

[misteria247]

'(Y/N).......(Y/N).......'

A voice. Soft and alluring has been calling you. It calls, like a faint echo from deep within the mists of time. You know this voice. Have heard it many times and in many lifetimes. It was always connected to him. The one who you served in every life. It was a voice that had called out to you since the beginning of your journey. Frantic and pleading. Saying your name as if you were his only hope. As if you were the kingdom of Pomefiore's only hope. Which given the circumstances you knew that you were.

Pomefiore castle stood before you, its once lively and full halls now silent and lifeless. You heard the sounds of ravens circling in the dreary skies. Their calls ominous in the unnatural quiet. The gentle sounds of fluttering wings from your fairy companion Epel filled your one ear as he hovered nearby. Behind you, the loyal knight Rook followed like a shadow. His bow drawn and ready to hit anything that was a threat. Grim sat on your shoulders, his tail flickering in unease. You tightened your grip on your sword, feeling its ancient magic hum beneath your palms. As you and your friends made your way towards the castle. To try and save the one who calls you. The one who's called you since the very beginning.

'(Y/N).......(Y/N)..........'

You heard his voice, soft and weak now. He'd been fighting just as you have, against the very darkness that had swallowed the land. The darkness that had caused those strange, vile creatures to appear. Divus Crewel, the sorcerer who bewitched the land of Pomefiore. The sorcerer who the voice had been fighting while you grew stronger on your journey. The one who held the Triforce of Power, that was currently weakening the holder of the Triforce of Wisdom.

The one you've been seeking.

Queen Vil, ruler of the kingdom of Pomefiore. The one who had called for you, who had been leading you on your quest across the vast lands of forests and mountains and sands and seas. The one who needed you right now. As you stepped towards the wooden doors, you felt a part of yourself calling out in return.

'Vil......Vil........I'm coming, just hold on a little bit longer.'

Then you felt it, the queen reaching back for you. He'd heard you. And he was waiting. Just as he always has, just as he always will. He'd wait for you forever and beyond for you.

His hero, his champion. His faithful warrior and the holder of his heart.

The holder of the Triforce of Courage. None other than you. And you'd go to him, no matter what. Just as it has been since that first moment all those centuries ago when Pomefiore was in turmoil. And just as it will be, forevermore. You, Vil and Crewel would always be drawn to one another. Repeating this very moment that you and your friends were experiencing now. Fighting against the darkness and sealing it away till the Triforce was drug up once more.

Until the very end of time.

[idyllic-affections]

i’m thinking about kaveh first dropping off his kid in ghandarva ville. he did a good job explaining to them that he’ll be back before they know it and that he’ll alway be there for them. before he leaves he feels little hands clutching onto his leg as they just whisper “you promise you’re gonna come back? you won’t leave me, right? you promise you won’t leave me?”

i'll be back.

summary. kaveh finds the strength to leave his child in gandharva ville.

trigger & content warnings. fear of abandonment, references to kaveh's backstory.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. comfort, soft angst. adoptive dad!kaveh & child!reader. 0.9k words. they/them pronouns for reader.

author's thoughts. wow you just woke up today and chose gentle violence huh anon /LH i love soft angst. hard angst? yeah, it definitely hurts, but soft angst like this? idk. it hits different sometimes!!!

kaveh did not want to resort to this. he didn't.

the architect truly, sincerely had tried his very best to think of any alternate solutions—maybe he could convince alhaitham to give [name] a chance? no, caring for a child he impulsively decided to pick up off the streets isn't his roommate's responsibility and it really never would be unless the scribe himself decided to take it on, but some people have spontaneous changes of heart! why would alhaitham be any different?

(unfortunately, said man was not going to budge anytime soon. a child would disrupt the comfortable life he had put so much effort into building. kaveh had no choice but to accept that fact. well, really, he knew from the beginning! he was just hoping alhaitham might change.)

in the end, he managed to come up with nothing. he could not think of a single good or attainable option that would allow him to keep them. as much as he hated to admit it, only alhaitham's solution was a viable and reasonable one.

so, here he is, standing in front of tighnari's home in gandharva ville motionlessly with his child held securely in his arms. there were no words in any language that kaveh knew of that could describe what he was feeling. he wordlessly rubs soothing circles on their back.

the silence is impossibly loud.

tighnari does not rush him. he does not so much as even think of complaining. he simply waits quietly with collei at his side, the girl bouncing on her heels slightly in a nervous fidget. she wants to be a good caretaker to [name]; tighnari knows the prospect alone of having to care for them is making her nervous.

kaveh's slightly wavering voice finally breaks the silence:

"you know why i have to leave you here, right?"

they nod quietly, little hands clenched in fists raising up to rub at their watery eyes with their palms—they hope it looks like they're tired and not like they're about to cry, which they are. they hope he doesn't know they're about to cry. they hope he just thinks they're tired from the long journey. they hope he doesn't know the truth.

kaveh knows, of course.

he doesn't say anything about it, though, and only tries to swallow back his own emotions. he tries his best to repress the nauseous feeling stirring in his gut. he tries his best to repress the crawling of his skin. he tries his best to repress the thoughts that this is so impossibly wrong, so impossibly cruel of him.

he hasn't known this child for long, but...

he felt like he was abandoning them.

he felt like he was abandoning his flesh and blood.

absentmindedly, kaveh wondered if this was how his mother felt when she left to fontaine. he hopes not. this feeling is vile. he wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy.

"and you also know that i'm going to come back all the time to see you, right? and i'm always going to be here if you need me?"

their voice cracks slightly. "yeah."

it's not at all that kaveh doesn't trust tighnari and collei; he does, and he knows they'll take good care of [name], but... still. he wants to be the one taking care of them. he wants to keep them.

he can't.

kaveh then kneels down, and their heart sinks in to the pit of their stomach, despite the fact that they already knew this was inevitably going to happen. just as they dreaded, he sets them down onto their own two feet.

they're reluctant to release their tiny grip from his shirt, but they do so regardless of their hesitance. a slight whimper rises in their throat when kaveh's warmth is gone from them.

kaveh hasn't ever really had to comfort children before.

he's... not sure what to do from here, quite frankly, so he does the first thing that comes to mind.

he leans forward, pressing the smallest, most hesitant of kisses to the crown of their head.

then, he stands up.

he doesn't get very far before one of their little hands is clutching his pant leg, and he inhales sharply, turning back to face them. "[name]..."

kaveh cuts himself off.

their eyes are wide, glittering with the sheen of unshed tears, and their bottom lip is split and cracked—they've either been picking at it or biting it, kaveh notes. how did he not notice before?

in their moment of sadness and stress, their accent peeks through a bit more heavily. it's in a shaky voice on the brink of breaking that they ask, "you promise you're gonna come back, right? you won't leave me, will you?"

...

kaveh earnestly believes he might cry about this when he gets home. oh well. alhaitham will simply have to deal with it.

for now, though, he doesn't cry. he can't.

the architect kneels back down to their height, wiping away the single tear that slid down their cheek with his calloused fingertips. "of course."

"you— you're not gonna leave me, right? you're not leaving me?"

"no. never. i promise, okay?" he whispers. "i'm here, okay? i'm always here if you need me. you just need to tell tighnari. he'll tell me you asked for me and i'll come back here. anytime."

kaveh briefly wonders if he'll regret making such a promise—his clients may suffer if they ask for him at a bad time—but then again...

he can't really say he ever will, not with the way they look at him with such vulnerable trust.

he can't regret it when they're putting their damaged trust into his hands.

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[stvrlighttgabss]

new neighbor!sanji

— pairings: sanji x fem!reader

- New Neighbor!Sanji who lives in the apartment two doors down from you.

- New Neighbor!Sanji who absolutely insists on helping you transfer all of your boxes to your new place, even though you tell him you’re alright. He picks up the heaviest one before you can argue.

- New Neighbor!Sanji who brings you a batch of freshly baked cookies after he overhears you telling your shared neighbor you like them, leaning casually against your doorframe as he hands them over.

- New Neighbor!Sanji who you find out owns a restaurant not too far from the complex, and tells you that you should stop by soon (he really just wants to see you again).

- New Neighbor!Sanji who immediately wants to cook for you and know all of your favorite foods. He finds ways to ask seamlessly, wanting to know more and more about your preferences.

- New Neighbor!Sanji who the old woman in the apartment next to you swears is the sweetest man in the whole complex, mentioning in passing how he once helped her find her missing cat.

- New Neighbor!Sanji who takes the grocery bags out of your hands before you can even think about protesting.

“I’ve got it, darling. Don’t even think about it.” There’s a smooth but sweet smile on his face, the pet name slipping out easily.

- Neighbor!Sanji who invites you over quite often to try some of his newest recipes. The blonde absolutely loves seeing your smile when you compliment him on the flavor.

- Neighbor!Sanji whose apartment is really clean and organized. Its scent faintly carries a hint of smoke and citrus from the pastries he bakes.

- Neighbor!Sanji who leaves little things at your door—coffee in the morning, a small dessert at night—never making it a big deal. Still, he always seems to appear later, just to see if you liked it.

“You deserve only the best, ma chérie.” He tells you one evening after placing a pretty-looking parfait in your hands, his rings brushing your fingers just enough to linger.

- Neighbor!Sanji who’s a little quieter one night after cooking you dinner, like something's on his mind. The silence stretches between you, not awkward—just heavier than usual. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you… and this time, he doesn’t look away right away.

- Neighbor!Sanji who walks you to your door like he always does—but this time, he doesn’t leave right away.

He looks at you—really looks at you—and for a moment, it feels like he might finally say what’s been building between you.

But instead, he just smiles, softer than you’ve ever seen. “Get some rest, beautiful.”

Neighbor!Sanji who looks at you like he’s already made up his mind about something.

Even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

a/n: sooo this is actually my first time ever writing for one piece. i wanted to start with sanji since i feel like i know him pretty well. thinking of doing zoro next. thank you so much for reading !!

p.s: please let me know if the color is too hard to read, it looks so pale on my computer 😭

[pebble-bb]

This positively delights me <33 :))

[misteria247]

I don't know if this has been thought of yet but but thinking about Vil but with a twist.

Twisted Wonderland x Legend of Zelda au thing. Where Vil, queen of the land of Pomefiore, is the holder of the Triforce of Wisdom. Though stern his wisdom and kindness has helped his land flourish. With his most loyal knight Rook by his side, Queen Vil rules over his kingdom as a fair and just ruler. Until it happens.

His kingdom is invaded, creatures from the dark begin to attack his land. Soon closing in on the Pomefiore castle. It is here that Rook, his knight and friend is injured gravely. And that with his knight down, that the queen is taken prisoner for his Triforce. With the kingdom now on the brink of disaster and despair, the goddesses of old, call for their champion. The Triforce holder of Courage to rise up against this evil that threatens to consume the land. As well as save Queen Vil from peril.

Enter you.

You a simple country bumpkin, are called to save Pomefiore from the darkness that covers the land. With the help Grim your feline friend, Epel a fairy that has become one of your closest companions, and later on Rook who has managed to escape despite his grave injuries. The four of you set out to save your home, and the queen from the holder of the Triforce of Power. A man only known as Crewel, a mysterious sorcerer who wields his power to overtake Pomefiore as his own. You, the chosen hero are Pomefiore and Queen Vil's only hope.

[marz-barzz]

How the lotr elves would react to a 'detailed' letter from their partner

Thranduil 🦌

Legolas 🍃

Lindir 🎻

Elrond 🌾

Lmk if you want more of these

[pebble-bb]

These delight me,,

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Chocolate-flavoured lips (part 1)

Sanji x reader (romantic); Nami x reader (platonic). This is part one of two.

Hurt/comfort, romance. NSFW. Mentions of heavy themes - slavery, (briefly) eating disorders.

*****

There was something strange about you; Sanji knew it from the very first day.

It didn't bother him, of course. As far as he was concerned, a pretty girl like you had the right to be any definition of odd, weird or bizarre she liked. Also, you were a friend of Luffy, and a member of his crew: being strange was almost a preliminary condition. You were kind, friendly, a capable doctor, and he just needed to think about the way your hips moved as you walked, rolling like the waves on the calm surface of the sea and making your buttocks sway in such a pleasant and enticing manner, to feel butterflies in his stomach.

So, he wasn't worried. He didn't think you posed a danger to the rest of the crew, or were hiding something beyond personal matters everyone was entitled to keep to themselves. He was simply... intrigued, his curiosity aroused by a probably unimportant matter, that a person in his position could not help noticing: your relationship with food.

Being the ship's cook, Sanji had been quick to learn his new crewmates' eating habits. He knew Luffy would eat next to anything but preferred meat; that Zoro cared more about alcohol than solid food but disliked rice balls; that the fastest way to put Nami in a good mood was to serve her the tangerines of the little tree she had taken with her from her village, either at the end of a meal or freshly squeezed in a juice; that Usopp needed more coffee than anyone else in the morning and was allergic to peanuts. Simple things, little tricks that perhaps his crewmates didn't even know he had noticed and remembered; but that was fine by Sanji, and as long as the others were satisfied as they stood from the table, he was as well.

And then there was you; you, who had insisted you had no favourite food or a particular aversion to anything, and who never failed to say "That was amazing, Sanji-kun." at the end of each meal, before offering to help him with the dishes. You, who seemed grateful and even relieved of any morsel of food you were given and who Sanji could not believe ate so little.

It was disconcerting. On his first morning on the ship, after he had gotten up extra early to prepare a good breakfast for the rest of the crew, he had been disappointed to hear you request "Just a cup of coffee, Sanji-kun, if you can." ignoring the eggs, bagels, waffles and pancakes (with three different sauces!) he had prepared to thank his new friends for welcoming him among them. It all looked fantastic, you had hurried to add noting his dismayed expression, but you were still full from the previous evening.

Which, Sanji supposed, was a legitimate explaination... or at least it would have been, if you hadn't told him the very same thing on the next morning, and then on the next, and so on. In the end, he stopped asking, and switched to present you with the largest coffee cup he had found, almost the size of a beer mug, as soon as you entered the kitchen; and the grateful, still sleepy but happy smile you never failed to thank him with was enough to heal him from any disappointment... even if it was more than a little weird to see you limit yourself to your drink while the others gorged. A single cup of coffee, that was what you wanted for the most important meal of the day: nothing solid. A coffee... with a single drop of milk, which sometimes you looked almost guilty adding to your cup.

Sanji was no doctor, but he knew that people needed food to remain healthy and as an energy source; moreover, Zeff had often told him, pirates needed to eat well and abundantly, since managing a ship was laborious work, they could be called to fight at any moment and never knew for sure when they would eat next. It made sense (most of what his old mentor and adoptive father taught him did, even though Sanji had been loathe to admit it) and it could not be denied all the Straw Hat pirates had an healthy appetite, especially after a fight or if they had something to celebrate.

Except you.

You ate like a bird, so much that sometimes there was no need to clean your plate, and just a few morsels were enough to make you say "I am full, thank you." At first, Sanji thought you simply didn't like his cooking, which would have been a reasonable, albeit embarrassing, explanation, and were simply too kind to tell him. Already feeling guilty his cooking had forced you to go hungry, instead of enjoying your lunches and dinner like the rest of the crew, Sanji pulled you aside one day (you were wearing a new dress, he noticed; it looked amazing on you, but after all, what didn't?) and asked to know what exactly you liked to eat, if there was a food you particularly enjoyed, and what exactly he was doing wrong: he was grateful you were trying to spare his feelings, but his pride as a cook demanded each and every of his crewmates were satisfied with the food he prepared, even if it meant spending his nights experimenting with new ingredients and techniques, or prepare your lunches and dinners separately from those of the others.

In response, you blinked, clearly perplexed. "I... I don't understand, Sanji-kun. There is nothing wrong with your cooking; everything you prepare is delicious."

You were alone in the kitchen, after you had as usual offered to help him with the washing, side by side in front of the sink, close enough he could see how plush your lips looked, especially with that new lipstick Nami had helped you choose... and especially when you used them to say his name. "I'm sorry, maybe I should have told you before, I didn't mean to seem ungrateful..."

Sanji hurried to explain you had done nothing wrong. "It is just... you eat so little, I was afraid you were limiting yourself to only what you needed to survive because there was something wrong with the taste..."

"There is not! Absolutely. To be honest, I didn't even know food could taste so good. I know you didn't train as a bartender, but even your coffee is amazing!"

The evident sincerity and gratitude in your voice had been a balm for Sanji's soul; his new crewmates were not avaricious with compliments for his cooking, but knowing you enjoyed it made him particularly happy. Still...

"It is just that... you really eat little." he added, feeling that now that he had raised the topic that had given him so much to think about in the last days, he couldn't simply let it go until he had received a satisfactory answer "Not only much less than the others, but too little for an adult woman to remain in good health. This... worried me, a little bit. I don't want you to starve, (name)."

"There is no need to fear."

"That can't be right. You need..."

"Truly. I appreciate your concern, but you have no reason to be troubled." you insisted; your tone was still the friendly, kind one Sanji had learnt to know since you had become acquainted, but at the same time there was a new determination in your voice, as if you were subtly warning him against insisting... as if you wanted to end that conversation, or at least to change the topic, as soon as you could "If I ever feel hungry, or in the unlikely case you serve us something I dislike, I will tell you, I promise."

That should have been enough to reassure Sanji, and it had been - sort of. In the end, he had told himself, there really was nothing to worry about; they had more than enough food for everyone on the ship, and as a doctor, you had to know the benefits of an healthy nutrition better than anyone else. Not everyone could be a bottomless pit like Luffy!

Still. Still, your relationship with food was something he really couldn't make sense of, and that kept arousing his curiosity, no matter how many times Sanji told himself he had no reason, and even less the right, to stick his nose in your business.

Then there was your interest in the kitchen leftovers. Zeff had taught him that wasting food, either letting it go bad or simply because one didn't like it or didn't know how to make use of it, was the greatest shame for a cook, as well as an imprudent behaviour for someone who could not go to the store every time they wanted, since they travelled by sea. That had been a lesson Sanji had taken to heart, the terrible memories of the weeks he had spent eating rotten food, including moldy bread, before he and his mentor had been saved, still vivid in his memory. He had promised himself to never waste food; it was not always easy to serve fruit (including Nami's tangerines) and vegetables on the ship, but at least rice, legumes and oatmeal could last for months if properly stored, and the Merry's kitchen had a large fridge he could use to increase the aliments' durability. Sanji knew it was unpleasant to eat the same dish for three days in a row because one of the ingredient was going to spoil soon, but he had never thrown away a single head of lettuce gone bad and didn't intend to start now.

Still, his caution in using food efficiently and preserve it as long as it could be was nothing compared to yours. "This was really good, but I am full; can you please set it aside, Sanji-kun, so I can eat it tomorrow?" you were in the habit to say to him, after a meal you had clearly enjoyed, but at the end of which your plate was still half-full. Every time, he assured you he would, even setting a small area in the fridge aside especially for your food, since you didn't want anyone else to have to eat what you had touched; every time, you thanked him with the sort of smile and gratitude in your eyes that could have melt an iceberg, and then made sure to eat what you had saved from the previous meal. That was normal; that was something he could understand and even approve, since Sanji could never be friends with someone who wasted food in any way.

It was only when he found you taking scraps from the garbage can that he started worrying.

"Name? Is that you?" Sanji asked, undisguised astonishment in his voice; he had woken up in the middle of the night, and decided a glass of hot milk was just what he needed to go back to sleep. He expected the kitchen to be empty given the time, but even if you had also woken up craving a midnight drink or snack, that would have been fine with him; but the scene in front of him was enough to leave Sanji speechless.

You were kneeling in front of the large bin he used to throw away food and other perishable products, busy digging through it barehanded. On a plate on the floor next to you was the loot of your search: a few pieces of apple peel, half - no, a third of a chicken leg, a couple spoonfuls of tomato sauce he had used to season the pasta, and a few half-brown leaves of salad.

Caught in the act, you gaped, suddenly terrified as if you had been seen standing next to a dead body with a bloody knife in your hand. "Sanji-kun..."

"What are you doing?" he asked, flabbergasted; he didn't mean to sound accusing, let alone aggressive, but he saw you flinch as you stood and backed away from the bin and the plate, as if to put as much distance as you could between you and the incriminating evidence.

"I... I just wanted to..."

You looked so helpless, so embarrassed and even fearful of what he could think or do, Sanji felt he needed to reassure you, even though he couldn't even begin to understand what you were doing.

"It's all right; you did nothing wrong." he gently added as he approached; he lifted the plate you had prepared, and as he contemplated the miserable meal you had put together, he felt as if he was ten years old again, forced to order his stomach to swallow the moldy food he had left. What in the world had led you to want to eat that? He knew there were some situations, both on ships and on land, in which stealing food was treated as a major crime and punished accordingly, but he could not believe that was what had motivated you "It is just... well, if you were hungry you could simply take something from the fridge or the pantry. Even if I noticed, I wouldn't be crossed, and Luffy even less. I don't want you to have to resort..."

"I wasn't hungry."

"... no?"

"Not at all. I ate more than enough at dinner, as usual; that pasta was the best I had ever had." you assured as you smiled shyly at him; as usual, that was enough to make his heart skip a beat "It is just... I saw you throw these things away while you prepared, and I thought they were still usable..."

"But they are not."

"They are. Maybe they would not be as tasty as they were three days ago, but they are still edible." you insisted; you looked at him, and bitterness blossomed in your smile "You think I am mad, don't you?"

He didn't. But... "I don't, but..." Sanji hesitated, wondering how to give voice to his thoughts without risking to offend you. Was this the first time you did it, or was it a recurring behaviour? After all he didn't keep track of the content of the garbage can, who would?, and the thought of you, slipping out of your cabin every night to rummage in it looking for half-edible food was... it was heartbreaking, whatever the reason "But I don't want you to have to eat scraps when there is healthy, good food just three steps away. You remember what I told you and the others about my past?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you'll believe me when I say I never throw away something that is still safe to eat; eating spoiled food could make you sick, you must know it better than I do. And the fact that you are taking it back from the garbage can means it is dirty, which is also a danger to your health."

"I know, I am sorry..."

"(name)." Sanji said, leaving the plate on the kitchen counter to take your hands in his; was this the first physical contact between the two of you, in more than a month since you had first met? It probably was, he reflected, if one did not consider your fingers brushing against each other when he passed you a fork or a plate. It felt sweet, somehow; it felt right "Please. You don't have to explain anything to me. I know I am not your father and you are an adult, but... what would you do if you found out one of your crewmates did that?"

"I would ask them to stop." you admitted "As a doctor, and as a friend."

"Exactly. And as your friend, and as a cook, I ask you not to do it anymore. Throwing away spoiled food is perfectly reasonable; and between the two of us, we waste so little already."

"All right." you capitulated; you looked shyly at him, still clearly ill at ease "I won't do that anymore, you have my word."

Sanji was happy to hear that, and he was even happier when you accepted his proposal for a glass of warm milk, that the two of you drank sitting face to face in a companionable silence, your knees touching his under the table. Before leaving, he returned the scraps you had taken out to the garbage can, hoping in his heart that no more recuperations would occur.

"You will not... tell anyone, will you?" you murmured as you both left the kitchen, a moment before you had to part to return to your respective cabins. Sanji looked at you, displaying his most bewildered expression.

"Tell anyone what?" he asked, happy to see you smile once more, this time full of gratefulness.

"Thank you, Sanji-kun." you murmured; a moment of hesitation, and then your lips were pressed against his cheek, the touch chaste and brief but resolute. He barely had the time to realize what was happening (you were kissing him. You were kissing him. You were kissing him!!) that you had left already, scuttling away along the corridor in the direction of your cabin.

Momentarily forgetful of the situation he had found you in, Sanji was happy no one else was awake on the ship in that moment and could see how furiously he had blushed.

In the next weeks, Sanji ordered himself not to monitor the content of the garbage can in the kitchen, like he was often tempted to do; he even went as far as closing his eyes as he cleaned the dishes into it after a meal (even though a couple of times he ended up spilling the scraps on the floor; Zoro saw once, and looked strangely at him) determined to remain in the dark regarding a matter that concerned you and you alone. You had given him his word, and as far as Sanji was concerned, that was enough; you were free to do as you deemed right, and if he ever found out you had broken your word, his reaction would have been of worry, rather than of disappointment.

Still, he couldn't help being worried, especially after a conversation with Nami, one day the whole crew was setting out to explore the new island they had just reached.

"Do you want us to buy something for dinner?" the red-haired navigator asked him; as usual, she and you had decided to have a walk together, perhaps do some shopping. Sanji, who as a rule preferred taking care of the grocery shopping himself, blinked.

"No, thank you. I'll do it, as usual."

"Are you sure?" Nami insisted, having noticed the confusion on the cook's expression "Because you had asked (name) to buy a few things last week, so I thought..."

"... I did what?""

And so he learnt that just a week before, on the last island you had visited, you had gotten separated and Nami had seen you coming out of a large grocery store, your purchases in a bag. Didn't Sanji take care of food shopping yesterday after we docked, as usual?, she had asked, surprised, and you had told her he had asked you to buy a couple of things he had forgotten.

"... but judging from your expression it was a lie. Am I right? I did notice (name) looked... flustered as we spoke..."

They looked at each other, suddenly worried for a reason neither could quite grasp. They were the last ones still on the ship, their friends waiting for them on the pier; you were laughing at something Usopp was telling you, the image of a happy, serene girl without a worry in the world.

Sanji had long started suspecting that image was fake, an illusion you deliberately projected to others, but perhaps he had not yet realized how much.

"You guys are coming?" Luffy called; Sanji smiled and waved back, aware you were looking at him, but immediately dropped the act as he spoke to Nami in a whisper.

"You guys go. Whatever happens, do not let (name) come back to the ship before I have caught up."

"What? Why are you...?"

"Nami, please. There is something important I need to do."

"Then I want to know it." the navigator whispered back urgently "(name) is my friend; if she is... in danger, or if there is something worrying her, I want to know. I want to help her."

She was clearly sincere; as the only girls in the crew, the two of you shared a cabin, but what had started as a forced cohabitation had quickly developed in a firm friendship. If even Nami had no idea of what bothered you, it had to be nothing... or something so important you were determined to keep hidden.

"Nami, please." he whispered; he hadn't meant to sound desperate, but the navigator chose to relent.

"All right. But if you do find something I want to know." she ordered; then, she skipped towards the pier, and towards you. A moment later she had slipped her arm through yours, decisively leading you away from the ship.

Sanji's heart was heavy with guilt as he, a minute later, opened the door of the girls' cabin. The room was as large as the one he shared with Luffy, Usopp and Zoro, even though only two bunks were occupied; he knew yours was the one on the left. Not knowing what exactly he was looking for, Sanji started inspecting the bed, checking the space under the frame, then under the mattress, and finally under the pillow; he found absolutely nothing but a few dust bunnies on the floor. The small table next to the bed was empty but for a pocket book you had bought a couple islands before, and the only other element in your area, a small locker facing the end of the bed, contained only your clothes, medical tools neatly arranged on a shelf and a few toiletries and cosmetics.

A complete failure; he had invaded your privacy, rummaging through your things like a thief looking for valuables to steal and embroiling Nami, your best friend, in his plan. All for nothing. What exactly did he expect to find? Sanji had no reason to suspect you were up to something wrong, illegal, or that could endanger you or the rest of the crew. Maybe on that day you had entered the grocery store to buy some personal hygiene products, or something else you were too embarrassed or simply wanted not to share with the others, and he had no right to stick his nose in your business like he just had. Sanji only had your best interests at heart, still fearing your unusual eating habits were due to an health problem or a disorder that could potentially endanger you, but he had to admit it: he had no reason and no right to do what he had just done, and if the roles were reversed he would have been furious.

Sanji made sure to leave everything like he had found it, including the folded blanket at the end of the bed, and as he was leaving the cabin an unexpected but familiar noise reached his ears... a creaking sound, coming from one of the beams of the floor. Nothing he hadn't heard a thousand times before, he vaguely thought, even though the Merry had set sail barely a few weeks before and it was otherwise in pristine condition, it was a bit surprising that the flooring was already damaged...

Unless...

The creaking beam was just next to your bed; Sanji kneeled, and moved away the small rug covering it, the one that he remembered you had brought soon after leaving the Baratie. He had no experience in carpentry, but he immediately realized the beam had been broken and then put back in its place like a lid; in the space under it, Sanji found some food, no doubt the things Nami had seen you leave the shop with a week ago, and a cutlery set, wrapped in a napkin. A box of cookies; three different bean cans; a bag of carrots; two pieces of hard cheese; a water bottle. Simple, cheap aliments that you could eat secretly as soon as your roommate had left the room, without anyone knowing, and that could be kept hidden for a while before going bad.

Seeing that measly loot that you had nonetheless done your best to conceal, as if you feared to be forced to starve or to need in any case to find sustenance for yourself, broke Sanji's heart. He delicately put the beam and then the rug back in their place; he left the cabin, closing the door behind him, and hurried to catch up with the rest of the crew.

When he joined the others, Nami was quick to meet his gaze questioningly; Sanji answered with a mute, but determined, shake of his head. He didn't doubt the navigator would keep his (well, your) secret, and would do everything she could to help; but he felt already tremendously guilty for what he had done, and the least he could do was to prevent anyone else from meddling in your affairs... which he still couldn't make heads or tails of.

You ate as little as a bird. You saved your food scrupolously, and were willing to eat even half-spoiled aliments. You bought food with your own money and hid it in your room, as if you feared your (regular, abundant and, not to brag, delicious) meals to be taken from you. Why? He could not stop wondering; he could not stop feeling there was a very serious, probably heartbreaking reason behind your behaviour, and Sanji wanted to know the truth, not simply out of curiosity or because his pride as a cook had been hurt. He was worried for you, because... well, because you were his friend, and he was yours, and he wanted you to be happy.

That was all. From now on, Sanji promised himself as he joined the little group who was reaching the centre of the village, he would stop sticking his nose into your business, but he would do his best to offer you friendship and support, in case you needed them.

He was going to leave the others and ask for directions to the local market, but he got an idea when he and the others walked past a cute ice-cream parlour; many people were sitting at the round tables outside under a green-roofed veranda, including quite a few couples. Evidently it was a popular place for a date...

Talk about killing two birds with one stone. "(name), do you like ice-cream?" he asked as he approached; you, until then busy listening to another of Usopp's tales, blinked, clearly taken aback.

"Ice-cream? I... I don't think I've ever eaten one."

Sanji was so focused on his little plan he didn't really notice that surprising statement. "Well, you'll love it, I promise. Shall we go? My treat."

"Oh, that's a great idea! We could..." Luffy intervened, right before Nami elbowed him into silence. For once, the captain seemed to take the hint. "Oh. All right, we'll do something else."

"Shall we?" Sanji said; it would have been a lie to say he didn't want to see you eat (between meals for the first time since you had met, and more for the pleasure of tasting something good than for simple sustainance) but after all, there were worse way to spend an afternoon than in the company of a pretty girl - a pretty girl who was now blushing furiously as she also caught the implications of that invitation, and then gave him the biggest, happiest smile Sanji had ever seen.

"I'd be happy to, Sanji-kun."

That was the first ice-cream of your life, lemon and vanilla, with whipped cream on top. On the next island the crew visited, the two of you went out together again to the best parlour in town (and then fought a group of mercenaries intent on getting rich with Luffy's bounty) and then you did it again the following week, and again and again. Soon, it became a tradition, a moment you and Sanji shared away from the rest of the world and of the crew; he had decided it was his duty as a cook and as a friend (that had quickly decided he wouldn't mind becoming something more, but still) that it was his duty to introduce you to the joys of good food, and you were happy to help him sample the traditional aliments of the different places your journeys brought you to, but that moment, an ice-cream together... that was only for you. That was special.

"Is this a date?" you asked, unexpectedly bold, as you walked back to the Merry after your third outing; Sanji smiled, suddenly aware of how sweet your cocolate-flavoured lips would taste if he kissed you.

"It depends." he gently answered, perceiving it was not yet time for an approach; it was plain to see you appreciated his company, especially during your little outings, but Sanji had heard you confess to Nami you had never had a boyfriend and the mere idea of being flirted with made you nervous. "It can be whatever you want it to be."

The problem was, Sanji did want to flirt with you. He did want your expeditions in search of the best ice-cream in town to be official dates, and not simply two friends spending time together. He did want to be your boyfriend - a realization that struck him suddenly, one day he saw you happily helping Nami set the table, your eyes sparkling with excitement at something you were telling her, and he found himself unable to look away. He wanted you, because you were one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, and also so much more.

Sanji never told you he had snooped around in your cabin, and found your little stash; he knew he would have to, if your relationship actually developed beyond a simple friendship, but he had to admit he wasn't looking forward to that moment. He had never gone back to the broken beam under your bedside rug to check whether you kept buying food in secret, or were actually tapping into your provisions, just like he had never checked the content of the garbage can; he was still worried for you, even though he couldn't say exactly why, or what for, but now that he was no longer obsessing about your weird relationship with food he had realized how beautiful and sweet and funny you were, and was determined to give it his best shot.

Sanji fell sick one day, after an unexpectedly early winter had led him to catch a cold. It was nothing dangerous, at least for a young, healthy man, but you remain by his bedside night and day, checking again and again the medicine you had prepared was taking effect, changing the cold washcloth on his forehead, and simply keeping him company. You made him a chicken soup, apologizing in advance for the flavour.

"I am not a great cook; and nothing I could ever make would measure with your dishes." you explained with a tiny smile as you set the tray down on his lap "But it will keep you warm and hydrated; you'll feel better in no time, I promise."

He did, the brief illness only keeping him in bed for three days, but part of him missed having you all to himself, even if just as a patient needing to be assisted, and when he thanked you for your work, you pointed out you had only done your duty as a doctor...

"... but I'm glad I could help you. I... I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to you." you admitted. Sanji smiled, taking both of your hands in his.

"I am not going anywhere." he said; that was a commitment no one was fully capable of making, a pirate perhaps less than anyone, and you both knew it, but that didn't make his words less important, for any of you "I promise you."

Three months after your first ice-cream date, one day you brought the dirty dishes to the sink after dinner and he saw they were empty - all of them, including yours, for the first time. Sanji's heart was bursting; he felt the need to celebrate, and when he saw your smile, he knew he wasn't the only one.

"Everything of your liking, miss?"

"It was all amazing. My compliments to the chef."

That night, he once again felt unable to sleep, and he went to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk; once again, he found you there.

"I couldn't sleep, I swear; I wasn't..." you stammered, a saucepan in your hand, while you used the other to vaguely point at the garbage can five steps away. Sanji smiled to reassure you; he trusted you, and in any case he had nothing to accuse you of.

"You owe me no explanation. You know that."

"I know; but I have always kept my word, and I want you to know."

You drank your milk sitting next to each other, your knees touching under the table, both aware that there was no need to talk. In the end, you looked at him. "Sanji-kun?"

"Yes, (name)?"

You swallowed, as if gathering your courage. "May I... may I kiss you?"

He didn't sleep a wink that night, but laughed softly in his pillow, giddy and excited, the taste of your lips (not of chocolate, or vanilla, or of any of the many ice-cream flavours he had seen you taste in the last weeks; it was something different, sweet and warm and sensual enough to make him loose his mind) still burning on his.

He made you a cake for your birthday, a month later; you ate a large slice, Sanji feeding you part of it with his spoon, and (once the others had left you alone) you let him lick whipped cream off your fingers. "You seem to enjoy eating a little more than when we first met." he whispered as he pressed his lips against yours, your kisses multiplying, neverending, and still not enough to placate the hunger burning in his belly "Does it have to do with the cook, as well as the quality of the food?"

You laughed, sitting in his lap with your arm around his shoulders; still, when you answered, you were more serious than he had ever seen you. "Believe me, Sanji-kun, you have no idea how right you are."

You decided to make it official, letting the rest of the crew know you were a couple (finally was the single, collective answer. Even from Luffy) and promised to keep the PDA at a minimum; Nami hugged you, and winked at Sanji behind your back in a sign of acknowledgment. She knew you were strong, enough to take care of yourself and overcome any obstacle; but she knew how much you cared for Sanji, and was happy and relieved he reciprocated your feelings and would treasure them as you deserved.

Sanji was happy, and you were as well. He drew a milk heart on the surface of your coffee before offering you the mug; you concocted a new migraine medication and brought it to him in a tea cup every time you sensed he needed it, even before he had ask for it. You took care of the dirty dishes together, standing close enough your hip would brush against his; you walked hand in hand, your fingers interwined, or with the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. You sometimes argued; you never fought. He wrote to Zeff to tell him about you; you told him how much you wished he could have met your mother. You took his favourite shirt, that Sanji had inadvertently torn during a fight, mended it, and placed it back on his bed as a surprise; on the next morning, he brought you breakfast in bed, and kept you there cuddling for two more hours. He pushed you against the wall to kiss you until you were both breathless; you sat on his lap as you both witnessed the sun disappear behind the horizon.

And then, something else happened - something else weird, and inexplicable, that concerned you and that Sanji didn't know how to interpret.

[pebble-bb]

Ooh, this is so so cool and wonderful an incredibly well written!! I’ve actually been thinking about making an oc with a complicated relationship with food as a contrast to Sanji and this just so happens to have captured that idea perfectly! <33

[mrsrookhunt]

It's Friday the 13th but there's 30 minutes left so this is going to be short and sweet.

🎃 Inhuman Rook Hunt hcs 🎃

Warnings: None it's pretty wholesome

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Inhuman!Rook who is immediately enthralled with you when you pass his cabin in the woods on an offchance.

Inhuman!Rook who has been warned by the many generations of his species not to fall for a human. They don't understand, they don't get it, Rook, please, don't hurt yourself like this, they just don't get it---

Inhuman!Rook who is so deeply in love with you he opens his home, hides his secrets, and puts on a human disguise, all for you.

Inhuman!Rook who loves you so deeply he's named all your future children, picked out a home even farther removed from society, at the foothills of a great mountain range he knows you will be at ease at, and busied himself with textbooks on marriage and parenting customs among humans.

Inhuman!Rook who learns how humans show love so that he can be the best husband, best friend, and lover to you, and show you his love as deeply as he could ever express that deep-set affection within his mind.

Inhuman!Rook who is willing to cast aside the solace he found in loneliness for the love he took a gamble on.

Inhuman!Rook who is willing to leave the only community of his species he's ever known, for your happiness, because 'happy' for him is when you are happy.

Inhuman!Rook who loves you more than life itself.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

October 13th, 2023

Also shout out for E.B.'s birthday today :)

-Kaori

[alby-rei]

Yearning, Longing, Pining Rook ~ Fic Recommendations

I love a yearning Rook, I adore a longing Rook, I crave a pining Rook. If you’re like me and on the hunt for bittersweet romance, then check out these scrumptious fics. And if there's more pining Rook out there that I haven’t listed, SHARE WITH THE CLASS

🌸 Fluff 🥀 Angst 🎭 Hurt/Comfort ⭐ Humor

🌸 Inhuman!Rook by @mrsrookhunt

🌸 Hunt’s Revealing of True Eternity by @love-thanatopsis

🌸 A Break Under The Lights by @cheapshrimpysheep

🌸 Ruler of My Heart @solxamber

🥀 I bet on losing dogs by @solxamber

🥀 Ex-Husband!Rook by @cvlutos

🥀 desperation by @pandoa

🥀 The only hunt that mattered by @kiwidoesthings

🎭 Confession by Sras_is_doing_something [AO3]

🎭 Just a Little Longer by @alby-rei (hehe that's me hi)

⭐ Monster Mayhem: Don't Fear the Reaper by @dilatorywriting

Enjoy the feast 🍽️

Share the love with the original authors (comment & reblog!) 🫶

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back to Masterlist

[foridrilla]

HII I saw that you were open for requests and I had this idea that I REALLY REALLY wanted to put out!!

ok so Vil asks reader (fem or gn) to accompany him as his plus one to this event thing (unrealistic but let me be delusional 💔💔) and the reader is DENSE so they just think they are going as friends. ( HE DOES NOT THINK SO) when they eventually do get there, Vil is like whisked away or smth to another conversation and the reader is left alone and they decide to go to the food table or smth (can you tell I’m sleep deprived) and as they are consuming foods they could never dream of due to their financial statement (CROWLEY!!) they don’t realize that someone came up to them and as they turn around they are face to face with…

GASP NEIGE!!!! and like Neige has a BIG FAT CRUSH on them but as I said before THEY ARE DENSE!!! And Neige talks to them and stuff (tries to flirt but fails as they DO NOT GET THE MEMO) and then OMG!!!

VIL SHOWS UP!! And he is clearly jealous of Neige hitting it up with HIS DATE!!! GRRRR!!! And like yk Neige is Neige and um hijinks ensue??? (I DONT KNOW IM SO SORRY)

BUT NO ONE WINS IN THE END!!! THEY BOTH PIN AFTER THE READER BUT THEY ARE TOO OBLIVIOUS!!!!! THANK YOU FOR CONSIDERING THIS MUMBLED MESS!!! HEHEH!!! (I need sleep)

Pulled Between Beauties , 👑🍎 , [Vil + Neige]

cover art by ttsstt_mihe on x

sypnosis: GN!reader is invited to a elegant event for celebrities and famous figures alike as Vil's plus one. It's not a suprise for Neige to be there, but it is a shock to see Vil's own plus one mingling with the boy that rivals him in every way... Neige Leblanche. Unbeknownst to a dense and oblivious reader, both the beautiful actors harbor romantic pining feelings for reader as they try to win the readers affection in not so subtle ways.

characters: Neige Leblanche, Vil Schoenheit

word count: 2,168

a/n: I hope you don't mind that I chose gender neutral for this one! I loved this prompt and rushed to start it 🥹 It was my first time writing for Neige, so I definitely needed to do some extra refreshers to get things right. I really hope this is to your liking. I really enjoyed it myself <33

"I'm gonna excuse myself, I hope you don't mind? I'll return shortly, don't wait on me too long," The blonde leans in close to your face, whispering this declaration. As he leans back to excuse himself, he gives your shoulders a firm but affectionate squeeze, the touch lingering on your frame even after the departure. 

Before you knew it, Vil had been whisked away by some other figure more socially important than you, but not before a tender goodbye gesture. Sitting now idly and rather awkwardly, you recalled how you ended up at a party where no one knew your name or at the very least your face. 

"Reader, there is an event for the industry this evening, if you aren't busy I would like you to be my plus one," Vil clears the silence with admirable nonchalance.

You were undoubtedly caught off by the proposal… It sounded like some sort of event fancier than you could ever dream of becoming. It's not as if you were famous in any industries; the only infamous thing about you was your sudden arrival to Night Raven College. But even that fact alone paled in comparison to the elite status of Vil and the many other guests of this event.

"Are you sure?" You squeaked out with uncertainty in your voice. 

Vil, fully turns to face you, his thin brow quirked slightly. "I wouldn't have proposed if I wasn't sure. I noticed that I haven't been able to spare my time elsewhere... Instead you can just accompany me," he explained plainly.

"I would be down, I just don't have… a lot to wear, I'll stick out like a sore thumb..." You admitted with slumped shoulders closing in on your frame.  

Vil only returns with an assured grin, “don’t worry about that,” with that a manicured finger presses your nose.

That “don’t worry” entailed Vil’s intent to dress you up as he pleased; not that you protested though.

Vil adorned you in his personal signature purple shades, with gold complimented details, light makeup to match. He himself dressed similarly, the two of you could pass for matching outfits; you wondered if that notion was the intention or a product of Vil’s personal taste. 

As he adjusted your attire, the two of you stood close, face to face. Vil wore a satisfied smile as those delicate fingers of his lingered your torso, fixing up your various accessories and fabrics. You felt your skin warm but you disregarded it to be the sensations of the outfit giving you warmth…

“Perfect,” he spoke under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear, with hands planted on the sides of your shoulders. 

Vil: 2 points

The low and faint rumble of your stomach brought you back to the lonesome table you occupied. You scanned to see Vil conversing with a few other (probably important) people. But then… that's when you saw it: The food table! Your mind wandered, imagining the various rich flavors that could come from those dishes that reeked of wealth and status. They easily could outmatch anything Crowley could give… Instead of sitting pitifully idle, you considered making a pass at the food tables, collecting as much goods you could take as leftovers for later. 

You rose and quickly sifted yourself through the masses of beautiful faces and rich auras with the only goal for food. You began to help yourself to a large plate, really taking a little bit of every dish you desired. 

Your senses, however, were not dulled by your hunger as you felt a presence growing increasingly close before- 

“Hello Y/N!” a sweet melodic voice called out to you.

You snap your head to come face to face with an outstandingly radiant and beautiful one. 

“Neige?” You called back.

"Y/N! I was not expecting you to be here! How wonderful it is to see you again," Neige declares with dainty gloved hands collapsed together. 

Taking in Neige in his fullest, he was adorned in only the most refined colors of blue, red, and gold, an outfit of elegance fit for the occasion but easily outshining many of the guests. The main attraction lied in those pure and earnest doe eyes of his, and the rose tint in both his cheeks and lips as he looked at you with a joyful thrill.

Upon his words, you did recall that it had been some time since you guys saw each other and shared time together.. You and Neige had a developing friendship that went past Neige’s status as a celebrity and renowned figure in the industry. You found yourself disregarding Neige’s title and only chose to see him for what he was, and that real him was charming and enjoyable. Not that you ignored that part altogether, but what did it matter if what you liked was Neige personally? Your dynamic with Neige had never surfaced since the development of your relationship with the Queen of Pomefiore. Not that Vil would ever dissuade you from your relationship with his one-sided rival, his qualms shouldn't affect his loved ones relationships with other people after all. But if Vil knew… it wasn't out of the question to consider a new strand of bitter jealousy that might occur silently.

"Yeah it's been a while, I guess I could say I'm not surprised to see you though. But it is nice," You returned with a friendly smile.

 He giggled fondly at your words before asking, "Ah, but may I ask, what brings you to this event?"

Your hand met your neck, "I know I kinda stick out, honestly I'm not sure how I even found myself here either," you joked. This time he laughed more fervently than before, (but between me and you it wasn’t that funny).

He glanced at your form, in all its styled glory, then to you your plate filled to the max with food; including desserts

"Y/N, you haven't happened to try those before have you? " he says curiously pointing to an over-the-top chocolatey dessert on your stylish plate.

Neige Leblanche hasn't tried this fancy dessert? You wondered the other things you could learn about Neige that found itself more than what met the common eye…

With a dumbfounded face you reply, "I haven't either I was hoping to try it, wanna try it?"

"If you don't mind" he says bashfully covering his rosy lips with a gloved hand

You pick up the slice of “expensive” in chocolate form and raise it to his lips without a second thought. You watch Neige bite down gently, the two of you maintaining eye contact during the slow act. Gazing into Neige's eyes elicits a sort of warm ache in your chest you couldn't quite identify…

"What do you think?" You break the silence, looking at him expectedly.

Neige hums melodically, showing approval and enjoyment. You got Neige Leblanche branded approval!

The two of you continued your reunion, making your way back to your idle table. You and Neige had situated yourselves across from each other; Neige sat leaned in and attentive, hands propping up his chin in an endearing fashion. 

Neige: 2 points

The light feeling you had with Neige didn't last long as you felt sudden sharp and daggering eyes on you. Particularly unhappy eyes in fact. Eyes that didn’t spare Neige either… 

There is an amalgamation of noises and sound in the event but you particularly sift out the clicking stride that could only come from the Queen of Pomefiore, Vil Schoenheit.

"I see you've taken up company in my absence Y/N," a hand plants itself possessively to your shoulder. You look up at Vils' friendly but superficial smile mid through the act of shoving a piece of food in your mouth. Guilty written all over your face with cheeks filled with food. 

" Vii-kun! What pleasure it is that we see each other!" Neige greets Vil with only delight and glee.

"The pleasure is all mine," the blonde looming over you responds with suave. 

Neige takes in the scene in front of him before asking, "Say vii-kun are you here with y/n here?"

"Why yes I am, Y/N is my plus one to this event." 

“Ah, I see,” Neige responds. 

…

"How wonderful! It's not often I see you Vii-kun, or Y/N outside of filming or school events!" Neige makes haste to add on.

"Indeed, an opportune moment!" Vil only agrees.

A short but thick silence grabs the three of you before you decide to do anything about it. 

..."Vil, me and Neige had tried this chocolate thing. It's pretty good won't you try it?" You lifted the same dessert you had offered Neige earlier up to Vil’s painted lips similarly to before. 

Vil looks between you and the dessert (and a quick glance to Neige), "Mmm I suppose I will" Vil takes an elegant bite keeping precise eye contact with Neige as he bites down and while you gaze at him with eyes full of expectancy.

In the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Neige biting down on that rosy lip of his with slight discomfort... 

Vil: 3 points

"It seems you have good taste Y/N... what a delectable treat," Vil remarked, licking his bottom lip. You felt your cheeks grow pink at the subtle action...

“We thought the same thing,” You agreed before scooping up another mouthful of food and shoving it straight to your mouth.

"Y/N-"

"Oh! Y/N you seem to have some food right... here! Let me get that for you" Neige comments through the action of fondly wiping the corner of your mouth with a handkerchief between euphonious laughter.

Glancing to the man beside you, now wrapping his arm around your waist, his eyes squinted slightly and his smile grew uncomfortably.

"Oh, thank you, Neige" You smile and feel Vil suppressing a scowl to your right. Neige: 3 Points

“Of course Y/N!” Neige returns a warm smile at your words.

The rest of the time the three of you shared had pursued like this. Between the two actors displays of service and tenderness only maintained as you were caught right in the middle of it. Each act from Neige only tightened Vil’s hold on your waist; but you were a little occupied in the rich sensations in your mouth from the food to pay much mind. 

Then, a duo of strangers, ones you certainly didn't recognize, but the two in your company did, approached Neige. Following a greeting Neige acknowledged his inevitable departure…

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself… my apologies Y/N, Vii-kun…” 

You shook your head, “Don’t worry at all.” 

But as you least expected it, Neige had reached and held both your hands in his.

“I really hope we can see each other again, Y/N… If you're ever around or in the area, please do stop by, won’t you?” Neige pleaded with those innocent doe eyes of his… You wondered if it was even a realm of possibility to say no to such a sight. Of course you couldn’t!

“Of course,” you squeezed his hands one last time before he left yours. Neige had turned but glanced back a final time with a kind smile, one you were all too familiar with. Neige: 4 points!

Noticing this Vil only leaned closer to you.

The time between just you and Vil grew, particularly close. Between possessive gestures and close proximity, you felt closer to Vil than you ever have been. You wondered what kind of luxury this could be to outsiders, and instead it was being given to you. You ultimately chalked it up to Vil doing his best to accompany you in an unfamiliar environment… yeah. 

Sure, you didn't know anyone at this event, but Vil had you at his hip, in a less obvious way to prying eyes, of course. With the proximity, it brought a warm sense of security with Vil, a charming, sociable friend of yours.

All nights will come to a close, and yours eventually does as you depart with Vil, your mind not paying much memory to anything else but delicious food, Vil, and your time with Neige. Even when Vil would introduce you to a multitude of figures, they blended together foggily in your head.

Now the two of you stood outside your dorm. 

“Thank you for accompanying me, Y/N.” 

You nod at Vil’s gratitude.

“Next time, perhaps I can make time for just the two of us?” He proposes.

Next time huh…? You thought to yourself how many would dream of getting a next time with Vil Schoenheit. Similarly to your relationship with Neige, the basis of you and Vil’s relationship surpassed all fame and status automatically. What would be a fortune to others was just the path your relationship with the Queen of Pomefiore was headed. You couldn't help but appreciate Vil’s proposals to get closer, nor could you ever refuse.

“I would love that,” You confess. Vil: 4 points

For once, the two actors had been tied for affection

[pebble-bb]

Hi chat I got ur request and I just wanna say I'm SAUR EXCITED to write it, it's so cute omg. Literally as soon as I got the notif for it, I started writing. Below is a little sneaky peaky of the pre-fic area thing idk what it's called. Intro I suppose? Idk but thank u sososo much!! You were the first of two reqs to come in too 🙂‍↕️ I'll have it out ASAP so HOPEFULLY within a week but I am known to get hella behind. But it will be posted I promiseee

(Also don't mind the red, I use that to make sure I come back to edit that stuff lolll)

I’m gonna be so honest, I genuinely thought I responded 2 this and just saw it again now (so sorry, fully my fault, oops)

N e wayz!! Super excited to read this when you do get it out and I’m so super happy to hear that ur excited for it too!! :))

No rush though of course <33