I’m on a dimension hopping kick rn so imagine an AU where Bruce, as a last ditch effort to save his son from a dying planet, sends 10-year-old Dick to a different universe. He’s done extensive research. He knew something was brewing with Darkseid, he knew he might need to do something drastic, so he found the best possible world to send his son.
In this alternate universe, Dick fell with the rest of the Flying Graysons. Bruce never had the chance to adopt him, it never even crossed his mind, because it was never even a possibility.
Having a child is something he never knew he was missing. He’s still friendly with Superman and Wonder Woman and he’s in the Justice League, but he’s more closed off. He doesn’t open up as much as he would have if he had a brightly colored little Robin at his side.
So when this terrified and frantic child appears in his cave one night after patrol, he doesn’t really know what to do.
“I have to go back!” Dick shouts at him, and he’s breathing heavily, he’s panicking. “I have to go back, I have to help him!”
“Alright, alright,” Bruce tries to calm him down. “Where did you come from?”
Bruce keeps trying to grab hold of him to keep him still and calm him down, but Dick keeps squirming away.
“I need to go home!” he cries. “Stop! Stop, I need to go home! You’re not my Bruce!”
Bruce freezes, because he’s still in his batsuit. He still has the cowl on. There’s no way this child should know who he is.
It takes a while, but he eventually figures out what’s going on. Once Dick calms down. Once Dick explains that his Bruce sent him away. That his Bruce came back from a mission with the JL, and he was hurt, he was hurt so so badly, and the world around them was crumbling. He wouldn’t let Dick help him. He grabbed a bag and gave it to Dick and sent him away.
This Bruce has no idea what to do. He has a distraught, panicking child in his cave. He can’t send him back to the world he just came from. What is he supposed to do with him?
He brings Dick upstairs to the manor and gives him a room. Well, Dick picks the room. He says it’s his. Bruce doesn’t argue.
Later that night, as he broods in the cave, he receives a transmission from the Bruce who sent Dick here. It’s a video explaining why he picked this universe, why he picked this Bruce. He pleads for him to take care of Dick. To keep him safe. He explains what’s going on in his universe, how it’s not going to survive much longer.
“You’ll love him, I promise you will,” this other Bruce tells him. “He’s the best kid from any universe. He deserves the best. He deserves to live. I know you’ll do right by him.”
And, well, shit. Now he’s gonna have to keep the kid. He just needs to figure out how to go about it from a legal standpoint. He can’t just say the kid appeared in his basement.
Maybe he’ll say Dick is the product of some fling from a decade ago. That’s plausible. That could work.
He’ll have to figure out the details with Dick. He’s sure the kid will have several opinions.
I truly believe that out of all the bats, Jason, is the one who Dick is most attached to.
Dick loves all of them dearly, don’t get me wrong.
Bruce is his mentor, the only man he’s ever allowed himself to think of as a father after his dad died. He loves him deeply and thinks of him as a partner in crime(fighting), an older fucked up brother, and as a father.
Alfred is basically his grandfather and is the only little, freshly traumatised, dick Grayson would let himself be silent around, the only one he didn’t try to put a show on for or try to put on a brave face around.
Tim is his incredible little brother who is so smart and brave all the time, the kind boy who looked up at dick with stars in his eyes, the boy who had the determination to help Batman overcome the pull of grief.
Steph is his bold little sister who is loud, and bright, and fierce. She’s got the same determined fire in her heart that got all the bats into the life they live, determined for something better, for more.
Damian is his baby brother, his robin, the boy he watched go from a stoic assassin who thought everyone was beneath him, to a kind and deeply empathetic young man who loves those around him with a fierce passion, despite his adorable attempts to hide it.
Duke is his bright little brother, the boy who, like Steph, wanted more for the people around him and for himself. The boy who decided to do something about it, the boy whose determination for more led him to be Gothams ray of sunshine.
Cass is his brave little sister, the girl who saw the horrors of death and looked it dead in the eyes as she turned away from it and went towards the light of the living. The girl who fought for her voice just as fiercely as she fought for life itself.
But Jason?.
Jason was his brother.
His first brother.
And he turned him away.
Jason was hope and perseverance incarnate.
Jason was smart, he was bold, he was kind, he was bright, he was brave. He was all of those things and more.
He was good. So so so good. He was noble and pure and kindhearted and dick turned him away.
Despite all Jason’s, sweet sweet little Jason, attempts at being brothers, or even just being friends at the very least. Dick just turned him away with a sneer.
He ignored Jason’s olive branches, and flat out rejected them when he couldn’t ignore them.
He took his anger at Bruce for adopting another kid without any hesitation while he was still stuck as a ward, and then giving away something that was never his to give away out on jason.
On the 12 year old boy who looked at him with those same stars in his eyes upon meeting him for the first time that tim did.
The boy who despite flinching at loud noises and people moving to fast near him, still managed to have a hint of those same stars even after dicks constant rejections and sharp words.
After all the screaming fights he’d witnessed between dick and Bruce, after all the aggressive body language and behaviour from dick.
After years of nothing but hostility from dick.
He still had a hint of those same stars in his big blue eyes.
He still called for dick when he was murdered.
Still called for the man that was meant to be his big brother.
Still looked to dick to save him.
After everything.
He still had hope dick would love him.
And he died with it.
By the time dick had finally, finally realised he was taking his anger out on the wrong person, that maybe Jason wasn’t as bad as he’d made him out to be, Jason was nearly 15 and dick didn’t know where to start.
So he didn’t.
He figured he had time, and there was always something more important going on that needed his attention more than Jason did.
5 missed calls.
They haunt him more than anything he’d ever seen on the field.
5 times his brother called him.
5 times.
Dick never answered, never even got them up in space. But dick never answered, would he have answered Jason’s calls even if he wasn’t in space?.
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t want to know.
He can’t bare the fact that he probably wouldn’t have.
Jason was dead.
Jason, sweet sweet Jason, was dead and dick had never once said a nice thing to his face.
He couldn’t even claim his little brother was dead. Because he never treated Jason like the little brother he could have been. Like he would’ve been. If dick didn’t push him away.
Dick couldn’t call Jason his little brother. He didn’t deserve to. Not when he had every chance in the past to play the part of an older brother to him and fought it with all his might.
Not when Jason deserved so much better.
A better older brother, one who didn’t call him a thief for taking something he didn’t know was stolen, one who stood up for him, one who showed up for him.
One who wasn’t too angry and stupid and stubborn and scared to love him.
Jason deserved a better father, a better brother, a better family. He deserved so so much more than they gave him.
There isn’t anything dick regrets more than how he treated Jason. If he had been a better brother, scratch that, if he’d been a brother to Jason at all, maybe he’d have lived past 15.
Maybe he would’ve gone to college like he dreamed of, maybe he would’ve gotten married someday, maybe he would have lived.
Maybe dick could’ve earned the right to be his brother someday.
Jason died without Dick ever telling him how much he loved him. He died before dick ever even realised it.
Dick didn’t deserve to be Jason’s brother.
Then Jason came back.
He was angry, and twisted, and a hellhound made human.
But he was Jason.
He was the same miracle boy dick met and scorned all those years ago, the boy he saw in everyone and everything. In the stars in Tim’s eyes, in stephs bold desire for more for herself and her mother, in dukes hope and sense of community, in cass’s perseverance and bravery, in Damian’s kindness and empathy.
The boy who called for him 5 times.
The brother he never deserved to claim.
Jason wasn’t the same, but he wasn’t someone new. And if he was someone new, well, dick never really knew him in the first place did he?
But he could this time. He wanted to. He wanted to earn the right to call Jason his brother. He wanted everything Jason offered before. And even if Jason didn’t think he deserved it anymore, dick would do everything in his power to earn it.
He’d do anything to make Jason realise just how much he meant to him, to everyone.
He’d do anything to make Jason know just how much he loved him. He was just too stubborn and angry to let it show.
Even if dick never earned the right to call Jason his brother, even if dick never deserved it, dick couldn’t help but see Jason as his brother before anything else.
The others weren’t the same, he loved them all, so so so fucking much. But it wasn’t the same.
Jason wasn’t just the boy who should’ve been his brother, he’s the boy dick had been a kid with.
The one who had seen dick act every bit his age and still look at him with stars in his eyes.
The one who had witnessed the worst of dick, yet never saw anything but his older brother.
The others saw him as a doting older brother and mentor, a loving and joyful presence who would mother hen them all to kingdom come.
Jason had seen dick be mean, be cruel, be stubborn, be stupid, be selfish, be brash, be everything he’d never shown the others.
Jason had seen him be a traumatised young man who took his anger out on the wrong people and looked at him with love regardless.
Jason was the Abel to Dicks Cain.
And dick couldn’t let him go without making sure Jason could never forget just how much his older brother loves him.
summary: Turns out you had met the Waynes well before meeting your husband.
pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
tags and warning(s): Nothing as far as I'm aware, wrote this in an hour and I'm way too sleepy to proofread this. some info might not be accurate, Maybe OOC
word count:1.1k
dc mlist bruce wayne mlist
Bruce Wayne had a hollow pit in his heart that ached for the simple things in life, such as Jason picking up his call, dick staying the night at the manor, among others. But like everyone else, he wished for things that could never happen, like his parents alive and well beyond their early thirties, and meeting you, his wife.
But what if fate had other plans?
It's a random Tuesday as Bruce, and you stand in the middle of your grandfather's beloved attic. The wooden floors creak under your weight, dust particles moving in spirals as the early rays of sunshine flit through the glass panes of the dormer window. Your mother had asked for your help in cleaning your grandparents' place, and so you pulled in Bruce - offering him a break from his corporate duties, which he gladly agreed to.
"Wow, I did not realise my grandad hoarded so many things", you say, looking at the vast number of trinkets and boxes stacked along the walls on both sides of the attic. Each was well organised, with a label pasted on the top.
"Your grandad was a man of culture", Bruce chuckles, looking at the various band posters from the 40s and 50s. There were even autographs from some of them, neatly preserved.
Both of you got to work immediately, knowing it would be hours before everything was cleaned out. You had decided to split the work by concentrating on different ends of the triangular room.
Bruce had struck gold by ending up in the corner where your granddad had seemed to store much of the photo albums and cassettes, stacked on top of each other, labeled in detail about what the insides contained. It gave Bruce an insight to your family, a family from looking at the albums that had photos from back since your grandparents got married, having their daughter — your mother, to her getting married, and having you.
He had seen a lot of your photos since the early days of dating, but these were different. Your grandfather was an avid photographer, and Bruce could sense it through the varied angles and poses that he made everyone do.
"Having fun, huh?" you mumble, looking at Bruce as he suppresses a chuckle while looking at the pictures of you — a two-year-old, wearing a princess gown and a wand gripped tightly within your grubby fingers.
"You get stuck with the more fun part, while I have to dust some old documents", you grumble, looking at files and files of documents.
"Do you wanna exchange, sweetheart?"
"Nope," you say, emphasizing the 'p' as you shift to the next box, "Besides, I like hearing you laugh, even if it comes at the cost of my pictures"
An hour passes by.
You had finished four out of the twelve boxes. Heaving a sigh, you decide it's time for a well-deserved break. And what better to do than annoy your beautiful husband?
"Bruce, Brucie Wayne," you turn to look at him at the lack of any response "Bruce?"
Bruce doesn't answer, his broad back turned towards you. There is something different in the air from a few minutes ago, almost tinged with melancholic fragrance. You move towards, hoping to see what made him go so still, only to let out a gasp when you see it.
There you were, maybe five or six years old, wearing a large doctor's coat that reached well beyond your limbs, dragging onto the marble floor and a cute pink stethoscope around your neck. But that was not what made you gasp; it was the couple you were standing with in the photo.
Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Both of them were crouched next to you on either side. Thomas Wayne in his fitting black suit paired with a dark blue silk necktie embellished with motifs, while Martha Wayne wore a simple black silk dress paired with a blue plaid jacket.
There was a tiny piece of description below the photograph, a little shabby, like your grandpa wasn't sure what to write.
' Y/N & famous couple from Gotham (VHS #155)'
Bruce let out a laugh— loud but bittersweet. It made sense for your grandad to not know them, considering the only people he thought to be rich were the Queens.
You looked at Bruce, his eyes a little glazed as you cupped his face, fingers rubbing against the expanse of his cheek. Pressing a small kiss on his forehead, you whisper, "Shall we watch the VHS tape?"
He hums as you both try finding the exact tape among two hundred of them. Once retrieved, you dust the Toshiba VCR at the corner, pulling it slightly towards the center. You and Bruce try to get it to start since it probably hasn't been used in a while.
After a few minutes, the VCR lights up. Inserting the tape, you press play, and both of you stand back, Bruce's arm over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.
The VCR displays a blue gradient before buzzing to a grainy film of you in a purple and pink frock , smiling widely at the camera. There's a lot of noise around you — people clapping , speeches being read as your grandad records the stage when Thomas Wayne was giving his speech. Bruce shifted a little, hand holding yours a little tighter, from hearing his father's voice after so many years.
The video then shifts to you, standing in front of the couple, wearing a pink stethoscope and a white coat a little too large for your frame. Martha Wayne smiles , a smile so radiant, before crouching down to her knees as she shakes your hand.
"Hi, there. What's your name?"
You say your name before letting out a giggle at her calling you beautiful.
"You want to be a doctor when you grow up?" She asks, hands pointing at the instrument hanging around your neck.
"Yes, ma'am. I want to be a heart doctor," you say, peering at the woman beside you. Thomas Wayne smiles before exchanging pleasantries with your grandfather.
"Oh, that's wonderful! You will be a great doctor one day, my dear."
And with that, the VHS comes to an end.
Bruce sniffles a little , his hands holding your waist, chin placed on top of your head. Silence fills the space along with the sounds of your nieces playing around the house. You don't know how long the both of you stayed like that, but it could have been forever, and you didn't mind at all.
Bruce is beyond happy. While it may not be visible to the naked eye, you could feel the joy emanating from the open crevices of grief and gaps of affection. He was happy that you —his wife, the love of his life — had met his parents. And they had gotten the chance to meet you.
Perhaps both of you really were soulmates.
A/N: Comments and Reblogs appreciated! Writing something for bruce after a long time.
Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Wally West & Hal Jordan
Summary: stopping them during sex for a 'silly' reason
Content/CW -> gn! reader + afab! reader (wally's), mentions of blood/periods, suggestive/slight nsfw, reader has hair (hal's part), mostly just funny silly
— requested by the amazing lovely talented @gothamorphosis (go check out their smaus they EAT!)
froggi yaps -> had this in my inbox foreverrr ;-; so happy im finally getting to it cause its such a fun idea :p couldn't decide on characters so i just went back to my roots <3 also huge content dump today teehee
Dick Grayson:
You thought you were being slick, taking your hand off the back of Dick’s neck and inching it towards the nightstand.
Dick stills inside of you, tilting his head at you in confusion. There’s a goofy smile on his face. “What’s up?”
You blink at him, wiping a hand over your sweat-slicked forehead. “I need water,” you smile sheepishly.
He chuckles, grabbing the comically large water bottle he keeps on his nightstand and flicking out the straw. You prop yourself up on your elbows, Dick holding up the bottle to your lips.
You sip on it, the water instantly cooling you down and fixing the dry ache on your tongue.
“Good?” He asks and when you nod, he puts it to his own mouth and chugs about half the bottle in one go.
You watch him chug it, his throat bobbing and water glistening on the corners of his mouth. His own hair is sweaty, stuck to his head and dangling over his forehead.
You reach up and swipe a strand away. Dick puts the water bottle back down, letting his body sandwich you against the mattress again.
“You know,” he mumbles in your ear, “I didn’t realize I tire you out so much you needed a water break.”
You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”
He rolls his hips into yours, a smirk on his face. “Are you sure you want to have an attitude right now?”
You swallow, shaking your head.
Jason Todd:
Jason’s off you the minute the word slips from your lips, pulling himself back with his hands raised in surrender. His lips are parted slightly, dark brows furrowed in concern as he analyzes your body. Your legs are shaking, face twisted in pain.
“Everything okay? What’s going on?”
Oh god. He hurt you, he was too rough and he hurt you and you’re in pain and you’re never going to trust him again and—
You arch your back on the bed, twisting and stretching your limbs. “Leg cramp.”
He blinks. “Leg…cramp?”
“Mhm,” you hum, pulling a knee to your chest.
The hammering in Jason’s chest stills, his face blank in that way it gets when he’s not sure what to think.
“Jay?” You cock your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes, “you alright?”
“I thought,” he frowns, “I thought you were hurt, or something.”
You laugh, pressing a hand to his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. You ghost your lips over his, smiling into him, “you think too much.”
He cups the back of your neck, laying you back down on the bed. “Maybe, wanna help me with that?”
“Gladly.”
Wally West:
“Wally.”
The redhead hums, head sunk low in the dip between your shoulder and neck, giving no indication of stopping. You shove at his shoulder.
“Wally!”
He pulls away, eyes glassy and pupils blown, hair a total mess. He blinks, “sorry, fuck, is everything alright?”
“I think…I just started my period.”
“Okay,” he says, pursing his lips and leaning back in to kiss your neck again.
“Wally—I’m gonna stain your sheets.”
He shrugs. “So? I’m not scared of a little blood.”
“I’m gonna make a mess.”
“It’s just blood,” he repeats.
“But—“
He cups your face, squishing your cheeks together. “Look, doll. If you’re in pain or you don’t want to keep going, say the word. But if you’re stopping because of me, cause you think I’ll be grossed out or something, don’t.”
You sigh, falling back into the sheets and tentatively parting your legs. “You swear its fine?”
Wally grins ear to ear. “Swear on my sheets.”
Hal Jordan:
Hal stares at you blankly when you pull away from him with a wince, rubbing the side of your head. One minute, you seemed to be enjoying yourself, your hands on his chest and head against his shoulder while he thrusted into you.
“What’s up?” He asks, still breathless.
You point to his hand, specifically the ring sitting on one of his wide fingers. In it rests a small chunk of your hair, strands splayed out every which-way. Hal holds it in front of his eyes, eyebrows shooting up as he realizes what happened.
“Is that?”
You nod, “my hair? Mhm.”
He smiles sheepishly, plucking it out from where it’s gotten caught on the band and discarding it over the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he shakes his head.
“Yeah,” you frown, scrunching your nose. “Hurt like a bitch.”
“Aw,” he teases, a huge grin on his face, “need me to kiss it better?”
And to his surprise and delight, you nod, leaning your head in so Hal can run his lips over your temple. He catches you in his arms then, pulling you back into his chest.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Pairing: Charlotte Katakuri x Fem!Reader
Summary: You've spent a year in indentured servitude to the Big Mom Pirates. Your sentence is for another four. But, you've been plotting your escape for months now. Unfortunately, fate has intervened in the form of the second son, returning home at just the worst moment possible.
This is a scene from a current WIP I have of a Katakuri x Reader Longfic. Waiting to have more of it finished before I post the chapters, but I love their first meeting so much I wanted to save it here :)
CW: Imprisonment, Minor Injury, Brief moment of suicidal ideation DD:DNE
Word Count: 2.2k
➽──────────────❥
It takes nearly an hour to get back to that room. And when you lock the quiet door behind you, you take a moment to catch your breath in the relief. But only a moment- you can’t stop now. You have to make it down the castle. Have to make it to the North Dock.
You rip the drape down from the armoire and pull out the sheets, tying them together by their ends. You work quickly, but diligently- not willing to risk your life on a rushed knot. Once you have them all lashed together, you wrap the makeshift rope around your body and open the window- it glides easily on greased hinges.
Your fingers curl around the windowsill, as you look over the ledge at the long, long, way down. But it is your only way down. Your only way out. The only path that gives you even the slightest chance at your freedom.
You sling your leg over the window and slowly lower yourself down onto the trellis. The thin wood bites into the pads of your hand and you can feel it crumbled and rotten in some places. You’ll have to go slow, test your weight against every step. Once you make it to the terrace, you can use your makeshift rope to take you the rest of the way- hopefully. You aren’t exactly sure if it’ll actually reach all the way to the ground. At the very least, you pray it reaches far enough for you to survive the drop without completely crippling yourself.
There’s a rustle as your body moves through the overgrown ivy and moonflower as you begin to move down. You count yourself lucky it isn’t poisonous- but, you had checked just to be sure.
The lattice crumbles under your boot on the next step and you take a deep breath, finding another foothold. “Don’t be afraid,” you mutter, “don’t be afraid… and don’t look down…” You keep scaling, only occasionally stopping to catch your breath. But not for long- you don’t like the way the wood creaks as your weight settles completely onto it.
Your body aches, and your hands sting with splinters. You think if it hadn’t been for all those stairs you’ve been made to climb every day in the château, you might have run out of steam by now. It feels like you’ve been going forever. You have to be getting close to the terrace. Maybe you should check- “don’t look down,” you chide yourself.
“What are you doing?”
Your grip slips and you slide down a few feet before catching yourself, heart still in a free fall. Someone is there, below you, but you don’t turn to look. Swallowing your breaths you try to think of what do do next. But, really, what could you do? The only thing that gives you any kind of reassurance is that the voice is even and curious and clearly doesn’t belong to a guard or there would be way more shouting.
“Oh, uh…you know… just, uh…climbing…” you keep your voice low, not wanting to risk being too loud in case it still mattered.
“Why?” Judging by his similar tone, he didn’t want to alert anyone to his presence either. He sounds, maybe, a floor away- which means you’re finally close to the terrace.
“Nice night for it…” you press your forehead into the back of your hand clutching for dear life on the splintering wood, still panting, heart racing. “You, uh… you’re not gonna call the guard, are you?”
“I’m not going to call the guard.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Where are you going?”
You start moving downwards again, albeit much slower than before. You really have no choice but to hope he’s not lying- or doesn’t change his mind. “You promise?”
“Promise?”
“Promise you won’t call the guard.”
“I’m not going to call the guard,” he repeats. Though, notably, he doesn’t promise.
“I’m escaping…” you confess. “If you don’t rat me out, I’ll tell you where I hid a really big bag of gold.” Your words get more strained with your resumed physical effort- the adrenaline shuddering through your body.
“You don’t have a really big bag of gold. You’d take it with you if you were escaping.”
“Well, maybe it’s a small bag…”
There’s a pause from below and for a moment you think maybe he’s gone. But then- “how do you think it’s going?”
“Going?”
“The escape.”
He sounds almost amused and you huff at his tone. “It’s going quite well, actually. I haven’t been caught yet.”
“You have been caught,” he points out.
“I mean, by anyone who’s going to kill me.”
“You’re very optimistic.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.” Your body trembles and each step is getting harder to manage, but you push through. You have to keep moving.
“Getting tired?”
“Nope. I could do this all night,” you respond, more for your own reassurance than anything. You really hope you don’t have to do this all night. Just a little longer, you tell yourself.
“Long way to the bottom.”
“I’m trying not to think about that. Just one-” you grunt, “-step at a time.”
“I think you should go back inside. You’re not going to make it off the island.”
Indignation sparks within you, spurring you onward. “I will… I will make it off. So long as you don’t call the-” You slip, hands sliding from the wall, sleeve and skin ripping against broken wood as your boots lose their footing.
The world tips and the moon is above you but you find no peace in it as you’re lost in a moment of free fall that extends into forever in the span of a heartbeat.
You land in something solid, the wind knocking from your lungs. Your racing heart pounds all the way through your fingertips and your vision is hazy. But you don't hit the ground. Other than the tremor of your body and the sting of your fingers and the sharpness at you’re arm- you’re not in pain. Not the kind of pain you’d expect from falling to near certain demise, anyway.
Your eyes blink, trying to come into focus as you realize there’s a shadow above you, blocking the light of the moon. You take deep breaths, searching the darkness of it as his face begins to reveal itself.
Crimson eyes stare down at you, “I’m not going to call the guard.” Your brows furrow, mind trying to steady itself enough to process what he’s said. You hold his gaze as it slows and your first coherent thought is you’ve never seen eyes that color before.
Your second coherent thought turns your blood to ice.
You have, it says. You have seen them, just never this close.
Your poor heart picks back up again and you think this time it might actually give out. Perhaps, that would be a kinder fate. Because the dread that washes over you as you register who you’re looking at speaks to one far more terrifying.
Your voice is so thin you don’t even feel it pass through your lips, “are you going to kill me?”
“I just saved your life.”
There’s a nervous shudder as that truth settles into you. Charlotte Katakuri, second son of the Empress, and one of the Sweet Three Commanders- has saved your life. After catching you trying to escape his family’s castle. “Why?”
He looks at you for a moment before answering, “I didn’t want your corpse in my garden.”
Your eyes leave his face to scan your surroundings. You had made it, at least. The grassy terrace sways gently on the night wind, carrying with it the subtle scent of honeysuckle and peonies. White lilies glow under the light of the moon. “It’s a nice garden…” you offer. The beauty of the scene not quite reckoning with the horrific situation you find yourself in.
Katakuri sits you down to your feet and you immediately stumble back away from him, wobbling legs doing their best to support the weight of your body after having been off the ground for so long.
Your eyes scan the massive figure in front you. You’d seen him before from a distance, but he was far more intimidating up close. “What are the chances,” you chew nervously on your lower lip, “that you let me go?”
He crosses his arms and tilts his head, examining you. “Back into the château? Decent,” he shrugs. A dreadful hope thumps in your chest. “Down the side of the castle with that,” he points at the sheets still wrapped around your body. “Nonexistent.”
You swallow and there’s a tightness to your throat. Your eyes cast down to look at the gash in your arm, your fingers wiping the blood away from the lines of your birthmark. Katakuri tracks the movement. Your arms curl around your body, “I’m not going back in there…”
Katakuri straightens, “I just told you I’d let you off the hook and you’re refusing?” He sounds more confused than angry.
You shake your head, “please…”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” your voice is an honest whisper.
“Then why are you so eager to get there?”
Your eyes find his again, “there has to be peace somewhere…”
“Is that your better quality talking?” You don’t respond. Your mind reels. Of all the possibilities, of all the backup plans, and contingencies you laid awake calculating every single night- this had never been among them. And you know there is nothing you can do against this. Against him- against this man. A solid wall of fate plopped right into your path to keep your prisoner. The way it always does.
So the only choice you have now, is really not a choice at all. You can go back inside or…
Your eyes slide over to the ornate outer wall- to the sheer drop you know waits just behind it. You could try to reach it, wrap your sheet around the railing before you jump. It would at least cover some distance and maybe you can survive the rest of the way.
You can’t. You know you can’t. Even if you somehow did, he’d just come after you. You are nothing to him- you don’t even need to recall his reputation to know that. He’s telling you the truth. You’ll never make it off this island- not with him in your way.
Maybe… maybe you should just jump. That dark thought slinks its way around your rationale. Aren’t you tired? It whispers. Tired of chasing a freedom that has never and would never find you? What would you even do with it once you had it? There’s nothing waiting for you out there… As if the answers can be seen just over the ledge, you take a step towards it.
“Don’t.” Could you even outrun him? Could you beat him to the wall?
No. You can’t. Of course not. Unless, he let’s you. Maybe he will. If you don’t make his garden your final resting place, maybe he won’t care.
“Don’t.” He steps into your path. Again, blocking the only choice you could have potentially made for yourself.
His large body casts a shadow over you, deepening the night. He takes a step forward. You stumble back. “Why run away from me if you just want to die?”
“I don’t want to die.” You answer comes quickly enough that it breezes through your doubts, clearing them away. You aren’t going to jump.
“Go back inside… please.” His added plea is so quiet, just a whisper in the wind, and you think for a moment you’ve only imagined it.
There’s no where left to go but inside. There, at least, you will be alive. You can try again- you will try again. Because despite everything, you’re not ready to give up. You have promises to keep.
You look up at the trellis and sigh as the disappointment settles heavy in your bones when you realize just how far you actually made it. It was something to be proud of, at least. But, there was no way you were making it back to the top.
Suddenly, the ground falls away from you and you’re flying. Up, up, up. Back towards the high tower, back towards the window that had been your one and only exit. Katakuri grabs onto the ledge with one hand and pulls himself inside with a grace that doesn’t befit a man of his size.
He lowers you down and you look over the windowsill at the long drop to his garden below and then back up at him. There are questions on your tongue you know you can’t - and shouldn’t - voice. His carmine eyes simmer in the dark room as they trail down your body, catching on the still bleeding gash in your arm. “Go back the way you came.”
You don’t make him tell you again. You’ve undoubtedly worn his patience enough. While you aren’t pleased to return to your prison, you recognize it for the mercy that it is.
Your body grows heavier with defeat every step you take back towards the door. You cast one last look over your shoulder at his frame silhouetted against the moonlit window. You can see nothing of his features save for that cerise gaze, still locked on you- before you slip away and count your steps back to your bunk.
Pictures from the spectacular @mewiyev, One Two Three
1/4: Katakuri x Reader
Length: 12k+
Rating: 16+
Warnings: Major age gap (platonic until characters are of age; slow-burn to the extreme) Katakuri has feelings and hates it, Mentions of trauma / emotional repression, Found family by way of dessert commentary, Katakuri quietly panics for 50,000 words, Donuts used as metaphor, threat, and coping mechanism, Baking disasters (some of them sentient), Mentions of childhood neglect/strict households (offscreen), Slow burn so slow it crystallizes
Having Katakuri as a soulmate is like being silently guarded by a pastry-themed war god with chronic guilt and a scarf full of secrets. He’s precision wrapped in tension, a fortress of sugar and silence who never says what he feels but always knows when your hands are shaking.
“If my soulmate’s hurt, I’ll personally smother the sun with fondant and make the universe apologize in icing.”
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For @uvupotatogirl
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-X-Bond Awakening-X-
You’re just an average kid with an average dream. Your dream is to one day open a bakery. There’s just one problem.
You suck.
Not charmingly. Not adorably. Just… catastrophically. Your cookies explode. Your muffins collapse. Your cakes come out looking like geological samples. You once made cupcakes so dense they broke a plate.
Your aunt keeps lying to your face, calling them “rustic.”
Still, you persist.
Because baking felt holy.
Not in the grand, glowing, choir-of-angels way. But in the quiet kind. The kind you felt in your chest when the kitchen was warm and the batter rose just right. Like love you could give away. Like building something sweet out of nothing at all, then handing it over like a blessing.
Something small. Something good. Something that said, I made this for you. I thought of you. I stayed.
A way to feed the world without needing to be seen.
That was what baking became for you. Not a spotlight, but a comfort. Something steady. Measured. A quiet act of care you could give away without needing to explain yourself.
So maybe it wasn’t surprising that fate tied you to someone just as serious about it. Someone who didn’t treat sugar like a trend, but like a discipline. Someone who knew the structure of a choux pastry better than most people knew their own hearts.
Someone... much older. Much sharper. Much more intimidating. Like if that guy from the Baratie had grown up in a war zone made of whipped cream and politics.
Except you weren’t sure even a world-class chef would have this many opinions about donuts.
And the voice that one day started speaking in your head?
Very opinionated about donuts. And about your ability to incinerate a kitchen faster than it took to preheat the oven.
“Read the instructions.”
“I was improvising.”
“That’s not improvisation. That’s negligence.”
“You sound like my home ec teacher.”
“Your home economics teacher didn’t have to feel you almost set fire to your hair.”
It wasn’t just the judgment.
It was the precision.
The way he spoke about temperature control like it was warfare. The way he described laminated dough in the same careful tone most people reserved for private confessionals. The way he never raised his voice—but somehow, every word still landed with the force of a warning.
He was serious. Intense. Frustrating.
At first, you tried to ignore it. A voice in your head? Fine. Weird. But not unmanageable.
Except it didn’t leave.
It just got more vocal.
“You’re using salt again. And that oven is too hot. Turn it down.”
A pause.
“Are you crying? That’s not a reason to stop.”
It wasn’t a god.
It was something stranger.
A thread. A connection. Not warm, not magical. Just… steady. Quietly annoyed. Occasionally, very confused. But always there.
And once the voice recovered from the emotional devastation of your first botched sponge, it became relentless about your baking habits.
Especially donuts.
He thought about them constantly. Donut textures. Donut fillings. Donut regrets. Donuts lost to time and poor decisions.
You once woke up from a nap at school with your mouth watering and the phrase “yeast integrity” echoing in your brain.
At first, it was annoying. Actually, it was always annoying. But something was comforting in it, too.
You got used to it.
To the quiet corrections. The tense silences. The strange little sighs when you got something right.
He had strong opinions about other things as well: sugar ratios, chocolate percentages, battle technique, and emotional suppression. But for brevity’s sake, you called him the Donut Ghost.
That’s how it started.
No poetic fate. No magical romantic rush. Just a grumpy stranger with an encyclopedic knowledge of pastry and a worrying amount of repressed emotion.
-X- A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript -X-
Aka, Therapy with Giant Murder Pastry until you accidentally Charm Him
Age 8:
It was a Tuesday.
You were eight years old and in your grandmother’s kitchen, elbow-deep in a bowl of what you insisted was donut batter. In truth, it was mostly flour, too much oil, and a heroic amount of salt.
You’d found a recipe on the back of a cereal box. You had ignored most of it.
The day had been strange from the start. You had woken up craving something sweet. Not candy, not cake… something specific. Something warm and golden and fried. At the same time, you’d felt an odd pulse behind your ribs. A flicker of tension that didn’t belong to you. Like someone had clenched their jaw far away and hadn’t figured out why.
You dismissed it. Probably gas.
And then came the banana. You had reached for one at breakfast and felt a violent wave of distaste that nearly knocked you sideways. You dropped it like it was cursed.
Still, none of that mattered now because you were on a mission.
The kitchen was a warzone. There was flour on the ceiling. A whisk in the toaster. Your grandmother had long since retreated to the living room, muttering something about divine punishment. But you were having the time of your life. You were determined to make donuts. You had a mixing bowl, a stack of paper towels, and more confidence than actual skill.
Your singing (off-key and deeply committed) filled the kitchen as you stirred. You had a book propped up beside you titled Beginner’s Ganache, which you weren’t using, but liked having nearby for aesthetic. You poured in another scoop of salt, mistaking it for sugar, and hummed something vaguely caramel-themed.
Then it happened.
Your brain didn’t just jolt. It lurched.
It felt like someone had whispered directly into your skull while wearing velvet gloves and wielding a sledgehammer.
And then, clear as day, you heard him.
Not in the way the storybooks promised. There was no golden thread of fate around your wrist. No butterflies. No glowing symbols. Just a sudden, low voice cutting through your thoughts like a knife through fondant.
“Stay calm,” it said. Deep. Cold. Extremely unamused.
You froze.
Then you screamed, flinging the bowl on instinct. It hit the wall with a wet splat, sliding down in a tragic cascade of batter and dreams.
“Who are you?!” you shouted, grabbing a spatula like a holy weapon.
There was no one in the room. No radio. No TV. Just you, the mess, and that voice.
“…What is that?” the voice said again, sounding almost offended. “Is that… donut batter?”
You blinked wildly. “What—who—where—”
“That dough is too warm. You’re overworking the gluten. Are you trying to make edible frisbees?”
That was when it hit you.
You were haunted.
And your ghost was a food critic.
“Oh god, I’m haunted!” you wailed.
“Soulmate bond,” said the voice with the tone of someone being sentenced to life without sugar. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re the one in my head, pastry demon!”
A long silence followed.
Then, more judgment. “You need to chill the butter. It’s melting. That batter is going to spread like shame.”
You clutched the spatula. “Are you a real donut ghost?”
“I reject this,” the voice muttered. “Send me someone else. This is a baking emergency.”
“Rude.”
He didn’t mean for that thought to go through. He winced. Too late.
“You’re a child.”
“Still rude.”
“…Give me a moment. I’m having a breakdown.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said the only thing that made sense.
“Donut Ghost… do you know a better way to keep the cookies from spreading?”
There was a pause. A long sigh. The sound of someone surrendering to their fate.
“Use cake flour instead of all-purpose,” he said eventually. “And refrigerate the dough for twenty minutes. Do both if you’re smart, Jellybean.”
You made a face. “Don’t call me that.”
The cookies came out perfect.
You still hated the nickname.
“…Huh. But my other ones—”
“The ratio was off. You’ll get spread. Do you want pancakes instead?”
You screamed again.
Katakuri winced on the other end of the tether.
“I’m blocking that,” he muttered.
And just like that, you had a baking coach from hell.
He didn’t tell you his name. He refused. You suspected he was older. Possibly ancient. His voice had the tone of someone who had fought wars over proper glaze and was perpetually one syllable away from homicide.
You refused to tell him your favorite fruit, out of spite.
But you both agreed that most people overbake brownies. That was the start of your highly complex relationship.
“I’m going to kill Oven,” he muttered one day, distant and furious. “I’m going to wrap his head in mochi and dropkick him into the sea.”
You were just a kid with a rolling pin and a stubborn mystery pastry ghoul in your head.
“Why would you harm an appliance???”
“Oven is my brother’s name.”
He was… something else.
He had opinions. Strong ones. Sacred ones. Especially when it came to donuts.
He treated them like relics. Artifacts. Objects of devotion. He once narrated the one he was eating like it was a Shakespearean tragedy.
“Soft. Sweet. Perfect. I could kill for this texture… No. I have killed for this texture.”
He became a part of your routine. Not constant, but consistent. Commentary on texture. Structure. The structural integrity of sugar-based goods.
He had rules.
“Choux pastry should be illegal in humid climates.” “Frosting is not glue. It’s weaponized emotion.” “If someone tells you fondant is better than marzipan, you walk away. That’s a red flag.”
You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his face. But you knew he hated soggy bottoms and thought the phrase whipped cream diplomacy was a valid form of conflict resolution.
One time, you teased him.
“If someone breathes near my donut again,” he said darkly, “I’ll bury them in the sea floor.”
You blinked. “You sound really emotionally stable and adult. Does the donut know it’s dating you?”
“It’s not—dating—what does that even mean—”
You just grinned.
Your donut ghost was very easy to rattle.
Elsewhere:
He was mid-spar with Smoothie.
Dodging bullets. Breaking ribs. Hurling mochi like jagged meteors through the sky. The air crackled with Haki. The training field was scorched and shifting underfoot.
And then it hit.
The bond slammed into his chest like a cathedral bell tolling in reverse. All the air rushed from his lungs.
“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THE OVEN IS SPARKING—SUGAR DEMON HELP ME—”
Katakuri stopped moving.
Smoothie’s elbow connected with his jaw. He didn’t blink.
"...What?"
The voice was not loud. It was worse than loud.
It was close.
It came not from beside him, but within, like someone had sat down on the inside of his skull and was now screaming directly into his brain with the frenzied chaos of a feral raccoon wearing oven mittens.
“THIS IS IT, THIS IS HOW I DIE—WHAT THE HELL IS A CONVECTION SETTING—”
His soul spasmed.
The tether pulled tight.
“I REGRET EVERYTHING. I’M GOING TO HELL AND I NEVER EVEN LEARNED TO TEMPER CHOCOLATE—”
Then came silence. A faint crash. Some smoke. A wet sniffle.
“…I dropped the pie on the cat.”
Katakuri stared at the ground.
This was happening.
This—this bakery gremlin. This shrieking, salt-happy child who screamed at appliances and mistook powdered sugar for flour three times in a row—this was his soulmate.
“IT’S ON FIRE AGAIN, DONUT GHOST!”
He flinched.
Thousands of miles away on Whole Cake Island, Katakuri felt the words hit him like a spiritual gut punch. The bond flared in his chest like someone jamming a straw into his sternum and slurping his patience out in one long, bubbling sip.
He swore under his breath.
Charlotte Smoothie, mid-swing, paused and frowned. “You okay?”
“…No,” he said slowly. “I think someone just set their kitchen on fire.”
Again.
You, of course, were convinced you were losing your mind.
The voice had started earlier that week. Not constantly. Just little interjections. Unhelpful commentary. Biting silence. The emotional equivalent of being judged by a pastry encyclopedia with biceps.
“That’s not how you separate eggs.”
“DON’T YOU JUDGE ME, VOICE DEMON.”
“…You’re using a slotted spoon.”
“I DON’T SEE YOU DOING ANY BETTER, HALLUCINATION.”
You talked to him every day.
He tried, genuinely tried, not to talk back. But then you attempted Swiss meringue in a blender.
And that broke him.
“STOP. STOP. USE A BOWL. GODS ABOVE.”
You gasped. “Aha! I knew you were real!”
“No, you didn’t. You’re unstable.”
“That’s what my therapist says.”
“…You have a therapist?”
“No. But I talk to you instead.”
Age 9:
You were cleaning up the aftermath of your latest culinary catastrophe. Something blackened was dripping off the counter. It might have been moving. Possibly alive. You weren’t sure. You had almost set the oven on fire.
Not with a meal. With water. Somehow.
“So if you melt the sugar first, it caramelizes—”
“You’re a hallucination. Don’t try to gaslight me into believing in science.”
“…I’m not even arguing with that.”
Katakuri, currently in the middle of punching a rogue homie in the throat, staggered as a wave of heat, panic, and a high-pitched mental scream slammed into his soul like a molasses freight train.
“WHY IS IT SMOKING. I DIDN’T PUT ANYTHING IN YET—”
He froze. Winced. One eye twitched.
“…She’s gonna die.”
That night, he tried to speak through the bond. Tried to help. Gently. Calmly.
You told him to shut up, said you were hallucinating again, and if he was the devil, he needed to start paying rent. Then you went to bed thinking it was nice having an imaginary baking coach who liked caramel and gave decent advice.
You still didn’t give him your name.
Or your location.
You had seen the commercials. You were not getting kidnapped by a giant walking donut, no matter how helpful he was with meringue.
You weren’t rude. You weren’t especially guarded. But you weren’t stupid. He didn’t seem to push too hard, either way, though he seemed somewhat competent.
You learned how to wall off your thoughts. How to blur your mind like static when he got too personal. If he tried to focus, you flooded the bond with opera music or recited full recipes for lemon tarts until he gave up in frustration.
Once, he tried to guess your region based on how you said “cruller.”
You responded with a five-minute monologue in wildly fake accents, ranging from British to "mysterious swamp witch."
He was deeply, deeply annoyed.
You were thrilled.
It became your thing.
"I made 300 donuts today."
“Wow. That sounds like the actions of a spiritually healthy ghost.”
"...People rely on me."
“For what? Flavor profiles and controlled rage?”
And somehow, despite everything, he always came back.
Your relationship was complicated. You were a mystery he couldn’t solve. He was a menace you couldn’t quite ignore.
But you did bake together.
Through shared thoughts. Quiet technique. Philosophical debates about icing ratios. Savage critiques of poorly laminated puff pastry.
You sent him thoughts like:
“I’m trying an almond dacquoise with espresso buttercream. Thoughts?”
He sent back:
“Add salt to the meringue. Toast your almonds. Do not embarrass us.”
He still didn’t know who you were. You were very good at keeping it that way. He suspected you were hiding something, but never pressed. Not directly.
Sometimes, he would say things like, “When I find you, you’ll regret the way you talk to me.”
And you would say, “Big talk from a man who once cried over a croissant because it looked ‘too delicate to eat.’”
“…Shut up.”
While you were stressing about art class and your lunchbox’s missing juice pouch, your soulmate was actively waging wars. Actual wars. Pirate wars. Wars involving screaming. Blood. Destruction. And mochi.
So much mochi.
Mochi as a weapon. Mochi as armor. Mochi used to drown a man once.
You once got detention because you shouted, “PUT DOWN THE DONUT, YOU’RE BLEEDING,” during homeroom.
There was no social recovery from that.
You spent the next week wondering if sugar-boarding counted as a war crime.
At first, you figured he was just weird. Probably some emotionally repressed guy who lived in a basement, surrounded by half-eaten croissants and pastry trauma.
But you were a kid. You didn’t care that much. You had a baking buddy.
And for all his chronic brooding, he was great at it.
“If you don’t bloom the cocoa first, the flavor won’t deepen. Please tell me you bloomed it. Also, don’t overmix. Stop. I can feel you overmixing.”
He didn’t talk about himself much. But sometimes, little pieces slipped through.
“Brûlée likes this one. She calls it my ‘apology cake.’”
“I don’t get to sit down often.”
“Mama says I should smile less. It scares the guests.”
You didn’t push. You figured he was dramatic. Maybe his mom was strict. Maybe his family was weird.
Not your business.
You were more concerned with the fact that he knew five different ways to temper chocolate and had intensely violent opinions about donut glazes.
"Maple is fine. But if someone puts a banana in the filling again, I will destroy the next port I visit."
“…What port?”
“Doesn’t matter. Banana crimes are international.”
And that made sense.
You were nine years old, halfway through a cookie crisis, and soulbonded to a sugar warlord who used donuts like holy relics and insulted your flour technique on the regular.
You still didn’t know his name.
But you had someone in your head who whispered, “Don’t forget the salt,” and made the world a little less lonely.
Even if he was possibly unhinged. Even if he once said, with complete sincerity, “If anyone touches the last cream puff, I will shatter their kneecaps.”
You paused at that one.
“Okay,” you had said. “That’s the coolest thing you’ve ever said.”
He had not responded. But you were pretty sure he smiled.
Age 10:
You’ve fully committed to the idea that he’s your baking ghost.
Katakuri, for the record, is mortified.
"Okay," you say, whisking with reckless optimism. "If I get the sugar right this time, you owe me a cake prophecy, kitchen phantom."
“…I’m not a ghost.”
"You’re so humble. That’s why you’re my favorite hallucination."
He still refuses to tell you who he is. No details. Just sugar-based critique and the occasional emotional spiral. You’re still a kid, and he says he’s… not.
Instead, he teaches you. How to temper chocolate. How to make a sponge rise. How to tell the difference between cornstarch and powdered sugar, which is a lesson you apparently needed twice.
In return, you tell him about your chickens. About the landlord who won’t fix the chimney. About how you dream of opening a bakery, even though your cookies currently taste like chalky regret and misplaced ambition.
He listens.
And for the first time in his life, Katakuri feels normal.
He has no social skills. None. You learned quickly that anything outside baking or beating people up makes him weirdly stiff and awkward.
Once, you asked if he had any pets.
“No.”
"Do you like pets?"
“…I like silence.”
"So… no cats."
“Cats are fine. Unless they try to eat my mochi.”
"That sounds specific."
“…It was one time.”
You were never sure how much was sarcasm. But somehow, you liked him. Not romantically—you were ten. You had bigger things to worry about, like math, school drama, and how to avoid burning your second sponge cake in a single week.
He was just there. Constantly a little annoyed. Always slightly too intense. Always deeply concerned that you were “whisking like a coward.”
"Okay, Gordon Ramsay, why don’t you fold egg whites with those tiny arms?"
“…You’re annoying.”
"Thank you."
By age ten, you had emotionally accepted that your fated partner was probably a walking war crime. Definitely in desperate need of therapy. And a sugar purist with firm opinions about pastry hierarchy.
He was oddly sweet to his many, many sisters. Terrifying to everyone else. Could be bribed into a good mood with vivid descriptions of donuts.
His thoughts came in waves. Battle rants. Self-loathing spirals. Tactical dessert evaluations.
“Glazed. Good moisture retention. Ideal for combat rations.” “Plain are for cowards. I said what I said.” “Don’t touch my mochi unless you want your wrist relocated.”
Your classmates thought you were weird. Sometimes you flinched at lunch, whispering things like, “It’s just a beignet, calm down.” You once got detention for yelling, “A croquembouche is NOT a tactical dessert,” in the middle of an oral report.
You spent your childhood with this odd, sugar-obsessed presence orbiting the back of your brain like a moon made of mochi.
He wasn’t always there. But when he was, he paid attention.
And sometimes, when the silence stretched too long, he’d say something that wasn’t about food.
“Brûlée got teased. I fixed it. They laughed when I tripped. So I buried it. The shame. The weakness. They don’t know what I look like. No one does. And that’s good.”
You never pushed. You just stayed. Quietly.
Sometimes, when you were making ganache or sugar glass, you’d think questions at him.
“How long do you temper chocolate before it goes grainy? Do you really hate cupcakes, or was that just a weird Tuesday opinion? Are you okay?”
You never expected answers.
But sometimes, he gave them.
You were a fairly typical kid with decent table manners. And he was a moody, sugar-worshipping gremlin with the emotional range of a brick and a lot of donut monologues.
“Empty pastries are a disgrace. Custard is king. Texture should fight back slightly when bitten.”
Sometimes, in between your questions about pie crust and his evaluations of enemy skulls, things slipped out.
“They asked me to eat at the big table. I said no.”
"Power move."
Or,
“Mama says I should stop being soft. That I’m not allowed softness.”
"She sounds exhausting. Want a cinnamon roll?"
He never asked for one. But you always offered anyway.
He’d say things like:
“You don’t sift your powdered sugar?” “That piping job looks like a squashed caterpillar.” “This is criminal negligence toward cake.”
You were ten. You were doing your best, which meant sassing back as a point of pride.
He didn’t talk about himself. You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure if he was an adult or just a very grumpy teenager.
You eventually landed on: “Old man. War veteran. Emotionally constipated. Possibly made of fondant.”
Occasionally, though, he cracked.
“Brûlée likes these. She says mine are fluffier than hers, but she’s lying. I saw her overwhip.”
"Brûlée? Like... caramel?"
“My sister.”
"Oh. Is she okay?"
“She’s mine to protect.”
"...So, yes?"
Eventually, the school got concerned. The outbursts. The weird phrases. The day you burst into tears during a pop quiz and muttered, “This would be easier if I had mochi armor.”
Your aunt sat you down. Gently. Carefully. She gave you The Look.
The one that said, “Oh. That age already.”
She explained.
“It’s a soulmate bond,” she said. “It’s rare. But sometimes it starts young.”
"Is it always so rude? And this obsessed with dessert?"
She winced. “Sometimes.”
Even after the talk, you kept calling him a baking ghost. It was easier. Less terrifying than the truth. You were still half-convinced a sugar demon had moved into your skull, but at least now it had a name. Sort of.
And you understood something else.
He wasn’t okay.
Not really.
He was angry. Always. At the world. At himself. At everything. He spiraled often. Fantasized about violence and had a list of enemies longer than your entire fourth-grade class roster.
He talked about murder like most people spoke about the weather.
At first, you thought you were overreacting. That all soulmates were intense, and this was just the bond, not actual danger.
But by ten, you had finally realized the truth.
Your other half was a mochi-themed god of war with middle child rage and a weapon collection made of pastry metaphors.
You still talked to him like a stress hallucination.
You complained about homework. Your bruised self-esteem. How you kept killing crockpots by “experimenting.”
Katakuri, Sweet Commander of the Big Mom Pirates, now spent his evenings meditating in silence, listening to you sing off-key while attempting banana bread for the fourth time.
You described flavors. He corrected your measurements in real time.
"Do you think God likes cookies?"
He replied with a long sigh and the exact oven temperature for chocolate crinkles.
“No, if there was a God, he wouldn’t let my mother redraft the wedding invitations. For a child.”
“Invites to what?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m handling it.”
You had no idea who he was. You imagined him as a fat old man who haunted your pantry.
He let you.
And, though he never said it, he started waiting for you every evening.
Age 11: “I think I’m getting better,” you whisper one night. And Katakuri, across the sea, clenches his jaw and lies: “You are.”
Things are finally (barely) improving. You’ve started baking edible things. Some of them even taste like food.
You’ve stopped calling him “Donut Ghost” and upgraded to “Donut Dad” whenever he critiques your piping technique. He hates it.
“You’re over-whipping.”
“You’re overexisting.”
He calls you “Disaster Child” under his breath at least twice a week.
Neither of you notices the bond growing deeper.
Not until the caramel.
You had wanted to try spun sugar for the first time. It seemed fun. Easy, even. Until the sugar bubbled too fast. Too hot. And you burned your hand trying to fix it.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t say a word. You just sat down on the kitchen floor, blinking fast as the pain crept up your arm and the tears built in your throat.
But across the sea, mid-spar, Katakuri stiffened.
He felt it. The sting. The heat. The way you tried to stay quiet. His fist hovered mid-air, the fight around him forgotten. And then, for the first time in years, his voice shifted. No sarcasm. No judgment.
Just soft.
“Run it under cold water. Don’t cry, please.”
You flinched like the words had touched your skin.
“I can’t afford you getting hurt. Not with eyes possibly watching.”
A beat passed.
Then your voice came out very small.
“…You’re real.”
Another pause.
Long. Weighty.
“…Yeah.”
The spoon fell from your hand.
“Are you going to kidnap me?”
“Not today.”
Now, at eleven, he was a near-constant in your mind. You’d never gotten his name, never seen his face. But you knew some things.
He was very tall. He took orders, but rarely liked them. He was constantly on guard. He was wildly serious about mochi and weirdly sensitive about donuts. He had siblings. Lots of them. Most of whom he wanted to strangle. And he had a mother who could silence even his most chaotic thoughts just by being present.
Whenever he muttered, “Mama’s in one of her moods again,” something in his voice changed. “If she ever finds out about—”
The thought cuts off. But it lingers, sharp and cold.
The usual dry sarcasm disappeared. His tone went flat, clipped, and cold, like someone throwing a sheet over a broken window. Formal. Controlled. Like everything inside him had gone quiet except the tension pulling tight behind his words.
And you, clueless but well-meaning, would gently respond with something like,
“I dropped a cake today. Whole thing. Splattered like a sad little pancake. Bet yours has never exploded like that.”
It usually worked. He would scoff, or sigh, or offer some withering critique about structure and support, and just like that, the ice would crack.
You didn’t know how far away he was. Not really.
But sometimes, you caught flickers of his world. Odd references. Strange terms. The word Totto Land. The way he spoke of “citizens,” “defense,” and “Mama’s territories” as if they were standard parts of daily life.
Once, out of nowhere, he said,
“I took down a pirate ship today. They were trying to land on our cake sea.”
You stared at the ceiling.
“Your what now?”
“The Sea of Cake. It’s exactly what it sounds like.”
There was a long pause.
“…Are you made of desserts?”
“No.”
(Another pause.)
“…Partially.”
At that point, you were almost convinced your soulmate was a baking cryptid with a superiority complex—a sugar elemental with control issues and a frosting fixation.
And maybe that was why you were so bold.
You didn’t hold back.
You teased him constantly. Mocked his fondant purism. Sent mental images of lopsided croissants and cursed cinnamon rolls.
When he tried to guess your location, you mentally blasted banana pudding recipes and half-remembered song lyrics until he gave up entirely.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re a mystery ghost who cries over donuts. Cry harder.”
“I do not cry over donuts.”
“So that time you mentally monologued for ten minutes about custard texture, were you just... emotionally sweating?”
Silence.
“…I hate you.”
“Aw. You’re warming up to me.”
He wasn’t affectionate. Not really.
But he was constant.
A strange, sharp-edged presence that came to feel almost safe. He lingered in the quiet moments. Offered advice with the emotional availability of a brick. Mocked your technique, then silently praised your crumb structure.
You just knew that, and once in a while, he let something slip. Something soft.
“Brûlée made something for me today. I told her it was good, even though it was a mess. She was proud.”
“I told Daifuku to stay back. He didn't listen. I had to fix it.”
“I keep my scarf on. They don't like what’s under it.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
You just answered his silences with things like, “Bet your scarf has polka dots.”
“It’s striped.”
“…Dramatically.”
That was all you needed.
You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know where he lived or what he looked like. All you knew was that your mysterious soulmate was dramatic, emotionally repressed, and strangely kind in his own scary way. And really, really good at baking.
You were invested.
In his weird recipes. In the way his voice tightened when he was upset. In his quiet grief and unspoken pride. In the fact that, no matter what, he always stayed—even when he didn’t say much at all.
You didn’t need to know the rest. Not yet.
You were eleven. There were cookies to make.
Over time, you started realizing he was funny. Not in a loud way. Not like your cousins or the kids at school. He was funny in a weird, intense, deeply repressed kind of way. The kind that snuck up on you in the middle of stirring batter and made you laugh so hard you forgot the sugar.
He said terrifying things in a calm, annoyed tone. He got flustered if you praised his pastry technique. He once described a jelly donut as if it were a romantic tragedy.
And he hated bananas.
“Banana filling is vile. Bananas are a treacherous fruit. I’ve cut people off over banana muffins.”
You immediately made it your mission to slip banana facts into your thoughts just to watch him mentally recoil.
“Did you know bananas are technically berries?”
“I will end you.”
You figured everyone’s soulmate was like this.
Slightly murderous. Emotionally stunted. Secretly soft when talking about their siblings.
You didn’t question it.
You just… accepted him.
And when he went quiet for a few days—long enough that you noticed—you whispered into the bond,
“Hey. I saved you a cookie. You better not die.”
A few hours later, he finally responded.
“…Wasn’t dead. Was just... injured. You saved it?”
“Yeah. I even sifted the flour.”
“…Good. Would’ve yelled if you didn’t.”
“Love you too.”
“Shut up.”
By then, you knew something was a little strange about him.
About the way he talked. About the place he lived.
“You’re young,” he said once, after you described your latest cake disaster.
“You sound like my dentist.”
“…I could track you if I wanted to.”
“Okay, Darth Donut. Get in line.”
He tried to bait you once by describing his surroundings.
“Have you ever seen whipped cream waves?”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is where I’m from.”
“Is it a dream? Are you in a bakery coma?”
You laughed. And then you got back to baking.
Because you kind of liked having him around.
He was deeply committed to pastry warfare. Emotionally allergic to casual affection. Quiet in his concern and loud in his critique. A storm with sugar in his veins and pride tangled in his voice.
Once, in what you were pretty sure was an unsupervised emotional moment, he referred to donuts as “the most loyal friends I’ve ever had.”
You blinked.
“You need human interaction that isn’t fried and glazed.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
“Okay, dark prince of sadness. Let me know when you want to unpack that.”
He didn’t answer.
But he stayed.
Age 12:
By the time you turned twelve, you had begun compiling a mental list. Not of recipes, or homework, or chores.
No—this list was labeled: "Disturbing Patterns from the Donut Ghost"
Helped improve your cake game. (Suspiciously well.)
Had a terrifying mom.
Once, muttered, “I built a fortress out of mochi and no one thanked me.”
Threatened someone for breathing near a pastry: 34 times.
Spent over an hour mentally arguing with himself about whether or not he deserved happiness 17 times.
Spontaneously whispered, “I can’t let anyone see,” while you were just trying to do math.
You were beginning to piece it together.
This was not a normal situation. You, being a fairly normal twelve-year-old, had a dog, regular dental appointments, and a vague but growing sense that your soulmate needed a weighted blanket, a hug, and roughly a decade of trauma-informed therapy.
Katakuri was silent more often now. Not gone. Just quieter. Watching. Listening. The bond pulsed with tension sometimes, like he was holding something in his fists and didn't know how to let go.
Sometimes, while you were brushing your teeth or folding laundry, you'd feel a flicker of something—rage, guilt, longing—pass through you like static. And then he’d say something like:
“Custard needs patience.”
Or,
“Never decorate angry. It ruins the piping.”
And you’d answer without hesitation, "Are you speaking from emotional experience or pastry trauma?"
“Yes.”
You didn’t know what he looked like. Or how old he was. But you had a feeling he had scars. Not the visible kind. The quiet ones that made people stand like cliffs.
Sometimes you tried to send him everyday thoughts just to balance things out.
“Do you think dogs know they’re cute? If I eat an entire cake alone, but it’s for science, is it still bad? What does joy taste like to you?”
Sometimes he ignored you.
Other times, he sent back strange, perfect things.
“Warm mochi. Mid-winter. When no one’s watching.”
And you’d go still, eyes wide, whispering: "You poetic little freak."
And somewhere far, far away, Katakuri smiled into his scarf and would never admit it.
Age 13:
By thirteen, you carried the strange, heavy knowledge that your soulmate may or may not be a pastry-fueled vigilante.
He has stabbed someone over dessert etiquette. Desperately needs a nap, a hug, and twelve sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy. Might also be your best friend. Or a war crime in progress. It was unclear. And then, one afternoon, while you were reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically for fun, his voice came through. Low. Tired. Quiet.
“They laughed at my mouth today.”
A pause.
“I… fixed it.”
You didn’t ask what fixed meant. You knew better. Instead, you wiped cinnamon off your fingers and sat down on the floor, cross-legged.
"Do you want me to describe the ugliest cake I’ve ever made?"
No answer, but you felt him listening.
"It looked like a melted foot. Like a clown shoe gave up halfway through its life."
A long silence.
Then, finally, “…Yeah. Okay.”
So you did. You told him about the frosting disaster. The lopsided layers. The cursed marzipan toe. He didn’t laugh, but you felt the tension in the bond shift. A quiet exhale. A weight eased just a little. You haven’t met him, but you do have a tentative plan for the day you do.
You’d look him in the eye. You’d hand him a donut.
And then you’d say, "Eat this. Calm down. Then we’re getting you a licensed professional."
And somehow, you knew he’d eat the donut. And argue. And eventually go.
Age 14:
Your life was… mostly normal. School. Debates over who-wore-it-better. Homework you definitely didn’t finish. A part-time bakery job where your boss once described your scones as “aggressively competent” and gave you a fist bump like that was a compliment.
You had a couple friends. A couple dreams. Maybe a tiny bakery of your own someday—cozy, messy, full of mismatched mugs and the smell of sugar and stress.
And through all of it, he was there. The voice. A constant presence. Sharp. Snarky. Weirdly calming. Always ready to critique your pastry crimes. Sometimes silent. Sometimes—if the stars aligned—gently impressed.
“You made that cake look like a weapon. I’m proud of you.”
“Aw. You do care.”
“…You’re still folding wrong.”
“There he is.”
You didn’t want to lose it. Not the weird rhythm you’d built. Not the snarky back-and-forth that somehow made everything feel less lonely. So you kept baking. Kept teasing. Kept showing up.
And when he said things like,“You still haven’t seen my mouth.”
You shot back with, “You’re lucky. If I don’t wax my eyebrows soon, I’m going to get reported to the state.”
And when he muttered, “I’m too far gone for softness.”
You grinned and said, “Cool. I specialize in aggressive affection. Shut up and let me tell you about this eclair I emotionally bonded with.”
It was around then that he slipped. Just a little. Cracked the armor.
“Mama’s angry again.”
You froze.
No jokes. No sass. Just a quiet, “…Do you want to talk about it?”
A beat passed.
“She’s not… like your mother, probably.”
You didn’t push. You let it sit. Let the silence stretch while you made something warm. Simple. Soft. With cinnamon and honey, and the kind of shape that felt safe.
After that, things started leaking out. Not on purpose. But they did. Half-thoughts. Quiet mutters. Emotional shrapnel.
“She made me hide my mouth. Said it scared the others. Said I shouldn’t want things. They think I’m perfect. They don’t look closely.”
You didn’t say much.
Just one thing.
“…You’re actually kind of nice.”
His reaction was immediate and so on brand.
“I’m not. Shut up. No, I’m not.”
“You are. You’re sweet. You’re just… tragically bad at everything that isn’t baking or throwing people into the ocean.”
“I could crush an island.”
“But you can’t take a compliment.”
“I don’t need validation.”
“Great. I’ll give this donut to someone cuter.”
“I—DON’T YOU DARE.”
After that? The awkward doubled.
He tried to be scary. Intimidating. A dark pastry prince of pain. But the second you called his ridiculous mochi throne idea “cute,” he mentally malfunctioned.
“What do you mean ‘it’s cute’?! It’s a battle seat. It’s imposing.”
“It’s pink.”
“It’s ferocious.”
“It has a ribbon on it.”
“I earned that ribbon.”
You teased. He growled. You kept doing it.
He kept you grounded. Kept your hands from burning. Kept you focused when your thoughts spun too fast.
And you? You kept him human.
Even if he still refused to describe his stupid scarf.
You kept talking because it worked. Because under the scary mochi warlord act was a guy who didn’t know how to deal with kindness unless it came glazed and filled with custard.
You still didn’t know his name. Or where he was. Or what he looked like.
But you knew him.
You knew the mess in his head. The way he used sugar like armor. The way he acted like people would run if they ever saw his mouth.
You weren’t planning on running.
But you also weren’t about to hand him your secrets. Not yet. First, he had to learn to take a compliment without threatening cutlery. First, he had to admit he liked hearing from you every day.
Maybe someday you’d meet him. Walk right up. Look him dead in the eye. Hand him a donut.
“Hi. I’m your soulmate. You’re emotionally constipated, and your family sounds like a full-blown nightmare, but your crème brûlée is magic. Wanna bake something together?”
And if he said yes?
You’d already have the flour.
Elsewhere:
Big Mom bursts into his chamber with a crown made of candied teeth and a priest homie with a glittering cookbook Bible.
“YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED OR I’M EATING A COUNTRY.”
Katakuri sighs.
He turns to Brûlée.
“Prep the kitchen. I need to bake a cake.”
Age 16:
By sixteen, you were basically a pro at ignoring red flags mostly because yours had been waving since you were eight; loud, proud, and yelling stuff about pastry ratios and death threats while flinging mochi like party confetti.
You were sixteen. He was… not. You’d figured out forever ago that he wasn’t some angsty teen soulmate. His thoughts were too sharp. Too heavy. Too “I’ve lived through five wars and perfected three chocolate glazes doing it.”
By now, you don’t think of him as your soulmate anymore. He was your “emotionally repressed, pastry-themed disaster man” who lived in your head rent-free and needed to be bullied back into emotional balance like, weekly.
Baking had become muscle memory. You worked part-time at a bakery. You could feel when dough was proofed just by breathing near it. You measured time in batches, seasons in specials, and love in how many burnt loaves your boss let you take home without judgment.
Your hands knew butter weight. Your brain knew the difference between "slightly overmixed" and "go cry in a walk-in freezer." You’d learned three ways to keep caramel from crystallizing and four people who’d throw a chair if you got it wrong.
The voice in your head had changed, too. Your soulmate, once, a terrifying baking demon was a grumpy long-distance coworker you’d never met but fully argued with daily.
Your family sort of knew. You kept it light. “Just some soulmate chatter. He hates bananas and emotionally spirals over sugar.”
You’d freeze mid-swirl while frosting something, eyes narrowing.
“Let me guess,” your auntie would sigh. “He’s screaming about fondant again?”
“It’s not a food. It’s ‘an architectural compromise.’”
You learned a few things about him. Not because he told you (he never did) but because his patterns started showing.
He had siblings. Too many. Some he liked. Some he wanted to hurl into the ocean. One sister—Brûlée—he talked about with actual softness.
“She made something for me. It was terrible. I ate all of it.”
You smiled so hard it physically hurt.
He mentioned Mama like she was a natural disaster. Not described. Just felt. Loud in his silences.
Whenever she came up, his thoughts got weirdly quiet and spotless. Like he was mentally mopping the floor before anyone saw the mess.
At sixteen, you still had no idea where this was headed. You didn’t know who he really was, just the version of him that showed up for you. The one who scolded your sponge technique like a war crime and accidentally gave the best compliments.
“I think you’re a good person.”
“…I’m not.”
“Okay. But I think you are anyway.”
“I—" he stopped. “You don’t need my name.”
You didn’t ask again. But you remembered that pause. He was still emotionally constipated. Still obsessed with mochi. Still alarmingly flustered by basic praise.
“You did well on that last sponge. Fluffy. Even.”
“Did you just… praise me?”
“…I said it was fine. Don’t be gross.”
“You care.”
“I will throw you into hot fondant.”
He never talked about himself directly. But the way he spoke about his siblings, the fury in his voice when they didn’t listen, the shame laced into every “I fixed it”... yeah. You knew.
“I told them not to follow. They followed anyway. I had to clean it up. Again.”
You figured his family was rough. Strict. Complicated. Heavy. Like trying to frost a cake that kept bleeding through. What you didn’t know was that he was important. You just thought he was grumpy, intense, and had a weirdly poetic soul when he forgot to be defensive.
“She smiled at me today. Said she was proud. I didn’t know what to say.”
You told him stuff, too. About your job. School. Stress. The lemon tart you swore should’ve won first place.
“I should’ve flambéed the judges. Cowards.”
“…Now that’s my jellybean.”
You tried to get him to open up. Just a little. Never pushed.
“Do you bake for fun? Or is it, like… your job?”
“I bake to stay sane.”
“So yes?”
“…It’s complicated.”
You liked sharing thoughts. Mostly about baking. Sometimes rage. Mostly desserts.
“Your piping is improving.”
“Thanks, mystery man. Yours is still emotionally repressed.”
“You’re letting too much air into that sponge.”
“You’re letting too much guilt into your soul.”
“If you use imitation vanilla again—”
“You weren’t supposed to feel that. I was in a rush.”
You were connected. Through sugar. Through sarcasm. Through all the things you didn’t say but still understood.
He didn’t know how to be vulnerable. You didn’t know how to let go. So you kept talking. Kept baking. Kept holding space for the conversation that hadn’t happened yet.
Then came this:
“I don’t belong anywhere.”
“Bullshit. You belong in a bakery. Possibly therapy. But definitely a bakery.”
He didn’t answer. But the bond warmed like a preheated oven.
You went back to kneading dough, thinking maybe he was out there: older, famous, probably a mess. And somehow, that didn’t freak you out anymore.
You had a rhythm now. Work. Classes. Laminated dough as meditation. And always him. Constant. Sharp. Steady.
He still wouldn’t tell you his name. You didn’t care. Not really.
Lately, he’d been opening up more. Carefully. Like he was learning how not to flinch.
Which is how you got this:
“Mama wants me to marry.”
You blinked, mid-whisk.
“…Cool. What century are you from?”
“It’s not optional.”
The silence dragged.
“She says it’ll strengthen the family. Cement things. She said it’s time.”
“Time for you to be miserable?”
“Time to stop playing with sugar and start acting like a son.”
You sat on the counter, staring at your bowl.
“What did you say?”
“I told her I’d think about it. Then I punched a mountain. Then I made donuts.”
“Healthy coping. Love that for you.”
“I don’t want her choosing.”
“Do you want to choose?”
“I don’t want anyone.”
A pause.
“…Except—”
“Never mind.”
You didn’t push. But your chest felt weird. That never mind stuck like powdered sugar in a paper cut. He never said things like that. Now he sounded scared.
You sat there, heart skipping, and whispered, “You deserve to want something. Just for you.”
The next day, he told you he was stalling. He’d made conditions. She was watching.
“I said I wouldn’t marry anyone who didn’t meet my standards. She thinks I’m being difficult. I am being difficult.”
“Good. Be a nightmare.”
“It won’t last. She’ll force it soon.”
“I could marry you,” you said before your brain caught up. “Y’know. Just to spite her.”
Silence. The kind that isn’t empty. Just heavy.
“That’s not funny. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“…I was kidding.”
“Don’t joke about things you don’t understand.”
You felt your face burn. “Okay. Sorry.”
“…I didn’t mean to snap. But it’s not a joke to me.”
He didn’t talk to you for three days.
You said you didn’t care. You definitely didn’t make angry donuts.
Then, just when you were ready to scream into your stand mixer:
“I told her I wanted someone who understood sweetness. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I’m quiet. Someone who doesn’t try to fix me. She asked if that person existed. I didn’t answer.”
Your heart stuttered.
But all you said was, “Sounds like a solid fantasy.” And kept stirring.
He didn’t respond. But he stayed.
Quiet. Constant. Listening.
You didn’t know he was powerful enough that he would burn the world before letting anyone take you.
You were sixteen. Still dreaming, still growing, still calling him your imaginary therapist, still whispering dumb little things that hit him like boiling sugar.
“I’d bake with you. Even if you married someone else.”
And somewhere far away, hand clenched over his heart, Katakuri Charlotte closed his eyes and whispered, “I wouldn’t.”
Age 17:
By seventeen, your life was chaotic in the usual way.
There was flour on your jeans. Burnt sugar on your forearms. Late shifts at the family bakery. Trade school brochures stuffed into drawers you never opened. You weren’t saving the world. You were just trying not to overbake the morning buns and ruin your reputation with the regulars.
And then there was him. The baking-obsessed, emotionally stunted, occasionally terrifying presence who had been part of your life since you were nine.
Still no name. Still no face. Still refusing to give you anything useful. No hometown. No clue what he looked like. Just his thoughts, always sharp and waiting.
But after nearly a decade of late-night sugar debates and weird emotional drive-bys, you had stopped questioning it.
You made him laugh sometimes.
To you, he was just your bondmate. Your emotional support demon. The judgmental ghost with an unhealthy relationship to caramelization. To him, you were a problem. Not because you were a mess. But because you weren’t. You were bright. You were blunt. You were relentless. And he didn’t know how to stop needing to hear your voice every day.
He tried to distance himself once. He almost asked Brûlée to open her mirrors—just once. Just to look. Just to confirm. Then immediately stopped himself.
Privacy mattered. Boundaries mattered. He wouldn’t want you doing the same. Even the thought made him grit his teeth and mutter something about restraint and respect like he was giving a lecture to the wall.
Instead, he listened harder.
“You sound grumpy.”
“I am grumpy.”
“Want to hear about how my brother set fire to the proofing drawer again?”
“…Yes.”
He tried to stay quiet.
You didn’t notice at first. You just assumed he was busy. Maybe distracted. Maybe letting you have space.
But when the silence stretched into days, your chest began to ache.
So you whispered into the bond.
“Hey. I made mochi by hand for the first time. It was ugly. You would’ve hated it.”
Nothing.
You waited.
Didn’t push.
Two days passed.
Then—
“…Did you really make mochi?”
“Ugly mochi.”
“…You remembered the dusting starch?”
“You trained me too well, old man.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You’re a cranky voice in my head who only talks about food and violence. You’re basically a ghost grandpa with anger issues.”
There was a pause.
Then, softly, “…I missed you.”
You went still.
He never said things like that.
But all you did was smile and answer,
“Yeah. Me too.”
By now, your baking was starting to shine.
You had mastered meringue. You could temper chocolate without crying. You understood crumb structure as if it were a personality trait.
And every time you tried something new, he was there.
Commenting. Correcting. Occasionally threatening the void.
“If you overbake that tart, I swear on all that is holy—”
“Don’t eyeball the gelatin, you reckless fool.”
“Proper viennoiserie is a language. And you’re whispering in cursive.”
You would sigh and mutter, “You sound like a high-strung pastry professor with a vendetta.”
He was still cagey.
Still didn’t say much about himself. Still avoided anything too revealing.
But you had a brain, even if it was a slightly melted, secondhand one.
You saw the shape of things.
He had a big family. Too many siblings. Some he liked. Some he didn’t. He described them vaguely; too loud, mostly edible in a fight, if you struck first.. He adored Brûlée, though.
He was hiding something. That much was clear. And his mother? She was something else entirely.
He never said anything directly. But when she was angry, he went completely silent. Not cold. Not withdrawn. Silent.
One time, you caught a flicker of a thought.
“I smiled wrong. I shouldn’t have smiled at all.”
It made your stomach twist.
You didn’t know the whole story. But you knew what it felt like to shrink for someone else’s comfort.
“Want to hear about the lemon curd I exploded this morning?” you offered gently.
“…Please.”
He was easy to fluster when you praised him.
You started doing it on purpose.
“That tart crust tip was brilliant.”
“…It was average technique.”
“You’re very smart, you know.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I’d let you critique my muffins any day.”
“Stop. I am a warrior. I kill people.”
“You also use edible glitter and cried once when your soufflé deflated.”
“…That was a strategic emotion.”
You were seventeen. Still dreaming. Still messy. Still sure he was just your voice in the dark. An echo. A tether.
You still didn’t know his name. You didn’t know he was Charlotte Katakuri. You didn’t know he would go to war to keep you safe.
But you knew him.
That was the worst part.
You knew how he hated fondant. You knew how he loved quiet praise. You knew the way his thoughts curled inward when he felt small.
“They expect me to be perfect. I am not.”
“Nobody is.”
“I am not allowed to fail.”
“Then they’re wrong.”
You called him your imaginary therapist.
Joked about what your soulmate would be like if you ever met him.
“Strong, maybe. Big. Quiet. Smart, but not arrogant.”
“So not me.”
“Shut up, Sugar Goblin.”
“…Okay.”
You thought you were improving, crushing your bakery goals, and nailing your cinnamon rolls. And somehow, your flour bin stayed full and your knives stayed sharp, even when you forgot to care for them.
“You’re doing better,” the voice said one night.
“Thanks, Donut Daddy. You too.”
His heart stumbled.
That night, Katakuri stared at his reflection and realized he was in trouble.
You trusted the voice now.
You still called him nicknames. You still joked that he was imaginary. But he was yours.
Your constant. Your tether. Your baking ghost.
“What’s the best flour for cinnamon rolls?”
“Not what you’re using.”
“I hate you.”
“Use bread flour.”
“…Thanks.”
He knew too much.
He knew how your hands trembled when you focused, how you hummed when you were afraid, how your voice lit up when something came out right.
And you? You still thought he was just your weird, cranky mental roommate with a sugar obsession and a secret heart.
“What would you do if you had a bakery?”
“Name it something dumb. Like Half-Baked Hearts. Sell ugly pastries that taste good.”
“…Why ugly?”
“So people know they don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”
That was the moment he realized he would never survive this.
Not without saying something.
He began telling you things.
Small things.
Lies, sometimes. Half-truths.
He told you he was tall. That he had a lot of siblings, that he couldn’t say his real name, but once, as a kid, he loved jelly donuts more than anything.
You teased him endlessly.
“Were you a chunky baby?”
“…What?”
“I bet you were. Big cheeks. Sticky hands. Terrifying presence.”
“…You think I had a terrifying presence as a baby?”
“I know it.”
And for the first time, he laughed.
Not a huff. Not a sigh.
A real laugh.
And somewhere inside that sound, something unspoken began to bloom.
You had more than accepted it.
The voice was never going away.
Somewhere in the world, there was a man. A stranger. A furious, honorable, sugar-obsessed force of nature with more self-loathing than common sense and an oddly formal attitude toward dough temperature.
You couldn’t change the bond. You couldn’t even mute it. But you could adapt.
You learned to distinguish between the mental chaos. The difference between rage-battle-thoughts and the soft, quiet ones that settled like steam on cold glass. You knew when he was training, or angry, or aching. You could feel guilt in him like a bruise—dull, dark, and always just beneath the surface.
Sometimes, you heard things like:
“I’ll stand between them and everything ugly. Even if they hate me for it.”“No one needs to understand. I’ll carry it alone.”“If you knew what I really looked like, you’d never look at me again.”
Those thoughts stayed with you.
They weren’t scary. They were lonely.
And it changed something.
You started wondering what would happen if you reached back. If you met him. If you offered something other than teasing and tart ratios.
If you said, “You don’t have to carry it alone. You don’t scare me. Maybe you deserve a donut that doesn’t come with guilt.”
You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you weren’t indifferent either.
Not after nearly a decade of hearing him fight—not just others, but himself. Not after growing up beside a soul so violently burdened that it made your own heart ache to feel him echoing through your bones.
You still thought he needed therapy. Possibly supervised. Possibly with tranquilizers.
But you also thought, someday, he might need someone who stayed.
Someone who didn’t flinch. Someone who didn’t leave when the silence got heavy or the thoughts got sharp.
And somewhere in your chest, you started thinking of him as yours.
Not in the storybook way. Not in a candlelit, strings-of-fate, grand-destiny sense.
But in the way you think of your favorite mug—the one with the chip that still fits perfectly in your hand.
In the way you think of your lucky spatula. Or the friend who always says the wrong thing but shows up anyway.
Your Donut Ghost. Your imaginary warlord. Your lonely, overworked, still-learning-how-to-be-soft soulmate who probably didn’t know that you’d already decided.
If he ever asked, you would stay.
You would fold the dough. You would temper the chocolate. You would take his grief and his guilt and feed him donuts anyway.
And when the world turned sharp again, when the silence stretched too far and the weight settled on his shoulders, you’d nudge the bond and whisper,
“Want to bake something together?”
And for him to say yes.
But you, dear sugar-dusted disaster, may have meant well. You were trying. You were getting softer toward him—your Soulmate, your Donut Ghost. Maybe even a little attached.
What you didn’t know was that this wasn’t exactly your average soulmate setup. Because he wasn’t just your soulmate. Not really. Not only.
There was something else. A detail. A footnote you hadn’t found yet.
Let’s rewind.
-X- Soulglitch -X-
Rewind to Whole Cake Island, Nine Years ago:
The banquet hall glittered with sugar and spectacle.
Chandeliers swayed gently above long tables dressed in spun-caramel lace. Homies danced across the cutlery like wind-up toys. The opera in the rafters swelled in perfect pitch, a harmony of strings and syrup-sweet voices. A three-tiered eel cake sobbed quietly into its frosting as a guest carved off a sliver near its left eye.
It was a scene of practiced chaos, the kind of event that could only happen in Totto Land. Grand, overwhelming, and full of life.
At the center of it all sat Charlotte Linlin.
Unbeknownst to most, Big Mom’s Soru Soru no Mi Devil Fruit granted her many terrifying abilities. But there was one specific, deeply inconvenient sixth sense that surpassed them all in its power to disrupt.
Charlotte Linlin could feel souls.
Not in the way others could. Not like a faint impression or the prickling of skin. For her, soul resonance was a physical event. It was a pressure behind her eyes. A vibration in her teeth. It curled down her spine and pooled in her joints, filling her chest with a low, humming pulse that only she could hear.
And when two souls collided? When two threads snapped together across the vast, stitched tapestry of the world?
It rang inside her like a bell.
It began quietly. A flicker. A tremor. Like a shift in the atmosphere before a sugar storm.
She was seated in the banquet hall that day. Celebration music filled the rafters. Homies danced through the air. There was roast on her plate, some guest or dignitary she didn’t bother to name. Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth.
And then it hit her.
Her pupils constricted. Her hand froze.
The air turned thick.
A note had been struck.
Somewhere across the world, two souls had found each other. Imperfect, early, still forming—but real. And not just any pair. One of them was hers.
Linlin’s breath caught.
The vibration behind her teeth intensified until her jaw ached. Her molars buzzed like a thousand bees trapped behind her gums. Her vision blurred. The fork dropped to the table with a dull clatter.
The room kept moving.
Homies twirled past. Guests drank and laughed. Somewhere, the eel cake whimpered under a pool of whipped cream.
But Linlin sat perfectly still, eyes wide.
The hum behind her ribs shifted pitch. Became something sharp and crystalline. It clicked into place inside her like a puzzle piece snapping into a sacred lock.
The bond was real.
And then, for one glorious moment, she felt everything.
The thread. The tether. The gentle, naïve spark of something ancient catching flame for the very first time.
Her mouth twitched.
She began to grin.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh… oh, ohhhh. That’s a bond.”
The teacup homie squeaked and bailed off the table. The chandeliers leaned away. Perospero froze mid-lick, frosting-coated tongue trembling.
“Mama?” Mont-d’Or asked, already pulling out the emergency protocol scroll.
Linlin dropped her fork. Her hands started to twitch. Her mouth slowly stretched into a grin so wide it looked painted on.
And then, she laughed.
Not her usual raucous cackle. No. This one was high-pitched. Joyful. Unhinged. It ricocheted off the walls like a sugar rocket. The marble cracked. The wallpaper peeled. Homies screamed and hit the floor.
“Mama’s going mad again!” someone shouted.
Linlin spun in a full circle, arms wide, as her voice echoed through the room.
“It’s real,” she cried. “It’s happening. A soul bond! A pure one! Beautiful! Eternal! I can feel it in my jaw!”
She came to a sudden stop, skirts flaring, eyes wide and glowing like twin peppermint suns.
Homies across the hall shivered. One of the chandeliers groaned and tried to dislodge itself from the ceiling.
Perospero visibly paled. “Oh no. No, no, no—”
Daifuku dropped his goblet. “Not again.”
Smoothie froze mid-sip, knuckles white around her glass.
“What do you mean again?” Compote asked slowly, already backing away from the table.
“Mama,” Mont-d’Or said carefully, adjusting his spectacles, “please clarify. Who exactly formed the soul bond?”
Linlin shrieked with joy. “MY PRECIOUS BOY!”
Zeus circled overhead like a manic balloon.
Napoleon unsheathed himself in celebration.
Several younger siblings screamed and bolted from the room.
“Mama, please,” Mont-d’Or said, his voice thin. “Let’s—let’s wait before we bring out the cake again. We still haven’t recovered from the last bond incident.”
"PREPARE THE CAKE!" Linlin roared.
The ground shook.
"I want singing cupcakes! A mochi sculpture! A whipped cream altar!" She flung her arms wide, eyes wild. Then she grabbed a chair homie, and spun it across the floor like a dance partner. "My Katakuri is getting married!"
At the far end of the banquet hall, Katakuri blinked.
Once. Slowly.
"...?"
His Observation Haki surged before he could stop it.
There it was. A soul bond. Weak, distant, but real. A thread, newly formed. It clung to his awareness like a drop of syrup on a blade. Still stretching and still growing.
His hand froze on the teacup. The porcelain cracked in his grip.
Linlin burst through the banquet doors on Zeus, her dress bunched, frosting on her chin, hurling confetti made of shredded invitation cards. She spun a chair homie over her head like a bridal bouquet and started waltzing again.
"Bring the cake! Fetch the ring! Get Zeus a flower crown! My Katakuri is getting married!"
Katakuri stood so fast his scarf nearly slipped. He turned sharply to Daifuku.
"What just happened?"
Daifuku raised both hands. "Don't look at me. I was halfway through a shrimp skewer."
"I need a name," Katakuri said, voice flat. "Now."
Smoothie passed by, unbothered, sipping a tall glass of wine.
"If you don't want this to turn into a musical, I suggest you fake amnesia."
Daifuku leaned in, whispering, "Please let it be that girl who punched Amande. The one who called you Biscuit Lips. I don't want to die, but I’d make peace with it if she were in charge."
Linlin was now spinning with Napoleon in her arms like a giddy bride.
"She must be perfect," she sighed. "I can feel her already. So sweet. So soft. So innocent. A little lamb for my Katakuri."
Katakuri yanked his scarf higher, covering half his face.
His Haki pulsed again. The tether responded.
She was young.
Too young.
Still growing into herself, not ready, not even close. A wisp of a presence on the other end of the bond, bright and warm and unguarded.
He could see her in flickers now—brief, broken impressions like reflections in water. Somewhere far off, flour on her cheek, trying to bake something with far too much salt, probably mistaking sugar for happy salt and setting her apron on fire. She had no idea. No sense of what she’d done. No idea who she’d connected to. No idea that Charlotte Linlin was already spinning in circles, wedding plans forming like sugar clouds in her mind.
Katakuri pressed his palm to his face.
“She’s eight,” he muttered. “She doesn’t even know how to cook.”
“She’ll learn,” Linlin replied behind him, delighted. “I always knew you'd find a delicate little thing with no clue what she's doing.”
“I don’t even know what continent she’s on.”
Linlin smiled, slow and gleaming. It wasn’t a sweet smile. It was one made of hunger and possession, of future plans stitched in icing and red ink.
“Then find her,” she said. “Before I do.”
Katakuri didn’t move.
He had faced war. He had faced death. Now he was facing something far worse. An eight-year-old with a whisk. And his mother, in full bridal planning mode.
Weeks passed.
And Katakuri was still rattled.
He didn’t show it, not in front of his siblings, not to the homies, not during meetings with territory captains or sparring matches in the courtyard. But when the moon was high and the compound was quiet, he would climb to the tallest hill of mochi on the estate and sit cross-legged beneath the stars, fists clenched, breathing slow and deep while she hummed in the back of his mind.
Off-key. Cheerful. Burning another tray of cinnamon scones.
At first, he thought the bond would fade. Maybe she’d get bored. Maybe she’d get scared. Maybe she’d stop. But she didn’t. Not once.
She told him everything.
Her dreams. Her fears. Her vendetta against soufflés. Her ongoing war with an electric hand mixer. She talked about school, about her neighbor’s dog, about how brown sugar was a scam. She told him about her life like he wasn’t a Sweet Commander of a criminal empire. Like he was just… someone. Someone who might like sweets.
He didn’t hate it. Not even a little.
Which is why, at twenty-three years old, Katakuri did something no one else in the Charlotte Family had ever dared.
He confronted his mother.
“Mama,” he said, voice steady.
She didn’t turn.
Charlotte Linlin was seated at a wide table of spun sugar and lacquered bone, a long scroll of parchment unrolled in front of her. She was humming cheerfully, brush in hand, painting heart-shaped guillotines into the corners of ornate invitation scrolls. The ink shimmered like blood. The brush glided over the surface in near-musical rhythm.
“Mmm?” she cooed. “Do you want chocolate doves or raspberry firecrackers, my sweet boy?”
“I want you to stop this wedding,” Katakuri said.
The brush stopped mid-stroke.
Linlin did not turn, but her head tilted slightly.
“The girl,” he said. “She’s a child.”
A long pause.
Then, slowly, Linlin turned to face him.
“…So?” Her voice was light, but her gaze was sharp.
“So we’re not doing this,” he said. “Not yet.”
“It’s a soulbond,” she snapped. “You’re fated. She belongs to you. Why wait? I didn’t wait when I was your age—”
“Exactly,” Katakuri said quietly. “Look how that turned out.”
The room held its breath.
Zeus dropped from the ceiling like a stunned balloon. Napoleon unsheathed himself halfway. A framed portrait of Linlin in a wedding veil slid off the wall behind her and hit the ground with a soft, accusing thud.
Linlin’s eyes narrowed.
Then she smiled.
It wasn’t kind.
“You little brat,” she purred. “You think you get a say?”
“Yes,” Katakuri replied. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. “Because if you try to force this now, you won’t get a bride. You’ll get a child too scared to say no. And a son too angry to say yes.”
That hit.
The grin slipped.
A long silence followed, full of old pressure and ancient pride. Something curled behind Linlin’s eyes—rage, yes, but something else beneath it. Something more dangerous. More familiar.
Recognition.
Because Katakuri didn’t bluff.
“You’d sabotage your own wedding?” she asked, low and calm.
“No,” he said. “I’ll vanish. And so will she. You’ll never find either of us.”
The silence turned to static.
And then the fury came.
It burned behind her pupils, hot and blinding. But under the rage, buried beneath the insult and the audacity, was pride.
A strange, twisted pride that only a mother like Linlin could feel. The kind born not from affection, but from domination. She had built him. Shaped him. She saw her own reflection in his defiance.
She snapped her fingers.
Around the room, wedding homies groaned and collapsed into puddles of unused batter and weeping fondant. A frosting cannon wheezed sadly and deflated in the corner.
“Fine,” she said, lip curling. “She gets until she’s legal. Eighteen. Not a day more.”
Her smile returned. Wide. Radiant. Feverish.
“And when that day comes,” she whispered, “I’m throwing the biggest wedding the New World has ever seen. Screaming fireworks. Singing cakes. A cathedral of sugar glass. The works.”
Katakuri inclined his head. Stiff. Cold.
“Deal.”
He turned and walked out of the room without another word.
The weight didn’t lift from his shoulders.
It only shifted.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
It wasn’t victory that settled in his chest.
It was a countdown.
That Evening, Your Side of the Bond:
"Hey, Sugar Goblin," you say aloud, grinning as you stir the bowl with the reckless confidence of someone who measured nothing. "Guess what? I didn’t set anything on fire today. That’s progress, right?"
There is a pause.
Then his voice filters in, soft and scratchy. A little hoarse. Like he’s been yelling at someone or possibly fighting an army.
"That’s good."
You blink. That doesn’t sound like sarcasm. That sounds like someone holding their ribs.
"Are you okay? You sound like you fought a whole war."
"...I might have."
"Wow. Okay. Well, if you die, I’ll dedicate my first successful cake to your memory."
Another pause. This one stretches a little longer. You can hear a faint exhale, like someone just slumped against a wall.
"...Thanks."
You tap your spoon against the side of the bowl. "Should I write your name on it in icing?"
"I never told you my name."
"Should I guess?"
"Please don’t."
"Too late. I’m already picturing it in lemon glaze."
He makes a sound. You think it might be a sigh. Or a laugh. Or possibly the quiet despair of a man slowly realizing he’s soulbonded to a kitchen hurricane with no fear of fire hazards or frosting.
You smile. Stirring your bowl with reckless optimism, humming off-key.
Completely unaware that, half a world away, an empire built on sugar, screams, and deeply questionable fashion choices was beginning to take notice. And inching closer. And closer. With frosting cannons, edible warships, and the worst matchmaking instincts the New World has ever seen.
He could’ve found you if he really wanted to. Just one mirror. One name. One question to Brûlée. But finding you would mean someone else might find you too. And if she found you first…
Katakuri didn’t finish that thought. He just gritted his teeth, tightened his scarf, and told himself to breathe.
You kept baking. They kept planning. And somewhere in the middle, Katakuri quietly panicked into his scarf.
Sorry, just done editing this, so this is what you get.
It is been a long time while you and Zoro have been sexually active because of close adventures back to back so Zoro takes initiative.
WC: 2,8K. Warning! Mature Scenes, Minors don't interact!
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Title: "The Edge of Rest"
Genre: Romance | Length: Novella (approx. 3,800 words) | Perspective: Second Person (You x Roronoa Zoro)
You feel it before you see him.
A presence, quiet and steady as the sea at dawn, settling just behind the curtain of your awareness like a shadow that’s learned patience. The air shifts—just slightly—as if the wind had bowed in deference, or perhaps in warning. Then, a hand on your shoulder.
Not forceful. Not demanding. Just there.
You turn, heart already skipping ahead of your thoughts—the way it always does when he appears. He stands in the doorway of your room aboard the Sunny, silhouetted by the dying light of the setting sun. His katana are slung across his back, as always, and his green hair is tousled by the evening breeze. But his eyes—sharp, focused, unyielding—are locked on you.
"Hey," you say, voice softer than you intended.
"Hey," he replies, stepping inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
You swallow. You haven't been alone with him like this in… you can’t even remember how long. Not just alone, but intentionally. Not on deck sparring at dawn, not sharing a quiet drink below deck after a hard fight, not pressed side-by-side in the chaos of a raid or chase. No, not like this—no distractions, no battles on the horizon, no crew to interrupt, no island to storm.
Just you. Just him.
And you feel it—the space between you humming, alive.
It’s been months. Not because you weren’t together. Not because there wasn’t love. But because there was everything else. One adventure chasing the tail of another, breathless and relentless. Islands swallowed whole by storms, enemies leaping from the shadows, Nami’s navigational crises, Luffy’s hunger-fueled rampages, Usopp’s last-minute inventions blowing up in our faces.
In the chaos, sex had become a memory. Not forgotten, but deferred—like a promise whispered in the dark and then lost beneath the thunder of survival.
And now?
Now the silence is louder than any battle cry.
Zoro steps forward, and you don’t move. Your back presses lightly against the wall beside your bed, the wood cool through your thin shirt. He stops an arm’s length away, his gaze flicking over your face—your lips, your throat, the pulse at your neck, visible even in the dimming light.
"You’ve been tired," he says, voice low.
"So have you," you reply.
He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. "Yeah. But you more."
You tilt your head. "How do you know?"
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I notice things."
And you believe him. Zoro, who pretends to sleep through meetings, who gets lost on a ship he’s lived on for years, who can’t tell left from right half the time—Zoro, who sees you, always, even when you’re trying to hide.
You feel it then—heat, low and slow, pooling in your stomach. Not sudden. Not explosive. But inevitable.
He takes another step. Closes the space.
His fingers brush your jaw.
You close your eyes.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs.
It’s not a question.
It’s a declaration.
And just like that—after months of denial, of gritted teeth and swallowed desire, of adrenaline replacing intimacy—you break.
You don’t remember who moves first.
One moment you’re standing, and the next, your back is against the mattress, Zoro above you, one arm braced beside your head, the other already working the buttons of your shirt. His movements are deliberate, unhurried—methodical, even. As if he’s been planning this for weeks.
Maybe he has.
His fingertips graze your collarbone as the fabric falls open. You shiver.
"Too cold?" he asks, voice rough.
"No," you whisper. "You."
He smirks—a rare, private thing, just for you—and leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "Good."
Then his mouth is on your neck—hot, open-mouthed, sucking gently at first, then harder, leaving behind the ghost of a mark. You gasp, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.
"Zoro—"
"Shh." He moves lower, hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up. "Let me."
You lift your arms, and he pulls it over your head, tossing it aside. Cool air hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his hands as they return—palms broad and calloused from years of sword work, tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist.
You arch into his touch, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat—a growl, almost.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, lips brushing your sternum. "Always have been."
You laugh breathlessly. "And you’re always late."
He pauses, looks up at you. "Still teasing me?"
"Only because you love it."
He kisses you then—hard, deep, claiming. His tongue slides against yours, slow but insistent, and you moan into his mouth, hands finding their way into his hair, gripping tightly. He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and something uniquely him—something wild and untamed, like the sea after a storm.
When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breath uneven.
"Still haven’t forgiven me for getting lost last week, have you?" he asks, eyes dark.
"You made us miss the festival," you pout. "And Sanji made grilled octopus."
Zoro rolls his eyes. "I got us there eventually."
"You got us there after the food was gone."
He leans down, nips at your lower lip. "I’m making it up to you now."
And then his mouth is on your chest, tonguing one nipple into peak, while his hand closes gently over the other. You cry out, back bowing off the bed.
"Zoro—ah—wait—"
"Why?" He glances up, eyes burning. "You want me to stop?"
You swallow. "No. God, no. But—slow down."
He stills. Looks at you. Then, slowly, he shifts, rolling to his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. "Okay," he says. "Slow."
You exhale, heart pounding. "You always go full force. Even when it’s not a fight."
He smirks. "I fight everything full force."
"Yeah, well." You reach out, trace the scar across his chest—the deep one from Mihawk, the one that nearly killed him. "Even when it’s love?"
His breath catches—just slightly. Then he covers your hand with his. "Especially when it’s love."
And that’s when you realize—this isn’t just about sex.
It’s about reconnection.
It’s about reclaiming what the sea stole from you.
Zoro rolls you onto your side so you’re facing him, and he kisses you again—softer this time, slower. His hand slides down your back, over the curve of your hip, pulling you closer until your bodies are aligned, thigh to thigh, chest to chest.
You feel him—hard against your stomach—and you gasp.
He breaks the kiss. "Still want slow?"
You shake your head. "No. Now I want fast."
He laughs—low, warm, full of mischief—and in one move, flips you onto your back again, caging you beneath him.
"Better?"
"Better."
His hands go to your pants, unfastening them with practiced ease. He slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and you kick them off, shivering as the cool air touches your bare skin.
Then he’s looking at you—really looking—and the weight of his gaze makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. But not unsafe. Never unsafe.
"You’re beautiful," he says, voice rough. "Always have been."
You reach for him. "Take your clothes off."
He shakes his head. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to taste you first."
And then his mouth is on your inner thigh—soft, teasing kisses that inch higher, higher—until you’re trembling, breathless, begging.
"Zoro—please—"
"Please what?"
"Please—now—"
He finally gives in.
His tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate—once, twice—then he digs in, sucking gently at your clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. You cry out, back arching, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He doesn’t stop.
He can’t stop.
Zoro is relentless when he sets his mind to something, and right now, he’s set on making you come apart.
And you do.
It hits you like a wave—building, building—until you’re clenching around nothing, gasping his name, toes curling as pleasure rips through you in hot, pulsing waves.
He holds you through it, his hands on your hips, his mouth still working you gently, drawing out every last tremor.
When you finally come down, you’re weak, boneless, eyes half-lidded.
He crawls up beside you, kissing your temple, your cheek, your lips.
"You okay?" he asks.
You nod, still catching your breath. "More than okay. But—your turn."
He shakes his head. "No. I’m good."
You frown. "What? No. Not happening."
"You just came," he says, shrugging. "And I like seeing you like that."
"And I like you," you snap, pushing him onto his back. "So take your damn clothes off."
He raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you give orders?"
"Since you started being stupid."
He laughs—really laughs—and then, finally, lets you peel off his shirt. His chest is a map of battle scars, old and new, each one a story you’ve lived beside him. You kiss the deepest one, the one above his heart, and he stills.
"Careful," he says. "Or I might just lose control."
"Good," you whisper. "I want you to."
You unbutton his pants, tug them down, and his cock springs free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groans, head falling back against the pillow.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You always—ah—do that just right."
You smirk. "I remember what you like."
"You remember everything."
You lean down, take him into your mouth.
He curses, hips jerking, hands flying to your hair—not pushing, not pulling, just there, fingers flexing with each motion of your lips.
You suck him deep, swirl your tongue around the head, then pull back, teasing the vein beneath with your teeth.
"Stop," he growls.
You look up. "Why?"
"Because if you keep that up, I’m not going to last."
"Since when has that ever stopped you?"
He sits up, pulls you off him with gentle hands. "It’s not about lasting," he says, voice rough. "It’s about you."
He reaches over, grabs the small bottle of oil from the drawer beside your bed—always stocked, because you’re never that unprepared—and pours a generous amount into his palm.
Then he’s behind you, one arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
"Ride me," he murmurs into your ear.
You take the oil from him, slick your hand, then reach back, guiding him to your entrance.
And then—slow, so slow—you sink down.
You both moan.
He’s so deep, filling you completely, stretching you in the best way, and you pause, adjusting, breathing through the fullness.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.
"More than okay," you whisper.
Then you start to move.
Up and down, slow at first, letting your body relearn the rhythm you’ve missed for so long. He grips your hips, helping you, guiding you, his breath hot against your neck.
You lean back into him, tilting your head so your lips brush his jaw. "Missed this," you murmur.
"Missed you," he replies.
And then he’s moving too—thrusting up into you as you lower yourself, meeting you stroke for stroke, building the tempo.
Your pace quickens.
The bed creaks.
Your moans grow louder.
"Zoro—yes—like that—"
He nips at your shoulder. "You take me so well."
You arch, twisting to kiss him over your shoulder. "Only for you."
He growls—actually growls—and suddenly flips you onto your back, plunging into you with renewed force.
"Mine," he mutters, each thrust punctuating the word. "Always mine."
You cling to him, nails scraping his back, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.
It doesn’t take long.
The second orgasm hits you like lightning—sharp, blinding, consuming—and you scream his name as you come, clenching around him so tightly he groans, his rhythm faltering.
That’s all it takes.
He follows you over the edge with a guttural cry, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you, pulses of heat flooding your core.
For a long moment, he stays inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
Then, carefully, he pulls out and collapses beside you, one arm flung over his eyes.
You turn your head to look at him.
His chest rises and falls heavily. Sweat glistens on his skin. His three earrings catch the last of the golden light from the window.
"You okay?" you ask, mimicking his earlier question.
He lowers his arm, looks at you. "More than okay."
You smile. "Told you."
He reaches for you, pulls you into his arms. You curl against his chest, head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his. His heartbeat is strong, steady—like the drum of a war march.
"Think we woke the crew up?" you ask after a while.
"Possibly," he says. "But they’ll deal."
You laugh softly. "Sanji’s gonna be mad he missed the octopus."
"He’ll live."
You nuzzle into his neck. "We should do this more often."
"We will."
"How do you know?"
"Because I’m not letting this happen again," he says, voice firm. "No more months without you. No more silence. If I have to tie you to the mast, I will."
You raise an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"
His hand slides down your back, rests on your hip. "Depends. Do you want it to be?"
You bite your lower lip. "Maybe."
He smirks. "Good."
You fall silent, listening to the creak of the ship, the lap of the waves, the distant sound of Usopp’s snoring from the men’s quarters.
"Zoro?" you whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For taking the initiative."
He hums, low in his throat. "I’ve been waiting. Watching. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard."
"I’m fine."
"No, you’re not. But you are now."
You smile against his skin. "Yeah. I am."
He kisses the top of your head. "Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch."
"You don’t have to—"
"I know. But I want to."
And you believe him.
Because Zoro may get lost on his own ship, may sleep through meetings, may forget where the kitchen is half the time—but when it comes to you, he always finds his way.
Always.
Later, when the moon is high and the ship sails steady through the calm night sea, you wake to find him gone from the bed.
But only for a moment.
He’s standing at the window, shirtless, silhouetted in silver light, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of Wado. His gaze is fixed on the horizon—ever watchful, ever guarding.
You slide out of bed, wrap a blanket around yourself, and walk over to him.
"Can’t sleep?" you ask.
"I’m good," he says. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
He turns, looks at you. Then, slowly, he pulls you against him, tucking you under his chin, one arm circling your waist.
"About how lucky I am," he says.
You tilt your head up. "Lucky?"
"Yeah. Most guys would’ve lost you by now. Too much fighting. Too much danger. Too much me."
"You could never lose me," you say. "Not unless I let you."
He kisses you—soft, tender, deeper than words.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
"Then I’ll never ask," he says.
And in that moment, you know—no matter where the Grand Line takes you, no matter how many battles await, how many storms rage, how many enemies stand in your way—you’ll always find your way back to this.
To him.
To the man who fights like a demon, loves like a storm, and still remembers—after everything—to come back to you in the silence, with quiet hands and a heart too fierce to break.
And as the sea carries you forward, you hold on tight.
