part-time animator, full-time doomed

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Rollo Flamme

"It's not that bad," you told him,

"It's only temporary!" you pleaded,

"It could've been a lot worse!" you groveled.

Rollo only grabs you by the wrist and drags you into his room, locking and barring the door behind him.

"The others hear not a word of this," he says, sitting at his desk and pulling a potionology book from the top shelf.

For hours (and what feels like an eternity), he skims through antidotes and antivenoms, searching every crevice of the yellowed pages for something potent enough to reverse the effects of the potion.

For hours (and what feels like an eternity), you nap.

It's near dark when you wake, and he's in the same place, muttering profanities and flipping through pages.

You would turn over and go back to sleep, but the rhythmic movements of his quill feather scribbling notes on a piece of scrap paper is... strangely hypnotic.

You find yourself crawling out of bed to attack (discreetly, like a true hunter), batting at the feather from under the desk.

"What the- Prefect!" Rollo scolds, moving his paper and quill to the other side of the desktop.

Two seconds later... fwifwifwip.

"Prefect, control yourself!"

He moves again, keeping a wary eye on his quill...

...And then, while his back is turned, you slap his inkwell off the table.

"PREFECT!!!"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Fellow Honest

[Fellow voice] "Guess we're doing cat ears now".

Like I could not emphasize enough how much it wouldn't matter to him at all. He would see the ears and tail and go, "Huh. Was that there before?" and then have a full couch nap with you curled up in his lap before remembering that you aren't a beastman.

...Guess he forgot?

I mean, you're so much a part of his life now that you may as well be. And Gidel looks up to you like a big sibling, so cat features fit the bill.

Anyway his second comment is that you should commit as much crime as possible before changing back, because then the police would be looking for a beastman and never track you down.

(You politely decline).

And then he uses you to guilt Rollo into buying everyone a fish dinner.

Best part, though? The cuddles.

Obviously.

Tiny cat beastman under one arm, big cat beastman under the other, both you and Gidel using him for his body heat... the combined purring is powerful enough to shake the house.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Skully J. Graves

I don't think Skully could ever dislike anything about you.

It's you we're talking about, after all- whatever you are, were, or will be, he loves, because he loves you.

Cat today? Well, why not!

Every day you get weirder is a blessing to Skully J. Graves.

And cats are an iconic symbol of the Halloween season, don't you know? The perfect combination of spooky, cute, and chilling. An omen of bad luck... which, to him, is good luck!

Cross his path as many times as you'd please, dear omen of death!

You can't kill what's already dead, after all!

Could also imagine him using those scraps of cloth at the ends of his coat to play with you... not that you could ever catch him, he IS a ghost, after all, but it is ever so fun...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Swing

You know how some people pet dogs/cats by putting their whole fucking hand on the thing's head and pulling it back? Yeah that's Swing.

He does it with Grim too.

Not that he can't be gentle, he just actively chooses not to (ragebaiting is one of his favorite pastimes!)

At least on you (and not poor Grim), the pressure feels nice.

...Kind of like if the relief from a massage hit all at once.

Yeah, these are those good kinds of pets, the kind that make you push your head up and arch your back into each stroke for more.

He's strangely calm for those few hours of quiet petting, as if fascinated by you- testing your reactions to every poke and prod at your new body.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Heartslabyul

Ace and Deuce didn't like the thought of you sharing a dorm with that guy, not one bit!

It took a lot of talking (and cherry pie bribery) to get them to come around, and when a few months had passed with no incident to tell, they mellowed out

...Then, suddenly, you're inviting Rollo on all of your outings, and your trio (not including Grim) became a quartet

Tolerable until Ace and Deuce realized Rollo had not one bit of interest in them, and would only make pleasantries out of politeness, likely for their beloved Prefect's sake (he never leaves your side)

What's worse is that Rollo is doing all the gentlemanly stuff that they never bothered to- holding doors for you, pulling out your chair, offering to carry your things... why didn't they think of that!! He makes them both look like Grade A jerks without even glancing their way

Noble Bell College is all about manners and formalities, after all

They try to bounce back by doubling their gentlemanly behavior, but somehow always end up fighting about which one of the two gets to link arms with you while crossing the street, or give you his coat when it's cold

...Then Rollo goes ahead and does it anyway while they're busy bickering with one another

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Savanaclaw

Leona didn't have any interest in Rollo to begin with

Listen, he wasn't at the masquerade ball. He never broke his back weeding fire lotuses, never singed off his eyebrows while battling in the bell tower (sorry, Azul), and in Leona's world, this meant they had no personal beef, thus he had no reason to care about the strange new transfer student

He wasn't even bugged that Rollo was being a perfect gentleman for you- in fact, he thought it was a good thing. Someone has to look out for you around here

It wasn't until he spotted you walking with him in the botanical gardens, when Rollo held out an arm to stop you mid-step

Leona narrows his eyes- trouble?

...But Rollo only points out that your shoelaces have loosened, and he kneels to tie them for you without thinking twice

Something about the gesture (and how CASUAL it is) makes Leona's eye twitch

He'll have to keep a better eye on that Rollo guy...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Octavinelle

Azul didn't like Rollo to begin with, but now he's REALLY gotten on his nerves

The once kind, helpful Prefect, always willing to lend a hand (or an arm, or a leg, or a vital organ) to a fellow poor, unfortunate student, no matter the cost to themself?

...Suddenly saying no

Azul's art of the deal falls flat when Rollo is around, who delivers that steadfast and ready "No, thank you, good day," and whisks you away before Azul can even get a word in!

Not even the tweels are convincing- Rollo always makes you stand behind him when Floyd is around, and he refuses to even look at Jade

But it's not only that the Prefect is no longer an unpaid intern because of Rollo's intervention, it's that you actually listen to him

His judgments? His decisions? His muttered comments? You respect him enough to heed his warnings without question. You must think very highly of him...

...Azul can't help but feel a little jealous of that

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Diasomnia

Malleus was ready to put that nasty fire lotus business behind him

What? You thought he would be angry, vengeful, and possessive? Have you MET the guy? He takes no pleasure in hatred, violence is only a potential necessity, and, in all honesty, he was excited to have a member of the gargoyle studies club besides himself and the Prefect

...Maybe he puts too much faith in people, sometimes

Because Rollo Flamme maintained exactly zero interest in befriending, or even tolerating Malleus Draconia, and instead prefers following in your shadow, keeping his eyes pointed at potential threats to the magicless student he so adores

Malleus had never been particularly envious of your friendships with fickle, foolish boys, and besides that, your happiness was his happiness

...But this feels like Rollo is overstepping a boundary that Malleus didn't even know was there

He suddenly feels a great urge to have you closer, to impress you, to catch your attention

His displays of magic become even grander, his acts of chivalry even more dramatic, his kindness pushed to its limit (Sebek would kill hundreds to be in your position, but he was told to hold his tongue on the matter for the time being), and yet, still, you stay at Rollo's side

Malleus doesn't quite understand it. Cold, curt, and with more interest in old traditions than magical ingenuity, he seems like the very last person that you, of all people, would get along with

...And, yet...

Rollo walks you through the courtyard with linked arms, he always lets you have your first pick of the pastries he gets shipped from home, and he's sure to wrap an arm around your waist when he feels tension in the room, as if his first priority is always and forever keeping you safe

He speaks to you in that soft tone (reserved only for you, when he thinks no one is listening), and calls you dear Prefect

It would have angered Malleus, if it were anyone else- but this is someone he's beaten in battle before.... just on a different playing field

teal hair blocks a perfect view of your necklace, but you can tell by the position of floyd's hands that he's using the forks to help him separate the chain. the forks' prongs scraaapppee slowly against the table and you can feel azul tense beside you from the noise (or from the prospect of the table's surface being damaged).

the mostro lounge has never had a show quite like this. there'd be the occasional singer or band. jazz nights are always fun, and more frequent than one might think. there was even a time where azul tried out a professional juggler.

you had no idea watching someone untangle a necklace would draw such a crowd. at least fifteen people were watching.

"this has got to be the lock in of the century," an ignihyde student says, peering over your shoulder.

"i don't think i've ever seen floyd focus this much on one thing," another boy says. you recognize him to be a member of the basketball team. "he hasn't said a single word!"

"he's been here for a solid thirty minutes. how long's he gonna do this for?" a voice from behind you complains.

before you can answer, the forks clatter on the table in warning.

floyd whips his head up. "oh yeah? nobody's forcing you to watch, polychaete," he spits. "try shuttin' your trap for once. maybe then i'll actually get this thing done."

"whose stupid necklace is this anyway?" the boy shoots back, practically begging to die. when floyd bares rows of sharp teeth you know you have a millisecond to respond before the scene erupts into chaos and threatens to tangle your necklace further.

"it's my necklace," you say coldly. "you're welcome to give it a shot if you think you're such hot shit."

complete and utter silence pins the mostro lounge in place. nobody dares to clear their throat or shuffle their feet backwards. of course, nobody dares to approach and accept the challenge either. how can they when both you and floyd are eyeing them in such a manner?

a beat passes before floyd's head drops back down and the scraping of forks can be heard again.

"okay everyone!" azul claps suddenly. a few students jump at the sudden sound following the bout of tension. "nothing to see here. let's let our poor fellow student get back to work!"

the forks clatter again.

"I'M DONEEEEE!" floyd cries out. with one hand, he holds the necklace up high for you to see. proof of his triumph. and sure enough, he's accomplished in thirty minutes what you couldn't in three days: he's untangled your beloved heart necklace.

"floyd!" you cry, snatching your necklace from his hand and running straight into his now-open arms. they don't lose a second wrapping themselves around you.

"thank you so much," you mean to say, but the words are lost against his chest as he gives you the tightest squeeze of your life.

you squeeze right back.

the two of you are soon a tangled bundle of giggles, and when you finally part, your neck is sporting its iconic heart necklace once more.

ruggie bucchi - probable caws

really, truly, honestly, you have no idea where it went.

one minute, it was there on the table in the common area. the next, it wasn't. you had left the room for point three seconds because your roommate was yelling something at you from the corridor. turns out they were just telling you to shut the window, which they could have easily done themselves if they took five seconds out of their precious day.

you were certain someone had stolen it, though you haven't the slightest idea why. it wasn't particularly valuable, you tell yourself, only a string of faux pearls you got from a flea market several years ago.

still, it was trusted. it had kept you company throughout all that time without snapping. you had only taken it off just that one time to examine the clasp and make sure it was still in good shape.

guess that was a mistake.

it wasn't particularly valuable, and yet you were exceptionally upset.

ruggie doesn't even bother to ask if you need help, he starts searching for it as soon as you tell him.

while you search the floor of the lounge, pushing stuffy armchairs aside and upending carpets, ruggie takes on the role of lead detective and interrogates everyone in the vicinity on their whereabouts and alibis. but after nearly an hour of searching you find neither truth nor clue, only the realization that maybe not all cases are meant to be solved.

ruggie can tell you feel bad for wasting his time. he can tell you're thinking of if onlys and should'ves.

if only you had paid more attention.

if only that window was shut.

you should've kept your necklace on.

you should've smacked your roommate and told them to close whatever window they please themselves.

when he puts his hand on your shoulder, he feels like a different person. birds twitter from within the tree outside and the wind rustles the leaves. ruggie's hair swirls in a calm wave of soft brown locks.

"let's go to class for now," ruggie says, grounding, reliable, and sure. "we'll keep looking."

there's no deception in the pale blue of his eyes, no hint of jest or empty words. like he, too, lost something once and knows how important it is to keep looking even when you don't know where exactly to direct your gaze. to believe that what is yours will come, so long as you have the drive to seek it.

you nod, feeling empty and jittery at once. he squeezes your hand reassuringly before the two of you part and head to your respective classes.

ruggie whips his head around to watch your retreating figure, ensuring you've rounded the corner before he does a full one-eighty and beelines right back into the common area.

he searches the carpet, between the cushions, the table. he cross-examines the people in your dorm. he talks your roommate into letting him in to search your room. he even whips out a magnifying class and inspects every inch of the place.

his verdict comes inconclusive.

your necklace is not in the room, and was not stolen by anyone. it had simply and impossibly and inexplicably vanished into thin air.

into thin air.

into thin air?

it hits ruggie instantly.

the open window!

there is no chattering of birds as ruggie hops through the windowsill to search the ground beneath it. he knows they're there though, watching.

"hey," he loud-whispers to the tree. "have you seen a pearl necklace 'round here?"

"i can't say, i can't say!" a voice replies. it's almost musical with how light it is, and ruggie recognizes the accent to be one of a young poecile.

"he's mean, he's mean, he's mean!" another voice replies, similar in cadence.

"who? you can tell me, you can tell me," ruggie insists.

seven bless animal linguistics.

"he's too big, much too big! big and mean and scary," a third voice adds.

"who, who?" ruggie feels much like an owl. "i'll help ya out, i swear!"

the three little birds murmur between themselves, their language too colloquial for him to understand in full.

"shiny, shiny into the tree. that tree's all his, and not for me!" the third chirps finally. the three birds take to the sky and head right for the forest without looking back.

ruggie's on the hunt a moment later, scanning every nearby tree until he spots it dangling from the limb of a tree, glittering in full glory. he has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach it, but as his index makes contact with your beloved necklace, an agitated, accusatory cry nearly blasts his eardrums open.

an inky black crow stares ruggie right in the eye, daring him to get closer.

"i don't speak corvus," ruggie calmly says in poecile. "and i don't care much to try to understand. i have to deal enough with our headmage as it is."

ruggie loops his finger around your necklace. the crow puffs its feathers up and screeches once more.

"life's not easy," ruggie continues, sliding your necklace off the branch, "but you should only steal what you need to survive. don't you know what happens if you get caught?"

ruggie's ears are flushed back, eyes gleaming with mischief, and the crow - about to pierce the air with another scream - changes its mind midway through. a strange and silent understanding passes between the two, odd pair they are.

hyenas and crows. necrophagous and unlucky. sly only because nature forces them to be.

ruggie holds the necklace up. "i'm taking this back." gesturing to the trees in the area, ruggie hits the final nail in the head. "and this is my territory now, so i don't wanna hear about any trouble. my friends live here, you see."

the crow gives one final screech and flies up in a blur of black, away and away until ruggie can see it no more.

three small birds can be seen landing on the tree outside the window as you return to the lounge, uneasy from the animal languages quiz you probably just bombed and from the prospect of never finding your necklace ever again.

"ruggie!" you call out, breaking into a smile as you spot his approaching figure. "how was class?"

"same old, same old. mostly just practicing stuff."

behind his back, ruggie thumbs the pearls in his hand, white and shiny. it's an inexpensive imitation he knows would receive your richest smile upon its return.

ruggie can't wait to give it to you.

and maybe, one day he'll be able to give you the real thing too.

lilia vanrouge - machiavellian

the end always justifies the means.

were you losing your mind because your necklace had gone missing? yes. the whole cafeteria knew about it.

but it was worth it!

unbeknownst to you, the culprit was right there beside you, munching on mediocre cafeteria lunch like he didn't just swipe your necklace right off your neck without you noticing just so he can clean it.

the silver was tarnishing - what else was he supposed to do! asking you if he could polish it would be no fun. no fun at all.

it was actually too easy to steal your necklace. the choice between flan and cheesecake must have been too much for your poor, indecisive mind. you barely reacted when he made his move. centuries of living, training, scouting have honed lilia's muscles and instincts to spot an opening before it shows itself. if you can move before your opponent has time to react, victory is assured.

you barely even blinked.

he out to scold you for that, then train you to do better. he's might not always be around after all.

technically, the necklace was his. he had come across it during his travels when he accidentally stumbled upon an ancient cave filled with wild, one-of-a kind riches and shelves and shelves of ancient scrolls.

he doesn't know what compelled his hand to reach for it, but something deep within him back then must have known you were coming along, because the necklace he found suited you too well.

it wasn't overly ostentatious or bejeweled with fat gems to weigh you down. it was simply you.

despite the fact that it was obviously valuable, the silver chain and jewel looked tarnished and faded. apparently spending a millennia in an underground cave and then another few centuries in the bottom of a drawer and then three years at night raven college doesn't keep a necklace in pristine condition.

he had cleaned it before giving it to you, of course, but maybe there's just something in the air on sage's island that wants to dim the light of anything that shines too brightly.

"your cheesecake is softening," lilia notes calmly, pointing to your untouched plate.

"lilia," you say, "my necklace is missing. how can i possibly eat at a time like this?" you furiously rub at your eyes with the sleeve of your uniform and try to ignore your scudding mind and the lump in your throat. "you gave it to me."

"don't worry my love," he assures in that all-knowing tone of his, "it'll turn up."

"but you gave it to me," you repeat. "you gave it to me and i lost it."

"nothing is ever truly lost. maybe you simply forgot it on your nightstand?"

"maybe..."

grabbing your fork tightly, you finally dig into your room-temperature cheesecake, deciding to look for it after classes are over.

lilia gives you a soft smile.

how fragile the human heart is, how easily it believes. even so, the end always justifies the means. sometimes a little suffering is necessary.

you find the necklace on the small table beside your bed, just like lilia said. somehow he always seems to know everything.

as you hold it up to the light, the big green gem in the center twinkles before you, beaming and wonderous. you wonder who else had worn it before you, what they were like, what memories they held. has the necklace always been this bright?

"it was looking rather sad so i polished it for you," lilia calls from your doorway. you hadn't even heard him enter.

"you could have told me," you say, voice holding no malice.

"i didn't know you liked it that much."

"of course i did. you gave it to me."

"you look rather good with it on." lilia gives you a cheeky smile. "it's a stylish piece, though i daresay it doesn't compare to you."

you step closer. "daresay?" you whisper, tilting your head to the side.

lilia puts his hands up in surrender. "heheh...you caught me. i know it doesn't."

you laugh.

it was a little enjoyable to watch you squirm and panic in the cafeteria, he must confess, but nothing compares to the sight of your eyes crinkling with mirth, the melodic sound of your joy.

the necklace is only part of a matching set. if he ever craves to hear that sound ring true again, he can always gift you the earrings.

or the bracelet.

or the crown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe try to see him the way you do.

“He’s a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

A beat of silence. 

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

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

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

Where do you even begin? 

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

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

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

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

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

You are his just as much as he is yours. 

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

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

It’s he, now. Not it, anymore. 

God, you are hopeless. And crazy. 

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

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

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

Huh. 

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

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

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

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

Something’s definitely gotten into you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She catches you right as you are entering the kitchen.

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

“Mon trésor.” 

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

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

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

He’s melting at the sight of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So perfectly crunchy,”

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

Nami felt chills sweeping up her spine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not too sweet for you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Is there sauce on my face?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You two are the lamest.

Mon trésor: My treasure

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

‘Greetings, fair traveler,’ the bartender, a slender elf with flowing orange hair the color of a sunset, says as you approach.

‘Hail and well met, barkeep,’ you respond, your voice carrying a melodious lilt as you plunk down a sachet full of glimmering gold coins. ‘What’s a Guardian gotta do to get a drink around here?’

Her eyes crinkle with mirth. ‘I think you’ll find that you won’t need to pay to sate yourself tonight.’

She slides you a glass; it is filled with a blood-red liquid, smelling faintly of cranberries, faintly shimmering under the warm lantern light. ‘The gentleman over there sends his regards.’

You follow her gaze, turning your head. At the far end of the bar, a mysterious personage raises one hand in greeting, his face half-shrouded by a red hood embroidered with gold thread; the light seems to warp and bend around him, as if fate itself is trying to alert you to his presence.

Hint, hint: that guy’s important!

Okay, okay! Just saying.

You choose to approach the stranger, drink in hand. ‘Hello there,’ you murmur, low so that the others do not hear you. ‘To whom — who? — whom — do I owe this pleasure?’

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ says the stranger, in a low voice that is immediately soothing to your ears. ‘I have an adventure to propose to you, traveler. It concerns the legend of the Life-Giver, a mighty warrior who was known to breathe sentience into items far and wide. Surely you know of them?'

‘I am aware of the Life-Giver, yes,’ you say, your tone tinged with amusement. ‘And?’

‘There is a prophecy as old as time that points to a hero who will take up the mantle of Life-Giver yet again,’ he answers, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I believe that you are that hero.’

Uh, just to check, can I keep monologuing? I can skip to the end if you want.

Aw, hehehe, thank you! Alright. Ahem.

‘You must go on a journey throughout the regions of our land in order to unleash your true potential. It will be long and arduous — a couple of hours at least, plus or minus breaks for snacking — and it will involve trials of both the mind and body. But the rewards will be greater than you could ever dare fathom.

‘I have been chosen to guide you through this journey, traveler — accompany you and encourage you as you endure the trials, be your steadfast and loyal companion, and, perhaps…’ he pauses and coughs, his voice only faintly wavering as he questions — ‘more, besides?’

‘Sure,’ you say in a distinctly normal voice, correcting yourself, ‘I mean — of course. I would be honored, sir.’

‘Wonderful.’ He extends a hand, and you take it; his palm is warm as it makes contact with yours, strong and calloused. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, then.’

In one fluid move, the stranger uncovers his hood, and you stare at what lies beneath. With dark brown hair and kind, ruby-red eyes, he smiles kindly at you. He is the sort of man that you could fall in love with instantly within a minute of meeting him.

You open your mouth to reply, already burning with questions —

——

‘Something about this campaign seems very familiar,’ you say suspiciously, peering down at the painstakingly hand-painted miniature that stands on the table. If you squint, it looks a bit like Chance. If you don’t squint, it looks exactly like Chance.

Your boyfriend pushes the hood of his cloak back over his neck, innocent red eyes blinking at you from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What’s his name?’ you ask, pointing to the miniature.

‘Hm?’

‘The name of the handsome stranger.’

He drums his fingers on the table. ‘Sir Prospect.’

Your eyebrows raise. ‘As in, Sir Synonym-For-Chance.’

‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ Chance says, smoothly flipping the dictionary lying on the table upside down.

‘Sure.’ You scrutinize the notes you’ve been taking of the encounter. ‘And the bartender, who is definitely nothing like Beverly in appearance or name?’

‘Hey, Refresha, my completely original character, wouldn't appreciate that accusation at all,’ he protests airily as he toys with the multicolored dice on his bracelets.

‘And the “mighty warrior who was known to bring items to life”, or something,’ you say, making air quotes. ‘Whose name appears to be exactly the same as mine with a few letters changed around.’

‘I think that the unpronounceability turns it from normal to fantastical.’

Hypothesis confirmed. You place your hands on the table, looking him dead in the eyes. ‘Is this entire campaign based on us?’

The tips of his ears go red at your staring, and he bites his lip, ducking his head sheepishly. ‘Maybe.’

The confirmation delights you, your eyes lighting up. ‘Oh my gosh, you absolute dork. So that’s why you said our date today was going to be different.’

‘I’m not going to sway the odds in your favor, in case you’re worried,’ Chance defends. ‘You’re still going to have to roll for things to go exactly how you want them. I just have…’ He mulls over what he wants to say. ‘I’ve planned so that it’s still fun no matter what happens.’

‘So I won’t mess your plans up by rolling a one and dying in the laundry room?’

Chance laughs. ‘If that happens, you’ll be revived with the healing power of warm clothing fresh out of the dryer.’

‘You’ve planned for everything,’ you say, impressed. ‘I’m so excited to see where this goes.’

‘Ah, you haven’t even seen the Land Of Slumber yet!’ he says, steepling his fingers deviously, his glasses glinting. ‘It’s a world of majesty! And maximum comfort! With pillows that are extra fluffy so we can roll even when lying down!’

‘Is this why you wouldn’t let me come into the bedroom earlier today?’

‘It’s one of many reasons!’ he says. ‘I have a whole thing planned in there later tonight — oh, but that’s spoilers. I need you and Prospect to meet first, and then we can go off to the bar so we can reenact this — I wanted to begin the adventure, but I just couldn’t resist starting it here when you looked so happy.’

‘And so, the drink?’ you ask. ‘That’s real too?’

‘My very own creation! Beverly said she’d run it as a special tonight,’ Chance says proudly, showing you a sketch he’d made as well as a list of ingredients. ‘Though she rejected the idea of making a full menu based on G&G. I don’t know why.’

‘I think if she tried sourcing the items you usually mention off-handedly, she’d start pouring her hair out.’

‘Hmm,' he muses. 'Maybe.’

‘You did get one thing wrong about Prospect, though,’ you note, picking up the miniature and holding it up to him. ‘I’m not going to fall in love with a guy I just met.’

Chance shrugs, flushing a deep crimson, and says with just a hint of cheek, ‘Well, you did for me, didn’t you?’

He's got you there. You snort, rolling your eyes and giving him a playful shove. ‘Silence, you unbelievable flirt. If you’re going to make yourself an NPC in this you're going to have to work harder than that to seduce me. Roll for Charm, why don't you?'

And, grinning, Chance picks up a dice and rolls it with a confident flick of the hand. By sheer coincidence, it’s a natural twenty.

No, you don’t. In fact you look content, leaning against the railing like that, overlooking the distant forests surrounding the city. Vash moves without thinking, opening the doors and coming to your side. Wolfwood nods and takes up post at the doors. No need for someone to interrupt.

You startle at his appearance, but settle just as quickly. “Am I intruding?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not at all.” One of your shy smiles peaks out. He’s been getting more of those lately. Much better than the blank stare he used to get. Very pretty. “I was just thinking it would be nice if someone was here.”

Bolstered by your invitation, your husband leans against the railing as well. The trees along the horizon have orange and red mixed with their yellowing leaves now. Outside the castle walls is a hammering—probably a blacksmith starting their day. A crisp breeze blows by.

Vash tries to look at you through the corner of his eye. You’re dressed for the day, of course, your hair pulled up and out of your face. It’s a nice face. Very pretty. Need to think of something else to describe her, he scolds himself. Nai would bite his ear off if he knew how dull his speech is getting.

“I used to,” he starts, clears his throat when you look at him, then looks back at the trees, “I used to ride my horse out there. Especially around this time of year. It’s very nice to hear the leaves, very…crunchy.” Vash feels himself flush. You’re talking about dead leaves, of all things?

That shy smile comes back. “My siblings and I would do the same in our forests. I love the crunch of leaves underfoot. Though, my brother would find worms and other bugs in them to terrorize the little ones.”

He feels his blush lessening, perhaps because of the air. “It didn’t bother you?”

You shrug, “Someone had to be the barrier between them when he tried putting the bugs in their dresses. I got used to it.” Though, you do scratch the back of your neck as if feeling a critter crawl there.

Vash hums. "Perhaps we could go riding today?" You look at him again, and he tries to not hunch his shoulders. "It's a nice day, after all."

Your lips press together. "Don't you have meetings throughout the day? I certainly do."

He smiles. "What's the use of our titles if we can't do what we want every now and then?"

The stare you give has his blush creeping up his neck and ears again. Just as he's about to retract his statement, you laugh. It's a wonderful sound; he doesn't think he's heard it before, but it is...nice. Very pretty.

"I suppose," you say, allowing another chuckle out, "we could cancel a meeting or two."

Victory: he both made you laugh and got you to agree to his shenanigans.

Just as he's about to turn back and cause the havoc promised, you do the strangest thing: you take his hand in yours, and squeeze. "Thank you," you murmur. Your hand is cold. He wonders then why he hadn't thought of fetching you a coat. But then he focuses on your grip. Soft. Small compared to his own. The barest of ink stains under your nails. The smile you give is a warm fire on a dark night.

He realizes, distantly, he's never truly felt your hands before; always focused on pulling you through the crowds when out and about, or dancing for everyone to see. There was never any time to consider...well, you.

He decides he likes the feeling of your hand in his. Very much so.

"For...what?" he finally asks.

You shrug. "For being kind. And dashing." You look away shyly at your statement.

His heart does a little lurch dance. His blush is full-force now. But, he does not pull away. Vash's own lips give a shaky smile back. "'Dashing,' huh?"

"Don't get a big head about it," you snip back.

He laughs and settles back on the railing, your side brushing his now, and thinks, maybe I could stay here just a little longer before I ruin Nai's day.

‘No,’ you reply, panting slightly as you sprint through the city, following the path of floodwater before you, your feet kicking up large puddles as they go. ‘But he can’t have gone far. I should be right on his heels this time.’

‘Okay,’ Robert says, his voice coming in loud and clear through your earpiece. ‘Keep moving, and look for any signs of flood damage. The rest of you, keep looking for him at your posts and clean up any mess if you see it.'

‘Why did it have to be water,’ Coupé hisses, sounding absolutely miserable. ‘I hate water.’

‘I agree. Fucking cold and it snuffs all my flames out,’ Flambae complains, an audible sizzling sound coming through as he attempts to steam out the water soaked through his suit.

‘Who even is this kid, anyway?’ Prism asks. ‘Y’all ever heard of Deluge before he started tearing everything up?’

A chorus of exasperated nos. ‘Delugeional is more like it,’ Punch Up comments. ‘We don’t even have a clue what he wants yet, do we?'

‘He did rob a record store that one time and took a lot of metal CDs,’ Golem says, adding thoughtfully, ‘I mean… if he wants recs, I got recs.’

‘Focus up,’ Robert says firmly, ‘and stay on target. We can talk about recs later.'

‘Gotcha.’

A loud noise drowns out whatever he says next, your head instinctively swiveling to follow its source. A geyser of water erupts a hundred feet away from you. Out of it rises a figure, clad in a black and blue form-fitting suit, who uses the momentum to spit another stream of water out onto the ground; the force of it propels him forward and out of reach as he runs further down the street, hell-bent on escape — but something's different about him today. His feet are dragging slightly. He's slowing down.

Which means you stand a good chance at catching him today. ‘I see him,’ you say. ‘Heading after him now.’

Cheers and calls to "fuck ‘em upppp" sound joyously in your ears as you vault over a crashed car in your way — it wasn't technically necessary, but it did look awesome — and pursue him further.

——

In the news, they call him the “Torrent of Torrance”.

That isn't actually his name. The official name he’s put forward is Deluge, according to SDN's insider sources, but that isn't nearly as catchy a moniker, so half of the public has the completely wrong name for him. Whatever name you choose to call him, though, is accurate to his powers, which seem to involve water. Lots and lots and lots of water.

For the the past few weeks, he’s been causing floods throughout the city as he commits a string of robberies, all without saying a word. His goals are mysterious, his allegiances unknown, as no one really knows him; he's one hell of an upstart villain.

Is he a villain, though? This is the question that's been running through your mind as you've been tracking him down. He doesn't feel like one. For starters, there's his choice of robberies: he's escalated in his most recent heists, always choosing to break into the high-end banks, the most expensive of fashion stores, and pharmacies, but takes only the highest value items, waterlogging the security footage so all they see is a dark, blurred shape coming and going. You've found the same items going for sale online just days later, none of the items kept for himself, as if there's some kind of standard he wants to hold himself to.

What he does keep for himself seems to mainly be indulgences — items from grocery chains, bookshops, record stores. But the mom and pop shops that are normally the unwitting target of every criminal around have far less taken from them, only enough to survive, and he must use the profits from the other robberies to buy other things. It doesn't scream villain behavior to you. He's more of an anti-hero, if anything. Like some kind of aquatic Robin Hood.

And that, by all accounts, should put him fairly low on your radar, at least from a moral standpoint. But that's ignoring the collateral damage of it all. From what you've seen, the same harmless water you drink flows out of him in an infinite supply, and with enough pressure is more effective than any powerwasher you’ve seen, enough to leave incidents in its wake that SDN has been answering calls for for weeks now. He’s knocked pillars down in seconds, dented cars like soda cans. The destruction almost rivals Golem’s kaiju son itself; the only thing Deluge doesn't have to one-up it is the fact that the kaiju tends to get a little hangry, and destroy walls when it gets hangry. That's children for you.

He only ever attacks with enough force to take what he needs and then escape, slowing you down enough to prevent him from leaving. In other words, he’s been deemed a Category One: Pain In The Ass. This isn’t the first time that SDN’s tried to deal with him, but every one of your last arrest attempts have ended in failure so far — he’s just, pardon the horrible pun, too slippery. With the amount of near-misses you've had, he has to have been injured by now, too, but it’s like he tanks it and the springs right back up the next day, which has made short work of the company's healing facilities. At this rate, it won't be long before he seriously puts one of you down for the count; and it might not be long before he accidentally gets a civilian hurt, too.

Which is why you're really hoping you can actually talk to him this time, at least before you get him in handcuffs. Simply being dangerous is different than posing a threat; whoever he is, and with the power he wields, you're betting that he's just the former. You think you can get him to stop. You just need a chance.

Though he sure isn't making it easy, you think to yourself as you pass yet another overturned car (it’s a Tesla, so not a big loss, but still). At the very least, he’ll be facing public destruction and property charges. But that's a hell of a lot better than manslaughter.

Finally — finally — you see him up ahead again, and he ducks into a building. The sign in front reads TORRANCE MUNICIPALITY POOL, and below that, CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. Based on how every other confrontation has gone, you note that they’re likely going to need more after this.

'He's headed east,’ Robert tells you. 'Still see him?'

‘Yep. He’s headed into the pool.’

‘Like he doesn’t get wet enough already,’ Invisigal scoffs. ‘What’s he want with it? Thought he naturally drools enough water to swim in.’

‘I don’t know,' you say. 'But I’m going in.'

‘Copy,’ Robert says. ‘Watch out.’

‘Copy.’

Carefully, you slip inside, padding your way past the entry gates and through the locker rooms, the scent of chlorine and sweat immediately hitting your nose, the faint sounds of water churning far away. But it's only when you get to the pool area that you actually see him, staring out at the long — twenty meters or so, you’d estimate — pool, colorful float ropes bobbing over clear, tiled water. It’s shadowed inside, the main source of light coming from the windows.

At the farthest lane to the right, Deluge is swimming towards your direction, long forward strokes made with powerful, equally long legs, smooth and silent as they kick underneath the water. Cautiously, you approach the edge of the pool, waiting for him to come to you.

Slowly, Deluge rises out of the water, revealing a tall, lanky form; water rolls off of him like he’s shedding a second skin, only more drops beading on his face in its stead. His hair, light and reddish-brown, plasters itself to his forehead, individual strands curling limply inwards. His cheeks are streaked with leaking black eyeliner underneath; it makes him look like he's been crying, like a jilted lover. The look on his face is hauntingly blank, lips pressed into a thin line.

He looks up. He locks eyes with you. All the color drains from his face.

You move fast, but he moves faster. Before you know it, he’s propelling himself out the way you came in, brushing past you and sprinting towards the changing rooms, missing your grasp by an inch. You curse under your breath and gear up for another long-winded chase, when…

SMACK. Deluge skids on the floor, limbs flailing, before his legs fly out from under him and he crashlands flat on his back on the blue tiles, knocking the wind out of him with an undignified yelp. Guess not even he’s immune to accidents. You can’t help but wince out of sympathy; it’ll probably leave a massive bruise, and as he moves to get up, you see him clutch at his back and hiss. Even Supers’ bodies have limits, and he doesn’t seem as if he’s particularly well-equipped to deal with them yet — his costume lacks protective gear, and looks quite scuffed already.

Might as well make the most of the situation, though. You seize the chance to move forward, getting closer to him before he has the chance to run away again. He’s already struggling to his feet and scrabbles away from you as you approach, but you’re the one who’s faster this time, cornering him against the wall, grasping his wrist; he twists and jerks in your grip, but you weren’t trained in Strength for nothing, and you hold him fast.

‘Hey,’ you say firmly. ‘Stop. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to talk.’

‘And bring — take — I’ll go to j-jail,’ Deluge spits, the first time you’ve ever heard him actually speak — the words are stuttered, haltingly said, like he’s unsure of how best to respond. ‘You’re one of the h-heroes — you’re a Super. Hero. You're part of SDN.’

‘Yeah.’ No use in trying to hide it, not when he's known you were tailing him for weeks. ‘Yeah, I am. But I’m not going to hurt you, like I said. I just want us to talk until the others get here so I can figure out what your deal is. It’ll be a lot. easier if you’re willing to talk, or at the very least listen to me, okay?’

Blue-gray eyes, like the calm before a storm, glare at you, doing their best to intimidate. It is not very effective — he looks more frightened than anything, like this is his first real encounter with a hero up close.

You stare back, communicating your intentions with freezing intensity — sit down, and listen to me. It's worked on a lot of people, and Deluge is no exception. He looks as if he wants to fight you more, and you admit he could probably overpower you, even now: internally, you prepare yourself for another exhausting fight.

But then he seems to surrender, his shoulders slumping as he mutters something under his breath. With all the angry energy of a wet cat, he stalks over to the nearest bench without assistance, wincing as he sits down and slouching himself as far forward as his spine will allow.

Robert’s voice crackles again in your comm, questioning. 'I'm hearing a struggle. Everything okay?’

‘Yes, Robert, got it under control,’ you answer automatically, and then add on — seeing Deluge tense up and following your instincts — ‘I’m going to mute you right now, okay?’

‘What?' he asks, his voice sharpening. 'Why —‘

The dispatcher's voice fades to an angry buzz as you take your earpiece out and holding it up to Deluge. Some of the tension bleeds out of his posture, but he keeps himself curled up, long limbs folded over each other.

‘There,’ you say, and make a show of tucking your earpiece into your pocket, holding up your hands once more to show that they're empty. ‘Now we can talk one-on-one.’

‘Wh-whatever,’ he bites. 'I'm not — you can't make me.'

'No,' you reply easily, and move to sit down next to him; he scoots as far away as the bench will allow, but doesn't make to get up. 'I can't.'

You let the silence stretch out for a few moments, enough to make him start shuffling his feet, drops of water pitter-pattering onto the tiled floor.

‘So,’ you say eventually, when it seems like he's going to explode from the tension. 'Jewelry and meds and money all makes sense, but why steal records and books, anyway? It's not like you can't buy them with whatever you're pawning off.'

He mumbles something you can't quite make out, and then must realize that you’ve baited him into revealing more, promptly clamping his lips shut with a twist of the mouth. You wait. If anything, it seems like he'll crack and talk to fill the void if he can to avoid you prying deeper.

‘Th-they’re for me and my — for more than one person,’ he says sullenly, and then reddens, the color going splotchy on his cheekbones. ‘I — like stuff.'

You snort at the phrasing. ‘I, too, like stuff. You're a fan of metal?'

'Metal is cool,' he mumbles, as if daring you to disagree; when all he gets is a shrug and a nod from you, his eyes dart away, fixed on the high diving board on the other end of the pool. He scrubs a hand over his face, and it comes away slick with additional water; he brings his hand to his neck, massaging it it — a form of self-soothing? You don’t know.

Deluge speaks up again. ‘I left notes, with — I did — explained what I did take at the stores so it wouldn't be that much of a problem. In-inventory. So there’s — it's —' He makes a noise of frustration, shaking his hands to try and communicate what he can't. 'I left notes, I’m saying.'

You vaguely remember wet paper pulp being strewn over the cash registers, the ink bled out to the point that it’s illegible. 'Very noble of you.'

He scoffs, though with less resistance, and glances at you, though it lasts for milliseconds before his gaze darts away again, swallowing thickly.

You lean back, turn your head towards the pool, the water's surface only lightly disturbed now, the smell of chlorine still strong. ‘Pretty powerful stuff you had going there for an inexperienced Super. Did you learn to do that on your own?’

He immediately bristles at your choice of words, stammering a furious amalgam of phrases that include ‘I have a lot of — I’m very ex-experience —‘ and ‘You don’t — I — you didn’t catch me until now, today. So.'

‘Hey,' you say, your eyebrows lifting in surprise. 'Not saying that’s a bad thing, I’m saying it’s impressive. I mean, totaling a building’s infrastructure isn’t great, but the way you did it? That could be useful if there was a fire one day. And it's done wonders for the plant growth.' You pause, before adding, 'Kind of badass, honestly.’

Now that leads to an interesting reaction. Deluge startles, lifting his head, and some of the guardedness in his features cracks, giving way to an unfiltered expression of eagerness, a heartbreaking look of vulnerability in his eyes, before it shutters again.

‘B-badass?’

There’s your angle.

He wants to do good, you realize, but he's never gotten the chance to. He's been surviving all this time, and he’s accomplishing that the only ways he knows how, but he desperately wants to prove himself if he actually gets a chance to live.

You can understand that. You’ve been that before. And, you realize, now you know what you can offer him.

‘I was like you a while ago,’ you start quietly. The shift in tone makes him still, staring at you confusedly. ‘Decidedly less, uh, wet, but I’ve done some bad things. Things I did for survival. And I’m willing to bet that you’re not doing this out of a want for power, but survive, too. Am I right?'

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't contest it, either, crossing his arms over his chest like it'll make him smaller, harder to reach. Protecting himself. That's all the confirmation you need.

‘I work with a team of people just like you, who are helping others do good,' you say, scooting closer to him, shrinking the distance between you, and he doesn't fight that, either. 'Former villains, anti-heroes, you name it, they've done it. We need new people all the time. You could be a part of that too, if you wanted.' You let the words hang in the air. ‘You could be a hero.'

Deluge tilts his head to look up at you. ‘W-without going to jail?’

‘You’d have to go to trial,’ you apologize, and his expression falls. 'But when I bring you in, you can apply for the program yourself — it's called the Phoenix Program — from there, and you likely wouldn't have to serve a sentence at all if a hero recommends you for it. Which I could.'

‘You could help,' Deluge says slowly, each word like a revelation. 'You could help me?'

‘Yes,’ you emphasize, your voice going as earnest as you can make it. 'We can help you, and whatever your situation — whatever it is, I'm sure we'll be able to make it work.’ You hold out your hand to him. ‘Let us.'

And you're not sure why, but you add — because there's just something about him, the look in his eyes, the look on his face that makes you want to say, your tone edging more towards desperate — 'Let me.'

He sucks in a breath, stuttered and sharp, his expression wavering — doubt, relief, worry, curiosity. Slowly, his fingers twitch, and then he's reaching for your hand.

And then, you hear the blare of approaching sirens, a piercing wail that ruptures the moment you’ve worked hard to build in two.

Deluge blanches, limbs stiffening, pupils shrinking, and he snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned. ‘Y-you,’ he chokes out, scrambling back on the bench, nearly slipping off with the effort. ‘Y-you tricked me.’

‘No. No, I didn’t.’ You raise your hands in an attempt to placate him, trying to reason, internally yourself for not handling this better. ‘They must have figured out where we were. I promise, no one is going to hurt you, Deluge. Just let me —‘

That’s all the time you get to explain yourself, because he stands up without a hint of a wince, his hands shaking. He's healed a lot quicker than you thought.

Looking hurt — looking betrayed — he screws his eyes shut, and the next thing you know a jet of water blasts you into the pool.

Swimming was not on your mind today. The shock of the water — cold, chlorine — gets the better of you as you thrash for a moment, sinking low to the bottom and inhaling a large gulp of water before you kick your feet and push back up. Breaking the surface, you wipe the water from your eyes, gasping, swivelling your head around to look for him — he’s already made it to the window at the far end of the pool, with no chance you’ll be able to catch up to him now. Your waterlogged earpiece bobs somewhere, emitting useless static.

His face is red, his eyes fixed on you, silhouetted against the light of the window. He looks conflicted.

‘Think about it,’ you rasp, voice hoarse. ’That’s all I ask.’

He stares for a few seconds more, then gives a tiny, jerking nod. Then his cheeks balloon, he turns, and your ears ring as he smashes the window with a jet of water, escaping off just as the rest of the Z-Team bursts into the entrance to the pool.

'Well,' Sonar says, taking in the sight of you in the water. 'Shit.'

——

The application comes to SDN a week later, handwritten and stained with bleeding black marker, nearly illegible, torn in places where the paper fibers have weakened and then dried. It's accompanied by a thin sheet of paper the authorities have put together, as well as a page to write the recommendation. After Robert had admonished you for taking off your earpiece, you'd explained the situation to him: he must agree with you, because he hands a copy of the files to you and tells you to get it in as soon as you can.

The mugshot that greets you when you open the folder is the bare face of a tall man, water dripping off of his face and soaking through his clothing, scared, wide stormy eyes that stare back at you, pupils shrunk in the harsh light. But there's something else in his expression, too — one that you recognize as a tentative hopefulness.

Deluge.

A faint smile graces your lips, and you pick up a pen.