Cariño

Hi there! Here's another idea I got while eating buldak noodles :) WC: about 3000 words.

Promt: Sanji is constantly asking you out on a date but you're not sure what are his intentions. So, with the help of Nami, out beloved cook has to face a challenge that would forever define your relationship with him. Would he succeed?

The late afternoon sun bathed the deck of the Thousand Sunny in a warm, marmalade glow. The sea was calm, lapping gently against the hull, creating a rhythm that usually soothed you.

But today, your heart was beating a jagged, anxious rhythm against your ribs.

You stood near the tangerine grove, tucked away in a quiet corner where the wind wouldn't carry your smoke toward the others. You held your cigarette delicately, almost apologetically, bringing it to your lips with a soft sigh. You didn't smoke to look tough; you smoked to quiet the noise in your head, to give your fidgeting hands something to hold onto. It almost gave you a sense of familiarity, something to hold onto while you sail the vast seas.

You heard faint footsteps coming from the deck but you didn’t bother to look up.

"For the fairest flower on the sea," a melodious voice crooned.

You flinched slightly, turning to find Sanji standing there. He wasn't spinning or shouting today. He was holding a small tray with a porcelain cup of tea and a single, perfect macaron. His smile was gentle, his blue eye crinkling at the corner.

"Chamomile and honey," he said softly, offering the tray. "To coat the throat. You sounded a little raspy this morning."

You looked at the tea, then up at him. Your chest ached with how much you wanted to lean into his kindness. But then you remembered Nami. And Robin. And the mermaid at the last port. And the waitress three islands back. Sanji loved women. He loved the concept of them. You were terrified that if you let him in, you’d just be another name on a very long list, and your soft heart wouldn't survive that kind of casual breakage.

"Thank you, Sanji-kun," you whispered, taking the tea. "You... you shouldn't trouble yourself so much."

"It is never trouble," he insisted, stepping a little closer. The scent of his expensive cologne—sandalwood and sea salt—mixed with your cigarette smoke. "About dinner tonight... I could set a table on the upper deck. Just us. Under the stars?"

You looked down at your shoes. You took a quick, nervous drag of your cigarette. "Sanji... please."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a no," you said, your voice trembling. "I told you. I... I can't."

Sanji’s face fell. It wasn't the comical heartbreak he showed the others; it was a quiet, genuine disappointment that made your stomach twist. "I see. Have I offended you, Y/N-san? Is my persistence unwanted?"

"No!" you looked up quickly, eyes wide. "No, never unwanted. It's just..." You couldn't tell him 'I'm scared you're a player.' It sounded so accusatory. "I'm just not looking for a... a fling."

Sanji looked like he wanted to argue, to profess his undying loyalty, but he simply bowed his head respectfully. "I understand. Enjoy your tea, my dear."

He walked away, his steps heavy. You watched him go, feeling like you’d just kicked a puppy.

"You look like you're going to cry," Nami observed.

You were sitting on the floor of the library, your head resting on your knees. A forgotten book lay untouched at your feet. Nami was at her desk, drawing a coastline, but she had stopped to look at you with concern.

"I hurt his feelings," you mumbled into your knees. "I hate this. I want to say yes, Nami. I really do. But I can't be just another 'Mellorine' to him. I’m not strong like you or mysterious like Robin. If he gets bored of me... I’ll shatter."

"Y/N, just ask him. You know…if you keep moping around, you’ll never find the right answer."

"I'm not moping," you defended weakly, lighting a fresh cigarette just to have something to do with your hands. "I just... does he actually mean it? Or is he just being Sanji? I don't want to go on a date and have him spend the whole time swooning over every waitress that walks by.", you mumbled the last part burying your head deeper into your knees.

Nami sighed, putting her pen down. She walked over and sat on the floor next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

"You really think he sees you as just another girl?" Nami asked gently.

"Why wouldn’t he?"

"Y/N," Nami chuckled softly. "He brings you tea for your throat. He makes sure your heavy lifting chores are done before you wake up. When you smoke on the deck at night, he stands guard by the door just to make sure you're safe, even if he doesn't talk to you."

You blinked, wiping a stray tear. "He does?"

"He’s obsessed with you," Nami grinned. "But you need proof. You need to know that he knows you. The real you. The soft, quiet you."

"How?"

Nami’s eyes sparkled. "Food. It’s his language. Challenge him. Tell him that if he wants a date, he has to cook your ultimate comfort meal. But don't tell him what it is. Make him guess."

"But... he doesn't know what I ate growing up," you worried.

"If he loves you," Nami said firmly, "he’s been paying attention to what you need, even when you don't say it."

You paused. A specific memory from your childhood washed over you. A bowl of noodles your mother used to make—specific, tricky, and unlike anything Sanji had served on the ship so far.

"Alright then."

The galley was quiet, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the stove light. It was late afternoon, the golden hour.

You stood in the doorway, clutching the hem of your cardigan. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. Sanji was sharpening his knives, the rhythmic shhhing sound filling the room.

"Sanji-kun?" you called out softly.

He turned immediately, the knife lowered. "Ah, ma chérie! Is everything alright? Are you hungry?"

You walked into the room, stopping at the island counter. You placed your pack of cigarettes on the wood, anchoring yourself.

"I... I want to make a deal," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sanji put the knife down. He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned against the counter, giving you his undivided attention. "A deal?"

"You asked me to dinner," you started, looking at your hands. "And I want to go. I really, really want to go. But I'm scared, Sanji. I need to know that you see me. That I’m not just another girl on the ship."

Sanji’s expression softened into something incredibly tender. He didn't interrupt. He just listened.

"So," you took a breath. "If you can cook me my favorite noodles... the specific way I like them when I'm sad... then I'll say yes. But I won't tell you the recipe. You have to guess."

You looked up at him, biting your lip. "If you get it wrong... we stay friends. Just friends."

Sanji stared at you for a long moment. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter, and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You want comfort," he stated quietly. "You want to feel safe."

"Yes."

He crushed the cigarette out immediately. He adjusted his tie, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and walked toward the pantry. The air in the kitchen changed. The "Love Cook" vanished. In his place stood the Chef of the Straw Hat Pirates.

"Sit down, Y/N," he said, his voice low and confident. "Prepare your palate."

You sat on the barstool, watching him. He was a maestro. He didn't rush. He moved with a fluid, deliberate grace. He pulled a packet of dried noodles from a stash he kept for emergencies. He grabbed a bottle of fiery red sauce. He grabbed heavy cream. Cheese. Eggs.

You watched his hands—those elegant, strong hands that could break stone but were currently chopping chives with the delicacy of a surgeon.

You lit a cigarette to calm your nerves. The smoke curled around you. Sanji glanced at you, saw the smoke, and turned back to the pan, nodding to himself as if confirming a theory.

Fifteen minutes later, he slid a bowl in front of you.

You stared at it.

There was no broth. It wasn't a soup. The noodles were thick, chewy, and coated in a glossy, vibrant orange-red sauce. It smelled spicy—nose-tinglingly spicy—but underneath the heat was the rich, heavy scent of cream and cheese.

Garnished on top were fresh, bright green chives and a few sesame seeds carefully placed over two boiled eggs.

You picked up your chopsticks, your hand trembling slightly. You pressed into one of the eggs. It wasn't hard. It wasn't runny. It was perfectly jammy, the yolk thick and golden.

You took a bite.

Tears sprang to your eyes instantly and suddenly, you were nine years old again, running to the little house on top of the farthest hill of your island. You were crying because you had hurt yourself while playing with other children. You burst through the front door of your mother’s cottage, wailing and clutching your bleeding knees. Your mom, who has been silently sowing in her rocking chair looked at you with a soft smile, gently shaking her head. She scooped you up and patched that retched wound as quickly as you came in. Afterwards, she’d sit you at the little table of your old kitchen and started working. As you looked up, trying to count the old wooden rafters that would watch over you every night as you succumb into your sweet, innocent dreams, your mother already made your delicious meal. A simple bowl of sweet and spicy noodles, garnished with chives, sesame seeds and two medium-boiled eggs, cut in half. Even though you looked so fragile on the outside, your little tastebuds would often crave the capsaicin present in both spicy food and citruses.

And that’s exactly how you remember your childhood, your old home and your sweet mom who’s long gone now. And it tasted like these noodles.

The heat hit the back of your throat, waking up your senses, but the creamy, cheesy sauce immediately soothed the burn. It was rich. It was heavy. It was a warm hug in a bowl.

You put the chopsticks down and covered your mouth with your hand, trying to muffle a sob. Tears spilled down your cheeks and you quickly grabbed the edge of the table to balance yourself. You felt like you could melt into a puddle of nostalgia anytime now.

Sanji quickly came over to your side, a warm and gentle hand grasped your shoulder. "Y/N…is there something wrong..?" he stammered, running his free hand through his golden locks. "Did I…fail?"

"Sanji..." you whispered, forcing yourself to look into his cerulean orbs.

"How?" you asked, looking at him with watery eyes. Streaks of dried tears coated your flushed cheeks and in Sanji’s mind, you’ve never looked so vulnerable. So angelic. "I never told anyone anything... How could you possibly know?"

Sanji straightened his back, smiling. He stood close enough that you could feel his warmth. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled away from you.

"I study everyone on this crew, ma belle," he began softly. "But I study you because I cannot help myself."

He pointed to the bowl.

"First, the spice. You are a smoker, my love. Your taste buds are stubborn. You don't like subtle broths; you ignore them. You crave intensity. You always add chili oil to your rice. I knew it had to be at least a medium heat level to make you feel anything."

He crouched beside your chair, looking up at you, his voice dropping to a murmur.

"But you are soft," he said, and the way he said the word made you shiver. "You put up a wall of smoke, but inside, you are gentle. Pure spice would hurt you. You need balance. I see you in the kitchen at night, eating slices of mozzarella. I see you putting extra milk in your tea or coffee. You crave dairy. You crave softness. So, I turned the fire into a cream sauce."

"And the eggs?" you breathed.

Sanji smiled, a soft, devastatingly handsome smile. "Two eggs. Because you always give your protein to Luffy or Mosshead after our battles, and I worry you don't eat enough. And medium-boiled... because you dislike the mess of a runny yolk, but you hate the dryness of a hard-boiled one. You like things to be gentle. Just like you."

He reached out, straightening his frame finally and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your cheek.

"I didn't guess, Y/N," he whispered. "I know you. I know you like the rain but hate the thunder. I know you smoke when you're anxious, not when you're angry. I know you need to be held, not chased."

A fresh round of tears rolled down your cheeks. He wasn't a player. He wasn't just chasing a skirt. He had been watching you, quietly and patiently, learning the map of your heart through the food you ate.

"You win," you choked out, a wet laugh escaping you. "You win, Chef."

"I don't want to win," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. "I just want you."

You didn't wait. You dropped your defenses. You reached up, grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket, and pulled him down.

When your lips met, it wasn't fireworks. It was a slow burn. It was soft, sweet, and tasted faintly of the spicy sauce and the tobacco you both shared. Sanji made a low noise in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in tight, lifting you off the stool so he could hold you properly.

He kissed you like you were made of glass—precious, fragile, and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless. He kept his arms around you, refusing to let go.

"So," he whispered, brushing his thumb over your wet cheek. "About that date."

You sniffled, smiling up at him, feeling lighter than you had in years. "Where are we going?"

"There is a cliffside terrace on the next island," he said, his eyes dancing. "Private. Quiet. Just candlelight and the ocean."

"And what should I wear?" you asked, resting your hands on his chest.

Sanji looked at you—at your messy hair, your tear-stained cheeks, and your soft, hopeful smile.

"Wear something warm," he said softly, kissing your forehead. "I don't want you to catch a cold. I'll take care of the rest."

You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the scent of smoke and safety.

You had found your comfort food, and he was holding you right in his arms.

Hello! I'm putting my main fic on hold cause I just got this amazing idea. I was sick and a friend of mine was rubbing vinegar on my back (eastern european treatment among the elders, it's good for fever). So then I thought, what if the reader gets sick and Chopper cannot rub her with his little hooves? Nice right? Anyway, please enjoy the one-shot!

Promt: The reader is sick, and someone needs to take good care of her. Warnings: Mild inappropriate thoughts but nothing dirty. Enjoy!

The infirmary of the Thousand Sunny was usually a sanctuary of sterile calm. It smelled of rubbing alcohol, cotton bandages, and the faint, earthy aroma of Chopper’s dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

​Today, however, the infirmary smelled as if a pickle factory had collided with a vinegar distillery and exploded.

​You were miserable. The flu had hit you like a King Cannon, turning your bones to aching lead and your brain to hot mush. As the ship’s chronicler and writer, you were accustomed to spending days inside your own head, weaving intricate plots and navigating complex character arcs. You treated your mind like a well-organized library. But right now, that library was on fire. Your thoughts were stuffed with burning cotton wool, and the simple act of blinking felt like a Herculean effort.

​You lay on your stomach on the infirmary bed, buried under a thin sheet, shivering violently despite the heat radiating from your skin. You had stripped off your sweat-soaked shirt an hour ago in a desperate attempt to cool down, leaving your upper body completely exposed—a decision you were now beginning to regret as the air grew sharp with the sting of acetic acid.

​"I know, I know, it smells unpleasant," Chopper said soothingly, his little hooves clacking rhythmically against a metal bowl. "But the standard fever reducers aren't working fast enough. Your temperature is spiking again. We have to try the traditional way."

​"Traditional?" you croaked, your voice sounding like someone dragging a stone over gravel.

​"Yes! The Doctorine rarely used it because she preferred... more aggressive methods," Chopper shuddered slightly at a memory. "But I’ve read that in certain older villages in the East Blue, a vigorous friction rub with raw vinegar is the ultimate cure. It draws the heat right out of the body and shocks the system into recovery!"

​You groaned into your pillow, too weak to argue. You just wanted the room to stop spinning. "Whatever you say, Doc. Just make it stop."

​"Okay, here we go." Chopper hesitated. You felt the mattress shift as he climbed up near your hip, then paused. ​He looked at his hoof, then at your burning, sensitive skin, and then back at his hoof. He frowned, his little blue nose twitching. "Oh no." A silence stretched out. "Oh... oh no."

​You cracked one eye open, the light stinging. "What is it?"

​"My hooves," Chopper wailed quietly, looking at his front paws with devastation. "In Brain Point, I don't have the leverage for the necessary friction. The movement needs to be broad and firm to generate heat. But in Heavy Point, I’m too strong! I’ll bruise you! My pads aren't right for this."

​He looked at you with big, watery eyes.

​"You need human hands, (y/n). Strong, dexterous, capable hands to really work the solution into your back and arms. Someone who knows about pressure and delicate handling."

​As if summoned by the universe’s cruel sense of comedic timing, the infirmary door swung open with a cheerful creak.

​"I’ve brought a special restorative ginger consommé for the patient~!" Sanji crooned, pirouetting into the room.

​He balanced a steaming silver tray on one hand with impossible grace, his visible eye immediately morphing into a fluttering heart as he spotted your prone form beneath the sheet. The smell of rich broth and ginger momentarily battled the vinegar stench for dominance.

​"(Y/n)-chwan! My poor, suffering muse! My literary flower! How is the patient feeling?"

​Chopper’s eyes lit up, his antlers perking up. "Sanji! You’re perfect!"

​Sanji stopped his twirling, preening slightly, smoothing his black suit jacket. "Well, I certainly try to be, little doctor. Does our beloved writer need her pillows fluffed? Perhaps a cold compress made of the finest silk? I could run to the galley and crush some ice into the shape of swans—"

​"I need you to rub (Y/n) down with this vinegar," Chopper interrupted seriously, holding up the pungent bowl.

​Sanji froze. The steam from the soup curled around his frozen smile. His brain, usually so quick with a witty retort or a romantic declaration, ground to a halt.

"​Excuse me?" he whispered.

​"I need someone with skilled hands," Chopper explained, completely oblivious to the storm brewing behind the cook's blonde bangs. "You handle delicate ingredients all the time! You know exactly how much pressure to apply to dough, or meat, or fish. I need you to massage this into her bare skin to break the fever."

​Bare skin.

​The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

​Sanji’s eye darted from the bowl of vinegar, to Chopper’s earnest face, and finally rested on you. You, lying under a single thin sheet. You, who he knew had been complaining of overheating earlier. You, who were likely wearing very little under that cotton covering.

​Wait. The gears in Sanji's mind began to turn, slowly at first, then spinning wildly into overdrive. (Y/n)-chwan is currently lying on her stomach. To massage her back, the sheet must be lowered. If the sheet is lowered to the waist... and she isn't wearing a shirt...

​A violent blush erupted from his collar, consuming his neck and face instantly.

​Naked. She is naked beneath that sheet. And I am being asked to... to touch. With my hands. My bare hands on her bare... OH MY GOD.

​"I—I—I couldn't possibly!" Sanji sputtered, his voice cracking three times in one sentence. He took a step back as if the vinegar bowl was a bomb. "I am a gentleman! A knight of propriety! To lay hands on a lady without... while she is vulnerable... it is scandalous! It is perverted! It is... it is my greatest dream—NO! Stop it, Sanji! Focus!"

​He literally slapped his own cheek, the sound echoing in the small room.

​You buried your face deeper into the pillow, screwing your eyes shut. Sanji? Touching me? Now? Like this?

​You felt disgusting. You were sweaty, your hair was matted to your forehead, and you smelled like a pickled egg. You harbored a quiet, tender affection for the cook—admiring his passion, his kindness, and yes, his hands—but you wanted him to see you when you were witty and pretty, not when you were a shivering mess.

​"Sanji!" Chopper barked, morphing into Heavy Point for a split second just to loom over him. "She’s burning up! Look at the thermometer! This is a medical emergency, not a peep show! Are you going to help her or let her suffer because you’re shy?"

​The mention of your suffering snapped the perverted spiral instantly. The chivalrous chef reasserted control, shoving the panicked virgin deep into the recesses of his mind.

​"Understood," Sanji said, taking off his blazer, his voice suddenly dropping an octave into a deadly serious tone. He set the soup down on the side table with a sharp, deliberate clack. "I will perform the duty."

​He walked to the side of the bed as if marching to a duel. His hands, usually so steady when filleting a poisonous pufferfish, trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his striped dress shirt, revealing his forearms.

​"Chopper says I need to... access your back, (Y/n)-san," he said, his voice tight and strained.

​"Just... just do it," you mumbled into the mattress, your face burning hotter than the fever. "Please, Sanji. Just get it over with before I die of embarrassment."

​"There is no need for embarrassment," he said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "It is merely a... procedure."

​With a shaky breath, Sanji pinched the edge of the sheet. Slowly, reverently, he folded it down to your waist.

​Cool air hit your skin, causing goosebumps to ripple down your spine.

​Sweet All Blue.

​Sanji’s internal monologue screamed into the void. A Goddess? No, a nymph? Why she's the most beautiful creature I have ever seen to roam the seas...And she's naked...in front of me...her soft, ethereal skin, is begging to be-NO, DAMN IT SNAP OUT OF IT.

The sight of your bare back was a masterpiece he wasn't prepared for. The graceful curve of your spine, the vulnerability of your shoulder blades, the smooth skin leading down to the waistband of your soft sleep shorts. His blush deepened.

​Focus, you idiot cook! She is not a snack right now, she is a patient! Treat this like... like prepping the rarest, most delicate ingredient in the world. Handle with absolute care. Do not dishonor the ingredient. Do not dishonor her.

​He dipped his large, calloused hands into the cold vinegar and came closer. You felt the bed deepen from his weight. He's so close, you thought. If your head wasn't hidden in the pillow, he'd for sure see what his mere proximity does to you.

Sanji took a breath to steady himself. ​

"Forgive the intrusion, my dear," he murmured and then placed his hands on your shoulder blades.

​"Ah!" You hissed at the shock of the cold, your back arching instinctively.

​"Did I hurt you?" Sanji flinched back instantly, his hands hovering inches from your skin. "I was too rough. I am a brute. I should go—"

​"No," you breathed out, forcing your muscles to relax. "It's just cold. It's okay. Please. Keep going."

​He nodded, steeling himself. He began to move his hands.

​Sanji was a master of his hands. They were his life. They were weapons capable of shattering rock, and they were tools of creation capable of spinning sugar into art. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to slice a tomato paper-thin without bruising it, and he applied that same obsessive focus to your skin.

​He worked in long, firm strokes across your shoulders and down the dip of your spine. The sharp smell of vinegar was awful, biting the inside of his nose, but beneath it, as his hands warmed your skin, he caught the scent of you—ink, old paper, and the faint floral shampoo you used. It was intoxicating.

​Keep the rhythm. Don't linger. Lingering is perverted. Just... efficient strokes. Friction. Heat transfer. Thermodynamics.

​"You are incredibly tense," Sanji murmured, his voice low and vibrating right near your ear. His thumbs dug into the trapezoid muscles near your neck. "These knots... they are like stones."

​"Hazard of the job," you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow. "Hunched over a desk. Writing all day."

​Sanji’s expression softened. He knew you worked hard. He often saw the light under your cabin door late at night when he was heading to the kitchen to prep for breakfast. He respected that about you. You poured your soul into your pages just as he poured his into his dishes.

​"You must take better care of your vessel, my muse," he whispered, his thumbs working in circular motions, breaking down the tension with methodical care. "You cannot write beautiful stories if your body is broken."

​"I know," you sighed turning your head to the side so you can see him. God he's so handsome...If it weren't for his little theatrics, maybe you would've told him your feelings. You gave him a weak smile.

"Hypocrite. You stand on your feet for eighteen hours a day."

​Sanji let out a soft, low chuckle. "Touché."

​The conversation helped. It broke the wall of awkwardness. He wasn't just touching a naked woman anymore; he was caring for you.

​His hands moved down to your arms. The friction was working. The shivering had stopped, replaced by a growing warmth that felt internal rather than feverish. As he massaged your right hamd, his thumb brushed over the callous on your middle finger and the smudge of ink that was permanently etched into the skin there.

​He slowed down. He ran his thumb over that ink stain, a tender, reverence in the movement. He suddenly interlocked your fingers with his. A mere action that sent your heart into a full blown marathon. But you liked it. It felt...homey.

​These hands, he thought, create worlds.

​"Does that feel okay?" he asked softly.

​"It feels... amazing," you admitted, your defenses crumbling under his expert touch. "Your hands are... really warm."

​Sanji’s heart did a complicated gymnastic routine in his chest. "I am glad. I would boil the seas if it would make you comfortable."

​He moved his hand as if nothing happened, back to your spine, increasing the speed slightly as Chopper had instructed. The heat was building. Your body felt less heavy, the lead in your bones melting away. A strange, sharp clarity washed over you—the surge of energy Chopper had promised.

​As his palms swept down the curve of your lower back, just above the towel line, a sound escaped you before you could stop it.

​"Mnnh..."

​It was a low, involuntary moan of relief. Quiet, breathy, and undeniably intimate.

​Sanji froze mid-stroke.

​His entire body went rigid. His face turned a shade of crimson that defied the laws of physics. His brain short-circuited completely.

​DID SHE JUST—?! NO! SANJI! DO NOT INTERPRET THAT SOUND INCORRECTLY! THAT WAS A SOUND OF MEDICAL RELIEF! SHE IS IN PAIN! SHE IS SICK! DO NOT THINK ABOUT HOW GOOD THAT SOUNDED! DO NOT THINK ABOUT HEARING THAT SOUND UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES!

​You bit your lip so hard it almost bled burrying your head into the pillow. Why did I make that noise? Shut up! He's just trying to help, don't make it weird!

​The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the bubbling of the soup on the table.

​"Is... is the pressure satisfactory?" Sanji asked, his voice sounding tight, like he was being strangled by his own tie.

​"It's... it's good," you managed to say into the pillow, feeling the heat rise up your neck, having nothing to do with the fever. "You have... really magic hands, Sanji-kun."

​Sanji whimpered slightly—a sound only a dog could hear—and doubled his efforts, scrubbing the vinegar into your skin with frantic, terrified dedication. He was sweating now, droplets beading on his forehead. It wasn't from the exertion. It was the sheer mental fortitude required to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest while touching the person he’d been secretly pining for.

​"The heat is drawing out," Chopper observed, checking a thermometer, completely oblivious to the psychosexual crisis happening three feet away from him. "It's working! Her temperature is dropping rapidly! You’re doing great, Sanji!"

​After five more minutes that felt like both a lifetime and a heartbeat, Sanji slowed to a stop.

​"I think..." You took a deep breath rising your head a little, your lungs feeling clearer than they had in days. The fog in your head had lifted. You felt sticky, and you smelled terrible, but you felt alive. "I think it broke."

​Sanji immediately snatched a towel, vigorously wiping the vinegar from his hands as he backed away from the bed. He looked like he had just run a marathon against Zoro and lost.

​"Magnificent! Stupendous! A victory for traditional East Blue medicine!" He was speaking too fast, his eyes darting everywhere except at you. "I must go! The soup! It has surely cooled down too much! I will make a fresh batch immediately! A risotto, perhaps? Something with energy!"

​He was halfway to the door, practically vibrating with nervous energy, desperate to escape the proximity of your skin before he did something stupid like confess his undying love to a patient covered in salad dressing.

​"Sanji?"

​He froze, hand on the brass knob. He turned slowly, terrified. "Y-yes, Mellorine?"

​You rolled onto your side, pulling the sheet up to your chin, clutching it tight. You looked at him from the pillow. Your hair was messy, your eyes were tired and rimmed with red, but you gave him a small, genuine, sleepy smile. You looked as if you were painted by the most skilled artist. Even in sickness you looked flawless.

​"Thank you," you said softy, locking eyes with him. "For... taking care of me. Even when it was gross."

​Sanji looked like he’d been struck by lightning. The panic in his expression melted away, replaced by a soft, unguarded look of affection that made your heart stutter. For a second, he wasn't the flirting cook or the perverted pirate. He was just sweet, caring Sanji.

​"You are never gross, (Y/n)-chwan," he said, his voice unusually gentle. "You are simply... human. And it is my privilege to care for you."

​The moment hung there, sweet and heavy.

​Then, the steam literally erupted from the top of his head with a high-pitched tea-kettle whistle. The redness returned to his face with a vengeance. He stiffened into a plank, gave a jerky, robotic bow, and shouted, "I SHALL RETURN WITH THE FINEST RISOTTO THE SEAS HAVE EVER KNOWN!"

​He fled into the hallway, nearly taking the door off its hinges in his haste.

​Chopper blinked, looking at the swinging door. "He’s weird. But he gives a good massage." The reindeer looked at you, beaming. "See? Vinegar works wonders!"

​You closed your eyes, listening to the frantic footsteps of the cook retreating down the hall. You could still feel the phantom warmth of his hands on your back, grounding you, caring for you. A soft blush decorated your cheeks.

​"Yeah, Chopper," you whispered, burying your nose in the pillow to hide your smile. "It really does."

Sanji x F!Reader - Speak Now Or Forever Hold Your Peace - Part 2

If you wanna read the first chapter you can click here: PART 1

You can also find my works on AO3 and Wattpad. ENJOY!

~♡♡♡~

The next morning dawned calm, but something in the air felt different — heavier, quieter, as if the Sunny itself was holding its breath. The ocean stretched endlessly and brightly around you. The sun rose just the same — light spilling through the galley windows, the sea humming beneath the ship — but the familiar warmth that usually filled the morning was missing, weighed down by something you couldn’t name.

You stood on the edge of your bed, scribbling a few words in your journal. You loved writing because it was always easy to express yourself. Being full of emotion from a young age can be a drag, but if you’re lucky, it helps you experience life more profoundly. That’s why you tear up when you see a painting, or when you hear the melody of a certain song. Life is better when it’s lived to the fullest.

You changed into your normal attire and hurried outside. Your heart leaped in your chest at the thought of breakfast. And not because of the food.

Maybe today is finally the day.

On deck, the crew was already awake. Luffy was sprawled on the lion figurehead, mouth wide open as he yelled, “Breakfast! Where’s breakfast?!”

Usopp groaned, tightening a bolt on one of his gadgets. “You literally just had breakfast. You had an early breakfast, if that was a thing!”

“That was snack time!” Luffy protested, flailing dramatically.

“Baka,” muttered Zoro from the crow’s nest, newly awakened by all the noise.

After greeting the boys, you approached the girls who were enjoying a few moments away from the usual ruckus. Nami sighed from her chair, stretching in the sun. “Honestly, Y/N, I don’t know how Sanji hasn’t lost his mind by now.”

You laughed faintly. “Maybe he has. He just hides it better than the rest of us.” The words slipped out before you could stop them — half a joke, half the truth. Robin glanced over her book, her eyes soft but perceptive, studying you in that quiet way she always did. “Something’s troubling him, isn’t it?” she asked calmly.

You froze for just a heartbeat, then forced a small smile. “I think so.” Robin closed her book gently. “Then perhaps you should talk to him. Sanji listens when the right person speaks.”

You nodded, though your throat tightened at her words. “Yeah,” you murmured, glancing at the familiar door, “I’ll try.”

The wind tugged at your hair as you turned toward the galley door. Behind you, the noise of your crewmates continued—Luffy’s laughter, Franky’s booming voice as he arrived on deck, Chopper asking Nami for sunscreen—but all of it blurred into the background.

The moment your hand touched the door handle, the world seemed to quiet again.

Sanji was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette. He moved with his usual precision, chopping vegetables, stirring broth, checking the oven—but none of it carried the same grace. The rhythm was mechanical, his movements too fast, too sharp. Almost like he dreaded waking up with each passing day.

You loved to watch him in the kitchen. Every step he took, every meal he prepared, it was like watching an artist give birth to his creation. The simple act of cooking became sacred, a ritual that had to be followed to the letter. Every flick of his wrist deliberate, every breath in sync with the flame — as if he and the kitchen shared the same heartbeat. And he did. That’s what made Sanji, well…Sanji. But nowadays he seems to cook like it's a chore that has to be done. He moves as if every joint in his body were chained down, forced to end a task. His shoulders are wound so tight that a single word - no, a mere touch - might rip him in half.

He stood at the counter, cigarette balanced between his lips, the glow at its tip trembling whenever his breath hitched. He was usually music in motion—whistling, humming, turning breakfast into a performance—but today every sound felt muted. The knife struck the board with mechanical rhythm, too quick, too clean, as if he were racing something only he could see.

“Morning,” you murmured.

He snapped out of his thoughts and glanced up, eyes shadowed by tiredness that even smoke couldn’t hide. “Morning, Y/N.” The words landed softly but carried nothing of their usual warmth. The smile he offered you was empty, a simple copy of something that used to reach in your chest and tickle your heart.

You lingered near the door, unsure whether to step forward or retreat. “You didn’t sleep much again, did you?”

“I’m fine.” Another practiced smile, thin as paper. He turned back to the pan. The butter hissed, filling the silence that followed.

You stepped inside, reaching for a towel and began drying dishes beside him. It was safer than standing still. “You always say that.”

“And you always worry too much, sweetheart,” he said lightly, though his voice wavered near the end.

That word—sweetheart—used to make you blush ans slightly weak in the knees. Now it felt like a barrier. Something he said to keep you from digging deeper. He flicked ashes into the sink instead of the tray. The gray flecks scattered over clean porcelain like storm clouds. Another unusual thing for him. He used to keep the kitchen spotless. Even though the crew ate like wild animals at any given moment, he always stayed after every meal, cleaning, polishing, and arranging everything. Not once did he smear a clean plate.

You put the plate down, hesitating. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and then he exhaled. He looked like he hadn’t eaten, like the sleepless nights were carving him hollow and at any moment, the wind might whisk him away, along with your plans for a future together.

“I can’t help it,” you said quietly, rubbing your hands. “You’ve been…different.” He didn’t answer. Only exhaled smoke and kept moving.

After a few agonizing seconds, you slowly moved closer to him, brushing his sleeve, meaning to get his attention. He flinched at the gesture—so slight you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking right at him. He caught himself immediately, forcing a chuckle. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” His voice was almost cracking.

“You’re lying,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

That made him pause. He set the spatula down, shoulders stiff, but still didn’t turn. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” you said, the words spilling faster now. “Maybe because something’s wrong and you won’t tell me. Maybe because you think you have to protect everyone, even when it’s killing you.”

He gave a humorless laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Protecting people’s kind of my job, sweetness.”

“Then let someone protect you for once.”

That made him turn. His eyes found yours—those impossible blue eyes, glassy with exhaustion. You always lost yourself in them. Once, they were deep cerulean skies, welcoming you with every glance, whispering to you all the secrets of the universe. You used to imagine what it’d be like, swimming beneath his eyelids. Maybe then you could finally see what he thinks of you, what he feels for you.

The faint smile he tried to hold collapsed under its own weight. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you still believe I deserve it.”

The silence that followed was louder than any argument could be. You could hear the ocean outside, the clatter of Luffy or Usopp or Chopper somewhere above deck, and beneath it all the thin thread of Sanji’s breathing, uneven and ragged.

You stepped closer until your shoes touched. “You keep saying you’re fine. You keep smiling like everything’s okay, but it isn’t. You don’t have to tell me everything, just—don’t shut me out.” Your hand reached out and cupped his cheek. He instinctively leaned on your touch, as if he was hungry for more.

For a second, he let you see it: the mask slipping, the fear, the longing. His hand twitched almost like he meant to reach for yours. Then he drew himself back, curling his hands into fists.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“You couldn’t,” you whispered. He smiled then—small, bitter, breaking. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

You did the only thing you could: closed the distance again, laying your hand against his arm. His skin was warm beneath the rolled sleeve, the muscle tense. “Then let me. Please.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you. The cigarette in his mouth burned low, forgotten. He slowly reached for your face, brushing a strand behind your ear. His hand rested at the base of your neck.

“You shouldn’t touch me like that,” he murmured.

"Why not?”

“Because it makes me want things I can’t have.”

The confession stole the air from the room. Your pulse quickened; you could hear it between the beats of the ship’s hull. “Sanji—”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “See? This is why I shouldn’t talk.”

“No,” you said, voice trembling. Everything was suddenly spinning, and you felt yourself grow more dizzy. “This is exactly why you should.”

You couldn’t take it anymore. If he wanted to keep the tough guy act in front of the others, that’s okay, but not in front of you. Not when you were so close to what you’ve dreamed of since you stepped foot on this damned boat.

He started to speak, but you cut him off—the words tumbling out before fear could catch up.

“I love you!”

He froze. For one fragile heartbeat, everything stilled—the waves outside, the hum of the stove, even his breathing. His eyes widened, all color draining from his face. He took a step back, balancing himself on the counter. Then, slowly, the mask reassembled itself. “Y/N,” he began, voice low, rough. “You shouldn’t—”

“Don’t tell me what I should feel,” you said. “I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted - needed you to know.”

He turned away. The knife gleamed where he’d left it on the counter; he stared at it like it offered answers.

“You think I haven’t dreamed of hearing that?” he asked quietly. “You think I don’t—” He stopped, bit down on the rest. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” You circled around and faced him again, reaching for his face, fingertips trembling as they traced the line of his jaw. The adrenaline started pumping through your veins, giving you the needed boost to continue your confession. He wriggled out of your touch, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He groaned softly. “You don’t understand. I can’t… I can’t give you what you want, Y/N.”

“You don’t even know what I want.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice broke. He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. You could feel all of your blood reach your face. You could barely stand the heat, and you didn’t know if it came from him or from you. But you kept your eyes locked with his. You could see the faint desperation in them. God, he was beautiful in every stance. The purple bags under his eyes made his orbs sparkle as they bore into yours. “You want a man who can stay. A man who doesn’t bring danger wherever he goes. A man who deserves to love you back...” He looked at you then, and the anguish in his expression made your chest ache.

“That isn’t me.” He swiftly released you, backing away.

“I don’t believe you.”

He shook his head, backing away even more, like the air between you was fire. “Please, don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Sanji—”

“I said stop!”

The word ripped from his lips before he could catch it. Like a whip cutting through the soft, velvet flesh of your heart. It hung in the air, sharp and echoing. The sound of his own voice seemed to stun him. His hands trembled, eyes wide with instant regret. “Y/N, I—dammit…”

You couldn’t speak. He looked at you like a man watching the last light of day fade over the horizon, knowing he would never see it again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words breaking apart. “You shouldn’t waste your heart on someone like me.”

Then he turned his back to you, grabbed his lighter, and lit another cigarette. The smoke rose in pale ribbons toward the ceiling. He didn’t say another word.

You stood there, your heartbeat drumming in your ears. The kitchen smelled of burnt butter and salt. Somewhere above deck, someone laughed, oblivious to the way the world had just shifted.

You choked out a sob and left before the tears could fall, closing the door softly behind you. From the hallway, you could still hear him exhale—a long, unsteady breath that sounded almost like your name.

You lingered just outside the galley door, one hand still gripping the frame. The voices from the deck drifted faintly down the corridor — laughter, footsteps, a splash — the sound of life moving on, as if the world hadn’t cracked open inside you. You pressed a palm to your chest, half-expecting to feel it bleeding through your shirt. The silence behind the door hurt worse than his words.

How could he reject me like this…? Was it all an act? Am I that stupid?

The words echoed in your mind, trying to find a reason. But this was no logical situation. You’ve been heartbroken before, but this one stings harder than any wound you've ever had.

For a moment, you thought you heard him move — a soft clatter, the scrape of a chair — but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn back. You forced your legs to carry you down the hallway, past the faint scent of smoke and vegetables that now felt like ghosts of something you’d never get back.

Outside, sunlight hit your face, too bright. The waves glittered mockingly calm. You leaned against the railing and closed your eyes, breathing through the sting in your throat. Every word replayed, looping endlessly in your mind until they blurred into one sentence: You shouldn’t waste your heart on someone like me.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. The tears hovered somewhere behind your eyes, waiting for permission.

Inside the galley, Sanji stood where you’d left him. The cigarette had burned down to its filter, forgotten between his fingers. The ash dropped, scattering across the counter like gray snow. His reflection stared back at him from the steel pot by the sink — a man with shaking hands and eyes that no longer looked like his own.

He tried to take a breath, but it hitched halfway. A single tear fell down his cheek. The silence pressed on him, thicker than smoke. He muttered something under his breath — too soft to make out, but your name was buried somewhere in it.

He glanced toward the door you’d just closed, like maybe you’d come back. His hand twitched — the faintest movement, a half-step forward — then stopped.

Instead, he reached for the plate he’d been cooking earlier, untouched and going cold. He picked it up, hesitated, and set it down again. Then, slowly, he reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a small folded piece of paper. A recipe with your handwriting. You’d slipped it to him a few days ago, a silly idea for a dessert, half doodles and half instructions. He traced the curve of the letters with his thumb, lips parting around a whisper you couldn’t hear. Finally, he dropped the cigarette into the sink and turned on the faucet. The smoke hissed out. His reflection rippled and vanished.

As the sun set into a faint twilight, the waves rocked the Sunny gently, carrying your muffled sobs off into the open sea. Inside, Sanji stayed long after everyone had left, surrounded by the faint scent of burnt memories. Funnily enough, it smelled like burnt sugar — bittersweet and cruel — but no one could ease him now. Not even the antics of his crewmates.

You didn’t come for dinner that night. Sanji went to bed after cleaning up, carving out of his chest the last piece that held him on the Sunny.

Sanji x f!reader - Speak Now or forever hold your peace! - Part 1

THE PHOTO IS FROM PINTEREST - CREDITS TO @jennyandloiryan

The story will be written on the base of the song "Speak Now" by Taylor Swift.

You and Sanji have gotten close, ever since you joined the Strawhats on their adventures. But what happens when family duty comes before personal feelings or choices...? Will you speak now? Or forever hold your feelings a secret?

Please enjoy! I'll try to update as soon as possible!You can also read it on AO3 here.

PART 2 IS AVAILABLE HERE

♤♡ ~~ ♤♡

The morning sun spilled across the deck of the Thousand Sunny, painting the waves in glittering shades of gold. The ship rocked gently on calm waters, the sound of the sea mixing with the distant laughter of your crewmates. You leaned against the railing, stretching with a wide yawn, the salty breeze tugging at your brown locks. Another ordinary day on the Grand Line—or as ordinary as it ever got in these uncertain waters anyway.

Ever since you joined the crazy Straw Hat crew, your life has turned upside down really fast. Back in your village, you’d been just a rookie writer, trying to make ends meet by selling children’s stories. You were pretty good, if you said so yourself. The drawings and bindings of the books were also made by your skillful hands; the long line of librarians in your family still pulsed lively in your veins. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to remind you where you came from. The dream that wove your life into the others' was pretty simple, actually: to write all of your life's adventures before you hit the bucket. You even made everyone in the crew promise that if anything should happen to you, all of your stories, notes, and drafts shall be swiftly published. No matter what, and as soon as possible.

The scent of frying eggs and fresh bread drifted from the galley, warm and irresistible. It wasn’t long before the familiar voice rang out, clear and confident.

“Breakfast is ready, ladies!”

Sanji’s call sent Nami and Robin gliding past you, each greeted with an exaggerated bow and a charming compliment as he ushered them inside. Smiling at the familiar greeting, you followed a little more slowly. Sanji’s devotion to the women on board never changed, though lately, you had noticed he’d been adding subtle touches for them too—an extra slice of toast, their favorite fruit on the side, a steaming cup of tea waiting just the way they liked it. He never mentioned it, and you never asked, but the thoughtfulness wasn’t lost on them.

As you passed him, your eyes met his blue hues, and just for a moment, your figure lingered a little longer in the doorframe. "Hi," you greeted shyly, staring at his golden locks swaying in the breeze.

"Morning, chérie," he winked at you, flashing his charming, wide-tooth smile.

The weight of the moment made your cheeks flush pink. You slipped inside, heart sinking a little from the swiftness of the interaction.

It has become like a ritual for you. Usually, you'd wake up and be the first person to arrive in the kitchen. That's how this little tango between you and the blonde chef started. Sanji turned out to be an amazing listener. You two got closer and closer with every story told in the middle of the night. With every laugh shared over a cup of tea or a glass of wine. With every little glance that hung more than it should've, holding a promise that neither of you had the courage to tell.

It's amazing, really, how easily you could judge somebody just because he shows a certain type of behavior. Even Sanji. Behind that annoying habit of swooning over every single female human being that breathes, he was the most kind-hearted, sweetest, and most real man you ever met. But if you were being honest with yourself, when you two first met, you found it frustrating how he'd throw himself at Nami's and Robin's feet. But when it came to you, it was like he was a different person. More mature, grounded, more...real. Sure, he made googly eyes at you, bragged about protecting all the Straw Hat girls, and overall displayed the same goofy heart-eyed behavior he had when he first met you. But it always felt like a façade — a mask, concealing the real thoughts, the real feelings, that remain locked away in his heart.

Clearing your thoughts, you shook your head.

The kitchen buzzed with life. Luffy was already tearing into his portion as Sanji and Zoro yelled at him to slow down. Usopp was bragging about some invention he’d thought up in the night, and Chopper hummed cheerfully over his plate. Amid the chaos, Sanji moved like he always did—graceful, focused, completely in control of the storm he’d chosen to manage.

“Here you go, sweetness.” His voice softened just slightly when he handed you a plate. Your fingers brushed lightly, and a cold shiver went down your spine. You muttered a weak "Thank you" as he cleared his throat, turning away quickly. Even though he wasn't facing you, the red tips of his ears gave away the same flushed demeanor you had. It was a small detail, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter as much as the food did.

He turned back around and smiled at you then, cigarette dangling from his lips. That easy grin, the glint in his eyes—it was all so effortless, so disarming. You broke the gaze first, busying yourself with your fork before anyone could notice.

The meal went on as always: noisy, warm, and filled with laughter. But as you glanced at Sanji between bites, you couldn’t shake the sense that something was shifting. He still flirted with Nami and Robin (which always sent a sharp stab in your heart). He still bickered with Zoro across the table and still laughed at Luffy’s antics. And yet… when he relaxed, you caught it. The way his eyes drifted toward the window, fixed on the horizon. A slight delay when someone called his name, as if his mind had been miles away. Something was wrong, but you couldn't pinpoint exactly what. Sanji never opened himself up completely to you. Even in the late hours of the night, when you were both pretty dizzy from the wine or rum, he never let his guard slip up. You knew all of his stories aboard the Baratie. You knew about all of the ordeals his master, Chef Zeff, had put him through. How much he trained, both in combat and in the kitchen. Yet, it always felt like a part of the story was missing. As a writer, it only pulled you in closer and closer, eager to place together the puzzle pieces, to finally solve the enigma that was the blonde cook.

You weren’t the only one to notice something was wrong, though. Nami frowned once when he didn’t jump to gladly refill her drink, and Zoro muttered something about “spacing out.” But the moment passed quickly, drowned out by more chatter and the crash of Luffy’s chair tipping over.

After breakfast, the crew scattered across the Sunny. Chopper busied himself with his notes in the infirmary, Franky disappeared below deck, and the girls claimed their spots on the lawn chairs.

"You coming, Y/N?" Nami shouted over to you.

"No, thank you, you guys enjoy yourselves. I'll just help clean up the mess," you replied as you made your way to the sink. Helping Sanji clean up was the only moment in the daytime when you two could be alone. In these moments, you wondered if it was the right time to tell him. Over the past few months, a slight feeling has nestled in your bones. Every time you'd see the blonde man, your heart rate would speed up, making you feel like you'd collapse right then and there. Your cheeks would turn a light shade of scarlet after every casual compliment that he'd pay you. Your mind would go blank when he'd smile at you. All of those symptoms happened so many times that poor little Chopper was sent almost every time into a worried frenzy. Yeah, maybe someday, when you'll overcome these little setbacks, you could finally confess to him your feelings.

As you put the last dish aside, you turned your head over to Sanji. He worked silently, his movements brisk, but the silence stretched too long. Not unusual — you were both tired and full — but still not normal for him.

“You’re quiet today,” you tried breaking the ice gently while stacking a few dishes.

Sanji’s hands paused only for a second before he flashed that familiar, practiced grin. God, what a wretched gesture, putting on his mask again. His fake smile is even more fake today. If that were possible, the thought quickly passed through your mind.

Your hand gripped the plate harder. It was the third or fourth time in a few days that he'd be like this. You didn't understand it anymore, because it started so suddenly. Some nights, he'd make you laugh, charming you with charcuterie boards and delicious beverages, all accompanied by his warm presence and intriguing stories. And during the day, he'd act distant, aloof even, like you barely know each other. Your heart couldn't take more of this hot and cold dance.

“Just thinking about new recipes, Y/N. Don’t worry about it.” The answer was smooth, but his eyes didn’t quite match his words.

You wanted to believe him — you almost forced yourself to do so. But when he turned back to the sink, shoulders tight, the thought settled heavy in your chest: something was weighing on him. Something he wasn’t ready to share.

And though you said nothing more, you knew this was only the beginning.

~~

Later that night, you shifted around in bed, unable to sleep. What could it be? Why is he acting like this? More thoughts about possible scenarios raced through your mind, like it were trying to end a chapter in a story. But this is no simple tale. This is Sanji. If that man were a book, he'd be a burlesque novel filled with mystery, danger, and maybe romance. Your heart fluttered. Even the thought of him - of you two together - was just too much to handle. But you promised yourself. After figuring out what's haunting him, you'll tell him your feelings.