The Way I Gasped- I'm In Love

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1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

Do you think that when Luffy found Law like this in Dressrosa and thought he was dead that he had a flashback to Ace with a hole in his body and that in that moment he was angry not only with Doflamingo but because he failed himself and couldn’t protect someone important to him?

Uuugh i love this tropeeee

Love at First Battle

| summary : You never believed in love at first sight. You thought it was just a silly fantasy, the kind of thing hopeless romantics clung to. But then you met him—mid-battle…

Warnings : Mid-Violence, Swearing,Near-Death,Cornyyyy, The slowest “fight” ever because someone got distracted by feelings,Sanji being Sanji

The chaos of battle surrounded you. Swords clashed, gunfire rang through the salty air, and the shouts of fighting pirates filled your ears. Your captain had decided today was the day to attack the Straw Hats—an impulsive, reckless decision that left you questioning his leadership. But questioning orders wasn’t an option.

You had a role to play in this fight.

And that role currently had you standing face-to-face with a blonde man in a black suit, his cigarette hanging lazily from his lips as he blocked the path ahead. He had an easy smirk, but his stance was solid, his presence radiating confidence. He wasn’t taking you lightly.

Sanji

You knew of him, of course. The Straw Hats’ cook, the one who could destroy opponents with his legs alone. And damn, now that you were seeing him up close, you realized the rumors hadn’t done him justice.

But you didn’t have time to admire him. You had a fight to win.

Your grip on your weapon tightened, and you lunged.

And then he looked at you.

Blue eyes locked onto yours, piercing straight through you like a damn sword. There was no warning, no slow build-up—it hit you like a cannonball to the chest. Your heart stuttered, your breath caught, and your entire body froze mid-strike.

What the hell?

Your mind screamed at you to move, to swing, to do something, but all you could do was stare. It was like time itself had stopped. The battle around you faded, distant and unimportant. All that existed in that moment was him.

And oh, you were fucked.

Because it wasn’t just attraction. No, this was something deeper, something terrifyingly immediate. It was like your soul had just recognized something it had been searching for all along.

Sanji’s brows furrowed slightly at your hesitation. “Huh?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything.

Which was a problem—because the next thing you knew, a glint of silver caught your eye.

Zoro’s sword, swinging straight for your head.

You barely had time to react before a blur of black and blonde crashed into you, knocking you off balance and sending you tumbling to the ground. The impact left you breathless, but at least you weren’t dead.

“What the hell, Marimo?!” Sanji’s voice rang out above you, furious.

“She’s an enemy,” Zoro shot back, his sword still raised.

“She’s a lady! You absolute caveman!” Sanji’s weight shifted off you as he scrambled to his feet, standing between you and Zoro like a protective barrier. “You don’t just go swinging at a beautiful woman like that!”

You barely registered the words, still trying to process what had just happened. You had stopped attacking him. He had saved you. And now he was defending you?

Your face burned.

Zoro scoffed. “She was about to attack you.”

“Do you really think I’d let that happen?” Sanji exhaled, shaking his head like he was disgusted. “You wound me, Zoro. You really do.”

Meanwhile, you were still on the ground, staring up at them like an idiot. Your crew was fighting, your captain was barking orders, and you were sitting here having a crisis over some blonde man with a cigarette and a stupidly charming smile.

Sanji turned back to you, his expression softening. “Are you alright, mademoiselle?” He offered you a hand, his voice dripping with concern.

You hesitated. You shouldn’t take it. You were supposed to be enemies. This was supposed to be a fight.

But… god, you couldn’t help it.

Your fingers slipped into his, and he pulled you to your feet with effortless grace. The warmth of his skin sent electricity up your arm, and suddenly, you were hyper-aware of everything—his touch, his scent, the way he was way too close.

You had never felt so stupid in your life.

“I—uh—” Words? What were those again?

“I…I should-…have to go”

Sanji blinked, seemingly surprised. “You’re leaving?”

Yeah. Because if you stayed any longer, you were going to die of embarrassment.

You took a step back, heart hammering in your chest. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t just fall for someone in the middle of a battle. That wasn’t how this worked!

But as you turned to retreat, you couldn’t resist one last glance.

Sanji was still watching you, his expression unreadable. And maybe—just maybe—there was something in his eyes too. Something dangerous. Something too real.

You swallowed hard.

Yeah. You were definitely fucked.

I feel like a big hug from Monkey D. Luffy would fix me

⛥ﾟ・。 1000 FOLLOWER MILESTONE PT. 1

synopsis: zoro's inexplicable feelings for the crew's newest member leave him a flushed and confused mess. he can't eat, he can't sleep, he can't think... and he can't possibly talk to her.

cw: fluffy fluff, comfort, (nsfw in pt. 2), zoro is emotionally constipated, reader's a sweetheart, girl talk, zoro is so adorable i cant, i love making him awkward

a/n: tried to be a bit more prosey lol <3 literally why i had to split this it would've been entirely too long (pt 2 is gonna be even longer tho sigh)

Zoro's appearance was deceiving.

He was an imposing figure among his fellow members of the Strawhat crew; people would often think twice before approaching him.

Some would claim it was all about his look: his glare—a look that would feel like a stab the moment it settled upon oneself.

Immobilizing, evoking uneasiness, as if in them there was an unforgiving tint that would petrify.

Moreover, the scars littered all over him—one of them rested across his chest, elongated along his clavicle and stretched well past his hip—were not only marks of his chivalry, his bravery, but also marks that warned others about his fierceness, about his staggering strength.

He was threatening to be around, to say the least.

Still, as rough, relentless, and brutal as he could be, even the roughest stones can be smoothed over time.

Yet achieving such a thing is no easy task at all.

Not for everyone, at least.

"You're in love, Zoro." Robin, the ship's archaeologist, had been the first one to point it out to him, the expression of the swordsman contorting into one of surprise.

It did not dawn on him until that very same moment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He grumbled, turning away from her gaze, whose smile did not waver in the slightest—but instead it deepened.

Frustration took over Zoro as he bit the inside of his cheek—he could not handle himself.

Being in love... it was rare, at some point even displeasing.

This, the fact that he could not deny it, that he could not help the warmth taking over his cheeks, that his heart would do nothing but race in his chest at the sole mention of you.

He blamed himself for acting so helpless, for turning ever-so hazy at the thought of you.

But he couldn't help it, to grow fond of that very same softness.

It was corny, yes, but what could he do against it?

That day, he struggled to sleep throughout the whole night, restlessly gazing up at the ceiling, in consideration to his feelings and the great dilemma of what to do with them.

A thirst that began to become so eloquent that he could no longer turn a blind eye on it—that he could to turn a blind eye on you anymore; because the once glances turned into gazing with undeniable longing and admiration.

Soon enough, you would reign over every minute of his life—in thoughts, in feelings that would dwell in his mind.

Love sickness, one could conclude, but also the impotence of not being able to do anything beyond that because, even if he accepted his feelings for you, the uncertainty of you doing the same was offsetting to him.

Maybe you'd never look at him that way, maybe it is just a silly crush weakening a heart that should only beat with the motivation to fight and protect, and nothing more than that.

But then, again, what is the motivation for protection?

To protect there needed to be a resolution, and the resolution to protect almost always derives from love.

Love is inevitable, love is everywhere.

Love can come in all shapes and colors.

But then again, this is the first time it had ever come to him in this way.

His resolution to fight, once for his dream, once for his friends, soon enough began to include you into the same picture, and even if not at a higher priority, it became his motivation during training, during meditation.

And with that meditation, with deep introspection, he began to reason; if there was a time you would open your heart up, would it be for him?

Would there be any chance?

But then, why would you?

What makes him worthy of you, after all?

But even if he talked himself into you never looking at him, he could never fight the fact that he was so head over heels over you—the feeling did not diminish at the end, but doubled.

And so Zoro began to die of thirst, and the drought could only intensify over the time and, the more he thought about your beauty, your smile, your presence, your voice, he could not help himself—it felt as if his hands were tied, and it was inevitable for him to not just surrender to the feeling.

Nami thought all of this was cute to see from the outside—Zoro was just helpless when it came to women: Every time he would be approached, he just couldn't bear the fluster invading every single corner of his body.

In fact, she, as your longest and closest friend on the crew, was the first to notice and tell you.

Fed by the way he behaved towards you, she couldn't stop herself from wanting to give him a push.

In her morning stroll across the Sunny, she spotted you sunbathing on the deck, and decided to join you.

"What's with that smile?" You knew the redhead well enough to know that with that smile came mischief.

"Noooothing..."

But you knew it was written all over her features, and so you raised an eyebrow at her.

She was up to something.

"I don't believe youuuuu..." You sang, mimicking her, which made your friend burst into a giggle.

And that was the moment she told you.

The Strawhat's swordsman was in love with you.

To be honest, Zoro was no more than fellow crewmate to you, even if you deemed him handsome in all his roughness, yet never did feed that thought beyond fantasy.

When Nami told you, she had pointed out a truth that, up to now, had remained unbeknownst to you, mistaking his indeed love for you by shyness of being around women.

"How do you know all of this?" You asked her, heart shaken up at such an unexpected confession.

But Nami just pressed a finger to her lips, giggling and shaking her head.

There was something more important than thinking about the way she found out.

There was a fiber in you that had been moved, something that tingled within you with this information.

You thought about him, but now his image held something more than just being the ship's swordsman.

There was something different now in your perception of him, something that led a wave of fuzziness to bubble in your gut.

"Y-you thinks he likes... me?" You pointed to yourself, blinking in disbelief.

Her eyes sparkled with sincerity—not to say that Nami was a dishonest person.

You knew she would never lie, even more now that she indeed found you two compatible.

"It's obvious!" she retorted, giggling, "Don't you see how he is around you?"

"He's always like that with women. He's... awkward?" you asked, still surprised.

"It's different," she emphasized; she knew for a fact—Robin, another one who rooted for you and the swordsman—that he would ask about you, or do things so his care for you would be implied.

Robin, in all her kindness, saw the goodness in Zoro, and knew that he could be the right one.

Nami agreed with her, claiming that your warmth and your sweetness was one to get easily attached to.

"Besides, he's aaalways looking at you," she nudged you, squealing in excitement. "Always asking about you..."

She trailed off, but by the time you could ask her what she meant by that, she had already dashed away, her excuse being that she had promised to meet up with Usopp.

And ever since that moment, you began to ponder her hypothesis: you became observant, attentive.

You started talking to Robin about it, and all the proof had seemed to turn toward the conjecture of the ship's navigator being true.

So you began glancing more his way, gaining another perspective from the swordsman.

Firstly, with curiosity, then with something more: a feeling that would tingle in your stomach when reciprocating glances that he would break no sooner he realized your sight on his.

To you, seeing the heat spread on his cheeks was absolutely heart-warming, and no matter how much anyone tried to reassure him, Zoro would slur out an excuse and walk away so he could finally breathe.

Adorable—that was what he looked like to you.

And so you began to fall for him.

Yet few were the moments in which you could actually get closer, and you wished it would escalate to more than just stolen glances.

But rescues, training, liberating—a plethora of other circumstances—would always get in the way of you two.

But, even so, no obstacle was as hard to sort as his awkwardness.

Zoro was aware of that, and often wished he could just "grow a pair", as Sanji would tell him and gain the courage to approach you, yet to no avail.

Helpless, it would all end in a what if, something he dreaded, but also something he could do little about.

Knowing this, frustration would take over your chest, an oppression that would become hard to ignore as you watched him turn every time he thought about coming closer.

Watching him had begun to become impossible, to the point that yearning would be unbearable.

A moment with someone you love is always difficult, yes, and even more in this case.

But at the sight of the circumstances, it was up to you to make the first move.

Making a move and praying it worked.

One good day, you woke up feeling lonely; feelings had been escalating to the point that, now, the ardor, the desire for your now favorite swordsman burned in your skin, and you found yourself missing him.

Missing him so much, that not just a glance could calm you, nor the monosyllabic responses of his.

Nami came to wake you up, staring with surprise at the fact you were already long awake before her arrival, given your habit of oversleeping.

There was a wide smile on your face as you finally got to go outside, breakfast having already been served, which you ate fast before before heading off to your chores.

"Think I'll train with Zoro today."

The few stragglers still in the kitchen—Brook, Usopp, and Robin—turned to each other as they wondered whether you were all right; judging by your large grin, and the way you were behaving—shining even brighter than usual.

The answer was obvious:

You were not all right.

And Zoro didn't expect any of this, of course.

He was, like every other day, completing another ruthless training session—starting by endurance training, followed by weight room, finishing with meditation.

Being in a constant state of go often helped him take a break from his insistent, lovesick heart—at least for a moment.

However, as he could not gather any sleep lately, he'd grown even less lenient than usual.

He kept his training harsh, curiously resembling a certain gloomy warlord when practicing his swings, or glaring at interlopers in his count.

Though, a tap to his arm from behind took him by surprise, and when he turned, he swore the air ceased to flow into his lungs.

"Hey."

He could barely stammer a greeting back at you after that; it was the first time—or at least one of the first times—that he was this close to you.

It was the first time that he got to see your beautiful eyes gleaming as you looked right at him; the first time that he got to see your smile spread for him.

It was the first time that he could see you early in the morning, where the sun shone right upon you, highlighting your breathtaking self to the point that his heartbeat turned erratic.

"Training extra hard today, I see..."

Your lips curved upwards in a bright grin while a faint wave of heat crept up your cheeks, you internally praying he didn't see—the swordsman was too busy trying to get his soul to come back to his body to notice, though.

From every single thing that could take him by surprise, this was one of the most unforeseeen to him.

Of course, he would wish and long for just a minute in which he could see you, his gaze often looking for you even if he did not want to.

You were so bright, so...

...Pretty.

Zoro felt as if his throat was closing.

The summer sun felt even more boiling on his stinging face—face that he might have been unaware had turned undeniably red.

Awkwardness immediately took over him, and so he did really forget how to utter a word correctly, without stumbling.

You did not miss any of this; it was obvious—you wanted to believe it was—and that got your heart fluttering.

"Yeah," he blurted, unable to look away from you, when he normally would.

But, how could he even look away, if any time you were around, even if you were unaware, his gaze was always upon you?

It was as if, out of reflex, he had trained himself unconsciously to look in the direction of his heart.

Of course.

"Mind if I join you?"

The question took him aback, and if he had been petrified before, he now stood as stiff as a tower.

Joining him?

You... wanted to join him?

Which meant staying until late afternoon with him?

Which meant staying together, which meant being close to one another—

—Oh, shit.

A nod left him without much of a second thought; it was faint, but overt.

It didn't fail to make you giggle.

You knew you were right to like him, and just how obvious he was with his non-verbal language could only make your heart race.

"All right, then!" you beamed, tugging a hair tie off your wrist and pulling up your hair. "You gonna show me the ropes?"

You turned to Zoro, oblivious to the leverage you had, even more so when your gaze laid ever-so charmingly on the swordsman.

However, before he could respond, some of your crewmates—Usopp, Brook, and Franky—had been unlucky enough to be caught by said swordsman in the middle of their giggling.

Whether at you, or at his helplessness, he was unsure, until his gaze flickered to them—to which they had been quick to turn away.

"What's so damn funny, huh?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it had lowered several octaves to the point that it came across as a deep hiss—needless to say, this was enough of a threat.

You, ever oblivious to what was going on, pressed your lips into a thin line in order to stifle a laugh.

It was indeed cute to see how he could assert such dominance and fear.

Your poor, terrified crewmates were quick to run and begin their chores, since it was known that Roronoa Zoro's threats were not empty ones.

So, while everyone began to scatter, the awkward silence arose once more.

Zoro tried hard to keep his gaze away from you, tried to distract himself with the workout he was supposed to be doing—but even so, you could still sense how tense he was.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" You spoke up eventually, a while after your training had begun.

There came once again your attempt to break the ice.

At first, it was a strenuous task, his answers coming in single syllables and mumbling until, as the day progressed, he would untense, and allow your conversation to develop into something more fluent, more relaxed.

Zoro eventually found himself being more verbose as you continued.

Whether it was getting used to being near you or just being partially focused on completing his training, he actually felt at ease with you, comfortable.

All of these feelings combined, plus the sight of you laughing—or just being, in general—made the feelings he kept for you bloom even more.

The same could be said about you, as well.

As he spoke, you couldn't help but allow yourself to memorize every one of his details.

The way the tip of his eye scar wrinkled as he talked, or the way he would hold back the desire to look at you—even at times it would be inevitable to do so.

Or the way that whenever he talked, there was a flicker of his eye, going down, then up, then back on you.

Or the way in which, from time to time, his lips would curve upwards into brief smiles that were ever-so heartwarming.

He showed himself genuinely to you, and this made you fall for him even more.

Which only made you want things to escalate more.

Were you nervous? Of course.

But your nervous heart commanded your movements, your actions, your words, forcing bits of excitement to bleed into your voice and make it crack in the slightest as you spoke.

And so, what was first deemed new soon enough turned into regular, and Zoro would even find himself delaying his training for you, waiting so you two could chat together, even go for a walk together.

Just like the day it happened.

WOAH.png