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warcats-cat · 1 year

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Pumpkin Seeds and Cherry Syrup

A/N: If people can have Christmas in July, then I can have Halloween in March! I had wanted to post this for Halloween but the time got away from me, and then it just felt too short. But I fleshed the idea out a little so, please enjoy some spoopy family fluff featuring a Human, a Gargoyle, and four puffballs of unknown species.

Once again a gift for my beloved @muppenthings, who's adorable AU's and OC's inspire me and comfort me more than words can say. I love these little nuggets so much <3

Also, as always, please let me know if I need to add any tags! Enjoy!!

Read on Ao3.

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"Virgil…" Roman's voice was hesitant, nervous, "What is this?"

The gargoyle in question had the grace to at least look a little sheepish, as he tried unsuccessfully to hide the large knife he was holding behind his back. Instead of answering, the gargoyle's smile grew more nervous as he said, "You're home early."

Roman continued on to look around in stunned confusion, taking in the house around him. There were spider webs in every possible corner and crevice; plastic bats, both cartoon and realistic, hung haphazardly from the ceiling. The kitchen table was (thankfully) covered in plastic tarp, and on the counter was a line of incredibly detailed jack-o'-lanterns, each dedicated to a different classic horror film. The gargoyle's fangs dripped with cherry syrup blood.

"My brother brought some weed to the party and was trying to start something I didn't want to be around for…" Roman replied, looking around the suddenly spookified house. He dropped the backpack he'd been holding with a soft thud.

Chirping sounded from the kitchen table, and Roman moved a bit to see, sure enough, all four of the little muppets on the table. Seemingly painstakingly separating pumpkin seeds from pumpkin pulp.

All of them in little costumes.

Roman felt a little smile breaking out across his face. "You know, if you wanted to decorate, you could have just asked." Removing his shoes, he finally moved away from the front door to inspect the decorations. There were cartoonish pictures that changed depending on the angle you looked at. The windows were splattered with more cherry syrup. The living room looked like the Pumpkin King himself had thrown up on it.

The Muppets cheerfully greeted the artist, Heart sitting back in his hind legs and wheeking until Roman gave him a little scratch under his chin. The little blue puffball was dressed like a tiny pumpkin himself, right down to a little hat with the pumpkin stem.

Stormy was also fittingly dressed, with miniscule horns and devil wings. He squeaked at Roman with a surprising smile on his face, and then from behind one of the pumpkins pulled a piece of candy corn, cut in half. Roman really hoped Virgil hadn't given the muppet a lot of those…

Sherlock's costume was probably the most fitting: teeny goggles and a white lab coat. He seemed to be leading the group effort of cleaning the pumpkin seeds, but paused obligingly for an ear scratch with a low whistle.

Goldie's costume was by far the most confusing; they also had a little lab coat, but it had been cut down the middle, with a black suit/cape thing sewn to be the other half. They also had a little bowler hat balanced between their feathery antennae, and they peeped with their typical regal air in lieu of letting Roman pet them.

Roman gestured vaguely to the table, looking once more to his gargoyle roommate for help.

Virgil lit up a little more as he pointed to each Muppet in turn, "Obviously, our little phone thief had to be a mad scientist. And happy little buddy was kinda too cute to not dress him up like a pumpkin." He paused, reaching for Stormy, who hissed and snapped a few times before grumpily allowing Virgil to lift him. Virgil looked far too pleased with himself as he said, "devil baby."

Stormy squawked and began to wiggle once more until Virgil released him. With a final attempt at a menacing hiss (which sounded surprisingly similar to an upset kitten), Stormy waddled back to his pumpkin seed cleaning.

"Okay…" Roman watched the angry Muppet chitter to his friends, before a smile broke out on the artist's face. "You know, one of these days Stormy's going to leave something nasty on your head for when you wake up, and you're totally going to deserve it."

Virgil shrugged, still smiling himself. "Eh. He deserves it too." He shrugged, and finally gave Goldie, who had been waiting for their red carpet announcement with surprising patience, a little pat.

"Ok, but explain them to me." Roman asked, looking over the long-furred floof. They were purring under the attention, posing like a glamorous little fashionista in the gargoyle's hands.

"Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde." Virgil replied, looking sheepish. "I was having trouble with a good character for them, but they liked the cape and the little hat." He released Goldie back to the table with the others, who had apparently decided on a break and begun munching on some of the seeds.

"Speaking of," Roman started, taking another look at the extravagant decorations. "Where did you get all of this?"

"That craft store down the street." The gargoyle said simply. Roman let the silence hang for a moment, before prompting again.

"And where did you get the money for all of this?" He eyed Virgil playfully, but also a bit nervous. His budget was tight enough as it is. But Virgil simply shrugged again.

"Well, the store was open but nobody was there! I only grabbed a few things. Nobody followed me or anything." He looked almost proud of himself; almost smug. He knew fully well what he had been doing.

The stone trickster probably waved at the anti theft cameras on the way out, too.

Roman sighed, shaking his head, but he couldn't help the wide grin on his face. "I cannot believe you, but also, I'm not even a little bit surprised," he said. He finished putting his things away while the gargoyle carefully finished cleaning out another pumpkin, dumping the mess into (Roman assumed) the designated area for fresh pumpkin seeds.

Roman took his time walking through the kitchen, inspecting the different jack-o'-lanterns lined up there. It, The Thing, The Shining, The Exorcist, and Saw so far. There was a little bowl of water with various wood carving utensils soaking off vegetable matter in the corner.

"Where did you learn this? These are so cool…" Roman said softly as he took in the fine details.

"Black magic," the gargoyle responded simply with a mischievous smirk; Roman rolled his eyes, but said nothing more as Virgil grabbed a few tools from the bowl and lined up the freshly hollowed pumpkin.

The artist watched in rapt attention as the logo from the original Halloween movie began to take shape, wondering if this was what the gargoyle (or perhaps the muppets) felt when they watched him paint.

After a while, he spoke up again, "So… they know they can't keep all those seeds, right? They'll never finish them all before the seeds go bad…" Virgil only shrugged, taking a long time to carefully carve thin slivers for the light to shine through, as if he was creating shading on a pumpkin.

"You and me are gonna eat some of them too." The gargoyle finally replied.

At that, Roman moved into Virgil's view, raising an eyebrow in lieu of asking out loud. The gargoyle shrugged again.

"I heard you and Re talking about Halloween a week ago, okay? You sounded like you missed being a kid a little bit. So I've got the Bugs cleaning the seeds off, and we'll bake most of 'em for them, but you're gonna show me how to roast a couple cupfulls like you said your mom used to, and we're gonna watch scary movies."

Roman felt his face warm up a little, and he looked away for a moment.

"That's, uh, really nice of you, Virge." He said softly.

The gargoyle grinned again, all sharp teeth and excited eyes. "Don't know what you're talking about; this is an entirely selfish endeavor." Virgil said, but Roman only shook his head. His trickster roommate had really gone all out for this after all.

Roman left the gargoyle to his work, wanting to watch the muppets a while. It looked like Sherlock was leading the efforts, but all four of them were working equally. Sherlock and Goldie were passing the seeds along, inspecting each one as they went. Every once in a while, one would make a high whistle, pull the seed from the pile, and nimbly toss the wet mush over the side of the table, into a bucket that had been placed on the floor.

After the seeds passed inspection, Heart and Stormy would pull them along and carefully clear the gooey pulp away with their tiny paws, scooting the brightly colored mush along a little trail which also went over the edge of the table and into the bucket. It was impressively efficient, and the way the four worked so harmoniously only more strongly reminded Roman of a little family. They chirped and whistled at each other, probably talking as they worked.

"You guys are so talented," Roman said, without thinking. All four stopped for a moment and looked up at him at the interruption, but they didn't look upset. Smiling, and blushing a little, Roman continued in earnest, "Really, it's super cool to watch you work together like this."

Heart lit up immediately, tapping his tiny front feet on the plaster tarp and wheeking again, as if he was a puppy who had done a particularly good job at something. Stormy hid his face under one paw and his little cape, but whistled a few notes as well. Goldie, regal as ever, simply posed and peeped at him with their little nose in the air like a debutante.

Sherlock's was the most adorable reaction, the little blue ball of fluff preened at his words, and Roman could see his feet tapping excitedly as he went back to work; not as big and vibrant as Heart, but clearly glowing with the praise.

Roman made a mental note to tell him he was a good boy more often, because despite being a little thief, Sherlock was very intelligent, and it was obvious the praise was a welcome surprise.

Roman felt a tap on his left shoulder, and immediately fell for the gag, looking left and seeing nothing before finding the gargoyle on his right, grinning like a spoiled cat.

"I took the pumpkins outside. Ready for some movies?" He asked, faux innocent.

"Yeah, whatever," Roman said, lightly punching the Gargoyle's arm and laughing.

The muppets finished cleaning the seeds with surprising speed, and the human and gargoyle spread most of them out on a baking pan to be dried, while about ⅕ of them were tossed into a pan to be roasted with butter and a little salt, and perhaps a few spices that Roman added last minute, to pay homage to his mother's not-so-secret recipes.

They ended up watching more kids-oriented Halloween movies, mostly for the Muppets' benefits, but it was still fun. A long night of Hocus Pocus and Scooby Doo and The Nightmare Before Christmas, among others, which left all four fuzzballs enraptured. Virgil had clearly found a spooky little kindred spirit in Stormy, and the two tricksters (Roman likes to call them Mortal Frenemies) only threw seeds at each other for about thirty minutes. (The muppets, of course, were eating seeds without butter, although Stormy and Sherlock teamed up in the middle of Coco, trying to steal the more savory treat.)

In Roman's mind, it was way better than a party. It was Halloween with his family again; memories of being ten, and falling asleep on the couch with the muppets nestled close together in a warm, purring pile on his stomach.

#warcats writes #muppen floof au #the floofs #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides #sanders sides au #familial DLAMP #nonbinary Janus Sanders #Patton sanders #Logan sanders #Roman sanders #Virgil sanders #there are two virgils #Halloween Fluff #fluff without plot

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revasserium · 6 months

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Okay okay hear me out Rain: reader watching Sanji cook, just sitting, waiting, maybe reading a book but catching glances at him every so often and he knows they're looking at him and just smiles....sorry I love that man

accidentally in love

opla!sanji; 2,569 words; fluff, banter so much banter, flirting, flustered!sanji, whipped!sanji, no "y/n", confessions, "sweetheart", fem!reader, straw hat"!reader

summary: in which sanji is trying to cook dinner but you're very, very distracting. or, sanji finally meets his match.

a/n: i know i said i might not write for anyone other than zoro but i lied. i guess i'm a sanji bitch now too. fuck.

Sanji’s always liked to say that he can cook anywhere, anytime, given that he’s got something that resembles heat and a smattering of ingredients — like any great artist, he knows how to make do. But, he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy this — the quiet of a ship’s kitchen, the gentle sway of the ocean, the simmer and pop of fat on a pan, the soft bubbling of boiling water — and you.

You, perched on the counter with your legs hanging off the side, hair piled up and pinned with a chopstick, a book in your hands or on your lap, the early afternoon sun spilling in to caress your skin like so many loving fingers. Sometimes, he’ll glance over while chopping onions or mincing garlic to catch a glimpse of you, and he’d find himself stilling, his fingers slowing, his breath suspended in his chest, caught like an insect in amber: held weightless and perfect.

“You’re staring,” you say, flipping a page without looking up, a smile twitching at your lips.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve found that admiring beautiful things helps me in my creative process,” he says, his grin going lopsided as he lowers his eyes to the ingredients on the cutting board — tiny, plump cherry tomatoes ripe to bursting. He resumes slicing each in half with swift, decisive cuts and relishes in the sound of your laughter.

“Careful with that mouth of yours — someone might accidentally fall in love with you,” you flip another page.

Sanji slides the cut tomatoes into a bowl and wipes a hand on the towel slung over his shoulder.

“Accidentally? C’mon, you gotta gimme some more credit. But if anyone’s fallin’ in love, it’s gonna be with you.”

Another page. Sanji plucks a few zucchini from a large bag and starts to julienne them into thin strips.

“What are you making?” you ask, finally setting the book down in favor of peering at all the ingredients he’s got laid out. He quirks an eyebrow, glancing up.

“What, finished with that book already?”

“Nope — just found something more interesting to look at, that’s all.”

Sanji blushes.

Let it never be said that Vinsmoke Sanji can’t take as good as he gives but by all the gods and monsters and sea kings — you’re a damn good flirt. Almost as good as he is, he used to think. Now, as he covers up his rapidly darkening cheeks with a chuckle, turning away to grab a potato for skinning, he wonders if you might just be better.

“You never answered my question, y’know.”

He looks up again, his tongue feeling strangely swollen and uncoordinated in his mouth. You’re grinning at him, your legs still swinging, but in the few seconds he’d looked away, you’ve inched closer, your outer thigh now almost pressing against the edge of his cutting board.

The first time he’d found you perched up on his long work table with a book in your lap, he’d blinked, crossed his arms, and debated on asking what on earth you thought you were doing. Chefs generally do not take kindly to their prep spaces being treated like free real estate for sitting, but he’d never been able to say no to a beautiful woman, now has he? And least of all you.

“Thought you could use the company,” was your answer to his then-unasked question. He’d laughed, nodded, and gotten on with his breakfast prep. But that was months ago and since then, it’s become something of a habit; a ritual, almost.

“What question was that? I was —” he asks, clearing his throat, his fingers almost slipping on the freshly peeled potato, “distracted by your —”

“What are you making?”

“Oh —” Sanji returns his gaze to the cutting board, now acutely aware of the smell of your skin, creamy and warm. He swallows, trying to focus on slicing the potato.

“Just a cherry tomato and zucchini noodle pasta — not often that we get such fresh produce. But Luffy’d asked if I can make chips from scratch the other day so that’s what this bad boy’s for,” he says, holding up half the potato.

“You sure one potato’s gonna be enough?” you shift your leg to cross one above the other, and Sanji has to swallow passed the thickness building up in the back of his throat at the sight of your soft, smooth thighs.

“Good point,” he says, laughing as he bends down to grab a few more.

You fall into a companionable silence, the quiet only punctuated by the tack-tack-tack of his knife on the cutting board and the occasionally shunk-thump of ingredients being swept into a metal prep bowl.

“You’re staring,” he says. And this time, it’s Sanji who grins, keeping his eyes fixed on the remainder of the herb mix he’s chopping up.

“Yeah, I know. I’m making a habit of admiring beautiful things. I’ve heard that it’s good for me.”

Heat bursts in Sanji’s chest as if he’d swallowed a shot of whiskey or gin or perhaps something even more potent. His head spins, but he steadies himself before letting out a soft, low whistle. He fights the urge to look up just to check if you’re as affected as he is.

“Keep talkin’ like that and falling in love with you’s not gonna be an accident.”

When he finally looks up to shoot you a flirty smile, he finds himself faltering as he meets your eyes.

“Who said I wanted it to be an accident?”

The knife in Sanji’s hand slips and he swears as it knicks the skin of his forefinger.

“Ah, shit —”

“Oops.” You have the decency to look sheepish as he shoots you a mildly reproachful look. But you shift your legs and tug open a drawer that had been tucked beneath where your knee had been, pulling out a small bandage.

“Come here,” you offer, reaching out as he stares at you for a second before moving forward to give you his hand. You gently wipe away the blood before pressing the bandage to the small cut, running a thumb over the edges to make sure it’s sealed.

The air hangs between you like dust motes trapped in sunlight, like first snow caught in the silvery breaths of awestruck children.

“There,” you say, the word no more than a whisper. Your hands linger over his, his skin burning where you’d touched him. Shivers skitter down the length of his spine as he gulps in a breath of air that tastes faintly of fairytale endings and happily-ever-afters.

“Thanks.”

He doesn't pull away. Neither do you.

Like this, he can count every single lash that frames your doe-wide eyes. Like this, he can feel the static thrum of electricity threatening to jump from his body to yours, and all at once, he understands why lightning always tries to reach for the closest thing to its storm-ridden skies.

Perhaps it, too, yearns for closeness — for that infinitesimal moment of connection.

He wants to reach for you.

Your lips hover a kiss’s-breadth away.

An alarm goes off.

“Oh fuck —”

He jerks away from you, the world clanging rudely back into focus as he reaches for the lid of a large pot, his heart hammering something fierce inside his ribcage. He nearly burns himself on the thick fog of steam rising from inside the pot to reveal six flat-face crabs, freshly caught that morning.

Behind him, he hears the distinct sounds of you slipping from the long work table.

“Leaving already?” he asks as he turns back around with a stab at his usual light-hearted cheek.

You lick your lips, grinning, “I feel like I’ve caused enough damage for one dinner service. If I keep hanging around, you might lose a finger next.”

“Small price to pay for the company of a beautiful woman,” but there’s a gravel and grit to his voice that wasn’t there before, and he looks away first when this time your eyes catch. He tries to busy himself with prepping the pan sauce for the crabs.

“I’ll let Nami know that the next time she wants to peek in on you cooking.”

“Hey —”

You pause at the sound of his voice just as you reach the door. You turn.

Sanji’s expression flickers between caution and anticipation as he opens his mouth, his eyes somehow sharper and darker than they usually are.

“We’re not done talking about this.”

You cock your head, “About what?”

But there’s a smile teasing at the corner of your lips and Sanji lets out a good-humored sigh.

“Alright, go. Or else I might lose more than a finger.”

Like a heart, he thinks as you close the door behind you with a soft click.

Dinner is an appetizer of cold zucchini pasta followed by a warm, tangy tomato veloute. Then come the crabs — freshly steamed over a bed of risotto and served with a lemon and rosemary pan sauce so delicious it has even Zoro sighing with satisfaction.

“Wow, special occasion?” Nami asks, looking up as Sanji comes around with a tray full of cocktails, complete with blood orange slices garnishing the lip of each glass.

“Ain’t every day a special one with this crew?” he asks, winking at Nami as she takes her drink.

Everyone laughs, but as he sets down your drink, you notice a tiny note tucked beneath the base of your glass.

You take a sip of your drink, glancing down at the note. It has three simple words written in Sanji’s unmistakable, slanted handwriting:

Kitchen — after dinner.

You tuck the note away in your pocket with a secret grin, taking another long sip of the cold, refreshing drink.

The final course is a heaping pile of home-made potato chips with garlic and cheese dip, and Luffy wastes no time in shoveling half the batch into his mouth, crunching loudly over a series of vague, animalistic hums and grunts that all seem to denote happiness.

You finish your drink and slip away under the guise of going for another.

When you get to the kitchen, it's to find Sanji already cleaning up.

“Need a hand?” you ask, setting your empty glass on the counter before lightly hoisting yourself up onto it.

Sanji shakes his head, turning off the water and wiping down his hands. He pours you another drink from a large pitcher before setting it down and pursing his lips.

“This afternoon —”

“I meant what I said —” you say, cutting him off as you look away, eyes fixed on your knees as you swing your feet away from the table’s edge, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sanji clears his throat, reaching into his pocket to grab a cigarette and a lighter, if only to keep his hands busy. The thing in his chest that he’d been so convinced was his heart for most of his life now feels very much like a ticking time bomb. Or perhaps a hand grenade, with the pin held precariously between your teeth.

One word from you and —

“So? What about you?” you ask.

Sanji sucks in a long breath of smoke, holding it in his lungs before letting it out. The familiar sting grounds him as he looks at you and wonders if you know all the things he’d do for you. All the things he’s already done.

“Me?” he asks.

“Yeah — did you mean it?” And for the first time since he’s known you, you sound uncertain, “All… all those things you said? All the things you’ve been saying?”

He takes a few steps forward, finally allowing himself to breach the delicate circle of your personal space, his free hand coming to rest on the counter next to your thigh, his palm pressing flat to keep himself from going too far, too fast.

“Three guesses,” he says, letting his eyes flicker down to your lips and linger there, “You guess right… and there might be a prize involved, hm?”

A small, knowing grin spreads across your lips even as you quirk an eyebrow.

“Three guesses to a yes or no question? C’mon, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch.”

Sanji leans in and you can almost taste the smoke on your tongue.

“But you do know better, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reaching up to tug the cigarette from his lips.

“Yes.”

You catch a flash of his smile a second before his lips find yours. He tastes of salt and tobacco and lemon-rosemary sauce.

“That’s one,” he says as the pair of you break apart. The cigarette lies forgotten on the counter.

Somehow, his hands have found their way to the bend of your waist, settling there as naturally as the tide might settle against its favorite stretch of forgotten beach.

You smile as you reach up to tug him closer, “Yes.”

Another kiss.

Sanji notes with a satisfied grin that your cheeks are just as flushed as his feels when he pulls away this time. He nods, trailing long fingers up your side, one hand reaching up to cup your cheek, the other pressing at the small of your back.

“That’s two.”

You nudge his nose with yours and he feels his hand-grenade heart leap into his throat.

“And…” you hum, letting your head lilt to one side as you ghost your lips over his, “Hm, lemme think about this one…”

Sanji rolls his eyes, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, crushing your mouth to his. It’s more insistent this time — the kiss, the breath, his fingers, your hands — more desperate and fumbling, fueled by the ever-growing heat bubbling at the base of his spine.

“Yes —” you hiss, panting as the pair of you pull apart, your pupils blown wide and dark in the dim kitchen light.

“And that’s all three,” he says, his smile going wide with warmth, “See? You’ve got it. Knew you’d get there.”

“Did you ever doubt?”

Sanji shrugs, taking half a step back to admire the sight of you, with kiss-swollen lips and heat-flushed skin. Perfect might not be strong enough a word.

“There was a moment here or there,” he says, to which you respond with a light shove to his shoulder as you hop off the table.

“Oh, I meant to ask you — what’s for dessert?”

Sanji laughs, “What? Did my garlic-cheddar chips not satisfy?”

“Really? Chips for dessert? And here I was hoping for something sweet.”

You make to leave the kitchen but Sanji reaches forward, pulling you back all too easily, spinning you around and pinning you against the door. His eyes are soft with mirth but as he leans down, you can’t help but shiver at the promise of something more lingering beneath the smoke of his breath.

“Well then, sweetheart, I think I’ve got my dessert picked out already now, don’t I?”

recs r technically closed, but... if you have an opla!sanji one... send it here.

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