#he's capable of moving on -unlike one certain man- but also he clings to ideas of home rooted in people

[bluegarners]

how would YOU kill dick grayson?

i'd put him in a room with his parents, bruce & alfred and the gang, and the titans, and make him choose one. the others he can never see again, not even pictures, and he can't talk about them to the ones he chose over them

[ssson-of-sparda]

Fathers Do Cry (DMC Vergil one shot)

Summary: Vergil remembers his last Father's Day with Sparda and doesn't really realise how similar to him he has become.

Tags: Father's Day special / DADGIL! / Vergil acting like a dad to Nero

Author’s note: I woke up this morning suddenly inspired. Doesn't happen very often so enjoy ;) ps: I just love Dadgil!

***

His big blue eyes staring without blinking, the child was observing his father sitting by the fireplace in the parlour. Full of admiration, he was detailing all the features of his serious face, all the details of his confident posture and all the different luxurious fabrics that made his purple finery and as he did, he repeated to himself, wished, prayed, that someday, one day, he would grow up to be just like him.          “Aren’t you going to speak, Vergil?” The father’s powerful voice asked as he finally acknowledged the boy’s presence with a small amused smile, wondering what brilliant thoughts were occupying his eldest son’s sharp mind this time.            “I made this for you, father.” With a solemnity that didn’t suit a five-years-old but that somehow fitted Vergil’s young yet wise spirit and his will to be perfect son in the eyes of Sparda, the boy handed a paper sheet to his father.         “ And what would that be?” The man said as he took his son’s gift. “It’s father’s day so … I made you a poem… or tried to.” The adorable embarrassment tensing the child’s traits in funny grimaces made the father's smile wider but Vergil, suddenly too preoccupied with the blue paint stuck under his fingernails, didn’t notice it as he didn’t notice the paternal pride and the love shining in his eyes.               “I thought your mother wanted you and your brother to make a gift together this year.” “ You know Dante” Vergil sighed. “He has no artistic talent whatsoever. He wanted to make you a wooden sword to play with us.”    “ That’s actually a very good idea.”  Vergil frowned; suddenly worried that Sparda would not like his gift and preferred Dante’s – if he had made one of course. “Except when the sword looks like two twigs glued together. You should have seen this, father. It looked ri.di.cu.lous.” Sparda laughed at his son’s attitude, finding amusement in this sibling rivalry. “Why don’t you read me your poem then?”              “ I learnt it by heart actually. The paper is for you to remember this day by … and also because I wanted to illustrate it. Look.” Vergil approached his father, seized the poem from his big hands and climbed on his lap to show him the delicate aquarelle he had painted around the lines. “Impressive. Did your mother help you with this?” Vergil shook his head. “No, I did it on my own. I used a book I saw in that old man’s house I often go to as a reference.”       “ The old academic that lives down the hill? I thought you found him boring.” Vergil shook his head again, furiously this time and with a serious frown. “That’s Dante. Me, I really like him. He teaches me a lot of things. And he has lots of books. It’s incredible.”

Sparda ruffled his son’s silver hair whose hairdo was always made in order to somehow mimic his, thinking what a promising young boy Vergil was. Maybe more promising than Dante to be honest – though he knew he shouldn’t think that.   But there was something that Vergil had that Dante lacked. Perhaps rationality beyond his age … or some kind of maturity … wisdom maybe? He couldn’t really pinpoint what it was exactly. All he knew is that it was something unique and special, just like his son, something that made Sparda certain that one day his eldest would grow up to be a great man, a man greater than him, a man worthy of the Yamato and capable of handling its burdening power.

“Can I recite my poem now?” Sparda smiled at the sparkle in Vergil’s eyes. “Sure.” The boy quickly took back his previous position in front his father, cleared his throat, put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest.

Sparda listened to every word, fascinated and amazed by his little one’s talent and profoundly moved by all the love, all the meticulousness and the time he put in each line and in each word. “Oh Vergil. The world is not yet ready for someone like you.” The father said as he let a tear roll down his cheek. “Why are you crying, father?” Vergil worried. “Because fathers cry, my son.”

That day was the last time Vergil truly celebrated Father’s day for a few weeks later he had no father, no one to make poems to, no one to admire by the fireplace. Just a memory that he feared would sooner or later fade but that he would cling to dearly for as long as he could.

“Why don’t we bring flowers to Daddy’s statue in the park today?” Eva asked when Vergil was six, when Vergil was seven, when Vergil was eight only to be welcome by a heavy silence that was no longer hiding brilliant thoughts but a painful sadness. But each time he did as Eva suggested, maybe more for her than for him, maybe because he still loved and admired Sparda even if he had left him, maybe because he thought that his father might see him and smile from wherever he was now, the same way he had smiled when he had read him his poem on his last father’s day.

And that’s certainly why, more than three decades later, he was back in this park, on this very special day with a bouquet of purple peonies he had bought on his way here and a memory that never faded. A memory he could still recite.

"Whether the sun shines or the sky cries,                 Whether the day breaks or the night wakes,       My father always as a rampart stands Protecting my house with his bare hands.

He is strong, he is brave                 And the day he always saves.     A knight in cockroach armor     To scare my terror away."

Vergil scoffed at the lines, at the way they rolled off his tongue, finding them funny and childish and not worthy of a Blake or a Fielding at all unlike what he thought when he wrote them as a child. The over-confidence of youth probably.

“Did you just come up with that?” Vergil turned around to see Nero walking towards him with a smirk. A surprise but not a bad one. “Cause the rhyming sucks a little. I expected more of you.”                “ And I suppose you’re an expert in poetry now?”         “ I may read have read one of your books.” He said as he tapped the pocket of his marine blue coat hiding Vergil's most sacred book with pride. “You still have it I see.”     “Hey! It’s a real page turner! Can’t get my nose out of it.” Vergil had a crooked smile, understanding perfectly what his son meant.

Son? Even a year after this reveal he still couldn’t believe this boy before him, the one he had lived such a terrifying yet incredible adventure with, was his own flesh and blood.

A sigh almost escaped Vergil’s lips. How did he make such a fine young man? Someone so selfless, so generous, so loving when he was nothing like that.              “ What are you doing here, Nero?” He asked, trying not to think more about this.      “ Well it’s father’s day, no? So … I made you something… or tried to.” The embarrassed grimace Nero suddenly made made Vergil’s smile grew larger but Nero, too worried to keep the gift covered with the pieces of newspapers he had taped together, didn’t see it as he didn’t see the paternal pride and the love shining in his father’s blue eyes. The same paternal pride Sparda had displayed when Vergil was a little child with a small paper in his hands.  “Thank you Nero.” The man said as he gently took the present from his son's hands, wondering what it was even though the long shape didn’t leave much place for imagination.

He cautiously unwrapped the thing, already feeling a happiness he hadn’t felt in years warming his heart. And when he saw a katana-like wooden sword that purposely looked like Yamato he couldn’t help but smile and let a tiny drop of water blur his blue eyes. “It was Dante’s idea. Though he might have suggested gluing two sticks together.” Nero said as he scratched his head. “It looks amazing.” Vergil’s honesty was like a knife in Nero’s chest but in a good way. It was as if all the stress and all the stupid fear he had felt while making this toy sword had been stabbed away. He felt relieved, joyful even that his always so stern father was genuinely grateful and seemed to appreciate his gift. “That way, you won’t have to tear my arm apart again cause look, you have two now.” Nero tried to joke but his words just erased the smile on Vergil’s face.

“There is not a single day I don't regret what I did to you.” This was Vergil’s way to say he was sorry. Nero was certain of it. He didn’t need to know his father that well to know it. After all, he was somewhat the same. “Hey, it’s in the past. Plus it grew back, so no harm done.” He winked, trying to ease the atmosphere with a bad pun worthy of Dante even though there was a time he would have ripped Vergil’s chest open for what he had done. And a part of him knew he would never forget and maybe never fully forgive what happened.               But right now he was just happy to have a family, to have a father and to finally be able to celebrate a day he has so long hated.  “ This world doesn’t deserve you, son.” Vergil solemnly declared. He had never called Nero that way and that name felt strange yet beautiful to both of them. It made the son and the father smile in ways they never thought they would smile at each other. “ Damn, are you crying old man? I thought devils never cry.” Nero suddenly harrumphed when he finally noticed the water growing in his father's eyes.                   “ Well, fathers do cry." Vergil declared as he allowed a tear of joy and pride to fall along his pale cheek. The first in a very very long time but one he will never regret or brush away. "Father do cry.” He repeated with a glance at the statue of his father behind him.

[ephemerational]

Inertia (I)

At this point, I fear that the fever is never gonna go away, that I will spend the, likely relatively short, rest of my existence in this bed, unable to move a muscle, burning and freezing at the same time and that I am in fact currently in the process of dying.

This thought, that my life is, like that of all creatures, finite, not in some weird, vague, metaphysical sense, but actually finite in the sense that it is tonally, definitely gonna end and that there is nothing I could reasonably do to make that not be the case, had, up to this very moment, never occurred to me, and I hope that it will never occur to me again, as it scares the living shit out of me, now that I am thinking about it.

A problem presents itself: Not thinking about the thing you are currently experiencing, when there is literally nothing you are physically capable of doing aside from thinking, is really fucking difficult, if not impossible. At least for the industrial-scale-toxic-chemical-waste-dump I spent the last couple of hours turning my brain into for some retarded reason. It might have been yesterday, actually. It may very well have been a damn week ago. The ceiling of my room, the thing I am involuntarily staring at, unable to turn my head, is illuminated by the bright, natural light of noon, the same as when I lay down here, though I doubt I would remember, had there been a night or more in between. My brain is shit and so am I. A little bit of divine punishment, I would understand, but this torturous bullcrap is cruel and unusual by any metric, downright fucking unethical. I guess don’t take five Adderall when you’re blackout drunk, kids. Who would have known that was on god’s list of things you shouldn’t do if you don’t want to be banished to hell on fucking earth.

Come to think of it, those tablets must have been four years old, at the very least. Does medicine expire? Fuck, I’m pretty sure medicine expires, and not in the “we want to sell you more shit”-way, but the really fucking dangerous, in fact actually lethal way. There it is again, the fear of death. I was doing so well. Fuck. Maybe I can get up, just out of the bed, just collapse on the floor so they won’t think I’m sleeping, so they’ll call an ambulance. Get up. Get up. Get up! GET UP! JUST PLEASE GET THE FUCK UP!!

My torso jolts upright, and I suck in two lungs full of oxygen, realizing that breathing was apparently something I hadn’t been doing for a short while.

The guy on the other side of the room looks up from his laptop, obviously startled by my sudden return to the realm of the living.

“Don’t you have a job interview?”

“Don’t you care that I almost kicked the fucking bucket just now?”

“I didn’t even notice that you were in the room, dude. Don’t tell me you’re doing heroin or something”

“God no, I just tried to sober up for the interview. What time is it?”

“Like an hour too late, sorry. Actually, I’m not, this is totally your fault. You knew it was today and getting sloshed in the a.m. is a pretty stupid thing to do just in general, like even by your standards.”

“Oh, spare me the lecture, or I’ll tell dad that this isn’t working”

“Okay, okay, understood. I’ll take a walk, see you later.”

Lloyd thankfully did a passable job at reading the mood and fucked off on one of his weird three to four hour walks (like who does that?). Maybe he’s stalking someone, seems like a thing he’d be into. Off-kilter fucking guy, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

At least he’s quiet, I don’t mind having him live in my room. He’s out of the house long enough for me to do things I don’t want him in the room for and when he’s here I can bounce thoughts off him. Maybe he cleans sometimes. I’m not sure.

Doesn’t matter. Getting something to eat has priority. The Horrortrip only lasted three hours, rather than a few days but I’m starving anyway. Kind of a shame actually, would have been a cool anecdote. Mind altering drugs, am I right? Bought that shit four years ago from a friend (Max or Marc or something) to cram for finals. Should probably throw it in the trash, so I won’t get any dumb ideas in an intoxicated state, which is a lot of the time, let’s face it.

Ah Fuck. Dad’s sitting in kitchen, indulging in some delicious looking shit. Can’t let him see me, not being at the interview he set up and all. Stealthy retreat.

There’s probably some foodstuff stashed in Lo’s room. I knock. The only thing that can’t be found in my brother’s room is Lo himself. 90% of the time he’s not here and the other 10% he brings so many people that he’s impossible to spot him. For someone I have spent my entire life with he sure is absolutely fucking incomprehensible. How did he manage to grow up alright? Like an actual functional human being? Didn’t we have the same parents and shit? Fuck this! The Wardrobe opens with far less creaking than one would assume from the looks of it and below the neatly organized shirts there is a similarly neat row of wine bottles and a tower of various salty snacks, far too perfectly compact to have been built by someone who hasn’t managed to beat me in Tetris once. I rip open a bag and start stuffing ham flavored chips into my mouth. I don’t think I’m a wine guy, never really gotten into it, but it’s been a while since the last time I had some, and this seems like the kind of day to get into something, especially when it’s the only easily accessible fluid to wash down the disgusting taste of oil and fake bullshit artificial meat flavor. I take a swig. It’s sour and clings to the tongue, better than I remember wine to taste like, but objectively worse than beer or hard liquor. My hands tear another bag open as though on autopilot, peanut puffs this time.

The cycle repeats with the wine getting better the more I pour down the garbage chute that is my throat. The party food gets worse, but not bad enough to stop eating it. I won’t stop until it’s gone. That became the plan like a bag ago, not that I’m still hungry, I feel sick actually, but at this point it’s easier to just keep going. I could just eat everything, all that even slightly exists, rip it apart, dismantle it on an atomic level and wolf it down, devour it like a fucking hound. Like the biggest of dogs. The biggest possible dog. A thought pops into my head: how big would the biggest possible dog even be? Like, bigger than the biggest currently existing dog definitely. That would be incredibly unlikely: to have hit the maximum by accident. Things can only get a certain size, something about cubes and mass and shit. That’s where the research money should go, breed them until we have the largest physically possible doggo, so we could ride them, replace cars with a bunch of insanely good boys. Do they die once their size exceeds a certain point? That would make the whole pursuit kind of unethical and animal rights activist attack prone. Might not even apply to dogs, they aren’t particularly squarey after all. Maybe it’s a definitional thing: That dogs could be infinitely large, but at some point it would stop being sensible to call them dogs. If there was a galaxy sized dog shaped thing, I don’t think I’d call it a dog. It has transcended doghood and so have I. Tremble before my might for I have consumed everything. Close to everything. Four bottles and seven bags deep. It’s over. There are still ten-something wines left, but not knowing how much they cost, it seems risky to drink more. Instead lying down and trying not to throw up appears to be the responsible course of action.

“The fuck did you do?”

The ghostly pale, cloaked figure of a boy, wrapped in a blanket and not wearing anything else by the looks of it, stands over me. The tone of his voice indicating sincere curiosity.

“Almost killed myself, missed a thing and plundered the good one's apocalypse stash, all the while hiding from the authorities. They call me the chips-bandit. You?”

“Pretty much the same tbh… Anything left?”

“Wine, the rest was mercilessly devoured by the ruthless criminal I have become.”

“Argh, shit.”

“Why?”

“I’m kind of starving and the ancient one is guarding the kitchen”

“Yeah, I know. Skipping school?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

The less estranged of my two brothers scratches his neck, a nervous habit of his, that got so out of hand sometimes, that it, in combination with his general appearance, made him seem like a crack addict going through withdrawal.

“I got a commission yesterday. Some rich Swedish kid offering me 300 for a pic of his OC engaging in not-all-that-safe-for-work kinds of activities. Please don’t ask what exactly. So there really wasn’t time for compulsory education.”

“Sick dude! You might actually make it if you keep going like this”

“Don’t really have a choice. If this can’t keep me alive by graduation I’ll just fucking off myself. I’ll accept failure like a man, become a modern samurai by first becoming like fucking human yakitori.”

It baffles me that Jerald even managed to go to school on most days, being cripplingly scared of practically everything outside his room and more neurotic than should even be possible. Dude’s a fucking train wreck. If his art wasn’t able to support his continued existence, he would either have to find a normal job, or explain to dad why he can’t, both of which, he had decided two years ago are fates far worse than death could possibly be. Mom had remarked on a few occasions that he drew like his life depended on it, blissfully unaware of the fact that it genuinely kind of did.

“Could you like leave out the references when you say dark shit like that? Stylistic clash gives me the howling fantods.”

“And when was the last time you did that?”

“Act as I say, not as I do.”

The sound of the front door opening interrupts our conversation.

“Dad leaving or Lo returning?”

No one ever heard Lloyd coming or going, so that wasn’t even worth considering. Also supported my stalker theory.

“Latter’s unlikely, seeing how the sun’s still up”

“Sure, but do you really wanna risk it?”

“We could “risk it”… Or we could not be complete idiots and look out the window.”

Jerald decides to go with my cunning plan, stealing a look at, what was, judging by his response, the ancient one.

“Today my friends, we feast.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to get up and embark on any kind of arduous journey to the bountiful land of real, non-terrible food.”

“Your loss, dude.”

With that he leaves, and I once again lie alone on my brother’s carpet, covered in chips dust. Taking a good hard look at the circumstances that led me here and the backside of my eyelids. I fall asleep.

[littleweeghost]

Sanji should be king of the North Blue

I’ll admit, this is a bit of a stretch and a little too fantastical for the taste of many, but I can’t help but enjoy the thought anyway. I’ll also admit that there are a couple flaws with this train of thought but hey, life is never perfect. So let’s dive into this scenario and allow me to explain what I wish to see come out of this arc if I were allowed to choose.

           I had this thought when I reread the beginning of this recent arc and was reminded of some questions I had that still haven’t been answered. One of which was Who dethroned the Vinsmokes’?

Perhaps it’s not important for the plot of the story, but if Oda does decide to leave the answer out, I’d think it odd. Granted, until this arc, no one has ever heard of the Vinsmoke’s but it isn’t as if he gave them “scrub status”. This family is still powerful enough, influential enough to effect the marines, Sanji’s bounty, the reverie, even the science community within the One Piece universe. Yet, they (well, more like Judge), lost their throne in the North and we still haven’t an idea as for who they lost it to. In addition to the Sora flashbacks, all we do know for certain is that despite the Vinsmoke’s power, they still lack in numbers or something which lead them having to need Big Mom’s help.

           So let’s break this down first:

Weaknesses

1.      The siblings: I feel as if Reiju would support Sanji no matter what, but there is no way in hell the brothers are agreeing to this.

2.      Sanji wants to be a cook, not a king. He can’t rule a kingdom and plus, he’s too focused on helping Luffy become pirate king and looking for the All Blue.

3.      Sanji isn’t a Vinsmoke and he doesn’t ever want to be associated as one.

4.      The North Blue doesn’t want another Vinsmoke control!

5.      Sanji has nothing to gain by becoming king.

Responses/Strengths

TBH, I haven’t thought through what Oda may have in store for the brothers; maybe they’ll be arrested or maybe they’ll be sent away somewhere. Sanji may have said—numerous times—that he doesn’t care if they die but I don’t think that’s completely true. As Reiju explained, the genetic modifications messed up their empathy compass so their actions aren’t completely their fault and knowing how benevolent and empathetic Sanji can be, I’m sure he won’t be the first in line to order their execution.

First let’s do a little compare & contrast. Luffy- right upon meeting him, we automatically know who he is (and what) and what he wants to do with himself—not that different from Naruto exclaiming he wants to be Hokage. We know he’s the MC, he’s a devil fruit user (and what kind it is), and we know he wants to be pirate king. Even better, we even know how he can achieve that goal just from the intro alone—find the One Piece. Zoro- similarly, we meet him, learn who/what he is, and what he wants—to be the best swordsman in the world. Notice the pattern yet?

Well, also notice how both these characters, from the get-go, have also made promises in some shape or fashion on how they are never going to give up or lose in order to accomplish their dreams?

Now let’s look at Sanji; we meet him and learn what he is and what he wants—to find the All Blue—and learn of its existence….and that’s it. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with that except notice the lack of detail? How does Sanji wish to find the All Blue? When he does find it, what does he wish to do with that information? Why hasn’t he asked Nami—the navigator—about any possibilities for its location? What does he want when the journey ends? So on and so forth…

See, Oda has written Luffy’s and Zoro’s story with a beginning and an end—we’re just watching the journey in progress—but Sanji isn’t as clear cut. In fact, he’s one of the most complex characters Oda has ever written about. You could even make an argument that he’s done a thorough job of fleshing out the rest of the crew, except Sanji. So what does that mean? Well, in the world of anime, this can imply that Sanji, unlike Luffy and Zoro does not have immunity. Albeit, this is Oda’s story and he mostly likely will not kill Sanji or make it so the All Blue doesn’t exist, but the point is that there is a possibility that Sanji can die. It surely doesn’t help that Sanji is always at the ready to die! Jesus, Sanji, calm down!

Let’s move on to point #5, hm? Sanji has nothing to gain by becoming king. I disagree and there are 2 main reasons why it could be beneficial for Sanji to claim the North. First let’s bring our focus back to Luffy; why does he want to be pirate king again? According to Luffy himself, he said he wanted to be pirate king because the pirate king is the freest man of the sea. Beautiful…except that isn’t entirely true (sorry to burst your bubble, Luffy). Sure, Rogers practically owned the world prior to his death, but he wasn’t really “free”. In the OP universe, many pirates own territories (i.e. multiple islands and villages) and unless your allies with them, it’s considered trespassing and/or a declaration of war if you enter another pirate’s territory w/out permission. I’m sure Rogers owned a lot of territories, but it’s also heavily implied that he made a ton of allies too, something that Luffy seems to encompass as well. But just think how beneficial it’d be for Luffy to be able to gain guaranteed access around the North w/out even having to be “responsible” for it—because remember, Luffy doesn’t want to give orders or own any armies w/the exception of being a captain. He already is allies w/Vivi from the East and if he can find allies from the South and West (or obtain territories in those areas), that’s already half of the fucking world under his name! In summation, if Sanji claimed the North, it’d give Luffy free access to more territories and freer space to roam.

The second reason is for Sanji himself; he wants to find the All Blue and whatever that may mean for him, ultimately, this means his search needs to start by looking in one of the Blues, so why not in the one he was born in (for starters)? There are theories that suggest that the Red Line is what keeps the All Blue from being in a thing (and I’m one of those believers) and that principle can also be applied literally; if all leaders of the Blues can align together, then the All Blue wouldn’t just have to mean the ocean, but the people as well. Sanji as a king/ruler would be in an All Blue alliance. That said, I also think something of this magnitude would help Sanji mentally/emotionally; unfortunately our boy has a lot of baggage and he has trouble seeing his value in life. Something like this would be perfect for Sanji to develop confidence because of how benevolent he is, he’d see first hand how life-changing he is to other people, particularly a poverty-stricken, hungry region. 

This leads to weaknesses 3 &4, which go hand-in-hand in some fashion. This idea may be all nice but the problem is, would Sanji ever be willing to reclaim his name and would the people of the North even want/let him take over? I’m willing to bet that, no, Sanji would never take the Vinsmoke name (under any circumstance) so best bet is that he either takes his mother’s name or he takes on Zeff’s name. As for the people of the North, well, they have been suffering from corruption for what seems like decades now so I personally believe (and you’re all more than welcome to disagree) that Sanji can easily slip under the radar and successfully take over. They may not like it or try to resist but if the Strawhats back up Sanji—which they certainly would—then I don’t think it’d take long to win the people over.

Now point #2; Sanji certainly seems the type to be content just cooking for the rest of his life, at least, that’s what we’re meant to believe. Remember, he initially believed he’d be living at the Baratie his whole life as a chef until he met Luffy and realized he wanted more. And that’s no fault of his own, of course he believed that because he escaped from a dysfunctional family, a shipwreck, and starvation 10 years prior so there was no reason for him to believe he’d be living any other kind of life. My point is though, that when Sanji is in a comfort zone (as he currently is w/the Strawhats), he has the tendency of clinging onto it without thought of his future. In other words, he lives by the day, in the moment, not in the could be. That explains why he thought him going through with the marriage was the best option because it’d mean the safety of the crew. He didn’t even consider how the marriage would affect him or how his disappearance from the crew would affect them. This also explains why his self-sacrificial nature is so potent.

Because of that, Sanji may be unaware of his full capabilities, but let’s not forget that this is One Piece; he does not have to choose one or the other. If he were to become king, he could still very well continue to be Luffy’s left-hand man and chef. As ridiculous as it may sound, we have a couple of examples of rulers multitasking. Just take the previous arc—Doffy was not only king of Dressrosa, but a shichibukai, and a dealer in the black market. Even further, Doffy too came from the North; funny enough, you could argue that he’s the opposite of Sanji—the perfect yin-yang situation. So with that said, it’s not a matter of Sanji not wanting to be anything other than a chef, it’s just that he hasn’t thought about what else he can do.

Lastly, before I end this long ass post, let me just point out that Sanji becoming king would only strengthen the parallels that already exist between him and Luffy. I always found it special how it was typically Luffy who knew of Sanji’s personal story and they have some strong similarities in terms of character traits, lifestyle, and personalities. But even if not, I still think, why can’t be king? He is capable, he just has to realize it. So that’s my thought on it, sorry this was really long and tell me what you think!