🎠

“Fuck, Sanji,” you utter under your breath. You’re in your little tent, almost cozy in Sanji’s sleeping bag, and he’s fucking dying out there. He’s more sensitive to low temperatures than other members of the crew, and well aware of it. In the morning, before they started exploring this atoll, he’s one of the few that insisted on bringing all the camping equipment the crew is now using.

They had thrown anchor when the sun was still high in the sky, bathing the little alcove and the surrounding forest in the warmth of a spring day, but it took Nami only a moment to study the winds and the cloud patterns above them and declare, with whatever sixth sense she’s been gifted with, that  by night they’d be surrounded by winter weather. She was right—but she undersold it. By a lot.

Zoro—who says any opportunity to survive challenging environments is an opportunity he’ll take—and Luffy—who just couldn’t be bothered to pack properly—barely changed their outfits before leaving the Sunny. You had least layered a bit and brought scarves and gloves with you, but that’s about it.

Meanwhile, Sanji rounded up all the sleeping bags and tents they had, saddling Usopp and Franky with sharing the burden with him. It had seemed unnecessary to bring so much extra weight for what was supposed to be a casual stroll on this little speck of an island, only big enough to keep Luffy’s attention for a day maximum, but thank God he decided to play it safe.

It was like the Sun decided to set early today, aided by a sudden deluge of dark clouds. A blizzard started raging in the distance, right above the poor Sunny, impeding the crew’s safe return to their warm beds and an even warmer meal, so you had to camp out in the open for the night. Neither the snow nor the rain reached the tundra-like stretch of open land you found yourselves in, but the cold was—and is, even worse now—brutal. Chopper was deeply apologetic to be the only one enjoying the situation.

The tents were set up quickly, and they offered a little comfort, but the ground you are all trying to sleep on remains frigid at best. Nami, who borught her own sleeping bag, managed to squeeze Robin right next to her for the night, but there was no hope of letting a third person in.

“Let’s switch. I’ll be okay with sitting nearby and keeping watch, at least for a while,” Robin tried to propose, and from the gasp Sanji let out upon hearing that, one might have thought she just shot him in the chest. 

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, blonde fringe flying left and right as he emphatically shook his head no. “Mon ange, you take mine. I insist.” 

Your mouth snapped closed at his preemptive rebuttal. In hindsight, you could have tried to manipulate his chivalry and convinced him that sharing was the perfect solution, but in the moment you lacked the courage. Strange how his eagerness to put the women around him on a pedestal has somehow looped around to make him intimidating—for you, at least; Nami and Robin certainly have no such issues. He thinks of you so highly, and the idea of shattering that perception by saying or doing the wrong thing often paralyzes you.

Now, that proposal that died in your mouth is all you can think about. We could sleep together, would you mind? He would have blushed at the double entendre and caved in quickly if you had made your tone sweet enough.

Another minute of your thoughts spinning around the same centre, another minute of running a nail over the edge of your teeth to dispel nervous energy, and you decide that neither you in here, nor Sanji out there, can take any more of this. 

You extend an arm outside of the warm cocoon of the bag, and stretch it as far as you can to open the tent a bit. The sound of the zip raising up a few inches makes Sanji’s silhouette shift as he looks in your direction, and before you can actually call out for him he’s moving closer on his own. 

One gloved hand goes to close the zip again. “Wait, Sanji,” you whisper to stop him. 

He stops trying to pull. “Oh, darling, y-you’re awake?” You can feel your face fall into a grimace at how shaky his voice is. “I thought the wind was making your t-tent open or something.”

“No, no, it was me.” Without having to slip out of the sleeping bag all the way, you try to tap the zip further up and open. A frigid tendril of wind snakes in and makes you wince. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Me? ‘M doing just fine,” Sanji says. Just because he’s lying with ease, it doesn’t mean it sounds convincing. “Was I, uh, keeping you awake…?”

Your heart squeezes in your chest when Sanji lowers his head to peer at you through the opening. He’s trying to bury his whole face in the puffy neck of his coat, but there’s a constant tremor in his jaw like he’s attempting to keep his teeth from chattering. Eyes large and round, darker spots on his cheeks and nose that would be a bright red if colours weren’t so muted by the moonlight—he’s probably the cutest he’s ever been. And so visibly uncomfortable.  

“Come in here for a while.” You meant to first reassure him that he hadn’t woken you, but the invitation tumbles out of you before you can manage. “You must be freezing. Come on, just a few minutes.”

“I don’t want to let the cold in here…” he protests weakly, but you can see that he wants to say yes. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth as you repeat your plea to stay with you and warm up. “I guess—if you really don’t mind—”

You limit yourself to a wide smile when he finally acquiesces, and that’s all you can do to avoid tugging him down to lay on top of you before he’s even managed to fully crawl inside. You watch him as he squats in a spot as far away from you as he can. He takes off his gloves, sighing in relief when they’re not wrapped around his hands any longer.

“We should have all listened to you, we were not prepared well for this weather,” you say softly. You frown when he starts trying to blow warm air on his fingers. “Did your gloves not help you at all?”

“They may have gotten a little wet, it’s really humid outside,” he admits, sending a small but sincere smile your way. 

“Sanji…” you sigh. You hope you don’t sound exasperated, since all you are is pained that a boy you hold so dear was literally left out in the cold like an abandoned puppy, but Sanji still looks a little downtrodden at your tone. “Can you come here, please? Why are you so far away?”

“I don’t want you to get cold!” he reiterates, but still shuffles near you at your request. The groundsheet crinkles under his knees. “Darling, I promise you I’m fine—”

He’s finally close enough that you can grasp one of his hands. You gasp at the complete lack of human warmth in his fingers. Sanji’s hands, so precious to him, almost blue from the cold? And he thinks you’ll just curl up in his sleeping bag and doze off while he suffers? 

“Holy shit, that must feel awful.” You free your other hand and bring it out of the bag enough to gesture that he should let you hold both of his, and he complies easily. The image of him kneeling next to you, hunched over so you can rub some life back into his fingers, while still mostly buried in a plush lime-green sleeping bag must look funny to an external viewer. All you can think about is how to convince him to strip down a little and get in there with you. 

He gently interlocks his fingers with yours when your movements slow down. “That’s so much better, angel, thank you. I’ll change my gloves and be more careful not to get them wet—”

Holding him like this, no matter the context, goes to your head. “No way I’m leaving you to freeze.” Before you can consider if the move is too revealing, you swipe your thumbs down the line of his index fingers, trying both to soothe him and draw him closer by the sheer strength of your longing alone. “You don’t have to keep guard or anything, you can just use your Observation Haki—”

“I promised Nami-san…” he protests, eyes downcast to stare at where you’re touching. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—from the redness, first induced by the cold, now spreading all over from being alone with you. 

“Not true, you told Nami you’d stay awake and keep an eye out. You think she wants you to die of hypothermia or something?”

Sanji sighs. “No, of course not. And I guess if I catch a cold I won’t be able to properly take care of my favourite ladies.”

That drags a smile out of you. Sanji never misses an opportunity to act too cute for his own good. “Think of it however you need, as long as you get in here quickly.”

“In where?” he asks, one curled eyebrow raising tall on his forehead. “In there?”

“It’s your sleeping bag, and there’s some more space in here,” you try to explain. A good dose of mortification falls like lead into your stomach. Was that too forward? Have you been pressing too hard on the topic this entire time?

Sanji’s mouth hangs open for a moment, and his hands go slack in your hold. You take it as a sign to release him, some more of your courage waning. “More space—to fit both of us? In there? Together?”

“Sanji,” you groan, shuffling deeper down into your cocoon, hoping at this point that a portal will open at the bottom of it and swallow you whole. 

You can’t get over the embarrassment now that Sanji is acting so bewildered by the notion. Part of you, no matter how much insecurity you harbor about Sanji desiring you as much as you desire him—at times the thought feels absurd— believed he’d jump at the chance to get in bed with a girl, even just to sleep.

“No, hey, don’t hide! Come back up, darling,” Sanji coos. “I don’t want to say no, obviously.” Maybe he read your mind. “Why would I want to say no to such a wonderful offer?” Or maybe that strangely confident part of you was right. 

“Come in here, then,” you say without reemerging from the depths of the plush fabric. You realise anew how warm it is under there, and your blood starts pumping faster at the thought of Sanji squeezing in next to you and cuddling close to share that warmth. “So we can both sleep.”

“I—okay. I need to take off some of my clothes, is that okay? Or you’ll be the one freezing.”

You nod before you remember that he can’t see you. “Y-yeah, no problem.” He could strip naked and let you kiss every inch you can reach in such proximity—that would be ideal—but you’ll take a Sanji with three layers on over no Sanji any day of the week. 

You listen to the sounds of shuffling, metal buttons popping open, and quiet curses when his coat drops to the floor and Sanji can feel the cold tenfold. You pretend you’re being very patient, but the way you’re tapping the toes of one foot against the others tells another story. 

“Darling?” he calls, hesitating after he’s taken his shoes off. “My trousers are kind of damp, I can’t—”

“Take those off, too, then,” you interrupt him with the most indifferent, placid tone you can fake. Sanji wears shorts sometimes, when they’re in a stretch of hot weather on the Grand Line, but even his swimwear is usually on the longer side and quite baggy. You’ve only ever seen a few inches above his knees, so your excitement at the prospect of seeing his bare legs borders on comical.

Not that you see much of anything now, either. Sanji manages to take off his pants while hiding most of his body from view, as if he needs to be ashamed of anything, with a physique like his, and the dim light blurs the details of what you can observe. You think his boxers have a heart print on it, but it’s not a safe bet. 

Sanji crawls closer to the edge of the sleeping bag, and you signal once again that he should get in by unzipping the side. “Thanks,” he says, voice huskier than his usual. 

Your breath stays suspended in your lungs as he slips inside next to you. Despite his efforts to not touch you, the space he’s trying to squeeze himself into is smaller than a single bed, and your sides slide together as he lays down. He murmurs a few sorry’s as it happens, but his earlier protests seem to have died down completely.

When the warmth has had a moment to sink into him, he lets out a tremulous sigh of relief—it’s obvious that he needed a break from the harsh weather, and still he never would have asked for it. Your heart constricts painfully at the tremors that shake Sanji's body. He's still trying so hard to keep his teeth from chattering, but there's little he can do for everything else. 

“You've got to stop,” you beg. There's enough anger over Sanji's self-sacrificing tendencies to turn it into a command. 

Sanji tries and fails to shuffle back within the confines of the sleeping bag. “Sorry,” he whispers shakily, “it should get better soon.”

Frustration and fondness form an unlikely mix that grips tight around your throat. “No, no, Sanji, come on.” You move a foot blindly, hooking it around Sanji's calf to still his retreat. “I didn't mean stop shaking or moving. Stop doing stuff like this to yourself.”

“Ah, Mellorine—” Sanji mumbles, and you know, you feel it in your bones, he's going to try and downplay his near-hypothermia and shower you with compliments to deflect your worry. Be it the late hour, the pressure behind your eyes that demands you close them and sleep; be it how cold Sanji still feels or the sweet ache in your bones at being so close to him—whatever it is that imbues you with courage, you decide you won't let him get away with that this time. 

“I don't wanna hear it.” You were hoping to get it out with a firmer tone, but you sound on the verge of tears instead. “Shut up and let me help.”

You reach out, fingers bumping into his shoulder, the soft material that surrounds you pushing and pulling. It seems more than happy to get you closer, folding over your bodies as you shift enough to feel Sanji's chest on yours. 

Shielded by the shadows that cover your face, your lids flutter at the novel sensation. You'd feel ashamed of the tendrils of pleasure slowly pulsing in time with your heartbeat, since, after all, you got this man in your sort-of bed for medical-adjacent reasons, but…it's Sanji. He's never shown anything but breathless gratefulness at being touched by a woman. 

Just in time to squash any lingering doubt, you hear his breath hitch at the contact. He dissolves into a long shiver that breaks his resolve, and suddenly you're gripping him tighter, nose in his fine hair, knees knocking together before you raise one thigh over his. 

Sanji moans softly, in obvious and innocent pleasure now that your body heat is enveloping him properly. “Oh, ‘t feels so nice,” he stutters over your neck, “you really are an angel. Thank you, darling.” 

You almost thank him back on instinct. You might feel nice to him, but he's perfect in your arms, cuddled up as best as he can against you like he wants to sink into you. Gladly, you hold him tighter, burning up now that you have him in such close proximity—your face might as well be on fire, heart pumping hot blood like an overworked engine. He must be able to hear it. Surely all the layers of clothing between you are not enough to muffle the sound of it exploding out of your ribs. 

“You're so silly,” you mumble instead. His hair smells superficially like faint smoke, and like artificial mint from his shampoo when you brush your nose between the soft locks. “Your hands okay?”

You barely bite back a pet name at the end of the sentence. Sanji shuffles to get his arms folded between the two of you, and his closed fists are frigid when they bump into your stomach. “Mh, they've felt better, but it's okay. I’m also pretty sure my toes are all attached, but who knows—’t’s not like I can feel them.” 

You huff a laugh, and his face opens into a boyish smile. You can't see it, only sense his cheeks where his face is touching the naked skin of your neck. ”You joke, but we better check.” At the bottom of the sleeping bag, where there’s more room for movement, you have to swipe your own feet forward before you manage to meet his. Sanji, for all his insistence on being ready for bad weather, hadn’t bothered with proper boots or heavy socks. You hiss in sympathy at how cold his naked ankles really are when you touch them. 

“Sanji, your leg can catch on fire, how did it get this bad?” you mumble into his hair. 

Sanji’s little content sigh that he lets out when your warmer skin stays in contact with his just about breaks you. “I gotta be at least a little mad for the fire thing, Mellorine,” he explains, dismissing the topic with a gentle shake of his head. “You shouldn’t worry so much about me, I’ll be just fine. Don’t let me keep you awake any longer, please.”

You bite your bottom lip to hold back your own plea, wishing you could infuse the very air around the two of you with all that joyful, desperate fondness Sanji evokes in you. He could soak it all up, too tangible to doubt, and he’d feel soothed and weightless as if he’d just lowered his tired body into a hot bath. Frightened as you are to speak your feelings for him out loud, the best you can do is fumble to hold his hands. “We’ll both rest when you’re all better.” Before you can second-guess your intentions, you bring Sanji’s hands under the hems of the shirt and tank top you’re wearing. The first overwhelming impression is that you just shoved ten icicles up against your flank, but the knowledge that a part of Sanji’s body you’ve fantasised about one too many times is now under your clothes is enough to make you melt. 

“Keep ‘em there, it’s warmer,” you choke out quickly, not trusting what your voice will reveal if you let your desire to fully set in. 

“Miss, I—that’s—” Sanji stutters. His palms press more firmly into the dip of your waist, only for a moment. “You’re too good to me,” he settles on eventually.

Your vision is tinted blue from the moonlight filtering through the tent’s walls, and Sanji’s humid breath trickling down the collar of your shirt is making a haze settle over all your thoughts; all in all, this is starting to feel more like a dream you’ve had a thousand times. The oneiric atmosphere is not conductive to make well-thought out choices—but maybe that’s what you’ve needed this whole time. You could have had Sanji like this months ago if you’d found the courage to make the first move. 

While he’s mumbling more of his thanks, throwing a couple more Miss in there like the title is not making your cunt throb, you grab both his wrists and slide his hands up towards your solar plexus. You’re not wearing a bra, which Sanji notices with an accidental brush of his fingertips and remarks on with a gasp that silences his words. He lets you properly slide an arm under his neck, and soon enough you have him moulded comfortably to your frame—entwined legs included. 

“Try to rest, ‘kay?” you tell him. Your thumb swiping back and forth on his nape seems to do the trick; Sanji’s one visible eye slips shit after a couple of slow blinks.

“You, too. Goodnight, angel.”

He goes out like a light. You try to fall asleep, you really do—perhaps it’s physically not possible to do so when your body is firing on all cylinders, begging you to get some sort of sexual relief. Just knowing that Sanji’s legs are naked, meanwhile you are wearing stupid fucking clothes that keep you from feeling his skin on yours, is driving you insane. A couple of minutes of staring off into nothingness while listening to Sanji’s steady breathing calms you down just a notch, so at least now your heartbeat isn’t an active bomb threat anymore, but you’re a far cry from relaxed.

After a while, Sanji starts grumbling and moving in his sleep. You attempt to soothe him by petting his hair, whispering sweet nothings that he won’t remember, but it only gets worse until he wakes up with a confused call of your name. 

He stiffens for a second upon opening his eyes, and you let him move back a little from your embrace. Is he still in pain from the hours spent outside? Were you touching him too much while he slept?

“You okay?” you ask tentatively.

“Mh? Yeah, sorry! I woke you up again?” Sanji refuses to meet your eye. His fingers twitch over your stomach, and he seems shocked to find them still there under your shirts, right before sliding them out. 

The loss of contact saddens you more than you thought possible. “Kind of, I had just dozed off,” you lie. “It looked like you were having a nightmare, though, I was worried.”

“It did? I don’t remember what I was dreaming.” You swear a blush spreads on his face, but the faint moonlight doesn’t help you decipher his expression that well. “I’m good now, darling. Let’s go back to sleep, I promise I won’t wake you up again—I wouldn’t want my princess to be tired tomorrow.”

His princess. That’s a low blow—you can’t argue with him after that. You only nod, bidding him goodnight again, and you’re gifted one of those beautiful smiles of his. 

Determined to not act like a freak this time, and just relax and doze off for real instead of sniffing his hair or whatever the hell you were about to do earlier, you try to settle in a more comfortable position. The goal is not achieved, since you accidentally press one thigh over Sanji’s front, and feel—

“Ah, fuck,” Sanji says under his breath when you gasp. He’s very clearly hard, enough that you can half guess the length of his cock, that’s how obvious it is. 

So he was blushing, and he was not having a nightmare. How did you miss this when you were half on top of him? 

If you were aroused before, it pales in comparison to the sudden, violent heat that starts in your stomach and quickly pools low between your legs. It’s like you got sucker-punched by desire, so much so that you lose your breath with that gasp, and can’t find words to defuse the situation. 

Sanji tries to shuffle away from you, instinctively raising on one elbow like he wants to jump out of the bag. The way he’s pulling on the fabric makes you roll closer to him, and it’s all you can do not to moan when suddenly not only you can feel his erection, but your cunt is pressed so, so nicely over his own thigh. The unfairness of the situation hits you: Sanji can’t hide his physical reaction, meanwhile you’ve been getting wetter and wetter since he got in there with you, and he’ll remain none-the-wiser unless you shove his hand down your underwear. 

The thought of those long, lithe fingers playing with your clit almost makes you black out. You’re trying to stay lucid, but you’d like to see someone else coping with a wet dream come to life. 

“Damn it, I—I’m sorry, I can’t control it. I mean, I can control myself! Just, not it,” Sanji babbles, clearly building up to something close to panic. “It’ll go away, I promise, sorry. I mean…okay, it’ll go away if I stop touching you, that’s what I was trying to do. You’re just…so soft and warm. And pretty, duh! Oh God, why am I still talking. Make it stop, please.”

You snake a hand up his chest until you can press your palm over Sanji’s mouth. You catch him mid-word, but the sentence dies down quickly with a tortured bitten-back lament.

“Calm down,” you say softly. If you sound breathier than intended, it's because you can't hope to hide all signs of your demanding arousal. “It's okay, Sanji. You didn't do anything bad, did you?”

Sanji stares at you for a moment with huge watery eyes, the usually hidden one left more visible by his fringe all knocked askew. 

“Did you?” you prompt him.

His lids drop lower, as he exhales a warm breath over your hand as he relaxes his body at your request. He shakes his head without removing your palm from over his mouth.

You do it for him. “Everything’s fine.” Sanji should never look this unsure and embarrassed, especially around you. You adore him, he’s your favourite everything. Isn’t it obvious? “Sweetheart, lay back down. You’re letting the cold in.”

Sanji’s eyes go wide again, be it because of the first pet name you’ve dared use for him, or the reminder that his seated position is keeping the sleeping bag half open. With one smooth move, he’s laying on his side once again, one hand clutched on the open hem to squish it closer to your bodies. 

“Why aren’t you kicking me out?” he whispers after he’s settled. He bites back a sound when you shift your hips just enough to satiate your curiosity—yes, he’s still hard, and yes, touching his cock even through all the layers of clothes has the same electrifying effect on you the second time as it did the first. “It’s going to be like this all night, Miss,” he commiserates, a little whine behind his tone that snaps whatever composure you had left. 

“Sanji, are you really that blind?” you ask in the near darkness. You cup his cheek in one hand, tucking whatever you can of his fringe behind his ear. “You haven’t figured it out?”

He frowns like he’s either worried or confused, and part of you can’t blame him—you’ve never  spoken to him this way, voice trembling with excitement. You enjoy what you can see of Sanji’s flushed face framed by your fingers, then you close the distance to kiss him. 

With great effort, you keep that first touch brief and chaste. The tip of his nose is cold where it presses gently on your cheek, his lips a little dry, but you enjoy immensely both that perfect cupid bow of his and the tickling sensation of his moustache. When you pull back a millimetre, which is all the distance you can bear to put between you, you’re awash in goosebumps and hot shivers. “I want you, too,” is all you can manage to say to fill the silence.

“Oh,” Sanji replies, “oh, I must still be dreaming.” He nuzzles into your hand, his own freeing the sleeping back to clutch your wrist instead. “I hope I don’t wake up too soon.”

A dopey smile opens on your face—you’re sure you look stupid with love and desire—and you want to put two coherent words together and tell this beautiful smooth-talker that he’s very much awake, or stuck in your dream if anything, but Sanji kisses you again. 

This one doesn’t end quickly; if you have it your way, this one won’t end at all. Sanji tilts his head and slots your lips together with a wanton moan muffled by the contact. Your finger sinks in the soft locks of his hair, slipping like fresh water between your digits as you caress him. There’s not enough space to move freely, to roll on top of him or pull him until he can lay all his weight on you—phantom feelings you’ve chased through your daydreams hundreds of times, and are now just out of reach, but what you get is enough. It’s everything. Sanji moving his arm out of the way so he can wrap you in a half-hug and squish your chests together; your leg pushed between his so you can properly get his flat abdomen and hard cock right up against you. 

His breath hitches as his hips roll forward. With the grip you have on his hair, you instinctively tug his head back, breaking the wet kiss just in time to hear his breathy moan. “No, please, more. Wanna kiss you more,” he begs—and really, who would say no to such a request?

You lick his bottom lip just to put to rest the demon that once made you stare at Sanji’s side profile while he cooked for way too long, whispering in your ear his lips are so plump, wouldn’t they look good on a girl? You don’t know about that, but they are extremely kissable.

At the time you thought that Sanji, who strives to be a real gentleman—emphasis on the man—would be freaked out by those thoughts…seeing how he’s behaving now, maybe that’s not the case. Maybe he’d enjoy being talked to and handled like a precious little thing. Still, you abstain for now, horrified by the idea that you could ruin this long-awaited moment, and content yourself with kissing him silly.

Well. Calling what you're doing to him kissing is an euphemism; you're licking into his mouth as if with enough effort you could taste his soul, and when the push and pull of your bodies separates your lips, he lets you curl your tongue around his in the open air before you pull back properly. 

“‘M so hard, I could come just from this,” Sanji mumbles while you move down to suck over the pulse point on his neck. Your eyes are closed, but they still roll back into your skull when the fading scent of his aftershave fills your senses. 

“You won't have to,” you promise. You grasp at him blindly through the tangle of your limbs and the obstructive plush fabric all around. Sanji, sweet angel, perfect boy, arches to push his hips right into your palm. 

You let out a giggle and a dreamy sigh on the tail end of it when you manage to properly palm his hard cock, even if just above his boxers. You’d be embarrassed by the sound if you were lucid. There are many times when your affection for Sanji simmers gently and far away from lust, but this isn't one of those times.

Sanji stiffens at the first stroke you clumsily give his cock, just to quickly melt again in your arms. “Please, let me touch you, too.” His hands run down your form until he can hook his fingers into the waistline of your pants. “I want you to feel good with me.”

You nod with an enthusiastic hum of assent against the skin of his neck. The first touch of Sanji's fingertips on the naked skin usually covered by the hem of your underwear almost makes you jolt. You follow suit, shoving your hand inside his boxers. “Oh, fuck, yesyesyes,” Sanji mumbles before you’ve even done anything, just closed your fist around the tip of his cock. He’s leaking just enough to smooth the way as you play with him, teasing strokes and swipes of your thumb on the slit. 

It’s not that you’re being mean on purpose, eking out his pleasure like he might just run out if you get too greedy—you’re just so distracted by what he’s doing to you. Already, he had the unfair advantage of your near-obsession with his hands, born mostly from his insistence that they must be reserved for loving acts. He usually means cooking, of course, but Sanji has never hesitated to hold, carry, protect and serve the women in his life with his hands…so can you be blamed for getting ideas? You feel vindicated for each dirty thought you’ve ever had about them in the here and now. As soon as you raise your thigh high on his hip to leave him some space, Sanji slides his hand fully into your panties and cups your pussy like he’s cherishing being allowed to touch you so intimately. He doesn’t leave you waiting for something more substantial, quickly moving to sink his middle finger between your labia, gathering the copious amount of slick wetness. You have one moment to wish he had just pushed inside you before he starts drawing circles over your clit instead, and then the choice to just let him do whatever he wants is easily made. 

“How are you so wet for me? I barely touched you,” he asks with a tone that should be reserved for his first glimpse of the All Blue. 

You almost laugh at that. “I’ve been wet since you took off your pants,” you admit, “and then you kept calling me Miss—”

Sanji tilts his head to make eye contact with you, forcing your mouth away from the delectable line of his neck. “Wait, you like being called Miss? Really?” He has no business sounding shyly pleased; you suspect he uses the title specifically to elicit this sort of reaction—or is it that you have a heightened appreciation for it? You’ve never thought to ask the other girls what they think about it…Nami’s teasing over it would be brutal.

“Don’t take too much advantage of it!” Your pout robs the intimation of its strength, but Sanji’s eyes drop to stare at your lips like he’s hungry to get another taste, and you finish off the attempt at distracting him with a good series of strokes up and down his cock that he seems to really appreciate. He lets out a guttural moan that you’re sure whoever is sleeping in the tent next to you must have heard even above the wind now raging outside.

Sanji must take your renewed efforts as a sign to up the ante himself, and finally he slips a finger inside you. He figures out roughly two seconds in that quick and shallow thrusts make you writhe in pleasure, knowledge he has no qualms abusing until you’re shaking, lingering on the precipice of an orgasm. 

You’re still trying to give him the attention he deserves, but you know your movements over his cock have gone artless and a bit sloppy. “Mmghfuck, Sanji—” you moan through your teeth, biting the neckline of his shirt. You want to kiss him and lick wherever you can but your body is acting on its own. You think you add something along the lines of gonna come, just for you, baby, you want that? but you can’t be sure; maybe you’re just mewling nonsense with your face hidden in his neck. 

Whatever he hears, it’s enough to get Sanji very excited. “Yes, holy fuck, you’re perfect. So good for me.” You don’t know how he does it, but in a quick move he lifts you to lay more heavily on top of him with his free arm, locking it around your waist to keep you still. He’s got two fingers pumping in and out of you with no reprieve, but he hazards a guess and slides them out to focus on your clit again. In an ideal situation you’d like both things at the same time—hell, in an ideal situation you’d be bouncing on his cock already—but at this point you want to come, and being played with like this will get you there. You're clutching both hands around his sides now, palming at his abs, and Sanji’s erection is pressed tight over your hip. He doesn’t complain, taking advantage of how his underwear is riding too low on his hips to grind against you and seek out some friction.

“Like this okay, darling?” he asks with a murmur in your ear. You nod fervently. “Fuck, I really can’t believe this. My whole hand is wet, you’re dripping. Next time—can I—I want to lick until you’re coming on my tongue, I need to know what you taste like.”

Your eyes fly open, all the muscles in your legs and abdomen tensing with pleasure at Sanji’s words, the rumble of his voice thick with desire, the mental image of his blond head buried between your legs. That almost does you in, but the promise of a next time brings a realization—now I can have him like this again and again and again—that makes you fall over the edge. You come with your cheek pressed on his solid chest, one of Sanji’s hands now closed around the back of your neck, your voice stuck in your throat. Wave after wave of shivers run down your spine, wracking your body even as you’re coming down from the high, because Sanji won’t stop rubbing wet circles over your clit. 

“Stop, stop, I need a breather,” you complain, trying to escape his touch—but not really. Even as you’re supposedly squirming away from him, between the stifling top of the sleeping bag, and your leg locked around his hips, it’s clear that you’re right where you want to be. 

Sanji relents, sliding his fingers out of your now-ruined underwear. “Sorry, my love, you just sound so good while lost in pleasure.” He squeezes you in a full hug, pressing a few kisses over the crown of your head. “I can’t believe you let me do that…”

“I didn’t let you do anything. And there’s nothing strange about a woman wanting you like this, Sanji.” You tilt your head up, trying to meet his eye. “You know that, right?”

Shily, he allows the eye contact. You wish it wasn’t so dark in here, but the stronger winds must have brought clouds to cover the moon, and the lanterns Sanji had lit outside had long since died. You can’t see the stunning blue of his irises. 

“If you say so, darling,” he says, much to your chagrin. You hate how often you have witnessed Sanji being rejected, and in hindsight, by virtue of dismissing his advances as unserious, you have contributed to it. But he must have had his fair share of sexual experiences if he can bring a woman to orgasm as easily as he just did with you. 

You hope to have the opportunity to ask him about it. The urge to get to know him better, to be closer in all meanings of the terms, is stronger than ever—but now is not the time. You’ve got something else to focus on. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to believe me. I can just show it to you.” You manage with some more wiggling to get your pants and underwear at least halfway down your thighs. “You thought I was going to leave you hanging, baby? We can’t, uh, go all the way…not right now, I don’t have protection—” you start to explain while trying to slide a bit further up his body.

Sanji starts shaking his head, eyes as wide as saucers. “Oh, no, you don’t have to do anything for me! I can’t possibly ask for more!”

You kiss his lips to silence him. Sanji whines like a wounded animal when you raise yourself just enough to hold his cock again—he has not gone soft despite the lack of stimulation, which doesn’t shock you. This is Sanji, after all. 

“I’ll come and stain your clothes and make a mess,” he says all in a rush, his fingers spasming around your hips. 

“Ssh, it’s okay. Don’t worry about anything, just let me take care of you.” You bring his cock between your legs, forcing them open despite the pant’s waistline pressing into your skin; when you’ve got the hard length pressed over your bare cunt you get your hand back on Sanji’s chest and squeeze your thighs.

You don’t know what feels best for him—clenching your legs as tight as you can, or to leave more space to swing your hips up and down—but whatever you try, Sanji vocally loves it. Despite how cold he had felt when he first got in the sleeping bag with you, he’s now burning up just like you, and you’re both starting to sweat under your clothes. You can feel him leak more precum when you raise up as far as you can and squeeze just the head of his cock between your thighs.

“Oh God, Miss,” he breathes out at that move. His hands slide down to grope your ass, and the feeling of him kneading the muscle there to his heart’s content makes your eyelids flutter. 

“Feels good, baby?” you ask. The question is redundant, but dammit, you want to hear him say it.

Sanji nods with a hum, lips parted and his cute little curled brow frowning in pleasure. “Yes! Yes, you feel perfect, you’re so soft. I would stay between your legs forever if you let me.”

Oh, this man. He doesn’t know how badly he drives you crazy, even when he’s just babbling the first thought he had. You lean down to dip your tongue in his mouth, your hands firmly planted over his pecs. He accepts the kiss easily, moaning each time you nibble his bottom lip or snap your hips down with more vigor. You pull back with a string of saliva still pulling between your mouths. “Next time you can fuck me like this,” you promise. Your mind is clouded with lust again, and you have half a mind to reach down and angle his cock so you can sink down on him for real, but you hold onto sanity enough to avoid that. “As soon as we’re back on the Sunny. You want that?”

“I’ve wanted that since the first time I saw you,” Sanji replies. He grips your ass more firmly, guiding you into moving faster. “I’m so close, please, just keep going.”

You don’t know if you can believe something like that said in the heat of the moment, but either way, he’s just so cute. In your imagination Sanji has been everything from the experienced lover that blows your mind to a playful partner that laughs with you in the middle of sex, and you’ve loved all those versions that existed in your head—but if the real one is this submissive and needy, you have no complaint. Reducing such a powerful and competent man to a moaning mess is nothing short of intoxicating. 

Gladly, you keep doing what you’ve been doing. Sanji begs for another kiss, and keeps you so busy with it that you realise he’s coming only when he gasps open-mouthed over your lips. Hot liquid drips over the back of your thighs—you spare him the overstimulation he inflicted on you earlier, out of the goodness of your bleeding heart, but it’ll be a while before you even consider unclenching your legs from around his cock.

Sanji takes in one last shuddering inhale, and all but melts into the thin mattress underneath him. One wet kiss pressed to his cheek, and you feel him smile as wide as when he serves you, Nami, and Robin some snacks and he gets to listen to all three of you compliment his cooking at the same time. 

“Mh, it’s too hot in here now,” you note with humour, “don’t you think?”

“It’s ‘cause I’m burning up for you, Mellorine,” Sanji replies. You huff a laugh when he attempts an exaggerated wink, which doesn’t work when one of his eyes is completely covered by ruffled hair. 

You slide a little to the side, keeping in mind the streaks of come splashed on your skin as you do so. Sanji lets out a saddened sigh when you’re not pressed skin-to-skin with him anymore, but you’re still so close, your heads only barely peeking out of the sleeping bag. 

“You were right, you did make a mess.” You’ll have to take off your pants off and use them to clean yourself and Sanji somehow—or maybe he’ll volunteer his boxers for the job, still pushed barely down his legs—as soon as you have the energy. 

“Ah, sorry…I usually have very good manners, I swear.” The apology seems genuine, but Sanji is just too giddy to sound contrite. “Hey, can I ask you something? But I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

You smile at him. Now that the adrenaline peak is fading away, your eyelids are once again heavy and ready to stay closed for a good six hours at least. “You can’t ruin it, Sanji.”

“You have a lot of faith in me, darling.”

“Just ask, dummy.”

He clears his throat, embarrassed by his own stalling. “I know that I-I said something about doing this again first, but then you said it, too, and I just—I don’t know if you meant it. Because I did. So, would you like to…?”

“Would I like to? Baby, I’m gonna wear you out.” You would sound much more convincing if you weren’t actively falling asleep. “I’ll ask Franky to build a secret bedroom, and no one will ever see us again,” you mumble before being interrupted by a yawn.

You feel the warmth of Sanji’s fingers caressing your cheekbone, the line of your jaw. You smile thinking of how this started, with Sanji’s poor hands cold as ice shoved under your shirts. 

“I’ll ask you a few hundred times more in the morning, sweetheart. You’re about to pass out, I’ll clean you up myself, okay?”

You think you nod, or maybe you just hum a vague affirmative sound. The last thing you remember, with the rumbling of the wind and the distant raging of the ocean lulling deeper into sleep, is Sanji pressing a kiss on your neck, warm and heavy with affection. 

“Listen, kid,” Maxine says through clenched teeth, enunciating each word like a thin blade aimed at a vital artery, “you’re acting real cute. That tells me you don’t know who I am.”

Said kid tilts his head at her. He’s considerably shorter than Maxine, most of his face occupied by these owlish eyes that peer up at her with no aggression, only amused interest. “Duh! We haven’t introduced ourselves.”

He extends a hand, the other rested on his hip. Maxine has a feeling she should recognize him. Young, dark hair, wide smile. Young, dark hair, wide smile…scar on his cheekbone?

And a straw hat dangling from his neck, the wide yellow brim framing his shoulders like a drooping halo.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs to herself.

The kid gives a firm shake to the palm that Maxine has instinctively raised, her aura of rabid aggression weakened by her surprise. “I’m Monkey D. Luffy,” he says, not that he needs to anymore, not when he's crafted for himself such an iconic look. She would have recognised him sooner, had it not been for his two-year-long disappearance from the rumour mill. 

Every newspaper article she's read about him flashes in rapid succession in her mind. The damn teenager who managed to bring down Enies Lobby and then survive unscathed a Buster Call; the rookie who made such a huge mess at Marineford that the Navy had to relocate the base—Monkey D. Luffy, bounty of four hundred million berries, and…

“The soon-to-be king of the pirates,” Maxine finishes, holding back a manic grin. Soon-to-be might be a stretch, but she is a fan of his impossible feats—and it can’t hurt to kiss his ass a little.

“That’s right!” Luffy agrees with enthusiasm, smiling like he does in his Wanted poster. “Now, can you put the knife away? Or do you wanna fight?”

“I really fucking don’t.” She slides the dagger back into the sheath strapped to her thigh, ignoring the hiss of disappointment from the blade as she does so. Sweet blood, great power, let me have him. “I don’t want to die,” she says out loud both to Luffy and that nuisance of a blade that never shuts up about blood. “And my name’s Max, by the way.”

“You were right, I have not heard of you.”

Rude fucking kid. Maxine very inelegantly snorts, and then eyes the entrance of the pub she just slid out of in a fit of paranoia. There was a woman in there who kept glancing in her direction, the dark and silent type, someone that looked vaguely familiar. If the sentiment is shared, then their connection is Maxine’s former captain, and she'd like to avoid word of her whereabouts getting to him. The other option is that Maxine looks ravishing in her three layers of clothes and long, unseasonable cape, so the woman couldn’t take her eyes off of her. While Maxine is not half bad-looking, she doesn’t feel very charming while cross-dressing as a guy—all her sense of style has to disappear in favour of outfits that hang off of her weirdly to hide her shape.

Chances are, it’s already too late to hide her presence on this island. But hey, if Captain McCreepy is to get intel on her anyway, it might serve Maxine well to be seen drinking buddies with Strawhat, the best the Worst Generation has to offer. 

“Tell you what, let me offer you a drink and you’ll hear all about who I am,” she proposes, pointing a thumb at the swinging doors of the crowded pub. 

Luffy shrugs, looking pensive, but from his easy-going attitude when Maxine had her dagger pointed at him (oops!) she gets the sense that he can be easily swayed if she finds the right nerve to press on. “I don’t know,” he mutters in a whiny voice, “do they serve meat here? And milk?”

Maxine blinks at him. She quickly recalibrates her perception of Luffy to include descriptions such as childish and a rare example of a non-alcoholic pirate; assumption to be tested. “They sure do.”

“And you’ve got money?”

“I don’t think you can drink my wallet dry if you stick to milk. So, yes.”

Luffy laughs, slaps a hand on her back like they’re old friends, and walks straight into the pub with all the surety of a man who could feasibly punch this whole establishment off its foundation if he wanted—let alone demand free milk all night long. “Awesome! You know, I was looking for Zoro cause he has my allowance, but I have no idea where he is and I was getting pretty hungry.”

“Roronoa Zoro, right? The swordsman?”

“That’s right, my swordsman. Now, he would probably spend all your money on sake, so I hope for you he’s not in here—”

Luffy talks her ear off about his crew until the food arrives. His stream of consciousness is interrupted by the meal, so Maxine takes the opportunity to fix her awful first impression. She apoligises for threatening to take his life, which even for her is a strong reaction for an innocent, if awkward, bumping of shoulders in the darkened street outside. Tense and jittery is not a good look on her. Luffy acts as unbothered by that as by anything else, licking his plate clean when it’s empty, loud and jovial and charismatic in a way she can’t put into words. She should find him annoying, but before she knows it Luffy has thoroughly endeared himself to her. Somewhere in the middle of all that Maxine caves in, removing the thin mask that covers most of her face, and asks the bartender for her own tall glass of milk to sip on like it’s fine brandy. After the first taste she smacks her lips, nods like an expert on the matter, and says, “This is a good brand, top-shelf.”

It makes Luffy laugh. Maybe that’s why, when she lets slip that she’s looking for a way to leave the island, he hesitates only as longs as it takes to swallow the food in his mouth to invite her on his ship. 

She wants to say yes, please, yes. I miss that life. I’ve heard about you. The Thousand Sunny looks beautiful in every picture I’ve seen on the newspaper. She settles on, “Sure. Why the hell not?”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Sanji is attempting to enjoy the last cigarette in his pack slowly, committing to memory the flavour of his favourite brand, the one that can’t be found anywhere on this side of the Grand Line.

The night air would have been humid and clammy over his skin if it wasn’t for the ever-present breeze from the ocean. Part of the crew had wandered out into town after dinner, but Sanji wasn’t about to deprive himself of both solitude and clear fresh air by squeezing himself at a table in some pub. 

Mostly because it was never Nami nor Robin he was being squeezed next to, so why bother?

He leans onto the rail, sucking avidly on the last puffs of smoke before the filter starts burning. Since he’s in such a morose mood, he has decided to indulge it by staring off into the not-so-distant lights of the port town like he’s mourning something more serious than the finished supplies of his poison of choice. That’s how he catches the shape of Luffy walking back to the Sunny much sooner in the evening than his usual, and without the rest of the crew, either.

Sanji squints, stuffing the butt of the cigarette in the empty pack. “And who the hell…?” he murmurs to himself, because a stranger is strutting towards the ship a step behind Luffy, evidently following his lead.

“Hey, Luffy!” Sanji calls out when the couple gets close enough. Luffy responds with an enthusiastic wave, and the stranger looks up at Sanji’s voice. Between the distance and the dark, all Sanji can gather is that he’s tall and lanky and ends at the top in a voluminous head of curly hair. For a moment he thinks Brooke might have somehow gotten meat back over his bones, but if that was the case, he'd be in the town square throwing an impromptu celebratory concert for it. “Picked up another stray?” 

Luffy laughs in that peculiar way of his, like some small part of him wants to hold it back but the rest is just fine being loud and obnoxious. Sanji watches him share a few words with the new curly guy, and he’s not at all surprised when, after a shrug from the stranger, Luffy wraps an arm around his waist and jumps directly onto the deck, legs acting as springs. 

They land behind Sanji, who turns on his feet to follow the move. They don’t hit the deck lightly, and the commotion attracts Robin out of her usual reading nook in the aquarium bar. The only other member still on the ship is Chopper, who's been snoring away in his bunk for hours. 

“Holy fucking—” the stranger mutters under his breath, and he almost falls on his ass when Luffy retracts his arm from around his waist with a curt snap of bones and muscles .

“Oh, hello,” Robin says pleasantly. She makes her way closer to them, shivering a little in her pyjama shirt now that she’s outside. “Who’s our guest?”

Sanji takes off his jacket and drops it over Robin’s shoulders, gaining a gentle and grateful smile from her. He tries to behave for once, and responds only with, “I was about to ask the same myself. Luffy?” 

Said guest, now that Sanji can study him under the pleasant ambiance lights of the Sunny’s deck, might be younger than he anticipated. The height, similar to his, is exacerbated by the wild curls at the top and a pair of heeled boots at the bottom, making him stand a head taller than Luffy—however, the timbre of his voice was that of a young boy, and his frame seems quite thin, even under the bulky layers of his outfit. A cloak secured over one shoulder easily hides most of his build, but what hinders judgement the most is the thin leather mask moulded to the lower half of his face.  

“Ah, Sanji, Robin!” Luffy exclaims, slapping one hand over the new guy’s back, who sways like a reed under its strength. “This is Max, we’re going to the same island next but I’m the only one with a ship.”

Luffy’s easy laugh fills the air again, and Max follows along with a hum of assent and quite the nervous tilt to his thin, sharp brows.

“Nice to meet you, Max,” Robins says, extending one arm to greet the freeloader Luffy brought on board. Sanji only sighs and wishes once again for another cigarette, happy to let Robin take over the pleasantries with this Max dude. This kid, probably. “As I understand it, you’ll be travelling with us for a little while?”

There’s no way that a stranger can detect it, but to Sanji the hint of cold distrust in Robin’s voice is as clear as an outright accusation. Sanji both approves and agrees, and not only because smart, charming Robin-chan can do no wrong: this guy could be someone to distrust. He could attempt, although also fail, to murder them for their bounty at the drop of a hat…and he might just be too young to grasp the consequences.

“Your captain offered, and he’s not an easy man to say no to,” Max comments, shaking Robin’s hand instead of brushing a kiss on the back of it like he’s supposed to do. Sanji sucks his teeth—is he the only man that knows how you’re supposed to treat a lady? 

“So you’ve heard of us,” Sanji says as Luffy struts to the stairs that lead to the dining room, which prompts the rest of their small group to follow. Luffy is not an intimidating person when you first meet him, as long as said first meeting doesn’t involve threats to his friends or his status as future king of the pirates—Max’s comment speaks of knowledge of what he can do, what he has done already. Difficult to say no to, indeed.

Max chuckles behind the mask, voice only vaguely muffled. “Of course I have, stories about you have travelled to every corner of the globe,” he says in a breathy tone on the trail of his laughter, and some alarm sounds in Sanji’s head at the sound of it. “And Miss Nico Robin," he adds, addressing her directly, "believe me when I say, meeting someone of your calibre is quite the pleasure.”

“Oh, my, you really are well-informed,” Robin responds. Sanji is at the top of the line on the stairs, Robin between him and Max, so he can’t see what kind of disgusting, lecherous eyes the man is surely dragging over Robin’s form. He seethes wordlessly but not in silence, huffing and puffing to make it clear that if this new random dickhead Luffy picked up tries something untoward with Robin he’ll kick his face in, stupid leather mask or not. 

They finally reach the galley, where Luffy has already poured himself a tall glass of milk, having bypassed most of the steps by jumping onto the upper layer of the Sunny.

“Gathering information was sort of my job on my old crew,” Max explains. Sanji frowns and hates him some more when he and Robin sit on the couch with not nearly enough room between them. “And your life story reads like a legend. I’m a little awestruck.”

“You’re a pirate yourself, then,” Sanji states, bringing the conversation back on a useful track. He doesn’t like the way Robin’s gaze flicks between Max and Sanji himself, as if she’s so very amused by something. “Who was your captain?”

Luffy immediately derails his attempt. “Hey, you didn’t give me any compliments at all!” he says with a milk moustache front and centre on his lip, not exactly a look conducive to inspiring fear and awe. “I’ve done plenty of crazy stuff, and my bounty is higher than Robin’s!”

“What can I say,” Max comments, leaning his elbows on his parted knees. His head tilts towards Robin, expression hidden by the dark curls that spring as if alive at every minute movement he makes. “My attention is better kept by dangerous women—no offence, Future King.”

Sanji fists clench in his pockets, where he’s stuffed his hands to avoid making a scene. However, it seems like a scene must be made. “As long as you don’t forget there are plenty of dangerous men in this crew as well,” he grits out between his teeth, moving a step closer to where Max is sitting.

“Ah, Sanji,” Robin starts to say, lips tilted up at the corner in a smile way less plastic than her usual, polite version. Sanji was gearing up for a staring contest with Max to instill in him the fear of God, but he’s called to watch her instead when she addresses him so gently—and either way Max is not looking back, working on taking off the cloak instead of cowering at Sanji's feet, like he should be doing.

“What is it, my dear Robin?” he asks, voice drenched in honey, “Perhaps you want me to kick this guy out of your personal space?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but it’s Luffy from behind him that breaks out into laughter, again, demanding his attention. Jeez, he’s in a really good mood tonight, uh? It’s getting on Sanji’s nerves.

He turns on his heels to face his captain, who’s swinging one foot off the edge of the table, bent in some improbable position comfortable only to him who has no actual joints to worry about. “What is it?” Sanji barks at him.

“I was wondering why you were acting so rude,” Luffy explains, “I’ve never heard you talk like that to a girl.”

Sanji shakes his fringe off his eye just so he can stare at him, dumbfounded, with both. “Yeah, no shit! What does that have to do with anything?”

He senses Max standing up from the couch before he even looks over his shoulder, the swishing of fabric, the thin sounds of metal buckles unlatching. 

Sanji turns to face him. He’s met by Max's cat-like eyes again, now crinkled by a jovial expression on an overall pretty, sun-kissed face. It goes from gently tanned to spots of red on the high cheekbones, on the bridge of the nose which bears the signs of some old wound. Without Sanji's permission, his gaze travels down the rest of his features, charmed by the chipped front tooth in Max's otherwise perfect half-moon smile—and then lower, to stare at his body, unencumbered now that Max has taken off the heaviest layer.

If the face wasn’t enough, if the voice hadn't already aroused suspicion, then the clear shape of Max’s curves would put the last nail in the coffin. The leather mask, the real culprit of this whole misunderstanding, dangles from two of Max's fingers.

“Ooooh, no,” Sanji mumbles to himself. 

“I know all about you dangerous men, too, Black Leg Sanji,” Max says, suggestive, mocking,  eyelids lowered halfway in a very studied move, one that works all too well on Sanji. “And you can call me Maxine, if you prefer.”

Max is a woman.

Sanji’s going to throw himself overboard.

I. The strangers

It comes to Nami as a surprise that Sanji’s love for women is not, in fact, a purely theoretical delusion.

She’s sure—she’s willing to bet her hard-stolen money—that back at the Baratie he was not getting laid. From what Nami observed back on the fateful day when they met, and the stories she then heard from Sanji’s own mouth, something was crystal clear: the clientele of the restaurant that Sanji called home was either too high-brow or too brazen to go for a gangly eighteen year old who was quite bad at being a waiter. Between his desperate flirting and the little baby fat left to round out his face, he might as well have had a stamp on his forehead spelling Virgin.

Then Luffy turned her existence into a whirlpool of danger and hope and fighting and success, and Nami got a little too busy rebuilding a life she was proud to call her own to worry about Sanji’s sex life, or inexistence thereof.  

It’s in Whisky Peaks that the issue is brought once again to her attention. 

Before everything goes to shit, between one beer and the next, she notices first that their group has drifted apart for the night. When living in close quarters as they all do on the Merry, spending some time away from one another is a matter of sanity, and whether or not they lose it—Nami in particular is feeling the fatigue of being the only woman in the crew, despite the luxuries that this fact provides: a private room, the assurance that no-one will barge in the bathroom when she’s showering, and Sanji’s unwavering belief that a lady should only eat her favourite food, handmade for her every day. 

It’s not a bad life. Sanji’s cooking veers on the side of excellence even on a bad day, and his advances—she would not admit to this if her own life were on the line—are a good counterpart to all the rough-housing the boys get into on a daily basis. All the flowery compliments to her “otherworldly beauty” aren’t that annoying if the other option is listening to the other three men workshop names for their attacks and fall into screeching laughter at the stupidest options they come up with.

So now, finally on dry land, they’ve all taken the opportunity to ignore their crewmates’ existence for a couple of hours. Zoro had stuck with Nami for a while, but now he’s strayed gods-know where—probably working in private on creating his next hangover. With little effort Nami also spots Luffy, somewhere to her right, eating double his body-weight in meat under the terrified stares of the pub’s owner. A glance behind her, and there’s Usopp, who has gathered a crowd that hangs from his lips as he spins whatever yarn he came up with on the spot.

And then there’s Sanji, who’s got two girls hanging off his arms and many more surrounding him. He’s got his usual lovesick expression, cheeks bright red from his flustered pleasure at the women paying him attention. One of the two plays for a moment with the lock of blond hair that falls over his eyes; Nami catches the exact second that Sanji falls in love, his lips stretching into a goofy smile. 

He’s gotten quite handsome. The group of women at his table seem to share the sentiment, since they are all acting as willing victims of his awful pick-up lines, touching his arms or giggling when he makes a joke.

Nami spends the rest of the night drinking all the locals under the table. 

II. Vivi

Vivi is beautiful beyond words. 

As soon as she reveals her true identity, her status as a princess becomes all of a sudden obvious in every detail of her persona: of course, of course she is, with her silky hair in such a rare colour, falling in gentle waves around her perfect figure—you can just picture her posing for a royal portrait. She’s got a soft voice drenched in love for her country, she’s got a radiant smile, and most of all she has an ever-present sadness in the sweet, cool grey of her eyes. It’s like she was genetically engineered to inspire both admiration and a deadly wish to protect her at all costs.

So the laws of nature command that Sanji falls in love with her at first sight. It’s such an obvious fact of life that no one thinks of warning Vivi herself that he’s going to act like a fucking idiot around her (always and forever), and that she no reason to worry because he is, at least in this context, quite harmless. 

It’s only after Nami catches the tail-end of an interaction between the two that she thinks of having a chat with her. This is the first time since she joined Luffy’s crew that she gets to spend an extended period of time with another woman, and since they both have similarly impressive body measurements, they even get to share clothes. Nami has decided days ago that they’re the bestest of friends, and best friends should talk about boys and giggle about how foolish they behave around pretty girls like them, and then cuddle and fall asleep in the same bed. The last point will not be further analysed. 

The pathetic scene Nami bears witness to is Sanji down on both knees, his shirt unbuttoned so low he’d be better off using it as a cape, kissing Vivi’s hand, possibly as a thank you for accepting the snack he prepared for her. Vivi says something with a smile, to which Sanji responds by falling back until he’s sprawled on the floor. 

Someone exits from the kitchen door behind her. “He’s so hopeless,” she hears Usopp comment, and then the loud slurp of him drinking something through a straw.

Nami turns to him with one raised brow. “I’ve seen how you blush when she so much as glances at you.”

“And I’m being so cool about it,” Usopp responds, slinking away with his long nose turned up.

Nami snorts, and when Sanji ends the theatrics by sprinting back to his feet and leaving Vivi to enjoy her food in peace, she makes her way to her.

“Hi, Nami,” Vivi greets her, leaning back on the lounge chair as Nami settles down next to her. “Want a taste?”

“No, no.” Nami waves off the offer of the dainty arrangement of melon and cured ham Sanji prepared. “I’m sure Sanji’s making something for me as well.”

“You know, I think I made one off-hand comment about loving sweet and savoury tastes together,” the princess comments. “And he remembered! Isn’t that incredible?”

Perfect, she doesn’t even need to introduce the subject. 

“Aren’t you used to this sort of treatment?” Nami asks, genuinely curious. It’s difficult to imagine Vivi having to scrap for affection in whatever beautiful castle she lives in. 

Vivi sighs, and sticks another piece of melon in her mouth, chewing slowly and with a pleased moan, going as far as sucking the juice from her fingers right after. Nami thanks every single deity that might or might not exist that Sanji is not there to witness the scene, or he might have become the first documented case of spontaneous death from nosebleed. 

“I guess,” Vivi says, like she just didn’t do something Earth-shattering or anything. “I’ve been away from Alabasta for a while, you know? Being pampered like this reminds me of home, it’s nice. Although…” Nami watches in horror as Vivi diverts her eyes and bites her bottom lip for one terrible moment. “Everyone back there still treats me like a child. To have a man treat me as a woman, instead—i-it’s different, you know?”

“I can’t believe it,” Nami whispers, her eyes sliding away from the sight of Vivi shy and flustered over a serving of cut fruit and ham to stare into the nothingness on the horizon. This doesn’t even approach the worst Sanji can do. Nami has been personally offered by him anything that goes from a full-body massage to his literal life in service of protecting her—if melon got Vivi in this state, she’s doomed. Completely past saving.

“What? Nami, what is it?” Vivi flicks her ponytail over her shoulder and leans down closer to Nami, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “Is Sanji, uh…off-limits?”  

Nami makes a noise akin to a mortally wounded tea kettle. 

Vivi blinks. “I don’t know how to interpret that.”

“Okay, you know what—this is a good opportunity to solve this mystery,” Nami exclaims, steam-rolling over the last five seconds of the conversation. “You’re a girl.”

“Correct.”

“A beautiful girl, a girl who could have anyone she wanted.”

“Aww!” Clapping her hands once before pressing them on her heart, Vivi blushes in delight. “Thank you, Nami! You’re also very beautiful!”

From not too far to their left, under the mainmast, Zoro interrupts his own nap to open one single eye, and sets it first on Vivi's back before sliding his gaze to Nami, eyebrows raised. There’s no judgement nor outward signs of interest, but Nami, terrified of finding out that Zoro is also a pig and a pervert, kills the homoerotic undertone before it can fully bloom. Tragically. 

“Yep, thank you. My point was, you’re all three of those things and yet Sanji’s bullshit is having an effect on you? I need to know the how and why.”

Zoro catches Sanji’s name and goes back to sleep with a slightly disgusted grimace on his face. 

“Well…” Vivi hums, lost in thought for a moment, and starts playing with the ends of her hair. She twirls the soft locks around her fingers, and Nami sees it happen live in front of her eyes: first, a shy smile tugs at her lips; then whatever gentle blush was brought around by Nami’s compliments becomes a furious redness that spreads even down the princess’ neck. “I don’t know why you react so negatively to him, if I’m being honest,” Vivi confesses, still not looking at Nami but imagining instead something Sanji-related that is possibly turning her on. While the man isn’t even in their vicinity. “He’s very sweet and sincere, I really like that in a guy. And also—”

Nami’s eyes go wide of their own accord. Here it possibly comes, the answer to all her doubts. “And also?”

Vivi shrugs, and stuffs another piece of melon and ham in her mouth. “There aren’t many blond men in Alabasta. I find him quite exotic.”

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Nami says, collapsing onto her back on the floor, pleasantly warm from the sun beating on the wood all day. “You just have shit taste, got it.”

It’s not the universal answer she was looking for, but at least now Vivi’s weakness for Sanji in particular can be explained away with her crush on him would die if I pranked him with hair dye in his shampoo.

She has to concede—silently, in the depths of her heart, undisclosed to non-authorized personnel—that Sanji’s bright, pure blonde is, indeed, a rare and pretty sight. 

III. Conis

Conis is extremely pretty, and the first human female Sanji lays his eyes on when they arrive on Skypiea, and if that wasn’t enough, she then completes the trifecta by being so obviously, so awkwardly into him that even Nami is rooting for her.

Not that that’s strange, or worthy of note. Why shouldn’t she root for her? Nami doesn’t care. She hopes she has a grand all time with Sanji! It’s not even a shock anymore—Nami has since long understood that it doesn’t take much for random girls to take a liking to tall men who cook very well. Since Vivi shared her fundamental expertise on the matter, Nami has to also add “fair hair” to the list of positive adjectives.

If cute sweet angel Conis wants to encourage Sanji’s sluttiness, Nami is happy for them both. 

Before the Strawhats’ stay on the sky island kickstarts the end of a civil war between the inhabitants, Nami is sure that Sanji works his magic on Conis when she isn’t  looking. He has ample opportunities even during that first lunch, the one Nami doesn’t stick around for because she’s very busy discovering how phenomenal of a waver rider she is. It’s only after days of pure terror, during which the entire crew takes turns almost dying a bunch of times, that Nami sees the two interact again—and this time, not in the presence of Conis’ sweet father in front of a cup of tea. 

Interact is way too gentle of a word for what she actually stumbles on. 

It happens during the huge, days-long party that everyone still alive takes part in to celebrate that very fact. The happiness about the end of war times overrides menial factors like “decency” or “sobriety” or “not having semi-public sex”.

Nami is focusing on winning the battle against sobriety in particular, always ready to beat her own record of how many grown men she can humiliate in a drinking challenge. At one point Chopper shoots her a lethal dose of sad puppy dog eyes, which she interprets as please don’t completely destroy your liver.

“Alright, alright,” Nami acquiesces. “I’m taking a break, doctor’s orders!” 

The three Skypeians she was drinking with boo her and then break into laughter when Nami stumbles straight into one the guy’s wings, getting a mouthful of feathers—in her defence the only light comes from the huge bonfire, which surely is aesthetically pleasing, but the dancing flames make it difficult to see where you’re putting your feet. Also, she’s shitfaced drunk because she didn’t take into consideration how the altitude would fuck with her alcohol tollerance. 

“Send the other sea-dweller to replace you, the scary dude with the swords!” one of the men calls behind her. 

“Why, you want to ask him where he puts the third one?” Nami jokes. Satisfied with the wild laughter she gets, she leaves the group with Chopper in tow, holding his tiny hoof to make him feel useful. They stop where there’s more fresh hair, and less screaming people. To him, she says, “You know, if Zoro does join those guys you should keep an eye on him. He never knows when to stop.”

Chopper nods sagely, and smiles up at her. “That’s called alcoholism.”

Nami blinks a few times before she finds how to reply. That’s a dark thing to hear from someone who looks like the most popular design in a line of cute animal plushies. “Yep,” she settles on, “Good luck fixing that. I’m taking a walk to clear my head, alright?”

“And drink some water! See you later, Nami!”

As Chopper sprints away, Nami stretches her arms and gives in to a loud yawn. Four days of non-stop festivities and she’s about to hit her limit.

She walks aimlessly, with her mind mostly empty apart from the intent of keeping away from the crowd, and the fresh night air quickly helps her sober up a little. While it’s a shame that so much of the ancient city crumbled during the fight with Enel, Nami does find the ruins quite comforting and peaceful, and as she passes by them she touches the moss that has grown on the older ones, wet from the night’s humidity. The party becomes a pleasant background noise, joyful but muted by the distance, and it’s the animals’ furtive movements in the nearby trees, or the more clear bird calls that ring from high above, that fill the air.

Nami smiles, closes her eyes, and sends a message of thankfulness to whoever’s listening that all her friends are okay, in the end.

“Mmh, Sanji, aah—”

The peace is shattered. It dies painfully at her feet when Nami’s eyelids spring back open, and a truly terrified shiver runs down her spine. 

Behind what’s left of a stone column, which looked so pleasant and harmonious and lovely five fucking seconds ago, some girl just moaned Sanji’s name. In the best case scenario, Sanji is also present on the scene. 

The theory is confirmed when a low murmur, unmistakably a male voice, follows, and then both the girl and Sanji giggle and moan some more, because Nami knows what both a giggle and a moan in Sanji’s voice sound like. They come out of his mouth whenever Nami praises his food or generously accepts his jacket if it’s too cold out. 

She should walk away. Her legs don’t listen. Alright, then if not away, just not in the direction of the moaning and shuffling of clothes and whispered sweet nothings. 

Nami’s walking straight to it, because she’s still drunk and there’s no fucking way someone else is making him sound like that—wait, what? 

Before she can makes sense of her train of thought, and the mild anger simmering at a low boil in her stomach (could be the sky beer or whatever the fuck she’s been drinking all night), she’s already both approached and rounded the Godforsaken Column of Public Indecency, and she’s presented with the nightmarish vision of Sanji, his hair so wild that for once both his eyes are visible, leaning back against the rock, with fucking Conis, duh!, sitting on his legs. 

The couple hasn’t spotted her yet. Nami exists for a few seconds in a fugue state where she doesn’t move a muscle to leave, and stares instead at Sanji’s hands wrapped around Conis’ waist over the fabric of her usual white dress, spanning the circumference of it so easily his fingers meet again on either side. He has the most lovestruck look Nami’s ever seen on him—and she would know, she’s been the cause of many—while he bounces her on his lap and ohmygods they’re not making out they are having sex!

“Fuck! Shit! Sorry!” Nami practically yells, breaking out of her stupor with sudden violence. As the two lovebirds startle in unison, she slaps both hands over her eyes while trying to retreat, which is not a good strategy because not two steps later she falls back on her ass. “I didn’t know—” Liar! “—sorry, sorry, you guys keep going!” What?!   

She knows in that moment that no god is real, just like Enel wasn’t, because not one of them strikes her dead and ends her misery. She has to regain her vision if she intends on running the fuck away without cracking her skull open, although such a possibility now sounds like the optimal course of action. 

“Nami-san,” she hears Sanji say, with the tone of a man facing the choice between the death row and a terminal illness. The way it mixes with the obvious arousal due to having his cock inside another person, right now in front of her, makes for a weird combo.

“I heard—nevermind what I heard, I didn’t want to interrupt but also like maybe get an actual room,” Nami babbles, trying to stand up and turn around at the same time so she can avoid another eyeful of Sanji’s fucked-out face and pretty, tiny Conis sat on his lap. 

“There are no more rooms on the island,” Conis mumbles. Right, because everyone’s home was destroyed. Nami has the decency to feel bad for reminding Conis that her life as she knew it is over forever. She’s very clearly trying to distract herself from the fact. Sanji, meanwhile, must have fallen in a meditative silence at being caught literally with his pants down. 

Nami sprints away from the scene, possibly breaking the speed of sound.