Some ships are just classics

It was a quiet night aboard the Thousand Sunny, something that happened all too rarely. The watch was drawing to a close, and Sanji, standing in the galley while having another cigarette, could feel that the nicotine coursing through his body wasn’t as strong as a deep-seated, nagging longing coursing through his veins. The crew was like a found family to him, but a heart like his—the heart of a hopeless romantic man—craved something else: a woman’s affection. Yes, there was Nami-san, beautiful yet stern; and Robin-chan was mysterious, captivating, but unreachable.

He needed to find a woman who could give him what he expected.

Ignoring his own yearning, his gaze then fell on an old newspaper he’d picked up at the last port, using it to wrap some groceries. On the back side, amid ads for used anchors and dubious maps, on the only page that wasn’t stained, an advertisement could be seen. It featured a stunning and seductive brunette with an intoxicating gaze that automatically catched Sanji’s attention, and the enticing caption read: “Feeling lonely at this quiet sea? The lovely Rose is waiting for your call. A whisper of paradise is just one phone call away...”

Sanji snorted vaguely. It seemed cheesy. Even tacky, one could say. But… somehow tempting.

That’s why he made a quick scan of the hallway: not a single soul. Zoro was snoring away in the crow’s nest, Chopper and Usopp had fallen asleep on deck at some card table, and Luffy had long since been fast asleep. If he had a chance, it was now or never. Didn’t he deserve a little innocent flirting after all, even if it came at a price?

Fast and swift as lightning, Sanji slipped into the men’s cabin, closing the door tightly behind him. With fingers trembling with excitement and anticipation, he took out his own little Den-Den Mushi, bought specifically for such private occasions. The blonde hurriedly dialed the number listed in the ad; and cursing the dim light of the cabin, his finger slipped, nearly missing the last two digits.

Puru-puru-puru... Puru-puru-puru…

The beeps seemed deafeningly loud in the silence of his expectation, and Sanji couldn’t help but flinch when the click finally announced that whoever was on the other end of the line had picked up.

…

Somber was the only word that could describe the mood that night in the office of one of the most dangerous men of the sea. The former Warlord of Alabasta, someone whose mere presence struck terror into the hearts of even the most seasoned pirates on the treacherous waters of the Grand Line, sat on his desk with a lazy gaze, buried up to his ears in paperwork. 

That task bore little resemblance to the battles Sir Crocodile was accustomed to waging with his unrivalled power. Yet, in a way, that bureaucratic maelstrom was in itself a kind of battle for him. The reports were disheartening: shipments were delayed, one of his agents had apparently embezzled a large shipment of gold again, and weapon prices in the New World had skyrocketed to obscene levels. It was, without a doubt, an absolute hell for someone as calculating as him.

To tell the truth, he was furious. And of course, it was clearly not the best moment for the unfortunate personal, secret Den-Den Mushi—which he used only for particularly important and confidential negotiations—to chime in and make his irritation even worse.

Puru-puru-puru... Puru-puru-puru...

“Yes?”

The voice on the other end of the line made Sanji freeze in astonishment instantly. He had expected something else: a playful girlish giggle, a languid “hello-oo,” a cloyingly sweet greeting—but certainly not whatever that was. The voice was low, rough, and smoky, and it conveyed fatigue, frustration, and an undeniable, absolute authority as rigid as a pillar that sent shivers down his spine.

Well, of course, even a beautiful angel might have a hoarse voice—it even adds to her charm. Sanji wasn’t the sort of man to turn down a tough girl; if anything, he’d just welcome her more gladly. Besides, the connection wasn’t the best at the ship, so it could probably be just a distortion. Then, after reassuring himself with these thoughts, the young cook continued:

“Um, good evening, lovely Rose,” he began, trying to infuse his voice with all his gallantry and passion. “Your image, which flashed across the newspaper, lit a fire in my heart that I cannot extinguish on my own. Allow me, a humble chef, to savor the sound of your voice like an exquisite wine. You must have just woken up, right? Your voice is so low. Very… um, seductive.”

Upon hearing that, Crocodile froze and stared at the phone with incredulousness. A violent threat or an attempt at blackmail would have come as less of a surprise to him, but no, some idiot stranger had dialed the wrong number. And by a huge margin, at that. Was some girl indecently advertising herself on his frequency?

He knew he should have hung up immediately, then find whoever had given that number to a random whore and reduce him to dust. But… he was so tired and irritated that he didn’t even feel like getting mixed up in all that fuss. 

However, the idiot he had right there at hand was definitely paying. Perhaps five minutes of humiliating a total stranger was everything that Crocodile needed to lift his spirits.

For Sanji, silence reigned on the other end of the line—a silence that was too long, too heavy, too oppressive. He’d already braced himself for a rude refusal, his finger frozen over the hang-up button, but instead, that same low voice spoke again, to his surprise. Yet it had changed. The irritation had vanished, replaced by something insinuating, almost... mocking.

“‘Rose,’ yeah. The one and only. Sorry, darling. It’s just… been a long day. Too much hustle going on. So what did you want? You’ve got five minutes to… please me.”

Those words quickly made Sanji let out a sigh of relief. So…“Commotion,” “long day.” That made total sense—that was why her voice was so hoarse and low. Perfect. He was ready to play along.

“Don’t apologise, mademoiselle,” the cook whispered in response. “I’m ready to chase away your boredom. I’m all alone tonight, all yours at your disposal. But when I saw your photo, I…”

A photo. The thought made Crocodile narrow his eyes. He had no idea what photo was there, but did that even matter?

“So you’re a lonely man?” Crocodile deliberately laced his voice with languidness, slightly higher than usual, adding a light, teasing playfulness. “I like how this is starting. Tell me more about your desires.”

Captivated by her inviting way with words, Sanji suddenly felt a wave of heat caress his spine. 

“You see, I’m a man of the seas,” he said after leaning against the countertop, exhaling a wisp of the smoke of his cigarette. “So it’s no surprise how much I crave for the touch of a lady… I’d kill to hear you saying how desirable I am. I want you to praise me. For example, my hands are strong, capable of preparing any dish, but right now they want to touch more than just food. They want to touch something… beautiful.”

Chef’s hands? A culinary fetish? Is this some new trend among young people? And this cockroach wants him, Sir Crocodile, to praise him? If he knew who this guy was, he’d turn his ship—and him—into a pile of sand. But… again, he didn’t really feel like getting in that much fuss. Playing along was much easier for now. And, somehow, interesting.

“Oh, your hands…” Crocodile murmured in a pensive, deliberately honeyed voice. “I can picture them. They must be very strong, calloused… masculine. Yeah, I bet you can do a lot with them, not just cook, right?”

Immediately, a blush spread across the blond man’s cheeks, dying them in a profound crimson tone. Oh, that Rose knew perfectly well how to set a man on fire!

“Oh, yes! You guessed it!” he blurted out with a nervous chuckle. “My legs are strong, too! I...”

“Legs?” the Warlord snorted skeptically. He couldn’t help but picture some pathetic portly man trying to sell himself. “Forget about legs,” he then interrupted. “We’re talking about your hands. Do you want me to tell you just how desirable you are? Fine. You’re so desirable. Your hands, darling, could make Rose bloom her petals just for you. Satisfied?”

A quiet moan of pleasure could be heard from the other side of the line.

“Oh, more than satisfied! Now tell me, mademoiselle. What do you want from me? Your commanding voice makes me want to submit to you!”

Crocodile paused for a moment. What did he exactly want? Yeah, he wanted money. Power. But that was in general; right now, specifically…

What were his desires?

“I want…” he growled, his tone hardening. “I want you to admit your weakness. You’re lonely, weak, and shamefully seeking comfort in a phone. You’re pathetic. Admit it. It’s arousing to me.”

There it is. Humiliation. Finally, something useful, Crocodile thought. Why don’t these call girls include this in their price lists? At least it would be enjoyable for them to some degree, too.

Sanji, for his part, willingly accepted it as part of the role-play. A strange, sticky pleasure, a spark he couldn’t quite name, mingled with the shame that flared up inside him.

“Mademoiselle, I’m at your feet…” he croaked. “And only you can save my wretched soul in this endless sea. You’re not just a rose, you’re a true oasis, my princess!”

Crocodile blinked. The more he listened to the stranger on the line, the more he reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t fathom exactly who, yet. That voice, that tone, that swaying pronunciation… The word “princess” evoked some not-so-pleasant associations from a long time ago. Where did he hear that voice before?

At Whiskey Peak? At a nameless island in the middle of the Grand Line? Or maybe… Alabasta? 

Alabasta. The gears of Crocodile’s mind started to turn frantically. A thought spun insistently in his head. Something like this had happened before—something painfully familiar. Why did this voice on the line sound so much like…

Suddenly it dawned on him.

He remembered that fidgety blond guy who was always kicking up a fuss, swearing, just another insignificant and annoying stumbling block in his path, which had simply turned out to be a thorn in his side in his plans to take over the desert kingdom. The chef at the “Straw Hat.” Mr.—damn it—“Prince.”

Fate sometimes threw up some delightfully absurd surprises, and that was a truth the former Shichibukai was forced to face head-on at that moment.

Crocodile slowly pulled the cigar from his mouth as a smirk full of cold, sadistic joy spread across his face. He recognized him by the same arrogance with which that idiot had spoken to him over Den-Den Mushi when he first introduced himself as “Mr. Prince.”

The older man’s voice changed again. The weary tension faded, replaced by something insinuating, lazy, and full of venomous irony, which Sanji, lost in his own lust, mistook for seductiveness.

“In the boundless sea…” Crocodile drawled. He closed his eyes, picturing this fool pacing back and forth in his cramped cabin. “Poor boy. You must feel really cold.”

The ex-Warlord wasn’t even aware of how much he was enjoying himself. Manipulating this puppy, without even seeing him and using only his voice, was thrilling to a point he wouldn’t even dare to admit aloud.

“It’s not cold—more like… hot,” the boy whispered curtly, already unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “I keep thinking about how nice it would be to touch someone…”

Crocodile ran the fingers holding his cigar along the rim of his whiskey glass. “And who do you want to touch, darling? Tell me.”

“I… I’m imagining you, mademoiselle,” he exhaled, crumpling a piece of newspaper as he studied the banner with the photograph. “Your dark hair, your lips… I’d like to…”

“Quiet, you sound too eager,” the other male cut him off as soon as he catched the sudden franticness of his panting. “Don’t go so fast. Be a good boy and take your time, will you?”

The cook just swallowed hard.

“Oh, yes, mademoiselle… I’ll do as you say. What would you like me to do?”

“Hmm…” Crocodile pretended to think it over, but just took a long drag on his cigar, and the smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. His own voice grew deeper, almost hypnotic. He hadn’t expected this charade to give him such satisfaction. To feel his enemy on the other end of the line losing control, his breathing becoming ragged… there was a dark charm to it he hadn’t considered before. “Close your eyes. Imagine that I’m right next to you, that I’m touching you.”

Sanji obeyed without a second thought; his hand under the table had already unfastened his belt buckle, and his fingers slid beneath the waistband of his pants and underwear. That low, hoarse voice… the shivers its dominance sent through his spine was something his body couldn’t simply ignore. And the bulge growing between his legs was proof of that.

His imagination was painting the picture of a femme fatale—stately, imposing—sitting across from him on the table, with her hand cupping his chin like a puppy, and he was nothing but happy to comply, listening intently to her, waiting for her command.

“Yes…” the cook exhaled.

“Good boy…” the ex-Warlord’s voice grew harsher, taking on those familiar steely undertones that the boy, trapped in that delusion of heat, mistook for passion. 

Crocodile liked that. Of course he did—a hell of a lot. Power was the strongest aphrodisiac for him, and now he had as much power as he wanted over that young, drooling pervert. That was why he just closed his eyes, letting the game go further, and, like a grandmaster, he let himself enjoy leading this match.

“Now imagine you’re here, on your knees before me. And you can touch me wherever you want… Where would you start?”

Sanji bit his lip when he heard the “lady” call him a “good boy”, as various images were already flashing through his mind of what he’d like to do with this beautiful woman. His heart was pounding like crazy, and the heat between his legs grew deeper. Who would have thought that a simple erotic line could feel so good?

“With your knees, mademoiselle,” he replied in a whisper, completely lost in his lustful fantasies. His hand involuntarily tightened around the receiver, while his other one was occupied, starting to stroke the length of his hard member. “I’d kiss them slowly, tenderly… Then… then I’d move higher. To your thighs. I’ve heard that girls have especially tender and soft skin there.”

Upon those words, Crocodile chuckled quietly, silently, just to himself. He tilted his head back against the armchair, imagining what that silly boy must look like right now.

“And what would you do next, my sweet, obedient boy?” he asked, and a note of genuine, unfeigned curiosity, laced with sadistic anticipation, crept into his voice.

“I would… I would show that a true chef’s skills aren’t limited to just his hands…” Sanji’s voice wavered as his excitement overwhelmed him and his fingers caressed the shaft of his cock. “I would prove that true mastery lies in the ability to control one’s tongue, to study, analyze, and memorize flavors… I would taste your flower, my goddess…”

The young man’s words, full of sincere—albeit futile—desire, strangely struck a chord within the former Warlord himself. There was a certain charm to this role, to this illusion. To have control over another person, reduced to such a vulnerable state, driven to such pathetic and desperate masturbation by the mere power of his words, was intoxicating. Crocodile carefully set aside Den-Den Mushi’s receiver and slowly ran his hand over his stomach, going lower and lower, feeling the tension beneath the fabric of his tailored pants—a tension that was beginning to build within him as well. The game was getting more and more risqué, and the thought of stopping before things went too far was flitting through his mind like a restless butterfly.

The temptation to lower his hand and start caressing himself as well was just as strong at the same time, too. But Crocodile just couldn't falter.

“You’re so passionate…” he finally said, intentionally let his voice drop to a low whisper, almost his natural tone. “Now imagine you can feel sand on your tongue.”

“Sand?” Sanji asked, confused. Lost in his fantasies, he didn’t pay much attention to the change in Crocodile’s voice, obediently keeping his eyes closed and picturing the sensation of sand on his mouth. “Rose,” after all—that’s her image. Maybe it’s a metaphor for a garden?

“Yes. It’s everywhere. And it burns. You feel thirst. It’s unbearable… You want to drink so desperately. You’re drying up…” he spoke slowly, imbuing every word with his icy authority. He could hear the cook on the other end of the line begin to breathe heavily and raggedly, a sign of just how quickly and passionately that oblivious bastard must be jerking off right now. He was pushing him to the limit. Slowly, like a boa constrictor, tightening his grip.

Inducing him into an imminent orgasm.

“Yeah… thirst…” the boy managed to mutter between moans. “I… want to drink from your fountain so badly…”

“Do you want the sand to swallow you whole?” Crocodile’s voice became a quiet whisper, but laughter could be heard in it, disguised as sighs of pleasure.

“Yeah… Rose, I… I’m almost…”

“Almost ready to come from the voice of the one who nearly killed your captain and your dear princess, Mr. Prince?” Crocodile suddenly cut him off, sharp and unexpected as a bucket of cold water. His voice had changed. All the mischievousness, all the insinuation, had vanished, becoming the exact way Sanji remembered it: rough, icy, full of utter contempt and venomous sarcasm.

But at that very moment, the moment of realization, the climax came—one Sanji couldn’t hold back, making him freeze as strands of his cum erupted from the tip of his cock uncontrollably. 

Right after, the heated fog in his head cleared instantly, replaced by a cold sensation of pure terror as he recognized him. All he could do was stare wide-eyed at his now stained hand, while his other one clutched the Den-Den Mushi, unable—and maybe unwilling too—to believe what had happened. The blush of passion on his face gave way to a deathly pallor.

Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, Crocodile burst into a low, satisfied laugh, savoring every second of this pause, every fraction of the terror and humiliation the poor cook was now experiencing.

“Did you enjoy our conversation, Mr. Prince? I must admit, your fantasies… are quite vivid. I had a lot of fun. And judging by the sound of it… so did you.” He heard a sound on the other end of the line that sounded like someone trying to breathe but unable to.

Sanji just recoiled from the snail as if it were a red-hot iron, his face contorting into a grimace of pure hatred, shame, and rage.

“You… you bastard!”

“Quiet, Prince. You’re the one who called me,” the man drawled with relish, exhaling cigar smoke. “Don’t spoil such a delightful finale with a tantrum. Have sweet dreams. I hope you’ll remember this call for a long time,” he hung up, took a sip of whiskey, and laughed quietly again, staring at the ceiling. This little prank with the phone call had more than paid for itself.