Still lost somewhere around the Magnus Institute. Sometimes I’m back on pirate-related bullshit. I also am very normal about the Locked Tomb, I promise. * profile pic by @rysttle *
Can I pls request anything sanji related?? I really love your writing and you do him justice 💙🥺
Sure, can't wait to see more of him in season Two
His jacket is heavier than you expected.
You slipped it on without thinking, as the night was chilly, and it was the closest thing nearby. Black and warm, hanging off the back of a chair in the galley. It fell past your hands, the sleeves too long, the shoulders broader than expected, making you pull it closer to collect its warmth.
And then you breathe in, and your brain rewrites itself.
You smelt the faint cigarette smoke, faded now, but holding a lingering smoking warmth. Beneath is the tinge of food. Garlic, onions, oil; something sweetened and toasted, caramelized sauce prepped just before it burns.
Most notable beneath it all is the sweet, clean scent of something cleanly floral. Citrus, patchouli, and jasmine. Not overwhelming, but the scent of regular bathing and handwashing. Something very much Sanji, and it gives you a real shiver down your spine.
God, how did he smell so good?
You put up with a lot aboard the Sunny, and some notable issues were the fact that your beloved captain and first mate refused to shower more than once a week. There were days Nami would pass Zoro by and throw water on him to dampen the stench. Even Usopp and Franky would band together to occasionally create 'human-washes' for the pair, mimicking a ship wash.
But Sanji?
Sanji had many, many sins, but he never smelled bad. Often, he smelled better than everyone else, infuriating Nami. Even Robin couldn't figure him out, despite performing reconnaissance for this issue.
"Just regular shampoo." She'd report to the rest of the girls, and Brooke, and all of you would scream.
Coats, cloaks, shirts that were too big and smelled like salt and sun. None of them made your chest tighten like this. None of them made your thighs clench, and fingers curl like Sanji. Which was a problem because you couldn't go around having a crush on Sanji. That would be against nature itself. Sanji lusted after girls, not vice verse.
But your olfactory senses don't take Sanji and his perverted proclivities into account when it comes to smell.
He smells like safety. Not in any single, simple way, but layered. Smoke softened by time, the ghost of a cigarette crushed out carefully at the edge of the deck. Heat from the stove, oil and salt and herbs clinging to fabric the way warmth clings to skin. Beneath that, something clean and steady, soap and sun and the quiet assurance of good health.
Late nights live in this jacket. The kind where the ship creaks softly and the sea breathes slow and deep, and everyone else is asleep. The galley light is still on then, low and golden, casting long shadows over polished counters. Someone is always awake in there. Someone who notices when you cannot sleep. Someone who feeds you without questions when your hands feel unsteady and your thoughts are louder than your hunger.
It smells like hands that never hesitate. Hands that move with certainty, with care, with an almost reverent patience. Hands that believe a meal can fix things. That believe you are worth fixing things for.
Sunshine lives here too. Not loud, blinding brightness, but the kind that warms your bones and makes your body feel like it might last a long time yet. Like a meal so well made it does not just fill you, but rewrites something fundamental inside you. Changes the fiber of your life so you never quite feel empty the same way again.
“Oh,” you murmur, startled by the sound of your own voice.
Sanji steps back into the galley with a plate balanced in his hands, steam still curling upward. He stops short when he sees you.
His gaze catches on the jacket first. Black fabric swallowed by your frame, sleeves hanging past your wrists. Then your face. Then away again, as if he had stumbled into something private, something he was not meant to see. His ears redden first, then his cheeks, heat blooming visibly along his cheekbones.
“That's mine,” he says at last, polite and careful. Too careful.
You turn toward him, still wrapped in it, still breathing him in. The weight of the fabric settles around you like an anchor, and you do not know why your pulse suddenly feels louder, why your chest feels tight in a way that is not unpleasant.
“Yeah,” you say.
He clears his throat, eyes flicking anywhere but you. “If you are cold, ma cherie, I can get you something else. A blanket? Tea? I will make tea.”
He shifts forward, reaching automatically, and you step back without thinking. Your fingers curl into the jacket at your chest, knuckles brushing the worn seam near the zipper.
“No,” you say, sharper than you mean to.
He blinks.
“No?” he repeats, caught off guard.
You glance down at yourself. At the way the jacket swallows you whole. At how naturally it sits on your shoulders, like it has been waiting. Like you belong there.
“I mean,” you say again, softer now, embarrassed heat creeping up your neck, “I like this one.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and charged.
Sanji’s mouth opens. Closes. He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way you have never seen directed at you before. Not performative. Not exaggerated. Just real.
“It smells like smoke,” he says apologetically.
“And food,” you reply.
“And…” He hesitates, glancing at you through his lashes. “Me.”
You meet his eyes.
“Yeah. Just like you.”
Something in you quietly shifts. A quiet, internal click, like a lock turning somewhere deep in your chest. You have always liked Sanji, despite his flirting. Because above all, he's kind, devoted, and takes care of everyone without ever asking to be taken care of in return. Even when alone with him, he has always felt warm and safe and uncomplicated.
Until now.
Until the jacket feels too close. Until you are suddenly aware of how near he is, of the heat of his body, of the way the air between you seems to hum. Until the thought of giving this back makes your chest ache in a way you do not have words for yet.
“You can keep it,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words. “For tonight. Or longer. As long as you want.”
“You sure?” you ask.
He smiles, gentle and familiar, but there is something new behind it now. Nerves, perhaps? Hope? The barest edge of vulnerability?
“I have others,” he says. “And I would rather you be comfortable.”
You pull the jacket tighter around yourself, fabric brushing your chin, and step closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel his warmth, to feel that steady presence you have leaned on without realizing it.
“Then I am not giving it back,” you say. "I'm very comfortable."
His breath stutters, barely audible.
“Ah,” he manages. “I see.”
You tilt your head, studying him through this new lens you cannot unsee. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way he always seems to be waiting, attentive without demanding anything in return.
Something warm settles low in your chest.
Sanji sets the plate down with careful hands, as if grounding himself.
“Just,” he says quietly, voice gentler than the galley light, “let me know if you ever want something else.”
You smile, breathing him in once more, letting the warmth of him settle deeper into your chest.
“I think,” you say softly, almost thoughtfully, “once the scent fades… you should wear it again. Then give it back.”
For a heartbeat, Sanji does not move.
Then pink floods his face, fast and unmistakable, racing from the tips of his ears down his neck. His eyes widen just slightly before he snaps them away, jaw working as if his thoughts have suddenly lost all coordination.
“Eh—” He chokes on the sound, clearing his throat far too hard. “I-if that is what you want.”
He tries to recover, tries to smooth it over with practiced charm, but his hands betray him. One curls into a fist at his side. The other adjusts his cuff even though it does not need adjusting.
“That is… that is perfectly reasonable,” he adds, nodding once, then again, as if convincing himself. “Yes. Of course. I will… make sure to wear it properly.”
You can almost hear his heartbeat.
He risks a glance at you then, finds you still wrapped in his jacket, still smiling, and whatever fragile composure he has left shatters completely.
“O-of course,” he repeats, softer now. “Anytime you like.”
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