When you returned home from what felt like months at sea, the last thing you expected to find was two children. Well, not real children. They were clearly far older than that but with the volume they argued at, you could think of no better term.
It was the first time the castle had greeted you with anything but stillness. Their argument bounced faintly along the vaulted ceilings and down the halls as you walked, and despite yourself, it drew a quiet smile from you.
A glass of wine waited beside your favourite chaise, set within easy reach of the fire that crackled low in the hearth. The warmth of it brushed against your skin as you passed, chasing away the lingering chill of travel. You leaned down to press a brief kiss to Mihawk’s cheek. His hand came up briefly at your wrist before you could pull away, a quiet pause more than a restraint, as though confirming you were truly there before he let you go.
You settled opposite him, the familiar weight of the room closing comfortably around you.
“Are you interested in adoption now, my love?” you asked. “I won’t complain too much but I admit, I’d have preferred to start with somebody a little younger.”
He shook his head and levelled a flat, unimpressed look toward the sound. “They’re an unasked-for gift from Kuma.”
“Kuma? He always gives us the strangest things.”
And rarely were they without meaning. You wondered what he had planned with this.
Mihawk gave you a tired look. “And never with appropriate warning. How were your travels?”
You fought the urge to sigh in exasperation. “Testing of my patience. I was – ”
The door screeched against the stone floor before you could finish your sentence and you turned, interested in the argument that had finally made its way to the table. What they were talking about was beyond you but it took them both a second to notice there was somebody else in the room.
Four ghosts drifted in during the sudden silence that followed, their forms pale against the dark stone, their faint murmuring just loud enough to be heard when the room went still. You watched them for a moment, mildly amused. The house was officially haunted then, you supposed.
“If you two are to remain here, you are to do so with far less noise,” Mihawk said sharply. “What do you want?”
They both opened their mouths to answer but it seemed your unexpected arrival had caused them to forget their argument entirely. Instead, the boy settled on speaking about something else.
“That’s a good sword.”
You followed his gaze to the side of your chaise where your weapon rested. Its plain leather scabbard said little for the quality of the blade inside. You lifted it and held it out toward him and he watched you warily before he stepped forward to take it.
“It was a gift,” you said. “I believe I recognise you. Pirate Hunter Zoro, no?”
He nodded stiffly, far more interested in the weapon than you. He looked uncomfortable. Not as though he was seriously injured but more as though he was recovering from such an ordeal and already pushing himself too hard.
You gave Mihawk a look. “You’ve always been too harsh with your training.”
He tilted his head to you. “If your skills ever fail you, then you can complain about my methods.”
“I can do both,” you said with a small chuckle. “I’ll complain and appreciate your techniques at the same time. Though at the time, I remember nothing but complaining.”
He breathed out quickly. “True. My ears rang for days at the pitch.”
Zoro drew your blade, holding it out in front of him and you turned to the girl instead whose face certainly wasn’t as common on wanted posters.
“We haven’t met,” you said and she frowned at you.
Then she propped her hands onto her hips and nodded. “I see what’s going on.”
“What’s going on?”
Mihawk gave you her name later, after she marched off to find something to eat. You also learned the ghosts were hers and they gathered around her eagerly whenever she laughed, bobbing around. They added quite nicely to the aesthetic of the place – you’d always suspected it had to be haunted by at least one spirit.
You considered it as you lounged atop the silken sheets of the four-poster bed, the fabric cool beneath your skin. The room pressed in around you with its age, stone walls holding onto a quiet that felt older than either of you, thick with a history no one had bothered to remember.
And broken by the occasional laugh echoing down the halls.
“Do they sleep?” you asked.
“Most of the time. I’m still considering putting them on a boat and letting it set sail,” Mihawk said. “If the current is merciful, they may reach land alive.”
“The boy has potential enough for you to let him stay then?”
“Some. I’ve still yet to determine it.”
You hummed softly under your breath. “But the girl has no skills to be trained.”
“No. She seems to have spent most of her life around Gecko Moira.”
“Unfortunate.”
He took his place next to you and raised a book, flicking lazily through the pages until he found his spot. You leaned closer, curious to see how far he’d gotten since you’d last seen him, only to find you remembered the page almost exactly.
“Rereading?”
“I didn’t take it with me. I thought that if you returned earlier than I did, you might want something to look at it.”
You smiled softly. “I should have arrived earlier but things turned sour on the archipelago. There was chaos enough I almost skipped the stop. Did Kuma send them when you got back?”
“I don’t know when they arrived. I found them here after my return.”
You twisted onto your side to look at him better, expression aghast. “Dracule, don’t tell me they were abandoned here for potential days. We had no food here after we left.”
He shrugged. “They survived. I’m certain there are berries or something growing outside the west wing.”
The next morning, you got up early to prepare breakfast, your brain still lingering on the berries outside. You were quite sure those weren’t edible.
You busied yourself around the far-too-big kitchen, your footsteps echoing faintly against the stone as you moved between counters. Pots and pans hung where they had been left months ago, a thin layer of dust settled over some of them as you reached up to pull them down.
Something shifted behind you, light but noticeable in the quiet, and you turned with a small smile already forming. “Good morning.”
Perona gave you a look you didn’t quite understand. “Men are rather stupid,” she said. “You have to do something more obvious, especially with men like him who are more interested in swords.”
You frowned, a little confused by the morning’s topic but happy to accept it. “I imagine it depends on the man. Would you like some pancakes?”
“Sure. I’m just saying that it doesn’t matter how big you make your ‘I love you’ eyes because he won’t even notice,” she said.
“Are you talking about Dracule?” you asked.
She blinked at you. “First names are a bit too forward.”
Perona clearly enjoyed cuter things so you took a little more time to decorate her pancakes, making two small bear faces surrounded by (edible) berries and a little bit of chocolate you’d carried back with you. It wasn’t the best creation you’d ever made but it was adorable enough that you held out the plate to her.
“He’s never minded what I call him,” you said. “Dracule is a lot less formal than – are you alright?”
She stared at the plate for a moment too long, eyes brightening. You froze for a second, still holding the plate out. You flipped the pancakes cooking with your free hand, not sure what to do now. Had you offended her?
Then she flicked her head up to look at you and nodded, grabbing the plate. “These aren’t that impressive but fine, I’ll help you organise a date with him,” she said. “Not because these look like Kumashi or anything but you know, because you look sad and he needs to mope less.”
You had no idea what a Kumashi was but you assumed it meant she liked them. You could have corrected her then but the determined tilt of her chin made the misunderstanding too charming to ruin.
“I wouldn’t say he mopes,” you said. “Though he can be a bit miserable when he hasn’t slept enough.”
“It’s probably also because this place is depressing,” she huffed. “It’s so gloomy and… cold.”
“It does need a good clean,” you admitted to yourself, looking up to the ceiling where cobwebs stretched between the beams and gathered in corners that had not seen a broom in years. “It’s just a bit of a pain to get up there. The last time I climbed into the rafters, I was attacked by a ridiculously sized bug so I’d rather not do it again.”
“Perhaps you should take your sword with you,” Mihawk said as he stepped in. “You could easily kill one insect.”
“It’s far harder to clean with a blade,” you defended yourself though you remembered him getting rid of that very bug not long after it scared you. “Do you want some breakfast?”
Perona held up her pancakes for him to see. “She’s very good at making cute meals. You should get her to move in so she can bring some more life to this place. It’s got a good creepy castle vibe but it could use more colour.”
Mihawk stared at the plate for a second. “That’s not a reason to ask somebody to move in?”
You handed him a plate of his own bear pancakes. His fingers brushed yours as he took the plate, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before he withdrew. “I was considering adding something brighter to a few rooms. Maybe a lighter red for the curtains.”
“Do as you wish,” he said. “Why bears?”
“I saw one while I was out. Technically a mink but just as cute.”
He left to wake up the younger swordsman after breakfast, telling you to leave the kitchen mess for him to clean later. Perona nodded approvingly the whole time; her ghosts peering their heads around the corner to watch him leave.
“You’re doing well,” she said. “Next you have to dress up for him. What kind of outfits do you think he likes?”
You looked around yourself at the grandiose kitchen with its dark oak cabinets, intricately designed gothic fittings, and gold-tinted décor. “I think his preferred aesthetic is obvious,” you admitted. “Do you want to look at the clothing I have already?”
She shook her head fiercely. “No. No. I think you need to look a lot cuter. We’ll set up a date for both of you tonight.”
“Alright,” you said, bemused. “I’d never say no to a date.”
It turned out that when Kuma banished her onto this ‘vacation’, he hadn’t sent many of her things with her. She started to try planning with what little she had until you offered to take her to a nearby island with much better stores. It was no grand marketplace, just a narrow stretch of shops pressed close together near the docks, but her excitement still had her bouncing on her heels as she looked from window to window.
She adored the colour pink – that you learned quickly – and she had a withering tongue when she came across something that was ugly.
You took the time to grab a few items for the pirate alongside all that Perona wanted which… was honestly a lot. You watched her with faint entertainment as she gathered everything for this dinner date of yours, intervening only to point her toward a wine you knew Mihawk preferred.
“Alright, so you should cook him something cute for dinner,” she insisted. “Try and focus on heart shapes where you can.”
“He cooks more often than I do,” you said. “But I should know what he likes to eat.”
“See? You’re not hopeless.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly at that. “Have you ever done this for a man before, Perona? You seem very confident in it.”
“Ew, no,” she said with a wrinkled tongue. “Why would I want to make food for somebody who smells bad?”
It was an answer younger than her years but you were starting to get the feeling that she may not have met many outside her home island. And from what little you knew of Moira – admittedly, you had avoided the man since the first time you met him – he’d always kept questionable company.
“Thankfully, Dracule rarely smells bad,” you admitted. “Though he does have his own questionable habits from time to time.”
“How long have you been in love with him?”
You smiled to yourself. How long had it been now? The years had passed before you even noticed them going.
“A while.”
“Good. That means you’re not going to change your mind.”
“Most certainly not.”
Perona eventually found a very frilly choice for you. A ridiculously frilly thing that you would never wear for yourself but she insisted would suit you well. Part of you wondered if she was using you to play dolls with but you’d entertain her for now. Especially because it seemed to make her very happy to do so.
She set up the dining hall while you cooked that evening, before either swordsman returned from their training. Candles flickered above you, their light shifting softly across the walls as you sat and allowed her to do your makeup, her hands tugging gently at your hair until you caught your reflection and found you did indeed resemble a doll.
You touched your lips delicately with your ring finger as you considered yourself.
The pink tablecloth hung unevenly over the long table, one side slipping lower than the other, and the heart-shaped placemats sat bright against the dark wood. It was gaudy by any standard, but she seemed to be having fun, so you left her to it;
“Why are you making four plates?” she asked.
“You two still need to eat,” you reminded her.
“Okay but leave it here then. If you let Zoro in, he’ll ruin everything by talking about swords.”
“I rather like talking about swords,” you said.
She groaned. “No but it’s every night! They never talk about anything else!”
If you had planned this dinner by yourself, it would have been very different to what Perona suggested. The décor would have featured fewer horizontal stripes at least. You poured two glasses and settled into your favourite chair at the table while she waited with her head out into the hallway.
“He’s coming,” she hissed. “Don’t ruin it by looking nervous.”
“I’ll try my hardest.”
Mihawk stepped into the room and paused, his gaze moving slowly over the table, the candles, the colour that did not belong. The curtain so clearly hiding a woman. His gaze settled on you after only a moment, the rest of the room dismissed as quickly as it had been assessed.
“This seems like you had fun today,” he said.
“We went shopping,” you said. “And Perona curated us a lovely date.”
“No,” she hissed. “You’re meant to take credit for it.”
You looked toward the curtain. She’d stuck her head out to stare at you and you laughed softly.
“Honey, I would love to claim it but I think it’s quite obvious you were responsible for all of this. Whenever I set up for dinner, I do it quite differently.”
Mihawk raised an eyebrow and you gestured for him to take his usual seat. “A date?” he repeated. There was the faintest shift in his tone of something quieter beneath the question.
“She thinks we would make a very cute couple.”
He looked at the girl with a deadpan expression. “I did too. That was why I asked you to be my wife.”
You tilted your head slightly at that, amused by how easily he said it. Always so certain.
You laughed softly behind your hand. “Was that the only reason?”
“Among others.”
“But isn’t this sweet?” you asked as you took a sip of your wine. “It reminds me of the first time you made me dinner though… perhaps with less pink.”
“Wife?!” Perona exploded, seemingly having caught up. She stepped out from behind the curtain with an accusing stare. “You’re not wearing a ring!”
You reached behind you and touched the scabbard of your sword where it rested against your chair. Attached to the hilt by woven leather, your ring glinted gold. “It gets in the way if I’m wearing it while wielding a sword,” you admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me this morning when I said something?!”
“Because I found it sweet how you wanted to help me win his heart,” you said. “I think the best thing I did for that was when I stole his hat and didn’t give it back until he kissed me.”
Mihawk gave you a look. “I had already taken you out several times before then.”
“But that’s the moment you fell in love with me.”
He neither confirmed nor denied anything; simply breathed out and held his glass toward you. You clinked yours to his gently, the soft chime of crystal familiar in a way few other sounds could be.
“Why don’t you join us, Perona?” you asked. “It’s not quite the date you wanted it to be but we can enjoy dinner right?”
Zoro appeared in the doorway, looked from the pink tablecloth to Mihawk’s expression, and frowned. “Did I interrupt something weird?”
She huffed and crossed her arms but she was smiling. “Alright fine. I guess I can but at least get him to say you’re pretty or something.” She grabbed Zoro’s arm and practically hauled him from the door. “Come get your food.”
“Don’t drag me!”
You watched them go, stifling your laugh the entire time.
“She chose your outfit too?” Mihawk asked.
“Mm, do you like it?”
“There’s very little I wouldn’t like if you’re the one wearing it.”
You rested your hand over his own, squeezing slightly. “I like your new children,” you told him. “They’re very sweet.”
“They’re most certainly not mine,” he said. “But I suppose they’re tolerable.”
“That’s what you said about me the first time we met.”
He shook his head but you caught the faintest hint of a smile before you heard arguing start up in the hallway again. Zoro must have returned then. You had to admit, it may have only been a day, but the castle felt different already, less hollow than it had and you were growing quite fond of having them here. And though he would never admit it, they’d definitely won a little favour from your forever-stern husband.
Im so sheltered in my niche trans zoro tumblr/bsky op communities that when i see zoro without top surgery scars or boobs I'm kinda taken aback. Where's his swag you took away his swag...
hi!! i absolutely adore all the Sanji fics you’re writing!
I wonder if you could write something where reader suddenly flirts back to Sanji? Like, I imagine him getting so flustered when his tactics actually work with his new crew mate. Maybe it started as fun and without them realizing it became much more. Something that started light but became very intense because of their sudden chemistry. Maybe once they are alone trapped in some kind of island they lose their little control left?
I also saw you’ve written some +18 fics but none for Sanji, so maybe you could spice this one up? Only if you want to of course!!!
thank you so much for your amazing work and time!! i hope i don’t bother you too much with this and I’ll read anything you write willingly hahaha
SWEET ENOUGH TO RUIN ME
Sanji x fem!reader | mutual flirting | reader flirts back | trapped together | tension turns serious | accidental intimacy | live action Sanji | Loss of Control | Gentle Dominance | Wall Pinning | Fingering | Nipple Play | Penetrative Sex | Creampie | Aftercare | 3.7k words
(FIRST SANJI SMUT!!!)
The first time you flirted back, Sanji nearly dropped a plate.
It happened in the galley during one of those golden late afternoons when the Going Merry felt almost lazy under the sun, the kitchen full of warmth and the smell of garlic, butter, and fresh bread. Luffy was somewhere above deck shouting about something ridiculous, Usopp was either helping or making things worse, and Nami had long since made herself scarce before anyone could ask her to do anything useful. You had wandered in under the weak pretense of looking for water, though in truth you had started finding excuses to end up in Sanji’s kitchen more often than not.
He had noticed, of course. Sanji noticed everything.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with that easy, polished smile of his. “I was beginning to think the sunlight had grown jealous and kept you for itself.”
Normally, that would have been the moment you rolled your eyes, stole whatever fruit he had sliced, and left him to his theatrics. That was how it usually went. Sanji flirted, you deflected, and the whole thing dissolved into warm banter before it could become anything dangerous. It was easy. Familiar. Safe.
Only that afternoon, for reasons you still could not have named if pressed, you leaned one shoulder against the doorway and said, “And yet you’re still looking at me instead of your stove.”
Sanji froze.
Not dramatically. Not for long. Just a heartbeat—one tiny, catastrophic heartbeat where his body forgot how to belong to him.
Then he recovered, because he was Sanji, because smoothness lived in his bones, because he had built an entire religion around not being caught off guard by pretty women.
But you had seen it.
That was the problem.
His smile returned, a little slower this time. “Darling, if I looked at you as much as I was inclined to, dinner would never be served.”
You smiled. “Maybe it would be worth it.”
The knife in his hand stopped chopping.
You saw it. He knew you saw it. And suddenly the air in the galley changed, becoming something smaller, warmer, more aware of itself. The game had always been his before that moment. Sanji flirted; you laughed. Sanji offered charm; you brushed it aside. He had always been the one leaning in while you stood your ground.
Now he was looking at you like he had just realized the floor beneath him was not as steady as he thought.
You pushed off the doorway and wandered farther into the galley, slow enough that he had time to watch you do it. “What?” you asked lightly, coming to stand by the counter. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“I was only,” he said, then paused, visibly reorganizing himself, “momentarily impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“You’ve discovered a dangerous talent.”
You looked down at the cut fruit on the counter, selected a slice like you had not just set his entire nervous system on fire, and took a bite. “And what talent is that?”
Sanji’s eyes followed the motion with a focus that felt a little too intent for something so small.
“Making me wonder whether you know exactly what you’re doing.”
That should have been the end of it. It should have dissolved there into laughter and dinner and the comforting noise of the crew overhead. Instead, something subtle shifted after that day, and once it shifted, neither of you quite knew how to shift it back.
You started answering his compliments instead of dismissing them. When he called you beautiful, you would tilt your head and tell him you already knew, but you liked hearing him say it anyway. When he kissed the back of your hand with some exaggerated flourish, you would ask whether he did that for every girl or only when he was trying especially hard. When he leaned in close to murmur something warm and wicked at your ear, you started turning your face just enough that his next breath brushed your cheek.
The effect on him was immediate and devastating.
Sanji had built his life around charm. He knew how to wield attention like silk, how to make a woman smile, how to turn a room warm just by stepping into it. But this was different. This was you learning the shape of his own game and feeding it back to him with enough sincerity to make it dangerous. What had started as fun, as teasing, as you seeing how quickly you could make him lose that perfect composure, became something else before either of you could admit it. Sanji still flirted, yes, but now he watched your reactions with a kind of almost-hunger that made your pulse skip. And you, who had once found it easy to laugh him off, started feeling the tension of it hours later when you were trying to sleep.
The crew noticed, of course.
Not at first. At first it was just Nami arching a brow when she caught the two of you standing a little too close in the galley, or Zoro making one of his irritating little sounds of amusement when Sanji forgot to insult him because you had just entered the room. But after a while, it became harder to hide. There was too much electricity in the glances. Too much awareness in the pauses. Too much dangerous ease in the way Sanji’s hand would settle at your waist when the ship rocked, only to remain there one second longer than necessary.
Neither of you said anything about it.
That might have been the problem.
Because once something like that grows in silence, it starts finding its own ways out.
The island was supposed to be a simple supply stop. A nameless place with dense green brush, black volcanic rock, and a shoreline littered with driftwood silvered by salt. Nami had wanted citrus. Usopp wanted a break from the ship. Luffy wanted food, as always. The plan had been easy enough: split up, gather what you needed, meet back at the coast before sunset.
Then the weather changed.
One moment the sky had been open and hot above you, the next the wind shifted hard enough to bend the palms and send the surf crashing white against the rocks. By the time the first real wall of rain came down, the island had become unrecognizable—misty, green, slick with mud and runoff, every path turned strange under the sudden violence of the storm.
You and Sanji had been farther inland than the others when it hit.
At first, neither of you panicked. It was just rain. Just wind. Just a temporary inconvenience on an island far too small to get truly lost on. Sanji had taken your wrist without a word and guided you beneath the partial shelter of a rocky overhang while the worst of the downpour swept through, his palm warm and firm around yours, his body instinctively angled to block you from the brunt of the storm.
“We’ll wait it out,” he had said.
You believed him for exactly seven minutes.
Then the rain came harder. The wind shifted again, colder this time, lashing through the trees in a way that made the whole island sound alive and unhappy. Water ran down the rock face in glittering streams, dripping from Sanji’s hair and soaking through the white shirt now clinging to his shoulders and chest. Your own clothes were hardly better off, damp and heavy, and the little pocket of dry shelter you had claimed was becoming less dry by the second.
Sanji glanced out at the storm, jaw set. “No.”
That was all the warning you got before he took your hand again and pulled you away from the overhang. You ran with him through the rain, slipping over wet rock and tangled roots until he spotted the shape of an abandoned fisherman’s hut half-hidden between the trees. The roof sagged in one corner and one shutter hung crooked, but it was standing, which was more than enough.
Inside, it smelled of old wood, damp salt, and something faintly metallic from years of neglect. Still, it was shelter. Four walls, a mostly solid roof, and enough protection from the wind to let both of you breathe again.
For a few minutes, that was all it was. Relief. Practicality. The two of you catching your breath in the dim, storm-muted light while rain battered the roof hard enough to make conversation feel intimate by necessity. Sanji checked the windows first, then the door, then the corner where some old blankets had been left in a heap by whoever last used the place. You stood near the center of the room wringing water from your sleeves and trying not to think too hard about the fact that you were alone with him in a space too small to ignore him in.
Sanji turned at last and looked at you properly.
His shirt was soaked through, translucent in places, clinging to warm skin and the hard line of muscle beneath. Blond hair hung damp across his forehead, one strand dripping toward his eye. Water still traced slowly down the side of his throat, disappeared beneath his collar, and you had to look away before he caught you staring.
He caught you anyway.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “If you keep looking at me like that, darling, I may begin to think you’re pleased we’re stranded.”
You should have rolled your eyes. You should have laughed it off.
Instead, because the room was small and the rain was loud and the tension had been building for weeks with nowhere else to go, you said, “What if I am?”
Sanji went still.
Not frozen. Not startled in the same way he had been that first time in the galley. This was different. Slower. More dangerous. Like he had suddenly become aware of every inch of the space between you and was deciding whether crossing it would ruin him.
The storm pressed at the hut in sheets, rattling the shutters. The room had gone dim, lit only by the gray light forcing its way through cracks in the boards. It made everything feel close and secret and slightly unreal.
Sanji took one step toward you.
“Do you know,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with that signature velvet edge, “how cruel you’ve become?”
You couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped, though it tangled in your throat as he closed the distance further, his presence filling the small space between you. The scent of rain and his cologne—smoky, warm—wrapped around you like an embrace. “Cruel?” you echoed, tilting your head, your own wet clothes clinging uncomfortably, yet thrillingly, to your skin.
“You flirt back once,” he said, his blue eye—visible through the fringe of his hair—locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter, “and suddenly I’ve known no peace for days.”
A warmth bloomed low in your belly, twisting sweetly. “Only days?” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper, emboldened by the way his gaze darkened, the playful mask slipping.
His expression shifted then, something deeper etching into the lines of his face, the easy charm thinning to reveal raw vulnerability. “Would you like the truth?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Maybe.”
He exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh, devoid of humor and brimming with nerves. “I have been trying,” he said, voice lower now, “very hard to remain a gentleman.”
Sanji, the unflappable cook with his silver tongue and unwavering poise, was unraveling before you. Because of you. That realization sent a shiver through you, not from the chill of your damp clothes, but from the power of it—the way his composure cracked just for this moment, just for you.
You looked at him fully then: the water beading on his lashes, his lips parted as if tasting the air between you, his visible eye stormy with unspoken want.
You swallowed. “And are you succeeding?”
His smile was brief and wrecked around the edges. “Not especially.”
Sanji’s gaze dropped to your mouth so fast it might have been involuntary. When it came back to your eyes, the polished charm was still there, but only barely now, like something unraveling beneath careful hands.
“What happens,” you asked softly, “if you stop trying so hard?”
He was close enough now that you could feel the heat of him even through damp clothes and storm-cooled air. One more step and you would be touching.
Sanji’s voice, when it came, was rougher than you had ever heard it. “I think,” he said, “you already know.”
Your pulse jumped so hard it was almost painful.
Then, because you had come this far and could not pretend otherwise anymore, you reached up and put your hand lightly against his chest.
The wet fabric clung cool beneath your palm. The heartbeat under it was not calm.
Neither was his breath.
Sanji closed his eyes for half a second, and the control in him seemed to tremble. When he opened them again, he lifted one hand, slow enough to let you stop him, and brushed his knuckles along your jaw before settling his fingers carefully at the side of your neck.
The touch was gentle.
The tension behind it was not.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, and you could hear how much it cost him to say it. “Now, and I will.”
Whatever fragile restraint you'd clung to dissolved. “I don’t want you to stop,” you breathed, the words slipping out like a confession.
That did it. Sanji's control snapped like a taut rope finally giving way. He surged forward, closing the gap in one fluid motion, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger that had simmered for far too long. The kiss was fierce at first, lips pressing hard, tongues meeting in a tangle that spoke of weeks of pent-up flirtation, of stolen glances across the deck and lingering touches disguised as accidents. His hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your wet hair, tilting your head to deepen the connection. He tasted like salt from the sea spray and the faint bitterness of tobacco, but beneath it all, sweetness—pure, unfiltered desire.
You melted into him, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left, just the solid heat of his body against yours. He groaned softly into your mouth, a sound that vibrated through you, and for a heartbeat, he lost himself—his kiss turning wilder, teeth grazing your lower lip, his free hand gripping your waist with a possessiveness that bordered on desperation. He pressed you back against the cool wall of the galley, the contrast of the wood against your spine making you gasp, which he swallowed eagerly.
But then, as if catching himself, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting. His breath fanned warm across your flushed skin. “God, you... you drive me mad,” he whispered, his voice rough, trembling at the edges. His thumb traced your jawline, tender now, a stark contrast to the fire in his eyes. “I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. Every night since you joined the crew.”
The admission hung between you, sweet and vulnerable, pulling at your heartstrings. You reached up, cupping his face, feeling the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pulse raced under your fingertips. “Sanji,” you said softly, your voice a caress.
That single word undid him again. His composure fractured once more, and he kissed you slower this time, but no less intensely. Every brush of his lips was deliberate, savoring, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory. The heat that had built over days—weeks—of banter poured into that kiss, turning playful teasing into something profound, inescapable. There was no joke in it anymore, no escape hatch. Just him, rain-damp and warm, his body trembling slightly with the effort of holding back, and you, pinned gently between the wall and the firm planes of his chest, aching with a desire that had grown beyond words.
His hand at your waist slid lower, fingers splaying across your hip, pulling you flush against him. You felt the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh, and a soft moan escaped you, making his grip tighten. He broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. “I want to make you feel good,” he murmured against your pulse point, his breath hot and uneven. “Let me take care of you, my love.”
The endearment sent a rush of warmth through you, romantic and tender amid the storm's fury outside. You nodded, words failing as his mouth found yours again, softer now, exploratory. His fingers worked at the buttons of your shirt with surprising gentleness, each one undone like unwrapping a gift he'd longed for. The fabric parted, cool air kissing your exposed skin, but his hands were quick to follow, palms sliding over your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin barrier of your undergarment.
Sanji's breath hitched, his control slipping as he cupped you fully, kneading with a reverence that made your knees weak. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice husky, eyes drinking you in as he peeled the shirt from your shoulders. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest. When his lips closed around a nipple through the fabric, sucking gently, you arched into him, fingers digging into his hair.
He growled low in his throat—a sound of pure, unrestrained want—and for a moment, he lost it completely. His hands roamed greedily, shoving your shirt aside entirely, yanking down the cup of your bra to expose you to his mouth. He latched on, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you. His hips ground against yours instinctively, the friction making you both gasp. “Fuck,” he muttered against your skin, the curse slipping out in his haze, his elegant facade crumbling under the weight of need.
But he caught himself, pulling back with visible effort, his chest heaving. He rested his head against your shoulder, inhaling shakily. “Sorry,” he breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your sternum. “I just... you’re everything. I don’t want to rush this. Not with you.”
You smiled, touched by his sincerity, and guided his hand back to your waist, encouraging him. “I want all of you, Sanji. The control and the chaos.”
His eye met yours, filled with a love so deep it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring his heart into it as his fingers deftly unfastened your pants, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear. The storm's thunder rumbled overhead, mirroring the one building between you, but his touch remained worshipful—fingers tracing the curve of your thigh, dipping between your legs to find you already slick with arousal.
“You’re so wet for me,” he said softly, wonder in his tone, as he stroked you gently, circling your clit with feather-light touches that made you whimper. He watched your face, memorizing every reaction, his own arousal straining against his trousers. When he slipped a finger inside you, curling it just right, you cried out, and he captured the sound with his lips, kissing you through the building pleasure.
He added a second finger, thrusting slowly, his thumb pressing against your clit in rhythm. His free hand cradled your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “I love you,” he confessed between kisses, the words tumbling out as his control frayed again. His movements quickened, hips bucking against your leg as he chased your release with single-minded devotion.
The coil in your belly tightened, and with a few more precise strokes, you shattered, clenching around his fingers, waves of ecstasy crashing over you. Sanji held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings—'That's it, my darling,' 'So perfect'—his voice a soothing anchor.
As you came down, trembling in his arms, he withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his lips and tasting you with a hum of satisfaction. “Delicious,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief and affection. But the hunger hadn't faded; if anything, it burned brighter.
He stepped back just enough to shrug off his own shirt, revealing the toned lines of his torso, scarred faintly from battles past. You reached for him, tracing the muscles of his abdomen, feeling him quiver under your touch. His pants followed, kicked aside, and there he stood, cock hard and flushed, curving upward with need.
Sanji pulled you into another kiss, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist. He carried you to the nearby counter, setting you down gently, his hands never leaving your skin. “Tell me if it's too much,” he whispered, though his voice cracked with restraint.
“I want you inside me,” you replied, pulling him closer.
He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness. With a shared breath, he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, both of you moaning at the stretch, the fullness. He was thick, filling you completely, and he paused once fully seated, forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “You feel like heaven,” he rasped.
Then, his control slipped once more. He began to thrust, deep and steady at first, but the sensation overwhelmed him—his pace quickening, hips snapping forward with a fervor that made the counter creak. He buried his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, one hand bracing beside you, the other gripping your thigh to hold you open.
“Sanji,” you gasped, nails raking down his back, urging him on.
He groaned, losing himself in the rhythm, pounding into you with abandon, the wet sounds of your joining mingling with the rain's patter. Sweat slicked your bodies, his hair falling into his eyes as he chased release, but even in his frenzy, he reached between you, rubbing your clit to bring you along.
The intensity built again, coiling tighter, and when you clenched around him, crying out his name, he followed with a guttural moan, spilling deep inside you, hips jerking erratically. He collapsed against you, spent and shaking, pressing feather-light kisses to your shoulder.
In the aftermath, as the storm began to quiet, he held you close, wrapping you in his arms, his touch turning infinitely gentle. “I’ve never felt this before,” he murmured, voice soft with awe. “With you... it’s like coming home.”
You nestled into him, the romance of the moment wrapping around you both like the warmest blanket, even as the passion's embers glowed, promising more.
You had never thought Mihawk was all that territorial until you discovered you didn’t really know him at all.
There had been signs. Kuraigana Island was his, in that quiet, unspoken way that brooked no argument from the world or the sea around it. Yoru was his, and heaven help anyone who looked at it too long. Even his silly little apprentices were his, though he would never lower himself to say so aloud. He simply made it known through the precise economy of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to be understood.
And after that incident, where you had somehow found yourself on the end of his… special sword and come out the other side of it with a very complicated living situation, you too had become one of his own.
You were reminded of that occasionally. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not.
Screeeeeeeeccccchhhhh.
The sound the chair made as Mihawk dragged it across the stone floor was genuinely offensive. Loud enough to cut clean through every conversation in the tavern, to make the nearest crewmen of the Red Hair Pirates wince into their drinks. You were entirely certain Mihawk could have picked you and the chair up with one hand and simply relocated you, but that was not the point, was it. The point was the noise. The point was the spectacle.
You knew better than to say a word when Mihawk was making one.
After all, how else was he supposed to give Shanks the cut direct, make a proper show of it, and move you bodily away from the red-headed menace, without dragging your chair away from the man in a manner that left absolutely no room for misinterpretation? The screech had been deliberate. The placement of the chair, flush against his own, was deliberate. The arm that settled around your middle the moment he sat back down was deliberate, heavy and unhurried, as though he had simply decided you belonged there and that was the end of the matter.
Across the table, Shanks looked like he was fighting a grin and losing badly.
You gave Mihawk a long, flat stare. He ignored it with the same serene composure he ignored Shanks with, and the rest of Shanks’ crew, and the entire tavern’s worth of people now pretending not to look at the three of you.
His thumb moved once, a slow idle arc against your side.
You looked back at Shanks, who mouthed something at you that you were fairly sure translated to “my condolences.” You decided not to acknowledge that either.
I have a soft spot for trans man Zoro which leaves me cackling at the fact that la!Zoro does not know how pussy works. Fully incorporating these two facts into the same worldview. My man needs a map to find his own clit and with his sense of direction he's never getting there
