Warnings: Middle school party games, friend group shenanigans, obliviousness and miscommunication to comedic effect…and also dirty talk, semi-public sex, light dom/sub dynamics, handjobs, and a rookie author’s first attempt at smut. (Plz bear with me - if I forgot to list any warnings, please kindly lmk).
Summary: A party game ‘round a campfire stirs up some stray feelings. But, contrary to all you hopes and expectations, things don’t go at all according to plan—Sanji, flirtatious, hopeless, lovey-dovey Sanji - does absolutely nothing. From there, everything just snowballs: you try everything, half the crew is in on it, and he’s still clueless. In that case, it seems your beloved cook has left with no choice. The time has come, to take matters…into your own hands.
Luffy had eaten three helpings of marshmallows and declared the night a crew-wide game night, which was already a bad idea. But then Nami added rum, and Usopp dared Chopper to dance, and now there was a bottle on the ground.
You sat cross-legged across from Sanji, trying not to think about how he’d spent the last twenty minutes flirting with Robin, Nami, and you in perfect, predictable rotation. He was all fluttering lashes and “my sweet,” like always.
And you? You were so goddamn over it.
The bottle spun. It pointed to you.
Then it spun again. It landed on—
You raised a brow at the swordsman. Zoro blinked at you, expression unreadable, but you caught the flicker of recognition in his eye—the IOU. The deal. The plan.
He leaned in—and you kissed him.
You pulled back with a smirk. Zoro wiped his mouth like it was no big deal, though you caught the way his ears turned a little red.
Sanji, on the other hand, was short-circuiting.
“What in the seven seas was that?” he shrieked.
You looked at him lazily. “A kiss. That’s what the game is, right?”
Zoro smirked. “She’s got taste, eyebrow.”
“You shut your mossy face!”
The crew cackled. Brook played a rimshot on a tin cup. Even Robin smiled behind her book.
But you were watching Sanji. The way his jaw clenched. The way he wouldn’t look directly at you now.
And that’s when you realized—He wasn’t mad you kissed Zoro.
He was mad you didn’t kiss him.
It started the next morning.
You expected… something. A flirty joke. A dramatic soliloquy. Hell, even a fainting spell.
Sanji made you breakfast. Exactly the same as he made everyone else’s. Smiled. Bowed. Flirted with Nami instead.
You stared at your plate as if it had personally betrayed you.
Two days later, the situation had escalated to emergency levels of frustration.
Sanji wasn’t avoiding you. He was being normal—and it was infuriating.
So, naturally, you built a team.
Nami listened to your rant, sipped her tea, and said, “So we’re poking the chef with a stick until he breaks? Count me in.”
Usopp was bribed with snacks.
Robin simply offered an amused, “I do enjoy romance disasters.”
You found him training on deck and gave it to him straight. “You still owe me from the campfire,” you said. “Time to cash in.”
Zoro narrowed his eyes. “You want me to flirt with you in front of curly-brow?”
You smirked. “Not flirt. Just… play along. A look here, a little shoulder touch there.”
Zoro looked pained. “Disgusting.”
Phase One: Mild Jealousy.
A casual lean on Zoro’s shoulder at dinner. A slow drag of your hand down his arm after a sparring match. A lingering glance across the galley.
Sanji spilled flour. Twice.
Nami clocked it. “He’s cracking.”
Luffy, bless him, was recruited for one line only.
You planted it during a lazy evening while Sanji was chopping onions, pretending not to listen.
Luffy—swinging in a hammock out on the deck—hollered after him: “Hey! Sanji! Did you know our swabbie likes you?”
Sanji froze. From outside the chef’s purview, you vehemently gestured to Luffy ‘keep going-!’
“…As in… likes-likes you!”
A pause. Sanji didn’t look up. Didn’t so much as poke his head out the galley window. “Shut up, Luffy,” he called back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Phase Three: The Breakdown
You stormed into the galley late that night under the pretense of cleaning up. The galley was warm. Not from the oven—though something half-baked still sat forgotten on the middle rack—but from the tension pulling tight between the two people alone in this room, you and Sanji, thick as honey and just as resistant to let go.
Sanji, of course, was already there. Was likely he’d been there all evening, even after supper—sleeves rolled, flour-dusted, half-cursing the stubborn dough that ‘wouldn’t cook right’. But of course, he was gonna try to spruce it up anyway. After all the flour spilled over the past week, he wouldn’t have the chance to get more till y’all reached the next island.
You brushed past him. He tensed.
You leaned in, hip against the counter, grabbed a spoon, and tasted a smear of frosting off his finger.
“You’re a damn coward,” you said flatly.
He blinked. “I—I beg your pardon—?”
You stepped closer. “I kissed Zoro because I knew it’d piss you off. I got Luffy to shout it because I wanted you to know. I’ve had a thing for you forever, Sanji, and all you’ve done is pretend not to see it.”
He stared at you. Jaw slack. Flour in his hair.
“I…” he stammered. “You—like me? Wha—really?”
You grabbed his tie. Pulled him close. Whispered against his mouth: “I’m about to show you how much.”
He stood in front of you, apron still on, fingertips sticky with frosting, breathing shallow.
You hadn’t let go of his tie.
He was blinking down at you like you’d just spoken in tongues, heart thudding so loudly in his chest you could see the pulse in his throat.
“You don’t mean that,” he whispered, breath shaking. “You—you’ve seen me. You know how I act. I’m—”
“You’re you,” you said. “And I’ve been watching, too. I’ve seen you flirt with everyone but never really touch anyone.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
He stepped back—until his back hit the galley counter.
“You look at me like I’m art and treat me like glass, and Sanji—” your voice dropped to a murmur, “—I don’t want to be glass with you.”
Your hands moved to his waist. His chest heaved under your touch.
“I want to crack that polished mask. I want you to feel.”
Sanji swallowed hard. “I feel everything with you.”
“Then stop pretending you don’t.” You reached between you. Took his frosting-covered finger in hand…brought it to your lips…and sucked it clean.
Sanji groaned. Actually, physically groaned. His knees wobbled.
You smiled against his finger. “Not frosting,” you said sweetly.
You cut him off with a kiss. It wasn’t soft—it was claiming. Your mouth took his with a slow, deliberate press, your hands sliding up to cup his jaw as he froze—then melted. His arms hovered in the air, unsure where to go, unsure if he was allowed.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips: “Touch me, Sanji.”
His hands landed on your hips like gravity had finally won, and you felt the whimper he tried to swallow the moment his palms met skin under your shirt.
“You’re not humoring me?” he breathed.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. His cheek. His neck. “No.”
“You actually—you want me? Like this?”
You kissed his throat where it pulsed. “Every version of you.”
He looked like he was about to cry. “I’ve wanted to be wanted like this for so long,” he whispered. “I just didn’t think I’d ever—you—”
You kissed him again. This time, slow. So slow it burned.
His hands tightened. His breath turned ragged. “I’ll do anything,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever you want. I’ll let you take the lead—just don’t stop kissing me.”
You nudged his legs apart. Pressed your thigh between them.
Something in your chest trilled - and gods, if that wasn’t an addictive sound-! Your hand slid to his belt. He tensed—but didn’t stop you.
He was hard already—aching. And he kept his hands behind his back, like he needed permission to want this too much.
“Please,” he whispered. “Tell me what you want.”
You pressed your mouth to his ear. “I want you,” you whispered. “Flushed. Breathless. Making noises no one else ever gets to hear.”
And when you wrapped your hand around him and he bucked into your palm, moaning your name like a prayer—he finally believed it. You wanted him. Not the act. Not the mask. Him.
Not because of your hand on him—though gods, the heat of your palm, the confident claiming of it, had him clutching the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
No, he was shaking because this wasn’t some fantasy. This was you.
You, who called him out when he hid behind dramatics. You, who made him laugh when he thought he was too tired to smile. You, who tasted his frosting like it meant something.
And now your lips were brushing his jaw, murmuring things into his skin that no one had ever dared say to him before. Things like:
“I want you ruined for anyone else.”
“You’re beautiful when you beg.”
“You deserve to be adored.”
Your hand didn’t move yet. You kept it there—firm and present, but still. He was so hard, it hurt. But he didn’t rush you. He couldn’t.
Not when your free hand curled behind his neck and stroked his hair with the kind of reverence he’d only ever dreamed about.
“You really thought I didn’t mean it,” you said softly.
“I didn’t know how to believe it,” he confessed.
His eyes were glassy now, his breath coming in short, shallow huffs, and it hit you just how deep this went for him. —How long he’d been waiting for something like this. How many times he’d given his affection away like candy… and never been offered anything real in return.
“I’m going to take my time with you,” you said against his throat. “I’m going to make you say thank you when I let you come. And you’re going to mean it.”
His whole body shuddered. And the only thing he could say, in the softest, most broken voice was:
A plea. A prayer. A surrender.
“Please,” he whispered again, and it was barely that.
You smiled against the shell of his ear. Not cruel. Not smug. Just… sure. “Say it again.”
Sanji whimpered—actual, desperate whimpering, the kind that made his thighs tense and his grip on the counter tremble. “Please… let me come. I can’t—mon dieu, I can’t—”
“You can,” you murmured, dragging your hand down his length slow, until his knees buckled and he gasped like he’d been punched. “But not until I say so.”
He dropped his forehead to your shoulder. His whole body was radiating tension—like one wrong breath would shatter him. But he didn’t beg again…not yet.
And gods, that alone made you ache.
Your grip shifted. Tighter now. Rhythm steady. Pressure perfect. You stroked him with a precision that bordered on cruel—not fast, not enough, but just enough to keep him buzzing, coiled, teetering on the precipice.
Sanji was panting. Moaning into your skin. Eyes clenched shut, hips barely twitching in your hand like he was fighting his whole instinct not to thrust.
“Good boy,” you whispered.
He made a noise at that—sharp, high, desperate.
Your thumb slid over the head of his cock, slick and flushed and pulsing, and he choked on a sob.
“I c-can’t—please—please—”
You kissed him. Softly. Deeply. And then, finally:
He came like he’d been set on fire.
With a cry that was almost your name and a stuttering breathless moan, Sanji spilled into your hand—his whole body jolting, hips jerking against you as his knees gave out. He would’ve collapsed if you hadn’t caught him.
You held him. Kissed his forehead. Let him ride it out.
And when his breath finally slowed, and he blinked up at you, wrecked and shining and dazed, you whispered one more thing:
He shuddered. Grinned, a little crooked. Then leaned in and murmured, “Thank you.” And kissed you like it was a promise.
