Chapter Text
Life on the Grand Line is never easy. The hooks and chains currently crashing onto the Merry are proof of that, their metal jaws sinking into her railing with a splintering, sickening crunch.
Usopp had seen the ship only minutes earlier, but it’s fast—too fast. The first hooks have already dug in, the Merry groaning under their weight as more chains shriek through the air.
Fucking idiots, thinking they can one-up the infamous Straw Hats, Sanji thinks, teeth grinding around the cigarette in his mouth as he kicks one of the hooks free. Splinters fly everywhere, biting into his jacket as the railing stands no chance, the hook tearing chunks of wood loose with it—much to Usopp’s dismay.
“Be careful, Sanji!! She can’t take much more!” Usopp whines from his position in the crow’s nest, clutching that new giant slingshot of his like a lifeline.
Sanji frowns, his gaze pulled toward where the barbed tips are digging in. More chains scissor the sky, rattling like thunder, and he focuses on kicking them off before they can land, leaping high into the air to meet each one head-on.
He lands back next to Robin, whose countless arms are sprouting from one of the chains connecting both ships, shoving pirates off into the sea, their screams swallowed by the chaos. Zoro’s katana slices through another link of metal with ease, the steel ringing like a bell as he waits for anyone stupid enough to take him on.
“Cook! You keep the chains from hitting, I’ll make my way over there!” he yells around the hilt clenched in his mouth, his beautiful white katana flashing as he severs another chain, the Merry swaying dangerously as some of the pressure eases.
“How the fuck can he even talk like that?” Sanji mutters, then launches himself up to kick another flying hook before it can reach them.
Luffy has already slingshotted himself across, grappling with the captain—a fishman with six arms, all of them metal, all of them able to spit chains like grappling hooks. One lashes around Luffy’s torso, but he just laughs as he wriggles free and clocks the enemy captain square in the jaw, whooping when the fishman staggers back.
Sanji lands beside Robin, the deck trembling beneath his boots as Zoro severs yet another chain.
She peeks her eyes open at him and says the seven fateful words that are going to tilt Sanji’s worldview forever:
“Our swordsman has quite the talented tongue.”
Because what?
Sanji’s gaze snaps toward her, lightning-fast, eyes wide and eyebrows drawn as he forgets the fight around them for a second. “What? You don’t mean..?”
But she doesn’t reply, at least not with words. No—she fucking winks at him, the tiniest smirk curling her lips before she closes her eyes again, focus shifting back to the fight.
Sanji freezes. His thoughts are racing, blood rushing in his ears. Mental images of Zoro and Robin flash through his mind, making him shudder—
“SANJI!! WATCH OUT!”
He drops, just in time. The air in front of him explodes—close enough to rattle his teeth, the blast cracking like cannon fire and nearly shattering his eardrums.
Usopp is looking down at him from above, eyes wild and worried, his Exploding Star having just saved Sanji from a hook aimed directly at his head.
Shit, that was close.
“What the fuck, Shit-Cook!” Zoro bellows—around his sword—perfectly clear and loud enough to be heard over the screams and thunder around them.
Our swordsman has quite the talented tongue.
The words still bounce around Sanji’s skull, but at least he can move again. He shakes himself from his stupor, eyes locking onto the next set of chains flying in.
Not must have a talented tongue. Not probably has a talented tongue. No—Robin had been sure, like it was a fact.
And that fucking wink?
Yeah, that’s going to haunt him for a while.
Still, he’s back in the fight, the smell of blood and smoke grounding him in the present. He’s watching for any more hooks trying to chomp down on poor Merry, but they seem to have stopped for the moment. He looks over just in time to see Luffy ripping off one of those awful metal arms straight from the socket in a gnarly display of tearing flesh and skin. Sanji’s stomach churns at the pirate captain’s screech, loud enough to carry across the water, a spray of black-red blood misting into the air as Luffy hurls the detached limb overboard.
Sanji uses the pause to take stock of the fight.
Half a dozen hooks are still buried in the Merry’s railing, but only one has chains attached. Zoro is already halfway over to the other ship, fending off pirates while cutting his way forward, his movements fluid and lightning-quick. Nami’s thunder is crashing down on anyone trying to keep Luffy from their captain, and Usopp’s shots land perfectly wherever they’re needed—his tactical eye proving once again beyond useful.
Robin’s eyes are closed, but her hands vanish in a burst of petals. She’s searching, her eyes restless behind her lids—until they snap open.
“They have a prisoner!” she exclaims, eyes locking onto Sanji. “In the storage hold—he’s chained to the wall.”
We need to save him before we sink their ship goes unspoken, but Sanji understands immediately. He nods, bending into a crouch, muscles coiling as he readies to launch.
“Usopp, you take care of the chains! I’ve got a prisoner to free.”
And with that, he pushes off—pretending the thought of the swordsman’s tongue isn’t still clinging to him worse than any chain.
×
The delicious smell of homemade stew hangs in the air, warm and heavy, as the Straw Hats crowd into the galley. Curiosity hums between them, all eyes fixed on their new passenger as he speaks.
His name is Sparkbraid Torvald, apparently—a stocky man with a majestic beard and an unwavering gaze.
His chest is as broad as a barrel, his voice gravelly as he thanks the crew for his rescue. He’s been in the pirates’ grasp for two years now, taken after they attacked the small island he’s from—a mining town with iron as its main export and a thriving village under his command.
Captain Ironhook—that was the fishman’s name, apparently, and wow, way to be creative—had taken the island by force, threatening to kill everyone if they didn’t hand over every last ounce of ore. He needed it to fuel his devil fruit, Sparkbraid explains. The Hook-Hook fruit had been vicious from the start, and even their best fighters didn’t stand a chance against its metal grip.
So he’d surrendered himself, his skills, and his iron in order to save his people. He’s a formidable blacksmith—evident in the little burn scars scattered along his forearms, the litany of tools tucked into his thick leather apron. He reminds Sanji of Zeff, in a way—when he speaks about his people, worry threads every word. That fierce protectiveness radiates from him, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred shell he wears.
Chopper has been checking him over while he retells his tale, taking his vitals and scanning for hidden injuries, but finding none besides the obvious: the dark bruises beneath his eyes, the stark hollow of his cheeks—malnutrition carved into his skin, as Sanji had clocked immediately. His face is weathered by the years, his fiery red beard streaked with gray, and he looks ready to break when Sanji sets down the first steaming bowl of stew with a soft clink. He gets served first, but Sanji wastes no time filling more bowls for his crew.
Sparkbraid eats the stew with shining eyes, carefully, slowly, sharing how he’s lived off nothing but fish guts and half-rotten vegetables for years, and Sanji wants to kill that motherfucker Ironhook all over again as he grits his teeth around his cigarette.
The Straw Hats are mostly quiet during all of this, even Usopp keeping his mouth shut. Luffy doesn’t even react when the bowl of stew is placed in front of him—a novel concept that has Sanji nearly staggering on his way back. He’s too engrossed in Sparkbraid’s story, his expression darkening by the second, the rim of his hat casting his eyes in shadow in a way that means certain death for anyone who crosses him now. Enslaving a whole island doesn’t sit well with him—with any of them—and he doesn’t need to say a single word for all of them to know where they’re headed next.
Sanji’s eyes follow Chopper as the little doctor hops over toward Zoro, the idiot swordsman slumped in his chair at the other end of the table. He’s not seriously hurt, just a few scratches where the other pirates managed to land a couple of hits before meeting their demise. He doesn’t care about them, of course—too busy shoveling bite after bite of stew into his mouth as soon as Sanji sets down his bowl, the meat rolling around his open mouth grotesquely.
Disgusting.
There’s no way Robin kissed that oaf. None.
His eyes shift to the woman in question as he sets down her bowl, only to be met with her stare head-on. She’s smiling, small and knowing, and Sanji leaps back into action to get more stew, or drinks, or anything really to escape her scrutiny.
“So, where exactly is this island you’re talking about?” Nami asks, a cute little frown on her face as she’s probably already preparing to map the best route possible, amazing navigator that she is.
Sparkbraid sighs, resting his spoon at the edge of his bowl as his eyes drop to the table. “Isenbrun’s not far from ’ere—not sure in which direction though. Been under deck most of the time, no way to know from there. But they stocked up on iron two days ago, so we must’a been there.”
Sanji’s ears perk up at the name. Did he say Isenbrun?
He sets down Usopp’s, Chopper’s, and Nami’s bowls, then opens his jacket to reach inside his inner pocket.
On his way to find Sparkbraid he’d passed through various rooms below the enemy ship’s deck, and one of them had been the captain’s quarters. Not one to pass up an opportunity, he quickly searched the desk, and is now revealing all the little treasures he’d pocketed.
Three Eternal Poses hit the table with a soft thud, and he picks up the one clearly engraved with the word “Isenbrun”, presenting it to Nami and Sparkbraid with a flourish and a grin.
“Could this be of assistance, maybe?” he asks, words cheeky as he relishes the awed faces directed at him and his little treasure. “Found this while I was looking for our dear guest. Thought it could come in handy.”
Nami gasps in delight and takes the Eternal Pose happily, going so far as to press a kiss to his cheek for the thoughtfulness. But he’s not done yet—from his back pocket, he pulls out a little leather-bound book. A logbook, maybe, or a captain’s diary—either way, Robin looks delighted as she says, “Resourceful as ever, Mr. Cook.”
He grabbed a little Dial for Usopp, too. He has no idea what it does, but he’s sure the sniper can figure it out, and the delighted squeal makes it worth it already.
Luffy and Chopper are pouting when Sanji stops digging in his pockets, clearly feeling left out. “What about us?” they ask, twin sets of puppy eyes looking straight into his soul. But of course he didn’t forget about the rest of his crew.
He rolls his eyes dramatically, then digs into the other side of his jacket, pulling out a coin pouch that almost didn’t fit inside, tossing it toward Luffy with a loud thud.
“Got enough money to buy meat, candy, and booze,” he explains, a smug little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as each Straw Hat starts gushing over him. Even the mosshead grunts in approval now, no insults forthcoming for once as he grins sharply at the mention of booze.
Sanji preens under the attention, happy to see each of them enjoying their little gift. Luffy and Chopper are chattering about what foods they want to buy, while Robin is already flipping through the pages of the book—when a noise from beside him pulls him out of his love-drunk bliss as Sparkbraid sniffs, loud and wet.
And then he starts to cry. This old, battle-worn blacksmith, hunched over and sobbing into the rest of his stew.
Sanji’s eyes go from heart-shaped to soft as he slips back into the kitchen, the kettle he’d put on just about ready. He prepares a cup of chamomile tea, some honey and thyme, brewing it once the telltale whistle reaches his ears.
He sets the steaming cup down in front of their guest, the gentle heat warming his fingertips, but before he can retreat the old man twists in his chair to wrap his arms around Sanji’s middle in a surprising show of affection. Usopp snickers next to him, but Sanji is too focused on the crying mass of muscles in his arms, the scent of salty tears mixing with the herbal sweetness of the tea.
“Thank you, Mr. Cook,” he says between sobs, voice rough and overwhelmed. “Thank you so much. For everything.”
Sanji—who had frozen for a second when the man first pressed his face against him—awkwardly pats his back, a small chuckle escaping him at being called Mr. Cook by anyone but Robin, but his smile turns genuine.
“It’s no problem, really,” he says, voice soothing as he lets Sparkbraid cry against his stomach, the man’s whole body shaking with the force of his sobs. There’s a noise from his left, a little huff of air, and when he looks over he sees Zoro watching him and… is that a smile on his face?
His eyes are soft, and they don’t hesitate to meet Sanji’s when he looks. The smile seems genuine, too, even a little proud. Like he’s trying to say, you did good, cook.
Sanji’s cheeks flush pink, and he looks away quickly—but they’re all watching this heartwarming display of gratitude with matching smiles.
It’s a little too weird, and he finds himself gently pushing the old man from the embrace. “You should drink your tea, once it’s cooled. We’ll set sail to Isenbrun after lunch, right, Captain?”
Luffy nods, face buried in his stew now that most of the excitement has died down, and Sparkbraid tries to wipe the tears from his eyes, his whole face a wet mess.
“Here,” Sanji says as he offers him his handkerchief, pulling it from his breast pocket in one smooth motion. The blacksmith looks like he’ll start crying again, but swallows it down and wipes his face, then reaches for the tea with shaky hands. Steam is still curling up in soft waves, and the warmth and smell seem to calm him already, the shaking subsiding as he holds on to the mug.
By now, the rest of the crew have slipped back into their usual cheerful chatter as they finally dig in, spoons scraping against bowls as they eat with appreciative hums and moans. Nami is asking Sparkbraid about the weather conditions on his island, while Usopp is curious about the various tools dangling from the loops of his apron, wondering if he can help figure out what the mystery Dial’s deal is.
His own glance keeps sneaking back to Zoro, now leaned back in his chair with his hands resting on his belly, eyes closed in contentment. It gives him a chance to stare, and he can’t help but take it.
Why would Robin kiss that idiot and not him? He probably tastes like sake and leather, and Sanji knows for a fact that the caveman only showers once a week.
Does she like men who are all muscle, no brains? Is she secretly into gardening, and the moss growing out of the swordsman is somehow appealing? Is it the smooth bronze skin, or the straight nose running down his unfairly symmetrical face?
His gaze flicks to his mouth now, the apparently talented tongue hidden behind the plush set of lips. They do look softer than they have any right to be…
A quiet giggle pulls him back from where he’d been lost in his observation, and he’s mortified to see Robin hiding her laugh behind her hand, eyes closed adorably but clearly facing him.
Fuck, caught again.
His ears burn as he whips his head back down, finally sitting to eat his own portion of stew—not as hot now, but still appetizing.
There’s only one explanation for his behavior.
He’s going mad.
×
It takes the Straw Hats four days to reach their destination. The winds haven’t been kind to them, no matter how many tricks Nami pulls out of her sleeve, and the Merry just isn’t as fast as Ironhook’s ship had been.
When they set foot on the island, walking down the docks of Isenbrun, it’s deserted—a ghost town, for all it’s worth. It doesn’t look destroyed, per se, but it’s run down pretty badly. Shutters barely clinging to their windows, paint peeling off benches and lantern posts, as if no one has stepped up to take care of them in quite some time. Scorch marks and rubble are scattered along the sides of the street—traces of a fight nobody has bothered to hide.
Sparkbraid is devastated—the joy of finally being home dampened by the sight before him. The stale smell of iron and fear hangs in the air, the wind rushing through the empty streets the only sound around them.
It’s eerily still.
Somewhere in the distance, a bark cuts through the silence like a crack—only to end in a muffled whine, as if someone clamps the dog’s muzzle shut.
Sanji sighs—that’s what happens when you sail under a Jolly Roger. People tend to fear you, especially those who’ve had bad run-ins with pirates before.
God knows not everyone is as inherently good as their own captain.
He takes a puff of his cigarette, then sets a heavy hand on Sparkbraid’s shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile.
“Heeey, anyone home?” Luffy yells, his hands cupped around his mouth as they head further into the town square.
“We don’t mean you any harm!” Chopper adds, mirroring Luffy from his perch on Zoro’s shoulders.
A few stalls stand abandoned in the square, awnings sun-bleached and fraying at the edges. Their displays are still filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, left behind in the townsfolk’s rush to hide.
“They’re scared,” Robin comments, eyes flicking to where a curtain falls back over a window—a curious villager daring a peek, no doubt.
Usopp walks on Sparkbraid’s other side and nudges him with the dial Sanji found. It’s an amplifying device, as they figured out just hours after retrieving it. Sanji had nearly sliced his fingers off when the noise boomed from the little dial, Usopp’s surprised shriek amplified to ear-shattering levels as he tinkered with it in the galley.
“I think they’d believe you more than us,” he tells Sparkbraid with a smile, kind and supportive.
A storm of emotions flickers over the old man’s face—shame, guilt, fear… but finally, hope.
Hope that this nightmare is actually over, that they can finally rebuild and grow again.
He lifts the dial to his mouth, clearing his throat a couple of times before pressing the small button on its side.
“People of Isenbrun! It is me—Sparkbraid Torvald! These people defeated Ironhook and his crew!”
His voice wavers, thick with unshed tears.
“The island of Isenbrun is free again!”
It starts slow, at first, the words echoing off the stone walls. Curtains twitch back, careful faces appearing behind glass, eyes barely peeking out. Then, a door creaks open. Then another.
“Torvald?”
A woman approaches, long white hair cascading over her shoulders in gentle waves as tears stream down her face—but she smiles, eyes wide in wonder and disbelief. “It’s really you!”
People stream in now, more and more flooding the streets. It’s like a dam breaking—the chatter of the people rising like the tide until it crashes down on them in a wave of people, suddenly rushing toward them from all sides.
“Sparky!!!” a couple of kids yell as they leap at the old blacksmith, trying to climb him all at once, excitement radiating off everyone now crowding the town square.
Sparkbraid’s face is tear-streaked as he tries to hug as many people as he can, nearly suffocated by the force of his people’s joy. He sniffs, wiping away the tears, but they keep coming as the whole town is taking a communal breath of relief.
It’s like day and night—as if someone lifts a filter, all the gloom evaporating at once as the town bursts to life. They’re swarming the Straw Hats, too, full of excitement and joy and relief. Chopper wiggles on top of Zoro’s shoulders—clearly happy as he preens under the praise even while he tells them to stop—while the mosshead clutches his hooves, steady and protective, making sure the little reindeer doesn’t fall.
A lesser man would’ve called it cute.
Sanji shakes his head, trying to physically dislodge the thought before it can take root, smoke curling from his lips as if he could chase it away with the haze. Then he shifts his focus to the rest of the crew.
Usopp’s busy retelling the story of how the great Captain Usopp and his crew defeated the infamous Ironhook pirates, spinning the tale to grandiose proportions, while Nami happily accepts each and every offering the town has to give, her eyes catching the light with the unmistakable glimmer of profit.
The townsfolk are so curious, now that they don’t have to hide anymore. They want to know how the Straw Hats defeated Ironhook, how they found their way back here, how they can ever repay them—and when Luffy asks for a feast, they deliver.
Tables and chairs are carried outside, townspeople laughing and joking as they set up the feast. A bonfire crackles to life, while others get to chopping fruits, vegetables, and meat—anything they need to celebrate. Sanji doesn’t waste a second rushing to help, taking the heavy hams from the lady butcher carrying them out of her shop.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice a surprisingly soft as she goes to retrieve even more meat.
She sets the ham down easily, twirls her butcher’s knife once, then swings it down with force—cleanly slicing off a perfect slab.
Sanji swoons immediately. “The strength of a goddess paired with the gentleness of a lady,” he comments, clearly impressed as she chops the slices into neat cubes.
The butcher looks up, momentarily confused—but when she catches the genuine smile on his face, her expression splits into a grin, a dusting of red coloring her cheeks.
“Gotta be strong if you wanna survive here,” she says, handing him the meat. “The men are all in the mines, so shepherds, butchers, brewers? That’s all women.”
Sanji’s eyebrows shoot up, and sure enough, when he looks around, he sees mostly women. The only men are too young, too old, or too hurt to work the mines.
Another burly woman rolls out keg after keg of ale from her tavern, her arms more muscular than Luffy’s, and she carries a tough, no-nonsense aura that nearly makes Sanji’s knees give out.
He can’t help it, okay? Strong women are his weakness.
The butcher—her name is Isar—tells him they’ve already sent word to the mines, and the men will join them soon enough.
Sanji gets to work immediately, pulling together a quick marinade from spices and a splash of buttermilk. He tosses the cubes until they glisten, then threads them onto skewers with bright vegetables and chunks of fruit—sweetness to balance out the savory.
Within minutes, the sizzle of meat hitting the grill mixes with the laughter and music swelling around the square, smoke rising in fragrant curls as the celebration ramps up to full swing. A group of teenagers hauls out battered instruments, playing a jolly melody on a makeshift stage. It isn’t perfect, but the enthusiasm makes up for it. Soon everyone is dancing and singing along, the tune catchy, the words familiar.
Sanji is grinning from ear to ear as he serves the first skewers, nearly melting when the women gush over him and his cooking. He’s leaning over the counter, holding a young woman’s hand just a moment too long, freckles scattered across her sun-warmed skin, as he thanks her for her kindness—
When an obnoxiously loud gag snaps him back to the present. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s the idiot swordsman, once again ruining the moment with his barbaric mannerisms.
Ugh. Of course the marimo has to ruin the mood.
“What?” Sanji asks, voice flat and perfectly impassive. He drops the girl’s hand, body tuning in to Zoro’s presence without conscious thought.
“Just want some meat,” Zoro scoffs, as if it’s obvious from his place in line.
And okay, maybe it is. But still.
Sanji rolls his eyes and takes two skewers off the grill, picking the ones with less fruit—knowing the swordsman doesn’t appreciate the hint of sweetness as much as it deserves.
Zoro just grunts in lieu of a thank-you, and Sanji has to grit his teeth to keep from snapping back. It wouldn’t do them any good to start a fight here.
It doesn’t take long for the men to arrive from the mines, all laughter and cheers as they crowd Sparkbraid, even lifting him up to carry him around the square. The air is rowdy with joy—boots stomping against cobblestone, voices shouting over one another, and the yeasty tang of spilled ale joining the smell of roasting meat.
It’s a full-on ruckus, music and laughter clashing in the best way.
Sanji swallows around the lump in his throat as the miners line up for food, their soot-covered hands reaching eagerly, grins wide and eyes shining.
One man glances from the skewers to Sanji, giving him a slow once-over as his mouth ticks up into a smirk. He’s young, mid-twenties maybe, with a strong build and short, spiky black hair.
“That looks delicious,” he says, meeting Sanji’s eyes at the words—and the cook is sure he doesn’t mean the food.
Blood rushes in his ears, his face the shade of a tomato as he brushes it off with a shy little smile. Isar has the audacity to snort next to him, and the man shifts his grin toward her. “What? I like what I see, that’s all,” he adds before turning back to Sanji—fucking winking at him before finally stepping away.
Sanji watches the man retreat—and that formidable ass clinging to his worker jeans. Maybe he’ll find him later, see where this goes.
It’s been a while since he’s been with a man—back in Alabasta, where Luffy’s charming brother had burned his way under Sanji’s skin for a night—and the grin this guy shot him promised exactly the right kind of fun.
He’s lost in thought, eyes unfocused as they linger—until he feels it. That prickle along his spine. The weight of eyes on him.
He flicks his gaze over and lands on the mosshead.
To his horror, Zoro is already looking back at him, face a perfect mask of indifference—but Sanji is certain he caught every second of what just happened.
God. Fucking. Dammit.
He whirls back toward the grill, movements sharp and guilty, pretending the skewers need another turn even though he flipped them barely a minute ago.
It’s already stifling by the grill, smoke curling hot and heavy around him, but now—with Zoro’s gaze still burning at the back of his neck—it’s unbearable.
His finger hooks under his collar, loosening the knot of his tie before popping open the first two buttons. Sweat beads at his temple, trailing down his spine in a slow, maddening line.
Slowly, everyone gets served. He makes special skewers for his crew, of course—some lighter on the meat for Robin and Nami, one completely without for Chopper, and a couple with nothing but meat for Luffy.
There’s also a giant boar’s leg roasting near the bonfire with Luffy’s name on it—or rather, his teeth marks. He’d try to eat anything raw, really, and though it wouldn’t hurt him, Sanji insists on the idiot showing some manners in front of their hosts.
When the skewers have run their course, the party is just starting to ignite into full swing. The sun sinks lower, gilding the square in molten gold, when Sanji finally unties his apron and heads off to wash up.
On his way back, he scans the crowd for his friends, lighting up his cigarette and letting the first drag settle deep in his lungs.
Luffy is busy devouring the hunk of meat that’s bigger than his torso, gathering a small audience that watches with a mix of disgust, disbelief, and reluctant respect. Chopper carries kids around the bonfire in his Walk Point, hopping on all fours to the rhythm of the song, while Robin listens intently to the elders, her face softened by the glow of the flames.
Zoro is in a drinking contest with none other than Sparkbraid himself, and Sanji huffs out a laugh at the scene. A crowd has formed around them, eagerly watching and placing bets as the two contestants slam back mug after mug of ale.
Poor Sparky doesn’t stand a chance, but Sanji won’t go and tell them. No use in ruining their fun.
That just leaves Nami and Usopp, sitting together at a table tucked to the side, their drinks nearly empty. Mind made up, Sanji fetches three mugs of ale from the gorgeous breweress, complimenting her strength as well as her taste while he’s at it—because the ale is really good. Hoppy, a little sweet, not too watery. The kind of brew that clings to the tongue and demands another sip. He’ll definitely take a keg or two back to the Merry once they set sail again.
“This seat taken?” he asks as he approaches the sniper and the navigator, balancing the three fresh mugs carefully in his hands. He flashes them a grin over the golden glow of the drinks, a curl of smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling at the corner of his lips.
“Not at all!” Nami exclaims, her voice bright, a faint dusting of pink coloring her cheeks as she curls her fingers eagerly around her mug.
Usopp’s looking pretty drunk himself, lightweight that he is, his cheeks flushed and his head bobbing a little as he scoots over clumsily, nearly knocking his elbow into the table before righting himself.
“So, what are you guys up to?” he asks once he’s settled, the wooden bench creaking beneath him as he exhales a last stream of smoke and snuffs out the cigarette on the heel of his shoe. He lifts his own drink, the bitter tang of ale sharp on his tongue.
The other two shrug, content to just sit for the moment.
“Just some people-watching,” Nami says, leaning her chin into her hand as her gaze sweeps across the square. The air is thick with music and laughter—dancers spinning in front of the bonfire, kids shrieking in delight as Chopper prances past, sparks floating like fireflies against the twilight. “It’s nice, knowing we did this.”
Sanji hums in agreement, the sound low in his throat. He lets his eyes wander too, catching sight of Zoro and Sparkbraid in their ridiculous drinking contest at the far end of the square, mugs banging against wood to the cheer of the crowd. A content smile tugs at his lips, warmth settling in his chest.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, just sipping their drinks and enjoying the music, when suddenly Nami perks up.
“You guys wanna play a game?”
Sanji straightens up immediately, eager as ever to oblige his Nami-swan. But Usopp groans next to him, dropping his head dramatically onto folded arms. “I’m not playing truth or dare with you again!”
Surprise flashes across Sanji’s face as his eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t expected that—hadn’t even known truth or dare was part of their history—and curiosity pricks at him like a flame.
“You’ve played before?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the table as interest flickers sharp beneath his skin. “What happened?”
“We played back in the East Blue, right before we met you,” Nami explains, her grin sharp and catlike.
“She dared me to kiss Zoro!” Usopp exclaims, throwing his arms wide before collapsing back into his seat with a groan, as if reliving the ordeal drains the last of his strength.
Sanji’s curled eyebrows shoot up even higher. The words punch the air right out of his lungs. “And he let you?”
His eyes snap back to Nami as she lets out a snort. “Let him? Please. That idiot was intent on giving us a show with the way he kissed back.”
Sanji’s mouth hangs slack, his ale forgotten, the glass tilting dangerously in his hand until he remembers to set it down.
Nami’s eyes shift to Usopp now, her grin turning even more dangerous. She points her mug at him like a weapon. “And don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy every second of it. We both know Zoro is an excellent kisser.”
The world stops spinning. Heat surges through Sanji’s chest, his pulse hammering so loud he swears it could drown out the music. His stomach swoops like he’s just been thrown overboard.
His breathing goes shallow, voice weak as he lets out a breathless, “...what?”
Nami just leans back in her chair, rolling her shoulders like she hasn’t just sent Sanji into cardiac arrest. She cradles her mug loosely, gaze distant but mouth curled in a sly little smile.
“Back in Loguetown, when we were running from the Marines, Zoro and I ducked into an alley by a tavern. I pulled off my shirt and tied it over that ridiculous green mop of his—way too recognizable.” She punctuates the memory with a scoff, though her lips twitch upward, amused even at her own exasperation.
“Just as the Marines were about to pass, I pulled him into a kiss. It was just for cover, but goddamn, was it good. That man knows how to use his tongue.”
Usopp nods at that, though he still looks defeated. “It’s true. I’m not even into guys, but that kiss was phenomenal.”
Sanji still hasn’t regained control of his body. His mouth gapes, chest heaving shallow breaths, every nerve ending on fire. Sweat beads along his hairline, and he’s half-convinced he’s glowing red enough to light the square. He can’t help but glance back to where the idiot swordsman is slamming another newly emptied mug onto the tabletop, throwing his head back with a hearty laugh that shakes his whole body.
Sanji’s fingers tremble around his mug, ale rippling in tiny waves.
He’d nearly managed to shove Robin’s comment into the furthest recesses of his mind over the past four days. But now? It barrels back into him with the force of a cannonball, tearing straight through his composure.
First Robin, and now Nami? And Usopp, too?!
His head reels. His mind stutters on the image of Nami tearing off her shirt, of Zoro kissing her back, of Usopp groaning about how “phenomenal” it was. The scene blurs until he can hardly see straight.
Something waves in front of his vision.
“Sanji? You in there?”
Nami is waving her hand in front of his eyes, and it finally does the trick—bringing him back to the here and now.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says after clearing his throat, voice a little rough. “Just… can’t really imagine that kissing that brute would be any fun.”
Usopp’s eyes narrow as they bore into him. “Really?” he blurts, filter gone with the amount of ale he’s consumed, and Sanji flushes even harder.
“You should try it sometime,” Nami says around a cackle, her laughter bright and merciless, eyes sparkling like she’s savoring a private joke at his expense.
He snorts into his ale as he lifts it to take another sip, not meeting her eyes as he mutters, “Yeah, not gonna happen.”
Somehow, the words taste like a lie.
×
The party had been going strong since early afternoon, the whole town swept up in relief and celebration. Now, around what has to be midnight, it’s finally starting to die down.
Sanji has just returned to the square on unsteady feet after taking a quick bathroom break, taking stock of the scene before him.
The young musicians had stopped playing hours ago, giving it everything they had until they dropped from exhaustion, and the square has shrunk to a third of its size, with most people chatting quietly among themselves or dozing off in a corner. Lanterns throw soft gold over empty mugs and dirty plates, their shadows dancing with every flicker. Above, the sky stretches clear and star-studded, calm in a way that makes the hours of noise and chaos feel almost distant.
Nami had taken Usopp back to the inn a while back, the sniper’s face a dangerous tint of green, while Luffy and Chopper had fallen asleep next to the remnants of the bonfire, the flames reduced to glowing coals that pulse red and gold. Luffy snores obnoxiously, each rumble cutting through the otherwise hushed chatter.
Sparkbraid’s slumped over the table, a little trail of drool pooling by his cheek. He’d passed out mid-contest, but he’d held up remarkably well against Zoro—especially for a man who’d only just gotten back to eating full meals a couple of days ago. Sanji can’t help but be impressed.
The swordsman is nowhere to be seen, but Sanji doesn’t really care—he’s probably snoring in an alley somewhere, sleeping off his buzz with his swords in his lap.
The smell of spilled ale and smoke curls into the air as a few couples use the cover of the night to make out, ale and joy making them forget the world around them.
Sanji can feel the alcohol rushing through his system, a warm haze wrapping around his senses, the edges of his vision softening as he lights up another cigarette. The band’s last tune still clings to him, the melody looping in his skull until he finds himself humming along.
A group of miners is still going strong at one of the larger tables, hooting and hollering as they drink up the seemingly endless supply of ale, fully engrossed in a game of cards. Sanji steps closer to watch them, trying to figure out the rules, when he notices a familiar face among them.
It’s the guy from the line, the one who’d called him delicious—and he’s looking like quite a snack himself. He’s smiling wide, a row of straight teeth flashing in the lantern light, and his dark eyes glint with excitement when he notices Sanji behind him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, then scoots on the wooden bench to make space for Sanji right next to him, nearly toppling another miner off the other side. “Wanna sit with me?”
The words leave zero doubt to what he means or where he wants the night to go, and Sanji considers his options. Go back to the inn by himself, or leave with this very handsome, very interested man to have an amazing night of hopefully athletic sex?
Yeah, it’s no question.
He shoots back his most charming smile, and is just about to step over the bench to sit, when a heavy hand grips his shoulder.
He snaps his head around, alarm bells ringing at the sudden touch, and is surprised to see Zoro right behind him.
The mosshead is swaying dangerously, eyes glassy and face adorably flushed. Or, at least for him. Not that he’s adorable.
“What?” Sanji snaps, teeth clenched tight around his cigarette. Zoro’s looking a bit worse for wear, and Sanji mentally apologizes to Sparkbraid for not giving him enough credit before, because holy shit.
“Can’t fin’ the inn,” Zoro slurs, eyebrows drawn tight as his mouth pulls into an actual, honest-to-God pout.
“So? I thought you could sleep anywhere.”
Sanji really wants to spend the night with the miner. He hasn’t even learned his name yet, hasn’t felt his touch or tasted his lips.
But Zoro lets out a low whine, his face scrunching up. “I wanna bed,” he mumbles, and something tight pulls at Sanji’s gut.
Still—this is his chance at finally getting laid again, and it’s the mosshead’s own fault for being such an idiot when it comes to directions.
Sanji is torn between the two men, fingers twitching around his cigarette as he hesitates. He glances back to the miner—who’s been watching the interaction with a single raised eyebrow, his eyes flicking between the cook and the swordsman curiously—then back to Zoro.
For a moment, the world narrows to the sway of the swordsman’s shoulders, the unsteady drag of his breath. His eyes lift—bleary, unfocused, but locked onto Sanji’s with a weight that pins him in place.
When he speaks, his voice is softer than it has any right to be, stripped raw by alcohol and exhaustion.
“Please, cook.”
Two quiet words, thick and slurred, but they drop straight into Sanji’s gut like molten lead.
And shit, that does it. If Zoro is actually asking for help nicely, there’s no way he can deny him. They're nakama, after all.
He heaves a deep sigh, closing his eyes as if to ask the universe why he’s the one who has to deal with the drunken brute, then shifts his gaze back toward the waiting man on the bench.
“I’ll be right back. Just gotta get this oaf to his room,” Sanji explains, voice gentle but firm. A hopeful smile tugs at his lips as he adds, “you still gonna be here after?”
The man grins, nodding as he says, “Sure. Take care of your friend—I’ll probably be here all night.”
He winks again, and Sanji’s already wobbly legs go a little weaker, just as something warm and solid leans into his back with unexpected heaviness, nearly making him stumble. Zoro slumps, unbalanced, his forehead pressing against Sanji’s shoulder, breath muffled as he mumbles something indiscernible into the fabric of his shirt.
Sanji wrinkles his nose—the sharp mix of sweat and stale ale lingers between them, sour and overwhelming—but the heat seeping through their clothes is disarmingly steady, grounding in a way Sanji doesn’t want to think about.
“You’re such a caveman,” Sanji mutters, the disgust in his tone dulled by an edge of reluctant fondness. He twists his body to wrap an arm around Zoro’s middle, his palm brushing over the rough calluses of the swordsman’s knuckles as he grabs his hand to sling it over his own shoulder. The weight drags at him, solid and unyielding.
“Don’t be too long!” the man shouts after them, sending a shiver down Sanji’s spine in anticipation.
Together, they stumble in the direction of the inn. Sanji’s not exactly steady on his feet after downing ale after ale with Nami, and the swordsman is dead weight beside him. The inn isn’t even far—just two streets from the square—but the noise of the miners’ cheers still fades the further they walk, becoming a low, distant murmur.
There’s a single lantern lit on this street, its flickering flame casting the carved bed sign in a soft, fluttering glow.
You’d think any idiot could find it—but no. Zoro is special like that.
Said idiot nearly trips on the one step leading up to the door, and Sanji grunts at the sudden weight dragging him down.
“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath, readjusting his hold on the mosshead before pushing the door open.
Inside, it’s dim and quiet. Only two lanterns burn behind the counter, casting warm shadows over old wood—and over a scene that has Sanji freeze mid-step.
The young woman who’d welcomed the Straw Hats earlier is currently wrapped up in an embrace with another man, pressing him against the wall as they steal the breath from each other’s mouths.
Her hands are buried in his hair, tugging at the dark strands, while his palms roam freely over her back, her hips, her ass—anything he can reach.
And for a second—just a second—Sanji sees Nami and Zoro in their place.
He’s not trying to. It just happens. The mental image flickers, vivid and involuntary, overlaying what’s in front of him.
Zoro’s body presses into his side like a furnace, radiating heat, his presence suddenly impossible to ignore.
“Tha’s hot,” the bastard has the audacity to slur, right into Sanji’s ear—breath warm against the shell, sending a full-body shudder down Sanji’s spine.
At least it breaks his trance.
He lets the door fall shut behind them, louder than necessary, and the couple startles and jumps apart immediately. The woman turns to face them, cheeks flushed but smiling as she straightens her clothes with quick hands.
“Welcome!” she chirps. Her partner is still pressed to her back, undeterred, his mouth trailing kisses down her neck. She tries—and fails—to catch his hands as they snake around her waist, giggling as she half-heartedly scolds him.
“Your room’s all ready,” she continues, trying to sound professional but barely holding back laughter. “First floor, third door on the left.”
She plucks a key from the board behind her and sets it on the counter, but before Sanji can get a word in, she waves them off.
“Have a good night!”
And just like that, she’s turning back into her lover’s arms, already halfway into another kiss.
He’d think it was rude, if Sanji didn’t love love so damn much. Being freed after years of oppression is as good a reason to neglect your guests as any. Seeing them this happy, this carefree, just tugs a smile onto his lips.
So Sanji grabs the key and drags himself—and his heavy, smelly cargo—toward the stairs.
They manage to make it to the room without injury, though barely. Zoro’s boot catches on the top step again, nearly taking them both out. Sanji briefly considers just kicking him down the stairs and being done with it.
But whenever he thinks about leaving the idiot behind, those two little words echo back in his head:
Please, cook.
With a sigh and a silent prayer for patience, he hefts the mosshead up once more and slots the key into the door.
“How’d you even manage to get this drunk?” he mutters, more rhetorical than anything.
But Zoro leans into him, voice low and sluggish.
“W’s je’lous,” he slurs, quiet—almost too quiet to catch over the soft click of the lock.
Sanji frowns as the door creaks open on old hinges. “What, jealous I found someone to go home with and you didn’t?”
They stumble inside, and Sanji kicks the door closed behind them. The room is small and clean, but smells faintly of dust and linen left folded too long. It’s cooler here, the stone walls holding the night’s chill, and Sanji feels it crawl along the back of his neck as he tosses the swordsman onto the bed with as much grace as he can muster.
The idiot grunts, then looks up at him, eyes hazy but still catching the light in a way that makes something tighten behind Sanji’s ribs.
Zoro shakes his head.
“Y’r so sstupid… s’m’times…” he mutters, turning on his side to curl up, arms wrapping around his middle as his eyes slip shut.
His swords still hang from his haramaki, and his dirty boots have already stained the sheets with mud.
Fucking caveman.
Sanji rolls his eyes and starts pulling them free, first the swords and then the boots. It’s for the sake of the room, not for the idiot’s comfort.
Not that he’d need any—Zoro’s snores are already filling the room, the marimo asleep within seconds of hitting the mattress.
Sanji’s about to leave when he notices the way Zoro keeps clutching at his stomach. His face is contorted, and he looks... uncomfortable. A little sickly.
Disgruntled, Sanji runs a hand down his face, then digs out another cigarette from his pack. He doesn’t light it yet—just lets it hang from his lips, the weight of it grounding him. Then he crosses the room to grab the little bin in the corner and sets it down beside the bed, right next to Zoro’s head.
He just doesn’t want his beautiful Nami-swan to have to pay for any cleaning fees, that’s all.
It’s certainly not because he’s worried or anything.
Good deed done, he finally slips out of the inn, easing the door shut behind him as quietly as possible. No need to interrupt whatever’s surely going on in the lobby right now.
The night air hits him sharp and cool, biting at his flushed skin and pulling a shiver from him even through his jacket. He lights his cigarette, the familiar warmth of it grounding him as smoke curls into the crisp air.
His gaze drifts up toward the night sky, the stars scattered like tiny diamonds across the black. His thoughts, inevitably, drift back to the marimo.
He still doesn’t understand why he’s stupid—Zoro could only be jealous of the fact that Sanji found someone and he didn’t.
Right?
There’s only one other explanation, but that’s crazy.
There’s just no way.
He shakes his head with a quiet sigh, batting the thought away like smoke. No use chasing ghosts—not when there’s someone real within reach. Someone who doesn’t confuse the hell out of him. Someone who might actually make things easy for once.
Mind made up, he heads back toward the square, and just past the next corner, the glow of lanterns comes back into view.
They sway gently overhead, flames dancing gold against the dark. The crowd has thinned—the card game is still going, but only a few players remain, and the laughter has settled into a low, tired hum.
Sanji scans the group, and there he is: The handsome miner, still at the table, relaxed and smiling, dark hair tousled, cheeks flushed from drink.
Sanji’s heart thuds once, hard, as he starts toward him—slow, casual, like nothing’s burning beneath his skin.
The seat beside him is still empty. Sanji doesn’t climb over the bench this time—he just slides down with his back against the table in a practiced sprawl, legs stretched out in front of him.
“This seat still free?” he drawls, smirking around his cigarette.
The miner turns to face him, eyes lighting up like Sanji just made his whole night.
“You came back!” he says, sounding almost surprised.
Sanji huffs a laugh, flattered by the guy’s obvious interest. The man leans in then, one hand bracing beside Sanji’s hip on the bench, his body crowding in close.
“Name’s Lukar,” he says — voice low, and just a little too pleased.
The position brackets Sanji in, but he's more than comfortable like this, with Lukar’s arm brushing against his thigh.
Lukar’s taller than him by a good bit, so the lean brings them eye to eye—close enough for Sanji to feel the warmth of his breath. He takes a lazy drag of his cigarette as he studies Lukar's face.
He’s handsome—dark hair and stubble sharp against pale skin, cheeks pink from drink and proximity. He’s all charm and muscle, his checkered shirt hanging open around his shoulders, the undershirt clinging to a solid chest in all the right ways.
“I’m Sanji,” he finally replies, smoke curling from his lips with the words.
Lukar hums, clearly pleased, like he’s just learned a secret.
“Pretty name,” he says as he starts to lean in. “Very fitting.”
Then—bold as anything—he plucks the cigarette from Sanji’s mouth and takes a slow drag himself, his cheeks hollowing slightly as his gaze stays locked on Sanji’s. It’s a daring move, considering Sanji never shares his smokes, but right now it only adds to the appeal.
Lukar exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, savoring the burn as the nicotine settles in. Then he reaches over and stubs out the rest of the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
The motion has him leaning even closer over Sanji—and when he pulls back, he’s barely a breath away. Lukar’s scent curls around him: clean, sweet, something like lavender and soap. He must’ve cleaned up sometime between lunch and now.
Sanji’s mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t know who moves first—the noise of the square fades into nothing, blood rushing in his ears. He licks his lips without thinking, leaving them parted, and Lukar’s eyes flick down for just a second before returning to his.
He hesitates—just long enough for Sanji to stop him, to pull back, to end it before it begins.
But Sanji doesn’t.
Instead, he curls his hands into the front of Lukar’s shirt and pulls him in, finally closing the distance.
The kiss is warm. Soft. Lukar tastes like beer and smoke and sugar, and for a second, Sanji lets himself sink into it. It’s good. It’s nice.
But it’s not enough.
Sanji’s body responds anyway—to the alcohol, the comfort, the quiet hum of being wanted—but his mind is already drifting.
Lukar’s tongue slides against his—a little too wet, a little too easy. Sanji tries to deepen the kiss, biting at his bottom lip in a desperate attempt to create some friction, some fight. Anything.
Lukar pulls back slightly, eyes half-lidded as he breathes against his mouth. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t ya?”
His voice is low, amused—but there’s no weight behind it. No bite. No edge.
Just another pretty boy playing at heat.
He leans back in before Sanji can respond, kissing him harder this time—more pressure, less hesitation.
And it’s better. Kind of.
But still...
When he bites, it doesn’t threaten to break skin. His hands only skim along Sanji’s waist, no gripping, no pulling. His lips ask for permission instead of fighting for it—like he doesn’t know how much Sanji can take.
It’s like he’s playing a part in someone else’s fantasy, unaware that it’s too careful. Too easy. Too safe.
It’s not steel and sweat and tension.
It’s not the thrill of being matched and challenged, of fighting and feeling all at once.
It’s not what everyone said it could be.
It’s not what he wants. And with a quiet, gut-punching clarity, he realizes why:
Because it’s not Zoro.
Sanji gasps and breaks the kiss, chest rising and falling as he drops his head against Lukar’s shoulder, head spinning, thoughts a scrambled mess. The image of green hair burns behind his eyelids as a wave of shame crawls up his throat.
Lukar’s hands are still splayed on his back, palms rubbing soft circles into the cotton of his jacket.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, pressing a kiss to the top of Sanji’s head.
It feels nice. It really does.
Being taken care of, being held like this was—it’s nice.
But it’s not what Sanji wants.
Not who he wants.
He’s been chasing something in the kiss that just isn’t there.
He sighs into Lukar’s neck, breathing in that clean, floral scent one last time. Then he leans back, pulling away with a small, tired smile.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I think I’m drunker than I thought.”
Lukar doesn’t take it hard. He just smiles—warm, easy, understanding.
“Your loss,” he says with a wink. Then, softer: “At least I got a kiss.”
Sanji’s stomach swoops at the words, guilt and shame folding into each other in an endless swirl of unease.
It’s unfair—not just to Lukar, but to himself.
Why can’t the universe just let him have this? Why can’t he want this soft, gorgeous, good man who clearly wants him?
Sanji leans in one last time, pressing their mouths together in a slow, quiet kiss.
It says thank you.
It says goodbye.
It says I’m sorry I wanted someone else.
×
He walks for a while after that, not really thinking, just letting the cool night air clear his head. Eventually, his feet carry him back to the inn. The carved sign creaks overhead, the flame inside the lantern dancing without a care in the world.
Sanji sighs, deep and a little theatrical. Of course his body would bring him back to that brute.
Well, he thinks, might as well check if he’s choked on his own vomit by now.
Back inside the inn, he climbs the stairs quietly and reenters Zoro’s room. Nothing has changed—Zoro is still curled on his side, one hand loosely clutching at his stomach, gentle snores rumbling from his chest. He's still on top of the blankets, his skin flushed with the warmth of sleep.
Sanji sighs again and kicks off his shoes. He’s too tired to find another bed, and someone has to make sure the idiot doesn’t roll over and stop breathing. The bed’s big enough for two anyway.
He flops down on the mattress beside Zoro, staying on top of the covers, careful not to touch him. The swordsman radiates heat like a furnace, and it’s more than enough.
Sanji lies still, eyes half-lidded, staring at the back of Zoro’s head. The mossy green strands catch faint light from the window, his earrings gleaming dully against his tan skin. The old t-shirt he’s wearing rides up slightly, revealing a stretch of muscle along his lower back. Sanji’s stomach twists. He can’t stop staring.
Then Zoro shifts.
Maybe the dip in the bed stirred him, because he rolls over slowly, eyes still closed. Sanji suddenly finds himself face to face with him.
Like this, Zoro looks... peaceful. Without his scowl, without the tension, he looks young. Only nineteen, Sanji remembers. And for a moment, the Demon of the East is gone, and there’s just… Zoro.
Sanji tells himself not to stare. It’s creepy. He knows that. But his eyes trace every detail anyway—the faint freckles across his nose, the curve of his brow, the lashes that rest against his cheeks. Those lips everyone keeps talking about…
And then—
“Go t’sleep, Curls…” Zoro mutters, voice low and half-lost to sleep.
Sanji jerks back like he’s been burned. His heart stutters in his chest, skin flushing hot, then cold. Zoro is already snoring again, oblivious, peaceful as ever. Sanji hadn’t even realized the snoring had stopped before.
Muttering curses under his breath, Sanji turns over and faces the wall, heart still hammering like a war drum. His cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg, and with the added heat from Zoro’s body radiating against his back, it's almost unbearable.
He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep, trying to think of anything else.
The sea. The breeze. The smell of smoke on his jacket.
Minutes drag. Then hours. He lies there, still and restless, counting his own breaths, the creaks in the ceiling, the soft rise and fall of Zoro’s snoring.
And then—only when the sky begins to pale, just barely bleeding gray into the black—does exhaustion finally pull him under.