#this is my first fic for sanji and it's not very slashy

[twoflowers]

Sentimentality - Sanji x Reader

Read on AO3

Description: The newest addition to the Straw Hat crew grapples with their easy affection, and especially with the attention from their doting cook.

Tags: SFW, character study, slight slash, scientist reader, no use of Y/N, female reader. First impressions, nakamaship.

Word count: 1397

Special thanks to @mere-mortifer for the encouragement to post my Sanji fics. I love your Sanji very much.

This one isn't very slash-y and honestly feels a bit incomplete to me, but I'm obsessed with this man in a psychological way and need to post at least something, even if it captures only an ounce of my insanity about him and the crew.

Also: thinking about making this into more of a series (as the reader is kind of based on an OC of mine...!). Please, please, Sanji fans: give me any and every prompt you can imagine.

__

Sentimentality

Every morning you settle into the golden-glowing comfort of the breakfast table: the press of arms against arms, the jostling of bodies to the time of the waves, the hard wooden bench softened despite it all. 

The captain is not at all what you expected. He’s a kid, and a downright grabby one at that. You have to slap his rubbery hands away from your plate at every meal, and if you don’t catch him, Nami always does.

You sit next to Chopper, whose tiny, furry body is so very warm. He likes to plan the day over breakfast, still thrilled to have another scientist on board. You watch him nibble at pancakes with his blocky teeth (it really is hard not to coo over him, but he has his dignity to uphold, so you restrain yourself!) and sip his milk and grin, white mustache and all. Robin leans over with a napkin to clean Chopper’s mouth, and he fusses, but concedes. Some of his drawings hang on the fridge, secured by magnets. You think of siblings with a pang in your chest every time you see them.

Roronoa Zoro is inexplicably softer than you imagined. There’s something about the curve of his cheeks, the careless sprawling stance, the way his nose whistles lightly while he sleeps. He barks laughter at Luffy, leans on his swords like they’re children, even smells better than Nami likes to say.

Robin terrified you at first, but you quickly became a sucker for her mellow gaze and old book smell. Besides, educated women are always of interest to you. Nami and Robin are incredible, always encouraging: proof that somehow, someway, a woman who has been chased out of her old life and hunted by the darkest parts of herself can uncurl and be seen. 

The first few sleepless nights aboard the Going Merry, you stared at the ceiling, heart pounding at the vulnerability of sharing a room. You are a scientist. You’ve long denounced the need for sentimentality, though Luffy manages to wring a few spare drops out of you every day. How could you have accounted for the love that permeates every board of this ship? How have you gone your entire life wondering if belonging like this could exist, only to find it among a notorious pirate crew- a crew who, really, is more bumbling than you could have imagined? How can Luffy stroll into any place- town, restaurant, heart- and break down every wall without a second thought?

And the cook… 

You have to look away from him sometimes. The first time he made a meal for you, he sank to a kneel to present it, like he was a servant and you were a queen who could take his head at any moment, and have it willingly. You took the plate with shaking hands and nodded a thank you. When he stood back up, there was a bit of dust on the knee of his fine-pressed pants. You kept your eyes on it as he fluttered around, crooning to the women and brusquely serving the men. What were you supposed to make of that?

Sanji squeezes your heart like it’s an old rag. The way he remembers your favored flavor profiles makes your toes curl. You’re not even sure you’ve managed to smile at him yet, even a month after joining the crew, because he throws you so off-balance you’re left feeling like you’ve been thrust into a hurricane without any solid structure to grip onto.

His… whatever it is- admiration, loyalty, devotion, all of the above and more- has only gotten stronger in the past month. He floats into the lab as if on a cloud to tell you he made you a snack and left it outside, mindful of the potential for contamination. He tells you how lovely your eyes look that day, and every day- that you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and that he lives to serve you.

“A snack for you is outside, miss,” he says today, like he’s itching to bow. “I prepared carrot cake and spiced milk for you, with turmeric, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Let me know if anything is not to your liking.”

You side-eye him from your bench, pipette paused in midair. Miss, miss, miss. Every time he says it you’re left breathless. As usual, you nod and mutter a thank you, still focusing on your work, lest you do something stupid like offering him your hand to kiss or backing him into a wall to taste his neck.

He usually leaves right away, but you don’t hear the door close today. When you look back at Sanji, he’s beaming, eyes practically heart-shaped. 

“May I make anything else for you?”

“No. That will suffice.” Something in your chest is shouting at you for being so formal with him. 

“I like carrot cake,” you add.

Sanji’s smile turns tremulous and melty. A hand moves to cover his heart. “I will keep that in mind. And I don’t wish to disturb you- your work is very important- but it will be best eaten soon, while it’s still warm.”

You surprise yourself by setting down your pipette and moving to the sink to wash your hands. Sanji is still lingering at the door as you scrub between your fingers and under your nails, similar to the way he washes his after handling raw meat. You take extra time drying off, the feeling of him behind you prickling at your neck. 

In the hallway, the cake and milk are placed carefully on a table. The mug is to the top right of the plate, handle tilted at the perfect angle for you to grab. A dainty dessert fork leans against the plate, next to two sprigs of mint forming a heart.

“I almost don’t want to eat it,” you say. “It looks perfect.”

“I can make you as many as you’d like, all with love. Please. It’s my pleasure.”

You lift the fork, and Sanji leans forward with the eagerness of a child witnessing a magic trick. When you take a bite of the cake, his visible eye widens.

“It’s delicious. Thank you, Sanji.”

Sanji lets out a shaky breath. “Of course, miss. I can make you anything your heart desires, provided I have the ingredients. And if I don’t, I will make sure to procure them as soon as we make landfall. And if you want them before that, I'll swim to shore.” 

Why does the man have such puppy-dog eyes? You know with certainty that he would do anything you asked of him, or else die trying, and you’ve hardly spoken to him. There’s a string of tension in his body when he’s around you, loosened slightly now that you’ve complimented his food. Is he just that eager to please?

You have met many men happy to go through the motions of wooing you for one reason alone, but something about Sanji tells you that he would be at your beck and call for the rest of your life, even if you never said “thank you” again.

You nod, moving to try the spiced milk, which is, of course, perfect. 

“I noticed that you like cinnamon, so I tweaked the recipe to add more.” He sounds hopeful. “You don’t find the turmeric overpowering?”

“No, no,” you shake your head, lowering the drink. “It’s good. You’re very… perceptive.”

“Of course! I pay special attention to my lovely ladies.”

You’re included in this group, somehow. Why does that make you want to push and prod at him, despite the measured indifference you’ve culminated?

“Sanji,” you say, and he snaps to attention.

“Yes?”

“Could I have some marmalade with this?”

This is the first time you’ve requested anything from him. A broad smile spreads across his face. 

“Right away.” He falls into a bow before walking down the hallway. When he’s out of view, you hear him begin to run, legs pounding the wooden floor strong enough to rattle the pictures frames on the walls. 

You pluck a sprig of mint from the cake, grinding it between your teeth. It’s refreshing, new, with a bit of a kick. You smile to yourself, imagining Sanji in the kitchen, carefully scooping marmalade into a dainty dish, heart thrumming with the thrill of receiving an order from his newest object of affection.