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The first time Sanji learned that his scent could make him property, something to be bought, traded, and owned, he was fourteen. Still trapped inside the cold stone halls of Vinsmoke Manor, still Judge’s “failed experiment”; unloved, unwanted and abused, yet somehow considered too valuable to discard.
It didn’t happen in some grand, dramatic way. He was simply walking down a hallway, steps soft and careful, trying to avoid being noticed by Judge or either of his brothers. Then, a visiting dignitary suddenly emerged from Judge’s office and almost collided with him.
The man was an alpha; middle-aged, stern-looking, wearing a crisp, foreign uniform. Sanji froze, half-expecting the blow that usually followed such encounters. But instead, the man’s expression shifted. He inhaled. Deeply. And that single breath changed everything. His eyes sharpened. His lips curved in a small, calculating smile that made Sanji’s stomach twist.
The alpha turned to Judge and, with calm arrogance, said he would like to bond with Judge’s omega son when he came of age.
To Sanji’s mortification, Judge’s response wasn’t outrage or dismissal. He smirked and told the man that such decisions required a contract and a hefty offer. Germa would, after all, need to evaluate the worth of the contenders for its rare, omega prince before deciding which one would have him.
Days later, Reiju slipped into his room. Her usual calm had been replaced with something raw, like fear and urgency. In trembling hands, she held a small key. It unlocked the golden restraints that had clung to his wrists for years, etched with faint sigils that would’ve detonated at the first hint of rebellion.
Sanji barely believed it. The cuffs hit the marble floor with a quiet clink, and he stared at the red marks they left behind. His chest felt too tight to breathe.
He was free.
Or at least, free of the possibility that his hands, his precious hands, could be blown apart if he ever ran.
“Listen to me,” Reiju had whispered urgently, clutching his bruised wrists in her own. “You have to leave. Run, Sanji. Go somewhere Father can never reach you. And don’t tell anyone your name, or that you’re an omega. No one can ever know.”
He didn’t fully understand until she showed him the papers; contracts, signed and sealed. Deals with crime lords and nobles who had all placed their bids. They called it courtship, but the words were just painted-over ownership. Each buyer wanted the same thing: the rare omega son of Germa 66, prized for a bloodline that made his scent unique.
He’d heard countless descriptions of his scent over the years: saffron tea, sun-warm peaches, roasted apricot drizzled with honey. Sometimes there was jasmine or orange blossom, other times the edge of smoke and rain-soaked wood and ocean waves. His body seemed to create what each alpha most desired; a cruel sort of survival tactic that made every alpha who ever smelled him want to have him.
So Sanji ran. With a bag of stolen, military-grade suppressants and scent blockers, and almost nothing else.
But he wasn’t alone. Zeff, the head chef at Vinsmoke Manor, came along with him. When Reiju orchestrated Sanji’s escape from the Germa grounds, she also arranged for Zeff to accompany him and keep him safe. Sanji, of course, made it clear he didn’t need protection; after all, Zeff was the one who had taught him how to fight, back when he had rejected Judge’s barbaric and heartless methods of assassination. Still, Sanji wanted Zeff out of that hellish place. He knew the old man had only stayed as long as he did because of him.
So in the end, the two packed up what little they could carry and fled Germa’s high-security compound under Reiju’s careful guidance.
For a time, Sanji stayed at Zeff’s restaurant, the Baratie, but it soon became a problem. His scent, even with top-grade suppressants and scent blockers, was impossible to contain. It lingered in the air; rich, warm, and fruity, throwing off the cooks who couldn’t taste or smell anything but him, messing with their heads and their work.
Customers, enchanted by the heavenly aroma wafting through the dining hall, kept asking for a “special dessert” that matched the scent. Each time, Sanji tried to recreate it on the spot, guessing at ingredients and textures, crafting something close but never quite right.
The results, though delicious, always left diners disappointed, and that frustrated Sanji more than he cared to admit. Every other dish he made was flawless. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t recreate his own elusive fragrance.
In the end, he had to leave the Baratie for a quieter place; an ice cream shop run by a gruff old man named Patty, one of Zeff’s longtime friends. It turned out to be the perfect cover. The air there was always thick with the scent of freshly baked waffle cones, caramelized sugar, vanilla bean, and simmering fruit reductions. If Sanji’s shifting fragrance ever slipped past the suppressants, it simply melted into the background; just another tempting scent among the smell of strawberry sorbet and mint chocolate chip.
Or at least, that’s what he had believed at first. But when things started to fall apart again, when customers lingered too long, asking after the scent that “smelled like heaven,” and pushy alphas refused to take the hint despite his sharp glares, his biting words, and the occasional kick to the chest, help came from an unexpected source.
One that Sanji was both secretly grateful for… and deeply resented.
***
Then one day, Zoro walks in. Or rather, he’s dragged in by Luffy, who insists on visiting the ice cream shop everyone claims “smells like a piece of heaven.” Zoro hates sweets. He’s never liked sugar, never even tasted ice cream; not as an adult, not as a kid. But Luffy is relentless, chanting about wanting to “eat paradise,” and Zoro, resigned as always, ends up following him inside the All Blue Ice Cream Shop, muttering under his breath.
But the moment Zoro steps through the door, he stops cold.
Oh.
What…is that smell?
It crashes into him like a wave; heady and intoxicating. His breath catches in his throat. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever inhaled, so rich he almost wants to sink to his knees and breathe until his lungs give out. The scent is layered and impossible to pin down: creamy vanilla bourbon swirled with caramelized tonka and pistachio cream, softened by wisteria. Beneath it all though, lingers an odd smoky undertone, touched with warm leather and a trace of sandalwood; his favorite scents, each familiar and beloved, yet completely out of place in a damn pastel-colored ice cream parlor.
A whimper, an actual, embarrassing noise of need escapes him before he can stop it, and Zoro feels heat crawl up his neck, mortified by his own reaction. Beside him, Luffy looks equally undone; wide-eyed and actually drooling, his expression dazed and blissful, like he’s about to slip into heat. Except Luffy’s a special kind of alpha, one who’s never known ruts, arousal, or attraction to anyone.
“Zoro…do you smell that?” Luffy asks in a dreamy, far‑off voice.
Zoro answers simply, “Yeah.”
Even now, he’s not sure what exactly he’s smelling; only that he wants to drown in it, to fill his lungs until that scent is all that exists. He wants to live in a world where nothing else intrudes, where this intoxicating aroma is his air, his world, his everything.
Honestly, Zoro thinks he could live inside this ice cream shop forever. The realization that he also wants to eat whatever smells like this, a dessert, of all things, doesn’t even register with him.
Before he can think too hard about it, Luffy darts ahead, bouncing toward the counter where a young blond man is chatting with customers. Zoro can’t hear much over the lively hum of people, but from this distance, and thanks to his height, he gets a clear view.
And holy hell.
The blond is radiant. Golden hair catching the soft lights overhead, a single cerulean eye gleaming as he smiles. There seems to be even a ridiculous little swirl in his eyebrow that tugs at something distant in Zoro’s mind, but he can’t think straight. Not with that face. Not with that smell saturating the air around him.
“Oi, move along! You’re blocking the way!”
A sharp shove from behind sends him stumbling. He turns, dazed, to find a tall alpha with sharp features, gold‑ringed eyes, and a black hat emblazoned with a spotted pattern. Normally, Zoro would have drawn his sword over an insult like that, but right now, he can barely summon a growl.
Meanwhile, Luffy has already made himself at home behind the counter, enthusiastically sampling every free flavor in sight. The blond behind the counter, his name tag reading Sanji, looks near his wit’s end as he pleads for a description of the scent Luffy keeps chasing to stop him from devouring all the samples.
“It smells like pirate treasure!” Luffy exclaims, face shining with sincerity.
The beautiful blond, Sanji, blinks, utterly lost. “What the hell does pirate treasure even smell like?”
At that point, Zoro forces his heavy limbs to move, partly to save the poor blond from Luffy’s chaos, partly because he’s pretty sure being near that man is doing something wonderful to his heart. He strides forward, grabs Luffy by the scruff like an unruly cat, and drags him back before the blond decides to kick them both out.
“Oi, knock it off, Luffy! Just pick one and be done with it!”
“But Zorooooo! None of them are the right one! They’re all so delicious, but they don’t taste like pirate treasure!”
Zoro and the blond sigh at the same time, the sound tangled in shared exasperation. When their eyes meet, Sanji’s lips curve into a smile. Zoro feels his knees turn to water. Seriously, how is that smile not illegal?
“And what kind of flavor are you looking for, mosshead?” Sanji asks, leaning casually on the counter.
Zoro scowls at the rude nickname, but is too enamored to be the focus of the blond's attention to make a scene about it. At least he’s more articulate than Luffy. “Uh… something with vanilla, bourbon, and pistachio. I don’t even like ice cream, so I have no idea. Maybe something that smells like leather and sandalwood, too?”
Sanji raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow, and yes, a swirly one, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Pretty sure leather and sandalwood aren’t edible, mosshead. But let’s see what I can do for you.”
Zoro almost blurts out, ‘let me taste you instead’, but before the thought can slip out, someone bumps hard into his back, making him stagger again.
“Hey, asshole! What’s your damn problem?” Zoro snaps, turning to glare.
It’s that same alpha from earlier, dark-haired with golden-ringed eyes and the ridiculous hat. The man doesn’t even blink. “I’m Sanji-ya’s bodyguard, and you’re looking at him like a deranged, lovesick alpha. Back off.”
“What?” Zoro sputters.
Sanji pinches the bridge of his nose. “Law, how many times do I have to tell you I don’t need a bloody bodyguard?”
Law folds his arms, unbothered. “Yeah, well, you don’t know alphas the way I do. And this green-haired one smells like trouble.”
“Hey!” Zoro bristles, indignant at being called deranged, lovesick and trouble in less than a few seconds by a guy that looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. “I’m a perfectly decent guy!”
Before he can let the rude asshole know what he himself thinks of him, Luffy, mouth full of free ice cream, pipes up cheerfully, “What about me? I’m an alpha too!”
Law doesn’t miss a beat. “No. You’re an idiot. So you’re fine.”
Luffy pumps his fist into the air triumphantly. “Ha! See, Zoro? I’m fine!” Then he sticks out his ice‑cream‑covered tongue at him.
“Being called an idiot isn’t something to be proud of!” Zoro yells, but Luffy just laughs, loud and carefree.
“Doesn’t matter! Mr. Bodyguard said I can be around Sanji, so I don’t care what he calls me!” He beams at the blond. “Sanji! You’re so pretty! You should join my crew!”
Normally, Zoro would bark at him to quit recruiting strangers into their tight-knit group, but this time he stays quiet. The thought of never seeing that face again ties an unexpected knot in his chest. If Sanji became Luffy’s friend, he’d always be around. Zoro could keep looking at him, keep smelling him...
Then, the realization hits.
That intoxicating aroma filling the shop…it’s not coming from the ice cream. It’s coming from him. Sanji.
Zoro’s breath catches. As a prime alpha, his sense of smell is razor‑sharp, and there’s no mistaking it; the scent he’s been drowning in belongs to Sanji. It’s the same one that feels like sunshine and decadence all at once, perfectly tailored to everything Zoro likes.
He blinks, dazed. What the hell? How can anyone smell that good? That right? It’s like Sanji was handcrafted in a lab somewhere, meant solely to test Zoro’s restraint, or to be rewarded to him as a divine gift for tolerating years of Luffy’s nonsense.
Surely, he thinks dazedly, lips parting, he deserves to taste those cherry-red lips at least once…
And just then, Sanji turns around, smiling faintly, holding out an ice cream cone.
“Here, try this. It’s called Midnight Forge Swirl. I think it matches the scents you described.”
Zoro takes the ice cream automatically, but his mind isn’t on it. He’s never cared for sweets in his life, and now that he knows the heavenly fragrance wasn’t from the desserts, but from Sanji himself, there’s no way he can settle for a taste of something cold and sugary. He wants the real thing. He wants the whole meal. He wants that omega.
Wait...omega?
The realization hits him like another punch to the gut. The beautiful blond with the golden hair, that blinding smile, and the scent that makes his head spin…he’s an omega. Zoro has never met a male omega before, but somehow it feels so right. It fits. He’s completely sure of it in his bones, Sanji can't be anything but an omega.
“Oh, hell…” Zoro mutters, light-headed, gripping the counter for balance. He was going to pass out. Right here. Into the ice cream display.
Thwack.
Something hard smacks into the side of his head.
"What the fuck!" Zoro snarls, clutching his ear. He spins around, and of course it’s that same fucking alpha.
And did he just fucking smack Zoro with the hilt of a sword?! Inside a crowded, ice cream shop?
Who was the deranged alpha, again?
Law stands there, calm but deadly, golden eyes aflame with warning. “You need to step outside. Now.” His voice is low, all steel.
Sanji looks alarmed. “Law, what’s going on?”
But before Zoro can answer, Law grabs his arm and drags him bodily out of the shop. They stumble into the alley behind the building, the air thick with heat and sugar.
Zoro yanks free, snarling. “What the hell is your problem, you crazy bastard?”
Law doesn’t flinch. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut about what you just realized,” he says evenly. “If I hear a whisper of it from you, if you even mumble it in your sleep, I will surgically remove your vocal cords and shove them up your ass. Are we clear?”
Zoro stares at him. He realizes, with sudden clarity, that this guy isn’t just a jealous ex. He is terrified for Sanji's safety.
Zoro looks back through the shop window. Sanji is laughing hard at something Luffy said, wiping a few tears from his eyes. He looks radiant and angelic, like the best thing that has ever walked the earth.
Zoro knows what happens to rare, beautiful things like him. He knows about the trafficking rings. The collectors. The underground auctions. The thought of anyone touching Sanji, dimming that light, makes Zoro’s blood run cold.
He looks back at Law, his expression settling into stone.
“I don’t need you threatening me,” Zoro growls. “I get it. I won’t say a word. I’d kill and die for him before I let anything happen to him.”
For a moment, Law studies him in silence, eyes sharp as scalpels. Then his expression softens and he gives a slow, approving nod.
“Good,” he says. “Welcome to Sanji‑ya’s protection squad.”
“…What? There’s a squad?” Zoro asks, incredulous.
Law snorts. “Yeah. You think you’re the first alpha to fall for him? Get in the fucking line.”
Zoro stands there blinking, half in disbelief, half in sudden pride. A protection squad, huh? Fine by him. As long as he gets to stay close to Sanji, to bask in that warmth, to breathe that impossibly perfect scent, he won’t complain. Even if it means competing with (as he’ll later find out) at least twenty other hopelessly smitten, insanely protective alphas.