Archive of Our Own

Omegas among pirates learn one lesson early: never depend on an alpha. Sanji has known this since he first set foot on a ship and he has lived by that unwritten rule ever since.

During his childhood, “Omega” seemed like a word without any particular meaning, a word Judge used with disdain, looking at him as if he were some kind of disgrace to nature. But before he even understood what it meant and what it entailed, Sanji found himself aboard the Orbit, attracting attention he shouldn't have received. Sudden silences when he entered the kitchen, glances that lingered too long, cooks who sniffed him and treated him as if he were a future problem. It was a situation that confused him greatly, and only the Orbit's head chef, a wise beta male, explained the reason to him.

Thus, Sanji discovered what a secondary sex was, and that an omega male must live with something the world expects to read about you before you even open your mouth. A smell, a reaction, a total submission to the first Alpha trying to possess and brand you. Sanji realized how humiliating this was when, during one of his heat cycles at fourteen, a Baratie customer almost jumped him. It was enough to decide that no one had the right to perceive him like this. Not on his skin or anywhere else.

His routine now consists of taking inhibitors regularly and in carefully calibrated dosages. Bitter, he prefers them that way because they remind him that they work, while strong spices, smoke, and the unending heat of the kitchen do the rest. His scent doesn’t vanish… it dulls, turning hazy and stripped of anything that might draw attention. This is enough to be overlooked and stay safe.

Obviously his nakama know nothing about it.

He almost never discusses this topic with them. Not out of shame, but because he doesn't want it to become a factor. Luffy wouldn't understand the point of caution. Usopp would ask too many questions. Nami would probably start to see him as weaker and take every risk into account. Robin would be too good at reading what Sanji prefers to keep under control. And Zoro… Zoro doesn't need to know. As long as Sanji can fight, cook, and stay upright, nothing else matters.

His omega status isn't a real secret anyway. It's a variable to be managed. No one should protect him or claim him.

It's a fragile form of freedom, but it's the only one he's allowed himself. And as long as his body obeys, as long as the pills hold and the smell remains under control, it will be enough.

Actually, that's what Sanji needs right now: the pills.

The Going Merry's kitchen is where he hides them.

So, Sanji enters his kingdom of stoves and pots, takes out a pill and quickly prepares his usual dark, hot bitter tea. The teaspoon turns slowly, as if following an invisible recipe he knows by heart. After that, he drops the pill in without really looking at it, while steam curls up and fogs the glasses he’d put on to make a grocery list.

He adjusts them with the back of his hand, inhaling deeply.

Then, he hears a chair scraping across the floor, making him tense before the voice even comes.

"Oi, cook."

Sanji doesn't turn around immediately. He takes a quick sip to conclude the ritual, and lowers the heat under the pot, acting as if nothing had happened at all.

"Sanjiiii! I'm huuuungryyyyy!"

A second heavier step echoes in the galley. Zoro stops near the counter and sniffs the air.

“I want something to drink.”

Sanji’s hand tightens around his cup a little.

“Why don’t you two ever let me do my job in peace?”

“But Sanji, I’m starving!”

“And I need booze after training. If it bothers you so much, tell me where you keep it and I’ll go get it myself.”

Sanji decides to hastily wash his cup, then turns to them.

“Yeah, so you’ll finish the whole supply before I can blink. I’ll get you a bottle, just one. You’ll have the rest when it’s time for dinner. And the same goes for you, you fucking bottomless pit!” The blond points at his captain, then opens a drawer, takes out two slices of bread, and puts them on the grill. “The Merry is running low on supplies.” The bread sizzles slightly, while Sanji pours a ladle of hot broth into a bowl, sliding it across the counter with a flick of his wrist. Then he places the toast on top. “This…” he concludes, pushing it all toward Luffy, “… is what you can have.”

Luffy looks at the bowl. Then at Sanji. Then back at the bowl. “Just this?!”

“Yes.”

“That’s so little food!”

“It’s enough,” Sanji replies without raising his voice. “Eat slowly.”

Luffy grabs the bread with both hands. “Um… okay,” he says as he bites into it.

Zoro observes the scene from the counter in silence. He notices that Sanji has already turned his back, that the stove is lit again and that his hands are moving nonstop, as though he’s eager to escape their presence.

“When you’re finished, I’d like one of you to ask Nami-san to come over. I really need to talk to her about our supply situation.”

Sanji keeps cooking and chopping vegetables long after Luffy has finished eating and vanished from the galley, his footsteps fading as abruptly as they came.

Zoro approaches the sink and lets the empty sake bottle drop with a sharp thump; the glass answers with a faint clink.

Sanji registers him only out of habit, without turning to look. But he notices one small detail.

When Zoro is relaxed, his hand always rests on Wado’s hilt. It’s a natural, almost distracted gesture, as if the sword were an extension of his body. A constant presence. Sanji has seen it a thousand times, but only now does he truly reflect on how that sword never changes, is never replaced and is never treated as a mere tool.

“You never let go of it, huh?” Sanji comments.

“What are you talking about?”

He nods toward Wado.

“I never leave my other swords either,” Zoro points out.

“Yes, but that one… is different. It's quite obvious.”

Zoro snorts softly. “Because Wado isn't just any sword.”

“As I imagined.”

For a moment, it seems Zoro has no intention of saying anything else. Then, almost reluctantly, he confesses:

“It belonged to someone important.”

His voice doesn't change, but something closes immediately after the sentence, like a door slammed firmly shut.

Sanji simply nods. He's not the type to dig where no space has been made for him.

So, he turns to grab a dishcloth and catches Zoro's gaze drifting toward his cup of tea, freshly washed and set to dry next to the other dishes. He's lingering on it for a moment too long, and it makes his chest tighten.

He doesn't like it.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

Zoro looks away as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. “Nothing.”

A silence falls between them, a kind of silence that weighs more than words... until Zoro speaks again, returning to the previous topic.

“The person Wado Ichimonji belonged to…” he begins, and Sanji senses another unexpected confession coming, “her name was Kuina.”

The name falls between them without emphasis.

“We shared the same dream. She wanted to be the best swordswoman in the world, and she worked her ass off to improve every day.”

“She reminds me of someone,” Sanji comments, giving him a fleeting glance.

“But she was female… and an omega,” Zoro adds.

The blond pauses for a second, his knife hovering over the cutting board.

“Let me guess,” he says softly, “no one believed she could do it.”

Zoro makes a low, bitter noise. “They said it was a waste. That sooner or later she’d have to stop, that her body wasn’t made for it, that an omega…” he pauses, his jaw tensing, “…had to think of something else.”

Sanji resumes cutting with precise strokes.

“And you?” he asks.

Zoro looks up. “I knew it was all bullshit.” There’s a rough certainty in his voice. “Kuina was stubborn, tough, talented, hungry for improvement… and as independent as can be.”

“Then, you were the only one who really looked at her,” he comments.

Zoro tightens his fingers on the hilt of the Wado. “I never thought she was someone to be protected,” but he quickly corrects himself, “or rather… to be locked in a cage or to be boxed into the role others believe she should have had.”

Sanji finally turns to him. His gaze is sharp, but not hostile.

“Good to know, Mosshead,” he says with a half-sneer. “It would have been annoying for me to deal with someone who thinks certain roles are written in blood.”

Zoro looks at him with his gray eyes piercing him. "I never thought anything like that."

Silence falls between them again, but this time it’s different. There’s no tension in the air. So, Sanji returns to the stove.

“Dinner won’t cook itself, Mosshead. If you’re going to stand here, I’ll make you peel potatoes.”

Zoro remains for a moment, leaning against the counter, as if considering whether to say something else, but doesn't.

"Well, if you need a hand with that, I..."

Is he offering to help him in the kitchen? That’s so unusually… nice by his standards.

“I know where to find you. Now I just want you to go.” It may sound like a curt reply, but it’s not a refusal. Zoro recognizes it for what it is, nods once, and quietly walks away from the galley.

Sanji waits until he hears the door close before slowing down. Then, he turns off a burner, checks a pot and pauses with his hands resting on the edge of the counter.

The kitchen is quiet again. Warm. Tidy.

The blond glances at the dry cup beside the others and nudges it a few centimeters, as though that small adjustment is enough to set everything right again.

“Restocking tomorrow,” he mutters to himself, remembering they’re close to a new island. "I need lots of meat, bread, and real spices."

And as he stares at his now ready vegetable broth, Sanji already knows he’ll be the first to get off the ship.

Unfortunately, talking to Nami about the supply situation slipped his mind due to work to be done, so when he sees her on the deck the next day, he jumps at the opportunity. 

She looks busy. Her eyes move quickly across the page, brows faintly drawn together as she runs through calculations she clearly isn’t enjoying. The sight puts him on edge. Whenever Nami starts counting like that, the results are never good news… and the last thing Sanji wants is to be the one who adds to her frustration.

"Good afternoon my wonderful Nami-san!”

She barely looks up. “Good afternoon, Sanji-kun.”

"I'd like to sincerely thank you for getting us safely to a new island again, you're the brightest!"

"Why do I feel like all these compliments today aren't entirely disinterested?"

"What? No! Oh no... no..."

Damn…

"Tell me you're not about to ask me for money."

Of course, a smart woman like her senses that he might be in need; so, Sanji gives her an innocent smile. "Actually… I'm about to ask you for money."

Nami blinks at him. "Why?"

"We're almost out of supplies. Maybe we can last another two days, three at most, but no more. And I need spices too."

Nami shakes her head. “The next island will take at least five days of sailing, so… I guess I don't have much choice,” she reaches into her skirt pockets and pulls out a little bag of coins, carefully counting them before handing them to him. “Hurry up with your shopping, please.”

Sanji frowns. “Hurry up?”

“This island is unstable,” she replies. “The Log Pose resets in 90 minutes. Only 90. If we miss the window, we’ll be stuck here much longer than expected. That’s why the rest of us decided to stay on the Merry.”

Sanji stuffs the money into his jacket pocket. “I promise you I won’t waste my time, my dear Nami-san!”

“Yeah, don’t waste it,” Nami reiterates. “And don’t invite trouble. I trust you, Sanji-kun!”

Sanji greets her with his adoring smile. “I’ll be worthy of your trust!”

After acknowledging his limited time, the cook climbs off the ship and looks around curiously.

The port of this island looks small, more lived-in than organized. The wooden docks creak underfoot, blackened by salt and time and the air is thick with smells: seaweed, dried fish, tar, smoke. The houses cluster around the bay, all made of rough wood, with low roofs and crooked balconies from which nets and ropes hang.

The streets drift away from the shoreline without any clear pattern, turning into worn paths that snake past cramped shops, general stores, taverns, tool shops, makeshift stalls with goods piled on overturned crates. There’s nothing refined about the place, yet everything appears to exist for a reason. What feels unsettling is the lack of people… particularly since he’s sure he glimpsed someone moving about when the Merry first docked.

As if that weren't enough, buying supplies proved more unpleasant than usual. The man selling meat and vegetables treated him like a criminal of the worst kind, even though he paid and thanked him as usual.

Well, sometimes people are in a bad mood. Zeff himself, for example, doesn't know what good humor is when he works at the Baratie.

Sanji decides not to dwell on it. He makes his way back to the small main square and lets his gaze linger on the mountains hemming in the horizon… dark, jagged, far too close to be mere scenery. They press in on the island, giving it a claustrophobic feel, as if there were very little room to run… or to escape.

He keeps walking with a confident stride, his gaze quickly gliding over every detail and looking for a color and a smell. Then he finds them.

A clear, unmistakable mixture: toasted pepper, cloves, something resinous and warm that tingles his nose. Sanji stops abruptly and turns to the side.

The shop is nestled between two larger buildings, with a small window and a faded sign. Outside, cloth sacks are piled high, some open, with spice grains and dark powders peeking out.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

His lightning-fast shopping begins, and without further ado, he pushes open the door and enters. There, he finds a man with an extraordinarily long white beard and round glasses standing behind a wooden counter, smelling like beta.

“Good afternoon,” Sanji greets him, smiling.

The man looks up and suddenly stiffens. This reaction tells him he’s probably just encountered another hostile person, but that won’t stop him.

“Excuse me, sir. May I take a look at your merchandise?”

“No, brat, we're closed.”

“Closed? There's an open sign on the door.”

“Well, I'm closing in two minutes,” he replies, annoyed.

“Sir, I promise I won't take up much of your time. I just want to buy some spices I need.”

The man walks around the counter and looks at him as if trying to threaten him.

“Get the fuck out of here, shithead.”

Sanji isn't intimidated by him and approaches the counter, drawn by a cracked ceramic vase, half hidden behind burlap sacks.

“Can I at least look at this?” he asks, without touching it.

The man follows his gaze. For a second, he hesitates. “That’s not for pirates.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow, then inhales lightly, and the scent explodes upon him, clear and layered.

“It’s Kavara… right?” he speculates.

“What did you say?”

Sanji brushes the air over the jar, without defiling it. “The spice of the Shalar Islands. It grows on volcanic soil, in areas where the wind carries salt and ash together. It’s uncommon to find it outside their trade routes.”

The shopkeeper blinks, astonished, as Sanji continues:

“The aroma is warm. Reminiscent of nutmeg, but with a resinous note that lingers on the tongue. If you roast it too much, it loses half its soul… but if you heat it just a little, just a breath, it releases a flavor that seems like living earth.”

Now the man studies him more carefully. "Not many pirates recognize it," he finally admits, "in fact... almost no one."

"I'm not just a pirate, I'm also a cook."

The merchant sighs, his shoulders slowly relaxing. Then he pushes the jar toward him a couple of centimeters.

"Two minutes," he says. "You have two minutes to choose and buy what you need."

Sanji tilts his head and smiles. "That will be more than enough."

His fingers begin to skim the bags and jars without actually touching them, assessing each aroma with a light, precise inhalation. He tilts a container to observe its texture, lifts a bag slightly to feel its weight, lets the scents speak to him. In a few moments, he creates a small, neat selection on the counter, then bends over a basket of amber-colored dried berries.

"These are from Haruoko Island, right?" He asks, “They only grow on the east-facing cliffs. If you don't pick them before sunset, they become bitter.”

“Yes,” the man admits. “How do you…”

But Sanji has already moved on, drawn by a flat box. He opens it carefully and smiles faintly.

“Tessenko. The powder burns slowly, like wet paper. Perfect for smoking poultry. If I put a pinch in my ramen…”

“That's not for sale,” the merchant interrupts, almost out of habit.

Sanji doesn't protest and respectfully puts it back.

As he continues to analyze the products that capture his eyes and nose, the merchant suddenly flinches.

"Shit," he mutters, pale, then he runs to the door, checks the lock, and peers out the window, anxious.

"What's going on?" Sanji asks, frowning.

"Kid, whatever you're looking for... you have to leave now."

Outside, approaching footsteps blend with voices that sound deep and aggressive. The atmosphere inside the shop shifts abruptly, thickening with unease. The shopkeeper suddenly grabs Sanji by the wrist and pulls him toward the door. His grip is firm, urgent. When their eyes meet, there’s something unexpected in his gaze… like a flicker of genuine concern.

"Are they criminals? If you want, I can help you chase them away," the blond offers, but the man shakes his head.

"They're not criminals, they're islanders mad at you."

“At me? I didn't do anything.”

The shopkeeper's left hand now rests on Sanji's shoulder, almost protectively.

"Many people saw you disembark from a ship with a pirate Jolly Roger, and pirates aren't welcome here."

"I understand, but me and my friends don't want to hurt anyone."

"No one will believe you."

"Why?"

"Because this island was scarred by a pirate invasion five years ago. Those bastards burned down our main city, stole our crops, killed anyone who tried to fight them... and took many omegas as their sex slaves. Our people were shattered, and inevitably, hatred for all pirates spread."

Sanji stiffens, his breath stumbling for a moment, his fingers curling against the fabric of his pants, as if holding back an impulse of anger. A heavier pounding races through his temples, and the scent of spices around him seems distant.

"Okay, I see I have no choice," he comments, then steps back briefly to grab the bags of spices he'd selected and leaves a handful of coins on the counter. "I hope this is enough, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience I'm causing you."

"Don't apologize! Just go away and hide!"

Sanji doesn't need to be told twice and leaves the shop, but hiding or running away isn't really his style; so, he stashes his spices and all his groceries away and lights a cigarette. Before he can fully enjoy his first drag, he's soon surrounded by four unfriendly alphas.

"Is there a problem, everyone? You look a little nervous," he asks sarcastically.

"You, filthy pirate, you're not welcome here!" one of them barks.

"I just came to get some supplies."

"Bullshit! I know your crew will land here in the dead of night and lay siege to our island!"

"We're not that kind of pirates."

"No?" Alpha 1 growls in front of him, taking a step forward, "I see you smoking calmly, as if this were your home."

What an idiot.

“I’m trying not to make your day any more miserable than it already is.”

A murmur runs through the group. Alpha 3 laughs, a short, contemptuous sound.

“Did you hear that? This two-bit pirate is trying to be funny.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to, it comes naturally.”

Alpha 1 grabs him by the lapels of his jacket. “Listen, you worm. No one here wants to hear you speak. You should be thankful we let you breathe on our island.”

Sanji’s smile cracks, revealing something sharper.

“Don’t touch my suit.”

Sanji suddenly raises his knee and slashes the man’s wrist with the back of his foot, a small but precise movement that forces him to stop instantly. He responds by donning iron knuckledusters, while his three friends draw their swords.

Mosshead would have loved to be in his shoes right now.

“That’s enough,” growls the Alpha 3. “This asshole has decided his own end.”

“I was really hoping one of you would make this interesting.”

Let it not be said he didn’t try to be reasonable before.

The four men surround him, no longer needing to speak. There’s nothing to clarify. It’s time to assert himself.

Sanji puts a fresh cigarette between his lips. “Come on, hurry up. I don’t have time to waste.”

He certainly hasn’t forgotten that his gorgeous Nami-san has given him very little time to get back to the Merry and leave.

Alpha 2 lunges at him. Sanji anticipates him and hits him with a sharp kick to the chest, sending him crashing into a pile of crates. The wood creaks, but he’s still perfectly capable of getting up. After that, Alpha 1 tries to punch him from the side. Sanji twists his torso, kicks him in the shoulder and pushes him away. Finally, Alpha 3 attacks from behind... Sanji ducks, catches his arm, and snaps a kick that wrenches both man and sword away, hurling him into a sack of spices that bursts open in a pungent, ochre‑colored cloud.

“You’re making a mess,” Sanji comments, shaking the grains off his shoulder.

At this point, Alpha 4 isn’t waiting any longer. He’s the one who looks calmest, the one who’s spoken the least and who’s been observing without doing anything until now. The one who’s almost gone unnoticed...

That’s why Sanji sees the blade moving a moment too late. A quick, low blow, delivered with surgical precision, splits his side in a single trail.

Sanji inhales, and for a second feels no pain, only heat, then the heat turns to wetness. The fabric of his shirt begins to cling to his side while a trickle of warm blood runs down his belt and his thigh. It’s not as deep as it could be, it doesn’t even look deadly, but it’s quite different from anything he’s experienced since puberty.

“Shit…”

Meanwhile, the alphas regain their positions and exchange a quick glance, pupils narrowing and nostrils flaring ever so slightly. They're starting to smell something they shouldn't… the smell Sanji has been trying to hide forever. And their expressions change.

It's no longer simple aggression, it's fucking recognition.

It doesn't matter, that won't stop him from giving these four assholes a sound lesson.

Sanji is ready to fight them again, but the world seems to sway for a moment. His blood is draining faster than expected… he can feel it like a drum pounding under his skin.

“Don't kid yourself,” he spits, clenching his teeth, “I'm still perfectly capable of kicking your ass.”

For the first time in a long time, he's not entirely sure how much longer he can do it.

He lunges forward, his body moving before his mind even grasps his intent. He tries to aim high to kick straight at the jaw of the guy in front of him... but something goes wrong. His leg, which should have lifted with its usual speed, gets stuck halfway.

Oh, no, not now.

His jaw tenses as he attempts a second attack, but his breathing is hitched. The air comes in too little, too dry. His heartbeat quickens and then slows, disorganized, as if he's lost the ability to follow a rhythm.

Alpha 3 slams into him with a horizontal slash. Sanji sees it coming with unsettling clarity... he knows he has more than enough time to block it, yet his leg trembles as he lifts it, the motion delayed by a fraction of a second that shouldn’t exist. The impact crashes into him anyway, violent and jarring, rattling through his bones. The force travels up his frame, shaking him from foot to shoulder, and a sharp shiver runs down his spine… an unmistakable warning that something is wrong.

Meanwhile, the outlines of the houses around him begin to shrink and tremble.

His vision blurs at the edges, as if someone had drawn a black curtain over the world. His side throbs forcefully, one blow after another, it's so intense that it makes his ribs vibrate.

Alpha 1 charges him head-on. Sanji tries to turn, to face him, to fight back... but when he lifts his foot again, it feels even heavier than before, way too heavy, as if it were dipped in molasses. So, Alpha 1 closes the distance with ease, and with his iron fist, he slams his cheek squarely.

Everything tilts abruptly. The cigarette flies from his lips, and the floor approaches him with a violence he has no time to prepare.

He lands on the ground in an impact that knocks the breath from his chest.

For a second he stays there, his hands desperately grasping the rough ground. He tries to pull himself up, but his fingers slip. His arms don't respond. His legs feel distant, almost alien.

His heart races, skips a beat, then starts again.

The world vibrates slightly beneath him.

Sanji grits his teeth and tries to lift his torso a second time, then a third, then again. Each attempt ends the same way: his body remains immobile and useless.

He's still conscious though. Enough to feel a fierce rage.

But he's too tired, too drained, too close to the edge to return to action. So, when he feels the heat of his blood continuing to slide down his side, and the cold of his hands no longer responding, he realizes his body has abandoned him before his spirit is ready to surrender.

And it's all his fault.

It's his fault because he knew this could happen sooner or later… Zeff had warned him several times in the past, but he never gave it the importance it deserved.

“What is this?” asks the old geezer, grabbing the pack of pills he accidentally left on the counter.

“None of your business,” Sanji replies, quickly snatching it back from his grasp.

Zeff crosses his arms and gives him a lecture-like look.

“I guess this shit is why I can't smell you anymore, right?!”

The blond boy shrugs. “Yeah, so what? It's my body and my choice.”

“You're playing with fire, brat.”

“Oh really? How?” Sanji asks, pretending to be busy sweeping the floor.

“Inhibitors are dangerous!” Zeff jabs him sharply in the chest with two fingers. He isn’t strong, yet the touch makes Sanji stagger, as if something inside him has been knocked loose for a brief, disorienting moment.

“Those pills make you think you're smart while they empty you. They take away your smell, yes… but they also take away your balance. Your strength. Your alertness.” He takes a step toward him, slow and menacing. “I just touched you, and your body responded like a tired rookie. If that happens to you in a fight, you’ll be facedown before you know who hit you.”

The old cook plants a finger on his sternum, lighter than the last. Sanji wants to remain still, proud, but he still feels that microscopic give. Then the damn geezer grabs him by the shoulder, stabilizes him, and bends slightly to look him in the eye.

“This shit strips away your defenses when you need it most. And when your body decides to shut down, kid… it won’t ask your permission.”

Sanji clenches his hands into fists and shakes his head.

“What’s the alternative, then? Spread my omega pheromones all over the restaurant? Scream to the entire world that I’m a meal waiting to be devoured by the first alpha who comes along?! It’s easy for you to speak; you’re not like me!”

An Alpha certainly can't understand his point of view.

"No one's asking you to spread anything. But thinking you can erase yourself from the world by popping pills is bullshit that will backfire. It's not courage to hide who you are. It's fear. And fear... I can recognize it from a mile away. If you want a viable alternative, become strong enough to fear no one. Everything else is just excuses!"

After giving him a last stern look, Zeff turns his back and leaves the kitchen.

Sanji took his last words to heart, determined to become strong enough to fear no one... but at the same time, he didn't have the courage to give up his inhibitors.

And now here he is, as the old geezer predicted, on the ground, defeated by four mediocre men who are sniffing him and looking at him like a freshly served piece of filet mignon.

"I want him for myself," says Alpha 4, the one who wounded him in the side.

"We want him too," replies Alpha 2.

"We finally have a real omega on our hands, not those old rejects the pirates left us!" concludes Alpha 3.

Sanji tries to keep his eyes open; to stay alert enough to defend himself in case these bastards lay a finger on him.

"I'll let you have fun with him now, but in a few days, I'll be in rut and he'll be mine for good. I want children." Alpha 4 is demanding it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sanji feels like throwing up.

“You let us?!”

“Who the fuck you think you are? Our boss?”

"Do you have any problem?"

"Yes! Who gave you the right to claim this omega?"

"I took it myself. Do you want to challenge me to take him?"

Great, now they're fighting over having him as a baby maker.

“What if I do?”

“I advise against it. If I draw swords on you, you're done for.”

Sanji can blurrily see two swords glinting under the torchlight on the wall. One of them is still stained with his blood.

He wishes he had the strength to tell them to go to hell, kick their ass and run away, but he can't do either. It's already remarkable that he's still conscious right now…

“There, as I thought,” Alpha 4 says, sheathing his sword. “Take him into that alley. We don't want to make a spectacle of ourselves, right?”

Sanji sees them nod, then Alpha 1 roughly grabs his ankle and drags him into a dark alley with a dead end.

"S-shit..." he manages to mutter to himself.

When he looks back at the four hungry Alphas, he sees that three of them are already unbuttoning their pants. Sanji shakes his head weakly as his heart begins to pound in his chest.

He doesn't want this to happen to him. He refuses to be dominated and used just because he’s a fucking omega. He refuses to be turned into nothing more than a means to breed.

"Do something, idiot! Stop them! That's why you're trying to stay conscious!” A little voice screams in his head.

Sanji tries once again to lift one leg, but it immediately collapses.

Shit... he really can't do anything, the geezer was right about everything...

That bitter realization clouds his eyes with tears, as three alphas lean over him, surrounding him. Their hands begin to touch his crotch, his chest, his neck... his shirt is torn, his belt is thrown off, his pants end up crumpled at his ankles, making the blond's stomach twist.

“So pretty…”

Sanji flinches when he feels a pair of fingers slide into his boxers and rub the entrance of his vagina.

“Mmmhhh…how I’ve missed this…” Alpha 2 comments, licking his lips.

After that, Alpha 3 abruptly rolls him onto his side and gropes his ass. “Let’s take him together, we’ll waste less time.”

“Great idea.”

“Hey, what about me?! You’re not leaving me here watching you!” Alpha 1 protests.

Alpha 2 nods in his direction… and Sanji doesn’t understand why. His struggle to stay awake is becoming increasingly difficult.

“Oh, shit, you’re right!”

Suddenly, the asshole tugs on his hair and forces him to turn his face to the right, then slips his index finger between the cook's lips and pushes it in, exploring the insides of his cheeks, his tongue and finally reaching his throat.

By then, Sanji is already resigned to his fate and lets his mouth be violated as if that shit were happening to someone else. The wet noises, the snickers, even his own breathing... everything seems to be coming from a different room, through opaque glass.

"Holy shit! This boy is going to give me so much satisfaction!”

“Good for you.”

“But then I want us to switch positions!"

"Um… we can do that."

"Guys, wait, I think this idiot is about to pass out."

"At least he won't throw unnecessary tantrums or get tense while we have fun."

"That also means he can't protest if your dick is choking him, so be careful what you do. If you kill the only good omega who’s been on this island in five years, I'll make you pay dearly," Alpha 4 threatens. "Now get to the point. I'm tired of waiting for you."

“With great pleasure!”

“Good heavens, what are you doing!” a voice suddenly exclaims.

Even though Sanji feels dizzy, he recognizes it immediately. It's the spice merchant's voice... what is he doing here?

“It's none of your business.”

“Stop this madness, please!”

Alpha 4 folds his arms over his chest. “Why should we stop?”

“Because... because...” he mumbles, carefully considering his next words, “if you hurt him and make him disappear, you'll draw the wrath of his crew!”

“Well, I think it's a little late for that.” Alpha 3 points to his bleeding side wound with a grin.

“Shit...”

“Now please move out of the way and...”

But the shopkeeper interrupts him. “We have excellent doctors on the island! Let's take him to one of them, get him treated, and explain to his crew that there's been a misunderstanding! Everything will be fine!”

The four men burst into a roar of laughter that echoes deafeningly in Sanji's head.

“Do you really believe that nonsense you're talking?!”

“We can try!”

“Yes, of course,” Alpha 4 mutters, shoving him away with a shoulder, but the shopkeeper lunges forward and places himself between Sanji and the islander, as if trying to shield him.

“This man isn't a pirate like the others, he's not a bad guy! And I'm sure his companions are like him, too!”

“You really don't understand my intentions, do you?” he growls, now impatient. “I don't care if I'm dealing with a good man or not, I don't even care how his crew will react, because I'm ready to chop off the heads of anyone who dares stand against me. What matters to me is taking this omega, knotting him, and branding him!”

“But not before we have some fun with him!” Alpha 3 points out, caressing Sanji's nipple.

“Don't do that! You're behaving exactly like those despicable people who attacked us! We’re not like that!”

“Shut the fuck up, you're tiring me!”

Sanji sees the shopkeeper get punched and collapse to the ground right next to him, the man crumpling as if his strength has simply vanished. The impact jolts through Sanji’s chest, leaving behind a sick, helpless twist… he couldn’t protect him.

“Well done! Now we can finally begin!”

“Fuck yeah!”

The blond turns his head as he hears the sound of fabric being torn, followed by a sudden chill in his genitals. The old man's black eyes stare at him, growing glossy...

He hadn’t expected this kind of concern from a stranger, and the realization makes him offer a weak, unsteady smile.

"T-thanks for trying..." Sanji whispers.

But his words seem to make him feel worse.

Unfortunately, he can't give him more than that; his fate is sealed.

Sanji knows he's alone, at the end of his tether, and that in a few seconds he'll likely lose consciousness. The only hope he can still cherish is that these three bastards are horny enough not to notice he’s bleeding to death while they're fucking him.

Whether they kill each other after this or decide to have more fun with his lifeless body, he really doesn't care.

All he wants is to never wake up again… he doesn’t want anyone to cure him… doesn’t want to survive this horror with its weight carved into his memory.

Death is a far better fate than that.

Just as Sanji feels himself on the verge of fainting, a piercing scream erupts without warning, followed by a clear, unnatural streak of blood that streaks across the wall behind the shopkeeper.

With a final effort, the cook sees a blurry, green head in front of him, but before he has time to realize what's really happening, he's finally swallowed up by the void.

Sanji slowly returns to consciousness, as if someone were reconnecting the threads of lucidity one by one. At first, there's only his breathing... no wait, this is not his own, it's too regular, too close... then the smell of bitter herbs and clean cotton fills his lungs as he inhales more deeply.

Infirmary.

Somehow someone took him to Merry’s infirmary, but he has no memories of it.

The pain is there, though, not sharp. It's diffuse, deep, every muscle protesting softly. Sanji tries to move his hand, then a leg. Both respond, so he tries to raise himself slightly on the bed, but a dull ache shoots through his side.

"Hey, easy, easy!" Chopper squeaks, appearing immediately beside him with a clipboard in his hand. "If you move like that, you risk reopening the wound."

Sanji snorts softly. "Okay, sorry...”

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty awful."

"It's understandable after what happened to you."

At that moment, the memories of his blood, the four Alphas, and the shopkeeper come back to him in a blur.

"Was I that bad?"

Chopper adjusts his hat, becoming serious.

“You've lost a lot of blood. The wound in your side wasn't fatal, but combined with the exertion and stress… your body went into acute shock.”

“Shock,” Sanji repeats, quietly.

“Yeah, I mean unstable blood pressure, irregular heartbeat, slowed reflexes… and shallow, irregular breathing,” he adds. Then he hesitates for a moment before continuing. “I also found traces of inhibitors in your system, in high doses.”

Sanji looks away, while Chopper looks at him sympathetically.

“In a situation like that, they made everything worse. Your body couldn't compensate anymore. If you had arrived here even a few minutes later…”

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Sanji inhales. The air fills his lungs evenly, without resistance. Steady.

“I'm breathing fine now.”

“I know,” says Chopper, “you’re out of danger, and that’s wonderful news… but I think you should talk to someone else about your improvements.”

“What do you mean? You’re the doctor! Who should I talk to?”

Despite his question, Chopper leaves the infirmary in silence, while Sanji begins to realize something isn’t right.

It becomes clearer when he inhales again, out of habit or out of instinct, the way he has always read the air around him. It isn’t the sterile scent of the infirmary, but something deeper and more solid: iron and skin, a harsh note vibrating against his tongue. At the same time, a strange pressure lingers at the base of his neck, a phantom signal that shouldn’t exist… and yet refuses to fade.

Frowning, Sanji lifts his hand and brushes his fingers over the spot. His skin is tender there, overly sensitive, and beneath his touch he feels it: a faint indentation, unmistakable. His breath catches and his jaw tense.

"...What the fuck..."

Suddenly the door opens and Mosshead enters the room. The smell from before becomes sharper, more defined. The pain in his side recedes a half step, his heartbeat finds a more regular rhythm, and a dull warmth settles in the center of his chest like an anchor.

So the pieces begin to fit together.

His scent and his body are no longer his alone. They are intertwined, sealed to a decision that was made for him when he was unable to make it.

This makes his veins boil with rage.

"How could you," he snarls, fixing his blue eyes on the swordsman's uncertain ones.

"Curly-brow, I don't..."

Sanji doesn't wait for an answer; he springs to his feet and lunges at Zoro.

The first kick comes violently, aimed at Zoro's side, inelegant and uncalibrated. Zoro reacts by bringing a sword forward and blocking the impact with the flat of the blade. The blow resonates sharply in the infirmary.

“Can we..." Zoro tries again.

Sanji doesn't let him finish.

The second kick follows immediately, higher, aimed at his chest. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth, each strike snapping into place in rapid succession. Sanji gives himself no time to think, no room to recalibrate; it’s a flurry of sharp, instinctive attacks, as if his body is trying to tear itself free from something it refuses to accept.

Zoro yields half a step, drawing his other sword purely on reflex, to hold the line. He swings both blades sideways, crossing them to deflect the assault and avoiding to strike back.

"Stop," he says, his voice low.

"How could you do this to me?!" he repeats, screaming as he lunges with his heel aimed at his head. Zoro raises his sword at the last second, the flat of the blade catches his leg and pushes it away with controlled force. The infirmary bed creaks as Sanji slams into it, but he quickly gets to his feet, breathing heavily.

"Can we talk about it, please?" Zoro finally manages to say. He shifts forward as he speaks, lowering one sword and reaching out… just enough to try and stop him and keep him from tearing himself apart.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Sanji explodes. His voice comes out broken, rough, as if it were scraping his throat from the inside. Another kick snaps sideways, close enough that Zoro feels the air shear past his ribs. He deflects it in time, but he’s forced to plant his feet firmly on the ground.

“You shouldn't have…” Sanji breathes in fits and starts, his eyes blazing, “…decided for me, you asshole!”

The silence that follows is tense, vibrating. Zoro doesn't lower his swords, but he doesn't advance either.

On the other side, Sanji trembles with rage, and only then notices that the pain in his side has returned, more acute.

Good thing. At least that's his.

“If you move again,” Zoro says, his voice firm but cracking, “you'll really hurt yourself.”

Sanji laughs softly. It's a short, humorless laugh.

“Too late for that.”

Then he turns and retrieves the matches and cigarette from the bedside table.

“I had no choice, cook. You heard Chopper, right? The situation was really critical. Either I marked you, or you would be dead,” he explains calmly.

“I would have preferred to be dead!”

Death, at least, is a clear limit, an end that leaves no traces. Belonging to someone random, on the other hand, is a cage that continues to tighten even while you're still breathing. It's your body that stops being a choice and becomes a possession dictated simply by fucking biology. And where's love in all this? Sanji has always accepted the risk of getting killed, but not the risk of being claimed like a toy.

"None of us would have wanted to lose you."

"Oh yeah, sure, how would this crew ever survive without the cook who keeps their bottomless captain fed?” he remarks dryly.

"It's not just that, you idiot."

Sanji glares at him. "Haven't you wondered why the fuck I was stuffing myself with inhibitors?"

“I didn’t need to wonder,” he replies quietly. “I realized a long time ago that you don’t accept your nature.”

“And you thought it was your right to do exactly what I hate most about being an omega: being marked, without my consent!"

"I'm sorry about that, but I was in a tight spot, and I had no other choice..."

"Spare me your shitty excuses and leave me alone," Sanji replies sharply as he lights a cigarette.

"Cook..."

“I said, leave me the fuck alone!”

Sanji’s entire body is coiled tight with fury; his rigid shoulders and trembling hands reveal his barely contained aggression, while his jaw is clenched so tightly that it almost breaks the cigarette he has in his mouth.

Realizing that he is facing a wall that cannot be broken down, Zoro gives in, turns around and walks out of the infirmary without another word.

It's been a while since Sanji and Zoro last really spoke. Time wasn’t enough to erase the topic or turn it into a memory; it simply settled between them with the weight of something steady, almost familiar.

Since then, communication has been reduced to the bare essentials, Sanji continued to place a plate in front of him when needed, without making a comment or unnecessary jokes. Zoro continued to show up in the kitchen to get sake, sometimes with a nod, sometimes without saying anything. They were just brief, functional exchanges.

Neither of them ever forced the situation or ever tried to backtrack.

During Skypiea, it was even easier not to talk to each other.

There was too much noise, too much nonsense, too many battles, and too much tiredness to dwell on what wasn't working. The sky above, the clouds beneath their feet, the constant threat of Enel: everything seemed to justify that emptiness.

Zoro was busy fighting, Sanji was busy doing what he'd always done: cooking, moving, protecting the crew (even risking death, as usual), and the life on the Going Merry kept going as if nothing had changed.

And yet, something had changed.

Sanji noticed it especially when Zoro wasn't there. He felt a kind of underlying unease, hard to name. On nights, when the swordsman was far away on guard duty, or when they separated more than usual during an exploration, Sanji’s body seemed to lose a rhythm he'd previously taken for granted. He slept worse. He moved with a tension he couldn't entirely shake.

The thing that bothered him most was that it didn't hurt.

It was a subtle sensation, almost imperceptible that felt like… instability. As if something were slightly off-axis and his body knew it before his mind did.

And when Zoro returned, even without speaking to him, even simply passing by, everything fell into place with a naturalness Sanji hated to acknowledge. His breathing returned to normal, the tension eased and the world seemed stiller, more solid.

Despite that, Sanji didn't look for him.

He didn't ask him anything.

But he had stopped pretending that his absence was indifferent.

So came the bitter and lucid realization that his body was reacting to something he hadn't chosen, and that fighting it head-on wasn't making him any freer.

Hating, shutting down, rejecting everything en masse would have been easier. 

Sanji had never been good at choosing the easy way out.

However, his anger didn’t always remain sharp and it slowly lost those sudden peaks that had once made him clench his teeth without realizing it. At times, it softened into something quieter, more reflective… and in those moments, things Zoro had said almost reluctantly in the galley drifted back to him.

Kuina.

His words about her had affected him more than he’d been willing to admit at the time. Not the fact that she was an omega, Sanji had understood that immediately, but the way Zoro had described her: her independence, her relentless drive to improve, her stubborn refusal to be reduced to her body or to the expectations placed upon it. Zoro had never spoken of her as someone to be protected, nor as a symbol. He had spoken of talent, of sheer, unyielding resolve.

Of respect.

Thinking back, Sanji understood that the conversation hadn't been a casual one. Zoro hadn't chosen words at random, and above all, he hadn't felt the need to justify himself.

That memory slipped over him like a hand slowly lowering his guard. It didn't erase what had happened, but it made it… less easy to hate, because maybe Zoro had never seen an omega as something to be possessed. Maybe, in his rough and uncommunicative way, he had always separated the concept of strength from that of control.

This realization pushed him to loose the rigidity he’d clung to for so long and to extend an olive branch to the swordsman… approaching him while he is training.

Zoro's naked torso is tense under the strain, his swords moving up and down, left and right, without unnecessary anger. Each strike is repeated as if he were sculpting something in the air. Sanji clicks his tongue and lights a cigarette.

Shit. He doesn't like how easy it is to stay there with him.

He doesn't even like how hard it is to leave.

"If you keep going like this," he says, blowing smoke to the side, "you'll end up breaking Merry’s deck. And Usopp will be furious with you."

Zoro slows down and turns away slightly.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Oh, I'm sure of it."

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Zoro sheathes his swords and wipes the sweat off his face with the back of his arm.

"If you want me out of the way, just say so, you don't have to bring up Usopp's excuse."

"That's not what I want."

Zoro looks at him carefully, as if trying to figure out his real mood.

"So what do you want, cook?"

Sanji exhales slowly. "I want to understand something." He glares at him. "How do you plan to act now?"

"As your alpha?" Zoro asks, demonstrating that he's immediately grasped the uncomfortable topic he wants to broach.

“Yeah. Don't pretend that's not the point.”

Zoro sits on the ground, leaning his back against the railing.

“I'm not going to tell you what to do,” Zoro says after a moment. “I'm not going to control you. I'm not going to use our bond to make decisions for you.” He pauses to breathe, then continues. “If you tell me to go fuck myself, I'm staying where I am.”

Sanji snorts, a short laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. “Wow, you're really trying hard to make up points with me. I'm impressed.”

“I'm not trying to make up points; I’m just trying to be fair and honest.”

“Too bad,” Sanji replies, tilting his head slightly. “I could have taken advantage of that. You know, started demanding crazy things, like make you talk more than five words in a row.”

Zoro looks at him sideways, but decides to stick to the point of the conversation.

“I don't want you to think you're my slave now. Or that I have… rights over you.”

Sanji purses his lips. “Those are bold words, for someone who marked me while I was half dead.”

“I know,” Zoro says, meeting the cook’s ocean‑blue eyes without wavering, “and I don’t expect you to pretend it didn’t happen. When you are with me it will be because you choose to be there… not because you’re forced to, and not because your body is making the choice for you.”

“And when I go into heat? Or when you're in rut? What do you intend to do?”

“If you want space, I'll give it to you. If you want distance, I won't follow you. And if you need help, you tell me. I don't take anything I'm not given.”

“Would you fight your instincts for me?”

“Of course.”

Sanji, surprised, pauses to think about those words, while the wind blows his jacket and the smell of the sea mingles with that of metal and sweat.

It would be so easy for Zoro to give in to what his body demands; the whole world would justify an alpha simply following his nature. And yet, he's here talking about restraints, expectations, chosen limits... of instincts kept in check out of respect.

He's willing to fight even against himself, just for him.

That awareness loosens his defenses and smooths the edge of his voice when he finally speaks. “You're a lot deeper than you seem, you know?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow. “Is that an insult?”

“No, calling you shitty swordsman is an insult.”

“Thanks, Curly-idiot.”

Despite the exchange of awful nicknames, Sanji feels something begin to stir in his chest and, even worse, in his heart. It's a sensation that stabilizes and disarms him at the same time, but he'd be lying if he claimed he didn’t like it.

“Listen, Mosshead, I'm not saying I’m forgiving you, at least not today,” he says, crushing the cigarette under his heel.

“I never thought so.”

“And this thing that happened between us... we'll have to learn to deal with it together, I guess.”

Zoro nods.

“But…” he gives him a sidelong glance, ironic but sincere, “having you as my alpha might not be as terrible as I feared.”

A soothing smile curves across the swordsman's lips.

And there is no need to say anything else.

As much as Sanji has always fought against himself and against the bond, a part of him has stopped resisting... because being next to Zoro no longer feels like a loss.

Yes, there's still something profoundly unfair about all this, yet there's also something that rings true. As if the world, for once, wasn't asking him to bend, but simply to stay. To accept that maybe, of all the possibilities, being tied to a rough, stubborn man, kind and incapable of lying about his feelings, isn't a condemnation, but a direction.

He doesn’t know whether to call it destiny.

What he does know is that, in this moment, stopping running feels like the right decision. And that alone is enough.