Author's Note:

WARNING! The following chapter contains a HETEROSEXUAL PAIRING. If you are offended by man-on-woman action, STOP!

Please continue to Chapter 11 to avoid this HETEROSEXUAL PAIRING.

I promise that I will clean up my act by that chapter, which shall contain good-old-fashioned man-on-man butt-fucking, the way God intended.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

~LJ

Chapter 10: Clash of the Lovebirds! Sanji and Hancock!

She wept steadily. He sat down a few feet from her on the steps, and lit a cigarette.

The past few days, as far as Sanji was concerned, had been sheer hell. No, even before that, he thought, he'd been in hell—finding Kambakka Kingdom, at first, had been the most horrifying experience of his life, till he just let go and admitted that yes, he, Sanji, manliest of men, liked putting on dresses and makeup. Getting back with his crew had been worse. The snickers, the jokes at his expense—they were too much. Finding out about Ace dying, and what had transpired at Impel Down and Marineford, those had also been unbearable. And then there had been all the minor annoyances, like when he was cooking and his wig caught fire (that was gone now, hair back to normal), and when he cut himself twenty places shaving his legs. But this was different. This hit home.

"Shitty bastard doesn't know what he just turned down," he mumbled, trying not to look at her, lest he fall for a rejected woman and get rejected by her in turn. His skin sizzled as the flames died out. She had nothing to respond with—there was nothing she could say to that. So he continued. "Do you know why I'm dressed like this? Because I gave up."

". . . Gave up?" she asked weakly.

"On women."

"Oh." She seemed confused.

"You just got rejected by one man. Do you know what it's like to be rejected by the entire female sex?" A vague feeling of heat told him the cigarette was down to the filter, burning his fingers. He'd smoked that one fast. The stub landed in a nearby ashtray, marked with a slight coating of lip-gloss, just like his lips were. He'd toned down the makeup over the past few days. It was mostly due to peer pressure. "Look . . . it's not about me. My love life is over. Fuck. It never began. The point is . . . Luffy's one guy. And a damn shitty one. Find someone else."

She sat up, arms circled around her knees, eyes widening at the horrifying thing he'd just said. "But I . . . love him," she managed, although her voice and eyes fell as she listened to herself say it. That earned a wry smile of recollection from Sanji. Wasn't that the word he'd used, every time he met a hot girl? Including the one he was talking t—he almost turned to look at her, but stopped himself. Another cigarette was produced to calm his nerves. He couldn't let himself look, or he'd have a visual heart-attack and start clinging to her, shouting how he was in love himself.

Love. What the hell did that mean, anyways? The wry smile was back again, as smoke trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"No you don't. You're just horny."

"WHAT? How dare you accuse me of such debased—"

"Oh, admit it." He felt like he was having a conversation with himself. "You should. It'll make things easier for you. . . . I . . . wish I'd admitted it." Hancock frowned, and thought back on all her experiences with Luffy—thought about when she first realized she liked him. Slowly, it dawned on her, the words she'd just used in her own mind, to describe her own feeling: liked. No, she firmly told herself. I love him! I . . . love . . . how he treats me. He was the only one she could talk to equally. The only one she couldn't push around, and that made her want to try and win his affections—everyone else . . . was just too easy.

Even as she thought this, she realized it was a blatant lie. Luffy wasn't the only person who failed to fall for her charms. His first mate sure as hell hadn't. And this okama-cook was treating her as an equal right now, not a goddess. So maybe there were others—maybe . . . Sanji was right.

". . . It's true." A sigh, and her tone was bitter, obviously not liking the revelation. "But, so what? He makes me happy!"

A gentle laugh. "Happy."

"Don't mock me! I . . . I need him!"

"Avez besoin d'un putain de bon." Hancock was taken aback by that smile, so pleased at enunciating a foul word—he'd said it in French, probably so she wouldn't understand it—but she understood French quite well: You need a good fucking. He took a slow, bitter drag of his cigarette, seeming so cool, until she responded back in his native tongue.

"Je parle français."

His whole body stiffened, hands shaking, the only response he could think of coming out in a small, terrified gasp. ". . . Merde!" The panic in his face was thoroughly amusing her.

"So all I need is a good fucking, hmm? That'll solve everything?" She could feel a smile playing on her lips, refusing to fade. She couldn't believe what she was thinking—but he was actually quite handsome, now that all that okama business had faded—she'd actually been shocked to find out he was a man, mostly because, in her limited experiences with the outside world, she'd never met an okama. Sanji was mostly back to his old self regarding looks—same hair as he'd had before, subtler makeup thanks to Nami's advice—just eyeliner and a shimmer to his lips. Even in that tight black dress he looked attractive.

"Gomena—"

"Well, maybe you're right. Baise moi."

Sanji's entire being became rigid—including lower regions. Even if he wasn't looking at her, that voice, that seductive, feminine voice . . . his head turned, and he got a good look at those half-opened eyes with their long, dark lashes, the aroused flush, her supple breasts half-exposed by a drooping robe. But her tears had dried, leaving in their stead a faint smile.

"HAI! HEBEHIME-SWAMA!"

He was like an excited puppy, she thought, as hearts filled his eyes—and just like a dog chasing a car. Now that he'd got it, he had no idea what to do with it. He just sat there, feeling on the verge of faint, blood pouring from his nose. She felt bad—she had thought she was so deeply in love with Luffy, so loyal to him and only him. What was she doing, saying things like that to this guy, who was now reacting just like her followers did?

"If you act like a dog, I'll treat you like one!" she roared, standing and pressing his head to the floor with her bare foot. Her neck craned back as she looked down-on-him-at-the-sky. "Don't fawn over me! I forbid it!"

He had to get a hold of himself—it was obvious this was what she hated—obvious that if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by her, she would hate him. It would make it easier if he could look away, but with her foot pinning his head like that he couldn't. He couldn't see up the robe—just a mysterious blackness—and that's when he decided: I'll pretend you're an okama. It was a difficult belief to force himself into, with her girlish face and large breasts. It might be easier if he closed his eyes at first, until the notion became more familiar. He did, and inhaled deeply, picturing creepy images to make himself stop having a hard-on (like fat old men in women's bathing suits—he might enjoy dressing up like that himself, but it didn't turn him on).

". . . Boa Hancock-sama." His voice came out like he was addressing a guy he didn't have any particular beef with. "Gomenasai. I let you see how desperate I am." The toes moved, and he sat up, eyes now open. Hancock is a man. Hancock is a man. Hancock is a very ugly man. Those words became his mantra inside his head. She looked horrified.

"Is this what I'll become? Is that desperation . . . what unrequited love leads to?" She didn't know it, but she was already feeling pretty desperate. He lay back on the steps, taking a slow drag of his cig as he stared at the ceiling. His long, thin legs were splayed, and she could see up his short skirt—he was wearing a black lace thong which didn't properly hold all he had to offer. A hot blush rose in her cheeks.

"Most definitely."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him up, dragging him behind her up the stairs. "Then come with me. We'll put an end to this. For both of us." He wanted to scream mellorine, and fall to his knees, hugging her legs in a death-grip. That feeling got pushed down by waves of a loud, rapid shouting in his mind: Hancock's a man! Hancock's a man! Hancock's a man! They were at the second floor, the third. They were in front of her chambers, and nobody was about—then they were inside. The door closed.

Her lips were full and wet as they kissed his, her hands roving with lust over his thin frame, stroking long fingers down his chest. It was easy enough with his eyes closed—it felt good, too good, his heart beating like a hummingbird's wings, but he could imagine she was someone less attractive if he kept his eyes shut. You are Zoro, he decided. The moan tickling into his ear didn't sound like Zoro, but he ignored it. It was when she stopped kissing him, when she bent down to pull up his dress, that his eyes flicked open, settling exactly on her robust cleavage.

"MELLORINE!" he squealed, before his heart-shaped eyes flashed closed. He backed up, breathing steadily. I'm not with a woman. This is a man. This is a man. His pulse slowed down. "Hancock," he gasped, eyes still shut. "Blindfold me. When I see you . . . I . . . I can't control myself. I'm losing control." He fell to his knees, eyes still squinched shut as he bit his tongue till blood poured out, trying to keep himself from pouncing on her in raw lust.

The sash slipped from her robe, throwing it open. He could tell by the rustling of the fabric that it had fallen to the floor, leaving her entirely exposed. A strip of satin fell across his eyes, his face engulfed in her breasts as she tied it behind his head, making his toes curl. She stood. Seeing him like that, mostly naked, blindfolded, submissive as he cowered at her feet—this was nearly how she'd imagined things would be with . . . with Luffy, once she'd won his affections—once she'd dominated him. She gasped, and pulled him to his feet, then guided him to the bed.

"Sanji," she begged, stroking the pads of her fingers across a nipple. "Kiss me." It was a frantic kiss at first, and slightly too rough, but he emptied his mind of all thoughts, all images, trying to find some form of calm. His breathing slowed, and the kisses became gentle, skillful, with a slight taste of smoke. Hot breath flowed across her collar bone as he moved down to kiss her neck, as she felt his body move about, legs shifting as his hard dick pressed against her clit, nothing separating them but that black lace thong. They were both so wet. A moan escaped her lips as his tongue found her nipple, as his hands played softly with her breasts. Her face was no longer burning up, and he was no longer wanting to scream mellorine. He pulled the blindfold from his face with a single fluid motion, freeing one eye to lock with hers, the other hidden behind strands of blond bangs.

The look in that eye . . . was somehow peaceful. His fingers knit with hers, and he sat up, pulling her against him. His chest steadily rose and fell. "What do you need me to do?" His voice was gentle.

"I need you inside me," she begged. The thong fell to the floor, while the curvy form of a female silhouette lay back against a mountain of pillows, and the angular form of a male outline lay down on top her. His eyes closed, lips caressing hers with gentle sucks as he slid inside her, his hips rocking slowly as he restrained himself with a sense of devotion. He needed this to feel good for her. It wasn't about him anymore—he'd realized that a few minutes back, when he'd forced his mind to calm, to quiet. That realization had given him the strength he needed.

Her lips slightly parted, letting his name slip through them, the sound making vibrations which played across their smooth surface and felt like a kiss. He held her close, an arm protectively curved around the small of her back, another behind her head, his fingers woven through silky, dark hair. She grabbed at his back, feeling lean muscle and ribs, sliding down to rest a hand on the back of his thigh. Her entire mind, entire body, were beyond her control now—he was paralyzing her with that steady gaze, the way he danced inside her. She couldn't control her hips anymore, as they pressed upward against his, beckoning him to go deeper.

They got off in unison, in a loud howling of fever, sweat, grabbing hands, and bursting hearts, bodies seizing up in frenzy, making them push closer, deeper, faster. Waves of pure delight—and neither of them could break the union of their vision. Those waves lulled gently, then dissipated, and Sanji stopped moving, but stayed in her. A hand reached up, played gingerly with a strand of her long, dark, chopped-off bangs. A kiss, a simple kiss—and it somehow felt more powerful than all their lovemaking had, filling his delicate ribcage with warmth, placing a light fluttering inside her gently rising and falling bosom.

"Hancock," he whispered. "I . . . think I love you." As easily as he fell in love, as much as he thought he knew on the subject, nothing before had ever felt like this—and that calm refused to die down.

His words made it dawn on her—this sensation, even after she'd already got off, was fully satisfied—it was nothing like what she'd felt for Luffy. This wasn't a desperate, painful longing—it was quiet happiness. "I think I feel the same."

Glossary

French : English

Avez besoin d'un putain de bon : You need a good fucking*

Je parle français : I speak French

Merde : Shit

Baise moi : Fuck me

*Author's Note: It was very hard to figure out how to say this in French, and while I'm pretty certain that's how you say it, I could be wrong.