I think the title says everything.
Thanks for reading!
I want fabulous,
That is my simple request,
All things fabulous,
Bigger and better and best,
I need something inspiring to help me get along,
I need a little fabulous is that so wrong?
Fetch me my Jimmy Choo flip flops,
Where is my pink Prada tote?
I need my Tiffany hair band,
And then I can go for a float.
Fabulous- Ashley Tisdale
High School Musical 2
"Robin my darling," a delicate yet deep voice said. "Off on another job? You're so busy. What do you need?"
"I need a disguise to look like a slave driver and my partner Mr Prince here will look like my subordinate."
"Mr Prince?" the voice said, looming closer. A large, makeup heavy face popped up in front of Sanji's. Goosebumps lined his forearms. This guy was the Okama queen. Or king. Whatever. He could change the hormonal makeup of any person, even himself. Or herself. "Please, allow me." The bizarre man towed the chef into the chair and began immediately, pinning up his hair.
"You're not going to change me ri-"
"Of course not!" the Okama queen waved his gloved hands. "It wouldn't be fun. Unless…" the face loomed close again, "you want to?" Sanji glanced in the mirror in front and could see no sight of Ms All Sunday behind him.
"I'm a lover of all ladies but if I'm a sexy woman…"
"Hee-haw!" the man laughed before turning serious. "I won't let you." He snapped his fingers and a flurry of manicured hands strapped Sanji to the chair. His heart fluttered and he closed his eyes.
"Ladies, please take care of me," he swooned, melting into the chair.
"Oh silly!" deep voices chorused together. They giggled as Sanji snapped upright, eyes wide. He took in his nightmares before him. The monsters of the deep. Garish bright dresses with fishnet stockings. High heels. He shuddered. Heavily muscled arms and pointed pinkies. Painted nails. Long hair and false eyelashes. Bristly beards and moustaches against pigmented lips. He cried out against the avalanche of large hideous faces that abused his vision and swung his head wildly about, seeking an escape route.
"Nooo! Let me go!" he yelled, wriggling his limbs in the tight restraints.
"Hair removal fist!" the Okama queen cried, crossing his hands in front of him.
The few minutes of transformation was something that would remain in Sanji's nightmares forever. People of the underground say they heard a magnitude of screams originating from the 'torture of prisoners held by Baroque Works' on an entirely new level that night. Little did they know that the screams all source back to one man. He was not in pain physically, but his mental state plummeted, being the dress up doll of numerous eager okamas.
Sanji heaved, exhausted. He slumped on the chair, sweat forming a thin layer of film his body. He refused to look in the mirror. I probably look like wet sponge cake, he thought.
"Now, now," a hand dabbed his forehead with a cloth. "You must look fresh, like the blooming flowers of the season!" The chef groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Sweating would smudge your disguise! Allow me to conduct your crash course in lady etiquette." The man opened a book and pursed his painted lips, adjusting his cat eye glasses before heaving Sanji to his feet.
"Woah!" Sanji tottered in his unfamiliar footwear. His eyes opened and to his horror and grudging surprise, he looked like a woman. The okamas added hues of pink onto his cheeks and lips with gold eyeshadow. A little black bow was clipped on the side, slightly above his left ear. They added hair extensions which explained the blonde curls that tumbled and bounced around his shoulders. The dress was something else. It was a glossy black. Chinese style with a high stiff collar and gentle sleeves that ended just below his triceps, hiding his muscles. A scarlet sash hung around his waist, creating a sense of curves on his ruler body. The dress had a high split on both sides, allowing for easy leg movement in the case of a fight. It was all lined in gold, with stitching of peacocks and feathers all over. It was beautiful, as much as Sanji loathed the whole idea.
"Easy now." The man straightened the chef up. "The first rule is," he closed the book and slapped Sanji sharply across the back, drawing a yelp, "a lady must have proper posture. Back straight, chin up. You are the subordinate of a slave driver. The way you stand normally will not do. Footwear is not an excuse. You have a good sense of balance so use it. Maintain the grace of a swan, not the slinkiness of a cat. Let's move on," the man continued, opening the book again and ignoring the jittery legs of Sanji. "A lady must be a delicate but strong. Your voice is the opening to your soul. Pitch your voice with me." Sanji forced his voice higher, keeping an effort not to crack it. "Remember, no cursing, no swearing. The next rule is stop scowling so heavily. You must smile. Be gentle. Lastly, no smoking. You can put up with it for a few hours." The man squeezed Sanji's cheeks with his hand, prized the cigarette from his lips and snubbed it on the dresser table. "Now, the course is complete! Do not slip up. Your life is at stake with these disguises. Do not rub your face, especially your eyebrow area. Now go, Ms Robin is waiting for you." He gestured towards another door in the room. Sanji stumbled towards the door.
"Ms All Sunday," he mumbled, heat flooding his face in shame. He was a man, god damn it!
"Mr Prince," she greeted in turn, the trademark smile on her face. "It suits you, although I never expected that Chinese style."
"Ugh, is this why Zoro and Ace refused to become your partner in crime?" He looked over Ms All Sunday's clothes and appreciated the hard look it gave her.
"Yes, although in all honesty, I think you would do better than both of them in undercover work," she said, shuffling a few items in her jacket pocket. "They are both… unsuitable."
"Did they ever go through…" he gestured towards his dress, "this?"
"No," she said. "I think Ivankov has taken a particular liking to you." Sanji groaned.
"I'm only staying because you asked me to, Ms All Sunday."
"I know but you'll do well. Remember the ladies etiquette but be assertive. You are my subordinate. Failure is not an option. Your friend's life is at stake." With this, she donned on sunglasses, a floppy hat and buttoned up her coat. She strode off, boots clacking against the ground.
"Yes," he sighed, tottering in high stilettos. "I understand."