Chapter Text
Zeff paced the Baratie’s empty kitchen like a storm trapped in a room too small to hold it. The stainless steel of the professional range reflected the angry orange glow of the warning lamp he’d left on.
Sanji wasn’t back yet.
The clock above the sink ticked toward 9:45 PM. Every tick was a nail hammered into Zeff’s sanity, a mockery of the routine he tried so hard to enforce. If that blond brat wasn’t through the door by 10:00—
Zeff was calling the Marines. The police. Garp. Dammit, even that cocky bastard Mihawk. Hell, he’d declare a missing child emergency if he had to. What the hell were two teenage boys doing out this late? Especially when one of them was a late-blooming Omega who currently smelled like a messy cocktail of confusion and cheap cigarettes.
Sanji was still a kid damnit. In Zeff’s eyes, he was too damn young to be thinking about love, or dating or anything that came with the heavy gravity of instincts, bodies, and consequences. Those were things Zeff hadn’t even had the chance to explain yet. He was too young for sex, for bonds, and certainly too young for the kind of alphas who thought they knew exactly what omegas were "for."
And that was the worst part—the part that made the salt in Zeff’s blood boil. He hadn’t even given the boy The Talk yet.
The talk about choice, and bodily autonomy, and the steel-clad rule that no one—no matter their secondary dynamic—got to take a single thing from him without permission.
He’d been delaying it for far too long. Zeff had been so busy teaching the brat how to hold a knife, how to balance a sauce, how to stand his ground in a kitchen, that he’d failed to teach him how to protect his own soul from a world that wanted to consume it. And if he was honest—part of him was afraid. Afraid that the moment he finally said those words, the moment he explained everything, his boy would no longer be a boy at all.
Afraid that once Sanji knew, there would be no pretending he was still small enough to keep safe with nothing but Zeff’s shadow.
Zeff’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding with a sound like shifting gravel. Not before I get to him first, he thought grimly, his scent sharpening into a jagged edge. If some brat thinks he can skip the introductions and go straight to the claims, he’s going to find out exactly how a Red-Legged Alpha handles a trespasser.
He could feel his own scent, normally a comforting anchor of warm salt, buttery sauces, and kitchen spice, had gone toxic. It was sharp, metallic, and heavy with Alpha anger. A primal warning scent thickening the air until the lamps seemed to flicker in the oppressive atmosphere. Anyone with half a nose would take one whiff and think: Someone is about to die.
That someone being Gin.
Zeff leaned on the cold steel counter, hands gripping the laminated edge so tight the wood frame underneath creaked a protest. He looked down and saw a fresh splinter snap off beneath his massive palm. He barely registered it.
The biggest problem, the one that ate at Zeff’s chest, was the missing weight of Sanji’s own scent in the kitchen right now. Usually, the space was layered with it—a soft, sweet warmth, maybe floral, perhaps a hint of citrus and sea breeze—mixing with Zeff's own alpha spices as they cooked, not rotting crab!
Instead, the air was just metallic anger and old grease. Zeff knew the boy's scent well enough; it was strong when he felt secure here. But the moment he stepped outside, it seemed to fade, almost unnoticeable, a ghost of an Omega struggling to manifest under layers of nicotine and street smells when he was nervous or trying to fit in with Alphas.
The kitchen felt hollow without that anchor.
Zeff's Alpha wanted to hunt down his unbonded Omega and physically force the boy to smell right. To smell safe.
He should be here. He needs to be here, Zeff thought, his breathing rough. I haven’t even started teaching him proper scent care—the basic Omega knots. How the hell am I supposed to keep the boy safe if the idiot doesn't even know he has to try?
He lifted his head, eyes burning gold in the low light.
If that bastard touches him—
If he tries ANYTHING—
If Sanji comes back smelling wrong—
smelling like anything other than the Baratie, his cigarettes, and the tiny, confusing core of an Omega he still hadn’t learned to claim—
Zeff would show Gin precisely what a protective, desperate Alpha could do.
He exhaled through his nose, but the sound was more a growl than breath.
That was when Patty walked in. “Oh—OH hell no,” Patty whispered, stopping dead. “Carne, get over here. He’s doing the murder aura thing again!”
Carne rushed in, sniffed the air, and winced. “Ooof. Yeah. That’s definitely ‘I’m about to commit homicide’ levels.”
Zeff lifted his head slowly. “What,” he growled, “are you two idiots doing in here?”
Patty lifted both hands. “Chef, you need to calm down. He’s a teenager! They go out! On dates! It’s normal—”
Zeff’s glare was lethal.
Patty froze.
Carne, the braver of the two (and the stupider), stepped in. “It’s young love, Chef. Maybe they’re takin’ a walk. Maybe they’re just… talking. You know—romantic stuff.”
The muscle in Zeff’s jaw twitched so hard
Patty grabbed Carne’s sleeve. “Dude, stop, STOP or the ones who are going to be the victims would be us ! “
But Carne kept talking. “C’mon, Chef. Remember what it’s like? Teen hormones, first crushes, sneaking around—”
Zeff’s aura darkened. His scent spiked—hot iron, storm winds, pure alpha fury.
Carne’s voice cracked. “O-okay, maybe not sneaking but—”
Patty dragged Carne backward. “Chef,” and said carefully like he was talking to a wild animal, “he’s fine. It’s just a date. You gotta relax before you spontaneously explode.”
Zeff’s eye twitched. “Relax?” he echoed, stepping closer. “Relax—while my omega son is out there with some slick-haired, tin-can alpha who thinks he can TOUCH him as he likes? While I don’t know where they are? While it’s getting DARK? While Sanji’s scent isn’t anywhere NEAR THIS RESTAURANT—?!”
Patty squeaked. Carne hid behind him.
Zeff slammed his fist on the counter.
“If he’s not back by ten,” Zeff growled, “I’m going after him. And I’m bringing the big knives.”
The two cooks nodded like bobbleheads.
“Yep, totally fair,” Patty said.
“Reasonable,” Carne squeaked.
Zeff resumed pacing, aura crackling dangerously.
Outside, the wind rose as if answering the violence simmering within. Inside, the Baratie braced for murder.
The kitchen clock struck 9:58 PM when the front door finally opened.
Zeff’s head snapped toward the sound, his murderous aura flaring so sharply that Patty yelped and dove behind the counter.
He smelled him before he saw him.
A wave of scent rolled down the hall ahead of any footsteps, the acrid, burnt-sugar pheromones of an enraged omega, sharp enough to sting the eyes and curl in the lungs. It slammed into the kitchen and collided with Zeff’s own alpha scent, already thick with fury, the air turning heavy and electric as the two clashed.
The pressure built instantly, anger feeding anger, the room tightening around it like a held breath.
Then the footsteps came, furious, clipped staccato against the wooden floor, vibrating with the force of their owner’s rage.
Then Sanji appeared in the doorway.
Zeff’s breath froze.
Because Sanji didn't smell or look like the boy who had left hours ago.
All warmth had been scorched from his scent, every trace of familiar vanilla and sea salt seared away. In its place was a sharp, fractured ozone of anger, sickly-sweet with humiliation, a scent raw and unresolved.
And beneath it, fouling the air, was another scent. An alpha’s. Laced with the cloying, chemical signature of a Command. It rose from Sanji like a toxic fog, ringing every primal alarm in Zeff’s head.
Wrong. This was wrong.
Zeff’s blood turned to ice. Every hair on his body stood on end.
What the fuck.
Zeff took in the rest of him then.
The golden hair, usually styled with unconscious care, was a messy halo of disarray. Red-rimmed eyes stared at a spot on the floor, refusing to meet his own. Small tremors ran through the boy’s frame, and his fists were clenched so tight the knuckles were bone-white.
“Sanji,” Zeff said slowly, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You’re late.”
He meant to scold him. He meant to start with Where the hell were you? But the words died when he saw Sanji’s face pale as parchment, jaw clenched tight, trembling with an anger he was visibly swallowing down.
“What happened?” Zeff demanded.
Sanji stiffened as if struck. His gaze remained locked on the floor, but his body angled subtly toward the staircase. “Alphas are bastards,” he snapped, the words brittle and too quick. “Gin is the biggest jerk alive. That’s what happened.”
The sentence was a rushed, defiant dismissal. He took a jerky step sideways, a clear move to skirt around Zeff and bolt for the stairs, for the sanctuary of his room, where he could lock the door and let the humiliation burn in private.
But like hell Zeff was going to let him run without getting some answers. He needed to know exactly how to kick the shit out of Gin.
Zeff’s heart solidified into a cold, steady rage. “What did he do?”
Sanji kicked off his single remaining shoe with enough force to send it skittering across the floorboards. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, trying to stalk past.
“Sanji.” Zeff moved, his bulk deliberately blocking the path to the stairs. His voice was a low, immovable wall. “I’m not asking again.”
Sanji’s shoulders bunched, his whole body coiling tight. “I said I don’t want to talk about it!” he shouted, the words breaking like glass.
Zeff’s eyes narrowed. His own scent, the protective, earthy dominance of an alpha guardian, filled the space between them, a deliberate counter to the foreign, violating stench still clinging to the boy.
“You come home smelling like another alpha’s Command,” Zeff growled, the word a curse. “You look like you’ve been dragged through hell. And you expect me to just stand here and guess? Either you tell me what happened, or I swear to god I’m going to find that boy myself and drag the answers out of him—”
Sanji whipped around so fast Zeff almost stepped back.
Patty muttered, “O-oh.”
“DON’T!” Sanji shouted, the force of it trembling through him. “Don’t you dare go near him!”
“Oh, so NOW you care about protecting him?” Zeff barked. “That bastard touched you, didn’t he? I swear, Sanji, I’ll—”
“IT’S MY BATTLE NOT YOURS—!” Sanji choked, fists trembling violently. “He didn’t—I kicked him!”
Zeff blinked, the momentum of his rage faltering for a second. “…You did what?”
“I kicked him!” Sanji repeated, the words torn from him, sounded furious and humiliated and shaking. “Hard! I sent him flying into the sand!”
Patty’s whisper slid out from under the counter. “Holy shit.”
Sanji’s glare snapped toward the sound, his scent spiking with defensive heat. “OH YEAH, THE WEAK OMEGA COULD KICK!”
Zeff ignored the outburst. His voice dropped, deadly serious. “Then what,” he asked, each word deliberate, “has you shaking like this?”
Sanji’s breath stuttered. His eyes darted to the floor. “Dad… please. Just drop it. I don’t want—I can’t—not right now.”
Zeff stepped closer, the floorboard creaking. “Sanji. Look at me.”
Sanji didn’t. He backed up instead, chest tight, eyes burning, his instincts clearly scrambled. Zeff knew that look. Frustrated. Embarrassed. Wishing he were older, stronger, more in control of everything, his body, his scent, his pride.
This stupid kid.
“Sanji,” Zeff said quietly, the threat a dark promise, “if you don’t tell me what happened, I swear I’m going to march out right now and beat the living shit out of him—”
“STOP IT!” Sanji yelled, his voice cracking under the strain. “I don’t need you to save me! I’m not weak!”
The kitchen held its breath.
Sanji stood there, panting, hands trembling, his scent a volatile mix of leftover command-panic and newborn rage. Then, softer, broken:
“I’m not weak,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So don’t treat me like I am.”
Zeff exhaled slowly, as The fight drained out of his posture, replaced by something heavier.
“Kid,” he said, stepping close enough for Sanji to finally smell home again the safe, solid scent of hearth and bread and unshakeable protection. “Being hurt doesn’t make you weak. Being angry doesn’t make you weak. Talking doesn’t make you weak.”
He paused, letting the words sink into the quiet.
“But bottling it up and letting some bastard alpha keep his power over you in your own head? That does.”
Sanji stared at the floor, his chest painfully tight.
“And if he did something,” Zeff finished, his voice dropping into a warning growl that vibrated in the space between them, “I NEED to know. Not because you can’t handle it. But so I can protect you. That’s my job.”
Sanji swallowed hard. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, a tear tracking through the dirt on his cheek. “He… he used an alpha command on me.”
Zeff’s expression went murderous. Patty fainted, hitting the floor with a thud. Carne whispered a frantic prayer. The very air in the kitchen seemed to freeze, dropping ten degrees.
“I KNEW IT, THAT MOTHERFUCKER—” Zeff’s roar shook the rafters.
Sanji flinched violently. “I broke it! I broke it and I kicked him! I’m FINE, okay? I don’t need you to—!”
Zeff’s hands shot out, grabbing Sanji’s shoulders firmly, unshakable. He wasn’t sure if he was grounding the trembling boy or anchoring his own world-shattering rage, but he held on. A thunderstorm of violence churned inside him, screaming to be unleashed on Gin.
“Sanji,” he said, his voice low and absolute, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. “Look at me. You are NOT fine.”
Sanji’s lower lip trembled. A soft, wounded sound escaped him, and his scent spiked with pure, undiluted distress the last of his brave defiance crumbling. And Zeff pulled him in. “And it’s okay not to be okay right now,” he rumbled into his hair.
He wrapped the boy in a tight, steady embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head. Then, deliberately, Zeff let his own scent deepen not the earlier protective dominance, but the warm, grounding essence of baked hearth-bread, sun-warmed earth, and safe harbor. He let it wrap around Sanji, a gentle, insistent tide meant to soothe and cleanse, to push back the lingering, violating stench of the Command.
For a moment, Sanji remained rigid. Then, slowly, a fragile, thrumming vibration started in his chest a weak, stuttering purr, the instinctive omega response to profound safety. It was barely audible, choked and hiccupping with residual tears, but it was there.
Because the fight could wait. The detailed questions, the planning of righteous murder—all of that could come later. Right now, his son needed an anchor in the storm. And the shaky, answering purr against his chest told Zeff the anchor had been found.
The next day, Sanji avoided his nest. He hadn't had the time last night, after the scene in the kitchen, then the old man had tucked him into his bed like a five-year-old and stayed on the bedside chair (Sanji did not tug on his sleeve and ask him to stay! Never!). Now, the deep, restless ache for it was a physical pang in his chest. Zeff's scenting had helped, a temporary balm, but his instincts screamed for the primal comfort of his own space, his own carefully curated scent. He needed his nest.
He turned and marched straight for the pantry, shoulders tight, steps sharp. All he wanted was his nest. His comfort familiar space. Somewhere to finally, fully breathe.
But the moment he crossed the threshold, his chest seized.
It smelled of him.
That rusty, smoky scent of Gin.
‘ How? How did I ever find this smell good? Comforting? The thought was a poison dart. What is wrong with me? ‘
The scent was still there. Faint—but unmistakable. Iron and salt, mixed with something smug and invasive, clinging to the wool blankets and tucked-in linen like a stain that refused to wash out. It curled into Sanji’s nose, down his throat, a phantom touch that strangled his instincts.
“No,” he hissed, the word a sharp, wounded thing in the quiet room.
A gush of anger flared through him, hot and righteous, swamping the sickly humiliation. He wasn't small. He wasn't helpless. Being an omega didn't mean he belonged to anyone, didn't mean he needed some knot-headed alpha to define him! Sanji gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.
With a raw cry of fury, he grabbed the nearest pillow—the one he’d slept against almost every night in the nest—and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull, unsatisfying thump. Another pillow followed, thrown harder. A blanket came next, ripped from the pile as if its very fibers burned him. Every fabric, every cushion felt contaminated. Violated. The scent was a taunt, a claim he regret ever permitted.
“Get out,” Sanji snarled under his breath, voice shaking. “Get out of my space!”
He tore at the sheets next, hands shaking as he ripped them free from the mattress. The sound of fabric tearing was sharp and ugly, a release that didn’t release anything at all. He flung them aside, then froze—because the corner caught on a scarf. Nami’s, full of her sweet tangerine smell he loved usually but today it smelled wrong. Still touched by that lingering stink of the jackass Alpha.
“Sorry,” he choked, and ripped it away anyway.
A cushion followed—Usopp’s old one, patched and stupid and sentimental. He threw it so hard it knocked a stack of crates over. Something cracked. Wood splintered. A jar rolled and shattered, herbs scattering across the floor like spilled confetti.
Sanji didn’t stop.
He swept an arm across the shelf, sending little things crashing down—tokens, spare cloth, the dumb vest Luffy had given him—everything that had made the nest feel shared. Everything that now smelled like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
His breath came fast and ragged. His hands shook. His chest burned.
“I didn’t say you could be here,” he rasped, to the air, to the scent, to the memory. “I didn’t— I never—”
The words fell apart.
Angry tears blurred his vision, hot and humiliating. He wiped at them with the back of his hand and only smeared them across his face, fury turning inward, sharper and meaner.
“Stupid,” he whispered. “I’m so stupid.”
It wasn’t hid nest anymore. He didn’t feel safe or comfortable in it . It was just a mess.
A crime scene of his broken heart.
The anger bled out as suddenly as it had come, leaving him hollow and cold. Sanji sank to his knees in the middle of the wreckage, fists clenched in the ruined fabric, his chest heaving. A choked sob caught in his throat. The instinct to curl in on himself, to make himself small in the ruins, warred violently with the urge to keep tearing, to keep fighting an enemy that was now just a memory in the air. He was left kneeling in the ashes of his own comfort, trembling with a sorrow that felt too big for his body.
Down the hall, Zeff felt the sudden spike of scent in the air, a violent burst of rage, a piercing stab of distress, and beneath it, the shattered, sour note of ruined comfort. He went very, very still, his knife hovering over the onions.
Because that wasn't just anger. That was the scent-signature of an omega whose deepest sense of safety had been desecrated.
A raw, protective fury, hotter than any stove flame, ignited in Zeff’s chest. It was a fury aimed at a world that dared hurt his boy, at the alpha who had caused this, and—for a shameful, fleeting second—at himself. He was the one who was supposed to build walls high enough, to teach Sanji to be strong enough, to make this damned restaurant a fortress where that clever, fierce heart would never break. He’d failed. The evidence was a psychic scream of pain from the pantry.
The urge to storm down the hall was a physical ache. To sweep the boy up, to gather every shredded piece of that nest and burn it, to promise with absolute certainty that no one would ever hurt him again. To take the pain, the memory, the violation, and lock it all inside his own chest if he could. He would carve it out of Sanji and bear the scar himself. His little boy shouldn't have to feel this. Shouldn't have to know what it was to have your own sanctuary turned against you.
But the knife came down on the cutting board with a soft, final thud. He couldn’t. Sheltering Sanji from every hurt would only make him fragile. Some battles, some healings, had to be faced alone.
So Zeff stood there, a silent sentry in his kitchen, his own heart splintering with every ragged wave of scent that reached him. He would wait. He would let the storm pass. And then, he would help his son build something new from the wreckage.
The days that followed were… tense.
Sanji didn’t soften after the incident. He hardened even more. His edges, once honed for precision, were now jagged and aimed at everyone. Every alpha became a potential problem, a walking trigger. He snapped at customers, glared at the staff until they gave him a wide berth, and even his friends weren’t safe from his bristling defensiveness.
Luffy got it worse. The young alpha bounced in one afternoon, all boundless energy and oblivious concern. “Sanji! You smell mad! Wanna eat together?” he asked, grinning as if his presence alone could fix things.
Sanji’s glare could’ve curdled fresh milk. “Back off,” he snapped, the words sharp enough to draw blood.
Luffy blinked, his smile faltering, his usually buoyant scent dimming with confusion. “Oh. Okay,” he said, his shoulders slumping slightly as he retreated.
Zoro tried to stay away—he really did—but his instincts were a traitorous thing. They kept pulling him closer, his presence shifting subtly into a guarding stance, a silent hover at the edges of Sanji’s space.
“Why are you staring?” Sanji bit out one evening, slamming a pan down on the counter with more force than necessary.
Zoro scowled, crossing his arms. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Sanji shot back, not looking at him. “And it’s creepy. Quit it.”
Zoro’s jaw tightened, a flicker of hurt—sharp and citrus-bitter—lingering in his scent before he wrestled it under control. He forced himself to take a deliberate step back, the rejection a quiet sting.
Sanji hated the part of himself that reacted at all. Even normally friendly alpha scents now made his skin prickle with unease. At night, he tried to rebuild his nest, scrubbing every blanket and pillow until his hands were raw, constructing something sterile and neutral—a fortress of his scent alone, and nothing else.
Zeff watched it all from the kitchen doorway,He tried to help him rebuilding his nest but Sanji kept snapping at him also, so he left him alone for now. his heart a heavy weight. His boy was protecting himself the only way he knew how: with anger, with distance, with every tooth bared.
The breaking point, when it came, was over something exasperating.
The customer was an alpha—broad-shouldered, with a voice too loud for the dining room. He’d been complaining about his food since he’d sat down, his entitled, grating scent filling his corner of the room.
Sanji set the replacement plate down hard enough for the silverware to rattle. “That’s the recipe here. If you want it bland, go somewhere else.”
The alpha’s lip curled. “Watch your tone, omega.”
Sanji’s eyes flashed with cold fury. “Or what? You gonna cry about it?”
The alpha stood slowly, his chair scraping loudly. His scent spiked in a deliberate, oppressive wave of dominance. “Someone should teach you manners.”
“Someone should teach you how to eat without whining,” Sanji retorted, not backing down an inch.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” the alpha sneered, his gaze sliding past Sanji. It landed on Patty, who was watching nervously from behind the bar. The alpha raised his voice, addressing Patty directly, as if Sanji were a misbehaving pet. “Hey! You, the big one! You should really control your omega. Teach him how to behave in the presence of his betters. No one likes a feisty one who doesn’t know his place.”
The entire dining room went silent. The words landed like poison, and the silence shattered.
“You son of a bitch!” Patty roared. He was around the bar in an instant, Carne right beside him, their scents exploding with protective rage. Patty didn't hesitate, he drove his fist straight into the alpha’s smug face. The man staggered back with a cry, clutching his nose.
“Get out,” Carne growled, his voice low and deadly. “You don’t get to talk to him like that. You don’t get to talk to anyone like that in here.”
They didn't give him a chance to recover. Patty grabbed him by the collar, as Carne seized his arm, and together they hauled the spluttering man toward the door. “And you can forget ever coming back!” Patty snarled, giving him a rough shove onto the porch. “You’re on the Baratie’s blacklist, you hear me? For life!”
The door slammed shut behind them with a final, shuddering crash that rattled the windows.
Sanji stood rigid near the counter, chest heaving, the sudden silence ringing in his ears.
Patty turned back, his breathing heavy, but his voice was soft when he asked, “You okay, kid?”
Sanji swallowed hard, the fight draining out of him, leaving a hollow ache. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Carne said firmly, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Not a damn thing.”
Sanji can’t help but to start noticing it everywhere. Not all at once but once he did, he couldn’t stop. It was like a veil had been ripped away, revealing a pattern etched into the very foundation of the world.
The way omegas were gently, firmly spoken over in class, their ideas dismissed with a patronizing smile. The way teachers sighed—in thinly veiled annoyance—when an omega spoke too loudly, too sharply, or with too much confidence. Their passion was treated as an inconvenience, a "spike in hormones" that needed to be managed rather than an intellect to be respected.
He watched Alphas laugh off protests, calling them "misunderstandings," stripping the offense of its teeth until the victim was left wondering if they’d imagined the insult entirely.
He saw it in the streets, a quiet, suffocating rhythm. An omega shopkeeper lowering her eyes, her scent wilting into submissive neutrality when an alpha customer leaned too far over the counter, invading her space with the casual arrogance of a predator. A young girl flinching when someone brushed past her too roughly, then immediately murmuring “sorry,” apologizing for the crime of simply existing in the way.
But as a male Omega, Sanji found himself in a different, more twisted category of scrutiny. Male Omegas weren't unheard of—they weren't some mythical rarity—but they were still viewed as a freak of nature. To the rest of the world, they were a biological mistake, a glitch in the system that people tolerated but never truly accepted. They were too masculine to be "proper" Omegas and too Omega to ever be considered "real" men.
He saw it in the Baratie, too—in his own home. The way some customers' eyes lingered on him a moment too long after they caught his scent, their gazes shifting from respectful to assessing. The way their voices would soften into a sickly, false sweetness when they realized what he was, their tone implying he was suddenly made of glass. The way their respect flickered, conditional and fragile, ready to vanish if he stepped out of the narrow, quiet box they imagined for him.
"Look at that one," a customer would mutter, gesturing with a fork toward the kitchen. "A man smelling like lilies and sea salt. It’s unnatural. Makes my skin crawl."
"It’s a waste," another would reply, eyes trailing Sanji’s waist as he moved. "He’s got the build of a fighter but the biology of a broodmare. It’s a mess of a person. You’d think they’d have corrected that kind of thing by now."
“A male omega? Imagine the temper on that one. Needs a heavy hand to settle him down." Another one said.
"Look at the way he moves. He’s too pretty to be wasting his time over a stove. Someone ought to put a collar on him and keep him in a bedroom where he belongs."
The words felt like oil on his skin. He realized that to them, he wasn't a chef anymore he was a curiosity. because he carried himself with the "top" tier of grace and skill, the Alphas didn't just want him; they wanted to break him. They saw his competence not as a trait to be admired, but as a "defect" that would make the eventual "taming" more satisfying. that proved he was trying too hard to be something he wasn't.
He saw it at school, too. Boys who used to be his friends, who used to talk about sports or girls with him, now looked at his neck instead of his eyes. They’d stand just a little too close in the hallways, their scents heavy and demanding, waiting for him to yield. When he didn't—when he snarled and told them to get bent—they didn't get angry. They smirked.
“I love it when they fight back,” one had whispered after Sanji shoved him into a locker. “Makes the scent even sweeter when you finally cave.”
It made Sanji’s stomach turn. He wasn't a person to them; he was a prize. A high-value asset that needed "correcting." He thought about his so-called family then. About the way his father had looked at him the moment it became clear he wasn't going to be the Alpha heir he’d demanded.
The disappointment hadn’t just been because Sanji was "weak" in Judge's eyes—it was because Sanji was an Omega who refused to act like one. Too soft for a soldier, but too stubborn for a doll that can be used.
And worst of all—he saw how normal it all was. How no one else seemed to flinch. How the omegas themselves often just accepted it, a tired resignation in their eyes. Like the world had decided this quiet erosion of dignity was simply the cost of being born omega.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, sour and burning. They didn’t just want omegas to be quiet; they wanted them to be hollow. And a male omega who could cook, who could fight, and who had a mind of his own? In their world, that was a glitch in the system. And the system was designed to crush glitches.
And the anger that followed was no longer just a spark. It was a furnace.
Hot. Restless. Unforgiving.
If the world thought omegas were meant to bow, then Sanji would stand until his legs broke.
If they thought being omega meant being owned, then he’d fight until he was the last thing standing.
If they thought his kindness was weakness, he’d show them how fiercely a gentle heart could burn.
Every condescending glare became a personal challenge. Every patronizing comment felt like a spark tossed onto dry tinder. Every alpha who smirked, or loomed, or assumed his compliance felt like another brick in a wall he was damned determined to tear down. He was so, so tired of swallowing it. Of being told to be patient, to be understanding, to be good.
He didn’t want to be quiet anymore. He didn’t want to be patient.He refused to be "good" if being good meant making himself small and palatable for those who saw him as less.
The anger built, a silent storm beneath his skin.
Day by day.
Bruise by bruise.
Look by look.
Zeff had spent his life among the roughest Alphas the four blues had to offer. He knew the difference between a scuffle and a war.
But watching Sanji lately? It felt like watching a boy trying to fight the oceans itself.
It had started with a single, dark smudge on a cheekbone. Then a split knuckle. But by the second week, the injuries were increasing at an alarming, sickening rate. It wasn't just "rough play" anymore.”, it looked like Sanji was walking into a meat grinder every day after school.
Zeff stood at the kitchen window, his eyes fixed on the clock. It was 8:00 PM. Sanji was late again.
When the back door finally groaned open, the sound made Zeff’s stomach twist into a knot of cold lead. Sanji limped in, his breathing shallow and hitched. His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, stained with a mixture of dirt and a red that was far too bright.
Zeff didn’t say a word at first. He just looked at the poor state of his son.
Sanji’s eye was swollen nearly shut, a deep, angry purple. There were finger-shaped bruises ringing his throat, and his hands—his beautiful, talented hands—were raw, the skin scrubbed away by pavement and bone.
What the hell? Zeff’s mind roared. This isn't a one-on-one. This is a pack. What ? Is He fighting a goddamn gang?
The alarm in Zeff's chest was rising, a frantic, thumping rhythm. He’d seen Sanji stubborn before, but this was different. This was self-destruction. Sanji wasn't just defending himself; he was throwing himself into the center of the storm, daring the world to break him.
“Sanji,” Zeff said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that masked the sheer terror vibrating in his bones.
Sanji didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch. He just kept limping toward the stairs, his scent—once a warm, inviting citrus—now smelling like copper, cold sweat, and a desperate, jagged defiance.
“Kid, look at me,” Zeff commanded.
Sanji paused, his back to Zeff. His shoulders were shaking, from the effort of holding himself upright.
“I’m fine, Old Man,” Sanji rasped. His voice sounded like he’d been screaming. “Just… a rough day.”
“A rough day?” Zeff’s voice rose, the Alpha in him snapping at the leash. “You look like you were dragged behind an alley and been beaten up ! There are marks on you that didn’t come from one person. Who are they? Tell me their names before I lose what’s left of my goddamn mind!”
Sanji finally turned. The sight of his face—the blood, the swelling, the absolute emptinessin his eyes—hit Zeff harder than any kick ever had.
“They’re just Alphas, Zeff,” Sanji whispered, a ghost of a bitter smile touching his split lip. “Just doing what Alphas do to things they think are broken.”
He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the stairs, then he heard a door clicking shut with a finality that left Zeff standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands trembling with a helpless, murderous rage.
It was a rising tide. Every night, Sanji came home with one more bruise, one more cut, one more piece of his spirit carved away. And Zeff knew, with a soul-crushing certainty, that if he didn't intervene, Sanji wasn't going to stop until there was nothing left of the boy but a pile of broken bones and a scent that had gone completely dark.
Zeff looked down at his own scarred, calloused hands, the hands of a man who had fought and bled to build a sanctuary on the sea. He had taught the boy how to season a pan. He had taught him how to respect the ingredients. He had drilled it into Sanji’s head since he was a scrawny, starving brat: A cook’s hands are his life. His treasure. They are for feeding people, not for breaking bones. That was why Sanji fought with his legs. It was a sacred rule.
But tonight, Zeff had seen the raw, shredded skin on Sanji’s knuckles. He had seen the way the boy’s fingers trembled, swollen and bruised from landing desperate, frantic punches.
Sanji was so far gone, so drowned in his own rage and the world’s cruelty, that he was forgetting the first thing Zeff had ever given him: his pride as a chef. To see his son—the boy who lived to create—using those talented hands as blunt instruments of war… it felt like watching Sanji tear out his own heart just to throw it at his enemies.
‘I’m failing him,’ Zeff thought, the realization sharper and more jagged than any chef’s knife.
The boy was drowning right in front of him, submerged in a sea of "freak" labels and Alpha aggression, and he was fighting so hard that he was slipping beneath the surface. Worst of all, he was kicking away the only hand reached out to save him. He wouldn't let Zeff touch the water.
I taught him how to kick so he’d never have to rely on anyone, Zeff realized bitterly. And now he’s using that strength to keep me out.
Zeff’s chest ached with a heavy, suffocating pressure. He had raised a warrior, yes, but he had failed to teach him how to carry the weight of being different in a world that wanted him to crawl. He had taught him to survive, but he hadn't taught him how to be.
He stood in the silence of the kitchen, the scent of old grease and cold steel mocking him.
If he won't let me save him as his father, Zeff thought, his eyes hardening into a terrifying, golden resolve, then he’ll just have to deal with the Red-Legged Alpha.
Sanji was reaching for a high shelf, his white chef’s coat riding up just enough to reveal a dark bloom of purple and mottled yellow creeping up his ribs. It wasn't a normal bruise; it was a footprint of an Alpha’s heavy boot.
Zeff’s breath hitched. A cold, ancient protective instinct flared in his chest, making his own scent turn heavy and suffocating.
“Eggplant ,” he said, his voice a low vibration. “What happened?”
Sanji didn’t even look at him. He adjusted the plates with a clatter. “Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing. That’s a rib-cracker.”
Sanji tugged his shirt down, his jaw so tight Zeff heard the bone click. “I said it’s nothing.”
Zeff stepped into Sanji’s space, not to dominate, but to ground him. “You’re coming home hurt, Little Eggplant. Every damn night for a while now, and I don’t like it.”
“So?” Sanji snapped, finally whipping around. His blue eyes were bloodshot, shimmering with a terrifying mix of exhaustion and hatred. “What, now I’m not allowed to defend myself either? You want me to just roll over like the rest of them? To be the ‘good little freak’ everyone expects?”
“That’s not what I said,” Zeff growled, his heart aching at the sheer amount of pain radiating off the boy. “Don’t twist my words into their insults.”
Sanji scoffed, turning away so fast his coat snapped. “Then drop it. I’m fine.”
He grabbed a glass of water, drank it so fast he choked, and retreated toward his room.
He walked like a soldier retreating to a bunker, leaving Zeff standing in a kitchen that suddenly felt far too cold.
The answer—the ugly, visceral truth—came the next day. Zoro cornered Zeff near the back deck. The swordsman looked worse for wear himself, his green hair mussed and his expression grim. He didn't meet Zeff’s eyes; he just stared out at the dark, churning sea.
“He’s been fighting,” Zoro said, the words falling like stones.
Zeff went very still. The air around him seemed to solidify. “…Fighting?”
Zoro nodded. “After school. Every time some Alpha says the word ‘freak’ or looks at him sideways. He doesn’t wait for them to start it anymore. He’s taking them all on.” Zoro’s jaw tightened. “Alphas. Mostly. Sometimes three or four at a time.”
Zeff’s vision darkened. The thought of Sanji, alone against a pack of Alphas who viewed him as a biological mistake, made his blood roar.
“Why didn’t you stop it?” Zeff demanded, his voice cracking like a whip.
Zoro bristled, his own Alpha scent spiking in defense. “I tried! He doesn’t listen! He snaps at me worse than anyone. He told me if I stepped in, he’d never speak to me again.” Zoro’s voice dropped, rough and pained. “He’s looking for it, Chef. He’s looking for a reason to bleed, just so he can prove he can take it.”
That hurt more than the bruises.
Zeff dragged a heavy hand down his face, feeling every year of his age. “I knew something like this was happening but I never thought it this bad.”
Zoro’s shoulders slumped. “He’s proud. He said he could handle it. Said he didn’t want you ‘hovering’ over the freak son you got stuck with.”
Zeff let out a slow, dangerous breath.
Of course. Sanji wasn't just fighting Alphas; he was fighting the idea that he was a disappointment. He was fighting the world because anger was a better shield than tears. He was proving he wasn't weak—even if he had to break every bone in his body to do it.
Zeff stared at the doorway leading to the pantry, where he knew Sanji was likely curled up in a nest that no longer felt safe, trying to breathe through cracked ribs.
This couldn’t continue.
If Sanji wouldn’t stop throwing himself into the gears of a cruel world—then Zeff would stand in the way and jam the machine himself.
And this time, he wasn’t asking for permission.
The morning had started with a shouting match that made the Baratie’s windows rattle. Zeff had cornered him before the first prep shift, his shadow looming large and suffocating over the cutting board. "I'm done with this crap, Sanji! Enough!" Zeff had roared, his scent like a physical weight in the small room. "You’re grounded. You go to school, and you come straight back to this restaurant. No detours or even think of prowling the docks looking for trouble. If I see one more fresh bruise on that face, you’re out of this kitchen for a month. You hear me? I will forbid you from touching any knives, or pans, no cooking. You’ll be a busboy until you learn to act like you have a goddamn brain in that thick head of yours!”
The threat had hit Sanji like a physical blow. No cooking. It was the only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that made him feel like a person instead of a "freak."
"You can't do that!" Sanji had hissed, his eyes burning with a humiliated fury.
"Watch me," Zeff replied, his voice dropping to a low, iron-hard chill. "I won't let you destroy your hands and your soul just to prove a point to a bunch of low-life Alphas. School, then home. Or else."
Sanji had stormed out, the anger simmering in his gut until it felt like swallowed glass. How dare he? How dare Zeff treat him like a child who didn't understand the stakes? Zeff didn't have to hear the whispers. Zeff didn't have people looking at him like a malfunctioning machine or worse like a something they can fuck as they pleased.
By the time Sanji reached the docks that afternoon, his patience was already gone.
The sea air was sharp, the sun low, shadows stretching long and crooked between warehouses and rusted railings. He should’ve gone straight home. He knew the cost. But every step toward the Baratie felt like a march toward a cage.
The world didn’t stop picking fights with him just because Zeff issued an ultimatum.
He passed a group of Alphas lounging near the water, their scents aggressive and stale. One of them muttered something—omega—and the word was followed by a laugh that sounded like a serrated edge.
Sanji didn’t look away. He didn’t tuck his chin. He squared his shoulders and kept walking, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
‘I’m not weak,’ he told himself, the mantra repeating like a prayer. ‘I’m not weak. And I am done lowering my head for anyone.’
That was the problem. The anger had stopped being just a reaction. It had become armor—thick, heavy, and impossible to take off.
He heard the footsteps before he saw them—too many, too coordinated. The sound of boots on wood, the rustle of leather. When a hand caught his wrist and yanked him back, something in Sanji snapped clean through. The "Or Else" from Zeff vanished, replaced by a white-hot need to strike.
“Hey,” one of them said, grinning. He was older, his scent heavy with a dominant, oily musk. “You dropped your attitude, sweetheart.”
Sanji twisted out of the grip, his skin crawling, and shoved the man hard. “Back off before I break your teeth.”
They laughed. It was a cold, communal sound.“See?” another said, stepping out of the shadows. “Told you he was feisty. The male ones always think they’re something special.”
The word feisty landed like acid on Sanji’s skin. He was a chef. He was a warrior. He was not a "feisty" pet.
Sanji struck first.
His heel drove into ribs with a sickening thud. His elbow clipped a jaw. Years in the kitchen had made him fast, precise—he moved on instinct, fury sharpening every motion. For a fleeting second, it felt good. It felt like taking back the dignity the world tried to strip from him every morning.
Then more hands grabbed him.
A blow caught his shoulder, sending a jar of pain down his arm. Another grazed his cheek, reopening the split lip from the day before. The circle tightened, the laughter turning meaner, heavier with a predatory intent that made his Omega instincts scream to run.
Too many, a small, rational voice warned.
Sanji ignored it. He fought harder. He used his knees, his feet, and finally—ignoring Zeff’s voice in his head—he balled his hands into fists and swung. He would rather be broken than be silent. He would rather bleed than admit they were right.
And that was when the night split open with the sound of drawing steel and a roar that vibrated in the wood of the docks.
“MOVE.”
Zoro’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade, cold and absolute.
Zoro had a bad feeling long before he saw the blood. It had been a slow, agonizing rot. For weeks, Zoro had watched Sanji systematically push everyone away. It started with the snarling, Sanji snapping at Luffy, ignoring Nami, and treating every offer of a walk home like a slap in the face.
Even with Nami, his "sweet Nami," he’d been cold. “I’m not a weak Omega, I don’t need a damn babysitter!” he’d barked, his scent so sharp with insecurity it practically stung Zoro’s nose.
Sanji had stopped eating with them. He stopped laughing. He had retreated into a shell of jagged glass, looking at his friends as if they were just more Alphas waiting for him to fail.
That stubborn, prideful idiot, Zoro thought, his heart heavy. And Zoro had enough of it, he will talk or beat the attitude of him but he will no longer have to stand for watching only anymore.
He had followed the scent toward the docks without thinking, his boots hitting the wood harder than necessary. The sun was already sinking, bleeding orange across the water, and the shadows were stretching long and crooked between the rusted warehouses. It was too quiet. Too many blind spots for a boy who refused to be guarded.
Then he saw him.
Sanji was backed against a railing, his silhouette small against the vast, darkening sea. His shoulders were squared, but he was trembling. Four Alphas they looked older, heavier, smelling of stale smoke and malice—were circling him with the lazy confidence of predators who knew the math was in their favor.
Zoro’s vision tunneled.
Sanji struck first. He was fast, a blur of motion, but Zoro’s stomach dropped. He’s using his hands. Sanji was throwing desperate, wild punches, his knuckles already split and bleeding. He was breaking his own rules because he was too tired to keep his balance for a kick.
Too many, Zoro’s instincts screamed. You can’t win this alone Cook.
A hand caught Sanji’s wrist, yanking him off balance. Another fist swung, connecting with Sanji’s ribs.
How dare they touch his cook !
That was it. The limit had been reached.
“MOVE.”
Zoro didn’t remember deciding to draw his blades. One second he was at the edge of the dock, the next he was a wall of steel between Sanji and the gang. He planted his feet, his scent flaring—a cold, grounding moss and steel—meant to mask Sanji’s scent of pure terror.
Sanji gasped, eyes wide and panicked “What the hell are you doing here?”
Zoro didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. “Making sure you don’t die you stupid stubborn.”
The cook snarled at him because when he never. “ I can handle my fight Marimo ! “
Zoro roared back. “ WELL, THATS DOSNT MEAN YOU SHOULD.”
The gang hesitated, shifting their weight. They saw the three swords. They saw the look in Zoro’s eyes, the look of a man who was willing to carve a path through hell and back for this Omega.
For a second, the docks were silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the tide against the wood. Then, the lead Alpha—a man with a jagged scar across his throat and a scent like rotting wood—spat on the ground. He didn't look intimidated; he looked amused.
"Look at this," the man sneered, gesturing with a heavy lead pipe toward Sanji, who was gasping for air behind Zoro. "A protector. How noble."
He stepped forward, his eyes traveling over Zoro’s swords before landing back on Sanji with a sickening, possessive glint.
"Listen, little Alpha," the Alpha drawled, a dark grin spreading across his face. "You don't have to get hurt. If you’re so hungry for a piece, just wait your turn. Once we’re done breaking this feisty little freak in, we'll let you have a go. We’re generous like that."
The air on the docks didn't just turn cold; it died.
Sanji flinched as if he’d been struck, a small, broken sound escaping his throat.
Zoro saw red.
The world narrowed down to a single point of absolute, murderous fury. It wasn't just the insult; it was the casual, effortless way they talked about Sanji—the boy who agonized over every ingredient, the boy who dreamed of the All Blue, the boy who was more human than all of them combined—as if he were a communal toy.
"You..." Zoro’s voice was a low, guttural vibration that didn't sound human.
His scent exploded. It wasn't just moss and steel anymore; it was the smell of an incoming storm, of ozone and ancient, sharpened iron. It was a scent that demanded blood.
"You don't get to say his name," Zoro hissed, his grip tightening on his hilt until his knuckles turned white. "And you sure as hell don't get to look at him like that.”
"Oh? And what are you—"
Zoro didn't let him finish.
He moved like a lightning strike. He wasn't just fighting to defend anymore; he was fighting to erase them. He was a whirlwind of steel and rage, his blades singing through the air. Every strike was fueled by the image of Sanji’s trembling hands and the filth coming out of that man's mouth.
How dare they. The thought hammered in Zoro's brain with every heartbeat. How dare they think they can touch him. How dare they think he belongs to anyone but himself.
He was so blinded by that protective fury, so focused on making them pay for every word, that he didn't see the second Alpha circling around with the serrated pipe. He was too busy being a shield to realize he had left himself an opening.
CRACK.
The world shattered into a million white fragments.
Zoro dropped to one knee, the impact jarring through his entire frame. His swords clattered against the wood—a sound like a funeral bell. He instinctively grabbed his face, hot, thick blood immediately soaking through his fingers and dripping onto the weathered planks of the dock.
Damn it. My eye.
But then, he heard it.
“Zoro—ZORO!”
Sanji’s scream was a sound of pure, shattered agony. It was a raw, jagged noise that ripped through the air, sounding worse than the pipe’s impact, worse than the warm blood pouring down Zoro's throat. And then, the scent hit him.
Sanji’s distress scent.
Up until now, Sanji’s smell had been sharp and angry, a defensive wall of burnt citrus. But now, that wall had collapsed. In its place was the smell of crushed lilies and freezing salt water. It was the scent of an Omega who was utterly, completely terrified—not for himself, but for his protector. It smelled like a dying fire in a cold room.
It was the most heartbreaking thing Zoro had ever smelled.
Stop it, Zoro thought, his teeth gritted against the white-hot agony in his skull. Don't smell like that. You're supposed to be loud. You're supposed to be shouting at me... not dying inside. Even through the blinding pain, Zoro’s instinct flared. He didn't want Sanji to feel this. He didn't want Sanji to carry the weight of this blood. He tried to force his own Alpha scent to stabilize, to push out a calming, steadying smell of moss and stone, but his body was failing him.
He felt Sanji’s hands on him. They weren't fighting hands anymore. They were trembling, soft, and desperate.
"Don't..." Zoro rasped, his voice bubbling with blood. He leaned his forehead against Sanji’s shoulder, his remaining eye squinting shut. "Don't... cry, Cook. Your scent... it's too sad. Can't stand it."
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Sanji sobbed, his voice breaking into a thousand pieces. The scent of his distress spiked in, sharp and bitter like lemons and grief, soaking into Zoro’s clothes until it was all Zoro could breathe.
‘I failed,’Zoro thought hazily as his strength ebbed away. ‘I was supposed to be the shield... but all I did was make him more afraid.’ He tried to reach out, to touch Sanji's arm with a bloody hand to tell him it was okay, but his fingers only brushed the fabric of Sanji’s jacket before they went limp.
"Hey," Zoro muttered, his voice a ghost of a rasp. "’MStill... standing."
The world dimmed. The last thing Zoro felt was Sanji’s hands gripping his jacket—tight, desperate, and finally, finally reaching out. ‘I’d do it again,’ Zoro thought as the darkness claimed him. I'd do it a thousand times, just to take that smell of fear away from you.