Title: Diner
by magique
: One Piece
Pairing(s): Gin/Sanji
Genre/Rating: Romance, General/M
Word Count: 867
Summary: Sanji does naughty things with his feet under tables in crummy diners. AU. Established relationship.
Warnings: Smutty fluff. Adult themes, coarse language, and, I guess, foot (which, yes, is a sexual situation).
Notes: Set in a modern alternate universe in which Sanji is a model and Gin a hitman. (Comes from an unposted Ginji fic I'm currently working on.)
This is for a challenge that I gave myself using a song as inspiration. The song was Diner by Martin Sexton.
Feedback welcome!

The diner is small and damp and smells faintly of dead rats. Its décor is cheap and far too bright, and the booth they're sitting in is cracked and so full of holes stuffing is falling out and gathering on the floor. There is a mound of dust in the corner and he is sure he can count at least five cockroaches in it.

But Sanji is across from him, leaning back and smiling and blowing smoke rings towards the greying ceiling, and he's happy. Honest to God happy that he's here and doing this. Because, no matter how he looks at it, Sanji's with him and he's going home.

He's so completely glad Sanji put his foot down and demanded that this happen because it is so rare to get time alone together what with Sanji's array of absolutely mental friends and journalists and the confusion with that whole meant-to-be-killing-you-not-fucking-you thing. And it feels wonderful to just sit here and not have to worry about any of that.

He's only just beginning to realise how much he missed his hometown. It was the worst eighteen years of his life, but that place somehow remains … significant, symbolic, something. It is so completely – necessary. If his youth hadn't been so traumatic, he'd still be stuck there now.

He isn't particularly sentimental, not usually, but that's begun to change of late and maybe it's Sanji. Sanji always seems to bring out the best and the worst in him. With the way his lips curve into that delicious smirk around his cigarette or how it always feels like he's flirting with every single woman in his presence. Sanji has dredged out and introduced him to aspects of himself he didn't even know existed. Maybe it's a good thing and maybe it isn't.

The way Sanji is eying the waitress now as she places their (stone cold) meals on the plastic tabletop makes him think that, no; no, it really isn't. Because he never used to care enough for something like that to affect him and the niggling anger and hurt that mesh into hot jealousy in his chest still isn't something he's used to.

But then Sanji looks at him and laughs and two long legs curl around his underneath the table and he knows Sanji's seen right through him again. And a suddenly shoeless foot has snuck up his calf and begun rubbing circles along his inner-thigh.

He can't bring himself to mind so much that Sanji can trick him so easily and for fun since, really, he's starting to realise that having someone who just gets him is worth it. Sanji is worth every hour, minute, second of it. And he's sure that, now he's had a taste, he couldn't go back to how things were. He would miss those smiles and the sex and the smell of cigarettes. Hell, he'd probably even miss the swearing and the snide remarks Sanji is so given to making.

Sanji's face is one of sneaky innocence and, ohJesus, it should be illegal for someone so pretty to be such a tease. He can feel warmth beginning to pool in his groin and coherent thoughts are beginning to be entirely replaced by words like need and fuck and nownownow. He will never understand how Sanji can seem so relaxed when he's giving someone foot under the table.

God, that sounds strange but he can't think what else to call it and that thought has disappeared as quickly as it arrived anyway because Sanji's toes are curling and uncurling against the tip of his cock and that's another thing he doesn't understand.

They're in a grungy little diner with food that's probably three years past its used-by-date and it's just a foot, but Sanji's making this sexy.

He can't help an almost inaudible groan when he reaches the edge and crashes over it and Sanji's foot has retreated and his expression is wicked and self-satisfied even though half of it's hidden behind blonde hair. He stands and mutters something, anything, an excuse and can hear Sanji snickering as he escapes to the toilets.

There's a sticky, uncomfortable patch in the front of his trousers, but there's nothing he can do about it and at least it's not visible. He scowls into the mirror and it's thanks to Sanji that he's in this situation so he promises to get revenge for it later.

His face is warm and his ears are pink but he can't help noticing the bags under his eyes are barely visible and he's looking healthier than he has in – well, ever. And that's thanks to Sanji too.

Which probably makes vengeance little uncharitable, considering.

So he leans forward and splashes his face with cold water, letting the droplets leak into the neckline of his T-shirt and stares into the mirror some more.

Then he smiles. Because it doesn't matter how many times Sanji does something stupid or rude or utterly infuriating because Sanji just did something forbidden and incredibly hot to him under the table in a diner in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Because Sanji's here and now and he makes Gin unspeakably happy. And that's what matters.