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The Straw Hats had asked Sanji if he'd wanted the day off cooking duties for his birthday, citing relaxation and routine in their reasoning that he should accept their offer, but he'd insisted that more than anything, if he wanted to ensure his celebration was well-catered, then he was going to be involved in the cooking.
Docked at a rich trading city, and some sea life long-saved in the Sunny's salt-water storage, the options for ingredients had been beyond imagining. With muscles, haddock, shrimp and tuna from across the four Blues, the sentiment of an "All Blue Dinner" had Sanji giddy for hours in its preparation. The loud games and gossip of his dearest friends didn't hurt either, as they circled in and out of the kitchen during a long, lovely day of leisure.
With desserts of caramel cakes, dark chocolate and fresh cherries in hand, the crew eventually spilled out onto the deck following Brook's musical performance as if he were the pied piper himself, and soon the docks were filled with curious admirers and hopeful musicians.
The mood of the celebration evolved, with feats of strength, complex riddles and other local customs taking some of the pressure off of Sanji's birthday — to his fluctuant relief. While Sanji didn't shy from being the center of attention, he also enjoyed being able to shout Nami's praises when she won several thousand berries in a contest of coordination.
But for all of Sanji's smug delight for how the lively gathering had begun as a celebration of his birthday, the highlight of his night happened in the quiet seclusion of the Sunny.
Music and merriment echoed softly through the thick wood of the ship, but Sanji could only focus upon the gentle whisper of running water — a siren's song, if he ever heard one; its steady tone beckoning him from where the washroom's door sat ajar.
Sanji glanced over his shoulder in a moment of blissful anticipation, confirming his seclusion — their seclusion.
He was enough of a gentleman that he was aware of the responsibility of protecting his lover's body from an uninvited audience, but they had shared so much together ... This opportunity strictly defined where his manners failed, and where his now-well-known fantasy of washing and voyeurism rendered him helpless.
Even dear Nico Robin had, unprompted, made passing reassurances one morning of how much historical art was devoted to depictions of nereids, selkies, angels and gods preparing for their baths.
Sanji slowly leaned upon the door-frame, and deeply felt that artistic appreciation. If he were a painter, and not a cook, surely he would have to fight the awed compulsion to detail the sumptuous allure of his lover's glorious, glistening body into an insufficient masterpiece the way any penitent would.
Rivulets cascaded across Tamara's warm, brown skin, and Sanji couldn't help the mad, indulgent fantasy, that if he was a single droplet caressing her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, that he would seek the longest, slowest path; only truly living during the scant time he clung to her, only truly knowing love and beauty through the dips and curves of his goddess.
He bumped against the door and leaned back around the wall as its hinges yelped in a short, sharp creak.
Tamara would forgive him, for all he had seen her before and by now she knew who he was — but for a heartbeat, heart hammering in his chest, Sanji also thrilled even at the prospect that she may slam the door; her modesty demanding respect.
He thought of the first time he'd kissed Tamara in the kitchen on the Sunny, which had not been the first time he'd kissed her at all, but was certainly the most obvious locale for where they might've been happened upon by their friends. Even for how innocent it was, she'd flustered and shied at the prospect of judgment...
But the seconds ticked on, and no wet approach of footsteps signalled an end to Sanji's unconventional yearning.
Slowly, so slowly, Sanji tilted himself to once again peek past the door-frame, breathing in the humidity of the water, and the intoxicating perfume of the sudsy froth that Tamara was working between her fingers.
Her hands were softer than they'd been at the start of their trysts, tolerating now when he would offer to massage restorative cream into the calluses around the edges of her fingers. She'd refused, when they were only friends, though he'd have been happy to do it then — more than happy. Sanji swallowed as she spread the lather across her breasts — so unexpectedly familiar with the exact texture of her fingertips, and the smooth planes of her skin.
Tamara rolled more soap upon her hands, rubbing circles over the comely bulk of her shoulders, down into the pits of her arms where coarse hair tempted Sanji as sincerely as the thatch between her legs.
His friends on the Baratie had been fully divided over the presence of such hair in the bawdy magazines they'd hidden and traded, for shame and curiosity. Sanji, for his part, might have found himself feeling even more attracted if he'd felt any measure of revulsion — if a lover demanded he tolerate something for the sake of their pleasure, then he had tolerated far worse — but there was no revulsion to be found.
Sanji could find his pleasure with Tamara, clean and perfumed, as surely as he would if he were to lick the sweat from her underarms himself.
Tamara's expression was focused and nervous, lost in her own thoughts, and no matter the fashion his spectacle ended, Sanji set himself the goal of finding any and every reassurance to offer her afterward, that no worry should ever find her again.
With a thought spared for Tamara's laugh, and how he had managed to tickle it out of her by slipping a single fingertip into the sweat-slick crease of her arm no less than three times in his memory; Sanji moved a hand to squeeze upon his growing erection. Her breasts bounced and stuttered, her stomach flexed and danced, and the sound of her joy stuck in his head like a favorite song. His senses were always alert, for threats, for opportunities, for ways to tailor his next prepared meal to its recipients — but he did so adore the distraction of all the different sensory delights he found in his lover.
Aloud, Sanji would prefer to find more flowery language to spare Tamara's dignity, but in the privacy of his mind he was rendered to very base thoughts watching Tamara jiggle in the shower as she curved her hands around her arms one at a time while washing them from shoulder to wrist. The soap dripped across and off of her dark nipples as she jostled and Sanji was sure a low groan escaped him. He sighed deeply when she returned to wringing her hands, one over the other, and over again; pawing at himself in his pants in-time with the motions of her careful, loving hands.
Cupping her palms to the the flowing water, Tamara scrubbed what remained of the soap-and-water mixture into her face, pressing her hair back before leaning into the spray, rinsing away the work of her cleaning.
Sanji tilted his head back in time with Tamara, one hand upon her neck as though she was tense beneath the water, inspiring Sanji to gently bite at his bottom lip, restrained only by his desire to indulge as long as possible — but his beloved was so beautiful, and if she would be eased, calmed, comforted, pleased by any manner of innocent or illicit massage then he would die if she denied him the chance to be at her beck and call in place of another.
He could hardly tell any longer if he sought to be discovered, carefully unfastening his pants and dipping his left hand into the hem of his underclothes.
Tamara lathered a rag and Sanji swallowed as she lifted her heavy breasts one at time, carefully washing the underside of her bosom. Ages ago, the vague implication of anything remotely close to this vision would surely have had him erupting in a nosebleed. Even now, Sanji could feel how he had flushed red at the sight. He moved his free hand over his mouth and suppressed an impulsive whine as Tamara leaned forward, long hair swaying, to wash the muscled softness of her stomach and the tops of her thighs.
The rag traced her knees, front and back, and the sturdy shape of her calves, and Sanji let the hand on his face slowly drift to his chin, the side of his index finger passing over his lips, suddenly sensitive with desire, down past the rasp of hair on his chin.
Tamara had shivered and sighed too frequently from the burn of his beard upon her skin for Sanji to have any doubts to her feelings on the fashion of his facial hair; although he did wonder about a trim as he licked his lips and felt his moustache while he rubbed two fingertips in firm circles against his frenulum.
As Tamara massaged more soap into the rag and leaned against a handhold by the shower to start scrubbing at her neck and behind her ears, Sanji almost couldn't believe there hadn't been an unexpected burst of marines or other hazard. He hoped fate was not so cruel that it was only that they were separated, him beyond the wall, that their luck had held out so long.
With a renewed impression of time, Sanji dropped his free hand to his chest and shrugged his pants low on his hips, stroking himself as Tamara balanced carefully, working the rag across the angles of her shoulder-blades that she couldn't otherwise reach, stretching out her chest and the alluring dip of her abs.
"Oh, please," Sanji whispered to himself, moving his free hand from his pounding heart back up over his mouth as Tamara rubbed the rag over the swell of her ass and between the creases of her thighs.
He dreamed of one day, where privacy was a fulfilled privilege and not a sailor's dream, that he could beg her invite to him into her bath — but barely as a lover — where he might wear a tie, an ascot, a scarf, a towel, around his neck for her to cleanse herself with; a front row seat, as it were.
For now his angle was more than sufficient, more than he deserved.
He choked back another sound, tightening his grip across his cheekbones as Tamara balanced herself again, an ankle up on the stool in the shower, her knee out to expose herself as she worked her freshly lathered rag over the pudge of her labia, through the down of her hair, across the creases where her thighs met her pelvis.
Sanji was thrusting against his hand; the sight before him so private, so beautiful, so revealing, and a far more direct presentation of sexuality when it came to what drew him to wanting to watch...
The mixture of awe, and shame, and arousal threatened to turn him to stone. He prayed she would look at him, stop him from cumming in the hallway, maybe stop him from cumming at all: they'd played that game before. Her disappointment, her love, her desire for him too; Sanji wanted to experience her every reaction, but he also wanted this: her complete inattention while he was drowning in his bone-deep infatuation. He wanted her to be isolate and at ease; a beguiling vision of loveliness just for him, and no one else.
Gripping himself to stave off his orgasm, Sanji bit his lips together, feeling his brow twitch as he watched Tamara apply fresh soap to her rag before reaching behind herself to cover cleaning the rest of her behind at a more accessible angle. He nearly lost his footing as she rinsed herself, his fantasies overlapping for a moment as he wished to be the floor she walked upon, her dog, a body for her to cling to—
Sanji carded his hair back as he took a deep, shaken breath, playing with his cockhead, his precum and his foreskin while he watched his lover like a pervert.
She took another minute under the water, letting it flow down her hair and across her back, and Sanji fumbled with his clothing, searching himself until he found tissues — one of many simple items he tried to keep on his person — and moved them to his front breast pocket.
When Tamara took to massaging shampoo into the heavy, red curls that fell past her waist, her body turned away from the flow of water so that her beauty was decorated with droplets — pearls! — of shimmering water — jewellery and nourishment, and Sanji was so desperately thirsty. He groaned at the thought of sucking so much flesh between his lips, drinking fresh water from her body — before clamping his mouth shut while he occupied both his hands with his cock. Giddy arousal, almost manic in purpose, drove him into attempting to finish in time with his spectacle.
He could imagine Tamara's amused incredulity in his mind, that he could find his peak while watching her wash her hair, and he had to keep from moaning again because even if this had been all he'd been able to witness of her routine then it would have satisfied such a long held fantasy and haunted his every thought for at least a year, a decade, a century. To glance upon her naked form was a delight, to watch her in motion — even fully dressed — was the sweetest torture, and to be here? At the edge of her bath? Sanji had to keep himself from knocking the back of his head against the wall as he focused on the sight of beauty, to not be caught in mesmerized-heart-eyes, adoring but unseeing, at the intimate pout of her lips as she blew water off and away from her face while rinsing her hair.
When Tamara flipped her hair over her shoulder with a swish of her neck, Sanji cupped a hand around the head of his cock, preparing to catch his release while his eyes watered from the strain of his pleasure. He wanted this, he wanted this, and he wanted her, and he wanted to live in the cracks of her walls and the cracks in her life ... just to witness...
He still watched her as he gasped for breath, fully in disbelief of his predicament while he gathered his tissues and wiped down his hand. Tamara worked her conditioning oils into her curls with her fingers, and sat upon the stool as Sanji tossed his eyes skyward in a silent prayer of thanks.
He tucked himself into his pants and debated bumping the door and walking away; he hadn't been gone from the masses over-long, but there was always the risk someone was in his kitchen, even if no one would come looking for him.
However, it was still his birthday, so he decided his absence could be as long as was necessary to ... be a gentleman; walking off without any reassurances to Tamara would have felt very uncouth.
Sanji knocked twice upon the door as he stepped through it, not providing Tamara an opportunity to turn him away.
She looked up from where she was washing her feet, the oils still setting in her hair, with the brightest smile that Sanji had seen since — well, since their parting an hour ago.
He returned the smile as he locked the door, and felt again how much he was blushing.
"Come here," Tamara beckoned, when Sanji turned his face away to compose himself.
Sanji wanted to scream her name in praise, in thanks, to race to her and jump and— But that would be contrary to the privacy they had paid for, for this tryst, and so after dropping his tissues in a waste bin at the door, Sanji only followed her order to the letter. Tamara raised her hands as Sanji approached, and he stretched his arms out-of-reach behind himself as he bent at the waist to kiss her.
Her smile widened against his mouth, amused by his posture as she slid her wet fingers down his upper arms. She lifted her hands again to cradle his face when he next moved to kiss her forehead.
"I can't believe I did that," Tamara half whined, her hands falling to her knees.
"Was is what you wanted?" she asked, sweet and insecure. "Did you regret not asking for a "sexy shower" instead of a regular one?"
"Regret?" Sanji echoed, having trouble even finding the definition of the word within himself, so overwhelmed in his reverence. Before he could elaborate on his response, Tamara interrupted him with a light jab to his middle.
"Why are you standing like that?"
Sanji scoffed, his blush deepening again. He'd straightened in surprise at Tamara's prodding, and tilted his head forward when his whole body relaxed.
"I need to wash my hands," he explained, lecherous in a way that complimented Tamara's performance.
"Oh? Well," Tamara said thoughtfully, and lifted the rag she'd been using to wash her feet with her left hand. She extended her right, palm up, to Sanji.
Helpless, Sanji fell to his knees, a loud clack upon the floor.
"Sanji!" Tamara hissed, her concern plain; though she still accepted his hands, slapping the wet rag across them before working the soap across his fingers.
"My lady, my love, my very-sweet-darling-Tamara. You spoil me beyond belief, mademoiselle," Sanji declared with far too much seriousness to ever be taken seriously.
"And you're going to break your kneecaps," Tamara scolded, though Sanji could see how she fought a smile.
"While they aren't your hands," Tamara conceded, knowing how Sanji did care for his hands — cooking and loving were his self-described, highest callings. She raised a pleading gaze to tempt Sanji into listening. "They are your instruments for fighting, and a part of you besides. You shouldn't drop yourself like a sack of potatoes on surfaces that—" Tamara laughed, "—what?"
Sanji lowered one iconically-curly, incredulous brow, which had clearly amused his lover. He squeezed his bare hands, forcefully, upon the fat of Tamara's thighs as he accused, "You would call me careless when you're wielding this beauty of yours as if there could be no consequence? Of course I fall to my knees."
Tamara rolled her eyes fondly, and shoved Sanji away as he continued, "But of course, you're right. I should be more careful. I never listen. I should be punished. I need to be disciplined, until I meet your every standard."
"Go rinse your hands so I can think about getting out of here," Tamara demanded, ignoring the way Sanji sang, though her composure assured him that his taunting had landed somewhere welcome. She muttered as Sanji stepped away, "You know Robin, she's as likely as to keep her promise as she is to let it slip if it feels like it'll be funny."
"We could've asked Nami—"
"And increase your debt by, what, thirty million berries?"
"Worth ten times the price," Sanji claimed happily, rinsing his hands.
"Dramatic," Tamara pretended to complain, but her amusement was still too plain.
Sanji leaned down again when he was finished, caressing Tamara's hair back and breathing in the weight of her hair.
After a minute, Tamara interrupted Sanji's brief silence, "Birthday boy?"
"Mmh?" Sanji murmured happily.
She took an embarrassed breath. "Bumping the door and then leaving two of your fingers around the door-frame so I'd know it was you was a good signal. I'm glad ... I'm glad this worked out, and that you enjoyed it? I think."
Sanji took one more long steadying breath before he leaned away.
"You have no idea, I ..." Sanji paused, pressing Tamara's hair aside so he could rest his hand on the side of her neck and shoulder. He pressed the bridge of his nose to her ear briefly. "I will be very plain about my gratitude very, very soon." He fluffed her hair again as he stood up and away. "But you're right. I should go before I beg you to put me on my knees again."
"I never said I didn't like you on your knees," Tamara teased, and then gasped dramatically when Sanji pretended to start to fall onto them again, as he walked away. "Agh—!"
She pouted, arms crossed, still naked and beautiful, and Sanji wished he could scoop her up and magic them both away, rather than this careful dance of walking away one after another.
"Later," she said instead; referring to when he could return to a kneeling position.
Sanji raised his folded fingers, as if he was praying in an exaggerated display of delight, tilting them next to his cheek as he blew Tamara a kiss. He spun himself out the door only after she blew one back to him.