You slip into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind you. He doesn't stir at the noise, and when your eyes adjust to the dim, you shuck your bloodied shirt, your belt, your shoes and trousers, and climb in the bed beside him. He's spread like a starfish and it takes you a few grunts and curses to get settled comfortably. Your mind refuses to settle, however, and the puckered scar feels smooth beneath your fingertips that stroke by habit, as you calculate calories and body types and write grocery lists in your head. You'll reach port tomorrow and you needed to restock. You add laundry soap to the list and suck in a sharp breath, the glimpse of Nami's breast, when you'd gone to wake her for watch, splashing vividly across your closed eyelids.
You manage to stop the second nosebleed before the sheets are stained like your shirt. His snore doesn't change when you press your hardened cock against his thigh. Your hand returns to his bare chest and drifts downward, tracing the scar to his hipbone. You continue deliberately down further and fondle him through his pants. His breathing never changes. He never shifts, sleeping like the dead. You're not a threat in a way that matters and he remains assuredly asleep as you tug at his waistband.
Top sheet pushed to the bottom of the bed, you toss his pants to the floor and hang over the bed to find the bottle of oil he'd spent sake money on in a strangely sweet gift. It smells like clove and feels cool on your heated cock. You grasp yourself firmly, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the ridges of your palm. You spread the oil liberally and wipe the excess on the boxers shoved down your thighs, making the cupids wrinkle and cling together. His feet stink, but they rise high enough behind your head when you lean forward that you don't care. Grasping the base of your cock, you push into his body, sliding in with hardly any resistance.
You bite your tongue, the first rush of pleasure threatening to make you come already. When it recedes, you fix his ankles on your shoulders, pop the snot bubble coming from his nose, and settle your weight on your hands on either side of his mossy-green head. The sheets crinkle beneath your knees when you shift. You torture yourself with a slow slide out and in. Heat encases you like a glove and you exhale noisily.
You fuck him. Your hips begin moving faster by their own volition. The stroke-slap-grunt sets the rhythm. The creak of the ship and the waves lashing the hull are familiar in the background. Cocooned in the cabin, you imagine the glint of his eyes as they open, awakened from your molestation. You don't falter and he surges up, contorting his body in a way that reminds you swordsmen need to be fluid as well as strong, and he kisses you roughly, hungrily. His big hands paw at your shoulders, then at your hips, pulling you into him harder and harder until your teeth rattle and you're gasping for air.
When you open your eyes, the fantasy vanishes and you see he's still asleep. It's the trust he's unconsciously giving you that makes you come. You shudder violently, pumping into him, until the last drop is wrung from your body. You collapse ungraciously onto his chest and your thought for his discomfort at being bent in two is fleeting. His snore in your ear answers your question anyway and your lips quirk in a smile.
You shift your lower body and the sensitivity of your cock borders on pain. You're horny again instantly; with Zoro as a lover, pain became an aphrodisiac. You circle your hips and nuzzle his neck. His skin is salty where you lick. The edge gone, you begin a slow, lazy fuck. You enjoy the feel of him surrounding your cock. His body is solid beneath yours, pinned by your lithe form, and the power of your position makes you light-headed. You sometimes don't believe that he'd give himself to you like this, even when awake. But he willingly surrenders again and again, exposing his wants with the placement of your fingers, the hoarse way he says your name, the curl of his toes when you kiss the curses from his lips.
Your heart trips stupidly for no reason and you thrust with a little more purpose. You picture Nami's breast again, peeking from her nightgown, the nipple a darker coral against her tanned skin. Arousal spikes along your spine. The big, stupid oaf hasn't stripped you of your love of the ladies. You liked their smell and their sweetness, the bounce of their breasts and the wetness between their thighs. You don't actually accept invitations to their beds anymore. It's a loyalty inspired by the desire in Zoro's hooded eyes, a look he saves only for you.
"Dumbass, marimo," you whisper as you come.
His earrings tinkle when you finally move off him. You use your boxers as a rag to wipe up and toss them to the floor. Pulling the top sheet from the bottom of the bed, you settle it over you both, a soft caress of cotton on your bare skin. You roll onto your side, your back to him, and close your eyes. He snorts when you're drifting on the edge of sleep, flops an arm around you, and knees you in the back of the thigh. You hear a messy fart, know you'll wake up with drool wetting the back of your neck, but wouldn't trade him even for Nami.
It must be love.