Zoro couldn’t stop staring at Sanji’s ankles.
Leaning against the stern rail on the main deck, half-napping, half-keeping Luffy from not-so-accidentally tumbling overboard as he fished, Zoro watched beneath his lashes as Sanji twirled and noodled while serving Nami and Robin afternoon drinks and snacks. Nothing unusual. Sanji served them at the same time with the same trying-too-hard ridiculousness on a daily basis while at sea. It had gotten to the pointg where, if it didn’t happen, Zoro would actually become concerned.
But this time, Sanji wasn’t wearing socks.
He had a full suit on – black, with a double breasted coat, blue and black pinstripe shirt, black tie, matching black shoes. But for some reason, he wore no socks. Zoro could see the flashes of pale skin every time Sanji’s hem lifted slightly.
Sanji always wore socks with his suits. Stupid socks, with vibrant colors and patterns that made gift-giving a dare to see who could find the most outrageous pair. And the cook loved them. He wore them with those weird-assed garter things that went around his calves, to keep them up. He’d once asked why, and Sanji had given him an arched look. “Would you enjoy fighting with your katana hilt sagging beneath your palm?” Zoro got the point.
Still, the fact that Sanji wasn’t wearing socks today nagged. It wasn’t as if Sanji didn’t have plenty. They couldn’t all be in the wash, unless Usopp or Franky or Luffy did something destructive in the men’s quarters again. But Zoro hadn’t heard any explosions or screeching, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe one of the garters broke? Though, Sanji had multiples of those too.
Zoro shifted slightly, changing the position of his katanas against his shoulder. Sanji bent forward in a bow with his tray, causing the hems of his trousers to ride up. He had strong ankles, calve muscles clearly visible as they curved inward to meet them, the ankle bones standing out like solid knobs, pulling the flesh tight.
Swallowing the sudden build-up of saliva in his mouth, Zoro passed Luffy duty onto Franky, went into the bathroom, rubbed one off, and wondered why the hell he found any part of Sanji attractive.
It happened again.
Zoro had come in for breakfast, taking his seat with a sleepy yawn. He was immediately surrounded by the scent of coffee and overlapping conversation about what the crew was going to do and what needed to be done that day. Food was already out on the table, everyone helping themselves. Luffy had his own plate and was sleep-eating, a bubble inflating and deflating from his nose. Chopper half-dozed in his whipped cream-topped waffles. Franky, Jinbe, and Nami discussed ship-maintenance, as Robin and Brook spoke about a book. Usopp fiddled with a pair of goggles as he ate.
Zoro reached for the bacon just as Sanji reached his side to put a cup of hot tea beside him. He cast a side-glance at Sanji with a grunt of thanks, and his eye caught the golden whorls of chest hair peeking out from beneath Sanji’s peach-colored shirt. Heat spiked in his lower belly immediately.
Sanji wore a brown suit coat, trousers, buttoned vest, socks – thank fuck – and polished, lighter brown shoes. Standard Sanji wear. No tie, which wasn’t usual. But normally he only unbuttoned two buttons, maybe three at most, of his collar. This peach shirt was unbuttoned down to the vest, exposing that thatch of chest hair.
Zoro had seen Sanji shirtless many times, changing, at the beach, in an onsen, bathing. He knew about the chest hair. It was just enough to cover his pecs and arrow down his chest, but not scraggly or overwhelmingly hirsute. Zoro had spared a second glance in the early days and another after their two-year separation had packed Sanji with muscle, but Zoro hadn’t been attracted by it.
Now, his hand itched to touch. To run his fingers through it, see if it was soft or bristly. To rub his cheek against it as he nestled in.
Zoro swallowed thickly, set the bacon down, and pushed away from the table. “Be right back,” he mumbled, and made his escape up to the bath. One messy orgasm later, he pondered how to get rid of whatever horny infection he’d picked up.
Sanji’s hair was caught on his ear, making a loop. It swayed every time he moved his head. He stood behind the barbecue set up on the shore on an uninhabited island, cooking an afternoon dinner of fish and crabs. The rest of the crew spread out on the rocky point, searching for shells, fancy rocks, or taking in the scenery. Shirtless, katanas leaning nearby, Zoro perched one-handed on a boulder overlooking the cook, doing pushups. He’d lost count, being distracted by Sanji’s loop of hair. Or rather, the ear that was exposed by it.
He’d never noticed before, but Sanji’s left ear had a point near the top. Faery-kissed ears, they’d called them where he grew up. Logically, he knew it was caused by extra cartilage, usually from an ear healing after damage. It didn’t stop him from remembering the stories about faery-lovers and magical orgasms. Young teenage boys at the dojo had talked a lot about sex when they weren’t having any.
Zoro had the urge to go down and press his lips against that faery-kiss. To nuzzle behind that ear, breathe in the scent of smoke and spices and Sanji. He wanted to play with that loop of hair, wind it around his finger. He desired to trail wet kisses down the side of Sanji’s neck, from ear to collar to lower…
Sanji turned swiftly to kick Luffy away from the food, and the loop of hair fell free to hide his ear once more. Zoro jumped upright, kicked off his boots, and plunged into the cold surf to cool his heated flesh. This was getting bad.
Zoro decided the problem was that he needed to get laid. It had been a bit; not since Wano. He wasn’t the most outgoing – actually rather shy when it came to interacting with intent – but luckily he tended to get hit on a lot and that made things easier. All he had to do was let his gaze linger longer than appropriate and either he’d be hit on or challenged to a fight. It was a win either way, for him.
Since Kurigana, though, he’d been pigeonholed into a role because of his size. He’d been reminded of it just last week. Some guy at a portside tavern had leaned against the bar, giving Zoro a once-over like he was a piece of gear to test out.
“You look like you can put someone through a mattress,” the guy had said.
Zoro had taken a slow drink, resisting the urge to correct him. He hadn’t been interested at the time – he was waiting on Usopp and Brook – but even if he were, the assumption was always the same. Big muscles, broad chest, of course he must be a top.
And while he didn’t mind it – he was getting off, after all – it just wasn’t something he enjoyed. He preferred being fucked rather than the other way around. He wasn’t into rough and tumble either; he preferred long and slow, so he could really feel it, savor it. Back when he was pirate hunting, he didn’t have much trouble finding a bedmate like that. Now, he only got picked up by those wanting to ride his cock.
He wondered if Sanji would fuck him. Sanji was so painfully straight Zoro couldn’t imagine him wanting anything near his ass. He likely wouldn’t use his mouth, either. Zoro would be the one stuck getting his holes filled, possibly without reciprocation, and he realized he was more than willing to do that. So much so that it fueled his masturbatory fantasies for weeks as they sailed between ports, until he’d rubbed himself raw.
He really needed to get laid.
Getting laid hadn’t helped.
He’d topped – of course – but usually that would be enough to take the edge off for a while. Instead, he was more wound up than ever. While having sex, he’d kept wondering what sounds Sanji would make, what he’d look like, how he would feel against Zoro’s hands, beneath his lips, in his mouth. He longed to be under Sanji, to be filled again and again until he couldn’t walk. He started wanting to be possessed, owned, claimed – to be able to say this one wants me how I want to be wanted.
It was maddening. Zoro didn’t know what to do about it. He wasn’t a coward, but he also wasn’t forward enough to go up to Mr. Women Make My Nose Bleed and ask if he’d be interested. What would he say? Hey, your ankles made me want you. Wanna fuck? Just the thought of it gave Zoro hives. It was ridiculous that one little thing had knocked him this far off balance.
Secretly, he genuinely liked Sanji. He liked how Sanji fought with him, challenged him, kept him on his toes. He liked how much Sanji cared about everyone and how worried he got if he thought someone might be hungry. He liked how Sanji was unabashedly ridiculous around women, and he stuck to his principles by not harming one, even if Zoro thought it was dumb. Even when Sanji truly pissed him off, he still liked him. Trusted him. Though of him as an equal.
Zoro watched from a distance as Sanji pegged laundry with Franky, chatting and laughing. The way his visible eye crinkled when he smiled. The purse of his lips as he inhaled on a cigarette. How the sun turned his hair gold.
Zoro slipped off when Luffy crashed into the laundry line, to pretend his fingers were Sanji in the bath.
Zoro did what any red-blooded male did when he wanted someone he couldn’t have – drink.
His insanely high alcohol tolerance made it difficult to get drunk, but not impossible. He rarely allowed himself to get that way because he didn't like being out of control – he didn’t need to lose a fight from being sloppy. At most, he’d let himself get a pleasant buzz at a post-victory celebration while hiding from Chopper.
But today, Zoro was drunk. He’d gotten his hands on 190 proof grain spirits by the keg and had passed the line from tipsy to toppling about an hour ago. He had also gotten lost, or rather, the Sunny had changed harbors because all he saw was a stretch of ocean and no ship in sight. He wobbled in the sand, frown furrowing his brow. He wanted to piss, jerk off, and go to bed, in any order – which probably wasn’t right, but he was too out of it to care.
Blowing a puff of air through loose lips, Zoro picked a direction and began walking along the shoreline. Eventually, he’d find the Sunny. Or someone would find him. Maybe someone who’d want to screw him. Though beach sex wasn’t much fun, because the sand scraped.
The world swayed pleasantly around him as he walked. He let his mind drift to his past beach encounter once upon a time – the fumbling, the laughter, all the stupid sand. It had only been his third time having sex, still awkward and inexperienced, still learning what he liked. Both of them drunk on illicitly obtained sake and desperate desire only teens had.
Zoro remembered hazy kisses that tasted like alcohol and fire that licked up his loins. He wished he could go back to then, when things were simple, when boys like him all knew each other and messed around. No pining, no wishing for things better left unsaid. Just freedom and friendship and fun. He missed that uncomplicated feeling.
“Oi, idiot. What are you doing way out here?”
Zoro turned at the smoke-gravelled voice. Of course, Sanji would find him, because that’s how these things went. Zoro got drunk, his interest would find him, and he was supposed to confess. But Zoro only got shyer, unable to speak, as the moonlight highlighted the planes of Sanji’s cheeks.
Sanji walked up, hands in the pockets of his trousers, navy tie askew. Smoke from his cigarette swirled up into the night sky. “C’mon, marimo. Let’s get your lost ass back to the ship.”
Zoro wanted to say that he wasn’t lost. That he could take care of himself. That Sanji looked beautiful tonight. But he just followed docilely, staggering along, thinking about wishes that wouldn’t come true unless he did something about them.
For the next few days, Zoro decided the sensible thing was to avoid Sanji. Or at least try to, but it was hard to dodge someone who fed you, insulted you, and lived within twenty steps of you on a ship this size.
So every inevitable time Sanji walked by, Zoro’s stomach did something stupid. Every time Sanji laughed at something Usopp said, Zoro’s pulse jumped like he’d been caught off guard. Every time Sanji leaned on the rail, Zoro found himself pretending to nap just so he wouldn’t stare outright.
None of it helped. It only made him more wired, more annoyed, more aware that he wasn’t getting over this. Not even close.
“I want to be yours.”
Zoro mumbled it one random cloudy afternoon. He hadn’t meant to say it – not out loud, not yet – but the words were already hanging there between them. He wasn’t drunk. In fact, he was scarily sober, and his heart hammered panickingly in his chest.
They were bickering about nothing important as they cleaned up after lunch. How Zoro scrubbed a dish, why Sanji ironed his boxers, who could milk a sea cow faster. Just their usual stupidity. The familiar back-and-forth loosened Zoro before he noticed, his guard falling with the common chore and clatter. So while they were mid-argument over which Straw Hat could beat Brain Point Chopper – Nami, Zoro insisted, because witches don’t fall for cute – as he handed Sanji a rinsed pot, the words just came out.
He didn’t know why he said it. It’d been months now since he’d first lusted after the cook, weeks since that lust turned into want for something more. He’d kept quiet, like he should. Protecting himself from rejection and awkwardness that was sure to come. Maybe he’d let it go on too long. Maybe it was the comfort he felt doing this mundane task. Maybe it was the way Sanji’s shoulder bumped casually into his as they stood in front of the sink. He didn’t know, and now it was out there for Sanji to hear.
Sanji stilled, hand wrapped around the pot. Zoro’s shoulders crawled up near his ears. He was stupid to say it, stupid to ruin what they had – argumentative and rivalrous as it was – and stupid not to leave the galley immediately. He washed the next pot with fierce attention, sweat breaking out on his brow and under his arms. His stomach twisted into knots.
He expected Sanji to blow him off, or blow up, or do anything but ask, “How?”
Zoro stopped mid-scrub, and made himself answer. “Sexually. Maybe more. I don’t want to fuck you. I want the other way around.”
Sanji stood silently, unmoving, for another long moment before he began drying the pot. “Okay.”
Zoro’s gaze snapped to him. “What?”
“You heard me,” Sanji said, swiping the towel over the metal.
Zoro stared. “But you’re straight.”
“Am I attracted to men? No,” Sanji said. “Am I attracted to you?” His jaw ticked, and he didn’t quite meet Zoro’s eye. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, though usually it’s more in a ‘loser submits’ way. Don’t know if that’s a humiliation thing or interest. Maybe both.”
“So you want to do it. With me.”
Sanji shifted his weight, a flicker of tension running through it. “As long as I’m the one doing, don’t see why not.”
Zoro’s heart hammered in his chest for a different reason now. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sanji proclaimed, loudly and often, how much he loved women, and he agreed to bed Zoro.
Zoro went back to scrubbing the pot, heat climbing at the thought of finally having sex with Sanji. Of getting laid proper, how he wanted. Getting to run his hand through that chest hair, if he was allowed.
He released a shaky breath, anticipation coiling inside. “When?”
“Tonight. After dinner dishes are done.” Sanji said it with the clipped efficiency of someone executing a plan he’d already drafted in his head. “We can lock ourselves in the crow’s nest. I don’t know what all goes into it, but I presume you’ll be prepared.”
Zoro’s breath caught in his chest. “Yeah, I can be.”
“Okay, then. And if it’s terrible, then we’ll just forget about it.”
Zoro nodded, though he hoped it wouldn’t be.
It wasn’t.
Sanji was gorgeous in the low lamplight. Pale skin tinted amber, ridges and planes of muscle highlighted. The window in the crow’s nest was cracked, allowing the sea breeze to drift through the room. Zoro lay on his back on a futon, bent legs spread, wrists pinned near his ears. Feeling every inch of Sanji sliding in and out of him, muscles quivering, body hot.
He’d felt nervous and shy when Sanji had appeared in the crow’s nest, locking the hatch behind him. He’d prepared in the shower, laid out the futon and the lube, put a clean towel nearby. He wore only his long coat tied loosely around his waist.
Sanji shut the hatch with a decisive click. His gaze swept the setup, expression unreadable, taking in every detail. “How do you want this?” he asked, loosening his tie.
“Slow. On my back,” Zoro hesitantly replied.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” Sanji told him.
“I’m okay with that.”
If Sanji was nervous, it didn’t show. He’d told Zoro to strip and lie down, and Zoro obeyed while Sanji began undressing. Zoro had thought he might keep some clothes on, but Sanji’s fingers moved steadily down each button, practiced and precise, not a hint of hesitation in the motions. By the time Sanji shed the last layer and settled between Zoro’s thighs, Zoro was semi-hard and anxious, pulse unsteady. He kept his hands still, waiting – he wouldn’t touch himself unless Sanji said he could. He’d gone from not wanting to be attracted to Sanji to wanting him so badly he might be willing to lose himself.
Sanji slicked his partial erection into full hardness, and Zoro drew back his knees. Something tight and conflicted flickered over Sanji’s face before he muttered, as if trying to convince himself, “I win.” He lined himself up and pressed in.
Zoro’s chin tilted up, eyelid squeezing shut at the stretch and slight burn. Though he’d prepped, it had been well over two years since he’d had sex like this and his body tensed reflexively. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and concentrated on relaxing. Sanji bore steadily in with short strokes until he was seated fully.
He paused, and Zoro could hear his ragged breaths. Zoro cracked open his eye and saw Sanji staring at where they connected. Then he lifted his gaze, dragging it up Zoro’s body, to his face. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said in a rough tone, as if he didn’t believe it. There was a flicker behind his eye – shock, want, something startled and intent all at once.
Zoro nodded his head slightly, and whispered just as roughly, “Please.”
Sanji leaned over Zoro, captured his wrists, pinning his arms by his head. He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t shift his gaze from Zoro’s, as he began pumping his hips. The first pull back and thrust pulled a sound from Zoro’s throat, part twinge, part desperate want. Sanji’s length stretched and filled him in a way he’d longed for. Having Sanji over him, holding him down, moving against him freed Zoro in a way he thought he wouldn't get to experience again. He got to feel the tingles of pleasure that came with being taken this way, the slight nudge against his prostate. He wanted this to last, to drown himself in the sensation of being fucked.
Sanji rocked against him, slow, savoring like Zoro requested. Zoro could feel every tantalizing inch as he slid back and forth. The air around them grew thick with the scent of musk and sex. Waves crashed against the hull of the Sunny, the sound blending in the background with their breaths. Sanji rested his forehead against Zoro’s, still watching, not shying away from acknowledging who he was with. Zoro drowned in his gaze and the feeling of being seen, of still being wanted like this.
Sanji lasted a long time, and when he came, it was with a stutter of his hips, a catch of a gasp, a flushed twist of his face. Zoro drank it in, memorizing it, in case this was the only time he’d get to see it. He could feel the pulse as Sanji spilled inside him, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest.
He was disappointed when Sanji drew up, drew back, drew out. His own arousal sat hard against his lower belly, leaking and aching for touch. He’d been riding the edge for a while, which felt overwhelming in a great way. Sanji glanced at it, then swept his gaze up to Zoro with a frown. “You didn’t enjoy that?”
“Don’t usually come without a hand,” Zoro said, not moving to stroke himself. Not yet. “But I enjoyed that a lot. Wouldn’t mind doing that again. If you wanted.”
Sanji still wore his frown. “Could I get you to come without touching you?”
Zoro huffed in amusement. “Possibly. Takes finding the right angle.”
He saw the tilt in Sanji’s chin, the glint in his eye, as the challenge hit. “Then yes, we’re doing this again. Now get yourself off. You’re making me hurt just looking at you.”
That was all the permission Zoro needed to lower his arm, wrap his hand around himself, and let his orgasm slam through him in a couple strokes. His back arched on the futon, eye scrunched shut, as he spattered over his chest and hand as waves of release crashed over him.
“That was weirdly hot,” he heard Sanji murmur, as he tried to catch his breath. He cracked open his eye again when he felt the towel cover his spent dick and hand.
Sanji got up, stretching slightly, the light flickering over his strong form. Zoro once again thought gorgeous. He cleaned himself up as Sanji pulled on his clothes. He’d have to hit the shower, though a little part of him wanted to let Sanji’s spend linger, a reminder that he’d actually gotten to have this.
He pulled on his long coat as Sanji stepped into his shoes. Sanji lit a cigarette, opened the hatch, and said, “Tomorrow night. Same time.” Then, he disappeared below.
Zoro’s gut tightened already with anticipation.
Sex between them became a regular thing. Zoro started counting how many nights Sanji said “Tomorrow. Same time.” Sanji took up the challenge of getting Zoro to orgasm without a touch with intense dedication that had Zoro writhing and moaning nonstop. It happened a few times, which caused Sanji to crow, and he tried to force Zoro to say he was the Greatest Sexpert Ever. Zoro refused, and they’d tussle with false antagonism until Sanji wanted to go again.
It was fun, and freeing, and fervently enjoyable. Zoro felt relaxed and in a good mood nearly all the time. Sanji liked to still claim victory, getting Zoro on his knees in the galley storeroom. Zoro told him around a mouthful of cock that he didn’t mind just being claimed.
He’d told Sanji that he’d wanted sex, maybe more. Maybe more slowly became the full truth. He found himself in Sanji’s orbit often, just wanting to be near. They still argued, and fought, and annoyed each other, but sometimes they were quiet, sharing space. Sanji still flirted and came onto the ladies, and Zoro realized, if Sanji called it quits for one of them, he’d be hurt.
“Don’t wear socks tomorrow, with your suit,” he said instead of anything else.
Sanji breath was warm against the nape of Zoro’s neck, blanketing his body as he was fucked from behind. Zoro’s hard shaft rubbed against the futon with every thrust. “Do you have a kink I don’t know about?”
“Maybe,” Zoro admitted, as Sanji’s hands closed over his beneath the pillow.
Sanji's puff of a laugh reverberated against Zoro’s back. “Tell me more.”
Zoro didn’t, feeling abruptly shy despite their position, and he muttered something unflattering that caused Sanji to screw down his hips, eliciting a moan from Zoro. “I’ll fuck the truth from you,” he vowed with a grin against Zoro’s bare shoulder.
He didn’t. But he also didn’t wear socks the next day.
“I want to try something,” Sanji told him, one night in the crow’s nest.
They’d switched up positions. Sanji sat on a blanket on the bench, holding Zoro’s hips as Zoro rode him. The window was open behind his head, the night stretched over the ocean until it was hard to tell where the ocean ended and the stars began. Zoro’s hands were threaded through Sanji’s chest hair, petting with absorbed focus, knees digging into the blanket, thighs cording as he moved up and down.
“Like what?” Zoro said. He tended to be game for anything Sanji wanted, nowadays.
“Stop a second,” Sanji said in reply.
Zoro seated himself on Sanji’s lap, enjoying the fullness of having Sanji inside him. His own hardness had been brushing repeatedly against Sanji’s belly, but Sanji hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe he did, and that’s what this was about.
But Sanji lifted a hand from Zoro’s hip and cupped it behind Zoro’s neck. He studied Zoro for a drawn out moment, then blew out a quick breath and tugged Zoro closer as he leaned in. Their lips met, and Zoro’s heart stopped for a beat before taking off like hummingbird wings.
Sanji pulled away, looking contemplative. Zoro licked his lips, chasing the tingle.
“Continue,” Sanji directed with a murmur, leaning back again on the bench. His hand drifted from behind Zoro’s neck to his hip again.
Zoro started to ride Sanji once more, wondering what the kiss meant, not daring to put any weight into it. He was a conquest for Sanji, still an imagined victory. And he was willing to keep it casual that way, no matter what he actually might want.
The first time Sanji touched him, Zoro came immediately. He’d been riding the blissful edge, desperate for an orgasm but he didn’t touch himself unless Sanji indicated he could. His wrists were trapped in Sanji’s hold again, Sanji’s body moving with long, lazy thrusts. Sanji’s stamina was fantastic – something Zoro would never tell him, but Sanji clearly won in that area. Zoro didn’t know if it was Sanji’s modifications or natural ability. Zoro really appreciated it either way.
When Sanji shifted his weight, Zoro didn’t think about it, too wrapped up in the overwhelming sensations. Then Sanji’s hand left his wrist and wrapped around his cock – and Zoro saw stars. He exploded with a wanton cry, head thrown back on the futon. His entire body shook and shuddered as wave after wave of climax racked through him.
Sanji made a punched sound, and his thrusts sped up. Zoro floated back down to earth to the feel of Sanji pulsing inside him.
Lamplight flickered over their bodies, catching on sweat and the rise and fall of their chests. The room fell still around them, save for the distant groan of timbers as the Sunny shifted with the current.
“You… why…” Zoro tried to ask once they’d caught their breaths, mind reeling over what just happened.
“Wanted to try it,” Sanji replied, shifting off Zoro. He made a disgusted face as he looked at his damp hand and then down at his slightly spattered chest. “This is both gross and strangely satisfying. I hate you for this.”
Zoro suppressed a chuckle at Sanji’s perturbed tone. “You don’t have to do it again.”
“I might not.” Sanji grabbed the towel and wiped himself down. “This might be too gay for me.”
Zoro didn’t hold the laugh back this time. “And the rest isn’t?”
Sanji leveled him with a look. “It’s only because it’s you that I’m doing any of this. I wouldn’t let some other guy within a thousand feet of my dick, not even our nakama.”
A slow burn rose along Zoro’s cheeks at Sanji’s words. He turned away like he could hide, and mumbled, “…I like it. When you say it’s me.”
“You’d better.” Sanji tossed the towel at him, though his gaze snagged briefly on Zoro’s stomach, his chest, his face – quick, sharp, almost unsure – before he tore his eyes away as if he’d been caught staring. His jaw worked once. Then he scoffed hard. “I’m going to shower and contemplate my shitty life choices.”
Zoro huffed quietly at the slight and wiped up as Sanji redressed. He wasn’t expecting it when Sanji swooped down and pressed a searing kiss to his lips. “Come find me before you go on watch. I’ll prepare a snack for you.”
Zoro’s heart skipped a beat. “Okay.”
Sanji unlocked the hatch and descended from the crow’s nest. Once Sanji was gone, a happy smile tugged at Zoro’s lips, something he couldn’t fight even if he tried.
A week later, the Sunny docked at a steel-and-neon port town for general ship maintenance and repair.
Zoro stood at the bar, nursing his only beer – stupid witch – while the place roared around him. The sound was a wall: laughter, clattering glasses, someone shouting at the pool table in the back, boots pounding on the metal-grated mezzanine above. The air smelled like hot bodies, old smoke soaked into steel beams, and spilled liquor baking under too-warm lights. If he didn’t keep one shoulder braced to the bar, the tide of people would have pushed him two feet in any direction.
He barely noticed the approach until the guy’s shadow blocked the neon reflection on the counter.
The guy had more tattoos than visible skin, a shit-kicker attitude, and zero class. “Wanna fuck?” he said, leaning an elbow against the counter and crowding into Zoro’s space like he owned it.
Zoro blinked at the bluntness. Once upon a time, he might have said Why not? and got laid. But he had Sanji now. “Not gonna–”
“The green-haired asshole is taken,” he heard, interrupting him from behind. “Piss off.”
Zoro half-turned as Sanji strode up. Hands tucked into his pockets, dressed in a navy suit that made him look infuriatingly good under the industrial lights, cigarette dangling from his lips, Sanji radiated an air of casual menace.
The guy laughed. “Feeling left out, blondie? You’re probably well broken already. We could double up and give you a good reaming. Bet your sweet ass would like that.”
Now that pissed Zoro off. Not just the assumption, but the slight aimed at Sanji. He straightened, eye narrowing. “Don’t insult him like that. I’m his, not the other way around. And neither of us are interested.”
Sanji’s lip curled, and he added, “Come near me and you’ll find out what it’s like to choke on your own nuts.”
The guy put his hands up and backed off, swallowed quickly by the crowd. “I can take a no.”
Sanji took the space he vacated, pressing in close because it was the only way to hear anything in the noise. The bass rattled the bottles behind the bar; someone shoved past them hard enough that Zoro’s beer sloshed.
Sanji’s brow creased in annoyance. “You get hit on by shit like that often?”
Zoro shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s usually the smaller guys nowadays, though, who want me to fuck them.”
Sanji shifted the cigarette between his lips, eyes dragging over Zoro’s face. “That what you want?”
“I’m not interested in sleeping around,” Zoro said, frowning.
“Not what I meant.” Sanji leaned in, breath warm against Zoro’s cheek as he exhaled smoke. The music and noise from the crowd around them kept the conversation private. “Do you want to be the one who fucks me?”
The question surprised Zoro. Especially after the conversation a few weeks back. Sanji had only touched Zoro’s cock twice since and still seemed on the fence about doing it. “Honestly, no. I prefer bottoming.”
Sanji studied him again, thoughtfully. “So you’re okay with never fucking me.”
Zoro’s lips quirked. “Very okay.”
“I’m never going to blow you,” Sanji stated. “That bother you, either?”
“Nope.”
“And if I decide I don’t really want to touch your dick anymore?”
Zoro held his gaze steadily despite the flashing lights and the crush of bodies around them. “I would still want to be yours.”
Sanji stared at him for a long moment, cigarette burning down between his fingers, bass shuddering up through the floor. Then he snorted softly, almost disbelieving. “Seems like you’re getting a shitty deal.”
“I’m definitely not,” Zoro said, seriousness in his voice. It was important that Sanji know this. “I’m not settling, or wishing you’d do more. What we have already feels good to me.”
Sanji hummed low in his throat, considering that, and took a long pull from his cigarette. Smoke curled around them, catching in the yellow glow of a flickering sign overhead. “Didn’t expect to like it this much,” he murmured. His fingers tapped once against the bar before he shoved his hand back into his pocket and scowled. “You owe me a drink for making me admit that.”
Zoro ducked his head a little, soft grin pulling at his lips at the admission. “I can’t buy you anything,” he admitted. “Witch wouldn’t give me money for a second drink.”
Sanji’s expected kick bruised Zoro’s calf. “Don’t call her that, asshole.” He flicked ash from his cigarette into the tray on the counter, then signaled for the bartender with an irritated tilt of his chin. “And don’t think I’m going to buy you another, after that.”
Zoro huffed, but the warmth in his chest didn’t go anywhere.
Zoro was lost – admittedly so. The small city they’d docked at that afternoon was a maze of brown adobe buildings and dead ends, and nothing was in a straight line. Some buildings were connected, stacked in uneven tiers; others stood alone with narrow alleys between them, all the same sun-baked color. Dirt-brown streets wound through the place like someone had scribbled them at random. Once he’d left the harbor, he’d gotten twisted around immediately, hopelessly befuddled by a layout that made no sense. Even asking didn’t help. Every direction involved three turns, a left around a clay wall, and “the house that looks like all the other houses.”
He’d been wandering for hours. The heat clung to the adobe, radiating off the walls. The streets were mostly empty, just the occasional shutter creaking in a breeze that didn’t reach the ground. He might’ve been in a residential area – rows of squat brown homes, identical flat roofs, the same wooden doors – but everything looked the same, so who knew. He was crabby, thirsty, and tired of this shit.
The gang of hoodlums he eventually ran into was a relief. He could use something to hit.
The fight was vicious and dirty. The gang were no pushovers. By the time the last fell, Zoro bled from multiple wounds, probably had a concussion, and couldn’t see out of his only eye. A broadhammer to the face would do that. At least he got to find out if he could fight blind. The answer was yes, though it led to more stab wounds. He was going to have to work more on his observation haki. He was still too weak in that area.
But now he had to find his way back to the ship with no sight when he was already lost, which presented a slight problem. Maybe if he went up? Should’ve thought of that before he couldn’t see anything. He might be able to pay someone to lead him if he had the money.
Zoro wiped his blades on his trousers, sheathed them, then felt around for the bodies. Pockets turned up what felt like beli.
Then he set off, cautiously, keeping a hand to the walls until he heard voices. “Hey, whoever’s there. Can you give me a hand?”
Two approached, and one of them whistled. “Shit, man, what happened to you?”
Zoro didn’t bother to answer the obvious question. “Can you take me to the docks? Get me there and I’ll give you some beli.” He felt the air shift, and he scowled as he flicked the hilt of a katana. “Try and take it, and you’ll find yourselves as dead as the gang who attacked me.”
The air changed quickly again. “Sure, man. We can do that.”
“Lead. I’ll hold onto your shoulder,” Zoro said.
The trek back to the docks seemed short compared to how long Zoro had been wandering. There had only been two ships in the harbor beside the Sunny when Zoro had left. He was about to tell his guides about the Sunny’s figurehead and flag when he heard a pissy voice call down to him. “What the fuck, marimo?”
A thud of feet landing on the docks followed, and Zoro inhaled the familiar smell of cigarettes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re an idiot.” Sanji grabbed his arm. “I got him. Scram.”
“But he said–”
“Here.” Zoro pulled the wad of what he thought was money out of his haramaki. He felt hands grab it and then the thunder of footsteps as his guides ran off.
“That looked like a thousand beli.”
“Damn.” That would’ve gotten him a lot to drink.
“Dumbass.” Sanji abruptly scooped him up over a shoulder. Zoro grunted as his wounds were compressed. A jump later, and Sanji landed on the Sunny’s deck. Zoro was carted to the infirmary – he could tell by the antiseptic smell.
Sanji dumped him on the infirmary bed. “Chopper’s not here. You’re stuck with me patching you up til he gets back.” He paused. “Maybe I should go find him. You really look like shit.”
“Said I’m fine.” Zoro pulled his katanas from his sash and held them out to Sanji. “Just a little banged up.”
Sanji took the katanas, set them aside, and Zoro could hear the tension in his footsteps as he came back. “‘A little banged up,’ he says,” Sanji muttered. “You look like someone tried to tenderize your face.”
Zoro shrugged, as Sanji helped him out of his coat and haramaki. “Broadhammer. Lucky shot.”
“Your chest is littered with lucky shots.”
Zoro heard the clatter of metal trays, the rustle of gauze. Sanji returned to his side and clicked his tongue in disgust. “Can’t believe you wandered around blind for who knows how long. What, were you planning to echolocate your way back to the ship next?”
“I was managing.” A warm, damp cloth pressed against Zoro’s cheek. The sting of antiseptic followed, burning along the cuts that had already scabbed over with dirt and blood. Zoro hissed.
“Oh, don’t be a baby.” Sanji’s voice was sharp, but his touch wasn’t. His thumb brushed Zoro’s temple, checking the swelling. “If you didn’t want it to hurt, maybe stop letting people hit you. You’re ugly enough as it is.”
Zoro would have rolled his eye if he could open it.
Sanji kept working, cleaning, wiping, checking gently with his fingertips. “How many were there?” he asked, tone casual.
“You weren’t there. Didn’t need to count.”
Sanji snorted a laugh under his breath. “I would’ve won.”
Zoro grinned blindly at him. “Sure you would’ve, cook.”
There was a pause. Zoro couldn’t see Sanji’s face, couldn’t read anything, but felt the air shifting between them. Whatever made Sanji go still like that wasn’t irritation. It was quieter. Thicker. Sanji’s fingertips lingered just a fraction too long at Zoro’s temple, right over the same spot he’d checked earlier when the swelling first showed, thumb brushing lightly – not quite touching, not quite pulling away – like he’d forgotten what he was doing for a second.
Then, he exhaled sharply. “Hold still,” Sanji muttered, stepping away. Drawers opened, the metal-on-metal scrape of a med kit shifting. “I need to butterfly some of these on your chest to keep your insides inside.”
“Aren’t that deep.”
“Liar. One good sneeze and it’ll look like sausage night in here.”
Zoro snorted.
Sanji returned with strips and tape, and cleaned the wounds on his torso. Zoro could feel Sanji’s breath near his skin, the way he exhaled through his nose – controlled, irritated, threaded with something else. Something tight.
Sanji’s voice dropped, almost conversational. “This hurt?”
Zoro smirked. “You worried?”
Sanji taped the dressing down with more force than strictly necessary, earning a hiss from Zoro. “Tch. Absolutely not,” he said. But his thumb skimmed the edge of the bandage a moment later – light, careful, a touch far gentler than his tone.
He abruptly cleared his throat. Loudly. “I’ll wash the blood out of your haramaki later,” he said as he moved on to Zoro’s arm. “Not because I’m nice. I just don’t want you walking around looking like a feral street rat.”
Zoro snorted. “Sure.”
“And maybe,” Sanji added, softer, almost grumbling, “don't walk into broadhammers next time.”
“No promises.”
Sanji barked a laugh and flicked his forehead. “Ass.”
Zoro leaned against the wall on the upper deck outside the library, back against the warm Adam’s wood. The sun pressed against his skin, lulling him toward sleep. His face still hurt, as did the cuts on his body, though the smaller ones had healed overnight. Most would be gone by tomorrow. His vision was still narrow – that stupid broadhammer had done a good job – but he could see at least.
Napping seemed like a good idea. He folded one arm under his head and let himself drift. The Sunny was at sea again. He could hear the creak of wood, slap of waves, the distant echo of Luffy yelling about something on the main deck. Footsteps approached, a familiar tread of fancy shoes. He could feel the cadence through the deck. A shadow fell across his face, blocking the sun.
“Time to water the plant,” Sanji said, voice close.
Zoro cracked his eye open. Sanji crouched beside him, setting a drink on the deck beside Zoro, balancing easily despite the ship’s sway. His shirt was unbuttoned low again, tie hanging completely loose, like he’d been in the middle of changing but got distracted. In the sunlight, the whorls of golden chest hair caught the light in a way that made Zoro’s mouth go dry.
Sanji leaned in a little, fingers hovering near Zoro’s cheek as if checking the bruising. “You look slightly less like hammered meat. Slightly.”
Zoro lifted his hand and let his fingertips brush through that chest hair. Just a light stroke, knuckles dragging along the edge of the open shirt, fingers catching briefly in the curls. Sanji’s breath hitched. It was small, but Zoro heard it – felt it – in the sudden stillness over him. The hand near his cheek froze. For a heartbeat, Sanji didn’t say anything.
Then he huffed out a breath that was half scoff, half something else, and pulled back just far enough that Zoro’s hand fell away. “Horny marimo,” he muttered, though his voice had a slightly rough quality to it.
Zoro smirked up at him, not bothering to deny it.
Sanji clucked his tongue with put-upon disgust. “Same time tonight,” he said, like he was assigning chores. He stood and walked off, the click of his heels fading toward the galley ladder. Zoro closed his eye again, heart beating a little faster than before, and let himself drift off to the imaginings of tonight.
But tonight, it turned out, didn’t mean what Zoro expected.
Zoro climbed to the crow’s nest after showering, anticipation in his gut. The hatch creaked as he pushed it open, lamplight casting warm, muted shadows across the small space. Surprise crossed Zoro’s face. Sanji was already there, which was a first.
He’d opened the window a crack, letting in a soft breath of sea air. The futon was laid out, but the room looked different, tidier somehow. There was a folded towel at one corner, a small jar of salve, a bottle of something that wasn’t lube within reach.
Sanji sat on the bench, sleeves rolled, tie gone completely, shirt open the same way it had been on deck. His shoes were off, vibrant dancing starfish socks in place. A cigarette smoldered between his lips. He gave Zoro a long once-over, eyes narrowing at the way Zoro still favored his side. But he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he said, “Strip.”
Zoro locked the hatch, set aside his katanas, then pulled off his clothes, heart thudding, body already keyed up. “How do you want me?”
“Sit down on the futon, toward the middle.”
Once naked, Zoro eased himself down onto the futon and sat cross-legged where told. Sanji took a final drag on his cigarette and stabbed it out in the ashtray perched on the back of the bench. He moved behind Zoro, sinking onto the futon, knees bracketing Zoro’s hips. Zoro heard the bottle open, then Sanji rubbing his hands together.
Warmth touched Zoro’s skin a moment later – slick, tingling oil sliding over the tense lines of his neck. His breath slipped out without meaning to. “What are you doing?”
“What does it feel like, dumbass?” Sanji muttered, but his hands were already mapping the length of Zoro’s spine. His thumbs pressed in beside the vertebrae, slow and methodical. He worked downward first, following the long muscles to the small of Zoro’s back, then swept back up, palms finding knots Zoro hadn’t even noticed. Kneading, massaging, working the kinks out with firm, even pressure.
The crow’s nest was dim, the single lamp throwing a soft pool of light over them. The open window allowed in a cool edge of ocean air that contrasted the heat of Sanji’s hands.
Each pass worked something loose inside him. By the time Sanji’s thumbs circled up to the base of his neck again, Zoro felt heavy and warm, heat gathering low in his belly.
A quiet breath grazed the back of his neck and the fine hairs there rose. Sanji shifted behind him, close enough that Zoro could feel the body heat radiating from his chest without a single point of contact.
Sanji re-oiled his palms with a soft slick sound. One hand returned to Zoro’s shoulder, kneading the knotted muscle there; the other skimmed lower, tracing down over bruised ribs, pausing briefly over the bandage to check it. Then it moved further, sliding around to his stomach, fingers splaying lightly before drifting lower with a clear change in intent.
Zoro’s stomach muscles tightened under the touch. The hand dipped lower, deliberate now, touch turning from practical to something else entirely. Warm, slicked fingers wrapped around Zoro, coaxing him into hardness. He moaned softly in the back of his throat. He couldn’t believe Sanji was doing this, touching him freely, with nothing else happening. Firm, knowing strokes that had him tipping his head back against Sanji’s shoulder, eye shut, mouth open on a helpless exhale.
Another low sound slipped from Zoro as Sanji continued, the slick slide from the oil on flesh filling the room. Sanji’s lips were close to his cheek now; every warm breath ghosted over Zoro’s skin, sending little licks of sensation down his spine. “That’s it,” he murmured.
Zoro sank into the feeling, into the steady hand on him, letting Sanji guide the build of heat under his skin. Sanji took the lead, like he always did, but there was something different threaded through this – no angle, no challenge, no victory to claim. Just Sanji giving, focused entirely on him, not asking for anything back.
It didn’t take long. The novelty of this, of being tended to on multiple levels, hit just right. When release came, it was sharp and almost as overwhelming as when he edged, his whole body shuddering with it. Sanji’s hand didn’t falter, easing him through the crest and down the other side.
Zoro slumped back, breathing hard, shoulder blades settling against the solid warmth behind him. His injury twinged a little with each inhale, but the rest of him felt boneless.
Sanji’s hand slid up to rest over Zoro’s chest, palm broad and warm over his sternum. His thumb brushed once, lightly, in an unconscious mirror of what Zoro had done on deck. “Feel good?”
“Yeah,” Zoro said, though his voice was rough. “You didn’t want to…”
“You’re injured, idiot.” Sanji tched against his ear. “I’m not that desperate for your ass.”
Zoro huffed a quiet laugh, and leaned against Sanji more heavily, letting himself sink into Sanji’s support. He hadn’t expected this, didn’t need it, but it was nice all the same. Having hands on him, taking care of him. He liked it. More than liked it. “Could get used to it,” he murmured, lazy and honest.
Sanji hummed quietly, thoughtfully. His thumb brushed Zoro’s chest again, slower this time. “Stupid marimo,” he said, but it lacked bite.
Zoro stayed put, letting the silence settle around them. Sanji didn’t push him off, didn’t pull away. If anything, Sanji settled a little, like he’d decided Zoro could stay exactly where he was. Zoro felt the slow, steady rise of Sanji’s breathing against his back, and it lulled him into a doze. Eventually, Sanji muttered, “Don’t fall asleep on me,” but he didn’t move.
Zoro didn’t either.
By the time the next stretch of calm days rolled by, they’d slid back into their normal chaos. They were fighting on the deck for who knows whatever reason. An argument that escalated into the physical. Zoro blocked and slashed, Sanji feigned and kicked. Armament haki clanged against armament haki. They didn’t go full out, but they also didn’t hold back. Bruises and cuts were expected, not grievous injuries.
Sanji’s first kick hit his forearm hard enough to sting. The second missed on purpose, a feint that drew Zoro in just close enough for Sanji to hook his ankle behind Zoro’s boot and yank. Zoro staggered half a step, caught his balance, and drove a shoulder into Sanji’s chest. The cook hit the grass with a grunt, rolled, and sprang up again, already spinning into a heel strike.
Zoro met that one with crossed blades, but the momentum still shoved him back. Grass tore under his heels. He dug in, twisted, and unleashed a sweeping cut of compressed air that carved a groove through the lawn.
Sanji vaulted over it, twisting sideways mid-air. He landed behind Zoro with a sliding scuff of his shoe and tried to kick Zoro’s ribs.
Zoro dropped, felt the wind of it skim his shoulder, and swept Sanji’s legs out. The cook slammed onto his back with an indelicate curse, palms hitting the deck. Zoro moved in to press the advantage but Sanji jabbed both feet upward, catching Zoro square in the stomach and launching him backward across the lawn.
Air left his lungs in a grunt. Zoro tucked into a roll and came up with both swords drawn again. Sanji was after him in a second, heel angled for Zoro’s temple made him duck. A spinning sweep nearly took his legs again.
Zoro drove forward through it, using brute strength. He forced Sanji back toward the aft steps with heavy, punishing blows – one overhead strike, one slash from the left, a sudden thrust that whistled inches from Sanji’s ribs. Sanji bent backward at the waist at an impossible angle, avoiding the thrust by a hair, and caught himself on his palms to flip away in a clean arc. Zoro followed, pressing the attack. They ascended the steps in a momentum-driven blur of strikes and kicks until they reached the upper deck, fighting their way along the port-side rail toward the aft deck behind the galley.
Sanji dove at him again. Zoro countered. The narrowed space made fighting more difficult. Everything compressed: sharp hits, short blocks, elbows and shoulders and quick footwork. Sanji’s shoe grazed Zoro’s jaw; Zoro’s pommel slammed into Sanji’s hip. Both of them were breathing harder, close enough Zoro felt each exhale against his skin.
At the back of the ship, Sanji feigned left, then followed through when Zoro tried to read through it. His foot connected with Zoro’s chest, driving him back, pinning him against the galley’s rear wall. Before Zoro could knock him away, Sanji dropped his foot and stepped into Zoro’s space. Zoro stilled when his hands came up, knowing he wouldn’t use them for the fight. He didn’t. Instead, he drove his fingers into Zoro’s hair and captured Zoro’s mouth in a kiss.
This wasn’t like the first kiss, a curiosity, or an experiment. Or the second one, which seemed to be an affectionate surprise. This was hunger and passion and sheer want. Zoro clumsily embraced Sanji with his katanas still in hand, mind spinning, heart racing, body reacting. Sanji tasted like cigarettes and spearmint from the sprig he’d chewed after lunch. His lips were rough, demanding, tongue battling against Zoro’s like the fighting never stopped, just changed form.
He pulled back as abruptly as he came in, face flushed, breathing heavy, and gaze dark. “I want you to be mine.”
Zoro’s heart leapt into his throat. Unable to speak, he nodded swiftly. For a second he couldn’t feel the deck under his boots. It hit him – hard – that this was exactly what he’d been craving for months, the thing he hadn’t dared want out loud. Someone choosing him like that. Claiming him the way he’d imagined only in the privacy of his head. His breath went thin; his grip on the hilts tightened.
“Good,” Sanji said, and captured his mouth again.
They ended up in the galley storeroom, Zoro on his knees with Sanji in his mouth. The fingers in his hair petted rather than grasped, thrusts gentle rather than rough. Sanji remembered what Zoro liked even in the heat of passion, cared enough to give rather than take. Sanji watched him with hooded eyes, biting his lower lip. When he came, Zoro swallowed him down, accepting the claim.
Sanji wanted him to be his. And Zoro was in love with him.
Dinner was torture.
Not the food. The food was excellent, as always. Zoro grunted his appreciation on a regular basis. No, what was torture was watching Sanji act like nothing had happened that afternoon. Like his life hadn’t been changed as irrevocably as Zoro’s. Not that he expected Sanji to suddenly have heart eyes or do that stupid noodle dance toward him – Zoro would hate that – but he thought there might be something. A look, a touch, some sort of acknowledgment that things were different between them now.
Zoro had been grinning like an idiot off-and-on most of the afternoon, during his ship’s chores and training. Sanji wanted him - him! Zoro would never say it out loud, but he’d hoped some day this would happen to him, that he’d find a person who got him, who desired him as he liked, who complemented how he lived his life. He wasn’t looking for someone who would be in his pocket, but someone who wanted to be in his company during the quiet times, even if they were doing nothing. Someone who could hold their own like him. Someone who wasn’t intimidated by him and understood that he may be blunt and aggressive, but he also liked the soft, gentle things.
He’d had feelings for people in the past, but never this all encompassing. Like the final piece had clicked into place, telling him this was who you’re supposed to be with. And that person said they wanted him, Roronoa Zoro.
His giddiness lasted until dark, when the shadows of doubt crept in. Sanji had said that he’d wanted Zoro to be his, but what did that actually mean? Did he feel the same as Zoro felt? Were they in a relationship now? Or was this just some sort of exclusivity statement regarding sex – not that Zoro would sleep with anyone else; he wasn’t that type. Zoro disliked ambiguity and, by the time dinner started, he felt lost.
He’d hoped Sanji would give him a sign, do something – anything – to say that they were on the same page. That Zoro wasn’t reading something into Sanji’s declaration that wasn’t actually there. But Sanji served and refilled and chatted as if it were just another dinner on the Sunny.
By the time the meal ended, Zoro’s stomach was tied in knots. He had to do something, had to find out the truth or it would eat him alive. As the crew got up to leave, he approached Jinbe and murmured, “Trade dish duty with you.”
Jinbe studied him for a moment, then inclined his head. “I leave it to you,” he said, before taking his leave.
Once everyone had gone, Zoro started collecting plates. Sanji’s lighter clinked as he lit a cigarette. “It’s not your night, marimo,” Sanji said.
“Traded,” Zoro said, bringing the dishes over to the sink.
“Hn.” Sanji took a drag on his cigarette, then went to work cleaning up without another comment.
Zoro’s shoulders were tense, his movements stiff, as he washed the plates and cups. Sanji moved fluidly about the galley, storing items, wiping down surfaces. The rattle of dishware and the quiet splash of water underscored the silence.
Sanji stepped up beside Zoro, picking up a dish towel, and started drying the clean dishes in the rinse sink. His cigarette smoke drifted overhead. His shoulder bumped against Zoro’s on occasion like normal. But nothing about this was normal, not to Zoro.
He cut a glance at Sanji, who seemed to be in his own world as he dried dish after dish. Sanji had loosened his tie, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he gripped and wiped a towel over a plate. The galley lamplight caught the golden hair on his arms, on his long, strong fingers that had tended to Zoro so caringly a week ago.
“What–” Zoro’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat, shifting his gaze back to the soapy water in front of him. He tried again. “What did you mean before? Earlier?”
“When?” Sanji asked, racking a serving platter.
“Today. After the fight. After you… kissed me.”
Sanji took a drag on his cigarette, not answering immediately. It made the knots in Zoro’s stomach wind tighter. The water sloshed onto the edge of the sink as he transferred a dish to the rinse basin. He wondered if Sanji was ever going to answer when finally, he said, “I still like women.”
That was not what Zoro expected him to say. It suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. “Is this… us… just until something better comes along?”
“No.” Sanji wiped the dish in his hand dry, racked it, and reached for another. “I’m not going to want someone else.”
Zoro should feel angry at the mismatched statements, but he mostly felt raw. “Then what the hell do you mean, ‘I still like women’?”
“Just that. It’s the truth. I like the way they look, the way they smell, the way they feel.” Sanji dried a handful of utensils. “A great set of tits and a curvy ass can arouse me instantly.”
Zoro squeezed the rag in his hand tightly beneath the soapy water. He felt like his chest was cracking in two. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked in a tight tone. It seemed like Sanji was ending things; that he’d changed his mind; that he hadn’t meant it to begin with.
“You know my dream of All Blue, right?” Sanji said. “Find it, open a restaurant, settle there after everything’s done.”
Zoro nodded stiffly, his breath shallow as he fought his emotions down.
“In all the years I’ve been imagining living there, only Zeff has been with me because he shares my dream.” Sanji took another drag on his cigarette, releasing the smoke as he talked. “No future potential wife. No friends. Just myself and the old man.”
Zoro swallowed past the tightness in his throat. He blinked the blurriness from his vision. He understood what Sanji was spelling out. “I get it.”
“Yeah, well…” Sanji said, voice edged and unwilling. “Imagine my fucking surprise whenever I think about my restaurant now, your algae-headed ass is there.” His annoyance only seemed to deepen. “You’re doing dishes in the kitchen, or napping on the al fresco deck, or lifting weights in a damned training room I’ve built in my head just for you. I’ve rearranged the layout and decor, adding different colored guides, just so you won’t fucking get lost. I picked out sheets that match the color of your damned hair for a king-sized bed that certainly wasn’t fucking in my design before and every time I close my eyes you’re in that bed, naked and ready and giving me that stupid-unfair shy look you get when you tell me what you want.”
Sanji whirled on Zoro abruptly and jabbed him hard against his chest. “You are the most irritating, infuriating houseplant that has taken up residence in my future and made himself at home. And the shitty part is – I want it. I want you there, with me, stinking up my bed, my restaurant, my life. I want to have sex with you – and only you – and kiss you and sometimes even touch your cock. You have ruined me for women, you damned, shitty moss. I like everything about them, but I don’t want them. I want you.”
He huffed sharply, an exasperated sound like he couldn’t believe he was saying any of this out loud. “Stupid how one little thing can wreck a whole damn life plan.” His jaw flexed once, irritation warring with honesty, then some of the fight drained out of him, shoulders easing a fraction. “And that’s what I meant when I said I wanted you to be mine. Got any problems with that?”
Zoro stared at him, mouth agape, heart now racing in his chest. “No,” he whispered.
“Good.” Sanji turned back to the sink, yanking another dish out of the rinse water, and dried it aggressively. Smoke puffed around his head like annoyed clouds. “Fucking marimo and your fucking questions. Wash the dishes. I got other shit to do before tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Sanji shot him an irritated look. “Same time. And put your coat in the laundry when you go to shower. That thing can stand up by itself.”
Zoro slowly turned his attention back to the sink and picked up a pot to wash, still stunned.
Guess he had his answer.
Zoro ambled into the galley, bare-chested, scratching his belly, a towel slung over his shoulders. He spotted Sanji standing at the prep counter, writing in a notebook. “What’cha doing?” he asked, peering over Sanji’s shoulder as he passed.
“Finishing the shopping list,” Sanji replied, pencil scratching on the note paper. He wore a full suit in dark gray, with a pale pink shirt and slightly darker tie. “Nami-san said we’d make port in about an hour.”
Zoro grunted in acknowledgment as he punched in the code for the fridge. He wasn’t supposed to know it, but he spent a lot of time in the galley with the cook, so he picked it up.
On the second shelf was a tall pitcher labeled Zoro’s Post-Workout Drink. Zoro poured himself a glass. Sanji had gone on about electrolytes, amino acids, and antioxidants and a bunch of other terms that meant it was good for Zoro to drink. So Zoro drank. He would’ve anyway, even without the lecture.
“You got booze on the list?” Zoro asked after he’d downed half a glass. He leaned back against the counter next to Sanji.
“Yes, you drunkard.” Sanji wrote down another item. “You want anything else?”
“Can you make those giant mushroom things with the cheese inside again?”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Sanji said. “Plus an alternative for Usopp.”
Zoro watched the way pencil twirled between Sanji’s fingers as he thought. Swift, deft movements as it slid between his knuckles from one to the next before ending back up gripped properly. He thought about what those deft fingers did last night and felt heat creep up his neck. It still wasn’t often that Sanji touched his cock, so when he did, Zoro came all that much harder.
Their relationship had settled into something comfortable. Sometimes they shared space, sometimes they didn’t. They still fought and argued and challenged each other. They trusted each other not to die on the battlefield and bitched about the other getting hurt. The sex was still fun, and freeing, and fervently enjoyable, but now it had a warmth to it that Zoro treasured.
“You’re coming with me to carry things,” Sanji said, interrupting his musing.
“But I was going to get a drink,” Zoro scowled. He didn’t have money, but he figured if he convinced one of the others to go with him, they’d buy a round.
Sanji set down his pencil and corralled Zoro against the counter. He plucked Zoro’s near empty glass from his hand and set it aside. “Good marimos do as told,” he said, then captured Zoro’s lips in a kiss.
Zoro wanted to deny the pleased noise he made in his throat, but the smirk he felt against his mouth meant it was too late. Sanji liked to claim he won at kissing too. Zoro easily surrendered to that challenge, because he was still a winner either way.
Sanji drew back, too soon in Zoro’s opinion. “Take a shower. I don’t want you stinking up my air on shore.”
“Tch. LIke your cigarettes don’t?” Zoro grabbed his glass, knocking the pencil onto the floor. It rolled across the space between the counters to wedge beneath a lower cabinet on the other side.
“My cigarettes don’t smell like crotch rot.”
“Yeah, well…” Zoro lost whatever retort had been on his tongue as Sanji had bent down to snag the pencil.
Sanji wasn’t wearing any socks.
The flash of pale skin, the knobs of his ankles, the brief peek of calf muscle where it connected made all blood run due south in Zoro’s body.
He must’ve made a sound, because when Sanji straightened, he had a knowing smirk and a lot more saunter in his step. He gathered his notepad off the counter and started for the door. “Meet you on deck in an hour, marimo.” The galley door closed behind him.
Swallowing the build-up of saliva in his mouth, Zoro left the galley and shut himself in the bathroom. A few frantic minutes later, spent and panting lightly, he realized he was weirdly grateful that those stupid ankles had been his undoing in the first place.
As he rinsed off in the shower, a small, helpless smile tugged at his mouth. Funny how everything started with one little thing.
End