dextrot
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Summary
Sanji struggles with an injury that prevents him from cooking. Around the same time, Zoro starts to act strange.
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Everyone has their methods of expressing affection. Sanji just hasn’t managed to pin down Zoro’s. Which is fine, he supposes. It’s not like he and Zoro are friends, so Zoro doesn’t owe him anything. But he does think about it sometimes. How does a demon love?
Casual touch is maybe the furthest thing he expected. Sanji ignores the errant thought that asks what it'd feel like to be treated so gently.
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Sanji has a nasty habit of denying himself little luxuries. Sleeping in, hot food, the unconditional love of his crew. He's used to it though; used to getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, used to working on an empty stomach to ensure everyone else is fed, used to serving up pieces of himself and getting nothing in return.
He can't afford those luxuries. Not even on his birthday.
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Suppressants are great when they work and don't fuck your body up. Sanji wouldn't know.
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“I need a date.”
Sanji’s head bats back and forth between the kitchen and the galley. He’s got Zoro pressed up against a wall, forcefully, unlike whatever song and dance Zoro was playing with the rando outside. Sanji fists Zoro’s long coat and looks him dead in the eyes. Well, eye.
Zoro blinks owlishly at him, the vein clear on his forehead for all of a second while he processes Sanji’s declaration. “You want to date me?”
“What? No—” Sanji could vomit from the absurdity. He’s one step away from strangling Zoro with his own haramaki. His cheeks burn, and even he knows how stupid he sounds, but there isn’t a universe out there that exists where he sounds dumber than Mosshead. So, his jaw tightens. “If we do this, I need a date.”
“Okay,” Zoro says, “so, like, a fluffer—?”
“NO!”
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Zoro says they can fuck around so long as they don't make it weird. They both, of course, proceed to make it weird.
Series
- Part 1 of that frou frou shit