Chapter Text
Sanji was what Zoro called “a predictable drunk.”
He had three distinct stages of drunkenness:
First, Sanji was a very happy drunk—he laughed more often and more heartily, smiling with a big-toothed grin, and was overly affectionate towards others both emotionally and physically (especially the “lovely ladies” he met at port cities).
When he started drinking, he opened up about things he liked and disliked and was unabashedly himself—perhaps the only time Zoro was able to see that honest side of him.
The second stage was more familiar to the swordsman. Sanji was an angry drunk when he began to reach his limit, often seeking out a quarrel with Zoro over the tiniest infraction (“You’re standing too close to the ladies, bastard!” or “Stop looking at me with that ugly mug, fucker, unless you want me to rearrange it!”)
If another man looked at him the wrong way on the street, stumbled into him, or made any unwanted advances or suggestive remarks about a woman, the cook would fly into a murderous rage and cause a huge ruckus in his typical flamboyant fashion—feet flying, face twisted into a righteous sneer, and fire burning around him like a human torch.
If Zoro were honest with himself (which he wasn’t), he would say stage two was his favorite. There was something about an angry Sanji that made his blood boil and his skin itch for a good, hard fight. He loved getting into scraps with the cook perhaps a little too much.
The final stage was the least intrusive—Sanji was a sleepy drunk. There would come a time when his body reached the point of overstimulation and exhaustion, Whiskey Peak being the worst instance of a complete loss of awareness.
The cook was incredibly embarrassed to be lumped in with the trio of children who passed out without a care in the world, meanwhile, Nami and Zoro were able to stay vigilant when the Baroque Works gang ambushed them all.
By the third stage, Sanji usually retired to the men’s dorms and slept like a log, somehow managing to still get up early to prepare breakfast after waking up periodically throughout the night to slip into the bathroom and empty the contents of his stomach.
Zoro thought he knew every sign, every action that the cook would take in each of these stages—he was sure Sanji was an open book in those moments, or at least, he was until the incident.
It happened during their short underwater excursion on their way to Fishman Island. The cook prepared an almighty feast to celebrate the reunion of the Straw Hats after two long years of vigorous training. Whatever happened to the cook during that time caused him to become completely weak to women.
After too many nosebleeds to count, Sanji ended up getting totally plastered—drunker than perhaps he had ever been and certainly more drunk than Zoro witnessed—and no wonder with the lack of blood in his system to properly filter the alcohol.
The swordsman was rather rudely awakened by the weight of a very inebriated Sanji flopping blindly on top of him like a ragdoll. It took him a full ten seconds for his bleary mind to figure out the cook climbed into the wrong bunk and was in no state to realize his mistake.
His limbs were strewn haphazardly in a tangle with Zoro’s, face nestled in the crook of the swordsman’s bare shoulder, completely limp and dead to the world.
“Oi, Stupid-cook, get off of me and go to your own bed!” he said quietly so as not to wake their crewmates, shaking the smaller man out of unconsciousness.
“Mmmm…wha…?”
“You’re in my bed, idiot!”
“S’warm…” Sanji mumbled contentedly, nuzzling slightly against his crewmate’s frozen form.
The swordsman shook him harder and said, “Seriously, your tolerance is pathetic! It’s me—Zoro—not one of your precious ladies!”
“Marimo…?”
The cook’s breath tickled his neck as it swept over his flushed skin, fingers curling lazily around the thin blanket separating them.
Then Sanji did something that short-circuited Zoro’s brain and struck him completely dumb.
He took a long, deep breath and ran a hand up the swordsman’s broad chest, cradling the side of his neck and gently trailing his fingers along the curve of his throat.
“You smell so good...mmm…Zoro…”
This was too much for the poor swordsman to comprehend. His body reacted on its own, bucking up against the cook in an unconscious attempt to throw him off, both hands flying to the Sanji’s shoulders in preparation to shove him violently across the room in a panic.
“Cook!” he snapped under his breath, “What the fuck—?!” but his protest was cut off by a sound he never could have imagined coming from his crewmate.
Sanji moaned right beside his ear—it was so sensual and unexpected Zoro literally gasped, paralyzed by confusion as a furious blush spread across his entire face, neck, ears, and then the rest of his body.
The cook clearly hadn’t interpreted the swordsman’s movement as a struggle to get free, rather, he enthusiastically thrusted into him with a filthy grinding of his hips and let out another vocal moan accompanied by a quiet expletive and an equally shocking admission.
“Yer so fuckin’ hot…”
“COOK!” he repeated, just loud enough to still be considered a whisper.
Zoro shifted desperately beneath him, mind going blank when he realized Sanji’s erection was pressing into the muscles of the swordsman’s inner thigh. His thoughts scattered like the wind, leaving him empty and very, very warm all over.
“What the fuck are you doing, you shitty fucking pervert?!” he said, but he didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. The complete loss of control was almost more surprising than the cook’s sudden assault on his senses.
Zoro trained endlessly, meditated for hours and hours to master his own body and perfect his self-control, but it all evaporated the instant Sanji sighed his name in that voice—a voice like nothing he ever heard in his life.
It was incredibly, horrifyingly sexy.
The swordsman was becoming aroused by the rhythmic pressure of Sanji’s hips rubbing against his, and the cook noticed immediately, grinding into him with more and more force while gripping Zoro’s shoulder hard enough to bruise a normal person. Lips pressed against the hollow of the swordsman’s throat, and a wet tongue slowly licked the sensitive skin there, drawing a path along the cut of his jawline to his chin.
He instinctively turned his face away to allow Sanji more room to attack his neck with sloppy kisses and the occasionally stinging bite. Hands roamed indiscriminately down his chest, pushing the blanket aside and running long, eager fingers over one of the swordsman’s nipples.
Zoro was absolutely overwhelmed—he felt like he was having an out-of-body experience, fully giving himself over to whatever was controlling his movements because it certainly wasn’t his conscious mind.
When Sanji’s hand ventured farther, slipping under the blanket and down towards the swordsman’s cock, Zoro tried again to voice his confusion in the hopes of breaking whatever flow the cook was falling into before losing all sense of propriety.
They were surrounded by their sleeping crewmates, but neither man had even a shred of brainpower to worry about getting caught—everything was being dedicated to the carnal desires exploding within them.
“Cook, wait—” he tried for the final time, squeezing the other man’s shoulders insistently.
“No more waiting,” Sanji cut in angrily, with surprising clarity. “I’m done fucking waiting…”
He moaned once more, long and loud, and Zoro saw Usopp shifting in his hammock in response to the intrusive noise.
“Bastard…” he said under his breath, completely surrendering to Sanji’s touch when his hand slipped into the swordsman’s boxers and firmly gripped his erection.
He hissed in pleasure as those long, pale fingers began stroking him in a lazy, absentminded motion. Teeth sunk into the meat of his shoulder, adding pain to the pleasure, and making his cock twitch happily in the cook’s talented hand.
Sanji kissed the spot where he had drawn blood, sucking gently as he followed his previous trail along the swordsman’s jaw and dipping his tongue into the crevices of his ear.
Zoro couldn’t understand how being licked there could possibly feel so good, but it did, and he couldn’t stop himself from releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, thrusting up into the cook’s slick hand with a desperate jerk of his hips.
His tip was leaking, cock throbbing as Sanji increased his pace and pumped mercilessly, up and down, massaging the head, and smearing come along the length of the swordsman’s shaft.
“Fuck, Zoro…you like that?” he asked, equally breathless.
It was embarrassingly obvious he liked it, what with the raging erection and all, so he didn’t bother answering the rhetorical question. In fact, he briefly forgot how to speak as his orgasm quickly neared it’s peak.
Sanji looked up from his ministrations and met Zoro’s eye for the first time, piercing blue to smoky grey, and the swordsman’s heart actually skipped a beat, fluttering uncomfortably like an arrythmia.
The cook was biting his bottom lip—actually biting it in the cheekily playful way he did most things (Zoro was slowly realizing maybe he was in denial about how utterly gorgeous his crewmate was), but Sanji clearly wasn’t putting on a show.
His expression was completely open, cheeks rosy and lips wet from the messy kisses—Zoro thought he would die right then. His heart would give up any minute now—surely Sanji could feel it beating through his ribcage, chest-to-chest as they were.
Was he breathing? He had to breath.
It’s a dream, Zoro thought suddenly as his brain slowly rebooted and tried to rationalize what was happening. Why the fuck am I having this kind of dream about the Shitty-cook?!
Sanji’s pupils dilated as he sighed in relief, whispering the swordsman’s name in a final, drawn-out moan.
Zoro hadn’t realized that the cook took his own cock out at some point. He watched with a detached sense of awe as the other man came spectacularly on the swordsman’s toned stomach.
The sight of it drove Zoro over the edge, spilling come all over Sanji’s hand as he emptied himself in one thick stream that seemed to last forever.
He caught a glimpse of the blond’s satisfied smirk before their eyes drooped shut and they both melted into the bunk like marionettes with the strings cut.
Slick with sweat and come, chest heaving, and consciousness fading, Zoro found it in himself to stay awake long enough to confirm Sanji had passed out peacefully on top of him before finally extricating himself as carefully as possible, carrying the unconscious man quietly to return him to his own bunk, and then high-tailing it into the bathroom to clean himself up.
A confused Nami wished him goodnight as he burst into the crow’s nest and insisted that she let him take her night watch because he napped too much throughout the day—a convincing lie she readily accepted as the truth despite the uncharacteristically wild look in his eye.
The swordsman replayed the events of this night over and over in his mind until the dawn broke, and he returned to his now unoccupied bunk, slinking past the kitchen like a thief in the night, and skipping both breakfast and lunch.
He couldn’t face Sanji. How should he react the next time the cook spoke to him, served him food in front of the crew, or picked fight with him?
The simple answer was that things could never be the same.