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Zoro was never a talker.
It’s not that he didn’t know how to either, despite what the blonde cook might mockingly insinuate. He’d always been a man of few words, settling for a small variety of curt grunts, nods, or degrees of eyebrow-raising when his swords couldn’t relay his messages for him; which, granted, was few and far between being a bounty hunter-turned-pirate and all.
As it was, his deeper vocal range was tailor-made to goad and intimidate those who attempted to stand in his way—the only reasons he truly needed it for. Neither profession required much eloquence, and the former kept his social circle pre-Strawhats understandably quite small.
With no one to talk to—and no real need to outside of battle—he kept necessary conversations brief, opting to observe and listen rather than actively participate. Even though the warmth of a found family had opened the swordsman to verbally express himself more, his stoicism had mostly stayed intact.
Sanji, however, was quite the opposite.
Before he joined Luffy and the others, he was employed at one of the most well-known restaurants in the East Blue. Being an integral cog in the Baratie’s metaphorical cuisine machine meant conversing with not only fellow chefs, but customers from all walks of life. No matter how brash and foul-mouthed, Sanji knew how to get his point across in his own colorful way.
Whether it be cooing his endless devotion and praises at a beautiful woman; taunting his enemies before a finishing Diable Jambe; describing his culinary creations to his fellow crewmates; or criticizing Zoro for training shirtless right outside the kitchen window—he never seemed to be short for words.
He always had something to say about everything, especially when it came to a certain green-haired swordsman. His more ‘talk first, think later’ mentality sometimes got him into trouble, but it was never anything he couldn’t solve with a couple of swift kicks.
That was, until that impulsive tongue of his landed him in a hole that not even the most powerful legs in the world could backpedal out of.
The dynamic between him and Zoro started as the latter quipping back to the insults he slung his way. Easy and obvious retorts about Sanji’s (not) shitty cooking or (good) sense of style to the insults on the other man’s intelligence or brutish behavior.
It quickly evolved into a game between the cook and swordsman: which man would inevitably cave and turn this fight into one of heels slamming against steel? While Sanji might be the one with the charisma and vocabulary, the few advantages Zoro did have were a blunt matter-of-fact way about him and, more importantly, a cool head—something Sanji himself knew he did not possess in the slightest, and that the swordsman exploited heavily.
It took no time at all for Zoro to learn the very specific—and numerous—ways to set the blonde off. In the end he’d have him stuttering and spewing, face beet red until he shouted a rather indignant ‘shut up!’ and a black loafered foot was shooting towards the swordsman’s face. Sanji damned his razor-sharp perception.
The way the shitty mosshead could read him like a book was infuriating and he loathed to admit that he regularly found himself the loser in this unspoken battle of willpower. The thing was... his prodding insults were only what initiated these heated arguments. What Zoro didn’t pick up on was the fact that it’s not what the green-haired man said that inevitably tripped him up: it’s how.
At least, that’s what he told himself for his own sanity.
While the deep and dangerous voice of Pirate Hunter Zoro has made probably hundreds cower in fear, it made Sanji inexplicably and undeniably turned on. A horrifying realization that had him waving his own internal white flag time and time again before his knees gave out from embarrassment (or arousal, but he’d rather die than admit that).
Never had someone’s voice affected him in the way Zoro’s did. Sure, the titillating giggle of a beautiful damsel would make his heart skip a beat, anything a woman said or did was bound to make the cook swoon.
This was different—visceral. Like a heatwave shooting from his eardrums straight to his groin... it was infuriating. The anger made it worse, even, causing that tight coil of arousal to burn like a hot iron that no amount of combat could fully cool off.
He left particularly stimulating fights even more keyed up than he started them, hissing some half-assed excuse at their conclusion to hastily strip his dick in the privacy of the showers like some overly hormonal teenager.
The more they egged each other on, the more dangerously low and sexy the marimo’s voice seemed to become. It was driving him insane, and quickly becoming much harder to mask from his husky-toned rival.
To make matters worse, Sanji’s body began to subconsciously seek out and isolate the swordman’s voice when he knew it’d drop into that gravelly octave. Like some sort of sex-crazed echolocation, his ears would tune into Zoro threatening an opponent on the battlefield and his cheeks would dust pink. The first time he noticed it, the blonde nearly lost his head from some second-rate Marine crewman... of course, right in Zoro’s line of sight. It became his go-to source material to humiliate and goad the cook for a week afterward.
The longer this near obsession went on, the more his mind went wild. What other ways could he get to hear that near feral tone?
During the night was when his imagination got the best of him. Picturing the green-haired man’s tanned, naked body draped over his own. Wrists pinned to the sides of his head, bulging pectorals and toned hips pressing him firmly against the mattress while utter filth spilled like fine velvet into his ear about all the ways the other man would—
Blue eyes shot open, acutely aware of how painful his erection became in the few minutes he allowed that particular fantasy to play out behind his lids. Glancing out the men's quarters’ porthole at the moon, it couldn’t be past three in the morning.
This was the second sleepless night in a row plagued by R-rated scenarios with the marimo. If this were to play out like the many other nights spent just like this, he wouldn’t be getting back to bed unless...
Sanji would’ve screamed if it didn’t jeopardize waking up the crew—and possibly alerting all Marine vessels within a nautical mile.
He tried to remember how his poor Nami and Robin would feel if he woke up late to prepare breakfast all because he couldn’t stop his debauched brain from thinking about the damn swordsman.
With an eyebrow twitch and an agitated exhale out of flared nostrils, he shoved his hand down the front of his underwear. This was for his darling female crewmates and his reputation as the Sunny’s ever diligent chef, not because the thought of being held down by Zoro was too tempting to return to.
Despite his best efforts, the cook stumbles into the kitchen hurried and bleary-eyed at 9:30am.
Luffy’s furiously gnawing at the refrigerator's lock like a wild animal while the rest sit patiently at the table with idle chatter and their various preferred morning beverages. The hurried shuffling of feet breaks the sound of teeth grinding against metal as Sanji simultaneously sings his apologies to the two women and begins preparing whatever will get his crew fed in the least amount of time.
“You’re finally up! I thought I was going to die,” Luffy groans dramatically. He gets about two steps closer to the counter before his face meets the bottom of the cook’s socked foot, his attention steadfast on the skillet occupying the front burner with a hefty number of scrambled eggs.
“Up two hours past breakfast and no shoes on? You’re a mess, curly,” Sanji hears Zoro jeer. He bristles at the smirk clear in the idiot’s words and his grip on the frying pan tightens.
“And you look like shit all the time, what’s your excuse?” The cook automatically throws right back, devoid of the same bite it normally has behind it.
Begrudging as he may be to admit, he was extremely attracted to the damn brute.
Skeletons of last night’s masturbation material were still rattling around in his head, rendering him unable to insult Zoro’s looks with much conviction. He silently pleads that it doesn't sound nearly as half-hearted as he thinks it did, but still chances a peek partly disguised under his blonde fringe to gauge his reaction.
Piercing eyes gaze back over the lip of his green tea paired by a single quirked eyebrow. The cook could feel his face starting to heat up at the intense stare and darts his eyes back down just in time to save the eggs from browning.
He mutters a small curse and frantically turns the burner off. A drawn-out slurp can be heard from the direction of the mosshead’s seat at the table.
The rest of breakfast went relatively smoothly despite Sanji’s late start, and lunch breezes by without a hitch. After this morning’s near slip up at the mere sight of Zoro pinning him with only a look, it takes most of the little energy he has to shake off the roaming eyes he can sense analyzing his every move.
He still vows to make it up to Nami and Robin by preparing a special frozen beverage after lunch despite their insistence that all was forgiven. What kind of gentleman would he be if he didn’t spoil these lovely ladies, especially after being so negligent to their needs?
The two thank him with warm smiles before walking out to the deck with whom he assumes is the rest of the crew.
The fogginess of poor sleep begins to seep in while searching the pantry for strawberries he plans on garnishing the drinks with.
Upon returning to the kitchen his dulled senses finally notice he isn’t alone. The marimo still sits in his seat from lunch, quietly observing the cook fluttering about and gathering the ingredients for the girls’ post-lunch treat.
“Can I help you?” Sanji bristles. He forces himself to keep focus on his current task and bends down to retrieve the cutting board.
When he rises from his crouched position, though, he nearly jumps out of his skin—Zoro’s suddenly in front of the counter he’s working from. Shirtless, as usual, with his workout sweats riding low on his hips and exposing that tantalizing v-line that frames his crotch.
Do you think he’s even wearing underwear, the relentless sex pest in his brain impulsively whispers before the swordsman’s hand comes into his field of view to snap a few times and get his attention.
The cook blinks at the sudden noise to find he’s been blatantly staring at the other man’s waistline.
A smack of the cutting board against the countertop is the only response Zoro gets before he fishes a strawberry out of the strainer to cut it into thin slices.
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” the green-haired man replies smugly and braces one arm on the counter to lean closer into the shared space between.
The blonde’s knife slows at the smaller proximity and his cheeks burn. There’s that gravelly tone again. Is he doing it on purpose? Sanji can feel himself panicking from the reaction he was beginning to have when the cause of it is right fucking there.
So, Sanji does was he does best: talk first, think later.
“Yeah right, as if you could help me with anything,” he sneers. “You can’t even seem to find your own underwear—”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
The knife now comes to a full stop, blade digging into the wood with the increased amount of pressure his hand’s applying. He’s never been so red in his life; he might as well have ‘GUILTY’ tattooed across his forehead.
The marimo takes the opportunity to descend a hand into the strainer and pluck one of the ripest strawberries off the top. Flushed face be damned, he finally looks up at the other man to object stealing something meant for his precious ladies, however any rational thought dissipates the minute he does.
Zoro’s now practically bent in half over the counter, which digs into his hipbones in such a way that it’s a miracle (disappointment) the root of his dick isn’t exposed.
The fine hairs of his happy trail act as an arrow that Sanji’s greedy eyes can’t resist following. Blue irises travel further up the expanse of tan, rippling abdominal muscles and toned biceps. He has the fruit held in front of his lips while still using his other arm as an anchor, pressing his pair of unfairly supple tits together and up—
He is doing this on purpose. God fucking damnit.
It was like he’s been electrocuted again. The misfires in his brain at the lewd display in front of him must be jumpstarting every nerve in his body. Not even ten minutes ago could he even register Zoro’s presence, but now there wasn’t anything the other man did that he’d miss a single detail of.
The cook’s stare reluctantly peels away from the marimo’s chest to continue their ascent and goes wide at the obscene look staring back. Dark pools of obsidian bear into him under hooded lids with that signature deadly smirk playing on his lips. When he answers Sanji next, the voice that comes out may as well have its own damn bounty with the way it’s so threatening and low and unbelievably hot:
“Less clothes to take off, then.”
Half of the red fruit poised between his fingertips disappears into his mouth with a measured bite. Their eye contact never wavers, even when juice trails down the corner of his mouth and his tongue sticks out to methodically lick his lips for residual flavor. Sanji wants to taste it. He swallows hard in sync with the bobbing of Zoro’s throat.
He feels like he’s in slow motion. The world is attempting to stop spinning but it’s reluctant, almost as if time itself is hanging on the swordsman’s every action with him.
But all at once, everything comes catapulting back up to speed. A splitting crack cleaves through the stillness, but not the heated look between them: he definitely just chopped the wooden cutting board clean in half.
Then that fucking smirk is back, and the cook doesn’t understand why... until he registers the telltale warm sensation trailing from within his nose and down over his top lip.
As if Zoro needs any more evidence of what this is doing to him.
A sharp laugh drags the cook down to reality then ricochets him beyond his tolerated threshold of embarrassment. He claps his right hand over the bloody mess and scoops the tray of drinks with his left to sprint out of the galley.
His clearly fraying composure nearly causes him to upend the tray attempting to put it down between the ladies sunbathing on the upper level. Nami and Robin exchange questioning looks at the frantic state of the blonde man who mutters a muffled apology and promptly scurries to the men’s quarters. Zoro’s cackling spills out onto the main deck with every swing of the door.
Once he finally reaches the safety of the bunks, the cook shakily removes his hand from his face and heaves a breath he didn’t even know he was keeping in.
Sanji stands frozen and staring at the blood tinting his fingers for what seems like an eternity, the cocktail of humiliation mixed with arousal still hitting in waves. Less clothes to take off then. The entire interaction replays behind his glazed over expression like a skipping record.
His nosebleed begins to dry around the twelfth time those plush lips encircle the piece of fruit.
I wonder if they would look like that wrapped around my dick, that deviant corner of his brain interjects. His eye twitches.
A hand fishes into his front pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes—he needed nicotine, like, a fucking half an hour ago. With a now lit cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, he attempts to pull himself together and wrenches open his locker to stare at the small hanging mirror inside.
Coagulated blood stains from the rim of his nostrils to the tip of his chin in parallel streaks, half smeared from where his palm squeezed against them.
That, combined with the utterly mortifying shade of red coloring his skin from the chest up, and the even more mortifying press of his half-hard erection against his pants... slamming the small metal door against his head repeatedly was sounding more and more like a great idea.
Sanji almost takes this thought up on the offer when a hinge creaks behind him.
Please no, please don’t be him, anyone but him, the cook internally pleads to whatever higher being exists that it’s not the one person he’d rather die than see right now. The sound of swords being carefully deposited onto one of the bunks tells him otherwise. His stiff shoulders make a beeline to his ears and a curse slips past his clenched teeth.
“Hey, someone had to make sure your perverted ass didn’t pass out from blood loss,” Zoro lowly chuckles.
Oh, and he came in here to tease him further? Great.
The cook grabs a rag and rubs the mess on his face furiously. He refuses to allow the shitty marimo a second look at his face like this.
“So it just had to be you?” Sanji retorts with an exasperated huff.
The creaking drag of the sofa temporarily pollutes the tension.
Furrowing his brow, he cautiously regards the swordsman within the safety of the mirror’s reflection. Observing the couch’s armrest being shoved against the door, his eyes then level Zoro’s in a suspicious glare.
The offensive wooden scratching comes to a halt, and all he’s met with is a hungry glint. His scowl instantly melts into a look of hesitant realization.
“I volunteered.”
The cook’s shoulders drop, the blood-spotted rag all but forgotten as it falls uselessly out of his hand. That fierce blush is back in full force, but now a familiar angry tint attempts to camouflage the shame of his own blatant transparency.
His body this time discards flight for fight instead and slams his locker closed to whirl on the asshole now casually sauntering towards him.
He only gets to point an accusatory cigarette in the air and a ‘what in the hell—’ before Zoro dissolves the gap and swiftly takes the raised nicotine between his own fingers; his other giant hand eclipses the entirety of Sanji’s mouth and lower jaw in an unrelenting grip.
Blue eyes grow wide at the thumb and forefinger denting into the hollows of his cheeks, transfixed on the other’s mouth pursing around the stick to take a steady drag.
Shrill yet muffled curses attempt to breach the tan palm as the assault on his pride and ego continues. The other man keeps walking, though, using their point of contact to steer the blonde's back into the locker and press against him bodily. All the air used for queued up expletives vacates his lungs as he’s stunned into silence.
Smoke curls from the corners of Zoro’s quirked lips; he crushes the still burning cigarette in his fist before carelessly tossing it on the floor, extinguished.
The swordsman leans further, and lips ghost the shell of his ear. “I think it’s my turn to talk now, horny cook,” that low, filthy, and now smoke-laced baritone reverberates straight to his core and twitches his fledgling erection against the solid thigh between his legs.
Another borderline patronizing chuckle. “That’s what gets you going after all, isn’t it? When I talk to you like I do my enemies, before I eat them alive?”
Suddenly the cook’s hand, still suspended uselessly in the air, is being grabbed by the wrist and pinned to the cool metal behind him. Sanji lets out a soft groan he couldn’t suppress if he tried, breaths now coming out in rapid puffs against the juncture of Zoro’s thumb.
“I thought it was in my head the first couple times: you getting all hot and bothered, then giving in with that look on your face,” the swordsman continues to practically growl.
“But then when you almost ate shit to that dumb marine with that same look... not even you are that lame. Wasn’t hard to guess after that, not with you running away to disappear after every spar. You might think I’m an idiot, curly, but one thing that’s for damn sure is I’m a man... just. Like. You.
“That look you give me? Do you know what it fucking says to me? It says you want to be eaten alive, too.” The blonde lets out a yelp and squirms when he feels a canine nip at his lobe.
A stuttering breath fans against his cheek in response as Zoro pushes on. “Now now, ero-cook, quit being so stuck in your own head for once and observe your fucking surroundings. Always telling me to shut up, but always the one doing all the yapping. I’m tired of dancing around it. I’ll put it as simple as possible so that even a moron like you can’t read between some made up lines.”
The hand over his mouth shifts its hold to the underside of his jaw and warm lips are replacing them in a firm, heated press.
After a few seconds, the marimo breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale and continues his assault on the cook’s very attentive hearing, hovering their faces inches apart. “You drive me fucking crazy. You make me insanely horny. I would’ve dropped to my knees in the kitchen just now if you’d let me. Every time you went and hid after a fight it took all my self-discipline to not chase after you so I could fuck you stupid.
“I think you want me too—if that reaction upstairs says anything—but I’m not doing anything until you take your head out of your perky ass and say it.”
Sanji’s eyes were actually starting to sting from how long they’ve been stunned open.
The green-haired man was now staring expectantly at him, a slight blush high on his cheeks and his mouth set in a tight line. Behind the veil of arrogant swagger was that ever-present control: he was waiting for Sanji’s verbal permission.
This was too much to process, too much temptation, and far too much being asked of him.
The shitty marimo wants him to admit it? Out loud? To his face? Desiring the lout was one thing... and thinking about him every waking moment was another... and jerking off to him was yet another... and being kept awake night... after night... after fucking night over it was—
“Did you call my ass perky?” Sanji blurts out in a feeble attempt to deflect the agreeable train of thought his erection was trying to propel him down.
Which is clearly not the reply the swordsman’s looking for, if the sharp bite to his lower lip is anything to go by... along with an actual growl.
Well... maybe his dick had made some points before.
“God damnit, marimo, fucking f-fine! So, what!” He shrieks, “So what if I—h-have you heard your shitty voice?! It’s not my fault it sounds like—like liquid sex!”
“That’s a start,” Zoro grounds out between a predatory smile, “See? Wasn’t so hard.”
There’s no time for Sanji to lash back at the patronizing comment before the swordsman’s mouth is back on his and the hand pinning his wrist clamps onto his waist.
The cook’s free hand immediately digs into the back of the other man’s skull while the other roughly kneads a bare pectoral, ramping up the urgency and heat of their kiss. He’s rewarded with a groan as those lips part, and their tongues and teeth join the increasingly hungry movements.
If the ability to carve out the inside of the idiot’s mouth with his own was the trade-off for being scolded like a child, he’d let it slide.
Hell, a tiny, scandalized part of him hoped he’d do it again—whatever it took to keep the mosshead talking like that.
Open-mouthed kisses trail down Sanji’s jawline while their owner’s hands make a journey of their own; each button of his shirt is hastily undone until warm palms are given free access to his porcelain torso.
Zoro inhales deeply into the side of his neck, reveling in the smooth sides of the blonde’s ribcage. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” the swordsman breathes, the sincerity in his voice highly contradicting the more insistent treatment the rest of his body is paying to the man pinned under him.
The softness of the confession coaxes an unsuspecting gasp out of Sanji—he’s never heard such affectionate candor from the other man.
It seems his body reacts to that tone just as enthusiastically as the feral one he’s been pining over. As if to drive that point home, his traitorous hips reflexively buck up to Zoro’s just as needy erection.
Was it possible to orgasm from one’s voice alone? Sanji sure as hell hoped not, otherwise he’d be fucking screwed.
Zoro reluctantly pulls away from the cook, the other’s lips attempting to chase him before blinking his hazy eyes open to scowl at him.
“Eager, are we?” The swordsman taunts lowly, not missing the way Sanji bites his lower lip and shivers, albeit with that indignant look. He’s going to say it, and Zoro knows maybe before Sanji does. He knows he’s going to tell him to—
“S-shut up, asshole,” the cook mutters almost reflexively. Red faced and glassy-eyed, with Zoro’s spit glistening on his parted mouth, and Sanji was still fighting it. Predictable as ever.
Unfortunately (great) for him, the mosshead is proficient in curly-browed chef handling.
“Hmm... okay then,” Zoro states with that dangerous glint and one raised brow. The green bastard then unceremoniously sinks to his knees in the unoccupied space between his feet and swiftly undoes Sanji’s slacks.
“I know how the infamous love cook can't keep his mouth shut when he sees a nice pair of tits and pretty eyes.” Blown-out pupils flicker up at the gaping blonde and his pants are on the ground with one rough tug.
“Makes me think that maybe all your drooling after women is just for show.” He pauses to press his hot tongue up the length of the straining front of the blonde’s underwear and digs blunt nails into toned thighs. “Here you are, leaking after a couple kisses from me, and all you got is ‘shut up’? Really?
“I wonder if all that perverted shit is to cover up the fact you’d rather be dicked down instead.”
Oh.
Sanji inhales the blood threatening to spill from his nostrils so hard it hits the back of his throat.
He stifles a cough and swallows audibly. No. He was not getting a second nosebleed today at the hands of the marimo’s lechery. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
However, what his traitorous body would give him the satisfaction of, apparently, was a cock twitch so significant that it leaps in his undergarments and taps Zoro on the cheek. The swordsman’s eyebrows make an attempt to reach his hairline.
He was fucked.
“Shit, curly—degradation too? You really are a perv,” Zoro teases cheekily.
True to his mosshead ways, though, it wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t constantly one-upping himself—in the bedroom it seems to be no different.
Scraping his teeth down Sanji’s happy trail peeking from his briefs, he adds, “I kind of like that when it’s all for me.”
Teeth meet waistband and grab hold to slowly drag the underwear over his dick and down pale legs until they reunite with the pants still pooling around his ankles. The same teeth that normally have a sword between them just stripped him of the final layer concealing his crotch. Sanji couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe.
Was he about to pass out? Did he just hear himself whimper?
It seems the title of demon also includes being some sort of fucking incubus. How could it be that the man he regularly mistakes as a modern-day caveman is capable of spouting hemorrhage-inducing word porn in damn near the sexiest voice his ears had the misfortune—and absolute pleasure—of becoming addicted to?
God damnit, think of something to say back! The fists balling at his sides clench tighter. It was infuriating enough how the sound of Zoro’s voice alone turned his brain into chowder.
Just like in their fights, he was swiftly discovering all of Sanji’s weaknesses and mercilessly capitalizing on them. It’s a miracle in itself that he was still standing—he couldn’t remember a time he was more turned on. It was stifling, the heat in the other man’s gaze and tongue consuming in the best way possible. His frontal lobe was a burning building, all ability to retaliate or clap back too busy making a break for the emergency exit.
To make matters impossibly worse, he knew the bastard knew, too: his smug—and still sexy, God fucking damnit—demeanor was saying it all.
He was so, so, fucked.
“The floor’s all yours, cook.” Zoro grasps the base of his cock. “You got until you come,” he warns, and then swallows him down to the hilt.
Sanji chokes on a sound that’s halfway between a gut punch and a whine as the swordsman sets a steady pace. Slick lips and tongue drag back and forth against the sensitive skin of his erection, the molten warmth and friction ripping a guttural moan from deep in his chest. He’s finally given the chance to even the field but can’t even formulate a single sentence all because of that sinful mouth.
Good god, the swordsman feels just as mind-blowing as he sounds. Distantly, he wonders if it’s an oral fixation ‘fighting with a sword in his mouth’ thing and shivers.
Sanji curses under a heady breath and digs his hand in the back of short green hair, lost in the feeling. The image of Zoro on his knees, cock disappearing between swollen lips and dewy eyes trained on his will absolutely be branded in the back of his retinas forever.
“Z-Zoro, shit—y-you...” The cook stutters, not even sure what he was going to follow up with.
The man below him spares a questionable expression paired with an inquisitive hum... which sends him curling over with a gasp as the vibration permeates through his dick. The resulting chuckles only prolong the torturous reverberations that revert his first language back to the primitive grunts of his ancestors; he inwardly blanches at the realization that he can probably never call the marimo any insult pertaining to a Neanderthal again after this.
He’d have to shelve that for later, because the possibility that Sanji’s soul might be leaving his body through the blessed hollowed-out suction enveloping him overrides everything else. That, and the looming fear that it’s not going to take much more before his orgasm while he hasn’t tripped out more than three words.
“Mother fucker, this—God, yes—is p-playing dirty!” Sanji tugs at the green locks between his fingers, wordlessly begging Zoro to relent—or to spur him on, he doesn’t even know anymore.
His fierce determination to better the swordsman was steadily losing to the carnal desire to see that smart mouth swallow every last drop of his load. When the other man’s eyes roll in the back of his head at the stinging yank on his scalp, however... nothing could compete with that.
“Fuck, fuck, Zoro, f-fuck, I’m gonna come,” the cook babbles mindlessly, giving into the feeling and rocking his hips urgently to meet the stretched lips hitting the root of his cock with every ingress.
Two hands roughly grab his ass at the plea and still his hips; Zoro’s tongue undulates relentlessly at his twitching member trapped deep within the confines of the other’s throat. Sanji’s head slams back against the lockers with a yell, fingers and legs shaking helplessly.
His orgasm rips through him and he’s coming hard, hips attempting to ride the waves crashing through him but unable with the bruising grip on his backside. All he can hear over the thunder of his own panting are the lewd slurps below him, which prolongs the high in a way he didn’t know was possible.
It’s hopeless, he’s hopeless when it comes to this bastard’s mouth in every way.
Or for the bastard in general—no, that’s the crescendo of his orgasm talking. Anyone would be at the mercy of an unbelievable blowjob by a talented, gorgeous, stupid, bull-headed, moss-brained swordsman. Right.
The cook’s button-up flutters off his shoulders and he slumps against the metal behind him; Zoro finally pulls off, wiping his saliva-soaked mouth with the back of his hand.
Sanji barely registers his shoes and pants being removed until he lolls his head downward to see the swordsman, flushed and grinning—the word 'beautiful' flickers like a candle behind his eyes and warms his cheeks—in front of his now fully bare lower half.
“Alright, time’s up. I let you have your chance, and you blew it... literally.” Sanji weakly scoffs at the hypocrisy. “But that doesn’t mean I’m done with you.”
With that, he hefts Sanji over his shoulder on the way to his feet. He briefly stops at his locker to retrieve something, ignoring Sanji flailing and swearing like some rare species of foul-mouthed sea creature.
Embarrassed sputtering is all the blonde can muster before he’s tossed face-first onto the couch; the swordsman is flush against his back in an instant to press him further into the cushions.
“I don’t think so, cook,” Zoro chastises with a grind of his still (annoyingly) clothed erection against his backside. The previous deep throating did the ruggedness of his voice zero favors, adding to the coarse drawl that clutches at Sanji’s gut.
“That weak excuse of a confession isn’t going to cut it—I know you can do better than that. Since you seem to like my talking so much, maybe it’ll give you a little inspiration.”
Searing hands drag down his back as the swordsman rises to nestle between the cook’s thighs. They stop at the curve of his spine and squeeze the globes of his cheeks, one in each palm.
“To answer your question from before—yeah, your ass is perky, curls,” Zoro purrs. Sanji buries his face in his arms, face burning at the attention. “The way you dance around the kitchen in those tight pants... makes me want to suffocate between these while you ride my face. I could die happy with those thick thighs of yours around my neck—shit.” The domineering facade cracks as the effect of Zoro’s own arousal bleeds through.
Sanji’s cock stirs at the way the other man sounds so wrecked merely reciting the debauched fantasies he’s conjured up. A cap pops behind him as one of those big hands pulls its designated cheek to the side, revealing the cook’s asshole.
“And that fucking apron,” Zoro groans, both at the sight before him and the mention of Sanji’s frilly pink garment. Slick fingers trail to the blonde’s entrance and tease the rim, eliciting a quaking whine from him. “Wanna pick you up and rail you against the galley wall with nothing on but the damn thing. Watch you bounce on my dick until you cum all over it.”
A ragged exhale as the swordsman collects himself before continuing, “Don’t worry, I’d clean it up for you—I know how you are about wasting food.” One digit eases into his entrance to the knuckle; the whine tapers up an octave as it begins pumping languidly.
Zoro hums, greedily taking in the sight of the prone chef and the way his entrance sucks in the thick finger. “Damn, you’re a natural. You let some of your precious women do this to you? So desperate to get filled you ask whatever girl gives you the time of day, when you could’ve had me this whole time?”
He adds another finger that Sanji’s pucker gives into readily. The blonde keens, shaking his head rapidly; Zoro lets out a dark chuckle.
“No? Maybe you do it yourself then... fingering this pretty little asshole while you think about me telling you how much I want you. Am I living up to the expectation, pervy cook?” Those damn fingers curl, prodding for that one spot within the blonde that would make him sing.
A long moan is punched from the cook’s lungs as his prostate is hit dead on, hips automatically chasing the digits inside him to get more of that pressure. Two fingers become three at Sanji’s enthusiasm, stretching his rim and occasionally brushing the sweet bundle of nerves swiftly crumbling his resolve.
“So needy for it,” Zoro rumbles, arousal causing his voice to dip impossibly lower. “You look so fucking hot like this. Such a slut for it—for me.”
Something in his brain snaps at the offensive name; his hole clenches and dick throbs.
Fuck it.
“Damnit, stupid mosshead, just fuck me already!” Sanji nearly sobs from under his forearms, lifting his ass off the couch and arching obscenely.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Zoro groans, removing his fingers and urgently shoving his own pants down enough to free his straining erection. He exhales a stuttering breath as he smears more of the oil on himself and tosses it hastily to the ground.
Zoro positions behind Sanji and lets his lubricated dick slap against the cleft of his ass. He takes the cook’s cheeks in hand again and squeezes them together, enveloping his hard on and appreciating the wet slide with a sigh.
He pulls his hips back as he kneads them open once more to catch the tip on Sanji’s rim before he painstakingly sinks in.
Sanji moans as inch after sweet inch of Zoro’s cock steadily pushes into the cook’s tight heat. The blonde grits his teeth, the blissful stretch causing sparks to go off behind his half-lidded eyes.
Those sparks soon turn into flash grenades when the swordsman decides to lift one thigh over his hipbone and shove the second half of his erection to the hilt. Blunt nails dig into the cushions below him.
With one hand supporting his thigh and the other like a vice on his waist, Zoro starts a frustratingly casual pace.
A slow, tantalizing in and out punctuated by a sharp snap to collide their hips. Sanji knows it’s meant to press his buttons, and not the one inside him—which is probably the only damn button Sanji wants the moron to actually press. Of course fucking the stupid (sexy) mossbrain was going to be like pulling teeth.
“Zoro...” Sanji growls, punched out a bit by the slap of the swordsman’s pelvis against his own. He turns his head to shoot the other man with what he hopes is a threatening sideways glare. The arms still encasing him tense from the way Zoro’s dick narrowly misses the bundle of nerves within him again.
“Yes?” Zoro replies, feigning ignorance. As if Sanji was about to ask him for help with the groceries; his filthy half-lidded gaze back was the only betrayal of his otherwise blasé attitude. “Do you need something?” He grinds particularly deep on the next thrust.
Sanji’s mind was reaching its limit. Short-circuiting was an understatement—this was a full-blown meltdown. The assault on all of his senses coupled with the torturously slow pace of Zoro’s hips was maddening. He fisted at his own hair and dug his heel into the swordsman’s back, trying to spur the jerk on as best he could with his limited range of movement.
“Can’t give you what you want unless you use your words,” Zoro grounds out, tightening his fingers around Sanji’s firm thigh and hip. He might have bruises there after this, and the thrill of it dances up his spine. He hopes he has bruises after this.
This strange brand of torture was truly making him deranged. A strangled scream escapes through clenched teeth.
“I can do this all day. I’d rather bend you in half and make you scream. Wanna test that flexibility of yours... but if you’re good with this,” Zoro teases as he releases the hand on his hip and presses it down firmly between his shoulder blades, “I’ll take what I can get, Sanji.” The next thrust is so intense the couch groans and the door rattles in its frame.
The new angle torpedoes the swordsman’s cockhead directly into Sanji’s prostate; he screams. Hands fly out to grip the arm of the sofa, white knuckling the upholstery. He’d said his real name with that sinful fucking mouth. That’s it. That’s fucking it. Fuck his pride, fuck his ego, and most of all, fuck Zoro.
Sanji lifts his head as much as he can to turn back with a murderous stare. “I can’t fucking stand you,” he rasps, bordering on a yell. Zoro’s hips still, staring wide-eyed at the seething cook.
“Y-you, and the way that your stupid fucking voice makes me hard every time I hear it. I can’t think of anything else except the way it’d sound as you’re pounding me into any horizontal or vertical surface closest to us.
“Or—or the way you’d moan as you shoved your dick down my throat until I choked. It keeps me up at night, no matter how much I jerk off. You’re such a damn tease. This is all your damn fault, and you need to take responsibility for it. There—you happy?!” Okay, now he was yelling.
“Now fuck me like you mean it, Zoro, or I’m really going to kill you!”
Sanji’s heavy breaths rang out in the otherwise silent bunkroom. Zoro’s face was still as it had been when the cook first started his libido-fueled outburst, but was now flushed almost a deep crimson that was creeping its way down his chest. For the first time that day, it’s the swordsman who’s speechless; he swallows audibly.
Wordlessly, Zoro pulls out and releases Sanji’s hip. The cook’s vision spins until he realizes the other man tossed his leg to effectively throw him on his back. Zoro brings both toned limbs onto his shoulders and re-enters without warning. Sanji swears as he arches up, only to be met by his own thighs pinning him back down. Zoro crowds over him, joining their lips in a crushing kiss.
The first snap of Zoro’s hips has Sanji breaking apart their mouths to brokenly moan. The swordsman wastes no time setting a rapid pace, slamming his hips into the tight ass below him until the couch legs are carving streaks into the wooden floor.
Sanji desperately tears at the solid back and forearms folding him in half as every inch of air is pushed from his lungs with each forceful ingress. Zoro chokes back a moan, biting and sucking into Sanji’s exposed neck and shoulder.
“Cook, you feel so damn good,” Zoro moans into the blossoming hickey. “Better than I ever imagined. Like you were made to take my dick. I wanna feel you next time, h-however you want me.” Sanji’s eyes roll in the back of his head.
There was a next time?
“Close,” Sanji whines, grabbing at short green strands and tugging mercilessly. The swordsman curses, leaning back up on his knees and holding Sanji’s left thigh tight against his chest. He lets the cook’s other leg fall heavily over the back of the couch in favor of gripping the base of his leaking cock and syncing the movements with his punishing thrusts.
Sanji catches Zoro’s predatory gaze through his cloud of arousal and watches as he licks a bead of sweat from his upper lip. “Me too,” the swordsman pants. “Tell me where you want my cum.”
Sanji clenches down as his second orgasm erupts at the next press of their hips, a surprised groan coming with it.
Guess that answers the whole ‘can you cum from someone’s voice’ inquiry.
“That was hot as hell, curly, but you still need to answer me,” Zoro rasps, barely staving off his orgasm at the quivering tightness around his cock and the unbelievable sight of Sanji blowing a load from him asking a simple question.
Sanji bites his lip; the pale leg draped over the couch wraps its way around the small of Zoro’s back. Locking hooded eyes with the swordsman again, he purrs, “I-inside.”
If Zoro was prone to nosebleeds, he’d sure as hell have one right now. It only takes a few more shallow thrusts while chanting Sanji’s name (his real one) to spill inside the cook with a drawn-out shuddering grunt. Both of the cook’s legs splay out boneless as Zoro carefully pulls out with a shiver. The swordsman curses under his breath as he takes one last look at Sanji’s leaking rim before collapsing next to him.
After what seems like a lifetime of evening their breathing, Sanji’s regains enough brain power to form the question he’s been dying to ask: “Where in the hell did you learn to talk like that? Don’t tell me you finally learned how to read.”
He feels the snort rumble through the swordsman’s chest, pleased to feel the vibrations underneath him until he hears, “I’m not a virgin, unlike someone I know.”
He knows it’s bait, with the way he hears the playful smile in the other’s words, but his hackles rise instinctually. He has to keep some illusion of pride, after all.
Zoro lets out a light ‘oof’ when the cook smacks him on the stomach, lifting his head to glare at the other man. Something akin to fondness radiates in his chest when he sees a faint blush there, but silently pockets that image for safekeeping. “You know damn well I wasn’t a virgin, you moss-headed—”
“Guys, guys—I think they stopped! We have to finish this, and fast!”
Both men freeze, necks snapping toward the barricaded door behind their tangled bodies.
“I’m thinking as hard as I can, Chopper! I’ve never had to write a ‘we’re happy for you but please keep it down next time' card!” An exasperated, yet distinctly nasal, hushed voice replies. “Why isn’t Luffy doing this, he’s the captain for crying out loud!”
Chopper shushes him. “Keep your voice down! The last thing we need is to embarrass them more by having them hear us out here,” the deer states in a half-whisper even louder than Usopp’s.
“You chose the short straw, bro. It’s only fair you write the note,” Franky’s voice joins in from the hallway. “Just say ‘we all support you guys getting freaky, but we can all hear it so keep that in mind’.”
Usopp’s mutterings quietly mimic each word as Franky speaks, likely scrawling down what the cyborg suggests verbatim. “Maybe I could do some soundproofing or something, don’t want to ruin their super time too much.”
All of the color drains from Sanji’s face. Just how long were their crewmates hanging about outside the men’s quarters?
“That’s true,” Usopp sighs, still loud enough to be clearly heard through the wood. “It took those lovebirds this long to figure it out, we wouldn’t want to scare ‘em back into denial. Who knows if they’d ever act on their feelings again!”
“Put it under the door, quick! Before they come out!” Chopper frantically squeaks.
The sound of paper being stuffed none too gently in the crack under the door breaks whatever paralyzing trance the men fell under at their crewmates’ conversation. Two pairs of footsteps and one set of hooves scurry down the hall and out of earshot. The silence that proceeds it is deafening.
Sanji’s transfixed on the wood grain of the bunkroom’s entryway, jaw clenching until his gums ache. Did he even dare gauge Zoro’s reaction right now? Maybe he could break through the bedroom’s circular window and drown himself instead? That way he’d never have to look Zoro or the rest of his crewmates in the eye ever again.
Whether out of self-hatred or the desire to return to the swordman’s plush chest (or a little bit of both), the cook steels himself and faces the man still lying under him.
Zoro’s glancing around the room, contemplative, cheeks still dusted pink with his hands behind his head. He can almost hear the rusted gears in that moss ball head of his straining to grind his two brain cells together.
Sanji bites the inside of his cheek to keep from mocking the other about it, allowing himself to take in how soft and... cute the swordsman actually looks in his post-coital haze. A thoughtful hum escapes the marimo after his scan of the room is complete.
“Some soundproofing could be helpful. You’re pretty loud,” the other man muses. So much for savoring the moment—it is still Zoro after all.
Sanji grabs the nearest pillow and aggressively smothers the shit-eating grin he knows is plastered on the bastard’s face. He’s heard enough out of him for today.