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For once, Sanji’s attention isn’t on the ladies. The crew digs into dinner as noisily and aggressively as ever, but their cook isn’t fluttering around refilling drinks and ladling out seconds. He startles out of his thoughts when Robin requests more wine in a tone that says she’s already asked at least twice without him hearing. His cheeks heat up with the embarrassment of being caught staring. At least the useless lump he was staring at hasn’t noticed.
Sanji doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him.
He swaps out the carafe of wine for a platter of ribs and goes around the table, filling plates on autopilot while his eyes return unbidden to the swordsman currently sucking marrow from bone like a fucking animal. His mouth and hands work in coordinated effort to get every last morsel from it, grease trickling down his fingers and over his wrist until it's washed clean with his tongue.
Uncouth. Barbaric. Hot.
Goddamnit.
He shakes his head angrily, like that will dispel the worrying thoughts he can’t stop having ever since Luffy and Usopp wasted two hours of Jinbe’s time explaining how the crew all came together. Sanji had heard the basics of the earlier crewmates’ introductions when Brook joined, but without the urgency of chasing down shadows this time, the stories unspooled and stretched into unnecessary detail. Luffy gave a full blow-by-blow of his journey from home, the idiocy with the barrel, then meeting Koby, as well as the specifics of how he freed Zoro. Sanji had scoffed when he heard about the swordsman’s stubborn righteousness in insisting to remain tied up, recognising the same trait that made the fool welcome a death blow with open arms outside the Baratie.
The part with the little girl and the onigiri was new.
And captivating.
Sanji’s mind paints a rich portrait of the moment. Of Zoro tied up, of rice and dirt, of a contrary bastard with a buried instinct for kindness.
He continues watching as Zoro finishes his plate, snagging a discarded crust to mop up the last of the dregs. Now that he's noticed it, he realises Zoro's always been like that. Never complaining about a meal in any real way; eating like a man half-starved, half-possessed; only ever leaving once the dish is stripped entirely clean.
He’d probably eat anything I put in his mouth, wouldn’t he?
Sanji chokes on his own spit and retreats to the sink.
The cook has been preparing dinner for an hour. Zoro has been watching him for forty minutes.
Muscles cording and tendons flexing as he kneads dough; delivering perfect pressure to snap clean through bone with a cleaver; deft fingers working in salt and spice, wrapping around handles and hilts, and, shit, the knives…the intimate familiarity he has with each of them, the effortless command and practised technique with which he works, the blade, the hand, all of it has some kind of hypnotic hold on Zoro. The stupid cook himself had been taking up too much room in Zoro’s mind all day.
That morning, Franky had been showing off a new weapons upgrade he’d built that featured tapered metal spikes, and made a joke about lending some to Sanji when he needed to cut up the sea king that Luffy so often demanded. Sanji gave a laughing reply about how he’d much rather get his hands on the knives he’d used to cut through that noodle man on the sea train, and returned to the galley. Zoro definitely did not stick around the deck just to see if anyone was going to explain what the fuck he meant by that.
The cook didn’t use his hands, and he absolutely didn’t use blades. Right?
Except, according to Usopp, he did.
Zoro tuned out Usopp and his over-dramatic retelling in favour of letting his own imagination provide the supporting evidence. A huge mistake, in retrospect, considering that he didn’t know how to make it stop. He finally gave up and slunk into the galley to try and sneak some booze to take the edge off, only to be distracted by the cook’s knife skills. How had he never noticed before? The exacting strokes, the precision, the control. Grace tempered strength in a way that was unfamiliar to Zoro’s understanding of swordsmanship, unique to the cook as he worked his blade.
I wonder if I could piss him off enough to put it to my throat.
Fuck, Zoro needs to get out of here.
Thankfully, he doesn’t get the chance to even accidentally bait the cook into anything, though the reason why is somewhat concerning.
Sanji is being…nice to him.
There’s still insults and threats of violence (and actual violence) but in between all that, he’s been giving Zoro extra food. Not the regular snacks to supplement his training or see him through night watch, but the last serve at dinner, or little things throughout the day like usually only the girls get. Although, where the girls also get disgustingly sweet smiles and lame compliments, whenever Zoro drops off an empty plate, all he receives is a slightly pained look and some unintelligible muttering as he’s swiftly ejected from the galley.
Zoro slings the plate across the counter with just enough force to have it drop neatly into the sink. His smooth calculation is for nothing because Sanji catches the plate mid-fall with an annoyed hiss.
“Idiot! Don’t dirty up my sink with—” he cuts off as he actually glances down at the dish. “Oh, you absolute bastard. You ate the fucking rinds.”
Zoro has no clue why the cook is so mad about this. He’s the one who’s always complaining about food waste and all that bullshit anyway. Whatever, it’s beyond easy to match his scowl and stomp closer to square up for a fight. Sanji’s grip tightens on his knife as he glares at Zoro, knuckles flexing on the handle as he curses under his breath.
Zoro forgets to be mad.
He advances until he's got the cook boxed in against the countertop and the wall, plate still in one hand and knife in the other. Sanji scoffs, but it doesn't hide his confusion at Zoro's abrupt change in mood. It's irrational, not to mention beyond stupid, but the only thing on Zoro's mind in this moment is the fabricated ideal of Sanji fighting with knives, and the very real promise of cold steel in the cook's hand right now.
Zoro leans in obnoxiously close, wanting to goad him to action, hoping to push him just enough and in just the right way to get what he wants. Sanji rears back, shoving Zoro away at the same time, plate to stomach…and flat of knife to chest. His visible eye goes wide with surprise as he realises what he's done. Zoro clamps a hand over his wrist, equally impulsive, yanking them together so the knife rests more insistently against him. The coolness of the metal begins to bleed through his t-shirt as they stand there, inexplicably unable to break away from each other.
Zoro licks his lips and Sanji's gaze drops to follow the motion. His mouth curves with an arrogant smile at that, proud as always to capture his rival's attention. Zoro slides his hand to cover Sanji's and angle the knife so he can feel the edge. He relishes the way Sanji's hand flexes beneath his and pushes the sharp of the blade firmly against his rib. An unfamiliar heaviness settles in him, slowing his breath and making it difficult to keep his eye open. Zoro squeezes Sanji's hand gently in silent request. The click of Sanji's throat as he swallows is loud in the still air, and he exhales shakily before obliging, tracing the knife along Zoro's ribcage.
Zoro is only aware he's made a small noise in the back of his throat when Sanji's attention jolts up from their hands to his face. It breaks the thrall of the blade enough for him to notice his knuckles are grazing Sanji's chest now, that he's leaned in further (or maybe it was Sanji who drifted closer—the thought of which makes Zoro’s blood sing) and now they're barely inches apart. He locks eyes with Sanji and sees something shift in them.
Sanji's grip tightens again, and he pulls away from Zoro's hand. There's a moment of panic where he thinks the illusion has shattered and he's about to get a kick—or a stab—but then Sanji is turning the knife and bringing it vertically down his torso. The movement is more deliberate; Sanji puts more weight behind it so Zoro can feel the sharp of the knife's edge even through the worn cotton. Every muscle in Zoro's body is taut with desire and his breathing is laboured. A haze creeps at the edges of his mind, sensory tunnel vision blurring anything that isn't Sanji or the knife he holds as it reaches the bottom of his shirt. Sanji cocks his head as he considers the situation, looking thoughtfully at the knife before glancing back at Zoro.
A slow smile stretches his lips, and Zoro knows he's fucked.
Sanji scrapes across from navel to hip bone then repeats the movement on the other side. Zoro gasps when the blade finds a sliver of skin between his clothes, catching him off-guard despite the slow tease that preceded it. He's no better prepared for when Sanji snags the tip of the knife under his shirt and starts pulling upwards, bunching the fabric as he goes, revealing Zoro's tense muscles. Sanji shoves the shirt up with an impatient hand, giving himself more room to work. He switches between the flat and edge of the blade, running along Zoro's torso with decisive motions like he's marking out cuts of meat.
Zoro recognises something in Sanji's grip that doesn't come from the kitchen: the anticipatory way he holds his body when he's in a fight. Arousal shoots through Zoro at the knowledge he's getting a version of the Sanji he imagined, the one who cuts through opponents with wielded finesse.
Sanji keeps a hand fisted in Zoro's shirt at his shoulder while he glides the knife with enough pressure for Zoro to feel the sting, but not enough to draw blood. Zoro's eye flutters shut with a bitten off groan as the sharp of the knife skates, controlled but heavy, up his sternum. A pale line momentarily stands out in it's wake, the ghost of a cut. There's an urge to push into it, to force Sanji's hand, but he knows the cook would simply adjust, matching his move like he does when they spar, effortless as ever. The blade is pressed flat again when it reaches the soft spot between his collarbones, tip digging in just shy of breaking the skin.
Zoro's heartbeat pulses thick against the steel, vibrating with anticipation…yet nothing happens.
The knife stays where it is.
Zoro opens his eye to find Sanji looking at him intently, expectantly. When Zoro doesn't do anything but blink slowly out of his daze, Sanji purses his lips in a disappointed pout before flicking his wrist upwards in a motion almost too fast to catch. There's a dissonant ripping sound and Zoro follows Sanji's burning gaze down to his chest to see the bastard’s cut through his goddamn shirt. For a second, he's enraptured by how it should be impossible to rip through fabric that easily with a knife like this, but then Sanji shrugs derisively, like it was Zoro's own fault. Any stirrings over how hot he found the move gives way to familiar irritation.
He moves without thought, muscle-memory pushing him to get in Sanji's face and yell at him, but the cook is faster. The knife is at his throat quicker than anything, digging in dangerously without raising Zoro's usual defensive instincts. He can't stifle the moan that tears from him, hips bucking up to meet Sanji's. It's like every nerve in his body lights up at the contact, and he presses closer for more, bracketing one of Sanji's legs with his own to grind against him shamelessly.
His eye slips shut and he tilts his head back, giving Sanji more control than he'd ever have thought himself capable of. Sanji hums out a breathy noise that sounds pleased. His free hand comes to Zoro's neck, angling his head further as he trails the knife along his throat. Zoro grabs at Sanji's hips, pulling his dress shirt out from his pants and then pulling some more, snapping buttons off with a vengeance in retribution for his ruined t-shirt. Sanji clicks his tongue, grabbing one of Zoro's wrists and twisting his arm behind his back, bringing them chest to chest. The soft heat of bare skin compounds the cold of the knife's edge currently following the line of his jugular, and Zoro is dizzy with lust.
The blade scrapes his Adam's apple, teasing the delicate skin of his throat and the underside of his jaw. Sanji brings it up further, pressing the dull edge just below his lips. Zoro opens his mouth around a shuddering breath. Sanji drags the knife back down, replacing the pinch of steel with the blunt force of his fingers as his free hand grips Zoro's jaw. Even this close together, the blue of his iris is barely discernible around the blown wide pupil, and he licks his bottom lip in the same motion he traces Zoro's mouth with the pad of his finger.
He's still drifting the knife across Zoro's skin, languid and sharp at once, and when he pushes two fingers into Zoro's mouth, it's almost too much. He sucks them in on instinct, surprised when Sanji's moan mixes in with his own. It cracks through the fog of need clouding Zoro's mind, grounding him enough to register the effect on Sanji. He seems entranced, slack jawed as his gaze stays firmly on Zoro's mouth. Zoro swirls his tongue around the digits, rapt attention on the way Sanji's eyelids flutter like it's a struggle to keep them open, and the barely audible good that's breathed into the inch of space left between them. Satisfaction fizzes beneath his skin, and he knows he can give Sanji what he wants. Zoro releases his fingers, amused at the slight furrow of disappointment that causes in his brow.
He grabs Sanji's belt, unclasping it and unzipping his pants. Zoro goes to his knees slowly, letting the edge of the knife Sanji is still holding to him slide along his chest as he moves in the opposite direction. Pulling down the last layers of clothing, he curls a hand around the back of Sanji's thigh and looks up at him before taking in his prize. Sanji stares back with a flushed face and open mouth, one hand white-knuckling the edge of the countertop while the heel of his other palm comes to anchor against Zoro's collarbone. He has the knife in a reverse grip, and it takes effort for Zoro to keep himself present when he feels the blade hover against his throat. He can't deny he's completely at Sanji's mercy like this, in every conceivable way. Zoro never thought he'd find such a scenario so fucking hot.
He shifts closer, inch by inch, until he can take Sanji into his mouth. There's a sharp inhale above him and Sanji clutches the knife tighter. It presses flat against the base of Zoro's throat again, but this time, his movements cause the edge to press more firmly into his skin. He can't help how his eye rolls back into his head, nor the wanton sounds he makes as he sucks Sanji off with fervour. His own painfully hard cock demands attention, though he's too focused on getting Sanji off to do more than shove a hand down his pants and stroke himself absently.
“You're really into this, aren't you? Giving head gets you off, marimo?”
It's meant to be insulting, probably degrading, but Sanji sounds positively wrecked and all Zoro hears is lust and praise. He grins and takes Sanji deeper, moving his tongue and hollowing his cheeks in a combination that has Sanji swearing with impressive creativity. Zoro doesn't bother trying to hold back as he touches himself with more urgency, joining the filthy chorus of the wet slide of cock against his tongue, and Sanji's hoarse voice and broken sounds. Sanji's hips buck and he groans when he hits the back of Zoro's throat with no resistance. The weight of the knife bears down on him, making him moan around his mouthful as he teeters on the edge of release.
“For fuck’s sake,” Sanji chokes out above him.
Suddenly, the pressure at Zoro's neck disappears. He cuts off a whine and glances up without stopping. Sanji's got his head tilted back, knife-holding hand now pinching the bridge of his nose, though it does nothing to stop the blood already trailing down his chin. Zoro pulls off and Sanji looks at him again. Fresh blood pours from his nose, staining the swath of exposed skin between his open shirt in rivulets of red. It would be alarming if Zoro didn't know the cause. He grins, flattered despite the stupidity inherent to the reaction. Wrapping a hand around Sanji's cock, he resumes his stalled efforts while stretching up to lick at the blood on his stomach. Sanji drops his head back with a guttural moan, rolling his neck so he can still watch Zoro.
Zoro laps at the blood within his reach, licking his teeth and smiling widely at a transfixed Sanji. His lips are red and swollen from biting them in a long-failed attempt to stay quiet, and his hips jerk into Zoro's hand with abandon. He grabs at Zoro's hair, pushing him back down, and Zoro takes the hint enthusiastically, mouth halfway on Sanji's dick again when he comes with a jolt. Zoro swallows, too busy cleaning the excess with his tongue to notice the way Sanji's fingers flex in his hair or how his whole body trembles at the gesture.
Zoro gets to his feet, drawing a slow finger through some of the remaining blood streaks as he rises and sucking it into his mouth. He lets it go with a loud pop, laughing at Sanji's wide eyed stare. He scowls, but yanks Zoro in with a curse all the same, crashing their mouths together. It's the wettest kiss Zoro's ever had, blood-slick and metallic in a way that would be overwhelming if it wasn't making him impossibly harder. Sanji licks into his mouth slow and deliberate despite the frenzy from mere seconds before, taking his time, tasting Zoro like he’s a four course menu before pulling back and moving his lips in a decidedly unsexy way: to mutter scathing insults against every aspect of Zoro's person. His words are entirely incongruent to his body, pushing the remnants of Zoro's shirt off before reeling him in to run hands over every inch of him, from shoulder to hip to needy cock.
His fingers move along Zoro's length with the same grace and command as he handles his knives. Zoro muffles pleasured gasps into Sanji's neck and lets himself surrender to his ministrations. Sanji strokes him with sharp tugs as his other hand grasps at Zoro’s back and traces his abdominal muscles. Zoro shivers at the rake of nails, the contrast of the light, searching fingers with the heavy hand wrapped around him pulling sounds he’d never admit came from his mouth. He wonders how the fuck Sanji knows just how to touch him; how much pressure, the perfect rhythm, exactly when to scrape his teeth along Zoro’s collarbone to make him melt.
The ever-present control and expert touch make him feel like a weapon in Sanji's hands. Somewhere between that thought and the image of Sanji wielding knives in battle, Zoro comes in his hand with a shudder, sucking at the meat of Sanji's shoulder. He lets Sanji hold his weight while he catches his breath, licking over the bruise he's left once he's come back to himself.
He laughs when he pulls back and sees the state of the other man. Bloodstains smear the bottom of his face and his neck where Zoro mouthed at him, reducing him to a garish crime scene. Zoro puts his lips to the worst of the mess on Sanji’s chin then places a wet kiss to his cheek, grinning when it leaves a grotesque version of a lipstick mark. Sanji scowls at him, reaching up to touch the mark, unable to see what Zoro finds so amusing and pissed off about it. Zoro catches his hand before he can touch his cheek, snickering as he smacks another kiss just above his wrist, leaving a faded impression of his lips. Sanji's scowl deepens at that, but interestingly, a soft blush rises to his cheeks as he scrubs the marks away, elbowing Zoro when he laughs again.
Zoro lets the push carry him a few steps left to grab a tea towel and wet it at the sink to clean himself up. He rinses it off before tossing it to Sanji, snorting at the wet thwap it makes as it hits his chest. Zoro ducks to avoid the incoming kicks and projectiles, grabbing his shredded t-shirt as he does so. He swipes it across his stomach to catch the excess water. Sanji catches this one when it's thrown his way without even glancing in Zoro's direction. He's bringing the abandoned plate and knife to the sink to wash before presumably returning to chopping…something. Zoro watches him lather the knife with dish soap and carefully clean it before placing it to dry, then washing his hands practically to the elbow.
He blinks out of the daze when Sanji throws a questioning, slightly flushed look at him over his shoulder. Zoro turns around and exits the galley without a backwards glance, as though his mind isn't still stuck on those stupid goddamn hands.
Sanji is adjusting the flavours on a new ceviche mix he’s testing out when the door thumps open. He can tell by the loud boots it's just Zoro, probably looking for a post-training drink, so he doesn't bother to look up. He doesn't need to see him in order to track his presence anyway. Nothing else has changed since the last time they were alone in the galley, but Sanji has been hyper-aware of Zoro at all times. It's made worse by the blurring of memory and fantasy, keeping the swordsman on his mind.
Sanji focuses on discerning the perfect balance for the ceviche, then slices a small portion of kingfish to complete the dish for a final taste-test. He ignores the burn of a watchful eye as he moves on to a honey-soy marinade, slicing, crushing, whisking, all the while trying to keep his thoughts restricted to the planning the order in which he'll grill the seafood at lunch. Still, he feels Zoro wander closer, and knows it's too casual to not be intentional. He doesn't complain about Zoro's drinking or the way he's still sweaty from his workout, just pushes the completed bowl of marinade to the side as he grabs a wooden spoon to check the ragu simmering down in preparation for dinner.
He graciously lets Zoro steal a bit of the cured fish without comment, but when the bastard makes a slightly unimpressed noise and drowns the ceviche with low grade sake, Sanji snaps around to glare at him.
“Fuck you mean by that, huh?”
Zoro just raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, I don't wanna hear it! As if a tasteless moron like you would know anything about balancing a palette. The ladies will appreciate my exquisite pairing and that's all that counts,” he adds primly, turning back to the stove. He stirs the pot with a little too much rigour, staring in horror as flecks of sauce hit his shirt. He curses useless swordsmen with no taste under his breath.
Zoro snorts indelicately.
“You got a little somethin’,” Zoro doesn't wait for Sanji to catch on, instead leaning in with a smarmy grin to lick Sanji’s cheek. Fucking slob.
“Oi, what the fuck!” Sanji jumps away, flailing in a defensive motion and spattering even more warm ragu on himself. Perfect.
Zoro's smile gets even bigger and more irritating.
“Well, now you got it everywhere,” he says with mock reprimand. “Here, lemme help.”
He steps forward with purpose, the wild glint in his eye leaving Sanji feeling cornered.
“C'mon, Cook,” he murmurs when he gets close, voice pitching low in a way that spikes heat through Sanji's core. He swipes two fingers across Sanji's chin only to smear the gathered sauce across his lips. Before Sanji can at least pretend to recoil, a warm tongue is licking over his mouth and pushing inside. He is not proud of the sound he makes as he gives in, and less so of the way he practically melts into the swordsman’s touch. Zoro angles his face to kiss across his jaw before he licks a hot stripe down his neck. He repeats the action along Sanji's collarbone, making an indecent slurping sound as he licks up more spilled sauce.
It should be gross. It should be too wet and messy and entirely unappealing.
But fuck if it isn't turning him on to have Zoro's mouth all over him like Sanji's the best meal he's ever had.
Every sweep of his tongue and graze of his teeth runs electric through Sanji's nerves and is quickly clouding his mind. He should stop this, or at least slow it down, or move them somewhere else, or do…something…but he finds he has little interest in doing anything besides helping Zoro get him out of his shirt so he can mouth down his chest. Sanji's head tips back and he puts a hand on the counter for support only to smack into the mixing bowl. Instinctively moving to stop a spill, he grabs blindly, fingers splaying in the sauce as he stabilises the bowl. He jerks his attention away from the incredibly distracting way Zoro is sucking what will likely be a large bruise into his pec, and to the barely contained mess. He wipes the worst of it on the rim of the bowl before glancing around for a towel to—
Zoro grabs his arm and Sanji reflexively resists, but curiosity overpowers him and he lets Zoro run his wet fingers down his own skin from collar to rib, smearing honey-soy as they go. Sanji's brain fizzles at the sight and overheats at the sensation, leaving him empty of anything but desire. Zoro ducks his head to close the distance and licks Sanji's fingers clean one by one. His tongue moves hot, wet, deliberate, from base to tip, wrapping around the pads and flicking in between the knuckles.
Sanji whimpers.
Zoro grins up at him as he gently bites an index finger before letting it pop out of his mouth.
“Oh, come on…” Sanji's voice is weak, and his pants are beyond uncomfortably tight.
Zoro returns to the bruise on his chest, deepening it before mouthing at the sticky-sweet mess he's made, licking and biting with abandon. All he can do is thread his fingers through Zoro's hair and try to bite down on increasingly pathetic mewls as he's treated like something that's been served on a platter. Sanji blinks out of the stupor when Zoro hooks fingers into the front of his pants and yanks him forward. Knuckles brush at the skin below his belt, and Sanji has to make a concentrated effort not to trip over his own feet.
Zoro pulls him to the dry goods pantry, grabbing the half empty sake bottle on the way. It's drained by the time they stumble into the storeroom, and Zoro's mouth tastes sharp and sweet at once. It's not an appealing flavour but it makes Sanji dizzy all the same. Zoro pulls them flush together, then shoves Sanji back until he hits a shelving unit and makes every delicately stacked item on it rattle. Sanji digs his nails into Zoro's shoulders in retaliation, but it just makes him hiss in a way that's more pleasured than pained.
Now isn't that interesting?
He drags his nails down Zoro's arms with force, leaving angry red marks, taking in how Zoro's body goes a little slack in response. Sanji remembers the near hypnotic effect of the knife from last time. He’d never seen Zoro in that state before, but he had enjoyed it a lot, so much so that just the memory of it makes his body get hotter. In the second he loses himself in that thought, Zoro snaps out of the half-daze with the same steely look in his eye that promises that Sanji has just made a critical error.
He pins Sanji’s wrists to the shelf at his sides and pushes their hips together, biting at Sanji’s neck harshly as they rut against each other. There’s an insistence to Zoro’s movements that fuels Sanji’s own desire, and he’s unsurprised when Zoro drops to his knees, tugging Sanji’s pants down with the same impatience as last time. Anticipation of a repeat performance makes Sanji groan. Zoro’s hot breath ghosting over him is enough to have his eyes slipping shut of their own accord.
But Zoro makes him wait.
He doesn’t go fast and needy like before, hands instead drifting across Sanji’s upper thighs and gripping his muscles like he’s testing their strength. Zoro mouths at his hip, biting with enough pressure to make Sanji gasp, before turning him roughly around. Sanji braces against the wooden ledge, unbalanced and high off Zoro's touch. He doesn’t have time to gather his wits and wonder what exactly Zoro intends before his ass cheeks are being spread. Zoro runs a finger up and down, featherlight, before circling his entrance. Sanji can feel the hot breath fanning across his skin. He feels punch-drunk.
“Wh— fuck, what are you doing?”
He can practically hear the smug grin in Zoro's voice. “Needta open you up, Cook.”
Sanji's retorting scoff comes out breathy, trailing into a whine at the unmistakable sensation of a tongue against his hole. Now, he can feel Zoro's quiet laugh on him. Fucker.
“There's—god—it's a storeroom, you freak! There's oil, or, ngh, other— fuck, Zoro—”
Sanji leans all his weight against the shelf now, knees threatening to buckle as Zoro's tongue laps and laves before delving inside him. The sounds are beyond obscene. Sanji adds to it when he slicks his erection with precome, groaning as he cants up into his hand and back against Zoro's face.
Fuck, just the idea of this, even without being able to see Zoro in this position is enough to—
He sees the droplets hit the floor before he feels the blood spurt from his nose. This is getting fucking embarrassing. He hastily tips his head back, as if that will do anything to distract him from the insane experience of Zoro eating him out. Zoro replaces his tongue with a probing, surprisingly gentle finger, and Sanji’s entire body spasms.
“Fuck, I— Zoro,” he gasps, reaching blindly behind him to grab Zoro's shoulder. He wants more, and needs it faster than Zoro can provide on his own. Zoro stands, ghosting up Sanji's body and running hands along his sides. He pauses when his fingers meet the errant wetness that's dripped to Sanji's ribs. He cups a hand as though gathering water from a stream and makes an amused noise. Sanji knows exactly what he's going to say before he even opens his predictable, childish, annoying-ass mouth.
“Don't,” he says, before Zoro can start. “There.”
Sanji tilts his head to a shelf near Zoro's arm. He bites Sanji's shoulder playfully, still snickering as he leans across and snags a tall bottle of oil. Zoro coats his fingers unceremoniously. Sanji hisses when he sees the oil drip down his wrist, displeased at the wastefulness.
“Oi, careful. That shit’s expensive, you know.”
“Hm, better make the most of it then,” Zoro replies seriously, drizzling a stripe over Sanji’s lower back. He yelps at the cold liquid and then again as two fingers push comfortably into him. Zoro slides his other hand through the oil on Sanji’s back, pushing upwards in the imitation of a massage. Sanji can’t help but groan and let himself be pressed more firmly into the shelving. Zoro wraps an arm around Sanji’s hips, encouraging him to fuck himself back on Zoro’s fingers as he finishes opening him up. Zoro pushes and stretches, caressing his insides with soft touches that have Sanji squirming with want until he finally withdraws.
Zoro teases the head of his cock inside, filling him up inch by inch. He plasters himself to Sanji’s back, muffling a string of swears against Sanji’s shoulderblade as he starts to fuck him, long and slow. It’s not what Sanji expected. Given the last time, the start of this time, and really, just who Zoro is as a person, he expected fast, rough, out of control.
Zoro pumps into him with force, but he drags his movements to make sure Sanji feels all of it, is thrust against the wood but tries to keep Zoro inside him as long as possible each time, craving the feeling of being filled and explored. Zoro pushes Sanji’s knee up, searching for a new angle, and hits a spot in him that makes Sanji’s vision white out. If he weren’t already wedged between the shelf and Zoro’s body, he would be in danger of toppling over from the jolt it sends through him.
Sanji feels like he’s on fire, every point of contact between him and Zoro bursting with tension. He keeps one arm around Sanji’s waist and lets the other roam, mixing oil and sweat, smearing the blood, making an absolute mess out of him. Between the slick of his skin and the way Zoro is licking and biting at his neck and back, it's as though he’s being consumed. Their ragged breaths mix together and Zoro draws electric heat all over his body, adding to the punishing drag of his cock, creating the illusion of being burned from the inside out. It’s overwhelming. He needs more.
He tugs Zoro closer, pushing back against him in quick, jagged motions, begging him to take the fucking hint. When Zoro straightens up to clutch at Sanji’s hips, his back feels instantly chilled and he has half a mind to demand Zoro return to his place flush against the contours of Sanji’s body. The thought is ejected from his head with a hard thrust, Zoro keeping a tight hold of him as he rams home. The world narrows to Zoro’s heavy hands keeping him grounded even as the demanding pace pulls him apart at the seams. Zoro hits that spot again and Sanji cries out, grabbing the edge of the shelf as his whole body convulses. Something topples over and smashes on the ground.
“Fuck, watch it would you?” he gasps.
Zoro drags his teeth over Sanji’s earlobe, making him shiver. “As if it’s my fault this shit’s so fragile.”
Sanji bites off a heady groan and digs his nails into Zoro’s forearm.
“Right,” he grits out, “remind me to nail everything down first next time.”
“Next time?”
“Unless you think,” Sanji deflects, stuttering with the rhythm of Zoro’s movements, “you can find s-someone else you trust t-to slice you up.”
“Didn't slice me up,” Zoro grunts back.
“You want me to?”
Zoro just grabs Sanji's shoulder and thrusts in harder.
“Want me to eat right off of you next time? Skip the shit excuses?”
Sanji moans and his head drops back before he can contain the response from just imagining such a scenario.
Fuck yes I want that.
Zoro laughs against his back.
Asshole.
“Alright, perv. You know I hate waste,” Zoro leans in to whisper.
He takes Sanji in a slick hand and starts pumping him in time with the push of his hips. Sanji's eyes roll back in his head. He's already so close he can barely stay upright. Zoro moans in his ear every time Sanji squeezes around him, the sound ringing through his nerves, spinning him out. Sanji lets his head fall back against Zoro’s shoulder, revelling in the heat of the body once more pressed against his. He snakes a hand back to Zoro’s hair, pulling him closer until his teeth find purchase against Sanji’s skin. Zoro sinks into the juncture of his neck and shoulder without hesitation. Sanji comes with a shuddering gasp, eyes shooting wide open for a second before dropping shut. Zoro hisses at the pressure of Sanji around him, coordination failing as he ruts towards his own orgasm. He pulls out, finishing himself with a few quick strokes and painting Sanji’s back, adding to the by now filthy mix.
Zoro slumps into him, uncaring of the mess and putting enough weight on the abused shelf that it creaks. Sanji huffs a tired laugh at that, aiming a weak elbow to Zoro’s ribs in an effort to make him get off. Zoro butts his head into Sanji’s shoulder like the annoying bastard he is but obliges. He rubs a finger near the base of Sanji’s neck, causing him to twitch at the sting, and only then does he register that Zoro’s left deep teeth marks in his flesh. Zoro dips down to clean the last trickle of blood from the wound, and Sanji wishes he didn’t find it so attractive.
He steps back but doesn’t go far, holding Sanji in place with a hand to the shoulder and a contemplative hum. Slowly, he draws a finger over Sanji’s back in a distinctive pattern that Sanji does not find attractive at fucking all. Knocking Zoro’s hand away, he whips around to glare at the bastard, who’s already gotten three steps away, clearly anticipating the icy reaction. Zoro laughs and holds his hands up in surrender, pointing out the door and saying something about cleaning up before traipsing off.
Sanji doesn’t bother to follow. He catches sight of the shelf he was pressed all into just a minute ago, and groans as his eyes track down to the ruined stores on the rack that’s at hip-height.
Fuck.
He’s going to have to clean it off as best he can, stash it all somewhere, and lie about it until they dock at the next island, not to mention replace it with his own beri, which he doesn’t have, so he’ll have to ask Nami, and she’s definitely going to be pissed at him.
Fuck.
Zoro chooses that moment to hit him in the face with a wet tea towel. Worrying about the stores can wait until after he’s killed the swordsman.