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Author's Note: Okay, okay, okay. I saw this on tumblr posted by @twobrokenwyngs and my Muse went apeshit with the "WHAT IF" possibilities!
💚 This is my first (hopefully not last) One Piece / ZoSan story offering. I got into OP from the live action, but am now devouring the anime. It’s like a glorious fever dream!💛
🍆 🔪 🍷🦖 🍑
Boning Knife
By Maia’s Pen
Epic dinosaur kill aside, Sanji hates this island.
His crew have vanished like salt in the wind. He’s been searching for them throughout Little Garden’s lush labyrinth for—what feels like—hours.
Hot hours.
Midday here is more sweltering than the Baratie’s kitchen mid-summer. As Zeff used to say: "It’s hotter than a pepper-fueled belch." At least it smells better than a pepper-fueled belch. The jungle air is sweet with tropical fruits and blooms. But this sweet air certainly isn't making Sanji smell sweet.
The humidity is making him sweat harder than doing squats under a high-noon sun. He feels like he’s moving through an oppressive, superheated fog, practically having to push the air aside like a muggy curtain. Even the trees sag under the weight of the moisture.
Putting on a t-shirt for today’s adventure was the correct choice; however, his long, black trousers were not. Sanji’s sweaty legs currently hate him. Begrudgingly, he wishes he’d followed Zoro’s lead and pulled on shorts. Of course, he would sooner gnaw on oregano than ever admit so to the infuriatingly smug—and infuriatingly sexy—swordsman.
While they had tracked the Tyrannosaurus Rex, Zoro had hacked at the foliage in their way, and as Sanji walked behind, the view caused his cock to hate his trousers more than his sweaty legs. It was impossible not to get a semi.
That damn Mosshead wore those brightly colored clothes like he was doing them a favor. He looked like the most delectable sorbet dessert flight...
Those raspberry shorts hugged his round, firm ass just right; that blueberry shirt managed to hang loose while still flaunting the muscular body beneath, and—beneath that delightful bucket hat—even Zoro’s mossy hair became the perfect mint garnish. Fucking mouth-watering, and also, fucking deadly. Roronoa Zoro should come with a label that reads: "Danger. Poison. Do not eat."
The last time Sanji saw Zoro, he was being a total twat. Dicing up pomegranates like they all wore Mihawk’s face while giggling like a schoolboy. And with the sense of humor of a schoolboy, too. Zoro lost his shit over Sanji’s boning knife.
Hindsight is the grandest twat of all, though. Only now does Sanji fear that something was really wrong with Zoro—that something was causing that giggling schoolboy behavior.
As Sanji walked away, Zoro had called out, "No, wait. Stop!"—and there had been a panicked edge to his voice—but Sanji had ignored the plea.
Sanji had been too annoyed to listen. Too annoyed that Zoro would not concede failure, not admit that it was Sanji's kick that killed the dinosaur, and thus won their bet. Too annoyed that he’d had to butcher the dinosaur solo. Too annoyed at having all of his flirtatious banter swatted away like the jungle’s pesky flies. Too annoyed that he’d spent the morning sweating while trying to hide his boner from the East Blue’s most unattainable man.
For the sake of Sanji’s sanity, he had to walk away.
Now, he really, really wishes he didn’t.
For the umpteenth time, Sanji calls out to his lost comrades: “Nami? Vivi? Luffy? Usopp!” Then lowers his voice to mutter, “Mosshead.”
For the umpteenth time, his calls are answered only by the fauna’s cacophony of hoots, chirps, squawks, and buzzes.
Sighing, Sanji maneuvers past some—particularly handsy—ferns and steps into a clearing.
“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” he muses out loud as a—well...
...there’s really no other way to describe it: a house as white as those dinosaur bones he just stripped clean is protruding from the tropical foliage. He blinks to ensure that this house isn’t some heat-induced mirage.
Nope.
Still there.
This house is as real as the dinosaur. And weirdly, the roaring, snapping dinosaur was a more comforting sight.
As if the house’s presence isn’t odd enough, it’s also oddly ornate. The intricate patterns on the roof and trim look like they’ve been piped with sugary frosting. This house is something out of a fever dream, or more so, a fever nightmare.
As Sanji peers around the side of the house, his fingers tense within his pockets. He doesn’t spot any obvious traps, though the potted plants with fangs are off-putting. He tests the structure’s stability by kicking at the steps—yeah, it’s solid as bone, too—and decides he’s gonna enter "legs-a-blazing," and catch any foe off-guard.
Sanji kicks the door like it insulted his cooking! It swings open, he steps inside, and—
“Hey, it’s the waiter!!”
The fuck?
Roronoa Zoro has the face and body of a high-priced pleasure slave, but Sanji never thought he’d actually see the swordsman strung up like one. And yet, here Roronoa Zoro is—muscular arms pulled taut above his head, hands cuffed within more of this bone-hard, bone-white crap—and chained to the ceiling. Tressed up in these tempting sorbet-colored clothes, Zoro looks like he would start a bidding war at any pleasure slave auction.
“Waiter turned coooook!” Zoro calls again in a derangedly musical lilt, spinning in lazy circles before bursting into a giggle fit.
The confirmation strikes Sanji like a sucker punch: while he was butchering the dinosaur, someone had indeed done something to Zoro. Something to turn him into this giggling fool. And this something was done right under Sanji's nose.
His butchering took place practically within kicking distance from Zoro’s pomegranate massacre. He should have realized Zoro was compromised, tossed his personal annoyances into the trees, and made Zoro return with him to The Merry. He should not have deserted his mossy crewmate to be abducted into whatever the fuck this is.
“Hey there, Mosshead,” Sanji offers a cautious greeting as he assesses the scene, looking for any hidden enemies or traps.
He and Zoro are inside a rather neat-looking office space, where everything from furnishings to artwork is made from the same substance—which, upon closer inspection, he identifies as wax. Adorning the walls are paintings of ghostly wax people. Creepy. And upon some of the wax tables there are a few non-wax items, including a bottle of Sang Rouge red wine. Top shelf, in fact.
Sanji picks up the bottle and sees that it’s been opened, but barely enjoyed. It’s still more than half full; apparently, the abductor didn’t want to get as shit-faced as their prisoner. Though, Sanji doesn’t need to smell Zoro’s breath to know that alcohol is blameless for his blissed-out behavior. Sanji has seen Zoro drink five times this volume in sake and still kick ass without so much as a stumble or a slur. Certainly never any giggling.
Zoro has been drugged.
Likely this drug was administered via injection or gas—something Zoro would have been ambushed by, unable to defend against.
Sanji’s attention darts back and forth between the wine and the chains and a heartbeat of panic catches within his throat.
Is this creepy-ass house actually a creepy-ass sex dungeon? Did someone—someone who Sanji is about to make very, very dead—drug Zoro in order to touch him? Do something pervy to him?
Anyone with functioning eyes can see how gorgeous Zoro is. Sanji is well-aware of the covetous gazes that follow the swordsman at every port town they visit. But Zoro’s aura being as welcoming as that of the T-Rex has, thus far, been a deterrent against any salacious advances. Anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation would know that a beast like Zoro would need to be subdued in order to be safely handled.
Sanji shuts his eyes and schools himself to breathe deeply, evenly—even as his stomach turns sour, even as his pulse threatens to kick through his throat; his heart through his chest like he did to that door.
He sets down the bottle and shoves his hands into his pockets so Zoro won’t notice them shaking.
“So, Mossy, after mocking me for getting tied up in Whiskey Peak, look who's gotten himself tied up in Little Garden.” Sanji tries to sound casual as he strides closer to his crewmate, giving a visual "once-over" for any obvious wounds or evidence that Zoro’s clothing has been tampered with...
Zoro looks to be in proper order. He’s even armed with his trio of swords, but Sanji does not dare feel relief. Not yet.
“My shirt is blue!” Zoro proclaims, grinning like a giddy idiot, and giggles. Again. He looks and sounds irritatingly adorable, and way too vulnerable.
Ignoring Zoro’s blue shirt pride, Sanji clears his throat, trying to dislodge his stubborn panic, and ventures: “Did some kinky fucker drug you?”
He looks deeply into Zoro’s eyes—the prettiest eyes he has ever seen, like coffee with just the right amount of cream. And these pretty eyes are glazed over with a blissed-out sheen, the blackness of the pupil edging out that delectable brown.
When Sanji asks his next question, his tone is no longer casual. He sounds as dead-fucking-serious as he is: “Has someone touched you? Taken advantage of you?” Because he needs—needs—needs to know or he is going to kick apart this house, this island, the world.
Zoro actually snorts at that. Snorts. And it’s unbearably cute. “Relax, Cooooook,” he slurs, grinning a grin that makes a damn dimple appear upon his cheek. “As though anyone could take advantage of me. I’ve just been hanging around, enjoying the peace and quiet.” He wrinkles his nose with disgust. "Until you got here.”
Like being smashed by a cold wave, relief strikes Sanji so hard and fast that he’s lightheaded.
Zoro is okay, Sanji assures himself. Sure, he’s been tied up and drugged, but he’s not hurt. He has not been "bad touched." I’ll free him, we’ll find our crew. Everything will be okay.
Sanji exhales long and deep and it feels like a small eternity passes before his heart calms enough for him to speak again.
When he does, his words are cheeky: “So I’ve been trekking through this dangerous jungle, sweating my ass off searching for you, and you’ve just been here hanging around?”
“Yup!” Zoro answers with glee before bursting into a mighty fit of laughter. So mighty that he’s gasping for breath and tears actually well within his blissed-out eyes.
“Lazy bastard,” Sanji gripes, his tone aiming for casual but landing on concern. He studies Zoro’s wax constraints, deliberating how best to break them, and asks: “Do you happen to know where the rest of our crew is?”
“Don’t know!” Zoro manages through his cackles, and takes up twirling within his binds again. And in the most dementedly carefree way Sanji has ever seen anyone twirl about while in binds. Granted, he’s never actually seen anyone twirl around while in binds, but if he had, he’s confident that Zoro’s performance would take the dementedly carefree cake.
Sanji tries another question: “How did you get here?” He's starting to feel nauseated from watching the swordsman spin.
“Don’t know!”
“Who put you in these binds?”
“Don’t know!”
Sanji sighs a long-suffering sigh and runs a no-longer-shaking hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I guess it’s up to old Sanji to save the day.”
With a warrior’s cry, Sanji leaps into the air and kicks at the chain. The impact hurts, making him cuss like the pirate he is. As he lands, he looks up, expecting to see the chain shattered.
It’s not even cracked—but Zoro is certainly cracking up.
The damn Mosshead is acting like Sanji’s kick was some award-winning comedic act.
“J-just like... like the T-rex, your kicks can’t hurt this wax! Maybe if... if you had your...” Zoro loses his words to uncontrollable laughter.
Sanji just raises an eyebrow, deadpan, and waits for it.
“...if you had your boning knife, you could cut me loose.”
“Oh, you're on about that again, Mosshead?” Sanji tsks at his cackling crew mate, unable to resist the banter. “You’d just love to see me handle my boning knife wouldn't you?”
The lewd emphasis is entirely lost on Zoro, who–again– responds with: “My shirt is blue.”
“And my bollocks are blue,” Sanji snarks as he, indeed, pulls his boning knife from his pocket. This trusty five inch blade cut through the T-Rex’s femur, so the wax shouldn’t be a problem.
Zoro’s sights are riveted to the knife, brow raised skeptically, and his laughter quells just long enough for him to say: “It’s not very big.”
“Well, some of us don’t need to tote about with multiple long swords to make up for other shortcomings.” Sanji steps forward, moving into Zoro’s personal space until they are face-to-face—eye-to-eye. He's close enough to feel the warm, laughing bursts of Zoro’s breath upon his face. Close enough to smell the sweet hint of melon they’d enjoyed with breakfast. Zoro’s breath is, indeed, booze-free.
At this intimate distance, Sanji can admire Zoro’s smooth, sun-bronzed skin... skin dusted with the finest freckles, like the perfect sprinkling of nutmeg on an exquisite dessert. And Zoro’s fine freckles are not limited to his face. As the swordsman enjoys training in naught but his trousers, Sanji has seen him shirtless plenty of times.
Sanji knows that beneath Zoro’s—proudly blue—shirt, those freckles decorate pectorals firm as frying pans and abdominal muscles hard enough to wash dish rags on. And oh, how Sanji wants to know—is starved to know—if those freckles cover Zoro’s cock, bollocks, taint, and ass. Sanji wants to taste them all; wants to chart a course between those freckles with his tongue.
Zoro grunts with amusement, and Sanji jerks his gaze back up.
Up?
Yes, up.
Sanji hadn’t realized that he’d been meat-gazing, and his cheeks instantly burn.
Praise be to that drug, because Zoro only looks mirthful as fuck, not murderous as fuck. Sanji desperately hopes that the swordsman’s obliviousness is piggybacking on his sobriety. Otherwise, Sanji is going to get punched for this—and rightfully so.
Cheeks still burning, Sanji stands up to his full height and tries to sound as confident as a Fleet Admiral addressing an underling: “I’m gonna cut you loose, and I need you to hold perfectly still while I do. You are forbidden from twirling about.”
Zoro immediately starts twirling about.
So—Sanji snatches a fistful of that blueberry shirt, effectively yanking Zoro forward and to a dead stop. Zoro makes a high-pitched, whiny sound akin to Luffy when denied a ninth serving of supper, but, mercifully, he remains still.
“Good boy,” Sanji tells him. He releases the shirt, only to lay a steadying hand upon Zoro’s side.
Sanji tries really hard not to think about the really hard muscles he feels under the fabric. Because if he does, he may become really hard—and these trousers are unforgiving.
“I’m ticklish! Stop!” Zoro’s cackle-wail is so loud that it echoes through the wax chamber.
“Oh, shut up. Too bad your captor didn’t gag you,” Sanji grits out. He re-grips the shirt, desperately trying to keep the cackle-wailing Zoro still. “I’m not tickling you!”
“I’m sensitive!” Zoro defends himself with another loud wail.
Sanji desperately wishes those words weren't an immediate aphrodisiac for his imagination, because now he's fantasizing about all the sensitive places hidden across Zoro’s sexy body.
No, Sanji scolds himself, do not get hard. These tight, sweaty trousers cannot handle it! And what if Mosshead notices?! You’ll never live it down.
Sanji glares a glare that has made Fish-Men flinch. “Hold still.”
Zoro doesn’t flinch, but he does hold still—his body noticeably tensing with the effort not to cackle-wail anew. Although, the unhinged, muffled noises he’s making might actually be worse. They are somehow both annoying and arousing.
“Please shut up,” Sanji grumbles, reaching up to grab the chain and pull it taut.
With his other hand, he begins sawing at a wax link.
Dammit. It is like trying to cut into rock.
Gritting his teeth, Sanji raises onto his tiptoes and puts more power behind each back-and-forth stroke. He curses as he works, because he’s going to get calluses from such barbaric manual labor.
Sanji starts breathing harder, sweating harder, but his efforts are finally paying off... tiny waxy flakes slough off, falling into Zoro’s hair like bleached flour.
Sanji keeps at the sawing until his shoulder cramps. He stops to check out the results.
Not great.
His efforts have only created a rice-grain-sized indent. It could take hours to slice through this one link, and he doubts that Zoro’s captor will be gone that long—or that the rest of their—certainly in peril—crew can wait that long either.
Sanji’s legs are itching to kick the shit out of whatever fuckface drugged and bound his Mosshead. And undoubtedly, wherever the rest of the crew was, that fuckface would be there, too.
“Hmm,” Sanji wonders out loud. “If my boning knife can’t cut through this wax, I doubt your swords will either. Need to re-strategize. What is wax weak against—ahhh!”
Sanji yelps as Zoro’s face smooshes right into his left armpit.
Seriously smooshes—like Zoro is trying to suffocate himself there. He starts inhaling so deeply that Sanji can actually feel the shirt fabric being sucked into his nostrils.
Now that tickles!
Gasping through his laughter, Sanji drops the boning knife and grabs Zoro’s face within both hands—yanking that mossy head free of his poor armpit.
“What the hell?!” Sanji demands, catching his breath. He holds his armpit’s assailant a safe arm's-length away.
“You smell like sweat,” Zoro announces, grinning the grin of someone who is seriously unhinged.
Sanji serves Zoro the blandest of looks, gripping that mossy head ever-tighter, like a balloon in a windstorm. “You’re not in the position to be insulting me right now. Besides, I only stink because I was searching for your lazy ass in that oppressively hot jungle, then trying to saw your way to freedom–”
“I like it,” Zoro adds, still grinning so big that Sanji expects his face to split.
“You like what?” Sanji prods for clarification, because a miscommunication seems highly likely.
“The smell of your sweat,” Zoro says like he's stating an obvious fact. He rolls those pretty dark eyes as though Sanji is the idiot for not already knowing that Zoro likes the smell of his sweat.
Wait.
Zoro likes the smell of his sweat?!
Sanji jerks his head back, blunt nails biting slightly into Zoro’s freckly skin. “You what?”
“C’mon, Cook.” Zoro flashes a grin, showing off how white and straight his teeth are. “Why do you think I’m always hanging out in the kitchen when you’re cooking with fire? Because you smell like this.”
Okay. So not a miscommunication.
Sanji’s heart stutters strangely within his chest, and he swears someone just cranked up the heat within this wax house. “Mosshead, what are you—”
Mosshead interrupts. Again. “My shirt is blue. Like your eyes.” He punctuates the statement with a cheerful little sound, something almost drowsy. His unnecessarily thick lashes flutter, his eyes going heavy-lidded as he slurs his way through: “That—that’s why I bought it. It’s like your-your... eyes are... always on me... g-get it?”
No, Sanji doesn’t get it. The Kicking Cook is being emotionally double-teamed! He is both confusedly flattered and confusedly creeped out.
Face still sandwiched between Sanji’s hands, Zoro just stares—stares like Sanji is some kind of legendary sword that he cannot wait to handle.
Having all of Zoro’s intensity focused completely upon him causes heat to swoop low in Sanji’s belly, his groin tightening—and he clenches his jaw until it pops.
A sound of clarity.
This drug is obviously messing with Zoro, making him speak utter nonsense. Sanji needs to ignore him, not taking a single word to heart. He has to remain focused on breaking these wax binds.
“Mosshead,” Sanji speaks with all the authority he can muster. “I have another idea to free you, but I need you to hold perfectly still. And I don’t trust that you will, so...”
Sanji grabs Zoro by the throat. The thick, perspiration-slick throat. His grip is tight enough to secure the swordsman, but loose enough not to choke him.
Zoro giggle-grins like Sanji’s hand wrapped around his windpipe is positively delightful. His pretty eyes go heavy-lidded again, and he looks around the room like it’s spinning.
“Look at me, Mossy.” Sanji gentles his tone, stroking his thumbpad over Zoro’s pounding pulse point. The strokes are slow and rhythmic, his thumb gliding through Zoro’s sweat—which, Sanji notes, smells sharp and clean and... fuck.
He likes the smell of Zoro’s sweat, too.
But Sanji doesn’t tell Zoro that. He forges onward with explaining his action plan. “I need you to get a hold of yourself for just a few minutes so I can melt these cuffs.”
With his non-throat-holding-stroking hand, Sanji pulls his lighter from his pocket, flicks it on, and directs the flame to the base of the wax block confining Zoro’s wrists.
It’s working. As though the wax is mere ice, it starts to melt, weeping thick, creamy droplets down, down, down. They trickle in a slow, steady stream onto Zoro’s broad, Sanji-eye-colored shoulder.
“Ha,” Zoro releases a short, sharp laugh. “Looks like cum.”
Zoro just said “cum,” and Sanji almost drops the lighter.
When Sanji glowers at Zoro, preparing to chastise his immaturity, something changes... For the briefest moment, Zoro’s features tense, his brow furrowing, and a flash of clarity lights his eyes—like he’s suddenly aware that he’s not in control, but lacks the strength to fight for it, and he feels frustrated, helpless, and—
They just stare at each other.
Into each other.
Stare like they have countless times, and never.
Locked together in an intimacy lacking the familiar challenge and intimidation, but brimming with something else; something uncharted.
Several heartbeats pass—maybe seven hundred. Then,
Zoro blinks.
When his eyes reopen, all clarity, all intensity, has been fogged over once more. His features soften into a dreamy smile, and he gazes upon Sanji like the cook has transformed into a tropical island paradise where palm trees grow bottles of premium sake instead of coconuts.
While Zoro is totally fucked-out, he’s no longer laughing. His pulse is a battering ram against Sanji’s thumb, and he’s panting like he just swam across the Grand Line.
Actually, Sanji is panting like he also just swam across the Grand Line. Their harsh, fast breaths blend together as that cummy-wax continues its leisurely trickle onto Zoro’s shoulder.
Zoro makes a sound like he’s trying to laugh, but it’s a struggle, and swiftly disintegrates into breathy, broken little whimpers—noises that are definitely serenading Sanji’s bollocks.
“Fuck, you make pretty sounds, Mossy.”
The words slip free before Sanji can stop them. He feels suddenly lightheaded, and his unforgiving trousers confirm that all the blood in his body has dropped to his groin faster than an anchor dropped into the sea.
“I mean, um, ah...” Dread blocks Sanji’s mind and mouth from coordinating any acceptable excuses. He has to hope that Zoro didn’t comprehend what he just said.
Zoro swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving against Sanji’s palm, then asks: “Why are your balls blue, Cook? Or rather, your bollocks?” He erupts with laughter, gasping out: “Th-that’s such a... funny word!”
Okay, so, Zoro caught Sanji’s earlier mocking complaint about his blue bollocks.
Well, fuck it. Sanji might as well come clean.
After Zoro sobers up, he will either remember everything and kill Sanji, or he will forget entirely.
Either way, Sanji’s stress will be over.
Sanji tightens his grip just a tad on Zoro’s throat, and when he speaks, his tone is sweet enough to turn salt into sugar.
“Mossy, darling, do you have any idea how fine your ass looks in those tight little raspberry shorts? Because I do. I had a front-row view of your round ass flexing as you decimated the jungle. Those shorts should be made illegal in the East Blue, the West, North, South—hell, in all of the Blues.”
“Hmmm.” Zoro tilts his head and hums thoughtfully, as though Sanji’s words are marinating within the drugged-out stew of his brain. But then his eyes widen and, of course, he starts giggling. “I-I thought you like-liked pretty girls?”
“Oh, I do. The thing is, I like pretty boys, too.” Sanji flaunts that he also has very nice teeth and winks unabashedly—something he would never dare if Zoro could reach his swords. Lowering his voice, Sanji adds: “And you, Roronoa Zoro, are the prettiest I've ever seen.”
His hand slides to cradle the back of Zoro’s head, his fingers toying with the sweaty nape hairs before moving upward, threading through the short strands that he’s yearned to touch, which are so much softer than he imagined. Sanji lets his thumb caress Zoro’s earlobe, loving how cool the three gold bars feel against his skin.
And even as Sanji does this, he wonders where his courage is coming from. He wonders when Zoro is going to kick him in his blue bollocks.
However, like some fucktastical miracle, Zoro doesn’t kick Sanji in his blue bollocks. Instead, Zoro leans heavily into Sanji’s touch, nuzzling and keening like a stray cat long-starved for affection.
“Gods,” Sanji awes, his hand moving to cup Zoro’s jaw. It’s hard, defined, with just the rasp of stubble yearning to break through that smooth skin. “You’re so damn pretty, Mossy. Maddeningly so. Since I first laid eyes upon you, you’ve bothered me in all sorts of ways,” Sanji confesses, because he can’t seem to shut the hell up. It’s like Zoro has stabbed Wado into Sanji’s self-control, and his secret desires are bleeding out faster than he could ever staunch the flow.
Zoro is panting, his jaw slack, his mouth open and inviting. It would be so easy to lean forward... to kiss him. To learn if he tastes as sweet as those sorbet colors he looks so delicious in.
Sanji’s thumb makes reverent passes over Zoro’s lovely lips—lips that would look amazing stretched around Sanji’s cock.
“You ever thought about it?” Sanji continues to bleed words through his mouth. “Me and you? So many nights I’ve fisted myself imagining kissing you, sucking you, fucking you. I would make it so good for you.”
Zoro’s breath hitches at that, and his already huge pupils expand until only a thread-thin ring of that delectable brown can be seen around them. Sanji feels it then—Zoro’s tongue, hot, pink, and wet—pokes out between his lips and rubs against Sanji’s thumb.
An invitation that Sanji feels like a hot, pink, wet tongue between his thighs.
Groaning, Sanji pushes his thumb inside Zoro’s mouth, dragging lower lip down and smearing spit into bottom teeth.
It looks obscene. It feels obscene.
Sanji’s groin throbs in perfect time with his frenzied heartbeat; his suffocating cock is leaking into those abysmal trousers, and it is just about ready to hire a bounty hunter to kill him.
“How is every bit of you so perfect?” Sanji hardly recognizes his own voice—the words sound as stifled as his cock. “Even your teeth are whiter than cauliflower.”
Zoro’s head snaps back, effectively displacing Sanji’s thumb, and he begins laughing. This is, by far, the most insane, breathless laughing fit Zoro has had yet. Hell, tears are clotting within his lashes, rolling down his cheeks!
“Hahahaha, waaaaait—did you ju-just compare my teeth to a... vegetable?!”
As though Sanji’s lighter has turned on him, his face burns. Then, his wrist is burning because—“Ow!”—a molten blob of wax lands upon his lighter-holding hand.
On reflex, Sanji’s fingers spread, and the lighter falls, clinking to the floor.
While Zoro continues performing a chorus of hysterics, Sanji shuts his eyes and inhales deeply.
He vehemently curses himself. Cauliflower. Of all the elegant, poetic, beautiful white things in the culinary world, he chose a dense, knobby head of brassica for a teeth comparison.
As Sanji bends to retrieve his fallen boning knife and lighter—a difficult feat with a hard-on—he grumbles about how “cauliflower is the whitest vegetable,” and how the comparison is “honestly a compliment.”
Ah, there. The objects are right by Zoro’s feet.
As Sanji snatches them, something yellow catches his eye. “Oy, Mossy, what’s this yellow crap on your leg? You piss yourself?”
Zoro snickers at that.
It looks like someone drew a swirly design with yellow frosting. Sanji touches the mark, his sweaty finger sliding right through and smearing it.
In the space between heartbeats, Zoro’s snickering becomes a snarl. He jerks his leg back as though Sanji’s finger has burned him.
Sanji peers upward as Zoro bares his cauliflower teeth, his forearms tensing as he shakes within his binds. Really shakes—like the binds have transformed into a monster starved for cauliflower!
The block of wax cracks like an egg, and Zoro’s hands fall free. Waxy bits, some half-melted and some sharp as splinters, scatter everywhere, barraging Sanji like a goopy-stabby blizzard.
Shielding his eyes, Sanji scrambles to his feet, demanding: “Hang on—so that mark on your leg was somehow drugging you, or put a spell on you, or what?! It made you act like an absolute buffoon?! And all I had to do was touch it and—boom! Back to scowling?!”
“Don’t know,” Zoro grunts, brushing the waxy-cum drippings off his shoulder.
Sanji’s interrogation is not over. “You absolute dick. How long have you known you could break free?!”
Zoro doesn’t spare Sanji a glance. He’s too busy stretching out his arms and cracking his knuckles, but mutters: “Don’t know. Maybe a while.”
“Seriously?” Sanji counters, his irritation effectively—and mercifully—deflating his boner. He gestures to the chunks of wax casualties all around them. “Technically, I freed you. You were only able to bust loose because I weakened the wax’s integrity with my lighter.”
“Whatever, let’s go. We need to find the crew,” Zoro says with the emotion of a rock, then makes for the doorway.
Sanji stuffs his boning knife and lighter back into his pockets, followed by his own hands, which are slippery with sweat—unlike his mouth, which has gone drier than a cracker left in the afternoon sun.
While Sanji’s cock no longer wants him dead, his own heart sure does. The organ is wailing against his ribs with the clear intent to crack them, to burst free and punch him right in his idiot face. Something Sanji is shocked that Zoro hasn’t done.
Yet.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had said and done too much. Way too much. He was completely out of line. Caught up by passion, he barreled on ahead, and now he has to face the consequences. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Zoro probably hates him—well, hates him more. Sanji wasn’t exactly Zoro’s favorite person before their Little Garden adventure.
Sanji knows well that he would have an easier time sinking a battleship by throwing forks at it than ever romancing Roronoa Zoro, and yet his heart hurts—the beats alternating between shame and sorrow as he mourns their moment of intimacy.
A moment that was never meant to be.
A moment that was never real.
Sanji’s nerves are eating him alive, so he grabs the bottle of Sang Rouge and downs a grand swig—oh, it is nice, the grapes have been paired with notes of black currant and vanilla, chased by the perfect alcohol burn—then chucks it. Their foe’s pricey bottle shatters, and the sound brings a satisfied smile to his face.
Zoro has halted, his broad blueberry shoulders filling the doorway, presenting the back of his mossy head to Sanji’s face. “Hey, Cook,” Zoro calls, a familiar thread of arrogance within his voice. “Since I killed the dinosaur, I won the bet.”
Sanji huffs with exasperation, shaking his head. After everything that just happened, is Zoro really going to fixate on this?! Is he seriously going to pretend that Sanji didn’t just stick his thumb into his mouth and confess that he jerks off fantasizing about fucking him?!
Fine. Sanji will play along. Because Zoro bantering at him is a hell of a lot better than Zoro beating him.
“You didn’t kill the dinosaur, Mosshead. I did.” Sanji tries to sound saucy, but his sauce lacks spice, and the delivery comes out entirely bland.
“No,” Zoro insists, his posture rigid as he continues staring out into the jungle. “I’m the winner, and the winner gets a prize.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Now Sanji’s sauce has some bold spice, his hands balling into fists within his pockets. “And let me guess... you wanna get a free punch on me? For me to just stand here and take it? And direct to the bollocks, I assume? Go ahead, then—I deserve it.”
“Nah, I want something else.”
And before Sanji’s murderous heart can beat again, Zoro’s big hands are upon his shoulders, pushing him backward. Sanji makes a sound he's not proud of—a keening sort of yelp—as Zoro’s large body crowds him against the wax wall, that burly chest pressing hard against Sanji’s own.
Zoro’s dark stare drinks Sanji in, sliding over his face and body like he owns them. Like there isn’t a force within the sea that could stop Zoro from taking whatever he wants.
And whether or not Zoro intends the look to be sexy as fuck, it is sexy as fuck.
Sanji’s blood flashes hot, and, yeah—his cock has taken out another hit on him. By this point, his groin is certainly suffering from whiplash, or vertigo, and is rightfully about to bust through his trousers. Not gonna be a great look for rescuing the crew. Maybe there’s an apron in this wax house?
To hell with his modesty.
“Mosshead, what are you—?” Sanji starts to ask, but can’t finish because he’s that horny. The bonfire within his loins has cooked his vocal cords. He’s been so keyed up all day! So whether Zoro is planning to punch him, kick him, or throttle him, Sanji will probably cum in his pants.
“Relax, Cook,” Zoro murmurs, and his expression softens into something fond. With every breath, Zoro's chest expands, further pressing Sanji into the smooth wall. “That stuff about my blue shirt and your eyes, and me liking the smell of your sweat...” The edges of Zoro’s voice are dulled by wonder, as though he can’t quite believe what he is admitting, “...it's all true, but if you tell anyone on the crew—” his features and voice suddenly sharpen with a threat “—I’ll tell them that you’re horny for my cauliflower teeth.”
“You’re such an arse,” Sanji manages to strain the burning words through his teeth.
Zoro smirks as his gaze roams over Sanji’s face—intensely, like he’s memorizing this moment, every detail, maybe counting every single eyelash. “Fuck, Cook, you’re as beautiful as you are annoying.”
Before Sanji’s mind can chew on that backhanded compliment, let alone digest it, Zoro lifts a hand. As though the mighty warrior cook is a cornered, wounded animal, Zoro so slowly touches Sanji’s neck.
And, gods, Zoro’s hand is hot, like he’s been holding a cooking pot.
With painstaking gentleness, Zoro strokes Sanji’s thrashing pulse point. His thumb pad is calloused, and despite the heat, the rough texture causes Sanji to shiver.
“Mossy?” Sanji croaks, because he’s not entirely sure if Zoro is going to throttle him or just torture him with these teasing touches. “You gonna put me out of my misery here?”
In answer, those dark eyes fixate on Sanji’s mouth and, in one powerful movement, Zoro puts pressure on Sanji's jaw, tilting his head back and his mouth open.
Zoro kisses him.
His Mosshead tastes of their breakfast melon—a flavor that swiftly blends with the black currant and vanilla wine from Sanji’s spit. And Zoro’s mouth is so hot, so wet, so soft; but the pressure of his body makes it known that he is holding himself back.
As that sword-worn hand continues stroking Sanji's neck, the other curls around his head, tangling in the fair strands.
This is actually happening!
Okay, the timing is abysmal, but fuck it. The most beautiful—and most annoying—man Sanji has ever known is sober and kissing him, and he is going to feast, dammit.
Moaning into Zoro’s mouth, Sanji reaches up and returns the touch—tunneling fingers into those thick, mossy hairs. Zoro moans in turn, a broken sound of desperate relief, like he’s been suffering from starvation and, by touching his lips to Sanji’s, the hunger has been appeased.
Appeased, but not satiated, because this soft kiss becomes firm and ravenous. Zoro growls into Sanji’s mouth, kissing like he’s laying a claim. Zoro’s tongue slides over Sanji’s own, and the sensation is maddeningly filthy, spiking deep—so deep that Sanji swears he can feel Zoro’s hot breath upon his bollocks.
A ruined sound escapes Sanji, not quite a whimper, not quite a groan, but quite certainly a plea for more.
And Zoro gives him more.
With steady indulgence, Zoro thrusts his tongue in and out of Sanji's mouth, and Sanji's jaw goes slack, eager to take it—marveling at having Roronoa Zoro, his Mosshead, use his mouth in such a crude way. And his Mosshead makes sounds Sanji knows well; sounds men make when devouring something delicious.
As Sanji’s tongue flexes back, he dissolves into the kiss. Into Zoro. He cannot hear the jungle anymore. He cannot smell the jungle anymore. Zoro has commandeered all of his senses, and Sanji revels in the scent of Zoro’s light, clean sweat—of Zoro’s possessive, hungry groans, of Zoro’s spit upon his tongue, of Zoro's body, hard and hot as volcanic rock, pressed against his own.
Zoro stops kissing to catch his breath and stares at Sanji. He looks blissed-out again, but this time that drug can’t take any credit.
Zoro is high on Sanji.
“Look at you—so aroused,” Zoro’s awe is loud within Sanji’s ears, his breaths coming in sweet, warm gusts upon Sanji’s mouth. “You want me bad, huh, Cook?” There’s a teasing lilt to the words, which descends into tortured as he whispers, “I want you bad, too. So fucking sexy in these stupidly tight trousers.”
Zoro slaps Sanji’s ass, and—
Sanji’s brain capsizes.
And Sanji has no chance to turn his brain upright because—they are kissing again.
Deep and hard. Zoro’s tongue rubbing against Sanji's own. The same tremor seems to streak through them, and they shudder together, groan together.
Sanji's cock is harder than a steel spatula, dripping and straining, and he is overwhelmed—woozy from the unbearable pressure within his groin.
Zoro pulls Sanji's hips forward, flush against his own. The stiff columns of their erections press through their burdensome clothing.
Oh gods, oh gods, Zoro is hard.
Hard for Sanji.
“Is that a boning knife in your pocket, or do you just wanna fuck me?” Zoro's words come out low and gritty, like he’s ground his vocal cords over a cheese grater. The sound definitely vibrates Sanji’s taint.
“Oh, come off it,” Sanji breathlessly bitches, though he's actually quite fond of this juvenile boning knife humor now.
Chuckling, Zoro’s mouth moves to Sanji's neck. The hint of stubble chafes sweetly across his throat as Zoro kisses slowly, dragging lips, tongue, scraping teeth.
The combined sensations of Zoro’s needy cock and Zoro’s needy mouth cause scintillating pleasure to light Sanji’s blood, and his entire groin tightens and throbs with the desperate need to cum.
“Mossy—ah-ah—I’m gonna spill in my—nughh—trousers,” Sanji warns, then sucks in a breath, pushing his groin insistently into Zoro’s—desperate for more pressure, more friction—as he shuts his eyes against arousal’s dizzying assault.
“That so?” comes Zoro’s muffled, pitiless voice, and he continues enjoying Sanji’s throat like it’s a damn confection.
Every scrape of Zoro’s teeth sends another pulse of shimmery heat to Sanji’s groin, drawing desperate whimpers from his throat. Sanji’s fingers tighten within those soft green strands as he guides their mouths back together.
Zoro makes another starved sound and grabs Sanji’s ass like it owes him a debt. Those strong sword hands grope none-too-gently, which Sanji’s ass loves.
With no effort at all, Zoro lifts Sanji off the ground, holds him against the wall, and begins thrusting against him with all the vigor of a beast in the rut. The ruthless friction sends euphoric waves roaring through Sanji’s blood.
Needing more, Sanji wraps his thighs around his Mosshead, using the heels of his shoes to press encouragement into that firm backside. Zoro’s thick, solid frame is impressive, and Sanji has never been intimate with anyone so laden with muscle. Zoro’s strength is driving him mad—just imagining all of this muscle and weight on top of him, under him.
Zoro grinds his searing forehead against Sanji’s, slowing his hips so that he can concentrate, to formulate coherent words. “Can’t—ah—believe I’m saying this, but we need to stop. No time. Didn’t mean for this to go so far... only meant to kiss you.”
Zoro pulls his face back.
Sanji blinks quickly, trying to comprehend the words. Why do they need to stop?
Oh right, the crew. The crew is doubtless in peril.
Sanji’s chest heaves against Zoro’s—his bones feel like they’ve been stuffed with warm jelly, and his head is spinning like he’s just been punched by a Fish-Man. Only good.
Zoro’s features are pinched as though pained, and his stare is intense upon Sanji’s face. Those panting lips are but a hand-span away, and Sanji is so very tempted to go back for another serving of mossy mouth.
But he resists.
The crew needs them.
Sanji can survive with blue bollocks; he can’t survive without his crew.
In one smooth movement, Zoro steps back, dropping Sanji. His warm jelly bones solidify just in time to save his ass from a harsh meeting with the floor. Sanji pushes the hair from his eyes to see a very flushed Zoro—a very flushed Zoro who is actively adjusting a very prominent bulge within those raspberry shorts.
Sanji raises an impressed eyebrow. “Four swords today, eh? Our foes are doomed,” he teases, unapologetically searing that meat with his gaze.
Zoro meat-gazes right back, intently staring at Sanji's bulge like he’s sizing up a worthy opponent. Then those dark eyes—the prettiest eyes Sanji has ever seen—drag upward.
And when Zoro looks at Sanji this time, he flashes his rarest and most deadly weapon: a smile so dashing that Zoro could charm a T-Rex into serving him breakfast in bed.
Sanji certainly plans on doing so.
“We’re losing daylight, Cook," Zoro gestures toward the jungle, bolting out the door frame, but yells back over his shoulder, “You can use your boning knife on me after!”
Sanji still hates his trousers, but he doesn’t hate this island anymore.
The End.
🍆 🔪 🍷🦖 🍑
Author's Note: Thank you for reading my first One Piece story. Yeah, no dicks came out (a rarity for my stories), but I plan on going ‘dicks-a-blazing’ in my next ZoSan fic, so it will balance out.
I’ll have to write an apology note to Sanji’s 🔵🔵
THANKS TO kana7o for all of the story art! We are both soft for Sanji's curly brows so, even though he doesn't have them in OPLA, kana7o and I decided he needed them in the art.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my unhinged imagination, and if so, a comment and kudos would be VERY appreciated 💚 💛 I am so soft for Zoro and Sanji getting so hard, ahhhhhhhh!!!
Xo Maia
