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Robin doesn’t like to be touched.
When she first joined the crew, Sanji thought she was just being cautious. After all, her life as Ms. All-Sunday working alongside Crocodile couldn’t have been the most pleasant. She was never outwardly standoffish, just a bit closed-off, and everyone on the crew respected that. After her past was revealed during the events of Enie’s Lobby, it became even more clear why Robin was so unused to touch.
Sanji has noticed, however, that Robin has been welcoming touch more and more. Nami’s hand on her shoulder, Luffy’s arms around her legs, hugs from Chopper, and pats on the back from Usopp. Even Franky, the lucky bastard, will lay a massive arm around her waist or a kiss on her cheek, and Robin leans into it.
And Sanji is happy for her, he is, but part of him mourns their silent camaraderie. Sanji always thought that he and Robin were the same. They were both used to being on their own, so touch was a foreign thing.
Or rather, Robin had had her whole life ripped away from her and had gotten used to being on her own by necessity, whereas Sanji was used to being alone even when he wasn’t necessarily by himself.
He was alone in Germa. He was alone on the Orbit. He spent most of his time on that cursed rock alone. Even at the Baratie, although they were a family, he was by far the youngest. And Sanji couldn’t get away with being weak just because he was a little kid. The other cooks often treated him to side hugs and hair ruffles, yes, but they were men dammit. Men handled their problems on their own. They didn’t ask for more. They didn’t cling. Not to their fellow men, anyway.
Someone had clearly never told Luffy this. Although, having met Garp, someone probably had and Luffy just hadn’t listened.
Luffy wasn’t really the problem though. If Sanji hadn’t have gotten used to his rubbery hugs and his enthusiastic, grabby hands, then his skin would’ve jumped ship back in the East Blue. Luckily, Luffy’s touches were always fleeting. Even when they were of the more intimate, full-body hug variety, Luffy never lingered more than necessary. Luffy touched when h e needed something. When he missed you. When he was holding on for dear life. He never touched to take anything.
The rest of the crew weren’t a problem either. For all that they lived on top of one another, especially when they’d been on the Merry, they respected each other’s boundaries. Usopp had nightmares and always needed a cuddle after he woke up, but he didn’t want to talk about them. Nami needed space and time to work alone, except for when being alone was just too much for her. S he brought her work in to Usopp or Franky’s workshop s or to the galley or out onto the deck whenever she needed company. Sanji loved attention and loved company, but anything more than a casual pat on the back sent him reeling. It just wasn’t something he could get used to.
The real problem began with one of Usopp’s pranks.
They were readying to disembark from the Sunny. Nami, in her splendor, was sharing her strategy for leaving the island completely unscathed and free of any more world-government-alerting incidents and Sanji, of course, was listening with rapt attention.
“Luffy, Robin, and Usopp are exploring today. Together, no splitting up from Robin you two! The other teams will get their chances to explore over the next three days, so I expect everyone else to come back to the ship when their assigned tasks are done!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Sanji was the only one addressing her properly, everyone else letting out varying grumbles of, “Yes, Nami.” Whatever, Nami was still talking.
“Chopper and Franky, you guys are gonna restock the cola today. I’m going to go see what we can trade for at that big swap meet. Zoro you’re going to be helping Sanji resupply—Sanji, please don’t let him out of your sight, last time he walked right into a Marine base—and Brook you’re staying back to watch the ship.”
While Sanji was gushing over Nami addressing him directly, Zoro started to say something about the Marine base just forming around him—seriously how stupid could this guy be?—when Usopp interrupted them both, “Lucky for you guys, I’ve just finished my greatest invention yet! The Ultimate Zoro Locator!”
Usopp’s got what looks like a mess of corded rope held above his head. It doesn’t look all that promising. But with the threat of Nami’s ire and Luffy’s shouts of encouragement, Zoro agrees to try it on.
The cord creates a harness around Zoro’s chest. It’s a bit...obscene. Zoro’s bare chest is nothing new (unfortunately), but the rope emphasizes the bulge of his pecs and the broad, unmarred expanse of his back in a way that Sanji finds terminally distracting. Thankfully, Usopp saves him from his ogling by taking the long cord at the center of Zoro’s back and tying it to Sanji’s wrist.
It’s horrendously embarrassing. Sanji spends the entire first half of the grocery run laughing his ass off (and definitely not thinking about Zoro’s back). He spends the second half berating Zoro for tugging so hard at his wrist. Zoro acts like he’s taking it in stride and is completely unbothered, but by the third time he gets yanked back by the rope, Usopp’s poor invention meets its untimely end. Their ensuing fight makes a mess of the entire marketplace. They’re forced to either pay a fine or leave the island, and with the log pose not yet set, there is no choice. Needless to say, Nami is not happy with either of them.
The next day, Nami drags the both of them with her to the swap meet to act as pack mules. This time, the Zoro-Never-Gets-Lost-Again-Atron consists of a pair of bracelets and a remote. Any time they stray to far away from one another, Nami presses a button on the remote that shocks them both. Nami sure has fun punishing them, but Zoro still ends up getting lost. They’re three whole days late leaving the island and Nami doesn’t let them forget it.
At the next island (and Nami must be in on it by now, cause they truly don’t get paired up this often for supply runs), Usopp insists that these loose cargo pants are ‘all the rage’. He went out on the island on the first day while Sanji stayed back on watch, so it is possible that he’s telling the truth this time. The pants have a multitude of chains hanging from specialized loops, connecting either to each other or to a matching loop. The dark green plaid would pair nicely with one of his more neutral shirts. They aren’t Sanji’s usual, but they look good, and they might even be a boost to his fighting style. Besides, Sanji is always looking to impress the local ladies.
When Sanji walks out on deck and sees Zoro in the same pants but in black, he has a horrible feeling of foreboding before Usopp appears between them. His hands move faster than Sanji’s ever seen them. Despite their struggling, when Usopp’s done, Sanji’s connected to Zoro through at least four chains (it’s truly hard to tell). When Sanji moves one of his legs, Zoro’s moves too.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you, get this shit off of us!” Sanji yells.
“Usopp if you don’t undo us right now, I’ll chop your head off!” Zoro yells at the same time.
They both move towards where Usopp is giggling, but unfortunately, they move opposite legs.
As they trip over each other, cursing all the way, Usopp flees the scene, still giggling, complaining of “I-can’t-untangle-anything disease.” Sanji makes a plan to rearrange all of the tools in his tool chest (not that he’d ever follow through on such a plan. A man respects a fellow man’s workspace, after all. Even if the other man is a slimy little worm sometimes).
Zoro grumbles as he gets up from the deck, “Whatever, I’m just going to cut them.”
Nami chimes in from the window of the girl’s room, “Ah, ah, ah. Those pants were expensive. If you mess them up, I’ll increase both your debts by 300%.”
“Alright fine, we’ll treat it as a training exercise. Obviously I’m the best at synchronization so why don’t you just follow my lead moss head?” Sanji says.
“Like hell! If you’re so good at synchronizing then shouldn’t you follow my lead?”
“Ha! So you admit, I’m better than you!”
After much tugging and stumbling and shouting they make it to the railing. It’s been five minutes. Sanji lights a smoke and regrets leaving the Baratie.
They fight across half the island, but eventually they find a rhythm. When their squabbling gets too repetitive ( turns out, it’s not fun to trip somebody if you get pulled down too), they settle into the motions of the supply run. It goes pretty smoothly, all things considered. Sanji has to admit that the appearance of armed security does make haggling a bit easier, even if he doesn’t necessarily need the help. Zoro doesn’t get lost for once. And Nami’s pleased smile when they make it back to the Sunny is worth Zoro’s weight in gold.
They have to change together. Sanji is decidedly not thinking about Zoro’s body. Not about the damn tree trunks he calls thighs, or the fine hair on his soft stomach, or the stupid fucking scars around his ankles. He’s seen all it before after all, although it’s not usually in such close proximity.
Sanji knows his crew is full of beautiful people. Including the men. That isn’t a problem. Sanji is totally okay with it. Being attracted to more people just means there’s more people to fall in love with. Zoro being hot isn’t a revelation. It’s nothing more than a fact. The sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Zoro is unfairly hot. Sanji is so unbothered by this.
Now, if he just didn’t have to see it all so close. I f only that bastard had a sense of decorum, i f only he didn’t treat it all so casually, Sanji could get on with his life and stop thinking about it .
At the next island, Usopp and Nami threaten to break out the pants again. Zoro and Sanji narrowly escape the ship before they can dig them out from whence Sanji’s stashed them.
They’re halfway down the pier when Zoro grabs Sanji’s wrist. Sanji turns his head to yell at him to get the hell off of me when he sees Zoro’s face. Is he...blushing?
“Look, I know it’s annoying but at least this way Nami and Usopp will leave us alone.” Zoro says, looking down at where he’s grabbing Sanji’s wrist.
His grip isn’t tight. Sanji’s arm burns anyway.
Sanji doesn’t look up either when he replies, “Fine. If it’ll keep your stupid ass from getting lost. I don’t want to disappoint Nami again.” He ignores how his face is burning too. Ignores the way Zoro’s callused fingers feel against the thin skin of his wrist.
Gabbing wrists is awkward though. So they, maybe, more often then not, end up holding hands throughout the day. It’s mostly on accident. Zoro lets go of Sanji’s wrist to adjust one of the bags he’s carrying, so Sanji has to grab onto his wrist in turn. A child runs into Sanji’s legs and he spins around so they don’t fall, letting go of Zoro as he does. Zoro means to grab his wrist, but, well, a hand is a bigger target. When Sanji gets tired of his fingers getting crushed (that is, immediately), he makes Zoro hold his hand palm in palm—like they’re two children forced to get along. Zoro complains of sweaty palms (again, almost immediately), and they’re right back to the wrists. That is of course, until Zoro lets go again—
They agree that holding hands isn’t very practical either. Zoro needs both hands to carry, Sanji needs his hands to inspect goods. They both need their hands free to fight.
Zoro comes up with a solution all on his own, this time.
And this, of course, is where Sanji’s problem begins.
The next day Zoro offers up his arm, like he’s some kind of gentleman in a romance novel. The idea makes Sanji laugh, Zoro, a gentleman, ha!, but he takes the arm anyway. It’s innocent enough, right? They both need their hands free and this position ties them together without literally tying them together. If Sanji gets distracted throughout the day by the warmth of Zoro’s arm against his, the sweat in his elbow crease, the bulge of his bicep, well. That’s no one’s business but his own.
Sanji expects that finally being back at sea will put an end to all this nonsense. After all, it’s not like Zoro can get lost on the Sunny.
The touches start off small. A hand on Sanji’s elbow as Zoro passes him on the deck. A hand on his back as Zoro tries to reach around him for a bottle of sake (that certainly hasn’t been left out for him deliberately). A pat on his shoulder as Sanji sets down second helping of dinner. A tug on Sanji’s fingers where they dangle outside of his hammock as Zoro heads to his own bunk.
At first, he’d thought that Zoro was being an ass and making fun of his aversion to touch. He’d wanted to get angry. But Zoro wasn’t gloating or smirking at him after these touches. He’d just carry on like normal. Each touch is light, smooth, natural. Hardly objectionable. It feels like being shocked nonetheless. Sanji does his best not to react, at least not visibly. If Zoro is going to act like this is just how it’s always been then fine, Sanji can do that too.
For all that he touches burn him, being close to Zoro is surprisingly easy. They’ve always been like oil and water, in need of something to make them work together. Usually, the vigor of a fight will do it, or Luffy’s mere presence. But as this whole ordeal has forced them into such close proximity….
It’s not that they stop fighting. Zoro’s as pigheaded as ever and Sanji would rather die than let him forget it. But the tone changes. Or perhaps they just understand each other better. They end up having two conversations instead of one.
Zoro says, “You know, you look like an idiot when you fawn over women like that.” voice grating as usual, words cutting, but the arm he has draped across Sanji’s shoulders is relaxed. His fingers drumming light patterns even as he adds, “You’ll never get a girlfriend if you keep scaring them away first.”
Sanji scoffs around his cigarette and responds, “Like I would take romantic advice from some guy that smells like he crawled out of a dumpster.” But he leans into Zoro’s side as he says it.
Slowly, the touches get bolder. Zoro wants his attention? Now it’s a finger under his chin or against his cheek. Zoro’s just passing by? He’ll just tug Sanji out of his way by hooking a finger in his belt loop. Zoro wants to say something but doesn’t actually want to use his words? Their little midnight not-chats—which began one night when they were both sleepless but not on watch—used to consist solely of manly silence and staring out at the sea. When the touches started, Zoro progressed to knocking their feet together as they dangled over the side of the ship. Now, weeks in, Zoro just settles his palm over the back of Sanji’s neck and leaves it there. He digs his fingers in, runs his thumb along the edge of Sanji’s hairline. Sleep doesn’t come any easier, but Sanji’s eyes sure feel heavy.
Once, Zoro slides a hand across Sanji’s lower back. Unfortunately no longer unusual in Sanji’s day to day. But Sanji’s wearing a thin t-shirt for once, a shirt that is, perhaps, a size too small. Zoro’s hand, his large, warm palm, touches the bare skin of Sanji’s lower back. Glides through the sweat created by this damn summer island and rests, innocently, on Sanji’s hip. Pinky finger hooked in the belt loop of Sanji’s shorts. The rest of his fingers grazing the hair on Sanji’s stomach.
Sanji trips over his own dress shoe. He would’ve face planted, had it not been for the moss’s stupid, rough grip on the back of Sanji’s t-shirt.
The hip touches get more common after that. Sanji doesn’t wear a t-shirt again. In fact, he gives all of his t-shirts to Luffy in an incredible act of generosity.
It doesn’t help. Zoro can’t touch his skin through four layers of undershirt, shirt, vest, and jacket, but the weight of his arm around Sanji’s waist is still taunting. Still makes his pulse pound in his ears, still makes his muscles tight in anticipation of...something.
When they were just tied together, even when they were hand in hand, it was easy enough to ignore Zoro’s proximity. But now Zoro is everywhere, all the time. And his touches aren’t like Luffy’s. Nor are they the casual, passing touches of the rest of the crew. They’re intimate. Lingering. Proprietary. Unyielding. Like Sanji is Zoro’s to touch or to not touch as he pleases. It should rile him. It should enrage him. Instead, each touch sends a little zing down Sanji’s spine that he’s inexplicably come to crave. Even so, Sanji knows he just has to blink first and it would all go away. Zoro may be an oaf, but he isn’t a bully. If Sanji gave him any indication that he was actually upset, this would all vanish into thin air. It’s the same thing that all of their fights are predicated on—a mutual agreement to not back off unless it’s serious. Maybe that’s what’s urging Sanji not to blink. Or maybe that’s just how he always feels around Zoro. Unblinking. Eager.
The worst thing is, intimacy begets intimacy. Before this whole thing started, Sanji hadn’t realized just how often Zoro would get turned around or just start walking in the wrong direction. Now, after weeks of whatever this is, he’s starting to anticipate. Starting to reach out on his own.
We’ve paused for too long at this stall, which means that Zoro’s about to wander off, better— Sanji reaches back with one leg, hooks an ankle around Zoro’s own, gently tugging him back. Zoro huffs, but is back at his side a moment later, chin hooked over Sanji’s shoulder, complaint on his lips.
A turn here and— Sanji reaches out with one hand, without looking, to tug lightly on Kitetsu’s sheath, urging Zoro to turn with him instead of continuing straight. Zoro comes back within arms reach and rests his elbow on Sanji’s shoulder. Sanji hasn’t even paused in the argument he was making about the importance of properly filleting a fish (— not just cutting wherever you damn well please, moss-for-brains ) .
They’re shopping together (not on a supply run , just out on one of their free days, because now they spend all their time together, what the fuck ), and this winter island is too damn cold and Zoro’s stopped for way too goddamn long talking to this lady about what makes the best wood for sword handles or what-the-fuck-ever and his belly warmer is right there so really, Sanji’s being entirely reasonable when he sticks his hands in it— oh god what is wrong with him . And Zoro’s clearly had his head kicked in one too many times because he just let’s Sanji do this like it’s normal .
Sanji can’t even blame that last one on Zoro, because for once the bastard wasn’t moving, but Sanji went and draped himself all over him anyway.
Sanji’s body betrays him on the Sunny too. Where before his physical interactions with Zoro were limited to fights and whatever they thought would annoy the other most, now they flourish into something else. They still fight. They still kick and shove and whack each other over the head. But now Zoro will reach a hand out and rub Sanji’s ankle in thanks when he comes by to drop off a mid-day drink. Now Sanji will put his hand on Zoro’s shoulder as he serves his meal, thumb tracing the curve of his neck. It becomes another one of their many competitions. Who can get away with the most of whatever-this-is.
But like in everything they do, it gets intense quickly.
Zoro will bump their hips together as they do the dishes, even though they used to stand a whole person apart. Sanji pretends that this is normal and that his skin isn’t buzzing everywhere they aren’t touching. They brush hands all the time now. Their legs and feet find each other under the table at every meal time—which Sanji is now forced to sit down for (rather than doing his job) because if he doesn’t Zoro will tug him into a seat by force (and Sanji lets him). When things are slow and one of them needs a rest, they start to seek each other out. Zoro will slump against Sanji’s back, snoring like a bullhorn. Sanji, on occasion, will drive his forehead into the meat of Zoro’s shoulder. Because he knows Zoro will stay still, and he knows Zoro can take his weight, and he knows that the press of Zoro’s body is almost as good as a hot towel.
Even when they aren’t touching, it feels meaningful. Zoro starts to take some of his naps in the galley. Body balanced on the bar stool, head cushioned on his arms and right in the middle of Sanji’s workstation goddammit. Sanji doesn’t nap because he has an actual job to do, thank you, but perhaps, sometimes, after dinner, he’ll crawl up to the crow’s nest and curl up by one of the windows—just for the view of the ocean, of course. He ignores the sounds of Zoro running through his shitty swordsman forms and is absolutely not lulled to sleep by their familiarity.
It’s all just a game.
Sanji had once, frighteningly, reached up to cup Zoro’s jaw—earrings brushing softly against his fingers—in order to check his face after a particularly ill-timed kick on Sanji’s part. They had stopped trying to truly hurt one another a long time ago, and he’s not sure what’s distracted Zoro enough to leave his face wide open like that—and Sanji is thinking too much about the softness of Zoro’s skin and how he can feel his pulse jump beneath his thumb—but he knows it can’t be good.
Until it’s not a game.
They're in a bar. One that Zoro picked. It's full of too many men (Zoro has the worst goddamn taste in bars. As in everything). For once the crew is out with them, but Sanji can’t see any of them now. He remembers Luffy having a blast. That might be Brook singing now.
Sanji was with Zoro in a little corner of the bar. He can't remember what they were arguing about this time. It was something stupid. Just like Zoro.
Zoro's left anyway, to go get someone. Something. More drinks maybe? Sanji's not worried about it expect maybe he is a little. It's his job not to let Zoro get lost, after all. And it's a long way from this little table to the bar. Wouldn't want Nami to get mad at him for ruining their streak.
As Sanji is about to get up and go find his wayward mosshead, however, a lovely lady takes Zoro's seat at the table.
She has broad shoulders. Short hair. She has on dark red lipstick and no other hint of makeup. She has hooded eyes and an elegant nose. Tattoos up and down a set of well muscled arms. Her leather vest is open to bare skin. The tattoo on her chest is some kind of bird with a flower in its mouth. Sanji can't help but stare.
"Are you doing okay, lovely?" Her voice is soft. She reaches one hand out to twirl a strand of Sanji's hair around her finger. He hasn't cut it in so long that it's started to curl off of his shoulders. He's so happy he hasn't cut it. Even if the moss now tugs at it irritatingly every time they fight.
"I'm fantastic," is what Sanji means to say. It comes out as more stutter than word. Oh well, the lovely lady seems to understand him just fine.
She leans a little closer across the table, "My name's Rose. Did you get left here all alone, little flower?" Her perfume is dark. A sent he can't place.
"Sanji. My name's. Sanji." He stutters again. He has got to regain his composure. Work, stupid mouth. "And of course I'm not alone, my dear Rose, because you're here with me." Normally, Sanji would be putting on a performance. A gorgeous woman, talking to him at a bar, clearly interested? He'd have flowers, sweet words, a whole serenade lined up if it'd please her.
But Rose has already taken the reigns from him. The finger in his hair has turned to a hand on his cheek and Sanji can't do anything but lean into it.
She's saying something else, now. Sanji does his best to focus.
"Why don't you come hang out with me and my friends over there. And if you like, I'll take you home tonight." There's something in her eyes when she looks at him. Like she could eat him whole. Sanji wants so badly to let her. It's not proper, necessarily, to let a lady put this much effort into a courtship. But if this is what she wants, if Sanji can give it to her? Well, then of course she can have him.
Suddenly, there are two warm fingers against his chin. Gently but insistently, Sanji's head is turned to the side. Away from Rose. There, next to him, is Zoro. Broad chest, broad shoulders, and oh, a frown settled into his face.
"We were just leaving." Zoro isn't speaking to him, but his eye never leaves Sanji's. It’s dark. Maybe it's just the low lights of the corner, but there's something dangerous there. A shiver goes up Sanji's back. It must be cold in here.
Sanji goes to protest. Rose was being very nice to him and hey, was Zoro just leaving their drinks on the table, what's his problem? But there's a hand on his waist, melting its way through four layers of fabric, tugging Sanji up and out of his seat. He absolutely does not yelp.
Rose slowly leans back in her seat. Zoro's seat. Whatever. She looks Zoro up and down, but doesn't make a move to get up. She smiles at Zoro, slow and easy—and Sanji can't see from this angle but he can feel Zoro baring his teeth right back—before her eyes catch Sanji's again. "Alright. You know where to find me, little flower." She reaches over and takes a sip of Sanji's new drink.
Sanji is leaning towards her like the sun, but Zoro's already dragging him out of the bar and into the street. Sanji can't get his feet to work. He feels lightheaded.
Abruptly, Sanji is angry. Is it too much to ask, for someone to pay attention to him? Rose was. Rose had looked at Sanji like he was the only one in the room. So what if it was only for the night? So what if he'd never see her again? And Zoro had just ripped him away from her.
Sanji digs his heels into the dirt. Rips his arm away from where Zoro had it resting on his shoulder. Grits his teeth when the hand on his waist tightens in response. Sanji's too uncoordinated, too loose-limbed to get away from Zoro's sudden, bitingly sober face.
The problem is, Zoro doesn't really mean it. All the touching, all the looks, all the attention. It's not really about Sanji. For Sanji. It's just cause Nami and Usopp we're being annoying. Just so Zoro doesn't get lost. Just so Zoro has something to pass the time with. Just an obligation to drag a drunken cook back to their ship.
"What the fuck is your problem, moss-for-brains, I was talking to her." Sanji shouts.
"You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" Zoro shouts back.
Well. Actually, Sanji wasn't trying to do anything, just knew that he felt good, for once, finally. So kudos to Zoro for figuring it out first?
The confusion must show on his face because Zoro sighs and continues, "You're not the only one who's been through this kinda thing before, love-cook." He shakes Sanji a little, and Sanji tries not to let his head wobble too much.
Been through what? Sanji would say, if his mouth wasn’t so dry.
"Before Luffy I didn't have anyone. There was a long stretch of time where I was alone. And I liked it that way, I thought I did anyway. But it was hard sometimes. It made me...sensitive."
Zoro pauses and looks Sanji in the eye. Sanji is all too aware of where they’re touching—Zoro’s boot against his instep, their knees brushing, Sanji’s hand digging into Zoro’s sleeve so hard that he can feel one of the scars on his arm, Zoro’s hands on his back, his forearms moving every time Sanji takes a breath—and everywhere they’re not touching—the scant stretch of space between their chests, the brush of Zoro’s coat against Sanji’s pant leg, the smell of cheap beer on Zoro’s breath, Zoro’s earrings, resting pretty and perfectly unmolested against his jawline—to not know exactly what he means.
"I slept around a lot. And that would fix it, for a bit at least. You haven't—I've been trying—." Zoro sighs again and rests his forehead against Sanji's. "If that's what you want, then fine. Go back in there. But I always figured you for a romantic. Don't want you to start something here just for you to leave your heart behind. One Usopp is bad enough." Zoro’s laugh is weak, but his grip is crushing.
"Why do you care?" Sanji's voice cracks. Because he's drunk, obviously. Not because he's thinking of leaving Rose in the morning. Of leaving a dozen Rose's, again and again and again. Of having a touch so complete, so overwhelming, only to go back to Zoro's stupid, hesitant, ill-timed, half-way there, meaningless nothings.
"It's my job to protect the crew. Every part of it." And Sanji knows this isn't a dismissal because Zoro takes nothing as seriously as this. "Even this." Zoro pokes him in the chest, right over his heart.
And that brings Sanji’s anger right back. What would this slime ball know about protecting Sanji’s heart? He’s the one who’s been trampling on it this whole time. This whole thing is his fault, and he’s not even gonna take responsibility for it? He speaks without thinking, his voice a growl, “Why don’t you do it then!”
“Uh. What.” Zoro blinks dumbly.
Sanji doesn’t let up, pushing where their foreheads are still pressed together, forcing Zoro back across the road, “Protect my heart and take me apart yourself, you bastard.” Sanji seethes.
He doesn’t give himself time to hesitate. He crashes his lips into Zoro’s, moves so fast that he makes his own lip bleed. Sanji curses his own inexperience for messing this up already, curses Zoro for making him act so stupidly—but then Zoro’s tongue licks the blood from his lips.
It’s like he’s flipped a switch. Suddenly, both of Zoro’s hands are on him again. His tongue briefly drives further into Sanji’s mouth before Zoro slows the kiss down, turning it languid and soft. He breaks away, comes back, breaks away again. Then he goes for Sanji’s throat. A lick here, a nip there, like he’s trying to find the best place to—oh, yes, there—Zoro bites down harshly right behind Sanji’s ear, sucking the skin between his teeth.
Sanji runs his hands along Zoro’s back. One hand tracing the column of his spine, the other ghosting along his ribs until it finds the edge of his coat and the underside of his pec. Zoro does something very close to a shiver, and catches Sanji’s bottom lip between his teeth. He’s drawing blood. Sanji can’t bring himself to care. His hands, the cause of all of Sanji’s goddamn problems, are underneath Sanji’s shirt, having untucked it somewhere along the way. They’re like brands against Sanji’s back, their gentle caress damning. Kissing someone has never felt like this before.
Sanji is so overwhelmed it’s all he can do to follow along. When they fight, they match each other hit for hit. It’s been a long time since they’ve even kept track of a real winner. It’s more like a dance. This doesn’t feel like a fight. Or a dance. It feels like total control, and for once in his life Sanji doesn’t feel the urge to fight back. He wants to know what it’d be like just to give in. Just this once.
Zoro finally pulls himself back completely. His eye, gray and hungry, searches Sanji’s face. Then he grins, sharp and joyful. “Fine, but no complaining in the morning, pretty brows.”
He hitches Sanji up until his legs are around his waist—which is just as well because Sanji’s legs seem to have stopped working. A combination of alcohol and whatever Zoro’s been doing to him that gets his head all light and floaty. Normally, the indignity of such a position would’ve sent Sanji into the stratosphere. Instead, the humiliation just adds to the thrill under his skin.
Zoro’s focusing on getting them back to the ship (and failing spectacularly), so Sanji focuses on distracting him. One hand buried in the hair at the nape of Zoro’s neck, the other continuing its exploration of Zoro’s chest. He’s not sure what they’re doing, what the boundaries are here, what any of it means. But Sanji’s not worrying about it, not right now. It’s as if there’s a screen between his body and the usual tide of thought that runs through his brain. Or like he’s slowly slipping below it all. All that’s left are sensations and impulses. Sanji’s just as tall as Zoro, so he has to bend down to reach his ear. Luckily, he’s on Zoro’s left side so he just has to—
Sanji bites one of Zoro’s earrings and gives a hesitant tug. Zoro curses and stumbles. His other arm comes up to brace Sanji against his waist, inadvertently causing Sanji to press closer. The friction against his crotch is so sudden that Sanji tightens his grip on Zoro’s hair in surprise, tugging.
“Zor-” he pants, earring still in his mouth.
That’s all he manages to get out before Zoro curses loudly again. He does an about face and crashes through the doors of the building they’ve stopped next to.
It’s an Inn, apparently. Sanji hasn’t opened his eyes. He’s not even listening. He’s buried his face against Zoro’s neck, peppering it with kisses, bites, licks, trying to resist the urge to rut against Zoro’s side like a dog.
Whatever Zoro must say to the poor lobby workers gets them a room. Sanji isn’t even sure if he’s paid them or just intimidated his way into getting what he wants. He can’t bring himself to care.
The stairs are a special kind of torture. Zoro’s rushing up them, the damn brute, which jostles Sanji against his hip. Sanji can’t help it, he gives in.
He’s embarrassingly wet. They haven’t even done anything yet—Zoro’s just carried him halfway across the city—and Sanji’s worried that he’s about to soak through his dress pants.
He whines and clenches his thighs tighter. Grips Zoro’s shoulder to give himself extra leverage as he rubs his pussy against Zoro’s side.
Zoro growls, which might be intimidating if it was coming from somebody other than Zoro, but instead it just makes Sanji laugh, ‘cause Zoro’s also fumbling with the key and then the fucker drops it—the combination of arousal and delight makes Sanji dizzy, and the next thing he knows he’s bouncing across the bed sheets, still laughing, and Zoro’s crawling between his legs saying, “Shut up, love cook, you’re being unfair—”
Whatever else he has to say gets cut off when Sanji kisses him. A simple, pleasant thing. Too nice considering the blood that still stains both their mouths. Sanji leans back against the pillows, breaking the kiss. Eyes half open, he takes Zoro in. His coat has fallen off his shoulders at some point. His red sash is gone, probably with his swords, lying next to the bed. Sanji’s left marks everywhere, scratches across his chest, hickeys and bite marks along the left side of his neck. His hair is mussed, not that it ever looks neat. He’s smiling and his eye is bright—a look that the papers would call bloodthirsty, but that really just means he’s found a worthy challenge.
Sanji manages to get his brain working for one last taunt, “Well? Get on with it then, bastard.”
Zoro grumbles, “Knew you’d be a brat,” but he’s smiling as he leans down to kiss Sanji again. Still slow, but deep and wet. Like the answers to the universe are in Sanji’s mouth. Like his spit is Zoro’s favorite drink.
Sanji’s left panting, drool hangs from the side of his mouth as Zoro moves on to his neck. Distracted by the attention to his still-tender skin, Sanji doesn’t notice that Zoro’s been opening the buttons of his shirt until one of his pecs is engulfed in the warmth of his palm.
“Ahh~” Sanji bites off a cry. No one’s ever touched his chest before. Sanji doesn’t go gallivanting around with his chest out like some people, so it’s not like it happens casually. And Sanji isn’t exactly the most experienced. The thin fabric of his undershirt might as well be air for how sensitive Sanji feels.
“Damn it, cook, how many layers do you wear?” Zoro rumbles, his thumb tracing the hardened outline of Sanji’s nipple.
Childhood malnourishment had blessed him with a small chest, so a tight undershirt was all the binding that Sanji usually needed. A gift considering how much maneuverability he needed for his fighting style. Usually Sanji forgot about his chest entirely, unless he happened to be looking in the mirror while getting dressed.
Zoro knew he was trans, obviously. They’d shared quarters and bathrooms and helped to patched each other up enough times that he’d have to be really, truly stupid to not know.
But the fear was there anyway. For one sharp second all Sanji could think was—Wait, Zoro’s never been interested in women, what if he thinks I’m disgusting—before Zoro was grasping either side of his undershirt and tearing it in two. Then, all Sanji could think about was Zoro’s mouth on his chest.
His worshipful tongue, the teasing bite of his teeth, the cage of his hands on Sanji’s ribs. It was all so much, so sudden. Zoro hadn’t even undressed him, just shoved Sanji’s jacket and shirt down until they were bunched around his forearms. Sanji felt wild. He felt unmoored. He brought his hands to Zoro’s head and pushed him harder against his chest. Zoro’s laugh against his wet skin sent electricity to his toes.
Zoro braces one of his hands against the bed, raising his body up and away from Sanji’s. His other hand trails down Sanji’s side until it reaches his belt. In one sharp move he has Sanji’s belt undone. Zoro rests his thumb against the button of Sanji’s pants. A steady pressure on his mons, inches above his clit.
Sanji whines.
The rest of Zoro’s fingers rub against the seam of Sanji’s pants. Rough, but dull. Right where Sanji needs them but, “Unh—not enough—please—” and Sanji’s withering, trying to chase the friction himself.
Zoro finally, achingly leaves his chest. Plants little pecks in Sanji’s chest hair, across his ribs, dotted against the small paunch of his stomach. He moves his thumb and Sanji hisses at the release of pressure, but then Sanji’s pants button is between his teeth and oh no, Sanji’s never gonna be able to look at him with Wado in his mouth in the same way.
The bastard gets Sanji’s pants undone with just his mouth. He shoves Sanji’s pants and underwear down just enough so that he can bury his nose in Sanji’s pussy hair. Zoro groans, loud and long. Sanji has to look away so that he doesn’t cum just from the sight of Zoro between his legs.
Focusing, Sanji toes off his shoes, and manages, with Zoro’s help, to wiggle out of his pants. He lets his legs fall on either side of Zoro’s head, and Zoro descends on him like a man starved.
Zoro grips the underside of Sanji’s thighs, pulling him towards him and away from the head of the bed. Sanji’s never felt so exposed. His face burns. Zoro starts with one long stroke of his tongue, briefly dipping into Sanji’s hole and then resting underneath his dick. He wraps his lips around Sanji’s growth, barely an inch, and sucks. Sanji jolts. He bites into his own forearm to contain his scream.
Zoro huffs, moving his mouth away— damn him —to say, “Oi, curly, none of that. I can’t see your face down here, so I wanna hear you. Got that? Hands on me if you need something to do.”
He brings his mouth back, tongue probing into Sanji’s hole. It’s a feeling like no other, wet and hot and close. The dig of Zoro’s nose is infuriating, a tease of pressure. Sanji reaches down and digs one hand into Zoro’s hair, the other into the muscles of his back. His grip is biting, vicious, but all he can manage is a sob, “Please.”
One hand lets go of Sanji’s thigh to spread through Sanji’s pussy. Tugging lightly at his dick, moving down to his folds, joining his tongue for the slightest of stretch, before moving back up again. So far he can only fit one finger, but it’s the width of two of Sanji’s own.
Zoro brings his other hand up to Sanji’s mouth. His middle and ring finger force their way in, careless of his panting breath. Sanji bites them, hard enough to leave impressions of his teeth. He curls his tongue around them, putting on a show. The taste of Zoro’s fingers isn’t pleasant. Dirt, alcohol, sweat, the metallic tang of beri, even a trace of oil and powder from when he was cleaning Wado earlier that day. Heat pools in Sanji’s gut anyway. Spit floods his mouth. Idly, he wonders what Zoro’s boots would taste like.
Zoro takes his fingers away. The drool that follows them from Sanji’s mouth leaves a cold trail on his chest. Zoro pants as he pulls back from Sanji’s pussy. Sanji is about to complain about the hotcold feeling of his breath when Zoro spits, right into his cunt.
Sanji’s orgasm shudders through him, his legs quaking where they rest against the bed, nails drawing blood where they’re buried in Zoro’s skin. He must let out some kind of sound, but he can’t hear it over the rushing in his ears.
The dumbfounded look on Zoro’s face means it was probably horribly embarrassing. In the sudden stillness, Sanji’s brain comes rushing back to the surface. Oh, god, of course he couldn’t even do this right, how pathetic—but the thought is interrupted by Zoro surging forward to kiss him. One hand against his cheek, his mouth desperate, his tongue laden with Sanji’s taste. He’s saying something into Sanji’s mouth, but the middle and ring finger of his other hand are still poised at Sanji’s entrance.
“Cook,” His index finger circles Sanji’s clit, his thumb an unrelenting pressure from above. “Do you have any idea—” His fingers glide through Sanji’s slick, his spit, Sanji’s own spit, the squelch so loud it draws a humiliated little noise from Sanji’s throat. Zoro swallows it, growls, “—what you do to me?”
The stretch is maddening. He feels so sensitive. The slightest of burns, the feeling of fullness, it’s too much and at the same time not enough. The pit in his stomach knows Zoro can do worse, much worse. Could fold him in half, could slam into him, could take and take and take and leave Sanji empty, boneless, full. The gentle widening of Zoro’s fingers is enough to take Sanji’s breath away, but he wants so badly to not be breathing at all.
Sanji’s given up on kissing. He can’t make his mouth move. He bucks his hips down, tries to take Zoro’s fingers deeper, but the bastard moves his other hand to Sanji’s stomach and presses down, taking his leverage away. “Needy,” Zoro laughs against Sanji’s slack mouth.
Sanji lets go of Zoro’s back and reaches between them. He tugs Zoro’s haramaki up and slips his hand under Zoro’s coat until he can feel his waistband. Zoro doesn’t wear pants that button so it’s easy to slip past them. He also doesn’t wear underwear. Sanji’s immediately met with the sweat and heat of his skin, and with the wet tip of his cock. Zoro grunts and Sanji can feel the aborted thrust of his legs.
Zoro starts to move his fingers faster, curling them. Zoro brushes against something that lights Sanji’s brain up, but he doesn’t stop. He rubs against it again and again, back and forth, and Sanji’s got his legs against Zoro’s back—trying to get him closer—when Zoro’s other hand leaves stomach and comes back, wet, to tug on Sanji’s clit.
Sanji wails through his second orgasm, gushing around Zoro’s fingers. But it’s still not enough. It’s not what he wants. He tightens his hand where its gone limp around Zoro’s cock. “Zoro,” he ekes out, “please,” he manages a half-hearted tug, although his arms feel like jelly, “want.” You he means to add, but Zoro’s already cursing him out and tugging his pants down. Content that he’s finally getting what he wants, Sanji settles back against the pillows. He tries to tug Zoro back down to him—so they can kiss, so Sanji can feel the panting of Zoro’s breath, so he can rub their chests together—but Zoro won’t be moved.
Sanji makes a frustrated sound, and Zoro briefly meets his eyes. He grins, “Sorry, pretty, I wanna watch.” He kisses the corner of Sanji’s mouth and then he rests his forehead against Sanji’s collarbone, eye locked on—
His tip slides between Sanji’s lips, gathering the slick of Sanji’s orgasm, bypassing his hole to bump sweetly against Sanji’s dick. His shaft, thick and hot, still rests against Sanji’s entrance, which drools as Sanji contracts around nothing. Zoro slides his cock through the mess he’s made, once, twice, but doesn’t make any other progress. The drag of his foreskin stimulates the delicate skin of his inner lips. Sanji sobs, what a fucking bastard, and tries to get some kind of leverage again.
He doesn’t manage it, but his squirming breaks Zoro’s trance, at least, because he finally gets to work. He’s decently wet from sliding against Sanji’s cunt, and the precum that’s been oozing from his tip adds to it. He spreads their mess around, coating his cock completely. Finally, finally, Zoro pushes in.
Sanji’s been worked open, so the stretch isn’t painful, but it does send a tingle down to his toes. Zoro’s staring in rapt attention, eye locked on where they’re joined together, hips inching closer, agonizingly slow. It’s like all the big, important, complicated parts of Sanji have been stored away. It’s just him, in his body. The only thing that matters is where he and Zoro come together. The only part of him worth anything is his cunt.
The thought makes Sanji’s head go fuzzy. He acts on instinct and grabs for the hand that Zoro still has around his cock. Zoro, in surprise, falls into him, bottoming out. At last, Sanji is full. He moans in contentment and brings his prize to his lips. Sour, salty, bitter, the taste of their combined spend should be disgusting, but Sanji can only hum as he licks Zoro’s hand clean.
Sanji can feel Zoro’s eye on his face—focused, blazing—but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He doesn’t bother listening to whatever Zoro’s saying either, because Zoro hitches Sanji’s legs up around his waist again and starts moving. The long, slow stretch of him pulling out, the sharp, breath-stealing push in. Like a force of nature, like the tide. The headboard is banging against the wall, but Zoro’s mouth is back on Sanji’s chest, eye still burning a hole in Sanji’s face.
After lavishing both of Sanji’s nipples with attention, he nuzzles into the bed of Sanji’s chest hair, teeth digging harshly into Sanji’s sternum. “Pretty boy,” he says, voice muffled, mouth full, “eyes on me.”
It takes so much effort to drag his eyes open, to tear his focus away from the feeling of Zoro to actually look at him. The ugly sound of his balls slapping against Sanji’s ass, the cold spit on his nipples, his hands digging bruises into the meat of Sanji’s thighs, the length of him slowly rubbing against Sanji’s g-spot as he pulls out. Sanji clenches in protest, nose scrunching. He’d already opened his eyes, what more could Zoro want?
Zoro laughs and rushes up to kiss his nose, “Alright, that settles it then.” He scoops Sanji up, one hand buried in his hair, the other on the small of Sanji’s back—slipping through sweat, so much like that day on the summer island, hot and big and strong and, oh—Zoro’s kneeling on the bed, Sanji half-cradled in his lap. Gravity forces Zoro in that much further. The angle is overwhelming. Zoro’s hand moves from his back down to his ass. He moves Sanji, bodily, up and down his cock. Concerned for no one’s pleasure but his own. He’s got his mouth against Sanji’s neck again, lazily tracing his tongue against the bulge of Sanji’s Adam’s apple. Sanji relaxes into Zoro’s hold, happy to be used.
When Zoro cums, it’s slow. It’s quiet. Between one pull and the next, there’s a sudden feeling of warmth in Sanji’s belly, but Zoro keeps using him. Moving him up and down his length as he slowly softens.
Sanji shivers as Zoro lays him down against the pillows and pulls out. Zoro bends down to kiss him, open mouthed, still hungry.
“Hmm. One more.” he hums, as he guides Sanji’s hands to the headboard.
Sanji is confused, until Zoro seals his lips against Sanji’s dick again. He sucks, hard and fast and sudden. Sanji grips the headboard, knuckles turning white. Zoro hooks one finger inside Sanji’s hole, loose and dripping with Zoro’s cum. He circles his tongue around Sanji’s clit one last time before he moves his mouth away. Instead, his mouth bites down on the tender inside of Sanji’s thigh as two of his fingers tug incessantly on Sanji’s dick.
Sanji cums for a third time when he feels the small trickle of blood from the bite mark on his thigh. It’s gentler than the others. His head’s already so full of cotton that it doesn’t even really touch him. A slight rush of feeling, like vertigo. Or maybe that’s just Zoro moving him around the bed.
Mosshead’s still capable of doing stuff—Sanji can hear him rustling around somewhere—but his absence from the bed leaves Sanji feeling cold. He tries to make a noise, but his throat feels raw, have I been screaming the whole time? The next time the rustling comes closer he reaches out, or tries to anyway. It’s probably nothing more than inelegant flopping.
Zoro understands him anyway. He grumbles something about Sanji not yelling at him in the morning, but Sanji’s already squirmed his way underneath him, that pleasant, floaty feeling returning with Zoro’s weight crushing him against the mattress.
Sanji falls asleep with Zoro snoring above him and thinks, I’ll take this anyway I can get it.