Work Text:
Subscriber Only
A navy tank top blurred the entire screen for a moment, before the person stepped back and sat down on a hard-backed chair. He was big, broad-chested, and muscular. Square-jawed with a nasty looking scar bisecting his left eye, leaving it permanently shut. Japanese descent. Three gold earrings dangled from his left ear. His dyed hair, a vibrant, velvety green, stood in messy disarray, untended rather than curated.
“Um, hi,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges. Behind him stood a single bed, dark sheets rumpled, beneath an unadorned off-white wall. The lighting seemed to come from a lamp behind the camera, casting odd shadows. “I’m, uh, Marimo, I guess. I had to come up with a name that wasn’t my own.”
He shifted on the chair, looking at the camera with his one dark brown eye. “My friend told me I could make extra money doing this. I got hospital bills to pay–” he made a motion toward his eye, “–dental bills, back rent, Lyfts every day because I can’t drive anymore, shit like that. Working two jobs and neither give enough hours or pay enough. I don’t–”
He cut himself off, looked away from the camera, blew a harsh breath. “I really need the money,” he whispered.
He turned his face toward the camera again. “Anyway, uh, hope you subscribe. And tip.”
He took another breath, seemed to nod to himself, then pulled his tank over his head. Another ugly scar slashed across his muscular chest, left shoulder to right hip. Both scars – face and chest – looked fairly fresh, dark pink lines against tawny skin. Quarter-sized dark coral nipples rose up and down with the flex of muscle. Chiseled abs tightened, defined v-lines arrowing down toward his waistband.
He hesitated a moment, then lifted his hips and pushed his black track pants down below his knees. Thick corded thighs bunched with the movement. His soft cock and balls were exposed, a dusting of black hair at the base. He picked up a tube that was sitting out of sight on the floor, squirted lube into his palm, then tossed the tube onto the bed. He wrapped his fingers around his flaccid shaft and began to stroke it to hardness. His gaze landed somewhere above the camera, a rose tinge to his cheeks.
It became evident quickly that he was not small. His shaft thickened and lengthened, became flushed, darker veins squiggling on the underside. Fully erect, it was a sight to behold. His fist stroked the turgid flesh, the slick sound of the lube the only background music. His other hand gripped his thigh at first, tensely. Then it relaxed, slid up to his lower belly, stroked the skin beneath his navel.
As the video went on, his gaze became half-lidded. His lower lip caught beneath his teeth. HIs breathing sped up, becoming audible, chest rising and falling more quickly. His thick thumb swept over the head of his shaft, dug into the damp slit, pulled a stuttered moan from between his lips. Whatever fantasy was fueling him made him shift on the chair, slump lower, spread his knees more. His balls rested on the hard seat between his thighs, nearly hairless, with a purplish tint from arousal. His free hand continued to stroke his lower belly, as if it were sensitive. His nipples had hardened, tight pebbles standing out, the left one rising up and down as the muscle beneath it shifted with every stroke of his hand.
“Shit,” he breathed, as his abs quivered, then tightened. His hand began to move faster, the slick sound of the lube getting louder, and his eyelid fluttered shut. His quads corded as his hips began to move, thrusting up into his fist. His face scrunched, and a high-pitched whine escaped his throat.
He came, ropes of milky release painting over his taut torso and fist. He drew it out, body shaking, until he exhaled sharply, holding his spent shaft in a loose grip. His face was flushed, his breathing unsteady. After a prolonged moment, he opened his eye. The flush darkened, seemingly from embarrassment.
He reached down, yanked his track pants up, wiped his damp hand on the fabric. He licked his lips, glanced away from the camera, then back at it again. “Uh, hope you tip.”
Then he stood, his scarred, semen-spattered torso filling the screen, going blurry, before the video went dark.
Sanji stared at the replay button, his own breathing heavy, a mess in his lap. “Shit, that was hot,” he murmured to his empty bedroom. He tapped the profile of the poster, opening up the creator’s content. It was the first and only video posted. An unlocked one, marked First Time, First Post, Asian, Big Dick, Jerking Off, for preview on the adult site.
The profile had scant information. Male. Big dick. Planned posting schedule. Low subscriber rate. Tips and PPV requests okay. Comments and DM only open to subscribers. The posted video already had a ton of hearts.
Sanji hit the tip button, then after a brief hesitation, subscribe. Confirmations came through. His feed refreshed, and the video now had readable comments. Sanji opened them, scanned through the first ten or so.
You’re fucking hung.
I’ll pay all your bills if you fuck me.
Bad lighting, bad staging, bad camera – replayed it a dozen times.
Is that awkwardness for real?
Comments continued with the similar trend, ranging from requests to bang to questions about size. There were a few adorable and precious virgin comments. Sanji was right there with them, because while he’d searched for big dicks, he hadn’t expected to get awkward virginal vibes which hit harder than seeing that cock. He felt a brief, uncomfortable twinge enjoying it as much as he did, but pushed it aside just as quickly.
Sanji could understand, though. He had a mountain of college loans from a degree he didn’t use, roommates in order to offset rent, and too much credit card debt. But his job was full time, including health insurance, and it paid enough to get by. Plus, he liked what he did, which mattered a lot.
Sanji tapped the heart button on the post, before hovering over the comment button. He never commented on any of these videos. He subscribed to a few other creators because his love life was abysmal and, in the long run, cheaper than going to a club.
He hit the comment button before he could talk himself out of it, quickly thumbed a few asinine words, then exited out of the app to clean up and go to sleep.
Gentlecook: Hope my tip and sub help.
Sanji let himself inside the townhouse just as the sun crested the buildings across the street. One more night stretch next week, and then he’d finally flip back to days. Thank God. He was starting to look like a vampire – pale, hollow-eyed, living off bad coffee and reheated dinners at four in the morning.
The townhome sat in a neat row of attached units in Thousand Sunny – close enough to Grand Line that the glow of traffic and storefronts never fully faded at night, but far enough out that it didn’t quite count as “the city.” White facades with faintly old-fashioned trim lined a shared drive instead of a street, identical doors opening onto narrow stoops with a few stubborn shrubs hanging on out front.
Sanji dropped his keys in the basket on the narrow table by the door and sighed with relief at finally being home. It had been a long shift. He’d picked up an extra twelve because Koby had to call off. Which meant he had been stuck with Helmeppo and all his anxieties. He didn’t know how Koby dealt with him as a partner.
Sanji headed down the short front hall toward the kitchen at the back. The townhome was narrow and vertical, a standard middle-unit layout built to make the most of limited space. The living room sat just off the entry, long rather than wide, with a single front window looking out at neighboring units, and a straight staircase hugged the shared wall on the way up.
The kitchen anchored the rear of the first floor, opening into a small dining nook and a sliding glass door that led to a fenced patch of concrete and grass barely worthy of being called a yard. Everything felt practical and slightly compressed, cabinets climbing high and appliances arranged in a careful line.
It had been built for function more than comfort, but homey touches had crept in over time: a rug soft under bare feet, a lamp left on instead of the harsh overheads, the faint, lingering smell of coffee grounds and dish soap, the back door that stuck unless lifted just right.
Chopper sat at the small table in the dining nook, eating a bowl of cereal while studying a medical text. The short-statured, hirsute young man smiled when he saw Sanji. “Hi, Sanji. How was work?”
“Decent. Not many calls.” Sanji helped himself to a cup of coffee. He’d stay up for a few more hours before hitting the sack, to keep a normal as possible schedule. He leaned against the counter. “You have a test today, right?”
“Yes. Pathology.” Tony Chopper was a second year med student at the University of Grand Line Medical School. He and Dr. Law Tralfagar – a trauma surgeon and the owner of the townhome – were Sanji’s roommates.
“Want me to quiz you?”
Chopper beamed, then jumped up. “I’ll get my flash cards. Be right back.”
Sanji watched Chopper disappear up the stairs, the quick patter of his feet fading toward the second floor. He poured himself a bowl of cereal, taking a seat at the table. He was still in his EMT uniform, navy shirt and reflective strip catching the sunlight peeking through the back window. He’d make something more substantial in a bit, after Chopper had gone and he’d had a chance to shower.
He loved cooking. He learned how at his adopted father’s side. For a while, he’d entertained becoming a chef, but working at his father’s restaurant had told him he was better suited to feeding himself and friends rather than having to deal with customers, the fast pace of the line, and staff shortages and turnover. He happily cooked elaborate – yet affordable, they weren’t made of gold – meals for himself and his roommates, which he packaged up for them to either take or eat when their schedule allowed.
Chopper returned with his flashcards, wearing his “thinking cap” – a top hat with a medical cross on it. Sanji spent the next half hour quizzing him with a single mistake, and that was in pronunciation. “You’ll ace the test,” he told Chopper.
“Don’t say such nice things to me, asshole,” Chopper grumbled, but his blush and wiggle gave his pleasure at the compliment away.
Chopper left not too long afterward. Sanji cleaned up the dishes, then headed upstairs. His room was at the top of the stairs, on the right. The queen-sized bed dominated one wall, made but not carefully so, sheets pulled tight enough to sleep without tangling, a dark comforter folded back from earlier. A nightstand with phone charger, small lamp, and the book he was reading stood beside the bed. A narrow dresser sat opposite it, and a small closet took up the remaining space. A framed painting of a seascape hung on the deep blue wall. The rug was soft underfoot.
The attached bathroom was barely more than a rectangle: shower stall, sink, toilet. The mirror was streaked from quick wipes, toothpaste smudged at the edge, and a towel hung over the rod to dry. Sanji stripped out of his uniform, depositing it in the laundry basket outside the bathroom door. After a quick shower, he dressed in loose sweats and a long-sleeved tee from Sabaody Amusement Park.
Sanji had blackout curtains on his window, though currently they were partially open because he wasn’t going to bed yet. Dustmotes danced in the morning light drifting through the window. He could hear cars pulling out of driveways as the nine to fivers headed to work. He’d never had a job with standard hours, and sometimes wondered how people did it.
He headed back downstairs to run through some mutual house chores before whipping up some chicken and vegetable curry. He ate in front of the TV in the living room, catching up on a FIFA game he’d missed. Once done, he threw together another meal for himself to take to work and for Chopper and Law for the evening. He packed it in easily reheated containers, stuck them in the fridge, then headed back upstairs for some shut-eye.
But first, he logged into the adult site to see if the creators he subscribed to had posted. He didn’t have notifications set – he didn’t want to chance getting a porn notice at work – and he didn’t keep track of scheduled posting days. He didn’t always watch their content, either, sometimes in the mood for something new. Which was how he found Marimo.
Marimo had updated, but it was only a picture shot. A closeup of his soft dick and balls, thumb hooking down his navy underwear in what looked like a bathroom stall behind him. It was tagged Asian. Big dick. Soft. Got asked to cover at work. Didn’t want to miss a scheduled post.
The additional information was… cute, in a dorky sort of way. Marimo didn’t have to say any of it. A soft shot was perfectly fine on its own. Sanji didn’t deny it was a good looking soft shot, too. Men’s junk, when not erect, wasn’t always appealing. But Marimo’s dick hung nicely and was a half-shade lighter than his skin, with a dusky pink undertone. Since it was a close-up, Sanji got to see the faint dusting of black hair at the base, almost as if it were an afterthought, reminding the viewer that this was an adult. Sanji wondered if he trimmed or if it was natural. He wondered what sound Marimo might make if Sanji took that soft cock into his mouth and nursed it.
Sanji slipped his hand down his sweats and stroked himself idly. He let himself drop into fantasy, looking at that picture. That he was on his knees in that bathroom, gazing up at Marimo, sliding his tongue out to lap at the head of his cock. He saw himself nuzzling at the base, catching those hairs against his nose, inhaling the arousing scent of male musk. He slid his tongue over his lips, moistening them, preparing to taste.
He shoved his sweats down, grabbed the lube from the drawer in his nightstand, and squirted some into his hand. He wrapped his palm around his hardened cock, then picked up the phone again to gaze at the posted picture. His mind fell right back into that bathroom, mouth parting to take Marimo in. He could almost feel that dick on his tongue, the taste, the softness until it began to firm.
He tightened his grip, the slick lube making each stroke an effortless glide. He imagined Marimo’s hand tangling in his hair, pressure on the back of his head, guiding him as he sucked. He imagined the weight of Marimo's cock settling on his tongue, the way it would fill his mouth. His hand moved in a slow, steady rhythm, matching the pace of the fantasy blowjob he was giving.
He pictured himself taking more, the blunt head pressing against the back of his throat. He'd gag, just a little, a flutter of muscles that would make Marimo groan. The sound was so clear in his head, a low, guttural noise of approval. He could feel the strain in his own jaw, the pleasant burn of being stretched so wide, as he worked his tongue along the thick vein on the underside. His hand moved faster on his own cock, his hips starting to lift from the mattress, chasing the friction. He was lost in it, completely consumed by the image of Marimo fucking his mouth, the taste of pre-come sharp and salty on his tongue, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air of that imaginary bathroom.
The fantasy became overwhelming. He could feel Marimo's thighs tense, hear the sharp intake of breath just before release. In his mind, he was holding on, ready for it. The first hot, salty spurt hit the back of his throat, and he swallowed automatically, his own body responding in kind. A guttural moan tore from his own lips as his orgasm crashed over him. His cock pulsed in his slick grip, spilling over his hand and onto his lower abdomen. He kept stroking, milking every last drop as the waves of pleasure shuddered through him, his entire body going taut and then limp. For a long moment, he just lay there, breathing hard, the fantasy slowly fading and leaving him in the quiet, sticky reality of his room.
He sighed once, slow and satisfied, thumbed the heart button on the post, gave a tip, then went to clean up. When he came back, he drew the black-out curtains, plugged in his phone, set the alarm, and settled beneath the cool sheets. Sleep took him fast, dragging him under before his thoughts could tangle, into pleasant dreams.
Marimo’s next post was a few days later, and this time locked behind a subscription. The tags read: Asian. Big dick. Full body. Jerking off. Subscriber questions answered.
He wore a white t-shirt that stretched at the seams around the arms and pulled thin over his broad chest, over a pair of loose black shorts. His green hair did its own messy thing, and his three gold earrings caught the light. He sat on the wooden chair again, his unmade bed and off-white wall his backdrop.
“So, uh, hi.” He smiled faintly, lifting his hand in a dorky wave. “Thanks for subscribing. My first video got a lot of tips and comments. Thought I’d answer some of them since a bunch were the same.”
He shifted on the chair. “First, I’m, um, flattered that a lot of you want me to fuck you, but I don’t… I’m not into casual sex. This is weird enough, but it’s… different? Kinda?” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I’m just sitting here alone, in my room, talking to myself and jerking off. Which, you know, I do normally. Not the talking to myself, the jerking off…”
He suddenly seemed to hear what he was saying, and pink bloomed on his cheeks. “Uh, yeah. Anyway, I'm not really into topping, either, even though–,” he motioned at his crotch to finish his sentence. “So… sorry.” He shrugged slightly and moved on.
“Some of you asked or commented about the scars,” he said. “I was jumped. Outside a bar. A few guys decided they didn’t like what they saw.” He tapped the scar beneath his eye. “Broken bottle. Same with my chest.” He drew his knees up, exposing the thick scars roping his ankles. “Almost lost my feet, too. Hospital, then inpatient rehab. Also had to get half my teeth replaced.”
He set his bare feet back on the floor. “So that’s that.”
He glanced offscreen, then back. “Some of you mentioned that I must be a lifter. Yeah. I was – powerlifting. Had to let my gym membership go.” A beat. “But I do have this.”
He stood, grabbed the phone, and turned the camera. It panned across a small room, flashing by a window letting in daylight, a bookshelf filled with books and small figures, and finally settling on the opposite wall where a yoga mat bag leaned beside a compact weight machine.
“Got it at a garage sale for thirty bucks. Can you believe it?” he said, faintly incredulous. “It’s got decent weight on it, too. I can still pump. I alternate with yoga.”
The camera swung around, catching a bright smile on Marimo’s face. “Gotta carve time to do it, but who needs sleep, right?” He laughed, his eye crinkling in the corner.
He brought the camera back to its prop and sat on the chair again. “Uh, other questions – how big is my dick? Just over nine inches hard. Am I gay? Yes. Have I done porn movies? No, just this. Um, what else?” He looked up and away as he thought. “Oh, yeah. Requests. You can request anything as long as it’s, you know, solo. DM me the requests. They’ll be pay-per-view, not sub, though. Most of my sub stuff will be me jerking off, maybe some, uh, fingering.” A flush stole over his cheeks again.
“Um, that’s pretty much all the questions answered. If I missed yours, DM me. There were a lot of comments and I might not have seen it.” He paused, appeared awkward for a beat, then said, “Guess I’ll get to it, then.”
Marimo stood, pulled off his t-shirt, and shucked his shorts. Fully nude, he grabbed the chair, then the camera, and moved both over to the bed. The camera tilted sideways a moment, capturing the bed, before it straightened and settled. Then, Marimo came into frame, climbing onto the bed, sitting sideways on it, back against the wall, knees up, thighs spread. The dark sheets bunched beneath his feet.
He opened the tube in his hand, squirted lube into his palm, then flipped the cap closed and dropped it beside him on the bed. He shifted as he wrapped his slicked palm around his soft shaft and began stroking. His slightly slumped posture caused rolls to appear on his torso and his pecs to soften, making them almost look like tits.
The position exposed his full body to view, scars and all. The poor lighting cast unflattering shadows. The off-white wall behind him offered no distraction. The distant sound of traffic could be heard in the background.
His fist moved with a practiced rhythm, a slow, deliberate pull from base to tip. The slick sounds were soft, absorbed by the bedding. His cock swelled to a heavy, rigid length, the head a deep, angry red and glistening with pre-come that he smeared around with his thumb on every upstroke. The rolls on his stomach softened more with each deep breath, the soft flesh of his chest jiggling subtly with the motion of his arm. His free hand, which had been resting on his knee, drifted inward, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.
As his strokes grew firmer, faster, his breathing hitched. He let his head fall back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat, his face an expression of raw concentration. His hips began to rock, a slow grind that matched the pace of his hand, pushing his cock through the tight circle of his fingers. With every upward thrust, his cheeks spread, offering the camera a fleeting, tantalizing glimpse of his tight, furled hole, dusky and shadowed.
A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hand stilled, and he reached down, hooking a hand under his knee to pull his leg up higher, opening himself completely. His slick fingers abandoned his shaft and trailed down, past his balls, to circle his entrance. He teased the puckered rim, pressing gently, rubbing over the sensitive spot without breaching it. The touch made his hips twitch, a sharp gasp tearing from his lungs. He shifted, letting go of his leg. His hand moved back up to cup his balls, rolling the heavy sac in his palm, tugging gently, before enclosing over his shaft again, resuming a frantic, desperate rhythm.
The slick sounds were loud and lewd in the quiet room. His body was a taut bowstring, muscles quivering. “Fuck,” he rasped, his voice ragged. His thighs tensed, his abs clenched, and with a strangled sound, he came. His release shot across his chest and belly, striping the soft flesh and pooling in his navel. He worked himself through it, milking every last drop, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. Finally, he collapsed back against the wall, chest heaving, his spent cock lying heavy against his thigh.
He sat there for a few moments, eye closed, breathing growing more steady. Then, he looked at the camera, another blush stealing over his cheeks. He scooted forward on the bed, dropping his feet to the floor, giving the viewer an unintended closeup of his junk. He said, “Hope you tip,” just before the video cut out.
Sanji pretended he wasn’t getting a crush on an adult content creator. He pretended that he did not watch the second video post multiple times. He pretended that he did not get a screen grab of Marimo’s smile and then immediately deleted it only to do it a second time and then have to delete it again. He pretended that he did not pause the video to see what books and figures were on Marimo’s shelf in the background – they were too out of focus to make out – or start to ask what they were in a DM before erasing it.
It was dumb. But there was something about Marimo that was tugging at Sanji. A few of the commenters felt it as well: This guy is so precious. Why do I want to wrap him in a blanket? Not me getting attached to a stranger on my screen. Everyone please tell him he’s doing great and tip!!!
Sanji did not turn notifications on, but he did memorize Marimo’s schedule. Fizzy anticipation accompanied him at work on a posting day. He tried not to rush Chopper off in the mornings, and made himself linger with Law on the rare occasion he was home and conscious. Once he’d switched back to days, Sanji went out some nights, as well, meeting up with other friends at a restaurant or club.
Marimo’s third post was another picture, a close-up of his hard dick curving up his belly, leaking into his navel. The PPV that came next was him jerking off in the bathroom stall at work, leaning against a blue graffiti’d door, SMILE scratched into the paint above his shoulder. His gray shirt rucked up his chest, black jeans and underwear around his thighs, a McDonald’s visor on his head. He bit his fist when he came, jizz shooting toward the camera to keep it off his work clothes.
He wore a white dress shirt in the next photo, draped over his hard-on, chest to bare thighs only. A yoga shot followed, him completely nude standing in Warrior II, rigid length dangling between his spread legs, bright sunlight from the window behind him causing the picture to seem gauzy and soft-focused. A subscriber video came next, with him benching an obscene amount of weight on his machine while naked, and then jerking off on the weight bench.
Sanji reminded himself – repeatedly – that this was a stranger that he knew nothing about and he just hadn’t gotten laid in so long he was desperate for something more than his hand. Anyone who claimed bisexuals were greedy didn’t take into account that now he got rejected by nearly a hundred percent of the dating population, rather than half. He hadn’t met any non-binary people, but chances were for similar results. Marimo was nothing more than seriously hot spanking material.
He vowed to skip Marimo’s posts, to instead view his other subscriptions and search for new creators. Focus on women. Enjoy big bouncing tits and not remember that Marimo sort of had tits, too.
It didn’t last.
Marimo positioned himself sitting sideways on his bed at the start of the subscriber video, fully nude, the dark sheets bunched to the side. He had a pillow beneath his hips, his ass at the edge, his knees raised. His semi-erect shaft rested against his lower belly.
“Uh, hi,” he began, like he always did. He already had a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’m gonna finger myself. I’m… really sensitive.” The blush darkened a little. “Like, overly so. It’s why I’d rather bottom. Uh, fair warning that I’m not gonna last long.”
He fumbled for the lube, his movements a little clumsy as he squirted a generous amount onto his fingers. The camera caught the slick, clear gel as he warmed it between his thumb and forefinger. He took a deep, shaky breath and reached down, his slicked index finger circling his tight hole. The moment it made contact, his legs twitched, a sharp gasp escaping him. His semi-erect cock swelled to full, throbbing hardness against his stomach.
He pressed the tip of his finger inside, just to the first knuckle, and his thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck,” he whimpered, his eye wide and fixed on the ceiling. He pushed in deeper, and a high-pitched moan tore from his throat. He began to pump his finger in and out, a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust made his hips rock, his cock bobbing with the movement, leaking a steady stream of clear fluid onto his belly. His other hand flew to his mouth, biting down on his knuckle to stifle the sounds. He picked up the pace, his finger sinking to the hilt with each push, the slick sounds of the lube audible. His breaths came in ragged pants, his chest heaving.
He pulled his finger out, added a second alongside it, and pressed them both back in. The stretch made him cry out, his back arching. He pumped the two fingers together, flexing them slightly, and his body went taut as a wire.
“Shit, shit, I can’t–” he choked out, his voice breaking. He abandoned all restraint, his fingers fucking himself hard and fast. His free hand flew to his rigid shaft, fisting it and giving it only three frantic, desperate strokes. That was all it took. He came with a strangled cry, his release erupting from him in thick, powerful streaks that painted his chest and the pillow beneath his hips.
He shook through the force of it, his fingers still buried deep inside him, clenching around them as his orgasm wracked his body. When it was over, he collapsed bonelessly against the bed, panting. He slowly, carefully withdrew his fingers, his hole fluttering at the loss. His spent cock lay against his thigh, still twitching with aftershocks. After a long moment, he managed a weak, breathless laugh, his face and chest flushed a deep, blotchy red. “Told you,” he rasped at the camera.
He sat there for a little while longer, then moved forward and said, “Hope you tip,” before shutting off the camera.
Sanji wiped the blood from under his nose and immediately hit replay.
The music hit him before he even cleared the door, bass rolling up through the soles of his shoes, heat and bodies and perfume tangling in the air. Friday night energy, loose and hungry, with nobody thinking about tomorrow. Sanji didn’t have to either, as he had tomorrow off and could afford to stay out too late and make bad decisions on purpose.
Lights strobed across the room in slow pulses, catching on glassware and sweat and sharp lines of movement. The place was already half-full, people pressed shoulder to shoulder near the bar, more spilling onto the dance floor in uneven clusters. Laughter cut through the music in bursts, bright and careless. Sanji adjusted his jacket as he walked in, smoothing the line of it over his shoulders. A good night called for a good look.
He spotted his friends at a standing table near the bar and felt something in his chest loosen. First drink would turn into a second. The night would stretch. Maybe he’d dance. Maybe he’d catch someone’s eye across the room and hold it just long enough to see if it snapped or sparked.
Sanji smiled, sharp and hopeful all at once, and headed for his friends.
“Hey, bro! Long time.” Franky was first to greet him, giving him a hug, slapping him hard enough on the back to rattle his teeth. Franky wore an open Hawaiian-print shirt, red booty shorts that barely classified as such, and had his blue hair styled in twin pigtails.
“Only been off nights for a week,” Sanji explained, leaning over to buss a kiss on Robin’s cheek. “Hello, beautiful. You look lovely, as always. Keeping this oaf in line?”
Wearing a violet wrap-around dress, Robin gave him a small, welcoming smile. “Perhaps it is the other way around,” she said slyly.
“As if an angel like yourself would ever do anything untoward,” Sanji flattered. He lifted a hand, waved at Usopp, who was at the bar getting drinks. Usopp shot him back with a wave and an okay sign, indicating he’d get Sanji a drink as well. “Kaya not here tonight?”
“She had to work,” Robin told him.
Sanji hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze scanning the club. A couple near the dance floor caught his eye first: one laughing too hard, the other leaning in like they liked being the reason. A man at the bar in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled just right. Someone dancing alone, loose and fearless, head tipped back like they didn’t care who was watching. Sanji’s mouth curved, interest sparked and tempered, the familiar thrill of possibility warming his chest.
“Hey, Sanji.” Usopp slid back into the circle, juggling drinks with the careful pride of someone who hadn’t spilled anything yet. He handed one to Robin, one to Franky, then passed Sanji a tall glass sweating with condensation. “Gin and tonic for you.”
“You’re a saint,” Sanji said easily, clinking his glass against Usopp’s before taking a sip. Cold. Sharp. Perfect. He let his eyes flick back toward the dance floor over the rim of the glass. Maybe he’d finish this drink first. Maybe he wouldn’t.
“And you’re getting the next round,” Usopp said. His long, curly hair was pulled back beneath a yellow bandana. The rainbow of lights reflected off his prominent nose and dark skin. “Couldn’t get Chopper or Law to come?”
Sanji shook his head. “Law’s working like usual. Chopper went to visit Kureha for the weekend.”
Franky bumped his hip against Robin’s chair before leaning down to kiss her temple, quick and casual. She didn’t even look surprised. “Kureha probably told him he looks like hell,” Franky said. “That’s her love language.”
“And then gave him something that could bring a corpse back to life,” Robin added.
Sanji smiled into his drink. “He did say she called him ‘soft’ twice before breakfast.”
“See?” Usopp said. “Affection.”
Robin’s gaze slid back to Sanji, amused. “You look better, by the way. Days agreeing with you?”
Sanji tilted his head, confirming it. “Sleeping at night helps, turns out.”
“Not everyone’s meant for the vampiric lifestyle,” Usopp said. He leaned in like he was about to share a secret, eyes darting once for effect. “I know a vampire.”
Franky groaned. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious,” Usopp said. “Guy worked nights. Wouldn’t answer texts before sunset. Dressed like he was permanently in mourning – black hoodies, dark jeans, never a hint of color.”
Sanji lifted a brow, already entertained.
“Never saw him eat real food,” Usopp continued. “Just drank ‘tomato juice.’” He said it with finger quotes. “And he hissed when the lights came on.”
Robin tilted her head. “Did he, now?”
“On my life,” Usopp said. “One time, someone flipped the fluorescents without warning and he went–” He made a sharp, offended sound. “Like it hurt him. Swore the light buzzed ‘at the wrong frequency.’”
Franky laughed into his drink.
“And the eyes,” Usopp went on, undeterred. “Red. All the time. Said it was allergies. Vampires always say that.”
Sanji took a slow sip, watching Usopp with a fond smirk. “Let me guess. Disappeared mysteriously.”
“No,” Usopp said. “Transferred to days. Started smiling. Ate a sandwich. Wore yellow. Tragic end to a powerful lineage.”
Robin smiled, resting her hand against Franky’s arm. “A mercy killing, then.”
Usopp nodded solemnly. “For everyone’s safety.”
Sanji laughed quietly, then took another sip, eyes drifting back toward the dance floor. Someone caught his glance and didn’t look away. Interesting. He straightened his jacket again, subtle, instinctive.
“Go on,” Franky said, noticing. “We’ll still be here.”
Sanji huffed a small laugh. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yes,” Franky and Usopp chimed together.
Robin lifted her glass in a small toast. “Enjoy yourself. That’s why we’re here, after all.”
Sanji tipped the rest of his drink back, the ice clinking once before he set the empty glass aside. Gin burned clean on the way down. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs, and gave them an easy salute as he stepped away. “Behave,” he said lightly. “Or don’t. I won’t be here to stop you.”
The music hit harder out on the floor, bass pressing into his ribs, lights strobing low and warm. He didn’t rush. Let the space close around him, let his body find the rhythm before his head got in the way. The guy was still there – dark hair, open collar, watching without pretending not to. When Sanji met his eyes again, the look held with interest.
He moved closer, not crowding, letting the beat do the introductions. A shoulder brush. A half-smile traded for a longer one. The guy leaned in, just enough. Sanji caught the clean scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, felt the spark settle where it always did.
He didn’t pull away when Sanji closed the distance. If anything, he shifted closer, hand settling at Sanji’s hip like it had already been there once before and decided to return. They moved together, easy at first, the give-and-take of bodies finding the same beat. Sanji let himself follow, let the music carry him instead of thinking too hard about it. The guy’s palm was warm through the fabric of his jacket, fingers flexing once like a question.
Sanji answered by leaning in, mouth near the guy’s ear, breath warm, close enough to feel the reaction ripple through him. The space between them thinned. Hips brushed. Hands grew more certain. The music blurred into something heavier, slower, the lights cutting across skin and sweat and intent. When the guy’s hand slid briefly to Sanji’s lower back, firm and deliberate, the spark flared hotter, sharp and welcome.
Sanji tipped his head, met his eyes again. A look passed between them – quick, mutual, unmistakable. He nodded once and the guy’s mouth curved, already turning, already leading. They wove off the floor together, fingers catching, not letting go, the bass fading behind them as the hallway narrowed and the door swung open.
The men’s room light was harsher, louder in its own way, the door to a stall thudding shut behind them. Sanji felt the wall at his back, the air closer, charged. His mouth met the stranger’s greedily, hunger driving him. The man’s hands were on his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and Sanji helped him along. A moment later, the guy sank to his knees on the dirty floor.
Sanji’s head fell back against the stall as a wet mouth engulfed his cock. It was good, a sloppy, enthusiastic blowjob that was exactly what he’d needed. He tangled a hand in the stranger’s dark hair, hips rocking forward, chasing the slick heat.
But his brain, the treacherous thing, started to drift. The mouth on him was good, but it wasn’t right. The hands gripping his hips weren’t strong enough. He closed his eyes, and the harsh fluorescent lighting of the club bathroom bled away, replaced by the softer, more intimate glow of a phone screen. He imagined a different mouth, a more determined one. He pictured green hair, short and spiky, and the solid, undeniable bulk of a truly built frame. He thought of that nine-inch cock, thick and heavy, curving up a ridged belly. The thought made his own dick throb, and he thrust deeper into the stranger’s mouth, a low grunt escaping him.
He let himself enjoy it for a moment, the slick heat and the desperate sounds the stranger was making. But the fantasy shifted, no longer content with just a face. It was Marimo’s ass he wanted now, that muscular, powerful body bent over for him. He imagined spreading those thick thighs, the sight of that tight, sensitive hole clenching in anticipation. He’d press in slow, watching that huge dick twitch and leak against Marimo’s own stomach, feeling the shudder that would run through the powerful frame as Sanji bottomed out. He’d fuck him deep and steady, just to hear the precious sounds he’d make. The image was so vivid, so potent, that it pushed him right over the edge. With a guttural groan, Sanji’s hips stuttered and he came hard, spilling down the stranger’s throat.
He slumped against the wall for a second, catching his breath, before pushing the man gently away. "My turn," he murmured, his voice rough. They switched places, the dark-haired stranger leaning back against the stall now as Sanji dropped to his knees. The man’s cock was already out, hard and waiting. Sanji took it in hand, leaning in to run his tongue over the head. It was fine. It was a normal cock in a normal club. But as he sank his mouth down, taking the length to the back of his throat, the fantasy took over completely. This wasn't a stranger anymore. This was Marimo.
He was on his knees for Marimo, in a bathroom stall with a blue, graffiti'd door. He could almost feel the SMILE scratched into the paint above his own shoulder. The cock in his mouth grew in his imagination, thicker, longer, stretching his jaw. He imagined the weight of it on his tongue, the salty taste of precum. He looked up, expecting to see the dark-haired stranger's face, but in his mind's eye, it was Marimo's dark, intense eye looking down at him, a flush on his high cheekbones. He imagined Marimo’s hand coming to rest on his head, not guiding, just a heavy, grounding presence. He moaned around the flesh in his mouth, the sound vibrating through him. It was dumb, getting this worked up over a fantasy, but as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, lost in the image of that powerful body and that ridiculously perfect cock, he didn't care at all.
The stranger’s hips began to jerk, his breathing turning ragged. A moment later, a hot, bitter flood filled Sanji’s mouth. He swallowed automatically, the act pulling him slightly from his fantasy, the reality of the stranger’s taste grounding him. When the man was spent, he pulled back, tucking himself away with a muttered, "Fuck, man. Thanks."
Sanji stayed on his knees for a second longer before pushing himself up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, straightened his shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. They left the stall. The stranger moved to the sink, washed his hands. He caught Sanji’s eye in the mirror and gave a short, sharp nod before heading for the door. Sanji followed him out, back into the pulsing thrum of the club, the fantasy of Marimo already beginning to fade, leaving behind only the disappointing, lingering taste of a stranger.
“Uh, hi,” Marimo greeted, naked and sitting on his knees on his yoga mat. He was already hard, his thick length resting along the crease between his thighs. The camera was at an odd, low-turned angle. “This is a pay-per-view request. I got asked if I could suck my own cock and… well, yeah. I can. It’s really awkward, though, but if you’re gonna pay for it…” He shrugged. “Had to figure out the camera angle so you can actually see more than my head or my ass. I don’t have a phone tripod or anything. I’m using a bunch of books and a pile of clothes. Hopefully, it won’t fall over this time.”
The tag on the post read: Asian. Big dick. PPV request. Sucking my own cock. Will jizz on my face. Sanji’s erection was drooling before he’d even started watching.
Marimo shifted, turned completely, then lay back. His face was now in frame, the angle looking downward toward him. He licked his lips, then there was a tightening of his neck muscles before his legs dropped into view, over his head. His stomach was curled, hard cock dangled down, resting against his face. A lubed palm came into view to wrap around his long shaft. He stroked it twice before his tongue appeared, licking the head of his cock.
The camera picked up the outrush of breath as his tongue swirled over the flushed tip. His abdominal muscles were a tight, wrinkled crunch, straining with the effort of holding the position. His balls, heavy and full, were drawn up tight against his body, resting just above his forehead, but high enough up the view wasn’t blocked. He continued to stroke the thick shaft, his grip firm and steady, while his tongue explored every ridge of the crown, dipping teasingly into the slit. A low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound slightly muffled by his own proximity.
He tilted his head back further, opening his mouth wider. The head of his cock breached his lips, and the visual was obscene. His cheeks hollowed slightly as he began to suck, the wet sounds of his mouth working in tandem with the rhythmic stroke of his hand on his shaft. His eye was squeezed shut, dark lashes fanned out against his flushed skin. The muscles in his thighs and calves flexed, locked in place to hold the precarious, demanding angle.
His movements grew more frantic, the stroking of his hand becoming erratic. A series of choked, desperate moans escaped his lips around the flesh they were wrapped around. With a final, deep grunt, his body went rigid. He pulled free from his mouth. His cock pulsed, and a thick rope of cum shot out, painting a white stripe across his cheek and nose. He kept stroking, more spurts landing on his lips and chin.
When he was finally fully spent, he lay there, chest heaving, face covered in his own release, a single drop clinging to the corner of his mouth.
Then the phone fell onto his head, and he cursed and it turned into a bit of a farce with a lot of thuds and thumps before the camera righted and focused on his cum-spattered face again. He wore a rueful grin. “Think I’ll still keep this one. I got to the end this time. Uh, hope you tip.”
Then he hit the stop record button, and the dark video asked Replay?
Sanji hit replay, skipped to the end of the video, and watched from when the phone fell until the end again.
He tapped the heart button, tipped, and went to shower the mess off himself, the explicit parts already blurring, while the off-script moment – awkward and so very human – refused to let go.
Sanji swore that he would not, under any circumstances, never, ever, ever, DM Marimo. At all. Period. The end.
And then the next PPV post dropped.
“Uh, hi,” Marimo said, and his hand came up in that dorky wave. He was sitting sideways on the bed again, fully nude, knees up and spread, pillow beneath his ass to give a clear view to the camera. “So, I got a pay-per-view request to use a prostate massager.”
He picked up a black and gold L-shaped object from the bed beside him. “Apparently it vibrates or something. Never used one before. Don’t really need much to get me off.” His cheeks colored, but went on. “Used some food money to get this. It’s expensive for something that goes up your ass.”
He set the massager down and picked up the tube of lube. “Don’t know how long this video’s gonna be.” He quirked a crooked grin. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Marimo settled more onto the pillow. He squeezed a clear, slick dollop of lube onto his fingers. With a nervous swallow, he reached down, his hand trembling slightly. As his fingertip circled his tight entrance, a tremor ran through him. He began to press inward. His cock, which had been lying dormant, immediately began to thicken.
He pushed his finger in further, and his hips bucked involuntarily. “Shit,” he breathed, voice high and thin. He tried to establish a rhythm, but every shallow thrust made him gasp and squirm. His legs were shaking, the muscles in his thighs quivering. He added a second finger, began to scissor his fingers inside, a purposeful, controlled motion designed to prepare his body. His breaths came in ragged pants.
He suddenly stopped and pulled his fingers free, an aroused flush coloring his neck and chest. He picked up the sleek, black massager and stared at it a moment. He took a few deep, steadying breaths before coating the toy with lube, his hands slick and clumsy. He pressed the rounded tip against his entrance and pushed, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. A loud, breathy moan was forced from him as he increased the pressure. With a sudden pop, the head disappeared inside him, and he let out a choked sound of pleasure. It took a moment to position it, body visibly jolting when he nudged his prostate. He fumbled for the button at the base, and a low, powerful hum vibrated over the audio.
Half a beat later, he let out a strangled yelp, his abs contracting violently as his body folded in on itself. His eye widened in shock, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the mattress. His cock erupted without a single touch, spurting a thick, messy load all over his stomach and chest in three hard pulses.
It was over in seconds. The intensity left him limp and dazed looking. The toy was still buzzing inside him, and he frantically switched it off, his body twitching with aftershocks. He slowly pulled the massager out, his hole clenching at the sudden emptiness. He sat there, panting heavily, staring wide-eyed at the camera. "What the fuck," he breathed, his voice a raw, disbelieving whisper. "What the actual fuck was that?"
He collapsed forward, his forehead pressing into his knee as he fought to catch his breath. After a long moment, he raised his head again, his face still flushed and his expression shell-shocked. He looked directly at the camera, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up from his chest. "I've had guys... you know, during sex," he started, his voice still raspy. "And they've hit it. That spot. It feels good. A little extra zing on top of everything else."
He shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair. "This... this wasn't that. You know I’m already extra sensitive. This wasn’t pleasure building or anything like that. It was like a fucking switch. Like my entire nervous system just short-circuited at once.” His mouth curved, baffled. “Just… overload.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then huffed out a breath and leaned closer to the camera again, as if remembering it was still there. “Uh– sorry,” he said, a little sheepish. “I know this one’s very short. That wasn’t… planned.”
He winced, then smiled faintly. “Guess I overestimated myself.” A pause. “Thanks for watching anyway. I really do appreciate it.”
He reached forward, fumbling once before finding the button. “I’ll– yeah. I’ll make it up to you next time. Hope you tip.”
The screen went dark.
Sanji sat there for a moment longer, the echo of the video still humming through him, but the arousal had already slipped to the background. What stuck – what wouldn’t let go – wasn’t the apology, or the flush, or even the way Marimo had smiled at the camera like he couldn’t quite believe what had happened.
Used some food money to get this.
The line replayed on a loop, sharper every time. It lodged somewhere uncomfortable, cutting through the afterglow with a twist of something colder. Sanji exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, suddenly aware of the quiet of his room, the empty snack plate on his nightstand, the steady comforts he didn’t have to think about.
He stared at his phone, automatically thumbing the heart and the tip buttons. His thumb hovered near the top of the screen, pulled back once, then tapped the creator’s name anyway. The feed vanished, replaced by the quiet of a private thread.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t DM. That it would cross the line from a harmless crush into something else.
Used some food money to get this.
“Shit.” Sanji typed before he could stop himself, because this would bother him.
Gentlecook: Are you eating enough?
Sanji dropped the phone onto the bed beside him and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was comfortable now, had a decent income, used coupons but didn’t worry overly much about the grocery bill. But once, a long time ago, he’d been eating from trash bins behind restaurants if he was lucky enough to get away with it.
“Fuck.” He dropped his hand to his side, curling it in a fist. He rarely thought about that time of his life anymore. Surviving his abusive birth family. Running away. Living on the street for a couple of weeks when he was eight. Being so hungry he felt faint all the time. Trying not to freeze as the temperature plummeted.
Zeff was the one who caught him in the trash, a day or two away from dropping for good. “All you had to do was say something,” Zeff grumbled, serving Sanji a warm bowl of broth and tea inside his restaurant. “I don’t ever let anyone go hungry.”
It was the beginning of the rest of his life, that point. Zeff ended up adopting him – his birth father signed termination papers the second Child Protective Services showed up – and Sanji learned to cook, to not flinch, to love and be loved again. He was in therapy for a long time, healing and letting go of the past. He majored in Psychology in college because of that, thinking he wanted to help others the same way he’d been helped.
After college, he’d thought the next step would be grad school. Counseling. Clinical work. More time spent listening, guiding, helping people untangle themselves the way he had. But one night, half-asleep on his couch, he put on a docu-series about EMTs, something he meant to use as background noise. He ended up watching the whole thing instead. The way they moved, decisive and calm. The way they fed oxygen, wrapped blankets, pressed hands to wounds and said, Stay with me, like it was a promise they intended to keep. He watched them step into the worst moments of someone’s day and make it survivable on the spot. It was help, immediate and unambiguous.
It lit something in him. He changed direction after graduation, choosing EMT training over grad school applications, because he didn’t want to help people eventually. He wanted to help them right then. He wanted to be Zeff at the door of a kitchen instead of a clinic office, handing someone warmth before they collapsed, food when they were starving, saying stay with me and meaning it.
Sanji realized, distantly, that he was gripping the edge of the mattress. He loosened his fingers and looked down. His phone lay beside him, screen glowing in the darkened room, the private thread still open. His message stared back at him, earnest and stupid and already sent.
Too late now.
He closed out the site, put his phone face down on the nightstand, and lay back, staring at the ceiling until his breathing evened out.
Marimo didn’t respond for four days. When he did, it was simple and direct.
Marimo: What do you mean?
Sanji had been checking the DM thread more than was reasonable, clicking into the site under the excuse of browsing new posts, then backing out again when there was still nothing there. Then, on a Thursday night, after a long, hard shift when he needed a distraction, the DM was waiting.
He stared at the response, confused by it. What did he mean, what do you mean? Sanji asked if he was eating enough. That pretty much said it all.
He shifted on his bed, tucking his bare feet beneath the edge of the blanket. He wore loose sweats and a colorful Long Ring, Long Land Fun Run tee. His hair was still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. Outside, the streetlight washed the room in a muted orange glow through the parted curtains.
Sanji tapped a response.
Gentlecook: Just what I said. Are you eating enough?
Gentlecook: You said you gave up food money for that toy. That implies you don’t have enough money for both things.
Sanji hit send.
The three dots appeared almost immediately, and he stilled. Marimo had to be actively checking his DMs. It wasn’t even a posting night.
Marimo: Skipping a couple days won’t hurt me.
“Damn it.” Sanji scowled at the screen, annoyed with the reply, with concern close behind it. His thumbs flew over the keypad.
Gentlecook: You shouldn’t be skipping any meals.
Gentlecook: Especially not to buy a sex toy instead.
The dots pulsed at the bottom of the thread.
Marimo: That sex toy has gotten me $375 so far.
Marimo: Worth the trade off.
Gentlecook: If you made $375, why are you skipping meals?
Marimo: That money’s for my landlord.
Gentlecook: I think you could set some of that aside to FEED YOURSELF.
Fuck, he was typing in caps. This was really getting to him. Some trauma never fully went away.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. When he opened his eyes again, Marimo had responded.
Marimo: He kept my room open for me for four months without rent.
Marimo: He needed that money for things like food.
Marimo: I’m paying him back first.
“Shit.” Damn it. Marimo had the kind of decency that made him want to make it right.
Gentlecook: Okay. I get it.
Gentlecook: But you still need to eat with your food money.
Gentlecook: That comes from your regular jobs, right?
Marimo: Yeah.
Marimo: Those pay for food, my phone bill, Lyfts, everyday stuff.
Marimo: Whatever’s left goes to my landlord for current rent.
Sanji stared at the screen, the pieces settling into place. He remembered Marimo saying that he worked two part-time jobs, neither of which paid enough. There wasn’t a version of that where the rent stayed caught up, let alone paid down any other debt. The money for a toy had to come from somewhere, and food was the first thing to go.
But Sanji couldn’t let this drop. He could already see the pattern forming – the next request, another skipped meal, hunger quietly taking the place of debt.
Sanji closed his eyes for a moment, thinking over his own bills, his own debt, what he could and could not afford. Then, he started typing again.
Gentlecook: I’m going to make a specific PPV request. One time.
Gentlecook: I’ll pay you $300 for a video of you eating a full meal.
Gentlecook: I don’t need anything fancy. I just need to know you’re eating.
The dots appeared, stalled, disappeared. Then they reappeared again.
Marimo: This really bothers you. My not eating.
Gentlecook: Yes. A lot. For reasons.
There was no response for a good thirty seconds before it finally came across.
Marimo: Okay. I’ll send you a PPV of me eating.
Sanji felt the tension in his jaw relax.
Marimo: I’m set up to get paid weekly from the site.
Marimo: It’ll probably take a few days to hit, though. Just so you know.
Marimo: I can still do it. The eating part. Tomorrow, if that’s okay?
Sanji stared at the screen, the relief he’d felt easing into something more complicated. Of course it wouldn’t be instant. Nothing ever was.
Gentlecook: That’s fine.
Gentlecook: I’m not in a rush.
The dots flickered again, briefly.
Marimo: Okay. I’ll message you when it’s up.
Sanji exhaled, slow and careful, like he was easing pressure off something fragile. He typed a reply, deleted it, settled on nothing at all. He didn’t want to turn it into reassurance or thanks or something that sounded like expectation. The thread went quiet.
Sanji set the phone face down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The knot in his chest hadn’t disappeared, exactly, but it had loosened enough to breathe around. He told himself, firmly, that this was all it was. One request. One meal. Nothing else.
He lay there a while longer, listening to the hum of the house settling around him, and tried to believe himself.
The next night was a regular posting night for Marimo. He uploaded a cum shot – dick erupting, wonky angle, slightly blurry, as if he snapped the picture as he was actually orgasming instead of using a screen grab from a video.
The DM notification came a few minutes later. Sanji opened it, and a link was included for a PPV.
Marimo: Me, eating, as requested.
Sanji clicked the link, confirmed payment, and played the video.
The screen started with a blurred close-up before Marimo moved back and sat on the wooden chair in his room. He wore a light blue t-shirt and jeans, his hair damp on his head. Behind him stood his bookcase, books and figurines clearly on display.
“Here you go, Gentlecook. I’m eating.” He lifted a bowl in his hand, as if to demonstrate, then used chopsticks to feed himself udon.
Sanji frowned at the bowl. It looked like the cheap microwave kind. He switched back to the DM and typed a quick message.
Gentlecook: Instant udon?
The notification dots appeared. Marimo was online.
Marimo: Yeah. What of it?
Gentlecook: Don’t you know how to cook?
Marimo: I can microwave
Gentlecook: That’s not the same thing
Marimo: It’s food, isn’t it?
Sanji grumbled. The chef part of him was offended.
Gentlecook: Not real food
Marimo: I like it
Sanji pressed a hand to his face and groaned out loud. Then his thumbs were typing before he could stop himself.
Gentlecook: I’m sending you more money. Go to a restaurant. One with tablecloths
Gentlecook: See what real food tastes like
Marimo: Another PPV?
Sanji realized what he’d done, but said, “Fuck it.”
Gentlecook: Yeah. I’ll tip you the money for that on this PPV you sent
Sanji switched back to the video and hit play again. Marimo looked comfortable, tilting his chair back, leaning it against the bookshelf. His bare toes flexed in the air, heels resting against the chair legs. He paused about halfway through the bowl.
“You know,” Marimo said, “this is weirder than jerking off or fingering myself. At least that’s kinda hot. Do you have a food fetish or something?”
Sanji switched back to the DM and thumbed furiously.
Gentlecook: I DO NOT HAVE A FOOD FETISH
Marimo: Sure you don’t
Sanji fumed.
Gentlecook: I don’t. I just wanted to make sure you ate
Gentlecook: I don’t like it when anyone is hungry you dumbass ball of algae!
The dots appeared, paused, then continued.
Marimo: You know what marimo actually means?
Heat flew across Sanji’s face. Shit. He needed to either deflect or close out of the conversation. Or tell the truth. Shit.
Gentlecook: I looked it up
Marimo: 😄
Gentlecook: Shut up. You’re the one who called yourself that
Gentlecook: Because of your HAIR
Marimo: Yeah. I had to think of something
Marimo: Plus it’s a symbol of good fortune
Gentlecook: And love
“Shit, what the hell, you idiot?” Sanji cursed at himself. He quickly added,
Gentlecook: But you know that
Marimo: Yeah
There was a pause, and Sanji thought he’d stuck his foot in it. Not that he should be continuing to DM with the guy. Then the text dots appeared.
Marimo: Guess you can say I’m self-loving lol 😄
Sanji groaned.
Gentlecook: You really are a dork
Marimo: Hey! Am not
Gentlecook: You totally are
Gentlecook: Also did I see Warrior of the Sea figures on your bookshelf?
Sanji switched back to the video, hit play, and ignored Marimo’s udon slurping for studying the bookshelf. Yes, he was right. Those were Warrior of the Sea figures, and several volumes of the bound comics on his shelf. He went back to the DM. Marimo had responded.
Marimo: Yeah. I’m into it
Gentlecook: Nerd
Gentlecook: But I’m into it too
Gentlecook: Favorite character?
Marimo: Winch Green
Gentlecook: I should have known
Gentlecook: That’s why your hair’s green
Marimo: No
Gentlecook: Liar
The text dots appeared, stalled, appeared, stalled, and appeared again.
Marimo: Okay fine yes
Marimo: Friends of mine dragged me to ComiCon to cheer me up after I got out of rehab
Marimo: We dressed up like the characters for the costume contest
Marimo: Didn’t win
Marimo: Lost to a group who went full mecha
Marimo: It was actually pretty awesome
Sanji grinned widely, thumbs flying.
Gentlecook: NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD
Marimo: 🖕🖕🖕
Sanji laughed.
Marimo: Who’s your favorite then
Marimo: Probably Stealth Black so you can perv on people eating
Gentlecook: I DO NOT HAVE A FOOD FETISH
Gentlecook: And Sora
Gentlecook: Because she helps people
There was another pause, longer this time, before Sanji saw the dots.
Marimo: You like helping people
Sanji pressed his lips together a moment before replying.
Gentlecook: Yeah
Gentlecook: I do
Another pause, then–
Marimo: Should I dress up for this restaurant thing?
Sanji felt a sudden pang in his chest, which he pretended was indigestion.
Gentlecook: Real restaurants with real food require real clothes nerdy marimo
Marimo: I’ll wear my Winch Green costume then
Sanji burst out laughing, long and loud, in his room.
Sanji eventually finished the eating video. Marimo showed the empty bowl with a smirk on his face. “Let me know if you want me to eat anything else.” Sanji flicked off the screen at the implied food fetish, then tipped Marimo a healthy amount to take himself to a restaurant. He mentally cringed at his credit card bill climbing again, but it was for a worthy cause.
“I like microwave udon. Tch.” Sanji tossed his phone aside and went to make himself pasta primavera, because he could.
The days that followed blurred together in the familiar cadence of work. Long shifts at the station. Sirens and radio chatter. The sharp, controlled rush of calls that demanded everything for ten minutes and then let go. Sanji charted between runs, drank bad coffee, cleaned the rig twice when he needed something to do. He ate what he cooked, slept in uneven blocks, and checked his phone only when he was off the clock.
Marimo posted once in the middle of it – a regular subscriber update, with Marimo jerking off in a very soapy shower. Sanji watched it late one night, hearted and tipped without comment, and closed the site again before taking his own soapy shower.
A few more days passed after that. Groceries got restocked. Laundry cycled through in the background while he folded station-issued tees and his own worn favorites. He paid a bill, set another reminder, and answered a group text he’d been ignoring. He went out with Usopp, Kaya, Robin, Franky, and Chopper for dinner. Convinced Law that switching to Starbucks coffee did not constitute an intervention, plus he had a two-for-one coupon. Got a haircut.
The DM from Marimo arrived on a Wednesday. Not that Sanji was checking every day. Even though Marimo didn’t post on Wednesdays.
Marimo: Here’s the restaurant PPV
Marimo: They looked at me weird when I showed up in costume
Sanji snorted, clicking on the link. He confirmed the minor payment, then pressed play.
Marmio had propped the phone on the table with a white table cloth and crystal glassware. He wore a black suit with white shirt and deep green tie – not Winch Green’s costume. His hair was still a natural mess, his earrings catching on the soft candlelight.
“This place makes me afraid to touch anything,” Marimo murmured, glancing around before leaning forward a bit. “I ordered something called Bistecca alla Fiorentina. Waiter said it was a steak. Also, they don’t have any beer. Who opens a restaurant that doesn’t serve beer?”
The camera stayed where it was as he settled back, hands folded awkwardly in front of him. The restaurant hummed around him – the soft clinks of silverware, low conversation, the hush of moneyed comfort. Marimo glanced toward the side as footsteps approached.
The waiter returned carrying a wide platter, setting it down with practiced ease. A thick slab of steak followed, still sizzling faintly, laid out over a warmed plate. It was cut already, heavy slices arranged neatly, the surface charred dark and crisp, the interior a vivid, perfect red. A drizzle of olive oil caught the candlelight. A sprig of rosemary lay across the top.
Marimo watched the plate get set in front of him like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to touch it.
“Enjoy,” the waiter said quietly, and moved away.
Marimo reached for his silverware. He hesitated a moment before cutting a slice into smaller pieces. The knife slid through with no resistance at all. Juice pooled briefly on the plate. He paused, then lifted the first bite to his mouth.
The change in his face was immediate. His brow furrowed, not in confusion but concentration. His shoulders dropped an inch, tension bleeding out of them as he chewed slowly. His eye closed without him seeming to notice. For a moment, he forgot the camera entirely.
“Oh,” he breathed, barely audible.
He swallowed, stared at the plate like it might disappear if he didn’t keep an eye on it, then took another bite – slower this time, like he was trying to make it last. His mouth curved into a small, stunned smile that looked almost shy on him, like he hadn’t meant for it to show.
He took his time after that, cutting smaller pieces, tasting the crust, the salt, the way the meat gave under his teeth. The side came in a shallow bowl beside the plate – simple, elegant, not meant to compete. Roasted potatoes slicked with olive oil and flecked with herbs, their edges crisp and blistered, insides soft enough to collapse when his fork pressed in. He dragged a piece of steak through the juices on the plate, then speared a potato and ate them together, chewing slowly, eye unfocused, like he was cataloging the sensation more than the flavor.
There was something almost indecent about how completely he let himself enjoy it. No rush. No checking the room. He leaned back slightly in his chair, swallowed, exhaled through his nose. His throat worked visibly as he took another bite. A low sound slipped out of him – more breath than voice – before he could stop it. He paused, glanced down at the plate again, then shook his head faintly, lips curving like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. He ate another bite anyway, calmer now, absorbed, the quiet pleasure written plainly across his face.
He glanced up at the phone then, catching himself. Pink flushed across his cheeks. “Yeah,” he murmured, nodding once, as if to confirm something to no one in particular.
The camera kept rolling as he took another bite, quieter now, focused. The candle flickered. The plate slowly changed. The meal, savored.
A glass of wine sat untouched at his elbow until the very end. He lifted it then, hesitated, and took a careful sip. Something dark and rich – red, clearly. His shoulders eased further, his mouth curving as he swallowed. He drained the glass in two unhurried pulls, working, and set the glass aside with a soft clink. The plate in front of him was spotless.
Marimo leaned back in his chair, head tipping against the cushioned rest, eye half-lidded and unfocused. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed, chest rising slow and heavy beneath the tailored suit. He looked loose in a way he hadn’t when the video started – boneless, satisfied, like his body had gone pleasantly slack all at once. Similar to what he looked like at the end of his other videos, after release.
After a moment, he leaned forward again, closer to the camera. His smile was lazy now, edged with something knowing, almost wicked. His voice dropped, soft and intimate, meant for one set of ears only.
“Food fetish.”
The recording cut.
“Fuuuuck,” Sanji breathed, achingly hard and deeply satisfied at once. Apparently, he might have a food festish. Or a watching Marimo eating good food fetish. Fuck.
He wiped his damp palm on his sweats before he opened the DM to type.
Gentlecook: Told you
Marimo was online again, or still. The reply was immediate.
Marimo: bet you jerked off
Gentlecook: 🖕
Marimo: 😂
Marimo: hey did you hear they’re thinking about making a live action Sora
Sanji got his mind – and other hand – out of his sweatpants at the question.
Gentlecook: No I didn’t
Gentlecook: where’d you hear that
Marimo: SWotS discord
Gentlecook: NERD
Marimo: 🖕
Marimo: Netflix might be doing it
Marimo: they did that Bleach live action that was pretty good
Gentlecook: I don’t think I can talk to you anymore
Gentlecook: Bleach?!
Marimo: what it’s got swords and swordplay
Marimo: and Ichigo’s dual shikai are awesome
Gentlecook: bet you’re a Gintama fan
Marimo: don’t piss on Gintama
Gentlecook: NERD NERD NERD NERD NERD
Marimo: 🖕🖕🖕
Marimo: what do you like then
Marimo: besides Sora
Gentlecook: Bartender
Gentlecook: Silver Spoon
Gentlecook: Ouran High School Host Club
Marimo: Mori or Honey
Gentlecook: Mori obviously
Marimo: 🤘
Gentlecook: They had an announcement back in October about the Blu-Ray version of the live action movie coming out
Marimo: who the hell still uses Blu-Ray
Gentlecook: I have a Blu-Ray
Marimo: 😂😂😂
Marimo: bet you watch food porn on it
Gentlecook: FUCK OFF 🖕🖕🖕
Marimo: 😂
Marimo: oh right
Marimo: speaking of food porn
Gentlecook: 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕
Marimo: 😂😂😂
Marimo: I got a request to fuck a watermelon
Sanji blinked. Blinked a second time. Typed.
Gentlecook: seriously
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: you’re not the only guy with a food fetish
Gentlecook: 🖕
Gentlecook: you going to do it?
Marimo: bet you’d like that
Gentlecook: NO
Marimo: 😂😂😂
Gentlecook: food is meant to be EATEN
Gentlecook: not FUCKED
Marimo: so I should say no to the zucchini too
Gentlecook: 🤮
Marimo: 😂
Gentlecook: if you use my money to buy food to fuck I will end you
Marimo: google says to stick a stroker in the watermelon
Marimo: what the fuck’s a stroker
Gentlecook: why does google
Gentlecook: no
Gentlecook: never mind
Marimo: this vibrating stroker looks like something an alien would use
Sanji had no choice. He Googled it. It did look like something out of a sci-fi show.
Gentlecook: did they have those in Gintama
Marimo: 🖕
Marimo: shit I gotta go
Marimo: scheduled for six AM tomorrow
Sanji glanced at the time. He hadn’t realized it had gotten this late.
Gentlecook: me too
Gentlecook: picked up an extra 12
Marimo: what’s that mean
Marimo: wait never mind
Marimo: tell me tomorrow
Marimo: night
Sanji stared at the words on his screen. Tell me tomorrow. Like they’d have another conversation. Like it was a given.
There were no more dots on his screen. He typed Night, set the phone on the nightstand, and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. It took him a second to realize he was smiling, and another to stop trying to explain why.
Marimo sent him a picture of a watermelon, followed by 🍆💦.
Sanji sent back 🔪🔪🔪.
Marimo replied with 😂.
Sanji shouldn’t be checking an adult site on his phone at work, but he was in the second twelve-hour shift, sprawled on the couch in the lounge, while most of the fire station crew were tucked into bed until a call came. The lights were dimmed, the TV muted, the room smelling faintly of coffee and disinfectant. He angled the screen just enough to keep it to himself.
He’d explained what an extra twelve was, and that he was an EMT. He told himself he hadn’t crossed a line, and Marimo had asked, and he knew that Marimo was into Gintama, for fuck’s sake.
The DMs between them flowed easily, filled with jibes and dumb hypotheticals and the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t ask for anything more than a response. Complaints about early shifts. The perils of working in the food industry. A half-serious argument derailing into a debate about Stranger Things. Sanji maintained the early seasons were tighter, scarier, better paced. Marimo fired back that character loyalty mattered more than monster-of-the-week scares and that anyone who bailed later was weak.
It felt… normal. Disarmingly so. Like talking to someone you’d known longer than you had, slipping into rhythm without having to work for it. Sanji glanced up once when a radio cracked to life down the hall, thumb pausing mid-typing, then relaxed when it went quiet again.
He went back to the thread, the glow of the screen low and contained, and kept talking.
Marimo: my other job is janitorial
Marimo: four times a week
Marimo: like night cleaning
Marimo: or evening i guess
Marimo: after work when the buildings are closed
Marimo: til around eight or nine depending
Marimo: big buildings
Gentlecook: That sounds… peaceful?
Gentlecook: Or is that a trap
Marimo: trap
Marimo: it’s fine until I lose track of where I am
Marimo: then I just keep cleaning until I find something familiar again
Gentlecook: You lose track?
Gentlecook: like… zones? floors?
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: head injury fucked my sense of direction
Marimo: if the place is big enough I’ll just wander
Marimo: mop a hallway
Marimo: hit a stairwell
Marimo: clean that too
Marimo: eventually I recognize something and go “oh right”
Gentlecook: That’s horrifying
Gentlecook: and also kind of efficient
Marimo: exactly
Marimo: no one’s ever complained
Marimo: stuff still gets clean
Marimo: just not in the order they think it does
Gentlecook: You’re accidentally doing side quests
Gentlecook: janitorial open-world mode
Marimo: lol
Marimo: that’s what it feels like
Marimo: I’ve cleaned the same bathroom twice in one shift before
Gentlecook: You didn’t get in trouble?
Marimo: nope
Marimo: supervisor just cares that it’s done by morning
Marimo: doesn’t ask how I got there
Marimo: honestly it’s better than food service
Marimo: no rush
Marimo: no yelling
Marimo: just me and a cart and whatever music I have on
Sanji’s thumb hovered over the screen. He wanted to ask about the head injury, then hesitated. Was it too personal? He assumed it had something to do with getting jumped. He waffled for another second before giving in to his natural instincts – nosy, yes, but also unavoidably concerned.
Gentlecook: you mentioned a head injury
Gentlecook: that from when you got jumped?
There was no hesitation in the reply, only the dots before the words appeared.
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: bashed my head in with something
Marimo: got tbi
Marimo: it's why I can’t drive anymore
Marimo: hard to follow the gps even
Gentlecook: sucks
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: lotta shit sucked after that
Marimo: but whatever
Marimo: i’m dealing
Sanji knew he was dealing by working two part-time, underpaying jobs, with a mountain of debt, and a side-hustle as an adult content creator. Who sometimes skipped meals.
Gentlecook: you haven’t skipped any meals have you?
Marimo: no
Marimo: food fetish
Gentlecook: 🖕
Gentlecook: just
Gentlecook: shit
Gentlecook: worried
There was a long pause, before the typing dots returned.
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: I know
Marimo: I’m eating
Marimo: promise
Marimo: I just don’t love talking about the rest of it
Marimo: but I appreciate you worrying
Marimo: really
Gentlecook: okay
Gentlecook: thanks for trusting me with it
Gentlecook: and… yeah
Gentlecook: you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to
The alarm dropped without warning, sharp and insistent, flooding the quiet lounge with sound. Sanji flinched on instinct, already swinging his legs off the couch as he thumbed one last message.
Gentlecook: duty calls
Marimo: go save somebody
A smile tugged at Sanji’s mouth. He locked his phone and stood in one smooth motion, the last exchange lingering with him as he moved toward the bay.
Marimo: how pissed off would you be
Marimo: if i did the watermelon thing
Sanji paused with a fork partway to his mouth, staring at the DM that appeared on his phone.
It was his day off. He’d slept in, did a few chores, and made spaghetti and bacon for lunch. He’d been in a mood for greasy comfort food, which he’d also packaged for Chopper and Law to eat later.
Sitting at the table in the dining nook, he’d been waiting for Marimo to DM like a dog waiting at the door for his owner to come home. Marimo had mentioned he’d talk to Sanji after his McDonald’s shift, which had ended at eleven. It was now a quarter after noon.
Sunlight spilled through the back window in a warm slant, catching on the edge of the table. The house was quiet in that suspended way it got on days off. Sanji shifted in his chair, fork still hovering, eyes flicking back to the screen as if it might change if he watched it hard enough.
Marimo: dude’s willing to pay $100
Marimo: if i post it on the feed for that
Marimo: i could make more maybe
Marimo: seen a number of hearts on PPV food posts
Marimo: on the site
Marimo: dont know if i want to be known
Marimo: as the watermelon fucker tho
Marimo: what do you think
The messages stopped, Marimo waiting for Sanji’s reply.
Sanji’s brain hiccupped as he realized he was being asked something like a real friend, not a stranger who watched Marimo’s content and worried about whether he was eating enough. They’d been DMing for weeks, but it had been surface-level, mostly. This felt… real.
Sanji set his fork down, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and picked up the phone. He gave the question true weight, like a friend would. His heart beat a little quicker in his chest as he thumbed a response.
Gentlecook: it's your side hustle
Gentlecook: do what you want to do
Gentlecook: as long as you’re okay with it
Gentlecook: i’m not gonna get pissed at you
Marimo: its weird tho
Gentlecook: yeah
Marimo: i dont want you to think
He stopped typing. Sanji waited, but he didn’t see any more dots. He sent a prompt.
Gentlecook: think what?
The dots appeared, disappeared. A long pause. Then they appeared again.
Marimo: less
Marimo: of me
Sanji’s thumbs typed reflexively.
Gentlecook: if i still like you
Gentlecook: knowing you like Bleach and Gintama
Gentlecook: nothing you can do will change it
Marimo:🖕 fucker
Gentlecook: nerd
The texting dots started, stopped, started, stopped, paused, then started once more.
Marimo: wish i could get my old job back
Sanji’s chest clenched at the statement, hearing volumes in the words. He knew he had a stupid crush, knew that this was an online thing, but fuck if he didn’t want to fix this.
Gentlecook: what did you do
Marimo: road work
Marimo: paving
Marimo: i was making like
Marimo: around $5000 a month
Marimo: with overtime
Marimo: during the season
Marimo: now i’m only making
Marimo: barely $2000 a month
Marimo: ive made about $3000
Marimo: on this site
Marimo: so it helps
Marimo: im about half done paying back rent
Gentlecook: thats something
Marimo: yeah
Gentlecook: i’m guessing you can’t do paving with your tbi
Marimo: no
Marimo: not cleared for heavy equipment or live site work
Marimo: and most office jobs require
Marimo: high school diplomas or college degrees
Marimo: which i dont have
Gentlecook: you dont have a hs diploma?
Marimo: no dropped out
Gentlecook: ?
Marimo: didnt think it was worth it
Marimo: at the time
Marimo: when i could be working
Gentlecook: i get it
Sanji stopped typing and tried to figure out a way to help Marimo, more than he already had. But Marimo was typing again.
Marimo: so
Marimo: watermelon
Gentlecook: watermelon
Marimo: hot or not?
Gentlecook: everything you do is hot
Marimo: you think im hot? 🍆💦
Sanji felt his face heat.
Gentlecook: fishing for compliments?
Marimo: maybe
Gentlecook: well youre no Winch Green
Marimo: 🖕🖕🖕
Gentlecook: but id do you
Sanji couldn’t believe he’d sent that. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. He quickly added, as fast as his thumbs could type,
Gentlecook: in a hypothetical way
Gentlecook: because you dont do casual
Gentlecook: and im not offering to fuck you
Gentlecook: your content is enough
Gentlecook: shit
Gentlecook: now i sound like a perv
Sanji wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. What was he doing? Someone needed to take his phone away from him.
Text dots appeared, signaling Sanji’s doom. But then he read,
Marimo: kinda like
Marimo: that you find me hot
Sanji stared at the words. Stared some more. Tentatively typed.
Gentlecook: thought id crossed a line
Marimo: nah
Marimo: we’re good
Marimo: shit
The texts stopped. Sanji waited, wrestling his anxiety back under control. Messaged,
Gentlecook: problem?
There was no immediate reply. Sanji picked up his fork, resumed eating. Gave himself a lecture on unrealistic things.
When the dots appeared, he pretended not to be relieved.
Marimo: spilled sauce on my shirt
Marimo: like an idiot
Gentlecook: know how to get it out?
Marimo: yeah
Marimo: thats what i was doing
Marimo: not the first time it happened
Marimo: should probably be eating at the table
Marimo: but one of the other tenants is there
Marimo: and he’s creepy
Marimo: serial killer creepy
Marimo: if you dont hear from me one day
Marimo: i got serial killed
Gentlecook: do not joke about that
Gentlecook: i will absolutely lose my mind
Marimo: relax
Marimo: door’s locked
Marimo: eating on my bed like a gremlin
Marimo: shirt’s in the sink
Sanji huffed a quiet laugh, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders.
Gentlecook: good
Gentlecook: text me when you’re done eating
Marimo: okay
There was a short pause, then–
Marimo: thanks
Gentlecook: for?
Marimo: listening
Gentlecook: anytime
Sanji set his phone down beside his plate, the screen going dark. He finished his food slowly, fork scraping softly against ceramic, the townhouse quiet around him. It struck him, a little belatedly, that something so small made his day.
“Uh, hi.” Marimo lifted his hand with his usual dorky wave at the camera. He wore a loose pair of red basketball shorts, no shirt, standing beside his bed. One the bed beside him was what looked to be a portion of a mannequin wearing black briefs.
The PPV post read Asian. Big dick. Rimming a gay sex doll. Fucking a gay sex doll.
“Friend of mine gave me some money for food and sex toys, so I picked this up since I still get a lot of comments about wanting me to fuck you.” His lips quirked. “This is as close as you’ll get.”
He picked up the camera, moved the chair it was sitting on closer to the bed, and then repositioned the camera. A tube of lube was visible amidst the dark, unmade sheets. He climbed onto the bed, no longer wearing his shorts, and moved the sex doll onto two stacked pillows. He removed the underwear on the doll.
The sex doll itself appeared to be an ass with an erect cock and balls, the torso ending at navel range, the legs about six inches down the thigh. The silicone “skin” color was lightly tanned.
Marimo knelt behind the doll, its pale, silicone ass tilted up for the camera. He leaned in, spreading the firm cheeks with his hands. He dragged his tongue flat and wet over the tight, puckered hole, lapping at it with broad strokes. Saliva gleamed on the smooth surface as he worked, his movements growing more insistent. He pointed his tongue, stabbing at the entrance before sealing his lips over it and sucking, creating a wet, obscene sound. He ate at it hungrily, his face buried between the cheeks, the only sounds his heavy breathing and the slick noises of his mouth.
He pulled back, his chin and lips slick with spit. His own cock was rigid and jutting from his body, the head flushed dark and leaking. He grabbed the bottle of lube and drizzled a thick stream over his shaft, coating it until it shone. He gave himself a few perfunctory strokes, then lined the head up with the doll's prepared hole. He pushed inside in one smooth, steady thrust, his hips meeting the firm silicone of its ass. He set a hard, fast pace, his balls slapping against the doll with each thrust. His face, however, was a mask of detached concentration. His brow was slightly furrowed, his jaw set, his eye staring unfocused at the doll's back as if his mind were somewhere else entirely.
After a few minutes of the smacking rhythm, his breath hitched. He pulled out abruptly, his fist flying to his cock. He stroked himself frantically, his face finally showing a flicker of genuine emotion as he grunted. With a final, guttural groan, he came, his release spurting in white streaks that painted the doll's pale ass and the small of its back. He milked the last drops from his tip, then smeared the mess over the silicone with his thumb before slumping back, his chest heaving.
He stayed there for a moment, staring at the mess he’d made, his expression unreadable. He reached out, his fingers trailing through the cooling semen on the doll’s asscheek. He brought his hand to his own lips, tasting himself, his eye fixed on the camera as if to prove a point. Then, he reached for the camera. “Hope you tip.”
The screen went dark, the replay button appearing. Sanji had barely registered most of the video once Marimo had said “Friend of mine.” It snagged somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there, louder than anything else Marimo had said or done. Not a viewer. Not someone. Friend. Singular. Casual. Said like it hadn’t been weighed or rehearsed, like it hadn’t mattered enough to soften or disguise.
He sat there a second longer than necessary, phone warm in his hand, replay query waiting at the end screen. His pulse felt oddly off-tempo, too quick for how still he was.
He let out a slow breath through his nose and locked the screen. “Idiot,” he muttered to no one, whether that was aimed at himself or Marimo he wasn’t entirely sure. Probably both.
Friend.
He rolled the word around once more, then set the phone aside like it might bite him, and scrubbed a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Friend. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with wanting something he hadn’t meant to want this much.
The PPV hit subscriber only inboxes without ever touching the feed.
Subscriber only PPV request: Fucking a watermelon. $100.
Sanji went back to his favorite video of Marimo fingering himself, from months ago, and tipped it again for $100, mounting credit card debt notwithstanding. Then he sent a quick DM.
Gentlecook: hope you make bank
A response popped up a few hours later.
Marimo: for you
A livestream link appeared. Sanji opened it.
Marimo was sitting on his floor, cross-legged, wearing a shit-eating grin, a watermelon cut up into slices on a plate in front of him. He wore a muscle shirt and sweats, his feet bare, his hair in damp disarray. “This is the kind of food porn you like.”
Then he started eating the watermelon.
Gentlecook: 🖕
Gentlecook: is that THE watermelon
Marimo chuckled, his cheeks chipmunked from the food. “Yeah. Not gonna let it go to waste.”
Sanji felt weirdly endeared by that.
Gentlecook: taste like 💦?
Marimo’s dark eye danced with his grin. “Maybe. That turn you on, food fetish?”
Gentlecook: 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕
Marimo threw his head back and laughed. It was a rough, delighted sound that filled the room, even through the phone’s audio.
Sanji’s heart leapt.
Marimo took another bite of watermelon, chewed, spit out the seeds. “Wasn’t that bad, actually. Had to stick that stroker inside, like recommended. Too rough when I first tried it. Felt like it was going to tear the skin off my dick.”
Gentlecook: i’ll keep that in mind
Genlecook: next time I dont have sex with my produce
Marimo read his response and grinned again. “Hey, don’t knock it.”
Fuck, that grin was going to be Sanji’s undoing.
Gentlecook: tipped a hundred to one of your other videos
Gentlecook: use it to buy food
Gentlecook: that you dont stick your dick in
Marimo ate another bite. “Which one?”
It took Sanji a beat to realize what he was asking.
Gentlecook: the first fingering vid
A surprisingly shy smile appeared on Marimo’s lips. “I liked doing that one.”
Nope, this smile was going to be Sanji’s undoing. What was he saying? He was already undone.
Gentlecook: why dont you do more of them?
“I come too fast. Not really a show.” Marimo took another bite of watermelon. “Got a request to fuck myself with one of them big dildos, though. So I’ll be doing that at some point.”
Sanji could picture it too easily, and now he was getting horny on top of everything. He started to type looking forward to it, deleted it, then tried can’t wait, deleted it. Finally, he went with–
Gentlecook: 👍
Marimo shifted his legs, looking off to the side for a moment as he chewed. “You’re gay, right?” he said.
Gentlecook: bi
Marimo nodded. “Okay. You asked guys out on dates and stuff?”
Sanji wondered where this was going.
Gentlecook: yeah
“Okay. So if you asked a guy out, would you want him to tell you that he did… this stuff?” Marimo shifted again. “Online porn stuff?”
Sanji quashed the spark of jealousy, and gave the question consideration it was due, for a friend. And then he thought about the Marimo’s stance on casual sex.
Gentlecook: for you not until the third date.
Gentlecook: if you said it on the first
Gentlecook: I’d think you were offering
Gentlecook: a third date means interest in the person
Gentlecook: not just a hookup
Marimo read what he wrote, then blew out a breath, lips loose, cheeks puffing. “Yeah, I don’t do hookups.” He ate more watermelon, and asked, “How’d you react if you got told, on the third date?”
Gentlecook: i’d be curious
Gentlecook: probably turned on
Gentlecook: but i already know you and what you do
Gentlecook: i’d like to think i’d be open minded about it
Gentlecook: i’m very do what you want as long as it doesnt hurt anyone
Gentlecook: i take it you got asked out
Marimo nodded. “Friend of a friend.”
Gentlecook: you interested in him?
Marimo shrugged, munched on more watermelon. “Don’t really know him. And it’s been a while since I dated.”
Gentlecook: you got any hard passes
“Pushing for sex,” Marimo said, lifting a knee to rest his forearm on it. “Kissing like a fish. Not being a top.” He chewed thoughtfully. “No drugs. No smoking. That’s about it.”
Sanji had a stray thought that he was glad he stopped smoking once he became an EMT, but shoved it away.
“What about you?” Marimo looked at the camera. “You got any hard passes?”
Sanji thought about it before responding.
Gentlecook: no drugs
Gentlecook: ditto on kissing like a fish
Gentlecook: not treating servers nicely
Gentlecook: assuming i’m a bottom because i’m blond and care about my appearance
Gentlecook: unemployed
Gentlecook: not that i dont get layoffs and other shit happens
Gentlecook: but only someone who works for a living gets that it can be exhausting
Gentlecook: or youre not always free
Gentlecook: basically no college students
Gentlecook: otherwise i’m open
Marmio ate another slide of watermelon, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You’re blond?”
Gentlecook: yes
Gentlecook: not everyone wants to look like Winch Green
Marimo grinned. “Want to see the costume?”
Gentlecook: fuck yes
Marimo dropped the remains of the watermelon slice he was eating on the plate and pushed to his feet. “It’s probably wrinkled,” his voice carried as he disappeared from view. “It’s been in my closet since the con.”
There were thumps and random noises. Sanji waited, nerd already typed and waiting to be sent.
“Okay. Prepare to be amazed,” Marimo said after a few minutes, and then he stepped in front of the camera.
Wearing the costume.
Sanji about died.
Marimo posed in classic Winch Green comic posture, arms folded, chin tilted down. Green tight pants with a yellow and green belt, a big 66 emblazoned over the green long-sleeved shirt. He wore bullseye elbow pads and the 66 headphones. Green calf-high boots adorned his feet. He’d put the arm guards and gloves on. He was only missing the bandana and cape.
Gentlecook: nerd
Gentlecook: i love it
Gentlecook: i’m making this my wallpaper
And Sanji did. He screen grabbed quickly and set it as his background, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
Marimo folded himself back onto the floor, read the comments, and grinned. “Glad you appreciate greatness.”
Gentlecook: I appreciate that youre the biggest nerd in nerdonia
“You’re just jealous you don’t look this good.”
Gentlecook: fuck that hold on
Sanji dropped his phone on his bed, got up, and went over to his closet. In less than a minute, he was in a black shirt, wine-colored suit jacket, and white tie. He fixed his hair in the mirror on the back of his door, then snagged his phone and took a selfie, being sure to get his best angle and not capture the fact that he was still in his boxers.
Gentlecook: i’m sending you a picture
Sanji attached the image and pressed send. He sank onto his bed again, tucking a foot under his raised knee. He was grinning the whole while.
Marimo picked up his phone and opened the attachment.
He stared.
Then he stared a second longer, mouth parting just slightly before he caught himself. A pink flush dusted his cheeks. “Now I know why you like Ouran Host Club.”
Gentlecook:🖕
Marimo grinned widely. “Whatever. Tamaki.”
Gentlecook: that’s host club president tamaki to you
Sanji’s grin went soft around when Marimo laughed, low and pleased, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Figures.” He shifted where he sat, still holding the phone like he wasn’t quite ready to put it down. “You look stupid nice, Gentlecook.”
Gentlecook: careful
Gentlecook: keep talking like that and i’ll start charging
Marimo smirked. “Bet I’d still make more than you.”
Sanji pfft’d, thumbs flying over the phone as he settled back against his pillow.
Gentlecook: not in that costume nerd
The conversation kept rolling after that, drifting from teasing to nonsense to shared fandom jokes, the back-and-forth sliding between spoken words and typed replies until it softened into something comfortable and ongoing, with no real end in sight.
The radio cracked to life at 9:30 p.m., sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine. Sanji had just finished tightening the last strap on the jump bag. He paused, listening.
“Medic Twelve, respond priority two. Elderly male, fall. Caller states patient is conscious. Address to follow.”
Koala was already moving, fingers light and practiced as she slid into the passenger seat. “Priority two,” she echoed, calm. “That’s promising.”
“Promising,” Sanji agreed, though he didn’t relax yet. He swung into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and keyed the ignition. The ambulance rumbled awake beneath them.
He checked the clock again out of habit. 9:30. Early into the shift. He was on nights again, long enough now that his reflection in the side mirror looked faintly unreal, skin pale under the streetlights, eyes already darkened at the edges. Vampire hours. He flicked the thought away and focused as the address came through.
“Thriller Bark Drive.”
Koala raised a brow. “That street?”
Sanji huffed a quiet breath. “Victorian row. Spikes, gargoyles, too many stairs.”
He pulled out into traffic, lights on but siren off, the city giving way as they headed deeper into residential streets. Koala was already gloved, reviewing the tablet.
“Ninety-six,” she said. “Live-in tenant called it in.”
“Mechanism?” Sanji asked.
“Unknown. Caller didn’t witness it. Says he couldn’t get up.”
Sanji nodded. Falls were liars. Simple until they weren’t.
They turned onto Thriller Bark Drive, the street narrowing, houses rising like dark silhouettes against the sky. The Victorian Gothic sat midway down the block – steep rooflines, wrought-iron fencing, a porch that looked straight out of a horror movie. One upstairs light burned, yellow and unsteady.
Sanji parked, grabbed the monitor, and nodded to Koala. She took the bag without asking. They moved together up the walk, boots crunching softly on gravel.
As he climbed the steps, Sanji felt the familiar shift settle in – the quiet narrowing of focus, the way the world reduced itself to what mattered. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. One patient. One job.
He knocked, firm but not loud. “EMS,” he called. “Sir, can you hear me?”
The door opened with a creak – of course it did – and Sanji froze. Not from fright, but from who he saw on the other side of the threshold. “Marimo?”
Marimo stood there in a ratty white t-shirt and jeans, the hall light behind him illuminating his green hair and stunned expression. “Gentlecook?”
Koala cleared her throat behind Sanji, and Sanji snapped back into EMT mode. “Right. You called EMS?”
Marimo’s attention snapped as well. “Brook. My landlord. He fell in his room. This way.”
He left the door open, leading the way down a long hall. The house swallowed sound. Their footsteps softened against a runner worn thin down the center, its pattern of roses and thorns faded into something more like shadow than color. The walls were crowded with frames – sepia portraits, landscapes gone dark with age, a mirror that caught Sanji’s reflection and gave it back wrong, stretched and pale under the sconce light.
Marimo moved ahead of them without a word, shoulders filling the narrow space, one hand trailing the wall like he knew every dip and seam. He hadn’t bothered turning on more lights. The glow they followed came from the back of the house, dim and amber, as if the place preferred to keep its secrets.
“Back bedroom,” he said over his shoulder. His voice carried oddly here, flattened by the ceiling. “I don’t know how long ago he fell. I found him when I went to drop off the rent.”
Koala adjusted her grip on the bag. Sanji took in the way the hallway subtly sloped, the draft that smelled of old wood and something medicinal, the quiet hum of a house that had been standing long enough to develop a pulse of its own. They reached the end of the hall, where the floorboards creaked in warning before the room opened up.
The bedroom sat low and wide, heavy with furniture that had never been meant to move. A four-poster bed dominated the space, curtains pulled back like it was waiting for an audience. Lace drapes breathed faintly at the window. A single lamp burned on the dresser, throwing long, theatrical shadows across the walls. A violin rested on a stand in the center of a round, ornate table.
On the floor beside the bed lay Brook, limbs folded at the wrong angles, thin as if he’d been sketched instead of built. One slipper was missing. His glasses lay a foot from his hand.
Sanji dropped to a knee without hesitation. “Sir, my name’s Sanji,” he said, voice warm and steady, already reaching for Brook’s wrist. “This is Koala. We’re here to help you. Can you tell me what happened?”
Brook’s eyes flickered toward him, sharp with embarrassment more than pain. “I was standing,” he said faintly. “And then I wasn’t. Yohoho.”
Sanji hid the instinctive wince behind a nod. Humor meant consciousness. Consciousness was good.
Koala knelt on the other side, already checking the leg that had folded under him, careful and precise. “Did you hit your head?” she asked.
Brook hesitated. “I don’t think so. Everything went… sideways.”
Sanji met Marimo’s gaze briefly. He stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Alert. Concerned.
“All right,” Sanji said gently, turning back to Brook. “We’re going to take this slow. Don’t try to move until we say so, okay?”
Brook nodded, chastened, fingers curling lightly into the rug.
As Sanji reached for the monitor, the house seemed to lean in around them – wood and velvet and age pressing close – while the world narrowed to vitals, breathing, the careful work of getting an old man back on his feet.
Sanji clipped the cuff around Brook’s arm, the Velcro loud in the hush. “I’m going to check your blood pressure,” he said, then glanced up. “Before we go any further, are you on any medications, sir?”
Brook’s mouth twitched. “Oh, certainly. A small orchestra of them.” He lifted one hand, ticking them off with delicate precision. “Something for the heart. Something for the bones – which feels a bit redundant when I’m already skeletal – yohoho! And–” He paused, turned his head just enough to catch Koala’s eye, and added with a wink, “--a little blue pill that keeps a gentleman’s spirits from… flagging.”
Koala froze for half a beat. Sanji didn’t even look up from the monitor. “Viagra,” Koala said evenly.
Sanji hummed, tapping the tablet. “Okay. Thanks for letting us know.”
Brook brightened, clearly encouraged. “Since we’re being so open with one another, would you perhaps show me your–”
“No,” Marimo said from the doorway. The word landed flat and final.
Brook blinked. “I haven’t even finished my sentence.”
“You don’t need to,” Marimo replied, arms still crossed.
Koala hid a smile behind her professionalism and returned her attention to Brook’s leg. “Sir, let’s focus on your fall.”
Sanji met Brook’s eyes again, voice calm, unbothered. “Do you remember feeling dizzy before you went down? Lightheaded? Anything off?”
Brook sighed, chastened but not repentant. “Only that the world tipped without warning. One moment upright, the next – horizontal. Like my days crowd surfing… without the crowd, and with considerably less applause.”
“So no warning,” Koala murmured.
“And you’re not sure if you hit your head?” Sanji said.
“I wish I could say I remember,” Brook replied. “Alas, my memories of the floor are vague.”
Sanji finished taking vitals, then leaned closer to check Brook’s pupils. “You’re doing great,” he said gently. “I know this is uncomfortable.”
Brook studied him for a moment, then exhaled long and theatrical. “You’re going to tell me I should go to the hospital now, aren’t you?”
Koala glanced up at Sanji and gave a small nod.
“Given your age,” Sanji said carefully, “and the fact that the fall was unwitnessed, we really recommend it. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
Brook closed his eyes. “Defeated by caution. Again.”
From the doorway, Marimo shifted – still watching, still alert. “Is he gonna be okay?”
Sanji looked up at Marimo, meeting his gaze this time instead of letting it slide past. “He’s stable,” he said evenly. “Talking, vitals are okay. We just don’t like guessing with falls. Especially when no one saw it happen.”
Marimo nodded once, sharp and contained. “Okay.”
Koala was already moving, reaching for the gait belt. “Brook, we’re going to help you up just enough to get you onto a stretcher,” she said. “Slow and steady. If anything hurts, you tell us.”
Brook opened his eyes again, resigned but cooperative. “I suppose this is what they mean when they say the show must go on.”
“Different venue,” Sanji said, offering his hand. “Sadly, less dramatic lighting.”
They worked together, practiced and careful, with Sanji bracing Brook’s shoulder, Koala guiding his legs, counting them through the movement. Brook hissed once, then steadied, leaning into the support without protest.
“Still with us?” Sanji asked.
“Unfortunately,” Brook replied. “Though I admire your optimism.”
They eased him onto the stretcher, straps clicking into place, the small sounds loud in the old house. Sanji adjusted the headrest while Koala secured the rails.
Marimo hovered just long enough to look uncertain, then stepped back to give them space.
“We’ll take good care of him,” Koala said, reading the tension easily.
Outside, the night had settled heavier, the ambulance lights painting the Victorian façade in brief, pulsing red. They guided the stretcher down the porch steps, careful of the uneven boards.
As they reached the ambulance, Sanji glanced back. Marimo still stood in the doorway, framed by shadow and lamplight, arms crossed, gaze fixed on them. Worried. Holding himself together.
Something tight pulled once in Sanji’s chest before he turned away.
As they loaded Brook into the back, Sanji climbed in after him, steadying the stretcher with one hand. Koala shut the doors, the sound final and reassuring.
Brook glanced toward the ceiling, then over at Sanji. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this is not how I envisioned my encore.”
Sanji smiled faintly. “Hospital’s not the end of the show,” he said. “Just an intermission.”
Up front, Koala pulled them back into traffic, the engine’s hum smoothing out as they headed toward the hospital, leaving Thriller Bark Drive behind – dark, quiet, and a little less haunted than it had been an hour ago.
The ER smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. Sanji gave the report automatically – age, fall, unwitnessed, unknown head strike – his voice steady even as Brook was transferred to the hospital bed. A nurse nodded, asked a question, scribbled something down. The curtain slid halfway closed.
“All right, sir,” Sanji said, adjusting the rail one last time. “They’ve got you from here.”
Brook peered at him through his glasses. “A pity,” he said solemnly. “I was just getting used to your bedside manner.”
Sanji smiled faintly. “Try not to flirt with the staff.”
“No promises.”
He stepped back as the nurse moved in, the moment passing whether he was ready or not. Outside the bay, Koala was already wiping down the stretcher, movements efficient, practiced.
Sanji washed his hands, the water too hot, then lingered longer than necessary, staring at his reflection in the steel dispenser. Pale. Tired. Definitely vampire-adjacent.
When he passed the nurses’ station again, he slowed just enough to ask, “Hey, bay twelve. Fall patient. Doing okay?”
“Stable,” the nurse said without looking up. “Waiting on the doc.”
Sanji nodded.
Outside, the ambulance waited under buzzing lights, engine ticking softly as it cooled. Koala climbed into the cab, coffee already in hand, and held up the spare cup. “Want one?”
Sanji took it, fingers wrapping around the heat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”
They didn’t rush back onto the road. Sanji sipped his coffee, opened his phone, and after a brief glance at Koala, opened the adult app. He quickly got into the DMs.
Gentlecook: your landlord’s stable.
Gentlecook: waiting on the doc
Sanji hesitated, not knowing what else to say. Marimo might not even check his DMs tonight. Finally, he settled on,
Gentlecook: maybe we’ll meet again under better circumstances
Sanji stared at the last message for a second longer than necessary, then locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket. He took another swallow of the bitter coffee, heat settling low in his chest.
The radio crackled once – idle, not a call yet – and Koala set her cup in the holder, reached for the ignition. The engine turned over and the ambulance eased back into motion.
Sanji leaned his head briefly against the seat, eyes closing as the hospital lights slipped past the windshield. Night stretched ahead of them again – long, unbroken, waiting for the next call.
The next time Sanji checked the DMs, days later as he’d pulled two extra twelves before his four days off, Marimo’s message sat waiting for him.
Marimo: want to grab coffee?
Direct. To the point. Not what Sanji was expecting.
His thumbs hovered over the keypad, trying to catch his breath which decided to escape him, before answering,
Gentlecook: sure
Gentlecook: name the place
Gentlecook: i’ll meet you there
They opted to meet at a Starbucks close to Marimo’s place. Sanji changed his outfit four times, trying to decide if a full suit was too much. It wasn’t a date. It was coffee. With a friend. Who he only knew from online. And seen jerk off multiple times. And had a serious crush on. Fuck.
Sanji finally settled on a burnt orange dress shirt, deep brown vest and trousers, with a lighter pair of brown shoes. He decided not to wear a tie, leaving the top two buttons of the shirt open, giving a peek of his blond chest hair, but not too much. He’d meticulously groomed his royale goatee, made sure his hair was perfectly coiffed, and spritzed himself with cedarwood cologne.
He was glad he was three days into his four days off. He looked less vampiric after getting solid sleep. He slid his watch on his wrist, pocketed his wallet and phone, and briefly prayed to the gods who watched over idiots that this meeting would go all right.
Sanji could feel Law’s judgment as he pulled into the Starbucks lot in Florian, the neighboring suburb where he worked EMS, a short drive from his home in Thousand Sunny. He locked his car, took a fortifying breath, and went into the coffee shop.
Inside, the shop was quieter than usual, most people opting for the drive-through instead. The air smelled of espresso and steamed milk, sharp and comforting at once, threaded with the sweetness of syrups. A couple of customers lingered near the pickup counter, phones in hand, while a barista worked. The place hummed softly, machines breathing and clicking, afternoon sunlight stretching through the windows.
Marimo stood when Sanji caught sight of him, at a two-top near one of the windows. Sanji surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his trousers as he walked over to join him. “Hey,” he greeted, damning the slight crack in his voice.
“Hey,” Marimo returned, color stealing across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You– you look good. Better. In person. During the day.” He paused, seeming to realize what he’d just said, then quickly tacked on, “Very host club.”
Sanji smoothed the line of his vest, caught between self-conscious appreciation and the urge to flick him off. “And your roots are quite visible, Winch Green.”
Marimo’s face creased in a grin, and his shoulders relaxed. He ruffled his hand through his green hair. “Yeah. Can’t afford to touch it up. I’ll just let it grow out and cut the green off once it’s long enough.”
Sanji had a brief pang of disappointment. “Too bad. Kinda like the green.”
Marimo’s eye crinkled with amusement. “Should I have worn the costume, too?”
Marimo was dressed in faded blue jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt that read Galley-La Company, stretched pleasingly over his broad chest. Now that there wasn’t surprise or his job in the way, Sanji noted that he was bigger in person, though the same height as Sanji. The scar on his face had faded from dark pink to a lighter shade over time. Eventually, it’d be a pale, silvery scar bisecting his skin. It made him appear tough, brutish. Paired with the green hair and earrings, along with his muscles, his appearance screamed bad news, avoid at all costs. Not someone Sanji would’ve gone for if he’d seen him at a bar or club.
But Sanji knew Marimo was a giant, dorky nerd. The scars broke up what might’ve been a more conventional kind of handsome, but the attraction wasn’t theoretical for Sanji. He’d crossed that line already – many, many times – enough to know his interest was real and unambiguous.
“If you had, I would have pretended not to know you,” Sanji said. He motioned to the counter. “I’m going to grab a drink. You need one?”
Marimo bit his lower lip, glanced at the sign above the counter, then looked away again. “No, I’m good.”
Sanji hesitated. This wasn’t a date, but he also knew Marimo couldn’t afford to buy a five dollar coffee. “I hate to drink alone. Sure you don’t want one? My treat, since I’m being demanding.”
“Um, okay. Just a plain coffee. No sugar or anything.”
Sanji nodded. “Be right back.”
Sanji stepped up to the counter and ordered. While the barista tapped at the register, he glanced back over his shoulder. Marimo had sat down again, shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned forward, hands folded on the table’s surface. Afternoon light slanted in through the glass, catching the planes of his face and throwing the scar into soft relief, not hiding it so much as making it part of the whole.
The wait was brief. Sanji accepted the drinks when his name was called, the familiar weight of an espresso drink warming his palm, the second cup lighter, plain and utilitarian. He crossed back to the table, careful not to spill, and set Marimo’s black coffee down in front of him before taking the opposite chair. Steam curled faintly between them as he settled in.
“Thanks,” Marimo murmured, hand wrapping around the cup.
Sanji lifted his own drink to his lips, blowing across the surface before taking a heated sip. Awkwardness settled over the table. Marimo glanced up at him from beneath dark lashes, then looked down studiously at his cup. Sanji wasn’t sure what to say next. This had been so much easier in text, with a layer of distance between them.
Sanji decided on mentioning just that. “This was easier in text.”
Marimo’s lips tipped up wryly. “Yeah. I didn’t expect to actually ever meet you.”
“It’s weird that we live so close to one another,” Sanji said.
“You in Florian, too?”
“Thousand Sunny,” Sanji said. “But I work here, out of station 13.”
Marimo nodded. “I work at the McDonald’s up this street.”
“You work this morning?”
“No. Wasn’t scheduled today,” Marimo said. “But I work janitorial tonight, at five. Gotta leave by four so I can change and get a Lyft.”
It was a little after two, now. Sanji sipped his espresso. “I’m off ‘til the day after tomorrow, then I’m on for four again.”
“When do you switch back to days?”
“Not until the end of next month.” Sanji sighed. “Only downfall of doing this kind of shift work.”
“But I know you like it,” Marimo said with a faint grin.
“Yeah. I do.” Sanji leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “How’s Brook?”
“Says he’s fine. He serenaded me and one of the other tenants at breakfast.” Marimo pulled a face. “It went on for, like, three hours.”
Sanji chuckled. “Sounds like a fun time.”
“No. It wasn’t.” Marimo grimaced. “Because he does it all the time.”
Sanji’s chuckle turned into a laugh. “Poor Marimo. Suffering for art.”
“It’s Zoro.”
“Huh?” Sanji tilted his head in confusion.
“My name. It’s Zoro.” Marimo blushed faintly.
Sanji’s heart skipped several beats. They were doing this then. Getting personal. “No wonder you like Gintama,” he said before he thought.
Marimo – Zoro burst into a laugh, rough-edged and endearing, and flicked Sanji off. “Fuck you.”
Sanji grinned, even though his stomach fluttered at that laugh. “I’m Sanji.”
“You’re named after a time?” Zoro snickered.
Sanji flicked him off. “No. I’m the third son of an asshole who liked to number his children. Luckily, I don’t have to call him father anymore.”
“Oh.” Zoro sobered. “That… sucks.”
Sanji shrugged, deflecting. “I ended up with someone much better, and I learned to cook, unlike some uncultured microwaving swine.”
“Hey, I sometimes use the oven for my Hungry Man dinners.”
Sanji groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That sentence makes me want to stab myself.”
Zoro grinned. “Food fetishist.”
Sanji flicked him off again. Zoro laughed.
Conversation flowed easily after that. Sanji asked how many times Zoro had seen Zorro, the Gay Blade. Zoro asked the type of Emo music Sanji listened to. They argued about what constituted a proper cup of coffee, dissing Starbucks even as they sat in one – Law would be proud. Zoro got a discord notification about the Warrior of the Sea live action production and they fell into a very nerdy conversation about casting and special effects and arcs they’d like to see.
Before Sanji knew it, Zoro’s alarm dinged on his phone. It was 4:00. They’d spent two hours talking non-stop. “Shit. I gotta go,” Zoro said, sounding vastly disappointed.
“Okay.” Sanji quelled his own disappointment. He stood as Zoro did, bussing their table, digging an additional tip from his wallet to drop in the box.
Outside, the late afternoon had cooled just enough to take the edge off the day. The drive-through line crawled past them, engines idling, the low murmur of orders leaking from open windows. Sunlight bounced off windshields and storefront glass, while a faint breeze carried the smell of coffee out after them. Sanji paused automatically near the door, not quite ready to let go.
“Can I give you a ride home?” Sanji asked.
Zoro nodded, looking a little relieved. “That’d be nice.”
“Come on.”
The ride from the Starbucks to the Victorian Gothic on Thriller Bark was too short. Sanji idled at the curb outside the house, in the same spot the ambulance did last week.
Zoro looked at the house, then at Sanji. He reached for the handle, opening the car door, then hesitated. “Um, you want to do this again? Tomorrow, maybe? I work ‘til ten, but then I’m off until four again.”
Sanji felt his stomach swoop. “It’s a date,” he said before he could think, then immediately panicked, opening his mouth to correct himself. They were friends, remember? Friends.
But Zoro’s face lit up, stalling Sanji’s words. “Great! Let me know where and when, and I’ll be there.”
He got out of the car, shut the door, and ambled up the walk. On the porch, he turned and lifted his hand in that same dorky wave Sanji saw in his videos, a grin still on his face.
Sanji waited until Zoro was inside before pulling away from the curb. He drove a block on autopilot, hands steady on the wheel while his chest felt anything but. The word date echoed back at him, equal parts thrill and terror, and he laughed once under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. He had a date, with Marimo. Either this was the opening act of a porn movie, or Sanji had just won the lottery.
But it wasn’t really that, either. Marimo was a fantasy. Zoro was the person who he’d been texting back-and-forth for months. The nerd with the Winch Green costume. The jibing humor. The mircowaving menace. The one who confided in him about sometimes getting lost in the Victorian and how much he missed the gym.
At the stop sign, Sanji unlocked his phone and looked at the background image of Zoro in his costume, posing like a complete and utter idiot.
He had a date, with Zoro.
And he couldn’t wait.
Sanji picked Zoro up for their date at eleven the next morning. Sanji wore a full suit and tie. Zoro got into the car wearing the Winch Green headphones and cackled at Sanji’s horrified expression.
“Fucker,” Sanji said, smacking him on the arm.
“You love it,” Zoro sniggered, before taking them off.
He actually looked very nice, in tailored black trousers and a white button down, loose at the collar. He’d mentioned, during one of their DM conversations, about having lost muscle mass after being laid up. “Makes clothes fit better, at least,” he’d said. Zoro was already built broad and heavy with muscle; Sanji couldn’t picture him any bigger.
Sanji drove them to a mom-and-pop diner he frequented in Loguetown, a neighborhood just outside Thousand Sunny. Sanji was a little too dressed up for the place, but this was a date and he wasn’t about to half-ass it.
The bell over the door chimed as they stepped inside, and for a split second Sanji felt the weight of it – the unmistakable this is a date awareness settling between his shoulders. He guided them to a Please Seat Yourself! table, smoothing his jacket automatically, already overthinking the moment. Then Zoro picked up the menu, scanned it with exaggerated seriousness, and looked up.
“Hey,” he said, earnest as anything. “You think they serve instant udon?”
The tension snapped. Sanji laughed, sharp and surprised, and whatever stiffness he’d been carrying dissolved into something easy and familiar.
Almost immediately, the date stopped feeling like an event and dropped right into normality. It was like coffee yesterday never ended, their DM chatter picking up again in real life. Zoro was such an unbelievable nerd about anything he liked – manga and anime, lifting, swords, tv shows, music, even yoga and beer.
“If you’re doing it right, mash temperature matters more than people think,” Zoro said, leaning forward enthusiastically over his meatloaf special. “You overshoot by even a couple degrees and your enzymes stop converting properly. Then everyone’s like, ‘Why’s it sweet?’ and it’s because you killed your beta-amylase. Also water chemistry – nobody talks about sulfates versus chlorides, but it changes everything.”
Sanji stared at him for a beat, then smiled into his coffee, because of course that was the level he operated on.
The server dropped off a refill without asking, ceramic clinking softly against the table. A spatula scraped somewhere behind the counter, grease popping in steady bursts, the low murmur of another booth drifting past with the smell of coffee and toast.
Being on a date with Zoro was so easy that Sanji wondered if he was doing it wrong. All his dates in the past involved compliments and flirting and worrying about whether they were enjoying themselves. The sense of relaxedness didn’t come until later, until he was in a relationship for a while.
Maybe it was because Zoro was a guy. Sanji hadn’t really dated guys. One here or there, not counting hookups. He was bi, but he preferred women over men on the whole.
But Zoro was just… so alive and happy in Sanji’s presence, not caring if Sanji said something cutting, dishing it right back threefold. Sanji didn’t have to tell him that he looked nice repeatedly, or worry that he’d blundered mentioning something slightly grisly or depressing about work, or think about what he was going to say to make the right impression.
It wasn’t that he didn’t find Zoro attractive on that level – Sanji most certainly would love to tumble Zoro into bed – but this felt like friendship with someone he just didn’t want to leave. And it was weird, and humbling, and confusing, and Sanji would probably overthink it later and drive himself crazy.
But for right now, he was going to listen to Zoro wax on about hops.
“It's timing. Early additions are just alpha acids breaking down – pure bitterness, no character. You throw them in late and you get aroma instead: citrus, pine, floral, whatever the strain is. And then there’s dry hopping, which isn’t even about bitterness at all, it’s about volatile oils binding without heat. If you do it wrong, it tastes grassy. If you do it right, it smells like someone opened a fruit stand in a forest…”
“So…,” Zoro began on their third date, at a movie theater showing Predator: Badlands, because the predator had a “cool looking sword.” Zoro slouched beside him in the squeaky stadium seat, one sneaker propped on the empty spot in front of them. “I do adult content on the internet as a side hustle. Just thought you should know.”
Sanji sputtered, which caused Zoro to snicker and Sanji to sock him against the chest.
They hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t touched on the fact that Sanji spent many nights masturbating to Zoro’s content. Zoro still posted, Sanji still looked. The one he’d dropped last night was an ass shot, his hole puffy and slick. Sanji accidentally came on his phone and had to clean it up.
They probably should talk about it. Like adults. Because Zoro wasn’t into casual, and yet Sanji was casually hooking up with him via an adult app on a regular basis.
But not here. Not now. Not when Zoro was rambling about plasma swords.
“...I went down a rabbit hole about the plasma sword, and it doesn’t follow their own tech rules. If it’s a magnetically contained edge, the balance should feel off unless the hilt’s compensating, and if it’s cutting clean through armor, there should be way more heat bleed. The concept’s still sick, though. I’d love to try it. Probably lose a hand, though.”
For their seventh date, Sanji took Zoro to a club.
Zoro couldn’t dance for shit.
Sanji didn’t think he’d ever stop laughing.
Marimo: I need to be the one who takes you out next time
Gentlecook: it’s not a big deal
Marimo: it is
Marimo: feels like i’m not man enough
Marimo: or some shit
Marimo: that im not paying for it
Sanji took a long time before responding, knowing how Zoro simply didn’t have extra money to spend. But he understood. He’d hate for someone else to be paying for every date, like he wasn’t an equal.
Gentlecook: okay
Gentlecook: but im still driving
Marimo: that was never a question
Marimo: unless you feel like a very long drive to nowhere
Zoro took him to the tiny local zoo in Zou on a weekday. It was $6.50 per person. He brought peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches and two apples for a brown bag lunch.
Then they went on a very long drive to nowhere.
It was the best date Sanji had ever been on.
Asian. Big dick. PPV Request. Fucking myself with a big dildo.
“Uh, hi.” Marimo lifted his hand in his standard dorky wave. He was naked, kneeling on his bed, the dark sheets mussed beneath him. He held a thick, long dildo in his hand. “Got a request to fuck myself with one of these. First time using a toy like this. Don’t really need to, as you know.” He grinned lopsidedly.
“I’ll, uh, likely come while prepping myself,” he went on, and the blush appeared on his cheeks. “But I’ll keep going. Just… you know. Be patient.”
Marimo sat sideways on the bed, hips on a pillow, legs spread, offering a clear view of his hole. He reached for the bottle of lube, his movements fluid and deliberate. Squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers, he began to work the slick gel over his puckered entrance, his breath hitching with each circle. His middle finger pressed in, just the tip, and his entire body shuddered, a soft moan escaping his lips. He pushed deeper, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheet with his other hand. His hips began to rock, a slow, sensual rhythm as he added a second finger, the stretch making his thighs tense and quiver.
His face was a study in concentration, his brow furrowed, his eye half-lidded. His breathing broke into small, high sounds he couldn’t quite stop. He worked himself steadily, his fingers sliding in and out, the wet sounds of his preparation filling the room. A third finger joined the first two, and a choked gasp tore from his throat. His hips bucked, his cock swelling and leaking onto his stomach. He reached for his shaft, giving it a few tight strokes, his body tensing as he neared the edge. With a final, desperate thrust of his fingers, he came undone, his orgasm ripping through him, his back arching as strands of semen spurted from his cock, landing in messy streaks across his belly.
He collapsed back, breathing unevenly, a flush splotching his tawny skin. After a moment, he sat up, reaching for the large, thick dildo resting on the bed. He shoved the pillow aside, greased the dildo heavily with lube, then turned around so his back was the majority to the camera. He positioned himself over it, and slowly lowered himself, the head breaching him with visible effort. He sank down, inch by inch, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he took the entire length, his ass stretched wide around the thick toy. A plaintive sound filled the audio.
Once he was fully seated, he sat there, shoulders rising and falling, head bowed, as he breathed heavily. He began to move, his hips rolling as he rode the dildo, muscles shifting and flexing with each motion. His free hand flew to his mouth, his fist muffling the sounds of his pleasure, but his cries still escaped, high and desperate, as he impaled himself over and over.
His movements grew more frantic, his hips slamming down onto the dildo, the sloppy, wet sounds of his passage filling the room. His sweat-drenched hair clung to his face, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He reached for his cock, stroking himself in time with his thrusts, his body trembling with the effort. His keening grew louder, more urgent, his fist no longer enough to contain the sounds. He came again with a final, desperate shout, his body convulsing as his release erupted from him, splattering visibly across the dark sheets on bed.
As the last of his orgasm subsided, he slumped forward, his body shuddering with the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his back slick with sweat. Slowly, he lifted himself off the dildo, his ass clenching around the shaft as he pulled away. He turned to face the camera, his face flushed, his eye glazed, a mess of sweat and semen. He ran a hand through his damp hair, a shaky laugh escaping his lips, before collapsing back onto the bed, spent and sated.
“So, uh, that’s a pretty good toy,” he said with a stray chuckle. “Kinda big for my tastes, but damn if I wouldn’t use it again.”
He reached for the camera. “Hope you tip,” he said, and the video cut off.
Sanji hearted, tipped generously, and pretended not to feel guilty as he dragged himself to the shower to wash off the mess coating him.
“You know,” Sanji started, sitting in the grass beside Zoro at a park, probably getting dog pee on his track pants, “I don’t even have your number.”
Zoro was in charge of the date again. He’d suggested Little Garden, a free garden and park close to Whiskey Peak. They’d wandered through the gardens first, stopping to smell the literal roses, as they chatted about their week. Zoro had brought a frisbee, and they’d thrown it around in the open park afterward, making each other work hard for it. By the time they’d collapsed, they were both sweaty, grass-stained, and chugging the refillable water bottles they’d brought.
Zoro was starfished in the grass, squinting up at the blue sky between the trees. “Huh. Guess you don’t. We talk through the site.”
“Yeah.” Sanji felt the queasiness of nerves. “I… still watch your stuff, too.”
Zoro rolled his head, a sly grin pulling at his lips. “You get off on it?”
Heat flushed Sanji’s face immediately, causing Zoro to chuckle. “Yeah, you definitely do,” he said.
“It– well– I–” Sanji growled at himself for his stammering, took a breath, and tried again. “You’re hot.”
Zoro grinned rottenly. “Am I?”
“Fuck off.” Sanji curled his fingers in his track pants. “It’s just… we haven’t even kissed, and I’ve seen you fuck yourself on that toy. It’s… it’s… I don’t know. Wrong. Or something.”
Zoro flipped over onto his belly, propping himself on his forearms. His face grew serious. “Do you not like me doing it? The stuff for the site?”
Sanji shook his head. He’d had a long think about that, once they’d passed the zoo date. “No. Not at all. You want to make money that way, I support it. And, well, again, it’s hot.”
“But…,” Zoro prompted.
Sanji looked off in the distance, at the way the grass sloped toward the gardens, the butterfly bushes with hints of blooms. He didn’t want to come across as crass, or unthinking. He knew Zoro didn’t do casual. Didn’t want to pressure. But he also didn’t want this to become a thing that loomed in the background, waiting to cause things to fall apart.
So Sanji just went for it, blatant and brutally honest. “But I’d really like to suck your cock, then fuck the hell out of you.”
A rosy blush bloomed on Zoro’s cheeks as he sucked in a sharp breath. He dropped his chin, plucked at a blade of grass by his fingers. “I… uh… would like that, too.”
And now it was Sanji’s turn to suck in a sharp breath as arousal speared through him. “Yeah?”
Zoro nodded, not looking up. “Thought about it. For a while now. Just… I like you. More than like.” He shredded the blade with his fingertips. “But I don’t want to lose this part. Hanging out. Talking. And I really don’t want to find out that maybe you’re more into Marimo and not… me.”
Sanji’s chest clenched tight. “Shit… Zoro. I’m worried about the same fucking thing.” He looked up at the sky, exhaling heavily. Time to lay it all out there. “I’ve had a crush on you– on Marimo, since your second video post. Then we started texting, and you’re so… nerdy, and give me shit, and you have adult problems, and are just so real that the crush I had only fucking grew.”
Sanji shook his head with a weak laugh. “You don’t know how many sleepless nights – or days, depending on what shift I’m on – wondering if I should bury my desire and just be friends with you. Because you’re pretty fucking awesome, Zoro. And I don’t want to lose this – with you.”
Around them, the park was active. A runner passed with measured breaths. Somewhere down the path, a leash jingled as a terrier barked at a passing squirrel. A mother with a stroller wandered out of the gardens. Sunlight filtered through the trees in broken patches, warming the benches and the concrete walkways.
Zoro moved first, pushing up onto his knees. He crawled closer to Sanji, reached out, and cupped Sanji’s cheek.
Sanji’s breath caught in his throat – at the warm roughness of the palm against his face, at the intense look in Zoro’s dark brown eye as he studied Sanji, at the color high on his cheeks. Then he licked his lips, leaned in, and pressed them to Sanji’s.
Their first kiss.
Sanji’s insides swooped and soared, and he suddenly felt like a live wire, sparking and alight. Zoro’s lips were soft, pliant. Experienced in a way that said I am an adult. Sanji’s hand came up to grip Zoro’s shirt sleeve, angling his head, deepening the kiss. Demonstrating at how much this was wanted. How much it meant.
Zoro didn’t push him back into the grass. They didn’t make out like teenagers in a public park on a sunny afternoon. He broke the kiss first, drawing back as gently as he’d approached, the blush on his cheeks more pronounced. He sank back on his heels, lowering his hand to his side.
Then he said, bold as brass, “At least you don’t kiss like a fish.”
Sanji sputtered and pulled up grass and threw it at Zoro’s face. Zoro grinned, wide and unrepentant, pulling up tufts of grass himself and tried to make Sanji eat it.
At the end of the date, Sanji got Zoro’s phone number. Zoro got Sanji’s. They put each other’s real names in the contacts.
ZORO:
still awake or did night shift finally take you out
SANJI:
still here
barely
you?
ZORO:
can’t sleep
afternoon shift tomorrow
watching The Witcher and being mad about it
SANJI:
because of course you are
which part
ZORO:
liam hemsworth
i’m trying to be fair
but he’s no henry cavill
SANJI:
that’s because henry cavill was built in a lab
those abs were doing half the acting
ZORO:
only half?
generous
SANJI:
listen
i’m bisexual, not blind 😌
ZORO:
😂
gay, but same
but it’s not just the abs
SANJI:
oh?
ZORO:
the problem with hemsworth is he has no resting bitch face
he always looks… content
SANJI:
content??
in The Witcher??
ZORO:
exactly
geralt should look like he’s one inconvenience away from murder
cavill nailed that
SANJI:
so what you’re saying is
you respect a man who looks perpetually irritated
ZORO:
i relate to it
SANJI:
shocking
absolutely shocking
ZORO:
🖕
you’d still watch though
SANJI:
obviously
for the abs
ZORO:
😂
thought so
SANJI:
don’t stay up too late
i’m the only vampire
in this relationship
ZORO:
yeah yeah
night shift hero 🫡
SANJI:
🧛🙄😂
Sanji waited on the porch of the Victorian, hands in his pockets, humming The Addams Family theme under his breath. Footsteps thudded down the hall inside, uneven and a little rushed, and then the door swung open.
Zoro stood there in his McDonald’s uniform, visor shoved back into his re-dyed hair – funded by a subscriber – shirt wrinkled from a long shift. He blinked at Sanji once, then grimaced. “Hey. I’m– uh. Not ready.”
Sanji took him in, tired shoulders and all. “I can see that.”
“I picked up extra,” Zoro said, already stepping aside to let him in. “Just got home. You can come up, if you want. My room’s upstairs.”
Sanji stepped through the door, familiar with the narrow hallway, the scuffed wood floors, the way the light fell just shy of the corners. He’d stood here once with gloves on and a jump bag at his feet, the air sharp with urgency. Now it smelled like nothing in particular, just old wood and the faint trace of someone’s dinner cooling somewhere out of sight.
Zoro started up the stairs without ceremony. “C’mon.”
At the top, he led Sanji into a small room that was unmistakably just that: a bed pushed against one wall, a bookshelf with books and figurines, a skinny dresser with a wooden chair sitting beside it, a narrow closet door half ajar, weight machine and yoga mat near the sole window. No living area. Hardly any space. No privacy beyond what the door could manage. It was tidy in the way of someone who didn’t own much and knew exactly where everything went.
Zoro kicked off his shoes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry. This is kind of all I’ve got.”
“I’ve seen it already,” Sanji pointed out.
“Uh, yeah.” Zoro looked uncomfortable suddenly. “I’m, uh, gonna shower. Bathroom’s communal. The only private one’s the in master, and Perona’s got that room because she’s the only female. Costs extra, too.”
Sanji wondered about the discomfort, but didn’t say anything at the moment. He wandered over to get a better look at the figures. Zoro dug out a clean set of clothes, grabbed a towel hanging on a hook on the back of the door, then murmured, “Be right back,” before leaving.
They were heading to a bar to meet up with Zoro’s friends – he’d invited Sanji a few days earlier. Sanji had just rotated back onto days again, the overnight hours behind him for now, unless he picked up an extra twelve. His Friday and Saturday nights opened up in a way they hadn’t for a while.
Somewhere in that space – between shifts and schedules and shared plans – their momentum had quietly changed.
The kiss hadn’t stayed isolated. They’d seen each other several times since, dates that ended with lingering goodbyes, mouths meeting, hands warm and familiar, like they were learning each other by degrees. In between, they talked constantly – long stretches of texting under their real names, in between work hours, when neither of them wanted to be the one to stop.
Zoro had posted again, another PPV to use the prostate massager but not turn it off for five minutes. He priced that one high, at $50. Sanji had watched him dissolve into a mess of sweat and semen and streams of thin, milky fluid, accompanied by smothered shouts and whimpers. Sanji tipped him the same amount as the PPV cost, shooting him a DM through the app to buy a case of electrolytes along with his kudos.
Sanji had repositioned all the Warrior of the Sea figures, hiding Winch Green on a lower shelf, and was paging through a book on famous named swords when Zoro returned.
“You moved Winch Green,” Zoro said with a huff.
“He deserves it,” Sanji said without looking up. “Second-rate character. Second shelf.”
Zoro hung up his towel, tossed his uniform in a laundry bag at the bottom of the closet, and ran his fingers through his damp hair. He wore a navy t-shirt and faded blue jeans, his feet bare. “Hey, uh, can we talk a second?”
Sanji blinked at the tentative tone. Zoro didn’t sound nervous often. “Of course. What’s up?”
Zoro stared down at his feet, and blew out a breath. “I got your tip. And your message about the drinks.”
“Did you buy them?” Sanji set the book back on the shelf. “Rather not get an EMS call because you passed out from dehydration.”
“I need you to stop.”
Sanji paused and glanced back at him. “Stop?”
“Stop tipping me for food and stuff.” Zoro looked right at him now. “I don’t want your help like that.”
Sanji turned around. “Zoro–”
Zoro shook his head, interrupting him. “No. Don’t. It was okay… before. You know, when we weren’t a thing. But I don’t need you to do that. I don’t want you to do that.”
Sanji studied him carefully. He recognized this posture – feet planted, shoulders squared, the quiet resolve that came from having rehearsed internally long before saying it out loud. “Do you want me to not pay for your posts anymore, too?”
“That’s–” Zoro stopped, colored faintly, and glanced away. “No, you can still do that. It’s actually kinda hot, knowing that you’re watching.”
Sanji felt something warm and sharp twist in his gut at that – desire, but also permission. Reassurance. Not dismissal or distance.
Zoro took another breath and exhaled sharply. “But I don’t want to be, like, your sugar baby or something. And I don’t need charity. I know shit is tight, and that I’m a long way from digging myself out, but it’s my shit to deal with, not yours.”
He returned his gaze to Sanji. “It’s like the dates. I want us to be… equal and shit. I know you’re making more than me, and you like to take care of people, but I don’t need or want you like that. I want you to just… listen to me bitch about lack of hours and collection notices and Lyft prices going up again. I want you to joke with me about the porn requests, but get and are okay with the fact that I’m probably going to be doing it for a long time, until I can pay everything off, without you tipping me.
“And maybe at some point I’ll find one job that pays okay where my TBI doesn’t matter, but if it never happens, and I am perpetually broke, I can deal with that. I can stand on my own two feet,” he said. “And if this – us – keeps going forward, you’re not going to pay for everything. I’m going to contribute my share. I’m not looking for a caregiver, I’m looking for a partner.”
The silence that followed pressed in, the small room filled with gravity. Zoro stayed where he was, hands loose at his sides, waiting.
Sanji let the moment settle, resisting the urge to rush in with reassurance or solutions. He considered what Zoro was actually asking for, not just how it made him feel.
When he spoke, he chose his apology carefully. It wasn’t panic or reflex. He understood the boundary Zoro was setting, and he respected it. The rest – the ache to fix things, to smooth it over – came from older hunger he already knew how to manage. “I’m sorry. I never intended for you to feel like I was… buying you or something,” he said. “I have a thing about going hungry, but that’s my thing, not yours.”
He took a step forward, stopped. He forced himself to breathe through the urge to promise more than he should. “I’m still gonna worry about you eating enough. Worry about you in general. But I won’t tip you anymore, since that’s what you want. And I’ll try not to pester you about food.”
“You cook. Just invite me over for dinner for some of our dates. Send me home with leftovers.” Zoro gave him a pointed look. “A reasonable amount.”
“I can do that.” Sanji’s brain was already rifling through recipes. Things that would stick to the ribs. Things that reheated well. Things that felt like care without strings.
Zoro studied him for a moment longer, like he was checking for cracks, for resentment, for subtle signs of withdrawal. Then he shifted on his bare feet, rubbing a hand against the back of his head. “So… we’re good, then?”
Sanji finished closing the distance between them, slipping his hands around Zoro’s waist. The room felt warmer now, comfortable rather than small, like the air itself had eased. “Yeah, we’re good.” He smiled faintly. “Look at us, being all mature and shit.”
Zoro chuckled, winding his arms around Sanji’s neck. He rested his forehead against Sanji’s. “Want to go get drunk with my friends?”
“Hell, yes.”
They didn’t get drunk. Zoro accepted one round from his friends, then switched to lemonade – free refills. Sanji paid for his own drinks.
The bar was already loud with the weekend crowd. Pool balls cracked against felt at the back, darts thudded into cork boards scarred with years of bad throws, and the air carried the overlapping smells of fried food, spilled beer, and old wood. Every table was claimed, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, laughter rising and falling in uneven waves as servers threaded through with practiced ease.
“Sanji!” Luffy boomed, already halfway out of his chair as he waved both arms over his head. “You made it! Zoro said you were finally coming but I didn’t believe him until I saw you with my own eyes.”
“I told you we’d be here,” Zoro said, unimpressed, though his hand settled briefly at the small of Sanji’s back as he guided him closer to the table and ran through quick introductions.
Luffy grinned wider, eyes bright. “Whoa. He touches you. Zoro doesn’t do that unless it’s serious.”
“Eat your fries,” Nami said, snatching one off Luffy’s plate without looking. She leaned back in her chair, red hair spilling over bare shoulders, eyes sharp and curious as they swept over Sanji. “So you’re the famous Sanji.”
“Depends who you ask,” Sanji said easily, turning the smile just a degree warmer toward Nami. “But it’s a pleasure to finally meet someone as beautiful as you.”
Ace, lounging sideways in his chair with one arm slung over the back, gave him a slow, appreciative look. “Gotta say, Zoro undersold you.”
Zoro snorted. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Ace said, unbothered. “He’s hot and dresses like a GQ model. What the hell are you doing with Zoro, when I’m clearly available.”
Sanji laughed as Zoro snarled, “Hands off.”
Zoro hooked a chair out with his foot and nudged it toward Sanji before taking the seat beside it, the table shifting to make room as everyone scooted and rearranged without much fuss. Sanji slid in easily, knees bumping Zoro’s under the table, appetizers, plates, and drinks already being moved around to accommodate him like it was a given he belonged there.
“Wait, wait,” Luffy said, leaning across the table and pointing at Sanji like he’d just remembered something important. “Do you like meat?”
Sanji blinked, thrown for half a second. “I mean… yeah. I’m not a vegetarian, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Luffy’s only asking because he wants someone else to steal food from,” Jinbe said mildly. He nodded to Sanji. “It’s good to finally meet you. Zoro doesn’t bring people around lightly.”
Sabo lifted his glass in a small greeting, smile warm and measured. “Good to meet you, Sanji. Zoro’s talked about you.”
“Good things, I hope.” Sanji said it lightly, but his gaze flicked to Zoro all the same.
A faint flush crept up Zoro’s neck before he shot Sanji a look. “I told them you’re Ouran Host Club’s president.”
Nami barked a laugh. “Oh, I see it immediately.”
“Absolutely,” Ace said, grinning. “Big charismatic energy.”
Sanji groaned, dropping his face into one hand. “I hate all of you already.” But he liked the fact that Zoro’s friends knew what Ouran was, that they might be nerdy like Zoro, that he had a friend group who shared his interests, who spoke the same language of enthusiasm and inside jokes.
Conversation flowed easily after that – orders placed, drinks refilled, Nami complaining about price gouging. Sanji found himself listening more than talking at first, absorbing the way Zoro fit here: quieter than Luffy and Nami, less showy than Ace, but a true part of the group.
At one point, Luffy shoved his chair back and bounced to his feet. “Pool!”
“I’m in,” Ace said immediately, already grabbing his drink. “Zoro, you coming?”
Zoro shook his head. “In a minute.”
Luffy squinted. “You just don’t want me to win again.”
“You only won because I got lost on the way back from the bathroom,” Zoro said flatly.
“Shishisi. Forfeiting means I win!”
Nami waved them off. “Go, go. I want the table when you’re done.”
Ace laughed and followed Luffy toward the back. The table was a little less crowded, but Zoro stayed where he was. Nami got another drink for herself. Jinbe and Sabo slipped into quieter conversation across from them, the noise of the bar swelling around the edges again.
“This okay?” Zoro asked low, just for him.
Sanji took it all in – the relaxed buzz of the bar, Zoro’s friends, the faint crease of concern in Zoro’s brow – and smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “This is good.”
Zoro’s mouth tipped up, just barely, the crease in his brow fading as he leaned back in his chair. His knee pressed against Sanji’s in quiet confirmation, relieved and pleased.
Sanji didn’t mean to stop sending Zoro home. Not at first.
It started as dates – actual ones. Planned around mismatched schedules and twelve-hour shifts, squeezed into the narrow overlap where Zoro wasn’t flipping burgers or mopping floors and Sanji wasn’t pulling another overnight. Dinner, sometimes out, sometimes in. A movie abandoned halfway through. Music playing low while they talked themselves into staying up longer than they should.
Sanji cooked because he cooked. And he always cooked extra, for Chopper, for Law, for meals during his shift. Now he just cooked a little more for Zoro, too. Zoro ate, thanked him, and took the proportioned leftovers without comment.
Sometimes they meant for Zoro to leave. Sometimes they didn’t bother pretending. A late janitorial shift and an early McDonald’s open that made the Lyft ride pointless. Zoro falling asleep on the couch with the bowl balanced on his stomach, fork still hooked between his fingers. Sanji covered him with a throw blanket without thinking about it. When Zoro woke up, embarrassed and sheepish, Sanji handed him coffee and told him to stop apologizing.
The toothbrush appeared quietly – cheap, blue, tucked into the cup beside Sanji’s like it had always belonged there. Then a McDonald’s shirt showed up in the laundry, folded into the wrong pile. A yoga mat leaned against the wall by the bedroom door and never quite left.
Sanji noticed. He didn’t comment.
They slept together when schedules overlapped. Sometimes it was late and quiet and careful, bodies fitting like they’d been paying attention. Sometimes it was fast and laughing and a little desperate, pressed up against counters because neither of them had the patience to wait.
One early afternoon, the sun streamed through the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the queen-sized bed. Sanji lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, tracing lazy patterns on Zoro’s bare chest. The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of a lawnmower outside. Zoro’s skin was warm under his touch, the muscles beneath taut and familiar. Sanji leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Zoro’s mouth, feeling the warmth against his lips.
Zoro turned his head, deepening the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in Sanji’s hair. Their tongues met, slow and exploratory, tasting each other with a languid hunger. Sanji’s other hand roamed, sliding down Zoro’s side, over the curve of his hip, to the firm muscle of his thigh. Zoro’s skin was smooth, the scars threading through it like a map of strength and resilience. Sanji’s fingers traced them reverently, his touch gentle yet firm, eliciting a low, appreciative murmur from Zoro.
They broke apart, their breaths mingling, and Sanji shifted, moving down the bed. He settled between Zoro’s thighs, his hands gripping the firm muscles, massaging and teasing. Zoro’s cock was already hard, a thick, heavy length that Sanji knew all too well. He leaned in, his breath hot on the sensitive skin, and Zoro’s hips jerked in anticipation. Sanji took his time, his tongue swirling around the base, tasting the salty musk. Zoro’s hands fisted in the sheets, his body already tensing with pleasure.
Sanji moved lower, pushing Zoro’s thighs back, his tongue flattening as he rimmed Zoro’s entrance. Zoro was super sensitive here, and Sanji knew just how to tease him. He circled the tight ring, applying just enough pressure to make Zoro gasp, his body bucking beneath Sanji’s mouth. Sanji’s hands gripped Zoro’s hips, holding him down as he continued to lick and suck, his tongue delving deeper with each pass. Zoro’s high-pitched keens filled the room, a symphony of raw pleasure that sent shivers down Sanji’s spine.
Sanji could feel Zoro’s body tensing, the muscles coiling tight as a bowstring. He knew Zoro was close, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Sanji redoubled his efforts, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, pushing Zoro over the edge. With a sharp cry, Zoro came, his cock pulsing as ropes of release spurted across his stomach. Sanji licked his lips, savoring the taste, before moving back up the bed, his body covering Zoro’s.
They lay there for a moment, Sanji kissing Zoro’s collarbone, his neck, his jawline, before reaching for the lube. He poured a generous amount onto his fingers, warming it before sliding them into Zoro. Zoro was tight, his body clenching around Sanji’s fingers, and Sanji took his time, stretching him slowly, carefully. Zoro’s moans were soft, almost pained, his body writhing beneath Sanji’s touch. When Zoro was ready, Sanji positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Zoro’s entrance.
Sanji pushed in slowly, inch by inch, feeling Zoro’s body yield to him. Zoro was vocal, his thready whimpers and gasps filling the room, a constant stream of pleasure and need. Sanji’s hips rolled, a steady, rhythmic motion, his body moving in perfect sync with Zoro’s. He could feel Zoro’s body clenching around him, the tight heat almost too much to bear. He leaned down, capturing Zoro’s mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue mimicking the motion of his hips. Zoro’s hands gripped his shoulders, urging him deeper, harder. Sanji complied, his body moving faster, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding as one.
The room was filled with the sound of their lovemaking, the soft slaps of flesh against flesh, the wet, slick sounds of their bodies moving together. Sanji could feel the pressure building, his own orgasm threatening to overwhelm him, but he held back, wanting to see Zoro come undone first. He reached between them, his hand wrapping around Zoro’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Zoro’s body tensed, his muscles coiling tight, and Sanji knew he was close.
With a final, deep thrust, Sanji sent Zoro over the edge. Zoro’s body convulsed, his cock pulsing a second time in Sanji’s hand as he came, spilling over Sanji’s fingers. Zoro’s cry was raw, primal, head thrown back, his nails digging into Sanji’s skin. The sight and sound of Zoro’s pleasure was enough to push Sanji over the edge. With a final, deep groan, he came, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside Zoro. They lay there, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, the afternoon sun casting a warm, golden glow over their entwined forms.
Eventually, reality crept back in the small ways it always did – Sanji reaching for the water bottle by the bed, Zoro groaning when he rolled onto his side, the ceiling fan clicking as Sanji leaned up to turn it higher.
“Shower?” Sanji asked, already pushing himself up.
“In a minute,” Zoro said, voice rough, eyes closed. “Let me remember how my legs work.”
Sanji snorted, dragged on boxers, and padded from the bedroom, down to the kitchen, pulling on a shirt as he went. He turned the coffee maker on, checked the fridge for what he’d make for dinner, made a mental note about groceries. When he came back, Zoro was sitting up against the headboard, phone in hand, thumb scrolling with a familiar, thoughtful focus.
“I’ve got a post to put up,” Zoro said casually, like he was talking about laundry. He glanced up at Sanji, mouth tilting. “Nothing you haven’t already… influenced.”
Sanji leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, heat curling low and pleasant instead of sharp. “I look forward to watching it,” he said. “After the shower.”
Zoro laughed, soft and satisfied, and set the phone aside – for now.
As day shifts slid into night shifts then folded back to days, Zoro was just there, with him, whenever Sanji looked up. Sanji was half-asleep when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
ZORO:
on my way back
lyft said he’ll wait if i make it quick
We need anything besides milk?
Sanji stared at the screen for a second. Do we need.
SANJI:
Just eggs
Top shelf cooler by the milk
ZORO:
K
back soon
Sanji smiled into the dark.
By the time Zoro got there, shoes kicked off by the door like they belonged, Sanji had already taken the grocery bag from him, moving on autopilot. The milk thudded softly onto the fridge shelf, next to Chopper’s leftover confetti cake, Law’s plain yogurt, and Zoro’s jar of generic grape jelly.
Zoro leaned into Sanji from behind, chin resting on his shoulder, arms loose around his waist. He lingered a second longer than usual, gaze flicking over the fridge contents. “Did I move in without knowing it?”
Sanji tilted his head back just enough to brush their noses together. “Yep.”
Zoro huffed a quiet laugh, the sound content and disbelieving all at once. His arms tightened a fraction, then loosened again. “I should probably… talk to Law. And Chopper. Make it official.” A pause. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m freeloading.”
Sanji nodded, already turning back to the fridge to shut it. “We’ll figure it out. Rent split, utilities. It’ll be less with four of us.”
Zoro hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I can cover my share.”
“And I’ll make room for the rest of your stuff,” Sanji said, hooking his fingers in Zoro’s beltloops. “Do you wear the Winch Green costume to bed or is it only for special occasions?”
Zoro groaned, dropping his forehead to Sanji’s shoulder. “Should’ve seen that coming.”
Sanji smiled into his hair. “Mmm. Guess we’ll have to find the right occasion, then.”
Zoro laughed softly, fingertips brushing against Sanji’s belly.
Sanji tugged him lightly. “C’mon, nerd, let’s go to bed. We both have to be up at five.”
He reached back to turn off the kitchen light as they went, the fridge humming softly behind them. Zoro bumped his shoulder against Sanji’s as they walked down the hall and up the stairs.
Sanji used the bathroom first, then Zoro. He set the alarm while Zoro climbed into bed beside him, the mattress shifting as they settled in. After a brief, quiet jostle for space, Zoro leaned over, pressed a kiss to Sanji’s lips, and murmured, “Love you.”
Sanji smiled into his pillow. “Love you, too.”
Sanji smirked at the photo of Zoro in the Winch Green costume on his phone before opening the adult app as he stepped through the front door, dawn cresting the horizon behind him. He dropped his keys into the basket while his feed loaded. Last night had been a posting night for Zoro, but Sanji had been on shift.
The feed came up, newest posts from his subscriptions at the top.
Marimo
10 hours ago
Asian. Big dick. Stroker. Jerking off.
The television hummed in the living room. Sanji paused in the doorway, seeing Zoro slouched on the couch, dressed in boxers and a ratty t-shirt, hair a mess, eating Aldi-brand cereal straight from the box with a spoon.
Sanji closed the app, locked the phone, and tucked it in his pocket before entering the living room. “Hey. What’cha watching?”
Zoro glanced up, sleepy-eyed, cheeks puffed with cereal. “Vox Machina.”
“Nerd.” Sanji dropped down beside him, stealing the spoon for a bite.
Zoro grabbed the spoon back. “You’re just jealous I’m watching without you.”
Sanji huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. You tell yourself that.”
Zoro grumbled under his breath, then leaned into his shoulder, warm and real and entirely uncurated.
Sanji would rather subscribe to this moment than anything else.
End