Work Text:
Sanji’s proud that he can balance himself upright as he feels the buzz of hard liquor possess his bloodstream like a foreign parasite.
The island they saved likes to party.
When the Straw Hats arrived days prior, they were instantly met with streams of favors and booze to celebrate their welcome. Partying is engraved into every aspect of the island folk’s culture, ready to light fireworks and sing upbeat songs whenever the slightest ounce of inconvenience or celebration calls for it. They do it for solace. To destress. To find joy.
Under the dictatorship of a cruel mayor, the only tradition the island folk were allowed to keep was their parties, and have parties they did. They partied to no end between hard labor and sorrow, cheering through the tears as they wrapped their arms around each other and sang.
Some stretching, sword fighting, and heavy arguing later, their mayor reached his demise, and their captain, Luffy, let the newly freed citizens of the city have their way with him.
“Many thanks for freeing us, Straw Hat,” says a foxy woman with a beautiful mane of dark brown hair, whispering her appreciation into Sanji’s beet red, exposed ear. He stands in a black button up and egregiously tight slacks, put together like a gentleman in a venue filled with young adults like him dressed in basically nothing. When the blonde is left with nothing to say, she giggles, turning around as her cascade of brown waves bounces atop her naked back above her silver mini dress that begins just at her ass.
“Anytime,” the cook croaks out pathetically as she leaves to rejoin her posse of equally beautiful girlfriends, dancing like provocative seductresses. Sanji clears his throat and sniffles, feeling the familiar sensation of pain in his nose.
There’ll be other opportunities, he thinks in denial, sipping more of whatever concoction everyone here seems to love. Don’t get him wrong. He loves it too. It just feels off.
The alcohol here is unlike alcohol anywhere else across the Grand Line. Not only is it strong, but it’s also incredibly sweet, like juice. There’s no familiar bitter taste of liquor hidden in its flavors for Sanji to peruse, just the taste of tropical fruit punch and the wave of blur that follows after.
Dangerous.
Sanji watches the bartender from the table he’s leaning on, cigarette secured between two long fingers, elbows on the surface, tipsy as hell. He studies how the bartender creates the mix for such a dangerous elixir, shaking and pouring with impressive ease. With each mixture, he makes sure to shake it ten times, never skipping one. Tall, dark, and confident, he’s in charge of the fun here, making sure everybody is well nourished with the Devil’s juice.
The cook has to remind himself to calm down. He can’t just ogle men whenever he’s drunk. He barely likes men when he’s sober. When he’s sober, his attraction to men feels unfortunate. Something he doesn’t act on by pure choice, judging by how men tend to be filthy animals anyway. Disgusting with all that testosterone, bulk, and hair, thinking catcalling and vulgar acclamations would make them appealing to the average woman, Sanji no less.
This isn’t sober Sanji, though. This is wasted Sanji, sticking his hip out and hoping any of these “men” would have the courage to go ahead and take it. He unbuttons his shirt a couple of buttons, letting his bangs fall into his face to evoke curiosity in any of the guys who pass by, sparing Sanji a look of hungry intrigue every time, but nothing comes from it. The alcohol continues to control them, and they’re back to dry humping the air and each other.
The rest of the nightclub jump and flail like poisoned rats, grabbing at any human possible, grabbing with claim like it’s what these people have been waiting for for years. Lights flash and spin in a way that could cause seizures, and Sanji can smell artificial fog.
Of all the parties their crew attended during their stay, this one’s the most extreme. It’s literally a nightclub, obviously not what their mayor allowed. It’s underground. It’s urban. It’s hot. And the reason he’s here in the first place is because they saved the island, invited by the cityfolk who requested their help to begin with.
“Come party with us, kind pirates!” said a man in denim, all the charm in his brawn and handsome face. “This one ain’t gonna be like any of the parties we’ve thrown for you yet.”
Wasn’t that the truth? This club could be described as fucking filthy, everyone grinding on each other, looking like they’re having sex with their clothes on, or what little clothing they had on.
And all because of the Devil’s juice that’s being passed around in basic little glass cups.
Just pure sin.
Luffy and Usopp had exactly two cups of it and they’re out. His precious Nami went off swindling all the idiots who dared whistle at her, and Robin, the gorgeous Robin, found that she’d rather spend her late night with Chopper instead.
That only leaves Blackleg Sanji and the swordsman, Zoro, who Sanji remembers arriving at this club at the same time as him, undoubtedly for the booze.
Where is that mosshead? Lost, he’s sure. Especially in an atmosphere like this. Loud, so loud you can hear the heavy bass of the urban music shake the walls. Crowded, so crowded you can practically lick the sweat off the skin of a passerby if you stick your tongue out.
Stupid mosshead. What does he know about partying anyway? A bar or a tavern would suit Zoro more accurately, providing him the two things that fucker seems to always want: fights and alcohol.
He’d drink and drink and it rarely buzzed him. He’d become grumpier, sure, but one would assume that’s due to the typical migraine that is having your mind incoherent while Luffy’s at your side, getting you into whatever situation possible to make the veins on your neck pop.
Zoro is a composed alcoholic. He never lets the substance affect his attitude, his actions, or his posture. What the cook would do to see otherwise. To see Zoro buzzed and wanton. Sweaty and hot. He can’t see him being a dancer, but Sanji can see himself dancing on him, grinding on a thigh of pure muscle. Holding onto both of the mosshead’s biceps for leverage, the touch of it bringing Sanji to the brink of wanting to bite. Just all up on Zoro. Just Zoro all up on him, keeping a tight grip on the cook’s hips that would hurt, making sure the cook’s eyes are on him.
And he wouldn’t have a shirt on.
If Sanji can’t find Zoro here, then so be it. Better without that average swordsman anyway, like he wants to see him in the same state Sanji’s in.
Mischievous.
High.
Wet.
Willing.
Sanji takes a final sip of what may be the biggest mistake of his life, buds his cigarette onto a napkin, and allows himself to be swept up by whoever is the most attractive person to take his arm. He dances, feeling the music and embracing it like it’s mother’s milk. As the songs change and the moon obscures into more darkness, he lets the music control him. Take possession of him. It’s in his feet, his mouth, his hips, his throat, his waist. Letting the effects of alcohol and adrenaline seep in deeper and poison what remains of his sobriety and clear thinking.
This isn’t alcohol. This is anesthesia.
“Straw Hat?” comes a familiar voice that sounds underwater at first, Sanji having to refocus for a second and calm his body from swiveling so scandalously.
It’s the man in denim from before, the really handsome one that Sanji would allow to rearrange his internal organs if he tried to, right here.
“You really can dance,” the man lets his words linger like a thought said out loud, eyes dragging over Sanji’s body as though he were admiring a new model car.
Finally, some fun. Despite the influx of raunchy comebacks that parade through Sanji’s mind, he chooses not to respond. Resorting to teasing, lowering his head and letting his grin turn upward, looking at the man through his bangs with all the awareness in the world that he is sexy and so is the other, who’s gone from feet away to inches. Slipping behind the cook to pull him back on his pelvis. Sanji allows the adrenaline kick back in as he takes his dance to its original state: filthy. He’s got good legs and he’s using them, showing off his precise footwork and a full little ass that’s begging to be grabbed.
It’s that damn Devil’s juice, making him see the world in flash form. Like stop-motion, the music is his only proof that he’s not dead. He’s got this hot guy pounding into his backside to the beat of this song and, it’s hilarious, other guys start to cheer or grind around them, participating in pure erotic ecstasy.
Though, what starts to make Sanji go mad is that every single time the face of the burly man in denim—he’s gotta learn his fucking name—is obscured, Sanji sees Zoro. He wants Zoro there, pulling Sanji toward him. Rarely dancing but guiding Sanji into a rhythm that would hypnotize him into letting him own him. Genuinely, what is wrong with him? If Blackleg Sanji ever gets drunk, without fail he’ll horny-thought himself so hard that Zoro becomes the main plot of his perversions.
Sanji can feel himself growing in the tightness of his slacks, keeping himself half-hard like all of the other sluts in the building. If anybody noticed, they didn’t care. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he could have sworn that people were actually out having sex in the lounge, separated from the dance floor and bar by beaded curtains. It’s okay here. They’re all adults.
As the crowd moves and cups beg for refills, cued by the collective slamming of glasses against the bar, the cook is far gone in the environment, forced to obey the rush. Flipping his hair without any concern for loss of control.
Then he spots a speck of green that stands out in a sea of every other color. Like moss in mud, Zoro is at the bar too. In a dark corner, sat down, lounging in a booth. Stripped out of everything but jeans and a simple blank white t-shirt that fits him tight, his eyes on Sanji like he’s stalking prey. Not the typical aloof alertness, a look of pure hunger.
He doesn’t have his swords with him, which is shocking—yet typical of him to have a glass filled with alcohol to the brim in their place. The swordsman brings the glass to his full lips and takes a slow, voluminous sip. Raising a thick brow at the sight of the cook, like he’s asking a question.
Sanji’s fully hard.
The blonde has to shut his eyes, not wanting to risk catching Zoro looking at him like that again. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel; he hates it.
Has Zoro ever looked at him like that? Regrettably, images of Zoro fuming, drenched in sweat and smeared in blood, glaring Sanji down post-fight, intrude on Sanji’s mind, causing him to think he should, or has to, leave. If the atmosphere he’s breathing in, or the substance he’s swallowing down, is making him want to be dominated by his despised rival, then he has to get out of here.
The problem is, he can’t stop his body from moving. This music, hypnotizing music, owns him. It wants him. So good to him right now, and so is Denim. Oh, that’s right, the black-haired daddy pressing his just-as-hard erection against Sanji’s eager backside.
That keeps him at ease for a little while, thinking about being bent over out in the alleyway outside the club and getting railed. By Denim, not Mosshead. Repeatedly filled with load after load. Such a dream.
Sanji can’t keep his eyes shut, still feeling the sensation of being watched. He looks around again, not searching for anyone in particular, or that’s his excuse. Just scanning.
Zoro’s still looking at the cook the same way when Sanji inevitably lands his gaze back on that corner of the bar, and the immediate reaction is to avert his gaze again.
But.. just five seconds later Sanji’s eyes are locked back on Zoro. Unable to look away this time. He eyes the man while he dances, challenging the other back.
Come on, come over here. Sanji wiggles his hips devilishly on Denim’s crotch, resulting in his hips being taken in a possessive grab, rewarded with whistles around him.
Instead of entertaining these idiots, Sanji holds eye contact with his rival, watching as a tan hand clenches around an armrest like he’s showing restraint. Oh yeah, that does something to Sanji. Something that causes him to commit an act that’ll confuse him when he regrets this later.
He moans Zoro’s name.
As expected, nobody heard it, but Sanji isn’t given the opportunity to see what Zoro’s reaction is when he disappears behind a wave of drink-refillers. How good is the marimo at reading lips? The cook pouts as the people flood back onto the dance floor, packing the center of the venue tight again, ultimately disconcerting Sanji.
“Drink some more!” Denim shouts over the music, moving to connect his lips and tongue with Sanji’s jaw as he feeds him the evil elixir, letting it drip like blood down his chin. It makes a mess, and Sanji’s unsure why he even allows it, but if the crowd shifts again, it’ll give Zoro another sight to see.
Sanji licks his lips and grins about it, picking up the bass of the music again.
And in a sudden—quick instance, Denim is shoved off him.
The cook immediately plans retaliation, ready to execute a perfect kick that defies the state of his being. Wiping liquor off his chin, he goes for it until a strong grip captures his raised leg mid-strike—an action only one person in particular knows how to accomplish.
When Denim hits the ground and comes to his senses, he isn’t angry. Only disoriented, catching up to what just happened. But when he realizes it was the pirate hunter who stole his dancing partner, he doesn’t fight it. His eyes widen instead, apologizing immediately as he scrambles up and rushes off the dance floor, pushing through clueless drunk adults.
“Some man,” Sanji mutters sarcastically. Just for that, he’s angry at all the men in this club, including Zoro, who's already recieving the signature glare as the cook starts wrenching his leg free from the swordsman’s grip.
“What, no more dancing?” Zoro teases over the music, like he’s testing a boundary neither of them has crossed before. He snakes his impossibly hot, veiny hands to either side of Sanji and engulfs his waist.
Oh, Sanji likes that. He never knew he’d like that.
The cook shows little resistance. On the contrary, he leans in, arms wrapping around the back of Zoro’s neck. He doesn’t care who he’s doing this with as they’re crotch to crotch now, relishing the terrible sensation of crossing territory. He forgets why he dislikes Zoro in the first place as they press together in a way usually reserved for brawls.
They’re not quite dancing, but Sanji keeps them in rhythm. Not as sinful as what he did with Denim, but intimate. If Zoro won’t dance, Sanji will. And Zoro’s body moves with him. Slow. Sensual.
Zoro doesn’t stop.
That surprises Sanji.
“You fancy guys?” the swordsman asks casually. His voice is firm as usual, except for the slight weight to it now. Heavy. Like he’s coming down off Chopper’s cough medicine.
Zoro is looking at him with an expression Sanji doesn’t recognize. Maybe no one else would notice—Maybe the crew wouldn’t see it if they barged in on this Saturday night boundary crossing—But Sanji sees it. Because he’s always watching that damn swordsman like he’s hiding a portal to the All Blue behind those hooded, dark eyes.
Sanji can’t believe this.
Zoro’s drunk.
Every emotion crashes through Sanji’s clouded head. From victory, to shame, to attraction, to need.
The Devil’s juice. Bless the Devil’s juice.
“Curls…”
A large hand squeezes the cook’s ass, reminding him of the earlier question.
“They disgust me,” he answers automatically, unsure whether to pull away or press back into the grip. He’ll watch how that shirt sticks to Zoro’s body instead.
“Hm.” Zoro lowers his head, observing the situation, feeling the blonde up in the process. Slow. Deliberate. More intoxicating than the alcohol.
When he lifts his head again, he raises that same brow from earlier, the one he wore while watching Sanji seduce him from afar.
“Disgusted,” he repeats, unconvinced.
“Well, if you’re going to look at me the way you did over on that couch, I’m gonna fold,” Sanji admits, unable to summon annoyance through the haze of want. “You made it impossible for me not to bring you over here.”
Zoro hums again, but when Sanji dares to feel the shape of Zoro’s half-hard cock with his slender hand, his smile drops into something darker, but not negative. Entirely serious, his face set in thought. Sanji can’t believe he’s allowed to take in his features this close.
Sexy, hot, tan, strong man… and those earrings. Fuck.
“Do you know what you’re starting, curls?” the swordsman murmurs, voice low. It’s impossible how it’s heard so clearly through the music.
“It’s already started,” Sanji replies, grinning in a way only ever reserved for Zoro, not that he’s ever let him see it. But now is finally his chance. He rocks them both harder, reminiscent of Denim and their naughty nature from earlier, but worse. Pressing his dick onto Zoro’s—Sanji’s still hard too—and they’re basically climbing onto each other with how close they are.
Zoro’s hands slide back to Sanji’s waist like they belong there, his stone face softening as he lets the music infiltrate his blood too.
Sanji then covers Zoro’s hands with his own, guiding him to lead in a way that means pure trouble. The blonde wants the full experience right now. He wants his, yes, his swordsman to take control. Just them. Hand on hand. Chest to chest. Face to face.
“Our crew’s gonna be weird about it,” Zoro warns, his warm breath blowing against the cook’s face.
“They don’t have to know.”
Zoro doesn’t answer. He just looks at him instead, a moment of clarity settling over him. It isn’t until Sanji feels the grip tighten enough to bruise that he realizes Zoro is pulling him closer too. Hot against his ear to whisper.
“They’ll know when I’ve got you screaming full of my cock.”
Sanji feels his lower pelvis quiver in lustful shock. The sound he makes is nothing short of a gasp as he pulls back to study Zoro with intent, underestimating just how intoxicated they’ve become.
Not once had the cook ever heard the swordsman speak in such a way, and with the cadence he uses—the low growl, the tension in his jaw—it infiltrates Sanji’s insides and radiates through him with pure need. It actually felt like Zoro’s voice fucked him. He needs him inside now before he loses it and makes it happen in front of the island folk they saved.
“Sexy idiot—” Sanji grabs Zoro’s collar and crashes their mouths together, their dancing coming to a halt. Zoro acts like it’s natural, barely expressing shock at what they’re doing, only hunger. Starvation. Kissing Sanji like an animal, spit building on their chins as they make out where they could be seen. Two of the Straw Hat pirates, snogging in public. Not ashamed that if Luffy and the others were here to watch, they’d see Sanji whining from Zoro’s tongue demanding intrusion, exhibiting their usual challenging nature even while kissing.
One of Zoro’s hands moves to the small of Sanji’s back, the other to his thigh, making Sanji snap an eye open in puzzlement. It becomes clear when his leg is hooked high around Zoro’s hips, giving the swordsman leverage to tower over and devour him.
It takes all within Sanji’s power not to lose it when he can feel Zoro fully erect, almost mistaking his cock for one of his swords with how large it is. He moans without an ounce of shame, letting Zoro try to raise his leg higher, testing how far it can go since the cook allows it.
Self-control: gone. Zoro: fucking his mouth with his tongue. Sanji: loving every second of it.
The swordsman finally breaks the kiss, mouth deep plum and drenched in saliva. “I’m gonna fuck you..” He confirms, like he’d been deciding whether or not he was going to all night. Panting in Sanji’s ear the same way he would after a tense fight, losing whatever rhythm he was able to hold before. “Right here in front of all these perverts, if we don’t get out of here soon,” he warns, dropping the leg but keeping Sanji steady as he finds both feet again. “We’re leaving.”
Sanji opens his mouth to protest, craving more of the Devil’s juice, but Zoro grips his neck—not choking, just pressing his palm on pale skin deep enough to remind him he could. He brushes blonde bangs from his left eye, revealing two cerulean colored eyes wide and a baby pink mouth shut, not daring to utter another peep.
Zoro leans in, nose bumping nose. “Now.”
That puts a period on whatever Sanji might have said.
Zoro smirks subtly every time Sanji turns to look at him, probably not even aware it’s because Sanji is making sure it’s really him and not some barbarian taking advantage of his drunken state. But reality never hits them, at least not Sanji. He wants to stay in this haze, warm and buzzing, regardless of what it’ll turn into come morning when they’re sober and everything settles heavily.
Sanji giggles to himself, breath a little uneven. Roronoa Zoro’s taking me to our hotel room to fuck me. The thought loops, absurd and intoxicating, and he wonders vaguely—hysterically—what his “sperm donor” would think.
“What’s funny?” Zoro asks. It sounds more like an order than a question, low and edged, like he already expects something smart out of him.
“I’m about to see how small your dick is,” Sanji retorts, remembering full well the thick bulge Zoro had pressed against his own thigh earlier. He’s aching to wolf it down right here in the open, the thrill of exposure making his pulse race, head light with alcohol and want.
The type of shit he’s only into when he’s shit-faced.
“Tsk.” The mosshead sounds under his breath, shaking his head, but there’s a crooked sort of amusement there. “Can’t fucking believe this.” It’s laced with humor, though, and to Sanji’s surprise, Zoro pulls him closer, hip to hip, like this was their plan all along: go out, drink too much, dance, fuck.
They stumble down roads and sidewalks, crossing a quiet canal, getting turned around more than once thanks to Zoro’s infamous sense of direction, and dodging a few close calls with late-night stragglers who glance too long. Sweat cools on their skin, carrying the sharp tang of salt and spilled drink from the party, clothes clinging damp and uncomfortable. Finally, they reach the inn, more by luck than skill.
Through the dimly lit halls, the wet smacks of their shoving and obnoxious kissing echo off the walls, heedless of the other tenants. They’re lost again—of course they are—but Sanji can’t even be mad. What did he expect from the mosshead, especially like this?
It turns into a drunken routine of groping and stumbling. Backs slam against wrong doors, shoves escalating like a heat-fueled brawl. The higher the door numbers climb, the harder Zoro pushes, and Sanji occasionally freezes, relinquishing control just to mess around until Zoro’s callused hands grip him again. Then he’s feigning escape, squirming out of reach just to rile the swordsman. He remembers how Zoro seethes when his prey won’t stay still, the low growl building in his chest.
But Sanji lets Zoro reel him back in, biting the swordsman’s bottom lip as payback, tugging it sharply when Zoro pulls away. It draws a deep, hungry groan that vibrates against Sanji’s mouth, the taste of alcohol and smoke lingering on Zoro’s tongue. Pleased, Sanji takes the lead now, dragging the stronger man forward by that captured lip, half-laughing into it.
It’s nice that Zoro’s obeying, Sanji thinks, hazy and smugly, wondering if he can get away with calling him a good marimo.
The night air had felt good leaving the party, Zoro’s steady hand on Sanji’s waist guiding them from the noise, but his ears still ring in the sudden quiet, everything slightly muffled like he’s underwater. Their damp clothes cling uncomfortably now as they make out with fierce intensity, spit trailing between parted lips, breath hot and uneven.
Another giggle bubbles from Sanji, earning a disapproving grunt from Zoro. The cook can’t help it—it’s so fucking ironic. The crew had stuck them in this hotel room as a “treat” after saving the city, proper beds for once. Everyone had their roommates decided for them by Luffy, who quite literally seemed to not see the problem with suggesting Zoro and Sanji share a room last. Earlier, it had sparked a rowdy sparring match between the cook and the swordsman. Now?
Zoro bites down on Sanji’s sharp jaw, turning the laugh into a ragged sigh, the sharp sting blooming into heat that spreads too fast, too deep. As weird as this is, it’s intoxicating.
“You were jealous,” Sanji teases, grinning, as he pokes a pectoral. Voice husky now, words slurring just enough to betray him.
“Idiot. Gonna regret this tomorrow.” Humor threads Zoro’s words as he yanks Sanji closer, kissing him deeply, their tongues sliding rough and insistently, messy only happening when neither of them is fully steady.
The building’s lit by a flickering hallway bulb, casting jagged shadows that sway when they do. Sanji spots their door number past Zoro’s unfairly strong jawline and makes a beeline for it, tugging the swordsman by the wrist like he’s suddenly the one in control.
Zoro cages him against the door, a rough finger tracing the sparse hair on Sanji’s chin. Sanji grabs his arm to halt the caress, watching Zoro’s eyes darken, here and there heavy-lidded, here and there blown wide.
“You shoved him really hard,” Sanji purrs seductively, meaning Denim, batting his lashes through his bangs, still riding the high of the earlier chaos.
Zoro licks his lips like a predator scenting blood, jaw tightening, cock straining visibly in his pants.
Suddenly, Sanji’s arms are pinned above his head, Zoro’s biceps flexing like coiled steel, making his head spin for entirely different reasons. “You moaned my name.”
Zoro grips beneath both thighs and hoists him up without warning, Sanji’s weight nothing to him, the cook’s legs wrapping instinctively around that solid waist. The door rattles under their combined force as the swordsman keeps the blonde’s body pinned with his own as he jams a free hand into his pocket to look for their room key.
“You’ve got some nerve,” Sanji breathes, aiming for resistance but landing on something closer to a euphoric sigh, his head tipping back slightly.
Zoro sucks a bruising mark from neck to exposed collarbone once he finds it, fumbling the key with a metallic jangle into the keyhole that only seems to stoke his aggression further. He can’t get it open, not in this state. But how to ease that temper now?
“The wielder of three swords can’t handle one key?” Sanji gasps, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Let’s see if—”
“Keep talking,” Zoro warns, voice low and steady, cutting through the haze as he stills his efforts, letting it be known how funny he finds it.
Then Crack. One forceful shoulder-check splinters the lock.
Sanji stares, appalled, as Zoro carries him into the dimly lit room, the door thudding shut behind them with a kick of his heel, courtesy of the cook
Was Zoro holding back the whole way?
The swordsman chuckles low, then sprints to the nearest wall and slams Sanji against it, plaster dust gritty under his back. He hovers his mouth over Sanji’s, agonizingly close, breaths mingling hot and raggedly, then they kiss slowly, lips grazing at first, building and building until Sanji whines soft and needy into it.
“I like you like this,” Zoro whispers, hands exploring with purpose, palms rough against Sanji’s sides. He kisses down the neck, and Sanji arches without thinking, offering more skin, more access. Rough as he is, Zoro’s intoxicatingly deliberate, sucking marks like he means to claim every inch.
Privacy lets Zoro drop his guard, just enough. His eyes burn with lust sharper than the club’s haze ever was, hands purposeful, certain.
Zoro lifts by the thighs again, plopping Sanji atop the room’s scarred wooden desk without breaking the kiss. Having been left leaning there the morning-of, three swords clatter to the floor in unison—his “triplets”—at their movement then strong hands fist Sanji’s dress shirt mid-chest.
“No—! Don’t you da—” Sanji struggles, but a high-pitched squeak escapes him as fabric rips open, buttons pinging across the floorboards.
“That was a good fucking shirt, you moss-brained imbecile—!”
Zoro’s lips latch onto Sanji’s left nipple, sucking harsh and desperate, tongue flicking the pebbled bud. He alternates to the right, lavishing them both with carnivorous care, spit slick and cooling in the air. “Rather you wear nothing anyway,” he murmurs against spit-covered skin, voice feral.
Sanji wants to rage, he really does—but fuck, Zoro’s scorching.
The swordsman shrugs off his own shirt, revealing a warrior’s build, dizzying slabs of muscle etched with scars that Sanji’s already seen countless times. His gaze lingers on them for too long, anyway. Zoro’s cock springs free next, massive and thick-veined, tip glistening. Man, Sanji’s vision blurs. He could faint into this and not mind waking to Zoro still using him.
Lost in a pathetic daydream of that warm tongue licking him everywhere, Sanji barely registers his slacks being yanked down with his underwear, pooling at his ankles. Iron grips seize his thighs, squeezing the firm muscle before hoisting him again, held aloft, balanced solely by Zoro’s strength with Sanji’s legs clamping on tight for dear life. The desk creaks faintly beneath forgotten weight as Zoro’s body heat radiates, cock nudging insistently against Sanji’s ass, promising ruin.
“Man…” Zoro marvels, groping Sanji in his hold as he admires him with absent-minded intoxication, rough palms sliding over strong thighs like he can’t help himself. It hits too deep, making Sanji blush hot, chest tightening unexpectedly, he rolls his hips once, grinding his hard cock against Zoro’s pelvis, the friction pulling a sticky drag of pre-cum between them.
Zoro’s hands snap to Sanji’s round, firm ass, gripping hard, urging him on like he’s claimed him as his. Sanji obliges, biting his lip as he grinds down, slower this time, meeting Zoro’s hungry upward stare through heavy lids.
Kneading deep, fingers digging into muscle, Zoro slips a spit-slick—courtesy again of the cook—middle finger between Sanji’s cheeks. Though, confusion spreads on the swordsman's face as he pauses firmly at the hole, pressing in experimentally. Sanji’s tight heat yields wet and easily, almost zero pushback on Zoro’s large fingers. Almost no makeshift lube needed.
Sanji freezes too, deer-still, pulse hammering loud in his ears. His face burns crimson, bangs useless against the flush. Zoro knows.
The swordsman pushes his fingers in deeper, slower, confirming. Sanji’s walls clench slick around the intrusion, betraying him instantly. Zoro looks up again, brows knitted, sharpness and knowing written all over his face.
Sanji’s shoulders shrug sheepishly, craving some kind of cover that isn’t there. How could he have forgotten? Prepping under the dining table in his kitchen on the Merry before the club, fingering himself loose, slick with eager lube, chasing tonight’s possibilities.
“It’s not what you think,” Sanji says evenly, voice echoing in the dim room, trying for dignity and failing somewhere halfway through.
“Uh-huh.” Zoro mocks with his tone, thrusting his finger deeper. Sanji keens highly, legs readjusting their vise grip, groaning through flustered heat, pooling heavily.
“You finger yourself wet-ass loose before going out, just so you can see how your raw chicken feels. Yeah, gotcha.” Zoro’s vulgar sarcasm stings, but his large fingers fuck in hard, fast, precise, and practiced like an expert who does this regularly. Sanji’s body reacts enthusiastically to it, grinding itself more onto the pelvis it’s pressed against. Why? Why does Sanji’s body continuously betray him?
Then Sanji’s mind flashes, unhelpful and immediate, how he’s noticed Zoro’s lingering glances at pretty effeminate men in bars, vanishing later when the crew bedded down.
And jealousy twists sharp and suddenly. Pounding pathetic twinks on off-nights? Fuck, did it always piss Sanji off. Pretty faces, eager obedience. Could they handle Zoro? Challenge that brute strength? No. They’d just annoy him with shrill screams. They don’t deserve those pulsing muscles. Sanji does, worthy rival, built to take every brutal inch and beg for more. As the cook, he knows Zoro craves meaty protein on his bones, and these thighs have it, and Zoro’s obsessed, squeezing them like he’s trying to bruise.
Zoro’s escalated to three fingers during Sanji’s jealous spiral, twisting relentlessly in mid-air, hunting his prostate with ruthless focus. He locks on, abusing it dedicatedly and Sanji’s whines become broken, hole fluttering wet, body giving everything away.
Tan fingers withdraw from pale ass and nine fat inches replace them, but it doesn’t enter. One arm bands Sanji’s waist, holding him aloft as the other slaps that dark, angry cock up against his eager hole, teasing prods that never quite breach, never breaking eye contact. Zoro smirks at Sanji’s pathetic squirm, smug and knowing. Only he breaks the cook like this. No other man, and admittedly not even a woman either.
Zoro nudges the tip in, blunt head breaching with a slick pop. Sanji gasps, grabbing Zoro’s stroking hand to halt. Zoro’s brow arches, confusion laced with concern, freezing instantly despite the desire running through him.
Sanji’s stare embarrasses him wordless; he knows what he wants but is too humiliated to actually say it. He stammers curses, squirming to climb off, shoving Zoro backward onto the bed’s edge in a clumsy, half-drunk motion. Standing between the swordsman’s spread thighs, breath hitching, the cook tries again, hands not as steady as he wants them to be, but still. Words wont come out. Zoro’s impatience builds, eyes raking Sanji’s body, the proper view making his hand squeeze his cock to restrain it, veins throbbing under his grip.
“Spill it, curly,” Zoro states.
Sanji frowns, irritated at the tone, at himself, then drops to his knees. Zoro’s surprise flickers sharply.
Crawling forward, face inches from that musky cock, Sanji steels himself, swallowing once before speaking. “I want to taste every inch of this cock.” He steals it from Zoro’s grip, pumping slowly, thumb smearing pre-cum along the tip. “Before you wreck my insides with it.”
Zoro smiles, red and hot, teeth flashing handsomely and challengingly. His cock twitches in invitation; Sanji grins, appreciating how it winks at him for a second before swallowing it whole to the hilt, throat convulsing around the girth, nose buried in coarse green pubic hair that reeks of sweat and salt and everything else distinctly Zoro.
Zoro groans low, fist reaching over to clamp blonde strands with no mercy for the pull. Sanji sighs into it, deepthroating all showy, proving his edge over those twinks he imagined. He pulls back to torment the tip—kitten licks, sucking kisses—riling grunts build beastly in Zoro’s chest. The grip on his hair tightens, barely leashing its urge to fuck his face outright.
Then, Sanji’s yanked off Zoro’s cock by hair with a grunt, the cook’s spit-soaked lips and chin gleaming as he glares. Zoro hauls him to straddle him on where he is sat on the edge of the bed, their cocks frotting together slick and dizzying when Sanji’s seated against him, the friction melting whatever irritation remained in the blonde’s attitude.
Zoro spits sloppily between them, globs landing warm on his shaft. Adequate for Sanji’s prepped hole, and even if not, the cook doesn’t mind the burn anyway. Zoro spreads his saliva on his cock with firm strokes, then waits for Sanji to lift himself on mattress-knees, who’s angling himself down with a shaky exhale. Zoro cups an asscheek possessively, tip breaching his hole again.
They hold eye contact as Sanji sinks on the swordsman’s cock, its girth stretching the cook wide, the largest he’s taken—bulging his belly halfway down, and pressure ghosting in his throat. His walls burning deliciously.
"That’s it," Zoro murmurs uncharacteristically soft, "You're taking it so well." The way he's talking sounds peculiarly tender in contrast to everything else. It’s terrible the way Sanji can feel the butterflies in his stomach riot, his whole being flushing, begging as the ache for romance swells unwanted beneath the act.
Zoro huffs when the blonde is fully seated, nostrils flaring, hands cupping both his asscheeks, gripping again harder like he’s urging himself to show restraint. His eyes squeeze shut with dark brows furrowed then he pauses ten taut seconds, cock pulsing hot inside Sanji but unmoving like he’s holding himself back by sheer force.
Sanji grants Zoro his patience until those throbs madden him, drunk impatience creeping in again. Desperate, he stares expectantly, breath shallow. What’s the deal? The issue, the problem? Then realization dawns on the blonde when he can feel the tiny trickle of pre-cum leak out his hole clenching around Zoro’s angry cock, coming to grin wickedly.
“You’re not about to come, are you?” Sanji’s amused voice echoes in the room, twirly-brow arched.
Zoro slowly nods, face stern, making bruises bloom on the cook’s asscheeks under gripping fingers.
Sanji starts to ride Zoro feverishly then, hips rolling at top-speed, impaling himself on the other’s cock like salvation. Zoro’s eyes snap open fury-red, growling. “You fucking—” He matches the brutal strength easily, feet planted on the floor as he yanks Sanji down per thrust. The mattress creaking and the bedframe slamming wall. Sanji stabs himself on Zoro mad, moaning in high gasps repeatedly, praising Zoro’s name as prostate lights explode.
“I fucking knew it,” Zoro pants, angling indefatigably to wreck that spot. Sanji’s head throws back, stupid grin splitting as he’s fucked dizzy.
“Knew what, mosshead?” Sanji gasps, knees powering faster, fusing his cock inside.
Zoro chuckles darkly, tongue lolling against his teeth, devouring the sight of the blonde riding him. Sanji knows he looks a mess—a drunk, disheveled, pornographic mess—but despite that, Zoro brushes back Sanji’s bangs affectionately, revealing teary cerulean eyes, caused by the reckless force. They lock stares, two sets of eyes peering into each-other, a rare occurrence for them specifically. Zoro looks a mess too, but a damn beautiful one. Sanji curses how that’s even possible.
“Knew how much my cock would break you.”
The taunt nearly shatters the cook. Sanji holds his orgasm defiantly, not wanting Zoro to see what he actually does to him underneath all this lust and play. He continues riding to oblivion, headboard battering behind them in uneven rhythm. Their breaths mingle hot and merge as the blonde snakes his thin hands to redirect Zoro’s hands to his ass that squeeze obediently and stay there. Wonderfully trainable.
“You’ve been thinking about fucking me?” Sanji’s attempt at an accusation sounds more hopeful than anything, lust-drenched and a little too honest for how drunk he is. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that at all—fuck.
Zoro nods, parting Sanji’s cheeks to feel himself vanish inside. It isn’t pure arrogance now, like before, but softer, flickering through the drunk daze. He can’t take it, Sanji hides in a beefy shoulder, chasing the swell at the pit of his gut, humiliated by that appreciative gaze.
“Since the shitty restaurant. Wanted this ass bad.” A slap to his ass stings yelp-worthy. “Deck, crow’s nest, your kitchen served over the counter. Wanted you everywhere, curls.” Then, an unexpected kiss is pressed on Sanji’s cheek, bringing out a tiny whine. “Every piece.”
Orgasm breaching, Zoro’s thrusts spasm sloppily, close too. Sanji goes limp, yielding completely, lost to the romantics. Zoro supports him effortlessly, strength unflagging even now.
“Where d’you want my cum?” Zoro whispers hot against the cook’s ear, cheek rubbing cheek, kiss-denied intimacy that feels worse than the rest.
“Inside. Zoro—inside. Please, fill me—!”
“Fuck, then I’m cumming—” Zoro’s voice goes strained, erupting thick ropes deep inside. He keeps groaning through every pulse that fills the other, petting his ass where redness is bound to stick around for days, soothing in contrast to the earlier brutality. The affection tips Sanji over seconds later, spilling between their stomachs untouched, body shaking through it. He slumps, hazed, night’s drinking, dancing, and fucking finally catching up, sapping him in a way even battle doesn’t.
He can feel himself being shifted to the bed’s sleep-side with surprising care. Then heavy steps echo throughout the room, and a faucet runs somewhere in the background—distant, muffled. The cook starts to finally drift, slipping into Devil’s elixir sleep.
“Rise and shine.”
The grating voice spikes Sanji’s migraine instantly. He stirs himself awake with a groan, rubbing at his forehead. His hair’s a mess, the sun is unbelievably bright, and why could he have sworn he just heard a certain mosshead’s voice ringing through the hotel room he’d fought so hard not to share?
Then memory crashes all at once—what, who, everything from last night—oh no, he’s naked. Oh, God no. Hangover panic builds fast—
“Love-cook.”
Sanji’s head whips toward the voice.
Zoro is there, manspreading, completely nude in a chair, swords propped nearby, a glass of water in hand like he hasn’t a single concern in the world.
Sanji goes cold all over. Sweat prickles down his spine as his brain completely blanks, face burning red with a mix of sheer horror and flustered disbelief.
Zoro smirks at him slowly and takes an unbothered sip of his water.