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It’s really not Zoro’s fault.
The doors to the Baratie open, daylight flooding in like some kind of spotlight. In the middle, there’s this lanky blonde waiter crushing another guy’s windpipe in his grip, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
What is he supposed to do? Not think about it?
He tries that but it doesn’t really work. The commotion of them getting inside and Luffy losing his shit at the food being served, then Gin and Don Krieg and, eventually, Mihawk, is enough to distract Zoro for a while.
But after things quiet down and the guy—Sanji—has joined the crew, Zoro’s thoughts return to the punishing grip he had on the Marine’s throat. Zoro hadn’t had the most up close view, but it looked like his fingertips were turning white from the exertion.
On the small sloop, Zoro swallows dryly. The cook joining the crew hadn’t been what he was expecting, and could potentially prove…distracting. He’s a good melee fighter too, an expert at kicking. They haven’t talked much, but he’s kind of checking all of Zoro’s boxes so far.
On either side of him, Usopp and Johnny keep rowing. The gash on his chest still hurts like a motherfucker, sharp and deep, so he lets the thought lie until they reach the Conomi Islands.
**
“So, Cook,” Zoro says, leaning against the building’s siding. Around them, the revelry from the villagers goes on, happy to be freed from Arlong’s thumb. Luffy’s joyous cackling can be heard in the distance as he eats his way through the village’s food storage. “You’re pretty strong.”
“Name’s Sanji,” he says, his eyes narrowing a bit. Obviously Zoro knows this already. Sanji must know this, too. “I guess. Trained with Zeff pretty much my whole life. Not so easy growing up in a restaurant full of ex-pirates, either.”
Zoro grunts, taking another swig of his ale. He hears the snick of Sanji’s lighter, the catch of the flame, the inhale. His chest still aches under his shirt. He looks back up at Sanji, leaned against the post of the opposite building.
“You primarily use your legs,” Zoro says. It’s a statement, not a question. He’s observed enough of Sanji’s combat at this point, after the fight with the fishmen, to feel confident in his conclusion.
Sanji shrugs. “They used to call Zeff ‘Red Leg.’ He passed everything he knew down to me.”
“I would have thought you’d be good at fighting with blades. You know, being a cook.”
“Sure,” Sanji says, his cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m great with knives. But I don’t use my hands to fight. These hands are only used for a greater purpose.”
Zoro feels something hot run through him. He takes another swig from his mug to keep his reaction hidden. Cooking, he means. Of course. But then—what had that been, back at the Baratie? Sanji’s hands, long-fingered and white-knuckled, gripped so resolutely around the Marine guy’s throat?
“Should you be drinking so much?” Sanji asks, gesturing with his cigarette hand at Zoro’s mug. “Aren’t you still injured?”
He knows a little bit about Sanji’s background from Luffy and Usopp filling him in, and it seems like Sanji fighting with only his legs is a matter not of skill or capability, but of ethos.
The Marine guy must have done something to really piss Sanji off.
“Mind your own business, Curly Brow,” Zoro mutters. He puts on the same air that he used to around the people who would come and bother him when he was still a bounty hunter, looking for a challenge.
Sanji scoffs. “The fuck’s your problem? I was just being polite.”
“Well, I don’t need your sympathy, Curly.” Zoro ignores the way his pulse is picking up. Yeah, he’s being an asshole. He doesn’t exactly care.
Sanji goes from looking mildly irritated to downright pissed off. He’s standing while Zoro’s still sitting down, and for a second, it looks like he’s seriously considering hurting Zoro. The tip of his pointy shoe scuffs into the dirt. Then he takes another glance at Zoro’s chest, bandages still peeking out from the top of his white shirt, and seems to reconsider.
“Whatever…Mosshead,” he says. He bites down on his cigarette with perhaps a little more force than necessary and walks away, hands going to shove deep in his pockets.
Zoro watches as they disappear from view, something primal stirring in the pit of his gut.
**
“Watch where you’re going, Twirly,” Zoro snaps as Sanji crosses in front of him, nearly bumping the serving tray he has balanced in one hand against Zoro’s considerable weights. He sets the weight down with a thud and wipes his hand across his face.
Sanji glares daggers at him as he hands drinks to Nami and Vivi, but is quickly distracted by the girls thanking him for their refreshments. Zoro rolls his eyes, pointedly gulping loudly on his own glass of water—one that he’d gotten in advance for himself, good-for-nothing cook be damned—as Sanji gushes hearts in front of the girls. Figures the guy he’s developed a mildly obsessive sexual fantasy over is straight as a board.
He’s re-arranging his weights to be tucked away in the rack by the railing when Sanji approaches, the girls having waved him off.
“You,” Sanji hisses, stalking over. “Come here.” He grabs Zoro by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, stretching out the elastic as he drags him up the stairs and around to the stern, where they’re out of earshot from the others.
“The fuck?” Zoro says. He chooses not to examine the way he’d willingly let his body be dragged along, no fight in him against Sanji’s grip on his collar. He had, in fact, been fascinated with the way those knuckles had looked wrapped in the fabric of his shirt, close to his own collarbone.
“What exactly is your problem?” Sanji demands, letting go and keeping a decent distance away from Zoro despite having hauled him up here. “You’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since I joined the crew. Have I done something to you?”
Zoro frowns. There’s nothing he can really do here except lean into the fact that he has, in fact, been an asshole. The reason for it isn’t really a good one, nor is it one he can just outright say. “It’s nothing personal, cook,” he settles for, brushing his collar off like Sanji’s touch had soiled it. “You’re just annoying.”
“How the fuck am I annoying, Mosshead?! And how is that not personal?”
There’s that, too. Sanji is incredibly easy to rile up. In the privacy of his own mind, Zoro can freely admit that it’s a pleasure to see.
“Who the fuck are you calling Mosshead, Curly?”
“What’d you call me?”
“You heard me, Ero-Cook.”
“That’s it—”
Sanji lunges for him, his hands outstretched. For one heartracing moment, Zoro thinks they’re going to go around his neck. But they go to his shoulders instead, shoving him back so he can lose his footing while Sanji places a well-aimed kick against his ribs.
In the end, that works just as well, Zoro thinks as he jerks off in the bathroom, shirt pulled up and clenched between his teeth. The cook is a great fighter.
**
Things get a little more aggressive than anticipated on Little Garden.
Zoro’s gone through the trouble of killing not one, but two giant, prehistoric beasts, and the cook is still being a whiny little shit about it. Even though Zoro’s catch is obviously bigger.
He likes riling up Sanji, yeah, but he’s starting to get genuinely pissed off this time. They line their catches up, tip to tail. Sure, Sanji’s is longer, but it’s obvious that Zoro’s is heavier, which is the whole point of this endeavor, right?
The heat is really starting to get to him, too. This island is a fucking furnace, humidity pressing inwards, bouncing off the freakishly overgrown plantlife, reflecting off the air itself as it rises in muggy waves around them. He doesn’t have it in him to be anything but caustic right now. And Sanji doesn’t look like he’s faring any better, perspiration sticking his blonde hair to the side of his face, blue pinstriped shirt darker at the collar where he’s sweat through it.
“Doesn’t mean a fuckin’ thing if yours is longer. Mine has more meat where it counts,” Zoro says, not caring that it comes across like an innuendo.
“Excuse me?” Sanji leans forward and stalks towards Zoro in the way that Zoro’s become accustomed to, head bowed low and hands in his pockets. “The fuck are you trying to say?”
“You heard me.”
He’s absent of his cigarette for once, and he withdraws one hand from his pocket to clench around the air, probably wishing for one of his smokes. Zoro hones in on the movement, and his own breath suddenly gets louder in his ears.
“I’m just about sick of you,” Sanji spits, venomous. “I’m starting to think you enjoy pissing me off, you know.”
Zoro smirks. Instead of confirming or denying, he says, “Not my fault your feelings got hurt comparing sizes.”
He’s bracing himself for the kick, ready to block it with his forearms and then pivot into a stance where he can draw one of his swords. But it never comes; instead, Sanji shoves him firmly with two hands against his shoulders, with enough force to cause him to stumble and lose his footing. Zoro tumbles down into the dirt, landing hard on his backside.
Sanji sometimes pushes and shoves, Zoro’s come to learn in their few weeks of traveling together. He never strikes or punches or otherwise uses his arms offensively, but pushing to position himself or his opponent seems to be fair game.
In this case, though, the ensuing kick never comes. Instead, Zoro stays with his palms braced against the dirt, breathing hard. There’s a sort of static that’s begun to fill his head, and he makes no move to retaliate.
“Now look what you made me do,” Sanji says hatefully, stepping forward once, then twice, until he’s all but looming over Zoro. He lifts his foot up, the sheen of the leather somewhat dulled from all the mud and dirt they’ve been trekking through, and places it square in the center of Zoro’s chest. “I should kick your head in just for that.”
There’s this gleam in Sanji’s eye that Zoro hasn’t seen before as he looks down. For the first time since they met, Zoro catches a flicker of what could be interest in all that blue. He doesn’t shy away from it, staring back up at Sanji unabashedly. Sanji’s fancy dress shoe rises and falls with the movement of Zoro’s breathing.
Belatedly, Zoro realizes he’s hard. He can’t get a good visual angle on himself with Sanji towering over him, but he’s fairly certain it’s unmistakable. He makes no move to hide it, his gaze fixed on Sanji’s face.
Sanji seems to realize it at the same time, because he glances down Zoro’s body, then quickly back up. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
“You—”
Zoro darts a hand up and moves it to Sanji’s ankle, keeping his foot there. He doesn’t exert any real pressure, and only his thumb comes in contact with the hard jut of Sanji’s ankle joint.
A beat passes. They look at each other, Zoro lying down in the dirt, Sanji looming above. Then, slowly, Sanji moves his foot, sliding a path down the center of Zoro’s shirt. Zoro’s hand follows, his thumb pressing just slightly firmer into Sanji’s skin. The foot stops at the waistband of Zoro’s pants.
This is all happening so fast. The static in Zoro’s head is buzzing even louder now. He blinks slowly, intentionally. Like him, Sanji seems at a loss for words. The heel of his foot presses down, just the slightest increase in pressure, on Zoro’s erection.
Zoro exhales slowly. He’s shaking, he realizes. Well, no—it’s not him. It’s the ground, it’s the entire island, a loud rumbling quickly overtaking the sound of his thundering heartbeat.
The volcano chooses now, of all times, to erupt.
Zoro has no choice but to scramble to his feet and see what that’s all about.
**
They don’t talk about it when they’re back on the Merry.
Even if Zoro had wanted to, they’d be hard pressed to find the time. Sanji injures his spine on Drum Island, and he’s barely recovered by the time Luffy’s launching them headfirst into a fight against an underground criminal syndicate run by a Warlord on Alabasta.
A few weeks go by before things return to any semblance of normal the Straw Hats could possibly have. It’s a few days’ sail to their next destination after Alabasta, and they leave with the Merry more laden with food and supplies than they could have possibly imagined.
Zoro figures this might give the cook a chance to relax for once instead of obsessively flitting around delivering snacks and refreshments to the crew, on top of cooking three square meals a day, but no such luck. Sanji’s mania reaches an all time high now that they have an abundance of ingredients in storage, not to mention Nico Robin sunning herself on deck like she belongs there.
They haven’t talked about what happened on Little Garden, and Zoro thinks it’s maybe time to throw in the towel. He might successfully get Sanji to show him a good time, but what he wants—what he really wants—seems to be out of reach, especially now that he understands Sanji a bit better too. His dream, his driving force. The care he puts into crafting dishes for the crew. Why he only uses his legs for fighting. Maybe Zoro can lay off a bit, not spend so much of his time pissing the guy off if he’s not even going to get what he wants in the end.
Which is why it’s ironic that things happen the way they do.
Zoro’s not even trying to be an asshole or a nuisance. He just wants a glass of water—okay, no, he wants to steal a bottle of sake—before dinner. Luffy and the others are busy playing a game of cards in the center of the deck, their raucous laughter muffled through the closed galley door. The cook is nowhere to be seen when Zoro ducks into the kitchen. There’s already a plate of rice topped with vegetables and some kind of sauce ready on the counter, steaming away. The rest of it is on the stove, the lid on and the fire off.
It’s not really his fault, Zoro reasons with himself once again.
The cook shouldn’t have put the plate of food so close to the edge of the counter. He should have accounted for the fact that the plate was within reaching distance of the hilts of Zoro’s swords, extending out further than his body when he turned the corner of the counter to grab an empty glass from one of the cupboards. He should have realized the plate was entirely susceptible to being knocked over and falling to the ground with a splattering noise, rice and vegetables and sauce landing in a puddle on the floor.
Definitely the cook’s fault.
Zoro doesn’t do a great job at convincing himself this time around.
Sanji comes into the galley just then, kitchen towel still slung around his shoulder, bottle of sake he must have been retrieving from storage grasped in one hand. He looks down to the mess at Zoro’s feet, then to Zoro. Then he kicks the door shut behind him and locks it.
’Oh fuck,’ Zoro thinks. ‘He’s actually going to deck me this time.’
“What the fuck did you do?” Sanji grits out, setting the bottle down at the kitchen table before stomping over to Zoro. He looks livid.
“It—” ’was an accident,’ Zoro means to say. He pauses for a split second. Instead, the rest of what comes out is: “was your own fault, shitty cook. You put the plate too close to the edge.”
The look in Sanji’s eye is like nothing Zoro’s seen before until this moment. In all the times they’ve squabbled, he’s never looked this angry, like he actually hates Zoro. A shiver runs through him, right down to his toes.
At his sides, Sanji’s fist clenches. His elbow raises up. ’Here it comes,’ Zoro thinks.
Sanji’s hand goes to Zoro’s shoulder. It’s forceful, deliberate, as it presses downwards, his intent clear. Zoro’s body obeys on instinct, his knees softening so he can go down on them. Sanji’s visible eye is cold and furious, but the abject fury has melted into something else. Zoro detects that familiar glint; it’s the same one Sanji had gotten on Little Island. There’s no tenderness in the touch as Sanji shoves him down, then snatches his hand away like it’s been dirtied. Zoro’s heart races.
“Clean up your mess,” Sanji commands, pointing at the spilled rice and sauce. Zoro’s mouth is dry as he looks at the ruined food. There's no mistaking what Sanji means; he’s not expecting Zoro to go get a towel.
The plate, miraculously, hasn’t broken, so at least he doesn’t have to eat around broken glass, Zoro thinks as he slowly bends his neck downward and begins to eat the rice from the floor.
“Look at you,” Sanji says, his voice icy. “Like a fucking dog.”
Zoro keeps quiet as he laps up the rest of the rice. He uses his hands, sucking the savory sauce from his fingers to keep it from dripping down his wrists. His mind is full of static, and he’s painfully hard.
“You know how I feel about wasting food,” Sanji says after Zoro’s done. He doesn’t seem much more placated by the fact that Zoro has successfully eaten everything off the floor, save for some streaks of sauce left clinging to the floorboards. He eyes Zoro’s erection critically. “Did you do this on purpose?”
“No,” Zoro answers honestly, his hands at his sides, sitting back on his haunches. Maybe he should have said yes.
“I don’t believe you.” Sanji raises his leg, placing his foot in the center of Zoro’s chest, mirroring their position from Little Garden. He pushes, and Zoro complies, letting himself fall back. Sanji goes with him, half-crouching over Zoro’s body, the shiny tip of his shoe right at the center junction of Zoro’s clavicle. “I think this is what you wanted.”
Zoro swallows. He wonders if Sanji can feel the movement through the leather bottoms of his shoes. He decides to test the waters.
“If I wanted to piss you off, I would have found a way to do it that didn’t involve having to eat your shitty food.”
Now that’s a bald-faced lie and they both know it. Zoro, like everyone else on the crew, enjoys Sanji’s food. But it works nonetheless, Sanji’s shoe moving higher to press down on Zoro’s windpipe. Not hard enough to cause any obstruction or discomfort, but he can feel the pressure bearing down.
“This what you wanted?” Sanji asks, bending his torso so he can peer down more closely at Zoro. His hair hangs in a curtain over the obscured part of his face. He smells like jasmine rice. “Is this what you’ve been trying to get at all along?”
Minutely, Zoro shakes his head. Again, he brings his hand to Sanji’s ankle. Instead of wrapping his fingers around it, though, he taps his fingers twice against the exposed skin above Sanji’s sock. Move, he conveys. Hopefully.
“Say it,” Sanji says, increasing the pressure of his foot ever so slightly. Zoro feels it on his airway this time. His dick twitches. “Say what you want. Been fuckin’ dancing around it this whole time.”
“Your hands,” Zoro says, finally. Sanji isn’t pressing hard enough with his foot to cause him to lose his voice, but it still sounds breathy.
Sanji withdraws his foot. Shit. Maybe his hands are too good for that, Zoro thinks. He saves them, after all, for cooking only.
But then Sanji is bending fully, getting down and bracketing either side of Zoro’s hips with his knees, keeping his weight held aloft just enough that Zoro can’t get any relief on his cock. He snakes one hand up to Zoro’s throat, letting it rest there, flesh on flesh. The heat of his palm is searing.
“You want this?”
Zoro nods. He thinks about whether Sanji can feel his pulse jumping at the base of his jaw.
Sanji’s hand tightens. It’s not like his foot, which had pressed down only ever so slightly more. All at once, Sanji’s grip is punishing, aggressive. His skin pulls taut against his knuckles as he constricts against Zoro’s windpipe. Zoro moans, but it comes out as more of a wheeze.
“Look at you,” Sanji mutters, still holding himself up, not letting any of his weight rest against Zoro, not actually touching any part of his body other than his throat. “Always looking to start something. Should have known you were after this, you asshole. Can you breathe?”
Yes and no. He can, in the sense that he’s not going to pass out or anything. But also, he can’t, nor does he want to. He nods, his chin tapping against the thin skin between Sanji’s thumb and index finger.
“Fuck,” Sanji whispers, expelling his consonants harshly. It’s the first sign he’s let on that he’s in any way affected by all this, and distantly, Zoro imagines how ridiculous this must look, him splayed out on his back, Sanji hovering above him, his hand wrapped around Zoro’s throat, errant grains of rice and sauce still marring the floor around them.
It doesn’t really matter how it looks, in the end. He concentrates on how he feels. His hips cant upwards, looking for any form of relief, meeting only the inside of his own pants. Sanji notices, and uses his other hand to push down on Zoro’s outer hip, forcing him back down flush against the floor.
“Stay down,” he says, and Zoro groans again. He can’t help it. The sound comes from the back of his throat, and he can feel it vibrate against Sanji’s hand. Sanji tightens his grip, and…fuck. Zoro can feel his head start to get heavy, spots appearing at the corners of his vision.
“Still good?”
Zoro nods again, hips squirming. His free hands go up to clutch at Sanji’s forearm, hanging onto the pinstriped fabric. They’ve barely touched, but he’s close all the same, and he tries desperately to gain traction on his cock in any form. The seam of his own pants, the air, whatever. It doesn’t work.
“Please,” he manages to rasp out. His own voice sounds thin and foreign, strained as it is by Sanji’s chokehold.
There’s a flicker of something satisfied in Sanji’s eye. He finally, blessedly, moves his hand off of Zoro’s hips and presses the heel of his palm against Zoro’s cock through his pants, kneading roughly. It’s too much, it’s not enough, Sanji’s hand is warm and firm, the fabric of his underwear is dry and unpleasant, he can’t breathe, he’s seeing stars. Sanji is hissing, “Come on, come on.”
Zoro comes like that, biting back what would surely be a wretched noise given Sanji’s grip on his throat. He can still see, but his vision is fuzzy, all dazed shapes and colors and pinpricks of light that he doesn’t have the energy to try and decode as he comes down from his high, breathing in gulps of air as Sanji’s hand leaves his throat.
After a few lungfuls, he blinks hard, the shapes and colors coalescing into the image of Sanji, still braced over him, pants open just enough for him to work at his cock. He strokes roughly, eyes still trained on Zoro.
“Stay still,” he directs. Zoro, head only just beginning to stop its spinning after the lack of oxygen, couldn’t have disobeyed even if he had wanted to.
Sanji aims for the skin of Zoro’s throat and collar when he comes, splattering hot against the overly sensitive flesh. Zoro can feel it on his Adam’s apple, his jaw, the underside of his chin. He can move now, but like Sanji had said to, he stays still.
Sanji rises to his feet, then, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening up as he wipes at his forehead. He reaches in his pocket for one of his cigarettes, lighting it up. Exhales a plume of smoke, then looks down at Zoro, considering.
Zoro has a feeling this hasn’t exactly solved any of the problems between them, fabricated as they may be. Sanji probably still doesn’t like him. That’s fine with him, he figures. He got what he wanted. If he’s lucky, he can get a repeat or two. Maybe more.
“Clean yourself up,” Sanji says, sounding casual. He moves to the other side of the counter, his back turned to Zoro, and begins attending to the pots on the stove. “We have dinner soon.”