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With each blow exchanged, the crowd goes wild, and so does Sanji.
He’s seated in the stands, legs folded, hands steepled carefully over his knees as he watches the match unfold before him. Wrestling isn’t something he thought he would ever care for, especially not the underground kind that involves sweaty, shirtless men beating each other up with nothing to protect their hands but a flimsy roll of tape. Sanji isn’t into that type of thing at all, truly; no, he likes going out to wineries and trying different types of vintage wines, driving around the North Blue with his car windows rolled down, classical music playing gently over the radio.
And yet here he is, watching an illegal wrestling match, in a place that doesn’t fit that scene at all. No, it’s the complete opposite to everything Sanji has ever known. It’s loud, the bleachers are stained with beer and grime, and he’s surrounded from every angle by screaming and sweaty men who are clenching wads of berries in their hands because of course, this is the kind of place where people place bets on players like they're horses. It’s so loud, so hot in the middle of winter because of how cramped this place is. Everyone is so worked up because they’re high on the violence and adrenaline. Each exchanged blow, especially the ones that are impactful enough to break skin and draw blood, elicits a raucous cry of pure unadulterated delight. It's carnal, the basest form men can get pleasure without having to get their own hands dirty or their dicks wet.
“Sock that cocky greenie in the face, Drake!”
“Wipe the floor with him, Roronoa, I know you can do it!”
“Drake, you pussy ass bitch, if you lose here, I swear to God I'm going to catch you outside and punch your crooked teeth out –”
Sanji cringes at the vulgar profanities being exclaimed so loudly that he fears they might perforate his eardrums with their intensity. Judge would be turning over in his grave if he saw Sanji anywhere near an establishment like this, and yet, here he is. Absently, Sanji brushes a finger against the place where a wedding band once was. Hell, Sanji himself would be turning over in his own metaphorical grave if he’d been the same man he was six months ago.
But tonight is a special occasion. It’s Zoro’s long-awaited debut as an underground wrestler and Sanji wouldn’t have missed this for the world, regardless of how much hell he gave him prior when Zoro first told him about it. He watches Zoro land blow after blow on his opponent, undeterred like a wild beast, radiant and entirely in his element. Seeing him like this, he almost wouldn’t think that Zoro was the same young man who showed up at his restaurant, his arm in a cast and angry at the world, desperate for any job to keep him afloat because the world is a cruel place that revolves around nothing but money.
Sanji’s chest clenches, breath hitched, mesmerized by everything that is Roronoa Zoro. He always knew that Zoro was magnificent, but Zoro in the ring is another thing entirely. Confident, ruthless, brutal. And yet, he still looks beautiful, breathtaking. Every shift of his body — elegant like a dancer, his muscles rippling with each blow landed and dodged — makes Sanji swallow audibly.
Sure, Sanji saw Zoro shirtless before in the changing rooms before shifts at his restaurant, but seeing him shirtless in the ring, sweat beading down his forehead, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat makes him look beautiful, but also so entirely sinful. Reminding Sanji distantly of the story of Adam and Eve, the bite from that apple that constituted the first sin.
And Sanji knows that biting into the temptation that Zoro offers him merely by existing would surely be sin. After all, how could someone like him – a divorced and washed-out man in his forties – ever dare fancy a man half his age with his whole life ahead of him? Sanji feels as if he’s tainting Zoro merely by feeling this way, has every intention to continue bottling this up indefinitely.
“Knock his teeth out, Roronoa!”
“Are you seriously gonna let a newbie kick your ass, Drake? I put all my money on you, motherfucker!”
Sanji snaps out of his haze, focusing on the match once more, enthralled by the way Zoro lands yet another vicious punch on his opponent. Drake looks like he’s almost delirious now, nothing but his own experience keeping him on his feet, but Zoro is undeterred. Zoro pities nobody, especially not when he’s in the place where he's the most in his element, carving a name for himself in this unforgiving and brutal sport with his own fists.
Drake manages to land another punch on Zoro, one that splits his eyebrow open, and Sanji winces at the blood that spurts from the wound. Zoro is unfazed, wiping the blood away with the heel of his hand before he pounces on Drake once more, but Drake manages to defend against the blow.
Zoro is starting to lose momentum and Sanji absolutely can’t have that.
“Come on, Mosshead! Don’t be a little pussy ass bitch!” Sanji hollers, face red as he joins in with the other screaming men surrounding him. “Are you a man or not?”
Zoro, of course, doesn’t turn to him or even hesitate. His posture is the same, and Sanji would think that he went unheard, if not for the small tilt of Zoro’s lips as he resumes his stance. Sanji knows he didn’t imagine it, because Zoro never smiles, so this is a special moment in time. He sucks in a deep breath, watching as Zoro jumps on Drake, forcing all his weight on him until he collapses to the ground. Pummeling him with a wicked rain of fists to his face, a sickening crunch accompanying each one that rings within the arena, until Drake is inevitably knocked out cold and the referee has no choice but to declare Zoro as the winner.
His first match and Zoro won, decimating his opponent. His dream come true, or at least the beginning of it.
And for once, the crowd is silent, everyone holding the same collective breath as they process what just happened. How a newbie who just debuted managed to absolutely destroy his opponent, Drake, who was apparently one of the stars of this arena. And then the crowd goes wild, everyone hollering to welcome their new champion, albeit with some boos and curses scattered in between from those who lost their money.
Serves them right. Sanji isn't a betting man, but if he was, he'd put all his money on Zoro, knowing that it was money well spent.
Sanji’s lips tilt upwards, a smile gracing his face. Zoro, however, instead of bowing or saying anything to commemorate his first win, finds Sanji’s eyes in the crowd and shoots him a lopsided grin along with a middle finger. The crowd hollers at that, surprised by Zoro's spunk, but Sanji knows that it's a gesture intended only for him. He rolls his eyes, returning the gesture with one of his own, because Zoro is such a cheeky brat, an eruption of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
He doesn’t know when’s the last time he did something so crude, but the giddiness that festers in his chest is undeniable. Zoro makes Sanji feel young again.
Sanji waits for Zoro outside the arena, cupping his hand over a cigarette and lighting it deftly with the other as soon as he’s in the open air. He wants nothing more than to placate the thrumming adrenaline coursing through his veins, something only a hit of nicotine can provide him. He’s not sure how to face Zoro when he sees him, oddly nervous for some reason.
He doesn’t get a chance to determine his game plan, can already see Zoro approaching him in the distance, before his heart has the chance to get with the memo. He’s too old for this. At least he’s properly dressed this time, though it’ll take Sanji a while to forget how he looked while shirtless, his body glistening with the sheen of sweat.
“Enjoy yourself, old man?” Zoro prompts, smirking as he hands Sanji his bag to carry, which Sanji accepts with a twitch of his eyebrow. “Surely I showed you a good time.”
Sanji raises his eyebrow, recalling Zoro’s words from a few weeks ago, late at night in the restaurant's kitchen.
‘I want you to come to my debut match, Cook.’
‘Hmm, and why would I want to watch two sweaty men beat each other up on my rare night off?’
‘Because you'll be watching me, and I'll be sure to show you a good time.’
‘Is that so? Then I will hold you to that, Mosshead, or I'll have to demand a refund because my time isn't cheap.’
‘Does that mean you'll show up?’
‘Sure, why not? At best, I'll have a good time and at worst, I'll have a Mosshead who owes me a favor. What is there to lose?’
He remembers considering backing out several times after that conversation. He’d clearly gotten caught up in the heat of the moment, egged on by Zoro's taunts as he always does, but it made no sense for Sanji to attend his match. He hadn’t invited anyone else from the restaurant but him and he didn't understand why not because they aren't particularly close. It simply didn't make sense for him to attend, but every time he imagined the expression on Zoro’s face if he told him he'd changed his mind once the charged air between them had dissipated, he got cold feet.
And so, Sanji came to the match, feeling as unsure as ever before.
“Debatable,” Sanji replies a few beats too late, opening the back of his car to put his bag in the backseat. “Though, I think I would have had a better time if the sport wasn’t so savage and barbaric.”
“You’re just a stick in the mud.” Zoro shrugs, getting into the passenger seat. “And also a liar. I saw your face, you had fun.”
Sanji whistles, putting on some classical music as background noise. Bach this time. Zoro groans audibly, but Sanji doesn’t care what he thinks, it’s his own car, so he will play what he damn well pleases.
“Whatever,” Sanji says, shifting his car into gear. He keeps a crack in the window open so he can continue smoking, doesn’t think he can get through this ride home without nicotine as a crutch. If he had alcohol, it would be even better, but he’d never trust himself around Zoro with alcohol involved. “I would have had more fun if I didn’t have to watch the other guy rearrange your face.”
“You worried about me, old man?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Sanji rolls his eyes, puffing out a wisp of smoke.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Zoro snickers, propping his legs up against his dash. “Man, I’m so wired, I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Wow, Mossy can’t sleep? The world must be coming to an end, someone tell the authorities.”
This is how things work best for them both, Sanji thinks, with them bickering and bitching at each other. Getting into petty little fights, always at each other’s throats. This is something Sanji can work with. This is easy and familiar, far removed from the radiant Zoro in the ring that Sanji both wanted to kiss until he was breathless and lick up and down like a popsicle stick on the hottest day of summer.
Sanji already feels his frayed nerves starting to calm down as they fall into a familiar routine.
“Fuck off,” Zoro says, tilting his head against his window. “I knew I would win, Drake isn’t shit, but it still felt surreal when it happened.”
This is where Sanji is supposed to say something comforting to this young man who’s half his age. Tell him that he did a good job, that he’s proud of him. But that’s not like him and Zoro would hate him for the praise, would think he’s patronizing him.
Then again, what reason does Sanji have for being here? To drive Zoro around? To be his emotional support friend? Are they even friends? It’s not like a forty-year-old man typically becomes friends with a twenty-one-year-old. They aren’t friends, but they’re more than former employer and employee. They're certainly something if Zoro told him to come to his match, and he’s probably expecting something out of Sanji as a result of whatever ambiguous thing that they are.
“We should celebrate your win,” Sanji finally says. “The night is young.”
“Yeah? What do you have in mind?”
Honestly? Nothing. The words fell from his mouth before he’d thought of them, let alone making any elaborate plans. Sanji can’t say that, though.
Sanji taps on the driver wheel pensively, running through the ideas quickly, eliminating anything too fancy that would make Zoro roll his eyes and anything too exhausting because his body already went through the ringer earlier. The restaurant is also out of the picture because there’s nothing special about it, and if there's any straggling cooks there closing up the night shift, they would look odd stumbling in together since Zoro doesn't work there anymore.
So, really, there's only one option left after the process of elimination. He sighs, blowing out a puff of smoke, and hopes he doesn’t regret this.
“You could come over to my place?” Sanji prompts. “I’ll fix you a nice meal.”
“Do you have booze?”
Sanji swallows, tells himself that he’s not actually giving into any kind of temptation because he won’t be drinking, too. He nods.
“Yeah, wine and whiskey.”
“Good enough for me.” Zoro grins at him, oblivious to the twists in Sanji’s stomach. “Wake me up when we get there.”
“What happened to you being unable to sleep?”
“Oh well.” Zoro shrugs, letting out a yawn as he gets comfortable in Sanji’s passenger seat. “Being around you makes me sleepy, what can I say?”
Sanji should probably be insulted at the insinuation he’s boring enough to lull Zoro into sleep, but he knows what Zoro actually means. That he trusts him enough to be vulnerable to the point of sleeping around him. Sanji’s hand clenches around the wheel, feeling fortunate for the darkness in the car so Zoro doesn't see the warmth blooming across his cheeks.
When Zoro walks into his home, Sanji can’t help but feel a little too seen.
He neatly hangs his jacket on the coat hanger by the door, passing through the bare walls to get to his kitchen. Zoro follows him, his silence all too loud now that he’s penetrating Sanji’s personal space, observing and taking everything in. Sanji pulls his long blonde hair up into a low, messy bun, just enough to make sure his hair doesn’t get in the way while he’s cooking. He also takes his watch off, pocketing it carefully in his slacks pocket, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt so it doesn’t get stained. When he turns, he swallows, realizing that Zoro was watching him rather than the interior design of his house.
Sanji averts his gaze, pulling out all the ingredients he will need for a quick and delicious meal that’s heavy on the protein. He hopes that the imaginary prick at the base of his neck that he’s still being watched is nothing more than his imagination.
“Nice place,” Zoro remarks, sitting across Sanji at the island as he starts deftly cutting up the vegetables on the cutting board. “Fancy.”
“Thanks.” Sanji nods. It was a wedding gift from Judge when Sanji got married, sufficiently far away enough from the family estate that he could ensure that Sanji didn’t get the idea in his head to visit too often. He never did, Sanji always knew not to overextend his presence where he wasn’t welcome.
“It’s a bit impersonal, though,” Zoro comments. “No pictures or trinkets, too clean.”
Sanji swallows, hating the feeling of being judged, how Zoro can read him like an open book. His house is kept immaculately clean because he’s always too restless when he’s here on the weekend, spends every moment that he’s not cooking obsessively tidying his already clean living space. He’d made sure to remove every trace of his previous marriage to Pudding, didn't need constant reminders of how she'd left him. His living room is practically unlived in save for his couch that he often crashes on after long shifts at the restaurant, but everything else is untouched, all the pictures that made up the last twelve years of his life put away in a box underneath his bed to collect dust.
The only rooms Sanji uses in his too big flat really are his kitchen, the bathroom, and the guest bedroom.
“I just like to keep things organized,” Sanji says, burying his face in the fridge for too long because he doesn’t want Zoro to see whatever complicated expression he’s making on his face. “It’s nothing too deep.”
“Hmm.”
“Hope you don’t mind waiting thirty minutes for the food?” Sanji asks loudly, changing the subject as he closes the fridge door behind him. “Any special requests?”
“That’s fine. And no, anything is fine as long as there’s booze.”
Zoro taps his fingers restlessly against the linoleum, his gaze heavy as he watches Sanji move around his kitchen, switching between chopping, stirring, and sauteing. If there’s a lull between steps, he starts washing the dishes that have started to accumulate, hates having clutter in his sink to slave away at washing later. Working in a restaurant for so many years has Sanji used to quickly and efficiently getting every meal done, every step done in parallel to each other. It’s easy enough for Sanji to ignore Zoro’s gaze on him, to not focus on all the bruises peppering Zoro’s face in proper lighting, lose himself in the comfortable routine of cooking and preparing a meal for another.
His gut clenches when he looks at the purpling bruise underneath Zoro’s eye, contrasting his green hair starkly, his eyebrow swollen where Drake punched him so hard. Franky, Zoro’s coach, already patched him up, but he still looks worse for wear. Sanji still doesn’t understand the appeal to getting beaten up as a sport, but he supposes after watching the way Zoro shines so brightly in the ring, he now knows enough not to be a bitch about it.
Sanji doesn’t mind being the one to pick up the pieces after his matches if this is the path Zoro wants for himself.
“You know, Cook,” Zoro says, pulling Sanji out of his thoughts. “I’ve probably seen you cook a million times at this point in the restaurant, but this is the first time I’ve noticed how elegant you are while doing it.”
Sanji pauses mid-stir, despite knowing that the sauce will clump if he stops. His hand twitches, forces himself to keep stirring, all too aware of how warm his face is right now, can feel that warmth spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.
When was the last time anyone made Sanji so flustered like this? He can’t even remember anymore, but he feels vaguely pathetic thinking about it. A compliment from a boy shouldn’t have Sanji melting into a puddle like this, he needs to get a grip.
“I didn’t know you knew big boy words like elegant,” Sanji remarks dryly, hoping that he can salvage this situation somehow. “Consider me impressed.”
“Asshole.” Zoro rolls his eyes. “Was just thinking that cooking to you is like wrestling to me. You’re good at it.”
Sanji considers this for a moment. He’d been cooking for so long, ever since he could hold a ladle in his hand, that he can’t even fathom his life without it anymore. Even if he had to shut down his restaurant someday, maybe when he’s too old to keep yelling at chefs and keep everything running by himself, he thinks he’d never be able to stop cooking. If he hadn’t had cooking to fall back on when his mother died, when Pudding left him, he doesn’t know where he’d be today.
Maybe for Zoro, wrestling poses the same importance to his life. In that vein, Sanji thinks he understands a little bit better now.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“And yeah, you also look good while you’re doing it,” Zoro continues.
“You flatter me,” Sanji says.
“You know that I don’t flatter anyone,” Zoro replies, “I mean it.”
Is Zoro flirting with him? Surely not. That same warmth creeps up Sanji’s cheeks again, but it’s even warmer this time, festering from his chest like a wildfire he can’t put out.
“Thank you,” Sanji says, voice barely higher than a whisper. His lips tilt upwards into a wry smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“That so?” Zoro muses, a lazy grin forming across his face. “You like what you see, old man?”
“Only stating the facts,” Sanji says, switching off the oven, and starts plating the food. “I’m not blind.”
It’s true. Sanji doesn’t have much interest in men in general. Once, a long time ago, before he’d gotten married to Pudding, he fancied himself a bisexual. He mainly liked women, but every now and again, he’d feel a certain itch underneath his skin towards a particularly handsome man. Older now, and divorced, he thought that those feelings from his youth were nothing more than a hallucination. Something carved out of his much younger and hornier brain, especially because he never acted on any of it, so surely none of it was true. As cliche as the word is, he truly believed it was nothing more than a phase.
But now, when he looks at Zoro, he realizes that all of it was true. Or at least, it is now. Zoro is wickedly handsome with his sun-kissed skin, his body all hard muscle and raw strength, as if he was a specimen carved out by the gods themselves. His confidence that he radiates, while often infuriating, is also incredibly attractive. Whenever Sanji looks at Zoro, he’s struck by how good he looks, sure, but seeing him in the ring was something else entirely.
He’d been incandescent and Sanji would need to be blind and a liar to deny either of those things.
“Hmm.” Zoro accepts the plate of food Sanji made him, one of his signature seafood dishes, watching with interest as Sanji pours him a glass of whiskey. He downs the alcohol immediately, ignoring the glass in favor of drinking directly from the bottle. “Thanks.”
“Eat your food,” Sanji instructs.
“Yes sir.” Zoro salutes him.
“I guess it’s good to know that you find me attractive,” Zoro says, making Sanji almost choke on his food. “I thought you only liked women.”
Sanji decides to break his own promise, pouring himself a glass of wine, and downing it too quickly. He can’t do this sober.
“I mostly like women,” Sanji says carefully.
“Mostly,” Zoro repeats, “that means you have some exceptions.”
“You could infer it that way if you want.” Sanji shrugs, drinking another glass of wine like it’s a shot.
“That’s cool.”
Zoro scarfs down the rest of his plate in the time span it takes for Sanji to finish a third of his plate, and puts his plate away in the sink. When he comes back, he takes a seat directly next to Sanji, so close that Sanji can feel his knee brush against his own. The heat that seeps through the fabric, radiating from Zoro’s overheating body, feels as if he’s being engulfed in it.
Sanji’s grasp around the wine glass tightens, his only anchor right now.
“You know,” Zoro says, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind the tip of Sanji’s burning ear. “I didn’t think I had any chance with you, Cook, because you’re such a filthy womanizer. I didn’t think you’d ever look my way twice.”
This is the part where Sanji should put a stop to this strange conversation. They’re delving into uncharted territory, one that’s undefined, where Sanji has no guidebook or experience to help him navigate these turbulent waters. He needs to steer the conversation back to something safe. They should be talking about the food, about the match. Sanji could tell Zoro how proud he is of him for defeating Drake so swiftly on his debut match.
Instead, Sanji says the worst thing he could have ever said, like an idiot.
“What changed?” Sanji breathes.
“You came to my match,” Zoro says, running his finger against the length of Sanji’s throat, letting his fingers rest against his pulse where his heart is jackhammering against it a million miles per second. “And you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me since.”
“That’s not true,” Sanji protests weakly, lifting the wine glass to his lips, but Zoro snatches it from his hands.
“Don’t lie,” Zoro says, placing his lips to the wine glass, right where Sanji’s lips once were. He drinks, the wine staining his lips red, as if Sanji had just kissed him himself. “It’s okay to want it.”
“You have to be joking.” Sanji laughs mirthlessly, putting his fork down, appetite gone. “I’m literally twice your age, I’m old enough to be your father. ”
“So what?” Zoro muses, “though, I’ll need some time to warm up to a daddy kink.”
Sanji’s face becomes hotter than his own oven at the word ‘daddy’ falling from Zoro’s lips. He shudders, though the feeling isn’t entirely a negative one.
“Oh my God.” Sanji buries his face in his hands, groaning audibly. “What has gotten into you?”
“You want my honest answer?”
“Obviously.”
“I always get horny after a match,” Zoro whispers the words directly into Sanji’s ear, blowing a wisp of hot air against the shell that makes him jolt. “And I’ve been wanting you for months now.”
Zoro’s hand frames Sanji’s cheek, calloused and rough against his skin, tilting his face so that he’s forced to look at him. His brown eyes, boring into Sanji’s own blue, feels as if Zoro is seeing right through him. As if he can read every salacious thought that’s running through Sanji’s head, as if he has a way of knowing how his heart is bleeding so profusely in his chest with so much want and desire coursing through every fiber of his being.
But they shouldn’t, Sanji knows this. Years of a loveless marriage with Pudding proved to Sanji that these things don't work out for him, that he shouldn't covet what's not for him to have.
“Mosshead. I —”
“You said you’d celebrate with me for winning,” Zoro says, brushing his nose against Sanji’s, “didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Sanji swallows.
“Then how did you mean it?” Zoro prompts, “don’t tell me it was just an empty offer.”
Then again, Sanji thinks, why shouldn’t they? What’s so wrong with Sanji taking a bite of the apple of sin when it’s dangling in front of him so enticingly?
“Do you always have sex when you want to celebrate?” Sanji asks, tongue wetting his bottom lip. Zoro’s eyes follow the movement. “I never thought you were such a degenerate.”
“Not always, only when there’s a pretty cook around to keep me company.” Zoro brushes his nose against Sanji’s, leaning in so close that they’re breathing the same air. “Can’t think of a better reward.”
Zoro is going to be the death of him, Sanji thinks, all his logic slowly sloughing off him and dissipating into thin air.
“You’re getting mighty cocky,” Sanji whispers, bracketing Zoro’s hand with his own. “You know that an old man like me will be pretty high maintenance, right?”
“Wouldn’t expect any less from you.” Zoro’s lips tilt upwards, speaking the words directly against his lips. “Where’s the fun if there’s no challenge?”
Sanji doesn’t get a chance to respond before Zoro closes the distance between them, sealing their lips together in a kiss so fierce that it knocks the wind out of Sanji’s chest. Sanji is almost startled by it, even if he knew the kiss was coming — had known that this line would eventually be crossed since the day Zoro walked into his restaurant that very first time —and doesn’t know how to react at first. How do people kiss again? It’s been so long, Sanji can’t even remember.
Zoro doesn’t seem much better at it, though, kissing Sanji roughly and with no finesse. He seems oddly desperate, rushed as if there’s a deadline for what they’re doing, but Sanji finds his clumsy desperation endearing. He brushes his hands against the nape of his neck, feeling the tension leave Zoro’s body as he kisses him slower this time. Nipping Sanji’s bottom lip, asking for access which Sanji so graciously offers him.
He tastes his food on Zoro’s tongue, mixed with the sharp taste of whiskey and a hint of tartness from his wine, and hums. The flavors are clashing together, but when Sanji is tasting them on the tip of Zoro’s tongue, he can’t get enough of it. He grips at Zoro’s t-shirt, bringing him in closer, wanting to be breathed in by him until there’s nothing left.
In his head, there’s a mantra of Zoro, we shouldn’t, I need you, we can’t, more, stop, please don’t let me go, that continues to loop on repeat.
Zoro’s hands move to his hair, untying it from its knot so that it falls around his shoulders, tugs on his hair in a way that hurts but also tugs a moan from his chest. Sanji is starting to melt, his whole body overheating from how wickedly good everything feels. A gasp tumbles out of his lips when Zoro slams his body against the table, dishes clattering audibly behind them. He’s so terribly turned on, too, at that brute strength he saw in the ring being turned onto him.
“You taste sweet,” Zoro tells him, breath ragged against his lips once they’ve broken away. “Wanna taste the rest of you.”
“I need a shower.” Sanji shakes his head. “I’m sweaty from the arena, you need one too —”
“No.” Zoro digs his teeth into the crook of Sanji’s neck. “I want you now, just like this.”
Sanji doesn’t realize that Zoro means that in the very literal sense until he’s pushed their plates far away, switching their positions so swiftly to place Sanji on the table where they once were. His breath hitches in his chest at the sudden movement, a protest ready on his lips until Zoro steals it away once again with another violent kiss.
“Mosshead, I —”
“You need to let a little loose, Cook.” Zoro takes the bottle of wine, bringing it directly to Sanji’s lips, tilting his head back so he’s forced to drink. So forceful about it that it overflows, dripping down his chin and staining the collar of his shirt, but Zoro massages the back of his head as he watches Sanji take gulp after gulp. “See? Not so bad, eh?”
Sanji already feels heady with the alcohol, his fingers clasping onto Zoro’s shoulders to tether himself lest he fall. Zoro pulls the bottle away from his lips, a feral grin coloring his features as Sanji blinks at him blearily, his thoughts already starting to cloud over.
“Fuck you,” Sanji says.
“I tend to be the one who does the fucking,” Zoro muses, pushing him down onto the table, hard and cold against his back. “All you have to do is sit back and take it.”
Zoro runs his tongue over Sanji’s wine-stained lips, shifting to kiss his cheeks, his ears, the sensitive spot underneath them that has him keening. Zoro keeps going down, his lips finding the arch of his throat, his teeth scraping against his heart that’s thrumming an unsteady frenzy inside.
“Mosshead,” Sanji says, hating the way his voice sounds so deranged and broken, “surely, we’re not going to do — that —on the table, right?”
“And what of it?” Zoro says, licking a long stroke from his throat all the way down to his collarbones. “I don’t care where we are as long as I get to have you.”
Sanji swallows at that, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, because he never fathomed that Zoro could ever want him half as much as Sanji has been wanting him. Perfect, young Zoro with his whole life ahead of him and a bright career of wrestling waiting for him, and here he is, lusting over a man twice his age.
It shouldn’t make Sanji’s blood burn molten the way it does, but he can’t control it. He’s never felt so wanted, so desired, so seen in his life. Let alone by someone like Zoro, who has encompassed his every thought since the day he met him all those months ago. It makes him desperate to please, to impress, to prove that he can be better than any other twenty-something man that Zoro could pick up in the gym or the ring.
Perhaps the desire for sin goes both ways, Sanji realizes.
“Fine,” Sanji concedes, “just…be gentle.”
He hasn’t had sex in so many years, he’s not even sure his body will perform the way that it should, so he needs Zoro to be careful with him. And to not laugh if he struggles to follow his lead.
“I’ll try.” Zoro licks his bottom lip, forcing the buttons of Sanji’s button-down shirt open until the buttons all go flying. “Though I can’t make any promises.”
Sanji takes that to mean he won’t even bother, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t thrive under the depraved look Zoro is giving him right now, like he’s even more delicious than the meal he just cooked for him. Can’t pretend that he isn’t obsessed with Zoro’s calloused, rough palms against his skin, his body arching greedily into every touch.
Now that Sanji thinks of it, from the moment he set foot in that arena and he saw Zoro decimate his opponent so effortlessly, his eyes effortlessly finding Sanji in a crowd full of hundreds, there was no way this night could have ended any other way. His fate was written in stone, the words carved by Zoro’s own hand, while all Sanji could do was watch.
“Fuck, you look amazing,” Zoro marvels, taking in Sanji’s bare torso, his fingers brushing briefly over his chest.
“So eloquent,” Sanji teases, trying to regain a semblance of normalcy over this situation. “You don’t look half bad yourself, big guy, even with a black eye and a split lip.” If anything, those make him look even hotter to Sanji, but Zoro doesn’t need to know that.
“Look at you, back to being your prissy bitch self,” Zoro says, taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle. Sanji watches, mesmerized as rivulets of red wine run down the length of his chin. “But let’s see how long you can keep up that attitude.”
Zoro punctuates his ominous statement by taking the expensive bottle of red and pouring the remaining contents directly over Sanji’s chest, staining his shirt with sticky wine.
“What the fuck, Mosshead, are you insane?” Sanji gasps, shocked at what Zoro just did.
“Maybe.” Zoro licks his bottom lip. “I’m just a little thirsty.”
Zoro leans over him, licking the wine off his chest. Hypnotic movements with his tongue as he gets drunk off the alcohol that sticks to his body like a second skin, rapidly drying, until he reaches Sanji’s nipples. Wraps his lips around his nipple, sucking on it and tugging, wresting a breathless gasp from Sanji’s chest.
Sanji clasps his hands over his face, overheating so bad that he thinks he might just get a nosebleed if he’s not careful enough. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to stem the embarrassing sounds that are on the tip of his tongue, but when Zoro’s lips transition to his other nipple to lap up the wine there, his fingers teasing the other, the moans fall from his lips despite himself. He feels so sensitive, every nerve ending responding to Zoro’s touch, his back arching to bring him even closer.
He’s not even the one lapping up the wine, yet feels so drunk on the pleasure as if he was.
“You —you’d better clean up everything,” Sanji says, “or I’ll kill you.”
“Hmm, I plan on it.” Zoro smiles at him lazily, flicking Sanji’s nipple. “Gonna swallow every last drop.”
He follows the messy trail of red wine, lapping up every droplet on his sternum, downwards to the softness of his tummy, all the way down to his happy trail. Sanji swallows, catching the innuendo as Zoro pulls his zipper down and proceeds to pull his slacks off entirely, revealing his embarrassingly hard cock. So hard, the tip having stained the fabric of his underwear, the evidence of how badly Sanji wants this, wants Zoro.
Can’t help but imagine Zoro taking him on this table, knows he would fuck him so good, he wouldn’t be able to form a single coherent thought.
Zoro pulls down his underwear, Sanji’s cock bobbing out of it, red and swollen. Pre-cum drips from the tip copiously, and Sanji can’t help but dwell over how he’s now almost entirely naked save for his socks that are pulled up by his sock garters while Zoro is still fully dressed, a shiver running down his spine at the realization. Zoro, however, remains unbothered, humming as he wraps his hand around his cock. He isn’t small by any means, but Zoro’s hands are so big that he almost wraps around his cock entirely, only needing to jerk his hand once to have his whole cock enveloped in that delicious heat.
And yet, Zoro doesn’t jerk him off to take the edge away. Rather, he keeps his cock in his hand loosely, as if testing out the weight of it in his palm. Sanji squirms, embarrassed, bucking his hips because he needs something to stave off the arousal that’s coursing through his veins.
“Don’t be greedy.” Zoro pins his hips down against the table, hands bruising around his waist. “Wait.”
Zoro sinks down to his knees, his hands dragging Sanji across the table bodily by his thighs, hooking them over his shoulders before he goes down on Sanji. A hot puff of air blown against his cock, a long stroke of his tongue against the length of Sanji’s cock until he reaches the tip of his cock. Rolling his tongue against it in broad strokes, dipping his tongue into the slit, entirely unfazed as the motion forces Sanji’s thighs to spasm and clench around his head.
Rather than forcing Sanji’s thighs apart, however, Zoro only digs his fingers into the flesh of his thighs. His grip so harsh that Sanji is sure that he will bruise, red and blue marking his skin wherever Zoro touches him, as if branded.
Zoro wrapping his lips around the tip of his cock, shallowly taking him into his mouth, is quite possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Sanji in his pitiful life. All he can remember from his youth, before the long dry spell of marriage where Pudding wouldn’t so much as touch him, are messy trysts in the restaurant changing rooms with other women and eyes lingering on the chefs in his kitchens, imagining but never acting on any of those sinful desires. This, Zoro taking him deeper and deeper inside the tight warmth of his warmth, is another thing altogether.
Liquid hot pleasure like he’s never felt before when his cock hits the back of Zoro’s throat, his cock weakly thrusting into his mouth because he needs more. The visual almost does it for him even more, propping himself up on wobbly elbows to look at Zoro on his knees, so focused as he takes Sanji’s cock in his mouth. His cheek bulging around his cock obscenely, his lashes fluttering closed, shadows casted on his cheeks in the dimmed light. Suddenly, Sanji is feeling faint, as if he’s going to blow his load so fast, which Zoro will never let him live down, but he can’t help it.
“Fuck, I’m close,” Sanji whines, “you have to pull off or I’ll cum in your —”
Zoro doesn’t reply, of course, his mouth is preoccupied with other things. His response, however, comes in the form of brushing the pads of his fingers against his rim, a motion that makes his eyes widen, his thighs spasming around Zoro’s head as he cums in Zoro’s throat. He feels like he cums forever, so much, can see it dribbling down Zoro’s wine-stained chin in streaks of white.
And yet, he swallows every last drop, only pulling off when Sanji whines at the oversensitivity.
“I hope you know that I’m not done with you yet, old man,” Zoro tells him, his voice hoarse as he licks his bottom lip, “because I haven’t had my own fun yet.”
He stands up, leaning over Sanji as he presses his thumb against Sanji’s bottom lip, pulling it down to spit directly into Sanji’s mouth. Making him taste his own cum on his tongue, salty and tangy, a depraved grin coloring Zoro’s features.
Sanji swallows, the salty taste of cum coating the inside of his throat, an act of pure debauchery that has pushed him over the point of no return.
“You do know that I’m forty, right?” Sanji prompts, feeling dazed from the force of his orgasm. “I can’t keep up with a wrestler’s stamina.”
“It’s too early to throw in the towel,” Zoro argues, pressing his hard cock against Sanji’s thigh. “Give yourself a little more credit, I’ve seen the way you can kick the other cooks’ asses at the restaurant.”
“Have you been checking me out while I’m kicking Patty’s ass?” Sanji cocks an eyebrow at him.
“Can you blame me?” Zoro grins at him, something sleazy that makes Sanji’s whole body heat up by several degrees. “Your ass looks amazing in those tight slacks.”
“Yeah?” Sanji prompts breathily.
“Yeah.” Zoro nods, brushing his fingers against Sanji’s lips. “Suck on them.”
Sanji looks at his fingers, taking note of how they’re bruised and torn raw from the match earlier, the medical tape doing little to protect his knuckles from tearing. He would love to suck on Zoro’s fingers, but maybe another time, if there will be another time. He hopes there will be another time.
“I’ll do it for myself.”
He brushes Zoro’s fingers away, placing his own fingers against his lips, and sucking on them the same way Zoro did his cock. Lets his tongue lave over the digits, coating them in his own spit until they’re sufficiently wet, all while maintaining eye contact with Zoro. Takes in the way his eyes darken with lust and want, as if he wants to shove his cock in his mouth, but he’s barely holding himself back.
Sanji pulls his fingers out with an audible pop, widens his legs atop the table, feeling all too shy at how his half-hard cock and hole are on full display for Zoro. He’s never done anything so… filthy before, but he pushes past the shyness, clinging onto Zoro’s immense attraction to anchor him as to what he’s about to do.
This is the main course of the night, after all, so it has to be done right. Of course, it would be better if he had lube, but at this moment in time, the lube in his bedroom might as well be across the border with how impatient Sanji is to have Zoro inside of him.
“Holy shit,” Zoro marvels, to which Sanji ignores him for his own sanity.
His fingers brush against his rim, where he can still feel Zoro’s phantom touch, and massages it lightly with the pads of his fingers until he can feel it giving under the pressure. Pushes one finger in, wincing at the jolt of pain because it’s been a while since he got off using his ass. Though, it was more recent than Sanji would ever like to admit, spent too many hot showers fingering himself to the fantasy of Zoro fucking him, and now that fantasy is about to come true.
A part of him hopes that Zoro is enjoying the view, that he finds Sanji as sexy as he finds Zoro, his opinion mattering all too much to him.
Zoro doesn’t say anything though, fingers massaging his inner thighs in hypnotic circles, lips mouthing at his sensitive nipples once more. He’s fully hard again, but Zoro doesn’t touch him again, probably knows that the night would end much too early if Sanji came another time. Sanji finds himself relaxing enough to push a second finger inside, walls clamping around his own fingers as he searches for his prostate, for that node of liquid-hot pleasure. It’s only when he gets to the third finger, properly stretching himself out, does he finally feel it. A whimper falls from his lips, embarrassing and small, and Zoro immediately picks up on it. Watching with rapt attention as Sanji fucks himself open with three fingers, his hips rolling as he pushes them against his prostate on each thrust.
“That’s enough,” Zoro rasps, pulling Sanji’s fingers out, tearing a whine from Sanji’s throat because he’s left empty and clenching around nothing. “I need to be inside of you, right now.”
Sanji watches with bated breath as Zoro spits into his hand, so much spit tonight, and pulls out his cock from his sweatpants to wrap his hand around it. So big, so thick, dripping with want. Zoro is a vision as he jerks his own cock, the muscles flexing in his arms on each upstroke, grunting each time he nears the tip where he’s clearly most sensitive. It’s his first time like this with a man, but he’s too tipsy to panic over it. Rather than panic, Sanji is giddy with want and lust, because Zoro’s cock looks even more delicious than his wildest fantasies.
And that cock is about to be inside of him.
“Don’t tease me,” Sanji begs, “need you.”
“So impatient,” Zoro replies, lining his cock with Sanji’s hole. “I thought you were the one who was saying we shouldn’t?”
Sanji only groans as the tip of Zoro’s cock breaches his hole, so thick even after fingering himself open with three fingers, the stretch making him wince with pain. The delicious kind of pain, the kind he gets after a good workout, every muscle of his body thrumming with unspooling tension finally let loose. Zoro is all raw, brute strength too, impatient and wanting nothing more than to fuck something hot and tight, all his teasing from earlier all but vanished. Now, he’s focused, a similar expression to what Sanji saw in the ring earlier tonight. Eyes shut, sweat beading at his forehead, his fingers digging into Sanji’s waist as he bottoms out with one excruciatingly long thrust.
His eyes roll back, toes curling as he feels Zoro fill him to the brim, making him feel so full in a way he’s never felt before. He can’t believe this is what he was resisting all this time, that he was denying himself this pure bliss. The remaining dregs of pain he feels dissipating as Zoro pushes his thighs back until his knees are almost touching his chest, the shift in position making his hamstrings quiver from the stretch as Zoro’s cock hits a point so deep inside of him that he can swear he can see stars.
If this is what sin is, then it tastes so sweet that he now understands why Eve couldn’t resist taking a bite of that apple, will never be the same again.
“You good, Cook?” Zoro prompts. “Should I start moving?”
“ Yes, ” Sanji moans, “please.”
And so, Zoro obliges him. He starts thrusting at a pace that has Sanji making embarrassing sounds on each thrust, the table shaking underneath him and the dishes clattering around him on each thrust. It’s pure blasphemy for Sanji to be doing this on his dining room table, will never be able to look at it the same, but that’s also what makes his blood burn even hotter. No longer will he have to sit at this table and remember Pudding’s expression as she slid the divorce papers towards him silently over coffee, not when the memory of Zoro fucking him within an inch of his life atop that very same table exists to completely overwrite it.
“You feel so good,” Zoro says, snapping his hips as he pistons his hips to brush his cock against his prostate, the euphoric feeling along with his tipsiness making him feel heady. “You’re gonna drive me crazy, Cook.”
That’s what Sanji should be saying to Zoro, not vice versa. Sanji has become a slave to pleasure, all he can do is try to stem his moans by clamping his hand over his lips. Something that Zoro clearly doesn’t like because he bats his hands away, replacing it with his own lips, which barely even constitutes as a kiss so much as teeth clashing against each other madly without rhythm. Kisses him so hard as if Sanji’s air is what he needs to breathe.
But none of it matters when Zoro’s cock is fucking Sanji so good that every coherent thought he had left has dissipated, melting to a single node of pleasure, Zoro’s cock slamming against his prostate on every thrust. He feels as if his brain is melting out of his ears, the alcohol making his whole body buzz with intensified pleasure, Zoro fucking Sanji as if he can’t get enough of him.
And it goes to his head, his ego swelling with pleasure, keening as Zoro leaves yet another mark against his skin. All so that tomorrow, when Sanji wakes up, regardless of how he feels at day about how this night passed, he will see the evidence of Zoro marking him as his for days.
“Zoro,” Sanji whispers, breathing the name directly into his skin. “I’m so close, want to cum, please —”
Zoro lets out a shallow breath, grunting as he nods. “Me too.”
He wraps his hand around Sanji’s cock, starts jacking him in tandem with each thrust, the two motions together about sufficient to make Sanji lose his damn mind. He arches into Zoro’s touch, all while confused because he wants to roll his hips against Zoro’s thrusts which have become increasingly sloppy with each consecutive one, his fingers digging into Zoro’s shoulders to anchor him. He’s so sweaty, sticky too from the wine, but Zoro doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems to want to keep touching Sanji all over, his touch over his body and his cock maddening as he fucks him so deep on each thrust.
Zoro continues like that until he feels Sanji spill against his hand, the second orgasm knocking into him like a freight train, so overcome with sensitivity and sheer pleasure that he’s never felt before. Sensitivity that becomes too much to bear as Zoro continues to fuck him through his orgasm, but doesn’t protest, not even as he feels Zoro cum inside of him. So much cum that he can feel it leak around his cock and drip onto his pristine table underneath him.
Though, he certainly does feel like complaining when Zoro finally pulls out with a grunt, feeling so empty suddenly.
“Fuck,” Sanji gasps, feeling as if his soul left his body with that second orgasm. “Young people are frightening.”
“Nah, that’s just me.” Zoro snickers, spreading Sanji’s cum across his soft stomach. “Not that I’ll let you try to compare me with anyone else.”
Sanji scoffs at the insinuation that anyone else would be as deranged as Zoro to initiate something like this with him. Though, he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t flutter at the possessiveness laced in Zoro’s tone.
“Can I finally get that shower now? I feel so nasty right now.”
“I guess.” Zoro crosses his arms over his chest, considering Sanji. “If you let me hit again in the shower.”
Sanji feels himself go cold, recoiling away from Zoro’s touch. “Are you trying to kill me tonight?”
“I’m just teasing you,” Zoro backs up, though Sanji is still skeptical. He can’t trust that glint in Zoro’s eyes, the way he’s still looking at him like he’s a piece of meat.
He tries to assume the best, though. Surely, even Zoro gets tired at some point, and he already had a big match before this.
“Will you carry me?” Sanji prompts with an easy smile, extending his arms to Zoro. “Big strong wrestler that you are, it shouldn’t be too much trouble for you. Also, because I think my legs have turned to jelly.”
Zoro grunts, but he concedes, picking Sanji up bridal style off the table in a way that makes Sanji’s stomach swoop in more ways than one. Sanji isn’t small by any means, but cradled against Zoro’s chest, he feels lighter than a feather. Ensconced in Zoro’s warmth, safe as Zoro fails to navigate the corridors of his home until they eventually reach the bathroom.
Sanji buries himself in that warmth, hoping that he never has to let Zoro go.
It turns out that Zoro wasn’t teasing because they go for yet another round in the shower because of course they do.
It starts with showering together to save water, but ultimately ends up wasting a whole lot more when Zoro gets horny yet again. Zoro pinning Sanji against the wall and fucking him until his tears were mixing with the shower droplets, cumming with a shudder that shook him to the bone.
Sanji wishes he could say he was shocked by how this sequence of events played out, but he isn’t. Zoro is such a spoiled brat, he always gets whatever he wants, and Sanji has never been able to say no to him. Though he must say that going from an over ten-year dry spell without any sex to multiple times in the same night is a jarring shift.
“I didn’t know you’re so directionally challenged,” Sanji says afterwards when Zoro settles him on the bed.
“Shut the fuck up,” Zoro says, climbing in next to Sanji, bringing him in close so that he’s cradled against his chest.
“You got lost three times when all you had to do was take one left.” Sanji arches an eyebrow.
“You sure you wanna keep making fun of me like that, old man?” Zoro pinches Sanji’s nipple, a jolt of painful pleasure running down his spine.
“Stop that.” Sanji slaps his hand. “I’m too spent to go another time.”
“Must suck to be old.”
“Must suck to be a little bitch,” Sanji parries back effortlessly, then pauses for a moment, mulling things over, weighing the pros and cons of speaking his mind. “Mosshead?”
“Hmm?”
There’s so much that Sanji wants to say but he has no idea where to start. Sex is confusing like that, and without the haze of alcohol to befuddle his mind enough into liquid confidence, he’s left unsure and hesitant. Sex changes everything; their dynamic shifting from the already ambiguous entity of former employer and employee to something completely amorphous, uncharted territory that he’s never explored before.
But isn’t it his obligation as the older one to say something about it then?
“What are we?” Sanji asks, coiling a long strand of blonde hair around his finger, then proceeding to unwind it. “Because, well, you know things didn’t end well with my last marriage, but I’m still a romantic at heart. And I don’t really do stuff like we did tonight, by which I mean that I don’t do casual.”
“I know,” Zoro says, “and neither do I for the record.”
“Then what are we?” Sanji repeats, his heart lodged in his throat. “Because a relationship doesn’t make sense when I’m twenty years your senior, but I also don’t think I can handle just being another notch on your belt, the old man that you managed to sleep with.”
Sanji knows that he’s being unfair, that he’s speaking in contradictions, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. He hasn’t been in a relationship before, has never liked anyone as much as he likes Zoro now.
But for as much as he likes Zoro, he doesn’t know if he deserves to actually have him.
“Why shouldn’t it make sense?” Zoro asks, pulling away from Sanji to look at him properly. “All that matters is that we like each other.”
There is so much that Sanji could say to contest what Zoro just said. He could argue that everyone would judge them for it, would automatically assume that Sanji is a predatory old man who groomed Zoro into being his partner. He could bring up Zoro’s father, Mihawk, how he would surely never approve of his son dating someone his own age. He could even say that they’re too different, worlds apart, so it would never work on the long run.
And yet, all those words run dry because all he can focus on is what Zoro just said. ‘All that matters is that we like each other’. The words make Sanji’s eyes widen, his heart jackhammering against his chest, staring at Zoro quizzically.
“Are you saying that you like me, Mosshead?”
“Take it as you will,” Zoro says, averting his gaze but his ears are dipped in red.
“And if I take it as a confession, then you’d let me?” Sanji prompts.
“If it would make you stop harping about our age difference and what makes sense and doesn’t, then sure.”
It’ll take Sanji a long while before he’s able to accept dating someone so young, someone so out of his league like Zoro is, but Zoro liking him might be the first step to letting him accept that truth. He buries his face in Zoro’s chest, listening to the loud sound of Zoro’s heart beating a rickety rhythm against his ribcage. So fast, so uneven, but it feels in sync with Sanji’s own racing heart.
Zoro wants this, wants him, arguably as much as Sanji does.
“Okay,” Sanji whispers, wrapping his arms around Zoro’s middle. “Because I like you, too. A little too much, I’m afraid.”
“Good,” Zoro says, “because I wasn’t planning on ever letting you go.”
Zoro can’t just say things like that, because when he does, all Sanji wants to do is throw all reason to the wind and give in to temptation.
“Dating me won’t be easy, you know,” Sanji remarks. “I’ll always put my restaurant first, not to mention that I’m high maintenance. As in I get moody, and I have a lot of emotional baggage.”
“I already know that,” Zoro says, “and I like all that about you.”
Sanji swallows. “I don’t even know how to date anyone anymore.”
“Neither do I.” Zoro presses a kiss to Sanji’s forehead, then another to his lips, chaste and sweet. “But I think we’ll be okay. We don’t have to figure everything out right now, but for now, this is good enough.”
Sanji holds Zoro close to his chest, nodding, because Zoro is right. His whole life, he’s never been loved, never been wanted. He may have never expected to find either so late in his life, in a man half his age, but wouldn’t he be a fool if he turned away from his first real shot at happiness with someone else?
“Then for as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be yours,” Sanji concedes.
But that’s the thing with sin, isn’t it? Once the first bite is taken, there’s no going back. He’s already hooked on it. And if this is sin, then he’s never tasted anything so sweet.