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They rented the small apartment knowing full well what they were getting into: two bathrooms facing each other in the middle of a large bedroom, two enclosed spaces to get ready after a long negotiation. The negotiation took them to various shops with a caution they had never shown in their pirating activities, but the situation required tact and delicacy. They argued when Zoro decided it would be better for them to split up to do their shopping, but Sanji refused, knowing full well how the swordsman would end up.
So they did everything together, making sure to stay away or turn around so they wouldn’t see each other’s surprise, a concession they both made because deep down, they both want the same thing: to fulfill their fantasies.
They don’t quite have the same ones, and if Sanji is honest, he knows he’s a little more focused on sex than his partner. Zoro, for his part, hypocritically pretends that only the cook has unspeakable desires, when he himself is willing to go to great lengths to see or feel Sanji in certain states no one has probably ever seen before.
Sanji has been in his bathroom for over an hour. He examines himself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, uncomfortable while mentally acknowledging that what he’s wearing flatters his figure. Zoro has good taste, if this is what he envisioned on him.
Zoro, on the other hand, took half the time and studied himself in the mirror, trying to understand what the cook could possibly find so appealing about this outfit, which is so simple he could almost wear it under his usual clothes. Sanji has good taste, if this is what he envisioned him wearing.
Neither of them is willing to admit that they like the outfit, that they feel particularly sexy in it, and that they’re already a little excited about what’s to come, but they’ve agreed: “If you do it, I’ll do it, and I’ll only do it because you’re doing it.”
So now they stand in front of their respective doors, both embarrassed and impatient, waiting to see if the other is ready. In truth, Zoro has been waiting longer, but he understands Sanji isn’t facing the same issues as him. Both mental and physical.
That’s why he hasn’t complained about the cook yet. That’s why he’s still behind his door, and that’s why he just knocks before saying clearly, as if to chase away his nervousness:
“All right, cook? Ready?”
Sanji jumps behind his own door. He’s been ready for five minutes, and far too nervous himself to have warned his partner. However, he won’t let the marimo get ahead of him, so he grumbles in response:
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
A silence falls.
“On three?” Sanji tries, refusing to let Zoro take the initiative.
“On three,” replies the swordsman with his usual efficiency.
Sanji resents him a little for being so direct, so visibly comfortable with their concession. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though: the swordsman is already counting.
“One.”
Sanji adds:
“Two.”
Their voices, hoarse with apprehension, mingle one last time:
“Three.”
The doors open. The two men exit with a slightly hurried gait. Sanji would have liked to play along, adopting a sexy walk, but he doesn’t know if it would be welcome.
Zoro expected Sanji to play along, exaggerating as he sometimes does, but his quick, confident stride and natural posture, hips forward and long legs spread apart, give him much more charisma than any comedy act. He’s relieved: it’s the cook he wants to see, not some parody of femininity.
Sanji, for his part, is not relieved: he knew Zoro would remain perfectly himself, perhaps just a little embarrassed, and has no leverage against this force of nature who seems devoid of fear, even in intimacy and vulnerability.
However, his jealousy fades when his eyes finally fall on the outfit worn by the swordsman.
He wanted something simple, something he could admire on golden skin, something that would highlight the man’s physique without hiding it. He got what he wanted.
The bralette is made of transparent white lace, with a silk ribbon tied tightly between the pecs, ready to snap under the pressure of the broad chest. Its neutral, rather rectangular shape harmonizes with Zoro’s build, and only the white choker, lace bound around his Adam’s apple with the same type of shiny ribbon, gives a certain impression of delicacy to this body sculpted by ambition and resilience.
Then Sanji eyes a pair of boxer shorts made of the same white lace, hipster cut, which must look wonderful on the swordsman’s muscular buttocks. He sees the way the underwear wrinkles and already imagines the little satin ribbon at the small of his back, ready to be untied for pleasure rather than necessity.
The innocent color contrasts with Zoro’s raw beauty, the scars that mark his skin, and the fiery glance the man throws at him. Sanji fumbles to his left, where he has placed a box of tissues, knowing full well that such a reaction would occur.
He stuffs his nostrils before the blood spatters on the floor, but he still tastes iron on his lips. When he looks back at Zoro’s face, Zoro is busy staring at his legs.
Zoro would have mocked the cook if he hadn’t felt like sinking into the ground at the mere sight of what Sanji is wearing.
He wanted something that would highlight the man’s physique without denying his masculinity. He wanted to see his long legs even longer, stretched out with their usual power, adorned with a design that would scream how lethal Sanji is. He got what he wanted.
The semi-transparent black stockings cover but do not hide the scandalous weapons the cook uses against him. A thin black garter belt, barely lacy, holds them in place on his pale thighs. Over them, a thong of the same color hides his already half-erect penis. He would smile with pride if he weren’t busy wondering why he feels dizzy as he lets his eyes slide down to where a pair of shiny black pumps complete the incredible picture.
The dark color contrasts with his white skin, like a mirror of Sanji’s spirit, so pure and so lustful at the same time. It’s a cry from the heart: Sanji is not fragile, he has a name, and he claims it.
Zoro feels something running from his nose and licks it reflexively, recognizing the syrupy texture of blood he loves to taste during a fight. Sanji stares at him this time, dumbfounded.
Then he seems to relax his whole body, chuckles with relief, and walks towards him with a swaying gait Zoro has never seen before. The heels click on the floor. Zoro swallows and drinks his own blood. A pale hand suddenly rises in front of him, and he has to look up.
Sanji is there, holding out his box of tissues. He took pity on him and gives him a slightly ironic, knowing smile. Zoro returns it, exhaling his nervousness as he chuckles behind his tissues.
They stare at each other for a moment, and suddenly they know they won’t fight right away. Not until they’ve satisfied that other carnal desire they feel for each other.
“Fuck”
“Shit.”
The last step they take toward each other is synchronized, but against all odds, it’s Zoro who cracks first. Sanji, who is half a head taller than him thanks to his heels, sees his eyes gleam with this desire he seems to feel so rarely, this fascination he shows for only two men in the world, then the green skull disappears, and two thick arms wrap around his hips while lips settle below his navel.
Zoro squeezes for a moment, hard enough for Sanji to remember that there is more than just sex between them, that he doesn’t have to be nervous around this swordsman who has always accepted him and is only now beginning to show it.
Zoro eyes the garter belt and thong curiously. He caresses the slim, firm buttocks with his fingers, pinching them for the pleasure of making Sanji jump, then collapses onto his heels to brush his nails against the black lace. Finally, his palms envelop his swollen thighs, admiring the way the transparent fabric accentuates shadows in the hollows of his lean muscles which could serve as anatomical models.
When his feverish hands finally fall on the calves, he lets out a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding back. He wants to bite and kiss them at the same time, to look at them without touching them, to lick them and suck their power into the hollow of his jaw.
It’s at this moment, however, that everything falls apart, because something is missing from this otherwise idyllic picture. It’s too soft, too smooth, too perfect. Sanji is none of those things, and that’s why he loves him so much, so why…
Zoro steps back, his pupils dilated, his eye shocked.
“You shaved your legs?!”
Sanji perceives a note of despair in the tone that he did not expect. He was proud of his choice, though. He thought that such an effort went hand in hand with the clothes, that it would be appropriate, even necessary, because…
“I shaved everything, marimo, you’ve only just noticed?!”
Zoro panics for a moment and looks up at the goatee and the stupid little mustache, fortunately still firmly in place on the cook’s face.
His eyes return to the long legs, scandalized.
“Why would you do that?!’
Sanji immediately retorts, anger and embarrassment taking over despite Zoro’s stance in front of him:
“My hair was sticking through the mesh of the tights and thong, it felt super weird! I wasn’t gonna leave it like that!”
The swordsman looks at the underwear and realizes he hadn’t even noticed the lack of pilosity in the crotch area. The penis before his eyes, even flaccid, looks appetizing enough to make him forget his despair for a moment. He has never been bothered by this aspect of Sanji, on the contrary, he…
“But I love your hair!” he finally blurts out. “It’s one of the things I was most looking forward to seeing! Put it back on right now!”
“How do you expect me to put it back on, you idiot?! You should have told me if that’s what you wanted!”
“How was I supposed to know you were going to take it all off?!”
“Because that’s what women do when they wear this kind of lingerie?! I thought that…”
“But you’re not a woman, for fuck’s sake!” Zoro interrupts, breathless from the exchange.
Sanji freezes and suddenly starts blushing furiously. He runs a hand through his hair and turns away. He should have known that Zoro doesn’t have this kind of fetishistic gaze on him. That the man didn’t want to see him in women’s underwear in order to perceive him as a woman. Just as he himself, Sanji, is incapable of perceiving Zoro as a woman, even in that white lace ensemble that contrasts so starkly with the swordsman’s personality. He should have guessed he didn’t need to conform to this kind of standard, which he himself finds idiotic, but he has internalized a number of preconceived ideas, and he didn’t even think twice when he decided shaving his legs and pubic area went with the evening’s costume.
“Shit…” he mutters, hiding behind his hand. “Sorry, marimo. I shouldn’t have assumed what you wanted…”
Zoro straightens up. Sanji seems so embarrassed and flattered at the same time, as if he had to put aside something he cares about, something someone tried to take away from him, for the sake of wearing these clothes, whereas Zoro himself just shrugged and hoped he didn’t look too ridiculous. Deep down, he knew Sanji was too horny to find him ridiculous. He knew he would melt in front of him and even get a nosebleed. Zoro knew this because he’s confident, proud of who he is, delighted to know that his appearance impresses, terrifies, or triggers desire in those he’s interested in—only those he’s interested in, only Sanji.
“Cook… Sorry too. You couldn’t have known.”
As if to reassure him and himself, Zoro reaches out to the pale face and turns it toward him. With the heels, his mouth is right at the height of the thick goatee. He kisses it gently. Again and again, before stretching his neck to do the same with the thin moustache. The beard is thicker, almost scratchy, whereas the hair at the crotch is barely prickly and the down on the shins and calves has the soft and rough texture of an animal’s winter fur.
Zoro mourns this temporary loss inwardly, then fixes Sanji with his determined gaze.
“You’re taking me tonight.”
The cook raises an eyebrow, reassured by the gesture but surprised by the decision. He shakes his head: it’s another one of his prejudices, no doubt, this idea that Zoro would want to top because he wears lingerie associated with women, even though the swordsman is wearing something just as offbeat, after all.
Zoro guesses his question, because he grunts and steps aside, crossing his arms in a posture that makes Sanji squint at his bulging chest.
“I would have liked to do the opposite, actually. But with your hair. I wanted to be on top of you, with your legs around my neck.”
Sanji feels the blood rush to his nose as he visualizes the position.
“I wanted to feel them, touch them, and kiss them. And look at you at the same time. And spread them apart and push them forward to better see how beautiful they are. And scratch the stockings until they tear, and suck your calves, and lick the hair until you call me a dog in heat and dig your heels into my thighs to make me stop.”
Sanji is speechless at the confession. Zoro is rarely so expressive, but he speaks the way he does when he’s about to cut an opponent to pieces, when he needs to expose a reality they don’t want to face, when he talks about his ambition. Being part of Zoro’s ambition is the greatest honor, so Sanji owes it to him to look him straight in his one eye, so deep, so wild, and so gentle.
The swordsman continues:
“But you wouldn’t have really stopped me. You love it too much when I mess with you.”
A brown blush creeps across his golden cheeks. Sanji places his hand on his cheekbones, captivated by the fascination this man seems to harbour for him. He who felt so small, perched on those heels for a simple sex game, feels tall under his partner’s loving gaze.
“Are you sure you don’t want to top, marimo? I wouldn’t mind, I promise.”
Zoro shakes his head, sulking.
“If I can’t touch your hair, we might as well try something else. What did you want to do?”
Sanji giggles and blushes. Zoro has expressed his fantasy, so he must show the same openness and enthusiasm.
“I’ll show you. Should I take these off?”
Zoro seems to think for a moment, then declares:
“Whatever you feel like. I want you no matter what you’re wearing.”
Sanji decides on the spot to keep the stockings on, but he quickly removes the thong, showing Zoro the extent of his arousal. The swordsman chuckles, caresses the member with one hand, and elicits a shiver from Sanji. Sanji grabs the playful wrist, gives the swordsman a haughty smile, and places his large hand between his buttocks, where what he wanted to be a final twist protrudes from the base.
Zoro raises his eyebrows, touching the anal plug with a mixture of surprise and excitement. He’s ready to fall back to his knees before the cook and compliment his dirty mind. His penis fills with blood against the white lace.
“What am I supposed to do with this then?” Sanji provokes him with a smug little smile.
Zoro could still answer he can do whatever he wants with it, because he just wants Sanji and whatever Sanji wants, but he realizes the cook is trying to make up for his disappointment, trying to live up to expectations in his own way. He suggests:
“You want to keep it in while you fuck me?”
Sanji swallows and brings his hand to his nose. The enthusiastic nod that answers Zoro makes them both smile.
“Okay,” the cook finally says. “Okay, so… Um, have you gotten ready, then?”
Zoro hesitates, sulks, then admits:
“A little. I also figured you’d want to top because of the lingerie.”
They stare at each other for a moment, stunned.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“You too.”
They spoke at the same time and retorted at the same time. Their teeth gnashed, but their eyes still slid over each other’s bodies as if they wanted to devour them. Sanji breaks first, as he often does.
“Get on all fours? Close enough to the headboard so you can grab it.”
Zoro raises an eyebrow, but climbs onto the bed with the expression of someone who knows he already has the upper hand. He noticed the way Sanji was staring at him. He knows how obsessed the cook is with anything that remotely resembles a chest.
He pulls back the sheets and positions himself exactly as he imagines Sanji wants him to: on his knees, the pillows just below his head, his arms outstretched, clinging to the wooden panel that suddenly creaks. He glances suspiciously at the object, then shrugs. It won’t be the first time they’ve destroyed a room and lost their deposit.
Zoro prefers to focus on the gulp he heard behind him. He turns his head and arches his back, giving the cook that haughty, playful smile that precedes a good fight.
“Like this?”
Sanji grabs his box of tissues and takes it to the bed. When he positions himself between Zoro’s spread thighs, he barely manages to hold back a rush of blood. His hands rest reverently on the firm buttocks, sliding along the lace to appreciate the way it curves around the muscle and makes him want to bite it even more. He can’t resist his desire: he lowers his head, kisses, licks, buries his nose in the small of the back, where the little satin ribbon fastens the garment and is just begging to be untied.
“Can I bite you? Like, uh, hard?”
The question slipped out before he could think about it. Zoro, who seems more in control than ever, standing before him like the statue of a god of war who has agreed to be worshipped, flashes him a predatory smile.
“Does that mean you’ll let me bite your calves when your hair grows back?”
Sanji’s eyes widen, but he nods.
“Like you even could.”
The leg pressed against Zoro’s deliberately tenses, and the swordsman can’t wait to sink his teeth into this limb that feels as hard as iron. Sanji guesses his thoughts, or perhaps has the same ones, because he opens his mouth around a buttock and scrapes his teeth against it. Zoro understands what he wants: he tenses in turn. Sanji bites down. As hard as he said he would. The muscle doesn’t give way, the skin protests firmly. They groan in pain at the same moment, and Sanji eagerly licks the mark he has left behind. He knows it will be gone before the session is over. He didn’t leave it there to stay, anyway.
Too impatient and excited by the sight of the boxer shorts and the white lace on this man whose very purity is the color of blood, Sanji decides he wants to ruin this false impression of innocence, this idea that Zoro is some kind of object of fantasy because of his fragility. The fragility is there, deep in the swordsman’s heart, made up of everything he cannot resolve through violence or reason, but Sanji knows it too well to worry about it. He cares too much to even consider threatening it.
He unties the ribbon and roughly pulls it out of its eyelets. He realizes he barely needs to lower the lace to glimpse and access Zoro’s anus. He can still see the lubricant glistening around the ring of flesh. “A little,” right. Zoro has prepared himself just as well as he has, in his own way. He has made his own efforts because he too wants to make sure they have a good time together.
His hand reaches for the lubricant that came with the box of tissues. No condoms for their little games, thanks to medical advances that protect them in the form of a pill. Sanji silently blesses Torino’s knowledge; it would have been a shame not to be able to come in that perfect ass adorned with white lace.
The very idea causes a jolt in his penis, which reverberates throughout his pelvic floor and triggers a contraction around the plug. He lets out a pathetic moan. Zoro smirks, too proud to hide the slight embarrassment lurking on his cheeks.
Sanji covers himself with lubricant, his burning hand sending a shiver through him over the cold liquid. For pleasure, he pulls a little on the small V the lace has left behind, its eyelets orphaned, and pours lubricant along Zoro’s crack, eliciting the same shiver of apprehension.
“Bastard…” growls the swordsman, but his face is still turned towards him, and though he grimaces, his gaze is fixed on Sanji’s.
The latter adjusts himself, feeling the soft fabric rubbing against his glans as he pushes against the tight anus. Zoro lets out a sigh and automatically relaxes. The swordsman controls his body too well, as always; Sanji knows he can continue. The fabric is now wrinkled over the swordsman’s buttocks. He observes the white color against the tanned skin, the way the object, even deformed, still enhances his lover’s body.
Zoro examines his every movement, and finally murmurs between two sighs:
“You know… I would have thought you’d be more interested in my chest.”
Sanji looks up and clings to the buttocks that have also begun to push against him, meeting him in his overly delicate movement. He grimaces under the pressure. Zoro gives him a mean smile.
“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m getting to it,” he defends himself before finishing his thrust, the fabric suddenly hitting his testicles.
The material is new, thankfully soft. Its texture is unsettling against his hairless crotch. He feels strangely more sensitive. His gonads contract reflexively at the thought, and the plug makes itself known inside him again. Sanji regrets going so far: Zoro is a little too sexy for him in general, too confident to let him set his own pace, so taking him with extra stimulation may not have been a good idea.
Sanji has no regrets when Zoro bursts out laughing at his retort. No matter what happens, anyway: Sanji will always know how to satisfy his partner. He’s capable of it. It’s one of the things he knows about himself, as well as he knows cooking is his greatest talent.
Zoro moves around him again, accentuating the way his loins are hollowed out, just to make him lose his mind.
Sanji fidgets once or twice, finding a slow rhythm, purposeful undulations. He adjusts himself again, closer, so that Zoro has to straighten up a little, his hands still clinging to the headboard.
The swordsman lets out a groan of pleasure, very real, but expressed in such a way Sanji can’t resist moving again, and the sensation of the plug against his prostate, as he rubs his lover’s just enough to make him let out another small, hoarse groan, makes him want to collapse on top of him and forget everything.
He can’t, however: Zoro is wearing that gorgeous white lace ensemble, and as much as penetrating him while those boxers magnify his buttocks was part of his plans, he doesn’t intend to stop there.
Sanji grasps his broad waist with his hands, slides his fingers along his thick ribs, reaches for his bralette, and finally grabs his swollen pectorals, squeezing them a little too hard. Through the fabric, he massages, feels, and appreciates the firm texture. He finds the nipples and brushes them under the lace, eliciting an incongruous sigh from Zoro.
At first, he thinks it’s the slow but deliberate movement of his hips. Then he realizes that Zoro’s breath is following the circles he’s tracing with his fingers around his nipples.
“Shit, since when have you been so sensitive?” he asks, surprised.
Zoro lets out another sigh, as if he doesn’t want to answer, but Sanji gives a more forceful thrust and pinches the chest and lace at the same time.
“Ah!”
Zoro turned his head away. Sanji guesses the redness in his cheeks is no longer just due to excitement.
“I don’t know…” the swordsman concedes. “It’s the material. It rubs differently than usual, it’s… it makes them sensitive?”
Sanji has to concentrate to keep from getting a nosebleed. Zoro has never been sensitive anywhere. Even penetration, even blowjobs are a matter of control for the swordsman, and while he clearly manages to find pleasure in them, he likes even more to prove to Sanji that he doesn’t lose face even during sex.
Sanji massages harder, warming the lumps of flesh beneath his hands, kissing the shoulder and moving a little faster inside Zoro. This man is going to kill him, he’s sure of it. This time, a moan escapes from his thick lips, and Sanji responds out of empathy. He moves even faster, harder. He rubs more, enjoying the taut texture of the nipples under his fingers and not knowing what to do with all this information.
Zoro, for his part, is in no better shape. He didn’t expect the position to excite him so much. He didn’t think feeling Sanji sink into him, knowing that he’s himself equipped with a butt plug, would make his cheeks burn like this. He knew he might look particularly appetizing to Sanji in this outfit so mismatched to his physique, but he didn’t think the cook’s hungry gaze would have this effect on him.
Then the cook began to move, pressing himself against Zoro to hold him close, and Zoro felt his trained prostate respond to the patient and attentive assaults. After that were the warm fingers on his nipples, the way the white fabric rubbed and almost irritated them, Sanji’s gentleness in the way he pinched without ever hurting him. Sanji’s gentleness in general, in fact, despite the violence of their usual relationship.
Zoro had never felt so stimulated, physically or mentally. He wanted to maintain control by provoking Sanji, arching his back to make himself more desirable, looking at him to better show how much he is in control of himself. But what good is all that control when Sanji is so close to him? When Sanji is everywhere against him, inside him, when he himself feels that this penetration gives the cook his own vicarious penetration, because of that damn plug he can’t stop thinking about, which must stimulate Sanji with every now erratic movement of those lethal hips against his buttocks?
He salivates at the mere thought of the movement, undulating against the cook’s undulations, forgetting he likes to have the upper hand. They don’t need to be at war with each other all the time, they know it. They’re accomplices when they want to be, even in their confrontations. That’s kind of how it started tonight, actually, so Zoro lets himself go and growls and moans when Sanji speeds up again and rubs harder.
He arches his back for pleasure, feels his flesh contract around the member pounding him, hears Sanji squeak with that high-pitched tone that characterizes his impending orgasm. He thrusts his chest into the cook’s hands, who presses himself even harder against him, and Zoro feels the heat rising in his groin with the movement, with the impression that Sanji is everywhere and that he won’t let go until he has given him a blazing orgasm.
Suddenly, the cook’s teeth are against his neck, tearing the white choker that threatens to strangle him. Zoro breathes, feeling a sudden sense of release. His voice rolls in his throat as a hoarse, ecstatic cry escapes him. The heat of Sanji’s fingers on his nipples, his hands on the lace, his chest against his shoulder blades, his teeth on his trapezius muscles spread through his burning lower abdomen. Then there is the heat of his shaft inside him, and the idea that Sanji feels the same thing, the same pressure, and the burning of all these ideas and all these embers mixed together spreads along his penis with unworthy speed.
He groans as he presses his buttocks against Sanji’s hips one last time, contracting his muscles to get a last bit of stimulation. He feels like he’s losing consciousness in the midst of all this heat when he finally climaxes, jerky grunts and satisfied sighs mingling together.
Sanji sensed him fidgeting earlier than usual and, with his natural empathy, guessed that the context and all these mixed stimuli were preventing Zoro from remaining as impassive as usual. It’s a game for him, of course, and the swordsman also knows how to let himself go, but rare are the moments when Zoro discovers that he can let go in anything other than a terrible battle where his life is at stake.
Sanji is sensitive to this state, this raw beauty that finally allows itself to lose control in pleasure. Sanji loves to see the pleasure of others reflected in their expressions, their gestures, their relaxed aura. He felt Zoro squeeze, thrust his hips to meet his. He felt the way he stretched his chest under his fingers, and the shiver that seized him when he bit the necklace to tear it off—too decorative, too restrictive, not enough Zoro.
He accelerated in response to all these reflexes, clenching his own body and squealing in high-pitched tones as he felt the cumulative stimulation, the plug, the tight anus that suddenly imprisoned him, and now that Zoro has come, he lets ecstasy take over, the boiling liquid in his guts concentrating in his pelvis and flowing in a first powerful spurt into his partner’s core. Others follow, Sanji keeps his eyes closed, bathing in the electrifying sensation.
When he opens them again, Zoro’s single pupil is on him, fascinated, as always, but also filled with surprise.
Sanji gives him a slightly contrite smile and withdraws, adjusting the lace boxer shorts, knowing his semen will slowly leak into them, staining them until Zoro grumbles and throws them away because the dampness is unpleasant.
“Wow. I didn’t expect to like it this much,” the latter says.
The observation is honest, direct, like everything Zoro does when he’s not sulking about feeling overwhelmed by his worries and the impression that he hasn’t been up to the task. Sanji knows he looks totally wrecked, his hair all over the place, his stockings probably wrinkled. He forgot about the heels, the garter belt that came off during the action. All that mattered was Zoro and how Zoro felt about them being in this situation together and enjoying it.
“We can do that again, right?” he asks in a tone he himself finds far too innocent.
Zoro snorts and collapses onto the bed, his head stuck against the headboard.
“You doubt it? That was amazing. I don’t often have orgasms that intense.”
Sanji pulls his ankles to adjust him in the sheets and collapses next to him.
“Phew. Perfect. That’s fine with me.”
Zoro stares at him, judges him for a moment, then rolls onto him and settles on his chest. His weight would have paralyzed anyone else, but Sanji is the man who carries Zoro best, so he just lets out a sigh of relief and caresses the curve of his back, which, to his shame, he had never paid much attention to before.
“When my hair grows back, I’ll wear something even sexier,” he decides in a half-sleep.
Zoro giggles, his cheek against his chest.
“I’ll be waiting, love-cook.”
Sanji thinks of the lace boxers stained with his semen and feels his penis twitch against Zoro.
“Ero-cook,” Zoro growls. “You want to do it again?”
Sanji nods vigorously. He’s not done ruining this magnificent outfit, which he plans to make Zoro buy three or four more of the very next day.