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Zoro inhaled, smelling salt and the coppery tang of blood. His bandana clung sweaty to his brow. It was heavy today. Heavy like his blades. Like the past. Like all the things that had led him here, now, to the Grand Line at Luffy's side.
He exhaled, feeling his ribs ache and a telltale burn in his muscles. Bodies spiraled out around him, locked forever in a dance with no finale–he'd given each of them their curtain call somewhere along the way. His swords thrummed in his hands, nothing more or less than a perfect extension of his will. They shifted minutely, guiding him toward violence.
But there was no more violence to find.
He ran for the ship instead, pushing himself as fast as he could. His bandana came off. He tucked his swords away, but every bone in his body screamed to keep going. To keep fighting. His feet kicked up dust and dirt, obscuring the way forward as surely as they obscured the way back. He turned and turned, finding hilltops and his captain and finally the Merry in the harbor. But he couldn't find relief from the buzzing in his limbs.
Sleep did not find him. He stood on the bow instead, facing the sea. The fight replayed in his mind. His fingers wrapped around Kitetsu's hilt, squeezing until his knuckles were white. He could see every flash. Every misstep. Every imperfection. He longed to go back and do it all over again, but better, this time. The person he was trying to catch up to wouldn't have lingered so long–
"You look like shit."
His blade pushed flat against Sanji's throat, having darted there after sensing a threat from behind.
"Your hair looks like shit," Zoro shot back.
"And your hair looks like someone vomited on a patch of moss, so pardon me for ignoring your inadequate opinions."
Sanji didn't move away. He didn't move closer. He just stood there, casual as could be, with a sword pressed against his neck. His posture was relaxed. His clothes were disheveled, but almost intentionally so. A couple of buttons were undone near his collar, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Zoro didn't allow his eyes to linger. He exhaled, trying to push himself into calm. He teetered on the precipice, reaching, reaching, but not quite tumbling over. He could still taste metal in his mouth. His muscles twitched, ready and waiting to spring into action again.
Deliberately careless, Sanji paused to grab a cigarette. He eyed the sea ahead, but didn't say a word. His long fingers curled, entrancing in the moonlight. He had to bend his head to reach the match, which brought the swell of his throat achingly close to Zoro's sword.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The tension stretched, threatening to break like Sanji's delicate skin.
In a rush, Zoro dropped the blade. It hovered over the deck, dipping but never quite touching. He should really sheath it. He wanted to sheath it, but he could feel an indelible hunger in the steel. It burned through his fingers. His forearms. It burned in the back of his skull, just waiting for a chance to break free. His whole body felt hot. His blood boiled.
A sea breeze rolled over the bow, but it couldn't touch him.
"You have fun tonight?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," Zoro forced himself to say. To speak. To talk, so that he might hold the demon at bay a little while longer.
Sanji's eyes finally wandered over to him. Slowly. Leisurely. His lips parted, exhaling smoke. It clung in the air, obscuring his face before clearing away into nothing. Zoro relaxed his grip on his sword. The blade cried out for more, but there was no more to give. There was only the silent roll of the ocean, and the faint smell of blood in the air.
"Come on," Sanji finally said, breaking the silence.
"I don't take orders from you."
But the next thing he knew, he was slamming the storeroom door closed. His palm landed with a solid thump, pinning Sanji between him and the wood. The cook's eyes sparked–a provocation, or an invitation? But it didn't matter. Zoro reached up, flicking away his cigarette. It smoldered, vanishing under the heel of a well-polished shoe.
"Asshole," Sanji raised his eyebrow.
"Fuckface."
And then they were kissing. The door slammed on its hinges, banging from the force. Zoro pushed forward, shoving his thigh between Sanji's legs. His fingers curled against the wood, nails scraping. In turn, Sanji's hands found his waist, dragging him to remove the space between them. Their chests crushed together, each fighting to set the rhythm, the pace of their breaths.
Burning. He was burning up. Sweat clung to his forehead, immutable. Unyielding. His swords chittered at his waist, eager. Ready.
Sanji tasted like cigarettes–like the spices he was always reorganizing in the galley. His shirt rode up, exposing his abs. Zoro put his hand there, smearing a line up Sanji's happy trail. He yanked, encouraging up, up, up until Sanji's half-buttoned shirt clumped into a ball at his neck and they were forced to break the kiss. Up and over, he pushed until the fabric fell to the side. It perched, abandoned on an old barrel. Zoro almost smiled. Heat curled in his belly. He could feel hard pressure against his thigh. He could see the spit-soaked sheen of Sanji's lips.
He hated this. He loved it. He needed it, and Sanji had chosen to give it to him.
Zoro rolled his hips, feeling pleasure reverberate through his groin. Sanji groaned, trapped between his leg and the door.
"Off," Zoro growled, nipping at Sanji's jaw.
"It's already off," Sanji's chuckle was warm. Always so warm.
But tonight, Zoro didn't need warm. He needed heat crawling over his skin and burning him alive. He needed somewhere to put his excesses, somewhere safe. Somewhere that wouldn't break.
Sanji kicked off his shoes. He shimmied out of his pants, forcing Zoro to step back and give him some space. Zoro gave it begrudgingly. He stared instead of participating, his eyes gleaming like daggers in the gloom. The air warmed all around him, heated by their breath. The storeroom turned humid and stuffy, packed with their bodies–one naked, one clothed.
Zoro's blood sang. Finally. More. He grabbed a bottle from somewhere, uncorking it with his thumb. He sniffed. Damn. Not booze. He wiped his hand on his pants, hastily cleaning a few flecks of blood. Then tipped the contents, pouring it into his waiting palm. Whatever it was, it smeared slick over his fingers. The fluid beaded before snapping. Perfect. He dropped to his knees, dropping the bottle in favor of hoisting Sanji's long leg over his shoulder.
"Didn't think you had it in you–" Sanji's words collapsed into a punched-out noise. He threw his head back, banging it loudly against the door.
"Hmm," Zoro hummed around his cock.
Why had he stopped doing this again? He honestly couldn't remember. There was nothing better than collecting a bounty and stumbling into some anonymous sex in a back alley. Except that he wasn't a bounty hunter anymore, he was a pirate. A straw hat. Sanji certainly wasn't his friend, but that didn't mean they were strangers. They were crew, and tonight, that would have to be enough.
He pushed his finger against Sanji's hole, smearing slick over the tight muscle. A few well-timed distractions at his erection, and it parted for him, bearing down as he pushed up.
"Didn't think you'd be so accommodating," he murmured despite a mouthful of cock.
"I–"
Sanji's hips jerked. He threw his forearm over his face, panting. His abs flexed, threatening to spell an end to the proceedings. Zoro couldn't help but take him deeper anyway, swallowing almost to the root. Blond pubes tickled his nose. For a couple of seconds, he couldn't breathe. The roaring in his ears narrowed to a single point. It muffled his swords–still crying for blood at his waist. It muffled his heartbeat, still pounding in his chest.
"Zoro," Sanji hissed, grabbing his head and shoving him back.
Zoro couldn't resist a parting lick, kittenish and quick over Sanji's cockhead. He snuck in a second finger at the same time, relishing in the way Sanji's hands pulled at his hair.
"Hurry up."
Sanji glared down at him. His leg hair tickled Zoro's neck. His cock bobbed over his stomach, shiny and reddish-brown. It was comfortably sized and ramrod straight, which, frankly, had been his first impression of the cook. But the sea had a way of revealing things, and Zoro could admit that behind the facade was someone who could match him beat for beat.
He stood up, dragging Sanji higher on the door. His back scraped against the wood, pulling another groan from his lips. To balance, his legs wrapped obligingly around Zoro's waist. He held himself up with ease, somehow slipping past Zoro's swords like an old familiar friend.
"I said–"
"Hurry up, yeah, got it," Zoro growled.
He shoved down his pants, revealing the swell of his erection. With one hand, he angled it, letting the glans nudge at Sanji's slick hole. With the other hand, he grabbed Sanji's hip. His fingers pressed hard enough to bruise. Part of him wanted those bruises–needed them. He needed Sanji to remember tonight, even if he forgot everything else. He couldn't say where the impulse came from, except that it was coated in the same fervor still burning in his veins. He was practically shaking with the need for something. Anything.
"Fuck," Sanji moaned.
Zoro's cockhead slipped inside, popping past the first ring of muscle. It was achingly tight around him, constricting yet soft in all the right ways. Sanji's thighs squeezed his waist–a warning to slow. He obliged despite the static under his skin, pausing until Sanji's breathing steadied. Sanji, meanwhile, pawed at his shirt, pulling it off with a few muttered curses.
Their chests brushed again, skin against skin. Zoro buried his face in Sanji's neck, resisting the urge to bite a dark, blooming mark. He settled for curling his fingers instead, deepening the bruise on Sanji's hip.
With an exhale, Sanji's legs relaxed a hair. He stopped threatening to snap Zoro's spine, and that was all the invitation he needed. He fed his cock in bit by bit, picking up speed as he went. The rest of Sanji's insides weren't so tight as his hole, but they were deliciously hot and velvet-smooth. Zoro adjusted his angle along the way, finding the knob of Sanji's prostate. He scraped over it at first, drawing a moan out above him.
"Get on with it," Sanji urged, breathless.
His fingernails poked pinpricks against Zoro's shoulder blades. Kitetsu hummed in its sheath.
"Shitty swordsman, shitty fuck–"
Zoro snapped his hips, knocking over Sanji's insides with a powerful thrust. The door creaked behind them, shifting ominously on its hinges. Sanji exhaled a hot puff of air, shifting to encourage Zoro deeper. Zoro obliged yet again, working himself into a short, staccato rhythm. Slick squeltched between them, easing the slide.
"Why'd you come find me?" Zoro asked between breaths.
"Thought you were planning to slice up the ship," Sanji grunted. "I happen to like the ship."
Zoro liked the ship, too. He wouldn't have done anything to it. What he would've done was stand there on deck until the sun came up and the inferno inside him subsided to embers. It would've been a long, long night.
This was better.
He pounded against Sanji's prostate, drilling it with a few deliberate strokes. Sanji scrambled between him and the door, clinging with newfound desperation. His long legs crossed behind Zoro's back, holding him up while simultaneously pushing him deeper. Zoro's hand crept higher on his hip, painting new bruises over his pale skin.
Something inside Zoro shifted, finally cottoning on to his new goal. His muscles burned, but with a different purpose. The fight stopped replaying on the inside of his eyelids. Pleasure surged in its place, dragging him into the present and into the storeroom. He looked around with new eyes, seeing an overturned bottle slowly dripping and a door threatening to break. His gaze wandered, finding the sheen of sweat on Sanji's skin and the delicate flush on his cheeks.
"Fuck," he said under his breath.
He grabbed Sanji with both hands, bracing so his back stopped dragging over the door. The new angle had them both moaning, leaning into each other like rolling cannonballs. Zoro nipped Sanji's collarbone, catching skin between his teeth. Sanji raked furrows down his back, pink lines that blossomed into overwhelming heat.
"Touch yourself," Zoro snapped.
"I'm a little busy," Sanji's harsh tone was disrupted by the barely-there whines escaping his throat.
"Come on, cook," Zoro's jaw skimmed the curve of his shoulder. "Let me see you come."
Sanji groaned. His hand snapped between them, squeezing his cockhead for a long moment before dropping to his shaft. Zoro drifted back a hair, all the better to watch. He kept his hips moving, not stopping for a second. Each thrust had Sanji's cock and balls rocking toward his stomach. A thin bead of precum oozed from the tip of his erection, smearing wet over his abs. He collected the fluid as he went, falling headlong into his own pleasure.
"You're so–" Sanji paused. His eyes squeezed shut after a particularly brutal hit on his prostate. "Annoying."
"Yeah."
"You smell terrible."
"Yeah."
"I hate your voice."
"Yeah."
"Fuck," Sanji bit his lip.
Zoro rocked deep inside, hitting all of his sensitive nodes and nodules in a line. Sanji's hand stuttered over his cock, holding tight before jerking wildly. Suddenly, his toes curled in the air. His face screwed up, then relaxed into a loud groan. He came hard over his stomach, painting pearlescent strands as high as his pecs.
Sanji's hole tensed as he orgasmed, clenching hard enough to make Zoro slow his pace. His cock felt like it was trapped in a vise. He twitched, suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of his own burning lust. It roared in his skull, screaming at him to take. To claim. To fill Sanji full and never let him go. He was unprepared for the sensation, even after everything. The fight was gone, but in its place was something like need.
Had he ever felt need before? He couldn't recall. There was only his goal and the sea. The ship and the crew. The dawn and the dusk, and all the places he could never quite find again.
Sanji's eyes slipped closed above him, relaxed and trusting. Zoro finally stepped back from the door, stumbling until he found a crate. Sanji flopped down on top of it willingly, flexible enough to ignore Zoro's erection still lodged inside. Then he let go of his own pulsing cock, spent and sated.
"Go ahead," he murmured from his new supine position, absently waving his hand.
Zoro picked up one of his legs, using it to give himself more leverage. He paused for a second, ignoring his surging desire to simply look. Sanji was all long lines and lithe muscle. He sprawled over the crate, elegant even with his ass hanging off the edge. The position gave the two of them just enough room to work with, practical without being showy. It was also quite a view. From Sanji's face to his softening cock, his skin flushed pink. His chest was stained with come, though the strands were almost invisible in the faint light. His expression was surprisingly satisfied, no longer carrying whatever stress he secretly held.
His eyelids fluttered open, and Zoro thrust again rather than be caught staring. He slipped in deep, groaning at the feeling. And he couldn't deny fucking like this was considerably easier than holding Sanji up against the door. He pulled nearly all the way back, relishing in the hot constriction before driving forward. His swords rattled at his waist, so he shifted them toward the small of his back. Kitetsu still thrummed, but it wasn't so overwhelmingly loud anymore. He didn't need his full focus to suppress the blade's bloodlust. It was back in harmony with the other two. Back where it belonged.
Sanji canted his hips, perfecting the angle. Zoro picked up his pace, driving after his own pleasure. His fingers curled around Sanji's leg, feeling power and muscle under his fingertips. That, more than anything else, sent him hurtling toward his peak. He grunted. Tension wound its way down his spine. His balls drew up. His abs flexed.
Below him, Sanji smiled. Lazy. Simple. Like he knew what was going to happen before it happened. Zoro thrust deeper, so deep he nearly bottomed out. He went to pull back, only for his orgasm to slam into him from behind. It knocked him that last little bit inside, sealing them together as a tidal wave of pleasure pulled him under.
He meant to pull out, but Sanji's leg wrapped around his hips, keeping him trapped. So he groaned instead, losing himself in the syrupy feeling of pleasure. It swallowed everything else, freeing all the tension still left inside him and scattering it away.
When he came back into himself, it was to callused hands pushing him away. He'd slumped somewhere during his release, collapsing over Sanji's messy chest. He stumbled backward, tactfully pulling up his pants and adjusting his swords. He was messy, sweaty and sticky, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Sanji was the same, naked and perched on the crate.
Zoro shrugged and glanced around, turning to find his discarded shirt.
"Oi," Sanji called as he moved. "Don't expect me to cook you breakfast."
Zoro paused, his back to the crate.
"You cook everybody breakfast."
That proved to be a mistake, because Sanji already had his shoes back on. His leg snapped out, kicking not at full power, but nearly there. Zoro blocked with Kitetsu, pleased to find the blade moving smoothly in his hand. The blow resonated, but it didn't hurt.
It was easy. Relaxed.
"Feeling better?" Sanji dropped his leg.
"Maybe," Zoro said, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
Maybe I want to do this again sometime.
Maybe he does, too.