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As far as Zoro’s concerned, the Thousand Sunny is a pretty good ship. 

They’ve only been sailing on him for about a week, but so far he’s been nothing but dependable. Probably packed too full of weird features, but Zoro’s a simple dude, so his opinion on the matter doesn’t count.

Really, his only problem with Sunny is that the cook hasn’t left the kitchen a single damn time since they escaped Water 7.

He’ll see the curly dumbass at mealtimes, sure, but outside of that, Sanji may as well be a ghost haunting their shiny new galley. A very kicky ghost. His explanation had been reasonable enough; something about a cook needing to know their kitchen inside and out, forging a bond with his new haven, blah blah. Zoro had been sulking at the time, so he’d said it was stupid, but all he got for his trouble was ‘I don’t wanna hear that from the jackass that spoons his swords every damn night’ and a firm boot to the ass.

The first time he sees Sanji leave the kitchen for something that isn’t his weirdly ritualistic bathing, they’re docking at some humid-ass jungle island, a brief pit stop to set their log pose. Most of the crew had already sprinted off into the dense greenery, caught up in Luffy’s excitement, but Zoro has no interest in the island. At least, not until Sanji pokes his head out of the galley and calls to Nami where she’s sunbathing on the deck above him.

“Nami-san, my love, do we have any money?”

Nami leans over the railing to look at him, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Not really, thanks to some people on this ship. Why?”

Sanji runs a hand through his hair with a sheepish smile. “I stocked the kitchen pretty well on Water 7, but they didn’t have a few of the more niche things I like to keep around.” He jerks his thumb toward the lively-looking port town a ways down the coast. “I was hoping maybe I could find some of it in town.”

She strokes her chin briefly, then hops over the railing and lands gracefully in front of him, pulling a depressingly thin billfold out of her bikini. Waving away the cook’s dorky heart-shaped smoke rings, she holds out a few crumpled bills and sternly says, “Just so we’re clear, this is only because I know you tried to save us some money on the booze bill at that party. It’s still going toward your debt.”

“Your kindness knows no bounds, sweet angel,” Sanji sings, letting her push the money into his open hand with no concern for the weight of the interest it comes with. Zoro would pity him if he wasn’t in a worse spot himself. 

As Nami wanders back to her lounge chair, Sanji strides down to the lawn, where Zoro had just been enjoying an afternoon nap. He opens one eye to watch the cook approach, paying perhaps a little too much attention to the still-bruised skin peeking out of his half-buttoned shirt, until Sanji comes even with him, digs the toe of his boot under Zoro’s ass, and snickers, “I know you’re enjoying these roots you’re growing, mossy, but I need my pack mule. Make yourself useful, would you?”

Zoro glowers at him, wrapping his hand around Sanji’s bony ankle and squeezing hard. Unfazed, Sanji’s teasing smile widens, although he tries to hide it with the hand holding his cigarette to his lips. Zoro’s of a mind to pull that ankle closer, to shove his pant leg up and sink his teeth into pale, gold-dusted skin, but before he can, Sanji worms out of his grasp and turns to hop off the ship, calling, “C’mon, light a fire under it.”

With a loud grumble, Zoro hauls himself to his feet and vaults over the railing after him, already sweating in the intense afternoon sunlight.


“How much damn money did the witch give you?” Zoro wheezes, his arms loaded with an alarming number of bags. “You’re gonna be in her service for the rest of your life.”

Sanji grins at him, wiggling his eyebrow suggestively. “That’s the idea, yeah.”

Zoro rolls his eyes and adjusts his grip on some of the more precariously loaded bags, watching as Sanji carefully inspects the big-ass eggplants he’s holding in each hand. The cook recusing himself this past week must be getting to Zoro more than he thought, because just the sight of those clever hands handling vegetables has him half-hard. 

He shoves that aside for now, though, focusing instead on the bustling marketplace around them, full of noisy stalls selling all kinds of weird shit. Fruits, vegetables, spices, jewelry, scarves, glimmering glass trinkets, anything one could think of and then some. 

“You know,” the cook snorts, already loading another bag onto Zoro’s back, “I’m kinda proud of you. You haven’t wandered away and gotten lost yet.”

That might be because it’s functionally been a week since he’s seen this curly dumbass and he’s starting to lose his shit, but rather than admit to that, Zoro just huffs a pissy, “Fuck off.” 

If Sanji sees through it, he doesn’t mention it. He does, however, fleetingly brush the tips of his fingers all down the inside of Zoro’s arm as he turns to continue through the market, which doesn’t help with his fraying self control much at all. 

As they reach the end of the long, hodgepodge arrangement of stalls, one of the many shouting voices seems to catch Sanji’s attention. Zoro had been hoping they could go back to the ship and maybe he could finally corner the cook, but Sanji’s already grinding out his cigarette under his boot and moving through the crowd, so he grumbles and hastens to catch up with him.

“Real, genuine North Blue frostforged steel!” comes the voice of a lively middle-aged woman, sheltered from the beating sun by the broad palms surrounding the market. “You can’t get these knives just anywhere, my friends, but today could be your lucky day! Oh, good day, sir!” 

Sanji nods his greeting, then gestures toward a long, delicate cloth spread out across the counter. “These the ones?”

“See for yourself,” the merchant says, all puffed up with pride. She flips the cloth up, revealing a long line of pretty standard-looking kitchen knives, if anyone were to ask Zoro. A few of them are absurdly long, and they all have smooth, lacquered wood handles in a fairly unusual shade of blue, but other than that, they look about the same as the ones in the kitchen already.

Before he can complain about it, Sanji points to one of the longer ones. “May I?”

“Of course!” The merchant lifts the knife and carefully hands it to Sanji. While he’s examining the blade, the merchant continues, “If you’re interested, they’re the prize for today’s contest.”

“Contest, huh?” 

“Yes, indeed! Today’s challenge is butchering.” With a grand sweep of her arm, the merchant gestures to a shaded marble stage a short ways behind her stall. On the stage is a pair of very dead boars, each about twice the size of the stall itself and then some. There’s a young man sitting in front of one of them, looking rather antsy, but other than that, this end of the market seems relatively deserted. Sanji blinks at the boar, then focuses on the knife again, engaged and attentive as always when his profession is involved. 

The blade is almost long enough to be a sword in its own right, long and thin with a subtle, graceful curve that tapers to a needle point nearly half a meter away from its oddly colored handle. As far as kitchen knives go, it’s kind of ridiculous, but the cook already has that excited gleam in his eye, so Zoro refrains from mentioning it for now. 

He watches Sanji examine the blade, tilting it this way and that, his lips curved in a pleased smile. “It’s the real deal,” he hums, more for Zoro than anyone else. 

“That surprising?”

“Sort of. I haven’t seen any the whole time we’ve been in the Grand Line. Not real ones, anyway.” He holds it up, admiring the way the light shines on the flawless steel. “Perfectly balanced, light and flexible, and—” Sanji grabs one of Zoro’s hands, squeezing gently before carefully guiding his fingers to the flat of the blade.

The steel is hard and smooth, but it’s also alarmingly cold for having sat out in the summer sun for who knows how long. 

He frowns, already glancing around for an icebox or something, but Sanji’s been handling it in this burning heat for long enough that it should have warmed up by now. “That’s the special part about it,” Sanji says, starting to buzz with excitement. “North Blue steel’s always frigid. A lot of people try to fake it, but I know it when I see it.” 

Zoro raises an eyebrow at it, then at Sanji. “Does it being cold matter?”

“Mm, it’s not vital, but it can make a difference in certain kinds of fish. Plus, this one’s longer than the one I have. Good for sea king.” Sanji turns back to the merchant, who just looks happy to be there. “Can I still enter the contest?”

“Of course! You’re just in time, in fact.” She accepts the knife from Sanji and gently puts it away, then turns to the stage and calls, “Looks like you’ll have to work for it after all, Pascal.”

The guy sitting on the stage, Pascal or whatever, nods stiffly, then pulls himself to his feet and looks Sanji over rather nervously. Sanji gives him the nod as he follows the merchant to the boars, calmly rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. For lack of anything else to do, Zoro wanders after them, setting his mountain of grocery bags on the ground between his feet so he can at least cross his arms. 

“The rules are simple,” the merchant says. “Whoever does the better job wins. I assume I don’t need to explain what that means to either of you?”

Sanji nods vaguely as he walks in a slow circle around the boar, his attention entirely focused on the task at hand. Zoro can see his thin lips moving, muttering to himself the way he does whenever food is involved, his shrewd eye taking in every detail of the fairly fresh boar before he starts. 

“Alright then. You have an hour from when I blow the whistle. But before that—” The merchant grins brightly, her enthusiasm almost as blinding as the sun above them. “These boars were provided by my beautiful, graceful wife, Selena. She killed them with her bare hands, so make sure you offer your gratitude! Also, mister traveler, your tools are on the table there.”

The face Sanji makes, a strange combination of utter terror, loving admiration, and maybe a little arousal, leads Zoro to believe that he’s vividly imagining a woman killing two overly large boars with nothing but her body as a weapon, which even Zoro has to admit sounds impressive. The cook shakes himself out of it quickly enough, then turns to inspect the normal-looking knives provided, seemingly satisfied by the variety and the sharpness. His opponent apparently brought his own, based on how worn the sun bleached handles look. The blades, on the other hand, are as razor sharp and gleaming as the ones provided to the cook, clearly well loved. 

The merchant starts talking again, but Zoro isn’t listening, seeing as he’s far too distracted by Sanji picking up another long, narrow knife, similar to the one he’d handled earlier. The cook wielding sharp objects has always been a critical weakness of Zoro’s, but now that there’s a prize Sanji wants and a determined look on his face, Zoro’s pretty sure he should have jacked off before they left. Maybe twice.

At the sound of the whistle, Sanji grins widely, spinning the knife between his fingers so quickly the steel seems to glitter in the sunlight before getting right to it, and yeah. Definitely should have jacked off.

The merchant had given them an hour, but Sanji’s done in ten minutes. His arms move in strong, confident strokes, tossing various knives between his hands and shearing bristly pelt and meat off the boar like so much softened butter, tossing clean cuts of steak and who knows what else onto the wax paper spread across the table beside him. He cleans the boar down to the bone, then takes care of those too, and by the time he sets his knife down, there’s nothing left but a thin smear of blood on the cool stone stage. 

Still only a quarter of the way through his own boar, Pascal gapes at Sanji, just as gobsmacked as the merchant. Sanji unties his apron and wipes his hands on it, then calmly lights a cigarette, the corners of his lips curled up in a tiny, proud smile. 

“Uh,” the merchant says after a long moment, “Okay, I guess. The traveler wins?”

“Many thanks, my lady,” Sanji chirps, that smile widening. He accepts the rolled-up cloth case from the merchant, who’s still staring at where the boar used to be in disbelief, but rather than move back to Zoro, Sanji cradles the case in his arms and strolls over to his stunned opponent. “Pascal, was it?”

Pascal nods vacantly, then blinks up at him and blurts, “That was amazing.”

Sanji, who knows damn well how amazing he is in this regard, just grins at him. He turns his attention to the knives in Pascal’s hands and jerks his chin toward them. “Those the knives you’re looking to replace?”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Pascal frowns up at Sanji, his grip on the knives tightening protectively. “I’m not replacing them! They’re still the best knives out there! I just—” He wilts slightly, turning his gaze back to his boar. “They’re the only ones I have, and we can’t afford more right now.”

Sanji hums at that, giving the worn knives another careful eye. Apparently flustered, Pascal continues butchering his boar, his blades cleaving through flesh as easily as Sanji’s, just slower. The cook watches for a minute, then says, “They’re old as hell, huh?”

Pascal’s flushed frown deepens. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.” Sanji smiles brightly, politely piping smoke away from Pascal’s work. “You take damn good care of them. Keep up like that, they might outlast you.” Pascal nods stiffly, staring intently into his boar, but the quiet sound of the cook setting the cloth case on the counter and unrolling it draws his attention. 

Sanji retrieves the knife he’d been looking at earlier from the case, once again admiring its graceful curve in the sunlight. “To tell you the truth,” he says conversationally, “I really only need this fillet knife. My captain likes to catch fish bigger than our ship for every meal. But...” He tugs a sheath out of the case and slips the blade into it, then turns to grin at Pascal. “I get the feeling the rest of them would be in good hands with you. Am I right?”

Once again, Pascal just gapes at Sanji. “They’re—you won them, though.”

“Mm, that I did.” Sanji rolls the case closed and pats it, then turns on his heel and strides back over to Zoro, who may or may not be having several mild crises simultaneously. 

“Thank you!” Pascal calls, his awe clearly apparent.

Sanji waves over his shoulder, then moves behind Zoro and carefully deposits the sheathed knife into the bag slung over his back, humming cheerfully. Seeing as he’s been at full mast for the last ten minutes and is starting to get pissy about it, Zoro grumbles, “Don’t you have enough knives already, shit cook? What do you need another one for?”

Rather than get pissy right back, Sanji hums, “Say, Zoro.” 

Zoro raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder, only briefly distracted by the peaceful smile on the cook’s face. “What.”

“Each of your swords... are they interchangeable?” Zoro frowns at him, because Sanji definitely already knows the answer to that question. Unfazed by his silence, Sanji continues, “They all have one purpose, which is helping you reach your goal. But each of them performs certain tasks better, right? Or suits your moods better? If you only need one sword for something, do you just reach blindly for whichever one your hand lands on first?”

“Of course not,” Zoro huffs, offended by the mere idea.

Sanji moves in front of him then, giving him this wide, gorgeous grin that teems with excitement, one he usually only wears when he’s talking about that legendary ocean of his. Zoro doesn’t get to see that particular grin nearly enough, but now it’s right in front of him, and even better, it’s just for him. 

“Why would kitchen knives be any different for me?” the cook asks, which Zoro supposes is a fair point, but given that all the blood in his brain has evacuated to his dick, he can’t really give it that much thought. 

Then, of course, of course, the beautiful bastard has to go and make it so much worse.

Still wearing an adorable little smile, Sanji steps close and brushes his lips against Zoro’s burning cheek, the kiss light but sweet and lingering.

The affection is rare enough as it is, but they’re in public. There are plenty of women around, too, each prettier than the last, and yet that sparkling blue eye is still focused solely on Zoro, whose face may or may not be nearing flash point. 

Sanji pats Zoro’s shoulder like he didn’t just break him entirely, then turns and looks toward another stall, but Zoro’s so done shopping it’s not even funny.

“Cook.” Sanji blinks curiously at him, so he picks up the bags between his feet and croaks, “Where’s the ship?”

Still clearly confused, Sanji jerks his thumb over his shoulder, which is directions enough for Zoro.

Without giving the cook a chance to protest, Zoro sprints past him, haphazardly scooping him up as he goes. Sanji complains and flails, clinging to him at odd angles, but Zoro just adjusts his slight weight on his shoulder and runs faster. 

When they come up on the ship, Zoro doesn’t bother with the rope ladder. Fueled by soul-consuming thirst, he leaps from the rickety dock up onto Sunny’s lawn, which earns him a genuinely hilarious bleat of alarm from his wriggling cargo. Zoro stows that sound away for later, when he’s more in the mood to tease him about it. For now, he takes the stairs three at a time and bursts through the door to the galley, only letting the cook climb off him so he can dump his endless bags on the table, then set his swords beside them.

“Fuck, moss, what’s gotten into you—” 

Seeing as he doesn’t have the words to answer that, Zoro fists his hand in the cook’s shirt and yanks him into a messy, demanding kiss, licking between his lips with a fervor that has Sanji breathing a hitched gasp. He rests his hands on Zoro’s face and parts his lips for him, which only serves to drive him wilder. 

Wrapping his arms around that slender waist, Zoro bullies Sanji over to the couch and pushes him onto it, only taking a moment to admire how good he looks lying there all flushed and flustered, clothes and hair disheveled. He kneels on the couch between those long legs, leaning down to kiss him again, and when Sanji pulls him closer and wraps his thighs around his waist, all Zoro can do is groan. 

He rocks his hips into Sanji’s, grinding his aching arousal against him, and if he wasn’t worked up enough as it is, the way the cook arches into him with a soft, insistent noise would do the job just fine. 

Overwhelmed by the need to feel Sanji’s bare skin, Zoro reaches between them to fumble with the stupid buttons holding his shirt closed, sating himself for the moment by sucking Sanji’s lower lip between his. He sinks his teeth into it, which earns him a huffy sigh and a buck of those slender hips, and if he wasn’t certain that harming the cook’s shirt would get him kicked straight into the jungle, he would have shredded it by now. The frustrated growl he breathes between kisses only seems to turn the cook on more, based on the way he yanks Zoro’s shirt out of his haramaki and stuffs his hands under it. 

Having Sanji’s warm hands on his chest, squeezing and groping, is rather distracting, but the low moan he breathes against Zoro’s lips gets him back on track pretty quick. He tugs open the last button and shoves the fabric away from Sanji’s chest, then drags his own hands down smooth skin with a ragged groan, only lingering for a moment before moving to wrestle his belt open next. 

Zoro’s madness is apparently catching, seeing as Sanji doesn’t even complain about the rough treatment of his clothes. Instead, he arches into his attention with a stuttered sigh and digs the heel of his boot into Zoro’s ass. Taking that as encouragement, Zoro licks into him feverishly, pawing open his pants so he can grip Sanji’s cock through his underwear. He’s already just as hard as Zoro, which naturally just gets him hotter, leaning into his kisses and stroking him through thin, silky fabric.

Sanji squirms under him, his hands fisting in Zoro’s haramaki as he rocks into the hand on him. His head falls back against the couch, his breath quick and panting, so Zoro lets him be for the moment, instead moving his lips to Sanji’s pulse. He sinks his teeth into sensitive skin with a groan and ruts his hips against the cook’s ass, one foot braced against the floor to lend strength to his needy movements. The motion makes Sanji slide up the couch, so Zoro grabs his thigh and yanks him back into his lap, which earns him another breathy moan, and yeah, he needs to get inside Sanji immediately.

With one last sloppy kiss, Zoro sits up and hauls his shirt and haramaki off, then pulls himself to his feet. “Pants,” he grunts, already striding into the kitchen to snatch the oil off the counter. Sanji grumbles, either at Zoro’s demands or at the misuse of his cooking oil, but he kicks his boots aside and strips the rest of his clothes off anyway, so he can’t be all that mad about it. 

As Zoro moves back around the counter, he flicks his finger in a circle. It’s a vague gesture, but Sanji still gives him what he wants, albeit not without loudly rolling his eye. 

He flips over onto his stomach, supporting his weight on his elbows and arching his bare ass back in an elegant roll of his hips, then barks a noisy, pretty laugh when the sight makes Zoro walk straight into a chair. “You get lost, mossy?”

“Shut up,” Zoro grumbles, admittedly half-heartedly, seeing as most of his attention is focused on that perfect ass.

Kneeling between Sanji’s thighs, Zoro grips one of those pale cheeks and squeezes roughly, biting his lip at how perfectly the cook fits in his hands. Sanji glances back at him over his shoulder, blue eye dark and heavy, so Zoro makes quick work of slicking his fingers. He sets the oil aside somewhere, then rubs his fingers against Sanji, too worked up to bother teasing before he sinks one into him.

Sanji breathes a rough curse at the feeling, his head dropping. He rocks his hips back for more, always so fucking eager no matter how much he complains, which has always been a point of weakness for Zoro.

As he’s fingering him open, hooking two of them into his sweet spot just for the way it makes him gasp, Zoro fumbles his pants open with his other hand. He shoves them down just enough to let his cock bounce out, so hard it aches, heavy in his palm when he wraps his hand around himself. The feeling wrings a low groan out of him, his impatience threatening to boil over, so he shuffles closer and buries his fingers deep, letting his knuckles brush over Sanji’s flushed ass with every loose stroke. 

Once Sanji’s riding back into his fingers, his breath panting out quick and quiet, Zoro eases his fingers out of him, then smears oil over his cock. He wastes no time gripping Sanji’s hips and pulling him up onto his knees, then guiding his cock into him, stuffing him full in a steady slide until he doesn’t have anything left to give. 

After a week without, the tight, clinging heat of Sanji’s body around him makes Zoro’s vision swim, his self control hanging on by a single proud thread.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Zoro groans, leaning over him on one hand so he can grind deep. Sanji gasps at the feeling, so he does it again, huffing a laugh at the way the cook’s bitten nails claw into the couch cushion. “Missed this tight ass so bad. Can I have your kitchen’s sloppy seconds yet?”

Sanji grinds his teeth at the taunt, then shoves his hips back into Zoro’s lap and squeezes hard, which is pretty effective retaliation with as pent up as Zoro is. He rocks into the feeling with a brainless sigh, his grip on Sanji’s hip tightening, half to encourage him and half to hold him still. This bare friction is more than enough to remind Zoro of how badly he’s wanted to fuck this pretty, curly dumbass until he’s drooling and whining all week, so he pulls his hips back, then snaps right back into him, too desperate to work up to the rough, needy pace they both like so much.

It’s a good thing they have the ship to themselves, because Sanji starts off loud, exactly what Zoro had hoped for. He tries to muffle his sounds against his forearm, but Zoro isn’t having that, easily distracting him by leaning over him and nudging his nose against his temple. Eager for his affection, Sanji arches back toward him, offering himself up for breathless, sloppy kisses and whimpering when he gets them. 

Bracing his boot against the floor again, Zoro shifts closer so he can kiss him deeper, better, but the change in angle has Sanji throwing his head back against Zoro’s shoulder, his cry loud and sweet. 

Well, if the cook’s too worked up to kiss, that’s fine. Hearing his voice is a decent enough exchange, but Zoro’s still gonna have to get the closeness he craves some other way.

He brushes one last bitey kiss against the turn of Sanji’s jaw, then sits up, scooping the boneless cook up with him so he can sit him in his lap. Sanji breathes a confused whine, shoving his hips down onto Zoro’s cock, which is far too much temptation for a man as wound up as he is. Before either of them can get impatient, Zoro wraps his arms around the cook’s tiny waist and hoists him up onto his knees, just to give himself enough room to start moving again.

Zoro knows this body almost as well as he knows his own, so he knows exactly how to move so that the hard curve of his cock drags all along Sanji’s sensitive prostate. His reward for his expertise is almost more incredible than the tight heat squeezing hard around him: all these choked, needy sounds Sanji’s too fuzzy to swallow down, and the way he rocks back into every pounding thrust, the hypnotic bobbing of his flushed, dripping cock. He keeps time blindingly well, his lethal hips snapping desperately, instinctively even as his head falls back against Zoro’s shoulder again. 

“R-right there,” Sanji gasps, “Fuck me right there, shitty houseplant, god—”

Normally, Zoro has no problem with the cook’s increasingly creative nicknames for him. Watching him try to come up with something new in the middle of a heated argument has been one of Zoro’s favorite hobbies for a while now.

When they do this, though, all Zoro wants is to hear that smoky, breathless voice calling his actual name.

He sinks his teeth into Sanji’s earlobe and fucks him harder, growling low and ragged right into his ear. The sound has the cook arching tighter, shoving his hips back into Zoro’s lap with a cracked whine, so while he’s reeling, Zoro takes the opportunity to tighten his grip on Sanji’s waist, gathering his narrow body back against his chest and pinning him in place. 

Simple though the restraint may be, being held so close all he can do is squirm has Sanji trembling in his lap, his noises going sweet and airy. He reaches back to tangle his fingers in Zoro’s hair, fisting them around what he can and tugging, both to encourage him and because he knows it drives him wild. Biting another growl into his shoulder, Zoro loosens his grip to find Sanji’s free hand with one of his, lacing their fingers and squeezing as he drags a wet, messy line of kisses up that slender throat. 

Sanji arches into the feeling with an adorably trembling whine, both the affectionate twine of their fingers and the rough, desperate rhythm of Zoro’s hips leaving him writhing harder. Eager to help him out, Zoro guides their hands to Sanji’s soaked cock, wrapping their fingers around him and holding tight. 

The resulting cry of, “Nnh, fuck, Zoro—” echoes around the galley. Probably around the whole ship, too, but Zoro couldn’t care less if the world hears them. 

Burying a brainless snarl in Sanji’s pulse, Zoro strokes him feverishly, pounding his cock right up into his sweet spot both to reward him and to bully him. The feeling has Sanji quaking for him, his voice getting louder, sweeter, coming more and more often shaped around Zoro’s name until he can’t handle it anymore.

Sanji draws tighter and tighter, raspy and brainless as he pants, “‘M gonna come, keep—keep, keep— god, Zoro—”  

He could probably offer a few good ends to the cook’s trailing thought, but before he can get any of them out, Sanji’s coming hot and wet over their fingers, in long, needy arcs that leave a splattered mess on the couch, raking his short nails over the nape of Zoro’s neck as he cries out for him and clamps down around him. Zoro is, understandably, distracted.

As he strokes him through his orgasm, his fingers guiding Sanji’s, Zoro gathers him close again and buries himself to the hilt. The feeling of being stuffed full again has the cook squirming for him, so tight and hot around every aching inch of him, far too good to leave now that he’s here. Still clinging to Sanji’s waist, Zoro grinds into him, rough, shallow thrusts that let him lose himself in sharing Sanji’s pleasure. 

Zoro’s already hovering right on the edge, ready to let go, when Sanji peaks out and melts into his lap. He’s panting hard, but rather than try to catch his breath, he turns his head, nuzzling feverish little kisses along Zoro’s cheek.

The affectionate brush of those soft lips against his skin is more than enough.

Biting a desperate, mindless groan into the curve of Sanji’s shoulder, Zoro ruts his hips against that incredible ass and spills inside him as deep as he can, cradling him against his chest just to keep him close. He really did miss this, the sound of Sanji’s voice, the perfect ladder of their laced fingers, the fit of their bodies angled tight together—fuck, Zoro needs Sunny to last them the rest of their lives, just so he doesn’t have to go a full week without seeing the damn cook’s pretty face ever again.

It’s kind of embarrassing, how mushy he gets whenever he and Sanji do this, but he hasn’t come down enough for said mushiness to register before the galley door casually swinging open takes rather sudden precedence. 

As Sanji goes flying across the couch, snatching up his pants and acrobatically rolling into them as he goes, he fucking squeals. Zoro hasn’t heard that sound since the colony of fuck-off huge spiders they’d run into on Skypiea. Shame that his dick is too out to properly appreciate how funny that particular scream always is.

Without pause, Franky walks right into the kitchen and fishes around in the fridge, whistling like he didn’t just walk in on two of his new crewmates fucking each other stupid. When he bends down to where the cola lives, Zoro uses the opportunity to wipe his hands off on his discarded shirt and put his dick away. That’s about as decent as he’s getting, so while Sanji’s scrambling for the rest of his clothes, Zoro does them the favor of throwing his shirt over the mess the cook had left all over the couch.

Sanji’s only barely clothed when Franky stands up again, lips wrapped around the mouth of a rapidly-emptying bottle of cola. He drains it, then closes his restocked stash and tosses the bottle with the other empties, already turning on his heel to leave, which is apparently too casual for Sanji’s thinning sanity.

“Um,” he squeaks, only growing more awkward when Franky turns to look at him over the rims of his sunglasses. “How—how long have you been here?”

Franky blinks at him, then raises an eyebrow. “‘Bout a week.”

Sanji rakes a hand through his hair, which only succeeds in making him look more fucked out. “No, I mean—today, when did you come back?”

The booming cackle Franky lets out has Sanji making the world’s sourest face, while Zoro slouches down on the couch and crosses his ankle over his knee, not bothering to hide his grin at the cook’s expense. 

As he’s wiping a tear from his eye, Franky laughs, “Bud, I never left.”

“Oh,” Sanji says faintly. His hands are remarkably steady while he strikes a match, but the illusion of calmness is rather ruined when he uses it to light the two cigarettes clenched between his teeth. 

“Yeah, I’m still setting up my super workshop. Can’t say I was expecting to move in.” Still chuckling, Franky points loosely at the couch and says, “That fabric’s stain-proof, by the way. Just wipe it down and it’ll be good to go.”

“Oh yeah?” Zoro leans over and grabs his shirt, then gives the cushion a single haphazard wipe. It seems good enough, surprisingly, so he nods his approval and settles back into his comfortable slouch. 

Franky taps his temple knowingly before leaving the galley, his noisy whistling echoing all the way into the workshops down below. 

The cook’s been awful quiet, so Zoro turns to check on him, not all that surprised to find his cigarettes already burned down to the filters, long ashes dangling precariously. Rolling his eyes, Zoro snorts, “Breathe, cook,” which doesn’t calm Sanji down at all, but it does snap him out of his thousand-yard stare.

“Thefuckdoyoumeanbreathe?” he squawks, an alarmingly dense cloud of smoke escaping in a rush that leaves the cook almost completely obscured. Two cigarettes in one draw will do that. 

“I mean,” Zoro says slowly, before pursing his lips and loudly exhaling, dumbing the process down as much as possible since the cook apparently still doesn’t get it. 

The garbled noises Sanji makes are probably intended to be words, but he’s already smoldering at the edges, so it’s not surprising that they all run together. He waves his arms at Zoro with some emphasized garbling, only getting more agitated, so Zoro sticks a finger in his ear and groans, “Jeez, Twinkerbell, relax.”

Sanji combusts almost instantly. Like, his whole body. It’s actually kind of impressive.

Zoro would comment on the scorch mark left on the ceiling, were it not for Sanji suddenly, violently removing him from the galley. And the ship. And, arguably, the island.

As he surfaces from the bay, shaking water off like a dog, Zoro figures he probably earned that one, but it’d still be nice if he could go more than a few days without being forcibly ejected from whatever country he’s in at the time.