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Dinner is over, and all the barrels of booze licked clean. Even his beer is empty, and he misses the warmth of the bonfire now that it has been put out for the night.
He's bored. There's not much more to do on the island they feasted on, now that their Captain's thirst for party has finally died down.
His Nakama are all in various states of exhaustion and inebriation. He watches Brook staggering beside Franky, who rubs his eyes with one large hand as the other rests on one of Robin's shoulders. She looks bleary-eyed herself, quiet as she walks along the two men back to the Sunny.
Nami is already back onboard, no doubt tending to her nightly routines before she finally crawls under the covers.
She had seemed exhausted today. At least their stop on that deserted beach did some good to her.
Chopper is drowsily sitting on Usopp's shoulders as Luffy trots behind them with heavy heels and dragging feet. His head sags on the sides periodically before he jolts himself back awake, and there's a bit of drool dripping from his jaw that he doesn't seem aware of.
Even their sniper, one of the lightest sleepers of the crew, looks slightly unsteady on his feet. His voice cracks around the edges as he tells the boys surrounding him about one of his many stories of adventure, undeterred by the yawns that threaten to crack his jaw every minute or so.
There is one crewmate missing.
Zoro looks around with a frown, but he can't seem to spot the blonde mop of hair that he's looking for, nor the lanky body that's attached to it.
The vacated beach is quiet, apart from the occasional rustle of the wind in the large palms, and it's strange, how the night seems eerie now that he's alone under the moon. The sand under his feet is not even warm anymore, and the sea seems louder as everything else around is silent and asleep.
It makes him think in confusion, that it's unlike the cook to vacate a place without making sure nobody's left behind beforehand.
And Zoro didn't see him climb back aboard the Sunny either, so he ponders about what could have urged the Cook to leave so promptly and discreetly despite the end of the night, without even giving any notice to the other crewmates.
He doesn't get too much time to hurt his brain with that particular question, when there's some shuffle behind him and the smell of smoke bellowing in the air.
The swordsman sighs in discreet relief.
A strong heel gently digs in the small of his back, and he turns around to grab with a tight grasp at the raised ankle, arching an eyebrow at the Cook questioningly.
The man meets his eyes with a blank look, unconcerned by the position of weakness that he's been put in. He takes a drag of his smoke and blows the content of his lungs in Zoro's face, observing him with intent eyes.
"What," the swordsman grunts, waving the smoke away. Sanji blinks lazily in a cat-like manner.
"Moss." He simply greets. His voice is slurred, his pace uneven, and his eyes especially look foggy like the deep sea atmosphere before a storm. The leg in Zoro's hold lowers just a bit, and he lets it go without a fight, uncomfortably feeling the strain of his own arm after a busy day.
With a groan, he links his fingers and reaches the palms of his hands towards the midnight sky. A few of his joints crack audibly under the pressure, and the stretch makes his whole body pleasantly shiver, the lights dancing behind his eyelids for only a second.
Something flashes in Sanji's eyes then, and he licks his lips unconsciously, gaze zeroing on the sliver of bronze skin unveiled by the rise of his white shirt. It lingers there for an instant, then flits over his whole body to eventually settle back on his face.
Zoro has the distant feeling that it's only rived on his mouth, but he doesn't have the energy to think about the implications of that gesture. He's probably imagining it anyways, he reasons, so he turns around in direction of the ship without paying mind to the tightness deep in his chest.
"I want you," is what the Cook finally says, left behind standing in the same place. Zoro stops in his tracks to gape at him.
"Huh?"
The Cook is serious. "I want you, Moss," he repeats, then takes a step closer.
Zoro feels the hair on his nape stand up at the words, yet he ignores the feeling to scowl in confusion. "Cook, you're drunk," he turns around. Cook, I thought you weren't interested in men, nor in me, he completes internally, but pride keeps him from voicing those specific thoughts.
He takes in the hazy fire burning in the man's eyes, only looking like he wants to ravage him on the spot in unsatiated hunger, and he almost wonders if his assumptions of where his affections lie were actually unfounded.
"Marimo..." Sanji purrs, and with another step takes the swordsman in a large embrace. He rubs his nose into the junction of his shoulder and throat, taking in his smell and the thickness of the muscle, and his silky hair gently brushes and tickles Zoro's cheek.
He feels the graze of some teeth on his skin with wide eyes and a harsh breath, and despite his growing confusion and the alarms blaring in his ears, he wants to forget everything, to just go with it and give up to the man's advances.
He wants this, has wanted this for months. It's enticing, really, to let go.
But he can't.
The Cook is obviously not in his right mind; in no way would he have asked for anything of the sort sober.
Zoro distances himself from the hug, gently prying the arms away from his body, and immediatly the Cook seeks the missing warmth with half-lidded eyes and an aborted whine. His lower lip looks heavy, and shiny, in the way he juts it out in a pout, and it takes all of the swordsman's restraint not to look any longer or place his own mouth on it.
He bites his lips thoughtfully and takes a deep inhale to ground himself.
"Hey, Curly," he whispers, taking both of his hands in his own and finally making him come to a stop. Darkened blue eyes rise to his gaze, waiting.
"You know what. If by the time you're sober, you remember this and still want it, then come find me, okay?"
Sanji still observes him with that hungry burn in his eyes, but there's also a dejected acceptance softening their edges. The man straightens up on his heels, a bit wobbly from the alcohol, and nods.
Zoro can't help but smile in bemused tenderness at the sulky frown of his unusual eyebrows.
"Now, come on, Ero-cook," he says with a jerking motion of the head in direction of Sunny. "Let's take you to bed."
Zoro's night is restless and agitated.
He can't seem to forget about the heat that had been burning in the Cook's eye, can't seem to really process the primality of it and the sort of reverence mingled within. How that look was turned to him, he couldn't figure out. But regrettably, he doubted he would ever have the chance to see it again.
The day after is hectic in a way only young journeys can be. Nami has found a new course after their stop on the deserted island, and has been vocal about her hopes for the next one to be populated and filled with business prospects.
Zoro doesn't care for that, doesn't care for much that day, only for the clues —or rather, their absences— that yesterday night wasn't some drunken and shameful mistake to the Cook.
After lunch, he assumes that he has forgotten about it, or that he perhaps has regained his senses and sobriety amidst his sleep. The man doesn't do so much as interact with him like he usually does, only sometimes absentmindedly throwing glances in his direction before realizing with a blink the drifting of his gaze.
The subject of the previous night is never raised, and Zoro doesn't plan to change that fact. Since long ago has he resigned himself to accept his unrequited attraction, and although the events hurt in a way he never really experienced before, the pain is still always of the same nature, aching but numbed by its inevitability.
He's used to it, really. The Cook is straight, he's not, and the flow inevitably stops halfway at their intersection.
He knows he won't probably be able to catch much sleep the next night either, so he takes the watch shift and climbs to sulk in the crow's nest at the missed opportunity.
At least, he's glad that nothing happened then. The consequences would have been terrible.
Sometimes around midnight, he sees the last lights of the galley go out. He doesn't bother looking to the deck to see the Cook make his way to the boy's room.
The night is dark now that all lights are turned off, starry deep blue shining on the curls of the waves. A window creaks when a gust of wind engulfs in the crow's nest, and it renders the soft repetitive thump on the ladder to the room unnoticed by the swordsman's perception.
Then, a head pops at the hatch of the crow's nest, and inquisitive blue eyes meet Zoro's disbelieving gaze.
"Still up to what you offered last night?" the Cook asks as a straightforward greeting.
Zoro blinks in awe.
"You came," he says in lieu of an answer.
Sanji shrugs in this elegant yet nonchalant manner of his. "Yeah, well. Had the whole day to debate if my memories were just a drunken fantasy or true words of yours."
And Zoro can't help but laugh at that, a weird sense of relief flooding his chest. Sanji smiles with him from his spot, a gentle and cheeky curve to his mouth, the derision of the situation not lost to him either.
"So, can I come?" he asks again, chin resting on his arms crossed on the room's floor. Zoro feigns indifference and shrugs.
"Don't know, can you?"
And Sanji suddenly looks at him with a new intensity, that hungry glint back again in his eyes —and shit, Zoro can't get enough of it.
"So that's how it'll be," he says as he crosses in two impossibly long strides the distance between the hatch and where Zoro is sitting.
Suddenly a warm mouth clashes with his own, stealing a fierce kiss that he happily lets him take. He pushes greedily with his own face, his nose brushing at the other man's cheekbone, and hums contentedly in the embrace.
There's the ghost of a hot breath on his skin when they eventually part, but the mouth that migrates to his throat never fully breaks the touch. It peppers with kisses the corner of his lips, and follows to his cheek and behind his ear along the way.
Zoro's breathing is slightly stuttered when Sanji rubs his face under his jaw, and he grabs a fistful of his hair, relishing in the pleased moan that the man lets out in between pecks at the gesture.
"So you really did want this, huh," Zoro rasps, a bit breathless at the unexpected drive of the other man on the side of his neck. He feels a set of teeth digging there and tenses with a sharp intake of breath. Sanji licks at the bite apologetically, eyes rising to meet his.
"Took me to be shit-faced to finally man up, I guess," the cook explains in a low gravelly voice. Zoro's stomach does a funny somersault, and he fiercely ignores the growing burn in his low belly, fueled by the tone of the Cook and his attention on his pulse point. "But I've wanted it for a long time. Just never came around to stop being a pussy and ask for it before yesterday."
Zoro huffs in understanding, fingers playing with the Cook's supple hair and mind going pleasantly numb under his attention.
The man follows as an afterthought, "I've wanted this since we met, actually."
"Fuck," the other chokes out in between two heaving breaths. "Me too."
Sanji wheezes, the corners of his mouth going up. "'Twas really time we take our head out of of our asses, huh?"
A breathy laugh. "That it was, Damn Cook. That it was."
There's a weird sense of longing, of barely concealed impatience now that the striking truth is out. Zoro feels dizzy and lightheaded, drunk on the feeling of the other man's unrelenting mouth on his skin, and Sanji himself seems to settle to his work on his throat with renewed vigor, his respiration louder and quicker.
He distantly wonders if his neck will bruise in a few hours, inking on his body the proof of their combined lust.
The edges of his vision are blurry, and he can't quite stifle the surprised yelp that he lets out when a hand comes to grab a fistful of his ass. The sound is nothing short of embarrassing, and his face burns fiercely with it.
"Too much?" Sanji breathes at his neck, his mouth breaking the contact with the sensitive skin with an audible and wet pop that inevitably comes to fuel the blaze in the swordsman's lower stomach.
"No," he assures with a scowl, tight hand encircling the wrist below his rear and keeping it there. "Surprised me, 's all."
The mouth at his throat stretches in a grin, and a set of sharp canines pokes and prods at his collarbones, graze the skin alluringly so. A shiver rattles his entire body, and he throws his arms around the man's shoulders, his legs around his slim waist. There's a sharp intake of breath at the gesture.
Zoro fervently seeks Sanji's mouth, and he happily presents it to him.
His lips are a captivating deep shade of pink, a bit swelled by the unrelenting effort at his neck, judging by the tingling that burns pleasantly there. The mere thought of Sanji biting and marking his throat with blood-riddled lips makes him shudder again, and he grabs the man's face to take a better look at them.
Sanji gasps at the force of his grasp on his jaw and parts his lips in shock —Fuck, they are so plump and bright and hypnotizing, and Zoro wants to suck them raw so bad.
He gives him a carnal smile, teeth bared in a challenging fashion as he shamelessly eyes his full lower lip, and sees with satisfaction the desire that seems to ooze from the Cook's already lust-riddled gaze. More blood rushes to his face, and soon it drips from his nose and down his lips in mesmerizing scarlet rivulets. He doesn't even seem aware of it as he smudges the color on his face with a brush of the back of his hand.
Zoro won't ever admit how pleased the sight makes him, how intoxicating the starking contrast between porcelain skin and bloody red is to his greedy senses.
He wants to lick the blood clean off the Cook's handsome face.
Their lips clash once again, from who's initiative he can't be too sure, and Sanji now tastes like steel; Zoro relishes in it. He licks at his philtrum and the corner of his mouth, nips and sucks at his lower lip, and lets his teeth graze the thin skin of his amenable mouth. They both let out an occasional moan, muffled by the other's face on their own, and the cook's second hand come for the other side of Zoro's rear, bringing him impossibly closer as he squirms his way further into the space between the swordsman's legs.
There's a slight grind, something light and prospective, but it still sends a jolt to both of their spines in barely concealed anticipation.
Zoro would be totally blind not to feel the appreciation and devotion of the Cook from his touches alone. He can't help but grin into the kiss, appreciating in delight and with the lasts of his composure the spike in luck that he earned tonight.
Sanji pushes a little closer with a groan, and one of his hands flies to his collar as they break the kiss, both breathless and heavy-lidded when they bring their forehead together. Zoro doesn't even need to be asked to tug his shirt off, almost tearing it in multiple spots in his haste, and the hand that was feeling his chest over the fabric instantly flies back to one of his pectorals.
"How do you want to do it," the Cook asks in that sultry hoarse smoker voice of his.
"Take me," Zoro demands immediately, and he catches even himself off-guard with his unrestrained vehemence.
The cook's cheeks flush in a burgundy shade as he looks at him in awe, his eyes darkening with lust at his words. As if on impulse, the hand on his chest squeezes one of his pectoral in a tight grasp, almost in a knee-jerk reaction as nails dig into skin, and another shiver of pleasure runs down Zoro's spine as Sanji openly gapes at the plump flesh slightly overflowing between his fingers.
"Fuck, you're so hot," he says, utterly enraptured by the lax muscle as he plays with it, teeth nipping at the base of his throat but eyes never actually leaving the sight.
(Hah, Zoro always suspected the Shit-cook to be a boob guy.)
"You're," the green-haired man heaves thick foggy breaths at the multiple stimulations at his chest, neck, and crotch, "not so," huff, "bad," huff, "yourself."
He squeaks a little when the other unconsciously brushes in just the right way over his nipple, and it feels like the beast unleashes in Sanji's eyes, given the primal smirk that stretches on his features at his unexpected discovery.
And before Zoro knows it, a warm damp mouth covers one of his nipples, and he throws his head back against the wall to let out a raspy grunt at the vivid tingling sensation, tugging at blond hair in his sudden daze.
Blue rises to steel, barely open and lucid, and the mouth sucking on his chest stretches in a wide and sly —albeit lazy— smile. There's a glint in his gaze that Zoro can't quite interpret yet, but all rational thinking evaporates when a tongue comes to play with his nipple.
Sanji's gaze is firmly set on him as he gauges his reaction, and when Zoro starts to squirm at the stimulation, the tongue stills.
"Fuck, don't stop, don't stop," he moans pleadingly at the sudden neglect, far too gone to remember his attitude.
"Not planning on it," Sanji assures against his chest with a satisfied grin, his voice rumbling deep in Zoro's thorax. The tongue prods skillfully yet again at his erect nipple, its cadence picking up in intensity, and the green-haired man bites his lips against a deep moan that threatens to spill from his lips.
The fucker knows his shit, that's for sure. Well, all the better for him, Zoro figures.
Deft fingers come to work at his waist, and an arm snakes behind his back to place a flat and steady hand between the swordsman's shoulder blades. Sanji impatiently tugs at his belt, and, "fuck," he curses in a low mutter at his struggle, or perhaps in excited anticipation.
Eventually, the thing caves under his hands and he follows with the pants, unconsciously wetting his lips as his eyes undress the swordsman even faster than his hands ever could.
"Let's get this show on the road," he says, promises, as he finally frees him from the increasing strain of the fabric. A hand comes to feel at his crotch, and Zoro buckles at the man's waist, thighs reflexively tightening around their hold and earning a lust-riddled groan from the blonde.
Fuck, he distantly thinks, eyes leaving for a second only the beautiful sight of the man below him to glance at the sea through the opened windows. Hope there won't be any enemy ships to ruin the night.