Chapter Text
The kiss is lazy. Sloppy. Unhurried, like everything around you for the last three days. The broken skin of your chapped lips catches uncomfortably on Zoro’s own parched mouth, and you feel the unmistakable taste of blood on your tongue. You pull back, licking your lips, instinctively trying to find the wound. The hand from your jaw slides into your hair, and he pulls you closer once again, so he can kiss you, without moving himself.
The sea is calm. Vast and smooth, like a mirror put there only to reflect the ever-changing color of the skies. There are no ripples on the surface, no hint of wind in the sails, no breeze to tickle the skin and bring a respite from the heat.
The palms are rough, long healed blisters add texture to the hand sliding down your side. Short nails scrape the skin, the touch barely there and yet expressly possessive. Your own hands are busy keeping you in place – one on the deck pushing you upright, and one on his nape securing you close. Both are damp with perspiration, but is the heat to blame, or is it the arousal? That you can’t tell.
The air is heavy, damp, sticky. Suffocating. There is no haven to be found, shadows do not bring relief, the heat doesn’t stop on the deck. It seeps into wood; it falls through cracks to smother anyone who tries to escape it.
The need is strong. As you move higher, wanting to feel his body against yours, eager hand coerces you on top of him. You move your leg to straddle the swordsman, your thighs unstuck disturbingly, but you don’t dwell on the feeling. Your knee falls on the deck between Zoro’s legs, and now both of your hands are free to hold him close. Zoro moves, bending his legs, sending you forward, flush against him. You never stop kissing.
The ship is quiet. There are no waves to rock it for wood to protest nor water to hit the broadsides, no wind to fill the sails and tighten the ropes. There is no need for course change, so the helm is mute. There is nothing to be done, so the crew doesn’t do anything, too.
The ship is quiet, but you are certainly not. Maybe you should be. Maybe you should be quieter, more embarrassed of the sounds, the act. But neither of you are, making out on the stern in the shadow of the higher deck. The cut on your lips burns, but it doesn’t deter you from kissing him, biting down on Zoro’s lips every time he irritates the wound. So, there are groans, and hisses, and sharp inhales woven between wet lewd sounds.
A long groan rises above the others – you’ve moved down, chapped lips marking their way with little bites and nibbles. Along the jaw, neck, onto the shoulder. That’s where you are now, teeth sinking into the skin. It’s salty from sweat and seawater, the taste alone is enough of an invitation, but the rumbling sound rolling through his chest and fingers tangled in your hair tightening against your scalp, sending pinpricks of pain down your spine, make it so much more enjoyable.
The hand from your waist slides lower, creeps onto the small of your back, long fingers reaching the waistband of your shorts. One finger teasingly dips under the fabrics, just as you bite down again. Once again, you’ve moved higher, so this time your teeth are worrying at a muscle.
The same rumbling sound rolls through his chest, and this time your fingers follow the sound up his torso. One nail scrapes Zoro’s nipple, and his groan dies before it even leaves his throat, dissipated by a full-body shiver. Instinctively, you grind down, rubbing yourself on his thigh. You are high on his smell, his sweat on your tongue, his skin under your palms, his warmth, his nails sinking into your cheek, coaxing your hips to move.
And you do, swaying slightly to the sides until you get the seam of your shorts pushing against you just right. You don’t need to look at his shoulder to know how red his skin is, you can feel its warmth and pulsing against your lips, but you hear no protest when you move to a new spot, signaling your intent with a barely-there graze of your teeth.
In the corner of your eye, you see that he’s looking at you intently, earing jiggling minutely with every breath, which are getting more labored with every roll of your hips. Instead of biting down, you suck the skin, and Zoro doesn’t even bat an eyelid. He seems frozen under you, the only movement coming from his hand on your ass and the jiggle of his earrings. Zoro’s waiting, just like hunters do.
Your skin starts prickling under his intense gaze. Had you been a deer, you’d be frozen in the headlights of his eyes, sensing danger. However, you are not. And even if Zoro specializes in hunting individuals just like you, you are a rather fearless lot. Everything is still around you, air heavy and hot, and your world starts and ends with Zoro under you and the heat bubbling in your core.
You raise your eyebrow at him, lips still glued to his shoulder, and he mirrors you. You were questioning, Zoro is throwing a challenge. So, you bite him, incisors sinking deep, skin giving as not to break. You were intent on rolling it between your teeth, but you don’t get a chance.
Your world swirls as Zoro rolls both of you over, protective hands securing the back of your head and the small of your back to prevent any injures as you hit the deck. The wood protests – you do not. There is nothing to complain about when Zoro’s fingers hook behind the waistband of your shorts, and he drags them, with your underwear, down your legs. You kick them off your feet, impatient and missing his body. You are hot, your groin is pleasantly pulsing.
His head buries itself between your legs, fingers bruising your thighs. The first swipe of his tongue tickles, and you instinctively bring your legs higher, hand pushing the green-haired head down. The second one is more intent, lapping, tasting, promising – you do not try to classify any after that. There are bites. The teeth are involved, but far more delicately than yours were – but every scrape on your skin makes your body jerk. Your naked feet arch, so does your back, both hands pushing Zoro down. The shirt you still have on is drenched in sweat, and sticking to the warm wood below you. The pulsing you hear in your ears is deafening in the otherwise quiet calm. The shivers going down your body start getting rhythmical, you start to escape, legs shaking and jerking, but your palms are still flush against the back of his head. You hum, more than you moan, the constant whiny sound in the back of your throat conveying your feelings. Too much, not enough. Stop, more, go on, please, yes, no, like that.
Suddenly, it stops. You will yourself to relax your muscles, stopping the hum, sprawling on the deck, but you are not satisfied, the need is still burning in your core. Your skin is weirdly cold where his body has been. Your tongue darts out to soothe the cut on your lips, breath shaky on exhale.
The windchime-like jiggle of the earrings grabs your attention, and you open your eyes. Zoro is naked, now you can clearly see the tan lines on his biceps and neck line, and sprawling red of your bites on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by standing naked in the open, and he shouldn’t be, there is nothing to be embarrassed of. Broad shoulders, hard lines, narrow hips.
Hungry eyes.
He is not hurried, you see no desperation in his moves, as he languidly kneels. One leg, the other. Why would a hunter hurry, when the prey is already caught? There is no urgency, even though his body tells you the tale of his arousal. You could be annoyed at his arrogance, but the blood you’d need for it in your brain has long gone south.
And now his hips are slotting between your legs, his hands guide your ankles to hook behind his back. And now, he’s sliding forward, arms braced on the deck, caging you in. You greedily grab him, nails purposefully scratching long lines down his sweaty back. His face is right before you, you can see how he closes his eyes at the first sign of the pain, shoulder muscles flexing, head lolling to the side, enough for his neck to crack. You surge up, carefully biting his jaw, as your fingers finish their course on his ass.
His eyes flutter open, and he focuses on your face. There are no words exchanged, no are needed. The very first thrust pushes the air out for lungs, your body shakes as you inhale. You run your tongue along your teeth, and Zoro’s eyes follow the movement. He seems enthralled.
“Bite me, if you need to,” Zoro says, eyeing your teeth, as he flexes the shoulder marked by you. You grin at him, tongue on the incisor.
“I’ll bite you, because I know you want me to.”
He snorts, looking away, fighting his smile.
There is no talking after that.
You are holding on Zoro for dear life, hands just below the shoulder blades, muscles moving under your fingertips. Your voice is muffled by his shoulder. You want to let go, let your head roll back, and voice your approval loud and clear – and yet you don’t. You’ve promised him the pain, and you won’t break your promise until you are too gone to keep on going. Your chest heavies, labored breath fanning Zoro’s skin, the whiny hum getting hoarser.
Above the blood pulsing in your ears you hear his groans, and moans, and wood creaking, and above all the delicate jingling of his earrings.