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Sanji feels the known pressure, the rush on his face, the bridge of his nose itchy and hurting for release. He lets it flow, quick, easy, blood dripping out, out, out, falling into his partner’s wanting lips, slippery tongue. Zoro tastes his blood, wipes his lips with hunger, and takes a path from the tip of his nose to the cupid's bow. Drinks it up as a starved vampire would do so. And Sanji wants, wants the stupid swordsman to eat him, to poison him in a blood pact impossible to erase. Needs mosshead’s bloodied lips into his own, wants to taste himself in the saliva of his lover.
He needs to perish in Zoro’s hold, on the hands gripping his tights, leaving red handprints behind, the slight hurt in violet hues he will savour in his reflection when morning comes.
There’s a shakiness impossible to wipe, a rocking that has nothing to do with the ship coursing on the waves. It’s a tension, a powerful embrace, all to do with the overwhelming desire that engulfs both of them.
They kiss in hunger, men starved of the best meal, thirsty without water in sight for a million miles. They share the metallic taste, the pungent, stingy flavor of Sanji's blood.
The blond exhales, takes a big breath of fresh air, and shakes with a longing previously unknown. It's been a bit since they have had the opportunity to have each other carnally, and it shows; everything is amplified. He is pining after the neck he has painted with hickeys before, he is carving for the mouth he loves against his rim, he lusts after his lover’s watchful gaze. He needs Roronoa Zoro down to a molecular level.
He moves his hips, trying to chase down the sentiment, the punishing pace, the need to explode in a million colors. Zoro smirks at him knowingly, gets slow, unhurried, and changes to make him lose it.
He loves it.
Loves him.
It's soft then, the hold impossibly tender, the thrusts perfectly delicate. A string of words without meaning exchanged between lips, with bites against his neck, hands roaming his chest, and pinching. He hears the whispered confessions of love and pledges to pray for him and his safety till the end of his days.
It's so perfect. They are so perfect together that he curses every day his past self, the stupid Sanji that waited way too much to admit his love for the green disoriented swordsman. He should have been folded in half way earlier, just right after the first meeting in Baratie, after he watched the stupid man fight the best swordsman in the world and lose with his head held high.
Marimo moves so easily, so unbelievably fluid, it's a known dance, it's a funny beat, it's everything and more. Deep, strong, weighted.
Brings him to the peak and back down, lets him soar in the sky, and then drops him down, with his feet back on the earth. He always does.
It's a rollercoaster in a way, stomach clenched tight in anticipation, and back to normal. Puke on the top of his throat, spirals embodied on his face, he adores it. On the edge of the cliff and wanting to jump, his soulmate never allows it, never too soon, making him work for it.
His legs tighten around his lover's hips, trying for a better spot, a precise madness. “There - right there.”
Zoro kisses him. A rapid thing, hurried and wet and crammed. He feels teeth punching teeth, more saliva than his own in his mouth. He feels desperate, embarrassing sounds leaving without shame. It's almost pathetic how this man, the one he should hate, is the one who knows him best.
He isn't his rival anymore; they are equal, equalized in these intimate moments. The both of them want way too much.
Zoro is the man who knows how to take him best, the one who keeps him on his toes constantly, introducing new things, never letting him get comfortable with the routine. He loves him as he has never loved anything before; it's almost like the green-haired idiot is a renowned chef when it comes to Sanji's body. He knows the best places to season, the best places to touch and rip and cook. And Sanji, Sanji allows it, because no one has ever made him feel as loved, and he is painfully sure of Zoro’s reverence for him, too.
He fucks him so good. Simple strokes, hard touches, full of little bites and smooth kisses on his collarbone. He will look eaten tomorrow; he cannot wait to see the critical looks of passersby, the knowing looks exchanged between their friends.
It's almost too much and not even enough at the same time. He moans his boyfriend's name in a million different ways, broken, full, in a sob.
Sanji doesn't know what he has done to finally deserve this, to be wanted, needed, cherished. It's not healthy, it isn't even sane, how much he depends on the swordsman's full adoration. He knows it would break him apart if he ever betrayed or disappointed him, and still he chooses to trust him, chooses to believe in the overgrown moss. He isn't afraid, he would never be afraid of him, his touches, his clumsy words, his loving gaze.
It's been a while, heightened senses, so hot he feels almost to the point of combustion. Sanji wraps his arms around his lover's neck, pushes for him to be inside constantly, touching that lovely place, making astronomical shapes appear behind his eyes.
He can't contain it, shortening tiny gasps, “I love you so much.”
He doesn't get a response. He doesn't need one. Just the change in pace is enough, the soft pecks on his cheeks, the pure tender embrace.
He says it without needing to utter words. Calls him good, handsome, and a dream come true, fucks him to silence, to utter ecstasy. Pulls out, bottoms out, stands still, it's a meditation of sorts for him, Sanji is almost sure of it.
Luffy's first mate is control personified. He is someone people should look up to, a perfect example of a good significant other. He is giving, a calm wave of warmth, and such a selfless lover that sometimes it knocks the wind out of his lungs.
Because God knows Sanji could never not come if his partner asked, and Zoro, Zoro does it with full certainty.
Zoro won't ever let his own overwhelming need get prioritized before Sanji's. It doesn't matter how much the cook begs and tries to bring it out of him.
It's equal parts great and annoying. He wishes he held a bit more power between them, wishes he could give back even just a tiny minuscule part of what the mosshead does for him.
Zoro stops moving suddenly. Kisses him in the silence, soft, tenderly sharing space. Then, he pulls out cold turkey, not letting him even get near to working for his orgasm again, “Cook - turn around.”
He doesn’t answer.
Zoro never expected one.
He manhandles him when he doesn’t see his intention to follow along, pushes him into the pillows harshly, and arranges his posture to get him in the doggy position.
Sanji waits, panting and needy.
Doesn't move an inch.
Feels the shiver of the cold slippery substance on his hole. He secretly smiles, a whine trapped in the back of his throat. He loves it when it is messy and wet. Loves the filthy sounds of the smacking, the lack of resistance, the way it doesn't hurt, doesn't tingle badly.
Zoro pushes the liquid inside with his skilled fingers, much like he did with his cum back in Wano, and all the times after. He doesn't ever let it drip if he can help it, almost like it belongs inside of Sanji, saying how important it is for his sperm to stay like that, just for him, nothing else, nobody else.
It’s part of his possessive streak, especially made after a spike of jealousy, usually.
Now feels a bit out of place, but he doesn't complain; he never would. Adores being owned, being important enough for those ugly feelings to rise. The first part of the pirate wings linked to his second, Zoro is his calm, a safe place, a home.
The green-haired idiot leaves a kiss on his puckering hole after playing around a bit. And then, a moment later, he hears the known sound of one of mosshead’s swords unsheathing.
He doesn’t get nervous; he trusts him with his life, with his death. Really, it wouldn’t even be the worst way to go, after ungodly good sex, with the person he loves. Someone who has promised to give an honorable end to him, someone crazy enough to have the same level of devotion.
Sometimes, he can admit, he wants to be gutted like a fish, though. He imagines going out by Wado - his boyfriend's most trusted sword - or whatever weapon Zoro might like; he would enjoy it even if he died by Zoro’s grip in one of his trusty cooking knives. It's an airy daydream, he wants to be soft and pliant, light as a feather, as Zoro sinks his hands into his supposed imagined wound, rummaging his organs, drinking him empty and happy. A good cook, a good waiter, a servant, his lover never going hungry on top of him. He won’t ever let him starve.
“You know, Curly… Wado really likes you.”
He turns his head around, cheek against the bed, smiles at him. Adores being liked. He hopes he looks good, appetizing, a perfect prey. He hums at Zoro’s words, shivers at the coldness of the metal against one of his legs, and it’s comforting.
He knows Zoro cleans and sharpens all three of his swords every day, and still, it doesn’t draw blood.
There's no rhyme or reason.
He feels his breath trapped against his ribcage, yearning, wanting to see what Zoro’s next move is, what his resolution is.
“You don’t hear it, but it begs for you - your blood, your death, your insides. You think we should give him something, cook?”
“Yes.”
It should scare him how easily he agrees. Sanji should find it humiliating how hard his partner laughs at him, how mean and degrading he can get. How he drops a hand heavy against his backside without warning, how he calls him pathetic and good and pretty. His hand is rough and heavy, a stinging sensation, a pleasant hurt.
It doesn't stop till he is panting, the spanks reach an uneven number between ten and twenty, or thirty - he lost count, and that just won't do. His butt feels warm, and he knows it must be looking claimed, shaped by his boyfriend's touch.
He can’t, can’t get mad, that’s for outside the bedroom, for when he isn’t using one of Zoro’s earrings in his ear. When he isn’t dressed in his lover's stretched white shirt, lost under his loving gaze, surrounded by the stench of his particular scent.
Now it doesn’t matter; their usual enmity is simmering at a slow heat, and his anger doesn’t try to make itself known. There isn't even a blip of discomfort. He begs for it.
Zoro sets his sword to the side for a moment, still unsheathed, still a threat. He concerns himself with kneading him, with pushing his thumb into his asshole once more, spitting into the slick opening in a brutish manner. It isn't even a necessary step.
His other arm wrapped around his waist, holding him steady, making it impossible to move, but it doesn't present difficulty to breach him. He pushes another finger inside.
One, two, three fingers moving out and back, scissoring, opening him up, the mission made easier after having his lover’s dick inside. He is so needy, a million sighs melting heavy in the molten air.
Four, more spit and lube, and he is impossibly wet. It's a filthy, sinful symphony; he is stretched wide open. He whimpers, moans a strange pleading, and then something gives in inside him, something never explored; he can’t tighten, utterly relaxed. He accommodates more; it doesn’t surprise him when his lover lets go and changes the shape of his hand. It isn’t surprising when the pinky goes in with the rest of the big hand.
Lets a punched moan leave his lips, full, so full. The pressure against his prostate is heavenly made, molded for him. He is made a puppet under Zoro’s frame, his big hand, his powerful take. Lets his partner, the right wing of the future pirate king, his feigned enemy, fist him. Allows him to break him fully with affection, endlessly trusting of Zoro.
His legs shake, knees tending to point inwards, muffled sounds against the silk sheets. His stupid, wonderful swordsman goes the extra mile, letting him fall, the arm that once steadied him now reaching for his hair. He grabs his golden locks by a fistful, and Sanji feels his eyes water; his mouth goes dry even when there’s saliva all around his chin.
Zoro pulls him up until he is upright in a kneeling position, while getting comfortable enough against his back himself to grab him by the throat to make out. Sanji's scalp throbs in pain. He likes it.
The distraction of Zoro’s tongue, the string of saliva uniting them, allows him to settle into the spread of his hole for a few seconds, calming his unnerved senses.
Zoro’s lips find his ear easily then; he sucks on the gold jewelry, clinks his teeth against it, his fist deep down, heavier with the change in position. And Wado, Wado still by the side, the object looking agitated. Sanji could imagine it shaking, humming with dangerous energy, almost as if jealous of its owner.
“I should carve you - should put my name right here.” He says, warm breath right on his lobule, fingers leaving the petting of his nape and touching over his backside, a manmade path, showing the place where he would put his ownership. Like a tramp stamp, “Property of Roronoa Zoro.”
It doesn’t disgust him. Quite the contrary, he begs for it, begs to be shown off, to be able to tell everyone that there’s someone who loves him enough to claim him. He is wanted, he is desired, and he is loved. He is so close, so near it, he can almost taste it; his stomach clenches in warning.
It’s too much, his insides scrambled, his body full of the swordsman's huge hand. He tries to move, back against the strong chest, trying to impale himself into the strong arm, stretched to the brim; the thrusts feel slippery and wet, a squelching, painfully disgusting sound.
It’s as if he had grown a pussy overnight.
Fuck.
Oh, fuck, that’s… that’s something.
He doesn’t have time to process, brain airy and blank, he just needs a little more, jumps a bit, rides, and moans. Takes the hand prisoner into his walls, gets up fully, and falls down again.
It's so wet.
He lets out a pitiful whine.
He just needs a snap of the wrist.
Sanji wants, hungry, longing for much more. Needs to be bred, to have his asshole referred to as a pussy, wants to be called a pretty good girl. He yearns for it, eyes filled to the brim with tears at the fantasies. Needs to be fucked all over the place, in all ways, to the end of his life.
Wants the derogatory terms, wants the feigned hate sex, being taken without exchanging words. So sure that he would love to be used as much as Zoro would like.
Craves the loving, tender imaginations too, having a soft session after a massage, his boyfriend getting rid of the knots in his shoulders, and the pain in his legs after a fight. Imagines his boyfriend kissing him all over, taking hours to cherish him, as a believer would do with his God.
Desires being taken apart in a million pieces while being called a princess.
Next time, he should bring it up for next time.
He has lost his mind.
“Please-please, Zoro, let me come.”
He screams, an aborted orgasm, his lover’s hand gripping his dick tight. Zoro admonishes behind his back with an arrogant smirk, “Not yet, Ero-Cook. We still haven’t given Wado what he wants.”
He cries, big and uncomfortable, hating his boyfriend for not letting him give in. He almost tells him so, and then he is empty. It’s a strange sensation, something that makes him whimper, fall into the other's chest as a puppet with its strings cut. It feels strange, and too big for words to describe, utterly hollow.
He feels wrong.
Rejected.
His mind is filled with trickery, shouting how bad he must have behaved for this to be the punishment. He is bad, he is such a failure, a stupid, selfish bitch. Doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to cum.
Sanji sobs, heavy and hurt.
Zoro gives him a break. A moment to get it together while he comforts him, apologizes, caresses his back, fills his shoulders with soft little kisses.
Then, after confirmation of agreement, his hands find their home on his sides, right under his ribs. Shuts his insecurities right up, calling him spectacular, a perfect doll, “Just a bit more, and then I will let you. I promise, my sun.”
“Okay.” It’s a small whisper, a murmur, he wants to let him know he is alright to continue once more.
He can be good, obedient.
The cook expects his reward soon. Gets in all fours again.
Finally, Zoro grabs Wado between skilled fingers, the anticipation making the tension impossible to cut even with the prolific blade between his spread legs.
He expects it, the drawing of blood, the light, uncomfortable sensation of a cut.
It doesn't come. He gasps, a punched breath taken from his body. It's not a cut, it's not a wound. It's the handle, big and heavy, right at his entrance.
It should have been obvious, given how much effort his stupid marimo put into opening him up, how thoroughly he prepared him. Now that he thinks about it, it is not an everyday issue for his boyfriend to want to fist him.
Still, the idea, the feeling of the sword on his rim, makes his face flush painfully red.
He imagines them on the next island, the next adventure, the next possible fight against marines, thinking about Zoro handling the same sword that was inside him against enemies, sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. He, his lover, maiming people with the same sword that dragged pleasure out of him. He thinks about his boyfriend using Wado between his teeth, saliva falling from his mouth, him tasting Sanji on it still, a mark impossible to wipe. It's a bit much.
He wants it, wants to fight at his boyfriend's side as the wings of the next pirate king, back to back. Wado present right there, steady, protecting Sanji and the rest of the crew. He makes hypotheses about the future, allowing this to happen once more as a reward to the sword, as a way to thank him for defending them so well. About Wado giving an end to Mihawk, declaring Zoro as the new world’s best swordsman, and Sanji watching and cheering them both on.
The pressure isn't unbearable, it feels a bit rough but nice, full bit by bit once again. He whines, a deep guttural sound.
“You are doing so well, Curly.”
He thanks him and shows his gratitude to Wado Ichimonji too, as if he were a person. Zoro gives him a groan at his words, at his pathetic desperation to be kind and good even to an object. He wants to be taken apart.
“Please -”
“Tell me.” He commands, “Tell me how much you want Wado to fuck you, Curls. Say how good it feels to be used - to be such a mess under my sword.”
It's inside, to the hilt. Big and heavy and deep, it feels right on his organs. It won't move until he says so. He knows.
“Please - it feels good, so good. I love it - Wado, please, move.”
Sanji is overwhelmed, with a dazed feeling on his chest; his head is way out of place. He needs to be screwed tight. He moves his hips, expectant, frotting his hard dick against the sheets. Asks to be rearranged, to be wide open.
Zoro makes an easy approach, long and steady thrusts, with maddening precision. Sanji is falling apart, fucked by his boyfriend's sword.
Takes it all out, and punches it back in, makes him gasp and grab the sheets between fingers, gripping hard enough to rip fabric off.
Sanji is almost sure that if he were to touch his own stomach, he would feel the shape there, like an imprint impossible to wipe clean.
It's unhurried, a bored feeling to it. The slight pain makes it better, the roughness of the shape scratching at his walls. The feeling of his boyfriend humping his leg on the back of his mind, a tingle impossible to ignore.
He is insane enough to continue fantasizing in the act, to ponder if maybe someday he could take both Zoro and Wado inside. Or maybe, if he could be brave enough to try with the other two swords at the same time, the least he wants to do is to make them feel left out.
He doesn't prefer one over the other. Doesn't play favorites.
It has gotten crazy enough, lost in the feeling, drunk off the pleasure to believe the swords as people. As if they had souls and feelings of their own.
“Sanji.”
He hums, a way to say he is listening to him.
“Don't get too much into that pretty head of yours.” It's an admonishment, thrusting anew, “Focus on us.”
A blank slate, he wipes his mind clean at the command. Lets himself just feel, not even paying attention to the sense of taste or hearing. Severing the connection momentarily to concentrate on the sensation, the electricity, the ton of weight carried on his entrance, the details on the hilt felt on every movement.
He begs, a broken single, “More, please.”
And it gets faster and harder to keep up with. It's openness, how far it spreads, agape.
Zoro bites his shoulder roughly. He can't complain, can't say anything when the decision brings another wave of red rushing out of his nose. He tries to catch it with his hand before it ruins the sheets, not succeeding much. But still, it's a comforting hotness, a river of pressure giving in.
He shakes and shivers, shows his hands filled with blood to his lover, “Wish - wish you could try some more.”
It doesn't surprise him when he jumps at him for it, when it's licked clean with insatiable hunger, when he is praised for tasting so sweet.
He knows it won't take longer. He feels the tingling in the base of his stomach with a profound ache. Feels how shaky his legs feel, a gelatinous mess of prickly skin.
Zoro gets the sword out and pushes it with a tasteful harsh angle. Tears prickle behind his eyes.
Takes and takes and takes. His boyfriend fucks him with pornographic intent. Ignores his dick and balls. Zoro is on the same wavelength, the same schedule, calls his cunt amazing and tight and wet.
Cheers to the loss of Sanji's role-played virginity. Spills dirty, awful nonsense disguised as sexy talk. Tells him to take it like the perfectly trained slut he is.
It's an overall contradiction.
Doesn't make sense how much he needs it. How easily it comes to him to shout his adoration at the dirty mess of murmurs, over-heated as he is, he makes his devotion known. Sanji tells him, for the billionth time, how much he loves him. A string of loves you answered with grunts. Talks in length, a mouthy little shit as Zoro calls him, says how he can only think of the stupid swordsman and no one else. He has molded Sanji for him and has ruined him for anyone else.
The response is just a chuckle and a smug little, “As it should be. You are mine - till we both die.”
Doesn’t acknowledge his words, certainly not prepared for any discussion with a sword right up his ass. Put an imaginary pin on the conversation they must share soon.
Gets back to feeling lost on it, moving his hips to chase the movements, searching to have Zoro lose his mind too. Drunk on the feeling of the intimate object on his walls, he clamps to feel more, begs with pleas that sound like apologies. Tries to make a home for the sword. It’s distressing how much he is drooling, how quickly he presents his butt, and arches his back for better.
Sanji is almost sure he must look like a wrecked panting red mess. A dog in heat begging for its master to allow release.
“C'mon, baby, come for us.”
It’s what he has been waiting to hear.
He almost blackouts; he comes so hard he screams. It’s embarrassing, how he can come apart without touch, how he let go messily against the sheets, such an overwhelming feeling that he forgot about their friends being close around. He knows Franky has made their room soundproof, and still, he doubts they haven’t heard.
It would be mortifying if he weren't so screwed up to find it hot.
Zoro kisses his shoulder over his teeth mark, tells him how good he has been, letting Wado slip fully out. He does not move to wipe it clean. Instead, he sheaths it again, touching the hilt with wonder, pleased with the situation. With Sanji's body, Zoro believes he makes such a breathtaking sight. Truly, the prettiest man on the grand line.
Sanji, for his part, is way too lost in trying to get his breathing even to care. Lets his body rest for a few seconds, a sigh of contentment, a job well done.
He doesn't want to come back from his cloud, from that nice tingly place, allowing himself to fall into the sensation more. How fulfilling it is.
Loves that weird feeling of not being entirely in his body, indescribably lost in his mind. He had never thought that reaching so deep into his own head could be positive. Not with his past.
He smiles, and then when he wakes up from the haze, he is mostly himself again. He hears his lover's guttural groan, the slick sounds of him pleasuring himself.
No, that isn’t right.
Sanji can't claim himself as a lover boy and then let his boyfriend go without orgasming inside him.
With his last bit of strength, he turns around, watching Zoro, his hand making a sinful sight wrapped around his big dick. Suits himself in his back, pushes his legs up, spreading himself like the good slut he loves to be called as.
His hole flutters with the want of being full again despite the overstimulation. He grabs him, leads the way, and puts just the tip inside once more, it's all it takes.
All it takes to finally feel the warmth of his seed on his wrecked hole. The big body falling on top of him, making him a stupid pretzel under the weight.
Zoro is a blanket, hot and messy. Green and big and stupid and rough. He softly complains, a senseless complaint of how heavy his lover is.
“Mossy, let go of me.”
He is maneuvered tenderly to comfort afterwards, caressed and petted with utmost care, and red painted on top of his heart. Because really, it isn't until it's all over that he realizes that Zoro has cut his hand maneuvering Wado inside and out of him.
It isn't until the hand is presented right at his face and he is told to lick it clean that he realizes the puddle on his chest isn't sweat. It isn't until the revelation of the red that he realizes it wasn't even necessary for him to do it with the sword unsheathed. His dick makes a valiant effort to go rigid, but he is way drained, too spent, brain still floating around a bit.
He drinks, traces the wound with his tongue; it will need stitches. He slurps in the deepest parts. He doesn't waste food.
Zoro wraps his bandana around his wound, seemingly unconcerned about the imminent possibility of an infection. He knows Chopper will admonish them later, but Sanji is now too tired to pretend to care.
He is an attentive lover, that stupid mosshead of his, making it his priority to grab a rag and wipe him clean of all fluids. Leaving sweet kisses on the paths he makes, even biting a bit on the inside of his tights. Sanji is sleepy, so he just sighs dreamily, allowing his boyfriend to do whatever he pleases.
Zoro slips a new clean pair of boxers on for him, “Okay, baby. Now you are ready to sleep.”
He just opens his arms and begs for the cuddles he deserves. And Zoro, the perfect partner in crime that he is, allows it. They tangle and find peace hearing each other's beating hearts. They let the Sunny carry them to sleep, rocking them as a mother would their children, using the sound of the crashing waves into the ship as their own lullaby.