Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sanji wants to kick Zoro’s head in.

Unfortunately, he’s prevented from doing so by Zoro’s blade swinging like a bludgeon—crude, wide swaths that are easily dodged. The idea that Zoro might be toying with him only serves to piss him off further. He presses forward with an irritated clench of his jaw, cigarette filter grinding between his teeth, seriously considering popping off a Diable Jambe for the insolence.

Sanji can no longer remember the origins of their skirmish, but that’s not the important part. No, the important part is making sure the shitty swordsman knows his place in the food chain. Which is below Sanji. Obviously.

“You’re lucky I don’t stomp you to pieces!”

“You’re lucky I don’t cut you to pieces!”

Sanji scoffs around his cigarette, the plane of his forehead pressed insistently against Zoro’s. His scowl is right up close. They circle each other like there’s chum in the water.

“Actually,” Sanji needles, an idea striking him as he relishes the challenging squint Zoro gives him, “you’re lucky that you can still see past your massive fucking forehead.”

Zoro’s rage is predictable and satisfying. “Hah?! What the fuck’s that supposed to mean!”

A grin slides across Sanji’s face. “You heard me, fivehead.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Zoro’s grip on one of his sword hilts tighten. Excitement thrums through him. Soon, they’ll jump back from each other and have at it in a flurry of limbs. Zoro growls and pins his fivehead harder against Sanji’s forehead, trying to push him backwards. But Sanji digs his heels in and stands his ground, giving just as good as he gets until he’s sure they’re going to have matching splotchy red marks smack dab between their brows. Luckily, Sanji’s will be covered up by his hair, so only Zoro will look the fool.

Zoro opens his mouth to retort, or maybe he’ll skip the talking and bust the swords out directly. Sanji can practically telegraph the chain of events mentally, moment for moment. But before he can make the next move, Nami appears at the top of the railing, the bridge of her nose pinched between her angry browline.

“Oh my God, you two. Can we not have peace for one day?”

“But he said I—”

“No, he said—”

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “Get a fucking room, or go to the crow’s nest or something, just stop doing it out here! Circling each other like peacocks in heat!”

And that gets Sanji jumping back from Zoro once and for all, fixing Nami with a plaintive look.

“Nami-swan! That isn’t—that’s not what it—”

“Peacocks?”

“I don’t care,” Nami bites. Despite her scowl, she’s as radiant as ever, in Sanji’s opinion, dazzling even in her anger. “It’s the middle of the night, stop shouting on the deck! Go to sleep!”

It’s true. It’s late enough that most others have already retired; Sanji had just finished cleaning the kitchen and prepping for some of tomorrow’s meals when he came out on deck. Zoro was passing by, no doubt heading inside from lumbering around the crow’s nest or however else he spent his free time. Passing comments were thrown, hackles were raised, tempers were lost. The usual.

“You heard her,” Zoro smirks, straightening up to his full height. They’d been hunched over as they prowled like territorial animals. “Get your ass to bed.”

His comments are enough to draw Sanji’s attention away from Nami’s loveliness. “Why you—”

“Enough!” Nami bangs a fist down on the railing. “Zoro, stop antagonizing him and get your big ass forehead below deck!” Her tone leaves no room for argument, and she turns tail to disappear into the women’s quarters, slamming the door behind her.

Sanji feels chastised—but not chastised enough to suppress a quick jab at Zoro. He hisses, mindful of his volume, “You heard her. Get your big ass forehead to bed.”

Zoro narrows his eye. “Lay off my big parts, or I’ll start to think you’re talking about something else. Compensating, perhaps?”

That startles Sanji enough that he barks a laugh before he cuts himself off, glancing at the door to the women’s quarters. It stays shut, so he swivels his head back around to Zoro. “Oh, I don’t have to compensate for anything.”

“Bullshit,” says Zoro immediately.

Sanji rolls his eyes. “Believe what you want, but it’s not bullshit.”

Zoro’s answer is both instant and unabashed, challenge glinting in his pupil through the dark. “Bet mine’s bigger.”

“You wish.” Sanji ignores how his face heats up in indignation.

But then there’s a rustling from the upper deck, muffled through the door of the women’s quarters. Sanji knows the sound of Nami’s footsteps shuffling against the floorboards, so instead of rising to whatever bait Zoro’s about to throw out to keep their little spat going, he hurries off, shouldering past to go below deck.

#

Sanji doesn’t exactly forget about the encounter, but he certainly doesn’t expect anything to come of it, so he makes an effort to put it from his mind.

It works for a time—the whole rest of the next day, really, while he’s busy acting as everyone’s personal catering service. Drinks for the ladies, sweets for Chopper, and snack after snack for the insatiable Luffy, on top of regular meal service for everyone, plus cleanup. He hasn’t seen much of Zoro other than when he came out for lunch and dinner, but the snacks Sanji left for him at the ladder of the crow’s nest were gone, so he at least knows the musclehead had gotten proper sustenance.

When Sanji goes to the showers at night, he leaves the door unlocked, as is customary given the number of crew that they have. He knows Nami and Robin have washed up already, and out of the men, he’s the most fastidious with his hygiene, so more often than not, he has the showers to himself.

But not always. The door slides open, and he just knows from the sound of the footsteps that it’s Zoro who enters.

“Wow, you’re actually bathing. That’s a first,” Sanji comments dully, scrubbing the back of his neck without turning to look.

Zoro doesn’t answer, but Sanji hears the telltale sound of clothing being deposited in one of the laundry hampers. And then Zoro is turning on the spout right next to Sanji, even though there are multiple shower heads in here. Sanji shoots him a dirty look.

“You’re not supposed to use the one right next to someone else, moron. Don’t you know anything?”

Zoro’s eye is closed, and he doesn’t bother looking at Sanji. He just grunts. “Spot’s free. What’s the big deal?”

Sanji has a feeling he knows what the big deal is. Zoro is studiously keeping his eyelid shut, his head tilted up to the shower head as he lets water run over him. Almost like he wants Sanji to look. Like he’s asking for it. His words from last night float unbidden in Sanji’s mind: Bet mine’s bigger.

And so Sanji looks. Just a glance, and just to appease the curiosity that, despite himself, has welled up within. The thing is: he has seen Zoro’s dick before. He’s seen everyone’s, practically. Hard not to, living in such close quarters. But only incidentally—he’s never looked, you know, in order to look.

When he does now, he’s vastly satisfied to see that no, it’s not bigger than his own. At least it looks that way, hanging soft and uncut against Zoro’s inner thigh. Like this, they look about the same size. Sanji’s initial reaction is smug vindication—so much for Zoro’s chest puffing! Ha! And then comes the flash of competitiveness, only because Sanji’s never once been insecure in his life about his dick size, and until now, he really had believed that he probably was bigger than Zoro. The possibility that he’s not smarts at his pride.

But they really do look nearly the same. Annoyingly. Of course, the only way to actually tell, short of using a measuring tape, would be for them to line up next to each other. And of course, it would only count if they were hard—

Sanji cuts off this line of thinking abruptly, dipping his head back under his own shower spray to continue rinsing the conditioner from his hair.

“It gets bigger,” Zoro says, finally opening his eye and straightening his spine.

Sanji freezes. “What.”

“You heard me.”

“O—kay,” Sanji says, because what the fuck else is there to say? Except no matter how hard he tries, he can’t just not engage with Zoro, not even over something like this. Maybe especially not over something like this. “And why would I care about that?”

And then Zoro reaches down and gives himself a tug, unmistakable in his intent. Sanji’s mouth falls open in outrage.

“What are you doing!”

“I’ve been thinking,” Zoro says, hand still around himself.

“Careful now, you’ll exhaust the mossball living in your brain.”

Zoro ignores him. “We should compare. Like, actually. Let’s settle this, you and me.”

Sanji becomes aware that his mouth is still hanging open, so he snaps it shut. “I don’t need to compare,” he says hotly. “I already know mine’s bigger. It would be a waste of time.”

This is so obviously the reaction Zoro is looking for that it’s no surprise when he says, “Sounds to me like you’re scared, shit cook.”

“Like hell I am!” Sanji retorts, helpless to resist the heady rush of a challenge from Roronoa Zoro. Even when it’s one so orchestrated.

Zoro tugs at himself again. Sanji feels his ears go hot. He deliberately keeps his gaze somewhere around Zoro’s earrings as Zoro says, “Prove it, then.”

“Whatever! Fine! Just to get you to shut the hell up about this. Stupid Mosshead.”

“Heh, you’re on. Get yourself, you know, ready. That’s the only way it counts.”

Sanji pauses. Had Zoro been able to read his thoughts from a moment ago?

“Turn around,” he says between gritted teeth, doing the same as he reaches down and gets a hand around himself. “And for your information, mine gets bigger, too.”

“We’ll see,” Zoro snickers, not sounding breathless or affected one bit. Not like Sanji, who bites down on his lip to keep from making any untoward noises as he strokes himself to full hardness. It doesn’t take much; to be honest, he was already on his way to a semi before he started touching himself. Something about the steam and the warmth, surely. And he’s twenty-one years old, damnit. Just a few years ago he was popping a stiffy if a light breeze blew against him in a certain way.

All that to say, it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for his dick to get fully hard, and he’s thankful for the way the sound of water pattering against the tiles drowns out any noises other than the ones that originate from himself: the sound of his breath, the slick of hand over flesh. He’s glad he doesn’t hear anything from Zoro, although his back feels prickly and oversensitized, aware of the other man behind him, only a step and a half away.

He doesn’t keep stroking once he’s all the way there, because then it would just be…jerking off, with Zoro right there behind him. His blood runs hot, and he blinks water from his eyes, squeezing his fingers around himself to make sure he doesn’t go soft. Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s going to be an issue.

He only turns around once he hears Zoro say, “Okay, let’s see what you got, Twirly,” and he about-faces, holding himself in hand. Zoro is standing bare before him, mirroring his stance almost exactly.

“That’s all?” Sanji says skeptically, not wanting to betray the quick beat of his heart, the way his skin is buzzing. “There’s no way you’re bigger than me.”

The flushed dark tip of Zoro’s cock pokes out from the circle of his fist, and Sanji, given permission by the nature of their activity, takes in the sight. It’s not small by any stretch of the imagination. The length of it extends past the bottom of Zoro’s fist, the foreskin bunched at the base, dusted with green hair. It’s…a very nice cock. Visually speaking. Sanji finds himself loath to admit this fact, even in the privacy of his own mind.

Zoro is similarly staring at Sanji’s dick. He takes a step forward. “Don’t be so sure about that.”

And then he steps even closer and wraps a large hand around Sanji’s waist to roughly get them lined up.

“Hey!” Sanji protests, though he goes willingly, trying not to let the absurdity of the situation make him lose his nerve. Zoro’s hand doesn’t linger, but still, he snaps, “Watch it!”

“Come on.” Zoro is single-mindedly focused on their dicks next to each other, though Sanji’s is still mostly covered by his hand. “Don’t chicken out now, cook, move your hand.”

Grumpily, Sanji does so, using it to push his waterlogged hair back from his face instead. Side by side, their dicks are practically touching. Sanji’s assessment had been correct: they’re almost evenly matched. Almost.

Zoro is suddenly standing terribly still. And Sanji wouldn’t think he’d be the first to make a move in this kind of situation, but the rush of hopeful realization, the ludicrous giddiness of it, propels him into unthinking motion. Squinting in concentration, he lines them up more correctly so that their lengths are flush against one another. He ignores the electric sensation that skitters cross his skin when the sides of their cocks meet, too absorbed in the competition now to have any misgivings about the fact that their dicks are touching.

“Ha! Look at that!”

Like this, it’s clear to see that Sanji is longer, the tip of him pushing against Zoro’s pelvic bone, while the head of Zoro’s dick is lined up with the base of Sanji’s. A pearly bead of precome oozes out of Zoro’s tip, glistening wet, before it’s washed away by the shower still raining down around them.

With an internal jolt, Sanji realizes that he’s…really fucking hard. And really turned on. And probably so is Zoro.

He redirects the sudden burst of frenetic energy that the realization gives him into more crowing over his victory. “See! I told you, Mosshead, I win!” He lets his voice drip with all the smugness he wants, and when he hazards a glance at Zoro’s face, his cheeks are flushed red, his brow drawn low over his eyes in annoyance, his lip between his teeth.

“No fucking way,” Zoro snips, mulish. But there’s no denying the evidence between the narrow space of their bodies, and finally, Zoro clicks his tongue, his mouth curved into a stubborn frown. Sanji notices another drop of precome forms at the tip of his cock, but Zoro’s voice sounds deceptively steady, like he’s barely noticed his body’s reaction, when he utters a petulant, “Whatever.”

Then he reaches out. For a split second, Sanji is convinced that he’s going to grab Sanji’s cock, and his heart leaps into his throat. Between his legs, his dick pulses, until Zoro splays the hand across Sanji’s torso, right underneath his solar plexus. Then he shoves Sanji back and turns around to retreat underneath his own shower head.

“This was your idea, idiot!” Sanji shoots, regaining his footing and re-entering the stream of water before the chill gets to him. “Don’t be such a sore loser about it, little Marimo. Some guys are late bloomers. Maybe you’ll hit your growth spurt soon.”

There’s no reality in which Zoro’s dick could be considered small, but Sanji enjoys the taunts nonetheless.

“Whatever,” Zoro says again, not rising to Sanji’s teasing. He’s angled away from Sanji now, the tips of his ears red underneath the water.

To Sanji’s dismay, he realizes he’s no less turned on now that their little measuring contest is over. On the contrary, his dick still stands at attention, and he wonders what exactly he’s supposed to do about it, until he hears Zoro, now standing a semi-respectable distance away, give a breathy kind of sigh. His arm is moving in an extremely telltale manner.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Sanji hisses, turning quickly to angle his body away so it doesn’t look like he’s watching.

“What?” Zoro sounds all too casual, like it’s not a big deal that he’s jerking off right now. “I wasn’t just gonna leave it like that. It’s not good for you. You can do it too, I don’t care.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“If it bothers you then don’t look,” Zoro says acidly. Is he stroking himself faster? Sanji might honestly kick his head in. For real this time.

“I wasn’t looking in the first place!”

Zoro doesn’t bother with a response, too caught up in…in touching himself! Sanji could scream from the indignation of it, if he weren’t so busy trying and failing quite magnificently at willing his own boner down. No, it’s having the opposite effect, he realizes with mortification. He reaches out and turns the knob on the shower to the coldest setting, but even that isn’t enough to tamp down the reaction his body has to the knowledge that Zoro is pleasuring himself barely three feet away.

He bites his lip, very consciously keeping his fists balled at his side, as he watches precome now ooze from his own tip, washing away down the drain at his feet. Zoro’s quiet when he does it, except for the familiar, rhythmic noise. Sanji carefully regulates his breathing, even though his pulse is working overtime in his ears for how turned on he is. It’s the steam, it’s the heat, and it’s the…the pure effect of it, he decides. Because he knows how good it feels to touch oneself, and so hearing Zoro do it just reminds him of that. Surely.

At last, Zoro emits a quiet groan. The sound gets Sanji closing his eyes, standing stock-still as he hears the stream from the shower next to him turn off. Then Zoro leaves without a word other than another satisfied sort of half-sigh, half-groan when he towels himself off roughly and exits the bathroom.

As soon as he does, Sanji turns the water back to hot and gets a hand around himself. He’s alone in the showers, so this is the appropriate time to jerk it, he tells himself. It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s chill. He does this all the time. It’s got nothing to do with what he and Zoro just did.

Or maybe it does, but only because Sanji had won. And winning feels good. Winning against the Marimo feels even better. And if he comes embarrassingly fast, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

#

It’s the victory, Sanji ultimately decides, that had been so satisfying about the whole affair. The victory—it’s what he thinks of the next time he’s alone and feeling a little frisky. And again the time after that. And so what? It’s normal. He’s a man. He likes winning. He likes knowing his dick is bigger than Zoro’s. It’s normal.

And Zoro hasn’t been weird to him about it. Not that Sanji was afraid he would be, but the next time they see each other, and for the entire week that follows, Zoro acts like business as usual.

The immediate next day, Sanij’s taken aback by the way Zoro strides into the kitchen for breakfast with everyone else, barely regarding him at all as he helps himself around Luffy’s grabby hands. But that’s just as well, Sanji figures while flipping a batch of pancakes. Just because he knows exactly what Zoro’s dick looks like when hard (and lined up perfectly next to his) doesn’t mean that things have to change between them, right?

Of course, for the rest of the week, Zoro also stops bickering with Sanji. No more cutting remarks, no more snide comments, no more sudden fights. Sanji tells himself the idiot’s just sulking for losing a competition he himself proposed. Serves him right. He’s sure the Mosshead will come around sooner or later, and things will be back to usual with them.

Not that he wants that, of course. He likes being left alone for once. Their fighting is just a sign of…normalcy, is all.

Then again, maybe Zoro hasn’t started up another fight because he knows Sanji has the best comeback of all time. The ultimate finisher. He wouldn’t even have to say it; he could just flash a certain, smug kind of grin at Zoro—the kind that says “at least my dick is bigger than yours”—and it would be over.

Kind of takes all the fun out of fighting if you know you can beat him, huh?

That is of course, not a thought that crosses Sanji’s mind. Certainly not.

That’s why he’s not expecting to be cornered in the storeroom another week later, when he’s restocking after a grocery haul. He returned to the ship early for this exact purpose while the others are still out on their excursion, at least until Luffy stirs up enough trouble to get them kicked off the island.

When he’s stacking spare sacks of flour inside one of the crates, a large, tan hand reaches out and snaps the lid shut with a bang.

Sanji whirls around. “Oi! What the hell!”

“I’ve been thinking,” Zoro says, looming over Sanji, their position such that Sanji is crowded against the squared crate edge.

“Careful,” Sanji begins, before he bunches his lips together in irritation. You’ll exhaust the mossball. Damn. He used that one already.

Zoro gives him an annoyed look, but he barrels on anyway. “We need a redo.”

He could only be talking, of course, about one thing. Sanji’s eyebrows fly upwards before a self-satisfied grin stretches across his face, replacing the irritated pinch.

“Oh, we do, do we? What, can’t stand being a loser that badly? That’s just in poor taste. I won fair and square.”

“Shut up,” Zoro says bitingly. “In order for it to be fair, we should take into account all factors.”

“All factors?” Sanji sounds skeptical.

“All factors.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning,” Zoro continues, “that I’m still bigger than you. You have to take into account, you know, girth. And overall volume. That’s how it works. Mathematically speaking.”

This is so ridiculous that Sanji laughs out loud, a sudden bark right in Zoro’s face. Zoro remains undeterred, staring Sanji down, his one good eye blazing with earnest determination. Seeing this, Sanji stifles his laughter. He raises an eyebrow instead. “You must be joking.”

“Are you telling me you’re backing down, Curlybrow?”

“I just,” Sanji says, still snickering, “can’t believe you’re actually serious. You should have said that to begin with then! This just looks like you’re walking it back because you lost.”

“I didn’t lose! We just didn’t do it right!” Zoro insists, his eye narrowed and full of challenge. “Are you in or not?”

He’s leaning in awfully close, Sanji suddenly realizes, both arms bracketing Sanji on either side of the crate. He inhales sharply. He can smell Zoro—warmth and sweat and musk. Strangely, it’s not off-putting at all. Something hot thrums through him. Competition.

“Alright,” he says levelly. “Fine. Just to prove you extra wrong.”

It’s Zoro’s turn to grin. He pushes off the crate and reaches for the sash at his waist. “Get to it then. Same deal as last time, get yourself ready.”

“What, wait, here? Now?”

Zoro peers around exaggeratedly. “No time like the present. And no one else is here. When’s the next time we’re gonna be completely alone?”

For a second, Sanji nearly asks if Zoro had planned this. If he had specifically waited for an opportunity to catch Sanji alone, but saying it aloud would make it…too real. Or something like that. Plus Zoro is already reaching into his waistband without a care in the world, his robe hanging open around his shoulders, so Sanji spins on his heel and goes to the other side of the crate to get himself ready in private. Unlike the Mosshead, the big oaf.

The sound of him undoing his belt buckle is disproportionately loud in the small storage space. He clenches his teeth as he shimmies his pants and underwear down his thighs just enough to slip himself free. Like before, he’s already sporting a semi, though this time it can’t be reasoned away with steam or heat or anything else.

He runs his tongue across his teeth, and, gamely, licks his hand to grasp himself the way he likes, his thumb pressing the underside of the cockhead before his palm twists the rest of the way down.

Across the other side of the crate, he can hear…noises. From Zoro. Nothing really salacious, just the moist sound of skin slipping, the pattern of his breathing through his nose, deep and even. Almost consciously so. If he concentrates hard enough, he can picture Zoro’s chest rising and falling with each breath. In his hand, his dick swells, warm and pulsing, and he clenches his jaw. Fucking Marimo.

Sanji closes his eyes, trying to remain insular about it all. A few more strokes is all it takes. It’s harder this time to stop right away; it feels good. He knows what he likes. And the knowledge that Zoro is doing the exact same thing is, somehow, spurring him on, emboldening him. So what if he’s jerking off in Zoro’s presence? It’s not like Mosshead’s not doing it too. For whatever reason, that counts as plausible deniability in his head, so he keeps going until he hears the sound of footsteps approaching.

Zoro lumbers his way to Sanji’s side, the two of them now squirreled away along the far section of the storage area, between the stacked crates and the wall. Sanji stops, dick in hand.

Zoro’s voice is brash, callous, and almost too casual. “Alright, don’t cream yourself too early, let’s do this.”

Sanji’s face bursts into flames. He very studiously does not look down to where Zoro’s hand is grasped around himself. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Hah?”

“You—you can’t just—” —say shit like that, is what he means to say. But the whole scenario is so absurd that Zoro’s uncouth language is probably the least of his worries. Deciding there’s no use, he faces Zoro, feeling tremendously stupid with his pants part way down his thighs, his dick hanging out exposed in the air. In the small space among the crates, the air suddenly feels hotter. Not unlike the shower, with all the swirling steam…Sanji swallows. “Okay, genius. How do we do this?”

“Look,” Zoro instructs, and heavens help him, Sanji does. He looks down to where Zoro is gripping himself. And like before, he can’t help but to think that it’s—it’s a very nice dick. Proportionate and everything, flushed and colored more deeply than Sanji’s own. Even the thin foreskin bunched at the base, pulled back around the taut length, looks appealing. And since this is what they’re here for, he pays special attention to the girth and realizes that it is, indeed, fairly thick. It looks weighty, held loosely in Zoro’s fingers. But Sanji can’t tell how it compares with his, especially not while it’s nestled within the context of the rest of Zoro’s body. His fingers, which are thick; his thighs, which are thick.

Dauntlessly, Sanji puts on a look of haughty determination, hoping it’ll cover up his pattering pulse. “Well, I’m looking. There’s not much,” he lies.

Zoro scoffs. Instead of replying, he moves his hands so that he only has his thumb and index finger circled around himself, which he slides to the thickest part of the shaft. His dick, Sanji observes, flares partway down the length, widening subtly before tapering to the same width as it is below the head.

Carefully, Zoro keeps the circle of his fingers in place as he slides it off himself, then holds it up. “Now you.”

Sanji does the same thing. Unlike Zoro’s, his dick is a fairly uniform girth all the way around. It fits snug within the circle of his thumb and forefinger, which just manage to touch together at the very tips. This sends a rush of contest through him—maybe he is thicker than Zoro. Maybe it’s all just a matter of proportion. Maybe he can win this again. Double victory. And wouldn’t that be nice fuel for the next few weeks?

The idea of it must be why his cock pulses in his grip. Why a pearl of milky precome seeps from the tip. Zoro’s gaze on his lower half is stifling.

The head of his cock is so sensitive that he sucks in through his teeth as he’s easing his fingers off himself, careful to keep the circle intact, aware of the weight Zoro’s scrutiny carries. Triumphantly, he holds up his hand and places it next to Zoro’s. It looks nearly the same.

“Ha! Told you!”

“Look again, Curly.” With his other hand, Zoro yanks Sanji by the wrist until the circles of their fingers are lined up on top of one another. Like this, it’s clear to see that Sanji’s circle is smaller than Zoro’s. By a noticeable margin, actually.

Sanji snatches his hand away, dispelling the circle. “You cheated!” he accuses.

“How the fuck would I have cheated? You saw the whole thing!”

“You totally made your fingers into a bigger circle when I wasn’t looking.”

Zoro looks pissed. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

A strange look crosses Zoro’s face. He licks his lips and glances around. “If you don’t believe me,” he says, “you can check for yourself.”

Sanji’s jaw drops. “What.”

“You want to be sure, right? If I’m such a cheater, then see for yourself.”

Sanji looks down. His and Zoro’s dicks are jutting out, just a few inches of space between them. There’s another bead of precome at the tip of Sanji’s dick, and he comes to realize, once again, that he’s pretty much as hard as he can get. It must be the spirit of competition again, now that he and Zoro are both riled up with it. When he shifts his weight, the fabric of his shirt brushes uncomfortably over his skin. The air in the storage room feels stale and clammy all of a sudden, the hairs of the back of his neck raised in hypersensitivity. He gulps. “You mean…”

“It’s the only way to be sure, right?”

It really should give him more pause. But Sanji doesn’t allow himself to think about it too deeply, deciding to barrel onwards, driven by the foolhardy spirit of competition. After all, he just can’t back down from Zoro. He just can’t.

“Fine. Idiot. You’ll see,” he sniffs, shuffling forward and reaching blindly between Zoro’s legs.

“You’re so easy to read, you know that?” Zoro says archly. His voice is weirdly low. Or maybe it’s just the fact that they’re in this little nook, hidden away, private, even though the ship is empty.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sanji mutters before he steels himself and, careful to touch with only the necessary bits, gets his hand around Zoro’s dick.

Lightning fast, Zoro reaches out to do the same. Sanji gasps, doubling over. He doesn’t mean to do it, but his other hand automatically reaches up to clutch at Zoro’s shoulder, needing something to hold onto as he’s hit with a devastating, world-altering one-two punch.

One: he can’t close his thumb and index finger around Zoro. They’re not even touching. It’s too thick. It’s also, evidently, heavier than his own. Stupid musclehead had to go and sling around this hunk of meat, what the fuck?

Two: Zoro’s hand around his cock feels really, really good. In fact, Sanji momentarily forgets about the competition from the shock of how good it feels. Even the fact that he lost grows faint compared to the sensation of those two large fingers circling him. They touch each other easily, thumb overlapping forefinger to the first knuckle. This is what causes him to double over, the gasp wrenched from him like a vacuum sucking oxygen out of a chamber.

To his credit, Zoro doesn’t immediately crow over his victory the way Sanji had. In fact, the two of them are frozen in place for a solid few seconds, cocks in each other’s hands in the flimsiest of grasps, Sanji hunched over and shuddering and trying very, very hard not to come on the spot.

What the fuck, he thinks desperately.

Given the obvious difference laid bare before them, there’s really no reason for them to still be touching each other’s dicks. And yet they don’t let go.

And then Zoro does something. Something that makes Sanji realize, right then and there, that they’re crossing some imaginary threshold, the two of them. As much as he tries to deny it, the more logical part of his brain knows they’ve been dancing on the line with all this dick measuring bullshit.

This, however—Zoro silently, carefully, deliberately closing his remaining fingers around the shaft of Sanji’s cock so that it’s no longer in the makeshift measuring circle, but rather is in a proper, purposeful hold—this is undeniably looking at the line and leaping right over it.

The worst part is: Sanji can’t hold back the second gasp he lets out when Zoro completes the grip. He feels like he’s going to faint. It’s too much; the fact that it’s Zoro whose hand is on him, that Zoro is the one who made the leap. The fabric of Zoro’s green robe bunches between Sanji’s fingers as he twists them, unoccupied hand still clutched at Zoro’s shoulder.

Zoro’s thumb presses right under the tip of his cock exactly the way he likes and Sanji sees stars. How the fuck would he have known that?

Pure instinct is the answer that comes to mind, and this knowledge has Sanji nearly convulsing. He doesn’t know what to do other than just stand there, knees locked, gripped onto Zoro’s shoulder like it’s a lifeline.

Zoro’s hand squeezes. It’s warm—hot, really. Nearly burning. And then it moves, sliding down the barest inch.

It doesn’t get far, because Sanji’s gone, tipping over the edge all too quickly. He should never have agreed to this stupid competition in the first place, he thinks dimly. It’s his loss, and he’s coming.

The force of it practically knocks the wind out of him, coupled with how suddenly it happens, like a freight train roaring along the tracks, whipping his hair with the windstream, kicking up dust, the whole works. A strangled moan sounds from the back of his throat. And when it’s over, there’s a dull ringing in Sanji’s ears, as if he’s recovering from being within the blast radius of an explosion.

Zoro’s shoulder suddenly is scalding hot. Sanji lets go of it abruptly and stumbles back, trying not to tread in the splatter of his own come that has landed in droplets on the floor. The rest of it is on Zoro’s wrist, shiny and wet.

Sanji refuses to look up at the other man as he shoves himself back into his pants and quickly zips up, not bothering with the belt. Mortification burns high and bright in his cheeks, and without risking to check the expression on Zoro’s face, he bangs out of the storeroom as fast as he can.

#

The loss stings. Doubly so, considering the way Sanji exited: mortified, panting, and red in the face. He still has no idea what Zoro did afterwards, having immediately barricaded himself first in the bathroom, then the kitchen for the rest of the day. He squirreled himself away at dinner too, setting out the food for the rest of the crew and retreating to the aquarium while the others ate—whatever possible to avoid the stupid swordsman.

What stings even more is how Zoro has been treating him ever since.

After the first time, Zoro stopped instigating fights, but he was still prickly in a sour, forced kind of way. Like he was trying not to poke the bear, knowing Sanji had an ace up his sleeve. After this time, Zoro still doesn’t try to start any physical fights, but he also doesn’t bat an eye when Sanji, attempting to keep a semblance of normalcy about them in front of the crew, gives him scowl after scowl and calls him name after name. He tries to get creative with it, too—mossball on a hamster wheel, deck-forehead, swamp creature. The works.

Zoro pretends like he’s above it all, and then he waits until no one else is looking to fix Sanji with the most smug, self-satisfied, shit eating grin ever. It makes Sanji’s blood absolutely boil. Makes him run so hot, in fact, that he starts having issues in more ways than one.

The fact of the matter is: Sanji hasn’t touched himself since then. Every time he gets the chance to do it, every time the notion even crosses his mind, he stops himself. Because he knows. He knows that if he does, he’ll be forced to think about the last time he came. And the circumstances leading up to it. And the hand that caused it. And the person that hand is attached to. And that’s not a can of worms he wants to open. Not yet.

Except days pass, then a week, then two weeks, and it gets harder and harder to bear. He’s not used to this. He never agreed to this. What did Zoro say in the showers that time? It’s not good for you.

At night as he tosses and turns, his skin prickly in a distinctly uncomfortable, sweaty kind of way, thinking about the line that was crossed. So yeah, Zoro kind of—sort of—maybe—only on a technicality, jerked him off. Only a little bit. Literally only a little bit.

Because that’s all it took, a small voice in Sanji’s head reminds him. He folds his pillow a little more firmly around his ears to try and drown that voice out. He doesn’t know what it all means. He doesn’t know if he wants to know what it means. Was Zoro just a little too possessed by the spirit of competition, like Sanji is sometimes? Or was it something else entirely? Part of him wishes he got a look at Zoro’s face while he was doing it. It’s always easy to read Zoro’s face. He lacks any kind of subtlety whatsoever.

But no, his stupid, turned on self had to be transfixed on the sight of that large hand wrapped around his…

Fuck. He really wants to jerk off. He usually does it with regularity, and he’s not prepared to take this long of a break. Fuck! But he doesn’t want to give in. It would be like losing all over again. Pathetic. All alone, touching himself to the thought of Roronoa Zoro stroking him off? To the memory of his hand around Sanji’s cock? How warm it was? How smug he was in that moment, at having proven himself to be thicker, heavier, bigger in a way they hadn’t previously considered—

Shit. Sanji clenches his knees together. Somewhere to his right, Franky snores loudly, which gets Chopper mumbling in his sleep, and this effectively pulls Sanji out of his own head before he digs too deep a hole. Now is really not the time.

As he forces his eyes shut and takes deep, controlled breaths, he starts to think. He needs some kind of release—one that will banish Zoro from his mind entirely.

They’re landing on an island soon, aren’t they? Nami says they’re coming up on one that seems pretty routine. No Marines, nothing crazy. Maybe that will be a good opportunity to go seek out some company. But then Sanji has the ice cold realization: what if he does seek out another man or woman and…and thinks of Zoro while doing it?

Well, there would be absolutely no going back from that. None whatsoever.

Fuck. Doomed if he does, doomed if he doesn’t. Sanji turns his face into his pillow so he can let out a frustrated scream, easily swallowed by the material.

Without quite meaning to, his face smashed into the pillow and his dick sadly unjerked, Sanji begins formulating an idea. And once it sprouts in his mind, he already knows he has to go for it. There’s no way he can live like this.

Plus…part of him wants it. He wants to win against Zoro. He needs to win against Zoro. He enjoys winning against Zoro. He’s already aware exactly how much he enjoys it.

Fuck it. The line is already crossed, right?

When they dock, Sanji makes a point to zip through grocery shopping as quickly as he can. After the market, he gets the pantry loaded and organized at record speed—nothing to do with the fact that he wants to spend as little time as possible in the storeroom, considering the last time he was there. After he puts away a couple sacks of flour, he makes sure to check that there isn’t an embarrassing stain on the floorboards anywhere.

There isn’t, which leaves him with no choice but to believe that Zoro had cleaned it up. The mental image of Zoro on his hands and knees wiping Sanji’s come off the floor gets him stifling a fit of snorts behind his hand, but before long, the hilarity turns into mortification. He chokes on his spit and spends several seconds hacking into his fist, bent over at the waist.

Dear God. What has he become?

In the end, he slaps himself gamely about the cheeks and makes his way off the ship to find Zoro. It shouldn’t be hard. It never is. The moron probably got himself lost on his way to the nearest watering hole, so all Sanji has to do is go down the road that heads in the exact opposite direction as the bar. Simple.

Except when he’s out on the banks, Zoro is skulking right around the corner, within throwing distance of the Thousand Sunny.

“Oi, shit cook,” he calls as soon as he spots Sanji. Immediately, Sanji forces himself to look casual. Hands in pockets, cigarette balanced between his lips. Trying not to display the jitters that spark up his spine at the sound of Zoro’s voice.

“Surprised you’re still around here,” Sanji says. “Or were you actually smart enough to stay within sight of the ship this time so we don’t have to go looking for your sorry ass when we cast off?”

“Shut up,” Zoro mutters. For some reason, he doesn’t seem like his usual self. His eyes keep darting around, his mouth curved into an impressive frown, bordering on a full pout. “Listen, I—”

Shit. Suddenly, Sanji has a feeling he’s going to bring up what happened last time. In the storeroom. When the line had so explicitly been crossed. When Sanji had run away afterwards.

No matter what, Sanji cannot have it acknowledged out loud. Not like this, at least: out in the open where anyone could stumble upon them. When they’re not in some secluded, private area, where things are different. Where things don’t count.

The look on Zoro’s face when he approached had been startlingly sincere. Perhaps even nervous. Is he about to apologize for crossing the line? Is he about to express an actual human emotion?

Sanji’s not ready for that. Because if Zoro apologies for crossing a line, the way Sanji expects he might be about to, then Sanji has no choice but to gruffly accept and then move on and pretend like nothing had happened. His pride demands it, practically. And if they pretend like nothing had happened, Sanji’s plan goes in the gutter, and he’s back at square one.

“I’ve been thinking,” he interrupts before Zoro can finish his thought.

Zoro’s expression instantly clears, going first surprised, then smug. All traces of sincerity go flying in the wind. Sanji dearly hopes he’s not making a mistake.

“Is that right?”

Sanji holds his ground. “Yeah, because unlike you, I’m actually capable of higher thought, so when I say it, I mean it.”

“Yet why do I feel like you’re about to spout off some bullshit? Let me guess.” He taps his chin in mock contemplation. “This about how you lost. This is you being a sore loser.”

Sanji’s jaw drops open in a perfectly appropriate amount of outrage, in his totally unbiased opinion. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Oh? So am I wrong?”

“You’re annoying is what you are.”

“You’re not getting a redo.” Zoro has a cocksure, arrogant kind of grin on his face. Sanji feels his blood sizzle. This is the easy part. “Unless you ask really nicely.” Jeez, Zoro is practically teeing it up for him.

“I don’t want a redo,” Sanji says archly. “Besides, when you really think about it, size doesn’t matter one bit when you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Zoro’s expression falters. “Hah?”

“You heard me,” Sanji continues, pressing his advantage, trying hard not to act like this wasn’t his plan all along. “It’s not like either of us have tiny dicks. Who gives a shit if one’s bigger or not when you can barely fucking use it?”

Zoro’s eyes flash. “So you admit mine is bigger.”

“I’m saying,” Sanji tells him, “that I bet you wouldn’t last long enough to do shit anyway. So it actually doesn’t even matter.”

For a split second, Zoro’s eye takes on an intense quality, but that quickly gets masked with a look of pure incredulousness, eyebrows bunching together before raising on his considerable forehead. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the truth. Plain and simple.”

“If I recall correctly, you’re the one who came in like two seconds—”

“Yeah, because you cheated.”

“Oh, not this again. I’m not a fucking cheater.”

“You did,” Sanji insists. “You changed the rules of the game in the middle. No, you changed the entire objective! You can’t challenge someone to chess and then all of a sudden decide you’re playing cards.”

A complicated look passes across Zoro’s face. “Cook, I wasn’t—when I did that—it wasn’t part of our…” He trails off when he sees Sanji’s eyes flash. Lightning quick, he composes himself. His eye narrows, and their game is back on. “Yeah? I bet I could last longer than you anyway.”

Jackpot. Sanji tries to keep a lid on his triumph. It’s easy, because being around Zoro does genuinely get his competitive spirit pumping like no one else. “Yeah? You sure you wanna take that bet?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Big surprise.”

Predictably, Zoro looks haughty and pissed off, like he can’t be bothered with this. But it’s a veneer—one that is abundantly clear to Sanji, laid over top a swath of fiery competition.

“You’re on, shit cook. But don’t double back when I win this one, too.”

“When I win, you mean.”

Zoro looks like he has half a mind to draw a sword out and get to a skirmish right here. Instead, he clicks his tongue and starts heading further down the dock, in the opposite direction of the Sunny.

“Come on, let’s get to it. I’ve got a place I know.”

This gives Sanji a second of pause. For some reason, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. “What, now?”

Zoro looks over his shoulder sourly. “No point in waiting. Unless you’re chickening out.”

“Am not,” Sanji says, deciding to stomp after Zoro. “Fine. But if we get lost it’s your fucking fault.”

#

As it turns out, the ‘place’ Zoro knows is an entirely different ship.

“Couple of drunk guys. Civilians. Overheard them saying they were leaving it here for the night. I was gonna go in and steal their booze anyway,” Zoro explains as they go below deck.

“Charming,” Sanji deadpans. Not that he cares much; they’re pirates, aren’t they? Still, he gives an unimpressed look at the sparse cabin they’re in. There’s a meager kitchen, small table, threadbare couch, and two doors that look like they probably lead to the facilities and perhaps an even smaller bedroom cabin. “Bit cramped, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?” Zoro is already setting his swords down on the table and untying his sash. Sanji tries not to let show how alarmed he is by the speed at which Zoro’s moving. “Back on the Sunny, while Brook’s watching the ship? Or you got money I don’t know about to rent a room somewhere?”

“Point taken,” Sanji grouses, making no move to undress. It feels unfamiliar and undignified, standing here on this random boat. “You’re sure they said they’d be gone all day, whoever was on this ship?”

“Who cares?” Zoro says nonchalantly, his robe hanging open already, framing his considerable chest. “Not like they pose a threat. We can easily handle them if they come back.”

Something about the way he says “we” gets a shiver running down Sanji’s spine. They do fight well together, much to his consternation. He loosens his tie, wringing the fabric out from around his neck until it hangs slack.

Zoro eyes the movement. Sanji tries not to squirm under the attention. The previous two times, they were either already naked or hadn’t needed to undress in front of each other.

“How do we…how should we do this?” Sanji casts about the room, but Zoro gets a fist in his collar, drags them both over to the tiny couch in the corner, and not so much as pushes Sanji onto it, but rather lets him go in a manner that has him plopping onto the cushion. Sanji, of course, is furious at this.

“What the fuck!”

“Oh, relax, cook. Don’t get your eyebrows any more wound up than they already are.” Zoro plops down next to Sanji, then looks at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Well,” Sanji says, feeling all at once unprepared and tense. But also energized. Excited, even, at the prospect of this all unfolding and allowing himself the sensation of touch again, after so long without. Even in such outlandish circumstances.

“Well,” Zoro repeats. “Get comfortable.” He scoots down further on the couch and spreads his legs, palming himself through the fabric shamelessly. Fuck. He’s the picture of careless arousal: chest bare and not a hint of self-consciousness as the bulge in his pants grows more pronounced.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Sanji mutters, trying to sound annoyed while his pulse races. Then he thinks—well, if Zoro’s so comfortable, why shouldn’t he be? He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall open at his sides. Fuck it. This was his idea, right? Can’t balk now. He undoes his belt buckle, not feeling the need to rough it with his hand over his pants the way Zoro is. He’s just about there anyways, his blood singing as it undeniably flows southward. His body’s always been like that—not much coaxing needed.

With his cock exposed to the air, his pants and underwear bunched below his knees, he tries to concentrate only on himself. His own fist, slicking up and down his length, his thumb swiping through the beginnings of fluid leaking from the tip. But the sound of Zoro next to him is undeniable, up close and clearly audible. Wet flesh, quick breathing, the rhythmic pattern of it. Sanji tilts his head back until the base of it is resting on the back of the couch, closing his eyes so he can again focus on himself, consciously trying not to sync his movements with Zoro’s next to him. He can feel the heat of him, the meat of his thigh radiating warmth, like there’s a potent strip of hot static in the space between them.

Unconsciously, Sanji spreads his legs apart wider, as wide as his pants trapped below his knees will allow. His breathing is shallow, and he furrows his brow, trying to get into it. He’s hard, but he’s not…it’s not…it’s too dry. His palm. He winces slightly when he goes too fast, letting out a small hitch of breath, the skin too sensitive without any kind of extra moisture.

“Is that how you always do it?” Zoro says critically, the first time either of them have spoken since they got their dicks out. “You’re gonna strip yourself raw, holy shit.”

Sanji cracks an eye open, turning his head to peek. So much for not looking—Zoro’s eye is trained straight on Sanji’s hand around himself. He supposes it comes with the territory of what they’re doing, so he chooses not to get mad at this. Instead, he snips back, “Mind your business, Marimo.”

And because he’s at liberty to do so, he looks at Zoro’s lap. Zoro doesn’t appear to be having the same problem, his pants pooled at his ankles, his thigh flexing with muscle as he spreads his legs wider. One knee knocks against Sanji’s, his hand working up and down in a smooth motion, almost lazy. Seems like he’s enjoying himself.

His cock. Sanji remembers the feel of it in his hand. The weight of it, the thickness.

Without meaning to, he’s too rough on himself again, and he hisses in through his teeth sharply. He lets go, even though he’s not really sure how the “rules” of their competition work; they didn’t discuss that. Does he need to, like, continuously do it? Were they supposed to set a start time?

Beside him, Zoro clicks his tongue against his teeth. And then next thing Sanji knows, Zoro is letting go of himself, crudely spitting into his palm, and reaching over towards Sanji.

“What are you—ah fuck!—what are you doing!” Sanji cries, hips bucking, because suddenly, his dick is once again in Zoro’s hand. His palm is scorching and, like before, his fingers enclose around the circumference of it with ease.

“Come on,” Zoro says, his voice low and rumbling. “This is the whole point, right? No point in how long you can last if it’s just with yourself.” He slicks his saliva liberally around Sanji’s shaft. None of the slow, slow, slow motion from the last time, when they were just crossing the threshold, on the precipice of something purposeful and new. This was barreling straight through, no more pretenses.

Sanji gets ahold of his heaving chest, his thundering heartbeat, trying to rein in the electric crackling of pleasure doing circuits through his core at the hot, wet feeling of Zoro squeezing him just so fucking right.

It doesn’t work. Zoro pumps, Sanji makes an involuntary noise, and the crackling starts right back up again.

Fuck it, he thinks, fuck it all.

And he spits into his own palm, liberally and with practiced ease, and scoots himself over on the couch until he and Zoro are pressed thigh to thigh, elbow to elbow. Then he reaches until he’s got Zoro’s cock in his hand, and yes, he can’t close his fist all the fucking way around it, but he can still do the damn job, can’t he? If he twists like this, it won’t even matter.

Zoro sucks in through his teeth, and then they’re mutually jerking each other off in earnest, something hot and sticky and slow-bubbling like molasses rising up in Sanji as he works his wrist up and down. He presses his thumb to the slit then drags it down the glans, swiping a droplet of precum with him as he goes until it’s smeared all over the tip. Like a fucking sauce smear before plating a piece of meat. Zoro moans. God. Sanji feels like he’s lost his damn mind. He can’t tell whether he’s more focused on the feeling of Zoro working his cock, or on the task at hand, basking in the reaction his maneuver gets when he does it again. A sharp gasp, followed by a low, back of the throat sound. Zoro’s head jerks quickly to the side, his good eye askance until it meets Sanji’s.

The spirit of competition once again wells in him. Sanji finds his mouth opening, words spilling forth before he can think any better of it.

“Look at you, with this fucking thing. What good is all this if you can’t even last that long?”

“The fuck are you talking about,” Zoro growls, the obscene sound of them amplified in the cramped below deck area, the low tide rocking the ship in a gentle cradle that practically mirrors the slow roll of their hips. “You’re the one who couldn’t last the other day.”

Sanji ignores the jab. “Give it up, Mosshead,” he continues, transfixed on Zoro’s face. Zoro has looked away by now, preoccupied by the sight of Sanji’s hand closed around his cock. “You’re not going to win. Gonna fucking beat you.”

“That’s what you said last time, and yet,” Zoro pants. His earrings jostle with the effort, glittering in the ray of light that makes its way through the porthole. “And yet here we are.”

“Like I said. This is what matters.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Sure.” Sanji can’t tell if Zoro’s saying all that to be sarcastic or as encouragement. His cock feels feverish in Sanji’s grip, swelling almost impossibly thicker. His chest is sheened with sweat. “Whatever you say, cook.”

Sanji sees his opening. He feels the need to get his hooks in, pull it wider, dig in deeper. This is familiar, like their sparring, like their constant jabs. This is like equal footing, which is not only helping to ground him in the sheer ludicrousness of what they’re doing, but also…it feels good. God, it feels fucking good. He hadn’t planned this part. Sanji lets loose.

“You sure agreed easily,” he says, his voice sharp and mean, his hand squeezing. Between his legs, Zoro has set a brutal pace, and it leaves molten pleasure searing down his limbs. But he remains steadfast, reminding himself—this is a competition. And he has every intention of winning.

“The hell are you talking about,” Zoro grunts, caught up in his task. He seems to be marvelling in the way his fingers fit around Sanji’s cock, adjusting his grip, aided in the glide by the filthy mixture of sweat and spit and precome.

“When I brought this up. You agreed real fuckin’ easy.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

Sanji darts his tongue out to wet his lips. Laser quick, Zoro is locked in on the movement, pinning him with a searing look, his breath puffing out of him in quick pants. Sweat glazes down the hard line of his body, and his cock is drooling at this point, the tip flushed deep. The way he looks should be illegal, Sanji decides. It’s downright indecent.

“That you wanted this,” he says, keeping his tone needle-sharp, his brow arched, wanting to look like he’s haughty and higher-ground rather than at the basest level of pleasure possible. “I think you like this,” he continues when Zoro doesn’t react but for a flash of his eye. He feels reckless. “That’s why you tried this last time, huh? You wanted to touch me. You wanted this.”

“Shut up, shit cook.” A deep flush of red rises on Zoro’s cheeks. His cock in Sanji’s hand, however, throbs its approval, leaking out another ooze of precome.

The hook is in. All Sanji has to do is pry the flesh open. “Don’t lie. You pulled a dirty fucking trick.”

“Last time we weren’t trying to make each other come,” Zoro points out through gritted teeth. “You looked so pathetic to have lost. Thought I could make you feel better.”

“Okay, that was last time. And this time?” Sanji breathes, feeling bolder and bolder as they work. His forearm aches with it, but he powers through. “What do you want me to do? What do you want to do to me?”

Zoro’s response to that is to close his eye, a deep furrow appearing at the center of his browline, his lips parted. He looks like he’s trying not to say aloud what exactly he wants to do.

Spurred on by some unknown force, Sanji sits up and swings his leg over Zoro’s hips until he’s braced on his knees on either side of Zoro’s legs, not letting go of the cock in his hand. Like this, they’re face to face. Zoro’s eye opens, fixed on Sanji’s as their dicks line up side to side, their sweat-slick knuckles brushing.

“What are you—?”

“Shut up,” Sanji breathes, his eyes dropping down to their cocks next to each other. “You’re gonna lose this time.”

“Like hell I am,” Zoro says viciously, but he seems helpless to Sanji’s touch, melting underneath it as Sanji leans closer, til his breath ghosts over Zoro’s face. His grip loosens, and Sanji grins, knifelike, uncaring that the pleasure is no longer totally reciprocal.

“You are,” he insists, flicking his wrist, dragging the blunt edge of his thumbnail right under the ridge of Zoro’s cock, hard enough to ride the edge just before pain. Zoro makes a reedy sort of noise, squinting balefully at Sanji, his teeth bared in both pleasure and indignation. Sanji basks in it. “Admit it. You want this bad.” He tucks his knees in closer around Zoro’s thighs, bones pressing deep against muscle. Then he shifts closer, until his face is ghosting near the shell of Zoro’s ear. “Isn’t that right, Zoro?”

“Mmmgh,” is all Zoro replies.

“I said,” Sanji insists, crowding closer, until the smell of sweat and skin and metallic earring practically melds onto his tongue, “isn’t that, right?”

“Fuck off,” Zoro snarls, breathless. His hand has stilled on Sanji’s cock. Sanji’s starting to catch on: his talking is affecting Zoro in ways he never would have imagined, giving him the upper hand. A thrill goes up his spine.

“You’ve got a job to do,” Sanji reminds him, nudging his side with a knee. “Not much of a competition if you’re slacking off.”

Zoro seems incapable of speech, but his hand around Sanji is moving once again with renewed vigor. There’s no need for spit this time, it’s so slippery.

“Yes,” Sanji hisses. “Yeah, that’s right.” He feels outside of himself, unable to reconcile the fact that just a few minutes ago, he was skittish at the idea of Zoro helping jerk him off. Inhibitions and best laid plans and all that—out the window right now, their bodies close, their cocks nearly touching as they work each other.

Zoro catches onto this at the same time. Impatiently, he pries Sanji’s grip off of his cock so he can envelop both of them together with a large hand, twisting as he goes. Sanji is rendered speechless as he watches, as he feels: the underside of his cock fits slick and heated against Zoro’s, deeply colored, Zoro’s thick fingers circling them both.

He recognizes that he’s coming up fast on his limit. Despite his best efforts, there’s only so much he can take, and the sight of Zoro beneath him, legs spread, face and chest and dick flushed and sweaty, is almost as potent as the feel of that large hand enclosing him. He rolls his hips forward, planting himself in Zoro’s lap, nearly collapsing forward, and noses along the exposed line of Zoro’s neck, unable to help himself.

He lets his lips drag a wet line along the tendon leading up from Zoro’s collarbone. “Fuck, Zoro.” He feels wanton, secretly thrilled with the knowledge that his desperation is what’s getting Zoro off. Not that it’s not sincere—it is, and that might be the most potent part of it all.

Everything that happens next unfolds in a matter of a few seconds, toppling from one thing to the next like a line of dominos.

“Shit,” Zoro curses under his breath, his hips squirming. Sanji can feel it, the way Zoro’s cock pulses, right on the edge. His voice is utterly strained. “Curly, what—”

“Zoro,” Sanji says again, his voice breathy, and he darts his tongue out, tasting salt and sweat. Part of him wants to open wide and sink his teeth into flesh. “You lost.”

“Shut the fuck up, holy fuck.” Lightning fast, Zoro’s other hand reaches out and gets a punishing grip around Sanji’s hip, trying to haul them closer together. Sanji resists, concentrating on the task at hand.

“You lost,” he repeats, working his hips as Zoro keeps up pace, squeezing them together. It’s all he can do to keep his own body in check, teetering on the precipice of orgasm. He mouths again along Zoro’s neck until his nose pushes against three dangling earrings. His free hand is fisted into the fabric around Zoro’s other shoulder, having unconsciously tugged it open further, baring the full expanse of that broad chest and jagged scar. “You lost, you’re gonna lose, I told you so, cause you’re gonna come right now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“No way,” Zoro heaves, his face screwed up in pleasure. “No way, fuck, shit, I’m gonna come—”

And then there’s warmth and wet across Sanji’s dick, shooting across Zoro’s stomach, painting it in messy streaks. Zoro bites down on his lip through it, making a hot, low sound in the back of his throat. Sanji watches, open-mouthed, as an impressive amount of come pools along the ridges of Zoro’s abdomen. His own cock pulses painfully between his legs, heavy and still loosely circled in Zoro’s lax grip.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his hips rutting into air. “You lost. I won!”

“Come here,” Zoro growls, not letting the force of his orgasm knock him for a loop. He surges up and this time successfully hauls Sanji closer, til they’re nearly chest to chest. The motion gets Sanji’s cock dragging along the fluid spattered along Zoro’s stomach.

“Ah—fuck—”

Zoro presses his advantage. One hand fists into the back of Sanji’s dress shirt, keeping him locked down. The other swipes along his own come until it coats his fingers, then his hand is back around Sanji’s length, aided by the wet, indecent slide of his own semen.

“What the hell,” Sanji keens, ending on a broken-off whine. Zoro is single-minded and silent, working Sanji’s cock in the tight, slick hole of his fist. Sanji is reduced to a series of wholly undignified noises as he looks into the dark, damp space between their bodies, unable to speak, unable to do anything but rut into Zoro’s grip and continue making embarrassing noises, his mind going static and numb.

“Yeah, nothing to say now, huh?” Zoro’s tone is wicked, punishing. “Winner gets his prize, doesn’t he?”

Sanji’s distantly aware of his hands curled into fists, his forehead pressed down against Zoro’s collarbone as he comes so hard he sees stars. He tries his best to keep his eyes open, because he wants—he wants to see. Their come pooled together across tanned skin, muscles flexing and shifting underneath. Their cocks dripping, Zoro’s lying spent by his bellybutton, Sanji’s leaned into the wet mess like it’s a spout.

When he collapses backwards, he nearly loses his balance entirely until Zoro’s hand centers itself on his back, tugging him upright. He blinks, dazed, and eases himself off of Zoro’s lap gingerly. He can’t tear his gaze away from the mess mottled across Zoro’s stomach, which rises and falls in soft, even motions as he catches his breath.

“Seems like a win-win kind of scenario to me, don’t you think?” Zoro remarks, fixing Sanji with a measured look. If this is a white flag, Sanji’s not ready to take it yet.

“Not really. Pretty clear that I won, actually.” He screws up his mouth, his fingers twitching at his side for a cigarette. He’ll need one soon.

“You cheated,” Zoro accuses immediately, Sanji’s slight glancing off him like he’d expected it. “You did—all that—” He waves his hand around at the wrist, gesturing wildly.

“Oh, please. That wasn’t cheating. That could perfectly well happen with an actual partner.”

Zoro squints at him like he’s stupid. “You are an actual partner, dumbass! We just jerked each other off!”

Sanji feels his face heating up. “Then that makes it all the more valid! Face it, you lost. You didn’t last as long as me.”

Zoro opens his mouth to retort, but he’s cut off by an all too familiar shout from outside.

“SANJI! ZORO!”

“Shit,” Zoro swears, scrambling up from the couch. “Luffy.”

Sanji is already hurriedly tucking himself away and fixing his shirt, hoping that he doesn’t look too disheveled in a way that hints at sex.

“Hurry up!” he hisses at Zoro, who’s casting around for something to clean himself off with. He ends up settling on the ragged edge of one of the couch pillows. Sanji makes a face.

“Shut up! There’s nothing else here!”

“Oiii! Where are you guys!” The sound of Luffy’s voice is closer this time. Idiot. He’s going to let the entire island know who they are. Unless they already know—there’s always a nonzero chance of that.

“Just—hurry up,” Sanji snaps, smoothing his hair down and clambering up the ladder to the deck, where he can see the Sunny on the water nearby.

Zoro emerges just in time, still tucking his red sash back in place when two of Luffy’s rubbery arms stretch towards them, fist in their collars, and swing them unceremoniously from the deck back to the Sunny.

“What were you guys doing over there!” Luffy laughs when they land in a heap atop the lawn.

Sanji delivers a swift kick to Zoro’s gut to send him flying. “Mosshead got lost,” he grumbles, finally pulling out a cigarette to light it up. “He got on the wrong ship. Again.”

“Aww man, Zoro! When are you gonna learn?”

Zoro’s red in the face and glaring, because Sanji kicked in the exact tender spot where, moments ago, their come had been mixed.

“Wow, you guys look all messed up! Were you fighting again?” Luffy continues blithely.

“Something like that,” Zoro grumbles, standing up with a noisy clattering of his swords.

“I won,” Sanji says smugly, his cigarette perched between his two fingers like a prize.

Above the railing, he hears Nami sigh dramatically.

#

Sanji only forgets about what happened in that cramped little cabin because he’s forced to. Turns out the reason Luffy plucked them from the deck of the ship and brought them back to the Sunny was because there was an angry mob of islanders and pirates alike on their tail, pitchforks and all.

That led to one thing, which led to another, as these things tend to do, which accumulated in two and a half days of non-stop fighting, fleeing, more fighting, and more fleeing. The Straw Hats came out on top, of course. They always did, but the amount of action it took to get there hardly allowed Sanji to focus on his Zoro issue.

Still, there was a period in the midst of it all where he found himself back to back with the swordsman. Their actions were perfectly timed, completely attuned to one another as they dodged and parried and coordinated the perfect combination of legs and swords. Sanji could feel the heat of Zoro’s back against his shoulderblades, and could tell what he was going to do next just from the subtle shift of muscle, just as unspoken and innate as if Sanji were dictating the moves himself.

They cut down their opponents with brutal efficiency, then Sanji was whisked away to the next pressing task—apparently the ersatz pirates who claimed the island before them had managed to steal some of Nami’s berry stockpile.

By the end of it all, the islanders have flipped on their heads, falling on their knees for Luffy and the rest of them, thanking them profusely for freeing them from the other pirates who had taken stronghold of their home. There’s a party, and a feast, and drinks all around as the place celebrates its newfound freedom.

For Sanji’s part, he’s running on fumes as he fashions some kind of community kitchen out of an empty local restaurant and cooks up dish after dish, carried out to the jubilant crowds that swarm the streets. He has no idea where the rest of the crew is, but they’re probably fine. He thinks he can hear Brook’s violin, and maybe an enthusiastic cry of “Super!” over the din.

He’s on autopilot pouring sizzling oil over aromatics to dress a steamed fish when the owner finally storms in, looking furious at whoever’s taken over his place. He appears less mad when it’s clear Sanji knows what he’s doing, plating the fish and setting it on the counter while simultaneously tossing a batch of rice in a sizzling wok. Still, Sanji gets bullied out of there. He doesn’t protest—it’s not his kitchen, after all, but if there’s nothing left for him to do, then that means…he’s got to think about…

A hand comes down on his shoulder the moment he steps onto the street. He doesn’t have to look to know who it belongs to.

“Meet me in the crow’s nest in half an hour.” The voice is low up against his ear, and Sanji fails to suppress his shiver. He hopes it’s lost to the throng of people and lights and music all around them.

And then Zoro is retreating through the rush of townsfolk, weaving along the path in the direct opposite direction of where the Sunny is docked.

He’s too tired to do otherwise, Sanji thinks as he about-faces and heads towards the shoreline. That’s why he’s going to the Sunny right now. That’s why he’s aboard, nevermind the fact that the ship is empty, everyone else still revelling with the town. That’s why he’s climbing up the ladder to the crow’s nest.

Predictably, it’s empty. Sanji never once thought Zoro would be there before him. It’d probably take him the full half hour and then some to find the ship in the first place. Idiot.

Something flits within his chest that feels suspiciously close to fondness. Sanji tamps it down as best as he can. He’s torn; he’s not ready to think about that feeling and Zoro. What it means. Yet he’s here, isn’t he?

The exhaustion must be getting to him. Zoro had taken the first opportunity he could after the fighting had ended to go right to sleep against the side of the town hall building, the lazy fuck, while Sanji immediately began sourcing ingredients for the party feast. There’s only so much his brain can take on nearly three days of no sleep, so he makes the executive decision to stop thinking until Zoro gets here. He sits on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, head leaned up against the wall, and dozes off.

When he wakes, the moon is fully risen, bathing the otherwise dark crow’s nest in a thin, gray light. He’s also no longer alone; Zoro is next to him, arms and legs spread out as wide as they can go, head tilted back and snoring.

Sanji jumps up, his hackles raised. It surely has been half an hour many times over, judging by the position of the moon and the way his back aches from sleeping upright. When the hell did Zoro get here? Why didn’t he wake Sanji?

He nudges Zoro’s ankle with the tip of his shoe. “Oi, Marimo.”

Zoro continues snoring. Sanji decides he doesn’t have time for this, and summarily drives the sole of his shoe into Zoro’s stomach. Only the impact doesn’t take—it’s stopped by a large hand wrapping around his ankle, Sanji’s foot resting against Zoro’s haramaki rather than doing any damage.

Zoro lifts his eyelid lazily, grip unyielding on Sanji’s ankle. “Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Sanji tugs his leg out of Zoro’s grasp. He lets go easily. Scratches at his chest, rolls his neck. Sanji tries not to focus too intently on the motion. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Zoro shrugs. “You seemed tired. You haven’t slept since we won.”

“I had shit to do.”

“Bullshit,” Zoro scoffs, rolling his eyes. His red sash is missing, Sanji notices, as are his swords, leaving his robe hanging open around his shoulders. “You didn’t have to cook for the entire damn town and you know it. You just wanted to stay busy.”

It hits a little too close to home for comfort. Sanji tries to deflect. “I’m the cook, dumbass. That’s my job. Why did you want me to come here?”

He knows why, and Zoro knows he knows why. Still, Zoro regards him, leaning back against the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Then he stands, his shadow obscuring the wan light that gleams from the surrounding windows.

“It’s my turn,” says Zoro evenly. “You won last time, so now it’s my turn.”

Sanji knew it was coming, yet his throat still goes dry. “You just can’t stand losing, huh?”

He almost wants to ask: what’s the catch this time? What’s the premise? What’s the game they’re playing? How much longer are they going to last, these flimsy excuses they’ve been giving for what they’ve been doing?

The answer seems to be just a little while longer. It’s like Zoro can read his mind. “I bet I can do something that has never been done to you before,” Zoro challenges. “Something you’ll never forget.”

Sanji pretends to scoff. “I’ve been fucked before, Mosshead, I’ve done it all—”

“Not that,” Zoro says, shuffling closer. His eyes flash, heat simmering. “Mine can do something yours can’t.”

The scoff is real this time. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that. What, can your dick talk or something?” To his surprise, Zoro doesn’t take the bait. Just meets his level gaze through the dark. His expression is frustratingly unreadable. Sanji relents and says the magic words. “Fine. Prove it.”

Zoro slips his robe from his shoulders, then his haramaki over his head, leaving both in a rumpled pile on the couch. Then he gets his hands on Sanji’s shoulders, pushing gently until Sanji’s back is against the wall adjacent to the couch.

It’s different this time and they both know it. The air between them is heavy. Zoro smooths his hands down Sanji’s shirt, and Sanji lets him, until he reaches the leather of Sanji’s belt buckle, then down past that. No more of each of them getting themselves ready before proceeding; Zoro is palming Sanji through his pants, and Sanji’s cock eagerly responds.

He lets Zoro work him through the fabric until he’s half-hard, then Zoro is pulling his shirttails untucked and going for his belt. Sanji decides to help him along, undoing the buttons on his shirt so he can toss the entire thing aside to join Zoro’s robe and haramaki.

By the time Zoro works his hand inside Sanji’s boxers, he’s panting for it, unable to stop staring at the way Zoro’s bare chest rises and falls, the pace of his breath mirroring Sanji’s. He sucks in through his teeth when Zoro gets his cock out, pants and underwear bunched down underneath his knees.

Fair’s fair, so he reaches forward and pushes his hand on Zoro’s dick through the pants. From the feel of it, he’s not wearing any underwear, and he’s already hard. Fuck. Sanji uses both hands to work Zoro’s pants down his hips, then they’re jerking each other off, quick and easy as that. It’s just as heady as last time, the feel and weight of Zoro in his palm, the slickness of the tip as it twitches in Sanji’s grasp, the fleshy softness of the foreskin pulled back near the base, the sound of Zoro’s breath leaving him in a low, quavering sound.

“How is this different from what we did last time?” Sanji sounds breathless as Zoro crowds in closer, one hand around Sanji’s bare waist, the other twisting his wrist deftly. Sanji sucks in a breath, pleasure spreading outwards from his core. This is a lot less frantic, that’s for sure. And he feels less competitive. Less of that intense, fiery spark, much as it had been an excuse, and more of a smoldering, slow build that coincides with the deep, measured motion of Zoro’s fist around him. He matches Zoro’s pace, sparks flitting around his brain.

“Just wait,” says Zoro, and fuck, his voice is so low, so enticing. “It’s best when you’re more worked up.”

“What is ‘it’ supposed to be?” Sanji can’t prevent the hitch in his breath no matter how hard he tries.

“It’s also best when you’re wetter,” Zoro murmurs. “I’d suck you off, but I think you’d come on the spot, so maybe next time.”

Sanji fights to keep his eyes from rolling back, imagining Zoro sinking to his knees. Shit. What Zoro does instead is take his hand off Sanji and lick up his palm, the same way Sanji had with himself a few days ago. Sanji grabs at Zoro’s shoulder when he returns his hand to Sanji’s cock. This time, there’s no fabric to twist his hands into; there’s only bare flesh, hot and firm and alive under his palm. He moans in the back of his throat, picking up the pace just as Zoro does the same.

“This—this isn’t anything special,” Sanji huffs as they stroke each other. Zoro’s hips are twitching with the movement now, fucking shallowly into the twisting circle Sanji makes with his fist. That’s an understatement, considering how he feels like he’s on fire just from Zoro’s large hand. He can barely imagine how that mouth would feel, all wet and heat and pressure…

Zoro smears the precome that oozes out around Sanji’s crown and underside of the glans. Sanji wants to buck up into his fist, but his hip is held firmly in place by the fingers pressing deep into the muscle there. The best he can do is squirm while Zoro holds him in place. Then Zoro lets go and steps away, just a few inches.

“What are you—don’t stop—” Fuck, he sounds desperate as hell, doesn’t he? Zoro doesn’t even make fun of him for it. If he did, Sanji thinks he might have gotten even harder. God. Now that’s a thread he’s definitely not ready to tug loose yet.

Zoro’s separated them so he can line them up next to each other, a facsimile of when they first compared sizes in the shower. Only now Sanji’s anxious for more, wanting touch, wanting skin, wanting heat. He remembers the way Zoro’s neck had felt under his tongue. He wonders what his might feel like under Zoro’s.

“Hold still,” Zoro whispers, gripping the base of his dick so it juts out. He nudges Sanji’s hand, and Sanji gets the picture, mirroring his pose. “I saw you looking before. Each time. You’ve never been with someone uncut, have you.”

It’s not so much a question as an observation. Either way, Sanji doesn’t answer. He can only stare, hypnotized, as Zoro slowly works his foreskin until it covers the length of his shaft, then keeps going, going, until it rolls over his cockhead, then keeps going, soft resistance as it meets the tip of Sanji’s dick. Zoro, with single-minded focus, encourages it with a steady hand until the skin gives, stretching to accommodate the additional length. Sanji doesn’t know exactly how he does it, honestly. His brain goes fuzzy because he’s staring down at the tip of his cock enveloped in Zoro’s foreskin.

It doesn’t cover more than a third, maybe less, of the whole thing but it’s. It’s. It’s hot and wet and tight and he can feel the fleshiness of Zoro’s cockhead squeezed against his, contained by web-thin skin. Sanji can feel it when precome drips out of Zoro, and he chokes out a strangled noise as Zoro adjusts his grip so he’s holding them together where they meet. He jerks them shallowly, but every miniscule movement has Sanji seeing stars. Sanji can feel his fingers through the skin, holy fuck, it’s so much. The ridge of Zoro’s thumb, the fleshy feeling of the inside curl of his four fingers, warm through the thin layer of skin separating them. He almost doubles over, his hips frantically thrusting on pure instinct into that tight channel, and holy shit, he can’t…he can’t think straight, can’t do anything but twitch and listen to his pulse roaring between his ears.

“Zoro,” Sanji pants, because he no longer has any control over what he says. “Fuck, Zoro, oh my God.”

“Yeah? That’s good for you? You like that?”

He can only continue to make undignified noises. Impossibly, Zoro adjusts them so they’re even more snug, even deeper, jerking off both their cocks, foreskin rolling and pushing and pulling. He thrusts his hips steady, offsetting the motion of Sanji’s own hips, the glide of it slippery and all-encompassing.

The sight of them held together like this is doing things to his brain. Like they’re connected, Sanji becoming Zoro and Zoro becoming Sanji. Unbidden, he thinks of the heat of Zoro’s back against his in the midst of battle, and it’s…this is too intimate. It’s too much. His throat constricts. It might have been less intimate if they had just fucked properly. Oh God, they’re going to fuck, aren’t they? Probably. Yes. Definitely yes.

“Sanji.” When Zoro says his name, Sanji can’t tell whether he’s just as desperate as Sanji is, or whether Sanji’s projecting how crazed and intense he feels onto everything around him. The hand not in a deathgrip around the base of his cock finds itself dragging down Zoro’s side, to pull him closer, to push him away, to…to…

“Sanji,” Zoro says again, and Sanji only now realizes how close their faces have gotten, too absorbed at the sight of his dick enveloped within Zoro’s. He can feel breath against his cheek. “M’close. You are, too. I can feel it.”

He can feel it. Because they’re so impossibly close, pushing and pulling and merging. Every pulse of Zoro’s cock is a pulse of Sanji’s cock, against it, around it, within it, everywhere, even localized as it is to their point of connection. Sanji makes a critical mistake then. He flicks his eyes from their dicks to Zoro’s face, and—and Zoro’s already looking at him. Had he been looking this whole time?

Sanji snaps.

He surges forward to pull them together into a punishing kiss. He hadn’t meant to, he really didn’t picture himself ever kissing Zoro like this, until he is, unable to imagine why he would do anything else. Zoro responds immediately, inhaling through his nose and opening his mouth, leaning forward and down and Sanji feels it in their dicks, the posture change.

Their tongues slide together, in each other’s spaces, wet and hot and probing, and the last thing Sanji thinks before his brain turns to static pleasure is how it’s a mirror of their cocks, sealed together, like this is how it was always meant to be.

It’s the hardest he’s ever come in his life. For a moment, the liquid flow of it creates a warm, sticky sensation cocooned within Zoro’s foreskin, tip still rubbing against Sanji’s, so potent that Sanji feels like he might come again in a chain reaction. Then it becomes too much, overflowing from the skin and breaking their seal. They stop kissing so Sanji can watch the messy process of separation, distantly fascinated. Only after they’re finally apart does Sanji realize Zoro has come as well, and he can only think dimly that that feels right—the togetherness, their semen mixing, inseparable.

Zoro doesn’t miss a beat, his face shuttering into something neutral the moment he steps away. He grabs a set of towels next to his barbells, tosses one at Sanji, and uses the other to roughly wipe himself down.

“Thanks,” Sanji croaks. Shit, he sounds wrecked. He feels wrecked. His body catches up with his brain in the aftermath, still running on precious little sleep after days of fighting and working. He can barely muster up the energy to wipe himself off and right his pants and underwear.

“So was I right?” Zoro asks.

“Hmm?” The couch is starting to look really appealing. Or maybe it’s because Sanji’s vision is swimming now. He stumbles his way over to it, collapses onto it in a heap.

“That you’ve never done that before.” Something in Zoro’s voice sounds strange—an odd mix of both optimism and despondency, covered by a veil of overt nonchalance. “Which means I won this time.”

Sanji’s wrung-out brain starts to connect the dots, but he’s simply too tired to examine them any further.

“Talk later,” Sanji says, waving a leaden hand in a gesture that could mean either come here or go away. He hopes Zoro interprets it as the former. “Sleep now.”

He can’t be sure which interpretation Zoro actually takes before he slips under.

#

Sanji wakes, and his mind is made up.

His back is cramped as hell from sleeping on the couch and his feet hurt from having never taken his shoes off last night. The first thing he does is kick them off and wiggle his toes. The second thing he does is sit upright so he can peer down at Zoro, who has fallen asleep on the floor next to the couch, propped up against the armrest with his chin on his chest. Sanji chooses to interpret it as an encouraging sign that he stayed at all.

He knows Zoro is awake when he stands, stretching out his limbs and popping his back. He really wants a cigarette, but that’s just going to have to wait. Zoro’s eye is open when he checks again, regarding him from underneath his brow like a wary animal.

Sanji slides himself summarily onto Zoro’s lap, knees bracketing Zoro’s hips. Zoro’s eye goes wide, and he splutters.

“What are you—what—I—”

“Careful,” says Sanji, smug. “You know what thinking too hard does to you.”

Zoro finds his words. “Sanji. What are you doing?”

In lieu of a reply, Sanji kisses him. A real kiss, sweet—not filthy, open-mouthed panting and tonguing like they did last night. Zoro is rendered speechless again, hands hovering around Sanji’s sides like he’s unsure if he can touch.

“No more games,” Sanji says when they draw apart. “No more bets. No more competition. I just want you. And you want me, too.”

The line doesn’t exist anymore. The one they danced on, leapt over, then jerked off on. Sanji has zapped it out of being, torn it to shreds, left it at the bottom of the ocean.

The look on Zoro’s face is so priceless that Sanji has no choice but to kiss him again. This time, Zoro’s arms wrap around his middle, tugging him closer until their bodies are flush. Sanji can feel Zoro’s smile against his face, but when they draw apart Zoro looks deadly serious, peering into Sanji’s eyes.

“No more betting? Not even a little?” Zoro leans closer, brushing his lips against Sanji’s jaw, tracing up towards his earlobe. His voice drops lower. “Like…I bet I could fuck you better than anyone else has before?”

“Okay,” Sanji concedes, moving back in for another kiss. “Maybe a little betting.”