I. How to Approach a Thing Thing, Featuring Luffy’s Expert Advice
It’s not that Zoro is bothered or anything about the fact that Sanji hasn’t made him a dessert since that disastrous day with Perona, it’s just that... well...
Sanji hasn’t made desserts for him the way he had been before, and it’s. It’s just a thing, right? Like, a little thing, but he’s thought back and he remembers Sanji’s face when Perona politely told him that Zoro didn’t like chocolates, not just sweets in general, and they can talk about anything, really, but he doesn’t know how to talk to Sanji about this without sounding like a whiney brat.
Hey boyfriend that takes the time to pack me and my roommate lunches, why aren’t you making dessert, too?
See? Entitled asshole behavior.
Except—it was the thoughtfulness, right, that left Zoro nervous and eating while his stomach twisted into a fluttery, bubbling mess. It was something small that Sanji took the time to work with, that he remembered, and Zoro loves that. He just... doesn’t have a good way to approach the subject, so he doesn’t.
He doesn’t have the balls quite yet to talk to Sanji about it, so he goes to his next least embarrassing source: Luffy.
So, February tenth has Zoro standing behind the counter of the shop-front of his dojo while Luffy spins around on the only available spinning chair. He doesn’t know how to puss* foot around sh*t, usually, so they’re eating pre-packed meals Sanji has left them on the glass counter.
“You wanna know where to take Sanj for Valentines?” Luffy asks before cramming a giant, meat-filled ravioli in his mouth. “Or you want to—repeat it please, Zoro, I’m confused.”
“I wanted to just...” Zoro sighs, slumping further down and leaning heavily on the counter, now. “Idunno, Luf. I think I still feel bad about the chocolate thing.”
“Ah,” Luffy says, turning to burp and then trading his empty bowl for another, “you’re sad Sanji doesn’t make you dessert anymore.” Luffy rattles the container, filled with bite sized churros and loose brown sugar. “Well, not sad, but you don’t like it and you don’t know how to ask him about it without sounding like an asshole.”
Hole in one. Bullseye.
“It’s just...” Zoro sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t know how to bring it up, and I don’t know why I feel so bad, still. He hasn’t even mentioned it, for f*ck’s sake!”
“Well, you didn’t mean anything bad, and it was a misunderstanding,” Luffy shrugs, popping three of the churros in his mouth. “But eve fough you i'in’t kno there waf a broof fhere, you pre’ed on it n’shaw him flinch, so you feel bad.”
God, is this why Luffy is so good at his f*cking job? His ability to make things somehow easier to understand for the person feeling it? Maybe saying it with a mouth full is part of the charm to lessen the gut punch of how on-target he is.
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Zoro grumbles, happily taking the churro Luffy nudges his way in gratitude.
“Well, it’s a thing. Like, a Sanji thing, right?” Luffy shrugs. “If you really want to know, but you don’t feel like broaching the subject directly to Sanji, which I think is dumb because the person that knows best is Sanji, then maybe ask the people that have known him longer, long enough to know what the thing is and why it’s a thing.”
“You think that’s a good idea?” Zoro grumbles, though he can’t hide the way his spirits seem to perk up, “I mean, I don’t like to push, but... I want to apologize, but apologize and know what I’m sorry for, you know? And I’m supposed to go to Usopp’s after work Friday to help them with some new furniture they ordered.”
Luffy stares at Zoro for a long while.
“No, but if it helps then start there and then just talk to Sanji,” Luffy shrugs, “I know Ace used to get annoyed when I would go around him and ask to Sabo about something, but in this case asking Ace or Nami or even Usopp would give you a starting point when you do talk to him.”
II. You Start Off Simple, Ease It In
“So what’s up with the cook and his thing about food?” Zoro asks, helping Usopp and Kaya by lifting their new wardrobe from the back of their borrowed truck. He recognizes it as the old beat-up red truck Sanji had driven them in to Usopp’s Birthday Hike and picnic the year before.
“It pains me to say,” Usopp wheezes as he hefts a recliner before him. “But can you elaborate the thing you’re referencing? He has a few i'onno, quirks, I guess, about food.”
The walkway is the easy part; the hardest part are the five steps leading up to the doorway. Zoro’s finally breaking a sweat but they’re almost done loading this latest haul as Kaya flashes them the high beams from the truck and waves at the rearview mirror to go collect the final pieces from the shop. Usopp puts the recliner down on the lawn, panting and rubbing sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve.
“I guess—the thing about the uhh, making foods you’d like, and sh*t like that,” Zoro elaborates, and f*ck it sounds dumb when he says it but Usopp seems to be considering, at least, or maybe he’s using a thinking pose against the recliner’s back as an excuse to take a break. He puts the wardrobe down, shifting his shoulders and rolling his arms out at his sides.
“Well, when we were freshman, he found out that I liked to eat fall pike, right, it was like one of those facts you give when you start a class,” Usopp starts, and at least his tone sounds like he’s trying to be honest and not trying to weave a new tale. “I think it was poli-sci, or English or something, but you know, ‘hi, my name is Usopp, I was born in the East Blue in Syrup Village, my favorite food is fall pike, and I’m in the Mechanical Engineering major’ that kind of thing.”
He moves, at least, to grab one end of the long set of drawers and nods at Zoro so they can heft the thing up the stairs and into the guest room.
God, they have a guest room and multiple pieces of, like, non-building, heavy-as-sh*t furniture. Zoro doesn’t want to call it adult furniture, but it kind of feels like it.
“So, we get to finals in the Spring when I’m officially friends with Sanji, just straight adopted the most contradictory guy in pretty much the entire dorm,” Usopp grunts as they lift, and Zoro’s not even mad that he’s the one that’s going to have to navigate the lifting and walk backwards. He’ll gladly pay this fee for the information he’s gleaming. “He was somehow angry but kind, kind of weird with ladies but also a gentleman—but alright, he was always kind of an asshole, but we’re neck deep in finals during the Spring semester, and I was pretty sure I was going to flunk my first engineering final.”
The stairs are f*cking awful, Zoro huffs as they begin.
“And he came out with-with some black tea and the best f*cking pike I’ve ever tasted,” Usopp grits out as they go step by step closer to the end of this late Friday evening hell, “there were other things, too, like snacks and small foods he’d leave when I’d go on a crafting-slash-engineering binge; he’d figured out that I enjoyed fish more than other meats, that I liked figs, just random stuff like that.”
They make it to the flat hallway, thank f*ck, and he and Usopp put the drawers down for another quick breather.
“I don’t know if that answers my question,” Zoro says after his breathing is back under control, “but thanks, anyway.”
“I’m not too sure if there is an answer that I can plainly give you,” Usopp suggests sheepishly, “but I can tell you this: we’ve never sat and talked about what I ate growing up, or what things I like and don’t like the way he probably has with others. And yet, when I was down, or when we were having a good week, or anything in between: Sanji would be there with something ready, something prepared, even when the fruit or fish wasn’t in season. I don’t even think half the cooking things he had in his dorms were like, legal, but no one ever told him a single thing.”
Usopp looks over at Zoro from across the furniture they’ve dragged up successfully.
“I think it’s just something he either notices, or something he hears, and he keeps that information locked away for future reference. It’s hard to override something you’ve taken note of as fact at first, ya know?” Usopp pauses, hesitates, then continues, “food to Sanji is not just something we need to eat, in a survival sense, though that is definitely part of it; it’s something that celebrates life. It’s something that brings joy.”
Saturday, Sanji is at the Baratie early for the pre-Valentine's prep work, so Zoro has already called Nami and Vivi to meet for breakfast and coffee. They’re not heading out until the evening for their own weekend plans, and although Usopp’s words did help him feel a little more understanding, he couldn’t help but feel like he still doesn’t know the way he wants to.
He wakes up, staring blearily at the ceiling of Sanji’s loft ceiling. The bed isn’t warm anymore, but there’s the undeniable scent of something delicious waiting for him in the kitchen.
It’s only been a month and a half or so of official dating, but Zoro still takes his time to scan the space around him, wondering how long it will take to collect all the pieces to understand Sanji just that little bit more. He wants to know it all, each facet, each dish, each recipe made, adjusted, discarded; each ingredient that has built his food, that have been touched and have touched Sanji.
He groans and covers his face, because he’s got it bad. Somehow actually being together has made his crush worse. How the f*ck does that make sense? He drags his hands down his face and sighs, reaching blindly for his phone on the nightstand: eight in the morning.
f*ck it, this should be early enough for breakfast, right? Maybe texting Nami on his own volition before ten will be enough to show her how serious he is about this current mission.
“So you called us at eight in the morning for coffee and breakfast as a bribe to learn about Sanji’s food thing?” Nami says lightly, but the little crease between her brows appears has Zoro swallowing but nodding. “I can’t believe I’m going to ask this,” Nami continues, the tap tap tap of her acrylic nails on the coffee cup more menacing than anything, “but which of his food things?”
Vivi giggles behind her giant, frothing drink. Zoro sighs, because he should have seen this coming, really, with what he knows about the cook, but still.
“His thing about making sure he knows, like, the things you like and dislike,” Zoro elaborates and at least Nami seems to immediately recognize what he means because she gives a little ah and nods. She stirs the spoon in her coffee. Unfortunately, their waiter comes with a tray heavy with their breakfast order. They pass around dishes with overpouring of thanks, and Zoro doesn’t want to look so desperate for answers but he must look like it because Nami sighs like he’s bothersome before pointing towards the syrup at the wall-end of the table on Zoro’s side.
“Is this about how he thought you didn’t like sweets but you just don’t like chocolate?” Nami continues after pouring an unholy amount of maple syrup on her flapjacks. Zoro can feel his jaw drop, just a little, but he tries to cover it up by cramming a fork full of ketchupped eggs in his gullet. He nods instead, although by Nami’s eyerolling he’s more than obvious.
“You lied to Sanji about not liking sweets?!” Vivi gasps, putting down the odd pancake taco she’s shoved all her eggs and bacon into as if preventing a dramatic drop. “Why would you do that!”
“I didn’t lie to the cook!” Zoro groans, throwing his hands up like he’s been stopped by the white coats and doesn’t want to be taken into an interrogation room. “He just—Robin’s birthday last year, right, we did this whole two truths and a lie, and he took it as a sweets thing instead of just chocolate, and he didn’t find out until Rona let it slip during her birthday dinner and I just... I just...”
“You liked the fact that he was thinking about you, even when your head was so far up your ass you thought he was as straight as—I don’t know. Hun, help me out here,” Nami sighs, pressing her fork in the syrupy monstrosity on her plate.
“As straight as the X-Axis,” Vivi says sagely, nodding solemnly and picking up her breakfast, “as straight as his cooking knives. As straight as—okay, I can’t really think of more things, but you get the idea.”
Zoro stares. Vivi yawns, her jaw cracking and tears springing at the corner of her eyes. She takes a bite of her pancake taco, bits of egg yolk dripping down to her barren plate.
“So you liked that he was making things and thinking about you,” Nami shrugs, mushing up her pancakes and syrup into a pile of mush, and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen her eat her breakfast foods like this it’s always weird to be around. “And that’s fine! I think it's perfectly normal when you’re attracted to someone. Why is it bothering you so much though? Sanji’s recalculated and he knows the truth so everything should be square now, no?”
“It’s not about being square now,” Zoro grumbles, somehow unable to look away as Nami starts smashing her eggs with the flat of her fork onto her slushed pile of hotcakes and syrup. “If it’s a sore spot or something, I want to be able to avoid it in the future.”
“It’s not a sore spot,” Nami sighs, finally eating her horrendous food. Zoro goes back to picking at his fluffy scrambled eggs, “it’s... f*ck, a preference? Something he likes to keep in his back pocket? It’s like, the way someone gets used to the sound of your voice and can recognize it later. Like remembering the lyrics to someone’s favorite song so you can sing it together on a long car ride; the way you can touch someone’s face and be able to draw the contours of their cheek, the way their lips pill when they smile, it’s something like that.”
Zoro nods, chewing over his breakfast. Again, just like with Usopp, this seems to be something he can understand without fully getting it. Like, they make sense, is the thing, without giving him an answer.
“When Nami and I first got together,” Vivi says, looking at Zoro, through him, and it might just be her sleepiness that makes her vision go far and hazy, or the distance she has to send her mind back, back, back, but Zoro sits up straighter. She lets go of the scooped up pancake and returns to her drink, holding the tall glass cup between her hands the way someone would hold an invaluable jewel. “We kept it on the down low for... months. It wasn’t a matter of shame or anything, and you guys remember that whole mess when Crocodile was trying to usurp my father’s position with the Alabasta group.”
“Yeah,” Zoro says, more to keep the conversation going than to remember those times fondly. Fighting that government-sanctioned fraud had been harder than fighting his for-hire goons.
“Well, I’d sort of remembered Sanji from before, when we were really, really young,” Vivi continues, pausing only to drink a few sips of her hot coffee, because she's a heathen that gets hot coffeeand the kind of fancy coffee that's more whip cream than cup, “the Vinsmokes are old money, the same way my family is, but even then he was like a ghost that haunted that family’s mansion. It wasn’t a pleasant place to visit, and eventually when his mom died Sanji wasn’t around often. When my mom died, I stopped doing visits to other households, too.”
Nami continues to eat her breakfast is neat, mushed piles, taking bites of her bacon as Vivi speaks, clearly in the know. Zoro feels a little silly, hanging off her every word, learning what he can, trying to see between each word and syllabel for anything that will bring clarity to his jumbled thoughts.
“So: Nami tells me, hey, there’s this really good friend I have, he’s basically a brother to me, would you be okay with doing dinner at his place?” Nami smiles as Vivi shifts the pitch of her voice to mimic her partner’s. Vivi smiles for a second, firmly ensconced in the warmth of the memory, and then continues. “And well, yeah, duh. I’d already met Ace when we were freshman at GLU, and you and the rest slowly started taking up the mantle, and kind of like you, right now, I wanted to know anyone and everyone and everything that made up this crazy, amazing person, right?”
God, is this how Zoro sounds? No wonder everyone’s been feeling strangely generous with their conversation.
“Well, we went over and Sanji made us this really delicious dinner, and we were drinking wine in the barely furnished apartment—the fire had just been about two weeks before, the one that took the original Baratie and the old, shared apartment he’d had with Zeff—and Sanji goes on and brings out dessert.”
A pause. Vivi sounds bewildered, still, even after so many years.
“He’d made us om ali,” Vivi breathes, “just slightly different from how my mom used to make it, but all the more delicious for it, really.” Her eyes light up and oh, isn’t that a familiar sight? Her voice picks up in volume and speed as she elaborates. “It’s a dish from my motherland, a dessert that’s a type of pudding with a sort of crust and toppings, except he made the custard with a hint of orange essence, and he offset this with more rosewater than orange blossom on the bread pudding. He also substituted the raisins with—my bad, not the point. The point is, he made this dessert with not just me in mind, but Nami. The extra citrus in the recipe paired well with the aromatics—even the wine he’d served all tied together well.”
Vivi sits back, as if done with her piece. Zoro raises a brow, somehow more muddled than before. Nami sighs and it looks like she pats Vivi’s thigh under the table, turning to take over the conversation.
“It was Sanji’s way of welcoming Vivi into my life,” Nami elaborates, “as well as a sort of blending into each other’s lives. Vivi went on to talk about her mother, which was fantastic because that was something we hadn’t really gotten to talk about before, and Sanji got to talk about their childhoods and stuff because he’d recognized her last name from all those times before.”
“Oh...ohkay...” Zoro grumbles, scowling down at the last dredges of a hashbrown on his plate. “I don’t know if that answers my question.”
“That’s because there’s not one singular answer,” Nami says gently, her usual edges doused with sympathy and understanding, “because he knew, in a way, that we were already something. Because Sanji knows that there’s something about the memories connected to foods that can make us open up about things in a way that hurts less; because there’s something about sharing a warm meal that makes people want to talk, and lets us get closer and get to know each other in a way that feels safe and cared for.”
There’s a sort of love in it, and kindness, Zoro guesses, when it comes to making a meal or a dish or something with someone in mind; thinking about their tastes and their mood. Zoro nods, a little more appeased.
“Yeah, alright,” Zoro says, his mind churning, “yeah that-that makes sense.”
Their plates are taken, all cleaned and clear for the waitress as she takes each with a smile. The silence across the table isn’t awkward but it is thoughtful in a way that should be illegal before ten in the morning.
“I have an idea,” Nami comes out with at last, and if the seriousness of her tone hadn’t caught both Zoro and Vivi’s attention, the weird, almost hesitancy on her face would. “And I think it would help you both figure out why this whole chocolate debacle is bothering you and help you understand all the things we are trying to get across but can’t really put into words.”
“I’ll take it,” Zoro says, sitting at attention.
“It might involve a little snooping, maybe,” Nami warns and that does make Zoro pause. “Not, like... full invasion of privacy, but I’m assuming Sanji’s given you free reign to look around his apartment otherwise he wouldn’t trust you spending the night when he has to get up for work early.” She chews her words over, before continuing at last. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it: look for a few notebooks, there will definitely be at least two on the counter, but the rest are scattered amongst his things. Look in them. Read a few entries, here or there. Sit in his kitchen, open a few drawers. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Zoro asks, brow furrowing as the waitress hands him the check. Sanji had motioned across the counter that first morning Zoro spent over, saying help yourself to any recipes if you’re up to it, if not I keep pre-prep to the left for heating-slash-quick-cooking. Zoro only hadn’t helped himself because he didn’t want to mess something up in Curly’s kitchen if he could help it.
“That’s it,” Nami confirms. “That’s your mission, soldier. If you can, get to it sooner rather than later. He won’t be upset, but he will start getting into rants about—well, check it out yourself.”
III. Your Mission, Soldier
Zoro gets dropped off at Sanji’s place because Nami doesn’t care for no-stopping zones and she really does, apparently, want him to jump on this task she’s given him. He won’t lie and say he isn’t tempted, even as he uses the spare key Sanji’s given him to get into the lift. They’d already decided on a non-outing Valentines with wine and those terrible movies Sanji loves, maybe some takeout so the cook isn’t forced back in the kitchen on his forced day off. No gifts as it’s still too early in the relationship, despite the lingering feeling of having been together for longer than their official time.
He’s not thinking about it when he takes off his shoes by the doorway, not thinking about it when he walks past the bookshelves that still have him burning with curiosity. He’s not thinking about it when he turns on the tv and sits. He’s not thinking about it when Flambé takes one look at him and decides that she wants to bake biscuits on his thighs as Zoro dutifully doesn’t think about it. Her fluffy white paws are soft but insistent. At least Fire, who Zoro hadn’t seen since the tortie was damn near a kitten, is kind enough to sit on the back of the couch with her ass half on Zoro’s shoulder.
He wasn’t thinking about it at all, but his stomach grumbled so obviously he had to go into the kitchen. It wasn’t a hunger growl obviously, as he’d only spent maybe an hour vaguely looking at the tv and petting Flambé.
He’d watched Sanji cook and bake and just generally be in the kitchen dozens of time. Hell, he’d sat in Sanji’s kitchen or watched the man use his apartment’s kitchen as well, and it didn’t seem out of place. Maybe that was part of it, the ease and comfort Sanji has in kitchens that just made them his regardless of actual ownership.
Zoro stands in the middle of the kitchen, turning slowly in a full circle. He runs his hand along the dark wood grain of the counters, feels the countertops with the same kind of reverential touch he reserves for his personal creations. Most of the cook’s personal knives are with him at the Baratie, Zoro knows, but even those on the almost-black knife block are sharp and clean; the oven is pristine, the more specialized equipment hiding inside of drawers. He opens each cabinet, pulls each drawer, noting now that all the most-used appliances are closer to the main counter Sanji favors for his prep work.
But Nami is right: on the counter sits an innocuous notebook that’s clearly been handled. Then, in the pull-out drawer on top of the surplus spices, another two with a few pens and packets of sauces from take-out and fast-food joints.
On the bookshelves, the notebooks blended in perfectly with the titled spines of novels and memoirs with their worn, loved covers. Here, now, all Zoro could think of was Sanji’s stricken expression, the awkward stutter of his voice all those weeks ago during Perona’s birthday dinner.
He glances over at the couch where Fire Fist and Flambé have both combined feline forces to take up Zoro’s seat.
“Don’t tell the cook,” Zoro begs, and he flips open the notebook on the counter somewhere in the middle between the front cover and where the black ribbon denotes Sanji’s current page.
He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his eye scans the page, then the next, and the next. The format is similar to what he’d expect in a cook book or something: a note on the type of dish written out with smeared ink, a table for the ingredients and the measurements, followed by notes on preparation and cooking. He releases his breath in a questioning sound, befuddled by what Sanji’s recipes had to do with his questions.
Why did Nami want him to see this? There’s nothing to answer his question other than a genuine love of cooking and constant, consistent improvement, not on this recipe, or the next—
And then it’s there, just a quick note in felt-tip pen across the page: no, you idiot, Nami actually enjoys her flavors split, but if I make an adjustment here then she can properly cook Vivi dinner with the sweet and savory while keeping it split on the plate for her own dinner. The notes are sparce, but there. Zoro flips back a few pages, focusing on the actual contents instead of the general look over with the format.
Again, though in the same ink: notes, arrows to notes, lines and steps and ingredients crossed out or noted with variations and substitutions. He’d overlooked them at first glance, inconsiderate of the cook’s revisions, corrections, commentary.
And always a note for someone, ranging from customers to close friends to even his own father and sister: Reiju hates anything that doesn’t have a hint of sour, maybe substitute the peaches for tart cherries, replace sweetness with powdered sugar or strawberries.
A touch more of aged Brandy for the old f*ck. Add oregano to the sauce because he’s a f*cking heathen and has aged out his tastebuds.
On another page: Usopp works with his hands a lot, see if Marianne is willing to create a design for packaging that comes with a slip for chopsticks or a bamboo fork for safer eating.
Another: Luffy likes to have a lot of sugars and sweets during long shifts because he is a monster; maybe add something a little less sugar heavy but sweet for his next 12 hr shift; shift the sweet potatoes into a funnier shape for consumption, so he can eat and share when doing visits...
And then, a hit to his gut: Mossman’s Matcha-Green Tea Tiramisu.
He slams the book down, heart racing. He feels—caught, somehow, despite Nami’s sigh and explanation. It feels wrong, a little, to be reading this despite Sanji’s open invitation to help himself to anything of the cook’s. This feels... invasive, still.
He wants to see the notes. He wants to see the careful consideration Sanji has put into the last dessert he made Zoro, he wants to know what steps the cook corrected, adjusted, how he fine-tuned his own senses to Zoro. His hands feel a touch sweaty, and he hates that he feels nervous because—he has permission, Sanji has told him to check the notebook if he wants to make something, but seeing the notes, the smears and scribbles and writing feels personal, somehow.
And this is only the one that’s still being worked in. There are two in the drawer, just behind Zoro. Zoro swallows as he walks out of the kitchen area and back to the living room. He fins himself standing in front of the bookshelf lining the wall, eye scanning the spines of photo albums and books and, yeah, dotted between the shelves and between the vast collections are unlabeled notebooks with worn pages, shelf after shelf, case after case.
All for what? For what purpose? To what end?
Zoro returns to that original, still only half-full notebook. He goes backwards, working from the page with the ribbon backwards. He rereads the title, can’t help but run his finger over the name of the recipe to feel where Sanji’s ballpoint pen pressed down on the paper to create, all the while—what, considering Zoro’s tastes, his likes, his dislikes, the weight of what he would have ordered beforehand, the temperature of the dining room...
He takes a deep breath. Somehow, this feels... more intense than even confessing. More intense than that first night, more intimate.
Mossman’s Matcha-Green Tea Tiramisu
Replace the chocolate with matcha powder between layers for dusting. (Mossy doesn’t like chocolate take extra note, not all sweets, f*cking idiot)
Soak lady fingers in matcha infused yuzu bourbon for base @ ¾ vanilla essence – had good reaction to the fritule – note to self to stay away from whiskey (too woodsy, does not mesh well with the mascarpone!!!) and for f*ck’s sake, get. A. Grip.
Make green tea sponge bread for added texture between mascarpone and matcha cream layers. Powdered sugar (light) to not overwhelm with tea taste. Alternate layers for aesthetic.
→It was chocolate not sweets oh sweet f*cking hell
⋯ Don’t make recipe for Pork Leg with Chiles and Chocolate for Zoro on next week’s lunch, rework lunch prep – maybe Peach stuffed pork chops?
The notes continue, just small things that Zoro hadn’t even noticed—his own reaction at the matcha cream, the way he seemed upset at the desert when he’d really been upset at Rona’s interference and Sanji’s reactions. He goes through the rest of the notebook, noting each detail, each tweak, each correction.
f*ck, f*ck.
Each fish that Zoro’s ever eaten faster, each sauce that Luffy either licked clean or ate, each veggie that was slightly more left over, everything was there: noticed noted, changed for future recipes so each meal became just a little more tailored, a little more delicious.
All this work, memorized, updated, meticulously kept, and for what?
For what?
Zoro’s heart is beating so hard he can’t even hear the tv anymore. He puts the notebook down, overwhelmed, thoughts swirling, absolutely floored by the amount of care—dedication, love, generosity, he can’t stick to a single thing, honestly—in these pages. In the pages of notebooks just casually shelved between The Romance and Tragedy of Ohara and Moon Ridge Village: A Romance Adventure.
He staggers to the couch to sit next to the cats, mind whirring. Maybe Nami and Usopp were right: this kind of care isn’t easily broken down into something simple and understandable. This isn’t something they could just quantify into words, not the years of observations, the work of just being around for days, weeks, months. This is more than just prolonged exposure to someone, it’s reading their tastes and preferences on their skin, in their blood, in the tapestries of their lives.
It’s a lot.
It’s beautiful.
IV. Decisions, Decisions
They said they weren’t going to buy each other things for tis Valentines with Zoro busy with commissions up to basically the four days before Valentine’s and Sanji’s returned hatred for all things red and pink. Zoro sits on the couch, a little overwhelmed and a lot dazed until Fire starts headbutting his arm for attention as Flambe dozes on the cushion closest to the arm rest. Zoro doesn’t know why he lets Sanji’s cats bully him away from the good seat or into petting them, but he does.
He looks into Fire’s bright yellow-brown eyes, and somehow he gets his answer.
Not—not about why he lets the cats literally walk all over him, but his answer about Sanji and the food thing, the one about the favorite foods, and gets a wonderful idea.
Not as a gift, obviously, they promised not to get anything, had plans to sit back with Attack of the Killer Donuts and The VelociPastor and takeout so Sanji wouldn’t have to make them dinner or lunch.
So, he won’t get Sanji anything; giving Fire one last little head pat, Zoro gets up and goes on the hunt for his keys, his wallet, and the notebook. He has enough time to look sh*t up and experiment—there should be at least six more hours until Sanji is back. He can take the walk to the grocery store or corner market to formulate a plan.
Zoro puts the bags all over the counters, backups to his backup’s backup, a variety of chilies and spices and most importantly, the tea he’d managed to procure after much searching both online and in person. Shopping ended up taking a little longer than he liked, especially with the rest of his project, but, well. He is motivated. He takes out the fresh fruits and sets them near the sink, turns to the rest of his bags and rolls up his sleeves.
It’s time, finally, to make a productive mess of the cook’s kitchen.
V. Valentine’s Day
There’s something oddly calming about Sanji’s weird movies that Zoro is starting to understand, sometimes, and then the next scene begins to play out and he’s stuck just going along for the ride. They actually managed to sneak a quick hike in the late morning into the afternoon before deciding to return to Sanji’s place for the rest of the day. Breakfast was nice, calm, and lunch was some delicious pizza from a place Zoro was recommended by Connis almost a month earlier when he first showed up to drop off lunch for Sanji for a change. Definitely not heart shaped, in lieu of Sanji’s pre-Valentine's food related rants. The evening was finally winding down into something lazy where they could just stay close and comfortable on the couch, watching Sanji’s newest picks and drinking together slowly.
All this to say: he was woken earlier that morning by slow kisses slowly leading down his chest to his abdomen until Sanji breathed a light, sultry good morning to the dip of groin just above the tented blanket. After a satisying wake up call, holding Sanji’s messy hair to keep him nose-pressed against Zoro’s groin to cum down that greedy throat, they’d spent another half hour in bed while Zoro learned the way Sanji’s ass tasted, hungry and unhurried.
They’d shared a quick breakfast, too, even though Sanji made a face—one that he argued was not a pout—over the box pancake mix and Zoro’s bright laugh over bacon and bacon-grease cooked eggs.
All this to say: there’s still a few slices of pizza to polish off any late evening cravings. Zoro’s leg is starting to jiggle with nerves despite his calm demeanor, his heart racing without moving, and Sanji is polishing off the last dredges of wine from his cup just as the priest in the movie wakes up buck-ass naked in a field from a velociraptor-transformation-induced rampage.
“Here, I got it,” Zoro says, standing so quickly Sanji almost topples into his vacated seat. The cook laughs, at least, moving to pause the movie as Zoro collects his now empty wine glass.
“Do we have any snacks?” Sanji asks, and then, like the best-fated check in the world, “actually, do we have any fruits or something? All this pizza is making me want something fresh.”
f*ck. Yes. Zoro would punch his fist in the air if it wouldn’t give him away.
“Yeah, I gotchu.” Nice, very clear voice, no cracking or volume fluctuations. Luffy and Usopp liked to give him sh*t growing up about being so straight laced and brutally honest, but they’d also bust a gut when he’d try to lie. He wasn’t as bad as Luffy, whose face would twist into a somewhat awkward grimace whenever he tried to boldly lie, but he was up there, apparently. “Hit play, I’ll get the snacks ready on the counter so I can see this poor guy’s murder spree.”
Sanji presses play, and thankfully keeps watching even as Zoro gets everything out of the fridge to spread around the counter. Zoro places his phone on the counter as well, swiping the menu down from the top of the screen to make sure it stays bright and on for him as he works.
“Is it technically murder if it’s a werewolf-like transformation?” Sanji asks, shifting to take up Zoro’s abandoned seat so he can curl his knees to his chest while leaning on the arm rest.
“I mean, like, in real life or in the fictionalized world they’re in?” Zoro asks, trying to keep steady as he pulls out one of Sanji’s longer trays for char-charcoochie? Char-cutlery? For the cheese-and-meats that Sanji likes to bust out while wine drinking, usually.
Zoro starts with slicing some strawberries, pulling out the pieces to arrange on the left-most side. He pulls out the first pieces of chocolates, shrugging at the uneven cuts and promising himself to do better next time. These have a nice scent to them that seems to mingle well with the fruit, so Zoro just continues on to the next set of berries and, as per the rest of his life, hopes for the best.
“Both, I guess?” Sanji shrugs from the couch and Zoro huffs a breath as he scans the placement of the blueberries.
“Well, if it was like here, I would think they’d have a solid base for not being in control or something, like pleading insanity except were-transformation,” Zoro figures, pulling out the next container with his favorite bit of the set up. “In that universe? Maybe they’ll never know and this guy can keep on his sprees.” The final piece: Zoro pulls out a final little bowl and adds a touch of raspberries on top, the nice bright colors contrasting nicely with the dark richness under it.
He grabs Sanji’s glass and fills it first before pulling another glass out for himself. He tries to remember the way Sanji looks when he’s holding so many things at once and keeps the empty glass in one hand, balances the tray on his forearm, and tucks the bottle into the crook of his elbow as he grabs Sanji’s glass with his free hand.
“Hmm, would it be more of a crime of passion or a,” Sanji pauses as Zoro leans slightly his way, handing over the newly poured cup of wine, “thanks--isn’t this all about that rens mea thing? Like, it wasn’t intentional, would it be more reckless negligence than intentional criminal behavior? Also, what wine is this?”
“Well, to answer your first part I think you need to stop rewatching Legally Blonde as much as you do,” Zoro huffs, trying his best not to laugh as he puts the tray down and keeps standing between Sanji and the spread, “as for your second question, this is a Coteaux du Layon, a white wine.”
“But I was drinking pinot noir,” Sanji points out, but it sounds like he takes a sip of the sweet white wine regardless, “I don’t even think I own any white wines. And say that again, please?”
“You don’t,” Zoro says, arranging the bowl at the center of the tray, and f*ck he can feel his face heating because of that last request, hoping he wasn’t butchering the pronunciation and about to get laughed out of the living room. “Didn’t. I bought this one, the person at the store said it would be the best for, well. Yeah, uh, they said it was called Coteaux du Layon and sh*t.”
He takes the opportunity to pour himself a decent portion of the wine—he feels like he’s going to need it, which is ridiculous because this is his boyfriend for f*ck’s sake, and the meager spread isn’t something that will grace even an amateur’s Instagram page. Still, he feels the embarrassing need to brace himself as he finally takes the seat Next to Sanji slowly so as not to slosh any alcohol out of his cup.
He can tell when Sanji sees it because he takes a sharp breath in. The cook doesn’t say anything as he reaches out almost trance like to pluck a one of the berries to dip into the chocolate in the center bowl. He plops it in his mouth slowly. Zoro dutifully ignores the feeling of blushing up to his f*cking scalp as Sanji eats the chocolate coated strawberry.
And then, a strange sound from the cook: something between a hum and a questioning sound.
“Mossy,” Sanji starts, and Zoro swallows as he watches the carnage on screen. “I thought we said...”
“I didn’t buy you anything!” Zoro yelps, finally turning. Sanji’s wine cup is still on his hand, a smear of chocolate on his thumb he’s about to lick off. With a raised brow, Sanji does just that, keeping that unnecessary, intense eye contact. “I didn’t, I... I added it.”
“You... added it?” Sanji asks, licking his lips as if chasing the hints of flavor. “What does that even mean?”
“You, in your. The-thing dessert thing,” Zoro sighs, grabbing his own wine glass and chugging half in a single drag. “I felt bad. So, so I made this. So ha, I technically didn’t buy you anything, and I added it to your notebook.”
“You...” Sanji trails off, then, again: that sharp intake of breath. Wide eyes, flushed cheeks, which is a nice change. Sanji gets up quickly, his glass of wine in hand, as he scrambles off the couch and to the kitchen counter. Sure enough, the innocuous little notebook is there and three pages after his ribbon are all written on with sloppy, familiar writing.
Curly’s Dark Chocolate.
No, wait, f*ck, let me try that again:
Curly’s Dark Raspberry Chocolate.
Take raspberries and rinse them. Pat dry with paper towels –napkins? Do napkins work? We’ll find out.
Chop up before dehydrating...
The cook chugs the rest of his glass of wine, eyes wide, looking more harried than Zoro thinks he deserves. He knows his writing is a bit atrocious, at best, but pens and brushes are not the same, alright? His calligraphy is way better from his lessons to help his swordsmanship. He’d been more worried, to be frank, about accidentally smearing one thing or another on the cook’s notebook than his penmanship.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Zoro says, wine-fueled confidence having him, well, first of all, polishing off his glass, then placing it next to the spread. He gets up but beckons Sanji over instead of making his way to the counter. Sanji walks over slowly, holding his notebook to his chest with a strange look on his face that Zoro can’t parse. “About--the chocolate versus sweets thing. I know it’s been a while, but. Yeah, and then I got to thinking so. So I made this.” Zoro motions to the spread, “it’s uh, Curly’s Dark Raspberry Chocolate spread—or syrup? Not sure what to call it, you can-can change the name. Oh, and uh, Curly’s Ceylon Tea Chocolate.” Zoro motions to the pre-dipped pieces of berry with a hard chocolate drizzle on them.
“I uh, yeah. Just. Sorry. And thank you, ‘cause... I don’t fully get it, but I remember how you looked that day at the All Blue, and if I can avoid that in any way, I will, but yeah. Just... I’m an open book, cook, just ask me and it’s yours.” Zoro clears his throat, but Sanji is malleable as he reaches out to sit them both down on the couch again. Sanji looks at the spread, something in his expression making Zoro’s chest ache with its almost fragile composition.
“You made me— us, I suppose — raspberry dark chocolate... and Ceylon-chocolate?” Sanji repeats, reaching for the spread without touching a single fruit or the bowl of chocolate waiting in the center.
“Well, yeah,” Zoro shrugs, “I like dark chocolate, and I read online that raspberry powder is actually good to mix with it, so I dehydrated some while you were at work yesterday—also, why the f*ck does it take so damn long?—and Ceylon is that black tea you like, right?” Sanji hesitates but nods, as if he’s confused as to why Zoro would notice something so small as his favorite tea. “Well, I found a good mix for some chocolate to make with the steeped tea, to get some of the bitterness and earthiness and sh*t, and. Well, I thought it’d be nice to make you something for a change, and something we would both enjoy.”
Sanji remains silent, but that odd shine to his eyes doesn’t leave. Instead, the cook sits up, tucking himself into Zoro’s side and gives the swordsman his empty cup. Zoro huffs a laugh but obliges, allowing Sanji to rest against him as he reaches for the bottle with his free arm. He relinquishes the cup back into Sanji’s hand and is handed his own for refilling. This time, he pours himself only as much as Sanji has and sits back, wrapping his arm around Sanji.
The cook gives a little sigh and opens the notebook, reading through Zoro’s steps and process across the pages. After a few seconds of silence outside of the television screen, Sanji finally moves to pull the entire coffee table closer with a light oof at the exertion. Zoro raises a brow and looks down at Sanji, but Sanji us flushing nicely and looking at the small board with extreme intent.
He grabs a blueberry next, tucking himself back into Zoro’s side with a little content hum. He takes sips of wine between bits of chocolate and fruits, finally speaking up.
“You paired the wine... perfectly,” he says lightly, a slight breathlessness to his voice.
“Ah, I had to do some intense online searching,” Zoro admits sheepishly, taking a strawberry dipped in the dark chocolate for himself, “in the end, the lady at the grocery store said this one would be good, after a bit of elaboration because I was looking for something to contrast with the bold flavor of the tea-chocolate and with the rasp—” Zoro cuts off as Sanji’s weight topples into him heavily, tilting him on the couch until he’s sprawled on the remaining space with Sanji’s bright red, embarrassed expression looking down at him.
“You!” Sanji shouts, voice shrill, but whatever Zoro has done will need to wait for elaboration as Sanji kisses him hard, smelling like sweet wine and dark chocolate. Zoro won’t complain, ever, really, about finding himself with an armful of boyfriend attacking him like he’s trying to find the taste of that sweet wine out of Zoro’s own mouth. Zoro groans when Sanji traces his lips with a shaky exhale, allowing the cook to plunder his mouth, to devour him whole.
“Wha?” Zoro breathes once Sanji has leaned back and pulled one of the back couch cushions off and tossed it towards the locked gated door to the elevator. Sanji only looks more and more flustered, that blush from earlier making him read from his roots down to the scoop of his wide-neck shirt. Sanji doesn’t seem to care about Zoro’s question, or the movie on the screen, or even interested in the snacks or precariously rocking cups of wine on the table.
“You f*cking,” Sanji grumbles, yanking up Zoro’s shirt until the man has no choice but to raise his arms or seriously risk the cook ripping It off of him, which would be hot but would also leave Zoro with, like, one available shirt and the sweater he’s never reclaimed from Sanji from their first New Years together. “You’re just...”
If Sanji could finish his sentences, Zoro might feel better; as it stands, though, he knows he must have done something right with the way Sanji licks at his neck while pressing himself against Zoro’s chest. Zoro’s still somewhere between the wine and his prior bashfulness, his hand wedged between their bodies and the press of the back of the couch, the other finding purchase on Sanji’s well-toned thigh. Clever, nimble fingers work through the knotted drawstring on Zoro’s sweats quickly, tugging the ruched waistband. Sanji’s moving back like a wave, taking the sweats and the black briefs under them down to Zoro’s thighs before crashing back down into the other man.
f*ck, if he wasn’t well on his way to hard before, Sanji’s glare as the cook shimmies down the couch to give his half-hard co*ck a long, wet lick certainly helps. He can’t help the light, airy moan that breaks free, the surprise making the sensation even more poignant.
“ f*ck , cook,” Zoro groans, reaching back to hold the very last cushion now with both hands. It feels just that little more unbearable, seeing Sanji’s heated stare and his flushed face while fully dressed while Zoro’s pants are still being worked off his legs while Sanji continues to lap at Zoro’s co*ck like it’s more delicious than the spread.
Zoro tips his head back, panting; he’s too thrown by the turn of events to think properly, consumed by the heat and absolutely debauched wetness of Sanji’s mouth as the cook takes him down to the base with a muffled groan.
Then: a hand on Zoro’s abdomen, smearing something thicker than saliva. He breathes shakily as he looks down at Sanji again. The man is closing his thumb and forefinger in a ring around the base of Zoro’s co*ck, smeared with the chocolate from the bowl. It hits him like a punch to the gut, has him throbbing in Sanji’s mouth and against his lips as the cook licks his way up and off.
Sanji keeps the tight hold as he leans forward to lick the chocolate smears across Zoro’s abdomen, eyes closed and savoring the unique flavors with a whine. Zoro bites off a groan but the way his co*ck twitches, smearing saliva and precum on the curve just below Sanji’s chin and neck reveals more than any noise he could muffle. Sanji—still in that odd, reclusive energy Zoro cannot translate—continues to lap up chocolate, sucking on the bumps of Zoro’s muscles as he licks the man clean.
“S’good, mossy,” Sanji pants, eyes clouded, “did you get a taste?” The cook’s hand is starting a slow stroke on his co*ck, aided by saliva and precum. It takes Zoro a few seconds to respond, too distracted by the sensations to register the auditory input.
“Hnn? Ah, yeah,” Zoro pants, watching as Sanji reaches for the left side of the bowl of chocolate, “yeah, had some of the— f*ck, Curly —d-dark chocolate. Made the-the spicy one specifically for you, but they’re not too bad when mixed together.”
“Mmm”, Sanji hums, returning to his previous position and licking around the flared, flushed tip of Zoro’s co*ck. “It’s not bad at all, want a taste?” His chocolate smeared fingers blindly lift towards Zoro’s face, and who is he to deny Sanji this? Zoro grabs the wayward hand and brings it to his lips, licking off the savory dark chocolate and raspberry, catching just the hint of the bitterness and spices from the chocolate he’d made to suit Sanji’s pallet. Sanji makes a strange sound as Zoro presses his tongue between the cook’s finger’s, one he wants to hear but becomes muffled when Sanji takes him down to the back of his throat once more.
It’s—f*ck, it’s a lot, the wet heat of the cook’s mouth, the pressure as he sucks and shifts his tongue along the bottom. The mess Sanji left of his abdomen is cooling in the apartment’s open space as well, and Zoro’s legs are trapped beneath the cook’s body.
Sanji pops off with a wet sound, saliva and precum making his lips glisten in the television’s shifting lights. His eyes are dark, gone; Zoro groans around the cook’s fingers, still leaning forward and holding his wrist to lick it clean.
“Tell me about the taste,” Sanji rasps, and the sound of his voice makes Zoro moan around the fingers pressing down on his tongue. “Tell me about how you made it.”
The hand is removed despite the way Zoro’s tongue lolls out after it. Sanji smiles lightly as he stands, and it’s ridiculous but Zoro misses the warmth and weight of the cook’s body on his sleep-tingling legs already. He takes a few breaths to think about Sanji’s request before speaking, catching Sanji’s eye as the man works on unfastening his own tented sweatpants with shaky hands. Zoro eyes the slick stain just at the peak of where Sanji’s own erection is straining at the fabric and begins.
“It’s bitter, instead of sweet,” Zoro starts and Sanji bites his lip as he drops his sweatpants, drawers and all. The loose shirt he’s wearing reaches just to the jut of his co*ck, hanging off the cook’s frame in a way Zoro can’t help but find equal parts endearing and sexy. The peek of the other man’s collarbones in the dip of the collar is just sinful. “A little bit of salt to balance it out, though, and the raspberry powder gives it a—”
He gasps, fighting the arch of his own back as Sajni takes a half-sitting position over his thighs. One of the cook’s legs is bent next to his, knee digging into the cushion just beside Zoro’s hip. The other is still on the ground next to the couch, bent to keep Sanji sitting on Zoro. His hand, tacky with Zoro’s saliva, wraps around both their erections tightly. Zoro’s hips twitch and he has to stop to regather his thoughts once more.
“—f*ck, the, uh-uh, raspberry powder, to give it a nicer aroma,” Zoro stammers and Sanji grins at him as he reaches for the chocolate on the other half of the bowl, not as dark but more fragrant.
“And this one?” Sanji breathes, plopping his chocolate coated finger in his mouth. Zoro groans under his breath, twitching in Sanji’s hand.
“Floral,” Zoro gasps as Sanji reaches behind himself, nodding his head as if encouraging Zoro to continue. “F-floral notes, more depth of— god, please —f-flavor.” A click. Zoro’s staring at the ceiling now, because if he watches Sanji now it will be over, god, too soon. Too much, all at once. “The tea to add b-bitterness. The spices to accentuate it.”
“f*ck, Zoro,” Sanji pants and Zoro wants to look, he does, but the loose shirt and that devastating look on Sanji’s face—like he’s hungry and Zoro’s his favorite dish, presented so eagerly—will end him. “How’d you go about making that one?”
Zoro bites his lip, the sting of pain dragging him back down to the questions at hand.
“There was—s'like a baggy, right,” Zoro pants, thinking hard, brain oozing out with each stroke, with the press of Sanji’s own erection against his own; the slickness of saliva and precum makes the slide quicker, hotter. “f*cking—no, wait, I-I baked it all, first,” Zoro corrects, ignoring the huff of laughter from the man currently scrambling his brains, “put it on one of those sheets, then in the oven. Had cocoa butter melting on the stove.”
“f*ck,” Sanji breathes, and then he’s moving, letting go of their erections in lieu of shuffling his own body forward. He’s almost shaking as he balances himself above Zoro one hand tight around the Zoro’s erection and the other on the table for balance. He pauses as he waits, a burst or precum slipping between the tip of Zoro’s co*ck and his twitching rim. “And-and then what?”
Zoro chokes out a laugh. He’s too turned on, but it looks like Sanji is well and truly on some deranged mission to scramble his brain with pleasure and culinary inquisition.
“Grinded it until it was coarse, but not too finely,” Zoro continues and Sanji grinds down lightly, just the slightest give pressing Zoro’s co*ck into him. Just a light pressure, not even the full head stretching Sanji wide, yet. He pants heavily, trying to remember, and his hands spasm on Sanji’s calf and thigh. “F-f*cking, c-cooked it into the butter.”
Another roll of Sanji’s hips, the tip firmly entering the man with dual groans. Sanji’s hips keep twitching, his legs shaking. Zoro can’t f*cking think, not at the tease, the warmth; f*ck, he can’t even think in complete sentences anymore.
“K-keep going,” Sanji pants and refuses to stop the slight rocking of his hips. “Keep talking, f*ck, Zoro , don’t stop, please! Just keep... keep...”
“Added— f*ck, please— th-thermometer to keep track, so it wouldn’t burn. Burn. And-and,” Zoro gasps and Sanji must also reach his limit because the cook whines high and needy, sinking down to take Zoro to the base while propping himself up on the man’s chest. “ f*ck! D-didn't... didn’t let it boil, f*cking Christ, Sanji ,” Zoro whimpers, holding the other man tightly, fingers bruising tight. Sanji doesn’t relent, doesn’t show mercy; he uses the leg still propped on the floor to put power behind his hips, grinding on Zoro’s co*ck like he wants the swordsman to fill him deeper, wants that co*ck to ruin him for anything and anyone else.
Zoro swallows, licks his lips. He tries to remember the cooking, the trial and error and videos playing on in the background to help bring him back from the edge. Sanji’s making these breathy little moans though, each time he rotates his hips, and the cook’s own erection is leaking so heavily Zoro can feel the cum on his abdomen.
“D-drained it all into a bowl with the cacao powder,” Zoro grunts out, “o-over a—f*ck, wassit called—cloth thing, to keep the bits out.”
“Y-Yeah?” Sanji asks, his voice breathy, and Zoro finally looks down his body to meet Sanji’s eyes. Sanji rewards him with lifting his hips and slamming down, taking up a quick, harsh pace. Zoro clenches his teeth but refuses to look away, even if it means cumming too fast into that inviting heat.
“Yeah, made—bars. Flat sheet, couldn't quite cut it right, and a kind of syrup,” Zoro bursts out, eyes shut, trying so hard to stave off his rushing org*sm,“thought--with the sweet wine. Both-both could—me and you could —”
A hand smears something thick against his chest, his collar. Zoro gasps when Sanji’s angle changes, the shift of his co*ck in the other man making them both groan into the living room. On the television, the credits are rolling in a continuous flow of nonsensical letters. Sanji rolls his hips back, lifting his ass and slamming it back to ride Zoro harder, deeper, licking off the chocolate he’s smeared on the swordsman’s chest with pitiful whines.
“How do you exist ,” Sanji babbles almost mindlessly, f*cking himself on Zoro’s co*ck like he’s lost control of his own body and only chases the pleasure on instinct, “you made us chocolates . Chocolates tailored to us, and tonight...”
Zoro tugs the hand on his chest and crams the fingers in his mouth, groaning around them, trying to chase the flavors that have his boyfriend so worked up.
“You don’t even know,” Sanji continues, squeezing around Zoro’s co*ck like it’s too delicious to let go, too. “f*ck, I can’t believe I’ve got you, now, how the f*ck...” He sounds breathless, incredulous, so Zoro bucks his hips to get Sanji to sit up straight with a loud, surprised moan. Zoro watches him, watches as Sanji chases that pleasure, uses him, and licks his lips of the taste of chocolate and Sanji’s hands.
“All yours,” Zoro says and Sanji whimpers as the swordsman throbs inside of him. That hand comes back, dark chocolate smeared fingertips tracing familiar shapes on Zoro’s chest. Sanji’s face flushes but he looks pleased, too, so Zoro looks down at the new smears on his chest.
“All mine,” Sanji whispers back as Zoro reads the letters upside down, written sloppily with the combined chocolate syrups, “gonna f*ckin—f*ck, Zoro, you don’t even know, f*cking amazing , g-gonna f*cking cum all over you and then lick you clean, so f*cking-f*cking delicious ,” Sanji whines, his head tipping back because it’s Zoro that is pushed over the edge, his eye shutting at the word mine written across his chest, feeling well and truly owned in a way that burns through his f*cking body and has him grinding Sanji down onto his co*ck.
He doesn’t let up, over sensitive and filling his boyfriend until he can feel the smears dripping down to his balls, unable to formulate words or thoughts.
Sanji’s moans are loud , but he’s grinding down as Zoro c*ms, too, like he wants to wake up leaking tomorrow, and the idea of that—the image it provokes—has Zoro cumming harder than he has in weeks. The cook takes a hand to his own erection and Zoro watches the quick slide of those spit-slick fingers up and down the soaked shaft greedily. It doesn’t take too much for him to add his own org*sm into the mess, splattering across Zoro’s abdomen and up to his chest.
“Mine,” Sanji pants, head thrown back, shoulders heaving as he catches his breath. “f*ck, Zoro, all mine .”
Zoro still can’t find his voice, stuck chasing his own breath. Sanji hums lightly as he finally =brings his gaze back to Zoro’s body something like impish teasing lighting his features. Gods, Zoro can’t stop the rush of want that starts at his hands—still clinging tightly to Sanji’s legs, like the other man is the only thing keeping him rooted to the couch and in reality.
And then, because Sanji can’t resist, maybe, or the chocolate really was that good, the cook is leaning forward with his eyes on Zoro’s, tongue out to lap at a glob of cum just on the bottom of the scribbled ‘I’ on Zoro’s chest.
Zoro twitches, half-soft and still keeping Sanji filled with his load. Sanji gasps lightly and rests his chin on Zoro’s pec to grin at him.
“Was the chocolate that good?” Zoro asks lightly, raising a single brow.
“You made me a recipe,” Sanji corrects, “and you kept it for me.”
Zoro doesn’t understand, is the thing, though he might, a little. He can’t help the way his expression softens at the man’s reasoning, thinking of the words everyone else left him with. Something like empathy unfurls in his chest, not quite understanding completely, but getting it nonetheless.
“I ate,” Zoro says, reaching up to tuck some of Sanji’s sweat-matted hair out of the cook’s face and behind his ear, “ so much reject-chocolate. I don’t think I can eat another bit for a while.”
“That’s fine,” Sanji purrs, smiling as he nips on Zoro’s pec and rears back. He presses a kiss just above Zoro’s heart and sucks off a bit of the ‘N’ with a groan. “I have promises to keep, myself.”
