Fandom: One Piece
Notes: For 100moods, prompt "touched".
Summary: Another night, another secret, a different kind of tension.
Snow falls lightly around him, catching in his hair, settling on the shoulders of his coat. The chill air bites at Sanji’s ears, leaves them burning, and his breath swirls in front of him, familiar clouds of smoke without the taste of nicotine. The night is dark but not gloomy, and Sanji isn’t sure if that’s more to do with the alcohol warming his stomach or the sentimentality of the evening, and then the door closes behind him and Zoro is on him in an instant.
Sanji’s head knocks against the wood with the force of it, mouth opening without hesitation to the attention, and Zoro tastes like mulled wine and mince pies. It makes Sanji want to smile, but instead he settles for growling into the kiss.
It’s nearly pitch black and far, far too cold, weak moonlight and snow drifting in around the front cannon, and the anchor room has never been so inconvenient as it is in that moment, but it’s an acknowledged necessity. It’s too cluttered for them both to easily stretch out on the floor, but the organised chaos does have the advantage of easily hiding the supplies they’ve sneaked in. Tonight, though, the lantern remains ignored, and Sanji closes his eyes and feels Zoro’s jerky movements as he unfastens his own coat. He seems torn, hands tugging at his clothes, reaching up to grip Sanji’s hair, shifting, constantly moving, and there’s something not quite right about it, but Sanji can’t understand what. Not with Zoro’s breath scorching over his mouth as he leans back, not with Zoro’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip like that, pulling at the plump flesh, and Sanji leans forward, tries to follow Zoro’s mouth, only to find himself pushed back against the door.
The usual urgency is there as Zoro’s tongue wars with his own, but it’s different, unfamiliar. Zoro is usually purposeful and hungry, fierce with it, but his kisses now are erratic, almost feverish, and there’s an edge to his breathing Sanji doesn’t recognise. His hands are everywhere, touching, pressing against Sanji’s clothes, restless, and Sanji’s spent the whole evening watching Zoro’s carefully blank expression as the others sang and cheered, and something clicks into place.
It’s Sanji’s first Christmas with a new family, the same for Zoro, but the fact is that last year Sanji had a family to celebrate with. He doesn’t know much about Zoro’s past, but he does know that bounty hunting is a lonely business. He’ll never ask, of course, but he can make an educated guess as Zoro’s hands paw at him.
He reaches around Zoro, hands quickly tugging off his gloves behind Zoro’s back, only for a delayed shiver to crawl up his arms. The air is icy and cruel and Sanji wrenches his head to the side, hisses “Fuck.”
Zoro pulls back, steps away, and Sanji leans back against the door and catches his breath. With a miserable sigh, he shoves his exposed hands under his crossed arms, heart thundering against his chest and the taste of spice and wine on his lips. He watches as Zoro’s dim outline toes aside several boxes, leaning down and scooping something up, and another wave of cold air washes over him as Zoro unfurls the large picnic blanket, flapping it through the air with an audible crack.
Then Zoro’s back in front of him, and before Sanji can move to snatch the blanket, Zoro flicks it up and over their heads.
Sanji blinks in the darkness as what little light remained dissolves around him, and then Zoro’s lips and nose press against the side of his face. “There,” Zoro murmurs simply, tugging the blanket down Sanji’s back and covering them more completely, leaving his arms wrapped loosely around Sanji’s waist.
It’s a little disorientating and suddenly incredibly intimate, and for a blind moment Sanji feels trapped, and he forgets to object when Zoro begins to sink to the floor, dragging him down.
His knees hit the floor, and he opens his mouth to speak, only for Zoro’s lips to find him again, swallowing any inarticulate noises of protest. They’ve been like this, wrapped around each other, so many times before, and the proximity isn’t new, but there’s worry nagging at Sanji’s mind. They’re so close, even though they’ve been closer before, and Zoro’s mouth is insistent as he presses against him, and it’s hard for Sanji to think, so he tries not to. He feels himself being eased backwards, allows it, and tries not to notice the way Zoro shifts and fidgets and grips at his arms. Zoro’s kisses are quick and almost frantic, rocking into him, nothing to do with exploration, everything to do with need. Zoro pants against him, and his breath is stifling hot, and the air under the thick blanket is rapidly warming, and Sanji fights the urge to kick out, breathing rapid in a way that has nothing to do with passion.
Zoro is everywhere, all over him, the smell and taste of him, sharing the same air. Sanji’s back hits the floor, and Zoro’s weight is there to push him back down when he tries to buck upwards.
Zoro’s mouth presses against his hair, and he murmurs something, but there aren’t any words to it, just a raspy and deep mumble and the sound of Sanji’s thundering pulse. His hands fumble at Sanji’s coat, and the night air is so cold, yet it’s a relief when the thick material is tugged open. Zoro’s heat is there instantly, stomach pressing against his chest before Zoro pushes himself up slightly, getting the leverage to shove his own coat down his arms.
The air that rushes between them isn’t as cold as the air beyond their cocoon, but Sanji shivers anyway. Zoro is back over him in the blink of an eye, lips smearing a path over his cheek as he searches for Sanji’s mouth, and liquid warmth rushes through him, pools in his stomach. He feels claustrophobic, trapped by Zoro’s presence, yet his hands reach up, fingers digging into Zoro’s clothes, pulling him down and pressing upward. Without their cumbersome winter coats separating them, the alignment of their bodies burns hotter, higher within him, and Sanji gasps, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut in the darkness.
Zoro’s heat, solid between his sprawled thighs, presses his hips into the wooden floor. He feels Zoro’s hand shove his own trousers down his hips, grunting above him, before his fingers curl under the waistband of Sanji’s trousers. Simply holding the material, motionless against him, and his fingers are a cold shock against Sanji’s warmed skin, and he bites back on the cry that catches in his throat.
It’s just them, everything beyond them, beyond the blanket and their breath on each other’s face melting away into oblivion. Sanji feels the heels of his shoes scrape over the floor, feels his hips buck up of their own accord, hears Zoro’s low noise of appreciation. Friction, drawing his senses taut, and the floor is uncomfortable against Sanji’s spine as he tries to angle into it, and every layer of clothing peeled away only makes him hotter still. His breath is rapid and shallow, feeling Zoro’s rush for it echo through him, take over him, and his hand twists in Zoro’s collar, the other thrown over his head, clawing at the floor, tangling in the blanket.
Zoro’s making a noise that sounds like humming, only more ragged, more distracted, and the fingers under Sanji’s waistband slip around over his hip and further back. A tremble rocks up his spine as Zoro’s hand slides into the back of his trousers, grabbing at his ass, spread fingers cupping him, pulling him sharply up against Zoro’s body. Hips and hardness and a cold hand, and Sanji’s sweating, back arching into it, and his hand grips at the blanket as he jerks in surprise before it accidentally slips beyond the blanket’s heat.
The cold is a bitter and unpleasant jolt. He hisses, instantly drawing his hand back in, bringing it down to cradle it against his chest, and Zoro lowers him, slides his own hand from Sanji’s trousers. He pulls back slightly, and Sanji’s vision has adjusted to the dark but he can’t see Zoro’s eyes, can’t make out his expression.
Zoro reaches down, fingers circling Sanji’s wrist, before he tugs his icy hand up to his face and closes his lips around the first of Sanji’s frozen fingers.
It’s a shock of heat, almost painful, and a fierce shiver wracks Sanji’s body as the velvet warmth of Zoro’s mouth presses around his finger. His lips drag over it as Zoro eases Sanji’s hand back down, and his skin tingles and prickles as it’s exposed to the air again, until only the tip remains between Zoro’s teeth. Sanji gasps rather than breathes as Zoro kisses at his fingernail, opening his mouth again to suck lightly at the digit, and Sanji isn’t thinking as he presses a second finger in beside it, but Zoro doesn’t object. Only opens his mouth to it, slowly takes them both in, one hand still gripping Sanji’s wrist as the other braces on the floor beside his head.
Sanji can still taste the urgency in the air, can still feel the rush of it, the tension, but there’s something so deliberate about the way Zoro’s tongue drags over his fingers, swirls around them and pushes in between. He feels himself flushing uncomfortably, coat suddenly unbearably thick, as Zoro sucks at his fingers in earnest, and he wishes he could see Zoro’s face properly, even though he knows it’s probably best that he can’t.
Zoro’s grip at his wrist tightens, guiding Sanji’s hand down between their chests, Zoro shifting higher up his body. Pressing against him so he can move Sanji’s hand around his waist until it rests lightly over Zoro’s ass, and Sanji promptly forgets to breathe.
He’s long since lost track of the number of times they’ve stolen away in the middle of the night, tasting and touching each other, trying to keep their voices hushed. The number of occasions where Zoro’s allowed himself to be the one on the receiving end, however, he can count on one hand. It’s not something they talk about, they’ve never really acknowledged their relationship in words, but he’s never suspected that Zoro dislikes it. If anything, he’s wondered, alone at night, sometimes in the shower, if Zoro simply thinks Sanji prefers their usual routine, and Sanji admits that maybe he does, except there’s no denying the way his stomach lurches pleasurably as his fingers brush over Zoro’s entrance.
There’s a rough, almost pained pitch to Zoro’s breathing that’s mirrored in his own, and Sanji swallows thickly and his saliva-slicked finger presses inside.
He feels the heat there, muscles loosening around him as Zoro carefully remains motionless above him. There’s little resistance as his finger slides in up to the second knuckle, and he simply holds it there for a moment, trying to fight back the urge to rush. He withdraws the finger slightly, feels Zoro shift over him, barely noticeable, and presses in again, as far as he can. He crooks the finger, strokes at him, feels Zoro’s shudder and his patience shivers in counterpoint as he pulls out and adds a second finger.
The muscles give way around him, and Zoro’s breath is a little shaky, but he pushes back into the touch. Adjusting to it, and then Sanji scissors the fingers ever so slightly and Zoro makes a soft noise and leans his forehead against his fist, braced on the floor beside Sanji’s head. His breath tickles at Sanji’s ear, drawing a shudder from him, and he knows the vibration shimmers through him into Zoro when he receives another of those quiet and hungry little sounds.
He crooks his fingers rhythmically, strong hands of a chef working Zoro loose. Pulling out and spreading the fingers as he presses back in, and Zoro grunts beside his ear and rocks back against the touch. They’re both growing impatient, touches more forceful, each unbidden noise slightly more desperate than the last, but it still takes Sanji by surprise when Zoro licks at his ear and croaks “Enough.”
He lets his fingers slide free, angling and scissoring them as he does, and he hears Zoro make a sound that could be a laugh, only it’s too breathless, and everything feels too serious, too real.
Zoro moves to sit up, but the blanket flaps around them, cold air stealing in under the edges, and Sanji tugs him back down. “On your side,” he hears himself whisper through the jumble of his mind.
Zoro obeys without comment, lying beside him and turning away, ignoring the sharp intake of breath as Sanji unzips the fly of his trousers and slides his hand inside, drawing himself out.
He awkwardly shrugs off his coat, watching distractedly as Zoro tugs the blanket more securely around them, before dragging his tongue messily over his palm. He notices Zoro bending his leg, propping his foot on his own calf, holding his legs spread, and then his eyes close as he takes himself in hand. He’s aching, and he has to grip at the base for a moment, trying to settle his nerves before he moves his wet hand up over the shaft. His fingers smear over the moisture at the head, spread it lower, and there’s probably a half-full bottle of oil hidden somewhere behind the rope and crates, but even if it wasn’t freezing, Sanji doesn’t think he can wait any longer.
He shifts closer, a hand on Zoro’s hip steadying him as he positions himself, lining up with his chest pressed against Zoro’s back. His fingers slide a little, Zoro’s skin damp with perspiration, and he digs his blunt fingernails in without thinking. Zoro hisses but doesn’t comment, and Sanji struggles to breathe, blanket brushing over the side of his face, and pushes in.
Hot, so fucking tight, and lights flash across his vision as Zoro grunts and pushes back against him, and it’s almost too much, but there’s no way he can stop. Slow slide, heat, silk, muscles clamping around him before relaxing, contracting and rippling and Sanji groans and doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed fully against Zoro’s ass, his lips pressed against the back of Zoro’s neck. Sensation pulses through him, and he feels his thighs tremble, fingers twitching, and he’s so dizzy he almost feels ill with it.
He needs time to pause, to adjust, burning up and gasping, but Zoro makes a noise he’s never heard him make before, something almost like an animal keening, only rougher, more powerful, and his hips roll back against Sanji, and there’s no stopping. Just instinct and lust taking over, and Sanji’s hand grips at Zoro’s thigh as he pulls back and presses in again, and the need within him begins to build to dangerous highs. It’s hot, his clothes are stifling him, choking him, and Sanji can’t do anything but whine at the feeling of Zoro all around him, slick heat and desperation.
He needs more, but their position won’t allow it, and he can’t move his hips as frantically as he needs to, can’t get the leverage, can’t take what his body craves. He isn’t thinking when he shoves at Zoro’s shoulder awkwardly, but he receives no protest, Zoro leaning forward, chest pressing to the floor, and Sanji raises himself as much as he’s able. Rocking into it, putting all of his weight into every thrust, and Zoro groans beneath him. Sanji can see him resting his forehead against the floor as light creeps in under the edges of the blanket, and the cold follows but it’s a relief, makes him shiver, makes Zoro shiver. Shared vibration of it pulling their voices loose, and they’re never as vocal as they are when Sanji raises himself higher on to his knee, draped awkwardly across Zoro’s back and side, holding himself steady with one hand braced on the floor. The angle is just wrong enough to feel right, and Zoro moves with him, fingers clawing at the wooden floorboards, improvisation and teamwork creating messy perfection.
He knows he’s close, feels the familiar tingle spreading from the base of his spine, feels the dull ache in his chest spread into something sharper. Sanji’s hand snakes around Zoro’s waist, the other pressed against the floor and supporting his weight, and his fingers wrap around Zoro’s cock and he receives a savage moan as he squeezes, skilled fingers matching the tempo of his thrusts. The blanket edges flap around them as they rock together, waves of cold air breaking over their skin, and Sanji feels flushed and frenzied, Zoro’s warmth gripping at him, and Zoro hisses beneath him and he feels him pulse within his hand, muscles clamping around him, and he’s gone. He feels like he’s falling, even as his body gives one last thrust and freezes above Zoro, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, as desire and pleasure surge through him, shake him loose, and his vision blackens as he and Zoro slowly sink to the floor and time loses him.
Sensation trills through him, and it takes a while to realise that his shivering is actually to do with the blanket sliding off of them, tangling around their legs. His chest is still pressed to Zoro’s back, and his fingers are damp and his body feels so sensitised that it hurts to move, but he forces himself to roll on to his back so he can tug his trousers back up and refasten his coat.
Zoro lazily mimics him, straightening his clothes, and Sanji’s always talkative after sex, because he’s always hated awkward silences, and Zoro usually hits him or ignores him, but Sanji suddenly has no idea what to say. He feels a little awed, a little like he did that first time, and there’s a gravity to the evening that he doesn’t want to explore but won’t stop bothering him.
“S’fucking cold,” Zoro mumbles, breaking the silence for him, and Sanji nods without looking and tugs the blanket up. Pulls it up to his chin, feels Zoro do the same, and they should move, but he doesn’t really want to. He suspects Zoro feels the same, their arms and shoulders pressed together, back of their hands just barely touching, and Sanji lays still, waiting for his breathing to even, and watches the snow fall beyond the front cannon.