🏴☠️ OPEN RP POST 🏴☠️ ▶︎ text/action/pic prompts/anything goes ▶︎ sfw & nsfw ▶︎ happy to write starters ▶︎ ota gen/shippy/smutty ▶︎ open to crosscanon ▶︎
[ he looks like the leftover fruit at the bottom of the barrel, bruises painted across his skin as if he's been rolled across the floor for a day straight. the shit that no one wants.
fuck, he's tired. thank god zoro's not here yet to hog the damn bathroom — or to comment on the current state of his body, looking worse for wear after getting fucked into a mattress and blue balled for three hours. his bank account looks better for it, but he'll be sore for days. his insides genuinely fucking hurt like he's taken a beating, which he has, because his shitty (rich) client likes it to fucking hurt, and knows sanji won't complain. he's here for the money, and anyway, he's been through so much worse.
but shit. even his balls hurt. he's been hard for hours, to the point that this is now a serious problem that no one else will take seriously but him. every time he wraps his fingers around his cock, he shudders with discomfort and wishes he were asleep instead, but how the fuck is he supposed to sleep like this? he also has homework to do and pictures to take of three different creative platings. sleep is not on the menu. maybe zoro will be willing to keep him company, but more likely he'll be more annoying than helpful and they'll get into another argument that could possibly result in a physical altercation. and sanji is not in any condition to beat his roommate's ass today.
the shower squeaks when he turns it on, gingerly shedding the rest of his clothes and stepping inside, leaving the door ajar to let out steam. he hisses when the hot water batters his bruised skin, standing underneath the spray with his eyes closed until his body adjusts, the pain dying down and the heat relaxing his muscles. for a long moment, he doesn't move, too tired to think and hoping his erection will just go away on its own.
it doesn't. it throbs for even more attention, and the few pulls he gives it leaves him a whimpering mess against the bathroom wall, so miserable that he doesn't even hear the door open. ]
( zoro comes home one nosebleed and five hundred dollars richer than when he left.
the monotony of pay-for-fights is wearing on him, day in and day out. not the actual fighting — zoro knows for a fact he'll never get tired of feeling cartilage crunch under his knuckle bones, of seeing a nose and knowing exactly how to break it with exactly the right force. it's the quality of competitors that bores him. he's concussed every willing man and woman in the underground fighting ring by now, and making the rounds over again is ... not tiring, because it doesn't really cost him anything more than what it costs a lion playing with its food. it's more tedious, the lack of anyone on his skill level. he let his competition get a free shot in tonight, just to feel something.
he doesn't like bringing himself down to anyone's level, though. not giving every fight his best effort feels like an insult, not that anyone in the ring is really worth his best. it's like kicking puppies. puppies who yap and bark and talk shit and jump you in the parking lot afterwards, and end up bleeding on the cement for the second time in one night.
home is little relief. zoro feels immediately pissed off that he can't smell whatever sanji is making for dinner — which pisses him off twofold, because it's not like sanji is his wife, and not like zoro has ever needed someone to provide for him before. he can eat ramen. sanji can go fuck himself. blood cakes down the front of his shirt in a thick, tacky stripe. he barely even acknowledges that sanji is in the bathroom before he's helping himself inside, lacking any and all personal boundaries, like a poorly trained dog. )
I need the sink.
( he announces, pulling off his shirt, pausing when he sees sanji's clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor. very unusual. a brow arches. and then — there were the weird sounds he heard before entering that he only thinks about now, as if sanji were ... well, who knows what he was doing? only one way to find out.
the shower curtain gets ripped back, because he hasn't learned any personal space in the time between entering the bathroom and now. and — he stares at sanji. the molted, yellowing bruises that look nasty in the harsh bathroom light, the way he knows with sanji's milky skin they'll go purple and blue with morning light. zoro's nostrils flare. his eyes snap up after a second, jaw clenching. )
Who hit you?
( there's an unmistakable fire in his eyes. he's going to figure out who hurt sanji. he's going to kill them. )
[ he doesn’t even have the energy to flinch when zoro rips back the curtain like the mannerless idiot he is. this isn’t the first time he’s been beat to hell by this particular client, and it won’t be the last because the money is too good, but it is the first time he’s made the mistake of letting zoro see the bulk of the evidence. why that’s suddenly so significant, he doesn’t know. zoro’s just his roommate, the guy that gives him feedback on all his cooking and snores through every movie they watch together and will magic sanji away to his bed when he falls asleep at the kitchen table with his face in his computer.
sanji can fight. maybe not like zoro can, but he’s way better than the average shithead on the street. he just doesn’t get paid if he fights back.
he also doesn’t get paid if zoro murders his client. ]
It was nothing. It was a bar fight. [ they are both intimately acquainted with sanji’s hellish temper. ] Someone put oregano on my fries. I was drunk.
[ he actually looks at zoro then, blood caked down his throat as if he had a nosebleed and only cleaned up his face before leaving. sanji is also acutely aware that his fingers are still wrapped around his aching cock, flushed purplish blue. there is the question of why either of them can’t just be normal. he’d like a taste of that. normal. a life where he just cooks and zoro just eats and neither of them has to spend their time trading their hurts for money.
he rinses his hands with soap and then drags zoro beneath the spray, clothes and all becoming a casualty of the shower head. he smells like he always does after his fights — like blood and sweat and something musky that sanji associates with sex, even though only one of them is going that far. sanji, thankfully, just smells like soap by now, or else zoro would ask about that too, and he’d make up another lie. they come easily now. he’s told so many and zoro has believed them all, which is strangely his favorite thing about him, because otherwise he doesn’t know if he’d even have a home or a friend.
or whatever zoro is.
carefully, he rinses the blood from zoro’s throat with slim, skilled fingers, soaping up his broad chest and lingering briefly over the scar that nearly bisects him. ]
( everything in zoro's life has always been weird. who he is can only be a byproduct of that — the reason why it doesn't feel strange to stumble and slide into the shower with sanji under the demanding grip of his hand, under the spray of too hot water, sinking into his clothes. it's a strong grip, almost but not quite comparable to the strength of sanji's thighs. the fight must've sobered him up. he must've been too drunk to fight back.
something doesn't quite add up, but zoro supposes it can't entirely be his business, if sanji doesn't let it be. he hasn't bareknuckle beaten sanji before, but they aren't shy about trading blows — he's had to play off being winded by a kick in his sternum more than once, while secretly lusting after a real, genuine fight from sanji. he's a good fighter. good enough to at least stand up to zoro on an even playing field, good enough that the equation of his bruised, swollen, beaten body seems incongruous with the rest. this is sanji? the guy who bests zoro on a semi-regular basis? just who was it that beat him so thoroughly, with such tender, almost intentional blows?
it's like there's a poem on sanji's skin, in a language only zoro understands. it's well thought out, the impact clearly chosen. it looks like sanji just sat back and let it happen. but that would be —
zoro doesn't know what it would be. his throat vibrates under sanji's fingertips, a hum lost beside the rush of water, pleased to find the hands that regularly flip perfect pancakes are as delicate as they are talented. he stinks of sweat and asphalt, and his mouth still tastes polished with the metallic blood from his gums. there are bitemarks on sanji's throat, in between his thighs. zoro wants to sink his teeth over them, and claim them for himself — it seems fair, since he can hardly land a hit on sanji otherwise. he leaves bruises on anyone who gets in his path, but sanji? sanji he'd take a bite out of, if he could. he's not even sure what it means. )
Who?
( he wants a name. whoever could beat sanji is a worthy opponent for zoro. somewhere in between storming into the bathroom and getting pulled into the shower, it becomes clear to zoro that sanji is hard, and it's more instinct than an actual decision that drives his hand between his legs, cupping his cock. it's flushed. it's bruised. who would hit him here? not zoro, who belatedly softens his grip, his weathered thumb pushing against his cockhead, knocking sanji back to brace against the shower wall. he's actually — kind of pissed off, on his behalf. aiming below the belt is for when you're already losing. )
Oregano on fries? I'll give you their head. ( it sounds gross, but, well. there's a lot of things sanji says that sound gross, that actually end up being pretty good. leaning in, zoro presses his mouth against sanji's jaw, tracing a yellowing bruise wrapped around his neck with his tongue. was he choked? was he collared? ) Spill.
[ the stupid questions are relentless. though he supposes if zoro came back looking not like himself — which he's not sure how that would even look like since zoro is the steadiest person he knows, comforting like a familiar, sort of picturesque boulder — sanji would also have questions. he'd be pissed in a roundabout way. or maybe a straightforward way. he's not really sure which one, since he does both in equal measures. but zoro comes back looking like shit every day and doesn't bother hiding it. he likes the fight, enjoys the way it heats his blood and gives him purpose or some shit.
sanji can't explain that to him learning to fight was a necessity. it was that or to keep being afraid to die, keep jumping at ghosts, keep his broken bones and black eyes until one day his body stopped bouncing back. he doesn't like doing it. there's a difference between what he and zoro do in their off time, just letting off steam, and fighting to survive his family.
he's not sure if zoro understands that. he's definitely sure he doesn't want to explain it to him. he's more than happy to let zoro assume his family is dead. ]
Didn't get their name or number, but next time I'll ask them out.
[ the rest of his huffy quips are quickly swallowed down into an unwilling whimper, his chest rising sharply as he's driven back against the wall. his hips shudder as if his cock can't decide whether it wants to get away or push into zoro's touch. it hurts in a way that he ends up being unable to pull away from.
spill. fuck, if only. ]
I can’t. [ zoro is still talking about a name but sanji has moved on to bigger problems, like the state of his cock, his pulse rocketing wildly beneath zoro’s tongue. he barely feels the pressure on the bruises at his throat, all sensation diverted directly to his dick. ] I’ve been trying.
[ there’s some unspoken rule that whatever happens in the shower stays in the shower, so sanji being a pathetic mess shouldn’t have consequences right now. he hopes. his fingers dig into the muscle of zoro’s bicep, his cheeks hot. ]
I’ve gotta cook. [ a protest between gasps, as if he doesn’t have time for this despite the way he rocks into zoro’s hand, pearly precome just barely, stubbornly eking from his tip. his eyes squeeze shut, a moan tangled in his throat. ] Homework.
Edited 2023-10-06 10:46 (UTC)
modern au - why did i write 2 pages of problematique content (cw somno, abuse, ptsd, etc etc etc)
[ zoro comes home from the hospital too soon. there's nothing sanji can do except get into a fucking fight about it the second zoro stumbles unexpectedly through the door while sanji is meticulously packing up dinner to bring by, and he actually wins only because zoro nearly loses consciousness on the kitchen floor while they yell at each other.
he puts him to bed after that. tucks him in. brings all the food to his bedside table, just in case zoro wakes up and he's not there. mostly, sanji just watches him with a wretched guilt pulling tighter and tighter in his stomach, replaying every moment that landed them both here. he leaves for only a few reasons: to buy new locks for the doors, drilling in new deadbolts and installing new locking pins on the windows. to brew a fresh pot of coffee once he drains the one he made in the morning. to run to the gas station to buy more cigarettes. he spends a languid hour searching morosely for new apartments on his laptop while curled up beside zoro's sleeping body. they can move. they have to move. they have to disappear, which sanji knows how to do; it's zoro that'll need convincing.
zoro, who'll be limping for weeks while the fracture in his leg heals. who has ugly, blackened bruises all over his ribs. who has a concussion so bad that sanji has yet to see his eyes focus. it's bad, it's all so fucking bad, and the blame all lies squarely on his shoulders.
he finally puts his computer down to wake zoro, worried at how long he's been asleep, when his phone buzzes. a glance at the screen shows an unknown number, an immediate coil of dread creeping into his chest. he lets it ring until it stops, leaving it untouched. when he turns to set a hand on zoro's shoulder, it starts again.
cold panic seeps down his spine as he listens, waiting for it to stop. it does, and then the only sound is zoro's quiet, even breathing, and sanji's much more tense inhales. it could be arlong calling from a different number, or it could be —
it rings again. sanji snatches it up, thinks about turning it off, thinks about crushing it under his heel, but he slowly taps the screen and brings it to his ear, his throat too dry to utter a sound. it could be nothing. a wrong number searching for a different face. the hospital, even though he hadn't left any contact information. maybe zoro did. it's nothing. it has to be.
the voice on the other line sends him hurtling back to darkened hallways, to locked rooms, to loneliness and starvation and endless days of pain. he'd recognize yonji's voice anywhere. it's never left his nightmares.
found you.
sanji cuts the call short and turns his phone off, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as a buzzing sound fills his head. it feels like cotton has stuffed his ears, like bricks have been laid on his chest. his eyes burn, raw panic gripping him so tightly that his bones creak. he dives, trembling, under the covers, pressing to zoro's warm, firm body, his breaths dampening his skin. found you. a helpless whimper rises in his throat. found you. found you. found you. he'd run right now if he could, he'd grab the bag stashed in the back of his closet that stays packed and walk out and disappear to a different city — if only zoro wasn't lying here wounded, needing him.
he has to drop out of school. the knowledge sits like a blooming flower in him, petals falling one by one. in his murky panic, he tries to rationalize the choice, that he doesn't have the money anymore anyway, not after giving every last cent from arlong to zoro's hospital bill. he's learned enough. he was never going to be able to open a restaurant anyway, not unless he wanted to paint a big fucking target on his back for his brothers to come by and murder him in an alley in the middle of the night while he takes the trash to the dumpster. it was always a stupid dream. he can go tend bar or be a line cook or, if he's lucky, maybe even make it as a sous-chef somewhere, and it'll be enough. it’ll be enough that he’s alive and safe. it’ll be enough if he gets zoro to stay with him.
because zoro, for some reason, likes him. he doesn’t know why, when sanji’s only been shitty to him, only caused trouble in his life. but the sex, at least, is good. it strikes him that maybe that’s why, and the thought should upset him more, but he’s already gone numb by now, glazed over by the thought that his life is about to come crashing down. that he’s about to be dragged back into the hellhole he’d run away from. he feels, not the first time but perhaps now with the most urgency, the desire to ask zoro for help. he puts a hand on his bicep, feeling warm skin and hard muscle. sanji’s fingers slide closer, over the planes of zoro’s chest, the familiar scar bisecting him, catching onto the bandages over his ribs, and then he just feels selfish for thinking of going to zoro with his problems when he’s taken a beating this bad because of sanji’s fuck-ups.
with the sheets over his head, it’s easy to forget what’s outside. his mind is desperate to disconnect, straining against his fears. here, there’s only soft body heat and gauzy darkness, the cadence of zoro’s breathing giving him something to cling to. it’s not long before he starts to believe everything is normal again, that it’s just another night where he’s made his way into zoro’s bed, spooked by a dream, and — zoro always wants to try putting a baby in him, so doesn’t sanji owe him that pleasure? maybe that’s the way to make sure zoro stays with him. sanji’s fingers curl around zoro’s cock, jacking him slowly, watching the way it gradually twitches to life from his comfortable vantage point where his cheek rests against zoro’s chest. he takes his hand away only so he can spit into his palm, coating zoro’s cock in saliva so the slide is easier, almost like a meditation that calms his erratic heart.
he knows where the lube is. he knows where everything is in zoro’s room, because he knows zoro in a way that zoro doesn’t know him, because sanji doesn’t let this go both ways. he can’t. but this, this, he can give. he can sneak into zoro’s bedside drawer and uncap the bottle, dripping lube directly onto zoro’s cock. he can shed all his clothes beneath the sheets, hiding in his little dreamspace where it’s warm and safe. he can carefully wiggle over zoro’s body, his legs parting, strong muscles keeping him from crushing against zoro’s hurts and bruises, and bear down to take zoro’s cock to the hilt. he sits there, panting softly, his own body flushing with heat, his fresh piercings twinging. slowly, he rocks back and forth, his eyes closed and the sheets tousling his hair, the deliberate grind sending sparks dancing through him, color blooming across his chest and over his cheeks. ]
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the slutty modern au
fuck, he's tired. thank god zoro's not here yet to hog the damn bathroom — or to comment on the current state of his body, looking worse for wear after getting fucked into a mattress and blue balled for three hours. his bank account looks better for it, but he'll be sore for days. his insides genuinely fucking hurt like he's taken a beating, which he has, because his shitty (rich) client likes it to fucking hurt, and knows sanji won't complain. he's here for the money, and anyway, he's been through so much worse.
but shit. even his balls hurt. he's been hard for hours, to the point that this is now a serious problem that no one else will take seriously but him. every time he wraps his fingers around his cock, he shudders with discomfort and wishes he were asleep instead, but how the fuck is he supposed to sleep like this? he also has homework to do and pictures to take of three different creative platings. sleep is not on the menu. maybe zoro will be willing to keep him company, but more likely he'll be more annoying than helpful and they'll get into another argument that could possibly result in a physical altercation. and sanji is not in any condition to beat his roommate's ass today.
the shower squeaks when he turns it on, gingerly shedding the rest of his clothes and stepping inside, leaving the door ajar to let out steam. he hisses when the hot water batters his bruised skin, standing underneath the spray with his eyes closed until his body adjusts, the pain dying down and the heat relaxing his muscles. for a long moment, he doesn't move, too tired to think and hoping his erection will just go away on its own.
it doesn't. it throbs for even more attention, and the few pulls he gives it leaves him a whimpering mess against the bathroom wall, so miserable that he doesn't even hear the door open. ]
no subject
the monotony of pay-for-fights is wearing on him, day in and day out. not the actual fighting — zoro knows for a fact he'll never get tired of feeling cartilage crunch under his knuckle bones, of seeing a nose and knowing exactly how to break it with exactly the right force. it's the quality of competitors that bores him. he's concussed every willing man and woman in the underground fighting ring by now, and making the rounds over again is ... not tiring, because it doesn't really cost him anything more than what it costs a lion playing with its food. it's more tedious, the lack of anyone on his skill level. he let his competition get a free shot in tonight, just to feel something.
he doesn't like bringing himself down to anyone's level, though. not giving every fight his best effort feels like an insult, not that anyone in the ring is really worth his best. it's like kicking puppies. puppies who yap and bark and talk shit and jump you in the parking lot afterwards, and end up bleeding on the cement for the second time in one night.
home is little relief. zoro feels immediately pissed off that he can't smell whatever sanji is making for dinner — which pisses him off twofold, because it's not like sanji is his wife, and not like zoro has ever needed someone to provide for him before. he can eat ramen. sanji can go fuck himself. blood cakes down the front of his shirt in a thick, tacky stripe. he barely even acknowledges that sanji is in the bathroom before he's helping himself inside, lacking any and all personal boundaries, like a poorly trained dog. )
I need the sink.
( he announces, pulling off his shirt, pausing when he sees sanji's clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor. very unusual. a brow arches. and then — there were the weird sounds he heard before entering that he only thinks about now, as if sanji were ... well, who knows what he was doing? only one way to find out.
the shower curtain gets ripped back, because he hasn't learned any personal space in the time between entering the bathroom and now. and — he stares at sanji. the molted, yellowing bruises that look nasty in the harsh bathroom light, the way he knows with sanji's milky skin they'll go purple and blue with morning light. zoro's nostrils flare. his eyes snap up after a second, jaw clenching. )
Who hit you?
( there's an unmistakable fire in his eyes. he's going to figure out who hurt sanji. he's going to kill them. )
no subject
sanji can fight. maybe not like zoro can, but he’s way better than the average shithead on the street. he just doesn’t get paid if he fights back.
he also doesn’t get paid if zoro murders his client. ]
It was nothing. It was a bar fight. [ they are both intimately acquainted with sanji’s hellish temper. ] Someone put oregano on my fries. I was drunk.
[ he actually looks at zoro then, blood caked down his throat as if he had a nosebleed and only cleaned up his face before leaving. sanji is also acutely aware that his fingers are still wrapped around his aching cock, flushed purplish blue. there is the question of why either of them can’t just be normal. he’d like a taste of that. normal. a life where he just cooks and zoro just eats and neither of them has to spend their time trading their hurts for money.
he rinses his hands with soap and then drags zoro beneath the spray, clothes and all becoming a casualty of the shower head. he smells like he always does after his fights — like blood and sweat and something musky that sanji associates with sex, even though only one of them is going that far. sanji, thankfully, just smells like soap by now, or else zoro would ask about that too, and he’d make up another lie. they come easily now. he’s told so many and zoro has believed them all, which is strangely his favorite thing about him, because otherwise he doesn’t know if he’d even have a home or a friend.
or whatever zoro is.
carefully, he rinses the blood from zoro’s throat with slim, skilled fingers, soaping up his broad chest and lingering briefly over the scar that nearly bisects him. ]
no subject
something doesn't quite add up, but zoro supposes it can't entirely be his business, if sanji doesn't let it be. he hasn't bareknuckle beaten sanji before, but they aren't shy about trading blows — he's had to play off being winded by a kick in his sternum more than once, while secretly lusting after a real, genuine fight from sanji. he's a good fighter. good enough to at least stand up to zoro on an even playing field, good enough that the equation of his bruised, swollen, beaten body seems incongruous with the rest. this is sanji? the guy who bests zoro on a semi-regular basis? just who was it that beat him so thoroughly, with such tender, almost intentional blows?
it's like there's a poem on sanji's skin, in a language only zoro understands. it's well thought out, the impact clearly chosen. it looks like sanji just sat back and let it happen. but that would be —
zoro doesn't know what it would be. his throat vibrates under sanji's fingertips, a hum lost beside the rush of water, pleased to find the hands that regularly flip perfect pancakes are as delicate as they are talented. he stinks of sweat and asphalt, and his mouth still tastes polished with the metallic blood from his gums. there are bitemarks on sanji's throat, in between his thighs. zoro wants to sink his teeth over them, and claim them for himself — it seems fair, since he can hardly land a hit on sanji otherwise. he leaves bruises on anyone who gets in his path, but sanji? sanji he'd take a bite out of, if he could. he's not even sure what it means. )
Who?
( he wants a name. whoever could beat sanji is a worthy opponent for zoro. somewhere in between storming into the bathroom and getting pulled into the shower, it becomes clear to zoro that sanji is hard, and it's more instinct than an actual decision that drives his hand between his legs, cupping his cock. it's flushed. it's bruised. who would hit him here? not zoro, who belatedly softens his grip, his weathered thumb pushing against his cockhead, knocking sanji back to brace against the shower wall. he's actually — kind of pissed off, on his behalf. aiming below the belt is for when you're already losing. )
Oregano on fries? I'll give you their head. ( it sounds gross, but, well. there's a lot of things sanji says that sound gross, that actually end up being pretty good. leaning in, zoro presses his mouth against sanji's jaw, tracing a yellowing bruise wrapped around his neck with his tongue. was he choked? was he collared? ) Spill.
no subject
sanji can't explain that to him learning to fight was a necessity. it was that or to keep being afraid to die, keep jumping at ghosts, keep his broken bones and black eyes until one day his body stopped bouncing back. he doesn't like doing it. there's a difference between what he and zoro do in their off time, just letting off steam, and fighting to survive his family.
he's not sure if zoro understands that. he's definitely sure he doesn't want to explain it to him. he's more than happy to let zoro assume his family is dead. ]
Didn't get their name or number, but next time I'll ask them out.
[ the rest of his huffy quips are quickly swallowed down into an unwilling whimper, his chest rising sharply as he's driven back against the wall. his hips shudder as if his cock can't decide whether it wants to get away or push into zoro's touch. it hurts in a way that he ends up being unable to pull away from.
spill. fuck, if only. ]
I can’t. [ zoro is still talking about a name but sanji has moved on to bigger problems, like the state of his cock, his pulse rocketing wildly beneath zoro’s tongue. he barely feels the pressure on the bruises at his throat, all sensation diverted directly to his dick. ] I’ve been trying.
[ there’s some unspoken rule that whatever happens in the shower stays in the shower, so sanji being a pathetic mess shouldn’t have consequences right now. he hopes. his fingers dig into the muscle of zoro’s bicep, his cheeks hot. ]
I’ve gotta cook. [ a protest between gasps, as if he doesn’t have time for this despite the way he rocks into zoro’s hand, pearly precome just barely, stubbornly eking from his tip. his eyes squeeze shut, a moan tangled in his throat. ] Homework.
modern au - why did i write 2 pages of problematique content (cw somno, abuse, ptsd, etc etc etc)
he puts him to bed after that. tucks him in. brings all the food to his bedside table, just in case zoro wakes up and he's not there. mostly, sanji just watches him with a wretched guilt pulling tighter and tighter in his stomach, replaying every moment that landed them both here. he leaves for only a few reasons: to buy new locks for the doors, drilling in new deadbolts and installing new locking pins on the windows. to brew a fresh pot of coffee once he drains the one he made in the morning. to run to the gas station to buy more cigarettes. he spends a languid hour searching morosely for new apartments on his laptop while curled up beside zoro's sleeping body. they can move. they have to move. they have to disappear, which sanji knows how to do; it's zoro that'll need convincing.
zoro, who'll be limping for weeks while the fracture in his leg heals. who has ugly, blackened bruises all over his ribs. who has a concussion so bad that sanji has yet to see his eyes focus. it's bad, it's all so fucking bad, and the blame all lies squarely on his shoulders.
he finally puts his computer down to wake zoro, worried at how long he's been asleep, when his phone buzzes. a glance at the screen shows an unknown number, an immediate coil of dread creeping into his chest. he lets it ring until it stops, leaving it untouched. when he turns to set a hand on zoro's shoulder, it starts again.
cold panic seeps down his spine as he listens, waiting for it to stop. it does, and then the only sound is zoro's quiet, even breathing, and sanji's much more tense inhales. it could be arlong calling from a different number, or it could be —
it rings again. sanji snatches it up, thinks about turning it off, thinks about crushing it under his heel, but he slowly taps the screen and brings it to his ear, his throat too dry to utter a sound. it could be nothing. a wrong number searching for a different face. the hospital, even though he hadn't left any contact information. maybe zoro did. it's nothing. it has to be.
the voice on the other line sends him hurtling back to darkened hallways, to locked rooms, to loneliness and starvation and endless days of pain. he'd recognize yonji's voice anywhere. it's never left his nightmares.
found you.
sanji cuts the call short and turns his phone off, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as a buzzing sound fills his head. it feels like cotton has stuffed his ears, like bricks have been laid on his chest. his eyes burn, raw panic gripping him so tightly that his bones creak. he dives, trembling, under the covers, pressing to zoro's warm, firm body, his breaths dampening his skin. found you. a helpless whimper rises in his throat. found you. found you. found you. he'd run right now if he could, he'd grab the bag stashed in the back of his closet that stays packed and walk out and disappear to a different city — if only zoro wasn't lying here wounded, needing him.
he has to drop out of school. the knowledge sits like a blooming flower in him, petals falling one by one. in his murky panic, he tries to rationalize the choice, that he doesn't have the money anymore anyway, not after giving every last cent from arlong to zoro's hospital bill. he's learned enough. he was never going to be able to open a restaurant anyway, not unless he wanted to paint a big fucking target on his back for his brothers to come by and murder him in an alley in the middle of the night while he takes the trash to the dumpster. it was always a stupid dream. he can go tend bar or be a line cook or, if he's lucky, maybe even make it as a sous-chef somewhere, and it'll be enough. it’ll be enough that he’s alive and safe. it’ll be enough if he gets zoro to stay with him.
because zoro, for some reason, likes him. he doesn’t know why, when sanji’s only been shitty to him, only caused trouble in his life. but the sex, at least, is good. it strikes him that maybe that’s why, and the thought should upset him more, but he’s already gone numb by now, glazed over by the thought that his life is about to come crashing down. that he’s about to be dragged back into the hellhole he’d run away from. he feels, not the first time but perhaps now with the most urgency, the desire to ask zoro for help. he puts a hand on his bicep, feeling warm skin and hard muscle. sanji’s fingers slide closer, over the planes of zoro’s chest, the familiar scar bisecting him, catching onto the bandages over his ribs, and then he just feels selfish for thinking of going to zoro with his problems when he’s taken a beating this bad because of sanji’s fuck-ups.
with the sheets over his head, it’s easy to forget what’s outside. his mind is desperate to disconnect, straining against his fears. here, there’s only soft body heat and gauzy darkness, the cadence of zoro’s breathing giving him something to cling to. it’s not long before he starts to believe everything is normal again, that it’s just another night where he’s made his way into zoro’s bed, spooked by a dream, and — zoro always wants to try putting a baby in him, so doesn’t sanji owe him that pleasure? maybe that’s the way to make sure zoro stays with him. sanji’s fingers curl around zoro’s cock, jacking him slowly, watching the way it gradually twitches to life from his comfortable vantage point where his cheek rests against zoro’s chest. he takes his hand away only so he can spit into his palm, coating zoro’s cock in saliva so the slide is easier, almost like a meditation that calms his erratic heart.
he knows where the lube is. he knows where everything is in zoro’s room, because he knows zoro in a way that zoro doesn’t know him, because sanji doesn’t let this go both ways. he can’t. but this, this, he can give. he can sneak into zoro’s bedside drawer and uncap the bottle, dripping lube directly onto zoro’s cock. he can shed all his clothes beneath the sheets, hiding in his little dreamspace where it’s warm and safe. he can carefully wiggle over zoro’s body, his legs parting, strong muscles keeping him from crushing against zoro’s hurts and bruises, and bear down to take zoro’s cock to the hilt. he sits there, panting softly, his own body flushing with heat, his fresh piercings twinging. slowly, he rocks back and forth, his eyes closed and the sheets tousling his hair, the deliberate grind sending sparks dancing through him, color blooming across his chest and over his cheeks. ]