🏴☠️ OPEN RP POST 🏴☠️ ▶︎ text/action/pic prompts/anything goes ▶︎ sfw & nsfw ▶︎ happy to write starters ▶︎ ota gen/shippy/smutty ▶︎ open to crosscanon ▶︎
[ 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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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. ]