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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

« WHY ARE SWORDS WOMEN!???»  

« Calm down, Roronoa. They’re not women, they’re just a feminine word. »  

Zoro digs the palm of his hands into his eyes, hunching over the big dinner table in this godforsaken mansion on this godforsaken island. How had it come to this? He was supposed to be training to become the world’s greatest swordsman … and here he was. Stuck learning inanimate objects’ stupid imaginary gender and whatever the hell kind of tense “ plus-que-parfait ” (more-than-perfect) is. 

Scattered around him are French grammar, spelling and exercise books, loose papers and empty glasses of wine. Sadly, not his own. His stupid dad mentor had decided that he was banned from drinking from his private cellars until daily lessons had ended.  

Dracule Mihawk. Hawkeye. Renowned monster powerhouse, the world’s greatest swordsman, a feared warlord…is sat in reading glasses, correcting his pronunciation and teaching him the most vexing language on the planet: French. 

“Are you quite finished making a scene? I’ve stopped talking exclusively French to you for many months now. Be grateful.”  

Zoro presses his lips together tightly to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. It wouldn’t do him or his crew any good to lose this opportunity to learn from the best. After the salt-shaker incident, Mihawk, quickly followed by Perona-who only wishes misery upon him- only responded to him if he spoke his broken French to them and would only speak to him in that tongue in return. His already impossibly difficult swords lessons… challenges? Whatever one would call the hellish training regimens the warlord put him through became even more impossible now that he couldn’t even understand the instructions. After a few too many close calls and instances of French being shouted at him louder and louder (saying it louder won’t make him magically understand), Mihawk changed tactics and decided to teach him the academic way instead, in the evenings after supper. Suppers which definitely didn’t leave him longing for someone else’s cooking.  

Supposedly surprised at his silence (with this man, there’s no way to really tell for sure what could be going through his mind), Mihawk lowers his glasses and takes a long look at him. “And how is your reading coming along?” 

Seated across from him and eating her dessert, Perona gives a loud snort, choking a bit on her strawberry shortcake. Her ever-present floating ghosts laugh a little louder, covering her badly stifled laughter as she purses her lips.  

Zoro glares daggers at her, neck and ears flushing intensely. “It’s going… fine .” 

In reality, his reading isn’t going “fine”. The Manor’s entire west wing is filled to the brim with the most boring, coma-inducing, self-aggrandising books on philosophy, French cuisine, land management, architecture and theology, all written in chicken scratch, old timey French. Zoro had tried his hand at reading one that seemed perhaps less bad than the others, but on his tenth try at staying awake on reading the third page describing the gothic stone arches of a church- he gave up. It felt more painstaking to spend one more second looking at another page of that book than getting sliced open by Mihawk so many months ago.  

In the pits of his désespoir, his guard was down, and his alarm bells didn’t ring when Perona innocently approached him and handed him a book that looked markedly different from the rest of Mihawk’s collection. At a second glance, he realized that he’d seen that book on Sanji’s hammock-side barrel before, recognizing the distinctive lettering of “Harlequin editions” on the spine. 

“Here. I’m taking pity on you. Mihawk has a secret stash of these in his personal library. They’re easier to read and will get the job done. You need to meet a quota of one a week, right?” 

Out of options, Zoro silently accepted the book and retreated to his quarters. If it was good enough for the cook (and Perona?), it would be good enough for him.  

His suspicions should have risen from the moment he recognised it was a work of fiction- unlike every single book he’d come across here. But no , studious mindset activated and with a dictionary on hand for any word he might not know, it took him longer than he’d care to admit to realise this was a romance book. And not just any romance book- a ludicrously explicit book detailing many, many scandalous trysts between a dark, mysterious, broody vampire and his parade of beautiful, lithe and oh-so-flirtatious nobles of all genders. He had to stop and put the book down several times, too flustered from explicit descriptions of passionately taking people against cold stone walls, bending them over various pieces of antique furniture and even tying them to extravagant four poster beds. It was too much for the poor swordsman to handle. 

It was mainly the thought of the pervy cook reading this… it stirred something low within him, his thoughts running wild at the natural implication that the scenarios held within the worn pages- the rough, possessive, teasing, kinky and playful sexual acts- were all things that Sanji had read. And enjoyed. Multiple times if his memory served him right. Sanji owned this book, which meant that this was something that… aroused him. Face like a furnace and heart beating wildly, Zoro tugged at his hair, unable to cope with this new information nor the inappropriate thoughts and images his mind was conjuring involving a certain sharp-tongued blonde, his powerful thighs and unfairly biteable neck. He could almost see his fiery blue eye boring adversarially into his own, a cheeky smirk that was just begging to be kissed off-  

Zoro snapped the book shut. 

Fuck . 

After an uncomfortably sweaty night and a glacial shower, it was only at breakfast that further implications finally clicked for the rattled swordsman. The lewd book had come, as Perona had put it, from Mihawk’s secret stash .  

One: the book was Mihawk’s. That dawning realisation alone froze Zoro mid-chew, and he decided then and there that he would never be able to look the older man in the eye ever again. At least not in the same way.  

I know what you are  

It wasn’t difficult to make the connection between the book’s owner, a pale, recluse, wine drinking man in a manor and the book’s main vampire. Two: this was from a stash . Meaning there would be many, many more of these books in the manor. Three, because of the nature of his mentor’s “official” library (unreadable), he will de facto have to keep reading bodice-rippers for well over a year and inevitably assimilate the raunchiest, most useless lexicon known to man, in what some people call the language of love. Wonderful. Despite himself, Zoro knew he’d already memorized at least three different ways to refer to male genitalia, and that was just from reading one of those little fuckers. 

Weeks, months pass, and boy had Zoro been right. And annoyingly, so had Mihawk, on how reading would drastically improve his French. (If Robin could see him now…) The smutty books came and went, courtesy of Perona, and his reliance on his dictionary diminished. As the books’ premises plunged deeper and deeper into unspeakable domains, Zoro made the firm decision to stop asking questions. For the sake of his sanity. He never again wanted Perona to share her thoughts on the "thematic beauty of the monster fucker genre". He would never fully recover from the hour-long exposé she made him on ABO dynamics. Nor could he ever recover from the knowledge that all these novels came from Dracule Mihawk’s private library .  

He now knew way too much about Mihawk's kinks and sexual tastes in men, and he wished to believe in a god so he could pray to never have to address this with the man within his life. Ever. 

Which is why he's currently sweating bullets at Mihawk's inquiry into his latest reads, and why Perona is looking at him like the cat that ate the canary.  

Eyes darting between his two guests, the warlord's lips tug at their corners in something resembling a smile.  

"I take it you haven't found the sword fighting books yet then?" 

The what.  

Zoro promptly chokes on his saliva, coughing aggressively into his fist, his remaining eye bulging in surprise. 

"Yes, did Perona not tell you? All the baking books in the French cuisine section actually hold sword forms and techniques. My boy, what have you been reading?"  

Sanji had maybe had just a few too many drinks tonight. His face feels warm, his limbs are nice and relaxed- if still a bit sore from the battle- and his tongue is a little loose. He knows it's one too many when it takes him a couple of sentences to realise he and Robin are speaking French together, and he's grateful for the unconscious switch when he faintly registers that Zoro is sat not very far, by himself, just across the campfire. 

That was a close one.  

Robin prods him for more information on his one-night stands, and who is he to deny a lady, really? He feels the words spill from his mouth like boiling water overflowing from a pot. He hears his voice confess a truth he's not let himself face for years and blames the wine. 

"En vrai ce n'est pas qu'ils ne sont pas satisfaisants... c'est qu'ils ne sont jamais...assez. "  

The cook swims in half-forgotten memories of one night stands he sought out on lonely evenings at random ports. Of fumbling hands and desperate kisses, of leaving before the sun has even risen, of cold sheets and empty beds in the morning... Sanji doesn't like the bitter taste his admittance leaves in his mouth, nor the way his chest feels just a little tighter. He knows what his love-starved self really wants, what he craves most of all... is the stupidly perfect man sitting across the fire. Like a moth to a flame, he yearns to know what it would feel like. To matter . To be seen in all his flawed, weak existence, and not be thrown aside like the mistake he is. To be loved , cared for, cherished tenderly by someone as earnest and devoted as he knows the swordsman to be. It's with a bleeding heart that he finally voices his love, answering Robin on what would be enough. 

"Lui. " 

His finger taps the ash off his cigarette before taking another long, long drag. Forlorn, he tears his gaze away from Zoro and nearly startles at the sincere warmth he sees dancing in the archeologist's eyes. 

"Tu devrais lui dire ." 

(You should tell him.) 

Sanji laughs at that. "Mais bien sûr. J'vais me lever, me planter devant lui et tout lui avouer. " 

(But of course. I'll get up, walk right up to him and confess everything.) 

A beat. Robin impassively stares back at him. Sanji knows being a devil fruit eater isn't the only similarity between her and their captain. Their stubbornness is something he knows not to underestimate. He sighs and gulps the rest of his drink down. He must be out of his goddamn mind. And maybe a little drunker than he thought he was.  

"Je ne sais pas te dire non, ma chère Robin." She smiles. "Mais saches que tu n'as pas précisé dans quelle langue je devais lui parler. " 

(I don't know how to say no to you, my dear Robin. But please note that you didn't specify the language I should speak to him in.) 

Before she can charm him into switching to a language the Marimo understands, the cook is already skirting around the fire with slightly wobbly steps. If he can just keep his tone right, tinged with a bit of anger, then he can probably pull this off, he thinks.  

“You.” He points at Zoro accusingly. 

The mosshead turns to face him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Me?”  

Sanji doesn’t linger on it, all his mental capacity concentrating on making sure he uses French at the right moments.  

“Yes, you fucking ange tombé du ciel , I have some words for you. Some mots doux if you will, so just sit tight and listen. You owe me after I saved your ass earlier.”  

(Angel fallen from heaven; sweet words) 

Surprised that Zoro doesn’t contradict him on the “saving his ass” part, he doesn’t stop to think and squashes the little voice inside him that questions why he’s going through with this. 

Sanji fully planned on a heartfelt rant about all the idiot swordsman’s qualities- how unfair it is that he has it all. He really did. but he also feels a sudden shyness overtake him now that he’s standing in front of the idiot in question. To look Zoro in the eyes while saying such embarrassing, emotional shit won't do, and Sanji’s eyes make the mistake of looking down- only to be met with the tantalising sight of a broad, scarred chest and crossed arms that do nothing to hide the strong, corded muscle underneath. Oh, f uck me. His fake annoyance becomes partially real. 

"Enfoiré! comment jsuis supposé te résister, hein?"  He indignantly waves his cigarette around. 

(You bastard! How am I supposed to resist you, huh?) 

"Non mais vraiment- est ce que t’as la moindre idée de l’effet que t’as quand tu te balades torse nu sur le pont, tout dégoulinant de sueur? Ou de l’effet que les bruits que tu fait durant tes entraînements ont sur moi? J’ai qu’à fermer mes yeux et c’est- je…” he can feel his ears burning. Fuck it. Why not let it all out, he’ll feel better afterwards. 

( No, but really- do you have any idea of the effect you have when you walk shirtless on deck, dripping with sweat? Or how the noises you make during your workouts affect me? All I have to do is close my eyes and it's- I...) 

“Tu me rends fou. Après nos combats c’est si facile d’imaginer tes mains calleuses m’aggrippant possessivement, ta peau salée sur ma langue, ton torse haletant d’effort, ton regard enflammé-”  

( You drive me crazy. After our fights it's so easy to imagine your calloused hands gripping me possessively, your salty skin on my tongue, your torso panting with effort, your fiery gaze -) 

Still sat in front of Sanji, Zoro’s face is turning red and he’s shooting Sanji a heated look, no doubt irritated about being ranted at in French. Tough shit. Sanji wasn’t done. 

“T’es si favorisé par les dieux, je suis même sûr que ta bite est énorme. Et puis si tu savais ce que je te laisserais me faire- ” he rolls his eyes and snorts, hoping the exasperation part of his rant is convincingly coming through. 

(You're so favoured by the gods, I'm pretty sure you even have a huge dick. And if you knew what I'd let you do to me-) 

Zoro’s mouth parts in shock, and a small anxious thought crosses Sanji’s mind- but there’s absolutely no way in hell the shitty mosshead knows French. He would sooner know his left from his right. 

“Dis moi.” (Tell me.) 

“Tell you what, stupid marimo-” it takes a couple of seconds for the cook to comprehend what just happened, and a strangled noise crawls its way out of his throat. Everything comes to a halt, his world crumbles down. Oh no. Oh no . 

Zoro rises to his feet and steps into his space, a dangerously sinful grin across his face. At this point Sanji’s brain has fully stopped working, and it’s all he can do to gape stupidly back at him, face redder than it’s ever been. 

“Dis moi,” he repeats, voice low and so foreign sounding as it tries to replicate the right intonation of Sanji’s mother tongue. “Ou si tu préfères je peux te dire ce que je voudrais bien te faire, moi.”  

( Tell me. Or if you prefer, I can tell you what I'd like to do to you.) 

Warm blood bursts forth from Sanji’s nose, and his world turns black. 

Chapter Text

“Sanjiiiiii,” the little doctor wails as he goes through the familiar motions of treating Sanji’s blood loss. “Who did this to you??” He sniffles loudly. “There are no mermaids here! I thought you were over this!” 

Next to him, Luffy absentmindedly picks his nose- seemingly amused by the situation- as the handful of straw hats gathered in the med bay whisper conspiratorially amongst themselves. What could have possibly caused the cook to pass out from a nosebleed? 

Arms crossed under his chest, Zoro’s eye flits nervously to Robin’s and is unsurprisingly met with her ever impassive and mysterious smile, which he notes reach her eyes. She most likely heard everything, Zoro figures. Probably even popped one of her ears near them to hear better. Fuck , this was such a mess. He swallows hard, his mind still racing with the explicit thoughts Sanji had drunkenly admitted to. Not to mention the long-awaited confirmation that he has indeed been sleeping with men at various ports. So maybe learning French had come in handy. He’d never tell Mihawk though. 

“Et puis si tu savais ce que je te laisserais me faire- ” Sanji’s sultry words echo in his mind and Zoro’s ears feel dangerously warm at the memory. He really shouldn’t let himself imagine just what the cook would ‘let him do to him’. Fighting the unconscious impulse to screw his eye shut and shake this off, he follows Chopper’s movements in an attempt to distract himself from the lewd images he’s conjuring. He’s honestly surprised at the self-control he displayed earlier. He was so close to just yanking him by his stupid necktie, kissing him silly, locking his sinfully strong thighs around his hips and carrying him back to bed right then and there, the others be damned.  

He can still feel a tightness in his shoulder muscles from the restraint it took to just sit there and listen to the man’s rant. Before he can dwell any more on his struggle, he’s thankfully interrupted by the sound of Chopper speaking up cheerfully, seemingly satisfied with his work. 

“Sanji will be ok- he actually didn’t lose that much blood. Relatively. I think his training-” a snort from Usopp is quickly silenced by the doctor’s stern look. “must’ve kicked in. He should be fine by tomorrow morning; I've treated him with something that should help with his blood production.” 

The crew, happy to learn their cook will recover just fine, file out of the room to rejoin the festivities, and Zoro does his best to linger just a little longer to peek at the blonde’s soft curls and endearing sleeping face. And if a little bit of pride swells in his chest from knowing he’s the cause of this nosebleed, well...no one will know.  

He’s barely out of the room when he finds himself cornered by Nami. Damnit . 

“I know Sanji was with you when this happened.” The redhead gives him a serious, pointed look. 

Zoro scowls. ‘Yeah, and?” 

“And???” Her hands fly, up, exasperated. “What happened?” 

“None of your business, witch.” 

“Oh? And I suppose your debt is none of my business too, you big brute? You wouldn’t mind me adding to it for insubordination, would you?” 

At the mention of his ever-growing debt to the navigator, Zoro’s left gaping down at her, mouth silently forming words in anger. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get me back for this, I’m the worst, blah blah blah.” Her eyes roll and her hands gesture him to move along. “Now tell me what happened. What could’ve possibly triggered Sanji’s nosebleed?” Her eyes momentarily flit down to his chest and her lips curl to the side in a little smirk. 

“Unless... no, your tits are always out . Just tell me what happened, and I’ll take 0.5% off your debt.” 

Zoro sighs and relents. “I didn’t do much, he’s the one who came up to me and started screaming at me in French.” 

Nami stares him down with an unimpressed look. “And then...?” 

“And then I just answered him, and he passed out,” he grumbles out petulantly. 

“That’s so weird- wait. What do you mean you ‘answered him’?” brown eyes narrow at him. “In French?” 

“...yeah.” 

“...you speak French?” 

“Oui.” 

Pain flares on his head from the navigator’s swift punch. She has no sense of humour, damn. 

“Stop fucking around. Why would you of all people know how to speak French?” 

“You don’t believe me?!” He tries to keep his indignant scream as low as he can. 

“No- I’m saying that you wouldn’t go through the trouble of learning a language unless there was something in it for you- so there’s gotta be someth-” Nami comes to a realisation, and her eyebrows raise in shock, giving Zoro an appraising look. 

“Oh my god.”  

“Shut up.” 

“You-” 

“Shut up.”  

By some stroke of luck, Nami leaves the elephant in the room alone, and returns to the matter at hand. “Ok, ok, so you speak French. I can only imagine what you must’ve said to get that kind of reaction from him, though.” She runs her hand across her face, tired. 

Sanji wakes up and is immediately blinded by the sun shining through the window. Ugh. He groans at the dull, pounding feeling behind his eyes and turns to his side to hide from the offending light. He’d definitely had too much to drink last night. 

He snorts into the pillow. He’d drunk so much he’d either dreamed or hallucinated that Zoro could speak French. Wow . His unfiltered imagination really went wild, didn’t it. He can almost hear the seductive words dripping like sex from dream Zoro’s lips, the rough timber of his voice causing a shiver to shoot up his spine and- 

A distinctive, sterile smell cuts through his train of thought. 

Wait. 

Is this the infirmary?  

He cracks open an eye, confirming his theory. This is the med bay all right. He groggily sits up, blanket falling from his torso, and catches a stain on his usually pristine white shirt from the corner of his eye. His chin drops to get a better look. Is that... blood ? 

His blood. He’s had this happen enough times to recognise the results of a nosebleed. Grumbling, he throws his legs over the bed to stand up, annoyed at the prospect of having to scrub the stain out of his good shirt, when it finally hits him. The moment his feet touch the floor, the evening and his current predicament suddenly click together and bring his thoughts of hydrogen peroxide and baking powder to a screeching halt. 

A beat passes. 

Like a rubber band stretched tight, a myriad of thoughts is catapulted to the forefront of his mind, jumbling together in a mess of realisations. Zoro speaks French. Zoro sounds unfairly sexy when he does. How long has he spoken French. Where did he even learn it. Zoro probably overheard his conversation with Robin. Zoro understood the filthy things he told him. To his face. Zoro flirted with him. 

His face burns even brighter at the memory of that last one. Oh god. He even called his dick “big” right to his face. 

Well-versed in burying his feelings deep deep down (years of practice), Sanji staggers through his usual morning routine. Once back in the comfort of his kitchen, his hands go into autopilot mode as he preps for a big healthy brunch to revive his nakama from a long night of festivities. 

It takes him a second longer than usual to notice the creak of the door as someone walks into the kitchen, and he doesn’t bother turning around to see who it is, too busy trying to catch up on his cooking schedule from his late rise. Luffy will be up soon, and he needs to satiate the black hole that is his captain’s stomach. 

“Oi. Tu cuisines quoi. ”  

(Oi, what’re you cooking.) 

“J’prépare un brunch bien gras. Je suis sûr que ça soulagera la gueule de bois collective. ” Sanji absentmindedly answers the annoying swordsman. Tch . Always up in his business.  

(I'm cooking a greasy brunch. I'm sure it will help relieve the collective hangover.)  

“Ça sent bon. Je peux goûter? ” (It smells good. Can I taste?) 

The mosshead’s gorilla arm comes into view from over his shoulder as he reaches to dip his hand into the batter Sanji’s whipping up, and the cook slaps his hand away and heavily crushes his foot without even breaking his rhythm.  

“Non. Bas les pattes.” 

(No. Paws off.) 

Zoro makes a disgruntled noise and properly steps up next to him, leaning his back against the counter. From his peripheral vision, Sanji notes him standing there, head turned towards him, looking at him cooking. Just looking. Odd behaviour for a marimo.  

Minutes pass before the swordsman’s voice interrupts the rhythmic sound of Sanji’s cooking, saving him from the panicked screaming in his mind: They’re speaking French. Zoro’s clumsy pronunciation is the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Why are they acting like this is normal. Why is he standing so close. And are they ever going to address what happened last night? All this stops at the sound of: 

“Et toi, je peux te goûter?” (And you , can I taste you?) 

Sanji’s breath hitches and he feels a warmth creep up his spine, to his neck, his ears, and all the way to the top of his head. He’s going to implode.  

Where did he learn to say that. He hears himself squeak out that very question, eyes looking down at the bowl of batter, pointedly ignoring the other man’s heated gaze. 

Zoro's deep voice rumbles in a low chuckle. “Ça ne répond pas à ma question. Ni à celle de hier soir.”  

(That doesn’t answer my question. Nor last night’s question.) 

Callused fingers suddenly grip his chin, and now he’s face to face with Zoro, who to Sanji’s surprise is sporting a dangerously tender expression, his hand moving up to cup his cheek. His voice is softer, this time. 

“Dis moi.” (Tell me) 

His chest aches. “ Tell you what?”  

Sanji doesn’t like the vulnerability voicing his feelings in French makes him feel. It’s so much easier to revert to his usual abrasiveness. Safer. “I already told you how you drive me up the wall. What, do you want me to embarrass myself further by telling you how badly I’ve wanted you?” 

An expectant eye stares back at him. Patient. Silent. 

The blonde huffs and raises his flour-dusted hand to the one Zoro is gently cupping his face with. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met. Do you have any idea the self-control it takes to not just -“ he feels a tightness in his throat - he didn’t think it would be so hard to actually say it- “de ne pas te dire tous les jours combien je t’aime? ” 

(-to not tell you every day how much I love you?) 

He blinks and Zoro’s lips are on his, soft and delicately pressing against his own like he could break at any moment. And boy does he feel like he could. He immediately starts pushing back, angling his head just so to deepen the kiss, melting from the sheer tenderness, his fingers still gripping Zoro’s hand where it lays, rough calluses against his soft skin.  

They briefly part for air but Zoro immediately dives back in like a man starved, tugging the cook by his hips to stand between his legs, and the blonde has to bite back a moan at the manhandling. Sanji’s arms loop around his neck and find purchase in his ridiculous green hair. 

Zoro will never get enough of kissing this man. It’s simply too intoxicating, and perfect, and everything he’s ever wanted. Which is why it’s with great reluctance that he retreats from this slice of heaven, if only to make sure his own intentions are clear. He can’t believe the bastard beat him to it. He’d walked in here with a plan to test the waters and flirt back- get a little revenge on the blonde from the way he made his brain short circuit the previous night. Maybe test out a few phrases he’d learned in those Harlequin books the pervy cook loves so much. What happened instead was so much better. 

He’s glad to be propped up against the counter because his knees feel weak at the raw, exposed emotion on Sanji’s face when he tells him–  

“Je t’aime. ” 

A radiant smile. A wet laugh through misty eyes.  

“Imbécile. ” (Idiot) 

The man buries his face in his neck and presses him close in an intimate embrace, holding tight at the back of his shirt. Zoro’s chest swells with love and he holds him back just at tightly, rubbing soothing circles on his lower back. 

“Ton imbécile.” ( Your idiot.) 

Chapter Text

Sanji had always been a very handsome man. A man so distractingly handsome that Zoro had to put effort into not noticing certain...things about the cook, effort to keep his eyes from wandering to dangerous places that would unfailingly leave him wanting and ears pink from the lecherous thoughts swirling between them. He’d retreat to the crow’s nest and train his impulses away, hoping that the heavy weights and burning muscles would ground him back into a relaxed, meditative state. 

It was the hypnotising way his fingers danced, so elegant and long when working in the galley- he simply couldn’t tear his eyes off them when they handled his impeccably sharp knives- or how deliciously taut and strong his calves and thighs would feel against him as they sparred. More than once had Zoro woken up breathless, drenched in sweat, uncomfortably hard and blinking away the vestiges of a dream where those deadly legs had been wrapped tight around him. There was just something so enticing about the resounding power emanating from Sanji- his mind going haywire from the knowledge that this man could handle him, meet him blow for blow all while cheekily throwing taunts and insults in his face. 

It was also how beautifully free his form looked when he jumped above him in a skywalk, the way his ocean blue eyes would crinkle when he laughed at the crews’ antics and how his soft blonde curls would catch the sun sometimes. Those moments were possibly harder for him to get out of his system, leaving him with both a heavy and fluttering sensation in his chest. 

And his ass. Oh fuck, his ass.  

Zoro was an ass man through and through: he’d sailed up and down the Grand Line and had never seen anything else like it. The cook’s proclivity for crisp, tailored suits that stretched decadently across his backside with every kick made it impossible to ignore. So many times had he been dangerously close to just reaching out and grabbing it. Fingers tensing at the primal urge to know how they would fit, would feel in his hands, it fanned the flames of an ever-growing heat in the pit of his stomach. Those perfect, round mounds of muscle just out of reach, teasing him whenever the cook bent over to retrieve something in a low cupboard or when he’d catch a glimpse of their bare pallor in the baths. No wonder he didn’t spend much time on hygiene- Sanji always took his damned time in there, and he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. 

The blonde also had a rather elegant neck, just begging to be kissed. To be fair, there was nary an inch of Sanji that Zoro didn’t think of kissing. For so long had Zoro fantasized about just tugging him by his tie or the lapels of his jacket to shut him up nicely, tasting his nicotine-stained lips. Which he had the pleasure of doing right now.  

Finally.  

He’d imagined this a hundred- no, a thousand times over, but it still didn’t compare to actually holding the beautiful man pressed against his body and hearing him let out positively sinful little whines of pleasure as they hurriedly kissed in the Sunny’s unoccupied first mate’s quarters.  

Brunch had been a rowdy affair as usual, with Zoro buzzing for it to be over as soon as possible, knowing the cook wouldn’t be able to relax until everyone had had their fill. 

The wait was worth it , he thinks to himself as one of his hands slithers its way down from Sanji’s flushed cheeks, enjoying the soft little exhales he lets out as his hand caresses down his neck, his chest, his narrow waist, his lower back, finally settling on his perfectly round butt. He pulls Sanji in even closer- the other man’s growing arousal poking against his thigh, firm and warm through the fabric separating them. Zoro treats himself to the enticing thought of that heat in his mouth but is quickly distracted by the fingers the cook had threaded into his short hair suddenly tightening, the pleasing pulling sensation on his scalp shooting down his neck like a shiver.  

Fuck. That feels good.  

Zoro can’t fight the needy groan that rips out of his throat at finally getting his hands on the cook’s ass, and his other hand quickly joins it, happily palming and squeezing it, fortuitously causing some delicious friction between their legs. He drops his head into the crook of Sanji’s neck, overwhelmed by the all-encompassing need coursing through his veins. Need to feel skin flush with skin. Need to make this man come undone and cry his name, over and over. This was a long time coming. 

“J- J’ai envie de toi...” He stumbles a bit on the delivery, the foreign words still unfamiliar on his kiss-swollen lips. (I-I want you...) 

Pressed up close, he doesn’t miss the high-pitched moan that Sanji tries to swallow down before he feels himself get tugged up by his hair, his eye brought back to level with the cook’s own. Maybe it’s the gratifying sting of his hair being pulled some more, or maybe it’s the heavy-lidded, wanton look that Sanji gives him, but he feels a shiver run across his skin. Nervously, the blonde’s pink tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, catching the swordsman’s eye. 

“Comment me veux-tu, abruti? ” ( How do you want me, moron?) 

Zoro honestly could go either way, but something in him stirs at Sanji’s provocativeness, and the following words spill out of him, words he’d have never said with a straight face before his run-in with a certain type of French literature.  

“Je-” His voice comes out raspy, deep . “Je te veux...plié en deux sur ce lit me suppliant de te prendre,” he starts, and Sanji’s breath hitches, his hand dropping to grip at Zoro’s shirt, steadying himself. “que tu te serves de tes satanées cuisses pour te bercer contre moi.” Zoro grins, confidence growing, feral at the sight of a lone drop of blood oozing from Sanji’s nose. “Et quand tu seras assez désespéré, je veux te faire jouir jusqu'à ce que ta voix se brise.”  

( I want you... bent in half on the bed, begging me to take you, using your damned thighs to rock yourself against me. And once you’re desperate enough, I want to make you come until your voice breaks.)  

He can almost feel Sanji’s brain short circuit in front of him. Things are a blur after that. It’s a race of getting each other out of their stifling garments, the singing relief of skin-to-skin contact, desperate kisses, nips, bites and nails pressing deep into Zoro’s biceps as he works the pliant man under him open with two lubed-up fingers. 

They’re both on the bed now, Zoro holding himself up over the writhing blonde, hair a sweaty, curly mess in a beautiful halo around his head and his legs hooked in a vice-like grip around his torso, arms wrapped around his neck. The messy, pleasured noises Sanji makes are positively obscene, shooting straight to his dick, and it’s taking all his concentration to focus on rubbing up against his sweet spot, just enough to drive the cook crazy but slowing down every time he can feel him clench hard, getting closer to the precipice. 

"Enfoiré! Si tu- ” (Bastard! If you-)  

Sanji’s impassioned rant at Zoro edging him is immediately cut short by a third finger pressing against his rim, and he eagerly presses his hips up into the pleasant stretch of Zoro’s thick fingers spreading him even more, eyes screwing shut. 

“Mnh! Yesss,” he purrs into the swordsman’s ear. 

A wet heat envelops his earlobe and his three earrings chime against each other as Sanji decides to play with them. Head foggy with lust, Zoro wonders how Sanji was so easily able to find this weak spot of his, his hand’s pace stuttering and slowing down at the sensual licks against his sensitive ear. 

“S-shitty cook- ” 

“Bet you can’t say that in French,” Sanji coyly challenges him, a hot whisper in his ear. 

Zoro times his answer with a couple of sharper thrusts, making Sanji cry out at the onslaught against his prostate. “Cuistot de merde,” Sanji can probably hear his smugness in his voice. “What, you don’t think that’s one of the first things I asked to learn?” 

“You- hnng! You fucker, even in French you don’t call me a proper chef!” 

Zoro chuckles and decides this is a good time as any to still his fingers once more. Angry, needy eyes with blown out pupils crack open to stare deeply into his own. He takes the moment to wipe away the blood under Sanji’s nose and licks it, the metallic taste coating his tongue beautifully. 

“Fine. If that’s how it is.” The stubborn cook leverages his legs’ hold on him to fuck himself onto Zoro’s fingers. He slowly builds himself up again, simultaneously rocking on the swordsman’s hand and stroking his length with his own, and it’s not long before his eyes flutter close in concentration, chasing his release, brow damp with sweat. 

Zoro makes a little strangled noise, dumbstruck by how stupidly good he looks taking his fingers, how hot and swollen his dick is, and how the obscene wet noises and hypnotising dance of his hips are making the tip of his cock leak against his stomach. Why wasn’t he fucking him into the mattress again? 

Sanji’s breathless voice cuts through the fog. “You happy? ‘this what you wanted, mosshead?” 

Ah, right . He remembered now. “Close. I said I’d make you beg for it, curly.” 

“Fuck. You wouldn’t dare. Not again.” Sanji’s free hand shoots down to try and stop his thick wrist from pulling away. 

“I would.” 

Sanji makes a choked, desperate sound at the feeling of Zoro's hand starting its slow retreat, a small litany of ‘nos’ dropping from his lips as he once again feels his orgasm get away, his practiced hand stroking his dick not nearly enough to get him there at this point.  

Adorable. Zoro hears his blood roar in his ears at the sight, making a point to burn the cook’s desperate look into his memory. He’s aching to be inside him at this point, but unless he hears the magic word, he’ll keep holding himself back. 

After a few more fruitless pumps, head thrown back, Sanji seemingly makes up his mind. “Please,” he sobs. 

Zoro’s three fingers immediately resume their movements with purpose, pressing perfectly against Sanji on each powerful thrust. The swordsman is positively transfixed by the sight of the sweaty, flushed and desperate man before him, the shaky moans and gasps egging him on, driving him into a frenzy as he builds him up once more. 

Sanji felt dizzy with want after having been denied so many times. First, the stupid brute short-circuited his brain by whispering those filthy things to him with his cute stupid little accent, and then had the gall to call him a cuistot , and fuck!  

He honestly can’t even form a coherent thought at this point. He can only feel . His body is so strung-up and buzzing with pent-up pleasure, the mind-numbingly good stretch and press of Zoro’s fingers inside him and the stuttering jerks of his fist around his cock are all that his world have boiled down to, and nothing short of a buster call can stop him from coming into his lover’s arms. 

Distantly, he feels Zoro ghost his lips over his collarbone, whispering dirty nothings to him, licking up his throat, kissing his jaw... How dare he be so stupidly attentive, so good, so- 

“MMmn!” He bites down on his lip, hard. 

Sanji comes, dissolving into pleasure, rippling, splintering heat rushing through his body, muscles pulled tight as Zoro keeps working him through wave after wave, kissing his temple and holding him close as spurts of his cum stain their stomachs. He faintly registers that the moans and repeated cries of Zoro’s name and yes, more, please, right there are his own voice, but he’s too far gone to care. 

Once he’s semi lucid again, he loosens his legs’ death grip on the man’s torso, idly wondering if bruises will bloom there overnight. Chest still heaving, he opens his eyes and is met with a sight he’s sure to never forget. Zoro’s wild look of pure, unadulterated hunger as he licks a drop of his cum from his fingers would make his knees buckle if he were standing, and knowing he’s like this- a panting, flushed and sweaty mess because of him makes Sanji preen with pride. He’s barely even touched the man. 

Speaking of, he finally gets his hands on the broad, scarred chest he’s itched to grope oh so many times, letting his thumb experimentally start teasing a nipple. He drags his eyes down and wets his lips at the sight before him. He’d been right. Zoro truly has it all, and he can feel himself stirring again already. 

“Like what you see?” 

In lieu of an answer, Sanji reaches down and wraps his long, deft fingers at the base of the swordsman’s wonderful girth, earning him a little hiss of pleasure as he starts lazily gliding up and down the velvety heat. 

“Que veux tu mon grand?” his voice comes out hoarser than he expected, and the cook revels in Zoro’s nearly predatory gaze and the hitch in his breath. 

(What do you want, big boy?) 

“Mes mains?” His strokes get more precise, faster, taking care to rub the head just right. 

(My hands?) 

Zoro groans, and Sanji’s pink tongue darts out to lick his lips, smiling devilishly as he calls for the marimo’s attention there. “Mes lèvres?” (My lips?) 

“Ou...” he trails off and guides the aching, leaking length to his entrance, giving a little teasing wiggle of his hips.  

(Or...) 

The dark expression on Zoro’s face is absolutely intoxicating. His callused hand grips Sanji’s hip and pushes up, wordlessly encouraging the cook to flip onto his front. Still a little blissed out, Sanji grins and complies and positions himself on his hands and knees. The blonde watches over his shoulder as the swordsman reaches for more lube, lathering a generous amount onto his cock before aligning himself with Sanji again, kneeling at the edge of the bed. 

Feeling a little vulnerable, Sanji can’t help teasing his lover. “C’est pour aujourd’hui ou pour demain?” 

(Are you gonna do it this century ?) 

And then Zoro presses into him and oh fuck - the stretch of each thick inch sinking into him is a divine mix of pain and pleasure that steals his breath away. The swordsman's’ grip is bruising on his hips, evidently doing his best to let Sanji get used to him before he loses control. 

A few moments later he must hear Sanji’s breath even out a bit and he adjusts against him, finally burying himself to the hilt fully, hands possessively taking hold of his ass cheeks.  

“Fuck, you feel so good wrapped around me like this,” Zoro’s words were going to be the death of him, Sanji thinks as his face burns like a furnace. He was sure of it.  

“Can I?” 

“Ye- mmn, yes go ahead,” Sanji spreads his thighs wider and braces himself on his forearms. 

He feels Zoro pulling out slowly, his fingers climbing up and digging into his slender waist, and then he’s being pulled down onto his dick once more as the man starts thrusting into him earnestly. With each slap of the man’s hips against his backside, each steady glide against his prostate, he feels so perfectly full , so good , and his toes curl when Zoro leans over and nuzzles his neck, his grunts and growls of pleasure a sweet melody he’ll never tire of hearing. 

“Tu me prends si bien...” 

(You take me so well...) 

Sanji bites the back of his hand to stifle a moan and keeps throwing his hips powerfully back against Zoro’s rutting. It feels mind-numbingly good to finally let go and be able to use his full force like this, knowing he can give as good as he’ll get. 

Zoro doesn’t think he’ll be able to last long if the cook keeps looking and sounding like that .  

Fucking hell, what a sight. His lithe, athletic form splitting itself open on each thrust, their bodies working together towards rapture, harmoniously in synch from years of sparring and fighting side by side. The swordsman briefly worries that he won’t be able to spar without getting distracted by the memory of this, of the blonde splayed out under him, back arched sensually and hands straining against the crumpled sheets. 

He’s not surprised that Sanji is a vocal lover- he expected it, has fantasised about it on some lonely nights in the crow’s nest. But he didn’t expect that each broken moan and sigh he fucks out of him would bring him closer and closer, fire pooling low in his abdomen and coursing through his veins. He straightens back up and off Sanji’s back for a better angle and oh no , that was a mistake. He groans. He’s once again met with the tantalising sight of his dick burying itself in Sanji’s ass, again and again, a small ripple dancing across the tempting flesh to the rhythm of his punishing pace. 

“Fuck ” 

He slides his right hand around to take hold of Sanji’s dick, and Sanji melts at his touch, head dropping straight against the sheets and moaning his name with abandon at his ministrations. 

“Oh-oh god, Zoro , I’m so close-” 

Zoro redoubles his efforts, fucking Sanji into the mattress with abandon, chasing both of their releases. Sanji’s muffled mewls of pleasure grow into louder and louder moans and expletives, stuttering with the pounding of their hips and the fist milking his cock.  

“Come for me, cook.” 

The blonde stills against him, crying out his name as he comes, shuddering and tensing beautifully in the low-lit room. Zoro falls right after him with a shaky moan of his own, time slowing at the feel of Sanji’s glorious, clenching heat around him. Tight, white, hot electricity rolls like waves through his body as he spills, pulsing into his lover. 

Craving to stay close to Sanji, Zoro drops and rolls them to their sides, spooning the blonde from behind, arms tight around his waist and nose nuzzling the nape of his neck. 

“Je t’aime. ” the loving words come out like a sigh. 

A dazed, sleepy Sanji hums and clasps his hands on top of Zoro’s, inching himself even closer against him. 

After getting its fill of sleepy cuddles, Sanji’s blissed out mind slowly comes back online and the questions that have been gnawing at the back of his mind return in full force. Just where had the stupid swordsman learned to speak French, let alone say things like that ? 

His cheeks feel warm at the mere memory of it. Now that he thinks about it, it’s even a bit odd- he assumed that Zoro wouldn’t be the type to say such corny, vulgar stuff in bed- if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was straight out of one of his romance novels. It was uncanny that he’d kind of played into exactly the kind of things Sanji was into. 

He lets out a small, amused sound at the thought of Zoro reading those kinds of books. Did Zoro even know how to read? 

“What’re you thinking, curly?” Zoro asks gruffly, his hands still distractingly caressing his skin from behind him. 

“Wondering where you learned that kind of language, marimo. ‘s not the typical vocabulary people get when learning French.”  

Sanji turns in his lover’s embrace to face him and waits for an answer, idly thumbing at the scar on his face. 

“Oh, that .”  

Was Zoro...blushing? “Yes, that.” 

“Learned it from those, uh, Harlequin books.” 

Sanji’s mouth parts, flabbergasted, but Zoro isn’t done surprising him. 

“I thought if you’d read that kind of book multiple times it must’ve meant something, so I kind of...went on a limb earlier.” 

Sanji is beet red. “W-wait so you,” he takes a steadying breath. “You've read my Harlequin book?” 

“No.” 

A sigh of relief. 

“I’ve read way more than one.”  

Shock. 

“From Mihawk’s private library.” 

“mIHAWK?!!!” Sanji sputters. 

“Yeah, I accidentally let him find out that I’d been learning a bit of French and then next thing I knew he was forcing me to learn it proper ‘n all.”  

Sanji feels his chest warming as he starts connecting the dots. “A-and you’d been learning French-” 

“-for you, yeah.” He grins. 

Unable to stop himself any longer, Sanji closes the distance and captures Zoro’s lips in a tender kiss. 

“Imbécile.” 

“Ton imbécile.” 

They both smile stupidly at each other. 

“I can’t believe you. I’m gonna tell everyone you accidentally learned French because of your crippling addiction to boddice rippers.” 

“Oi!”