Chapter Text
They’re going on a date.
They’re going on their first date.
They’re going on their first date and the only nice shirt Zoro has is basically ruined.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
So fine is Zoro, that he doesn’t feel a pang of regret when Nami outright refuses to help him shop for an outfit. The hypothetical regret not being from Sanji and him tag-teaming every single button off the nice and somewhat expensive dark olive silk number in their throes of passion—it was from asking in the first place. Hypothetically.
The simple and reasonable request to accompany him to the mall had turned into a half an hour lecture on the reasons why she would never help Zoro again. He knew never really meant until I stop being mad or I get something out of it, but the wound to her wallet was apparently still too fresh in her mind.
Which, to her slight credit, it’d only been two weeks since it happened.
Sanji had waited about six hours after their friends’ loose, Pollock-esque intervention before propositioning their first date—an hour to finally eat, one hour lazing about and basking in their new “together”-ness, and about four hours of the cook taking Zoro apart with only his tongue, hands, and fingers.
Those talented, dexterous, fingers.
Around him, on him, in him. Being the one pulling the blonde’s strings definitely had its charm, but Sanji was one hell of a puppeteer. It killed him to say it, but Zoro ate his words promptly after goading Sanji into round two—well, technically round, like... six or something if you count the night before—and there were no crumbs to be left.
Unless you counted the numerous times a day Zoro fantasized about those fingers splitting him open as crumbs. In that case, the inside of his head looked like a sleeve of saltine crackers after being mercilessly pummeled by a hammer.
And the words that poured out of that sinful mouth of his—filthy promises whispered sweetly in his ear that had Zoro’s eyes rolling and his hole flutter with raw want.
Fuck the hammer, his sleeve-of-crackers-brain was put through a food processor.
He shivers—focus. The date was tonight and he was forced to tap into the ‘last resorts’ on his short list of friends.
Robin would’ve been his next go-to, had she not been halfway across the world at an archeological conference this entire week.
The third draft pick was Usopp, but—much like Nami—he abruptly stated he needed to recover from ‘the past eight months of trauma he endured’ at the hands of Zoro and Sanji. The long-nosed man still wouldn’t speak of the horrors that transpired the fateful day he walked in on the blonde taking nudes in their kitchen. He specifically stated that if the swordsman asked about it again, he’d forward his therapy bills over to him.
Zoro didn’t even dare bother Tony with this, knowing full well how stressful the end of a semester probably was for the young aspiring doctor.
Which left him with—
“Zoro! Are we done yet? I wanna get pretzels."
“We just got here, lil’ bro, we can grab some for the ride home! Wow!”
Zoro wonders if he should’ve just risked going by himself.
It’s not that he didn’t value Luffy and Franky’s opinions, it’s that...
He doesn’t trust their opinions for this task specifically. Hence why they were the last two he asked to tag along. Zoro was shit at shopping though, so the least they could do by coming with him was provide some support.
Luffy was just as clueless as him when it came to dressing himself. The younger man threw on a t-shirt and shorts three-hundred and sixty-five days out of the year and had a single pair of worn-in sandals. Much like Zoro, the only nice shirt Luffy owned was thanks to Nami.
And then on some bizarre, alternate plane of existence floating somewhere adjacent to the style spectrum, you had Franky.
Flamboyant, brightly patterned button-ups and skin tight short shorts as a signature look was... a bold choice. Zoro couldn’t knock the level of confidence it took to wear something like that—and the older man absolutely rocked it—but it was nowhere near what he had in mind for himself.
He was trying to impress, not have offended-looking mothers shield their children’s eyes.
“Where you two even going for this hot date, man?” Franky inquires.
“A new Japanese barbeque place Sanji’s old coworker opened up,” Zoro explains as the older man steers them into a store with... eclectically dressed mannequins displayed in the windows.
“That sounds perfect for you two—you love that stuff, and Sanji still gets to cook,” Franky laughs jovially and claps him hard on the back. “We’ll totally be able to find you something in here, then.”
Zoro hums noncommittally—but from where he was standing, he couldn’t agree less.
For starters, the store is aptly named Freak Chic. The first rack he bumps into seems to be exclusively for a garment that looks like the cross between a wrestling singlet and a thong in an array of patterns solely comprised of phallic foods. Surveying the shop floor, he doesn’t think there’s any piece of clothing in the entire establishment that doesn’t resemble something that Franky regularly wears.
If the older man told him he bought the entirety of his wardrobe here, Zoro wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.
“Woah, cool! You should get this one!” Luffy pops up beside the rack of mesh neon polo tees Zoro’s pretending to flip through (per Franky’s recommendation).
A hanger presenting a short sleeve button-down dotted with dogs riding skateboards thrusts into his line of vision. He stares blankly with his eyebrows raised at the excitable younger man.
Okay, he was wasting time he really didn’t have.
“Is there anything here that’s... less busy? Maybe something black?”
Luffy stands on one of the lower shelves and does a quick scan of the surrounding area. He then jumps down and wordlessly grabs Zoro by the wrist, barreling his way over to a wall lined with folded collared shirts.
While not solid black, on the middle shelf sits this particular style of button-up in a demurer black and burgundy rose pattern. The cook would honestly like something like this, if he had to guess. “This is perfect. Good job, Luf,” Zoro smirks approvingly at his best friend and cards through the stack for his size.
When he pulls out the extra-large to hold it up to his body, however, he grimaces.
It looks... small. Like, too small.
Franky rejoins them, taking in Zoro’s confusion and chuckling. “Don’t worry, bro. It looks small, but that kind of shirt stretches once you put it on,” the man explains. “I have a couple of ‘em myself, just get your normal size.”
The swordsman furrows his brow at his friend, then back at the outstretched garment, then back at his friend again. He gives the fabric an experimental tug—it surprisingly has a lot of give. While he may not trust Franky’s style choices, he did trust him within the confines of this store. If anyone knew about sizing in here—aside from the employees—it'd be him.
Which was good, because he now had just about an hour until he was expected to meet at Sanji’s apartment.
Decision made, he marches straight to the painfully bored-looking cashier and makes his purchase. Zoro exhales a sigh of relief, and turns to his friends.
“Sorry, Luffy, but we gotta—”
But only Franky stands behind him.
“Yeah, lil’ bro hightailed it to the pretzel stand as soon as you got to the register.”
Two cups of soft pretzels purchased and a fifteen-minute car drive later, Zoro is tossing his belongings onto the bed and stripping to haul ass into the shower.
He had a little under a half an hour to get ready and the first date jitters decide that now was the perfect time to sucker punch him. Shopping had him a little rattled, but he was currently second-guessing every single decision he made. Does he shave? What if the cook liked him with a little stubble? Should he go for the simpler barbell nipple ring or wear the one that he knew drove Sanji wild? But it didn’t really match—does that even matter? Maybe he should’ve went with the dogs riding skateboards shirt—
He groans and headbutts the scrutinizing face reflecting back at him in the mirror. Chill the fuck out. It’s just a date.
Zoro was a notoriously sure man. Sure about his goals, his moral code, his friends, and normally his decisions. This entire situation is foreign—eight months ago he was sure he couldn’t stand Sanji. Kissgate had flipped everything completely on its head in the span of a night; being open with the man and understanding their mutual feelings had him like a fish out of water. Their relationship would never change at its core, but now there was an added dimension to it that Zoro couldn’t help but feel uncertain about.
That additional dimension included pleasing the man, and wanting to be pleased by him—not only sexually, but in any way possible. Capturing his attention with not only bickering, but with tenderness and affection. Having that gorgeous pale face not only pinching with anger, but witness it changing under every other emotion Zoro could put on it. He wanted to see it all.
God, if last year Zoro could see him now. He’d probably pull Wado out on current Zoro, demanding to know who was controlling his mind and how they’d done it.
He glances at the clock. Shit, only ten minutes.
He slips his nicer black jeans on, then upends the shopping bag onto his bed. The buttons to his new shirt are roughly undone and he slips his arms through the sleeves; an uneasy feeling creeps in as he adjusts the snug material over his broad shoulders. He starts fastening the shirt back up, then tenses midway when the material starts thinning with the strain. When the middlemost button just barely makes it within its matching hole, he realizes that there’s no way in hell the shirt is going to encompass the width of his chest.
This is fine. Zoro turns back to the mirror.
The sleeves of the collared shirt fit fine, and the print looks quite nice against Zoro’s bronze skin. However, the only two positive things Zoro could say about the garment are eclipsed by the glaringly obvious fact that Franky was dead wrong in his advice to get his usual size.
Zoro pales—this is not fine.
-
Sanji re-crosses his anxiously bouncing legs and checks the time on his phone for probably the seventh time in the last twenty minutes. He expected the marimo to be late, but this was pushing it even for him. Maybe not for any distance outside the literal and linear ten steps it takes to walk down the hallway, but it usually only added five to eight minutes onto this specific journey, tops.
Not that Sanji’s ever counted or anything.
“Damn idiot, I should’ve just told him I’d go over there in the first place,” he grumbles to himself, before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.
Sanji nervously fiddles with the golden rings adorning his fingers on the short walk over. He’s dressed immaculately, as usual, but feels like he tried a bit too hard for... whatever reason.
Who am I kidding? I dressed up for him, and I look fucking good—we’re over this denial shit now, he accosts himself internally. Something about old habits dying hard.
A white, billowy blouse drapes delicately on his lean frame, cinched at the waist by a lace-up corset of the same color; the bottom hem of the shirt flounces over his hips to accentuate an hourglass frame. Sanji only prays that Zoro put the same amount of thought into his outfit so he doesn’t feel like a jackass.
Sweaty palms drag down his denim-clad thighs; he sharply inhales, then knocks.
Tell-tale crashing and stomping behind the door precedes Luffy swinging it open with a cheery grin. “Hey! Zoro won’t leave his room.”
Sanji’s brow furrows, tentatively stepping past the threshold. “And why is that?”
Luffy shrugs. “Haven’t asked yet. Only one way to find out, though!” He leads the charge, barreling his way into the swordsman’s room with no preamble or warning—as he does any time he wants access to it. The blonde takes a mental note to always lock the door when the two of them are together in there.
“Zoro! Sanji’s here!” Luffy loudly announces, Sanji already on his way inside the bedroom. His eyes immediately search out the other man, and he freezes when he finds him stiffly facing the doorway in confusion.
“I didn’t take you as a crop top guy,” Luffy comments, before abruptly checking his phone and ducking out as quickly as he barged in.
“It isn’t supposed to be one,” Zoro calls after him; blush rises to his cheeks.
Sanji has yet to say anything—he's yet to breathe after getting an eyeful of what the marimo is wearing.
Luffy is valid in assuming the blouse Zoro squeezed into is a crop top. For all intents and purposes, it is, with the hem kissing his navel like that. For Sanji, however, that isn’t anywhere near the most surprising—or tempting—part of the shirt.
Zoro’s gorgeous, plump tits are practically bursting out of it.
The dark floral is barely covering his nipples, but even then, the perky bud of his piercing stands in defiance of the tight garment. While it barely fits his chest, the rest of the top almost pulls his waist in. Zoro just looks so... grabbable—every part of him.
The cook’s hungry gaze and the twitching fingers at his sides are waging a war between where he wants to touch first.
Instead, his brain takes the cooler, subtler route by having him rasp out, “What are you wearing?” The second to last syllable cracks, to make it that much more convincing.
Zoro seems too absorbed in his own uncharacteristic self-consciousness to really absorb the way Sanji is blatantly eye-fucking him. “It’s supposed to be an extra-large!” He hisses defensively, flush now creeping down his neck and bleeding into his collarbone. Like the cook needed more incentive to faceplant himself between the elevated mounds of his chest. The back of Sanji’s nose begins to tickle with warmth.
Thankfully, the angelic trill of Nami’s voice from the living room brings him back down to Earth before the blood has a chance to make itself known.
“Luffy, I don’t give a shit about your new game console, now show me what Zoro’s wearing!”
When the younger man rounds the corner with his phone, Sanji’s already poised and ready to block her view. “Nami-swan! Aren’t you interested in what I’m wearing too?” He strikes three poses in quick succession, beaming from ear to ear.
“No,” she replies flatly from the video call, “Now move, idiot.”
His smile falters, but does as he’s told. “It’s just because she trusts my sense of style,” Sanji amends, more to himself than anyone else.
Luffy then trains the camera on Zoro’s awkward form, and is met by a beat of silence.
“Is it even legal for you to go out like that?”
Zoro’s hackles raise. “It’s supposed to be an extra-large!” He repeats, indignant this time.
Nami scoffs loudly over the speakerphone. “For who, a twelve-year-old? Your whole tits are out!” Luffy snickers, and Zoro’s frown deepens.
“Your tits are out all the time, and you don’t see me bitching about it!” The squawk from Sanji is purposefully ignored. “What happened to never helping me again, huh?” Zoro jabs a finger toward the younger man’s phone.
“Oh, I was just curious of what you’d come up with without my help,” Nami replies flippantly. “You’re doing great, sweetie.” Her condescending smirk is as obvious as if she was standing there herself.
Zoro stalks toward the door, flashes his middle finger to the camera lens, corrals Luffy out of his room, then shuts it closed. Out of the prying eyes of their friends, the other man then deflates and crosses his arms. Sanji’s pupils dilate at the way the simple movement makes his pecs look impossibly fuller.
Do they have to leave? The perverted part of his brain viciously shakes its cage door, begging for Sanji to forego the whole thing and paint that stupid shirt and his big tits with their collective orgasm. Or orgasms. Whose idea even was it to go on a date when they could just stay here, where he could fuck Zoro until he cried?
The romantic in him politely waves from his section of Sanji’s mind, as if to say, “Remember me?”
Right.
Wait, was Zoro talking?
The cook snaps out of his depraved, chest-centric reverie just in time to hear Zoro grumble, “Damnit, I’ll just put a stupid t-shirt on.”
“No!” Sanji almost yells, after staring at the other man’s pectorals silently for the better part of a minute. The swordsman turns to him, alarmed and confused. Sanji clears his throat, making eye contact despite the burning of his cheeks. “No, d-don't—don’t change... I like it on you.”
In the very short moments Sanji had to concoct a way to convince Zoro to keep the dangerously flattering garment on, his mind flipped through a catalogue of lies or excuses he could tell. That they’re already running late for the reservation; his old coworker Jinbei was expecting them and he didn’t want to disappoint; t-shirts were for some reason prohibited at this obviously casual restaurant. But Zoro wearing his discomfort so plainly and openly with him... it’s an expression he rarely saw, and it didn’t suit him. Something about it was intimate in a way that reminded him that this relationship between them was more now. More than rivalrous competition, more than sex... the swordsman was being vulnerable. He felt honored to be one of the few people Zoro trusted enough to witness it.
So Sanji tossed the catalogue of lies into an open volcano and dusted off one he seldom used: a book titled, Ways to Make a Marimo Smile.
And maybe dip into a page of the old, Ways to Turn a Marimo On.
The cook crosses over to the dresser where Zoro keeps his sparse collection of jewelry and picks up his favorite gold chain—the same one Sanji used as a makeshift collar in their first tryst weeks ago. He saunters back over to the other man still curiously scowling at him, invading his space until their noses brush. The clasp gives way under Sanji’s decorated fingers and fluidly encircles Zoro’s neck with it; hazel eyes follow the gold rings adorning several of the digits until they’re out of sight. The swordsman’s breath hitches, and arms unfurl to naturally find the blonde’s waist.
After affixing the necklace, Sanji’s hands linger at the nape of his neck. That heated blue gaze locks with Zoro's, and he captures the swordsman in a slow kiss that has them both melting.
He knows he could take this further; that if he wanted to, Zoro would all but leap onto the bed so Sanji could have his way with him. But instead, he breaks away and murmurs, “Wear it for me.” The swordsman’s brain seems to take a second to reboot before he nods dumbly at the request.
This was a side of Zoro that Sanji only had the pleasure of meeting briefly the night of—and then the morning after—his birthday. He’d challenged Sanji to give as good as he received, and fuck did the swordsman do the exact same. Unabashedly moaning and writhing under him, clawing at his blonde hair while Sanji was three fingers deep and playing his prostate like a damn piano.
And God, the begging. That was the least expected of all. If it wasn't for the distracting cartoon hijinks playing at a deafening volume from one wall away, Sanji would’ve claimed that gorgeous, toned ass readily. The memory taunted him every night during these grueling fourteen days, mourning the fact that he didn’t have the time to go two doors down and fulfill the promises he branded into Zoro’s skin with fervent hushed tones.
Zoro’s face spoke of that same version of him now, face flush and lips slightly parted, tongue swiping at his lower lip as if savoring the mixed saliva that lingered.
“Good boy,” Sanji praises impishly, and removes himself entirely to exit the room. He catches how Zoro’s pupils dilate slightly, despite the haughty pout and grumbling that follows. Interesting. “Let’s go, we are not being late because of your ass.”
-
With Zoro’s fledging insecurities out of the way—thanks to a certain fiery and convincing blonde—they made it to their reservation with two minutes to spare.
“Good afternoon, do you have a reservation?” The host asks Zoro’s bulging chest directly. Next to him, Sanji sucks his teeth quiet enough that it’s drowned out by the ambient music and idle chatter surrounding them.
“Yes, for two. Should be under Sanji,” the blonde states, inconspicuously clipped in a way that only Zoro can translate. It’s the same way he first addressed that poor bottle service attendant at Red Line, albeit toned down a couple notches.
After that night, he had lamented to Zoro about how conflicted he felt treating a fellow service worker like that. As penance, the cook said he had tipped every barista and waitstaff he encountered double for an entire week—instead of, you know, calling to apologize the one he accosted. Probably because he didn’t actually feel sorry, what with the server ‘climbing all over my swordsman like a fucking lemur’ as Sanji had put it. Zoro tries to reign in his smirk. Possessive bastard can’t help himself.
The hosts’ eyes snap to Sanji, a bit flustered at his own lack of decorum. “O-of course,” he replies, scanning a list on the stand in front of him before crossing something off. “Please, follow me.”
They’re led to a cozy booth with red leather upholstery and a granite marble table; a round steel cooktop and matching range hood take up the epicenter of the surface. The man places their menus in front of them and stiffly bows out.
Casually perusing the options, Zoro throws out, “Well, that went better than last time. Good job keeping your hands to yourself, curls.” The other man’s menu is forcibly snatched up in his peripheral, followed by an offended scoff.
“Shut up and pick your damn food,” the cook snaps.
Zoro chuckles—he had missed this. And with Sanji looking like that? There was no way he was letting the night end after dinner.
When the waiter drops by again, the swordsman lets Sanji order for him (as if he ever had a say in the matter). The cook picks at least one serving of practically everything on the menu, before they fall into their easy and playful rhythm of conversation.
While they messaged almost non-stop, the two men hadn’t really been able to get together much in the two weeks that dragged between Zoro’s birthday and their date. Sanji had to work overtime at The Baratie with the influx of Thanksgiving reservations and catering pre-orders. The dojo was slow around the holidays, but Zoro volunteered to put more hours in at Franky’s gym to alleviate the increase of new members. Overlap of free time in his and the cook’s schedules had been slim.
However, Zoro did get to spend time with Sanji at The Baratie’s annual food drive. It always felt like a privilege to be in the presence of the blonde exercising his passion for cooking, but especially when it was for a good cause. That’s when he shined even more than usual: lovingly creating pre-packaged and hearty meals for the homeless during a holiday season that was difficult for many.
Zoro and the rest of their friends lent a hand every year to join the assembly line of wrapping the food and doling it out to the awaiting recipients. If the swordsman had gotten there early to claim the spot in the packing line closest to the stove, it was a mere coincidence. What he didn’t anticipate was how... distracting it would be to work so close to the cook in his element.
Zoro remembers thinking that if there is a hell, he would be going to it with the way he ogled Sanji’s hands as he worked. To feed the homeless.
But they aren’t at a charity event—they’re on a date, where ogling was all but encouraged. His stomach does a flip, much like the piece of beef Sanji turns with the tongs held between one of those beautiful hands.
A rotund, burly man lumbers to their table with a sharp, toothy grin. “Sanji! Great to see you here!” Sanji gets up to greet the older gentleman with a big hug, returning the smile in kind.
“Jinbei! The place looks great,” the cook beams; this must be the coworker he’d mentioned.
“Thank you, thank you. A labor of love, but we’re faring well,” Jinbei sighs happily. “To what do I owe the pleasure, old friend? It sounded on the phone like this was some sort of momentous occasion.” Zoro’s eyebrow quirks, just as interested in the response as the bigger man is.
A pretty flush crosses Sanji’s face as he thinks of how to answer. He motions to Zoro, “Jinbei, this is my—uh—my boyfriend? Zoro?” His anxiety and the uncertainty of the claim is palpable, coming out as more of a question. Zoro’s other eyebrow shoots up to meet its twin and they take the climb towards his hairline. Did Sanji just call him his boyfriend?
Jinbei directs his attention to Zoro. “Ah! What an honor it is, Zoro.” The man takes his hand in a strong grip. Zoro smiles, and nods in affirmation.
“I’ll leave you to it—it was wonderful seeing you, boy.” The bigger man claps the blonde’s shoulder as he resumes his seat. “Please, enjoy and eat to your heart’s content. Give my best to Zeff.” Sanji waves in thanks, and Jinbei continues on his rounds to the other customers.
Tense silence looms over the table as they begin eating. Zoro finds when it comes to these types of situations with the cook—feelings and actually talking about them—keeping up with their normal banter, while lacing in matters of the heart, yields the best results.
As nervous, and surprised, and slightly excited as he is, Zoro keeps his voice even. Teasing.
“So—boyfriends, eh?” Sanji’s fork scrapes harshly against ceramic.
“I mean... we are officially dating as of today.” The cook won’t meet his eyes, kicking around a lone takoyaki ball with his utensil. Despite the fringe covering his face, his reddened ears popping out between those golden locks are a dead giveaway. “We don’t have to label it, but saying ‘this is the person I’m together with, Zoro’ is a fucking mouthful.”
Expectant blue eyes peer up at Zoro’s, analyzing his face.
“I ‘unno,” Zoro smirks back around a bite of perfectly cooked pork belly. “Has a nice ring to it.”
Sanji’s face is matching his ears now, a hint of shock in his features. He finally sinks his fork into the last bite of food on his plate—he’s trying his hardest not to quirk his lips and failing spectacularly. “Mosshead. D-don't talk with your mouth full.” God, did Zoro want to kiss him right now.
As if sensing the tender moment, Zoro’s inner deviant grabs the reigns of his motor functions at the suggestive demand and has him mutter, “Wouldn’t be saying that if my mouth was full of something else.” Instinctively, his eyes rake over to the cook fiddling with his rings.
Coughs spontaneously erupt from Sanji’s mouth. “Zoro!” He gives himself a minute to catch his breath before continuing. “The way you can go from somewhat cute to utterly depraved in under thirty seconds needs to be studied. Did you run out of water in that mossy head of yours in between those two sentences?” Sanji’s expression betrays his words—it’s a look of relief at the subject change, mixed with hunger at the way the swordsman eyes him.
Zoro knows boiling their relationship down to the physical was easier for both of them. It gave the two some comfort knowing that amongst all the ways they were equally matched, their level of emotional constipation was one of them. While that was pretty much the threshold of Zoro’s romanticism, the same could be said about Sanji’s tolerance of accepting said romanticism. With time those limits will be stretched, he hopes, but for now the swordsman rolls with it.
“Not seeing you has me pent up,” Zoro confesses, hazel irises entranced by the metal glinting off Sanji’s digits and mindlessly licking his lips. “Been thinking about you.”
The waiter briefly stops by to place the check on the table, as well as a bowl of mochi ice cream—compliments of Jinbei—before flitting to an adjacent booth. Zoro’s gaze is steadfast, the man acknowledging the employee with a simple grunt in thanks.
“Hmm? What about me?” The cook plucks one of the pink mochi halves out of the dish, smirking when the swordsman follows the movement. He opens his mouth and places it on his tongue, enclosing the index and thumb with it to slowly clean off the powdery residue. Zoro’s Adam's apple bobs, pinned in place by the dark and suggestive look in Sanji’s eyes.
“Your hands,” Zoro croaks. One of the blonde’s curly brows peaks in interest.
Another piece of ice cream—green this time—is lifted from the bowl. Sanji leans into the marble and extends his arm to present it to Zoro.
Zoro’s brows furrow. “I don’t like sweet things.”
“It’s green tea. And you like me don’t you?” The swordsman can’t resist the laugh that escapes him.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re sweet? Me liking you further proves my point, curly.”
Sanji bends over the table further, pressing the cold treat against Zoro’s lips. With a half-lidded gaze, the cook lowly demands, “Then you’ll know to open up and eat it.”
Oh.
It’s like the swordsman no longer has agency over his body when he lowers his jaw and lolls his tongue out, uncaring if the other patrons around them saw. Fire pools in Sanji’s gut, cursing under his breath while his lips are encased in Zoro’s hot mouth along with the mochi. Images flash in the cook’s mind of sliding those fingers deeper down the other man’s throat, to see how far they’d go until he gagged.
A loud burst of laughter somewhere in the restaurant grounds him. He reluctantly settles back in his seat; there’s a thin bridge of saliva that chases his fingers when he retracts them from Zoro’s mouth.
“Bathroom?” Zoro suggests, voice unfairly husky and eyes clouded.
Well, that really grounds him.
“No! Do I have to remind you of the last time we did that? Our building's literally five minutes away,” Sanji whisper-shrieks, manhandling the checkbook to hastily take care of what they owe. “Now, let’s get the fuck out of here before your tits pop a button off that second skin of yours. I doubt anyone wants that in their food.”
A dark chuckle has Sanji’s attention back on Zoro. He groans—louder than intended—and removes himself from the booth. Where Zoro has taken to shelving his pecs onto the marble surface and leering at Sanji like a piece of meat.
He groans again, but confines it to the back of his throat. Getting up makes the angle even worse, the tantalizing crease between the plush muscles calling out to the blonde like a siren. The grip he has on the hard edge of the table is discoloring his knuckles.
“Let’s go,” Sanji grits out, voice dipping an octave. “Before I fuck those tits in the middle of the damn restaurant.”
“That a threat, or a promise?” Zoro purrs with a sharp grin, before he’s yanked out of his seat with a rough tug on his forearm.
Sanji discreetly pulls the front of his blouse lower to conceal his growing erection. “Damn tease. Just wait ‘til we get home.”