never judge a book by its pink couch and mermaid painting (One Piece, Sanji/Zoro)
Title: never judge a book by its pink couch and mermaid painting
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Sanji/Zoro
Rating: R
Disclaimer: One Piece and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: (563): Maybe he's one of those feminine men who fucks like a god then makes you fantastic crepes afterwards.
A/N: First of a weeklong drabble-a-day project I’m doing with my super awesome talented hot girlfriend. Today’s prompt was to pick something from textsfromlastnight. Modern AU.
The fact that he’d been brought up to Sanji’s apartment went so beyond Zoro’s expectations it was laughable. The invitation Sanji offered was for tea and he’d no doubt meant actual tea and not the sort of tea that was code for something else. His pocket buzzed while he was waiting in the sitting room-he had a sitting room, the prissy bastard-with a probing text from his roommate, who wasn’t so much protective as she was nosy.
Where are you? Did you get lost on your way home??
I’m at his place. Shut up.
She wouldn’t, he knew. But Sanji was calling out this seemingly endless list of teas, like he had his own personal shop back there, so he figured he had some time.
Is it cute? Tell me.
He took a moment to consider this question. The floor was spotless, hardwood. The walls were light, light blue, and the couch he sat on was pink. Every tidy surface shone. Potted delphiniums in the corner, a bowl of soft mints, a large and extravagant painting of a mermaid.
I think it was decorated by a 10 year old girl. With a cleaning compulsion.
Maybe he's one of those feminine men who fucks like a god then makes you fantastic crepes afterwards.
Dunno. Can you make those with an Easy-Bake Oven?
Zoro liked Sanji, he did, but he had some doubts about Perona’s sex prediction. Sanji wasn’t his usual type; he couldn’t see him getting drunk at some wild bar and letting Zoro fuck him in a dirty bathroom stall. They’d met at a benefit for the library, for fuck’s sake. And speaking of fucks, judging by the way he bowed at every woman and tucked his shirts in and coordinated his tie with his socks and bit nervously at his lip whenever Zoro looked at him in a certain way, it was hard to imagine Sanji even saying the word without blushing.
Besides, if and when anyone was doing any fucking, Zoro was certain it’d be him. He had a firm policy.
So when he woke up the next morning in a canopy bed with a dull pain in his backside, he had to wonder just when the evening had taken such a turn.
It was all somewhat hazy. Tea, he remembered, but the taste of it was long gone, chased away by Sanji’s flavor. His tongue, his sweat, the fingers he’d slid into Zoro’s mouth with a purred command to “get them real wet, baby,” and pulled out moments later, saliva-slick. The walk to Sanji’s bedroom was forgotten, but he remembered the moment he’d realized that Sanji didn’t bite his lip with nervousness. It was desire.
When he closed his eyes, though, he could see certain things clearly. Sanji above him, the way his hair-deep gold in the dimmed light-fell around his face, his hand kneading Zoro’s cock through the boxers he pulled down with his teeth.
And when Sanji sucked on his hipbone and said, “I want to fuck you,” it was Zoro’s cheeks that bloomed red.
He sat up, intent on finding his clothes, but the pain sharpened and he didn’t get very far. “Son of a bitch…”
“You asked for it,” a drawling voice reminded him from outside the curtains which fell around the bed.
And that voice was right, Zoro realized, as he could almost hear his own growling voice, “harder, yes, fuck” along with the panting words Sanji breathed in his ear-not only fuck but several variations and some curses Zoro hadn’t even heard before.
The curtains were nudged aside and he squinted through the beams of sun that snuck in. Sanji wore an apron, pink, and a snug pair of boxers that sent Zoro throbbing in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering ache. “I figured you’d be bedridden for breakfast,” he said, holding up a tray laden with plates and two full mugs, “so I brought it to you.”
Zoro marveled at how someone could be equal parts smug and sweet at the same time.
“What is it?”
“I was feeling generous-”
“I bet you were…”
“-so I made chocolate rum coffee for you. And caramel apple turnovers.”
Zoro released a breath he’d held without meaning to, and laughed a little. Sanji set the tray down on the bed and leaned in to catch his smile in a kiss, and the morning stretched on slow and perfect, and Zoro’s expectations had never been more thoroughly wrong.
They weren’t crepes. But they were fantastic.
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Sanji/Zoro
Rating: R
Disclaimer: One Piece and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: (563): Maybe he's one of those feminine men who fucks like a god then makes you fantastic crepes afterwards.
A/N: First of a weeklong drabble-a-day project I’m doing with my super awesome talented hot girlfriend. Today’s prompt was to pick something from textsfromlastnight. Modern AU.
The fact that he’d been brought up to Sanji’s apartment went so beyond Zoro’s expectations it was laughable. The invitation Sanji offered was for tea and he’d no doubt meant actual tea and not the sort of tea that was code for something else. His pocket buzzed while he was waiting in the sitting room-he had a sitting room, the prissy bastard-with a probing text from his roommate, who wasn’t so much protective as she was nosy.
Where are you? Did you get lost on your way home??
I’m at his place. Shut up.
She wouldn’t, he knew. But Sanji was calling out this seemingly endless list of teas, like he had his own personal shop back there, so he figured he had some time.
Is it cute? Tell me.
He took a moment to consider this question. The floor was spotless, hardwood. The walls were light, light blue, and the couch he sat on was pink. Every tidy surface shone. Potted delphiniums in the corner, a bowl of soft mints, a large and extravagant painting of a mermaid.
I think it was decorated by a 10 year old girl. With a cleaning compulsion.
Maybe he's one of those feminine men who fucks like a god then makes you fantastic crepes afterwards.
Dunno. Can you make those with an Easy-Bake Oven?
Zoro liked Sanji, he did, but he had some doubts about Perona’s sex prediction. Sanji wasn’t his usual type; he couldn’t see him getting drunk at some wild bar and letting Zoro fuck him in a dirty bathroom stall. They’d met at a benefit for the library, for fuck’s sake. And speaking of fucks, judging by the way he bowed at every woman and tucked his shirts in and coordinated his tie with his socks and bit nervously at his lip whenever Zoro looked at him in a certain way, it was hard to imagine Sanji even saying the word without blushing.
Besides, if and when anyone was doing any fucking, Zoro was certain it’d be him. He had a firm policy.
So when he woke up the next morning in a canopy bed with a dull pain in his backside, he had to wonder just when the evening had taken such a turn.
It was all somewhat hazy. Tea, he remembered, but the taste of it was long gone, chased away by Sanji’s flavor. His tongue, his sweat, the fingers he’d slid into Zoro’s mouth with a purred command to “get them real wet, baby,” and pulled out moments later, saliva-slick. The walk to Sanji’s bedroom was forgotten, but he remembered the moment he’d realized that Sanji didn’t bite his lip with nervousness. It was desire.
When he closed his eyes, though, he could see certain things clearly. Sanji above him, the way his hair-deep gold in the dimmed light-fell around his face, his hand kneading Zoro’s cock through the boxers he pulled down with his teeth.
And when Sanji sucked on his hipbone and said, “I want to fuck you,” it was Zoro’s cheeks that bloomed red.
He sat up, intent on finding his clothes, but the pain sharpened and he didn’t get very far. “Son of a bitch…”
“You asked for it,” a drawling voice reminded him from outside the curtains which fell around the bed.
And that voice was right, Zoro realized, as he could almost hear his own growling voice, “harder, yes, fuck” along with the panting words Sanji breathed in his ear-not only fuck but several variations and some curses Zoro hadn’t even heard before.
The curtains were nudged aside and he squinted through the beams of sun that snuck in. Sanji wore an apron, pink, and a snug pair of boxers that sent Zoro throbbing in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering ache. “I figured you’d be bedridden for breakfast,” he said, holding up a tray laden with plates and two full mugs, “so I brought it to you.”
Zoro marveled at how someone could be equal parts smug and sweet at the same time.
“What is it?”
“I was feeling generous-”
“I bet you were…”
“-so I made chocolate rum coffee for you. And caramel apple turnovers.”
Zoro released a breath he’d held without meaning to, and laughed a little. Sanji set the tray down on the bed and leaned in to catch his smile in a kiss, and the morning stretched on slow and perfect, and Zoro’s expectations had never been more thoroughly wrong.
They weren’t crepes. But they were fantastic.