( zoro's recovering, if only because he has no choice to — laying uselessly in their bed that's felt emptier lately for reasons he knows but doesn't like thinking about. it's easier to just sleep, ignore the nightmares of severed limbs, the grinding of metal against bone, sword clattering to the ground. this one is different, though — nami's there, too, tied down before him, tears on her face and hand reaching out desperately towards him as she's slowly sliced in half by the witches, and she's screaming in pain and he's yelling and struggling desperately against his restraints and he can't save her —
zoro wakes up with a jolt, gasping for air, throat feeling raw like he had been screaming for her. a hand touches his face, his neck, his shoulder — and everything is attached still, silvery scars where cuts had once been raised just slightly beneath his fingers. nami's despair still claws at him, though, sits so heavy in his chest that he almost thinks about calling to her through their connection just to see.
almost. because he gets a message instead, and he sits up slowly to grab for his notebook, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he reads it.
so, the cook's here — he must not have actually been screaming in his sleep, or he thinks that idiot probably would've burst through the door. he can smell the blood and the meat if he lets himself focus on it, which is actually helpful in grounding himself back in this fucked up reality. )
i could try are you going out or something?
( unwritten: why don't you bring it in? not — that he expects to be waited on. but maybe zoro's gotten a little too used to it. )
[ he feels shitty, because zoro is obviously not okay and hasn't been for a while. the necromancers at the circus did a hard number on him, and sanji has been pointedly trying not to think about what might have happened had he not stumbled upon that tent. it's a painful hook in his chest, the thought that he might have been too late, or might have not made it at all, and zoro could be gone. just like that. the strongest man he's ever known, picked apart like an animal on the wrong end of his cleaver. all while still alive.
his forehead lightly thunks against the door, eyes screwed tightly shut. he doesn't want zoro to try getting up and risk hurting himself further, not when he's seen the pain he's in. the scars, they've realized by now, only serve to hide his wounds beneath. a superficial, magical band-aid courtesy of the witch sanji had killed.
if zoro doesn't eat, he won't heal. in other words, if sanji doesn't get his shit together.
he twists the knob, looming in the doorway. he has no right to look as bad as he does when zoro is the one currently dying, but the whiplash of losing nami's connection, of arguing with nami at all, and his cavernous hunger has hollowed him out. as if daring zoro to say something, he crosses the steps to their bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. the expression he gives zoro is pinched, shadows etched into his face. ]
Sit up.
[ the room is hot from the fire burning in the hearth, though sanji has firsthand knowledge that zoro's body runs hot anyway, especially when he sleeps. he eyes the angles of zoro's body, so hungry that he'd lick the salt from his skin and be satisfied. his sleeves ride up as he reaches for zoro's pillows to prop them against the wall, revealing his bandaged wrists — still not healed either, and not any closer to it while he's starving himself. ]
I'm busy. [ he swallows, his throat bobbing. ] We need more blood.
( zoro's ears twitch at that small thunk against the door, brow furrowing, confusion building which he attributes to his abrupt awakening. mere moments later, the door opens, and the cook stands in the doorway, shadowed without the flicker of the fireplace to light him. lazily, he fumbles with the drawer of the night stand beside him, dropping his notebook in there, because — okay, the cook is still here. weird. why the hell did he write him a message?
it doesn't matter, because the smell of raw meat and blood hits zoro's nose and his stomach growls, mouth practically salivating.
he barely has to be told to sit up, grimacing a little less than he expects as he pushes himself up, scooting backwards as sanji reaches out to fix his pillows for him — and his eyes flicker to those bandages on his wrists, stained coppery-red. there's a pang in his stomach at the realization, because —
zoro's wounds have been healing over the past few weeks. though he's stayed mostly in bed, sedentary, everything scabbing over into a thicker silver tissue in all the places he'd been rejoined, he hasn't been actively bleeding since — well, since sanji had rescued him in the circus tent and made that necromancer fix him. it reminds him all too well of the bandages over his eye, blood seeping through, the grief radiating off of the cook so strongly zoro swore even he could feel it.
it feels like that now, too. )
Cook, ( zoro says, immediately realizing how stern it sounds, blanching a little. ) There's nothing dumb enough to be outside when it's this cold. Can't you feel it? ( because he can, since he's changed — it's weird, the foreboding sense that washes over him in the day or so before a snowstorm hits the village.
he tips his chin up, eyes scanning sanji's face, like he's already ready for whatever bullshit excuse is going to tumble out of his mouth before zoro even says: ) Eat with me.
[ it's all so simple for zoro, as simple as inviting him to sit down and share the meal sanji's bringing him. like everything is normal. like he doesn't feel the tension stretching tight between them. like there isn't a gaping loss draining him by the minute, a connection that zoro still has that sanji severed like the impatient, mercurial shithead he is.
they need more furniture in the room. the only thing to sit on is a tiny stool that nami uses to reach the crooked shelves lining the walls, far too short for sanji's long legs. his hands hurt, the stiff numbness warmed by the heat of the fire. ]
Not hungry. [ he perches on the bed, lighting one of his earthy cigarettes, this one smelling of clove. ] You eat. Hurry up. I want to do the dishes before I go out.
[ he thinks of nami in this bed, the weight of her loss mingling with the thought of her pressed to zoro's side. smoke wafts unsteadily from his lips, his gaze distant. he thinks of when nami was gone and it was just the two of them, how he'd wake in the middle of the night and watch the steady rise and fall of zoro's chest. he turns his face minutely, his eye tracing over the lines of his scars. his mouth waters behind his sharp teeth. ]
( ah, there it is — not hungry, even though zoro is starting to suspect that this dumbass is lying through his teeth if the sharp look on his face and his weird cagey behavior (cagier than normal) have anything to say about it. he can't help the roll of his eyes, nor can he help the hunger that's suddenly amplified with the presence of meat before him — deer, he thinks. when he picks up a chunk with his bare fingers and starts chewing it, he realizes that it's a less desirable cut of meat, which must mean that they are running low — but it's food nonetheless.
at least, if nothing else, the cook has cigarettes again, even if they're not the kind he'd pick first otherwise. zoro watches as he lights it, the way the fire in the hearth flickers and highlights his sharp features. as he exhales the smoke, zoro can practically picture sanji on the merry, cigarette hanging between his lips as he leans on the railing after hours toiling in the kitchen, smoke lingering on his clothes, looking out to sea. that feels like a lifetime ago, something so divorced from this life that they're living now that it feels like a story someone else told him.
there's no explicit thank you from the swordsman, but instead, an observation that nobody asked for: ) Your wrists aren't healing. It's been weeks. ( and there's a beat. ) Why?
[ the question rankles. everything about being with zoro rankles, but this, more than usual, sends needles digging beneath his skin, and he’s distantly aware that everything feels more tenuous now that he’s a changeling bereft of a witch’s connection. he’s unmoored and it’s a dangerous thing; he’s already lived through the damage of these circumstances once.
he wishes zoro would just shut up and drain the blood sitting still on the table so sanji wouldn’t have to look at it or smell it or crave it. fleetingly, he’s back on that rock, his skin stretched over brittle bone, starvation working into him ceaselessly, like a dull blade carving him up in the slowest way possible. ]
Because — [ his words come out clipped and angry. ] When we catch a deer, how do you think it ends up on your plate? You think the hide just comes off on its own? Someone has to peel it off. You think the bones dissolve like magic? No. Someone has to break them. Someone has to saw off the legs. Someone’s gotta cut off its head. They’re not healing because I’m not gonna sit around and not use my hands. I’m not gonna let you starve.
[ he’s not going to let zoro suffer in any way if he can help it, at least not from these injuries from the shitty necromancers. the rest — well. he turns away again, hoping the drag of his cigarette will ease the edge of his wanting. he exhales a cloud, then sucks desperately again, closing his eyes as he holds the smoke in his throat. it’s not just the deer’s blood that he can smell, but zoro’s thrumming through his veins, and he doesn’t know if he wants to open his throat or kiss it.
he can’t. zoro’s hurt. nami is — he can’t even think of her without his eye stinging. his hand trembles as he lowers his cigarette, resting it at his knee, his gaze pointed downwards. ]
( it's about a sentence into sanji's bullshit explanation that zoro briefly thinks about punching him in the face — because he's not a fucking idiot (most of the time), he knows what they have to do in order to eat in this place. it stings, the guilt of not being able to help sanji and nami ever since he was injured, knowing that it's cold as balls outside and plants are dead or dying and most animals are hiding away and hibernating. he knows how hard it must be, and it pisses him off.
— and maybe it feels like the cook's holding it against him, and that stings even somewhere even deeper. )
I didn't ask you to do any of this, shithead.
( the bowl of meat pisses him off now, too, as does the small pitcher full of potent blood; briefly, he considers knocking them both off of the night stand, blood seeping into their wooden floors for the umpteenth time, bowl shattered into jagged fragments that might remind him of how broken things are between him and the fucking cook, no matter how hard zoro's tried for some stupid reason.
he doesn't, though. they're short on food. short on blood. zoro just swallows hard, watching sanji smoke like his life depends on it, blissfully unaware that it maybe does. )
You should've just let me die at that fucking circus. Then you'd have more than enough to go around for you and Nami.
[ the words drop like stones between them, and at once his temper ignites, fueled by something so much stronger than just rage. his fear sticks in his throat, choking him, the grief of what could have transpired sitting like a weight upon his shoulders. for one horrible moment, his animal instinct envisions slamming his foot right into zoro's throat, knowing the exact trajectory to take to break his fucking neck.
he's on his feet, whirling around to kick the wall. the room nearly shakes, the thud deafening. then he slides back onto the bed, crowding into zoro's space, his one eye wide and red-rimmed. ]
Fuck you, you shitty idiot. Don't fucking say that to me ever again.
[ it sounds so wrong from zoro's lips, so unnatural. it sounds like something sanji would say, always ready for self-sacrifice, to throw himself upon a sword or a pyre or a reason to save someone else. zoro is the one that's supposed to fight. sanji is the one that gives himself up, belly up, with a smile.
from this close, he can see everything. the freckles spread across zoro's cheeks. the dusting of his dark lashes. the little flush of red at zoro's lips from the meat. sanji's throat bobs in a hard swallow, his gaze pointedly avoiding the bowl, but he can't avoid zoro's strong, calloused, elegant fingers, stained with meaty juices from the raw cuts of deer. his hunger wrenches him forward like a hook, his breath straining in his chest. his weak, aching hand claps around zoro's wrist, dragging it to his mouth, where he holds it there for an eternity, panting.
his tongue flicks out. there's nothing there but the residue of the meat, but he can taste it, raw flesh and trace remnants of blood. his lips touch zoro's fingertips, and then he's sliding his first two fingers into the warm heat of his mouth, tonguing him up to his knuckles. he sucks at every trace of flavor, licking him clean, and it's not nearly enough, but it's more than what he's had in days, in weeks. ]
( there's a moment of relative silence that lingers the air after zoro practically spits his last words, exasperated, and he briefly thinks that maybe it'll finally sink in — that zoro would give his life if it meant keeping nami and this shitty fucking cook alive. but before that thought can settle, sanji is on his feet and it makes zoro's heart race — angry that he's running away from him again like he always fucking does, but aching at the thought of it.
the kick to the wall may as well be a kick to the throat instead with the way the sound reverberates through the room, ears flattening on top of his head. there's a defensive flash of his teeth as sanji encroaches his personal space entirely, fingers curling into fists briefly at his sides, but he doesn't retaliate. hell, he doesn't even look away, gaze sharp as each word ends up practically growled in his face. do something about it, asshole, he wants to yell. do something about it for once instead of being a fucking coward.
the words die on his tongue as zoro suddenly realizes how intently the cook is staring at him, can feel each smoke-tinged exhale of air against his face as he pants, mouths a breath apart. is tonight the night that they finally stop pretending to tolerate each other for nami's sake? is tonight the night that they finally stop holding back and actually fight, claws and sharp teeth and torn flesh, uncaring if his wounds split back open again, uncaring if he bleeds out? the way sanji snatches hold of his wrist makes him think so, and zoro makes one attempt to struggle against his fingers, surprised by the brute strength he finds.
instead of the warm blood spewing from a split lip after an imagined punch to the face, there's suddenly only the wet heat of sanji's mouth, his tongue laving over zoro's fingertips like they're the best thing he's ever fucking tasted. it knocks the wind out of him, honestly, gaze fixed on the way his lips stretch around his fingers, and memories of those same lips wrapping around his cock come flooding back in, the greedy drag of his tongue up his length —
fuck. this is — this isn't good. he presses his fingers down on sanji's tongue, meanly shoves them a little deeper inside. ) Don't fuck with me, cook, ( zoro practically whispers, a mild warning, a mild plea, voice feeling ragged with a need that he knows deep down doesn't match the blonde that's practically in his lap — he's been denied way too many fucking times to make that stupid mistake again. )
[ it's a raw, brutal admission, his weakness surging through his flimsy pretenses. for all the times he was — this time there's nothing but painful honesty, both his desire and his need blown out on full display. his gaze flickers upwards, his one eye haunted in the split second he looks at zoro's face, his lips stretched around his fingers, then away.
he pulls back slowly, his tongue dragging along every inch of skin until zoro's wet fingertips rest at the edge of his lips, licked perfectly clean. he's a breath away from begging, his senses frantic, and when he pulls away, he draws his cigarette back to his lips to draw in a quivering breath. this is worse than his vicious desire to kiss zoro, because this hurts in a way that he's been trying to forget for a long time. ]
You need to eat. [ this time his voice is hoarse, the base of his velveteen ears twitching amidst his blond hair. ] You need to get better. I can't — do any of this on my own.
[ zoro doesn't even know. he doesn't know that sanji's connection to nami is gone. that he's so hungry that he hurts. that he feels a single step away from slipping now that he's alone. that he just — wants, and doesn't know what to do with that. ]
Just eat. Please. [ sanji lowers his head, leaning his forward on his knees, his breath unsteady. the room feels like it's going to tip over on its side. ] Zoro... please. The blood —
( he's trembling. he's trembling, and he hates it, reeling at the sight of sanji's tongue licking his fingers clean, jaw clenching as his teeth grit together. it's making him feel fucking crazy — hunger for the meat on the table beside him getting all fucking mixed up with zoro's desire to pull the cook fully onto his lap, mouths crashing together, sharp teeth and the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.
it takes effort for zoro to control his breathing, slow inhales through his nose that really only serve to further fill his senses with deer meat and rabbit. it's a relief, actually, when the herbaceous smoke takes over instead, sanji's weight off of him as he finally pulls away. )
You — ( he starts, but the start of an argument dies on his tongue as the cook continues to practically plead with him to eat. zoro wants to eat, but the hunger lingering in his belly is suddenly sharing space with a deep sense of a worry, too.
i need you. i need you. sanji's voice echoes distantly in his head, and zoro slowly realizes that it's not just some wishful thinking, some product of his imagination. he'd really said that, back when zoro was near-death back in that shitty fucking circus tent. the realization makes his words now hit even harder. it might not be in the same way, but — he needs zoro as much as zoro needs him. ) Okay, I'll — I'll eat.
( his hand is still shaking as he grabs two, three chunks of meat with his fingers, shoving it hastily in his mouth and chewing eagerly before swallowing it down. another taste weakens his resolve even further and zoro ingests another fistful of it before grabbing hastily for the pitcher of blood, forgoing pouring it into a cup in favor of drinking from it directly, near-chugging it because it tastes so fucking good, sates something innate that he hasn't been able to deny since the change. the pitcher is half-empty when he puts it back down on the side table, lips wet and red. )
I can't do this without you either, you know. Once I'm better, you — I'll find a way to fix your wrists. You'd be an even shittier cook without your hands.
( there's no heat behind his words, just an uncertainty that he can't swallow down, promises he's afraid to make. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw gore and body horror and stuff
zoro wakes up with a jolt, gasping for air, throat feeling raw like he had been screaming for her. a hand touches his face, his neck, his shoulder — and everything is attached still, silvery scars where cuts had once been raised just slightly beneath his fingers. nami's despair still claws at him, though, sits so heavy in his chest that he almost thinks about calling to her through their connection just to see.
almost. because he gets a message instead, and he sits up slowly to grab for his notebook, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he reads it.
so, the cook's here — he must not have actually been screaming in his sleep, or he thinks that idiot probably would've burst through the door. he can smell the blood and the meat if he lets himself focus on it, which is actually helpful in grounding himself back in this fucked up reality. )
i could try
are you going out or something?
( unwritten: why don't you bring it in? not — that he expects to be waited on. but maybe zoro's gotten a little too used to it. )
no subject
his forehead lightly thunks against the door, eyes screwed tightly shut. he doesn't want zoro to try getting up and risk hurting himself further, not when he's seen the pain he's in. the scars, they've realized by now, only serve to hide his wounds beneath. a superficial, magical band-aid courtesy of the witch sanji had killed.
if zoro doesn't eat, he won't heal. in other words, if sanji doesn't get his shit together.
he twists the knob, looming in the doorway. he has no right to look as bad as he does when zoro is the one currently dying, but the whiplash of losing nami's connection, of arguing with nami at all, and his cavernous hunger has hollowed him out. as if daring zoro to say something, he crosses the steps to their bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. the expression he gives zoro is pinched, shadows etched into his face. ]
Sit up.
[ the room is hot from the fire burning in the hearth, though sanji has firsthand knowledge that zoro's body runs hot anyway, especially when he sleeps. he eyes the angles of zoro's body, so hungry that he'd lick the salt from his skin and be satisfied. his sleeves ride up as he reaches for zoro's pillows to prop them against the wall, revealing his bandaged wrists — still not healed either, and not any closer to it while he's starving himself. ]
I'm busy. [ he swallows, his throat bobbing. ] We need more blood.
no subject
it doesn't matter, because the smell of raw meat and blood hits zoro's nose and his stomach growls, mouth practically salivating.
he barely has to be told to sit up, grimacing a little less than he expects as he pushes himself up, scooting backwards as sanji reaches out to fix his pillows for him — and his eyes flicker to those bandages on his wrists, stained coppery-red. there's a pang in his stomach at the realization, because —
zoro's wounds have been healing over the past few weeks. though he's stayed mostly in bed, sedentary, everything scabbing over into a thicker silver tissue in all the places he'd been rejoined, he hasn't been actively bleeding since — well, since sanji had rescued him in the circus tent and made that necromancer fix him. it reminds him all too well of the bandages over his eye, blood seeping through, the grief radiating off of the cook so strongly zoro swore even he could feel it.
it feels like that now, too. )
Cook, ( zoro says, immediately realizing how stern it sounds, blanching a little. ) There's nothing dumb enough to be outside when it's this cold. Can't you feel it? ( because he can, since he's changed — it's weird, the foreboding sense that washes over him in the day or so before a snowstorm hits the village.
he tips his chin up, eyes scanning sanji's face, like he's already ready for whatever bullshit excuse is going to tumble out of his mouth before zoro even says: ) Eat with me.
no subject
they need more furniture in the room. the only thing to sit on is a tiny stool that nami uses to reach the crooked shelves lining the walls, far too short for sanji's long legs. his hands hurt, the stiff numbness warmed by the heat of the fire. ]
Not hungry. [ he perches on the bed, lighting one of his earthy cigarettes, this one smelling of clove. ] You eat. Hurry up. I want to do the dishes before I go out.
[ he thinks of nami in this bed, the weight of her loss mingling with the thought of her pressed to zoro's side. smoke wafts unsteadily from his lips, his gaze distant. he thinks of when nami was gone and it was just the two of them, how he'd wake in the middle of the night and watch the steady rise and fall of zoro's chest. he turns his face minutely, his eye tracing over the lines of his scars. his mouth waters behind his sharp teeth. ]
no subject
at least, if nothing else, the cook has cigarettes again, even if they're not the kind he'd pick first otherwise. zoro watches as he lights it, the way the fire in the hearth flickers and highlights his sharp features. as he exhales the smoke, zoro can practically picture sanji on the merry, cigarette hanging between his lips as he leans on the railing after hours toiling in the kitchen, smoke lingering on his clothes, looking out to sea. that feels like a lifetime ago, something so divorced from this life that they're living now that it feels like a story someone else told him.
there's no explicit thank you from the swordsman, but instead, an observation that nobody asked for: ) Your wrists aren't healing. It's been weeks. ( and there's a beat. ) Why?
no subject
he wishes zoro would just shut up and drain the blood sitting still on the table so sanji wouldn’t have to look at it or smell it or crave it. fleetingly, he’s back on that rock, his skin stretched over brittle bone, starvation working into him ceaselessly, like a dull blade carving him up in the slowest way possible. ]
Because — [ his words come out clipped and angry. ] When we catch a deer, how do you think it ends up on your plate? You think the hide just comes off on its own? Someone has to peel it off. You think the bones dissolve like magic? No. Someone has to break them. Someone has to saw off the legs. Someone’s gotta cut off its head. They’re not healing because I’m not gonna sit around and not use my hands. I’m not gonna let you starve.
[ he’s not going to let zoro suffer in any way if he can help it, at least not from these injuries from the shitty necromancers. the rest — well. he turns away again, hoping the drag of his cigarette will ease the edge of his wanting. he exhales a cloud, then sucks desperately again, closing his eyes as he holds the smoke in his throat. it’s not just the deer’s blood that he can smell, but zoro’s thrumming through his veins, and he doesn’t know if he wants to open his throat or kiss it.
he can’t. zoro’s hurt. nami is — he can’t even think of her without his eye stinging. his hand trembles as he lowers his cigarette, resting it at his knee, his gaze pointed downwards. ]
no subject
— and maybe it feels like the cook's holding it against him, and that stings even somewhere even deeper. )
I didn't ask you to do any of this, shithead.
( the bowl of meat pisses him off now, too, as does the small pitcher full of potent blood; briefly, he considers knocking them both off of the night stand, blood seeping into their wooden floors for the umpteenth time, bowl shattered into jagged fragments that might remind him of how broken things are between him and the fucking cook, no matter how hard zoro's tried for some stupid reason.
he doesn't, though. they're short on food. short on blood. zoro just swallows hard, watching sanji smoke like his life depends on it, blissfully unaware that it maybe does. )
You should've just let me die at that fucking circus. Then you'd have more than enough to go around for you and Nami.
no subject
he's on his feet, whirling around to kick the wall. the room nearly shakes, the thud deafening. then he slides back onto the bed, crowding into zoro's space, his one eye wide and red-rimmed. ]
Fuck you, you shitty idiot. Don't fucking say that to me ever again.
[ it sounds so wrong from zoro's lips, so unnatural. it sounds like something sanji would say, always ready for self-sacrifice, to throw himself upon a sword or a pyre or a reason to save someone else. zoro is the one that's supposed to fight. sanji is the one that gives himself up, belly up, with a smile.
from this close, he can see everything. the freckles spread across zoro's cheeks. the dusting of his dark lashes. the little flush of red at zoro's lips from the meat. sanji's throat bobs in a hard swallow, his gaze pointedly avoiding the bowl, but he can't avoid zoro's strong, calloused, elegant fingers, stained with meaty juices from the raw cuts of deer. his hunger wrenches him forward like a hook, his breath straining in his chest. his weak, aching hand claps around zoro's wrist, dragging it to his mouth, where he holds it there for an eternity, panting.
his tongue flicks out. there's nothing there but the residue of the meat, but he can taste it, raw flesh and trace remnants of blood. his lips touch zoro's fingertips, and then he's sliding his first two fingers into the warm heat of his mouth, tonguing him up to his knuckles. he sucks at every trace of flavor, licking him clean, and it's not nearly enough, but it's more than what he's had in days, in weeks. ]
no subject
the kick to the wall may as well be a kick to the throat instead with the way the sound reverberates through the room, ears flattening on top of his head. there's a defensive flash of his teeth as sanji encroaches his personal space entirely, fingers curling into fists briefly at his sides, but he doesn't retaliate. hell, he doesn't even look away, gaze sharp as each word ends up practically growled in his face. do something about it, asshole, he wants to yell. do something about it for once instead of being a fucking coward.
the words die on his tongue as zoro suddenly realizes how intently the cook is staring at him, can feel each smoke-tinged exhale of air against his face as he pants, mouths a breath apart. is tonight the night that they finally stop pretending to tolerate each other for nami's sake? is tonight the night that they finally stop holding back and actually fight, claws and sharp teeth and torn flesh, uncaring if his wounds split back open again, uncaring if he bleeds out? the way sanji snatches hold of his wrist makes him think so, and zoro makes one attempt to struggle against his fingers, surprised by the brute strength he finds.
instead of the warm blood spewing from a split lip after an imagined punch to the face, there's suddenly only the wet heat of sanji's mouth, his tongue laving over zoro's fingertips like they're the best thing he's ever fucking tasted. it knocks the wind out of him, honestly, gaze fixed on the way his lips stretch around his fingers, and memories of those same lips wrapping around his cock come flooding back in, the greedy drag of his tongue up his length —
fuck. this is — this isn't good. he presses his fingers down on sanji's tongue, meanly shoves them a little deeper inside. ) Don't fuck with me, cook, ( zoro practically whispers, a mild warning, a mild plea, voice feeling ragged with a need that he knows deep down doesn't match the blonde that's practically in his lap — he's been denied way too many fucking times to make that stupid mistake again. )
no subject
[ it's a raw, brutal admission, his weakness surging through his flimsy pretenses. for all the times he was — this time there's nothing but painful honesty, both his desire and his need blown out on full display. his gaze flickers upwards, his one eye haunted in the split second he looks at zoro's face, his lips stretched around his fingers, then away.
he pulls back slowly, his tongue dragging along every inch of skin until zoro's wet fingertips rest at the edge of his lips, licked perfectly clean. he's a breath away from begging, his senses frantic, and when he pulls away, he draws his cigarette back to his lips to draw in a quivering breath. this is worse than his vicious desire to kiss zoro, because this hurts in a way that he's been trying to forget for a long time. ]
You need to eat. [ this time his voice is hoarse, the base of his velveteen ears twitching amidst his blond hair. ] You need to get better. I can't — do any of this on my own.
[ zoro doesn't even know. he doesn't know that sanji's connection to nami is gone. that he's so hungry that he hurts. that he feels a single step away from slipping now that he's alone. that he just — wants, and doesn't know what to do with that. ]
Just eat. Please. [ sanji lowers his head, leaning his forward on his knees, his breath unsteady. the room feels like it's going to tip over on its side. ] Zoro... please. The blood —
no subject
it takes effort for zoro to control his breathing, slow inhales through his nose that really only serve to further fill his senses with deer meat and rabbit. it's a relief, actually, when the herbaceous smoke takes over instead, sanji's weight off of him as he finally pulls away. )
You — ( he starts, but the start of an argument dies on his tongue as the cook continues to practically plead with him to eat. zoro wants to eat, but the hunger lingering in his belly is suddenly sharing space with a deep sense of a worry, too.
i need you. i need you. sanji's voice echoes distantly in his head, and zoro slowly realizes that it's not just some wishful thinking, some product of his imagination. he'd really said that, back when zoro was near-death back in that shitty fucking circus tent. the realization makes his words now hit even harder. it might not be in the same way, but — he needs zoro as much as zoro needs him. ) Okay, I'll — I'll eat.
( his hand is still shaking as he grabs two, three chunks of meat with his fingers, shoving it hastily in his mouth and chewing eagerly before swallowing it down. another taste weakens his resolve even further and zoro ingests another fistful of it before grabbing hastily for the pitcher of blood, forgoing pouring it into a cup in favor of drinking from it directly, near-chugging it because it tastes so fucking good, sates something innate that he hasn't been able to deny since the change. the pitcher is half-empty when he puts it back down on the side table, lips wet and red. )
I can't do this without you either, you know. Once I'm better, you — I'll find a way to fix your wrists. You'd be an even shittier cook without your hands.
( there's no heat behind his words, just an uncertainty that he can't swallow down, promises he's afraid to make. )