Repesso -RuEire

"What? Why’re you staring at me like that?"

Sanji drags his gaze up from the frankly illegal way those hip plates taper in and tries, very hard, to arrange his face into something that isn’t wild, stunned lust. It does not work.

"I'm not –" he manages. "You just – your outfit is… loud."

"It’s black," Zoro shoots back, offended. "How is black loud?"

"It’s screaming, Moss." He does a useless little gesture up and down, because where is he even meant to start? The skintight torso? The structural support situation going on with those thighs? The fact that everytime Zoro shifts his weight the material makes the faintest little squeak, like a rubber glove being flexed?

Zoro frowns down at himself, unbothered. "It's practical. It's like... battle mode."

Sanji’s soul leaves his body.

"Battle mode?" he chokes. "What were the settings, exactly? Did you tell it to take everything you are and just – weaponise it? Make it aerodynamic to ruin everyone’s life?"

Zoro just blinks. "I wanted something for combat. In dark colours. That’s it."

Of course he did. Sanji pinches the bridge of his nose, because there’s a genuine, actual ache building behind his eyes. "So you’re telling me it decided a tactical gimp suit is the right choice for you and you just… went with it?"

"It fits." Zoro shrugs in a way that makes every nonexistent seam shift over muscle. "It moves well. Dunno what you’re crying about."

Something squeaks when he rolls his shoulders. Sanji hears it. His sanity doesn’t.His exhale is strangled, maybe. "Oh fuck, you’re a walking chew toy."

He needs a cigarette. He needs six. He needs to lie down in a dark room and have a stern talk with himself about boundaries. Instead he takes a step closer, like an idiot, only to find that it's even worse up close. The suit's not completely black: it's very faintly patterned in subtle lines that follow the curve of Zoro’s torso, emphasising every ridge of muscle, every dip at his hips.

Sanji’s fingers twitch with the rabid desire to find out if the material is as smooth as it looks. Or if it’d be warm from Zoro’s skin. Or how fast he can get it off with a knife. Any knife, he's not picky.

"You’re staring again," Zoro points out.

"You’re standing there,” Sanji fires back, maybe a little too sharp. "Public indecency’s a crime on some islands, you know."

"Everyone else got one," Zoro argues, jerking his hand toward the hall where Luffy had disappeared. "You’re just pissed your clothes looks stupid."

"My clothes are tasteful," Sanji snaps with dignity he absolutely does not feel. "Joyous, even. Restrained. My clothes don’t squeak every time I breathe."

One corner of Zoro’s mouth curls up. "You like it."

Sanji laughs, high and thin. "I hate it."

"You’re blushing."

"I’m overheated."

"We’re indoors." Zoro looks pointedly at the climate controls. "At a regulated twenty-two degrees."

"Yeah, well, I’m allergic to bad decisions," Sanji snaps. "And to anything that directly highlights your –" he cuts himself off with a strangled sound. "Nevermind."

Zoro glances down, then smirks, slow and dangerous. "You mean here?" The absolute menace hooks a thumb over one hip as he shifts, drawing Sanji’s eye like a magnet. Sanji wants to die. He wants to fight someone. He wants to straddle Zoro across the nearest workbench and see if the suit is tear-resistant.

He settles for taking one careful step back, hands jammed deep in his pockets so he doesn’t do something catastrophic.

"What were you thinking?" he mutters, voice frayed. "You could’ve picked literally anything and you went with please objectify me."

"I didn’t pick it for looks," Zoro snorts, which is true, probably, because god knows that man has never picked anything for looks in his whole damn life. It still feels like a hate crime. "I just wanted something I could fight in."

Sanji gestures wildly at the whole situation. "You bend over in that thing and you’re gonna start another damn war and then you'll really be fighting."

This, apparently, finally gets him. Zoro’s cheeks go a faint, traitorous pink. "You’re being dramatic."

"Am I?" Sanji leans in, unable to help himself now, crowding the other man a little just to share the pain. "Do you realise what’s going to happen when Luffy drags you out into public in this? That is – it’s a lot, Moss."

Zoro huffs a laugh, lips twitching. "You could just ignore it."

"Oh sure, let me just gouge my eyes out and learn echolocation!" Sanji snips, dragging his hands down his face hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to shake the damn image of Zoro mid-fight in the suit. "That’ll definitely help my depth perception in a fight."

THey've ended up closer than he meant to, close enough that he can see the faint sheen of sweat at Zoro’s temple, the way one damp strand of hair sticks to his forehead. It’d be so easy to reach up and brush it back. To pull him in by that stupid suit and – 

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

He forces his gaze away and focuses hard on a random bit of machinery. "You squeak when you walk," he says, feral, because if he doesn’t talk he’s going to moan or something equally humiliating. "How’re you not losing your mind?"

Zoro shifts his weight, the suit whispering faintly. "Didn’t notice 'til you said something."

"Well, now you won’t be able to stop noticing," Sanji mutters, perversely satisfied. "That’s my revenge."

"For...?"

He spins back around because he does not, in fact, have self-preservation. This is a known fact. "For existing like that! In my vicinity. Without warning! Do you understand what this is doing to the fragile ecosystem of my day?"

"Your ecosystem." Zoro repeats, deadpan.

"I had plans! They did not involve being confronted with your entire body being... what, vacuum-sealed?!"

There’s a tiny silence where Zoro’s gaze drops, traces the line of Sanji’s mouth, then flicks back up. "You could always take a picture. For… study. Or whatever."

Sanji short circuits, his whole body freezing save for the rush of blood that makes a dash for his face. "Are you flirting with me in a fucking Vegapunk gimp suit?" he demands, voice pitching up.

Zoro shrugs, the bastard. "You’re the one calling it your vicinity like you own it."

Heat races up Sanji’s neck so fast he actually feels dizzy. He laughs, helpless and ragged, scrubs a hand over his face. "Oh my god. Oh, this is – okay. Okay. New rule. Rule one: you don’t get to walk around alone in that thing.”

Zoro’s eyes narrow. "Why not?"

"I have a duty to the public," Sanji sighs, very solemn. "To warn them. To supervise. To ensure no-one trips over their own feet staring at your thighs and falls into heavy machinery."

“You want to... walk with me?"

"I want to make sure you don’t get kidnapped by some sad, desperate soul who hears you say battle mode and decides it’s a personal invitation," Sanji insists. "This is a safety measure."

Zoro’s mouth does that soft, traitorous curve again. "Sounds like you’re saying that you’re coming to the training deck."

Sanji hates him. He hates him so much he could devour him whole. "Yeah, Moss, I’m coming to the training deck. God knows someone has to keep you from getting your shiny new outfit scuffed."

Zoro rolls his eyes, but his ears are still pink. "It’s literally designed to get scuffed."

Sanji steps past him, close enough their shoulders brush, and mutters: "Not the way I’d scuff it, but sure."

"What?"

"Nothing," Sanji says brightly. "Lead the way, Battle Mode."

Zoro snorts and rolls his eyes, but he obediently starts walking. Sanji follows a few steps behind and, look, if he spends the entire trip cataloguing every line and seam and curve, mentally drafting a very detailed, very private complaint letter about the dangers of weaponised fashion… well. That’s between him, his overactive imagination and the damn squeaking.

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