Panda

Zoro doesn’t get jealous, is the thing. He gets done, the kind of done that has him shifting his boot until his leg presses hard against Sanji’s, thigh-to-thigh and knee-to-knee, the solid heat of muscle and cotton grinding deliberately. He can feel the exact moment Sanji registers it by the tiny jolt in him, but Zoro keeps the pressure there steady, unyielding, letting the friction build until all he can feel is the faint give of Sanji’s leg everytime he breathes. 

The woman’s still talking, laughing at her own joke, maybe, but Zoro’s not listening anymore. He’s too focused on the way Sanji’s mouth parts around the cigarette, like he’s about to tell Zoro to cut it the fuck out. The movement’s instinctive and reflexive and entirely unplanned: his hand moves before his brain has a hope in hell of catching up, fingers closing around the cigarette right where Sanji’s mouth is. The filter paper’s already damp and warm, slick with Sanji, the filter gone soft under Zoro’s rough fingertips. Sanji’s mouth opens automatically, startled, so Zoro slides the cigarette free and brings it to his own mouth. He drags deep, letting the taste flood him, all bitter tar and sharp spice, awful but Sanji. He holds the smoke in his lungs like he’s holding the other man’s breath there, before exhaling it right into the space between them, unbearably thrilled about the way Sanji’s gone rigid next to him.

Zoro takes another long pull of it, letting his eye cut just once back to the woman’s horrified expression, savouring the way her eyebrows snarl down. Satisfied, he turns to feed the cigarette back home, slowly enough that his thumb trails along the corner of Sanji’s lips to trace the wet seam there. He keeps the touch for an extra beat, pressing down on Sanji’s bottom lip, pulling it just slightly open so the cigarette sits perfectly nestled. The blonde’s throat works visibly as he swallows, inhaling sharply when Zoro’s fingers drag along the curve of his chin before finally pulling away, leaving a faint smear of ash and spit glistening on Sanji’s skin.

The woman bails, immediately. She gives a laugh that’s a little too bright and says – something, Zoro doesn’t even hear her – coupled with a hasty goodbye, melting into the crowd like she was never here. Around them, the table just about explodes: Usopp cackles and Nami smirks and Luffy claps like it’s the best damn show he’s ever seen, but Zoro doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from Sanji’s mouth even as the cook turns to him, livid. “What the fuck was that?”

Zoro forces a shrug, keeping his face locked down even as the tips of his ears catch light. “You weren’t finishing it.”

Sanji’s cheeks are flushed dark. “You took it out of my mouth!” His tongue darts out, licking the spot Zoro’s thumb left behind like he can still taste the pressure of his fingers there, like he’s chasing the ghost of Zoro’s touch and Zoro swallows against the jackknife of heat that spears him. 

“Yeah,” he manages, voice low. “Gave it back, though.”

Sanji stares, cigarette trembling between his fingers now, leaning in just enough that Zoro’s the only one who hears him; the movement presses their thighs together again. “Since when do you smoke, asshole?” 

Zoro doesn’t answer right away because, honestly, he doesn’t know how. The honest answer is filthy and stupid and true, so he chokes it down and picks the smaller truth instead, the one that won’t rip the damn floor out from under them both. “Since you put on a show just to piss me off.”

Sanji goes still, like every door in his body just slammed shut. His breath hitches a little. “What?” he manages, voice tight.

Zoro meets his gaze head on, eye steady. “You know what I mean.”

Sanji scoffs but it comes out shaky. He gestures broadly with the cigarette.. “No, I don’t. I’m flirting. It’s not…” His hand waves wider, brushing Zoro’s forearm by accident, knuckles grazing coarse hair and scarred skin. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

Zoro’s eye narrows. He can feel the ghost of Sanji’s spit still cooling on his own fingers and wants, badly, to put them in his own mouth and suck them clean. He curls them into a fist instead. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Sanji’s cheeks flush dark enough. “Oh, here we go. Don’t start acting like some kind of – like a guard dog.”

The words hit low in Zoro’s gut and settle there like a bone he wants to chew on for hours. He can picture it too clearly: him at Sanji’s heel, broad shoulders braced, teeth bared at anyone who gets too close. The way Sanji would mark him over, and over. The thought curls hot and satisfied under his ribs, the way he wants Sanji’s teeth on his throat, the bruise that says mine. He wants the stink of Sanji’s cigarettes and Sanji’s cologne and the faint salt of Sanji’s breath until no-one else can get near them without smelling it. He can feel his mouth twitch, just a fraction, heading towards a smirk before he wrestles it back down. “What, you don’t like dogs?”

Sanji’s eyes widen, outraged and mortified and something else entirely, something that makes Zoro’s pulse kick nice and hard. “That’s not what I –”

Zoro’s gaze drops to Sanji’s mouth again and he lets it, this time, tracking the way those lips part on the inhale. “Calm down,” Zoro mutters but he stays locked against Sanji’s thigh, the steady press of muscle and bone saying the opposite.

Sanji stares at him for a beat too long, cigarette trembling between his fingers. The flush on his cheeks deepens, spreading down his neck, and Zoro wonders what it would feel like to put his mouth there, to make sure Sanji carries the scent of him for the rest of the night, before Sanji stands so abruptly his chair scrapes loud against the floor. “I’m getting another drink.”

Zoro doesn’t look up. “Don’t take forever.”

Sanji freezes for half a heartbeat, just one. Then he storms off toward the bar like he’s fleeing a fire, boots hitting the floor too hard and Zoro watches him go without turning his head fully, tracking him with his eye the way he tracks threats.

Hell, maybe one day he’ll let it go all the way. Roll in Sanji’s discarded shirts until the fabric reeks of both of them, burying his face in the fabric. Maybe he’ll keep stealing every cigarette straight from Sanji’s mouth until he’s a permanent taste on Zoro’s tongue. Maybe one day he’lll finally ask Sanji bite down hard enough to bruise – throat, shoulder, inner thigh – so the whole crew will smell it on him. 

But right now?

Right now Sanji’s at the bar, back stiff and shoulders tense and Zoro can already feel the night stretching out ahead of them like a promise. The ghost of Sanji’s thigh heat still burns against his own, the taste of tobacco still heavy on his tongue. The crew’s noise is a distant blur and Zoro knows that when Sanji comes back (because he will, flushed and pissed and wanting), it won’t stop here. He knows it’ll be more stolen touches under the table and more of that mean mouth, more of them shifting closer in the dark until the night cracks open somewhere private.

He lifts his drink and takes a slow sip, face blank, the low coil of anticipation warm and heavy in his gut.

x

a little comic i did for an eldritch horror sungod nika AU created by @phoenix-art-official and myself. i tend to just call it Sunspot AU, for brevity.