*Taps mic* uhmmm I have this very cute idea from the zoro cat dad au 🫡 As we know, it started with the cats "hating" sanji. Though as time passes, Sanji doesn't give up on trying to make them warm up to him. I can imagine him getting scratches and tears in his skin and clothes but still try to be close with them, giving them treats and playing with them lol Zoro thinks it's funny and cute at the same time.
Then on a random day, Zoro finds Sanji snoozing on his couch with a lap and arms full of cats and Zoro's feels that warm feeling creep in his chest, like he's been hit with an arrow in the heart because the sight is just too domestic!!! then he thought to himself "damn now I have to marry this guy..." all flustered because his babies love Sanji already. *bows down to the crowd*
I fcking adore your ideas, guys! This "damn, now I have to marry him" thing killed me (in a good way) and this comic was born!
Some vampire Zoro? (Maybe werewolf Sanji if you want ?)
Because yes Sanji wold have a lot of feelings related to his ability to provide for and feed his crew.
But mostly I just find the idea of Saji getting Drunk of his ass before a blood donation so Zoro can still have alcohol very funny and very them.
me, trying to keep this light & funny & ofc FAILING MISERABLYYYY
x
Sanji’s relationship to feeding people has always been a tangled mess of love, duty and something sharper, more desperate. Food isn’t just sustenance to him; it’s a language, a way to say i care without the vulnerability of words, a ritual that binds people together in the quiet glow of shared meals. He’s built his entire identity around it, his armour and his offering, all wrapped up in cigarette smoke and perfectly pressed suits.
Now, toss a vampire swordsman into the mix and that already complicated dynamic spirals straight past messy into something that feels suspiciously like a kink and a martyr complex decided to shake hands and call it a day. Zoro, though? He treats the vampirism like he treats everything else in his path to becoming the world’s strongest swordsman: just another minor detour on the road to Mihawk’s throne. There’s no brooding in dark corners and no dramatic monologues about eternal hunger or cursed existence. He just rolls his shoulders, sharpens his swords and gets on with it.
“More time to train,” he grunted once, when Nami asked if he missed the sun because yeah, sure, daylight’s a bitch now, but it means uninterrupted nights in the crow’s nest, pushing his body (or whatever undead approximation he’s got left) to its limits. And fighting? Hell, he’s better at it, all faster reflexes and no need for sleep, wounds that knit back together mid-battle like some nightmare from a Marine horror story. He dove headfirst into a skirmish with a pack of bounty hunters just a week after the change, emerging with blood-smeared haramaki and a grin that said this? this is nothing and Sanji had watched from the deck, cigarette burning down to his fingers, a mix of awe and irritation churning in his gut.
The only problem is… well, the whole drinking-only-blood thing. Zoro doesn’t touch sake anymore, not really. Alcohol doesn’t hit the same now that he’s undead-adjacent: Zoro complains that it burns going down and leaves him feeling nauseous instead of numb.
His routine now’s infuriatingly mundane, like he’s demoted eternal thirst to a chore on par with sharpening blades, just Chopper-approved portions decanted into a stupid little tin mug he scavenged from the galley. He doesn’t say he misses real food or sake and sure as hell doesn’t whine about the metallic tang that never quite satisfies but Sanji sees the subtle tightening of his hand around the mug and the way his gaze flicks to the group before dropping back to the deck.
What Sanji hates most – hates with a chef’s fury – is that he can’t really fix it. He’s the guy who can orchestrate a symphony of flavours from scraps and seaweed. He’s fed starving orphans, wooed skeptical allies, healed wounds with nothing but broth and bread. But blood? Blood’s a different beast. No matter how he tries to dress it up it always comes back to fine, that bland acceptance from Zoro that feels like a slap.
So tonight, he does something about it. Well. A thing. A very stupid thing, maybe.
He gets absolutely hammered.
He does it nice and methodically because if anyone clocks his plan before he’s ready they’ll stop him, sipping his way to disaster slow and steady, in the galley after dinner, the familiar clink of dishes his only company. One glass of wine while he’s scrubbing pots, the rich red sliding down his throat like liquid courage, warming the edges of his resolve and one swig from whatever dusty bottle Brook unearthed in the last port, some god awful rum that tastes like regret, burning a path to his core. A couple of shots of something terrifying Franky’s dubbed Cola Reserve, a concoction that’s apparently equal parts engine oil and ethanol.
By the time the stars are tacked thick across the velvet sky the world’s tilting, edges softened, inhibitions frayed. His hands are steady enough – a chef’s precision never fully abandons him – but his thoughts? They’re a whirlwind, circling the drain of what if and why not, laced with a desperate need to fix what he can’t with knives and spices.
Perfect.
He grabs two things: a clean glass and his resolve, which feels heavier, somehow, and more brittle by the second. Then he goes to find his vampire.
Luffy’s carving out a pocket of joy in the dark, yelling down about constellations he’s probably inventing on the spot while Franky and Nami are arguing over who cheated at cards, voices rising in mock outrage, laughter bubbling underneath. Zoro stands apart, mug in hand, head tipped back, gaze locked on the sky like he’s mapping his own path through the stars. There’s that same solitude to him that’s always been there, really, but it’s different now, more untouchable.
Sanji squares his shoulders, straightens his tie with fingers that only tremble a little and nearly fucking faceplants on the way over because the deck tips horrifically in a way it usually doesn’t. Okay, so. He’s definitely drunker than he usually lets himself get, the kind of drunk where vulnerability creeps in uninvited and walls crumble and truths spill out like overpoured wine.
That’s fine, he can handle it. This is a mission. A weird, heartfelt siege on Zoro’s impenetrable fortress.
“Oi,” he drawls when he’s close enough. “Broody.”
Zoro looks over, eye catching moonlight in a way that’s… very much not human, all eyeshine in the dark. He says, flat and observational: “You’re drunk,” and scrunches his entire face at what’s probably a pretty feral stink of booze.
“Sharp as ever,” Sanji returns, leaning on the rail next to him a little more heavily than he intends. The night air’s cool and soft on his overheated face, a balm against the flush creeping up his neck. “You gonna arrest me for it?”
Zoro snorts, a low rumble that vibrates through the air between them. “Just don’t fall overboard. I’m not diving in after you tonight.”
“You always say that,” Sanji says, his voice lighter than he feels, masking the tremor. “And yet.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro tilts the mug back, grimacing faintly as the blood slides down, efficient and mechanical and utterly devoid of pleasure. Up close like this the little changes are more obvious and, somehow, more intimate: the sharpened line of his teeth when he speaks, the way his eye is too bright, pallor too pale, drinking in the dark with an unnatural hunger.
Sanji’s entire stupid heart aches. “I brought you a drink.”
Zoro looks at the empty glass in Sanji’s hand and at the mug of blood in his own, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. “I already have one.”
“Not that,” Sanji says. He holds the glass up like a toast, grin sharp and only a little wobbly. “This.”
“That’s empty.”
Sanji waggles the glass, the motion playful despite the weird nervousness crawling up his throat. “Temporary problem.” He tips his head back, baring his neck in a deliberate movement, skin exposed to the night air and it’s instantaneous, really, how still the night goes.
Zoro’s hand tightens on the mug so hard the tin creaks under the pressure. “Curls.”
“What?” He can’t tell if he can actually feel his pulse pounding against his exposed throat or if it’s just adrenaline. “You hungry or not?”
Zoro’s voice roughens, gravel and restraint fraying at the edges. “We talked about this.”
“Yeah, yeah, ‘we don’t feed on crew, Sanji, it’s too much, Sanji, what if I lose control, Sanji,’” Sanji mimics, sing-song and mocking. “I’m aware of the lecture, Moss. Heard it a dozen times.”
“Then why –” Zoro starts, stare lingering on Sanji’s throat before snapping back up, obviously conflicted.
“Because,” Sanji says, and for a moment the humour drops out of his voice, a wound laid bare. “It’s shitty to watch you pretend you don’t miss it and isolate yourself with that goddamn mug, like you’re content with this when I know you’re starving for more than just blood. The least I can do – the only thing I can do – is give you a fucking buzz. Just. Let me try something.”
“A buzz.”
Sanji grins, a little wild and a little desperate. “You think I got this drunk for me? My blood’s top shelf tonight, sweetheart, aged in oak. Notes of citrus and regret.”
For a second Zoro just stares at him and the intensity of it sends a shiver down Sanji’s spine, the way it always has. “This isn’t a joke,” he says, lower this time, a growl laced with warning.
“I know it’s not a joke,” Sanji snaps. “You think I’m doing the comedy routine because I don’t take it seriously?” The words come out a little sharper than he planned but he doesn’t take them back; can’t, actually, not with the alcohol stripping away his filters.
Zoro’s hand drops to the rail, wood groaning under the grip. “You’re scared,” he gusses, voice quiet but probing,.
“Of you? No.” Sanji’s laugh is short and bitter.
Zoro’s fingers curl tighter around the rail, veins standing out like cords. He looks like a man caught between two swords pointing inward, the point of no return looming, even as his eye darkens, pupil swallowing colour. “If I drink from you now, like this, it won’t just be for the alcohol. It won’t stop at a buzz. It’ll be… more. Everything.”
Sanji’s mouth is dry, throat exposed and vulnerable but he swallows anyway, feeling the movement ripple against the night air, an unwitting tease. “Good.”
Zoro’s throat works, a visible ripple under pale skin, like he’s swallowing down more than just blood – maybe regret or maybe hunger or, hell, maybe the fragile threads of his self control fraying one by one.
Very slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal (or a fucking cliff) he sets the mug down on the rail. His hand lingers there for a beat, fingers still like he’s debating whether to pick it back up.
“Wrist.” It’s not a suggestion: it’s a boundary, some last ditch effort to keep this from spiraling. “Not your neck.”
“Prude.” The word’s laced with affection and challenge but there’s a tremor underneath, a vulnerability he tries to mask with that crooked grin. He offers his hand anyway, rolling up his sleeve with deliberate slowness to expose the underside of his forearm where veins map out like rivers.
Zoro’s grip is firm, a thumb settling against the thin skin over his pulse with a pressure that’s almost possessive. Sanji can feel his own heartbeat kicking against it, rabbit-fast and traitorous, each throb a confession he’d never voice. “Last chance to back out.”
The alcohol’s buzzing in Sanji’s veins but it’s nothing compared to the anticipation coiling in his gut. “Last chance to stop being a coward.”
Zoro’s eye flares, a spark of something wild and unchecked igniting in them before his jaw clenches so hard Sanji thinks he might pull away and shatter this. Instead, he brings Sanji’s wrist up to his mouth and, truthfully, Sanji had braced for pain. For something sharp and clinical, like a needle in a doctor’s office. For weirdness, maybe, for his body to flinch. In no fucking universe was he ready for how intimate it is before Zoro even bites.
First is the shocking press of a mouth against his skin, warm and unexpectedly tender, a kiss disguised as necessity. Zoro’s eyelashes flicker once, dark fans against his cheeks, like he’s steadying himself on a cliff’s edge, fighting the pull of the void below.
“If you’re gonna romance me,” Sanji starts, aiming for flippant, for the banter that usually shields him but Zoro doesn’t rise to it. He doesn’t even smirk or quip back, focus absolute, that swordsman’s precision turned inward. The first sting is bright and clean, two points of fire sliding in with disturbing ease and Sanji’s breath hitches, free hand clenching into a fist at his side. It hurts, yeah, but not like he thought. It’s not a distant prick or a superficial wound but something worse, personal, invasive, a violation that feels like invitation. It sparks straight up his arm and detonates under his skin like fireworks in his bloodstream. Heat blooms around the puncture, a slow, spreading burn that runs ahead of the pull, flooding his senses.
And then Zoro drinks.
It’s not the gentle, restrained thing Sanji expected from Zoro’s ironclad control. It’s a drag, deep and instinctive, almost greedy, like a dam breaking after months of restraint and Sanji feels the tug right down to his bones, a low, insistent suction that makes his knees wobble and the world tilt on its axis. His fingers grip into the front of Zoro’s shirt before he even realises he’s reached out, fabric bunching under his knuckles as Zoro makes a sound against his wrist, muffled and raw, like his body’s just remembered what it means to want. The groan vibrates through Sanji’s skin and straight to his core, igniting a fire that twists need into something sharper, every nerve alight with too much sensation layered on sensation. The relentless drag of Zoro’s mouth, the bruising hold around his hand, the wet heat of Zoro’s tongue sealing against the wound so not a drop spills, lapping with a hunger that’s both careful and voracious. His own pulse thunders against Zoro’s lips, each beat a frantic drum that screams taketaketake.
“Fuck,” Sanji whispers because he has to say something or he’s going to moan, and then what? The word fogs out into the night air, useless and shaking, swallowed by the darkness.
Zoro’s pull softens, the suction easing into something tentative now, almost hesitant, like he’s reining himself back from the edge, mindful of Sanji’s limits, of the alcohol thinning his blood, of the line they’re crossing. His grip loosens just a fraction, a tenderness that feels like pity, like Zoro’s trying to make this clinical again and – well. Sanji’s not having that.
“Deeper,” he grinds out, pinning Zoro against the rail with a sudden shove until the wood nearly buckles under their combined weight. Zoro’s back arches as Sanji crowds him, eye snapping wide for a heartbeat, surprise flashing through the haze but then – oh, then – his groan vibrates through Sanji’s arm as he bites down harder. Zoro drinks like a man starved and swallows like it’s salvation, his free hand coming up to clutch at Sanji’s waist, hauling him closer.
Sanji’s nails scrape Zoro’s scalp as he fists his hair to hold him there but if Zoro notices he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he does – his shoulders shake, just once, like he’s losing some battle only he knows. He swallows again and again and again, each pull sending a dizzy rush up Sanji’s arm that pools low in his belly, coiling tighter, hotter. It’s obscene how good it feels, every nerve ending in that patch of skin suddenly wired straight to the part of his brain that handles very bad ideas, ideas like shoving Zoro down right here, like begging for more, like admitting this isn’t just about feeding anymore, maybe never has been. His heart lurches, trying to climb into Zoro’s mouth with the rest of him, pounding so fiercely it hurts.
“Zoro,” he hears himself say and it sounds nothing like a warning – more like a plea, an invocation, raw and needy. Zoro tears himself away with a visible shudder, his head tipping back like he’s just surfaced from underwater. His eye’s near black and feral, lips slick and red where they’ve been pressed to Sanji’s skin, blood glistening at the corner of his mouth; his tongue flicks out to catch it absently and Sanji has to lock his knees to stay upright, the sight punching the air from his lungs.
Sanji knows he’s breathing too fast, wrist throbbing with that strange, pulsing echo of pleasure that makes his fingers tremble in Zoro’s lingering grip. His whole body feels a half-second slower and a thousand volts more alive, like someone’s gone and yanked the floor out from under his nervous system and replaced it with lightning.
Zoro looks wrecked, a looseness in him Sanji’s never seen outside of a battle. There’s colour in his cheeks for once, flushed and alive for the first time in months. His thumb’s still rubbing small circles into the inside of Sanji’s wrist, right over the puncture, a soothing motion that’s at odds with the spark still in his eyes.
“Well?” Sanji manages, voice low and ruined, hoarse from the gasps he swallowed down. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his grip on Zoro’s shirt or hair, keeping them both pinned. “Vintage ‘demon of the East Blue.’ Notes?”
“Dangerous,” Zoro rasps.
Sanji’s ruined grin widens, triumphant and a little manic, his heart still a nice frantic tattoo against his ribs. The blood loss hits him in waves now, dizzying and euphoric, mingling with the remnants of his buzz to make everything sharper and brighter. He feels lightheaded and reckless, like he could float off the deck or, hell, combust right here and now.
Zoro’s lips twitch in return, a ghost of a smirk that’s equal parts irritated and amused. But then his eyelids flutter, heavy and slow, and he blinks like he’s trying to clear fog from his vision. His free hand comes up to rub at his temple and Sanji catches it: the subtle sway in his stance, the way his shoulders loosen further, dropping that eternal tension like a shed coat. “Oh. I think it… it might be working?”
“No shit? You reckon?” Sanji laughs, delighted at the way Zoro squints at the stars overhead, head tilting like the constellations have shifted without his permission. It’s funny, the way his eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, like he’s piecing together a puzzle he didn’t expect and oddly endearing. The big bad vampire undone by a chef’s homemade cocktail of wine and whimsy.
Without thinking, he lets himself trace the line of Zoro’s jaw, smooth and cool to the touch. Zoro glances at him, turning minutely into the touch so Sanji’s fingers climb to the corner of his mouth, pressing down enough to smear red, parting the vampire’s mouth just enough to expose his teeth, beautiful and deadly as the swords at his hip. Sanji traces one fang with the pad of his thumb, feeling the smooth enamel, the razor edge that could slice him open with a twitch, mapping the change that’s reshaped their world.
“These things…” Sanji murmurs, pressing a little harder until he can feel the give of gumline. “They suit you, you know.” His eyes flick up to meet Zoro’s, holding his gaze as he strokes again, slower, more deliberate, a tease and a claim all in one and Zoro’s hand at Sanji’s waist tightens, fingers digging in with that bruising strength, pulling him impossibly closer until there’s no space left, just heat and friction.
“Curls,” he warns but it’s gone, blurring the word into something affectionate and almost fond. His tongue flicks out again, this time intentional, lapping at Sanji’s thumb. The sensation shoots straight down his spine, pooling hot and insistent, almost too much – Zoro’s rare looseness, the heat of his mouth, the hunger still simmering under it all. He withdraws his thumb with a wet pop only to slide his hand to the back of Zoro’s neck, fingers tangling in short hair. He tilts his own head back, baring his throat in blatant invitation.
“Yeah, we’re not done.”
Zoro hesitates only for a second, that dawning caution flickering again but Sanji doesn’t give him time to retreat. He pulls Zoro forward, guiding his head down until lips brush skin, teeth grazing the vulnerable curve of his neck. Zoro whines and bites down, resistance crumbling, narrowing Sanji’s whole world to pain and pleasure and the sweet, hot rush of giving everything.
x
look we can argue about the ethics of getting drunk off your crewmates blood later!!!!!
been trying to carve out a couple of hours a day to just. write or finish my 50000 wips & it’s been sooo nice!! 🩸 sorry for the influx of me tho ahaha 💀 this was the last wip i had ready to go, so we’ll how the next few weeks go w this silly broken wrist heheeeee
I'm pretty sure that you have a fic where Sanji accidentally burns Zoro, buy I can't remember for the love of god if you have one where Zoro accidentally cuts Sanji
i've got a few requests for this one sitting here so!!!! let's slice & dice >:3
x
The cut happens on a breath. One heartbeat they’re moving in that dangerous, perfect rhythm they’ve built without ever talking about it, footfalls syncing with the swell, steel and bone and tendon keeping time with the Sunny’s slow, rolling pulse and the next… the world tilts.
Sanji comes in fast off the starboard rail, grinning like he always does when he’s half a second from doing something reckless and brilliant, Diable flaring at his ankle, heat licking over the planks in a brief, shimmering halo. Zoro’s already shaping his response before the thought fully forms, muscles moving on old promises and Shusui turning to intercept. The arc he chooses is one he could carve blind at this point, clean and controlled, meant to cut air just in front of Sanji’s hip. Push him back and force a new angle, a miss by design, the kind of almost that only works when you trust the other idiot to be exactly where he always is.
He doesn’t look at the horizon like he usually does. Doesn’t check the mast or the way the lantern lines swing, the things he normally reads without thinking.
His eye goes somewhere else, finds how Sanji’s shirt has come half untucked at the side, torn seam flapping when he twists, baring the line of his waist. The movement pulls his ribs into sharp relief, skin damp with sweat and ocean spray, a scatter of old bruises colouring the span of him. His mouth is open on a laugh, eyes bright and holy-shit-alive in a way that’s all teeth and invitation.
Zoro’s timing runs off that, for a split second. Off the twist of Sanji’s spine and the flash of his throat. Off the way his grin hits him somewhere low and hot. It’s the wrong reference point, the wrong time and unfortunately the swell under the Sunny chooses that exact moment to drop. The worst part is it’s not even a big shift but it’s enough to throw off anyone who isn’t paying attention. Enough to tilt the whole world a couple degrees while Shusui’s already in motion and Zoro feels it the instant his boots lose that perfect purchase. His gut clenches, muscles snapping to compensate but Shusui’s heavy and already halfway through its arc, steel carrying all the momentum he put into it when he thought the deck would still be where he left it.
Sanji doesn’t back out like an ordinary opponent would, because he never fucking has. Skywalk is second nature now; Sanji uses it without even thinking about it until he’s right there in Zoro’s space, angle changed to drive a kick higher and closer and braver.
It’s beautiful.
Zoro sees that too, in the same useless instant: the clean line of the move, the faith in it, the way Sanji commits his whole stupid heart to every strike when it’s Zoro on the other end. He realises what’s about to happen a breath before it does.
There’s no room left to redirect fully or time to kill the swing without wrecking his own shoulder. He twists as hard as he can anyway, hauling the blade away from its original path with everything he’s got. It’s not enough: Shusui kisses flesh in a real, solid bite of steel into the place just under Sanji’s ribs where his shirt has ridden up, where muscle’s stretched thinner over bone. It cuts cleaner than Zoro has any right to, all the training that should’ve protected Sanji turned against him in one stupid, misaimed instant. The sound is almost obscenely quiet, a wet sh that doesn’t belong on their deck.
Sanji’s breath punches out of him like he took a hit to the solar plexus, like he took a fucking sword to the torso. His gaze blows wide with plain stunned disbelief, like his body can’t reconcile Zoro’s blade with Zoro’s intent. Blood beads bright along the lip of the cut before it spills fast, soaking into white shirt in a spreading, ugly stain.
Zoro freezes and that, more than anything, tells him how bad it is because Zoro never freezes. He’s built his whole life around the idea that motion is survival and that hesitation is where you die but right now his legs just – seize.
Sanji staggers back one step, hand flying instinctively to his side, palm coming away slick. He looks at the blood on his fingers like it belongs on someone else, mouth opening on a laugh that doesn’t quite make it out. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
His knees buckle and Zoro’s body, thank whatever gods he never prays to, remembers how to move before his mind does. Shusui drops from his hand with a metallic clang against the planks, the vibration singing up his empty fingers. He grabs Sanji instead, driving the heel of his palm against the wound, the way it feels hot to touch, fingers immediately wet and slick.
“It’s too much blood,” he mutters more to himself than anything.
Sanji’s head tips back a fraction, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumps. His skin is already losing colour, a fine sheen of sweat breaking along his hairline. “Idiot,” he breathes, trying for their usual bite and landing somewhere thinner.
“Sit,” Zoro orders, voice rougher than he means it to be and hauls Sanji backward like he’s manoeuvring a heavy, delicate weapon – careful and controlled and terrified – steering him toward a coil of rope by the mast. Sanji resists on reflex, digging his heels in, pride locking his spine straight.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” Zoro snaps.
“Oh, no shit? Hadn’t noticed.” The rope pile hits the back of Sanji’s calves and he folds more than sits, teeth grit, breath hissing out through his nose. The movement pulls at the cut until fresh red peels through his fingers. The cut’s bad, objectively: not the kind that spills guts but deep enough that the edges part when Sanji breathes there’s skin pulling and muscle shifting under the thin slick of blood. It’s a clinic-perfect line releasing blood in a stubborn pour that runs over Zoro’s fingers and tracks down to his wrist, into the grooves of old callouses, staining the ridges of his knuckles dark.
“Hold still.”
Sanji’s eyes flash. “Don’t bark at me like I’m –” Whatever he’s about to say fractures midway when another spike of pain hits and Zoro watches him try to swallow it whole, push it down somewhere deep with all the other shit he never says.
“Shut up,” Zoro says, hoarse. “Just… shut up and breathe.”
“Make me,” Sanji hisses on pure habit, normally the pivot back into that familiar easy violence of words. As fight as language, the rhythm they both know how to dance.
Right now Zoro can’t find it. There’s too much damn noise in his head and his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, the annoyed hum of the ship, the slap of waves against the hull, the obscene drip of blood hitting the deck between Sanji’s boots. He yanks his bandana off his bicep with his teeth, the knot coming free with a harsh jerk, and rams the folded cloth against the wound. Zoro leans in, weight behind his hands, driving pressure straight into the cut until his wrists burn, hears himself say: “Sorry,” but the word tastes wrong, like it’s been sitting in him unused for years and gone rusted around the edges.
Sanji’s gaze snaps to him, sharp even through pain and for a second he looks almost startled, like he expected anger or mockery, anything but remorse from Zoro. Anything but that tight set to Zoro’s mouth. “Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?” Zoro bites out, too sharp because if he softens it’ll all come spilling out. “Like I just cut my crewmate open? Like I –”
Sanji’s good hand shoots out and clamps around Zoro’s wrist, right over the tendons. “Like you’re going to start apologising, asshole. If you do that I’ll –”
“You’ll what?” Zoro snaps, leaning closer, half to hear him but at least half because he needs him to keep talking. Conscious is alive, angry is alive, breathing is alive. “Kick me? That your plan?”
Sanji’s mouth twitches, grim and stubborn. “Always.”
Zoro’s fingers are slippery now, bandana already going dark and wet under his palms. He digs in harder. His shoulders tremble with the effort of making that pressure unflinching instead of frantic. “Chopper!”
The Sunny herself seems to flinch around the sound but it’s immediate, the way it always is: footsteps slam on wood from somewhere forward.
“What?!” Usopp’s voice comes, high and panicked. “What happened?!”
Zoro doesn’t look up. Can’t. If he lets his eyes leave Sanji’s face, his hands might follow. Sanji’s breaths are shallow, but they’re there. In-out, in-out, threaded with the soft raw noises he clearly thinks he’s hiding.
Chopper skids into view, hooves thudding, fur puffed in alarm. His eyes go huge and wet immediately. “Sanji?!”
Chopper drops to his knees beside them, medical bag already open, voice pitching high and fast as he rattles off instructions to no-one in particular. “Nami, light closer, Luffy, back up, you’re in the way! Usopp, stop screaming – you’re all stressing him out!”
Luffy’s fretting somewhere at Zoro’s shoulder, fists clenched. “Is he gonna be okay? Zoro, if he’s not okay I’m gonna –”
Usopp makes a strangled noise like he’s trying not to cry and failing. Zoro hears all of it like it’s happening underwater, his entire focus narrowed to a small shaking radius: Sanji’s face. Sanji’s breathing. The give of flesh under his palms as Chopper’s smaller hooves nudge in, tapping his wrist. “Okay, Zoro, lift now, just a second, good, good, press again, hard. Good.”
Chopper cleans and packs and wraps with frantic efficiency, muttering under his breath about depth and angle and blood loss and how could this happen?
Zoro knows how. He just doesn’t know how to put the words into the world without losing something.
“Missed anything vital,” Chopper says at last, voice shaking with relief and leftover fear. “It’s bad but it’ll heal. He’ll be sore. No cooking for a couple days, Sanji!”
“Like hell,” Sanji groans, faint, which Chopper kindly pretends not to hear.
Zoro’s whole body shudders once, like someone loosened a bolt and all the tension rushed out in a single, violent tremor. He clamps down on it immediately, fingers tightening on Sanji’s shoulder instead of the bandage now that Chopper has taken over pressure.
He doesn’t let go.
x
Later, after Chopper is done – after they’ve taken Sanji to the infirmary for the last strip of gauze to be pressed down and the last knot of stitches is clipped with brisk, practised hands – Sanji tries to leave like he always does. He rolls his shoulder to test the pull beneath the bandage and is already reaching for his cigarette, already slipping back into motion, into the familiar rhythm of fine, fine, fine.
Zoro lets him take three steps before he shoves him back onto the bed, flat and sharp. “Stop.”
The stillness that follows is the same stillness before a fight, all temper at the hinge and violence tucked behind polite bones. Zoro can feel it in the air, a sudden pressure shift, like the Sunny herself knows better than to breathe too loudly.
“What?”
Zoro doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at Sanji’s neck, at the way his shoulders hold tension like it’s a habit. The bandage’s a white slash beneath the collar, too bright against tanned skin and dark fabric and it looks wrong on him in a way that makes Zoro’s teeth grind. Sanji wears exhaustion like a suit and wears bruises like punctuation but a clean bandage somehow looks like it doesn’t belong.
His hands twitch at his sides and, god, he wants a sword. He wants something simple and physical and honest. He wants to pick up a weight and grind the feeling out of his muscles until nothing is left but ache. He forces his voice steady anyway. “I want to talk.”
Sanji faces him slowly, like he’s deciding whether or not to bite. The cigarette is still unlit between his fingers, a prop he hasn’t bothered with yet. His visible eye is bright with suspicion and mouth already loaded with ammunition, curled like he’s tasting the first insult before he spits it. “Oh, fantastic. Are we doing a formal apology ceremony now? Should I bow? Wanna write it down so you don’t get lost halfway through?”
Zoro takes a step closer before he can talk himself out of it and keeps his hands visible and open – no swords, no threat, no excuse. It feels like walking into a storm without armour. He doesn’t like it; he does it anyway.
Sanji’s gaze drops to Zoro’s hands like they’re suspicious, clearly waiting for the trick. “You’re being weird. Again.”
“Yeah,” Zoro admits. “I am.”
The honesty sits between them like a third person. Sanji’s whole face kind of scrunches, almost offended by it, like Zoro just broke a rule neither of them agreed to but both of them lived by: don’t say the real thing.
Zoro nods toward the bandage. “Show me.”
For a second Sanji looks like he might swing first just to get his footing back before he exhales hard through his nose and jerks his collar aside with two fingers, quick and angry, exposing the edge of clean gauze and the line of skin around it. “It’s just a scratch, Moss. I’m not dying.”
Zoro’s eye locks on the bandage anyway. Swords have been in his hands since before he was old enough to understand what accident meant. His swords aren’t supposed to touch the crew. They’re supposed to protect, to be the line between danger and the people Zoro has decided belong behind him. And now there’s proof, right there under cloth and gauze, that Zoro’s line slipped. He reaches out before he can second guess it, fingers hovering as the air between his knuckles and Sanji’s skin goes loud and charged, static before lightning.
Sanji stiffens instantly. His voice goes sharp as a knife. “Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to touch it. I’m just…” He trails off because the truth is stupidly hard to say out loud, not because it’s complicated but because it’s simple and simple things have sharp edges between them. He drops his hand and curls it into a fist at his side, nails biting his palm, giving his body something it understands. “I don’t miss like that.”
Sanji’s expression shifts with disbelief first, because of course the ship moved, of course it was chaos, of course accidents happen. Then it shifts into something sharper and almost offended, like Zoro just accused him of being fragile enough to make a mistake matter. “You’re acting like you did it on purpose.”
Zoro scowls. “I know I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Then why are we –”
“Because it happened to you,” Zoro cuts in, voice rising a notch before he can stop it and the you comes out like a fist on a table.
Sanji goes very still, voice brittle with the effort of making it casual. “It’s just a damn cut. Chopper wrapped it. We move on.”
Zoro takes another step in but Sanji doesn’t back up. He never backs up. He just lifts his chin higher, stubborn as a blade even as Zoro’s voice drops so low it shakes at the edges. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” Zoro repeats, a a line in the sand. “You don’t get to decide it’s nothing just because you can stand upright.”
Sanji’s nostrils flare. His jaw works like he’s grinding down words he wants to throw. “Since when do you care about my standing upright?”
Zoro stares at him, chest tight, and thinks – furious at himself for having the thought at all – that he’s always cared. He’s just been able to file it under easier labels: annoyance, rivalry, duty, the simple fact that you don’t let your crew get taken. This, though, is the quiet horror of realising the person you trust to match you step-for-step can still end up under your blade if you lose yourself for half a heartbeat. This is the quiet horror of realising that Zoro’s been losing himself around Sanji more than he wants to admit.
He forces the words out anyway, because he doesn’t know any other way to be but honest. “I care. I’m not stupid.”
For a heartbeat Sanji’s expression goes blank before the armour slams back into place, so fast anybody but Zoro would’ve missed it. “Cool. Try showing it in a way that doesn’t involve stabbing me.”
Zoro’s fist unclenches, then clenches again. He breathes in salt air, smoke, the faint medicinal tang of Chopper’s disinfectant that always lingers around the infirmary. Tries not to glare at Sanji’s defiance, the exhaustion threaded through it, the way he’s daring Zoro to make this into a fight because fights are safer than being handled gently. “I should’ve had it, I should’ve been in sync and I wasn’t. That’s on me.”
Sanji’s throat moves when he swallows. He looks away for a fraction of a second, like the apology landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to reach. When he looks back he tries to make it sharp. “You done?”
Zoro steps in close enough that the air between them goes warm, close in the way they get when the spar turns mean, when the world narrows, when everything becomes about breath and timing and the tiny decisions that change outcomes. “Not yet.”
Sanji’s throat moves once as he looks away for just long enough that Zoro sees a flash of something raw and old, the way people look at sudden bright light when they’ve been underground too long. Then Sanji wrenches his gaze back with a sneer, like he can scrape the softness out of himself by force. “Worried about me now? That’s new.”
Zoro’s mouth tightens because he is worried. Has been since the second his blade came away red. The word sits right there on his tongue, simple and heavy, and his whole body refuses to say it the way Sanji means it, like a joke or an accusation. So it comes out sideways. “If it happens again we stop sparring.”
That finally cracks something: Sanji recoils like Zoro decked him. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
“Yes,” Zoro says, steady.
“No.” Sanji shoves off the bed to step in closer, heat rolling off him in angry waves, grimacing for a beat before he wrestles his expression back under control. “D’you have any idea how fucking insane you sound? You mess up one fucking time and you think you get to take away the only thing we’re good at together?”
Zoro’s pulse spikes at together and, because the universe hates him, at the proximity too. “We’re good at plenty,” he tries, aiming for flat and getting something rougher.
Sanji barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Name one.”
Zoro eye finds Sanji’s mouth before he can stop it, automatic and traitorous. A catalogue he didn’t agree to keep: the split at the corner of Sanji’s lip from a glancing punch, the faint shine where he probably licked it without thinking, the way his mouth’s always a little soft when he’s right on the edge of saying something cruel.
Something shifts in Sanji’s expression, a tiny half-second glitch, like he just registered a new piece on the board so Zoro drags his gaze back up, stubbornly refusing to give that look more ground.
“I’m serious,” he says, lower now. “I don’t take chances with my hands. I won’t take chances with yours.”
Sanji’s breath catches so quietly Zoro wouldn’t have heard it if they weren’t standing in each other’s pockets. It’s the yours that does it, he knows. The weight under it. His voice comes out quieter, edged like a knife that’s been sharpened too often. “You don’t get to decide what risks I take.”
Zoro’s jaw flexes. “I get to decide what risks I take.”
Sanji’s eyes narrow. “And?”
The answers stack up on Zoro’s tongue immediately: and i’m not risking this. and i can’t fight if you’re on the ground. and the only time my head goes quiet is when we’re trading blows and now it’s not quiet, it’s full of you and i fucked up.
“And I’m not risking cutting you again because I –”
Sanji doesn’t let him off the hook. Sanji stares him down with that same relentless focus he uses when he’s picked apart an opponent’s rhythm and is waiting for the precise moment to go in for the kill. Zoro exhales through his nose, angry at himself for having a conversation instead of a spar.
“I got careless,” he grinds out at last and it’s not the whole truth but it’s the only part that fits in his mouth right now. “I thought you’d be where you always are.”
The fight drains out of Sanji’s face, leaving something raw and unguarded. He looks… not proud, exactly. Briefly unmoored, maybe, like Zoro’s words knocked his feet out from under him. Because that’s the part they never say out loud: that when they fight they stop talking but they’re still having the clearest conversation they know how to have. That Zoro can feel Sanji behind him without looking. That he can tell from the shift of air which angle a kick is coming from. That the match feels wrong if Sanji isn’t there, if he isn’t pushing, snapping, grinning like a lunatic every time Zoro blocks something that would have broken anyone else. He’s compartmentalised it for years: good sparring partner, strong rival, safe labels. He’s never let himself think i like the way you move for longer than it takes to land the next hit.
Sanji’s mouth opens like he’s about to say something real before it snaps shut. He laughs instead, softer than before but still edged, armour slotted back into place. “You’re blaming me for being competent? That’s a new low, even for you.”
Zoro inhales sharply. “I’m blaming me.”
That silences him more effectively than Chopper’s syringes ever could; Sanji’s grin falters. He clearly aims for light but keeps hitting something rawer. “So what, you’re gonna start keeping your distance now? Pretend we don’t do this?”
Zoro watches him like he watches an opponent too close to call, every twitch and every breath catalogued. He wants to back away into something simple, a clean cut argument, a challenge to shut him up, but his body refuses to move so he picks the only truth he can say without ripping the whole thing open. “I’m worried.”
The word comes out flat and unadorned and still too fucking small for what it has to carry. Still somehow heavy enough to knock the air out of both of them.
Sanji stares at him long enough that Zoro hears his own heartbeat, annoyingly loud in his ears. Long enough that he wonders if saying it out loud will make it worse, if it’ll make the next spar clumsy, make Sanji careful and the thought of Sanji holding back for his sake makes bile burn at the back of his throat.
He doesn’t want careful. He wants them the way they are when the world drops away and it’s just two stubborn idiots testing each other to breaking point, matching pace, matching breath. He wants that without the taste of blood that shouldn’t be there.
Sanji’s shoulders rise and fall, a restrained shudder that could be anger, could be something dangerously close to feeling seen. He looks away for a second, the cigarette still unlit in his fingers like he forgot what it’s for. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters finally.
Zoro’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a grin he doesn’t quite let out. “Yeah.”
Sanji drags his gaze back, eyes bright and mouth sharp again. Zoro knows he feels safer that way, that he needs the teeth and needs the script. “If you want to stop it happening again then focus, Mosshead.”
As if that’s not the problem. Like the problem hasn’t been that when Sanji fights him Zoro’s focus gets too narrow, right down to the angle of a kick and the gleam of teeth when Sanji’s grinning, the way his hair sticks to his temple with sweat, the line of his throat when he laughs mid spar, insane enough to enjoy it.
Zoro’s gaze betrays him again, flicking not down to the bandage but to the hollow at the base of Sanji’s throat and the curve of his mouth. It snaps back up like he’s been burned. He forces out: “Yeah. Okay,” and leaves the room before he can say something truly stupid, do something truly stupid.
He ends up on the lion’s head without really deciding to, without thought or rhyme or reason because his legs just need to fucking move and because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. They keep wanting to check his hilts, adjust his grip, swing at air – anything except sit here and feel useless. In the dark, his knuckles are pale stripes across the callouses.
He rewinds the moment over and over in his brain and, at first, it doesn’t even resemble a simple misstep. He sees Sanji first, because of course he does, sees the twist of his spine as he turns and one leg cutting a clean line through the air. The pivot on the ball of his foot, effortless and precise, using the give of the deck instead of fighting it. The way he moves into Zoro’s range, into danger, like he trusts Zoro to meet him there without flinching.
Zoro remembers the flash of pleasure – sharp and hot in his chest – right before everything went to hell. That small, stupid burst of satisfaction: yeah, there you are, that’s it. push me.
It’s not just that Sanji matches him because god knows plenty of people try to match him. Swordsmen on islands, bounty hunters, pirates who’ve heard the stories. They come at him too hot and too proud and burn out in three exchanges. They get scared or get sloppy or start thinking about losing instead of winning. Sanji doesn’t, though. Sanji gets sharper the longer they go. Louder too, sure, but there’s a focus under the noise. Every insult is a data point, every smirk is a tell that he’s seen something new in Zoro’s form and is already picking at it. He commits to every kick like it matters. He never pulls back just because Zoro looks tired and never throws a pity move and never eases.
Here in the dark with only the sea listening he can admit that much, that sparring with Sanji’s the most honest he ever is. There’s no captain to impress and no audience to perform for, no pretending to be better or worse, no sandbagging, no showing off. Just them, blade and heel, steel and fire, cut and counter.
Sanji grins when Zoro almost lands something and curses loud enough for the whole ship to hear when Zoro does, then comes back twice as hard. They move together without talking, without planning. Sanji doesn’t need hand signals or shouted warnings; he reads Zoro’s shoulders and his weight and the angle of his wrists and adjusts, always.
It’s fucked up how much Zoro likes it. How much he’s started relying on it without meaning to. He stares up at the stars, jaw tight because he’s not stupid, he’s not an idiot. He can feel the truth there, sitting just under the surface, awful in its simplicity: he missed because he forgot there was a ship under them at all. All he saw was Sanji stepping in, hair whipping, teeth bared, eyes lit up the way they only get when he’s either cooking or fighting. All he felt was that usual rush – finally, something worth cutting – except the ‘something’ was also the man whose hands feed their captain and whose feet have kicked Zoro’s head so many times they might as well be an old friend.
Sanji stepped like he trusted Zoro not to miss and Zoro missed. He presses his palms together, forces them apart again, restless, until old scars tug along his forearms. The other truth is: if it were anyone else this would be simple. He’d log it like any other mistake about timing being off and footing bad, idiot move, don’t do it again. Fix the form, adjust for the swell. Run drills until the correction lives in his muscles.
Done.
The fact that it’s Sanji changes everything in ways he doesn’t have language for right now.
“Shitty cook,” he mutters under his breath, more to the sky than anything. “You’re too fucking much.”
The lion under him doesn’t care.The sea just keeps breathing, up and down, up and down, like it’s laughing at the idea of human problems. He knows they’re going to spar again because neither of them knows how to leave a thing alone once it starts. Sanji’ll give that shoulder a day to heal, tell Chopper to stop fussing then waltz onto the deck with a cigarette and some godawful comment about Zoro going soft.
He’ll say, come on, moss, you scared now? and Zoro’ll meet him mid-deck. The world will shrink, like it always does, to footwork and breath counts and the line of Sanji’s body moving in rhythm with his. That’s the part that scares him: he wants that. Even now, with the memory of the cut still bright and sharp in his mind some part of him’s already replaying Sanji’s last combo, thinking what if i counter left instead, what if i catch his weight sooner, what if –
He tips his head back, glares at the empty sky and tells himself it’s simple. Be sharper. Be better. Don’t get distracted. Keep your eyes where they belong. On form and on feet. On the swing, the deck, the angle of the wave and not on the way Sanji smiles when he’s alive and trying to kick your head off. Next time, he thinks, brutal with himself, look at his feet, not his smile.
i was gifted an extra of these cute atlas studio & s1 studio figurines, so why not have a lil giveaway & find them a loving home with one of y'all!! the figurines are unopened & you can find more info & specs about them here and here.
here are the details!!
🔥 idk man, just like or reblog this post if you want to enter. you don't have to follow me, we ain't about that hustle. winner will be chosen at random by a third party to keep it fair & square
🔥 as per tumblr's rules you gotta be 18+ or they'll shank me??
🔥 shipping is free & worldwide
🔥 giveaway will end in a week on may 3rd, around 10pm australian eastern standard time. winner's username will be shared on here to keep it transparent :3
hit me up if you have any questions!!
(obvs this isn't associated with or endorsed by tumblr in any way shape or form. i have to legally say this.)
I finally gathered the strength to open up my old sketches. In theory, these are sketches for 2024, maybe something from 2023. That's why most of them are just ugly, I chose the most decent ones.
Posting this is still a challenge, but I'm trying to fight my nervousness, so let's consider this part of the exercise.
If I remember correctly, I posted this picture on Twitter. I doubt you've come across this, but I'll just clarify that this is my profile and Ufir is my other nickname. Some of my profiles under this nickname are a bit abandoned.
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
areudirty
dededos
