As he lay there, arms and legs tied to the wooden table, blindfold casting his vision in utter darkness, pants mysteriously missing, and his shirt hanging limply open from his shoulders, Sanji briefly wondered what the fuck he'd accidentally managed to create.

He supposed, if he was truly fair about all this, that it was partly his fault. He had, after all, been dumb enough to confess to the swordsman one night when the booze was plentiful and the evening fairly quiet, that Sanji really got off on being surprised by his lover. There was something strangely kinky to him about not knowing what was going to happen, of feeling overwhelmed, of losing control. Of being at someone else's mercy.

Upon hearing this, Zoro merely grunted and took another sip of grog, looking painfully uninterested, only tired and maybe a little buzzed. The remark was quickly passed over, neither one of them thinking it all that important, and they soon picked up their tried-and-true bickering long into the early morning. The topic of the cook's turn-on's went pretty much forgotten.

Sanji had never been gifted with much tolerance for alcohol, and had apparently drank a bit too much that night and passed out on the kitchen table at some point, because when he woke up, he was quite certain he wasn't in his hammock. Instead, he noticed the hard, solid surface he lay on, felt the disconcerting bite of ropes against the flesh of his wrists and knees, felt the strain of his legs forcibly spread open, took in the inky blackness of the world around him, the draft against his naked legs and torso, and decided something was rather amiss.

Perhaps he should have explained himself better.

Perhaps he should have made it clear to that brain-damaged marimo that there was a definite difference between "surprise" and "WHAT THE FUCK!?"

This was most certainly the latter.

"O-oi…sh-shitty-swordsman…what the fuck is this?" Sanji asked, hating that his voice came out like a breathy whisper.

There was a low, rumbling sound in his ear, suddenly and inexplicably, and Sanji shuddered and tried to jerk away from it.

"You were the one who said they liked to be surprised," that voice murmured, quiet but for the rough slide of sin across its tone.

Calloused fingers trailed lightly over his bare chest, goose bumps raising on every inch of skin, and Sanji bit his lip and tried not to gasp. Those rough digits never lingered, feathery and fleeting, teasing the sensitive flesh of a single nipple, coaxing it gently into a hardened nub, blood flowing faster, not from panic, but from something more electric. Sanji eeked a small noise in the back of his throat, and he hated it but couldn't help it, couldn't seem to keep his composure as another hand joined the other in its slow, unhurried exploration of his stomach, and thighs and oh fuck his feet, and before he even realized it, his breaths were coming in quick pants, there was a desperate heat between his legs, a tremor in his muscles, pathetic noises falling unbidden from his lips, and he'd never been undone this quickly before, couldn't remember feeling this helpless, never knowing where the next touch would fall, sounds and scents surrounding him and he couldn't get a hold on a anything but the edge of the table, couldn't help but arch into it, couldn't help that he wanted more, and couldn't do anything to make Zoro give it to him.

He growled and swore and jerked against his bindings, rolling his hips against nothing, demanding something harder and more real.

All he got were taunting snickers and a brief slide of a wet tongue over his ear.

It was too much, too much all over and not where he needed it, the heavy pulsing of his cock burning hotter with every dance of warm fingers over his shivering flesh, and Sanji thrashed his head back and forth, needing an escape, needing more, but getting neither.

Nails scratched lightly and it was better, but not enough, and he was whimpering now, broken calls of Zoro's name, and muttered curses, helplessly humping the air. The wrist of one of those fleeting hands accidentally brushed his cock, and Sanji groaned loud, head slamming back against the table, flexing his thighs open further and begging. Fuck, he was begging now. But he didn't care. He needed it.

A sharp slap to the side of his exposed ass, white-hot and painful, and Sanji screamed this time, trembling so hard he felt his stomach churn, muscles seizing, back arching clear off the table, demonstrating just how flexible the cook could be, and teeth suddenly bit his neck hard, the pain pooling blood in his gut and shooting fire through his veins, pelvis thrusting upwards, seeking some sort of resistance, contact of any kind, nails scraping down his back, choking on sobs of pleasure as he squeezed his eyes shut, catching the black fabric in the creases, feeling himself teetering on the edge, wrists rubbed raw, no blood in his lower legs, and he didn't care, all of it just made him twist harder and moan louder, and fuck – oh god, he – fingers gripping his ass, molding it, tongue lapping at his hip bone, and a sin, perfect luscious sin whispering to him, pushing him higher, pushing him over, and – oh, oh fuck, oh god! – one last harsh slap to his thigh, hand barely brushing the head of his oozing cock, and – and…

"Come."

Sanji arched high enough to snap the bindings on his knees, ear-splitting scream splintering his throat, vision flashing a fierce white before everything went still, and silent, and black again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Sanji came to, he was unsurprised to find himself alone, blindfold-less, and still tied to the table. He was surprised, however, to see one of his smaller cooking knives lying on the bench just beside the table, with a little scrap of paper fixed to the handle. The cook grabbed the knife between his toes and brought his foot towards his face to read the note. That bastard's uneven scrawl was unmistakable, arrogant even in writing:

Surprised?

A monster. Sanji had created a monster.

But as he gripped the knife tighter, and, thanking god for his flexibility training, began sawing through the ropes binding his wrists, feeling the sticky warmth still wet against his stomach, Sanji sighed and realized he didn't honestly give a shit.