Hey guys! Yeah, yeah, I know. It's been literally years since I've written/updated anything. I'm really sorry! Life equals suck right now, but I'm slowly regaining my inspiration! Yay!

ANYway, this will eventually be a collection of SanUso ficlets I've written that I don't think are long enough to be given their own independent story status. Some of you may have already read some of these on livejournal. The first three will be from there, but within the next few days I hope to have some of my new stuff here as well!

WARNING: Just as a brief note to anyone who somehow managed to skip over the summary. This is a collection of SANUSO stuff. Or UsoSan, whatever you like to call it. These will range from friendship to serious yaoi, so if you don't like either the pairing or the whole yaoi aspect, please do us all a favor and turn back now while you still can! Thanks! :D

Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece or any related characters!

Enjoy! And thanks for reading!

Fruit Salad

Usopp, during his time on the Going Merry, had found that there were few things that, with the exception of Sanji on a warpath, could actually drive him from his work, his experiments, or, in the worst circumstances, the galley entirely.

One was Zoro on a warpath, or perhaps Nami on a warpath, or really... Nami just mildly displeased. Another was the smell of burnt popcorn, but that had only happened once, and then the chef had backed him into the wall and sworn him to secrecy with the threat of expensive leather up his backside.

Though he hadn't phrased it in quite so polite a manner…

The last, and most distressing thing was… well… a certain item…

A certain fruit…

Alright… a banana.

Maybe it wasn't so much the banana itself as it was the chef's rather… intense liking for them. The blonde didn't simply eat that particular brand of produce, he indulged in them, savored them with an enthusiasm that was, as far as Usopp was concerned, just shy of obscene.

Long, slender fingers would cradle the object with a touch far too soft for even the most delicate glass, blunt finger nails lifting, coaxing away the peel to bear the pale tissue laying beneath.

An eager mouth, looking strangely alien in lacking its typical cigarette, would seal itself neatly around the fruit's flesh, bowing, yielding to it's girth before he sank his teeth cleanly through, finally retreating with the very first portion of his treat held trapped between his still parted lips.

Only to return several long, painful seconds later, working with an aching slowness around the length of the fruit. With a subtle lift of his chin he would move back again, chewing thoughtfully and regarding the object within his hand through eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

And the noises. Oh, for the love of all things good and wholesome in the world, the noises. He didn't blatantly mewl, but it appeared as if he wanted to. He would tip his head back, displaying the graceful slope of his neck, taut muscles rippling as he swallowed, but the sound only ever escaped as a sigh, or a low hum of appreciation. Perhaps it was far too much of a distraction to put that little extra effort into an all out moan.

Usopp was immensely grateful for the strange, drunken haze that seemed to settle over the cook when he was busy with his favorite fruit, because that small lack of motivation was a godsend, a brief respite in the torture.

Oddly enough, the older pirate seemed to hate the bruises that he occasionally found, the darker, brown spots marring his otherwise flawlessly colored prize. His blue eye, focused so acutely on the task at hand, would narrow upon the imperfection, but true to his character, he would continue with no less the fervor of any other bite. And with the low tone that would grow from deep within his chest, he wasn't at all disappointed.

The marksman found himself constantly thanking Mother Nature, incredibly relieved that bananas were far less… moist… than most other fruits.

The sniper had always considered himself of rather sound mind and body, and of a rather pure nature, not one who had those impulsive tendencies he had heard most young men encountered. At times he was even proud of himself, attributing his immunity to his high level of self control, smirking at the way Zoro's eyes hounded after Luffy as he tossed his shirt carelessly to the breeze on a hot day, standing ever unaware and topless upon the deck.

But if the chef chose a banana from the fridge, the sharpshooter was gone before his comrade's fingers had time to draw back the skin, fleeing into the safety of the crow's nest. The vivid golden crescent was as damning as the signature scrawled carelessly upon a death warrant.

It had only taken one time, a span of barely five minutes for him to know that he could not bear witness to the blonde's display if he wanted to maintain his composure. Because for all of his so-called innocence, the images stirred within his mind by his crewmate were far from it, rousing nameless feelings and ideas from the depths of his body.

And while they were not truly unpleasant, they caused an uncertainty, a confusion, and a discomfort that sent the liar's senses reeling, had him dashing for anywhere cold and dark. More often than not his fevered thoughts would lead him to the bathroom, where he would lock the door and curl up on the tiled floor, his forehead pressed firmly to the cool ceramic of the tub as he sorted himself out.

Just this morning he had been forced into a hasty evacuation of the galley, startling the cook, his hand halfway to the bunch of condemning produce within the fridge, as he scrambled frantically for the door, not looking back even when his slingshot had clattered to the ground in his rush.

So when the chef beckoned him to the kitchen later that evening, he was wary, his gaze scouring the room for any sign of the offending food. He stepped cautiously through the entrance, slightly stunned to find Sanji waiting just inside the door for him, attention caught by the pack of cigarettes he was tucking back into his pocket.

"What'd you need me for?" Usopp questioned, sliding into his seat at the table when the cook motioned for him to do so. He waited patiently for a reply, stiffening only slightly when he thought he heard the sound of a door locking behind him. With his chest tightening in apprehension, he froze, reining in a shudder and suddenly feeling very cornered as the cook passed behind him.

As Sanji had stepped from his place beside the door, he brushed gently against the marksman's back, moving with a deliberate slowness on his way to the counter. "I need you to help me make tonight's dessert," he explained quietly; voice casual, calm, his tone even in a way that had goose-bumps spreading swiftly down the liar's bare arms.

"Oh?" He squeaked, flinching at the sound of his own strained response. The younger teen gulped audibly, listening carefully as the blonde shifted again, this time stopping at his right shoulder. "So, what are we making?"

The chef made no effort to answer, only stood in silence until his pause compelled the long-nose to lift his face, meeting his gaze. He saw the smaller boy stiffen, his dark eyes widening at the knowing look he offered, and at length, an almost predatory smirk took hold of the chef's lips.

Lifting a small sack that he had gathered from the countertop, he settled it squarely in front of the gunner and released the burlap cloth, letting the fabric pool and fall away to reveal the vibrant yellow fruit it had concealed. Delighting in the blush that flared upon the sharpshooter's face, he allowed himself one more moment, watching the color work it's way down the sniper's tanned throat.

Holding the boy's focus he leaned steadily downward, until he felt his friend's erratic breath upon his face. His mouth eased upward, smile growing into a feral grin, his eye sharp upon his comrade as he finally spoke.

"We're making fruit salad."