This whole situation had been a recipe for disaster from the start.
Zoro dragged one calloused hand up Sanji's side, pulling an unwilling sound from him that was halfway between a whine and a moan. He tried to return the favor, tried to trace the contours of Zoro's muscles or follow the flow of water as it ran down the swordsman's well-toned body, but his hand was quickly swatted away.
"No hands, Cook," Zoro gleefully reminded him.
It was because Sanji was careless in the kitchen. Sometimes his confidence as a cook got the better of him and he found himself forgetting some of the more basic rules of the kitchen. He was in that frame of mind when he was spinning around that morning, overly pleased with the praise Robin had just bestowed on him. He got a little carried away, bumping into the stove and knocking the pot that was their morning oatmeal off the side.
He'd tried desperately to save their food, and ended up with two handfuls of hot oatmeal for his troubles. He didn't know what was actually more painful at the time; the searing pain of boiling oatmeal settling into his skin or the panic that he was severely damaging his hands.
He didn't need Chopper's diagnoses or the sight of the pink, shiny skin on his palms to tell him he'd suffered a bad burn. The pain every time he moved his fingers was more than enough of a reminder. About the only good news he'd heard all day was that with some rest he would make a full recovery.
Of course Chopper's definition of 'rest' was Spartan. Sanji wasn't allowed to cook (bad), do up the buttons on his suit jacket (worse), or shower (nightmarish). Sanji could allow someone else to cook, as long as it was under his watchful eye, and he was okay with going without his jacket for a little while. But he absolutely could not go without showering. That was filthy! Barbarian!
It had been a roundabout fight with Chopper, Sanji needed to shower every day! And it dragged on until Zoro spoke up and offered his services. It was a stupid idea, Sanji still thought so, but tempting enough Sanji didn't put up more than a token of protest against it. The conditions were simple enough, Zoro would wash Sanji and Sanji would keep his hands out of the water.
That was how Sanji came to be pinned against the shower wall, pressed between the cool tile and the swordsman's heated skin. Water cascaded down over their heads but Sanji's arms were draped over Zoro's shoulders, his hands safely out of the water's reach. It was infuriating, being touched but not able to touch back. Every caress from Zoro's hand was both enticing and gloating, as Zoro's hands ran over every inch of Sanji that he could reach.
Zoro's hips ground against his own, and Sanji couldn't help but cry out at the feel of Zoro's heated flesh against his own. Zoro smirked, satisfied with the results of his action, as he continued to map out all of Sanji's weak points with his fingers.
It was torture, pure and simple. Sanji was helpless to do more than arch into Zoro's touch. Every time his hands made to move from the swordsman's shoulders, he was given a warning not to touch, to keep his hands dry. All while Zoro's touches burned his insides.
Sanji was desperate for more, arching his back and thrusting his hips into Zoro's; it was the only way he could instigate any touching. Burned hands or not he wanted to touch Zoro, to feel the smooth skin and firm muscles of the other man. He wanted to make Zoro moan and cry out the same way Zoro was making him. He wanted to level the playing field and put Zoro just as on edge as he was; panting for air he could hardly get enough of, shivering even under the steaming water.
The building friction against his cock, pressed between Zoro's body and his own was hardly enough anymore. He needed more. His hand twitched, the instinct to take himself in hand battling against what was left of his reason. Thankfully Zoro seemed to have taken note of the minute movement, and gave in to Sanji's desire just this once.
Zoro took both of their cocks in his hand. He was too close to his own impending orgasm, driven to the brink by the sounds Sanji was making; indecent noises that were choked and desperate and deeply pleasurable. He pumped them together, his thumb pressing into the tip of Sanji, causing the cook to cry out.
Sanji was mess, strings unintelligible words pouring from his lips; a mess of pleas for more and Zoro's name slipping through in an increasingly more desperate pitch until he was practically begging Zoro in tears to come.
Zoro happily obliged, tensing his grip just a little more, increasing the pace of his hand and running his thumb across the sensitive tip of Sanji's cock. Sanji came crying out Zoro's name in a string of curses and Zoro followed after with a satisfied hiss.
After they'd properly cleaned and Zoro had helped to dress him, doing up the small buttons of his dress shirt, Sanji lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale. He held it for a moment, hoping the nicotine would take the last of the lingering sensitivity from his skin, before turning to Zoro.
"My hands will be better in a couple weeks," Sanji informed the swordsman. "And next time it's your turn."