Zoro accepts the peach Sanji passes to him, grunting his thanks. As Sanji offers fruit to the others, Zoro takes his to the railing of the Merry and sits on the deck with it – he reminds Sanji of a dog taking its treat to its bed, to gnaw in peace.

The peaches, just out of the ice box, are pleasantly cool to the touch – Zoro rolls his around in his hands as he stares out to the horizon, saying a quiet final goodbye to Vivi, and to Alabasta. All seven of them are bandaged in some way. They proudly carry their aches and pains, smiling at one another as they wince through twinged muscles and stinging scrapes.

They stretch out in the sun, beaming. Luffy hums a tune from his favourite spot on Merry's head, and Nami and Usopp speak in hushed voices where they sit against the mast. Chopper eats a nectarine in a few bites, then taps softly over to where Zoro sits in the shade and crawls into the swordsman's lap, falling asleep near instantly. Robin reclines in the shadow of the mast, turning pages quietly, her face shielded by a large, white brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses.

Sanji takes a spot on the other side of the deck, near the figurehead where Luffy rests, in sight of Zoro and Chopper. He can see or hear all of them from here. As it should be.

A sea breeze blows. Sanji takes his first bite and closes his eyes against the pleasure; cool juice splashes down his throat and a summery sweet taste blossoms on his tongue. He takes a few more bites without looking, staring into the redness against his eyelids and just feeling it, the cold and the warmth splayed against one another, all the different parts of him they touch.

When he opens his eyes again the peach is half gone, and there's a trail of sweet sticky juice running down the inside of his wrist. He licks it away, finishes the fruit, throws the pit into the ocean behind him.

Across the deck in front of him, Zoro's nearly done with his own fruit, though he's made… a little more of a mess. From here Sanji can see the juice on his wrist, the rosy tint of it inside an elbow, a rivulet running down the inside of his jaw. He wonders if he should have bought out towels as well as fruit and then –

a thought raises, unbidden; Zoro's brown body before him, the sharp line of his jaw, and Sanji licking him clean. Sweet and salt mixing together, the warmth of the sun still trapped there, Zoro's breath in his ear –

and he stands, very suddenly, and walks away from the deck and into the ship, closing himself in the kitchen where he sits, shaking, and puts his head and arms down onto the table. It's cool inside, but his body feels flushed – and more flushed still as he allows his mind to race.

His hands trail over Zoro's chest, feeling for where the peach juice fell; he lays his tongue flat against Zoro's collarbone and swipes away the nectar there; licks Zoro like a dog, methodical and unembarrassed, feeling for sure that this is meant for him. He tastes the inside of Zoro's mouth, taking the last of the juice from his cheeks, his lips, his tongue.

A hot, languishing pit of desire starts to coil inside him, and he presses his legs together under the table. He aches. He imagines peach juice mingling with blood, stinging inside Zoro's cuts and scrapes – pushes that thought away for a second before it returns with force – now the memory of it is on his tongue, only there's a rust to it. With his head pressed to the table he brings a hand to his mouth, unsure if he means to trap the cursed flavour inside or swallow it.

He leans back, breathing shakily.

This isn't the first time. He remembers the dry heat of the Sandora Desert, the way the fever of the day would sit in the skin for a while after the sun went down. He remembers falling asleep by the fire, wanting to feel that warmth under Zoro's skin before it faded, wanting to bring it back himself where they laid close together, until their bodies steamed in the cool desert air. He remembers clenching his teeth against that image until it hurt, so many times that sometimes when he thought about it his jaw would twinge right away in response.

As always, he supposed, he'd just have to suffer through it. He'd ignore his want, hide his eyes, still his shaking hands with cigarettes.

His fingers twitch. That familiar urge.

He's sure to position himself away from Zoro as he smokes, leaning against the railing under Nami's mikan trees. The smoke burns away every last vestige of sweetness, scouring his throat and tongue. Sanji sighs with calm relief.

That hot wash of arousal hasn't faded, though. It beats against the inside of him like a tidal swell, and he aches and aches and aches. Eyes closed, he smokes and listens to the trees whisper until the feeling's mostly gone.

He could return, he knows. He could probably even be sort of normal about it – he'd take some more fruit out of the ice box (he knows they have strawberries, which Chopper and the ladies love) and offer it around, maybe make some sangria with what remains – but for now he thinks he'd rather wait just a little longer.

Because if he goes back to them and finds Zoro with juice still shining on the skin of his throat, growing stickier and sweeter in the sunlight, he thinks he might truly lose his mind.

Eventually, though, he hears Luffy calling. The captain's hungry.

Sanji goes to him, of course. When it comes to Luffy, his desires rarely outstrips his purpose.


Later, after the sun's gone down, Sanji's passing soapy dishes to Usopp to dry and put away, and he's almost stopped thinking about Zoro's skin and mouth and sweat and –

Shit.

He passes a plate mechanically, nearly letting it go before Usopp's quite grabbed a hold of it.

"Oi, Sanji! Pay attention," the sniper scolds.

"Sorry, sorry," he replies, not looking away from the sink as he plunges his hands back into the water to retrieve a soaked metal pot.

He scrubs the pot, frowning slightly. If he thinks about other things – like Nami's freckled shoulders or Robin's careful hands or Nojiko's slender neck – he can just about drive away his desire for Zoro's tapered waist and tight hips and that smirk Sanji imagines he'd get on his face were Sanji to ever come on to him, and –

he drops a plate – not as he hands it to Usopp but back into the sink, where it cracks against another dish and breaks cleanly in half. He just… stares, for a moment, unblinking.

"Uh, Sanji?" Usopp waves his hand in front of his face. "Hey…"

"Sorry," he says again, and picks up the two pieces to lay them aside.

"It's fine," Usopp says. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no." Sanji says, already dreaming again. Usopp doesn't question him further, and they finish their task in silence.

He's draining the sink and wiping down the benches when Nami brings in a carton of fruit from storage, apparently left there by mistake. Sanji watches as she puts it in the ice box.

"What have you got in there, Nami-san?" he asks, trying to maintain an air of calm detachment.

"Oh, let's see…" she says, and looks inside. "Oranges, mangos, loads of grapes and strawberries, some peaches…"

"Great," he says. He's thinking, of course. How could he not?


Later still, Sanji lies in his hammock, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Zoro hasn't come in yet, which means he must be training in the crow's nest. It's late, well after 12, and the soft snores of the other boys float in the air around him.

He thinks of those peaches Nami put away earlier. They must be quite cold by now…

The thought's barely finished before he finds himself on his feet and padding towards the hatch. He lets himself up the ladder and out onto the deck, feeling a slight chill in the air through his hooded sweatshirt. He doesn't worry about waking the others. Something that sounds like an innocent bathroom (or smoke) break won't rouse them.

He lets his momentum carry him to the kitchen, where he takes out a single peach, cups it in his palm. He runs a thumb slowly over the cold flesh of the fruit as he heads outside again and stops near the mast, listening. From above comes a faint clinking sound – Zoro, lifting his weights up in the crow's nest.

Even as Sanji listens there comes a thud, then silence for a moment – then the hatch above him opens and Zoro comes climbing down the mast, skin shining with sweat in the moonlight. He's shirtless, undeniably gorgeous.

Sanji can barely move – he feels like he's been caught, somehow, in a dangerous act.

Still, when Zoro steps down that last rung and turns to him, cocking a quizzical eyebrow, Sanji mechanically raises the arm that holds the peach and offers it to the damp, beautiful swordsman.

"Bought you this," he says. He can't quite meet Zoro's eyes.

"Oh. Thanks," Zoro says, and takes it. The quickness in his actions raises the hair on the back of Sanji's neck – God he's rude – but he squashes it down because Zoro's raised the peach to his lips, parted them to take a bite. His canines, white and sharp, draw Sanji's eyes.

He lowers the peach without tasting it, staring at Sanji. His eyes, golden brown and glinting, seem to see through Sanji, inside him, undressing his motives. He's aware suddenly of the sweat on the back of his neck and the way the cold wind brushes there, the impatient tap in his fingers, and – God – the throbbing ache in his cunt, and how can Zoro not see this, see all of him? He's gripped by the sudden, terrible need to turn and walk away.

But Zoro's the first to go, sauntering towards the stairs to the upper deck. Sanji hears him say "C'mon, let's go sit upstairs," and his feet just move, obediently, even as his face flushes with anger. There's so much heat at odds inside him now that he feels half undone already.

He follows Zoro up the ladder to the mikan grove, where they quietly sit, looking out to sea. There's a space large enough for two people to settle comfortably in between the trees, though with their legs crossed their knees nearly touch. Sanji sits as still as he can, hardly daring to breathe.

"I like this spot," Zoro says. "Cools me down."

Sanji nods. It's nice, he thinks. The words halt on his tongue, and he swallows them.

Beside him, Zoro raises his arm to take a bite.

Sanji doesn't dare to look, at first.

But oh god he has to.

He glances over just as Zoro's teeth sink into the flesh of the peach, and a spurt of cloudy pink juice jumps down his chin, running quickly across his jawline for a moment before it slows to mingle with the sweat on his neck. Sanji can't help but wince at the potent shock of arousal that courses through him, though he fights the urge to bring his knees together.

Zoro senses it, surely, but he doesn't say anything. He raises a hand to wipe the juice away –

and without thinking, Sanji grabs it.

Not Zoro's hand, exactly – more so his wrist, though Sanji's fingers curl over the bottom of his palm; even then he can feel the strength in it. Zoro eyes darken, and he lowers the hand slowly.

Sanji can't take his eyes off the swordsman. Is this animalistic fervour what they all feel, those other swordsmen and women he's faced over the years? Does the heat of Zoro's gaze burn them like this? Does every brush of wind on their skin raise gooseflesh, feeling raked over and possessed and seen?

Pushing all thoughts from his mind besides what he craves, Sanji inches a little closer. He holds his gaze, feeling as though breaking it would sever the moment entirely; this full and expectant pause marked by the rustle of the mikan trees and the soft slap of small waves against the hull below.

Watching Sanji all the while, Zoro raises his head just slightly, tilting his chin away. Moonlight catches the juice on his skin, turning it a silvery white.

Stopped in his tracks by the gesture, Sanji stares.

He's known the entire time?

Zoro's voice comes deep and low, traveling through Sanji from the base of his spine to the top of his head – "Go ahead."

He can hardly stop now, can he? That would be like admitting defeat – like losing a game of chicken, and Zoro would never let him hear the end of it.

He shouldn't pull away, but he has to ask.

"How'd you know?"

Zoro just stares for a moment. Sanji can almost hear the argument going on inside that moss head –

"I saw you… standing on the deck waiting for me, and you looked so…" he measures his words, only for a moment, "pathetically horny."

The fight or flight instinct that takes Sanji in that moment is intense – in the overwhelming fury of it he can't quite believe Zoro would say such a thing, so candidly – but what is the swordsman if not candid?

Sanji, spluttering; "Pathetic?!"

"Red faced, shaking, shirt hanging half off your shoulder. Yeah, pathetic."

"I wasn't – I'm not – "

"Not pathetic? Or not horny?"

He's right, of course. Even in the middle of this humiliating conversation Sanji can feel how wet he is, how his cunt pulses and aches with the need for it. What does he lose by admitting his desire? Surely not his dignity.

"Fine, so what?"

"So go ahead," Zoro repeats. He's unwavering.

Gripped by those words, Sanji closes the gap between them. Rather than simply lean in, he opts to straddle Zoro's lap. Zoro's thighs relax beneath him as he settles his weight, though he notices with horror that the spread is enough that he can't close his own legs, and Zoro could easily make it worse if he wanted to.

Face to face now, that blush Zoro had somehow sensed returns. His back to the ocean, all Sanji can see is Zoro's patient gaze, his half-lidded eyes and parted lips. It's too much – god, it's not fair, he's so beautiful –

Rather than dwell on it, Sanji reaches down.

Zoro's left hand still holds the peach, its pink-orange flesh marred by a single bite. Wordlessly, Sanji takes it and holds it to Zoro's mouth; without blinking, without taking his eyes from the cook (he's shaking a little, he knows this) Zoro takes another. It's a good one. Sanji feels whatever small resistance existing within the fruit give way to Zoro's teeth, the slight tear that rends it from the stone buried inside. A canine grazes his pinkie finger.

Sanji knows now that the juice is all just part of it; whatever insane show Zoro wanted to put on for him, to show him how wretched, how easy he is, how Zoro himself only had to watch and wait. Again it drips from his jaw, spots his broad chest. Stripes of it mark his neck where his pulse drums beneath.

Sanji drops the peach and leans in. He puts his hands on the swordsman without any fighting pretence, his palm to Zoro's neck to hold his head still –

and he licks; first a small one, just below the sharp corner of Zoro's jaw where the shine catches his eye. It's salty-sweet, but the taste is only slight, so he leans back to angle Zoro's head to the moonlight, and – there, a thick smudge of it towards his chin, sticky where the juices have settled in.

He closes his eyes to it, breathes in. The heady scent of citrus and sugar and sea-air-dried sweat fills him up, first his nose and then his mouth. He swipes over it slowly, and beneath him Zoro shudders. It's almost too small a movement to catch. Bolstered, Sanji presses his tongue in a little harder on the next lick, and the shake that follows is unmistakeable.

For a minute he carries on like this, dutifully licking the swordsman clean, rubbing his own spit away with a thumb as he goes. Zoro's not as warm as he imagined – or hoped – but the coolness that sits on his skin is comforting in its own way, like the wind that tugs at the hem of Sanji's sweatshirt and nudges the back of his neck.

All through it Zoro sits, patient and quiet. Sanji feels the air around them changing with every moment, an unfamiliar tension rising as his body grows hotter and the ache inside him somehow grows. Zoro thighs twitch beneath him. The swordman raises a hand to the small of his back, where it sits – a heavy, possessive weight through the fabric of Sanji's sweater.

The juice gone, Sanji seeks sweetness in the last place he knows he'll find it; he tilts Zoro's head with his hands, and his lips part beneath Sanji's so eagerly that he wonders why he didn't do this sooner.

Zoro doesn't lead the kiss. He moves languidly, as though drunk, letting Sanji press into him, move over him. His lips are softer than Sanji imagined. They're not bowed like Sanji's own, and a little thicker – the feel of them, the warmth of him is so gorgeous he suddenly feels as though he could cry. Zoro's always been beautiful, hasn't he?

He slips his tongue into Zoro's easy mouth, exploring as he'd imagined it earlier in the night. He presses in harder, bringing his narrow chest to Zoro's wide one and angling his hips down. Finally, with a tightness that brings the ache inside him to a new crescendo, Zoro wraps his arms around the cook and pulls him in that last millimetre. He almost gasps into Zoro's mouth at the near-agony of it – he's so turned on it hurts, and he's barely been touched yet.

The sudden thought of Zoro touching him –

Drawing back, he breathes one word: "Please".

Of course Zoro understands it. In a second Sanji finds himself on his back in the grass, looking up at the mikan trees. Beneath the tiny canopy, with the swordsman on top of him, all the world around them suddenly feels so dark, so quiet.

"You want this?" Zoro says, voice low and tinged with desire.

"God, yes," – he's barely finished getting the words out before he feels his pants being near ripped off him, the chill of the air exposing, to his own awareness, just how fucking wet he is. He bends his knees instinctually, trying to hide himself, but Zoro grasps his knees, laughing softly.

"Fuck, you're soaking," Zoro marvels, then commands "Sit up."

Sanji obeys without thinking, though the candour in Zoro's voice raises his hackles; the anger's forgotten the instant Zoro touches him. Feeling manhandled and not entirely hating it, he's pulled again onto Zoro's lap, legs uncrossed now and splayed beneath them. He realises as he sits that Zoro's grown hard inside his thin sweatpants. Zoro's hands come to rest on his ass, giving him a slight squeeze.

"Never thought I'd see you like that," Zoro grins, a dark, heady glint in his eye.

"Like what?"

"Exposed to me," Zoro says simply.

"I… can't say I haven't thought it before."

"I know."

"How could you?"

Zoro shrugs. "You're a mess, cook. You're the easiest guy to read in the world."

"And you never thought to…"

"To come onto you? Nah. Figured you'd get there eventually, if you wanted it."

"Well you… you want this too, right?"

Zoro cocks an eyebrow, gives that sly, evil smirk, and squeezes his ass again, hard. He gasps. "F-fuck."

"Enough talking," Zoro growls.


Keeping one large warm hand planted firmly on Sanji's ass cheek, Zoro moves the other to curl under him from behind. Steady fingers find the wetness between his legs – he's so obscenely wet now that it's started to creep down the insides of his thighs.

The instant Zoro touches him, Sanji moans

and claps a hand over his mouth, red-faced with embarrassment.

Then Zoro's fingers slide into him with an ease that's almost obscene; the swordsman watches his face as he moves, first into him, feeling him, then out and over his clit. Sanji's legs, settled on Zoro's thighs, twitch in response. Zoro grins; then his face turns serious for a moment.

"You feel fucking amazing, Cook," he mumbles, and if he can hear the reverence in his own voice, Sanji hopes it embarrasses the hell out of him.

Instantly, Sanji flushes – he feels it travel down his chest, and up into his hair. He opens his mouth to tell Zoro to shut it – cause what the hell is Zoro thinking, complimenting him out of nowhere like that? – but Zoro lips are on his without warning, pressing into him with hot intensity. He makes the tiniest sound in response, as Zoro's free hand travels up his back and into his hair, holding him there.

Zoro fingers him with practised ease, slowly – achingly so – and steadily. The act of it is almost more teasing than the lead-up, because each time Zoro hits upon the spot that has Sanji panting and begging, he lingers there only a few seconds before curling a couple of fingers into him, or simply stopping to squeeze his ass and rub his thighs. Now and then he kisses Sanji's lips, his face, his neck. It's unbearably tender. Zoro acting soft with him one moment, then ordering him about the next – he's not terribly used to any of it, much less had ever expected to like it, to want to obey it. His own pleasure, Zoro's pleasure; both were at the forefront of his mind, and this seemed to be the way to get there.

When Zoro pauses a moment to reposition, to draw away and bring his hand back around to Sanji's front – Sanji groans in obvious frustration, earning him another grin from the swordsman. He wonders then if Zoro's into the whole vocal thing, so he tries it –

first under his breath, a little "oh, fuck" when Zoro touches him again (truly it's so electric that his legs jitter a little) and his thinks he feels Zoro react, a twitch in his fingers at the base of Sanji's skull, but it's not enough.

A hushed "yes, there" gets a little more, some increase in pressure, in concentration – and it gets to Sanji, too. As Zoro's fingers tighten around the base of his neck he gasps, leans into the touch. His whole body feels impossibly warm, as though he's sitting in front of an open fire.

Finally, without much warning, Zoro circles his clit, adding pressure gradually until Sanji's gasping each breath and holding on tight to Zoro's shirt. The noises coming from him are obscene, he knows, and he wonders if Zoro's enjoying that too, seeing him come undone a little.

Coils of pleasure unfurl inside him and he moves jerkily back and forth on Zoro's fingers, nearly babbling now – the "fuck"s and "oh god"s spill out of him, bringing him closer and closer until suddenly he untenses a little and his orgasm bursts forward with white intensity, and he shouts as he comes and comes and comes, legs squeezing into Zoro's thighs as he drops his face into his shoulder, eyes closed tight in blind satisfaction.

When it's over, he rests there a moment. Zoro's fingers are still on him, unmoving, and his other hand still rests warmly in his hair.

He hears – and feels – the swordsman exhale.

"If you don't shut it, everyone's gonna hear us."

Zoro shoves Sanji sideways off of him. The cook exhales sharply as his ass hits the cool grass that carpets the mikan grove. He sits there a moment in shock. He's still coming down from his orgasm – his own juices stickily coating the insides of his legs, and a warm feeling still boiling in his gut. He's covered in a thin sheen of sweat, too, cooling quickly in the night air.

"There it is."

Sanji has no time to react – the next moment he finds himself on his back, staring up at the swordsman's grinning face. Zoro has a distinctly mischievous look about him – Sanji's only ever seen it in the context of battle, so to see it here… he suddenly finds himself feeling a little nervous.

"Ah, what –?"

"Had to find something to gag you with," Zoro says simply, and touches the soft skin of Sanji's discarded peach to his lips. "You liked licking me so much," he says, eyes darkening, "I think you'll enjoy this too."

"You want me to –?" his lips graze the skin as he speaks. The smell of it fills his nose, heady and sweet.

"Bite it."

"And if I do…?"

He knows what he wants to hear.

"If you do, maybe the whole crew won't have to listen to you screaming while I fuck you."

The whole world falls away, and Sanji's reduced to the 'pathetically horny mess' Zoro described him as earlier – he's right of course, isn't he? Sometimes he feels sick for it, incurably so, though he's never allowed himself to fully imagine Zoro being the one to do it, and to do it so enthusiastically.

But what had the swordsman said? "Figured you'd get there eventually, if you wanted it"?

Had it been up to Sanji the entire time?

Fixing his eyes on Zoro's, Sanji obediently bites into the skin of the peach.

Juice squirts everywhere near immediately – runs down the inside of his jaw, sprays the back of his throat. Like everything else except for himself and Zoro it's cold to the touch, a stark relief.

"Don't swallow," Zoro commands.

Somehow among all of this, Zoro's undressed himself, and now kneels naked in the grove. Around the flesh of the fruit keeping his mouth closed Sanji watches the swordsman stroke himself over Sanji's waiting body, sees and feels one warm hand push up Sanji's thin sweatshirt, exposing his stomach. Sanji pauses, wondering what to do with his own hands. Should he touch himself, too? He's ready for it, no doubt about that – the night breeze caresses him sweetly, making him shiver. He feels empty, waiting.

Zoro leans in then, and Sanji opens his legs a little more, but the swordsman keeps himself in his hand – with his free hand braced next to Sanji's head, he copies Sanji's own movements from earlier, and cleans the sweet peach juice from his skin.

Sanji can hardly bear it. His hands curl in the grass, making fists, and he fights the urge to spit the fruit from his mouth and take Zoro in instead; but Zoro has expectations for him, clearly, and he's not in the right state to disobey them. Isn't this what he'd been yearning for ever since that desert night in Alabasta? Since he'd seen the red dust coating Zoro's skin, the sweat that cut lines through it from ear to collarbone, the way the sun had made him shine?

He supposes getting in each other's faces about who caught the bigger fish was a little different to being licked and fucked in the mikan grove. Clearly his mind drew clean lines between the two; maybe Zoro was the same.

He groans around the peach as Zoro touches him again, two fingers curling into the wet mess of him. His hips jerk and thrust and he bites down harder, bringing forth more juice from the peach – Zoro draws back from him then, nose dripping.

"You're not swallowing it, right?" he asks. Sanji shakes his head, juice lapping against the back of his closed throat, splashing over his tongue.

"You're so hot when you can't speak, Cook." This earns Zoro a kick, though the grinning swordsman responds by lying down next to Sanji in the grass, sliding one thick brown arm under his head and manhandling his legs into position. "You taste so sweet, though…"

Sanji moans. "Zo'o, 'lease…"

"'Zoro', eh? You must be suffering, curly. Here, let me help."

Pressing a rough kiss into Sanji's neck, Zoro finds his position, bracing his hips against the ground. He uses his free hand to guide himself up and into Sanji's aching cunt, and they gasp in blissful unison.

It's Zoro's turn to lose his words now – Sanji thinks he hears something like "You feel amazing oh my god I'm gonna fuck you so good Cook" but it's lost in the movement of Zoro's hips and the juice pooling in his mouth and the tears leaking from his closed eyes. Zoro's manhandling has him half on his side, that arm he'd curled under him now wrapped around and pinning him by the chest into the swordsman. He'd never noticed there being this much of a size difference between them before, but right now he feels small. He finds he likes it.

Zoro has one big warm hand on Sanji's exposed hip, and he squeezes him there now and then, drawing fresh sounds from Sanji's closed mouth and huffs of breath from his nose.

And he's so full, his body so spoiled for sensation – Zoro's cock thrusting into him moves his entire body where it's not braced by the swordsman's other arm, his mouth slowly filling with juice that sloshes back and forth over his tongue, small parts of it borne down his aching throat. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate on not swallowing it back, and he wonders what might happen if he didn't – would he choke? Would it spill out of him like an overfull bathtub? How could there be any juice left in the thing, anyway? He marvels for a second at the juiciest peach ever known to man, and then –

Zoro's hand presses into his throat, and he sees stars.

Sanji whines, bites down harder. Fresh juice surges forth.

Zoro's found a good rhythm now, and Sanji feels each thrust slam into him so deliciously, the slap of Zoro's sweat-slick skin against his own. He can't make any noise besides that pathetic whine in the back of his throat, but he doesn't hate the desperate sound of it, and it seems Zoro doesn't either. Instead of telling the Cook to shut up he fucks into him harder, burying himself up to the hilt, drawing more depraved sounds from his body and more hot tears from his eyes.

Groaning wetly now he angles his hips, tentatively testing each thrust as it comes, and –

Oh, Christ, there.

He wishes he could speak. There, there, there, yes –

As though reading his mind, Zoro's hand tightens on his neck. "Don't," he says. "You gotta stay quiet."

But I'm going to explode, I'm –

so close

Then Zoro leans in, murmurs, "You came on my hand – you gonna come on my cock now?"

It's all Sanji can do not to choke, cause he's really truly very close to coming now, and he has to do something about this situation – so he takes the peach from his mouth, and at that moment

Zoro strokes into him hard

two, three, four

rude and uncompromising, jolting him to his limit

and slides that hand from Sanji's hip to his aching clit, letting the movement of their bodies guide his fingers

Sanji turns his head and spits most of the accumulated juice and saliva into the grass, takes a huge breath moments before Zoro's hand leaves his throat to clasp over his mouth

and Sanji breathes out of his nose and over Zoro's hand as a second, much more intense orgasm wracks his body, his legs stuttering and hands grasping as it rips through him like a storm

still leaking juice between Zoro's careless fingers, the swordsman now swearing and gasping

"Fuck, I'm comin' –"

he can hardly speak, but groans into Sanji's ear as he climaxes, voice eclipsing Sanji's own muted gasps.

A minute passes as they lay there, breathing heavily. Zoro doesn't pull out, just rests there inside Sanji as they pant, limbs tangled.

Then Zoro clears his throat. "You uh. You gonna finish that?"

Confused, Sanji glances at him, then to where his piercing gaze rests –

The half-eaten peach, desecrated and used, lying in the grass.

"Oh. Yeah."

"Can't waste food," Zoro mumbles.

"Course not."

Taking bites between them, they finish the fruit. It's still cool, complementing the night breeze, the soft warmth of Zoro's body wrapped around him. And it's nice, not moving – Sanji's dreading Zoro pulling out of him, dreading pulling his pants on over his sticky legs, dreading climbing down from here covered in so many kinds of juice, his hair messed up and his neck all bruised. His mind races through the last hour or so, and he finds he's not quite finished. If he knows Zoro at all, he reckons the swordsman isn't either.

"You're a mess, Cook," Zoro says, flinging the peach stone through the trees and into the ocean.

"Yeah," he muses. "I'd better be." He wiggles his hips, and Zoro groans. "Wanna mess me up a little more?"

Zoro pauses, the slightest grin playing over his lips.

"Follow you down to the shower?"

There's a flurry of activity as Zoro slides out of him and they rush to gather their clothing, leaving the safety of the canopy behind.

He's looking forward to the next long leg of their trip.

Maybe strawberries next time…