It didn't happen when Sanji pressed his tongue flat and firm and dragged it slick and heavy along the tender fold of Zoro's inner thigh. Nor did it happen when he bit along the absurd line of seaweed hair beneath the navel then downward, and this was surprising since Zoro had always keened low and deep and desperate when Sanji had scrapped along the rough curly patch. This, more than anything, convinced the cook that the bastard was taking this far more seriously than intended. He snorted in irritation when he pulled up to kiss fiercely against the tight mouth and pushed inside to taste copper warmth.
Competitive asshole.
It happened about an hour later, when Sanji had found echo of an old bruise cut sharply across the swordsman's hip. He fixed his mouth along the discolored outer edge and sucked. Zoro's hand reached down to move Sanji's head away as his scarred body twisted tautly against the damp sheets, but stopped before he touched yellow hair. He could not push the tormenting pressure away; it was against the rules. So instead his pants grew loud and labored, until he was no longer able to hold back a single low grunt.
Sanji grinned at the sound, and finally pulled away.
"See there, you pathetic bastard?" he taunted.
"So fucking what?" Zoro panted. "It's not like you're winning or anything. We're tied right now, but I'm still going to beat you."
Sanji smacked Zoro's thigh in annoyance.
"Oi, Asshole, this is just a game, remember? You don't have to take it all serious and shit."
"So, you're giving up you weak little Love Cook?"
Sanji's anger flared at the mocking challenge.
"Fuck you!"
He flopped back on the bed and spread his legs.
"Go ahead! Give it your best shot, Fucker."
