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Like A Rolling Stone	By : CyreliaJ Category: +M to R > One Piece Views: 3879 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece or any of its characters. I'm also not making any money off of this.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Note: So I broke down and had to get this One Piece thing out of my system. No plot just pr0n well in this part build up to pr0n but yeah. I apologize for any errors in characterization as I’m not as familiar with these guys but anyway… Bonus to anyone who gets the character reference from another series entirely.
Warnings: SMUT, Language, Violence, PWP to the max, also voyeurism of a sorts, exhibitionism, and sort funny but probably not
The subconscious mind is a fickle creature. The words spoken some years back by a traveling hypnotist more charlatan than magician at Baratie are the first words to enter his thoughts upon waking. He thinks then that his second thought ought to be a vehement mental protest that such an image should pervade his sleeping mind so insidiously. Sanji, is not a man given to such wastefulness of food or of thoughts however. His eyes open slowly and he looks up watching the map of wood grain above his head, the world, the faint light allowing his eyes to focus further. Blindly, he reaches for a cigarette and brings it to his lips thoughtfully as he considers the curiosity that is the “slow slow” beam.
   The body, for thirty seconds, is hatefully slowed- locked within the process of completing the last signaled action from the brain. But the mind, the mind has every bit of that time to process the surrounding world and act accordingly. The mind, he found is capable of all sorts of contemplations and thoughts while time passes in that vacuum. Sanji brings the lighter up flicking it lazily open while his internal clock provides him with an update of just how long he has to consider everything that warrants his attention this morning. Now, like that frozen span of time the hammock cradles his body and renders the immediate need for the mind to focus on physical action unnecessary. The draw of the cigarette, the pull of warm smoke, breathing in, breathing out, is a natural action, as natural a breath as any other.
   Next piss. Shower. Shave. Dress. Cook. Sanji considers the next fifteen minutes he should have to consider this- such thoughts occupying his mind during meal preparation would be unforgivable. He inhales deeply the warmth blooming down his throat turning his head. Tuesday clothes, his mind supplies him as he gets up and quickly grabs the garments from his trunk and heads for the bathroom. Automatic. And now to consider as he lets the wonderful subconscious mind take control. He shuts the bathroom door considering the dream, realizing the problem as he stands in front of the bathroom holding his prick in one hand.
   “Ch’” Smoke blows out his nostrils as he considers the problem sticking straight up, hard and insistent. “This is all your fault you shitty swordsman.” More accurately the fault of the subconscious but his own mind makes a far less desirable target for his ire than Zoro. Sanji closes his eyes and breathes in deeply thinking of Baratie and the old man imparting the ancient sea dog’s wisdom of getting rid of morning wood to his younger self. Zeff’s voice, face, the very idea of his presence there rather than the never heeded advice are the true catalyst for dissipating his hard on. Sanji laughs softly relieving his bladder. “Shitty old man’s still good for something even way out here.” He tosses the butt of the cigarette in the bowl. “Hey Sanji, you think the toilet water flushes backwards in the grand line?” Luffy’s voice echoes in his head as he watches the swirl of the water. Flush. Flush. Ten flushes later and a lecture from Nami he’d-
   He pauses to savor that memory of Nami as he steps into the shower. Control. Control. He maintains that control over his body even as he allows every photographic greedy recollection to flit thorough his mind, every curve, every incidental or deliberate brush of skin. Sanji sighs deeply as the hot water hits his chest. Without the trigger, without the proper response he doesn’t allow those bodily reactions where they’re inconvenient. When Nami decides, when Robin decides that his attentions are welcome beyond the realm of casual flirting then he can allow such things to the forefront but until then… Soap, cloth, left right, front back Sanji bows his head letting the spray hit the back of his neck for a moment as his eyes close and he takes the time to consider the problem currently beyond his careful control.
That dream.
   Sanji sucks in air between his teeth in a small hiss as his hand dropping the cloth slides from slick stomach down to damp dripping. The image plays with vivid violence. The narrowly averted collision of reality in his dream melded to bodies crashing, to lips meeting, to skin on skin with a hint of rough morning stubble not shaved away scraping his face. The automatic avoidance of his memory became hands gripping his shoulders shoving them back hard to the wooden planks with that scrape to his neck rubbing skin raw, the weight of Zoro’s body pushing the wind out of him as he pushed back grinding, long fingers kneading strong corded back muscles biting back moans and-
Shit.
   Sanji feels in the passing seconds of recreated dream dust behind his eyes that his cock has once more risen, swollen stiff beneath his fingers. He presses his lips tight feeling the phantom cigarette between them, a small growl rumbling from his throat as he gives a squeeze, a long drawn out drag of his calloused fingers. Sanji swears softly beneath his breath, not needing to see, only feel, fanning his fingers out, rocking against his palm like his horny bastard dream self. He doesn’t have much time. He doesn’t have half as much time as he needs to rub, to rut, to bring himself off half as good as he needs to. He had all the time in the world asleep, the subconscious letting hours of pawing, grinding, possessive gripping passing in the rapid movement of flickering pupils beneath his eyelids before letting his body wake.
   Five minutes, shithead. Get out of the shower, get back to work and- And he can consider what needs to be done about this while he preps. The stream of considering conscious flowing freely during breakfast would be unforgivable but… But he can divert his attention during the hour of chopping, blanching- a thousand other rote tasks before the big cook up- he can take that time to decide what to do about this. Heh, so you’re gonna do something after all then? He gives his cock another meaningful squeeze, tipping his head back to the warm spray with a groan. Yeah, definitely gotta do something about this situation.
   And that determination being made Sanji wastes no further time in going about the rest of his routine. Robin is the only one up with him when the sun rises up over the calm sea. Sitting back on the lounge chair on the deck he sees first her eyes scanning the pages of the book and then the peek of cleave from the open buttons of her shirt. Sanji snaps a mental photograph but chastises himself when his greeting and attention are far too distant in his recollection. That is not to say that Roronoa Zoro is all encompassing his thoughts but rather the matter of the situation of his subconscious as a whole. Sanji allows her perfume to distract him counting just a few scant millimeters closer that she allows him to lean. He tries to remember where he stands in his own calculation of personal space allowance, of daring. His eyes briefly flick to the text of the book and he curses that moment of inattention. Setback number one. This has to be resolved quickly.
   Robin notices. He can tell with that little upturn of her mouth that she senses his distraction and he forces himself not to redouble his efforts. He promises her fruit, a smoothie for the complexion- as if she needs it. In spite of himself his eyes track up to the crow’s nest as he walks to the kitchen seeing a lazy foot resting on the well worn wood. He draws his eyes quickly back in front of him as he reaches for a cigarette, shaking wet hair to clear his head. Behind him, robin laughs softly returning her full attention to the book thinking that she’s joined a very interesting crew indeed.
   Sanji has already put that past him sleeves rolled up knife in hand as the vegetables are chopped with speedy efficiency. He sighs at the fridge knowing any marinating of the meat will have to wait- Luffy might very well eat it raw if he catches a whiff. Actually… Brine. Right, he’ll brine it. Solves that problem now… Now for bigger problems. More glaring problems. The problem that’s going to set back months of careful work on both lovely Robin and Nami if he can’t scratch this one damn itch. The shity subconscious mind alright. His body he can control in the worst of cases but this… Sanji blinks as he thinks of that dream again seeing the unevenness of both celery and carrots. Zeff would shit a brick. Well shit if he was watching himself cutting in such a haphazard manner... Sanji smokes slowly, thoughtfully as he resigns himself to inferior camponata and decides for the day he just needs to get through, get laid, and get back this nice normal routine tomorrow.
   Brine. Boil. Grill. Plan. Seduce. Fuck. Simple as that. Just like cooking, line of the ingredients, execute the plan and it’s nothing but a fait accompli for the seasoned chef. Soufflés fall but they can be fixed. A good chef controls everything in the kitchen it doesn’t control him. Sanji lets the cigarette’s nicotine calm him as he chops, moves on to the onion and closes his eyes letting himself slice by feel, knife flying, the art of the culinary design washing over him, comforting him as he feels the sharp blade easily dice through the sweet yellow flesh. He works quickly, distancing himself from the immediacy, from the urgency and works every vegetable into the proper bowl, measures spices and begins the water for the 12 hour brine. The sugar is an indulgence but the tryptophan will make the rest more lethargic- likely the shitty swordsman too but the fucker’s half sloth so Sanji thinks little of it. Bread. A good heavy bread should be readied. Pasta. Definitely pasta. It’ll be more work but the heaviness will be good. Nami-san says the weather will be good the next few days at least, should be no threats so a good meal, a good sleep will be better.
   Sanji has already decided their shared space will have to suffice. But that was never in question to begin with. Living at Baratie the notion of privacy was an alien concept until he’s been promoted and earned his own room and he’d long grown accustomed to the various sounds of sleep, sexual gratification singular, plural, male, female. He chuckles around the cigarette remembering Zeff’s fifteenth birthday present and how the shitty old man had paid for the services of one Madame Divinity. Divine, double D, deep throat, a whole slew of D words to alliterate that description and his adolescent self had merely looked up and sneered when Zeff indicated the table where she was seated. “Hey what’s this, you couldn’t get new knives for the kitchen instead shitty old man?” That was a lesson that turned him from a boy to a man who’d emerged from the bunk did to toasts and cheers from the after hours dining room.
   “Oh Madame, madame…” he half sings half whispers to the plate in hand that he uses to weigh down the meat. “I am forever in your debt as long as I live.” He moves in to the long long eggplants or whatever silly name the old man had given him after discarding the spent butt. Impractical, some might say obscene in their design but he’d tasted one of the nightshades earlier and it would make a perfect camponata even without the globe shape. He originally thought it was one of the more exotic variety but no it was far too dark and straight. Sanji works to clean the shaft quickly of each one, hands efficiently stroking, sliding, removing dirt and he takes one, considering the problem, considering the plan and considering most of all if one thing will feel like another and he finds himself slowing, squeezing, talking to himself softly, his voice just a touch too husky to be properly passed off as amusement. “No way… there is no way that shitty swordsman would come close to-
“Come close to what?”
   Sanji does not startle easily. He didn’t hear Zoro’s footsteps. He didn’t smell the usual musk of sweat- except that can’t be possible since Zoro last bathed four days ago by Sanji’s count- which means that Sanji has likely been far more absorbed in this bizarre vegetable fondling more deeply than he thought. Bad. Very bad. Sanji carefully, slowly sets the eggplant down not turning to look at him. There are two more in need of rinsing and defiantly, he takes another slightly longer, thicker one and as Zoro steps closer he definitely smells it now. Sanji breathes in deeply wishing he still had the warm tobacco to inhale, wishing he had something with which to occupy his tongue. He dunks the eggplant in the basin in the sink, fringe obscuring whatever movement Zoro is making to his left- at least as far as that dense idiot is concerned it does. Sanji can see him well enough as he carefully slides his right hand over the glossy skin.
“Maybe the ship should’ve been named the “Rolling Stone” since they’re not supposed to collect any moss.”
   He’s proud of that one. Head bowed perhaps a bit more than it ought to be he smirks, thumb carefully polishing the skin up, down, attacking the grit with a careful calloused grip.
“So can I get to the fridge?” Zoro asks as he indicates the large brining bucket blocking the door, “Or should I come back when you’re finished jerking off dinner?”
“Jealous, moss ball?” Sanji tosses the line out without proper consideration for the context as he dunks the eggplant for another rinse. Fucking idiot. If it were anyone else. If it were a normal decent guy and not some shitty meathead this would be a lot easier. He rubs a bit harder. Couldn’t at least give me the decency of an hour to think about-
“Thought you liked women, pervert.” Zoro circles him from behind seeming to have decided to move the bucket himself. Sanji throws his leg out without turning, heel catching the side of it just as Zoro gives a sharp tug. The water slicked sides slip from between his fingers, sloshing water soaked swordsman as he lands on his ass. Sanji feels that tug of a grin remaining on his face as Zoro swears.
“I didn’t say you could move it, now did I, shithead?” Sanji sets the eggplant aside picking up the last, long enough but a little shorter, slightly curved like a dark violet saber. He considers it a moment as Zoro gets to his feet, considers the comment as he balances easily on one leg holding the large bucket still.
    “I like chateaubriand,” he said at last washing the eggplant. “But that doesn’t mean I would turn down even boiled shoe leather if I was starving.” He strokes the vegetable just a little harder than necessary letting the dirt turned mud flick off and hit Zoro’s brined dampened shirt. He didn’t think it would take much but that has Zoro on his feet standing right next to him in his face and Sanji again smells him, practically tastes him near as he is.
“Just who are you calling boiled shoe leather, “Mr. Prince”?” he growls dangerously. Sanji sets the last eggplant down, wiping his hands dry on a towel. He lowers his leg and reaches for a cigarette, slow, deliberate, letting Zoro take this conversation at the pace that he dictates. He lights it carelessly, the slight twitch of his leg the only indicator of how excited he is by the direction this is going.
   He takes a long slow drag enjoying the warmth blossoming from his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the shirt clinging to Zoro’s well muscled torso. Well who would’ve guessed boiled shoe leather could seem so appetizing after all. It’s been too long. Way too long. You’ve never even been with a man and how your subconscious, your hormones, whatever the reason here you are thinking about moss head. Well… c’e la vie, right? After all, here’s an opportunity to avoid most of the guesswork and headache and while there’s a certain thrill to the pursuit of a beautiful women, a glance, an exchange of subtleties and a beautiful dance there is also an equal thrill to certainty and Zoro’s earlier question wasn’t exactly one he’d have expected to fully the insult if he’d been truly making sport. Mmm, no use in being coy about it then. He exhales casually, infuriating Zoro by the way he sees shoulders bunch and tense.
   “Hey-“ A hand on his shoulder. He lets himself enjoy it hedonistically, lets the hard grip, the power in that hand excite him. He wants to fight- part of him would love nothing more than to sweep Zoro’s feet out from under him, crack him good on the head and send him flying for his continual interruptions, his boorishness, his plain shitty mossy unpleasantness. And then there is that insidious subconscious that is becoming more fiercely insistently… conscious the more he is consciously aware of Zoro’s rather real physical presence. And that hand tightens the longer Sanji remains silent as if he could push him to his knees, submit him by that grip alone. There was a woman once who’d done that. A ruthless woman who’d by stopped with her crew and a swordsman he’d guessed was at least half as proficient as Zoro judging by the way he’d carried himself. Red haired, fiery not unlike Nami and God had she ever given him two nights to remember after paying for a week’s worth of food for just their small crew.
   Sanji wears a smirk as he turns to face Zoro taking another disaffected drag on the cigarette. Bet she’d teach you a thing or two as well, asshole. He tosses his head leaving no room for misinterpretation. Maybe I will too. It’s the eyes. Cold, hot, he can always tell by the eyes when they really want him or they really want him to fuck off… Not that it makes him stop trying regardless. He sees that spark of recognition when he allows the demeanor of his face to change and as dense as Zoro is it seems there are some instinctual human signals to which even he’s not entirely oblivious.
   “Figure it out, or is the moss growing inside your head too?” he doesn’t speak the words quite as harshly as usual. He taunts him but not to fight not exactly. Which isn’t to say he’s not ready to kick Zoro’s ass if things head in that direction but they don’t seem to be- not yet at least. That hand is still there, warm, strong, but Zoro drops it with a sleepy eyed challenging look. He snorts with his usual annoyance.
“Y’know, you sure got a funny way of telling a guy you wanna fuck.”
“That doesn’t sound like a ‘no’,” Sanji answers letting the excitement take over, letting the warm flush of anticipation rise from his chest blossoming outward. He can feel it picking up like those moments when Nami lets him see that look of consideration, that unguarded “I’m thinking about it” expression that tells him his attentions will one day bear fruit if he stays the course.
   But this doesn’t stop at that quick flash of dangling anticipation. He does not allow that careful instinct to let the wave pass and recede with the tide. He lets it crash on the surf, lets it burn, lets everything boiling remain at that peak, instincts acute and sharp as if he truly is gearing up for a fight. It Is that heightened awareness that allows him to hear more acutely the breathing of the man in front of him increase just that small perceptible amount. He sees that flare of nostrils, wonders at whatever primitive exchange is passing subtly between their two bodies as he becomes aware of just how close Zoro is standing to him. He turns, inhale, exhale, waiting, watching, seeing Zoro’s eyes flicker up, down, considering. So he either likes men some small amount or he’s just as hard up as I am. He doesn’t particularly consider that since neither should affect his decision but… But there is, Sanji admits to himself a certain narcissistic thrill when he thinks that there may have been desire somewhere in their heated rivalry.
Sanji licks his lips in spite of himself and can feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle when Zoro chuckles amused and walks past him back to the fridge.
   “Why are you trying to be so cool all of a sudden? Don’t I get a ‘Mellorine’ or a ‘Zoro-chan’ for all the shit you’ve given me?” He gives the bucket an experimental kick sloshing more of the brine. Sanji can feel that heat rise torn between fury and horny thinking maybe he’ll just give Zoro a good kick to the head and- And Zoro is talking again which Sanji has to blink and clear his head to hear. “…this damn thing and maybe I’ll consider it.”
“Consider it?” He asks taking a few lazy steps. “As big a mess you’ve made I should make you clean the floor in here with nothing but a toothbrush like they do in the marines.” Sanji bends down, cigarette pressed between his lips as he moves the bucket closer to the steering wheel as out of the way as he can manage. Behind him he can hear Zoro noisily rummaging and he turns just in time to see sloppy careless gulping from the large wooden cup.
   “Make me? Unless you plan on hypnotizing my with your eyebrows ‘cause that’s the only way that’s happening when it’s your own damn fault to begin with.” He takes another obnoxious drink and finds the cup kicked clear out of his hand splashing the remainder of the water on him in the process. Zoro swears as Sanji looks at the water soaking shirt to skin somehow even more tightly than before. He can vividly see the fabric sucked into every crevice of muscle, hug and shape and he takes an appreciative drag stepping out of the way as Zoro swings at him.
“Shit, you stupid love cook what the hell was that for?!” Sanji blocks another punch with his left leg, gritting his teeth yelling back far too distracted.
“I don’t know, okay!” Which is true. A hundred percent true. A hundred percent true that he’s been too long without a woman because there’s no other reason that his subconscious could be so wildly out of control over one- admittedly torrid and vivid- dream.
   He’s almost certain that Patty once told him if you leave it go for too long it falls off. He’s never been too certain on that point after any innumerable bouts of frustration but one thing does stand out as Zoro catches his dropping leg sweeping him on his back that he’d never be caught so openly under normal circumstances. He thinks the cigarette went flying off somewhere but he doesn’t exactly have time to look, bringing a knee to Zoro’s midsection with the intent of rolling them both over. That doesn’t exactly go as planned, Zoro planted like a shitty tree and he blows the last few wisps of smoke thinking that they were right when they told him being too long at sea without a good lay could turn a man completely crazy.
He smells Zoro again as the other leans in with a soft growl to his ear and that knee falters.
“So, cook, are we gonna fight or fuck?”
Sanji takes a deep breath thinking he’s never been so damn hard in his life.
“How about both?” And with that he squares his foot and kicks him hard enough to send him flying backwards outside the door.
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Like A Rolling Stone