There is a sword sprouting from the cook's back.
The world has stopped to a standstill, a blanket of silence covering the Sunny like a shroud. Everyone freezes, their own fights forgotten at the sight: the cook is standing stock-still, eyes wide and disbelieving looking at the blood stained steel piecing the middle of his chest before looking up, a lit cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. A small trickle of blood falls with maddening slowness from the corner of his lips and a sword sprouts from his back.
The world's turned upside down in an instant; they were having dinner like every other night--Luffy trying to steal from everyone's plates and getting his head kicked for his efforts, Sanji busying around the galley making sure the rest of the crew had everything they needed in his usual manner, and the ruckus that normally accompanied the moments when the whole crew was together--when the marines attacked. Nothing that had never happened before and they couldn't handle.
And now there's a sword sprouting from Sanji's back.
Not any sword,Wadou Ichimonji.
Zoro looks at his hands gripping tightly the white hilt of the sword and raises his eyes to stare at Sanji's, considering.
That's strange; Wadou's normally clamped between his teeth when he fights.
He tugs experimentally, just a little bit, and Sanji coughs some more blood, his eyes never leaving Zoro.
He smiles, yanking the sword free from its flesh and bone prison with a sharp tug. The rest of the Sunny melts away in a haze leaving only Zoro and Sanji, their eyes locked, movement returning to the world in slow motion with the cook's body crumpling ever so slowly on the deck.
Zoro lets go of Wadou, which clangs on the deck with a dull noise, and extends his hands to halt Sanji's fall. Droplets of blood fly from Sanji's mouth to land on his face, one of then on the corner of his mouth. Zoro's smile widens, tongue darting out to taste.
He likes it. He wants more.
Quick as a snake Zoro leans forward, lips and tongue seeking the blood on Sanji's lips, tasting, drinking avidly.
It's not enough.
Zoro's tongue pushes past moist and sticky lips, licking the inside of Sanji's mouth, the taste of blood mingling with wine and cigarettes and something that it's uniquely Sanji's.
More. He needs more.
He can feel the blood dripping from Sanji's wound on to his hands and wants to drink it as well but knows he would need to let go of the cook for that, so he doesn't. He keeps licking the blood from his mouth, devouring the taste and feeling the gush on his hands slowing down. He knows what that means but he can't stop himself.
He wants more.
Sanji is looking at him, eyes glazed and a sardonic smile on his lips. "I always knew it would be you, you bastard," he says, too weak hands moving slowly to grip his head, pulling it closer. "I always knew--"
His breath stops, a small gasp falling from his lips with his last exhalation. Zoro swallows that as well.
It's over, but he still wants more--and he has it on his hands.
Zoro lets go of the body, cold and stiff now, and brings his hand to his mouth, tongue already red and tingling with anticipation--
Zoro woke up with a start, his stomach churning. A quick look around the cabin confirmed everyone was sleeping peacefully in his hammock, even the cook. With a relieved sigh Zoro closed his eyes, images from that weird dream swirling in his head.
What the fuck had that been about? He didn't know, and he'd rather not find out, not knowing if he was more disturbed by the killing or the kissing part of his dream.
It was probably the cook's fault anyway, making them some strange local dish from the latest Island they visited for dinner. It was no wonder he had twisted dreams, probably the mushrooms the bastard used were poisonous or hallucinogenic.
It had all been a dream. A fucking nightmare.
With a disgruntled groan, Zoro turned in his hammock and tried to fall a sleep again.
His last thought before darkness claimed him was that there wasn't a hard on in his pants.
No fucking way.