inoreuct - Tumblr blog

inoreuct · 1 month

Note

undercover op with sanji in a dress?? i think judge would be pissed asf if he picked a backless one and decided to own that metal spine bcs he’s a badass 😏😏 (unless cyborgs are discriminated against. are they? are they common in this au?? or are sanji and his sibs the only ones?? I’M SO INVESTED PLS 🤲🏻)

ooooh anon anon anon,,, YOU READ MY MIND WITH THE BACKLESS DRESS also cyborgs are pretty uncommon but they aren’t really discriminated against— more seen as things to be put on pedestals and not people, though. some see them as feelingless machines, and sanji’s siblings definitely aren’t helping that rep :((

there are other cyborgs but the vinsmokes are the most well-known, and their power + skills and apathy (save sanji) have people kissing the ground they walk on with a mix of fear and reverence. sanji just wants to be a Normal Guy, though, and zoro treats him like one, and it both pisses sanji off and makes him immeasurably happy. make of that what you will 🤭

“Found him.” Zoro frowns at his monitor, double-clicking with his mouse to zoom in. “Grey jacket, next to the beer taps.”

“Yeah, I see him.”

He tracks Sanji over the security camera, watching the blond slink through a crowd that parts for him effortlessly without even seeming to realise. Zoro can’t blame them, seeing as he looks good enough to stop traffic. “Remember, he doesn’t know what’s—”

“Going on, I know, I know,” Sanji mutters under his breath, weaving around a woman who gawks with her mouth slightly open as he flashes her a soft smirk and a wink. “Keep him unaware and get the drive. I could do this in my sleep.”

“I know,” Zoro echoes, even as he holds back a scoff and an eye roll. He’s in a bad mood and he knows exactly why.

He’s scrunched up in his chair in sweatpants and a ratty tank top, a half-drunk can of beer steadily forming a puddle on the desk next to his keyboard as he watches Sanji sidle up to the bar and order a drink. Their target sneaks a look to the side before ducking his head and taking a gulp from his own glass.

The man’s a small-time photographer who looks clean-cut but understated— Insignificant. He’d been chosen precisely because of that fact; GERMA66 had deemed him acceptable as an oblivious carrier of a thumbdrive that supposedly contains plans for whatever the hell Judge is up to next.

Their job is to intercept it before it gets to Charlotte Linlin, or anybody she’s affiliated with.

The bartender returns with Sanji’s drink and he takes it with an elegant incline of his head. “Old fashioned?” he asks, gesturing to their target’s glass, and there’s a pause before the poor man looks around quickly.

“A-Are you—?” he starts, pointing to himself.

Sanji laughs, silky and soft. Zoro takes a controlled breath. “Who else?” He raises his own glass to his lips, and Zoro knows what’s in it. A rum and orange cocktail with Kahlúa and cacao nibs in the egg white foam on top. “That is an old fashioned, isn’t it? Yeah.” The blond’s lips curl up behind the crystal rim, a bold red and sharp at the edges. “You seem the type.”

“You seem the type,” Zoro mocks silently, scowling at the screen. He doesn’t even try not to scoff this time; his chair complains with a loud creak when he throws his weight back, sullenly crossing his arms over his chest.

Look. He’s not sulking, alright? It’s just— difficult. Sanji twists sideways, leaning one elbow on the bar, and the back of his dress dips low enough for his entire spine to glimmer silver-wet in the dim lights. Where was he?

Right, difficult. Sanji’s over there buttering up a literal nobody, and Zoro has to sit here, in his apartment, in this shitty rolling chair with no back support where he’s close enough to go in if Sanji needs backup. He listens to his partner flirt over the comms and grits his teeth as he tries to consciously keep his fists unclenched.

He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’d gotten used to the idea of there not being anyone else, he supposes. Neither of them have any time for romance outside of their jobs, and at some point being together had just become routine; and Sanji’s a flirt, sure, but at the end of the day it’s always Zoro that he ends up with. They have toothbrushes at each other’s places. Sanji has weights by his shoe rack and Zoro has a block of chef’s knives tucked into the corner of his kitchen counter.

Sanji’s laughter grabs his attention, and Zoro realises that at some point he’d lost the thread of the conversation. The blond pinches the collar of their target’s grey windbreaker between his thumb and forefinger, running down the length of it, and their eyes meet through the camera as Sanji pushes off the countertop and the man scrambles to follow.

His dress drags along the floor. The red satin is made heavy by crystalline beading, draping down to just above his hips as he makes his way to the lift lobby, and the man trails behind hanging onto his every word like a starstruck fool; Zoro suspects he himself isn’t much better. The lights of the lift lobby are harsh as they make their way up to the hotel above the bar, and Zoro switches from camera to camera all the way until the man’s sliding a key card into a lock and disappearing when Sanji shoves him into the room with an exaggerated giggle.

His expression sobers when looks directly at the camera across the hall. Strands of hair are drifting out of his chignon and catching in his lashes. “Sorry, mossy. Gonna have to sign off for now,” he whispers, and Zoro can hear the soft smile in his voice before he pulls his earpiece out and shuts the door.

Silence.

…Yeah, Zoro’s jealous.

It’s enough to have him finishing his beer in two chugs, leaning back to drag his hands over his face and groan. He knows what it looks like. Knows what it’s supposed to look like; a hookup, plain and simple. Judge can’t know that Sanji’s the reason the drive won’t make it to Linlin. It’s risky, sure, but they’re banking on the fact that he doesn’t know that Zoro knows anything about how Judge still has Sanji under his thumb. And if Sanji gets some fun out of it, well— Zoro can’t fault him.

It doesn’t change the fact that he feels sick to his stomach, and it’s pissing him off because he has no right. None at all. He isn’t entitled to anything; Sanji doesn’t owe him, or anyone, anything. It doesn’t matter how he feels. It doesn’t matter how close they sit when they’re falling asleep in the middle of a movie on Sanji’s couch. Sanji’s already been backed into a corner by his bastard of a father— Zoro refuses to complicate things for him any more.

He’ll get up in a moment. Grab a bottle of something stronger this time. The apartment will be his till morning, anyway, so what’s the rush?

And then he hears the front door beep as somebody enters the passcode, and he nearly falls out of his seat sitting up straight.

Zoro glances at the clock as footsteps echo through the entrance; it’s only been twenty minutes, give or take.

Multiple hard somethings clatter onto his desk, and he looks up to find Sanji leaning against the doorway. “Help me out. I’ve got a screw loose,” he says, grinning, and then there’s a moment before Zoro groans.

“If you think that’s funny then you clearly do,” he replies tiredly, standing as Sanji sits on the other side of the table.

He picks up the screwdriver he’d been given, reeling a little. Sanji isn’t supposed to be here, and yet— Here he is, pulling pins from his hair left and right and dropping them all over Zoro’s desk as his chignon untwists itself. A weary sigh leaves Zoro’s lungs. “Where?”

“L4, R6, L12 and 16, and… R23.”

“23?” He frowns. “That’s lower than usual.”

Sanji grimaces. “Slept wrong last night, I think.”

“Hm.” Zoro flips the tool in his hand as Sanji gathers his hair over his shoulder; it’s gotten long now, enough to dust the tops of his shoulder blades with soft, shimmering gold. He rests his thumb at Sanji’s hairline and drags down gently until he gets to the first corresponding vertebra and he’s careful as he fits the screwdriver head in, turning slowly until the joint tightens.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Sanji makes a pfft sound and doesn't even turn, used to Zoro’s straightforward questions. “‘Course not. What, not confident enough in my abilities?”

“No.” Zoro clamps his mouth shut when he realises how defensive he sounds. “No,” he amends, voice marginally less tense, four fingers wrapped over the edge of Sanji’s ribs as he moves down. “I just thought… You were having a good enough time. He liked you. No reason not to.”

“I didn’t want to. That’s the reason,” Sanji says, and it’s flat enough that Zoro knows to ease off. “When we got into his room I knocked him out before I nicked this,” he taps the thumbdrive he’d tossed onto the table with the screwdriver, “out of the lining of one of his jackets.”

Zoro narrows his brows. “Knocked him out how?”

Sanji shrugs a shoulder. “Compressed his carotid. Pretty sure the poor guy was enjoying it, honestly.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. Zoro holds Sanji’s side, elbows digging into the table as he crouches down to see what he’s doing. He resists the urge to press his nose to Sanji’s skin. Beading digs into his knuckles as the screw clicks into place.

“Zoro.”

He stills. They rarely use each other’s names. “Yeah?”

“Did you—” Sanji’s breath catches, the moment suspended until he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

He’s beautiful, Zoro thinks. The scarring that frames his spine is smooth under his thumb. “Did it hurt?”

“Hm?”

“When he…”

“…Yeah.” Sanji puts the heels of his palms on the table, fingers curling over the edge, thumbs pressing into the sides of his thighs. “He said it was my fault, anyway,” he sighs, letting his weight drop so his shoulders hunch up to his ears. “That I wasn’t even supposed to feel pain, but I ruined it before he could… perfect me.”

Zoro lets his eyes flick up, gaze falling on the elegant curve of Sanji’s nape before he focuses on the last screw.

He’d made a promise to himself on that fire escape. The metal melded to Sanji’s back is a constant reminder to both of them that he’s a double agent. Everything they do is a risk; hell, they both lose sleep over it. Zoro’s used to his phone ringing in the middle of the night. Sanji’s finally starting to allow himself to call.

The blond’s head is hung low as the strap of his dress slips off his shoulder, and Zoro slides it back up and lays it in place. He’s done with Sanji’s spine. “How’s that feel?”

“Hm?” Sanji blinks as he looks up, before rolling his shoulders back. “Better.”

“Alright.” Zoro barely stops himself from drumming his fingers on the table as he bites his lip. He turns around under the guise of readjusting random things on his windowsill. “It’s late. You staying over?”

“…Oh, fine,” Sanji relents, waving a hand. “Too tired to go anywhere, anyway.”

It’s second nature to leave a set of pyjamas on the bed; Zoro usually takes the couch, if only because the springs are hell for the tactile sensors in Sanji’s spine. He’s just leaving when Sanji steps out of the adjoining bathroom with a wash of warm air with a towel around his waist.

“Pretty sure your bed’s meant for two,” he says lightly before grabbing the clothes and disappearing back through the door, and Zoro blinks. Sure, he’d splurged on a queen-sized mattress, but he’s never shared it.

He ends up lying down anyway and swiping through his phone mindlessly until Sanji comes out again, hair brushed back. The covers pull as Sanji climbs under and he stretches to turn the lights off, before they’re laying there in silence.

Zoro’s half asleep when he hears it.

“We didn’t do anything in that room.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did.”

“But we didn’t,” Sanji insists, and Zoro hears I didn’t want to do it, any of it, and he doesn’t even realise he’s reached for Sanji’s hand until their fingers brush.

“I know,” he says, gentle. Their hands lay in the space between them until Sanji threads their fingers together, rolling onto his side.

“Just, uh,” he begins, clearing his throat gruffly. “Just wanted to clarify.”

Zoro laughs against his will. His shoulders shake with it, and he hisses when Sanji kicks his shin. He finds the knuckle of Sanji’s thumb as he brings their hands up between their pillows, rubbing over the bone. “Go to sleep, curly. We’ll go through the drive tomorrow.”

Sanji’s lashes flutter before he swallows. “Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, marimo.”

He turns his face into his pillow. He smells like Zoro’s body wash.

Zoro stares at his ceiling and wonders just how much he’d be willing to give to protect this man falling asleep next to him.)

(He wakes not long after sunrise the next day.

Sanji’s ribs rise and fall against his palm, the corner of his borrowed shirt riding up. He’d rolled over Zoro’s arm sometime in the night; his other hand is tucked close to his chest, his ankle skin-warm and pressed to Zoro’s shin. His hair is all over the place and Zoro’s pretty sure he’s drooling.

He smells even more familiar now, like cheap lavender detergent that Zoro buys on a discount, leftover hair wax and orange from the night before. Just a hint of mint toothpaste. There’s the slight rasp of stubble when Zoro drags the heel of his hand across Sanji’s jaw, and the man mutters in his sleep, flipping over to face the other way and hug Zoro’s arm to his chest.

Well. Zoro doesn’t usually sleep in. He’s a busy man, he’s got weights to rep and evidence to process— But seeing as his arm’s trapped, there’s not much he can do, is there?)

(The next time he opens his eyes it’s past noon. He smells caffeine and hot butter, and it drags him out of bed to the kitchen; Sanji’s standing over the stove, hair shoved up into a haphazard bun with a blue ballpoint pen, spatula in one hand and Zoro’s laptop balanced on the other.

“About damn time, you log,” he huffs, jerking his head towards the table. “Coffee’s ready, help yourself. You won’t believe what bullshit Judge is trying to pull.”

Zoro raises both eyebrows and decides to save himself an ass-kicking by keeping his mouth shut. He pours himself a mug of coffee and sits down. “S’that my pen?”

“It’s—” Sanji frowns. “I picked it up off the floor.”

“Hm. I was wondering where it ran off to.”

Sanji rolls his eyes, leaning over to put the eggs down. “You’re fucking horrible. Are you telling me you only have one pen?”

“No. I was just looking for this,” Zoro reaches up and yanks it from his hair, “pen.” He yelps a laugh when Sanji swats him over the head and drags a chair out. “It looks better down, anyway,” he chuckles, wrapping a curl around his finger and tugging before he lets go. “Now run me through what’s going on.”

The blond gives him a stink eye and sighs, turning the laptop so it faces them both. “Okay. So…”)

(Zoro settles in, drinks his coffee, and he still hasn’t figured out how much he’d give. He’s starting to think there isn’t a limit.

He thinks he’d be okay with that, though.)

(part 1 | part 2)

#you get it #YOU GET IT #the tenderness and care is so much so that they don’t even consider anybody else bcs THERE IS NOBODY ELSE #but at the same time getting together would just. not be smart #they will eventually… but only because the sacrifices will have already been made… mwehehehehhehe #IT’S NOT THAT BAD THO LMAO I SWEAR 😭 just judge being judge #oh that. could actually be quite bad nvm BUT THE BOYS END UP FINE ANYWHO

86 notes · View notes

inoreuct · 1 month

Text

sanji gender fuckery.

sanji who likes pretty things; pretty girls, pretty plating, pretty presentation. sanji who likes being pretty. sanji who’s afraid to call himself anything other than a man, who forays into makeup with the air of someone dipping their finger into a piranha tank. sanji who makes his own cosmetics; who burns almonds to ash for kohl, mixes it with castor oil for mascara, uses pomegranates and beetroot and wine for colour. beeswax lip salve, burnt cloves for his brows, honey and glycerin as gloss— he gets his hands on carmine pigment and makes the most brilliant red lipstick that he’s still too scared to touch. it sits in a pot at the bottom of the lacquered box of makeup he keeps under a loose plank beneath his bunk.

sanji who puts it all on late at night, squinting at his distorted reflection in hanging pans and trying to make sense of how it makes him feel. sanji who is deathly afraid of anyone finding out, who would absolutely crumble if any of his crew were to judge him; sanji, who freezes up so badly when nami walks in late one night, looking for a glass of water.

they stare at each other for an indefinite amount of time; probably minutes, but to sanji it feels like eternity. his shaking hands are already reaching behind him, shoving everything on the counter behind his back and prepared to lie, lie, just lie his way out of it even when he knows it’s no use. he is too weak to protest as nami comes closer. her face unreadable, before she raises a brow and says your eyeliner’s uneven, idiot. she gently shoulders him aside and picks up the small paintbrush he’d nicked from usopp; re-wets it in the cup he’d nearly spilled in his panic, holds his face still and paints it on properly and scolds him when he blinks.

sanji who glances at himself in the galley window and nearly cries. who gets scolded some more because i just put mascara on you, don’t make it run! who sits still as nami digs out the red lipstick with a quiet ooh, who lets her line his lips with a little more kohl and smudge the rouge on sheer, lets her dab the excess off on his cheeks, who cannot breathe when he looks at himself properly. he looks flushed, suffused with life, either from the makeup or everything else; his eyes are drawn sharp and his lashes long, and his irises are the bluest he’s ever seen them.

he doesn’t hug nami, but it’s a close thing.

he’s confused when she asks for a seemingly random plethora of ingredients, but he gathers them and sits on the countertop as she carefully wipes his face down with olive oil and then rosewater, nagging him for having makeup on so late in the night and telling him that you need to take this off properly, or you’ll break out and that sucks. his brain is on a running loop of whatthefuckishappening as he grinds up rice with a mortar and pestle and watches as she mixes it with cocoa, honey and yoghurt, lemon juice, hell, is that silken tofu? regardless, he stays still as she spreads it thickly on his face and then applies some on her own.

they talk as they wait. he learns that nami’s mother taught her how to make this face mask, that she has a dozen more recipes, that he is dying to try them even though he cannot bring himself to admit it. it feels like they’re trapped in their own little bubble, like he finally has space to stretch out of a box he’d crammed himself into; it’s nice, incredibly so. the cosmetics and the company.

they wash off their face masks. it is a delightfully scrubby experience and sanji feels ridiculously happy. he and nami still aren’t the closest, but when he goes to bed that night he falls asleep knowing that there is someone in his corner.

it becomes a regular thing— the two of them and late night face masks in the galley. and then snacks appear, and gossip, and wine, and soon nami is perhaps his closest confidant. sanji who learns how to braid, when robin joins them; it takes a while for the other girl to be absorbed into their duo, but then every three nights or so the now-trio spends hours sitting at the dining table, doing each other’s makeup and hair and sipping merlot over charcuterie boards and pretending to be people they’re not, laughing so hard they slip out of their chairs, hushing each other before they get too loud (it’s a futile but admirable effort)— then taking all of it off, mixing up face masks and winding down as they wait. sanji looks at his two friends, mashed avocado and ground pumpkin seeds slathered over their faces, and his heart glows.

sanji, who passes countless cosmetic stores when they dock at various islands, who goes in under the guise of getting things for robin and nami, who sweet-talks shop attendants into giving up their brand recipes (or at least the gists) because whatever they sell, he can make better. sanji who gets into perfumery and learns about enfleurage, who layers orange blossoms and lavender into palm oil. he is so proud when he gives nami and robin the perfumes that his cheeks hurt with his smile when even they chide him for not making one for himself.

so he does. with jasmine and lemon peel and candied rose; he wears it as soon as it is ready, rubbed over his racing pulse, and bites his lip to keep steady when zoro leans in with a pensive look and says that he smells different. something must show on his face, because the swordsman is uncharacteristically hurried to clarify that it’s good different, cook, don’t look at me like you’re about to cry! he grabs zoro between his legs and brings him to the ground in a headlock to hide his relieved grin, and tries to swallow down the warmth that suffuses his chest.

sanji who perfects his recipes and his formulas and now has a whole arsenal of professional-grade, high quality products, who can make pretty much anything nami and robin want, who chucks a deodorant stick at every other man on the boat because by god, do they need it. (and it works. he expected it too, but they all smell not-bad now if not good and it makes him so ridiculously happy.)

sanji who hesitates when robin brings him a dress during one of their evening meetings. who puts it on, cinches the ribbon around his waist and presses a trembling hand to his mouth because it feels good, it feels right. sanji who essentially becomes the ship’s stylist, who makes sure he keeps nami and robin looking their best, who learns to cut hair and curate wardrobes and craft skincare routines, who thrives. sanji who grows his hair long and starts small, putting in tiny braids or twists, trying messy buns and ponytails and various updos. who starts being a little more daring and wearing pants floaty enough to be mistaken for skirts, the fabric whipping around his ankles when climbs the mast and feels the wind lifting his hair off his neck.

sanji, who freezes up again when usopp gives him an absolutely gorgeous tiered wooden case for his birthday; it’s made of polished rosewood, beautifully carved, with three trays lifting out on neat metal hinges and a mirror on the lid. he looks up sharply when he gets to the bottom and finds a collection of makeup brushes that are all wooden-handled except for a small, green plastic paintbrush.

usopp knows. sanji knows that he knows. and maybe, he thinks, as his nakama wraps an arm around his shoulders and gives him a fond squeeze— maybe it’s okay.

sanji who nearly gets his second heart attack of the day when the crew shoves a massive box in his arms after dinner and he lifts the lid, shifts aside layers of translucent crepe and tissue to find a dress.

a dress.

it’s a navy blue so dark it nearly looks black, the colour of the sky right before the first hint of dawn. he lifts it out of the box with exceedingly gentle hands and heavy fabric spills over his lap. nami ushers him into the bathroom and he tries it on and it fits like a goddamn glove.

he’s crying as gets back to the galley, really crying for the first time. he can’t help it. this is a sleeveless, full-length, honest-to-god evening gown, made to his measurements; the brocade of the bodice is covered in crystalline beading, and the skirt is made of silk so fine it shimmers. there is embroidery around the hem and tulle drapes down over his upper arms in elegant swoops. it’s completely impractical and he doesn’t even want to think about how much it cost, but luffy squeezes him into a careful but viciously tight hug, and nami reaches over to shake the ties out of his hair and tuck one side behind his ear as franky laughs and pats him on the back.

they know. they all know, they’ve known, for god knows how long— and they don��t care. they don’t care. they made him a dress.

nami does his makeup with quick, practiced motions. robin tries to braid his hair and zoro bats her hands away with a mild scowl, saying he looks better with it down. they shove him in front of a full-body mirror and sanji—

sanji thinks that maybe, he doesn’t have to put a label to it. maybe he doesn’t have to look like a guy, or a girl. maybe it doesn’t matter whatever the hell he looks like as long as he’s happy.

sanji who likes pretty things, and likes being pretty.

sanji who is pretty— and learns to love himself.

(his closet fills slowly. zoro hands him a green sundress one day and ducks away before sanji can see the flush on his face; it’s soft cotton with a ribbed bodice, hitting just above the knee, and it becomes sanji’s favourite garment. usopp tools him leather sandals with a slight wedge and he lords that extra inch of height over everyone else like his life depends on it. franky engineers him a whole distillation set-up and he starts making liquid-based perfumes. chopper asks sanji to paint his hooves. robin gets him an outrageously large cowboy hat, half as a joke, but he loves it an indescribable amount. he discovers proper heeled boots and goes on a shopping spree; he suspects that nami turns a blind eye to the amount of money he spends (he is right).

sanji wakes up in the morning. sometimes he puts on a bit of makeup and sometimes he doesn’t. sometimes he wears a dress or a skirt and sometimes he doesn’t. he goes by whim, because he has nothing to hide anymore—

and he’s happy.

he’s really, really happy.)

#bump #putting sanji gender fuckery BACK on the dash thankyew #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #zosan #one piece #one piece sanji

148 notes · View notes

inoreuct · 1 month

Note

“Found him.” Zoro frowns at his monitor, double-clicking with his mouse to zoom in. “Grey jacket, next to the beer taps.”

“Yeah, I see him.”

“I know,” Zoro echoes, even as he holds back a scoff and an eye roll. He’s in a bad mood and he knows exactly why.

Their job is to intercept it before it gets to Charlotte Linlin, or anybody she’s affiliated with.

“A-Are you—?” he starts, pointing to himself.

Silence.

…Yeah, Zoro’s jealous.

He’ll get up in a moment. Grab a bottle of something stronger this time. The apartment will be his till morning, anyway, so what’s the rush?

And then he hears the front door beep as somebody enters the passcode, and he nearly falls out of his seat sitting up straight.

Zoro glances at the clock as footsteps echo through the entrance; it’s only been twenty minutes, give or take.

“If you think that’s funny then you clearly do,” he replies tiredly, standing as Sanji sits on the other side of the table.

“L4, R6, L12 and 16, and… R23.”

“23?” He frowns. “That’s lower than usual.”

Sanji grimaces. “Slept wrong last night, I think.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

Sanji makes a pfft sound and doesn't even turn, used to Zoro’s straightforward questions. “‘Course not. What, not confident enough in my abilities?”

Zoro narrows his brows. “Knocked him out how?”

Sanji shrugs a shoulder. “Compressed his carotid. Pretty sure the poor guy was enjoying it, honestly.”

“Zoro.”

He stills. They rarely use each other’s names. “Yeah?”

“Did you—” Sanji’s breath catches, the moment suspended until he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

He’s beautiful, Zoro thinks. The scarring that frames his spine is smooth under his thumb. “Did it hurt?”

“Hm?”

“When he…”

Zoro lets his eyes flick up, gaze falling on the elegant curve of Sanji’s nape before he focuses on the last screw.

The blond’s head is hung low as the strap of his dress slips off his shoulder, and Zoro slides it back up and lays it in place. He’s done with Sanji’s spine. “How’s that feel?”

“Hm?” Sanji blinks as he looks up, before rolling his shoulders back. “Better.”

“…Oh, fine,” Sanji relents, waving a hand. “Too tired to go anywhere, anyway.”

Zoro’s half asleep when he hears it.

“We didn’t do anything in that room.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did.”

“But we didn’t,” Sanji insists, and Zoro hears I didn’t want to do it, any of it, and he doesn’t even realise he’s reached for Sanji’s hand until their fingers brush.

“I know,” he says, gentle. Their hands lay in the space between them until Sanji threads their fingers together, rolling onto his side.

“Just, uh,” he begins, clearing his throat gruffly. “Just wanted to clarify.”

Sanji’s lashes flutter before he swallows. “Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, marimo.”

He turns his face into his pillow. He smells like Zoro’s body wash.

Zoro stares at his ceiling and wonders just how much he’d be willing to give to protect this man falling asleep next to him.

(He wakes not long after sunrise the next day.

Well. Zoro doesn’t usually sleep in. He’s a busy man, he’s got weights to rep and evidence to process— But seeing as his arm’s trapped, there’s not much he can do, is there?)

“About damn time, you log,” he huffs, jerking his head towards the table. “Coffee’s ready, help yourself. You won’t believe what bullshit Judge is trying to pull.”

Zoro raises both eyebrows and decides to save himself an ass-kicking by keeping his mouth shut. He pours himself a mug of coffee and sits down. “S’that my pen?”

“It’s—” Sanji frowns. “I picked it up off the floor.”

“Hm. I was wondering where it ran off to.”

Sanji rolls his eyes, leaning over to put the eggs down. “You’re fucking horrible. Are you telling me you only have one pen?”

The blond gives him a stink eye and sighs, turning the laptop so it faces them both. “Okay. So…”)

(Zoro settles in, drinks his coffee, and he still hasn’t figured out how much he’d give. He’s starting to think there isn’t a limit.

He thinks he’d be okay with that, though.)

(part 1 | part 2)

#cyborg sanji au #that last line… be careful zoro be careful #they’re literally married?? and they’re still not together?? guys PLEASE #the way i had to fight w myself to not make sanji answer “when i fell from heaven?” when zoro asked “did it hurt”#THERE’S MORE COMING FOR THIS AU KEEP YA EYES PEELED #WILL BE SEEING MORE STRAWHATS + MORE CYBORG DETAILS #judge is about to earn himself many more haters that’s all imma say #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK AGAIN ANON 😽😽#ino writes #ino’s ask box #zosan #roronoa zoro #one piece zoro #zoro #black leg sanji #sanji #one piece sanji #zoro x sanji #one piece

86 notes · View notes

inoreuct · 1 month

Text

ZOSAN POLICEMAN/CYBORG SIDEKICK AU

inspired by me talking to reg after work and thinking about sanji fighting after a full shift at the baratie and then saying he must have heels of steel. lesgo.

zoro’s a police officer because of course he is. his lifestyle’s insanely militaristic and according to luffy, insanely mundane; he goes to bed at eight every night and has been wearing the same three white t-shirts for the past ten years. don’t even start about his socks— most of them are more hole than fabric. he has more emotional attachment to those things that a ballerina to her toe pads.

he has a pretty high position in the police force and his underlings are constantly trying to get him out to dinner or the bar, and he always says NO. he has to hit the gym. or go for a run. or go to kendo practice. that 1st dan rank of his doesn’t maintain itself.

anyway something big goes down that has the whole department up in a frenzy and zoro’s put in charge of it; he’s fully ready to take on the case and the investigations. chasing down crooks and pulling corrupt happenings into the light is his specialty. he gets the job done because he never changes his methods and he works just fine alone.

enter stage right: blackleg sanji.

blond. brilliant. beautiful. he’s a disarming smile and luscious golden hair wrapped up in a pretty silvery bow before you realise he could actually. like. strangle you with the ribbon. he could literally break more than half the bones in your body without breaking a sweat and then meet his friends for dinner after.

he got his namesake from the parts of him that aren’t quite human; everything below mid-thigh is reinforced carbon-fibre, sleek and dark gray. his veins are wires, his muscles pistons— there are knives hidden in his heels and there’s a gun in his right kneecap with a flamethrower in the other. he’s proficient in muay thai, savate, and kickboxing. he’s a badass. end of story.

judge, his biological father, is a high-ranking government official/scientist in charge of a military project called GERMA66. he mechanically engineered his children into the perfect supersoldiers by quite literally brainwashing and rebuilding them. think bucky barnes in the winter soldier, but more fucked up because these are his KIDS.

in any case. sora makes fucking sure that she plays a big enough part in sanji’s upbringing that he fights the mental conditioning and manages to get away before judge does everything he had planned. zeff takes him in, raises this snot-nosed little kid in the back of his restaurant for eleven years, and every part of sanji that counts takes after zeff and his mother.

(zeff’s also friends with garp, who happens to be luffy’s grandfather, and luffy happens to be zoro’s best friend and routine patrol buddy. small world.)

judge managed to make it so the mechanical enhancements would grow with the kids, so sanji doesn’t really need any adjustments. that doesn’t mean he didn’t get a little squeaky here and there, though, and zeff’s touch-ups with engine oil in the middle of the night can really only help so much.

and then he meets usopp, and then franky. they’re mechanics (technically) and mad geniuses (definitely) and they fix him right up. usopp’s the one who makes sure all his fuel and stuff is chemically optimal, and franky reinforces his hip with titanium to help his body withstand the sheer torque of his kicks. the grandma jokes are ENDLESS.

in any case, judge finds him. yeah. and sanji gets assigned to (read: forced to help) zoro and the mutual dislike/disdain/animosity is IMMEDIATE.

zoro thinks sanji’s a contrary asshole who starts fights for the sake of fighting. sanji thinks zoro’s just another law enforcer prick in cahoots with judge. they go on their first stakeout and almost get busted because they can’t stop biting and snipping at each other, but zoro gets grazed by a bullet in a shootout and that night they both sit a little quieter than they’re used to.

their bond forms slowly. they resist it at first but it’s just so easy to fall into step with one another, taking turns with offence and defence, trusting the other to fill whatever gaps in their attacks one of them alone can’t handle. they don’t bicker to intentionally hurt anymore— it’s more quips and harmless snark than anything. sanji cooks for the both of them and makes sure they don’t get malnourished while they’re off chasing baddies, and zoro helps him realign all the finicky little parts in his legs that aren’t big enough of a problem to warrant paying franky a visit. they’re good together, and it’s comfortable. they’re comfortable.

and then they realise that there’s something much bigger going on.

zoro’s feeling more and more uneasy as they unspool the thread of lies and motives because it’s starting to feel like the people they catch and bring in are being… targeted. like someone wants them out of the way.

he brings it up to sanji and the blond freezes. brushes it off like he hadn’t since the beginning and goes right on to talking about the next suspect on their list. a tiny voice at the back of zoro’s head tells him that something’s not right, but he brushes it aside for the time being and focuses on planning with sanji.

the feeling gets worse.

it all blows up one night when they’re having dinner in sanji’s apartment, and zoro’s staring at the plate of spinach pesto linguine in front of him with his fist clenched around his fork.

“what?” sanji laughs, scrubbing at the frying pan in the sink. “looking a bit too much like your hair?”

zoro swallows. “what’s going on?”

the air thickens, and zoro’s breath is shallow as sanji turns around. “what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean.” the blond’s been bitter lately, too much like how he’d been when they'd first met. it brings out something fiercely protective in zoro, underneath that initial glaze of anger, because he knows sanji well enough at this point to know when the other man’s being avoidant and not just secretive. sanji’s afraid of something and he’s running from it. there’s resentment in the way his spine curls, and it’s sour on zoro’s tongue because he knows it’s most likely directed at sanji himself.

sanji’s throat bobs as he turns away again, turning the tap on, but zoro doesn’t let up. “they’re innocent,” he continues, voice low. “they’re innocent and you know it. these people are being framed—”

“we don’t know that,” sanji interrupts.

“—we know,” zoro says fiercely. “you know it, curls, so what are you getting up to?”

the other man stays turned away, washing and drying calmly. the gears in his legs whirr as he shifts his weight.

“sanji.” zoro stands up and rounds the island, fingertips dragging over the countertop. “you know these people aren’t doing anything wrong and you’re still taking them in. tell me what’s going on.”

sanji takes a measured breath and tilts his head, before pushing out a short, “can’t.”

zoro can feel himself getting angry. it’s heat at the base of his skull, the back of his neck, the itch to grab his partner (they’re partners, now. what a thought.) by the shoulders and shake until he comes to his senses. sanji is kind. if zoro is sure of anything at all he’s sure of that. sanji is kind and he will fight to the fucking death to make sure justice is served with fairness, and this is how zoro knows that something is wrong.

WE NEED A PART 2 I HIT THE CHARACTER LIMIT

(part 2)

#bump #op zosan #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #zosan #one piece #ino writes

86 notes · View notes