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Sanji's hands are not as smooth as they look. Of course he takes great care of them, but being a cook's hands, there are small burn scars and cuts littered all over them. The palm is calloused, the nimble fingers strong and clever.
Zoro knows that all too well: they make him loose his reason, as they drag nonchalantly over his torso, stop to play lightly with his nipples, until he’s not able to bite back breathy moans anymore. Sanji’s touch is soft but firm, thoughtful, like he’s exploring. He gropes flesh, kneads muscle, smoothes almost too gentle caresses on Zoro’s skin, his gaze leaving his ministrations only to observe the reactions on the swordsman’s face. Zoro really fucking digs that, even if he’s not about to tell Sanji.
- * -
Zoro’s scars hide surprisingly tender flesh. It’s something that is not easy to see, if you don’t look too hard. Sanji himself had stared too much for his own comfort, but only realized this after a while; he guesses he was… distracted, the first few times in Zoro’s personal space. Only when he observed Zoro’s skin up close he noticed the difference. (And it wasn’t like they were cuddling, okay? Sanji was just tired from the strenuous physical activity and dozing off on the first available surface, which happened to be Zoro’s chest).
The skin is thinner where it was sewn back together, and more sensitive. Sanji discovered the last detail after curiosity prompted him to drag his tongue over it: the sound Zoro made was quite interesting, a mix between a strangled moan and a surprised yelp. It was extremely satisfying to Sanji, and he has exploited this piece of information in many occasions. He finds fascinating how a calculated touch over these remainders of past battles is enough to turn the swordsman into a shivering mess. Sanji thinks that’s really fucking hot, even if he’s not going to tell Zoro anytime soon.