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It’s a warm mid-afternoon, maybe a little later if the stretching shade of galley’s wall is anything to go by, when Luffy finds him with excited shout of his name, sitting leg-crossed, eye closed, sun-touched wood against his back. He is awake for anyone concerned, even if the laziness of the day warrants a nap or two— there’s this restless humming under his skin that keeps his consciousness from drifting away, a weird kind of unease he can’t seem to find a source of. A nagging sensation that comes and goes and he just tries to ignore it most of the times now when it emerges; it’s not as prominent as it used to be before, so it’s easier to push through it, but Zoro would be lying if he said he didn’t quietly hope for it to completely go away on its own after their reunion, since it got lulled quite a bit with the rubber arms wrapped around him tightly and the crew back together in sight.
Still, if the shout wasn’t a notice enough to call him to attention, as a predator that is more limber and quick than smart Luffy forgoes any attempts at stalking the pray, and jumps straight to the ambush. Literally. Zoro is not one bit surprised (because again, he wasn’t dozing off) by the sudden but familiar weight, just simply crushed in the process of being alive and breathing. Like a bug, aware of the shadow of a foot falling down, but unable, or unwilling, to change its course.
His captain, as with everything, doesn’t beat around the bush waiting for Zoro to catch a breath— he’s already rambling something or other mid-tale, wiggling around and wildly gesturing to the beat of his words. It’s a nothing kind of story honestly, and one Zoro has heard no further than few hours ago half-awake during breakfast; Luffy’s voice, its ups and downs, light and sing-songy especially when this excited, seeps through his skin though, grinds into the points of contact of their bodies with irresistible pressure, almost need-like persistence to get inside. At least it seems so to Zoro, a hot wire set in his stomach as he can do nothing but adjust slightly the rubber legs straddling his, and tensely lean back, falling into that weird space between sleep and awareness, blurry vision and slow mind. Floating, relishing in the instant peace Luffy instills in him, despite the conflicting acidic fluid swirling wildly and melting away his ability to form thoughts.
It’s nice.
It’s an uneventful, unrushed, nice day, and he listlessly drags his eye along Luffy’s figure, taking a moment to just watch, take in, the ever-moving force of nature to slow down for a second in his swordsman’s lap.
Tousled by the wind wisps of hair curl behind his ears where they’re longer, probably on need for cut, framing his cheeks and chin that lost some of that child-like roundness, and with it made his deep brown eyes appear even bigger. He’s still this wiry, lean self, falsely uncoordinated in a way that must take a whole lot of control to not whack his stretchy limbs everywhere; but not as weightless as he used to be— Zoro supposes the world itself must have some heft to it, to not collapse under the dreams and burdens it carries— a notion that keeps adding rounds of exercises to his routine, and now makes his vision drop lower in a frown.
Luffy’s shirt, that eye-catching-red cardigan falling open for anyone to see his undeterred strength, is flowy, still a bit loose and bunching in places despite the new tone and definition to his muscles, slipping off his one shoulder as he animatedly talks.
Oblivious to its owner flow of words, the small expanse of naked skin calls to Zoro like a siren, a wicked thing, diverging his attention fully and grabbing him by his heartstrings, pulling him closer till his forehead is pressed right into it with a noiseless thunk, sinking, easily accommodating. Luffy’s body is funny like that— thin and boney; pliable and soft and giving.
Perfect for leaving an imprint.
There, little above the collarbone, is a single dark brown mole, ordinary like any other freckle dotting the rubber— except not.
A phantom scar where Arlong has sunk his ugly maw, and much more recently so did that bastard Hody in the exact same spot, glares mockingly right back at him. The indent has long faded away of course, healed over thanks to quick recovery devil fruits grant their users, and is only present in Zoro’s mind’s eye; his own private catalogue of all Luffy’s hurts that could easily rival Chopper’s medical records—it was there though. Something that has no right marking his captain was. there.
Unwarranted possessiveness builds in his chest at its reminder, blood rushing to his head and ringing in his ears as if Luffy’s just rocketed him straight into bare rock of a mountainside. Part of him thinks he’d prefer that, to be punched down, or slashed up, cut and attacked, have a real reason for this stupid feeling taking over him. But as it is, a thread of his composure slightly unwinds, and on the spur of the moment, Zoro bites in.
Luffy jolts a bit at the sting, but lets him, hums a content sound as his fingers twist into short hair on Zoro’s nape, his stream of words continuing without a hitch.
It’s an open invite for the swordsman to take what he craves, and Zoro pins teeth into his own lip from overeagerness—however it does very little to tame it; somewhere along the way he got so unused again to their easy closeness, to this bond that doesn’t need explanations or big words, that now it washes over him with a promise to sweep him out completely.
And it is a want, no, a need that encroaches on him out of the depths of his devotion, both simple, mindless impulse for meat between his canines, and encompassing desire to crawl under his captain’s skin, to be as close as possible, to hold and never part, never let himself be torn away again. To be the only one who’s ever allowed to pierce through.
So he nibbles and nips, lightly grazing the tender spot he has sought after in what could only be called kisses in their language of actions and glances. It’s a ‘I’ve missed you’ Luffy doesn’t have to hear to know Zoro means it with every fiber of his being.
Rubber fingers drop lower from the back of his neck to rest between his shoulder blades, and dig into the part of spine he can’t easily reach on his own, flexibility not being one of his virtues— it feels vulnerable to be touched like that, to have a palm splayed over the expanse where no scar will ever settle if he can help it, and to combat this heady sensation Zoro without thinking sinks his teeth further. Harder. With more hunger than he was aware he possessed.
The taste of blood explodes on his tongue in dizzying array of stars—red like the thrum of battle, liquid like ocean in its darkest part; as disastrous and deafening as a pop of a bubble— and he laps and licks and tries to suck it all before it drains or bleeds somewhere Zoro wouldn’t be able to get to in time. He has to— not a drop of his captain can be wasted. It’s electric. It’s addictive. (Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he has never felt so delirious before.)
Then there’s a push, and Luffy darts away from him, the force sending him a good feet or two flying, hitting the deck back first. He lays where he lands, chest heaving and visible skin flushed in pinkish tone, the strawhat pulled fast over his face secured by hand.
Shit.
Zoro’s teeth vibrate at the sudden lack of contact, but the inside meat of his cheek is right there, so. He rubs away weird wetness from his eye, takes a breath, and pulls his focus back on Luffy.
“Too much, captain?” He can’t help that it comes out in a tiny bit teasing snort, because even if he’s at fault here for the reaction, Zoro knows Luffy doesn’t see this as overstepping on his part.
The thing is, as clingy and touchy as Luffy is, he too gets absolutely overwhelmed at times.
Mostly it happens at big after-fight parties, festivals, bars they stop by on the way. In a crowds of people that suddenly turn their attention to him, because there’s just something so magnetic about Luffy that once he catches an eye, it naturally follows him. Wants to reach out, grasp that elusive warmth radiating from him. And when an eye contact leads to hands grabbing with misplaced familiarity— a pat on the back, arm around a shoulder, that sort of thing— an uncomfortable grimace can be found on Luffy’s face, sometimes a flinch. It’s an intimately gone in a blink occurrence, and in a next moment he flashes back a smile that a stranger has no way of knowing is too empty to be his, moving on quickly to distract himself with a funny looking feature of someone further away, copious amounts of food, or one of the Strawhats always keeping close by. Honestly, Zoro thinks Luffy puts up with it way more than he ever has to— if it were up to him, any weirdo coming this close would find themselves at best with a severed limb on a ground quicker than the pain of it registers.
But it’s not only strangers that elicit this response.
Rarely, certainly, but it happens with the crew as well.
It’s not irritation that pushes Chopper away when he takes too long fastening bandages and patching him up after a fight, prodding to no ends and lecturing while keeping his hooved hold tight; nor is it fear of Nami’s punches as she closes the distance to ruffle his hair instead. It’s not disgust for Usopp’s alcohol breath when he has one too many, and is hanging off Luffy for his dear life with silly giggle and nonsensical tales, and (as much as Zoro loathes to admit it,) it’s certainly not nausea from cigarette smoke when he recoils from Cook’s vicinity, even if a snack is for the taking. It’s not anything other than this ‘too much’ sensation when Franky, overcome with feeling, crushes him in a bear hug, or Robin decides to tickle him stupid— Luffy loves them all dearly, and would never let them think otherwise, but sometimes those bouts of affection tend to be more than he can take, and he completely shuts down.
Like now.
A whine answers him from under the strawhat. It’s cute in a way very few things Zoro is willing to admit are.
“Can’t laugh at me Zoro,” he groans as he stretches like a cat in the sun, a tilt of mischievous grin in his tone, “not after the last time.”
And. Fair enough. That was embarrassing— he really thought everyone was too drunk to remember it, but of course Nami has tougher head than heart; still, no need to dig it up, lest Zoro should fall into that hole and never get out. Even the mention of it knits his brows together, and that in turn makes Luffy smile erupt into full out laughter.
Meanwhile, as the giggle fades into waves hitting the hull, the shade of the wall has managed to become freezing cold— there’s this icy burn of a frostbite coursing under his skin in place of Luffy’s warmth— yet he feels glued to the ground, watching as Luffy’s chest rises and falls in more measured breaths now, the slight flush washing off and mixing with his natural tan. On days like these, when the rush of adrenaline finally comes down, and the next adventure is only barely outlined on the horizon, Zoro finds himself enjoying more and more the quiet. Fuck, he might be getting old.
The peace never last long though, and before he can truly come to face with the possibility of turning into Mihawk, a hand that can be traced back to still lying down shape of his captain grabs his, and pulls. Zoro can’t even put his legs under himself in time to not stumble forward, his years of katas and practicing keeping balance going to hell, and pathetic as he must look, his knees buckle and hit the deck just so his face falls right between Luffy’s thighs.
(He wouldn’t mind kneeling like this more often, prostrated before his king, especially with those eyes drilling into him from under his gold crown like his swordsman is already the greatest, like he is the only-)
He climbs a bit up on his arms and leans back, corrects his position to a less compromising one. His cheeks are still burning, but clearly there’s no fixing that, and hey. At least Luffy finds it amusing, huffing a breath into Zoro’s face, which. Again, is not helping.
Then something hardens in Luffy’s gaze and he takes the hand stil in his grip, guides it up and left, a little down to where his heart beats a fast but steady rhythm. To the edge of that glaring scar, skin irreparably damaged and flesh clotted over.
“Here,” he says, pressing Zoro’s fingers deeper, and—oh. They dip right in, the rubber malleable there more than anywhere else on his body.
“Torao said two of my ribs broke, and it was quicker to get rid of them than trying to set ‘em back.” Ther’s airy quality to his voice as he mentions it, offhandedly, a feign kind of nonchalance Luffy puts up only when speaking of his own injuries. It hurts just to listen to it, hold back to call him on his bullshit; but there’s no really a point in that, Zoro knows. It’s not like he’s any different in that regard.
“I don’t really need them anyway, so…”
And he must catch the brief spark of irritation stiffening Zoro’s posture, because he stops and scoffs, rolls his eyes with a hint of humor. “Oh, don’t be like that. Torao kinda had more pressing matters— he couldn’t just,” and the break in an eye contact that lasts barely a second, a second where his breath catches and gets stuck in his throat, betrays too much; “fix everything.”
Two year old guilt spikes up from its depths like a sleeping eel, wraps itself around Zoro’s heart and insistently tugs him away. Tries to, at least— because Luffy holds still, keeps holding him close, pressing him into his chest like as if he could, he would cram Zoro right into the crevice and fill in that empty space there. And Zoro would let him; would let himself be absorbed if it meant sating this desire echoing in his bones.
He’d like that very much in fact.
As if reading his mind, his captain smiles down at him. There’s something predatory about it too, more teeth and gums than brightness, and the pressure against swordsman’s hand starts to border on uncomfortable.
“I want Zoro right here.”
In the next instant Luffy has them flipped all over, his weight spreading warmness evenly atop Zoro in much more familiar way.
“I’m starving, you know.” He accentuates in a voice that befits the King, gravity of it nestling in his core, and there’s different kind of hunger in his eyes than usual— the kind Zoro could easily drown in. Blindly get lost in with no point of return.
But as soon as it flashes, sharp fangs in the brief moonlight, it wanes back, recedes to where it came from, and Luffy tilts his head to side with the tiniest of pouts in place, back to looking like the boy in a strawhat. The desire was there though, clear as day, and the simple knowledge Luffy wants him just as much satisfies the swordsman in more ways than he could ever ask for.
“But I can’t eat Zoro before he achieves his dream.”
There’s a lump in Zoro’s throat, a string of words he can’t yet say, and he dry swallows around it as the blood coursing under his skin finally reaches the boiling point.
And Luffy is still looking at him, those big round eyes not inching away from his.
Maybe not waiting or expecting, but something close. Searching, more like. Making sure.
So to the nonexistent question Zoro gives a nod, not hesitant but definitely a bit taken aback, agreeing wholeheartedly to whatever his captain wants of him. Anything. He tentatively lays his hands on Luffy’s legs in the next breath, and when the move meets no objection, he rubs his thumbs up and down the firm curve of his calves, knees, thighs.
That must satisfy enough his captain, because he falls forward with content sigh, settles down on Zoro’s chest, the position of their bodies sliding in together like it’s natural, innate. Mouths something indistinguishable against his shirt before stilling as much as he ever does, too quick and quiet between hush of waves, creaking wood and distant voices of their nakama, and Zoro is right there with him instantly like with everything else.
Maybe he can finally get his nap.
But, of course the quiet never lasts— he knows it, he really does. It doesn’t stop the surprised yelp escaping him, or the hiss he tries to stifle.
Be it that he’s already half-asleep and imagines meat, or simply wants to make true on that want he expressed, Luffy chomps down on his chest— and it’s nothing like the bite Zoro left earlier; his normal human flesh is way less forgiving compared to rubber, and even through the shirt he feels like a good chunk of his pec is barely holding from being torn off. Give it another minute, and they will have a lot of explaining to do. Chopper certainly won’t be impressed.
Then Luffy’s stomach rumbles, followed by a trickle of spit in the corner of his mouth catching the sunlight and shining with it, and Zoro decides that it’s too much for his poor heart.
Fuck he needs a fight. And a drink. Preferably both at the same time.
“Wanna grab some grub while I distract Cook?”