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There’s something rather decadent about smoking a cigarette in bed. It hits the same indulgent sweet spot in Sanji’s brain as a particularly rich dessert or sumptuous glass of wine; a greedy little treat taken for his own sake and no one else’s. Granted one could argue all cigarettes are like that, but there’s something special to Sanji about lighting up when he’s lounging on soft cotton sheets and fluffy pillows as opposed to the oppressively comforting heat of his kitchen or the sun-baked deck of the ship. He doesn’t usually take cigarettes in bed, and even when he does, it’s almost exclusively after sex, basking in the honey-gold warmth of an afterglow. They’re really the only two selfish acts he allows himself, and so combining them is about as close to hedonism as Sanji will ever get.
He’s never actually considered smoking while having sex before, though. At least, not until Zoro brings it up.
Which is how Sanji ended up here, lying back against a small mountain of pillows with a cigarette in hand and a moss in his lap, with a mouth full of Sanji’s cock. Zoro’s taking his time with it, slowly bobbing his head along the entire length, teasing his tongue against the slit, carefully (very carefully) grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin in a way that normally drives Sanji absolutely insane. It still is, technically, but something about the act of smoking while having his dick sucked is making time slow down, stretching every action Sanji takes into something long and deliciously languid. This isn’t meant to be a quick, dirty smoke break; Sanji intends to savour it.
He gasps on an inhale when Zoro pulls off to pepper kisses across the bony point of one hip, nipping playfully and leaving bright red love-bites in his wake. Sanji draws smoke into his lungs and then groans it out, belly pulsing with liquid pleasure. His dick is leaking, leaving a sticky white mess all over his abdomen, and Zoro dutifully laps it up like a cat with a bowl of cream.
“You’re so greedy,” Sanji laughs, low and sweet. He uses his free hand to ruffle Zoro’s sweaty green locks, while the other taps ash off his cigarettes into the tray on the nightstand.
Zoro looks up at him through the jade-dark fan of his lashes, a pretty contrast to the deeply pink flush painted across his cheeks. “Somebody doesn’t like it when I waste food,” he says in response, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the crease where Sanji’s torso meets his thigh.
“I don’t think cum really counts as food,” Sanji replies with a breathless chuckle, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth.
Zoro rolls his eye. “Close enough,” he counters. “Besides, aren’t you the one always yelling at me to clean up my damn messes?”
Sanji inhales, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before releasing it in a slow, steady stream. “True,” he concedes, moving the hand in Zoro’s hair down so he can rub his thumb over the swordman’s cheek, pressing the pad of his thumb to those red, swollen lips. “Messy marimo. Remind me again why I put up with you?”
Zoro laughs, warm breath brushing over Sanji’s dick and making it twitch. “I have it on good authority that you love me,” he says, and Sanji scrunches his face up in mock confusion.
“That doesn’t sound like me. Who the hell told you that?”
Zoro laughs again, this time moving to press an incongruously sweet kiss to the tip of Sanji’s aching cock. “It’s a secret,” he murmurs, before his tongue laps kittenishly at the pearly beads gathered there.
Sanji can’t help the hiss that escapes him in another cloud of smoke, arousal spiking hot and sharp in his belly, his blood, his heart. He opens his mouth to give another cheeky response, but then Zoro wraps a sword-calloused hand around one thick thigh, urging it up and over his shoulder. Sanji obliges, shuddering when that obscenely talented mouth returns to his dick at the same time that two of Zoro’s fingers press against the still slick rim of his entrance, teasing over it for a moment before easily slipping inside.
“Fuck,” Sanji breathes as desire burns through him, his insides alight like the ember end of the cigarette. “Fuck, yes, that’s it moss, just like that, fuck—”
Zoro hums happily around him at the same time that he crooks his fingers just right, and the languid spell around Sanji snaps like a celery stalk. Suddenly he doesn’t want to take his time anymore. He wants his pleasure now; wants to be greedy with it in the same way he is with that first hit of nicotine in the morning, wants to feel it fill his body like the smoke fills his lungs. But more than that he wants Zoro—Zoro and his warm, wicked mouth, Zoro and his rough, caring hands, Zoro and his big, dumb, stupid heart, the only thing Sanji has ever craved more than he craves his cigarettes. He could give up smoking, if he really had to; but he’d rather slit himself open belly to sternum like a fresh caught fish than give up his marimo.
“Zoro,” Sanji gasps, needing the weight of the swordman’s name on his tongue, feeling it hit with like the sheer raw pleasure of a drag. “Zoro, Zoro, Zoro, Zoro—”
His orgasm spills out of him with the same headiness as an exhale of smoke, desire engulfing him in a hazy cloud that lingers long after he’s done, after Zoro’s had his fill, after he’d settled his head back into Sanji’s lap like a particularly lazy cat. Sanji puts the stub of his cigarette out in the ash tray and then uses both hands to pet over Zoro’s sweat-mussed hair and blotchy red face and the broad expanse of those bronze shoulders, needing the touch as much as his dirty little habit. Maybe even more so.
“Careful mosshead,” Sanji says, voice low and warm with unchecked affection. “I could get addicted to this.”
Zoro cracks open his hazel-grey eye so he can look up at Sanji, a satisfied smile stretching wide across his face as he says—
“Good.”