[ all the comforts of the mansion can't make him relax — not the soft beds, not the fine food (not as good as his), not the plush carpets beneath his feet or the priceless artwork adorning the walls. he feels like an impostor even as he fits in with criminal ease, flitting about with a flirtatious smile on his face when he's in the dining room, trying to weasel his way into the kitchen so he can secure a spot where he feels most comfortable.
because he is decidedly not comfortable in his suite, alone as he is, knowing zoro is one bathroom away. the bed feels too large, too cold, too empty after months of warm limbs crowding together. the sleek walls look unnatural after gazing at rough hewn wood that zoro had fitted with shelves and knobs so that sanji could hang his pots and store utensils. nothing feels right, not even his own body that he spends each night tracing with shaking fingertips, wondering how something that should be familiar could feel like such a betrayal. it's a return to normalcy, and yet it couldn't be more unwelcome.
long stretches of time pass where he doesn't hear zoro at all, usually because zoro gets lost wandering around the manor's shifting halls. good. sanji would rather have the entire suite to himself. he's not in a sociable mood unless the person who wants to socialize is nami (or some other pretty girl, because it's not like he can just ignore a lady when they bat eyes at him), so all the better when he can pretend that zoro doesn't exist entirely. the only other good thing about having zoro as a suitemate is that he never, ever has to wonder if the bathroom is occupied. it never is, because zoro doesn't believe in bathing.
he goes from pissy to downright vengeful when he walks in to see zoro lounging in the tub. ]
What the hell are you doing here?
[ sanji is already stripped bare, his towel wrapped around his waist, a plush, bunny-eared headband holding his bangs back, a pair of pink slippers on his feet. he immediately wishes he were clothed, which is a ludicrous thought considering the things he's done in bed with zoro, his nipples pebbling suddenly from the memory of a rough kitten tongue laving over his skin, milky droplets running down — shit. ]
Get out of the tub, you shithead. You don't even know what you're doing. Did you lose your way to the lake?
[ he stomps over, his eyes falling on the pearly drops of water slipping down the muscled planes of zoro's chest. slipping his towel from his waist, he seats himself on the edge of the tub, drawing one leg up in what might be considered comely for anyone else, but in this case holds a very specific threat for zoro's personhood. ]
no subject
because he is decidedly not comfortable in his suite, alone as he is, knowing zoro is one bathroom away. the bed feels too large, too cold, too empty after months of warm limbs crowding together. the sleek walls look unnatural after gazing at rough hewn wood that zoro had fitted with shelves and knobs so that sanji could hang his pots and store utensils. nothing feels right, not even his own body that he spends each night tracing with shaking fingertips, wondering how something that should be familiar could feel like such a betrayal. it's a return to normalcy, and yet it couldn't be more unwelcome.
long stretches of time pass where he doesn't hear zoro at all, usually because zoro gets lost wandering around the manor's shifting halls. good. sanji would rather have the entire suite to himself. he's not in a sociable mood unless the person who wants to socialize is nami (or some other pretty girl, because it's not like he can just ignore a lady when they bat eyes at him), so all the better when he can pretend that zoro doesn't exist entirely. the only other good thing about having zoro as a suitemate is that he never, ever has to wonder if the bathroom is occupied. it never is, because zoro doesn't believe in bathing.
he goes from pissy to downright vengeful when he walks in to see zoro lounging in the tub. ]
What the hell are you doing here?
[ sanji is already stripped bare, his towel wrapped around his waist, a plush, bunny-eared headband holding his bangs back, a pair of pink slippers on his feet. he immediately wishes he were clothed, which is a ludicrous thought considering the things he's done in bed with zoro, his nipples pebbling suddenly from the memory of a rough kitten tongue laving over his skin, milky droplets running down — shit. ]
Get out of the tub, you shithead. You don't even know what you're doing. Did you lose your way to the lake?
[ he stomps over, his eyes falling on the pearly drops of water slipping down the muscled planes of zoro's chest. slipping his towel from his waist, he seats himself on the edge of the tub, drawing one leg up in what might be considered comely for anyone else, but in this case holds a very specific threat for zoro's personhood. ]