𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐬

𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 || Zoro | ft. Sanji

zoro doesn't like the idea of you painting another man's abs.

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Beads of sweat glisten like glimmering pearls against the firm muscles of tan skin, a small drop trickling down past thick broad shoulders and along a taut chest before landing on solid floors with a silent splash.

"...1285, 1286, 1287..." Zoro's gruff voice counts, one arm fixed securely against his back and a weight clutched in the hand of the other, as he tries his earnest to concentrate on the reps of push-ups he's been doing for more than two hours now.

Key word-tries.

His resilient endeavour to maintain his focus proves to be futile as Zoro's brows pinch together, an annoyed frown weaving itself onto his face when he hears a familiar soft bubble of laughter flooding into the room from one of the crow's nest open windows.

He attempts to redirect his focus on the task at hand. But, like before, fails miserably when he finds himself, within the span of a second, hoisting himself up onto his bare feet before crossing to the opposite side of the room in less than a few strides.

Dumbbells devotedly in hand, he flexes his arm, pointing his brown gaze through the window down at a sight that deepens the frown on his face.

"Okay, all good! Let's do this!" Your voice, accompanied by a wide smile, chirps when you finish fixing a loose strand of Sanji's tousled blonde hair back into place.

You both were atop the observation deck, underneath the blue cloudless sky, the warm rays of the sun enveloping you and all the Sunny in its warmth-a perfect day for getting started on your new art project. And who better to be your muse if not Zoro-who you'd implored on many failed occasions-than the stunning cook himself.

"Aye, aye my little sea pearl!" Sanji who's been drooling from the soft touches of your fingertips brushing against his forehead while you'd fixed his hair, along with your womanly scent that blessed his nostrils, beams, voice muffled by the stem of a red rose slotted between his lips-his own personal touch.

Your lips curl up into a warm smile at the endearing nickname. "Thanks again for doing this Sanji. I really appreciate it."

Sanji responds with a smile of his own, the rose-coloured lens of his eyes following you as you beeline towards your easel and canvas stationed near the main mast.

After mixing some of the necessary hues on your wet palette laid on the table beside you, you pick up one of your brushes, tucking its flaking handle between your fingers. You then cast a second-long look at Sanji's poised posture, his lean frame donning a blue kimono underneath a haori coloured the same, before dabbing the brush against the blob mixture of paint.

But when your brush nears the white of your canvas, your hand pauses, the motion repeating itself like a broken record every time you look up at Sanji and then attempt to press the brush's soft bristles to the paper.