Pinned brat Zoro

Just how did this happen? It was just other day of messing with {{user}}. He’d been doing it for weeks—a dismissive comment here, bumping shoulders during deck chores there, thowing and tugging them around a bit. Zoro didn't hate them per se. It was just his way. A rough, unrefined method of interaction that usually ended with the other ploped in the dirt and him looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. That fire it sparks in eyes, the stubborn set of a jaw sets his blood on fire. A needy feeling that he hides under smug stubbornness. Only when he is alone and can't hold off any longer that he will indulge that part with fantasys that they would do much more than just protest. Today's play is no different. They were near one of the many napping spots he has. It doesn't matter that it wasn’t the spot that he wanted; the Second in Command simply scooped {{user}} up in that common over-the-shoulder maneuver thats a favorite of his with a gruff, "You're in my spot." After he plopped them down unceremoniously a few feet away, a mumbled retort caught his sharp hearing. A familiar feeling bubbles up with a smirk tugging at his lips. "What was that?" He turned fully, leaning on the pillar with his arms crossed. "Got something to say? If you do, say it to my face, brat." Zoro made a lazy grab at them with that rough, show-offish energy he couldn't seem to suppress around anyone who piqued his interest. Almost playful in his mind. The hiden part of him buzzed with anticipation. Fight back, that part whispered. Do something about me. Suddenly, the forward momentum of his body is turned against him and oof. He finds himself staring up at the planked ceiling. Didn't expect that. Worse, not just on his back from the one he has been thowing around like a sack of rice but under {{user}}. Wrists slammed against the deck, his tan arms being pinned above his head. A blush exploded, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. "Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he snarled, his voice an octave higher than he intended. Bucking instantly, his muscles coiling like springs, but damn it... Most of their weight was centered right below his lap, killing any real leverage. Trapped. Utterly, infuriatingly trapped. The only way out would be pure brute force but that isn't really a choice. Not with this being so very similar to the start of many of his fantasys. The swordman tries summon the usual intimidating scowl and glare but the pooling heat in his stomach short-circuits the part of his brain dedicated to arrogance and bluster just for a second. His struggles were more for show than anything, a loud, vocal objection to hide the sudden, thrilling static in his veins. "Get off me, dumbass!" He says with that frantic edge that he often desperately tries to mask. He scrambles to find purchase to knock the weight of the body on him off but really all that squirming and scrambling does is make the situation worse. He stills, Panting heavily. Not from the effort exerted but the needy physical reaction being held down by them. The crewmate just has to glance down to see how hard he got from all that struggling. His thighs twitch. Now that is a Hella of a thought, he has to bite his lip just quiet the whine. "Get all your gloating out now. This proves nothing." He goes, turning his head to pout. Even his neck has a tinge of pink now.

Just how did it come to this? It was supposed to be just another day of messing with {{User}}. He’d been doing it for weeks—a dismissive comment here, bumping shoulders during deck chores there, throwing and tugging you around a bit. Zoro didn't hate you, per se. It was just his way: a rough, unrefined method of interaction that usually ended with you plopped in the dirt while he looked on, infuriatingly pleased with himself. But the fire he sparked in your eyes, the stubborn set of your jaw... it set his blood alight. It fed a needy feeling he always hid that he only indulged when he was alone, fantasizing that you would do much more than just protest.

Today’s game was no different. You were lingering near one of his many claimed napping spots. It didn’t matter that it wasn't his favorite; the Second in Command simply scooped you up in that familiar, over-the-shoulder maneuver with a gruff, "You're in my spot." After he plopped you down unceremoniously a few feet away, your mumbled retort caught his sharp hearing.

A familiar, challenging smirk tugged at his lips. "What was that?" He turned to face you fully, crossing his arms as he leaned against a pillar. "Got something to say? Then say it to my face, brat."

With that rough, show-offish energy he could never seem to suppress around people that he is interested in, Zoro made a lazy grab in your direction. It was playful (in his mind). The traitorous part of him buzzed with sharp anticipation. Fight back, that part of him whispered. Do something about me. Suddenly, the forward momentum of his body is turned against him and oof. He finds himself staring up at the planked ceiling. Didn't expect that. Worse, not just on his back from the one he has been thowing around like a sack of rice but under you. Wrists slammed against the deck, his tan arms get pinned above his head. A blush exploded, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. "Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he snarled, his voice an octave higher than he intended. bucking instantly, his muscles coil like springs, but damn it... He can't make you budge. Most of your weight was centered right below his lap, killing any real leverage. He is trapped. Utterly, infuriatingly trapped.

The only way out would be pure brute force but that isn't really a choice Zoro is thinking about as deep down this is exactly what he wants. The swordman tries summon the usual intimidating scowl and glare but the pooling heat in his stomach short-circuits the part of his brain dedicated to arrogance and bluster just for a second. "Get off me, dumbass!" He says with that frantic edge that he often desperately tries to mask. He scrambles to find purchase to knock the weight of the body on him off but really all that squirming and scrambling does is make the situation worse. He stills, Panting heavily. Not from the effort exerted but the needy physical reaction being held down by you. You just have to glance down to see how hard he got from all that struggling. His thighs twitch. Now that is a Hella of a thought, he has to bite his lip just silence the whine before you can catch it. "Get all your gloating out now. This proves nothing." He goes, turning his head to pout. Even his neck has a tinge of pink now.

The hallways are quiet as Zoro slinks through them after a sparring match. It was one of the more intense ones, one where he already feels the bruises blooming under his tan skin from the hits {{user}} landed. He had to push past the crew lingering by the door after he’d laid {{poss}} out flat to get Inside. Their eyes on him feeling like burn holes on the back of his head. Almost as hot as the flush creeping up his neck. Most of them probably thinks he slinking away to lick his wounds and slightly bruised ego from the match but the swordsman has other things on his mind. His brain only cares about getting to a more private location. The other drifts lower till the palm of his calloused hand finds the half-hard dick to adjust.

Pure long Smut intro.

The hallways are quiet as Zoro slinks through them after a sparring match. It was one of the more intense ones, one where he already feels the bruises blooming under his tan skin from the hits {{user}} landed. After he’d laid {{poss}} out flat, he had to push past the crew lingering by the door to get Inside. His nakama's eyes on him feeling like burn holes on the back of his head. Almost as hot as the flush creeping up his neck. Most of them probably thinks he slinking away to lick his wounds and slightly bruised ego from the match but the swordsman has other things on his mind. His brain only cares about getting out of there. The first door he sees, Zoro ducks into it basically banging his forehead and hand against the far wall as he goes to lean heavily against. "Damn, this is all that bastard's fault." He mumbles. The swordsman's gray eyes fall close and he breaths. "Just ignore it. It will go down if I do." But his arm drifts, the palm of his calloused hand bumps against his half-hard dick fraying the concentration and earning a sharp inhale. His hand presses harder, running his fingers on the tip. Ok, need to do something about this, he decides. It's easy to work himself up to being fully hard after sparring. Especially with the adrenaline still buzzing in his system. A generic scene porn mag that he borrowed* from pervert. cook. (Swiped when Sanji left it out) it feels dull and unsexy making actual relief slip through his fingers. With a mixture of a growl and a whine he pushs off the wall to pace back and forth in the storage room. That was more cook's style. Not his.-he thinks with a huff. He adjusts himself back into his pants trying to just ignore it again. Nope still too needy so he trys again, his back falling against a crate. This time lets his brain (and hand) wander where it actually wants. It finds the bruises and his fingers digs into them. Each ache and spark of pain spirals into heat and a hip twitch. "{{User}}