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The air is buzzing with a kind of electricity, heady and alive, like the island itself is celebrating its liberation. Lanterns sway gently in the breeze, their golden light pooling on cobblestone streets and softening the sharp edges of the world. People spill out of taverns and homes, voices raised in song and laughter, the music of fiddles and flutes weaving through the night. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafts up, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. It feels alive, untamed, and absolutely perfect.
Sanji leans against a wrought iron railing on the balcony of a stone building, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. From here, he can see the full scope of the revelry below. His crew is scattered among the townsfolk, their joy as uncontainable as Luffy’s appetite.
Luffy himself is perched on a table, his legs swinging like a child’s, his mouth full of something unidentifiable and probably delicious. Nami twirls in a borrowed gown, the hem sweeping over the cobblestones as she laughs, bright and unguarded. Usopp commands a rapt audience of children, his exaggerated stories punctuated with wild gestures that make them giggle and gasp. Robin sits near the firelight, a glass of wine in her hand, her smile faint but warm as she watches the crowd. Franky belts out a tune that is decidedly off-key, but Brook accompanies him on violin, making it sound deliberate. Chopper flits between groups, a self-appointed healer of headaches and excess, his little hands carrying cups of water and medicinal herbs.
And then there’s Zoro.
Zoro stands apart, leaning against a stone pillar with his usual air of unaffected stillness. A tankard hangs loosely in his hand, and his gaze sweeps across the crowd, slow and steady, like he’s cataloging every movement, every sound. The firelight kisses his skin, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw and the subtle sheen of sweat still clinging to him after the fight earlier. His shirt is half-buttoned, his swords resting at his side, and he is infuriatingly… present.
Sanji tells himself to look away. He’s not sure how long he’s been staring, but it’s long enough to make his cigarette burn low, forgotten between his fingers. Zoro, he reminds himself, is an idiot. A brute. A man whose singular talent—beyond wielding swords with terrifying and inhuman skill—is his ability to infuriate Sanji without trying.
And yet.
There’s something tonight, something in the way Zoro holds himself, that Sanji can’t quite place. He watches as Zoro lifts the tankard, the line of his throat illuminated by the flickering lantern light. His fingers twitch involuntarily, a phantom urge to trace the path of the firelight across Zoro’s skin.
This is dangerous, Sanji thinks, dragging his gaze back to the street below. Dangerous and completely absurd. He flicks the stub of his cigarette into the alley below, watching the ember extinguish in the dark. The celebration carries on, voices rising and falling in waves, but Sanji’s focus narrows to one point: the swordsman leaning against the pillar, his gaze unreadable, his presence magnetic.
When Zoro’s eyes meet his across the distance, Sanji’s breath catches. It’s fleeting—just a glance, just a flicker—but it feels weighted, like a hand pressed against his chest. Steady. Certain.
Zoro doesn’t look away. Not this time.
Sanji feels his heart lurch, his stomach twisting itself into knots that have nothing to do with the rum in his flask. He’s the one who looks away first, pulling another cigarette from his pocket with a hand that’s not as steady as it should be. This is stupid. Zoro is stupid. And he, Sanji, is clearly losing his mind.
The music shifts below, slower now, its rhythm soft and elegant. Sanji exhales a plume of smoke, the curl of it disappearing into the night air, and his feet move before he can talk himself out of it.
He doesn’t realize where he’s going until he’s standing in front of Zoro.
The swordsman doesn’t look surprised. If anything, there’s something in his expression—an almost imperceptible softening of his sharp features—that unnerves Sanji more than the battle they fought earlier. He opens his mouth to say something witty, something sharp and cutting, but what comes out is, “You brooding here for a reason, or did you get lost again?”
Zoro smirks, his lips quirking just enough to draw attention to the curve of his mouth. “I could ask you the same thing, cook. What, the ladies finally figure out you’re all talk?”
Sanji scoffs, shaking his head as he pulls the flask from his coat pocket. “Please. I’ve been busy keeping them entertained. Thought I’d lower my standards and see how the marimo are doing.”
Zoro laughs, low and rich, and Sanji feels it more than hears it, the sound thrumming in his chest like the strings of Brook’s violin. “If that’s what you’re here for, you’d better drink up first,” Zoro says, lifting his tankard toward him. “Might help you forget how badly you’re about to embarrass yourself.”
Sanji should walk away. He should roll his eyes, mutter something about Zoro being insufferable, and rejoin the crowd. But he doesn’t. Instead, he tips the flask toward Zoro, their fingers brushing as they trade drinks, and the air between them feels heavier, crackling like a fire about to catch.
Their words are sharp, as always, but there’s something beneath them—something that feels dangerous and unspoken, like a storm waiting to break. And when Zoro leans closer, his smirk softening just slightly, Sanji feels himself slip a little further into the undertow.
The air between them is tense, charged in a way Sanji doesn’t know how to name. He takes another swig from the drink, though it does little to steady his nerves. The warmth of the rum spreads through his chest, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from Zoro, standing just a breath away.
Zoro tilts his head, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “You’re quiet, cook. That’s new.”
Sanji rolls his eyes, falling back into the rhythm of their usual banter because it’s safer than the way his heart is pounding in his chest. “Just didn’t want to hurt your feelings, marimo. Thought I’d give you a moment to bask in my presence.”
Zoro huffs a laugh, low and throaty. “If I wanted peace and quiet, I’d be somewhere else.”
Sanji feels the corner of his mouth twitch, and damn it, Zoro shouldn’t be allowed to be this calm, this collected, while Sanji is over here fighting the urge to tug him closer by the collar of his half-buttoned shirt. It’s infuriating. It’s maddening. It’s… intoxicating.
He doesn’t mean to look at Zoro’s lips, but he does, and when he realizes it, he jerks his gaze away so quickly he might as well have physically flinched. Zoro notices—of course he notices—and the smirk that spreads across his face is nothing short of smug.
“What’s your problem tonight?” Zoro asks, and though his voice is casual, there’s something sharp in his eyes, something that makes Sanji’s stomach flip.
“You’re my problem,” Sanji mutters, more to himself than to Zoro, but the words slip out before he can stop them.
Zoro’s smirk falters, replaced by something quieter, something unreadable. He steps closer, close enough that Sanji can feel the heat of him, the scent of steel and sweat and salt clinging to his skin. The rest of the world feels distant, muted, as though the music and laughter from the square belong to another life entirely.
“Say that again,” Zoro says, his voice low, and it sends a shiver down Sanji’s spine. It’s not a challenge—not exactly. It’s a request, quiet and steady, and it makes Sanji’s breath hitch.
Sanji swallows hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He should walk away. He should laugh it off, crack a joke, do anything to put some distance between himself and the weight of Zoro’s gaze. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he steps closer.
“You,” Sanji says, his voice soft but firm, his eyes locked on Zoro’s, “are my problem.”
For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them is heavy, thick with something unsaid, something waiting to snap. And then Zoro moves.
It’s subtle—a shift forward, his hand reaching up to brush against Sanji’s wrist, a touch so light it might as well not be there at all. But it is, and it sends Sanji’s carefully constructed composure crumbling like sand beneath a rising tide.
“You’re such a damn idiot,” Sanji mutters, though there’s no heat behind it. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to—Zoro or himself—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the way Zoro is looking at him, like he’s waiting for Sanji to make the first move.
Sanji doesn’t realize he’s leaning in until their foreheads brush, and the world tilts dangerously on its axis. His breath mingles with Zoro’s, and he can feel the swordsman’s pulse, steady and unflinching, as though he’s not afraid of any of this.
“Cook,” Zoro says, his voice a low rumble, and that’s all it takes.
Sanji closes the distance, his lips crashing against Zoro’s, and it feels like the world finally, finally stops spinning.
The kiss is electric, a spark that ignites something deep and untamed inside Sanji. Zoro’s lips are firm and steady, his hand coming up to grip Sanji’s waist with the same confidence he carries into battle. Sanji’s mind whirls, his body reacting instinctively, leaning into the heat of the moment, into Zoro. But then, like a lightning strike, the memory slams into him, raw and vivid.
–
The battlefield had been chaos, a blur of smoke, blood, and the endless cacophony of clashing steel. The corrupt marines had come like a tide, wave after wave, their desperation giving them a dangerous edge. Sanji had fought with his usual precision, his kicks landing hard and fast as he worked to clear a path for the townspeople to escape. His focus had been absolute—until it wasn’t.
He hadn’t seen the hulking Marine step out from the smoke, hadn’t noticed the man’s shadow until it was too late. The next thing Sanji knew, he was pinned beneath a knee like a lead weight, his arms struggling against the brute’s iron grip. The Marine had grinned, his fist cocked back, and for the first time in years, Sanji had felt the sharp sting of panic. He’d struggled, twisting and kicking, but the man didn’t budge.
It had been seconds—maybe less—but it had felt like an eternity. The sound of the battlefield had dulled, his breath loud in his ears, his heart racing as the fist came down.
And then, a roar.
“DON’T YOU TOUCH HIM. HE’S MINE!”
The words had cut through the noise like a blade, blinding and furious, and Sanji had barely registered them before the Marine was torn away. Zoro’s swords had gleamed in the firelight, a flash of steel followed by the sickening sound of metal slicing through flesh. The brute didn’t even have time to cry out before Zoro’s katana sent him sprawling, a limp and defeated heap.
Zoro had been terrifying in that moment, his wild eyes locking onto the remaining marines with a fury that seemed almost inhuman. He was relentless, cutting through anyone foolish enough to stand in his way, his movements precise and brutal.
And then, it was over. The marines scattered like leaves in the wind, their leader broken and bloodied at Zoro’s feet. Zoro had turned, his chest heaving, his swords dripping red as he looked down at Sanji. His expression had been unreadable, but his eyes—sharp and unyielding—had been locked onto Sanji with an intensity that made his breath catch.
“You good, cook?” Zoro had asked, his voice a low growl, rough from the fight.
Sanji had nodded, stunned into silence. He’d expected Zoro to gloat, to make some biting remark about how he’d needed saving. But Zoro had simply extended a hand, his grip firm as he hauled Sanji to his feet. The battle had raged on, but for a moment, the rest of the world had disappeared.
And then Zoro had turned, his swords sheathed in one fluid motion, and walked away like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just laid claim to Sanji’s life with that single, shouted word.
–
Mine. The word echoes in Sanji’s mind as he pulls back, his chest heaving, his hands still fisted in Zoro’s shirt. He looks at the swordsman now, his face so close, his gaze steady and unflinching, and he realizes with startling clarity that Zoro had meant it. Even then. Even now.
Zoro’s hand tightens on Sanji’s waist, grounding him, anchoring him to the present. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low but laced with something that almost sounds like concern.
Sanji huffs a shaky laugh, his forehead falling against Zoro’s, his breath still uneven. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
Zoro smirks, his other hand coming up to cup the back of Sanji’s neck. “Yeah, but so are you.”
Sanji laughs again, softer this time, his hands relaxing their grip on Zoro’s shirt. He leans into the touch, the memory of the battlefield still fresh but no longer sharp. Zoro had saved him then, not just his life but something deeper, something he hadn’t been ready to face.
Sanji pulls back just enough to meet Zoro’s gaze, his breath uneven, his pulse thrumming wildly in his chest. The weight of everything—Zoro’s hands on him, his own heart trying to punch its way out of his ribcage, the memory of Zoro’s voice claiming him on the battlefield—presses down on him like a storm ready to break. He knows there’s no going back from this. Whatever line they’ve just crossed, it’s been obliterated.
He takes a shaky breath, steels himself, and says, as bluntly as he can, “I want you to fuck me.”
For a moment, the world stops. The distant sound of laughter and music fades into nothing, the flickering lantern light barely registers, and all Sanji can hear is the deafening roar of silence between them. Zoro stares at him, wide-eyed, his lips parted as if the words have physically hit him. He looks so utterly dumbfounded that, for a split second, Sanji wonders if he’s just made the worst mistake of his life.
And then Zoro chokes—actually chokes—on air, coughing as though Sanji’s words have knocked the wind out of him. “What the—” Zoro starts, his voice rough, before cutting himself off. His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as if he’s trying to process what he’s just heard.
Sanji doesn’t back down. He can’t. Not now. “You heard me,” he says, his voice steady despite the way his knees feel like they might give out at any second. “I want you. And if you’re going to say I’m yours, then prove it.”
That’s all it takes.
Zoro’s hands are on him before Sanji can take another breath, grabbing him by the waist and yanking him forward so hard he stumbles. Their lips crash together, rough and desperate, and Zoro kisses him like he’s trying to claim every last piece of him, like he’s been waiting for this moment for far too long.
When Zoro finally pulls back, his breath is hot against Sanji’s lips, his grip on him unyielding. “So you get it now, do you, cook?” Zoro growls, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes blazing with something fierce and unrelenting. “That you’re mine?”
Sanji doesn’t answer with words. He doesn’t need to. His hands fist in Zoro’s shirt, pulling him closer, and when their mouths meet again, it’s less of a kiss and more of a challenge. One they’re both more than ready to take on.
–
The room is softly lit, the warm glow of a single lantern casting golden light over worn wooden walls. It smells faintly of sea salt and lavender oil, the remnants of an attempt to mask the natural musk of the place. This sort of inn sees a lot of bodies. The bed creaks beneath them, though neither man notices, their focus entirely on each other. The innkeeper’s knowing wink as she gave them the keys to a room with a single bed feels like a distant memory, but the implications of that single, smug gesture linger in the charged air.
Sanji lies bare beneath Zoro, his skin flushed and warm, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He doesn’t know where to put his hands—on the sheets, on Zoro, in his own hair to pull himself together—but none of it matters. Not with Zoro looming above him, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the lantern light, turning him into something almost feral, almost too beautiful to be real. A beast, Sanji thinks distantly, his breath hitching. A beautiful, maddening, impossible beast.
Zoro leans over him, his muscles taut and defined, his eyes sharp and dark, filled with something Sanji has never seen in anyone before. His hair is slightly disheveled, his scar stark against the flush of his skin, and there’s an intensity to his gaze that pins Sanji in place more effectively than any blade could.
“You look good like this,” Zoro says, his voice rough, low, and dripping with something primal. His hands trail along Sanji’s thighs, firm but not rough, gentle in a way that makes Sanji’s pulse race. “Better than I ever imagined.”
Sanji should feel embarrassed—should feel exposed and vulnerable, laid bare like this—but he doesn’t. Not with Zoro looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him, and mutters, “You’ve imagined this, huh?”
Zoro’s lips twitch into a smirk, and he leans down, his mouth brushing against the curve of Sanji’s jaw. “More than once,” he admits, the words a hot whisper against Sanji’s skin. “You’re hard to ignore, cook.”
Sanji laughs, breathless and nervous, his head tipping back against the pillows as Zoro’s lips move down the column of his throat, sharp teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing down his spine. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly subtle, either,” Sanji manages, though his voice wavers.
Zoro hums in acknowledgment, his hands sliding up to Sanji’s waist, gripping him firmly as he pulls him closer. “Good,” he says, his voice a growl now, deep and resonant. “Subtle’s not my style.”
And then he moves, lowering himself over Sanji, their bodies aligning, and for a moment, Sanji forgets how to breathe. Zoro is all heat and muscle and barely restrained power, and Sanji feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath him. But instead of fear, there’s exhilaration, a thrill that courses through him with every touch, every word, every look.
“You’re mine,” Zoro murmurs, his lips ghosting over Sanji’s ear. The words are firm, absolute, like a vow. “Say it.”
Sanji’s breath hitches, his hands reaching up to grip Zoro’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle there. He meets Zoro’s gaze, his own eye wide, his chest heaving, and for the first time, he doesn’t fight it.
“I’m yours,” he whispers, the words trembling but true.
Zoro smiles—sharp, wild, and entirely too smug—and leans down to claim Sanji’s lips again. “Good,” he murmurs against his mouth. “Because I’m yours, too.”
“Fuck,” Sanji groans.
The bed creaks softly beneath them, the room hushed except for the faint rustling of sheets and Sanji's uneven breaths. Zoro's hands are steady, impossibly so, their warmth grounding Sanji as they move with deliberate care. It’s not what Sanji expected. Not at all.
He thought Zoro would be rough, brutal even. A man who fights with such ferocity, who wields swords with the precision of a predator, surely wouldn’t know how to be gentle. But he is. Every touch, every press of his fingers, is measured, deliberate, and it leaves Sanji trembling, his heart pounding so hard he’s sure it will break free from his chest.
Zoro murmurs soft words under his breath—not quite comforting, not quite teasing, but something in between, just low enough that Sanji can’t catch them all. His hands are impossibly patient, working Sanji open with an attention to detail that would rival any master of lovemaking. Sanji can feel the care in every movement, the effort to make him feel good, and it’s overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once, he wants more, he wants all Zoro will give him and then some.
His body responds before his brain does, every nerve alight, every muscle trembling. He can’t help the small, breathy noises that slip from his lips, and each one earns a quiet hum of approval from Zoro. It’s maddening, the way Zoro seems so composed while Sanji feels like he’s coming apart at the seams.
When Zoro leans down to press a kiss to the inside of Sanji’s knee, soft and unhurried, Sanji’s breath hitches. He can’t stop himself from blurting out, “You—you’ve done this before?”
Zoro pauses, his fingers stilling for just a moment, and Sanji feels the weight of the question hang in the air. He expects a sharp retort, maybe a scoff or a joke, but Zoro doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he resumes his movements, slower this time, more deliberate, and the silence stretches until Sanji thinks he might burst.
When Zoro finally speaks, his voice is low, almost a growl. “No one matters but you.”
The words hit Sanji harder than he expects, cutting through the haze of sensation with startling clarity. He looks up, his breath catching as he meets Zoro’s gaze. There’s something raw there, something unguarded, and it makes Sanji’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t entirely understand.
Zoro’s hand shifts, his touch coaxing another broken sound from Sanji’s lips, and for a moment, everything else fades. The world narrows to the heat of Zoro’s hands, the weight of his body, and the quiet intensity in his eyes.
Sanji doesn’t know how to respond—doesn’t know if he even can. But as Zoro leans down, his lips brushing softly against Sanji’s in a kiss that feels almost too much, Sanji thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to.
Zoro leans back just slightly, his movements smooth and purposeful, the heat of his body leaving Sanji’s skin for only a moment. Sanji watches him through the haze of his own trembling breaths, his body still quaking from Zoro’s touch. He doesn’t know where to look—at the single eye fixed on him with unwavering focus, or at Zoro’s hands as they reach for the small bottle of oil on the nightstand.
The lantern light catches the scar that bisects Zoro’s closed eye, a brutal mark that somehow only makes him look more untouchable, more powerful. Yet here he is, kneeling over Sanji, his hands steady as he slicks his thick length with a precision that makes Sanji’s heart skip a beat.
Zoro doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. His movements are calm and practiced, the picture of competence, but there’s something else—something in the way his jaw tightens, in the low, almost imperceptible noise that escapes him as he runs his slicked hand over himself. It’s enough to send a fresh wave of heat pooling in Sanji’s stomach, his thighs trembling where they’re spread wide beneath Zoro.
“You’re staring,” Zoro says, his voice rough and low, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not that I blame you.”
Sanji huffs out a breathless laugh, though it catches halfway in his throat. “Cocky bastard.”
“You love it,” Zoro mutters, and the confidence in his tone is maddening. He shifts forward, positioning himself between Sanji’s legs, his hands firm as they grip Sanji’s thighs. “Relax, cook. I’ve got you.”
And he does.
Zoro presses forward slowly, the stretch so intense that Sanji’s breath stutters, his hands clutching at the sheets beneath him. Zoro’s eye stays locked on him, his brow furrowed in concentration, and he moves with deliberate care, inch by inch, until he’s seated fully inside.
Sanji can’t help the broken sound that escapes him, a mix of pleasure and disbelief, his head tipping back against the pillows. He feels so goddamn full. Zoro’s hands slide to the backs of his knees, lifting and pushing until Sanji’s legs are folded up against his chest, his body completely open beneath him. It’s overwhelming—the sheer heat of Zoro, the way he fills every part of him—and Sanji feels like he’s about to come apart.
Zoro exhales sharply, his head dipping for a moment as if to collect himself. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice low and guttural, and Sanji’s eyes snap open at the sound. Zoro isn’t usually this vocal, the picture of zen Buddhist calm, but now, he’s anything but quiet. “You feel… shit, Sanji.”
Sanji opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. His mind is blank, his body too caught up in the sensation of Zoro moving—pulling back just slightly before pressing in again, his hips rolling with a precision that leaves Sanji trembling.
“You’re so incrediblle,” Zoro murmurs, his voice a growl that rumbles through Sanji’s chest. His hands tighten on Sanji’s thighs, his movements gaining a steady rhythm. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous like this.”
Sanji’s face burns, his heart racing as Zoro’s words wash over him. He’s never seen Zoro like this—never heard him like this. Every thrust is accompanied by a low sound, a grunt or a groan, as if Zoro can’t help himself, as if the pleasure is too much to hold back.
“Mine,” Zoro growls, the word harsh and possessive, his grip on Sanji’s thighs firm as he folds him even further. “Say it.”
Sanji gasps, his hands flying up to clutch at Zoro’s shoulders, his nails digging into the taut muscle there. “Yours,” he whispers, his voice trembling and quiet. “I’m yours.”
Zoro’s eye blazes, his smirk widening into something fierce and wild, and his pace quickens, each thrust driving Sanji closer to the edge. “Damn right you are,” he mutters, leaning down to press his forehead to Sanji’s. “And I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget it.”
The rhythm Zoro sets is devastating, precise, and unrelenting. Sanji had thought he knew what to expect—thought he understood the man above him—but nothing could have prepared him for this. Zoro moves like the swordsman he is, every thrust purposeful and unyielding, his strength tempered with just enough control to leave Sanji gasping, trembling, unraveling completely.
Sanji’s hands claw at Zoro’s back, his nails raking over the hard muscles there as he struggles to find something—anything—to ground himself. But Zoro doesn’t let up. He drives into him with a precision that borders on brutal, his body radiating heat, his one eye fixed on Sanji with a fire that burns away every ounce of composure Sanji has left.
It’s too much, the way Zoro fills him, the way his hands grip Sanji’s hips with a strength that keeps him pinned in place, the way his voice—low and rough—pours into him like molten steel.
“Look at you,” Zoro growls, his tone both commanding and raw. “Falling apart for me. You don’t even know how good you are, do you?”
Sanji tries to respond, tries to muster some sharp retort, but all that comes out is a broken sob. His legs tremble where they’re folded up against Zoro’s chest, his body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him. He can’t stop the tears that prick at the corners of his eyes, can’t stop the soft, desperate noises spilling from his lips with every thrust.
“You’re so fucking good, Sanji,” Zoro mutters, his words punctuated by the sharp snap of his hips. “Taking me so well. Knew you’d be incredible, love-cook. I waited so long for this.”
Sanji doesn’t even recognize the sounds he’s making anymore—gasps, whimpers, and something close to a sob, his body writhing beneath Zoro as he’s pushed further and further into incoherence. His mind is blank, every nerve in his body alight, and the only thing tethering him to reality is the steady, unyielding presence of Zoro above him.
“Crying for me now, cook?” Zoro’s voice is thick with something almost tender, though his pace doesn’t falter. His thumb brushes over Sanji’s cheek, wiping away a tear, and the unexpected softness in the gesture only makes Sanji cry harder.
“Zoro,” Sanji chokes out, his voice trembling, his nails digging into Zoro’s shoulders as if he might disappear if Sanji doesn’t hold on tight enough.
“I’ve got you,” Zoro murmurs, leaning down until their foreheads touch, his breath hot and uneven against Sanji’s lips. “I’m not letting you go.”
And with that, Zoro adjusts his angle, his next thrust hitting something so devastatingly perfect that Sanji cries out, his body arching off the bed. His vision blurs, his mind shattering under the onslaught of sensation, and all he can do is cling to Zoro, his tears falling freely as he’s utterly and completely undone.
Sanji cries out, his body trembling uncontrollably as the tension coils tight and snaps, his release spilling hot and messy across his own stomach and abs. He barely has time to catch his breath before Zoro groans, low and guttural, his pace faltering as his own pleasure crests. The sound is unexpected, loud and unrestrained, and it makes Sanji’s already wrecked body shiver all over again.
Zoro follows him over the edge, his body stiffening before he lets out a broken moan that seems to tear through the air. His hands grip Sanji’s hips like a lifeline, and he spills into him with a force that leaves both of them shaking. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, heavy and uneven.
Then Zoro collapses onto Sanji, his full weight pinning him to the bed. His chest heaves against Sanji’s, slick with sweat and heat, and he doesn’t even seem to care that they’re both a mess. Instead, Zoro buries his face against Sanji’s neck, pressing soft, uncoordinated kisses to his skin, his cheek, his jaw—anywhere he can reach.
Sanji groans, his hands pushing weakly at Zoro’s shoulders. “Get off me, you damn gorilla,” he snaps, though there’s no real heat behind the words. He’s too tired to put up much of a fight.
Zoro huffs a quiet laugh against Sanji’s neck but obliges, rolling onto his back beside him with a heavy thud. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his arm flopping across his forehead as he stares up at the ceiling. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence filled only by their labored breaths and the creak of the bed beneath them.
Finally, Zoro’s voice breaks the quiet, softer than Sanji’s ever heard it. “I’ve rescued you a thousand times, curls,” he says, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “What changed?”
Sanji blinks, turning his head toward Zoro. His mind feels like it’s been scrambled, his body still buzzing with the aftershocks, but he manages to reach for his discarded suit jacket. His fingers fumble for his cigarette case, and when he finally finds it, he pulls one out and lights it with shaky hands. He takes a long, uneven drag, the smoke curling lazily around him as he exhales.
“You’ve never said I was yours before,” Sanji murmurs, his voice quiet but steady.
Zoro turns his head to look at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the lantern. “You like that, love-cook? Being mine?”
Sanji exhales another plume of smoke, his heart still racing, and turns to meet Zoro’s gaze. He’s not sure where the honesty comes from—maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the intimacy of the moment—but when he speaks, his voice is more earnest than he ever thought he could manage.
“Yes,” he says simply, the word hanging in the air between them like a confession. "I've never been anyone's."
Zoro’s lips curve into a slow, satisfied grin, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing over Sanji’s wrist where it rests on the mattress. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’m yours, too.”
Sanji takes another drag from his cigarette, the weight of Zoro’s words settling over him like a blanket. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t joke, doesn’t deflect. Instead, he lets the truth of it settle into his chest, warm and unshakable, and when he exhales the smoke, it feels like a release.
Sanji stares at the curling tendrils of smoke rising from his cigarette, his chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. The warmth of Zoro beside him is both grounding and unnerving, and his words—always—linger in the air, heavy and unshakable. Sanji takes another drag, the smoke burning its way into his lungs, and exhales slowly before breaking the silence.
“I’m not going to be nice to you,” he says abruptly, the words sharper than he intends. “You know that, right? I’m not… I’m not a good person.”
He doesn’t look at Zoro, can’t. His fingers tighten around the cigarette as he presses it to his lips again, the weight of his admission sinking into the space between them like a stone. “I’m going to argue with you, insult you, maybe even fight you. I don’t know how to—” He falters, his voice cracking just slightly. “I’m not good at this, moss-head.”
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until Zoro shifts beside him. Sanji expects a snarky retort, some gruff dismissal of his words, but what he gets instead is Zoro rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, and fixing him with that infuriatingly steady gaze.
“Shut up,” Zoro says, his tone calm but firm, like he’s cutting through Sanji’s words with a single stroke. “I don’t need you to change. I don’t want you to.”
Sanji turns his head to glare at him, but Zoro doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans closer, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on Sanji’s chest, just over his heart. The touch is warm, solid, and unyielding.
“The only thing I need,” Zoro continues, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity, “is for you to know that you’re never, ever alone. Your nakama have you. I have you.”
Sanji swallows hard, his throat tightening, but Zoro isn’t done.
“You live here,” Zoro says, his hand pressing more firmly against Sanji’s chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart. “Right here. And nothing’s ever going to change that.”
The words hit Sanji like a punch, and before he can stop himself, he’s shoving at Zoro’s shoulder with the hand not holding his cigarette. It’s not a gentle push—it’s sharp and frustrated, driven by something he doesn’t know how to name. “Where the hell do you get off being this romantic?!” he yells, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions.
Zoro grunts as Sanji shoves him again, then again, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he smirks—smirks—as if Sanji’s outburst is the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m serious!” Sanji snaps, shoving Zoro harder this time, his voice rising with each word. “I thought you knew five words and two of them were types of swords. You’re not supposed to say shit like that! Who the hell do you think you are, huh?!”
“Your swordsman,” Zoro replies simply, his smirk widening, though there’s a softness in his eye that makes Sanji’s chest ache. “And you’re my cook. That’s how it works.”
Sanji lets out a frustrated growl, his fists pounding weakly against Zoro’s chest now, though it’s more out of exasperation than actual anger. “You’re a piece of shit,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost defeated.
“And you’re an emotionally stunted idiot,” Zoro counters, catching Sanji’s wrists easily and holding them still. His grip is firm but not unkind, his thumb brushing over Sanji’s knuckles in a way that makes him want to scream and melt all at once. “But I love you anyway.”
Sanji glares at him for a moment longer, his breaths coming fast and uneven, but the fight bleeds out of him as quickly as it came. He collapses back onto the bed with a groan, his hands still trapped in Zoro’s grip, and exhales a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.
“You’re emotionally stunted, fuck,” Sanji mutters, his voice muffled by the hand he drags over his face. What the hell did Zoro learn in their time apart? Somewhere, Sanji imagines a lot of pink and a loud, booming laugh, saying “told you so, Candy-chan.”
“Maybe,” Zoro agrees, his smirk softening into something closer to a smile as he leans down, his lips brushing lightly against Sanji’s temple. “But we got here, didn’t we.”
Sanji huffs a laugh, the sound shaky but genuine, and tilts his head to meet Zoro’s gaze. For a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet intensity between them, the lingering tension of everything unsaid, everything finally understood. Then Sanji pulls him down, their mouths meeting in a kiss that’s slow and deep, a promise wrapped in heat and softness.
When they finally part, Sanji smirks, his lips still brushing against Zoro’s. “I’m still gonna kick your ass any chance I get.”
Zoro laughs, the sound low and rich, and Sanji feels it more than hears it, rumbling against his chest. “Counting on it, love-cook,” Zoro replies, his voice full of amusement and something deeper, something warmer.
Before Sanji can retort, Zoro’s hands slide down to his hips, gripping them firmly as he pulls Sanji closer, their bodies pressing together with a familiarity that’s already dangerous. The look in Zoro’s eye is all challenge, all heat, and it makes Sanji’s breath hitch, his heart racing as Zoro’s smirk widens.
“Round two?” Zoro murmurs, his voice low and eager, his hands already moving, already staking their claim.
Sanji groans, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against Zoro’s ear as he mutters, “You’re insatiable, is it mating season at the zoo?”
Zoro grins, wicked and unrepentant, and kisses him again, effectively silencing whatever half-hearted complaint Sanji might’ve had. And as the night stretches on, filled with laughter, heat, and every unspoken promise between them, Sanji decides he might just get used to being Zoro’s. Somewhere, in his heart, he knows he has been already, for a long time.