Work Text:
A Wagging Tail
Sanji crossed the street at the light and made a left into his neighborhood. The pleasant afternoon breeze ruffled his hair as he made his way down the block. He stepped around a minotaur with a calf. A naga waited at a bus stop with her tail coiled politely around the bench, scrolling through her phone. A fae courier stood three feet away from a cement lamppost that was insisting, loudly, that it was being haunted. The ghoul from the corner deli swept the sidewalk with real care, humming under his breath, keeping the debris in neat, controlled piles.
He walked with his suit coat buttoned, his appearance immaculate despite having been on his feet since eight that morning. He worked at a high-end salon that catered to rich ladies whose gossip could fuel a small economy, and flirting that was harmless fun. His station was always pristine. Tools lined neatly. Strands swept immediately, as soon as they fell. His own looks were, frankly, perfect. Layered blond cut, fringe falling over one eye at a deliberate angle. Blue eyes. Brows with a hereditary curl that had survived every attempt to tame them. Royale goatee, thin mustache, lean muscle, and a suit that fit like it was made for him. Because it was. The thought of wearing an off-the-rack suit gave him hives.
The bell rang over the coffee shop door as he passed, the aroma of fresh espresso drifting outside. A smattering of kids tumbled out of a colorful daycare with balloons on the windows, their human mother screaming after them. The shop sign outside the barber offered a 10% discount to Yetis. A very sincere, very pained, “Ow – fuck,” echoed out of the alley behind the bodega.
Sanji paused as sharp metallic clatter and jing-jing-jing of a fence followed, along with more cursing.
He looked ahead of him, at the rows of brownstones coming up. So close to home. Good food, good wine, and terrible reality television awaited him. Followed by a sinfully luxurious bath and snuggling up in bed with the latest human issue of L’Uomo Vogue.
A plaintive whine sounded from the alley.
Shit.
Sanji exhaled heavily through his nose, changed direction, and headed between the buildings. He expected to find a bodega worker having spilled trash everywhere. Or a shopping cart wedged sideways, rattling the fence every time someone tried to yank it free.
What he found instead was a partially shifted werewolf tangled up in barbed wire from a toppled fence.
White t-shirt torn. Skin cut. Blood bright and staining his jeans. The fence lay partially collapsed on the ground, barbed wire wrapped around both legs, one trapped at an odd angle under him.
The man blinked up at him at his approach, sheepish despite the situation. He had a brutish face: square jawed with one eye lacerated by a scar that ran from forehead to cheek. Messy moss-green hair that looked like it had never once met a professional stylist – Sanji had to consciously unclench his jaw. A broad, muscular build that screamed gym rat with no regard for aesthetics. A tail, half-visible behind him, furred in several shades of green. Claws poking from his flipflops. Pointed wolf ears drooping, one pierced by three gold bar earrings. Dark gray eyes too bright, reflecting the setting sun.
“Uh, hi,” the man said, tail fluttering in greeting.
“Hn.” Sanji pulled out a pair of black leather gloves from his leather crossbody bag – one never knew when there might be a stylish cold snap – and slid them on. He hated the fact that he might get blood on them, but he couldn’t just leave a fellow werewolf like this. “This will probably hurt.”
“Yeah.” The man glanced at the barbed wire and the toppled fence portion. “Thought I could clear it.”
Sanji’s eyes flicked to the unlocked gate no more than five feet from them. “There’s a gate.”
The man craned his neck, saw the gate, and frowned. “Huh. Didn’t know it was there. Fence wasn’t here before, either.”
Sanji knew, for a fact, that the fence had been there since he’d moved into the neighborhood eight years ago. “Hold still,” he said, and began to untangle the wire. It was unsanitary and dirty, plus there was the blood and the fur, but he was incapable of minding his own business when he heard a distressed whine.
The man hissed when Sanji shifted the wire, then clenched his jaw, tail thumping weakly. “Stupid barbed wire. Bane of my existence.”
Sanji arched his brow as he unwound one leg. “Have run-ins with barbed wire often?”
“Yeah.” The man’s ears flicked and lowered slightly. “This is, like, the fourth time.”
Sanji stared at him for a moment. “Fourth.”
“It’s not my fault people keep topping their fences with it!”
“Why do you–” Sanji changed his mind and shook his head instead. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
The man’s lips curved downward and he muttered, “If the streets wouldn’t keep moving, I wouldn’t have a problem."
Nope. Sanji wasn’t going to ask what that meant. He was going to do his good deed and then go home and watch Real Housewives of Hades.
He managed to fully untangle one leg and started on the other. He shifted his position, getting closer to the leg caught under the guy. He frowned at the amount of blood darkening the torn jeans. “You’re gonna need a doctor.”
“Not surprised.” The man sighed and his tail twitched in agitation. “Stupid fences.”
“Stupid werewolf.” Sanji couldn’t help himself. The man had tried to jump a fence with barbed wire when there was a gate right there. “Maybe you should get your vision checked by the doctor, too. Unless you’re against monocles.”
The man scowled. “My eyesight is fine.”
“Tch.” Sanji managed to get the man’s leg out from under him and now worked at removing the rest of the wire. This side had really dug into the flesh and Sanji felt bad for him, even though the idiot had done it to himself.
The man watched him work, head tilting slightly, hissing and wincing every so often. His tail would thump against the concrete and his ears would drop flat.
The fence gave another small rattle as a loose strand slipped free, metal clicking softly. Somewhere above them, a window slid shut. Music blared from a car radio, growing louder then dissipating as the car passed out on the street.
“Nice shoes,” the man said suddenly.
Sanji’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
The man nodded toward Sanji’s feet, earnest. “Good leather. Solid structure. Probably holds up well. Bet they’d be really satisfying to chew.”
Sanji stared at him. Then informed him, with painstaking calm, “I do not chew shoes like some dumb werewolf with no sense of pride.”
The reaction was immediate and poorly concealed. His shoulders dipped, tail flicked once, and he turned his face away. “Whatever. They probably taste like shit.”
Moons save him from stereotypical werewolves. Sanji gave a small sigh.
He managed to finish untangling the barbed wire a few minutes later. Then he offered the man a helping hand to his feet. A pained whine pulled from the man’s throat and he swayed heavily against Sanji. Luckily, they were the same height, even if the man was all bulk. Sanji caught him easily around the waist and escorted him to lean against the side of the bodega. “You’re not walking far like this.”
“Just… give me my phone. I’ll be fine,” he said.
Sanji glanced around and found a gym bag as well as a phone. The gym bag was intact. The phone, not so much. He handed it over.
“Shit.” The man thumped the back of his head on the brick wall after looking at the shattered screen.
Sanji looked at the bleeding man, looked at his dirty gloves, looked down the alley toward the street, then called himself all sorts of overcaring fool before saying, “My place is close. You can use my phone and I can temporarily patch you up until the ambulance or an Uber arrives.”
“You’ve done enough,” he said, even though his ears and tail perked. It was one of the reasons Sanji didn’t walk around part-shifted. That, and it would ruin the line of his clothes. Plus, the shedding.
“Take the offer or not,” Sanji said. “But I’m about to walk.”
The man nodded. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Sanji said, gathering the gym bag over one shoulder, then the man’s arm over the other. “There are going to be rules.”
“What kind of rules…?”
The werewolf’s name was Zoro, he didn’t know his address – “It was on my phone… Hey, we crash at different places! I don’t know the addresses off the top of my head.” – and he didn’t want to go to the hospital because Sanji had patched him up well enough.
Sanji had not patched him up “well enough.” Sanji patched him up “just enough for you not to bleed all over my hardwood floor.”
Luckily, Sanji knew a hybrid Doctor-Vet who made house calls after hours, and the last thing he’d heard from them was Zoro’s dog-like whine, “I don’t want to take a bath.”
Sanji opened a new bottle of werewolf wine and poured himself a very large glass.
Sanji was a werewolf, but he much preferred his human form. He liked neatness, cleanliness, and order. Everything had a place and everything in its place. His apartment reflected that aesthetic. He lived on the second floor of the converted building, a were-reindeer below him and a skeleton above. Hardwood floors ran the length of it, kept immaculately clean, the grain warm without being rustic. Exposed brick lined one wall of the living area, balanced by clean white plaster everywhere else. A balcony overlooked a neighborhood garden between the rows of buildings. The layout was open but intentional, the kitchen flowing into living space.
The kitchen was modern without being cold: shaker cabinets, marble counters, appliances that matched. The living area held a tailored sofa, a low table, shelving that mixed a few carefully chosen antiques with newer pieces. Down the short hall, the bedroom was simple and restrained – neatly made king bed – because he deserved luxury – soft lighting, minimal furniture. The bathroom at the end was clearly a priority: deep soaker tub, separate shower, heated tile floor. The whole place smelled faintly of good food and clean soap.
His personal aesthetics matched: tailored suits, highly polished shoes, groomed to perfection. He kept fit by swimming laps every morning before work and kept his hair from turning to green straw by using a special swimmer's shampoo and conditioner without fail. He’d quit smoking the second he was old enough to understand that it stained teeth, nails, and aged the skin horribly. He’d already taken years off his face because of how long he’d smoked as a teen. He’d go back in time and kick his own ass if he could.
The downside of maintaining this level of neatness – on himself and everywhere else – was that disruptions were impossible to ignore. He’d had guests over in the past, but they weren’t bleeding, part-shifted werewolves who’d ruined his fashionable gloves with rust-preventative grease.
Eventually, the bathroom door opened and Law came out, pushing his medical kit ahead of him – a waist-high metal case on wheels. Law looked the way he always did when Sanji saw him: tired, irritated, and questioning his life’s choices. His tattooed hands held a pill bottle and a pad, and he stopped at the kitchen island to write on both.
“You didn’t leave a mess in my bathtub, did you?” Sanji asked him.
Law labeled the bottle, then moved on to the pad. “No,” he said. “I used the shower. It had a detachable wand.”
“Lovely.” Sanji drank his wine, planning on disinfecting the entire bathroom before he used it later. “How’s the idiot?”
“He’ll live,” Law said. “A few deeper cuts needed stitches. He needs to stay off his feet as much as possible for the next couple of days and give everything time to close up.” He tore off a sheet from the pad and set it on the counter. “Instructions for bathing and rebandaging. He’ll need a follow-up to remove the stitches.”
“There was a gate,” Sanji said flatly. “Five feet from where he jumped.”
Law paused, then looked up. He seemed even more tired somehow. “Werewolves.”
Sanji toasted to that, because he might be one by species, but he wasn’t one by heart.
Law gave his perfunctory goodbyes, and left. Sanji topped off his wine, glanced at the instructions Law had left. Stay off feet as much as possible for 48-72 hours. Elevate legs when seated or lying down. Take one pill every twelve hours for pain. Clean and rebandage wounds daily. Monitor for redness or swelling. Quick showers only.
Footsteps drew his attention upward and his wine glass froze halfway to his lips. Zoro entered the room completely naked, a towel held in front of his groin the only modesty. Miles of tanned flesh, muscles on his muscles, v-lines that arrowed down to that towel. Thick corded thighs that bunched when he walked. Pointed ears, claws, and tail, gone. A heart-patterned bandaid on one enormous bicep. If it weren’t for the nasty scar across his chest or the bandages around his lower legs, Sanji might have started drooling. As it was, the moment Zoro passed, exposing his beautifully sculpted back and perfect, pert ass, heat bloomed in Sanji’s lower belly.
Zoro bent over to unzip his gym bag, and Sanji drained his wine glass to hide the sound he absolutely did not mean to make.
“You say something?” Zoro said as he straightened, holding a pair of gym shorts in his hand.
“No.” Sanji cleared the squeak from his voice. “Not at all. Law left you instructions.”
Zoro dropped his towel onto his bag without any hesitation, bending to step into his shorts. Sanji whirled around, grabbed the wine bottle, and poured a hefty glass. He drained it immediately. He knew he had to stop, before he regretted more than just being kind to a stranger.
Zoro’s heavy tread on the hardwood signaled his approach, followed by the shuffle of the paper. “Guess I’ll get a hotel or something for the night.”
Sanji’s libido and stupid conscience decided to team up and protest that idea. He cursed both – and the wine – for saying, “You can stay here. Until you get your phone fixed. Just to ensure you don’t try and jump any more fences between now and then.”
“Don’t want to put you out,” Zoro said.
“Too late,” Sanji said dryly. “You’re here. May as well stay. Now, go sit down and put your feet up. Don’t you dare bleed on my couch. I’m going to make dinner.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m not going to repeat myself, you moss-headed moron.” Sanji pointed toward the couch. “Sit. Stay. Good dog.”
Zoro scowled at him. “Woof,” he deadpanned.
Sanji fought the twitch of his lips and the urge to pour another glass of wine. “You remember the rules?”
“No shifting indoors. No bleeding. No shedding. No touching without permission,” Zoro said, ticking them off as he eased down onto the couch. “No food without asking. No making a mess.”
Sanji noted that Zoro hadn’t missed a single one.. “Guess your ears work, even if your eye doesn’t.”
Zoro paused, as if he had to think about it, then he gave Sanji the finger over the back of the couch. “At least I don’t have stupid swirly eyebrows.”
Sanji’s gaze narrowed. “I’d be very careful of your next words if you don’t want your ass kicked.”
Two pointed ears sprouted and perked as Zoro twisted to peer at Sanji. “You want to roughhouse?”
“No, I don’t want to roughhouse,” Sanji said. “Especially not with an injured dumbass who’s supposed to stay off his feet.”
The ears drooped, but Zoro goaded, “Bet you just know you’d lose.”
Considering Sanji avoided all things werewolf and Zoro was built like a brick shithouse, chances were high that he would lose. But he wasn’t about to admit it. “What did I tell you about no shifting indoors, moss-for-brains?”
Zoro’s ears twitched, then he appeared slightly sheepish and they sank away. “Right. I’m usually part-shifted and don’t really think about it. My pack’s the same. If we could actually do things like cook and use the phone and shit like that while fully shifted, we’d probably be that way all the time. Well, except when I’m working out. And banking, because it’d be hard to hold a pen.”
Sanji just looked at him for a long moment, then decided he simply wasn’t going to engage. “I’m making baked salmon and vegetables for dinner. Any allergies?”
“Can’t drink milk, and the usual werewolf restrictions, but otherwise I’m good,” Zoro replied.
Chocolate, grapes and raisins, onions – the last of which Sanji hated, because it interfered with his cooking.
Sanji began dinner. He enjoyed cooking immensely. His old man ran a restaurant and he’d learned from the best. But the smell of a busy restaurant kitchen never washed out of his hair or clothes, and between that and stress-smoking, he’d been miserable. Fashion and beauty had always been his main loves, anyway.
The apartment settled into a brief, workable silence, broken only by the hum of the appliances. Night had set in beyond the balcony windows.
Zoro was quiet for a bit, then asked, “Can I turn on the TV?”
“Remote’s on the table in front of you,” Sanji said, running his fingers along the salmon fillet, plucking pin bones before it went into the oven.
Zoro turned on the TV and flipped channels until he landed on a football game. Sanji mourned the loss of his night of judging Housewives, but guest etiquette won out. “You’re a fan?” he asked across the open room.
“Yeah. Sharks are playing the Jaguars. Was hoping not to miss the game,” he said.
Sanji glanced at the screen. Fishmen and Weres padded up, threw themselves at each other, and occasionally caught a ball. “I’m not that into sports.”
“You’re missing out,” Zoro said with the enthusiasm of a True Fan. “I played football back in high school. Thought about maybe trying to go pro.”
“What stopped you?”
“Barbed wire.” Zoro tapped his chest. “Kept me benched half the season my senior year.”
“Tch. Probably was a gate, too.” Sanji slid the salmon fillets in the oven and started on the vegetables. “What did you end up doing instead, since your football dreams were crushed by your own dumbassery?”
“I play Professional Ultimate Frisbee.”
Sanji snorted. “Of course you do.”
A middle finger appeared over the back of the couch again. It made Sanji’s lips threaten to smile. “Your newest run-in with barbed wire going to bench you again?” he asked.
“Nah. I’m in the off season. Got a few weeks before we head back into training.”
“Fortuitous fence jumping,” Sanji said dryly.
“Yeah.” He couldn’t see Zoro’s face, but the tone was part-rueful, part-greatful. “Thanks for, um, helping me out, by the way.”
Sanji hummed in acknowledgement and started plating dinner. “If you get food on my couch, I’ll barb wire your neck.”
Zoro huffed a laugh. “Just bring a bunch of napkins, swirlybrow. I’ll be good.”
Sanji had switched from wine to water before he made a mistake. He considered dumping it over Zoro’s head, then dismissed the idea on the grounds that it would ruin the couch.
Sanji brought two plates of dinner over to the living room, handing one to Zoro before setting on the other on the coffee table. He fetched their drinks and an abundance of napkins before returning. Zoro sat sideways on the couch, legs elevated as the doctor ordered. Sanji nestled into the space left at the other end of the couch by his bare feet. He glanced at the white bandages wrapped around Zoro’s legs, and was once again torn between this werewolf is a moron and sympathy. “You in any pain?”
Zoro shook his head, spreading multiple napkins over his lap. “Doc gave me a shot before he stitched me up. Tetanus shot, too.”
Sanji acknowledged that he’d heard, pretended that Zoro’s over-napkining wasn’t pleasing him, and began to eat. He turned his attention to the football game. He had no clue what was going on, nor did he really want to know. He’d rather be watching people being catty with their literal claws out.
Zoro made a happy sound in his throat, and Sanji glanced at him. He ate like he’d been in captivity, chowing down on the meal with barely a breath in between. Sanji appreciated someone who enjoyed their food, but this was a bit extreme. “Slow down. It’s not going anywhere.”
Zoro paused, and a sheepish expression crossed his face. “Yeah, guess it isn’t. With my pack, if you don’t eat fast, you lose half your food to someone else.”
“Sounds terrible.” Sanji wasn’t a pack person. He enjoyed having his own space, with no one making a mess. That wasn’t to say he didn’t have friends, but they were the kind who visited and left, and didn’t move things out of place.
“Nah, it’s great. Always got someone who gets you that you can roughhouse with or play ball. They’re like family.”
“Aren’t they going to worry, then, if you don’t come home tonight?”
Zoro shook his head. “They’ll figure I met someone and went home with them.” He flashed a wide grin. “Which I did.”
Sanji’s stomach fluttered at that grin and he firmly told it to behave. He arched his brow. “You go home with strangers often?”
Zoro shrugged a massive shoulder. “Sometimes. Not as much as I used to. Getting harder to enjoy meaningless, you know?”
Sanji did know. His dalliances were not as satisfying as they once were.
“So what is it you do?” Zoro asked between bites. He slowed down, Sanji noticed, and approved.
“I’m a hair stylist and aesthetician.”
Zoro’s brow furrowed. “You work on asses?”
A laugh burst from Sanji before he could stop it. “Idiot. Aes-the-ti-cian,” he pronounced more clearly. ”I’m a licensed skincare specialist, focusing on skin health and beauty.”
“Huh. Never heard of it.” Zoro ate a bite of food, looking thoughtful. “Probably more fun to work on asses.”
Sanji swallowed another laugh. “At least ass-faces like yours…”
Zoro gave him a flat look, then slowly flipped him off again.
Sanji grinned. He tapped the back of his fork against his cheek near his eye. “What happened to you here? Wait, don’t tell me – barbed wire.”
A pink flush appeared across the bridge of Zoro’s nose and his cheeks. He turned his face toward the television and muttered, “Maybe.”
“Oh my moons,” Sanji cackled. “Are you sure you’re not cursed?” He half-meant it. Boundary curses were common enough.
Zoro’s lips turned down in a sulk. “Dunno. Don’t think I pissed off any fae.”
Sanji shouldn’t keep laughing, but he did. “Maybe you should pad yourself in pillows before approaching any fences.”
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”.
Sanji grinned again. “You make it too easy.”
“Should’ve gone to a hotel,” Zoro grumbled, stabbing at his food with more force than necessary.
Sanji was very glad that he hadn’t. It had been a while since Sanji had laughed like this. He might even admit he was enjoying Zoro’s company. “Beware the good samaritan, he might have an acerbic tongue.”
“You like eating ass?”
The question was put out there without any warning or embarrassment. Sanji’s eyes widened. “What– you–” It took him too long to realize why Zoro had asked. “Acerbic, you idiot. It means sharp-tongued.”
Zoro’s lips twitched. “Sounds like it still means what I asked.”
Fuck. This werewolf was doing his head in. Both of them, as he was once again very much aware of how hot Zoro was, with his infinite muscles on display. “Stop talking and eat your food,” Sanji snapped.
Zoro seemed aware of Sanji’s reaction to him and he appeared a bit smug. “Still wouldn’t mind an answer,” he said with a smirk, before returning to his meal.
Sanji realized it was going to be a long night. And, worse, he suspected he wasn’t entirely dreading it.
Sanji never did answer Zoro’s question, because he wasn’t an uncouth barbarian who spoke about his bedroom tastes. He also didn’t want to encourage a casual encounter. Not because he wasn’t interested – he had eyes and a healthy libido – but because Zoro was hurt, and a guest, and as Zoro had said, meaningless wasn’t doing it for him anymore.
He’d also enjoyed the evening more than he cared to admit. Zoro was blunt, unafraid to talk back, and didn’t seem to mind Sanji’s sharp tongue. A rarity, because Sanji was bitchy on the best of days, and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Even if he brought said fool into his apartment himself.
Zoro taught him everything he didn’t want to know about football, ears and tail appearing every so often to perk and thump with enthusiasm before he remembered himself and shifted them away. Zoro admired physical fitness and skill. He liked pushing himself to be the best. He dedicated himself wholly to whatever he did, be it working out, hanging out, or sleeping.
Currently, he lay sprawled on the couch, one leg hooked over the back, the other knee bent open, tail, ears, and claws on display. He snored – loudly – and stayed completely undisturbed when Sanji left to swim, returned to clean up, and left again the next morning. Sanji penned a note that read: Went to work. Breakfast and lunch are marked in the fridge. Alarm on the door is set. If you try to steal all my stuff, the police will automatically be called and I will kick your ass.
Sanji might – reluctantly – like the guy, but he was still technically a stranger, after all.
Zoro woke up because his legs hurt. Not badly, just enough to be annoying.
He lay there for a second, blinking at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. No pack noises. No one snoring in his ear. The air smelled clean, as opposed to a pile of furry mongrels and meat breath.
Right. Sanji’s place.
He listened for the other man, but didn’t hear anything. Only the quiet tick of appliances and birds twittering outside. Daylight bled through the vertical blinds covering the balcony doors. He wondered what time it was.
He turned his head and saw a note propped up by the pill bottle on the coffee table, beside the glass of water he’d left there last night. He reached for the note, read it, and snorted. Even in writing, Sanji was an asshole. One Zoro kinda liked.
Zoro went by his gut when it came to people. Actions told him everything he needed to know about a person, and Sanji had not only rescued Zoro from that stupid barbed wire, but went out of his way to invite Zoro into his home, contact a doctor, and allow him to stay. Plus, he fed Zoro awesome food, and apparently left him breakfast and lunch, too. The fact that he hadn’t thrown Zoro out when he went to work, even though Zoro was really still a stranger, spoke volumes to the type of man Sanji was.
Zoro reached for the pill bottle, read the directions on it, and popped one. He’d normally push through the pain, but he had no real reason to. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with his phone out of commission. And this couch was seriously comfortable. Buttery leather with just the right height on the armrests, fat throw pillows to lean against. The couch alone was probably more expensive than everything Zoro owned put together.
Everything in Sanji’s apartment looked high-end and magazine-like, and wanted it treated with respect. Zoro liked that Sanji owned his space without apology.
He remembered the rules – no shifting indoors, no bleeding, no shedding, no touching without permission, no food without asking, no making a mess – and completely understood why they existed. Luffy would have this place destroyed within seconds, and Ace and Kid wouldn’t be any better. Bartolomeo would do whatever would gain Luffy’s attention. Killer would try to rein in Kid, but that was an uphill battle on the best days. Kuina and Bonney acted the opposite of delicate ladies and were sometimes worse than the guys.
Zoro fit somewhere in between everyone in his pack. He didn’t talk much and felt protective of them, so that kept him more reserved, but he was down with roughhousing and playing anytime. He also didn’t care about his or other people’s appearances, though he knew when a dude was hot. Sanji was seriously hot.
Zoro wondered if he’d ever get the answer to his ass-eating question. He’d be into that.
He’d been serious about wanting something with meaning, though. He’d still be into casual, but just getting laid didn’t motivate him much anymore. Still, Sanji was definitely tempting. Especially if he was as aggressive in the bedroom as he was with his speech.
When the pill kicked in, Zoro made his way to the bathroom before heading to the fridge. He found neatly labeled containers with his name on them. Cold items actually meant to be eaten cold, not because he was too lazy to nuke something. He took out breakfast and ate it over the sink, to ensure he didn’t make a mess.
His gaze drifted over the clean, clutter-free countertops, a row of shiny, sharp knives hanging from a rack, and an entire section of wall filled with glass jars of spices near the stove. Neat rows. Different colors. Reds, browns, greens, yellows. Some he recognized, like pepper, cinnamon, and chili. Others he didn’t. He leaned in, squinting at the labels, wondering what they were all used for beyond the obvious. Wondered what they smelled like. Wondered why there were so many.
He wanted to touch them. Really wanted to. He imagined twisting one open. Smelling it. Maybe tasting a pinch just to see. His fingers twitched.
Rules, he reminded himself.
He returned to his breakfast, eyes drifting back to the spices between bites. It felt like staring at a weight rack he wasn’t allowed to use.
Once he was done, he washed the container out but wasn’t sure what to do with it. Did he open cabinets until he found its spot, or did he leave it in the sink? No touching versus no mess. He went round and round in his mind until he finally decided to take it with him. He set it on a napkin on the coffee table before settling back onto the couch.
He stared at the TV remote on the table. Last night he’d been allowed to use it. Did he still have permission? These rules were trickier than he’d thought.
He picked it up, hesitated, then turned the TV on low. Football rerun, Centaurs versus Rams. He’d seen highlights, but not the whole game. He got comfortable, legs propped as the doctor ordered, watched for a bit, then fell asleep again.
When Sanji got home from work, he found Zoro doing crunches with his calves on the couch, the rest of him on the floor. Zoro bounded to his feet before Sanji even had the door closed, tail wagging excitedly. “Hey, you’re back.”
“And you have a tail,” Sanji said disapprovingly, even though a part of him was flattered by the enthusiastic greeting.
Zoro glanced behind him. “Shit,” he said, and the tail disappeared.
Sanji dropped his keys in the basket by the door, and glanced around as he unbuttoned his suit coat. Nothing appeared out of place. He saw no messes, no stray fur. Two empty containers sat on napkins on the coffee table. They appeared clean. “Aren’t you supposed to be off your feet?”
“I was. Mostly.” Zoro sank down on the couch. “And technically my legs were elevated just now.”
Sanji shot him a look at the ridiculousness of that statement, then gestured at the containers. “I see you ate.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what to do after I washed them, since I didn’t have permission to touch your cabinets.”
While Sanji approved of the non-touching, Zoro could have left them in the sink. For some reason, seeing them sitting neatly on napkins to protect the table caused warmth to bloom in Sanji’s chest. He snatched them up and retreated to the kitchen to put them away. “They go in this cabinet here. You can put them away next time.”
“There’s going to be a next time?”
Sanji could hear the perk in Zoro’s voice and he pretended it did nothing to him. “Law said two to three days. Who am I to argue with a doctor?”
“Makes sense,” Zoro said, obviously feigning casual. Sanji pretended Zoro’s agreement also did nothing.
“Dinner will take about thirty minutes to make” Sanji preheated the oven and began taking things out of the fridge. “Feel free to turn the TV on.”
“Oh, uh, I’ve been watching off and on all day. Was that okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Wasn’t sure if permission carried over or not.”
Sanji shook his head, almost fond, as he unwrapped the marinating chicken legs. “Yes, it carried over. Didn’t think you’d be the type to stick precisely to the rules.”
“This is your place. And I agreed to the rules. I take my word seriously,” Zoro said.
Sanji liked that. Too much. He busied himself with getting the legs in the oven.
Zoro turned on the TV. “So, what do you want to watch?”
“Isn’t there another game on or something?”
“There’s always a game on, but we watched last night. Let’s watch something you like.”
Sanji hesitated. Zoro was about as manly as manly can get. Would he think less of Sanij for things he enjoyed watching?
Fuck it. If Zoro didn’t approve, he could find someone else’s couch to recuperate on. “Project Runway All-Species is on Bravo. Cue up episode six.”
“Sure. What’s it about?”
“Fashion designers competing in a clothing-making competition.”
“Like jeans and stuff?”
“And stuff.”
By the time dinner was served, they were halfway through the episode and Zoro had a permanent furrow to his brow. “I still don't get why the imp doesn’t just switch material. They bought extra. There’s time.”
“It’s the principle of the design,” Sanji said. “The vision. The sheer stubbornness.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Very stupid.” Sanji grinned. “Isn’t it great? They’re going to get kicked off. I can’t wait.”
Zoro glanced at him, chicken in hand. “You’re rooting for them to lose?”
“Shit, they should’ve gone home episodes ago,” Sanji told him. “They’re outfits are hot trash.”
Zoro frowned. “Hot trash is bad, but trashy hot is good?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“I’m really not.”
Sanji shifted on the couch, plate balanced on his lap. “It helps to see it from the beginning of the season.”
“Okay.”
Sanji looked at him in confusion. “Okay?”
Zoro shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe I'll get it more if we start from episode one.”
Sanji stared at him for a long moment, shocked that Mr. Stereotypical Werewolf would be interested in this type of thing. Then he stopped looking a gift werewolf in the mouth. He grabbed the remote, exited the current episode, and went back to the beginning. “Okay. There are sixteen contestants to start…”
The next two days passed in similar fashion. Sanji went to work. Zoro puttered around the apartment and napped. After the Project Runway marathon, Zoro had asked what, specifically, he could and could not touch. Sanji told him he could touch anything so long as he didn’t leave a mess and put everything back exactly as he found it. Zoro felt happy about the trust. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time with the spice rack, sniffing and re-sniffing every one.
In the evenings, they’d have dinner and watch something while talking or arguing about random things, or the thing they were watching. Sanji had a sharp wit and biting tongue, and wasn’t afraid of saying the wrong thing to Zoro. Zoro really liked that Sanji had that sort of confidence, to be himself whether someone else liked it or not. Zoro’s oldest friend and packmate, Kuina, took the shit out of him all the time. “Keeps you from getting a head as swelled as your pecs.”
Zoro had been at Sanji’s for more than 72-hours. He knew he should be leaving, but he didn’t want to. Sanji was fun to be around in a different way than the pack.
Tomorrow was Sunday and Sanji had the day off. There was no reason not to go to the store and get his phone fixed. Zoro hadn’t spent a full day with Sanji yet. He was kinda hoping he could, instead of saying goodbye.
Maybe if he cleaned the apartment, got himself cleaned up, and appealed to Sanji’s neatness, he’d want Zoro to stick around. Or he could make dinner, prove he wasn’t just a freeloading guest. Or Zoro could just not mention the phone and maybe Sanji would forget.
The apartment was already immaculate, but Zoro figured it had to be cleaned regularly to keep it that way. The pack did help with chores at whatever house they landed at, so he wasn’t a stranger to housework. Though usually he was put on the outdoor tasks.
Zoro decided to go for it and went in search of the cleaning supplies. He found a narrow cabinet with a fuzzy, flat mop – he suppressed the immediate desire to shake it up and bark at it – a neat pile of cleaning cloths, and a row of label-fronted bottles. The bottles were dummy-proof. Hardwood floor cleaner. Kitchen counters, sink, and stovetop cleaner. Bathroom tub and tile. Dust. Windows. Oven. Zoro couldn’t screw it up unless he tried.
It took close to two hours to do the whole apartment, because he wanted to be thorough. When he finished, the apartment smelled like cleaner and fake citrus. Zoro even did the windows. They sparkled in the sunlight.
Zoro rewarded himself with lunch and a nap. When he woke up, he itched to exercise. He hadn’t been to the gym in days, but without a working phone, that wasn’t happening. Even if he managed to find the gym from Sanji’s, he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. So he did as many calisthenics as he could think of, working up a good sweat. Then he took a shower – not his favorite activity – and checked his injuries for swelling or redness before rebandaging. He was going to have gnarled scars across his ankles to match his other ones. Stupid barbed wire.
Zoro dressed in a clean pair of shorts he had in his gym bag. He kept a lot of shorts, tanks, and tees in there, as well as toiletries, because he hit the gym daily. He changed out his bag once a week, washing everything inside it.
He eyed the wadded up clothing stuffed inside. He should probably do laundry before he ran out of clean shorts. He hadn’t been wearing his shirts because there’d been no reason. His jeans and tee that he’d been wearing when he’d gotten injured still had blood crusted into them.
It took him a while to find the laundry. A stacked washer/dryer was hidden inside a closet in the bathroom. Instructions on the detergent told him how much to use and he set a load washing. He should probably do the towels while he was at it. He thought about seeing if Sanji had any laundry, but decided against it. He’d avoided going into Sanji’s bedroom because it was too personal of a space.
With the machine humming, Zoro checked the time. If he was going to try to make dinner, he’d have to figure out what was available. No phone meant no internet, so it wasn’t like he could look something up. His culinary expertise was limited to microwaving and dumping a can of soup onto the stove. Would Sanji even have any cans of soup?
Zoro went searching. No soup. No microwavable anything. A few fresh vegetables in the fridge. Eggs, but Zoro didn’t know how to cook them. Meat in a package on the shelf he had no clue what to do with. No leftovers he could reheat. The freezer was basically bare, except for a tub of ice cream. Sanji probably shopped on Sundays, which explained the slim pickings.
Zoro snagged the ice cream, opened the tub, and grabbed a spoon. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could just drop the idea, but he wanted to do this for Sanji. Cleaning just didn’t feel like enough. He stuck a giant spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, and it was as he was having a massive brain freeze that he figured out his answer.
Sanji’d had a crap day at work. Mrs. Woolbottom was on his client list for the afternoon, and he’d spent three hours dying and curling the rich ewe’s hair only to get a five beli tip on a three hundred beli job. He despised clients like that. Luckily, they were few and far between. Every stylist had to suffer a Mrs. Woolbottom, but it always put him in a shitty mood.
He walked upstairs to the second floor, flipping through the mail in his hand. Bills, circulars, nothing worthwhile. He wanted food, a bottle of wine, and a bath with more bubbles than water.
He heard the scrambling of flipflops on hardwood as he opened the door. A muscle-bound moss nearly bowled him over as he chased a bouncing tennis ball. Zoro caught it in his mouth, two other tennis balls in his hands. Pointed ears perked and a green-furred tail began wagging furiously.
“Sanji!” Zoro dropped the ball in his mouth, catching it between two fingers. “You’re home!”
Sanji’s heart did this weird thing where it flipped and expanded and contracted all at once. Zoro was looking at him like he’d been gone for months, a bright smile on his face, crinkling the scar and the corner of his other eye. Combined with the ears and the tail, there was no doubt that Zoro was happy to see him.
Sanji felt his bad day melt away in an instant. Zoro’d greeted him similarly the last few days, always with enthusiasm, but today it did things to him. Good things. Things he wouldn’t mind getting used to feeling. He couldn’t even find himself being mad about the part-shift. It just felt… nice that someone wanted to see him this much.
Sanji had a few relationships in the past, one he even thought might go the distance, only for them to end because his personality was too abrasive, or he was too pleasing, or his desire for neatness and order got to be too much. He knew he was high maintenance, knew he treated men with his barbed tongue, women like they were glass, and those who were both or neither as if he were an inept fool. He knew it would be a tall order to find someone who fit with the real him.
A small, hopeful part of him was wondering if maybe he had.
Sanji smashed that hope back into its box. He’d only know Zoro four days, if he counted the night he’d found Zoro injured. That wasn’t long enough to live in someone’s pocket and judge compatibility. Plus, Zoro would be leaving soon. He was surely missing his pack. Once he got his phone fixed, Sanji would just become that guy who helped him that one time as he got on with his life.
Still, it was nice to have someone to come home to who wanted to see him, even if it was temporary. Sanji put his keys in the basket, the mail in the narrow drawer beneath it to be dealt with tomorrow. “What with the balls, were-moss?”
“You want to play?” Zoro’s claws curled over the toes of his flipflops, tail still wagging. “I call it Three-Ball style. You toss the balls in different directions and try to catch them before they stop bouncing.”
Sanji’s eyes narrowed. “You were bouncing the balls in my apartment?”
Zoro’s ears flattened against his head, unmistakably apologetic. “Not high or hard. Just enough to bounce.”
Moons save him from repentant werewolves. “Next time, play in the garden. There’s access stairs off the balcony.”
Zoro nodded firmly. “I will. You have my word.” His tail gave a small, tentative wag. “So… do you want to play? Outside?”
Sanji actually paused for a second to consider it, which meant he needed wine more than he’d thought. “I need to make dinner,” he said as an excuse.
Zoro’s grin returned, wide and enthusiastic. “I already made dinner.”
“You did what?” Sanji’s gaze immediately shot to the kitchen, looking for a mess, or blackened appliances, or his knives out of order. But the kitchen appeared pristine.
“Made dinner. For you. Us.” Zoro dropped the balls onto the couch and went into the kitchen, tail wagging fully again. “Sit down. I’ll get it.”
Sanji unbuttoned his suit coat, removed it, and draped it across the back of the couch before warily taking a seat at the island counter. He thought about the meat in the fridge, the last of the vegetables, and what he’d been going to make tonight. “Did you use the meat?”
“Nope.” Zoro opened a drawer, took out two spoons, and set them out. He grabbed napkins as well. “I don’t really know how to cook.”
Sanji’s stomach dropped with dread as to what Zoro might have made. “You’re an adult. You should know how to cook.”
Zoro shrugged. “Microwave’s worked fine so far.”
“I may have to kill you in your sleep for that,” Sanji said, watching as Zoro walked over to the fridge. Maybe he made a salad? There weren't really enough vegetables left for that, but it would’ve been the easiest.
“Pft. Never’ll happen. You’d get blood on your couch.” Zoro opened the freezer compartment, surprising Sanji. He took out two of Sanji’s big prep bowls and brought them over to the counter. He set one in front of Sanji with a prideful tilt of his ears. “Here you go. Dinner.”
Ice cream filled the bowl half-way, topped with a confectionary of baking sprinkles and candied fruits. Slices of banana and the berries he’d been planning to use at breakfast also had been added. The Redi-Whip he used solely for espresso con panna decorated the ice cream with a silly smiley face, two Luxardo-style maraschino cherries for the eyes.
It was stupid. It was unhealthy. It had way too many toppings. It would probably give him a stomach ache.
Sanji’s heart did that weird thing where it flipped and expanded and contracted all at once again.
Zoro’s ears twitched and his tail quivered in anticipation. “Well?”
“It’s perfect.” Sanji pulled the bowl close, grabbed his spoon, and dug in before he did something stupid, like kiss Zoro. “My day was shit. This is just what I needed.”
Zoro’s tail gave an unmistakable wag behind him at the praise. He leaned on the counter across from Sanji, a bowl that was more junk than ice cream between his elbows. “What happened?”
“Mrs. Woolbottom happened. And I had two cancellations…”
Sunday morning dawned, and Sanji went for a swim before returning and smacking a snoring Zoro with a throw pillow in the face. “Wake up, moss-wolf. Get dressed. We’re going out.”
Zoro grunted, eye cracking open, partially shifted body sprawled every which way on the couch. “It’s early.”
“The sun is up, so you should be, too.” Sanji headed for his bedroom. “Hurry up. I want to get there before all the good produce is gone.”
By the time they were both cleaned up and dressed – or redressed in Zoro’s case, since Sanji refused to go anywhere with him in permanently stained jeans – it was pressing eight. He didn’t comment on the continued partial-shift. Sanji carried his bag of reusable bags and together they left his apartment, heading to the Farmer’s Market.
The local Farmer’s Market was within walking distance, on the far end of the residential rows of brownstones. White tents dotted the greenspace in loose rows, their legs pressed into the grass, guy lines tied off to metal stakes. The ground showed faint paths where people naturally funneled through, the grass worn flatter there, springy everywhere else. Sun filtered through nearby trees, dappling tables and shoulders alike.
Produce filled wooden crates and shallow boxes: tomatoes with skin stretched thin and glossy, bunches of carrots still threaded with dirt at the roots, leafy greens misted and bundled with twine. Small chalkboard signs leaned at uneven angles, handwriting personal and a little inconsistent, prices smudged where fingers had brushed them. Jars of honey caught the light. Flowers stood upright in buckets of water, stems pressed together, petals open and bright.
The air carried layers of smell – fresh bread from a bakery stall, crushed herbs, cut fruit, grass beneath it all. Vendors stayed close to their setups, sleeves rolled, hands busy with bags, change, and samples. Conversations rose and fell in pockets: questions about cooking, comments about weather, neighbors recognizing one another and stopping longer than planned.
People drifted instead of rushed. True dogs lay at the edge of blankets. Children sat on the grass with pastries flaking onto their shorts. A man with bark-rough hands knelt to retie a child’s shoe, smiling politely as a human mother thanked him, leaving a faint scent of sap in the air when he stood. A vendor leaned over his table, listening with careful attention as a Djinn spoke, his voice dry and heat-softened, as if it had passed through desert air before reaching the grass, fingers hovering just above the produce while he asked about sweetness and shelf life.
Sanji led Zoro through the market, stopping here and there, exchanging warm greetings as he filled his bags with fresh greens and bread. A stroller eased through the narrow gaps between tables, pushed by a lamia whose long, scaled lower body was hidden beneath a flowing skirt, a human couple stepping aside without comment to give her room.
Sanji loved the Farmer’s Market. The freshest of produce and other homemade items all at his fingertips. He’d been coming here ever since he’d moved into the neighborhood. Vendors knew his name, and he knew theirs, and about their families and their small farms. Though he still dressed like he’d stepped off the runway, he didn’t mind the organicness of it.
“Sanji, hi,” Carrot, a partially shifted wererabbit, greeted as he came upon her stall. “I was wondering when you’d get here. I saved the last bundle of radishes for you.”
“Thank you, my beautiful angel.” Sanji smiled warmly at her. “I’ll take a head of cabbage and a bundle of carrots, and make a radish slaw.”
Carrot nodded as he passed over one of his bags, gathering the items. She glanced questioningly at Zoro, who hovered near Sanji’s shoulder, alert with a curious tilt to his ears. He held bags with handmade sausage, beef, and venison, plus a few jars of fruit jams for glazes and galettes.
“Those peppers look good,” Zoro said, pointing to the colorful bell peppers on the table.
Sanji’s mind turned over the possibilities. “I can make stuffed peppers with the beef we bought.” He could add mozzarella and marinara, or black beans, corn, cumin, chili powder, and Oaxaca. He’d stop by the cheese vendor next, see what he had for sale. “Add six of them, if you’d please, Carrot dear.”
Carrot reached for the peppers, rabbit ears twitching. “Are you two a couple?”
Sanji was startled by the question. Before he could answer, Zoro replied, “Not yet.”
Sanji nearly dropped the bag of bread in his hand. His heart tripped, and heat slid up his neck. Zoro’s answer echoed in his ears – plain, unvarnished, delivered without ceremony – and it was all he could do not to stammer over his words. “Merely friends, Carrot-chan.” His tone stayed light, and he refused to look at Zoro. “Now, how much do I owe you?”
Carrot’s nose twitched, like she wanted to linger on the exchange, but she gave him the total instead. Sanji paid, thanked her, and moved off at once, stride lengthening as soon as the stall was behind them.
Zoro caught up easily, pace matched to his. “Where to next?”
“The wine seller,” Sanji said at once, because the thought of anything else felt like asking too much of himself just then.
They got through the rest of the shopping trip, bags loaded down with food for the week. Sanji would hit the bodega for other essentials, preferring to shop local unless he needed something specific.
Once in the apartment, Zoro handed Sanji items from the bags as Sanji stored them in their proper place. He reached past Sanji at one point to straighten an item on the refrigerator door, which did things to Sanji.
“Not yet,” Zoro had said.
Sanji turned around and kissed him.
It was impulsive, and probably stupid, and likely would blow up in his face. But Zoro’s lips were warm, his breathy gasp of surprise endearing, and Sanji didn’t even mind the sound of a tail thumping repeatedly against the island cabinet.
Sanji drew back before things could go any further, focusing on the produce that still needed to be put away. The air from the open refrigerator felt cool against his heated cheeks. “Hand me the peppers.”
Zoro cleared his throat. “Okay.”
His tail continued to knock lightly against the cabinet as they finished unloading the bags.
Sanji made a light, early lunch, because if he didn’t keep busy he would have to address the werewolf in the room.
Said werewolf was currently doing burpees in front of the TV.
The tail, ears, and claws disappeared, which somehow made it worse. Now Sanji was just left with a hundred percent man flexing and jumping shirtless in his living room.
“Go do that outside,” Sanji finally said, as he put together a plum jam vinaigrette.
Zoro hopped back to his bare feet and shrugged amicably. “Sure.” He went out onto the balcony, shutting the glass door behind him.
Sanji took a moment to press his fingers to his forehead and question what the hell he was doing. He kissed Zoro. Kissed him. He’d known the guy for less than a week, and half that time he’d been at work.
Alright, yes, it had been the most enjoyable less-than-a-week that he’d had in a long while, but still. Zoro was virtually a stranger. A stranger who was unabashedly unashamed to snipe back at him, or flick him off, or call him swirlybrows to his face. Who wandered around comfortably shirtless and barefoot like the apartment belonged to him. Who debated whether the zombie flick they’d watched – where zombies fought a horde of gentrifying humans – was meant to be social commentary or just badly written. Who washed the towels and rehung them level in the bathroom. Who snored like a steam engine and smiled with simple sincerity.
Who was currently lifting his cast iron chairs like weights out on the balcony.
Sanji watched him through the window, one chair in each hand, raising them up and down at his sides. It was ridiculous, and stupid, and so fucking endearing that warmth bloomed in Sanji’s chest. Damn it. Not yet was quickly becoming definitely maybe.
He finished the vinaigrette with more vigor than necessary.
“Oi, dumbass!” he raised his voice, bouncing one of Zoro’s tennis balls toward the door to gain his attention. Zoro glanced over his shoulder. “Come and eat.”
Zoro came inside, stopped to wash his hands, then joined Sanji at the counter. “We’re going to get your phone fixed after lunch,” Sanji told him.
Zoro dropped his chin, looking at his salad, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. Should probably get that done.”
“Bring your tennis balls,” Sanji said, stabbing his salad. “We’ll stop by the park after and you can show me this idiotic Three-Ball style of yours.”
“Really?” Zoro turned his head toward Sanji, a smile forming.
“Yes, really. And decide what you want to watch tonight. It’s your turn to pick.”
Zoro’s posture straightened and began eating his salad with gusto. “Let’s watch Ninja Warrior. I want to see if any hominids have cleared Stage Three yet.”
Zoro texted the pack once he got his new phone. Still alive. Phone broke. Met someone. Cuwicu. Then he put the phone on Do Not Disturb and went to play ball with Sanji.
He spent two entire days hanging out with Sanji, and they were the best. Sanji had been surprised when he learned he didn’t have to clean and praised Zoro for how well he did. Zoro flicked him off, of course, when Sanji called him a “Good dog,” but inwardly he was pleased by the praise. It freed up more time for them to spend together and Zoro was all for that.
They played at the park, watched TV together, made jam-filled cookie-things that involved Sanji cursing at Zoro a lot. Zoro showed him clips from his games on ViewTube, explained the rules, and what the season was like – training, travel, terrible food. Sanji told him about a typical day for him, how most of his clients just wanted styling and a chance to share catty gossip, and tipped him anywhere from 50 to 100 beli to be coddled, flirted with, and listen. On a full, good day, he could pull 1,000 beli. It explained why he could afford to have rich tastes and fancy clothes.
Sanji’s eyes sparkled when he spoke about where he grew up, in a restaurant that floated and his love of the sea. His smile grew soft as he told outrageous stories about his cantankerous old man. He puffed up like a peacock when he talked about the importance of proper grooming. He snarked about new fashion trends while dog-earing pages in his fashion magazine.
And Zoro sat with his fist propping his cheek, tail moving in a slow, content sweep, and realized he never wanted to leave.
They hadn’t kissed again, but that was okay. This felt different than his past relationships. Usually they fell into bed first, then got to know each other and decided to stick around for a while. They didn’t last long; a few months of dinners and sex, and then things fizzled. Maybe that’s why he’d felt like something was missing, why he’d stopped hooking up casually. With Sanji, he was just content to be around him.
Not that he wasn’t interested in Sanji sexually. He definitely was, and if Sanji offered, Zoro’d drop his shorts in a second. But he didn’t feel like that was the end goal. And he liked that. He liked it a lot.
When Sanji went back to work on Tuesday, Zoro texted Kuina to meet him at the coffee shop down the block. He skimmed the group text messages, most of which involved crude variations on his getting laid. If only they knew.
Zoro used his GPS app to get him to the coffee shop. Sanji had given him a spare key to the apartment, telling him to go lift gym weights, not his balcony furniture. It felt momentous, even though it was merely practical. Sanji didn’t expect for him to sit around the apartment all day, now that he was off medical restriction. He still had another four days before he could get his stitches out, but the lesser cuts from the barbed wire had healed into flaking scabs and shiny new skin.
Zoro ordered a black coffee and sat outside at one of the patio tables. A trio of satyrs sat nearby, talking about a party they’d been to last night. The air had a crisp edge to it, though the temperature never dropped low enough to feel cold. Zoro wore shorts and a t-shirt, flipflops on his feet. He shut his eye, tipped his head back, letting the sun warm his face.
“Hey, leghumper.” A duffel bag dropped heavily onto his lap snapped him out of his doze. He opened his eye to glare at the woman who took the seat across from him.
“Stop calling me that,” Zoro growled, shifting the bag to the ground beside him. “It’s been six months already. And it was a dare.”
Kuina smirked. “Now what kind of friend would I be if I did that?”
“A good one.”
She snorted. “Barking up the wrong tree there. Go get me a coffee.”
“Get one yourself.”
“But I just sat down. And you’re the one who texted me to bring your shit.”
Zoro glared at her again, but got up and stomped into the coffee shop to the sound of her snickering.
When he returned, he found that she’d taken his coffee – which he knew she would – and set two cups down on the table before returning to his seat.
Kuina chewed on the edge of the paper cup and studied him with sharp eyes. Dressed similarly to him in shorts and a sports-tank, her muscles flexed and bulged as she shifted. Dark blue-black pointed ears focused forward toward him, framing her short cropped hair. Her blue-black furred tail swung lazily behind her. “The find my idiot app told us you were in this neighborhood until it went dark, when your phone probably died if you didn’t charge it. What are you doing way out here?”
“I told you guys. I met someone,” Zoro said.
“Before or after you got lost?”
Zoro scowled. “I don’t get lost.”
“The gym’s five miles from here.”
“The app kept routing me wrong.”
Kuina snorted again. “Uh-huh.”
“Shut up.” Zoro sank further in his chair and glowered.
“Tell me about this guy you met,” Kuina said. “The one you need your fancy panties for.”
Zoro flicked her off. “None of your business.”
“That hung, huh?”
“I don’t– We haven’t– It’s not like that.”
“Oh shit.” Kuina leaned forward, a wide grin on her face. “You really like this guy.”
Zoro felt his face heat. “Shut up.”
“My little Zoro-pup finally caught feelings.”
“Do you want your ass kicked?”
“Pft. Like to see you try.” Kuina was the female World Champion MMA fighter eight years running, still trying to convince the league to let her take on the male champion for an ultimate title. She could kick Zoro’s ass without breaking a sweat.
Zoro sank even lower in his seat and grumbled, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Nope. I’m not moving until you tell me about this guy you like.”
Knowing that Kuina would resort to a headlock if she didn’t get her way, Zoro gave in. “He’s prissy, sharp-tongued, way too neat, and I just… want to be around him.”
Kuina’s grin shifted. “You usually lead with how hot a guy is, or that he’s good in bed. Does he tell you what to do?”
Zoro didn’t bother to deny it. Lying was stupid, anyway. “Yeah.”
“And you do it?”
“Yeah.”
Kuina’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I knew it. You’re such a dog.”
“It’s not like that,” Zoro said automatically. “He’s just organized. Has rules. Expects you to follow them.”
“And you like that,” she said, not a question.
Zoro felt his face heating again. “Yeah.”
Kuina sat back, satisfied. “Congratulations. You found someone who’ll make you sit and stay.”
“Fuck off.”
She laughed, loud and unrepentant. Then, softer, “You don’t pack a bag for just anyone.”
Zoro shifted in his seat, then said, “He’s different.”
“You’ve got it bad.”
“Maybe,” Zoro admitted, fiddling with his coffee.
“Think it’ll last?”
Zoro’s response was quiet. “Hope so.”
Kuina kicked him lightly under the table. “Wear the navy boyshorts. Your ass looks tight in them.”
Zoro shuddered. “Gross. Fuck. I don’t want to think about you checking out my ass.”
“Sure you don’t, leghumper.”
“It was one time! And a dare!”
The full moon was nearing – three nights that would force him into full werewolf form. Sanji hated those nights. He didn’t like being in werewolf form. Fur got everywhere, he couldn’t cook, nor use the remote for the TV. Nights were long, boring, and he always had the desire to lick his own crotch. Then he and every other werebeast around would howl ridiculously at the moon’s peak.
Zoro, on the other hand, was beside himself with excitement. “We can roughhouse, and play pulltoy, and I had Kuina pack a few were-friendly chew-shoes. She also threw in scent balls that we can hide for each other. I have deer and rabbit. We usually try to stay at Franky and Robin’s on full moons, because Franky’ll barbeque a shit-ton of hamburgers and sausages for us. Do you want to do the same? Now that I have my phone, I can probably cook them up while you’re at work.”
Sanji stared in horror at Zoro as he continued to remove werewolf toys from a duffel bag. He opened his mouth and closed it again, because really, should he have expected anything else?
Zoro’s slightly damp tail from his shower wagged happily, as he sniffed one of the scent balls and set it aside. “We can play Three-Ball style, too. It’s more fun to try and catch them all in your mouth at once.”
“I’ll cook,” Sanji finally managed to find his voice. He normally whipped up a feast for himself the day prior, even if he had to eat it cold. Just because he was stuck in werewolf form didn’t mean he couldn’t eat well.
“Cool,” Zoro nodded. He held up two different colored scent balls. “You want to be rabbit or deer, swirlybrows?”
Sanji wanted a very big glass of wine. “You’re really into all this.”
“Well, yeah. We’re werewolves.” Zoro grinned lopsidedly at him. “And I get to be here with you this time.”
Sanji’s heart skipped a beat. He made a beeline for the wine. “You’re staying off the couch. And if you scratch my hardwood floors, I will turn you into a rug.”
Zoro was practically living with Sanji. Out of a bag, but he hadn’t gone home, and Sanji had given him a key. Sanji tried not to think too hard about it, because if he did, he might have to admit his feelings for Zoro now ran deep. He thought maybe Zoro felt the same, but if he didn’t, Sanji would be crushed. So he kept quiet, and just kept hoping Zoro wouldn’t leave.
Their domestic routine could have been platonic. Eating dinner in front of the TV. Bickering about something or another. Doing household chores. Sleeping in different rooms. Except they sat closer together now, sometimes Zoro’s feet were in Sanji’s lap, sometimes Sanji’s arm was on the back of the couch, fingertips twining lightly in Zoro’s hair. Their shoulders bumped as they did the dishes. Their eyes followed each other whenever one of them entered the room. Sanji lingered longer every night, and Zoro looked disappointed every time he left for bed.
It was intimate without being sexual. Comfortable yet close. It was wanting to be around the other person even if they were doing different things. It was a rule being discarded about partial shifting and not worrying about his stuff being touched. It wasn’t platonic at all.
Sanji drank his wine, tapped the deer scent ball, and asked, “Do you mind if I top?”
Zoro sucked in a sharp breath, eye widening. He dropped the scent balls. “No,” he said in a thick tone. “Please do.”
Sanji set his wine glass down, rounded the counter, and stepped into Zoro’s space. He could see Zoro’s pupil darkening, the pulse fluttering in his neck. He slid a hand behind Zoro’s neck, the other stroking along the scarline on Zoro’s bare chest. Then he closed the last inches between them and kissed Zoro.
The kiss stayed unhurried, even as it deepened. Sanji felt the spark of desire catch in his chest. His mouth moved against Zoro’s, seeking, entreating, inevitable as the upcoming full moon. Zoro’s hand slid onto Sanji's waist, thumb flexing once, uncertain.
Sanji shifted just enough to feel Zoro’s response under his hand, the tension gathering instead of breaking. Zoro didn’t retreat. He leaned in, seeking more.
The kiss changed then – deeper, warmer, edged with something that pulled tight in Sanji’s stomach. Zoro made a quiet sound into his mouth, surprised and unguarded, and his hand fisted in Sanji’s shirt like he needed the anchor of fabric to stay upright.
Sanji drew back just enough to breathe, his thumb brushing once at Zoro’s jaw, grounding himself as much as him. Zoro followed the retreat without thinking, closing the distance again until their foreheads touched, breath mingling.
“Bedroom,” Sanji said quietly.
Zoro nodded. He reached for Sanji’s hand, grip firm despite the tremor in his fingers, and didn’t let go as Sanji led him down the short hall. The apartment felt different now – smaller, charged, aware.
The bedroom light stayed off. Waxing gibbous moonlight cut a pale line across the floor, across the edge of the bed, catching the planes of Zoro’s shoulders as he stopped just inside the doorway. Sanji tugged him toward the bed, guided them down together, movements unhurried, deliberate. The bed dipped under their combined weight.
Zoro’s breathing sped up as Sanji’s hand traced along his spine. Their mouths met again, eager this time, desire taking light. Sanji felt the difference immediately, the Zoro way pressed closer instead of holding back, the way his hands settled with more certainty. Their lower bodies slotted together, arousal evident. Want built until it tipped over into need.
Sanji’s hand firmed on Zoro’s back, sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of his shorts… where he bumped into a tail. He let out a soft, incredulous breath against Zoro’s mouth. “You might want to put that away.”
Zoro grinned sheepishly. He shifted, the transformation fluid and quick, his body pressing more firmly against Sanji’s. "Better?"
Sanji’s eyes darkened with hunger. "Much better." His hand moved freely now beneath Zoro’s shorts. Zoro’s skin was hot and smooth under his touch, and he could feel the rapid beat of his heart.
Zoro’s hips rolled against Sanji’s, a silent plea. "Sanji," he breathed, his voice rough with need. "I want you."
Sanji’s response was a low groan, his hand gripping Zoro’s ass firmly. "Yeah." He rolled them over, pinning Zoro beneath him, his body heavy and warm. Zoro’s legs parted willingly, inviting him in.
Their mouths met again, tongues tangling in a dance of desire. Zoro’s hands gripped Sanji’s shoulders, nails digging in as Sanji’s hips ground against him. The friction was exquisite, building a fire that threatened to consume them both.
Sanji broke away, his breath ragged. "I need to see you." His hands moved to the waistband of Zoro’s shorts, pulling them down slowly, revealing inch by inch of taut, tanned skin.
Zoro lifted his hips, helping Sanji strip him bare. Sanji's eyes roamed over Zoro’s body hungrily, drinking in the ridges of muscle, the flushed and straining erection. He leaned down, mouth capturing Zoro’s again, fingers running over Zoro’s warm flesh.
Sanji’s mouth followed the path of his hands, tasting the salt of Zoro’s skin, the heat of his need. He explored the planes of Zoro’s chest, his tongue circling each nipple until they were tight and sensitive. Zoro’s back arched, a silent plea for more, his hands fisting in the sheets as Sanji’s teeth grazed him.
The air grew thick with arousal, the soft rustle of fabric, the hitch of breath, the whispered promises of ecstasy. Sanji’s hands roamed lower, cupping Zoro’s ass, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin, drawing out a low whine. Zoro’s hips bucked, seeking more, and Sanji granted it to him.
He pushed Zoro’s thighs back, moving down the bed, settling himself. He leaned in, his breath hot against Zoro’s skin, a promise of what was to come.
Zoro’s body tensed, a low, guttural curse escaping his lips as Sanji’s tongue danced across his sac. Sanji’s tongue dipped lower, sliding along his perineum, then circling his entrance with deliberate, teasing strokes. Zoro’s breath hitched, sound catching in his throat, fingers scratching at the bedsheets.
Sanji took his time, each lick a slow, deliberate stroke, building the tension, drawing out the pleasure. The room was filled with the wet, intimate sounds of Sanji’s ministrations, the soft moans and gasps of pleasure from Zoro. Sanji’s hands roamed, gripping, caressing, his touch both tender and demanding, teasing and tantalizing until Zoro was writhing beneath him, desperate for release.
“Sanji,” he begged with a pleading whine.
Sanji relented, swiping his damp face with the sheet. He rose over Zoro again, kissing him thoroughly, before moving long enough to undress and get what they needed. He rolled the condom on, slicked up, and pressed into Zoro without further hesitation.
Tight heat enveloped Sanji, sending a shudder of pleasure through his body. Zoro’s eye fluttered closed, a deep moan escaping his lips as Sanji filled him completely. Sanji paused for a moment, savoring the sensation, before beginning to move.
His hips rocked in a slow, even rhythm, each thrust deliberate, finding the perfect angle designed to drive Zoro wild. Sanji leaned down, capturing Zoro’s mouth again, swallowing his keens of pleasure as he drove deep. The sound of their skin slapping together filled the air, mingling with their ragged breaths.
He could feel Zoro’s nails digging into his back, the slight sting only serving to heighten his arousal. Sanji’s thrusts grew more urgent, his body chasing the release that was building within him. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Zoro’s as he looked into his eye, wanting to see the moment when Zoro let go. “Come for me, Zoro,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “Let me feel you come undone.”
Zoro’s eye widened, his body tensing as Sanji’s words pushed him over the edge. Sanji felt the tight clench of Zoro’s body around him, the pulse of his release triggering his own. With a final, deep thrust, Sanji came, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax.
They lay there for a moment, their bodies still joined, as they rode out the aftershocks of their pleasure. Sanji pressed a soft kiss to Zoro’s lips, a tender smile playing on his face. “That’s my good boy,” he murmured, his voice filled with affection and satisfaction.
“At least you didn’t call me a good dog,” Zoro muttered, though Sanji could hear a pleased note in his voice from the praise.
“I can if you want me to,” Sanji said, biting lightly at Zoro’s lips. “My good dog.”
“Moons, fuck. Don’t say shit like that.”
Sanji snickered and carefully moved off Zoro. “Bet your tail would be wagging if it were out.”
Zoro’s only response was a curse, which only made Sanji grin. He disposed of the condom, then tugged at Zoro’s hand. “C’mon, moss-wolf. Shower.”
“But I already took a shower,” he whinged, as Sanji pulled him from the bed.
“I know. That’s the only reason you got to experience my ‘acerbic’ tongue.”
Zoro grumbled all the way to the bathroom, but he didn’t let go.
And Zoro’s tail did wag, afterward.
Before, full moon nights had been something Sanji endured. He used to mark them on the calendar in his head with a tight jaw and a longer wine list.
Now Zoro started getting restless the moment Sanji got home, pacing the apartment with barely-contained energy, tail thumping against furniture. He went quiet in a way that wasn’t withdrawn, just focused, eyes brighter, senses dialed high. Sanji caught him standing at the window more than once, watching the sky in eager anticipation.
Werewolves could shift at will, but Zoro was waiting for Sanji. Instead of dread, Sanji felt unexpected anticipation creep in.
Sanji had cooked enough for three nights, and set the first night’s out on the coffee table. Thick slices of slow-braised beef. A mound of mashed sweet potatoes. Carrots, cut into coins and roasted until soft, glistened with their own sugars. A bowl of fluffy rice cooked in stock, finished with butter.
He’d put a painter’s cloth down earlier beneath the coffee table, which he kept for this purpose. He’d showered, because if he was getting naked, he was going to wash off the work day first. He’d had a glass of wine as the minutes ticked closer to sundown, too early in the late fall.
They’d hid the scent balls with promises not to peek. Zoro’s array of werewolf toys were scattered around the apartment. Sanji relented to the idea of allowing them both in his bed, after he’d put on old sheets he didn’t like.
With one minute left, they both stripped down. Full shifting was murder on clothes, even those specially made for hybrids. Zoro came over to Sanji, grabbed his hand, and grinned like a fool. “This is going to be fun.”
And it was.
The shift took them both quickly, bodies changing in familiar ways. Sanji’s frame lengthened and lowered, fur blooming pale and gold where skin had been, his balance resetting as he dropped to all fours. Zoro followed beside him, larger and heavier as the transformation finished, his fur breaking into deep greens in uneven bands along his back and shoulders. His body settled into a low, powerful stance, spine arched, shoulders broad, long forelimbs braced against the floor. Both of them shook out the last of it – Sanji lighter and quicker, Zoro solid and dense – ears flicking, tails adjusting, senses snapping into focus. They circled once, checking each other without words, matching pace and posture, before easing into the space together like this was simply another way of sharing the room.
Then Zoro lifted his head, tongue lolling out, and he spun around in several quick circles. He burst into a run, nails chittering on the floor up and down the hallway, as he zoomed from the bedroom back into the living room, circled the couch and the table, and ran off again. Sanji sat and exhaled heavily in annoyance.
Zoro careened back into the living room, bowling Sanji over – Sanji knew it was on purpose – pulling him into a rough and tumble playfight. Then Zoro was running again, and Sanji was chasing him, nipping at haunches, at his tail. Zoro used the bed as a springboard, spinning around and leaping over Sanji’s body as he ran back the other direction. Sanji skidded on the hardwood as he scrambled to turn, snarling and barking at Zoro as he continued the chase.
They looped around the couch and coffee table, then around the island counter, in wild figure eights. Sanji finally took a shortcut, leaping over the couch to tackle Zoro. He managed to grab Zoro by the scruff with his teeth, growling. Zoro’s body heaved for breath and he bowed low, surrendering.
Sanji let him go, shook his fur, and sat down with all the primness of a purebred. Zoro rolled over onto his back, exposing himself basely. A paw kicked at Sanji’s leg. Sanji bent down and nipped it.
Zoro rolled over again and belly crawled to Sanji, nudging into Sanji’s side. Sanji huffed and nosed the fur behind Zoro’s ear. Zoro got up, padded away, and came back with three tennis balls crammed into his mouth and a hopeful wag of his tail.
Sanji gave in.
The thing with being fully shifted was that he knew who he was, had control of his thoughts, but there was another layer of instinct added in. They may not be able to talk – their vocal anatomy simply wouldn’t allow it – but communication was clear, carried through posture, ear position, tail movement, the pitch and timing of sound. Zoro was particularly expressive, ears constantly in motion, tail wagging, lashing, thumping without restraint.
Paws instead of hands were inconvenient, but manageable; Sanji could bat the balls down the hallway just fine, sending Zoro scrambling after them with reckless enthusiasm. Zoro had absolutely no shame about being a werewolf and all its dog-leaning ridiculousness, and Sanji felt it start to rub off on him.
They played with the balls for a while, then they ate and curled up together for a nap. When they woke, Zoro carried over a chew-shoe and dropped it in front of Sanji like he’d offered a bouquet of roses. Sanji drew the line at chewing on shoes, but he did nuzzle Zoro in thanks.
Later, they went hunting for the scent balls, hidden in places that wouldn’t cause a mess. Zoro found his, and promptly managed to send one sliding under the couch. He spent an inordinate amount of time trying to reach it, which amused Sanji to no end.
When midnight came, they nosed open the cracked balcony door fully, went outside, and joined in the howling chorus of werewolves and other werebeasts responding to the moon.
Then they padded to the bedroom together, hopped into bed, and settled down. Zoro turned in a slow circle before dropping down, tail thumping once against the mattress, while Sanji adjusted instinctively, tucking in close. They fit together easily – fur overlapping, bodies aligned – sleep coming on quick and deep once the pull of the moon eased.
For the first time, Sanji wasn’t waiting for the night to end.
Sanji came home the day after the full moons ended feeling light.
It had been a good day at work, busy but smooth. He’d made a good amount in tips and caught up on the latest gossip. Now, he looked forward to spending the evening with Zoro without forced fur and tails. He wanted to cook a nice dinner, show his appreciation for Zoro in making the full moons enjoyable instead of a chore, and then show him again in bed now that they had their human bodies back.
He unlocked the door already smiling, expecting the low domestic sounds he’d come to associate with Zoro – maybe exercise, maybe the TV, or bare feet padding on the floor. His favorite part of the day was coming home to Zoro’s enthusiastic tail wag at simply seeing him again.
He pushed open the door, smile fading fast, as instead of Zoro alone he found chaos.
There were people everywhere. Sitting on his couch. Sitting on the floor. Sitting on his island counter stools. Coming up the hallway from the back. Some had ears and tails out, some didn’t. All were loud and boisterous, talking over one another, shoving each other, fighting over food. There were open containers of takeout on his island and his coffee table. He could see smudges of sauce and greasy fingerprints on the surfaces. Beer bottles and soda cans cluttered the remaining space. There was a puddle of something brown on the floor.
Irritation sparked – sharp, immediate, disbelieving. He shut the door behind him, seemingly unnoticed under the noise. The basket for his keys was on the floor beneath the small table instead of on it. A tail knocked over a bottle on his coffee table with a careless flick. Beer spilled across the surface and dripped to the floor.
His jaw tightened. He looked for Zoro. He found him at the stove, a dark-haired man with matching pointed ears and tails hanging off his back, crowding his space. Sanji ignored everyone else as he moved into the kitchen, steps measured but fast.
“Is it done yet? Is it done yet?” the dark-haired man repeated, giving Zoro a shake.
“It’ll be done in a minute,” Zoro said, glancing between his phone and the hamburger patties on the built-in griddle. Oil and bits of beef dotted the stove and counter. The scent of overcooked meat hung heavy in the air.
The irritation sharpened into something tighter. More personal.
“Hi. Who are you?” the dark-haired man asked, finally noticing Sanji. He had a scar under one eye and a curious grin.
“Sanji,” Sanji said shortly. “This is my apartment.”
“Oh hey, you’re home,” Zoro said absently. The familiar greeting was said without any enthusiasm. No tail wag. Not even a glance in Sanji’s direction.
It hurt.
The irritation drained out, leaving something cold and brittle in its place. It settled heavily in his chest.
“Who are these people?” Sanji asked quietly, fingers curling slowly into fists.
“This is my pack,” Zoro said. “They stopped by because I didn’t come back for the full moons. They wanted to check in.”
Sanji waited for the rest. For I told them you’d be home soon, or I thought you’d be okay with it, or I really wanted them to meet you. Nothing came. Zoro flipped a patty, eyes back on the griddle, grease popping as it hit the heat.
The cold set deeper – and then it began to crack.
The dark-haired man hanging off Zoro dropped lightly to his feet and turned, smiling bright and open. “I’m Luffy,” he said cheerfully. “Welcome to my pack!”
Sanji stared at him. “What?”
“You’re with Zoro,” Luffy said, like this was obvious. “So that means you’re in my pack now.”
Something ugly flared under the cold.
“I am not in your pack,” Sanji said flatly. “I will never be in your pack.”
The kitchen went silent. Luffy’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across his face. One of the others at the counter shifted, tail stilling, ears angling forward. Zoro froze, spatula hovering above the griddle.
“You didn’t think to text me?” Sanji continued, voice level only because he forced it to be. “Or ask?”
Zoro finally looked at him, brow creasing. “Ask what?”
That did it.
“Ask if I wanted a house full of people,” Sanji snapped. The edge finally broke through. “Ask if it was okay.”
Zoro straightened, shoulders squaring. “They’re not strangers. They’re my pack.”
“I know what they are,” Sanji said, sharp now. “I’m asking if you remember what this is.” He gestured, small and precise, at the apartment around them. At himself.
It wasn’t the mess that solely bothered him – though that pissed him off, a lot. It wasn’t the fact that strangers were in his apartment without him here. He’d come home wanting to spend time with Zoro now that they were in control of themselves again. He’d been looking forward to a night that belonged to the two of them. And he’d assumed, stupidly, that Zoro had been waiting for the same thing.
Zoro’s ears tipped back, not in guilt – Sanji knew better than that – but in dawning realization. “I didn’t think it’d be a problem,” he said.
“Yeah. You didn’t think.” Sanji flicked his gaze over the rest of the people in his apartment, who were now all watching them. Discomfort settled on his shoulders. He smiled tightly. “I’m going to change. You all… enjoy dinner.”
He turned before Zoro could answer, before he could decide whether to stop him. He went to his bedroom, glancing into the bathroom as he passed – light on, toilet seat up, soap staining the sink, towel dropped on the floor – and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.
He should’ve known better. He liked things a certain way, liked the human side of him exclusively, liked neatness and order and cleanliness. Zoro was a werewolf, through and through, with his dog toys and his partial shifting and his loud, messy pack. He didn’t belong with Sanji, living under his rules instead of being free to be himself. Expecting him to fold neatly into Sanji’s apartment, into Sanji’s expectations, into Sanji’s life, had been naïve at best.
Sanji swallowed past the tightness in his throat. This was what he got for letting himself want more. For imagining a version of Zoro that belonged to him in a way Zoro had never agreed to. Wanting a quiet night, a human night, a night that meant something – those had been Sanji’s hopes, not promises.
And maybe that was the answer. Maybe Zoro didn’t need rules or expectations or conformity. Maybe what Zoro needed was freedom, and what Sanji needed was distance before he started resenting the very things that made Zoro who he was.
The silence sat thick over the living room and kitchen, heavy enough that even the sizzling griddle seemed too loud. No one moved. No one quite knew where to look. The smell of overcooked beef hung in the air, grease popping once, then not at all.
Kid, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor with a beer balanced between his knees, looked around at the frozen faces and snorted. “Awkward.”
It broke the moment open like a dropped plate. Someone chuckled too loudly. Another shifted and reached for a drink. Conversation sputtered back to life in uneven bursts – jokes half-started, comments about the food, someone complaining about the beer being warm. Tails resumed their restless motion. The pack purposely ignored the elephant in the room, noise layering over what had just happened like it could be buried under volume.
Zoro didn’t join in.
He stood at the stove, spatula still in his hand, and this time he really looked around. Not just at the people – at the room. At the scuffed floor. The sauce on the counter. The bottle still leaking beer onto the coffee table.
He remembered the rules – no shifting indoors, no bleeding, no shedding, no touching without permission, no food without asking, no making a mess. And he’d allowed his pack to violate nearly every one. He’d done so unthinkingly – uncaringly – and without even giving Sanji a warning that they’d shown up.
“Why wouldn’t he want to be in the pack?” Luffy said to Zoro, as if it defied logic. “We have a great pack.”
“He’s not a pack person,” Zoro murmured, guilt now pulling his shoulders tight. Sanji preferred the human side of their hybrid species. He preferred suits without tail notches, sheets without shedded fur, order not the chaos that came with a pack.
Zoro had fucked up. Sanji had allowed him into his apartment, into his life, relaxed his own way of living for Zoro – allowing his partial shift, allowing him blanket freedom to touch, trusting that Zoro would clean up after himself, giving Zoro a key. And Zoro hadn’t given him a single thought when the pack showed up.
Zoro could’ve gone out with them instead. Could’ve taken them into the shared garden out back. Could’ve insisted they follow the rules. Instead, he’d just let them in like this was his own apartment, fell into the usual boisterous bedlam, and forgotten Sanji altogether.
There was no defending what he’d done.
“Luffy,” he said. “You need to leave.”
Luffy tilted his head, studying Zoro for a moment. Then he turned to the rest of the pack. “Yosh! Time to go. I’m driving!”
“Hell, no!” Ace declared, getting to his feet. “You suck at driving. I’m driving.”
Bonney shoved him. “You suck just as much. I’ll drive.”
People started standing, collecting jackets, nudging each other toward the door. A few looked confused. A few looked faintly sheepish. Kuina lingered the longest, gaze flicking toward the hallway.
“This gonna be okay?” she asked.
Zoro hesitated, then said, “I hope so.”
Kuina looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded and left. The door closed behind her with a muted click. The apartment fell quiet in its wake, the sudden absence of noise almost ringing.
Zoro turned off the stove. He moved the burger patties off the griddle to a plate. Then he shifted himself fully human before venturing down the hallway to knock on the bedroom door. “Sanji?”
The door opened after a beat. Sanji’s expression was neutral. He glanced past Zoro, then turned away. “Did they just leave?”
“Yeah.” Zoro hesitated in the doorway, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world. He needed to apologize, even though it might not be enough. “I”m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Sanji picked up two bags from the floor and brought them over to Zoro. “You’ll be able to catch up to them.”
Zoro stared at the bags – his bags – being held out to him. It felt like a vicious punch to the gut. “You want me to leave?”
“They obviously missed you, and you them. You’ll be more comfortable with them, where you belong.”
Everything stopped. His breath. His blinking. His heart.
“I– I should clean up first,” he pushed past his tight throat. His eye burned at the edges.
“I got it.” Sanji continued to stand there, holding his bags out. Zoro could see the tick in his jaw, the tightness in his eyes. “You should go.”
This – being sent away without raised voices, without blame being thrown – felt worse than anger. It felt deserved. Zoro had been careless with something that mattered. With someone who mattered. And wanting to fix it didn’t erase that.
He took the bags. The moment his fingers closed around the straps, something in his chest twisted hard enough to make it impossible to breathe. He didn’t look at Sanji again. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk out.
“I shouldn’t have done this to you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think about you. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Sanji said, and that felt more devastating than anything.
Zoro turned on his heel, walked to the front door. He hesitated there, then took the key out of his wallet. He noticed that the basket was on the floor, Sanji’s keys sitting on the table, out of place. Burning clawed at his throat. He set his key next to Sanji’s on the table and left.
Outside the building, he had to blink the blur from his vision. The pain in his chest wanted to bring him to his knees. Instead, he shouldered both bags like stacked backpacks and began to run. He didn’t know where he was going, he just needed to go. To try to outrun the pain. Try to outrun the consequences. Try to outrun the fact that he’d ruined everything.
His body shifted mid-stride, growing, elongating, dropping onto all fours. His shorts split at the seams. The bags clunked against furred shoulders, claws eating up the pavement, as he ran, and ran, and ran.
He eventually ran into a fence, topped with barbed wire. He threw back his head with a mournful howl. Then he sank to the ground, curled up tight, and tried not to shatter like the pieces of his broken heart.
The apartment felt empty.
Every day Sanji came home, silence greeted him. His keys went into the basket. His mail in the drawer. He stepped past his shining island counter, across the polished hardwood, to his perfectly made-up bedroom to hang up his crossbody bag. He hung his suitcoat on the dry-cleaner side of his closet, along with his vest, then returned to the kitchen to start dinner.
The appliances hummed softly. Sanji took out what he needed to cook for one. He nudged the slightly off-center bottle on the refrigerator door square and swallowed down the lump that rose in his throat. He fixed dinner on automatic, ate mechanically, and washed up. He went into the living room, shifted the neatly placed throw pillow, and sat on the couch. He clicked on the TV and tabbed through the options in search of a show to watch.
The ache in his chest was his only company.
He told himself it was for the best. That he couldn’t live the way Zoro needed. That Zoro’d be happier with his pack. This was just another incompatibility he should’ve seen coming.
The days slipped into each other, identical and quiet. Sanji slept better. He ate on schedule. The apartment stayed immaculate. The ache stayed, too.
He knew, intellectually, that this was how it had to be. What unsettled him was that understanding it didn’t make it hurt any less.
For the first time in his adult life, he felt alone.
Zoro wasn’t alone.
The pack filled the space around him – voices overlapping, bodies pressed close, familiar scents grounding and warm. Someone shoved a drink into his hand. Someone else clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle his balance. Laughter rolled through the room, unrestrained and familiar.
He sat there, present in body only, the noise washing over him. Every instinct said this was where he belonged – pack, proximity, shared space. This was the life he’d grown into without ever questioning it. Easy. Loud. Uncomplicated.
And still, he felt hollow inside.
He missed Sanji. Missed the way he laughed. Missed the way he cursed. Missed the way he gave as good as he got. He missed being called were-moss, and moss-wolf, and even a good dog. He missed the casual touches, the newfound intimacy, the feeling of being completely relaxed just breathing beside him.
Zoro wrapped his fingers around the glass and stared at nothing. He wanted to give Sanji what he’d asked for, wanted to prove he could be considerate. But it didn’t change what he’d already done. It didn’t undo forgetting.
What he didn’t want was a life that didn’t include Sanji at all.
Across the room, someone said his name. Zoro looked up automatically, nodded when it seemed expected, then looked away again. The pack moved around him, comfortable and sure, and for the first time he could remember, it felt like the wrong fit.
He understood it now, with a clarity that hurt. Being with the pack didn’t mean he wasn’t lonely. And being without Sanji showed him exactly what he’d already lost.
Zoro sat there among his people, surrounded on all sides, and felt utterly, unmistakably alone.
Someone was leaning against the brick column just outside the front of his building, jacket unzipped, muscular arms folded loosely, posture relaxed but alert. She had a nose that had been broken many times and blue-black hair, ears, and tail. Sanji thought he recognized her. He slowed his step as he approached his door.
“Hey,” she said, pushing off the column as he reached the steps. Her tone was casual. Careful. “Got a minute? I’m Kuina. Zoro’s packmate.”
Sanji stopped. He glanced past her, up at his windows, then back down at her face. “I’m on my way home.”
“I know.” She tipped her head toward the street. “Coffee?”
He could say no. He didn’t owe anyone explanations, least of all someone from Zoro’s pack. But something in the way she asked – no pressure, no apology – made it harder to refuse without looking like the unreasonable one. “Alright.”
They didn’t talk on the way. The late afternoon traffic filled the silence – buses sighing to a stop, someone laughing too loudly on the corner, the distant clatter of construction. Kuina matched his pace, hands in her pockets, gaze forward.
At the coffee shop, Sanji ordered a black tea. Kuina got a plain coffee. They took a small table near the window. Warm light slanted in through the glass, catching dust in the air and reflecting off the varnished wood. Patrons murmured around them. Cups clinked, the espresso machine hissed, the door chimed as someone came and went.
Kuina drank a sip of her coffee, then stated without preamble, “Zoro’s miserable without you.”
Sanji was taken aback. Then, irritation set in. “I didn’t ask how he’s doing.”
“I know,” Kuina said. She didn’t apologize for it. She just watched him over the rim of her cup. “I’m telling you anyway.”
Sanji looked past her, out the window, at a harpy couple arguing quietly on the sidewalk, feathers bristling, wings tucked. “It doesn’t change things.”
Kuina nodded once. “It doesn't. He fucked up.”
The ease with which she said it threw him off.
“But that night isn’t how he is with you,” she continued. “You know that. You had rules. He followed them. He liked them.” She paused. “He liked you.”
Sanji scoffed softly. “Liking someone doesn’t mean you can live the way they need.”
“True,” Kuina said. “But you didn’t give him the chance to make amends. You just kicked him out.”
Sanji went still.
Kuina leaned back in her chair, tail settling against the leg. “Zoro is my oldest friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids. He can be really stupid at times. This was one bad night of idiocy and him being thoughtless when instinct kicked in.”
Sanji stared down into his tea, watching the surface tremble faintly. “And what,” he asked quietly, “you think I should’ve just accepted the mess?”
“No,” Kuina said, and Sanji could tell she meant more than the apartment. “I think you should’ve let him clean it up.”
Outside, a delivery truck idled, then pulled away. The espresso machine hissed again. A spoon rang once against porcelain. Sanji took a careful sip of his tea, letting the heat ground him. He set the cup down slowly, aligning it with the edge of the table. “I don’t do things thoughtlessly,” he said. “I just–” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I expect to be considered.”
“As I said,” Kuina continued, unbothered, “sometimes he’s a dumbass. But then, so am I.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’m betting so are you.”
Sanji's jaw flexed, but he held her gaze.
Kuina leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “You were right to be mad,” she said. “You weren’t wrong to send him away.”
Sanji's expression shifted despite himself.
“But don’t confuse that with him choosing to go,” Kuina went on. “That was you. He respected it.”
Sanji didn’t respond. The words sat heavy in his chest, true and unwelcome both.
"I'm not asking you to forgive him right now," Kuina said. "I'm just saying, if you want to talk to him, he'll listen. And if you don't, he'll respect that." She pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. She paused at the edge of the table. “And Sanji – you look miserable, too.”
She left, the door chiming as it closed behind her. Sanji remained at the table, alone with his cooling tea and the quiet hum of voices around him.
Sanji sat curled in the corner of his couch, a cup of coffee cooling on the table in front of him. Morning sunlight slanted through the balcony window. He wore a soft pullover sweater, damp hair curling around the collar. A swallow landed on the back of a wrought iron chair, bobbed a few times, then flew off.
He looked at the phone in his lap, messages open, Zoro’s name at the top of the screen. Four days had passed since Kuina had tracked him down. Four days of sitting with the possibility that this wasn’t about incompatibility at all – that he’d mistaken hurt for finality, and never gave Zoro the chance to fix what he’d broken.
Kuina had been right that Zoro had followed his rules. That he’d flexed and bent just as much as Sanji had. Until that night, Sanji hadn’t come home once to anything out of order. Dishes were always put away. The bathroom, tidy. Even Zoro’s belongings stayed packed in his bags, tucked into the corner of Sanji’s bedroom. And Zoro’s obvious happiness at seeing him come home night after night – was one distracted moment enough to outweigh everything that came before?
Zoro admitted he was in the wrong. He admitted that he knew he hurt Sanji. He admitted that his actions deserved an apology, which he gave. He didn’t argue about being sent away, showing that he did respect Sanji.
Sanji looked at the scent ball he’d retrieved from under the couch, sitting alone on his coffee table. He thumbed a text.
Can you meet me at Hollowshade park in an hour?
He exhaled slowly when the reply came back.
I’ll be there.
Hollowshade Park sat between two quiet streets, a stretch of grass and trees close to Sanji’s neighborhood. The trees were old and close together, their branches blocking most of the late light and leaving the ground in uneven shade. The air smelled like damp soil and cut grass. A paved path ran through the park, worn smooth by foot traffic. Traffic noise dulled to a low background hum. A couple of humans crossed the path with dogs on leashes, and somewhere off to the side, a tennis ball hit the ground with a dull thud.
Sanji waited at a stone picnic table near the front of the park. The sun had warmed considerably, his sweater more than enough for the late fall air. He checked the time on his phone and tried not to let nerves bother him. He had nothing to be nervous about.
He heard a GPS voice behind him, stating that he’d arrived at his destination. He turned to find Zoro tucking his phone in his pocket, and his pulse fluttered a bit. Zoro wore a pair of fitted black trousers, a navy blue button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, no ears or tail in sight. He carried a bouquet with a high tissue paper wrap.
He looked nervous. A faint smile crossed his face, then disappeared. He wiped a hand on his trousers as he approached. “Hey,” he said. He thrust the bouquet at Sanji. “This is for you.”
Sanji accepted the bouquet, expecting flowers – roses, maybe. Or delphinium, his favorite.
It was a bouquet of cleaning supplies.
They’d been gathered and wrapped with care, bundled in brown paper and tied with twine like stems. A compact bottle of surface cleaner sat at the center, flanked by neatly folded microfiber cloths in muted colors. A fresh sponge and a small scrub brush peeked out at the edges.
Sanji’s chest squeezed. “This is... This is perfect.”
“Yeah?” Zoro’s smile bloomed and he sounded relieved. He took a seat across from Sanji. “I’d hoped you’d like it.”
Shit. Sanji swallowed and looked away, steadying himself.
Zoro leaned his forearms on the table. “Before you say anything, I wanted to apologize. Again. I was stupid, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Sanji already knew he was sorry, but he appreciated it anyway. “I won’t say it’s okay, because it wasn’t. But I understand you didn’t do it maliciously.”
“What can I do to make it up to you?” Zoro asked. “I’m not asking you to forget it. I just want the chance to do better next time.” He looked down at his hands. “And if that’s not something you want,” he added, quieter, “I’ll respect that, too.”
A breeze moved through the park, stirring the leaves overhead. Somewhere down the path, a dog barked once and then went quiet. Sanji adjusted the paper around the bouquet, the soft rustle loud in the quiet between them.
Sanji exhaled. “I don’t need perfection,” he said. “I need consideration. Communication. A text. A pause. Something that tells me you’re thinking about me, too.”
Zoro nodded. “I can do that.” He paused, then amended, “I can’t promise I won’t screw up again. But if I do, I’ll own it.” He looked up, expression open. Vulnerable. “You mean a lot to me. I want this to work.”
Sanji’s mouth curved, just barely. “You’re infuriating,” he said. “But I suppose you’re worth the effort, were-moss.”
Zoro let out a breath and his shoulders eased. “So are you, swirlybrows.”
Sanji huffed softly, shaking his head. He shifted the bouquet to one arm and reached into his crossbody bag with the other, fingers brushing past his wallet and phone before closing around something familiar. He hesitated for just a second, then set three tennis balls on the table between them.
Zoro blinked, surprise flickering across his face before he caught himself. His hand twitched, instinct flaring, then stilled.
“Well, come on. Be a good dog and start running.”
Zoro turned his hand over, giving him the middle finger. Then he took off running.
Sanji laughed, picked up the balls, and threw them as far as he could.
The park smelled like grass and late sunlight. A couple of kids rode their bikes down the path. Sanji’s smile lingered as Zoro looped toward him, grass on his shoes and joy written all over him.
He could live with this kind of chaos. Especially when it came back to him every time.
Zoro’s pack sprawled across Sanji’s sofa, took up space at the island counter, roughhoused on the rug. Painter's dropcloths covered every conceivable surface of the apartment and no one was allowed in the bedroom or beyond the counter in the kitchen. Sanji planned enough food for an army – or for a pack with Luffy leading it – and the smell of homemade pizzas, burgers, and brats lingered in the air. The TV blared some random movie. It was noisy, chaotic, yet contained.
Sanji smiled to himself in satisfaction as he pulled out trays of bacon-wrapped mini-dogs from the double oven. Zoro hovered at the edge of the no-zone, tail swishly lightly, as he waited to take the plated food from Sanji. Pack night happened once a month, pre-scheduled. Only Kuinia could stop by unannounced, though a text was still appreciated.
Zoro moved in officially about a month after they’d reconciled. Three bags, instead of two, contained all his worldly possessions, a chunk of which were some form of werewolf toy. There were also an array of colorful, tiny boyshorts that Sanji may or may not have gotten a nosebleed over while putting them away.
Zoro took the tray with care, tail giving a pleased flick as he turned and delivered it to the coffee table. Bonney whooped in appreciation. Ace sat on Luffy so the others could grab a bite. Sanji watched it all from the kitchen, hands on his hips, feeling absurdly content.
Later, when the food was gone and the movie forgotten in favor of half-wrestling, half-napping bodies, Sanji leaned against the counter and sipped his drink. Zoro drifted back to him, shoulder bumping lightly into his side. “Everything okay?” Zoro asked, quiet enough that only Sanji could hear.
Sanji glanced around the apartment. At the dropcloths. At the contained mess. At Kuina perched on the arm of the couch, feet up, drink balanced easily in one hand. At Luffy asleep on the rug, surrounded by empty plates.
“Yes,” Sanji said, without hesitation. “It is.”
Zoro’s smile was slow and warm. His tail swung in happy arcs.
When the night wound down and the pack filtered out – spring jackets grabbed, goodbyes noisy – Sanji peeled up the dropcloths and stacked them by the door. Zoro cleaned without being asked, moving in sync with him, wordless and attentive.
By the time the apartment was quiet again, it looked like itself. Counters shiny, throw pillows neatly arranged, werewolf toys in their basket by the bookcase. Sanji surveyed the space, then glanced at Zoro, who was already watching him with open affection and a barely restrained tail flick. “We make a good team.”
Zoro grinned. “The best.”
Sanji’s mouth curved. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go to bed. I’ve got a chew-shoe with your name on it.”
End