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The apartment building was one of those upscale places in the heart of the city—polished marble floors in the lobby, a doorman who actually smiled, and apartments that screamed 'I've got my shit together.' Zoro had snagged his third-floor unit two years ago, right after landing that high-paying gig as a personal trainer for some elite gym. At 204cm of pure, sculpted muscle, he turned heads everywhere he went, and he damn well knew it.
Green hair cropped short, a smirk that could melt steel, and an attitude that said he didn't give a fuck about anyone's opinion except his own. Life was good. Until that curly-browed cook moved in next door last week.
Sanji. The name alone made Zoro's jaw clench. 180cm of lean, wiry build, always dressed like he was heading to a fancy dinner party—tailored pants hugging his legs just right, shirts unbuttoned enough to tease without trying too hard.
26 years old, a professional chef who'd apparently ditched some ritzy restaurant gig to start his own thing. From day one, it had been fireworks.
Sanji took one look at Zoro hauling his weights up the stairs and sneered, calling him a 'moss-headed brute who probably bench-presses his brain cells for fun.' Zoro fired back, dubbing him 'Curly' or 'Twirly-brow,' mocking his cigarette habit and that perpetual sway in his hips like he owned the goddamn runway. Rivalry? Understatement. They were oil and fire, and Zoro wouldn't have it any other way.
Today, though, Zoro was minding his own business. Sprawled on his couch in nothing but loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips, he benched some weights when a sharp knock rattled his door.
He grunted, pausing his set midway, and padded over barefoot. Peering through the peephole, he saw that telltale blond hair and a scowl that could curdle milk. Sanji. What the hell did the cook want now?
Zoro yanked the door open, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his broad chest, every ridge of his abs on casual display. 'Well, if it isn't the king of the kitchen. Lose your way to the stove, Curly?'
Sanji stood there in fitted black slacks that clung to his thighs and a crisp white button-up rolled to his elbows, sleeves straining against his forearms.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling up lazily, but his blue eye—the visible one—narrowed in clear irritation. He flicked the butt away, grinding it under his heel with more force than necessary.
'Don't flatter yourself, mosshead. I'm not here for your sparkling personality. The elevator's busted—again—and I've got a fridge delivery downstairs that needs to hit my apartment. Now. Before the damn thing starts sweating in this heat.'
Zoro's smirk widened, his dark eyes raking over Sanji from head to toe. The cook looked pissed, cheeks faintly flushed from the summer humidity or maybe just the annoyance of standing there.
'Fridge, huh? What, your old one couldn't handle your gourmet bullshit? Let me guess—it's got a built-in wine chiller for all that swill you call cooking.'
Sanji's visible eye twitched, and he jammed his hands into his pockets, posture stiffening.
'Oh, ha ha, real original, brute. At least I know how to season something without charring it to hell. Unlike you, who probably eats protein shakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But fine, mock away. I wouldn't be here if I had another choice.
The delivery guys bailed—said the stairs are a hazard or some crap. So, unless you want me cursing your name every time I grab a beer from the lobby store, how about you put those useless muscles to work and help me haul it up?'
Zoro chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. He pushed off the doorframe, towering over Sanji by a good head and shoulders, close enough to catch the faint scent of tobacco and something spicier—cologne, maybe, or just the cook's natural edge.
'Useless? These 'useless muscles' could bench you and your fancy pots without breaking a sweat. But why should I? What's in it for me, Twirly? A home-cooked meal from the great Sanji? Bet it'd be all veggies and no flavor.'
Sanji stepped closer, not backing down an inch, his chin tilting up defiantly. Up close, Zoro could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his lips pursed in that infuriating pout.
'In your dreams, idiot. I'd sooner poison you than feed you. Look, the thing's not light—it's a full-size model, stainless steel, the works. I need it up three flights before the ice cream in my freezer downstairs melts into a puddle. You gonna stand there gawking like a caveman, or are you actually good for something besides flexing in mirrors?'
The challenge hung in the air, thick and electric. Zoro's gaze lingered a beat too long on Sanji's mouth before flicking back to his eye. 'Gawking? Nah, just wondering how a pretty boy like you ended up in a dump like this without a entourage of swooning fans to carry your shit. Fine. I'll help. But you owe me, cook. And don't think I'll let you forget it.'
Sanji rolled his eye, muttering under his breath about 'arrogant swordsmen-wannabes,' but he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, expecting Zoro to follow.
Zoro grabbed a tank top from the couch—black, tight enough to show off his traps—and tugged it on, though it did little to hide the V of his hips or the bulge of his biceps. He locked his door and caught up in two strides, the height difference making Sanji look almost delicate by comparison. Not that Zoro would say that out loud. Yet.
Down in the lobby, the fridge loomed like a silver beast on a dolly, straps holding it steady against the wall. The delivery slip was crumpled on top, and Sanji was already unhooking the wheels, his back to Zoro as he bent slightly to adjust the base. Zoro's eyes dropped immediately, zeroing in on the way those slacks stretched taut over Sanji's ass—firm, rounded, the fabric pulling just enough to hint at the muscle beneath.
Fuck. Zoro felt a stir in his sweatpants, heat pooling low as he imagined gripping those cheeks, spreading them wide while Sanji gasped and cursed his name.
He shook it off—or tried to—grabbing the opposite end of the dolly with one hand like it weighed nothing. 'You take the front, princess. Wouldn't want you straining that delicate chef's back.'
Sanji shot him a glare over his shoulder, straightening up with a huff. 'Delicate? I'll show you delicate when I kick your ass later. Just don't drop it, mosshead, or you'll be buying me a new one.' He gripped the handles, muscles flexing under his sleeves, and they started up the first flight.
The stairs were wide but steep, the building's old bones creaking under their steps. Sanji led, his legs pumping steadily, ass flexing with each rise—left cheek, right cheek, the rhythm hypnotic.
Zoro followed a step behind, his view unobstructed, and his mind went straight to the gutter.
Shit, look at that. Bet it's even tighter up close. Wonder if he'd arch just right if I pinned him against the wall, yanked those pants down, and shoved my cock in deep. Hear him whine like the brat he is, begging for more even as he calls me every name in the book. The thought made Zoro's grip tighten, his cock twitching against the soft fabric of his sweats. He shifted his weight, hoping the cook wouldn't notice.
Halfway up the first flight, Sanji paused to catch his breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. 'Damn thing's heavier than it looks. You slacking back there, brute?'
Zoro grinned, though Sanji couldn't see it. 'Nah, just enjoying the view. Your ass does better work than your mouth sometimes.' The words slipped out cockier than intended, laced with heat he didn't bother hiding.
Sanji nearly stumbled, twisting to glare back. His face was flushed now, a mix of exertion and something sharper. 'What the hell did you just say? Keep your eyes on the fridge, pervert, not my—'
'Your what? Go on, say it.' Zoro's voice dropped, teasing, as they resumed climbing. Yeah, say it. Ass. The one I want to bury my face in, lick until you're dripping, then fuck until you can't walk straight.
Sanji muttered curses in French—Zoro caught 'connard' and smirked wider—but pushed on, his pace quickening like he was trying to outrun the tension crackling between them.
The second flight was worse; sweat beaded on Sanji's neck, trickling down to soak his collar, and Zoro's thoughts spiraled dirtier. Gonna mark that skin, bite down while I pound into him. Make him clench around me, milk every drop. His arms burned from the weight—not the fridge, but the effort to keep his hands steady when all he wanted was to reach forward, grab a handful of that ass, and pull Sanji back against his growing hard-on.
By the time they hit the third-floor landing, both were breathing hard, the air thick with unspoken barbs. Sanji fumbled for his keys, fridge teetering slightly until Zoro steadied it with a casual flex.
'Easy there, cook. Don't want your precious appliance taking a tumble because you're flustered.'
'Flustered? Dream on.' Sanji unlocked his door, kicking it open to reveal a sleek apartment—modern kitchen gleaming, counters spotless, the scent of herbs lingering. He backed in, guiding the fridge toward the allocated spot by the wall.
Zoro maneuvered from behind, eyes still locked on that ass as Sanji bent to position it, pants riding low enough to show a sliver of pale skin above his waistband.
Fuck yes. Right there. Bend over more, let me see. Zoro's cock was half-hard now, straining uncomfortably, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stay focused. They slid the fridge into place with a thud, and Sanji straightened, turning with hands on his hips, chest heaving.
Zoro's lean against the fridge door felt like a challenge, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway, casting a shadow over Sanji's pristine kitchen.
The air hummed with the leftover strain of hauling the damn thing up three flights, but Zoro's mind was far from the exertion. His cock throbbed insistently in his sweatpants, the fabric tented just enough to betray his filthy thoughts.
Sanji stood there, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, that flush still high on his cheeks. 'What do I own you,bastard?.'
Zoro's smirk deepened, slow and predatory. 'Yeah, about that. I don't want your cash, cook. Got plenty of my own.'
Sanji's visible eye narrowed, suspicion sharpening his features as he crossed his arms over his chest, the movement pulling his shirt tighter across his lean torso. 'Then what? Spit it out, mosshead. I don't have all day to play guessing games with a meathead like you.'
Zoro pushed off the fridge, straightening to his full height, towering over Sanji like a wall of muscle and intent.
He didn't answer with words at first. Instead, he let his hands drop to his hips, fingers splaying wide before sliding inward in a deliberate motion—palms cupping imaginary curves, thumbs hooking like they were tugging at waistbands. Then his hips rolled forward, a slow, explicit thrust of his pelvis that mimicked exactly what he craved: gripping Sanji's ass, pulling him back, and driving deep. The gesture hung in the air, unmistakable, loaded with promise and heat.
Sanji's face went from suspicious to outright scandalized in a heartbeat, his mouth dropping open before snapping shut.
He took a step back, bumping into the counter, blue eye wide with a mix of shock and fury. 'Absolutely not, you perverted bastard! What the hell is wrong with you? I ask for help with a fridge, not to bend over for some cocky brute who thinks his muscles buy him a free pass to my ass. Get the fuck out of my apartment—now!'
Zoro didn't budge. If anything, he stepped closer, invading Sanji's space until the cook had to tilt his head back to glare up at him.
The scent of sweat and that faint spice clung to Zoro, mixing with the clean, herby air of Sanji's place.
'Come on, Curly. You felt it on the stairs—the way you were pushing that ass out like you knew I was watching. Don't play innocent. We've been dancing around this shit since you moved in. All that sniping, the glares... it's just foreplay. Admit it, you want it. Want me to shut that smart mouth of yours with something thick and hard.'
Sanji's breath hitched, his hands balling into fists at his sides, but he didn't shove Zoro away. Not yet. His eye darted to the side, then back, lips parting on a sharp exhale.
'In your dreams, idiot. I'm not some easy lay for a moss-headed gym rat. Go flex in front of your mirror or whatever you do. This—us—it's rivalry, not... whatever the hell you're imagining.'
Zoro's hand shot out, not grabbing, but bracing against the fridge door beside Sanji's head, caging him in without touching. Up close, Sanji's heat radiated, his body tense but not retreating. Zoro leaned down, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur that vibrated between them.
'Rivalry? Bullshit. I saw how you flushed when I called you out on the stairs. Your pants were tight enough to show every twitch. Bet you're half-hard right now, thinking about it. Let me prove it. One taste, cook. Let me make you feel good. No strings, just you screaming my name while I fuck you senseless.'
The words hung heavy, Zoro's dark eyes locked on Sanji's, watching the internal war play out—the defiance cracking under the weight of curiosity, of that electric pull they'd both ignored for too long. Sanji's jaw clenched, his visible eye flickering with heat he couldn't quite hide.
'You're insane. Pushy, arrogant fuck.' But his body betrayed him, leaning in just a fraction, close enough for Zoro to feel the tremor in his frame.
Zoro seized the opening, closing the gap to crash his mouth against Sanji's.
The kiss was rough from the start—no gentle exploration, just Zoro's lips demanding, tongue shoving past Sanji's defenses to claim every inch. Sanji stiffened, a muffled protest vibrating against Zoro's mouth, but then his hands fisted in Zoro's tank top, pulling instead of pushing. Zoro growled into the kiss, free hand sliding to Sanji's waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his slacks as he spun them both.
Sanji's back hit the fridge door with a thud, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat building between them.
Sanji gasped into Zoro's mouth, the sound swallowed by the deepening kiss—tongues sliding wet and urgent, teeth nipping at lips until they both tasted the faint copper of bitten skin.
Zoro pressed his body flush, grinding his hips forward so his hard cock rubbed insistently against Sanji's thigh through the layers of cloth. 'Fuck, yeah,' Zoro muttered against Sanji's lips, breaking for air only to dive back in, sucking on that full lower lip until it swelled red.
Sanji's resistance melted under the assault, his own hips bucking once, twice, chasing the friction. But Zoro wanted more.
He spun Sanji around with a firm grip on his hips, pressing the cook face-first against the fridge. Sanji's palms slapped the stainless steel for balance, a curse spilling out—'Bastard, what the—'—cut off by Zoro's weight pinning him there. Zoro's cock slotted perfectly against the cleft of Sanji's ass, separated only by sweatpants and slacks, and he rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate grind.
The friction sent sparks up Zoro's spine, his length throbbing as he rutted against that firm curve, imagining how it'd feel bare and clenching around him.
'Feel that?' Zoro rasped, breath hot on Sanji's neck as he mouthed at the skin there, sucking a mark just below the ear. 'That's what you do to me, cook. Been hard as fuck staring at this ass the whole way up.' He ground harder, the head of his cock nudging insistently, pre-cum soaking through his sweats to dampen Sanji's pants.
Sanji whimpered—actual fucking whimpered—his body arching back into the pressure, ass pushing against Zoro's hardness like an invitation.
'Zoro... shit,' Sanji panted, head dropping forward against the fridge, blond hair falling into his eyes. His cock strained against his slacks, the outline clear as he rocked back, chasing the tease.
Zoro's hands roamed, one sliding up Sanji's shirt to palm the smooth planes of his back, the other popping the button on those slacks. 'Where’s your bedroom cook?Unless you want me to fuck you right here against your precious new fridge.' He nipped at Sanji's earlobe, tugging with his teeth.
Sanji shivered, shoving back one last time before twisting away, face flushed and lips bruised. 'Not... not here. Bed.' He led the way, stumbling slightly as he kicked off his shoes, Zoro hot on his heels, shedding his tank top in the hallway to reveal the full glory of his chiseled torso—pecs heaving, abs rippling with every step.
Sanji's bedroom was tidy, the bed freshly made with crisp white sheets and a navy comforter, pillows fluffed like the cook had OCD about his space. Zoro didn't give a damn about the aesthetics.
He grabbed Sanji by the waistband as they crossed the threshold, yanking the slacks down in one rough pull, boxers following. Sanji's ass came into view—pale, toned from whatever chef workouts he did, cheeks firm and begging to be spread. Zoro groaned low, shoving Sanji forward onto the bed face-down, ass up.
'On your knees, Curly. Let me see it.' Zoro stripped his sweatpants off, cock springing free—heavy, thick, veined, and yeah, shaved smooth at the base for that clean, intense slide. Nine inches of girth that made Sanji twist his head to look, eyes widening.
'Fuck, that's... huge,' Sanji breathed, a mix of awe and nerves in his voice as he scrambled to his knees, sheets bunching under his grip.
Zoro climbed onto the bed behind him, hands spreading those cheeks wide. Sanji's hole winked pink and tight, untouched and clenching under the exposure. Zoro dove in without preamble, tongue flat and wet as he licked a broad stripe from balls to rim.
Sanji jolted, a sharp moan ripping from his throat—'Ah, shit, Zoro!'—as Zoro's mouth worked him over. He lapped at the puckered entrance, circling the rim before pushing the tip of his tongue inside, fucking shallow and insistent. Saliva dripped down, slicking the skin as Zoro ate him out like a starving man, nose buried in the crease, humming vibrations against the sensitive flesh.
Sanji's moans filled the room, high and broken, his cock leaking onto the sheets below as he rocked back onto Zoro's face. 'God, yes... more,' he gasped, fingers twisting in the comforter, body trembling.
Zoro pulled back just enough to spit directly onto the hole, watching it clench and drip. He worked one thick finger in next, the spit easing the way as he crooked it, searching for that spot. Sanji arched, crying out when Zoro found it, prostate massaging under relentless pressure.
A second finger joined, scissoring wide, stretching him open with wet, squelching sounds. 'Disgusting... your spit, fuck,' Sanji whined, but his hips pushed back greedily, chasing the burn, the fullness.
'Disgusting? You're soaking it up like a slut,' Zoro growled, adding a third finger, twisting until Sanji was a mess of moans and sweat. He finger-fucked him hard, palm slapping against ass with each thrust, until Sanji's hole gaped slightly, slick and ready.
Zoro withdrew his fingers, lining up his cock instead. The head nudged Sanji's rim, teasing—pressing in just the tip before pulling back, smearing pre-cum and spit around the edge. Sanji whined, pushing back, but Zoro held his hips still. 'Beg for it, cook. Tell me you want this fat cock slamming your ass.'
Sanji buried his face in the pillow, hating every second of the vulnerability, but the ache was too much. 'Please... Zoro, fuck me. Need it—your cock, deep. Please.'
The words broke something in Zoro. He slammed in with one brutal thrust, bottoming out in a rush of heat and tightness.
Sanji screamed, the sound raw and pleasured, walls clenching like a vice around Zoro's length. Zoro didn't hold back—hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm, balls slapping against Sanji's with every drive.
The bed creaked under them, sheets tangling as Zoro fucked him hard, one hand fisting blond hair to arch Sanji's back, the other gripping a hip hard enough to bruise.
'Take it—fuck, so tight,' Zoro grunted, pounding deep, the angle hitting Sanji's prostate on every stroke. Sanji moaned nonstop, cock bouncing untouched, pre-cum stringing to the bed. Sweat slicked their skin, Zoro's muscles flexing as he railed into him, the room echoing with flesh on flesh.
Just as Sanji tensed, breath hitching on the edge—'Zoro, close, gonna—'—Zoro pulled out entirely, the slick pop leaving Sanji empty and keening. Zoro gripped his base, teasing the flushed cockhead against that fluttering hole, circling the rim without entering, letting the wetness smear.
'Beg like the whore you are,' Zoro demanded, voice rough, holding Sanji's hips immobile. 'Tell me how bad you need it, or I walk.'
Sanji thrashed, hating the humiliation burning through him, but the emptiness won. 'Fuck—please, Zoro! Shove it back in, make me cum. I'm your slut, just fuck me—hard, please!' Tears pricked his eyes, body shaking, but the words spilled desperate and true.Sanji couldn’t believe himself he just said that.
Zoro grinned ferally, slamming home again. He fucked Sanji through his orgasm—cock pulsing, cum splattering the sheets as walls milked Zoro relentlessly. Zoro chased his own release, thrusts erratic until he buried deep, flooding Sanji's ass with hot spurts, groaning low as he filled him up.
They collapsed in a tangle, Zoro pulling out with a wet slide, cum leaking from Sanji's hole. He rolled them over, tugging Sanji against his chest—dominant even in aftercare, arm banded around the smaller man's waist. Sanji panted, boneless, but reached for the nightstand, grabbing a cigarette and lighter with trembling hands. He lit up, inhaling deep, the smoke curling lazy as he exhaled against Zoro's skin.
Zoro nuzzled his neck, content. 'Told you it'd be worth it, Curly.' Sanji just hummed, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, the rivalry softened—for now—into something warmer, stickier.