Archive of Our Own

Sanji hated few things more than feeling out of control.

Control, without a doubt, was one of the qualities that defined him as a person. As a man. Always thinking before acting, never caught off guard by the consequences of an unexpected impulse.

He made sure to always have an escape route ready. To think of a plan B while already spotting the holes in the original.

He rarely let himself go. Sometimes, it happened with the perfect scent of Nami’s perfume, making his heart spasm and sparking the irresistible urge to shout his love to the whole world. Or with the discreet little wink Robin gave him after he fixed her a snack while she was lost in her books. Simple gestures that made his head spin with affection, leaving him dizzy, lovesick.

Those harmless actions had never been a source of shame. He never tried to bury them inside himself.

Having feelings—being no damned monster—was without a doubt what he loved most about himself.

Because he loved. And love was never something to be ashamed of.

He learned that the hard way, so to speak.

The first person he ever loved was his mother. The kindness in her words, the infinite warmth of her hand patting his head… nothing made him happier than that.

He also loved his sister, her discreet care, her undeniable maturity.

He loved food. He loved Zeff—his father, his savior, his teacher in the kitchen and in life. The man who taught him principles, values, and how to dream.

To believe in himself, in his impossible dream.

To be a man. A gentleman.

So yes, Sanji loved. And he had no problem admitting it.

Even if it was easier to say when it came to his beloved girls, it didn’t mean he didn’t love the others. He also loved his captain, Usopp’s nonsense, Brook’s melodies, Chopper’s care, and Franky’s dedication to the Sunny.

God, he loved the Sunny. His home, his ship. The place where he shared life with the most important people in his world.

He could cry just thinking about it, about how overwhelming those feelings of deep affection for everything around him could become.

At banquets after battles, when everyone was overflowing with joy and relief, showering him with compliments for the meals he had prepared, it drowned him completely.

But he couldn’t overflow with love all the time. So he let those feelings pour into the dishes he made.

After a great battle—like the one that freed Wano—they deserved the best of the best.

Every single one of them.

Even that idiot who had been ignoring him almost the entire damned night.

“And Zoro?” Chopper asked.

Nami shrugged. “Probably already annoyed by the noise.”

Everyone went back to their own thing.

Sanji bit his lip.

He held on to the hope—ridiculous as it was—that for once they’d talk. That they would sit down, like the adults they were, and finally discuss the whole damned mess they had been dragging along for… years, practically.

Where to even start?

Getting along badly with Zoro had been easy, automatic. The idiot had that untamed tongue that sought him out from the start, even when Sanji hadn’t done a thing to him.

Sanji assumed Zoro just hated him for the hell of it. Because the idiot wasn’t a fan of his chivalry and basic neatness. And well, he hadn’t done much to improve their coexistence either, to be honest.

He let himself get carried away by that attitude.

By that natural competitiveness that drove them both to live at each other’s throat, always ready to strike with the next creative insult that would hit a nerve.

And it was, without a doubt, fucking fun.

He loved pissing him off. He loved how it made him want to become stronger. How the simple thought of falling even a little behind him was frustrating enough to never, ever give up.

He would never give him that satisfaction.

Being by his side, being able to take his blows without fear of ending up broken, was absurdly intimate.

No one else could mock him that way with the same rawness he did.

No one else could take a direct hit and throw it back like nothing.

No one else would ever see that expression of pure frustration—vein throbbing on his forehead, hands trembling with rage.

Because Zoro would never react like that to Nami or Luffy.

Because Zoro would never strike Chopper or Usopp, no matter how much they teased him or laughed in his face.

Because Brook wasn’t a swordsman who could match him.

Only Sanji had the honor of receiving a real attack the moment the words “stupid marimo” left his mouth.

And wasn’t that fucking gratifying?

To press his forehead against that big, strong bastard’s, without a hint of fear, fueled only by the thrill of driving him mad and ruining his day.

To shove him, knowing he wouldn’t fall.

To take one back and stay on his feet.

To repeat it until they both ended up on the ground.

In the end, that’s exactly what happened.

Sanji bites his tongue every time he remembers it. The way it all started.

Thriller Bark was a disaster from beginning to end. A premonition of how weak they still were. How unprepared they were for the New World and the way it would eat them alive.

Moria had beaten them senseless, and only their captain had been able to save them, pushing himself to the edge. And then, when he was already in no state to keep fighting, someone even more terrifying appeared before them.

Sanji was ready to say fuck it all. He’d always been clear about that. If he was shaking in that moment, it was from the wounds, not from fear.

He would give himself up, die, or fall into the hands of his damned family—it didn’t matter. But he wouldn’t let them touch his captain or his crew.

Zoro, of course, disagreed.

He didn’t let him take his share.

He didn’t let him stand by his side.

He carried all that pain alone.

Sanji remembers clearly the way his face crumpled as he collapsed. The way he grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, his hand sliding down his arm in a desperate attempt to stay upright before losing consciousness.

And when Sanji woke up without seeing him anywhere—only his swords scattered on the ground beside him—he feared the worst.

Finding him wrapped in an absurd amount of bandages while everyone else celebrated victory was frustrating as hell.

Keeping the secret was the obvious choice.

When Zoro finally woke, the first thing he did was grab a whole bottle of sake and drain it like nothing. Then he staggered off for a walk, without a single word of explanation about his condition. Sanji felt his blood boil; he would’ve strangled him right then if the bastard hadn’t already been full of wounds.

For hours he avoided him, packing the rage into every drag of his cigarette. The helplessness burned in his chest. The crew was celebrating, the captain resting, and that damn swordsman acted like he hadn’t carried a fucking hell on his shoulders. As if nothing had happened.

When they were finally left alone on deck, the silence was unbearable. Sanji watched him from the corner of his eye, jaw clenched, searching for words that never came. Zoro leaned against the railing with that indifferent air that made him want to scream.

Sanji got closer than he should have. Brushed his shoulder against his, pretending it was an accident. Zoro didn’t even react. That lack of response drove him insane. He wanted to shove him, yell at him, shake him until he understood he couldn’t carry it all alone.

Instead, he grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward in a clumsy, desperate impulse, and kissed him. Without thinking, without care, with raw anger tangled in fear. A rough clash of teeth, a mistake he cursed himself for the instant he made it.

Zoro’s response was the worst thing that could have happened.

Because he kissed him back.

He wrapped an arm around his waist with enough strength to knock the air out of him, kissed him with the same anger, shoved him against the wooden deck. And he didn’t protest when Sanji’s hands clumsily slid over the bandages, searching for skin, heat, life.

Sanji squeezed his eyes shut, desperate. He wanted proof.

That he was still breathing.

That he hadn’t disappeared.

That he hadn’t lost him.

The heartbeat beneath his fingers was enough to drive him deeper.

That’s how their stupidity began.

Every few nights, after something especially exasperating, they sought each other out. It didn’t matter how or where. And who took and who yielded was decided by a stupid coin Sanji always carried with him.

Just in case.

During the two years apart, Sanji convinced himself he’d left it behind. That whatever it was, it had died. That they would never repeat it. They weren’t those young, desperate idiots chasing each other into every corner anymore. He didn’t need those tense arms holding him when things became unbearable. He didn’t want to keep being the only one allowed to scratch up the swordsman’s back, to mark him until he growled, to leave him limping for days. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need it.

Of course, he failed the moment he saw him again.

And he kept failing. Again and again.

For a while, he convinced himself it wasn’t that bad.

That maybe that clandestine routine, those stolen nights, and that coin tossed into the air were enough.

That it was fine like that.

That, with some luck, it might turn into something more.

Something real.

Then, his family showed up.

Running into Zoro again after all of that was terrifying.

But he managed to hide it.

Or at least he tried to convince himself he did.

He clung to the same mask as always—condescending, mocking, throwing insults from the very first second, as if nothing had changed. As if the tension and nerves weren’t tearing him apart inside.

It worked… at first. When he bandaged him up, he even managed to keep the urge in check, to stop his fingers from lingering too long on that skin. He faked control, faked not recognizing the scars he knew by heart.

Later, they fought back-to-back again, covering each other as always, falling into that perfect rhythm that had kept them alive a thousand times. As if there were no cracks, as if they were invincible.

Then, he asked him to kill him if he ever lost himself.

Tiny details, almost anecdotal.

Maybe it made sense that the swordsman didn’t even want to look him in the eye. They’d spent nearly three damn years in a limbo that never broke. Three years of choked words, of whispers that never dared to end, of half-confessions that evaporated before they became real.

Usually because the swordsman always pulled away the moment he opened his mouth.

So why the hell did he think that would change?

Why the fuck did he believe, even for a second, that Zoro would want to look him in the eye after everything they’d done… and everything they hadn’t?

The logical thing would be to let him go. To finally count him as lost.

To leave him the fuck alone.

But before he could think twice, he was already searching for him in the streets.

Because Zoro was the only one capable of ripping the control out of his hands in the most ridiculous way possible.

Because only for him could he end up wandering under the rain, cigarette soaked and clinging to his lips, instead of staying at the party, flirting with those gorgeous girls in their adorable kimonos.

“Fuck, it’s freezing.”

The streets were deserted, as if the whole city had swallowed its people to leave them only with the echo of the banquet in the distance and the steady pounding of the rain against the stones. Sanji’s suit was already a cold weight stuck to his skin, freezing him to the bone. His hair dripping into his eyes, his fingers numb around the dead cigarette.

It didn’t take long to find him.

He only had to follow the direction in which that broad silhouette had disappeared, so damn recognizable among thousands.

Zoro was there. Back turned, under a miserable eave that barely shielded him from the downpour. His swords rested against the wall, and he, with his arms crossed, seemed immune to the water running down his shoulders and soaking his yukata.

“What the hell are you doing out here, you dumb marimo?” he spat, though his voice came out rougher than he would’ve liked.

Zoro lifted his gaze just slightly, surprised. His single dark, piercing eye caught him instantly. The water streamed down his face, running thick from his brows to his jaw, clinging to the long lashes that Sanji—unfortunately for him—had always found fucking pretty.

The soaked yukata clung to his torso, showing off every defined line of muscle, the hard outline of his chest, the relief of his abdomen tightening with each slow breath. Droplets traced erratic paths down that tense skin, disappearing beneath the dark fabric that wrapped him like a second skin. Sliding under his pecs.

Sanji clenched his jaw, trying to keep his mind from wandering.

Zoro stayed there, motionless, as if the storm couldn’t touch him.

Indifferent. Untouchable.

That silence pissed him off more than anything else.

Sanji stepped closer, one step after another, until only a few centimeters separated them. The heat radiating from the swordsman was almost insulting compared to the cold rain. As if he alone chose the temperature of his body, nothing more. The smell of sake still lingered on his breath, dizzying, intoxicating.

“What’s wrong with you? You gonna keep up this damn silent treatment?” Sanji’s voice came out hoarse, vibrating loud enough to be heard over the storm. Water slid down his forehead, dripping into his parted lips, leaving his skin frozen wherever it touched.

Zoro held his gaze, unshaken, as if the words were just more raindrops rolling off without leaving a mark.

“You think you’re the only one fucked up here?” Sanji stepped closer again, mud splattering his shoes. “You think you haven’t been a piece of shit too?”

The downpour battered the rooftops with fury, and for one endless second it was the only sound between them.

“You really think I play innocent?” Zoro finally growled, voice low, dragged out. “I never said it wasn’t my fault too.”

Sanji let out a broken, bitter laugh that scraped his throat. “Then why the fuck don’t you say anything? Why do you just stand there, looking at me like I’m the only one who fucked it all up?”

“Because opening my mouth with you always ends the same.” Zoro stepped forward. Water streamed from his chin, sliding down those long lashes that trembled under the weight of every drop.

Stop paying attention to that, idiot, he scolded himself, tearing his gaze away.

“The same? You call this the same?” Sanji snapped. “You’d rather watch me smash my fucking head against your silence?”

He shoved him with an open palm to the chest. The push didn’t move him much, but it was enough to feel the drenched fabric plastered brutally against hard, hot skin, against the furious heartbeat that betrayed him beneath his fingers.

Zoro didn’t budge an inch. He only tilted his head until his forehead brushed against Sanji’s. Water ran between them, slipping into the corners of their mouths, trickling away across their cheeks.

Each breath mingled with the damp air.

“Stop talking, Curly…” he murmured, voice so low it almost drowned in the noise.

“Not a fucking chance, you moss-headed bastard.” Sanji gritted his teeth, though his voice sounded more frustrated than truly angry. “I’ve tried talking to you a thousand times. Damn it, I’ve been trying for years! But you always run, you always find a way to escape. And now I’m the only one to blame? How the fuck was I supposed to explain about my family if you never let me get a word out?”

The rain whipped their shoulders like icy lashes, contrasting with the heat rising in his head from the anger he felt. From the barely-there touch of Zoro’s forehead against his own.

Comforting. Infuriating at the same time.

“You ignored me the whole damn night…” he finally blurted after a long silence. His voice came out low, barely a whisper, and he hated himself for how pathetic and defeated it sounded.

He hated feeling like that. And it only pissed him off more. Because he shouldn’t be ashamed of feeling. He shouldn’t be ashamed of needing, of being human. But for some fucked-up reason, he was. Every word that slipped out of his mouth dragged him into pure, genuine humiliation. Every uncontrolled flicker of his gaze toward the swordsman’s body, toward those full, wet lips, was another lash.

He hated wanting him.

He hated thinking about everything that meant.

Zoro parted his lips as if to answer, but stayed silent. He only looked at him with that stupid expression he always wore when he ran out of words, his gaze dropping toward the ground, clumsy, almost shy.

Who the fuck gave him the right to look like that? To show vulnerability right now, when Sanji hated him for never saying anything, when all he needed was a reason to keep yelling?

Rage tangled with unbearable ache in his chest.

God… he’d missed him so much.

Sanji felt something inside him snap. A brutal spark, the kind that belonged to some lovesick teenager, shot through his chest like he’d been waiting for this moment all along. Before he could think, he had shoved him against the wet wall. The impact echoed dull, soaked through.

He stared at him head-on. At the droplets running down his face, the damp strands of hair falling in messy, infuriatingly attractive lines. Unbearable.

He couldn’t tell if what burned through him was rage or desire. Maybe both at once.

For an instant, he thought about stepping back, giving himself space. But then Zoro tilted his head just slightly, as if inviting him in, provoking him. A look that tried for indifference, even mockery, but only managed to twist Sanji’s gut with tenderness.

That was the end of whatever control Sanji had left.

When their mouths met, there was no room for anything else. It was hunger, all the sadness and fury spilling into a kiss that hurt. Zoro grabbed his waist with such force it stole the air from his lungs, like he always did, answering with a ferocity he saved only for him.

With that brutal grip no one else could take but him.

The rain turned into background noise, distant, as teeth clashed, breaths tangled, and the taste of sake, water, and tobacco fused them into one. Sanji loved that shameless tongue, the way it tangled with his, only to falter into clumsy movements the second he answered. He was addicted to it. He had those rhythms memorized on his skin.

He shoved Zoro harder into the wall, hands digging into soaked bandages, desperate to feel, to prove he was still alive, still there.

A stupid habit he’d never managed to break.

“Still just as desperate…” Zoro growled against his mouth, refusing to pull away.

Sanji let out a low, fake laugh, sparked by the same fire only Zoro could light in him. With the hand still gripping him, he pulled a coin from his pocket, gleaming under the streetlamp like it was mocking the storm. He held it up between them, lips still brushing against his.

“You know the rules, marimo. Heads or tails.”

Zoro’s gaze locked on him, muscles taut.

“Heads.”

“Then I’m tails.”

The coin spun, flashing in the wet air, and landed in Sanji’s palm.

But Zoro didn’t look. He just let his head fall back against the wall with a rough sigh, catching Sanji’s wrist and shoving it down. The metal slipped from his fingers and disappeared into a puddle before either of them saw the outcome.

“I lost.” His voice was a low, gravelly growl, barely restrained, with a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Do whatever you want.”

Sanji’s heart stopped for a second before exploding like a goddamn thunderclap. He could’ve sworn the sky split open above them, light pouring down out of nowhere. Maybe he’d died and this was just some cruelly vivid dream.

But not even in his best dreams would this ever happen.

Zoro was choosing to lose, handing him the control.

Wanting to be taken.

It drove him insane.

“God…” Sanji barely managed to breathe, chest blazing like the air itself was fire.

He devoured him again, reckless, desperate, like he was trying to rip life straight from his lips. Zoro, pressed against the wall, didn’t resist—he let himself be consumed, fingers digging into Sanji’s waist, letting the blond set the rhythm like never before.

Sanji’s hands roamed over the wet fabric of the yukata, clinging in ways it had no right to make him look so fucking tempting. Without thinking, he yanked it down, baring Zoro’s shoulders. His gaze slid over the sharp line of his collarbone, trailing lower over the defined chest.

He buried his face there, into that unbearable heat, licking the salt from wet skin like he could drink from it. His lips drifted lower, teasing a nipple with a flick of tongue, a cruel little provocation. He bit down lightly, savoring the subtle twitch of Zoro’s muscles beneath his mouth, the hiss of breath escaping between his teeth.

He knew this body by heart, knew how to dismantle him—and yet Sanji was the one losing himself.

“Idiot…” he gasped, voice broken and starving. “You know exactly what you do to me.”

Zoro let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated against Sanji’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t fight. He just let himself be pressed harder into the wall until the stone scraped his back. He leaned his forehead against Sanji’s, trapping him with that burning, dark eye.

“And what if I do, huh?” he rasped, half-surrender, half-provocation. “What are you gonna do about it, curly?”

Sanji clenched his teeth, reaching for an insult, but all that slipped out was a needy moan. His mouth crashed down on Zoro’s neck, biting, sucking desperately until angry red marks bloomed, impossible to hide.

He rarely let himself go that far. It was dangerous, reckless, knowing how shameless Zoro could be, strutting shirtless across the ship with his body covered in fresh marks.

But right now? He couldn’t care less if the whole damn world found out.

They were already out in the street—anyone could stumble from the banquet and see.

Fuck it.

The swordsman arched his back, a ragged moan tearing out of him, mixing with Sanji’s guttural growl. The sound lit him up even more, like gasoline on fire. His hands clamped onto Zoro’s hips, yanking him brutally forward. The impact jolted them both, heat slamming against heat in the cold rain. Desire pressed sharp and unbearable between them, growing harder with every clash of their bodies.

Zoro choked on a moan, his breath hot and uneven in Sanji’s ear. “More…” he hissed, grinding his hips into his, provoking him to the edge of madness.

And it was working.

“Shit, Zoro…” Sanji squeezed his eyes shut, breath shattered. “Why the hell do you always do this to me? Why do you always leave me a fucking wreck?”

Zoro didn’t answer with words. He grabbed the back of Sanji’s neck and dragged him into a feral kiss, so fierce it nearly stole the air from his lungs.

Sanji didn’t wait for a reply. He fought back with tongue and teeth until his throat burned for air. His hands slid down over wet skin, skimming his abs as he yanked the yukata farther open in a clumsy, furious pull. Rainwater ran over his fingers, but it didn’t matter—Zoro was burning under his touch.

Keeping him hot. Keeping him alive.

“Damn you…” he groaned against Zoro’s collarbone, biting down hard, sucking until he ripped a sound from him that was almost a whimper. “I hated you… you have no idea how much I hated you for making me need you this bad.”

Zoro’s breath stuttered; his heart racing too fast to be safe. “And you think I didn’t…?” His words broke off when Sanji ground into him, hardness against hardness, the brutal friction tearing a strangled sound from his throat. Pain and pleasure blurred together, his stomach tightening with humiliating need. “Tsk… bastard…”

The pressure was unbearable, sticky, obscene, clothes clinging to every ridge and strain. Every grind made wet, filthy sounds between them. Sanji held him in place—one hand fisted in his hair, the other locked on his hip—forcing him to move with him.

“Say it,” Sanji demanded, forehead pressed to his, voice hoarse, nearly a growl. “Tell me you wanted me as much as I wanted you.”

Zoro’s eye cracked open with effort, breath ragged, lips wet and swollen from being bitten raw. He swallowed his answer, refusing to let it out.

Sanji cursed under his breath, devouring his mouth again until he drew blood from his lips. His hand slipped carelessly beneath the yukata, tracing every tense muscle, every scar that made him shudder, squeezing hard as if he wanted to memorize him in the skin of his fingers.

Zoro let him, let him mark him, drag him to the edge. His hands clawed at Sanji’s pants, tugging with desperate force, trying to rip them off even as the soaked fabric clung stubbornly.

Water seeped between their bodies, soaking the red marks Sanji left with his teeth, diluting the blood and mixing with the rain streaming down their necks.

“Harder, fuck…” Zoro growled, voice hoarse and filthy, a plea disguised as a challenge. “I know you can be worse.”

“Masochist idiot…” Sanji whispered in his ear, nipping at the spot he knew made his skin bristle. “I’ll fuck you right here. Against this wall. I’ll leave you trembling in the middle of all this shit if you don’t stop me.”

Zoro laughed breathlessly, pure exhilaration in the sound. He dragged him closer with brutal force, lips crashing, rubbing together, closing the last inch left between them.

“Shut up and do it,” he whispered, almost tender.

With pure and genuine devotion.

The world narrowed to those words. To their bodies pressed together, to the unbearable heat, to Sanji’s trembling hand pushing deeper into the open fold of Zoro’s yukata to force his legs apart. He turned him just enough to slam him face-first against the wall, and Zoro didn’t resist. He only smiled wider, pressing his palms flat against the rough stone.

“Desperate…” he spat with a mocking growl.

Sanji gripped his hip, fingers digging hard into the thin fabric clinging to muscle. His own suit stuck to him like a second skin, the buckle of his belt clinking against Zoro’s lower back as he positioned himself behind him.

A sight he knew he’d replay in his head for many nights to come.

“You have no fucking idea how much I hate you right now.”

“Mutual—” Zoro grunted, arching his hips back shamelessly, grinding against Sanji’s hardness just to provoke him. The wet friction, through the soaked fabric, tore a raw moan from the blond, which drew a crooked grin from the swordsman. “And it’ll be worse if you keep standing still.”

Sanji cursed low. With a sharp tug, he yanked the loose yukata down until it exposed his hip. Zoro’s skin gleamed—bronzed, scarred, muscles tense beneath the surface. The slope of his hip drove him insane, a perfect curve leading to the firm outline of his ass, round and defined, as if sculpted to be taken. The cook swallowed hard, his fingers tracing that line with almost feral hunger before ripping his underwear off in one brutal motion.

He felt it first with his open palm, slowly, tortuously, running over the warm flesh, opening him up so that his hole was exposed, silently admiring the view until he heard Zoro grunt against the wall.

"Stop playing around, Curly..." the swordsman growled, pushing his hips back again, rubbing against it in an insolent back and forth motion.

"Do you want me to hurry up?" Sanji chuckled, his voice husky, a finger sinking just where he needed it most, just the tip, playing with its rim. "First, I'll get you ready... don’t want to make you cry."

Zoro clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against the wet stone wall.

Sanji loved that part. He used to tease him about it. With how the swordsman always asked for more, always grunted, demanding more, only to end up shaking in a puddle of tears and overstimulation. The best part was, it didn't even come from pain, and they both knew it.

It came from the pure, raw, unbearable pleasure Zoro felt when he fucked him. Even when he was slow, even when he was gentle, when he took his time with him. Tears always ended up stinging his eyes, and Sanji never missed it.

"Tsk... you bastard..." Zoro gritted his teeth, his voice cracking. "Keep talking and I'll make you eat those words."

Sanji raised an eyebrow in amusement and withdrew his finger abruptly, drawing a growl of frustration from him. He brought them to the swordsman's mouth, running them cheekily over his lips.

"Better do it yourself."

Zoro turned his face slightly, his eye blazing, and caught the fingers between his teeth. He sucked on them eagerly, drenching them with saliva and filthy impudence, looking at the blond as if he were challenging him to do worse. Sanji felt his stomach ignite as the swordsman moaned softly against his hand, sucking until they were glistening.

“Pleased?” Zoro murmured, letting his fingers slip out with a wet pop.

Sanji didn't respond. He didn't trust his own voice at that moment.

He returned his fingers to Zoro’s asshole, sinking them in without warning, this time completely, twisting his wrist with brutal intent until Zoro arched his back with a stifled groan. With his other hand, he held him firmly by the hip, forcing him to maintain the position, his body propped against the wall, the yukata slipping further, leaving more skin completely bare and exposed.

The swordsman panted softly, his lips parted, his forehead resting on the cold stone as if he could resist moaning any louder. But every movement Sanji made broke him a little more, making him rub his dripping cock against the cold wall, drawing gasps that ended with stifled insults.

"That's it..." Sanji leaned over him, biting violently at the crook of his neck as he prepared him deeper, sinking his fingers again and again into that spot he knew by heart and knew made the swordsman nervous, afraid of cumming too soon whenever he touched him. "That's how I like to hear you."

Sanji loved fingering Zoro. He loved finger-fucking him until he was stupid, senseless, speechless. Zoro had once confessed to him, in the heat of the moment, how much he loved his fingers. Since then, he's been hell-bent on making him love them even more.

Zoro let out a harsh growl, digging his fingers into the wall as if he could tear it off.

"I'm going to smash your face—Fuck, ah, ah.”

“Promises, promises…” Sanji smiled against his skin, pushing his fingers out, shoving them in once more with force to draw an especially loud moan from him.

Zoro, his voice cracking, hissed through gritted teeth.

“What’s wrong, Curly…? Afraid you can’t keep up with me?”

Sanji froze for a second. That tone—half provocation, half challenge—set his blood on fire.

“Shit…” he cursed aloud, jaw tight, patience snapping.

With one hand he yanked at the buckle of his belt, the metal clinking loud. The leather slipped free in a rush, followed by the harsh sound of a zipper dragged down. Sanji shoved his soaked pants down to his thighs, the fabric clinging heavy to his skin, and kicked them lower until they bunched at his knees.

He pressed himself flush against Zoro’s ass, cock hard and aching, grinding once just to hear that sharp intake of breath.

“Keep running your mouth,” he growled against Zoro’s ear, “and see what happens.”

Without giving him time to answer, Sanji grabbed his hip, lined himself up, and thrust into him with a single, brutal drive.

Zoro’s body tightened, every muscle quivering under Sanji’s relentless thrusts. His breath came in ragged gasps, broken and uncontrolled, his forehead pressed so hard against the wall it left a smear of sweat.

Sanji’s cock drove into him relentlessly, the slick slap of their bodies colliding echoing obscenely beneath the storm. His bruising grip on Zoro’s abdomen forced him back onto every thrust, ass meeting his hips with a violent clap again and again, each impact louder than the last. It was possession. Every brutal stroke felt like Sanji was carving himself into him, branding him from the inside out. As if he could mold Zoro into something that belonged only to him—make him remember this, feel it in his bones, carry it forever.

The rain crashed down with brutal force, soaking them both, but Zoro barely felt it. His knees trembled, useless, barely able to hold him up as Sanji kept him pinned to the wall, his whole body jolting violently with every brutal thrust. His chest scraped against the wet stone, raw red streaks blooming across scarred skin with every slam forward.

Sanji’s cock drove in and out of him in slick, merciless strokes, the obscene wet slap echoing. Each withdrawal stretched him, every push slammed him open again, deeper, harder, until Zoro’s breath broke into ragged gasps.

“Fucking god—Sanji—” Zoro’s voice cracked into a guttural moan, his teeth biting down on his lip so hard it split, blood mixing with rain as his head fell back. “Shit…” he panted hoarsely; his forehead pressed against the cold wall. “I… I can’t…”

Sanji’s hand clamped harder around his abdomen, bruising, holding him upright like a ragdoll refusing to fall. With the other hand, he tangled his fingers in Zoro’s soaked green hair and yanked his head back sharply, forcing his throat bare. He licked the tense line of his neck before biting down hard, leaving a mark that would burn later.

“You can,” Sanji growled against his ear, hot breath spilling over wet skin. “You fucking can.”

His grip slid lower, twisting at Zoro’s nipple between two rough fingers, teasing until the swordsman’s body jolted violently. A deep, broken moan tore out of him, a sound he would never let anyone else hear—but Sanji ripped it out like it belonged to him.

Zoro’s legs gave out completely, and the only reason he wasn’t crumpled in the mud was the brutal hold Sanji had on his body, dragging him back onto every thrust, forcing him to take all of it. Sanji groaned low in his throat, angling his hips to slam deeper, harder, until Zoro buckled with every savage drive. His hand slid down, wrapping mercilessly around Zoro’s cock, stroking him in perfect rhythm with the brutal thrusts that made the swordsman shudder and cry out against the stone.

“Close, I'm so close….”

“Yeah? You gonna come for me, marimo?” Sanji growled, his breath hot and wet against Zoro’s neck. “You gonna fucking fall apart just from me fucking you?”

“Shut up—ahh, yes—” Zoro’s protest shattered into a cry as Sanji twisted his wrist, squeezing him mercilessly. His entire body jolted forward, his legs giving out.

Sanji laughed low, almost cruel, holding him upright like he weighed nothing.

“Look at you… shaking like a slut for me.”

“F-fuck off…” Zoro spat, but it was weak, ruined by the moan that ripped out of him when Sanji bit hard into his shoulder and slammed into him even harder.

Sanji’s voice dropped to a filthy whisper. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m gonna break you.”

Zoro cried out, his eye squeezed shut, his cock throbbing in Sanji’s fist. He screamed his name, his voice cracking as his body convulsed in climax. Hot release spilled over Sanji’s hand, smeared against his stomach, while Sanji kept pounding into him, holding him upright like he belonged to him and no one else. Zoro slumped forward against the wall, body still trembling with the aftershocks, forehead pressed to the cold stone. His breaths tore out in ragged gasps, as if he’d just survived a battle. His arms shook uselessly, unable to hold his weight—yet Sanji’s hand on his abdomen kept him standing, his cock still buried deep inside.

Sanji gritted his teeth, every muscle tense, his need a brutal, throbbing ache. He hadn’t come yet. The pressure was unbearable, hammering through his veins, pulsing hot where he was still lodged deep inside Zoro’s wrecked body.

He closed his eyes, lowered his forehead to brush against Zoro’s rain-slick temple. His voice came out ragged, broken.

“Oi… tell me if you want me to stop. If you can’t take any more…”

Zoro cracked his eye open with effort. Tears mixed with rain and sweat, streaking his face, his jaw clenched as though holding the last shreds of his strength. But he looked at Sanji directly, vulnerable in a way Sanji had never seen.

“Don’t stop…” he whispered, hoarse and pleading. “Not until you… until you’re satisfied.”

Something in Sanji’s chest tore open at those words. That idiot—shaking, undone, fucked raw—still offering himself like he belonged to him.

“Stupid marimo…” Sanji groaned. “You always know how to fuck with my head.”

Sanji snapped, what little control he had shattering. He lifted Zoro higher against the wall, gripping his hips like he was nothing but his to use, and drove into him again. Harder. Desperate. The sounds were wet, obscene, their bodies slamming together.

Zoro’s head fell back, his throat stretched and exposed, mouth spilling broken cries with every savage thrust. His nails raked the stone, knuckles bleeding. “Sanji—, yes, yes, harder—”

Sanji’s rhythm turned brutal, his hips slamming so deep Zoro nearly sobbed with the force of it. His hand dug into Zoro’s thigh, dragging it up to open him wider, and the angle made Zoro’s eye roll back.

“Ah, I can feel you—” Zoro’s voice cracked into a hoarse scream. “I can fucking feel you. Tear me apart, curly, do it—Inside, please, please—”

Sanji lost himself in the raw sound of it, his pace unrelenting, the wet slap of skin echoing like thunder under the storm. His release tore through him with a guttural growl, hips jerking, spilling deep inside Zoro as he bit down on his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Zoro shuddered violently, overstimulated, his voice breaking into low moans as Sanji held him pinned, pulsing inside him.

Sanji barely caught his breath before Zoro collapsed back against him, trembling, wrecked, a mess. And still, he held him—like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Then he kissed him. At first rough, desperate, teeth clashing. But the moment Zoro responded, it turned feral, a savage clash of lips, tongue, blood, rain.

They fell together into the mud, careless, tangled like animals that couldn’t release each other. Muddy hands gripped bare skin, clothes clung heavy and soaked, the heat between them suffocating in the cold.

Sanji kissed him like a drowning man, like there wasn’t enough air in the world. Between ragged breaths and bites, the words ripped free from his throat before he could stop them.

“I love you…” he choked against Zoro’s mouth. “I love you, shitty marimo…”

Zoro growled, hauling him closer, crushing their mouths together. Sanji laughed against his lips, a broken, desperate sound.

“I missed you so fucking much…” he gasped between kisses. “Every damn day. Every fucking night without you—”

Zoro didn’t answer with words. He only kissed him harder, with a hunger that said everything, with the same violence he fought with, with the same surrender he’d just given his body with.

There was no control, no neatness. Just mud, rain, and unbridled desire. And Sanji, for once, didn't want any way out.

"Love you too."