Archive of Our Own

There is no place for fate in Zoro's universe.

He leads his own life, uncaring of the superstitions of the masses. Steps forward, again and always, purpose in mind, stance driven to the end goal. 

There's nothing to hold him back, and nothing to ever be able to hinder his path. No one to tell him that God is watching, playing their heavenly game on them all. 

He doesn't have a fate: it's a destiny. An ambition, to climb the steps of the podium, and to carve for himself a future that will always remain the fruit of his sole hard work. There's no higher entity involved in the course of his life, only him and his drive. And in the same aspect, only he has the power to shift it.

Fate is an indomitable entity, set hard in stone as soon as you believe in it. And those who do, who pledge their allegiance to it or even simply choose to tolerate its existence; well, they may as well have given up to it. 

Because, how powerless could one be to hand their life to such doomed uncertainty, instead of taking the reins for themselves? How could one live without a firm grasp on their path, only relying on a blinded trust of its twisted esoterism? 

Maybe the sway of fate was always too kind on their existence, for them to never feel the need to take action back into their own hands. A privilege, undoubtedly. One that Zoro never got to experience for himself.

To him, fate is a plague that he desperately fights. A misery that he keeps far from his life, for it has already taken too much, snatched too great of a price for his sole existence in this world. 

Fate is a friend's breath taken from her lungs, leaving behind only the ruins of a great future and a heartbroken boy. It's a curse disguised as Kismet; whereas destiny, on the other hand, is only born from the sheer willpower of a mind. Meant to be, but not because of a lack of fortune.

A flame in one's heart, a strive to the top. 

He doesn't trust those who rely on fate, and maybe he's one presumptuous son of a bitch for it. Doesn't mean he never tried, though. But fate and destiny, well, perhaps could they never see eye to eye in the first place.

There's just such a striking dichotomy between the two visions, such a gap that could never be filled, no matter how hard they tried. To those who believe in fate, he's probably a control freak, ill of a poisonous obsession for success that will be his downfall. And to him, they're bound by their own existence, people living in a crippling fear of the unknown. 

And, as all know, the first reflex of an afraid person is to run.

He's seen too many people run away in his life. And perhaps at one point, had he been another person, would he have done the same. Run away from a bleak existence, a lonely one, trapped in a house too big for the kids who lived in it. 

But he always trusted to do something great with the hand he was dealt, and no fantasy was ever better than the true satisfaction of success after a laborious ordeal. He always trusted to make that harshness, that adversity, worth it. Bring equal compensation to the shitty trials he could not parry with the swing of his swords.

And it did, somehow, bring him something great, even before he could finally accomplish himself. For his efforts, for his constant search for that greatness, he found a handful of people, finally. Friends. All strong individuals, with souls too big for the space they fill, and hearts pumping hard in their chests, never dull from the thrill of life.

Good people, and to him a family of their own. A group of degenerates, sure, but who, now that he had them, would he trade for nothing in the world.

They're alive, oh so alive. And in return, Zoro feels alive with them. They challenge him, day after day, drag him into the craziest of situations with a bubbly laugh and mischievous winks. Most of all, they know him, understand him to an extent deeper than what could ever be put into words; because they've shared joys and struggles, stories of the multiple adventures they've lived through together. 

They've all seen each other at their lowest and remained together in spite of it all, linked tight against the world. And maybe do they induce him more headaches than he could ever count. But, truth is, Zoro probably wouldn't be much of a person if it wasn't for them.

The pounding in his temples from the car's booming speakers is just that kind of headache, however. It's pummeling deep into his brain, and he fears it's trying to fry the last of his intellect as they make their way to the club, blaring nonsensical tunes to every ear of the neighborhood. 

They're going out, tonight. Nami's idea, because of course it was. Luffy was instantly on par, and a look alone from the witch was ever truly needed for Usopp to rally to their cause.

Inevitably, it all painted Zoro, as always, as the grumpy introvert of their group.

Clubs are hell. They suck, and dance was never his forte anyways. Yet, he was still dragged with the rest of their crew, half-willing only thanks to the promise of booze and the happy smiles on his idiots' faces as he yielded to their insistent nagging.

"It'll be fun," Nami had been assuring him again and again as they rode to their occasional Friday night spot, Level 5.5, a famous club in the city. "Maybe you'll meet someone interesting, huh? It's been a while since you got laid."
 
He had only had the resolve then to flip her off with a few keen words, sending dirty glares to the two younger boys snickering by their side. "Fuck off, witch. You're only bitter because you've never succeeded at getting me with any of those lousy dudes you've forced me to meet."

She had whipped her head at him with an affronted glare, then had huffed a grating, disbelieving laugh.

"Oh, okay, I see, asshole." An emphatic, insistent finger pointed straight in his face. 

"Well, first of all, you got no business being this fucking picky. Second of all, I'm pretty sure you've scared them all off on purpose, just to spite me. And finally, all of you men are a pain in my ass, and I'm so glad that I'm not attracted to any of you. Ugh."

Of course, she's had to be a bitch about it --not that some of it hadn't been slightly correct, true. He hadn't been interested in the guys she had introduced him to, and he may have, in perhaps quite a childish way, refused to speak to them, along with a few threatening glares he sent their way. It was all, indeed, a little bit to annoy her; but he also simply justified it by the fact that he didn't, in fact, have any place for any of them to fit in his life.

Dating, he isn't against, not really. He just doesn't have any interest in having more people in his life. He's plenty content with those he already has, could only be this comfortable with them because of the bond they share. They know each other by heart, could read each other's thoughts by blinded glances alone, and frankly, he's not sure if someone out there could really fit into this strange clique of theirs.

Most of all, his line of work is dangerous, harsh, and unforgiving. Being a swordsman, a fighter in the extreme spaces he competes in, there's nothing he can yield to the unexpected, nor to a lack of trust. 

Luffy, Nami, and Usopp have accepted the fact that he knows the hospital like the back of his hand, that he's seen his hot, sticky blood drawn from the slash of a deadly blade probably more times than anybody ever truly should. 

They've accepted it, aware of his dream, of his ultimate goal of greatness and the story behind it. Every time, they trust him to kick back alive, and in return he implicitly trusts them to patch him up, would the blow ever get too tough for him to bear alone.

He doesn't know how an additional person would fit into that mix. 

Moreover, he's seen his aspirations blatantly disregarded in a misguided attempt at protectiveness all too many times. His life holds no meaning except for those aspirations, just like it would be bare without his friends, two sides of the same metaphorical coin that holds his whole being. Every step forward is taken to get closer to them, and his entire life is dedicated to them, in the memory of another lost without the chance to take that leap of faith--one life for another, as they say.

There's no ounce of regret--or fear-- in his heart about the life he leads, and no place for pity at a blow to his body. Because pity would entice a lack of respect for his drive, and for the legacy of someone he holds dear.

And frankly, Zoro fares better without any of those in his life.

The ride to the club is already rowdy, courtesy of their so-proclaimed "captain", and their first step into the place brings no change of atmosphere to their excited bunch, nor does it do anything for the tension slowly increasing in Zoro's spine or the annoyed scowl burned into his face. 

Luffy leaps on his back and hoots playfully when the bouncer lets them in, charmed by Nami's sweet looks and cunning nature. They take the stairs to the underground club, feeling, more than truly hearing the walls practically vibrating from the basses thrumming in the place's speakers. 

One cannot even hear their own thoughts over the music and the loud chattering of the partygoers, but, well. Zoro's used to that kind of ambiance, although not fond of it, and easily navigates around the place with the younger man still latched onto his back, their two companions following beside them.

After looking around for a minute, Usopp points to a free booth somewhere on the far right. The spot is good, and surprisingly devoid of people. The dancefloor is right between it and the bar, unfortunately, but at least it'll allow them some kind of privacy among the proximity and unwanted grinding of the people around here.

"You guys go settle down," he tells his friends as Luffy leaps from his back, his eternal flip-flops slapping on the vinyl floorings of the place. "I'll go get us something to drink."

Usopp nods and Luffy gives him a delighted smile. Nami, for her part, only heaves a sigh and hands him a few bills, along with promises for later reminders of his monstrous debt to her.

And so he goes, trudges around the disheveled bodies that stand between him and the bar, uncaring for the inebriated smiles and looks of interest he receives along the way. People tend to be unnecessarily friendly with the flow of alcohol, and, needless to say, horny. But, he's not interested. He only follows his path as if never noticing the few men and women looking at him with lust in their eyes, and instantly forgets their features as his eyes fly by them, indifferent and unseeing.

Not even those bold enough to make a move are capable of taking him away from what he truly covets at the moment: the sweet, desirable buzz of liquor flowing down his throat. It calls him louder and clearer than the obnoxious pick-up line some man throws his way, stumbling on his own wobbly feet and making even more of a fool of himself. And like a siren song, he follows its lead, mouth already watering at the faint whiffs of alcohol he can pick up from the distance.

Sending a final glare to the guy and cutting down his insistent advances, he makes a beeline for an empty barstool and calls over the bartender to take his order.

The woman behind the bar is quick and deft in her movements, handling bottles with a precision only ever observed with true professionals. She puffs on a smoke at the corner of her lips and pushes a martini glass to a customer. Tugs in that quick-half second on her tie and fixes the hold of her sleek sunglasses on the short purple bob she sports, an easygoing look to her serious attitude.

She sends him a quick nod as he gives her a list of his friends' favorite drinks, and gets to work, manning the place with rigor despite the ongoing flow of partygoers looking for refreshments. Zoro observes her work for a minute, slouches a little on the stool, snacks on some of the peanuts set in a bowl on the counter. 

Then, he looks around. 

The night is still relatively young, but the place is already packed. It's so full of people, he actually has trouble deciphering them on the dancefloor and around it, only seeing them as this moving mass at the center of the club. Bodies swaying with various attachments to the rhythm of the tune that plays for their entertainment.

His eyes fly over the regrouping, bored and eager to get his first drink of the night in his system already. The bartender seems to read his mind: on a bright purple coaster, adorned by a crowned pirate skull logo, she places a beer. A quiet word of thanks, and he grabs the bottle to immediately take a hearty swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the ingested beverage relaxes his features to a more content look.

A flash of blond standing out of the crowd catches his eyes from the other side of the dancefloor. He glances towards it, mouth hovering close to the bottleneck of his beer, intrigued and looking for a distraction while he waits. Strangely, people-watching is hard in such a place, their sheer number too great to truly focus on one at a time. Moreover, no one is worth noticing, not to him at least. 

But that blonde head, however, still piqued his interest, to his surprise. He itches to know why.

The head shifts, revealing the face of an attractive man conversing with a small group of people. His smile is radiant and charming, uplifted by a high cheekbone that brushes under his soft-looking bangs. He seems to be deep into some kind of explanation, eliciting nods and huffed snorts from the people listening, enraptured by his every word. He shrugs, grins at the person by his side, a woman with long, pink hair overflowing from a minty beanie, chewing on a slice of pizza. Says something else that sends his companions into a hearty bout of laughter.

The guy closer to him, a mean-looking redhead, barks his hilarity in a thunder, playfully shoving the blond when he smacks him on the back with a snicker. He's insanely built, one arm lazily slumped around the equally wide shoulders of the last member of their group, who cackles in tow, his face overshadowed by long shaggy blond hair. 

They're all quite unusual-looking in the middle of such a formless crowd. The kind of group that Zoro could warm up to, he supposes, finding similarities with his own friendly crew. They're the kind of people who'd stand out anywhere, always proudly so, and yet. It's the seemingly most unassuming one of the bunch who first caught his eye. 

That blonde is a guy that shouldn't stand out like he does. There's something about him that he can't quite explain from the distance, a sort of uncanniness overshadowed by his pretty-boy appearance. He's not even truly able to see his whole face from that angle, nor does he know anything about him. But there's some aura to this man, some energy radiating from him, basking in confidence and cocky charm. Something special that Zoro can't quite decipher.

The man turns in the span of a second and glances behind his back towards the bar. In that brief instant, he meets Zoro's gaze, as if for all this time he'd been aware of it burning two curious holes in the side of his face. 

His eyes are light, the swordsman can tell even from afar. Growing amused as they catch him staring. The guy sends him a quick smirk and a taunting head jerk, then turns back to his friends and resumes his discussion, as if nothing ever happened, leaving Zoro dumbfounded and slightly irritated.

What a jackass.

Despite his best efforts to forget about that weird interaction, he still can't quite keep himself from taking a glimpse ever so frequently of the blonde. Curiosity is a bitch and a treacherous temptress, but it's still better than boredom while he waits for the drinks.

He loses him the fourth time his eyes wander back around his vicinity, finding in the instance of his slender figure a new one he doesn't recognize. In fact, none of the individuals that were with him seem to remain present on that side of the club. Not allowing himself to linger on the slightly dejected feeling that he gets from that observation, he turns his attention back to the bar and watches the bartender preparing Nami's Tequila Sunrise, giving a quiet word of thanks when she whips out another beer at his request.

He sets the empty bottle back on the counter and instead grabs the new one. Resolves himself to his mindless watching, albeit without much enthusiasm. 

Maybe does he considers ordering something stronger next time he'll ask for a drink. 

He spots him again as he's considering what to choose; only a flash from the corner of his eye, truly. This time, the man is slightly closer to the bar, somewhere on the outer side of the dancefloor. Their eyes flit over each other at the same time, and for a second the blond looks at him with surprise. 

It doesn't last long. Soon, his face lights up with a grin too pretty to be this antagonizing. 

The man wiggles his eyebrows at Zoro, in a kind of dopey but weirdly endearing way. He doesn't look drunk, but maybe slightly tipsy, lightly flushed on the cheeks as he sways a woman in his arms.

She's not the same as before. In fact, the blond isn't with his friends anymore, or at least Zoro supposes they were. No, he seems to be navigating around the floor, accompanied by a flock of women buzzing around him, to his apparent and utmost delight. His arms are wrapped around them as they chat amongst themselves, yet his attention is still solely rived on Zoro, a lazy smile etched on his lips.

there’s an ambiguous intensity to his eyes, a certain, odd heat radiating from the light blue that confuses Zoro, yet compels him. It's not willingly that he responds to the gaze with a glare of his own. More so is he enticed to do so, the act an unconscious urge at such provocation. 

The man laughs from his side of the dancefloor, a chuckle that Zoro would no doubt have liked to hear the timber of. Unfortunately, it's only short-lived: he breaks eye contact when the women by his side call for his attention, and lowers his face to look at them, the provocation in his eyes completely vanishing to be replaced instead by a tooth-aching sort of awe. 

He's crooning sweet nothings to them, no doubt, judging by his saccharine expression. Also, he's effectively signed the moment as over, at least for Zoro.

Not that there was any kind of moment to begin with anyways. The swordsman doesn't know this guy, and he doesn't know him either. They're just two dudes in the middle of a club, one, bored out of his mind in a place he was forcefully dragged to, and the other, making heads turn on the dancefloor with unrestrained charisma and a bit of an attitude problem.

Funny how different they seem, actually. Maybe it's the crux of it, of that thing about him that captured Zoro's attention. Yet, it can't be, because the place is full of the same kind of partygoers, playboys looking for sweethearts to woo until the rise of the sun. It annoys him how he's unable to actually pinpoint the thing that makes the man remarkable, but there is without any doubt a special something about him, to draw Zoro this strongly to his figure among the faceless masses.

He feels out of place, suddenly. A loner at the bar in an atmosphere that doesn't correspond to him, a place where he doesn't belong. 

The blond looked like he belonged. No, Zoro knew he did. Still, he couldn't subdue the impression that he also looked a little bit at odds, there among the ordinary partygoers. That, despite blending to perfection in such a crowd, he actually should have been in its center, at its top. 

Maybe it's not them who are misplaced. Maybe it's just the crowd that is too much, too faceless as it moves in waves. 

The blond looks up again and reciprocates Zoro's uninterrupted, absent look. This time, he doesn't smile. Doesn't really taunt him anymore, or maybe not in the way he previously did. It's more like a dare, like a challenge from one man to another, a serious glint dancing in his pupils. Zoro can't really see, but they look sterner. Dilated and darker than before.

Maybe it's just the light.

He smokes lazily on his cigarette and lets his cheeks curve and hollow a little around his inhale. His eyes never waver from Zoro's features, and Zoro watches intently, enraptured by the tantalizing curl of his mouth around the tobacco stick, and the way his exhale flutters and bellows over his face, painting through the soft glow of the club a strangely enticing halo.

The lighting pictures that scene almost as some kind of out-of-body experience, some stasis, perhaps. He doesn't know what to blame of the pivoting spotlights' itinerant hue and their shade fading over and over to the next one again, but it kind of throws him in a loop, a confused daze. 

It feels like a different plane of existence. A space where he can only process two existing and factual truths: the man on the other side of the dancefloor, and the look that he throws him, unshakable and bold in a way that seems so much more poignant than before, so dangerously genuine and thus, alluring.

He's like a layer before the background. A mind-freeing detail in the overload of information surrounding them. Zoro acts on a whim, never yielding to his intensity and sending some of his own in retribution. He'll probably snort derisively at it later in the night, but in that instant, from meters apart, the party is numbed to a mere buzz, and the atmosphere fizzes with the tension of that shared gaze. 

An unspoken, deliberate bond from a single look. An uncanny rivalry bordering on eager, captivated curiosity between two strangers.

Zoro's mouth is dry, so he takes another chug from his beer. The blonde snorts amusedly from his side, as if seeing right through him.

He lays a gentle whisper on the closest girl's cheek, never taking his eyes off Zoro. She offers him a soft kiss on the side of his face in return; and then he's off. 

Zoro barely gets the time to notice his oddly shaped eyebrow as the man disappears yet again into the crowd. He has a feeling that the next time he'll see him, the man will be more than a simple figure in the distance.

He can't quite process the paradoxical sentiments that bloom in his chest at that thought. He chooses not to. Finishes his drink and trades for the bills Nami graciously lent a tray that the bartender sets for him on the counter.

And finally, promptly runs off to their table, without a last look behind him.

The others greet him as if he was only gone for a minute, content and cheerful looks plastered on their faces when he comes back with their drinks in hand. They don't point out his slightly haggard face, nor they do his quietude; or maybe they don't notice. It's not unusual for him to look a little dazed from time to time, and he was never really clever with words to begin with. 

Luffy does all the talking for him anyways. He slaps him on the back and cackles affectionately, then resumes his excited exchange with Nami and Usopp about topics Zoro only half-listens to. Sometimes, the swordsman'll just add a few words when the cues favor it, but otherwise, he'll hunch on his side of the couch, too-expensive booze in hand, and mull over his encounter. Feeling silly, despite its futility, for the imprint it left on him.

He'll probably never see the man again, now that he's left the bar. There are just too many people here, although his green tuft of hair could be easily distinguishable in a crowd, and he'd be willing to bet that the guy would get bored of searching for him soon enough anyways.

That is, if he ever went through the effort in the first place.

Fuck, does he feels so fucking dumb in that moment, acting like a pre-teen with a crush. It's shameful and embarrassing as hell, and yet. He can't quite process the appeal that he felt for the stranger, the lingering feeling of vibrancy and impetuosity still floating somewhere between his ribs even after minutes.

There's just no explanation to it, he eventually guesses, deciding to let it go. Attraction is a fickle thing, and as the one experiencing it especially, a concept he never quite really understood.

Irrational, striking. An innate mystery. 

Better to leave it be that. Something that shouldn't need to mean more than what it stands for. The blond is still a stranger, and Zoro is still who he was dozens of minutes ago: no need to elaborate, and no need to linger. 

Huffing to himself, he'll pretend that his wandering look over their surroundings is only a cause of his boredom, and not of the indecipherable, embarrassing yearning for the sight of blond hair and cocky smirks.

There's a couple over there, languidly making out in a corner, somewhere by Nami's side. 

Closer to the dancefloor, a girl is shoving a creep forcefully hitting on her with a sneer. 

Oh. It's actually that one pink-haired girl from Curly's friends. 

Curly?

Hah. Curly. Maybe he should start calling him that, instead of "the stranger". It's amusing.

He'd probably feel slightly less like an idiot, making fun of the guy.

There's still something going on with the girl and that random jackass. He wonders if he should go lend her a hand.

She throws a harsh slap at the guy. Zoro practically hears his brain rattling in his head. The dude backs off in shock, one hand rubbing his beet-purple cheek, and she howls in laughter as he trails his way out of the place.

How pathetic is he, head bowed down like some kind of wet dog. Heh. Serves him right. 

At a table further from theirs, a tall guy in a navy hoodie is sitting alone, laptop propped in front of him, away from a couple of half-finished drinks. 

There are a few jackets by his side. 

The guy seems bored out of his mind. A sentiment that Zoro can respect, if not for the way it mirrors his own. And how sweet is it: from the way he's sitting, the angle of his screen is just right, perfectly in Zoro's line of sight.

At first, the swordsman doesn't understand what he's seeing. There's just a blur of oranges and black dancing on the screen, and it looks kind of nonsensical, like one of those abstract modern paintings that speak to the soul more than it does to the eye. But then he recognizes it. 

It's a movie that the guy is watching. One that Zoro has already seen, he remembers, on one of the many occasions where Franky dragged him to the theater. 

About that one lizard monster of the fifties they did countless reboots of.

He can’t remember the name of it. Well, not that it matters much anyways. 

It's in the thick of the movie, a scene of pure destruction as the beast unleashes its wrath above Tokyo's skyscrapers. The fire and laser-like beam that the monster breathes and hurls on the streets remind him of the spotlights above the dancefloor, and he snickers to himself at the disturbing parallel, imagining a giant lizard coming to stomp on the place with an immensely large clawed foot.

He notices then the guy's bare ears when his attention is taken from the movie by one of his friends dropping by the table. The newcomer digs in his pockets and presents a pair of earphones to the other, but he just shrugs and shakes his head. And when the other's gone, he resumes watching his movie as if nothing happened; on mute, and with only the eventual dancing blur of the subtitles at the bottom of the screen. 

It was already odd enough for him to play such a movie in a fucking club. But now the situation borders on comically bizarre. Strange guy.

On the screen, a harsh shift. After the urbanized scenery, now the show of bare darkness and frightened faces. Zoro sobers up a little at the sight, remembering the actual content of the movie, rather than the situation it's being played in. 

There's a weird contrast in the situation that Zoro can't help but notice. On-screen, the citizens in the frame holed up underground and fearful; off-screen, the people around him buzzing with excitement, vibrating along the bass thrumming into the walls of the basement. He doesn't understand how none of them feels claustrophobic, tense around the sea of faceless bodies that sway under the red and violet lights of the place. 

What he also doesn't understand is how such a movie could be played in such a place; or why he seems to be the only asshole to remotely notice it. 

It's a shame he doesn't have the sound to go with the pictures: he recalls the soundtrack being much better than whatever awful house type of beat is being blared through the speakers. At least though,  he will get to appreciate the cinematography of it all. The well-thought, almost eerie vision of the fire alighting this oppressive civilization, and the frightened muteness of the individuals waiting for their downfall. 

There's a shift on his side, and he almost expects it to be Luffy jumping over him to exit the table. Only then does he realize that the side is not quite right, since Luffy was supposed to be sitting on his left, and that the careful and composed presence next to him is very much unlike the one of his rambunctious best friend.

He jerks his head to his right, blinking hard out of his daydreaming, but the man who just sat next to him on the corner of the couch doesn't pay him any mind. His sparkling blue, lone visible eye is trained on the same screen Zoro had been eyeing before noticing him, a singular curly-shaped eyebrow curved in curious amusement.

"Weird movie to play in a club, isn't it Marimo?"

The man shuffles closer as he settles on the couch next to the swordsman, absolutely uncaring for his personal space, superficial attention turned to the screen. However, Zoro knows it's only for show, it being intently, keenly trained on him. This, subtly so; in a nonchalant fashion that seems to suit the blonde well. 

"Marimo? Fuck you think you are, asshole?" He sneers in response to the nickname, resolutely overlooking the pitying sort of giddiness taking his insides. Traitorous feelings.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Name's Sanji. You?"

Curly --or, Sanji (Nah, actually, fuck that. There's no way he'll grant the fucker the privilege of calling him by his name)-- looks at him with calm interest, the azure of his eyes still as intense as ever, maybe even more so from up close. Zoro can't help but find his gaze enticing, somehow strangely comforting in the way it softens around the corners. But he is still a prideful man, and in no way or form would he ever admit to that fact, no matter how striking and lovely it glints back at him. 

He clicks his tongue and gives a dismissive flick of his hand. "None of your business, Curly."

That earns him a laugh from the blonde, an earthy, baritone sound that rings of smoke and elated surprise. Zoro immediately notices the way his nose scrunches a little, a cute and simple detail to such an apparently beguiling character, although he has no time to linger on it. 

His crew finally takes notice of the stranger at their table, and their discussion goes silent with it, a light, intrigued atmosphere wrapping around their table instead.

Luffy, as always, is the first to butt in, and none of the more subtle. 

"That's a weird eyebrow you got there," he points out without a care for manners to the blond, a sunny smile etched on his face. "I like it. You Zoro's friend?"

"Yeah," Sanji answers simply, strangely unphased, and at the same moment Zoro replies in the negative. They stare at each other, the various degrees of playful defiance in their looks reminiscent of their previous encounter. None of them really notice the looks of surprise that cross the others at the table, quickly subdued by fond and amused smiles.

"Yeah, you seem like the kind of friends Zoro would make," Nami decides after a minute of contemplation. "You guys met at the bar?"

Zoro won't even pretend to try and understand what the fuck she meant by that. He isn't one to "make friends", and she damn well knows it.

"Well, see, it's a funny story," Sanji starts as he clearly settles in the seat, innocently to the others but pointedly taunting at Zoro's discretion. "Oh, here, by the way, I brought you some snacks--" 

He pushes a basket of fries and other appetizers onto the table. Luffy's eyes instantly light up in delight.

"Anyways. Mister Moss here kind of challenged me to a staring contest through the club as he was waiting for your drinks, so I figured it may as well have been an effort on his part to make some kind of friendly bond --maybe slightly competitive, but I don't mind--, hence why I assumed we were as good as friends now."

Zoro growls and Sanji shushes him in an infuriatingly light and composed way, making Usopp and Nami snicker a little at the scene --the heinous traitors.

"It was kind of a shame that I lost his sight in the crowd after he ran off from the bar, so I decided to pay him a little visit when I saw him at this table. However, I'd have come sooner if I had known he had such a distinguished lady as a friend," the absolute asshole croons, in a voice that no doubt would make many swoon. And for his efforts, Nami snorts, looking entertained and slightly impressed. 

"Oh, you're a cute one."

She may as well have hung the stars below his head for the enamored look the blonde sends her in return. 

"And you're the most lovely woman I've ever laid eyes on," he replies without missing a beat, looking way too genuine for the heap of generic, flaming bullshit that just came out of his mouth. "What a delight to be in your company."

Zoro snorts a derisive noise, bringing upon himself an annoyed eye-roll from the redhead and a straight-up look of ire from the curly playboy asshole.

"Please don't mind that brute," the man pleads by way of apology on his behalf, kicking his shin under the table with a glare.

"Very kind of you to say, but there's really no need to tell me,--"

"Sanji, my dear Mellorine. What about you?"

"Nami. And here's Usopp and Luffy," she points to the two younger boys. "And Zoro, obviously."

Luffy is already practically done with the plate that Sanji brought to their table, so he takes it as his cue to start conversing with the newcomer, asking a plethora of varyingly intrusive questions around a mouth full of fries. The blond doesn't seem too irked by it, even laughs at his curiosity and indulges it thoroughly. And with a sort of teasing gentleness that shouldn't be as natural as it comes to him, Sanji makes quick friends with the most extroverted of their ragtag group.

Soon enough, the others toss their simple attentive, silent eyes and ears aside for their own additions to the conversation, and the table grows even more animated around the blond man, who seems to thrive on the attention. Zoro, for his part, elects yet again on keeping to the backside. He watches the exchange unfold before his eyes, and observes how the man seems to blend so well into his friend group after so little time.

He doesn't know what to feel about it. He doesn't know if he feels something about it, or if there's even anything worthy to be felt in that instance. In all honesty, it probably doesn't really mean much: apart from him, they're all pretty friendly and talkative in their own right. 

However, there's still a thing about the man, a captivating je-ne-sais-quoi that remains unspoken even from up close. In the way he talks with Luffy, eyes as bright as his dark-haired friend, or how he laughs at Usopp's jokes and swoons at Nami's every word, Zoro feels some kind of kinship, like an understanding of his friends that goes beyond the few words that they shared around the table. 

It's almost as if the man was cut from the same cloth, as insane and kind-hearted as the people that shape and color his every day. And maybe it shouldn't mean as much as it does to him: he's just a guy that he met randomly in a busy club to who his friends took a liking. Yet, seeing him exist in his surroundings, and not as a mysterious, startling figure out of the blur, still doesn't jeopardize any of the awe that he felt towards him. Instead, it perhaps uplifts it even more, knowing that his first intuition was right.

"Did you come here by yourself tonight?" Nami asks, somewhat taking Zoro out of his semi-reverie. 

"No, I was with some friends earlier," Sanji informs her, a lopsided smile on the corner of his lips. "We all went and did our own things, though. Who knows what they're getting up to right now..."

From what Zoro saw of his pink-haired friends and the look in his eyes, he assumes it must not be too boring matters overall.

Usopp is next to prod further. "And you guys come here often, you said?"

"Regularly, I guess. The place is nice, and the owner's kinda like family to me. I even got to work some of my first jobs here, like manning the kitchen, mostly, and some other odd gigs from time to time. Nice days. Taught me a lot."

It's Luffy's time to perk up at that.

"Wait, kitchen? you're a cook?"

He looks excitedly at the older man, who laughs good-naturedly at his enthusiasm.

"I'm a chef," he corrects without heat. "Looking to open my own place soon, actually."

Nami gives him an appraising look. "That's impressive," she says. "You're really young."

"Well, I've been behind the stoves for longer than I've known how to read, you know? It's a big dream to me, so it's not like my whole life doesn't already revolve around it," he jokes, eliciting easy chuckles from the rest of the table.

Huh. Interesting.

Zoro tunes them out after that, instead tossing those words around in his head and focusing his attention on the way the smoker's mouth curls around the words he speaks. He has this thing he does, the swordsman realizes. A quick, most definitely unconscious flick of his tongue over his lips, doing it each time right before wrapping them around the rim of his glass.

Sanji shifts in his seat, aware of and unbothered by Zoro's mindless staring, and pointedly chooses not to look at him, although the amused smile that flits over his face for a few seconds is definitely more destined to him than the others. He digs in his dress pants' pockets and fishes back a cigarette carton, never pausing in his discussion.

Only then does he look down, just the flick of his eyes before his attention settles back again on Usopp, the spare second needed to open the cardboard box, take one of the sticks, and wedge it between elegant and rosy lips. 

Then, showing the content of the box to the others, he offers them one too. 

The boys refuse, a quick hand gesture or a shake of the head. Nami accepts one from the pack and places it between her lips, slightly tinting the filter with the light, glossy pink of her lipstick.

Sanji gets an expensive-looking lighter out of his pocket and motions for Nami to come closer as he bends over the table himself, deftly lighting the tip with the expertise of someone used to that kind of flirty trick. He lights his own then, unrushed, turning to Zoro as the light flickers for an instant behind his hand.

He looks at him with eyes the swordsman rightly couldn't describe, yet understands all too well. Extends the pack to him. Zoro keeps silent, simply watches with a scowl as Sanji sucks on the cigarette and blows the content of his lungs right in his face. 

It's annoying, so evidently looking to get a rise of him, but yet again Zoro doesn't say anything. Maybe because of that look, so obvious on the man's face. Maybe because of his own foolishness.

"Moss?" Comes the low voice of the man, slightly deeper from the smoke, slightly deeper from something else. "Want one too?"

"Nah," Zoro grunts in the same tone, upholding eye contact. 

Sanji doesn't say anything in return, doesn't react in any way, apart from his unwavering gaze still rived on Zoro. 

He only stares for a second, perhaps. Though It feels like longer. Like all the time needed for him to unwrap the green-haired man to bareness.

Then, finally, he retracts the box.

Thunder echoes in Zoro's ears. He wonders when the lighting will drop.

Eventually, the others decide to go dancing. Sanji declines the offer to join, a fact that the swordsman can't quite describe as unsurprising or the opposite. He keeps quiet as they sit by themselves, leisurely smoking on his cigarette and taking a sip from his glass from time to time. Zoro doesn't really pay attention to him, to be honest, more so to his presence. His brain overloads with garbled and nonsensical thoughts over the handsome devil, ideas he knows should make him feel some ounce of shame --they don't.

His lips are still so sinfully wrapped around the damn death stick, and it's making him go insane.

He straightens up on his side of the couch, and with a snappy "give me that" snags the cigarette from Sanji's mouth to slide it between his lips. The blonde's surprise is immediatly subdued by a flicker in his eyes, and he gives a dim smile and a snicker when Zoro takes a frustrated drag and tries to keep in check the coughs that threaten to explode in his throat, at the foreign and acrid feeling of heat in his esophagus.

"Finish it," he tells him, dares him, a hushed, amused edge to his voice. Zoro sends him a watery glare but does it anyways. 

They remain in silence for a few more minutes, the cook's head tilted lazily to the side as he lets his eyes roam over the dancefloor, his attention keen on the swordsman still. Under the table, one of his legs is resting elegantly over his lap, and an arm rests behind him on the back of the couch as his other hand still cradles his half-finished drink. They're closer on the couch than one would assume, almost touching, but willingly leaning away in a mutual show of nonchalance. Zoro sulks in his corner with his disgusting, receding cigarette, watching the come-and-goers in the club with only mild interest.

He crushes the smoke as Sanji tips his drink over one last time. The glass clinks softly on the table when he sets it there, and the weathered leather of the couch groans a little as he turns to face him, finally.

His stance demonstrates casual indifference, but his eyes glint with some hidden dare that Zoro would recognize out of a multitude of emotions. He knows that look well, that unrestrained challenge, knows that it never comes alone, whether it be a fight or something else. 

The man's next words are a simple request, and Zoro already hears them before they even leave Sanji's mouth. Yet, he can't quite keep his breath from hitching.

Sanji licks his lips, fully aware of the hungry eyes that follow every curve of the tip of his tongue. Then, in an assured and rumbling tone that sends Zoro's mind reeling, he commands:

"Marimo. I want you to fuck me." 

Zoro's heartbeat pounds hard between his ears as they scramble into the restroom of the club, and Sanji's mouth is hot, oh so hot, incandescent red as it smashes on his, like a hearth instilling a life in him so burning it boils in his blood. 

He can't even hear the hissing plea of the stall door over the overwhelming rhythm of his own temples, truth be told. Had he been able to, he wouldn't have cared all the same.

Sanji barely waits for the curtain of semi-privacy provided by the stall to make his intentions clear, and in front of him Zoro almost feels under attack, if not for the spikes of pleasure that he can already feel under the man's attention. His goal seems to be focused solely on the swordsman, on learning every curve of his face and mapping his body over his clothes. Driven by a focus that would have probably intimidated a lesser man, someone not as equally intense as the fiery blond.

Already, their heavy pants ring like a sweet and lustful melody in the air. Hot with want, such desire that both men cannot quite seem to restrain any more, now that the dam has already been cracked.

It takes a dazed second for Zoro to recognize his surroundings, and another one to forget about them entirely, letting himself be guided by his partner, his gaze solely rived on him. Sanji, obviously, was the one dragging them here in the first place, knowing the place like the back of his hand. Zoro didn't even pay attention to their course as he was led there, too focused on the searing touch of his fingers wrapped tight around his wrist, and on imagining the feeling of the tight skin of his neck under his teeth.

He has no doubt they would have never found the place, had he been the one leading them there. He would have probably given up soon enough anyways. Overtaken by those heated looks the blond sent behind as they made their way to the men's restroom, or perhaps by his own cursed, although Oh so sweet greediness, taking hold of his insides in its devious grip.

"Fuck, Zoro, the door, lock the door," Sanji reminds against him, his hot breath sending a jolt down Zoro's spine as it hits his pulse. He twists the knob of the lock blindly, eyes sealed shut by the contact of those plump lips pressing back against his immediately, never allowing more than the spare second needed to fill his lungs with air again.

Sanji, as dualistic as it sounds, is as soft and attentive as he is aggressive in his advances. His hold is tight on Zoro's shoulder, almost a slight, pleasant kind of painful. His nails dig into his skin as he latches onto his lower lip and tugs playfully, bites. 

Zoro can't quite keep a raspy moan from escaping his lips. 

He assumes Sanji likes the sound of it, given the smile that stretches against his face. They part, and he cracks an eye open, finding the cook's eyes rived on him, lit up with a glint that immediately makes his mouth water.

Heavy-lidded eyes, swollen full lips, and the man looks dashing, even more so than he did before. Zoro loves it. Loves how lust looks on him, loves to be able to witness, to elicit such a reaction from him. 

"Ngh," intelligibly, he lets out, feeling inebriated by the sight. Sanji smirks at him and moves against him, erection brushing against his pelvis. He seeks Zoro's face relentlessly, tilts his head to the side and mouths at the corner of his lips, then progressively at his jaw and the side of his neck...

But Zoro wants him right there still, on his mouth, isn't done yet tasting him, feeling his breath hot on his lips and drinking the pants that slip from his mouth. 

He lifts a hand and grabs the man's golden locks, tugs on it insistently to dislodge him from his throat. It all elicits a grunt and a sharp intake of breath from the blond, who lets his head be tipped back, mouth open and adam's apple bobbing mesmerizingly as he swallows a moan. 

It pleases him, makes him grow harder and twitching in his pants. It's almost as if they were looser at the beginning of the night. 

Sanji's azure blue eyes meet his, foggy with lust and unwavering, soft and intense. He licks his lips and leans into Zoro's hand, now flat at the back of his hair. Soothingly, Zoro strokes it, feeling the softness and smiling at him lazily, delighted even more in the soft happy sigh and the eyelids falling shut he gets in exchange for the endeavor.

It's not what the chef seeks for long, though it seems. Maybe does he shares that same greediness as Zoro, or perhaps he just feels like taking, over and again, without an ounce of shame. Regardless, he opens his eyes once again, and in a new surge of fervor lays himself on Zoro, crowds him in the enclosed space, their chests practically brought flush with it.

He grabs Zoro by the jaw with one hand; in a grasp of steel that almost feels like a chokehold. The sudden shift is as overwhelming as it is unsuspected, and would have elicited a shocked gasp out of Zoro, had his brain not been so fogged and single-minded by the sudden spike of excitement.

Instead, it shakes his spine in a strong shiver and spills a needy, guttural noise from his lips. He's immediately embarrassed by the unusual sound, high-pitched and out-of-character as it is, but Sanji himself grows hotter in the face for another reason entirely.

"God fucking dammit," he rasps against a muted grunt coming deep from the back of his throat, mingled with surprise and arousal. "God, you're so fucking sexy."

He pushes him with a searing kiss into the cramped space, almost making Zoro lose his footing when the back of his knees hit the toilet seat. It's only by reflex that one of his arms flies behind him to steady himself on the faience of the backrest, same for the strong hand that slips behind his scapula in that same split second.

"Easy," he grumbles into the kiss. Sanji only gifts him a derisive snort and slurred words of apology.

"Ss'ry, Mossy-"

They stand awkwardly over the toilet, testing Zoro's core strength as Sanji's tongue pushes into his mouth. Nimble fingers come to prod at his waist and snake under his clothes, full of electricity and tingling heat, but the contact seems to quickly falter in impatience under the tight garment. They part and breathe against each other once again, and Sanji looks down between them, a frustrated click of his tongue. Zoro doesn't pay it any mind.

Instead, he finally goes down to bite at that heavenly expense of skin at his neck, only hinted at under the open fabric of his shirt.

Sanji pokes him on the chest and sends him a mildly annoyed look after a silent, sulking minute. It's not really effective, along with his strained breathing and how dilated his pupils are.

"You're fucking tight ass shirt is driving me insane," he complains raspily. "Take it off."

Zoro complies only with a teasing grin and a few words at the man's impatience. The response is snappy, as expected, but falls flat as soon as he lifts the thing over his head, growing quiet at the new sight. 

Confused, he looks at Sanji under his outstretched arm, and finds the man gaping at his chest. When he finally speaks, his voice is breathy and marvelous.

"Damn... What a glorious sight to behold."

Zoro can't quite diffuse a snort at such a remark.

"Shut up," he grins. "You're such a dork."

"Only a dork for you, chéri."

The hunger in the cook's blue eyes is so vivid you could almost cut it with a knife, rived straight at Zoro's pectorals. The man hums his admiration, a long, drawn-out sound that sends a shiver down his spine, and Zoro is almost tempted to make a teasing retort about the place of his eyes, or the color of his previously discarded shirt, for how his world seems to have narrowed to the two mounds of muscles.

"You can touch, you know," is what he finally settles on saying. He can't quite keep the snark in him though, and so he adds right after, "don't go shy on me now."

He earns himself a dismissive and grumbled "fuck off" for his troubles, and suddenly his chest is grabbed in two strong fistfuls, creating friction over his nipples regrettably way too fast and subtle to his liking.

"I wonder how it'd feel to have my dick crammed between these bad boys," Sanji says next, not quite able to control himself at this point anymore. Perhaps it's just part of his charm. The man did seem quite shameless and straightforward, even as they were still nameless strangers to each other.

His dick twitches in his pants with interest, but he has to remind himself and the other man that it's not what they agreed on --would probably not be very convenient in a bathroom stall, although he's sure they could make it work somehow. It's a shame, the proposition seemed enticing enough, but at least he's got some other nice ideas of his own.

"Hey, now," he starts, a mock attempt at scolding. "Don't get so ahold of yourself."

Sanji snorts.

"Can't blame me."

He squeezes and brushes over his nipples to prove his point, and Zoro grunts a little, eyes folding shut in appreciation. Wriggles a little under those hands to ask for more attention when he doesn't feel fulfilled enough. They indulge him quite easily.

They pinch and twist, pull on his nipples lightly and brush over them soothingly. Kneads the muscles in a sort of careful, loving massage that can only remind Zoro of how much he loves that kind of thing; how long it has been since he'd last let someone give him that kind of attention. For a few instants, it seems both men are content with getting their fill of this. Sanji, in his contemplative, unabashed and reverent awe at Zoro's assets; the swordsman, in the attention and care brought to one of his most sensitive areas.

Sanji's hands fleet around the expanse of Zoro's chest, curious, never breaking contact with the skin. Hovering close, the pads of his fingers brushing against his body, a featherlight and tingly touch. They explore the broadness of his torso, feel the shape of his collarbones, the relaxed firmness of his stomach. Always eventually coming back to the plump curves of his pectorals, always yearning back to their feeling under his fingers, the way they slightly spill when he squeezes or how they sometimes tense under the stimulation.

He rubs his hands down to Zoro's middle and places his palms on each side of his waist. Rakes his nails around it, in contemplative silence, careful eyes mapping Zoro's upper body until they eventually rise back to the grey eyes watching him since the beginning, neutral against the apprehension that takes his guts over the one, last elephant in the room.

Sanji doesn't voice anything about it yet. No, instead, a thumb goes to brush sideways, oh so lightly, over the lower tip of the large scar bisecting his chest, no words yet spilling from his mouth. Sanji's gaze remains attentive on him as he traces the gnarled flesh from the bottom, unrushed, careful for any signal that he's out of line, any discomfort on the green-haired man's face.

"This okay?" he lowers to where the flesh parts in half at his collarbone. 

Zoro nods, breath held silently. Sanji sets his mouth gently on the scar, and peppers with light kisses the unusual slopes and bumps of the scarred flesh. 

"That's a mean scar you got there," he murmurs against it, eyes looking up and shining with a mix of slight concern and sparkling curiosity. Zoro expects questions about the accident, about what could have harmed him in such a way, about pain levels. Instead, the cook simply asks, "You a fighter?"

His heart jumps a little in his chest, and his gut clenches with desire. It's dumb, but he can't help it.

"Swordsman," he breathes, coming to pet Sanji's hair in a surge of emotion he doesn't want to label as affection.

"High-stakes competitor?"

"Yeah."

Sanji hums like it explains everything. 

His gaze doesn't reek of pity, doesn't reek of fear or disapproval. No, he hums in understanding and places his mouth back on him, and that's it. No complicated feelings, no complicated discussions, nothing. 

There's just something about people that get it, who understand that the torn, fleshy signals on his body are a mark of pride, and not misery. He feels seen by the cook in that instant, for the swordsman that he is, for the amount of strength that he had to gather, in order to kick back after the blow to his spirit that came with the tear in his flesh. 

Sanji doesn't know about the story of that scar. Doesn't know about the struggles that came with it, the pain turning into fierceness, or about his life, finally coming back on track with it after so many months of desolation. But in the way he licks along it, his nose brushing against his ribs in a strangely intimate display of care, in the way he takes his time simply loving it like every other part of Zoro's torso, it almost feels like he does.

"You fight too?" he asks in a whisper.

Sanji snorts before sucking a final kiss on his collarbone. He smirks at Zoro and breathes the next words flush against a dark and hardened nipple.

"Chefs are always fighters at their core, Mossy. But I can hold my ground in a brawl, if that's what you're asking."

It shouldn't be as sexy as the cook makes it sound. In any other situation, he would have just nodded and moved along; but then, he can't help the arousal that rises higher in his nerves, especially with the way he becomes so much more aware of those strong, corded legs flexing against his own, and the thigh rising to rub against his side, pressing their bulges together in an electrifying contact.

"Anhh, fuck, yeah," Zoro gasps, his hands flying to grab at the man's ass, gripping tight against the surge of pleasure that the contact elicits in his entire body. Heat coils tighter in his lower stomach, and he tugs at Sanji's hair to get his attention, eager to shift to second gear, to finally and truly get things into motion. The chef whines a little, and his mouth comes off with a wet pop (it's red and swollen, and Zoro can't help but steal a thorough kiss from it, yielding once again against its sinful and alluring appearance).

"What," the cook mumbles when they part, a thread of saliva still linking his lips to Zoro.

"Turn around, Curly. Wanna feel your ass against me."

Sanji wipes his mouth unceremoniously and grumbles a little under his breath, but he still does as he's told, guided by the other man's hands on his waist gently pivoting him to face the door. 

It's a shame the dancefloor was so crowded a few dozens minute earlier, withholding from him the sight of such glorious and perky asscheeks. He has to take a moment, just to get his fill with his eyes and his hands, then brings his body closer to the slender figure of the man and rubs his erection against him, mouthing down on the side of his neck. He grinds their bodies together, lays kisses and bites at the stretched-out junction of the man's throat, so graciously presented to him. His hands wander at his waist, prod at his shirt and lift it to slip under, caressing his stomach and above while he rubs himself on his rear.

"Harder," Sanji pants, his face pressing against the door. Zoro gives harsher nudges with his pelvis, feeling more and more uncomfortable and aching in the tight fabric of his old jeans.

Sanji seems as inconvenienced as he is, at least, if not for the way his hands, propped up on the door, progressively lowers and give up the steady hold to go palm his own member through his pants. He doesn't lose his edge yet to the delirious anticipation, nor his teasing inclinations, and rubs his ass to Zoro's erection in a motion so delightful and tormenting it becomes almost a full-fledged kind of painful.

The swordsman can only imagine from his vantage point the pleased smirk that stretches on the man's face, but he does somehow understand the kick that he gets from it, if not for his slight annoyance at the provoking gesture; the muffled and frustrated whine that he fights to suppress is a clear witness of it.

He lays a vindictive bite on his trapezius and pants hard against him, scowling to himself in frustration.

"You're such a piece of shit."

Sanji moans, to what he's not quite sure. He doesn't take the time to wonder about that specific question, though, too pent up with unreleased and smothering desire to keep silent and think about it.

"Sucking on your smoke like a slut and strutting around like you owned the place," he complains raspily against the other's back, then licks the ring of teeth printed on his pale skin. 

Sanji heaves a breathy chuckle. 

"Was fucking driving me insane, how good you looked. Couldn't tear my eyes apart."

Another snicker, and the cook retorts, "yeah, because that t-shirt choice and size was totally innocent."

"Fuck you. Don't project your perverted ideas on me."

"Says the man dry-humping on my ass like some kind of animal," he accuses without actual rancor, too busy feeling the rushed and hungry contact against his rear and fondling his own throbbing length through the layers of his clothes.

Zoro ignores the cheeky quip and rolls his hips harder.

"Cook."

Sanji twists his neck to the side. 

"Mhh?"

"Toss the pants," he groans around one last grinding motion. "Gonna eat you out."

"Don't order me around, asshole," Sanji snaps back. 

He's annoyed, Zoro knows it, can hear it clear as crystal in his voice. But there's also a shudder running down his spine, and Zoro can't help but grin at it, thankful that the other man isn't facing him and seeing the dopey expression on his face. Sanji is eager despite the attitude he puts as a proud front, and Zoro was never one to be against a little bit of fire.

No, it turns him on even more, how bitchy the other man can be. How difficult he plays yet so pliant lets himself be under his touch, how graciously does he allow Zoro against him yet always makes sure he earns what he desires. It's exhilarating, intoxicating even, to feel the underlying power of that unassuming man, that clash against them. Even more, when he's willing to open his walls for him in the end.

Oh, he's going to make him see stars, Zoro decides, as if he hadn't planned on it as soon as the fated words had spilled from Sanji's mouth back at the table. 

In any case, he's sure the chef surely won't have it any other way.

There's no theatrics in the way Zoro gets to his knees, nor is there in how Sanji fumbles with his belt loop, a sense of urgency in his struggle that doesn't go amiss to the swordsman. He wets his lips, emboldened by the unbridled enthusiasm of his partner, and helps him get rid of the slim pants, carelessly tossing them with his long-since-forgotten shirt.

Sanji's legs look even more dashing from his lower vantage point, practically endless under the shitty light of the bathroom. He can't help but place some hungry bites on his thighs, feel the plump and undoubtedly highly-trained muscles of his legs under his teeth, lick stripes of the inside of his legs until his face finally meets the slope of his ass. 

He grabs two generous fistfuls of it and pulls his cheeks apart, and then he dives in.

A gratifyingly raw intake of breath is his immediate reward as his tongue hits the rim of flesh, and it twitches under his mouth, sensitive and excitable. Sanji relaxes into the touch after an instant, and sighs, bringing a hand to tangle into Zoro's short hair. Gently, he rakes his nails over his scalp, guides him with little nudges and pleasured sounds, and Zoro follows his lead attentively, and slowly works to open his rim with the tip of his tongue, drawing curls and swirls around the tight bundle of nerves and prodding at its center with all the focus it so rightly deserves.

"More," Sanji demands.

He obliges him, nuzzles between his cheeks to get closer even. Sanji gasps and reflexively yanks on a handful of Zoro's hair in pleasure, and the swordsman can't help but moan against him, fighting to keep his focus set straight despite the hot waves of arousal that wash over him.

The blonde starts to grow louder as he progressively explores deeper with his tongue and licks along the insides of his intimate walls, moaning his name and a gabble of words that turns more and more incoherent as it spills from his mouth. In their stead, maybe someone else would have been slightly embarrassed about their lack of discretion, in such a public place no less. To Zoro, although, it's even more exciting; that honesty, that blunt commitment of the cook to his pleasure, to him providing it. 

He loves that people coming in the restroom would know what they're doing, loves that they'd instantly realize how good he can make the other man feel.

It certainly would not be the first time someone fucked in the place anyways. Probably not even Sanji's first, actually, with how assuredly he brought them to their stall. Zoro doesn't feel like taking too much time to ponder on that though. He's got more interesting things to think about, and he wants to hear more of that pretty voice cursing in delight.

At least the place is kept clean enough, despite the sheer depravity that must happen between these walls. And for the last of his inhibitions, Sanji makes good work of them by grabbing and pulling his hair tight once again.

He tastes like soap and musk, taste like something Zoro never tried before but could easily get addicted to. He takes his sweet time just relishing in it, in that uniqueness of him, spreading him apart with his tongue and adding a finger, then another, somewhere along the way, helping him prod at his prostate relentlessly. It already unravels the man, how he fucks him with his mouth, and he gets off of it too, gets off of how Sanji falls apart under his care and grows needier, more restless with every movement.

"Can't wait anymore, Moss, I'm prepped enough," Sanji pants and taps on his head insistently. Zoro lets his head be tugged back and sucks a last kiss on the plump of his ass, gives a final nudge to his prostate. He kisses Sanji's lower back where a pinkish scar runs above his sacral dimples, follows the line of his spine as he gets up, but the man is already whirling around to grab his head and tackle him there instead, in a searing embrace that Zoro could never refuse.

Then, he does a feat that will probably haunt the swordsman's memories for many, many long months of yearning. He lifts a leg in the air and grabs his thigh in a steady hold, presenting his pink and quivering hole to him with a scowling and needy face.

Zoro can only gape in awe. His leg is parallel to his upper body, looking like miles and miles of silky alabaster skin, and it stretches so elegantly and effortlessly over their head, to finally reveal such a sight...

The new prospects brought with that feat alone seem innumerable. Zoro's mouth already waters at the thought.

Sanji grunts in flustered impatience. "Well?"

He lays his leg on Zoro's shoulder, and the swordsman immediately latches onto it, his eyes zeroing in on the ring of muscles. He still has a mind to utter a poor "show-off" to Sanji's face, barely, but the blond surely doesn't plan on letting that last for long.

"Less talking, and more fucking, big boy," he mutters.

He rubs himself on Zoro's still-clothed and straining erection to make his point;  or maybe, to signify to the swordsman that he needs to strip out of the garment, long since damp at the crotch.

"Shit, fuck," Zoro whips himself out instantly, not even bothering to get his pants off except for a hastily undone fly and a tug at his underwear. His dick finally springs free and Sanji's gaze immediately focuses on its bounce, propping himself better on the swordsman's shoulder. Zoro spits into his available hand --the other still busy kneading into the delicious thigh he was so graciously allowed to hold--, and only looks up at a slight noise of disgust he's given by the other man.

"Ugh." Sanji looks rightly appalled. His eyes are now rived on Zoro's hand. "You did not just do what I think you did."

"What, you want me to go in dry? Not like I did not just lick inside your asshole."

The blond rolls his eyes and tugs insistently on him with his leg.

"Whatever. Just get on with it."

With a snicker, Zoro grabs his hard-on and spreads his saliva on the length, adding some more when he's not satisfied yet with the slickness of it. Then, he lines himself up with Sanji's entrance, and pushes inside experimentally, going in slowly to gauge the other man's reaction and get used to the feeling of his tight heat around him.

It's unusual at first. This wet and hot feeling as he pushed into Sanji, unknown in a way that can only call for further acquaintances. Probably is for Sanji too, as he wiggles a little to familiarize himself with the intrusion, squeezing around it deliciously. The man scrunches his nose and lets out a quivering breath, then immediately smothers it down with a kiss on the swordsman's ear. He tugs on it with his teeth, making his earing chimes their clear and golden melody, and silently urges him to get on with it, assures him that he's ready and that he can let loose.

Zoro places a grounding hand on the back of Sanji's knee and pulls out in one smooth motion, only the tip of his cock still inside his quivering entrance. He licks under Sanji's jaw, a wordless gesture to let himself get prepared for what's coming next. Then, he slams back in harshly and pushes deep into the smoldering heat of the other man's intimacy.

The door of the bathroom stall groans with every thrust, each more vigorous than the last, beggings for mercy that falls on deaf ears and overwhelmed senses. They are both too far gone to pay attention, worry about anything past this point. Sanji gasps and moans at each of Zoro's movements, trembles slightly under his advances, arms and leg wrapped tight around him. Zoro himself, much too enthralled by this majestic and sensual state of abandonment, nothing but a mess of grunting lust and demanding urgency.

He loves the wet, depraved sound of each thrust, loves the feeling of his stomach slapping on the back of Sanji's thigh every time he slams back into him. He loves the whines that it elicits the blond, loves how tightly he grips the hair at his nape, how he bites and practically draws blood at the crook of his shoulder. 

But there's still something missing, an edge that he can't quite satiate. He wants more, feels greedier still. Unsatisfied still with what he's been granted so far.

It may be his biggest flaw, this greediness. Something he has fought for years, something that doesn't have a place in his craft. But there, he's with someone he wants, actually wants for the first time in so long. He doesn't feel like fighting against that oppressive heat that itches to burst in his loins.

So, he doesn't think about the words he was taught about those too greedy for their own good, nor about the lessons he went through at the dojo as he crossed this line. He's not there on the training mats, and this has nothing to do with swordsmanship, nor with the grieving, almost broken-beyond-repair teenager he was once.

It's Sanji in front of him, only Sanji. He's looking at him with such pretty eyes, shuddering against him, and he's allowed. To seek. For more.

Without pulling out, Zoro places both hands at the junction between Sanji's ass and thighs, and unceremoniously hauls him in the air, a tight grip on the muscled flesh as he props him around his waist. Sanji's breath hitches, feverish and lust-riddled eyes sobering for an instant in shock, and his slightly limp head jolts a little at the manhandling.

His thighs constrict around Zoro's stomach, tense and unsettled. Digging his heels in his side, he growls in a warning.

"Fuck you doing, Mosshead."

Zoro looks at him with imploring eyes, a deep frown etched on his face as he fights against a surge of pleasure that threatens to overtake his whole being.

"Need more," he whispers, desperate and slightly shameful. "Please."

For a moment, there's just silence. Sanji considers him with acute eyes, a severe edge to his gaze as gauges him from above, and Zoro can't help but swallow, meeting his gaze in breathless hopefulness. 

There it is, that surreptitious power that drew him in first, and that the cook now flaunts at his face in response to his audacious move. The man is nothing if not commanding, reminding Zoro of his place, and making it clear that he perhaps trod too close to the edge in his surge of boldness.

Silence thumps in Zoro's veins. He keeps still, half-buried in the other man and painfully aroused by his confidant and assertive demeanor. They stare at each other, and for a few, long seconds, he doesn't know how to read the chef's eyes.

Then, Sanji leans against him, lays his lips on his mouth. And finally, Zoro can breathe again, saved by the silent approval that he was granted with the gesture.

He lifts him higher and steadies himself on his feet. The blond wraps his hands around his neck and props himself better on the tip of his length, helping himself with a hand, then closes his eyes and bites his lip in anticipation.

They groan in unison when the pull of gravity clashes with Zoro's thrust, the new friction heavenly to their heightened senses. The swordsman uses his leverage and newly gained momentum to push even more precisely after, dead-set on harassing his partner's sweet spot to the best of his ability. He's rewarded by a whimper that he eagerly swallows in a kiss, and drinks each of the following like a terribly addictive drug, high on the blond's gratifying ecstasy. 

They go like that for a few more thrusts, riding on the momentum until it dissipates and lets its place to a more serene, grounding intensity. By that time, they're both panting in each other's faces, mingled breaths full of passion as their foreheads bump together. They exchange a look, and Sanji smirks, laying a gentle caress on Zoro's cheek that he can't help but lean into.

"My turn," he hums, a playful smile etched on his face. "Get your ass sat, big boy."

Zoro's stomach somersaults at the prospect of that order; he feels like his brain fries a little in anticipation. His imagination was never one of the most extravagant, yet it seems to be on a roll with that simple phrase, to the point, even, that he doesn't even go for a quip or a snarky remark but obeys valiantly.

He sits blindly over the lid of the toilet, hands still gripping the flesh of Sanji's rear. A marvel in his eyes that he can't quite stifle --doesn't really want to. It's insane, how the blond excites him, how he has him wrapped around his finger simply by being himself. 

Zoro can't help but feel honored, for it seems the cook has shown himself to him in greater detail than he would have ever asked, hoped for. He feels like he knows him whole despite being practically strangers, feels like the other man unveiled himself in a way beyond words, an intimacy far greater than what their activity would entail. There's no greater feeling than this, could he almost think at that moment. It's the same as a victory, that same pride after an arduous duel.

"You were doing all the work," Sanji purrs in his ear as he settles himself comfortably over Zoro's lap. A hand snakes on his chest before it settles on his shoulder. He follows with a bite to his ear, "I'd hate for you to not sit back and enjoy the view."

Zoro nods dumbly, no words coming to his mind after such a mouth-watering promise. Sanji doesn't need him to speak anyways, understand his thoughts in his insatiable gaze alone. He grabs his wrists and pulls them to his waist, unveiled by his open shirt; Zoro grabs it mindlessly in a loose embrace, and nods once again with a swallow at Sanji's "you ready?" look.

The chef starts to ride him as he strokes his dick in rhythm, and the sight coupled with the sensation of the man fucking himself on him almost feels like too much, too hot and alluring to bear. He's quick but not too hasty, clenched tight around him at every motion, knows how to grind on his length with just the right amount of pressure, and the faces he makes... Fuck. 

Absolutely mesmerizing.  

His cheeks are dusted pink and his mouth slightly parted with pleasure, heaving little breathy "hah, hah" as he rolls his hips on Zoro's lap. And his eyes, fuck, his eyes, half-lidded in a feverish daze but always hovering over Zoro's face, even when they unfocus a little with the onslaught of stimulation.

He smirks down at him as he lowers himself on his erection once again, but can't hold the expression as pleasure hits him in full force. His nose scrunches, his eyes fall shut, and his eyebrows fly up on his forehead.

"Hng-" he bites back, drawing out a long moan of satisfaction.

He's cute like that, Zoro catches himself thinking, slightly surprised by the unusual thought. Maybe it should make him feel weird. He's not sure it does in that instant.

It's probably his sex-addled brain talking.

He itches to touch his face, urges to brush his fingers on his cheekbones and the bridge of his lips so, so bad. His hair looks so fucking smooth and glossy, and he knows it's as soft under his calloused fingers, just like his lips, so silky and plump, and so full and red right now...

"Stop looking at me like that," Sanji grumbles, effectively taking Zoro out of his admirative daydreaming. 

He's slightly flushed in the face, scowling in a way that looks all too strangely like embarrassment, and at the grumpy accusation, the swordsman feels his own features heat a little.

"Not looking aaah--" he denies right when Sanji engulfs his whole length inside him in a harsh slam, a shaky moan escaping his throat. "--at you like anything."

Sanji doesn't look too convinced, but he probably forgets about it soon enough, given the way his face pinches in a look of bliss the more he starts to pick up the pace.

"Fuck, you feel so good, so tight, Curly, I won't last much longer," Zoro pants against his neck, jaw tense, squeezing his hips harder.

"Me too, me too," Sanji rasps. 

It only takes a few more thrusts for Sanji to finally fall over the edge, crying out and spasming slightly as cum spurts from the tip of his cock. Soon after, he brings Zoro with him in a burst of blinding pleasure, punches a drawn-out moan out of his throat as he never stops bouncing on him through their release. Spent splatters their chest, a matching celebration of the peak they've just attained.

"Damn," Zoro groans, short of breath, barely seeing clear again after the force of his orgasm. "Fuck, that was intense."

He's taken by a low, strangled chuckle at the thought, and exchanges a look with Sanji, who grins tiredly at him and kisses him one last time. Then, ultimately, the chef closes his eyes and slumps over Zoro's form in bliss, truly fucked out with a fleeting smile lingering on his face.

Zoro lets his head drop a little to the side and blinks sluggishly, looking down on his resting partner. He extends his fingers and brushes away the bangs obscuring his face, and smiles at him, feeling his eyelids a little heavy too after such effort. 

They take their time to breathe and recover, keep touching each other chastely, light hands brushing over a spine or behind shoulder blades absentmindedly. No one utters a word.

It's peculiar, how warm and intimate the atmosphere feels. Strange, but pleasantly serene, after a fuck between two almost strangers in a restroom stall.

Eventually, Sanji stretches lightly and straightens over Zoro, humming quietly as he looks down on both their defiled chests. He extracts himself from his seat atop Zoro, leaving his limping length exposed to a sobering sensation of cool air, but he doesn't stand up yet, choosing only to sit more modestly on the swordsman's lap. 

Zoro watches him search on their side for toilet paper, eyes ajar but attentive. Sanji starts to rub at his chest with a bundle of it; the swordsman shakes himself awake and gently takes the paper from his hands, instead wiping him with it. He keeps holding onto Sanji's wrist as he does so, and Sanji lets him, watches him take care of the mess on his stomach, quietly. 

Zoro lets those blue eyes burn into him without concern, a lulling calmness to their expression, harmonious on the cook's handsome face.

They finish cleaning up on their own and put their clothes back on without any more words than before. They are unnecessary, superfluous even, after the men conveyed so much only a few minutes before. 

It doesn't feel like closure, though. Or at least, Zoro can't find that solace in that last moment they share, and as his clarity of mind rushes back, he realizes that it's harder to part with the cook than he would ever have expected.

He grabs Sanji's wrist as the man puts his hand on the lock of the door, and when the blonde turns around to look him in the eyes, he meets his gaze, earnest.

"Will I ever see you again?" A simple question.

Will this only be a one-time occurrence. Will he have to go back to his usual life as if nothing happened, insatiable now that he's finally had a taste of such a formidable, forbidden fruit.

Sanji pulls his hand free from Zoro's loose hold and instead takes the larger palm in his own.

"If our paths meet again," he says.

Zoro can't quite keep his heart from twisting at what that could mean, nor the derisive and humorless huff that itches to spill from his throat.

"What, like fate? That what you're thinking of?"

Sanji snorts. The sound only rings like the word "nonsense" uttered loud and clear.

"Nah, none of that shit." 

He squeezes Zoro's hand and gives him a grin.

"Luck, maybe? Or perhaps stubbornness. Seems like you have plenty of those."

He lets go of Zoro's hand and twists the lock, letting himself out as a cold rush of air rushes into the semi-enclosed space in his stead. 

Zoro doesn't even have the time to say goodbye that the man has already left. He realizes, then, that perhaps there's no need to. 

A beat passes. He doesn't know what to do with himself. 

Maybe he's been stricken by lightning, he wonders. It's over as soon as it hit, the blow fast but immutable. Well and truly carved into his flesh, prickling into his skin with remnants of buzzing statics. 

In all the places Sanji touched him, it feels hot under his skin, the dull tingling where he only ghosted over even more haunting than the blunt contact. It lingers with him long after the fingers retracted to themselves; never really dissolves. Or maybe, his brain fixates on it too much, never truly able to let it go.

He feels sorrowful and fulfilled at the same time, and how dumb is that? How come, in one night, his perspectives were rewritten by a single guy.

The answer to that question, well. Maybe it doesn't need to be so complicated. 

There's no place for fate in Zoro's universe, and in the same way, it rings alien in Sanji's. 

He's a mean son of a bitch, and a little bit of an asshole. But despite that, Zoro has never met somebody quite like him.

So, yeah. Luck and stubbornness. 

He'll manage.