Archive of Our Own

And just like that, they were back at sea.

The chaos of Wano was over. Zoro had, more or less, tamed the famous blade Enma that had now taken its place at his side. The crew was alive and safe and so were the majority of their allies. All should be well.

But physically, Zoro felt like shit.

His veins stung like they’d been ripped from his skin and then stitched back in, but that shouldn’t have mattered. He’d been through worse. And he needed to take advantage of his night watch shift to train—the one time of day when Chopper was asleep and wouldn’t catch him. The little reindeer doctor meant well, but he didn’t understand that Zoro had to keep up his strength.

He’d come so close to death during the battle with King, he’d seen the Reaper himself. It was one thing to die in pursuit of his dream, but the thought of doing it without seeing Luffy as King of the Pirates, or hell, having the Cook’s back with this death pact thing—

Zoro forced himself to focus on the peaceful night as his muscles strained against the challenge of the weights. Bad idea, to get lost in thoughts of Sanji.

Instead, with each new rep, Zoro tried to recenter his attention on his steady breath and the burn of his muscles. Outside, the sea glittered like wet pitch in the moonlight as it lapped gently against the hull. The sound of the sails flapping in the breeze was an easy callback to lazy laundry days, when the Cook would wash everyone’s linens and hang them out to dry on deck, dressed-down in the soft blue t-shirt he only wore for chores.

Sanji always smelled like fresh cotton the rest of those afternoons, rather than his usual scent of spices and cigarettes…

Zoro grit his teeth and made himself pump the weights faster. For all his efforts not to get lost in thoughts of Sanji, he wasn’t doing a great job.

He just couldn’t stop mentally replaying the Cook’s words to him during battle: When the battle’s over, if I’m not in my right mind—I want you to kill me.

Sanji trusted Zoro with his life… and apparently, his death. A part of Zoro felt honored. More than that, shocked. But there was a third feeling there too, something murky and putrid, that he didn’t dare try to name aloud.

“I knew you’d be training, shithead.”

It was the Cook’s voice. Zoro hadn’t heard him come up through the hatch, he’d been so lost in his thoughts. He ground his teeth harder and kept his eye on the horizon, not even pausing his set.

“Get lost, Cook,” Zoro deadpanned. “It’s past your bedtime.”

“Chopper trusts you more than he should,” Sanji said.

“You trust me more than you should,” said Zoro, before he could stop himself.

Sanji didn’t respond right away, a loaded silence answering for him. “Stop using your watch shift as an excuse to train in secret. Your body is still fucked all to hell. Don’t pretend I wasn’t the first one to set those injuries.”

Zoro felt a growing tightness in the base of his throat. Was he going to be sick? He’d thrown up before when pushing his training limits to the absolute maximum. To him, that marked a well-done session.

Begrudgingly, he set down his weights and turned to the Cook.

Sanji was a sight for sore eyes. He always was, a fact that Zoro resented. Even now, in his matching pinstripe pajamas with sleep-rumpled hair and dark circles under his eyes, the Cook looked soft and familiar and safe. Stupid, Zoro thought. Stupid to think about Sanji like that.

Stupid, when Sanji was so ready to put his death in Zoro’s hands.

“Is this how it’s going to be, then?” Zoro said. The exhaustion that had been lingering deep beneath his muscles finally seemed to seep to the surface. “Just the same old song and dance.”

If Sanji understood what Zoro was getting at, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stalked forward and gave Zoro a light shove to the chest. It would’ve been nothing, coming from anyone else, but Sanji so rarely used his hands for anything similar, the touch felt like a burn. “Sit down on the damn bench. Keep watch like a normal person. Don’t train yourself into an early grave.”

“Bit of a double standard, when you gave me the job of killing you.”

The words had just come out, but Sanji looked taken aback. The light was gray on his face, and to Zoro, he looked almost one step past death already.

Maybe this was for the best. Sanji always said the same things, always talked the same shit, and was always so ready to give himself up for everyone else. But Zoro was tired of the same old everything. He’d looked the Reaper in the face, and tomorrow they could get into an even bigger fight. No matter how hard he trained, no matter how much of himself he put into his goals, the reality was that life was fleeting, and precious, and in the end, how strong a person was wasn’t actually going to matter.

Little girls with big dreams and bigger work ethics could still trip on the top step after a light summer rain.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Sanji said. They were close enough that Zoro could feel the heat coming off of him.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Zoro admitted, finally saying it aloud. And there it was.

The hunted look in Sanji’s eyes flared, but an uneasy laugh forced it down. “O-kay, big guy.” Sanji took him by the shoulder and tried to push him toward the hatch. “You’re obviously loopy on painkillers. Go to bed, I’ll take the rest of your watch shift—”

Zoro shook Sanji off, but grabbed his wrist before he could run. “Stop fucking deflecting for five fucking seconds, would you?”

This was probably the first time Zoro had been fully alone with Sanji since he’d his injuries, there in that quiet candlelit room, mid-Onigashima. What am I to you? Zoro had wanted to ask him then, but the words had come out stilted, a coward’s way out. The answer, apparently, had been that he was the man Sanji trusted enough to kill him when push came to shove. But all that really showed was that Sanji didn’t understand what he was to Zoro.

Maybe Zoro could show him. It was a stupid idea. But caution had never been Zoro’s strong suit, had it?

And there were things out there even they weren’t strong enough to beat. Who knew when a chance would be the last?

“…not in the mood,” Sanji was saying. “If you’re going to be a grump about it, I will tell Chopper, and then—”

Zoro slipped a hand around to the nape of Sanji’s neck, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Sanji’s breath hitched. His lips were soft, because of course they were, his tongue warm. He tasted of spearmint, with just the slightest lingering aftertaste of nicotine. Savor it, Zoro told himself. This would probably be the only time.

“Like I said,” Zoro’s voice was rough when he pulled back. The kiss had been chaste, and short, and Sanji hadn’t kissed back. Out of surprise or repulsion, Zoro didn’t dare try to guess. “I really don’t want to kill you.”

Sanji stared at Zoro with a knitted brow and a single visible eye that was far too raw. “Marimo… Zoro. What…?”

Zoro held up a hand and shook his head. “I don’t need you to say anything, I just—”

Maybe Zoro was high on painkillers. This had been a silly thing to try. Sanji didn’t want him like that, couldn’t. And knowing the Cook, he would only get all bent into shape freaking out and acting weird around Zoro, or trying to pity-handle him with kid gloves.

The thing was, Zoro had lived so much of his life alone. Parents he could barely remember, Kuina like a flash of lightning, with their shared dream as the echoing thunder, and then at last Luffy and the rest of the Strawhats.

Yet it was Sanji who pushed him to be better. Sanji was his partner in propelling Luffy to the top. Sanji was the one he could rely on to keep the others safe when he couldn’t. Sanji was there with the hot meal at the end of a hard day and the begrudgingly but fondly relinquished sake.

Sanji was a hundred afternoons in a hundred tiny island towns in spring, summer, fall, winter, sampling ingredients and handing Zoro package after package to balance on his shoulder, laughing and teasing and lighting up the day with the brightest and most genuine smile over the smallest bullshit. Sanji was kind, and Sanji was hard, but he was also really soft, so fucking soft, and he’d left them for that wedding, and then he’d just shown back up again, and they hadn’t talked about that or anything before suddenly Sanji was asking Zoro to kill him.

Sanji was nakama to Zoro, but also something else, something Zoro was terrified to name, yet Sanji wanted to die. Sanji wanted to die by Zoro’s hand. Sanji didn’t understand that underneath all their bickering and friction, Zoro did not actually dislike him.

Zoro didn’t dislike him so goddamn much.

“Why?” Sanji said, when Zoro couldn’t find the words. Then, with a strange, building anger, “Are you fucking with me about this?”

“Huh?” Now Zoro was the one confused. “About what?”

The diable jambe rage flared behind Sanji’s eyes. This time, he was the one to hook his hand around the back of Zoro’s neck. “Don’t start what you don’t intend to finish, asshole.”

And then Sanji’s lips were on Zoro’s, hot and wet and desperate. Zoro made a sort of choking noise, but then he was bringing his hands up, one between Sanji’s shoulder blades and the other at his waist.

Sanji ran hot beneath the skin, and there was a flaming intimacy to the fact that Sanji wasn’t in his usual multi-layered suit, but soft pajamas, easy to grab a handful of and move out the way. Zoro’s brain had disconnected, and he was running on autopilot, almost the same as when they fought. Heat, instinct, split-second reactions.

Sanji was more aggressive with his kissing than Zoro would’ve thought he’d have been. Not that Zoro thought about it… much. But Sanji kissed like a man starved. Like he wanted to swallow him up before Zoro could push him away.

“Cook,” Zoro said when Sanji shifted his head to come back in at a different angle. Zoro felt drunk, the room spinning, his heart going a million miles an hour. He put a hand to Sanji’s chest. “Cook, hang on. Hang on a sec.”

“Mm-mmn,” Sanji shook his head and chased after Zoro’s lips again. His hands were fisted into the fabric of Zoro’s coat, knuckles white.

“No, Sanji, wait.” Zoro’s thoughts and movements lagged. He could get lost in the Cook. Sanji had always said he got lost easily, and if this was what he’d meant, well. Yeah. Zoro made himself grab Sanji’s wrists. “Are you…? You’re okay with this?”

“Shut up,” Sanji snapped, and his eyes were pressed close. “Shut up, shut up, you started it. Do you want to or not?”

Zoro hadn’t even realized there was more on the table. But Sanji seemed… out of sorts. And this wasn’t just some random hookup on a random island. And kissing, or—or more—hadn’t really been why Zoro started this, anyway.

“I need you to understand the gravity of what you asked me to do in Onigashima.” Zoro took Sanji’s hands in his and pressed their foreheads together. “I will kill you if you’re ever not you. But it’s going to hurt me. If you die, you’re fucking hurting me, and you’re hurting everyone else on this ship, and it’s going to be your fault. Do you get it? We—I—need you, Cook.”

Zoro wasn’t expecting the knee to the gut.

He’d closed his own eyes to have the courage to turn off his filter and actually let the words come, broken as they were. But suddenly Zoro was stumbling back, only landing in a defensive stance out of a mix of practice and instinct. Sanji’s face was twisted in shadow, his leg alight.

So much for Sanji’s demand that Zoro not push himself, he thought, but it was with a certain fondness. He launched himself into the fight with as much commitment as ever.

I take you seriously, he tried to say with each kick blocked. I’d fight with you like this forever, he said with each retaliating swipe of his blade. And when Sanji was the one to end the fight on top, straddling Zoro’s waist on the crow’s nest floor, the night outside quiet and still, Zoro loosened his grip on his swords and bared his throat: Please. He hoped Sanji could hear him. Don’t leave me yet.

“Do you mean it,” Sanji croaked, voice barely audible from above Zoro.

Like a man possessed, Zoro moved his hands back to Sanji’s hips. He gripped the muscle, lithe and hard, and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Sanji’s pajama pants. “Let me show you.”

Sanji’s face looked like it had been cracked open. He’d always been expressive, quick to rage or sing the praises of any woman who so much as sneezed in his direction, but usually there was a certain performative quality to it. Here, alone in the middle of the night with Zoro, breathing heavy from their spontaneous spar, Sanji’s expression was as raw as a fresh wound.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving Zoro’s, Sanji rolled his hips.

Zoro felt a cocktail rush of shock, giddiness, and relief. Sanji didn’t hate him, he wasn’t repulsed. And maybe Zoro could get his point across. He could make Sanji feel good.

And then Sanji would think twice about leaving again, through death or otherwise.

“Good.” Zoro’s breath came out in a husk. If Sanji wanted to frot on the floor, that’s what they would do. Zoro’s cock was already filling at the feeling of Sanji’s groin pressed against his. “That’s right. Take what you need.”

Sanji keened, a pathetic whine of a sound for someone whose pants were still on, and his face dropped forward so that the curtain of his hair left a shadow over even his visible eye. Zoro felt Sanji’s cock hardening beneath the soft flannel of his pajamas, obvious.

“You like that?” Zoro heard himself say, and Sanji nodded, the motion frantic and small. Even in the dim moonlight, the flush deepening across his face was apparent. “You like someone to talk you through it?”

“Please.” Sanji pressed his groin harder against Zoro’s. “I—I can’t—”

Zoro wasn’t sure precisely what Sanji couldn’t do, because he cut himself off, but even if this hadn’t been what Sanji meant to say, Zoro knew one thing to be true: Sanji always had trouble asking for what he needed.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Zoro leveraged himself up so that he was sitting, his arms tucked under Sanji’s and wrapped around his back, with Sanji still straddling his waist—now literally sitting spread across his lap. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me know if there’s something you don’t want, okay?”

Sanji stilled against him, but eventually, after a long moment, buried his face against the crook of Zoro’s neck and nodded.

“Okay, then,” Zoro said, affirmative. “C’mon, Cook. Keep going.”

And slowly, almost shyly, Sanji moved against him again.

“Good,” Zoro echoed, once Sanji found his rhythm again. “You feel so good, Curls.” You make me feel so good. So good now. So good always.

“Hah,” Sanji’s breath was hot against Zoro’s neck. “Zoro.”

“That’s right,” Zoro said, unable to resist the flare of possessiveness. “I have you. You’re okay. You’re here with me. I want you to feel good, you deserve to feel so good, Sanji.”

Sanji’s hips stuttered. “Zoro, will you—?”

Again, he cut himself off from saying whatever it was he wanted. Zoro tightened his grip with one hand, and moved the other to knot his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Sanji’s neck. “You can do it. Whatever it is, you just have to say it the once.”

Sanji mumbled into the side of Zoro’s neck, still rolling his hips, even as the rhythm had gone uneven. “Fuck me.” Then, as if Zoro hadn’t heard him or fully understood, “Not just like this. I mean, really fuck me.”

Zoro had already been rock hard in his pants, but hearing Sanji ask for more—for everything—nearly sent him over the edge. He had to tighten his hand in Sanji’s hair and breathe with intention to avoid coming on the spot.

“Fuck, I want to,” Zoro exhaled. “But we don’t have any—”

Sanji was already shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can take it.”

“Sure, but you shouldn’t have to like that,” Zoro told him. “It’ll hurt.”

“It’ll be fine, Zoro, please.” Sanji still couldn’t look at him, it seemed, but every time he called Zoro by name, Zoro felt a mix of relief and confidence that Sanji hadn’t forgotten who he was here with, or hopefully wasn’t pretending Zoro was someone else. Suddenly, he tensed. “Unless, you don’t—?”

“I told you, I want to, Cook.” Zoro clutched him closer, tighter. “Me, I like a little pain. You sure you don’t wanna fuck me?”

Again, Sanji hesitated. Then, quietly, admitted, “I want it with you inside me. I don’t want it to hurt, but if we stop now, I’m going to lose my nerve.”

“Then should we—?”

“No!” Sanji pressed his hips down hard again and squeezed his strong thighs against Zoro. “Please, you said I’d only have to say it once.”

That, Zoro had. “Okay,” he said, loosening his grip on Sanji’s hair to rub what he hoped were soothing circles on his back. “Okay, Sanji.”

What happened next was quiet, almost somber. Zoro had no idea if this was a one-time thing, or if Sanji would want to do it again. At the bare minimum, Zoro needed Sanji to understand that he was not nearly as easy to discard as he seemed to think he was. It would be up to the Cook, when this was said and done, whether it would be okay for Zoro to put other thoughts and feelings of affection out there, or if their relationship needed to stay as it was, this lone night between them left as a passing dream.

They’d so rarely even called each other by their given names before. Yet now here they were, separating just enough so that they could help each other from the confines of their clothes, before settling back into the same position.

Zoro had no idea if Sanji had ever been with a man before, but he didn’t dare spook him now by asking. The most he could do was quietly guide the Cook back on top, figuring it would be easier on Sanji if he was the one to control their pace.

“Ready?” Zoro asked, as Sanji balanced over his lap. Zoro had one hand braced under Sanji’s thighs to partially help hold him up, not that Sanji needed the help, what with all his leg strength. The other hand brushed over Sanji’s perineum, fingers ghosting the nervous furl waiting to let Zoro inside.

“Yeah,” Sanji breathed. “C’mon.”

Zoro started with a finger. Or he tried to start with a finger, but fuck, Sanji was tight, especially with no lube. It quickly became clear that the Cook hadn’t taken it like this before; he didn’t know how to.

“Cook,” Zoro broached, hesitant. Now he was going to have to be the one to say what needed to happen. “I can’t just shove it in.”

“Why the fuck not?” Sanji snapped, and it was fire hiding fear.

“You’re going to have to help. It’s not hard, exactly, just—just bear down, if you can, on my finger. Like, push a bit.”

“I’m not trying to take a goddamn shit.”

“Obviously,” Zoro said. “But it’s the same hole, so it’s gotta open up the same type of way.”

“You’re a crass fucking bastard, aren’t—oh, shit,” Sanji hissed, but he was doing it, what Zoro had asked, bearing down on his finger and taking him up past the second knuckle. “Oh shit, oh shit, fuck.”

“You’re okay,” Zoro said, back to soothing. “It’s just me.”

“Feels weird,” Sanji said.

“I know. It will for a minute.”

“You do this a lot?” Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Zoro thought he heard a note of jealousy in Sanji’s tone.

“Not so much, now,” Zoro said. Not since their two-year separation, anyway. After Thriller Bark, really. No matter how seriously he’d thought he had taken himself before, that had been when their adventure had stopped being all fun and games. Hooking up with random strangers just to scratch an itch felt like time wasted when he should have been training.

Sanji took that at face value, not pressing further with more questions. Or maybe he was just too distracted by having something in his ass. But things went smoother, then, and the two went quiet again, as Zoro slowly worked Sanji open, and Sanji got comfortable enough on one finger, then two, then three, to begin rocking his hips again.

“Think I’m ready,” Sanji murmured, and Zoro knew it was true because Sanji had begun to duck his head again, hiding his face.

“M’kay,” Zoro said, mouth suddenly dry. He was good at maintaining focus, generally speaking. He’d had a lot of practice. But more or less ignoring his own arousal while he zeroed his attention in on Sanji had been the most edging he’d endured in recent memory. “I’m going to—there.”

As the head of Zoro’s cock pressed against Sanji’s entrance, meeting resistance at first, but then popping past the first ring of muscle and sliding in, Sanji whined, harsh in the back of his throat.

They had to go slow, without lube, but somehow that made the experience all the more erotic. It had something to do with the intentionality of it: the fact that Zoro couldn’t just fuck Sanji hard and fast and be done with it. No, he had to work his way in slow, gentle, with Sanji really the main one in control, doing his best to take him.

“There,” Zoro said, when he was fully seated at last. Both of their breathing came out heavy. “You did it, Curls.”

“‘Kay.” Sanji sounded out of breath, and perfectly overwhelmed.

Zoro laughed, fond. “You feel okay?”

“Feel full,” Sanji answered, slurring his words like he was drunk.

“Yeah,” Zoro told him. He already had his arms around Sanji, and pressed him closer to his chest, both for support and for something like a hug. “You want me to move, or do you need to ride?”

“Fuck,” Sanji breathed a laugh, sounding slightly more coherent. “You actually have a filthy fucking mouth, don’t you? Who knew, Marimo.”

Zoro, if possible, felt his face grow hotter. “Shut up. I’m trying to make it nice.”

Sanji’s eyes softened. “You are.” He planted a soft kiss between the furrow of Zoro’s brow. Then, tentatively, he levered himself up… and back down. “Fuck.”

Zoro tensed. “Feels okay?”

“Burns a bit,” Sanji admitted, but that didn’t stop him from moving again. “Feels good, though. Needed it.”

Sanji had begun to sound drunk again, and Zoro doubted Sanji would be saying anything at all if he hadn’t managed to at least loosen the oh-so-tight control he usually kept on any display of vulnerability.

“You did need it, didn’t you?” Zoro tried. Sanji had seemed to like it when Zoro talked to him like that earlier. “Needed something inside, filling you up.”

“Yeah,” Sanji admitted, as he got to the point where he could finally start to bounce a bit. “Needed to… mmmh…”

Zoro moved both his hands to Sanji’s hips, gripping hard and helping to support his weight as he lifted himself up and down. “Needed to what, Cook? Tell me.”

Sanji shook his head. “Can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Zoro said. “You’re fucking yourself on my cock now, the least you can do is admit to us both why you needed to so bad.”

“Fuck you, Marimo,” Sanji said, but at the same time, he fucked down hard, taking Zoro as deep as he could go and grinding until he let out a sob.

“Shh, shh,” Zoro said. Maybe Sanji didn’t need harsh words right now. He could antagonize the Cook during sex another time. If this ever happened again. “Never mind, Sanji. Whatever it is you needed, take it. It’s yours.”

Sanji went quiet, then, and focused on fucking himself. Zoro was glad to let Sanji use him like this. The Cook felt amazing inside, but more than anything, it was a relief Zoro hadn’t known he needed, having Sanji here and safe and home. He didn’t want to hurt Sanji, but in that moment he also couldn’t help but rock his own hips up too.

“Ah!” Sanji gasped out. “Feel you. I feel you. Zoro.”

“I’m here.” Zoro clutched Sanji tighter. “Not fucking letting you go again.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, don’t let me go again, please, keep me.”

Zoro only lost their rhythm for a moment at Sanji’s words. The Cook was clawing at Zoro’s back, his neck, his hair, trying to find purchase, and he didn’t seem to realize what he’d said. Zoro wasn’t going to force them to stop now, though; they’d done enough stopping and starting.

“Mine,” Zoro said. “Ours. Fuck, Sanji.”

And then Sanji was spilling, hot and wet, across Zoro’s chest. His legs shook in Zoro’s grip, and he was crying out into the crook of Zoro’s neck, likely to try and muffle his reactions, not that anyone else would be nearby at this hour.

Zoro only had a second before he wouldn’t be able to hold back anymore either. He tried to lift Sanji off, but Sanji tightened the grip of his thighs around Zoro’s hips. “No, no, don’t,” Sanji said.

“Cook, I’m gonna—”

“Do it, just like this, please, fuck—”

Zoro couldn’t stop himself; his balls tightened, his cock pulsed, and he came hard inside the Cook. It took forever, and there was a certain mortification to it that had never existed with his previous partners. It was hard to imagine Zoro coming inside was something Sanji would have wanted, let alone asked for, yet here they were.

When it was finally done, Sanji sank, boneless, into Zoro’s arms. Zoro let him for a while, but knew from experience if he didn’t pull out soon, Sanji would end up feeling too overstimulated.

“Cook.” Zoro nudged his face against Sanji’s. Petted his hair. “C’mon. Let’s lay down.”

Sanji made some sort of noise that Zoro took as an assent. He whined a little when Zoro lifted him off his cock, and grabbed after him when Zoro tried to leave for just a moment to grab a towel to clean them both up, but eventually, Zoro got them both settled and comfy on the long bench against the wall.

Sanji had gone oddly pliant, letting Zoro manhandle him and barely giving any indication that he heard anything Zoro was saying besides a soft yes or no. That was fine; lots of people got that way after sex.

But Zoro couldn’t help but feel a spark of panic that Sanji would come back to reality and immediately freak out over what they’d done. That was the risk Zoro had assumed when he’d kissed Sanji in the first place. But having affection rejected after a kiss was a lot different than regret after spontaneous sex with a crewmate. Especially for someone like Sanji, who at least publicly, had never made any statement of attraction toward another man.

“Hey.” It was Sanji’s voice, as rough as if he’d just smoked half a pack. He was lying on the bench with his head in Zoro’s lap, the moonlight cutting across his face. “Will you get my cigarettes out of my pocket?”

Zoro stared at the Cook for a long second, then scoffed a laugh. Of fucking course. With a roll of his eyes, he gently lifted Sanji’s head from his thigh and got up to get the cigarettes and lighter. “Never change, Cook.”

Sanji was silent when he returned. He sat up, lit up, and took two long contemplative drags, before dropping his head back on Zoro’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Zoro,” Sanji said, as serious as Zoro had ever heard him.

“Took me like five seconds,” Zoro said, even though he knew Sanji wasn’t just talking about grabbing the cigarettes. He itched his stomach, only to find a sudden wetness there. “Ah. Shit.”

“What?” Sanji said.

“Think I popped some stitches.”