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The air in Zoro’s small apartment is thick with heat and the scent of sweat, smoke, and something sweeter that always clings to Sanji’s skin no matter how many cigarettes he burns through.
Sanji’s thighs tremble as he sinks down again, slow and deliberate, taking Zoro to the hilt. He’s long past the days of blushing and stammering when he first started sneaking over here after midnight. Now he rides like he was born for it: confident, filthy, hips rolling in that perfect rhythm that makes Zoro’s breath catch every damn time.
Sanji’s thighs burn, but he doesn’t stop; he can’t. He rolls his hips in that perfect, filthy rhythm he knows drives Zoro insane, head thrown back, throat bared, cigarette long forgotten in the ashtray.
Zoro’s hands are braced on Sanji’s waist, thumbs digging into sharp hipbones, guiding but not forcing. He watches through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, until the pleasure coils too tight and he has to speak.
“Do they know, cook, hm?”
Sanji’s lashes flutter. He’s so far gone his voice comes out soft, syrupy. “Hmm?”
Zoro’s next thrust is lazy, indulgent. “Does Pudding know where her husband is right now?”
Sanji’s rhythm stutters for just a second. Color floods his face: ears, neck, chest, all the way down to where they’re joined. He ducks his head, blond hair falling over his eyes.
“No,” he whispers, ashamed and thrilled at once.
Zoro’s hands slide up Sanji’s back, slowing them both to something almost gentle. “Do any of the Charlottes know their precious son-in-law sneaks out to get fucked by a man?”
Sanji shakes his head, biting his lip hard enough to bruise.
“Your pompous father?” Zoro murmurs against his throat. “The great Judge? Does he know his perfect little prince is moaning another man’s name?”
Another shaky “no,” barely audible.
Zoro’s hands are iron on his waist, guiding, bruising, but his voice is deceptively lazy when it finally comes. Zoro was done hiding his desperate need for answers.
“They know you’re queer yet, cook?”
Sanji’s rhythm falters for half a heartbeat. He blinks down through the haze, flushed and panting. Zoro wanted to know if the man who gave himself up to Zoro’s mercy every night was actually aware of the reality of their nights together or still lived in the lies he wore in the day.
“What?”
Zoro smirks at the break, slow and sharp, eyes dark. He thrusts up hard enough to jolt a moan out of Sanji. They can work from here.
“Any of them figure out their perfect little prince likes taking cock yet?”
Sanji’s ears go scarlet. His hands scrabble for purchase on Zoro’s chest, nails digging in.
“Shut up—”
“Or do they still think you’re out here chasing skirts?” Zoro’s voice drops, cruel and velvet. “Still think you’re straight as your shitty cigarettes?”
Sanji makes a broken sound, half-sob, half-moan, hips stuttering. He tries to glare, but it melts into something raw and pleading.
“Answer me, curly.” Zoro sits up suddenly, chest to chest, one hand sliding up to fist in blond hair and yank Sanji’s head back. “Do they know you’re in here moaning my name like a whore? Or are you still hiding in that neat little closet you built?”
Zoro kisses him then: hard, claiming, swallowing the little gasp Sanji makes. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and serious. The teasing edge is gone.
Sanji’s whole body shudders. His eyes are glassy, ashamed, turned on beyond belief.
“No,” he whispers, voice cracking. “They don’t know. No one knows.”
Zoro’s expression shifts, something feral softening into hunger. He drags Sanji again into a bruising kiss, teeth clashing, swallowing the next whimper.
Then Zoro flips them.
Zoro’s weight pins him flat, heavy and perfect, one forearm braced beside Sanji’s head, the other hand still tangled viciously in blond hair. Sanji’s legs are hooked high over Zoro’s hips, ankles locked at the small of his back like he’s afraid Zoro might vanish if he lets go.
Zoro doesn’t give him time to breathe. He pulls out slow just to watch Sanji’s face crumple, then slams back in, deep and punishing, hips snapping with the kind of precision only a swordsman has. The headboard cracks against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm.
Sanji’s mouth is open on a silent scream, eyes rolled back, tears gathering at the corners from sheer overload.
“Say it,” Zoro snarls, voice shredded raw. “Say who you belong to.”
Sanji tries. He really does. But all that comes out is a wrecked, wet sob.
Zoro stops. Buried to the hilt, unmoving.
Sanji’s entire body jerks in protest, thighs clamping desperately around Zoro’s waist. He claws at Zoro’s shoulders, frantic.
“No…no, please –”
“Say it, Sanji.” Zoro leans down until their lips almost touch, until Sanji can taste the threat with the promise. “Tell me who owns this pretty little closeted queer ass.”
Sanji breaks so beautifully it hurts.
“You,” he gasps, voice cracking open. “Zoro, only you.”
Zoro growls, low and animal, and starts moving again, harder, faster, like he’s trying to brand the words into Sanji’s bones.
“Damn right,” he pants against Sanji’s throat, teeth scraping over the pulse hammering there. “No one else gets this. No one else ever sees you like this. Not your crew, not your family, not that fucking bride you left at the house you never sleep in…”
Sanji keens, high and desperate, hips bucking to meet every thrust.
“Say you’re mine,” Zoro demands, shifting his angle just enough that Sanji sees stars. “Say it while I’m fucking you stupid.”
“I’m yours,” Sanji sobs, tears finally spilling over. “I’m yours, I’ve always been yours, please,”
Zoro kisses him then, messy and devouring, swallowing every broken sound. His hand slips between them, wraps around Sanji’s leaking cock, strokes once, twice.
Then he asks again, soft, reverent pleading.
“Does Vinsmoke Sanji know?” he asks, voice low, rough with something raw.
Sanji stills completely, impaled and trembling, staring up at the man above him like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Or should I tell him?”
Zoro cups his face with one calloused hand, thumb brushing over a flushed cheekbone.
“Hm?” Zoro presses, softer now. “Does Sanji know that Roronoa Zoro is stupidly and hopelessly in love with him?”
The words hang between them like a struck match.
Sanji’s eyes go wide, glassy, lips parted on a broken breath. Something cracks open in his expression: relief, terror, adoration, all at once.
Zoro rolls his hips slow and deep, once, twice, watching Sanji fall apart.
“Tell me, cook,” he whispers. “Does he know?”
They come together that moment: Sanji clenching hard around him, arms wrapped tight around Zoro’s neck, face buried in green hair as he shudders through it, whispering Zoro’s name like a prayer.
Zoro holds him through the aftershocks, hands stroking down his spine, lips pressed to damp skin.
“I know.” Sanji finally breathes against his shoulder, voice soft and trembling.
Zoro huffs a laugh that sounds suspiciously wet.
“Good,” he mutters, tightening his arms until there’s no space left between them. “Then we’re even.”