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The fever had come on like a thief in the night, slipping past Sanji's defenses while he slept. Now, the world swam in a haze of heat and light, each breath tasting of copper and regret. He lay tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second, feverish membrane, and everything hurt with a dull, persistent ache that radiated from the marrow of his bones.
Well, he had it coming, with how many hours he had put into working himself into the ground because of his little restaurant—his pride and joy, his dream come true against all odds (especially his genitor’s disgust; Zeff, on the other hand, his real father, oh. He had been so proud.) He'd worked so hard, so tirelessly, to achieve this, and now his body was punishing him for it.
But it was fine. He could handle a little fever.
What he couldn't handle, however, was Zoro.
His boyfriend, bless his disastrous, well-meaning heart, was attempting to nurse him back to health with all the grace of a rampaging bull in a china shop.
"Still breathing, cook?"
The voice, a low rumble that usually sparked irritation, now felt like a distant shore in the fog of his illness.
Sanji cracked open an eye. Zoro stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the blinding hallway light, holding a steaming mug with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb. He wore that constipated look of concentration he got when trying to do anything domestic.
"Not thanks to whatever that smell is," Sanji rasped, his throat feeling like it had been scoured with sandpaper. "What did you do, set fire to a garbage can filled with your fucking gym socks?"
Zoro grunted, stepping further into the room. The smell intensified, a pungent mix of something vaguely herbal and something unmistakably burnt. He placed the mug on the nightstand with a clatter that vibrated through Sanji's skull.
"Fuck off, asshole. Here. Drink."
"What," Sanji managed, the word scraping his throat, "the fuck is that?"
The word was a gravelly rumble, and Sanji forced open both gummy eyes to find Zoro standing by the bed, looking at the mug that steamed with an ominous dark liquid. The swordsman's brow was furrowed in concentration, as if navigating a particularly treacherous strait, rather than simply approaching a sickbed.
Sanji tried to sit up, but the motion sent a dizzying rush of blood to his head, a vertigo of light and shadow. He collapsed back against the pillows with a groan.
"Tea. For your throat. And your... fever." Zoro approached the bedside, closer this time, and poked at the mug that rattled with a clatter that made Sanji's teeth ache. "Read somewhere you're supposed to sweat it out."
Sanji eventually found himself half sitting up, half lying down, and caught the mug between his shaky hands. The aroma hit him first—not the fragrant Earl Grey he made himself in the morning or the occasional soothing chamomile he would have prepared for himself at night, but something earthy, bitter, with an undercurrent of what could only be described as wet dog. Sanji pushed himself up on one elbow, the room tilting precariously.
"What did you put in that, swamp water?"
Zoro scowled, a familiar knot forming between his brows. "It's herbs. From Chopper. Said it was good for... you know." He gestured vaguely at Sanji's entire being. "Your condition. Fever and shit.” He let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Just drink it, shitcook. I slaved over a hot stove for that."
He gestured to the door, where the faint smell of something burnt still lingered like a ghost. Sanji tried to imagine Zoro "slaving" over anything besides a bottle of sake: the image was a cartoon, a caricature of domesticity that was almost funny enough to distract him from the pulsing ache behind his eyes.
Almost.
"My 'condition' is that I'm dying," Sanji rasped, his throat a raw, desiccated channel. "And that smells like something you'd use to polish your swords, not ingest. This is poison, right?" he wheezed, shoving the mug away. "You're trying to kill me and collect the insurance money, aren't you, you moss-headed bastard?"
He shivered, a sudden, violent tremor that shook the frame of the bed, despite the oppressive heat that seemed to emanate from his own skin.
Zoro grunted, a sound of exasperated affection, and sat on the edge of the mattress. The dip in the bed was a small and solid anchor in Sanji's swirling world. "If I wanted money, I would have already gutted you with Wado a long time ago. Cmon, just drink it, Curls. It's supposed to help."
He maneuvered himself closer up and put an arm behind Sanji's back, his touch surprisingly gentle as he propped him up against his chest. Sanji's head lolled against Zoro's shoulder, and he could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his boyfriend’s heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was a counter-rhythm to the frantic pulse in his own temples. Zoro's scent, clean sweat and steel, cut through the miasma of sickness and burnt herbs.
Zoro pressed the rim of the mug to Sanji's lips once again, and this time, the liquid—still scalding, still bitter, with a complex, earthy undertaste—was somehow… not entirely unpleasant. Sanji swallowed, the hot liquid searing a path down his abused throat and pooling in his stomach, a strange warmth spreading in there that had little to do with his fever.
"See?" Zoro murmured, his breath warm against Sanji's ear. "Not so bad." He set the mug down, a little too hard, the ceramic hitting the wood with a sharp crack, but Sanji was too exhausted, too... strangely floaty, to care.
"Your bedside manners," Sanji mumbled, the words slurring, "could use some work, Marimo."
Zoro's hand, calloused and warm, came to rest on his forehead. The heat of his palm was a shocking relief, despite Sanji burning up.
Suddenly, the room tilted, the patterns on the wallpaper blurred into a kaleidoscope of muted colours, and Sanji’s head lolled back against Zoro's shoulder. A different kind of heat began to bloom beneath his skin, a slow, liquid flame that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with the solid, unmoving presence of the man holding him. The shivering stopped, replaced by a thrumming hum that seemed to vibrate from the base of his spine.
Zoro shifted, settling more comfortably on the bed, and the movement sent a jolt of awareness straight through Sanji. He could feel every point of contact: the hard line of Zoro's thigh against his hip, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight friction of his shirt against Sanji's bare, sweat-slicked back—
—the outline of his half-hard cock.
"You're still burning up, cook," Zoro said, his voice a low rumble that resonated through Sanji's entire body. But there was a new note in it, a roughness that scraped against Sanji's nerve endings like a whetstone. Zoro's thumb stroked over Sanji's temple, a slow, deliberate motion that did little to cool the fever and everything to fan the flames licking at his insides.
"Maybe," Sanji breathed, the words barely a whisper, "you're not doing it right." He turned his head, his nose brushing against the stubble on Zoro's jaw.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the solid presence of the body against him, the calloused hand now resting on his thigh.
"Am I not?" Zoro muttered. He set the mug aside once again, a careless clatter on the nightstand. His other hand came to rest on Sanji's chest, palm flat over the racing heart there. "Your engine's running too hot, cook."
It was a clumsy, inelegant metaphor, and in Sanji's feverish state, it felt even worse. His body was a finely tuned machine, a thing of flame and steel and precise motions, and now it was malfunctioning, over-revving, threatening to tear itself apart from the inside.
Zoro's touch was a grounding force, and a calloused palm pressed against the stuttering machinery of Sanji's ribcage. But then the touch shifted, changed. His thumb began to move, a slow, deliberate circle over the peak of Sanji's nipple, sending a jolt of electricity through the fog of illness. It was an unexpected spark, a flicker of something other than sickness.
Sanji gasped, a sharp inhale that was half pain, half surprise.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he breathed, the words barely a whisper as his nipple hardened painfully. "Trying to jump-start my corpse?"
But the protest was weak, a paper shield against the sudden rising tide of heat in his groin. His body, traitorous, arched into the touch, and his pussy gushed slick.
Zoro grunted, a noncommittal sound of pure, unadulterated well... Zoro. He leaned closer, his breath hot and humid against the shell of Sanji's ear, smelling faintly of sake and something else, something metallic and clean, like freshly polished steel.
He’d probably been cleaning his swords while Sanji had been asleep.
"Maybe. Just trying to help with the fever, Curly," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind Sanji's earlobe. "Chopper said you need to sweat it out, remember?" His other hand slid from Sanji's forehead, tracing the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing over the stubble-rough skin (two days of not shaving, and Sanji felt like a caveman.) "You're all tangled up. Fever's got your wires crossed. Maybe we need to… reset the system."
The idea was ludicrous, medically unsound, the kind of half-baked logic only Zoro could conjure: itt was probably the stupidest thing Sanji had ever heard.
And yet, and yet.
The heat in his blood started sharpening, gaining an edge, a new focus. The shivers that wracked his frame were no longer just from the cold sweat that slicked his skin; they were from anticipation.
Zoro's hand left Sanji's face and moved lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen. The muscles quivered under the touch, a reflexive response to the stimulation. Sanji was a mess of contradictions: burning up and freezing up, exhausted and strangely wired up, repulsed by the thought of contact and yet craving it with a desperation that bordered on pathetic.
"Maybe later," the blond-haired man whined despite the molten waves pooling in his stomach and between his legs. The wet patch spreading through his underwear definitely was not because of Zoro, no, never. "Too tired right now, Mossy." The cook's head fell back onto Zoro's shoulder, the shivers increasing. "Besides, you'd probably drop me with how clumsy you are, or break something, since I can’t hold you back with my strong legs."
Zoro's response was a chuckle, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through Sanji's back, making him shiver even harder. He leaned back further, his body melting against Zoro's like warm wax.
Then the hands left, and the sudden absence of contact was a physical blow to Sanji’s already low mental health. He nearly cried out, a sound of pure loss, but Zoro was already moving, shifting on the bed, maneuvering them with a surprising grace that belied his earlier movements (and Sanji’s stupid assumptions.) Sanji found himself on his back, Zoro hovering over him, their faces inches apart.
"Relax," Zoro murmured, but the command was useless. Sanji was a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once. Zoro's hands were on him again, and this time they were stripping away the damp, clinging sheets as well as his clothes, useless fabric of a barrier to the heat building between them.
"I'm coooooold, Marimo, please, I don't wanna fuck right nowww—"
"I'm changing you into clean clothes, dumbass," Zoro interrupted, but there was no malice in his tone. He was focused, his movements economical, as he stripped away the sweat-soaked underwear and replaced it with a pair of clean, loose-fitting pajama pants. The sudden coolness of the clean fabric was a shock to Sanji's pussy, but it was a fleeting sensation. Zoro was already pulling him close again, their bodies flush against each other.
Oh.
Not even a remark on the mess in his underwear.
"You gave me your hoodie," Sanji almost sobbed, gaze hazy.
He was swimming in the familiar green fabric, the scent of Zoro—a sharp mix of steel, sweat, and something earthy—enveloping him like a physical blanket. It was a ridiculous sentiment, a maudlin thought brought on by fever, but it was also true. He was wearing a piece of Zoro, and it felt like a promise.
"It's not even clean," Zoro grunted. "Wore it to the gym yesterday. Enjoy, pervert."
"Asshole," Sanji slurred, but it was a term of endearment.
He was melting, boneless against Zoro's solid frame. The swordsman's hands were on his back, rubbing slow, firm circles into the tense muscles. It was a simple gesture, but it was also incredibly intimate, a silent conversation of touch and trust. It was the kind of touch that said, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You can relax now, I’ve got you.
"You're still too tense," Zoro murmured, his lips brushing against Sanji's hair. "Relax. Let me help."
And then his hands were moving again, a slow, deliberate descent that made Sanji's breath catch in his throat. Zoro's palms were rough, calloused from years of wielding steel and wood, but they were also warm, incredibly warm, and they left a trail of fire in their wake.
They did not stop. They slid down, down, down to the waistband of Sanji's pajama pants. His calloused fingers toyed with the drawstring, a deliberate tease that made the cook's hips twitch upwards in a silent plea. He was already so wet, so ready, and the thought of Zoro's fingers on him, in him, was like a drug, a potent cocktail of pain and pleasure that was the only thing capable of cutting through the fog of illness.
Zoro's other arm came around him, a band of steel across his chest, pulling him completely flush against the swordsman's body. The heat of him was a furnace, a solid, unmoving wall of muscle and bone that was a stark contrast to Sanji's own trembling form.
"Told you," Zoro's breath ghosted over the shell of Sanji's ear. "You're too hot. Your brain’s melting out… well, if you had a brain to begin with—"
Sanji elbowed him in the side, earning him a small “ow! Fucking hell, Curls!” in exchange.
Sanji's mind was too foggy to process anything anymore. He was hot, yes, but the heat was different, now. It was a fever of another kind, he already knew; a slow burn that was centered in his groin, a throbbing ache that was a welcome distraction from the pain in his head and the rawness of his throat.
He felt Zoro's hands on him again, and this time, they were moving with a purpose that was unmistakable.
"You're so fucking handsome," Sanji whispered, the words a breathy sigh. He wasn't sure if he was talking to Zoro or to himself, but it didn't matter. He was lost in a haze of sensation, and the only thing that mattered was the fingers that curled around muscles, the body that was pressed against his, the heat that was threatening to consume him whole.
"Shut up," Zoro grunted, but there was no heat in his words. "You said not now, your horny dog, so iIf not now, let's go to sleep."
Fucking cold shower.
"Brilliant, Professor Roronoa," Sanji rasped, the words scraping their way out. “You rile me up and now you leave me dry? Knew you had no fucking heart.”
Zoro's fingers carded through sweat-soaked blond hair, gently working through the tangles. "Smartass. Even when you're dying."
"M'not dying," Sanji mumbled, the protest weak even to his own ears. "Just... recalibrating."
Zoro chuckled. "Yeah, well, your calibration is all fucked up."
He shifted, rolling them slightly, so Sanji was now half-sprawled across his chest. The position was awkward, but Sanji was too weak and too comfortable to care. He was a boneless heap of limbs, a pile of overheated meat that was slowly beginning to cool.
The hands on him became less about exploration and more about soothing, long, slow strokes down his back, over the curve of his ass, up the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. They were calming, a steady rhythm that was lulling Sanji into a state of semi-consciousness.
He was drifting, slowly, slowly...
"You're such a good boyfriend," the cook slurred, the words a jumble of consonants and vowels. "Even if you do try to poison me with your weird-ass tea."
Zoro snorted, but his hands never stopped their ministrations. "It was good for you. Had... uh... anti-inflammatory properties."
"Is that what they're calling swamp water these days?" Sanji shot back, but the retort lacked its usual bite.
Zoro's hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their slow, steady rhythm. "Just go to sleep, cook."
Sanji wanted to. He really did. But the fever was a stubborn beast, and it wasn't ready to relinquish its hold. He was hot, then cold, then hot again, a pendulum of misery that was slowly driving him insane. And through it all, Zoro was a constant, a solid, unyielding presence that was both a comfort and a frustration.
"Zoro..." Sanji's voice was a broken whisper. "I'm so cold."
Zoro's arms tightened around him, pulling him closer, until there was no space left between them.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against Sanji's temple. "I know."
Then, the hands were back, and they were doing something else. They were pushing away a bit of the fabric of Sanji's pajama pants and his own hoodie until there was just a small square left for some skin-on-skin contact. It was a shock, a jolt of electricity that arced through Sanji's body, and a welcome one at that.
“My mom always said skin to skin was the way to go. Even if you’re a fucking horndog right now.”
"Y'know, when I was a kid, my dad... left me to tough it out... I was so cold..."
The confession was a raw, unexpected thing, a glimpse into the carefully guarded fortress of Sanji’s past.
Zoro’s heart ached, a sudden, sharp pain between his ribs.
His hands traced the lines of Sanji's body, mapping out the territory with a familiar, practiced touch. They were not gentle, not in the traditional sense, but they were not rough either. They were simply... Zoro’s. They were strong, calloused, and unapologetically possessive. And Sanji, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, felt something other than pain.
He felt safe.
He felt seen.
And he knew he’d never be left out in the snow to “tough it out” ever again.
"Zoro, I..." The words caught in his throat, a lump of emotion that was too big to swallow.
"Shhh," Zoro whispered, his breath warm against Sanji's ear. "I got you. Sleep, now, shithead."
He did. He had him, in every sense of the word. And as Zoro's hand closed around his chest, a sure, steady grip that sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure coursing through him, Sanji knew that he was home.
Sanji woke up a few hours later to a dark bedroom and the feeling of Zoro's leg tangled between his, the steady thrum of a heartbeat against his back. He blinked, slow and heavy. The fire in his blood had been banked to a low, simmering glow, the world no longer tilting on its axis. A thin film of sweat still clung to his skin, but it was the clean sweat of freedom, not the feverish poison of sickness.
He experimentally flexed his muscles, wincing at the dull ache that was a familiar echo of the last few days. A bone-deep exhaustion had settled in, the kind that came after a good fight or a long night, but underneath it was a core of quiet stillness. The frantic, thrumming energy of the fever had been burned out, replaced by a languid, contented hum. He turned his head slightly, the scent of Zoro's skin, clean and musky, filling his senses. The green fabric of Zoro's hoodie was a soft prison around him, smelling of steel and sleep and the man himself.
A soft snore rumbled against the nape of his neck. Zoro was dead to the world, his arm thrown heavy and possessive over Sanji's waist, their bodies still fused together in the tangle of sheets.
And still...
Sanji shifted, his movements slow and deliberate, and felt the hard line of Zoro's cock press against his thigh. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, a sudden, sharp spark of desire that was so intense it was almost painful. His body, a finely tuned instrument of sensation, responded instantly, a flush of heat spreading through his veins that had nothing to do with sickness.
He was sore, yes, a deep, annoying ache that was a testament to his sickness, but he wasn’t broken.
He wanted more.
The thought was a surprise, a rogue wave in the calm sea of his recovery. He was exhausted, for sure, his body still fighting off the last vestiges of the virus, but the desire was a primal, undeniable force he couldn’t fight off. It was a hunger that had been sharpened by deprivation, a thirst that had been slaked but not quenched.
He simply couldn’t swallow it down, not right now.
He rolled over slowly. Zoro grumbled in his sleep, his arm tightening around Sanji's waist, pulling him closer. The swordsman's face was softened by sleep, the usual harsh lines of his expression smoothed out, the three gold earrings glinting in the faint light that filtered through the window. He looked vulnerable, exposed, a stark contrast to the formidable warrior and teacher he was during his waking hours.
Sanji leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Zoro's ear.
"Zoro," he whispered, his voice a husky rasp. “Babe.”
He knew how much Zoro hated the term, but he also knew the effect it had on him, a surefire way to bypass the defenses of the sleeping man.
Zoro's response was a low grunt, a half-hearted attempt to push him away.
"Go 'way," he mumbled, his words slurred with sleep. "M'tired, Curls."
"I know," Sanji murmured, his hand sliding down Zoro's chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle that were a familiar, welcome landscape. "But I'm not."
His fingers found their destination, a light, teasing touch that was enough to rouse the beast. Zoro's eyes snapped open, the single, dark eye that was visible in the dim light fixed on him with a mix of confusion and annoyance.
"What the fuck, Sanji?"
Sanji simply smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He didn't need to say anything else. His actions spoke for him, a language that was more eloquent than any words. He tightened his grip, a firm, decisive stroke that was enough to make Zoro gasp, a sharp, ragged intake of breath.
Immediately, his dick went rock hard.
"Shit, cook," Zoro breathed, his sleep-addled brain finally catching up with the situation. "You're gonna be the death of me."
Sanji's laugh was a low, throaty purr.
"Hmmm," he said, leaning in to brush his lips against the column of Zoro's throat. "Not my fault if your dick is up, uh?"
He shifted, rolling them both until Zoro was on his back, Sanji straddling his hips. He was still wearing Zoro's hoodie, the fabric bunching around his waist, and the sensation of being wrapped in his scent, in his clothes, was an aphrodisiac in its own right. He ground down, a slow, sensuous roll of his hips that sent a jolt of electricity arcing between them. He was wet as fuck—painfully so—and judging by the way Zoro was responding beneath him, he wasn't alone in his condition.
Zoro's hands found his hips, guiding their rhythm, and they were off, a slow, delicious climb toward oblivion. The fever was gone, replaced by a heat of a different kind, a fire that burned hot and bright.
"God, your fever's down if you can ride me like that," Zoro grinned and thrust up, meeting Sanji halfway, his fingers digging into the skin of his hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Sanji didn't respond, at least not in words. His body, however, left out a symphony of gasps and moans and whispered pleas. His hands were everywhere, mapping out the familiar territory of Zoro's body with a hunger that was as much about reclamation as it was about pleasure. He was marking his territory, staking his claim, and the thought was a dark, possessive one that sent a shiver of lust down his spine.
He rode Zoro hard, using his thighs to control the pace and depth of their thrusts. The position gave him an unparalleled view of the swordsman, his face a study in lust and desperation.
Sanji reveled in it; in the power he held over this man who was so strong, so untouchable in every other aspect of his life.
"Fuck, Sanji," Zoro groaned, his voice raw and gravelly. "You feel..."
"Shut up," Sanji hissed, leaning down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss. They were a clash of teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that was as much a part of their relationship as the tenderness they often shared. Zoro bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and Sanji tasted the copper tang of it on his tongue.
Spices burnt his lips, strong, intoxicating.
The pain was a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure, a reminder that this, too, was a kind of intimacy. They were a study in contrasts, in oppositions: but it was that very tension that made them work. It was the push and pull, the give and take, the constant struggle for supremacy that kept them both coming back for more.
Sanji's hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as the first tendrils of orgasm began to unfurl in his gut. He could feel it building, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to sweep him away. He fought against it, wanting to prolong this moment, to savor it for as long as he could as the squelch of his pussy grinding on Zoro's hard cock filled the room. He was a musician coaxing a symphony from an instrument, a chef crafting a masterpiece from raw ingredients, and the end result was a thing of beauty and power.
But Zoro was not to be outdone. His hand found Sanji's ass and started teasing his hole; the cook’s vision blurred, the world narrowing to the point where their bodies were touching, all friction and heat and unbearable pleasure.
"Zoro," he whispered, his voice a broken, breathless thing. "Zoro, please."
Zoro growled, a sound that was more animal than human. He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. Sanji could feel his control slipping, the iron will that kept him in check fracturing under the weight of his own desire.
But Zoro’s finger did not stop, and the swordsman flipped them over, getting settled between Sanji’s legs in easy moves that made the cook almost dizzy.
His other hand slid down, down, down to the waistband of Sanji's pajama pants. His fingers toyed with the drawstring again, like before, and the swordsman smirked when he noticed the big, wet patch that spread around Sanji’s crotch.
"You're not too weak to get your cunt soaked for me, yeah?" Zoro rumbled, a low, possessive sound that vibrated through Sanji's very bones. The swordsman's other hand finally dipped below the waistband of Sanji's pajama pants, fingers brushing through coarse, damp curls before encountering the slick, swollen heat of Sanji's pussy.
The contact was a jolt—
A live wire snapping against wet skin.
"God, cook, so slutty for me."
Sanji arched into the touch, a keening sound tearing from his throat. Zoro's fingers were not gentle; they were exploring, possessive, scratching the swollen folds as if rediscovering a territory he had not set a foot in over so long.
One finger pressed inside, a thick, insistent pressure that stretched him open, and Sanji bucked, a sob catching in his chest. The fever had left him sensitive, raw, every nerve ending exposed and humming.
"Mossy," he gasped, the name a prayer and a curse. "Don't you dare stop."
A second finger joined the first, a scissoring motion that sent sparks of pleasure-pain ricocheting through him. Zoro’s thumb found his clit, circling it with a rough, demanding rhythm that had Sanji seeing stars. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful, a blade honed to a razor's edge. It was exquisite, a sweet agony that burned away the last of the fever-fueled fog, leaving only a crystalline clarity of sensation.
"Gonna make you forget you were ever sick, cook," Zoro growled, his lips a hot brand against Sanji's throat. He withdrew his fingers, leaving Sanji’s cunt feeling achingly empty, a hollow void that demanded to be filled. The anticipation was a physical thing, a tightening in Sanji's gut, a clenching of muscle and bone. “Gonna fill you up so good it’s gonna take.”
Then Zoro was moving, readjusting himself between Sanji's legs, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Sanji's entrance as he pulled down his boxers harshly.
He didn't push in right away. Instead, he teased, rubbing the head through Sanji's slick, slick folds, coating himself in Sanji's arousal and wetness. The friction was maddening, a slow, deliberate torment that had Sanji writhing on the sheets, his fingers clutching at Zoro's shoulders, nails digging into the skin.
"Fucker, please," Sanji begged, the word ripped from him, a raw, desperate plea. "Zoro, please, I'm gonna fucking come right now—"
The plea was finally answered. Zoro entered him in one slow, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming, a fullness that bordered on painful, a stretching that felt like he was being split apart and remade at the same time.
For a moment, Sanji couldn't breathe, couldn't think. There was only the feeling of Zoro inside him, a hot, hard presence that filled the void, a claim staked in the most intimate way possible.
Zoro, Zoro, Zoro.
Always fucking Zoro.
Zoro stilled, giving Sanji a moment to adjust, a surprising gesture of tenderness from a man who was usually anything but. His hands gripped Sanji's hips, grounding him, anchoring him to the present.
(He knew that, the following morning, he’d find circles of purples and blues scattered all over his hips like galaxies.)
The green-haired man looked down at Sanji, his single eye coated with a hunger that mirrored Sanji's own. He looked feral, a predator on the verge of a kill, and the sight was terrifying, intoxicating.
The fear, in there, made Sanji slick with desire.
"You okay, cook?" he asked with a grin. "You're so wet, baby. What a whore, you can't go on a day without a dick stuffing your pussy?"
Sanji's response was a choked sob.
"Fuck you," he panted, a weak retort that lacked any real venom. "Just move, you piece of shit."
His own hips moved of their own accord, a small, involuntary roll that encouraged Zoro to do the same.
And move he did.
Zoro set a punishing rhythm, a brutal, driving pace that was in perfect sync with the frantic beat of Sanji's heart. Each thrust was a deep, guttural slam that sent a shockwave of pleasure through Sanji's entire body. He was a vessel, a conduit for Zoro's desire, and the feeling was of freedom—of liberation.
He wasn't just being taken; he was an active participant, meeting Zoro thrust for thrust, their bodies a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and desire.
The hoodie, once a source of comfort, was now a suffocating cage. Sanji clawed at it, desperate to feel Zoro's skin against his own, desperate for the contact that was a language unto itself. Zoro seemed to understand, pulling the fabric over Sanji's head in one fluid motion, baring him to the cool air of the room.
His skin was flushed, a feverish blush that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with the man inside him. The sight of it, of Sanji's body, vulnerable and exposed—his top-surgery scars were incredible on their own, slightly raised and puffy still—seemed to ignite something in Zoro. His thrusts became harder, more erratic, a primal, almost violent display of possession that was terrifying to someone unaquainted with them.
But to them—
Oh, to them…
He was marking Sanji, branding him with each thrust, each gasp, each ragged breath. And Sanji, for his part, was a willing canvas, eager to be claimed, to be owned, to be signed.
The scent of their bodies, a miasma of sweat, sex, and the lingering tang of illness, filled the room. It was a primal smell, the scent of life and death, of creation and destruction; the smell of them, a unique, signature blend that was as much a part of their relationship as the constant bickering and the quiet moments of tenderness.
Sanji's hands were everywhere, clawing at Zoro's back from behind, leaving red welts on the tanned skin. He was a wild thing, untamed, a creature of pure instinct and desire. His mind was a blank slate, wiped clean of everything but the feeling of Zoro inside him, the sound of their bodies slapping together, the taste of salt on Zoro's chin…
"Fuck, fuck, Zoro! Zoro, please, hng—"
The words tumbled from his lips, prayer and curse alike.
He was close, so close, the coil of pleasure in his gut tightening to an almost unbearable degree—a string wound too tight, a note held for too long, and the release was going to be shattering—
Zoro's hand found his small, engorged cock, and that rough, calloused grip on it was the final push over the edge.
"Come for me, Sanji," Zoro commanded, his voice a low, guttural growl that was the final key, unlocking the floodgates of Sanji's release.
The world exploded, a supernova of light and colour and sound. Sanji's back arched, a bow strung to its breaking point, and a silent scream tore from his throat. His body convulsed, wave after wave of pleasure washing over him as he soaked Zoro’s cock and the sheets underneath them. He could feel himself clenching around Zoro, desperate, milking him—a final act of submission.
Zoro followed him over the edge a moment later, a hoarse cry tearing from his lips as he spilled himself deep inside Sanji. His thrusts became short, shallow spasms, pumping rope after rope of cum inside, painting his insides, marking his depths.
As the high of orgasm began to recede, a warm, languid feeling settled over them, a blanket of contentment that wrapped around their entangled bodies. The heat of their passion cooled, but the warmth remained as a steady, comforting presence.
They lay like that for a while, a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Their hearts beat a syncopated rhythm, two parts of a greater whole.
When they finally separated—barely an inch, Zoro still tucked inside Sanji’s cunt—the swordsman propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Sanji, a smirk curved at his lips.
"Still tired, huh?" he teased, brushing a damp strand of blond hair from Sanji's forehead, only for it to be replaced by a curl of heat that smelled faintly of burnt herbs and something earthy, clean—a reminder of the scent that had clung to Zoro when he'd carried Sanji home for the first time, strong arms and sure steps keeping him grounded.
Now, though, the fog of fever had lifted, leaving in its wake a crystal-clear clarity that was a heady, intoxicating rush.
The feeling, Sanji realized, was relief—a deep, abiding sense of gratitude and wonder. They'd made it through another storm, another trial, and they were still standing, still intact.
"Oh, fuck off, you animal," Sanji grunted, letting out a shaky exhale as his gaze wandered across the familiar planes and angles of Zoro's face—the crooked smile, the three gold earrings, the scar covering his left eye—a map of scars that told stories that had become their shared history, their love etched onto each other's skin, a tattoo of belonging that no one else could see or understand.
"Guess I should've fucked the fever outta you earlier," Zoro grinned, and fuck, that smug, self-satisfied smile always made Sanji want to punch him square in the jaw.
And maybe kiss him, swallow the smirk, replace it with a different kind of satisfaction, too.
Ugh, goddamnit.
His breath tickled against Sanji's cheek, smelling strongly of steel and a hint of coffee, the familiar post-workout scent that was a fixture of their mornings, of the times they spent at dawn on the rooftop, Zoro counting reps, Sanji counting Zoro's muscles.
Their little routines.
Their little moments.
Theirs, all of them.
"Those herbs sucked ass," Sanji mumbled, brows furrowing.
"Well, Chopper recommended the mix, so all complaints go to him."
"Are we even sure those are for fevers?"
"Might have been for your stupidity, I think," Zoro shrugged, leaning closer, the tip of his nose brushing against Sanji's as his fingers trailed lazy patterns across the expanse of his stomach, pausing momentarily to trace the outline of the tattoo curled there before resuming their exploratory path downwards.
His touch was feather-light, a teasing caress that belied the strength coiled in his arms, the power hidden beneath his skin.
"You piece of shit," Sanji chuckled, a warm breath ghosting across Zoro's lips. "I can take you any day, marimo boy, just you wait."
His own fingers, calloused from years of working in kitchens, traced a line up Zoro's arm, along the corded muscles to the intricate inkwork snaking up to his shoulder, a constellation of dots and spirals and swirling lines that mapped out a life story written in black and blue ink.
In response, Zoro simply pressed closer, capturing Sanji's mouth in a searing kiss that stole the air from his lungs and ignited a fire in his blood. It was a clash of tongues and teeth, a battle for dominance, a continuation of the ongoing war they waged daily in every facet of their lives.
It was what made them work, what made them them, and Sanji wouldn't have it any other way.
("Maybe I was wrong about the tea," Sanji breathed, later, the words a slurry of sound. "It's... worked its magic. I think?"
Zoro's chuckle was a low rumble; a vibration that traveled through Sanji's entire body. "Told you so, dumbass. Even made you almost come in your pants like a teenager, uh?"
“Says mister Dick Hard Like A Fucking Rock, So Sharp It Could Cut Bread?”
“Hey, you ever think about fucking off, dartbrow?”)