Work Text:
Candlelit Nights
The Pirate Fucker was at the Baratie.
The Pirate Fucker was at the Baratie.
Sanji had been kicked out of the kitchen – again – to wrangle the new chore boy, and pulled up short when he saw the straw-hatted annoyance talking to the green-haired man at a table. The low hum of the chandelier lights overhead reflected off polished brass rails, and the scent of frying fish mixed with the faint tang of salt from the ocean breeze drifting through the open windows.
The din of cutlery against plates and murmurs of waitstaff moving between tables faded to a background hum as his attention locked. Sanji would recognize that face anywhere. That hair. Those gold earrings flashing under the chandelier light. The caramel color to his skin that Sanji wanted to taste.
With a choked sound in his throat, Sanji pivoted on his heel and fled.
He cut through the kitchen to the back stairs, took them three at a time, and threw himself behind his bedroom door at the top of the Baratie. His heart hammered wildly, sweat broke out beneath his arms, and his collar felt tight. The Pirate Fucker was in his restaurant!
Sanji sank on the edge of his bed, tugging at his tie. Fucking hell. He never, in a million years, believed that the Pirate Fucker would actually come to the Baratie. He’d imagined it, fantasied about it until he painted a sock, but didn’t think it would happen. But the man was here, now, sitting at one of the tables in a white t-shirt, looking like sex on toast. Toast that Sanji desperately wanted to eat.
Sanji spent many, many hours at the Red Den while on a supply run to the nearest island, watching skin snails in one of the back booths, ever since he’d figured out his dick could be used for more than just pissing his name off the side of the Baratie. Those snails taught him that, while he preferred women, sometimes a man would catch and hold his attention. Rare, but it happened, and he had the Pirate Fucker to thank for that.
He’d discovered the gay films by accident, pulling a title at random, letting fate decide his wank material for the short time he was in the booth. Pirate Fucker: The Warlord’s Favor seemed as good as any, expecting busty ladies at a fictional warlord’s command.
Instead, he found the Pirate Fucker. Young, green hair, tanned skin, hard stare. Oozing confidence and intensity. He’d battled the warlord – a beefy man with a thick mustache – with swords before going in for a killing strike. But the warlord asked for a favor before death – a final fuck. And it was given to him, over and over in a number of positions that showed absolutely everything. Gay porn at its most blatant.
Sanji came so hard he saw stars.
And an obsession took hold.
It took him many sleepless nights to get over the fact that he wasn’t as straight as he thought. When he went back to the Red Den, he purposefully stuck to skin snails that had titles like Lusty Ladies of the Sea and A Bounty of Breasts. But his sticky dreams kept going back to The Warlord’s Favor, starring himself as the warlord.
Finally, he gave in, tried another gay skin snail. It did nothing for him. Relief warred with the weird feeling of disappointment. He pulled The Warlord’s Favor again, thinking maybe it had been a fluke and it wouldn’t do anything the second time. But the second the green-haired guy came on screen, Sanji grew hard as a rock.
Sanji put cock and eyes together, checked the credits, and learned the name. His fingers flipped through the catalog and found a number of Pirate Fucker titles. Sanji picked Pirate Fucker: Bounty & Bone, pressed play, and came three times before the snail was halfway through. Apparently, it was the Pirate Fucker who did it for him, not any man fucking on screen.
Two years later, he’d find another man who’d turned him on, a trader who visited the Baratie, and he’d spend many a night on the man’s boat experiencing what he’d only seen on snails.
But his desire for the Pirate Fucker still held firm. He watched all the skin snails repeatedly. The Pirate Fucker hunted pirates, fucked them, then turned them in for bounties. Sometimes, the tables would turn and he would get fucked instead. Sometimes, he’d get paid in sex by the marines.
Sanji went as far as to purchase the exclusive Pirate Fucker magazine advertized at the end of one of the snails. It contained page after page of the Pirate Fucker in various states of undress, hard and soft, posed provocatively. One shot was post-fuck, on his knees, his hole red and swollen, leaking cum. The pages were sticky with Sanji’s own spend, corners well worn, the magazine falling open to his favorite page automatically.
And now the Pirate Fucker was here, on the Baratie.
Sanji lit a cigarette with shaky hands, knots in his stomach, semi pressing against his boxers. What was he going to say? How should he act? Could he get an autograph? Or a fuck? He made another sound in his throat and flopped back onto his bed. Smoke circled overhead. He needed to pull it together, so he didn’t make a fool out of himself.
The Pirate Fucker was on the Baratie. Sanji’s life would never be the same.
The Pirate Fucker’s name was Roronoa Zoro. Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro. The Demon of the East Blue. Sanji had read about him in the newspaper, heard about him from the diners – a feared swordsman with an impressive bounty hunting record.
He was also an idiot.
And about to get himself killed.
Sanji worked up the nerve to talk to the Pirate Fucker, using the redheaded beauty dining at the same table as an excuse. But then Zeff tried to fire him, embarrassed him with a kick to the head, and when he recovered, the long-nose got into it with him, trying to waste food. Then he had to wrangle the chore boy and by the time he returned to the dining room, the Pirate Fucker had left with the others.
He came back later, giving Sanji a second chance. But then he overheard them talking stupid, about going to the Grand Line, and the Pirate Fucker didn’t give a shit about the danger. That he’d already given himself up for dead the day he’d decided to become the greatest swordsman. And now he’d gone and challenged Dracule Mihawk, the actual World’s Greatest Swordsman, to a duel.
Sanji watched in horror as Mihawk slashed across his chest, a killing blow, and Sanji was screaming at him to give up his dream even though it was already too late.
But he’d survived. Mihawk hadn’t killed him on purpose, challenging him instead to grow and come after him again one day. A promise was made, and Sanji recognized the depth of it, almost admired it. Roronoa Zoro would not lose again.
And something in Sanji shifted, just a bit.
The Pirate Fucker was annoying as fuck. All he did was train, nap, and drink, with a few chores thrown in. His personality left much to be desired – practical, blunt, the complete opposite of Sanji. He scratched, belched, picked his nose, and left shit-stained underwear lying around the men’s room. The creak of the ship’s deck beneath their feet, the tang of salt air drifting through open portholes, the steady slap of waves against the hull, it all mixed with the stench of his laziness in a way that made Sanji grit his teeth.
Sanji could not believe he still had a crush on this man. His chest tightened at the thought, a strange flutter that made him adjust his apron, tug at his collar, and refuse to meet Zoro’s glance when the swordsman lounged nearby.
Sailing with the Straw Hat pirates as the crew’s cook, to chase his own dream, was something Sanji hadn’t expected. Sailing with the Pirate Fucker was something right out of his masturbatory fantasies. But fantasy and reality collided in a stinky, violent manner that drove Sanji up a wall.
The shitty swordsman liked to needle Sanji. Liked to cause fights. He’d poke at Sanji with dry, little jabs purposefully meant to rile him up. Sanji had seen the smirks. The anticipation of a hand on a sword hilt, ready to draw. The jerk’s seemingly lackadaisical state hid a devilish side that appeared reserved solely for Sanji.
Sanji was glad, actually, that he got to know the real person behind the porn. Sailing with the Pirate Fucker would’ve been a continuous case of blue balls and wet dreams that left Sanji a gibbering, wanting mess. Knowing that the only thing the two shared were the confidence and intensity allowed Sanji to be himself, rather than a walking hard-on.
After Foxy, he and the green-haired irritant found a balance. While trust was there before, it settled into reliance, into knowing they weren’t two members of the same crew – they were nakama. And in Sanji’s mind, the Pirate Fucker became Zoro. He caught himself thinking in fleeting, absurd moments, I can actually… like him. The real him. The breathing, sweaty, stubborn man who doesn't try to fuck me over all the time.
Water 7 complicated things. Zoro’s worry, clear over the den den mushi as Sanji sat on the sea train, turned that annoyingly hot swordsman into someone Sanji had to take seriously in a way that made his chest feel tight.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the strain beneath them, the barely restrained urgency, the way his voice sharpened when Sanji brushed off the danger like it was nothing. Zoro didn’t waste emotion. He certainly didn’t broadcast it. And yet he had. Sanji stared at the receiver long after the line went dead, aware that something fundamental had shifted. Want was easy. Lust was manageable. But this was something else entirely.
Thriller Bark confirmed it. Sanji arrived too late to the truth of it, but not too late to see the cost. Zoro swaying on his feet. Blood soaking into the earth. That stubborn refusal to fall. The attraction stopped being about abs and sword-callused hands. It became about the man who would break himself before letting the crew break.
Sanji meant to figure out what to do with that realization. But Sabaody never gave him the chance.
Sanji hated the Kamabakka Kingdom. Hated the pink. Hated the people. Most especially hated the dress. He’d been stuck in this hell for a year and a half now, surrounded by Okama, not a single cis-gendered lady in sight. While he was getting stronger, learning a lot, he had no desire to be anything other than what he was – a man who liked dressing as a traditional man, enjoyed the company of women and very few select men.
Sanji had a little cabin at the edge of the pink forest, a place to relax between fights. He’d gotten ninety of the ninety-nine recipes with six months to go. He was confident he’d get them all. He’d changed over time, gotten stronger, could use armament and observation haki, could even sky walk. While he had to suffer the dress, he’d physically put on more muscle, grew another inch, and his goatee finally filled in. He knew he looked good and he felt good. Like he could take on what the New World threw at them. In half a year, he’d be ready to rejoin his crew and together, they’d reach all their dreams.
He heard a ship’s horn, indicating the supply ship had arrived. Restocking came every month like clockwork and with it, new spank material. Sanji lived for these days. There were Okama on the island who were straight men who just liked dressing up as women, so the skin snails included straight porn.
Sanji was one of the first, as always, in the entertainment library once things had been cataloged. He didn’t make it a secret that he went right to the skin snails. He didn’t give a shit what the Okama thought. He was twenty-one, horny, and only had his hand for company.
Sanji flicked through the new snails, seeing what caught his fancy. He could check out two at a time. He’d long since stolen a snail projector to keep in his cabin, with zero guilt about it. They’d forced him into a dress, so they could shove it.
Sanji always went through all the titles before picking, and when his fingers reached the alphabetized Ps, a punched gasp came from his throat.
There was a Pirate Fucker title in the bin. A new title. One Sanji had never seen before. Pirate Fucker: Enemy Waters.
Sanji’s pulse sped up as he pulled the film. Fuck. Zoro.
He’d thought about Zoro off and on over the past year and half. More so at the beginning of the separation, worry gnawing at his gut over the injured swordsman. He’d forced himself to believe Zoro was fine, that he’d landed somewhere like Sanji, somewhere safe where he could get help and train, just like he hoped for the rest of the crew. He shoved the memory of that moment from Thriller Bark into the back of his mind, knowing dwelling on it was useless. He forced himself into routine, into training and survival, letting desire drift into the abstract fantasies that required no one’s safety or scars to consider.
So Zoro, like the others, faded into the background over time as Sanji concentrated on his own training – first fleeing non-stop from the Okama trying to shove him into a dress, then focusing on using haki and Attack Cuisine. It wasn’t that he’d stopped thinking about Zoro, just that life, training, and the Okama kept him busy enough to shove serious thoughts aside, leaving only the safe, controlled fantasies. Being surrounded solely by men also meant his desire for women increased tenfold and all his spank material centered around them. He hadn’t thought about Zoro in any way, sexual or not, all this time.
The library smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper. The quiet hum of the island waking up gave him the perfect cover to indulge without thought. Sanji went through the rest of the bin, but that was the only Pirate Fucker title. He checked it out and headed back to his cabin near the woods.
Sunlight stretched through the vertical windows, casting beams across the throw rug on the floor. The one-room cabin held a bed, couch, single table and chair, a modest kitchen, and a private bath. Sanji had the projector snail on the nightstand, aimed at a white sheet hanging on the opposite wall. There was a rushing sound in his ears as he set it up. Anticipation pulled beneath his ribs. He checked that the door was locked and the curtains closed over the windows before sitting on the bed. He pressed play.
The skin snail started like others – a bit of plot to tie the porn together. Darkened corridors. Flickering torchlight. The quiet sound of bootsteps against stone.
Then, the Pirate Fucker appeared. And holy shit, he was built.
Sanji stared, mouth agape, as Zoro came on screen. Shirt barely buttoned and straining over thick muscle, scar visible across his chest. Squared jaw, green hair beneath a black banana tied low across his brow. He walked like a panther, prowling down the shadowed corridor, a single sword in hand. But what threw Sanji the most was the scar cutting through Zoro’s left eye, sealing it shut.
This was not the Pirate Fucker Sanji knew as a teen. This was Zoro now.
A small noise escaped Sanji’s throat as the plot unfolded. Zoro had lost an eye. Zoro was built like a brick shithouse. Zoro had made porn while they were apart.
And it was fucking hot as hell.
Zoro battled through halls and dressed rooms, taking on a small cadre of faux marines. Upon defeat, he tied them up and fucked them, abusing mouths and holes, muscle upon muscule upon gleaming muscle on display. Thick shoulders, biceps as big as boulders, corded thighs that flexed with every thrust. Abs that could cut steel. And his gorgeous back, broad, strong, tight muscle shifting under golden skin.
Sanji came all over his bloomers, twice.
And his crush returned in full force.
Sanji sneaked in the procurement office late one night. The hallways were dim, lit only by the dull glow of lanterns and the occasional flicker of a candle. Outside, the faint roll of waves against the docks mingled with the distant calls of night birds. He located the upcoming orders list and added two Pirate Fucker titles to it. Both had been listed at the end of the Enemy Waters skin snail.
He nearly vibrated with anticipation when the next month’s shipment arrived at the island. He was in the library door the second it unlatched, going right for the new skin snail bin. Fingers flew through the titles until he found Pirate Fucker: Overpowered and Pirate Fucker: Candlelit Nights.
Sanji had jacked off to Enemy Waters so many times over the past month, he’d rubbed himself raw. He’d given himself this past week to recover, knowing new material was coming in. He’d returned Enemy Waters, only to immediately steal it, not wanting anyone else on this island to perv over Zoro in all his gorgeous glory.
Overpowered rivaled Gang of Four in Sanji’s horny mind. Hemmed in by towering bodies and brute strength, the Pirate Fucker lost, and the Colossus Crew carried off their prize. Tied up and helpless, the Pirate Fucker got gang banged for two hours straight, leaving him a drooling, cum-spattered mess at the end, hole bruised and gaping from repeated double-penetration.
Sanji came so hard and so many times, he pulled a cramp.
He repeated that one for two weeks solid, in between training and cooking up a storm. The Pirate Fucker was beautiful when he was abused. Sanji couldn’t get enough of it. His sticky dreams put him on the Colossus Crew, to join in on the lascivious action. He put the skin snail right up there in his top three, beside Gang of Four and No Quarter Given.
But then he put on Candlelit Nights, and everything changed.
Sanji gave himself a couple days off, focusing solely on obtaining his ninety-fourth recipe. Once secured, he’d decided to reward himself with a meal, a bottle of wine, and Candlelit Nights.
He set himself up, freshly showered, doors locked and curtains closed, nude with plenty of lube on hand. He hit play on the snail, and settled against the pillow for a good wank.
Immediately, it was noticeable that this skin snail was different. Instead of the usual opening action scenes, an exceedingly handsome gentleman in dark velvet, black hair tumbling over his shoulders, was seated in an armchair in front of a crackling fireplace, reading a book. A deep red rug spread in front of the fire. Candles lit the room, on the mantle, on standing candelabras, on the small table at the gentleman’s elbow.
The Pirate Fucker appeared, dressed in a loose black shirt and tight trousers, carring his sword. Sanji expected the battle to commence, for the thin story to unfold as all the titles did. But that didn’t happen. The Pirate Fucker sheathed his sword, removed it from his hip, and placed it atop the mantle amongst the candles. He toed off his boots, leaving them aside, and padded barefooted over to the gentleman.
He pressed finger beneath the gentleman’s jaw, tipped his head up, and brushed a slow, lingering kiss across his lips. “I’m home,” he murmured.
“Welcome back, love,” the gentleman said. And Sanji’s world turned upside down.
Candlelit Nights was a romance. Still a skin flick, but this was love-making at its finest. Soft, slow, sensual. Going from the chair to the rug, sprawled in the firelight. Tender, stroking, subdued sounds of pleasure floating in the air. Bodies twined, mouths sliding, gentle touches conveying a different kind of passion.
It was the first time Sanji climaxed with a tear in his eye.
He watched it, again and again, for a different reason. For the romance of it. The softness. The way it made his heart feel full when he spilled over his fist.
He wanted this. He wanted to feel love and be loved just like this.
But it was fiction. Fantasy. A skin snail. And he knew it was an illusion, but the wanting was real.
Sabaody bubbled around Sanji as he jumped ashore, pack full, and flicked off the Okama who’d given him a ride. “I never want to see you again! But thanks for bringing me here. Give my regards to Iva.”
Then he turned, hearts in his eyes, arms thrown in the air. “Viva Sabaody! Gimme them ladies!”
Ladies, ladies, everywhere there were ladies. Tall ladies. Short ladies. Curvaceous ladies. Busty ladies. Sanji was finally in heaven after spending two years in hell.
With all ninety-nine recipes under his belt, and the hundredth of his own making, he was ready to reunite with his crew and set sail for the New World. He hit Shakky’s Bar first, the agreed meeting place, to check in. Then, he set off shopping, wanting to get additional supplies based on his recipes, plus new clothes to fit his bigger frame. And everywhere he went, his eyes were delighted by the sight of cis ladies.
Grove 42 hummed with the restless rhythm of the archipelago. Mangrove roots arched overhead like the ribs of some colossal beast, their resin bubbles drifting skyward in shimmering spheres that caught the sunlight and fractured it into soft prisms. The air carried salt from the distant docks, mingling with tar, fried street food, and the sharp green scent of sap. Merchants called from beneath canvas awnings; shipwrights hammered somewhere out of sight; pirates and tourists and fortune-seekers flowed through the broad, root-laced avenues in a constant tide.
“Hey, fisherman, how’s the catch today?” Sanji called as he approached the man standing beside fishing gear along the mangrove-shadowed shore. “Can you sell me something cheap?”
“Ahh!” the fisherman cried. “He’s gone. The green-haired guy is gone. This is terrible.”
Sanji paused, something going tight behind his ribs. “Green hair? What happened?”
“There was this fellow with three swords. He said he was bored and wanted to go fishing. I told him he could come with me if he wanted.”
“Green hair and three swords. With a haramaki around his waist?” Sanji pressed.
“That’s right. And he only had one eye,” the fisherman said. “Do you know him?”
“We’re… well acquainted,” Sanji said, taking a drag on his cigarette. So the one eye was really true.
“I told him to go aboard the fishing boat. I’m sure I said that! But when I got here, I saw him sleeping on the deck of the pirate ship that was right next to it,” the fisherman went on. “I yelled, but it was too late. The pirate ship was already coated and went underwater. It’s probably on its way to Fish-Man Island, gone forever.”
Sanji shook his head. “That idiot.” Now they probably wouldn’t see him until they reached Fish-Man Island themselves.
Then the sea detonated.
Water erupted in a towering plume, white and violent, as though something beneath the surface had struck upward with impossible force. A massive galleon burst from the depths, not sailing but rising, its hull already split clean through. The cut was precise, catastrophic. A single, merciless line that had sheared the ship into two groaning halves.
Timbers screamed as they separated. Masts tilted at impossible angles, rigging snapping taut before whipping loose. Barrels, crates, and splintered planks scattered into the air, suspended for a heartbeat against the vertical rush of spray. The sea cascaded off the broken decks in sheets, turning the vessel into a waterfall of wreckage.
Below, figures scrambled along the shoreline, dwarfed by the scale of it. The halves of the ship hung for one suspended second – caught between ocean and gravity – before beginning their inevitable plunge back into the churning foam.
And sitting on the severed mast, wet and crabby, was Zoro.
Dressed in an open long-coat, red sash, with his three swords at his side, Zoro jumped from the mast to the shore. Water slicked his green hair back, dripped along his solid jaw, dotted the scar over his eye. He was much bigger in person than he’d appeared on screen, broader, muscle packed on muscle that the wet clothing did little to conceal.
Sanji’s pulse rushed in his ears. He saw the moment Zoro caught sight of him – a brief flash of surprise across his sharper, more chiseled features – and then the swordsman crossed the distance with the loose, lethal glide of a panther. Up close, the scar that bisected Zoro’s eye held a faint silvered sheen, the mark of time. It drew the eye instead of repelling it. If anything, it made him look more dangerous. Predatorily handsome didn’t begin to cover it.
Everything inside Sanji tightened at once – lungs, throat, chest – as if some invisible fist had closed around him. The air felt thinner. Louder. The resin bubbles drifting overhead seemed to shimmer in slow motion, and the sounds of Grove 42 receded into a dull, distant roar.
Zoro stopped just in front of him, close enough that Sanji could see the faint crease between his brows, could smell steel and sea salt and something uniquely Zoro beneath it.
“’Bout time you showed up, cook,” Zoro said in his low, graveled voice.
Sanji’s vision tunneled. Heat flooded his face so fast it bordered on violent. His pulse spiked again, this time downward, draining instead of surging. There was a split second where he considered dignity, holding it together, offering some cutting remark about moss-headed idiots and delayed reunions.
Instead, blood poured from his nose in a dramatic, unstoppable stream.
“I want a candlelit night,” he managed, swaying slightly as the world tilted sideways. “With–”
The sentence never finished. His knees buckled. The enormous pressure behind his eyes burst into white static, and the last thing he registered was Zoro’s startled curse before everything went dark.
Sanji came around in an unfamiliar room, sitting on an unfamiliar bed, with a familiar face frowning at him from a chair beside him. A bloodied towel sat beside a bowl of pinked water on the nightstand. The door to the basic bedroom was shut. His shopping bubbles crowded the corner, floating along the ceiling. A breeze stirred the curtain over the partially open window. Outside, the sound of shoppers and vendors competed with the ocean lapping against the mangrove shore.
It didn’t take him long to remember what happened. Mortification swept over him, heating his cheeks. He fumbled for a cigarette as he sat up, propping himself against the headboard. “Shit,” he muttered, flicking his lighter until it caught. He cut a glance at Zoro, pretended he just hadn’t embarrassed the hell out of himself. “Where are we?”
“Fisherman’s place above his shop,” Zoro said. He appeared a little dryer, coat gaping open as he leaned forward and pinned Sanji with his gaze. “What did you mean, you wanted a candlelit night?”
Fuck. He’d really said that. Sanji stumbled over a denial. “Tch. You had waterlogged ears. And who cuts a galleon in half just to make an entrance? Overcompensating much?”
Zoro’s eye narrowed, but he didn’t bite. “Tell me what you meant, cook.”
“Didn’t mean anything–”
“Tell me,” Zoro repeated, voice flat and unyielding.
Sanji drew on his cigarette, thought about kicking Zoro in the head instead of answering. Zoro’s expression darkened, knowing exactly what Sanji was thinking. “I’m still going to make you tell me,” he said.
“Pft. Like to see you try,” Sanji said, but he knew it was futile. They’d go round and round until Sanji told him anyway. “Fine. I know you’re the Pirate Fucker.”
Zoro sucked in a sharp breath, posture stiffening. A red flush swept across his nose and cheeks. “How long?”
“Since the start,” Sanji said. “Before I even met you.”
“Have you told anyone?” Zoro asked, voice clipped, jaw tight.
Sanji let out a sharp, disbelieving huff of laughter. “Obviously not. But you’re a porn star with a bounty. Not sure how you expect to keep that a secret.”
A muscle ticked in Zoro’s cheek. “I don’t need the crew judging me,” he said, tone even to the point of brittleness. “Or you.”
Sanji blinked at him, incredulous. “You think I’d judge you? How do you think I know you’re the Pirate Fucker?”
Zoro caught on quickly, but it didn’t ease the tension in his shoulders. “It’s a job. I do it for the money. Don’t confuse that with who I am.”
Sanji snorted. “I know. You’re a smelly, over-practical walking plant who gets lost in a toilet stall. An irritating oaf who thinks scratching himself in public is acceptable behavior. You train too hard. You push yourself too hard. And you’re soft when it actually matters.”
His voice thinned at the end despite himself. He looked away, jaw tight. “Missed you, shitty swordsman.”
Zoro didn’t answer immediately. From the street outside came the bustle of midday. Vendors calling, footsteps on stone, a burst of laughter carried upward on the breeze. The curtain shifted lazily, stirring the air between them.
When Sanji finally glanced over, Zoro was watching him without his usual scowl, something steadier in his gaze.
“Missed you, too,” Zoro said after a moment, voice low and unguarded. “Love cook.”
Sanji focused on his cigarette as if it required technical precision, drawing in slow, measured pulls just to give his hands something to do. Smoke curled toward the ceiling in thin blue ribbons, catching in the slant of afternoon light spilling through the window.
Beside him, Zoro shifted in the wooden chair. It gave a protesting squeak beneath his added bulk, the sound sharp in the quiet. He stilled immediately afterward, like even that small noise had been more than he intended.
The mirror mounted on the back of the bedroom door reflected them both – two men angled slightly away from each other, close enough to touch, neither doing it. Sanji noted, with faint relief, that his face wasn’t streaked red with blood. Small mercies.
Finally, Sanji couldn’t take it anymore. “I gotta ask – how did you start doing it?”
Zoro didn’t respond right away, but then he huffed lightly. “Caught a small time bounty. Said I could make more doing a skin snail with him than turning him in. He was right.”
Sanji ran through the titles in his head to the earliest dated ones. “Turncoat?”
Surprise etched across Zoro’s features. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
Color rushed into Sanji’s face, quick and merciless. He cleared his throat, trying not to squirm. “Might be a fan,” he muttered.
A slow grin spread across Zoro’s lips. “Never pegged you for anything but straight.”
“I’m selective,” Sanji sniffed.
Zoro laughed, a short, rusty sound that blended with the distant cry of seagulls drifting in through the open window. “What’s your favorite one?”
Sanji flicked ash into the tray, refusing to look at him. “Candlelit Nights,” he admitted, the admission scraping on the way out.
“Figures.” Zoro leaned back in the chair, wood creaking beneath him. “Romantic idiot.”
Sanji shot him a sharp glare. “Overpowered and Gang of Four are also at the top of my list.”
Zoro’s brow arched over his working eye. “Like seeing me get reamed, do you?”
“I like seeing you get put in your place,” Sanji drawled, tone pointed.
Zoro leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, gaze narrowing with interest. “You’d probably like to do that to me, huh?”
Sanji’s breath caught. Heat rushed beneath his open collar, crawling up his throat and into his ears. His mind snagged on what Zoro had just implied, replaying it with increasing disbelief. Did he just– was he actually–
Zoro’s mouth curved, smug and knowing, as if he could read every flicker of shock crossing Sanji’s face. “How much beli do you have?” he asked lightly.
“What?” Sanji managed.
“Told you, it’s a job,” Zoro said. “I'll blow you right now for beli.”
Sanji stared at him. For a long second, the world narrowed to the shape of Zoro’s mouth – steady, unapologetic – and the lazy confidence in his posture. There was no visible hesitation. No punchline waiting in the wings.
Sanji’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. “Wouldn’t that make you a sex worker?” he said finally, though it came out rougher than intended.
Zoro shrugged one shoulder, unbothered. “Doesn’t bother me.”
The air between them tightened, thick as summer heat. Sunlight streamed across the floorboards, catching on the faint haze of cigarette smoke still lingering near the ceiling. Outside, someone shouted in the street below, the sound bright and distant, absurdly normal.
Sanji swallowed. His mind raced ahead of him in treacherous directions – candlelight, scarred skin, that low voice gone quieter. His fingers twitched at his side. “You really think I’d pay you?” he managed, forcing a scoff.
Zoro’s eye sharpened, assessing. “Wouldn’t you?”
The challenge hung there – less about money now, more about nerve.
Sanji felt the answer coil hot in his chest.
Zoro grinned, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bet you can’t take what’s coming,” he said, voice low, echoing the bravado from Overpowered. Just before the Pirate Fucker lost his choreographed battle with the Colloseus Crew and became a prize.
For a moment, Sanji just stared, wanting to fight with rationality. Then, his grin came, sharp and reckless, cutting through the knot of nerves in his chest. His fingers flexed as he stabbed out his cigarette, sparks scattering like tiny warnings. Zoro was going to challenge him, was he?
Every instinct screamed caution, but he shoved it aside, letting audacity take the wheel. “You really want to see what I can do?” he said, tone edged, almost teasing.
Zoro’s gaze narrowed, a glint of daring igniting in the depth. “I think I can handle it,” he said, voice even lower, smug but sure, like a predator circling a sparring partner who’d just drawn first blood.
Sanji’s pulse jumped. The space between them crackled, not just with tension, but with the thrill of a fight neither fully expected to stay innocent.
Sanji slowly reached into his breast pocket, took out his clipped fold of beli. He peeled off several bills and dropped them with insolence on the bed beside him. A smirk curved the corner of his lips. “There you go… Pirate Fucker.”
Zoro plucked the bills from the bed with a slow, deliberate hand, letting his fingers brush the edge of Sanji’s leg as he did. His smirk deepened, eye locking on Sanji’s with that infuriating, amused glint. “Careful,” he said lightly, voice gone velvet-soft. “You might regret what you just handed me.”
Sanji’s chest tightened, breath catching, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in, daring him, letting the unspoken challenge coil between them. “Blow me.”
Zoro’s tongue flicked over his lower lip. Every nerve in Sanji’s body set alight. The room seemed smaller now, the air thick with that teasing, dangerous game they’d been playing. Every movement, every glance, was a provocation – unspoken, electric, and entirely theirs.
Zoro’s hand reached for Sanji’s belt, deft fingers unbuckling it, undoing the button, unzipping the fly. He reached beneath the material and withdrew Sanji’s semi-hard cock from the slit in his boxers. With a glint to his eye and a still-smug smirk on his lips, he pulled the chair closer to the bed, bent over Sanji’s lap, and swallowed him whole.
Sanji sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath. Zoro was doing it. He was actually doing it. Wet heat surrounded his cock, a tongue slid around the head, flicked the glans. Fire slammed through Sanji’s veins, lust clenching his stomach with a swift jolt. How many times had he imagined the Pirate Fucker sucking his cock? How many sticky dreams had he had involving that mouth, that body, that gorgeous specimen of man?
Sanji thumped his head back against the wall behind the bed, swallowing a moan. His cock firmed fast, filling Zoro’s mouth. Zoro didn’t use his hands, taking him deep with ease. Wet, sloppy sounds filled the room, saliva slicking his length and pooling at the corners of Zoro’s mouth. The sight of the green head bobbing over his lap, the tight stretch of his lips around Sanji’s cock, drove Sanji wild with desire.
Sanji's fingers tangled in Zoro's green hair, guiding the rhythm as Zoro's head moved up and down, his cheeks hollowing out with each intense suck. Zoro's tongue swirled around the sensitive head, teasing and tasting, before taking him even deeper, his throat constricting around the thick shaft. Sanji's hips bucked involuntarily, pushing deeper into Zoro's mouth, his control slipping as pleasure coiled tight in his belly. Zoro's hands gripped Sanji's thighs, holding him steady, his eye locked on Sanji's face, gauging his reactions. It was almost too much for Sanji to bear, trembling with the effort to hold back.
Zoro's pace quickened, his head bobbing faster, his suction intensifying. Sanji couldn’t prevent the low, harsh sound that escaped his throat. His breath hitched, his body tensing as he neared the edge. Zoro's eye fluttered closed, his lashes brushing against his cheek, lost in the act of pleasuring Sanji.
Sanji's grip on Zoro's hair tightened as he felt the familiar tension building in his balls, his orgasm rushing towards him like a tidal wave. He pushed deep into Zoro's throat, holding Zoro there as he came undone. Sanji's body shuddered, his back arching as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Zoro swallowed reflexively, his throat working around the pulsing cock, taking every drop of Sanji's release.
Sanji slumped against the headboard, breathless and spent. Zoro slowly pulled back, his lips sliding off Sanji's cock with a soft pop, his chin and mouth glistening with a mix of saliva and semen. He looked up at Sanji, his eye heavy-lidded and satisfied, a smug smirk again playing on his lips.
Sanji's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. He reached out, cupping Zoro's face, his thumb brushing away a stray drop of cum from the corner of Zoro's puffy, reddened mouth. "Fuck," he breathed. "That was... incredible."
Zoro leaned into the touch, his gaze never leaving Sanji's. "Glad you enjoyed it," he murmured, his voice ragged and low. “Anytime you want it, you know what to do.”
Sanji should be insulted. Should have been drawn out of the moment at the reminder that this had been an exchange, sex for beli. But his body floated on a haze of endorphins, and he really couldn’t give two shits. The Pirate Fucker just sucked his brains out his dick. It was a long-standing fantasy come true. He refused to overthink it right now.
Zoro’s expression turned deliberately cheeky. “Don’t worry, I won’t charge extra for the encore.”
Sanji choked on a laugh at the ridiculously cheesy words. “What the fuck, marirmo?”
Teeth flashed with a grin. “‘You thought that was impressive? You haven’t seen half of me yet.’”
“No, stop, you’re making my ears bleed,” Sanji laughed. “Don’t quote your own skin snails.”
Zoro straightened, not bothering to be anything but a smug bastard. “‘Bounty collected… and the reward is all yours.’”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sanji wheezed, shaking his head between laughs. “You’re ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”
Outside the window, a cart rattled on the street, someone shouted after a runaway dog, and the faint clatter of wares exchanging hands floated into the room. Sunlight drifted through the open window, dust motes dancing lazily in its rays. For a moment, everything felt ordinary and calm, the absurdity of their banter lingering only as a faint smile between them.
Zoro clapped his hands on his thighs before he stood. “Well, I still want to go fishing.”
Sanji tucked himself away, buttoning up swiftly. “No way.”
“Why not? You’re not my boss.”
Sanji stood, glancing in dismay at his blood-stained shirt, fastening his suit coat to hide the worst of it. “Forget it. If I let you wander around the island, you’re just going to get lost. The others should be here any time now.”
“Tch. Number seven telling number one what to do.”
Sanji gaped at him. “What?! You’re ranking us according to when we all got here? It’s a miracle you got here first! So don’t let it go to your head.”
Zoro wiggled a finger in his ear. “Sure. Sorry… number seven.”
The familiar ire swelled inside Sanji, sweeping away anything else lingering after what just happened. “That’s it! I spent two years training my legs in hell for this. I’m going to gut you like a fish.”
Zoro flicked the seal on his katana. “Bring it on. I’ll cut you in half.”
There was a faint knock on the door, interrupting them before a fight could ensue. “Everything all right in there?”
Sanji lowered his leg. “We’re good,” he called, shooting Zoro a dirty look. “This isn’t over.”
Zoro’s grin was sharp, part annoyed, part wicked. “Sure hope not.”
A familiar, hot pull stirred in Sanji again. And he knew Zoro was right.
Sanji had spent a small fortune between Fishman Island and Dressrosa, paying more beli than he cared to count during the long stretches at sea. He knew the Sunny had spent even longer traveling between islands, yet somehow, the time had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
The Pirate Fucker lived up to his skin snail reputation, and Sanji was more than satisfied. It felt incredible, and absurdly fun. Zoro loved to ham it up, grinning smugly, tossing out lines from his snails, and being a general asshole between heated moments. Sanji found himself enjoying it just as much for the laughter and mischief as for everything else.
So he was still paying for it, so what? Zoro was just so… idiotic, it made it worthwhile. Sanji was getting to see a side to him that he’d never seen before – light, playful, while still being incredibly sexy. Who knew that sex would be the thing that smoothed their rough edges around each other? Yes, they still fought. Zoro still needled him with that dry, acerbic tone. He was still a stubborn, too practical, uncouth ass. But Sanji realized he liked him – truly liked him – beyond the physical.
Naturally, that meant Sanji’s life fell apart – his psyche thrown through the wringer, his unwelcome past returning to gut him in the cruelest ways. He didn’t see Zoro for a month and braced himself, certain the swordsman would be furious once the crew reunited on Wano.
He found Zoro alone in Amigasa Village before the raid, practicing with his new sword, Enma. The tiny settlement nestled in a clearing of bamboo forest, the remains of grass‑thatched huts leaning against a slow river that whispered over smooth stones, and beyond it the tall stalks swayed in the warm breeze under a pale Wano sky.
Dressed in a yukata, a cigarette tight between his lips, Sanji went to face the music. “Brook said you were pissed at my leaving,” he said.
“Some,” Zoro told him, sitting down on a tree stump, Enma resting across his lap. “It was bad timing.”
“Next time my shitty birth family forcibly reinserts themselves into my life, I’ll send them my schedule first.”
Zoro snorted. “Yeah. Would help.”
Sanji rolled his eyes. Here he was worried, and Zoro didn’t seem to care. “We good?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” Zoro said. He shot Sanji a half-smile. “Glad you’re back and not married, shit cook.”
Sanji took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily into the sunlight, staring out over the cliffside toward the ocean where waves broke softly against rocks. The tension in his shoulders bled out. He cut a glance at Zoro, resplendent in a white yukata with purple sash, with a floral green overcloak. A pulse of want slid through Sanji, but not for the casual fun they’d been having before his life took a painful detour. He really wanted to be held, be with someone who wasn’t disgusted by him, even if it was still an act.
“I have beli,” Sanji said with feigned casualness. “If you’re done training, for now.”
Zoro’s brow lifted, then he shrugged. “Sure. I could use a break.”
They found their way into one of the abandoned huts at the edge of the village, away from everyone. Sanji gathered oil as they passed through, and the beli disappeared into Zoro’s pocket before they came together on the worn, thatch floor.
Usually, Zoro asked what skin snail Sanji was interested in reenacting, cheeky and playful. This time, he took the lead, undressing Sanji slowly. Undressing himself. Kissing him deeply, touching him with slow, soothing strokes. It reminded Sanji of Candlelit Nights, and whether Zoro somehow read Sanji’s mind or not, it was exactly what he’d needed. The pleasure had been deep, the release comforting, and holding Zoro again reminded him that he was home.
The Raid on Onigashima was a success. The Straw Hat alliance won, Kaidou and Big Mom both defeated, and the country of Wano freed.
It wasn’t without damages, though. Allies had died. Zoro and Luffy both lay unconscious, attached to IVs, tubes, and catheters, bandaged heavily. The other Straw Hats suffered cuts, scrapes, and bruises.
Sanji would’ve died thrice over – crushed, beheaded, shot – if his body hadn’t changed. Judge’s enhancements had finally activated, leaving him irrevocably altered. Terror that he’d become like his brothers choked him, the thought that he’d harmed a woman nearly killed him again. But he’d accepted the inevitability in the fight, even as he gave up the Raid Suit to cling to the last vestiges of himself even if it meant he lost.
He called Zoro, made Zoro promise to kill him should he fully turn. The fear lingered a week later, with no sign that his emotions had been altered. He threw himself into cooking, burying himself in his life’s passion and clinging to normalcy, hoping it would hold.
Zoro and Luffy returned to consciousness at the same time, Luffy bolting upright with a hoarse demand for meat, Zoro dragging himself up with a scowl and a growled request for sake. The room erupted in relieved laughter, the oppressive worry of the past days dissolving into noise and celebration as plates were shoved into Luffy’s hands and a bottle pressed into Zoro’s.
Sanji lingered at the edges of the room, arms folded, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He told himself he was just keeping out of the way, letting them have their moment. Their friends crowded close, grinning, teasing, recounting fragments of the fight. Luffy stuffed his face with abandon. Zoro drank deep, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then abruptly looked up. His single eye locked onto Sanji as if drawn by instinct alone.
The shift was immediate. The air snapped tight.
Zoro moved without warning. Two swords flashed free in a hiss of steel, tatami splintering under the force of his step as he launched straight at him. “I must’ve come back from hell to fulfill my promise to kill you!”
“I don’t need help with that anymore!” Sanji yelped, barely getting his leg up in time. His heel met steel with a ringing crack, haki hardening over bone and blade alike.
The force shoved him back half a step. Zoro’s swords strained against his foot, muscles corded, eye narrowed, mouth pulled thin with something dangerously intent. “You sure?” Zoro pressed.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Sanji snapped, shoving him off with a sharp twist and landing lightly. “Put your katanas away before you give Chopper fits.”
Behind them, someone shrieked. Chopper absolutely did give fits. Luffy cackled through a mouthful of meat like this was the best post-recovery entertainment he could’ve asked for.
Zoro held for a long moment, then dropped his stance, sheathing the blades. But his expression didn’t shift, didn’t relax. He snagged Sanji by the wrist, demanding, “Come with me.”
Sanji allowed himself to be dragged from the room and down the hall. Zoro opened shoji doors at random until he found a well-appointed bath. The bath was spacious, clearly meant for honored guests. At its center a deep sunken tub carved from veined stone. Thick cream-colored towels were folded neatly atop a low cedar bench beside ceramic jars of oils and bath salts. Against the far wall rested an armless chaise upholstered in deep indigo fabric patterned with subtle cranes, its sleek lines inviting repose, a small lacquered table beside it holding a decanter and two cups.
Zoro shut the door behind them and turned in the same motion, crowding Sanji back a step before lifting his hands to cradle his face. His thumbs pressed warm against the sharp line of Sanji’s jaw as he pulled him in, sealing their mouths together in a kiss edged with urgency, fierce, almost desperate.
A tremor slid through Sanji’s body, a sting at his eye, and he wrapped his hands around Zoro’s waist. Need, reassurance, longing, and relief tangled together in his chest. Emotion overwhelmed even as it appeased. He could still feel. He was still himself. He didn’t need to die.
The air between them thickened, heat and something sharper threading through the kiss until it felt like the only thing holding the room upright. Zoro’s mouth never left Sanji’s, as if he were afraid to step back. Hands roamed, pushing beneath Sanji’s yukata, fumbling with the ties. Sanji divested Zoro of his loose trousers, the swords at his side clattering loudly onto the stone floor.
Zoro didn’t even flinch, bandaged body pressed against Sanji, kissing him deeply, hungrily, desperately. Burgeoning erections ground against one another. Sanji touched every inch of skin he could find, feeling the heat, the tremble of muscle. His heart hammered in his chest, pulse racing in his ears, breath coming in staggered, shaking inhales. He wanted Zoro. Needed him. Needed to feel alive again.
They broke apart only long enough to breathe. Zoro’s forehead pressed to his, breath harsh and warm across Sanji’s mouth, eye searching his face with an intensity that stripped him bare. Not doubt, but a fierce, almost disbelieving relief, as if he needed to see him, touch him, confirm him. Sanji felt it in the way Zoro’s hands mapped his ribs and spine, reassuring himself of solid flesh beneath his palms.
They stumbled toward the chaise in staggered steps, catching against one another and the low cedar bench. Sanji’s fingers closed around one of the ceramic oils without looking; he set it aside on the small lacquered table in passing, breath hitching when Zoro’s mouth found the hollow beneath his ear. The room seemed to tilt with them, lantern light turning skin to gold.
They went down onto the indigo upholstery in a tangle of limbs and desire, the fall cushioned but breathless. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat, the steady, powerful thrum beneath Sanji’s palm where it splayed against Zoro’s chest; the answering race in his own ribs. Zoro hovered over him for a fraction of a second, gaze locked to his, and in that look Sanji saw it plainly: the memory of a promise given, the fear of an empty space where he should have been. His hands framed Sanji’s face again, slower now, reverent, as though he were something treasured.
Sanji drew him down. The kiss deepened, not frantic anymore but full, mouths moving in a rhythm that spoke of want and of gratitude, of being here, both of them, breathing, alive. Fingers traced lines of muscle and scar, followed the slope of shoulder and the dip of waist, learning and relearning. Oil warmed between their palms, slicking touch into glide, turning friction into something languid and consuming. The chaise creaked softly beneath shifting weight, fabric whispering against skin.
Breath mingled, staggered and shared. Zoro’s composure unraveled in quiet ways – a tremor beneath his hands, a low sound swallowed into Sanji’s mouth, the way he pressed close as if proximity could anchor the world. Sanji answered with equal hunger, drawing him nearer, threading fingers through soft hair, letting his touch say what words could not: I’m here. I’m still here.
Heat built slowly, steadily, until it felt less like fire and more like a tide pulling them under together. The lantern light wrapped around them, sealing them in amber light and softened shadow, and when they finally moved in that unspoken rhythm that belonged only to them, it was less about urgency and more about release – fear loosening its grip, replaced by the steady, undeniable affirmation of each other’s heartbeat beneath their hands.
Afterwards, Zoro curled against Sanji, head against his chest, hand resting against his hip. “I’m glad I didn’t have to kill you,” he murmured, voice thick.
“Me, too,” Sanji said quietly, looking up at the wood battens on the ceiling.
They were silent for a while, just absorbing each other’s comfort and company. A desire for a cigarette pulled at Sanji, but he ignored it, not wanting to move. He realized Zoro hadn’t asked for money. Hadn’t said anything to indicate this was a job, nothing more. He didn’t know what that meant, and it, more than the need for a smoke, bothered him.
“You’ll have to wait for beli,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “I don’t have any on me.”
Zoro stiffened against him, breath tensing. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Beyond the closed bathroom door, someone passed, sandals echoing on the stone floor. A bird twittered outside the high, narrow window, from the branch of a cherry blossom tree.
“It was an excuse,” Zoro finally said, vulnerability in the low timber of his voice. “I… like you. Have for a while.”
Sanji’s chest thudded painfully, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. The words sank in, wrapping around him tighter than the warm weight of Zoro pressed against him. “I didn’t know that.”
“Don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve like you, ero cook.”
All of their encounters reframed themselves in Sanji’s mind. The playfulness. The low, knowing smiles. The eagerness to comply. The difference in Amigasa Village, now seen under a new light. Maybe even further back, if he thought about it.
They stayed still, neither daring to move, listening to the faint rise and fall of each other’s breaths. Sanji felt the rigidity in Zoro’s form, muscles coiled even in stillness. “So, what do you think?” Zoro asked, almost inaudibly.
Sanji exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders, a small smile breaking over his face. “I think I want this with Roronoa Zoro, not the Pirate Fucker.”
Sanji felt the smile against his chest, felt the tension leave. “I’m good with that,” Zoro said, squeezing Sanji’s waist. Then his tone turned cheeky. “Though I will miss the beli.”
Sanji snorted. “You want to get paid, make more skin snails.”
Zoro lifted his head, devilment sparkling in his eye. “Bet you’d like that, number one fan.”
Color swept across Sanji’s cheeks. “Fuck off.”
Zoro chuckled, resting his head on Sanji’s chest again. “You can probably quote the dialogue better than me.”
“I will murder you in this bathroom.”
“Probably want my autograph.”
“Die.”
The Pirate Fucker did end up making more skin snails. Sanji purchased the second magazine. And he got the cheeky asshole’s autograph.
He also found his own Candlelit Nights, with Zoro. And it wasn’t a fantasy – it was real.
End