The Cost of Trust

“All right. Talk.”

Pitch and salt hung thick in the brig, the air damp where seawater seeped through the planks. The Fire Tank ship groaned with the roll of the waves, timbers creaking in rhythm with the slow, distant pulse of the sea. Zoro folded his arms and scowled, weight braced into the wall.

They were alone, or close enough. Caesar Clown was locked in the next cell. But unlike Caesar, their cell door was open. They were “volunteer” prisoners.

Zoro’s shirt hung loose, a Zou cut, unbuttoned down to the stomach, fabric shifting with the ship’s sway. Beneath it, his haramaki sat snug, the red sash binding his katanas close at his hip. Lantern light angled across his arms when he folded them, shadows carving deeper into muscle.

Sanji sat on the cot, white shirt untucked, sleeves loose, fur cloak over his shoulders. He rubbed at his forehead, mouth twisted in a frown. The brig had three cells, the third one empty, with the remainder of the space used as additional storage. Crates and barrels lined the wall, with coils of rope heaped beside folded sailcloth and dangling pulleys. Overhead, ropes thudded as the mast caught more wind. Outside the barred window, Fire Tank voices rose and fell with work.

“Ever hear of Germa?” Sanji asked at last, his voice tight. Anger under it – distress, too.

“No.” Zoro shrugged. If he wasn’t on the island, it didn’t matter.

“It's a seafaring nation from North Blue,” Sanji said. “Whole kingdom rides around on giant snails. It’s… where I’m from.”

“Okay. And?”

Sanji sneered, disgust cutting through his tone. “And as you heard – I’m royalty. Prince Vinsmoke Sanji. Dead son of King Vinsmoke Judge. Except apparently I’m not dead enough for him anymore.”

Zoro’s brow pulled tight. “Dead son?”

“He pronounced me dead when I was eight.” Sanji struck a match, lit a cigarette, and drew smoke into his lungs. “A condition of my leaving Germa was that I never reveal my lineage. It’s why I’ve never said anything. That, and I’d rather not be related to them at all.”

“You know I don’t give a shit about your past,” Zoro said, tapping a finger against his arm. “Still doesn’t explain why we’re sailing to Totto Land.”

Sanji exhaled a plume of smoke. “Were you asleep, idiot? They spelled it out – someone dies if I don’t show at that damn Tea Party.”

“We could’ve taken them before they laid a hand on the others.”

“They weren’t talking about us,” Sanji snapped. His voice softened a fraction. “Remember when Vito leaned in? He rattled off names. Camie. Conis. Vivi. Anyone we’ve ever crossed paths with. You think I’ll let one of them get cut down because of me? Hell, do you think I’d even allow a stranger to be hurt because of me?”

Zoro hadn’t known what Vito had said. His arms dropped a fraction. “No. Of course not.”

“Then quit asking stupid questions. That’s your answer.” 

Zoro dropped his swords and sat. Cot wire jabbed sharp through thin fabric. He ignored it. “So what then? Get married?”

Sanji snorted. “Like hell I’m getting married. I’ve got three brothers and a sister, let one of them tie the knot. I’ll make that clear, and then we’re gone. Back with the others, on to Wano.”

Relief hit hard, though Zoro’s face stayed blank. “Good. We can’t be riling up Big Mom when we’re about to go after another emperor.”

“I’m not fucking stupid.” Sanji rose, cloak whispering against his shirt. “I’m going to find out how long until we get there.”

Zoro grunted as Sanji left the brig in a haze of smoke. The door shut behind him, lantern shadows swaying with the roll of the ship.

From the next cell, Caesar shuffled forward, chains clinking as the seastone cuffs dragged at his wrists. His knees hit the deck with a dull thud as he pressed close to the bars, wide eyes glinting in the low light. “Hey, hey, let me out of here! You don’t get it, Big Mom’s going to kill me if I stay locked up!”

“Don’t care,” Zoro said, flat as steel. He leaned back against the timber wall, katanas propped at his shoulder. “You experimented on children. I’d kill you myself if you hadn’t been useful on Zou.”

Caesar flinched, his mouth twisting, desperation boiling over into venom. He bared his teeth in a sneer, yanking futilely at the cuffs until the seastone bit his wrists raw. “Tch. Acting high and mighty, swordsman? Your boyfriend’s the one trapped now. He’s going to marry Big Mom’s daughter whether he likes it or not. Then he’ll be part of her crew, and you’ll never see him again.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Zoro said through his teeth. “And just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean I won’t make you hurt.”

Caesar paled and shrank to the far end of his cell, chains rattling in the dark.

Zoro shut his eye, leaned hard into timber. Forced stillness. Breath. Let Caesar’s words fall like trash. They stuck anyway. The bastard wasn’t wrong about the only part that mattered: Sanji had worked under his skin, but he’d never be his.

Zoro wouldn’t even be with Sanji now if he hadn’t gotten turned around on Dressrosa while looking for Luffy. They’d split up after hearing the Sunny was under attack – Sanji went to protect the ship while Zoro was supposed to back up Luffy. But the damned shifting streets of Dressrosa had thrown Zoro off at every turn, leading him in circles until he ended up at the Sunny anyway. In the end, he and Brook switched places: Zoro stayed with the Sunny while Brook went to aid Luffy.

That twist of fate put Zoro on Zou when Capone Bege arrived. Bege’s goal was simple: capture Caesar – no great loss – and take Sanji to Totto Land for Big Mom’s Tea Party. A Tea Party that included an arranged marriage between Sanji and one of Big Mom’s daughters.

Sanji’s first answer had been to tell Bege to go to hell. But then Bege spelled out the consequences if he refused, and Vito leaned in to whisper something that made Sanji’s expression harden. After that, Sanji was ready to go quietly – and even planning to leave the rest of them behind. Like he didn’t trust them. 

Zoro had shut that down fast. “I’m going with you,” he’d said when it became clear Sanji was about to eject them from Bege’s castle. A gun to Nami’s head had already forced them inside, the living walls shifting to keep them trapped while Sanji and Bege negotiated.

Sanji had pursed his lips, then nodded once. With a single kick, he’d blasted Nami and Chopper to safety before drawing a pistol on Caesar. His terms were clear: he and Zoro would go voluntarily as long as the rest of the crew were left alone. Otherwise, he’d kill Caesar, whom Bege needed too much to risk losing. Bege had agreed, and so Zoro found himself on the Fire Tank Pirates’ ship with Sanji, bound for Totto Land.

Zoro shifted on the cot, trying to get comfortable. The wire beneath the thin mattress jabbed at him, and he scowled. Sometimes he hated that he cared so damn much – about Sanji, about people in general. Pirates were supposed to be bloodthirsty, immoral, and ruthless. Yet the idea of someone being killed just because an invitation was refused sat wrong with him. Innocents shouldn’t be used as collateral.

Sanji, though, that was different. That was a folly Zoro had been living with for years. He’d had it bad for the cook since Cocoyasi Village, back in the East Blue. Sanji had strength and determination, two things Zoro admired, and over a meal shared after Arlong’s defeat, he’d learned the cook was also sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and unafraid to give Zoro shit. That was rare. Most people took one look at him and turned tail. Sanji, on the other hand, provoked him gladly, throwing insults and picking fights.

The brig creaked with the swell, ship’s bones groaning in silence. Zoro’s thoughts gnawed, teeth on themselves.

He wasn’t adverse to romance. He’d had crushes before, even tried acting on them, but it had been made clear he was too brutish, too rough-edged, or too unappealing for that sort of thing. Every rejection had landed like a fist to the gut, until the bruises felt permanent. So when he found himself drawn to Sanji, he’d done nothing. Even once he’d learned Sanji wasn’t opposed to men, he hadn’t risked it. Better to live with the quiet ache lodged in his chest than to hear out loud that he was unlovable.

So no, Sanji wasn’t his boyfriend, and never would be. Zoro told himself being nakama was enough. Told himself that when he saw couples walking hand-in-hand through a port town and something inside him twisted like a blade between his ribs, he wasn’t envious. Pretended that when his chest went tight and his stomach hollowed out, it didn’t hurt – that it never would hurt – that he’d never have that.

The brig door opened again. Sanji returned with two bottles, irritation rolling off him like smoke. He handed one to Zoro and dropped back down beside him. Their shoulders brushed, warm through fabric.

“It’ll take close to a fucking week to get there,” Sanji muttered, yanking the cork out.

Zoro grunted, uncorked his own bottle, and drank. The booze was sharp, burning down to his stomach. “You still have the Vivre Card from Law?”

“Yeah.” Sanji’s fingers tightened on the glass bottle. “Even if they’ve moved on to Wano, we’ll find them.”

Zoro snorted. “The shit you get us into.”

Sanji leaned back against the wall, shoulder pressing into Zoro’s. “Didn’t think I’d ever have to deal with the Vinsmokes again.”

“Anything I should know about them before we get there?”

“They’re exceptionally strong, cruel, and don’t care about anything,” Sanji said. “I was eight back then. Odds are they’ve only gotten worse.”

Zoro snorted. “Tch. Doesn’t matter. We’ve already cut down warlords and assassins. Your family won’t be any different.”

Sanji’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand. They don’t fight fair. They’ll break you down piece by piece, and they won’t stop.”

Zoro smirked into his drink. “Good luck to them if they try.”

That strain was there again, tight with something unspoken when he finally said, “Yeah.” 

Zoro tipped his bottle, leaned a little closer. “Listen. Whatever shit goes down, I’ve got your back. You won’t face them alone.” A faint grin tugged at his mouth. “If they want you, they’ll have to cut through me first.”

Sanji paused, bottle halfway to his lips. His eyes lingered on Zoro, and for a heartbeat the mask slipped – the kind of look that knew too well what trusting someone might cost. He swallowed, breath leaving quiet, weighted with the thought.

Then he smirked, armor sliding back into place. “Tch. They’re nothing. What really pisses me off is being stuck on this tub a whole damn week with you, marimo.”

Zoro’s mouth curved. “Feeling’s mutual, cook.”

Germa loomed dark, all steel and stone, banners snapping in cold wind. Soldiers lined the dock in black, mannequins with rifles, boots clicking in perfect rhythm. Even the air felt scraped bare, built to leech warmth and color from anyone who stepped on its soil.

The nation swayed, giant snails locked shell to shell into a fortress. Their bodies groaned under weight, slime slick in the seams. The whole place looked unnatural, a nation forced into order. Zoro’s gut turned cold.

“You grew up here?” Zoro muttered as they were marched from the dock toward the castle gates. He didn’t like picturing Sanji as a kid in this place.

“Homey, isn’t it?” Sanji snarked, hands shoved deep into his pockets, voice sharp enough to cut through the lifeless silence. He didn’t so much as glance at the rows of soldiers staring straight ahead.

Zoro’s jaw clenched. He tried to imagine a little version of Sanji with his fire and wit surviving here, and it sat wrong in his chest. Sanji didn’t belong in this place.

At the head of the steps, a giant waited. Nine feet at least. Blond mane down to his knees, mustache stiff as iron jutting upward from his lip. Blood-red cape snapping, gold mask gleaming, uniform marked with 66. Disdain rolled thick as smoke, pressing down with sheer size.

The closer they drew, Zoro’s hand tightened on a hilt. Sanji looked casual, but Zoro read the set of his jaw. He watched with his whole body, ready.

“Son–” the man’s voice boomed, rattling Zoro’s bones.

“I’m not your son. I’m dead, remember,” Sanji cut him off, words cracking cold air like fire. “Whatever this farce is, call it off or use one of your actual children.”

Zoro gave a short, flat smirk. Good. One word and he’d cut them all down. Then get out.

Vinsmoke Judge’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Your insolence is unwise.”

“You think I give a damn?” Sanji scoffed, a curl of smoke slipping from his lips. “I’m not your frightened little puppet to boss around.”

Judge’s lip curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “Then we shall speak like men… by using our fists.” He snapped his fingers.

A figure stepped forward from his side: a woman with cotton-pink hair that gleamed like silk under the gray sky. Her cape flared like butterfly wings in shades of violet, and her boots hummed faintly with propulsion, built for sudden speed. Her eyes were keen and unreadable, her beauty edged with danger.

“Reiju,” Sanji breathed, the name catching in his throat.

Zoro’s glance flicked toward him before snapping back to Judge. His gut told him the resemblance wasn’t coincidence.

“Take the crewmate to the chambers designated for Sanji,” Judge ordered. His voice brooked no argument.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Zoro growled, his hand tightening around his sword.

“Go,” Sanji murmured, not looking at him. “I’ll handle this.”

Zoro ground his teeth but didn’t argue. He breathed out another hard noise. “Hurry up. We’ve got better things to do than stand around.”

The woman – Reiju – turned toward him, her movement deliberate. She gestured with one gloved hand, her expression calm, almost kind, though it carried something unreadable beneath it. “This way.”

The soldiers didn’t twitch, didn’t breathe off-beat. The castle loomed taller each step. It felt like walking into the belly of something dead, cold, merciless. A place that would’ve crushed Sanji if he hadn’t gotten out. Zoro’s skin crawled.

The castle swallowed them whole as soon as the doors closed behind. The air was colder inside, the scent of salt and steel replaced with something sterile, almost medicinal. Their footsteps echoed against the bare stone, swallowed by long halls stripped of warmth.

“So, you’re my little brother’s crewmate,” Reiju said as she guided him forward. Her tone was smooth, practiced – neither mocking nor warm, something measured between. When her eyes flicked toward him, they lingered just long enough to suggest curiosity, maybe even recognition, before sliding away again.

Zoro grunted in answer, uninterested in small talk. He kept his hand near his swords and his eye on the path ahead. 

The corridor stretched on, lined with soldiers standing at rigid attention. They were like statues, eyes vacant, armor polished to a perfect sheen. Tall iron doorways punctuated the walls at intervals, each stamped with stark black numbers, chambers whose purpose Zoro didn’t care to guess. The atmosphere pressed down, lifeless and exacting, so unlike the chaos of the Sunny or the warmth of the galley where Sanji thrived.

Reiju led him up a curving staircase, the iron banister smooth and cold beneath his knuckles as he brushed it once for balance. More doors lined the second floor, more soldiers standing guard without a flicker of movement. Every step made the place feel less like a castle and more like a prison, each hallway designed to squeeze out individuality, to break something human into uniform pieces.

Finally, she stopped before a tall iron door, turned the handle, and pushed it inward.

Inside was a bedroom. If it counted. Stone walls, stone floors, nothing soft. Bed against one wall, black blanket like a soldier’s issue. Desk bare, only function. One chair beneath a portrait: Judge towering over severed kings, blood pooled at his feet.

Zoro’s gut knotted. Not a room for living. A shrine to power, conquest, cold pride. Built to remind anyone here who ruled.

Reiju lingered by the door, her expression unreadable in the dim light. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, almost kindly, though the words landed strangely in the chill air. She looked at him with the faintest trace of a smile, soft but distant, like someone who knew far more than she was willing to say.

Zoro didn’t answer. He kept his eye on her, trying to decide if there was steel behind her gentleness or gentleness buried under steel. Either way, something about her set his instincts on edge.

Reiju crossed the room without hurry, her cape whispering against her boots, and lowered herself into the chair by the side table. Her posture was casual, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. Zoro folded his arms across his chest and glowered, unwilling to give her anything.

She merely smiled. “I’m glad to finally meet someone from the Straw Hat crew. Thank you for taking care of my brother as long as you did. I’m only sorry that it’s come to an end.”

Zoro’s muscles tightened, thumb on a hilt. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” Reiju’s smile lingered, serene, though it never touched her eyes. “A fact. Sanji will be married in a few days and bound to Big Mom’s family. Unless, of course, you take him and leave immediately. What’s one life weighed against the value of your crew?”

Zoro’s eye narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“Sanji should never have returned here,” Reiju said, voice calm, almost detached. “I’m giving you the chance to take him away before he’s shackled to this marriage. Once he loses, he’ll be brought to this room. That will be your moment.”

“He’s not marrying anyone,” Zoro said, voice flat, edge hard.

Reiju’s laugh was soft, airy, but there was something brittle in it. “He will do anything Father demands of him. That’s who Sanji is, whether he admits it or not. Unless you force his hand, he will bend.”

Zoro’s gaze darkened, certain. “He won’t be defeated.”

She laughed again, a quiet ripple in the cold room. “Then we have nothing to worry about. But if you’re wrong… are you ready to act?”

The lantern flame guttered against the stone wall, throwing shadows across Judge’s bloody portrait. Zoro disliked this woman immensely – her composure, her smile, the way she seemed to know more than she revealed.

“We walk when it’s safe,” Zoro cut in. “Doesn’t matter what your father wants.”

Reiju sighed, the sound soft and strangely regretful. “I was afraid of that.”

She rose from the chair with unhurried grace, then took a single step toward Zoro. His instincts screamed. His haki flared hot and sharp, katana rasping free of its sheath in an instant.

The air cracked. One heartbeat she was there, the next she blurred forward faster than his eye could track, hand lashing out. Steel rang like a struck bell as Zoro’s blade intercepted her fingers, sparks snapping in the dim light. The impact reverberated up his arm, numbing his wrist. If not for observation haki, he wouldn’t have seen her coming at all.

His teeth clenched. “What the fuck are you?”

Reiju smiled serenely, as though she were making small talk. “Sanji didn’t tell you? The Vinsmokes are genetically enhanced super soldiers. Your little sword can’t hurt me. But I can incapacitate you.”

She moved again, a blur of cape and boots, and Zoro ripped a second katana free. Her strike hammered against both blades, metal shrieking, the force driving him back a half step. His eye narrowed. Those boots – he caught the faint glow, the whine of propulsion. She wasn’t just fast, she was being launched. He swung low, testing, aiming to slice at her legs, but she kicked off and veered upward, boots hissing as she shot toward the ceiling beams.

“You’re fairly good,” she called down, voice light, mocking. “Most pirates wouldn’t have blocked me once, let alone twice.”

Zoro set his stance, shoulders rolling. Both swords gleamed black as armament haki crawled along the blades. “I’ll assume you’re doing this for a reason, even though you just told me to take Sanji and leave.”

Reiju floated in the air, cape fluttering like silk wings. “Father ordered me to incapacitate you so he has another threat to hold over Sanji’s head. To ensure his cooperation.” Her voice was cool, matter-of-fact, as if she were reading off a report. Then she blurred, vanishing into motion.

Zoro twisted aside at the last second, haki screaming in warning, blades crossing as her palm skimmed past. Sparks flared again as steel caught her touch. “Another threat?” Zoro barked.

Reiju landed in a glide, perfectly balanced. “Yes. He also learned about that chef in the East Blue Sanji was living with. Father intends to kill him if Sanji does not go through with the wedding.”

Zoro’s stomach dropped. “Zeff.” They’d all thought Zeff was Sanji’s father, before Bege’s invitation. Sanji had spoken about him with gruff affection, always threaded beneath insults. The man who’d taught him to cook, to fight, the one who’d hammered into him that his hands were precious. The stubborn bastard who’d made him refuse to hit women.

Sanji wasn’t going to walk away. He was going to stay. He was going to marry. Zoro was going to lose him.

The thought staggered him – and that was all she needed.

Haki screamed, too late. He turned, blades rising, but her fingers brushed his arm.

Ice water surged through his veins. Muscles locked once, then gave way. Strength bled out in a rush, limbs gone slack. His katanas slipped free, steel clattering against stone. Knees buckled. His body folded, cheek smacking cold stone with a brutal thud. Heavy as lead. Arms and legs sprawled useless, puppet with its strings cut.

Zoro strained. Nothing. His chest still rose, his throat hummed with air, but no command reached his limbs. He couldn’t even form words, just a guttural vibration in his throat. The flaccid paralysis swept through him like poison ice, leaving only breath, blinking, and thought.

Reiju crouched beside him, calm, smile faint. “You’re lucky. Father ordered incapacitation, not death. I can’t disobey – but I can work around it.”

Her hand lingered on his shoulder, almost gentle. “The paralysis is temporary. A few days, and your strength will return. Until then, you’ll be locked in the dungeon.”

Zoro blinked, glare sharp even from the floor. It was the only thing he could still do.

“Oh, it’s not complete,” Reiju continued lightly, as if she were answering his unspoken curses. “That would’ve stopped your breathing. This is only a flaccid paralysis of skeletal muscles. You simply cannot move or speak. The rest of your body will carry on.”

She reached down, collected his fallen katanas, and slid them carefully back into their sheaths at his side, as though tucking him in. “I’ll even let you keep your swords. Feel free to cut Father down once you can stand again.”

Her smile softened, tinged with something he couldn’t name – sadness, pity, maybe even warning. “I really do wish you would’ve agreed to take Sanji and leave.”

Her boots hissed softly as she rose, cape swaying as she stepped away, leaving him sprawled on the stone floor. Zoro could do nothing but glare and blink, fury burning in his chest, every muscle in his body betraying him.

There was a noise behind Reiju, her head turning toward the sound. Zoro couldn’t move his neck to see, but boots rang against stone until figures passed into his narrow line of sight. Sanji sagged between two soldiers, unconscious, blood streaking his clothes.

Zoro’s chest wrenched, a sharp, hot ache. Sanji was down.

“What happened?” Reiju asked, her voice calm, though her eyes flicked briefly over Sanji’s limp form with something unreadable.

“The Prince was winning,” one soldier reported, “but then he pulled a kick when the soldiers stepped between him and the King. The King has no compunction about doing what is necessary to win and thrust his spear through the soldier to defeat the Prince.”

Reiju clicked her tongue softly. “Silly boy. Always letting compassion be his downfall.”

A guttural sound escaped Zoro. He fought with his eye, wanted to move, to cut Judge down, but the body wouldn’t obey.

Reiju’s eyes moved to him. “He’ll be fine. I’ll patch him up. I did it often enough when he was a child.” Then, to the soldiers: “Take this one to the dungeon. Leave his swords with him. He won’t be able to use them anyway.”

“Yes, Princess.”

Two more soldiers came into view. Cold hands clamped on his arms and hauled him up like dead weight. His head lolled, body hanging useless. Humiliation burned, and he couldn’t even stiffen against their grip.

As they dragged him out, he caught one last glimpse of Sanji, sprawled on black bedding, singed, blood at his temple. Zoro’s gut twisted.

The soldiers carted him through the sterile halls, down echoing staircases, the sound of their boots ringing like hammer blows. The air grew colder, damper, until they reached a dungeon carved of stone and iron. Torchlight flickered against the walls, the smoke stinging his eyes as they unlocked a cell. He was tossed inside like cargo, his back hitting the ground with a hard thud. The soldiers’ boots faded, leaving only the echo of the dungeon door slamming shut, a sound that seemed to reverberate long after the hall had gone silent.

Zoro lay sprawled where they’d dumped him, back pressed against cold stone. A barred window high in the wall spilled a faint gray light, shifting as clouds passed overhead. The torch flames shivered against damp walls, throwing shadows that seemed to crawl closer. The floor beneath him seeped cold and wet through his clothes, numbing his skin. His katanas, at least, were still sheathed at his side, though they might as well have been nailed to the wall for all the good they did him.

Alone, the dungeon pressed in: unseen water dripping; steel clashing far above. Then silence.

He cursed himself. Too slow. Didn’t cut deep enough. Let her touch him. Let himself become leverage. He’d promised he had Sanji’s back; he’d made himself a liability.

Worst of it – he’d swaggered. Laughed off the warning. Acted like warlords meant Judge would be nothing. Said he’d protect Sanji. Now he was dead weight on cold stone, fingers that wouldn’t even close.

He tried to move. Tried to drag haki into dead limbs. Nothing. Chest still rose, throat still growled, blink still his. The rest hung like cut rope. Trapped in his own skin.

Helplessness crawled worse than the cold. He could fight steel, storms, fists, but not his own body.  Arms, legs, hands: all useless. Like a blade snapped in two.

At least he was on his back. He could see the ceiling, count cracks, breathe. Reiju had arranged that – kindness wrapped in cruelty. His teeth ached to bite, to fight, to do anything.

She’d said it would wear off in days. He’d fight it every second. Claw back into his muscles. Tear through on will alone. Find a den-den mushi. Warn Luffy. Save Zeff. Stop Sanji.

Time blurred. He strained for nothing. Hunger gnawed, then dulled; thirst scraped like sand. Light crawled across the ceiling into night. No one came.

When his body betrayed him further, humiliation burned hotter than any wound. He swore he’d carve this debt into Vinsmoke bone the second he stood.

Eventually, even fury dulled. His body wouldn’t move, but exhaustion could still reach him. His eye grew heavy, the flicker of torchlight across the ceiling blurring. He fought it, teeth clenched against the slide into nothing, but his body betrayed him again, dragging him down.

Darkness closed. When it broke, he was standing.

A dream.

Sharp air. Ground shifting under his feet. Swords back in his hands.

Daz Bones was the first to come at him, blades for skin, steel arms flashing in the sun. The desert sand beneath Zoro’s boots burned hot, stinging up into his lungs with every breath. The clang of steel on steel rang out, echoing like a thousand bells, sparks bursting as their strikes collided. Zoro gritted his teeth, every block rattling up his arms, every slash like trying to cut through a mountain.

Then the sky split. He was on Skypiea, the air thin, his body aching with wounds. A priest of Enel lunged from the side, brandishing a spear crackling with mantra. Zoro’s eye tracked the blow, his blade met it, haki pressing back against the unnatural force. The air sang with the impact, thunder growling in the clouds overhead.

The ground shifted, and suddenly Oars towered above him, the frozen giant’s shadow blotting out the sun. Zoro’s feet slid across cracked stone as he braced, his swords trembling against a punch that shook the earth itself. He slid back meters, boots cutting deep grooves into the ground, breath heaving as he fought to stay upright.

Nameless men surged from the dark next, faces from years ago – pirates, bounty heads, thugs from ports and taverns. Steel flashed, fists flew, voices cursed his name. He cut them down, one after another, his body screaming with effort, every strike heavier than the last.

And then, Mihawk.

The man’s shadow fell across the field, his blade like a crescent moon. Zoro dropped to one knee before he even thought, blood dripping from his hands, swords digging into the dirt to keep him upright. He could feel his pride bleeding out, but the words tore free anyway. “I’ll throw it away – name, pride – if it means I can protect them.”

Mihawk’s blade swung down, endless, cutting through everything.

Stone floor again. Reiju’s touch like ice in his arm. Muscles drowned. Slack. The world rang with failure.

“Hopeless,” a voice barked from the edge of the dream. He turned and saw Zeff, peg-leg cocked back, aimed for Sanji’s head. The old man’s voice was sharp, rough. “Is this all you’ve got, eggplant? You’ll die before you even reach the damn stove.”

Sanji went down, bloodied, then spat a curse back as he staggered up, fire burning in his eyes. The two of them snarled at each other, insult for insult, love buried under every cruel word. Zoro watched, a strange pull twisting in his chest. That same fire – Sanji’s way of caring – had always been aimed at him, too. But what if it had never meant the same? What if he was just a fool, seeing things that weren’t there – because who would ever burn like that for someone like him?

Then Judge’s shadow fell. The red cape, the half-mask, the spear dripping blood. Zeff’s head fell in the dirt, rolling away from Sanji’s outstretched hands.

Zoro roared and tried to run to him–

But Sanji was gone. A wedding altar at the far end. Dead flowers. Big Mom’s laughter echoing in the distance. Sanji knelt there, chained, hands bound, head lowering. Judge’s blade fell. 

Blood soaked the floor.

Zoro screamed, his body slack, swords out of reach.

Reiju stepped into view, calm under that butterfly cape, smile edged with sadness. “You should’ve taken him and left,” she said – and the world went dark.

Zoro jerked awake, eye snapping open to dawn spilling through the barred window high in the wall. Pale light crawled across the ceiling in thin bands. His body lay useless on the dungeon floor, muscles slack with paralysis. A growl stuck in his throat. The nightmare hung like chains, Sanji’s blood still burning in his eye.

Sweat clung, itching at his temples, crawling down his neck. Damp from the floor soaked through his clothes, cold to his bones. His body betrayed him again, denying any dignity. His own stink rose, rank and sour, humiliation louder than hunger. Thirst scraped his throat with every shallow swallow.

He lay there, eye tracking dawn’s pale bands shifting across the ceiling. He forced himself to try again – hand, finger, anything – but his body stayed limp. By now Sanji would know. He’d have heard Judge’s threat against Zeff. And being Sanji, he’d choose the path that spared others: marriage.

Zoro didn’t fault him. Caring for others first was one of the reasons Zoro respected him. He wanted to be the world’s greatest swordsman, but not at the cost of others. Sanji was the same.

He hoped the woman Sanji was being forced to marry would at least be kind, someone who’d treat him well, someone who wouldn’t smother the fire in him. A bitter thought wished she’d be ugly, unworthy – but he crushed it fast. Sanji deserved better. The best. Even if it came through a forced marriage.

Zoro shut his eye, breathing deep, sharpening his resolve. The paralysis wasn’t forever. He’d break free. He’d protect Sanji. Keep his word.

The dungeon door groaned open, dragging him back from his thoughts. Iron shrieked on stone, boots thumped down the stairs. Three sets. Voices echoed off the walls.

“…Big Mom’s expecting us at noon. If you keep her waiting, you’ll end up part of the menu.”

“Hah! As long as the buffet’s worth it, I don’t care.”

“Hope she’s got something better than last time. That slop was an insult.”

Laughter carried, bouncing in the cold chamber. It cut short as they reached his cell.

“So this is the Straw Hat that came with our favorite punching bag.” A key scraped in the lock, the heavy door groaning open.

“Trust a failure to drag another failure with him.”

Footsteps closed in, and Zoro saw them as they loomed overhead. Three men, Sanji’s bones in their faces but twisted enough to knot his gut. Eyebrows curled wrong, smirks too sharp, eyes empty. One with flame-red hair, another piercing blue, the third a sickly green. All three grinned the same, and every instinct screamed.

“He’s big, I’ll give him that,” the blue-haired one said, tilting his head like he was sizing up meat. His nose wrinkled. “Stinks like hell, though.”

The green-haired one cackled, the sound grating. “Think he pissed himself, Niji.”

“Maybe more, Yonji.” The redhead waved a hand in front of his face, grimacing. “Ugh. Hose him off. I wanted some fun, but he’s turning my stomach.”

“Good idea, Ichiji.”

They moved out of Zoro’s line of sight, boots echoing, the hiss of water filling the dungeon. He couldn’t turn his head, but every instinct braced.

The first blast hit like a cannonball, ripping his breath. Freezing water pummeled chest and shoulders, slammed him flat to stone. Clothes clung heavy, water pooling under him, torrent hammering limp flesh.

Laughter rose over the roar.

“Look at him flop – like a fish yanked from the sea,” Niji jeered.

“More like a drowned rat,” Yonji snickered. “Big, but useless.”

The water cut off, leaving him drenched and shivering on stone. Boots splashed in the puddle beneath him. Two of them grabbed at his soaked clothes, tearing them away piece by piece. His katanas clattered aside, steel ringing sharp as betrayal. He couldn’t turn, couldn’t fight, couldn’t twitch – just lie there limp while they stripped him bare.

They disappeared again, voices echoing. The hose roared back to life, stream pummeling harder. Spray scoured skin raw, freezing water hammering useless muscle.

“Pathetic,” Ichiji said with a curl of his lip. “Sanji picked this to sail with?”

Yonji cackled. “Figures. Our brother’s always been soft. Picks up strays, broken toys, trash Father would burn.”

Niji sneered, eyes flicking around the dungeon. “Fitting he ended up in the same cell as the wimp. At least Sanji tried to fight.”

They laughed as the water poured down, drowning Zoro in cold, skin stinging raw. His chest heaved, each breath sharp and shallow, a rasping growl trapped low in his throat. Fury boiled, hot enough to burn through the chill, with nowhere to go.

At last, the hose cut off with a hiss, leaving only dripping water. Silence fell heavy.

All three stood over him, boots dark with spray, shadows long in dawn light. Zoro lay naked on stone, skin red with cold, body limp and unmoving. Water ran down his chest, pooled beneath his back, hair plastered to his forehead. Rage and humiliation seared, fire locked in dead muscle.

His eye locked on theirs, burning. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t speak, but his glare carved the promise anyway: blood, the instant he could move.

The brothers only grinned wider.

“Much better,” Ichiji said, shaking droplets from his hand. “How much time ‘til breakfast?”

Niji checked his sleek watch. “Half an hour.”

“Plenty of time.” Ichiji’s grin sharpened to a leer. “I get him first.”

Zoro went cold. Every instinct screamed to rise, draw steel, cut them where they stood. His muscles strained against nothing. Breath quickened, shallow. Panic and fury twisted hard in his chest, his heart hammering so loud he swore they could hear it.

Yonji crouched close, voice gleeful. “Imagine Sanji’s face when he finds out we broke his precious crewmate. That’ll crush him faster than any fight.”

Niji smirked. “Remember, he has to stay alive. For now.”

Ichiji hauled Zoro up with ease, slung him over a shoulder, and carried him across the stone floor. Cold, damp air clung to his skin, muscles lax and useless. He was dumped face-first on a rusted cot, metal biting flesh. His mind screamed denial, but his body betrayed him, dead weight with no fight.

A zipper rasped open, followed by the wet sound of spit, and the cruel laughter of the other two brothers. Zoro squeezed his eye shut, bracing against what was coming. He felt the pressure against his hole. Ichiji’s grip locked hard on his hips, bruising. The first thrust tore through unprepared flesh, pain white-hot, ripping a cry loose. Ichiji laughed. “Knew you’d break.”

The rape was relentless, savage. Ichiji drove him against the hard side of the cot without care. Pain tore through his ass and lower back, white-hot, blinding. The other two jeered, voices echoing off stone. Zoro lay held down, helpless, body no longer his own.

Ichiji seized, finished inside him. The withdrawal tore as bad as the entry, the noise wet and foul in his ears. “I left him bleeding for you, Niji,” Ichiji said, his zipper rasping closed.

“Perfect.” Niji moved in. Zoro tried to detach, to vanish from his own skin, but the thrust ripped him back down. Hands clamped his hips, bone screaming. His jaw clenched hard, but breath broke ragged between his teeth. The dungeon filled with laughter.

He felt every inch tear through raw flesh, pain unending. Niji grunted, jeered, hissed mockery. Words about him “liking it,” twisted knife. It dragged on until Niji climaxed with a shout, crushing Zoro’s hips again, ripping another sound from his throat.

Niji patted his ass as he pulled out, degradingly. “Maybe we’ll keep you instead of killing you after the wedding.”

“My turn,” Yonji said. Zoro felt his body gape, the third cock bigger than the others, stretching him wider, tearing him more, pain searing fresh. Yonji drew it out, every thrust slow, cruel, deliberate. Each drive punched deep, relentless, like it would burst through his gut. He tried to lock it down, teeth grinding, but a hoarse crack of a cry broke from his chest.

Yonji eventually finished with a grunt, pulling free. Left him raw, bleeding, fouled.

“Good enough for now. Next time, he’s mine first,” Yonji muttered, flat as ice, zipping up and leaving him in pain and filth.

Zoro lay wrecked. The thin mattress scraped his cheek, rough fabric biting skin. The dungeon walls pressed in, weight heavy as stone. He’d be trapped until the paralysis broke – if it ever did. Maybe Reiju’s promise had been another lie. He wouldn’t be surprised.

A hand fisted in his hair and yanked, tossing him onto the slick stone like trash. He hit hard, back cracking against the floor, water splashing around him. His eye found the ceiling for a breath before shadows closed in, blotting out dawn.

“Too bad we can’t get Reiju down here to remove the paralysis first,” Niji sneered. “Then we’d see if he actually fights. Fucking him only makes me want to fuck him up more.”

“We were going to anyway,” Yonji said, almost cheerful.

“Let’s finish this before breakfast,” Ichiji muttered, rolling his shoulders.

That was the signal.

Zoro’s haki screamed, rattling through his skull – but his body stayed dead weight on the stone.

The first kick slammed into his ribs. Bone cracked. Fire tore across his chest, breath ripped out in a ragged wheeze. Then boots kept coming.

They were merciless. Ribs, arms, legs – bones bent, snapped one after another. Toes flattened under iron heels. His hands – his swordsman’s hands – were crushed, small bones shattering like glass, blazing bursts that blurred his vision.

Then the real blow. Boot drove into his pelvis – crack sharp, wet. Bone shattered, hips split, joints ground loose. Pain ripped down his legs, white-hot, until his body blurred to nothing. Every breath jarred the break, agony radiating through him. His foundation gone. Without it, what was left of him?

They kept him alive with ugly precision, measured strikes to punish but not kill. His jaw broke under a fist, pain spiking lightning through his skull. A kick snapped his head against stone; the world went white, a roaring bell filling his ears. His good eye swelled, hot and blinding, blood streaking down into the puddle beneath him.

They didn’t laugh much now. They didn’t need to. Cold as butchers, they broke him down piece by piece until he was limp wreckage. Skin split open in half a dozen places, blood and semen mixing with water on the floor. Pain. Nothing else. Endless, consuming.

When they were done, he still breathed – barely. Through haze and blood, his eye found their grins. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but his glare carved it anyway: when I stand, you die.

They turned, boots splashing as they laughed their way out.

The dungeon went quiet. Zoro lay in the silence and watched it stretch. Minutes crawled. He couldn’t move, couldn’t shift, couldn’t even turn his head from the puddle of filth and blood beneath him. The world shrank to breath dragging at his throat and pain in every broken part.

It wasn’t only broken bone that weighed him down. Something worse sat in him like a stain. His body had been taken. He could do nothing but lie there. The helplessness curdled in his chest, worse than any fracture.

He wanted to black out. Where none of this reached. Rage clawed up, but shame strangled it, smothered the fire in filth. He shut his eye, but the memory burned behind the lid, dug too deep to flee.

And then the worst thought: Sanji.

Sanji with fire and pride, sharp tongue and a kindness Zoro had always admired. Sanji who deserved better than this – better than him now. The cook’s face swam behind his lids and his gut clenched. Fool to think he was worthy. Now he was ruined. Tainted. Less than the swordsman he trained to be. Less than the man Sanji deserved.

Something low and animalistic left his throat. The cold, wet floor offered no comfort; inside, shame flared and then petrified, its molten edges cooling into a keen, ruthless thing. Grief fed the blade until it felt lethal in his mind. When he moved again, there’d be no mercy. He’d cut each of them down. He’d tear this castle apart and drown these halls in blood if he had to. The Vinsmokes would be wiped away. Sanji would never bow to them again. Zoro would raze this kingdom to the ground with his own hands if it bought Sanji freedom. If he couldn’t be loved, he’d be the sword that cut Sanji loose.

His eye opened, glare fixed on the ceiling. Paralysis kept him down, but the vow sharpened inside him like steel. They thought he was finished. The moment he could stand, he would bury them in blood.

Zoro finally went under, injuries dragging him down into black. The grind of iron and the creak of hinges yanked him back. The dungeon door. His gut twisted. Fear – cold and unwanted – slid through him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t lift his head. Everything was broken, radiating pain. Kuma all over again, except this time the pain was his own.

His swollen eye stayed shut; no light on the ceiling to mark the hours. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. Still, he clung to his vow: this cell would not be his grave. The Vinsmokes would not claim him. His body would mend, and when it did, he’d paint this castle in their blood.

Footsteps hit the stone stairs, quick and uneven. A sharp gasp cut the air, then a voice cracked, raw with horror: “No, no, no. Shit, fuck!”

Relief surged so hard it nearly undid him. Sanji. For the first time since they’d dragged him under, air cut past the dungeon stench. Shame followed fast, heavy in his chest. He didn’t want Sanji seeing him wrecked, filthy, sprawled useless on stone.

Bars crashed off their supports, iron clattering. Knees hit the floor beside him. A warm hand pressed his neck, finding his pulse. “Zoro, can you hear me? Don’t you dare be dead, marimo.”

Zoro forced a grunt, rough but there. Sanji gave a strangled laugh, relief spilling into curses and – was that a sob? Fingers slid into his hair, stroking lightly, gentle in a way that hurt worse than the breaks. “I’m getting you out. Fuck, damn it–” Sanji’s voice cracked. “This is my fault.”

Zoro wasn’t having it. He snarled, or tried to. It came out guttural, weak, but it still pulled another rough laugh from Sanji. “I’ll chew you out later. Lemme get your swords, then we’re gone.”

The sheathes clacked as Sanji lifted the katanas. Lighter steps descended the stairs. “Sanji, we need to get you patched up. We have to leave for Big Mom’s luncheon shortly.”

“Reiju, kindly fuck off.”

A gasp, faint. “I heard them say they visited down here, but I hadn’t realized…”

“What did you think would happen?” Sanji’s voice was harsh, bitter. “What did they do to me down there for months? And you – you left him so he couldn’t even fight. Do you know what that means?”

“Let me help–”

“No.” Sanji snapped. “Back off. Keep the hell away from him.”

“But he’s still paralyzed.”

“Better he stays like this till we’re clear. Look at him – they nearly killed him. If he could move, he’d tear himself apart. This way, the pain’s dulled.” Sanji’s voice dropped, softer, breaking again. “Sorry, marimo. I know you hate being stuck, but this is mercy, for now.”

Shame burned hotter in Zoro’s chest. He hated being called powerless, hated needing anyone. But Sanji was right. If he twitched a muscle, he’d probably scream.

“Let’s take him to the doctors, at least,” Reiju said. “Father said he isn’t allowed to die, so they’ll help.”

“No. I’m getting him out.” Sanji’s reply carried an edge that brooked no argument. “If you want to help, get me a ship I can sail alone and a month’s worth of provisions – meds, bandages, everything.”

“What about your hands? You can’t leave without those bracelets exploding.”

Sanji’s silence stretched. Then: “Fuck. Can you get the key?”

“Maybe. But I’ll need time.”

“Shit. I won’t wait.” Another bitter curse, then a snap: “Meet me in the medical wing.”

“You’re taking him to the doctors?”

“No, I’ll Sky Walk and blow my hands off. Have them ready the prosthetics.”

Reiju gasped. Zoro’s mind lurched. Sanji was going to blow his hands off? What the hell?

He must’ve made a sound, because Sanji was at his side again. Fingers brushed through his hair, softer than his words. “I’ll be right back, marimo. I’m getting you out – I swear it.”

A pause. Reiju’s voice came quieter. “They’re fakes. I managed to switch them out. Father ordered me to put the bracelets on your wrists, but he never said which ones.”

Silence again – heavy, dangerous – before Sanji’s voice returned, clipped and low. “Then it’s no problem for you to get us a ship.”

Reiju let out a breath, voice catching before she forced it steady. “I will meet you at the north dock. Use the west garden path to get there. It’s unmanned. I’ll tell the guards you’ve been allowed to… bury the body.”

Her steps retreated. Sanji settled beside Zoro again, fingers brushing at his hairline. His voice gentled. “It’s gonna hurt when I lift you, marimo. Probably better if you pass out.”

Zoro wanted to ask – about Sanji’s wounds, about the damned wedding – but when Sanji’s arms slid under him and lifted, agony tore through his body. His scream ripped out, darkness surging in to claim him – Sanji’s name the last thing left before it all went black.

Voices dragged him up from the dark, muffled at first, then sharpening into Sanji and Reiju. Wood creaked. Waves slapped the hull. Salt air drifted in from above, cool against his bare skin, carrying the tang of the sea and the rise of Sanji’s voice.

He wasn’t on stone anymore. Not on filth. Not in Sanji’s arms. Canvas shifted under him — bags or bedding laid on a narrow bunk. Every rock of the boat rattled through his broken body. He could only exist inside it.

“…not too late. We can get him to the doctors, and get you to Big Mom’s luncheon.”

“No. I said I’m getting him out, and I mean it.”

“What about your chef? The one in East Blue?”

Sanji didn’t answer at once. Footsteps shifted on the deck above, weight settling like an anchor. When he spoke his voice was rough, pained. “I made my choice. He would understand.”

The words snagged in Zoro’s mind but slid past before he could catch them. Pain and exhaustion muddied his thoughts, leaving only the sense that something important had slipped by.

Reiju hesitated before answering, voice muffled by the hatch. “I’ll do what I can to mitigate this, but you know I can’t go against Father’s orders. I’ve put a den den mushi in one of the bags. It should be strong enough to reach the East Blue.”

Sanji’s steps crossed the deck again, ropes rasping against wood. “I would say thanks, but you’ve done something I’ll never forgive.” Canvas cracked overhead, sails snapping open. “Goodbye, Reiju.”

Her voice drifted after, quiet. “Goodbye, Sanji. I’m glad you… found someone to share your life with.”

“Yeah. Don’t see that ever happening now. Not after this.”

The breeze stirred the cabin, brushing over Zoro where he lay on the bunk. Waves quickened. Ropes strained. Wood groaned as the ship lurched into motion. He felt the shift beneath him as they got underway. He tried to hold onto the voices, the sound, but the pull of the black was stronger. He slipped back under as the ship carried them away.

This time, when Zoro came around, everything hurt and smelled like chocolate.

“…insist that he remain here, under my care,” a woman’s voice said. “And we still need to tend to your injuries.”

“Not happening, Doc,” Sanji snapped, voice flat and hard. “Move. Before I carve a new door through your pretty clinic.”

“But–”

“Move. Now.”

Zoro could almost hear the doctor gulp before he felt himself moving, smooth on wheels. He lay flat, body compressed, wrapped tight. Bandages, probably, if Sanji had dragged him to a clinic.

The scent of chocolate thickened as they jolted over a bump. Street sounds bled in – voices, cart wheels, gulls overhead. He tried to open his eye. Nothing. Swollen shut, or covered. He tried to grunt, but the effort drained him before it even left his throat.

The darkness dragged him back under.

Zoro’s eye snapped open, heart pounding hard against his ribs. The dungeon pressed in around him, stone close and air stale. Morning light cut through the barred window high on the wall. Torches spat and guttered, shadows crawling with each flare.

He hadn’t been rescued. He hadn’t been saved. He was still here.

Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji loomed over him, erections exposed, their arousal a weapon rather than desire. The sight made Zoro’s gut twist, bile rising hot in his throat.

He braced on his hands and knees, arms shaking under his weight. The cot creaked behind him, metal groaning like an echo of what had been done there. The air stank of sweat, blood, and filth.

“Come on, Zoro,” Niji sneered. “You love it. Don’t bother pretending.”

Zoro’s hands closed, trembling, around Ichiji. His jaw opened, the taste hitting hard as the weight forced past his lips. Ichiji drove forward, shoving deeper down his throat. He gagged, throat locking, mouth stretched until his eye burned with tears. He couldn’t pull back. Couldn’t stop it.

Yonji moved in behind, hands clamping his hips, fingers grinding into bone. “Good little toy,” he mocked, voice sharp with scorn. “Always ready when we want you.”

Zoro’s body locked as Yonji shoved inside, splitting him wider, tearing what was already ruined. His gag caught on Ichiji, air cut thin, a broken sound rasping past.

Niji stood to the side, fist working himself with a cruel grin. “Harder, brother. Break him down.”

Yonji hammered into him, every impact rattling bone. Ichiji rammed down his throat, choking him, spit streaking his chin as his chest heaved for air that wouldn’t come.

Then Ichiji wrenched free, slick with spit, and moved behind. A shift of brothers, a brutal thrust – he shoved himself inside, fast and punishing, pace unrelenting.

Zoro sagged under it, skin raw, body battered. Head dropped. Fire in his chest with nowhere to go. Held down. Used. Nothing but meat in their hands.

Ichiji’s rhythm faltered, grip crushing harder as his hips stuttered. A guttural sound tore out of him as he spilled, then yanked free, leaving Zoro leaking filth down his legs.

Niji stepped in without pause, ramming himself inside with a vicious stroke. The impact slammed Zoro forward, the crack of flesh on the stone wall louder than his ragged breath. Pain carved through him, tearing deep until he gasped.

Each thrust landed deliberate, meant to wound, fingers bruising his side as the assault dragged on.

Niji reached around, hand closing cruelly over Zoro’s cock, forcing his body to react against his will. Heat coiled low despite every ounce of resistance, dragged out like another weapon. Niji’s laugh cut deep. “Look at you, pathetic. You can’t even stop yourself.”

The pressure broke him. Release was torn out, splattering uselessly against the cot. It felt like another wound, shame burning hotter than pain. His body convulsed under the violation, self-disgust choking him.

Niji slammed harder until his own climax broke, spilling inside with a grunt. When he pulled free, Zoro was left raw, the scent of blood and semen heavy in the air.

Yonji seized his hips in a crushing grip and shoved forward, driving himself in with brutal force. The impact ripped a cry out of Zoro, fresh agony tearing through what little was left. Yonji was bigger than the others, heavier, every thrust splitting him wider, forcing his body to take more than it could bear. Each collision reverberated off the dungeon stone, the sound sharp as bone against iron.

Then his unending torment warped. A sudden rupture tore through Zoro’s gut, his belly splitting in a spray of blood and gore. It made no sense – his body turned inside out, spilling red across the cot.

Yonji laughed through it, movements monstrous, cock punching visibly through him. Pain shattered thought, leaving only raw screams, his body convulsing helplessly with each impossible blow.

The cot creaked under him as his strength bled away. The dungeon swam in red. His mind spiraled to its last refuge: a desperate plea for blackness to take him.

The torchlight warped, shadows flaring until Sanji stood in the doorway. For a moment Zoro thought it salvation – but the look that met him froze his blood. Horror flickered, then twisted into disgust.

“Useless,” Sanji spat. “Weak. I never want to see you again.”

Zoro’s chest tore open at the words. Worse than bone breaking. Worse than steel through his gut. The bars clanged shut, the echo louder than the laughter behind him. A ragged cry broke free, begging for help that never came.

Hands clamped his hips again, anchoring him as Yonji’s assault dragged on with Sanji watching, disgust curling his lip. Zoro’s plea cracked out, raw and desperate. “Please… stop…”

No one listened. His voice drowned beneath their laughter, beneath the wet ruin of his body. The dungeon closed in, torchlight spinning until the world blurred into despair.

Then warmth cut through – a hand stroking his hair, fingertips brushing his temple. The nightmare stuttered. A voice followed, faint at first, then clearer, threading through the shadows until it hooked into him.

“…Shh. It’s okay, baby. Just another nightmare. Shh.”

Zoro drifted at the edge of waking, clinging to the hand in his hair, the low murmur pulling him back. The voice shook, but he knew it. Sanji.

“You’re safe now–” Sanji’s words broke, ragged on a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Zoro. I should’ve kept you away. I let you get hurt. I let Reiju– my brothers– I let them… Fuck. I’m sorry, marimo. I’m sorry I’m nothing but trash who couldn’t protect you.”

The hand left him. A sharp crash followed, glass splintering against the floor. Rage and grief rode the sound, raw enough that Zoro flinched even half-asleep. His chest tightened, pressed under the weight of Sanji’s anguish, and he forced himself to stir.

His eye pried open. The world swam, then steadied: a cabin, narrow and dim, lit only by the sway of a lantern near the hatch. A ladder rose beneath it to the ceiling. He was propped on a bunk, head turned just enough to glimpse a kitchenette, the open doorway to a head. His katanas rested in a corner, his worn haramaki draped over them.

Sanji crouched near the counter, shoulders hunched as he gathered shards from the floor. His white shirt was stained, his wrists still bound in gold.

Zoro blinked, gaze dropping down his own frame. His arms and legs were locked in heavy braces and bandages, a blanket over his lap. Bruises mottled his stomach, but no gaping hole cut through him. His throat scraped dry, lips cracked, tongue sour with rot. He tried to open his mouth, but his jaw held fast, unmoving.

Sanji was cursing under his breath, most of it turned inward. A litany of self-loathing that hit harder than any blow. None of this was on him. It was on the Vinsmokes. It was on Zoro, for being too weak to shield them both. He’d thought Sanji’s family would be a nuisance, something to brush aside while they prepared for an emperor. He’d underestimated them. This was the price.

Worse, he was only now catching the weight of what Sanji had said before – about their strength, their cruelty, even when he was just a kid. Eight years old, stuck there. Maybe beaten bloody. Maybe worse. Bones snapped. Blood on the floor.

And Niji’s words cut back through the haze: that it had been Sanji’s cell. Sanji had been locked in that dungeon by his own family.

Zoro’s chest tightened, rage knotted with something heavier as he thought of what Sanji must’ve endured as a kid. He usually wrote off people’s pasts – what mattered was now – but this went past anything he could shrug at. Sanji had been thrown into a cell, beaten down by his own family, and still managed to grow into someone who cooked, laughed, fought, cared. Zoro had one encounter with the bastards and he was wrecked. Sanji had lived it for years and hadn’t broken. It was almost too much to believe.

No. He wasn’t going to let this break him either. If Sanji could walk out of hell and keep standing, Zoro could damn well rise again. He’d take that same fire and hammer it into himself. They’d incapacitated him, raped him, left him in pieces – so what? He wasn’t giving them shame on top of it. Not anymore.

When his body answered him again, he’d stand. He’d cut every one of them down. And he’d stop pretending. Sanji might never want him, but Zoro wanted Sanji – enough that this time he was going to do something about it, no matter where it led.

He must’ve made a noise, because Sanji’s head snapped around. Tear tracks cut through the grime on his bruised face, skin mottled in black and blue, shallow cuts still visible beneath the pallor.

Sanji moved quick, almost guilty – dumping shards into the bin, rinsing his hands, dragging damp wrists across his cheeks before facing him again. Zoro’s eye caught the stains at once. The shirt was clean, but the front still blotched with brown shadows that no scrubbing would hide.

“’Bout damn time you woke up, lazy marimo,” Sanji muttered. The bite was there, dulled, careful, as he dragged a stool closer and set a cup by the bunk. He plucked out an ice chip and pressed it to Zoro’s cracked lips. “Here. Helps with the thirst.”

The cold hit sharp, glorious, melting slow across his tongue. Zoro’s gaze lifted, heavy with questions he couldn’t voice.

“You’ve been out four days,” Sanji said, voice rough. “We’re off Germa. You’re–” He coughed, jaw locking. “You’ll be fine. Got you patched up before we left Totto Land. Worst damage was your–” He cut off, looking away, mouth tight. “It’s healing. I’ve been taking care of it. Not Chopper, but I’m handling it.”

Zoro let the ice melt before dragging his tongue across his lips. Sanji was there instantly with another chip, slipping it between his teeth with quiet care.

“You’re on IVs for now. Since you’re awake, I’ll put broth on.” Sanji shifted to stand.

Zoro forced sound through the dryness, his jaw unmoving under the bandages. “S’kay… cook.”

Sanji froze, shoulders taut, then let out a sharp huff. “Could’ve fooled me. You croak like a frog gargling sandpaper.”

Zoro repeated, firmer. “S’kay.”

The muscle in Sanji’s jaw ticked before his mouth tugged into the faintest smirk. He pressed another ice chip to Zoro’s lips. “Less croaking. More ice.”

Zoro let it go. He could talk if he wanted to – three-sword style had made sure of that, bandages or not – but one mumbled word wouldn’t prove a thing. Sanji was stubborn as stone. Better to wait until his voice was steady, until he could make it clear he meant it: that he was fine, that he didn’t blame him.

Sanji rose, setting the cup aside, and turned to the galley’s narrow stove. Metal clinked, flame caught, and the air shifted. The warm curl of broth wound through the cabin, sharp with salt and meat.

Zoro’s stomach answered with a low growl. He shifted against the braces and bandages, testing limits. Every move hurt, but it was his pain again – muscle pulling, ribs throbbing – not the dead weight of paralysis. He could breathe through it, own it. His body would mend. Bones that should take months would be whole in days. Bandages would fall, one layer at a time, until nothing held him down.

The sight of Sanji at the stove settled something in him. It was familiar, almost enough to make him expect Luffy to come barreling in yelling for meat, only to catch a boot back out. Instead, silence. Just Sanji moving with practiced ease, shoulders squared, weight set sure as always. A cook in his place.

Zoro’s eye lingered longer than he meant, tracing the steady lines of Sanji’s back. He’d taken that view for granted. Sanji’s skill wasn’t just craft – it was survival. He’d crawled out of Germa’s shadow, found Zeff, built himself into this. Zoro didn’t know the how, but he was grateful all the same.

The thought of Zeff made his gut tighten. “Wedding?”

Sanji glanced over his shoulder, brows pulling tight. “What?”

“Wedding?” Zoro pushed, rasp scraping louder.

“Oh. The wedding.” Sanji turned back, tossing something into the pot. “Didn’t happen. We bailed before lunch the next day.”

Relief hit – selfish and sharp – because Sanji wasn’t bound to anyone. But another thought followed fast. “…Zeff?”

Sanji’s shoulders locked. Silence stretched, broken only by the simmer of broth. His voice came low, strained. “Called him on the den den. Gave him the warning. Told him what was coming. Tried to scrape up backup.”

The words landed heavy. Zeff was still in danger. Zoro wasn’t.

Sanji had chosen him. Pulled him from Germa, knowing the cost might fall on Zeff. Risked someone irreplaceable for him.

Zoro’s chest tightened, humbled, unworthy. “Sanji.”

Sanji turned, caught by the weight in his voice. Zoro held his gaze, letting it all rest in two blunt words. “Thank you.”

For a moment Sanji didn’t move. Then he exhaled slowly, smoke curling as he turned back to the stove. His voice came low, rough. “Don’t thank me, marimo. I’d do it again, every damn time.”

Zoro swallowed, dragging sound past his throat. The bandages kept his jaw stiff, but the words came steady enough. “Still… thank you.”

Sanji froze again. The spoon stilled over the pot, broth dripping back with a soft splash. His head tilted like he was listening harder than he wanted to. Then, too quick, he set the spoon aside and busied himself with the flame, voice rougher than before. “Idiot marimo… you really don’t get it.”

Zoro’s eye narrowed faintly, catching the shift, wanting to press. Pain tore through his ribs when he moved, hissing it back.

Sanji rounded on him at once, tongue clicking as he crossed the space. A finger pressed to Zoro’s forehead, firm, pushing him back against the raised bedding. “Stop moving, dumbass. I don’t have pain meds.”

He checked the IV line that trailed from a bag hooked on a cabinet knob down into the bandage at Zoro’s hand.

Up close, the lantern light showed Sanji’s face again – cuts scabbing, bruises fading but still dark enough to twist something in Zoro’s chest. The words about pain meds hooked him. “Your face…?”

“Tch. Just a scratch,” Sanji muttered, brushing it off as he turned back to the stove. “Broth’ll take an hour. Shut your eye and sleep, marimo.”

It didn’t take much. Exhaustion pulled heavy and fast. Healing always burned through his strength, left him sleeping more than he liked. He let his eye fall shut. The faint clink of utensils, the quiet stir of broth, the steady rhythm of Sanji moving in the galley, each sound threaded through him like a lullaby, easing him under. He let go without a fight, drifting down with Sanji close by.

A stab of pain dragged Zoro awake. He felt himself being eased down, blinked blearily down his body, and caught Sanji tying a folded towel at his waist like a makeshift diaper. “You want me to call you ‘Daddy’?” he mumbled with bemusement, throat thick from sleep.

Sanji’s head went up in flames, fire licking high off his hair. Zoro had never actually seen that happen before, and it was almost funny.

Zoro shut his eye, smirk still there, as Sanji snagged the soiled towel and climbed the ladder. Chopper would’ve treated it clinical, all medic. Sanji did it with bite and care both. Humiliation skimmed him, but he let it slide. Amusement stuck instead.

He heard Sanji doing something out on deck. The sway said small ship, but not a dinghy. There was more weight under him than that. By the creak of the timbers and the taut pull of the sails, it felt built for more than hugging coastlines. Maybe a skiff, maybe a schooner, but solid enough for the open sea.

Sanji’s shoes struck the ladder rungs, then the short stretch of galley floor. The narrow cabin carried every sound. “Food, shithead,” he muttered, voice sharp but roughened by fatigue. Zoro cracked his eye open. A stool had been dragged up close to the bunk, and Sanji sat on it now with a steaming bowl balanced in one hand, the spoon ready in the other.

Zoro’s lips twitched. “Daddy’s gonna feed me now?”

“I will kill you,” Sanji said flatly, though the blaze in his face gave him away. He steadied the bowl on his lap and worked the knot loose from the bandage that braced Zoro’s jaw.

Zoro opened and closed his mouth with care. Pain flared sharply, but nothing ground or slipped; the bone was knitting, not broken out of place. The braces strapped along his arms kept him still, and both hands were buried in bandages. Even if he wanted the spoon, he couldn’t hold it. Spoon-feeding wasn’t new anyway. Chopper had done it before, and would again – Zoro had never been kind to his own body in a fight.

Sanji lifted the spoon, steam curling from the broth. Zoro smirked, tongue ready to shape a crack about the choo-choo, but Sanji’s gaze narrowed, and his voice landed first. “This spoon’s about to go up your nose.”

A sudden bark of laughter escaped him, jarring his ribs hard enough to make him wince. Still, he grinned through it. Felt too damn good to laugh again. “Daddy’s no fun.”

“Fuck you.” Sanji’s mouth betrayed him, twitching at the corners before he flattened it again. “Asshole.”

The skiff rocked beneath them, timbers creaking, waves slapping dully against the hull. The sounds filled the cabin around their voices. The broth smelled rich, comforting, and Zoro behaved enough to get fed. The taste spread across his tongue, warmth sinking into his stomach. After five days without food, it was bliss. “S’good,” he managed.

“My food’s always good,” Sanji replied, feeding him slow, deliberate spoonfuls. Zoro knew from experience it was to stop him from heaving it all back up. “Tomorrow I’ll do soup with puréed vegetables. Give it a few more days and your jaw’ll be healed enough for soft food.”

“Chopper’d be proud you remembered all this,” Zoro said after swallowing another mouthful.

“Not much of an achievement when your dumb ass gets busted up every other week.”

“Heh.”

Sanji’s hands were steady, guiding each spoonful without a drop spilled. “How’re you feeling, really?” he asked, quieter now.

“On a scale of one to Kuma, about a seven. If I don’t move much,” Zoro admitted. No point lying; Sanji had seen him worse.

Sanji gave a small nod, gaze flicking aside. “Gonna have to roll you onto your stomach soon, keep the bedsores off. Then I’ll have to… doctor you.”

Zoro caught the meaning, heat creeping up his face despite everything. He cleared his throat. “S’fine, cook. Do what you gotta.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Sanji fed him in the quiet until the bowl was nearly empty, tension thick enough to choke on. Then he straightened, exhaling through his nose, mouth curving into something between a smirk and a challenge. “Fuck this. Daddy’s gonna make you feel all better.”

A sudden bark of laughter burst out of Zoro before he could stop it. “Ha-ha—ow, ow, fuck.” His ribs throbbed with every chuckle, but it was worth it.

Sanji’s lips tugged into a crooked grin. “You started it.”

“Bastard.” Zoro’s laugh ebbed, but his grin stayed put.

Sanji shook his head, a chuckle slipping out as he lifted the next spoonful. “Yeah, well… don’t go kicking the bucket, and maybe I’ll let you keep calling me that.” The quip landed, but his eyes lingered on Zoro longer than the joke required.

Heat stirred low in Zoro’s belly, and it wasn’t from the broth. Not a reaction he’d expected. And was Sanji… flirting with him?

He ate the last spoonful, watching Sanji speculatively. Sanji glanced at the bowl, then tilted his head. “Want any more, marimo?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Zoro deadpanned.

Sanji smirked, refilled the bowl, and sat again. The look he gave Zoro was playful, maybe even a little heated, though that could’ve been wishful thinking. “Behave yourself, sweet boy, and maybe I’ll let you taste the vodka I dug up on this tub.”

“I’ll be good,” Zoro promised at once. The chuckle he earned in return settled warm in his chest.

Sanji fed him more broth, the teasing fading but the mood staying easy, light. The laughter had done more for him than any medicine could.

When he finished, Sanji ruffled his hair like an asshole, laughing when Zoro cursed at him. He set the bowl aside, poured a shot of vodka, and helped Zoro drink. The fire went down smooth, leaving a glow in its wake.

“I’m gonna wash up, then I’ve got shit to handle topside,” Sanji told him.

Zoro hummed, sated and already drowsy. His eye slid shut. “Okay… Daddy.”

Sanji snorted, flicking his earrings. “Brat.”

Zoro’s grin lingered as he drifted, the sound of Sanji moving around the little cabin following him under – and for once, he let himself quietly hope the teasing words might have meant something more.

Sanji’s doctoring wasn’t as bad as Zoro figured it would be. Real pain came from getting rolled onto his stomach, not from Sanji’s fingers spreading cream in his ass. Sanji was anxious and embarrassed enough for the both of them anyway.

“Told you, s’fine,” Zoro mumbled into the blanket serving as a pillow. His braced arms lay by his sides, head turned toward the cabin wall. The cream was cool, soothing, Sanji’s touch careful. If not for the jagged soreness from being rolled, he could almost get into it. A far cry from the brothers’ abuse. Maybe what it was really supposed to feel like.

“I don’t get how you can be so damn calm,” Sanji muttered. “I mean, my fingers are… and you were…”

“S’you,” Zoro said. Simple.

Sanji’s hands paused, then continued, slower than before. “Crazy swordsman,” he said, voice gruffer than usual.

Zoro hummed low as Sanji finished, spread different lotion, covered him again with the makeshift diaper. A swat followed, sharp enough to pull a hiss through his teeth.

“Daddy’s done,” Sanji said, mocking. He pushed off the stool and headed for the head, leaving Zoro in the quiet of the cabin. The weight of his own thoughts pressed down. Sex had meant one thing – a single ruined reference steeped in pain. And yet Sanji’s teasing still echoed. He caught himself considering there might be something else. Something he could want. Maybe even kinks, if it was Sanji.

Zoro turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain it drew. His neck hadn’t been broken, thankfully, but the bandage around his skull tugged where stitches pulled tight against skin. The folded blanket under his cheek pressed into them, reminding him of every thread.

Sanji came back a moment later, moving through the cramped cabin as he put the medical things away. Zoro watched him. He’d already asked why Sanji hadn’t changed out of the blood-stained shirt, and Sanji had explained that Reiju had only given them food and medical supplies. Anything else, he’d scrounged from the skiff.

Zoro’s eye lingered now, tracking the way he moved. The tension had eased, motions steadier, calmer. Should he ask about the flirting? He’d promised he wouldn’t keep burying feelings, that he’d act. But… was now really the time? When Sanji had just had his fingers up his ass tending to injuries left by his psychopathic brothers?

Then again, it wasn’t like he’d done a damn thing when he was on his feet either, so it wasn’t as if his timing had ever been better. Still, it would be one hell of a long trip to Wano if he was wrong, stuck flat on his back with no way to put distance between them. Not that there was much distance to be had on a skiff anyway.

Maybe he’d wait. Four, five days. A week, tops. Long enough to move under his own power again. Then he’d act. He could already hear Usopp running his mouth, calling it a bad case of Put-Off-Chicken-Itis.

They kept up the “Daddy” joke, if only because it cut through the worst of it. Sanji was literally changing Zoro’s soiled towel-diaper multiple times a day. It was embarrassing, but necessary. The flirty humor made it bearable, a way to turn humiliation into something they could laugh at instead of choke on. And if Zoro found himself not fighting it as hard as he thought he should… well, that was between him and the bunk.

Every day Sanji checked his pelvis, testing if the bones could take more pressure yet. The moment they could, he swore he’d haul Zoro to the head himself – something they’d both welcome.

Zoro slept most of the time, but when he was awake, he was bored and achy, never able to get truly comfortable, itching to start training again. Every twinge of pain reminded him he was still broken, his braces and bandages a cage he wanted to rip off with his teeth. His fingers twitched for hilts he couldn’t yet hold.

Which meant, when Sanji was around, his restlessness came out as bickering.

“You could at least bring the vodka bottle over here.”

Sanji didn’t even look up from the galley. “Not happening. You’ll down half the damn thing and set your healing back a week.”

“Just a sip.”

“You’ve already had two sips. You’re cut off.”

“Tch. Cook’s stingy.”

“Cook’s keeping you alive, moss-for-brains.”

Zoro smirked, because Sanji’s voice always went tight when he said that – like it mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Later, Zoro tugged at the brace on his arm with his teeth, grimacing when it didn’t budge. “These don’t even help. Just take them off.”

Sanji whirled on him, cigarette bouncing between his lips. “Try it and I’ll tie you to the bunk myself. You move those arms wrong and you’ll heal crooked.”

“I heal fast.”

“You heal stupid. Difference.”

Sanji’s hands lingered at his side a beat too long before he turned away. Zoro didn’t point it out, though the warmth crawled under his skin.

Another day, Zoro tried shifting upright, gritting through the pain.

The stool screeched across the floor as Sanji spun on him, voice hard. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting up.”

“Like hell you are. You can’t even piss standing right now.”

Zoro smirked faintly, just to needle him. “You offering to help with that, too?”

Sanji’s face went red to the tips of his ears. He muttered something vicious under his breath and shoved him flat again. Zoro let him, but the heat in his chest wasn’t from the effort.

It didn’t stop there.

“The hatch stays open,” Sanji insisted one morning.

“It makes it too bright.”

“You sleep all damn day anyway.”

“And I don’t want the wind whistling like a banshee in my ear.”

“Deal with it, marimo. Fresh air’s good for you.”

Another time, Zoro stared up at the ceiling. “Seventeen nails in this board.”

Sanji flicked him with a dish towel. “Sixteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“You can’t even count past eleven without your toes.”

“I could fight with just my toes.”

Sanji barked a laugh. “You’d lose. My pinkie toe alone would kick your ass.”

“Bullshit. My pinkie toe would have your toe begging for mercy.”

They devolved into a full debate about toe-fighting techniques, Sanji demonstrating ridiculous kicks in the cramped cabin while Zoro laughed so hard his ribs ached. Sanji looked away quick, but Zoro caught the flicker anyway, a smile breaking through before he shut it down.

And so it went – vodka, bandages, hatch doors, nails in the ceiling, pinkie toe battles – every argument ending the same way: with Sanji swearing, Zoro smirking, and both of them secretly clinging to the sound of each other’s voices.

In the quiet, Zoro noticed too much. Sanji’s hands steadying on his face when checking the damage. His gaze lingering when Zoro smiled. And Sanji, for all his cursing and huffs, never stayed far from the bunk. Not really.

The cuts and bruises on Sanji’s face and Zoro’s body healed and faded. Sanji took the stitches out of Zoro’s scalp and prodded his jaw to see if the bone had mended. Zoro ate soft food and soup, drank water or tea, and the occasional shot of vodka. What stuck more than any of it was Sanji’s voice, cutting through the cabin, arguing, teasing, alive.

Zoro leaned against the bedding propping him up, watching Sanji move things around in the galley cupboards. It was most of his entertainment, aside from trading insults. “What’s that?” he asked, spotting a black canister marked with a bold number three. Sanji had just set it on the counter with a few others. “The thing with the three.”

“That? Raid Suit.” Sanji’s lip curled. “Reiju slipped it in with the junk she gave us.”

“What’s a Raid Suit?”

“Power-up suit,” Sanji said flatly, bracing on the counter. “Built for combat – flight, stealth, all that crap.”

Zoro’s brow rose. “Why give you that?”

“Haven’t decided if she likes me or hates me,” Sanji drawled. “Could be both.”

“Have you tried it on?”

“Yeah. Once.” His jaw tightened. “Didn’t like the way it made me feel.”

“Like a Vinsmoke.”

“Yeah.”

The air thickened. Zoro heard the things Sanji wasn’t saying, the same ones heavy in his own head about what the Vinsmokes had done.

Zoro shifted, ignoring the tug of bandages. “Think you’ll end up using it anyway?”

“Hope not.” Sanji shrugged, smoke sliding out in a harsh exhale. “Don’t see why I’d ever need it.”

But Zoro noticed his eyes linger on the canister a moment too long before he shoved it back into the cabinet, slamming the door as if he could bury it deeper. Instead of leaving the space empty, Sanji pulled out a packet of laundry powder, filled a bucket, and crouched to scrub. Smoke drifted around his head, blurring the hard set of his mouth.

Zoro hesitated, then asked, “You’re not like them. Physically. Why?”

Sanji didn’t answer right away. Only cloth rasping over the washboard. Finally, he said, “I’m the failed experiment. Judge wanted us all the same, but I came out… defective. Not that he didn’t try to force it, but eventually he cut his losses.”

“And you left.”

“Yeah. Eventually.” Sanji scrubbed harder than needed, jaw taut. “Wound up on a cruise ship, washing dishes in the galley. Couple years later, I met Zeff. And now? I’m stuck babysitting your useless ass.”

“If you’d take–” Zoro yawned, chest rumbling before he finished, “–these bandages off, you wouldn’t have to do that any longer.”

“Believe me, marimo, I’m counting the days.”

Zoro couldn’t tell if that was sincere or just long-suffering. Probably both. Another yawn cut off any reply, and he decided it didn’t matter. He shut his eye. “Try not to make too much noise, shit cook.”

“Tch.”

Sanji scrubbed louder, just to spite him. It put a smile on Zoro’s face, and it stayed there as he drifted into sleep.

Zoro reawoke feeling like refreshed crap instead of just pained crap. He licked his lips as he opened his eye, ready to tell Sanji to fetch him a drink. But the cook wasn’t in the cabin.

Above, Sanji’s voice carried through the open hatch, rising and falling against the creak of the skiff. A muffled reply answered now and then. For a moment Zoro thought someone else was aboard, until he caught the cadence – Sanji was on the den den mushi with Zeff.

“...they’d send someone your way… Maybe you could take care of yourself five hundred years ago, old man… Just stuff them in my old room and feed them… You gave it to who?! Fucking bastard, bet you didn’t wait a day… Ha! Fuck you, too.”

A dry hum rumbled in Zoro’s chest. Typical Sanji – lashing even his old man.

Then Sanji’s tone shifted, still rough but carrying a thread of care. “...few more days and I’ll think about ditching the braces on his legs. Big bones are healed, no doubt, but I’ve kept ’em on so he can’t go charging off like the idiot he is. He’d be training already if I let him. Gonna keep him strapped down longer, whining or not. A swordsman’s hands matter same as a cook’s…”

Zoro’s brow furrowed. The words pricked at something he’d heard before, a memory hovering just out of reach. Then a fragment surfaced – Sanji’s voice, hard and certain: I’ll Sky Walk and blow my hands off. Have them ready the prosthetics.

Zoro’s heart lurched, blood roaring in his ears. Hands – Sanji’s hands. The reason he fought with his legs, the pride in every dish, the one part of himself he guarded like treasure. And he’d declared he’d blow them off. To erase the very thing that defined him.

Zoro had seen Sanji’s hands, felt the warmth and calluses. They hadn’t felt like prosthetics, not like Franky’s old hands

His throat worked around a dry swallow. Had Sanji really gone through with it? The memory snagged and slipped, refusing to hold still. Doubt gnawed at him, cutting deep either way. If Sanji had… if he hadn’t… Zoro didn’t know which thought hurt worse.

He shifted against the bedding, pelvis aching with the motion, frustration burning hotter than the pain. The skiff rocked with the sea, timbers groaning, Sanji’s muffled voice still drifting down the hatch. Zoro fixed his eye on it, restless, unsettled, waiting.

Eventually, the hatch thumped shut and Sanji’s shoes clicked down the ladder. He hadn’t even hit the floor before Zoro rasped, “Your hands.”

Sanji turned, confusion furrowing his brow, the den den mushi resting on his palm. “What about them?”

“You said you’d blow them off. Sky Walk. Prosthetics. Did you–” Zoro’s throat worked, the words grinding out. “Did you actually do it?”

Sanji glanced down at his hand. Tension pulled around him. “No. Didn’t come to that.” He set the snail down a little too carefully. “Didn’t think you’d caught that.”

Relief flooded Zoro, but it left a bitter edge. “Why? Why would you even consider it?”

Sanji kept his back to him, laughter scraping out low, strained. “Zoro, you fucking idiot. I wasn’t about to leave you rotting in that hellhole one second longer, not after what they–” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “Didn’t matter in the end. No explosives. Now we’re here.”

It hit Zoro in a single, icy rush. The skiff rocked as if the sea were trying to pry the breath from his chest. Lantern light threw a sickly wash over the bunks, painting Sanji’s face in gold and shadow. Seawater and disinfectant clung to the air, mixed with the metallic tang of his bandages. Every small sound – slack rope against wood, distant slap of water – multiplied, dragging him back to the same jagged thought.

Sanji had given up Zeff for him. Had been willing to give up his hands – his life’s work, his pride – for him. And Zoro wasn’t worth that. The realization unstitched him all at once: he’d been raped and beaten and left broken. He hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been clever enough, hadn’t been anything that deserved the price Sanji had paid. He’d been willing to die for Luffy before; Sanji had been willing to sacrifice so much more for him.

He imagined, in a cold, bitter loop, how it would have been if he hadn’t been there – how clean and furious his self-righteousness would have felt then. He pictured Sanji slipping away alone, not trusting them enough to ask for help. That image was a knife. But then the memory flipped: Sanji had trusted them – trusted him – enough to go with. Zoro had failed. He’d made it worse. Zeff’s life was on the line; Sanji had almost lost his hands; and Zoro couldn’t even shit on a toilet, he’d been wrecked so bad.

A hot shame crept under his skin and settled low in his ribs. He pictured Sanji’s hands stained with blood. He pictured his own uselessness, plain as day. The shame tasted like metal. He had to get up. He had to move. He had to fix this with his own body and sweat and teeth. He couldn’t let Sanji see him as less than a man.

Zoro swung his legs off the bunk and tried to stand. Pain flared hot through his pelvis. He hissed, teeth gritted. Braces killed his leverage. He tried anyway.

Sanji was on him in an instant. “What d’you think you’re doing, grass-for-brains?” He dropped his hands to Zoro’s shoulders, pinning him. “Don’t you dare.”

“Got to get up,” Zoro rasped against the pain.

“No. You stay put until I tell you otherwise.” Sanji’s voice went flat, bone-hard. “Do not move.”

“I’m not weak.” Zoro shoved at him, testing strength against strength with the same stubborn certainty that had carried him through fights before. The braces betrayed him. It made him feel smaller.

“Your pelvis is busted and your feet are fucked,” Sanji snapped, eyes on him like hot coals. “You move now and they heal wrong. It won’t take forever – so don’t be an idiot and wreck it worse.”

“I have to get up.” Incompetence sat heavy in Zoro’s gut, every clumsy attempt at leverage proof against him.

Sanji’s grip tightened. “Quit fighting me, shithead.” He jabbed a finger into Zoro’s sternum, tone raw. “You’re hurt. Bad. You think I enjoy playing nurse? I’m doing what I can with Chopper’s lessons – that’s it. Lay down and let the healing happen.”

The accusation in Sanji’s stance wasn’t weakness but responsibility. It slid into Zoro and tangled with his own self-loathing. He ground his teeth, staring at the faded blood streaks on Sanji’s shirt – evidence of failure, everything he’d done wrong. “I can’t do this. I can’t just sit here, after you–” His words broke, snagged on shame.

“Marimo, you’re hurt. You can’t blow this off if you want to heal right. Just… don’t, alright?” Sanji’s voice cracked; he forced it back down. “I can’t stand seeing you like this, knowing it’s because of me. I’m the one to blame–”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine,” Zoro cut him off through gritted teeth. “I got caught. I did this to myself. How can you even still respect me? You’re changing my diapers. I’m–” He swallowed hard. “I have to get up. I have to be better.”

“What the actual fuck, mosshead? You think you did this to yourself? Do you hear yourself?” Sanji looked like he might tear the cabin apart. “My family put you through that because I failed. Judge wanted me dead as a kid – if I’d been dead, none of this would’ve happened. It’s my fault for still breathing.”

The words hit Zoro like a punch. The self-hatred coiling in his belly unspooled into a new kind of hurt, that Sanji could blame himself so wholly. Zoro shoved his braced arm into Sanji’s side as hard as he could; it hurt, but he didn’t care. “Don’t you fucking say that,” he snarled. “I would be your brothers’ plaything forever if it kept you breathing. If it keeps you here.”

Sanji’s face went taut, his jaw working. “I was ready to blow my hands off – hell, even give up Zeff, the only man who’s been a real father to me – to get you out.” His voice cracked. “So lie down and don’t you fucking move until I tell you, marimo.”

They breathed hard in the cramped space, the lantern’s hum threading with the whisper of the sea against the hull. Zoro’s heart pounded like a drum in his throat, shame and anger braiding into something raw and blinding. Sanji’s fingers bit into his shoulders, jaw locked, eyes sparking as he glared down at him.

“I’m not good enough for you to be doing any of that,” Zoro said, the words small and honest in the hush.

“Well, you are. So shut the hell up.” Sanji pushed him back with a rough, careful shove. “Now lie the fuck down, before Daddy takes you over his knee and spanks your ass.”

The cheap joke landed wrong – too hot, too absurd, embarrassingly arousing. Zoro inhaled, blinked at himself. Maybe his head had been cracked too hard. He wanted to fight, to claw out of the shame burning in his chest. But another part of him ached to fold into it, to give in and let Sanji’s command strip the weight from his shoulders, to surrender to it the way his body already was..

Sanji seemed to notice. Redness climbed his cheeks, up to his ears. He looked away, then said more quietly, “Just… lay down, you idiot.” His voice was rough, caught between anger and something softer. “Won’t be long. Your arms and legs are mending, but that damn pelvis is still a mess. I’ve got to baby your feet and hands, too. Don’t make me watch you tear yourself up more.”

Zoro let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a sob and eased back onto the bunk. Confession, blame, and need circled between them in the small space, unfinished and dangerous, but in Sanji’s eyes Zoro saw the same truth he carried: neither of them would let the other go without a fight.

The afternoon light slanted weakly through the barred window, dust swirling in the shaft like ash. The stone floor was damp, biting cold against bare skin. Zoro tried to move, but nothing answered – no arms, no legs, only the raw ache of absence. His breath came ragged, loud in the stagnant air.

They were there, though. His limbs lay a few feet away on the flagstones, pale in the light like discarded meat. Fingers curled stiff, toes splayed, mocking him with the shape of what had once been whole. The stink of iron and blood hung heavy, crawling up his throat until he gagged. Water dripped deeper in the corridor, a steady reminder that this was no dream he could wake from, only a cell built to keep him broken and on display.

Beyond the bars, a line of soldiers in black stood rigid, faces blank as masks, eyes on him with the cold detachment they might spare a specimen on a slab. Judge loomed behind them, hands clasped behind his back, mouth curved in cruel amusement – proof of his triumph. Beside him, Reiju’s gaze cut sharper, satisfaction twisting her features as she lingered on the severed limbs scattered across the stone. They all watched, silent, pitiless, while Zoro lay naked and ruined on the floor, every second stretching into eternity under their eyes.

Inside the cell, his brothers moved in. The weak light cut across their faces as they circled, smirks carved deep, eyes bright with cruelty. One nudged a severed arm with his boot, laughing low. Another crouched close enough for Zoro to smell the metallic tang of blood clinging to him, voice a taunt dripping in mockery. “What good’s the great swordsman now? Can’t even crawl.”

Zoro strained, trying to move toward his limbs, toward anything, but his body stayed useless, the effort twisting only into a broken gasp. The sound earned more laughter. They drew closer, sharks circling, savoring the ruin. Ichiji crouched, grin knife-sharp, voice a purr edged with cruelty. “Time to have some fun.” His brothers chuckled darkly, the sound thick with promise – pain, humiliation, games meant to break him piece by piece.

Zoro knew what was coming, tried to brace himself, but there was nothing left to brace with. No stance, no steel, no strength – only naked flesh and the certainty of what their laughter meant. His chest heaved against the stone, breath tearing ragged as their looming presence pressed down.

A hand dragged slow across his ribs, mocking, fingers tapping like they were testing meat. Another clamped down on the stump of his thigh, squeezing until pain shot sharp through the phantom limb.

One bent close, lips almost brushing his ear. “Can’t fight. Can’t run. Maybe you’ll learn to beg instead.” His breath was foul, hot against Zoro’s skin. The chuckle that followed was joined by the others, low and hungry, the sound of predators savoring ruin before the tearing began – promising violation that would scrape him past bone, past dignity, until nothing remained but their mark.

Beyond the bars, Judge watched with hands clasped behind his back, gaze impassive as if observing a drill. “Feeble,” he said, voice carrying into the cell. “This is what becomes of a swordsman stripped of his blade. Nothing but flesh to be broken. A lesson.”

Reiju’s lips curved faintly, her eyes fixed on Zoro sprawled on the stone. “And Sanji will see it,” she murmured, almost delighted. “He’ll know his precious comrade couldn’t endure. That all his sacrifice bought was a ruined toy for his brothers to play with.” Her smile widened as Zoro flinched under a fresh taunt inside the cell. “How fitting.”

Judge gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Let them have their fun. Every scream is proof of my design.”

Inside the cell, the brothers crowded closer, no longer circling but looming directly above him, blotting out the thin shaft of afternoon light. Their eyes gleamed with feral madness, anticipation radiating from them in waves. Ichiji licked his lips, while another flexed his fingers like a butcher testing knives.

They leaned in together, a pack poised to tear into prey, their breaths hot and foul above him. Every smirk, every glint of teeth promised not just pain but desecration, as if breaking him wasn’t enough – they meant to linger over it. Zoro could see it in their eyes: that wild, hungry glee of men about to revel in the wreckage they’d made.

Hands seized him, rough and merciless, dragging his torso across the stone. His skin scraped raw, the weight of their grip a reminder of what he lacked – no blade, no stance, no limbs to fight with. They shoved him onto his back, twisting him as easily as if he were nothing more than discarded meat.

Pain ripped through him as they forced deeper humiliation on him, the three piercing him at the same time, tearing at already brutalized flesh. Zoro screamed, the sound fractured and raw, echoing against the walls. The brothers laughed, their voices rising, mocking every noise his body gave up, as they fucked him all at once. One jeered close to his ear, “Even broken, you can still scream for us.”

The agony burned, relentless, his body convulsing in reflex he couldn’t control. Each spasm only fed their taunts. They pointed, laughed, called it eagerness. The shame scalded worse than the pain.

Judge Vinsmoke watched, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know," he commented, his voice laced with amusement, "Zoro is a far better fuck than Sanji ever was. More willing, more... accommodating."

Reiju stood beside him, her eyes gleaming with a mix of disgust and fascination. "Indeed," she replied, her voice cold and detached. "Sanji was always so... particular. Zoro, on the other hand, is a true professional."

The brothers continued their assault without pause, every brutal shove splitting him further, ripping him open, his hole a gaping, pulsing wound. The air filled with the wet, sickening sound of force against broken flesh, each motion wringing another jagged cry from his throat. His body convulsed helplessly, nerves firing against his will, as if mocking him with every spasm.

Pain seared through him in relentless waves until it blurred into one long, unending torment. His ruined body leaked steadily onto the stone floor, blood and fluids mixing in a spreading stain beneath him, the stench rising heavy and suffocating.

When they were finally done, they let him drop, discarded like a carcass. He lay sprawled on the cold floor, a broken, bloodied wreck, breath hitching shallow and uneven. Every inch of him throbbed with dull, jagged ache – the stumps of his limbs, the torn wreckage of his body, the hollow humiliation left behind.

The stone beneath him was slick with what they had done, a grotesque testament to violation. His chest heaved as if even breathing was another kind of punishment. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but lie in the spreading filth, marked and ruined, their laughter echoing in his ears long after they stepped back.

Judge regarded the body on the floor with the detachment of a man evaluating failure. “Observe, Reiju. Deprived of limb, weapon, and will, what remains can no longer be classified as a man. Function stripped away, identity reduced to waste. The conclusion is inescapable: a so-called swordsman without his strength is indistinguishable from carrion.”

He turned slightly, as though filing away a result. “Sanji will see this for what it is – proof that what he clings to is tainted. Unfit. Unlovable. Less than a man.”

The words struck harder than any blade. They rattled through him, circling, louder than the brothers’ laughter. He tried to snarl, to spit back, but his jaw wouldn’t work. Even his defiance was broken.

Sanji would see him like this. Sanji would walk in. He would look down. He would know. Naked. Helpless. Ruined. Not swordsman. Not fighter. Not man.

The cell swam in and out of focus. The soldiers outside blurred into one black wall, Reiju’s smile lengthening until it split her face in two. The brothers’ laughter warped thin and shrill, like iron scraping bone, the sound drilling into his skull. The stench of blood grew so thick it coated his teeth, his throat, choking every breath.

There was no door, no sky, no escape. Only Judge’s voice reverberating against the stone, branding him word by word. Carrion. Waste. Nothing. Until the certainty was carved into him: Sanji would see nothing but failure.

The soldiers outside remained impassive, their faces blank as carved masks. Judge and Reiju turned and walked away without a word, as though the ruin on the floor were no more worthy of notice than refuse left to rot.

Zoro jolted awake with a ragged gasp, heart hammering his ribs. For a sick instant the nightmare clung. He was still a torso, still torn down to nothing. He tried to move, to reach for something, anything, and panic clawed at him when his arms refused to bend, his legs locked rigid and useless.

No hands. No feet. Just stumps. Just like in the cell.

He thrashed against the restraints, breath rasping in and out, sweat cold across his skin. His chest seized, choking him on the phantom ache of severed limbs. Then sensation crashed back in – bandages, braces biting tight at elbows and knees, the heavy drag of his own muscles still attached. His body was there. Whole, but bound.

Hands caught him before he could twist further, firm across his chest, smoothing over his hair, brushing damp strands from his face. Salt, smoke, and something faintly sweet cut through the ghost-stench of blood in his mouth.

“Shh, baby, it’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.” Sanji’s low, steady voice cut through the echoes in his skull and anchored him here, now.

Zoro’s breaths came ragged, harsh and uneven, the pounding in his chest easing under Sanji’s weight and voice. The dark shapes of the dungeon bled away, replaced by the low creak of the skiff, the faint sway of the sea.

Sanji’s hand kept moving through his hair, down the side of his face, circling back in a rhythm as steady as his words. “It’s over. You’re here. You’re safe. Just a dream, nothing more.”

The words were familiar, and that familiarity eased the tightness in his chest. Sanji had been here before, pulling him back from the abyss, softening the edges until the world settled into place again. Remembering it now, feeling it again, Zoro welcomed it without hesitation. He let the warmth in Sanji’s voice move through him, the hand in his hair holding him in the present, relief sinking slowly through him.

Slowly, deliberately, Zoro shifted his head into Sanji’s palm, leaning into the touch. It wasn’t instinct but choice, an opening he rarely allowed. The weight of it settled in his chest, ease mixed with surrender, an admission he needed this, needed Sanji, more than words could cover.

For a moment Sanji’s hand went still against his skin, then the touch deepened, his thumb brushing gently along Zoro’s temple, lingering as if reluctant to let go. The sound of his voice followed, low and almost raw. “That’s it. Rest easy, baby. I got you.”

The cabin fell quiet but for the soft creak of the skiff and the hush of the sea against its hull. Sanji’s hand remained constant, warm against him, the silence stretching not as emptiness but as a balm. Zoro breathed into it, the nightmare’s grip loosening, until the only thing left was the press of Sanji’s palm and the unbroken beat of the world outside.

He didn’t drift off again, but neither did he fight it. His body eased by degrees, the ache fading to a dull throb beneath the gentleness of Sanji’s touch. With his eye still closed, he let the closeness linger, let it settle into him. Awake, but at peace, he stayed there, content to breathe in time with Sanji.

After a while, Sanji’s voice broke the hush, low with concern. “Tea? Or you want something stronger?”

The words lingered. Zoro let them sit, eye still closed, the slow sway of the skiff filling the space between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough but unguarded. “Just… stay.”

Sanji was quiet for a while, still carding his fingers through Zoro’s hair, the other hand resting over his heart. At last he spoke, his tone low and unhurried. “Had nightmares for years after I got out of Germa.” He paused, then added, softer, almost confessional. “Didn’t fade till I felt safe… till I felt loved.”

Zoro’s throat worked around a knot that wouldn’t quite loosen. He wanted to answer, to give something back, but the words tangled before they reached his mouth. Finally, rough and halting, he managed, “Don’t… know if I’ll ever…” The rest broke in his throat, unsaid, though the weight of it pressed heavy between them.

Sanji’s fingers stilled for a moment in his hair before resuming their slow rhythm. His voice was soft, coaxing. “If you’ll ever what?”

Zoro’s eye cracked open, the question pressing too close. He swallowed, jaw tightening like he could grind the answer back down. But Sanji’s hand was still there, steady against his chest, and the pull of it loosened him just enough to rasp out, “Be… wanted now.” The syllables scraped rough, reluctant, every bit as fractured as the thought behind it.

Sanji’s expression shifted – concern first, then surprise, before settling into the very familiar look that said you are the stupidest man on the planet. “Tch. You don’t ever have to worry about that, idiot moss.”

He tugged lightly on Zoro’s hair, the touch more tender than the insult, before straightening. “I’m making tea.”

Zoro sighed as Sanji crossed to the galley. The lantern hung low, its glow just enough to cut through the night. The heap of blankets on the floor marked Sanji’s bed, since the skiff only had the single bunk that doubled as a couch.

Zoro’s gaze followed the flex and shift of muscle in Sanji’s back as he moved, the way the dim light brushed over bare skin above his boxers. Steam hissed faintly as water heated. Zoro stared, caught between want and restraint, the ache heavy in his chest. Doubt pressed harder, whispering he’d be turned away. He wanted to believe Sanji’s words – that even damaged goods could still be wanted.

He couldn’t take that break tonight. Not from Sanji. So he stayed quiet, watching him move in the glow of the lantern, wishing the truth were as easy as Sanji made it sound.

“Ready, marimo?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Sanji slipped his hands around Zoro’s waist and lifted him off the bunk. When his feet hit the floor he winced hard. Fire lanced through his pelvis and stole his breath. The braces and bandages were bad enough, but the deep fracture in his hips felt like Luffy had slammed him into seastone. This was a test – stand if he could, maybe lose the lower braces.

Zoro ground his teeth, jaw tight, forcing the noise back down his throat. His body betrayed him anyway, trembling under the weight of it.

“You can’t fool me, dumbass,” Sanji said with a snort.

“I’m fine,” Zoro growled, though sweat had already broken across his brow.

Sanji didn’t waste time arguing. He tugged off the towel-diaper at Zoro’s waist, let it drop onto the bunk, and in one smooth motion hauled him over his shoulder like dead weight. Zoro grunted in protest, a jolt of pain tearing through his hips as Sanji moved, but he clenched his jaw and said nothing. Sanji carried him to the head and lowered him onto the toilet. His braced legs stuck out stiff; his arms hung useless at his sides. Ridiculous. No control. He hated it.

Sanji chewed his lip, studying him. “How bad’s it hurting, really? Tell me straight, marimo – don’t bullshit me.”

“Barely tolerable,” Zoro forced out. Sitting upright drove weight where his body couldn’t take it yet. His pelvis felt ready to split all over again. Reclining on the bunk had been bearable; this was not.

“Shit. Okay.” Sanji patted his head with mock sympathy, though his hand lingered gentler than the tone. “Do your business. We’ll wait a few more days and try again.” Zoro clenched his jaw and took the mercy, even if it tasted sour.

He gave what privacy he could, the door propped open with Zoro’s legs sticking through. When it was over, Sanji helped him clean up and carried him back to the bunk.

“I’ll pull the leg braces and bandages, but your feet stay bound,” Sanji said, already working the ties. “Same with your arms – hands stay wrapped. Shoulders and clavicles feel solid, so the main bones look set. Would be nice if Chopper were here to double-check, but I’ll manage.”

Zoro leaned back into the stack of blankets. Pain hummed constant in his pelvis, deep and unrelenting, a reminder that twelve days wasn’t nearly enough. He hated how slow his body was, hated being this broken. “You’re doing fine.”

“Thank you for the glowing vote of confidence, marimo,” Sanji replied dryly, wrinkling his nose as he unwound the bandages. “Been looking forward to this day, because you reek.”

Zoro grunted and eyed his legs. They looked like legs, not crooked twigs – that had been the fear. Sanji left his feet wrapped, cutting away the last of the bandages at his ankles.

Up to now, Sanji had kept the clean-up minimal, just enough to keep him decent, but it hadn’t been a proper bath. Zoro had a feeling that was about to change.

Sure enough, once his arms were freed and Sanji tested his movement – fingers probing along bones, checking for stability – Zoro was hauled over a shoulder again and carried up the ladder. Pain flared sharp through his pelvis at the shift, forcing a hiss between his teeth, but the sunlight hit him a beat later and stole the breath out of his chest. Warmth soaked his bare skin, the salt air filling his lungs until they could hold more than pain.

Sanji set him down carefully against the mast, though even that jostle earned a wince. Then he turned to the waiting bath. A half-barrel sat by the rail, water inside warmed from the day’s sun.

The skiff was built for one man: a narrow deck, a half-barrel tucked between mast and rail, the low cabin roof with one hatch and ladder, a tiller lashed at the stern, coils of line and a compact anchor in the corner. The small sail stirred and threw shade across the deck, leaving Zoro in full sun.

Sanji disappeared below, reemerging with a cup, a couple of clean towels, a rag, and a bar of soap. He stripped off his shirt in one smooth pull before bending to scoop Zoro up, cradled tight against his chest. “Time to get the marimo back into his watery habitat.”

Zoro all but rolled his eye at the line as Sanji lowered him into the barrel, his braced feet and wrapped hands sticking over the rim. The shift jarred his pelvis and drew a hiss through his teeth, but the water’s warmth eased some of it. He’d never say it out loud, but it felt good to be submerged. When he’d first woken, he hadn’t been covered in blood, which meant either Sanji or that doctor he half-remembered had done the rough cleaning. This was the first real bath.

Sanji knelt beside the tub, dipped the rag, worked it against the soap until it foamed. “Arms first, then legs, then all the other parts,” he said, starting with Zoro’s left arm.

Zoro rested his head on the edge of the barrel, eye narrowed against the sun. Clouds drifted slow across the sky, light slipping warm over his face while Sanji dragged the rag along his arm, careful to leave the bandaged hand dry. Then Sanji circled to the other side and repeated the motions – steady, thorough, unhurried.

He hated to admit it, but it felt good – better than good. Bathing had always been perfunctory, something he did fast and without thought. He could soak at an onsen if pressed, but he was an in-and-out man. This was different: Sanji’s hands, the drag of the rag, the heat of the sun, the quiet between them. Not just clean, cared for. He wanted more.

Zoro dropped his gaze as Sanji moved onto his legs, first one then the other, the rag pressing slow along skin that hadn’t been touched this way in too long. Sunlight slid over pale arms and shoulders, caught bright in blond hair.

Zoro wasn’t one for looks, but Sanji wasn’t delicate. Muscle shaped his chest and arms, lean and solid, the kind that made Zoro’s fingers itch to test the weight of him. Less bulk than Zoro, no softness. He wanted to know how he felt under his hands.

Sanji re-soaped the rag and worked it up Zoro’s chest. His stomach tightened, unbidden. Sanji had been handling him for weeks now – lifting, bracing, cleaning – but this was different. Closer. Personal in a way that left him aware of every stroke.

Heat pricked Zoro’s face as the rag dipped lower, sliding beneath the water. Sanji’s cheeks colored faintly as he washed Zoro’s groin, his movements careful but steady. The touch sparked something low in Zoro’s gut, and his cock stirred, swelling despite himself. He clenched his jaw, fighting to stay still, but the shift in his body was obvious. It wasn’t necessity anymore. It was care. It made him feel like he mattered.

When the rag pressed between his thighs and brushed lower, his breath hitched sharp. The world narrowed to Sanji’s hand steady in the water, the drag of cloth against him, the ache of want unfurling through his chest.

Sanji’s shoulders tensed, his tongue flicking across his lip before he drew the rag away and smoothed it along Zoro’s side instead. His voice came low, a little rough. “Need to get your back.”

Zoro pushed himself upright with his arms, a wince cutting across his face as the ache in his hips flared. The pain dulled the heat twisting in his gut, but not enough – not with Sanji’s hands moving over him. Broad palms rubbed slow circles across his shoulders, down the line of his spine, steady strokes that felt more like a caress than necessity. Longing rippled through him, sharp and undeniable, impossible to hide.

Sanji rinsed the rag, washed the last of the soap from Zoro’s skin, then set it aside. “Lean back again,” he murmured.

Zoro obeyed, lowering until his head rested against the barrel’s rim. Sanji filled a cup, shielded his eye with a careful hand, and poured warm water through his hair. Zoro’s chest rose and fell faster than he meant it to, each breath betraying too much. Then Sanji’s fingers slipped into his hair, lathering slowly, massaging deeper.

A sigh broke loose from Zoro’s throat before he could stop it. The touch was almost too much – gentle where he was used to roughness, patient where he expected necessity. The heat still lingered low in his body, but beneath it was something heavier, steadier. Care. Meaning. He needed to say something – to break the silence, to know if this was real, or if he was only clinging to the shape of hope.

The lathering slowed, Sanji’s fingers lingering in his hair. Zoro’s chest lifted once, twice, before he rasped, “Is this just… cleaning me?”

The fingers froze mid-stroke, soap-slick against his scalp. For a long beat, Sanji didn’t move, didn’t answer. Only the lap of waves against the hull and the faint creak of the sail carried through the quiet.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, unsteady. “What if it isn’t?”

Zoro’s pulse kicked hard, but he stayed still, afraid that any shift might snap the fragile thread strung between them. He opened his mouth, shut it, then forced the words out again. “Then… I don’t want you to stop.”

Sanji’s hand trembled where it rested, lather dripping down in little rivulets. He drew a shaky breath, lips parting as if to answer, then pressing closed again. The silence thickened, weighted, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers remained tangled in Zoro’s hair, hesitant, almost as if he was afraid of his own truth.

Zoro leaned, just slightly, into the touch. “Don’t stop.”

Sanji’s throat worked around a swallow. “Alright,” he whispered, the word nearly lost beneath the sea breeze, as if it cost him to give it voice. But he left his hand there, tentative, waiting to see if Zoro would press further.

Slowly, he dipped his fingers back into the cup, worked up the lather again, and began massaging it through. His touch was steady, deliberate – but the silence had shifted. It wasn’t the quiet of routine anymore; it stretched taut, charged, like rigging lines pulled tight in the wind.

Zoro held himself rigid under Sanji’s hand. He’d heard the word – alright – and it should have been enough. Proof, or the start of it. Doubt still twisted it into something precarious. Maybe Sanji said it to soothe him. Maybe it meant nothing.

Zoro shut his eye, a low sound catching in his throat before he bit it back. He chose to trust it – trust Sanji – by letting go. He stopped fighting and let it mean what he wanted it to mean.

Sanji’s fingers slid around his ears, kneading his scalp until Zoro drifted into a haze of calm, weightless, almost floating. A sigh eased out of him as his body finally released. “Feels good,” he murmured.

Sanji hummed low, dipping the cup to rinse the soap away. Even after the suds were gone, his fingers lingered, combing gently through damp strands. The repetition blurred Zoro’s thoughts, his body sagging with drowsy weight, even as the drag of fingertips sent a low thrum through him. Then, almost without thought, those fingers traced the planes of his face – across his brow, around his temples, down the hard line of his cheek and jaw. They pressed lightly at the hollow of his throat, then swept back again, tender, deliberate. His palm cupped Zoro’s chin, thumb brushing across the curve of his lower lip.

Zoro cracked his eye open, gaze lifting from beneath his lashes. His breathing stayed slow, body heavy with warmth, a rare sense of safety that let him sink into the touch.

“Let me take care of you,” Sanji murmured, so quiet the sea breeze almost stole the words.

Zoro’s throat tightened. He managed the smallest nod, his voice no more than a whisper. “Please.”

Sanji leaned in, the wind tugging loose strands of blond across his face. His lips hovered, uncertain, searching, before pressing softly to Zoro’s.

Zoro’s breath caught, his eye flying open at the touch. A swoop pulled through his stomach, his heartbeat pounding so loud he thought Sanji must hear it. The kiss was nothing more than a gentle press, but it hit like steel against stone – small in motion, enormous in weight, shifting something vast inside him.

Sanji pulled back just enough to look at him, his hand still steady under Zoro’s chin. His gaze was questioning, careful. “All good, moss?” he asked quietly.

Zoro swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Yeah.”

The corner of Sanji’s mouth curved faintly. His thumb brushed once more over Zoro’s lip before he eased back, his voice tilting lighter. “Best get you out before you turn into a green prune.”

He rose fluidly, sliding his arms beneath Zoro and lifting him from the barrel. The air hit cool against wet skin as Sanji carried him across the narrow deck and lowered him onto a waiting towel. Zoro sagged into the warmth, limbs heavy from the bath.

Sanji crouched low, blotting water from his chest and shoulders, the towel moving slow enough it felt more like touch than necessity. The steady care tugged Zoro further toward drowsiness, his body sinking heavier with each stroke. Sanji’s hands lingered at the line of his collarbone, then swept carefully down his arms before patting along his legs with deliberate care.

“Less stinky now,” Sanji murmured, the softness in his voice belying the words.

He carried him back below, settling him gently onto the bunk, blankets arranged behind his back, another pulled across his lap. Sanji brushed damp strands from his forehead, the tenderness of the gesture unhidden.

“Sleep,” he said – firm, but tender – and Zoro was glad to obey.

His eye slid shut, calm settling over him like another blanket, though the memory of Sanji’s kiss still lingered, sweet and enticing against his mouth. The word slipped out low, almost slurred with drowsiness. “M’kay… Daddy.”

Sanji’s hand stilled briefly against his hair, the silence stretching a beat longer than usual. Then he let out a quiet snort and flicked Zoro’s ear. “Brat.”

Zoro drifted off with contentment curving his lips, the slip left unchallenged – but not forgotten – the comfort of it carrying him into sleep.

Zoro woke from his nap loose-limbed, the rare sense of ease still clinging to him. He stretched his arms above his head – grateful he could even do that again – and blinked into the dim, rocking cabin. The lantern swung overhead, its circle of light sliding over the bulkhead and bunk with every heavy roll of the skiff. From above came the thud of boots and the crash of gear, sharp curses spilling through the planks in Sanji’s voice.

For a heartbeat, doubt clawed in. Had the bath happened? The kiss? Or was it a trick of his head, a nightmare aimed straight at his chest? He pressed an arm across his middle, the rough bandages on his hand scratching lightly against his skin as the blanket slumped at his waist. His teeth caught his lower lip. He couldn’t stand the thought of it being a dream.

The hatch banged open, and Sanji came down in a rush of damp air. His hair was wind-blown, cheeks ruddy from spray. “Storm’s coming,” he said as soon as his eyes landed on Zoro.

“Okay,” Zoro managed, watching him carefully, desperate for proof that none of it had been imagined.

Sanji didn’t leave him hanging. He swept the blanket back, fastened a clean makeshift diaper on Zoro with practiced hands, then pulled the covers over him again. He moved to the galley, plated cold meat and cheese, and brought it over. “You’ll have to eat messy. No drink.”

Zoro nodded, eye fixed on him, needing the proof.

“And these,” Sanji added, setting a stack of old magazines by the wall. “Struggling to flip the pages will keep you entertained for a while. And keep you from sulking.”

Then, without pause, he leaned down and brushed a quick kiss across Zoro’s lips. Zoro froze, heart jerking hard in his chest.

Sanji smirked as he straightened. “Be good for me.”

Then he was gone, climbing back up the ladder and sealing the hatch.

Heat rushed his face and belly, the lamplight swaying around him as if it too had caught fire. Definitely not a dream. A startled laugh slipped out, small in the lonely cabin. After everything, after years of tension, he might actually have something with Sanji – or the start of it.

It felt wrong that it was born from weakness, not from equals. Yet maybe that was what had broken them open, stripped away pride and stubbornness. Maybe Sanji had wanted to care for him longer than Zoro had allowed himself to see. By yielding now, Zoro wasn’t losing –  he was opening the door, and Sanji had stepped through.

He eased back into the mound of blankets, jaw tightening as pain flared through his pelvis. Normally he would have forced past it, ripped away the bandages, thrown himself into training. That was who he was. But this beating from the brothers had been too brutal. He had no choice but to slow, to accept hands that tended him even when the care came wrapped in sharp words and teasing.

And it didn’t hollow him out. It steadied him. It felt like trust. Like the storm outside – raging, relentless – he could keep his strength for the fight, for the world. But here, with Sanji, he could set it down. He could be vulnerable, even fragile, and still be seen as strong.

Even the awkwardness of the diaper and cream had shifted. What once stung as humiliation now carried another weight, intimacy under the banter. Each time dulled the shame, replaced by the quiet rightness of yielding.

It was becoming less a joke and more a private understanding, dangerous in its pull. A shape taking form in the shadows of touch and trust. To let Sanji guide, to let himself follow. To be steel for everyone else, but with Sanji… to belong in the hands that held him.

Above, the storm gathered, the hull shuddering under the waves. Lantern-light pitched shadows, wind keening through the hatch seams. Chaos out there, wild and merciless. But here, in this cabin, another pull held him – Sanji’s gravity, drawing him close, care wrapped in authority.

That thought settled warm in his chest, enduring, and lower still, heat curled deep in his belly. Want stirred, shame twined with need, and he let it rise instead of crushing it down. To be strong for the crew, and soft only for Sanji. To lean on his resilience when his own faltered. To finally, finally be held. To be good for Daddy – not a joke anymore, but a truth taking root, pulse hammering with the vow he meant to keep.

The storm dragged on for hours. Zoro was bored out of his skull. The magazines held little interest, the food was gone, and he passed the time with slow arm and leg lifts, careful not to aggravate his pelvis too much.

When Sanji finally came below, he was drenched, clothes plastered to every line of muscle. The sight might’ve been distracting if his skin hadn’t carried a faint blue tint. “You look like a blond blueberry,” Zoro muttered.

Sanji shot him the finger with chattering teeth and ducked into the head, the door sliding shut behind him. A minute later, the shower hissed on.

Zoro kept up with neck lifts while waiting, though his gaze kept darting to the door. Eventually Sanji emerged, no longer blue and no longer dressed, just a towel slung low at his hips, skin pinked from heat. Steam curled out behind him.

Zoro tried not to stare. Failed. His chest tightened at the flush of skin, damp strands clinging to Sanji’s temples, towel riding low at his hip.

Sanji pulled one of the spare blankets from the bedding, draping it across his shoulders as he moved. He set the kettle on with efficient hands, bare chest catching the swing of lantern-light.

Zoro tore his gaze away, jaw tight, but the warmth curling low in his stomach refused to be dismissed. Trust, arousal, surrender – tangled threads pulling him deeper, Sanji’s gravity impossible to shake, no matter how he wanted to call it.

When the tea was ready, Sanji brought a cup over, steadying it in Zoro’s bandaged hands before taking one for himself. He dropped onto the stool beside the bunk with a long sigh. “That sucked.”

“Felt like it.” Zoro scowled at his own uselessness. “I should’ve been able to help.”

Sanji snorted. “Tch. You’d just have been in the way, even if I let you try standing on two feet.”

Zoro set his jaw. “How much longer are you going to make me wait?”

“Until I can do this.” Sanji’s hand slid to his hip, gave it a squeeze. Pain spiked sharp, dragging a hiss out of him. Sanji’s gaze stayed steady. “And you don’t do that.”

“Annoying cook.”

“Idiot swordsman.” Sanji sipped his tea, the sigh that followed softened by the warmth. He nodded toward the magazines stacked by the wall. “Anything good? Could use something new for the head.”

“Not really.” Zoro’s frown deepened. “Bunch of weird comics about Germa with hearts drawn around the main character – some marine chick who beats them every issue. You sure these aren’t yours, perverted swirly-brow?”

Sanji rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure this skiff belonged to one of the scientists, judging from the junk I found.”

Zoro grunted. “Explains why the matches are damp.”

“Mm. Found a drawer full of dried herbs too. Half useless, but there’s thyme. Might keep us from running out of seasoning.”

“Thrilling.”

Sanji leaned back, towel slipping lower on his hips as he adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. “Better than the pile of lab notes I dug out from under the seat. Some lab rat was tracking wave patterns and sleep cycles like they were love poems, fish-gill sketches stuffed in the margins. Found a notebook where the bastard drew the same crab over and over, like he was trying to make it smile.”

Zoro snorted. “Sounds insane.”

“Or maybe he was just lonely.” Sanji shrugged, blanket slipping off one shoulder as he sipped his tea. “There’s also a half-finished tide equation that doesn’t add up. Whoever wrote it bailed halfway through, gave up on it.”

Lonely. The word hooked under his ribs. Same fear he’d carried for years, that he was unlovable, not worth keeping. It had followed him like a shadow, always there no matter how bright the day. But now, Sanji was here. Feeding him, bantering with him, kissing him. Something had started between them, something Zoro had thought he’d never get.

And yet, the words they spoke stayed maddeningly ordinary, as if nothing had shifted at all. The conversation was banal, small talk about herbs and comics, while behind it loomed this whole, big, new thing waiting to be addressed.

Zoro could feel it pressing in, heavy as the storm had been outside, and the longer Sanji ignored it the tighter his chest drew. He wasn’t good at this – waiting, letting someone else draw steel first on what mattered. Part of him wanted to cut straight through it, to demand clarity. But what if he pushed too hard, too soon? What if Sanji turned away?

He shifted, winced, and Sanji immediately clicked his tongue. “Don’t move around, dumbass. Unless you want me to flip you onto your stomach for a bit.”

Zoro stilled. Heat curled low in his gut at the firmness in Sanji’s voice. It should have been nothing more than practical, just Sanji bossing him like usual. But it landed differently, weighted, inevitable, as if the ground between them had tilted. He couldn’t name it, didn’t have the words, but he felt the shift all the same – magnetic, pulling him somewhere he wanted to resist and give into both.

Normally, that position meant Sanji would reach for the cream first, and the thought sent a fizzle through his belly, sharp enough he had to set his tea down with a careless slosh onto the pile of magazines. His chest pulled tight, too tight to hold in any longer.

“What are we?” he blurted.

Sanji froze, cup halfway to his mouth. For a beat, his eyes widened, stripped of smirk or shield, just raw surprise. Then his throat worked, and he set the cup down carefully on the floor beside him.

“We’re… us,” he said, his voice rougher than he probably meant it to be. His gaze flicked to Zoro’s, honest and bare. “And I’ve wanted that longer than I’ll admit.”

“Me, too,” Zoro admitted, quietly.

“I meant it when I said I wanted to take care of you.” Sanji leaned forward, bare elbows on his knees, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. “You’re always the strong one – watching everyone else, training, taking the watches so the rest can sleep, pushing yourself until you break. Even when you’re hurt, you try to muscle through.”

His words landed, not as a scold but as something that made Zoro’s chest ache. “And I see it, every single day, and I keep asking – who’s there for you when you do it for everyone else? When do you get to stop and rest? Who rubs your sore muscles after training? Who sees the things you hide away? Who makes sure you’re actually taken care of?”

Sanji’s hand slid onto Zoro’s belly; the contact sent a small electric flare through him. “Yeah, I want you. Physically. But I want more than that, marimo. I want to give you a kind of freedom you never let yourself have: a place where you only have to feel – not think, not fight, not be the shield. Somewhere I can lift some of that weight off you, hold the reins so you can actually let go. We’d walk an edge, because we both like it – but you’d be safe. Trust me. I’ll always have you.”

Zoro’s breath stuttered, chest rising unevenly beneath Sanji’s palm. His muscles twitched as if to tense, to push back, but they didn’t. Instead his body sank into the bunk, shoulders easing despite the heat crawling up his throat. His fingers flexed against the bandages, useless for grip, and he swallowed hard. The air felt too close, his pulse hammering in his ears, yet he didn’t pull away.

For a man who had built his life on discipline, the pull to surrender struck deep, something he’d already thought about, already wanted. His eye shut, breath catching as a tremor ran through him, not weakness but the fierce relief of lowering his guard at last. Slowly, deliberately, his bandaged hand stirred against the blanket and moved up until it rested over Sanji’s, warm where it lay on his stomach. His throat worked, words rough, honest. “I want that, too.”

“Then you’ll have it,” Sanji said, quiet but sure. “Give me this, and I’ll carry the rest. You can still spar with me, still shove back – I don’t want that to stop. But you’re allowed to be soft with me, too. To want, and need. I’ll take care of that.”

Zoro’s chest loosened, the tight coil in him unspooling all at once. His body sank deeper into the blankets, shoulders dropping as if a weight had slid free. The bandaged hand he still had over Sanji’s shifted, pressing faintly, not to push away but to hold on. His eye opened, searching Sanji’s face. Words came halting, raw. “Already do. Want you. Need you.”

Sanji’s hand left Zoro’s belly and rose, fingers sliding slowly through his hair. The touch was unhurried, deliberate, a quiet claim in itself. “Then we’re agreed,” he murmured, before leaning in to press his mouth to Zoro’s.

The kiss was sure but gentle, sealing the moment like a vow. Zoro’s response broke past restraint, his lips parting, hungry for something he’d wanted for far too long. But Sanji drew back with a low sound, brushing his thumb once more through Zoro’s damp hair. “Easy, marimo,” he said softly. “You’re still banged up. No rushing it. You’ll get me when I say you’re ready.”

Zoro huffed, irritation sharp as he dropped his head back against the blankets. Jaw flexed, fight biting at him, but Sanji’s fingers in his hair pulled it loose. “Tch. Fine.”

Sanji’s mouth curved into a smirk. “That’s my good little moss.”

Zoro glared, but Sanji only hummed in amusement, tugging the blanket higher with deliberate neatness. Zoro grumbled under his breath, which only made Sanji’s smirk widen.

“Sounds like you’re catching a cold,” Sanji drawled, nodding toward the untouched tea. “Drink. All of it.”

Zoro scowled at him, bandaged hands stiff around the cup Sanji had already steadied for him. “Bossy bastard.”

“Damn right,” Sanji said without missing a beat, tone warm but firm. “Now quit whining and be good for me.”

The words settled low in Zoro’s gut, heavier than they should have, a teasing edge masking something steadier underneath. He lifted the cup, eye narrowing at Sanji’s smug look, but he drank anyway.

The days ran the same – Sanji at the helm or in the galley, Zoro sparring only with words, but the air had shifted. Their mocking carried play in it, warmth threaded through the insults. Sanji touched him more: a hand on his shoulder, fingers in his hair, a kiss in passing. Zoro hadn’t expected him to be that tactile, and he liked it.

Still, his gaze kept dragging to the bandages. The ache in his pelvis had dulled, his body knitting itself back together with rest and enforced stillness. One morning he scowled at the bandages. “These are useless. Take them off.”

Sanji didn’t even glance up from the kettle. “Try again when you can hold chopsticks without looking like a toddler.”

“My hands are bandaged,” Zoro shot back flatly.

“Exactly. You’re not training – you’re healing. I’m not letting you wreck them again just because you can’t sit still, moss-brain.”

The words stung, and the truth under them pinned him in place.

The heat grew oppressive as they pushed through summer waters, the cabin thick with sweat and salt. Sanji wrinkled his nose, then planted his fists on his hips. “You need another bath. You reek. Like a wet dog that rolled in shit.”

Zoro bared his teeth. “Funny. You talk like you’d know what shit tastes like.”

Sanji barked a laugh, then scooped him up before he could snap again. “Careful, marimo. Keep that up and I’ll wash your mouth out next.”

The sun pressed heavy on his skin as Sanji lowered him into the barrel. Warm water lapped and eased the tension in his hips. Sanji’s hands worked through his hair and down his shoulders, catching him each time he slumped. Zoro grumbled at every pass of the rag, even as a part of him wanted to stay in the water and keep Sanji’s hands on him longer.

A couple of days later, bundled back into a mound of blankets, Zoro shifted restlessly. “Oi, cook. How much longer?”

Sanji arched a brow. “What, you planning to swim the rest of the way?”

Zoro’s lips quirked. “Just asking if you even know where the hell we’re going.”

Sanji smirked as he adjusted the blanket with deliberate neatness. “Keep it up, and I’ll turn us in circles just to shut your mouth.”

Zoro huffed and let his head fall back, but the itch stayed. The skiff felt too small and the days too long, and under it all he wanted the crew again – Luffy’s grin, Nami’s bite, even Usopp’s rambling tales. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but the thought of the Sunny tugged at him. Almost as much as Sanji’s hand in his hair each time he passed.

He wanted the Sunny back. He wanted the crew. But he wanted Sanji just as much. Maybe more. It felt like what he’d been waiting for since his earliest stumbles into romance. The old rejections, the years of thinking no one would want him that way, felt almost laughable now.

He liked the way Sanji treated him – sharp tongue and ear-flicks with sparring off the table, no-nonsense focus on everything he did. The skiff’s smallness made it more intense, and he couldn’t deny he liked the weight of that attention. Sanji’s blunt direction, tucked inside care, sent a new heat crawling under his skin.

He finally managed the toilet again, though only with Sanji’s help. His pelvis still ached, but Sanji squeezing to check no longer left him gasping in pain. He wasn’t independent – not yet, not with his hands still bound – but it shifted one burden off them both.

So when Sanji leaned down and murmured, “Next time you’re in diapers, it’ll be for an entirely different reason,” voice low and sure, heat slammed through him – face and throat, belly and lower. His breath hitched, a small, unguarded sound escaping before he clamped his teeth down on it. The reaction left him flushed with desire and perturbed at how much he wanted it.

He wasn’t sure how this would work. His frame of reference was scattered – half-remembered rumors, stray magazines, fragments of talk outside barracks and taverns. The only touch he’d known until now was Sanji’s careful tending, and before that, the assault – something he refused to count, except for how it lingered like a stain. Tainted. The thought rose in waves, each time threatening to choke him, each time shoved back down. He would not let those bastards claim even a corner of this.

What he needed was to talk to Sanji, to put words to the thing growing between them, beyond teasing and half-spoken hints. The problem was he wasn’t built for talk. He was better at gritting his teeth and shouldering weight alone. But Sanji had said it was okay to be soft, that he wanted Zoro to let him take some of the burden. The words stuck and cut deeper each time he turned them over, until the wanting felt less like weakness and more like an edge he could trust.

They sat on deck beneath the sun, Sanji at the tiller, Zoro propped in a nest of towels against the rail. He’d been given another bath and was contentedly drying in the heat of the day. Naked but for the bandages on his hands and feet – his default now – it barely registered. What did register was Sanji. The breeze toyed with his hair, stole the smoke from his cigarette, his long fingers curled around the tiller as he checked the scrap of Vivre Card.

Zoro wet his lips, eye narrowing as he worked the words loose. “What do you want to do? With me?”

Sanji’s brow arched. “Right now?”

“No.” Heat climbed his neck. “I mean together. This relationship. Besides… that diaper thing.”

A slow curl lifted Sanji’s mouth. He took a drag, exhaling smoke with a chuckle. “Marimo’s getting horny.”

Zoro reddened harder. “No,” he denied, though the twitch beneath the towel betrayed him. Sanji’s eyes lingered, dragging heat low in a way that made him cover himself, cursing. “I just… want to know what you want to do with me. Because I haven’t–” He broke off, swallowed, and forced the rest out rough. “This is new for me.”

Sanji’s gaze softened for a beat, then he shifted, locking the tiller and leaning back against the rail, hands sliding into his pockets. “Then we should talk,” he said simply. “Besides what we’ve already covered – you wanna know what I want, in the bedroom and out?”

Zoro nodded once.

“Well, you’re a guy, so I’m not gonna fuss over you like I do the ladies,” Sanji said, half-smirk, half-soft. “But I wouldn’t mind a few romantic things with you. Dress you up proper and take you somewhere decent. Slip you flowers when I’m feeling sappy. Maybe pull you out for a slow dance like nobody’s watching, then come home and I’ll cook you something stupidly good.”

Zoro’s throat worked, the image hitting harder than it should. Flowers, dancing – things he’d never thought he’d want – and suddenly he did. His eye slipped away, heat crawling under his skin before he muttered, “Tch. That’s… not the worst thing.”

The words hung there, heavier than he meant, the silence stretching a beat too long. He shifted, restless, searching for cover.

“I kinda like that you shout at me and try to kick my ass,” Zoro added quickly, rougher than he meant. “I don’t want that to stop.”

“It won’t. You’re far too damn annoying for that to stop.” Sanji smirked, though there was a gentleness under it, an edge Zoro could feel even if he couldn’t name it. “Besides, that’s the Baratie way of showing affection.”

One side of Zoro’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll probably end up bossing you around more – and I’ll expect you to do it, even when you bitch,” Sanji said, flicking ash off the rail. “Don’t think whining gets you out of it.”

“Like?”

“Things for your health, things that are good for you.” His smirk returned, curved with purpose. “And things for… other reasons.”

Zoro’s lower belly tightened. He shifted under the towel, making sure it hid any reaction. “What kind of… other reasons?” he made himself ask.

Sanji’s grin widened. “Horny marimo.”

“That’s– I’m not–”

Sanji’s chuckle cut him off, low and playful. “I know. But it’s fun to make you blush.”

Zoro glared at him, cheeks hot, which only made Sanji’s grin spread wider.

Sanji took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke catching in the wind. “Alright. I’m gonna run through everything I want to do with you. You tell me what’s off-limits, yeah? And anything you say yes to now, you can take back later. No pressure. That’s how a relationship works.”

“You’ve been in one before?” Zoro asked, frowning. He hadn’t known Sanji had ever been with anyone.

“Yeah, toward the end of those two years apart,” Sanji said, scowling faintly. “I was stuck in a damn dress and wig – hated every minute – but I got invited into the Queendom’s Scene. Learned a lot there. I already knew I wasn’t strictly straight, but that place pushed me: showed me what I liked, what I didn’t, and what role fit me best with another man.”

“Did you… love them?” Zoro asked.

Sanji’s smirk softened, eyes flicking over him. “Jealous?”

“Tch. No.” The word came fast and hard, but a knot of jealousy still twisted in his gut.

“Liar.” Sanji exhaled smoke into the breeze, then said more simply, “No. I didn’t love them. Liked ’em, sure, but I was already hung up on some green-haired ape. We both knew it’d be nothing more than friends.”

Zoro blinked. “Wait – you liked me back then?”

“Eh, off and on since Little Garden,” Sanji admitted with a rueful look. “Didn’t get bad until Punk Hazard, when I got stupidly jealous of Chopper in my body clinging to you.”

The memory clicked in Zoro’s mind: how strange it had felt, seeing Chopper in Sanji’s body – the body of the man he’d wanted for years.

“Anyway, I promised you a list.” Sanji tipped his chin to the sky, smoke curling past his lips. “Here’s what I’ve tried and liked, and a handful I’d be up for testing. I’ll spell it out, since you claim this is new to you – and don’t think I won’t rag on you about it later.”

Then Sanji spoke. The words were simple, but the tone – calm, deliberate, intimate — made each one land like a touch. With every item, Zoro felt himself shifting, muscles tightening under the towel, heat crawling up his neck. His pulse thudded in his ears. By the time Sanji reached the end, a hard, undeniable want pressed against the towel in his lap, a need he couldn’t hide even if he’d tried.

Sanji’s list leaned toward taking the lead, never toward harm; aside from a sharp spanking or being pinned down for a moment, nothing he named was meant to hurt. And he made one thing crystal clear: nothing would involve anyone else.

“We’re exclusive,” Sanji said. A tight look crossed his face before a small smile. “I only want you to feel good, and I can give you that.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Zoro said, his voice small and a little raw. “I’ve… wanted you for a while now.”

Sanji smiled. “Well, now you got me.”

Zoro loved the sound of that – a simple promise.

“And everything I said hinges on your comfort. After what happened–” Sanji’s voice caught, then steadied. “Sex should be safe, fun, and pleasurable. I want to show you that giving up control can be a gift, not a loss. When you feel good, I feel good. That’s how it’ll always be.”

Heat – and something softer, almost relief – moved through him. Paralysis had left him an object, not a man, while they carved their cruelty into him. The stain clung, a reminder that control could vanish in an instant. Sanji offered it back as a choice, a gift he could accept or refuse. For the first time since that night, Zoro felt the word loosen its chokehold, shifting from scar to possibility.

Sanji was offering him a way to take back what had been stolen. And that offer didn’t feel like pity. It felt like a door opening – a hand held out, waiting for him to step through.

The skiff rocked gently, waves lapping against the hull. Sunlight soaked into his skin, the breeze tugging at the edges of the towel. For a moment he let himself breathe in the salt air, safe in the quiet between them. Still, beneath that safety, Sanji’s list pulsed in his mind – promises edged with control and care, threaded with a heat he couldn’t quite shake.

Sanji shifted, nudging the tiller to keep their course before leaning back again, eyes settling on Zoro with an easy focus. “Anything I said a flat-out no?”

Color crept up Zoro’s cheeks as he shook his head. “No.”

Sanji’s smile tilted, clearly pleased by the answer. “Anything you like the sound of best?”

Zoro squirmed, cleared his throat, and stared anywhere but at him. He needed to be honest if this was going to work. “The whole… Daddy thing. But not like a parent. That’d be disgusting and wrong. More like…”

“The caring, dominant, protective role,” Sanji supplied, his voice even. Then his mouth curved into a small, knowing smirk. “With a few tweaks.”

Zoro flushed hotter. He wanted to hide his face under the towel, but it already covered his obvious problem. “I think I’m done talking about this.”

Sanji chuckled. “My poor, innocent mossball.”

“Shut up,” Zoro muttered, shifting on the bench.

Sanji flicked his cigarette overboard and pushed off the rail. “I’ll start on lunch. You stay here and behave yourself. Don’t make me come back up and catch you doing something you can’t with those bandages.”

Zoro sputtered, glaring at him.

Sanji only smirked wider, tugging the hatch open. “Good boys wait.” He disappeared below.

Left alone, Zoro thunked his head back against the side of the skiff, stared up at the sky, and wondered if a man could die of embarrassment.

Zoro lay in the dungeon, a torso stripped of limbs, half-submerged in a puddle that stank of iron and rot. His desiccated arms and legs were strewn like butcher’s scraps across the stones, twisted at angles that mocked what they’d once been. His ribs jutted like a broken cage, skin clinging pale and thin from starvation. Every rasp of breath rattled as if it might be his last.

The walls wept mildew and old blood, torchlight clawing across the floor where his katanas lay. They had always been his anchor, his proof of self. Now they sprawled abandoned, blades spotted, hilts dulled, as if mocking him with their silence.

And the brothers were there. Lurking in the shadows at the edge of his vision, their voices low and cruel. Red eyes glinted in the torchlight, their grins sharp as blades.

They watched him suffer like it was theater meant only for them, boots shifting in puddles of blood as they whispered, laughed, and waited for him to break. The dungeon breathed with their presence, thick with malice and the stink of their pleasure.

“Look at you.” One nudged Wado Ichimonji with his boot, the sacred blade clattering lifelessly against the stone. “All that talk about becoming the world’s greatest swordsman, and look at you now – can’t even hold a blade.”

Another laughed, sharp and cruel. “You failed them all. Your captain, your crew… bet they’re already dead, waiting on their swordsman to protect them. And where are you? Rotting like garbage.”

The third crouched low, his voice a hiss. “And Sanji? He’ll realize what you are soon enough. Weak. Broken. He’ll leave you, like everyone else. You can’t keep anyone safe, not even yourself.”

Niji picked up Sandai Kitetsu, turning it in his hand, lips curling with cruel delight. “Look at this – your cursed blade. Guess it chose wrong, huh? Can’t do much cutting without arms.”

He let it fall, the clang echoing through the dungeon like a tolling bell.

Their laughter ricocheted off the stone, harsh and grating, a chorus of mockery that gnawed at the edges of Zoro’s mind. The damp walls closed in, weeping mildew and old blood, torchlight sputtering as if it too recoiled from the sound.

Shusui still lay untouched, the black blade gleaming dully under the sickly light. Yonji dragged a finger along its hilt, lifting it, smirked down at Zoro’s mangled form.

“Maybe we’ll keep this one,” he drawled. “A relic of a man who talked big and died small. The name Roronoa Zoro, remembered as a cripple who couldn’t protect a single soul.”

Zoro tried to move, tried to lunge, but his body remained a useless husk. His breath came ragged, chest heaving with fury he couldn’t spend, with terror he wouldn’t admit.

The brothers circled around him, sadistic laughter scraping down Zoro’s spine.

He shut his eye.

Darkness pressed closer. The torchlight seemed to falter, shadows crawling long across the floor until they swallowed the blades whole. Their voices blurred together, a rising tide of malice and hunger, the sound of boots slapping wet stone growing louder, nearer.

He could feel their eyes on him, could feel the weight of what was about to happen settle heavy as iron on his chest. No escape. No mercy. Only the certainty of the next moment, stretched thin until it threatened to snap.

And still, he knew exactly what was coming – what always came when they drew near.

Cold metal pressed where it never should, the hilt of a sword thrust into his shredded ass, gouging at wounds already raw. The pressure was obscene, wrong, and every jagged edge dragged salt through nerves until his body writhed. His cry tore out unbidden, and his open mouth was immediately violated by another hilt, the taste of blood and rust filling his senses as he choked on the intrusion, struggling to breathe. 

“Look at him choke on it,” one sneered.

Another’s shadow leaned close. “Out of places to use? Guess we’ll make our own.”

Agony ripped through him as steel jabbed into his belly, thrust shallow then deeper – in and out, in and out – not to kill but to desecrate. His muffled scream rattled the dungeon walls, the echo a cruel chorus with their jeers.

"Yeah, scream for us, Zoro," Niji sneered. "Let us hear that beautiful pain."

"You're nothing but a plaything to us," Yonji mocked, his voice dripping with contempt. “No one is ever coming for you. You’ll rot in this dungeon, just like your limbs.”

Their laughter and taunts were unceasing, a constant reminder of Zoro’s helplessness and their dominance. The dungeon became a stage for their sadistic pleasure, his body reduced to a vessel for their cruelty.

When they got tired of him, they turned to his swords. One by one, the brothers crushed the blades, steel splintering like bone across the stones. Zoro watched, hollow, as the last of his dreams shattered. The clangor rang in his skull – deafening, endless – a sound that was less metal than it was his own soul breaking apart.

Their laughter swelled, cruel and triumphant, echoing until it filled the cell, until it was inside him. Zoro lay motionless in the filth, a mangled husk forced to stare at the ruin of all he had ever fought for – his swords, his vow, his pride – ground to nothing beneath their boots.

And in that moment, there was no fight left, only the cold certainty that he had failed.

And he wept.

The laughter still clawed at his ears, merciless, until it blurred into something else. Something softer, firmer–

“...I’m here, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore…”

Sanji’s voice pierced the dark, distant but unrelenting, tugging him out of the fatal despair of that dungeon.

“...That’s it, baby. You’re okay. It’s just a nightmare. Shh…”

Zoro pried open a wet, bleary eye. Vision swam, then settled on the cramped cabin walls. Lantern light flickered across wood and shadow. He was cradled against Sanji’s chest under his chin, one arm locked around his shoulders, the other combing his hair in slow strokes that wouldn’t let him slip under. Sanji’s words vibrated through his ribs into Zoro’s cheek and held him here.

“You’re safe. I got you. Sleep easy now.”

A broken sound caught in Zoro’s throat. Hot tears carved down his cheeks. “Wado.”

“Your katanas are safe,” Sanji murmured without hesitation, fingers still threading through his hair. “Right there, across the cabin.”

Zoro blinked hard and forced focus. The three blades leaned against the wall, his ragged haramaki draped over them. In the nightmare they’d shattered, splintering like bone. Here they stood whole, gleaming in lantern light. The sight hollowed him and filled him at once. A startled laugh slipped out, half sob. Of all the things Sanji could’ve chosen to save, that haramaki had made the cut. Sanji must’ve known what it meant to him.

“Shh. You’re alright,” Sanji said, softness laid over steel. “You’re okay.”

Zoro laughed again, weak, cracked on his tears. “That’s a fucking lie. I thought I was done with these nightmares. It’s only been, what, a week since the last one?”

Sanji’s hand slowed, then carried on with quiet insistence. “You have one every day, sometimes more if you nap hard. Usually you don’t wake fully, and I can settle you back down.”

The words hit hard. He hadn’t known it was that bad – Sanji doing this every night, sometimes more, and never saying a word. A knot swelled in his throat. “Sorry.”

“Oh, fuck no. Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Shame burned hot. He shifted to pull away, and Sanji’s arm locked tight around him. “No, you don’t. You’re staying right here. Tell me what’s going on in that thick skull of yours.”

“I don’t–”

“Zoro.” Sanji’s tone cut through, firm, leaving no room to wriggle. “Tell Daddy.”

Zoro went still. The word landed heavy – authority and comfort, a command he could lean on. Part of him balked; more of him, frayed and raw, wanted to yield.. “I… feel weak.”

A hum rumbled under his cheek, followed by a fingertip tracing the shell of his ear. Sanji’s heartbeat thudded steady against his face. “I know you hate that. I do, too. What makes you think you’re weak?”

“I got fucking bested and beaten and–” The word raped stuck, burning bitter in his throat.

“Zoro, she could paralyze you with the brush of a hand,” Sanji said. “And you had no control over what my brothers did.”

“I should’ve stopped them.” Rage flared hot through his chest. “Should’ve been stronger.”

Sanji let out a low sound and tightened his arm around Zoro’s shoulders. No empty words followed. Just touch and warmth.

Zoro scrubbed at his face with a bandaged hand, tears still spilling. “Fuck.”

“How can Daddy help?” Sanji asked, voice low and sure.

A shaky half-laugh, half-sob escaped. “It’s so stupid that I like that Daddy shit.”

“None of that, moss.” Sanji’s tone sharpened, his hand in Zoro’s hair softening the edge. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing dirty about what you want. Let me have that role. What they stole – we take back together.”

Zoro’s gaze slid toward his swords, shadows of memory flashing – the clang of steel breaking, Sanji’s voice in a prior dream calling him useless. His throat worked, rough with doubt. “Why?” he whispered.

“Because I want you okay,” Sanji said simply. “Safe, rested, and taken care of. That’s why.”

Heat climbed under his skin. He tucked his face against Sanji’s chest, too raw to argue and too relieved to speak. The steady beat beneath his ear wasn’t just Sanji’s heart but proof: constant, certain, unshaken by his tears. It felt impossible that Sanji wanted him like this, wanted the broken, shamed parts as much as the fighter. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to cover the weakness, but the hand in his hair anchored him, told him to stay.

He breathed there against the warmth, against the certainty. For once he didn’t have to hold the line. He could rest. If Daddy hovered unspoken between them, it wasn’t a joke anymore. It was a truth he was starting to need.

The cabin fell quiet, broken only by the faint creak of wood and the hush of water beyond the hull. Sanji sat braced on the bunk, one arm locked around him, the other idly combing through his hair.

“Want to talk about the nightmares?” Sanji asked at last.

Zoro’s chest tightened, heartbeat picking up. “Would it do any good?”

“Maybe. Or skip to the cause – tell me about Germa.”

Silence pooled between them. Zoro swallowed hard. “Did you ever tell anyone what they did to you?”

Sanji’s chin brushed the top of his head as he gave a small nod. “Yeah. It helped, for a while. Made me feel less… worthless. At least until I had to face Judge again.”

Zoro pressed his bandaged hand to Sanji’s chest, felt the steady beat. “Would you tell me?”

Sanji went still. The rhythm of his fingers faltered in Zoro’s hair, then started again, slower. A breath caught in his throat, dragged out rough before he forced it loose. His jaw worked once, twice, like the words scraped on their way up. For a moment it seemed he might deflect, reach for a quip, anything to shove the question aside.

Instead, he exhaled, low and weighted. “If that’s what you want, baby.”

The rasp in his voice gave him away. Zoro felt it in the tension of Sanji’s chest under his palm, in the way those fingers tightened just slightly in his hair. It wasn’t reluctance to share, it was cost. Sanji was bracing himself, and Zoro knew it.

Guilt pricked at him. He hated making Sanji carry that weight again, bleeding old wounds for his sake. And yet… he needed to hear it. Needed to know the shadows Sanji had survived if he was ever going to trust him fully with his own. The thought knotted in his gut, heavy and selfish, but he didn’t pull back. Not when Sanji was offering. Not when the honesty between them had already begun to matter more than anything else.

The hush of water against the hull pressed in around them until Sanji spoke. “I was meant to be like my brothers, but I wasn’t. Judge still treated me like I should’ve been. When I couldn’t keep up, when I couldn’t perform, he tossed me in a dungeon to rot.

“My brothers beat me constantly. Not as brutally as you – back then we were still kids – but hard enough to injure, to break bones sometimes. Reiju—” his voice caught on her name “—Reiju patched me up. Said she couldn’t stop it without becoming a target herself. In the end, she freed me when Germa was in East Blue, sending me swimming toward a nearby ship.”

“You were eight,” Zoro muttered, anger scraping his voice.

“Yeah.” Sanji’s fingertip brushed along his temple. “I remember four years of that, day in, day out. Then came Zeff. Nearly starved to death with him – which, trust me, was its own kind of hell – but after that, things got better.”

Rage boiled in Zoro’s chest, this time for Sanji. “You were just a kid.”

Sanji shrugged. “Judge didn’t give a damn. Took me years to learn it wasn’t my fault, even if it still comes back to haunt me. Carried that small, rotten voice for a long time.” His fingers paused, then kept moving, light and sure. “Joining the Queendom’s Scene changed that for me, gave me confidence. Learned how to take the reins, how to give someone what they needed. That taught me I had value.”

He drew a breath through his teeth, voice dropping. “What happened on Germa fucked me up, too. I lost – felt like a failure again. And you got hurt because of it. So I need to take that control back. Same way you need to reclaim your body. Taking charge grounds me. Tells me I’m worth something.”

His hand trailed up, fingers ghosting along Zoro’s cheek, insistently gentle. “So when you think calling me Daddy is stupid – it isn’t. Not to me. It helps me as much as it helps you.”

Zoro let the words sink in, nearer to understanding Sanji than he’d been before. Silence stretched, heavy but not empty, until he finally rasped, “The nightmares are just… me being ra–” His voice snagged, but he forced it through. “–raped again. Different ways. Sometimes they tear my arms and legs off, leave me a torso with nothing I can do. They laugh – always laugh – at how useless I am. This time they used my katanas. Afterwards they broke them. I could do nothing. My dreams, my vow… felt like they were gone. And I gave up. Wanted to die.”

Sanji’s hand threaded slowly through his hair. “Do you feel like that when you’re awake?”

“No. I want to live. I vowed not to let them win. But…”

“But?”

“But I feel tainted. Like you shouldn’t touch me. Like it’s my fault. Like I asked for it by not being strong enough.”

“Fuck. That’s brutal.” Sanji tightened his arm, voice rough but steady. “We’ll get through it. You’re not ruined. I’ll touch you how you want, and we’ll trade every bad memory for a better one.”

“Yeah,” Zoro muttered, weariness pressing heavy. “Can we stop talking about it now?”

Sanji chuckled low. “Yeah. Enough baggage for one night.”

He started to rise, but Zoro pressed closer. “Stay.”

Sanji smoothed his hair. “Alright. But we’ll shift so I don’t cramp.”

Zoro let him rearrange the blankets, then leaned back when Sanji slid in beside him, propped against the bunk with his back to the wall. Sanji sat upright, legs stretched out, and Zoro rested against his chest, the press of his heartbeat steady under his ear. He stared at the low ceiling while lantern light flickered and waves tapped soft against the hull.

A kiss brushed his hair. “Sleep, marimo. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

Zoro’s throat tightened at the words. Not mockery, not heat, just a quiet vow. The world had stripped him down to nothing. Pressed into Sanji’s chest, he felt held together. The ache didn’t vanish, but for the first time it eased, whispering he wasn’t broken beyond repair. He let out a long breath, almost a sigh, and the thought flickered that if Sanji stayed, maybe tomorrow could be different. With that, he finally let himself close his eye and drift.

Four days later, Sanji unwrapped the bandages. He started with Zoro’s feet, pressing carefully along each bone, flexing, massaging, testing until he was satisfied. Then he moved to Zoro’s hands, repeating the same slow inspection, knuckles and tendons worked loose with deliberate care.

“No training,” Sanji said flatly, gaze locking on him. “You’re only walking to the head, the bunk, and up on deck. Then you sit. Got it?”

Zoro grumbled, jaw tight.

“I mean it, marimo. Hands are for eating, drinking, and pissing. Nothing else. They need time to stretch and remember what they’re for without you wrecking them. Same for your feet.”

Every muscle in Zoro itched to push back, to prove he was ready, strong enough that no one could cut him down again. “But–”

“No.” Sanji cut him off, finger jabbing sharp in warning. “You behave until I say otherwise, and you’ll get your reward.”

The word landed hard, a rush of heat straight to Zoro’s cock. Instinct to fight clashed with the pull to yield. Jaw tight, he forced it out, rough: “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good.” Sanji bent, brushed a kiss across his forehead, lips warm against skin. “You can jerk off as much as you like. Let me know when you want to – maybe I’ll even watch.”

Zoro’s flush deepened, the blanket already tenting. “Fuck.”

Sanji chuckled, dark and knowing. His hand trailed down Zoro’s sternum, not quite lower, just enough to spike the heat worse. “I’ll be on deck. Call me if you want me.” He left the rest unsaid, a smirk still on his mouth as he disappeared up the ladder.

The hatch clicked shut. Lantern swayed. Zoro’s breaths came harsh, uneven. Cock straining, hard and aching, each throb worse for how Sanji lit the fire and walked away like it was nothing. Frustration tangled with want, his hand twitching toward his lap before he clenched it tight against the bedding instead. Damn cook.

He tipped his head back against the blankets, trying to steady himself. The faint scent of herbs from lunch clung to the air. He shut his eye and forced himself to ride the heat down, not give in, not yet. Because part of him wanted to wait. If he was going to give in, it’d be with Sanji there.

It had been like that these past four days. Close, maddening, unwavering. Sanji’s hands checking his wounds, making him eat, his voice pulling Zoro back before the dark could swallow him whole. After spilling his fears and the truth of his nightmares, the chokehold on his chest had eased. Sanji was always there – anticipating, steadying, giving him what he needed before he even knew to ask.

And then there were the other talks. Hesitant, gruff questions Zoro pushed out about the Queendom’s Scene, about Sanji’s experience. Sanji never flinched, never looked ashamed. He spoke with the same confidence he used for cooking, certain and unembarrassed. Zoro, meanwhile, sat stiff and red-faced, his lack of experience blazing between them.

That contrast gnawed at him. Want tangled with unease. The memory of what had been done whispered that maybe touch would always mean pain, that maybe his body was too ruined to take pleasure again. Beneath it all lurked a quieter fear – that Sanji might change his mind, decide Zoro wasn’t worth the trouble.

His jaw tightened. He shoved the thought back. He’d trusted Sanji long before this – with his life, with his back in battle, with things he hadn’t trusted anyone else to see. Why should this be any different? If Sanji said he wanted him, if he swore he could handle Zoro at his worst, then maybe Zoro had to believe him.

He shifted on the bunk, the ache in his lap still sharp, Sanji’s smirk seared hotter in his mind than the lantern’s glow. His hand was free now. All he had to do was reach down, take the edge off, claim what Sanji had denied him…

A clunk overhead jolted him. His hand snapped back above the blanket. Heat flared up his neck, shame mixing with frustrated want. Damned curlybrow, twisting him up even when he wasn’t here.

Zoro dragged in a breath, forcing his pulse to settle. He could have done it – quick, rough, just to quiet the burn – but he didn’t. Not because he couldn’t, but because Sanji told him to wait. For once, restraint didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like trust. Obedience. Choosing Sanji over himself.

The ache stayed, heavy and insistent, but Zoro let it. Sat with it. Owned it. It was his first act of surrender, and it was deliberate.

Maybe what he needed wasn’t release but the sun. Space. Something steady outside this cabin. The skiff still followed Law’s Vivre Card, cutting clean through the Grand Line swells. Zoro had muttered once that the boat held together better than it should. Sanji only shrugged, said it reeked of Germa tech.

They’d been at sea close to three weeks. By day, Sanji held the skiff steady on course, coming down only to cook and tend him. At night, he fixed the tiller and grabbed what sleep he could. Now that Zoro’s bandages were off, he figured he ought to finally start pulling some weight – at least while sitting down.

The real problem: he had nothing to wear but his haramaki.

He listened at the open hatch, sunlight slanting through, waiting for any sound of Sanji above. When none came, he pushed himself upright, testing his legs. The ache still throbbed deep in his pelvis, enough to make him grimace, but not enough to stop him. He stripped the bunk of blankets, shifted the seat to check the storage underneath. Flotation gear, notebooks, extra lantern oil, folded sailcloth, repair patches, a sewing kit. No clothes. Sanji had told him as much, but he’d hoped anyway.

He put the bunk back in order, smoothing the blankets, then eyed his haramaki. Clean – Sanji must’ve washed it – and broad enough to improvise with. He picked it up, braced against the galley counter for balance, and tugged it on. Instead of wrapping it snug around his middle, he tugged it lower, turning it into a makeshift skirt that clung awkwardly to his thighs.

He gave himself a look and snorted. Being naked hadn’t bothered him much before, but lately Sanji had him half-hard more often than not. A little dignity wouldn’t hurt, and his choices were down to the haramaki or the towel–

–and that was a mistake. The second he compared it to the towel, the word diaper snapped through. His cock twitched, surged alive, tenting the haramaki like a green-covered hilt. Heat burned his ears. He’d lost the right to call Sanji perverted after this, hadn’t he?

He glared down at his erection, muttering darkly. “I’m blaming you.”

In his head, he could hear Sanji’s laugh – low, teasing, too damned pleased.

The days went by, slower but steadier. Zoro still felt the itch in his muscles, the constant drag toward training, but he held back. It wasn’t easy. Every time the itch hit, he clenched his fists and rode it out until it dulled. His hands took a day or two before they even felt like his again, fingers flexing and curling until the stiffness finally eased.

He used the stool when he washed, letting the water sluice over him as he worked soap into his skin. Sanji had brought the stool in without comment, but when Zoro sat, Sanji’s hand slid through his damp hair and a low murmur followed: “Daddy’s good boy.” The words hit harder than they should’ve, sinking deeper than the heat of the water.

After that, he made it back on deck, haramaki tied at his waist, the sea breeze sharp and clean against his skin. Sanji set the stool by the tiller, and Zoro lowered himself onto it with a grunt. Even he could keep the skiff pointed true with the Vivre Card tugging steady against the horizon. It felt good to be useful again, even in this small way.

While Zoro sat at the helm, Sanji tore through the cabin below. Buckets sloshed, wood scraped, blankets wrung out and hauled up to dry in the sun. Fabric snapped along the lines, carrying the clean bite of soap into the breeze. By the time Sanji was done, the cabin smelled of fresh linen instead of blood and bandages. When Zoro stepped back inside later, it felt less like a sickroom and more like a ship again.

And through it all, the praise kept coming. Quiet, almost tossed off, but every time it landed steady as a hand between his shoulders. That’s it. I’m proud of you. Each time left him flushed, restless, but settled, too, like every word was its own reward.

That night, Zoro lay awake in the dim lantern glow, the skiff rocking slowly under him. His body hummed with its usual ache, the urge to move, to prove he wasn’t broken anymore. He forced himself still. Sanji’s voice echoed – proud of you – and each time it did, the knot in his chest loosened.

So the rhythm set in. Zoro obeyed the limits, sat when told, clenched his fists when his muscles begged for release. Sanji noticed every time. He didn’t make a show of it, just slipped the words in passing, easy as breath. And each one struck true, leaving Zoro flushed, aching, but wrapped in a safety he hadn’t known he needed.

By the fourth night he couldn’t tell what unsettled him more, the dull ache in his body or the sharper ache for Sanji’s next murmur of approval. Sanji had promised him a reward, and the thought of it lingered like salt in the air. Worse, Zoro had started wanting to be good just to hear that praise again. It confused him. It thrilled him. He wondered if the feeling would only deepen with time.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck, voice rougher than he meant. “Why the hell does it feel so good when you say that? Makes me want to hear it again, keep–” He broke off, scowling. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Sanji’s answering smile softened. He leaned in and brushed a kiss over Zoro’s lips. “That’s ’cause I’m doing my job right. My role’s to make you feel safe, wanted, and damn proud of yourself. That praise you’re aching for? That’s me, giving you what you need. And if you want it to keep coming, it will. For as long as you let me.”

Zoro swallowed hard, cheeks hot. He wasn’t used to anyone saying things like that, much less meaning them. The part of him that bristled at weakness wanted to scoff, but the bigger part – the one aching for closeness – just leaned in. “Tch. Guess I… don’t mind you doing your job, then,” he muttered, low and grudging. But his eye softened as he added, “Feels strange, but… right. Like it fits somehow.”

Sanji’s smile deepened, equal parts fond and knowing. He cupped Zoro’s jaw, thumb skimming the scar under his eye. “That’s because it fits, marimo. You don’t have to fight it or make excuses, just take what I’m giving you.” His voice was quiet, fierce. “That’s why I’m here. You’re already my good boy for letting me.”

He pressed another kiss to Zoro’s lips, slower, longer, then rested his forehead to his. “Everything else comes when you’re ready. No rush.”

When he finally drew back, a glint lit Sanji’s eye that made Zoro wary. His gaze dipped to the makeshift skirt at Zoro’s hips, and his mouth curved in a wicked little smirk. “And speaking of letting me,” Sanji murmured, low with amusement, “you’ve been strutting around in that haramaki like it’s a fashion statement. Can’t decide if you’re tempting me or if you really don’t realize how indecent you look.”

Heat shot up his neck. “Shut the hell up,” he snapped, scowl sharp enough to hide the burn in his cheeks.

“Keep being patient for me a bit longer,” Sanji said, fingers ghosting along his hip, voice amused but edged with promise. “Do that – stay sweet for Daddy – and soon you’ll know exactly why.”

He smirked, then slipped into the head, the latch clicking shut and leaving Zoro flushed and aching in the silence.

The next days blurred by, slower but steadier. Zoro split his time between the tiller and the bunk, dozing in the sun or letting the sea rock him to sleep below. He obeyed Sanji’s rules, picked fights just to trade barbs, and felt more and more like himself again. Yet the promise lingered, coiled tight beneath every casual touch, every quiet praise. Each word left him flushed and hungry, until he caught himself watching Sanji too long, waiting, wondering not if but when – and how – he’d finally make good on it.

Rain pattered steady on the deck overhead, a soft summer shower that blurred the horizon and pressed them below. With the tiller locked, they stayed in the cabin, the air still warm with the smell of Sanji’s cooking, garlic and herbs clinging to the galley like another layer of heat.

Between them sat a battered chessboard on the bunk, its surface scarred from years of use and two pawns long gone. In their place stood the salt and pepper grinders, towering absurdly over the rest. Neither of them knew the rules, not really, but that didn’t stop them from moving pieces – or from arguing about every single one.

“You can’t move that one like that,” Zoro grumbled, pointing at Sanji’s knight, which was halfway across the board.

Sanji arched a brow. “Says who? You don’t know how to play either.”

“I know enough to tell you can’t make a horse jump like that.”

“It’s a knight, you uncultured moss-head.” Sanji flicked his lighter, letting the flame dance before snapping it shut again. “And knights jump however the hell they want.”

Zoro scowled. “Fine. Then my castle takes your pointy-hat dude.” He snatched up the piece with an air of finality.

Sanji’s mouth dropped open. “The fuck it does! You can’t move a tower sideways like that!”

“It’s a castle,” Zoro shot back, smug. “Castles have doors. They move sideways.”

Sanji dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “You are unbearable. Why am I even playing this with you?”

“Because you’re losing.”

Sanji glared, then reached for the pepper grinder and planted it squarely in the middle of the board. “Fine. New rule. Pepper checkmate. You lose.”

Zoro blinked, then barked a laugh. “That’s not even a thing!”

“It is now. Learn to keep up, marimo.”

Zoro snorted, reaching for the salt grinder. “Then salt checkmate. Cancels pepper.”

Sanji slapped his hand away. “The hell it does! Salt can’t cancel pepper. That’s basic cooking.”

“Cooking, not chess,” Zoro shot back, rubbing his knuckles. “In chess, salt’s stronger.”

Sanji leaned in, incredulous. “On what planet?”

“On this one.” Zoro moved the grinder anyway, knocking over three pawns on his way.

Sanji pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “I should’ve just taught you poker.” Then, louder: “Fine. New rule. Pawns move like chefs – they can go anywhere as long as they shout at the other pieces first.”

“Shouting doesn’t make you win,” Zoro said flatly.

Sanji gestured at himself with both hands. “It’s worked for me so far.”

Zoro shoved one of his pawns forward and growled, “Oi! Get out of the way.”

Sanji wheezed out a laugh. “Unbelievable. You’re threatening wooden pawns now.”

“Better than your idiot rules,” Zoro shot back. He grabbed his rook and jabbed it against Sanji’s knight with a clack. “Castle crushes horse.”

“Knight,” Sanji corrected automatically, already snatching up his queen. He smacked her into Zoro’s rook like he was fencing with it. “And the queen saves the day, dumbass.”

Zoro narrowed his eye, bracing his rook to parry the attack. “Tch. Figures you’d hide behind a woman.”

Sanji’s brows shot up. “Oh, that’s it.” He seized the pepper grinder and brought it down on the board with a decisive thud. “Royal pepper artillery. Blows your whole castle to bits.”

“Cheating,” Zoro growled, lunging forward to snatch the salt grinder. He brandished it like a sword, knocking Sanji’s pawns aside. “Salt siege. Your kingdom’s mine.”

Pieces skittered across the bunk as they leaned in, the supposed chess match dissolving into a ridiculous skirmish of clacking wood and low laughter. Zoro’s salt grinder shoved at Sanji’s queen, their hands colliding over the board in the struggle.

For a moment the laughter thinned, replaced by the scrape of wood and the nearness of Sanji’s breath across the narrow space. His smirk lingered, but there was a darker gleam under it now, something that made Zoro’s fingers tighten, not on the piece but on Sanji’s hand beneath his.

Zoro’s pulse kicked hard, heat running through him. Sanji shifted closer, bracing one knee on the bunk, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. Then, slowly, deliberately, he closed the gap. His mouth found Zoro’s, not in a rush but in a kiss that deepened with each heartbeat, soft at first, then firmer, lingering until Zoro’s breath stuttered and the scattered pieces were forgotten entirely.

Sanji drew back just enough to look at him, his gaze low and molten. “Would you like your reward now, baby?”

Desire flared sharp and immediate, the anticipation of days coiled so tight it snapped loose all at once. Heat flooded him, urgent and overwhelming, until it pressed out in a low, desperate sound he couldn’t swallow back. The haramaki pulled taut over his lap, tenting in a way that betrayed him completely.

Sanji’s eyes flicked down, then up again, his smirk slow and wicked. He leaned close, his words brushing Zoro’s lips like a spark. “You need to say yes or no.” 

“Yes.” Zoro’s voice cracked, raw with need.

“I’m going to touch you, then,” Sanji said, his tone low and seductive. “I’m going to remove your haramaki, and put my hand on your cock, and then use my mouth. That alright?”

Zoro swallowed, his eye wide, nerves and anticipation knotted tight. He gave a quick nod.

Sanji’s hand caught his chin, tilting it up. “No nodding, sweetheart. I need your voice. Yes or no.” 

“Y-yes.” It came rough, broken, his throat tight. His cheeks burned, but the word still slipped out.

Sanji’s mouth brushed over his, a kiss that lingered like approval. “That’s it. Good boy.” His thumb stroked along Zoro’s jaw, firm and reassuring. “Now listen. If you need me to stop, say it. If you can’t talk, tap me three times. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

The smile Sanji gave him was pure sin. “That’s my good boy.”

The praise, combined with the arousal, did new things to Zoro. Good things. Hot things. He clenched the salt shaker with one hand and Sanji’s hand with the other, grip tight, knuckles whitening as if letting go would undo the moment.

Sanji chuckled low, a sound that vibrated through Zoro. “You need to let go, baby. I’m going to need both my hands for this.”

“Oh.” Zoro blinked slowly, looking down at their clasped hands before quickly snatching his away. It earned him another soft chuckle from Sanji.

He felt himself being gently pushed back, onto the mound of blankets that served as a backrest. The chessboard and pieces were shoved to the floor with a clatter. Blood rushed in Zoro’s ears, drowning out all other sounds, as Sanji drew the haramaki off his hips. Zoro’s erection sprang upright, slapping against his belly. Sanji licked his lips as he tossed the haramaki aside.

“So hard for me,” Sanji murmured, wrapping his hand around the base of Zoro’s shaft. “Daddy’s gonna make you feel so good.”

Zoro made a helpless sound in the back of his throat. Sanji had touched him before, cleaning him, but this was different. This was with intent to pleasure. This was sex.

Sanji shifted on the narrow bunk, bending forward, his face near Zoro’s groin. “May I kiss your thighs, baby?” Sanji asked, hand stroking him. “Nuzzle your cock?”

Zoro’s mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to get out, “Yes.”

Sanji pressed his lips against Zoro’s inner thigh, sliding them up toward the base of his shaft. Sanji’s nose nuzzled against his green curls, inhaling deeply. “You smell good. Musky. Aroused.”

Zoro stared down, chest tight. He’d pictured this before, but reality hit harder.

Sanji’s hand worked him steadily, fingers firm around him, brushing his thumb over the leaking tip. Another kiss pressed against the juncture of Zoro’s hip and thigh, Sanji’s breath hot against his skin. Then, Sanji’s tongue came out, tracing a slow, deliberate stripe along Zoro’s shaft, and Zoro nearly jumped off the bed. “Fuck!”

Sanji chuckled against his skin, the vibration sending shivers through Zoro. “Like that?”

“Yes,” Zoro gasped, his grip on the salt shaker tightening as his breathing grew heavier, almost ragged.

“That’s my good little moss, answering me.” Sanji rewarded him with another swipe of his tongue, making Zoro whine softly, his body trembling with anticipation. “Come when you want to, you don’t have to tell me.”

Zoro’s mind raced, overwhelmed, before thought scattered entirely as Sanji’s mouth closed around the head of his cock. Heat enveloped him, wet and perfect, and a low moan slipped free.

Sanji’s lips stretched around Zoro’s shaft, sucking firmly, tongue tracing and teasing over every tender spot, driving him wild. Zoro’s fist clenched the blanket, knuckles white, as he fought to keep control.

Sanji’s head worked in a steady rhythm, fluid and practiced, taking Zoro deeper with each pass. The wet pull of suction filled the cabin, mingling with Zoro’s ragged breaths and low moans. His hand stroked the base in time with his mouth, each glide sending jolts of sensation racing through Zoro’s body.

Zoro’s vision blurred, muscles shaking as the edge drew closer. Sanji’s throat relaxed to take him further, green curls brushing his nose, the rough scrape of beard grazing his inner thigh – softness and sting at once, sending another rush of fire down his spine.

Each drag of Sanji’s mouth pushed him higher, tongue pressing along the underside until Zoro’s breath tore raw from his chest. His hips jerked helplessly, chasing the wet heat, the ache to bury deeper overwhelming any scrap of restraint. His body locked tight, climax mounting fast and merciless. He could barely think past the pounding in his ears, only the burn, the need, the way release demanded to break free.

The salt shaker cracked in his fist, grains spilling as climax ripped through him. He gave in, body locking tight at the peak. The wave crested hard, spilling white-hot, until he collapsed back against the blankets, chest heaving. His body jerked with aftershocks, muscles twitching as if even the air against his skin was too much. Every ragged breath came broken, pulled from somewhere deep as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sanji eased him down slowly, lips soft around him, hand stroking gently to draw out the last trembling waves. When he finally pulled back, he wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, smirking even as his eyes softened.

“Beautiful,” Sanji murmured, voice low and rough. He brushed his fingers along Zoro’s thigh before kissing him there. “Daddy’s sweet little moss.”

Zoro let out something between a groan and a laugh, too raw to hide the way the words sank deep. His hand found Sanji’s wrist and held on, as if he needed proof this was real. The rush still surged through him, and he liked it – more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Sanji shifted, easing up from between Zoro’s thighs, only to pause when his gaze caught on the mess beside them. Salt glittered across the blankets in a scattered spill, the cracked shaker lying on its side. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

“Really, marimo? First time I get my mouth on you and you destroy your own chess piece.” His smirk curved slow and wicked as his gaze drifted back to Zoro, flushed and spent against the blankets. “Looks like that settles it. Checkmate. I win.”

Zoro shoved at Sanji’s face with a half-laugh, post-orgasmic lethargy weighing down his limbs. “Doesn’t count. You cheated.”

“Doesn’t say anywhere that blowjobs are against the rules.”

Zoro’s cheeks burned hotter. “Tch. Then next time I’m flipping the board and calling that victory.”

Sanji only chuckled, though he still made Zoro help clean the mess. The blanket was shaken out over the sink, salt scattering as the rain tapped steady above. Zoro tugged his haramaki back into place and stooped to gather the chess pieces, already wondering if he’d ever look at the game the same way again.

When Zoro set the last piece back in the box, Sanji nudged him down onto the bunk and stood over him, gaze steady. His fingers cupped Zoro’s jaw, tilting his face up. “Tell me how that felt, me touching you like that.”

Color rushed to Zoro’s cheeks. He tried to look away, but Sanji held him still, gentle but unyielding. “It’s important, baby,” he added softly.

Zoro chewed at the inside of his cheek, fighting the embarrassment, before muttering, “I liked it. Felt good.”

“You need me to change anything? Do something different?” Sanji’s thumb brushed his lower lip. “All of this should feel good to you, every time.”

“Do you have to ask all those questions?” Zoro grumbled.

“Yes. I do,” Sanji replied firmly. “It’s your body, and I won’t do a thing without your permission.”

Zoro shifted, scowling faintly. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No,” Sanji countered, softer now, “it’s love.”

Zoro’s heart stumbled, then pounded hard in his chest. Love. His eye widened, disbelief scraping against want. After everything, to hear it now left him defenseless, undone.

His throat worked, but no sound came. His chest felt too tight, caught between the urge to look away and the pull to drag Sanji down into him, to bury himself in the warmth of those words before doubt or nightmares could steal them away.

So he gave in, fingers curling into Sanji’s shirt and tugging him close until their foreheads touched. Then he murmured, barely audible, “Thank you… for loving me… even though I’m–”

Sanji’s hand cradled the back of his neck. “And thank you, for entrusting yourself to me. You aren’t less to me, and you’re wanted.”

Zoro let out a long breath as Sanji drew him fully into his arms, holding him tight against his chest, solid as the rain outside. For the first time in weeks, Zoro felt not just wanted, but whole – safe in Sanji’s arms, his chest still stupidly warm with the echo of being called Daddy's sweet little moss.

The Vivre Card tugged harder the farther they went, the tiny skiff rocking as the current shifted beneath them. The sea had gone strange – choppy on the surface but with an undertow that seemed to guide the boat, pulling it toward a jagged break in the cliff wall. Sanji held the tiller steady while Zoro leaned forward, one hand braced on the bow, eye narrowed at the narrow gap ahead.

The opening barely looked wide enough, but the current seized them anyway, dragging the skiff into the black-mouthed cavern. Water roared around them, echoing in the hollow passage, salt spray bursting against their faces. The walls pressed close, then suddenly dropped away.

Light broke through, and the skiff shot out into open water again.

And there it was – Wano.

Wano rose like another world above the sea, cliffs sheer and impossible, waterfalls crashing into mist before they ever touched the ocean. Green ridges crowned the heights, rooftops glinting faint in the haze, smoke curling thin into the sky. Clouds clung at the peaks, making the whole country seem like it floated, caught between sea and heaven.

The scent was different here: sharper, threaded with cedar and rain. Even from the water came the distant crash of waves against rock, the foreign cries of unseen birds. It was breathtaking, the sheer scale of it dwarfing their skiff as though they’d stumbled into a myth.

Sanji whistled low under his breath, tilting his head back to take it all in. “Well… looks like we made it.”

Zoro grunted, grip tightening on Wado’s hilt.

It had taken them two more days to reach this point. Sanji had given his swords back – Zoro’s reward after his reward – and he’d trained on deck, arms aching with the familiar burn. At first the hilts had felt strange in his grip after so long without, but by the second morning his body remembered. The extra time healing had been worth it, though he’d never admit that unless Sanji pressed.

Sanji had spoken with Zeff when they first sighted Wano’s cliffs. A Revolutionary contact had taken up residence at the Baratie, supposedly eating Zeff out of business, but it meant the old man had protection. Sanji’s relief had been obvious. There’d been no word on Big Mom or Germa.

“You ready for this?” Sanji asked now, steady hand on the tiller as they steered toward the cluster of ships in the distance. Masts pierced the haze like spears, banners snapping faintly in the damp wind.

“Yeah.” Zoro rolled his shoulders once, loosening. “Wouldn’t mind more training time, but I’m good.”

The blanket-robe sagged off his shoulders, haramaki hanging like a skirt around his waist. His bare feet gripped the planks. He wanted trousers, boots – something that made him feel like himself again. It only had to hold until they rejoined the Sunny, or until he tracked down proper clothes.

Sanji’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “It’s gonna be chaos when we get there – it’s Luffy. We’ll likely get separated.”

Zoro nodded. Truth. They were two of the strongest fighters in the crew, and sticking together wouldn’t help the others. Still, the thought left a hollow at the base of his ribs.

Sanji’s voice cut into it, quieter. “This isn’t doubt. But find me if you need to. Doesn’t make you weak – it makes us partners.”

Zoro forced a nod. “I will.”

Sanji’s gaze lingered. “Good boy.”

Heat crawled his neck. He didn’t like how much the praise hit, but he didn’t look away either.

“Bet I take out more of Kaidou’s goons than you,” Sanji added, grin sliding back into place, cocky as ever.

“Ha. Fat chance.” Zoro’s lips curved into a grin, the cliffs of Wano looming like the mouth of a legend opening wide.

The skiff surged forward on the swell, cliffs drawing closer with every rise and fall of the waves. Cool spray licked at Zoro’s face, but his grip on Wado stayed firm. He could feel it already – the fight waiting for them beyond the mist, the chaos Sanji had promised, the clash that would test every scar they carried here.

For now it was just them, side by side on the skiff, daring Wano’s maw to swallow them whole.

Moonlight leaked through the barred transom, striping the ceiling like ribs. The dungeon stank of damp stone, rot, and rust. Cold soaked into Zoro’s bones where he lay sprawled, his body limp and useless, every inch shattered. His skin was tacky with blood that had long since cooled, pooling beneath him in a sticky halo. His throat was flayed raw, shredded from screaming until only a ragged hiss of air scraped out.

Boots rang against the wet floor, steps spiking into his skull. Three shadows closed in, circling like carrion birds. Ichiji’s smirk gleamed in the moonlight; Yonji’s laughter rolled guttural and wet; Niji’s voice carved into him, deliberate and slow, each word dripping with venom.

“Worthless,” one spat.

“Barely alive, and still disappointing,” another jeered.

“Not much fun to break anymore,” the third muttered – then his grin split wider as he drove his heel into Zoro’s ribs. The wet crack echoed off the stone.

They descended in turn. Yonji wrenched his head up by the hair before slamming it down until the floor ran slick. Ichiji buried a fist in his stomach until bile and blood spilled from his mouth. Niji pressed two fingers into his remaining eye, cruel pressure mounting until his vision swam red.

Their laughter spiked when a boot crushed his teeth, shards grinding against his tongue. Still they continued, hammering joints until limbs bent the wrong way, dragging him across stone just to savor the grind of bone.

“Still breathing,” Ichiji sneered. “Stupid body doesn’t know when to quit.”

Yonji drew a rust-bitten knife, tracing shallow cuts that bled sluggishly, the iron stink swelling until it was all he could taste. Niji split his lip with a punch and ground his heel into Zoro’s shoulder until something tore loose.

The dungeon walls sweated, damp dripping like blood. Cruelty pressed in from every side. Their voices tangled in a chorus of mockery, laughter rattling his skull until even the stone seemed to jeer.

And then, footsteps.

Sanji.

Relief surged – Sanji. He’d come. He’d save Zoro.

Hope rotted fast. The blond stepped into the circle, smirk cruel, eyes cold as ice. He flicked ash from a cigarette, embers hissing as they burned into Zoro’s skin.

“You thought I’d save you?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He crouched low, smoke and blood thick in the air, moonlight casting his face in merciless angles. “You can’t even manage one simple thing.”

Zoro’s chest hitched, a strangled sob clawing loose. The walls pressed closer, his own blood rising high enough to drown him.

Sanji leaned near, breath ghosting hot across his face, voice jagged as steel. “I told you to kill me–” his eyes narrowed, “–but you failed at that, too.”

Zoro ripped awake with a hoarse gasp, throat raw like it had split again. He lurched upright, pain lashing through until it locked him half-raised on shaking elbows.

He wasn’t in the dungeon.

Shoji walls loomed around him, pale frames blurred in the dark. The floor pressed unfamiliar beneath his palms, not stone but woven tatami. The air stank of antiseptic, sharp enough to cut through the lingering copper tang in his mouth. Bandages swaddled him stiff and tight, tubes snaking from his arms into IV drips. A catheter tugged when he moved, alien and humiliating, and the futon sagged beneath his frantic breaths.

His throat worked uselessly, caught between a scream and a snarl that refused to come.

“Zoro, you’re awake!” Chopper’s voice cracked the haze, bright and frantic, hooves skittering over the tatami. Zoro blinked until the little doctor came into focus. “Don’t move too much.”

“Chopper?” Zoro rasped, sinking back into the futon. His voice was dry as ash. “What– where–?”

“You’re in Orochi Castle,” Chopper said quickly, already checking bandages, stethoscope in his ears. “You’ve been unconscious for a week. Breathe in…”

Zoro obeyed, forcing air past his shredded throat. Memory slid back: the raid on Onigashima, the fight with Big Mom and Kaidou – Sanji’s voice mocking in the middle of chaos, Really, marimo? You just want those diapers. The clash with King. The den den mushi call: If I’m not myself, promise you’ll kill me. And finally the Grim Reaper’s blade descending.

“Sanji?” Zoro rasped, chest clenching hard. “Where is he?”

“He’s cooking, helping prepare food now that Kaidou’s gone,” Chopper said, still bent over his work. “He told me to get him the moment you woke up. You scared us, Zoro! You and Luffy were hurt so bad!” Chopper’s words cracked into sobs as he latched onto Zoro.

Zoro’s mind stayed locked on Sanji – on the call, on the nightmare. “Is the cook… okay?”

Chopper sniffed, wiping his eyes. “He didn’t get hurt like you, dummy! He’s already healed almost completely. His new body’s amazing – it regenerates from everything! I saw Queen crush him like a can – squish – and then he just popped back to normal. When Queen tried to cut his head off, the sword shattered on his neck!”

The words hit like ice water down Zoro’s spine. His stomach clenched under the bandages. He could still feel the phantom sting of Sanji’s breath in the nightmare, the ash burning his skin, the hiss: I told you to kill me. His pulse spiked, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out Chopper’s chatter.

“But he’s okay, right?” Zoro forced out, the whisper more plea than question. “He’s still himself?”

Chopper frowned. “Far as I can tell. Why? Did I miss something? Oh no, I’d better call a doctor for him!” He bolted for the door, then skidded back. “But first, let me get those IVs and that catheter out!”

He bustled around him, deft hooves tugging at tubes, cotton swabs dabbing, the sting of alcohol sharp against Zoro’s skin. Zoro lay still, but his mind wouldn’t stop circling. Sanji’s face in the dungeon. Sanji’s laugh, cruel in the dark. Chopper’s words about bones snapping back into place, steel breaking on his neck. If I’m not myself, promise you’ll kill me.

A faint sound tugged his gaze sideways: another futon, Luffy on it, swathed in bandages. IV lines trailed from his arm, but his chest rose and fell steady, a faint smile tugging at his lips even in unconsciousness.

Only then did Zoro take stock of himself. The pain lingered, but dulled now, muted by time and Chopper’s work. His ribs throbbed with each breath, his muscles pulled stiff from a week’s disuse, his joints fragile, as if one wrong move might crack him all over again. And yet it was better. Better than the wreck he’d been on the skiff after the brothers had finished with him. His body had mended, but his mind hadn’t caught up. Every throb still carried the ghost of the nightmare, a reminder it hadn’t loosened its hold.

His eye drifted to the room itself. Shoji panels stood open to the night, pale wood framing the courtyard beyond. Moonlight spilled across stone lanterns and twisted trees, shadows tangled among the branches. A breeze slipped through, carrying the faint sweetness of cherry blossoms.

It should have soothed him. Should have told him he was safe.

But all he could think about was Sanji.

He needed to see him – to hear his voice, to look him in the eye, to know if the man who walked through that door would still be his cook, or if the nightmare had been a warning he’d failed to heed.

Zoro swallowed hard, forcing sound past the scrape in his throat. “Chopper… get Sanji.”

The little doctor’s ears twitched. “Right away! I’ll tell him you’re awake!” He bolted for the door, hooves clattering against the tatami.

Zoro let his head fall back, shutting his eye. The nightmare still clung, leaving a rotten taste in his mouth. He didn’t know how long they would hound him, those heightened memories, sharper than steel, refusing to dull. His victory over King proved he wasn’t weak, that he could fight, endure, and win. But he knew the truth: it had been Sanji’s strength and care that set him in place to finish it.

If Sanji wasn’t Sanji anymore, if he’d turned into one of them, Zoro would lose the only one who’d ever wanted him, broken and all.

Faint voices drifted from the courtyard, the shuffle of sandals on stone, the clatter of jugs. A night insect sang, thin and lonely, swallowed by the hush of the castle. Deeper in the halls, doors thudded open and shut.

Footsteps halted outside the shoji. Zoro tensed, fingers twitching against the futon. The panel slid aside with a soft swish, then closed again. Sanji stepped inside, blue yukata loose on his frame, sandals whispering over tatami. Smoke curled from his lips, veiling him until the lantern glow caught his face in fragments.

He crossed the room unhurried, every step pulling Zoro taut, then lowered himself to the futon beside him with easy grace. “A week,” he said at last, voice dry, almost droll. “That’s a record I’d rather you not try to beat.”

Zoro searched his face, hunting for the sneer that would make the nightmare real. “Guess I dragged myself back from hell just to keep that promise to kill you.”

Sanji huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t need your help with that anymore. I’m okay. Thankfully.”

Zoro didn’t trust it. “What happened?”

“Turns out I’ve got more Vinsmoke in me than I’d like.” He dragged slowly from the cigarette. “That damn Raid Suit must’ve kicked something awake. Body’s different now – stronger, tougher. But my head and my heart?” His gaze softened. “Still the same. If me worrying over your sorry ass all week isn’t proof, then me still feeding people because I give a damn should be.”

Zoro’s eye stayed locked, waiting for the mask to slip. The nightmare hissed that one wrong word would peel Sanji open into a stranger.

But the cook’s gaze didn’t waver. Steady. Warm in a way no Vinsmoke could fake.

The knot in his chest loosened. His breath left him rough. His hands unclenched from the bedding only when he forced them to. He forced them to ease, jaw slackening into something between a laugh and a sob.

“...Good,” he rasped, softer than he meant. His eye closed, tension bleeding out. “Stay that way.”

Sanji’s palm cupped his cheek. Zoro leaned into it, nuzzling the warmth. “I’m not going anywhere, marimo,” Sanji murmured, low. A rueful smile tugged his mouth. “’Cept I’ve gotta get back to the line – folks out there haven’t had a proper meal in years. You rest. I’ll be back before you know it. Promise.”

Zoro gave a slow nod. Feeding people, easing their hunger, that was Sanji’s drive, as much a part of him as his fighting spirit. It was what Zoro admired most.

Sanji bent closer, brushing a kiss across his lips. “Daddy’s glad you’re alright, moss.”

The words cut past every defense. Zoro’s heart lurched, sharp, then settled heavy and warm.

One more kiss, and Sanji drew back. Zoro sank into the futon, drifting toward sleep with a faint smile still tugging at his lips.

The Thousand Sunny cut across smooth seas, horizon empty but for waves and sky. The sails snapped full in the wind, rigging thrumming with strain, the figurehead throwing spray off the bow. Footsteps carried across the deck, muted talk from the galley mingled with Luffy’s hollering and Usopp’s squawking protests from above, the ordinary noise of a crew settled into its voyage. The ship was onto its next adventure, chasing the last poneglyph.

Between the clatter of dishes and the thud of training weights on deck, the story still lingered. Luffy, Brook, Chopper, and Nami had gone all the way into Totto Land hunting for Sanji and Zoro. They hadn’t found them, but they’d carried home Big Mom’s poneglyph copy and word that, after Sanji’s escape, Big Mom had crushed Germa, wiping out the Vinsmokes over lunch.

The news cut Sanji open, left everything unresolved in ways he had no words for. He cooked like always, knife flashing, voice caustic when Luffy tried to steal bites, but under it was a silence none of them could miss. Zoro stayed close but didn’t push. Sanji would keep moving no matter how much it gutted him, and if all Zoro could do was sit nearby, that was enough.

It cut him too, though in a different shape – revenge stripped from his hands before he could take it. He’d wanted the Vinsmokes for himself, to pay back every wound they’d carved into Sanji, and every one they’d left on him. The brothers had dragged him down, taken more than they ever should have, broken him in ways he didn’t name out loud, and still hadn’t stopped. They’d beaten him bloody after, left him half-dead in the dark, and he’d sworn they’d pay for it. He’d wanted them to face his blades for that, to see their blood on steel, and Big Mom had stolen even that. The chance was gone, and it stung sharper than he’d ever admit.

Big Mom was gone now, too, dropped in the raid by Law and Kidd, which at least meant Zeff was safe. When Sanji called, the old man tore into him for being cautious, and Sanji snapped back for being an ungrateful bastard. Zoro listened to them snarl at each other with a grin; the Baratie’s version of family love rang obvious in every curse.

Days moved on. The Sunny sailed, meals came and went, watches changed, but some things didn’t shift so easily. Zoro kept closer than before, drifting into Sanji’s orbit in ways that didn’t need words, taking his meals in the galley instead of on deck, dozing where the cook could see him, finding excuses to linger nearby.

Even with Sanji close, the nightmares came anyway, regular as clockwork. By the sixth night of waking half the men’s quarters, Sanji asked Franky to build them a room of their own.

That earned Zoro ribbing from Brook and Franky, cackling from Nami, and a knowing look from Robin. It also had him red to the roots, scowling while his ears burned. He told them all to shut up, but the quiet relief in his chest gave him away. He never argued about using the room; the bed was where Sanji got him through the worst nights, where rules anchored him, and where he could give in without fear.

And sometimes it wasn’t about nightmares or rewards at all – just mouths colliding, teeth clicking, hands fisting in shirts until they were both gasping, wanting each other without any frame laid over it. But even then Sanji stayed careful, never let him forget he was wanted. And when the rules came back, his good boy had earned every reward. Zoro hated how much he needed that reminder, and liked it all the same.

The room was what he needed. Curled up with Sanji, he slept deeper, waking fewer times in the dark. Life on the Sunny found its pace again, Elbaph already behind them, the giants as much a memory as Wano. Sanji treated him the same as ever, only now with a sharper attentiveness that hadn’t been there before they’d gotten together. For Zoro, following those rules was worth it.

Weeks stretched into months. Somewhere in that span, Zoro found himself settling into the structure Sanji set for him. Orders to rest, to eat, to stop pushing until he broke – commands he would’ve spat on before – turned into part of his days. He bristled at them out loud, but the truth was he liked the line drawn under him. It gave him footing in a way no hours of training ever had.

They hadn’t gone far sexually, not yet. Sanji stuck with mouths and hands, teaching him what it meant to be held still without panic – always consensual, always with a signal to stop, to break free, to ground himself. Zoro learned to breathe through Sanji pressed behind him, just lying together on the bed, without spiraling. The first time Luffy had hugged him from behind, he’d sent the idiot flying off the ship, then had to dive in after him. Months later, he could take Sanji’s weight against his back and stay calm, even want it.

Through it all, Sanji stayed constant. He supported without smothering, praised without belittling, set limits Zoro hadn’t known he needed and rewarded him when he met them. It wasn’t just care. It was control. And Zoro wanted that structure almost as much as the touch. Being Sanji’s good boy didn’t weaken him; it braced him, gave him something solid when the nightmares clawed at him, or when his own thoughts turned rotten – whispers that he was tainted, used up, less than he had been. Sanji’s rules broke through that, reminders that he was desired, still whole, no scar changing his worth.

By the end of those months, the edges inside him weren’t as sharp. He could want Sanji’s touch without shame, let him take control without fear. He wasn’t healed, not all the way, but he was whole enough to believe it might last. Sanji was the partner he’d once only hoped for and turned out to be more: guiding him not only into safety, but into strength. Teaching him how to surrender without losing himself. How to find strength in giving it over.

The weeks blurred together, training, meals, and nights folded into something almost ordinary. When the log pose finally pulled them toward land again, the Thousand Sunny eased up to the weathered docks of Jumping Frog Reef, timbers creaking as the autumn tide lapped against the pilings. The island rose in a sweep of russet cliffs, their faces streaked with veins of pale stone that caught the low sun. At their base, the reef stretched outward in jagged shelves, slick with moss and scattered with tide pools where fat green frogs leapt between shallow pools, croaking loud enough to echo against the rocks.

Inland, the island shifted quickly from salt-stained rock to rolling groves of maple and ginkgo. Their leaves blazed in shades of copper, crimson, and gold, a patchwork canopy drifting down in slow spirals to blanket the forest floor. The air carried a crisp bite, edged with the sweetness of fallen leaves and woodsmoke from small villages tucked deeper into the hills.

Beyond the treeline, faint mountain ridges loomed, their peaks capped with the first dustings of snow, while streams cut silver paths through the valleys, feeding into the sea. Flocks of migrating birds wheeled overhead, their calls sharp, joining the chorus of frogs below.

It would take three days for the log pose to set, time enough for the Straw Hats to roam and explore. Zoro drew the first day’s watch with Jinbe, which gave him a chance to learn more about their newest crewmate.

The next morning, Sanji leaned over him with a murmur edged in promise as he fastened the cloth diaper snug around Zoro’s waist. His hands worked without hesitation, practiced from doing this often, his eyes glinting, voice hushed but certain. “Daddy’s got an inn room for us tonight. You be a good boy today, and I’ll come find you when it’s time.”

The words alone left Zoro wound tight, pulse hammering before the day had even started. Anticipation curled sharp in his belly, enough to keep him restless long after Sanji had gone back to the galley.

Jumping Frog Creek turned out to be a small but lively town built along the banks of the silver stream that gave it its name. Narrow streets wound between wooden buildings painted in faded autumn hues, the air alive with the clatter of vendors hawking roasted chestnuts, skewered river fish, and cups of spiced sake. Lanterns dangled from eaves and bridges, their paper shades stenciled with frogs mid-leap.

Predictably, Zoro got himself lost three times before noon. He’d meant to stick to his errand – picking up oil and cloths for his swords – but ended up wandering farther than intended. One shop lured him in with the promise of “specialty tools,” only for him to stumble into a back room lined with leather harnesses, cuffs, and gleaming steel implements that looked too close to the darker corners of his nightmares, and yet stirred something deep in his gut. The jolt of arousal and unease had him snapping around so fast the bell clanged behind him.

It was Zoro who found Sanji first. Leaving the bar with the thought of napping in a quiet park he’d passed earlier, he caught sight of the cook at a stall, haggling over prices. Sanji had said he’d be the one to find him, but Zoro didn’t hesitate. He stepped in close, voice roughened at Sanji’s ear. “Daddy, I need to be changed.”

Sanji’s smile curved warm and approving. His hand brushed Zoro’s back as he gathered his bags with one arm. “Let’s head back to the ship.”

Behind the closed door of their room, Sanji’s care unfolded without hurry. He undressed Zoro with steady, practiced hands, wiping him clean with the same easy certainty he always did. Zoro’s ears burned, the old instinct to scowl tugging at his face. Beneath it was a heat he didn’t bother fighting. He liked being handled like this, wanted like this. And Sanji’s voice only deepened that truth. “Good boy. My strong boy for telling me.” Each word eased tension he hadn’t realized he was holding, every touch pulling him deeper into certainty. He wasn’t ruined. Wasn’t less. Sanji chose him.

When Sanji slicked his fingers and pressed them in, Zoro gasped ragged, body yielding at once. He knew what this was – reward, earned through obedience, folded into their routine as naturally as the snug cloth he wore beneath his clothes. It wasn’t the act alone; it was Sanji’s voice, calm and coaxing, murmuring praise against his skin: “That’s it. Daddy’s proud. My good little moss.” The words made him open, made him feel not just desired but safe in it, cherished in a way no one else could give. Then Sanji’s mouth closed over him, and Zoro’s chest clenched as pleasure tangled with reassurance, overwhelming him.

Afterward, Sanji dressed him again with the same practiced care: fresh diaper snug around his hips, clothes tugged back into place. A kiss brushed his mouth, a playful smack landed on his hip, and Sanji’s voice softened into intimacy. “That’s my sweet little moss. Daddy will see you tonight.”

Zoro walked back out into the afternoon, pulse still uneven, skin prickling under every layer. He doubted he’d ever get used to how something so simple could leave him feeling whole.

Zoro wandered back toward the park he’d passed earlier, the one with stone lanterns lining the path and maple leaves scattered like embers across the grass. Afternoon light slanted across the creek that wound through its center, the surface flashing silver and gold. He meant only to sit for a while, let the food and drink settle.

But the park seemed to shift as he moved through it, the paths curling in on themselves, bridges leading him back to where he’d started. He scowled, half certain the place was playing tricks on him. Finally he gave up and dropped beneath a ginkgo tree, its broad fan-shaped leaves whispering above.

The grass was soft, the air sharp with the bite of autumn, and the sound of frogs carried faintly from the creek. Zoro let his head tip back, eyelid dragging shut. His last clear thought was Sanji’s voice – That’s my sweet little moss – before he slipped under, the world tipping away into sleep.

At first, sleep held him gently. The rustle of ginkgo leaves, the chorus of frogs, the crisp night air, all of it folded around him. But slowly, too slowly to fight, it began to twist. The leaves above stretched into the long shadows of iron bars, the grass beneath him dampening into slick stone. The bite of autumn soured into rot and rust. The frogs’ croaks warped into guttural laughter.

The dungeon had him again.

Boots struck the floor with cruel deliberateness. Shadows closed in, faces he knew too well gleaming with malice.

“You should’ve died already,” Ichiji sneered.

“Clinging on just to suffer more?” Niji said, grinding his heel near Zoro’s hand.

Yonji bent low, teeth flashing. “Let’s see how many pieces you’ve got left.”

The words clawed down his spine. His chest seized, lungs locking. His body stayed heavy, useless, no strength left to fight. All he could do was watch them advance.

Then the sound split the dark: a sharp crack of impact, heel on stone.

“Enough.”

Sanji stepped into the circle, cigarette smoke curling around him, eyes blazing.

Ichiji sneered. “What, come to join us after all?”

Sanji’s boot slammed into his chest before the words finished, ribs caving with a wet crunch as Ichiji was hurled against the wall.

Niji lunged in, electricity crackling along his hands, but Sanji pivoted and drove a kick into his jaw with such force the sound echoed like a gunshot. Niji crumpled, teeth scattering across the stone.

Yonji grabbed for Zoro, massive hands reaching, but Sanji was faster. His heel snapped sideways into Yonji’s elbow, bone shattering in a spray of blood. A second kick drove into his stomach, folding him in half, before Sanji’s foot hooked his throat and slammed him into the ground hard enough to crater the stone.

Each strike shook the dungeon, stone groaning, shadows twisting like they felt every blow.

Sanji turned then, crouching at Zoro’s side. His fury melted away in an instant. A hand slid to Zoro’s cheek. “I got you, baby,” he murmured, warm and solid where everything else was cold. “You’re safe.”

Zoro shuddered as Sanji slipped arms beneath him, lifting him clear of the stone. The dungeon wailed, iron bars twisting, walls buckling as if it would collapse around them, but Sanji carried him forward, stride unshaken.

The stench of blood thinned. The stone gave way to grass. Moonlight poured back over them, the sound of frogs returning with the night breeze.

Zoro clung hard despite the tremor in his body, breath still ragged. Sanji pressed a kiss to his temple, holding him closer. “Shh. I’m here, little moss. Always. Nothing’s going to hurt you again.”

Zoro’s eye blinked open to the fading light, the branches of the ginkgo tree shifting overhead. The air was cool with the edge of dusk, frogs croaking faintly from the creek. For once, his chest wasn’t locked tight, his throat not raw with the echo of a scream.

The nightmare had come for him, the dungeon and the brothers with it, but this time Sanji had been there, too. Not cruel, not twisted into them, but himself. Strong, furious, calling him little moss as he carried him out.

Zoro exhaled slowly, the breath shaky but easier than usual. His body still ached, but the dread wasn’t strangling him the way it usually did. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The park smelled of grass and water, not iron and rot.

For once, the memory of the dream didn’t hollow him out completely. It left him with the certainty of Sanji’s voice, the feel of his arms lifting him free. Even if it was only a dream, it told him what he already knew – he trusted Sanji to come for him, no matter what. Trusted him, loved him, enough to let go of the need to fight everything alone. Enough to surrender, to be held, because with Sanji he didn’t have to carry it all alone anymore.

Zoro pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders until the nap’s stiffness gave way. The creek still sang with frogs, the air cooling as dusk deepened, and for once the weight pressing on his chest felt lighter.

He started walking, letting the narrow streets of the town pull him along. Lanterns were being lit one by one, their glow warm against the autumn dark, and the smell of grilled fish and sake drifted on the air. People moved easily around him, shopkeepers shuttering stalls, families heading home, laughter spilling from doorways where drinkers were already gathering.

Zoro slipped into the flow without thinking, boots carrying him toward a turn he recognized, the way back to the bar. By the time he stepped inside, the place was crowded; dice clattered at one table where men bickered over coins, while a pair of musicians plucked out a lively tune near the hearth. The air was thick with smoke, roasted fish, and spilled sake, voices clashing in laughter and shouts.

He claimed a stool, ordered food and a drink, and let the bustle close in around him. Between bites, his eye roved the room: gamblers snapping over a lost hand, merchants still arguing after their cups ran dry, a woman’s laugh cutting bright across the din. Snatches of talk drifted past, someone bragging about silver veins in the hills, another swearing a hidden cache of coins had been found in the creekbed. Nami would be all over it.

Then the air shifted. Zoro felt it before he saw him, the prickle at the back of his neck, the pull in his gut. Sanji moved through the crowd as if the smoke and noise bent around him, golden hair catching the lamplight, the din seeming to dull in his wake. Zoro straightened before he could stop himself, body already remembering earlier hands and praise.

His pulse kicked, heat crawling up his neck before he could clamp it down. His grip flexed tight around his mug, thighs drawing taut under the bar. The snug press beneath his clothes was still fresh from earlier, when Sanji had pulled him back to their cabin, changed him, and taken him apart with steady fingers and his mouth until Zoro was shaking. Reward given, praise murmured, Sanji’s voice still echoing in his chest. And now, layered over that, the promise of the inn room and more to come. Want twisted hard, every breath tight with the memory’s heat.

Sanji leaned close, his voice softened into authority, the kind of tone that brooked no refusal. “Ready to go?”

Zoro nodded at once, desire already coiling through him at the sound. The answer pulled from him as surely as breath, his body keyed up with the reminder of what waited. He dropped his mug on the bar with a dull thud, the stool scraping loud against the floorboards as he shoved back, earning a few glances from the nearest tables.

Sanji only smirked knowingly, unfazed by the noise or the eyes on them, then turned with a flick of his coat to lead the way.

They stepped out into the cooling evening, lantern light spilling across the street in fractured pools. The chatter and clatter of the bar faded behind them, replaced by the quieter sounds of the town winding down – doors closing, sandals scuffing, the distant croak of frogs from the creek.

Sanji walked ahead with the kind of grace that marked him everywhere, smoke trailing lazy from his lips, the crowd parting as if by instinct. Zoro fell in step behind, the town’s lanterns catching in his hair, the night sounds sharper for how muffled the bar now seemed. Every stride carried him closer to the inn, closer to whatever Sanji had planned. The not knowing dug at him as much as the wanting, each step cranking the anticipation higher until it burned in his chest.

The inn sat just off the creek, its wooden frame rising two stories with a sloping tiled roof and paper lanterns swaying under the eaves. The signboard out front bore a cheerful painted frog mid-leap, its bright green faded from years of sun. From the entryway drifted the smells of woodsmoke, grilled river fish, and damp straw mats drying by the fire.

Inside, the common room was warm and bustling. Tatami floors creaked beneath the shuffle of travelers’ sandals, and the walls were paneled in shoji screens painted with winding reeds and lily pads. A low hearth glowed in the center, a blackened kettle steaming above it, while laughter and the clink of cups rose from a cluster of tables. The air held a faint sweetness, the mingling of sake, cedar, and the creek’s cool breath through open windows.

The upper floor was quieter, the sounds from below dulled to a hum. Hallways stretched plain and spare, shoji doors marked with simple carvings. Sanji stopped halfway down, slid one open, and gestured Zoro inside.

The room was simple: a wide bed set neatly against the wall, a standing wardrobe in the corner, soft carpeting muting their steps, and beige walls bare of decoration. Beyond another sliding door lay the en suite with a stone floor, a squat bath, and a shelf stacked with clean towels. Nothing extravagant, but private. A space meant for rest, for quiet. A place where no one would interrupt them.

Anticipation thundered in Zoro’s chest. He pulled his katanas from his hip, setting them against the wardrobe, as Sanji shed his coat. His fingers flexed, restless at his sides. Sanji didn’t leave him waiting.

“Clothes off, marimo.”

Zoro had grown used to directives like this, easy to follow, easier to obey. The thrum of what it would lead to tingled under his skin. He stripped layer by layer – boots first, then jacket, shirt, trousers – and stretched out on the bed, leaving the last piece in place for Sanji to take.

“Good boy,” Sanji murmured, hands smoothing down his thighs before unfastening the still-clean diaper. His tone softened further, coaxing rather than commanding. “Into the bath. Clean yourself up for Daddy.”

Zoro obeyed without protest, stepping into the en suite. He liked the weight of those orders, the way they locked his head in place. He liked giving himself over like this, pleasing Sanji, sinking into the quiet certainty it gave him. Sanji had been right – ceding control didn’t strip him down, it gave him more. Authority laced with care let him breathe without fear, let touch come free of Germa’s shadows.

He slid the door shut behind him and crossed the cool stone floor. The squat tub waited, steam curling up as he filled it from the spigot. When it was ready, he climbed in, sinking into the heat, letting it seep deep into his muscles.

He reached for the bar of soap, worked it into a lather, and scrubbed down – arms and chest, thighs and calves – until his skin shone clean. He ducked his head under, fingers raking through his hair as he worked the cedar-scented suds into the green strands, rinsing until the water ran clear.

When he surfaced, his pulse was already climbing. The bath cleared sweat and grime, but it didn’t touch the restless spark low in his gut. Every pass of soap, every sluice of water reminded him who he was preparing for, and by the time he climbed out his body was keyed up, half-aroused and waiting.

He grabbed a towel, rubbed himself dry in brisk strokes, then tossed it aside and stepped out bare. Sliding the door open, he crossed into the room and presented himself just as Sanji had ordered – clean, naked, waiting.

Sanji’s gaze swept over him at once, heated and approving, a grin tugging slow at his mouth. “Good boy… my sweet little moss.”

The words hit hard. Zoro’s cock twitched, already stirring under Sanji’s look, his chest tightening with a mix of want and nerves. He hated how fast his body gave him away, how little control he had when Sanji looked at him like that – and he still wanted it.

Sanji had already shed his shirt and shoes, left in only black trousers. On the bed sat a jar of oil, the covers thrown back.

“Lie down, baby. On your back. Head on the pillow.”

Zoro obeyed, climbing onto the mattress. His stomach pulled tight with anticipation as he sprawled out, cock hardening further at the inevitability of what Sanji’s voice promised. Sanji ducked briefly into the bathroom, returning with a clean towel he dropped at the foot of the bed.

“Okay, Zoro, look at me.” Sanji waited until their eyes met, voice precise, softened into authority. “I’d like us to try intercourse. That means I would put my penis inside your ass. It’s what we’ve been building toward. Would you like that?”

Heat climbed sharply on Zoro’s face. Hearing it said out loud twisted his gut, blunt words colliding with the ache already pounding through his body. Sanji always did this – direct, careful, never assuming. Zoro knew why: so he could choose, so nothing was left unsaid. He respected that. Needed it. But fuck, it still made him squirm.

“I’m waiting,” Sanji prompted.

Zoro swallowed, then forced the answer out. “Yes.”

“Alright. Any hint of a no, or your saying stop, I’ll stop,” Sanji reminded him. “You can change your mind at any time. If you can’t talk for any reason, tap me three times. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll start with you on your back so you see me the whole time.” Sanji slid a second pillow beneath his hips. “I’m gonna use my fingers first, nice and slow. Then we’ll switch – you’ll be on top, so you’re the one in control when we try penetration. Any questions?”

“No.”

“And you’re currently in agreement?”

“Yes.”

Sanji’s hand drew slow circles across Zoro’s lower belly. “Good boy answering Daddy’s questions.”

The praise struck deep, loosening something tight inside him the way it always did. His nerves still sparked, but beneath them burned something hungrier – need. He’d wanted this, thought about it more than he would ever admit. The dungeon had carved fear into him, but Sanji had been relentless in unmaking it: every step talked through, every limit set, every reward teaching his body it was safe.

This wasn’t Germa. This wasn’t the brothers. This was Sanji, voice coaxing, touch certain, gaze locked on him like he was worth everything. This would be a new memory, one that was his by choice, brought by Sanji’s care. A memory he needed, one that rewrote the old.

Sanji set Zoro’s legs where he wanted them – knees bent, feet braced against the mattress, hips lifted on the pillow. Desire tugged at Zoro as he lay exposed, cock heavy against his stomach. The wall sconce threw gold across his skin, too bright to hide behind. Sanji had made sure of that. No corners to hide in, no creeping places for the dungeon to return. Even back on the Sunny, he’d kept a lamp burning through the night, a steady light that forced the shadows back where it belonged.

Sanji picked up the jar of oil, uncapped it, and let a generous measure pool into his hand. The scent of cinnamon and ginger curled sharp and sweet. Zoro’s eye tracked every motion as Sanji worked it over three fingers, shine spreading until they glistened. He wiped his other hand on the towel, then settled between Zoro’s spread thighs, his presence filling the space.

Sanji’s hand pressed low on his stomach, steadying him. His eyes carried want, softened by the same care that always marked his touch. “Ready?”

Zoro swallowed hard, his cock twitching against Sanji’s wrist. “Yes.”

The slick fingers trailed down, teasing until they circled his entrance. Zoro’s breath caught, then released; he knew this touch, knew what it meant. Reward. Earned. His body yielded at once when the first finger eased inside, tension giving way to the practiced glide. Anticipation snapped straight into hunger, nerves firing as he took Sanji in.

“That’s it,” Sanji murmured, his thumb drawing slow circles across Zoro’s stomach. “Relax for me. You’re perfect like this.”

A low moan spilled from Zoro, his cock jerking, hands knotting in the sheets as Sanji worked him open. He pushed only as far as Zoro allowed, then drew back, then retreating to stroke again, tracing circles. Zoro’s heels dug into the mattress, hips tilting into the touch.

The second finger joined the first, the stretch familiar but still sharp enough to make him bite down a gasp. Sanji never hurried. He worked with maddening patience, stroking, scissoring, spreading to the brink before easing off again, until Zoro trembled, caught between tenderness and raw need.

“Good boy. You’re taking my fingers so well.” The words rolled like possession wrapped in praise, tightening Zoro’s chest with want. “Look at you, opening up for me.”

This was what Sanji gave him when rewarding him – two fingers, slow and easy, sliding in and out, coaxing pleasure until Zoro was pliant beneath him. But tonight it went further. Sanji lingered, curling just so, finding the places that made Zoro jolt, then softening with kisses against his thigh, whispers brushed into skin.

When the third finger pressed in, Zoro’s body balked, muscles clamping hard around the intrusion. A hiss tore out of him, but Sanji was there – thumb circling his stomach, voice soothing. “That’s it, baby. Breathe. You’ve got me.”

Zoro dragged air in, forced it out, the way Sanji had drilled into him on the Sunny, until fear bled into calm. The strain eased, the pressure shifting into a fullness that left him gasping. His muscles fluttered, then loosened under Sanji’s steady hand.

Sanji worked him deliberately, never letting him fall behind. He didn’t just prepare him, he rebuilt him, until Zoro was yielding to it, craving more, driven into fevered desire.

Sanji bent low, lips brushing his thigh. “My sweet little moss… letting me in deeper, letting me make you feel good. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.” His voice carried that same firm tenderness, praise slipping under Zoro’s skin the way it always did, drawing a response before he could think. A rough sound tore out of him, closer to surrender than plea. Relief surged through the coil inside – Sanji saw him like this, hard and open, and still wanted him. The words burned away the last scraps of resistance, leaving only the drive to go further, to let Sanji push him past what he thought he could give.

Sanji slowed, drawing out one last ripple of sensation before easing still. His gaze dipped to the rigid line of Zoro’s cock, flushed and leaking. A low hum rumbled out of him, approving. “Look at you,” he murmured, hand brushing Zoro’s hip. “So hard for me. You want more, don’t you?”

Zoro’s head jerked in a nod, voice gravelly with need. “Yes. I want more.”

Sanji’s smile deepened, heat flickering in his gaze as he shifted closer. The bedframe creaked, laughter and wind fading to nothing beyond these walls. His hand smoothed up Zoro’s belly, lingering just below his ribs. “Good boy,” he murmured. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Zoro’s breath punched out in a rough exhale, his nod quick, almost desperate.

Sanji’s fingers eased back, slick in the lamplight as he met Zoro’s eye. “Then tell me, Zoro. You ready for me?”

“Fuck, yes,” Zoro rasped, the plea ripped out before he could stop it. “Please.”

Sanji’s smile curved, deliberate. “I like it when you say please.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Zoro’s thigh. “I’m going to undress. Slide over for me.”

“Okay.” The answer broke out before he’d even thought about it, his body already moving. Sanji chuckled low, approval curling through the sound.

Sanji wiped his hand on the towel, then stripped, bare skin catching the lamplight. Lean, powerful, every line of him built for speed and precision. Zoro’s pulse jumped as he watched. He couldn’t help imagining those legs pinning his, that body pressing him down – not to break him, but to show him how good it could feel. It sent a hard twitch through his cock, want pressing against his belly.

Sanji climbed onto the bed and stretched out, settling against the pillows with unhurried ease. The picture of control, he reached for the oil, pouring it into his palm. He worked it over himself in deliberate strokes, slick glinting as his hand moved. Zoro swallowed, tracking every motion. He’d touched Sanji before, tested and explored, dragged sounds out of him with his hands. He’d even tried his mouth once and found it wrong – it was too much like a sword hilt, the fear of biting down freezing his jaw. But he hadn’t had to fake it; he’d said no, and Sanji had praised him for saying it. That was the difference: choice.

The constant check-ins, the blunt questions, scraped at his pride sometimes, but they gave him what he needed: freedom. Freedom to want or refuse. To surrender without losing himself. Exactly what Sanji had been steering him toward all along.

Sanji finished coating himself, wiped his hand clean, then held one out in invitation. “Straddle my lap and sit down, so you can feel me beneath you.”

Zoro moved without pause, shifting over and settling into place. The hot, thick length pressed between his cheeks. He’d sat on Sanji’s lap before, felt his hard-on through cloth, but skin to skin like this had his pulse hammering. The contact sent a jolt up his spine, need clawing deep.

“This good?” Sanji asked.

“Yes.” It came out fast, almost a growl. “Get on with it already.”

Sanji’s low chuckle rolled under him. “My baby’s eager. Good. Means I’m doing this right.”

Zoro gripped Sanji’s thighs, hungry for more.

“Up on your knees,” Sanji told him.

Zoro obeyed. The position left him strung between tension and want, his thighs coiled, his gut tight with anticipation.

Sanji steadied his cock upright, oil gleaming. “Lower until you’re just touching me. No further.”

Zoro eased down. The blunt head nudged him, real and bigger than fingers. His chest seized, muscles clamping tight, a shadow of memory rose, threatening to take hold. For a heartbeat he almost froze, panic coiling to drag him under, until Sanji’s voice cut in.

“Talk to Daddy. Tell me what’s happening,” Sanji said.

The name snapped him back, cutting clean through the panic. He dragged in air. “I’m okay. I want it. Just… nervous. Can we try more?”

Sanji searched his face, then nodded. “Okay. Remember, any no, any stop, I pull out. This isn’t about pushing you. It’s about choice. Some people never do this, or don’t like it, and that’s fine.”

The promise in Sanji’s tone shifted something inside him. Zoro’s pulse slowed, his fists unclenching against Sanji’s stomach, jaw flexing as he forced himself to relax. “Do you like it?”

“Sometimes,” Sanji said. “You know my past – I prefer giving. Still, I’ve enjoyed it.”

Zoro nodded, damp palms dragging across his thighs. “I want to.” The words felt raw, stripped from somewhere deep, but they gave him footing once spoken.

“Okay, baby,” Sanji murmured, softer. “Then start sinking down. Slow. Relax like you do with my fingers.”

Zoro braced his palms on Sanji’s stomach, feeling taut muscle flex beneath his hands. Something solid. Safe. He drew a long breath, then lowered. The blunt head pressed harder, stretching him in ways that scraped at the edges of memory. His jaw clenched, breath hitching, his body wanting to lock up, but Sanji’s hand stroked slow circles over his hip, voice steady in his ear.

“That’s it. Breathe with me. You’re doing so well.”

Zoro dragged the air in, let it out, pushed lower. The ache shifted, spreading deeper, not just pain – something heavier, fuller. Terrifying and intoxicating at once. His eye squeezed shut, instinct trying to block it out.

“Eye open, Zoro,” Sanji said firmly. “Stay here. With me.”

He forced it open again. Blue eyes waited. The sight anchored him, scattering the clawing ghosts.

“Good boy,” Sanji said, calm as his hand on Zoro’s hip. “That’s you opening for me. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The reassurance sank through him. A groan tore loose as his body yielded more. Sanji was inside now – just the tip, but enough to feel the difference. Not hands forcing, not laughter cutting him down. Sanji’s voice, Sanji’s touch, kept it from being that.

“Slow. Your pace,” Sanji murmured. “You’ve given me more than enough already.”

Zoro’s fingers dug into muscle. The burn bent under Sanji’s voice, reshaped into want.

“You’ve taken me in, even just a little,” Sanji whispered. “That’s strength, moss. You’re letting me in, trusting me. That’s everything.”

Zoro clung to the words like armor. His brothers had carved a fear into him he hadn’t known before – the fear of being pinned, helpless, stripped of his worth. With Sanji it was different. Here, it wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t shame. It was choice.

The shift struck deep, uncoiling something tight inside. What once had felt like proof he was broken now felt like proof he was wanted – still whole, still enough. Pride came, but softer this time, carrying warmth instead of edge. He breathed through the ache, let it ease into fullness, and what remained wasn’t fear at all. It was want. His cock twitched, his pulse running strong, every beat telling him he wasn’t ruined. He was desired. 

Sanji’s gaze didn’t waver, as if he’d read it straight off Zoro’s skin. “You’re beautiful like this. When you’re ready, take more of me.”

Zoro nodded once, then drove lower, groaning as thickness slid deeper. Heat flared under the pressure, pulling him further.

“Good boy,” Sanji whispered, intimate now. “Look at you, opening perfectly.”

Zoro locked on Sanji’s face. The care there braced him better than any word. With a guttural growl he sank the rest of the way, seated flush in Sanji’s lap, every inch inside.

The burn lingered, but its weight dulled the sting. He trembled, clutching Sanji’s stomach, breath breaking as sensation rolled heavy through him. This wasn’t Sanji’s fingers. This was thicker, heavier, filling him so completely it stole the air from his lungs. Good – pleasure flickered sharp at the base of his spine – but strange, too, alien enough to make his body want to lock. The past slammed in without warning: pain, violation, the helplessness he swore he’d never feel again. He clung harder to Sanji, forcing himself to hold to the one truth that mattered: it was Sanji inside him, not them.

Sanji held his gaze. “Do we need to stop?”

Zoro shook his head hard, words scraping out. “No. Don’t stop. It’s… it’s you. I know it’s you.” His fingers flexed against Sanji’s stomach, gripping there like an anchor. “Just– keep talking to me.”

Sanji’s hand slid up from his hip to his side. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re here with me, and I’ve got you.”

Zoro kept his eye fixed on him, catching every murmur Sanji gave – soft commands to breathe, gentle reassurances that he was safe, praise for how well he was taking it. The words came steady, each one different but all meant to hold him here. Bit by bit the panic bled away, leaving only want. His shoulders eased, his grip loosened, and he let himself stay.

Sanji kept talking until Zoro’s breath evened, until the strain in his muscles gave way. Only then did he fall quiet, as if sensing Zoro needed the space to feel it for himself. The room held still around them, broken only by the creak of the mattress and Zoro’s uneven breathing. Below, a door thudded shut, laughter flared and faded again.

Sanji let the silence linger, thumb tracing idle over Zoro’s side. At last he murmured, “Do you want to move, or just stay like this?”

Zoro hesitated, voice quiet, uncertain. “Can we stay? Just for a while.”

“As long as you want,” Sanji promised. “We could do only this. And then stop.”

Zoro let the tension bleed out on a long breath. Sanji filled him completely, and all Zoro wanted was to hold it, to know he’d chosen this, allowed this.

Sanji’s own breathing stayed even, his gaze fixed and tender. Every so often, Zoro caught a faint twitch deep inside, Sanji flexing against him.

“Do you–” Zoro started, eye searching his face. “Is it hard to just stay like this? For you?”

Sanji’s mouth curved. “Definitely hard,” he smirked. “But I’ve done it before, for hours. I’m fine.”

“But… are you getting anything out of it?”

Sanji’s hand skimmed along his ribs. “My pleasure’s giving you yours. Always has been. Remember?”

Zoro scowled faintly. “But I’m sitting on your dick.”

Sanji laughed, rich and unbothered. “Indeed you are. And it feels incredible, my sweet little moss.”

Zoro grumbled at the pet name – absurd, when he was all scarred muscle, bare skin, and joined to Sanji this way. He shifted, and Sanji’s hand cinched lightly at his side, a flicker of control Zoro felt more than saw.

He shifted again, this time deliberate, curiosity pushing him to see what else he could draw out. The twitch of Sanji’s fingers answered him, small but telling. Zoro clenched down around him, and Sanji’s eyes widened, a hiss tearing out through his teeth. The sound jolted Zoro – he hadn’t expected such a sharp crack of reaction from something so small. Intrigued, he squeezed again, slower, testing. Color rushed up Sanji’s throat, and Zoro’s grin curled, satisfied. He’d found something.

“Marimo,” Sanji warned, amusement tugging at the edge of his voice.

Zoro only squeezed tighter, a series of clenches in quick succession. He could feel every inch, the solid weight filling him, stretching him. Sanji let out a low, breathy sound – a sound Zoro liked too much. He wanted more. So he kept at it, steady, almost like drills, his body clenching down with a fighter’s precision.

Sanji barked a short laugh. “Are you… counting reps?”

Zoro stalled, then smirked, unrepentant.

Sanji pinched his side. “Brat.”

Zoro leaned down, pressing chest to chest, and kissed him. The shift pulled Sanji slightly out, and when Zoro sat back up, he slid in deeper again. The sensation stopped him cold. It felt… good. Not the burn he braced for, not the jagged press of memory. Something else – low, startling, a tug that caught him off guard.

He tried it again, a slow rock of his hips. Sanji’s cock dragged inside him, brushing places that knocked his breath short. His body tensed, suspicion flaring sharp at the pleasure, but it didn’t twist or turn against him. It stayed. It bloomed. He moved again, slower, and the spark grew.

Sanji’s hands steadied at his sides, guiding without urging. “That’s it, love. However you want.”

Zoro found himself moving again. Cautious at first, rocking shallow, then harder as each motion dragged more out of him. His thighs flexed, sweat beading down his spine, his grip tightening on Sanji’s stomach as he rode the length inside him. Every descent coaxed another shudder, the slide consuming, every stroke pulling him deeper. His body ached, but the ache only sharpened the surge, turned it into drive.

Then the angle changed, Sanji’s cock hitting against a spot that stole his breath. The jolt was sudden, overwhelming, pure pleasure flooding through him. He shifted again, testing, and when it struck the same place his vision blurred at the edges. His hips dropped hard, chasing it. For the first time, enjoying wasn’t enough. He was needing the next thrust.

The shock of it pulled his gaze to Sanji, wanting to see the effect. And there it was –  Sanji’s lip caught between his teeth, eyes dark, breath sharp and fast. Hungry. Reverent. It hit harder than the pleasure itself. Sanji looked wrecked because Zoro wanted this. Because Zoro chose it. 

That thought broke something loose. Zoro drove down with intent, the drag inside him fierce, pressure coiling in his gut until he was chasing it outright. Every thrust against that spot tore another sound from him, raw and unrestrained. Need surged higher with each drop of his hips, until he was riding Sanji hard, sweat sliding down his temple, muscles burning, chasing the rush like a fight he refused to lose.

“Look at you, riding me, taking your pleasure,” Sanji rasped, his voice roughened by moans, breath shuddering uneven. He looked consumed, every bit of him fixed on Zoro. The bed creaked beneath them, sheets bunching under Zoro’s knees. Gasps, curses, the slap of skin on skin. No ghosts. No dungeon. Just Sanji. His choice. His claim. His pleasure.

Urgency hit hard. Words stumbled, jagged between breaths. “Sanji, I need… I want…”

Sanji’s focus narrowed in an instant. “What do you need, little moss?”

“Touch– touch my cock.” The plea came rough, desperate.

Sanji’s smile curved slow, sinful. “Of course.”

His hand slid between them, fingers wrapping Zoro in a sure stroke, moving with the pace of Zoro’s hips. The added touch shattered what little control Zoro had left. His whole body tightened, hips jerking as he fucked down onto Sanji’s cock while Sanji’s fist worked him in perfect counterpoint. 

Release hit fast. Pressure snapped, tearing loose in a rough shout as Zoro spilled hot across Sanji’s hand and chest. His thighs shook, gut clenched, every pulse wringing another sound from his throat until he sagged trembling in the aftermath, chest heaving.

Zoro slumped on Sanji’s lap, shoulders bowed, body still twitching with aftershocks. His breath rasped, sweat cooling on his skin. Sanji didn’t press or move, only held him steady, one hand kneading slow into his thigh, the other stroking the curve of his hip, anchoring him in the quiet.

When Zoro finally lifted his head, Sanji was watching. Warmth pierced through the haze, steadying him more than words could. Pride shone in his gaze – pride in Zoro’s strength, pride in the trust he’d offered so fully – but it was tempered by awe, reverence curling around it, as if Zoro’s choice to give both was more miracle than Sanji had dared hope for.

“Fuck, I love you,” Sanji whispered, hand trembling as he reached to cup Zoro’s cheek. The words struck harder than any praise, raw enough to steal Zoro’s breath, his throat tight under the weight of them.

Sanji lingered, thumb brushing his cheek before easing down, palm steady on his thigh. He stayed quiet, rubbing slow until Zoro’s breath evened out. Only then did awareness creep in – Sanji was still inside him, still hard, but motionless. Zoro’s brow furrowed, unease stirring. Had he missed something? Done something wrong? Shouldn’t Sanji want more?

“Was it… good for you, too?” Zoro asked, hesitant.

Sanji’s smile deepened. “Yes. Watching you take your pleasure, seeing you free – that’s what I wanted. You were incredible.”

Zoro searched his face, unsettled. “But… you didn’t…”

“I don’t need to,” Sanji said simply, thumb stroking his hip. “My pleasure is yours. Seeing you enjoy yourself, that’s what I get off on. Not taking, not using. Just you.”

The words landed hard, stealing his breath. He remembered other hands, other voices – laughter cutting as they broke him down, cruelty that only took. This was the opposite. Sanji gave. Turned power into care. Made Zoro’s pleasure the point. It rewrote the memory by sheer force, proof the brothers hadn’t ruined him.

Sanji wasn’t them. He never would be. Still inside him, hard but motionless, he proved it – no demand, no taking, only waiting. Ready to stop here, if this was all Zoro wanted. Daddy beneath him, steady and safe, making Zoro’s pleasure the only thing that mattered.

“Should I move?” Zoro asked.

“You can stay or move, it’s up to you,” Sanji told him, hand warm at his waist.

Zoro thought about it. He liked the closeness, the way they were still joined. “I’ll stay.”

Sanji nodded. “Grab the towel.”

Zoro grabbed it, handed it over. Sanji cleaned his slicked hand, then swiped gently across the mess on his chest. When he finished, he tugged Zoro down to rest against him.

Zoro pressed close, chest to chest, Sanji still inside, keeping them bound. His limbs felt heavy, but his mind was clear. Sanji’s fingers traced slow paths along his back, his voice rough, thick with feeling. “You did it, baby. I’m so damned proud of you.”

Fierce satisfaction welled, threaded with relief. He’d faced what haunted him, proved he wasn’t ruined – and it was because of Sanji. “Thank you,” he breathed into his skin.

Sanji’s breath caught, the sound rough in his chest. He pulled Zoro tighter, kissed his temple once, then again, lingering. “Anything for you,” he whispered. “Always.”

Zoro dozed without slipping fully under, drifting in the warmth of Sanji’s body beneath him, their breaths rising and falling together. The muted sounds of the inn crept in through the walls – distant footsteps, a door closing somewhere down the hall, the faint clink of crockery below – but none of it mattered. For once, the world felt far away.

When a familiar itch stirred in his belly, Zoro pushed upright, hair sticking up wild, and gave Sanji a look that needed no translation. “Again?”

Sanji huffed a quiet laugh, reaching up to ruffle the wild tufts. “Of course. Grab the oil.”

Zoro slid off, sluggish but grinning, cock already half-hard again as he slicked Sanji with steady hands before straddling him once more. This time he didn’t hesitate; he drove himself onto Sanji with intent, adjusting until he found the angle that broke his breath into moans, his body clenching greedily with every descent.

Sanji’s hand stroked him again when asked, and Zoro gave himself over to it, spilling with a shudder. After, he shifted off, chest still heaving, and caught Sanji’s eye with a grin. “Your turn.”

Sanji let him, letting Zoro’s hand work him, his head tipping back against the pillow as his breath turned ragged. Zoro watched the way his face twisted with pleasure, watched him unravel, and felt an odd surge of pride knowing it was because of him.

Afterward, they padded to the en suite, cleaning up in companionable silence, trading half-hearted nudges over who’d hogged more of the bath. When they crawled back into bed, the sheets lay half-kicked off, tangled and warm from their bodies, a trace of sex still clinging to the air. They talked, first about the crew, then the island, then a few of their recent fights. Voices low, they argued over who had taken on the stronger opponents, the debate escalating into snorts of laughter and playful insults until Zoro shoved Sanji’s shoulder, and Sanji shoved back harder.

The scuffle tumbled into a wrestling match right there on the bed. Zoro pinned him for a second, only to yelp when Sanji kneed him in the side and reversed it. The mattress squeaked beneath them, blankets sliding the rest of the way to the floor as they grappled with more laughter than intent to win, trading boasts and curses until they rolled again, nearly crashing into the headboard.

They ended tangled, breathless, smirking through sweat and the mess they’d made of the bed. Sanji lit a cigarette, leaning back on one elbow, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He commented on Zoro’s training, suggested a few adjustments that Zoro grunted about but didn’t outright reject. Then Sanji reached over, thumb brushing Zoro’s cheekbone like he was checking for damage. The touch lingered, his gaze soft in a way the banter couldn’t hide.

Somehow, the conversation drifted. Wano led to Big Mom, which led to Germa, which led to the strange question neither quite expected.

Zoro squinted at him. “So that makes you a king now?” 

Sanji blew smoke, considering. “Guess it does.”

Zoro snorted loud. “King of Dumbassium.”

Sanji jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “That makes you my queen.”

Zoro squawked, flailing hard enough to knock a pillow clear across the room. “No way in hell.”

They tussled again, rolling over the mattress with mock growls and laughter until they collapsed side by side, hair mussed, hearts still thudding. The mattress rocked faintly beneath them, carrying the echo of the fight. Somehow Sanji’s cigarette stayed lit, dangling from his lips like it hadn’t been touched.

In the quiet that followed, Zoro let the absurdity sink in: how something brutal had led to this – mock fights, laughter, Sanji’s hand brushing close. The worst could have broken him for good, left him stripped of want, of trust, of self, but instead he’d survived and ended here. With Sanji. With something better than he’d ever thought possible.

Sanji put out his cigarette, and nosed against Zoro’s hair, voice muffled and fond. “Love you, my sweet little moss.”

Zoro sighed, content, the sincerity rising unbidden. “Love you, too, Daddy.”

The word locked everything in place. Not softness, but an anchor. A line between past and present. Daddy meant Sanji was in charge, yes – but because Zoro had given it to him. Because he wanted it that way.

Sanji stilled, then smiled against him, fingers combing lightly through his hair. “That means more than you know,” he murmured, kissing his temple once, then again. Zoro felt the tremor in his voice, every touch careful as if Sanji was the one afraid of breaking. It struck him – Sanji needed the word, too. Needed proof Zoro trusted him, allowed him to lead, wanted him there.

Zoro shut his eye, breathing in the faint smoke clinging to him. Safe in Sanji’s arms, he could feel that safety circling back, shoring Sanji up just as much.

Fragments of Sanji’s earlier words stirred back. Learned how to take the reins, how to give someone what they needed. That taught me I had value. What happened on Germa fucked me up, too. I lost – felt like a failure again. And you got hurt because of it. So I need to take that control back. Same way you need to reclaim your body. Taking charge grounds me. Tells me I’m worth something.

Zoro exhaled, chest tightening with the weight of it. He saw it clearer now – this wasn’t only his victory. It was Sanji’s as well.

He shifted, pressing his forehead to Sanji’s. “We both won tonight, Daddy,” he murmured, choosing the word again, deliberate this time.

Sanji exhaled, pride breaking loose in the sound, carrying love with it. His smile warmed Zoro’s skin. “And we’ll keep winning,” he whispered. “Together.”

For a moment Zoro just breathed with him, content with how the word together settled in his chest. It rolled him back – past this bed, past the quiet – to the first time Sanji’s family had been named, to the vow he’d thrown out like it was enough.

Zoro remembered the Fire Tank Pirates’ brig, the easy smirk he’d worn like armor: Sanji’s family would have to cut through him first. That felt like another life.

Afterward, when poison and the brothers left him wrecked, the truth hit hard. If Sanji had gone alone, Zoro could’ve called him a damn fool, leaned on his self-righteous anger, searing with judgment that Sanji didn’t trust them. He could’ve told himself it was Sanji’s mistake, not his. But Sanji hadn’t gone alone. He had trusted Zoro. And still Zoro had failed – Zeff’s life hanging by a thread, Sanji’s hands nearly stolen, while he could barely crawl. The knife of that failure stayed sharp. That was the cost of trust.

But it hadn’t ended there. Sanji hadn’t walked away. Zoro had expected that, deep down – that after what had been done to him, no one would want him, not like this. Broken. Tainted. A half-man left in the dirt. But Sanji hadn’t left. He’d stayed. And in staying, Zoro had gained more than he’d ever thought possible. Not just nakama, not just a partner in battle – but Daddy. Partner. Love. And what mattered most: it was his choice as much as Sanji’s.

The inn settled around them, night pressing close. An owl called once beyond the shutters, wind sighing in the eaves. Zoro tucked closer. There was nowhere to go, nothing else waited – just the bed beneath, the quiet above, Sanji’s body wrapped warm around him. Where he belonged.

End