Archive of Our Own

This isn’t the first suppressed heat Zoro has suffered through. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make the pain of it any easier. There’s the cramps and the fever and the ache, all without the slick or the scent, and the desire is so muted, the pain is all the more obvious with the lack of everything else to distract from it.

Two more days, only two more days and then it should be done, this second night should be the worst of it, and then he should be good. He’s dealt with worse. He’ll be fine.

For the most part, Zoro doesn’t mind being an omega; partially because he can take suppressants and essentially forget the fact that he is one. It’s not too bad, but it can be annoying – heats taking away from time that could be spent training, customs and manners he would be expected to remember and follow if he cared for them at all – and it is only slightly helped that he actually agrees with the urge to protect his crew – wanting to be near them constantly as well is also annoying, but he doesn’t mind that particular annoyance. All that is to say, it is much easier when he doesn’t have to deal with his heats.

Curling up tighter in his hammock, he tries his best to focus on the snores of his crewmates as they fill the still space of the room. Luffy’s loud and heavy, Chopper’s a high whine, Sanji’s soft breaths, picking out each one. Anything he can distract himself with.

He breathes in deep, taking in the smells. Luffy and Usopp and Chopper and Sanji. Grilled meat, and wind and gunpowder, fur and forest. There’s even Nami’s scent of citrus and metal, Robin’s of ink and parchment and leather, old and worn, resting lightly under the other, weaved into the very wood of the ship after so much time together. And then there’s Sanji’s scent of smoke and sea. All their scents are nice, comforting. But something in the mix of it feeds his heat, pushing it stronger, instead of calming it down. He wants.

He burrows his nose into his blanket in an attempt to block the smells out, but if anything, it’s more saturated in his crew's scents than the room is. Despite the pain, and his decreased desire – at least compared to a regular heat – warmth curls under his skin, a burning want igniting in his groin. Fuck. This is really the opposite of what he wants to be dealing with right now.

Trying to ignore it, he lets time tick by, but his little problem only gets worse. The night air is cold around him when he finally gives up and slips out of his hammock, padding across the floor and out of the room, softened steps taking him to the bathroom.

If there is one advantage to jerking off on a boat, it would be that all the waves and the movement provide a nice cover for most sounds. It makes it much easier to feel assured that no one is going to hear him.

The first touch to his dick is electric. Pleasure zapping through him, lighting his nerves on sparking fire. The feeling dulls a bit as he continues, but it is still addictive.

He builds up to a fast pace, bringing himself closer and closer, closer to the edge of orgasm. His hole aches, and if his suppressants weren’t messing with him, he’s sure he would be dripping with slick by now. But he isn’t, and he just needs to get off quick, which, in his current state, hormones blocked off, fingering himself wouldn’t be especially easy or fast.

Ghosting his fingers over his rim, he can still image it though, as he strokes his cock. Opening himself up, fucking in. His fingers, something more – it’s been so long since he’s been with someone – someone else, their fingers, their tongue, their cock, he can imagine it. The sensitivity of another’s touch on his skin. He’d pull them down with him and kiss them hard, hands gripping long, yellowed-gold strands tight. Blue eyes staring into his own. Sanji fucking him. Now isn’t that a thought.

Heat builds under his skin, lust, want spiking through him, and he holds the thought, the image, the dream in his mind. Isn’t sure if it is that he can’t let it go, or it won’t leave him. Flames lick under his skin, building higher and higher, and he’s coming, hard, stars sparking in his vision, and he strokes himself through the orgasm, until isn’t just the right edge of too much.

He breathes in, suddenly cold. The air bites at his skin, yanking him back to reality. To the world around him. Clarity floods his senses, chilling and harsh. He just came thinking about one of his crew mates fucking him. Of Sanji fucking him. Sanji.

He is so fucked.

—

“Marimo, hurry it up!” Sanji calls.

Zoro stares just a second longer at his suppressant, two little pills sitting in the palm of his hand. He swallows them down dry, then he’s walking out onto Merry’s deck. Sanji is there, waiting, impatiently, annoyance twisting his face, and foot tapping a steady rhythm.

The food crate sitting ready to go at his feet is chucked at Zoro as soon as Sanji sees him. He catches it easily, meeting Sanji’s glare with one of his own.

“Finally. It took you long enough,” Sanji snarks. “Let’s go, I need these groceries to start preparing dinner.”

There’s an edge to Sanji’s scent. Not the one Zoro would associate with annoyance or anger or anything like that. It’s not bad – even the opposite really – but it buries into Zoro’s nose and settles there, making his skin crackle.

He sighs, following Sanji off the boat and across the docks towards town, keeping close by, just in cause Nami’s always yelling at him for getting lost – which he doesn’t – not because he wants to be close to Sanji. “Yeah, yeah, calm down, Love Cook.”

“I’m telling everyone it’s your fault if we end up eating late.”

“Whatever,” Zoro says.

Zoro watches as Sanji walks in front of him. Now that Sanji’s on his mind, he’s started to notice him all the time, tiny details and sweeping motions. He can’t avoid either, all of it taking over his mind.

The island they’re stopped at is a summer island, in the middle of some of its hottest months as well. Sweat gathers quickly on his skin as they walk, prickling at his brow and the back of his neck. He’s glad he decided on wearing a tanktop this morning, although it’s hot enough that he’s close to wanting to take that off too.

Sanji, somehow, is in a black suit like usual. How he isn’t being, Zoro has no clue, but he does look good.

The heat only grows as the day continues and the sun reaches its peak in the sky. With the wide streets on the market and low rise of the surrounding buildings, shade is scarce, leaving them at the mercy of the burning beat of the sun‘s strength.

The crate, laden with fruits and vegetables, grains and meat, weighs in Zoro’s arms, growing heavier with each stall they visit.

Sanji is scanning the crumpled paper in his hands, gaze focused, and Zoro really wishes it was focused on him instead, taking him apart and putting him back together, and–

“Okay I think that’s about all, we just need–” Sanji cuts himself off, head snapping over to look at Zoro.

“What?” Zoro grunts. God, his eyes are pretty, and hot. God, it’s hot.

“You smell,” Sanji pauses. His visible eye widens, fixed on Zoro with apprehension and alarm, panic. “Zoro, shit, did you forget to take your suppressants?”

Zoro doesn’t know what he expected Sanji to say, but that wasn’t it. “What are you talking about, you shitty cook. Of course not.”

“Are you sure?” Sanji presses, list now forgotten, completely crumpled in his grip. Zoro feels kind of sorry for it.

“Yes.”

“Really, because-”

“Of course I’m sure,” Zoro growls. “I took them right before we left.”

“Well it smells like you’re going to start your heat.”

Sanji’s words sift through his mind. The slight discomfort in his back. The warmth despite the cold. Even the urge to stay close to Sanji, to his crew, more pronounced than it usually is. All the little things he’d been noticing for the past day, they click into place. His heat is coming.

And it’s as though the realization breaks a barrier holding the heat back, pulls a trigger to start it, because it all becomes worse. It won’t be long now until the first wave of his heat starts.

It doesn’t make sense. He took his pills this morning, and the last, and the one before that one, and the one before that, and on and on, and even if he had missed one, it shouldn’t have such an immediate effect on him. Plus he’d just had that stupid suppressed heat a couple weeks ago, and wouldn’t hypothetically be due for another for another couple weeks.

But logic doesn’t seem to matter right now.

A wave of pain spikes in his lower back, and the sweat beading at his forehead, heat prickling against his skin, takes on a different meaning. He can’t smell his own scent, but he can see the way Sanji tenses up with his next breath. There’s no denying it.

“Oh,” he says. “Shit.”

Sanji moves towards him, reaching out, pulling him close, keeping a strong grip on his arm as he starts to guide them back to the ship. Sanji’s smell spikes, thickens, spreads through the air. Protective, reassuring, there. What Zoro knows is an attempt to cover his own scent, to keep him calm. Judging by the curious glances of passersbys, the covering part isn’t going too well, but the keeping Zoro calm part certainly is. And now he isn’t sure if his attraction is a blessing or a curse; knowing Sanji’s scent, as the scent of someone he likes, who is sees as a possible – desired – mate, is doing both more to keep him calm and grounded than anyone else’s would, while also pushing him further into his heat.

Slick starts to slide from his ass. Zoro tightens his grip on the crate in his hands, focusing his attention in on holding it up, on moving his feet forward, on the crunch of dirt and stone underfoot. Anything that isn’t the heat creeping, blazing, rushing across of skin, or pressure of Sanji’s hand, so close to touching his skin, wrapped around his arm, or, most of all, the curl of Sanji’s scent in the air around them both.

Sanji tenses up next to him, muttering something too quiet to be intelligible. He hurries them forward faster.

It had been so long since he’d had a proper heat, no doubt amplifying the effects.

The world around him starts to blur together, each step only a matter of moving him forward. The ground turns from dirt to wood, and then he’s being ushered up a plank – Sunny’s plank – and onto a ship – their ship.

He hears Nami’s confused voice, and Sanji shouting for Chopper and yelling at Usopp and Luffy, something about one of the storage rooms. It’s all filtered and muddied, underwater.

Throughout it all, Sanji keeps a steady hand pressed to the small of his back. He guides him down into the belly of the ship, murmuring a steady stream of instructions and reassurances.

Then he's in one of the storage rooms, but not. Blankets and pillows have replaced the boxes and bags that would usually take up the space, obviously gathered and thrown in in a rush. It, at least, vaguely smells like the crew.

“Zoro,” Sanji says, and Zoro is following the sound, meeting his eyes. “Just call if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Zoro’s breathes. It’s so, so hot.

Sanji’s hand leaves his back, ripping a whine out of Zoro’s throat. It settles on his shoulder giving a quick squeeze as Sanji smiles at him, and then the door is closing and Zoro is alone.

Against his better judgment, despite knowing it would never be an option, because Sanji doesn’t like him like that – if he did, his heat addled brain tells him, he would have stayed – a small part of him wishes he could have asked Sanji to stay.

—

“I’d recommend taking a break from them. We can try different suppressants though, if you’d prefer.” Chopper says. “Either way, with you having both a suppressant heat and a full heat while on them, I doubt they’re going to work moving forward.”

“Yeah. If you think a different type will work, then that’d be great.” Zoro had expected as much, but it's still annoying. He just knows this means he’ll have Chopper fussing over him until it all gets sorted out.

He yawns, tired, the last dregs of his heat just leaving him.

“You really should have told me when you had a suppressed heat.” Chopper pouts. “Those are known to be quite painful.”

“It wasn’t too bad.” He’s had worse. Like when Mihawk almost cut him in half, or when he tried to cut off his feet, or mostly any major wound he’s gotten while fighting. He could deal with it fine. What really hurt was the psychological damage of pining over Sanji. Because that is what Zoro has realized he’s started doing. Pining. Over Sanji.

Chopper doesn’t look convinced.

“I’ll tell you if it does, really,” he reassures.

“Really?” Chopper asks.

“Really, I will.”

“Fine,” Chopper says, turning away to his desk to jot down some notes. “I’ll let you know when the new suppressant is ready.”

“Thanks, Chopper,” he says. “You’re the best.”

“Complimenting me won’t help anything!” Chopper screeches.

Zoro laughs as he leaves, turning over the situation in his mind. He really hopes these new suppressants work. He really doesn’t need to spend another heat thinking about Sanji, and since he doubts the Sanji problem will just disappear, he needs to remove the other factor in the equation.

With his mind elsewhere, he doesn’t focus on where he’s going. His feets take him to the kitchen, where Sanji is prepping for dinner, chopping garlic and peppers and tomatoes. He glances up when Zoro enters, clearly suspicious. It isn’t quite rare, but it also isn’t often that Zoro is in the kitchen. And if he is, it’s usually because it is his turn to help with the dishes, or he wants to fight. This time though, he doesn’t have much of a motive, or he does – namely wanting to be close to Sanji – but it’s not one he would tell anyone.

Sanji stares at him. “I’m not giving you any alcohol right now.”

“Okay.”

“What do you want?”

Zoro shrugs and settles into one of the table’s chairs. Sanji’s scent fills the air, and it calls the remaining buzz under his skin when he breathes it in.

Sanji stares at him for a while, but doesn’t say anything more, eventually returning his gaze to the vegetables on the cutting board in front of him.

“Thank you,” Zoro whispers.

“No need.”

Zoro stays where he is, seated at the table, listening to Sanji muttering and humming to himself, until dinner is ready, then helps to set the table.

—

Despite the fact that he’ll be getting new suppressants soon – stronger, so they should work – Chopper suggests that they set up a proper space for heats and ruts, just in case anything similar happens in the future. The responsibility of arranging the space is be given to Zoro. He tries to convince Chopper that this is not a necessary measure and they don’t need to do it.

Unfortunately for him, Chopper makes this suggestion in the listening range of the rest of the crew who are quick to butt in and agree. So Zoro is saddled with the annoying task of setting up a cycle room.

He tried to argue that they didn’t need one. Usopp pointed out that it would be helpful for anyone’s scheduled suppressant break, once a year per person. He shut up very quickly when Zoro sent him as harsh a glare as he could muster.

He tried to argue that he didn’t need to be the one to make it. Both Chopper and Robin insisted that he really does need to be the one making it. Something about it not feeling right otherwise. When he pointed out that it needed to feel right for them too and that he didn’t really care, they just said everyone could check it when he was done to see if it was good enough. So all that argument point earned him was an impending judgment of his work.

He tried to argue that he was busy and someone else should do it if they really needed one, but apparently his workout routine and napping schedule do not count as busy, which they do in his opinion. Any further argument on his end though was cut off when Nami threatened to not only quadruple his debt but also charge him for the materials they would need to buy for it. His debt to her is already outrageously large. He doesn’t even know why he owes so much in the first place.

All that is no say, he has a scant few days of enjoying his definitely busy routine schedule, before they reach an island, and he is forced into one of the storage rooms – now emptied – with a plethora of new blankets and pillows and such.

It has been a while since Zoro has built a nest – no one is fooling him, he knows that’s what this is and why he’s supposed to be the one to build it, no matter how much he argues it – and as such, his arranging and assembling and organizing of the given materials aren’t the fastest. He starts a little while after breakfast, and is still working a few hours later. Okay, technically, it wasn’t actually taking that long, but he’d begun by procrastinating starting, and then he’d taken a nap when the nest was halfway built, and now that it’s almost done, the room is really comfortable and it’s not like there’s any rush for it too be done, so it doesn’t really matter if he takes longer than strictly necessary to make it. He tells himself it’s because everyone else is going to be judging it, but really it’s just a comfortable space – not that anyone else needs to know that, ever, he’s fine with them believing he’s horrible at building a nest if that’s what it comes down to – although there is something missing from it.

Sanji barges into the room, a tray with lunch and a drink balanced in his hand. And with him he brings the scent of smoke and seafood and sea.

Oh, that’s what’s missing: the crew.

Sanji settles down on the ground next to the door, and Zoro starts disassembling the nest, picking out what should be scented and planning what should go where once it is.

“That was looking actually okay right up until you ripped it apart,” Sanji says. “Good job, Marimo.”

Zoro ignores him, focusing on the task at hand.

Sanji settles down on the ground next to the door, setting the tray down beside him. And then proceeds to just sit and watch, stare at Zoro. He doesn’t leave.

Finally has enough of the blanket collected, one for each person on the crew to scent. He turns to Sanji, sitting, staring, waiting, and stares back. “What do you want, shit cook?”

“Nothing much. You going to take a break and eat?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoro grumbles, gathering the blankets in his arms. They’re soft. Comfortable. They’ll be even better once the crew scents them. Then the nest will be perfect.

He dumps the pile into Sanji’s lap. “Can you ask everyone to scent these, one each.” He sits down near Sanji, pulling the tray over to himself. Lunch looks like some kind of pasta with tomato and seafood. It probably smells good, but it’s hard to determine its smell when Sanji’s is filling the room, distracting.

“You do it.” Sanji says, pushing the pile off his lap and in Zoro’s direction.

“I’m busy,” Zoro says, gesturing flippantly at the mostly destroyed nest behind him.

Sanji sighs, but doesn’t argue any further. “Fine.” He wraps one of the blankets around his neck, then scoops up the rest of the blankets and stands to leave. “I’ll be back,” he says as the door shuts behind him.

Later, once the nest, cycle room, whatever, is done, Zoro flops down in the middle of it, enjoying his work. It’s soft and comfortable and smells really, really nice. He rolls over, tucking his face in the corner that smells like smoke and sea and seafood and lets the scent wash over him. Content, he lays there, letting the lull of sleep pull him under for an afternoon nap.

It’s a very nice nap.

—

Contrary to what most would think, Zoro and Sanji are in fact able to get along, sometimes. They may fight and bicker and argue. But the crew knows, and most importantly, they both know, that their hits are pulled punches and their words lack any biting intent. Performative actions, for themselves and others, not meant to harm in any lasting capacity.

And when no one else is looking, on the right day, their fights and scuffles and brawls can dissolve into held conversation and silence.

And sometimes, under the light of the moon, in the dead of night, when Zoro is up on watch, and Sanji is the only other one awake, they may even sit in the crow’s nest, and let soft spoken words warm the air around them.

So tonight, as Zoro sits in the crow’s nest, staring out at the wide expanse of the ocean, and hears the creak of the deck and the clack of dress shoes from below, he finds comfort in the fact that it is looking to be one of those nights.

His breath comes out in white clouds, disappearing into the air, as he waits for Sanji to make his way up the mast.

“Aren’t you cold, or are marimos immune to frost?” Sanji says, settling himself down to the side of the entrance. His words come out as smoke as well, short puffs joined by a steady stream when he lights up a cigarette. The light of the fire catches his eyes.

“I have a blanket.”

“It doesn’t look like a very warm one,” Sanji says, and Zoro can just make out the way the curl of his eyebrow raises, can hear the incredulity on his voice.

Zoro laughs. “It’s warmer than it looks then.” He holds an arm to the side, opening the cocoon of warmth he’s created to the chilled air. “You’re free to join me, though. Maybe together we’ll be a bit warmer.”

“Bold, Marimo,” Sanji says, but he joins him anyway. They huddle close together under the blanket.

Zoro just shrugs in response. What can he say? Even with the blanket, he was growing a bit cold, just sitting still not moving. And Sanji is warm and comfortable, and this close, his scent is strong, wrapping around Zoro like a second blanket, calming and safe. It draws him in, and without even thinking, his nose is brushing the side of Sanji’s neck, chasing his scent.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Zoro realizes just what he’s going. He freezes and Sanji stiffs next to him, but neither of them move otherwise. And maybe its the late hours and drowsiness they bring, or maybe it's the intoxicating smell of Sanji pulling him close, welcoming, happy, but Zoro really doesn’t want to move. He knows he should move, at the very least for propriety's sake, and even more because he doesn’t even know if Sanji does, or could, like him that way, but he doesn’t really want to, wants to take what Sanji will give him instead, however little it is. So he waits instead for Sanji to break the moment.

“Zoro,” Sanji says.

Zoro hums, waiting.

“Your swords are jammed into my side.”

“Oh,” Zoro says, oh so eloquently.

“Yes, oh,” Sanji says, and Zoro can practically hear the eye roll. “Could you move them?”

“Oh, yeah, one sec.” Pulling back reluctantly, he moves the swords so that they’re sitting at their feet. Zoro keeps himself from leaning into Sanji’s side, his neck, when he lays back again.

“What are their names?”

“My swords?”

“No, the floorboards obviously,” Sanji snarks. He laughs, light and joyful, as Zoro gives him a light shove, falling over easily, the blanket getting pulled along with him. “Yes, your swords, Mosshead.”

“Just making sure, dumb cook, now give me the blanket back,” he grouses. The blanket settles loose around his shoulder, placed there by Sanji as he sits back up. Zoro looks over to see him watching with careful attention, so Zoro reaches forward for his swords, black and red and white, grabbing Yubashiri first.

“This is Yubashiri, she’s a bit quieter, but still strong, reliable. The shop owner in Loguetown gave her to me.” Kitetsu next. “This is Sandai Kitetsu. A cursed sword, finicky, hungry, dangerous. Found him in the bargain bin.” He grins. “And this,” he says, cradling the final swords in his hands. “Is Wado. She’s coming with me to the very top. She was– she holds a promise I made with a friend of mine.”

“She sounds important,” Sanji says, and Zoro doesn’t know if he’s talking about the sword or the person.

“My friend, she wasn’t a boy and she wasn’t an alpha, so everyone told he she couldn’t be a swordsman, but we made a promise, to reach the top, to keep going regardless, but she,” he pauses, stares at the white of the Wado’s sheath, bright in the moonlight, the wood of it comforting and smooth in his grip. “She died, but we have a promise to fulfill, and I’m bringing her all the way there with me.” He runs a hand over the scabbard and shifts closer to Sanji, grabbing his hand, gentle, and laying in on Wado’s scabbard.

Sanji ghosts his hand over it until his hand comes to rest over Zoro’s, leaning forward until his forehead is against Zoro’s own.

Zoro breathes in smoke and sea and safe. And knows in the morning this will all just be a faded wish, washed away as just another anomaly in their relationship. A moment more close, more vulnerable, then it should be, just like all the others they pretend never happen.

—

“Hey Marimo, pay attention, don’t drop any of the food.”

Zoro rights the crate in his arms and focusing back in on the world around him. Sanji has already gone back to fawning over the woman running a fruit stand.

Long, straight hair, a dark brown, almost black, tied back, and grey eyes, shifting to blue or green depending on how the light catches them. She moves with certainty when talking about her wares, and cares an air of infectious energy.

She’s pretty, and if Zoro liked women, he would probably find her attractive.

She is also wholly oblivious to Sanji’s over-the-top, drawn-out, exorbitant, excessive, ridiculous fawning. He’s practically drooling, and despite the fact that it should be impossible, his eyes even appear to be heart shaped – he calls it impossible, but Nami’s eyes always become Berry-shaped, so maybe he just doesn’t understand anatomy well enough.

Regardless, it was annoying to begin with, and has become even more annoying with time. It makes his heart clench, uncomfortable, tight, in his chest everytime he sees it – with what is absolutely, definitely, for sure disgust at Sanji's overdone action, and not jealous, and not hurt. Because Sanji isn’t his, and won’t be, and this is just a good reminder of why.

“Keep it in your pants, Love Cook,” he says anyway.

Sanji turns to look at Zoro, a scowl that promises a good fight curling across his face. Shifting the weight of the crate in his hold, Zoro prepares to draw his swords, excited for the clash. But Sanji doesn’t move to attack, the snarl melting off his face instead, replaced with a smug smile.

“Oh,” he snickers. “Are you jealous, Marimo? That’s adorable.”

“I’m not!” Zoro’s face burns with embarrassment. “Shut up!”

Sanji’s grin, disgustingly self-satisfied, widens. “You are!”

“Fuck you!”

“I mean if you’d like.”

That’s new. It takes a few seconds for the words to process in Zoro’s brain, but when they do, he’s partially surprised he hasn’t melted into a puddle of goo from the embarrassment of the implication.

And Zoro does not run from anything. So him turning sharply on his heel and walking away is not him running away. It is a tactical retreat, a wise move as Robin would say.

“The ship’s in the other direction.” Sanji calls.

Zoro resolutely avoids Sanji’s eyes as he walks by.

—

Now that he knows to look for it, the signs of his next heat are rather obvious. The new suppressants, it seems, did not in fact work. If anything, the opposite might be true, because not only is it happening regardless, it is also early, again.

Not as early this time, fortunately, but still, not ideal.

The cycle room that he had set up becomes more and more appealing with each passing day – he’d almost thank Chopper for making him put it together, almost – and he’s started taking some of his naps in there. It’s nice.

Sanji finds him a bit before his heat is about to start, giving him a basket with some food and drinks in it. “Here’s some stuff for your heat.”

Zoro opens it to find probably more food than he needs, which has something in his heart warming. “Thanks.”

“It should be good, but just yell if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Make sure you actually eat.”

“I will.”

“Promise?” Sanji asks.

Zoro rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Promise.”

“Zoro.”

“Yeah,” he says.

Sanji just walks towards him, until he’s standing right in front of him. He raises his hand, his wrist, until it’s inches from the side of his neck, from the scent gland there, starting to become sensitive and angry with heat. An offering, a question, of if he can scent him. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. And he wants to melt the second Sanji’s wrist touches him fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gentle circles into his skin, but he holds himself up, taking a shuddering, sighing breath.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but when Sanji pulls away his scent stays. It follows him through his heat. Both helping and flaming it higher as always. He wants.

—

If Zoro starts spending more time in the kitchen after that, no one points it out. Not even the shit cook. Which is fortunate, because if someone one did mention Zoro is certain he would pass away from embarrassment, then have to come back to life to kill the person who said it along with anyone else who was there to witness the scene.

He wants to be around Sanji all the time now. This is becoming a problem, and he needs to stop it. He can’t be so dependent on Sanji. Doesn’t like how attached he’s become. Needs to do something about it.

It hits him one night, laying in bed, staring into the darkness of the cabin, that if his problem is Sanji, then his solution can just be to not make Sanji a problem. He’s probably just too pent up. Wracking his brain for the last time he had sex – or did anything sexual that wasn’t just jerking himself off – he came to the quick and illuminating realization that it was a very, very long time ago. He’s obviously just pent up and has focused in on Sanji because he smells nice or something and Zoro’s heat is off-kilter, who knows. That is definitely the reason, and nothing else, nothing deeper.

Therefore, he just needs a distraction, someone, anyone to get whatever this is out of his system so that his heats will go back to normal and he won’t feel like offering his neck to Sanji all the time and thinking about him all the time and jerking off to him.

Zoro had tried avoiding Sanji, but that had left a discomfort near permanently settled under his skin, only being relieved if he sat close to Sanji during meals. So he went back to spending time in the kitchen – his body seemed to decided that this was enough to allow him to not have to feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin, fortunately.

All that is to say, Zoro needs a distraction. Certainly, that will fix all his problems.

That distraction comes in the form of a new island, a trip to the bar, and a beta who smells of cedar, sea, and smoky spice. His scent is just to the left of Sanji’s, and if Zoro can ignore the burn of cedar at the back of his throat, he can almost pretend it is Sanji’s smell. The cedar though, is overpowering. In everything else, he is the opposite of Sanji, and that is by design. Short cut, dark hair, clean shaven, scruffy clothes and a thick build. His name is Rikan and Zoro figures he will serve as a good enough distraction.

When they leave the bar and down the street, Rikan’s arm curled, as steady guide, around Zoro’s back, it is just Zoro’s luck that they walk right past Sanji. Sanji who’s eyes meet his own, unreadable, burning. They sear into Zoro’s mind and they follow him all the way to Rikan’s apartment and inside. They follow him to the bedroom, where he’s sat on the bed, Rikan running a hand along his arm, down his side, sliding underneath his shirt. And as he touches Zoro, it hurts because it isn’t Sanji who’s touching him. So he closes his eyes, and all he can see is the burn of Sanji’s gaze. He gets up and leaves, and doesn’t reach the ship until many, many hours later.

—

Zoro has barely stepped foot in the kitchen when Sanji growls, “Get out, you're in my way.”

“That’s never been a problem before.” All he wants is to curl up on the couch, like usual, and take a nap, or just watch Sanji cook, or anything that will keep him in the vicinity of the shit cook’s smell and thereby ease the unsettling crawl itching under his skin.

“I don’t care, get out. My kitchen, my rules.”

What crawled up his ass and died. “I’m not even going to be in your way.”

“What ever the fuck stupid scent is clinging to you, on top of your already stupid scent. I don’t want to smell that while I’m dealing with the delicate smells of cooking. Now get out.” Sanji growls.

And, oh. That's why.

Sanji’s eyes from before still burn into his mind. Zoro just stares, not knowing what to say. Can’t deny when no direct accusation has been made. Doesn’t even know if what he wants to deny is something Sanji actually cares about.

Because that is the whole problem. He knows he likes Sanji, but he doesn’t know for sure that Sanji likes him, and he doesn’t know what he would do with a negative response.

“Get out.” Sanji grits out one last time.

And so Zoro does. He walks out the door and into the bowels of the ship and keeps going until he’s in the washroom rubbing the scent of a stranger from his skin, despite the fact that he had bathed just the day before.

—

After that, Sanji’s attitude towards Zoro’s presence in the kitchen doesn’t not go back to how it was before. Instead it continued to get worse and worse until Zoro started avoiding the kitchen – and Sanji – altogether, only going for meal times, or when absolutely necessary, going back to napping in various other places around the boat.

This is very quickly noticed by the crew.

Luffy has taken to sending him meaningful looks that Zoro can most certainly translate – they say “deal with it” and many other things that bring all of Zoro’s worries to the forefront of his mind – but that doesn’t mean he has to act on that understanding. The looks get increasingly longer and flatter.

Robin, also, has taken to giving him looks, not as easily decipherable, but he gets the general idea. He ignores those as well.

Really everyone starts giving him looks – with the exception of Sanji who seems to be avoiding looking at him at all. He ignores them.

The blanket the Sanji scented in the cycle room slowly loses its scent. The crawl under his skin doesn’t seem to want to settle anymore, and he can tell by the way everyone else is acting that his scent is all over the place.

Chopper starts calling him in for more check-ups that he starts to not-so-accidentally get lost on the way to, after he showed up to the first one only for Chopper to try to talk to him about Sanji. He tells Chopper that it’s not his fault the ship is always moving rooms around.

It all comes to a head though when Nami pulls him aside, frustration, fatigue, and a hint of concern coloring her words and seeping into her scent.

“Please, Zoro, whatever it is that’s going on between you two, sort it out,”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“Tell that to all the issues you're having, you’re scents all over the place – don’t make that face – and all the extra food he’s making.”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

“Look, I know you’ve been avoiding Sanji so you haven’t noticed – yes you have, don’t make that face Zoro – but it is a problem. The snacks and desserts and fancy meals and drinks are great, but there is in fact a limit to how much a person can comsure – bar Luffy – and he’s making well beyond that amount. The fridge is running out of space from all the stress baking he’s doing. And that’s not even mentioning the number of cigarettes he’s going through, so please, for everyone’s sake, just deal with it.”

She leaves before Zoro can protest.

He doesn’t have her desired conversation until a few days later.

He has just finished his turn for the night watch, climbing down from the crow’s nest. The light in the kitchen is on, the cook already moving around, getting ready for breakfast. He’s up a bit earlier than usual. Maybe Nami was just a bit right. He braces himself before he opens the door to the kitchen.

His plan is to just walk straight through and down to the men’s sleeping quarters in the hopes of getting in a short nap before breakfast. He can feel the stress of everything pulling at his emotions and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed.

His sleep deprived brain has him wandering directly over to Sanji instead, curling around him and burrowing into his back.

Sanji tenses, but fortunately doesn’t scream or shout or tell him off. In fact, he doesn’t do anything to remove Zoro, just pauses for a long second then continues working, relaxing slowly into Zoro’s hold. He lets Zoro stay there until he finishes his task. Then he’s shuffling Zoro over to the couch and pushing him to sit down.

“I’ll be right back. Stay.”

Zoro’s head lolls to the side, exposing his neck, and if he had even a bit more energy he would care, but he doesn’t and Sanji hadn’t seen anyway.

He comes back quickly, a blanket in hand, and he tosses it to Zoro then returns to the kitchen. Pulling it close, Zoro can smell on it the scent of sea and seafood and smoke. Sanji’s blanket.

He drifts off to sleep quickly after that.

—

After that, the tension eases. They’re fighting, both verbal and physical, returns, for the most part, to playful sparring, losing its violent edged intent.

It isn’t until they’re alone on the ship though, the others all wandering around the latest island, that they actually talk about it.

Zoro is up in the crow’s nest, on watch, when Sanji joins him.

“I thought we could talk,” Sanji says, eyes meeting Zoro’s in a challenge. A dare to turn him down.

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Zoro says.

“Okay.” Sanji shuts the trapdoor and settles across from Zoro, close but not touching.

Zoro stares and waits, needs Sanji to start.

“Why did you,” Sanji starts. “What are we? Our relationship?”

“I don’t know.” Zoro admits.

“What do you want it to be?”

“I–” And Roronoa Zoro is not scared of a confession. He isn’t, but he is also, maybe, a little bit scared, of what may come after. “I like you. I really, really like you. And I was,” he looks out to the ocean, sets his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight, breathes in and looks back. “I am scared that you don’t feel the same. So I tried to forget about it, and take my mind off it, but I couldn’t even follow through on that, and it hurts.”

And Sanji, to Zoro’s horror, laughs. It’s light, not heavy, not bitter, not mean. Zoro is concerned nonetheless.

“Sorry,” Sanji gasps, “I just, I thought it was obvious. How could I not feel the same? I literally scented you before your heat.”

Zoro feels his cheeks heat. “I just wasn't fully sure if it was because of my heat being all messed up and you were just being nice and all. I didn’t want to think it was real, because I didn’t want it to not be.” It’s ridiculous, he knows this already, and it’s even more obvious with the way Sanji is giggling at his reasoning. Sanji quiets down and he continues, “It’s just, I was used to ignoring it, and pretending like it was nothing, because that’s what we do.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Is it what you want?”

“No,” Sanji says, “I don’t, not anymore.”

“Good,” Zoro stands and pulls Sanji up with him. “Because I don’t either.” And he pulls him close and kisses him, and it’s been so long coming.

Sanji pulls him close and kisses him back. “Finally,” he breathes, when they separate. “I’m not letting you go easy, now you know.”

“You better not, because I won’t be either.” Zoro laughs, and kisses him again. And again. And again.

Zoro's hands are in Sanji's hair, and Sanji’s hands are on his waist, and his neck and his back, wandering lazily and pulling him close. Before long they’re dipping under skin and pulling at clothes, and they fall to the floor, and Zoro is doing the same.

Sanji kisses down his necks, hot kisses, trailing down further and further, until he’s stopping just above the button of Zoro’s pants, fingers dipping under the waistband, but not taking them off.

“Please,” Zoro says, doesn’t whine, absolutely not. “Sanji.”

“Okay, okay,” Sanji says, but he doesn’t move with any of the urgency Zoro feels, teasing, watching Zoro with sharp eyes as he runs his fingers lightly over sensitive skin.

Zoro gasps. It’s so much, almost too much, and not enough. So he pushes him back and makes quick work of the rest of their clothes.

He drags his hand, dry, careful, over Sanji’s cock, reveling in the gasp it pulls from him.

Sanji’s hands grab at his hips as he starts to jerk him off. Until one is moving down and circling Zoro’s rim, dipping in, and Zoro moans.

“You’re so wet.”

“Wow, really,” Zoro grouses. “I didn’t notice.”

Sanji just laughs and kisses him again, pumping a finger in, rubbing in small circles, until he finds his prostate. It’s so good. But it’s not enough.

“More.” Zoro moans. “Please, another. Sanji.”

Sanji opens him up slow and gentle, and has Zoro panting and moaning on the floor of the crow’s nest, heat building under his skin, by the time pushes in, letting out a low groan. “Fuck, Zoro.”

Zoro pulls him down, kissing him hard. And Sanji fucks into him, hard, and sending pleasure shoot up his spine.

These no more teasing, no more drawing it out, just the two of them, pulling each other closer and closer, building and racing, higher and higher.

Zoro’s orgasm crests and crashes, spinning stars around his darkened vision, drawing his body taunt. He feels Sanji’s knot growing, starting to tug at his rim, as Sanji fuck into him, and then it pops in one final time and Sanji is coming.

They lay there, breathing heavy, curling around each other.

Zoro shifts under Sanji’s weight. The movement has Sanji’s knot shifting inside of him, pulling at his rim, and grind against his prostate. He hisses at the feeling, nerves shot through with the pleasure-burn of it all. “You’re heavy,” he says.

“Fuck you, Marimo,” Sanji grumbles, but he rolls them over, into a more comfortable position.

“Just to be clear,” Zoro says. “We’re doing that again at some point, right? This wasn’t just a one time thing, right?”

Sanji cracks a tired eye open. “What part of ‘not letting you go’ did you not understand? You're mine, and I’m yours, and you better get that through your stupid, mossy head.” He runs a hand over the scent gland on the side of Zoro’s neck as he says it.

Shuddering at the motion, Zoro pulls him closer. “Okay, okay, I get it.” He runs his own touch over Sanji’s neck. He smiles. “I’ve got you, and you’ve got me.” And he knows it’s true, for real, now.