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The smell wafts into the men’s quarters at ass-o’clock in the morning.
Sanji is more than ready to kick in the shitty swordsman’s shitty face—because who the hell trains at this time, dumbass grasshead, there are classy gentlemen who have standards and are trying to sleep and not smell buff moldy sweaty cacti—but the scent is too intoxicating and Sanji is a greedy, selfish, stupid omega.
Zoro is in his Rut, working off the feeling with his training while all his crewmates are stuck with the strong smell of cold metal and heated sex and dirty sweat and—
Zoro pressing Sanji against the wall of the storage room, sounds of skin against skin gliding with lube and sweat, rough and dirty as slick and precum drip down Sanji’s trembling thighs, Zoro’s hands large and calloused and possessive and bruising on his hips, strong and dependable as Sanji presses back against him, left leg stretching higher and higher as Sanji lets himself get manipulated into the perfect position for Zoro to fuck him hard because he’s a brute and he’s untamed and, and he's so reliable and kind
—Sanji shoves a pillow between his legs, squeezing his thighs around it and grinding and biting back the whimper he wants to make. He’s determined not to let the smell of fucking sentient moss drag him to this level of depravity. He refuses to touch himself, refuses to acknowledge that it’s Roronoa fucking Zoro making him feel this way, refuses the feeling stirring in his gut and at his brain and with his racing heart.
It’s not even like it’s a particularly appealing smell. Sanji likes soft pastry smells, fruits (tangerines, like his sweet mellorine!), vanilla, women. Zoro smells like sweat and steel and, and he doesn’t bathe so it’s all so consuming, it’s awful and disgusting and so very gross and Sanji needs it all over him, in his brain and his mouth and on his hands and in his ass. . .
He’s no stranger to jerking off—he’s on a ship with two of the most beautiful women in the world, he knows how to appreciate sweet beta Nami and strong alpha Robin—but it’s a few hours until he needs to get up for breakfast, and Zoro is supposed to be on watch, not shoving his scent down everyone’s throats, strangling innocent omega chefs with the smell of hot, Rutting, unwashed, moldy algae.
And the bastard has no idea that he’s doing it!
Sanji sighs. When he first boarded the Merry, he was bombarded with the scent of an alpha ready to Rut, with the explanation from Zoro being that he hasn’t been able to smell anything since he was a kid. Intelligent goddess Nami-swan said he was = hit over the head one-too-many times with a training sword, and Sanji is more than inclined to agree. He and Nami have both added to the hits to Zoro’s stupid head, too.
The mossy bastard’s sense of direction is fucked, what other senses are left that could still be functional?
Zoro’s lacking sense of smell carries to Sanji’s cooking—no wonder his palate is so unrefined and barbaric, the mosshead has no clue what he ingests and no appreciation for Sanji’s delicate, tender touch—but also to the base differences between alpha and omega scents.
He’s oblivious to the fact that Sanji wears no less than three scent suppressing patches at a time while covering up his designation with cigarette smoke and soap and cooking scents. He’s ignorant of the smells he forces on the crew, from Rut pheromones to territory marking scents to the emotional signals that alphas send to other alphas (and omegas!) for communication.
It makes sense for such an idiotic musclehead.
But. It does mean that Zoro doesn’t know anyone’s designation without being told. He’s always eager to fight with the cook who presents himself as an alpha, and Sanji thrives in it, thrives in showing off his strength and being equal to someone so strong, thrives in being able to release his own frustrations on someone who can not take it but who wants to. Because it’s how Zoro takes care of people and shows his stability and dependability. He's caring under the tough exterior.
And. Well.
No one has treated him like this and it feels nice to think about an alpha maybe kind of liking him (it’s a fantasy, he knows Zoro would never—that no one would ever—like him that way, he’s Judge’s little omega failure and he’s the stupid lovecook).
It’s left Sanji more than a little frustrated with his fantasies.
Zoro’s scent curls around Sanji, hot and heavy and metallic like his swords, like the blood leaking from Sanji’s nose.
His mind runs with the smell. Sanji is determined not touch himself, but then—
Zoro, pulling Sanji into his lap, massive cock sliding past Sanji’s thighs and teasing his hole, slick and precum smearing as he manhandles Sanji with his big, rough hands, forces Sanji into position to easily glide into him, grumbling insults and compliments and making Sanji lightheaded as he drags his fingernails into Zoro’s back at the feeling of being so
—“Fuck.” He groans, desperate. "Fuck."
How the Strawhat Crew’s idiot musclehead was able to train himself out of handling his Ruts like any other alpha is beyond him—“It’s because I’m not a dumbass pervert like you, Shit Cook!”—but Sanji isn’t like that, and he’s the only omega on the ship so he’s the only one suffering when Zoro taunts him like this.
He sits up, kicking the pillow away from where it had been pressing against his dick.
He’s going to let the Marimo know how uncouth he’s being! Stupid bastard! Dumb Mosshead!
He steps out of the men’s quarters, bombarded with everything alpha about Zoro. The sounds of his weights, the soft grunts he makes, the smell of Rut. He's a disgusting brute with the strong body of someone who wants to (and can) protect, and Sanji can smell that along with the smell of sex making it impossible for him to think of anything other than Zoro fucking him so deeply he sees stars.
Heat gathers at Sanji’s groin. He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth.
“Asshole,” Sanji grumbles, fumbling for a cigarette.
His hands are shaking but he’s quick to light it, the sweet rush of nicotine and smell of tobacco a comforting distraction as he brings himself closer to the deck.
“No consideration for the rest of the crew, you fucking houseplant.”
He takes the steps one at a time, giving himself the space to think. He’ll confront the bastard, say his piece, kick his face for good measure, then go back to sleep and ignore his stinky stupid everything.
Sanji's imagination will stay in his imagination.
No more fantasies running wild as he’s been doing since the idiot showed up at the Baratie and showed the strength of his ideals and his ambition and stood there and let himself get mutilated by Dracule Mihawk and made Sanji start thinking things about how he could be the omega to support the World's Greatest Swordsman and that someone that strong could want Sanji back. . .
Shit.
Sanji realizes he’s fucked up when he makes it to the deck and sees Zoro, shirtless and sweating and smelly and amazing with his oversized weights. All words escape his brain. His mouth parts, cigarette falling uselessly to the deck.
He’s frozen in place, legs trembling like a newborn animal.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Rut pheromones wrap around Sanji, caressing the omega part of him that wants Zoro just that much. He smells musky sweat and precum and lust and booze and sword oil. He smells Zoro.
Oh.
Oh no.
His Heat starts.
Cover your nose, his brain (logically) dictates. You fucked up, stupid lovecook.
His traitorous Heat-addled brain also reminds him that this delicious horrible wonderful musk needs to consume him, and all sane thought slips from his mind like soggy noodles through his shaking fingers. He can barely support himself, learning against the Merry, fingers scratching the wood of the wall as though he can cling to it for support.
Fuck.
He imagines, pathetically, that he is leaning against Zoro for support instead, thick muscles and warm arms. And he would fit so well against him, wouldn’t he? (If Marimo actually wanted to touch Sanji, anyway. No one does. Why would he? Sanji’s long accepted that truth.)
He isn’t ignorant of Zoro’s looks on a normal day, green lawn of hair aside. He can appreciate that the swordsman takes time to build his strength, so it matches the strength of his resolve, and maybe Sanji likes big dumb dirty brutes with arms that can easily crush him to glistening pectorals meant to cushion Sanji's bloody-nosed face.
But Zoro’s just. . . showing off now, the bastard! He’s toned, with hard, well-defined muscles that Sanji can only imagine wrapping around him and smothering him and—
It isn’t fair.
Zoro has no clue what he’s doing—inducing a damn Heat in Sanji, that fucker—because his stupid Neanderthal senses don’t even fucking work. The bastard admitted to his broken sense of smell to them when Nami threatened to bash him in the head for wandering around pre-Rut, and Sanji is never going to tell Zoro that this affects him so often!
He’s probably the most affected person on this crew because other than the ladies he’s the one with the refined senses to recognize this idiot brute stinking up the place.
And he’s an omega.
He wants to tug at his hair, but his limbs don’t feel like moving. Instead, he feels the telltale stickiness of slick near his ass, heat like a cloud over him, a flush staining his cheeks, his neck, his everything.
Sanji wants to scream. He wants to run back to the room and bury his face in his pillow and suffocate. He wants to suffocate the mosshead for doing this to him. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
His skin burns. He’s lightheaded, dizzy in the pleasant, foggy way that Heats make people feel. Fuck.
He takes suppressants to avoid this, hides from the crappy swordsman when he’s Rutting to ensure no one sees how weak and pathetic he is.
He hasn’t had a Heat in years, and this shitty stupid fucking bastard Marimo just made him—
Their eyes meet.
Sanji chokes on his inhale, unable to finish the breath as Zoro’s scent turns spicy. Is he angry? His fingers scramble for purchase on the wall—he is not falling in front of Zoro, he has some pride left, however shitty he feels—and he feels the slick gathering in his underwear.
He wants to cry.
This has never happened before. He’s not. . . He's never. . .
Would Zoro even want to look at him like this?
Sanji can't stop his thoughts from spiraling. Zoro thinks he's ugly and annoying on a regular day, and Sanji can barely think right now, let alone try to make himself seem presentable. He's probably sweaty and unattractive and Zoro is so lucky he can't smell how bad Sanji smells in Heat, cigarettes and loneliness and self-loathing.
Flustered, he tries to think of something to say.
Zoro isn’t saying anything either, and Sanji feels his face growing hotter the longer he stares. Slick is sliding down his thighs, and he can’t focus on the gross, sticky feeling when Zoro’s staring at him like this, he feels like he’s being devoured and he wants it, he wants Zoro to take him and consume him and lick the slick from his body with his hot, wet tongue—
“The hell’re you doing up, pervert cook?”
His voice makes Sanji shiver despite the heat. It’s deep and horrible and wonderful and it’s molasses dripping all over him, delicious and sticky and he needs to put his mouth on—
He forces back the pitiful whimper he’s about to make, steeling himself to say what he meant to say. “You’re stinking up the damn ship, Marimo!”
Zoro smirks, stupid and ugly and attractive. “Doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone but you.”
Sanji wants to kick him. He wants to kiss him. Kick him. He would, if he didn’t think he’d combust at the contact, Zoro’s big hands near him, what if he ends up touching Sanji’s slick? His face burns at the thought.
“Because I have standards, brute. The poor ladies are going to wake up to your gross moss sweat all over the deck!” He makes a face.
“So do something about it, Cook.” He leans in, all sweat and musk and alpha and, oh, oh, and it’s a bad idea and Sanji knows it but he’s burning and his blood is boiling and Zoro is the only one who can do something when he’s like this, he’s right there.
Sanji jumps, right leg clashing hard against Zoro's sword, already poised to cut. He flips onto his hands, swinging his legs as Zoro dodges, deft and strong, his swords aiming for Sanji as he ducks and pulls himself from harm’s way. He feels his slick dripping down his legs, cringing but thankful for the darkness in the sky and Zoro’s broken sense of smell.
Alpha. . .
Zoro dodges, two swords arching downward, and Sanji falls into a split, cringing at the pressure this puts on himself, face heating as he sees the intensity in Zoro's gaze. Slick trickles from his hole, through his pants, to the floor. A sad stain, proof of how desperate Sanji feels.
Can Zoro see it? Does he know what he's doing to Sanji?
Would he ever want—
This was such a horrible stupid miserable idea. He wants to stay in this position for a while and just. Stare. Admire.
He’s quick to shift positions, though, standing again and swinging his left leg as Zoro blocks his kicks with his swords. Right, left, up, left, left. Sanji is starting to feel lightheaded, stupid, and he needs to stop this fight before he collapses into Zoro and does something rash like admitting that he wants Zoro to hold him like that and say nice things (and crush his face into Zoro’s naked chest so his soft tits can smother him), but then Zoro somersaults away and jumps up, swords raised and aimed at Sanji and he is forced to jump backward.
They both pause.
He’s breathing hard, but so is Zoro. He’s sweating more than he had been before. His smell is stronger than ever, drenching Sanji like the haze of alcohol. He drinks it all in.
Zoro’s steel gray eyes are appraising him, and Sanji revels in the look, pretends it’s because Zoro thinks he looks good like this, after a fight. He knows it isn't true, it's a stupid fantasy that Zoro could ever be attracted to the annoying failure of a cook. But the look still makes him flush, dumb, Heat-addled.
Zoro's so intense. So handsome. So powerful.
He imagines leaning in, pressing their lips together, teeth clacking as they figure out how to make their mouths move with each other.
Zoro would be nice to him. He'd make Sanji's first time something memorable, because he's dependable and solid and strong. For how much he hates Sanji, he wouldn't hurt Sanji. For the crew.
The heat of his body, of Zoro near him, it’s so overwhelming and intense and he just wants to collapse and have Zoro catch him. He wants to be held through his Heat, for once. He wants it to be Zoro. He’s wanted Zoro for a while now, since he stood his ground for his goals at the Baratie, since he fought despite his injuries at Arlong Park, since he defends and stands for his crew and his ideals and looks fucking like that when he does it. It wouldn’t be wrong to just let this happen because Zoro is right there and—
“What’s wrong with you, Curlybrow?” Zoro’s smug smirk does things to him and Sanji itches to kick him again but his brain and his body aren’t working. All he knows is there's slick in his ass and his, his traitorous hole is clenching and empty. “Out of practice?”
Fuck. He can’t do this.
He knows the frustrated sound he makes is pitiful, it’s the sound of an idiot omega in Heat who thought it would be smart to pick a fight with an alpha in Rut.
It's the sound of the pathetic failure of a lovecook who wants the future World's Greatest Swordsman.
“Going easy on you,” he snarks, but his voice sounds higher pitched, breathier than he means to sound.
Shit.
Zoro grins, as though he knows what he's doing to Sanji and reveling in it.
His body releases more slick, and Sanji clenches his legs together as though it will keep everything inside him but all it does is make him hotter and needier.
“Stop training on the d-deck,” fuck he did not mean to stumble over his words like this, “while you’re Rutting. You stinky.” He pokes Zoro’s chest. Fuck. That’s Zoro’s naked chest and it’s so plush and muscular and he wants to bite it. “Stupid." He pokes Zoro's chest again, heart pounding pounding pounding. "Swordsman.”
Zoro is about to say something, but Sanji just. Can’t anymore.
He manages one last bout of energy and spins on his heel quickly, scrambling gracelessly up the stairs and to the sanctuary of his kitchen. He feels Zoro’s steel gaze on him as he runs like the pathetic weak mess Judge always said he was. He feels the slick, sticky and hot, ruining his pants, trailing behind him. He feels the dizzy wonderful haze of his Heat overcoming him.
He’s so fucking stupid.
“Have a shitty night!” He slams the galley door behind him as he all but slides to the floor.
He wants to cry.
"Cook!"
Everything is so hot, and his body and his mind adore the idea of going back down the stairs and begging for Zoro to touch him. He’d do it out of pity. He cares so much about the crew that he’d make sure Sanji is comfortable. He’d give Sanji the first time he’s always dreamed of, no matter how much he hates Sanji, and then—
Fuck.
He’s a mess, a sweaty, slick-covered, uncontrollable failure of an omega. He can still smell Zoro, scent muted by the galley door. He’s hard as fuck and wet as hell and his little hole is twitching while he’s stuck in his kitchen, the one place he told himself he would not defile with his perverted tendencies.
Except.
Except here he is, willing to do it, because stupid fucking Roronoa Zoro is working out on the Merry’s deck, looking like that, smelling like that, looking at Sanji like that (in his fantasies, anyway, because Zoro would never look at loser lovecook Sanji with anything but utter disdain).
He’s exactly Sanji’s type of man, the opposite of the soft and delicate curves of women, someone rough and large and disgusting and hot and, and he’s so passionately strong and stable and kind and Sanji wants more than he’s ever wanted. He needs Zoro, he hasn’t been touched he’s never been touched, and Zoro has nice hands, big and dirty and harsh and soft and mean and he’d hold Sanji just like he wants.
He sobs raggedly at the idea. His hole throbs at the idea.
Would Zoro care that he's not attractive? That he's hairy and scarred and skinny in the wrong places compared to how wide and strong and masculine Zoro is?
(It's fine. It's a fantasy. Zoro likes him in the fantasy. Zoro wants him in the fantasy.)
"Cook. . ."
Zoro would finger Sanji open so easily, spread his legs and run his big palms down Sanji’s thighs, cup his balls, his dick, scoop some of his wet slick from his ass and provide the right amount of friction as he touches and takes and smears it everywhere and Sanji would give it to him, he’ll—
He tears at his shirt, clumsy with the buttons as he rips it from his body. The galley air feels cool on his sweaty skin, and he shivers as his nipples peak with the temperature. He brings a shaking hand to tweak at one of them, groaning at the feeling.
He's so sensitive. Would Zoro ever lick his nipples? Would Zoro tug at the buds until Sanji whimpered and begged?
"Hah," he gasps at the thought, pinching his nipple and imagining Zoro's teeth. He'd bite, so Sanji pinches, the feeling making him shiver in delight. Zoro's tongue would be hot as he flicked at the tip. "Hahhh. . ." Drool escapes his lips.
Fuck. He’s really doing this.
His hands are shaking as he unbuckles his pants, and he exhales in sweet, desperate relief as cool air finally, finally touches his cock, and he's wishing that instead of his thin fingers something else could penetrate him.
Zoro is huge, his cock is probably massive. Sanji wants to take it, he thinks he could, he's flexible and will stretch however he needs to, but Zoro would never want Sanji like that.
Sanji is too prideful to ever ask. He knows the answer.
No one would ever want—
He tugs his pants down around his ankles, laying back on the galley floor and spreading his legs. He feels silly and dumb, like a teenager experiencing his first Heat, touching himself for the first time, soiling his precious kitchen like a stupid kid. His fingers are pathetic, long but not long enough, squelching in slick as he presses into himself—"Ohh!"—stretching his hole one finger at a time for a man who will never want him, who taunts him with his presence and his smell and his words.
He gasps at the stretch, the pleasant burn as he opens himself. He wants to be open and wide for anything Zoro gives him. He wants Zoro to see.
“Fuck. . .” It’s wonderful. It's intense.
It's not enough. He can't find his prostate, he can't stretch himself wide enough to feel satisfied. He can't stretch for Zoro like this, he's so pathetic, he needs to practice otherwise Zoro could never want him, he's not good enough, he's not—
And then.
Blearily, he sees it. Innocuous on the counter, a sake bottle from dinner.
Zoro's bottle.
Sanji’s face grows even redder as he realizes, stupidly, Zoro’s mouth had been on that bottle. His lips touched it, so by extension, his lips could touch—
A small bit of saliva escapes Sanji’s parted lips at the idea. Oh that could be wonderful. It would be indirect, the closest he'll ever get to Zoro's mouth near him, near his slick, near his ass.
His sad, empty hole twitches. His fingers are not enough.
Fuck.
Zoro's smell spikes in the air, and Sanji lets his inhibitions go.
He’s really doing this.
He pulls himself up, reaches for that sake bottle, weak and stupid and unable to think of anything else to relieve this feeling, this Heat, this mess that Zoro has made him. Zoro Zoro Zoro.
"Zoro," he pants, licking the edge of the bottle, imagining Zoro's mouth, his lips, his spit.
He’s so drenched in slick he doesn’t have to do much before he’s pressing the lip of the bottle to his hole. Sobbing in the relief of its cool touch to his heated rim, he imagines Zoro teasing him, taunting him, forcing it into him—
“Pervert Cook,” he’d say, smarmy grin on his handsome stupid mouth, and he’d push the bottle into Sanji’s hole, rough because it’s Zoro and Sanji has never done this before but gentle because it’s Zoro and Sanji has never done this before.
Sanji’s fingers aren’t good enough, and this Heat is destroying him, and he can still smell Zoro. He lies back on the floor, knees up as he spreads his legs wider, shivering but eager. He knows he looks stupid and ugly, a pathetic, desperate little omega. He wants Zoro’s scent all over him, on him, in him.
And Sanji gasps oh oh oh as the bottle penetrates him, breaching this part of himself he’s only ever used his fingers for, that he's imagined Zoro entering and taking from him.
It's amazing. It's cold and it's wide and it's touched Zoro's mouth and it's brushing his walls in ways his fingers could never.
Would Zoro ever slide his tongue there? Would he want to?
“Ohhh,” he chokes on his saliva, eager at how cold the bottle feels rubbing his heated insides, the tip thin at first but stretching him wider and wider as he pushes himself down onto it. “Ahh!”
It feels wonderful, the biggest thing he’s ever taken. It feels wrong, dirty, to use something from his kitchen. He feels almost giddy at the feeling because Zoro would love it, would make fun of him for it, would degrade and humiliate him. He's as dirty as Zoro's always thought he is, a dirty, needy omega.
“You can take it, can’t you?” he’d taunt.
He pushes it in deeper, crying at the relief of something penetrating him, his foggy mind imagining Zoro again, his beautiful, musky smell, his large, hard body, pressing him down, forcing the bottle deeper and deeper. “Yes! Yes!”
"Take it, shit cook!"
And Sanji is fierce and competitive, he can and he will and he does. He shoves it in as far as he can, feeling his hole stretching around it, weeping at the burn, the squelching slick sounds around the bottle filling his ass, the way he must look.
Depraved. Messy. Desperate.
(Willing to shove a bottle into himself because no one would ever want him.)
“Show me, Curly,” Zoro would demand, voice gruff and hot and perfect.
Zoro's scent engulfs Sanji, stronger than ever, the smell of aggressive lust and Rut, desperation for an omega (like Sanji).
His limbs are weak, but he brings himself to all fours, pretends he's presenting his stupid little hole to Zoro, so he can see the mess he's made of the perverted lovecook. He's pathetic, fucking himself on this bottle, barely balancing on his left hand as his right forces the bottle to push push push.
Fuck. He thinks he locked the door but he can’t be bothered to check. He imagines Zoro is watching, wiggling his ass a bit as he positions himself. He inhales Zoro's scent in the air, metal and sex, strength. He can imagine the look in Zoro’s eyes if he stands at that door, gaze hot and heavy and perfect.
Would he want Sanji to present himself? Spread his cheeks and show his desperate pink hole?
Sanji is stupid and the fantasy feels nice, so he does, one-handed, pulling his ass cheek to the side to present the bottle stretching his virgin hole, heart skipping a beat at the thought of Zoro licking his lips at the sight, like Sanji could be worth something, even if it is just for this.
He tastes blood on his lips, dripping from his nose.
He pulls the bottle out a bit, shoves it back into him, almost screaming and collapsing as he finally, finally hits his prostate.
Fuck. He bets Zoro would hit it on his first try because he’s a stupid talented mossball, bets he’d press and push and massage until Sanji is nothing but a whimpering, pathetic, crying mess beneath him. His lips would quirk in his stupid little way, the kind of smile that makes Sanji stupid.
“Beg for it.”
Sanji would. Beg.
He'd do anything Zoro asked.
Shaking, he lies back down on the galley floor, the cool feeling pleasant on his sweating skin. His bangs stick to his face. He's breathing hard, mouth dry. The air smells like Zoro.
He spreads his legs again, wide, like he has to prove to Zoro that even though he's a useless failure he can at least bend his body to make Zoro happy. His slick is everywhere. His dick stands proud, red and desperate in the air, precum dripping.
"Fuck me," he whispers, whimpers, begs, shoving the bottle into his ass so roughly it brings tears to his eyes.
He brings his other hand to his chest, tweaking at his nipples, imagining Zoro’s teeth tugging and biting and sucking until he’s marked and pink and owned.
He imagines Zoro kissing him. Soft, full lips, sharp teeth, rough at first as their mouths bang together, then softer, because even if Zoro hates him, he would treat Sanji well. He’d bite at Zoro’s lower lip in retaliation—“I don’t need to be treated so softly, asshole!”—but he’d be warm and happy all the same.
He pictures his fingers running through Zoro’s hair, unwashed mossy mess that it is, moaning as the sake bottle (that Zoro’s mouth has touched) hits his prostate again.
He fantasizes that Zoro's above him, large and menacing and gentle, and as his own hand reaches up to knead the soft muscle of Zoro’s pecs, Zoro mouths, I love you, with that soft look he gets in his eyes when he looks at anyone but Sanji, and then Sanji would whine, high-pitched and pathetic and stupid, “Zoro!”
He cums.
Slick gushes from his ass, forcing the bottle from its snug, hot, hold. It stays in him, twitching pathetically. Sanji’s untouched dick spurts cum onto his trembling thighs.
He lays there, shaking, hot, embarrassed.
Oh.
He. . . really just fucked himself. In his kitchen. With a bottle.
Blood continues to trickle from his nose, and he’s covered in sweat and slick and cum. Fuck. He really did this.
He closes his eyes, imagines Zoro seeing him like this, a pathetic desperate omega, fucking himself on Zoro's damn used sake bottle on the kitchen floor.
"Perverted dumbass," he'd say, and he'd pull it from Sanji's hole. Sanji would be a good omega, he'd stay gaping, waiting for Zoro to penetrate him, to use him like the wretched, hopeless omega he is.
He'd tease, he'd push that slick-covered bottle to Sanji's lips, make him choke on the taste of his own fluids on the rim, watching him with his intense, steel-gray eyes.
Zoro would bring his large fingers to Sanji's twitching, gaping hole, would smear Sanji's cum and slick around the edges, would stretch him wide wide wide so he could take Zoro's fist—yes, yes, fist him, penetrate him—so he could take Zoro's cock so he could take Zoro.
Zoro would fuck him, harsh and rough and gentle and overpowering all-consuming hot fucking love.
Sanji whimpers at the thought.
It’s still ass-o’clock in the morning. And oh, it still smells like Zoro. Stinky stupid wonderful mossy Zoro. The air is the perfect blend of Sanji's blood and cum and slick, but it's so strongly Zoro, too, steel and sword oil and sweat and sex and—
The galley door creaks.