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Summary
For the first heat they had shared, Sanji hadn’t even known Zoro’s name. It had hardly mattered. He’d never been around an alpha during his heat before, and during that first time, he’d completely lost himself to it. All he’d had to go off of were some of Zoro’s defining features. So many scars across the built lines of his body. And stupid, incongruous green hair that made Sanji want to call him something like mosshead or marimo because it was all he had and thinking of him as alpha made him feel like a powerless, knot-drunk omega.