Attention: explicit, scurrilous and rough terms. If you don't want to read, jump to the non-cursive part.

The spasmodic panting was a bitter and definitive background of what was happening inside that room.
Then there was the quiver of his body shaken, but that made no noise.
Even his lips, which were bleeding beneath his teeth, which sought only to silence the verses, the whining and the prayers that might have slipped out of them, like water from a river in flood, made practically no noise.
They were just the pants.
His, not his ... They mixed among themselves to such an extent that it was not even clear who they came from, at times.

His legs were wide open, wide apart, while Niji tore him apart, entering into him with his hard and wet member of pre-cum, who was going to strike inside him with so much violence that it seemed to him that he was on fire.
His eyes were half-closed, they didn't want to know how to open even a little more: why should they, after all? To watch Ichiji's sneer, who in turn watched him while the blue man fucked him even if he was a whore or a waste? To note how Yonji wanted nothing more than to do the same thing?
No, Sanji didn't want to attend, he was already sick with half-closed eyes, feeling more and more dirty, more and more sore ... And above all, less and less human, because the pain that trampled him had been so strong at first, that for some he started not to hear it anymore, as if he was getting used to it, as if someone was telling him that it was something he had to do and could not choose.

His throat swallowed repeatedly, this a few seconds before Yonji was probably annoyed enough to do nothing and forcefully opening his mouth, thrusting his erection into his throat and pushing into it without even letting him to being able to resist.
How could he even try? He was tied up; his body was all still with chains that made him sink against the mattress, his hands were clearly attached to each other, a detail that prevented him even from slapping the green-haired twin before he could carry out his action.
He could have bitten, but what would be the punishment like? Would they hit him or maybe the viewfinder would be Zeff? Or, again, maybe they would just take it again with the female cook, Cosette, because of his transgressive attitude?
A feeling of nausea rose in his throat as his head felt the thrusts both in his anus and in his mouth, with the taste of cumming splashing down into it, while both came, first one and then another , immediately switching places, as if it were a game.

He felt Niji pulling his hair, his ass being grabbed by Yonji and, worse yet, Ichiji joined in, adding himself, so as to make a double penetration.
The blond, when the two members entered him, first one and then the other, understood that the previous pain had never been anything compared to what he felt at that moment, while a scream was born and, immediately after that, died during the violent push of the second of the three brothers, transforming it into a silent cry mixed with unspoken words, while inside himself the boy prayed, he prayed to lose consciousness, he even prayed to die so as not to feel that torture anymore.
And Ichiji, Niji and Yonji, as they continued to push themselves, touched him.
They grazed his nipples.
They tugged at his hair, pulling it until it felt as if they were about to be torn.
They pushed him towards them to get even deeper and to find work even more satisfying.
They laughed at him, insulting him and even laughing of him.

- Failure. No one will ever love you-

The phrase echoed in his head a second before he pulled himself up to sit upright from the hammock, almost slipping down from it, a hand traveling at once to his throat, as if it had a will of its own and was ready to suffocate him.
His whole body was bathed in sweat, while his heartbeat, which went madly in his chest, tried to calm down from yet another damn nightmare.
His eyes darted around the room very quickly: everyone was sleeping.
Good. No one had noticed his awakening.
And thank goodness that, generally, in the nightmares, he didn't scream, otherwise he would have ended up waking someone up, if not all of them ... And at that point he would have to explain why he had screamed ... And most likely someone could have really been worried about it, becoming suspicious because of his driving away the issue like an annoying fly.
He got up, both hands in his hair, with a showy tremor that obviously wasn't due to the cold, then slipped out of the room like a shadow, without even realizing that someone had been watching him all the time, too busy from the desire to get rid of that disgusting sensation from the skin and the mouth.

He would have threw up. Again. He felt it. And generally it was not the first time he rejected ... And he cursed himself for it, because it was as if he was wasting food almost every morning.
Then he would take a hot bath, hoping that the soap would wash away, at least this time, some of the dirt he felt on him and he didn't want to.
He had not done it so in the previous mornings, unfortunately ... But this would not made him stop trying.
He reached the bathroom a few moments before a retiring definitively up his throat with the feeling again, for some reason that he did not even understand, the taste of the cumm back into it, warm, dripping, forcing him to swallow it.
Although in reality there was not any, he felt it the same, ending up hanging on to the toilet as if it were a matter of life or death and also rejecting his own soul at times.

When it was all over, he took a few moments of pause, slumped on the floor, then reached for the sink and removed the taste of vomit - which in some ways was still better than the orgasmic taste of one of his twins, at least -.
Once removed, the tank was filled with as much hot water as possible, undressing in the meantime and entered, shuddering at the difference between outside and inside.
It burned every single and smallest inch of his skin ... But it was already burned, so there was no real problem with that.
He let himself be lulled by the liquid, barely relaxing, putting his head below the water level and looking at how everything in it became extremely blurred and gleaming in unison.
Holding his breath, he allowed himself to linger there for a while longer, pulling himself out only to hear his lungs beg for mercy and moving the clumps of blond hair that had stuck to his face, passing them behind his ears with clear distraction.
And the celestial blue of his gaze clashed, willy-nilly, with the purple marks that ran through his ankles ... And his legs in general ... And his hips ... His chest ... His neck ...
With a movement that may have been too fast, he got up, leaving the tank in a hurry and suddenly realizing that, perhaps out of distraction, he hadn't taken the changes with which to dress.
"... Idiot," he said to himself mentally, shaking his head and grasping the bathrobe, letting it envelop him with its softness and its scent.

It didn't take long before he came out of the bathroom and clashed against the one who proved to be probably there by ... How much? He had no idea. He could not understand it, if he had to be sincere.
It was the Marimo, which for the second time in twenty-four hours made him get a sort of anxiety's performance.
-Marimo- he said, tightening his lips and looking at him with false calm and equally false scorn.
- Cook - Zoro's tone was as serious and impassive as ever, with something that, at the same time, seemed strange, that the blond didn't know whether to ignore or not, wondering if it was always his fault if it seemed like that or something like that, or if perhaps in his tone there was really something different.
The swordsman remained silent as the other slowly moved away from the bathroom door, clutching his robe, then spoke again. -You were slow.-
A nerve almost immediately went to the cook, so much so that he found himself gritting his teeth at this comment.
-Well. It doesn't hurt you to wait, algae head, indeed. Are you afraid of wasting time for being able to do photosynthesis? -
"Try to switch places and throw up for me, let's see if you are so happy with it," he thought to himself, looking rather irritated.
Zoro didn't answer him, not in words, at least.
He simply continued to stare at him to the point that the blond felt much more uncomfortable than normal, without even understanding why, sensing his stomach twisting and the desire to escape from the gray metal that bullied him with arrogance.

He tried to move away definitively from the other, but before he succeeded, his arm was tightened in a grip, which not only made him jump from surprise, but that even led him to whiten, turning over with something of almost schizophrenic.
It took about twenty seconds to erase the laughter that had come back to take his mind, ten to delate Ichiji's smirk and five more to focus on the fact that no, he wasn't there anymore and no, no one would hurt him .
"It's just Zoro. He's just that Zoro-jerk. Calm down"
- What the fuck do you want,shitty Marimo, looking for trouble? - he snapped acidly, freeing himself from his grip with the angryness, throwing him a lightning glare.
And again, there he is. That look, mixed with the silence of the swordsman, which only served to make him sweat coldly.
"That he ...? No. No. He can't know. He can't have realized it. He's just a motherfucking cabbage head. He spends eighty percent of his time sleeping. Why should he just look at me? No. I'm just imagining things."
He roused himself, resumed walking, looking at the arm that the swordsman had previously held in his hand.
He had been lucky, in some ways, that at least there had been no bruises on it.