i was gifted an extra of these cute atlas studio & s1 studio figurines, so why not have a lil giveaway & find them a loving home with one of y'all!! the figurines are unopened & you can find more info & specs about them here and here.
here are the details!!
🔥 idk man, just like or reblog this post if you want to enter. you don't have to follow me, we ain't about that hustle. winner will be chosen at random by a third party to keep it fair & square
🔥 as per tumblr's rules you gotta be 18+ or they'll shank me??
🔥 shipping is free & worldwide
🔥 giveaway will end in a week on may 3rd, around 10pm australian eastern standard time. winner's username will be shared on here to keep it transparent :3
hit me up if you have any questions!!
(obvs this isn't associated with or endorsed by tumblr in any way shape or form. i have to legally say this.)
this is one of my fav zosan artworks & i was so, so happy to play around with it <3 @rioberryy ty for sharing this with us!!!
x
They call it a calm night because for the first time since the reunion there’s no island trying to kill them, no kraken, no sea kings, no desperate sprint through someone else’s chaos. Just the Sunny riding a lazy swell under a big, fat moon, the sea black and glossy all around.
The crew spreads out like they’ve always done but the galley is almost quiet.
Almost.
Zoro slips inside like he’s doing something criminal, the air hitting him in a wave, heat from the stove that’s finally been turned off, the leftover tang of garlic and char, citrus peels in the bin. Sanji’s at the sink, back to the door, sleeves rolled up, dishwater hissing under his hands. He’s changed, of course. Taller, maybe, or he’s just carrying himself differently. Shoulders broader, lines sharper, hair longer, the tie catching the first bit of overgrown blond at his nape.
Zoro’s known this man for years and yet his body still goes oh, like it’s surprised every damn time.
“Take one more step,” Sanji drawls without turning. “And I’m serving your liver to Luffy with a parsley garnish.”
Zoro pauses. “You don’t even know what I was doing.”
“Is it breathing and-or drinking my sake?” He flicks a plate onto the drying rack with neat, efficient annoyance, muscles bunching in his forearm and Zoro knows because his stupid eye tracks it.
Two years of trying not to think about him and it’s somehow ended up worse. He’d honestly thought distance would knock it out of him, like a fever you can sweat through if you just keep moving and swing enough blades at enough monsters. Instead he spent too many nights on that gloomy floating coffin, lying on the tiles of some castle hallway, staring at the ceiling and remembering stupid shit. The way Sanji laughs when the food actually impresses him. The way he can kick a man through a wall and then turn around and tuck a blanket over a sleeping Chopper like it’s nothing.
Also, unfortunately, the way his mouth looks around a cigarette. Or a fork. Or laughing.
All very unhelpful.
He ignores it, badly, and makes for the cupboard where his stash definitely isn’t hidden and absolutely no-one knows about it.
Zoro folds his arms, leans on the doorframe like he meant to be caught. “You know, I heard this ship had a cook once. Thought I might find him in here.”
Sanji tosses a spoon at his head without looking and Zoro dodges automatically. “Funny, you got lost twice trying to find the crows’ nest after we set sail. I’m surprised you made it to the galley on purpose.”
Zoro grunts. “I trained my sense of direction.”
“You did not.”
He did not. He trained his swords. He trained his body until the scars stopped itching. He trained the distractions out of his head one by one, all except this one.
It’s still here, standing at his sink, rinsing his hands. When he reaches for a towel the motion pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, fabric stretching over new muscle. Zoro pushes off the door frame and saunters toward the bench so that he stops staring. “We’re in port, I drink. That’s natural.”
“You drink when we’re at sea, too,” Sanji snorts. “And when we’re fighting. And after we’re fighting. And when you’re lost.”
“So? I fight better drunk.”
“That’s a lie and a sin.” He turns then, towel over one shoulder, irritation already on his face and cigarette already between his teeth. “I’m not watching your drunk ass tumble overboard because you decided to bathe your brain in rice wine.”
“Yeah, you would watch. You’d lean on the rail and bitch about it.”
Sanji steps closer without quite seeming to mean to, towel still in hand. “I’d kick you back up if only so I could kill you myself.” He’s close enough now that Zoro can see the tiny new lines at the edge of his eyes, can smell the faint citrus in his soap under the cigarette and kitchen smoke. Close enough that the heat from the sink hasn’t faded from his skin and Zoro’s head goes a little swimmy.
He grunts and reaches past Sanji toward the cupboard shelf he’s not supposed to know about but Sanji blocks him with the towel and a palm flat to his chest. “Nope. You’re cut off.”
Zoro’s jaw sets. He leans back against the bench and lets the words roll slowly. “You wanna keep me from the sake? Let’s bet.”
Sanji exhales a thin stream of smoke, sceptical. “Yeah? Go on, then. Impress me.”
Zoro taps the hilt of Wado where it rests at his hip. “You get this off me, I’ll do dishes for six months.”
The room seems to tilt. Sanji’s gaze drops instantly to the sword, then back up to Zoro’s face, checking if he’s serious.
He is. He also kind of can’t believe he just said that.
“That’s your soulmate sword,” Sanji says slowly, like he’s making sure he’s heard right. “Your dead friend’s sword. Your religion.”
“Don’t say ‘soulmate,’” Zoro mutters on reflex, ears going hot. “The hell’s wrong with you.”
“You’re offering that as part of a game?” Sanji’s voice climbs. “Have you taken a blow to the head recently?”
Zoro shrugs, casual coming in a shade too late. “Isn’t permanent. You get it off me, you win. You can’t, I get unlimited sake, no whining.”
Sanji opens his mouth, probably to say something about how he doesn’t trust Zoro’s sense of proportion as far as he can punt him, then shuts it again. There’s a flicker there, under the annoyance, something sharp and hungry. “You said six months,” he says, tone gone speculative.
“Six months,” Zoro repeats, relentless. “You win, I’ll scrub every plate until Nami gets bored of exploiting you and finds a new servant. Lose and you watch me drink whenever I want.”
Sanji stares at him and Zoro can practically feel him weighing it. Sanji loves his kitchen clean almost as much as he loves complaining so six months of sword-idiot labour? That’s a lot of free evenings.
(Also, if he’s being honest, Zoro also really, really wants to see what happens when Sanji comes at him seriously now. No team fight, no island emergency. Just them. It’s been in his head since Straw Hats 2.0 dropped onto that damn bay and Sanji kicked someone’s jaw into the next postcode.
He wants to know: did the cook get sharper like he did? Stronger? Can he still hit Zoro in ways that matter? Can he still make Zoro’s blood do that jumpy, stupid thing with just a look?)
Sanji exhales slowly, smoke curling like a thought he doesn’t say. “Fine,” he says at last. “You’re on… with conditions.”
Zoro raises a brow. “What conditions?”
“One: I have to steal it,” Sanji says, pointing at Wado with his cigarette. “You don’t get to toss it at me to be nice. Two: you use your other two sticks. I don’t want you whining later that you handicapped yourself. And three… if I do get Wado… I get to keep it until morning.”
Zoro’s body reacts before his brain can catch up with a weird, hot, possessive flare. Wado, in Sanji’s hands. Wado, resting in Sanji’s bunk. He swallows it down, lets his face stay bored. “The hell for?”
“Insurance,” Sanji shrugs. “So you don’t back out of dish duty the second you sober up and decide honour works different at sunrise.”
Zoro bristles. “My honour’s the same level of stupid all day.”
“Exactly. You trust me or not?”
Zoro snorts. “I trust you to be annoying. That’s about it.” He still hears himself say: “Fine. You get it, you keep it ’til dawn.”
Sanji’s grin flashes, full and sharp and way too satisfying to look at straight on. “Then I suggest you hold on tight, Moss.”
Zoro’s heart does something traitorous and ugly in his chest but he grunts and pushes off the bench. “Deck. Ten minutes.”
“Five,” Sanji counters instantly. “I’ve been waiting to kick your ass properly for two years.”
“Didn’t we just do that?” .
“In case you forgot we were a little busy not drowning. That was foreplay. This is the event.”
The word foreplay lands with embarrassing weight and Zoro tries very hard not to think about it while he stalks toward the door.
“Oi,” Sanji calls after him. “Three swords, moss-for-brains. If I get Wado off you, I want it to mean something.”
It already does. Zoro doesn’t say that, though. He just scowls instead, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You won’t.”
Sanji flicks ash neatly into the sink, already reaching for his lighter again, eyes bright and mean in the low kitchen light. “Keep telling yourself that.”
As Zoro steps out into the cooler air of the hallway, the ship swaying gently under his feet, he rolls his shoulders and feels the weight of his blades at his hip. His mind should be running battle maths and angles and distances and new tricks he hasn’t shown the crew yet. Instead it’s stuck on Sanji’s new scars, half-seen when his shirt rode up earlier as he stretched for the spice rack. On the way his hair brushes his jaw now, just long enough that Zoro’s fingers itch. On the obscene thrill that curled low in his gut when he pictured Wado in Sanji’s grip.
x
They take the whole ship as their arena.
Moonlight cuts the deck into sharp stripes of silver and shadow as the Sunny hums under their feet, wood flexing, rigging sighing like she’s in on it. The crew’s asleep, which means it’s just the hush of the open sea and two idiots vibrating with way too much energy and not nearly enough sense.
Zoro rolls his shoulders, Kitetsu and Shuisui resting easy in his hands and Wado in his mouth. Sanji’s lounging on the opposite side of the deck with his shirt already unbuttoned at the throat, one heel hooked lazily on the railing like this is a joke he’s about to enjoy.
“Last chance to back out,” he calls, mouth already quirked. “Remember, you’ll be on dish duty for six months.”
Zoro snorts. “You won’t last three days listening to me bitch about it.”
“Maybe I like your bitching,” Sanji singsongs, pushing off the rail with a flex of long legs. “It’s the only entertainment around sometimes.”
Zoro’s grip tightens a fraction on his swords. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”
“Make me,” Sanji grins and that’s the starting gun.
Zoro moves first, low and direct, a predator’s prowl snapping into a lunge. Steel flashes, simple and honest, a clean diagonal meant to test Sanji’s timing but Sanji slips aside with a laugh, like he’s been waiting for this. His body rolls out of the blade’s path by the barest margin and his heel whips up, kissing Zoro’s ribs hard enough to sting.
“Slow,” Sanji taunts, landing light. “You get rusty up there with the world’s grumpiest hawk?”
Heat flares under Zoro’s skin, part bruise, part pride. “Didn’t think I needed full speed for you.” He presses, pushing Sanji back across the deck, swinging swords in short, vicious arcs; Sanji answers with knees, elbows, heels, everything turned into a weapon by sheer spite and training. They trade hits and near-misses, breath already coming faster, grins sharp.
When they break apart they circle each other, using the deck like a board they both designed. Sanji darts around the mast, using a coil of rope as a springboard, spinning back in with a high kick that forces Zoro to duck and Zoro counters with a thrust that skims Sanji’s sleeve, slicing a neat line through the fabric without touching skin.
Sanji glances down at the rip. “That was my favourite shirt, you asshole.”
“Good,” Zoro smirks. “Ugliest shirt you own.”
Sanji bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You thinking about my outfits instead of your footing is your problem.”
He proves the point by abruptly disappearing upward, taking one, two, three steps into air, boots finding nothing and everything with infuriating ease. With his hair catching moonlight he crosses from one side of the ship to the other along a tensioned line, balanced and unbothered. Zoro has seen him do this a hundred times before at this point and it still manages to hit like a punch, especially the way that Sanji’s framed against the sky, lean body cutting across the stars. Zoro’s gut does a slow, traitorous somersault.
He launches after him, boots hitting the rail, then the rigging, body moving on old instinct. He can’t walk air but he sure as hell can cut space, Kitetsu and Shusui carving openings where none existed, making the distance between them collapse. Sanji sees him coming and loves it, Zoro can tell.
“Come on then!” he laughs, dropping suddenly, body folding into a controlled fall until he lands in a low crouch, heel already igniting. Diable flares to life, calf glowing red and turning the air around his leg into heat-rippled glass. The smell of scorched skin hits Zoro’s nose a split second before the kick and this one isn’t showy. It’s just vicious. Zoro brings Shusui up to block and the impact rings up his arms, teeth rattling. Sparks burst where steel meets heat-distorted force.
“Better,” Zoro grinds out, genuinely pleased. “Thought you were just gonna dance at me.”
“You wish you could keep up with my dancing,” Sanji shoots back, already spinning. His next kick feints high, then snaps low, heel aiming for Zoro’s ankle; Zoro hops over it and answers with a downward slash that would’ve cut most men in half. Sanji slips inside the arc of it instead, right into his guard, his shoulder brushing Zoro’s chest as he twists. It’s a stupid, dangerous angle but it works anyway: he plants a foot on Zoro’s thigh and uses him as a step, springing off his body to flip back into space and for a split second Zoro has a full sensory snapshot of Sanji’s breath hot on his neck, the flex of muscle through shirt and the clean, unfair strength in those legs.
It lights him up like someone poured alcohol over coals.
They pick up speed: feints become traps and traps become invitations. Sanji keeps baiting Zoro into overcommitting, only to slip out of range with infuriating grace. Zoro keeps almost letting himself fall for it just to see the flash of triumph in Sanji’s eye and then punishes him for it with a strike that proves he wasn’t actually fooled.
“Thought you had me?” Zoro pants, blades moving in a blur.
“Please,” Sanji snorts, heel grazing his shoulder in a counter. “You telegraph your big moves like a children’s picture book.”
“Yeah?” Zoro’s mouth curves. “You gasp before you kick with your right. Kind of ruins the surprise.”
Sanji actually stutters. “I do not –”
Zoro uses the hesitation to sweep low, forcing Sanji into a backwards handspring, palms and they clash near the mast, the entire ship suddenly feeling too small to contain them. Three blades versus two feet and a brain that’s always thinking one move ahead in the kitchen and apparently the same here. Sanji uses the mast to change direction mid-kick, Diable flaring as he carves the air while Zoro uses the mast as a pivot to spin them both, redirecting that momentum to send a counter cut singing just past Sanji’s cheek.
It nicks a lock of blond hair and Sanji freezes for half a heartbeat, eyes wide. “Did you just cut my hair?!”
“Should’ve moved faster,” Zoro says but his pulse is pounding a little, because that was close, because he trusts Sanji to handle close, because Sanji’s right there, pupils blown with adrenaline and something else that looks dangerously like enjoyment.
Sanji barks a laugh that’s mostly snarl. “Oh, you’re dead.”
He comes at Zoro like a stormfront, no more testing or feeling it out. Just speed and precision and the kind of commitment that has always made Zoro, against his better judgement, pay attention.
Zoro loves it, loves the way Sanji doesn’t hold back, loves the way each kick’s thrown with full belief it could land. Loves the way their bodies map the ship together, claiming it through impact and footsteps. Somewhere in the noise and the heat and the swing of steel, Zoro becomes aware – very, very aware – of how much fun he’s having and how good it feels to work this hard against someone who isn’t an enemy trying to kill them, but could, if they let it run too hot.
His grin is feral. “That all you got?”
Sanji laughs, breathless and delighted, eyes burning. “You begging me for more, Mossy?”
“Take it however you want,” Zoro fires back and immediately wants to bite his tongue off, because that came out wrong on about fifteen different levels.
Sanji trips up on the suggestion, just for a second. His kick goes wide and Zoro should capitalise on it but instead he gets caught watching the way Sanji’s mouth opens on a shocked little sound before slamming shut again, cheeks flushed darker. Zoro’s brain helpfully supplies a new set of extremely distracting thoughts about what that mouth could be doing if it wasn’t calling him an idiot.
focus, he tells himself savagely.
They drive each other across the deck and back again, over and over, the Sunny rocking gently beneath them. By the time they end up crashing into the rigging, both of them are sweating, breathing hard and grinning like lunatics. Sanji lunges in, finally going for the bet, hand snapping toward Wado’s hilt and Zoro intercepts without even thinking, fingers closing around Sanji’s wrist.
They slam into the ropes together, bodies tangled, the ship’s heartbeat drumming up their spines. For a second – just one – they’re pressed flush, close enough that Sanji’s breath fans hot across Zoro’s face. Zoro’s palm finds Sanji’s throat in the scramble, thumb resting against a pulse that hammers under his touch and Sanji swallows so hard Zoro feels the jolt that goes through him – surprise, sure, but not fear. The moment stretches, sharp and bright and bare and Zoro’s mind makes a leap it’s been hovering near for days: that it would be so, so fucking easy to kiss him.
Sanji’s eyes flick down to Zoro’s mouth and back up so fast Zoro almost convinces himself he imagined it. Almost.
Then Sanji knees him in the side a half-second later, wriggling free with a curse and an unsteady laugh, and the fight burns on. He almost gets him three times, hand flashing up towards Zoro’s mouth whenever they slam in close, fingers brushing hilt or jaw and then gone again before Zoro can bite them just on principle.
“Feisty.” Sanji backs off on a skid of heels. “Thought you’d have better oral control by now.”
“Keep your hands outta my mouth,” Zoro growls, wiping the corner of his lip with the back of his wrist. His teeth are clamped too hard on Wado’s hilt; his jaw aches. “Try fighting instead of groping.”
“Oh, I am fighting,” Sanji purrs, circling. “You’re just too distracted to notice.”
He’s not wrong and that pisses Zoro off enough to wade in harder. Shusui and Kitetsu work in tandem, brutal and unforgiving, while Wado moves cleaner, truer, like it’s cutting the path for the other two but Sanji just weaves through it. He shouldn’t be able to, not against the real thing. Post-timeskip Zoro isn’t pulling punches for anyone but Sanji’s faster than before. Stronger. He’s stopped trying to dodge everything and started choosing what to take, letting a graze of steel against his coat happen if it means he can use the rebound for a tighter spin, a nastier kick. He rides Zoro’s momentum the way he rides the Sunny in a storm, bitching about it the whole time and still completely in tune.
“C’mon,” Sanji laughs, breath roughened, Diable heat blooming faint along his calf again. “I know you’ve got more than that. Mihawk didn’t bust your ass for two years just so I could dance through your guard like this.”
He proves the point by Skywalking straight over a slash, boots thudding against invisible footholds, cape of smoke from Diable trailing behind him. He drops back in with a kick that glances off the flat of Shusui and rattles Zoro’s teeth.
“Watch the swords, shitty cook,” Zoro snaps even as his chest hollows with something bright and savage. “You break Wado and I’ll kill you.”
“Please,” Sanji scoffs, pivoting away. “Like I’d let your precious baby get hurt by your amateur footwork.”
The next exchange is so fast it feels like one breath stretched too thin. Zoro steps in with a diagonal from Shusui, mean and low, meant to force a jump and Sanji does, air under his feet, body folding up and over before Zoro brings Kitetsu up high to catch the counter-kick, feeling the contact reverberate through cursed metal, and angles with Wado for a finishing line – only Sanji doesn’t pull back like a sane person. He commits to the collision, letting his leg take the block and using the impact to sling his upper body forward until suddenly they’re too close for honest swordplay, Zoro’s arms crossed, blades locked up with Sanji’s weight half on him.
“Hi,” Sanji says, too sweet, breath hot against Zoro’s cheek.
Zoro snarls, trying to shove him back and that’s when Sanji finally does it: his hand slides up, fast as a feint, fingers hooking the leather just behind Zoro’s teeth. Zoro’s balance is wrong, posture cramped from the double block; he can’t twist away without opening his ribs.
Sanji yanks and for half a heartbeat, Zoro’s instinct screams don’t let go but Wado’s already shifting, leverage against his teeth, and rationality slices in on a thin, hard line as Wado slides clean from his mouth with a wet little, leaving spit and the ghost of steel taste on his tongue. He feels weirdly naked without it, exposed in a way no missing shirt has ever made him feel.
Sanji pushes off his chest, twisting away with a victorious crow of laughter. He lands light, boots skidding, and comes up with Wado drawn in one smooth arc, blade between them, moonlight skating bright along its edge.
For a second, everything stops and Zoro just stares.
Wado – solid, familiar, piece of soul he’s carried since childhood – in Sanji’s hand, knuckles sure and wrist loose.
Something in Zoro’s chest seizes, then flips over.
“Bet’s mine,” Sanji says, chest heaving, grin wide and so pleased with himself. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, sweat at his throat, hair stuck to his forehead. He looks wrecked and triumphant and painfully alive. He lifts Wado in a loose little salute before planting her down, point first into the deck, all tease. “You want it back? Come and get it.”
The words hit Zoro somewhere low and lethal and, briefly, his mind throws up every possible interpretation of that sentence at once, absolutely none of them clean. His fingers spasm tighter around the remaining hilts. “The bet was disarm, not –”
“Yeah,” Sanji cuts in, voice dropping, hungry. “I know what the bet was.” He rolls his wrist and the blade flashes; his stance shifts and he just. Moves.
He doesn’t brandish Wado like a trophy or flail with it like a novice. He moves with the sword the way he moves with a chef’s knife, direct and economical, built from a thousand repetitions of motion and angle and necessity which means that the first cut’s a clean, horizontal line that Zoro meets with Shusui.
The second’s a thrust, though, tight and precise, blade traveling along the shortest path to his ribs. Zoro turns it with Kitetsu and realises that Sanji has absolutely been paying attention all these years when Zoro drills kata on deck.
“You watch me,” Zoro breathes, parrying again until Wado slides off his guard in a way that’s unnervingly familiar.
“Some of us have eyes,” Sanji shoots back, stepping in, shouldering into Zoro’s space to force him to widen his stance. “Between your naps and your grunting, it’s not hard to steal a few tricks.”
He’s not perfect, of course. His footwork is kick-fighter first, swordsman second and Wado doesn’t always return to centre as fast as it should. But he makes up for it with read and intent, by seeing lines and using them, turning potential openings into attacks, using the sword less like a scalpel and more like a heavy, honest cleaver. He blends it with his legs without even thinking. A cut comes in low – Zoro bats it aside – and Sanji’s already turning, using the rebound to spin a heel toward Zoro’s kidney. Zoro blocks that with a braced Shusui, only for Wado to snap back into the gap his own parry just opened.
It’s messy, clever, infuriating. It’s fun and Zoro can feel his own grin stretching wide and wild as Sanji feints high, then steps through Zoro’s guard, Wado sliding along Shusui in a glide that feels indecently intimate. Zoro feels everything in bright, stupid detail: the drag of steel, the warmth of Sanji’s wrist brushing his, the fact that this is Kuina’s sword, his promise, and it’s currently being used against him by a man whose laugh he can pick out in any storm. It should piss him off, maybe, but it does something much worse. He’s hard and itching and fully wired, adrenaline and want braided so tightly he can’t separate them. Everytime Wado rings against his blades it’s like someone is scraping a nerve in his chest that’s been dormant for years.
“You’re fighting dirty,” he manages. “With my sword.”
Sanji flashes teeth. “Feels good in my hand.”
Zoro’s brain shortcircuits and Sanji lunges, Wado tracing a fast, elegant arc toward his shoulder – and Zoro has to snap out of it, crossing Shusui and Kitetsu in a cross to catch the blow. Sparks spit and steel snarls and, up close like this, he can see everything. The sweat at Sanji’s temple. The way his mouth is a little open, breath coming sharp. The wild bright joy in his eye and the careful way his fingers hold Wado, like he knows it matters. Zoro’s heart thuds so hard he nearly chokes on it. He pushes back, grinding their blades together, watching how Sanji leans into it with his weight committed, like he’s thrilled to meet him in force too, not just in fancy airborne bullshit.
“Tell me to stop,” Sanji challenges, low. “Say you want your pretty little sword back and I’ll put her down. We call it. You wash dishes. I drink victory sake for the rest of the year.”
Zoro inhales sharply through his nose, all heat and disbelief. “Not a chance.”
Their faces are close enough that if either of them tilted a fraction – he shoves the thought away, breaking the bind, and comes at Sanji for real, no restraint left anywhere in his system. It’s two blades against one and god knows if anyone else tried this Zoro would cut them down in three moves.
Sanji, though? Sanji makes it a fight.
They crash from rail to mast and back again, swords and feet and breath tangling. Wado snaps and sings in Sanji’s grip, clashing with Shusui and Kitetsu in rhythms that should feel wrong but don’t, not quite. Zoro’s body’s working on instinct, but his mind’s stuck on the visual: Sanji lit by moonlight, Wado in his hand and fire at his heels, meeting him slash for slash. It feels illicit. It feels right. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff in a storm and leaning toward the drop just to see how the wind tastes.
Sanji smirks over the locked blades, breathless and satisfied. “What’s wrong, Moss? You look distracted.”
“Pay attention to your own fight, Curls,” Zoro says, voice low, eyes dragged helplessly from the line of the sword to the line of Sanji’s mouth and back again.
Sanji barks out a laugh that sounds halfway to a gasp. “Then stop flirting with my technique and fight, Moss.”
“Who’s flirting?” Zoro snaps, even as his brain helpfully replays feels good in my hand on a loop.
Wado whistles toward his ribs. He twists, blocks with Shusui, takes the sting of the impact through his shoulder and uses it, shoving back. Kitetsu darts for Sanji’s knee; Sanji hops, boot skimming the blade by inches. They’re too close now for big arcs or named attacks, relying on tight, ugly, beautiful fighting. Knuckles, elbows, feet, the kind of spar that only works because they trust each other not to kill by accident. Sanji loops Wado over in a short, brutal cut meant to smack Kitetsu aside. Zoro lets it, changing angle at the last second; their wrists knock together, slide, stick. For a heartbeat their fingers are almost touching, hilt-to-hilt.
Sanji’s breath ghosts across his cheek. “Careful, Moss, you’re getting predictable.”
Zoro laughs, low and sharp before he drops, literally, knees bending and body folding with a reckless lack of dignity that would make his past masters roar. Sanji’s swing goes high over his head; Zoro’s shoulder slams into Sanji’s gut. He feels the startled oof and hears the clatter as Sanji’s balance pitches.
Wado slips and it’s just instinct, at that point. He rolls with Sanji, not away, one hand leaving Shusui just long enough to snatch for the sword as it falls. The hilt slaps into his palm like it never left as they hit the deck in a tangle of limbs, Sanji half on his back, half twisted, breath punched out. Zoro rides the movement, knee braced between Sanji’s thighs, one hand planted by his shoulder, the other – well.
Wado’s point is at Sanji’s throat and Sanji stares up at him, chest heaving, hair a wild halo on the deck. His gaze flicks from Wado to Zoro’s face and back again and Zoro can feel his own heartbeat in his fingers where they grip the sword. He doesn’t push. The steel just rests there, a promise and a question.
“Fuck,” Sanji says, rough, something like a laugh shoved through a dry throat. His voice is wrecked but there’s no fear in it. There’s something else, though, something that crackles through the tiny strip of air between them and Zoro could end it here. Let the adrenaline bleed off into smugness and gloating and six months of Sanji doing dishes while screaming about injustice.
That was the plan, except Sanji looks obscene like this. Flushed, sweaty, sprawled under him, Wado’s reflection a thin bright line in his eye. His shirt’s half-untucked from the fight, collar skewed just enough to show collarbone and the start of the hollow of his throat. His chest rises and falls too fast, pushing his neck up into the edge of the blade.
Zoro’s hand tightens on Wado’s hilt, knuckles whitening. This is the first time he’s ever had Sanji like this – pinned, caught, still – and every part of him that’s been gnawing on sheer want for the past three fucking years howls in triumph.
“Say it,” Zoro hears himself rasp.
Sanji blinks. “Say what?”
“That I win.”
Sanji’s lip curls, stubborn to the last. “You’re holding a sword to my neck. Bit of a leading question, don’t you think? Besides, technically we both won.”
Zoro’s thumb shifts, pressing a fraction more of Wado’s flat against Sanji’s neck. Not enough to hurt but enough to hold and Sanji’s breath stutters. Zoro watches his throat work, the tiny jump of muscle against steel, watches the way Sanji’s pupils dilate, turning blue almost black. Something in his chest snaps and he tosses Wado to the side, Sanji’s eyes widening, baffled. Before Sanji can get a word out Zoro’s got both hands in Sanji’s shirt and Sanji’s brain clearly doesn’t have time to catch up.
“Oi, what the fuck –”
Zoro kisses him like it’s another kind of fight, one of them swearing into the other’s lips. Zoro hears himself make a sound he doesn’t recognise, something that might count as begging in a different language. For a second Sanji’s pure static under him, hands fisted in Zoro’s sleeves like he doesn’t know whether to shove him off or haul him closer before he surges up into it, mouth opening on a rough exhale that tastes like smoke and salt and everything Zoro’s been doing wanting.His hand flies to Zoro’s nape, fingers tangling hard in green hair, yanking him down like he’s afraid Zoro might change his mind. Zoro’s balance goes, but he doesn’t care – he braces one palm beside Sanji’s head and uses the other to grab a hip, anchoring them both.
Sanji’s lips are soft and wrecking; his kiss is not. He kisses like he fights: all in, no quarter, every motion committed. His tongue drags against Zoro’s with obscene confidence, like he’s been wanting to do this just as long and refuses to pretend otherwise. He nips Zoro’s bottom lip, teeth sharp until Zoro hisses into his mouth, the sound melting into a laugh that never quite forms.
When they break for a fraction of a breath Sanji’s eyes are blown wide, lashes clumped with sweat. His face is flushed, from exertion, from heat, from this. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Yeah,” Zoro agrees and yanks his head back by the hair, just a little, just enough to bare his throat properly, the line of it gleaming in the moonlight, pulse racing under thin skin.
Sanji gasps, the sound sliced off at the top, both hands flying to Zoro’s forearms like he’s suddenly remembered gravity. “Warn me next time,” he manages.
“No.” Zoro leans in to mouth along the edge of his jaw, the angle of his throat. He bites the place where neck meets shoulder and Sanji gives a full-bodied shudder.
Sanji’s answer is a muffled curse that dissolves into a groan, leg hooking behind Zoro’s to drag him closer, slotting their bodies together. The deck’s hard under Zoro’s knees but the rest of him is nothing but heat and friction and the stunned, vicious joy of finally. Sanji arches up into every point of contact like he’s trying to climb him without actually breaking the kiss again, one of his hands abandons Zoro’s hair long enough to yank his shirt up, palm skimming over scarred lines like he’s mapping constellations.
Somewhere to their right, Wado lies on the planks, miraculously unscathed and Zoro remains aware of it in the same way he’s aware of the sea, the stars, the fact that they’re both going to have bruises in interesting places tomorrow, background noise to the primary fact that Sanji’s mouth is under his, hot and willing and swearing into every kiss.
Sanji breaks away long enough to rasp, “You dropped your sword.”
“I know,” Zoro growls, chasing his lips, not willing to give more than an inch of space. “Found something better to hold.”
Sanji stares at him like he’s trying to decide whether to punch him or chew him out or kiss him again. He kisses him again, slower before it turns. Sanji sucks on Zoro’s lower lip and then lets it go with a tiny, obscene sound that goes straight to Zoro’s spine. He makes a noise he’d deny under torture and shoves him harder into the deck, hand slipping under the back of Sanji’s shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin, muscle flexing under his touch like a livewire and Zoro’s world shrinks to the scratch of Sanji’s stubble, the burn of his lungs, the way their bodies keep shifting closer like the laws of physics are optional.
“Zoro,” Sanji manages and it’s a curse and a plea and a statement, all in one.
“Yeah,” Zoro smirks against his mouth. “That’s me.”
Zoro doesn’t know how long they stay like that – seconds, minutes, long enough that his thighs start to burn and his fingers cramp in Sanji’s hair and he still doesn’t want to stop.Eventually, they end up nose-to-nose, breathing like they just went ten rounds with an Admiral, sweat dampening the inches of space between them. Zoro’s hand is still curved around the back of Sanji’s skull, thumb stroking absentmindedly through sweaty hair. Sanji’s fingers are curled in the hem of Zoro’s haramaki like he’s forgotten how to let go.
“So,” he says, voice wrecked. “That’s… a strong reaction… to winning a bet.”
“Priorities,” Zoro murmurs but goes when Sanji pulls him down, willingly and greedily, like he’s been falling in this direction for a long time and just finally stopped fighting gravity.
He doesn’t know what tomorrow looks like. Doesn’t know if Sanji’s going to kick him in the face at breakfast out of sheer mortification, or light a cigarette and pretend nothing happened, or corner him behind the galley door and turn this into round two with teeth. He doesn’t know if the crew’s going to notice or already knows or will just shrug and fold this into the long list of things that make the Straw Hats completely unbearable to anyone with sense.
He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act after he spends a night trying to knock a man’s head off his shoulders and ends up trying to kiss him through the deck instead. For once, though, the not-knowing doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels… like open sea. Like uncharted map. Like a fight he hasn’t finished yet and doesn’t quite want to.
Right now there’s just this: Sanji’s mouth under his, hot and hungry and answering everytime Zoro pushes for more. Sanji’s hands fisted in his shirt like he’s staking a claim. The thud of Zoro’s heartbeat trying to sync to the rhythm of the ship and Wado lying safely at their side, close enough that Zoro can feel its presence like a third heartbeat, silent and steady, not offended in the slightest.
The Sunny rocks lazy beneath them, wood warm through Zoro’s knees, the sea humming low approval around the hull. He drags his mouth from Sanji’s just long enough to breathe and press their foreheads together, the tiniest pause in the middle of the wreckage they’ve made of each other.
“So we both won,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the damp edge of Sanji’s jaw.
Sanji scoffs, breath ghosting against his lips. “Yeah,” he says, fingers tightening in Zoro’s shirt like he’s arguing with himself and losing. “Think I won more, though.”
Zoro’s chest does something reckless and warm but he doesn’t ask what. He just kisses Sanji again, deeper, surer, like a promise he has every intention of seeing through tomorrow, and the day after, and every stupid loud infuriating day they’re both still alive enough to draw steel and shout and come back here afterward to see what else they can steal from each other.
x
me, always complaining about writing fight scenes: but what if i wrote a fight scene........
this is just my interpretation of this pic but i’d looove to hear about others!!!
as one of my 5 best zosan/sanzo writers please share with me YOUR 5 best zosan/sanzo writers and artists 👍
JUST 5?! just FIVE?!!! ok lemme split this up let's do artists first ahhhh!!! ok let’s go the first ones that come to mind!!!
i have to cheat a little and count the whole polycrew as one, otherwise they’d take up about 75% of this list 😭 @softzosan pls draw more i’m begging. i love the way she constructs zoro in particular & it always feel so clean and intentional like every line knows exactly where it’s meant to be??? @lekoppadraws has INSANE FUCKING RANGE & their work makes me want to chew through cables i have it hanging on my wall i’m not even joking. their compositions are always so dynamic & the poses feel so alive & there’s this constant sense of movement!!!! @thedrunkenprophet has such a strong command of space and colour & there’s yhus real skill in how she builds an pic…… i love how she experiments with different visual approaches while still maintaining a cohesive voice?? @ssizzzle’s work is soooo freaking dynamic - there’s always something happening!!! the compositions feel charged, almost kinetic & her sense of character & original design (especially his ocs!!) is just unreallll. @trimmtin makes such striking compositional choices, like there’s something about the way his pieces are arranged that always leaves me a little off-balance in the best way, it’s like the pic has its own lil gravity. @breathing-and-stuff @esotericeribos @authenticallyvintagequeer Y'ALL BETTER DRAW MORE I STG @written-trash YOU TOO I DON'T SEE ENOUGH OF UR ART
@oxygenisachoice draws some of the most beautiful faces i’ve seen. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, but her colour work feels like watching a sunset over the ocean!!! their work is soooo warm & luminous & soooo perfectly balanced.
@noraschweeps feels like opening a storybook you didn’t know u needed tbh, its captivating & almost impossible to look away from & the sheer RANGE of tone & genre hit is genuinely impressive!!!!
@snazzynewton UGGGGH one of the first zosan artists i found & their work still makes my brain shortcircuit in the best possible way!!!! the level of detail paired with that warmth of rendering just does something to me every fucking time, i am feral for it
@makesyouevil HELLO their work is so clean it almost feels unrealll like it could step straight off the screen. the linework is incredibly precise & there’s ALWAYS this strong narrative pull!! every piece feels like a moment i’ve been dropped into midstory ;-;
@therealmichaelsilverleaf has such inventive compositions & posing & band au slaps??? there’s a real sense of creativity not just in execution but in idea also like every piece is built around a concept that’s been pushed as far as it can go!!!!
@mihaven absolutely nails expression & posing & overall atmosphere y’all. the vibes are always immaculateeeee & there’s a kind of emotional immediacy to the work that makes it linger in my lil brain
@official-kneecaps-confiscator either makes me laugh or makes me want to reach through the screen and just fucking bite it. it’s pure delight & feral & playful & surprising & always a bang for ur buck it's a good time
going thru @hackedmotionsensors art feel like rolling down a grassy hill in summer, all bright & joyful & a little dizzying in the best wayyyy. there’s such an ease & warmth to it that’s so infectious!!!
@wellship was one of the first artists i came across & it would be insaneeee not to include them. so so dynamic, with there’s this cosy narrative quality like stopping at a warm lil inn before continuing on a long journey
@cicadaaas is so vibrant and fun & i come back to his tumblr all the damn time just to revisit some of my favs & feel that little burst of joy in my heart again
@potatofu-art omg fantasy au has me in a permanent chokehold every damn day. every new piece feels like an injection of pure energy like this physically fuels my love for zosan in real time!!!
I KNOW I WENT OVER 5 IM SORRY AHHHH PLEASE ALSO GO SEE @draculapizza (i don’t think has drawn zs sorry djdkd BUT so fucking good & fun!!) @gheenue (always makes want to scream into the void) @wtfforged (makes me laugh makes me cry 10/10 no notes) @6lueraft (the shapes the expressions the vibes) @zzoro-yaa (obsessed with the lighting and shadows and how BEAUTIFUL it always looks!!) @wesaier (the yearning the yearning the yearning) @rioberryy(oh my god this is rendering goals the FABRIC and the energy so so good) @arczism (unhinged behaviour from me when i see his art plus also some of my fav frobin) @morgumi (i don’t think has posted zs sorry BUT the zoros and laws are worth it i promise soooo good) @miichiyochin (nooo words can do them justice) @cheekyb4lls (funny as hell, funky fresh) @plutoniumpuddle @(great colour choices & just sheer fun) @rowdymice (i am on my fucking knees for their art side note separate to op they’re one of my fav hq artists too, their oikawa kills me) @viktormaru (duh) @kaffynne (so fun and vibrant!!!) @vidrith (duhhh) @mightbebobbie (got me in a chokehold lately) @cybercaffeine (toooooooo cute) @lavendervulcan (crying in the fucking club every damn time i will never get over how good his art is) @pierogiy (never fails to make me laugh like damn) @marimoagent (seriously so fucking insane, i can’t even handle his art half the time) black-onyx-draws @tony-dreams (so fucking cute & sweet & makes me want to swim laps bc i have too much feral energy over how cute) @penn-dragon (idk what doing crack’s like but I’m pretty sure it feels similar to seeing her art) @leafteaposts (such unique faces i loooove their sanji he feels so so soft in the best way possible) @beanut-buttercup (ohhh my god oh my god oh my god s c r e a m i n g) @ema25cents (I’m going to print their art out and eat it and it’ll be deliciousssss) @bubleous (who hasn’t drawn zs to my knowledge UNFORTUNATELY but their art feels like biting fairy floss where it’s so sweet and lingers on your tongue & in your mouth & heart & soul & has consistently been one of my fav op artists on the planet, so!!!) @wizardolive (i think has only drawn one zs art but it dug into my brain) @o0kawaii0o (GUHHHHHHHHHHHHH) @alienboikyle (his art is sooo good his older sanji is one of my favs POST THE GOTH ZORO ART!!!) AHHHH THERE ARE SO MANYYYY @wigglesdtuff (also not zosan but one of the best robins on the planet the robins here make me want to cry) @s-u-w-i (it makes me feel so calm i love this style omg) @8balldoodles (DUH) @e-chan049 (so fucking cute so fucking cute) @echo-is-bones (rly unique style!) @giuliadrawsstuff (defs not zosan in fact the opposite but listen to me the shapes are SOOOOO good and unique and like a dazzling delight for your eyes) @spacecorps (makes me ferallll) KNELL IDK IF I CAN TAG U HERE SJF but some of the best hands in the biz!!!
why do zs artists feed us so fucking well PLS!!! these are just thru tumblr i can’t even begin to start on bluesky or the gram ahhh there are so many more pls go thru my art tags and just. follow all of them
.....maybe i should make a separate post for general op art bc that's a whole other kettle of fish.....
Would you perhaps write some old married couple zosan, they’d fight over who aged the best (it’s Sanji and Zoro damn well knows it)
old man yaoi it is!!!!! kinda went off-script here but alas :3
x
By the time the dinner rush hits its stride the restaurant’s humming with low laughter and clink of cutlery and the hiss of the espresso machine for way, way too many coffees. Outside the big front windows, the harbour’s gone dark except for streetlights and the smear of neon reflecting off wet pavement.
Pans clatter and oil hisses and someone’s laughing too loud at the bar. The open windows let in sea breeze and world noise and the occasional distant shout from the training yard behind the building, where idiots go to get their dreams corrected by a swordsman in his fifties who should really know better than to still be accepting every challenge.
Sanji flips a snapper one-handed, the skin perfect, all crisp and golden, just shy of burnt. Behind him, the prep team moves in a choreography he drilled into them over years, Petra on veg and Rouse getting their station slammed and grinning anyway. They work around him the way currents work around a rock: smoothly, relentlessly, with the occasional muttered: “Chef, you’re in the way,” that he graciously ignores.
“Order up!” he calls, sliding a plate onto the pass. “Two snapper, one seaweed pasta, one steak, rare… if they blink at it, send it back.”
“Yes, Chef,” choruses the line.
The restaurant smells like heaven and hard work, like garlic and lemon and grilled meat, the faint sharpness of vinega and the underlying clean salt of fish so fresh it might still complain. Out front, the murmur of conversation rises and falls, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the soft scrape of chairs. Sanji looks up and, beyond the swinging kitchen door, catches a glimpse of the dining room: low light, warm wood, sea outside the big windows… and at that corner table, the familiar broad shoulders of an idiot in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, bandana tossed on the chair beside him.
Roronoa Zoro, greatest swordsman in the world, scourge of challengers, current wearer of reading glasses he thinks no-one has noticed because he only puts them on when studying the sake menu.
He’s leaning back, chair tipped just enough to drive Sanji insane from a distance, nursing a drink and talking to the new wide-eyed waiter who’s clearly building up the courage to ask something deeply stupid. As Sanji watches the kid gestures animatedly, miming sword swings, then points at Zoro, then towards the back door, towards the training yard. Zoro sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.
“Ugh!” Sanji scowls aloud.
Everyone jumps. “Chef?”
“Nothing,” Sanji mutters, banging a pan down a little harder than necessary. “Just my idiot husband going to break someone’s heart again.”
Petra grins, feral. “At least he does it outside the restaurant now.”
“Progress,” Loula adds, deadpan.
Sanji plates with extra aggression as Zoro gets up to stretch, sleeves pulling tight over still-solid arms (which Sanji absolutely does not notice) and saunters after the waiter and whatever poor sacrificial lamb is waiting out back.
“Count how many minutes he’s gone,” Sanji grumbles. “If he bleeds on my nice new decking again I’m feeding him dishwater.”
“Chef’s jealous,” Petra stage-whispers.
“Of what?” Sanji snaps. “Of the idiots lining up to get their asses handed to them? Over a title he got years ago? Please. I have standards.”
He does not look at the reflection in the steel bench while he says it and definitely does not notice that his own hair’s tied back at the nape with a dark ribbon now because it’s long and streaked with just enough silver that it falls in waves, that there are fine lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting into kitchen lights and grinning too much, that his jaw’s the same but his expression has mellowed into something that scares customers less and staff more.
He goes to charm the diners and check everything's okay, greeting regulars and newcomers alike until the back door bangs open fifteen minutes later with a gust of sea air and ego. Zoro steps back into the restaurant like he owns the place, hair a little mussed and shirt a little more open at the throat, forearms faintly scuffed. There’s the tiniest smear of blood on his collarbone that is, frankly, illegal.
He looks annoyingly good. Sanji pretends not to notice any of it.
The restaurant catches that detail like a dropped coin: every table within eyeshot goes just a touch quieter. A few necks crane. Someone at the bar actually starts counting under their breath – ten, nine, eight – because they’ve been here before and they know exactly how long the swordsman can walk without his knee giving up. Sanji feels it before he sees it: that wrong hitch, that faintly off rhythm. The same way he can tell when a sauce has caught the barest edge of a burn before anyone else can smell it.
He sighs. “Don’t you dare sit in my dining room like that. You’re gonna depress the customers.”
Zoro heads for the bar anyway, because he has no survival instincts left at all, apparently. “I won.”
“You limped,” Sanji shoots back. “Like a grandpa who missed his nap.”
“I did not limp.”
The entire restaurant, as one, watches his left knee fail a little on the last step up to the bar. A few people hide smiles behind their hands and Sanji arches an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. C’mon Mossy, park it. You’re scaring the furniture.”
Zoro drops onto a bar stool with an involuntary grunt and then immediately pretends he didn’t grunt. “Floor’s uneven.”
He’s trying for nonchalant and it almost works, if you ignore the way he’s sitting carefully, weight angled away from his right leg, shoulders tight in a way that means something hurts and he’s pretending it doesn’t.
Sanji leans in, bracing his hands on the bar, and lowers his voice. “What did you pull?” he asks, and the concern only bleeds into the word pull a little.
Zoro scowls. “Nothing.”
“Hamstring?”
“Fine.”
“Knee?”
“Fine.”
Sanji narrows his eyes. “Back?”
Zoro hesitates for a fraction of a second too long. “It was one swing. Kid ducked weird.”
“You swung weird,” Sanji corrects. “Because you’re old and your joints hate you now.”
A nearby table chuckles. Sanji doesn’t even pretend not to hear it.
Zoro bristles. “I’m not old.”
“You’re making noises when you sit down,” Sanji says. “That’s the cut-off, sweetheart. Once you groan sitting, it’s over. Pack it in. Start buying comfortable shoes.”
“I always groan when I sit down,” Zoro snaps.
The waiter from earlier – the one who came to fetch Zoro for the duel – edges past with a tray of empty plates, trying and failing not to look guilty. Sanji catches him with a stare. “You. How bad did he show off?”
The kid goes pink to the roots of his hair. “I, uh, Chef, he was very… stylish?”
Zoro grins, shameless. “See?”
“And then,” the kid adds, because he’s new and doesn’t realise he should stop talking. “He twisted weird when he blocked that overhead strike and I thought his spine made a noise –”
“It did not,” Zoro says, offended.
“And then he told the challenger he was just warming up and won in like three moves.” The kid looks starry-eyed. “It was really cool.”
Zoro smirks. “You hear that? Cool.”
There’s a flustered scramble in Sanji’s brain at the excitement, visible on his face like a storm trying to decide whether to break. “That’s…” he coughs and tugs at his tie just for something to do. “You’re such an idiot.”
“You married me,” Zoro reminds him.
“Against my better judgment.”
“So whose fault is that?”
Sanji snorts but he’s smiling now, small and crooked, that private one Zoro gets more than anyone. “Still yours,” he says, poking Zoro in the side. “I refuse to take responsibility.”
His knees are kind of aching in that dull way that means he worked sixteen-hour days in his twenties like an idiot and his body took notes. He thinks about how Zoro should look out of place in a restaurant like this but never, ever has. He looks like he owns the floor he walks on.
“Anyway,” Sanji adds, voice dropping a notch, softened by fondness he’d rather eat glass than name. “You know I don’t mind, right? It’s okay to take it a little slower, Moss. We both know you’re old as hell now.”
Zoro snorts. “You planning to trade me in for a newer model?”
Sanji makes a face like he’s bitten citrus pith. “Please. I don’t have the energy to train another man from scratch.”
Zoro gives him a flat look. “Train.”
“Housebreak,” Sanji amends, halo-bright. He’s expecting the usual elbow, the muttered shitty cook. Instead, Zoro’s hand comes up, surprisingly gentle, and catches his wrist mid-gesture, warm. His thumb brushes over the paper-thin skin there, where the veins show pale blue and a pulse beats steady and familiar. Sanji feels it jump when Zoro’s thumb presses down before, in an act of unprovoked romance so casual that it still somehow make Sanji’s brain short-circuit for a second, Zoro lifts his wrist and presses his mouth to it. A slow, deliberate kiss, no teeth, no show, just heat and softness lingering at the fluttering point of his pulse.
For a moment, the restaurant noise blurs around the edges.
“You’re one to talk,” Zoro murmurs against his skin. “You’re the one stealing all the good genes.”
Sanji’s grin is instant, sharp as a filleting knife. “So you admit I’ve aged better?”
Zoro groans. “I admit you spend three hours a day on skincare.”
“Discipline,” Sanji says smugly, slipping his hand free only so he can wag a finger in Zoro’s face. “You could try it sometime.”
“Pass.” Zoro scans the room, eye narrowed with lazy contentment. “I like my wrinkles. Makes me look dangerous.”
“Baby,” Sanji says, patting his cheek. “The apron does all the work.”
He sidesteps a passing waiter with a practiced twist of his hips and glides toward Table Six, where there’s a family of four who’ve become regulars without even seeming to realise it. The older woman in the middle has short grey hair, lipstick perfect, pearls bouncing as she laughs. Sanji remembers her anniversary last month, the way she’d teared up over the bouillabaisse, the generous tip folded under her saucer.
“Everything alright over here?” Sanji asks, voice smooth, turning the charm up just enough to sparkle but not blind.
She lifts her glass and smiles, eyes crinkling. “We were just saying, Chef, it’s very charming watching you two bicker. It keeps the soul youthful.”
Sanji feels his soul leave his body, stage left. He flashes her a dazzling smile anyway, because muscle memory is a hell of a drug. “I apologise for the disturbance, madam,” he purrs. “Dessert’s on the house.”
“Oh, don’t you dare apologise!” She waves him off and her husband nods like he’s been thoroughly entertained by their last five minutes of ambient marital sniping.
As Sanji steps back Zoro’s presence folds into his side like a tide coming in. Not touching, but close enough he can feel the heat of him through the crisp cotton of his shirt.
“We could settle this properly, you know,” he says, low enough only Sanji can hear over the dining room buzz.
Sanji’s pulse trips but he plays dumb anyway, because some habits are forever. “Oh?” He arches an eyebrow. “You want to argue right here, now? Get the entire dining room to vote on who’s aged better?”
Zoro shrugs one shoulder, eye half-lidded and annoyingly fond. “I want a count.”
“Of what, exactly?” Sanji keeps his tone light, but he can feel the ground tilt under his feet in that familiar stupid way it always does when Zoro’s attention locks in like this.
“Number of people who’ve seen you first thing in the morning,” Zoro says like he’s discussing wine pairings. “And still think you’re the hottest thing on the ship.”
Heat punches into Sanji’s cheeks, traitorous and immediate. “That’s a… very small sample size, Mosshead.”
“Exactly.” Zoro smirks. “I’m the specialist here.”
Sanji glares at him but Zoro’s expression doesn’t budge. The anger’s fake, the heat isn’t. His heart’s trying to punch a hole through his ribs and the staff are absolutely listening with both ears while pretending to polish silver.
Then Zoro’s gaze flicks down to his mouth. The room shrinks around that tiny point of focus. “Let’s compare properly.”
Sanji swallows, throat suddenly dry. He glances around and where half the regulars are pretending not to stare with the worst poker faces he’s seen off a card table. The line cook on expo is physically leaning out of the pass to watch. He clears his throat and raises his voice. “Petra, you’re in charge for a bit.”
Petra pokes their head out, grinning like she’s been snapped to attention. “Yes, Chef,” she calls back, chipper and unbothered, the voice of someone who absolutely knows they’re being promoted so her bosses can go make out.
Sanji turns back to Zoro, lips quirking at the edges. “You’re not dragging me out back like some bar brawl. We’re respectable now.”
“Who said anything about dragging?” Zoro asks, tone edging toward a growl. “I’m walking. Proudly.”
“You’re impossible,” Sanji mutters. “You’re insufferable. You snore now, did you know that?”
“You drool,” Zoro counters, without missing a beat.
“I do not.”
“You do when you fall asleep on the sofa.” Zoro’s mouth curves. “Sometimes I have to tilt your head so you don’t drown.”
Sanji’s outrage is half real, half performance, all energy. “Take that back.”
“Make me.”
Oh. Oh, there it is. The spark that’s been there since the Sunny, since knives and swords and stupid bets and bruised ribs and stolen shirts. Softer now, banked under years and trust and joint tax returns but still there, bright and reckless and wanting an excuse.
Sanji scoffs. “Fine. Come on, old man.” He hooks his fingers in the front of Zoro’s shirt and yanks. There’s a chorus of muffled cheers from the kitchen he pretends he doesn’t hear as he steers Zoro through the swinging door with practiced ease, sidestepping a busboy carrying a tray of glasses, nodding to Mattias at the dishpit, ignoring the smirk on Petra’s face as she presents a perfect creme brulee with a flourish of: “I’ll send someone to knock if the building’s on fire.”
“Five minutes,” Sanji warns the room at large.
“Liar,” Petra murmurs.
Sanji kicks the office door shut behind them. The tiny room looks like it always does at the end of a shift: coat hooks overloaded, paperwork stacked in controlled chaos, the small window cracked open to let in a slice of sea air. There’s flour dust on the floor, a spare apron draped over the back of Zoro’s chair, a photo of the old crew on the shelf: Luffy mid-leap, Nami mid-yell, all of them younger and stupider and somehow the same.
“You really wanna claim either of us aged better than the other?” Sanji asks, backing Zoro toward the filing cabinet with light, deliberate pressure. The metal bumps Zoro’s lower back; he doesn’t resist. “You lose your one remaining brain cell?”
Zoro looks him over slowly. Sanji can feel it like a touch: the pause at the silver in his hair at his temples, the laugh lines etched at the corners of his eyes, the scar along his ribs that peeks when his shirt pulls. The flour on his sleeve, the ink smudge on his fingers from signing invoices.
“Yeah,” Zoro says finally. He looks like he means every syllable. “Yeah, I did. But only because I got to watch you do it.”
Sanji’s breath stutters, catching in his chest. It’s ridiculous how one line can still hit like a blow, even after all these years of knowing this idiot is secretly made of poetry and stubbornness in equal parts. “You’re such a sap.”
Then he grabs Zoro’s jaw and kisses him, slotting into place like a sword finding its sheath. Familiar and new every damn time – years of practice behind the first press of lips, years of wanting under the way their mouths open against each other. garettes he thinks Sanji doesn’t smell. Zoro answers with the easy hunger of a man who has nothing to prove to the world and still wants to prove everything to him. His hands come up, one bracing on the cabinet behind him, the other finding Sanji’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to make him feel owned without pinned and Sanji hums into his mouth, satisfied. The filing cabinet rattles and papers slide sideways and Zoro laughs against his lips, short and breathy. Sanji steals the sound with a sharper kiss, teeth catching Zoro’s lower lip in quick retaliation.
Zoro’s answering noise is low and rough, half groan, half there you are.
Sanji keeps it messy on purpose; he likes Zoro a little off-balance, likes the way his grip tightens when Sanji deepens the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste, to tease. Likes that he can feel the exact moment Zoro’s focus shifts from banter to his muscles loosening, mouth going softer, then hungrier.
“Fuck,” Zoro mutters against his lips, hands flexing at his waist.
“Language,” Sanji says, biting the word into his mouth. “Family restaurant.”
“Closed,” Zoro points out, then catches Sanji’s bottom lip between his own, sucking just enough to make Sanji’s knees suggest compromising life choices.
“Almost closed,” Sanji corrects, voice gone rough. He slides his hands up, fingers threading into the streaked hair at the back of Zoro’s head, tugging gently, angling him where he wants him. Zoro follows the pull with embarrassing eagerness for someone who used to posture about being the strong silent type, chasing Sanji’s mouth like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to hunt, the same single-minded intensity he used to reserve for sword forms and impossible promises.
Sanji’s back bumps the desk, edge digging into his hips. A stack of invoices goes sliding to the floor with a soft papery shuffle. The little office fills with the wet sound of kissing, the creak of furniture, their mingled breathing getting rougher.
“Chair,” Zoro mutters, half-shoved into Sanji’s throat.
“Filing cabinet,” Sanji returns, fingers tightening in his hair. “Stay put. I like you where I can reach.” He nips Zoro’s jaw, just below the ear, then follows the line down to his throat, tasting salt and soap and the faint ghost of cologne he pretends not to notice Zoro using on special nights. Zoro’s hand clenches at his waist; his head tips back, throat bared, an invitation Sanji will never, ever get tired of accepting.
“Still think you’re the specialist?” Sanji asks, words ghosting against his pulse.
Zoro’s laugh turns into a hiss when Sanji bites a mark just above his collar. “I know I am,” he says but it’s ruined by the way his breath stutters. “Sample size hasn’t complained yet.”
Sanji pulls back just enough to look at him, at the grey in his hair, the scar across his eye, the stupid, stubborn mouth swollen from kissing. The lines at the corners of his eyes that are as much from laughter as from squinting into the sun. The way he’s looking back, like Sanji is something to devour and something to protect, all tangled together.
Zoro searches his face, something thick and bright moving behind his gaze. “You too,” he says. “Better than alright.”
Inside the little office, with its smell of paper and spices and the salt-heavy breeze sneaking in through the cracked window, two idiots who somehow survived long enough to collect laugh lines and scars and a stupid amount of shared everything lean into each other. Sanji presses their foreheads together, breathing the same air, thumbs smoothing over Zoro’s jaw. Zoro’s hands rest at his waist, fingers splayed, holding him like something precious and perfectly ordinary.
“C’mon,” Sanji says eventually, voice soft but steady. “Back to work, old man. We’ve got a restaurant to close.”
He pulls the door open to the sound of staff wolf-whistling and regulars pretending they weren’t absolutely listening in. Zoro follows him out, shirt a little rumpled, mouth a little swollen, eye bright in that way that makes Sanji’s stupid heart feel twenty again. They step back into the hum of the restaurant together, still bickering, still laughing, still choosing this, each other, this life, this ridiculous, wonderful now.
x
half of me likes to think they retire away to sanji's dream restaurant and live out the rest of their days there and then half of me likes to think about the delicious angst of them realising they want to spend the rest of their lives on completely different paths & how can they possibly reconcile that AHHHHHHHH
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