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Twenty years later, Luffy stands as the Pirate King, a feat Zoro had never really doubted would happen. He’d never had doubts at all, but living through it is surreal, even now as Zoro lives as a forty-one-year-old man, the world’s greatest swordsman, and domestically married to his beloved—the annoying, irritating, flexible, chivalrous cook who irritatingly stole his heart the moment he caught a glimpse of blond fringe and long legs in that shitty restaurant two decades back.
It’s a strange life. Zoro goes to his dojo every day, training and guiding children with their blades, children who idolize him like all kids do, something Zoro never understood or wanted in the past. But even with his stern looks and strict disciplinary teaching, methods learned from his black sword-wielding mentor, he’s come to love every damn kid who walks into his dojo, inevitably seeing himself in their determined, bloodthirsty faces as they practice against their dummies. He had dreams he hadn’t even known he had beyond claiming his honorable title, dreams that, when they came true, gave him more satisfaction than when his name was actually heard from the heavens.
The cook got what he wanted too. His own restaurant, with ingredients sourced entirely from the All Blue. Zoro remembers when they found it. Sanji had gone still at the sight of the sea, unable to process that he’d actually reached it. Along its edges, where the waters met, stretched fields of rare, unbelievable plant life nurtured by the ocean itself. The blonde could only stare, taking in the reality of it all, the beauty, the fulfillment of a dream he’d carried his entire life.
When the swordsman raised a hand to Sanji’s bangs and tucked them behind his ear so he could see it all better, it was only then that Sanji looked over at his fiancé with more tears than Zoro had ever seen in his eyes—but he was smiling, a rare combination that admittedly moved Zoro more than his own dream coming true. Sanji’s smile, quivering like he was about to bawl, widened before he sprinted straight toward those fields, unable to wait any longer to run through the high grass of rare, unbelievable growth. The cook had been so happy, so radiant, shouting curses at anyone who’d ever doubted him, telling his brothers and father to go to hell, and somewhere in it all wishing Zeff could see him right now. Spinning in the fields, beautiful and alive.
Zoro felt something similar the day when Mihawk yielded on the outskirts of Kuraigana, the taller, older man lowering himself in clear, deliberate surrender. Zoro refused to scar him further and helped him back to his feet instead. They had a quiet meal together afterward at a nearby inn. It was nice, but strange in a way Zoro couldn’t quite put into words. The former pirate hunter found himself at a loss. The victory felt off. Mihawk was just… the same. Calm. Normal. And Zoro couldn’t understand why he looked almost pleased about it, satisfied.
But it hit later, when Sanji welcomed Zoro back to the Thousand Sunny, greeting him as “the world’s greatest swordsman” before pressing a kiss to his lips. Then it felt real. And because Zoro handles his emotions like a normal man, he proposed immediately, right there, dropping to one knee with a makeshift ring torn from his haramaki in front of the rest of the crew.
Sanji cried out every version of yes he could think of, bawling as he shoved his hand forward, urging Zoro to tie the “ring” on him, going on about how much he loved it, loved him, shouting about how perfect it all was. Zoro picked him up, overwhelmed, his cook kicking in excitement in his arms before they started kissing in front of a crew that was definitely too emotional about it.
Luffy and Usopp called dibs on being best man at the same time, but after Zoro set Sanji down and they came down from their tearful, joyous high, Sanji corrected them. Every single one of them, he said. Because they were nakama. Pieces of each other, all tied together, all one. And even if their piracy had softened after finding the One Piece, this wasn’t the end of their adventures. One day they’d reunite as pirates, but for now, it was time to settle into their dreams. It’s what they started this crew for in the first place.
It’s Sunday, Zoro’s favorite day of the week. Not because he’s off—the dojo is always closed on Sundays—but because the cook is too. Sanji leaves the restaurant in the hands of his second-in-command just to match Zoro’s schedule. Whether the swordsman was working or not, Zoro never cared much; he wasn’t a fan of leisure anyway, but things change when you’re married.
They live in a house by the beach, just outside a quiet town on an island where the sea air rolls in constantly and easily. Close enough that Sanji can keep his restaurant supplied with what he needs: those notorious ingredients, or at least the closest thing the world has to it, and close enough that Zoro’s dojo sits within reach, far enough from the noise but still tied to the same small stretch of land they’ve both claimed in their own ways.
The house itself reflects Sanji more than anything. Clean, heavily organized, every surface spotless, every corner maintained with stubborn care. It’s decorated in his aesthetic; cool, chic, and a little dramatic in places that don’t need to be, but always tasteful. Zoro had no say in most of it, and if he had been left entirely to his own devices, the master bedroom would’ve been nothing more than a sword stand and a bench press with not even a mattress.
Instead, the space is filled with elegant furniture. Enough vines and plants before it gets tacky. Vases, small statues, decorative tables, all thoughtful details. And portraits of them together, their wedding, the crew, and the families they each found along the way, Zoro’s included despite his protests—all hung and arranged with intention rather than cluttered sentiment. It’s the kind of home that feels lived in without ever feeling messy. Sanji made sure of that. And tucked away above it all, Zoro has his attic. Quiet and simple, his own space where he can meditate or be alone when he needs it, a small allowance Sanji insisted on giving him without question.
Zoro never says it out loud, but it suits them.
The house aged with them as they got older, fifteen years of breaking it in, every piece serves as a time capsule now. And the couple? Worn in. Zoro, specifically. The swordsman’s scars look softer now, blending into his melanated skin, his moss-colored hair faded into a shade closer to sage. Faint lines have settled into his face without asking, carved in from years of squinting into sun, his resting expression eased in calmer and heavier. The eye he lost sits quiet beneath its scar, the skin there long since healed, while the other watches the world with the same sharpness, just slower to bother. His brows don’t knit as quick as they used to. Even the tension he once carried so easily has worn down too. Looser, lived-in.
His hands are the roughest they’ve ever been, thick with callus and old damage, knuckles broadened, skin split and healed over more times than he could count, as his grip is still dangerous without thinking. When he moves, the triple-gold at his ear still clings together as they dangle, earrings swaying faintly with each step, a habit of motion that hasn’t changed.
Most days, he wakes to an empty house, the cook already gone, and falls into the same routine at the dojo until Sunday comes back around. But every night, there’s Sanji at home waiting for him. Gorgeously aged and ready to greet him with a frying pan to the head for being late and letting the food go cold. Zoro wouldn’t have this life any other way.
Twirly brows set in focus, flipping through letters, golden locks cascading in waves down his shoulders, Sanji stands in their kitchen, leaning against the counter with his legs crossed, eyes scanning addresses and names. Forty-one sits on him easily; there’s a steadier air to him now. Less restless than the man he used to be, but no less sharp.
Breakfast is already set on the table, all of Zoro’s preferences accounted for without fail. Zoro walks in, steps heavy against the tiled floor, slower than he used to be first thing in the morning, ignoring what’s set on the table for him just to press a sleepy kiss into Sanji’s jaw with a grunt, one arm wrapping firmly around his waist. It’s routine, sniffing what today’s scent of cologne is. Fresh citrus touched with a clean musk. Sanji keeps a cigarette between his teeth as he flips through the letters, accepting the affection easily without paying attention to it, even leaning into it without thinking.
The cook’s seriously grown up elegantly, his features sharpened into a look more refined; lines sitting at the corners of his eyes and mouth perfectly, earned rather than worn, doing nothing to dull him. They only make him more striking. His cerulean eyes are still sharp, with one half-obscured by a fall of blond that’s grown longer over the years, wavy and egregiously well-kept, flowing in soft layers around his face, framing it with effortless care that only Sanji could maintain.
Fluffy facial hair lines his chin, neat and well-groomed and his fingers are still slender, deft as ever, but there’s age in them now if you look close—faint lines at the joints, a quiet strength in the way they move, from beating raw meat with a dough roller to turning cookbook pages without crease. His physique hasn’t softened in the slightest. If anything, it’s evolved impressively, looking more controlled with lean muscle held with ease, strong legs built from years of martial arts, balance, and relentless work, all of it carried with the same natural grace.
Sanji’s dressed like he has somewhere to be, like he always does. Modeling a nautically patterned button-up, crisp and fitted, tucked neatly into high-waisted black slacks that sit absurdly high on his hips, tailored to perfection and doing him every favor imaginable. The kind of fit that doesn’t happen by accident. Black heeled dress shoes, buckled at the sides, polished to a shine, catch the light when he moves, completely unnecessary for a quiet Sunday at home.
And he’s still showing off the same perfect ass Zoro’s always worshipped.
Zoro sneaks a squeeze in as he presses a final kiss to Sanji’s cheek before heading to the table, wearing nothing but what’s left from the night before. Loose training pants hang low on his hips, the tie slightly off-center from shifting in his sleep. The fabric’s worn soft with years of use, familiar enough that he doesn’t notice it anymore. His haramaki snug around his middle, a little creased, riding higher on one side where it’s been pushed out of place overnight. He doesn’t fix it.
Bare everywhere else. No shirt, no effort made to find one. He drops into his seat with a grunt, already regretting how he slept with how his back is killing him, a stiffness that lingers longer these days if he’s not careful.
Zoro’s still strong, too strong—enough that he has to watch his grip on things, how he opens doors or holds a glass, or he’ll break something without thinking. Including bruising up the cook during their frequent, rough affection, which Sanji doesn’t mind. But damn, it’s getting too easy for his body to ache in all the wrong ways now. Probably what he gets for sleeping in. Probably what Sanji’s thinking right now, since he never shuts up about Zoro’s habits on their days off, the man an insufferable early riser, though it isn’t lost on the swordsman how the cook lets him sleep anyway.
Sanji sets the rest of the letters aside and finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out in a designated ashtray shaped like an eggplant, something Zoro picked up years ago while wandering a market with the crew, spending his allowance on it because he thought it was funny. The blonde steps over to the table and his chair makes a scraping sound while he sits across from Zoro, setting a cloth on his lap, always too well-mannered when he eats. Even if it’s one of the countless breakfasts he’s shared on an otherwise ordinary day with his husband. A simple band resting at his ring finger reflects small images from the light when it moves, never taken off since the wedding day where he was bestowed with it.
Zoro reaches for his glass, thumb briefly brushing over the ring on his own hand out of habit before he drinks, the motion absent, unconscious.
“You’ve sent that thank-you letter to your sister yet, like I told you?” Sanji asks casually as he eats, acting normal despite nudging Zoro’s leg under the table with his foot like they always do, a habit from their rivalry that stuck long past their twenties.
Zoro grunts in acknowledgment, but it isn’t a yes, just that he heard him as he shovels down his oatmeal, eyes fixed on the plate. “Not my sister,” Zoro finally mutters after swallowing, ignoring the way Sanji rolls his eyes at the response.
“Sister or not, the doilies she crocheted for us were lovely. A really thoughtful gesture. Just thank her, will you? Geez,” Sanji badgers his husband on, neatly pushing his hair aside to keep it from falling into his food. Zoro stays dismissive, though he still leans into the slow, rhythmic brush of Sanji’s shoe against his leg.
Every Sunday morning is like this. They bicker, they pester each other, but it’s never without love underneath. It’s how they like it. Zoro never thought he’d find someone to spend his life with. He’d never even considered it. Crushes weren’t a thing for him, and anyone who threw themselves his way was either a woman he wasn’t interested in or a man too soft, too easy, too unlike Sanji. Sanji is the fight he craves, the contrast, the fire. He makes him feel alive. Even now, still young in a way, because Sanji refuses to slow down. He burns just as brightly as ever, while Zoro’s the one who’s started to settle, whether he likes admitting that or not.
Zoro finishes his breakfast and pushes himself up from the table, walking over to Sanji’s side. The blonde is reading the paper now, eyes moving lazily over a headline about some Marine scandal, cigarette now freshly lit held delicately between his fingers. Zoro crouches to his level and takes Sanji by the chin, pulling his attention toward him. Sanji finally looks up, bored expression still in place, though clearly for show, and Zoro presses a slow, firm kiss to his lips. Sanji lets out the faintest, barely-there pleased sound before Zoro pulls back just slightly, his mouth hovering close.
“Thank you for making breakfast, baby,” the swordsman murmurs. He watches the way Sanji tries not to melt, brows knitting together, cheeks faintly flushed. Always a hopeless romantic. Zoro’s always liked that about him. Treat him sweet, pile on the affection, and Sanji folds every time, whatever argument they were having forgotten. Zoro uses it when he needs to, sure, but he likes being soft with him anyway. Sanji deserves it. More than it. And if Zoro had to move mountains, drag storms from the sky, do the impossible just to make sure the cook never cried again, never felt unloved or unwanted, then he would. No hesitation. It’s a promise he made a long time ago—to Luffy, to Zeff, and to himself. To keep that doubt, that self-hatred, from ever taking hold again.
“Mm. Fine, only because you’ve fixed your tone with me,” Sanji slaps the newspaper down and pushes his chair back roughly to stand upright, wrapping his arms around Zoro’s neck to pull him in, clashing their lips together deeper, arching into him with impeccable stance. Zoro takes claim of those hips at once, dragging him flush against him as they kiss with undying heat.
Zoro was already planning—hand sliding down to take hold of a powerful leg and hook it up over him as he presses Sanji against the dishwasher, a neglected appliance since they still preferred to wash dishes together—but before he can take a thigh, Sanji pulls away and slips from his grip, fixing his hair absentmindedly and flicking his cigarette ash onto a napkin. Cruel. Zoro’s bare chest rises and falls in quiet irritation, mourning the hardness he’d only just begun to get.
“You’ve got a lot of work today to get done out in the yard, so I’m gonna leave you to it,” Sanji says, nonchalant to a fault.
Zoro reacts with genuine surprise, thrown by the sheer audacity. His day off, reduced to more work—on a yard he doesn’t give a shit about. Only Sanji does. Keeps it trimmed and arranged between their crops, their pond, their campfire, and garden—not just maintained, obsessed over. Zoro doesn’t get it.
“Don’t look at me with that stupid face. You know damn well why you have to do this.” Sanji points his cigarette at him accusingly, settling his hip against the fridge.
“I said sorry, cook,” Zoro insists, voice stone and unwavering. “Don’t put your flowers next to my equipment.”
“You—!” Sanji nearly explodes at his husband’s impudence, catching himself just short, hands flying up in exasperation instead. It’s impressive. “It was you that put your equipment next to my flowers. What, that thick skull can’t remember?”
No, Zoro’s thick skull cannot remember.
“And besides,” Sanji continues, settling back against the fridge, suspiciously close to the frying pans hanging above—Zoro clocks that immediately—“you owe me anyway. I had to replant all those flowers myself. Can’t expect my own husband to understand the art of care and growth after dragging his ugly boots through my flower bed like that.”
Zoro crosses his arms and huffs in pissed-off surrender, not entirely sure why he lets a blonde man who wears pants tighter than an octopus’s grip boss him around like this. Stupidly pretty or not.
But he’s going to do it anyway if it means Sanji will drop this whole thing—a topic he hasn’t let go of since the Sunday prior, when he shouted in horror like a wife catching an intruder mid-act, staring down at the crime scene of his fallen flower children that met Zoro’s unaware boots.
“If it makes you shut up,” Zoro finally says, voice gruff and still edged from the kiss, starting toward the hallway. He was going to help with clean-up and dishes but oh well. Now he’s not gonna.
Sanji only grins. Slow and satisfied, blowing smoke as he watches him go with the look he only ever wears when he’s got the upper hand.
Zoro glances back once, eyes dragging over him.
If only Zoro could force that smug off his face right over the kitchen table, but that thought’s ruined the second he remembers the doilies sitting on top of it, made by Perona.
Zoro opens the sliding door and steps into the yard, still barefoot without a second thought, a bag of tools slung over his shoulder as he scans everything—the organization, the sections, the ornate decorations, those damn flowers—and huffs under his breath before dropping to a knee, already bracing his not-so-forgiving joints against the ground as he gets to work.
He’s sweating under the sun almost immediately, irritation building as his sore, bare muscles react to the unforgiving heat. It helps only a little that he’s in shorts now, though the grass he’s clipping still fights him at every pass, and he’s reminded, every time he’s tasked with this, why his hair color draws no appeal.
He’s got a set list of chores: cut and trim the grass, replace the logs around the campfire, drain the bird bath, clean it out, refill it with fresh water—and a handful of other unnecessary tasks besides. Zoro’s certain Sanji made up half of it just to mess with him.
He shakes his head as he pulls at infesting vines over their fence, jaw tightening. Sanji damn near owns him in their marriage.
As Zoro wrestles with the vines, he hears the back door slide open behind him. He keeps working, too irritated to acknowledge it, already knowing exactly who it is. Sanji settles into his peripheral vision, the ice in his glass—some dumb shit like lemonade or iced tea—clinks at every swaying movement of his, maddeningly paired with the sound of his heels clacking against the patio concrete. Soon lowering himself into a lawn chair, legs extending and crossing with ease.
Lord, he’s annoying. Zoro ignores him and keeps going, determined to get this over with.
The yard stretches wide around him, sectioned off with Sanji’s specific precision. Clean stone paths cut between patches of soil, rows of crops lined up too neatly to be natural, herbs separated from vegetables like they’re in some kind of damn display. There’s a small pond with a little waterfall inhabited by Koi and water-lillies off to the side with smooth rocks bordering it, and a campfire pit stacked just right, with decorative lanterns hung where they don’t need to be. Even the grass grows like it’s been given instructions. All so Sanji.
Zoro moves through it with grunts and low growls, hauling stones back into place where they’ve shifted, stacking logs beside the fire pit the way Sanji likes them, spraying pesticides in controlled sweeps over the crops so he doesn’t “ruin the balance” or whatever bullshit the cook says. He yanks at weeds buried deep in the soil, roots stubborn from being watered too well, dirt caking under his nails as he works them free. When he grabs the hose, it’s already tangled around one of the posts, coiled like it’s trying to fight him. He wrestles it loose, only for it to jerk and snap back, spraying him across the chest and stomach, water catching the light as it runs down his skin, leaving his abs glistening.
Zoro clicks his tongue, exasperated, and throws the hose aside before finally looking over because he knows he’s being watched.
The cook watches him through lowered, yellow-tinted sunglasses, glass in hand, swirling it just-so before taking a slow sip. His throat works as he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, a quiet, refreshed sound leaving him just to rub it in that he’s not the one baking under the sun like Zoro is.
Fucking Sanji. That posture is intentional. This is a new low. Lounging there all smug, drinking him in like that, eating up the sight of him and pushing every button he can. It works. It really fucking works.
Zoro refuses to give him the satisfaction. Not when this is so obviously on purpose. He forces himself to keep moving, to stay focused on the work, or he’s going to get dragged into this stupid game and lose.
Though still—even irritated—Zoro allows himself to slip in a flex of his pectoral, subtle, enough to throw something back before grabbing the hose again to water what needs it. He angles the spray properly this time, letting it fall in steady arcs over the rows instead of blasting everything like he wants to. He’s built this body, he can use it. He’s older and still shaped like this, sue him. It doesn’t go unnoticed, as Sanji’s stare doesn’t waver, the slow swirl of his drink picking up just slightly in Zoro’s peripheral.
Zoro moves on. The bird bath’s next.
He shoos off the small blue birds perched along the rim—they scatter in startled flutters—knowing Sanji’s going to hate that. The water’s gone murky from sitting, bits of leaves and feathers floating along the surface. Zoro tips it, dumping it out, then scrubs along the basin with a rough brush, dragging out the grime stuck to the stone. He rinses it clean, adjusts the base when it wobbles unevenly against the ground, then refills it carefully so it doesn’t overflow and make more of a mess he’ll have to deal with later.
It’s more effort than it should be. How much shit did Sanji put on this list? Isn’t this punishment adequate enough?
Their eyes lock—one dark eye piercing one sharp blue, both narrowing in perfect, challenging mirror. Zoro's gaze bores into Sanji's, a silent promise: I know your game, and you won't win. The cook's lips twitch, fueling their competitive spark. His fingers tap a light rhythm against his thigh, the faint tap-tap carrying across the warm patio air.
Zoro's gaze drops, tracking those fingers to long legs—the long, perfect line of them under taut trousers. His cock twitches at the memory surging through him, two nights ago on their couch, Sanji's thighs wrenched apart by Zoro's iron grip. The cook's older body strained against it, muscles quivering in protest, tendons tensing under sweat-slick skin, but yielded without a whimper. Sanji became a drooling wreck, blond hair a sea of gold around his forehead and shoulders, gasps ragged as Zoro thrust deep, relentless, stamina-fueled pistons that ground his cheek against those salty inner thighs every plunge. The taste lingers in Zoro's mind; hot skin, faint salt of exertion, blonde fuzz, and the firm chew of tendon flexing against his teeth.
Fuck, those legs. The most worshippable part of the cook—lithe yet unbreakable, asking to be bitten, licked, marked until Sanji has to yield. Zoro's pulse hammers low in his gut, thighs pressing together against the growing ache in his pants. He wants to cross the patio now, shove Sanji's legs wide again, and bury his face there and tongue-fuck his hole until the brat sobs apologies. But no. Not yet. Sanji does not deserve worship acting like this entitled shit. Zoro's jaw clenches, holding the line, letting the cook stew in his own challenge.
Zoro continues into the next task—fix the sprinklers. He grabs the same bag of tools from before, digging through it with a quiet clink of metal until he gathers what he needs, heading over to where the line of sprinkler heads runs along the yard’s edge, half-buried between trimmed grass and the neat rows of soil Sanji keeps maintained. One of them sits off, tilted wrong where the ground’s softened and shifted from too much water. Zoro drops himself onto the grass with an oof, settling onto his knees, one foot planted to keep his balance as his hands get to work immediately, fingers digging into the damp soil to expose the base before twisting at the head to check the threading.
This is when he feels his husband’s stare more intently on him. Knowing exactly why, Zoro shifts, bending over the sprinkler just a little more than necessary, shoulders rolling as he adjusts his grip, arms flexing with the movement. He plays Sanji’s game right back, showing off without shame, letting muscle pull tight under skin as he works. Flexing it. Because he knows the swordsman’s build makes the cook weak. Always has. One flex of his abs used to make the bastard suffer, even back when they were nineteen and new to their adventures, Sanji pinching his nose like that hid anything. Fortunately for Zoro, that hasn’t changed much at all. He’s gonna get the cook good.
Zoro can catch Sanji shifting a little. He’d bet the legs that were crossed are uncrossed now, Zoro smirks to himself and keeps working with the wrench and the sprinkler. Tightening the loosened base, adjusting the head so it’ll actually rotate right when the water runs. He makes it a point now, every movement purposeful. Flexing through his shoulders, arms, even his back as he leans into it, tensing his older body with ease, knowing exactly which muscles and angles set the cook off. After a bit of that, just as he gets the sprinkler sitting right, he’s pestered again when it starts to leak at the base, a slow, stubborn seep through the dirt. Zoro clicks his tongue and curses under his breath as he pushes himself up to stand, already moving to check what the hell’s wrong with the hose now.
From afar at the faucet, Zoro sees that Sanji indeed has his legs out now, one slid up with the knee bent. The cook's face relaxes, but that sharp blue eye sparks with zero innocence, sunglasses now tucked to hang at his collar, no longer shielding the challenge. A freshly lit cigarette balances between his fingers and the same hand planted firm on his splayed thigh stays unmoving even as Zoro pauses, standing there glaring.
Then Sanji's index finger shifts just enough, inching toward the inner seam, suggestive as hell. Zoro has to fucking look away. Goddamn it enrages him, his cock swelling red-hot and thick in his shorts, matching the flush crawling up his neck. He cranks the hose faucet on, then off, as if that’ll fix the leak with surety, and stomps back to the sprinkler. He throws himself down into the dirt and grips the wrench with petulant force. "Fucking chore boy," he mutters under his breath—not loud enough for words to carry, but Sanji will sense the venom. Trying to seduce me, the idiot.
The on-off trick works, water no longer dribbling from the sprinkler head. But it leaves a muddy slurry around the base, slick and cold under Zoro's palms, turning every twist into a squelching mess. Fucking perfect. These bullshit ass tasks Sanji invented just to punish him over some crushed up daisies—why does he still play along? He glances up, twists his head to glare at the blond sprawled on the patio. Sanji cocks his head, feigning confusion, then smirks, fine lines crinkling daringly around his mouth. He leans his elbow onto the side table and shifts deeper into his basking, legs parting wider. The raised knee dangles off the edge now, and the finger on the flat inner thigh taps once. Sharp, teasing vibration through the fabric before his hand slides higher, obscenely, palm cupping his crotch.
Zoro's nostrils flare, hot breath hissing out. This is just unfair. He yanks his focus back to the sprinkler, tightening the wrench around it—grunt—pulling harder—gruuunt—ignoring the bastard trying his whore tricks from the lounge. Zoro can't stand him sometimes, can't stand how his own body betrays him, cock throbbing to give in. Itching to rip Sanji from that chair, shred those ugly patterns off his skin, and rail him balls-deep against the bird bath he slaved over. The swordsman is lost in his aggression while filthy images flood his skull, his wrench grip turning vicious. The head of the sprinkler is left no choice but to pop free, shooting high over the fence. A low rumble then builds in the pipe—three suspenseful seconds—until water erupts, spraying Zoro from the waist up in icy blasts.
He curses loudly, scrambling to his feet, and heads for the faucet again. His cock pulses relentlessly now, a heavy throb he half-hides with one hand squeezing his bulge through semi-soaked shorts, fabric clinging cold and tight, no damn discipline holding it back where Sanji's concerned.
He does the turning-it-on then turning-it-off method again, puffing heatedly before Zoro tenses a little at the sound of the sliding door opening and closing, only caught off guard by the sound as he’s already on edge with frustration. His shoulders then loosen, finally, relief settling in now since the tension’s been sitting there the minute Sanji stepped outside. He walks back over toward the sprinkler and glances up through the big bay window into their living room, catching Sanji as he passes through before disappearing out of view. Zoro’s eye shifts toward the smaller window over the kitchen sink, the one that gives a clear look inside, and right on cue, Sanji comes back into sight with his cigarette held between his lips as he opens cabinets with both hands occupied, moving around like he owns the place, which he does.
Zoro exhales and gathers his tools, the sprinklers a lost cause now. He’ll move on to the last thing on the list—watering the flowers. A task Zoro still can’t believe Sanji trusted him with, knowing full well the swordsman and those flowers are sworn enemies at this point.
As he tilts the baby pink watering can decorated with little painted flowers, humiliating in every possible way for the world’s strongest swordsman—over the beds that got him into this mess in the first place—he tries not to think about Sanji and how deep he’s got him wrapped around his finger. He moves between the rows carefully despite himself, watering the tulips, the roses, the daisies, the peonies, making sure not to drown them even if part of him wants to out of spite. And still, his mind drifts. Back to the way Sanji had been teasing him, the way he looked doing it. He’s pissed at his husband for this whole game, but fuck, it’s hard not to sing his praises when Zoro’s always been the type to worship what he wants. The cook looks so fucking good. Hot and sexy, stunning and gorgeous, beautiful and pretty. It’s ridiculous. Hard to wrap your head around. Even harder to wrap your head around how the cook still doesn’t see it, seems like not really—not back then, not now. Even though he’s always been beautiful.
Zoro could always tell it was love, not just lust. In the past, even, because of how much he wanted to worship that shitty cook. When Sanji was thinner, all sharp lines and the tiniest waist, that straight bang falling over his face. Then later, leaner in a stronger way, hair a little messier, features more chiseled. And now—beautifully forty-one, now he’s on a whole other level. His radiance goes beyond just how he looks. Other people might see the same Sanji, just a little more settled, but Zoro sees it all. Sees the difference. The way the cook moves through life easier now, like the weight sits lighter on him. He smiles more. Doesn’t tear himself down the same way. The old crying lines are gone, replaced by ones that come from laughter instead, and they stay. Zoro’s job is to keep it that way. To keep those smiles right where they belong. To shut out the self-hatred for good and make sure it never finds its way back. Keep Sanji’s sunlight burning bright for the rest of their lives. Make it a new life-long dream if he has to.
And in addition to Sanji’s glowing beauty, he’s unbelievably sexy—too fucking sexy for his own good. He pretends like he’s still not fully aware of it, but Zoro knows better. He sees it in the way Sanji carries himself, the way he teases like he did today, knowing exactly which expressions, which angles, which subtle movements will get under Zoro’s skin and make him react. He’s learned him too well. Knows what pushes him, what pulls him, how to toe the line just enough to keep things burning without ever letting it go out of control. Sanji’s body is a temple. Toned, maintained, carrying a slight sun-kissed tint from the moments he actually relaxes outdoors—and Zoro wants to drag his mouth across every inch of it, taste it properly, leave nothing untouched, nothing unclaimed.
He loves that cook, even when he’s like this—when he’s deliberately winding him up, looking unfairly good while doing it. Zoro probably should’ve given up earlier, should’ve just taken the loss and fucked the shit out of him right then and there, but that moment’s already passed. Now Sanji’s in the kitchen, moving around as Zoro finishes up in the yard, and the thought alone has Zoro itching to be done, ready to throw Sanji onto their king-size bed the second he steps back inside, and give the cook the most thorough fuck he can dream of regardless of whatever protests his body might have after all this work.
As if on cue, Sanji steps back out again. But this time, instead of returning to the chair he’d been lounging in and using to get under Zoro’s skin for the past half hour, he’s heading straight toward him. He’s carrying a small tray in one hand, dressed now in an apron—the one that reads “Mr Good Lookin Is Cookin”—with a thin trail of cigarette smoke drifting behind him as he walks.
Zoro’s eyes track what Sanji’s brought over. Small portions of onigiri and fruit, neatly arranged on separate plates with no silverware, because Sanji knows better by now than to include anything Zoro wouldn’t use. Alongside it sits a glass of iced tea, homemade, defitinetly unsweetened, exactly how he prefers it. Zoro's lips straighten in approval, though his jaw tightens as Sanji approaches, still carrying himself like nothing happened, like he hasn’t been deliberately pressing every one of Zoro’s buttons all afternoon. And the apron, of course the apron, doing nothing to help.
Sanji stops in front of him, offering the tray with a casualness that feels practiced. “Good, you’re almost done,” he says, glancing over the yard as if he hasn’t been watching Zoro work the entire time. His tone is flat, indifferent, as though he hadn’t just spent the last half hour baiting him from a lawn chair. It’s calculated. Evil.
His gaze shifts then, settling on the flowers Zoro’s been tending. He studies them with that same critical eye, like he’s mentally reviewing every step Zoro took, ready to point out something he did “wrong” if he feels like it. Zoro notices immediately. His fingers tighten around the handle of the watering can, grip firming as the edge from earlier starts to creep back in, the irritation settling in his shoulders again, ready to flare right back up.
The cook has his apron snug around his waist, accentuating his figure and those divine hips, and Zoro doesn’t miss the two buttons undone at the top—yeah, he fucking sees it. What, did Sanji pop them open mid-kitchen while slicing fruit? Splash water down his chest after wrapping seaweed? Chew a strawberry to swell his lips fuller as he stirred the iced tea? Zoro clocks the details that weren’t there before he fetched his snacks, wind brushing from his nose through every observation, heat threading through each one. Trust, he’d notice even amid the yard stress and that damn lawn chair tease. And the blonde did this for what? To get ravished on sight over two buttons?
Zoro traces his gaze down Sanji’s neckline, lingering on fading love bites and bruises that remain from nights past, quiet reminders of their post-dinner fucks scattered across the house. Living room, Sanji’s slender, cooking-worn hand lazily stroking Zoro’s thick cock on the couch during a den den mushi broadcast, thumb dragging pre-cum over the head with all the time in the world. In the shower, Zoro devouring the cook’s pretty cock, swallowing him down while balancing one powerful leg high, steam pounding their skin as Sanji’s moans echo off tile.
In their bedroom, Sanji planted ass-first on Zoro’s face, legs caught in iron arms, muscles tightening as he tries to lift only to be pulled right back down each time Zoro’s tongue swirls deeper into his hole, rim clenching slick and hot. Even in the kitchen, Zoro’s pelvis slapping that perfect ass, rawdogging him bent over the counter, produce scattered mid-chop under a knife as he drives in from behind, both naked save for the apron, strings snapping and swaying with each wet impact while Sanji’s thighs tremble under his grip.
Sanji doesn’t clock Zoro’s cock twitching this time. He seems entirely unaware of his husband’s locked stare-down, fueled by memory flashes, today’s little games, those premeditated gestures, the sluttiest husband imaginable—Instead, Sanji’s rather focused on the tray, inspecting it with careful attention, making sure everything meets his standards. Typical. Zoro’s brows knit, tension building, but he still mutters his gratitude, not like he’s a shitty husband.
“Thanks.”
Sanji ignores him. Satisfied with the assortment, his eye flicks to the peonies, cerulean diamond widening in agitation, ultimately finding something to be mad about. “You’re watering them too long, dumbass,” he nags, gesturing to the flowers like a troubled child’s mother. As if Zoro is just supposed to know this. “It’ll fuck the soil.”
Zoro stays looking at Sanji, expression unreadable, elongating the pause on purpose before tilting the can lower in defiance, increasing the flow.
"Stop. Give me that." Sanji lunges to swap the watering can for the tray, but Zoro yanks it back at the last moment, forcing the cook to hesitate. Sanji pauses, processing the movement.
The cook frowns and reaches again. Zoro responds by lifting the can out of reach, angling it higher overhead. Sanji grunts in frustration.
"Stop it!" Balancing tray and with cigarette in his mouth, Sanji swipes with his free arm again and again with Zoro smirking, evading each attempt with small, effortless steps, foreseeing every swing. The blonde’s irritation mirrors Zoro's earlier torment now, resembling the hot-headed anger felt so intently on that wet mess from the sprinkler. Sanji lunges wider and stumbles forward, jostling Zoro's arm, making it that can's holes sprinkle Sanji's blond waves, causing him to gasp scandalized. His cigarette tumbles from his lips, the ember dying in the grass with a faint sizzle.
"It's not hair wash day, asshole!" Sanji's heel snaps skillfully to Zoro's shin, connecting sharply, but Zoro absorbs it like an old tree stump, staggering back smirking. Sanji rakes damp strands, cursing frizz under his breath, eye flicking furiously at his husband before he regroups.
Biggest mistake. As the cook’s nails graze the can in sudden re-attempt to obtain it, Zoro knocks the tray intentionally, contents scattering on grass accompanied by the sound of Sanji gasping in horror, face flushing in rage.
"How dare you waste my fo—ood!" Cut off mid-stutter, Zoro scoops him bridal-style, flinging the can aside, and drops down with Sanji pinned beneath on the grass. Prickly blades dig into Zoro's knees, cool dampness seeping through Sanji’s shirt. The swordsman doesn't regret the food, he’ll eat it anyway. Grass-touched or not, worse has hit his mouth.
"You ungrateful imbecile—mm!" Sanji wriggles fiercely under him, mouth suddenly covered by a large tan palm. He wrenches it off, refusing to even bite, let alone lick at those dirty fingers. "Get off!" He pushes up, but Zoro's heavier, decades of training proving its worth.
"No. I’ve had enough of your shit, cook." Zoro pins his wrists overhead, halting the claws at his bare chest—half-assed, less intended than the strikes given during a spar. They still do those for fun, old times sake. Zoro’s grin splits when Sanji reddens, long hair fanned out messily, both eyes wide with frustration-laced desire as he looks up at him with such a lovely, angry face.
"Wanna torture me like a slut? Fine, Sanji," Zoro grinds down harder, erections dragging hot through fabric. "Two can play at this game."
Sanji's struggles halt, breath heaving from futile pushes. He huffs in surrender, twirly brows twisted in defeat, mouth gaping breathless on the grass, granting a pretty sight for Zoro.
Zoro grins. It’s his game now. In slow, precise movements, like he’s testing a trained animal to see if it’ll obey, he loosens his grip on one of Sanji’s arms, leaving his hand hovering just above it—ready to catch any defiance before it can even be done. Sanji stays put. Atta cook. Zoro shifts his hand, bringing it up to Sanji’s face to press a finger against those nicely shaped, wet, bitten lips.
“Open,” Zoro commands, and Sanji’s jaw slackens immediately, parting without hesitation even as that sharp glare stays locked on him. Zoro slides his finger past his lips, pressing down along his bottom teeth to open him further before he spits a slow, wet glob into Sanji’s mouth. Sanji shuts his eyes for a brief moment, then reopens them as he swallows, accepting it without breaking that intense eye contact.
This cook’s too hot lying there on the grass like this, mouth wet with the swordsman’s saliva, breath uneven and skin flushed from more than just the sun. This middle-aged man’s gotta get destroyed. Zoro grips the hair at Sanji’s chin and pulls him in, crashing their lips together in a feverish kiss. Sanji meets him just as fiercely, returning the pressure without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as his face tightens in desire, a soft whimper slipping out when Zoro pushes his tongue in. Their tongues twist and slide against each other, adjusting to every angle their positions allow as they deepen the kiss, breath trading between them in quick, heated bursts.
They part with a gasp, breathing heavier now, not any easier than it used to be twenty years ago, and Zoro shifts downward, trailing kisses along Sanji’s chin and neck, deliberately avoiding the areas that would show in the restaurant, working his way lower until he reaches the collarbone, where he lingers and sucks, rebruising over spots that had already begun to fade.
A bite makes Sanji lurch upward, and the sudden movement bumps their erections together. Zoro reacts instantly, grinding down with force, driving the contact deeper and knocking the air clean out of Sanji’s lungs, pulling out a string of aged, broken moans.
Zoro ruts against him harder, all the frustration from earlier funneled into the motion, the rough, tight press of Sanji’s apron grinding against the loose bulge in his shorts. He hisses under his breath at every twitch, every pulse that drags friction through him.
A wetness starts to build—Sanji’s pre-cum, always leaking like that this early, quick and uncontrolled during foreplay, and Zoro fucking loves it every time. Loves how wet the cook gets for him. He pulls back just enough to act on it, ripping the apron free from Sanji’s waist before moving straight to his pants. They’re tight, stubborn, forcing him to work the buttons and fly open rather than simply pulling them down. Sanji shifts his hips to help, a reluctant assist that lets Zoro tug the fabric past his thighs, shoes coming off in the process as the motion drags them free.
Sanji quickly unbuttons his own shirt in tandem, while Zoro hooks his fingers into the waistband of those insufferably tiny briefs and yanks without restraint, pulling them down in one firm motion that drops Sanji’s ass back onto the grass. Zoro catches the brief bounce of his ass cheeks as they settle, noting it without breaking focus.
The cook looks unreal like this—naked, spread out on the grass, hair halo-ed loosely around him, arms still resting above his head as he breathes through his mouth, cheeks flushed a deep red. His eyes fluttering with desire, and his cock already leaking, betraying him completely. It’s a full, unguarded sight. Pure, unmistakable invitation.
Zoro wastes no time stripping out of his own shorts, stepping out of them as they fall from his hips, revealing his thick, hard cock already fully awake and pulsing, red and heavy, having gone commando like he usually does at home. Sanji’s gaze drops immediately, then lifts again, tracking the sight in front of him as he licks his lips, taking in what he’s caused like he didn’t engineer all of this, swallowing hard in anticipation.
The swordsman picks the cook up again like he had before and replaces him directly on top—yup, he’s taking it there—the mass of flowers he’d been watering before, pressing Sanji carelessly against the flower bed. Zoro feels pleased when Sanji immediately reacts in rage, snapping out of his wanton trance.
“My peonies—!” Sanji yelps before Zoro drops on him again, the flowers nudging around them, surrounding them in stems and petals, the floral sweet aroma invading his nostrils and most of his sensations as he reconnects their lips. Making out with the cook sweetly a bit does the trick, Sanji settling down at once and whining into it. He’s gotta give it to the cook: these flowers do smell kinda nice, and Sanji looks ethereal laid out on top of them, whining and moaning at every glide of their bare cocks together as Zoro grinds in between his legs, spreading the slickness around the area.
Sanji’s arms take hold of Zoro’s biceps and squeeze, then firmly grope more muscles he can grab at, feeling them up after every compress, going to cup both Zoro’s pectorals next and squeezing hard there too. As the cook always loves to do.
Zoro pulls back and focuses on Sanji’s stomach, licking down it slowly, showing love to Sanji’s love handles and the V of his pelvis where blonde hair starts at the cook’s belly button and trails down to neatly groomed hair above his pretty dick. Zoro continues to lick down along skin and hair, arriving at the stem of Sanji’s cock and licking alongside it.
Zoro’s been absolutely thirsty all morning; he kisses his dick, giving it the most attention around it, but he doesn't grant Sanji satisfaction by engulfing it. Zoro instead grips two thighs and manhandles Sanji’s hips to be raised up, causing a yelp from the blonde as his feet meet either side of his head, laying with his back risen over the flowers, his body completely bent in half.
Zoro parts his cheeks and squeezes both of them, groping the muscle, feeling it up there, then licks a long wet stripe from his hole to the tip of his cock, making Sanji’s legs tremble and squirm from the simple action. “Fuck, baby,” Sanji sighs. Zoro does it again, pressing his tongue harder, challenging that he can do it better a second time. He has; Sanji’s whining beautifully from it. Music to the swordsman’s ears.
It doesn’t take long before Zoro goes to town on Sanji’s pink, puckered hole, it clenching under the wrath of Zoro’s warm tongue and lips, kissed and caressed with slickness, Zoro eating his ass feral. Zoro groans with passion as he massages Sanji’s cheeks like stress balls, lapping at his hole and nudging his tongue in from time to time, punishingly slapping his ass whenever the cook reacts keenly to it.
The poor cook has his whole body below his upper back in the air, undoubtedly incredibly strained from the position at this point—good, he pays the price for his cheating games. Zoro fucks his tongue in without mercy, his starved moans vibrating dizziness into the blonde.
“Shouldn’t have done all that, curls,” Zoro pants out, voice hoarse from the craze once he pulls off from his ass, not resisting licking one more stripe on his hole before dropping the blonde’s body. Sanji lays flat against the flowers with a soft grunt, the petals softening the fall.
“You won’t ever step into this yard again without feeling the absence of my cock in your slutty ass after I put you in your place for acting like a brat over on that chair.” A chuckle. “Making me fucking suffer… I’m gonna give it to you good.”
Sanji doesn’t react in anger this time; he smirks, giving up the act, allowing himself to be caught out. “I was just trying to make sure you weren’t making a wreck out of my yard…”
The cook slides a leg up, just as he did when he was teasing him in the chair, sliding it provocatively as he watches him through the mess of his hair, a divine entity on the flowers. Zoro’s never doubted the royal lineage; Sanji looks like a true prince.
“Besides, it’s not like you weren’t already riled up from this morning anyway. You’re no better, you pervert.”
“Sure. I’m the pervert,” Zoro responds sarcastically, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath for a minute, his state of body calling for it.
It’s honestly great that they can have sex like this even after twenty years. Fun, filled with passion and edge, having fucked back then like desperate dogs every chance they got in between intervals of their pirate duties in their crew, sneaking off anywhere they could get a quickie in—there wasn’t much privacy on the Going Merry.
The Thousand Sunny had been better, more rooms and more locks for them to mess around, but there were also more people around which made it difficult to avoid being heard or noticed.
That hasn’t been a worry since they reunited in Sabaody Archipelago, their relationship slowly becoming more serious than their frustrating unlabeled, undefined relationship they had before, eventually taking it officially and seriously when love was strainedly and passionately admitted amidst the incident on Whole Cake Island. Then the crew knew what they had, and Zoro and Sanji fucked all to their liking in peace without the worry of exposure.
And married, they can fuck even more without limits, jobs not even stopping them. They fuck in between hours, sleepy morning sex before work or tender lovemaking at night before bed. Sometimes on their breaks, they meet in each other’s offices for a little fun, their youthful adrenaline and sex drive never faltering. They stay just as crazy about each other, attraction never dying, fire never blowing out.
Zoro’s eyes scan over Sanji for a moment, silently taking him in with an expressionless face, then he reaches for Sanji’s discarded trousers that lay at the foot of the flower bed, suspecting it holds what he needs. Like clockwork, a mini tube of coconut oil tucked deep into the back pocket on the left; Zoro brings the glass up almost like he’s trying to shame Sanji about its existence, knowing damn well it’s a ploy he planned while making him an ‘innocent’ snack in the kitchen. Sanji looks away from the confrontation, already having looked away the moment Zoro reached for his pants, feigning the accusation bashfully, trying to pretend like he hadn’t done anything when his blush and guilty air say otherwise.
“Can’t say you’ve ever bored me, blondie,” Zoro speaks as he pops the cork off the bottle and sticks two large fingers in, coating them generously. “Sometimes I ask what I even did to get here, but here we are.” He continues.
Sanji lifts his legs for Zoro without having to have it done for him this time, offering his entrance. Zoro parts his slick fingers to rub one around Sanji’s still-wet hole, eventually slipping it in.
Sanji opens his mouth to respond but gasps at the intrusion, done in ecstasy. “Consider yourself lucky,” the blonde manages, panting as Zoro fucks his middle finger into him profusely. “I’m keeping you from being an old miserable bastard who yells at kids to get off his lawn; I’m doing you a favor.”
Zoro snorts, slipping another finger and relishing the sound it brings out of Sanji. “I just keep you around for your looks,” he lies, teasing.
“You and me both, pal,” Sanji lies, teasing too, smirking ambitiously. He arches his back into the piles of flowers, pushing into Zoro’s fingers, smile widening in pleasure while he shuts his eyes, keening a beautiful sight to the swordsman. He jolts when Zoro’s fingers graze a certain spot inside him, making him keen harder and thrust his cruelly neglected cock in the air, soon rendered speechless from being fingered by his husband. Just unbelievably hot.
Already pushed over the edge by his husband’s sinful reactions, Zoro withdraws his fingers and retrieves the little bottle, this time emptying the whole thing into his palm and tossing the vial somewhere.
He slicks his cock feverishly, anxious to get into the cook, stroking his cock well with the substance before sliding it between Sanji’s asscheeks. Sanji takes the top of both of his legs and pulls them apart further for him, obedient despite trying to be defiant, keeping them wide and apart and out of the way, just like Zoro always likes it.
He drags his cock teasingly around his hole, frotting it against his cock and hole with no clear aim or purpose, then the head of his cock pushes in, never failing to set the blonde off. Sanji whines as Zoro pushes his cock in deeper, it pulsating around tight walls that never change in feeling, pushing in against every clench. Zoro groans hard at the sensation; there’s still a little bit more to go before he’s fully in, then he bottoms out completely. Pelvis flush against Sanji’s ass.
The blonde already looks fucked out, dizzy, beautiful. Zoro tucks blonde locks away from the blonde’s face to get a good look in, before straightening his posture and taking Sanji’s right leg, hooking it over his shoulder. The left leg he wraps around his waist, the cook obliging with the position he’s put in. The swordsman then starts to thrust, building it up slowly to create a rhythm, focused, maintaining eye contact with his husband, who contrasts his self-containment with his flushed state, eyelashes fluttering quickly at every hard, stoic thrust, wrecked the more Zoro’s thrusts quicken.
Zoro slams into Sanji, grunting through this quicker pace, the swordsman more out of breath than he had been working on the yard, fucking the cook good into the peonies. Fuck, this feels good—always does.
Back then, when Sanji was smaller and so easy to pin down but more energized to scramble and let Zoro chase him for a fun primal-play fuck, to now not as small but still easy to ruin and fuck obedience into. Zoro fucks all that spoiled behavior from today out of him. Shit, Sanji’s moans sound so beautiful, like an angel’s chorus, moaning Zoro’s name and begging that he fuck him harder—faster, his hands gripping at the swordsman’s sides to pull him deeper even if that weren’t possible.
Zoro falls forward on purpose, chest to chest as he buries his cock into Sanji, neck to neck with Sanji’s legs still positioned as they are, the leg he has over Zoro’s shoulder raised over next to Sanji’s head, impressively withstanding it without paying any attention to it. It gives Zoro a better anchor to push into that spot; a loud choking sound signals to the swordsman that he finds it, easy to find after all these years of fucking him, and he rams into his prostate in the way he knows will wreck the other.
Sanji cries from the act, his toes curling in the air where he has his leg up. He’s still so fucking strong, still so pretty, laying there around the crown of flowers breaking from their stems and decorating around Sanji’s face like an art piece while he takes Zoro’s punishing cock. Zoro really loves him. God, he could never stop loving him. He’s in on this forever.
The swordsman’s hand comes up to Sanji’s hair, raking through the waves and taking hold, but not gripping tight or pulling. He stopped doing that when it grew out longer, never feeling the need or desire to be rough with it anymore—just the opposite. He always wants to protect his hair, brushing through it with rough fingers in isolation and admiration, now as he peppers kisses all over Sanji’s shoulder like praises, the cook melting under the loving actions more.
Each thrust and intense passion sends signals to the swordsman’s cock for orgasm, losing the rhythm gradually as he feels the cook squeeze, warning him that he’s close too. Zoro pushes in deeper, shoving Sanji more into the flowers. The smell of sex and pollen overrides sensations, sending them both into a frenzy. The couple’s lips connect, more desperately this time.
“I love you,” Sanji sighs in ecstasy after their lips separate, the darts in his brow furrowing upwards, the tell-tale sign that he’s seconds away from coming. “Marimo,” the blonde connects their lips again with a peck, trying desperately to stimulate his untouched cock between their stomachs, grinding upwards onto Zoro’s abs.
It’s Zoro’s turn to moan, low, thrusts about to get sloppy as he’s about to come too, hand in his love’s hair and his other holding down the leg. He chooses that the leg be given up so that he can cup Sanji’s cheek with his palm, making the cook’s mouth quiver from the affection.
“Love you too, cook,” Zoro sighs into his husband's shoulder, reaching his edge, blood rushing. “Just come, baby. Do that for me."
Sanji’s eyes bat shut as he obeys, spilling in ropes between them just as soon as he feels the wet warmth of Zoro’s load breed him, mouth opening wide soundlessly undergoing a powerful orgasm. Zoro deals with his own by pushing his face into the other’s shoulder, sticking his nose into the blonde hair, smelling the conditioner scent he secretly adores, still potent even around a garden of flowers.
They lie there, breathing for a moment as they catch their high. Zoro’s weight is distributed onto Sanji, who can handle it, bringing his hands up to caress Zoro’s strong back, tracing along every defined line with his fingers, affectionately mapping out each tensing muscle that twitches from the light tickle. Sanji chuckles faintly at the reaction, amused by how something so simple still gets to him. Zoro gets up then, feeling sore and tense from all that, absolutely older no doubt, and helps his beloved up too, taking his hand and bringing him to his feet, kissing the ring on the cook’s finger now as they stand together, the cook’s face left dazed and dreamily softened by it.
The imprint of their bodies remains on the bed of flowers, tracing what they’d done like a crime scene. Sanji doesn’t look at it in horror this time as he typically would, instead observing their damage like it’s inevitable, accepting it with a quiet sigh before turning to collect his clothing, digging into his pants for his box of cigarettes, his post-fuck smoking habit still intact after all these years, as steady and routine as ever.
Zoro smirks smugly to himself unnoticed by the blonde, realizing now that he had won their game. He goes to find his shorts obscured over the discarded apron and tugs them back on, turning again toward Sanji who’s already clothed now, lighting his cigarette with a lighter designed with a dog with heart eyes on it—a gift from Zoro that he found funny at the time and thought of the cook when he saw it.
As the cook bends over, trying to collect the plates scattered across the ground, Zoro removes Sanji’s hands from picking anything up and does it himself instead, gathering every single slice of fruit and grain of rice thrown onto the grass because of him, insisting through action that he’ll handle it. Sanji accepts the gesture fondly, leaning in to kiss the swordsman on the cheek and scratching behind his ear the way he likes it, the swordsman without fail reacting to it, clearly pleased by the familiar gesture.
“Braised beef short ribs or Seafood Bouillabaisse tonight, my dear?” Sanji asks between smoke puffs, continuing his gentle caress behind his husband’s ear, thumb grazing his earrings and the rest of his fingers lingering behind there as Zoro leans into the touch while stacking the plates and the cup together. Without thinking much about it, the swordsman gives his answer, his voice steady with surety.
“Seafood Bouillabaisse,” he responds, always the same answer, now standing, his mess fully accounted for.
Sanji snorts softly, taking a slow drag of his cigarette, then lowers it from his mouth and leans in to kiss him properly, slipping tongue first. It’s brief, but it lingers with warmth. A casual yet profound weight—still spicy, still tender, the kind of kiss that used to belong to the honeymoon days, anniversaries, and every quiet moment in between.
Twenty years later, right now, Roronoa Zoro lives as a forty-one-year-old man, the world’s greatest swordsman, and domestically married to his beloved—an even greater feat than his name being heard from the heavens.