In a world where Zoro isn't even a person any more can he ever be free or manage to do anything more than just survive? He should have known that he'd be bought eventually but this... isn't what he'd expected. Zosan, updated weekly. All comments, thoughts and wild-mass-guessings welcome!

In a world where everyone has a mark to identify their soulmate, Luffy is born without one. But that’s okay, because the future Pirate King doesn’t have time for boring mushy romance. His nakama, however, are another story.

He knows that it's probably unhealthy to hate follow people on tumblr but THIS GUY, this fucking guy... he's just too much.

No one ever said that pirates fight fair, but if someone bites you in a fight then it's perfectly reasonable to bite them back. Sanji has to learn that life isn't fair and nothing else is either but that bad jokes and falling in love certainly makes unlife worth living. Zosan/Sanzo tw:blood and blood drinking

Sanji doesn't think much will come out of his one-sided crush on the green-haired tiger. After all, he's only seen him a handful of times. At least, until they become roommates.

Sanji's cooking has reached a whole new level. It's almost uncanny. Especially when his thoughts and emotions somehow get into the mix along with the rest of the ingredients.

Zoro is a cambion, which means he feeds on sexual energy. A small crew like the Strawhats, its not normally enough to keep a cambion satisfied, but Sanji happens to be an abnormally sexually driven cook so it usually works out okay for Zoro. At least, it works out alright until Sanji finds out that Zoro's been taking energy from him through his dreams. For Sanji, he's trying to wade through the confusing mess of emotions for a certain marimo after a surprise kiss on the battle feild. It's not easy to do on a normal basis. It certainly isn't any easier when the man he has deeper feelings for is a cambion. Then everyone learns how important it is to keep their local cambion fed, for if they don't, someone might get eaten. literally.

Hamon: From Japanese, lit. 'blade pattern'. The pattern on the steel that characterizes a katana blade, acquired during the folding, forging and tempering process.

Zoro and Sanji are fighting. And that’s not really a surprise, exactly, because Zoro and Sanji are always fighting. But it’s different, this time. This time, it’s not physical, and Sanji isn’t up in Zoro’s face yelling and screaming and calling him names. There’s no swiping of polished katanas against the lithe swing of powerful legs. It’s not physical combat. This time, Sanji’s fighting with silent avoidance and quiet resignation. This time, their entire nakamaship may be on the line. And this time, Zoro doesn’t know how to fight back. OR There’s something wrong with Sanji, but Zoro doesn’t know what it is or why it’s happened – why they’ve suddenly stopped brawling and hating each other left, right and centre. All he knows is that he has to fix it, or this Sanji – the Sanji that’s sunken and tired and so, so sad - may never go away.

It’s like a high when the both of them resonate on that same frequency—two radios spitting static at each other ninety-percent of the time until they find overlap for one, just one, perfectly-played song. The music is brilliant and vibrant when it’s playing. It’s always over faster than Sanji ever wants it to be.

Most days, Sanji considers himself a bundle of neuroses at best. He smokes a reasonable amount to distract himself from the anxious urge to play with his hair or bite at his nails or chew his lips, he wears layers and suits to avoid direct skin-to-skin contact he isn’t prepared for, and most importantly, he never ever looks at his back in the mirror. Usually these things work to keep him intact, to keep him here and sane and passably whole. But some days, they don’t. And that’s when Sanji needs it. Namely—the sex.

“So, we’re gonna play it like that, huh, Cook?” “Oh yeah. We’re gonna play it like that,” Sanji returns, despite having absolutely no fucking clue what Zoro could possibly mean by that. --- Or: The Great Game of Gay Chicken Aboard the Thousand Sunny

“I am not a pretty thing,” Zoro tells him, scratching at her freshly shaved neck. Uneven strands of green hair, just long enough to barely brush the tips of her eyebrows, flop wet and graceless into her face as she turns to scowl at him. “And even if I were a pretty thing,” she adds, “I wouldn’t be yours. I wouldn’t be anyone’s, Cook.” Roronoa Zoro swore an oath that she would become nothing less than the greatest. The fact that she is a woman changes nothing.

They’d arrived at the island of Mae to catch the end of a brutal, bloody conflict between the island natives and a band of thugs from further inland. After helpfully settling the conflict, the townspeople of Mae offer to throw the Strawhats an island-wide party complete with food, dancing, music and free credit at the best brothel their town has to offer. Wherein Sanji smokes a questionable substance prepared by a local devil-fruit user and gets a little bit hornier (and a little bit looser with his inhibitions) than he ever intended to be around a certain swordsman.

Sanji doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, is the thing. Of all the times he has seen Zoro shirtless (in battle, mostly) he just… never noticed. The problem is, once he has noticed, Sanji can’t seem to stop noticing. And neither can anyone else. In which Zoro has a nipple piercing and Sanji has a Problem.

Sanji sees Zoro approach from a long-ways off. His shock of green hair is unmistakable, even in a crowd. Speaking of, the crowd parts around him naturally, like water around a boat. They give him suspicious looks as he passes, and it isn’t until Zoro is within eye-shot that Sanji realizes why. There is a bundle of feathers in his arms. “What the fuck are you holding?” Zoro winces and pulls a face. “Yeah, so, I can explain." The bundle of feathers moves and the dirt-streaked face of a child peers up at him. The jumble of feathers aren’t just feathers, Sanji realizes with a jolt. They’re wings.

Here’s the thing he quietly decided long ago: he will forget his native tongue in favor of common words, and leave the past in the past.

Sanji will just go knock. Appease his own sense of responsibility, get yelled off, and come back to his own bed knowing he tried. It’s the least he owes the frustrating marimo, as crewmates; to at least make sure he’s got options.

Sanji Black, Executive Chef and owner of Le Tout Bleu, successfully defends his restaurant and its customers from aggressive paparazzi one evening with style. A video of the fight goes viral, though, and one of the celebrities in the center of the whole mess develops quite the intense—and public—crush.