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batchilla · 2 months ago

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Your new partner is Grayson.

He’s a weird guy.

Not necessarily a bad guy, but a weird one.

He’s not cold, in fact he’s rather friendly. However, when you really consider it, he volunteered very little information on his personal life. Reasonable, you suppose. So long as he has your back in the field and gets his reports done, you don’t need to be best friends.

Your new partner Grayson is a recent Gotham transplant. You’d never personally been, but you weren’t oblivious to how utterly mad the city was. You could hardly blame him for getting out.

Your new partner Grayson, tenses up whenever someone mentions the Batman, or any of the nutcases he fights. You don’t pry.

You do your own research.

Your new partner Grayson watched his parents die. He’d been taken in by Gotham’s favourite son, a man he seemed reluctant to speak of. He’d had, and lost a brother, to the most deranged man Gotham, if not the world, had ever known.

You stop mentioning Gotham around him after that.

Your new partner Grayson is a weird guy, who seems constantly surprised whenever you demonstrate competency.

At first you’d suspected sexism. It wouldn’t have been your first partner to have that failing.

After a few days though, you catch him being equally surprised when officer Jackson makes a connection on a string of breaking and entries, and realise that perhaps he’s just not used to the cops not being utterly reliant on a very scary angsty furry and a small child without pants.

Your new partner, Grayson, is a weird guy, who disappears sometimes. Middle of a chase he’ll be gone, and you won’t see him again for sometimes as long as hours, before he’s back. More often than not, somehow through some insane luck, the perp will have been taken down by Bludhaven’s new vigilante, and tied to a lamppost for you to find. You both hated and envied his luck.

Your new partner Grayson was a weird guy… and he was a damn good cop.

He made connections like no one else. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. You’d asked him once, about how he seemed to know all he did. How he seemed to have access to a whole other database of clues you just couldn’t see.

And he’d smiled that cheeky smile of his, and told you he’d been consulting an oracle.

Your new partner, Grayson, moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You’d initially attributed it to his past as an acrobat. The way he could simply parkour over and around anything in his way, run faster then he had any right to, chase down a perp like a bloodhound.

It was more than that though. You’d say without hesitation that if you were in a firefight, he’s who you’d want at your side. You must’ve owed him your life three times over by now. Even in those situations though, when no one would have blamed him for the use of lethal force, he never had.

You’d been pinned down by a smuggling ring. You, Grayson, and ten of them - all armed to the teeth.

He’d been incredible. Superhuman, almost.

Someone had shot out the lights. He’d told you one of the smugglers must have missed. You’d never once believed him.

Ten smugglers. You’d managed to knock out and cuff one, unwilling to risk taking a shot blind.

The other nine? Those had been your partner. He had them unconscious in a heap by the time your eyes had adjusted.

No bullet wounds. He’d done it hand to hand.

You didn’t know exactly what he was hiding, but you knew he was hiding something. You decided not to call him out on it. Not as long as you trusted that whatever he was using his … inexplicable skills for was good.

And trust you did.

Grayson was a good man. Even knowing little about him

Which was why this betrayal hurt so badly.

“Say again?”

You’d sat in relative silence in an unmarked police car for about half an hour on a stakeout, and Richard Grayson had just said the worst sentence you’d ever heard. You’d never been so utterly horrified.

“Peeps popcorn.” He says, holding up the tupperware containing an atrocious biohazard, grinning from ear to ear.

“One more time please?” you fight to keep up your faked anger, but fail in the face of that fucking smile.

Honestly, it should be some sort of crime to smile like that. Like everything would work out in the end, so long as you could keep him smiling at you.

“Peeps. Popcorn.” He says it a third time. He’s trying and failing not to laugh at her, at the way her mouth twists and flails to maintain a frown.

He was tempted to tell her it was in vain. He’d broken Batman, and he’d make her smile too.

Honestly, she had such a pretty smile. Not that he’d say that, she was his partner, and they needed to keep things professional.

“It’s my turn to provide stakeout snacks, and so,” he lifts the lid of the peeps popcorn balls.

“Peeps popcorn.”

She rolls her eyes, and looks out the window of the passenger side. But she’s smiling. “It is one of life’s great injustices,” she huffs “that you can eat like that and maintain your… impressive physique.”

Dick feels his chest puff out a little. While he had been able to tell all along that she had a crush on him, but he’d never risk acting on it. Still, it felt nice to be complemented by her.

“Seriously, do you clock off and just do the ninja warrior course all night or something?” She muses, her head against the window, looking at him out of the side of her eye.

“Not exactly,” he replies, sitting back in his seat, bringing his foot up onto the cushion. “Try one.” he presses, poking her side with the container.

She takes one, rolling her eyes and nibbles at the neon cluster of popcorn.

“No. no.” she gags, “oh that's nasty. Oh, it's so sweet. Why? Why Grayson. Why would you do this to me?” she asks, setting the sticky concoction on the divider between their seats.

Dick just laughs “I am determined to make you a peeps convert.”

“Never, regular marshmallows are fine.”

“Peeps are rainbow.”

“How old are you?”

“There is no age too old to enjoy whimsy, Detective.” he responds, biting into his own.

“Besides, are you implying that rainbow marshmallows are irregular? In this day and age? Tut tut.”

“We are not making me out to be a homophobe over peeps!” she protests, still laughing, slightly taken aback at the audacity.

“If you say so.” he says, stretching his arms over his head and into the backseat. Stakeouts were terrible. He was not built to sit still in a confined space for hours at a time. However, this one provided a useful opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

Not to torment her with his war of attrition for peeps supremacy - though that was fun.

He needed to be sure of something else.

“Well. You being wrong about peeps aside. I … wanted to check back on a file from a few months ago. You uh… you didn’t move the Holt murder file, did you?”

“Holt.” she clicks her tongue in thought “the guy with…” she gestures to her chest.

“That's the guy.”

“Not knowingly. I haven’t had cause to reopen it. No new leads. I tried to track down the kid… He didn’t want a bar for me. Guess I can’t blame him. I offered the help I could… but well… the last time someone helped him his dad got brutally murdered. He’s staying in the tent city by the docks, best I can figure.” She seems to feel guilty as soon as she says it, but Dick doesn’t blame her.

He had paid for that room. If he hadn’t… who knows what might have happened?

“But if someone moved it?” he prompts, not wanting to dwell on that gnawing guilt.

“Wasn’t me.”

Your new partner, Grayson, was a weird guy who ate strange and terrible foods.

He blames himself for what happened to poor Mr Holt. Because he was good to the core, and somehow that had led to something utterly twisted.

He’s also standing on your balcony. On the 20th floor.

And it all makes sense now.

Your apartment isn’t particularly nice. It was small, and frequently disorganised. Especially when you got overly invested in a case.

You’d been texted many gifs of the conspiracy board meme by friends over the years.

Work life balance? Not something you’d ever seen much value in.

And now, your unfairly attractive new partner Grayson was in your apartment, in full vigilante getup.

You need to find a way to be normal about that in ten seconds or less, because he’s staring at you, and you're staring at him, and it's starting to get awkward.

“Hello.” you eek out.

He greets you as Detective, followed by your first and last name.

Unusually formal, for him. Unless… unless he somehow thinks a few inches of fabric in the shape of a wingding is going to fool you.

Unless he thinks he’s got you hoodwinked.

“Nightwing… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He leans in the doorframe, his hands braced against its top, so he is leaning into your space without touching you, and giving you plenty of ability to step back if you so chose. You don’t.

“I have reason to suspect there’s a serial killer moving though Bludhaven. And that whoever they are, they have someone in your precinct on the payroll.”

You fold your arms, bristling.

“Not sure I appreciate the accusation.” Sure, the bludhaven police department was ridiculously corrupted. But you’d hope that your partner would have at least the trust in you not to think you’d help a serial killer.

“No accusation.” he reassures “a request for help. I need someone I can trust inside the department. And my source says that’s you, sherlock.”

His source? Was he kidding?

No. No he wasn’t.

Oh this was madness.

This was hysterical.

He really, truly thinks that you can’t know him outside of his streetwear. And he’s trying to pass it off like he doesn’t know himself either.

Perhaps you should tell him you know.

But… Grayson and his peeps tomfoolery isn’t the only one who can have fun.

“So… you’re asking me to… what, exactly?” You prompt, unfolding your arms, willing to give him a chance.

Nightwing offers you a smile. It’s slightly different from Richard Graysons.

It’s just as sunny, and it makes you feel just as warm and fuzzy and giggly inside. You have to fight even harder to stop yourself blushing, given how much less this getup leaves to the imagination then his usual dress pants, shirt and tie.

But it’s a little more … brazzen. Flirtatious. More… cocky. Sure, He was always at least a bit of a show off, but as nightwing? He was one of the most capable, incredible people alive, and he wasn’t shy about it.

Oh, you were doomed. But that was a problem for later.

“I’m asking you to keep an eye on the ‘heartless’ case. Holt… he’s not the only one and I think there’s going to be more. And, to be blunt?”

He stands up straight, and puts an arm on your shoulder.

“It’s a big request. But you might be the only person in that station who I have real confidence in.”

You wonder what that says about his relationship with himself, but like so many things with Richard, you don’t ask.

“I can do that.”

“And I understand that it’s dange— I’m sorry, did you just agree?” he cuts himself off, staring at you.

You laugh then, just the once.

You owed him your life many times over as his partner. But as nightwing?

Since he’d come on the scene, you’d actually felt like something mattered. Like change could happen.

Like someone was willing to help the people of Bludhaven not to reap a profit, but because the system you’d once hoped to help restore was broken at its very core, and restoration wasn’t the solution - reformation and fundamental change was. And you didn’t know how to do that.

But then Nightwing had come onto the scene, and started kicking the asses of the worst of the worst, and you had felt like you had when you’d joined the force, bright eyed, bushy tailed, and determined to make a difference.

Before the incident. And every other day, when you’d felt that optimism slowly being crushed to death, into a fine powder and blown away in the wind.

“Yeah.” you say, and agreeing to help is one of the best feelings in the world. You get to help. To make a real difference.

“Bludhaven owes you a hell of a lot, Nightwing… seems like the least I can do is tell you if anything weird comes up.”

“Right. Thank you.” he clearly wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he’d thought it would be a harder sell.

“If I do… have anything for you, how should I alert you?”

He passes you a wingding. “Put this in your window. I’ll check in every few days.”

You raise an eyebrow “all your fancy tech and you don’t have a phone”

He shrugs “phones are traceable. Plausibly just something you picked up on a case as a trinket that you ‘forgot’ to log in evidence left on a windowsill? Lot harder to trace.”

“Fair.” you acknowledge.

“Besides.” he steps backwards onto your balcony once more “your place is on one of my main patrol routes. Can’t let anything happen to the best looking detective Blud’s got.”

You scoff, without any real offence. You know he’s only playing, and that he does, as Richard, respect your intellect more then your appearance - but you suppose as ‘nightwing’ he doesn’t know you that well.

“I think you mean best detective full stop.” you respond, and he gives a small bow of playful deference.

“But of course, sherlock.”

And then he’s gone.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You felt so stupid. He’s nightwing. He’s been nightwing the whole time.

The skills. The disappearing. The way he seemed to just… know things.

The way he tensed whenever someone mentioned Gotham.

… the timing of Robin reportedly becoming a child again.

Had your new partner, Grayson, been Robin?

Had he been using the Batman's archives to solve cases? Was that his so called oracle?

… wait.

Was Bruce Wayne the FUCKING BATMAN?

You screamed into your pillow. You were laying awake, face down in your bed, because now you had realised far too many things in one night.

The first: Your new partner is Nightwing.

The second: Bruce Wayne might be Batman.

The third: you, enchanted by that fucking perfect smile, had agreed to help track down a serial killer stealing hearts.

The fourth: Your new partner, Richard Grayson, between his stupid snacks, the Alfred Pennyworth foundation he’s been working to get off the ground, and his work as Nightwing, will save Bludhaven, you know it to your core.

And the fifth. The worst, and scariest part of your night: You may very well have fallen in love with him.

Chapter two

If you read this far, reblog?

Divider credit: @strangergraphics

Tag list:

@jasontoddproblems

@sunnie-angel

@stormz369

First time writing Dick! Feedback is welcome.

#dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #dc x reader #detective reader #a tentitive part one #idk what to call this series yet #or if it’ll be more then three chapters #but here goes #reblog fics

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asliceofzosan · 1 year ago

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in which Zoro takes the blame for not paying for the food at the Baratie (sequel to Sanji witnessing the riceball incident in Shells Town)

Ribeye steaks piled one on top of the other, a massive helping of mashed potatoes with boatloads of gravy, salads, soups, and fancy dishes with names Zoro can't pronounce — all made up the massively long order list that he knows Luffy has not a single Berry to his name to pay with.

Zoro looks around the place, tuning out the story of the giant goldfish that Usopp has told them before, his eyes resting on the blonde waiter flitting about and flirting with every woman at every table.

Sanji was his name. Zoro didn't recognize it. But when he arrived to their table and saw Zoro, it looked like their resident waiter recognized him. Zoro's reputation in the East Blue is not a laughing matter, so it didn't bother him at first. But the way Sanji stared at him, wide blue eyes and with a touch of a smile on his lips, told Zoro that there's something a lot more than recognition swimming in that man's head.

He can't put a finger on what it is exactly though. It's driving him crazy.

"Waiter, can I get a beer and something for my friends?"

Sanji turns to him and nearly steps back in shock. Zoro quirks an eyebrow, confused and a little annoyed. He wore his best clothes today (Captain's orders). And he's pretty sure he even took his mandatory once-a-week bath before they went inside (Nami's orders). Still the waiter looked at him like Zoro had grown a second head. Like he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"Maybe there really is something wrong with your eye," Zoro muses, crossing his arms as Sanji quickly straightens his posture and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Got a problem with me, waiter?"

Sanji coughs out a laugh. Zoro notes with narrowed eyes that there is the slightest tint of pink coloring his cheeks. Is he blushing? The fuck?

"None at all, sir. I think I was just seeing things." The look in the waiter's eyes betrays his statement but Zoro chooses to say nothing. With a practiced smile, he turns back to Nami and asks her how she'd like her water that makes Zoro stare at him this time like he's grown a second head.

"And um..." Zoro is surprised Sanji hasn't left yet and is once again directly addressing him. "We have a few specialty riceballs not on the menu today. I'll bring them out... on the house."

Without even explaining what the fuck that meant, Sanji turns on his heels and beelines straight for the kitchen.

"I think Nami's boyfriend might be yours too, Zoro." Usopp teases him with a snicker and the glare he gives him is sharper than the blades of his swords.

Now, here Zoro is, letting Ussop's words affect him more than they have any right to as he downs his third bottle of beer.

The specialty rice balls haven't come out yet. Zoro's starting to think it's just a sick joke. But he doesn't let it get to him. Or tries to. Why offer free food when you can't deliver on it? Fucking ridiculous. And no, it's not like he suddenly craved rice balls when the blasted waiter mentioned them. That's not it at all. Bullshit.

"Didn't the waiter said he's coming by with rice balls?" Zoro finally snaps and the conversation his crew was having died down immediately at his statement. Ah fuck. He probably should have just kept his mouth shut because Nami was now looking at him with a shit-eating grin not entirely unlike the one he gave her when he teased her before the meal.

"How would you like them, oh great swordsman?" She teases with a glint in her eye. She cups her cheeks with her hands in delight at the irritated snarl Zoro gives her.

"With or without seaweed?" Ussop chimes in.

"Cubed or crushed?"

"Fuck off," Zoro hisses between his teeth. Nami and Ussop share a look before bursting into laughter. Zoro looks over at Luffy who was swinging his feet and obliviously sipping his milk. When Luffy makes eye contact with him, he just tilts his head with wide blank eyes and it makes Zoro question all his life choices.

"You wanna ask him?" Luffy says, already clamoring over the booth and waving at the object of Zoro's unexplained irritation. Zoro sinks into the seat as Sanji approaches with the bill for their meal.

"Your bill, sir."

"Zoro's asking if you're gonna bring the rice balls you promised." Zoro just stared up at the ceiling and thought of a million different ways to cut a hole into the floor so that the ocean could take him.

There is a headache inducing silence that follows Luffy's question. Zoro can't help but finally look at the waiter and he doesn't know how to explain the feeling that bubbles up when they make direct eye contact. Maybe it's indigestion. It's probably indigestion.

Instead of bringing up the damn rice balls, Zoro just grabs the tray with the bill from Luffy's hand. Just as expected, his annoyingly endearing captain put down an I.O.U for the ridiculously long list of food they ordered. Several possible scenarios could happen from this. And Zoro doesn't want to think about Luffy wreaking havoc in someone else's kitchen.

With a deep sigh through his nose and a knowing look at Nami, Zoro wrote down his own name in place of Luffy's.

"Zoro, what—" Luffy almost took the bill back when Zoro stood up and handed it directly to the waiter, who looked just as dumbfounded as the rest of them.

"If your head chef's got a problem with that, he can talk to me directly. Tell him that for me, won't you?" Sanji takes the bill, reads what's written, and there's a phantom lurch in his chest that happens when Sanji looks up at him and smiles. Zoro doesn't want to describe it. He'll allow himself to firmly believe that it's a side effect of eating too much food. It's indigestion. You're just constipated. Never mind that the feeling is most prominent in his chest and not his stomach.

"Of course, sir." Sanji purrs and the sound runs like a cold river down Zoro's spine. There's a hint of mischief in the gleam of his visible eye. Every instinct in Zoro tells him it's dangerous. He should take his crew out of here, onto the Merry, and run.

But he stays rooted to the spot, wrist limp on the hilt of his sword, as he watches that damn waiter walk away from him.

"WHO THE HELL IS RORONOA ZORO?!"

The steady routine of washing the dishes helps quiet Zoro's racing mind.

It's a very welcome distraction. The clinking of the ceramic against metal utensils provides a cacophonous symphony that helps drown out all of Zoro's waking thoughts. The sooner he starts to think, the sooner he starts to notice how that stupid fucking waiter has just been sitting at the table behind him, cursing Zoro with his mere presence.

Scrub scrub scrub...

"You sure you don't want any help?"

Scrub scrub rinse...

"No."

Scrub rinse dry...

"I really have nothing better to do."

Zoro's eye twitches.

"Good for you."

A long silence follows this and Zoro thinks the waiter finally gave up. That was until...

"Are you still mad about the rice balls?"

"Oh my god!" Zoro nearly slams a pile of dishes onto the floor. He turns to Sanji, who is just casually smoking at the table, and stomps over to him. Once he was right in front of him, Zoro snarls at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Talk about those damn rice balls one more time, I'm gonna chop your head clean off for them to use in tomorrow's ramen stock."

Sanji blinks, then turns his head to the side to blow smoke away from Zoro. Zoro tries to convince himself that he isn't staring at the way Sanji's lips purse around the cigarette in the process.

"I can still make you the rice balls," Sanji says without a single ounce of fear in his body. "I just couldn't do it while the old man was around." He then stands up and steps around Zoro with a practiced grace. "Are you willing to wait ten minutes?"

"I'm not hungry," Zoro hisses but his stomach betrays him with a loud grumble. He's been washing dishes for so many hours. He probably missed dinner.

Then, as Zoro straightens his posture, Sanji does it again — he smiles and Zoro doesn't know what to do.

"Sit." Sanji gently nudges a chair out with his foot. It lands perfectly in front of Zoro at a perpendicular angle. "I'll have them out in five."

"You said ten minutes." Zoro found himself saying, only to be contradictory. Sanji laughs this time and the resulting smile pierces Zoro's heart with a million cursed swords.

"When someone's hungry, I feed them." Sanji says simply and that's the statement that ends their conversation. Zoro still refuses to sit on the chair, instead finding himself gravitating towards the counter that Sanji was preparing his ingredients at and leaning against the marble.

Before Sanji found them at their table, he brought down a marine and a fearsome pirate with just his feet. Zoro was fascinated by his fighting style even if he didn't want to admit it out loud. But he's always been curious. Especially now, with Sanji whipping out the sharpest knives and using them effortlessly as Zoro would wield the Wado Ichimonji.

"You're good with knives," Zoro says before he could stop himself. Sanji chuckles.

"Of course, I am. I'm a chef. Best one in the East Blue."

"What's a chef doing waiting tables, then?"

"Cause I was kicked off the line this morning. It's a weekly occurrence, nothing special." The way Sanji scrapes his ingredients into a bowl betrayed how he felt about it despite his nonchalance. "I can cook better dishes than everyone in this damn kitchen but Zeff refuses to acknowledge that. It's always 'your food is crap', 'slice those carrots thinner', or 'needs more fucking oregano—"

Sanji throws the knife onto the cutting board, its tip now embedded neatly straight down the middle. It stood perfectly still, like it was afraid of what Sanji could do if he added more pressure. Zoro raised an eyebrow, looking up at the now irritated cook with a smirk.

"Sorry," Sanji mumbles, taking the knife and cleaning it carefully with a cloth. Zoro says nothing. He just props his elbow on the counter and places his chin into his hand as he watches Sanji in his element. Eventually, it's down to just shaping the rice balls with his hands and Zoro asks the question that poked at his mind during Sanji's mini outburst.

"If you're so dissatisfied cooking here why don't you just leave?"

Sanji pauses. His head is down, his blonde fringe obscuring one eye as his fingers twitch against the rice ball.

"It's not about that."

"Yeah?" Zoro leans as close as he could get with the counter between them. Sanji still refuses to look up. "A hot-headed cook who claims to be the best in the East Blue settling down here — where he is not head chef — is as contradictory as it gets."

"You don't know–" Sanji snaps but stops himself immediately. He looks up to glare at Zoro through narrowed eyes. "You don't know why I still stay."

"Enlighten me then, cook." Zoro leans his hip against the counter. "Because really, someone as good as you claim to be has got to have some ambitions. Dreams." Zoro holds the man's gaze. "Do you hate the old man?"

"No!" Sanji counters immediately. "The man fucking raised me. I owe him my goddamn life!"

"Owing him your life isn't the same as giving up your life to work at a restaurant that barely lets you cook."

"You don't know shit!" Sanji nearly slams his fist down on the counter, pointing a finger at Zoro with his face beet red. "This restaurant was his dream—"

"But is it your dream?"

Silence. Total utter silence.

Where color is nothing but a dark void of black and grey, a sea of blue greets him from the pages. Vivid pink skies and tangerine mangroves burst to life. All types of fish swim in his mind's eye but if he reaches out to touch them, it certainly should be real. A phantom breeze kisses his cheeks and water laps at his feet. He's drowning but he swims in delight. He's falling but he feels the clouds cushion him with warmth.

There is a vast ocean out there, one that contains delicacies and species from all four seas. Creatures of every kind, spices that have never been tasted.

The All Blue.

In Sanji's world of black and white — he strives to find the one place that's in screaming color.

There are tears in Sanji's eyes before Zoro could comprehend what was going on. But he wipes them away before he can get a good look at him. The kitchen was quiet around them. The only sound peeking through was the faint music from the bar outside. Though Zoro's heartbeat was louder in his ears than his own breathing.

But he could hear each footstep Sanji takes, the scrape of the plate as it's pushed in Zoro's direction, and the click click of Sanji's lighter as he helps himself to another cigarette. Zoro looks down and sees the rice balls presented in front of him — three heaping helpings, all coated in a different topping, all different flavors.

Zoro takes one.

And it's the best rice ball he's ever had in his life.

"I have a dream," Sanji murmurs, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. One glance and Zoro could see that whatever his dream is... it still burns like molten lava in the heart of this chef. "I'd just rather give up on it than die searching for mine."

Zoro swallows, turns around, and takes the cigarette from Sanji. The ashes fall into his palm, its embers dimming as he squishes it between his fingers.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Zoro says, looking up to make eye contact with Sanji. He can see it almost immediately — the longing for something that seems near impossible to achieve, the acceptance that it's hopeless — but Zoro sees it, clear as day, that the flickering flame of hope still shines in Sanji's eyes. That he's just waiting for his sign to let it once again consume his soul in a roaring fire, brighter than even the sun could be.

Zoro wants to see him shine.

"Come meet my captain," Zoro instinctively wraps his hand around Sanji's wrist. Surprisingly, Sanji doesn't pull back. "I think he'd really like to get to know you."

Sanji doesn't protest.

Zoro takes the rice balls to go.

Never waste food.

#niki's fics: debt and doing dishes #one piece #sanji #roronoa zoro #opla #zosan #one piece live action #nami #ussop #monkey d luffy #MY GUYS IT GOT SO LONG I THINK THERE NEEDS TO BE A PART THREE #roronoa zoro x vinsmoke sanji #zoro x sanji #fic series: it all started with a dirty rice ball

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