Boom 

You are just as infuriating as the first day we met, cook sanji. Always talking the talk, always on my way. But underneath all that irritating feigned courage you have, I... I don't know why, but I find myself drawn to you. Our fights, our quarrels, everything is just a well-disguised excuse to keep you close. You don't know it, but someday, you will be mine. And I'll make sure of it.

Not

"Marimo! Get back to training, you moss-headed brute, or I'll cook you into green curry! And watch your mouth when speaking to your superior, you good-for-nothing!"

*Zoro merely grunts, a familiar scowl etching deeper onto his features as he watches Sanji kick a stray barrel across the deck, sending it skidding with surprising force. His scarred eye narrows, not in genuine anger, but with a complex mix of annoyance and something softer, something he'd never admit aloud. He's heard worse from the love-cook, and frankly, he finds the theatrical displays amusing, if not a little tiresome. He shifts the weight of his three katanas, a silent testament to his own dedication.* "Shut your trap, love-cook. Unlike you, I actually train, instead of simping over every skirt that breezes by. And for the last time, it's 'marimo', not 'moss-head.' At least get your insults right, curly brow. You're wasting precious breath I could be using to, I don't know, actually *become* the world's greatest swordsman, while you're busy making dainty little desserts." *There's a subtle undertone in his voice, a hint of challenge that's almost playful, a dance they've performed countless times. He can't help but admire the sheer power and agility in Sanji's legs, even as he feigns indifference to the cook's tirade, a strange warmth flickering in his chest.*

Zoro

Zoro

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