Alcohol tempers Zoro’s sharp edges.
You noticed it the first time you got tipsy together after dinner with the crew, a few bottles of sake pilfered from the kitchen on the deck between you. As the sun sank and bled into the horizon—the sky aflame, crimson and titian—your usually stoic companion grew more animated. You didn’t know he had dimples that framed his smile until he threw his head back and laughed with his belly, its rumbling warmth infectious, or had freckles that kissed his crooked nose. His teeth gleamed in the dusk; he even bumped a shoulder against yours.
Since then, you’ve experienced so much life. Islands and people have blurred by—your role as a Straw Hat has never felt more like home.
Once-friendly interactions between you and Zoro have changed. Those early days you spent together talking about everything and nothing over a shared drink—slowly, you began to glimpse the contents of his heart.
Now, your intimacy is never more apparent than when you both indulge in sake. Even when it’s a rowdy party that spills from ship to shoreline, you’re acutely aware of how Zoro’s chapped lips are looser, his dexterous hands bolder. A small voice in the back of your mind wishes you could covet him and reserve this carefree spirit for yourself.
But Zoro never allows such thoughts to linger.
A squeal escapes you when rough, sun-warmed palms wrap around your waist. The sound of surprise soon turns into a fluttery giggle as your lover pulls you onto his lap and drapes his strong arms over you, balancing a bottle of sake on your thighs. You strain to look up a him with a teasing question in your gaze; he meets it with a wink and a dimpled grin. Snagging the bottle from his loosened grasp, you take a sip, and hum contentedly when his breath caresses your ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. His voice is muddied by the alcohol—deeper than usual, yet softer. “I don’t say it enough.”
“I’ll never turn down a compliment. You can get pretty far with the right words, y’know.”
One hand moves to rest heavily on your hip; the other retrieves the bottle from your grip. Turning your cheek, you inhale, smelling him: salt, musk, iron—the heady combination is intoxicating. You cross your legs.
His tongue grazes your ear. “How far, exactly?”
You lean into his bare chest and tip your head back. “All the way—if you’re sincere enough.”
He smirks down at you before lifting the drink and taking a swig. A bead escapes his mouth, dripping down his chin. Swiping it away with a thumb, he licks the sweetness away, never taking his steel eye from you. “I’ll take a stab at it.”