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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 11 hours ago

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Halfway home (Part 1)

Roronoa Zoro x vampire!reader. This is part one of five.

*****

The sun sets at 20:25 pm.

There is an app for that, that you have expressly downloaded on your phone in order to avoid incidents. Given your age you can already count on a few extra minutes, to leave home before it’s properly time or linger outside longer than you should, before ending up roasted like a Christmas turkey, but you have barely checked it ever since, because you feel it - on your skin, and in your long-still heart.

At twilight, it’s a gentle caress with something motherly to it, a feeling that you can recognise even though you never experienced it, endowed with the sort of warmth that feels pleasant even in the middle of summer. It’s alright. There’s nothing to be scared about, you’re safe, it says, without the need for words.

At dawn, it’s the opposite - an urgent, desperate cry of alarm, the sort you would expect to hear from someone who has just noticed a meteorite three seconds away from smashing into their house. Run! Run for your life if you don’t want to die! it says, the urge filling your body and giving your legs the strength to bolt.

It’s part of you, as visceral and intrinsical as the sound of your voice or the colour of your hair -which you need to think thrice before cutting or changing in any way, since they no longer grow back- both a security impulse and an inheritance of the eternal bond with the bright, ever-present star burning in the sky.

As usual, since you’re always careful not to put yourself in danger, you have returned home well in advance, and after a four-hour nap you spent the rest of the day cleaning the apartment and then finishing a book you had started reading weeks ago. You didn’t bother lowering the blinds and closing the shutters, since the glasses of all the windows are made in a special sort of glass that stops sunlight from filtering in. Having them installed cost quite a sum, especially when one has to move every few years lest people notice they don’t age, but after the second time you had to spend a whole day unable to go to the kitchen because sunlight had filled the room and you were at the time still young enough to burn to a crisp before you could grab the sole bag of chips left in the pantry and then escape, you decided it was worth the expense.

Wednesday is your free day, or rather night, the only one of the week you don’t spend working as a bartender -and cleaning lady, and even bouncer when the situation calls for it- in a club not far from home. It usually closes early enough for you to clean up and safely return home before the sun is up, but you have brought a sleeping bag, a few toiletries and other necessities to the small windowless room on the first floor, the only copy of the key in your possession, to remain hidden there until it’s safe to go out. It has happened twice already in the almost three years you have spent living in Loguetown.

Fortunately that was not the case last night, and so you’re free to get ready in the comfort of your bedroom, put a new shirt on and make sure your make-up is on point, then leave the apartment for the first of the two important appointments waiting for you tonight. The air is warm with the promise of the summer soon to come, the cloudless sky unfolding a wealth of stars; it’s a beautiful, warm May night, and you -deliberately- fill your lungs with its scent as you walk to leave the neighbourhood to meet your supplier.

Tashigi might not be her real name. After all she knows you by a pseudonym as well, and given that your business meetings never last more than five minutes and the last thing any of the two wants is to waste time with small talk or discussing your personal affairs, you seldom need to call each other anything in any case.

The scent of salt fills the air, the moonlight bathing the water in an almost dreamlike hue; the town’s harbour is not a place you’d normally choose to visit without a good reason, but it has its charm… and, more importantly, is completely deserted at this time, so that you and the person you’ve come to meet can conduct your business in complete privacy. Maybe, if someone actually saw you, they might think you’re an extramarital couple meeting unbeknown to their respective spouses…

Tashigi is, as usual, waiting for you near the dock reserved to private boats, small but elegant vessels owned by some wealthy individual or professionals who get paid to take tourists out at sea; she waves her arm to signal her presence, and you briefly return the gesture before approaching.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Tashigi looks nervous, clutching the thick plastic bag, the sort used to carry groceries, in her hands like a mother fearing to have her baby snatched from her arms. At first, that behaviour made you tense as well -had she betrayed you? Was a dozen hunters about to attack to transform you into a wooden stake-filled pincushion?- but in time, you came to realise that is simply how she is, her natural state of being. She looks at you from behind her thick glasses, her dark blue hair framing her pretty face; she tries to hide how scared she is of you, but she doesn’t fully succeed - something you have learned not to feel hurt about.

Tashigi wordlessly hands you the bag; you open it, the soft light of the stars above superfluous to your eyes as you observe the seven blue-capped plastic bottles filled to the brim with a dark, viscous liquid. You sigh in relief, a sudden hunger filling your belly; you actually had to go without your nightly dose yesterday, having given all you had left to a friend who had run out of her own supply, and while skipping a night wasn’t enough to make you ill or in danger, you’d be lying if you said you’re not hungry - well, hungrier than usual.

You don’t know how Tashigi procures the goods you’re about to pay to buy, whether she steals it at a hospital or clinic she works at or she takes it from a willing, paid donor; she never said, you never asked, and you don’t care. The first time you met her, you only asked her two things: that she never tell anyone about you, and that no one be harmed to obtain it. She promised, serious and solemn enough for you to actually believe she would keep her word; still, you have no way of knowing for sure, and sometimes the doubt still keeps you awake at day.

You and Tashigi have been doing this long enough for words to be unnecessary, so you retrieve a few folded banknotes from the back pocket of your jeans and hand them to her: it is a considerable portion of your not exactly large paycheck, as well as the reason you’ve never managed to save enough for a car. Tashigi quickly counts the money and then pockets it; her gaze meets yours.

“See you.”

“Yes, good-bye.”

You prepare to leave, the whole encounter having lasted just slightly longer than you would have needed to drink a glass of water - which you sometimes still do, out of habit or whenever you see one of your colleagues do the same, just to play safe. You owe Tashigi your life, or at least the fact that you are able to look yourself in the mirror -as long as the mirror isn’t the old sort, coated in silver- and you’ve never threatened her or acted in a less than polite way during your brief encounters, but she looks more terrified than if you’d pointed a gun at her, shaking slightly and then openly heaving a sigh of relief when she sees you leave. Danger averted, her body language seems to scream.

I have no intention of hurting you, you think. Not only because I need your help to live, but because that is the right thing to do. I’m not a bad person; the only times I have ever harmed others it was in self-defence. Is it so hard to believe?

Sometimes you’re actually tempted to tell her, for a reason you struggle to explain even in the privacy of your heart. After all you doubt you and Tashigi will one day become friends, her opinion of you shouldn’t be of your concern as long as you’re in peace with your conscience, not to mention that developing a closer relationship with your supplier would probably be an unnecessary risk, but perceiving her fear actually pains you. It does, and you wish you could do something to change her mind…

They will always fear us, (name), your father told you once, with that kindness he only reserved for you, as he ran his fingers through your hair; decades have passed since your last meeting, and in those moments you were too upset and angry to cherish it, but he was kind, probably much kinder than the world had been to him, and you know that if you met him now, kind is what he would still be, no matter what you told and did to him before departing. It is in their nature, they simply cannot help it. Learn not to take it personally, and cherish the few who do not. And remember, should the occasion call for it, show them how right they were to fear you.

Well, clearly Tashigi is not destined to enter that list of chosen ones; but someone else already has, someone you will meet soon, and suddenly a smile blossoms on your lips.

You realise that, lost in your thoughts, you have turned your back to Tashigi - a carelessness your father would probably chide you for, since while you’re still much stronger than her even in your state of semi-starvation, and she looks barely brave enough to shoo a cat away from the top of the table, Tashigi knows your secret and would therefore know how, and where, to strike.

Well, you’ll be more careful from now on, you tell yourself, determined not to let the risk you just ran dampen your mood. You turn to glance at Tashigi, still standing where you left her; she will not move unless you’ve walked away, so that neither of you will know the direction taken by the other, potentially to her own home. It’s a rule you have followed since you’ve started meeting, one you didn’t need to discuss.

You turn again and depart, the handles of the plastic bag clutched protectively in your hand, walking briskly until you have left the harbour behind you. At first you listen carefully to make sure Tashigi has not followed you -not that she ever did; you doubt she’d dare. But you’re not completely careless, and you know that you can’t fully trust her- and then, once you’re sure you’re still alone, you allow yourself to relax.

You usually wait to return home before doing what you have to, mostly to avoid being seen since that would be difficult to explain to a witness -or worse, they would immediately draw the right conclusions and then you’ll have no choice but to silence them- and now that you’ve left the harbour it’d be difficult to find a quiet corner when no one sees you, since the shops are still open and the streets are full of people, but tonight the temptation is more intense than ever: after all you have skipped your dose yesterday, and the weight of the warm liquid in the transparent plastic bottles dangling by your side is almost calling you, a deep, sensual lure that it’d be harder to resist, you think with resentment, if you hadn’t spent decades in a state of near starvation.

You’ll be home in twenty minutes, less than fifteen if you start running, but you can’t resist; part of you doesn’t want to either. You make sure the coast is clear, the few people nearby -a woman walking a dog, two children following their mother towards their car, an older man entering a grocery store- not paying you any attention, and slip into a small, deserted alley. The lamppost is out of order, but the darkness surrounding you is a blessing - and not just because you can see easily even in the absence of the dimmest light. You look quickly around to make sure you’re actually alone, then you crouch to the ground, your back pressed against the bricked wall, the precious plastic back on your knees; empty cans and old fast food boxes litter the floor, not to mention that judging from the smell a dog -or a two-legged creature- has recently used the alley because they couldn’t reach the nearest toilet in time, but you don’t care.

You are positively salivating as you retrieve one of the seven plastic bottles and hold it in your hands for a moment with the same gentleness and reverence of a priest carrying a relic; the transparent container doesn’t hide the deep red colour of the liquid, nor its metallic smell, and you fill your senses with both before carefully opening it; spilling a single drop would be a disaster, not to mention that the bottle has to last for at least four days and you don’t want to ran out of it because you didn’t pay attention.

At home you use a glass - specifically, a tea mug of a specific capacity to make sure you don’t drink more than your usual dose, but since you didn’t think about bringing it with you you’ll have to improvise. You open the bottle and delicately bring the lid to your lips.

And then you drink.

It’s hard to stop. Harder than ever, since you haven’t dosed it in the mug, which also helps to keep your thirst under control. Over the last eighty years you have become quite good at it, no matter how easy it would be to just open the fridge’s door, retrieve a bottle and drain it as if you had found a spring of cool water after days spent wandering in the desert. There have been instances in which you haven’t been able to restrain yourself: the last time you drank uncontrollably was twelve years ago, on a night you felt particularly depressed after the death of one of your kin, felled by hunters. You ended up draining not a full bottle but two, and in the end you felt sick, your body no longer used to such a feast. To reach the end of the month, and your next appointment with the person who at the time did for you what Tashigi does now -Koala was her name; a good kid, who learned not be afraid of you- you had to halve your already barely sufficient dose for the next ten days; it wasn’t pretty. At all.

Still, since then you have learned not to give in to temptation, or maybe a single skipped dose is not enough to make you overindulge, no matter how pleasant the taste of the warm, dense liquid running down your throat; by the time you stop, and observe the bottle in the soft light of the moon by now fully risen above your head, you seem to have drank only what you could, maybe just a tiny sip more. It will be alright, you decide, especially if from now on you keep using your mug to avoid overdrinking again, and if your friend keeps her promise to return the liquid you lent her before the end of the week.

Nevertheless, capping the bottle and putting it back in the bag is not exactly easy, and it costs you a deep sigh of desire - desire for satiation, or at least for more than what one strictly needs. Desire to feel your stomach full, at least once in a while. Desire to drink as much as you can, as much as you want to, or at least to do more than just survive and pull through, knowing that should your supplier disappear or be unable to provide you with what you need you’ll end up starving or being forced to make a terrible choice. Desire to live, even though in every aspect you have died eighty years ago.

The alley is still deserted, and no one seems to have seen you in the brief moment you were too focused on your meal to notice, but the longer you remain the more you risk attracting the attention of some passer-by, and having questions asked that you wouldn’t know how to answer. It’s better not to linger, not last because you have another appointment tonight, one perhaps less vital but equally pleasant, and that you have looked forward to. You could go directly to the restaurant, it’s not far from where you have stopped, but you decide it’s better to carry the bag home first; you’ll go back, put the bottles in the fridge as you always do, lest the liquid spoil in the heat of the summer day, and leave again. It will take a while more, but you prefer to be on the safe side. And who knows, perhaps when you return home again later, you might not be alone…

So you depart, your step made briskier by the happy prospect of what awaits you in less than an hour as much as by the nourishment you just assimilated, the darkness of the night soon enveloping your body until you disappear as if you had never been there in the first place.

The Going Merry is the sort of eatery its staff would patronise if they didn’t work there already: the food is cheap, greasy, and available until late at night, so that one can gorge on hamburgers and fries as they cram for an upcoming exam or stop to get something to take away on the way home at the end of a long shift. You quite like it, and have spent many pleasant hours sipping a soda as you read your book or chat with the guys, who are all nice, friendly people… even though, you have to admit, you do have a favourite among them.

The little bell above the door rings announcing your arrival. “Hi everyone!” you greet them happily and all the servers turn to smile or wave in your direction: Nami is manning the cash register behind the counter, Usopp is preparing an order in the kitchen area behind her, Sanji is serving a tray at one of the formica tables, and Luffy is mopping the floor in a corner, probably after a milkshake-related accident.

“Hi, (name)!” they greet you almost in unison; Luffy waves at you, and you return the gesture as your eyes scan the room, instinctively looking for the one person you’ve come to meet, the only one among the workers who seems to be absent…

“Hey.”

… and who has walked up to you, leaving the small locker-room on the back to sneak up on you - something he’s quite proud of, judging by the small smile gracing his lips. That he was able to approach without you noticing should probably worry you -you can almost hear your father’s voice, the reproach evident in his soft voice: hunters would only need a moment of inattentiveness on your part to strike; you should always be aware of your surroundings, (name), lest danger sneak up on you.- but you quickly banish the thought: you feel happy, even thrilled, and that is a feeling you want to cherish.

“Hi, Zoro.” you greet him, and the smile on the lips of the young man in front of you grows bigger for a moment as he regards you, the gaze of a man who openly likes what he sees. He has already changed out of his uniform; his backpack hangs from his right shoulder, while his three swords are secured around his waist inside their scabbards. Merry -the manager- begged him a thousand times to leave them in the back, pointing out that carrying weapons during his shift was a clear violation of the restaurant’s safety rules… until a former employee named Kuro entered the restaurant with a knife in his hand and took Merry hostage, demanding the content of the cash register in exchange for his life. Zoro easily defeated him, saving the manager’s life, and since then Merry never complained about his swords again.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, sure, I got off five minutes ago.”

“Have a good night, you two!” Nami says, while Sanji and Usopp make kissing sounds; Zoro told you his friends approve of his new relationship, even though they -apart from Luffy, who is completely uninterested in anything even remotely romantic- are not above good-naturedly teasing him about it “And Zoro, remember your surprise!”

“What surprise?” you ask, intrigued, but your swordsman quickly shakes his head; he’s not exactly embarrassed of his friends knowing you are meeting for a date, which is not even your first, but he clearly can’t wait to get out of the restaurant.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Alright. Bye, everyone!”

Luffy and the others wave you good-bye (“Remember to open the door for her!” “Aaww, look how cute they are together!”) and as you walk towards the door, Zoro’s hand slips in yours, your fingers firmly intertwined. You smile as your gazes meet; he grins, and follows you towards the door he has just pushed open for you.

Spending the evening in a bar or a restaurant is something you and Zoro rarely do, since you both work forty hours a week already in places of the same sort; fortunately, Loguetown is well-known for its nightlife, and there’s always something fun to do after dark.

Tonight, the local art gallery is exceptionally open late at night; you and Zoro spend two very pleasant hours touring the halls, observing a rich collection of paintings and other works of art. “This reminds me of my father.” you murmur after a while, as you observe a large canvas depicting a pastoral scene, hills and creeks under a sky painted in the red and black of an approaching twilight.

Zoro, who is still holding your hand more decisively than many mothers accompanied by small children prone to wandering, turns to look at you, openly surprised; it’s only the second time you’ve ever mentioned your father since you met. “Does he paint?”

“He does; he particularly enjoys landscape paintings, scenes depicting life at night and so on. He started after… after that. He has a lot of free time, after all, and since he had always been a lover of the arts… he painted my portrait as well, once.”

He gave it to you for your birthday, an occasion you both deemed worthy of celebration, and it was - one of the last of your life, before the passing of time ceased having a meaning.

“Well, that’s nice.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Both of you remain silent for a while; you glance at Zoro, his eyes now trained on the painting in front of you, and while he doesn’t seem bothered to hear about your past -after all he barely was when he found out what you are; your swordsman, it has to be recognised, has been blessed with nerves of steel- you suddenly regret mentioning your father. You have been thinking about him more and more often recently, something that still bothers you a little for a reason you can’t quite explain.

“Shall we go on?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You leave the gallery a while later, peacefully discussing the artworks you were most impressed by; Zoro seems to have appreciated the visit, which is a relief, since you were the one who proposed it for your next date.

“Do you want to take a walk to the park?” he proposes as you walk aimlessly around the city centre; it’s quite late, the streets now empty save for the occasional pedestrian hurrying home or client leaving a bar. He has never complained and even if he did it’s not like you can do something to change your situation, but sometimes you feel guilty for Zoro, since your dates can only happen at night, when he’s already tired after work and a day spent studying or training, rather than taking advantage of the occasional free day, or for a lunch date. The easiest solution would be for him to visit you at home, since having to stay in during the day doesn’t necessarily mean you have to sleep from dawn to dusk, but that is something you never had the courage to propose, and he never asked.

Until now.

“I’d like that, but it’s probably closed at this time.” you point out, and Zoro shrugs; he’s grinning again.

“So?”

You have reached the park twenty minutes later, and as you thought, the large wrought-iron gate is firmly closed, the plastic sign you can easily read despite the lack of light clearly stating a closing time that was hours ago. Neither of you cares.

Zoro has already cupped his hands to push you up, but that’s an help you don’t need; you bend your legs to give yourself the boost and jump, the leap easily -but barely- carrying you at the other side of the eight-feet gate. Your landing on the grass is not particularly graceful, a wave of pain surging through your body when your knee hits the ground, but you manage to remain in position rather than toppling over, and Zoro is looking at you with unmistakable admiration from the other side, which means that you can still call it a victory.

Your swordsman joins you a minute later, having tossed his backpack, but not his swords, through; you observe as he almost effortlessly climbs over the iron spirals and then jumps down. You smile, and he grins, knowing he has favourably impressed you as well. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You walk for a while side by side, unbothered by the quiet murmuring of the small creatures that call the park their home, birds and squirrels and frogs; the moonlight illuminates the stone paths and lines of trees enough to make those whose eyes are not made for the darkness, like Zoro, walk easily without stumbling. For a while he tells you about his next college exam, and then you discuss about a movie you both watched separately, but then silence falls between you, and silences are one of the things you like the most about your relationship with Zoro, because unlike what happens with most people, you never feel the need to fill it with unnecessary words.

“Let’s sit for a moment; I have something for you.” your swordsman says after a while, pulling you towards a small play area with swings and a slide; you sit together on the grass, the soft soil under your body. Zoro rummages for a moment inside his backpack, and then retrieves a small parcel wrapped in shiny paper; you recognise the label as the one of your favourite shops in town.

“Hey, it’s not my birthday!”

“I know; just open it, it’s nothing special.” Zoro says, mumbling as if he felt the need to defend himself; he looks nervous all of a sudden, perhaps fearing you won’t appreciate his gift, but when you open the parcel, the joy and pleasure on your face are genuine rather than a pretense to spare his feelings.

“Oh, Zoro, you didn’t!”

The bandanna, a nice bright colour that compliments that of your hair with beadwork along the hem, is one you saw, and admired, in the shop’s window during another of your and Zoro’s dates, a week ago. He suggested you enter to try it on, but you declined, fearing that like many men he wasn’t a shopping fan; moreover, you didn’t want to risk being late for the movie Zoro had chosen for the two of you, at the nearby cinema.

The bandanna was very pretty indeed, but you had completely forgotten about it, and nothing suggested Zoro hadn’t; and yet here it is, neatly folded on top of the unwrapped shiny paper, ready for you to put it on. “It’s the right one, right? I remembered the colour…”

“It is indeed; you bought it for me? Thank you so much!” you say, joy filling your heart “You didn’t have to do it because I bought the tickets at the art gallery, you know?”

“I know, but…” Zoro rubs the back of his head, still vaguely awkward now that you made your appreciation for his gift clear “Last month you told me when your birthday is; it was only a week before we started seeing each other, so I thought I had to buy you something, but I’m rubbish at this sort of thing… and then you said you liked this bandanna, so I went back to the shop.”

“Oh, Zoro… that’s so sweet…”

“Come on, try it on.” he urges you, finally smiling “Let me see how it looks on you.”

You obey, and a moment later the bandanna is wrapped around your head, the little beads lined up a few inches above your eyes, the soft fabric covering most of your hair. You don’t have a mirror in which to admire your reflection, but Zoro is smiling, and that is enough for you.

“Does it look good on me?”

“Very nice, yes. It looks good with the colour of your hair.”

“I thought so as well. Thank you, Zoro; you made me very happy.”

He sighs in relief, and then he looks at you, a question in his eyes that your swordsman still feels unable to voice, no matter how many times you’ve done this already; you see him bite his lip indecisively, and there is something in that sight -a brief glimpse of his teeth, the plush bottom lip they sink in- that makes something clench inside you.

“You know.” Zoro murmurs, taking your hand once more as he bends down slightly, reducing the already small distance between you “I think I deserve a kiss in exchange for the gift.”

“Just one? Or many?” “Well, I wouldn’t want to sound greedy, but if you’re offering…”

You are, happily and freely if it’s him who receives it, and a moment later you’re kissing avidly, at first still a little awkward as your mouths and tongues struggle to find their rhythm, but what you lack in experience you make up for with enthusiasm, and soon you are moaning softly, lost in a haze that is feeling and sound and taste and smell, all of it gifted by the young green-haired man whose hands are gently caressing your hips, his knee pressing between yours as if a moment away from spreading them to lie on top of you, his mouth ardent and sweet against yours.

“You feel so good…” he mumbles, and you can still feel him smile, as if your kiss gave him joy, beyond the pleasure, beyond the unspoken promise of what might sooner or later happen between the two of you. As if the mere act of kissing, as if you, made him happy “Fuck, (name)...”

He makes you happy as well, happier than you have been in a long time. Many would imagine that in your situation one has literally all the time in the world to pursue relationships, to find the right partner or enjoy the company of many but yours is a solitary existence, apart from the occasional one-night-stand and halfhearted affair with another of your kin, pursued simply because neither had any other chance, and it’s been decades since the last time someone made you feel… well, what your swordsman does. Many would say it’s too early to get attached, especially since you have never spoken about the future -a future which, obviously, at the moment is counted in decades in his case, and potentially in eternities in yours- but it’s too late for that, you have gotten attached, and the scariest part is that you can’t bring yourself to mind.

Zoro’s strong arm wrapped around your waist leads you to lie on the grass, green blades brushing against your cheeks. A laugh leaves your lips, for the park and its tiny inhabitants to hear, as you pull him to you, until Zoro’s body is looming over yours, his elbows pressed to the ground on both sides of your shoulders, the stars a shower of diamonds behind his head. You kiss again, and again, until Zoro’s lips descend to your neck, and you don’t know whether he’s doing it because of what he knows about you, but it feels amazing, sensual and powerful, and you know hickeys are out of the question for those like you, because of the lack of blood flow, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t enjoy giving a try…

Your hands run up and down Zoro’s back, feeling the taut muscles under his shirt; he moans something that might be your name or pure and unadulterated lust, and that is quickly swallowed by yet another kiss, your tongues fighting for dominance in a combat that no one has ever truly lost. You can feel his heartbeat against your ribcage, and there is something so intimate and harrowing in that sensation -not exactly pain, or sorrow, but intense enough to unsettle you- that you immediately decide this is not enough. That no matter how sweet it would be to exchange kisses and explore each other’s skin for the rest of the night, until he falls asleep with his cheek resting on your chest and your fingers through his hair, you want more.

You want all. You want him.

“Zoro?”

“Mmh…?”

He stops, lifting himself on his arms to separate your bodies; his eyes search yours in the darkness, fearful of what they could find there. “Sorry, I… too much?”

You could almost laugh, since the problem is quite the opposite, but you know your swordsman wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at, and so you slip out from under him, sitting up close enough to kiss him one last time, long and intense.

“Do you want to come to my place?” you pant, out of breath even though your lungs have stopped working eighty years ago, and Zoro nods, something so intense and hungry in his eyes that makes you tremble. He doesn’t speak; he just stands, quickly retrieves his backpack and then helps you do the same. You take the shiny paper the bandanna was wrapped in and toss it in a bin nearby before taking the hand he is, once more, offering you.

Zoro knows you are a vampire.

He’s known you ever since you started seeing each other two months ago, which means you have known each other for roughly eight.

You first met at the Merry’s; his friends, who have -slowly, because conferring that title to people who can simply go out for a grocery run or to walk the dog at midday if they so desire is something that has become terribly difficult for you over the last eighty years- slowly started becoming yours as well, like to joke your gazes met over a tray full of high-fat junk food, or that he wooed you with a large-size strawberry milkshake even though you had paid for a small one. It’s not completely wrong; you liked the fact that Zoro was quick to add a side or change a burger to a double or even a triple when a client looked like they could use it, a student who had spent four hours there cramming or a homeless nursing a drink to avoid the cold outside, but the truth is that you noticed his swords before anything else about him.

“That’s one of the Great Grade ones, right?” you said, your gaze following the movement of the server who had just delivered a tray to a table next to yours and then passed you by on his way back to the counter, the three scabbards dangling by his side. You were completely focused on your book, and on the mayo-topped fries you were accompanying it with, but you had noticed the weapons out of the corner of your eyes, and the words had poured out of your mouth before you could decide whether it would be better to keep your mouth shut.

“Sorry?”

“Your sword; the one with the white hilt. It’s one of the twenty-one Great Grade blades, am I right?” you elaborated, and the young man who now stood in front of you frowned - but not, you found out later, for the reason that suddenly occurred to you “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you from your work and you don’t even know me, I should mind my own business…”

“No, it’s not that; I just… no one had ever recognised it before.” he elaborated; a moment of consideration, and then the unsheathed sword’s blade was glinting under the restaurant’s halogen lights. It was magnificent, you thought admiringly, almost unassumingly powerful in its apparent simplicity, the oval crossguard giving way to the straight blade cut longitudinally by a black groove which, he had explained to you, helped reduce the weapon’s weight without any substantial sacrifice to its durability.

“It’s beautiful…”

“Yeah, I like it too; it’s my favourite.” the young man said, a proud grin on his lips. He looked at you expectantly, and it took you a moment to realise he expected you to ask how in the world had such a precious sword fallen in the hands of a person, barely more than a boy in fact, who earned minimum wage working in a fast-food restaurant.

You had no intention of saying anything of the sort, though. “Well, you must be very proud.”

“I am. You… you’re a swordsman?”

“I was. I trained a kid, but I haven’t held a sword in… in a long time. I enjoyed it, but it wasn’t really my path, you know? I was mainly doing it to make my… my master happy, he was the one who taught me to recognise famous swords.” you explained, and then you would have blushed if you were physically able to “Not that you would care about any of this, I’m sorry.”

The man, whose name tag identified him as Zoro, simply unkindly informed you it was alright, as the blade disappeared back inside its scabbard. “It’s called the Wado Ichimonji.” he informed you.

“A very fine name.”

Luffy -even though at the time you didn’t know his name yet, rather you only knew him as the boy with the straw-hat whose manager had chided him more than once for eating half of the chicken nuggets of the box he had just prepared for a client- called Zoro back at the counter to help with something.

“Coming!” he said, apparently annoyed for a reason you couldn’t decipher.

“Thank you for showing your sword to me; I better let you return to work now.”

“Yeah, see you.” he said nodding in your direction, and after that night -you ordered another portion of fries, this time without topping, but you couldn’t concentrate enough to go on with your book- you did see him again, two days later, when you returned to the restaurant and soon after he joined you at your table, placing a large milkshake on the formica surface.

“On the house.” he said simply when your confused gaze met his “Can I sit? I’m on break.”

He actually was; that he should have been an hour before, and he had switched shifts with Luffy expressly to be free when, and if, you would come again, was another matter entirely.

“Of course.” you said happily; your book that night never got out of your bag, and you and Zoro spent a very pleasant half an hour discussing swords and swordsmanship.

It soon became a common occurrence, the fast-food restaurant your go-to place for a relaxed, pleasant evening with good food and even better company, your and Zoro’s conversations soon touching other topics than your shared experiences with bladed weapons. It wasn’t long before you started developing feelings for each other, even though at the time neither thought a relationship was possible, for various reasons; it all changed one night when you remained at the restaurant longer than usual, late enough that Zoro and the others were busy cleaning before closing up when you finally stood from your table.

“Can I walk you home?” Zoro asked, and you told him that you would appreciate his company for part of the way, even though you preferred reaching your apartment on your own - nothing personal, it was just that you were a woman living alone and you preferred to keep your address private.

Zoro didn’t protest, nor did he seem offended by your lack of trust, after months of friendship; he met you outside as soon as he had changed out of his uniform, and soon after you were walking down the street side by side, peaceful in the crisp spring evening, the chill of a recent downpour still permeating the air. You were about to mention how beautiful the full moon looked above your head, or to ask Zoro about a sword tournament he had told you he planned on signing up for, when he, who until that moment had behaved not differently than usual, vaguely reserved but friendly and happy to see you as he had always looked any time you visited him at work, suddenly turned to look at you, tense and almost solemn, but neither hostile nor worried.

“(name)... you’re a vampire, right?”

“Is something wrong?” you ask, seeing Zoro hesitate at the door , and he shakes your head, vaguely embarrassed as he rubs the back of his head.

“Nothing, just… I read something about entering a vampire’s home, but I can’t remember what it was.” he confesses “Do I have to ask for permission or…?”

“Oh! No, I’m the one who has to ask for permission to enter a human’s home.”

“What happens if you don’t?” “I actually can’t, as if there is an invisible wall blocking me. And the permission must be given by someone who is physically inside and has the right to be there themselves; one of my kin once told me they gained entry in a house thanks to a doormat that said welcome, but I don’t think it actually works.”

Relieved to know Zoro wasn’t hesitating because he had changed his mind about coming to your place, you follow him inside and invite him to make himself at home. “Would you like something to drink?”

“You mean…?”

“A cola, maybe? But I have beer, as well.”

“Oh! Sure.” he says, and the relief on his face actually makes you giggle for a moment “You want to see it? I know you’re curious.”

And he really is, like most people would be in his place, even though your swordsman is admirably respectful in asking you questions about your vampiric nature, no doubt imagining that for a person in your situation secrecy is of the utmost importance. There are things that you chose to share with him, for the first time in your life, simply because it felt good discussing it with someone else, knowing in your heart that that Zoro, who had realised what you were on his own and is in possession of a weapon that could kill you before you could say “Please, don’t.” not only would not use that information against you, but would also keep it for himself, honouring the trust you have put in him.

You have told him that, as tradition dictates, you need to drink blood to survive -human blood, preferably, but animals’ serves the purpose as well, up to a certain point- and that the more you drink, the stronger and harder to hurt you are. You have told him that sunlight does harm you, so that you would burn to a crisp a minute after stepping outside at midday, even though your kin does develop a slight immunity as you age. You have told him that a vampire doesn’t necessarily have to drink blood from a victim’s neck, but if it’s a human that drinks a vampire’s they are turned - painfully, almost immediately, and irrevocably; Zoro asked about who had done that to you, and didn’t protest when you gently refused to answer.

You have told him that you are immortal, and will never age beyond the appearance you had at the moment you were turned, which means you will still be carded every time you want to buy alcohol when the grandchildren of his grandchildren will be dead.

It felt good, talking openly -or almost- about your life, about who and what you are. Over the last eighty years you have met several other vampires, so it’s not like you’ve never had anyone you could safely be sincere with and who could understand what you were going through, but with Zoro it’s different - it’s special, and, you’ve started to suspect, it would be so even if you had already shared your secret with a hundred other mortals.

Zoro follows you to the kitchen, specifically to the small but modern fridge inside which, apart from drinks and foods you still consume out of habit, socially or to accompany a movie even though you don’t need the sustenance, there’s the loot you have bought from Tashigi tonight.

There’s fascination, curiosity and just a touch of repulsion you cannot blame him for, on your swordsman’s handsome face as he observes the seven plastic bottles lined up on the shelf, unlabeled but not different from anything that can be found in a supermarket. The content, on the other hand…

“Can I take one?”

“Sure; just be careful not to spill it, please.”

Zoro carefully retrieves the bottle you have drunk from on your way back from the harbour, opens it and observes the crimson liquid inside. “You drink less than you should, right?” he asks quietly “And if you drank more… you would be stronger, right?”

“I would.”

While many legends and modern retelling correctly depict vampires as being endowed with superhuman strength, speed and agility, most authors don’t know the level of those powers varies depending on how much, and how well, one of your kin feeds.

“In my current state, drinking barely enough blood to survive, I could probably go toe to toe with the best human weightlifters and runners.” you explain “If I could fill my belly, drinking as much as I physically can… well, let’s say that back at home there was a twenty-inch thick wall armored door; I smashed it with a single punch.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, good times.”

Zoro smells the blood briefly before capping the bottle and putting it back in its place.

“Where is back home, exactly?” he asks - a perfectly natural question, that you should have expected sooner or later, but that takes you aback nonetheless.

“Sorry?”

“Your home. You told me you move every few years, so that people don’t realise you don’t age, but you never told me where you were born. You… you were raised by your father, right? Was it he who…?”

Zoro stops mid-sentence, probably having remembered that you already refused to answer a question about the circumstances that saw you become a vampire once before, and that you always tense every time you inadvertently mention your father. He frowns; Roronoa Zoro is not a man used to feeling shame. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” you say; it's mainly the truth, and his sincerity is what really matters “Other questions?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“I'll take the beers, then…”

“Wait.”

You take an involuntary step back as Zoro walks towards you, a new purpose in his step, until you feel the pantry’s door against your back, blocking your way; a moment later, his hands rest on the wooden surface, his arms effectively caging yours.

His face is now only a few inches from yours, close enough that you could see him struggle to swallow even without your kin’s prodigious sight; when he speaks next, you can feel his breath against your skin.

“Let me see your teeth.”

You comply, baring the result of a century of regular toothbrush use. Zoro huffs.

“Your real teeth, (name).”

One of the most glaring differences between the modern portrayals of your kind, novels and comics that you occasionally amuse yourself in reading,and the real world concerns vampires’ most innate tracts - the teeth, which you use to bite your victims and drink their blood. Modern fictional vampires have pointed canines and little more, too small to even pierce through a single layer of skin, let alone reach the major blood vessels of the jugular veins; the authors can’t very well take inspiration from reality, since thank God most humans are still convinced you don’t really exist, but you’ve always thought it ridiculous: why to go to all the trouble of creating a vampire character, if you only grace them with kitten-like baby teeth?

The truth is vastly different, which is why real vampires are normally able to pass for human rather than being surrounded by screams and stakes aiming for their heart every time they smile: fangs come out at will, when one of you prepares to attack, or occasionally when the thirst becomes uncontrollable… or, as in your case, when one wants to impress their attractive, human boyfriend.

You grin, enjoying Zoro’s impressed rather than scared -and maybe a little aroused?- expression as you expose a dentition that could tear a man’s limb off with a single bite, the sharp points of your teeth glinting in the soft light of the room, your upper canines having grown into veritable fangs, thicker and longer than any animal predator in the world.

You growl under your breath, just for show, and you see Zoro grin.

“Satisfied?” you ask; speaking correctly with one’s fangs out is something many new vampires struggle with, but one gets used to it.

“Very much so, I like girls with a nice smile.”

“Ah, ah, ah…”

Zoro kisses you, careful to avoid your fangs, the touch of his lips against yours light but affectionate; you smile, pulling back your teeth to a normal denture to kiss him back. “So, about those beers…”

“To hell with the beers, (name).”

You were hoping he would say that, and you tell him as you move together towards the bedroom, already kissing avidly. You start to remove each other’s clothes; Zoro places his swords against the wall, close enough to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. You gaze admiringly at his well-defined torso, running your fingers over his warm flesh, and then his arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.

“You feel cold.” Zoro murmurs as he helps you out of your shirt; he lowers his face to your chest, and you are both objectively and metaphorically breathless.

“Yeah, sorry…”

“I wasn’t complaining. Shit, I’m not…”

“What?”

Zoro meets your eyes; you are in the middle of the bedroom, the comfy mattress only three steps away, but he’s completely still, determined to say what he feels but struggling to find the words.

“I’m not a vampire groupie.” he mumbles in the end, blushing furiously as those words leave his lips “You know, like those girls who read trashy novels and dream of a vampire boyfriend who bites them and turns them immortal. I know it’s part of you, and I respect it, but I, err, had decided to ask you out before… before I realised what you are.”

You smile, touched more deeply than you could express in words. “Are you trying to say that you really like me? For what I really am, not just because I can bleed dry a man in less than five minutes and turn into a bat?”

“Can you really…?”

“No. Not yet, at least, it’s something you learn in time.”

You didn’t think it could be possible for someone to be both sexy and adorable, but you have to reconsider now that you see Zoro, half dressed and clearly hard, pout. “You’re making fun of me now.”

“Never, baby. I like you a lot as well, if you’re interested.”

He is, given the way he smiles at you, and a moment later you’ve finally reached the bed, on which you climb together once you’ve taken care of the rest of your clothes. “Keep this?” he asks in a murmur as his fingers brush against the bandanna on your head, and you nod, momentarily convinced that you’ll never want to take it off.

Zoro lies under you, his hands on your hips, and the warmth of his skin against yours is a melody you had sung a lifetime ago, and that you had thought you had forgotten. You kiss again, and again, your lips descending from his mouth to his cheek and then his neck, where they linger, the promise of a bite deposed on the side of his neck, and Zoro’s strong body trembles under you.

“Sorry, I… you know I wouldn’t…”

“It’s fine.” he says; he’s out of breath, and grinning, his arousal hard against your thigh “I like it.”

You sigh. “You’re amazing, you know?” and then you stop talking as your mouth continues its downward journey along Zoro’s body, a soft but delighted “oh!” escaping his lips a few minutes later.

Sex is beautiful between you, awkward and breath-taking, passionate and intimate, laughs and pants filling the air as he shares his warmth with you and you create memories to last for even an eternal lifetime. Living as long as some of your kin do, perhaps even the most precious things in life lose value, but fortunately it hasn’t happened to you yet, and this, being with a person you care for and who cares for you in return, is still special. Even only a few weeks after the start of your relationship, both of you know that a future together is not a luxury you can afford to contemplate; rather than not caring, you tacitly decide not to think about it, and to simply cherish what you have.

“I’m disappointed, though.” Zoro murmurs as you lie on the bed together, limbs intertwined, him catching his breath after your second round of lovemaking and you enjoying the sensation of his heart beating under your cheek “I couldn’t wait to sleep in a coffin for the first time in my life…”

“Ah, ah, ah, very funny…!”

#One Piece #Roronoa Zoro #Roronoa Zoro x reader #Roronoa Zoro x vampire!reader #Bellona's stuff

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