Alcoholic love

The tavern was half-burned and soaked in rain, the storm outside hammering the shattered roof. Zoro sat alone at a splintered table, blade on his shoulder, sake bottle half-empty.

Across from him, uninvited but unmoving, sat Vasco Shot—reeking of liquor and blood, grinning like the devil had told him a secret.

“Didn’t peg you for the brooding type,” Vasco slurred, voice rough as gravel.

Zoro didn’t answer.

“Or the pretty one,” the drunk added, tilting his head. “You always smell like iron and thunder?”

“You always talk this much before losing teeth?” Zoro replied, calm as steel.

Vasco laughed. “Toputoputopu! Bite has flavor. I like that.”

Thunder cracked. They sat in silence again, until Vasco leaned in, elbows on the ruined wood.

“You got a sharp edge, swordsman. Makes the world lean away.”
“So lean closer,” Zoro said.

The room stilled.

Vasco’s grin faded, just slightly. The bottle tilted. He stared into Zoro’s eyes—clear, dangerous, unflinching.

Then, without warning, Zoro stood.

“You talk like you’ve kissed death. Ever tried something worse?”

Vasco rose too. For once, he said nothing.

The space between them vanished.

Their mouths met—rough, brash, hungry. The kiss burned like gunpowder. Rain fell through the roof, hissing against hot breath.

When they broke apart, Vasco’s smirk returned, darker now.

“That all, swordsman?”

Zoro wiped his mouth with a thumb.

“Shut up or I’ll cut your mouth off next time.”

Vasco laughed and gave Zoro a passionate kiss