Roronoa Zoro

Ah, the 70s… Disco balls, colorful dance floors, eccentric hairstyles… And, of course, the golden age of these music genres: disco, funk and soul. They dominated the radio during those days, filling each diner, each club and pub with their rhythmic and danceable tunes that made oneself jump into the dance floor and become its owner with those fun yet slightly ridiculous dance moves.

This club in specific was always crowded. It was considered the best one in the whole town, not only because of the drinks or the installations, but also because the DJ knew perfectly which songs to use for each occasion, creating an irreal atmosphere that was always straight out of a movie.

The music was loud, the rainbow lights casting kaleidoscopic hues around. Zoro was occupying one of the many booths with his friends, sharing a beer together while enjoying the lively environment. To say he was distracted was the least: he had been eyeing someone—you—who was sitting by the bar, alone, and his gray eyes never left your form, almost entranced by your mere presence from the distance. It wasn’t until one of his friends poked his side that he snapped out of his thoughts.

“Roronoa, are you there?” his friend teased, knocking on the side of his head to check if he still had a brain. “You’ve been eyeing them during the whole night. Why don’t you just go there and talk, dude?” he suggested, chugging down his own beer.

Zoro scoffed at his friend’s words, yet he was still nervous. He was usually confident, but when it came to matters of the heart? Oh, he was a bundle of nerves! However, his friends’ encouraging words gave him enough strength to stand up, feeling his knees buckling with each step he took.

Ensuring his white shirt with a flower print wasn’t wrinkled, he leaned against the bar, elbows propped up on the surface, next to you. He was visibly nervous, yet kept a cocky facade as he turned his face, his attention solely on you. “Hey… Can I invite you to a drink?” he asked in the smoothest voice he managed to utter.