Chapter Text
Being a werewolf sucked. That was a realization Zoro had come to a couple of weeks after being turned into one.
To be fair, in a world inhabited by Skypieans, fish-men, mermaids, giants, and people who gained absurd powers from Devil Fruits, the existence of werewolves wasn't much of a stretch. If anything, they were one of the creatures he would've expected to run into eventually.
And of course, the first one he came across had jumped in his sleep and bit him right on the ass.
Later he found out it had been one of Mihawk puppies, which, in hindsight, explained a lot.
Obviously the creepy bastard had to be something other than human. If Zoro had been forced to guess, he would've put his money on vampire. The castle, the coffin-shaped boat, the dramatic wardrobe.
Luckily for him, Mihawk had decided to take responsibility for his daughter's misbehavior. Alongside his usual swordsmanship lessons, Zoro got Werewolf Training 101.
It had its advantages, he had to admit. The heightened senses were useful. The extra strength and stamina were nice. And the best part was the healing.
The healing was fantastic.
No more bandages. No more being ordered to rest. No more waking up to discover Chopper had somehow wrapped him into a human-sized mummy.
No more scars, either. Though, he was a little sad about that one. He liked carrying his scars as trophies.
On the downside was the bloodlust.
Zoro wasn't a violent man, despite what some of his... detractors might say. Sure, he enjoyed the adrenaline of a fight. He liked testing his strength against worthy opponents. But he fought when he had to.
He would never run from a battle, but neither would he pick one for no reason.
Violence was a tool, and he decided when to use it.
Now, though... Now he felt a hunger for violence he had never known before. Especially during the full moon.
The first few times, he had to lock himself in a room and repeatedly bash his head against the wall just to keep himself from going on a rampage and killing everything that crossed his path.
He didn't like it.
He was going to become the world's greatest swordsman for crying out loud. To do that, he needed discipline. He needed control. He needed to be the master of his own body, not the other way around.
So he trained.
Day and night. For weeks. Then months.
He trained to adapt to his heightened senses. He trained to control the beast's instincts. He trained until the urge to maim and kill became something he could control.
Because when he returned to his crew, to his captain, he intended to be the same man who had left.
A good crewmate. A reliable first mate. And a swordsman whose blade answered to him alone.
And he had made it.
After all that time on Kuraigana Island, he arrived at Sabaody a new man. Stronger than ever. Faster. Sharper. Confident in his abilities and, most importantly, in complete control of his new body.
Or so he thought.
When he reunited with the crew after two years, their reactions to his transformation were so predictable it was almost scary.
Luffy had immediately shoved his fingers into Zoro's mouth, demanding he transform so he could see it.
"Incredible, Zoro!"
Usopp had nearly tripped over his own feet, babbling nervously about full moons and refusing to share a room with him.
Chopper had run an exhausting number of tests. Franky had declared it super. Robin had laughed, mysterious as always, and Nami had threatened to double his debt if he destroyed anything during a werewolf episode.
Her, though...
She had simply scoffed.
Then a mocking grin curled around her cigarette, her eye gleaming with mischief.
"Looks like we've got a new pet on the crew. Should I buy you a collar?"
His answer had been a sword at her throat.
Besides the dog jokes, everything seemed normal. Nothing much had changed.
That illusion lasted right up until he ran into her and discovered a new, deeply unfortunate problem.
Turns out, his enhanced sense of smell wasn't only useful for tracking enemies, following blood trails, or detecting ambushes.
No.
Apparently, it could also pick up emotions.
Anger. Fear. Anxiety. Sadness. Happiness. Excitement.
Lust.
Every chemical signal the human body produced and released through sweat, tears, hormones, and whatever other biological nonsense Chopper would probably spend six hours explaining to him.
Zoro could smell all of it.
Especially, those who came from a certain blonde.
It didn't matter how hard he tried to avoid her. It didn't matter how much he concentrated, how fiercely he focused on blocking her out. It didn't matter if she was on the other side of the ship.
Her scent, her cursed scent, always found him.
It slipped past every defense he put up and filled his lungs in the most infuriatingly intoxicating way.
Before, he had only caught traces of it.
When she leaned over him to drop a plate onto the table with a muttered insult.
When they got tangled together during one of their more physical arguments.
On those rare nights after a victory, when she got drunk enough to let him sit beside her and actually hold a conversation without either of them trying to bite the other's head off.
Before the separation, it had been occasional, fleeting, easy to ignore (or more accurately, easy to force himself to forget). Now, it was everywhere. All the time.
Wrapped around every corner of the Sunny. Present in every room.
Tobacco and sea salt. Expensive spices. And something so distinctly hers that he had no other way to describe more than the scent of her skin.
It was driving him fucking insane.
The only thing worse than smelling her was not smelling her.
Because when he couldn't, his body went haywire. Every muscle tensed, his pulse spiked, and he felt an inexplicable urge to walk, no, run, until he found her again and could finally be at peace.
One time, he'd woken up in the middle of the fucking night just because little missy here had decided it was a good idea to lock herself in the galley while organizing provisions. Somehow, she'd also managed to suppress her scent.
He'd had to search the entire Sunny to find her, and when he finally did, he unleashed all his pent-up frustration.
"Shitty cook, what the hell are you doing here at three o'clock in the morning?!"
"Fuck!" She nearly jumped out of her skin when he appeared out of nowhere. "What the hell do you care?! It's none of your business!"
Adrenaline poured from every pore of her body. She was preparing for a fight.
Good.
He had to resist the urge to take a deep breath.
"Because you're not letting me fucking sleep! I can't believe you managed to fuck this up for me, shitty cook!"
"Uh?! What did I fuck up?!"
Everything. I could've been a super swordsman wolf, and now I'm just a hound dog.
He wanted to curse her, but not even waterboarding could have dragged that confession out of him.
"You don't need to know, idiot cook. Just know that everything is your fault. Like always."
She stared at him for a few seconds, incredulity written all over her face.
"You are fucking unbelievable. Go back to sleep, because unlike someone whose main purpose is sleeping, I actually have things to do for the crew! If you don't want to do something useful, at least leave me alone, you lazy shit!"
I can't sleep unless I can smell you, shitty cook.
And because he'd run out of arguments, he did what he always do whenever he lost a fight with the blonde:
He grabbed his swords and attacked her.
oOo
The crew always complained they fought like cat and dog, all the time. Even Brook had once asked him why he disliked Sanji so much.
Something that honestly surprised him. Because he didn't dislike Sanji. He never had. I mean, he did fight her. Like, all the time. Almost 99.9 percent of their interactions ended in a whirlwind of kicks and swords.
But it's not like he disliked her. He kind of respected her. She was loyal (no more than him). Strong (also no more than him). And he could trust she was competent enough to protect the crew, and willing to die to keep them safe. She was probably the third strongest on the ship, though he would never admit it, and he trusted her. More than anyone.
As for their fights... What their crewmates didn't seem to understand was how much fun they had when they were beating each other up.
Even in a place as chaotic and dangerous as the Grand Line, there were days that seemed to drag on forever. No Sea Kings. No Marines. No rival pirates appearing on the horizon. Just blue, blue, blue in every direction, with the nearest island hundreds of miles away.
Boredom was inevitable.
Whenever it set in, he sought her out for a round or two. It was the easiest way to break the monotony, stir up some excitement, and have a little fun.
He said what fun they had beating each other up, because he had gotten confirmation after his whole transformation. He could smell her, how excited and exhilarated she got when they were going kick for sword. She loved it, almost as much as he did. Three times out of ten, she was the one starting the fights (yes, he counted them and no, for no particular reason).
It was also kind of their thing, it was what they did. When they were bored, or angry, or frustrated. They could always count on the other to be there, to relieve whatever was bothering them. It was nice sharing this with her. At least sharing something.
It was not that they disliked each other, more that they got on each other's nerves. Or at least he got on her nerves with his mere presence. There were times when he actually tried to approach her, to, like, have a conversation, but as soon as he was in the room she tensed up, ready to go for his throat.
Truth be told, he had started it.
From the moment they met, he'd antagonized the prissy, snobbish, hopelessly lovesick, curly-browed fool who strutted through the Grand Line as if it were her personal runway, dressed in expensive suits, burgundy-painted lips and nails, and black heels.
And now he regretted it.
Because he saw the way she talked and laughed with everyone else on the crew. How she handed out smiles left and right, yet the moment he came near, she immediately went on guard.
The closest he ever got to sharing a room with her was pretending to be asleep, dozing in the kitchen while she worked or in the galley while she fished. And if he was exceptionally lucky, she would use him as a pack mule when they stopped at an island for supplies.
Even before this I-have-to-smell-you-or-I'll-rip-my-own-face-off fiasco, he liked, no, needed, to know where she was at all times.
He had lied to himself for years, claiming it was the duty of the first mate to keep track of every crew member. But he knew that was bullshit. He didn't give a fuck where any of them were most of the time, so long as they weren't sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
Zoro was a simple man. He liked alcohol and swords. He was loyal to his captain.
He was going to become the world's greatest swordsman.
Simple. Straightforward. Easy.
And then Sanji had come along and, as he'd once screamed at her in the middle of an argument, fucked everything up.
Sanji was... an anomaly. She was complicated. He didn't know where to put her. Friend? Enemy? Rival?
They were nakama. That much was certain.
But ever since turning into a werewolf, and becoming painfully aware of all the thoughts and instincts lurking beneath the surface, he'd realized something.
It didn't matter what place she occupied in his life.
Friend, rival, enemy, whatever.
The label didn't matter.
What mattered was that she was there.
Near him.
Close enough that he could hear her voice somewhere on the ship, catch her scent when she walked past, or glance up and find her exactly where he expected her to be.
Great. He was craving closed proximity at all times with someone who barely tolerated him. Awesome.
Whatever. He didn’t care (he did).
Another thing he noticed was how much he was learning about Sanji just being able to know her moods, all the time.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Normally, if he wanted to pick apart someone's emotional state, he had to concentrate. A slight change in heartbeat. A shift in breathing. The scent of stress, irritation, fear. It was all there if he focused hard enough.
With her, though, he had to make an effort not to notice.
He realized how much she hid behind her smile and charming persona.
How exhausted she was. How anxious. How much energy she spent worrying about details nobody else even noticed.
He learned the difference between irritation and genuine anger. Between stress and fear. Between the sharp sadness she carried every day and the deeper kind that occasionally swallowed her whole.
One night, he was dozing in the galley, half-asleep and lulled by her scent drifting through the ship, when it suddenly changed. It became so heavy, so suffocating, that his chest tightened.
For a moment, he thought he was imagining it. Then he found her.
She was standing by the railing, absentmindedly blowing smoke toward the stars while staring into the dark depths below. The sadness clinging to her was immense.
Ancient. The kind that settled into a person's bones and never truly left.
It hit him so hard he had to physically stop himself from crossing the deck, wrapping his arms around her, and refusing to let go until whatever was hurting her disappeared.
Which was insane. Completely insane.
Since he had no idea how to comfort people, and leaving her alone was apparently not an option, he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He provoked her.
Looking back, Nami's assessment of his emotional intelligence had probably been accurate.
She once told him he had the emotional intelligence of a five-year-old pulling the pigtails of a girl he liked because he didn't know how to talk to her.
Which, first of all, he didn't like Sanji.
And second of all…
...
Actually, he didn't have a second point.
The problem was that some animal part of him had apparently become obsessed with her.
No.
Wait.
That sounded significantly worse.
There had to be a logical explanation for all this. Maybe she smelled like food.
She was the cook.
Maybe his wolf instincts had gotten confused. That had to be it.
Unfortunately, the theory lost some credibility when he remembered he had never once felt the urge to cuddle a refrigerator.
Nevertheless, regardless of his intentions, he had learned an alarming amount about Sanji over the past few weeks.
Not just the bad things. The good things, too.
What she liked. What made her laugh. What kind of jokes she secretly found funny despite pretending otherwise.
He learned that whenever she genuinely laughed, her scent seemed to brighten and intensify in a way he found absurdly distracting.
Which brought him to another deeply unfortunate discovery.
Women's bodies changed throughout the month.
Zoro wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a child. He knew what periods were.
What he hadn't expected was how many signals the body apparently produced that most people never noticed.
He noticed them. Every single one. Especially during her fertile days.
The first time it happened, he had felt sick.
Not physically. Morally.
Like some kind of animal.
He caught her scent across the deck and immediately knew something was different.
Then the wolf reacted.
I want her.
The thought hit so hard it barely felt like his own.
I want her. I want her. I want her.
Every instinct he possessed surged to the surface at once.
The beast inside him howled, demanding, possessive and relentless.
Why her? He still didn't have an answer. But the certainty behind the feeling terrified him.
It didn't matter how many laps he ran around the ship.
It didn't matter how long he trained.
It didn't matter how many times he jerked off.
Nothing helped.
He realized the only way to survive was to avoid her.
The problem was that every minute he spent away from her left him restless. His instincts kept searching for her, reaching for her presence, and the uncertainty scraped against his nerves until he wanted to punch something.
One would think that was the most embarrassing part, no? It was bad enough that every time her rival reached that point in her natural normal human being cycle (something she also couldn’t control, by the way) He apparently went in to heat, like an unfixed dog.
Spoiler: it wasn’t.
The worst part was the animosity, the surge of hatred and possessiveness that went through him every time someone (particularly, a man) got to close to her.
He couldn't possibly be jealous of his crewmates interacting with each other.
These were his nakama.
People he trusted with his life.
People he would die for.
And yet...
Every time he caught some idiot lingering too long beside her, laughing too hard at her jokes, standing a little too close…
Something in him snarled.
Mine
Just yesterday, something happened that had been a wake-up call.
He was training, lifting weights in the crow's nest, when suddenly the sweetest, most attractive smell reached his nose. At first, he tried to ignore it. He was training. He was busy. He had to finish his repetitions. He could absolutely not abandon what he was doing every time she smelled particularly nice. What kind of swordsman would that make him?
Not even five minutes later, the weights were back on the rack and he was climbing down from the crow's nest at full speed.
In his defense, the scent was so sweet and peaceful that he was genuinely curious about what was causing it. It didn't take him long to find out.
She was resting against one of Nami's trees, eyes closed, the afternoon sun kissing her face, her hair falling around her like she was some fucking princess. And tangled all around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, was Luffy.
Luffy. His captain. The man he had sworn with his life to protect and help become King of the Pirates. The man he would die for.
None of that stopped the growl that rose from the depths of his throat.
His fangs came out. So did his claws. He had to dig them firmly into his palms until they bled just to control the urge to walk over to his captain and rip him to shreds.
Get him off her! his instincts screamed.
He wanted to kill him.
He wanted to kill the man he would die for.
The full moon was coming. That had to be it.
That's what he told himself as he dealt with the impulse the best way he could: by running toward the rail and jumping overboard.