The Swordsman and the Blacksmith (Roronoa Zoro x Reader)

Chapter 19: A Different Approach

The next morning was not kind to you. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the windows of the crow's nest, you stirred from your restless sleep, feeling the weight of a pounding headache and the persistent haze of alcohol-induced drowsiness.

You groaned in protest at the sun, trying to block out the light in your eyes with the improvised pillow you'd made with training mats. The events of the previous night slowly flooded back into your consciousness, a wave of fragmented memories crashing against the shores of your mind. Amidst the fog, the taste of the swordsman's lips lingered on your own, salt and whiskey, a sweet reminder of the intimacy shared under the moonlight. Your cheeks heated intensely.

Oh gods, you needed to stop drinking so much.

With a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing in your skull, you pushed yourself in a sitting position, the movement sending a surge of dizziness washing over you. It took a moment for your surroundings to come back into focus, the familiar sight of the makeshift gym greeting you in quiet serenity.

You considered getting up for a split second but decided against so, instead leaning back on the wall with a heavy sigh. You closed your eyes, the tips of your fingers going to your outer thigh, lazily recreating the exploration of the swordsman's hands in a daze. Your heart skipped a beat, a shiver passed your shoulders, you let the rear of your head painfully hit the wood behind you.

Fuck.

You were down bad.

The trapdoor grated open. You didn't move. You heard the familiar pace of Zoro's steps against the floor. From what you could make, he stopped not too far from you.

An amused snort escaped him.

Your eyes creaked open slightly, looking up at him. Goodness, he was stunning. The morning's gentle rays caressed his features, casting them in a soft, ethereal glow. The rare curve of his lips into a smile was mesmerizing, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. Even the metal of his earrings appeared to dance in the warmth of the light, their delicate glint adding to his undeniable allure.

"Still alive?" he asked, crouching down so your eyes were at a similar level.

"I think I might be dying, actually," you answered, voice rough and catching against the dryness of your throat.

He chuckled at your overdramatic statement. "You do look like shit," he commented looking you over none too subtly.

You scoffed in mock indignation. "I don't want to hear that from someone who doesn't even shower once a week," you retorted gesturing to him with a lazy movement of your head.

He shrugged nonchalantly, your jab not bothering him in the slightest.

You met his gaze in a quiet exchange, searching for any hint of anger or regret. Yet, all you found was his usual stoic demeanor reflected back at you, his expression betraying nothing. Your eyes traveled against his face, settling on his lips. Memories flooded your mind, his grasp in your hair, his smirk against your lips as you complied with his every demand. And then, as if sensing your thoughts, a knowing grin spread across his features, his eye twinkling with what you could only decipher as satisfaction.

Embarrassment overcame you at the realization that he could read you like an open book. You quickly averted your gaze, hoping to hide the crimson on your cheeks that threatened to betray your inner turmoil.

"Anyway," you squeaked. "You got any water?"

The swordsman's grin widened at your deflection, but he played along nonetheless. He extracted a flask from under his overcoat. You snagged it with unsteady hands, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. Almost immediately, you halted on the contents, the harsh burn of alcohol catching you off guard.