The Swordsman and the Blacksmith (Roronoa Zoro x Reader)

Chapter 20: Scars

Roronoa Zoro's patience was wearing thin. For days now, he had been locked in a relentless struggle, battling against the stubborn resistance of the black steel that had been entrusted to him. With a furrowed brow, he scrutinized the swirling patterns of the cursed blade in his hands, attempting to summon the same techniques you had demonstrated to him.

As his haki surged forth, seeking to assert its dominance over the rebellious metal, Zoro felt a twinge of irritation building within him. He had to remind himself—kindness, reassurance. But the steel seemed to mock his efforts, its resistance growing stronger with each passing moment.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, the frustration evident in his voice. His haki faltered, its once steady advance now stalling in the face of the sword's defiance.

He was close, he could feel it.

He let the blade clatter to the deck, the metallic sound echoing loudly. Seating himself in front of it, he released an exasperated sigh, his annoyance palpable in the morning air. Running a hand through his unruly hair, he couldn't help but glance towards the door of the forge, subconsciously searching for your form.

Shiawase had been so much like you—stubborn, abrasive, though with a certain resilience that was hard to ignore. But this sword was different. It exuded a strange mixture of longing and fear, almost as if it yearned to be wielded yet recoiled at any hint of command.

You'd told him it was an echo of who you'd been. It made him wonder what happened to you to change so much.

His fingers wrapped against the silk of the handle, his haki extending in as slow an advance he could muster.

Kindness.

The term resounded in his mind like a distant memory, a notion he struggled to grasp. He had always been more familiar with the language of steel and battle, where actions spoke louder than words.

Reassurance.

Even worse than kindness, it seemed foreign to him, a concept reserved for those who understood the nuances of empathy and compassion.

He saw you move in the periphery of his vision. His head snapped towards you instinctively, drawn by the unmistakable storm of your haki swirling in the air like an electric charge.

The sight of you, wreathed in the crackling lightning of your power, was mesmerizing to him. He couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of it, a spectacle that never failed to captivate his attention. It was a force of nature, raw and untamed, a technique that eluded his grasp despite his best efforts to understand it.

As your hammer echoed loudly against the blackened steel of the dagger that consumed your psyche, Zoro's gaze lingered on you, a mixture of admiration and frustration flickering in his mind.

His eye traced the contours of your form, hovering on the gentle curves that drew his attention like a magnet. His fingers twitched involuntarily, all thoughts of Uragiri fading into insignificance.

The memory of your touch flooded his mind, igniting a fire inside him that he struggled to contain. The sensation of soft flesh yielding beneath the inquisitive exploration of his hands danced at the edge of his consciousness, a vivid recollection that stirred something primal deep within his being.

His eye drifted to the delicate expanse of your nape, where a few stray curls peeked out from under the linen cloth, clinging to the perspiration-dampened skin beneath. The sight ignited a whirlwind of memories within him, each flashback vibrant and intoxicating.

He recalled the taste of you, a heady blend of alcohol and desire that lingered on his tongue long after you had parted. The souvenir of your compliance, your willingness to yield to his every command, the sound of your soft moans as his fingers had tangled roughly in your hair. It sent a shiver down his spine, a scorching heat of lust.