One Piece Men + reacting to flinchy!reader (short fics) pt2!
- ❝ Reader who is wary about physical touch and intimacy; and how their s/o adjusts to that. ❞
⤷ Pt 1 જ⁀➴
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Comfort, slight angst. SFW (some parts are a bit suggestive but nothing too steamy), Reader is she/her.
𓂃۶ৎ tw: Hints of maybe past SA, DV or trauma but very if not super vague details of it so it should be easy to skim over.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Vinsmoke Sanji, Smoker, Dracule Mihawk, Portgas D. Ace, Red-hair Shanks, Donquixote Rosinante "Corazon", Buggy the Clown, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
𐙚 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦: Guys I’m so sorry for all the Cora lovers out there, I swear it wasn’t planned 😭😭 I hope everyone will enjoy this read, I broke nail and tooth for this one but i got it done and I’m so proud of myself >.< Have fun reading, pretties! And happy holidays! 🤍
Vinsmoke Sanji
Sanji was the sweetest. He was protective, kind and always so attentive, so knowing of your needs.
It made you giggle, made you kick your feet and daze off at his smile. He’s truly such a dreamboat.
But he was indeed—overbearing. Especially for someone like you.
You weren’t exactly one of the fighters of the crew but when it came down to it—you could muster a punch or two. A kick in the face or a slam in the shin.
But off duty? When you’re relaxing and at ease?
Gods, you avoided it when you could.
Your personal space was your one guarded treasure—skin onto skin made you shiver, sudden movements made you flinch and hand grasping your waist made you queasy.
You worried about it often—what if Sanji doesn’t want anything with you after all the attempts of ignoring his affection? One you cannot even return yourself? You feel so selfish, so stupid even.
What kind of girlfriend can’t return a hug? What kind of girlfriend can’t give a kiss? It’s such a small thing, it should be easy and yet you cannot bring yourself to do it.
The guilt makes it to your stomach, all the way up to your chest.
It’s not that you didn’t want to touch him, hold him; you just couldn’t do it.
The crew was having its usual after-victory-party and as much as you wanted to attend it, you were already so tired.
Your body was heavy, your head felt groggy. Shoulders stiff and your neck aching. You just wanted to rest for a bit—alone, away.
Not to mention you got an awful bruise on your ankle, not exactly sprained but it stung when you walked. You didn’t feel like it was something Chopper had to look over… besides, you hated doctor’s appointments anyways.
So here you are.
Hand on the wall to steady yourself, panting as you try not to wince for every step.
Dragging your bruised foot behind you as you try and make it to the kitchen. You need a pack of ice for it at least.
You hear the partying from afar, a smile presses down your lips when you hear Ussop’s cry of victory for beating Luffy at volleyball.
And it isnt until that, you hear a certain blonde lovesick chef sing your name.
Your eyes drag from the floor, the once stiff shoulders, neck aching and the grogginess from before lightens at the sight of your boyfriend.
He has a wide smile on his face, and you return one back.
“Sanji!!” You try and straighten yourself, so not to drag attention to your wound but he only beams at you.
“I was wondering where you wandered off to, my sweet.” he lifts the silver tray of dessert and drink into view, “I’ve come bearing your refreshments. You weren’t around so naturally I got curious.”
You lean against the wall, giving him a cheesy smile, “is that really all~? You know, you can just say you missed me.”
He blushes, fiercely. “I... Ahem. Well of course, that too.”
He twirls to you, suddenly quite giddy on his feet as he leans over, tray of treats offered to you.
You take the silver platter, it’s loaded with your favourites and when you look up, you see him tilting his cheek at you.
As if expecting a kiss of gratitude.
Your eye twitch, adverting your gaze. Pretending to not have seen it.
“You’re the kindest, Sanji.” you start moving, biting down the sharp pain. “But If you remain here any longer, Luffy will be going for the refills already.” You say to avoid confrontation, trying your best in seeming aloof, normal.
He blinks, watching your attempt at wobbling away.
You’re oblivious to it but he takes in your silhouette like a painting. Like a flower. His gaze falls on the curve of your lips, to the slope of your neck, the trace of your collarbones… all the way down to the shape of your legs.
He blinks, noticing a certain bruise blooming across your feet.
He does not think when he does it—he simply only cares. Only worries, because for you, how could he not?
“My love, hold on—“
He strides forward, blocking your path.
He kneels down, fingers making it to your ankle.
His hand is meant to be gentle, meant to be soft but the sharp sting of pain of the bruise and the sudden sensation of skin onto skin makes you flinch.
You jerk your feet away, “S-Sanji!” You wince, backing away and he misunderstands your discomfort.
“Sorry, beautiful, I just thought that should be looked over—“
“I’m fine.” You swallow, sliding your leg behind your healthy shin. “It’s nothing really. Just a small bruise.”
“Small?” He looks at it again, not quite sure what you mean with small.
“My love, you should at least let Chopper look it over, I’m sure he’ll—“
“Sanji,” your voice becomes stern, eyes hard as you feel that usual unease at the thought of someone touching you, let alone examine you.
“I rather not. Trust me, it’s a small little bruise, it’s not going to kill me.”
He blinks at you, still kneeling down.
Theres something off with your expression.
It’s hard lined, stiff—rigid.
As if you’re hiding something.
As if you do not wish him to uncover something.
And he’s not wrong.
What kind of girlfriend can’t offer a kiss on the cheek? What kind of relationship is it where you cannot hug and cuddle? You feel that same guilt from before twist your stomach and your hands clutch the tray.
Sanji makes it back up, taking the tray away from you and setting it down onto a nearby table.
“Is everything alright? You seem anxious about something.” He says, looking you over. His eyes are soft, his curled brow slightly raised.
A look that makes your chest heavy. You cannot meet his gaze.
“No, it’s nothing Sanji, I’m just going to bed. So don’t worry.” You try and move past him but he grabs a hold on your shoulder—the same sickening feeling you always feel—makes you twitch. Makes you flinch away.
“Did I… did I do something wrong?”
perhaps it is the grogginess from before, perhaps it’s the pain from your foot and the guilt ravishing down your stomach—but you snap.
“I said it’s nothing! Why can’t you understand that? Look, I appreciate the desserts and refreshments but I just want to go to sleep. I promise it’s nothing.”
Your hand clutch onto the wall, not being able to face him. You try and take a step forward, but the bruise makes you land the footing wrong, twisting it to the side.
You wince, buckling forward and before your knees smash against the floor tiles—Sanji manages to catch you.
Your face lands into his chest, his hands on your arms and you slump into the floor. Foot swelling with an aching pain.
His touch is feather light, careful, gentle. As if even now he sees your struggle.
And at that—your heart breaks. His kindness, his patience, his earnest desire to care for you, to protect and be there for you. It makes everything hurt so much more.
You start to sob, shoulders trembling and Sanji tries to meet your gaze.
“H-hey, what happened? Did you hurt yourself? Here, let me help you get to Cho—“ his hand loosens on your arm but you panic—grabbing him by the sleeve. Hard. Firm.
“No!” Your chin falls low. “Please don’t. I rather just have you here.”
Your voice is a plea, and in that, something within Sanji stirs.
The girl he fell in love with; happy, joyful and sweet has started to reveal her cracks—your heart lays ready. Open and vulnerable for him to see. You feel guilty, you feel frustrated, you would not be surprised if his patience snapped here and now… but Sanji doesn’t discard you. Doesn’t tease or demean you.
Instead he lets you sob.
Gentle, sturdy hands bringing you closer, and closer still. You tell him how you feel, you let him know of your anguish and your struggle. You tell him all of it and as you do, he only hums in response. Taking in the scent of your hair, feel the warmth of your back. He praises you, smoothers you, and wipe the snoot of your face.
And when you come to a close, he rubs away the tears staining your cheek.
“You thought I would grow impatient of you?”
You press your lips together, “You’re always so kind to me Sanji but I go from hot to cold in an instant. And you’re always so ready to give me all the affection and love in the world but I can barely return a hug. I feel like such a mess.”
At that, he exhales through his nose. A smile coming onto his face. “Is that it? I thought I did something to hurt you.” He tilts your face to him, “I would never do that to you. Even if you’re angry at me, even if you would come to hate me—hugs or no hugs, my heart will always be yours.”
You feel your vision sting with tears again but he wipes them away.
“You mean that?”
“Always.”
For the first time since you started dating him, you lean into his touch. Feel yourself sinking into his chest. Your hand makes it to his back, slithering up to his shoulders.
It’s warm, it’s soft.
He smells of cigarettes and something refined, like cologne.
For a moment, you two sit there. On the floor. Embracing. Holding. His arms around you are not tight but firm. Strong arms promising you safety. And perhaps, bit by bit, the guilt that once shackled you by the neck, scatters into pieces. Laying you bare in your lover’s chest; vulnerable, unguarded. For the first time in a long, long time, you feel ready. You feel safe.
And you will remember this feeling. In his arms, in his embrace till you grow old and withered. Knowing you’ll have him by your side. Forever and always.
Summary: Sanji will carry you back to bed, your face nestled in the crook of his neck. He will tuck you in, and roll your curtains down. But before he has the chance to leave, you will grab his wrist—your chest warm and bristling. You will ask him to lean in and when his face inches near yours; quickly, swiftly, you peck him on the cheek.
“Sleep well, Sanji.”
You won’t see it as it’s hidden under the dim light, shadows caressing his face but his cheeks are bright pink, his ears are burning red. “You too, my love.”
Smoker
Your commander, your captain and your lover. He’s broody, he’s bossy but you like him that way.
Despite his stern and rough exterior, he’s quite the softy underneath. You liked to tease him for it—you found it pretty cute after all. He’d just call you noisy and wave you off.
But as indifferent as he try to seem—he’s more observant than he lets on.
Smoker wasn’t an overly affectionate lover in the domain of physical touch, public displays of it was a no-go. Which was fine by you; you weren’t exactly the most needy in that aspect.
When it was just the two of you, you still moved out of reach. When he skimmed over you thighs, he’d sense your shoulders tense, your lips pressed and your face stiff.
He didn’t prod, didn’t question. He leaves you be. Let you have your space, your distance. And as weeks start to pass you realise he does not initiate anything anymore. No hugs, no hand holding. Instead he waits, patiently.
If you two walked, side by side, no one would be able to tell you two were dating.
One day Tashigi even asked, “Are you two still together?”
You had blinked then. “Yeah…?”
“Oh. Okay. I was just wondering since you two barely touch each other.” She said before being commanded back onto deck.
That interaction made you pull your brows together. Were the two of you really that unaffectionate with each other?
No—he calls you ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’ even in front of others. He still looks at you with something soft in his gaze, still rolls out your name like it’s precious.
But Tashigi, a close friend to both him and you questioned your relationship—your eye started twitching.
This needs to change.
Months you’ve dated him and you two still haven’t kissed.
Call it a woman’s determination, a feminine passion—a burning female spirit but this needed to be dealt with.
After work you stomped directly into the local lingerie shop and bought the cutest one without blinking. All lace and see through. The cashier didn’t even get the chance to wish you a good day before you stomped back.
You did your entire full-body-shower, used all your expensive products that has been collecting dust for the sake of special occasions—and even made sure to paint your toenails in glitter.
You were more than just determined—you were ready.
You weren’t going to battle, you were going to war. You mapped out a plan, scheduled time and date—you even lit the special candles on!
You gave him a note the next day.
Pink. Heart shaped.
An invitation in others eyes, a war declaration in yours.
“9 pm. Pronto. Bring wine. “
He had blinked. The letter was curt but doodled with hearts. You even managed to do a winky-face at the end.
He cocked a brow. And brought the letter slowly closer to his nose.
Is that… perfume?
The one you usually wear?
Tashigi sees it too and takes a peek.
Only to hold in a tight squeak.
“Oh my.”
“‘Oh my’-what.” Smoker bites back and she covers her mouth. “No, nothing captain just er… Good luck, tonight!”
He bites deeper into his cigar, why does he need a good luck? Is it perhaps a threat and not a casual quality-time spent like usual? He stares at the glittery letter like it was a crime scene needed to be solved.
Whatever you had planned, if he knew what’s best for him, he better not miss it.
Subordinates around him glanced to each other at that pink heart shaped letter in his hand. If they knew what’s best for them, they better pretend to not have seen it.
It was 9 pm. And you were ready.
The room was lit in candles.
Swaddled in ribbons and rose petals.
Your hair was scented. Your legs were waxed.
You even wore your armour made of sheer fabric and laced edges.
You stood in the centre of the room, the door unlocked.
So when he walked in the first thing he saw is you beaming, all joy and glitter as you spread your arms out.
“Smoker! ♡”
He freezes.
Wine bottle clattering.
Jaw on the floor.
You stood there, exposed and ready.
Still smiling even as he just stands there, his face gradually growing redder and redder the longer he stares.
He stutters out your name, not sure what he’s seeing.
“What the… what is this?”
“I’m taking our relationship to the next level. What else?”
He blinks. And then he manages to rip his gaze from you, eyes darting across the room with such intensity you almost believe he’s analysing a war-game.
“Ahem!” You say and he returns to look at you. You spread your arms and hands out further. “Won’t you er… come closer?”
“Er.”
“Er?” You repeat, your face coming into a scowl. “What do you mean ‘er’? Do you know how much effort I put into myself tonight? And all you say is… ‘er’!?”
He seems to understand now why Tashigi wished him good luck for tonight.
He takes his cigar out, “Doll…” he mutters, closing the door behind him. Face still slightly pink. He picks the wine off the floor and put it on a nearby counter.
He comes closer, and you brace yourself to be pounced on but instead he only stands there in front of you. And the longer he just stares and looks you over, the more you burn red.
His gaze goes over you, the shape of your lips, to the point of your chin down to the curve of your neck. Your chest rising hard and tense.
“…Darling?” You say and he hums. Caressing your cheek with his knuckles before striding behind you. Slumping down on the edge of the bed.
“H-hey! What are you doing?”
He gives you a brow, “that’s what I should be asking you.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t my intentions clear enough?” You gesture at the candle lights, the lingerie and the flower petals but he only stares harder into you.
You blush.
Both from nerves and embarrassment.
And suddenly, you feel very, very insecure.
You pull your arms in, hands clutching your chest, your heart thumping.
“Don’t you… don’t you want me?” The sensitive tone of your voice makes him straighten himself. “No—I mean, of course I do but this is so unlike you. We haven’t even shared a kiss and now you want…” he looks around the room and you grow red.
“So? W-we can kiss now!”
You inch closer, suddenly the newfound confidence you once had from days of preparation has faded. And you’ve grown back into being apprehensive, shy.
You go to stand in front of him, plucking his cigar from his mouth.
“L-let’s start now…” you feel your lips wry and he only watches as you lean down. Calm, and perfectly still. Hard eyes set on yours.
You place your clammy hands on his broad shoulders, your breath hot and heavy as you inch near.
Only a bit more… only a bit closer…
Your nose was grazing his now and you feel shivers run down your spine, feel your breath come out in shudders and your legs running cold. You swallow.
Closer… still a bit closer…
You squeeze your eyes shut. Pulling away last second. Your hands snapping back to clutch your chest.
Your heart was hammering, loud and heavy—you feel tears glazing your vision.
“Hey…” he reaches for your wrist but you pull away.
What the hell has gotten into you?
You were so determined a second ago… so why… why are you sobbing like a little child?
Your brooding and stern boyfriend goes to his feet, faintly he guides you to sit down onto the bed and you do. Feeling your sobs getting uncontrollable.
He sits down with you, his knee touching yours. Watching as your face places in your hands.
He says your name, calmly, sweetly. His tone so soft compared to the one he usually carries, a tone that is reserved solely for you.
“Hey, look at me.”
And you do.
You hold in your sobs. Chewing your lip. Snoot running down your chin. He only lets out a sigh at the state of you, eyes softening.
“You’re unbelievable.” He takes a nearby towel, and leans in near.
“Be good and stay still for me,”
You nod. Hiccuping.
He rubs your cheeks. Wipes your nose.
Once done he only gives you a brow.
“What were you thinking?” He barks out and your hands clutch your thighs.
“I only wanted… I only wanted us to be closer.”
“Closer?” He tilts his head, “You don’t think we’re close?”
“No I do! Don’t get me wrong, I do. It’s just…” you fiddle with a strand of hair. “I just want to touch you… that’s all…” your voice grows softer, your head sinks lower.
Your lashes wet and your eyes already swollen.
You hear him rumble a sigh. Feel him ruffle up your hair. You glance at him and you swear you see him smile. A fraction of one. That small, cocky one. The one that tugs at one corner more. The one that makes you clench your legs together.
“Then why don’t you?”
You blink.
Yes… why was it so hard for you? Why were you so wary of others touching you? Why… why?
Sometimes when they did, you would question their intentions. Is it a bargain? A transaction? Even with Smoker, you had those thoughts sometimes. It’s not like you didn’t want him to touch you but…
Your mouth moved on its own. You sit there, close and next to him and spill it all out. Despite wearing only a sheer dress made of lace and frills—you don’t feel vulnerable. You don’t feel scared. Not with him. Not with the way he looks at you, like you’re the one sole thing in this world that matters.
So between the scented candles, the scattered rose petals and the softness of his gaze—you come undone. And you don’t pull away, you don’t stagger and you don’t make distance. You let him close, so close your heart is laid open. Bursting with longing, beating with need.
When you finish—he only takes a last puff of smoke before drilling it down the ashtray. His focus returning to you.
“You’re a foolish woman.”
“You don’t need to be mean—“
“You’re foolish for thinking you could find comfort in someone like me.” His hand reaches out, slowly, softly—like he’s afraid you’d go up in smoke any second now.
“But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. If this is what you want, what you need—then I’m prepared to give you my all.”
His hand is placed on your jaw. Strong, large hands that are so tender, so gentle at the touch of you. For once you don’t flinch, you don’t back away or feel shivers run down your spine.
Instead you lean in, closer to his face, feel his breath onto yours. Smoke and cigar. You feel a smile curl on your lips.
You tug onto his coat, hands slightly trembling but you don’t care. You want him, you need him.
“Kiss me.” You say, and he chuckles, low and quiet.
His kiss is slow and steady, wet clicking sounds escaping when he pulls away but you tug him closer. “More.”
“You sure are demanding, woman.”
But he obeys. This time the kiss is deeper, it’s hotter, it’s sloppier. A kiss that leaves no room for doubt, no question for sincerity. You feel a surge of warmth in your chest, one that makes you smile, makes you greedy. You break the kiss off when you’ve been robbed off of air. You’re heaving, you’re panting.
But you don’t feel nauseous, you don’t feel odd. Instead you feel light, you feel safe.
You see him look at you like a man who’s won the damn lottery and maybe he has. Because it sure does feel like it.
And you? You can only grin like an idiot, all goofy and inlove. You watch as he pulls you in for an embrace. It’s slow, a bit clumsy but his strong arms wraps around you anyways.
Not tight. Not heavy. But present.
“I’ve… I wanted to do this for a long, long time.”
Your chest squeezes at that. And you feel your own body leaning into his, melting into his chest, your hands tugging his back. You smile into his neck. All warm and happy.
“Me too.”
Summary: After that night, things got easier between you two. You guys weren’t exactly hugging and making out in public, god no, but sometimes Tashigi would spot how your legs would be entangled with his under the table. Your foot playfully nudging his. Or see a large, firm hand placed securely on your thigh. Nothing loud. Nothing obvious.
Tashigi will blush pink then… she rather not imagine what her two superiors were up to that eventful night with the heart shaped letter. She rather not think of it at all.
Dracule Mihawk
Measured, precise, focused. Mihawk isn’t rash or clumsy in his making. He notes the way your gaze flickers when he caresses your cheek, feel the way your chest tightens, air stuck in your throat when he traces the curve of your neck.
He sees it. Notes it. Let’s you have your distance. No questions asked.
Mihawk is a patient lover, one who is willing to wait—and for you? He’ll do more than just that. He’ll ensure safety, promise you a guarded home and a secure future.
It made you happy, it made you feel settled and cherished. But when you sit in bed with him, the night breeze slithering its way by the opened windows, the pale moonlight peeking behind velvet curtains—you long for more.
Despite the fear, despite the wariness and the anxiety taking root in your heart; You want him to come closer to you.
You want to feel his skin, feel his lips press on yours.
On his side of the bed, he’s reading a book, the candle light gives the sharp curves of his face a quiet glow. His golden eyes low and focused, dithering from line to line.
Your cheeks are flushed, your hands are warm.
You feel your thighs clenching, your chest brimming. You want more than just kissing, more than just skin onto skin.
And yet you hesitate.
You know why he’s withdrawn his affection, knowing he’s waiting for you to make that move, but despite knowing it’s out of respect of your own heart, you fear that maybe he doesn’t want you anymore.
Doesn’t want to hold you.
Doesn’t want to kiss and embrace you. You know that is not the case and yet…
“Mihawk…” you breathe out his name, for some reason, tonight you feel especially shy. Especially soft.
He turns his sharp gaze to you, giving you a brow. “Yes?”
Your lips are at gape—unsure what to say.
Touch me. Hold me… Kiss me…?
That would be too much wouldn’t it? Too forward, too fast and too nerve wracking. But you want it, you know you want it.
But if he did do it—if he did listen to you and leaned in? What then? You feel a shiver sending down your arms, your stomach coming into knots at the thought of physical contact.
You’re scared. You’re anxious. You’re worried.
So you do what you’ve always done.
“No it’s nothing.” You slump down into bed, turning your back at him. Heart thumping, cheeks bristling.
For a moment, Mihawk watches you.
The way your shoulders were tensed, and how your expression was so… tender. There was something hidden behind the soft glow on your face—the way your lips were parted, the flushed cheeks and how your eyes were glinting, saying something that couldn’t be anything but: “I need you, I want you.”
He closes his book and he lays on his side, facing your back. Elbow planted on a pillow, cheek resting on his palm, his head held high.
He says your name, softly. Quietly. Like it’s a secret, a prayer. You turn then, and your face reddens even more.
His shirt is busted open, ivory skin peaking behind white frills, black hair glinting silver with the pale moonlight. His eyes low and dangerous—eyes that are solely focused on you.
Hes quiet for a spell, taking in the shape of your mouth, the soft edges of your face. The pink blush spreading across your cheeks.
Perhaps it is the way he looks at you; the softness in his gaze, the warmth blazing down your stomach and the need bulging out your chest—your hand reaches out for his. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s danger, like he’s made of cuts and edges.
Everything feels so hazy, like a fever of some kind, a dream you never wish to wake up from.
You take his hand in yours, it’s large, it’s calloused, it’s rough. You guide his palm to your cheek and you smile. His gaze softens at the sight of it. Not a lot. Not something you would normally notice but a fraction, a shred of affection.
And you see it then—not once has he lost his attraction towards you. Even if he has withdrawn his affection, and kept his distance, not one drop of his desire has gone unchallenged by him.
He wants you, as much as you want him.
Your chest brims, your smile making your cheeks rounder.
“Can you kiss me?” When you say it, your voice is a hush, a tender whisper.
“Do you want that?”
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
And he sits up, inching closer until his frame is hovering above yours. You’re laying on your back, eyes locked on his lips. Probably soft… probably cold…
His hands are braced between your head. His face is a myriad of secrets, but the way he looks down on you, eyes following the lines of yours face—you start to feel exposed. Almost vulnerable and weak.
You feel your lip starting to quiver, your pulse rising and your blood rushing hard and fast.
“You’re beautiful.” He says it not as a comment but a fact, a truth that cannot be questioned and you clench your legs. Melting under his focused gaze.
And as if he had all the time in the world, he leans in. Slowly, quietly, lips inching near yours. It takes everything in you not to arch your neck and take his mouth in yours.
His kiss is soft at first, almost like a peck but one that stays. Lingering. Feeling. He tilts back by a little, watching your expression before kissing you again. This time a bit harder, a bit longer. It becomes wet and heated.
You moan into it, feeling shivers run down your arms and when he parts you let out a soft gasp.
“Are you okay?” His breath is warm against your face and you nod. “Mhm.”
You cannot bring yourself to form any words but you rise up from the sheets. Your hands placing themselves above his pecs, guiding him down onto bed.
You roll yourself over him, straddling between his torso—heart beating, fingers trembling.
It feels weird, it feels strange but you don’t back away. Not now. Not with the way hes looking at you.
His knuckles reaches for your cheek and when they brush you—barely a caress, a ghost of a slither and still, you flinch at the sudden contact.
“You’re bold today.” He says, lip quirking up one corner and you incline your head. “Mmh… Mihawk, I want you to touch me.”
He blinks, coming into a sudden stir.
Dracule Mihawk; one of the Seven Warlords of the sea, ex-Marine Hunter and definition of “I can cut you from where you stand”—is for the first time (since a long time), panicking.
Or atleast panicking in the most Mihawk way possible.
His eyes darts across your face, the knuckle caressing your cheek is frozen in place and at loss for words.
He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it again. He swallows.
“Touch you how?”
“Erm.”
You feel your face burning up, “I suppose… softly?”
A small chuckle escapes from him, well not an actual chuckle but equivalent to one. A soft exhale from his nose, the tiniest fraction of a smile.
The knuckle grazing your cheek, turns, and his palm presses against your face. You feel yourself lean into it and he takes his other hand and place it on your chest. Above your heart.
“You want this?”
“More than anything else.”
And thus, the hand on your chest slides down, down to your stomach. Skimming over your thighs and—and you flinch. Grabbing his hands.
Your heart beats hard and uncontrollably, your chest heaving and your stomach dropping.
You feel yourself spiralling—the loss of control, the fear rising like no other. You feel yourself becoming cold.
“C-can you just hold me instead? I’m scared.” You feel your insides twist and turn, your fingers running frozen but Mihawk does not stress you.
He sees you. He knows you.
Slowly, gently—kindly, he guides your face to his chest. Strong arms coming to hold you, encase you, protect you. Holding you dear like a blade.
Your head presses against him, he smells of wine and something sharp. Something dark.
He does not rub circles on your back, does not pat or squeeze you but simply holds you in place. To keep you safe, to keep you warm and grounded.
He looks down to you, sharp eyes growing soft. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
And your chest squeezes, hands clutching onto his sleeves.
You know he is and you know he will.
Summary: You both stay like that for a while. You in his lap, cheek pressed to his chest. You feel him take in the scent of your hair and you lean in. Letting yourself melt into his warmth as sleep comes to beckon. When days start to pass, you will notice feeling a little bolder, a little sturdier. Slowly, gradually, you will not shy away from his embrace. From his touch and his presence. Mihawk is after all—a patient lover. You take your time with it, some days are harder than others but you will never have to be nervous for his patience coming undone. No. Not with him. Not with the man who loves you, adores you, worships you.
Portgas D. Ace
A flame that burns hotter than anyone else’s, his passion raw, his heart swelling with both pride and fire.
Ace does not simply like you—he loves you. He burns for you, he breathes and lives for you.
He wants you like nothing he’s had before. When he sees your figure appear from the far distance his mouth comes agape—his cheeks burns red when you swipe a lock of hair behind your ears.
He watches you, yearns for you.
When you come close he hitches his breath. Swings his arms and makes sure to clear his throat before replying to you.
You find it cute of course. You laugh and you smile at his obvious affection for you. But despite dating for months now, you two haven’t done anything but hand holding and occasionally when you feel extra spicy, you wrap your arm around his.
Not often. Not much.
After all; you have your distance with it. And sometimes, you find yourself not wanting to go further than that but when you’re in a relationship with someone, that isn’t realistic.
The idea of someone holding you too tight, too firm—it scares you. The feeling of a hand slithering between your thighs makes your stomach turn and the thought of it frightens you like no other.
A memory from before you met with Pop still haunts you. Ever since, your skin has become a prison. Sometimes you felt dirty, filthy—impure. Other times you felt angry, disappointed—hurt.
And It’s not like you didn’t want Ace to touch you—in fact he’s the only one you want to touch, to feel, to hold.
You tried once, when you had gotten yourself drunk enough to numb it down and let him give you a kiss on the lips.
Back then, he had laughed. He had smiled. And you wanted to smile back. But there was this feeling of nausea reaching all the way up to your throat, and your stomach twisting.
That kiss? You hated it. And for a split moment, you hated him too.
You pretended it was nothing, told yourself it would go away, and that you would feel better in a day or two.
But life isn’t that simple.
Nowadays, you couldn’t look him in the eye. You strode further away from him and when you met his gaze you snapped away. Pretending not to have seen him.
It’s not like you hated him, it’s not like you were angry at him—no, this unease was directed at yourself.
Why are you like this? Why can you not get over it? Why must it plague you even now—when you have someone like Portgas D. Ace who loves you. Who cares and wants you?
You felt awful. You felt disappointed and angry at yourself. Why was it so hard for you…?
It happened one afternoon, Ace had gathered up his courage and took his chance when you were finally alone on the dock.
He calls your name, “Wait up!”
When you stop and turn, you see your very loving and passionate boyfriend run up to you.
“Oh, hi Ace.”
“Hey. look, erm. You busy?”
You shake your head, “No, I was just about to see Marco with something. Why? Is everything okay—?”
He takes a step forward and you keep yourself from flinching.
“I was just thinking, lately that uh.” He rubs his neck, “Are you avoiding me?”
You press your lips shut.
Yeah you were.
“No, what makes you think that?” You try and force a smile and he cocks his head to the side.
“You… sure?”
“Yep.”
He blinks at you and you blink at him.
Ace looks you over.
Your expression is stiff, awkward. Eyes not meeting. His hand reaches for your shoulder but you instinctively take a step back.
And you curse yourself for glancing at him.
His hand falls. His expression—hurt.
“Hey, beautiful you know you can talk to me right? Did I hurt you? Or make you sad?”
“No, nono Ace, you didn’t do anything. I’m fine really. Im just tired lately that’s all.”
He pulls his brows together, “… Are you sure?” His tone is soft, almost a bit… sad? A tone that breaks your heart.
“Ace, I—“
“Hey lovebirds!”
Both you and Ace snap your heads to the sound of the voice. It’s Izu.
“Quit your lovers quarrel and get over here Ace! Pop needs your help.”
Ace opens his mouth to protest but you talk over him, “You should go Ace.” Your voice is curt, sharp. “I needed to help Marco anyways.”
Before you let him get a word in, you push yourself away. Leaving him alone on the dock.
It wasn’t easy, it really wasn’t easy but you cursed yourself all the same.
You bang your head against the pillow.
The hell is wrong with you!?
Why can’t you be honest? Why did you pull away? God you feel so stupid!
You didn’t want to hurt Ace’s feelings, you didn’t want to lie straight to his face but what were you supposed to say?
‘Sooo I have issues and one of them is I don’t like people touching me. Whoopsie!’
You press yourself deeper into your pillow.
Yeah that isn’t going to work out.
You feel angry at yourself, disappointed and frustrated.
Why was it so hard?
You wanted to pull your hair out.
Your door is met with rapid knocks. Ace calls your name from outside, “you in there?”
You open the door up for him and he stands there, long and lean.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He says back, the lantern light giving his face a soft glow.
“I was worried you’d already be asleep, mind if I come in?”
“No of course!” You say, tone awkward and he moves to sit on your bed, and you sit next to him with a respectful distance.
For a moment the both of you just sit and stare at your shoes. Twiddling with your fingers. Tapping your heels.
“So… about last time…” he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” You turn to look at him and his eyes are set on the floor. Face hard and firm.
“I gave it some thought and I think I understand now. Ever since I kissed you that night, you haven’t looked me in the eye. We were both so drunk and I was so excited; I completely got ahead of myself. I’m sorry. You probably don’t want something like this with someone like me—“
“No.” In panic, you cut in and he turns to look at you.
“No?”
“I do want you, Ace.”
You feel your heart beating, loud and fast but you won’t back away. Not this time. Not when he believes it’s his lineage that scares you.
“I want you more than anyone else in this world.”
He blinks, his freckled cheeks growing pink. “Yeah? Is that right?” He clears his throat, trying his best to cool down. “But then… why do you keep backing away? Am I doing something wrong?”
You shake your head, not sure what to say so instead— you go to your feet, striding in front of him like you’re marching for battle, fist clenched and Ace pulls his brows.
“Babe?”
You see your own hand reaching towards his chest, pushing him to lean back as you plant a knee between his legs.
“—babe, uhhhhhh”
Ace—Firefist Ace, Second Division commander of the White-Beard pirates—is internally screaming right now. Face going pink to red and eyes forcing themselves to stay on your eyes. Holding his breath as your face inches closer.
Holy shit; you’re hot.
This man does not know if it would be polite to keep looking at your face, or down at your chest or your hand on his shoulder — or if he should look away in shame for all these thoughts popping up his head.
“I don’t have the right words for this, so let me show you instead Ace.” You say, your breath is soft on his face and it feels like he’s put himself on fire.
Show him? He’s getting the wrong idea entirely.
“H-hey, beautiful, I- er, uh, look we-we… haven’t even done anything like this… yet… uh.”
“You’re right. We haven’t.” You sigh, completely misunderstanding his fluster.
His hands are in the air, wafting about, unsure where to place them.
At your hips? Nah too forward. Maybe your back? Too awkward. The side of your thighs? Too impolite.
“Thats why I want to do this.” You say.
“Do…. This?”
“Yes.” You blink, your chest bristling and your stomach turning at this newfound contact.
In truth you rather jump off his lap and say: Goodbye Moby Dick, Hello afterlife! You feel weird, strange—odd and misplaced. But you want Ace, you want to hold him, touch him, kiss him.
And you don’t plan on giving up a normal, loving relationship with this man simply out of fear from a past long ago.
So you let yourself straddle on his lap, face hot and hands slightly trembling. You ignore the discomfort and you tilt your head, your courage gathering like a storm.
“Ace, I want you to know; I’m not mad at you. I don’t want you to not touch me. I just—I just want to take things slowly.”
You want to grab onto something, so to ground yourself, so to steady these feelings brewing up your heart.
Ace sees your courage, the way your face is determined, your voice firm and unwavering. he senses your need for comfort, for reassurance—for strength. And he gives you that. That and more.
He takes the hands placed on his chest, and slowly gives them a squeeze. You feel a shiver run down your arms and you clench your thighs against his knees.
“Slowly then.” He hums, carefully, softly, he places a peck on your knuckles. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. I’ll wait for you, I’ll always wait for you.”
You blink, tears forming.
Yes. Yes but of course he would.
How could you ever think to doubt him?
You feel your mouth moving on its own—you tell him how you feel and why it’s become like this. You tell him of a certain day, of a certain event and you feel yourself starting to sob. And when you do, he steers you into his chest. Strong, calloused hands placed softly against your back. Hands that promise you of safety, of security—of everything you’ve ever lacked.
When you come into a calm, you feel him plant his chin on top of your hair.
“I’m sorry,” he hums. “I’m so sorry.”
He is not saying sorry to pity you or to comfort you—no. He’s saying sorry that you have been forced endure it, to burden yourself with such strength he himself cannot measure to.
He holds you close, he holds you dear. And you lean in. It feels right, it feels safe.
“I’m here, and I’ll always be here.”
At that your chest squeezes and you move from his embrace to look at his face.
His eyes are on you, and they are soft, they are loving, they are kind.
He rubs your cheeks from tear stains and you press down a smile. You feel warm, you feel happy.
“Can you kiss me? Please?”
“You sure?”
“Yes, more than anything.”
And he hums. Tilting your chin, swiping your lips. His heart thumping loud and hard under your palm.
He inches closer, his heat radiates into you and when his lips meets yours it is a peck. Barely present. Faintly there. Your face starts burning and you lean in. Kissing him back.
It’s unpractised, it’s clumsy, it’s silly but it makes you giggle, it makes you smile. You start to feel needy and press yourself deeper into his lips, only stopping when both of you are out of breath.
His face is all boyish—his grin lopsided, his freckled cheeks round as his eyes glints with something that can’t be anything but stars in his gaze.
He looks at you like you’re something precious, like you’re the last flame in this sorry world and he’d do anything to keep you guarded, protected—he feels himself burning for you, hot and fiery. His arms pulling you in for an embrace, one that you don’t wish to pull away from.
Because you know, with him by your side—you will never have to flinch away.
Not from him, not anymore.
Summary: Ace will not treat you like you’re wounded but he will gesture for permission, his touches will be softer, lighter. He’ll move slowly for you, keep his eyes on you. When you kiss him, he will wait for you to press it deeper, harder before going further.
And when you ask him, “Don’t you find me difficult?” He will only answer, “no. Never.” Thats all he says before ruffling your hair up, and that is all that is needed to be said. You will grow sated, settled—his hand locked onto yours.
Red-hair Shanks
Red-hair Shanks. That man made you foam at your mouth. Made you squeal and fangirl. You loved him with all your heart.
Tall. Tanned. Strong.
Mature. Aloof, and passionate.
Sometimes you liked to sit up at night and giggle in your own little corner, wondering how you pulled him.
Even now with things established—he still made you shy, made you blush and scream into your pillow.
But as much as you loved him, wanted him—you couldn’t help the twisting knots in your stomach when he placed a casual hand on your thigh. Or the nausea riding up your chest when he skims over your waist.
For a one-handed man, he sure is touchy…
It was the one aspect of Shanks that made you more nervous than his focused gaze on you.
And despite trying your best to seem normal about it—Shanks sees you, observes you.
He does not force you into it, instead he only watches you more intensely now, eyes low and dangerous. Sipping his drink in silence as he watches you eat. Making you fret under his gaze.
He tries to catch every hidden puzzle of your heart, to see the makings of your apprehension, the doings of your wariness.
Shyness? No, it’s more than that.
Fear then? Close but not terror, not really.
An awful memory? Maybe—it made the most sense.
With that notion made, he waits for you to come to him. Waits for you to take things to next level—withdrawing his physical affection for you. Giving you space, giving you time.
So despite his own yearning for contact, he does not pull you into his lap anymore, does not get handsy even when he’s absolutely shitfaced.
He’s lazy and lousy, sure, but he’s a patient man—he can wait. Especially for you.
And you should feel happy that he respects that. You should feel sated, relieved.
But instead you fear he does not want you anymore, does not feel attraction towards you anymore.
It’s hypocritical, it’s stupid, it doesn’t make any sense. Yet you fear his loss of desire more than you fear touching him. Feeling and holding him.
You want him so much, your chest burns.
The crew was partying tonight (again) at the island’s local inn, and you watched as your boyfriend slung an arm around Beckman.
You watch how he does not hesitate slapping another’s shoulder. You watch as he laughs and jokes and plays with them.
And your chest squeezes.
You feel so childish. So stupid. So pathetic.
You weren’t jealous that he was friendly, that’s just Shanks. But you watch how easy it is for everyone else—and how easy it is for him to be comfortable with everyone, everyone except you.
You don’t know why you were so sensitive tonight but you felt like the odd one out. The one who cannot partake in casual hugs, in friendly games and aloof shoulder-slapping.
And as you kept watching your lover sway back and forth with the crew, whilst you sat alone watching everyone from afar—something in you cracks.
You felt misplaced.
You felt unwanted and unneeded.
And so, from the corner of Shanks’s eye, he sees you leave. Your expression blank.
Seeing Shanks being so casual with everyone else but have a distance with you, made you feel weird. Made you feel odd.
You know it’s not done maliciously—in fact it’s the opposite but you’re too much of a coward to take the step he wants you to make.
After all, he only cares.
You know that and yet…
Maybe Shanks doesn’t want to touch you anymore? Maybe you’ve grown undesirable—a bore. A dull colour. The thought of that makes you tear up.
Why is it so hard for you? It’s just touching, it’s just hugging and kissing.
You want it, don’t you?
If you wanted it so bad why couldn’t you just do it? You hated yourself for how difficult you were being.
You felt entirely dejected.
You and Shanks were sharing a room which you returned to.
Once you got out of the shower, crying your eyes out and feeling like such a loser—you sat at the edge of the bed.
You wanted to cry again but something trudges outside the room, and you hold the tears in.
Someone knocks on the door, “You in there?”
It’s Shanks.
Of course it is.
You press your lips, only opening your door an inch and sure enough; It’s him.
His frame fills the entire opening and he lets his fingers between the crack. Pushing it just wide enough to see you clearly.
“Is everything alright?” You force out, voice cracking. not at all in the mood to converse right now but he only gives you a soft smile.
“The boys are having fun, but when you left it wasn’t the same.”
Your heart tugs at that. Eyes sinking.
“As much as I love leaning over you, having a door between us does little for chatter. So… mind if I come in?”
This is his room for tonight as well and still, he cares to ask.
You hum, stepping aside.
When he enters, a scent of booze and cologne trails him across the room and you watch as he makes it to the balcony window. Letting the night breeze in.
The moon leaves a glint of pale light across the walls and he turns to glance over his shoulder, to look at you.
As he thought, there was something amiss with you tonight.
Your shape carries a quiet sadness, one that can be found in the way you do not meet his gaze or how your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeves.
He says your name, his voice low and raspy—and you manage to look at him.
“Why are you standing so far away?”
“No reason.”
Your chin falls low, eyes swollen from all the crying in the shower.
“Yeah?” He pushes himself from the window, striding across the room slowly. Each step heavy, and you back yourself into the wall.
Heart thudding from outside your ribs, your chest squeezing and twisting, and tears threatening to scatter.
His long frame looms over you, forcing you to press your back against the wall.
You feel trapped, caged.
“What’s the matter with you tonight, doll?” He says, his voice always grows so soft around you and you press your face into your hands.
Realising you cannot keep the tears from spilling.
Gods you feel so stupid. So childish.
What is there to say?
‘Sorry I feel jealous how you can be so casual with everyone else but forced to be distant with me because I have issues, whoops!’
You can’t say that! It sounds ridiculous! He’d laugh at you, make fun of you—would he not?
When you don’t answer and sob into your hands, his eyes narrows. His hand coming to reach for your face but thinks better of it and stops.
“Hey, look at me will you?”
You shake your head. “It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.” He leans down, just slightly. “You know I’m here for you, don’t you?”
You shudder, you hiccup, you feel snoot building up and you pull your hands away from your cheeks and his heart squeezes at the sight of your teary face.
“You’ll find me ridiculous.” You hiccup and he chuckles, just a little. “How could I? Why don’t you try me, hmm? I’ll have you known I’m a pretty good listener. Now… look at me will you?”
You feel his hand slowly lift to your chin, tilting your face up.
When he takes his sleeve and inches it near your face, you flinch away but he only hums. “Let me take care of you, ‘kay? Then I’ll be all ears.”
You hesitate at first… but you nod. Bracing yourself for the contact.
He wipes your nose, your cheeks and your eyes. “There. All pretty.”
You feel your knees growing weak—this man is going to be the death of you if he keeps praising you like this.
“So, will you tell me? If it’s too much, we can just go to sleep. I’ll keep you warm. What do you say?”
At that your heart comes undone.
And you come back into a sudden sob and Shanks blinks—then panics.
“H-hey did I say something wrong? I’m sorry, hey, don’t cry—“
He turns his head left and right. Trying to find a towel or a napkin, sweat dripping down his cheek but he turns his gaze back to you when his sleeve is being tugged.
“Shanks i feel like such a child.” You sob out, tugging him closer.
“What makes you say that—?”
“I’m so stupid, and childish and selfish- and- and-“
He takes you by the shoulders and you tense up. “Woah, woah! Okay, slow down. Start over for me, you don’t need to spill everything out in one go. Just take it one at a time.”
His hand on your shoulder is large, strong and firm. You want to brush them off but in this moment, all you truly want to feel is him.
Not the discomfort. Not the unease and guilt.
You want him. Your aloof and drunk of a boyfriend.
So your courage gathers, letting him witness you raw, naked, bare. The hidden parts of your mind comes into view, and this time you refuse to back away. You tug him closer, clutching onto him like he’s the only thing that makes sense in this world.
Your confessions comes out of you between tears and sobs, but you don’t relent. No. You tell him all of it—your insecurities, your fears and your needs.
And Shanks? He does not sigh or laugh or comment. He simply stands there. Hand on your shoulder growing fainter and lighter by the minute, but he does not pull away. No.
He lets it rest there. Letting you know he’s here. Watching, listening. When your sobs start to slow, and your thudding heart comes into rest—he only hums. Hunching down so his forehead ghosts right onto yours.
“You thought I’d find you childish? Dating a lousy man like me I thought that would be the least of your worries.” His forehead starts to press against you.
You hold in a whimper. “I’ve been watching you all this time, hoping to not toil you but it seems I’m no better than a blind man. I’m sorry.”
You look up to him then, his breath hot against your face.
“Sorry?”
“For making you feel undesirable.” He takes your hand, guides it towards his lips—watching your expression with a low, gentle gaze. He does not give your hand a kiss, instead they sit only a breath away. Giving it a soft squeeze by the wrist.
“Tell me how to make it up for you.”
His voice is a soft, husky whisper. As if he’s sharing a secret with you. You shudder from the usual fear—but your chest also bristles with warmth. With excitement.
“—kiss me.” You swallow, “I want you to kiss me.”
At that, he smiles. Kissing your hand. Soft lips above your knuckles.
“As my lady commands.”
Your heart is hammering. Thudding. Pounding—and you squeeze your eyes shut as he inches near your lips.
The kiss is quick at first—nothing more but a brush of lips. You tilt you face, asking for more and you hear him chuckle. Low and teasing.
The next kiss is deeper. It’s slow, it’s sloppy, it’s lazy. And when you dont flinch back, you feel him pressing you against the wall. His leg ushering between yours.
You moan into it—for the first time in a long, long time, you don’t feel the expected unease, the usual nausea, or the need to pull back. No.
You feel light, you feel greedy.
You push deeper into the kiss, and he only parts when your breaths are getting heavy and desperate.
He looks over you then.
Your cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Lashes wet.
You see him grin at the state he has you in.
He leans closer to you again, one hand cupping your face as he gives you a kiss on the cheek… before making it to your neck and you yelp.
Hands on his broad shoulders, giving them a light push.
“S-Shanks!”
“Too much?” He hums, his breath vibrating across your blushing neck and you nod, frantically. Not trusting yourself to speak.
He drifts his face away and only gives you a sheepish smile. His thumb rubbing your cheek. “My bad then, I wanted to show you how much I wanted you… have I made myself believable?”
“Yeah… trust me you have.”
“Good.” He kisses your forehead this time. “Let’s go to bed; I’m willing to take the neck kissing another time.”
You stifle a smile at that.
Heart almost bursting.
He leads you both back to bed, a soft, faint hand on the small of your back. His touch still gentle—as if to tell you there’s no rush. No hurry. That he’s willing to take this as slow as you want, as you need.
And for once, you let yourself believe. The insecurities, the worries and the fear coming undone as he wraps you both under the blanket.
Your hand is placed onto his… with him here you feel safe. You feel warm.
You give it a squeeze, and he gives you one back. It’s silly, it’s playful, but to you it’s a promise. A promise of patience, of endurance and of love. One that he’s willing to keep, one that he’s willing to make.
And you too, keep that promise close. Smiling as you fade into sleep.
Summary: As days start to pass—you notice he lingers closer to you nowadays. Not touching, not intruding but present. As if to show you he still wants you near, still needs you close—and you feel yourself smiling more often now. You start to grow bolder, more comfortable and more willing. You don’t rush into it, no. You take your time, you let it bloom—and he only watches. Giving you praise and recognition for your efforts and trials. And one day you will realise you don’t flinch or pull yourself away, not with him. Not with Shanks.
Donquixote Rosinante "Corazon"
(Reader knows Corazon can speak, but lets him keep scribbling notes for the sake of his secret being kept. Just wanted to clear that up so it doesn’t get confusing!)
Gentle. Attentive and kind—everything his brother isn’t. Corazon is the type of guy to get flustered at you winking at him. Perhaps even nosebleed when you fly him a kiss.
And he did.
Bashfully so.
Mouth agape. Cigarette dropped. Coat burning. Ears turning red and inaudible sounds escaping the back of his throat.
You would laugh at the effect you had on this man. He was so cute, so unashamedly in love with you.
He was soft with you, kind to you.
Around him you felt light, you felt happy despite the circumstances the Family of the Donquixote pirates often found themselves in.
It has only been a few months since the two of you started dating, but nothing went past shoulders grazing, thighs nudging and perhaps when it got extra steamy—you’d feel him squeeze your hands.
Corazon wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, so when he sat extra close to you or grabbed your wrist just a little bit too tight; you endured it.
It was his way of communicating with you, his way of telling you ‘I’m here, don’t worry.’
For him, you could swallow the empty knots twisting down your stomach, you could pretend to not flinch or tense up at contact. And you were good at pretending—but you had your limits.
It happened at an inn; you were keeping watch whilst the rest of the Family went to settle some scores.
You were leaning over the balcony railing, breathing smoke into your hands as the winter breeze skims across your shoulders. Watching the townsfolk below.
You were often good at your assigned job.
You never once messed up since you joined the Family—but perhaps today you were too lost in thought, too relaxed at the sight of snow dangling down the mulling skies—that you don’t hear the door click open.
He sees you leaning over the railing, back faced and eyes set on the orange skies.
Corazon stood still for a second. Admiring the figure of your back, the shape of your shoulders, the curve of your waist.
Then it hit him. He should surprise you!
Yes! What a wonderful idea! He should surprise his lovely girl with a hug from behind!
He could totally imagine you laughing and smiling and hitting his shoulder playfully!
What a reasonable idea!
He snaps his fingers, and his Devil-fruit powers come into play. He approaches, carefully, steadily.
And when he knows he’s at the perfect distance to lunge at you—he releases his powers and pounces.
You scream. You arch. You flail.
Your elbow hits him in the face and stomach. You swear you hear him grunt when he crashes against the floor.
Your eye twitch when you see your boyfriend K.O’d on the floor.
“CORA?????”
You’re heaving, you’re panting—you’re lowering your battle stance.
He did not respond. He simply laid there. On his back. Questioning his existence. Wondering how a smaller woman like you manages to throw a punch like that.
You inch closer, trying to see if he’s still alive but you stop in your tracks when he sits up. Note already scribbled.
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
Your throat let out a squeaking sound.
Half in disbelief, half in anger.
You were good at pretending, good at enduring.
For Cora, you could swallow your unease down but right now? Right now you wanted to do nothing but scream.
“Surprise me?” You seethe, “What were you thinking? What part of me possibly made you think I’d find that even remotely funny!?”
You see him wry his lips and you click your tongue—your hands feeling the sides of your ribs. Where he had grabbed you.
It felt wrong, it felt weird.
You felt dirty; itchy.
Him touching you… it felt like betrayal in a way. He could not have possibly have known you don’t like being touched but still. It felt like he has stomped on you. Like he’s intruded on your space, on your trust, on your patience.
You see him lift up a note, but you’re not in the mood to listen so you wave it away. Turning your back at him.
“Leave. I don’t want to see you right now.”
For a moment—Corazon only stares at you.
He’s known there was something you have not told him, he’s not blind. He’s seen how you avoid his hands, how you pull away when he leans too close, how you don’t meet his gaze when his shoulder bumps against yours.
And now? It all seems to make sense. He should have known better—he shouldn’t have been so selfish.
His chin sinks, whether he likes it or not—he’s not that much different from his brother.
When he leaves the room, it feels like you can breathe again. Your shoulders slump, your chest releases and your knuckles soften.
You glance behind your shoulder, and you see the note he scribbled before you shut him out.
‘I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Please forgive me.’
The anger, the annoyance, the pent up frustrations from all the other times you’ve endured—melts away. Your heart breaks.
“Ah.”
You push your face into your hands. Groaning. Your head starting to ache. You felt like the biggest bitch in the whole Grand Line.
You thought showering would distract you. Or eating, or drinking or whatever that you do when you feel like drowning yourself.
But none of it worked.
You were pacing around your room in circles. Feet stomping. Face frowned. Nails bitten.
The hell do you tell him?
The hell was there to say?
The only reason you’ve kept quiet for so long was your worry of being too difficult—a drama-queen who can’t handle a bit of touching. You didn’t want to burden him, didn’t want to bother him.
You should apologise but you couldn’t find him anywhere even when the rest of the crew came back. Even Doffy didn’t know where he went.
You wanted to pull your hair out… or so you did until your door rapped with knocks. You see a note pushed under the gap.
‘It’s me. Can I see you? Please?’
Your chest bristles, slamming the door open in an instant. Your giant of a man stands there, half surprised at your sudden enthusiasm.
“C-Cora!” In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to hug him but you refrained.
“I’m sorry about last time, I was just so—“
He shakes his head, puts a finger across his lips. ‘Don’t say sorry.’
He lifts a bouquet of flowers into view—and it’s not just any flowers but your favourites. You see a note tagged by the side.
It’s an apology letter.
One where he takes the full blame. Your heart tugs.
You take the flowers, giving him your most gentle smile, “Cora… there’s something I want to tell you. Please come in.”
He blinks, nods, before doing as he’s told.
You both sit on your bed and you place the bouquet next to you.
For a stiff, silent moment, you two just stare. He was fiddling with his hands and you were tapping your feet together.
“So!” You break the silence with, clearing your throat and he looks to you. “About erm. About last time…”
How the hell should you drop the bomb?
First things first: let’s apologise.
“I’m sorry about yelling at you, and hitting you.” You turn to face him. Courage gathering as you fist the sheets. “But could we... Could we start all of this over?”
He pulls his brows and you chew your lips.
“I haven’t been honest with you, I don’t want to keep lying and pretending everything is fine when it’s not. That’s not what I want with you. So… I’m asking if we can start this over. I want us to be honest with each other!”
You reach out for his hand and slowly you place it on your cheek. You brace yourself for the contact but once you feel his skin onto yours—it’s not as bad as you thought it would be. “I want you Cora. I do. I just want to take it one at a time.”
And then—he snaps his fingers.
He says your name. Low, quiet, a husky sound.
Hearing his voice makes you flinch.
It’s not often he gets to speak to you, but when he does—it always manages to make you smile.
“Cora…”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to explain things to me. You don’t owe me your secrets.” His thumb rubs your cheek. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. It was selfish of me and I am sorry—“
“No!”
He blinks. “…no?”
“You’re not selfish.” You lean in, your forehead grazing his. His bangs tickling your brows.
Between the walls of silence, in the dim light of the bedroom—the windows outside displays the first snow descending down the skies.
You open your heart out to that man. You lay yourself before him, let him see your wounds. Let him bear witness to your falsehoods and pretense. You don’t stutter, you don’t sob, you don’t cling onto him. No. You say it with your chest, each and every single thing that has been burdening you, hurting you. You sit there, close to him. Knee touching his. His hand pressing onto yours.
You don’t flinch, you don’t tense. You simply sit there next to your boyfriend—warm, safe.
And Corazon’s gaze only softens, carrying a gentle light in them that is more than just fondness but reverence. He peels each layer back, sees you for what you are.
He does not poke, or push. He simply listens. Calm and steady. It makes you feel warm, makes you feel heard.
When you finish, you noticed you’ve been staring at his lips since the first confession. You open your mouth as if to say something but shut it closed again. Clearing your throat.
“Can I… kiss you?”
He chuckles, “Youre asking me that? It’s you I’m waiting for.” His voice teasing but he leans in. Giving you the go.
Slowly, carefully, like you’re approaching danger—you land your lips onto his.
He’s soft. He’s sweet. You feel him smile, and you do too.
You realise it then—there is no nausea riding up your throat, no tensed shoulders, no stiffened and clammy hands. No, instead it feels right. It feels good.
And when your chest is empty, your heart laid open, only then does he pull away. Reaching for the bouquet.
“Cora… don’t you think I’m difficult?”
He plucks a bloom from its stem, and slide the flower into your hair. He grins at you, all goofy and cheesy. “No. Not you. Not ever.”
The night was long but you spent it with him. Smiling, giggling, and murmuring into sleep. A winter night of pure, sweet bliss.
Summary: Your kiss was shared under the first snow. Back then, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. His hands were gentle. You outlined them, comparing his to yours. They were large, they were soft. They were his. You remember the scent of his embrace, the warmth of his skin. A day you will never forget, even now as you find him bleeding out across the snow. Red melting into pale white, his body already cold.
That flower he gave you? It’s old and withered now, but you still keep it. Still in hopes you will see him one day, and maybe you will. And every year when the last snow falls, you will remember it in its purest form. A blissful memory, a gentle dream. You bury that winter night into your heart. Into your Corazon.
Buggy the Clown
Buggy the Genius, they call him.
Loud, scheming and mischievous.
His crew worshipped the ground he walked on, little did they know he was getting bullied in his own tent by the Marine-hunter and the Ex-Warlord.
They call him stupid. You call him genius.
Others mutters that he’s a fraud. You yell out that he’s got potential.
And when his crew wasn’t looking? He kissed the ground you walked on. Worshipped the air you breathed.
When the swordsman and the desert lizard wasnt around—he gave all his attention to you and solely you.
Yes. that’s your boyfriend all right.
A foolish, cowardly man but one that you adore with all your heart. He makes you laugh after all. He praises you, dotes on you.
You wouldn’t trade him for the whole world.
But he was… indeed… overbearing when it comes to loving you. You enjoyed the grand gifts, the extravagant dates and the colourful love letters—but he sure was clingy…
It was a habit that came to you long before you had the idea of joining the pirate life.
It was a long time ago, a memory that you rather wish to forget. But a memory is just that—it remains. It persists. It hurts even when you grow older, wiser, stronger. When something gets stained, it still leaves a mark. No matter how much you scrub your skin till you’re sore; it’s still there. Haunting you, reminding you.
At first you had only swallowed it down, endured it, persisted it. And when he noticed the way your shoulders were rigid, and your hands were clutched—you pretended it was nothing. Waved it off. Excused it away.
You were dating for months now so you thought it would be fine to let him kiss you. Just once. it was small. Quick. One that left him grinning like a fool and made you feel sick to your stomach.
And ever since, Buggy has grown persistent on kissing you again. His attempts were often interrupted, you laughed when confronted, waved away when encountered.
And one day—he sat you down for a romantic dinner. Rose petals, wine and fine dining. All in your favourites. But before starting, he leaned in for a kiss, trying his absolute best to seem romantic and nonchalant about it but you moved your cheek away.
“Buggy! Someone is ringing the Den-Den!”
And indeed, the Den-Den snail was ringing but your boyfriend only gave you a brow. Not even sparing it a glance.
You itch your cheek.
How many times have you avoided his kisses now? One hundred and six? Or was it one hundred and four? You’ve lost count at this point.
He blinks at you, and as stupid as your clown was, he wasn’t that stupid.
You were nervous, you were wary. It could be found in the way your brows were pulled or the way you could not look him in the eye.
You felt kind of bad, he was gathering up so much of his courage to kiss you but it can’t be helped can it?
“Buggy, what if it’s Mister Mihawk? Or worse… Sir Crocodile—“
“Are you… mad at me?” He cuts you off and you hold your breath.
“What?”
“You’ve been avoiding one hundred and seven of my kisses. This cannot be a coincidence.” His eye was twitching now, voice cracking, “Did I do something to upset you, my love?” He suddenly comes to grab your hands and you flinch.
You look at him, then his hands, and then him again. He’s teary eyed. “My love, my sweet, my gem, what have I done wrong? Please tell me.”
You try to smile, a bit awkwardly.
“No, nono you don’t have to worry Buggy, you haven’t done anything wrong I’ve just been… er… I’ve just felt tired lately that’s all.”
“Tired?” He looks you over then, tugging you closer. “Have you been feeling unwell? Has someone hurt you? Wait here let me call for the doctor—“
It is only when his tugging becomes too needy, too firm, too obnoxious that you hurl away.
“I’m just tired. It’s nothing, really. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re clearly upset over something and that you feel tired! How can that be ‘fine’? Let’s at least let a doc—“
“I said, I’m fine. Please just leave it.” Your voice becomes low, quiet. Eyes adverting but Buggy only leans in a bit closer. Invading your space.
“You may neglect your health but as your doting, flashy lover I cannot do that, just stay put and I’ll—“ his hand makes it to yours again and you flinch away.
Perhaps it’s the invasion of space, or the overstimulation from touching or the fact that the Den-Den still rings, but you snap.
“What part of ‘I’m fine’ don’t you understand?!” Your voice becomes mean. Sharp. You go to stand on your feet, cutlery rattling.
“I don’t want to talk about this here, and clearly you’re not listening to what I say. Answer the Den-Den already and go. I don’t want to see you right now.”
His hand reaches for you but you slap it away. He looks absolutely destroyed, even his round red nose deflates.
“My love, are you sure I didn’t do anything—“
“I said just go!”
He holds his tongue, eyes pleading with you but he won’t push it. You don’t look him in the eye and he rises from his seat.
“Let’s talk about this later, okay?”
You can’t even bring yourself to acknowledge him.
He sighs, taking the Den-Den snail, and leaves. And it feels like you can breathe again.
You hear him answer and shout down the halls but you don’t look back.
When you returned to your room—you felt like melted ice cream who doesn’t deserve to be put on a cone.
You felt like such a bitch. The biggest and worst one there is.
Who the hell snaps at their boyfriend for worrying over them? And who the hell slaps their hand away when they only mean well?!
A stupid, selfish, mean, idiotic jerk that’s who! You were rolling across your bed, throwing plushies in the air—watching them bounce off the tent wall.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to slap yourself for being so stupid!
You’re so lost in self hatred you don’t notice him coming in. “Er.. my love?”
You snap yourself up.
“Buggy?!”
“Sorry, I knocked and called your name but you didn’t answer so I got worried… mind if I come in?”
You blink and then you blush in embarrassment.
“Yes! Of course! Sit!” You patted on the bed.
For a moment, you two were just staring at the colourful walls together. You try your best keeping a straight face.
“So—“ you both started, and you lock gazes.
“You—“ you both said again.
“I—“
You blushed, adverting your gaze.
“You go first.” He rubs his neck and you shake your head.
“No you first, I insist.”
“…right. well. Ahem.”
“Did… you not want me to kiss you?” He says, quite blunt and you snap your gaze to him.
“I was just thinking, you never really want to hold hands, or kiss or even touch in general. As if it was the last thing you wanted on the agenda.”
You chew the inside of your lip—but of course he knows.
He’s silly, a spineless dork and a foolish man but he sees you. Knows you.
“I’m sorry if that is the case, I do not want to make you feel uneasy, you know that don’t you!?”
You hum. Finding a ghost of a smile flittering across your face.
“As your extraordinary, and genius lover, it’s my job to—“
“Buggy…”
“Yes, my love?” He answers immediately with his full, rapid attention.
You inch closer to where he’s seated.
You want to do right by him.
you want to kiss him, feel him, touch him. And now you’re more determined than ever to show him that.
He only blinks at you dumbfounded even when you lean closer.
Eyes tender, your chest warm.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you but… let me show you instead.”
“Show?” He echoes and it’s only when you lean in that he starts to get the gist of it.
“W-w-woah! Okay- lady, wait! I thought, I thought you didn’t want to!?” He flails his hands about but you push them away.
“No I do. I just,” you feel suddenly nervous, straightening your hair out. “Can we pretend it’s our first time? When you kissed me last time… I didn’t like it.” Your voice cracks.
And strangely, tears were spilling out of you. One droplet after another, soaking the sheets, drip by drip.
Your boyfriend gapes for a second—seeing you cry like this, it is not at all what he wants for you. He does not wish to see you upset, you’re supposed to be happy, to be laughing and smiling like you always do.
He goes to grab your hands but thinks better of it. Groaning to himself as he pulls himself back in.
“My love why are you crying? Look, please forgive me about last time, it was wrong of me. Please tell me what to do to make up for it! I’ll do anything!”
You try and wipe your tears away, not sure why you’re crying. It’s not like you were sad or in pain. But you do know you needed to let this out, and you know, you need to tell him each and every single thing. Which you do.
At first you are hesitant, you stutter, you mewl but you feel the tip of his fingers touch yours. Just barely, just faintly. As if to tell you he’s here. Close. Present.
You feel yourself unravelling under him. Each confession a little bit easier than the last, each word a given clue to a treasure map—one he’s putting to pieces, bit by bit.
When your sobs come into a halt, he performs a magic trick. Pulling out a colourful napkin from his ear.
You burst out a giggle, and he smiles right back at you when he wipes your face from snoot and tears.
A smile really does suit you the most.
And when you come into a calm, he does not tease or jest or joke. Not at all. His thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. And you don’t feel shivers run up your arm, don’t feel the need to pull away.
He offers you his hand and you give it a stare.
“Here. We can take it slow. Like a dance. One step at a time.”
His grin is stupid, it’s goofy and silly but it makes you bite down a glee. Your hand lands in his, his fingers interlacing with yours.
You two sit like that for awhile, talking, chattering. And before you know it, you never realised how close you sat with him.
Knee bumping against one another, thighs pressing and your feet entangled with his.
And when you notice, it doesn’t feel weird. It feels natural, it feels right.
He says your name, snapping you out of your daze.
“It’s getting late, let’s go to bed. You must be spent dealing with intellectual genial discussions with your handsome, flashy boyfriend.” He rubs his chin and you snort.
Before he gets the chance to get all flustered, you lean in close—quick and fast, landing a kiss on his cheek.
“Eh?” He blinks. And then it hits him.
He lets out the longest squeak.
High and baffling.
Face gradually growing redder and redder.
Hand landing to where you pecked him.
“You kissed me!” He says it like it’s a prize, and you see him exploding into tiny pieces of himself. Flying circles across you. “She kissed me!!”
Steam coming out his cheeks and you laugh, you laugh so much your stomach hurts.
It’s true. Buggy is truly a stupid, foolish man but one that you adore, with all of your heart. You wouldn’t trade him for the world.
And you’re not the better fool for it.
Summary: Buggy is still a lovesick fool for you, one who still spoils you with extravagant gifts and colourful dates but he does not prod you. Does not stress or overwhelm you. He lets you take your time, in your own pace, by your own making. And when you’re with him, you forget all your worries. Your haunted memories and stained skin. With him you can laugh, you can giggle—you can sit there all pretty and just… smile. That is enough for him.
Tag-list: @lostfliess @a1x1n @fallingfortragedy (ty for the suggestions and prompts >.<)
