The people and the friends that we have lost,
or the dreams that have faded...
Never forget them.
In Okinawan dialect, the Hibiscus tiliaceus (sea hibiscus) is called Yuuna. The flower meaning is 楽しい思い出 (tanoshii omoide = happy memories). Considering her ending words in FFX, it's very apt for her and her story.
The sea hibiscus grows in coast areas, just like Besaid. It's a one-day flower, meaning it blooms in the morning and falls at sunset. It's yellow when it blooms and slowly grows orangier and then red at sunset, when it falls. It's somewhat bittersweet then that the hibiscus Yuuna has on her obi is red...
For those who have missed it, a tourist in Hawaii decided it would be fun to chuck a rock (a BIG rock) at a monk seal. He missed, but he was captured on video, and when told it was illegal to interfere with them, said "I'm rich, I can pay the fine."
Is the best part that he got doxxed? No.
Is the best part that he got tracked down by a local and beaten? No.
Arrested on state at federal charges, looking at up to 5 years and 50K? Nope.
The best part is the local city council's reaction.
And the best part of that is the look on the attorney's face.
Crocodile's hobby is mushroom hunting
Mihawk's hobbies are leisurely farming and wine collecting
Buggy's hobby is collecting treasure maps
old men and Buggy
One Piece Men + reacting to silentattempt!reader (short fics)
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Comfort, slight angst. SFW. Reader is she/her. Some can be read from sh!reader’s pov but it can also be read separately. This post is a lot heavier and more personal to me as a writer so i won’t be taking any request on this fic.
I had no intention of actually posting any of these so I’m not sure what tags to include sorry if I’ve missed somethings ><‘
𓂃۶ৎ tw: Suicide, vomit, blood and mentions of drug usage. Please read safely everyone!
Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro (established relationship)
𐙚 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦: I’ve struggled with mental health for so much of my teen years — and December is an especially rough month as it marks a two year anniversary since I survived an attempt.
I remember picking myself up from the floor, and forcing myself to vomit the pills back up. I remember how I cleaned up the mess and dragged my body to the shower to wash out the spit, the blood, the residue from my hair and body. By myself. On my own.
I felt like a used rag, a lump of rotten meat, a dirty wound better left untreated.
That feeling — of pure loneliness, of the realisation I will never have someone to come and save me; is a devastation I don’t wish on anyone at all. No one should have to be found bleeding or left to treat their own gashes. In that moment, I wanted nothing more but a warm hand pressed against my cheek. One that I never got.
I mourn that girl from two years ago, even now when I’m a bit wiser, stronger. In short; I wrote these fics to give myself that warmth, that comfort I never dreamed to recieve.
I never intended to post these fictions as they were nothing but for my own comfort, but hey, we all struggle. And if this can make someone feel seen — then exposing my own dark mind is nothing to a warmth better shared.
Mental health looks different for everyone, but we all try to make something out of our lives despite the circumstances. And I think there is beauty in that.
Take care, and don’t give up! You’ll be okay, even for just a day, even for just a moment. And if you’ve read this far — much hugs and kisses to you! Stay safe! ><
Rob Lucci
Rob Lucci took his job quite seriously, and as much as he did love you; he was often not heard from for days, weeks. In his line of work that is to be expected.
But when he was here? You made sure to be washed, clean, groomed. You kept yourself tidy for him, kept yourself pretty for him — kept yourself hidden.
And you were good at keeping up the pretence, the hidden makings of your decaying body and ruined mind.
When he wasn’t around, it was difficult to find reason to keep yourself presentable, put together. Once he left for work again, you would allow yourself to scatter. Let the filth pile up, watch the mold rot through.
And this time? You were done. You were finished. You wanted your head to go silent, no more thoughts, no more pain, no more you.
You didn’t plan it. You did not even write a letter. You were simply just done.
And yet at last second, you grew scared. Frightened. You did not know why you stopped yourself but you sit here now.
Sprawled across the floor.
Fingers sticking together with vile spit and stinking vomit. Acid burning down your throat. Tears smudged across your face.
You had blinked, half in daze, half in pain. Head aching, heart thumping.
Your fingers were running cold from the residue and you shuddered.
And that is when the door creaked open.
Perhaps you were sloppy with your timing, or just fortunate to be found — it all depends on how you see it.
You did not look behind you. You did not have to.
Light spread itself across the floor, his shadow long and lean as it stretched itself over your wretched figure.
You hear Hattori chirp, wings flapping as he land in front of you. Head tilting back and forth. Eyes staring and blinking as if to observe the state of you, to make verdict of your failure, of your mishap.
Rob says your name, low, heavy—as if questioning you. Interrogating you.
Strength has left you a long while ago, perhaps it was lost once you forced the pills all the way back up, or perhaps it had never been there in the first place.
When you don’t answer, he moves forward. His steps are slow, tense—rigid. Moving onwards as if to assert the situation, to calculate the probability of what could have happened if he had never chosen to come home tonight.
He stands behind you. His figure looming, long and lean. “What is the meaning of all this?” His tone is assertive, but flat. As if he’s speaking to a coworker and not his lover.
Your eyes are heavy and tired.
You sense the stench of vomit, your tongue sting of acid.
“I did not think you’d be home.” Your voice croaks, your throat chafed.
“And what would have happened, had I not been?”
You do not look up. Or down. Or anywhere in particular. There is nothing you want to say, there is nothing that you can say.
You hear Hattori coo worryingly, and Rob sighs through his nose, deep and heavy.
He looks over to the vomit, to the scattered medicine packages and then back to your ravished self.
He will dispose of you now — you who is broken, who is dirty, who is weak. You, who embody everything that he hates.
You should feel anxious, feel humiliated, even scared at the prospect of him leaving at the sight of your ruin and yet you feel nothing. Not shame, not fear, not anything at all.
After all, a moment ago you had wanted it all to end.
“You aren’t even willing to look at me.” He says it not as a question but a statement. An observation.
Rob closes his eyes as if to take a moment to reflect on what to do.
Surely he’d mock you, surely he’d demean you and taunt at the state of you. But all you hear are his heels clicking against floorboards, striding away from you.
Hattori flies to him. Leaving only feathers in his wake.
You have half the mind to sink onto the floor and pass out but you hear the sink turn and water running in the bathroom. Rob makes his way back to you.
He does not say anything when he returns, his steps only clicks, heavy and deliberate and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
His black long hair trails forward when he leans over you. Like a shadow, like a blade. His hand clasps on your arm, lifting you up from the floor like you weigh nothing.
You stiffen, you freeze. “Rob, my hand, my arm, there’s vomit—“
“Quiet. You annoy me.” His words are sharp, but you feel a large hand place itself between your shoulder blades. Your face lands onto his chest. Pressing you closer still.
Your lips come tightly shut. Your hands hovering in the air.
Rob Lucci, who likes it tidy and neat carries you to the bathroom with not so much as a fuss. Despite your mess, despite your filth staining onto his shirt, onto his sleeve. He holds you close. Holds you tight.
You feel undeserving.
He places you down by a stool, next to the bathtub.
You see then the water is running to fill it up, and the room grows steamy and warm. Rob comes closer, towel in hand as he crouches down before you.
“Hand.” He commands, his palm out.
You blink, doing as you’re told.
Not feeling truly awake.
He gets to work in wiping you down — your hands, your wrists, your arms. His movements are precise, methodical, controlled in his making.
His eyes are quiet, dark — set on cleaning you. Helping you.
He rubs your hands in soap, washes them down with water, dries them with a warm towel. His fingers skilled and swift, results of years of practiced murder but his touch is gentle. Soft. For you, they must be. He ensured of that.
Your fingers grows warm and heat returns to you. But you still feel your hair stick to your face. Dirty and unkempt. Your face still swollen, your eyes still groggy.
Is this truly happening? A part of you did not believe it. It felt like a dream, a happy one.
“Rob.” you say, still half in daze and he looks up. His face unreadable. “What are you doing?”
He gives you a brow, “What does it look like.”
He gets to his feet, washing his hands by the sink after tossing the rag to the laundry basket.
You watch as he turns to the bathtub, testing the waters, adjusting the temperature. You see him pour mild soap and fragrant oils. For a moment, you’re confused.
“No, I mean—“
He turns to look at you and you wry your lips.
“I mean, why are you doing this? Won’t you ask what happened?”
He pulls his brows—yes indeed, he should question you, should command you to spit it out, were he at work he’d not allow any room for compromises and yet… he is not at work.
He is not at Cipher Pol, not with the World Government. He is with you — his lover, his woman, his girl. Not a hostage, not a prisoner, not a prey. He does not need to break you apart, does not need to push you open.
Rob who is curt, who is straightforward and logical, does not need a reason to take care of someone who belongs to him, who is his to care, to cherish.
With that he turns, testing the temperature again.
“The bath is ready.” Is all he says.
He approaches and sits down next to you. “Stay put.”
He undos your clothing, piece by piece, he piles them all up in one corner.
He lifts you up, naked and bare but you let him as he sinks you down the tub. The water is not too warm, not too cold. It’s perfect. Adjusted to your known preference — just enough to be steamy, to be melting.
“Close your mouth, and hold your breath.” It’s an order, an instruction and you listen. You feel water pour down your head, taste soap between your lips.
Rob Lucci washes your hair, not saying anything, not expecting anything. He simply runs his hands down your hair, rubs shampoo across your scalp.
You feel tears glazing your vision or perhaps it’s just the water but it feels all the same. You feel yourself sob, feel your heart beat and your chest ache from the hollow void left from before.
This care, this warmth — it is almost unbearable.
Perhaps you have made this all up, a fantasy of your wildest dreams, but his presence is undeniably here. His warmth unquestionably present. When you start crying, raw and unfiltered only then does he stop in his tracks.
You feel his arm wrap itself across your chest, holding you from behind. Locking you in place as he plants a kiss on your shoulder. His lips soft, faint. “I’m here. You don’t need to worry about anything now.”
You place your hand on his forearm, feel tears stream down your face as you melt into his caresses, his hands, his warmth.
Rob Lucci takes his job quite seriously, and as much as he loves you; it happens quite often how you won’t hear from him for days, weeks even. In his line of work that is to be expected.
But when he was here? You made sure to be washed, clean, groomed. You kept yourself tidy for him, kept yourself pretty for him — kept yourself hidden.
Yet now, with him washing you, drying you, taking care of you, only now does your disguise shatter. He’s seen you as you are, rugged, broken—damaged. And still his hands remain gentle, his kiss stays lingering, his words still remain soft. Light.
And you know then, better than anyone else that his words remain true. When you’re with him — you do not need to hide your mess under the rug, do not need to guard your own wounds.
With him, you can be unveiled, unmade. When you shatter and break, he’ll pick each piece of you up; he’ll water you, nurture you, care for you in places you cannot.
And when he dries you up, carrying you back to bed, tuck himself with you into the sheets, tugging you to his embrace, it is only then do you realise he has never once considered you weak. Considered you dirty.
Perhaps you do not deserve this love, this warmth but you don’t care. Not now. You let yourself sink into his arms, and smile as sleep comes to beckon.
Summary: The vomit has been wiped off the floor, the windows have been left open, the morning breeze saying hello. The room pure of your depravation. No markings left of your stain, no evidence of your crime. There is not even the scent of acid, of bile.
When the first light comes, it is Rob who is first to wake up. For a second he freezes, hands grasping in search for you—but when he feels you are still here, still close, only then does he soften. Pulling you closer. Hattori flutters nearby, cooing. He should get up, should get ready for work. But you were nestled too deep in his chest, your legs too entangled with his. For you, the World Government can wait a few hours.
Sir Crocodile
(I suppose this can be read from sh!reader’s pov, but it doesn’t have to be the case either)
You did not deserve to feel this way—you who had most than others, you who had it comfortable with a roof over your head and food on the table. You who had money. You who had a loving man, that adores you, spoils you, dotes on you. Your lover being none other than Sir Crocodile himself.
You felt like an imposter, a fraud and yet here you are. In the bathroom. Slumped across the floor like dirty laundry.
You were wheezing, your breath dry and strained. You tried getting up from the floor for the past hour but your body has betrayed you times over, your limbs going limp, your muscles growing weak.
You were in daze, as if recovering from a drug—as if awakening from sleep. You were exhausted, tired beyond any means.
You were panting, out of breath from crawling across the floor like a ragdoll, in hopes to reach a towel to clean your mess before someone comes to find you.
But to no avail.
You hear the bathroom door click open and you squeeze your eyes shut. You did not think he’d look for you at this hour and yet — his presence is here.
His steps low and trudging, smoke swirling off his cigar, slithering into the dark. You clench your legs, clutch your fist. Stiffening together like dead meat.
For a moment he looks you over, brows pulling at the mess. The blood, the glass, the spit.
“I tried finding you in bed…” he says, his voice low.
You hear him hunch down, his hook caressing your cheek, sliding a lock of hair away from your face. Your eyes squeeze shut at the cold metal stroking you, whimpering slightly.
“Care to explain why you’re covered in sweat, blood and tears, on the floor, in the dark?”
He only sees you chew your lower lip, turning your cheek away. Your own act of defiance, or perhaps a pathetic attempt to save grace. Perhaps both.
You hear him sigh, a low deep rumble from his chest, his jaw set as he bites deeper into his cigar.
He moves towards the shower; you hear him turn on the water. The sound a running buzz that fills your head from the self deprecating thoughts—and you let yourself listen to it. Not having the strength, the heart to feel anything else.
You feel him lift you into your arms and you wince from the stiff ache that is left from lying on the cool marble floor.
“Crocodile, I… I’m dirty.” You manage to say without breaking and he only wraps your closer. Pressing your head into his shoulder. “Stop spouting nonsense, I don’t care for it.”
And you hold back a sob.
He sets you down by a stool, looks over at your wrists, at your arms. Dark red smudges across your skin, you curl into yourself when you feel the intensity of his gaze but he won’t be having it.
He takes your wrist, firmly, his hook stroking your jaw but you hurl.
“Where did you get the things to do it?”
You do not answer him and he glances at the floor. Where you had made your mess. He hums. “Well. It doesn’t matter now,” he turns your wrist, gently, “what’s done been done. No use crying over spilled milk is there. Where else have you done it?”
You blink, shaking your head slowly. “Just that.”
He looks you over one last time before tugging at you firmly. “I’ll take your word for it. Sit tight.”
He reaches for the lights but you lunge at him, grabbing his sleeve. “Please don’t. Not the lights. I don’t… I don’t wish…” you trail off; you don’t wish to see your ruin, bear witness to your wretched state.
He looks down at you, gaze quiet as he grunts. “No lights then.”
He moves away, rummaging by the cupboards, you hear him turn on the sink, watch as he approaches with a soaked towel. Bandages and alcohol.
He takes your wrist in his hand, cotton pads dipped in alcohol. “We’ll have to bandage them up afterwards. Tell me if it stings.” He notes, as he pads down your arms with such gentle care it is unbecoming of him; but for you, his one and only girl, how can he not?
He wipes you down, first your hands, up to your arms, down to wrists. When it suddenly stings, you wince—flinching away but he does not lose his patience with you. He leans in close, kissing your knuckles. “I’m sorry, darling.” He mumbles, voice raspy.
He rubs your face with a towel, from tear stains to snoot and spit, he washes you. He cleans you, he tends to you. He cares for you.
And when you feel your strength at last giving out, he lets you lean into his chest. Hand on the back of your shoulder, tugging you close.
After washing you, he carries you back to bed, his arms strong, his hands firm. He embraces you closer in bed, let you sit on his lap as he brushes your hair. Slow, gentle tugs with the brush. Being one handed makes him a bit clumsy, a bit unpracticed but his hands are kind. His touch is soft.
Your lips wry; you're ugly, you're disgusting, filthy and wretched. And still, still, he holds you, hums to you — loves you. You want to scream, cry, but there is nothing left in your chest. No sorrow, no shame. No, not after your failed attempt of saving grace. You're tired, exhausted — so for once in your life, you allow yourself to bask in his love.
Your lover who is the very definition of “look at me twice and I’ll dismember you” lets you sob into his shoulder. Wrap his hand dearly over your back—rubbing circles across your spine. His movements are heavy, deliberate.
Your head is nestled in his chest, and he kisses the sides of your hair.
Melting you into his warmth.
"I'll take care of you. So don't leave, not like this." His voice carries a small shudder; almost a plea. You do not know what to say, so you only hum. Tugging onto him.
There is nothing that needs to be said between you two, there is nothing more to add. Because you know with him, you’re safe, you’re okay.
And if you break and shatter again? he’ll pick you up. With both hook and hand.
Again, and again, and again.
Summary: in the dim evening light, he will rock you back and forth, humming you to sleep. And when you wake up, he will be there. Flipping through the newspaper, the scent of tobacco and freshly brewed tea lingering across the room. When you stir yourself awake, he’d glance, and land a warm, rough hand on your cheek. “Rest. Don’t worry about waking up alone, today I will stay home. Here. With you.”
Trafalgar D. Water Law
He was so sweet to you — so kind, so caring. In truth, you shouldn’t be where you are right now with a person like Law in your life.
But it cannot be faulted can it?
Since youth, you’ve carried a hollow wound in your chest, one that has left you dissected, lacerated. And the rags you’ve used to keep this infection from festering? From leaking into the open?
They’ve grown torn, used, damaged.
And you have fallen apart with them.
You had not known when it came—the burst of panic, the shivers and shudders of all the things you have left unburied. The worries, the pain. Things you rather forget.
But that isn’t how life works.
Your room has been left untidy for weeks, the clothes you wear are stained, filthy. Even brushing your teeth has left you exhausted.
Law and the crew have been away exploring an island, you stayed back at the polar tang. Usually, he’d hear from you through the Den-Den but you’ve gone unheard of for days.
Law did not know what to expect when he made it to your room. Perhaps you would be drawing something, reading a book or two — or maybe just taking a nap.
But when the door creaked open it was just darkness. It was still. Quiet. Too quiet.
Clothes spread across the floor, dirty dishes left in corners and the bed unmade.
He says your name, stepping in—only to freeze in his tracks.
You were curled on the floor, hands clutched. Whimpering, trembling. You don’t even hear him shout your name.
His body had moved on its own, already at your side. “Hey, what is happening! Are you hurt—“ his hands makes it to your shoulders but that is when he picks up the scent.
There is vomit in front of you, bile and spit sticking to your fingers. Running down your hands.
He sees the empty packages of medicine, and the fragments of shattered glass.
He looks back down to you, your shoulder stiff, cold—rigid. Still trembling, still whimpering.
He does not need you to say anything, instead his gaze only softens. His hands growing firmer.
He opens his mouth to say something but for once he does not know where to proceed from here. For once he can only grit his teeth.
His hold on your shoulder tugs at you a bit.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay baby?”
His voice is gentle, kind.
You cannot bring yourself to respond but you don’t need to, he knows you after all. He sees you, hears you. He takes you into his embrace, carrying you to the bathroom.
His arms are strong, secure—set. He puts you down next to the bathtub, turning the water on, adjusting the temperature and fixes a wet towel.
“Here, let me see that.” He takes your hands and gently sets to cleaning off the vomit, the spit, the bile.
Law is indifferent to your fluids, he’s a doctor—nothing about the human body remains unnatural to him, and in your case, you who belong to him; it matters even less. All that he truly cares for is your needs, your wants.
You feel yourself slump as he sets to work, posture shrinking, eyes lowering. Feeling tired. Even a bit ashamed...
Do you deserve this love? Do you deserve to be cared for? Even now, broken and destroyed? You don't know — you don't really care either.
And despite all of this; Law remains efficient, precise and methodical, making sure you are clean. Making sure there are no stains left to blemish your skin. Setting down the towel, he looks to you. Taking your hands in his.
Carefully, he leans in.
“Why would you do that?”
His voice is sincere but there is an edge to it. He is not scolding you, not really, not with the expression he has on his face. It’s not soft, or gentle, but set. Restrained. As if to keep himself from holding you too tight, too hard.
So you don’t break, so you don’t shatter.
And perhaps it is that, that makes you cling onto him. Tugging him close, fisting his sleeves.
You do not sob, you do not cry. You just breathe. Unable to feel anything; but the overwhelming emptiness from before.
He hums, patting and holding you. Warmly, tightly.
“It’s alright, I’m here. I got you. Always.”
Once Law sinks you into the bathtub, he washes your hair, rubs your shoulders, scrubs your back. His touch isn’t harsh, isn’t cruel. They’re warm, they’re kind. And when you both make it to bed, all dry and nestled between one another — he will hold you close, his forehead grazing yours. Your hands intertwined, brought close to his chest.
“Law, I’m sorry. I do not mean to be a burden.” His brows twitches at that.
“Don’t say stupid stuff like that. You’re never a burden. Not to me. Never to me.” And you feel yourself press down a smile. Heat bristles between you two, your cheeks flushing red. And when sleep comes to beckon, the hollow wound remains closed. Tucked behind strong tatted arms and heavy blankets.
Summary: Since your youth you’ve carried a hollow wound in your chest, one that has left you dissected, lacerated. And the rags you’ve used to keep the wound from rotting? From leaking into the open? They’ve grown torn, used, damaged. And you have fallen apart along with them. And perhaps he’ll find you like this again. Ruined. Collapsed. Torn into pieces. But for each time, he’ll hold you so you do not break. He’ll bandage you anew, with stronger fabric and better binds.
He does not fix you, does not undo the damage you’ve done on yourself but he mends you, holds you together so when you start to tear, start to fray you will be kept steady, kept hopeful. And maybe, just maybe, with his hand pressed onto your cheek, you believe you can remain just that — Complete. Whole. Healed.
Donquixote Doflamingo
Some would envy at sight of you. Adored, spoiled and loved by all subjects of Dressrosa.
Doflamingo ensured of that.
You’d wear the most priced jewelleries, all customised to your liking. You’d be draped in quality silk, wrapped in priceless satin.
You were a beauty to behold and not only that but you were the very object of his affection, of his desire.
Truly, most should envy you.
They’d be in denial not to.
But between the glimmering strings of splendour and wealth—there is also a darkness. A looming shadow. One that they did not bear witness of: chains that holds you in place and the shackles draped across your neck.
Doflamingo loves you, which is why you cannot leave. Cannot move without the chains clattering and wringing tighter around your skin —alerting him of your every move so to control you. Monitor you.
He loves you of course, so he protects you, possesses you.
And how can you blame him?
He truly dotes on you all too much.
But at some point — you must have cracked.
The chains has of late grown tighter, heavier, so much so you cannot breathe, cannot even wish to live.
Your wrists are clasped in his strings. So if you ever tried to leave, they would saw your hands off — down to the very marrow of your bones.
Would the subjects of Dressrosa adore you, envy you if they saw you now?
Sprawled across the bathroom floor? Bare of rings and bracelets, blood trickled below you, spit and vomit dripping down your chin?
Surely they’d scuff up their nose, point and judge, and say, you do not deserve the title as his queen.
You had wanted to scream at the thought of it, in fact, you have wanted to scream at almost anything lately.
You had tried prying the strings off your wrists. Pulling, tugging but to no avail.
These walls have grown cramp, and Doffy’s love cannot fix the cracks of your ruined mind, the wretched figure hidden behind the riches, the gems.
It was dead in the night and you did not believe he would come to search for you at this hour, but the door creaks. Slowly, slowly, it opens.
Dim light revealing your sorry state, his shadow stretches across your figure but you do not look.
You do not care. Not when your throat burns with acid, not when you see the half swallowed pills buried in your vomit.
Doflamingo takes in the sight of you. Dishevelled across the marble floor like a used rag, his eye twitches and a corner of his lips jerks upwards as if this is some kind of cruel, sick joke of yours.
A joke that he does not find one bit as amusing.
“You know… when I wasn’t able to find you in bed, I had merely thought you perhaps went for a walk… or gone for a snack… or perhaps even visited the garden I constructed for you. And yet…”
His steps are slow, heavy and precise.
Each move of his is measured, as if to calculate the room, to claim observation over this supposed mess.
As if to figure out what the hell he was seeing.
Empty medicine boxes, shattered alcohol bottles, spit, vomit, blood. All that’s missing are the knives and the bullets and everything here would be perfect for a crime scene.
Now he looms over you. No grin. No velvet smirk. His brows are simply pulled.
“—and yet, I find my lover slumped across the floor like some sick, psych ward patient in the dark of our bathroom. Care to explain?”
You do not answer.
Your posture simply shrinks, your shoulders grow only limp.
You should feel fear for his loss of patience, feel anxious for the chance he will grow disgusted of you — and discard you.
But you don’t feel anything at all.
All you feel is how your eyes are swollen, how your mind is at daze. Your fingers are growing cold from the residue sticking between your fingers and you hear yourself shudder.
The scent of vomit wafts across his nose and he clicks his tongue twice.
Had you not known of his cruelty, you’d believe it to be playful, and not taunting.
“Laying drenched on the floor like some tossed out rug ought not do. It does not...” he pauses for a moment, trying his best to find the right word.
“It does not suit you.” You hear him mumble, his words come out somewhat strange if not awkward. As if for once this charlatan who uses tax evasion as a side hustle; does not know how to console you. Not in this at least.
When you remain stiff, quiet, sullen—he strides away from you.
Probably ready to dispose of you now—after all, how could anyone come to love you with drool smudged across your chin? With puke sticking to your hands? And the pills leaving a jagged sight across the floor? You know, you couldn't.
You twitch when you hear water starting to run, filling the bath. You watch as he adjusts the temperature to your known liking, before rummaging about the cupboards in search for a towel.
He soaks it in warm water, and when you think he’ll pick you up from the floor like some sorry kitten, he instead kneels down with you.
You blink, chin slightly rising when you see him sit cross legged in front of you.
“Here. Come on.” He gestures his palm out for you. As if coaxing for something. “Be a good girl and hand over your paw.” His tone is teasing, but not mocking. Not really.
You look to your hands. Wrists that are cuffed so to cut your hands off if you ever dared to leave.
Proof of his devotion, evidence of his affection. A love that strips you off of your will, a desire that is depraved of light and corrupts all that it touches.
One that has lead you to take your life in hopes to end the suffocating poison that is his love, his heart.
And still — you let him take your wrists.
Doflamingo of the Donquixote pirates is a cruel man, wicked as he is devious. He’d grin at others misery, chuckle a little at the topic of slavery.
Viscous, vile, villainous.
But with you — he can allow himself to lilt. Speak to you in softer tones, touch you with kinder hands.
And as he cleans you, wipes you, he does not mock, does not demean.
He rubs your hands at an awkward pace, almost a bit clumsy. As if he’s trying his best to be gentle, to be soft. It is not that he’s unused to being sweeter for you — but seeing you in this state, to witness your self deprecation, he cannot help the buzzing voices in his ear.
‘She tried to leave me. Tried to break free. Tried to make me lose her.’
For a split moment, he wished to put a collar around your neck, a muzzle across your mouth so you may never try it again but when he glances up to see your face, he freezes.
Your eyes are blank. Your expression empty. There is not an ounce of color between your cheeks.
The girl he fell inlove with — bright, joyous, sweeter than any drug he’s ever tasted was nowhere to be found.
All that remains is something broken, something tired and ruined.
You are not supposed to wilt, or decay or rot or even die. You’re supposed to stay. Here. With him. Forever. And you don’t get to make any other choice but that, but him.
Him. Him. Him.
That is where you belong; not here in the marble floor vomiting up pills, scheming to make it for the after life — for in there, he cannot reach you, or see you laugh, hear you talk, or feel you smile into his kiss.
There, you would be untouchable. Uncontrollable.
His hands on your wrists grow firmer, harder—until you wince. Instinctively flinching away from his grip. It is only then that he manages to snap out of it.
“Hey.”
You look up, feeling groggy, exhausted.
It takes everything in him not to shout at you, to shake you by the shoulders and demand you to never do this ever again. To not ever try and leave him even by death. But all he does is let his lips quiver, feel his jaw tilt away to the side.
He catches sight at the empty packages of medicine, see the smear of bile across the floor. His brows twitches.
He decides to not say anything at all, and instead usher you to come closer. “Let’s get you in the bath. We cannot have you walk around with your fluids stuck to your hair, no?” He gives you a grin but you only nod. Tired and empty.
He tests the temperature one last time before sinking you into the tub.
You feel yourself melting into the steam, and you did not know your body could have gone any more limp but here you are. Slumping into it.
You feel him wash your hair, his fingers long, skilled. He gives your scalp deliberate rubs, his movements slow, precise.
He washes you in soap, oils, fragrances, all of your favourite scents.
And It is only after he soaks you in water, does he pull you in from behind. His arms wrapping themselves around your chest and neck. Locking you in place. His breath comes closer to your back, and you feel him rest his head in the crook of your neck.
His hair tickles you, and you go to clutch his forearms only for his hold to come tighter. Firmer. Harder.
“Doffy… thank you.” Your voice is soft, almost a sigh. He tugs you closer, like a needy pup. Hiding his face in your neck. “Really… You really are my most cherished possession.” His voice hums, his breath vibrating across your skin, warm and heavy.
And you lean your head onto his. His embrace strong, secure. As if to keep you forever with him. You do not move, do not stir. You simply sink into his touch and gather the strength for a small, weak, smile.
You had not realised when you succumbed into sleep, and you certainly do not remember when he plucked you from the tub, or how he dried you. Moving carefully so not to wake you.
And that is when he gently lifts your wrists—gritting his teeth as he undos the strings cuffing your hands so that you never had the chance to leave him behind.
A red dent is left on your wrists but he only circles rubbing motions across them, so to ease the pain, the swelling.
“You should feel lucky, not many get to walk next to me free of charge. Not many at all. Promise me you will never leave, not like this, not ever again.”
You did not answer of course, but he kissed you anyways. His lips soft and lingering. As if to seal your promise to him for you.
He carries you back to bed. And almost too softly, almost too kindly it is unbecoming of him — he tucks you in. As if you were a little doll, one that was certainly cherished, adored—loved by its master. And loved you were.
Summary: When you wake up, he will be there. For once he had no pink-tinted glasses, no smirk that screamed of worship. No. He only watched you low and quiet, and kissed you on the temple at the sight of you awakening.
“Slept well, my love?”
Roronoa Zoro
One adventure after another, with the Straw Hats there’s rarely any room at all to wallow in self destruction and hatred — but that didn’t make it impossible.
Which can be seen now with how you’re slumped onto the floor.
Your eyes dry with tears, swollen and face bleak.
You were hurling it all up, the pills, the liquor, all in one heave.
And it is only when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, does your bedroom door slide open.
You do not bother glancing behind you, you don’t care for it.
His figure is a dark shape against the pale light, a letter crumbled in his hands. His fist clenched, and his chest out of breath.
He takes a step forward.
“You don’t answer the Den-Den for days…”
His steps are slow, firm—set. As if prowling for the kill.
“… and then you lock yourself up in your room; not a word to be said.”
He draws near, fist clenching and your posture falters.
“And then I find… I find your letter. Is that all you will leave me with?” He grits his teeth and grabs the back of your bicep, lifting you up to your knees, and you sob.
“What were you thinking!?” He hisses, his face in a deep scowl — not from anger but fear. Terror.
As if he was frightened to open your door at all, as if he was afraid he’d already be too late, as if he was not expecting to find you still conscious, awake, alive.
You wanted to curl away but all strength has left you and the only thing that remain is the taste of acid burning down your throat — lashes wet, eyes swollen.
You crumble into yourself, neck faltering, shoulder slumping and your stomach roiling in pain from the bile you forced yourself to heave up.
Zoro glances around the room; cluttered with dirty clothes, piled dishes and the scent of vomit wafting across the room. Empty medicine packages discarded like unwanted trash.
He narrows his eye back to you; you who is empty, sullen — broken. He can’t stand to see you like this.
He crouches down to your level, taking hold of your wrist. Observing the filth you’ve made, the mess you’ve caused.
You cannot bring yourself to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he tugs to you but you slide your head away. “Hey, I’m not mad at you. Let’s—… let’s get you’ cleaned up, alright?”
You do not answer, your head only falls lower.
You’re tired, exhausted. No fire left to keep you going, and Zoro sees that. Knows that.
So he gets up, rummages about in your bathroom. Turning the shower on, finding towels and soap.
When he comes back you’re still seated on the floor. Still in cold, still in daze.
He sits down with you. Inching closer.
A deep, rumbling sigh leaves his chest, before he takes your hands.
He wipes you. He cleans you.
The soaked towel is warm.
The buzzing sound of water running from the shower fills your head.
You don’t need to think, don’t need to feel the pain. And you don’t need to pick yourself up.
He’ll do that for you.
Your swordsman. Your lover. Your light.
With him you can be at ease and rely on.
With him you can feel nothing but the soft caresses of his skin, the gentle whispers of his heart and the effort of his devotion.
Each stroke between your fingers are firm with care, rubbing your palms with soap, his hands are strong. Movements controlled.
As if to show you that he’s here, and he will hold you even when you have fallen apart.
So you won’t crumble, so you won’t break.
When your arms, and hands are clean, he rubs your face clean with a wet towel. No tears remains to mark, no snoot and vomit left to stain.
Zoro lands a large, calloused hand on your cheek. And he gives you an easy going smile.
“There. You’re all pretty.”
At that, you blink. Feeling tears emerge.
“Zoro… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re here. And that’s all that matters.”
You feel your lips quiver, and he wipes away your tears. “Let’s get you in the shower. I’ll help you.”
And he does. He takes you in his arms despite the spit clinging onto your hair, despite the mess you have made on the floor.
In the shower, he washes your hair, rubs your scalp and circles caresses on your shoulders.
You two stay in there for awhile, no rush, no hurry. And for once in your life you do not feel like a burden, a responsibility or a lump of dead weight.
For him — loving you isn’t a chore, taking care of you isn’t out of duty and it certainly isn’t a matter of ‘having to because you’re his girlfriend’ but because holding you together when you cannot is nothing but natural for him.
He doesn’t think about loving you, he just does. Because for you, how could he not?
Summary: Zoro will sleep with you that night. You in his arms, head laid on his chest. He will fill the room with quiet chatter, and you will fall asleep to the rumble of his voice. He will hold you close, like you’re something precious. Something dear and beloved. And when you wake up he will be there — the mess from the night before is gone, and you will only find his scent lingering in your room. Windows open, morning light peaking through. You feel him stroking your cheek, and holding you by the shoulder.
And maybe, when you fall asleep again, you will hear him mumble softly against your skin. Never to be forgotten, never to be left unheard.
SUBTLE: giving looks, brushing hands, little comments that could be mistaken for an innocent compliment
PLAYFUL: lighthearted teasing & banter, exaggerated reaction, poking fun at behaviours, playful shoves, feigned offense, "Oh, you think you're funny, do you?"
SUGGESTIVE: straightforward, complimenting looks, casual physical touch, dirty jokes, expressing desire, "We could always sneak out somewhere quieter."
ROMANTIC: head over heals, thoughtful gestures, blushing, classically romantic gestures (holding doors, holding an umbrella, bringing coffee in the morning), "My soul knows yours from another lifetime and calls for yours in this one too."
ANXIOUS: freaking out over every text and interaction, discussing every move with their friends,
BOLD: direct, no subtly, relationships always labelled, "I've really liked being around you. Could I maybe take you on a date sometime?"
SHY: nervous, insecure, showing no interest until they are sure the other is interested, fidgeting, daydreaming about what could be if they had the courage to confess, using excuses to be close to them, "Um... you look really good today."
CARETAKING: acts of service, protectiveness, checking in, bringing snacks, offering jacket, fixing things, walking them home, "Brought you coffee; it's still warm."
CASUAL & INTENSE: platonic flirting with no further intentions, way over the top at times, effortless, fun, teasing, maybe eventually leading to more, "You look great, please break my back and reshape my inner organs."
[Prompt Calender: February 9th, International Flirting Week]
tangentwithtanner
dededos
prguitarman
stormborns
kaledo-art
baratheonpilled
jbbartram-illu
