Cobra. Physical touch.
Warnings: English is not my first language, mistakes. Fluff and fluff. A little bit of anxiety, relationship conflicts. Female reader
Hi, I'm here again. I decided to explore the love languages theme a little more because I find it cute and interesting, given the trauma of every member of the Oración Seis. Part two is in progress!
Cobra doesn’t like physical contact. And that’s the only conclusion you can draw, even just by observing him. He wears multiple layers of clothing, often gloves, and keeps a clear distance even in battle - even with those closest to him, even with you.
You quickly realized that your seemingly sacred right to touch your own boyfriend is severely restricted. Sex, the territory of the bed, and not-so-frequent moments of “snake-like” tenderness. To be honest, those moments are your favorite.
When the nightmarish and cold “Cobra” is replaced by a simple, warm “Erik” When you quietly giggle at how his deliberately frequent breathing and whispers tickle your ear, and those damn gloves finally come off his hands, allowing you to feel his warm, calloused palms. Oh, you hate all his gloves, turtlenecks, cloaks with stupid slogans. Not because they don’t suit him, but because with each layer of clothing, the invisible scales seem to grow thicker, finally cutting off any chance to reach him, to understand him.
But it’s his right, and you try your hardest not to think about it every time he doesn’t hold your hand on the street or hug you when you meet. It’s his personal space, and as his partner, you have to respect it! Except your own bones are already cracking from tactile hunger.
“Am I hurting you?” - Cobra’s voice snaps you out of your trance.
You realize you’ve spent the last few minutes hypnotized by those fucking fifteen centimeters of empty bench between you, and you’ve been caught. Damn it.
“About what?” - your voice comes out hoarse for some reason; you clear your throat. - “What are you talking about?”
“Am I hurting you,” - your hope of dodging the topic shatters against the rocks of his resolve. - “by not getting all over you in public?”
The last phrase sounds almost like an accusation, as if you’re dreaming of something extremely indecent, rather than just holding hands or sitting right next to each other. And that’s almost insulting.
“No,” - you lean forward and straighten your back, ready for a confrontation. - “Don’t you dare call it that.”
His single eye narrows, but his body doesn’t move from its spot. It’s a clash of reason and confidence.
“I’m not hurt, just a little upset,” - your voice is steady and still quiet, no shouting. - “And I don’t want you to ‘get all over me in public.’ I want some physical expression of love that isn’t sex, Eric.”
A pause follows. Neither of you looks away, and you see the dragon-slayer’s jaw twitch. You don’t need to read his thoughts to know how much he dislikes this topic, but he started it.
“We don’t just fuck. I hug you and all that,” - Cobra waves his hand vaguely, casually dismissing ordinary signs of affection as if they were something leprous.
“Sure, but only when we sleep together, and it all happens in bed. Outside of it, we look more like good acquaintances,” - a counterattack. This round is definitely yours, since the man is the first to look away.
You might have celebrated this victory if the topic weren’t so painful. The second pause drags on too long, and your “fighting spirit” quickly fades. Your body relaxes, and you carefully reach your hand toward his face.
“Erik,” - your fingers gently touch the scar on his face. - “I love you, and I need to know it’s mutual.”
The pad of your thumb traces a familiar route along the scar - down to his cheek and up to his brow, which you absolutely have to smooth down. The man is silent, only leaning slightly into your tenderness.
“I can’t hear or read thoughts, you know? I need something simple,” - it’s the best you can articulate from the chaos that’s been in your head for months. - “You know I’m a simple girl.”
You smile weakly, hoping to ease this oppressive atmosphere at least a little. Eric is a complicated person - maybe he’s always been that way, or maybe it’s the aftermath of his harsh fate; you don’t presume to judge. But you know for certain that you want to find a compromise. You want to solve this and all the other problems that this stupid snake head and your own will bring you.
You want to be with him. And maybe hug a little more often.
Lost in your loud thoughts, you don’t immediately notice when he takes off his gloves and his rough palm covers yours, squeezing slightly and pressing his lips to it. He hums and inhales noisily through his nose.
“Alright,” - the snake pulls away from your hand but doesn’t let go, intertwining his fingers with yours. - “I hear you, simple girl.”
He smirks, and warm, sardonic notes return to his voice, making you smile and squeeze his hand tighter.
“You always do.”
