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One Piece Men + reacting to messingup!reader sequel (short fics)

⤷ pt 1 જ⁀➴ ♡

- ❝ requested follow up to messingup!reader. I recommend reading part one (no seriously I do, it doesn't make sense otherwise). A direct follow up to their behaviour: After witnessing their cold, cruel side at the sight of your blunder; making another mistake is the last thing you ever want to do again. How will your s/o make it up to you now?❞

˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Some nasty angst (especially Doffy's) to happy ending; SFW. Reader is she/her. 𓂃۶ৎ tw: anxious reader, self destructive themes, Doffy's fic has violence and blood. 𓂃۶ৎ wc: 2.3k per seperate fic. Doffy's fic has 4k words. (i got carried away)

₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)

❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: guys… i did it. I somehow did it. It might be a bit chopped i’m not sure but I did it. Oh my god. I deserve a whole pint of ice cream😭 I didn’t like how I handled Doffy’s fic from part one so I rewrote it, I’m still a bit unsatisfied but oh well 😞 I hope you'll @traflawgarr enjoy this sweetie MWAH MWAH <𝟑 . ❞

Rob Lucci

After that time by the hospital—when he brought you back to your bed; he had tucked himself in with you.

Brought your face close to his, palm resting on your cheek.

It was dark, and all you could feel was his heat radiating into yours, and hear his soft slow breaths.

Your body was sore, tired—exhausted after all the tears you shed, all the destructive training you’ve done on yourself. The fire in you grows small, resting, and Rob has held you close since.

He had kissed you, caressed your cheek so tenderly, so dearly, you almost believed yourself fragile.

That night, he did not say much—but his soft lips on your neck was an apology for all else, and maybe, you should feel flattered. Truly. But, even as he poured his attention onto you; you feel nothing, but an aching void in your chest.

One derived from fear that this love will be short-lived.

So when his hands travelled further down—you pushed him off.

“I’m tired Rob, can we just sleep?”

His head was hovering above yours, eyes quiet. He nods, slowly.

“If that’s what you want.” He says, voice unusually quiet, almost a hush, a sweet one.

He kissed your temples and buried his face into your neck.

Resting himself there. Taking in your scent, your warmth.

He’s longed for it. Craved it. Not because he’s sweet, but because it’s a need, a primal one, a carnal one.

You cup his head, long dark hair slithering between your fingers with your other palm above his shoulder blade, as you stared up the ceiling.

Will this last even when you mess up again? Would he still share his warmth with you even when you slip and embarrass yourself again?

…

Probably not.

Your heart breaks a little at the thought of that.

Lately — you’ve noticed Rob moving slower with you, during briefings or missions, his knuckles would graze yours. Not much, not heavy. But his touch is there, faint, almost a bit ticklish.

And when you pass by the halls, Rob gives you a nod. For a man so against the idea of public affection—that was a kiss and a hug and a marriage proposal all in one in his book.

You should reply with a smile, should blush and hold in a giggle—but lately, there is an aching in your chest that does not leave you.

You cannot look at him without being reminded of his cold, jarring, silence.

The one that made you beg, that made you plead and cry.

Gods.

You didn’t know you could get that pathetic for a man before but here you are—feeling such immense sense of doom that you’ll have to break and shatter again for him to love you, care for you.

You’ll get hurt again, you’ll mess up again, and when that happens, will Rob scowl at you? Give you silence and distance once again? You don’t even want to imagine it; you don’t have the heart to.

And when your body finally healed and you are allowed back to your duties?—you turn frantic.

When Rob wasn’t looking you still vanish behind the training halls, you still skip your meals and rise two hours earlier just to train a little more. It was only the fourth day when he clasped over your wrist, pinning you down with one hard look.

“Hey.”

You stiffen.

“You just recovered. Discipline is an indisputable feat but you’re being just as reckless as before. Don’t be foolish.”

You don’t meet his gaze, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Rob pulls his brows; do better? What. That’s not what he’s asking from you.

“That’s not what I meant. Don’t overwork yourself, you’ll be useless all torn up again—” The word useless makes your stomach sink, and you snatch your wrist back. Still not meeting his eyes.

“Right. Yes. Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t be a burden.”

A muscle of his face twitches. Tilting his head. “That’s not what I—”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Kaku calls from the distance and you snap your gaze to him. Rob never once stops looking at you, trying to find the hidden makings of your heart. To see what you feel, to hear what you think—but he finds nothing but a rigid smile and even stiffer eyes.

“Did you guys hear? Jabra managed to bribe Blueno to shave his moustache.” Kaku runs up to both of you and you immediately gorge your attention onto him. Wanting to get away from Rob’s confrontation ASAP.

“Really?” You start walking off with Kaku.

The chatter of your conversation fades away as Rob observes and scans your face of every single lie in your emotions and reactions.

Something is not right, and he can’t pinpoint what.

And Rob Lucci hates that you make him feel like a helpless schoolboy fretting over his crush about it.

You used to be so decisive, confident in your decisions but now…

You review your assigned documents over and over again, even when they hold no true value.

You jitter from place to place, taking up tasks that hardly is a one-man-job and yet, whenever your friends extend their help—you slap their hand away. And reassure you can do this yourself.

And what’s worse? As you spiral between despair and fear—Rob takes his distance.

Not silence, not absence but he only watches you. Observes your panic, your spiralling.

He should chase you, grab you by the shoulders and make you confess by lethal means and yet—you’re shaken. Your hands are trembling, your eyes are darting and your face grows bleaker, tenser.

A part of him repulses from it.

It’s imprudent, it’s pathetic—it’s weak.

And he hates that look on you.

You’re wise, accomplished—strong.

Not this. Not whatever that has possessed you and he can’t stand seeing it.

And you? You take his distance as rejection.

You’re doing it again, you’re messing up. So you put more effort, harder work and even lesser sleep. And at last when you start to avoid and move out his touch—Rob won’t stop and watch as you finally crack.

Not this time.

And not any time again.

Before you get the chance to leave for the training halls, he sits you down. And fixes coffee for you.

It’s quiet between you two. lately, you don’t really have much you want to say to him.

What if you say something that’ll make him get annoyed of you? You cringe. When did you get this anxious over such stupid things?

Your head is low, eyes set on the table and Rob slides your coffee cup in front of you.

You look up. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tie loose and hat off.

His face is a myriad of secrets—silent, stoic. And when his eyes meets yours, you try a smile. However rigid.

“Thank you…”

Rob nods, sitting down. Forearm resting on the table. “It’s still hot.” Is all he says and you hum, bringing the coffee closer to your lips. Blowing the steam off.

For one passing score, it’s silent between you two. Awkwardly silent.

You start pressing your lips together. You should start a conversation. Probably.

“So, how was your day at work?” You say and Rob gives you a long, long look.

“We work together.” He says flat, giving you a brow.

You suck your lips in, “Right. Yes. Of course. What a silly thing to ask.”

You go to sip your coffee to avoid this awkward tension between you two but you catch your breath when Rob’s hand slides closer towards you on the table.

“You’re worried.”

You freeze, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“You haven’t been eating a lot, and you sneak away at night to train. You even ignore Hattori.” His hand eventually places over yours. Compared to yours, he’s large, calloused and this gesture of him is outmost foreign.

Rob is restrained, cold and indifferent and yet… his hand clasps over yours.

“You’re mine, and I don’t toss that title around like trash.” His hold tightens, not hard, not cruel but locked. Fixed. “So. Don’t treat yourself as such.”

You stare, and you stare, and you keep staring.

That was Rob’s version of ‘Please don’t hurt yourself; it’s breaking me to see you like this.’

Your mouth moves but nothing comes out.

What is there to say? What is there to point out? Rob is perfect—strong, disciplined and ruthless. He’s rational, logical whilst you’re a broken mess.

What makes you think you can even ask for more than just hope? More than just self-made facades and softer skin wearing falser armour?

But when you set the cup down, the weariness from the training, the grogginess from stolen sleep and fatigue of skipped meals, makes your hands shake. Trembling, jittery and everything a coward in hiding could possibly possess—making you accidentally knock your cup down, and you flinch.

The coffee spills across the table.

Deep, dark brown—staining the light ivory of his shirt.

Still hot, still burning and you fly up your seat.

Grasping towards the tissues as you lunge your hands towards him.

“Rob, nonono no,” Everything starts becoming blurry, your mind, your vision—even your voice grows disoriented. Nothing makes sense anymore. "No, I’m so sorry—"

All you can see, feel, are the tissues dabbing down his shirt. Panic and fear seizing you all at once and noise is starting to fill your mind—white, hot, spiralling and it only stops when Rob seizes your wrist.

Hard. Firm.

You catch your breath. Holding, even when your lungs begs for air.

He says your name, lowly, coolly. “That’s enough. That’s…” his hold on you becomes squeezing and you wince. His voice restrained, awfully so. As if it takes everything in him not to snap and shout at you to behave. To gather yourself and pick yourself up. And he would have, had it been anyone but you.

“Just… stop.”

And you cover your mouth with your hand.

He’ll discard you now.

This pathetic show of resolution, this sorry excuse of fixing your wrong.

It’s humiliating—you’re humiliating.

“Rob.” Your eyes stings, and your throat squeezes.

Your mind begs that you won’t show such weakness on open display, your heart denying any sense of reason and yet you grasp for it anyways. “Let me— let me fix this—”

“Fix what?” His tone is sharp, dominating and you become cold.

He's right. What is there to fix? You messed up and you don’t deserve second chances, or that is at least what you think he means.

He let’s go of your wrist, sighing inwardly.

“There’s nothing to fix. It’s just a shirt, so quit that annoying—” He bites down his tongue; He shouldn’t use that word, nor that tone on you, so he clicks his tongue. Starting over. “—I mean. Quit apologising.”

You blink, withdrawing your hand from his shirt. Your brows pull, breath shuddering.

You’re not anyone great or anyone special—you’re just… you.

That’s it. That’s all.

And it makes you feel misplaced.

Does someone like you even deserve to stand next to him?

You shift your head, “Do I not embarrass you? You can be honest. I can take it—”

“No.” His voice is flat. No question, no hesitation. “You don’t.”

“… Not even if I mess up again? And the papers makes jokes of my name?”

That’s when it clicks for him—the reason you’re fretting, stressing and quivering like prey; it’s because of him.

His reaction, his silence—his failure.

Rob Lucci is the World Government perfect killing machine—their best agent, most qualified assassin and Rob - doesn’t - fail. Not to anyone. Not even to that lousy Strawhat pirate (or so he would insist) and yet this…

Rob gets up and you straighten yourself as he grabs your face and smash his lips against you.

His kiss is claiming, pushing—leaving no room for doubt in his next coming words. “Never. I want you, I want this, so,” Rob looks down, his eyes not meeting yours.

Rob doesn’t let his guard down, never, and Rob doesn’t plead, ever, but this? This is close. Dangerously close. And the way his chest is twisting—it’s not controlled, it’s not pragmatic or precise and it’s certainly not something he can explain in his usual stoic and aloof manners that life spent prowling through glass corridors and shaped violence has given him. No.

This is unorganised, scattered, senseless—human.

And Rob is more frozen steel than warm flesh.

Or so others would insist but you’ll see something only you will ever be allowed to grace.

With you, he can allow himself to be more than just something that preys, hunts and kills.

His voice is strained, unsure—something you can only describe as vulnerable. Or at least his version of it.

“So stop this. No more doubts. I can’t stand watching it.” He grits his teeth, Rob doesn’t beg, he demands.

And that’s what he does when you still waver.

You protest and deny, he kisses you yet again.

You confess and you shake, he grips you somehow closer.

You sob and you cry, and he tugs you deeper into his hold, his kiss.

“Forgive me—” he says, low and quiet, breaking the kiss off. Nose grazing yours. “Forgive me.”

He cant say anything more. He can’t bring himself to even think clearly—all he does is hold your gaze, begging you with a frown, a scowl, sweat dripping down his cheek that this is enough.

For a machine like him; you’ve pushed him onto the edge of breaking, of malfunctioning.

When you don’t answer, when your voice gets stuck in your throat—he kisses you again. Lips smashing together, saliva and tears all mixed up as he goes deeper and deeper. Much like shattered armour—you fall. And for each possessive, bruising kiss, you let him catch you. Piece by single piece.

Summary: By that time, by those gestures—you come to realise there is nothing more to fear for. You’ve made an ice statue melt, you’ve made a machine somehow break and plead, at least, in the only language he knows. And that is enough to convince your heart that he remain true to his words. He’ll want you, even when your blunder is mentioned in the papers again. He’ll still care for you, even when you mess up and bring chaos to the mission. Still wipe your tears, still hold you close, still guide you home. That’s just the kind of cold love Rob Lucci has in store for you. And only you.

Sir Crocodile

Next day to come, you’ll find an aged bottle of wine on top of your office desk. The green bottle glistens under the draped sunlight. Luxury brand and quality beyond exquisite. With a golden ribbon wrapped on top of it.

There’s no question of who gifted you this—you’re even adorned in the new necklace he gave you; glistening pearls and a rarer diamond carved in the middle.

And you suppose, you should feel doted on, even daresay reassured. Sir Crocodile will never apologise, but this is the best apple he can give you.

Finer pearls, better wine and refilled perfume bottles and yet, even so…

You move away from his touch, avoid eye contact and bury yourself in paperwork. Your heels click between the halls as you dither from courier to courier—not stopping.

Not even for lunch, not even for rest.

You work, and you work, and you work.

Even more than your own lover.

You check the reports, only to see one number smudged by ink—and what do you do?

You redo the reports. All of them. Every paper, every line.

You double check the double check.

Your broody and gruff man looks you over one night, the tip of his hook removing a lock of hair from your cheek. “You seem anxious about something, dear.” He inclines his head, “Is everything as it should be?” His voice is rough, but there is a gentle, almost slow tone to it.

Back then—you had only given him a look, a rigid one. Lips parted but nothing but lies came out of your mouth.

You tell him you’re fine, you tell him there’s nothing to worry about and you kiss him on the lips for the sweet concern. Your voice was honey, and your touch was softer than any flower petal—so, can you blame him? For being such a puppet to your charms?

You pressed a palm on his cheek, and he takes you in.

Gentle gaze, kind eyes and softer lips.

Yes. You’re too beautiful for him to see your lies; your eyes brim with light and you’ve even started to eat again so surely, surely there is nothing more to worry about?

He hums, and leans into your touch. Believing you.

But truly, behind your sweeter words and softer tone, there is a wound festering. A nasty one, a horrible little thing. One that eats you at night, chest heavy, and eyes darting.

Nowadays you hesitate before answering him. Your hands tremble when you serve him tea, your stomach twist and sink into bottom despair before you hand him your reports and mails. A phantom has taken your being, warping you, moulding your confidence like clay—bent, wilted, toiled and broken. One that has made you flinch, jitter and stutter, forever more. It comes to break you.

The heels you’re wearing; you strut about them through the halls till your toes start to chafe and bleed, till your heel strains and aches—you flitter with your documents, stomping down the sharp pain like a puppet played on strings. There are no other choices here. You will endure—endure till you’ve been wilted down to nothing but a bleaker, duller version of yourself.

One that does not speak, or look or sway.

And every time you cross him—you don’t see your lover anymore.

Not gentle, caring and doting Crocodile but the cruel one. The cold, distrustful one. The one that flashed his hook at you and donned you disappointing, useless.

It gnaws at you, twists your gut and thus, every time he catches his gaze with yours; you look away. You avoid. You distance and you don’t speak unless spoken too.

It’s not done consciously but you’re aware of how he pulls his brows when you avoid eye contact, or how he tilts his head just a little bit higher when you move out of reach.

Call it what you want. Call it worry, affection, care and everything sweet and darling, but your heart is guarded, your walls are high and you can’t hear or see his heart bleeding for you.

You don’t see or notice how he speaks softer to you, slower tones and his smiles less sharp. You don’t know how he always wakes one hour earlier to do some work for you, you don’t see him browsing through high-end magazines so to find you better heels, ones that won’t stab you as you pace down the halls.

You don’t know any of that. No.

Because you’ve been distant lately, and you barely initiate a kiss or a hug anymore. For Sir Crocodile, it almost feels like a ghost of his lady is all that’s left. And whatever remains of that scarred, burnt heart of his—it aches. It makes him wince.

He tries to tug you back.

He’ll pull you by the waist from behind. Pecking your cheek.

“I’ve missed you.” He says, voice low, carrying a soft gravel from years of smoking. He pulls you closer by the waist, mouth near your cheek. “Let’s stay home today, just you and me, wine and candle lights—what do you say?” There is a hint of a smirk on his face and you force a smile.

You want to say yes. You do.

But will he keep doting on you, keep staying close to you—even when your work starts piling up? Even when letters and mails and received appointments are left unattended even for a day? What will he do, if you don’t make sure the numbers are correct and the calls are answered to?

Will he still be sweet to you then?

Your chin sinks. Grabbing his forearm.

Pulling away.

No. No he won’t.

You’ve seen it before after all. How quick his sweetness can run dry. Even for you.

“As much as I want to entertain your idea dear, I… I really don’t think we should procrastinate anything more.” You say, shrugging him off.

Like that, you keep pacing between halls, heels clicking, bandaged toenails soaking blood, hair going undone and the muscles of your face is tense; you’re either frowning or looking down.

Thinking, worrying, fretting.

You even stopped telling him about your day, your work, your thoughts and feelings.

You start becoming a shell of the woman you were.

Sure, he can play the fool and wonder what’s gotten into you—but Crocodile is not that dumb. Not even to your charms.

One evening, he’ll sit you down by the sofa. Your posture is rigid.

This time—he’s the one who prepared you both tea.

You always do that but now the roles are reversed, and though you should feel excited—you instead feel ashamed. Small, nasty little thoughts make it past your head — perhaps he doesn’t like the way you brew tea. Maybe you aren’t even good enough for that.

Stupid, stupid thinking. But one that makes you stare down at your thighs anyways.

He settles down next to you at last, sighing as he fixes a new cigar and twisting his hook off his arm.

And when his gaze meets yours at last, you flinch. Immediately straightening your back.

Shoulders stiff. Spine straight. Palms on your thighs.

His ringed fingers tapping against the table.

“You haven’t slept lately and you’ve been fidgety all week.” A statement, an observation. One that makes you advert your gaze. He takes a puff of smoke. “And you don’t speak to me anymore.”

Your neck goes cold.

He’s mad, isn’t he? He’ll leave you, discard you, just like before.

You clench your fists. Not being able to discern between truth and fear.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to… I-I’ll fix it.“ Your words leave your mouth in a hurry and Crocodile tilts his head. “Fix—?”

“My behaviour.” You fill in. Still not looking at him. Your face turns blanched, draining out of colour. “Just don’t be mad—”

That’s when his patience has met it’s end, and he snatches your jaw to make you look at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He tilts your head up. His gaze locked on yours. “You’re worrying that I'll send you away again, aren’t you?”

You can't answer. You can’t even look at him.

He clicks his tongue, “You’re tempting me into scolding you but,” He looks away, pulling his brows so hard it almost feel’s like a vein will pop. “But this is no one’s fault but mine.” He says, and you freeze. Looking up.

…

Huh?

Did you hear that correctly?

Is prideful, cocky, cruel Sir Crocodile… admitting fault?

… to you?

You flip your gaze to him ready to protest but he waves you off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry, love. I really am.”

You blink not once. But twice.

His voice low, quiet—but there’s a crack, a breaking; in his own gruff, raspy way.

“Darling, I—”

“I shouldn’t have treated you like a subordinate. I never should have.”

Slowly, he gets up from his seat, and when you think he’s going to leave—he instead kneels before you.

No hook, no cigar—as he takes your hand in his.

Bringing it to his lips but he does not kiss it. Only let it sit a breath away and you stare at the expression he’s making for you.

One depraved with longing and need; a dark one, a desperate one.

“What will you have me do, to bring my woman back to me huh? Do you want me to kneel, beg and plead?”

You want to gasp, blink, even chuckle. But all you can do is leave your jaw hanging open, as your lover kisses the ring on your finger.

“For I will. If that’s what you want.” He looks up to you from below, lips still sealed on your finger. “You want better stones? Finer pearls? Say the word, and I’ll fix it. You want me to beg, cling and cry for you? Fine, I’ll do it.” He starts pecking your hand, and your eyes just grow wider and wider—his slicked black hair going undone and a strand makes it to the front.

“Do you want me to go, leave? I’ll do it, only if you swear you’ll come back. Do you want to shout at me, scream at me? Fine, I’ll take it. Break my heart, if you so must—just, just speak to me, talk to me. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

And at that, you let out a scoff. Withdrawing your hand.

Shoulders slumping as you see how both of you are being pathetic. Truly... what a foolish, foolish man you've entangled with. He can aim for ambitions towards kingdoms, set to rule and dominate through lethal means if it so meant victory. You know of his pride, his ruthlessness and still. He falls apart into pieces when you, his woman, avoids him for less than a month.

Tears you' have kept to yourself for the past running weeks; are already running down your cheek.

“You fool of a man.” You say, unable to keep yourself from slouching down your seat and grabbing hold of him in an embrace. Knees hitting the floor. Arms above his shoulders as you pull him closer. “You idiot, stupid, dumb, mean brute.”

“Yes, I'm an idiot. A brute. I’m everything you say, so please, come back.” He says, wincing as he tugs onto you.

The fear, the anxiety, the worry and the sheer dread that he’ll one day abandon you, like he once did—all of these feelings finally releases you by the throat.

And it’s like you can breathe again.

You tell him he was horrible. That he deserved a good hard slap across his face back then, and that he hurt you. made you cry. Made you overwork and skip your meals and sleep. And he’ll pull you closer. Humming. Agreeing. Even as you insult him, reprimand him; he’ll hold you anyways. Call him for what he is, a malicious cruel and distrustful man that failed you, hurt you — his hold on you will only grow tighter. Harder. As if to not see you leave, and discard him. And when the last word leaves you, and the final breath is made and there is no more spite and fear seizing you, only then do you push your face into his shoulder. Tugging him. Holding him. Needing him.

“Don’t be mad at me again. Not like that. Not ever like that.” You say it without shaking, without trembling. No, all you do, is take in his scent. His warmth. Clinging onto him with everything you got.

“I won’t. Not ever. Not even when you hate me, betray me.”

You fist his shirt so hard your knuckles strains.

“Promise me.”

“I promise you, my sweet, loving wife; I’ll never be mad at you ever again. I promise.” The last sentence was a whisper, a vow. One that makes you bury your face into him. Your heart is thumping with such force for all the neglected emotions, and abandoned confidence, you whine, squeezing out the last few tears made from your heart.

No hook, no frown. His knees on the floor and hair going undone. Nose buried in the crook of his lady’s neck, his larger frame slouching into yours. You hold him, take him—let him feel the heat of your skin, the scent of your perfume.

When you press your face to him; he’s a man no more but a buried one. By you, he’s forever undone. If anyone saw the formidable Sir Crocodile like this—no one would believe them.

No one but you.

His voice becomes unbearably soft. One that leaves a shudder across your skin. A secret so dear, so invaluable you wouldn’t trade the One Piece for it; it leaves his mouth like reverence. One that breaks you.

“Come back to me.”

Summary: Sir Crocodile is a man of ambition and luxury and when he holds you like this, kissing the side of your hair like you're his most beloved treasure, which you are, only then do you believe in his words to not ever break you. Abandon and shout at you. You're his to care for, his to beg for. And when he pulls away from the embrace, he'll lift you, carrying you like you weigh nothing even with just one hand. He'll bring you back to your bed. For a moment he'll look into your eyes. It's quiet between you two. Not awkward, not wrong but tense. Intimate. Until he at last leans in. Forehead pressing against yours. His breath warm, shuddering. "I love you."

Trafalgar D. Water Law

Your wounds were healing.

Law ensured of that.

In fact — he did it a little too well.

He monitored your eating, sleeping and drinking.

Took notes on your healing process and tapped his finger with a scowl every time he saw you carry something heavy. Snatching it from you or give Bepo the ‘don’t make me tell you what to do’-look and the poor polar bear immediately gets the gist.

Taking your cargo from your hands. Defeated.

He redid your bandages diligently, and always ensured you drank enough water and got just the right amount of sleep for recovery.

In other words… he was on your back.

His care did not leave you, not even for a second.

And sure. You feel cared for. You do.

But this would have never happened — did you not embarrass yourself twice.

First by messing up.

Second by having him catch your flimsy efforts in righting your wrongs. You were embarrassed. Extremely embarrassed.

Law can say it’s nothing and keep tending to your wounds but truly?

You cringe every time you remember that night, and at your blunder. You feel like a walking joke. A bothersome child. A sick patient that weighs everyone down and you hate it.

He always takes care of you — because you were a burden. A problem and an obstacle.

You don’t want to be that ever again.

Not to anyone, not to yourself, not even to him.

So...

Of course you do what is natural—as soon as you recover, no, even whilst you’re recovering, you held yourself out of everyone’s way.

It was harmless at first.

Ikkaku was spoonfeeding you soup, and she had blown on it. “Tell me if its too hot!” She inches near, and though your tongue burnt from the broth—you take it. You swallow it. Not a word to be said as the soup burns your mouth. “It’s perfect, thank you.” You say, tongue stinging.

Bepo redid your bandages. “If it’s too tight, hit me.” He says before tying the knot. And you grimace through your pain. The bandage squeezing your sinews together, a pain that can only be described as bruising, cruel—tight.

And when Law saw you lagging behind the crew during an outing, he had halted. Waiting for you to catch up as the rest of the Heart Pirates made their way along the path. You were having the worst migraine of your life — vision going slightly blurry.

“… you good? Are you in any pain?”

“—No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.” You slip on a convincing smile, feeling your head almost tearing itself apart from the headache. Not to mention you got a pebble stuck somewhere between your sole.

But despite your charade, and falling for it; Law offers you his hand anyways.

“C’mere. Let’s not fall behind.”

And you’ll press down your lips. Taking his hand as he walks with you up the path.

It truly was harmless in the beginning.

All you ever really wanted, was not to be a burden. Not again. Not ever. But the line draws when it starts affecting your health, and your mind. Once you recovered—the crew had been staying at this spring island.

you started taking up chores and jobs from your friends. They didn’t ask for help, but you took it on your back anyways.

Ikkaku needed to run a few errands? You told her you’d do it.

Bepo needed an ingredient for an ointment he’s making? Yeah. You’re spending your mornings searching for a plant that doesn’t even grow on spring islands.

You heard Jean Bart mention how his back hurts from all his chores? You tell him to leave it to you.

Task after task after task.

Between all of it; you’ve lost the energy to take care of yourself but even then, you don’t allow yourself to be tired. You keep doing their chores, keep doing their tasks, keep staying up till tomorrow morning searching for an ingredient no one even knows if its exist.

And for each meaningless task, you repeat a mantra in your head.

‘You need to make up for it, fix your mistakes and not fall behind—not become dead weight.’

That’s what you tell yourself, even when Ikkaku tells you to get some rest. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Bepo tells you there’s no need for you to do all this. That’s what you tell yourself, even when Jean Bart finds you panicking for not doing a five star job on his chore.

At some point you break, not physically this time but tears stream down your face in front of your friends.

You spilled Shachi’s coffee on the floor. And your entire world starts crashing into pieces.

Everything goes black—your surroundings, your hands, even your friends. They all become a dark, meaningless blur. Their voices drones out and all you can see, is the spilled coffee and the fragments of porcelain trickled across the floor.

Your body rushes cold, your bones turn frozen and your breathing gets stuck in your throat.

And when Shachi gets to clean it, you immediately snatch the tissues from his hands. Getting to cleaning.

“Look, it’s no biggie, just coffee,” Shachi comes close and places a hand on your back. He says your name, “Don’t stress yourself over this—here,” He takes the tissues, “Get some rest, alright?”

“But it’s my fault—”

“Your fault?” Someone enters the room, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You know that voice. Of course you do.

“Heya cap, how ya doing?” Shachi greets him and he gives both of you a brow. “Shachi-ya, what’s going on here?”

“Nah it’s nothing, just some coffee—”

“I did it.” You immediately say. “I spilled Shachi’s coffee.”

You don’t look at Law, you just keep cleaning.

Out of all the times he appears and it’s now — when you messed up again. You keep cleaning, keep scrubbing the floor, even when there is nothing left to tidy.

Ikkaku comes closer, “Hey girlie, what’s going on? Why are you being so harsh on yourself? Let us help—”

“No.” You hiss, hand landing on your forehead to rub a headache away. “I’ll do this, leave it to me.” You give them your most convincing smile, and no one falls for it.

Not with those eye bags. And especially not with how your hands are trembling.

And during all of this time — Law is scowling.

He’s a patient man but this? This just makes him annoyed.

And before you open your mouth to add anything more pathetic, Law comes close. Takes the tissues. Ignores your protests and tosses the tissues down the garbage and then looks to you. Pointed finger. Scowl etched on his face.

“You. Come. We need to talk.”

That’s how you ended up here. By the med bay.

The door locked and a silence stretches onto you two.

Law has his arms crossed, leaning against the operating table and you fiddle with your hands. Not sure where to place them. He’s drilling his gaze down on you. Hard. Heavy. Focused. He’s staring so hard you start becoming aware of your breathing and the muscles on your face.

It’s dreading.

At last, he sighs inwardly. Shoulders easing.

“You’re anxious.”

You look up and you see him tilting his head to the side.

“At first; I simply thought you were just a little nervous from what happened last time but this? This gotta be put to a stop.”

You press your lips into a fine line, the headache from before starting to pound. “I didn’t mean to be annoying, I only wanted to make it up to the others. To you.”

“But you’re not annoying.”

You blink. Chest empty. And Law unfolds his arms, striding over to you.

Each step is set, deliberate, for each one forward you start to feel smaller and smaller—until, until he takes your hands ans looks them over. His hands are cold, slender but kind. A touch tender. His expression is quiet. He nudges your fingers, rubbing them, and his thumb circles your palms. The torn skin has faded and they’re healed now—but he never wants to see you destroy yourself like that ever again.

He wants to take care of you. Not as a patient—but as his girl. As his lover.

That’s all he ever truly wanted with you.

“I’ll take care of you, y’know?” He says at last and you look at him.

“And yes, back then, I couldn’t stand what happened but that still doesn’t give you the right to neglect yourself like this.” He keeps circling your palms, slow, steady motions, eyes still on your hands. He gives them a squeeze. Finally meeting your gaze.

“Burden me.”

“What?”

He leans in, voice hot on your cheek. “I said: Burden me. Be weak on me. Be stupid and foolish and put your weight on me—I don’t care.”

He leans back, bringing your hands to his face. Giving the side of your palm a kiss. Lips still lingering as he looks up to you from under his lashes. “I want you. All of you. Got that? Even when you’re in the way, as you put it, even when you’re being annoying and stupid—I want it. I want you. So... stop this. Please.” His voice breaks at the end and you flinch at that.

Law is controlled, rational, pragmatic—not vulnerable, emotional and submissive but for you? He falls and bends and weakens. And you scoff in disbelief at the very sight of it. With those words, with those eyes—you’re released. Shoulders dropping, brows softening and it’s like you can breathe again.

“Do you really mean that, Law?”

“Yes.” He does not even hesitate. “Always.”

You stagger closer, trying to hold back a whine; and Law brings you into an embrace.

You clutch onto him, and he does too. Holding you. Keeping you.

It’s warm. It’s soft.

It’s safe.

Law always ensured of that.

Summary: You don’t have to be strong around him. Or weak. Or smart or stupid. That’s not what he wants. He wants you. Only you. So—when the day comes; burden him, toil him, push him onto the edge and he’ll still keep you. Close and dearly.

Donquixote Doflamingo

(tw: violence and blood ahead.)

You rushed up from your bed—heaving, panting, hands going to your throat.

Another nightmare.

Of when he strangled you that is.

You nudge your neck—not swollen. Not bruised.

You let out a whine, and in the dark of the night; you bring your face to your palms. Shuddering, breathing, trying to hold yourself still.

You loved Doffy. You did. But these days, it’s hard to look at him without remembering how he treated you. A voice, almost a whisper makes it to your head.

‘Is that really love?’

You ignore it.

You ignore it like how you ignore the trembles rising up your skin when he grins at the pain of others.

You ignore it like how you ignore the nausea, the shivers when his hand lands on the small of your back. Kissing you softly, promising you everything and more.

You ignore and ignore and ignore and ignore; ignore till it drives you sick.

Nowadays, you’ve asked to sleep separately. Just for the time being, you told him. He had made a face, the face of a boy. One who felt his chest twist, his heart sting. But he had complied, obeyed.

And you’d ignore that too. In fact; you hoped it hurt.

You hoped it hurt him good.

You fret down the halls, keeping to your work—working and working and working till it’s night again. And when morning comes, you’ll work once more. Not once stopping, not even to eat, not even to rest.

If you stayed still for too long, if you didn’t keep your mind occupied at all times — your thoughts would drift. Drift to him. His violence. His splendour. His ruthlessness and anger.

You shove all those thoughts behind your mind, burying them under piles and piles of weathered documents and old schedules and unorganised papers.

Between hands trembling and working; gifts upon gifts starts piling up your room. Ever since that day—Doflamingo has not once stopped gorging your wants. Spoiling you, giving you, doting you. He takes you out to dinner, he brings you to social events; dolls you up and speaks to you in a much softer tone.

Making it up to you.

But deep down your heart; you hate him for what he did.

And you know he's been drinking himself stupid ever since you've grown more distant. More quiet. But honestly? You did not care, he can remain drunk for all you care. In fact, when you see him try to remain sober; you'd lean in, the only short, lasting moments you were ever affectionate towards him was when you poured him some wine. "Here, try this, it's my favourite." You'd say, voice saccharine sweet and he'd blink. You never talk to him nowadays, at least you won't initiate it so when you push the goblet towards him. Eye lashes batting and smile all too charming; he can't help but fall for it.

Whenever he was sober, he was more difficult to manage. Always playing games to tug onto your heartstrings, and sometimes you'd bend. And that too, makes you hate him.

That evening, when he pleaded and begged you — you remember it clear as day. How he fondled your face, kissing your cheeks, temples and nose. And between each kiss came an apology, a sorry.

But as he kissed you, doted on you—all you can truly remember are the strings writhing across your neck. Tight. Sawing. Suffocating.

Your lip jerk. He’s trying his best. He’s making up for it. He seems truly sorry for what he did, and yes, he’s scum, what else did you expect dating someone like that? When your most wretched hours come again, you feel like the one true fool here —and still.

You can't stand the fact that you love him still. You hate it, you hate it enough that you can't even bring yourself to look at him.

At some point — headaches are forming. Sleepless nights, waking up in cold sweat and a migraine threatening to cleave you in two. And you keep burying yourself in work. Not once letting yourself slack. You can’t afford to, lest you get choked again.

And by dinner; Doffy will reach a hand out to catch your wrist — but when you flinch; he stops himself.

His blood rushing, not anger, not fury—but something dangerously close to shame. Shame. Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t feel shame but now? With this? What else could it possibly be but shame of how he treated you? His favourite pet? His favourite person? You shouldn’t be flinching or scared of him, he wants you to trust him, love and never abandon him, but now?

He expresses that shame in the shape of the tiniest scoffs. He ignores it; trying for a gentle approach, his tone turning lilt.

"You haven’t eaten anything lately; are you feeling unwell?”

You don't even look his way. “I eat. You just haven’t been looking.” You say, cutting your steak and forcing yourself to chew it.

"Is that so now? Then why is there less of you for each passing week.”

You blink. Looking to him.

No grin, no scowl — just worry.

And you hate it.

He has no right to act worried over you, after all it’s his fau—you stop yourself from going any further with that. Wincing.

"You must be imagining it because I’m fine.” You drop your fork, bored of this conversation. “I’ll be going back to work—”

"Darling.”

You freeze. His tone is low, hand clasped on yours. “There’s no point overworking yourself—you’re the future queen of Dressrosa; don’t be too harsh on yourself. Have some rest.”

You open your mouth to protest but Doflamingo beats you to it.

“ —that’s a request from your lover.” He takes your hand, giving your knuckle a kiss. “Won’t you spoil me and follow it through?”

Lover he says — but the power difference is obvious, so how could you ever really decline him?

“Yeah. My lover.” You bite out, a scowl coming on your face. Snatching your wrist. “I’ll do anything you say.”

And at that, Doflamingo flies up his seat—gritting his teeth.

“Must you really do that? I’ve been nothing but gentle with you and patient. But clearly that does not satisfy you, so tell me, what will you have me do?” He leans in, grabbing your arms. “Want me to beg again? I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees if I so must, just—” his grip on you goes from hard to soft. Releasing you. His hand going to your jaw. Sliding your face to meet his. He removes a lock of hair away from your cheek. And still. You don’t meet his gaze. “—just please. Look at me. Look at me.” His voice breaks, just a little.

You've been ignoring him lately, giving him the cold shoulder and empty looks. You don’t even say his name anymore. And truth is, a part of you still wants to please him. Still want to have him — but when you finally meet his gaze, his face lights up.

His smile isn’t wicked or cruel—it’s innocent. Boyish. Hopeful.

One that makes you clench your fist.

He leans in. “Do you want more jewels? Or perhaps more time? I’ll give you it, just tell me—I’ll even fix a ship for one of your friends to—”

“No.” You shrug him off. “I just need some more time. That’s all.”

His smile falters a little at that; for him, it feels like his strings on you are searing apart, and he can’t do anything but watch as you grow more and more distant by each passing day. He wants to tug you back, and he will—by force if he must.

“I see.” He leans back, straightening his posture. Giving your cheek on last rub with his thumb. “… take all the time you need. I’ll be patient for you.”

And he will. Even if you do not want him anymore, even if you decide to pack your bags and try to leave—he’ll be patient. He’ll keep watching and observe and see what you need; to bring you back to him, under his grip, his presence. That’s what he wants and needs from you.

He can’t stand the idea of you leaving him, he doesn’t even entertain that thought train, or so he likes to flatter himself. Since you’re both sleeping separately for the time being—you don’t hear or see how he suddenly jerks himself up at night, heaving, panting; not an uncommon behaviour from his part. His past ghosts still haunts him, but these days—those dreams do not take the shape of burning fires, a crying brother and a dying mother—nah. The dreams are soft. Light and everything sweet and dear in this world. They’re you.

They’re you, always you—you who places her hands on his face, bringing him close, kissing him, wanting him even in his most wretched, hateful state until at last, the dream ends. And it always ends in the same way. Your face twisting, turning blurry. Fading into the dark. Leaving him stuck in the mud. Even when he calls out your name, you don’t glance behind or look back. And for each time, he’ll cling onto you but like smoke, you leave, vanish. The warmth you once offered, gone. Just like that.

For every night terror, he flinches himself up. Hand latching onto the sheets, searching for you in bed, only to remember — you two are sleeping separately.

He did not want to obey, he wanted you by his side at all times—but you needed this, needed space and dammit; he hates this whole ‘being a healthy and understanding boyfriend’-thing it makes him physically ill to not just snatch you back.

And as time passes, the sleepless nights are starting to catch up to the both of you.

Dark figures starting to appear in the corner of your eye. Accompanied with movements in the room that aren’t truly there. You tremble more nowadays. Can’t breathe properly without feeling something heavy, something burdening on your chest.

It’s sickening. Maddening. You feel yourself starting to spiral and no matter how much you bury yourself in work — the migraines, the headaches, the anxiety and the pain and the shifting shadows won’t go away.

And one night — you cannot take it anymore.

You’re clutching onto your chest; the pain building up your throat; not being able to breathe.

Sweat starts piling up your spine and whilst you’re breaking; Doflamingo flies up his own bed. Lately, he hasn’t eaten much either, just drinking till he’s numb and stupid, and tonight, he snatches another wine bottle. Gulping down every last drop just so he can sleep again.

But even as he closes his eyes and press a palm to his head — rest does not seek him. Sleep is on a path long gone and thus his eyes drift to your side of the bed. His hand reaching out as if to expect your warmth to still linger, fingers clutching and digging into the sheets as if it will conjure your presence and bring you close and near again, but all he feels is the cold, bare fabric with no sight of your shape.

He rubs the bridge of his nose — letting out a groan.

What the hell is he doing? What the hell has he done? For all his life, everyone has always been so easy to please; gifts, money, bargains, deals and borrowed affection—one snap of his fingers and it all just fell into place, but now? With you? He’s heard you cry, seen you break and work till you tire; and no matter how much he offered and pampered you; you’re still bleeding. Why? And why are all his efforts useless?

His head is tearing itself apart with all these thoughts and you, the sole remedy for his rancid sentiments, is nowhere to be found, and who’s fault is that? Who’s fault but his? His jaw tenses and teeth are gritting as he tries to reason with his ego but it all comes at a fail.

He’s the one who snapped. He’s the one who lost control. He’s the one who choked. He did, and it’s unravelling all of his pride, arrogance and gold-structured gratification of all that he’s ever achieved.

And now, what wall of difference is there between him and his father?

Doflamingo’s hand flexes, sweat piling down his face. What little remains of that heart of his—twists, turns and goes undone. Once he would have scoffed at the idea of a possible equal other than his own shadow but now? With all that is his; blood, money, status and privilege but what is that, without you by his side? And he doesn’t want the hollow version; the one who does not look at him, speak or talk to him—but the one who’s bold and cheeky, carefree as the wind itself; not the dull, empty version that moves out his reach and fades out from his dreams.

He wants you.

He wants you more than anything else in this world and before he knows it, his heart clings onto you like helpless dog does their owner. And it makes him scoff in disbelief—truly, who’s the real pet and master here? He finishes the wine bottle before smashing it against the floor; staggering himself across the room—and for once in his life, it’s not control, precision and deliberate reverence that gravitates him towards your quarters; but need. A disgusting, depraved and drunk desire of something that he can’t describe as anything but want.

Of his person, of his heart.

And when he at last finds himself in front of you door—he’s heaving, trying to breathe as slow as possible before latching a hand on your door knob. Knocking.

“Hey, so…” His tongue ties. What is this? Why can’t he formulate anything witty or self-assured? His jaw clenches, and he bangs his forehead against your door. “I know you don’t want me here but… please.” his voice is rough, rugged.

Moments goes, and you still don’t answer.

He bangs his head against the door again to regain senses, frowning; what would interest you enough to speak to him nowadays? A corner of his lip curves up. “I need to talk to you about something — work related, y’know, about the harbour incident, well I just received word of—”

Your door creaks open, only by an inch, and your little face peaks through. However sullen and bleak you may look; eye bags and everything—he’ still smiles at the sight of you. Pleasingly

He cannot stop his fingers making it in between the gap, just so he can see more of you but your grip remains firm on the door.

“What is it, Doflamingo.” Your voice is flat, and the way you said his name sounded like a dagger to his throat but still. You said his name—he wants to hear you say it again, and again and again and again. However cold you may do it.

“There you are, sweetheart, mind if you let me in? This door between’ us does little for chatter.”

Slowly, your eyes travel up to his—and he tenses. Your eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed but you hum. And when he thinks you’re going to step aside and let him in — you slam the door in his face. Sparing his fingers by a second.

“I know your games Doflamingo—how stupid do you take me for!? Conversations of work? Really? At three A.M? Am I fuckin’ idiot in your eyes!?” You scream at him from the other side, “Just go! Leave!”

“Don’t be like that sweetheart, I truly need to talk to you about it—”

You try to resist rolling your eyes, “Oh god, spare me, I can’t deal with your lies any longer—”

At that, he snaps. Once and for all. “Lies? We really wanna talk about lies, darling?” He pulls on the door knob but your hold on it is hard, secure, and he seethes. “Let’s talk about your well being, go on, I’m interested! Tell me how you skip your meals, how you toss and’ turn at night, not catching a moment of sleep as you bury yourself in your precious, adoring work—oh yes, tell me all about how well you’re doing—”

“And who’s fault is that?” You cut him off, heart beating so fast and tenacious you think its going to pop at any moment.

“Let me… let me fix it then, let me in and we can talk about it; yeah? What do you say—”

“No. Now leave.”

He bangs his fist against the door. “Dammit woman, don’t you hear yourself? You’re breaking yourself apart and you just want me to watch you burn? What is this, a new torture method you’ve invented cause’ pray tell it’s working wonders—”

“You don’t know anything of what I’m feeling and doing so don’t even start—now leave! Go! I don’t want you here.”

He grits his teeth, slamming his fist against the door. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do so—”

“Then why did you respond to me at all?” He snaps and you flinch. Tears welling in your eyes. “tell me that, darling.”

You cover your mouth with a hand, not wanting him to hear your whines; but he does have a point.

Why did you answer him?

Back then you were clutching your chest, trying your best to hold back the panic attack that was soon to come until you heard him knock on your door. You could have just ignored him, pretended to be asleep—but between the sleep deprivation and night terrors—you’ve grown desperate, the most desperate person of them all and you long for comfort, any comfort there was; you’d take it. You wanted it so bad it made you sick in the stomach.

When you don’t respond, Doflamingo continues, voice strained and rigid. As if he too, during all the time spent apart, has become just as desperate.

“You’re in no mood for games, well neither am I so I’ll say it outright; I do not know what could possibly interest you to cling onto a man as despicable as me. Honestly if you can love someone like me, I suppose you can love just about anybody but whatever that is tethering you to me; I worship it. I indulge it, I am a slave to it, so—if you wanted only money and fame; I’d have given you all and more—if you wanted glory and power, one word and it sits upon your head. You want me to carve out my heart? Serve it on a plate and eat it before you? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, as long…” his voice breaks, swallows, tries again, “as long as you’ll look at me whilst doing it. Talk to me whilst doing it. I can't take your silence. I cannot bear your avoidance, gods dammit all; you want me to cry? I’ll cry, if it so pleases you. Just.. Please. Open this door. Let me see you. That’s all. That’s all.”

And you blink. Breath caught in your throat.

Head falling as your spine hunch, trying to recover whatever ground and sense but as your lips start to quiver—all you can find is the forlorn yearning in his pleading. His voice is raw, unfiltered and unpoised. For once — there is no act, no ulterior motive or a wrapped, worm eaten lie. Just him. Him and his desperation taking the form of something that cannot be anything, but begging.

And like a curse, it possesses you. Unlocking the door.

For a moment—none of you say anything, or do anything. He does not walk through, or open the door by an inch. A stiff, almost stale silence sits between you two. And when his steps trudges, you’ll blink, swallowing down your pride when he at last walks in.

“Darlin’, sweetheart, are you… are you cryin’?” His voice snaps you back to your senses. Wiping your eyes. “Go away.”

“Darling—”

“I’m not your darling, now — get away. It was a mistake. I don’t want to see you tonight, leave me alone, go, leave like I told you—” And now, when you start to feel it getting way too much, you bury your face in your hands. Why did you open the damn door? Why did you betray yourself like this? You must truly be the most desperate fool there is, for as he reaches his hands out to you; you snap.

“Don’t touch me—I’ve given you enough of my time—” you hit him, push him off of you, striding across the room and he follows. “I said leave, go!” You throw pillows at him, papers, ledgers, tea sets and even the pair of heels he gifted you. And he dodges none of them. Some fly past his shoulders, some landing by his feet—others crash into his torso, elbow and cheek. And he’ll take it without so much a flinch.

You yell at him, berate him, call him horrible and cruel and everything wrong in this world. Splintered glass, shattered wine bottles, crinkled documents spread across the floor like wild fire, and only when the last packaged gift, pearled necklaces and dresses still wearing their tags are thrown, only then does he move towards you.

You reach for a vase, crashing it against his feet, a splinter sliding its way to you and you snatch it. Your heart has finally seized and it’s not by fear, or sadness or anger but fury. Unfiltered and raw. One that makes you hate. White noise drilling down your ear as it takes you whole. Such anger of all the things he's done it burns through your veins like fire. Fury for what he did to you that day. Fury for hurting you, confining you—choking you.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you and I hate you—” And when he comes all too close, with the sharp object in hand—you stab him right below the side of his hip line and he halts. Scowl etching onto his face but you don't care as you finally whip your gaze to him. Pushing the blade deeper into his abdomen. Blood squelching out his flesh.

“Does it hurt? I sure hope it does.” Tears flush down your face, and the edge of the shard digs into your palm. Stinging. And that is when you’ll snap out of it. Freezing. Eyes going wide as reason finally meets you.

You stare into the porcelain you’ve stuck in him. Blood seeping his clothes, gurgling out it’s wound and you stop breathing. Tears you’ve so desperately wished to hide, streams down your face. Realisation dawning on you.

You stabbed him.

You did.

Your eyes travel slowly up.

You’ve stabbed him and he’s going to hurt you just like before.

And when you finally meet his gaze — you expect that surging violence, that constrained ruthlessness you always found him keeping, only… only this time, you feel hands reaching for your head. At first you think he’s going to twist your neck, claw your face open but instead—by the cup of your head—he brings you close.

You do not process it, not fully, but he leans into you, nose landing into your hair. His touch softer than ever. As if touching something holy, sacred—and by all rights, divine.

You blink. Chest empty.

Hands trembling. Jaw jittering.

“Y-you’re hurt, I… I’m sorry, I—”

“Shhh… you think you can harm me? Cute.”

You try and push him off. “This isn’t the time for your jokes—”

“But It’s not.” He cuts you off, voice low and warm. “You can’t hurt me, not like this, at least.

“…” You hold and tug onto his shirt. Brows furrowing and knuckles straining. “But I...” Your voice cracks and he only hums. Pulling you closer.

“It's just a porcelain shard.”

“But you… why didn't you use haki? You could have dodged. Could have stopped me, I don't understand—”

"Yes, I could have, but I didn't." He shifts his head, "Want to do it again? Might make you feel better." He chuckles at that and you clutch onto his back when you feel him sinking his weight into you. Your heel digging into the floor so to retain footing.

“I might, if you keep pushing me." You seethe, only to return back into pleading, "please, let's bring you to a doctor, I—”

“No.” You feel his mouth in your hair, kissing you, taking your scent. “Just you, only you, that’s all I need righ’now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Voice becoming needy. “Doffy…”

And he winces at you saying his name. “Say that again.”

You shift your head, eyes stinging and swollen. “Doffy?”

“Yes. Keep going. With that tone.” And you shake your head, burying your face into his shoulder. “Absolute maniac.” You mumble. You both can’t bring yourself to stand upright any longer. Knees buckling into the floor.

And when he feels you at last easing, shoulders relaxing, only then does he shift his head, face going into your neck. Faint marks still remain where he choked you, fading but present, and you’ll feel his lips place above them. Gentle and lingering. “I’m sorry.”

You flinch at those words.

His voice cannot be his—it’s too soft, too gentle, too much of a whimper. “I am truly sorry. So please, do not discard me. Leave me.”

Your eyes going wide, a chuckle bubbling up your throat. One made of disbelief.

Donquixote Doflamingo doesn’t get on his knees and beg, not for anyone — but for you? That’s a whole another story.

Summary: You’re both desperate. Desperate for comfort, warmth and dependence. Doflamingo does not demand perfection or precision, but he does seek you. And in every life and time, he’ll cling onto you like a dog. Even if he has to bite into your flesh so to keep you. He’s spent too much of his life guarding his heart, ever since Corazon, he has lost any semblance of it and even now, as you pluck out the shards from his abdomen and he wraps bandages over your wounded palm—his heart has become a rancid, worm eaten, scabrous little thing. One that’s held together by constrained strings and wilted fury—but one that is yours. However putrid and selfish it is—it was yours before he even knew it. And yours it will be. A silence will come between you as you clean his wound, and whilst he stitch it together with strings. At the final end, you still cannot bring yourself to meet his gaze, but he’ll cup your cheeks. Gentle hands, warmer touch and make you meet him in the eye. He’ll rub your cheeks with his thumb, his motion slow and steady. Taking in your features. How is it, that you still want someone so terrifingly wretched? For you, he truly must be, the most desperate fool there is. He leans in, nose grazing yours, not once breaking eye contact. “I love you.”

Roronoa Zoro

That time, when he brought you back to the ship to tend to your hands—he touched you like you were a flower. Rough, calloused hands that spent years of training by the sword, turned soft, gentle—faint. Wrapping bandages that only promise you safety, security. One that you would put your trust in.

But… when he lifted your chin and kissed you tenderly, you feel yourself freeze.

“Zoro,” You hum, taking his palm away from your face.

“Hm?”

“Would you still want me, even if I mess up again?”

He furrows his brows, “What kind of question is that. of course, I would. Aren’t I showing you that now?” He leans in, kissing you by the cheek and though you should feel flattered, all you truly can feel is the deep, sinking feeling down your stomach.

He may say what he wants — but your heart is too faint to see you embarrass yourself like that ever again. You cringe every time you remember how you were knelt before the whole crew. Scolding you about your blunder. It was humiliating, you were humiliating.

That moment — they saw you in the full light. Someone weak, someone who got in the way and put a burden on everyone.

So when he buries himself in your neck, nibbling and licking, hand goes to stroke you, kissing you yet again; you move away.

“Zoro. I’m tired. Can we just sleep?”

“Of course, pretty girl,” he hums, hot breath withdrawing from your neck. Hand wiping a lock of hair away from your face. “Lemme’ carry you to bed, here, hold’on to me.”

And you do. You hold on to him so tight, it’s almost as if to not let him go—perhaps, in hopes that this night won’t come to its bitter end. So you can bury it into your memory when you eventually, inevitably mess up and he snaps at you once more. You’ll reminisce, and feel his warmth sink you into his bliss yet again.

As the days start to pass, you’ll notice him being more attentive towards you. Offering you his rice bowls, blowing your soup, tying your shoe laces and even go as far as carry you across a puddle. The crew laughing and poking at you both at his sudden display of affection and though it should reassure you, you only feel more embarrassed.

He would never be this soft for you, gentle and caring, had you never messed up in the first place. You feel like a patient, one who weighs him down—a burden he has to carry and take care of. And would he still be this patient with you if he saw you for what you really are? A burden? A weakling, even in mind and heart? Would he still claim to need you, want you, even then?

You’ll clutch onto your chest, feeling it throb—fiddling with your collar.

No. He probably wouldn’t.

The thought of that frightens you, frightens you so bad you stagger back and do what is only natural; you get out of everyone’s way.

It was harmless at first, nothing straining. Nothing noticeable.

You pick up chores, work, and errands like you don’t have your own life to attend to. You’ll nag to Zoro to take some off his load; cleaning his blades, stitch his haramaki, fix up his gym. Anything and everything. And like that isn’t enough, you go out of your way to help your friends — telling Usopp to leave his chore on maintaining the deck to you. You even tell Chopper to leave it to you with with the resupply.

And doing so — you fill yourself with a false sense of comfort. Of reassurance.

Your friends they need you now, and you, you finally have some semblance of value and worth. One made with trembling hands, indecisive thoughts and fretting worry.

Errands are made, chores are done and supplies are constantly in stock—and you believe yourself great. Even when Zoro gives you a weird look for having done all the requests in one single day. He didn’t even get to have his second nap before he finds his swords in pristine condition, sharpened, cleaned and oiled. Haramaki washed, dried, stitched and even has a lavender scent clinging to it. You believe yourself accomplished, even when Usopp places a hand on your shoulder, telling you to stop scrubbing over a splattered spot he caused a mess on. But you don’t hear him. You keep cleaning, even when your palms starts cracking dry from constantly lathering your hands in soap and water. You don’t stop scrubbing, polishing, maintaining the deck even when you don’t need to.

And you like to tell yourself that this is how it should be.

You don’t want to be in anyone’s way ever again. You don’t want others to pick up after you, you don’t want to be treated like you’re wounded. You’re not a patient, and you’re certainly not a burden. And you seek to prove that. Even when your eyes start growing heavier and your chatter starts to pale.

It was supposed to be harmless, nothing straining or noticeable — or so you told yourself, even when your friends are begging you to just get a moments of rest, hands on your shoulder, eyes glazing worry; but their pleads fall on deaf ears. For when you look to Zoro; sitting with Franky and Chopper in some casual chatter, your gaze grows heavy.

Zoro is strong, dependable and firm. A pillar of trust amongst your crew. Something you are not.

You clutch onto your collar, feeling something strange rise up your chest. An aching, a shallow one. He catches your gaze and you flinch, immediately moving somewhere else, feeling how his stare follows you.

His jaw is clenched. He must be imagining it — surely, he must. But it can’t be a coincidence that you sit next to anyone but him. Pick conversation with anyone that’s not him. What could you possibly avoid him for this time?

He’ll stalk after you down the halls, seizing your wrist. Dragging you to a secluded room.

“H-hey, what are you doing—” you don’t finish when you see the expression on his face.

Brows pulled, face hard.

… he is angry? Annoyed? Like the time you got scolded on deck?

Why? How? Did you mess up yet again? Your mind starts racing after the most ridiculous conclusions, ones that you fully believe yourself. Did he not like how you maintained the deck? Or did you miss something from the shopping? Maybe the supplies you fixed couriers for were wrong? You brace yourself for what’s to come when his mouth opens.

“Oi. Whats going on. Why are you avoiding me yet again?”

You blink. “… Sorry?”

“You’re avoiding me. Why. Did I say something stupid again—”

“No.” You say, a little bit too fast. “Not at all. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’m avoiding you, I’ll do better.” You slip on a fake smile. One that is awfully stiff.

“… you’re hiding something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, anyone can tell you’re lying straight to my face—” As he speaks, his grip keeps growing tighter, harder and you wince. Snatching it back.

“It’s nothing. I promise. I just—” You click your tongue, adjust your hair, pretend to see something by the corner of your eye to buy yourself time to come up with a lie. “I’m just helping them out, is that a crime or what.”

“If by helping, then why is Usopp tellin’ me how worried he is over you?” He looks to your hands. Grabbing them again, this time, more gently. He looks back at you. His gaze growing soft. “What’s going on? Tell me, I’m here, you know—”

You snap. Pulling and turning away. “Honestly Zoro, we both know how Usopp can be. He worries over everything, he should learn to mind his own business—” It wasn’t meant to come out condescending or mean, but your insecurity has gripped you by the reign; and it has festered you. Not just by wearing down your body, but your heart and mind, becoming its victim as well.

And just as you were about to add something worse — a very loud sneeze is heard from behind the sofa.

Both you and Zoro freeze.

You blink, finding a very, very, familiar long nose peek from behind the cushions.

Your whole body goes cold. Terribly cold.

“Usopp?”

He emerges from his hiding spot. Face guilty. “Erm… Hey?”

“Usopp. I… I didn’t mean it like that, I was just, you know, I—” You press a hand over your chest, panic piling up as you blurb out excuses that hold no real meaning. You like to flatter yourself to be convincing at deceiving, an astonishing actor — but when your audience is a five-star liar and the most stoic, straightforward man in the whole of the world; your charade falls apart. And they see you for what you truly are; afraid. Anxious. Pathetically so.

Usopp says your name, cutting you off. And you flinch at his sudden serious tone. “I know you didn’t mean it, I know, but you should start being more honest with yourself—we’re your friends, you don’t need to impress us. We’ll like you anyways. So,” He clears his throat, “I’ll let you two talk it out. AHEM.” Like that, he’s out. Abandoning you with a swordsman glaring down your back.

Slowly, motorically, you meet his stare.

His arms are crossed, giving you an unamused brow.

“I…”

“Go on. Make another excuse, I’m interested to hear it.”

Your chin lowers, eyes drifting to the floor. Fingers pulling on the hem of your sleeves. Theres no point in pretending anymore, is there? Your hands start trembling, grimacing and you finally have to face your false pretense of confidence.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been acting stupid, I just didn’t want it to end.”

Zoro unfolds his arms, lifting his jaw. “To end?”

“On being good. On not being in anyone's way. On not being treated like a burden.” You look away. Brows furrowing. “It’s not that I wanted to impress you Zoro, I just wanted you to need me.”

The confession leaves something hard, something heavy and real hanging in the air. One that makes you feel so impossibly vulnerable.

“You’ve been nothing but caring since that day, and I’ve grown spoiled. I didn’t want you to think me incapable, so that’s why I…” you trail off. Gods. When did you get so pathetic over a man? It’s almost embarrassing. You don’t look at him as you speak. You’re too much of a coward. “That’s why I avoided you. I’m afraid that one day you’ll see me for what I really am. And toss me to the side.”

For a moment, there is a pause between you two. A tense, unbearable silence that mortifies you. You squeeze your eyes shut, not because of tears, but because you’re so humiliated you can’t bear to witness it. And when you think he’s going to laugh or leave or call you stupid—hands, warm, kind hands, reaches for your head. Pulling you into an embrace.

And you open your eyes. Feeling him press you closer, harder. Face leaning into the crook of your neck. Strong palms placing over your back.

“I wouldn’t.”

Three words. Three. And it unravels you completely.

You feel his breath shaking against your throat. “I want you because you’re, you. Capable or incapable—I don’t care. I will always want you. Need you. Got that?”

And your shoulders drop.

Pushing your face into his chest. Hands that were hovering in the air comes to grab onto him. The once shallow aching you felt just a few moments ago dissipates and all you can truly feel is him. His warmth, his scent, his love. How he holds you, even when you’re pathetic. How he embraces you, even when he can just give up and dump a wreck like yourself. How he kisses the side of your hair, even when he feels you slightly tremble.

Your fingers clutches onto his shirt.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You press down a smile. “Idiot.”

“Maybe. But you chose this idiot, like I’ve chosen you. So don’t doubt me, or yourself anymore, got that?”

You nod. Cheeks bristling as you shift your head. Still pressed into his sturdy embrace.

“Got it.”

He presses you closer. Harder. Holding you so dear, you almost believe he’ll crush you.

“Atta’ girl.”

Summary: Zoro means it. He does. And he won’t treat your vulnerability like baggage, won’t see you as a patient but as a pillar. One that he’ll take care of so you won’t crack and bend. One that he’ll lean onto when his eyes grow heavy, one that he’ll need when inevitably, inescapably reaches to the top — and become the greatest swordsman. And when he does, he’ll want you there, need you there. So burden him, compromise his days and make his life a living hell, he does not care. Instead he challenges you for it. For both you and Luffy, he’ll after all; have to become the King of Hell.

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