One Piece Men + reacting to flinchy!reader (short fics)
- ❝Reader who is wary about touch/physical contact and intimacy, and how their s/o handles that. ❞
⤷ Pt2 જ⁀➴
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: SFW, comfort fic.The reader is she/her.
𓂃۶ৎ tw : Vague mentions of DV, trauma, and hints of (maybe) past SA. I don’t want anyone reading this without knowing—very if not super vague descriptions of it will pop up, so it should be easy to swallow if not also skimmed over. Nothing super specific but it’s always good to be aware! please read safely everyone!!!
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: This was done under the request of a reader and I’m so happy getting this done! I hope it’s up to your standards because it was so much fun writing this, thank you for the prompt!!! >.< ❞
Rob Lucci
As a lover Rob Lucci was everything you could dream of. He wasn’t your average fairytale Prince or cocky villain with too much money—no. He was attentive, observant and perceptive. Affection draped in silence and shadow.
He brought food to the table, ensured housing and established your needs and money. Not because he was necessarily a traditional man but because it brought you comfort. Rob doesn’t uphold expectations, he just does them.
He won’t smother you in kisses, drown you in adoration and love. He’s rational, emotionally distant but he will be there in the most practical ways.
You didn’t question his fondness for you—for in the end; you’ve seen what lies beyond his cold demeanour and sharp silence.
Small subtle things that did not align with the reputation he carried—a closet beside his, displaying the wide collection of coats for Hattori, or during your first date he bought you a dress that suspiciously matched with his suit, or everytime you went out to dinner with him you never had to refill your own water or hold your own doors. He matched your pace and let you hold his arm during walks.
But before being your lover; Rob Lucci was first and is one of Cipher Pol’s most promising intelligence agents and the perfect employee in the profession of assassinations.
He’s ruthless.
He separates the world in categories. He documents people by numbers, statistics and attributes. His job is not a mere profession—to him, it’s a place of relief, of sanctuary. There he gets to stalk, kill and murder. And gets paid for it.
In other words, Rob Lucci surrounds himself in violence—violence dressed in tailored suits, legal documents and organised pursuits. To him violence is just another passing cloud, murder just another passionate Monday’s work.
He inflicts it, and he does so with zero hesitation.
Pleasure disguised in professionalism.
That part about him—you understood. When you fell in love with him, you understood what kind of man you’ve entangled yourself with.
And yet—it gnawed at you.
You were never the most affectionate kind when it came to physical acts and neither was he, at least in public, (which you thanked the universe for) you already struggled so much with just accepting a hug.
You’ve always been more wary with physical intimacy. The sudden touches made you queasy, the slow caresses sent you shivers that weren’t of pleasure. When a friend would offer you an embrace you’d tense, not knowing where to place your hands, and this made its way into your relationship with your boyfriend.
Rob sees you—watches and observes. He knows you prefer to sit with your own space and how you steer his hands away when leaning in for a touch. And yet he did not notice everything.
Rob wasn’t an overly affectionate lover, perhaps in private when you two lounged onto the couch together, he’d skim your calf or caress your wrist. Nothing pressing, nothing overwhelming. But still it made you shudder. Made you flinch.
You avoided it when you could. Not because you didn’t trust him, not because you didn’t like his touch but because it made you sick in the stomach. You haven’t had the best of experiences with it.
He notes that and as time passes, you realise he does not touch you without you initiating.
He never asks, never pry for answers. He lets you have your distance—but Rob cannot put his finger on it. Not truly. Is it shyness? Just timidity? But if so, why do you flinch his way? Why do you guide his hands from your shape and figure? Is it truly just that? Just shyness? He knits his brows just thinking about it. Surely it cannot be the case.
You thought it would pass, hopefully this wouldn’t be forever but as time went on the discomfort made its way towards your trust. Festering it. Corrupting it.
You knew he would never use his strength against you—but in some moments you question that silent promise.
When he leans in, hand stroking a lock of hair away from your cheek, you sense how easy it would be for him to just tear your face open. Or in the shower when he scrubs your back you can’t help but flinch and note how simple it would be for him to rip your spine and claw you open.
You gave him a look over the shoulder that time in the shower—his gaze as usual was focused, dark and silent. And the thought of it slipped into your mind—he could, no, he would kill you, like he does with all the other assigned assassinations if the Government so demanded it. And you’d be left defenceless.
Your look was telling and his eyes narrows at you. The circling motion of scrubbing your back comes to a halt.
“What are you thinking about?”
You parted your lips, for the first time since you’ve started dating your brooding, stoic boyfriend—you see him in a light that cast fear into your heart, into your body.
“Nothing.” You hummed, and you did in fact believe it to be nothing. Just a passing thought, just an intrusive feeling.
It will pass, like it always does.
Time flows ever onwards and the fear starts to twist its way into more than just thoughts.
His steps are always silent, a habit made of training and only now do you start to note you would never see the kill coming. Or when he leans down, only now do you note how his frame is much larger, taller than you. And how he could use it against you.
So when days start to blur—the fear that you once kept hidden makes its way into sudden flinches and tensed up shoulders. And he notes the drastic changes.
The time you couldn’t reach the plates by the cabinets—tiptoeing and pressing your lips tightly shut trying your best to bring them down—only to freeze up at the sudden sight of his arm above your head, no sound, no words as he grabs the plates for you.
“T-thanks.” You try a smile and something in his gaze shifts. As if he notes the way your shoulders are rigid, and your cheeks are pale blue.
Another time when you were home alone—not knowing when your boyfriend would be back from work—you were getting ready for bed. Splashing your face with water by the bathroom sink, humming as you reached for a towel. Eyes skimming over the mirror only to flinch at the sudden sight of your boyfriend, all white suit and crossed arms, leaning on the door frame.
Watching, observing.
How long was he there for?
You twirl around—heart hammering and fingers running cold.
“Rob.” You huff out, suddenly out of breath, “When did you get home?”
Something in his expression tightens, as if trying to figure out a scattered puzzle.
“You don’t hold eye contact with me anymore.” He says quite bluntly, not as an answer to the puzzle but an observation. His voice steady, low—focused.
“And when our hands brush, you don’t linger, instead you snap away.”
He unfolds his arms and strides over. Your back hits the edge of the sink. His heels click for each step, his pace is slow, precise and targeted as if prowling for a kill.
“You’ve been fidgety lately, your shoulders are more tense and whenever I’m near, you freeze in place.”
Now he was only an arms length from you, and his hand reaches for your throat. His movements sharp and swift.
You flinch, chin lowered and gaze shut closed. Fingers clutching into the marble sink.
His hand stops. Fingers mere inches away from your… cheek.
Not your neck, not your throat.
But cheek.
Rob’s eyes narrows, brows coming into a frown and lip tightening—the puzzle coming into place.
“Are you afraid of me?”
When he says it, you catch your breath. Eyes widening. His voice, so usually monotone and kept level-headed was now tense, like a bowstring pulled into taut—friction threatening to shatter.
When you don’t answer him, his hand falls. Returning to his pockets. “… I see.”
Teeth grinding, knuckles turning white.
Your sudden fear of him—disappoints him in ways that feel like betrayal. He does not comfort you, does not even bother to question you, he just turns to leave.
You panic, catching him by the sleeve.
“Rob!” You clutch your hold on him. “I’m sorry, I just—I’m not afraid of you. Not like that.” You hurry the apology out, realising you’ve trampled on his trust and affection for you.
“Oh?” He turns, something dark passes his gaze and like a striking blade he raises his hand at you—one finger to pierce through your throat—halting when it lands only an inch away from your skin.
Of course you would freeze, of course you would back away. Who wouldn’t? …
It only reaffirms your betrayal.
“Not afraid of me, huh.” Is all he says, cold, sharp, curt. He leaves, not once looking back.
You lay in bed, nuzzled between pillows as you clutch to your chest but there is no warmth to grasp here. For his side of the bed is empty.
You wish you could hear his breathing, you wish to see his back facing you and you only had to reach a hand out to hold him. Instead you lay there, chest tight and thighs clenched.
He hasn’t returned for hours.
You sit up, shaking your head. Slapping your cheeks.
No more self pity; it’s time to retrieve your “all-business-no-games” boyfriend.
You tiptoe your way out of bed.
You see Hattori perched by his usual spot in the living room. All fluff and fat, “Have you seen Rob?” You ask him and the pigeon gives you a look saying it knows you messed up.
Hattori only coos at you with judgement and you frown. “No more extra snacks from me.”
You saunter across the house in the dead of the night—only to find him outside the balcony window. Leaning against the stone railing, whiskey in hand as he looks over the night sky.
“Rob?” You say his name softly, hands clutched to your chest. The night air is cool, frisky. You shudder as you walk closer.
He does not turn to look at you.
You realise it then—your fear a betrayal in your trust in him.
He knows he can use his strength against you, he knows he can snap your neck at any given chance and he knows when he kisses you how vulnerable you truly are around him. And he knows, you trust him enough to not do so—or so he thought.
Rob Lucci is a killer, a murderer and a soldier. He follows his orders—he’s punctual, he’s structured. But he chose that job not out of mere profit but for the thrill of the hunt. And… he chose you for you saw something beyond that. Something more than just a killer machine, something more than just blood and violence.
You’ve witnessed his fondness disguised in sharp silence, seen the tenderness hidden behind his indifference and callousness.
With you—he could be domestic, tender in his own right. With you, he could be human.
And in return you’ve trampled on that silent promise. You’ve stomped on his trust, on his commitment, on his one redeeming quality solely reserved for you and you alone.
You reach out, his back still facing you, arms wishing to hold him, to show him you want to be there.
Your heart is hammering, your legs running weak and yet you can’t bring yourself to do it. Not because you fear him, it was never that, not truly.
You’ve always been wary towards touch, always slinked past it when you could. Your fear of him was just an excuse wasn’t it? A matter you know runs deeper than just trust.
You take a deep breath, stomach churning and the only way you can think of to ground yourself is holding onto him. Face pressed into spine.
This desperation, this fear of abandonment feels unfamiliar, and yet there is nothing else in the world you want more than this.
He does not push you away, or acknowledge your presence—all he does is simply sip on his drink.
“I’m sorry.” You say, “It was wrong of me, I know. For the past few days, I had some bad thoughts, thoughts about you hurting me. They came on their own, and I grew to fear them. Not you, not really.”
You feel tears glazing your vision, so you dig your face deeper into his back.
You two stay like that for awhile.
Rob, for a moment consider you pathetic, weak, unsightly. But when he senses something more between your words, only then does he turn.
He watches you, observes you like he always has. Sullen, anxious—if not afraid. But not at him, he knows, he sees.
He lets out a heavy sigh, your face hangs low, your sobs turn into hiccups you so desperately try to quieten.
“Look at me.” He commands and you do, all snoot and flushed cheeks. His brows knits at the sight of you. Something in him lilts.
“You think I will hurt you?”
“No. I don’t. But…”
“But?”
There is a softness in his voice, not gentle, not kind or warm but his version of tender. Restrained. Measured. Levelled. As if even now, he notes your distaste for bitterness, your need for comfort—and he gives you that, in his own silent way, he’s comforting you. Reassuring you.
It makes you crumble into pieces.
You tell him it’s not only him—but something from your past. You tell him of a certain day, of a certain event. You tell him of a fear long buried in your mind, a fear that has made its way into present day.
Your confessions spill out of your mouth like prayers, your words tied together with mewls, hands clutching his shirt as if in fear he’d frown at you. Click his tongue at you. Leave and abandon someone as weak as you.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he wipes your tears away with his thumb. Long black hair spilling over your frame, leaning in slightly—but stops mid track as if waiting for permission. You hiccup, and press your forehead against his.
“Such foolishness.”
The hand on your back loosens, drifting into a caress—his posture cold, poised and kept. His heat radiating into yours. He smells of something refined, like cologne and expensive oils.
“That it took you so long to tell me makes me wonder what more you are hiding.”
“Rob…”
His eyelids lowers, his lips grazes your brow, down to your cheek. “Do you believe I won’t nurture you? Do you believe you can’t trust me?” He says, voice husky. “I won’t ask you for it. Not for this.”
Rob takes in the scent of you, something primal beats within his senses. The need to nurture you, the urge to protect you increases for each passing score.
“Your answer, give me it.”
The words are curt, almost demanding but you hear what he truly means—will you trust me? Confide in me?
In his eyes, Rob does not see weakness but anguish. And when he chose to bind himself with you, when he fell for your charms and wit, he knew he would have to take care of what’s his. And his alone.
And you see it now.
You smile, nodding. “I believe you.”
You two make it back to bed. Rob is not a physical lover. He may hold you in private, kiss you in alleyways and perhaps, if you are a bit more blue that day, he’d allow embraces in bed if that’s what you so wish.
But this time, when you’re both tucked in bed, he gives you a look, a soft one.
“Your hand.” He offers his own, waiting for yours. His tone is not demanding, or imposing, he simply just offers. For you, he’s willing to wait.
Slowly, carefully, you slither your fingers into his. His hand is rough, large and firm. When you plant yours onto his, his thumb circles your knuckle, waiting for you to intertwine, to bind your hands together.
You outline his fingers, feel the coarse exterior of his palm, caress the faded callouses from training long gone. A shiver makes it down your wrists—the touch tickling, and you stifle a smile. And only then, when your cheeks become round, and your eyes glint with something like adoration, does he clasp his fingers with yours.
Strong hands promising safety, of security.
Only then do you realise—how deep his love truly runs for you. And when sleep beckons, you will find yourself never doubting him ever again.
Summary: You note it when days turn into weeks, and soon into months, that Rob no longer sneaks up on you. The habit of keeping his steps silent and light, seems to suspiciously end whenever he’s within your presence. His movements are no longer swift, sharp or striking. They’re slow, smooth, and deliberate. And when he touches you, they’re measured, aware. And they linger, exploring which parts of you jitters and frets. Noting down what holds you in place and what provokes the sudden flinches. He categories, he documents and he watches. He learns you in ways that does not require language but patient observation.
And slowly, surely—his devotion seals your heart with his. You grow sated, settled and secure. And like in everything, from housing and security; Rob ensured of that.
Sir Crocodile
A man of finer manners and higher ambitions—Crocodile is a patient man. He waits, he asserts, he calculates. He ensures security, he ensures victory. He’ll cheat his way through it of course but he’ll cheat with class; mapped out plans and constructed executions. Never rash, never unrefined.
When you fell inlove with him you knew what kind of man he was outside the relationship. Cruel, unforgiving and distrustful. But it’s easy to forget when you’re his lover—after all, he spoils you rotten.
You want something? You’ll get it in pristine condition and in the highest quality. You need something? You’ll only need to blink and It’ll be served on a golden platter. And when he speaks to you, his tone is patient, his choice of words less harsh and if you ask him to repeat he’ll only take a puff of his cigar and speak more slowly.
You were his lady after all.
Being his lover was great—it relieved you of things you never dared to dream for. A quiet peaceful home, a stable(if not overflowing) source of income, along with a cat you usually order matching dresses with.
You couldn’t ask for anything more and you’d do anything to keep your boyfriend happy.
Brining him his lunchboxes, warming his bath, and straightening his coats and scarfs… anything but returning the embrace, relax into his touch.
At first—you had tried to elude him with your charms, not out of distrust but out of fear. The tingling sensation of skin meeting skin made your shoulder blades tense, your stomach coming into aching knots and your lips pressing tight.
It’s not that you hated his touches, but that you questioned them.
Why is he touching your cheek? Why does his hands grope you like that? And why does your stomach churn for each kiss?
Does he need to bring his arm around your waist so tightly? Does he want something from you? Is it a bargain, a transaction?
You often assumed the worst, and often, you’d find yourself with nausea boiling down your throat.
Can he not at least ask beforehand?
You told yourself you needed time, that this would surely come to a close… and yet when you looked at him after he placed a peck on your cheek, your hands clutched and your face stiffened. You would find his eyes darkening with questions.
He never asked. Never imposed.
But he suspected something, enough to pull his brows together and dig his molars into his cigar. Trying to find something between your rigid expression, beneath your stiffened shoulders and between your fingers clenched.
It’s not that you feared him but instincts were always a master of survivability and one time, it took the lead far too eagerly.
You were just dropping off his bento box at his office. A quick little venture to Buggy’s tacky little tent, a sweet gesture you came quick to note his pleasure for.
At this time of the day your boyfriend would still orchestrate war crimes with his other peers two halls away, and you’d sneak the flower patterned bento on his desk before skedaddling back home, never lingering too long.
That was of course, what you thought would happen today as well.
But instead you find your very cold, calculating and ruthless boyfriend sprawled across the sofa. An arm slung over his eyes, neck coming into an arch as his head sinks on top the armrest.
His tie undone, his cigar still softly lit, ashes cindering down the marble floor and a glass of aged brandy sitting untouched by the coffee table. Ice melting.
“Darling?” You say, still standing at the entrance of the room.
He remains unresponsive.
You huff out a sigh, that clown is killing him.
You tiptoe your way in, careful to not wake him up. You know how hard he works and the little rest inbetween is well deserved of him, you don’t wish to deprave him of that.
You place the lunchbox by the desk; Now you should be all ready to head back and yet when you glance to where your boyfriend is, your lips purse.
He looks so spent.
And also kind of cute, but you know how hard he works. You should do something for him, a small sweet gesture to remind your love to him!
You’ll just swoop the ash! And once done…
You’ll just fix his tie up! And after that you’ll…
You’ll feel him stir.
Before you can even finish his name, his frame becomes a shadow, movement too sudden, too fast and shredding.
Your lover’s face becomes a haunting shade, viscous, evil - animal like.
His grip sharp and cruel as it wrings around your forearm like claws and you lose your breath.
He will strike you, here and now.
You see it, you sense it, you feel it.
It is only when you let out a yelp, knees buckling, does his hold on you soften.
He says your name, confused, perplexed.
“Oh, it’s only you.” He strokes his hair back, sighing. “Apologies love, I thought you were someone—“ His words come into a halt as he sees the expression on your face.
Stiff, cold, drained of color.
Your mouth opens as if to speak but you cannot form any words.
For a moment you relived a haunting, and when your lover reaches for your face you flinch away. Slapping the hand that only meant you well.
You don’t see him anymore, your eyes move past him. Your blood has run cold, your mind coming into a spiral.
You rush up, hastily.
Leaving. Not once looking back.
When you finally got home, you slammed the door shut. Clicked it closed.
You made it to the shower, mind blank and unbecoming. You don’t know how long you’re in there for. How long you let the hot, burning water boil down your skin till it crinkles and reddens. You don’t really care either. You just want to burn the feeling away—the touches, the marking of contacts.
You feel disgusted, you feel dirty but most of all you feel angry. It shouldn’t be such a difficult thing and yet here you are, scrubbing your arms till you feel numb. How pathetic.
Perhaps it is nighttime, perhaps no time at all has passed, but you hear the front door click.
The shower stream quickens, and the bathroom door creaks open.
You know who it is, of course you do.
“I’m coming in.” His presence filled the room before entering, his frame large and when he slides the shower curtains away, he will find you sitting with your knees curled close to your chest.
Cheeks flushed, eyes swollen.
He does not say anything, his eyes only narrows, scanning over your figure as he turns the water off.
He sighs, almost like a rumble as he sits down onto the edge of the bathtub. You feel ashamed, humiliated from before.
You rub your eyes, “I’m sorry.”
“What are you saying sorry about?”
“For just leaving like that.”
He hums, and you feel his eyes on you even with your chin low.
“There’s something more you’re not telling me, what is it that you’re hiding?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing huh?” He notes the way you chew down your lower lip.
“Then,” his hand reaches for your face only to stop mid track when you move your cheek away. Shoulders tense, chin low.
“Do I scare you?” his voice rasps and only then do you find courage to look at him. “No, no never.”
“Then why do you back away like a frightened animal?”
Your eyes widen, not sure what to say.
Because it makes you queasy? Because you fear his intentions? But why? Why would you? He’s not the reason you’re wary, not the reason you flinch away. And yet…
Slowly, carefully, you take his large hand in yours. They’re so small compared to his; his fingers are long, rough and hard. A worker’s hands. One that tells the stories of the many he’s inflicted pain and violence onto. Would he do the same to you?
You press your lips shut, of course he wouldn’t. You know that better than anyone else.
“I’ve not been honest with you, I should have confided in you sooner instead of hiding away like some coward. But I,” you caress his fingers, skimming the curve of his palms as you try and find the words.
You tell him all of it. Each and every single thing, you tell him when it started and why it persists even now.
You ask him to start all of this over. The kisses, the hand holding, the caresses. Not because you don’t want them, but that it frightens you. It frightens you so much it makes your stomach drop.
Your heart starts to hammer, fear making its way into your speech in stutters and your vision blurs.
But he does not demean you, he does not even snap his hand away. Instead, slowly, carefully, his fingers curl and intertwine with yours. You catch his gaze with yours.
“Do you think I’m weak? Foolish?”
He huffs, cigar sinking.
“Weak? No. Foolish? Yes.” He leans in, slowly, “Foolish for trying to find any comfort in a wretched man such as I. But I won’t do wrong by you, if this is what you want, what you need. Then so be it. My lady gets everything that she wants, doesn’t she?”
You bite down a smile, “anything?” You guide his hand to your face, placing his large palm onto your cheek. It’s warm, it’s rough, it’s his.
“Anything.”
When you are carried back to bed, you buried your face into his chest. Nestled safely in his arms.
Sir Crocodile will tuck you in like a parent would to their most beloved child. He’ll sit down with you, filling the room with quiet chatter as you drift off into sleep.
Your hand still holding his.
Summary: As the days go on, he will gesture permission before laying his hand onto yours. His touches will be more gentle, subtle, and slower in movements. He would wait for you to come with the embraces, with the kisses. You note weeks has started to pass since he ever initiated first for a kiss. It happened on one sunny Tuesday, months after your little talk, you were viewing the sunset together by the balcony.
You were beautiful that day, more than usually. Your skin was glowing and your smile was brighter. And he couldn’t help but lean in. Carefully, methodically. The soft tender gaze in his eyes spoke for themselves as he inched in, as if you were something dangerous—as if he had to preserve each and every move of yours before being lured in and forever trapped.
When his lips were a mere breath away from yours, he halted. Crocodile, ex-warlord and war criminal—hesitated. And the words that left his mouth were of a voice so low, so tender and careful you never knew he could make such a sound.
“Will you let me?”
You pressed down a giggle, lips pulling into a smile. “Yes.”
And that was all he needed. His kiss was soft, almost a hesitant at first, before becoming claiming, raw, intimate. Only stopping once out of breath. And as time start to pass, you realise the instincts begin to fade. You don’t stiffen under his touch anymore, you don’t feel nausea building at his lips onto you anymore. And sure enough, you even start to forget how to flinch away.
Trafalgar D. Water Law
Law was precise, knowledgeable and focused. So when you became his—you didn’t expect him to be so inexperienced. So clumsy in his actions.
Of course you knew he wasn’t the type of man to fool around and write out heartfelt confessions by letters but that didn’t mean you expected him to be so… awkward.
Not that you minded (of course).
You weren’t exactly the golden exemplary prototype for physical affection—in fact you were glad he sucked at it. You didn’t have to avoid his touches as they were rare enough and when he did, you could endure it.
It was a habit that came to your youth long before you ever thought of becoming pirate. A memory that left you stained till present day. You wanted to be held, you wanted to be kissed—and yet you rejected it like water does oil. It couldn’t be helped could it? When something breaks, it cannot be fully restored. The cracks still glints, the damage still remains done.
No matter how much you withstood it, no matter how much exposure or trials you went through to stomach it; it all ended in failure.
The long strokes against your thigh made you nauseous, long hugs and public display of affection made you rigid and uncomfortable—skin onto skin reminding you of it, the haunting memory that plagues you even now. You’ve always been good at hiding it, never flinching without provocation but lately Law has grown bolder and bolder in his making.
You cannot fault him, it’s been weeks of dating and you two still haven’t really proceeded anything further than hand holding and shy glances.
One day, Law leaned in for a kiss, clearly trying his best to seem nonchalant about it, but you moved your cheek away. Laughing away the discomfort.
“Law! Bepo’s waiting for you.” You say smiling to avoid confrontation (like always), and you nod your head towards the docks.
Indeed the white polar bear was waving and waiting for his captain. But Law didn’t even bother glancing when you won’t even try to make eye contact with him.
How many times have you avoided his kiss at this point?
You felt kind of bad, he’s already struggling so much mustering up the courage. So you let him initiate a kiss on your lips for the first time on Zou after you started dating.
And now Law seems adamant on growing comfortable with it. You rather wish he didn’t. You hated the feeling of his lips onto yours. It felt like flesh entangled with flesh. It made you queasy, made you feel out of place. It only happened once so far and yet… you don’t feel like you deserve it. A coward like you? A pathetic girl who let one event ruin it all for her?
You wanted to kiss him back, but from just hugging you felt the warmth surging out your body like ice. Stiffening your shoulders like prickling blades, making you clutch your hands together—bracing the fear.
He says your name, coolly as he leans back and you turn to face him. “Have I… done something wrong?”
You blink.
The expression he carries—brows knitted and golden eyes brimming with worry. It catches you off guard.
“No, nono Law you haven’t done anything wrong. I just haven’t been feeling well lately that’s all.” You itch your cheek, not sure what lie to conjure up. But at that his eyes lightens up in a look you know far too well.
Doctor-mode-activated.
“You haven’t been feeling well? Why haven’t you told me sooner?” He plants a palm over your forehead, takes your wrist into his hand and places two fingers onto your pulse. Checking, nodding.
“Your pulse seems to be fine if not a little bit skitterish, and your temperature is perfect. Have you been eating well?”
You try and get a word in but the questions just keep piling,
“Have you drank enough water? Perhaps it’s vitamin deficiency; I know we’ve been visiting winter islands lately. I should’ve supplied the crew with more D- and C-vitamins. Come, let’s get you checked in the med—“
It is only when he clasps over your wrist, a bit too firm for your liking, a bit too sudden for your comfort—do you snap your wrist free.
Overwhelmed and uncomfortable you flinch away. “I’m fine, Law.” You say, curtly.
“Your health matters a lot to me, you shouldn’t brush it over—“ His hand makes it to your shoulder but you flinch away.
“I said I’m fine, look Law. The crew’s waiting for you and I don’t intend to have this conversation here. I’m fine. So just go.”
You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Your shoulders are tensed up, legs growing weak.
“Hey, are you sure I didn’t do anything—?”
“I said just go! What’s so hard to understand? I’m fine. I’ll get better once you give me some space, so can you just drop it already?”
Your chin is low, your eyes not meeting and your expression rigid. Law notes that and takes a step back, giving you the space you need.
Suddenly It feels like you can breathe again. You gain some strength in your posture but your eyes and tone remain flat of confidence.
“Alright. Let’s talk about this when I get back, okay?”
You can’t bring yourself to answer, your throat too tight you only nod in reply. He sighs deeply from his chest, patting your head once before departing.
“Captain is everything okay? It looked like you both were in an argument.” You hear Bepo say as they walk off. Law does not answer him.
When you crash your face into your pillow you feel like the worst human being alive.
Who yells at their boyfriend for trying to kiss them!? Worse, who snaps at their boyfriend for being worried over them!? And your boyfriend wasn’t anyone; It’s Law! Trafalgar D. Water Law! He’s been nothing but caring, nothing but perfect! You feel like the biggest bitch in the whole grand line.
You slam your fist onto your innocent plushie, angry and disappointed at yourself. The plushie deflates, it’s head shape giving failed brain surgery.
You lay there in bed, defeated and discouraged. You wish you could apologise, you wish you could explain everything to him but what is there to say?
Oh my bad, I just have trouble with people touching me, oopsie!
No way that would work; he would roll his eyes, give you a snarky comment and shrug you off.
You feel humiliatingly, pathetically, stupid.
You’re so lost in self hatred and embarrassment you don’t notice your boyfriend sliding your door open.
When he says your name you jolt yourself up.
“I knocked but you didn’t answer so I got worried.” He rubs his neck, his eyes looking you over.
“L-Law…” You greet, straightening your back and shoulders.
“… Can I sit?”
He gestures to your bed and you fret, cheeks burning red.
“Yes! Of course!” You scoot over to give him space. Before he sits down he sees the plushie you smashed head flat, his eye twitches.
At first you both sit there in silence, staring at the wall together. You try your best keeping a straight face.
“So—“ you both begin, eyes meeting each other only for both to snap away.
“You begin first.”
“No it’s cool, go ahead.”
“No I insist, you go first.”
“Well. Alright…” He caves in and you stiffen.
He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “Back there, at the dock, I’m sorry about that. If you didn’t want to be seen kissing I should’ve known and refrained. It was selfish of me for not checking with you first.”
You place your palms over your thighs, perplexed.
It’s true, you already struggle with touches in private, but it overwhelmed you even more when Bepo was watching. Your lips press into a tight line, the fact that Law noticed that… makes your guilt from before even worse!
You feel yourself cringe, curling into yourself.
“Was I wrong? I’m sorry, could you tell me what is—“
“No, Law.” You go to your feet, suddenly determined to fix this, fix whatever it is that is wrong with you. You ready yourself, giving him a glance of confidence that could be mistaken for disapproval.
Seeing the way you’ve clenched your fist in determination (not to his knowledge) he can’t help but wonder if he’s going to turn into that plushie soon.
You go to stand in front of him, slowly, carefully, movements focused and steady like you’re pouncing for a kill—hands reaching for his broad and sculpted shoulders with all the confidence in the world.
Once you’ve planted your hands on top, you’re not sure what else to do.
So you just stare, intensely.
Palms starting to sweat.
He blinks, completely unsure what you’re trying to do and at this point you don’t know either. All you do know is you wanted to try—you wanted to get somewhere with this.
Despite being girlfriend and boyfriend, it’s only been Law who’s been initiating contact. Only him who has tried to kiss you, hold you, love you. And you? Like a coward you’ve turned away, flinched and pushed all coming displays of affection. For so long you’ve wanted to be held, to be caressed and despite so you shove it away. You slam the door as soon as it presents itself and it’s stupid. You feel stupid.
It doesn’t sit right with you.
“Law,” you hum, knee planting between his crotch and you swear panic starts to pile up between his gaze.
“H-hey, what are you doing?” He gulps, internally spiralling as you make it closer.
Everything in you screams to move away—but no! You’re going to fight it! You’re gonna be stronger and better than your fear! You’ve decided this and you’ve chosen this.
Law does not know where to put his hands or if he should spread his knees. Would that be weird? Would it make you uncomfortable? Maybe you’ll feel how his hands are sweaty? He just stares at your face, heart thudding, ears turning hot red as you straddle on top of him.
“We haven’t…” he stumbles and you press your lips shut, nodding. “You’re right… we haven’t.”
“Yeah so…” he looks away, teeth gritting from the lack of control he has over this situation. He can’t keep staring at you—he’ll be no better than the Strawhat cook at this rate… but you’re so pretty it would be too much of a shame to not gawk.
It feels like he’s digging his head in.
“So…” he clears his throat, getting the wrong idea entirely.
You blink, misunderstanding his fluster.
“Law, why are you looking away? Was this too forward? I’m sorry I only wanted to get us comfortable, I’ll get off—“
“No!”
He grips you by the side of your thighs and you can’t help flinching but you stay there. Not moving away. You swallow the fear down.
“I…” he gulps, finally meeting your gaze.
“I want you here. It feels nice.”
At that, you can’t help but smile… because you feel the exact opposite! This is your worst possible nightmare turned into a 4K live experience. It takes everything in you to not slap his hands away and hide in your closet.
But you started this war and you’re determined to see it through. You purse your lips, “Can we start this over?”
Law blinks, “what do you mean?”
“When you first kissed me back at Zou…” you give him a glance, “Can we pretend this is our first? Please?”
Your voice is sweet, your cheeks are flushed but your fingers are trembling. Gripping his shoulders as if to ground you, clenching your thighs against his as if to anchor you from the nesting fear of rejection, of the shivers running up your calves. Law’s gaze soften, noticing it all, his hands to steady on your hip loosens, drifting away.
He says your name, low, controlled—steady. “You know, being inlove is a lot like being afraid.” His skilled fingers travels up your thigh, skimming across your skin in a slow precise movement. You shudder. “When you’re afraid, your skin shivers when you see them,” Goosebumps trails your skin as he makes it further up to your stomach and you clench your teeth in discomfort. “You have a more difficult time breathing and your heart hammers hard and fast as if you’re about to die—“ his hand makes it to your chest, one cold palm placing where your heart should sit. “Tell me, are you afraid of me?”
Your heart beats uncontrollably, your chest tightening and your breathing becoming unsteady. Clutching his shoulders so hard you almost dig into his skin.
“No, not you. Never you.”
“Then what?”
Your vision blurs, your chest twisting and aching, and you try to steady yourself. Suddenly feeling very lightheaded. You lean in but Law does not move; his eyes are on yours, soft, kind, loving.
And like a river breaking the dam, your chest comes into a release as tears spills down your cheeks. You tell him how you feel, your hands clutching atop of his neck—and when you stutter and sob he does not click his tongue at you. Does not condescend or demean you. He holds you in place, steers you into his chest. He lets you be in his embrace—and for once it is not uncomfortable or unpleasant. It feels warm, it feels right.
His touches aren’t awkward or unsure, no, they’re set. Precised. Controlled. He does not caress you, does not trail his hands across your back—no, he simply just rocks you in place. Keeps you steady, keeps you safe.
And when you at last come back calm, when your breathing slows, and your shivering stops, only then does he remove your hair from your face.
He rubs the tear stains left on your cheek away, and gives you a smile you swear only you will ever see. His gaze is warm; sharp edges displaying fondness and when his mouth opens his voice is a whisper.
“You sure you want to do this?”
“More than anything else.”
His thumb swipes across your lower lip, hand tilting your chin. He does not lean in, he does not move or claim. He simply waits, and watches as you slowly, between each thudding heart beat, finally choose to close the gap.
A peck at first, his lips are soft and sweet. You don’t feel queasy, you don’t feel uncomfortable. You feel light, you feel greedy. You move in closer, kissing just a little bit deeper. A little bit bolder. It’s clumsy, it’s silly, and you hear yourself giggle between each little kiss. And for each one, you feel him curl into a small, sheepish smile against your own; before kissing you back.
Summary: You two stayed like that for awhile; smiling, kissing, giggling. The memory that once haunted you still remains but you don’t flinch away anymore, not from Law. You still think about what happened but when you’re with him you’re allowed to remain secure—and for one moment, when his fingers intertwine with yours; You don’t mind the world watching, seeing, observing. With him the memory remains forgotten and you can only think back about that time in your bedroom. Happy. Still. Safe.
Donquixote Doflamingo
Who you were before, who you was and who you cared for and what had happened to you; doesn’t matter anymore. No. Not since you became his—his darling, his lover, his pet.
Your home was a broken place. Familiar faces blurring into grey, dark corners where a little figure would sob into knees and pale blue bruises blooming in places you’ll never forget.
But now, grown and away—under his gaze, his palm, his love; you’re safe. You’re ready.
You’ve only seen the Doflamingo he wants you to see. Charming, buoyant and loving. The ever generous king and glamorous Warlord.
So when you entered his palace life; you entered it blindly into the arms of your saviour, your doting lover, and flamboyant king.
He was rich, royal, and powerful. One of the seven Warlords and king of Dressrosa. He was the pearl upon the oyster.
Compared to him, you were nothing. You had nothing, you was nothing. But he chose you didn’t he? This worthless body of yours, this damaged skin and ruined mind—he saw worth in you.
Someone like him… with someone like you…
What would he do if he ever found out? Would he get rid of you? Throw you away after finding out your dirty secrets and filthy past? Just thinking about it makes you sick.
Because of that, his love was like a drug; poisonous if not sweet, addicting to taste and smooth like honeymead.
He ravished you in gifts, clothes, diamonds and gold. With him you cold bathe in money, with him you could eat your favourite meal over and over again, with him you could sleep in silky sheets and drown in expensive oils.
You were his darling after all, his lover and his beautiful girl. You didn’t have to be anyone great, all you had to do was keep looking at him, starry eyed and loyal to the bone.
Love for him, die for him. That was all you had to do, all you had to be.
Doflamingo did love you. He does, he do. But who you were before you met him, he could care less for. You were his afterall and that was all that mattered.
So far he’s respected your distance, it must surely be nothing but shyness, he thought. But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking all that closely, he noted the shivers ran deeper than that, the flinches and the rigid posture was more than just timidity but fear. Genuine fear. Fear he’s familiar inflicting onto others, such terror only a man of his stature could be capable in making. But he’s sure it’s not fear of him.
You would not laugh the way you do around him, you wouldn’t smile all sheepish and goofy at his jokes and dinner dates. No. This fear is for once, not of his doing.
But he does not prod. Does not pry, he’s a respectful boyfriend after all and does not demand secrets out of you. He simply stalks your entire past history, legal and illegal documents of your life piling up his office without your knowledge.
Your past jobs, your personal relationships, even the kindergarten you went to. A girl from a seemingly normal family. With normal income. With normal friends and normal life. So… what was it that scared you so?
Despite only seeing his benevolence, witnessing his grandeur and generosity—you could tell. The violence that surges beneath his skin.
You’ve witnessed it more times than you can count during your own sordid past, so when you first met your lover, you could tell what kind of man he was, and you knew not to push your luck.
You were living in his palace for weeks now, he let you roam around freely, everywhere but his office when he was working night. A pretty flower like you shouldn’t associate herself with his work load… but it’s been days now and you haven’t seen him once, well not properly. He had breakfast with you but that was about it.
Gladiator tournament is coming up, so his work is piled up.
But even so…
One night, you missed him more than you could bear. You had a bad nightmare and you felt your neck damp with sweat. You needed to hear his praise, his validation, his sweetness. So you padded down the halls in your nightgown, you’ll just see him, just this once you’ll ask for his attention.
That isn’t too much is it…?
His office door is left ajar, light spilling through and as you inch closer, smile etched onto your face from excitement to see your boyfriend—you hear the crash of glass scattering inside.
You freeze. Loud sounds weren’t good, loud sounds meant violence. But your fear is swallowed by worry; is Doffy being threatened? Hurt? You hurry over, peeking through the door only to bear witness to a cruelty no generous, amiable, and benevolent king could ever possess.
You see your lover together with Trebol and Diamante—shouting, scheming, Doffy’s feet on an old man’s head, sprawled across the floor in his own whimpers and blood.
Your heart drums, that position… was once yours during your childhood days.
Doffy rubs his sole onto him, a smile cracking across his face. A smile that the blurry faces long past forgotten, once had towards you.
Your heart breaks into pieces.
Is it anger? Is it sadness? Disappointment or terror? You don’t know. You don’t care to find out either.
You turn to leave only to hear the door slam open, and you yelp. Your blood rushing cold, hot white noise spilling over your senses as your shoulders freeze up.
Your heart thudded and hammered.
“Who’s—!!!” Diamante presses his lips shut at the sight of you. Frozen, scared, whimpering—with wide eyes that has seen far too much.
“Who is it, Diamante.” You hear your lover say in the background and you cover your ears when you hear him kick away the man beaten on the floor.
“It’s erm. It’s….”
“Don’t keep Doffy waiting.” Trebol cackles back and you feel squeamish. Diamante’s hand reaches for your arm and you break into sobs as it clasps around you.
Firm, hard, sharp. Making you flinch.
You stutter out “no no no” as he drags you in, and as soon as Doflamingo catches the sight of you, his once playful grin shatters immediately. “Shit.” He mumbles under his breath.
Trebol tilts his head, all snoot and boogers, “uh-oh, Doffy won’t like this—“
“Leave. The both of you.” He hisses, “and take the trash with you.”
They both comply, for a moment you think trash means you, so you flinch in place but who Diamante reaches for is the beaten man, and not you.
They drag him out, leaving you alone with your once so perfect, oh-so-kind and gentle lover.
You clutch your arms where Diamante so cruelly gripped onto you, legs growing so weak they give out. Your knees hitting the floor. You feel your mouth moving on its own.
“I-… i.. i’m so sorry, Doffy, I just, I was just so alone and- and scared and I—!”
“Didn’t I tell you not to come here, especially, especially at night?” His voice is sharp, laced with such annoyance you think you’re going to get beaten. “I’m s-sorry. I had a nightmare and I wanted t-to be with you. I’m sorry, I’m so stupid and selfish. I’m so sorry—“
He gathers himself, seeing the way you’re breaking down stirs something in him. He doesn’t want you to be anxious, he doesn’t like seeing that expression on your face. You should be happy, you should be laughing and smiling like you’re always meant to. He says your name, his voice so unlike before, became calm, poised—levelled. “Look at me will you?”
And you do, tears and snot streaming down your face. But where you expect a vein bulging above his brows, you only see something that could be mistaken for fondness. Softness.
He walks over to you, his hand reaching out and you flinch away. He’s going to hurt you, isn’t he? Like that man? Like the people before him?
His hand stops mid track, his head tilting with a face so innocent of confusion you’re unsure if this is the same person rubbing their soles onto others faces.
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you? Like that man you saw?”
You don’t trust yourself to speak so you only advert your gaze, nodding. “Oh, my pretty girl… you don’t have to worry about that. He was a bad person, he was extorting me out of my own pockets. So don’t feel any pity for him, sweetheart. He does not deserve your kindness.”
His hand reaches for your face again but fear grips you by the reins, slapping his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” You grit out.
How stupid does he take you to be? You’ve always known, deep down your heart, you’ve always known the violence surging beneath his skin and yet you’ve denied yourself any sense of it for the sake of love. But now the evidence is staring right back at you, and you can’t bear to hear his lies.
Your vision starts to blur, tears streaming down your face as you try and hold in your sobs only for hiccups to form.
“Tut, tut. Where is this coming from? You must be shaken from what you’ve seen, that’s why I didn’t want you to be around my office. Since I know how sensitive your heart can be.”
He hunches down to your level, hands attempting to grab you once again but you flinch away.
“I said don’t touch me!” You say, firm and almost angry. Doflamingo halts. Eyes hardening as they dart across your figure from the sudden defiance, trying to figure out what to offer to make you submit, trying to figure out what words to coax you with.
You feel so weak, so pathetically powerless, and the way Doffy leans across you feels a lot like a predator luring in a wounded prey. In a sense, perhaps that’s what you are.
You’re trembling, shaking even. You won’t look his way, you won’t meet his gaze. Your shoulders are tense, your hands clutching your arms—rigid, stiff, scared.
“You’re afraid of me.” He says it not as a question but a statement and was he truly wrong? Was he? How is he any different from the people that hurt you once? You’ve seen it, how quick people can go from gentle to violent. You know how easy it is for the occasional kindness to suddenly run out. So was it wrong to be scared? To be wary?
“Or… are you afraid of something else?”
You twitch and hitch your breath. It snaps into place for him.
“Has someone hurt you? Is that it? Is that why you’ve avoided my touches? I thought it to be mere innocence but you’re meaning to say someone dared to raise their hand at what’s mine? my girl? My lover?” He grits his teeth, a familiar anger spilling out and a vein is formed between his brows. “Give me the name of those fools and I’ll show them what happens when they hurt what’s mine.”
His voice raises and your stomach and chest tightens, nausea building up your throat and your arms and hands are rushing cold. You cannot bring yourself to move, cannot bring yourself to run. You’re frozen in place, like a trapped animal. And maybe that’s exactly what you are.
Your breathing comes undone, and Doflamingo who was ready to slaughter your entire home village, let his murderous tendencies evaporate; his tone returning to gentle. As if speaking to a lost child.
“Oh sweetheart, did I bring up bad memories? I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know that don’t you? Let’s not overboard you with all of this, I’ve only ever wished to look out for you. So… why don’t you tell me what happened? I’ll let you know I’m a pretty good listener.”
You wipe your tears, lips coming into a wry. “Do you really mean that?”
“What makes you think I don’t? But not here, not on the floor.” He reaches out his hand to you, offering it like a paw waiting for a treat.
You clutch to your chest, staring at the hand that could possibly strangle you to death if he so wished it—but you won’t hear it. Not now. Not tonight. You want your gentle and doting lover back. Not the monster you discovered tonight. You place your palm into his.
He brings you up to your feet, fingers interlacing with yours as he guides you both out the corridors. Walking side by side, hand in hand. They’re large, calloused but they’re also warm. They’re gentle. They’re his.
You both don’t say anything as you make it back to your bedroom, your hands just clutch onto each other. Binding you into one.
He steers you to your bed, your chin low and eyes swollen. He does not speak as he tucks you in. He sits down at the edge of the bed as he lets you nestle deeper into your blankets, it’s cozy and warm.
Doflamingo stares into the moonlight paving across the room like silver streams. As in deep in thought.
When you first started dating Doflamingo, you always perceived him as someone worthy of reverence. His kingdom and people has nothing but good to say about him. And since you first met him, he adored you. He gave you a worthy job offer and a place to stay at his palace. Was that version of him just a facade? And if so… how much of it is false? Along with his benevolence, was his love for you also a mirage? An illusion to keep you straight? But if so… why go so far as to hold your hand? To touch you gently? To say your name in such fondness it cannot be anything but adoration? You had nothing, you had no one. So what is there to gain… but your trust and love itself?
“Doffy,” you break the silence with and he turns to you. Seeing the way your cheeks are flushed and red, makes him crack a smile.
How cute.
“Yes, darling?”
“Do you cherish me?”
He stops grinning at that, giving you a brow instead. “What kind of question is that. Of course I do. Don’t you feel cherished?”
You press down a smile and yet… “that man… was he really bad?”
His hand goes to touch your cheek but he refrains. “He owed me money and couldn’t pay back, so I had to deal with him.”
“Do you do that often? Hurting… others?”
“Yes.” He does not even hesitate, “it’s necessary to keep the weak in check.”
You feel that familiar fear creep down your chest, but you clutch your hands. “Do you think I’m weak?”
He stares at you for a second, unsure where this is coming from as he studies your face. Anxious, sullen—afraid. “It doesn’t matter because it’s you. You don’t need to be strong, you can just… be. As long as you’re here with me, by my side, you can be and do whatever you want. You can have anything that you want.”
You feel disappointment wash over you—of course you weren’t of the strongest but hearing it from your own lover, stings.
And yet, strangely enough it reassures you.
Him saying it doesn’t matter because it’s you, somehow feels kind. It feels as if for once, you don’t need to uphold any expectations, you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not. Strong or weak, it doesn’t matter. Because for him you’re the one exception to his cruelty. And maybe, as the fool you are, maybe you are willing to gamble on that exception.
You sit up, inching closer to him. Despite the brutality you witnessed a few moments ago, you still long for his sweetness, his validation and praise but this time… you want something more. Something you’ve yet not grown ready to grasp. You want to be held, consoled, comforted. You want his embrace and his kiss.
Slowly, fingers slightly trembling and eyes locked on his—you reach for his face. He does not move, does not stir when your palms rests on both his cheeks. He only stares, his gaze becomes heavy, and you press your lips tight.
“I want to kiss you.” You say, softly. He hums, not moving an inch. “Can I do that?”
“You’re asking me that?” He tilts his head, a sly grin spreading across his face. “It is you I’m waiting for, darling.”
You feel something warm, something sweet bristle in your chest and you press down a smile. You feel so childish, so little. Your lover has probably kissed a thousand and you struggle with only one. You feel more than just childish, you feel stupid.
Your lover notices your hesitation and places a soft hand on yours. “You’re having stupid thoughts—don’t. I want you, I chose you so don’t go around thinking nonsense.”
His words bring you courage and you inch closer, closing the gap between you two. When you finally land your lips onto his, it’s as if his restraint snaps into two—and he claims you hard and raw. Tongue skims over yours and you moan, half in discomfort, half in greed. Parting away when you start to feel hot and heavy.
You feel tears blurring your vision, your hands trembling and your shivers running down your back. You feel weird—uncomfortable, out of place almost but you don’t want to move away. You don’t want to end this here.
“Can you—“ you bury yourself into his chest. “Can you just hold me instead? I’m scared.”
You feel his hand skim over your back, fingers trailing the curve of your spine and reaching the back of your neck. Pulling you closer. Holding you tighter.
“I told you didn’t I? My darling gets everything she wants, doesn’t she?” He plants his chin atop your head, “Everything she wants.”
Summary: Doflamingo won’t change for you. His cruelty is a part of him, his viciousness a second nature. And one way or another, he’ll corrupt you—your fear become your cruelty, your broken past a source of anger. His nurture is one of wickedness but in his own way, it is salvation. It is reassurance. For you, behind closed doors, he’ll be gentle, soft, kind. He’ll love you in places you can’t. Wash your hair in the bath, hold your hand in bed. He’ll let you have your distance till you feel strong and ready. He’ll give you his shoulder, his arms and his outmost devotion if that is what you so need.
And somewhere, far from Dressrosa, in a village where a broken home laid nesting, where familiar faces blur into grey—and a forgotten dark corner where a little figure had sobbed into knees from a past long ago—a headline of it will appear in the morning papers in the past coming days. The country burnt into crisp, a childhood memory lost between the ashes and laid to ruins. You will not question it, you will not find fear in it. Your once dark past has been put to rest and sooner or later, by his devotion and corruption, your instincts will come to fade. And you will find only safety nestled between his palms, his shadow.
Roronoa Zoro
Having a moss-head for a boyfriend means nothing will go unnoticed, and I mean nothing. You loved that man with a passion—tall, tanned and muscular. Attentive, observing and present.
He won’t write heart felt confessions out for you but he will note the way your hands goes to your throat or necklace when you feel nervous, he will see how you gently steer his hands away when he leans in for an embrace.
He won’t question your avoidance, he won’t prod for your wariness but he will see them, and let you have your space.
You loved your boyfriend, you did and as much as you wanted to feel him, touch him, you just couldn’t bring yourself to actually do it. You’ve always been more wary towards touch, it made you feel trapped, made you feel out of place and made your stomach turn.
As you started dating, gradually you noted how he slowly stopped initiating contact, as if noticing your despair. It’s not that Zoro was an overly affectionate lover but you do know he appreciates it more than anything else.
Even if he didn’t comment on it you felt guilty, you felt bad and you felt selfish. What kind of girlfriend can’t hug or kiss her boyfriend? Maybe he’ll grow frustrated over time? Maybe he’ll get bored and tired of you without initiating contact? The fear of that—the abandonment and possibility of his patience coming undone scares you like nothing else.
So one night, when the crew had a bonfire feast, docked by a lonely beach—you and Zoro were sitting alone together by the fire. Watching everyone drink and eat till their hearts content, Brook and Franky entertaining the crew with karaoke.
You were in a good mood that night, the good food and company had made you laugh all night long, and now you’re bummed out. Spending time alone with your boyfriend instead.
You glanced at your lover then, he had an easy going smile as he gulped down his sake for each passing moment.
You felt your lips wry—he’s handsome. You knew that of course but right now, you can’t help but stare.
He turns his gaze towards you, and you blush, snapping your eyes away.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, don’t worry, I was lost in thought.”
“Huh.” He takes a swig of his flask but stops momentarily when he sees your empty cup. “Here, try some of this. It’s sweet, so you wont note the bitter aftertaste .”
“I can handle liquor!” You protest but you let him pour anyways. “Yeah? Then why do you frown each time you taste my drinks?”
“Maybe because what you drink is pure alcohol poisoning?”
He stifled a smile at that, handing the cup to you. You try it, and he’s right—It’s sweet! Like juice!
“See? I was right that you’d like it.”
Indeed he was—because he knows you. He’s seen you, observed you. You feel your chest bristle with warmth.
You inch a bit closer, feeling a little bold from the alcohol. “Zoro,” you tilt your head at him and he blinks.
“What are you thinking about?” He says accusingly and you laugh, planting your chin in your palms. “Noooothing~ just that my boyfriend is really handsome.”
A corner of his lip jerk upwards, a cocky smirk coming in place, “Yeah? You think so?”
“Mhm.”
Your cheeks are getting rounder, your smile all goofy and inlove. It hits you then; you want to kiss him. Pecker and attack him with it. So what’s stopping you?
Despite wanting to, despite craving it like a touch starved sailor at sea—you can’t bring yourself to do it. He sees your contemplation and leans a bit closer, narrowing his eye at you. You flinch in place, unused to this invasion of space, but you don’t back away. Not this time.
“You have that look on your face when you want something but can’t bring yourself to say it.”
You stare at his lips—thick and probably soft. Your lips part, wondering what they taste like.
“I think you’re mistaken, the alcohol got me absent minded.”
He blinks, glancing at your almost empty cup before cocking a smile at you, lifting the flask he poured for you. “It’s just juice.”
…it’s just… juice???
Your face goes bash red, “Hey! You tricked me!”
“I didn’t trick you, I just said it was sweet and that you wouldn’t frown from a bitter aftertaste.”
“You withheld information—That’s the same as tricking me!”
He starts to laugh at your outburst and you pretend to be offended, “And now you’re laughing at me, wow! I’ll never forget this, mark my words.”
“I’m not laughing at you—hey!” He laughs harder when you elbow him on the side, reaching for his actual alcohol.
The flask is light, it’s empty. You frown.
“You drank it all? Really?”
He takes one last sip on his drink, going to his feet. “My bad, I’ll find some more booze for us.” He takes a step forward, away from you and you panic—leeching onto his arm. He freezes. “Don’t go! I rather want you to stay.”
“It’ll only be a short while—“
“No. Stay. Please.” You give him that look he can’t resist and he pulls a face before sighing.
“Dammit lady, must you be so demanding.” He sits back down, a bit closer to you than before. You realise you still have hands on his arm.
You inch a bit closer, even if it’s unfamiliar and strange, you don’t want it to end. Not like this.
You start to note everyone has tuckered out, and it’s just you and Zoro left awake by the fire.
Perhaps it’s the good mood, perhaps it’s his casual sweetness or perhaps it’s the drinks from before—but your courage gathers.
Slowly, carefully, like snow descending down onto green, you make your head onto his shoulder. You note how he watches you, takes in the shape of your face and the curl of your lips but you don’t glance back.
You only watch the fire dance and flicker, as the embers slowly burns out.
His shoulder is sturdy, sharp but warm. It’s firm in strength, packed in muscle. Resting your head there—it feels safe. It feels right.
He stirs and you fear you’ve been too selfish only for him to lean back in. His movement is restraint, if not hesitant. As if he’s been waiting for this moment all his time knowing you, but in fear of messing it up.
You feel your cheeks heat and you plant a palm over his hand. He intertwines you both, fingers lacing with yours. His touch is careful, it is measured, as if not trying to put too much weight onto you. As if scared you’ll break and fall into pieces if he’s not careful.
Perhaps it’s his touch, his reserved gentleness for you and you alone that makes you glance to him, turning your head to his direction and he faces you.
For some reason, you feel shy. You feel timid but you also feel brazen and in want.
“Can you kiss me?”
Your voice is soft, almost like a whisper as you gaze upon his eyes that soften at the sight of you.
You can’t help but note the glint in them as if staring at something precious, at something irreplaceable, and to him, you are.
“You fine with that?”
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak with all these emotions brewing in your chest and he leans in.
It’s soft at first, like a kiss shared by two teenagers who have never kissed before. He tastes of booze and liquor—and you find yourself giggling.
“You’re shy.” You tease him and he gets bashful, “Hah? Nothing about me is shy—“
You grab his face by both of your hands and he shuts up. Your observing and laid back boyfriend is bright pink at the sight of you and you lean in. Giving him a kiss back.
The twists in your stomach, the wariness and the self consciousness that awakens with each touch, seems to have become a fear long gone.
You kiss him on the lips, on the nose, and cheeks and his jaw. You kiss him on his brows and his temples. Everywhere on his face, ending it on his lips, once again.
“That’s unfair.” He mutters and you smile.
“Buuuut?”
“… but I like it.” He grumbles, taking your hands away from his face. “Zoro?”
He stares at you for a second, hands going up to your shoulders. You feel shivers run down your back, flinching when his hold steers you into his chest. Your heart is hammering, both in fear and excitement, but you feel too much joy to worry about anything.
He hugs you, arms encasing around you like a fortress whose one sole purpose is keeping you safe. And you do. You do feel safe.
You feel yourself leaning in, his warmth radiating into you and his scent filling your senses.
Your hands grab onto his back; for the first time since you started dating him—you don’t feel the need to push back. To flinch away and avoid his hands. For the first time, you long for more, you dig your face into the crook of his neck and pray this night will last forever.
“I’ve wanted to do this… for a very long time.” You hear him whisper, half to himself. You press your lips, feeling them play a smile. “Yes. Me too. Me too.”
He hugs you tighter, and you find that you do too.
Summary: You don’t have to explain anything to Zoro—he won’t prod you, but he’ll be there, waiting. Some days it’s harder than others, and he won’t question it. He lets you have your space, waiting patiently for you to come to him. You asked him one time, feeling guilt in the pit of your belly—“Won’t you grow tired of this? Of me? And all the things I don’t talk about?”
“No. I won’t.” He does not even hesitate when answering. It’s short, it’s blunt. But it is all that is needed for you to know how deep his devotion truly runs for you. And you alone.
