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I'm so flipping mad that I have to re-upload my sh!fics here, BUT FINE WHATEVER TUMBLR I'LL FUME AND HUFF IN SILENCE ( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡)💢

I post other similair fics on my tumblr so check it out if you want... or dont.... or do.... or.... ok ill stop. 

My tumblr link  ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Chapter Text

Rob Lucci isn’t the kind of man who’d sympathise with such weakness—you clutched your arms, brows knitting. Would he sneer at you, belittle you? You’ve known him, seen him, felt him. He’s a man who carries himself like a weapon, a sharpened blade only you have gained access to feel it’s cold softness, it’s focused intimacy and affectionate silence.

His love isn’t cuddly or kind—it’s quiet, intense and controlling. Not monitoring but precise. Each action done by reason, each kiss measured and timed.

Aloof and indifferent at the surface but once invited to its deep? A fondness that borderlines on possession. Affection sharpened by silence. It’s not warm, it’s personal. Intimate. Raw. And at the centre of it all? You’re his. And only his. His possessiveness you’ve long found comfort in. You don’t question his love for you—you don’t have to.

His affection is dressed in silence and shadow, and done under guise of indifference when in truth; He notes the way you tie your shoe-laces, how you avoid horror movies at all cost and that you always have milk in your tea. Not because you’ve told him but because he watches, observes, obsess. Rob does not acknowledge it, he just does. A dark hidden part of his mind solely reserved for you. And his heart? It was yours before he knew it.

And despite knowing him, knowing he only allows you to see him, feel him and hear his rare laugh that sounds more like a deep rumble. Despite it all, you fear his reaction. His rejection. Out of everyone, you don’t want him to see that part of you.

He’s a man who likes it tidy, organised, precise.

And this? It’s filthy, unsightly. A weakness that leaves a stain across your blemished skin. You couldn’t bear to imagine him seeing that of you.

His work forcing his absence in your relationship is partly why he hasn’t seen them yet.

And you liked it that way, you don’t want him to see such a defect in your being. You couldn’t bear it.

It was dead in the night it happened, you and your brooding, secretive Cipher Pol-0 agent boyfriend have only been dating for a few months now.

Falling asleep alone in his bed whilst he’d be away for work was not unusual.

Sometimes, he’d join you in the middle of the night, other times he’d be away for days if not weeks without notice.

You’re used to it at this point. But tonight?

Tonight was special. He’ managed to free up one day in his work-pile-of-a-schedule, not for you of course (or so he would say) only to end up spending the rest of the day with you.

A walk in the park… feeding other pigeons… taking you out to a fancy diner… have you yap his ear off.

Both of you were spent as you hit bed, and when you were starting to nod off in his arms you hear it—the urge.

At first you’d freeze. Your body stiffening as it starts getting louder. You blink, your hands clutching each other, your thighs clenching, not trusting yourself enough to relax.

Rob remains asleep, his breathing slow and steady—even sleeping he remained composed, focused. Much unlike you.

A few minutes goes by… an hour… or two… you don’t know how many more. But the urge is there. And it grows by the minute.

Your hands fidgets, unsure where to place them. Cold sweat making it to your neck.

Fuck it.

You can’t take it anymore.

As quietly as you can, you get up from the bed careful not to wake your boyfriend up. He’s a light sleeper so you keep yourself from creaking the bed all too much as you slide off.

Tiptoeing, you make it to your kitchen. Quiet as a mouse. You feel a bit proud of yourself for not waking a government agent up.

You turn the sink to cold. Ice cold. You wait, and you wait a bit more before it’s cold enough. You take a cloth and drench it.

This will do since you’ve used up all the ice.

You wrap the linen where you feel it, lost in thought.

And as always, you wait for it to pass.

You don’t note how he heard you waddle out of bed, watching your nervous figure leave the room in a hurry.

He had at first thought you’d sneak away into the night but his suspicions only grew more vigorous as he stands by the door way, eyes low and watching, expression completely unreadable.

You were sat by the kitchen table, eyes sealed to the windows. Your hand was clutching a towel on your arm, wet, dripping. Something about the shape of you was tense, rigid.

Observing you long enough, Lucci makes himself known, “Can’t sleep?”

You don’t flinch, you only move the exposed skin just slightly out of sight. “Sorry, did I wake you? And yeah, something like that.”

“You’ve been fidgety all day,” Not a remark but a statement. He walks over to you, steps firm and precise, his shadow spilling over you. “And you’ve been restless in bed all night.”

Your boyfriend’s hand reaches out to you, sturdy and calloused palms tilting the frame that you’re hiding from him.

You look away, shameful.

“Rob—“

“You’re not looking at me. What happened.”

His hand places over yours, the one that holds the wet linen in place. The water squelches from the pressure, dripping down your forearms.

“It’s nothing, I just accidentally scraped myself yesterday—“

“If you’re going to lie at least make it believable by looking me in the eye.” He cuts you off, his tone still remaining flat. “Let me see it.”

You sigh, relenting. You let him slide the wet cloth away, and you swear you sense his gaze darkening. Not anger, not disappointment—something more intense. An edge you can’t describe.

His senses come to a halt, white noise filling up his chest as he stares.

How did he manage to miss this? He always watched you, even when he wasn’t looking—he always noted every move. And yet somehow…

It irked him. It made a corner of his lip jerk.

His eyes goes from the wound, to you and back to the lines. His gaze follows the other side of you, his hands turning your arms into view, inspecting, observing. Brows furrowing.

“How long?”

“How long since i started or when I did it most recently?” You say, your voice tense—trying your best to brace the cutting words soon to come.

“Both.”

You shrug, “Sometime ago when I was in a bad place. Now it’s better, I don’t do it as much anymore. Yesterday was just, I don’t know. It just happened.” For this, you look him in the eye, unwavering and steady. If he’s going to be mean at least you’ll be ready.

A beat passes and he only gives a hum in response.

He lifts you up in his arms, strong, swift and powerful but you notice it. The small tension in his shoulders, the slight furrowed brows showing restraint. As if, for once, he doesn’t truly know what to do but this.

He carries you back to your shared bedroom.

He places you gently on the bed, no questions asked before striding into the bathroom. You hear the sink turn on.

Lucci comes back, drenched towel in his hand—with fresher cooler water. You also see a first aid kit being brought back. You watch, perplexed as he sits down next to you. Wrapping the cloth around the area himself before locking his gaze with yours.

“Does this help?”

“Sometimes. If it’s not too bad.”

“What do you do when it gets too bad?”

You shrug. “I wait it out I guess.”

“I see.”

He’s quiet for a spell as he cleans it—his movement slow and methodical, dabbing the wound with alcohol, wrapping bandages in one practical movement. It goes by within a minute.

“You’re foolish.” He murmurs.

“You don’t need to be mean—“

“You’re foolish for thinking I’d not hold you.”

You blink. Chest empty.

“Next time if it gets unbearable, tell me. Don’t sit in silence… like me. You can even talk to Hattori, if you so wish it. You’re mine, and I take care of what belongs to me. So don’t be foolish anymore. You got that?”

You try and find some trick in his words, some menace in his gaze but all you find is him. His tender rare display of worry, of care. A hidden part of him only you are allowed to caress, to feel.

You nod and your chin falls but he only places a thumb under it, making you meet his gaze. “Say it. Say it you understand.”

You bite your lower lip, feeling such shame for doubting him in the first place. “Yes. I understand, I promise I’ll tell you next time.”

Rob’s gaze is unbearably focused, eyes that so usually flicks away and skim over your figure, holds you with such intensity you feel the air pulsating between you two. And within a blink, or two, ever so slightly his gaze softens. Not by a lot, not something you’d ever notice in a regular conversation.

But it’s there. A soft, kind of raw edge in his expression. Like a blades dulled edge. His hand makes it to the back of your neck and pulls you in close. Letting yourself sink into his chest, into his warmth. A kindle of his worry and affection reserved solely for you.

You smile into his chest, the knot in your stomach slowly and surely unravelling. The urges washed away as sleep beckoned for you in his arms.

• Summary: when you wake up, you will find breakfast ready, and the dishes done and laundry folded. He will already be gone for work, but he had held you a few moments longer than usual. Placed a kiss on your lips before leaving. You’ll find a note next to your tray. Nothing fancy, nothing decorative or flowery. Short, practical and unceremonious as the man who loves you.

• “Keep your word, as I’ll keep mine. R”

 

 

Chapter Text

Being Crocodile’s lover meant having all the finest luxuries at your disposal—the latest of fashions, the most sought fragrances and only the most priced possessions in your collection.

One word and it’s yours.

So it goes without saying you have it better than most.

Which should be a privilege, which should make you feel comfortable and sated. And yet it makes you feel even worse for doing it. There’s nothing in your life that should allow you to feel sad about anything and yet…

And it’s not like you had to work, he took care of your needs, and your money. Which made you restless, and he was always away. Torturing that clown rather than spend time with you. Making death threats in that tacky circus tent than be near you. He wouldn’t even let you attend his workplace, it wasn’t suitable for a woman like you, he said.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about anything, just sit there and wait for me.”

Your lips had tightened at that which he saw, and only chuckled. Parting you with a kiss as an apology.

In truth, he only wished for you to be comfortable, not be surrounded with lousy, tardy clowns that thinks with their feet.

And thus it just happened.

A heat of the moment kind of thing, just a few quick ones. And now you sit here, in your expensive-one-of-a-kind slip on dress made of silk and more silk, sulking.

Being Sir Crocodile’s lover is great—he’s handsome, tall, strong, clever and rich. He knows how to lay his claim and if he wants something? He’ll make sure to get it, you were included in that principle too.

You loved him, you did but gods if it isn’t difficult to not feel inferior with him. He’s the head to his mafia organisation, a former warlord and now he’s rising with another ambition using Cross Guild as cover. How would such a man react to your incompetence? Your sensitivity? Your damaged self?

He’d click his tongue at you for sure, and the thought of that makes your stomach ache.

You didn’t want him to lecture you, and knowing Crocodile he’d definitely pull the whole thing into a scolding.

You hugged yourself, cheek leaning into your knees. You loved him with all your heart but you didn’t want to be treated like a child, like an idiot, especially not by him.

It was late, evening turning into dusk and you were just finishing up the dishes before you hear the door click open.

You roll down your sleeves and dry your hands before twirling your way to the hall way.

His large figure emerges from the door and like always you launch yourself into his embrace, arms over his shoulders and neck. Hanging in the air as you plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Welcome home, darling!!!”

Crocodile will never admit it, but this is what he looks forward to the most when coming home. All he does is return the embrace with his hook planted on the small of your back. He smells of cigar and something dark, like rosewood resin.

“How’s your day been?” You lean back, face beaming and he only pecks you on the forehead before handing you his coat. “Do you need to ask? That insipid clown is on thin ice.”

“You always say that. Surely it was better today?”

“As better as it can be.” He says, striding off to the living room. “But he has his uses.”

He sinks down into the cushions, lighting a new cigar as you pour two cups of brewed tea. Crocodile takes a puff, “But enough about my day, how was yours?”

Your mind goes immediately to what happened but you only shrug it off. He wouldn’t understand, you tell yourself. So you take a seat next to him and tell him all about the little things.

How you burnt your coffee this morning… how the chiffon came out too sweet… the new dresses you were looking at… the chapter of a book you’re reading… he listens to it all.

Eyes glinting softly as he watches you talk, smoke swirling off the cigar gently, the tension in his shoulders from work easing as your chatter fills the room.

And when you finish, he leans his head back into the cushions. Twisting his hook to come undone, and you help him with it. An innocent gesture on your part. But when your hand reached across for him, the small of your sleeve rolled up.

One peek was all he needed.

Crocodile seizes your wrist like hot iron and you wince. “H-hey—“

He rolls it up before you can process anything and your stomach drops.

You were having such a good time, why now?

You snap your hand away but it’s futile. His hold on you is firm and powerful.

“What’s this?” He says, voice curt and sharp. Hand twisting your arm over and under, as if examining the wound. When you don’t answer, his gaze becomes piercing.

“Tell me the name of the fool and I’ll have them dealt with.”

You frown, overwhelmed. “No, nono you got it wrong.”

“I got it wrong? How? Did someone not do this to you? You don’t need to protect them from me; I will only have a ‘chat’ with them.”

You give him a brow and he clicks his tongue.

His grip squeezing. “I am being serious. Why didn’t you tell me this? Why did you hide it? Are you being blackmailed? Arrogant bastards, once I catch them—“

“No.” You sigh, “no it’s not like that, Crocodile, I just- … I did it myself.”

He blinks, eyes narrowing at you before going back to the wound and then back to you. His grip doesn’t loosen.

“This looks awfully intentional to be an accident. What happened.”

Your lips tightens and your chin drops. What should you say?

‘Oh I felt a little bit emo because I have nothing to do and you’re always away’?

He’d laugh! He’d find you pathetic! You didn’t want that from him.

“You’re having stupid thoughts,” he lifts your chin by the jaw. Making you face him. “Was it an accident?”

You shake your head and his brow raises.

“Then why?” He asks, quite genuine in his tone which is an odd sound to hear from him. It makes you feel even more silly.

“You’ll find me ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Oh yes—“ Your chest tightens, “—Ridiculous for thinking that way. Now, tell me. Or I’ll punish you and not the way you think; I’ll get up and leave till you gather your senses and tell me.”

You blink your discomfort away, the knots in your stomach twisting.

In the dim of the evening light your stern and very much “do-not-mess-with-me” boyfriend, refined roughly by sand and smoke, sits with you. Quietly. Thumb placed softly on your wrist, circling slowly as he listens to you talk.

You tell him when you started. You tell him how it makes you feel. You tell him why you do it. You tell him. You tell him, and he listens.

Crocodile doesn’t fully understand it but he knows you are letting him in. Allowing him to feel your shame, bear witness to a stain—raw, sore, scared. And that privilege, that part you allow him to see, he will guard deeply in his heart.

He sits down with you, lets you unravel. He does not remark, he does not question, he does not demand. Crocodile is not the kind of man who asks for anything, he takes, he claims and he invests. He doesn’t stand for incompetence, for stupidity. But for you? For you he’s willing to take a hold, willing to wait.

Your calculating boyfriend notes the sullen expression in your figure and his grip releases. Carefully. Slowly. He doesn’t say anything as he gets up from the couch. Neither do you.

You sit there, chin low and waiting. Hands clutched on your knees.

Crocodile comes back with a tray of bandages, cotton and alcohol. He doesn’t say anything as he sits back down. His hand is rough, large and firm, taking your wrist in his. And surprisingly, for a man of his stature, he remains quite gentle with you. Cleaning and tidying the wound up in no hurry at all, his touch sure and sturdy.

“Next time, come and find me. I won’t avail you nothing.”

“You don’t find me silly?”

He looks up to you. You can feel his gaze piercing into you, as if he stared long enough he’d be able to read your thoughts.

“No. I don’t.” Is all he says, and that is all he needs to say.

He lets you crawl into his lap, place your head on his shoulders, let him stroke your hair into sleep. And as you doze off, you feel his hand faintly caressing the curve of your bandages.

• Summary: When you wake up, you are in your bed. Hair brushed and braided. A fresh brew standing next to bed. The room is surrounded with packages—the dress you’ve been looking at, the follow up to your book you’re reading, a chiffon cake perfectly sweet. The window flowers replaced with your favourites. Freshly plucked. You find a note next to your coffee,

• “I have booked an appointment for you tomorrow, an esteemed psychologist with several high ratings. If you wish it, I’ll postpone it till you feel ready. Crocodile.”

 

[part 2: here] ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Chapter Text

Trafalgar. D. Water Law. Even his name spelled out the kind of person he was. Curt, practical and no nonsense kind of guy.

Being his lover at first was taxing—often neglected, for duty as a captain, doctor and main fighter of the crew needed to come first. It was crucial. He rarely had the time to indulge you but when he did? Oh if it wasn’t sweet, caring and warm. It made the time waiting so worth it.

Law was not loud, clingy or obnoxious with his love for you. Each kiss was measured, tender in his own right. A subtle squeeze on your hand before returning to captain mode. A brush of shoulders, always making sure to stand next to you—unaware of it himself. He didn’t need to say anything to know you are cherished, his actions did.

That’s the kind of person Law was, even in relationships. Precise, controlled and level headed. He didn’t act on impulses, didn’t make decisions without reason. Much unlike you.

You, who did not have his level of discipline, self control and steady hold of your feelings. You were the very opposite of him and it made you feel at odd under his gaze. Law was so perfect, so clean and neat. And you? You could barely find the will to wash off the dry blood, and clean the tool.

So you stopped. For the time being. You let the wounds heal, watched as the scars fade. Some nights you would run your fingers over your thighs, reminiscing. Suppressing. After all, if he found out—would he scold you, hammer you with insults and flick your feelings away if he knew what kind of skeletons you kept in your closet?

Because of the polar tang, the boiler suits often covered your thighs, and when you were out of it, you would never wear shorts or skirts. Even if the current island was sunny, breezy and warm—you refused. You kept to your pants, your trousers, your sweats. And no one asked. Maybe it was just your preference in clothing after all.

Months started to pass, and even if your mind remained the same—scars fade. They always do. And you started to grow comfortable. Comfortable enough to wear shorts in your free time.

You were in your own room, nestled under some blankets, drawing, sketching, colouring. You had your favourite scented candle lit, a refilled water bottle—cold and crisp—and freshly washed bedsheets with a plate of brownies next to you. This is the kind of luxury that convinced you why some rich people are willing to commit murder for. You were living the high life right now.

As you were colouring in the background, your door knocks.

“Come in!! It’s unlocked!” You shout, not tearing your eyes away from your drawing.

“Hey,”

You know whose voice that is—of course you do. You look over your shoulder and see your nerd of a boyfriend standing at the entrance.

“Law!!!” You practically jump out of bed to give him a hug. You rarely see him as enough and took any chance to touch your boyfriend.

“I thought you said you had a lot to do tonight? Is everything alright?” You look up from his chest and he replies with a small smile.

“Yeah, well I finished all of it a lot faster than I thought. So I came here to… check on you.”

You give him a cheesy smile, “is that all~?”

He stiffens. Eyes adverting.

“Anyways, what are you up to?”

Giggling, you invite him to your self-care-time and plop down onto the edge of your bed.

“I’ve just been drawing something! Here I’ll show you—Law?”

You were flipping open the page you were working on only to find him staring. Not at you—well not your face—but your legs. Your thighs. They’re bare.

His face seems to come into a frown, not exactly a moody one but a confused expression. “Hey, how come I haven’t seen these before?” His eyes makes it to you, not in accusation but of question.

“I… uhhh.”

In all honesty? You kind of forgot they were there. You instinctively plant your palms over them.

“What are they?”

Law inches near, his frame hovering over your head. “Law—“

He kneels down and removes your hands, firmly but gently.

Your boyfriend narrows his eyes at them, studying, examining.

“These are a few months old.” He says not as a question but an observation. “And yet I don’t have any memory of cleaning them up for you.” His golden eyes look up at you, his gaze intent and focused.

“Where did you get them?”

Your lips tightens, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed with all these questions and statements.

“Law look, it’s difficult explaining but they’re healed now so it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does matter. You’re important to me; I should know these sort of things.” He takes your hands in his, “I want to know.”

At this, your heart melts. And you feel yourself crumbling. All the things you’ve repressed, all the thoughts and feelings you’ve ignored? They all resurface; and you tell him everything.

At first he sits down next to you, and listens. Humming in response as you speak, his hand lightly squeezing yours when you struggle to find the words. Law only starts asking questions when you’ve said it all.

“You thought I’d find you weak?”

“Well… yes. I mean, you’re always structured, Law. You study hard, you work hard and you always make sure to stay sharp. Whilst I’m—I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

He lets out a sharp sigh that makes your shoulder tense.

“You idiot.”

You look away to blink back the tears but he makes you face him by sliding your cheek back.

“I’d find you weak?” He pffts, “As if I could. You’re stronger than most, it’s one of the things I admire about you. So don’t give me crappy assumptions like that ever again. You hear me?”

“Law…”

He strokes a tear away with his thumb, offering you a small smile.

“Next time you feel unwell, even in mind, I want you to come to me alright? I’m a doctor, it’s my job to nurse over people—but since I’m your boyfriend too, you get that extra treatment, free of charge.” He leans in, giving you a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

And with that, the awful ache in your stomach unknots. The insecurities you once felt at the back of your mind comes to a halt as Law tucks himself with you back into bed. Head lying on his chest, sleep beckoning as you listen to his heart beat. Low, steady, calm. You feel yourself smiling to sleep.

• Summary: When you wake up, he will be there. Book in hand, arm wrapped around your shoulder. You will nestle into his warmth, and drift off back into sleep. You will never wipe the blood off yourself, and you will never have to sit in silence, at the corner of your room wrapping bandages no one will ever see. Never again.

Chapter Text

(This man bro, hes so hot but evil. I’ll soften him a bit. Also it’s a bit suggestive, Doflamingo fic being its own warning—VIOLENCE WILL OCCUR PLEASE READ SAFELY)

Doflamingo of the Donquixote family is a deceiver, a trickster and a killer. And it wasn’t easy, it really wasn’t easy at all. Being his lover meant being his. Figuratively and literally speaking.

He chose you not out of love, not at first, but out of obsession. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, your name would pop up in his mind during the most random moments—and it disgusted him. He couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to.

There was nothing about you that was impressive, or interesting… and yet your face was all he could think about. So he did what he always did when he wants something to stop. He tries to kill you.

And fails, horribly so.

That’s how your love story began.

Donquixote Doflamingo will find out everything about you. From your exact schedule measured in specific timestamps borderlining on creepy, to how you always take two spoons of sugar with your coffee. He has a journal about you, it’s pink, fuzzy, has a golden-heart-shaped padlock to it. Sadly enough, its contents aren’t half as cute.

The writings aren’t scribbles or notes, they’re drawn out documented papers of your entire existence—where your were born(time and date), when your grandma died, which weekday you moved out, six whole essays on your relationship with your parents and what your shoe size is. He also knows of your lactose intolerance.

This man isn’t normal about you. In fact, he’s very unnormal about you.

When you started dating, he sabotaged the company you worked for, only to offer you a workplace at his palace.

When you started talking about opening your own business, he had nodded, encouraged you even! He let you set up your own store, gave you contact details to the best interior designers, merchants and photographers. Doflamingo supported every bit of aspect of your project but as soon as it debuted? He ordered Vergo to chase away any customers or investors.

At some point the letters you’ve been writing to your parents never reached to their mail. The friends you’ve left behind suddenly stopped responding.

It hurt.

One night you came crying. You felt alone, you felt isolated. So you sought for his comfort. You needed his praise, his validation. But you only started to hysterically sob when you saw him.

You felt ashamed for wasting his money, time and effort. He lets you whimper into his shoulder, gives you soft kisses on your temples. He would hush you sweet nothings as you calmed.

He encouraged you to try again. He gave you the same amount of money, same amount of aid. The only difference was that he would decide on the interior, on the staff and on the logo. And it would succeed.

Doflamingo would congratulate you, tell you how proud he is to have a woman like you.

And you?

You were completely oblivious. You were drunk on his love, on his attention and his adoration. You came to depend solely on him.

Or so, you would have him believe.

You knew what kind of man he was, you knew why the store failed at first and succeeded later. You knew why letters from your parents started to decrease. But you also knew, in his own twisted way, he cared about you. So despite his controlling tendencies, despite him monitoring your every move, you always crawl back to him.

Doflamingo truly believes he’s doing the right thing. Your pretty little head doesn’t know how harsh the world can be, so he does the necessary precautions on keeping you safe. And where was that? Well, next to him of course. In his grip, in his shadow.

This was what being Doflamingo’s lover truly meant. Being his. Fully, completely his. And strangely enough, you found comfort in his love. With him you could depend, you could rely on.

Because behind all of it—his love was more than just tender, it was intoxicating.

He had zero patience for anyone outside the family, had no regard for others and his version of killing time is committing mass extortion. He was cocky, flamboyant, demanding but he would speak softer to you, he would wash your hair in the bath, his hands firm but skilled. He would let you sit on his knee and pass you the better cut steak. No words, no expectations. All you had to do was to sit pretty and just… be.

You loved it. You did.

And yet… when no one was looking you would lock yourself in the bathroom and when you came out—your ankles would be bandaged. Hidden under your socks. Your war-criminal boyfriend didn’t need to know about that part of you.

Because it was all you had left. The only control you could retrieve. And it kept you happy, kept the relationship stable, fulfilled.

But one day, Doflamingo had bought you a lavish swim suit. It was in your favourite colour, your favourite pattern and in your exact size.

“You like it?” He says with that wicked smile that screamed tax-fraud and worship. He was lounging on a chair, watching you swing and twirl with the piece from its hanger. You had squealed, running up to him smiling.

“Like it? I love it!!!” You pecker him with kisses as gratitude. He lands a hand on the small of your back. “Yeah? Then try it on and show me how much you like it.”

You blushed fiercely, disguising your nerves as embarrassment. You went a little wild last night playing fruit ninja and have been stuck wearing knee high socks since.

“Right now?”

“What kind of stupid question is that. Of course right now. Why? Too shy?” He places a kiss on your neck and you plant your hands on his shoulders.

“Doffy, I’m so bloated right now, can I show you another time? Please~” you pouted at him and give him that one look you knew he couldn’t resist.

He gives you a brow, face unamused.

“Since when did I care about that? You’re always beautiful, especially your curves.”

His hand travels to your waist, groping and squeezing. It tickled so you couldn’t help but laugh. Hearing that sweet sound, witnessing the way your nose scrunches up when you’re having fun—made him lose all sense of self control.

Doflamingo leans in and starts leaving hickeys on your neck, to your collar bones down to your waist. You try to protest but it’s futile, the man is obsessed.

Eventually you both fall onto the floor, his frame spilling over yours. Moans and wet kisses fills the room, his hands clasped over yours. Fingers laced.

You lose yourself in the moment and don’t realise when he slides your sock down your anklet.

Doflamingo freezes. Dead in his tracks.

Flushed and lost in pleasure you giggle out, “Hey, what made you stop?”

He does not respond. Not immediately.

The once playful air turns stale. You look up, only to feel your bones turn cold.

He’s staring at it. And that isn’t the worst part. His face isn’t fretting in worry, his lips aren’t parted in shock—no. The man was scowling, hard and hateful. His hand on your ankle squeezes, and you wince in pain but his grip doesn’t loosen it only tightens.

For the first time since you became his—he wanted to hurt you.

“Doffy, let go—“

“What the fuck is this.” He cuts you off, voice laced with venom. “I—please let go, I’ll explain!”

Finally he looks up to you. “Let go?” Doflamingo squeezes only harder, “What makes you think I should listen to you?”

You try to say something but he doesn’t give you the chance. “Hey, are you going to answer me or not? Who did this to you? And why didn’t you tell me? Are you hiding something? Answer me.” A vein forms on his forehead, his scowl deepening. “Are you trying to protect them? Why? And who? How did you get in contact with them?”

Hot white noise spills over his senses. How did he let this escape his notice? And not only that, there are older scars running between the fresher ones—why is it he has never once noticed this? What else could you be hiding from him? To him it felt like his strings on you are coming undone. Slipping from his grip, his palm.

Doflamingo’s hold on you only tightens. Squeezing you. Hurting you.

Tears starts to emerge. Your heart hammering from the way he has cruelly crushed your ankle, and your heart.

“You’re hurting me.” You wheeze out, voice barely a whisper.

Only then does he snap out of it. Only then, when he sees you cover your mouth from keeping the whimpers out, how your tears spill down your cheek, does he let go.

But he isn’t any less angry and you know that. So you go to your knees, shoulder facing away from him as your hand lands on your feet.

It’s going to bruise, you realise.

The pressure from his grip reopened the wounds and blood, small prickles of it, drips down the carpet.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

Half of you were fuming, the other half in fear. He’s never once been this cruel, this angry towards you before and for the first time since you started dating him—you’re afraid.

Doflamingo stares you down. He notes the way you’re trembling, he sees how your knuckles are clenched white, and how you refuse to look at him. Chin fallen low.

He says your name.

And you don’t respond.

His eyes drifts back to your rolled down sock, only one leg exposed. His hand reaches for your other ankle, and you know better than to defy him now.

He stares. And he stares.

“That’s quite the mess you have there. So will you tell me how you got it?” His voice is strangely controlled, like he’s speaking to a child. It makes you feel even worse.

You dont respond. You don’t look at him.

Your tears keep staining the carpet, the only sound leaving your body are the suppressed hiccups you so desperately try to quieten.

He clicks his tongue at you, “Damn you woman, must you be so high maintenance.”

Doflamingo gets up from the floor and hovers over you. You still don’t look. So he does the only thing he can think of—lift you off the ground and carry you in his arms.

“Doffy—put me down!” You sob but he only places a hand on the back of your head. Shushing you.

You squirm and you hit and you push but to no avail. He only grips you harder and kisses the sides of your hair. You resort to screaming and insulting.

Doflamingo carries you to the nearest sofa and sets you down. Slowly. Gently.

“Stay put.” He says before walking off, hands in his pocket and awful posture. Like a delinquent.

And surprisingly, you listen. Best to not piss him off further.

When he comes back, you’ve dried your tears and collected your composure. But still, you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He sets a golden tray down the coffee table. Assembled with bandages, scissors, alcohol, cotton pads, and even a package of frozen peas. Upon the tray is also your favourite dessert, and your favourite tea. You clench your fists.

Doflamingo plops down next to you, manspreading and neck coming into an arch as he leans his head back. His arm slings over your shoulder.

For a moment, you two just sit in silence.

“Still giving me the silent treatment? I’m so lonely, give me something.” Is what he breaks it with and you frown.

“Mmmh.” He tilts his head at you, “let me take a look at it. It’ll get infected if we just leave it. You know what happens when it gets infected? It festers. And we’ll have to perform vivisection. We don’t want that do we?” He grins at his morbid comment but you only grit your teeth.

“Why would you care!? You were ready to twist one of my ankles off barely an hour ago!” You snap. Your eyes finally meeting his. Your gaze defiant.

He gives you a long untelling look—before breaking into a wicked grin. “There’s my girl, welcome back.”

You frown even deeper but he leans in and steals a kiss; and you cannot bring yourself to avoid it.

Doflamingo lands a hand on your thigh, bringing your leg over his knee. He rips off your socks, and with a finger he flicks a string towards the tray. Harnessing the bottle of alcohol and cotton pads. He gets to cleaning.

And you let him.

You two don’t say anything as he cleans your mess. He wraps the bandages and tightens the knot. The silence forming a kind of intimacy that not even sex can bring. It makes your chest feel warm.

Once he finishes on both sides, Doflamingo reaches for the iced packet, placing it on the bruise he left you. The cold is sharp, making you flinch but he holds you in place. Doffy looks at you—for once his face is serious. No grin, no velvet smirk, no condescending tone just two sentences. “Who was it? Go on.”

Doflamingo’s voice isn’t harsh, it isn’t cruel—it’s commanding, dominant but there is restraint in it. As if trying his best not to scare you off. His hold on your ankle is soft, faint but it’s there. It’s present, it’s warm.

And it softens you. The fear that once resided within you evaporates. Letting yourself relax.

“It wasn’t anyone… I did it myself.”

His brow twitches at that.

“Hey, take this a bit seriously will you? You know you don’t have to protect them; I’ll just have a quick ‘chat’ that’s all.”

You shake your head, “I’m not lying, Doffy.”

He stares at you—your face is sullen, broken into something more than fear.

You really aren’t lying.

He looks back at the wound, and then at you.

“… You cut… yourself?” He says, genuinely confused. As genuine as a man like him can be.

You advert your gaze. Nodding.

“Why.”

“It’s the only thing I have control over.” You reply bluntly.

You let it all spill from your chest—words leaving your mouth like confessions. You let yourself unravel beneath him, let him peel each layer back, revealing the suffocating concoction made of his love, of his control. You tell him and you do so without tears. He sits, and he listens. Cheek rested on his knuckle as you continue. Hands skimming over your calf.

Doflamingo is an impatient man, not the kind to nod and agree and comply. He takes, and he deceives, and he enslaves. If he wants something he conquers it. If he needs something, he will cheat and trick. And with you, he did the same—he made you depend on him, feel indebted to him. He ensured you were far too entangled in his web to break free and despite so, despite knowing he can use this against you—he does not wish for it.

Instead he hums. And inclines his head.

“I see.” Is all he says when you finish it all.

He waves for you to crawl closer, and you do. You are pulled into his lap, your head nestled on his chest.

“You really are high maintenance… but in that we are alike.” He plants a kiss on top of your head. “You won’t have to worry about it anymore. I’ll fix this.”

You hum, not sure if you can believe him. But his tone is kind… his touch is loving. You feel yourself sink into caress, melt into his arms as rest comes to visit.

• Summary: When you wake up, you’re still cradled in his arms, draped in his pink feathered cloak. You feel his warmth radiate into you, and you spot his sunglasses placed idly next to the tray.

• For the next coming days, letters from your parents will start to appear. The Den-Den snail will ring; friends you haven’t heard from in ages have received job offers in Dressrosa and will move in there soon! Vergo will hand you papers to open a new store—one completely free of Doflamingo’s grasp. He will not say anything of it, he will not mention it in arguments. No expectations, no debts. All you had to do was just… be. That was enough for him.

Chapter Text

Roronoa Zoro, the pirate hunter. A man of simple principles. There were three things in the world that pleased him; naps, booze and training. Other than that, he didn’t think he needed anything more. Or so he thought, before you entered his life.

Being Zoro’s lover felt just right—he was not extravagant, clingy or silent about it. His love was casual, aloof, tender in its own right.

He was not ashamed of showing others you were his but neither did it mean he sought to prove it. He let you cling onto his arm during fights, get defensive when you call him “cute” in public but never asked you to stop, and he certainly would take the punches from Nami were you to mess up. Zoro was the epitome of going-with-the-flow kind of guy.

If you rock with it, he rocks with it.

With him kisses felt like lazy praise, hands holding a humming gesture and dates taken hold by the gym hall or for a bowl of ramen. He was never too much, or too little. He’d let you wander off, have your own space and when you made your way back to his arms, he’d just lean into your touches, kissed you in the right places and fall asleep on your thighs.

Your relationship was simple. Quiet but not silent. Teasing but not mean. Affectionate but not overbearing.

Your life with the Strawhat pirates was filled with one adventure after another but after Sabaody you realised how much you depended on your friends to distract yourself from bad habits.

The urges began quietly at first—shivers down your wrists and legs, dark comments that appeared mid conversations and your eyes flicking to old scars for each passing mirror.

They were starting to fade. You didn’t like that, so you changed it.

Two years pass, and the habit is hidden under longer sleeves and looser pants. The crew didn’t question, everyone had changed for the better during the time apart, everyone but you.

You were still cheerful, still kept your appetite and energy. And your relationship with Zoro still remained the same. So you shrugged it off, some habits just die hard you suppose.

It wasn’t until Egghead island things got weird. When you entered the changing room with Nami and Robin, you were excited, ecstatic even. You loved going shopping with them and this was no different.

And yet, once given the outfit you felt your stomach drop.

You hear Robin and Nami walk out from the curtain stalls, chatty and cheerful:

“So these clothes can reshape? I bet they could strangle us to death!”

“Why would you even say that.” Nami replies.

“Uh. Guys.” You interrupt awkwardly. “No need to wait for me I’ll head back to the ship.”

“What? Why? Is everything alright in there?”

“Don’t worry Nami,” you peek from behind the curtain, “I just realised I left the straightener on in our room.” You lie smoothly, a sweet trick you’ve learnt from Usopp.

You hurry your way back to the ship, still wearing the skimpy clothing under the stolen curtain you’ve wrapped around your shoulders.

No way are you letting this make your habits come into light.

Only Brook and Zoro should be the ones on board but once upon the dock—it’s empty. Who was the Lady of Luck again? You owe her a flower. You scurry over to your chamber, stressing and paranoid only to see a familiar moss-head in your bed.

“Zoro!?” You practically yell, hands clutching blanket. He replies with a loud snore.

You roll your eyes, you can’t believe that man sometimes. Without any further and do, you reach for your closet, quick to pull out some pants and long sleeves.

You give one last quick look over your shoulder, staring into your lazy swordsman, making sure the coast is clear.

You narrow your eyes, hmming, before checking it green.

First mistake: You drop the blanket.

Second mistake: you unzip your very tight can-this-even-be-called-a-shirt- shirt.

Third mistake: you don’t hear his snoot bubble pop.

So when you feel him staring at you from behind—it’s too late.

You freeze.

Your arms, your thighs were bare. Completely.

Slowly, methodically, lips pressed, you turn your gaze to his.

And sure enough his eye is narrowed, scanning each scarred line, darting across your blemished skin like homework. And then his gaze snaps to yours. You flinch.

“Oi, what are those.”

Your eye twitch, but you ignore him. You have to cover up—at least then you can save some dignity.

You hear him rumble off the bed, floor planks squeaking but you don’t care—your hands are too busy, your mind is spiralling and your legs are growing cold, growing weak. You can’t bear to face him.

“Hey, are you listening to me right now.”

You don’t answer, you just keep fiddling with your clothes. Zoro notes your stress and claims your wrist with an iron grip. “Will you at least look at me?”

You want to scream, you want to fight, you want to burst into tears. But all you do is stare down the floor, like it could swallow you whole and let you save the last of your grace.

You feel his heat behind yours, his frame towering and menacing but his touch is soft, gentle. He turns you around to face his chest.

He says your name, calm, poised, levelled. His bigger hands makes it to your arms, and you tense up. But his touch is faint, a caress—a show of care. So you let him, eyes still low.

“I thought you went with Nami and the others. What happened? Did you change your mind?” His tone was not stern, not exactly gentle but set. Rigid. As if restrained. Not sure where to place his foot.

You shake your head slowly as response, not trusting yourself to speak. Zoro’s eye narrow, tracing the slope of your neck, following the tension in your shoulders, darting across your lowered gaze. You two stay like that for a moment. His hands encased on your arms, your forehead planted on his chest. It’s warm, it’s familiar.

After a beat, he lands a hand on the small of your back as he guides you to sit down on your bed. Zoro does not hurry, he does not demand or tally—he simply just steadies you.

Zoro lets you sit on his knees, wrap you around his arms, pull a blanket over his head to make a tent for the two of you and plants his chin atop of your head—you both just sit there. Nestled in warmth and embrace.

He traces your scars, faint.

“Care to tell me?” Zoro’s voice is a hush, a soft husky whisper against your ear. You lean back, humming. As you tell him, his scent envelops around your neck, booze and something musky, like grass and wood.

He caresses your scars, asks for each story of each faint line. He strokes your skin with such care you almost believe yourself fragile. He does not command you to over explain, he simply just listens.

And when you reach the end you’ve finally gathered the courage to ask: “Do you think I’m stupid?”

His brow furrows, “For asking a stupid question like that? Yeah.”

Zoro embrace comes tighter, a lazy kiss planting on one of your scars—“We all have something we want to hide, but that doesn’t mean you have to bear it alone. Take your time with it but when you feel ready enough to share this burden, I’ll be here waiting. Got that?”

“Zoro…”

“I’ll take care of you, no matter what so don’t ‘Zoro’-me, say you got it. And promise me that you’ll find me.”

Your lips press down a smile, “Yes, I promise. Thank you.”

He hums, nestling his nose in the crook of your neck.

You both sit like that for a while, in each others embrace. And when Cipher Pol comes knocking, you’re already sound asleep.

• Summary: Once the crew departs from Egghead, you will find Zoro asking to take a bath together. He will wash your hair, rub your back, scrub your feet. As the days go by he will not treat you like you’re wounded but he will hold your hand for much longer, take up some of your chores and doze off next to you as you read your book. To let you know he’s always there, always present, always near.

• Eventually, you don’t mind watching your scars slowly but surely, fade.

Chapter Text

When you first started dating Sanji—it felt like red roses, pink velvet and white laces wrapped around with chocolate drizzle and strawberry fondue. His love was sweet, overbearingly sweet.

If you walked past? He would squeal. You complimented his hair? He’d turn to stone. Mid battle, when you’re all sweaty and bruised? He’d drool and sing your name from the other side of the field—only to come running, fire in his heels and hearts in his eyes—slamming a kick onto the foe who dared to lay a hand on his sweet, perfect, adorable, beautiful, majestic, angelic, piece of art, sexy and the most perfect woman in the world.

In short, Sanji adored you. Worshipped the ground you walked on. It made you laugh, it made you feel cherished.

When he was around, you didn’t have to worry about anything—you could rely on him to make you feel safe and happy.

And yet there was a hole in your chest. A void you’ve carried since your youth. Even with his adoration, his reverence and kind hearted love—it remained. It persisted.

And somehow after establishing things with him, making it official—it worsened. No matter the praise, no matter the gifts and gestures, the wound would never seal. Instead, his sugary words, his sweet smiles directed only towards you; made it fester. Made it uglier than it already was.

His kindness became shards of broken glass for you; each of his loving endeavour was deflected with spite, each affectionate worship was thrown out with anger.

In your head you weren’t that woman he had conjured up—you were filthy, stubborn, unsightly and rash. You couldn’t even bother cleaning the dried up blood, wash the stained linen or care enough to keep the tools clean. You were rotting from the inside out, contradicting Sanji’s words for each cutting line.

You were angry, you were spiteful, but above all? You were hurt. You wanted to cherish his love, not spite it, you wanted to relish in his adoration not deflect it.

And yet, how can you expect to welcome someone else’s love when you cannot even do so from yourself?

One night, you were done with it. You were going to call this off. Sanji deserved someone better, someone more suited—someone who had a clear mind and a clean skin. Someone who wasn’t you.

You left him a note earlier in the day,

“Meet me at my room. Tonight. 9 pm. I want to talk.”

Simple, neat, straight to the point.

You kept your face casual, aloof and indifferent. But in truth? You couldn’t stop your knee from bouncing, your eyes kept flicking to the time—8:53—and you clutched your hands. Trying to keep them from shaking.

You stuffed the trinket box you hid the… tools, away on your desk. A small miniature piece you’ve kept with you since fishman island, a gift from Sanji. A loving gesture... Seeing it, reaffirmed your state of belief—you truly were damaged. And he deserved someone better than a person who uses a gift from him to hide something shameful.

8:56 pm.

You wait. Maybe he’s just cleaning up the kitchen.

You keep waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting even more.

9:30 pm.

Where the hell was that man? He was always so on time when it came to you so why now? Maybe he didn’t see the note? Maybe he saw it but forgot? Or worse… he just didn’t care?

The last one seemed to leave a stain on you, gnawing at the back of your mind as the time kept ticking.

He didn’t show up.

It’s 10 pm and you feel sick to your stomach.

You wanted to do all the bad things possible to yourself but instead, you force your way into the shower, ready to just sit there and hope the sky might fall on you.

You don’t know how long you stay in there but your skin starts to crinkle, your back flushed and red as you turn the water off.

You wobble your way out.

The door knocks, rapidly, and you flinch.

You hear a very familiar, lovesick fool sing and drag your name outside your room and you hear him say,

“You summoned me and I’m here now my love~”

You can practically hear the love hearts radiating off him.

Hurrying, you quickly toss on a strap on dress to wear under your fuzzy bathrobe. You were so ready to flip him off for arriving so late.

You slam the door open only to find your very doting boyfriend have a bouquet of your favourite flowers wrapped in white lace and a tray of your favourite dessert ready at his embrace. The anger you once felt? It crumbled into pieces as his smile widened at you.

“Sanji, you came.” You say softly, trying not to feel the guilt ravishing down your stomach.

“Of course I would! I’m sorry it took so long; I had to double wrap the fridge with chains, Luffy has been getting more troublesome lately.” He mutters the last part under his breath, “May I come in?”

“Oh. Yes! Of course.” You invite him in, a bit awkwardly.

The room is dimly lit, with only the clear night sky and a candle to pave the way. Sanji seems awfully quiet, but the way he moves is almost fretting, as if… giddy?

“Sanji… I’ve been meaning to say—“

“My love, theres no rush. Okay? We have all night for ourselves.” He sets the tray of dessert down and scans your room for something.

“Say, do you have a vase somewhere?” He turns to you with a cheeky smile, lifting the flowers up, “I don’t want these to wither in your room so soon.”

You blink. Twice.

“Sanji… I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you—“

His eyes light up, seeing a lonely vase by your desk. “That one will do! Keep talking, beautiful, your voice is like music to my ears.”

“Well what I’m trying to say is—“

“—Shit,”

He accidentally knocks the vase down and in a hurry his arm reaches for it only to knock down a very specific, small, miniature trinket box, storing very specific, very sharp tools used for a very specific very morbid activity.

The trinket box crashes against the floor. The glinting razors, the metal pencil sharpeners, the different types of lighteners and blades scatters across the ground like a bunch of crayons.

The moonlight gives them an eerie glow as both of you stare them down.

Silence. Complete, utter, silence. The kind of silence that felt like it was wrong to even breathe.

Sanji does not move. He only stares.

As if trying to figure out what they are… and why you have so many of them.

Eventually, he puts the vase down the table and bends down. Fingers reaching for the nearest razor. The sharp edge meets the tip of his thumb, making it lightly bleed.

“Sanji that’s…” you can’t even come up with a good enough of a lie.

He stands perplexed.

“Is this… are you keeping Ussop’s tools for him or something?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer so he turns to look at you. Seeing you, seeing how your expression is utterly broken, Sanji straightens himself.

“Hey, beautiful, what is all this?”

“I…” you take a step back but he takes a step forward. A gentle hand grabbing your wrist, trying to pull you closer to him but you snap it away.

“Get out.” Your voice becomes mean. Cruel. Every possible defence mechanism goes high alert as you clench your fist. But Sanji won’t have it.

“Hey what’s going on? I don’t really understand it but if we can just speak—“

“I said: Get out. I don’t want— I can’t do this right now.”

“My love, what’s the matter? Why can’t you look at me?”

He reaches for your arms again but you push him off, your anger a disguise for your fear—fear of his rejection, fear of his judgment. Fear of having him see the ugliness, the rot and the damage you’ve done so well to keep hidden.

In the haste of the moment, he accidentally pulls a little too hard on your sleeves, making your bathrobe come undone. Exposing one side of your arm.

It slips down the floor.

The candle light casts a shadow across your skin, displaying each crude wound like a revelation. Evidence of a crime scene left unchecked.

You freeze up. Unable to move. Unable to look.

You don’t wish to see his face wrinkling in disgust, you don’t wish to witness the judgement swell in his eyes, and yet—when you take a peek—he looks absolutely destroyed.

He says your name, firm, hard—tense. As if coming to terms with a secret. Eyes sealed to the morbid display you’ve done on yourself. He looks to you, to the scattered blades and back to your arm.

“Did you… do this yourself?” His voice comes out low, steady, as if trying to make sense of it.

Your lips quiver, the anger crumbling into pieces as your chin falls low. You nod.

“My love… why on earth would you—no, tell me later, here, come here. You can cry, it’s alright i’m here.” Sanji pulls you into his arms, and you crash your face into his chest. You fall apart, completely. Each defensive action shattered as you feel him wrap himself around you, smelling of sweet cooking wine and smoke.

He steers the both of you towards your bed, his arm encased around yours as he lets you unravel bit by bit. As your fast pacing sobs pass into mewls, he pulls you closer, slowly caressing your arm with his thumb.

Faintly, softly.

“Do you want to tell me? No pressure; I’ll be here either way.”

You tuck your head under his chin, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. Feeling his warmth radiate into yours.

And you tell him, you tell him all of it. When you hiccup and struggle to make sense, he only holds you closer and listens. Patient, present—there. A soothing balm to a wound long lived. A kindness that you’ve long lacked yourself, the void in your chest only he can replace within.

And for once, you don’t resist it.

“Sanji,” you hum his name as you come to a close, “Are you disappointed? To find out how disgusting your choice of partner is, I’m sure you regret it all.”

“What kind of nonsense is that?” His voice is sharp, as if offended you’d even think like that. “I’m not disappointed at you, moreso at myself for not noticing. But, I’m glad you told me, in truth I feel a bit honoured.” He kisses the side of your hair, “We all have something we rather not mention, things that are best kept hidden and forgotten. But that doesn’t make you any less loveable; I’ll show you that.”

At that, you smile. A genuine one.

You manage to look up at him, “You mean that?”

“Always.”

You slide him a kiss on the jaw. Humming quietly as you make it back to his chest.

And when sleep finally comes to visit, you feel him trace the wounds that were left open, faintly, kindly. “I’ll show you.” He murmurs, a promised whisper made into a vow.

• Summary: When you wake up, you will find your room sparkling clean, your windows left open, the ocean breeze saying hello. You will hear Luffy and Chopper playing tag across the dock. Your arm will be bandaged, neatly so. His scent lingers in your room, as if he stayed long enough to delay everyone’s breakfast. You will spot a tray of all your favourites, with hot brimming tea. Served in the tea set you picked out in Wano. A note—no, a love letter written in ink and doodled with hearts will be left next to the vase adorned with your favourite flowers. His wording is cheesy and flowery beyond comprehension but it makes you laugh. It makes you feel cherished. Because from him—you are.

Chapter Text

You and him were anything but casual, that’s one thing clear. What wasn’t clear however is how different you two were. Kid was fragile and not like a flower but more of a bomb. And you? You made butterflies inch a bit closer, flowers bloomed where you walked and children would ask you to draw them an animal.

Truth be told, no one knew how Kid bagged you. He was hot, rash, fiery and foremost brutal. This man was dynamite and metal incarnate. Kid didn’t take—he laid claim. He didn’t just boast and yap—he backed it up. Kid doesn’t lose, he wins. And he did so, laughing.

This way of life was applied in your relationship with him as well. The man was anything but subtle. He wasn’t the shy, timid or stoic type—Kid was loud, obnoxiously loud and arrogant too. Especially when it came to you. He didn’t just mention you to people, he bragged about you. Someone looked at you wrong? He’ll send them flying. Someone tried to scam you out of three more berries? Best believe their entire market stall is turned into smithereens.

And you? You found it romantic.

Hearts in your eyes as you watch your dreamy fairytale prince turn a grandpa upside down cause he served you a cold mug of chocolate when it’s dead in the winter.

Best believe you were off in a daze every now and again when his biceps would suddenly come into view, and when he made eye contact with you? You bit your lower lip. Shamelessly.

Safe to say, you liked his temper. You did. But at some point… it got to a limit.

Kid couldn’t apologise for the life of him.

He mucked up in an argument? He won’t say sorry, not ever, but he’ll tinker flowers made of steel for you, in the same fragile shape as your favourites. He’d make you jewellery, rings, bracelets, anklets, necklaces and even earrings in your favourite metal.

You’ve come to learn to make peace with that part of him.

But that didn’t mean it left you unscathed.

You always felt too much, always hurt more than others. Since you were a kid, your heart has always been the more sensitive kind.

And when nothing was done with the hurt you received? You suppressed. You ignored.

The abandoned emotions left to fend for themselves became a haunting whisper. The pain left to subside on its own twists into something ugly and the jarring words that left his mouth marked a stain on your chest no poison could ever recreate.

A habit you’ve long forgotten resurfaces—the tingling feeling, the sharp coldness that brought forth all the suppression, all the frustration in one quick slice—it was heavenly.

It’s been so long you almost forgot why you even started.

And so, it became a part of your daily routine. A raw wound that you picked at again and again.

Kid’s loudness didn’t leave room for tenderness, his sweet gestures were hidden behind plausible deniability.

The heels you threw off in a hurry? They’re stacked neatly upon the shelf. Your expensive perfume you need to be refilled? Already done. The warm water ran out? Trust in him to get it fixed asap.

Not out of care but because it came across his path, or so he would say at confrontation. All flustered and blazing red.

But one night an argument with your boyfriend came to a hot, searing close. One where hateful words twisted your stomach more than usual.

You let him have the last word, let him get the better of it. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. So you left.

But you couldn’t take it, not in silence.

And thus—here you are. You were having a moment. The bath tub was your usual location. Private, enclosed, secured. There, you could just… unravel. Be made undone.

You had sobbed, clawed and wobbled half made out sentences. You felt pathetic. You felt like a wound better left untreated. If Kid saw you like this—he’d scowl. Probably think you weak, dramatic.

It made everything hurt even more.

The crew heard the argument two rooms away. And they all saw you pass the hall with a look that was too uncanny for such a sweetheart. Your eyes were flat, hollow, as if you were not entirely there. Killer had to convince Kid to get his shit together and find you, before it’s too late.

You had laid in the cool marble, hair tangled and the mess spilling across your skin like molten lava.

You were stroking your scars, pretending it was someone’s warm hands. Caressing—feeling each bumped line with such tenderness you almost convinced yourself you weren’t alone.

You hear someone rumble outside your door.

And you know who it is. Only his footsteps are that heavy with confidence, a presence loud without talking.

Your door is met with a few rapid knocks.

He calls your name, voice uncertain, tone slightly hesitant.

He was afraid of overstepping but when you don’t immediately answer, he calls again. “Hey, you okay in there? Look, I—“ he rubbed his neck, “Can I come in? I rather look you in the face then… ya know. Chattin’ to the door.”

You don’t answer.

You feel too numb after your little session, too numb to give a single flying shit about anything right now. So, you just stare into the wall. Not feeling exactly real.

“Either you’re sleeping or are you just that mad you’re giving me the cold shoulder?” He bangs a fist on the door, “tell me to leave and I will. Or else I’ll knock this door down.”

You blink. Yeah right he will—

You hear your door bust open, slamming onto the floor.

Your eye twitch. You slide your sweater back on before bringing your face to your knees.

Kid storms in, gaze darting across the room in search for you. “Oi, where are you? If this is some kind of game—“ he rumbles something incoherent.

Your brute of a boyfriend stumbles towards the bathroom, where you’re sitting in the dark, in the bath tub, arms dripping.

He senses your presence behind the bathroom curtain, snapping them aside.

“Playing hide and seek are we—“

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The scolding he had ready breaks in two as he takes in the shape of you.

It was an odd sight. The girl he fell in love with, cheerful, sweet, kind, sunshine incarnate was nowhere to be found.

Just the remains of something sullen. Tired. Broken.

He says your name, much softer than what you thought he could ever be capable of.

You looked bare, almost undead.

“What happened here? Hey, doll, look at me will ya’?”

You don’t. Your arms still stings.

And he notes it. The blood dripping and spilling across the bathtub like twisted vines.

His large calloused hand takes a firm grip on yours, rolling your sleeve up. His lips presses tight. He looks to you, then back and then to you. Grip tightening.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He’s sure to scream at you, sure to get pissed off.

But he doesn’t.

He lets out a deep rumbling exhale through his nose, hoisting you into his arms.

He brings you to your bed. You let him slide your sweater off, eyes scanning, inspecting. His gaze is low, focused, and surprisingly, for once—he doesn’t say anything as he looks the wounds over.

Only when he comes to a final conclusion, hand still gripping your wrist, does he look to you. “You did this?”

You advert your gaze, nodding.

A corner of his lip jerks before leaning in, giving you a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

So you sit there, completely mute.

You’ realise you’re cold, shivering almost and the ache in your chest creeps back into you.

When Kid comes back, he has a med kit in hand and a blanket. He does not say anything as he sits down next to you at the edge of the bed, only: “Here lemme’ see that.”

You give him your arm and he tends to you.

His movements are a bit clumsy since he only has one arm, but they’re genuine. He dabs your wounds with alcohol, wraps bandages neatly and when done, he gives your wrist a light squeeze.

When his eyes makes it to yours, they’re quiet. Kid who usually has a scowl on his face or a cocky smirk gives you only his most softest gaze. It makes your chest warm.

“Kid…” you sob, and you keep sobbing. He brings you into his chest, arms wrapping around you as if to keep you forever safe.

Your mouth start moving on its own, words and confessions spilling out of you between hiccups, and he? He only holds you. His embrace is steady, strong and under his hardened skin there is a gentleness buried beneath; reserved solely for you. He lets your breakdown, he watches and he listens. Kisses the top of your head when your sobbing gets the better of you.

At the end of it all, you whimper out, “I’m sorry.”

He gives you a brow, “The hell you sayin’ sorry for?”

“For bothering you with this, I don’t mean to be a burden. I’m sorry for being too much—“

His grip tightens, pulling you closer.

“Shut up.” Is what he spits out and you tense up. “Don’t say sorry for shit like that ever again. I won’t have it.” He leans in, breath close to your face. “In truth it is I who should be sorry. I should’ve been better. I’m sorry for not seeing this sooner, and I’m sorry for being such a jerk. So don’t go cutting yourself up no more, I’ll fix this. I promise.”

At that, you manage to harness some courage to look at him. He kisses your tears away, lips nearing your ear. “You roger that?”

You press down a smile, “Yes Captain. I roger.”

“Good, cause I keep my promises.”

Kid tucks himself in with you. Head rested on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart—large, strong. And as the night goes on, you feel yourself slipping away. Truly finding belief in his words, nestled between his warmth and tenderness. A part of him only you can find its touch.

Summary: when you awaken, it will be in the middle of the day. Kid will be gone but his scent and his warmth lingers. Your bandages are redone and next to your nightstand you will find a metal construct of your favourite animal. With a ribbon on top of its head. The craft is miniature and cute, but its craftsmanship is beyond just skilled—it was made out of devotion, a design of pure blazing conviction. You will find a note next to it.

• “I fixed the door. Killer grabbed your favourite grub for tonight. And I mean what I said, so don’t you go and doubt it. Or I’ll have to fix another door. Kid.”

Chapter Text

Quiet, reserved and polished. He carried himself like a blade, a sword that never chipped and with you, he did the same.

His love was grounding, steady, and preserved. His kisses felt like hidden vows, his affection a sharpened gaze that saw each and every little move of yours as sacred. He cut your steak without asking, coming back from his voyages he always brought back rare shades of paint for your drawings, and before you fell asleep he always braided or applied oil to your hair.

Being his was undeniably if not certainly the most tender part of your life. The habits you once had came to a halt when meeting him, for once in your life you never had to worry about anything. You didn’t have to work, just make sure the garden stays tended to. You didn’t have to uphold expectations or beliefs that did not align with you—with him you could just be.

You could paint till your heart’s content, sketch and draw till your wrists were cramped and have your own studio with castle windows that overlooked the sea.

For once in your life, you were sated.

It’s only been a few months since you two started dating and yet, this was the first time he invited you for a bath. Mihawk was a patient lover; one who took his time with things. An intimacy like this? A rare joyous occasion, made to be savoured, entrusted and cherished beyond any possible gift.

It was late in the evening, he told you to go ahead first, he’ll join in a bit. So you indulged. The water was steaming, soap bubbles wobbling across the room, the scent of jasmine and expensive oils makes your cheeks tinge red. You strip yourself naked ready to scrub off the excess dirt from the gardening earlier before entering the tub.

Sitting bare on a stool, with foam and lather coating your naked skin—the scars have grown old, whitening or darkening with the passing of time and it hits you; how far you’ve come.

The door creaks open and you look over your shoulder to find your brooding, stoic and dandy boyfriend standing by the entrance. Wearing nothing but a white robe.

You give him a smile, “I would rush up and hug you but I fear I’d slip and break my neck with all this soap.” You giggle out and he gives you an amused brow.

He strides over, steps confident but low—like a prowling panther marking its own territory. His frame towers over you. There is a certain softness in his gaze, the one that usually is so sharp and observing have an edge to it that resembles a lot like… fondness. It makes you smile wider.

His hands reaches out for the brush you’re using to scrub, his fingers long and calloused. “You’ll need help with the back.”

And you comply, sliding your hair to make way.

Mihawk’s moves are firm, sturdy but gentle. Not too rough, not too soft. Just right. He sits down with you as he works.

“How was Zoro’s training?” You hum, feeling yourself relax to his touch. “The man has potential, but we shall see how much longer he’ll last without liquor.”

You stifle a giggle, and when he finishes with your back—he tilts you towards him. Sharp, golden eyes scanning your flushed face, down to the slope of your neck, to your collarbones and then trailing across your arms and legs.

Something shifts in his gaze. His brows twitch, just slightly.

Mihawk takes his hands on one of your arms, smoothing out foam from your skin, a calloused thumb brushing against an old scar. One that bumps more than the others.

His hand trails down your skin, wiping away a path of lather—eyes following each line being revealed. And only when his hand makes it to the temple of your wrist does his gaze make it to yours.

“Battle scars?” He says with all seriousness.

You couldn’t help but snort at that and he gives you a look.

“No, nono. They’re… erm. More intimate than that.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“I gave them myself.” You reply quite bluntly.

His brow knits, a bit perplexed as his gaze makes it back to the scars, hidden between glistening soap and water, and then back to you.

“Why so?”

You shrug, eyes adverting.

You never really prepared yourself for this conversation. Most of the time, they were just… there. A part of you that you’ve long since made peace with. It’s not like you forgot about them but neither did you sit up at night and reminisced, like you once used to.

Your swordsman watches you.

He does not demand anything, instead he lets you gather your thoughts. Hands on your wrist becoming softer. Thumb circling where your pulse is. Slowly, calmly. Only when your eyes makes it back to his does he halt.

You tell him of the first time—what had happened the day before it and why you did it. You told him how it made you feel, and how your parents reacted. You made a small morbid joke and chuckled at it only to find yourself staring at his hands.

They’ve clasped around your wrists, firmly. Knuckles turning white. Holding you in place as if in fear you will go up in smoke and vanish.

It doesn’t hurt but his touch will linger long after he has let go.

He says your name, his words soft and low and you meet his gaze.

“You’ve done well. I’m proud to call you my lover.” He strokes a lock of hair behind your ear, before leaning in. Planting a kiss on your forehead.

“You don’t find me silly?”

“Never.” He does not even hesitate.

You press down a smile, looking at him through your lashes. “It’s quite funny how I ended up with a swordsman now that I think about it.”

A corner of his lip jerks into a small smirk. “Save your dark jokes for later.” And with that, he swoops you into his arms and sink the both of you down into the bath.

He lets you play with his hair, making hats out of foam and holds you in place by the waist. Eventually, the steam flushes you weak, the warmth of the bath making you sink into his chest. Entrapped in his arms. You two sit like that for a while. And when sleep beckons, you find yourself smiling.

Life really did get better.

• Summary: When you wake up, you will be clean and dry. Wearing silk pyjamas, wrapped in velvet sheets and your hair sunk into burgundy pillows. You will squirm, turning to the other side only to find him next to you. Sitting upright and awake. Wine glass in hand. He will glance down to you, his sharp gaze softening. Hand caressing your cheek. “Slept well?”

Chapter Text

Ace was a man whose heart was more sincere than anyone else’s. His flames were more than just power—they were as much of who he was. Strong, fierce, impulsive but warm, blazing and forever present.

And so was his love for you. Being his lover meant having your personal space constantly invaded—not that it bothered you.

The way he always had a hand on your waist, an arm slung around your shoulder or even just a simple gesture as a firm hold on your hand—grounded you. Whenever you entered a room his smile would widen, eyes lingering on your figure and hands always quick to reach for yours.

It made your chest bristle with warmth, made you feel light on your feet and his constant praise on your beauty made you believe you were prettier than most.

That’s the kind of lover Ace was. Blazing and proud. But that didn’t mean he didn’t get shy. If not really shy. Mostly because of you. You had a certain effect on him that made his heart beat a little bit faster, made his cheeks tinge a little bit hotter.

When you complimented the way his hair was parted, he would start stammering nonsense. If you leaned your head on his shoulder whilst watching a movie he would stiffen up. Savouring your warmth like a blessing. If you tried to seduce him he would sit on the edge of the bed, sweaty palms on his knees. The man was completely, irrevocably and utterly in love with you.

But that being said and done—some things couldn’t be fixed with mere romance. You had your moments, and your secrets. And you kept them well hidden, almost too well. Everyone had something they rather keep out of sight. And yours? They were hidden under longer sleeves and longer bottoms.

And unlike Ace, you didn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. You kept it tucked away, guarded by an invisible armour no one could pierce. One not even your boyfriend could see or touch.

Call it shame, embarrassment or even fear of rejection but this side of you is best kept secret. Ace had already so much to carry, his whole life he has felt unwanted, unneeded. In a way he was just like you, just as damaged.

And yet you didn’t wish to burden him with your nonsense. How would he react? Seeing the cracks in your shade? Witnessing your filth? Your damaged self?

Just the thought of it makes your stomach turn.

It wasn’t until it late at night, nestled in his embrace, that it surged forward. The urge. You squeezed your eyes shut and inched closer to your boyfriend’s arms. But it persisted. It ran like shivers down your arms, a caress down your calf.

An hour or two, who knows, but eventually you couldn’t take it.

Ace remained in deep slumber, still snoring as you lift your head from his chest. Drool dripping from his mouth and you pressed down a smile.

You wiggled out of bed as quietly as you could, heading for to the bathroom drawers.

You don’t know how long you remain in there. All you needed was a moment. A few quick ones, just enough to satiate you. It’s not like you were sad, just an urge. Just a need. It was supposed to be relieving, and despite so, you find tears dripping down your cheeks.

“Stupid.” You shushed yourself, wiping the tears away before starting with the blood.

“What’s stupid?”

His voice cuts through the air—groggy and newly awake.

You basically freeze on the spot.

Ace yawned, loudly, rubbing his eyes. “I couldn’t find you in bed so I’m here to steal you back. Whatcha doing so late at night?” He stumbled into the bathroom, eyes swollen from sleep.

“Uhhh…” you tilted the arm out of view as you gave him your best, most convincing smile possible. “Just got a nose bleed that’s all!” You lied quickly and he stares you down. Blinking.

And then—he spotted the bloodied towels and papers—snapping him fully awake. “Damn, that’s a lot of blood beautiful, here let me help you—“

“Theres no need it’s nothing serious—“

“Don’t be like that.” He cut you off, a hand reaching for your shoulder, “now let me see—“ he pulled you closer and it’s only then you couldn’t keep it out of view anymore.

“Ace—!”

He froze. Lips parted. Eyes widened.

The wounds were fresh crimson, and your skin riddled with older ones.

He blinked, twice. And then he said your name, almost as a question.

“What are these…?”

Your impulsive and very sweet boyfriend looked them over. His expression becoming slightly distressed. As if picking piece by piece together—from the fresh wounds, to the stacks of bloodied tissues and back to your arm.

Ace reached for it, inspecting each crude line like a puzzle.

“Did you do this?” He bit down, “Why?” His voice has an edge to it, as if restraining himself from bombarding you with questions and panic.

His eyes go back to yours but you started to tremble on the spot, lips quivering. Seeing you in such a state, he flinched. “H-hey…”

You crashed your face into your palms, the sobs spilled out of you without mercy.

Seeing you break into a cry, Ace start to fret, not really sure what provoked this and so—he pulls you a little bit closer by the shoulders.

His tall frame hunched over, “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong—what happened, you know you can speak to me, right?”

You start to fumble over your words, the sobs become fast paced whimpers between breaths.

His hold on your shoulder tightens, eyes darted across your figure, noting the embarrassment in your tremble, finding the shame between your flickering gaze.

He hummed, coming to an understanding as he hoists you over his shoulder.

“A-Ace!”

“Shhh, let’s bring you back to bed, pretty girl. We can take things from there, alright?” He patted your back as you squirmed and fiddled; finding this even more humiliating.

Ace’s hands were large, rough and calloused by fire and fist but his touch was warm. Firm and strong but the way his fingers dug into your back were almost desperate. As if clinging onto you, in fear he’d lose you, as if you’d vanish at any second.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—he’s probably weirded out, probably found you pathetic and miserable. The thought of that makes your chest hurt.

He placed you at the edge of the bed, kissing the side of your jaw. “Stay put, I’m just gonna grab a few things.”

You sat there, feeling more naked than ever despite being fully clothed.

Your hair was a tangled mess, your feet cold and arms bare. Your eyes swollen from the sobs that you so steadily try to calm down and your cheeks flushed with tears.

You stared down the floor like it would swallow you whole and save you from this humiliation ritual. And yet when you look up, you saw Ace coming back with a box full of bandages, alcohol and napkins.

When he sat down next to you, he offered you a breezy smile. “May I?” He gestured to your arm and you nod. Before getting started he gives the wounds one last look. As if engraving each scar into mind.

Surprisingly, Ace was rather efficient with the cleaning—starting with dabbing your wounds with alcohol, slowly, kindly. His hands warm and eyes soft.

As he cleaned it up for you, he asked in a low, gentle tone, “Do you want to tell me? We don’t have to if it’s too much. But I’ll be with you either way, you know that right?”

At that, your heart broke. The sobbing came right back up again. You mewled out his name and he stopped in his working for just a moment. Stroking your tears away, hand landing on your cheek. Thumb rubbing your face.

“Have I ever told you, that you look pretty crying?”

You stifled down a chuckle and his hand pressed firmer on your cheek. “You can take your time, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

His words were tender, raw and intimate. Making the knot in your stomach unravel, and you let yourself come out of your hiding. And you tell him everything.

Ace did not rush you, or demand or get riled up. He sat there with you, letting you peel each layer back and when you started to stumble on your words, his hand would find yours. Squeezing and holding. When your nose started to overfill with snoot, he’d reach for a napkin and wipe you down. Eyes softly placed on yours.

When you finished, you wiped your tears away, finding the courage to look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry, you’re probably weirded out and—you have already so much on your plate. I’m sorry for being such a burden.”

He blinked, before frowning.

“Hah? What are you talking about. Did you think I would find you a bother?”

“I mean, you already have your own problems. I don’t want to give you more baggage to carry—“

He shut you up by pressing his forehead onto yours, and you hitched your breath. His nose nudged yours, his scent was of cologne and something fiery, like smoke and flames.

“Don’t ever make such assumptions ever again. Cause I care. When it comes to you; I’ll always care.”

“Ace…”

“What I don’t care is if I’m miles away doing Pop’s orders, or asleep snoring or having a brawl—you come to me okay? You ring that Den-den like your life depends on it. Bother me. Burden me—It doesn’t matter. Because when it comes to you, I’ll set the world aside. So don’t “Ace”-me. Promise me you’ll do it.”

Your lips tightened, cheeks tinging red as you nod. “I promise.” You whispered. And his mouth curved into a smile, closing the gap between you two.

The kiss was soft, slow but claiming. As if making a vow with each deepening motion. Tongue skimmed over your soft flesh—parting only when you’re both out of breath.

His smile became cheesy, and his freckled cheeks were flushed pink. “Good girl. Let’s bandage you up, okay?”

You nodded, still in fever from the kiss as he wrapped the linens around your arms.

When done, he had kissed your temple before tucking both of yourselves in bed. You were laying side by side, chest pressed to his as he held you close. Strong, tatted arms encasing you, his warmth radiated into your flesh. His eyes were locked onto yours, his gaze tender, looking at you as if you’re something precious. Which to him, you were.

His hand pressed onto your cheek, and you lean into his touch. You both nestled there, nothing more needed to be said—you knew, just as much as he, that you two were just as broken as the other. And that you both carried an invisible armour to keep that part hidden. Tucked behind locked doors.

But with him? You could unravel. You could break and you could scatter. And so could he.

Piece by piece, the armour comes undone—and there was nothing left to keep hidden. When sleep came to whisk you away, the sting in your arm melted away, and you would find yourself smiling as dreams came to visit.

Summary: As you watched his vivre card slowly brittling away—you will remember that morning. How, when you woke up, you felt sweat clinging onto your back—heat bristled as you were enveloped in strong arms and heavy blankets. Ace was snoring loudly into your chest but his hold on you then was tight. Wrapped around your waist. And as the days went by, you would never be made undone. At least not alone, at least not in shame. For he would be there, keeping to his word. And when the last embers of the card goes out, you burn that night into your memory. Treasuring it till you someday, one day, see him again.

Chapter Text

The man who never once laid on his back. His posture is always straight, rigid and upright. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

This man’s image is the definition of: “do-not-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-show-you-why”.

You will sometimes giggle over that myth when you in fact, know how your so-called-cold-menacing boyfriend really is. Katakuri is a sweetheart deep down who loves fiercely and loyally.

The romance between you two tasted of nothing but sweetly glazed donuts and fluffy whipped cream. He treats you like a flower—his touches are delicate, his kisses tender and slow, and when he embraces you he bends down, one arm wrapped around your waist. Soft, gentle. Always careful in keeping you safe.

Katakuri is a doting lover, when it’s just the two of you he’d let you nuzzle to sleep in his scarf, or bake you your favourite sweets and sometimes when he feels especially needy he will ask you to run your hands through his hair.

You love him. You do. But loving him also meant understanding his position as a Sweet General.

You have to understand why he can’t speak to you in public, can’t be seen holding hands with you and don’t even think about him acknowledging your existence in front of his siblings.

You understood. You did.

But not in silence. It’s an old habit really, something you carried from your school years—and which followed you to Totto Land.

And Katakuri takes his role as Sweet General quite seriously, which is partly why he hasn’t seen them yet. It’s only been a few months since you two started dating and Mama isn’t exactly famous for being lenient. Not even with her oldest.

But one evening as you were watching the chiffon cake bake in the oven, the door rang.

You swing your door open—seeing your very tall and brooding boyfriend stand outside, all glare and frown, until you beam at him that is.

“Kata!?” You exclaim—refraining from throwing yourself around his waist where others can see. He usually comes over late at night, seeing him here so early it makes you think something is wrong. “Is everything alright?”

He gives you a small, curt nod. Lifting a white package into view, tied with a pink velvet ribbon.

“May I come in? I brought donuts.”

You stifle a giggle, inviting him in.

Upon closing the door you throw yourself right into his arms, like always. Katakuri will never say it out loud but he loves your shameless show of affection.

He plants a hand by the small of your back and you look up from his embrace with a glee. “You’re early! Is everything alright?”

“I finished early so I decided to pay visit to my beautiful woman. Is that so wrong?”

You press down a smile, all red cheeks and giggle.

The burnt smell from the oven snaps you out of it, however. “Shit! Motherfu—“ you rush back into the kitchen and rightfully so the chiffon cake went from a perfect golden to a black boiling concoction of sugar and flour.

You feel yourself cringe. “I worked all day for this!” You curse under your breath, turning the oven off.

Hearing you groan and mutter, Katakuri bends his head in to the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

“I burnt the chiffon cake! I wanted to serve you some for tonight but it seems that won’t be happening. Unbelievable!”

Katakuri strides over, bending down and offering you a hand.

“It’s alright, we can bake chiffon cake together some other time instead. Besides I brought donuts enough for both of us. Why don’t you take some rest whilst I clean it up for you?”

“You sure?”

His gaze softens at the sight of your knitted brows and sullen lips. He strokes a lock of hair away from your face. “Of course.”

As you set the table, Katakuri washes the burnt cake form and prepares the tea and donuts on a tray.

It’s always like this whenever he’s over—the two of you become rather domestic at the presence of each other, and deep down, it makes your chest bristle with warmth.

Only once the tea is brewed, the sweets are served and the two of you sit down, facing each other, do you ask him about his day.

“Same as always—the only difference is that Perospero got a new coat.”

“Let me guess—daffodil yellow to egg yellow?”

“Close. This one is custard yellow.”

“Oh yeah sorry for not knowing my yellow.” You laugh, and he holds back a small smile. Smutting on his tea.

“How was yours?”

You blink, your mind immediately going to what happened this morning when you got a little bit emotional but you decide to skip that part.

Your doting and brooding boyfriend doesn’t need to know about that, he wouldn’t understand, you tell yourself.

So you tell him of your grocery shopping… how the neighbour’s cat knocked down all your potted flowers… the new cook book you’ve been scouring for… and the way you stained your favourite white dress with chocolate.

As you talk, he closes his eyes as he revels in the soothing sound of your voice. The tension from having his back upright all day long loosens, shoulders softening when he hears you giggle at your own joke.

When you finish, he hums—each donut already finished. He slides his scarf off, something that took him months to do in front of you, and you reach your hand out to fold it for him.

A sweet gesture from your part—except the small of your sleeve rolls up at the movement.

Not much, not much at all, barely a millimetre but with his observation haki—nothing goes unnoticed.

He seizes your wrist in one swift motion, and you yelp. “H-hey—!”

He rolls your sleeve up, his touch firm, hard powerful. You snap your hand away but it’s pointless, his grip on you is iron.

And before you can say anything; Katakuri cuts you off. “You will say—‘the cat scratched me,’ whilst not looking me in the eye.”

His voice is curt, stern. His grip doesn’t tighten but the focus of his gaze does. “So if you’re going to lie, look at me at least.”

Your vision starts to blur, your heart starts to hammer and your breathing is quickening.

“Kata…” you murmur, eyes low, and he hums.

“You will wonder if I’m angry—I am not. I want to know what is the meaning of this. This looks far too intentional to be the work of a cat.” His large hand reaches out, one calloused thumb stroking your tears away.

His touch remains gentle, soft, delicate. Even more than before—as if scared you’ll break into pieces.

He returns his focus on your wrist, his eye moving to your other sleeve. Slowly, carefully, he takes your other arm into his hands, and carefully rolls up your sleeve. He inspects the wounds like a recipe, as if memorising each line, observing what tool has been used and theorise what should be done.

His eyes goes from you to your arms, not saying anything.

You feel embarrassed, humiliated even. In all truth you want to scream at his face, tell him to mind his own goddamn business but a larger part of you questions your worth.

He sees you now.

He sees you for what you truly are.

Something damaged, spoilt, ruined and disgusting.

Who wants someone like this? Someone like you? Someone who can’t even bandage themselves up? Someone who can’t even face their humiliation in the eye?

No one in your past could.

Not even you could.

So why would he be any different?

You withdraw your wrists, and he lets you.

He says your name like a prayer, his voice a husky whisper and you only lower your chin.

Palms planted on your thighs, fingers digging into flesh.

He gets up. Silently. The whole room echoes with his footsteps as he leaves the room, and you? You sit there mute—noticing everything wrong about you.

You wish for the sky to fall so you can be done with this—but when Katakuri returns, he sets a tray of bandages, alcohol, and cotton pads upon the table.

He goes to his knees, reaches for your arms, touch gentle, soft and… trembling? As if even now he’s more scared than ever to accidentally harm you.

Katakuri does not say anything as he begins cleaning you, bandaging you. “Tell me if it’s too tight,” he says in a low voice before wrapping the bandages.

Once done he looks at you, still refusing to meet his gaze.

Looking in to the future, he realises he cannot make you speak—not like this.

So carefully, like holding a doll, he takes you into his arms.

“K-Kata! Put me down.”

You punch his chest which only tickles him.

You squirm, you fuss and you fret. But he doesn’t mind it, he only hums, kissing the top of your head when you start threatening him.

Before you know it, you are brought into your shared bedroom, laying himself down onto the sheets, letting you rest on his chest like something sacred. Which to him, you are.

For a spell, the both of you are silent.

You lay ontop of him. Your nose buried in the crook of his neck smelling faint of donuts and mochi along with something sharp, like metal and steel. Your whole body stiff with frustration. And as you blink back your tears, Katakuri only caresses your back in slow circles. His hand is large, rough but never unkind. It calms you down.

When he feels you relax into him, he blinks his gaze to you. “I care about you.” He blurts out and you freeze.

“I would never discard you for something like this, you know that, don’t you?”

You clench your fists.

“I’ll hold you, I’ll console you; I’ll do anything for you.” His arms start to envelop around you, but it’s faint as if even now he’s restraining himself from accidentally hurting you. “Will you let me?”

You press down your lips—“it’s nothing. Nothing important.”

“But it is important—since it’s you.”

At this, your heart skips a beat. And you fall apart. Each and every single word comes out like confessions for you, you tremble and you sob, and his hold on you only grows firmer.

Katakuri listens, taking each word and burning it into his mind. He does not demand, panic or hurry you. He only kisses your temple when you can’t find the words.

And once you’re done, you squeeze your eyes shut, gathering the last of your courage to ask him something but before you even have the chance he slides a hand at the back of your neck.

“I don’t find you disgusting, or weak or stupid. After all this, you’re still my beautiful girl. Nothing will change that. Nothing.”

“You don’t find me silly?”

“No.”

That’s all he says, and that’s all he needs to say. He kisses your tears away, humming.

You let yourself relax into his warmth, lean into his touch, and believe his kind words. The insecurities once twisting down your stomach, unravels—leaving only space for his love, and his love alone. You sink into his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, strong, powerful and focused. And when sleep starts to beckon, you follow, your lips smiling.

• Summary: when you wake up, you will hear Katakuri rummaging in the kitchen. Humming his donut-song, and you hold back your giggles. Cheeks round and flushed. You will smell the scent of your favourite breakfast in the making and you will spot that the vase on the nightstand has been replaced with your favourite flowers. Freshly plucked.

A few days will go by… and on a cloudless night, where the moon peers between the stars like a longing parent—Katakuri will take you to your favourite spot. He will hold your hand in public, introduce you to his siblings and acknowledge your every word. Before you could catch on… he asks for your hand in marriage.

Chapter Text

Sabo. To the world he’s the Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Army, the second in command, but to you he’s just… Sabo.

Sabo who ties your shoe laces. Sabo who watches you eat, in daze of your pretty face. Sabo who does not say “I love you” but gives you that cheeky smile every time he catches you frowning.

That Sabo. Your Sabo.

He was always more attentive to you than with others. Always noted the grunts of disapproval at the updates from Mary Geoise, saw the way you upheld yourself in battle — proud, strong and reliable even in a pinch.

Sabo doesn’t need to worry about you but the time you went MIA from a mission; he couldn’t eat properly.

Not because you were weak or that he believed you couldn’t make it, but because what you are to him.

He cherish you. Thinks of you. Longs for you.

He wants to sit next to you again. Feel your warmth close to him. He wants to make you laugh, wants to make you smile and wants to hold your hands.

Not… sit in fear of losing you.

He already lost his brother once, and he does not plan to lose his lover too.

But when you came back? Unscathed and wearing that face of pure determination? Returning also with vital information that would rapidly pace up months of research and preparation?

He couldn’t stop the bristle of warmth from his chest, blooming all the way up to his face. Making him smile. All teeth and pride.

That’s his girl. And only his.

And yeah. You were a hard shell to crack.

Not tough, but hard. You weren’t just a fighter but a survivor. You learnt from a young age it’s either you wipe your own tears and stand on your own two feet or fall apart.

No one is coming to help you. Or save you—fix you.

You had to pull the hard gloves on and do it yourself.

You weren’t rough around the edges, but you weren’t soft either. You didn’t let yourself fall, couldn’t afford to crack and scatter into pieces.

Everyone saw that — and respected you for it. You’re reliable. You’re dependable. You’re strong. You’re steady.

You knew how much it hurt to be all alone, you knew the pain of bearing the burden in silence — so when you saw the opportunity, you lent your heart out.

You let your friends sob into your shoulder. Take up some of their duties, see to it that they aren’t unheard or seen as a burden.

You became their mountain—you were steady, proud, and reliable.

And no matter how much the wind howls, a mountain does not bow, but if you do not bend — you break.

And break you did, from time to time.

Especially after a mission.

No one really noticed but you were always a bit… reckless in battle. Not life threatening but you allowed yourself more wounds than needed.

And when you got back?

You’d press your bruises down… pick the scab off a gash every now and again… and sometimes when no one was looking—you’d just make them a little bit deeper. A little bit wider.

It’s not like you liked pain, you always hesitated before pressing the blade down but it always felt better afterwards.

Your pain? It felt valid.

Your dark thoughts? They felt real.

Your loneliness and self deprecation felt more true for each cut.

The problem with being strong is that no one believes you can be weak. They didn’t need to worry about you, didn’t need to check up on you.

A mountain does not break, after all.

… which you didn’t, of course.

You don’t need their worry, and you certainly do not seek for their comfort.

You had this all under control.

You could stop. You could. You just don’t care.

And one night, you were sauntering through the hideout. Carrying a cargo box for the supply room. Mission has left your body tired, heavy.

You couldn’t wait to give yourself some release behind shut doors. Yesterday didn’t cut it.

It was late, dusk turning into night, and you see Sabo together with Koala down the corridor.

And he spots you too.

His smile immediately widens, eyes glinting and calling out your name.

Immediately you straighten yourself, trying to keep your posture light, your smile easy.

You see Koala give you that playful smirk and wiggling her eye brows before taking off without him.

She winks at you, her face saying ‘you better update me all about this later’ before vanishing around the corner.

And you? You instinctively pulled your sleeves down and keep yourself from keeling over from fatigue.

“Hey beautiful, I’ve been tryna’ catch you since you came back. How was the mission?”

“Erm. It was okay…” you scratch your cheek, your mind going immediately to what happened yesterday but you avoid that topic.

Sabo doesn’t need to know about that side of you. You’re not becoming a burden, not for him, not for anyone.

“It was a success, and I’m just carrying this back to the supply room but enough about me—how have you been?”

Despite your efforts—Sabo sees the way your shoulders are slumped, the way your eyes are heavy and how your smile seem stiff.

“You seem exhausted, here, lemme’ help you with that.” He reaches for the box but you tug it away.

“It’s no worries, Sabo. I can carry it!” You try a smile but Sabo gives you a brow.

“I know you can but as your dutiful and responsible boyfriend,” he leans in, all cheeky and grinning. “—I’ll be taking this box. Can’t have me not play the part, yeah?”

Before you even get the chance to protest he snatches it, “H-hey!”

Your hands flail outwards, trying to steal it back.

He brings the box over his head where you cannot reach and laughs as you stretch your arms out, tiptoeing and frowning.

It was all playful for you both. You started to feel the fatigue wash away, feel the urges gone into hiding and a smile, a real one, was blooming across your face.

So when a small roll of your sleeve peeks—nothing but a mere inch and yet it was all that Sabo needed.

The cargo box plops down the floor, his hand snatching your wrist with such force you almost believe he means to claw you.

You wince as he brings your wrist to him, rolling your sleeve up. And sheer silence drops between you two.

You stopped breathing.

Felt your face run cold.

You both were having such a good time, so why now?

His eyes go over each morbid line you’ve done on yourself. Eyes scanning every single one. Turning and twisting your arm and you hold in a tight whine.

“S-Sabo…” you try to pull your wrist back but he does not let you.

“Why aren’t these bandaged yet?” He looks up, eyes hard. “And these look far too intentional to be some mere battle wounds. Explain.”

“Sabo… I…”

Your face is pale. Your eyes darting.

A lie. You need to come up with a lie—

He sighs. Sharply. “You know what, let’s go to the med bay, have one of the nurses look you—“

“No!”

You didn’t mean to shout but the thought of someone else discovering your nasty little habit makes you panic.

Sabo is bad enough. If everyone else knew…

They’d pity you, laugh at you. They would think you weak. You didn’t want that, and you didn’t want Sabo to think that either.

You snatch your wrist away, curling it back into your sleeve. “I… I’ll clean them myself. Just… just don’t tell anyone.”

He blinks. Twice.

“Hey, what is it you aren’t telling me about?” He reaches for your shoulder but you slap it away. Every possible defence mechanism going on high alert.

You open your mouth to say something but you cannot form any words. You cannot even conjure up a lie good enough to pass it off as nothing.

Your eyes lowers. Feeling your hands rushing cold.

Sabo looks you over. Pale, afraid—exposed. He glances across the corridor, it’s empty now but…

“Hey.”

slowly, he takes your hand in his. “Let’s go to my room, it’s just ‘round this corner.”

And you cannot bring yourself to speak. So you nod. Eyes not meeting his.

He leads you through the corridor, his hand clasping over yours is warm. It’s tight.

And when he steers you towards his bed, he is gentle. No rush. No hurry.

Just him and you. Alone.

You sit at the edge of the bed, hands on your knees and eyes drilling down the floor.

You hate this.

Not only is it embarrassing it’s humiliating.

But Sabo only looks you gently over. “Stay put, I‘ll be right back.” He tries to catch your gaze with a smile but you won’t meet them; it tugs at his heart.

As you hear him rummage by the cupboard you start to notice everything that is wrong with you—and no matter how much you blink, tears are starting to form.

When Sabo comes back, tray of bandages and alcohol is placed on the bed. Gentle hand reaching for yours—you look away. Squeezing your eyes shut to prevent the tears.

He does not say anything, his gaze only softens. Hunching down in front of you.

“Let’s clean you up, yeah?”

Softly, kindly, he rolls your sleeves up.

Eyes narrowing at the crude display as if to burn the wounds into his mind.

“Can’t promise It won’t sting.” He muses as he dabs you down with cotton pads and alcohol. He’s thorough. His movements firm. Swift.

And when you wince at the pain he only hums. Giving your knuckles a kiss. Muttering sweet praises at your tolerance, musing rueful apologies in soft, quiet breaths.

“Hit me if it’s too tight.” Is all he offers when he ties the knot.

And when Sabo tightens it, your lips go wry.

His hands are kind. They’re gentle, and when he holds yours, you sense his sincerity. His warmth.

“Well then. Will you tell me? Or should I squeeze it out of you?” At that, he gives your hands a small squeeze and your eyes lowers. He goes to sit next to you.

“You’ll think me silly.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

You frown at him and he only smiles.

“Try me.” He says, giving you a kiss on the knuckle again.

His sweetness—it still remains. Even after the sorry state you’re in and thus, your courage gathers. Hands clasping over his, your head falling lower. You confess. It comes out in a haste, in a hurry, and you stumble over your words.

You tell him of your facade—how it breaks and shatters and the only thing keeping the cracks from falling, are the cuts in between. You tell him you hate yourself for it; this weakness, this contradiction in your strength and your joy but it is all you have left.

And it is all you have ever known.

A source of control, a sense of strength when you lack it the most.

You cry, your cheeks streaming tears and voice shaking but Sabo only steadies his hold on you. Eyes soft and his touch softer.

He pulls you in, lets you sob into his shoulder. Feel him caress circles around your spine. And when he softly lands a kiss on the side of your hair, only then do you calm. Fisting his sleeves.

“Won’t you berate me?”

He gives you a look, a confused one. “What for?

“This. For being weak, for being a burden… for being a liar. I’m not who I pretend to be.” You manage to say the last part without your voice cracking but he pulls away.

Tender eyes looking you over. He rubs your stained cheeks, wipes your tears and snoot away with a handkerchief.

For a moment, he only takes you in.

The girl he loves—the bright one, the proud and frowning one. The one who always offers a hand to others, the one who makes it out through any pinch—the one whose smile makes his heart ache in the softest ways possible. The one who’s his and only his.

She’s still here.

Not broken, not damaged, but in pain.

One that he will take care of—to hold you when you cannot bring yourself to stand, to love you in places you yourself cannot.

He cups both sides of your face.

“Don’t be like that.” He says, voice low, quiet. As if sharing a secret. “Weak or not, I don’t care. You’re all I want, all I need. Even now, I can’t see myself with anyone else but you. And only you. Pretend?” He grins a little, voice teasing as he takes your hand again. His touch gentle. “You don’t have to pretend, you don’t have to perform. You’re all the strength I need to keep going so… Go ahead. Be that. Be weak. I don’t care.”

He kisses your hand again, sly smile peeking.

“And in return, when you feel yourself slipping, come to me—I’ll hold you. I’ll love you. I’ll give you my strength in return. So don’t be like that. Don’t be so harsh on yourself. Deal?”

For the first time in a long, long time—you feel yourself relaxing.

Unguarded? Perhaps.

Vulnerable? Indefinitely.

But you do not feel little, or ashamed, or embarrassed. No instead you feel yourself pressing down a smile. Smaller tears rolling down your cheek.

“Deal.” You say and Sabo grins at you—boyish, foolish, inlove.

He has not discarded you.

Has not demeaned you.

Instead he only remains kind, loving, warm. Not cruel, not cold, not mocking.

He remains as Sabo. Your Sabo.

The one who holds you again. Who talks till you sink into a quiet daze, listening to the beating of his heart—calm, steady, sure. And when sleep comes to beckon, you follow. Lips curved. Chest warm. And someone holds you a bit closer. A bit tighter.

Kissing the top of your hair.

• Summary: When you wake up, you’re in his bed but Sabo won’t be there. Your arms are newly bandaged and there are flowers in each vase. You blink. It’s your favourites. You’ll hear someone rummage in the kitchen, the scent of pancakes fill the room, slightly burnt and sweet. You hear him curse under his breath as he seems to fail to flip one, and you sink yourself deeper into the blankets. Pressing down a smile. You feel warm, you feel happy. And with Sabo, your Sabo, that is all you can truly feel. He ensured of that.

Chapter Text

Buggy is many things—stupid, selfish, and certainly a worthy contender for professional treasure hunting even though they often ended in failure. Horrible failure.

When he first met you, he had this look on his face as if he found the one—the X on the map, the sparkle of all sparkles. The gold of all gold.

The treasure of all treasures.

And with the way he treated you? You sometimes believed it too.

He smothered you in praises, tried to impress you (miserably failing) with circus tricks and grand shows of affection.

Buggy made sure to spoil you with his doting, his caring, his loving.

And he was loud about it.

He’d wear pyjamas with the same colours as your eyes. When confronted he’d explain it’s a mere coincidence that his entire collection is only in one colour… which so happens to be the same shade as your eyes.

From heaps of bouquets of your favourites to the point of towering over the circus tent itself or the sorry confetti popping every time you exit the shower.

Buggy would address you with embarrassing pet names you rather not let your best friend hear about.

And when you got mad?

He’d beg for forgiveness. On his knees. His iconic red nose sunken and pleading with you to show mercy.

You’d just clean your nails then, pretending not to hear him.

He’d call you his darling villain, his cruel goddess and smother you in pathetic apologies.

And you? You liked it.

You’d be smug about it.

He’s a pathetic clown sure, but he’s your pathetic clown.

And deep down: you are grateful for him.

For so much of your life, you’ve carried a wound in your chest. A void that swallowed anything whole. It corrupted anything that life gave you. It made you feel empty, bleak—dull.

Since your childhood days, nothing excited you anymore, everything became a blur. A taxing, boring blur. The only times you did feel something was when the sharp steel against your skin came rushing.

Cold. Stinging.

The line turning red made you sigh in relief.

Sure—It hurt.

But it hurt in a way that made you feel better. Not good, not really, but better. Alive. Or as close as to feeling alive that is.

But with Buggy?

He made you laugh, made you smile.

Yes, you’d be caught frowning and fuming at him from time to time but somehow he always made up for his lack of flourish. (Or rather his overwhelming abundance of it) You loved him.

Life felt brighter with him, his circus tent was loud, tacky and scheming but it brought you all the colours you needed.

With him you feel alive—you feel like laughing. Painting. Dancing. it was so much more than a circus tent to you—it was your source of joy, of safety, of happiness.

Buggy promised you that and more.

And thus, you stopped. Just this once.

You never left them out on display, not even for you poor, precious clown. You hid them under longer sleeves and longer bottoms.

Sometimes you’d catch yourself running your fingers over them. Reminiscing. Considering relapse. But it was always left hanging in the air.

Time flew, and you started to grow comfortable, comfortable enough to wear shorter clothes. Tighter fabric. At least in your own space, in your own room.

And one day, you were lounging in bed.

With fresh new sheets, the room scented by vanilla candles, and on the side—ice cold water sat refilled and ready for you.

Next, a bowl of crisps and a plate of brownies.

You were living the luxury lifestyle, one that you can understand killing others for. This was your self-care time, one that you don’t intend to end any time soon.

You were reading something when your door is met with rapid knocks.

“My beauty, are you in there? I’m coming in!”

Immediately you glance behind your shoulder, a bright smile already spreading on your face.

“Buggy!”

You run up to him, lunging your face into his chest. He tries his best to act unbothered about it (he fails)

“What happened to today’s meeting? It went awfully brief.”

“Oh you know,” Buggy’s foolish smile drops, just a bit. Holding back his self pity.

“The usual.” The usual as in Sir Crocodile reprimanding him.

Your brows pull, eyes hard. “Is it that desert lizard again? I swear it Buggy, I’ll have a word with that—“

“No! Nono, my beauty!” He pushes you by the shoulders, straightening his posture as he tries to regain his nonchalance.

“It’s nothing like that! Besides, I’m here now for you. What have you been up to whilst your glorious, handsome, genius of a boyfriend took charge of today’s meeting?”

You try and press down your smile as you move towards your bed. “Here! It’s a new book I’m reading, do you wanna hear—“ when you glance back, Buggy is staring at you.

Well. Not at your face but your legs.

You were wearing shorts today.

You suddenly feel very, very exposed.

“Buggy, I—“

“How long,” he strides closer, “have they been there…?”

You try and move away but Buggy pushes you to sit down the bed by your shoulders. Hunching down to your knees. Hands on your exposed thigh.

“What happened? How come I’ve never…” he tilts his head up, eyes asking for you to let him in. “Who did this to you?”

His voice is soft but there is a set tone in it. Firm, hard—tense. As if prying for a secret, to find the culprit of this cruel act—one that he intends to deal with.

And your chest ache. You instinctively place your palms over the scars. “Buggy I… it’s not like that. I did them myself.”

He blinks.

Eh?

“Yourself?” He looks back to your thighs. He blinks again. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

You advert your gaze, shame creeping up your cheeks.

“I don’t know. It just—…it just helps me feel better.”

“Feel better? Are you saying you had an illness? Why did you never tell me—?”

“No. Buggy. Not like that. What I meant was…” You sigh. Head foggy and overstimulated with all these feelings.

Shame for being found out? Disgust for being vulnerable? Fear for being discarded? Anger for being prodded and exposed?

Who is to say?

You feel tears forming, not from sadness not truly, but the emotions swirling in your chest is far too much to bury alone.

Buggy reaches for your cheeks. Fondling them and wiping your tears away.

“You can take your time, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is low, a gentle whisper. His hands on your face are warm, kind.

And perhaps it is that—the sweetness of his tone, the patience in his eyes—that breaks you.

Vision blurs, chest squeezing and aching as you find the courage to look him in the eye.

Your chin rises, lip quivering—and you unravel right before his eyes.

You tell him all of it—why you started, why it happened. You tell him of a certain day, and how your parents reacted. You were crying, sobbing but you didn’t relent.

And Buggy? when you couldn’t find the words he’d just hum, wipe your hair away from your face. Feel his fingers lacing with yours.

He does not truly understand what you mean—but he does know you’re in pain and that you’re letting him bear witness to something raw, sore—personal.

And he does not mock you for it.

Instead he holds you closer. Kisses your temples, let you peel each layer back in your own softened pace.

“My beauty… hey, I’m not really good at this kind of stuff but, I’ll be here. With you, for you.” You feel a hand placed on your thigh, and he pulls you closer by the shoulder.

“I’ll take care of you. I’ll do and be anything that you want.”

And at that, you press down a smile. Your sobs ending, your eyes already swollen.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You lean into his chest, his hands coming to embrace you. “You’re stupid.” You say, hiding your smile in his neck.

He snorts, just a little. Kissing the sides of your hair. “I can be that.”

A joke, a tease but one that makes you slightly giggle.

You two stay like that for awhile—you in his embrace, face buried into his chest. Small chatters rising and falling. His arms encased around you.

Warm. Safe.

And when you feel sleep coming, you let yourself sink in, smiling even then.

• Summary: When you wake up, he’ll be there. Snoring. Drooling. Lousing atop of your chest. Buggy won’t treat you like you’re wounded, but when it gets hard, you’ll find him keeping to his word. He’ll hold you, console you. kiss you in places you deem to ugly. Too dirty and rotten. And if anyone even dares to lay a comment on your scars, gets strapped to a canon and sent across the seas without so much a trial. Or confetti. And you will find comfort in that—in his devotion, in his love. No matter how silly.

Chapter Text

Your sweet Corazon.

Tall but gentle. Clumsy but silly. Kind hearted and true. That man is everything you love and more.

He’s so soft for you, so down bad for you.

He stumbles when he sees you and seemingly light his coat on fire more often when you come around.

Being his lover meant breakfast in bed, your morning brew already made and your favourite flowers tended by him outside the porch.

Since meeting him, your life has become an ease—a fairytale dream. He made you sigh with hearts in your eyes, kicking your feet in the air when he refers to you as “mine” and when he leans over you? Lord…

Yeah.

You were right where you wanted to be.

Settled and in love.

But not everything can be fixed with mere romance. In truth, you never really wanted to stop. You didn’t want the scars to fade even with your life together.

You just wanted to see them, so that the damage that you’ve done, the pain and the anguish and the tears you’ve shed alone—they will remain real. As long as the scars remain fresh and open, you can find peace in the damage you’ve caused.

That way, you can prove to others, to yourself, that what you’ve gone through is not a made up story, not an overreaction by any means and certainly not a faded memory.

Corazon wouldn’t understand that.

In fact—this little secret of yours is your guilty pleasure. He does not need to understand it, this is your pain, your wounds, your hurt.

And only yours.

One evening however, you were staring at your arms in the bathroom.

They’re darkening, whitening already. You feel that shiver run down your wrists, your thighs. Skin tightening and pulling.

They’re fading.

And you can’t bear to watch them slowly but surely vanish. Leaving no trace, no proof of the misery you’ve endured, witnessed and suffered.

You scratched them, clawed them, anything to get rid of the urge but you know it won’t go away unless you do it.

You were supposed to be home alone today, you were not supposed to be found out.

But when the bathroom door creaks open, the shame hits all the same.

Your sweet Corazon is smiling, ear to ear, eyes brimming as the door widens. “Hello beautiful—“ and the smile immediately drops.

You were in the middle of drying the wounds up.

You freeze and he stares at you.

“did you hurt yourself?”

And just like that—he’s at your side. Examining your wounds over and under.

“C-Cora…”

“Let’s get this washed up—“ he tilts his head, seeing the towels, the blood sprinkled across the sink and the razors, stained. Brows pulling.

His eyes goes back to your wounds, then the razors and then to your eyes. Hand on your wrist growing a bit tighter.

Not harsh. Not cruel but firm, so as if to not let you go.

“Did you—… did you do this? Why?”

You blink. Pulling away but he does not give you the chance. “Cora please let go.”

Your heart was hammering, thudding, breaking into pieces. The shame hitting you like a punch in the gut. “Please let go, please.”

You plead with him, you beg with him.

You wanted to cry, scream and fight but in truth you wanted nothing more but to hide.

But Corazon keeps you in place even when you squirm, hit and pull—he refuses to let you go.

“Hey, hey—“ he grabs you by the shoulders, “Calm down, let’s calm down. I’m not berating you.”

And you halt. Tears still streaming.

“Come, let’s clean you up, okay? How about that baby?”

And your chest goes empty. A buzz fills your head, eyes flicking but you nod.

Cora steers you to a stool, gently, kindly.

Hands soft, touch faint.

The sink turns on, cupboards are rummaged and before you know it—there is a set of bandages, wet towels and alcohol placed beside you.

When he cleans you it starts softly and remains softly. He does not hurry or tarry, he’s a bit clumsy but thorough. Firm but kind.

When the bandages are finally tightened? He looks to you, eyes gentle. Rubbing your cheeks clean from tears.

“You mind telling me?”

“You’ll think me stupid.”

His brows pulls, just a little. Tugging you closer by the hands.

“I love you, and I will always come to love you even when you don’t believe it yourself. The only one stupid here is me for making you believe I ever would. So try me. See how much stupid I can get for you.”

And your heart breaks at that.

You confess, you confess it all. Every meagre detail, every pathetic count to your pain, shame and contempt to remain silent. Hidden.

It comes out in sobs, mewls, hiccups. Cheeks bristling with both tears and pent up frustration.

Corazon does not demean, comment or insult you. When you stutter and struggle to make any sense, he holds you. Kisses the sides of your hair, strong arms wrapping around you, promising safety, warmth.

You hold on to him, your crying coming into a calm. Your eyes grow swollen, your nose goes runny but you don’t care to hide. Not with him, not when he holds you like you’re the one thing that he cannot lose.

You feel him stir, cupping your face.

“I’m here, and I will always be here, so don’t go hiding no more. You‘re not alone, not for as long as I’m persistent to live.”

And you believe him. You do. Your lips becoming wry. “You stupid man.”

“Yes, but I’m your stupid man.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. Your mind is at ease, your shoulders slump. Buried within his arms. His smell filling your senses.

Corazon consoles you, hushing sweet things into your ear. Warm hands circling your shoulder blades. And when you believe sleep has come to whisk you away, you will feel him kiss your cheek, your forehead too.

“I’ll take care of you.”

• Summary: When you wake up, you’ll find yourself wrapped in strong arms that presses your face against his chest. He’s asleep. Breathing into your hair. Warm and nestled. Your hands goes to his forearm, cheeks bristling with such warmth you feel yourself melt. He truly is your sweet Corazon.

Chapter Text

Being a lover to Red-hair Shanks was a lot like being a fairytale damsel swooped off her heels by a rough, drunkard vagabond who teasingly called you princess with a lopsided grin. He was dreamy, charming, and worst of all? He was so fine. Scrumptiously fine.

It made you pace the room screaming, blushing, twirling about just thinking about him.

You wouldn’t call yourself soft or shy but with Shanks?

You could barely hold eye contact without steaming. Face rushing pink.

And Shanks? He didn’t just want to love you — but he wanted to be all up in your senses. He wanted to touch you, feel you, hear you laugh, see you smile and somehow he’ll yearn for more.

He was everything you could possibly ask for in a man.

He was perfect. Teasing but never mean; lousy but always reliable.

Sure, you could recall at least a hundred times where you had to force water down his throat instead of liquor but in that state, he’d just smother you in kisses, touch you like you were made of everything that is precious and more.

It made you laugh, smile—kiss him back.

Shanks is the right man for you; you know he is.

But despite so—you often questioned if you were the right woman.

He had his drinking.

You had your cutting.

You would snort by yourself. A match made in heaven; or so you would have believed were you not staring at the fresh crimson blood—wondering how anyone could love someone who cannot bother to wipe their tools or stay clean for longer than a month.

Shanks was everything you were not.

Charming, well-liked, and confident. He was mature, aloof and reliable. And you? You were reserved; awkward silence was your weapon of choice and picking up on social cues was your number one enemy.

And still—he doted on you. You suspect he’s willing to keep those who manage to deal with his high maintenance as a drunk, close and dearly no matter their flaws.

Even though he would get shitfaced as often as you broke your sober streak, it at least was something you two could laugh at — his drinking is something he doesn’t have to hide away in the dark.

Unlike you.

You made sure it stayed out of sight. Made sure to keep up with the pretence and the false smiles when in truth, all you could think about was the thin steel slithering down your skin.

But you were good at pretending otherwise. You had your life together. No one could believe anything else. You ensured of that.

As long as you wore your longer sleeves and longer bottoms, your facade was passable.

You had everyone under your spell.

Even your own dear, sweet Shanks.

And you were going to keep it that way. Shanks doesn’t need to see your filth, witness your dirt. He’d surely find you weird for it, surely he would be grossed out and discard you for it.

And you wouldn’t deserve anything else than that.

But one night, stirring in his arms, you lay awake. He was snoring; face in your cleavage, his lips pressed between your breasts. Drooling. His arm wrought around your waist. Tight and warm. You snuggled into his hair.

Blinking. Thinking.

Awake and restless.

Unable to sleep. Unable to breathe properly.

Your hands slithered through his hair, thinking of nothing but the feeling of cold metal grazing your arm.

You felt that tingling sensation down your arms, down your legs.

You wanted to do it.

More than you’ve ever wanted anything before.

You want it. You need it. It was all you could think about even as you feel him bringing you closer by the waist.

The urge was rising up your throat like bile.

You pushed away, and sat yourself up.

You were fully awake and you knew sleep would not come till you did it.

So naturally you find yourself in the bathroom, staring at your thighs, feeling more numb than ever.

It was not like you were sad, just an urge. Just a need.

The floor was piled with stained bandages, and your eyes grow groggy as you waited for the bleeding to stop.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

And your thoughts were growing louder despite the relief you gave yourself a few moments before.

Should you cut again? Deeper maybe? Just once more…?

In the dim silence, your mouth moved on its own. “I need to stop.”

You had not expected a reply. You had not even expected yourself to say it; the words just blurted out of you.

And yet—

“What was that?”

You freeze. Not glancing. Not daring to even breathe.

“Stop what?” A yawn follows. A loud one.

The bathroom door creaks open, your lousy, lazy, suffering-from-a-hangover of a boyfriend trudges inside.

Still grumbling from sleep, swollen eyes squinting from the light.

“You know, as soft as the pillow is, nothing beats your chest so I’m here to take you back.”

He shuts one eye closed as if to get adjusted to the light but his gaze makes it to the floor.

Snapping them fully open.

Bloodied tissues. Discarded blades.

His brows pulls, eyes travelling up.

Up to your legs. Up to your bloodied thighs.

Dripping blood. Covered by stained linens and gashes pressed down by your palms.

At first he stares in disbelief from being newly awake so he only blinks.

Until he doesn’t.

You’re bleeding. Profusely so.

Before you even have the chance to feign innocence, he makes it to your side.

“Hey, what’s all this? Did someone hurt you? Who did this?” He grabs one of your wrists, “let me see that.” His tone is not sharp, but secure, hard—set.

His grogginess from before: gone.

Replaced with a dominating assertiveness.

Brows pulled, eyes focused.

“S-shanks!” You try and protest but it’s no use. He lifts your palms, revealing the damage you’ve inflicted on yourself.

He looms over you, looking down. “Who did this?” His clasp on your wrist doesn’t grow tighter but firmer. His voice isn’t sharp—but dominant. “I’ll have a word with whoever dared do this to you—“

“Shanks.” You cut him off, overwhelmed with all these comments. “It… it wasn’t anyone. I did them myself.” You say, quite bluntly.

At that — something in the air shifts. As if a storm that once gathered, calmed. Friction gone faint. Harsh rain becoming soft.

Shanks gives you a brow, looking over the wounds once again.

“These look far too intentional to just be an accident. What happened?”

Your chin sinks. Lips going wry.

The hell were you going to say? What is there to even say???

• ‘Sorry I got emo and needed relief!’

Yeah right, whatever. Might as well apply for a humiliation ritual at that point.

You don’t meet his gaze as you feel shame creep up your chest.

And Shanks sees that. His eyes narrows.

You won’t open up. Not like this.

And so, he lifts you up—one hand or not, to him you’re lighter than a feather.

You yelp, pushing, protesting and when that doesn’t work you start to insult him, yell and hit but he only hums as he brings you back to bed. Setting you down like you’re porcelain—afraid you’ll break, afraid you will shatter and leave him alone with only regrets in his wake.

He looms down, giving you that charming smile you love so much. “Sit there, all nice and pretty and let me take care of you, okay?”

Your chest turns, cheeks heating; he knows exactly the effect he has on you—and he’s a meanie for that.

You press your lips, nodding.

“Good.” He whispers, kissing your forehead as if to reward you.

Shanks leaves for only a moment, returning with a medicinal box filled with cotton pads, alcohol and bandages.

Instinctively you hide your thighs again.

He sits down next to you, bed dipping at his weight and he comes closer. Tugging at your wrist to see the wounds.

“I want to help you, so please..”

Your cheeks burn—hot shame tinging your face.

“We can talk once you’re all cleaned up, what do you say? Yeah?”

His tone is soft, gentle.

You nod. Not having the strength to fight.

And Shanks pulls his brows, the sight of you being sullen, tired, and damaged, breaks his heart.

Once he gets to cleaning, it’s a bit clumsy but never rash. Never half-hearted. He’s one handed after all but he tries his best in being soft, in being gentle and methodical. He cleans you, he bandages you.

“Tell me if it’s too tight, alright?” He says before tying the knot and once he’s all done—he tries to catch your gaze.

Shanks leans closer to your face. Knees touching yours.

“Hey. Princess. Look at me.”

You don’t. You feel mortified. Embarrassed beyond words.

Gods why did he have to find you for cuddles now of all times?

You wanted to dig a hole in the ground and hide away for the rest of your life but Shanks does not let you.

His hand makes it to your face, sliding your jaw so you can meet his gaze.

He says your name with such reverence you almost believe yourself to be something divine. Something holy.

Your gaze locks onto him and his eyes soften at the sight of you. “You know I love you, don’t you? I could never be mad at you, so tell me. I want to know.”

You blink. Lips parting.

“It’s nothing, they’re… nothing. You’ll find me a bother. A ridiculous one.”

“They’re not nothing. And you’re not a bother. You’re hurt. You’re bleeding. Tell me what happened.”

He takes your wrist. Bringing your hand to his face. Placing a kiss on your knuckle. A faint brush of lips and you swallow a sob down.

He takes your hand in his.

Fingers lacing.

Large. Calloused. Rough.

But his touch is not cruel but soft. Warm. Loving.

You feel your lips quivering, vision growing blurry and before you know it — you’re breaking down.

Your confessions are awkward at first—your tongue stiff, your wording slobbered with hiccups and cries. But Shanks does not frown at you, does not grow impatient and demean you.

When you struggle to find the words, he only hums. Circling the pulse of your wrist with his thumb. Slow, methodical—present. He does not rush you. He does not prod or judge you.

He listens. He waits.

And when you calm down, face streaked with tears—you manage to look at him. And he rubs your tears away.

“You thought I would… leave you? What, for being in pain?”

“You’re everything I’m not, Shanks. You’re charming, strong and admired all over. Whilst I’m… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

At that, he leans in closer. Forehead pressing yours. “Yeah. It’s stupid.”

Your chest squeezes and you wish to look away but he pulls you closer by the back of your head.

He carries that small smile that tugs at one corner more. The one that makes you blush. The one that pulls your heart.

“—stupid for thinking that way at all. You’re charming to me, that’s why I like to tease you. So I can see you smile, and hear you laugh.” He kisses your temple, bringing your face to his neck. “Leave you? How could I when you’re all I think about?”

He says it almost to himself, his voice low, quiet. As if sharing a secret with you. He plants his chin ontop of your hair. Taking in the scent of you—and for once, you feel your shoulders ease. Leaning into his chest, feel the warmth of his skin.

“You mean that?”

“How could I not?”

And you press down a smile at that.

He stays with you for as long as you need. Holding you. Comforting you. Rocking you back and forth. Humming. Kissing the sides of your hair when he hears you sob.

And when sleep comes to beckon, it is not shame that bristles in your chest but warmth—the kind that makes you smile. The kind that makes you dream. The kind that only Shanks can make you feel.

• Summary: You two were a match made in heaven.

He had his drinking and you had your cutting.

An impeccable parallel of each other.

One partied and laughed with it—the other hid and sat in silence with it.

Truly a match made by the Gods themselves, or so you would have joked and laughed did he not stay there with you the morning after. Cuddling you. Loving you. Kissing you over and over again. You won’t sit in silence with it anymore, you won’t have to. Not with him. Not with the man who adores all that you are, and all that you deem unsightly, unworthy. He really is, the perfect man for you.

Chapter Text

You and him were like oil and water. He was gruff, stern and no games. You? You were joy and chaos incarnate.

He stomped his way through life but you twirled away with your tutu and sang to the animals.

When the two of you came out as dating, best know everybody from their grandmas to Navy HQ pulled their brows, asking “How.”

But you didn’t care for it and neither did he. You two didn’t need to make sense for others, and he especially didn’t need anyone’s input but yours.

Smoker doesn’t say “I love you” but always makes sure your coffee is at your preferred temperature. Never having to ask. He always make sure to stand next to you and dismiss it off as mere coincidence.

His dishonesty makes it too easy to tease him, and he’d wave you off, calling you annoying or noisy. It made you laugh, smile. Wearing a look on your face that he would consider perfect.

Truly, he could never guess you had such a rotting secret hidden behind your giggles.

But it can’t be helped, can it?

Some things in life just don’t go away even when you give it your all.

Behind the sunshine and laughs, there is also a quiet, almost dull kind of silence within you.

A wound that would never close.

It was an ugly thing. It corrupted anything that you touched, it even made its way onto your skin. Rotting and bleeding.

But you kept the facade up, the louder you laughed the more it bled. The wider you smiled, the harder you pressed the blade down.

You’ve kept it out of sight till now. When the bandages were mentioned you brushed it off as “battle wounds” or sheer clumsiness.

One evening however, both of you had a long day. You and Smoker were sitting together by the couch, your head leaning on his shoulder as he wiped down his weapon, jitte.

“Hina said you spoke back to one of the higher ups today, is that true?”

“They were trying to promote me to cover up their own faults. It’s damn near insulting.”

You pulled his cheek, “you’re going to get yourself fired for insubordination.”

He clicks his tongue, “Mind your own business, woman.”

“You’re so grumpy.”

You reach for the lighter on the coffee table when he pulls out another cigar.

You were relaxed, comfortable. Maybe far too comfortable, not seeing the way your sleeve rolled up at the gesture.

The lighter clatters, your wrist wringing cold as he seizes it and you wince. “S-smoker—“

He rolls your sleeve up.

The one time you don’t bandage it, this happens.

You freeze, smile dropping.

“What is this?”

“I—“

He takes your other arm and roll its sleeve too.

“Who hurt you? Go on. I’ll just have a ‘chat’ with them, so don’t  sit there and try and protect them.” He clicks his tongue, already getting off the couch and you panic. Tugging him.

“It’s not anyone. I did them myself.”

His brows pulls at that. Staring at your for a good long second. And when you think he’s going to call you a liar — he sits back down with you.

He takes your wrists again. Eyes running over every scar and wound like a crime scene before burrowing his stare into you.

“You did them yourself? What is this foolishness you speak of? What happened.”

Your eyes flick down, shame stinging your cheeks.

What is there to say?

• ‘The perception you had of me is a complete lie, I’m actually severely emo. ‘

He’d laugh! Call you dramatic and stupid and all the mean things in the world. You don’t want him to criticise you, and you don’t want to be lectured about it either.

You feel your eyes sting with tears. “I don’t know. I just feel better.”

Smoker digs his molars into his cigar, brows slightly pulled. He looks you over, your expression awkward, rigid—scared.

And he takes one last puff of his cigar before drilling it down onto the ash tray. “Stay put.”

Wiping a tear away before getting up. Leaving you to your own misery only to come back with a kit of bandages, cotton pads and alcohol.

He takes your hands in his.

Rough, calloused hands going soft for you.

“Here, lemme’ clean you. We can’t leave them like that can we?” His coarse voice turns low. As if speaking to a child.

Slow, gentle—kind.

You give him a nod he only hums before setting on cleaning.

How strange. You know he’s not incapable of kindness, you’ve seen him how he acts with children and animals. And yet, you feel your heart breaking when his touch is so faint, so content on treating you carefully.

When the alcohol stings and you wince, he only stops momentarily, kissing you on the forehead. Muttering a small apology against your skin.

You feel undeserving and unfit to be his lover but Smoker does not care. Not when you’re suffering in silence.

The knot tightens and he looks you in the eye. Your lips pressing down at how soft his gaze is.

“I’m here. And if you don’t want to tell me more, that’s fine. You don’t have to. I’ll wait for you.” He squeezes your wrist, kissing your hand. “I’ll always wait for you.”

And it breaks you, shattering your facade into pieces. It turns you over, each dirt and filth exposed for the taking. You admit each and every single thing, like a sorry child found taking one tart too many.

But Smoker does not judge you, or snap insults at your weakness. No, not at all. He lets you crawl into his knees, let you sob into his shoulder—hold you closer by the back.

When you hiccup and stutter to make any sort of sense, he only hums. Trying to fill the words for you. Rubbing circles across your spine.

And when your sobs finally slows, and there is nothing else left to pour—his arms around you only tightens. Kissing the top of your face.

“You’re strong, and I’m so proud to call you my girl.” For once, his voice is lean and smooth. Stroking your tears away with such measured intensity you believe yourself fragile.

“Do you really?” You ask and he smiles, teeth flashing. “Always.”

• Summary: He won’t berate you, and he won’t treat you like a patient. He’ll still be that hard, rough soldier that he is but when it gets too much—he’ll hold you, console you. Feel his lips onto your cheek. He’ll take up some of your duties, and make sure you know he’s close by. And you? Your facade does not fade, it never will, but you’ve let it become a part of you. Allowing yourself to be both happy and hurt. Seen and loved. Held and warm. That’s just the kind of lover Smoker is.