#penguin has it rough but takes solace in the people he's chosen around him

[cebwrites]

what crawls beneath - dysphoria (Penguin, Zoro)

sorry to come back with such a heavy note lovelies, the rough times aren’t over yet and ya boi needs to string these icky feelings into something lest i explode- i can’t promise i’ll return with more super soon, but i’ll try to make the next one not as sads >< HUGE content warning to all those this may apply to under the cut - there will be mentions of: dysphoria, misgendering, misogyny, menses blood and the (specifically transmasc) discomfort of being subjected to a cycle every month

if these are things you feel may be upsetting to you feel free to skip this one!! i’ve got loads of other prompts in my masterlist that are way more light-hearted and fun, please take care of yourselves first and foremost y’all (っ´ω`)ﾉ(╥ω╥)

no reader, transmasc Penguin and Zoro (separate) word count: 1.2k

Penguin

Penguin is the oldest out of their little ragtag team from the North Blue - only a year ahead of Shachi when it was just the two of them, but older nonetheless. There was a certain expectation that came along with that title, to be a protector, a provider, how the people around him were taught to be men. 

Once Law and Bepo came along, his responsibilities only mounted. That would change as Law’s crew gained more members and duties were split more evenly, but Penguin would always be the one that everyone could count on. One of the vital gears keeping his captain’s ship afloat.

So it was only more salt in the wound that once every month, at least in the beginning, he was reduced to shaking like a leaf in some quiet corner of the Tang whenever his cycle chose to rear it’s foul, dripping head.

Pain was never much of an issue for Penguin; all things considered, he thinks his cramps err on the mild side. It was the blood that he couldn’t stand.

Blood that stained his sheets at the tender age of eleven that made his dad awkwardly stand in the doorway, trying to hide discomfort, while his mother cheerfully reassured him that this was a natural part of growing up and how she was so happy that she’d be able to do more mother-daughter things with him; blood that got Penguin yelled at by Shachi’s wicked aunt and uncle for soiling what clothes they were ‘charitable’ enough to lend these disheveled kids in exchange for hard, back-breaking labor. He’d be forced to wash the stains out by hand afterwards.

Penguin was cursed with the misfortune of torturous 7 day cycle and a heavy flow throughout. Part of him resented the choice for the crews’ uniform to be all white but they had a strong enough cleaning agent to rid their clothes of regular blood stains, so Penguin didn’t complain. Still, the crimson would continue to haunt him.

He’s a pirate god damn it and even before this, Penguin had committed the level of violence you’d expect from someone engaging in criminal activity with Shachi under threat from the latter’s aunt and uncle. No blood from those arguably nastier acts had ever bothered him like this, though. 

None of the thugs he’d left to frostbite could ever upset Penguin as much, could make him feel as dirty as sitting alone in the bathroom, avoiding as much eye contact as possible with the mirror, also trying not to look at the red between his legs as he attempted to change out of his old pad into a new one as quietly as possible.

The rational part of his brain knows that none of this makes him any less of a man, his captain’s voice tells him loud and clear, along with Shachi’s reassurance and Bepo’s kind offers of physical comfort - but his head always gets like this when the blood moon rolls around - clouds all their good intentions with nonsense he’d promised to toss long ago and leaves him a shell by the end of the week; and exactly why Penguin’s all the more grateful for the space, patience and understanding his crew affords him until he’s willing to let them in again.

Zoro

Zoro, for a lack of a better term, has always flown by the seat of his pants. He’s never cared for semantics and as far as he’s concerned - doesn’t have the time. Always looking for that next step, the next hurdle that would bring him closer to becoming The Best.

He vividly remembers the shades of red that danced across his vision from Kuina’s words that day. 

“Pretty soon you’ll be stronger than me...”

Lies, they were. All of those bitter, angry words Kuina parroted through tears because she’d heard them innumerable times before. They weren’t true! Kuina was brave, she was smart, she was collected, she was everything Zoro wanted to be and yet - if Kuina of all people would never be enough in the eyes of these people, her own father and his master, what exactly did that make Zoro?

He trained all throughout the night, infuriated by Kuina’s treatment, yet another loss at her hands, and what the implications meant for him but having none of the words to articulate his thoughts so he did what he could by slashing bamboo against wood until he lost sensation in his tiny, ten year old hands.

Until the numbness spread across his entire body when the news of Kuina’s death reached him, her cruel fate seemingly devised by a vindictive hand rang in his ears as Zoro belligerently screamed about their promise at her wake, drawing eyes and mouths directly to him, away from her death, so abrupt in the face of all her dreams, her aspirations, it was almost laughable how unfair, indifferent fate could be if it didn’t fill him with an infernal rage.

Shamelessly, Zoro begged Koushiro for Kuina’s sword, promising to fulfill both of their dreams in one fell swoop. Something lurched deep in his stomach at how easily the old man gave it up - his daughter’s beloved blade. That feeling of unease followed him until Zoro left the island, hoping to leave the bits of his unsightly past and only carry what was needed, her spirit and their goal, to the future.

Of course, that was easier said than done.

Through every step of the way, it felt like his body was betraying him and Zoro had no recourse. Zoro was a later bloomer than most, so though it was easy enough to coast by living in the dojo with nothing more than simple binding, things got more and more difficult with the changes puberty brought as the date that he’d set out to sea drew closer.

Zoro never told his peers nor Koushiro anything, given the circumstances. Plus, he’d be lying if Zoro said that he didn’t harbor at least a bit of resentment for how the old man and the village treated his late daughter in life and death, disrespecting her memory even till the end. So they’d remain in the dark about him, even with all the fond memories Zoro had of Shimotsuki village, none of them ever saw Kuina for her and he doubted that if the truth came out they’d ever see him for him, either.

Sometimes when he’s alone and his thoughts quiet down, Zoro wonders if Kuina had enough time, would she come to the same conclusions that he had about his gender, his identity, who he wanted to be in spite of similar the suffocating boxes of ‘womanhood’ they were both born into. These thoughts only ever last for a moment before Zoro shakes his head, he prays, puts out an offering to any nearby altars or makes one if none are available - an apology for speculating about the deceased, but most importantly his friend.

Nothing like that mattered anymore.

Through hell, high water, and any two-bit god that dared stand in his way, Zoro would carve out what it meant to be a man - the World’s Greatest Swordsman - on his own terms.