Cosimo Galluzzi
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EXPECTATIONS
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Game Changer & Make Some Noise
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@getossvguru
sabrina, twenty six, she/her , ꨄ︎lim jaebeomꨄ︎
likes: kpop,anime,reading,video games,arts and crafts, pokemon, sanrio, cats
requests: open
✩ masterlist ✩ rules ✩ who i write for ✩ asks ✩
gojo x reader - "first kisses"
rengoku x reader - still undecided (open for suggestions!)
Hey There, Roomie
— After being set up on a bad date with Ushijima, he insists on walking you to your doorstep. Not wanting him to know where you live, you lead him to Iwaizumi’s apartment and pretend Iwaizumi is your roommate.
pairing: iwaizumi hajime x reader word count: 4.0k genre: college/university au, fluff warnings: mentions of drinking, language, secondhand embarrassment, suggestive comments at the end, oikawa is meddlesome, awkward but cute confessions™!!
a/n: ur bad date is with ushiwaka ok i’m sorry he’s a nice guy but i had to make it someone HDJSJS,, also this is based on real life events except my friend who lived in an apartment near me isn’t cute like iwa-chan :( LMAOOO i hope u enjoy reading!!! xx sof
「 hq masterlist 」
“I assure you, you don’t have to walk me to my apartment.”
“It’s not a bother. I insist.”
“No, it’s fine.” Although you tried to keep a smile on your face, you were certain it looked more like you were baring your teeth at him. “Really. You don’t have to do that.”
Ushijima shrugged. “I told you, it’s no big deal.”
Keep reading
CUTEE
athletic trainer and godzilla fan iwaizumi hajime !!
iwaizumi catches you talking behind his back ; fluff
iwaizumi was looking for his water bottle in the clubroom after a grueling three-hour practice. the gym was quiet, the rest of the team already in the showers, when he heard your voice through the open window of the adjacent equipment shed. you were talking to one of the first-year managers.
“i don’t know, i just like guys who are dependable. like… someone who works hard without bragging about it.”
“like iwaizumi-senpai?” the manager asked.
“yeah,” you murmured softly. “exactly like him. he’s really reliable. and his arms are… well, you know.”
outside, iwaizumi completely short-circuited. he dropped his gym bag with a loud, echoing clatter against the concrete porch. his dark eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and his face instantly turned a violent, agonizing shade of red under his dark bangs. he stood there like a statue, his heart hammering against his ribs so forcefully he was convinced the entire prefecture could hear it.
the shed door slid open immediately. you stepped out, holding a basket of volleyballs, and froze when you saw him standing there, looking like he had just witnessed a crime.
“iwaizumi!” you gasped, your own face burning. “how much of that did you hear?”
he cleared his throat, a loud, rough sound, his shoulders hunching up defensively as he slammed his hands into his tracksuit pockets. “the… the part about the arms,” he barked out defensively, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it down into a growl. he stepped right into your space, towering over you, his jaw set so tight a muscle was ticking. he looked terrifyingly intense, but his ears were glowing bright crimson. “if you want to talk about my arms, say it to my face. and… and i am dependable. i’ll walk you to the station every day from now on to prove it. so stop talking about me behind my back.”
n: for my beloved discord members, cs i’m outside rn lawl.. i can’t write fics ;(
© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.
iloveu
"This is getting ridiculous," you exclaim desperately, practically slamming your phone down on the sofa, screen first. It feels as if your social media feed is trying to mock you, with every engagement, relationship, or wedding post popping up. Your face scrunches in disdain as you throw your head back on the headrest and turn it slightly to face your friend, complaining, "How come everyone is getting married and I can't even find someone who won't ghost me after two days?" Pausing slightly to gnaw on your lower lip anxiously, you finally whisper, "Be honest, am I that unlikable?"
"Don't be ridiculous, there is plenty to like about you!" they say, attempting to reassure you with a small smile. "Then why does no one want to date me?!" you shriek, hands coming up to cover your face.
"I do," they add in a whisper, hoping that you would not hear.
- black leg sanji, yamaguchi tadashi, kamo choso, amajiki tamaki, usopp, tomioka giyuu, kirstein jean, braun reiner, nanami kento, todoroki natsuo, your fave :)
𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 ♰ 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗢𝗪
© 01 𝄒 ka𝗶𝗷𝘂𝗻𝗼8 — ( '𝒾. ) 𝓝arumi 𝓖en
⠀❪ 杀 ❫ . system overheat — emergency reboot needed ! warnings : protective f!reader, bed-sharing (non-sexual), denial of feelings, hurt/comfort, mutual yearners.
❪ 杀 ❫ . before the ash settled — chapter one of my series ! warnings : childhood trauma & bereavement, underage military involvement, developing co-dependency, antisocial patterns.
❪ 杀 ❫ . a sovereign's leash — between deer and wolf ! warnings : power exchange, collar kink / ownership, size difference, breeding / fertile themes, praise, scenting, cum involvement, non-pushover f!reader, rough but consensual sex, overstimulation.
❪ 杀 ❫ . the eight-month rule — standalone you buried ! warnings : forced proximity, hurt/comfort, mutual pinning (aggressive), semi-public sex, fingering, praise/degradation elements, creampie, overstimulation (mild), clit-play.
𝟽:𝟹𝟼 𝙰𝙼
zoro x f!reader ; canonverse. suggestive + silly. — WC : 1.3k
Zoro presses a kiss against the back of your neck — sleep-filled, lazy, unhurried. The slow lull of morning washes over like the tide lapping at the shore.
There's no rush, only resting lovers' limbs that tangle beneath the sheets of his bunk, encased in cotton woven linens embroidered with little pink and green flowers.
He’s never been one to pursue love, opting to chase the unknown depths of his heart with the bottom of the bottle, numbing the ache that never faded away with the loss of who he once held dear.
But you could do what sake never could — heal.
It’s early enough that most of the crew still slumbers, the distant sounds of Sanji opening up the kitchen tickles his ear as the chef prepares the breakfast that kickstarts the day into high gear.
The swordsman is not concerned about that in the slightest, not when you’re safely tucked in his embrace with your head cradled by his bicep. The steady rise and fall of your chest soothes a part of his soul that he figured he lost long ago.
Zoro’s breath dances along the sensitive skin of your neck before he inhales, his muscles instantly relaxing at the familiarity of your scent.
His steel-lined heart lurches as soon as you stir, the flutter of your lashes tickle your cheek, wisps brushing silk.
“Morning.” Zoro gruffs out.
Sleep still steeps in his mind, drowsiness guiding his wandering lips to brush against the sensitive skin of where your jaw meets your ear.
hi can you do sanji we're he's like doubting himself because of his past like about his family so when reader flirt back with him he get all shy then when the reader confess he push the reader away think his not good enough ( its up to of good ending or sad hehehe)
UNEXPECTED
Sanji x fem!reader | angst | self-doubt | Vinsmoke trauma | flirty reader | mutual pining | push-away moment | emotional confession | soft resolution | One Piece Live Action | 1.9k words
Sanji had always been easy.
Not in the way people thought—careless or shallow or fleeting—but in the way he made things feel easy. Words came to him like second nature, compliments sliding from his tongue smoother than silk, eyes always warm, always attentive, always ready to make someone feel like the most important person in the room. It was a skill, yes, but also something more instinctive than that. Something he had built carefully, deliberately, until it became part of him.
So when you started flirting back, he didn’t know what to do with it.
At first, it was subtle.
A smile held a second too long. A comment returned with just enough bite to make him pause. The way you leaned a little closer when he spoke, like you were letting him in on something private instead of simply humoring him the way most people did.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Sanji noticed everything about you.
But he told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just you being kind, or playful, or matching his energy the way people often did without understanding the effect it had. He had seen it before—his flirting reflected back at him like light on water, pretty but shallow, gone as quickly as it came.
Except this wasn’t like that.
Because you didn’t laugh it off.
You held it.
The first time it truly caught him off guard was in the galley.
He had been cooking, sleeves rolled, the heat of the stove curling faintly into the air as he worked through something simple but careful, the kind of meal he made when the crew didn’t realize they needed comforting. You had wandered in quietly, leaning against the counter with your arms folded, watching him the way you sometimes did when you thought he wouldn’t notice.
He always noticed.
“Careful, darling,” he said without looking up, voice warm with practiced ease. “If you keep staring at me like that, I might begin to think you’re impressed.”
You didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, I am,” you said.
That wasn’t unusual.
What was unusual was the way you said it—steady, certain, not teasing your way out of it, not softening it into something dismissible.
Sanji’s knife paused mid-slice.
He glanced up.
You were still leaning there, still watching him, but there was something different in your expression. Something grounded. Intentional.
It made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.
He recovered quickly. He always did.
“Then I’m honored,” he said lightly, turning back to his work. “Though I fear my skills may pale in comparison to your expectations.”
You tilted your head, studying him like he was the one being examined now. “You think that?”
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “A lady like you must have standards.”
“I do.”
The words landed softly.
Sanji smiled faintly. “And yet here you are.”
You pushed off the counter then, stepping closer—not too close, not enough to startle, but enough that he could feel your presence at his side now, warm and real and impossible to ignore.
“Yes,” you said, voice quieter now. “I am.”
His breath caught.
Just slightly.
Enough that he had to look down at the cutting board again, though he had already finished slicing what he was working on. Enough that his usual rhythm slipped, his hands suddenly unsure of what to do next.
That didn’t happen.
Not to him.
Not like this.
You noticed.
Of course you did.
“Sanji,” you said gently, and there was no teasing in it at all.
That was worse.
He set the knife down.
Turned toward you fully.
Up close, you were—dangerous. Not in any physical sense, but in the way honesty could be. In the way you looked at him like you saw him, not just the version of himself he offered so freely to the world.
“What is it, my love?” he asked, but the words came out softer than intended, stripped of some of their usual shine.
You smiled just a little. “You get shy when I flirt back.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I assure you, I am perfectly—”
“You stopped breathing.”
He froze.
You watched him, not unkindly. Not mocking. Just… noticing.
“I didn’t think you could be flustered,” you added, almost to yourself. “It’s kind of cute.”
That did it.
Color rose faintly along his neck, up to the edge of his jaw.
Sanji turned away, reaching for something—anything—on the counter just to have something to do with his hands. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
He exhaled, sharper this time, and set whatever he had picked up back down with more care than necessary. When he looked at you again, there was something tighter in his expression. Something guarded.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said.
Your brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Play along with me.”
Your confusion deepened. “I’m not playing.”
The words settled between you.
Sanji felt them like a weight.
For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw and uncertain and far too close to hope.
Then it disappeared.
“You should be careful,” he said instead, voice lower now, steadier but colder at the edges. “I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.”
“Misunderstand what?”
He held your gaze.
“This is what I do,” he said. “It’s… part of the charm, isn’t it? Flirting, compliments—making people feel good for a moment.”
Your stomach dropped.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It is,” he insisted, more firmly now, like he needed it to be true. “And I wouldn’t want you thinking it’s anything more than that.”
You stared at him.
For the first time since this had started, something in your expression shifted—not soft, not amused, but hurt.
“Sanji,” you said quietly, “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then don’t talk to me like I don’t know what I’m feeling.”
He flinched.
It was small. Quick. But you saw it.
“I’m saying,” he tried again, more carefully now, “that it’s easy to get caught up in things that aren’t… real.”
Your voice sharpened. “This is real to me.”
Silence.
The words hung there, heavy and undeniable.
Sanji’s chest tightened painfully.
Because that—that—was exactly what he had been afraid of.
You took a breath, steadied yourself, and stepped closer again despite the way he had begun to pull back.
“I like you,” you said.
There it was.
Simple. Honest. No room to twist it into something else.
“I have for a while,” you continued, softer now but no less certain. “And I thought maybe—”
“Don’t.”
The word came out too quickly.
Too sharp.
You stopped.
Sanji had taken a step back without realizing it, like distance alone could protect you from what he was about to say—or protect him.
“Don’t do that,” he said again, quieter now but no less firm. “Please.”
Your throat tightened. “Why?”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since you had met him, there was no charm in it. No smoothness. No practiced ease.
Just something raw and deeply, painfully human.
“Because you deserve better than me.”
The words hit harder than anything else he could have said.
You blinked. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“It is if I’m the one you’re choosing.”
“I am.”
His jaw clenched.
“You don’t know what you’re choosing.”
“Then tell me.”
He laughed once, bitter and quiet. “You wouldn’t like it.”
“Try me.”
Sanji looked away.
For a moment, it seemed like he might say nothing at all. That he might retreat back into himself, into the version of him that kept things light and distant and safe.
But something in your voice—steady, stubborn, unwilling to let him dismiss himself so easily—caught him.
“I wasn’t exactly raised to be… this,” he said at last, gesturing vaguely to himself. “The charming cook. The man who knows how to treat people kindly.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“My family,” he continued, the word heavy in his mouth, “they didn’t believe in kindness. Or weakness. Or anything that made a person… human.”
Your chest ached.
Sanji let out a slow breath, like he was forcing the rest of it out before he could change his mind.
“I wasn’t like them,” he said. “And they made sure I knew exactly how much that made me worth.”
Your hands curled at your sides.
“They hurt you.”
It wasn’t a question.
He smiled faintly, humorless. “That’s one way to put it.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time.
“And you think that makes you unlovable?” you asked, voice softer now but no less firm.
“I think it makes me someone who doesn’t get to pretend I’m… enough for someone like you.”
Something in you snapped at that.
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said, stepping forward again, closing the space he had tried to create. “You don’t get to take my feelings and reduce them to something convenient for your self-pity.”
His head jerked slightly at that.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you cut in. “You’re pushing me away because it’s easier than believing someone could actually want you. Not the version you show everyone else. You.”
He stared at you.
You could see the conflict there, the way your words hit something he had spent years trying to bury under charm and distance and careful, practiced affection that never asked for anything in return.
“I do want you,” you said, softer now, but no less certain. “And if you don’t want me back, that’s your choice. But don’t stand there and tell me I’m wrong for feeling it.”
The room felt too small.
Too full.
Sanji swallowed hard.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, like it cost him something to do it, he stepped forward again.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
“You make it very difficult,” he murmured.
“Good.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him, shaky at the edges.
“You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate like this.”
“I deserve to choose for myself.”
He met your eyes again.
And this time, he didn’t look away.
“Then choose carefully,” he said quietly.
“I already did.”
The space between you felt charged now, the air thick with everything unsaid and everything finally, impossibly spoken.
Sanji hesitated only a moment longer.
Then he reached for you.
His hand found yours first, fingers curling around yours like he needed to make sure you were real. His other hand came up more slowly, hovering for a second near your face before finally, gently, resting there.
“You’re dangerous,” he said softly.
You smiled just a little. “You’re just scared.”
“Terrified,” he admitted.
“Good,” you said again, softer this time.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t overwhelming.
It was warm, and certain, and real in a way that made his chest ache for entirely different reasons now. For a second, he didn’t move at all—like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he reacted too quickly.
Then his hand tightened at your cheek, and he kissed you back.
Carefully.
Like something precious.
Like something he still wasn’t entirely sure he deserved—but wanted anyway.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, breath uneven in a way that had nothing to do with injury this time.
“I’m still going to doubt this,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I might say something stupid again.”
“You probably will.”
He huffed a soft laugh.
“And you’ll stay?”
You squeezed his hand. “Yeah. I will.”
That seemed to settle something in him.
Not completely.
Maybe not ever completely.
But enough.
Enough for now.
And for Sanji, that was a start.
found this on twitter and yeah — while a part of me is convinced this one’s a bot, unfortunately there are people who actually leave this kind of comment on writers’ works — this and the ai witch hunt are the exact reasons more and more writers stop sharing their works. the level of entitlement to be walking inside someone’s house, after they were kind enough to let you in, and then starting to criticize the way they decorate their rooms when you can just quietly leave if you don’t have anything nice to say.
fanfics are something writers do for themselves. we don’t get paid for it. we write whatever makes us happy for our own enjoyment. if you dislike it, that’s cool. quietly exit the fic and find something else to read. or better yet, write it yourself.
you as a reader are not our customer. we don’t write for you. we don’t write to please you. we just give you the privilege of reading our works for free. whether or not you’ll read it, whether or not you’ll like it, is not our business. but you are rude and entitled to be criticizing fanfics like it’s something you paid for and not a gift people were kind enough to give. if we want constructive criticism, we will ask for one. if we didn’t ask, stay quiet if you don’t have anything nice to say.
not to mention, more often than not, your constructive criticism is never really a constructive criticism but what you personally want to read. keep this up and eventually there will be no fanfics for you to read because no one wants to share their works for free anymore if people will just be this rude and entitled.
BE KIND AND RESPECTFUL TO FANFIC WRITERS AND FAN ARTISTS OR BE QUIET.
Hands that wander
navigation ☆ | request ★
pairing: Sanji x reader
summary: You're the kind of person who touches everyone — hugs, hand-holds, leaning on friends like it's nothing. Sanji watches from the sidelines, burning with jealousy, because when you touch him, it means everything.
WARNINGS: kinda smut ??
a/n: I've tried to do something +18, but it's not too explicit <3
Sanji had always considered himself a patient man.
He had to be. Cooking required precision, timing, the ability to stand over a hot stove for hours without losing his temper. He'd waited for dough to rise, for sauces to reduce, for the perfect moment to plate a dish. Waiting, he'd learned, was a skill. But nothing, nothing, had tested his patience like you.
The first time he noticed it, you were greeting Luffy.
Nothing unusual about that. Luffy was always being greeted. But you didn't just say hello. You threw your arms around his shoulders and pressed your cheek to his straw hat and laughed like you hadn't seen him in years, even though it had been maybe twenty minutes.
Sanji watched from the galley door, cigarette halfway to his lips.
Affectionate, he thought. Nothing wrong with that.
Then, you were sitting next to Usopp on the deck, listening to one of his stories. At some point, you'd leaned your head against his shoulder and hooked your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Usopp turned pink. Kept talking, but turned pink. Sanji's grip on his coffee mug tightened. Friends, he told himself. Just friends.
By the fifth time, he'd lost count. You held Nami's hand while walking through town. You draped yourself over Chopper's tiny back like a blanket. You sat so close to Zoro on the bench that your knees touched, and Zoro — Zoro, who didn't let anyone near him — didn't even flinch.
Sanji wanted to scream. He wasn't jealous. He was just... confused. Because you touched everyone like it meant nothing. Like pressing your body against theirs was as casual as breathing. And he couldn't figure out if that meant it actually meant nothing, or if it meant everything, or if he was losing his mind entirely.
Probably the last one.
"You're staring," Nami said, not looking up from her book.
"I'm observing."
"You're glaring. There's a difference."
Sanji took a long drag of his cigarette and didn't answer.
Across the deck, you were helping Zoro wrap his wrist — some training injury, nothing serious. But your fingers were lingering. You were standing close. You were saying something that made Zoro's mouth twitch in that half-smile he never gave anyone.
Sanji crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary.
"Jealousy is unbecoming," Nami murmured.
"I'm not jealous."
"You're practically smoking."
"I'm always smoking."
Nami turned a page. "Mm."
The worst part was that you didn't seem to notice.
You treated Sanji the same as everyone else — which meant you touched him too. A hand on his arm when you thanked him for dinner. A brief hug when he brought you tea. Your shoulder pressed against his when you sat next to him at the table.
It drove him insane.
Because when you touched him, he felt it. Everywhere. In his chest, in his stomach, in the spaces between his ribs where he'd thought he'd built walls. Your casual affection hit him like a punch each time, and you didn't even realize.
You'd pull away, smiling, already reaching for someone else.
And Sanji would stand there, heart hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
It came to a head on a quiet night.
The crew was scattered across the deck, recovering from a long week. Usopp was showing you something — a new gadget, maybe, or a drawing — and you were leaning over his shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his neck, laughing at something he said.
Sanji walked past with a tray of empty cups. He didn't mean to stop. He didn't mean to stare.
But your fingers were tangled in Usopp's hair now, absent and gentle, and Usopp was leaning into the touch like a cat being pet, and something in Sanji's chest cracked clean in half.
He set the tray down harder than intended.
You looked up.
"Sanji? You okay?"
"Fine," he said, voice tighter than he wanted. "Just tired."
He walked to the galley before you could respond.
You found him there ten minutes later, standing at the counter with his back to the door, not cooking anything.
"Sanji."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're not." Your footsteps crossed the floor. "You've been weird all week."
He didn't turn around. Couldn't. Because if he turned around, he'd see your face, and if he saw your face, he'd say something he couldn't take back.
"Sanji." Your hand landed on his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Casual.
He flinched.
You pulled back like you'd been burned.
"Did I —" You stopped. Started again. "Did I do something wrong?"
He closed his eyes. "No."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
Because if I look at you, I'll fall apart.
He didn't say that.
Instead, he turned. Slowly. Carefully. And found you standing there with your arms wrapped around yourself — a posture he'd never seen before. Closed off. Uncertain.
You looked smaller without your hands reaching for someone.
"Sanji," you said quietly, "talk to me."
He ran a hand through his hair. Lit a cigarette he didn't want. Let the smoke fill his lungs before he spoke.
"You touch everyone," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"Everyone. Luffy, Nami, Usopp, Zoro, Chopper. You touch all of them. All the time."
Your brow furrowed. "Yes? That's... that's just how I am. I've always been like that."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
He looked at you. At the confusion on your face, the genuine bewilderment. You really didn't know. You had no idea what you did to him every time your fingers brushed his arm, every time you leaned into his space, every time you smiled at him like he was just another person in a long line of people you touched.
The problem, he realized, was that he didn't want to be just another person.
"I can't," he said.
"Can't what?"
"I can't be one of many."
The words hung in the air between you.
You stared at him. Your arms tightened around yourself.
"What are you saying?" you asked.
Sanji took a long drag of his cigarette. Exhaled. Let the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a question he didn't know how to ask.
"I'm saying," he said quietly, "that when you touch me, it means something. To me. And I don't think it means the same thing to you."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Sanji —"
"You don't have to explain." He held up a hand. "I'm not asking you to change. I'm not asking for anything. I just... needed you to know. Why I've been weird."
He turned back to the counter, pretending to organize something, giving you an out.
You didn't take it.
Your hand landed on his back.
Not casual this time. Not absent. Deliberate. Your palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, warm through his shirt, and Sanji went absolutely still.
"That's not true," you said.
He didn't turn around. "What?"
"You said it doesn't mean the same thing to me." Your finger moved in small circles against his back. "That's not true."
His heart stopped.
"Then what does it mean?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
You were quiet for a moment. Your finger kept moving.
"I don't know," you admitted. "But it's not nothing."
Sanji turned.
You were close. Closer than he'd realized. Your hand was still on his back, and your face was tilted up toward his, and your eyes were wide and honest and scared in a way he'd never seen before.
"I touch everyone," you said slowly, "because I like making people feel seen. Cared for. That's all. It doesn't mean anything romantic."
"I know."
"But when I touch you —" You stopped. Swallowed. "When I touch you, I have to think about it first. Because it feels different. And I don't know what to do with that."
Sanji forgot how to breathe.
"Different how?" he asked.
You looked down at your hand on his back. Then back up at his face.
"Different like..." You stepped closer. Your chest almost touched his. Your hand slid from his back to his chest, fingers spreading over his heart. "Like this."
His breath caught.
Your palm was flat against his sternum now, and you could feel everything — the hammering of his pulse, the way his ribs expanded with each shallow breath, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Your heart is racing," you murmured.
"You're not helping."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "I'm not trying to help."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
You didn't answer with words.
Instead, your other hand came up to his chest. Both palms pressed flat now, fingers splayed, like you were trying to feel all of him at once. Sanji's hands stayed frozen at his sides. He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
"Touch me back," you said.
"What?"
"You heard me." Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer. "You've been watching me touch everyone for weeks. Now I'm asking you to touch me."
His control snapped.
One hand came up to your waist. The other cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He didn't pull you roughly — just enough to tilt your face up, to make you look at him.
"You have no idea," he said, voice low, "what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
He didn't kiss you.
Instead, he walked you backward until your hips hit the counter. His body pressed against yours, caging you in, and his hands — those hands you'd watched chop vegetables and knead dough and plate meals with such care — slid down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of you through your clothes.
Your breath hitched.
"Still want me to touch you?" he asked, mouth hovering near your ear.
"Yes."
His hands settled on your hips. Squeezed. Pulled you forward until there was no space left between you.
"Like this?"
Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Yes."
His thumb traced the waistband of your pants, just barely slipping underneath. Just enough to make you want more.
"Or like this?"
"Sanji —"
"Tell me." His lips brushed the corner of your jaw. "Tell me what you want."
You turned your head. Caught his mouth with yours.
The kiss was nothing like his usual charm. No smoothness, no performance. Just hunger. His hand tightened on your hip. Your fingers fisted in his hair. He tasted like smoke and something sweet — honey, maybe, or the dessert he'd been baking earlier.
You bit his lower lip.
He groaned — low, raw, desperate — and pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes were dark. His lips were parted. His chest was heaving.
"You," he said, voice wrecked. "I want you. Not like everyone else. Not casual. Not friendly." He pressed his forehead to yours. "You. Only you."
Your heart swelled until it hurt.
"I'm right here," you whispered.
He kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hands spread across your back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
You weren't going anywhere.
Later — much later — you sat on the counter with a glass of water, watching Sanji clean the kitchen he'd definitely not been cleaning earlier.
His shirt was wrinkled. His hair was a mess. There was a mark on his neck that you'd put there.
He looked happier than you'd ever seen him.
"So," you said, swinging your legs. "Still jealous of Usopp?"
Sanji threw a dish towel at your face.
You caught it, laughing.
"Shut up," he said, but he was smiling.
You reached out and grabbed his hand. Pulled him between your knees. Wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed your cheek to his chest.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"For telling me. For waiting. For —" You gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the two of you, at everything. "This."
His arms came around you. Tight. Secure.
"I'd wait forever," he said into your hair. "For you. I'd wait forever."
You held on. For the first time, when you touched him, you didn't reach for anyone else.
— Hermann Hess
He's Kind of Cute.
ღ summary: Your (not so) quiet crush on Sanji through Nami’s eyes
ღ pairing: Sanji x fem!reader
ღ warnings: Disgusting(ly bad) flirting :D not an established relationship but they act like a couple anyway! reader with long-ish hairr, she's chalant af
Nami finds out about your crush on Sanji during girls night.
You don’t know what was better, when no one knew about this thing you had for him, or having your best friend aware, which meant that you finally had someone else to rave on about Sanji and everything that he is.
She calls you “lame”, but the truth is that you are helpless.
Kiss for Good Luck
Sanji x fem!reader | pre-battle tension | kiss for luck | bold flirting | mutual pining | dangerous mission | suave Sanji | “lady’s blessing” | almost-confession vibes | One Piece Live Action | 4.2k words
The island looked wrong from the moment it came into view.
Too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet either. Not sleepy harbor silence or the distant hush of a town settling in for evening. This was the sort of quiet that pressed against the skin. Watchful. Waiting.
Even Luffy noticed, which was saying something.
By the time the Going Merry was anchored in the shadow of the cliffs and the crew had gathered on deck to plan their next move, the air itself felt sharpened. Nami stood over the map with a crease between her brows. Zoro had all three swords within easy reach. Usopp was pretending he wasn’t nervous, which mostly meant he was talking too much. Chopper kept glancing between all of you like he could diagnose the tension if he looked at it hard enough.
And Sanji—Sanji was leaning against the railing like this was any other afternoon.
One ankle crossed over the other, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cigarette balanced between elegant fingers, blond hair stirring in the sea wind. If anyone didn’t know him, they might have thought he was relaxed. Effortless. Untouched by the unease hanging over the ship.
You knew better.
You saw it in the stillness beneath his smile.
Sanji only got that smooth when things were dangerous.
“The patrol rotates every fifteen minutes,” Nami said, tapping the map. “If we time it right, we can get into the compound before they realize we’re there.”
“And then?” Usopp asked.
“Then,” Zoro said dryly, “we improvise.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“That’s always the plan,” Sanji murmured.
Luffy grinned. “I like that plan.”
“Of course you do,” Nami muttered.
₊˚⊹ My love, my life !
⊹ vinsmoke sanji
⊹ you swore to yourself sanji's advances were a collective experience—his yearning for you is never something he'd give others.
⊹ fem!reader, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, sanji is a lover boy, sanji briefly "flirts" with someone else, use of pet-names, mentions of sanji smoking
There’s an odd, melancholic feeling that stems from watching Sanji flirt with other women.
The feeling isn’t jealousy or anger, no, as you know deep down that he truly cannot help it. It’s in his nature. Sanji is a giver that understands his obligation to show kindness and sincerity to the women he meets.
The feeling, rather, is a pit at the bottom of the stomach, like someone gets before performing. It comes in a sense of dread when Sanji meets a woman to fluster. It comes when Sanji winks Nami’s way, or bows to Robin after serving her favorite dish. It comes when he catches you looking his way too long, forcing you to look elsewhere.
That said, it doesn’t make the feeling go away. You aren’t a couple, that much is apparent. You had declared to yourself that your focus should be on getting your biggest desire, not on the blonde cook.
The hood of his admittedly rather beaten down Honda was still warm beneath his fingers, a small comfort to ease the nervous beating of his heart. He knows his eyes should be on the sight before him; after all, it wasn't an everyday occurrence he got to see a sunset this lovely. But he really couldn't help the wandering of his eyes—not that he really tried, not when the sight beside him was so much more breathtaking than any sunset could ever be.
"You're staring, Hajime." There wasn't a hint of reproach in your voice, nothing but amusement and perhaps a bit of nervousness to be found.
"Am I more interesting to you than that sunset?" you continued, your eyes finally looking at the lovestruck boy beside you. Usually, Iwaizumi wasn't one to let his emotions get the better of him, opting to handle situations with as much rationale as possible. In that very moment, though, with the sun fading in the distance, the last of its light illuminating your face in a way that had any remaining trace of his logic dissolve in an instant, he figured letting his emotions deal with it—just this once—wouldn't be such a bad idea. Softly, with a hint of hesitancy, his left hand moved to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb tenderly caressing the velvety skin. If he noticed the rapid beating of your heart, he didn't mention it, and perhaps that was for the better; if he did, you wouldn't have been able to enjoy this moment for what it was.
"C-Can I kiss you?" he breathed, his lips so close to yours, you didn't even realize how close the two of you were until that very moment.Instead of answering him verbally, you placed your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer until you felt the soft pressure of his lips against yours.If letting his emotions flow freely meant this, then doing so every once in a while suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.
they get touya's obituary all wrong.
you read it on the train, the blur of the city whooshing past. you've been resisting this day, resisting the very idea that touya—dabi, you remind yourself, that's what everyone calls him now, ever since that video came out—probably wouldn't survive.
but it doesn't hurt any less to see the years he was alive stand so impersonally on your phone screen.
you dig the palm of your hand into an eyeball. tears form regardless, hot and fat, spilling down your cheeks and into the soft down of your scarf.
they don't mention that he used to leave out cans of food for the stray cats. he'd stand outside shaking the bag if one of them was late, hands on his hips like a disappointed mom.
there's nothing about how much he liked having his hair played with, that whenever he laid on your chest and you stopped fluffing it, he'd pull back and glare at you until you started again.
nothing about how he used to call you 'love' when he was tipsy, 'my darling' when he was drunk.
not a word about how sore of a loser he was in mario kart, or that he told you once that he'd like to be a really good dad.
"might be cool." you can still remember the sly glance he sent your way. "you know. if the world was different."
they get touya's obituary all wrong.
keiji liked being alone. as a child he often found solace in small spaces, things like closets or even his grandmother's kitchen cabinet. it was soothing, not having to hear the nagging voices of his parents, or the commotion during family gatherings.
in middle school, he often times found himself staying behind in the gym, watching his peers hitting away at volleyballs. it was in these moments, that he came to appreciate the steady rhythmn that came with the sport. before it had never been something that particularly stuck with him, he had other things to worry about, like school, parental responsibilties and the angst that came with becoming a teenager.
once he entered high school, his love for volleyball really grew. this time though, solitude had nothing to do with it. it was the screeching of his well worn shoes when he dashed across the court. the cheers of his fellow school mates every time one of them scored a point. but perhaps most of all, it was seeing your overjoyed face whenever he caught a tiny glimpse of you, clad in his spare jersey as you shouted his name from the stands.
