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Writer of one-shots & headcanons ♡ She/Her ♡ Requests open ♡ MDNI ♡ Obsessed with anime boys & girls ♡ LGBTQ+ friendly ♡ Soft & spicy content ♡ Your favorite fandoms + tropes ♡

[softlypossessive]

Knock, knock… your new fanfic dealer has arrived

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Welcome to SoftlyPossessive, a little corner of the internet where devotion knows no boundaries. Whether that’s soft, tender love or a darker, more obsessive side, I’m here to bring you the stories you crave.

If you're into fictional characters being obsessed with you—whether that’s through gentle touches, intense devotion, or love of all kinds—you’re definitely in the right place.

I’m a new writer who enjoys writing as a hobby, and I’m excited to share my love for these fandoms !

✧ What I Write ✧ — One Piece — BNHA — Haikyuu — JJK — Obey Me — Demon Slayer — ABO, yandere, angst, fluff, smut — WLW & MLM friendly—I write for all loves, genders, and orientations.

Requests: Open! Send me your ideas and let’s get started!

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Rules: — No minors—all characters are aged up. — Uncomfortable topics like scat, vomit, cheating, excessive gore/body horror won’t be included. — All x reader stories will be gender neutral, unless stated otherwise. — Trigger warnings will be at the top of each post, please read at your own discretion. — If you want specific traits/features or a gender for your request, please specify!

Feel free to send in your requests, ideas, or any questions you have! I’m always up for creating new content. Keep in mind, I’ll do my best to include the themes and characters you love most.

New here? Drop an ask, say hi, or reblog something so we can be mutuals. Now tell me—who’s your favorite anime husbando/waifu?

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Contagion 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intrusive thoughts, gore (?), violent impulses, intense psychological conflict, inappropriate touching (nonsexual but unsettling), power imbalance, emotional repression, Sukuna being a freak in denial lmao ♡ WC: ~800 ♡ Notes: Part two of Ordinary (you don’t have to read it first, but like... you totally should bc I’m cool and my fics slap). A single look becomes a single touch, and Sukuna spirals even harder. He’s angry, unhinged, and worst of all—he’s feeling. Proximity is breaking him, and he can’t stand how much he wants more. Part 3? Probably. I’m feral.

 𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The day had been dragging its feet, a dull smear of routine—training with Yuji, dodging curses, the usual grind. You’re in some abandoned warehouse now, the air thick with dust and the faint reek of mildew, sparring with the kid to keep his reflexes sharp. He’s mid-laugh, dodging a lazy punch you threw, when it happens. His grin freezes, eyes widening for a split second before they darken—brown bleeding into crimson, pupils sharpening to slits. The shift is instantaneous, like a light snuffed out, and the body in front of you isn’t Yuji’s anymore. It’s Sukuna’s.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just straightens up, rolling Yuji’s shoulders like he’s stretching into a new skin. His presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, and those red eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your pulse stutter. You should be scared—anyone else would be—but you just square your stance, chin up, watching him right back.

“Brat’s too soft with you,” he says, voice low, a growl threading through Yuji’s lighter tone. 

He steps closer, barefoot on the cracked concrete, and the air turns sharp, electric. 

“Lets you get away with too much.”

You tilt your head, unfazed. 

“And you’re here to fix that?”

His lips twitch, a snarl masquerading as a smirk, and he closes the distance in two strides, looming over you. 

He’s still in Yuji’s body, but it doesn’t feel like it—every move is too deliberate, too predatory, the way he tilts his head, the way his gaze rakes over you like he’s peeling back your skin. 

“I could snap your neck between two fingers,” he growls, one hand darting out, claw-tipped even in this borrowed form. 

His index finger hooks under your chin, tilting it up with a pressure that’s just shy of piercing flesh, the sharp edge grazing your pulse.

“Twist it right off and watch you flop like a broken doll.”

You don’t flinch. His breath is hot against your face, smelling faintly of copper and something darker, and you can feel the tremor in his grip—anger, maybe, or something worse. 

“But?” you prompt, voice steady, daring him to finish.

His eyes narrow, crimson flaring, and his claw stills, pressing harder for a heartbeat before he speaks again, quieter, rougher. 

“But I’d miss the way your voice sounds when you say my name.” 

The words slip out like a confession he didn’t mean to make, and his jaw tightens, teeth grinding as if he could bite them back.

Your lips part, a retort halfway there, but he moves first—his free hand brushing yours, accidental, just a graze of knuckles as he shifts his weight. It’s fleeting, barely a second, but the contact hits him like a jolt. 

Your skin is warm, too soft against the calloused edge of his borrowed flesh, and it sticks—clings to him like damp blood, seeping into his nerves. He freezes, eyes flicking to where your hands almost met, then back to your face. 

“Your skin…” he mutters, low and guttural, like he’s tasting the words. “Tch. Filthy.”

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t wipe his hand clean. His claws curl tight instead, digging into his own palm until black blood wells up, and you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—disgust, maybe, or hunger. 

He steps closer still, chest brushing yours, and for a split second, his other hand lifts—like he might touch you again, softer this time, trace the line of your jaw with something less than violence. But then his eyes widen, a snarl ripping out of him, and he snaps it back, fist clenching so hard the tendons creak. 

Like you burned him. 

Like he can’t trust himself.

“Why do you care?” he snaps, voice jagged, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, his breath ragged against your lips. 

“You look at me—him—like that, all soft and worried, and it’s fucking disgusting. Why?”

You don’t back down, meeting his glare head-on. 

“Why does it matter to you?”

He goes still, deadly quiet, and the warehouse feels smaller, the air thicker, like it’s pressing in around you both. His hand—the one that brushed yours—twitches at his side, and you’d swear he’s fighting the urge to grab you again, to dig those claws in and see if you’d break or bend. 

“You’re a plague,” he says finally, voice dropping to a hiss, but he doesn’t move away. 

Doesn’t retreat. Just stands there, too close, staring like he’s trying to carve you into his memory—or carve himself out of yours.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Later that night, when Yuji’s back in control, laughing off the spar like nothing happened, Sukuna’s silent. Buried deep in that shared skull, he’s seething, replaying that touch—the heat of your skin, the way it lingered, the way it branded him. 

He dreams of it, a fractured, furious haze of red light and soft flesh, your hand brushing his again and again until he wakes, claws tearing into Yuji’s sheets, black blood staining the fabric. 

He’s pissed—livid—at you, at himself, at the way that fleeting contact won’t leave his fucking fingers.

[softlypossessive]

Lately i've had on my mind Lev (haikyuu). I would love to read a model Lev x male actor reader, they met on a photshoot for a brand like ck and reader caught Lev attention (if it's possible smut and you can add your own plot to get to that part, with lev as the top) sorry if a made mistakes, english is not my first lenguage

♡･ﾟ𓏸  Flash, Lights 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Model!Lev Haiba x Male Actor!Reader ♡ Warnings: NSFW (18+), oral (receiving), rough sex, praise, voice kink, size kink, hair pulling, public risk (semi-public), dirty talk (some in Russian), possessive!Lev, handjobs, top!Lev, bottom!male reader, marking (light), slightly dom/sub vibes, aftercare, reader lowkey losing his mind over how hot Lev is (mood), slow burn into very fast burn, use of [Y/N] ♡ WC: ~4.2k ♡ Notes: Thank you for the prompt—it absolutely devoured me. This is my first Haikyuu fic on this blog, and also my first ever mxm smut, so please be gentle lol. I only meant to write a cheeky little one-shot but then I got carried away and now we’re 4.2k deep and sweating lmao. Russian cameos included because Lev forgets what language he’s speaking when he’s turned on :3 Hope you enjoy this fever dream of hot lights, tension, and absolutely unhinged chemistry.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The studio buzzed with the kind of controlled chaos you’d grown used to—assistants darting around like caffeinated wasps, lights humming as they flickered to life, and the sharp clack of a makeup artist’s brush hitting the counter. 

You leaned against a prop table, arms crossed, the crisp white button-up you’d worn to the gig still hanging loose over your frame. 

Today was a big one: a Calvin Klein-inspired underwear campaign, all sleek lines and bare skin, the kind of shoot that’d plaster your face—and a hell of a lot more—across billboards from Tokyo to Times Square. 

You’d done shirtless before. Hell, you’d done nude for that one artsy indie flick last year. Cameras didn’t faze you. People did. 

The call sheet had warned you about a co-star, some model fresh off a European runway, but you hadn’t recognized the name until the door swung open fifteen minutes late, and in he strode—Lev Haiba, all six-foot-six of him, a walking skyscraper with silver hair that caught the light like a damn halo. 

He was late, sure, but the way he moved—long legs eating up the floor, shoulders rolling with that lazy, model-off-duty swagger—made it clear he didn’t give a shit. 

A black hoodie hung off his frame, unzipped to show a sliver of pale, chiseled abs, and those green eyes, sharp as cut glass, flicked around the room before landing square on you. 

“Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath, gripping the table’s edge a little tighter. “God, please don’t make me pose with him shirtless.” 

“Alright, boys!” 

The photographer—a wiry guy named Kenji with a permanent vape cloud around his head—clapped his hands, voice cutting through the hum. 

“Wardrobe’s ready. Let’s get you stripped and styled.” 

Your stomach dropped as an assistant rolled a rack toward you, black briefs dangling from hangers like a minimalist’s wet dream. 

Matching sets, of course—low-rise briefs with a waistband that’d sit just below your hips, paired with a cropped jacket that’d leave your torso bare. Tasteful, sure, but a thirst trap all the same. 

You glanced at Lev, who was already peeling off his hoodie, revealing a chest so sculpted it looked like he’d been carved out of marble. 

He caught your eye mid-motion, smirking—a quick, lopsided flash of teeth—and you turned away fast, heat prickling up your neck. 

Wardrobe was a blur. You shed your shirt, stepped into the briefs, and shrugged on the jacket, the fabric cool against your skin. The mirror showed a guy who knew how to work a lens—sharp jaw, mussed hair, a body honed from years of fight choreography and late-night gym runs. 

You were ready. 

Or so you thought. 

“Positions!” Kenji barked, and you stepped onto the set—a stark white backdrop, lights blazing, the air thick with the scent of hairspray and hot metal. 

Lev was already there, towering beside you, his own jacket slung open, briefs clinging to his hips like they were painted on. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the lights, and those long, lean muscles flexed as he shifted, finding his mark. 

“Closer,” Kenji directed, waving a hand. “Chest to chest, let’s feel the heat.” 

You swallowed hard, stepping in. 

Lev’s shadow fell over you, his height forcing you to tilt your chin just to meet his gaze. He smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—maybe mint?—and his body heat rolled off him in waves, brushing your bare chest as you pressed closer. 

Your hands hovered, unsure where to land, until Kenji snapped, “Lev, hands on his waist. [Y/N], arms loose around his neck. Sell it.” 

Lev’s hands settled on your hips, fingers splayed, warm and firm, and you looped your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft silver hair at his nape. His grip tightened—just a fraction—and you felt the jolt of it low in your gut. 

The camera clicked, but all you could focus on was the way his breath hitched, barely audible, as your bodies pressed flush. 

“Good, good,” Kenji muttered, circling with the lens. “Lev, tilt your head down. [Y/N], look up—eyes locked.” 

You obeyed, lifting your gaze, and fuck—those green eyes were closer than you’d braced for, sharp and piercing, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer. 

His lips parted slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck, and then—then—he glanced down. Quick, deliberate, straight to your mouth. 

Your breath caught, and his fingers twitched against your waist, digging in like he was fighting the urge to pull you tighter. 

“Perfect,” Kenji called, oblivious to the tension coiling between you. “Hold that—give me longing, give me want.” 

Lev’s eyes flicked back to yours, and there it was—want, raw and unfiltered, simmering in that green stare. 

His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and you felt your pulse kick hard, heat pooling somewhere dangerous. You shifted, just enough to brush your chest against his, and his breath stuttered again, louder this time, a soft sound that made your skin prickle. 

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he murmured, so low only you could hear, his voice rougher than it’d been when he’d apologized for being late earlier. 

His thumbs traced slow circles against your hips, and you had to bite back a sound of your own. 

“Years of practice,” you shot back, keeping your tone light, but your hands tightened at his nape, fingers threading deeper into his hair. 

He leaned in—barely an inch, but enough that his nose brushed yours—and the camera clicked again, freezing the moment. 

“Alright, break!” Kenji yelled, and the spell snapped. 

Lev’s hands lingered a beat too long before dropping, and you stepped back, chest tight, trying to shake off the electric hum buzzing through you. 

He didn’t move, just stood there, watching you with that same damn look—half-flustered, half-predatory, like he was already imagining what came next. 

You turned away, grabbing a water bottle from the table, but you could feel his eyes on you still, burning a hole through your back. 

The shoot wasn’t over, but the real tension? That was just getting started. 

The studio’s pulse didn’t slow, even as the main shoot wrapped. Assistants scurried, dismantling lights and coiling cables, while Kenji barked at someone about lens filters. 

The air was still thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy. 

You stood under the harsh glare of a lingering spotlight, jacket slung over one shoulder, the black briefs still hugging your hips. Your chest glistened faintly from the sheen of sweat the shoot had worked up, and you were itching to hit the dressing room, peel off the wardrobe, and call it a day. But Kenji had other plans. 

“Oi, you two!” he called, waving you and Lev back to the set with that manic grin he got when inspiration struck. “One more setup—something softer, intimate. Think lovers, not strangers. Can you sell that?” 

You shot Lev a sidelong glance, expecting a quip or at least a smirk, but he just nodded, those green eyes flicking to you for a heartbeat before he looked away. 

His silver hair was mussed now, strands falling into his face, and his jacket hung open, showing off the long, lean lines of his torso. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fever dream, and it was doing things to your focus you didn’t want to admit. 

“Fine,” you said, tossing your jacket to an assistant and stepping back onto the set. 

The backdrop had shifted—less stark white, more moody gray, with a low bench draped in black velvet. Kenji gestured wildly, explaining the pose like it was high art. 

“[Y/N], you’re half on his lap—Lev, one hand on their waist, other arm braced behind. Close, like you’re stealing a moment.” 

Your stomach flipped, but you played it cool, smirking as you straddled the bench, one knee brushing Lev’s thigh as you settled in. He slid into place behind you, his hand finding your waist with a touch that was too warm, too deliberate. His fingers splayed wide, thumb grazing the bare skin just above your briefs, and you felt the heat of his chest radiating against your back. 

You leaned in, almost in his lap now, your shoulder pressed to his collarbone, and draped one arm lazily around his neck, fingers teasing the soft hair at his nape. 

“Closer,” Kenji muttered, circling with the camera. “Lev, tilt your head toward them. [Y/N], turn your face—cheek to cheek.” 

You shifted, your jaw brushing Lev’s, his breath warm against your ear. The stubble on his cheek grazed your skin, a faint rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. His hand tightened on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough to make you hyper-aware of every point of contact—his thigh against yours, his chest rising and falling, the faint cedar-mint scent of him wrapping around you like a vice. 

“You’re shaking,” Lev whispered, so low it barely carried, his lips close enough that you felt the words more than heard them. 

His voice wasn’t teasing—it was too intimate, too raw, like he’d noticed something you hadn’t even seen yourself. 

You forced a laugh, tilting your head to meet his gaze, your noses almost touching. 

“Cold in here,” you lied, keeping it light, but your voice came out rougher than you meant. 

His eyes didn’t buy it. They locked onto yours, green and piercing, stripping away the banter like it was tissue paper. His thumb traced another slow circle against your skin, and you swore he leaned in—just a fraction, just enough to make your pulse spike. 

“Bullshit,” he murmured, lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile, and you felt your face heat up, the cocky actor mask slipping under the weight of that stare. 

“Got it!” Kenji shouted, shattering the moment. 

“That’s a wrap—great work, both of you.” 

The crew erupted into motion, but Lev’s hand lingered, sliding off your waist with a reluctance you could feel. 

You stood, breaking the spell, and grabbed your water bottle, chugging it to drown the buzz in your veins. Lev stayed on the bench a beat longer, watching you, his expression unreadable but heavy with something that made your skin prickle. 

The dressing room was a cramped, fluorescent-lit box at the back of the studio, all concrete walls and chipped mirrors. 

You pushed through the door, Lev right behind you, his presence filling the space like he was twice his size. The air was cooler here, but it didn’t do shit to cut the tension. 

Your clothes were piled on a chair—jeans, a worn tee, your usual comfort gear—but you didn’t move for them yet. Instead, you leaned against the counter, catching your reflection in the mirror. 

You looked flushed, a little wild-eyed, and it pissed you off how much he’d gotten under your skin. 

Lev stripped off his jacket, tossing it onto a rack, and started unbuttoning the spare shirt he’d been handed for the last shot. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he knew you were watching. 

You caught his eyes in the mirror, and there it was again—that stare, green and unrelenting, raking over you like he was memorizing every inch. 

“You keep looking,” you said, turning to face him, arms crossed, voice sharp to cover the way your heart was hammering. “What’s the deal?” 

He paused, shirt half-open, a sliver of pale chest peeking through. His lips parted, then closed, like he was weighing his words. 

“Can’t help it,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. 

He stepped closer, closing the gap until he was right in front of you, so tall you had to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. 

You raised a brow, leaning into the challenge. 

“That your line for everyone?” 

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there, eyes darkening, his breath coming a little faster. 

“No,” he said, and the word hit like a punch, simple and heavy, no room for bullshit. 

The air crackled, the space between you shrinking until it felt like gravity was pulling you together. You could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the faint flush creeping down his neck. Your hands itched to do something—push him away, pull him closer, anything to break this fucking stalemate. 

“Stop looking, then,” you said, voice dropping, stepping right into his space, your chest brushing his. “And do something.” 

Lev’s eyes widened for a split second, like he hadn’t expected you to call his bluff. Then something snapped. He moved—fast, no hesitation—his hands grabbing your face, long fingers curling against your jaw as he kissed you. Hard. Hungry. His lips crashed into yours, all heat and desperation, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pressed himself closer, his body a wall of lean muscle pinning you to the counter. 

You kissed him back, just as fierce, one hand fisting in his open shirt, yanking him down to your level. He groaned into your mouth, a low, broken sound that sent heat pooling low in your gut. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, lifting you onto the counter with a strength that made your head spin. 

Your legs parted instinctively, and he stepped between them, kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that was filthy and perfect. 

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours. 

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand the inch of space between you. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been—fuck, you’re unreal.” 

You grinned, breathless, and grabbed his collar, pulling him back in. 

“Show me, then,” you said, voice rough with want, and that was all it took for the last of his restraint to burn away. 

Lev’s lips were a furnace against yours, all heat and hunger, his tongue plunging into your mouth with a ferocity that made your head spin. 

The dressing room counter dug into your lower back as he pressed himself closer, his massive frame caging you in, his hands—fuck, those hands—roaming like he couldn’t decide where to start. 

One gripped your hip, fingers bruising, while the other slid up your chest, shoving the cropped jacket aside to splay across your bare skin. His touch was electric, rough and warm, and you arched into it, grinding your hips against his, the friction of his briefs against yours sparking a low groan from deep in his throat. 

“Боже, ты такой горячий,” God, you're so hot, he muttered between kisses, the Russian rolling off his tongue like liquid sin, rough and guttural. 

You didn’t know what it meant—didn’t need to. The way he said it, voice wrecked and desperate, was enough to make your cock twitch against the thin fabric separating you. 

You pushed back, trying to keep the upper hand, one hand fisting in his open shirt to yank him down harder, the other sliding up his neck to tangle in that silver hair. But Lev wasn’t playing your game—he was rewriting it. 

His kisses turned sloppy, teeth scraping your bottom lip, his breath hot and ragged as he pressed his chest flush to yours, his heartbeat hammering through the thin layers of skin and cloth. 

Your shirt—or what was left of it—rode up, bunched under your arms, and Lev’s hand slipped beneath, palm flat against your stomach, tracing the lines of muscle like he was mapping you out. His fingers were long, calloused from God-knows-what, and they dipped lower, teasing the waistband of your briefs, making your breath hitch. 

“Fuck, Lev—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, but he didn’t stop, just chased your mouth with his, swallowing the sound like it was fuel. 

“Ты даже не представляешь,” You have no idea, he rasped pulling back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide. 

His lips were swollen, glistening with spit—yours, his, who fucking cared—and that cocky little smirk was starting to creep back, cutting through the haze of want. You were losing it, slipping under the sheer size and heat of him, and it pissed you off how much you liked it. 

Grinding harder, you rocked your hips into his, feeling the thick outline of his cock straining against his briefs, and he groaned again, louder, head tipping back for a split second before he snapped forward, kissing you so deep it felt like he was trying to crawl inside you. 

The counter wasn’t cutting it anymore. 

You shoved at his chest, and he stumbled back a step, just enough for you to slide off and spin him around, pushing him against the wall instead. 

The concrete was cool against your palms as you pinned him there, his back hitting it with a soft thud, and he let out a breathy laugh—half-surprised, half-turned-on—that made your blood burn. 

“Oh, you’re feisty,” he said, voice low, but his hands were back on you in an instant, one sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, the other tugging at your briefs like he was two seconds from ripping them off. 

You didn’t give him the chance. Hooking a leg around his thigh, you ground into him again, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes flutter shut, his mouth parting on a shaky exhale. 

His shirt hung open, a useless scrap of fabric framing that pale, sculpted chest, and you dragged your hands down it, nails catching on his skin just enough to leave faint red lines. He hissed, hips bucking into yours, and you could feel him—hard, throbbing, fucking desperate—and it was unraveling you faster than you’d admit. But then Lev shifted, and the dynamic flipped. 

He grabbed your wrists, spinning you both until your back slammed against the wall, the impact knocking a grunt out of you. 

He loomed over you, all height and heat, and before you could catch your breath, he dropped—slow, deliberate, sinking to his knees like a fucking predator playing at submission. 

His hands slid down your thighs as he went, gripping hard, and he kept his eyes locked on yours the whole way down, that green stare burning with something dark and filthy. You’d expected shy—some pretty-boy hesitation from a guy who looked like he’d been sculpted for magazine covers. 

What you got was ruin. 

Lev’s fingers hooked into your briefs, yanking them down in one smooth pull, the cool air hitting your cock before his breath did, warm and teasing as he leaned in close. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost reverent, and then his mouth was on you—lips wrapping around the tip, tongue flicking slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. 

Your head hit the wall, a low moan tearing out of you as he took you deeper, no hesitation, no warmup—just straight to the back of his throat, his nose brushing your skin. 

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in, spreading you wider as he bobbed his head, slow at first, then faster, wet and messy. 

The sounds were obscene—slick, sloppy, the faint gag when he pushed too far—and you couldn’t stop the way your hips jerked, fucking into his mouth as he groaned around you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. 

“Lev—shit—” His name spilled out of you, ragged and needy, and he pulled off just enough to look up, spit dripping down his chin, lips red and wrecked. 

“You sound better than the cameras,” he said, breathless, grinning like a bastard before diving back in, sucking harder, one hand sliding up to cup your balls, rolling them gently while his tongue did things that made your vision blur. 

Your hands found his hair, tugging hard, and he moaned around you, loud and shameless, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. 

He was relentless—throat tight, lips slick, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart—and you were, piece by fucking piece, every thrust of his mouth dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Fuck, Lev—don’t stop—” you gasped, and he didn’t, just hummed in response, the vibration pushing you right to the brink.

His tongue swirled, lips sucked, and those long fingers gripped your thighs so hard you’d have marks tomorrow. 

Your hips bucked, chasing the edge, and he groaned around you, the sound raw and filthy, vibrating through your cock until your knees nearly gave out. 

“Fuck—Lev—” you gasped, voice breaking, and he pulled off with a wet pop, green eyes glinting up at you, spit-slicked lips curling into a grin that was equal parts cocky and wrecked. 

“Какой ты вкусный…” You taste so fucking good he rasped, voice hoarse, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he stood, towering over you again. 

His chest heaved, shirt still hanging open, and his briefs were tented obscenely, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. 

You didn’t have time to catch your breath—he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the makeup table in the corner, its surface cluttered with brushes and half-empty water bottles. 

“Here,” he said, voice low and urgent, spinning you around so your chest hit the edge, hands bracing against the chipped wood. 

You barely registered the semi-privacy of it—the dressing room door was shut, sure, but the studio beyond still hummed with distant voices, the faint clatter of equipment being packed up. 

Lev didn’t care, and neither did you, not when his hands were on you again, yanking your briefs down to your ankles, leaving you bare and exposed. The cool air hit your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his palms as he pressed himself against your back, his cock—still trapped in his briefs—grinding against your ass. 

He started gentle, like he was testing the waters, one hand sliding up your spine to grip your shoulder, the other guiding himself as he freed his cock with a rustle of fabric. 

You felt it—thick, hot, the tip slick with precum—nudging against you, and he paused, breath ragged in your ear. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, a faint echo of that earlier softness, but then you moaned—low, involuntary, desperate—and it flipped something in him. 

“Fuck,” he growled, and gentle went out the window. 

He pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with a burn that made your jaw clench, but then you moaned again, louder, and he lost it. 

His hips snapped forward, burying himself deep, and you cried out, hands scrabbling at the table, knocking a bottle to the floor with a plastic clatter. 

“You looked so confident all day,” he panted, voice rough against your neck as he thrust again, harder, the table creaking under the force. “Now look at you—fuck, look at you.” 

Your elbows buckled, dropping you to all fours across the table, ass up, chest pressed to the cool wood as he fucked into you, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet him, and the wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, loud and shameless. 

“If I’d known you were like this,” he said, breath hitching as he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear, “I would’ve kissed you on set—fucked you right there in front of everyone.” 

You tried to stay quiet—bit your lip, muffled the sounds—but Lev wasn’t having it. One hand slid around, wrapping around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and you couldn’t hold back the moan that tore out of you, high and broken. 

“I want them to hear you,” he growled, voice dark, possessive, and he thrust harder, deeper, the table rocking with every move. “Let ‘em know who’s wrecking you.” 

Your vision blurred, pleasure coiling tight in your gut, and his hand sped up, slick with your precum, thumb swiping over the tip until you were shaking, gasping his name.

“Lev—fuck—Lev—” 

He groaned at that, a guttural sound, and his rhythm faltered, thrusts turning sloppy as he chased his own edge. 

“Shit—gonna—” he choked out, and then he was cuming, hot and thick inside you, his hips stuttering as he rode it out, hand still working you until you followed, spilling over his fingers with a cry that echoed off the concrete walls. 

He didn’t pull away immediately. 

His chest pressed to your back, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. Slowly, he eased out, a low hiss escaping him as he did, and you felt the drip of him—warm, messy—sliding down your thigh. 

He grabbed a stray towel from the table, wiping you down with a gentleness that felt almost absurd after what he’d just done, his hands steady now where they’d been frantic. 

“Ты в порядке, да?” he murmured, Russian soft and lilting, his lips brushing your shoulder as he pulled you upright, turning you to face him. 

“You’re okay?” 

You nodded, still catching your breath, and he smiled—soft, sheepish, the feral edge gone, replaced by something warm and disarming. His fingers brushed your jaw, then your sweat-damp hair, smoothing it back as he muttered more quiet words you didn’t understand.

“Так красиво, черт возьми,” So fucking beautiful his voice a low hum that settled something deep in your chest. 

You slumped against the table, legs shaky, and he didn’t let go, just held you there, one arm looped around your waist like he was afraid you’d bolt.

After a beat, you smirked, tilting your head to meet his gaze. 

“Next shoot,” you said, voice rough but steady, “we’re faking the chemistry a lot less.” 

Lev laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that cut through the haze, and leaned in to kiss you—slow, lazy, tasting of sweat and satisfaction. 

“Deal,” he said against your lips, and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you told him to.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

Hello! I hope you’ve been having a great day. I was wondering if I could request a strawhat x mute!reader. The reader has selective mutism, meaning she gets anxiety speaking to people in certain situations. When she does speak, which would be rare, it’s only when it’s just her and her crew. If she was in public she and had to say something she would whisper directly in their ear, otherwise she wouldn’t speak. The relationship could be either platonic or romantic, either is fine. I was wondering how would the strawhats react to their mute member being in a situation where pirates of a different crew surrounds and antagonizes her, trying to get her to speak to them. Also, may I ask that you not make the reader meek and defenseless? While she does feel anxiety when she’s in a situation where she has to speak to people, she’s not an overall anxious and docile person.

♡･ﾟ𓏸 All Strawhats x Selectively Mute!Reader Headcanons 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Usopp, Nami, Robin, Franky, Jinbe, Brook, Chopper, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, Soft protectiveness, mutual understanding, SFW, platonic, romantic if you squint?? mentions of selective mutism, quiet affirmations, crew-wide affection, no use of Y/N, ♡ Notes: Thank you so much for the request! I really hope I did it justice <3 I went with a full crew interpretation (since it’s SFW) and leaned into that strong, warm platonic love—though if you squint, a few bits might read a lil more intimate. But overall? This crew would go to war for you, no questions asked. Not spicy, just full of love and loyalty.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🍖 Luffy

At first, Luffy doesn’t get it.

“Why don’t you talk to them? Are they stupid?” (Yes, Luffy. Yes, they are.)

But the moment it clicks—that your silence isn’t a weakness but a boundary—he respects it with his whole chest

He never pressures you to speak. Like, ever. He doesn’t even notice you don’t talk half the time because he just vibes with your presence

You're still his crewmate, still part of the adventure, still cool as hell in his book

When you do whisper to him? Man lights up like a SUNRISE

“WAAAH YOU TALKED TO ME!!!”

Cue excitement. He treasures those moments

He absolutely throws hands if anyone tries to mock or push you into speaking.

No hesitation.

One second of antagonizing you = rubber punch to the jaw

Thinks your ability to stand silent and still in chaos is scary cool

"You don't need words to be strong. I can feel it. You're STRONG."

⚔️ Zoro

Completely unbothered by your silence—he’s not exactly chatty either

You two could sit in silence for three hours and that’s a perfect conversation to him

He clocks your selective mutism immediately and never asks questions you don’t want to answer

If you whisper something in his ear in public, he listens like it’s sacred scripture

He’s incredibly protective—not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he hates people who mistake quiet for easy prey

The moment someone tries to force words out of you? Zoro’s sword is already out

“You really think pressure makes people talk? Try bleeding first. Then we’ll compare notes.”

He absolutely respects that your silence is a form of control, not submission

Will stand at your shoulder like a silent wall of steel until you nod it’s okay to move

🍳 Sanji

Sanji is a soft king when it comes to your comfort

Doesn’t just “accept” your mutism—he adapts to it

Develops a whole love language around your silences: gestures, hand squeezes, looks, shared glances over food

If you whisper in his ear in public? He goes red every time no matter what you said

Treats your rare spoken words like poetry.

"Your voice... I could die happy now."

But if anyone dares try to “make you speak,” he’s fury on legs

“If you wanted a conversation, you should’ve kept your tongue attached.”

Elegant fury. Fires the first kick. Lights a cigarette after the last one drops

Thinks your silence adds to your mystique and honestly simps hard for it

“They don’t need to talk, idiot. They’re already unforgettable.”

🛠️ Usopp

Understands your selective mutism right away—relates through his own anxiety

Never makes it a big deal, just accepts it as part of who you are

Acts as your unofficial hype man 24/7

Narrates your silence like it’s legendary

“My friend here? Silent assassin. Writes poetry. Could kill you in three moves. Show some respect.”

Gets so excited whenever you whisper to him

“THEY SAID SOMETHING TO ME. PERSONALLY. ME.”

Makes little gadgets to help you communicate—flip signs, buttons, visual cues

If anyone mocks or pressures you to speak, he steps up immediately

Starts going off in a fiery, ridiculous, clearly-exaggerated monologue about how you’re a silent warrior who once stared down a sea king until it cried.

“You’re really gonna push someone who could take you out with one look?”

Absolutely nervous but still defends you—protective even when shaking

Later brags about it like he was chill the whole time

Thinks your silence is mysterious, heroic, and honestly? Very cool

🍊 Nami

Notices your mutism instantly and adjusts without missing a beat

Communicates with subtle cues: touch, eye contact, quiet words

Always leans in when you whisper, gives you her full attention

Becomes your translator in crowds, sharp and effective

“They said back off. Before I make you.”

If someone tries to force you to talk, she doesn’t hold back

Fights with sass, smarts, and no mercy—protects you because you’re strong, not in spite of it

Never treats you like a problem to fix

Calls your mutism a boundary, not a flaw

Gets genuinely touched when you whisper something soft to her

“Only the right people get to hear that voice.”

Thinks you’re powerful in your silence—deadly, beautiful, and fierce

📚 Robin

Understands without needing it explained—she’s lived through silence herself

Views your selective mutism as deliberate, powerful, elegant

You’re not “mute” to her—you’re discerning. And that makes you brilliant in her book.

She’s very observant.

Not only does she notice the exact kinds of situations that make you shut down, she preemptively handles them.

Like casually standing next to you in crowds. Leaning in so you can whisper without stress. Ordering your drink without being asked.

You two become silent duo queens, communicating entire conversations with eye contact and head tilts

But when you’re surrounded, alone, and pirates are sneering in your face?

One of them laughs, “They mute or just stupid?”

Six arms bloom from the stone walls and grab all of them by the throat.

Robin walks up, smiling politely.

“It seems you’re the stupid ones.”

She looks to you and tilts her head.

“Would you like me to break their arms or their egos?”

You murmur a single word

“Egos.”

She smiles wider.

Later, you slip her a note with a tiny sketch of her stepping on the pirate’s face. She folds it into her book like a pressed flower.

🔧 Franky

Thought you were just “cool and mysterious” at first—didn’t realize your silence was tied to selective mutism

When he does figure it out? Immediate SUPER™ respect

Doesn’t try to make you talk—just makes sure you always feel welcome in the workshop

Builds you custom tools or a gadget to help if you want to communicate in crowded places—only if you’re into it

“You don’t gotta say a thing, dude. You just being here is already awesome!”

Treats your rare spoken words like a backstage VIP pass

Will absolutely body block anyone who corners you or tries to force you to speak

If someone mocks you? Cue cyborg intimidation mode

“Real strength ain’t about talkin’. It’s about doin’. And you? You’ve got that in spades.”

Loves hearing you whisper in his ear in public.

Instantly salutes.

“COMMAND RECEIVED!!”

Thinks your silence adds mystery and badassery—he’s kind of obsessed tbh

“You’re like… like a silent laser beam! Precise! Lethal! SUPER!!”

🌊 Jinbe

Understands immediately—doesn’t need an explanation

Has deep emotional intelligence and respects boundaries like a king

Offers quiet companionship when you need it, never pressuring conversation

Has an entire repertoire of gentle nods and thoughtful glances for when words aren’t needed

If you whisper to him, he leans in with the patience of a mountain

“You do not need to speak to be heard.”

Would stand calmly beside you if you're being antagonized—silent, unmoving, radiating “Try me.” energy

If someone pushes you to talk? He won’t raise his voice—but he will command the entire room’s attention

“If your ears are so desperate for sound, perhaps you should listen to your own foolishness.”

He believes your silence holds weight—calls it “the stillness before a wave”

Deeply respects how you fight without words—calls it “an elegant form of strength”

Makes sure the crew understands your boundaries without ever making a fuss of it

Absolute guardian energy, with the soul of a poet

🎻 Brook

Surprisingly intuitive about your silence despite being loud himself

Doesn’t ask invasive questions—just rolls with it, happily filling silences with songs or stories

Makes gentle jokes to ease tension but always watches your cues

“Ah, you didn’t laugh out loud, but I saw that smile! Yohohoho!”

If you whisper something in public? Dramatic swoon every time

“A private word?! For me?! Oh my heart—wait, I don’t have one!! Yohoho!”

He absolutely writes songs about you—like full orchestral ballads of silent bravery

Believes your silence is poetic and meaningful

“Some voices are loudest without sound.”

If someone antagonizes you? Brook’s polite tone goes cold

“Your disrespect will not go unnoticed, even by one without eyes.”

cue chill-inducing violin chord

Protects you through unexpected intimidation—he’s goofy until he isn’t

Thinks your energy is ghostly and powerful in a way he deeply respects

Refers to you as “the whisper between storms” in one of his songs

🧸 Chopper

Soooo gentle and sweet with you from day one

Was nervous at first like

“Did I do something wrong? Why don’t they talk to me?”

But once he understands, he’s all in: brings you tea, sits nearby while you write, never pressures you

“You don’t have to talk. I still know you like me, right?”

Will make you little cue cards or cute picture communication tools if you want help in public

If you whisper to him, he melts.

“AHHH THEY TALKED TO ME! I MEAN—I’M COOL. I’M NORMAL.”

If someone bullies you or gets pushy?

Normally sweet Chopper goes feral mode

“BACK OFF! YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE HOW THEY TALK!”

Will patch you up after fights and praise how you held your own, even without words

“You’re one of the strongest people I know… You don’t even need a voice to be amazing!”

Lowkey keeps a medical log of when you speak or interact more—only to make sure you’re doing okay mentally

Feels extra close to you because you both were misunderstood at first

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were only gone five minutes.

Five minutes to run down the street and grab new ink, maybe peek into the bookstore. Five minutes away from the crew.

Apparently, that was enough.

They came out of nowhere—half a dozen rough-looking pirates, loud and posturing. One of them stepped in front of you as you turned to leave.

"Oi, sweetheart. Why so quiet?"

You didn’t respond.

"Too good to talk to us?" "Or maybe you think you're better?" "C’mon, just say hi." "We don’t bite… much.”

They leaned in. Circling. Testing.

You stared them down, face flat, spine straight, hand hovering near your weapon—but still, you said nothing. You didn’t owe them a damn word.

And that’s when the sound of boots hit the street behind you.

Not loud. Not rushed. But deliberate.

Zoro was the first. Leaning against the alley wall like he’d been there the whole time. He didn’t draw a sword. He didn’t need to.

Sanji stepped up next, cracking his knuckles with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. Smoke curled from the edge of his lips.

Nami lingered behind them, arms crossed, watching. Sharp gaze narrowed. Robin’s shadow moved just beside hers—subtle, but present. You could feel it.

And then there was Luffy.

No drama. No yelling. He just appeared beside you, hands in his pockets, staring straight at the loudest one.

They all paused, instincts kicking in. A shift in the air.

“…This your crew?” one of them asked, voice suddenly less cocky.

You leaned in close to Luffy’s ear, barely a breath.

"I didn’t need help."

He grinned. "I know."

Silence again. Until he tilted his head, smile gone now.

"I just didn’t like the way they talked to you."

That was it.

That was all it took.

The men backed off. Fast. No fight. Just the weight of the crew’s presence and Luffy’s quiet fury pressing down on them like a stormcloud. They knew better.

As they vanished down the street, Luffy turned to you, still smiling—loose and easy like nothing had happened.

You sighed and bumped your shoulder against his in thanks. He bumped back.

Zoro huffed a quiet breath, like he’d been hoping for action. Sanji smoothed his jacket, still glaring at the retreating pirates. Chopper poked your arm, worried, but you just gave him a nod.

The crew didn’t make a big deal of it.

No lectures. No questions.

Just a warm space carved out around you.

Safe. Quiet. Yours.

Because you didn’t need words for them to hear you.

And they didn’t need words to say “We’ve got your back.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Sleeping With Them (Literally) 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, comfort, implied bad dreams, physical affection, mutual pining?? maybe??, Levi being awkward™, clingy behavior, some light tsundere energy, protective vibes, some suggestiveness (Asmo’s default setting), Beel being The Best™ ♡ Notes: This was purely self-indulgent and born from a burst of insomnia and a deep need for sleepy demon boy comfort. No prompt, just vibes. Gender-neutral reader. Each brother reacts in his own sweet, awkward way—and yes, they’re all canonically clingy now. I don’t make the rules.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🕯️Lucifer

 You find him still awake in the dead of night, seated at his desk, lit only by the glow of a single lamp

He's reviewing RAD paperwork with the usual stoic focus, barely glancing up when you enter

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, a touch concerned despite the neutrality in his tone

You nod, murmuring something vague about a bad dream, and instead of brushing you off, he gestures silently to the small sofa by the window

You sit with your blanket in hand, intending just to be nearby, and he lets you—doesn’t press for details, just returns to his work

Somewhere between the quiet scratch of his pen and the rhythmic turn of pages, your eyes slip shut

When you wake, it's morning. You're not on the sofa. You’re in his bed

The covers are warm, tucked carefully around you, and the scent of his cologne clings faintly to the pillow

His coat hangs neatly over the chair beside you, a fresh cup of tea steaming on the nightstand

He’s nowhere in sight, but you have the distinct feeling he didn’t sleep—just quietly carried you to bed when he saw your head nod

No one says anything about it later, but you catch him watching you a little longer at breakfast that morning

The kind of watchfulness that says: next time, just come straight to me

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💰 Mammon

He’s already in bed, hair rumpled, one leg kicked out of the blanket like always

You knock quietly and peek in, mumbling that you can’t sleep

His eyes go wide, then he fumbles upright, totally alert

“Wha—? You okay? What happened? You hurt?”

You tell him it’s just a nightmare, nothing big

He softens immediately, scoots over, and pats the mattress beside him like it’s obvious

“C’mon. Ain’t no bad dreams gonna mess with you while I’m here.”

You lie down next to him and he tries so hard to play it cool—arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling

That lasts five seconds

He shifts closer like he’s not doing it on purpose, like you won't notice him curling toward you

When your hand brushes his by accident, he makes a strangled noise and goes stiff… then grabs it like it’s the most natural thing in the world

“Jus’ so ya don’t get cold,” he mutters, clearly blushing even in the dark

You fall asleep fast, wrapped up in warmth and the quiet muttering of “I gotcha, I’m here” under his breath

When you wake up, he’s out cold, drooling slightly, and clinging to you like a barnacle

You try to move. His grip tightens. You are not escaping

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🎮 Leviathan

You didn’t even mean to fall asleep

One second you were watching a cozy slice-of-life anime with him, head tipped against the beanbag, and the next, darkness

Levi notices right away

He panics internally. 

Like full-blown “I’m not equipped to deal with this cuteness” meltdown

But you look… comfortable. Peaceful. So he freezes in place

Slowly, carefully, he lowers the volume, gets up, and drapes his hoodie over your shoulders

He debates letting you stay there all night—but what if you get a crick in your neck? What if you wake up cold?

Eventually, he picks you up. Carries you. Cradles you like a rare body pillow

You don’t wake up

He tucks you into his bed, sets a Ruri-chan plush beside you for moral support, and flops onto the floor with a blanket and his headphones

When you wake up, it’s early morning. His lights are dimmed pink, the room is silent, and he’s snoring softly with a controller still in his hands

You stare at him for a long minute, heart aching a little at how sweet he looks like that

You don’t say anything when he wakes up an hour later, scrambling into an apology

You just smile and tell him you slept fine

He’s red for a full day

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

📚 Satan

He’s in his room reading, legs folded under him on the couch, a novel in one hand and a mug of tea in the other

You knock gently, eyes tired, and when he sees your face, he softens

“Bad dreams?” he asks, and there’s no teasing in it—just genuine concern

Without a word, he shifts to make space, patting the cushion beside him

You curl up with your blanket, shoulder brushing his, and he casually pulls another throw over both of you

He doesn’t say much, but his presence is calm, anchoring

Eventually your head tips against his arm and your breathing slows

He waits a few minutes to be sure you’re truly out, then sets his book aside and just… watches you

Not in a creepy way—just quietly fascinated by how peaceful you look, even after the nightmare

When you wake, you’re no longer on the couch—you’re in his bed, under soft sheets

The book he’d been reading is closed beside you, and there’s a little note tucked into the pages with your name on it

You keep it

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💅 Asmodeus

He’s brushing out his hair at his vanity when you show up at his door, looking rumpled and half-asleep

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he coos, spinning around in a silk robe

When you admit you couldn’t sleep, his whole demeanor changes—still sweet, but softer, more grounded

“Say no more. Come here.”

He leads you straight to his bed, the sheets cool and silky, the scent of his perfume already comforting

You curl up under the covers while he finishes his routine—face mask, lip balm, a quick spritz of sleep spray

Then he slips in beside you, warm and gentle, his arm draped loosely over your waist

He talks to you in low whispers about nothing important—pretty things, soft clothes, silly gossip—until your eyes close

The moment you drift off, he goes quiet, tucking your hair behind your ear and watching your face with a look so tender it almost doesn’t feel like Asmo

The next morning, you wake up to a kiss on the forehead and a softly sung “good morning, sleepyhead”

He never lets you forget how cute you looked curled up against him—but there’s something genuine in his voice when he adds,

“If you ever need me again, you know where I am.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🍔 Beelzebub

It starts with you falling asleep in the kitchen

You’d gone down for a late-night snack, found Beel already there eating cereal straight out of the box

He didn’t say much, just gave you a smile and pushed the box your way

You talked for a while, then leaned against the counter… then slumped onto the bench… and then lights out

Beel doesn’t wake you. Just watches you for a bit to make sure you’re really asleep

Then he scoops you up, careful like you’re made of glass

You wake up halfway through the walk to his room, tucked against his chest

“You looked tired,” he says simply. “You can sleep here tonight.”

His bed smells like vanilla protein powder and fresh laundry. He hands you one of his shirts as a sleep top. It’s comically large

Beel climbs into bed after you and stays on “his side” at first—very polite, very stiff, very big brother energy

But the second you roll toward him, drowsy and half-mumbling his name? He’s there

One arm around your waist, tucking you in close. His chin rests against the top of your head

“I’ll stay up a little longer to make sure the nightmare doesn’t come back,” he whispers

He’s asleep within five minutes

You wake up entirely under him. Full body weight. He's warm. You can't move. He looks peaceful. You stay there

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💤 Belphegor

You creep into the attic room after a nightmare, not expecting him to be awake

He is

Barely opens one eye, gives you a sleepy “What’s wrong?”

You whisper that you can’t sleep, and he lifts the covers without another word

No teasing, no drama—just the quiet shift of space being made for you

You crawl in beside him, the star-speckled canopy of the ceiling above you

His arms find your waist automatically. He’s already half-asleep again

“You’ll sleep better here,” he mumbles against your shoulder. “I always do”

 Within seconds, he’s out cold

But you’re not. Not yet

You lie there for a bit, warm and stunned, because his breathing is deep and even and his grip is loose but protective

 Eventually, you drift off

When you wake up, Belphie’s draped over you like a sleepy octopus, your legs tangled, his head tucked under your chin

“Don’t move,” he mumbles without opening his eyes

You don’t

You fall asleep again

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Ordinary 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intense internal conflict, mentions of gore (?),  intimidation, psychological tension, cursed domain imagery, emotional whiplash, unhealthy attachment, power imbalance ♡ WC: ~1k ♡ Notes: Just me spiraling at 3am about Sukuna being violently obsessed and absolutely not okay with it. This is unhinged yandere energy with a side of “why the hell do I care about this soft little human???” and I’m not sorry. Part 2 coming soon?

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

You are ordinary.

That’s the part that makes it worse.

If you were some grand sorcerer, veins pulsing with cursed energy, he could chalk this up to respect—or at least a worthy rivalry. If you were a scheming little shit, all sharp edges and venom, he could tell himself you’d sunk claws into him through sheer cunning. 

But you’re not. You’re nothing like that. 

You’re soft—too soft—skin unscarred, voice quiet, a fragile little mortal who smiles like the world isn’t a cesspit of blood and rot. You laugh at Yuji’s stupid jokes, look at that pink-haired idiot like he’s some kind of hero, and it makes Sukuna’s gut twist in ways he can’t stand.

He’s Ryomen Sukuna—king of curses, a walking slaughterhouse, a god among worms—and yet here he is, clawing at his own insides, trying to figure out why your existence gnaws at him like a starving dog.

He should crush it.

Crush you.

Rip that warmth out of his chest and grind it into the dirt where it belongs. He’s done worse for less.

But then you glance his way—just once, quick and unthinking, your eyes catching his through Yuji’s borrowed face—and the fury boiling in his bones goes quiet. Not gone, no, never gone—but warm, sickeningly so, like blood pooling under a fresh kill.

Shameful.

Unacceptable.

He wants to tear his own ribs out just to stop it.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The air shifts, heavy and wrong, like the world’s holding its breath. You blink, and the dim hum of your room melts away. The floor beneath your feet turns cold, slick, like polished stone kissed by damp rot.

Shadows stretch, curling up the walls, and the light twists into something red and bruised, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You’re not where you were.

You’re somewhere else.

A low chuckle rumbles through the space, deep enough to rattle your teeth.

Ahead, the darkness splits, and there he is—Sukuna, not Yuji’s watered-down shell, but the real thing. Four arms flexing, claws gleaming like obsidian, his true form sprawls across a throne of bones, all jagged edges and marrow-stained ivory. His eyes—four of them, crimson and unblinking—lock onto you, and the grin splitting his face is a slash of teeth, too wide, too sharp. The air stinks of iron and ash, thick with the weight of his presence, and your pulse kicks hard despite yourself.

This is his domain. A cursed pocket of reality carved out just for this—just for you. He leans forward, two hands braced on his knees, the other two crossed lazily over his chest, and tilts his head, pink hair spilling like liquid over his shoulders. 

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice a blade dragging across stone, “look what stumbled into my cage. Didn’t think you’d be this bold, little mortal.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t scream. Don’t even step back.

You just stand there, chin up, and ask—calm as if you’re ordering coffee—“What do you want?”

The question hits him like a slap. 

His grin falters, just for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing as if you’ve thrown something sharp at him. 

What does he want? 

He summoned you here to watch you squirm, to see that soft shell of yours shatter under the weight of his malice. He wanted you trembling, wide-eyed, begging for mercy he’d never give. But you’re not. You’re steady, voice even, looking at him like he’s not a nightmare made flesh. And it pisses him off more than he can stomach.

“Want?” he echoes, rising from the throne, each step a slow, deliberate thud that shakes the ground. 

He towers over you, close enough that you feel the heat rolling off him, the faint tang of blood and smoke clinging to his skin. 

“I want to rip that tongue out of your mouth for asking something so fucking stupid.” His claws flex, one hand lifting like he might just do it, but it hovers there, inches from your throat.

 He doesn’t move. Can’t.

You tilt your head, just slightly, and meet his gaze—four burning eyes against your two ordinary ones. 

“Then why don’t you?”

The silence that follows is deafening. 

His hand freezes, claws glinting in the red light, and something flickers in his face—confusion, rage, something uglier he can’t name. Inside, he’s screaming, a howling storm of violence and disgust tearing through him. 

Why doesn’t he? 

He’s gutted men for less, torn women apart for daring to breathe in his direction. You’re nothing—nobody—a speck of dust under his heel. So why is his chest tight, his blood thrumming with something that isn’t hate?

“You’re a disease,” he snarls, voice dropping low, venomous, but his hand falls back to his side, claws curling into a fist. “A weak, pathetic little plague I should’ve stamped out the second I saw you.” 

He steps closer, so close his breath brushes your face, hot and bitter. 

“But you keep looking at me like that—like I won’t—” He cuts off, teeth grinding, and you swear you see his jaw tremble, just for a second.

“Like you won’t what?” you press, soft but steady, and it’s the final crack. 

His control splinters. 

He doesn’t answer—just stares, eyes boring into you, a war raging behind them. He wants to kill you. He wants to touch you. He wants to claw that warmth out of you and keep it for himself, and the contradiction is eating him alive.

The domain trembles, a faint ripple, and then it’s gone. 

You’re back in your room, alone, the bulb flickering overhead like nothing happened. But you feel it—the weight of his gaze lingering, the ghost of his breath on your skin. 

He’s not done with you. 

Not even close.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

I’m so glad I stumbled onto your blog! I was wondering if I could request a monster trio headcanon for one piece. I was wondering how would they react to having a s/o on the crew whose role was to be the scribe? She basically set out to sea in hopes of writing the greatest adventure story and she joined the straw hats and decided to write out all of their adventures and stories. How would they value the work she did to ensure the straw hats story would live on? Would they ask her to also write about their blossoming “love story?”

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Monster Trio x Scribe!Reader Headcanon𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, gn!reader (with romantic s/o dynamics) ♡ Warnings: Fluff, supportive bfs, romantic tension, praise for your writing, mentions of legacy/storytelling, love story references, emotional softness, no use of Y/N ♡ Notes: Thank you for the lovely request!! I had so much fun writing this—soft, dream-chasing Strawhat energy is my JAM. This is romantic-coded, but still soft and cozy! These boys adore you and want the world to remember it ~~

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🍖Luffy

Luffy is beyond excited that someone is literally writing down his story

He lit up the first time you told him your dream

At first, he thought “scribe” just meant you liked books

When you explained your dream—telling the greatest adventure story ever so people stuck in small lives could feel free—something clicked

That’s what Gold Roger’s story did for him

He immediately declared that you were going to make people want to be pirates

He constantly interrupts your writing like “HEY! Did you write about the Sea King punch? What about when I kicked Crocodile’s butt?!”

He doesn’t always understand the full weight of what you’re doing, but he respects your dream because it’s yours

He takes it seriously because everyone supports his dream the same way

He’s very into the idea of his rise to Pirate King being written as a legendary tale

He wants people to read it and feel inspired, just like he did as a kid

He’s obsessed with your writing now—brings you snacks, peeks over your shoulder, and grins when he sees his name

He absolutely wants the love story included

Not because he’s super romantic—but because he thinks it’s cool and funny

“Make sure you write the part where I asked you out and you said yes really fast”

You did not say yes fast—he asked twice, but he swears he heard a yes the first time

He gets kind of serious when it comes to your place in his story

“You can put that part in too, right? That I love you? That we sail together?”

It’s not about the mushy stuff—it’s about you being part of the journey

“When I’m Pirate King, I want them to know you were there. You wrote it. That’s important.”

He says it so proudly—like he’s always known your name would be written in history beside his

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You're sprawled on the deck one evening, a gentle breeze stirring your pages. Luffy plops down beside you, upside down like a gremlin, head hanging over the edge of the bench.

“Whatcha writing?”

You smirk. “You.”

“Oooh!” He rolls over eagerly. “Read it to me!”

You hesitate for a second—because this part’s soft. It’s not about battles or meat or dreams. It’s… this:

“He laughs at the sky like it’s an old friend. He loves with the same wild heart he sails with—loud, boundless, impossible to hold. But if you’re lucky enough to be his, truly his, he makes you feel like you’ve already touched the sun.”

When you look up, Luffy’s staring at you wide-eyed. Then he beams—beams—like he’s never heard anything cooler in his life.

“That’s SO COOL!!! Write more! Write the part where I kissed you! And the part where I said I’d never leave you behind! That’s important too!”

He grabs your hand like it’s the anchor holding him to the ship.

“I want people to read that and want to fall in love on the sea.”

⚔️ Zoro

Zoro was confused at first—thought “scribe” was just a fancy word for someone who sat around reading books

Then he saw you scribbling after battle, muttering about footwork and blade arcs, and it clicked

He doesn't ask about your work directly but will silently glance over your shoulder now and then

Especially curious when he spots his name in the margins

One night, you were half-asleep at your desk, and he dropped off a sake cup with a quiet, “Don’t forget to write the part where I saved your ass”

The idea of a love story written about him makes him grumble

“Tch. What’s there to say? You like me. I like you. End of story.”

But later, you find your notes moved slightly and a new entry about Loguetown added—with perfect detail about how he looked at you when you were hurt

You didn’t write it—he did

Zoro doesn’t care about fame or legacy, but he cares because you care

You’ve caught him rereading entries about battles when he thinks you’re asleep

When he reads your writing about him—his resolve, his strength—he gets quiet

“That what you really see when you look at me?” he asked once

When you nodded, he didn’t say more, just trained harder that night

He pretends not to care about the romance stuff, but when you suggest keeping it private, he actually frowns

“Why wouldn’t you write it? It’s real, isn’t it?”

It’s not about the world knowing he’s in love—it’s about the world knowing you’re his

“Put it in the book. Make it clear.”

He won’t say ‘I love you’ out loud a hundred times—but he wants it written. Inked into history. Quiet. Permanent. True.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You find Zoro in the crow’s nest, dozing shirtless with a bottle beside him. Classic. You don’t mean to wake him—you’re just scribbling quietly in the corner—but he cracks an eye open anyway.

“You stalking me?” he grumbles.

You don’t reply. Just keep writing.

“…What are you saying about me this time?”

You smirk faintly. “Want me to read it?”

He shrugs, but the way he leans in says yes.

“He walks like the world owes him nothing. Like pain is just something to cut through. But he’s the one who stands between you and the storm, every time. Even if it kills him. Especially if it kills him. He doesn’t say he loves you. He just stays.”

You glance up. His brows are drawn, mouth tight, jaw working like he’s chewing on glass.

“…Tch.” He looks away, then back at you. “You’re gonna make me sound like some damn tragic hero.”

You shrug. “You kind of are.”

He takes your hand wordlessly, callused fingers curling around your pen-stained ones. Doesn’t say anything else. But you catch him rereading the entry later when he thinks you’re asleep.

🍳Sanji

Sanji is your biggest supporter—like, aggressively supportive

Brings you snacks, checks your wrist when it cramps, makes you tea or coffee without even asking

Fawns over every line you write like you’re the author of his heart (which you kinda are)

“Mon amour, your words will immortalize us! Should I pose for the cover illustration? Shirtless, of course—unless you prefer mystery~”

He’s completely enchanted by your dream to tell stories—especially their story

It’s romantic, meaningful, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world

Sometimes you catch him just… watching you while you write. Like the weight of it all hits him out of nowhere

“We’ll be gone someday,” he once said softly, cigarette glowing. “But your words won’t.”

He’s the most emotionally open about what your writing means

Will 100% beg you to read parts of it to him like a bedtime story

And when it comes to your love story? Oh he wants the whole thing

A novella-length subplot with kissing, longing glances, dramatic declarations—he’s all in

“Put in every moment,” he says one night, curled around you as you write

“Every glance, every word I said that made you blush, all of it.”

Not embarrassed at all—he wants the world to know how deeply he loved you

“I want people to read it and feel jealous,” he says with a crooked smile

“That they weren’t loved like I loved you.”

Flirty and ridiculous 80% of the time—“What are you saying about me now? Is it about my devastating charm? My noble soul?”

But that last 20%? Pure, sincere, overwhelming admiration

He knows you’re creating legacy—and he’s honored to be part of it

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Sanji catches you writing at the galley table, nibbling the end of your pen. You don’t even notice he’s there until he’s sliding a plate beside you.

“For the brilliant mind behind our legend,” he purrs.

You roll your eyes. “You wanna hear the part I wrote about you?”

He leans in immediately, chin propped on one hand. “More than I want air.”

You clear your throat, a little bashful now.

“He’s fire, but not just the kind that burns. He’s warmth, too. He’s the hand that feeds, the eyes that linger, the voice that sings when he thinks no one hears. He loves like he’s starved for it—like he wants to feed it back to you in spoonfuls until you’re full. And you’ll never convince him he deserves the same in return.”

Silence.

When you glance up, Sanji looks like he’s been slapped by Cupid and set on fire.

“…Mon dieu.”

His voice is thick. He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then your knuckles. Then your palm.

“You better publish that. I want the whole world to know exactly how ruined I am for you.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸  Demon Slayer Crushing HC  𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Tanjiro Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Inosuke Hashibira, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, comedic obsession, feral affection, dumb boy behavior, light possessiveness (Inosuke) ♡ Notes: Just some silly, sweet headcanons about the boys crushing so hard it’s embarrassing. I love them. That’s it. Hashiras next?

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🐉 Tanjiro Kamado 

He tries so hard to act normal around you but accidentally zones out when you’re talking because he’s just... staring at you

With sparkly puppy eyes

“Wait, sorry—could you say that again? You just… looked really peaceful for a second.”

Trains twice as hard after you compliment him once

“You’re really strong, Tanjiro!”

Now he’s fighting boulders in the rain like it’s a romantic training montage

When you’re sick or hurt, he goes into Big Brother Mode™

Becomes your unpaid live-in nurse

Brings you soup, tucks you in, will NOT let you lift a finger

Keeps trying to bake you things

He’s not very good at it, but he’s determined

One day he shows up with slightly burnt mochi and big hopeful eyes

“It’s not too hard, right? You can still chew it?”

Has 100% memorized the exact way you laugh

Hears it across camp and turns like a sunflower to the sun

Writes your name in the dirt with a stick and immediately blushes and erases it

But does it again the next day

One of the only people who listens when you talk about small stuff

“I like plum blossoms” you had said once absentmindedly

Two weeks later he hands you a hairpin carved from plum wood

Will not realize you like him back unless you spell it out

You could kiss him and he’d be like :3

“They must be really affectionate! Wait—”

The second you confirm you like him too?

He gets so flustered he almost forgets to breathe

Smiles so bright he practically glows

“I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re exhausted, a little scraped up, and trying to insist you’re fine. Tanjiro isn’t having it.

“No, sit. Please.” His brows are furrowed, voice gentle but firm as he presses a cool cloth to your forehead. “You always take care of everyone else. Let me do this.”

You try to argue, but he hushes you with a soft smile—barely there, but warm.

“I’ll feel better if you just rest,” he adds, almost shy. “And… I like being near you like this.”

Your heart skips. His ears go pink. And still, his hands are steady.

⚡ Zenitsu Agatsuma

Falls hard, fast, and dramatically.

Sees you once and is already crying under a tree writing your names together in the bark

Tries to make himself look cool when you’re around

Which means he’s striking weird poses and talking in an unnatural deep voice that immediately breaks into a squeak

Panics if you sit next to him

Like full-body tremble, face-bright-red

“Stay cool stay cool stay cool”

He definitely does not stay cool

Will fight a mountain if you say you’re cold

“I’LL FIND FIREWOOD! I’LL STEAL THE SUN IF I HAVE TO!!”

Writes love letters to you in his notebook

Never sends them

If you ever found them?

He would die

Literally disintegrate on the spot

Whenever you do something kind for him—tie a bandage, give him food—he goes silent and then bursts into tears

“YOU’RE SO NICE TO ME I’M NOT WORTHY”

Overanalyzes everything you do

“They touched my shoulder. That means we’re married, right?”

Surprisingly good at noticing when you’re down

Will act like a complete fool if it means he gets to hear you laugh

If you like him back?

You are his everything

He will cry

He will train harder

He will whisper about you to birds

“I’ll become someone worthy of them!”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re patching him up again—knees scuffed, robe ripped, crying about something and nothing. He sniffles, watching you wrap the bandage with careful fingers.

“You always treat me like I matter,” he whispers, voice wobbling. “Even when I’m a coward. Even when I mess up.”

You blink, and before you can answer, he grabs your hands in his.

“I’ll get stronger,” he swears. “For you. So I can protect you like you deserve.”

Then his nose starts bleeding.

You sigh. He swoons. It’s a whole thing.

🐗 Inosuke Hashibira

The moment he realizes he likes you?

That’s it

You're his person now

No angst

No confusion

“YOU’RE MINE!!”

Tries to court you the only way he knows how

 Backflips into rivers, headbutts trees, fights two boars just to flex

“LOOK, LOOK, I’M FAST. I’M STRONG. YOU LIKE STRONG, RIGHT??”

Brings you “gifts”

Like a wrench, a door hinge, a rock shaped like a potato

“IT’S SHINY. IT’S COOL. KEEP IT.”

Doesn’t understand boundaries

 Will sit next to you while you’re eating, sleeping, brushing your teeth

“IF I’M NOT NEAR YOU, HOW WILL YOU SEE HOW AMAZING I AM???”

When you confess?

He just nods, like it confirms what he already knew

“OBVIOUSLY YOU LIKE ME. I’M THE BEST. COME WATCH ME PUNCH THIS TREE IN YOUR HONOR.”

Immediately starts calling you his

Loudly

“THEY’RE MINE. BACK OFF OR I’LL BITE YOU.”

Will 100% fight Zenitsu daily to assert mating dominance

“YOU STAY AWAY. I SAW THEM FIRST. I HAVE CLAIMED THEM ALREADY.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You help him pull a splinter from his hand. That’s it. That’s all it takes.

The next morning, he’s sitting at your side like a feral cat who’s decided you’re family now.

“You fixed my hand,” he grunts. “That means you’re mine.”

You laugh. He scowls. “I’m serious! You belong in my pack now. Don’t wander off.”

He follows you everywhere. Drops random things in your lap. Fights Zenitsu twice before breakfast.

When you finally ask why he’s acting like a territorial forest spirit, he puffs out his chest and says:

“Because you’re important. Duh.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world. 

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling. 

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen. 

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble. 

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee. 

You flicked a page, smirking. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck. 

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone. 

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched. 

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm. 

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh. 

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread 

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read. 

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page. 

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade. 

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed. 

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.” 

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you. 

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow. 

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else. 

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament. 

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. 

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry. 

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate. 

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip. 

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face. 

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning. 

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg. 

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move. 

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?” 

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him. 

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him. 

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip. 

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark. 

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“That a suggestion or an order?” 

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.” 

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push. 

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him. 

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real. 

“You’d like that too much.” 

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch. 

“Night, Captain.” 

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved. 

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style. 

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck. 

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win. 

Lead by example. 

What a joke. 

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t. 

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch. 

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind. 

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless. 

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you’d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered. 

Asshole. 

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. 

You weren’t some lovesick idiot. 

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide. 

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself. 

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. 

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up. 

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page. 

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

 You smirked. 

“It’s my job to keep you honest.” 

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge. 

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.” 

He snorted, leaning forward. 

“A pair of what?” 

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved. 

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you. 

“You ever put that thing down?” 

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you. 

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing. 

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare. 

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening. 

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore. 

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it. 

“Smooth, Captain.” 

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead. 

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you. 

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion. 

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets. 

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath. 

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while. 

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently. 

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Worrying about me.” 

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky. 

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?” 

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight. 

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing. 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.” 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken. 

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate. 

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional. 

And for once, he didn’t pull away. 

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Puppy Eyes, Predator Hands 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Yuji Itadori x gn!reader ♡ Warnings: NSFW (18+), oral (receiving), fingering, switch-flip energy, soft to unhinged, possessive!Yuji, overstimulation, praise, reader is gender neutral (no pronouns, no anatomy), one (1) whimpery boy ♡ WC: ~1.3k ♡ Notes: My first attempt at gender neutral smut! Advice is welcome, hope it reads okay lol. Yuji gives such sweet boy energy but like… barely holding on. I wanted to play with that switch-flip tension and go from nervous to greedy. Please enjoy 💗

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The room was a haze of heat and dim light, the air thick with the faint musk of sweat and the sharp tang of desire. 

Yuji Itadori was on his knees before you, his broad shoulders hunched like a predator caught mid-pounce, his pink hair sticking to his forehead in damp, messy strands. 

He’d started so damn soft—too soft, really—his calloused fingers brushing your skin like you were spun glass, his lips ghosting over your collarbone with a tenderness that almost made you laugh. 

Almost. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he’d mumbled into the crook of your neck, voice shaky, like he was terrified of screwing this up. 

“Like—seriously, even if it’s just kinda too much, or almost too much, or—” 

You’d cut him off with a kiss, lips crashing into his, swallowing that nervous ramble whole. Because fuck, nothing he did could ever be too much—not when his hands trembled with reverence, not when he pressed open-mouthed kisses down your chest like he was worshiping you, not when he sank to his knees and stared up at you with those wide, honey-brown eyes, pupils already dilating, like you were the goddamn eighth wonder of the world. 

But then you let slip that tiny sound. A fractured gasp, high and needy, spilling out when his tongue flicked just right, tracing a hot, wet line across your inner thigh. It was barely audible, but it hit him like a fucking freight train. 

Yuji froze. Blinked up at you, lips parted, breath hitching. 

“…Was that—was that good?” His voice was still soft, but there was a crack in it, a hunger starting to bleed through. 

You nodded, chest heaving, words stuck somewhere between your brain and your throat. 

He blinked again, slow, like he was processing. 

“…That sound,” His tone dropped, rougher now, an octave lower, “you really liked that, huh?” 

His eyes locked onto yours, and you saw it—the switch flipping, the puppy-dog sweetness fading, replaced by something feral, something starving. Suddenly, he wasn’t asking anymore. He was taking. 

“Babe—babe, wait, I—” you stammered, but your hand was already twisting into the sheets as he yanked you back down, strong hands gripping your hips, pinning you to the mattress. 

His mouth was on you again, lower now, hungrier, tongue dragging slow and deliberate across your thigh, then dipping between your legs with a groan that vibrated through your core. 

“You sound so fucking good like that,” he muttered, words muffled against your skin, his breath hot and erratic.

“I didn’t think—I didn’t know I could make you sound like that…” 

His tongue pressed deeper, slick and relentless, lapping at you like he’d die if he stopped.

You tried to form a response—anything—but then he moaned, low and guttural, the sound rumbling against you, and your brain short-circuited, leaving you a trembling mess. 

“I wanna hear it again,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips glistening, chin wet with you. 

His eyes were blown wide, dark with need. 

“I wanna hear you break. Just a little. Please.” 

His hands slid up your thighs, fingers digging in, possessive now, and before you could catch your breath, his mouth was back—sucking, licking, devouring—and you couldn’t stop the cry that tore out of you. 

“Yuji—!” 

It was a plea, a prayer, a fucking surrender, and he shuddered at the sound, his whole body tensing like he’d been electrocuted. 

“Fuck—please say my name like that again,” he begged, voice cracking, his hands shaking as they gripped you tighter. 

“I’ll go slow—I swear—just—fuck, I need to—” 

But slow was a lie. 

His mouth was relentless now, tongue plunging deeper, lips sealing around you, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. You arched off the bed, thighs trembling, and he groaned again, louder this time, the sound raw and desperate, like he was getting off on this as much as you were. 

“Oh my God,” he whispered, pulling back for a split second, staring at the mess he’d made of you—your slick skin, your quaking legs, the way your chest heaved. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me.” 

His hands slid under your ass, lifting you closer, and then he dove back in, tongue fucking into you with a pace that wasn’t gentle anymore—it was greedy. 

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard, and he whimpered —whimpered—a high, broken sound that made your stomach twist with heat. 

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His fingers joined in, two at first—thick, calloused, easing into you with a slow, deliberate push that had you gasping. 

“So tight,” he muttered, voice hoarse, lips brushing your heat as he spoke. 

“So fucking perfect.” 

He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made your back bow, and you cried out again, louder, shameless. His mouth latched onto you, sucking hard, tongue flicking in time with his fingers, and the wet, sloppy sounds filled the room—lewd, filthy, perfect. 

“Yuji—fuck—please—” 

You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore, too far gone, your whole body shaking as he pushed you closer to the edge.

His fingers sped up, pumping into you with a rougher rhythm, slick and dripping, while his tongue worked you over with a fervor that bordered on obsession. He was panting now, sweat beading on his brow, his own breath ragged as he chased every sound you made, every twitch of your body. 

“Cum for me,” he growled, voice low and commanding, a stark contrast to the soft boy who’d started this. 

“Wanna feel it—wanna taste it—please, babe, I need it—” 

His words tipped you over, and you shattered, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm hit hard, waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your legs clamped around his head, and he moaned into you, lapping up every drop, fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were a whimpering, oversensitive wreck. 

He didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Yuji crawled up your body, flushed and wild-eyed, lips swollen and shiny with you. His shirt was gone now—when had that happened?—his bare chest heaving, muscles taut and slick with sweat. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” he breathed, kissing your temple, your jaw, your mouth, his tongue slipping in to share the taste of you. 

“I—I maybe got carried away,” he admitted, sheepish for a heartbeat, but then you yanked him back down, kissing him hard, and his grin turned wicked. 

“More,” you whispered, voice wrecked, and his eyes darkened. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, hands fumbling with his pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, leaking already, the tip flushed and dripping. 

He pressed it against you, teasing, sliding it through your slickness with a groan. 

“So wet—fuck, all for me?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer, just pushed in slow, stretching you open, and you both gasped at the feeling—him filling you, you clenching around him. 

He started gentle—always that damn sweetness—but it didn’t last. One thrust, two, and then he was fucking you, hips snapping with a rough, desperate pace, the bed creaking, headboard slamming against the wall. 

“You feel—so—fucking—good,” he panted, punctuating each word with a thrust, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. 

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he whined—whined—high and needy, losing himself in you. 

“Say my name,” he begged, voice breaking, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic.

“Please—fuck—say it—” 

You did, screaming it as he hit that spot again and again, and he shattered with you, a guttural moan spilling from his lips as he came, hot and thick inside you, his body trembling as he rode it out. 

He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered, turning to kiss your shoulder, soft again, like the storm had passed. 

“You okay? Was that—uh—good?” 

You could only nod, still reeling, and he grinned, pulling you close, murmuring sweet nonsense as you both drifted down from the high.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

Hello! May I request a Hawks x reader fic where the reader teaches him how to cook their favorite dish? The dish can be whatever you like!

A Recipe for Trouble (and Something Like Love)

♡ Characters: Keigo Takami (Hawks) x gn!Reader ♡ Warnings: Domestic fluff, playful banter, shirtless Hawks in an apron, food-themed innuendo, emotional vulnerability, light kisses, mild spice (heh badum tsss ), love as comfort food ♡ WC: ~1.8k ♡ Notes: Thank you for the adorable request! I meant to write a quick fluffy moment and somehow ended up in my feelings over tomato stew and apron Hawks. This was so fun to write—Keigo is chaos in the kitchen but he means so well. Hope you enjoy this messy lil love letter disguised as a cooking lesson!

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The kitchen was a warzone of domesticity, a cramped little corner of your apartment bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sun streaming through the window above the sink. 

Dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink, a testament to the chaos Keigo Takami — better known as Hawks — had unleashed in his valiant attempt to conquer your childhood recipe. 

The air was thick with the scent of sautéed garlic, simmering tomatoes, and a faint whiff of charred onion, a casualty of his earlier bravado. 

Keigo stood there like he’d been born to rule this domain, though the evidence suggested otherwise. Your second-favorite apron — the one with cartoon chickens dancing across a faded yellow background — hung crookedly around his lean waist, the strings knotted in a messy bow that barely held it in place.

No shirt, of course — why would Hawks, the Number Two Hero, bother with something as mundane as a shirt when he could flaunt the sculpted lines of his torso, all sharp edges and golden skin kissed by the sun? The beautiful bastard.

His blonde hair was a tousled disaster, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d just flown through a storm, and those amber eyes of his — sharp as a predator’s — were locked on the onions he was brutalizing with a kitchen knife. 

The blade flashed in his hand, wielded with the same reckless confidence he brought to every fight, though here it was woefully misplaced. 

A single bulb hung overhead, its light catching on the chipped paint of the cabinets, giving the whole scene a lived-in, cozy charm that felt distinctly yours. 

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at your lips as a chunk of onion launched itself across the room, skittering under the fridge like a fugitive. 

“Are you… fighting those onions?” you asked, watching him hack away.

“I’m chopping them with style,” he shot back, his voice dripping with mock indignation, though his technique was anything but stylish. 

Another piece flew, bouncing off the wall with a soft thwack.

“Totally intentional.” 

You sighed, the sound exaggerated for effect, and pushed off the counter. 

“Keigo. You’re holding the knife wrong. You’re supposed to curl your fingers, not — baby, you’re gonna lose a thumb.” 

He paused mid-slice, tilting his head to fix you with a lopsided smirk, the kind that made your heart do stupid little flips despite yourself. 

“I have like three knives in my belt at all times, and you’re worried about this one?”

“I like your thumbs,” you muttered, closing the distance between you. 

Your hands brushed his as you reached for the knife, guiding his fingers into a safer grip — curling them under, away from the blade’s path. His skin was warm, calloused from years of hero work, and the contact sent a quiet thrill up your spine. 

He went still under your touch, his smirk softening into something quieter, more real. 

“You’re really good at this,” he said, his voice low, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair fell into your face, instead of the cutting board.

You scoffed, trying to play it off, though your cheeks warmed. 

“Chopping vegetables? It’s not that impressive.”

“No,” he murmured, his tone deepening, “letting someone in like this.” 

Your breath caught, snagging in your throat like a thread pulled too tight. 

This whole thing — the dish, the cooking lesson — was just a whim, a half-joking offer to share a piece of your past: a stew your mom used to make, rich with tomatoes and herbs, the kind of comfort that lingered in your memory like a soft blanket. 

You’d laughed when you suggested teaching him, picturing the great Hawks fumbling with a spatula. 

But now, with him standing barefoot in your kitchen, looking at you like the peeling linoleum and the hiss of the stove was some kind of sacred ground, it hit you harder than you’d braced for.

“I just wanted to share something with you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers still lingering on his. “Something that makes me feel at home.” 

Keigo’s grin softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re my home.” 

The words landed like a punch, stealing the air from the room, leaving only the sizzle of the pan behind him and the wild thud of your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. 

You stared at him, caught off guard by how easily he said it, how sure he sounded.

You cleared your throat, nudging him with your elbow to break the tension before it swallowed you whole. 

“Alright, Mr. Sentimental. Get back to work. Stir that before it burns.” 

“Yes, chef,” he quipped, snapping into a dramatic salute with the spatula, the motion so over-the-top you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

He turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce with exaggerated care, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. 

It was absurd — Hawks, the fastest man alive, treating a pot of stew like it was a life-or-death mission. His wings, tucked tight against his back, twitched every now and then, a few stray feathers fluttering to the floor, catching the light like tiny embers.

The kitchen wasn’t big — barely enough room for two people to move without bumping into each other — but it felt alive with him in it. 

The counter was a mess of spilled spices and vegetable scraps, a cutting board stained with onion juice, and a jar of dried basil you’d knocked over in your haste to save the garlic from his earlier assault. 

He’d insisted on helping, shrugging off your protests with a lazy “I’ve got this, babe,” even as he’d promptly set a dish towel on fire trying to light the stove. 

You’d laughed until your sides hurt, swatting him with the singed fabric while he grinned like a kid caught sneaking cookies. 

Now, the chaos had settled into something softer. The stew was coming together — slightly lumpy, the tomatoes a little unevenly chopped, but fragrant and warm, filling the room with a scent that tugged at your heartstrings as he hummed a tune you vaguely recognized from one of his patrols, something he’d picked up from a street musician downtown.

When it was done, he plated it with a flourish, the bowls mismatched and chipped from years of use, the stew sloshing a little over the edges. 

“Ta-da,” he announced, holding one out to you like it was a prize. “Michelin-star worthy, if I do say so myself.” 

You snorted, taking the bowl.

“You’re delusional.” 

“Delusionally talented,” he corrected, hopping up to sit on the counter beside you. 

You followed suit, your legs swinging in tandem, the cool edge of the counter pressing into your thighs. 

He hummed around the first taste, eyes fluttering shut for a second. 

“Damn. That’s good.”

“You made it,” you said, nudging his knee with yours. 

“We made it,” he corrected again, tapping his fork against yours with a soft clink. 

The stew was rich, a little salty from his heavy hand with the seasoning, but it hit all the right notes — warmth spreading through your chest, a taste of nostalgia wrapped in something new. 

You smiled, softer than you meant to, and he caught it, leaning in just enough that your knees bumped again. 

“Can I confess something?” he asked, his voice dipping into that playful, flirty tone that always made your pulse skip.

“Is it about the onions?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. 

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the space between you. “No. It’s about you.” 

You tilted your head, waiting, your fork hovering mid-air. 

He looked at the plate, then back at you, his gaze steady and unguarded. 

“I’ve done a lot of reckless things — flying into burning buildings, picking fights with villains twice my size. But learning to cook for you? Might just be the scariest. And the best.”

You froze, the fork slipping slightly in your grip.

His words hung there, simple but heavy, and before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed the front of that ridiculous chicken apron, yanked him close, and kissed him.

It was messy and perfect — his lips tasting of garlic and tomato, a hint of the stew still lingering, warm and familiar like the dish you’d just made together. 

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer across the counter as you melted into him, his kiss carrying a hunger that belied his easy grin, a quiet intensity that made your head spin. 

When you pulled back, he was flushed, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and bright. 

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, and whispered, “I burned the onions on purpose.” 

“You liar,” you laughed, the sound bubbling up despite the heat still coursing through you.

“I’d burn a hundred onions if it gets me another kiss,” he said, his grin widening, all teeth and charm. 

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding up to tangle in his messy hair, tugging gently at the strands. 

He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and the fork clattered to the counter, forgotten as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. 

The kitchen faded away — the mess, the smells, the hum of the city outside — until it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other, the taste of home on your lips. 

His wings flexed behind him, brushing the cabinets with a soft rustle, and you felt the tickle of a feather against your arm, a reminder of who he was — wild, untamed, but here, with you, soft in a way he didn’t show the world.

“Keigo,” you murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough to catch your breath. “You’re a terrible cook.” 

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, his nose brushing yours. 

“Yeah, but I’ve got other skills, babe. Wanna see?” 

You swatted his chest, but he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief. 

“I mean it, though,” he said, softer now. “This — cooking with you, being here — it’s better than any mission. You’re better.” 

Your heart squeezed, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, his bare skin warm under your cheek. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, and he chuckled, wrapping an arm around you, holding you close as the sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in shades of orange and pink.

The stew sat cooling in its bowls, but neither of you cared. 

Later, you’d drag him to the couch, curl up under a blanket, and argue over what movie to watch — him pushing for action, you vetoing anything with explosions — but for now, you stayed there, perched on the counter, legs tangled, sharing a bowl of slightly burnt stew and a love that felt like it could outshine even the brightest hero’s spotlight. 

With Keigo, it was always like this — messy, unexpected, and so damn sweet you couldn’t imagine it any other way.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 One Piece General Romance HC – Crew Adjacent Edition 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Jinbei, Ace, Law, Kidd, Shanks, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, emotional softness, light spice, use of Y/N

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🌊 Jinbei

Protective in that “ancient sea creature who loves you deeply” kind of way

Treats you with deep reverence; you are part of his honor now

Not big on PDA, but his presence is grounding and warm

Holds your hand like it’s a sacred act—slow thumb strokes every time

Lets you lean on him while he meditates; steady, warm, soft

Brings you ocean treasures—shells, coral, sea glass, pearls—you cherish every one

Tells you quiet stories of the sea, Fishman folklore, legends of old

Touches your face like you might vanish if he’s not gentle enough

Holds you through your tears, letting you cry with unwavering patience

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the sea is already awake—its gentle breath misting across the deck in a fine silver spray. You’re wrapped in a blanket, curled beside Jinbei as he sits in quiet meditation. His presence is steady, anchoring. His hand rests over yours, thumb brushing in slow, sacred circles. You don’t speak, and neither does he—until he shifts and reaches into the folds of his robe.

“I found something,” he murmurs.

In his palm sits a polished shell, pink and gleaming like it was made of blushed glass. “It reminded me of you.”

Your heart stutters. You take it carefully, like it might break from too much love.

Jinbei smiles softly, eyes still closed. “I hope the ocean brings you peace.”

In this moment, as the world holds its breath, you think maybe it already has.

🔥 Portgas D. Ace

Warmest boyfriend—literally and emotionally

Constantly touches you: forehead kisses, arms around you, hand on your thigh

Smacks your butt randomly and then blushes when you react

Tries to act chill but turns beet red when you flirt back

Loves naps with you in hammocks, crow’s nests, random sunny spots

Kisses you like he’s scared it’ll be the last time (ow, Marineford)

Looks at you like you’re the sun, the warmth he orbits

Secretly insecure; needs soft reassurance and gentle words

Gives the best cuddles—full-body warmth and sleepy mumbles

Jealous? Kind of. Possessive? A little. Worshipful? Completely.

So genuinely caring, it breaks your heart a little

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡

You find him napping—again. Shirt half-off, freckles glowing in the late-afternoon sun, hat tipped back, lips parted just enough to make you ache. He doesn’t flinch when you settle beside him, just hums contentedly and snakes an arm around your waist.

“Nap time’s better with you,” he mumbles, already pulling you close.

You curl into the warmth of him, all sun and fire and boyish charm. His fingers trace idle shapes on your spine. Then, out of nowhere—

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

You blink, heart thudding.

He’s not smiling now. His eyes are wide and vulnerable. “I mean it.”

You cup his cheek gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Ace.”

His breath shudders out as he hides his face in your neck, arms tightening around you like the world might take you away if he lets go.

⚕️ Trafalgar Law

Pretends he’s too busy for romance—he is absolutely lying

Secretly craves your presence; you are his peace and chaos

Loves when you quietly sit in his office and read while he works

You bring him meals when he forgets, press kisses to his temple, and rub the knots from his shoulders

Mutters “stay close” before battles—thinks he’s subtle (he is not)

His crew teases him constantly for being so obvious

Gets angry when you’re hurt—not because he’s mad, but because he was terrified

Brushes your hair from your face when you sleep; his touch is featherlight

First “I love you” came in a near-death moment, whispered like a secret

Trusts you, but has low-key possessive tendencies

Would destroy anyone who disrespects you—no hesitation

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

“You skipped lunch again.”

You set the tray down beside him—rice, miso soup, a soft-boiled egg you know he secretly likes. He doesn’t look up at first, eyes glued to the papers in front of him, fingers drumming against the table.

Then you press a kiss to his temple, and his hand stills.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” you murmur, reaching to knead the tense knots in his shoulders.

He exhales slowly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He turns then, slowly, taking your wrist in one hand. He lifts your fingers to his lips and presses a soft kiss there.

“Don’t leave,” he says, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea. “You make everything quieter.”

You smile, brushing his hair from his eyes.

“Then let me take you to bed, Captain. Let me be your quiet for a while.”

🔩 Eustass Kid

Love language: feral rage for your protection

Loud, rude, snarly—but completely yours

Only soft for you (and even then, it comes with grumbling)

Jealous? YES. Will fight over eye contact

Started multiple bar fights because someone brushed past you

Holds you like you’re fragile, even though you’re not

Makes secret gifts: metal roses, gadgets, a bed that doesn’t squeak

Acts annoyed but loves when you hang out in his workshop

Lets you rub balm on his missing arm—hates the vulnerability but melts under your hands

Allows you to do his makeup if you’re nice (and kiss him after)

Says “I’m not cuddly” then locks you into a furnace-level spoon at 2am

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The workshop smells like hot metal and grease, and you’re sitting on a stool swinging your legs while Kid wrestles a stubborn bolt into place.

“You’re gonna strip it,” you call.

“Don’t tell me how to bolt my own damn arm,” he growls—but takes your offered tool anyway.

You grin. “You’re welcome.”

He grunts something noncommittal, but you see the flush rising in his ears. He’s not good with thank-yous. Never has been. He’s better with fists and fury and fire. But later, when he finally collapses beside you in bed, limbs heavy and tangled in yours, you feel the quiet love in the way he tucks your head under his chin.

You spot the tiny, twisted piece of copper on your nightstand. A rose. Crude, imperfect, heartfelt.

He didn’t mention it. But he didn’t have to.

🍷 Shanks

Smooth, flirty, charming—but his love is deep and steady

Makes you laugh when you least expect it, just to see you smile

Winks at you from across the room like it’s your inside joke

Dances with you at parties; slow dances later when the crowd fades

Wears your gifts—bracelets, beads, rings—like royal treasures

Talks about forever like it’s already decided

Tells you stories, songs, and legends between kisses and laughter

You tamed the playboy—and he loves to brag about it

When drunk: handsy, clingy, PDA monster. Kisses you in front of the crew without shame

Ideal night? You in his lap, drinks in hand, music playing, crew laughing, your head on his shoulder

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

It’s late. The music has softened, the stars have spilled across the sky, and most of the crew has settled into laughter and drowsy singing.

You’re leaning against the rail when Shanks appears behind you, a bottle in one hand and that lopsided smile on his lips.

“Dance with me?” he asks, already wrapping an arm around your waist.

You laugh. “You’ve danced with everyone tonight.”

He leans in close. “I saved the best for last.”

He sways with you, slow and easy, your bodies pressed close as the ocean hums beneath you. His fingers trace lazy circles on your back.

“You made this pirate fall hard, y’know,” he whispers. “And stay fallen.”

Your cheeks burn, and he kisses your forehead before raising his drink toward the crew.

“To the one who stole my heart and won’t give it back.”

They cheer. You hide your face in his coat.

He just laughs and holds you tighter.

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[softlypossessive]

Oh ngl I'm so stupid for sanji it's not funny. I would love to read something for sanji and a plus size girlie that's fully the filthiest thing u can think of. I just want sanji and a female who's plus size cause I'm chubby and I need me some sanji smut... Pretty please with a cherry 🍒 on top ,🫣👏

Sanctified

♡ Characters: Sanji x Chubby!Fem!Reader ♡ Warnings: explicit smut, body worship, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving + m!receiving), face sitting, titty sucking, titjob, kitchen sex, creampie, overstimulation, French dirty talk, nipple play, cum play/clean-up, intense devotion, light dom!Sanji, Sanji being feral for reader’s body, fluff-laced filth, reader sitting on his face like a throne, post-sex snacks and light aftercare, mildly possessive vibes ♡ WC: 5k ♡ Notes: This fic was originally requested as “just some Sanji smut where he’s down bad for a chubby reader,” and um... I may have gone a bit overboard… What was supposed to be a quick smut scene turned into a 5k+ marathon of filth, feelings, and food play. Plot? I don’t know her. Sanji is feral, worshipful, absolutely wrecked by your existence, and I didn’t have the heart to stop him. So yeah. It’s long. It’s messy. And he cries a little.

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You wake with a sleepy groan, blinking blearily in the dark as the urgent need to pee drags you from the warm cocoon of your sheets.

The Going Merry is silent, rocking gently beneath you. Everyone’s long gone to bed—soft snoring and the creak of old wood the only signs of life.

You shuffle quietly out of your room in your sleepwear—just a ribbed tank top and a pair of thin cotton shorts, worn soft from washing, riding high on your thick thighs.

After finishing in the bathroom, you start heading back, ready to collapse into bed again—when something stops you.

A scent.

Something sweet. Rich. Buttery and sticky, drifting on the air like a whisper. Caramel, maybe? Brown sugar? And underneath it, the gentle sounds of movement—muffled footsteps, the low clink of silverware, and a soft humming that makes your skin prickle with recognition.

Sanji.

Your brows furrow in confusion. Why the hell is he up at this hour? And cooking?

Curiosity pulls you toward the kitchen like a thread.

The light is warm and low, only one lamp flicked on over the counter. It casts a soft golden glow across the room, pooling around the figure moving with practiced ease near the stove.

Sanji.

He’s barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar lazily unbuttoned. His blond hair catches the light, glowing like honey, tousled and messy like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek.

And he’s humming to himself. Focused. Peaceful. Until—

“Sanji?” you whisper, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. “What… what are you doing?”

He turns to you slowly, not startled, not surprised. Just smiling. A soft, secret smile like this is exactly what he wanted.

“Ah, ma chérie…” His voice is thick with warmth. “You’re awake.”

You blink. “You were cooking? At this hour?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Couldn’t sleep. I had a craving for something sweet.” His eyes roam down your figure, lingering. “And I was hoping… maybe you would too.”

You glance at the plate in his hands—golden, steaming, syrupy. A gooey dessert he’s clearly just finished, caramel sticking to the edges.

Your stomach growls, traitorous.

He chuckles softly. “Come sit.”

You hesitate, still standing in the doorway in your tiny shorts and barely-there tank, but Sanji’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his gaze grows more reverent, more intense—like you just walked into the room glowing.

You pad over and take a seat on the wooden stool. It creaks softly under you, and you squirm a little, pulling the hem of your shorts down in embarrassment. Sanji doesn't look away. Not even for a second.

He sets the plate down in front of you, sliding a fork beside it. Then he leans one hand on the counter, tipping forward slightly to watch you.

“Go on. Taste it.”

You glance at him once, then take a small bite.

The moment it hits your tongue, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s heaven. Sweet and buttery, still warm, melting in your mouth with just enough salt to make your toes curl. You moan softly without thinking, eyes squeezing shut as you chew.

And when you open them again—Sanji is staring.

His pupils are huge.

His breath catches audibly, throat bobbing. There’s color blooming high on his cheeks, and his jaw flexes. He shifts slightly where he stands, and you think—no, you know—his cock is getting hard.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper, fork halfway to your mouth. “This is insane.”

Sanji swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks.

“You’re insane. Sitting there looking like that. Making those sounds.” He steps closer. “Fuck.”

You stare at him, cheeks hot. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He reaches out and gently brushes his thumb against the corner of your lips. You freeze.

His touch is light, almost reverent, thumb sweeping away a crumb that never even had a chance to fall. But he doesn’t pull back.

He stays there, staring at your mouth.

The silence is heavy.

Your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air from your lungs—hunger, yes, but also something deeper. Devotion. Adoration. Longing so thick it makes your thighs press together.

He’s drinking you in. Your curves. The softness of your belly. The stretch of your top across your chest. The faint press of your thighs where your shorts have ridden up. And he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re…” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so beautiful.”

You inhale sharply.

He leans in slowly, like giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brush your cheek.

“A goddess.”

You whisper, “Sanji…”

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He lingers—forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your lips, the scent of butter and sugar and something darker, more masculine. Your lashes flutter.

And then you close the gap.

The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Just lips brushing lips, testing the waters. But it doesn’t stay that way.

Sanji groans quietly into your mouth, his hand sliding into your hair as he deepens the kiss. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your body is pressed flush against his. The heat of him is overwhelming.

His tongue teases at your lips, slow and careful, and when you open for him, he kisses you like he’s starving.

You moan into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his chest.

He kisses you harder.

Your teeth clack. Your bodies bump awkwardly. It’s messy, heated, real.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along your jaw. “You’re not even real. You’re something else entirely. A dream.”

You’re breathless.

You can barely speak.

“A goddess like you should be worshipped.”

You swallow hard, blood rushing south.

“You should be kissed,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your cheek, “touched, adored. Every inch of you. Every curve. Until you know how perfect you are.”

You let out a shaky laugh, heart pounding.

“So show me, then.”

His gaze snaps to yours. You see his pupils dilate further. His chest rises.

You smirk, leaning in just enough to brush your nose against his, the faint scent of tobacco and sea salt clinging to his skin.

“If you really think I’m a goddess…” your voice drops to a husky whisper, lips grazing his ear, “prove it.”

Sanji exhales sharply through his nose—half laugh, half groan, his breath hot and shaky against your cheek. 

He kisses you again, hard, his tongue shoving past your lips, wet and desperate, tasting of wine and lust. 

Before you can catch your breath, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you off the stool in one fluid motion, his lean muscles flexing under his shirt. You squeak, arms flying around his neck, your soft, heavy curves pressing into his chest as he carries you like you’re weightless—his hands digging into the plush meat of your thighs, heat pouring off him like a goddamn furnace.

“I’ll worship you,” he rasps, voice low and ragged, his lips brushing your jaw as he stumbles toward the kitchen floor. “Starting right fucking now.”

He sets you down gently on the warm wood, the grain rough against your bare thighs, but his lips are back on your neck before you can blink—hot, sloppy kisses trailing down your pulse, his teeth scraping just enough to sting. 

His breath’s a furnace, scorching your skin, and his kisses burn hotter still. You barely register him tugging your tank top up, the fabric catching on your curves until your breasts spill free—full, heavy, nipples pebbling in the warm air, dappled by the golden light flickering from the overhead lamp.

He doesn’t rush. He freezes, just staring, his cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips as ash flakes onto the floor. His eyes—dark, dilated, fucking ravenous—trail down your body, drinking in every soft roll, every plush inch, like he’s etching you into his soul. 

His hands, smooth as silk but trembling with need, brush up your sides, thumbs grazing the undersides of your tits as he starts kissing—slow, open-mouthed, from your throat to your collarbone, then lower. His lips hover just above the swell of your chest, his breath shaky, fanning across your skin, making your nipples tighten even more.

You glance down, confused by the pause. He’s hovering, forehead resting lightly above the curve of your breast, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sanji?” Your voice is soft, uncertain.

His lashes flutter, and he lets out a choked exhale, the cigarette finally dropping to the floor with a faint hiss.

“I’m just…” He swallows hard, voice thick with awe, “trying to convince myself this isn’t some wet dream I’ll wake up from with my cock in my hand.”

Your heart skips, heat flooding your cheeks and pooling lower. 

Before you can respond, he leans in—his mouth wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard, a guttural groan rumbling in his throat like your taste is his lifeline. His tongue flicks over the peak, wet and relentless, circling it before he sucks again, pulling it deep into his mouth. His other hand cups your free breast, kneading the soft flesh, thumb teasing the nipple in slow, deliberate circles until it’s stiff and aching under his touch. Spit drips from his lips, slicking your skin, pooling in the valley between your tits as he moans into you.

You gasp, back arching off the floor, fingers tangling in his blond hair, tugging hard.

Sanji moans louder, burying his face deeper between your breasts, his nose pressing into your sternum as he nuzzles like a man possessed. He kisses the soft, sweaty skin there, tongue darting out to lick up the salt, whimpering like he’s drunk on you. 

“Magnifique,” he breathes, voice muffled against your flesh. “Tellement parfaite, putain.”

His hands slide down, reverent and slow, tracing the plush of your sides, the dip of your waist, the roundness of your belly. He kisses every inch—open-mouthed, messy, leaving wet trails across your stomach, your hips, the tender spot where your shorts dig into your skin. His thumbs skim beneath the waistband of your shorts, slow and careful, like he’s handling something precious. He doesn’t pull right away—just breathes for a moment, resting his forehead against your belly with a soft, shaky exhale.

“May I?” he asks, voice hushed, reverent. “Please.”

And when you nod, he makes a quiet sound—half gratitude, half hunger—and starts to ease the fabric down. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just devoted.

He hooks his fingers around the waistband and peels your shorts down inch by inch, kissing the skin he reveals like every soft patch is a secret he’s lucky to be let in on. He kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your leg where it meets the crease of your softness.

When the shorts finally hit the floor, he leans back to look at you fully, eyes wide with that wrecked kind of worship.

“You’re divine,” he whispers, breath hitching as his fingers sink into your soft hips. “Every fucking part of you. Every curve. Every goddamn inch.”

You’re panting now, trembling, your core throbbing as he unravels you with nothing but his lips, his words, his wide-eyed worship. Then—he pulls back, sprawling onto the floor, his chest heaving, shirt half-unbuttoned, cock straining against his slacks. He tugs at your hands, eyes blazing. 

“Come here,” he says, breathless. “Sit on my fucking face.”

You freeze. “W-What?”

His eyes go half-lidded, hazy with lust, pupils blown wide. 

“Please, mon ange.”

Heat floods your face, your thighs clenching instinctively. 

“Sanji—I can’t—I mean—” You cross your arms over your stomach, shoulders curling in, voice small. “You don’t have to do that, I’m… I’m too—”

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, sitting up just enough to press a kiss to your knee, his lips lingering, soft and warm. 

“Don’t hide from me, ma déesse. Don’t you fucking dare.” 

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing the thick flesh like it’s his anchor, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you shiver.

“You think I don’t want this?” His voice cracks, raw and needy, eyes burning into yours. “You think I don’t dream about you smothering me with these thighs while I drown in your pussy? That I don’t jerk off every night wishing I could suffocate between these legs and die happy?”

Your thighs twitch, heat pooling between them. You stare, speechless, as he whimpers—fucking whimpers—his hands trembling as he pulls you closer.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking, dragging you gently forward. “Please, let me have this. Let me taste you. Let me worship you like you deserve.”

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your knees frame his head, your thick thighs trembling, heart pounding so hard you can hear it. “

“You’ll stop me if—”

“If I stop,” he cuts in, voice low and shaking, “it’s because I’ve passed out from fucking ecstasy.”

You lower yourself, hesitant, your weight settling over him. He moans before his tongue even touches you—just from the heat of your pussy hovering over his face, the scent of your arousal hitting him like a drug. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, dragging you down hard with a groan that rattles through your bones. 

His mouth finds you instantly—tongue licking a long, slow, greedy stripe through your folds, parting your slick lips, tasting the wetness already dripping from you.

“Oh fuck—Sanji—!” you cry out, hips jerking as heat explodes in your core. 

He feasts like a man starved—mouth wide, lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking and pressing with delirious precision. His jaw works fast, wet and sloppy, slurping your juices like they’re the finest wine he’s ever tasted. The sounds are obscene—loud, wet smacks, his muffled groans vibrating against your pussy, the squish of your thighs squeezing his head as you rock against him.

Your thighs shake, instinct screaming to lift off, overwhelmed by the intensity, but his grip tightens, bruising your hips. 

“No,” he growls into your cunt, the word muffled, hot breath fanning your clit. “Stay. Fucking stay right here. Don’t you dare run from me.” 

His tongue dives deeper, thrusting into your hole, fucking you with it as his nose grinds against your clit, his face drenched in your slick—shiny, messy, dripping down his chin.

You look down, and he’s smiling—eyes wet, glassy, fucking beaming like he’s in paradise with your pussy smothering him. 

His hands knead your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth, and you sob, tugging his hair as your hips roll on their own. He humps the air beneath you, his cock tenting his slacks, a dark wet spot spreading as he moans louder, the vibration pushing you over the edge.

You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, trembling as you scream his name, voice cracking. Your pussy pulses, gushing slick over his face, and he drinks it all, tongue lapping frantically, sucking your clit through the waves. 

You try to lift off, panting, overstimulated, but he yanks you back down, growling like a feral animal, and goes at it again—tongue relentless, lips bruising your folds, fingers digging into your thighs with desperate devotion.

You sob through the second orgasm, hips jerking wildly, your body shaking as it rips through you, leaving you a trembling, breathless mess. When you finally slump back, he lets you go slow—his lips brushing your pussy one last time, a soft, reluctant kiss like he’s saying goodbye to a lover. You collapse beside him on the floor, legs limp, soaked with sweat and your own slick.

He’s lying there, chest heaving, face glistening—lips swollen, chin dripping, eyes glassy and fucked-out. 

“I need more,” he whispers, voice hoarse, raw with want.

Sanji lifts you like you’re a sacred relic, his hands trembling as he carries you from the kitchen—your bare thighs wrapped around his waist, your slick smearing against his shirt, his breath still scorching your skin. He kicks his bedroom door open like a man possessed, the wood slamming against the wall, and lays you on his sheets—soft, rumpled, smelling of him—like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Then he kneels. Between your legs, at your feet, his lips pressing reverent kisses to your stomach, your thick thighs, your hips—anywhere he can reach. His tongue drags slow, wet circles, tasting the sweat and arousal still clinging to you, worshipping every inch with shaky breaths. You reach for him, fingers threading into his sweat-damp hair, tugging him up until his chest brushes yours.

But you stop him, cupping his face, pushing him back gently. He freezes, brows knitting, lips parting to protest. 

“Mon amour?” he whispers, chest heaving. “Is everything okay?”

You smile, soft and wicked. 

“Sit,” you murmur.

He obeys instantly, settling on the edge of the bed, legs parted wide, his chest flushed red, breaths ragged. 

“I’ve let you worship me,” you say, sinking to your knees between his thighs, your voice low and sultry. “Now let your goddess serve.”

His eyes widen, pupils blown. 

“Mon Dieu,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You can’t just—fuck, you can’t say shit like that.”

You grin, dragging your palms up his thighs, thumbs grazing the waistband of his slacks, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric. He groans, hips twitching. 

“You okay?” you tease, voice sweet and low.

“No,” he chokes, head tipping back. “I’m gonna fucking die.”

You kiss his thigh through the fabric, lips lingering, then unbutton his pants with agonizing slowness, sliding them down, revealing his briefs—tight, soaked with pre-cum, clinging to his thick cock like a second skin. 

When you peel them off, his dick springs free—flushed red, veined, the tip dripping, a fat bead of pre-cum rolling down the shaft and pooling on his balls.

Sanji groans like he’s ascending, hands fisting the sheets. 

“Putain de merde—”

You wrap your fingers around the base, stroking slow, your thumb swirling through the sticky mess at the tip, smearing it down his length. His thighs tense, muscles jumping under your touch. You lean in, pressing your lips to his cock—soft, sensual kisses along the shaft, tasting the salt and musk, then a slow lick from base to tip, tongue flattening against the pulsing vein.

He gasps, hips bucking. 

“Oh fuck—fuck, yes—” 

His hand grips the sheets tighter, knuckles white, throat bared as his head falls back.

You take him into your mouth—slow, teasing, eyes locked on his as you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, tongue swirling around the slit, lapping up the pre-cum leaking steadily now. His moans are loud, broken, like he’s never felt this before. 

“Mon ange, your mouth—fuck, it’s made for this,” he whimpers, hips twitching, trying not to thrust too deep.

You bob your head, once, twice, drool spilling down your chin, coating his cock in wet shine. You pull off with a loud, sloppy pop, grinning as he whines. 

“Not done yet,” you say, yanking your tank top off, your heavy breasts bouncing free.

You cup them, pressing them around his cock, the slick warmth enveloping him.

Sanji fucking loses it. His hands shoot to your arms, gripping tight, his whole body trembling as you slide him between your tits—soft, sweaty, slick with spit and pre-cum. 

“Oh god—oh fuck, you’re unreal,” he gasps, head lolling, hips grinding up into the plush heat. “I’m gonna cum just from this—look at you, fuck, look at what you’re doing to me.”

You lean down, sucking the tip as he fucks your cleavage—sloppy, loud, the wet squelch of skin on skin filling the room. His cock throbs, veins pulsing, and he cums hard with a sob—thick, hot spurts spilling across your tits, dripping down your chin, hitting your tongue as you lick him through it. You swallow what you catch, lapping up the rest, his moans turning into prayers of your name.

“Please,” he pants, still shaking, cock twitching. “Please, let me return the favor—please.”

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his lap, your slick pussy brushing his still-hard cock. “Then fuck me, Sanji.”

He lays you back with care, like you’re fragile despite the filthy mess you’ve made of each other. He settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs—soft, reverent—his hands shaking as he lines himself up. When he presses inside, his whole body shudders, a low groan tearing from his throat. 

“Mon dieu… so warm, so tight, so fucking perfect…”

You gasp at the stretch—thick, slow, inch by inch—his cock filling you, stretching your walls until he’s buried deep, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless. He starts moving—slow, deep, devoted thrusts, each one rocking your soft body, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, your tits—fingers sinking into every plush curve like he’s branding you.

“You feel like heaven,” he groans, voice raw. “You are fucking heaven.” 

He leans down, kissing you as he fucks you—deep, messy, tongues clashing between moans. His lips trail to your chest, sucking and biting your nipples, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, steady circles.

You keen, body arching, the wet squish of his cock driving into you loud and filthy. One hand presses just above your pelvis, adding pressure, making you choke on a gasp. 

“Oh god—Sanji—fuck—”

Your thighs tremble, body tensing as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your lips. 

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You break with a sob, legs wrapping around him, cunt fluttering wildly as you cum—hard, messy, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He moans your name, thrusts faltering as your walls milk him, squeezing tight.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—” he gasps, voice shattering.

“Cum inside,” you whisper, still pulsing around him. “I want it. Fucking give it to me.”

He chokes, tears stinging his eyes as his hips jerk forward, burying deep. He grinds against you with a helpless whimper, cock throbbing as he spills—hot, thick, flooding your pussy, leaking out around him as he keeps thrusting, smearing it into your folds. 

“Merci… merci… je t’aime… oh fuck—” The words spill like a confession, his body trembling as he collapses into you.

You’re still twitching, thighs locked around his waist, your cunt spasming, milking every last drop. He’s still hard, still throbbing inside you, moaning into your neck as his hips shift, dragging against your oversensitive walls. You jolt, gasping, 

“Ngh—Sanji—!”

He freezes, kissing your shoulder. 

“I can’t stop—I need more, just a little more.” His voice is wrecked, pleading.

You clench around him, involuntary, and he groans, deep and broken. 

“Fuck, you’re still so tight—please—” 

You reach down, circling your clit, gasping as your body sparks again. 

“I can take it,” you whisper.

He rocks into you—smooth, heavy thrusts, his cock dragging through your swollen, cum-slick walls. His lips stay on you—chest, jaw, collarbone—kissing everywhere he can reach. Each thrust pulls a moan from you, your body a live wire, still teetering on the edge.

“That’s it,” he whispers, fingers sliding back to your clit, rubbing fast. “One more, ma déesse. Fucking break for me.” 

Your body convulses, the buildup crashing hard—you scream, cunt clamping down, gushing again, soaking him as he groans, thrusting through it, filling you with another hot, sloppy load, his cum dripping out, pooling on the sheets beneath you.

Neither of you move. You just breathe—ragged, shallow gasps filling the quiet, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex. Sanji’s trembling against you, his lean body pressed tight to your plush curves, whispering your name like it’s a prayer he’s carving into the dark—“Mon ange, mon angel…” 

His hands roam, shaky and reverent, tracing the soft dip of your waist, the heavy swell of your hips, anywhere he can touch to prove you’re real.

Eventually, your breathing slows, chest still heaving under his weight, your thighs trembling faintly—boneless, fucked-out, but sated deep in your core, a warmth that sinks past muscle into soul. You blink up at the ceiling, vision hazy, the lamp’s golden glow smearing into a soft blur. Your pussy throbs faintly, slick and tender, still leaking his cum onto the sheets.

He presses one last kiss to your cheek—soft, lingering, his lips damp with sweat—then pulls away, slow and reluctant, his cock slipping free with a wet squish that makes you wince. 

“Sanji?” you murmur, voice hoarse, blinking at the sudden emptiness.

He’s already on his feet, bare and glowing in the dim light—golden hair a sweaty, tousled mess, chest flushed red, cock still half-hard and glistening with your mixed juices. 

“I’ll be right back, ma belle,” he says, voice low and fond, a promise wrapped in gravel. “Stay there.” He’s gone before you can protest, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit up, dazed, arms crossing instinctively over your sticky chest—your breasts heavy, nipples swollen and slick with spit and cum, glistening in the faint light. Your thighs stay parted, tender and aching, the cool air hitting your pussy and making it clench, a dribble of his seed leaking out, thick and warm, trailing down your inner thigh. 

You wince—half from overstimulation, half from the flicker of loneliness that creeps in, sharp and sudden, like he’s taken the heat of the room with him.

But then—footsteps. The door creaks open, and he’s back. Your heart fucking melts.

Sanji’s carrying a small tray, his hands steady despite the faint tremble in his fingers. One holds a warm, damp cloth, steam curling off it, folded with his usual precision. The other balances a dish of delicate, sugar-dusted sweets—puffy little pastries, glistening with glaze—and a tall glass of pink hibiscus tea, ice clinking, the rim crusted with honey. 

He kneels beside you, bare knees sinking into the mattress, his face soft but his eyes burning, locked on you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Let me clean you, mon ange,” he murmurs, voice a husky caress. 

You lie back without a word, spreading your thighs for him, and he starts—slow, gentle, the cloth warm and rough against your skin. 

He drags it between your legs, wiping away the mess—your slick, his cum, the sweat pooling in the creases of your thighs. The heat soothes the ache, but his touch ignites it too, his fingers brushing your swollen folds as he cleans, parting them just enough to swipe at the sticky mess dripping from your cunt.

You hiss softly, hips twitching, and he pauses, lips brushing your inner thigh in apology—a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. 

“So good,” he whispers, moving up, the cloth gliding over your tummy, tracing the soft rolls, erasing the sweat and spit. 

He lingers on your breasts, wiping the cum streaked across them—thick, tacky ropes that cling to your nipples—his thumb grazing the peaks as he works, making them stiffen again under his touch. He leaves kisses behind—soft pecks on your stomach, a slow suck on the curve of your tit, his breath hot and shaky.

“So sweet. So soft. So fucking perfect.”

You hum, a pleased little moan slipping out as he brings the glass to your lips. You sip—the tea’s cool, floral, cutting through the haze, and you chase it with a pastry, sugar dusting your fingers, melting on your tongue. 

He watches, rapt, as you lick the crumbs off, his cock twitching visibly between his legs, still slick and heavy. He finishes cleaning you, the cloth now cool and damp, and tosses it aside, sliding into bed behind you—pulling the covers up, tugging your back flush against his chest.

His skin’s warm, damp, reeking of sex and sweat and the faint sweetness of the treats, his arms wrapping tight around your shoulders, lips brushing your neck.

“I meant it,” he whispers, voice low and rough, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re the only goddess I’d crawl for, bleed for, fucking die for.” 

His cock presses against your ass, half-hard, smearing a wet trail of pre-cum across your skin as he shifts closer.

You turn your head, smirking, one brow arched. 

“So that’s how you treat every goddess?”

His answer’s instant, fierce, soft as sin. 

“Only you.” 

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking your lip, pulling it down just enough to tease the wet inside of your mouth.

Your cheeks heat, pulse kicking up. 

“Well, damn,” you murmur, leaning back into his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud against your spine. “Good thing I’ve got killer taste in men.”

He chuckles into your hair, a low rumble, and kisses the crown of your head, his breath stirring the strands. His hands start moving—slow, careful circles on your shoulders, knuckles brushing the curve of your arm, thumbs digging into the tense muscle of your upper back, kneading out the ache.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice drowsy but thick with promise, “I’m cooking you breakfast in bed.”

You grin, shifting your hips just enough to grind against his cock, making him groan low in his throat. 

“Only if you serve it naked.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s strained, his hips twitching forward, cock stiffening against your ass. 

“If you keep talking like that,” he rasps, voice dropping dark and hungry, “you’re getting round three before the sun’s up.”

Your thighs clench, pussy throbbing at the thought, still slick with him. You don’t pull away, don’t let him slip out of reach—instead, you press back harder, feeling the heat of him, the sticky mess of his pre-cum smearing wider. 

“Prove it,” you whisper, voice a dare, a spark.

Sanji freezes for half a second, breath catching, then he’s on you—flipping you onto your back with a growl, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, his body looming, cock fully hard now, dripping onto your stomach. 

“Oh, ma déesse,” he breathes, eyes wild, lips curling into a feral grin. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Your thighs clench.

You decide not to sleep just yet.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

Hello, do you write for ennoshita? i wanna see more yan fics of him

I haven't yet, but most certainly can~ feel free to send in a request anytime ♡ i’d love to write more yan!ennoshita ✧

[softlypossessive]

Can I request Yandere Omega Izuku Midoriya x Alpha Male reader. Alpha male reader is kind of a jock, big, strong, protective alpha but a sweetheart, kind, and caring. Yandere Omega Izuku has had a cush on Alpha male reader since before UA beause Alpha male reader was nice to Izuku even when he was quirkless, and is sill crushing on him now that they are both in UA together.

Soft Words, Sharp Teeth

 ♡ Character: Yandere Omega!Izuku Midoriya x Alpha!Male!Reader  ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, soft jock alpha reader, obsession, A/B/O dynamics, stalking, yandere thoughts (not super dark), pheromone/scent mention ♡ A/N: Thank you so much for all the love on my last post… over 200 likes on my very first fic is actually insane and made me do a little scream into my pillow <33 I’m so grateful to everyone who read, reblogged, and sent sweet messages—it means the world!! This one was a request (my very first, actually, so I hope it satisfies!) Thank you for the delicious prompt, and please feel free to keep sending them in!! I had way too much fun writing soft jock alpha reader with an unhinged omega Midoriya watching him like a hawk. Hope you enjoy the descent~  ♡ WC: ~1k

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

You’ve always liked the way Izuku smells. It’s subtle. Calming. Kind of like fresh-cut grass and ink. You think it might be from all the time he spends scribbling in those notebooks of his, muttering about quirks and battle strategies. But there’s something warmer under it—sugary and a little sharp, like fruit left too long in the sun. Overripe, almost. Dangerous, if you weren’t used to it.

But you are used to it.

You’ve been sharing classes and training sessions since UA started—known each other even longer. You’ve sparred together, sweat together, laughed breathlessly on the ground after Aizawa kicked your asses in joint combat. You’ve carried him when he’s collapsed, tucked him under your jacket when it rained, brought him water bottles when he pushed himself too far. You’ve always looked out for him—because that’s just what you do.

You’re an alpha. The urge to protect is in your very bones. And Izuku’s always looked like someone who needed a little protecting.

Small. Sweet. Nervous. Smiles like he doesn’t think he deserves it.

So of course, back in middle school, when Bakugou was cornering him—snarling like a mad dog with sparks in his hands—you stepped in. It wasn’t even a question. Just instinct.

You remember the look on his face. Like someone had just handed him the moon.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

It was after a training session, when most of the other students had already parted ways, eager to shower and rest, that you approached him.

“Hey, uh… Midoriya?” You jog up beside him, still wiping sweat from your neck with a towel. “You good?”

He startles like he didn’t hear you coming—which is weird. Omegas usually clock alphas the second they’re within five meters. You’re about to apologize when he turns, eyes wide and shining like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Oh! Yes! I-I’m good! Fine! Thank you for asking!”

He’s twitchier than usual, fingers tapping rapidly at his thigh. His scent flares—warm and sugary, like the air right before a thunderstorm.

“You sure?” you ask, tilting your head. “You kinda zoned out there.”

He stares at you. Hard.

It’s something he’s done for almost as long as you’ve known him—like he’s trying to memorize your face down to the way your lashes fall.

“You’re always checking on me,” he says softly.

Your ears go a little red. “Well—yeah. That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No,” he says, his smile curling at the corners. “It’s not bad at all.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’ve always liked Izuku. But lately, you’ve started to notice him.

How he always seems to be in the same place as you. How his eyes track you when he thinks you’re not looking. How his scent clings to your clothes sometimes, even when you’re sure you haven’t touched.

You chalk it up to proximity. Dorm life. Sparring partners. Shared meals.

You try not to think too hard about how your favorite hoodie went missing for a week… only to show back up in your laundry pile smelling faintly of something that wasn’t you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

“You remember, right?” Izuku says one day after training.

You blink, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Remember what?”

“In middle school. When you helped me.”

You pause, towel halfway to your face. “Oh. Yeah, of course I do. Bakugou was being a dick. You looked like you needed backup.”

A lazy smile makes its way onto your face at the memory—of the way Bakugou balked at the mere idea someone would contradict an alpha as powerful as him. He’s always been a little full of himself that way.

“I did,” Izuku murmurs. “And you were the only one who gave it.”

You shift awkwardly. Compliments always feel weird coming from him—too intense. Like he’s seeing something you don’t. Like there are heavy meanings behind his innocent words.

“I mean… anyone would’ve done it.”

“No,” he says—and suddenly, he’s close. Close enough that you can see the freckles on his neck, the way his lips part like he’s tasting your scent. “No, they wouldn’t have.”

You swallow, the hairs on your neck standing on end. His eyes are green fire.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re in the library studying together when he looks up at you innocently, chin resting in his palm, a gentle smile on his face.

“Do you… have anyone?”

You blink in surprise, not expecting a question so bold from the shy omega in front of you.

“Huh?”

“A partner,” he says casually, tilting his head. “Anyone you’re scent-matching with? Nesting? Courting?”

You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “Uh. No. Not really. Haven’t had time.”

Izuku tilts his head. His lashes lower. His scent pulses in waves like heat. It’s sickly sweet and all-encompassing—the familiar smell washes over you.

“Good,” he whispers, eyes refocusing on the papers in front of him, scribbling quickly in a notebook.

You laugh again, but it’s thinner this time. “You’re not, like… trying to set me up with someone, are you?”

He pauses, pen stilling on the page. Then he looks up again with those same intense green eyes. You freeze, feeling your heart rate spike.

“I think I’d be a good omega for you,” he says simply—like it’s the weather forecast. He punctuates it by sliding his chair just a little closer to yours.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest.

You stare at him. He’s still smiling. Still soft. Still sunshine and tea and nervous fingers. But there’s something underneath it now—something sharp. Wild. A thread pulled too tight.

“You—you’re teasing, right?”

He laughs. Light. Easy. But his eyes never leave yours.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You walk away, a little shaken. Behind you, Izuku stays still. Watching.

His fingers twitch at his side.

Your scent is stronger today. Tired. Vulnerable. A little confused.

It makes him want to crawl under your skin. Make you understand.

You don’t need to keep looking. You don’t need to be gentle to anyone else.

You’ve already chosen. You just don’t know it yet.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[softlypossessive]

Just casually writing smut at karaoke (˘･_･˘) Nothing like describing face-sitting in vivid detail while someone’s passionately singing Bohemian Rhapsody in the next room.

Stay tuned. (｡•́‿•̀｡)

[softlypossessive]

I was curious when I saw your blog and I would like to start sending in some requests, but I wanted to ask a few questions first if that’s ok,

1. Are you ok with writing Yandere?

2. Would you be ok writing for character x Yandere reader?

-🎀

Hello darling 🎀Nonnie~

Thank you so much for your message, and absolutely—questions are always welcome! I’m really happy you were curious enough to stop by ♡

To answer:

Absolutely yes, I’m happy to write Yandere content! Soft yandere, obsessive and devoted, delusional sweetheart, feral clingy boy—gimme all of it. I eat that trope like it’s a midnight snack.

Also yes, I’m very down to write character x Yandere reader! Unhinged reader behavior? Reader climbing in their window at night like “this is fate”? Reader acting normal to everyone else and terrifyingly intense to the love interest? YES. Inject it into my veins.

So yes, yes, and please send ‘em in anytime ♡ I’m ready to write some deliciously toxic love ♡ˎˊ˗