How would they use their hands? || Feat. Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid. [Scenarios]
Tags: both sfw & nsfw so mdni!!, hand kink, size difference, praise, aftercare, body worship, sub!reader, dom!op men (lmk if i forgot anything)
Wordcount: 2.7k
A/N: this is based off this request!! my first time ever writing scenarios and i tried the bullet point style for it. guys this was HARD and i do not like it, i don't think im creative enough because a lot of them are so similar imo but i also think it challenged me so im torn lmao😭😭 pls lemme know what you think!! i also wrote marco, shanks, mihawk, zoro and sanji and will upload them in seperate ones! luffy and robin are currently still being written, but if anyone wants a character i haven't mentioned yet lemme know im using this request as a challenge haha also guys i wanna thank y'all so much for 50 followers!! you're so amzing tysmmm❤️ as always, pls like, reblog and comment! divider credits go to @cursed-carmine <33
Ace
SFW
He was fascinated by the size difference between your hands and his. He spent a lot of time simply tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb, marveling at how small and delicate you felt compared to him. He loved to interlock his fingers with yours, squeezing gently as if to remind himself that you were actually there and not some beautiful dream and that he actually deserved to be with you.
When you were feeling overwhelmed or anxious, Ace didn’t always know the right words to say, but he knew exactly what to do with his hands. He would slide one heavy, warm palm onto the small of your back, pulling you flush against his side. The sheer weight of his hand would ground you and make you feel safe from whatever was bothering you.
He had a habit of cupping your face in both of his hands. He’d tilt your head up to meet his gaze, his calloused thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with his fiery, hot-headed reputation. In those moments, he looked at you with such raw, unfiltered adoration that it felt like he was seeing into your very soul.
He loved playing with your hair. Whether you were resting your head on his chest or sitting between his legs, his large fingers would weave through your strands, gently massaging your scalp. It was his favorite way to wind down after a long day; the sheer motion of that act seemed to soothe him just as much as it did you.
Ace used his hands to pull you into the kind of hugs that left you breathless. He’d wrap his arms around your waist and lift you clean off the ground, spinning you around while he laughed against your neck, making you feel like the center of his entire universe.
NSFW
His possessiveness manifested most clearly in the way he gripped your hips. The moment things turned heated, his hands would lock onto your waist, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave faint marks. He loved the feeling of your curves filling his palms, and he used that grip to maneuver you exactly where he wanted you, pinning you against the wall or pulling you deeper onto him.
He had a penchant for pinning your wrists above your head. He didn’t do it to be cruel, but rather to expose you completely to him. He loved the sight of your smaller wrists held captive by one of his large hands, leaving you vulnerable and shivering beneath him while he took his time exploring every inch of your body.
The heat from his Devil Fruit often seeped into his touch, making his hands feel like warm velvet against your skin. He loved to use that warmth to tease you, sliding his palms up your inner thighs or circling your breasts without actually touching them at first, letting the radiating heat build your anticipation until you were begging him to finally make contact.
He was surprisingly thorough with his hands. He treated your body like a map he wanted to memorize. He loved the way your breath hitched when his fingers found your most sensitive spots, and he would use his strength to hold you steady, his thumb maintaining a relentless, driving pressure that pushed you over the edge time and time again.
When you were finished and nothing but jelly in his hands, the intensity shifted back to a heavy, sleepy warmth. He’d keep one hand resting possessively on your hip or the small of your back, pulling you tight against his chest. He loved the feeling of your skin cooling down against his, his large hand acting as a protective shield as he whispered praises into your ear until you both drifted off to sleep.
Sabo
SFW
He had a refined way of touching you that felt almost as if he were treating you like the most precious artifact in a museum. He loved the feeling of your hand in his, but rather than just interlocking fingers, he often preferred to wrap his entire hand around yours, rubbing his thumb in slow, soothing circles across your knuckles to calm your nerves.
Sabo used his hands to anchor and calm you. Whenever you were stressed, he would pull you into his lap, enveloping you in a hug that left no room to think about bad things. He loved to press his large palms against the back of your head, tucking you securely under his chin and shielding you from the rest of the world, letting you listen to the steady, grounding beat of his heart.
He was incredibly fond of your neck and jawline. He’d often use one hand to gently tilt your chin up, his fingers curving around your jaw with a light but firm pressure. He loved to trace the line of your throat with his fingertips, a gesture that was both tentative and deeply intimate, as if he were silently asking for permission to love you. Every. Single. Time.
His hands were a source of constant, quiet affection. While you were reading or working, he would often reach over to brush a stray hair out of your face or let his hand rest heavily on your shoulder. The weight of his hand was a constant reminder that he was there, always looking out for you.
He loved to use his hands to explore your expressions. He’d cup your cheeks, his palms warm and slightly calloused, and use his thumbs to wipe away a stray tear or to pull you into a soft, lingering kiss. The way he held your face made you feel completely seen and cherished, as if nothing else in the world mattered but the two of you in that moment.
NSFW
There was a calculated intensity to the way Sabo used his hands when the clothes came off. He loved the feeling of total control, often using one hand to firmly grip your waist and pull you flush against him, leaving no space between your bodies. He used that strength to lift you, pinning you against a wall or a desk, his fingers digging into your hips to make sure you stayed in place while he claimed every inch of you.
He had a particular obsession with your thighs. He loved to slide his large hands up your legs, his grip firm and possessive, squeezing the soft flesh of your thighs to keep you open for him. He’d use his thumbs to apply a teasing pressure to your inner thighs, driving you to the brink of madness before he finally gave you what you were begging for.
Sabo’s hands were instruments of exquisite torture. He also loved to tease you, using his fingers to trace the sensitive skin of your breasts or the curve of your stomach without ever quite touching where you wanted him most. He’d watch your expression, his eyes dark with desire, as he used his hands to build a tension so thick it felt like it would snap any second.
When he finally entered you, his hands didn’t stop working. He loved to keep you connected to him, his palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head, boxing you in. He’d use his strength to arch your back or tilt your hips, ensuring that every thrust hit the exact spot that made you scream his name, his fingers clutching the sheets or your skin with a desperate hunger.
Afterward, his touch always shifted into something profoundly tender. He would use his large hands to pull you against his chest, stroking your hair or rubbing slow, lazy circles into your back. He loved just having you in his strong arms, telling you stories in a hushed voice, his touch now a gentle, protective embrace that whispered of a love far deeper than just physical release.
Law
SFW
His touch was always deliberate and calculated. He didn’t do grand gestures of affection, but he expressed his care through a clinical kind of attentiveness. He would often reach out to press the back of his hand against your forehead or check the temperature of your skin, a habit that started as a medical necessity but evolved into his preferred way of initiating contact without having to admit he missed you.
Because he valued his personal space, the moments he allowed you into his would feel all the more significant. When you were stressed, he wouldn’t offer a suffocating hug; instead, he would simply rest a hand on the nape of your neck, his thumb applying a slow, steady pressure to the base of your skull. It was a grounding gesture, a silent acknowledgment of your distress that provided comfort without demanding an emotional conversation he wasn’t yet ready for.
He had a tendency to communicate through small, subtle shifts. While you were talking, he might reach out and lightly hook a finger around your wrist, not to pull you toward him, but just to maintain a physical connection. It was as if he were using that single point of contact to anchor himself to the present moment, ensuring you were still there while he remained tucked away behind his usual wall of indifference.
Law’s hands were often hidden in his pockets or resting on his sword, but when they found you, they were surprisingly gentle. He loved the feeling of your hair between his fingers, though he only did it when he thought you weren’t looking. He would brush a stray lock away from your eyes with a flick of his wrist, his touch brief and efficient, yet the lingering warmth of his fingertips betrayed the affection he refused to voice.
He used his hands to guide you through the world with a quiet, protective authority. In crowded spaces, he wouldn’t hold your hand in a traditional sense; instead, he would place his palm firmly against the center of your back, steering you through the crowd. The weight of his hand felt like a shield, a silent declaration that he was keeping track of you and that you were always safe under his watch.
NSFW
Law approached intimacy with a focused, almost obsessive attention to detail. He didn’t rely on brute force and would instead use his knowledge of the human body to find the exact rhythms that worked for you. He would keep his eyes locked on yours, watching the way your pupils dilated and your breathing shifted, adjusting the angle and tempo of his touch based on the physiological responses he observed in real-time.
He had a preference for the slow art of love-making. He would use his long, slender fingers to trace the lines of your breasts or the dip of your waist, barely skimming the surface of your skin. He loved the way you would lean into him, chasing the contact he was intentionally withholding. By keeping his touch light and agonizingly precise, he turned the act of anticipation into a psychological game that left you desperate for more.
There was a specific, grounding intensity to the way he held you. Rather than pinning you, he would often slide his hands beneath your lower back or thighs, lifting you to align your bodies perfectly. He used his strength to maintain a steady connection, his grip firm and secure, as if he were ensuring that not a single sensation was lost between the two of you.
He was fascinated by the contrast of his ink-covered skin against yours. He would often press his tattooed palms flat against your stomach or chest, feeling the frantic thrum of your heart against his skin. He used that physical feedback as a guide, increasing the pressure or shifting his movements the moment he felt your heart skip a beat, treating your pleasure like a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Later on, his touch returned to a softer, more restorative version of his usual persona. He would use his hands to carefully tuck the sheets around you or massage the tension out of your calves with a light touch. It was a quiet, nurturing aftercare that felt deeply intimate, a way of tending to you that spoke of a devotion he could only express through the act of caring for you like this.
Kid
SFW
His touch was always a demand for attention. He didn’t do the gentle arm-around-the-shoulder thing; instead, he would throw his heavy arm over you and yank you flush against his side with a rough, sudden jerk. He liked the feeling of you being knocked off balance by his strength, his grip tight and possessive as if he were warning everyone in the room that you were his territory.
He had a brash, almost aggressive way of showing affection. If he wanted your attention, he wouldn’t call your name; he’d simply reach out and grab the back of your neck or your wrist, pulling you toward him with a blunt force. There was no asking for permission - his hands moved with the same arrogance as his voice, assuming that you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
The contrast between his organic hand and his mechanical arm was jarring. He loved to let the cold, heavy metal of his prosthetic rest on your thigh or your shoulder, the sheer weight of it acting as a reminder that you should never forget your place at his side. He didn’t use it for delicate tasks. He used it to pin you in place or to lean his entire weight onto you, enjoying the way you had to brace yourself against his massive frame.
Even his “playful” side was rough. He’d ruffle your hair with such intensity that it left you completely disheveled, or he’d give you a sudden, hard shove just to see you stumble before he caught you by the waist. He laughed at your frustration, his large hand squeezing your hip with a bruising pressure that reminded you exactly how much stronger he was.
When he actually wanted to look at you, he didn’t gently tilt your chin. He’d cup your jaw in one hand, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to force your gaze upward to meet his. He looked at you with a fierce, hungry intensity, his thumb brushing over your lip not with tenderness, but with an impatient desire that felt like a challenge.
NSFW
Kid didn’t believe in a slow build-up; he approached sex with the same destructive energy he brought to a battlefield. He would hoist you up and slam you against the nearest surface, his hands locking onto your hips with a grip that was bordering on painful. He loved the feeling of your skin yielding under his fingers, leaving deep, red marks that would last for days - trophies of his possessiveness you would wear proudly.
He used his mechanical arm to maximize the sensation of helplessness. He loved the feeling of the cold, unyielding metal pressing against your warm skin, using the prosthetic to pin your legs wide or to hold your torso firmly against the bed. The contrast of the freezing metal and his own searing body heat created a sensory overload that left you shaking and completely at his mercy.
His movements were driving and relentless. He didn’t tease or play any sort of psychological games; he took what he wanted with a raw, guttural hunger. He’d grip your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat while he drove himself into you, his breaths coming in jagged, angry snarls. He wanted to hear you break, wanted to feel you struggle beneath him, and used his strength to ensure you couldn’t move an inch unless he allowed it.
He had a special liking for controlling your reactions. If you were getting too loud, he’d clap a large, calloused hand over your mouth, stifling your cries and forcing you to swallow your moans. He loved the vibration of your voice against his palm and the way your eyes went wide with desperation, fueling his own need to push you even further over the edge.
Afterward, there was no soft, nurturing aftercare. He didn’t cuddle or whisper sweet things; instead, he stayed draped over you, his heavy arm pinning you to the mattress in a possessive sprawl. He’d keep one hand clamped firmly on your hip or your waist, a grounding, heavy grip that signaled that even after he had claimed you, you were still firmly under his control.
