Buzz Buzz - Sanji X Reader NSFW

Post-Injury Hurt/Comfort Series - Monster Trio

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji

Reader: GN

Word Count: 3.3k

CW: blood, gore, graphic depictions of injury, stitches

Ao3 Link

After writing The Break, I've always wanted to do drabbles of the same scenario for other characters, so here we are. ( 0v0)/

Luffy

It happens in an instant. One moment, you’ve brought your mace down on the head of the lion Zoan, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. You collapse next to his body, exhausted from the fight.

The next moment, the lion Zoan lunges at you from the floor, one massive paw smashing into your face with all the strength of their devil fruit, sickle claws tearing your flesh open.

You go flying. You hit the ground hard, leaving a smear of blood from your body skidding. Dazed, you try and get your bearings, berating yourself for letting your guard down early, praying it didn’t cost you the fight. The lion Zoan snarls and charges you.

“Gum-Gum Whip!”

The sight of your captain intercepting your opponent brings a heavy relief–if Luffy’s finished with his own opponent, that means your part is done, too. You can finally catch your breath.

With the rest comes the dull, burning pain across your face. The enemy mostly got you in the nose and mouth, miraculously missing your eyes. Blood runs from your nose and mouth and drips from your chin, bleeding as heavily as a head wound. Still, you’re not too concerned. It’s only when the rest of the crew catches up to you and you try to talk that you realize how much damage the lion did, because not only does speaking hurt, but Nami makes a face at the sight of you.

The local anesthetic that Chopper gives you helps a little bit, but it still hurts when he realigns your nose and stitches up the gashes. Luffy holds your hand the entire time, knowing you hate needles.

“Good job, Y/n!” Luffy says after Chopper’s done. “You’re real tough!”

“Thanks, Captain.” You sigh. “I would have been fine if I hit him again, but I thought he was down. I forgot how resilient Zoans can be.”

“You didn’t want to kill him.”

“I know, I shouldn’t take these fights so lightly–”

“Y/n, that’s a good thing.” Luffy stretches an arm around your shoulder. “You’re a good person. Besides, I was able to take him out easily because of the damage you did.”

“Nami looked horrified when she saw my face,” you say. “I must look like a mess.”

“You do,” Luffy says honestly, making you smile–which pulls on your stitches.

“Owww, oh…smiling hurts.”

“Then don’t smile!”

“I can’t help it. You make me smile. You know this.”

Luffy rubs his chin, eyes rolling up as he thinks. “Then I should stay away from you.”

“Nooo, don’t do that! I need you around to cheer me up! Especially now.” You take his hand that’s hanging around your shoulder, feeling your chest lighten when he squeezes back.

“Well, in that case, I’ll just not make you smile!” he says.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You chuckle, then look at the mirror hanging on the wall. If you need to lower your mood, there’s an easy shortcut–the combination of your inflamed, swollen skin, plus the stitches make you look nothing short of monstrous.

Luffy notices your face falling. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s going to scar. And not even in a cool way.” Living with severe facial scarring probably won’t be that bad–you are a pirate, after all–but it’ll still be new. And, to be honest, you’re not ready for your appearance to change so dramatically.

“What are you talking about? It’ll be super cool!” Luffy says earnestly. “Everyone will know what a strong pirate you are!”

He’s trying to cheer you up. You don’t want to bring him down in the dumps with you, but you can’t help but be bummed out.

“But what if I don’t want to look cool?” you say. “What if I just want to look like me? I mean, who could possibly find a face like this appealing?” You ghost your fingers over the stitches on your lips. “Who would kiss lips like mine?”

You think you’re holding it in okay, but the admission has you tearing up. You’re being ridiculous–you should be happy to be alive. But why did it have to be your face? Why…

Luffy stares at you in that way he does when he’s thinking. You can’t tell what’s going through his mind.

It happens in an instant.

One moment you’re sitting next to each other in silence. The next moment, he wraps his other arm around you, pulls you in close, and lightly presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss.

It hurts a little, but it also feels so good that your tears break free and sting where they roll over your cuts.

“Did that hurt? I’m sorry, Y/n,” Luffy says when he pulls away.

“No, no! It was nice! It was really nice.” You have to fight not to smile.

“Oh, good! I liked it too!” he giggles, looking overjoyed.

“When I heal up, will you do that again?”

“I can do it right now!” Luffy says eagerly, but you clear your throat and tilt your head toward the doorway.

Chopper is standing there, little hooves on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed with the both of you and your method of boosting morale.

Zoro

Zoro was always one to downplay his injuries. Next to Chopper, you gave him the most trouble for it out of anyone in the crew. He figured that so long as he got medical attention, the extent of the injuries was no big deal.

He never expected to be on the receiving end.

In the heat of battle, he’s entirely focused on his opponent. This enemy crew is tough, but not the strongest they’ve faced. Strong enough to demand his full concentration.

However, Zoro knows the unique sound of a sword cutting through flesh. When he hears the shhk! noise behind him and remembers you’re also fighting a sword user, he’s so badly distracted he almost gets hit. He has just enough presence of mind to finish off his enemy before turning around.

That’s when he sees you fire a bullet into your opponent’s leg, your free arm wrapped around your stomach. There’s blood seeping between your fingers. In the time it takes him to rush to your side, you shoot your opponent again in the other leg, making him crumple, then once in each arm, rendering him completely unable to fight back from where he lays.

“Yo,” you say casually, but you’re trembling all over. Your torn shirt is staining quickly.

“You got cut,” Zoro states. He tries to pull your arm away so he can see your wound better, but you step back.

“I’m okay,” you say. You and Zoro both look down at your abdomen as you pull your arm away just slightly, and Zoro sees the unmistakable grayish-pink of your large intestine before you quickly plug up the gash with your arm again. You look back up at him. “It’s just a scratch.”

Zoro’s about ready to stab you himself, his eyes going wide with horror and rage. 

“Are you insane?!” he shouts. “A scratch?! Shit, where’s Chopper–?!”

“Ha ha–ow ow ow, hurts to laugh.” You grin, but Zoro notices you tearing up from the pain.

“Okay, just, stay still,” his hands are held up hesitantly, unsure of what to do, and he calls over his shoulder. “CHOPPER! Get over here right now!”

Once Chopper arrives, he applies an emergency field dressing and instructs Zoro on how to safely carry you back to the ship’s infirmary. You act like you’re in high spirits the entire way there, smiling up at Zoro like everything’s fucking dandy.

“This is kinda nice,” you say. “I haven’t been carried since I was little.”

“After you heal,” Zoro says, “I’ll carry you around as much as you want, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he says gently. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not,” you say, and Zoro curses himself for having asked–he can see you wince with every harsh step he tries to avoid.

“We’re almost there. Almost there.”

“Relax, big guy. I’ve been through worse.”

You haven’t. He’s been in every major fight you’ve been through, and it’s never been this bad. Your blood is still warm on his skin, and your color’s getting paler, and it’s all because he couldn’t protect you.

The surgery takes longer than he thought. He’s pacing the hallway outside the infirmary so much that even Sanji starts to make a comment, which would have started a fight had Robin not intervened and sternly told them both that everyone was worried.

When you come to, it’s to the sight of Zoro standing over your bed. You don’t manage so much as a ‘yo’ before Zoro gets onto his hands and knees, bowing so low his head touches the floor.

“I’ll never let it happen again!” he says, minding his volume–Chopper is only allowing him to visit because Zoro promised he wouldn’t stress you out. “It’s my fault! I’m sorry–”

“Get up.” 

He peers up at you. Your face is twisted up like you’re holding something back, but you force it into a sneer.

“Get up right now, or I’m going to make fun of you,” you say. He hesitates long enough for you to roll your eyes. “Don’t be a pussy.”

That brings him right back to his feet. “What’d you call me?!”

“You heard me,” you say. “I’m alive, aren’t I? So relax.”

“I can’t relax!” Zoro snaps. “You got hurt because of me! I was too weak! I couldn’t–couldn’t stop this from happening!”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever?!” He no longer minds his volume. “How can you be so–so calm about this?!”

“How can you be making this about yourself?”

That shuts him up real quick. Realizing his mistake, Zoro starts to get a sour feeling in his stomach, but you only smile.

“Now you know what it feels like,” you chuckle and wince, “ow–what it feels like to have someone be dismissive of your injuries. So the next time you get hurt, you big dumb idiot, how about you have some self awareness and let me worry?”

Zoro deflates a little. “I still can’t just forgive myself like that.”

“I’ll do it for you.” You hold out your hand until he takes it. “Roronoa Zoro, I forgive you–so long as you do one thing for me.”

He leans in. “Anything. What is it?”

“Even with the pain meds, I’m still sore. Kiss it better?” You smile the way you do when you’re joking, but it soon turns to a look of surprise when Zoro leans in even closer. He hesitates for a moment, face hovering above yours, before his free hand comes to cradle the back of your head and he presses a firm, intent kiss to your lips.

You stare at him when he pulls away, your expression slowly morphing into a smile–not a playful one, not a masking one, but a real smile.

“W-What’s with that look?” Zoro says, flustered now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

“I meant kiss my stomach, dummy.”

Zoro’s eyes widen, but before he can remedy his mistake, you weakly pull him back in for another kiss. This time, he obliges without question.

Sanji

Sanji barely dodges a brutal strike from his opponent, then finishes them off with a flaming kick to the skull. You grin at him as you down your own opponent with a heavy strike from one of your tonfa.

“Careful there, Hotfoot! He almost got you!” you yell gleefully, only to narrowly avoid getting hit yourself.

“Worry about yourself, Sticks!” Sanji calls back, mirroring your grin.

“They’re not sticks!” you say yet again, smashing one of the tonfa into a pirate’s head and knocking them out cold. “You’re just jealous I can fight with my hands!”

“I choose not to fight with my hands!”

“Sure you do!”

You were well aware of Sanji’s commitment to only use his hands to cook, but it was still fun to pretend it was a skill issue. Sanji knew it was all teasing anyway. The two of you greatly enjoyed your banter, whether in or outside of battle. As physical fighters, your rivalry was a friendly one. After all, out of everyone in the crew, you spent the most time talking to each other.

The next wave of pirates comes, this time stronger than before–the enemy’s commanding officers. The battle becomes too serious for you to go on making comments, and your focus gets pulled toward your opponents.

It’s a hard, bloody fight. As soon as he defeats his opponent, he worries about how the others are faring. The rest of the crew is almost done with their own one-on-ones, and he finds himself rushing to find you first, his pace hurrying when he finds one of your tonfa lying off to the side.

You’re straddling your opponent on the ground. Your non-dominant hand is broken, held crookedly against your chest, and you’re bleeding from your hairline and mouth. With your good hand, you beat your tonfa into your opponent’s skull, over and over, a broken cry tumbling from your bloody lips with every strike. Your opponent is no longer moving, but you don’t stop, tears streaming from your eyes as you mash his face to a visceral pulp.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Sanji skids to a stop next to you, grabbing your wrist before you can strike again. “He’s dead! It’s over. It’s over. You won.”

You look at him with wide eyes. Your mouth is held open, and at first, Sanji doesn’t realize what’s wrong, but he can tell you only won by a hair from the way you’re trembling. He gets down and pulls you into a gentle hug. “I got you,” he says. “I got you. You’re okay now.”

He holds you at arm’s length and checks over your body for any injuries, finding none. Mouth still open, you pull away from him and start patting the grass with your good hand, searching for something. 

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” he says. “Please, say something.”

Sanji expects something tired and sarcastic, like ‘you don’t look much better.’ Instead, you make a strange, groaning noise as your response, and he feels a chill run through his body. You always had a quick retort for him, even when things were dire.

You seem to find what you were looking for, your hand closing around something. Sanji helps you stand up, and when you open your hand, he sees a few teeth in your palm that must have gotten knocked out.

“Your jaw’s broken,” Sanji realizes aloud, and you nod, and suddenly the way you hold your mouth open is deeply unsettling.

The silence that follows your surgery, however, puts Sanji at an even greater unease. Your jaw is wired shut to let the bone heal, and Chopper says that for the next six weeks, you won’t be able to speak at all.

You carry around a notepad with you, but for a while after you wake from the anesthesia, you don’t write anything down except to answer Chopper’s questions, opting instead to sulk.

“Come on, Sticks,” Sanji says lightly as he signs the cast on your hand. “I know you have something to say.”

You flick him off with your good hand, then seem to regret it, your face fallin along with your hand. Sighing through your nose, you grab your notepad and scribble something down, then hold it up for him to see.

‘I look like a chipmunk.’

The lower half of your face has, naturally, swollen up. Sanji shakes his head. “No, no, you look fine! You…” A pointed look from you makes him concede. “Okay, yeah. It’s swollen. What did you expect?” You look away, and he pats your shoulder. “Ah, come on, it’s not so bad. Most people find chipmunks cute, you know.”

Your eyes widen slightly and you give him a look of surprise. Sanji stiffens.

“Um, well, I mean…” he stammers. Though he doesn’t leave, for the rest of that day, you both avoid looking at each other.

From the beginning to the end of your healing process, Sanji stays by your side, always finding a way to make you feel better. He’ll hype you up by doing a drumroll while he’s waiting for you to finish writing out a thought, something which the rest of the crew picks up as well. When you’re hanging out with him in the galley, he’ll do hibachi tricks with the food he prepares to cheer you up.

The food he makes for you especially helps you get through the long weeks. You were severely bummed out at having to miss his cooking for weeks–until the first sip of the soup he cooked. You never knew a liquid diet could be so delicious. Sanji takes the time to roast and blend anything you’d wanted. Thanks to him, being unable to chew food doesn’t affect your nutrient intake at all.

He also indulges you in your favorite drink without you having asked, which is surprising. It’s not the first time he’s gone out of his way like this, but it does feel more special when you’ve been in such a vulnerable state.

‘Maybe there’s an upside to this after all.’

Sitting in the galley while Sanji cooks, you hold up your notepad for him to read.

“And what is that?” he says, walking around the prep table with a mixing bowl in his arms, looking down at what you’re writing.

‘I love y’

You pause, staring at your notepad with a weird, dumbstruck look. Sanji’s eyes widen, slowing down his mixing for a second, but you quickly recover and finish scribbling.

‘I love you treating me extra special.’ You hold up the notepad hesitantly, avoiding his eye. 

Though feeling warmth rise in his chest, Sanji plays it cool. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding the positive in this,” he says. “I personally miss the sound of your voice.”

You drop your notepad and fumble to catch it with only one good hand, accidentally smacking it to the floor. Both you and Sanji crouch down to pick it up, and freeze when your hands touch.

The urge to say ‘sorry’ is strong, though you can’t speak. Face burning, all you can do is look at him apologetically and hope he understands. But when you do, he’s looking back at you with the same expression he has when he reads a brand new recipe. Like he’s figuring something out.

You go to pull your hand away, but his fingers close around yours. “I, uh… I really mean that, you know.”

Swallowing, you glance down at his hand holding yours, then back up at him, and nod.

“Y/n,” he says, letting go of your hand to instead cup your cheek tenderly. “Would you… I mean. Can I…?”

With your heart pounding, you nod again, and Sanji leans in. You close your eyes, and a moment later, his lips brush yours, feather-light. Just that barest contact makes your head spin almost as bad as it did when you got your injury in the first place.

Sanji breaks free, and you stare at each other. A slow smile spreads across your lips at the sight of his nose starting to bleed. You both stand up, and you write something down quickly.

‘I’m sorry I can’t kiss you back.’

“That’s okay,” he says, reading the note over your shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, grinning. “I’ll gladly do all the work.”

And Sanji does, in the quiet, private moments where it’s just the two of you. And yet, when the day finally comes for Chopper to remove the wires, and the first thing you do upon leaving the exam room is call out Sanji’s name, he’s so elated that he picks you up with a spin, kissing you in front of everyone before he can help himself.

hammock.

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader Word Count: 866 words Warnings: Kissing, slightly suggestive

“You’re blushing.”

“I am?” Sanji gazes up at you, dreamy and distracted. “I didn’t realize.”

You hum. You’re only vaguely aware of the hammock’s sway, of the blanket slipping down your shoulders as you prop yourself up and place your hands on his cheeks. Warmth soaks into your palms like sunlight, and you tilt your head, thumbs drawing over the flush on his cheekbones and tapping gently.

“Don’t say this is because of me,” you tease.

His hands reach up to cover yours. “Then I’d be lying,” he replies, turning his head to kiss your fingertips, “and I would never lie about how you make me feel.”

“Not even if you hated me?”

“The day I hate you is the day I should be tied to an anchor and fed to the sharks.”

“That’s awful.”

“I know.” His eyes search your face, and they narrow as he murmurs, “Who could ever hate someone as gorgeous as you?”

(Whoever coined the phrase “flattery will get you nowhere” has never met Sanji, you’re sure of it.)

Leaning down, you press your lips to his nose, to his forehead, to each cheek. A contented sigh brushes past your ears as you do so.

Eventually, you make your way to the source of his sweet words. You pause, and Sanji opens his eyes as you hover above his lips, just shy of meeting them with your own.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“No,” you say. “Just wanted to see your pretty eyes before I kiss you senseless.”

He stills. Then he laughs, the sound blooming from deep within his chest and staining your world with gold. “Well – aren’t you a charmer,” Sanji quips, stroking your waist and pecking your cheek. His words are softer than usual. “Careful with my heart, now.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, and you kiss him fully, drinking in the way his grip on you tightens and the way his breath stalls in his throat when you speak against his mouth. “It’s in good hands, I think.”

The kiss is just as warm as his cheeks. You feel drunk as you pull away, and Sanji lifts his head to chase your lips, whispering your name with the reverence of a believer.

“You guys mind doing that somewhere other than here?”

The two of you freeze in each other’s embrace.

You jolt out of it and push yourself up, accidentally knocking the breath out of Sanji in the process. He wheezes and curls up as you lock eyes with a very unimpressed swordsman.

“Z-Zoro! We”—you scramble to unrumple your shirt, which had ridden up underneath the blanket—“I’m sorry, we – we thought everyone was going to be in the lounge for a while.”

“You thought wrong.” Zoro strides past and drops his laundry on the couch. “This isn’t your personal bedroom, Sanji.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sanji replies, annoyance dripping from every syllable. “Now would you mind just stepping out for a few more minutes?”

“Sanji, it’s fine,” you whisper, patting his chest. “The mood is kinda killed now, anyway.”

He visibly droops. “I know.”

“Good.”

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, mosshead.”

The room fills with a completely different kind of tension as Zoro crosses his arms at Sanji’s response.

You, still trying to cover up your embarrassment, move to block Sanji’s view, pushing his bangs away from his face and attempting to smooth out his frown lines. His cheeks are still flushed, though the color is quickly fading back to normal as his attention turns back to you.

“C’mon, Zoro wants to fold his laundry. Let’s go up to the lounge and see what the others are up to.”

“Is that what you really want to do?”

“Yeah.” (It is now, anyway.)

“… All right, then,” Sanji acquiesces.

With that, you push the blanket off and clamber out of the hammock, nearly tripping and falling flat on your face in your haste to do so. Sanji follows close behind, and once he’s on his feet, you turn to Zoro and give him another quick apology before you and Sanji leave the men’s room.

“Of all the times to be interrupted,” your companion mutters as the two of you head to the lounge. He takes your hand in his and interlaces your fingers. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. Ships don’t have a lot of privacy …” You think back to the moment Zoro spoke up and groan, burying your face in your free hand. “I’m just embarrassed he caught us like that. I didn’t even hear him come down.”

“Me neither.” Sanji lets out an irritated sigh and then looks over at you; his displeasure softens. “At the very least, I’ll take it to mean you were enjoying yourself.”

Your face heats up. “Of course,” you say quickly. “I like our alone time."

“I like it too.” He squeezes your hand and leans over to whisper into your ear. “Next time, I could be on top, so I can hide you away if anyone walks in unannounced.”

“Wh – Sanji! Don’t say it like that!”

The man grins as you smack his arm playfully, planting a kiss to your temple as penance.

“Just evening the score, sweetheart.”

❥ SHANKS X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: forced orgasms, some yandere vibes, dub-con to be safe, very inappropriate use of conqueror's haki, power dynamics (captain/crew), praise, creampie, Shanks is so mean but so good and I would die for him

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“You’re gonna cum for me, darlin’, even if I have to take it from you.”

The weight of his words curl around your throat like a vice, blood pumping in your ears you until can barely hear his boisterous laugh. 

The smile he gives is so cheshire, so oddly genuine, it makes a shiver of fear run down the back of your neck. Perhaps it’s actually pleasure, but the emotions are too entangled for your brain to piece apart your state of mind. 

He’s not letting you go this time, not until he gets what he wants. 

“Shanks,” you plead, nails gripping into the black fabric of his cloak, “we shouldn’t, you’re my captain, and I—”

“And your captain knows what’s best for you. Promise.”

The playful lilt in his voice is disarming. 

He always lures you in so easily, and usually you can squirm away, calm your raging heart and pretend like you’re not the object of his desires. Because you shouldn’t be, you can’t be, you’re honor bound to serve him as your captain and you refuse to let lust cloud your relationship to Shanks. He helped make you a pirate. You’re more than a mistress.

Yet he’s already stripped you bare for him tonight, easy work for one of the most powerful men on the seas.

Warm lips press into your cheek as you turn your face from him, gritting your teeth as you deny his kiss.

Shanks chuckles in the face of your defiance, squishing his fingers into your cheeks to make you look at him. 

“You know, you really are cute, thinking you can stop me. Besides, don’t you want to follow Captain’s orders, hm? That’s why I picked you—you’re so loyal, always willing to please. But you should please and be pleased.”

His eyes close with a sincere smile, the pink scars nearly shining in the firelight of his room.

Perhaps you do forget sometimes how weak you are compared to him, to the man who can cut down enemies with a single gaze. 

Trapped between his colossal body and the wall, you have nowhere to run, no way to slink off and keep only ghosts of his touches. He’s going to make you feel every moment.

“Want me to show you how good I can make you feel?” 

“Trust me, I know, I know how good you’d feel, but I can’t—”

“You have no idea.”

Somehow he feels closer, as if the sun-kissed skin of his chest from his parted shirt is already blending into yours. He is darkness clouding over you, engulfing you.

He cups your chin with his hand, big fingers spilling down onto your neck. He slants his mouth over yours before you can protest, moving plush lips until you can’t help but moan. Spiced rum, aged and smooth, greets you when his tongue slides between parted lips. He kisses like a dance, like a back and forth that he leads.

“Breathe,” he whispers, and you don’t have to ask why. You sense his conqueror’s haki in the air before you feel the power lick at your skin, dragging and pulling and hot. 

“Cum for me.”

Lightning quick, your tummy tightens, the pleasure centers of your brain on overload as he overtakes you. Desire boils down to your cunt like a poisonous liquid heat, unbearable, sinful, yet so, so blissful as your pussy flutters and you fall over the crest of orgasm. 

“Fuck! Oh, fuck you, fuck, fuck…” Your eyes squeeze closed as the ecstasy is literally ripped from your body, like he somehow sunk his hand inside your core and extracted all the delight he craves. 

“Doesn’t that feel good?”

You can’t help but nod, because yes, it does, as if pleasure is bursting like supernovas underneath your skin. Your hands are clinging to him, one around the back of his neck, the other beneath his shirt, like you can’t help but be closer to the source of your heat.

“Shanks, I…” your tongue is so thick in your mouth, searching for words you can’t think of.

“Now imagine just how fucking good you’ll feel when you do that on my cock.” 

“Please, oh, god, please.”

His famous laugh greets your ears and you’re almost knocked back to the reality of who has you in his grasp. 

“That’s my girl.” 

You’re in his bed before you know it, eyes glassy at the sight of his naked body. You knew he’d be beautiful, but the actual view of him, on his knees, pumping his cock in his hand while between your legs has you whining.

“What’s going on in your pretty little head? Tell me.” 

“I…want you, so badly, and I-I’m sorry for pushing you away. I never—”

He shushes you, takes his hand from his cock so he can brush the back of his finger across your cheek, “You were just doing what you thought was right. Didn’t wanna just be my plaything, did you? I know you wanted to be my strong little pirate, but you can be both.” 

“Promise?” 

“Swear it.” He grins like a little boy as he mockingly draws an X across his heart with his finger. 

How can someone so deadly be so adorable?

Your instincts are flaring again, telling you to run, that once he sinks his claws into you, you’ll only ever be his. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad, especially not with how good it feels when he buries his hand between your thighs, fingers playing in your wetness. 

Shanks is equal parts messy and methodical, swirling his fingers around in your slick folds before rubbing his thumb over your already sensitive clit. You cry out, back arching and nails digging so deeply in his pillows you swear you hear fabric rip.

“Think I made you wet enough to take my cock already, don’t you?” 

To prove his point, he slides his slick-drenched fingers between your lips, letting you taste yourself. You nod your affirmation as you suck against his skin, his eyes shining as you wrap your tongue around his fingers.

You eye his cock between his legs, preening at the thought of having him inside you. His cock is pretty, fat, already leaking and veins straining beneath silken skin. Red curls crawl up his toned stomach and you nearly drool around his fingers. 

All you ever wanted was to be a pirate, but the sight of your captain’s cock has you content to be a whore.

“Been dreamin’ about you in my sheets ever since I found you, darlin’. Knew you were the one for me, my perfect girl.”

“Oh please,” you gasp as he draws his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down to your tit so he can pinch your nipple, “you know what praise does to me, Shanks.”

“Of course I do,” he sing-songs, grasping his dick and pushing his tip between your folds. He presses in, a cant of his hips shoving his cock halfway into your dripping hole. Your head falls back at the stretch, cooing at the feel of him. 

Shanks is clearly done chasing you, mindset moved to capture, to take. He bottoms out and immediately starts moving, grinning as he watches your pussy lips drag along his length. 

He wolf-whistles at the sight, making you flush with a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride. “Look at that pretty fucking pussy. So slutty already for me.”

Strong fingers push your thigh back, spreading you wide as he starts his pace. 

“Now,” Shanks clicks his tongue against his teeth, “let’s see what it feels like when I make you cum around my cock.” 

“You don’t, ah,” you gasp as his cockhead prods against a soft spot, “h-have to make me, I’ll—” 

“Shh, I’ll take care of you, baby. Let me make you feel good, yeah?” 

There’s no time to think, not with how fast he acts, a simple look into your eyes has you shattering until you scream. The pleasure claws from your depths all over again, more intense now that your cunt has his fat cock to convulse around. You suck him in deep as you fall, bliss blooming over every nerve ending. Your toes curl, your nails cut into his shoulders, your stomach nearly hurts from the twisting of your orgasm. 

“God damn, you feel so fucking good when you do that, get so tight around me.” 

“Sh-Sha—mhm, fuck,” you try to protest, to say something, but the way his body moves into yours is like the mesmeric waves, lulling you into a headspace of drifting euphoria. 

He’s all over you—hand in your hair, tongue sliding down your neck, lips sucking at the fat of your tits, teeth scraping along your curves. He’s all encompassing, snaking his arm behind your back until you're pressed against his thick chest and rocking with every thrust.

The orgasms have made you numb, all you feel is pure carnality, like now you just exist to fuck and be fucked.

For a moment you wonder if he’s still forcing it on you, but you decide you don’t care. He’s the only one who can make you feel like this, haki or no.

Shanks brushes his nose down your cheek, lips hot and wet as he kisses your skin, “Touch me, baby, be with me.” 

Like puppetry, your hands trace his musculature, taking note of how his shoulders roll with every push and how his abdominal muscles stiffen whenever your cunt spasms from pleasure.

You kiss over the freckles on his shoulder, down to the thick bicep he no longer wraps in bandages. 

He groans as your lips get close to where his arm used to be, a purr from deep in his chest like you’re too close to something vulnerable.

“Gonna take from you again, darlin.’ Gotta feel your cunt suck me dry.” 

“N-no I can—I can do it, I can cum for you, promise.” 

“Mhm, where’s the fun in that when I can just make you?”

His hand snakes around your body, letting you sink into the bed free of his hold. He teases your clit just because he can, because he likes watching you wiggle and writhe and whine beneath him.

You suck in a sob, “Please, just a little more, more, and I—”

Shanks’ haki feels like the warm licks of familiar fire. He burns because you let him too close, stared too long at the flames. 

You’re sure he purposely brings the assault of his conqueror's power on slower, lets it bleed and blend with the ecstasy building from the sensitive pressure on your clit. 

This crest is bigger, fuller, like you’ve been thrown from the Red Force into the toiling dark ocean. Only it’s boiling, scorching and tugging the pleasure from deep within your belly. 

“Oh god,” you throw your head back and whine, “too hot.” 

Shanks groans deep from his chest, fingers pausing on your clit as he feels you cum around him. His thighs shake, cock twitching and throbbing. Mean fingers dig into the softness of your belly like he’s clinging to sanity, holding himself back just enough to be in control. 

“One more, baby.”

He starts thrusting again, a slow grind into your depths that has red curls kneading into your clit. You feel him in your guts, your heart, like the beat of blood in your veins. 

“C-can’t, god, can’t, please.” Please no. Please yes. You’re back in an entanglement of emotions where no way is up, the sun still so far from underneath the waves.

Shanks buries his face in your neck, red hair fanning like embers across overheated skin. 

He sucks at your pulse, flesh between his lips, “yes you can, my good girl. For me.” 

You’re slammed into a new atmosphere, floating for seconds before being dragged back down, down to where you feel details of your name whispered against your throat and the pulsing of a thick cock as ropes of cum spill into tight, gummy walls. 

“Fuuuucckk, oh g-god, Shanks, hurts, so good, shit—”

You babble until your mouth runs dry, anchored by your captain’s bruising grasp on your hip. He has you flush against his body, heavy breaths syncing as you both float up from hell.

It’s like waking up from a dream when he starts kissing you, all feather-light and reverent. He sits up and his lopsided smile seems so sincere. 

“So proud of you, really thought you were gonna pass out there for a second.” He laughs playfully, blowing a stray red hair from his face. 

All you do is whine and shift your sore hips, gasping at the feel of his cock still hard and deep inside you. 

You’re not sure how much time passes before he pops his dick out—your heart beats are too erratic to count as seconds. 

He sinks praises into your skin, kissing down your breasts, your belly, making you jerk when he kisses the mound of your pussy. 

His breath is hot on your clit. That feeling has your mind shattering like porcelain, a sharp smack centering you straight back into reality. You sit up and stare at the scene before you, sharp-eyed prey watching a predator in the forest. 

“Shanks, no, please, for the love of god—” 

“No no no no, it’s okay,” he coos from between your legs, eyes closing and head cocking to the side as he smiles, “I’m not gonna take this one from you. Promise. Gonna let you do it all by yourself, nice and slow.” 

It’s easy to forget that Shanks is a bad liar when he shoves his pretty face down to eat his cum from your pussy. 

Home is Where the Heart is (That Heart Just Won't Stop Racing)

Pairing: OPLA Sanji x Reader

Rating/Content Warnings: pretty much none/the same as the first one. Has strong d/s themes but in a very soft, entirely sfw way. Mostly just fluff and emotional hurt/comfort.

Summary: unplanned sequel to Too Much (Take Me Home), reader works up the guts to ask for a repeat performance and Sanji takes on the responsibility of fixing a human piece of fine china. Starting with their aversion to compliments.

Disclaimer(s): none that I can really think of? Reader is called 'puppy' again numerous times but again, in a sfw context. Reader is very briefly referred to as a "lady" in reference to Sanji being a fucking simp, but other than that it is very gender neutral. But definitely keep that line in mind if it might trigger any nasty feelings for y'all, stay safe!!! <3

Since that night, things had been rather normal between you two. Eerily normal.

He's sure it's some mix of the genuine bond the two of you have keeping your interactions mostly the same and your awkward embarrassment- which he's happy to say he's getting to see more often nowadays, especially any time the events of that night are alluded to.

The fidgeting hands, the faint blush, the avoiding eye contact and trying to look serious with a "yeah, whatever" completely devoid of any of the intimidation it attempts.

He doesn't mind, though. The return to normalcy gives him time to plan his next move. He knows that this is delicate, something he will have to take strategically. And, okay, yeah. He's been thinking about it. Of course he doesn't actually stop thinking about it, how could he!? Instead, the break gives him time to come up with new ideas, prepare for the next time you eventually ask him for that type of help.

He waits patiently for the next time you seek him out, knowing there would be one at some point.

Even so, the anticipation kills him. He wants desperately to hear what you want from him in your own words. He knows it's something to do with his approval. The more he thinks about it, the more it seems like it's about approval in general. Though a selfish part of him wants to think that his specifically has some particular sway.

It was obvious the first time how hard it was for you to accept his affectionate words and approval even when you wanted to, and he knew that was something it would take a while to work out of you. The righteous self-reliance, the lingering feeling you didn't deserve soft things. Thoughts so deeply embedded for so long would take work to undo.

So when you come to him shyly one night, wordlessly offering up his ring in the palm of your hand as you refuse to meet his eyes, he knows what he wants to try.

He feels that familiar fluttering in his chest when you offer the ring back in silence. He can tell by your expression that there's so much going through your head, and that it has something to do with what happened that night when you asked him to take the responsibility for making you feel small.

"You wanna tell me something, puppy?"

His voice is soft and expression patient, like he's already working to create that warm, safe atmosphere that made you so pliant before.

The subtle use of the pet name tells you he knows exactly what you want, that he remembers that night as vividly at you do. But the gentle, hopeful uncertainty in his voice tells you he needs your words to know this is okay.

Your words are barely a whisper as an embarrassed blush burns up your face.

"I...want to- to be able to-" Your words are barely a whisper as an embarrassed blush burns up your face. "...let me submit to you again. Please."

His heart melts at your words, the way they shift and stutter. You always seem to change your wording when asking for things - "let me" and "can I" instead of "I want" (or god forbid need) - like it's shameful for you to want anything at all.

"Of course, love."

He answers softly, putting down his drink and closing the book that had been resting open in his hand, setting it down on the end table next to the couch. He keeps his legs open enough to give you a space to sit between them in his lap, gesturing his head towards himself in calling.

"C'mere."

You blush and look down, still avoiding his eyes as you nod and slowly pad towards him, nervous, embarrassed energy radiating from you as you drop to your knees at his feet like the last time.

Though the sight is just as gorgeous as it was then, he shakes his head softly with a click of his tongue, having something else in mind. He holds one of his hands out for you to take, the other cupping your cheek and caressing the skin comfortingly with his thumb.

"Not this time, puppy."

He chides lightly, voice soft and without even a hint of chastising for your assumption, pure care and warmth and fondness in his smile as he pats his lap gently.

"Up here."

Your flush darkens at the idea of being that close but you do it anyway - of course you do, perfect, obedient little thing that you are - climbing onto the couch until you're situated in between his legs, studying his tie with an intensity that gives away your shy desire to look anywhere other than his face right now.

He smiles sweetly, his hands resting on your thighs when you sit in his lap. His gaze is soft and sweet, as if looking down on a child. His voice is warm, talking to you like something precious.

"No need to be nervous, love. But I'm gonna have to ask you to look at me this time, okay?"

His gaze stays soft, as if he isn't expecting an answer from you, his hands moving to your cheek as he tilts your head up.

You go willingly, letting him tilt your head up to face him with two fingers under your jaw, his thumb gently pressed to your chin so he can angle your face as he pleases. Your face is pink and you're obviously still having trouble with eye contact, especially in a position as vulnerable as this, but he can see that you're trying.

And that's all he'd ever ask of you anyway.

Now that you're looking at him, all up close and personal like he'd planned, he can start his real plan for the evening- to start rewiring those frustratingly selfless parts of your brain, get you accustomed to praise and love and care and reassurance and the fact that you deserve all of it until he starves that horribly anxious, self-hating part of you out.

"Look at me, puppy."

He can't help but chuckle fondly when you instinctively turn to look away, turning you back to face him. He does it so gently, not scolding you for it whenever you look away, instead turning you back patiently each and every time. You almost want him to get mad at you, but his expression is the same every time he turns you to face him- never-ending patience.

"That's it, good. Just like that."

His fingers stroke against your cheek again soothingly, his gaze holding yours in place.

The lack of any anger or annoyance or exasperation makes your chest feel all fluttery while at the same time burning your face with guilt- this is all too good for you, Sanji is entirely too good for you.

He can practically see the thought process on your face, not that it surprises him. After all, that's what he'd set out to start fixing tonight, planning to slowly work away that reflex each time you give him the gift of letting him put you under like this.

"Listen to me, alright love?" He smiles once more and moves his free hand to your knee to give it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be saying a lot of words, and all I need you to do is listen and keep your eyes on me. D'you think you can do that for me?"

He speaks slowly, softly, so that you can still keep up even if you space out once or twice. His gentle tone is reassuring, as if everything's okay and would continue to be as long as you keep looking into his eyes.

You sigh breathlessly at the pet names and the gentle tone of voice and the way he touches you like you're made of porcelain, fragile and precious and expensive. You swallow before feeling yourself nod, managing to mumble out a quiet, shy-

"...okay."

He grins at your agreement, all warm and fond and proud of himself - proud of you, maybe, you can't tell. It almost makes you nauseous.

"Good. This is gonna be a long talk, alright? I'm gonna tell you a lot of things, and I expect you to remember them. You need to listen, love. Is that understood?"

You nod your head wordlessly in obedience, the slight firmness to his gentle tone and the commands that come with it making it so easy to melt into this. The instruction that he expects you to remember, that you need to listen making your mind go hazy with the bliss of simplicity- no choice, no confusion, no control, simply following instructions for someone you know will always take care of you.

He pats your cheek lightly, his voice soothing and sweet as he begins talking.

"You do everything you can for other people. You do everything you can for me. And it's not that that's bad or even that you don't want to. But you let other people get away with so much more than you'd ever let yourself. You make excuses for us, but for yourself you're harsh and you're critical and you're never satisfied. It's not fair."

When he starts talking, the first few things he says make your brow crease in confusion. He watches a brief flicker of panic spark in your eyes when you realize what he's doing, that he wants you to sit and look at him and listen as he praises you and reassures you and says things far too nice to possibly be true. You feel raw and exposed under the intensity of his words and yet...you stay. You trust him enough, want to be good for him enough that you breathe through the panic, trying to relax into the words that threaten to make you flinch.

His breath hitches in his chest seeing the anxiety in your eyes. Your trust for him is overwhelming, and he feels his heart swell with gratitude.

"So perfect... I'm proud of you for trusting me, sweetheart. I have a lot more I want to tell you, alright? Can you look at me again, so I know you're still listening to me?"

You sniffle lightly and nod, looking back up at him though you feel positively flayed alive by the words "I'm proud of you". When you look back up at him your eyes are glassy, a mix of the glazed-over look of subspace and unshed tears.

He thinks he's never seen anything so precious.

Eventually, he promises himself, whether it takes days or weeks or months of sessions like this, he's going to get you to a point where simple praise like this doesn't leave you trembling and teary-eyed.

But for now, he lets himself enjoy just how stunning you look like this.

He can feel you trembling underneath him, but he doesn't bother to move his hands from your thighs to hold you steady. He figures it isn't needed if he keeps talking slow and steady. His thumb gently brushes away one of your tears, and he pouts at how quickly you're overwhelmed by praise with fond sympathy.

"Oh, precious. You're doing so well for me, love. You're being so patient, and you're doing exactly what I asked you to do. You're so good, sweetheart."

The gentle feeling of his touch - how lovingly he caresses you, the rhythm steady and slow as he brushes his thumb across your cheek - you drag in a breath as well as you can, the air feeling like it rasps through your throat and gets stuck in your lungs. You part your lips as if to say something but the words won't come, only a tiny wounded noise, barely audible even in the unbearable quiet.

Despite yourself you shiver- "doing so well, precious, exactly what I asked, patient, sweetheart, good", the words nothing but sugar when he speaks. For a moment, despite his instructions, you close your eyes. You have to - it's too much, not enough, you can't tell anymore - but to his heart-rending pride, you open them again after a shaky, steadying breath.

He smiles at you, his heart aching at how precious you are in this moment.

"Good job, love. You can do this...you're doing so well. I know it's hard, but there's so much more I want you to hear."

He pauses, and for a moment you think fearfully that he's going to say he loves you. Not that that would be a bad thing.

...shit, you didn't really just think that, did you? That- that it wouldn't be bad? If he-?

In any case, it wouldn't be good for your pride. You know yourself, at least. That's one thing you could say, you were self-aware. And if Sanji ever said anything like that to you, you know you'd cry. Thankfully, that's not what he says. What he says instead is sweet, just not in the way you thought it would be.

"Can you be good and keep your eyes on me, sweetheart? If it's too much, or if you need a break, all you have to is tell me, alright?"

You sniffle quietly and do your best to blink back the tears, nodding your head in a slow affirmation of both of his questions. If you need a break, tell him. Keep your eyes up. You want so desperately - and isn't that another problem in itself, that you want - to tell him that you're trying, you're trying so hard, you want to be good.

You've never been very good with eye-contact, even without the added discomfort of being seen like this, being praised like something special, something entirely too soft and gentle and sweet for a warrior.

His free hand caresses your face, moving back the strands of hair that hang over your eyes. He can see how hard this is for you, in the way you hold your breath in between swallows, the shake of your voice, your trembling hands clasped in your lap. The way you look up at him.

But you're trying. Really, you are. And you don't need to say it - though you try to do that too before discovering that talking is too much right now - he knows. Of course he knows. Sweet, obedient, desperate-to-be-good-puppy, who's never done anything else but try your best for him.

"Puppy...I know you're trying. I know how hard it is for you. But I also know you like it, at least a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Maybe that's why you're still sitting here?"

Your face floods with pink at the words and it's hard to follow his instructions, it's so hard, your immediate reflex to that kind of embarrassment is to look away, pretend you don't notice how his eyes catch on your blush and his lips pull into a smirk.

But you don't.

Somehow, somehow, you keep your eyes trained to his.

That is why you're still here, of course. You do like it - a lot, in fact - though sometimes you desperately wish you didn't. Just like the (ignored) desire to look away, this too is a reflex- the way you bend towards praise and reassurance like flame to a pan or water to the ground.

His smirk falters and his expression softens.

"Oh love, that was so good. Keeping your eyes on me like that when I know it's hard for you...for a moment there I was afraid you'd let me do something you didn't want. I know how good the praise feels to you. Even if you want to pretend you're a warrior who's never wanted something so lovely."

He teases playfully, voice sweet and loving.

It's far too close to the truth when he speaks - you had tried for so long to convince yourself that you didn't want anything this lovely, but then all of a sudden it was here and your heart ached and for the first time you noticed it, because this time Sanji was here.

Here and real and solid and warm and right in front of you.

Sanji who wanted nothing more than to take care of his crew. Sanji who worked and labored tirelessly to keep your little family together. Sanji who had never treated you as anything less than a miracle. Sanji who took care of you.

It was the first time you ever even considered you could have something like this, the hope that you'd tried to smother increasing tenfold when Sanji joined them because it turns out it's so much easier to want something when you can see it right in front of you.

His fingers stroke your jaw gently, voice filled with affection.

"There's so much to want in life, love. Just because you've never wanted them before doesn't mean you can't start. Just because you didn't know what to do with it when you first had it doesn't mean you can never learn what it means to have something."

He tilts your face upwards gently, brushing his fingers against your cheek lovingly. And then, quietly-

"...you have all of us. You have me. And you have the right to want me. And you do, don't you?"

"Please."

Is all you can answer, immediate and breathless and mumbled as your bottom lip trembles. It's hard to explain how you're feeling- it isn't bad, isn't anything you don't enjoy, it's just so much. It's so much to be allowed to want, allowed to be good, to be touched like something gentle rather than a weapon. It makes every muscle in your body seem to shift and relax, everything going loose and pliable even as light shivers wrack through you.

"Good, love. Just be like this for me as long as you want. You're doing so well."

He pats your thigh affectionately, his gaze staying soft as his other hand comes to caress the back of your neck. You can feel his gaze on you, his smile.

For a moment he lets the words sit, giving you time in the silence to absorb them.

"...I think I've managed to say all that I need to say for now. Unless you think there's something else we need to talk about."

When you don't say anything he smiles softly, shaking his head.

"Okay. That was a lot for you for one day, yeah? You can close your eyes now, love, if it helps."

You let go of a sigh of relief you didn't even know was in you when he gives you permission to close your eyes, immediately shutting them as you try to calm down, focus on just his words and his touch.

He has no reservations about playing it safe from here- he knows he's pushed you pretty hard already. So he sticks with basic praises, the ones he knows don't mess with your head so much. The 'such a good puppy' and 'precious little thing, you're so perfect like this' that work to turn your brain off and let you shut down, washing over you in gentle waves as opposed to the overwhelming words he'd been using before.

Your breathing was quick and shallow, and he could feel your heart racing. That doesn't stop his fingers from stroking your face softly, caressing you lovingly.

It hits you that for the first time in a long time, you feel safe. You feel completely safe, don't you? You'd forgotten what that felt like.

Maybe it had been too long.

His hand moves from your head down to the back of your neck, giving it a soft massage.

"We can talk about some more important things tomorrow, yeah? But for now...just let me take care of you."

You nod with a hum when he practically pleads to be allowed to take care of you, letting your eyes stay closed as one of his hands massages your shoulder lightly, the other scratching at the sweet spot behind your ear that he found last time. You'll be good for him, so good for him, sitting there without breaking eye contact while he praises you. He intends to completely spoil you with affection and touch in reward.

Like exposure therapy. Getting you used to hearing things like that through positive reinforcement and slow, gradual steps.

"Can I ask you a question, love? You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

You nods slowly, head already staring to feel heavy. It's quicker slipping into subspace this time, he assumes from immediately coming off of such an overwhelming amount of praise and all of a sudden you're just falling, nothing to tether you to solid ground.

And you're...okay with it.

Just like last time, the easy submissive haze you fall into makes his heart melt.

You're happy after all that just to sink into him, to melt in his lap and let your thoughts go, let someone else take care of you for a change.

"Why do you insist on taking care of everyone? You're the one who takes the worst jobs on the crew, and I know most of it is just so you can spend time with us, but why do you always do it?"

He can feel your body sink into his as your weight leans against him, snuggling into his chest. He keeps his voice gentle and slow to not startle you, his fingers moving to your hair and running through it as if to encourage you to answer.

And, really, who are you to deny him anything?

Even if you know - and you know, of course you do - that the one, honest answer you have won't be the one he wants.

"Wanna be useful. So you'll be proud."

You admit quietly, voice soft and mumbled as your words slur together, sweet and right and perfect despite the way his heart drops to his stomach at the answer.

"...and- 'nd so you guys keep me around."

He draws in a shaky, gasped breath, though he tries for your sake not to make it too obvious.

He knew, he thinks. Even from the beginning. He knew that's what you would say. Even though he hoped - and god, did he hope, a hope beyond hope like nothing he'd ever felt before - that he would be wrong. His voice trembles when he finally convinces himself to speak, trying not to be sick.

"So we keep you around?"

He pauses, his hands slowing to a stop in your hair as he waits for you to respond. He needs to hear it. No matter what you say, no matter how much it kills him, he needs to hear you say it.

"You're just-"

You swallow and look away as your cheeks color in an even deeper pink, not sure why you're getting so choked up about this.

Actually, that's a lie. You know exactly why- because when you keep feelings like this one buried, it's easier to pretend they're not there. But saying it...saying it makes it real.

"...you're all so affectionate. And- and love-y. I just-"

You force yourself to draw in another breath, wishing it weren't so hard to do so. Why is oxygen suddenly so difficult? Why is hot embarrassment burning so shamefully up your face? Why is it hard for you to speak when all he's asking is why you work so hard for your crew?

"I n-need to earn it."

Your words make him wince, his expression darkening when you continue to turn away from him. That was too real, too raw, for him to ignore. He reaches a hand out to cup the side of your face, turning it gently to face him, voice firm and stern when he speaks.

"No, love, you don't. You don't need to "earn" anything. Attention and love are things you are owed. Especially by us. By your family."

Your eyes widen at his words when his voice goes stern. He raises a brow at you in warning.

"...unless, of course, you think you know better and intend to stop me from giving you the treatment you deserve?"

"I-"

The sudden authority in his tone makes you blush and fumble over your words, cutting off what was sure to be a protest about needing to earn affection.

Good, he thinks, because no one is allowed to talk that way about the things that belong to him, not even themselves. It's endearing how the firmer tone makes you stumble over yourself, like it takes hold of some part of your mind and squeezes, your voice a sheepish mumble when you fall in line immediately, response barely a whisper.

"...no sir. Sorry."

"Then I'll say it again: this treatment is not something you "earned." It's what you deserve. It's mine to give, and it's yours to accept. Understood?"

His voice remains stern, a look of warning in his eyes. He isn't sure what words exactly would trigger you like that, wrap themselves around your subconscious and tighten, but he hates to see you talk to yourself like that. You're family and family looks out for each other, and that means he had to look out for you.

"U-understood."

You can't help but shiver and melt into the firmness of his voice, and he makes another note of that, adding to the growing catalogue of you in his head. You like when he's gentle, but you fall in line quite quickly when presented with any semblance of authority, crumbling into obedience with your voice little more than a whisper.

He smiles, his voice taking on a softer tone.

"Good. Don't ever talk badly about what's mine again, yeah? You deserve all the love in the world, and if you try to deny it again I'm going to have to use force to get you to admit how wrong you are. And you know I don't like getting forceful with ladies."

He chuckles, gently stroking your hair.

"Can you open your eyes for me? I want to look at you again, you precious little thing."

You open your eyes obediently when he asks, blinking open glassy eyes with big, blown pupils. All of the things he said seem to swirl around in your head for a moment as you try to process all the wildly varying information- the words "precious little thing" going straight to your cheeks in the form of a blush, "good" and "you deserve all the love in the world" collecting warm in your chest with the rest of his praise, "I'm going to have to use force" feeding into some morbidly curious, possibly masochistic corner of your brain.

The last thing that manages to penetrate your subconscious is, ironically, one of the first things he said: "don't ever talk badly about what's mine".

Mine.

That word rattles around in your skull for a moment and makes you shudder pleasantly, lips parting around a request before you can think.

"Say it again. Please."

"...'Mine'? Sure. Mine."

His voice is soft but his eyes are sharp with intrigue, looking for something that he can't place in your gaze as he acquiesces.

"Why, does it feel good to hear someone say it? Are you wondering if I really mean it, or did you just want to hear it again?

Your blush spreads all the way to your ears at his questions, how immediately he pinpoints exactly what you're feeling ("why, does it feel good to hear someone say it?"). Yes. Of course, yes. To be someone's, belong to someone, the idea floods you with a near unbearable warmth. His.

"...I think I like when you're possesive."

You admit in a shy mumble, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, face hot with blush as you fidget with his shirt buttons sheepishly. Your voice is barely audible, only more evidence to how embarrassed you are by the revelation, but he's pretty sure he's never heard something more adorable.

"Feels...warm."

You watch the smile bloom across his face, slow and warm and blindingly bright and how did he have the right to smile like that? To look like that at all?

"...I think I like it when you ask for things, brave little thing."

The smile on his face is as soft as it can get, his voice gentle and loving. He strokes your hair softly, his tone light and playful as he speaks.

"You like being mine? Being something belonging to me rather than something that belongs to the world?"

You nod against his warmth, the softness of his words hitting you directly in the chest. Something belonging to him rather than the world. Christ, isn't that an idea?

"Will you- will you keep s-saying things like that? Please?"

When you ask, your face is hidden in his shoulder and your voice is muffled. For now, he decides to allow it, knowing how hard it is for you to ask for anything at all, always the type to assume you don't deserve whatever it is without even bringing embarrassment into play.

And oh, does embarrassment come into play.

Even with your face hidden against him, the mortification is obvious in every aspect of your being. It seems to roll off of you in waves at the prospect of even admitting that you like those things, but here you are. Shame seeping from every pore and still, somehow, he brings these things out of you.

He's never been more proud at the fact that you asked him anything at all, even if you're hiding.

"Makes me feel...w-wanted. Belonging to someone."

His lips touch your cheek in the softest kiss, a reward for your bravery, and he can feel every skip and ache in his heart the longer he has you like this.

Power, uncoiled and twitching in his lap like it's harmless.

"Oh, love. Belonging? That's what this is about? Of course you belong. You belong to this crew, to your family. You belong to me. It's a shame you've not felt that more in your life."

His lips move to your ear, and he nuzzles the sensitive skin gently, words whisper-soft.

"You were brave for asking for those things, especially when you're not used to them. Allow me to make up for lost time, lovely. Please."

By the end, his begging seems more for himself than it is for you. Like he'll fall apart if you don't let him cradle your broken pieces, coddle you like you should've been your whole life.

And he will. Of course he will. How could anyone see a thing like you and not - vulnerable and soft and wanting and the most stunningly enchanting thing he's ever seen, breathtaking in a way that has him wondering how in the world anyone could ever miss that you were something to be handled lightly, a delicacy to be protected with careful touches and soft words. He has a whole lifetime to make up for and, if you'll let him, he'll compensate for every single year

Every second, if it's what you want. It's what you deserve, that he's sure of. But he knows that as much as he wants to smother you completely with the weight of his affections, it's something you need to accept. Something you need to be willing to ask for.

Even if you don't think you deserve it, something you'll allow. You don't have to be used to it, it doesn't have to be easy. As long as it's allowed, that would be enough. He could work from there.

"...okay."

Okay.

A/N: Hey lovelies!!! Have some sustenance! Even though it's been a week into winter break I'm only just now getting over finals which is why I haven't been so active. BUT that being said, now that I'm over it and it's break expect WAY more frequent food!!!

social skills training, solmaz sharif

I am asking you to endure it.

A Doctor's Cure

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: established relationship, doctor-patient dynamics, breast play, oral (f receiving), dom!law, sub!reader, law is a tease, lots of teasing, edging, begging, praise, reassurance, piv sex, exam-room-sex (hehe), use of “doctor”, "good girl", "sweetheart", "tell me what you want", etc.

summary: law and reader have a double-sided relationship: patient and doctor, & lovers. They aim to keep the two partnerships separate, but Law's work has him neglecting reader's needs, making her resort to rather drastic measures to get her partner/doctor's undivided attention. ;)

word count: ~4,000

tagging: @bby-deerling @risenwrites @strawheart-pirate @uchihabbynic @nina-ya @mandiemegatron@shamblespirate@eelnoise@maddddstuff @throwmethroughawindow @mariihzoka @basedbogwizard

A Doctor's Cure

You and Law shared an understanding. 

Work is professional; must always be kept that way, and private life is exactly that:

private.

The two must never intertwine. 

------

The office is cold, frigid, uninviting. 

The room exudes an aura of sterile austerity, its walls painted in a clinical shade of white that seemed to swallow any hint of warmth or comfort. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow that accentuated the starkness of the room. The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic, mingling with the faint tang of ink from the doctor's neatly stacked files.

Against one wall stands a row of cabinets, their metal surfaces gleaming dully in the artificial light. Each drawer is meticulously labeled, a testament to its owner’s penchant for order and precision. A single window, obscured by heavy blinds, offers a glimpse of the outside depths of the sea, but the view is obscured by the grime of neglect.

In the center of the room sits the doctor's desk, a polished slab of dark wood that seems out of place amidst the clinical surroundings. Behind it, a high-backed chair looms, its leather upholstery cracked and worn from years of use. On the desk itself lies an array of instruments - a stethoscope coiled neatly beside a stack of paperwork, a computer monitor flickering silently in the corner.

-----

The doctor is the same; silent, calculated, meticulous. 

He commands the room with a towering presence; his tall, lean frame exuding an aura of quiet strength. Despite his slim build, there’s an unmistakable muscularity to his physique, hinted at by the subtle contours visible beneath his crisp, white coat. 

Dark hair, swept beneath his speckled hat, frames a face weathered by years of dedication. His features are chiseled, a strong jawline, softened only by the hint of a tired smile that plays at the corners of his lips. It’s his eyes that hold the most intrigue – tired grey orbs, rimmed with heavy bags that speak volumes of sleepless nights.

Despite the weariness that etches lines upon his face, there’s an undeniable intensity to his gaze. 

-----

As you pad into the room, the frigid air tickles your spine, climbs up your back, sinks its claws in. It’s not just from the temperature, there’s a palpable aura of detachment that fills the room, too, leaving you uneasy. 

Law sits behind the desk, framed by sterile white walls, his expression inscrutable. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, eyes you up and down, seeming to dissect you even before words left your lips. 

You clear your throat, the nervous noise echohing in the stillness of the room as you take a seat on the exam table. 

You didn’t need to be here. You weren’t sick. Law had simply grown neglectful, consumed by his work. And so, driven by desperation for his attention, you resort to a lie.

"La-,” you begin, but swiftly correct yourself, “Doctor, I've been experiencing these persistent headaches..."

Maintaining a romantic relationship with your doctor requires a delicate balancing-act. In the privacy of your shared moments, away from the sterile confines of the doctor's office, your relationship is beautiful, intense, passionate. But here, you are nothing more than a patient, and for professional reasons, behind these doors, it must be kept that way.

His response is measured, delivered with the precision of a well-practiced routine.

"Describe the nature of your headaches," he says, voice devoid of any warmth.

Your interactions take on a dual nature; each appointment serving as both a professional consultation and an opportunity to revel in the comfort of each other's presence. However, away from this room, the professional barriers dissolve, replaced by an intimacy that transcends the confines of your roles.

“Well, they've been getting worse," you speak softly, glancing at the floor as you anxiously play with your fingers, "It's like a constant pressure behind my eyes, and sometimes it feels like my vision is blurry."

As you recount your symptoms, his eyes never waver from yours, his silence almost suffocating. Each word you utter seem to be met with a calculated pause, as if he were processing every detail, every nuance.

As Law listens to your fabricated symptoms, his brow furrows in concern, his demeanor shifting subtly as he leans forward, attentive to your every word. Despite the guilt gnawing at your conscience, you press on with your deceit,

“It just hurts so badly,” you rasp, “I’m desperate for something, anything, to help me.” 

You weren’t talking about your head. Your skull didn’t hurt. His neglect did. 

He reaches forwards, tattooed fingers rubbing reassuring circles into your kneecap. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, a silent reassurance that spoke volumes of the things you shared. Despite its cold, calculating exterior, his gaze offers a of something that transcends the confines of your doctor-patient relationship, understanding, love, devotion. 

The familiar warmth of his fingers seems to seep into your skin, dismissing the chill that had clung to your flesh the moment you entered the office. 

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the floor as he speaks. "I'm so sorry."

“Baby?” your throat feels dry, making the word catch in your mouth. “Doctor…” you regift his title, but instead of accepting it, he places a reassuring palm on your thigh. 

"I know I've been busy lately, I've overlooked you," he admits, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm so sorry."

"B-But, we had an agreement," you finally manage to whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “In here,” you glance around the room as you speak, “I’m just your patient.” 

His gaze softens, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. 

"I know," he says gently, his voice tinged with regret. "But sometimes lines blur,” he gulps, “And it's impossible to ignore what's truly important."

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. For so long, you had clung to the illusion of professionalism, hiding behind the guise of patient and doctor to shield yourself from this very moment of vulnerability.

But now, faced with his unwavering sincerity, you realize that the walls you had built around your heart were no match for the depth of your love for Trafalgar Law. 

“Law,” you say softly, abandoning his professional title, “Just kiss me.” 

And he listens, immediately closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. 

It's a kiss filled with pent-up longing, a culmination of the emotions that have simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

His free hand rests gently on your face as his lips meld with yours, rubbing gentle circles into the apple of your cheek. 

You let out a shaky breath into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between your open lips. 

A wave of conflicting emotions washes over you. Relief mingles with lingering hurt, and the weight of his apology hangs heavy in the air. 

But as his tongue dances with yours, the clinical walls of the exam room dissolve into nothingness, and in that moment, you transcend the roles of patient and doctor. The world around you fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips against yours. You are no longer merely his patient; you are his lover once more, entwined in an embrace that knows no bounds.

He wastes no time in moving atop you, shrugging his labcoat off his toned, tattooed shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the tile. 

As he advances, you recline against the crisp, white paper that lines the examination table, yielding to his presence. He leans over you, his weight enveloping you, strong arms framing your head as he cages you in.

His inked hands travel up and down your needy body, making you shiver beneath his touch. 

“Law,” you whine weakly, taking his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging gently on the tender flesh, “Doctor,”

The doctor simply groans in response to your desperate plea, a deep blush rushing to his cheeks at your intimate use of his professional title. 

A smirk tugs at his lips,

“Tell me where it hurts,” the doctor rasps, “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.” 

To your surprise, he's fully engaged, playing along with a fervor that electrifies you to your core.

He slides a hand down, carefully spreading your thighs to allow his torso to slot between your legs. You allow you head to fall back, moaning softly at the sensation of his crotch meeting yours. 

His hips immediately get to work, skillfully grinding his throbbing erection against your aching cunt as his hands tangle themselves in your hair. 

Although you’ve only just begun, your face is already flushed and your chest is heaving. Desire pricks at your skin and leaves you trembling for more. 

“Doctor,” you whine.

Your needy state ignites something within your doctor, and he picks up the pace, making you whine and tilt your head upwards to nip at his ear. 

“Please, help me.”

“How do you want me to help you, love?” he teases, tilting back to allow his slender fingers to snake in between your crotches, slowing rubbing tight circles into your clothed clit. 

“F-Fuck,” you softly curse, twitching instinctively at the long-awaited sensation of his hands finally meeting the place you needed them most. 

But to your dismay, he stops, bringing the hand up again to hold your chin, tilting your face to look at him. 

“That doesn’t tell me anything, dear. I can’t cure you if you don’t tell me what’s got you so bothered.” 

You’re losing your composure now, head growing fuzzy frim his relentless teasing. 

“Mm, Lawww,” you whine weakly at the loss, instantly reaching down to grasp his wrist and bring it back to your aching sex, “Please-” 

“Please?” he questions, a smug look decorating his usually-stoic face, “Please what?” he begins kissing down your neck, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. “Oh, and I don’t believe we’re on a first name basis just quite yet, so that’s doctor to you.” 

He nips at your delicate skin as he continues to kiss down the column of your neck, “Let's try that again.”

“P-Please, doctor,” you correct yourself, “Fuck me.”

“Mmm,” the tall man hums, “That’s not a very professional request, but since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll let it slide.” 

With one arm supporting his weight above you, he begins working on his belt with the other, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. The predatory gleam in his eyes makes you feel small, vulnerable, yet oddly exhilarated by the primal desire that courses between you.

Before long, his belt hits the tile floor with a resounding clang, causing you to startle slightly as he looms over you.

He chuckles softly, amused by your vulnerability. 

“Why don’t you do us both a favor and strip?” he mumbles softly, voice tinted with lust, “It’ll allow me to properly cure you.” 

His dedication to this roleplay elicits a soft, playful giggle from you, yet beneath the surface of amusement, there lies a greater sensation; a tingling arousal that spreads through your limbs and makes your head spin.

“Of course, doctor,” you play along, promptly obeying his orders and peeling your clothes from your needy body. 

As you gradually raise your blouse over your head, Law's unwavering gaze remains fixed on you, stripping away any pretense or barrier. Even before your clothes are fully removed, his intense stare leaves you feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy.

As his eyes travel up and down your naked form, something new dances beneath his steel irises, admiration, completely enthralled by the sight before him. 

His lingering gaze sends a flush of warmth rushing to your cheeks, and you find yourself instinctively turning your head to the side, a shy smile playing at the corners of your lips as a bit of embarrassment washes over you.

He gently tilts your face back towards him, his touch tender yet confident, 

“Beautiful,” he says simply. 

He opts to help you unclasp your bra, making you lean forwards slightly so he can snake his arm around you. 

You let out a shaky breath against his chest, allowing him to strip you. 

The cool air hitting your breasts causes your nipples to harden instantly, earning a pleased groan from Law’s mouth. 

“I suppose I should join you,” he smirks, referring to your nakedness. 

And so he does, inked fingers curling around the hem of his undershirt as he leisurely peels it over his head. Your eyes widen at the sight of his exposed torso; while you've seen it before, of course, the unexpected setting amplifies its allure. Beneath these foreign fluorescent lights, in this room where you never imagined seeing him this way, the contours of his muscles glimmered like something new, forbidden, enticing. 

Once shirtless, he moves atop you again, lips swiftly attaching to the soft flesh of your chest. You let out a moan as his mouth slowly makes its way towards your breast.

You lean yoiur head back, letting a few gaspy moans escape your throat as his hot tongue swirls around your erect nipple. 

“L-La-” you whine, “Doctor-”

He groans against your breast before gently nipping at it, his tongue continuing its efforts as it lazily swirls around the needy bud. 

“Yeah?” he rasps, his other hand coming up to grasp onto your neglected breast, “Tell me, how does that feel? Does it feel good, sweetheart?” 

“M-Mhmm,” you mewl in agreement, reaching down to tug at his strands of dark hair, “B-But I need more-”

“Oh?” the doctor groans, tilting his head to glance up at you, dark grey irises seeming to dissect you as they bore into your face, “What more do you need?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his gaze with a hint of hesitation, torn between yielding to his request and remaining illusive. 

Noticing your hesitation, Law’s gaze darkens, and pinches your nipple between his slender fingers, gently tugging at it, determined to pry the answer from you. 

“If you can’t tell me what you need,” he smirks, “Then I can’t help you feel better.”

Sensing the threat in his tone, you let out a shaky sigh, abandoning all dignity as you open your mouth to speak,

“You,” you whine, reaching down to place a delicate palm on the growing bulge beneath his pants, “I need you inside me, doctor.” 

And with that, Law’s lips are on yours again, pressing his flesh against yours with a newfound passion, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it was oxygen and he was suffocating; his lifeline. 

“Mm-mm!” you whine, instinctively bucking your hips up to reward yourself the euphoric sensation of his crotch rubbing against yours. 

He wastes no time in pulling his pants down, tossing the garmet to the side as he works on peeling his boxers off, too. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as he steadies himself above you, one arm holding himself up, caging you in as he reaches his free hand down to grip his cock. 

The white paper crinkles beneath you as Law begins rubbing is weeping tip along your folds, earning a pleased sigh from your mouth. 

“Are you ready for me?” he leans down to whisper in your ear. 

You take a deep inhale, reaching upwards to grip onto his muscular, tattooed back, grounding yourself. 

“I’m ready, doctor.” 

He begins to push inside you, a low groan rumbling out of his chest as he stretches out your entrance with each forward movement. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he rasps, “Need to stretch you out.” 

You whine weakly as Law continues to push his cock inside you, his impressive length forcing your insides to open up, accepting him greedily. 

“M-mm, sh-shit,” you curse, throwing your head back as Law finally bottoms out, the tip of his cock granting your cervix with a gentle kiss as he’s now fully engulfed within you. 

He gives you time to adjust, peppering reassuring kisses onto your face until you give him the “Okay” to start moving. 

"I've got you," he reassures you, his voice a soothing balm against the pain between your legs. It's a stark contrast to the cold, professional tone he had maintained before, his words now infused with warmth and genuine concern.

Before long, your body relaxes beneath him, around him, and you glance upwards to meet his gaze with a gentle nod,

“Doctor, you can start,” you whine softly. 

And with your permission, Law begins, bringing his hips back to thrust into you slowly, carefully, testing the waters to see how much you can take. 

“Fuck,” you moan, the noise exciting the man above you, causing him to smirk as he glances down at your trembling form. 

“You’re doing so good, y/n,” he praises, groaning as he picks up the pace a bit, “You take me so good-” 

“O-Oh, d-doctor,” you whimper, stumbling over your words, glancing downwards to watch his cock disappear in and out of you over and over again. 

“Yeah?” he groans, “Like what you see, baby?” he grins wolfishly, bringing both hands down to grip your waist so he can pummel his length into your needy cunt. 

“Y-Yes-!” you whine sheepishly, your face flushed red and beading with sweat. 

His newfound roughness ignites something within you; singes your blood with a desperate, euphoric type thing. You rake your nails down the doctor’s back, whimpering and writhing beneath him as the pace of his thrusts never falters. 

His skilled cock is meeting all the right places; battering your sweet spot, making you see stars. But just as you’re approaching your orgasm, he pulls out, raising himself up and stepping off the exam table. 

Your breath catches in your lungs and you’re trembling, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at the man who so devilishly deprived you of reaching your peak. 

“L-La-” you begin to whine, but before you can finish, he’s on his knees in front of the exam table, slotting his head between your legs to grant your aching slit with hot, skillful licks. 

He groans into your cunt, sending vibrations through your body as his steel irises glare up at you from between your trembling thighs. 

You shake beneath him, letting out a trembling vibrato of a moan as you collapse back onto the crisp paper of the exam table, allowing your doctor’s gifted tongue to have its way with you. 

“Mm, fuck,” he groans in between licks, “You taste so fucking good.” 

“A-Ah!” you cry out, back arching off the table as your hand shoots down to tangle itself in Law’s thick scalp of dark hair. 

Law places a palm on your stomach, gently pressing your back down into the table, 

“Stay still, baby,” he rasps, “This will help, I promise.” 

With a few more stripes of his tongue, he latches onto your clit, forcing a loud moan to escape your lips. 

“O-Oh, doctor!” you cry out, eyes screwing shut from pleasure as he sucks greedily on your aching nub. 

“Mmm,” he moans, lazily shaking his head back and forth, his hot tongue dancing skillfully over your needy clit. 

You lace your fingers in his hair, desperately tugging on the strands, eager for release.

Before you can even comprehend it, he’s up again, towering over you as you shake and whimper on the exam table. 

He smirks at he gazes down at you, offering you no remorse, just a simple command, 

“Flip over for me.” 

Knowing better than to disobey your doctor, you do just as you’re told, turning over so your stomach is pressed against the table and your ass is in the air. 

You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking as he chuckles darkly, “Good girl,” he praises, completely enthralled by your unwavering obedience. 

In an instant, he’s behind you, palm resting on the small of your back as he lines his cock up with your entrance, teasing you by merely rubbing his tip along your folds. 

“Doctorrr-” you whimper, bucking your hips to earn more stimulation from his throbbing cock.

Although he wants to tease you more, you’re deserate, and he’s no better, so he relinquishes control, immediately grasping your hips and thrusting himself into you fully. 

The intrusion is sudden, but welcomed, making you throw your head back and cry out in both pleasure and a hint of pain. 

Sensing your discomfort, Law uses his fingertips to rub comforting circles into your flesh as he grips your hips, 

“Don’t you worry, I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his hips meeting the flesh of your ass with lewd smacking sounds as he thrusts in and out of you. 

“Fuck-!” you moan loudly, your cunt greedily accepting his length with tight, hot squeezes as he moves in and out. 

He reaches forwards, inked fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he tugs on the strands, forcing your head back to give himself access to your neck. He leans forwards, forcing himself deeper inside you and making you let out a weak whine as he places passionate kisses along your newly-exposed neck. 

“Sh-Shit,” he curses in your ear as he groans, “That pussy’s so fucking good to me.”

Your face flushes at the lewness of his words, letting more moans escape your lips as his twitching cock greets your sweetspot with a euphoric nudge.

Your head starts to spin as Law’s thrusts begin to grow sloppy; he’s close and you’re not far behind. 

He’s gaining momentum but losing his rhythm as he thrusts in and out of you, desperately chasing his orgasm, groaning through gritted teeth. 

“Y/n,” the doctor groans, throwing his head back,  “S-So close," he stumbles on his words, thrusting more feverishly now, making you cry out beneath him. 

“Law-!” you whimper shakily, abandoning his professional title as euphoria washes over you, your white-hot orgasm clouding your vision as it courses through your veins. 

He finishes in time with you, unapologetically painting your insides white as he moans heartily, granting you with a few more weak thrusts before he leans forwards to collapse on your back. 

You're both panting, the echo of your shared climax still lingering in the air, sweat glistening on your skin as you simultaneously come down from your highs. 

As the clouds of pleasure that had circled your brain finally begin to dissipate, you’re met with reality again; Law planting gentle kisses to your face as he whispers sweet praises into your ear. 

But even as you lay here together, only one thing consumes your mind. 

"Law," you begin weakly, stealing a glance at the man behind you.

"Hm?" he responds, his tone curious and attentive. "What is it, love?"

"How did you know I was lying?" you ask, your voice tinged with laughter, still catching your breath. "About being sick?"

He chuckles gently, his lips grazing your nape with a soft kiss before he answers, his voice laced with both amusement and affection.

"I've spent enough time with you to know when something's off," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "And besides," he adds, his tone playful, "I could never resist the opportunity to give you a little extra treatment.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

better to reign in hell, than to serve in heaven - Suguru Geto x Reader

Warnings: explicit smut, dub/noncon, mega manipulative Suguru, minor spoilers for the Premature Death arc (this takes place between that and 0)

Word Count: 14,332

eeeyah writing based on manga is harder than on anime or games! Hopefully I did him justice, I really love Suguru. Like. A lot. A looot. Also I have a voice kink for his Japanese va so… there’s that. This is a generic plot I KNOW however, this is my sleepover so I get to choose the cliché!!!

//

Living alone suited you. Well, having your own bathroom you didn’t have to share with anyone else suited you.  You were of the strong opinion that a nice, hot shower could fix anything. It washed the blood, sweat, and grime from your skin, eased the tension in your shoulders. It helped you breathe easier. For as long as you could remember, that was your go to. Bad day? Shower. Lost a fight? Shower. Feeling sad? Shower. Regretting everything you’ve ever done? Shower. The mindless pitter-patter of water on the floor, against your shoulders, spinning in a bubbly whirlpool before draining away. Sometimes, you imagined it was a torrential downpour that would wash the world away in a flood. Sometimes you turned your face upward and imagined drowning in it, your lungs filled with water and body bloated and blue. Sometimes you closed your eyes and pressed your cheek to the cold tile and just breathed. In and out, slow and steady. You didn’t need to listen to the parade of thoughts in your head, you could just lose yourself in the deluge.

You blinked, a shiver running down your spine. At some point, the water had begun to run cold. The pipes squeaked when you turned off the stream, its steady thrum replaced with a rhythmic drip, drip, drip and the soft whoosh of the plumbing behind the walls.

It hadn’t been a bad day, not really. None of them were bad days. This was what you wanted. Peace and mediocrity. A normal life. The shaggy rug was soft on your feet, squishing between your toes. Mechanically, you dried off and slathered yourself in lotion, the movements holding an air of ritual. This was what you wanted. Again and again, until the meaning of the words was lost. Even then, you clung to the syllables themselves, hiding behind them as protection from your thoughts.

You pulled on your pajamas and brushed the tangles from your hair, wiping the steam from the mirror to see your face reflected in those blurry streaks. It was you, the same old you. Tired and worn, despite your best efforts. But still you. The mirror fogged back over. You turned away.

Opening the door let a cloud of floral-scented steam into the main room of your apartment, the cooler air brushing your damp, flushed skin and making you shiver. You flicked off the bathroom light and balanced against the doorway so you could put on socks, struggling to do so one-handed.

The truth was that, right then, you didn’t feel any sort of paranoia. You didn’t get the tingling sense that something was amiss. You were distracted by your own internal turmoil. You had grown complacent. You put too much trust in the safety of your apartment complex, the additional locks you’d fitted onto the door, and your subscription to a third party security system. No, it was only when you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye that you thought to cast a cursory glance over your apartment. Your dark kitchen, the living room with furniture you were still paying off, the mess of paperwork scattered across the coffee table, and the person on your sofa.

Comprehension struck with an inharmonic resonance of bronze and steel right in the pit of your stomach, metallic fear zipping through you. There was somebody in your apartment. You didn’t scream, you were above that, but your audible intake of breath and the thump of your foot hitting the floor was dangerously loud in the hollow absence of the bathroom fan’s hum.

Fight was, of course, your first instinct, cursed energy sparking to life in your gut. A normal person was nothing to a semi-Grade One jujutsu sorcerer, even one who was retired and weaponless.

But that was stupid, wasn’t it? If it were a normal person, it was unlikely they’d be able to get through the security measures. If it were a normal person, blind and unconscious fear wouldn’t have frozen you solid right in the doorway between your humid dark bathroom and the dimly lit den. Because although it was dark and although you were panicked, recognition struck you with the same near-instant jolt as the fear did. You knew, on a deep and base level. And you knew that he wasn’t normal.

Suguru Geto had draped himself across your couch on his side like he had every right to be there, one of his legs bent up and the other stretched out across the edge of the sofa. He lounged comfortably, his head lolling into one hand while the other held a phone. The blue light of the screen illuminated his face—that achingly familiar sculpted nose and jaw, those thin brows, the strands of dark hair flipped over his forehead. He didn’t even look up, too engrossed in whatever he was looking at.

This couldn’t be real.

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made a chart of the straw hats' skin tones with the colors being screencapped directly from the episodes, to show how much they've lightened. this is more than just an "artstyle change" or "design evolution" or "just the timeskip" this is blatant racism/colorism. it's fucking ridiculous and i don't understand how toei is continuously getting away with it please reblog btw, i think this is something people should see

Baby Blue - Satoru Gojo x Reader x Suguru Geto

Warnings: Explicit smut, noncon/rape, threesome/double penetration, unhealthy relationships/manipulation

Word Count: 16,216

Ah, there’s nothing like traveling and family to kill inspiration. Regardless, here it is, as promised

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Sweat trickled down the middle of your spine, curving with the arch of your perfectly upright posture. Your hands, neatly folded in your lap, weren’t shaking, but the stark white of your knuckles was telling enough of the anxiety keeping your body almost exhaustingly stiff.

This was why you didn’t put yourself out there. This was why you were careful, measuring the risk and reward of your actions before acting impulsively. This was the consequence and nothing you felt—fear, discomfort, uncertainty, betrayal—was as potent as the regret. You had a feeling when you showed up at Satoru Gojo’s door with lingerie under your dress and butterflies going wild in your stomach that something was wrong but you told yourself it was just nerves. After all, firsts were important and you’d been putting off your first with your boyfriend for longer than you thought he’d have the patience for. You weren’t trying to be rude, or to intrude. You were trying to surprise him because you knew Satoru liked surprises. But the door was open, that wasn’t your fault. The intentions you had going in weren’t morally good, but they certainly weren’t insidious, you weren’t trying to spy on Satoru or anything. It was by complete accident and horrible happenstance that you caught a glimpse of the guest he had over.

And after that, intentions didn’t matter. You had officially seen too much.

In a way, you might have rathered he was just cheating on you. That would hurt, but it wouldn’t be entirely out of character. You would cry and burn the various stupid souvenir trinkets he brought back for you and complain to your friends over a bottle of wine or five, but that would be it. Instead, Satoru greeted your intrusion with only a second of displeasure before it melted into knowing delight, enthusing about the wonderful surprise and ushering you to come in with his normal energy. Now you were stuck between two of the strongest sorcerers in the world. Well, Suguru Geto was no longer a jujutsu sorcerer, even if that was how you remembered him. Now he was a criminal, a curse user, a genuine villain, and, most importantly, Satoru Gojo’s arch enemy.

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