sunandflame

[sunandflame]

Ma’am would you please write a hopelessly in love vampire Mihawk x fem reader?

Drink water and sleep plenty🩷

The Taste of Dawn

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 870

Pairing: Vampire!Mihawk x Reader

crossposted on AO3

The sun had not yet risen. The world was hushed and silver-blue with moonlight, the hour so quiet it barely felt real — the kind of hour only creatures of the night and their most beloved ever truly knew. And Mihawk… Mihawk was in the kitchen.

A ridiculous thought, really. But there he was — half-draped in his black robe, shirt undone at the chest, hair mussed from where your fingers had wandered last night. He moved with his usual unnerving grace, slicing fruit with a paring knife like it was a blade meant for battle. He was humming something. You couldn't place it.

You leaned against the doorframe in his oversized shirt, watching him in sleepy silence. He didn’t glance up, but you knew he had sensed you the moment you entered the room — probably even before that.

“You’re awake early,” he murmured, voice smooth and low as ever. The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t stay away from me even for a moment, hm?”

You scoffed, but your smile betrayed you. “Says the vampire who doesn’t sleep,” you muttered, padding closer until you could wrap your arms around him from behind. His bare skin was cool beneath your cheek, but it never once felt unwelcoming.

Mihawk tilted his head slightly to allow your embrace, one of his hands resting easily over yours. “I rest. I simply don’t dream.”

You hummed. “Then I’ll just dream for both of us.”

His chest vibrated with a low sound — not quite a laugh, but something close. That rare sound he gave only to you. “You already do.”

The plate of neatly arranged fruit was set aside — you saw he’d taken care to choose only the ripest pieces you liked — and he turned in your arms, looking down at you with those eyes that always felt centuries deep. Golden. Quiet. Unreadable. But when they were on you, they softened. Just barely — but enough. Enough that you knew.

You reached up and brushed a thumb just under his eye, where faint purple shadows clung to skin that never aged. “When’s the last time you ate?” you asked, voice featherlight.

Mihawk’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not since before you insisted I try your attempt at coffee two days ago.”

You gasped in mock offense. “It wasn’t that bad!”

“It tasted like punishment.”

You swatted at him, laughing, and he caught your wrist easily, bringing your hand up to his lips. He kissed your palm, the gesture slow and careful, as if he were tasting sunlight for the first time.

“I’ll make you something,” you offered.

“You are something.” There was no smirk. No teasing lilt. He said it plainly. As a fact. You are something I could live off of forever. It never stopped making your heart stutter.

You pulled away to start at the counter, reaching for bread and cheese, pretending not to notice the way Mihawk watched you — the way he always did. With reverence he would never admit aloud.

“…You’re doing it again,” you murmured, glancing at him.

“Doing what?”

You met his gaze. “Looking at me like I’ll disappear.”

His expression didn’t change. But after a pause, he said softly, “In my lifetime, many things have.”

You swallowed. There was no tragedy in his voice — only truth. But it still ached to hear. “…I won’t,” you whispered, walking back toward him. “Not unless you send me away.”

Mihawk reached for you again, cupping your face this time, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His touch was cool, but familiar. Trusted. “I would rather face the sun itself.”

You smiled, blinking back the sting behind your lashes. You tilted up and kissed him — not urgent or deep, just true. And when you pulled away, he chased your lips just a second longer before letting you go. You poured two cups of tea, placing one beside him — even though he wouldn’t drink it. Still, you made it every morning. Mihawk never complained. The two of you stood there in the soft light of early morning, quiet settling around you like a second skin.

Eventually, you broke the silence. “…Can I ask something weird?”

Mihawk raised a brow. “You usually do.”

You smiled and glanced toward the balcony. “What does the sunrise look like… to someone like you? Someone who’s lived so long?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up a slice of pear from the plate, pressed it to your lips, and watched you take a bite. Then, softly: “It looks like you.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, voice low and unwavering: “Warm. Distant. Terrifying in what it could take from me. And yet I crave it—every single day.”

Your lips parted, and Mihawk’s hand slipped behind your head, holding you still as he kissed you with something deeper than desire — something heavy and silent and eternal. When he finally pulled back, his gaze lingered on your mouth. “The taste of dawn… is much sweeter now.”

And you knew — For all the centuries he’d lived, and all the blood he’d spilled, and all the night he’d wandered… He had never been more hopelessly in love than he was right here, right now.

With you.

[sunandflame]

Hey if your requests are open would it be okay if you could do some age gap smut with corazon x reader and the reader is in her 20s and Cora is late 30's with a size kink and little bit of a breeding kink

Goodness am I horny for this man

Full of You

Warnings: nsfw, smut,, fluff, size kink (reader's pov), light breeding kink, age gap (readers in her 20s), soft and emotional intimacy, consent-focused, mention of plan b

Word Count: 1572

Pairing: Corazon x AFAB!Reader

crossposted on AO3

You could barely breathe, pinned under the warm, heavy weight of Rosinante’s body.

He hovered over you, eyes blown wide, cheeks pink, a little bit of drool shining at the corner of his mouth. His blond hair, messy and sweat-damp, framed his face like a halo.

And God, he was big.

Everywhere. His hands cradled your waist so easily, palms almost overlapping around your sides. His legs bracketed you like thick pillars. Even just the way he loomed when he leaned down to kiss you — it lit every spark of your size kink on fire.

Cora wasn’t rough, not even a little. If anything, he was nervous.

"Y-you’re sure?" he asked again, voice low and rough, like the words scraped up from the bottom of his throat. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. "I can... go slow. As slow as you need."

You nodded frantically, heart hammering against your ribs. "I want it," you whispered. "I want you, Cora."

His throat bobbed in a thick swallow. His hand trembled a little when he slid it down your side, settling just above your hip. "...'M a lot bigger than you," he mumbled, almost guilty, as if he was apologizing for it.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling heat lick up your spine. "I know," you breathed, sliding your hands up his arms, feeling the strong muscles flexing under your touch. "I like it."

He blinked down at you, like he couldn’t quite process the words. "You like that I'm...?" He gestured vaguely to himself — massive, broad-shouldered, sprawled over your much smaller body.

You nodded, cheeks burning. "It's—it's hot," you mumbled, embarrassed, but the way his eyes darkened slightly made your stomach twist deliciously. "I like feeling... full. Like you’re too big for me."

A strangled sound caught in his throat. His face flushed a deeper red, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a soft thump. "You're gonna kill me," he muttered, voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed breathlessly, squirming a little under him — and immediately gasped when you felt the thick weight of his cock press between your legs, hot and heavy even through the thin barrier of your underwear.

Cora groaned, hips twitching. "Shit," he hissed, struggling to control himself. "Baby, don't move like that, I-I-"

You whimpered, grinding your hips up slightly. "Please," you whispered, clutching at his broad back. "Please, Cora, I want you so bad—"

He pulled back enough to look at you, cupping your face again in his big, calloused hands. "You tell me if it’s too much," he said, deadly serious, his golden eyes locked on yours. "I mean it. One word, and I stop. No questions."

"I know," you whispered, heart aching with how good he was to you. "I trust you."

The look he gave you in that moment — so raw, so open — almost made you cry.  He kissed you then, deep and tender, slow enough to steal your breath. And when he finally slid the head of his cock against your entrance, your whole body tensed with anticipation.

He was thick. You could feel the way he stretched you even before he pushed in properly, nudging against your trembling walls. He cursed under his breath, almost inaudible, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Relax for me, sweetheart," he whispered, voice shaking. "I’ve got you."

You nodded, digging your fingers into his arms.

Cora moved carefully — so carefully — rocking his hips forward just enough to ease inside you by small increments. You sobbed at the stretch, overwhelmed but desperate for more.

"You’re so tight," he gasped, biting down on his bottom lip. "Fuck—you’re doing so good, baby. So good for me."

You whimpered, clenching around him instinctively, and he let out a wrecked, strangled sound. It felt like it took forever for him to bottom out, inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and you were gasping, nails dragging down his back.

You could feel him — deep in your belly, pressing into places no one else ever reached.

You were full. Stuffed. Like your body barely had room for him.

It was perfect.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but not from pain — from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it, the intimacy of being so completely his.

"You okay?" Cora whispered urgently, kissing your cheeks, your eyelids, your nose. "Too much? I can stop—"

You shook your head frantically, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him pressed deep. "Feels so good," you sobbed. "Want all of you. Want you to fill me up, Cora—"

He groaned, deep and broken, and pressed his hips tighter to yours. "You’re already full, sweetheart," he panted, kissing you like he was trying to breathe through you. "Stuffed full of me."

The words slipped out without thinking: "Wanna keep it," you whispered.

He froze, staring down at you, eyes wide.

You blinked up at him, heart pounding in your throat. "I-" You flushed scarlet. "I just... I like the idea. You know. You—inside me. Staying there. L-leaving something behind."

Cora made a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut like the force of his feelings physically hurt him. "Jesus, sweetheart," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You can’t say shit like that to me."

You smiled through your blush, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "I mean it," you whispered. "Want you to fill me so much it stays. So everyone knows I'm yours."

He let out a broken laugh, his hands tightening on your hips. "You already are," he said, voice shaking. "You're already mine."

And then he started to move — slow, grinding thrusts, dragging his cock against your trembling walls, every stroke making you feel every thick, impossible inch of him. You clung to him helplessly, gasping, whimpering, letting him rock you open with all his weight and warmth. He kissed you through it all — soft, worshipful kisses, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

"Mine," he whispered into your mouth. "All mine."

You came with a sob, clenching tight around him, and he followed you a heartbeat later, pushing deep one last time and spilling inside you with a broken, desperate groan.

You felt him fill you — hot and heavy and endless — and you whimpered, clinging to him.

Even after he collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, he didn’t pull out — just stayed there, keeping everything deep inside, like he could seal it into your body just by holding you close enough.

"You’re gonna be the death of me," Cora mumbled into your neck, voice thick with sleepiness and bliss.

You laughed breathlessly, stroking his hair. "Good," you whispered.

And you both fell asleep like that — tangled together, full of each other, and more whole than you'd ever been.

Extra Post-Scene:

You woke up slowly, feeling hazy and warm. The first thing you noticed was the heavy arm draped across your waist — warm and protective — and the soft, steady sound of breathing near your ear. You smiled sleepily, nuzzling closer against the broad chest pressed to your back.

"Mm... Cora..." you mumbled, not fully awake yet.

He made a low, sleepy hum, squeezing you gently. For a long moment, you both just lay there, tangled together under the covers, the early morning sunlight filtering through the thin curtains. And then—

A sharp little gasp.

You blinked your eyes open, confused, and turned your head slightly to see Rosinante staring down at you with the most horrified expression you’d ever seen. He looked like he’d just realized he'd set a building on fire. 

"Oh my god," he whispered. "Oh my GOD."

You frowned, reaching up to brush his messy blond hair out of his eyes. "Cora? What's wrong?"

He visibly struggled for words, mouth opening and closing uselessly for a few seconds before he blurted out: "I—I didn’t pull out."

You blinked at him.

"I didn’t pull out!" he repeated, like maybe you hadn't heard him the first time, his voice cracking in panic. "I just— I stayed inside, and—and you said you wanted—and I—"

You pressed a hand to his chest, laughing softly. "I know," you said, grinning.

He stared at you, utterly shell-shocked. "You— you’re not—angry?!" he asked, voice shooting up almost an octave.

You shook your head, pulling him down for a soft kiss. "I wanted it, remember?" you whispered. "You didn’t do anything wrong, Cora."

He exhaled a shaky breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder in relief. "Thank god," he mumbled, arms tightening around you. "I thought— I mean, you’re young, and I’m—I'm almost forty, and you’re so small, and I got carried away, and you were crying, and I thought—"

You laughed, stroking your fingers through his hair. "They were good tears, Cora," you said gently. "I’ve never felt that close to anyone before."

He let out a broken little laugh, kissing your bare shoulder. "I love you," he whispered fiercely.

Your heart squeezed painfully. "I love you too," you whispered back.

For a few moments, he just held you — his big arms wrapped around you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And then, in a much smaller voice, he mumbled against your skin:

"...still probably gonna buy you a Plan B, just in case."

You burst out laughing, and he groaned, burying his face deeper into your shoulder.

God, you loved this man.

[sunandflame]

hello sunny!!!! i love ur writing so so much, and im obsessed with the nsfw headcanons for the one-piece men! they're my absolute favourites!! if you're taking requests for those, do you think you could do doflamingo?

Hello my sweet anon! First of all, thank you so much 🥹❤️ Reading this makes me incredibly happy (especially after my long hiatus), and I really love writing them. And yes — I’m currently taking requests! My inbox is also open for questions and anything else, so go ham, babygirls!

As for my feathered friend Doflamingo, absolutely — I’ve already planned to do more NSFW headcanons, but Doflamingo is now at the top of my to-do list ❤️

[sunandflame]

Does anyone else just randomly feel like they're annoying everyone around them and that they should just disappear for a while to give everyone else a break from their existence, or is that just me?

[sunandflame]

in another universe your f/o selfships with you

[sunandflame]

Would it be okay to ask for something with Lucci and chubby reader? Love your stuff btw ❤️

Weightless

Warnings: fluff, slightly suggestive

Word Count: 697

Pairing: Rob Lucci x Chubby!Reader

crossposted on AO3

a/n: Thank you so much for this idea! I adore writing chubby!readers and I hope you like this one!

The wooden beams of the villa creaked as the evening breeze shifted through the open windows. Shadows draped the walls in heavy gold, the final breath of sunset slipping into night.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your shirt with nervous hands. No matter how loose you wore it, you could still feel the curve of your stomach, the thickness of your thighs, the soft swell of your hips.

You could hear him in the other room—Lucci, heavy-footed and deliberate. His presence weighed against the air like a silent, unspoken law.

You hesitated. What if he noticed? Noticed how imperfect you were, next to him—all muscle, shadow, sharp edges. But before you could overthink yourself into hiding, you heard the click of footsteps behind you. Slowly. Steady.

Your eyes met his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, a tower of pale fabric and black hair, hands resting loosely at his sides. His coat hung open, white against his darker slacks. Hattori was absent for once—Lucci alone.

You shifted under his gaze, feeling painfully visible. And yet... he didn’t look disgusted.

No. His green eyes moved deliberately over you, heavy and slow, lingering at your exposed arms, the generous curve of your thighs, the softness that your clothes couldn’t hide. A frown etched itself between his brows. Not anger. Something quieter. Hungrier.

"Come here," he said, voice low.

You obeyed before you even realized it, feet carrying you across the wooden floor. He reached out—not rough, not impatient—and pulled you close by the waist. His hands were warm. Solid.

"You're thinking foolish things," he muttered into your hair. You felt his breath tickle your scalp. "Again."

You opened your mouth to protest—to explain, to apologize—but he didn’t let you.

Lucci’s arms caged you against him, powerful and certain, and you realized with a flutter that he was holding you easily. No hesitation. No struggle. Like you weighed nothing at all.

One large hand slid down the curve of your back, splaying possessively across the dip above your backside. His other hand tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You’re mine." The words were simple. Brutal in their honesty. "You," he said, squeezing your hip firmly, "are exactly what I want."

You trembled. You hated how easy it was for him to undo you with so few words, so little effort.

His gaze dipped lower—over the fullness of your chest, the softness of your stomach pressed against him. His eyes darkened, a slight flare of something primal flickering behind the green.

When he bent down to kiss you, it wasn’t hesitant or soft. It was slow, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to remind you exactly how he saw you. His lips dragged over yours, coaxing you open, not asking but taking. His hands roamed freely, possessively over every part of you you’d ever tried to hide.

The thickness of your arms? He held onto it like a lifeline. The softness of your belly? He pressed closer, as if he could fuse the two of you together. The curve of your hips? His fingers dug in, almost reverent, grounding himself.

You gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed, but he swallowed the sound easily, deepening the kiss. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, forcing you closer. Making sure you knew—without a single word—that you were wanted.

Cherished.

Claimed.

When he finally pulled back, his chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, lingering, as if memorizing the sight of you dazed and trembling against him.

"No more doubting," he said simply.

You nodded weakly, and something—some tight, ugly knot in your chest—loosened. Lucci kissed your forehead then, the briefest, softest touch. As if sealing a promise.

Without another word, he lifted you—effortlessly, as if carrying the weight of you was natural, inevitable—and carried you toward the bedroom. You clutched at him instinctively, overwhelmed, but he only held you tighter, his lips brushing your ear.

"You belong to me," he murmured. "Every inch of you."

And somehow, in his arms, you finally believed it.

[sunandflame]

I saw this and immediately the idea to play with his ears plopped in my head. I know he would kill me, but it would be worth it. Believe me. Maybe I will write a little drabble about that 😏🤭

Bloodlust

[sunandflame]

if you aren't best friends with your lover and a little bit in love with all your friends than what's the fucking point

[sunandflame]

Untouched - Soft Scene with Mihawk

Warnings: none, just fluff

Word Count: 390

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x Reader

"Soft Scene with Mihawk" Series

crossposted on AO3

Later, after the tea was gone and the light outside had turned golden and low, you found yourself tucked into the armchair near the window, legs curled beneath you, reading an old book he kept in his modest library. Mihawk was across the room, sharpening one of his smaller blades with the kind of meditative focus that made you quiet just to witness it.

Your voice broke the silence.

“You never told me how you got this one,” you said, tilting your head toward the dagger he was holding.

He glanced up, blade stilling mid-motion. “That story is dull.”

“I don’t believe you,” you said with a grin. “Anything with you involves at least one duel, a shipwreck, or a very offended noble.”

That earned a faint exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. He set the blade down, stood slowly, and walked over to you.

You tilted your face up as he approached, still smiling. “Come on. Indulge me.”

Instead of answering, he leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of your chair. His face was close. Too close. You could smell the faint mix of sandalwood, sea salt, and steel — his scent, distinct and oddly comforting.

He didn’t kiss you.

He whispered, “You’re very persistent.”

You shrugged, lips brushing his in the movement. “And you like it.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up again. “That’s debatable.”

You opened your mouth to reply — probably something teasing — but he kissed you instead.

Slow. Deep. Unhurried.

Not out of desire this time, but connection. His lips moved against yours with the same care he gave his swordwork — precise, intentional, reverent.

And when he finally pulled back, the way he looked at you made your heart ache. Like you were a secret he was still letting himself believe.

He brushed your cheek with the backs of his fingers, quiet again. And then — so quietly you almost missed it — he said, “You make it hard to remain untouched.”

Your throat tightened.

You reached up, catching his hand in yours, and pressed a kiss to his palm.

“You don’t have to.”

And that — that — was when he really smiled.

Not the rare, subtle curl.

But something softer. Real. Almost boyish, if only for a breath.

His voice was just a rasp when he said, “You are going to undo me.”

[sunandflame]

Ocean Dividers

[sunandflame]

Heat of the Beast

Warnings: nsfw, rough smut, rutting instinct, size difference, mild breending kink, use of devil fruit (zoan hybrid form), possessive dominance, tbh it's pwp

Word Count: 3275

Pairing: Rob Lucci x AFAB!Reader

crossposted on AO3

The signs had been there all day.

You had seen it in the way Lucci watched you — those intense, slow drags of his green-gold gaze across your body like he was memorizing you, branding you. The way his fingers lingered too long against yours when passing a cup of tea, the way his breathing had become almost imperceptibly deeper, slower, more deliberate.

Heat. You knew what it meant by now. Once a month, his animal blood overpowered even his iron will, dragging him down into a storm of instincts he usually despised. He hated losing control. Hated being reduced to nothing but the primal urge to take, claim, breed.

Tonight was worse. You could feel it in the air between you — thick and heavy, almost buzzing. And even now, as you sat on the bed, pretending to read, you could feel him looming just beyond the doorway. Watching you.

Waiting.

"Lucci?" you called softly, heart pounding, pretending not to hear the way your own voice trembled slightly.

There was a long pause — and then the slow, deliberate thud of his boots across the floor. He stepped into the room, and the air shifted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

He wasn't fully shifted — not yet — but you could see the signs: the sharp gleam of his pupils narrowing into slits, the slight enlargement of his canines when he exhaled slow through his teeth, his muscles tensed and coiled tight under his black shirt.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual — rough, thick with restraint. "Come here."

Not a request. A command.

You set the book down with trembling fingers and stood. Your steps were hesitant — not from fear — but from the electricity that seemed to snap between your bodies as you approached.

You barely had time to inhale before he seized your wrist — gently, but with a grip that brooked no argument — and pulled you close, pressing your smaller form against the broad, tense wall of his chest.

He was burning to the touch. Heat radiated off him in waves. His scent — deep, musky, wild — curled around you like smoke, dizzying and addictive.

His head dipped low, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

"You smell like you want me," he murmured, voice a dangerous rasp. "You know what I need. Don't you?"

You nodded weakly, breath hitching, body already betraying you — arching into him, thighs pressing together.

He chuckled low — a dark, rumbling sound from deep in his chest — and his hand slid possessively down your side, over the curve of your waist, pausing at your hip. Holding you there.

"Say it," he ordered softly. "Tell me you’ll let me."

You shivered — half from nerves, half from the way his dominant presence swallowed you whole.

"I’ll let you," you whispered, barely audible. "I’m yours."

A growl vibrated against your body in response — approving, pleased — and then suddenly the heat between you ignited.

His body began to shift against yours — taller, broader, heavier — as the beast inside him took over. Muscle thickened under your palms; black-spotted fur prickled against your fingertips; claws pricked the bedsheets when he caged you against the mattress.

His hybrid form was terrifying — breathtaking — devastating.

A massive leopard-man looming over your much smaller frame, his green eyes burning down at you with pure, unfiltered hunger. He bent over you, nudging your cheek with his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Mine," he rumbled — a savage, reverent declaration.

You whimpered when his clawed fingers gripped your thighs and pushed them apart — rough but careful — as though he barely trusted himself not to tear you apart.

His mouth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear — and for a moment, he simply hovered there — breathing hard, muscles trembling with restraint.

"Last chance," he rasped, voice breaking with need. "Tell me no, and I’ll walk away. I’ll fucking tear myself apart if I have to. But if you say yes..."

You tilted your head back, throat bare to him, surrendering completely. "Yes," you breathed.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward — kissing you bruisingly hard, hands everywhere — dragging you down into the primal, raw hunger he'd bottled up for too long.

You moaned into his mouth as he manhandled you effortlessly — lifting you, spreading you, grinding the massive, throbbing heat of him against your core through the thin barrier of your panties. Still clothed — but barely — the friction between you was overwhelming. You could feel the hard outline of him, huge and leaking through his pants, rutting against you in slow, desperate rolls of his hips. 

Your skirt bunched up around your waist; your panties were soaked through in minutes.

Lucci's claws shredded the front of his own trousers enough to free himself — thick, slick, dripping precome already — and he pressed the blunt, hot head against your trembling entrance.

Still fully clothed, panting, grinding against each other like animals in the dark. You clutched at his spotted fur, nails digging deep, gasping his name.

"Lucci—"

"Shh," he growled against your throat, grinding harder, his cock catching against your clit just enough to make you sob.

"Take it," he rasped. "Be good for me. Let me have you."

One savage thrust — and he buried himself halfway inside — the stretch nearly unbearable, so big it stole the breath from your lungs. He froze immediately, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he fought the urge to slam into you.

"Too tight," he growled against your shoulder. "So good—fuck, you're good—"

He rocked his hips in tiny, controlled thrusts — barely moving — stretching you slowly, agonizingly, forcing your body to take every thick inch.

Your legs trembled, wrapped around his waist.

Every movement was clumsy, desperate, still fully clothed, driven by pure animalistic need.

Lucci's mouth latched onto your throat — not biting, but hovering dangerously close — and his entire body shook with the effort of holding back enough not to hurt you.

"Mine," he rasped again. "Always. Forever."

You could only nod helplessly — body burning, nerves on fire — as he finally bottomed out inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in the most primal way possible as his cock throbbed deep inside you, buried to the hilt — impossibly thick, stretching you so full it made you whimper breathlessly against his furred chest.

And for one, trembling moment — Lucci didn’t move. He hovered there, shuddering, arms locked on either side of your head, whole massive body tensed like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

You could feel it. The primal, trembling urge inside him to just take you. To rut into you like a wild animal until you forgot your own name. But somehow — barely — he held himself still, teeth gritted, low snarling breaths rasping against your neck.

"Too small," he growled roughly, voice cracked with the effort of restraint. "You're too fucking small—"

You whimpered, squirming helplessly underneath him — but the tiny flex of your hips against him was enough to shatter what little control he had left.

He snapped.

The first thrust wasn't pretty — it was brutal, needy, frantic — a dragging pull-back of his hips that made you keen, made your nails rake helplessly down the thick muscles of his arms. When he drove back into you, it wasn't smooth — it was clumsy, messy, as if he couldn’t not slam back to the deepest part of you, chasing some feral, inborn high.

"Fuck—," Lucci snarled, forehead dropping to press against yours, his whole body shaking.

He pumped his hips in shallow, devastating thrusts — grinding you down into the mattress, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.

Each thrust was a struggle — not because he wanted to stop — but because he wanted to fuck you harder, deeper, rougher than your body could take. He cursed low and vicious under his breath in between every slow, desperate thrust.

Your thighs clung to his waist, trembling, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to keep him there — pressed so deep inside you that you felt him everywhere.

"S-so good," you gasped, arching up into him, sobbing his name.

Lucci snarled — a dangerous, wrecked sound — and bent to crush your mouth under his in a kiss that was less kiss and more claiming.

Teeth scraping. Tongues tangling. Breathless, broken gasps between the slamming of hips against hips.

"Say it," he demanded raggedly against your mouth, pounding into you with short, brutal thrusts that made the whole bed shudder. "Say you're mine."

"Yours," you sobbed without hesitation, clinging to him, body clenching tight around the thickness of him.

He lost it.

With a guttural growl, he shoved one huge arm under your waist — dragging you impossibly closer, tipping your hips up at a brutal angle — so he could bottom out even deeper inside you, grinding against your cervix with every desperate thrust.

"That's right," he snarled. "That's right. Mine. Mine. Fucking—mine."

He was rutting into you like he couldn't stop — rough and relentless, making you cry out with every slam of his hips, tears slipping down your cheeks from the overwhelming stretch, the raw burning pleasure.

Your body clung to him, trembling, and it only made him more frantic — chasing the smell of your heat, the slick between your thighs, the desperate way you mewled his name like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Gonna breed you," he growled against your throat, voice raw, almost mindless. "Fill you up. Knot you if I have to. You're mine."

You sobbed something — yes, please, anything — and that was all he needed.

His hips slammed into you faster, messier, all rhythm forgotten — reduced to pure instinct, rutting hard and wild and mindless, grinding you into the mattress with each possessive thrust.

You barely realized you were coming until your whole body convulsed — clenching tight around him — sobbing his name brokenly into the crook of his neck.

Lucci growled— A ragged, feral sound that was half-pain, half-ecstasy — And his hips stuttered once, twice — before he drove himself impossibly deep one last time and came. The heat of it spilled inside you — endless, overwhelming — filling you up so much that you whimpered against his neck, nails raking down his back as he ground against you through the aftershocks.

Even after he came, he didn't stop moving — slow, shallow grinds, refusing to pull out, cock twitching deep inside you, his massive frame caging you down, panting harshly against your throat. Still trembling. Still barely holding back from starting all over again.

hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not with the way Lucci’s massive body was pressing you into the mattress, the heat of his skin searing against yours, his cock still sheathed so deep inside you it felt like you’d never be empty again.

He was trembling. Full body, bone-deep shakes — low, ragged snarls rumbling against your throat like he was still fighting himself, even though the worst of his heat had been sated. His arms locked tighter around your waist, keeping your hips pinned flush to his.

You whimpered softly — half overwhelmed, half aching — trying to shift, to ease the heavy stretch where he was still grinding slow, instinctive rolls into your sore, soaked cunt.

The second you moved, Lucci growled — deep, guttural — and shoved himself deeper, grinding into the soft, swollen spot inside you with brutal finality.

"Don't—" he rasped, voice shredded raw from panting and snarling. "Don't move. You're not going anywhere."

You could feel the thick twitch of him inside you — the way his cock swelled slightly, as if even the thought of pulling away made his body rebel. Possessive. Wild. His green eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness, pinned you — the feral glint in them making your heart stutter and your body shiver under him.

Slowly — as if he didn't trust himself — he nuzzled his nose against your neck, dragging in slow, ragged breaths of your scent. You felt the gentle scrape of his fangs skim the soft skin there — not biting, just hovering, threatening.

A reminder. A warning. You were his. You would stay his.

"Smell like me now," Lucci rumbled hoarsely, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Inside and out. They’ll know who you belong to."

You whimpered — overwhelmed, trembling, brain foggy from the brutal fucking and the way his weight blanketed you.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his back — still buried in the thick fur between his shoulder blades — and Lucci purred lowly in response, pressing his entire body closer, caging you against the bed as if he could merge you with himself if he just pressed hard enough.

Even soft, even done, there was no escaping him. You were stretched to the brink around him — aching, throbbing — slickness smearing between your thighs, a messy, embarrassing wet heat. But Lucci didn’t pull out. Didn’t let you breathe.

His hips gave tiny, unconscious rocks — not to fuck you, not yet — just to keep himself inside, to keep the bond sealed, to keep your body trembling around his cock until you couldn’t remember what it felt like to be alone. His nose brushed your jaw, a rare, dangerous tenderness in the way he held you — like a wounded animal clutching its mate, afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

"Little thing," he rasped, the words a broken, reverent snarl against your skin.  "Took me so well."

You keened softly — overwhelmed, flooded with the heat and praise and the lingering, dizzy ache of being so utterly filled.

He shifted, lowering himself even more until your chest was pressed flush to his — your heart pounding frantic against his much slower, rumbling pulse.

Slowly, gently — he hooked one massive, furred hand under your thigh and hitched it higher around his waist, making your battered core clench weakly around him, earning a low, dangerous growl.

"Fuck—" he gritted out. "Tight still. Don’t squeeze me—"

But your body wasn’t listening — clenching and fluttering helplessly around the thickness of him, still greedy even after being ruined. Lucci’s control frayed further — he pushed into you with a shallow thrust, slow but unstoppable, grinding deep where you were most sensitive. You whimpered, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t stop — moving in slow, aching, endless rolls — dragging his cock along every battered, oversensitive nerve inside you until your thighs were trembling and you were mewling brokenly against his shoulder. It wasn’t rough anymore. It was tender now — brutal in a different way — as if he was trying to mark every inch of you from the inside out, to imprint himself so deep that even time couldn’t wash him away.

The air was hot, sticky, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and something more primal — something that made your instincts curl inward, pressing closer, submitting without even thinking.

Lucci pressed his forehead to yours, breathing raggedly through his nose, one hand still cupping the underside of your thigh, the other wrapped tight around your back, keeping you caged and motionless under him.

"You’re mine," he whispered, voice wrecked, low, barely human. "Always. Even if you run, little thing. Even if you fight me. You're mine."

You whimpered weakly, nodding — because you couldn’t speak — because it was true — because even if you could have fought him, you never would.

You were his. And he would never let you forget it.

He nuzzled your jaw again, low growls of satisfaction rumbling through his chest as you sagged bonelessly under him — utterly, completely spent — trembling from the overwhelming fullness and the soft, endless way he rutted into you, claiming you over and over, even in the trembling aftermath.

You didn’t know how long he stayed like that — fucking you slow and deep and possessive in the dark, murmuring broken, snarling praises against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was your broken, shaky breathing against his massive chest, and the low, rumbling growl in his throat that hadn't fully stopped — a deep, vibrating sound of possessive satisfaction and lingering hunger.

You clung to him — fists tangled in the thick fur at his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. And he buried himself deeper around you, curling his larger body protectively over yours, surrounding you in heat and scent and the heavy, primal thrum of his heartbeat.

His cock still pulsed deep inside you, a slow, lazy twitch of ownership that made you whimper softly — overstimulated, overwhelmed — but somehow craving even more.

You could feel the way his muscles trembled under the fur. Not from exhaustion — no. From restraint. From the brutal, raw effort it took not to flip you over and take you again, harder, rougher, the way his instincts demanded.

Instead, Lucci dragged in a deep, shuddering breath — and pressed his huge, clawed hand between your shoulder blades, cradling you close.

"You’re safe," he rasped into your hair. His voice was rough, ragged — the words almost a plea. "With me. Always."

You nodded weakly, still trembling. One massive hand slipped under your thighs, adjusting you so gently it made your chest ache. He moved slowly, carefully — as if he thought you might break if he wasn't careful enough. Still half-dressed, your skirt pushed up indecently around your waist, your panties hanging loosely from one ankle — but he didn’t seem to notice, or care.

All he cared about was the way you smelled — the way you felt — warm, spent, and utterly his. 

His tongue — rougher in this form — rasped slowly over your shoulder, a slow, claiming lick that made you shiver again. Marking you. Scenting you. Binding you to him in ways far deeper than any ring or vow could.

You tilted your head weakly, exposing your throat without thinking. The growl that tore out of him was feral — but somehow gentle, too.

Slowly — agonizingly slow — Lucci shifted back, just slightly: shrinking down from his full hybrid form until he was still larger, still powerful, but more human in shape. Still, his green-gold eyes blazed down at you with naked, possessive adoration.

He cupped your jaw with one clawed hand, thumb stroking your cheek — a soft touch that betrayed the animalistic hunger barely restrained beneath his skin.

"You're too good to me," he murmured roughly.

You blinked up at him, dazed, body still thrumming from the aftermath. "I love you," you whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked from crying out his name.

Lucci stiffened — just for a moment — and then his mouth crashed against yours, devouring you in a kiss that tasted like desperation and devotion. When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against yours.

He was breathing hard, trembling slightly. "I almost lost control," he confessed in a low, tortured whisper. "You made me feel—" His voice broke off, strained.

You stroked his jaw with trembling fingers. "You didn’t hurt me," you promised softly. "You never could."

Another deep, shuddering breath from him — as if your words physically relieved something heavy in his chest. Carefully, Lucci shifted again — this time fully back into his human form — and collapsed onto the bed with you, wrapping his massive body around yours.

His green eyes watched you — not cold now, but something devastatingly raw. As if you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

One large hand splayed protectively over your belly, fingers curling as if to shield the most vulnerable part of you from the world. He buried his face against your throat again, murmuring something so low you almost didn’t catch it.

"Mine," he breathed. "Only mine."

You smiled weakly, closing your eyes, letting the heavy warmth of him lull you into a fragile, exhausted peace.Outside, the world spun on — but here, in this dark little cocoon of heat and whispered devotion, you were safe. Cherished. Claimed.

This was a little request from @potato-imouto under this post. I hope you liked it sweetheart 😘

[sunandflame]

Babygirls... I think you all forgot what kind of a filthy whore I can be. So NSFW requests are of course also open and so are headcanons (if wanted). So just shoot me an ask 😏

Kinda in the mood to write something for Mihawk or Rob Lucci. Would love to hear some ideas for some request regarding these two hotties 👀

[sunandflame]

Kinda in the mood to write something for Mihawk or Rob Lucci. Would love to hear some ideas for some request regarding these two hotties 👀

[sunandflame]

self shipping angst is sooo funny. yeah this is my favorite character and romantic partner i love them with my entire heart. im going to make sure i almost die in front of them

[sunandflame]

Sir Crocodile x Chubby!Reader Headcanons

Warnings: nsfw

Word Count: 967

Pairing: Sir Crocodile x Chubby!Reader

crossposted on AO3

🦂 Initial Reaction: Not Just Noticing—Assessing

Crocodile doesn’t chase beauty like a man with idle time. No, he observes. Measures. Decides.

And when he sees you?

Not just your body—your presence. The quiet confidence. The sway of your hips. The way your thighs press together, soft and unapologetic. The way you laugh like you own the sound.

It disarms him. Not in a fluttery, romantic way. In a dangerous one.

You don’t beg the world to see your worth—you dare it to. And that is what snags him.

He notes every detail like he’s cataloguing weakness in an enemy—only this time, it’s desire. The curve of your belly when you stretch in the morning. The plush softness of your arms when you cross them. The way your body sinks deeper into cushions, into him, like it belongs there.

But what captures him most? How you react to yourself.

If you hide your body, shrink from compliments, or speak with disdain about your shape—it infuriates him. Not because you're wrong, but because he knows what he sees is worthy of reverence. Of hunger.

“Don’t ever apologize for what I crave.”

🦂 In Private: A Worshipful Predator

Behind closed doors, there is no restraint.

Crocodile is all hands and heat and low, commanding words in your ear. His palm spans your side, gripping your hips, dragging you against him like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

His hook presses into the bed beside your head—not a threat, but a cage. One you’re not allowed to leave.

He bites your thighs. Kisses the soft round of your stomach. Leaves marks on your hips like a signature. Growls into your skin:

“All mine.”

He’s not gentle—but he’s deliberate. He learns your body, your rhythms, your pleasure. Every roll, every curve, every soft place becomes familiar ground. Not just territory—his territory.

And if you try to cover yourself after?

“You think you can tempt me all night, and then run from my hands in the morning?”

His hook lifts your chin. His gaze? Possessive. Scalding.

“Don’t hide. Not from me. You don’t get to tell me what to crave—and I crave every inch of you.”

🦂 In Public: Quietly Territorial

Crocodile doesn’t parade his love like a man seeking approval.

But he is territorial.

He walks beside you, hand at your back, gaze flicking across every person who looks too long. There’s a subtle shift when someone stares. A slight tilt of his head. That sharp, dry tone curling into his words like smoke:

“Keep your eyes to yourself… unless you want them carved out.”

Because you’re not just beautiful to him.

You’re his.

And the world should be damn grateful he allows it to see you at all.

🦂 When You're Vulnerable: The Shield Beneath the Sand

If you're ever caught in your own self-doubt—pulling at your clothes, speaking badly of your body, or avoiding his gaze when you're bare—he's quick to remind you:

Not with sweet words. But with weight.

He'll drag you into his lap, fingers curled beneath your chin, voice low:

“I won’t hear that filth from your mouth again. You are mine—and I value every inch of you.”

Then he’ll press his forehead to yours and let the silence speak:

You’re not a passing desire. You’re a constant.

🦂 Unspoken Worship: Touch Over Talk

Crocodile doesn’t compliment like other men. He doesn't drown you in words—he makes you drown in his actions.

A firm palm stroking down your back when you’re anxious.

A low hum of appreciation when he catches you undressing across the room.

His gaze rakes over you slowly, memorizing. Marking.

And when he does speak? It’s quiet. It’s possessive. And it hits like lightning.

“You feel good in my hands.” “You know what you do to me.” “You’re perfect just like this. Soft. Warm. Mine.”

🦂 Control vs Confidence: You Aren’t Submissive—You’re Fearless

He’s used to being the one in control—but the sight of you asserting your own, especially when it’s tied to confidence in your body?

It undoes him.

You telling him what you want in bed. You dressing in something that hugs your curves and smirking when you catch him staring. You straddling him, hands on his chest, smirking. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re struggling.”

He chuckles darkly.

“Keep going. See what happens.”

He wants you bold. Unafraid. There’s nothing more addictive to him than a woman who doesn't cower from her own power—or from his.

🦂 Post-Fight Affection: Raw and Real

After a heated argument or a dangerous skirmish, when adrenaline is still crackling, Crocodile finds you.

Maybe you're sitting quietly, nursing a wound or pulling at your sleeve.

He comes behind you, kneels, and kisses the back of your shoulder, rough palm splayed over your stomach. Just resting there.

“You don’t let anything stop you. I like that.”

It’s not just praise—it’s pride. It's him seeing every part of you, and claiming it still.

🦂 Clothes, Confidence, and Control

Wear something revealing? He doesn’t tell you to cover up. He stares.

With smug satisfaction. With hunger. With the kind of heat that lets you know he’ll have you later.

“Go on. Let them look. They’ll never touch what’s mine.”

But you’ll always notice… the way he pulls you closer. The hand on your waist. The quiet fire in his eyes. Just enough touch to make the room understand you are off-limits.

🦂 In the End: Devotion, Not Decoration

Crocodile doesn’t love you despite your softness.

He loves you through it.

He doesn’t see extra weight—he sees more of what he wants. More to hold. More to kiss. More to worship. More to protect.

You’re not his decoration.

You’re his center.

And heaven help anyone who forgets that.

[sunandflame]

I can’t wait to see Sir Crocodile x Chubby!Reader headcanons go online—because even the most confident person (and I do consider myself pretty confident) needs a little reassurance sometimes—and if it’s coming from a 2.53-meter-tall tower of muscle with big manly titties and a voice that sounds like pure dominance? Yeah, go ahead and ruin me, Daddy Desert.

[sunandflame]

Hullo! Would you write a drabble about Law and a witch reader? I always think that science and magic are opposite sides of the same coin, so I wonder how Law would react to a witch who can heal with magic XD

Surgeon and Sorceress

Word Count: 705

Pairing: Trafalgar D. Law x Witch!Reader

crossposted on AO3

He doesn’t believe in magic.

He’s said it, flat out, arms crossed and voice cool. "There’s always a rational explanation. If not now, then later." That’s how Trafalgar Law sees the world: cells, tissue, muscle, bone. Cause, effect. The way a body splits beneath a scalpel and stitches back together under practiced hands.

You are... not that.

You didn’t walk into his operating room with credentials or a medical chart. You appeared in a cloud of violet smoke after a storm-tossed skirmish, when half his crew was injured and the rest too exhausted to do more than gawk.

“Let me help,” you said.

And you did.

With a whispered word and a warm palm to the skin, the wounds began to knit. Bruises faded. Burns cooled. Bone—broken clean through—slid back into place with a soft snap and a sigh.

Law watched the whole thing with a shuttered gaze.

Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t speak. Just watched, like you were a particularly bizarre insect under glass.

Later, he said: “It’s not magic. Just an unknown application of Devil Fruit properties. Or sleight of hand.”

You smiled at him then. Tilted your head. “Call it what you want, Surgeon. It worked.”

It becomes a pattern.

You don’t stay on the Polar Tang permanently, but you come and go with their journeys, a strange and welcome presence—neither crew nor stranger. The men have long since decided they like you. Bepo trails after you like a second shadow. Shachi and Penguin beg for charms that they hang from their belts like talismans.

Law never asks for anything. But he watches. Always. And when you heal someone too fast, or too thoroughly, he frowns like it offends him.

One night, you ask him about it.

The two of you are seated on opposite ends of the Polar Tang’s lower deck. There’s a candle between you, and a tin of salve you offered him after a shallow cut on his knuckles refused to close.

He hasn’t used it.

“Why don’t you like it?” you ask softly. “The magic.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike.”

“Then what?”

A pause. Then, curtly: “It has no rules.”

That makes you blink. “Isn’t that true of most things? The ocean doesn’t follow rules. Neither do people.”

“Not like this.” He lifts his hand. The knuckle is red, still split open. He gestures toward the tin you offered. “I don’t understand it. I can’t explain it. I can’t replicate it. If it goes wrong, I can’t fix it. That’s not healing. That’s gambling.”

You don’t flinch. But you do go quiet for a moment. Then: “You know, I used to think that too.”

He looks at you now, curious despite himself.

You smile, faintly. “I studied herbs first. Pressure points. Blood flow. I wanted to understand the human body before I ever let magic near it. I thought—maybe—if I knew everything, I could keep people safe.” Your fingers toy with the tin’s lid, absent. “But people still died.”

The words land heavy between you.

“So I learned magic. And people still died. But a few more lived.” You glance at him. “Isn’t that the goal?”

Law doesn’t answer immediately. He’s staring at the wound on his hand again. The way it’s healing—slow, imperfect. A reminder that he’s still human too.

You shift closer, holding out your palm. “Let me?”

He hesitates. But then, slowly, he lays his hand in yours.

Your fingers are warm. Your magic, warmer.

It’s not showy. No flash or chant. Just a soft golden glow curling beneath his skin, the torn flesh sealing like it never broke.

You don’t let go right away.

And neither does he.

His voice is lower now.  “You could’ve fooled me.”

You smile. “About what?”

“Not being a doctor.”

Your heart jumps—just a little. “And you,” you murmur, gently brushing your thumb over the spot where the cut once was, “you could’ve fooled me about not believing in magic.”

He huffs. A rare thing. Almost a laugh. “Still don’t.” 

But he doesn’t pull away.

And for a man who believes everything has a rule, a reason, a rational explanation—you think that might be the most magical thing of all.