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shy-writer-999 · 14 days ago

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How many dreams to say "I love you?" (iv)

Summary: Zoro can't keep his feelings bottled up anymore. They've got to come out sooner or later. Will he be able to bring himself to confess how he feels, or will you beat him to it? ~5k words.

Part 4 of 4. (read part 1 here!) CW: Afab reader (w/gendered language, she/her pronouns). Reader gets drunk (sorry to those of you who abstain!), pining, tension, heart ache! (and... kissing). This is sfw but other parts of the story are very much not.

Part 4: "So, there."

Have you ever had a dream that was just emotions? No images, concrete thoughts or concepts, just raw, harrowing feelings?

The night after the encounter with the hostile pirate group, Zoro had one of those dreams. His sleep was fitful, distorted by intense feelings of worry and anxiety. He woke up early in the morning, sweating and distraught. He felt sick.

Unable to go back to sleep, he started his day. An ice-cold shower to distract himself and rinse off the stress from his dreams. He ate a sparse breakfast and sat on the deck, looking at the peaceful sea as the sun rose.

It was high time to get this over with, Zoro thought. He was tired of feeling scrambled in the head and tired of feeling guilty for evading being truthful to you. As your crewmate and best friend, you deserved his honestly. The mental gymnastics needed to end, and he needed to get this off his chest—the fact that he was in love with you—as soon as possible.

When you broke the thick chains and opaque brick concealing and masking his capacity for love (placed there by trauma and years of regret) you freed feelings that boiled and festered for many months. Your presence in his dreams and the workings of his subconscious slowly forced him to come to terms with this part of himself. The part of himself that was very much capable of love, that wanted it, and wanted you. He was forced to become acquainted with this aspect of himself, to sit with it, and to speak with it.

The self-realizations were at the same time elucidative and perturbing. What else about himself had he yet to become aware of? What else was there inside of him that he needed to recognize?

His stoicism thus far was nothing more than a farce, he told himself. To reckon with and control himself he had to be self-aware. Truly self-aware.

Zoro knew that ignoring your persistent presence in his mind and heart wasn’t going to solve any problems—it wasn’t going to aid his control over his emotions, wasn’t going to clear his head, wasn’t going to make himself feel better, and damn well wasn’t going to make you feel better. You were lodged in his heart and brain like a splinter that he couldn’t get out.

So, it was settled. Out with it. For better or for worse, it needed to happen.

The following night, the pair of you finally had drinks together and talked. You grabbed a couple bottles of sake and asked Zoro, “So, where do you want to go?”

He shrugged. “Crow’s nest?”

“That’s what I thought you would say. You love it up there.” When you smiled at him, Zoro felt like he couldn’t look at you—he was worried you see how tortured his eyes were, that you could read everything in his face.

The feeling was mutual. The tension in the air was palpable, as much as you tried to tell yourself that you were imagining it.

You were exhausted. Not from lack (or quality) of sleep, like Zoro, but the combination of the battle yesterday, your (actual) wound, and your lovesickness were crushing. Resigned and at your wits end with this man, you told yourself that if Zoro asked you the right series of questions, he would find answers for himself. You were at a breaking point.

If he prodded you for more information on why you felt like shit, he’d crack open something that should be left alone. You really didn’t want to share more about the fact that you felt alone and empty the past few weeks. But… you had a feeling that Zoro wanted to dig into the topic again. You dreaded it.

You climbed to the crow’s nest with Zoro around sunset. Opening the windows, you let in the golden rays of the setting sun and a cool breeze.

“It’s gorgeous out,” you observed, relishing the sea air that drifted in, salty and familiar. “Wow.”

The pair of you sat on a bench parallel with the row of windows. You were facing each other, straddling the bench so your knees almost touched. This was a sort of routine for you two—you used to do this frequently together, but it had been a while.

It was the early hours of sunset, right when the sun started to descend, and the horizon was stunning shades of pink, orange, and indigo. Zoro took a second to admire you as you stared out the window. Tendrils of sea air brushed your hair back, shining a heavenly shade of golden that reflected in your irises and off your cheek bones.

The make-believe you from Zoro’s dreams—the fantasy version of you that he spent every night with for the past two weeks—paled in comparison to the real you, radiant, material, tangible, and true. As he gazed at you, his heart twisted a bit.

“I love this type of sake.” You smiled once again, filling in the silence that took over the air as Zoro gawked at you. After a beat, Zoro opened the bottles, handing you one.

“It’s my favorite,” Zoro replied.

“I know it is.”

You raised your bottle for a toast. “Cheers to finally catching up after far too long!”

Your eyes flashed and Zoro’s heart did a flip. This sensation of being flustered felt so out of character, but he was caught up in the fact that tonight was the night he was going to confess.

The conversation started upbeat and friendly. You laughed together—you were one of the only people who could make Zoro laugh so hard he cried. You were making each other feel better, too. Spirits on the ship were a little low since yesterday and both you and Zoro felt it. But as you spent time together, Zoro felt a bit better because he missed you and wanted to be close to you, and he didn’t know it, but you felt the same.

You talked about Zoro’s new weight-lifting routine, some crazy dance move Usopp pulled out the other night, and the delicious soup Sanji made the other day (Zoro admitted that the shit cook’s soup was delicious, but he could only say that to you, no one else). The conversation wandered to sea kings, silly interactions with Chopper, and Franky’s new shirt (it was neon orange and camouflage, quite the attention grabber).

Your giggles made him feel like he was floating, and his smiles felt like home.

Zoro wished he could pause this moment in time and save it—that it could last forever, or that he could return to it sometimes when he wanted to. All of it was picturesque. He couldn’t believe how many of these nights you’d had together, nights that he never appreciated like he should have.

He had been in denial for months, egregiously so. He had been blind to the love for you that was brewing within him. Now that he could see his emotions for what they were, now that he was jolted and rocketed out of the opacity that locked his heart up, he could see that his love for you was plain as day. It was screaming at him, begging him.

He was in agony, and you had suffered far too long.

Zoro’s thoughts raced while you told him some cute little story. One part of him was laser focused on your beauty and the rays of setting sun that lit your eyes up. It was breathtaking. Another part of him was trying to keep up with what you were saying, but he was distracted. And a third part of him felt intoxicated. Everything you did overwhelmed him. It was like he was being hit over the head with realization after realization—a sequence of memories flashed in his mind.

One night, two or three months ago, you two were drinking. You had gotten far too drunk and you were on the verge of falling asleep somewhere random on the deck. Your shirt rode up a bit showing your stomach, the strap of your tanktop fell down one shoulder, and your eyes were sleepy.

“Zoroooo,” you mumbled. “Wanna go to bed.”

He looked at you, tutted, and pulled his hoodie off. He then helped you put it on—it was a chilly out and he saw goosebumps on your skin. You murmured out a thank you and slumped into his arms. He sighed and scooped you up, carrying you to your room.

He liked how you felt in his arms. Your weight. Your warmth. The way your head rested on his chest. The look of you in his hoodie. How close you were. Back then he tried to ignore it.

Zoro then tucked you into bed. You looked like you were out cold, but when he pulled the covers up so you would stay warm, you opened your eyes, half-asleep. You lifted both arms up and looked at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Zorooo,” you slurred out your words, blurting them carelessly. “Wanna hug.”

He leaned over the bed and into your arms, clasping you into an embrace. You hummed and didn’t let go for a few moments. When he pulled away, you petted his hair for a second, mumbled out a “night night” and went to sleep for good.

Looking back at the moment you asked him for a hug, Zoro realized that his heart had done that twisting thing; it was butterflies. He recalled that he just stared at you for a second. Your face was peaceful, eyes heavy, lips pouting. When you petted his hair, his heart did the thing again. He ignored it.

The next morning you had been sheepish, possibly because you remembered the affection you gave him, the hug and the hair pets. You thanked him for his hoodie and he said, “no problem.” That was that.

Another memory flashed into Zoro’s mind.

Some day, months ago, you and Nami went shopping. When you came back to the boat, you both tried on your new outfits and showed each other, fashion-show style. In passing, Zoro got a glance of you in a white dress. He had to stop himself from staring. It complemented you perfectly.

Sanji practically screamed, “MY LOVEEE~ You look absolutely ravishing tonight!” Then he got down on one knee and kissed both of your hands. Zoro remembered that something about that interaction pissed him off. He remembered thinking who does that shit cook think he is, fawning over you like you were a piece of meat.

When Nami very pointedly asked Zoro what he thought of your white dress, all he said was “suits you.” Looking back at that moment, Zoro kicked himself. The dress didn’t just suit you, it was made for you. Sanji had a point. You looked ravishing. He tried not to muse on it.

Another memory blitzed into his mind, a dagger to his heart. You were having drinks in the crow’s nest just like this, many months ago. You had looked at him earnestly and said, “Zoro, I like you. I really like you.”

Was this your attempt at a confession? You continued. “I could be around you all the time—I think we make a great pair.” You had that sweet smile on your lips.

Zoro had nodded and raised his glass. “To good friends!” He didn’t really notice it then, but now he realized that your smile faltered.

Looking back at that moment, he saw that you may have been alluding to something else. He unwittingly, cruelly, friend-zoned you. It was sort of brutal. When it happened, he shrugged it off like it was nothing, hadn’t had a second thought about it. Now he wondered how deeply that must have wounded you, if you felt any sort of way about him.

The final memory that his brain threw at him (while you were in the middle of giving him your story) was the moment when he first looked at you. It was a simple moment, insignificant until he realized that he loved you.

He felt drawn to you, from day one, immediately interested in you. Right off the bat, he thought you were beautiful, brilliant, and hilarious. When he thought back on that twisting feeling, the butterfly feeling, he could tell that it happened back then, too. Something fell into place that day, whether it was fate or luck. That day, he had you and you had him.

Zoro already came to terms with the fact that he loved you, and these memories further enforced the realization that he loved you all along. He just didn’t know how to express it and never thought himself capable of that sort of emotional depth. But you changed that. You flipped a switch in his mind. It was you all along.

“Zoro?” You asked, shocking him back into the present. “Are you okay? You looked like you zoned out there for a minute.”

“Fuck, sorry. I did. What were you saying?”

You smiled, told him no worries, and the conversation continued. His eyes were glued to your face, his heart and brain felt all shaken up, and he only knew two things—he knew that he loved you, and he knew that he wanted you to know that. No matter the consequences, it needed to come out. Preferably now.

The sun set by now. The horizon was a dark purple, the stars were starting to shine overhead, and the golden rays on your skin disappeared. There was a lull in conversation. Zoro took his chance.

“How have you been feeling since we had our lunch on the deck? I remember you said you were feeling down?” He attempted to ask with casual ease though his heart was racing. He was going to get to the bottom of it. All of it. Now. The privacy was perfect, you were perfect, the setting was perfect, all of it was perfect.

Your answer was reluctant. “I’ve been okay...”

“What’s up?” Zoro avidly watched your every movement. He inspected the way your eyes fluttered and the way your lips parted.

“Ugh.” You groaned. So it was going to be like this tonight. As you expected, he wanted to revisit the subject. “I don’t know, Zoro. I’ve just been feeling weird recently.”

“How so?”

“Hmmm. I guess I’ve been feeling a bit lonely. And empty.” Your lips were pursed, looking out of the window, at the sea. You could see the moon in the reflection of the waves. All was quiet except for the sound of the sea lapping the hull of the Sunny.

“Empty?” Zoro feigned surprise. He knew you were lonely. He overheard you sob about it a couple weeks ago.

The painful truths that you had been trying to keep bottled up when he was around? They started to shake inside. They wanted out of that bottle, stat. And you could only ignore those feelings for so long before they’d fucking explode. It had to come out sooner or later.

If Zoro pressed you any more than this, you might start losing it. The explosion was imminent.

“I know it’s going to sound ridiculous because I’m surrounded with people all the time, but I just feel empty. Like…” you hesitated, “I feel like I’m missing something. Someone. I just feel so lonely.”

“Oh?” His heart was pounding. You averted your eyes for a second and he thought you looked bashful. He took note of that.

“Sometimes I just wish I had someone by my side all the time. Like someone I could share everything with? If that makes sense.”

Zoro paused. “Yeah, that makes sense. It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.”

You took a deep breath and exhaled. He could see it now, glaringly, a sadness that lingered in your eyes. He could see it and his heart ached.

"It might sound absurd, but I’ve been craving a sort of… Well, I don’t know. A sort of company? Love, maybe?” Your voice was strained. Zoro’s breath hitched at the word ‘love’. “I just get so sad thinking about it sometimes. Like I have this profound emptiness inside. And it feels so out of reach, like that love will never happen for me. And maybe that sounds ungrateful because I have company, and I’m surrounded by my best friends all the time but… I just want a different kind of company. A different kind of love.”

You looked at him and frowned. If you said any more than that, you were worried you would start crying.

More silence for a few moments. Zoro was trying to figure out what to say.

“Why do you feel like it will never happen?” He prodded. He meant well, but that was enough to send you over the edge.

You were emotionally distressed and recently it felt like it was all coming to a head. You had been trying to flirt and send signals to Zoro for months, to no avail. Any time he was near you, you felt like you were suffocating. And now that he was asking you these things, trying to get answers or explanations out of you, you felt like you would fall apart.

The problem himself was in front of you, asking you what was wrong and why you felt like love was out of reach. You didn’t want to say anything and ruin your friendship and you were convinced he would never see you that way. It was just a blatant reminder that he didn’t care about you the way you wanted. He seemed unphased by the whole conversation—he was cautious and curious but that was nothing new.

As you started to get overwhelmed, tears welled in your eyes. What the fuck were you supposed to say to him? The risk of altering the dynamic between you two, along with the pressure of possibly altering the dynamic of the crew… You started to catastrophize. The pressure was too much.

A hot tear escaped one of your eyes and ran down your cheek. The emotions were starting to erupt, and his presence was agitating that.

“Hey, are you okay?” Zoro was concerned with your silence and frown. He hadn’t noticed the tear yet, and he thought you looked like you were about to start crying.

You shook your head and turned away from him as more tears started to flow out. Now that the tears started, they wouldn’t stop until the sadness was gone. You were trying to put a cork in that bottle of sadness, but it wasn’t working.

A moonbeam landed on the side of your wet face. Zoro realized now, catching the glint with his eyes, that you were crying. Did you just make her cry? He berated himself. You wanted to talk about love with her, and you made her fucking cry?

“Sorry, Zoro. It just gets me worked up sometimes. Hurts really bad.” Small sobs started to wrack your body.

Zoro stared at you. His heart was actively breaking—he couldn’t bear seeing you in pain like this. He had only witnessed you crying once before, on the deck when you had the conversation with Nami that started all of this.

He scooted closer to you on the bench and your knees touched. His voice was hushed and gentle. “Hey.”

Reaching a hand up, the ran it softly down your shoulder to your upper arm, a tiny movement. He repeated it, petting you, trying to give you some solace, to show you that he was there. His touch was delicate, so unexpected from him.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he continued, “and you can cry all you want. Don’t bottle it all up. I’m here for you.”

That note of sweetness you always saw in him was now bold, in full force as he comforted you. Your stomach flipped. He had never touched you like this before or seen you this emotionally vulnerable, nor you him. He said he was here for you, but how much did he mean that, and to what extent? You told yourself for the thousandth time that he would never be there in the way you needed.

“There are some things I have to bottle up, Zoro.” Your voice was almost a whisper. You were in anguish, and though your tears had stopped momentarily, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“Not if it’s eating you up like this. It’s not worth it.” His hand went still.

If Zoro told you to not bottle things up, if he comforted you like this, then you might as well just fucking confess, you told yourself. But before you could force the words out of your mouth, he was one step ahead. The silence was too much for him.

His mouth went dry. Fuck it.

“You said you wanted someone to share everything with? Someone to always have by your side?” Zoro asked. “I wonder if I could do that?”

He was painfully close to you. Your knees still touched, and his hand rested on your arm. Your heart skipped a beat.

He must not have heard you right. There’s just no way. You were convinced that the situation was hopeless.

“Oh Zoro, you’re sweet, but I didn’t mean it in a friend way. I meant it in a romantic way. Like I wish I had someone to hold hands with and kiss and stuff.”

“I know.” His words hung in the air. You were dumbfounded. “How do you feel about me, really? You won’t screw anything up. Just please tell me how you feel about me. I’m going crazy.” His tone was urgent, and he leaned closer. Every inch closer made you feel dizzy.

You were immeasurably caught off guard, too stunned to speak. Meanwhile, Zoro didn’t really know how to handle himself. While you silently collected your thoughts, he started to blurt out words. When it came to this sort of thing, he didn’t have the most tact.

“I’ve been having dreams about you. Really intense ones. It’s been fucking with my head.”

“Dreams?” You asked, again not sure if you heard him right.

“When I look at you, I start to feel weird inside, like something is twisting in me. It’s driving me crazy. It’s been weeks at this point. I thought I was sick, or something, but I think it must be something else so, please, please, just tell me how you feel about me.”

“Zoro…” Your tone was cautious. He was acting weird—the comment about dreams was particularly odd—and you were too caught up in emotions to really process what he just word vomited at you. But if he was asking you questions this desperately, then he would get an answer. Might as well. Especially after what he just said.

“I feel things about you,” you began. “Intense things. I know you just see me as a friend, but… I just—my feelings are intense. It’s okay that you don’t reciprocate, and I never said anything because I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“Don’t reciprocate what?” He pushed further.

More silence. You were trying to decide how to it into words. Your mind raced.

“You won’t make it weird,” he continued, pleading. “Just tell me, really, how do you feel about me? What’s intense about it? Help me understand.”

Ugh. You didn’t have the energy to play it safe or coy right now. If you regretted it, then so be it.

No longer would this eat you up inside.

“Zoro, I’ve loved you for a long time.”

The realization hit him like lightning.

So it was him. In the conversation he overheard, where you were talking about love with Nami, you had been talking about him. You said it was hard to be around him.

It was so obvious now that his ignorance to your advances slighted you; his overt neglect to recognize to your love, his insistence that he didn’t have the capacity and could never find it—it must have hurt you deeply. Now that he knew how he felt, now that he was so sure of it, he hoped he could make it up to you. He would do anything.

You continued, your voice taking on a hurried tone. You needed to get it all out and explain yourself before he had the chance to say anything. “I know you don’t feel the same. I’ve picked up all the signals, and whenever I’ve tried to… I don’t know… flirt with you? It bounces right off you. I get it. We’re close friends and crew mates and I know we aren’t destined to become any more than that. So, there’s no need to apologize to me or anything. It’s fine, really, that you don’t see me like that. And I don’t want to make things weird, and I’m sure you don’t either, so whatever those dreams were then that’s fine. I’m happy just being your friend, you don’t need to be anything more than that, especially if it’s just out of pity. So that’s it basically. I’ve been lonely because when I spend time around you I just wish that—”

Each word you uttered pulled Zoro forward just barely. You could hardly get the words out, rambling to make the awkwardness go away and help him understand. But he cut you off mid-sentence, pressing his lips onto yours.

You went rigid, eyes open wide as he brought a palm to cup your cheek.

The kiss lasted a handful of seconds, brilliant fireworks of confusion and exhilaration coursed through you both.

You melted, easing the rigid tension of your body slowly, leaning into his lips that were softer than you could have imagined. The warmth of his palm on your cheek was comforting, familiar, and welcome.

When he pulled away, he was crimson. “Did that help at all? Did any of that loneliness go away?”

He started talking before you could answer him.

“I already said it but let me be clear,” Zoro said, “I want to be that person for you. I don’t want you to be sad anymore. I want to be that person you share everything with and always be by your side. You said you’ve loved me for a long time? I have, too. It just took me a bit longer to realize it. You’re always on my mind, even when I’m working out, or asleep, or eating... I-I count down the minutes until we talk again and your smiles just… They make my heart feel funny. I’m in love with you. There’s just nothing else these feelings could be. So, there.”

“So there?” You asked incredulously. The sudden deluge of emotions felt like a smack in the face. “Zoro, what?”

He didn’t know what to say next. This conversation didn’t go as he rehearsed it in his head and you were so shocked that you thought you’d faint.

“I said I'm in love with you. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. I’m sorry. But hopefully I didn’t confess too late—and since you feel the same maybe you’ll let me, ah, fuck, I don’t even know how this works. Like, let me hold your hand… or something? Fuck. I’m so bad at this.”

He started to get redder, turning his face away from yours and taking his hand off your shoulder. This was a whole new side of him. An innocent, sincere, earnest side. A loving side. A side you dreamed about for ages.

If that was really how he felt, then you would welcome it with open arms.

This time, you brought a hand to his cheek and softly turned it towards you. His skin was hot, his brows were furrowed and he was doing a sort of grimace.

“Zoro. You’re something else. Are you absolutely sure you feel this way? Like, are you sure sure?”

He nodded and you cracked a grin.

“You should have told me earlier. But, if you’re certain…” you trailed off and held a hand out to him, palm up.

“What?” He looked at it, confused and clueless, and you pushed it towards him again with emphasis.

“Give me your hand, Zoro.”

The swordsman reached his hand out and placed it on yours. You moved your wrist a bit and threaded your fingers together with his, giving his hand a squeeze.

“You said you wanted to hold hands. So, there.” You smiled at him, and he squeezed back, turning even redder somehow. His hand was large; it felt strong, rough, and calloused. You had wondered for many months what it would feel like resting in yours like this.

In an uncharacteristically suave move, Zoro gently dragged your hand forwards, pulling you closer to him. He brought a hand to your waist and pressed his lips on yours again.

His hand felt heavy and strong on your side and his kiss tasted faintly like alcohol. He smelled just… manly and musky. But (surprisingly) clean. He must have showered today.

How was any of this real? How long had he known that he loved you?

Would you tell the crew?

What sort of relationship would this turn into?

You tried not to get lost in the details—those could be worked out later. For now, you needed to focus on how his lips felt on yours.

When Zoro pulled away from you, he kept his face close. “No more feeling lonely or empty, okay?”

You nodded, blown away by the delightful turn of events. Never in a million years would you have guessed that this is how the conversation would go.

“If you say so. Now,” you ventured, “before we get any further, tell me more about those dreams of yours.”

< previous part | masterlist >

taglist: @riftmage27 @eggrollforyou @imhwajaez @wiyenspanel @xxmysticxxx @moonmaiden1996 @theilluminatidragonqueen @becca-oak @my-name-is-heartache @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @adamwarlockislife-blog @olasz-2003 @kyllium @chibinasuu

a/n: this is how i feel posting this last part. FINALLY. i was stressing hard with this one because i wanted it to feel authentic. also what is that, eleven dreams and some change for zoro to realize and confess how he felt? on another note, thank you so much for reading this and for being patient with me. love yall so much and i cant wait to write more for you soon!

#this is a long shot but did anyone notice that as he started realizing he was in love with reader the photos turned from B&W to full color?#zoro smut #roronoa zoro smut #one piece smut #op smut #op x reader #one piece x reader #one piece reader insert #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #roronoa zoro x y/n #zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro x y/n

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shy-writer-999 · 14 days ago

Note

everyone read this NOW. it's criminally, preposterously good writing. wtf. i'm in awe (*ﾉωﾉ)

give me any more crumbs of vampire law and I'll start a revolution in your name. and if you do something for vampire sanji.......... then I'll just have to give you my first newborn

Anon, this request has been turning over in my head since you sent it. The reason it took me so long is genuinely because I got so excited I had too many ideas! There's so many different ways someone can react to undeath, and all of them are so fun to explore. I hope you enjoy this, I had an absolute blast writing it.

A Human's Touch

Pairing: Vampire!Sanji x Hunter!Reader

NSFW

Summary: You've never hesitated in your path before, but your latest quarry attracts you far more than you want to admit. Warnings: AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns used), Mild Angst, Blood Drinking, Biting, Oral (Reader Receiving), Vaginal Sex Word Count: 4.8k

Your quarry tonight appears to be in his early twenties. He’s handsome. Most of them are, really, but there’s something different about him. He’s not just attractive in the way most monsters are, in that dangerous and sharp way that pulls you in. When he smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges, he’s almost…cute. Approachable.

It almost makes him look alive.

You clench your teeth, reminding yourself again and again that he isn’t human. It’s the ones that can pass as normal that are the most dangerous. The ones you feel sorry for, the ones some naive part of you wants to save. There is no saving these monsters. What you do is the closest thing they’ll get to absolution, to peace. It’s not natural for the dead to walk among the living.

You make your way to the bar next to him, flagging down the bartender. You know very well how to play the part of an easy victim: the vacant eyes, the wide smile. This time you act as if you’re already a few drinks in, having taken a quick swig of whiskey from your flask in the parking lot to ensure you smell right. Vampires have an excellent sense of it, you’ve learned, and you don’t want to risk tipping him off.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, and you know you’ve got him.

His smile is like the sun. “I’ve never seen you around here before, angel. What’s your name?”

You open your mouth to tell him the one that matches the fake ID you just flashed at the bartender, the one your car is registered to, the one you’ve been living under recently, but instead you make possibly the biggest misstep you’ve ever made on a hunt. You tell him your real name.

His eyes soften a bit at the sound of your voice, something in them growing fond. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the creature fell in love with you at first sight. How sad that would be. “It’s a beautiful name. It fits you.” You’ve heard that same empty compliment a thousand times from things like him, wearing the faces of beautiful men and women who thought they could reel you in. It shouldn’t move you. But your heart, the wretched traitor, it skips a beat anyway. It believes he means it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Do I get to know yours?”

“Sanji. It’s a pleasure.” He reaches for your hand, bringing your fingers to his lips. The brush of them against your skin is so gentle you can almost forget the sharp canines behind them. “Do you have company tonight?”

You lean forward a little, purposefully flashing a bit of skin to draw his eyes to your neck and chest. It works flawlessly. “I don’t know, Sanji. Do I?”

He grins. “You can have anything you want from me, sweetheart.”

He’s going to regret that.

It’s a quick ride back to his place. You generally prefer not to follow vampires back to their lairs (it’s bad for one’s health, generally, to fight a monster on their own turf), but the carpet in your motel room is white, and you don’t want to have to spend hours scrubbing your own blood out of it. You’re hoping that he’ll feel more comfortable in his own home, relaxed enough to make mistakes, to underestimate you as they usually do. You rely on it. Even the strongest human is nothing compared to the weakest monster.

“Make yourself at home,” he offers, after holding the door open for you. A small measure of politeness you aren’t used to. Usually they don’t show that kind of grace to their prey.

“Thank you.” You give him what you’re sure is a heart-stopping smile, one that’s well practiced. He reacts accordingly, smiling back widely, a bit of red coming to his cheeks. You stop short for a moment, entranced by the sight. You didn’t know they could blush. You don’t know a lot about them other than how to kill them. Before you know it, you’re leaning forward slightly, hand reaching for his cheek, desperate to know if they’ll be warm beneath your fingertips. You come to your senses about halfway, hand hanging limply in the air as you both stare at it. It’s your turn to blush as you wretch it back to you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright.” This smile is gentler, kinder. “I’m not one to deny the warm touch of another, or the connection it brings. You don’t have to hold back with me, dear.” You don’t miss the depth of sadness in his eyes, the longing. He wants what he can’t have, what his kind can never provide him. There’s no such connection amongst the dead, amongst predators like them. They aren’t family, aren’t friends. They can’t even really be allies. They’re competition. The most a vampire can be to another is an intrusion on the other’s hunting grounds.

For some reason, you take his hand in yours, leading him back with you. His eyelashes flutter for a moment when you make contact, as though he’s savoring the feeling. His hands are ice, but instead of the normal revulsion the feeling brings you, you feel sorry for him. How awful it must be, cursed to an eternity without the warmth you once took for granted. A foolish thought, but you’re having many of those tonight. The greatest mercy you can give him doesn’t require the pity that’s clouding your mind, or the warmth that spreads in your belly at the sight of him unbuttoning his shirt.

He’s sculpted perfectly, of course. As if you needed another reason to be distracted. You take a deep breath, focusing as best you can. You slide the stake out of your boot (thank god he didn’t ask you to take them off earlier) and pounce as quickly as you can, praying your aim is true. Before you feel the wood plunging into his chest, you feel a hand on your wrist, grip firm but not bruising. Your back is against the bed, your stake is somewhere out of your reach, and there is a vampire on top of you, tying your hands to the headboard with his tie.

When he looks down at you, he has the gall to look genuinely hurt. “I was hoping you would give up on that.”

You can’t help but laugh in his face. “What? You expected me to let you go around preying on the innocent because…why exactly? Because you’re handsome and kind of sad? That’s par for the course, Sanji.” You ignore the fact that you’re still calling him his name now that you’ve dropped your innocent act, that you’re still acknowledging him as a man instead of a monster. It’s better for your pride not to think too much about that.

“Because there’s a connection here, but I guess I should have known you wouldn’t admit it. Prideful things, hunters. Some of you are worse than things like me.” He finishes his knot, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, before he looks down at you. His eyes linger on your neck for just a moment, and you know he’s thinking of how you’ll taste, of the feeling of the life draining out of you. For some reason, he pulls away, standing up and brushing himself off. He picks up your stake with two fingers, holding it away from him and looking at it with a crinkled nose (which is adorable, though you’d die before admitting it). “Did you carve this yourself? It’s nice craftsmanship, though it’s sad to think of such beautiful hands doing such rough work.”

“Worse than thinking about them being used to kill?”

He hums. “No, I guess not.” He drops your stake into the trashcan near the door. You hear the quiet thunk of it hitting the bottom, and you know there’s no way in hell you’re ever getting that back. A bummer. You’d spent weeks carving that. “It’s still a shame, though.”

“What, that I wasn’t an easy kill?” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, taunting him. He doesn’t fall for the bait, instead turning away from you with a sigh.

“That the world’s made you into a killer.” He walks toward the window for a moment, closing his eyes to bask in the moonlight. “It shouldn’t be your job to keep monsters in check.”

You tell yourself this is a ploy, that he’s just saying what you want to hear, but something about him seems so horribly genuine. He sounds truly disappointed with the world for taking away your freedom, for placing this burden on you. No one’s ever empathized with your plight like this before. “Well, a lot of things that shouldn’t be are. The world’s not a great place. Someone has to try to make it better.”

His lips quirk up into a soft smile at that. “It’s admirable that you want to do that. You remind me of someone.” For a moment he’s lost in a memory, one that might be centuries old. To the man he used to be, to the people who used to love him. Then it’s gone, grief weighing down his shoulders once again. “But I still think the world is worse off when good people sacrifice themselves and their happiness to try to offset the evils they fight.”

“Well, I won’t have to sacrifice my happiness forever. Maybe I’ll retire.” It’s a lie, of course. The only retirement you’ll get is a set of fangs to the throat, a quick end to the misery.

He chuckles. “You’re a bad liar, too. You really are like him.” He shakes his head, dismissing the nostalgia, instead focusing on the task at hand. “How can I convince you to let me live?”

You purse your lips. “You aren’t living. That’s a large part of the problem.”

He sighs. “How can I convince you to let me keep existing?”

None of them have ever asked you before. “If I say no, will you kill me?”

He looks horrified at the thought. “What? No!”

You blink. “What?”

“Why would I kill you?”

“You’re a vampire, and I’m trying to slay you. This always ends with one of us dead. What, are you new to this?”

“No, I–God. If I can’t convince you to let me go, I’ll just…leave. Go somewhere you can’t find me. And then call someone to come and let you out in a few hours.”

“Call who?”

“I don’t know, the cops?”

“And they find me with several fake IDs and a shotgun in the back of my car? I’ll get arrested.”

He closes his eyes in thought. “Do you have any friends?”

No, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I’m not giving a vampire my friends’ numbers.”

“Do you have your phone on you?” He slides a hand into your pocket, pulling out your phone as you weakly try to wiggle away. He turns it toward you as you try to look away. You aren’t fast enough, and you can hear the telltale sound of it unlocking. Fuck.

He goes through it for a moment, a frown settling on his handsome face. “You…don’t have any contacts?”

“That’s not true!”

“I don’t know who Guns (Legal) and Guns (Less Legal) are, but I imagine they’re not exactly close friends. You really have given up your life for this, haven’t you?” The look in his eyes isn’t pity. It’s far worse. It’s mourning, plain and simple. Grieving the life you could have lived, and the fact that you’ve chosen not to live it of your own free will.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say weakly. “I chose this.”

“I know.”

You maintain eye contact a moment before he looks away, standing and walking away from you. “I could untie you now.”

“I’d kill you.” You don’t know if that’s true anymore.

“Maybe I’d let you.” He places your phone on the dresser before opening the bathroom to look for something. You can see shards of glass on the floor, hear the crunch of them beneath his dress shoes. “But maybe you won’t. Maybe we can just have a conversation, two people who know things no one should have to.”

You bite your tongue at his referral to himself as a person. He’s far more human than any other vampire you’ve met. Maybe even more than some of the humans, if you’re being honest. You’re not particularly prone to honesty these days. “A conversation, huh?”

“Just a peaceful little talk.” He looms over you, reaching towards your wrists. You can see what he grabbed in the bathroom: a bottle of lotion, just in case you had chafed your wrists struggling against the restraint. A small, thoughtful thing. You think he must have been kind in life. “I’ll answer any question you have, and hopefully you’ll be open to answering some of mine.”

You could use this as a way to get information, but you don’t want him to think you’re going to turn it against him. You should, but something in you stops you from leaping off the bed and rushing for your weapon, instead allowing him to gently apply the lotion to your skin. You give him a wry grin. “Alright then. How do you style your hair so perfectly if you can’t see yourself in the mirror?”

He sighs humorlessly, eyes focused on his task. "That's a myth, my dear. As many things people like you think you know are."

"If it's a myth, why do you try to avoid them so badly?" You look pointedly to the mirror above the dresser he's covered with a blanket, not to mention the broken shards that remain of the ones in the bathroom. He looks you in the eye now, and your breath is taken away by a self loathing deeper and more violent than any hate you've ever known. For a moment, the gentle and mild mannered man is gone, replaced with something far closer to the tortured soul you’ve come to expect on your hunts.

"When I was alive, I hated monsters. I was made by one, and I was convinced I would become one someday." He laughs, a soft, empty sound. "I made a friend promise me...promise me if he ever saw me start to walk that path, he'd kill me."

He stands up, beginning to pace in a path he has clearly worn into the carpet beneath his feet. "When I woke up after the change, I knew right away what I was. What I could do. Who I could hurt. And do you want to know what I did?" He stops in front of you, eyes wide and frantic. "I ran. I ran as far as my feet could take me, then a little further than that. All of my talk, my spirit, everything I promised...it was all nothing. Empty words. Because in the end, I was just too scared to die."

You pity him. God, you’re weak. None of your quarries have ever broken down by this, admitted to fear. You thought they were incapable of that sort of animal weakness. Your voice is soft when you speak next, gentle. “It’s only natural to be afraid. It’s only–” You cut yourself off, voice catching.

“Only human?” He finishes for you, his words dripping with bitterness. “I tried telling myself that, but I think I can finally be honest. I’m just a coward.”

“I don’t think a coward would untie one of the only people in the world that could kill him, Sanji. I don’t think a coward would spare me when killing me would be so much easier.”

He cringes. “I don’t–Killing people isn’t easy. And it shouldn’t be.”

You pause. “You–you don’t kill people?” A vampire pacifist. Now you’ve really seen everything.

“I don’t murder. I’ve defended myself, sure, but I try not to hurt anyone.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe it’s just something else I’m scared of.”

“I don’t think that’s it. I think a lot more things like you kill out of fear than spare people for it. Maybe you’re just…a good guy.” An insane thing to say, and an even more insane thing to believe. But you do, really. When you look into his eyes they aren’t the empty black pits you’ve seen in so many other bloodsuckers. When you look into his eyes, you truly think you see his soul. You have no idea how he kept it after the horrible, gruesome fate he’s been forced into, but it’s there. You half expect there to be a beating heart beneath his chest.

He looks up at you, shock evident. “Do you really mean that?”

“Somehow, yes.” You shift forward a bit, leaning toward him, taking the sight of him in. The shining blue eyes, his blond hair reflecting the moonlight from the window and the shitty too-bright fluorescents of his apartment, the pallor of his skin. He almost looks like an angel, cast out from heaven. Forced to wade among the muck and grime of humanity, a world he was never meant for.

“I want to be,” he mutters.

“Good?”

“A guy. Human. Not...” He can’t even bring himself to say it, gritting his teeth when he tries to force out the word before giving up. “You know.”

You can feel your eyes soften as you look at him. “I really wish I could help you with that.” And you mean it, really. You wish you could save him.

“Maybe you could.”

“Hm?” Your eyes flick up, and you see something shining in his eyes that you don’t quite recognize.

“You could help me feel alive again, even if only for a while.” He approaches you slowly, no threat in his stance. “Make me feel like my heart’s beating again.”

“And how would I do that, exactly?” This is the strangest way you’ve ever been hit on.

“Just…feel something. Touch me, please. Treat me like anything other than a monster.” He’s in front of you now, kneeling, his eyes pleading.

“What?”

“I’d prefer you love me, but I’ll take anything. Hate, fear, whatever you’ll offer. Please, I just need something.” He’s on his hands and knees in front of you, eyes wet and glossy. “I can’t be alone anymore. I can’t take this.”

There are tears streaking down his face. You've never seen a monster cry before. Something inside you, something soft and weak that you thought you had buried, whispers that you still haven't. That the thing on his knees in front of you, begging for you, is only a man, bearing his tender parts to you and begging for you to be gentle with them. You don’t know if you’re capable of being gentle anymore.

Your hands move on their own, resting on his cheeks, your thumbs brushing at the tear tracks making their way down his face. He sniffles quietly, as though he still needs to breathe. You almost laugh at the absurdity at it all. You’ve killed dozens of monsters, saw yourself as a hero, a defender of humanity, and all it took to take you down is one pathetic man on his knees. You won’t be angry with him later when his teeth brush your throat, when they tear through your skin and take everything you have. You’re letting it happen, here and now, and you can’t be angry with him for acting within his nature. “I…I can help you. Just for a little bit.”

He looks at you like you’re his salvation. “Thank you, angel. You have no idea what this means to something like me.”

“Someone,” you correct softly, instinctively. You can’t take the word back once you say it, not when you see the look on his face. His hand rises to cover yours, cradling you closer, savoring the feeling.

He inhales, taking in the scent of you, before diving in. His lips brush against yours, softer than they have any right to be. They’re a bit cold, as you’re sure all of him must be, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. He’s slow as he rises, overtaking you and pinning you down. Giving you ample opportunity to run, to come to your senses. You don’t.

The first thrust of his hips makes you gasp, which allows him to slide his tongue into your mouth. He savors the taste of you, exploring every inch as he ruts into you, the friction from the fabric between you making your movements sloppier as you get distracted. Your hands are everywhere: in his hair, running down his chest, grabbing at his ass. Every inch of him is perfect, almost frustratingly so. Some part of you is hoping to find some flaw, something to break the illusion that he’s just a lonely man, but you find nothing. Even the brush of his fangs against your lips doesn’t do anything to stop the lust clouding your mind. Instead of revulsion, the feeling of him nicking your bottom lip to suck on is disturbingly hot. You can’t even tell if you’re actually bleeding; even just the idea of him taking something from you, savoring you, makes you clench around nothing.

You grow so lightheaded your vision almost blacks out before he pulls back. “Sorry,” he pants. “Forgot you need air.”

That traitorous part of you thinks that would have been a nice way to go, all things considered. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he’s not at all trying to hide how he stares at your tits under your shirt. “Is it a little hot in here?” You coyly reach your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, watching his eyes follow your movements. You can see his pupils grow wider, his gaze grow hungrier, with every single inch.

He tries to speak, you think, but the only sound that leaves him is a ravenous growl. His hands reach for your waistband, removing your pants and underwear in a single smooth motion. You tense, preparing yourself for him to plunge in instantly, but instead you feel his nose brush against your skin, his beautiful clear eyes staring up at you in permission. You close yours, overwhelmed by it all. His teeth graze against your thigh. You can feel him smile when you make a small squeak of surprise, can feel his cold breath quicken. His voice is thick with excitement when he speaks. “Will you give in to me?”

You should say no. You should run from here as fast as your legs can carry you. But he looks so pathetic, so desperate, and really, he needs this, doesn’t he? Why shouldn’t you help him? “Yes,” you murmur, breathy and strained. “Yes, take me, Sanji.”

And so he does. You expect the bite first, but Sanji is determined to give you your pleasure before he takes his. His tongue is against you before you’re ready, and you can feel him shiver with excitement when your thighs close in surprise around his head. His nose brushes your clit, causing you to squeeze harder, and this time he openly moans against you. His tongue explores you eagerly, ceaselessly, and you can feel him respond to every little twitch and quiver you make. He listens for every little moan, every hitch of your breath, every single noise leading him closer to finding exactly how to make you climax. His fingers grab at your ass, pulling you closer, practically drowning himself in you.

As he continues, his fingers find your clit, working in tandem with his tongue to bring you over the edge. The pressure keeps building, every muscle in your body growing tense, your thighs threatening to crush his skull, before finally the dam bursts, and you let out a screaming moan that you’re sure the neighbors can hear. He works you through it, tongue continuing to lap greedily at you, savoring every taste. Only once your thighs have relaxed and your back has once again hit the bed does he pull away, gathering your remaining slick with his fingers and popping them into his mouth. His eyes practically roll into the back of his head as he deeply inhales, overwhelmed by the pure essence of you.

“Darling,” he whispers, voice thick with want, “You’re the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.” With that, his teeth plunge into your thigh, the act as gentle as such violence can be. You only feel the sting for a moment before you’re overtaken by a rush of euphoria. The post-orgasmic bliss is nothing compared to this. Every part of you relaxes, even parts you didn’t think could. It feels as though your muscles are unwinding themselves, as though the fibers that make you up are unraveling and falling to pieces in Sanji’s hands. Your body isn’t you anymore, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it. This is the kind of peace you’ve been searching for for years, the kind your purpose and drive never gave you. This is the kind of joy that makes you unafraid to die.

You whimper when his teeth leave you, your hands reaching for him, trying to pull him back to you. Surely he needs to drink a little more, even if just for a second. Just another moment of bliss is all you need.

He doesn’t follow your guidance, instead rising to kiss you softly. There’s less heat now, the flames having calmed to a gentle and loving warmth that envelops you from the inside out. “Thank you, angel,” he murmurs. “Let me give you your final reward.”

He nuzzles into your neck, his teeth not grazing you for even a moment. You don’t know when he shed his pants and shirt, but you come back to yourself for just long enough to admire his fully naked and vulnerable form as he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He’s beautiful, every inch of him, with a few inches in particular catching your current attention. You don’t even have time to imagine how lovely the stretch will feel before he slowly and carefully pushes forward, inserting just the tip before stopping.

You immediately whine, clawing at his shoulders, begging wordlessly for him to keep moving. He tuts softly, kissing your cheeks, and you realize you’ve been crying. “Patience, love.”

You have none, uttering a sound that’s close enough to a childish no! for him to get the message. He chuckles, clearly endeared by your vulnerable state, before slowly sliding the rest of the way in, inch by delicious inch. When he’s fully sheathed, he takes a shuddering breath, pressing himself deeper into your neck and taking a long inhale. His hands wander before settling against your back, pulling you toward him possessively. “This is what I need,” he whispers against your skin. “You. You make me feel alive. You make me feel human. You make me feel connected.”

He snaps his hips far faster than you were expecting, stealing your breath away. He quickly corrects himself, setting a slow and steady pace, but you’ve already seen how his self control is slipping.

“Need you,” he murmurs. “Not just now. Not just tonight. Please, stay. Please.”

You don’t know what to say, so instead of answering you simply pull him closer, moaning into his ear as he steadily brings you both to the edge. You lose yourself in the feeling, in him. The slapping of skin echoes through the room, along with his quiet grunts and your increasing cries. As the tension in your body grows almost unbearable, you can feel his hips starting to stutter, his pace starting to falter. With one final, beautiful push, you both come undone as he collapses on top of you, the feeling of you clenching around him proving to be too much. He pulls you impossibly closer, even though there’s no real distance to be crossed. Every bit of your skin is touching his, and you can feel his weight pressing you into the mattress. You aren’t going anywhere. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

“Please,” he quietly pleads again, voice breaking. “Please stay.”

“I will,” you whisper back. His arms tighten around you again, as if you’ll slip through his fingertips if he loses his grip for a moment. Maybe you will. Maybe you’ll grab your stake from his trash and drive off into the sunset, accepting your one and only failed mission, running back to the life that lets you run away. But maybe tonight you’ll stay in the first gentle embrace you’ve felt in years, lured in by the irrational feeling of safety it brings you. The gentle circles he rubs on your back and the feeling of his ear pressed against your chest, listening to your heart, almost make you feel alive.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay

#sanji x reader #sanji smut #fic rec

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shy-writer-999 · 14 days ago

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was making tabbouleh today and all I could think about is reader being from Alabasta and asking sanji to make some for her and him being like I Have no idea how to make it

so she starts teaching him and keeps saying Finer Finer when he's chopping the parsley

awhhhh this is so cute!! just imagine how good Sanji's tabbouleh would be omg. i'm just listing off things in my head that he could cook up for us... and now i'm hungry. 🤣

#z answers #for those of you who are fasting imagine the food he'd make for suhoor and iftar like BYEEEEEE it would be so good

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shy-writer-999 · 24 days ago

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yap sesh

hi friendssss! sorry zoro pt 4 is taking so long! it's so close to being done but i am reallllyyy trying to make the dialogue true to zoro's character and am finding it a bit challenging. (>_<)

i'm cat sitting for a couple months and this critter is hilarious. all she does is scream at me. she is senile and i am very allergic but she's too cute so i subject myself to the suffering.

what will come after zoro part 4? i'm thinking a couple different HC collections (i have two going right now) and then... perhaps i'll conjure a good idea for a fic. i feel something forming in my mind. idk what it is yet but ik it will be good.... i can feel it in there... now it needs to make itself known to me.

CHECK IN QUESTIONNNNNN for anyone who wants to humor me:

who was your first anime crush, and who is your anime crush now? (if you had to choose one) what is appealing about them to you?

for me: sasuke uchiha was my first crush ever. that explains everything. recently i have been very enamored with sanji but i think gojo will always be #1 of all time for me (ik surprising considering i run an OP blog).

#YAY SPRING BREAK #YAY WRITING SMUT IN THE LAUNDROMAT #seeing sasuke uchiha at such a young age did irreparable damage to my psyche #i literally hate him now but there's just something about that archetype of anime man that really tickles my fancy #z yaps #now my heart aches when i see gojo the depth of his character is unbeatable to me i'm in love #satosugu truther

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shy-writer-999 · 27 days ago

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hiii! I’m new to your blog and I love love loveee your writing! I admire how much detail you put into your stories and your pacing?? is phenomenal.

ty for writing for the one piece simps out here 🫶🫶

AHHH thank you!! this made my day (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ you have no idea how much these nice messages mean to me :') i get so emotional omg. your nice words and support mean the world!!! 😭😭😭

#z answers

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shy-writer-999 · 28 days ago

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Not only did you serve, but you most definately cooked with 1-800-LONELYCHEF 😘👌 It’s so good! Also just curious, would you ever consider writing for a different anime fandom?

omg thank you, that's so sweet!! ^0^ i think i'll stick with one piece for the foreseeable future - i've thought about writing for jjk but one piece is really where my heart is! :3

#z answers

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shy-writer-999 · 29 days ago

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1-800-LONELYCHEF (ii)

Summary: It's date night with Sanji. He meticulously prepared this for weeks and he's so nervous that he feels like he's going to faint. Afterwards, he's planning on asking you to come over. What will happen if you say yes? WC: 7.5k (read part 1 here!) CW: NSFW! Afab reader w/gendered pronouns (she/her/hers). Modern-ish AU; pwp; intercourse; oral (f. receiving); ejaculation inside. Minors do not interact!

It’s a Friday night. Months ago, you would have been gearing up for a long night at your job, being a phone sex operator. But you quit a while ago and your weekends look different now.

Like many Friday nights over the last year, you’re spending it with Sanji. But this time he’s actually there—materially present, in the flesh, smiling at you a couple feet away.

It’s a special night tonight. You’ve been seeing Sanji for around a month and a half, and tonight you’re at his restaurant, finally. You’ve fantasized about this for ages.

The darling chef across the table from you planned this carefully. He adjusted his schedule—instead of working tonight, he’s added an extra shift in next week, making up for the deficit.

He’s gone to great lengths to ensure that the crew in the kitchen is the best of the best, including that sous chef, who he strongly dislikes—but personal feelings aside, in Sanji’s kitchen there are only the most talented of chefs. He’s made sure of it.

He watched the ordering forms and produce vendors like hawks in the week leading up to this. You will only be eating the best quality ingredients, the freshest food, and nothing less.

Sanji is tense and he’s so nervous that he’s starting to feel sick. He’s running the logistics over in his head, trying to calculate if there’s anything he forgot, anything he missed, anything that could fall flat.

You can tell he’s overthinking, and it’s endearing. When his eyes aren’t darting around the restaurant, peeking into the semi-open kitchen and factoring all sorts of minuscule variables in your dining experience, he’s looking at you.

His gaze is warm, and when he’s around you, he’s sunshine personified. You can’t deny that he looks at you with such reverent adoration that it’s almost off-putting. But nothing he could do could actually put you off. You’re far too in love with him for that.

The restaurant is dark and the lights are warm. Slow jazz music plays at a low volume and the whole establishment smells exquisite.

There are tea lights on each table, with tiny flames that reflect in the gorgeous dark mahogany accents and mirrors on the walls. Next to each candle is a small vase filled with a couple flower stems—tonight, Sanji specifically asked the front of house staff to use your favorite flowers.

Across from you, the blonde man is dressed in what you now know is his signature outfit—black slacks with a button up; the sleeves are rolled up and a few buttons are undone. He looks effortlessly handsome and stylish. Your heart beats a bit faster when he catches your eyes.

How many dates has it been?

You’ve lost track at this point. Maybe you should be taking things slower with him, but you can’t hold yourself back when it comes to spending time with him.

One thing that you’ve been very intentional about, however, is intimacy (which is interesting, given your relationship history). After all, Sanji used to be one of your clients. You’ve had plenty of phone sex, but you haven’t gotten to the real thing yet.

You’re saving that for the right moment. Sure, you’ve made out with him a few times and you can’t deny that you both certainly get excited, but you’ve exercised self-restraint so far. You take this man very seriously. That seriousness entails caution.

The caution is only natural—not only do you feel like this man may be the love of your life, but he also wounded you deeply before. Building your trust, becoming accustomed to his affection and attention, and mending your heart has taken a little while. It’s an active process. But you’re comfortable now.

Soundlessly, Sanji breaks your train of thought. He reaches his hand across the circular table and places it palm-up in front of you.

You slide your hand onto his and he twists his wrist slightly—your fingers are entwined now. His thumb tickles as it draws a soft circle across your skin.

The flame from the tea light on the table reflects in his irises.

“My love?” He asks, rousing you from your stupor of thought. “What do you think?”

He gestures to the scenery around and you take a second to respond, soaking in the ambiance before giving him your verdict. He’s dying to know whether or not you’re impressed.

You haven’t told him yet, but you’ve been here before. Just once. A date took you here long ago, years before you started your old job, years before Sanji took up the position as head chef. The ambiance hasn’t changed much but it feels different now. For one, the man sitting across from you is simply radiating love. He’s devilishly handsome and chivalrous. He squeezes your hand gently.

“I like it,” you reply. “It’s just like you described. Very classy.”

He smiles. “I can’t wait for you to try the food.”

You’ve had Sanji’s cooking before, and it’s (simply put) the best food you’ve ever been served. Any time you go to his apartment, he cooks for you. But tonight, Sanji isn’t in the kitchen. This is a show of his skill in managing the kitchen, purveying ingredients, instructing his subordinates, and running the show, more than anything else.

“Tell me about the menu tonight,” you prompt him. You know he’s put an exorbitant amount of thought and energy into creating and testing what will be served tonight.

This restaurant is French. Sanji describes the prix fixe menu—he tends to link the dishes and flavors he constructs to very specific memories, emotions, or envisioned scenes. It’s impressive, and he shares each nugget of inspiration with you as the courses are served, per a promise he made weeks ago.

This experience is necessarily intimate—this is his passion, his art, the thing that he’s dedicated his life to.

It doesn’t escape him that you’re listening intently, appreciating the nuances of what he’s saying, and looking breathtaking while doing it.

The courses are small and painstakingly procured and presented. It’s interesting, looking at each dish and hearing the waitstaff explain what’s going on with each one, especially when the man in question—the artist and chef himself—is sitting in front of you. You can tell that the waiter is a bit nervous to serve him, but Sanji is kind and affable, putting them at ease immediately.

The first dish is a rocket salad with pears, pea blossoms, and a light vinaigrette.

“This recipe was actually passed down from my dad,” Sanji begins. “The story is kind of funny. Years ago, he was exploring some island and came across a tavern. They served something similar to this. He tried to get the recipe but ended up getting in a fist fight with the owner, so he just had to recreate it himself. He always complains that this salad isn’t as good as it should be, since it’s missing that ‘je ne sais quois’, but over the years he’s tweaked it. I stole it, obviously, and made some of my own adjustments.”

The dish is tangy, refreshing, and bright. It’s ridiculously good. Obviously.

You compliment him and, even though the room is dark, you can make out a pink flush across his cheeks. He lives for your praise.

Next, there’s a soup. Sanji explains how it came about.

“When I was growing up, Zeff had a bunch of leftovers that he was going to use for something else and I swiped them when he wasn’t looking. I threw them into a pot and… this is kind of the outcome. He was making some dish with leeks, so the scraps I stole were mostly leek trimmings. He was pissed when he realized I snagged them. The soup turned out awful the first few tries, like it was literally inedible, but I got it down to a science at some point. The trick is adding in some sage and the tiniest amount of white wine—it changes the balance of flavors completely.”

“How old were you?” You ask between flavorful spoonfuls.

You swear no one has given him any attention or love before, from the way he responds to your questions and praise. He looks genuinely shocked that you’ve asked him a such a thoughtful question. He’s never gotten used to the very sincere attention you treat him with, hasn’t reckoned with the fact that someone like you would be genuinely interested in him. You’ve known him (and treated him like this) since your first conversation, but it still takes him aback.

Sanji explains that he must have been 13 or 14 at the time, and he goes on to describe how upset his dad got with him over the whole fiasco. When Zeff finally tried the one of the more perfected, streamlined iterations of the leek soup, he said dropped the subject entirely. “That means that he liked it,” Sanji explains.

You’ve tried to piece together the man in front of you as long as you’ve known him—evidently, he wasn’t showered with praise as a child. The stories he’s told you, and his reaction to your compliments, make that clear. But he still has so much kindness in his heart, it’s absurd.

While Sanji tells you about the anecdotes and memories that prompted certain recipes, you notice that he’s figeting with the edge of his napkin with one hand. He’s nervous. It melts your heart a bit.

You lose track of the courses. Each is more scrumptious than the last, which shouldn’t be possible, but he’s a culinary genius so he’s pulled it off somehow. Afterwards, there’s a cheese course, a platter of dips, a carpaccio of some sort, a savory galette, another salad… the plates are small and never ending.

The last dish is, of course, dessert. It’s a tiramisu, scooped out of a huge serving dish, table-side.

The layers are defined, and it smells like cocoa. Sanji hesitates with this explanation. You wonder why.

“Tiramisu? How’d you come up with this one?” You smile at him, sensing his pause, and his heart flutters.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I heard my mom say that she liked it one day, offhand… So, I made it. I’ve been making it ever since.”

This is the first time he’s mentioned her in all your long months of talking. “Your mom?”

“Y-yeah, she uhh… She passed a long time ago when I was a little kid. She got really sick. She never got to try the tiramisu. But, ah, fuck, this sounds a bit cheesy, but whenever I make it, I make it for her.”

“Oh,” you respond, softly. “That’s very sweet, Sanji.”

He averts his eyes for a split-second, and you see that blush is taking over his whole face. Your heart is twisting at his story—how is this man real? He makes it for her? Fucking hell, he’s perfect.

Each story he’s told tonight has given you a look into his character, his childhood, memories, and impressions of the world. The tiramisu is perfect—it’s not too sweet and the flavors are balanced. The perfect way to end the perfect meal.

“Fuck, Sanji,” you say, furrowing your brows in an expression of incredulity. “It’s delicious. Like, one of the best things I’ve ever had.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I made this batch myself.”

You can taste the love that it’s made with, really. This whole meal has been ridiculously good. You didn’t know food could be this good. It tastes even better because the handsome man across from you is showering you in compliments and the bill is completely taken care of.

“So, what did you think?” Sanji asks when the meal is over, reaching for your hand again. He’s smiling and a bit shy.

“It was amazing.” You respond simply, and he sees your lips curl up into that smile he so covets. “Thank you, Sanji. Seriously. For sharing everything with me. This was lovely.”

“It didn’t disappoint?” His eyes are brightening. You can see he’s starting to positively beam at your praise.

“It didn’t disappoint in the slightest. You’re so talented, it’s just, wow.”

When you leave the restaurant, you walk into the parking lot holding hands. You reflect in the third person for a second—how wild is this, to be with this man here, right now, hand in hand, with bashful smiles. Those familiar butterflies stir when he looks at you.

Like clockwork, Sanji invites you back to his place. You usually decline his invitation (which he presents without fail) because you don’t want to get too attached too fast, but… you’ve decided that sentiment is futile. You’re already attached. Very attached. There’s no point in deluding yourself any longer, really. You’re madly in love with each other and it’s no secret.

“Would you like to come back to mine for a drink, gorgeous?”

You take a second to study him. He does look fantastic, so put together and well-kept, and he’s been so sweet with you. You like him too much to decline.

“I’d love to.”

The ride back home is quiet—you’re comfortable enough with Sanji to sit in silence for periods of time. It’s peaceful, and it feels like you’ve known each other for years. He reaches a hand over and sets it on your thigh, giving you a soft squeeze.

Before you know it, you’re in Sanji’s apartment again. You’ve been here a handful of times. He’s made you dinners and lunches, you’ve watched shows together and cuddled on the couch. But tonight, you feel something in the air. Maybe tonight is the night that you go all the way with him, finally.

When you’re settled on the couch, he offers you a glass of wine or a cocktail. He caters to you like you’re royalty. An interesting irony.

“Would you like a pair of sweats and a hoodie, darling?” He asks after he’s fixed you your drink. You smile at him and respond in the affirmative—the stuffy, cute outfit you’ve been wearing is getting on your nerves, and it’s going to feel so much better to wear his clothes. It always does.

When you change into his clothes and return to the living room, Sanji’s face goes crimson again. He’s only seen you in his clothes a handful of times before and it makes him feel things. His heart and stomach are doing flips and his eyes are practically turning into hearts. He’s adorable.

“Would you like to watch something together, gorgeous? Maybe that show you were telling me about?” He asks as you both get comfy on the couch. Your bodies are pressed side-by-side.

“How about we just snuggle for a bit?” You propose, and he readily agrees.

“I could be persuaded to snuggle.” Sanji puts an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. “I can’t believe you spend time with me. I’m the luckiest man on earth.” He’s smiling and peppering your face with kisses.

“Sanjiiii,” you say, giggling. “Cut it out. It tickles.”

“I—don’t—ever—want—to—stop,” he kisses you somewhere between each word. Your cheeks, your neck, your hand, your forehead. Anywhere he can reach. “You’re stunning.”

His hand reaches for your chin and guides your lips to his. He’s preposterously suave. It’s like something out of a romance movie.

When he breaks the kiss, he says, “How did I land you? You’re just too beautifu—”

You cut him off by pressing your lips on his mid-word. You can tell he’s nervous and high-strung from dinner. But now that he’s impressed you like he wanted, he can calm down. He relaxes into your embrace after a second.

The kisses start soft, but they quickly increase in desperation. He wants you so bad that you can feel his yearning with each kiss. Ever the gentleman, he keeps his hands to his self, only placing one on your cheek and the other softly on your hip.

Maybe tonight is the night.

As you lock lips, you move his hand from where it rests on your hip downwards, so he’s touching your ass now through the sweatpants he lent you. Sanji timidly grabs a handful. He’s being gentle and shy, but you suspect that he’s in agony with desire.

This is a moment he’s dreamed about for around a year at this point. This night is about to be filled with moments that he’s been dreaming of.

You move his other hand from your cheek to your chest—his hands do as they please, petting and kneading you through the fabric of his clothes. After a few moments of Sanji’s hands getting their fill, they trail to your waist and he maneuvers you backwards, guiding you to lay on the couch while he perches over you.

You’re on your back now and he’s braced over you, with one hand next to your head and the other placed on your waist. He slides a knee between your legs, pressing it up between your legs, leaving it to rest there. Who knew this chef had it in him.

As you continue to lock lips, the pleasure from his knee grazing your core starts to make heat bloom between your legs.

You start to grind onto his knee slightly, and when your quiet sounds of pleasure seep out of your lips and into Sanji’s mouth, your hand finds his hard bulge. You caress him gently and pulls your lips from his.

“I want you, Sanji,” you murmur, and he pauses his wandering hands. He wants to ravage you totally, to have his way with you and make you reel in ecstasy, but he needs to check on you first.

“Wait, wait, my love, are you sure?” He whispers, softly placing a hand over yours, keeping it still. “Are you absolutely sure you want to go farther?”

“Mmmhmm,” you look at him with pleading eyes and he almost melts on the spot. “I’m sure, Sanji.”

“Then let’s get more comfortable,” he says. “Want to go to my room?”

You agree, and within moments you’re in Sanji’s bed under the covers. The bed is big and plushy, the sheets are soft, and the lighting is low and warm. He wastes no time pulling off his shirt and pants as he slides under the sheets.

You do the same, pulling off the clothes he so nicely lent you. You’re in your underwear now, and he’s in his, and he’s looking at you like you’re a piece of art. He’s wondering if he should pinch himself—is this a dream?

Not only does he get to spend time with you, the person he loves, but he also gets to see you and touch you? He’s thanking his lucky stars. If he knew many months ago that this would be his future, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Sanji pulls you to him and your chests are pressing together. He brings his lips to your neck and kisses a trail down to your collarbone.

“What did I ever do to get so lucky?” He asks again before he presses his lips on yours. His skin is warm, and his hands are rough. But the rest of him is soft—especially his hair, which your fingers weave their way through.

You throw a thigh over his hip and draw him closer. You realize that he’s hard, pressing on your core through the fabric of your underwear. While he kisses you he starts to slowly, barely rock his hips into you.

Sanji’s strong hands wander to grab rough handfuls of your ass. He uses his grip on your skin to press your body closer to his, and at the same time, he grinds harder into you. Heat is starting to build at the base of his spine—he can feel his lust slipping out. He’s about to lose his composure.

You suspected that Sanji would have some skills but he’s sinfully good in bed so far and you’re not even naked yet. Just the way he rolls his hips is mesmerizing. His kissing technique leaves nothing to be desired.

You have a feeling that he could do this for hours. But he’s not going to make any first moves here, no matter how crazed and desirous he feels. You’ve already talked about what this moment would look like, after all. Sanji told you a while ago that if and when you had sex for the first time, he wanted you to take the lead. He hates the idea of doing anything to you that makes you even the least bit uncomfortable or pressured.

Knowing this, you extricate yourself from him and remove your bra. He helps you shimmy out of your panties. Then you place your hands on him and drag your fingers downwards, conjuring a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Your fingertips pass over his broad chest, his toned and hard abs, and his dark happy trail. They reach the waistband of his boxers and slide underneath.

When your fingers touch his bare skin and wrap around his erection, his breath hitches and he goes completely still. All of his senses are focused on how soft your hand feels on his aching length and how leisurely you start to stroke him.

“Ah,” he lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a whine and a groan. “That f-feels so good, gorgeous.”

You hum in response and bring your other hand to the waistband of his underwear, pulling it down so his erection springs all the way out. Bringing both hands to his shaft now, you stroke him, slowly twisting your wrists.

His shaft is thick and long—the perfect size. You can tell it’s going to feel like a nice good stretch when he finally nestles himself inside you. If he’s not careful it might be a bit painful. He’s quite well endowed.

Minutes pass like seconds and precum starts to weep from his head, trickling down your fingers. He’s squirming slightly. Every twist of your wrists around his throbbing length elicits a delightful, lewd noise from him.

“Fuucck,” he whines softly, “if you keep it up I’m gonna—gonna cum.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that yet, would we?” You offer him a coy smile and stop moving.

Sanji kisses you in short, passionate bursts. After a second, he makes a proposition.

“How about I go down on you?”

“Mmmm. I’ll allow it. I heard you’re quite talented.” You smile, referencing a conversation the pair of you had many months ago. Sanji cracks a grin, and you giggle.

“Let’s hope I wasn’t overselling myself, huh?”

You lay back on the pillows. Sanji gets on top of you, situating himself between your wide-spread legs—he starts to leave a trail of kisses from the hollow of your throat over your sternum and across your belly button. His lips keep moving lower—when he reaches the space where your thighs meet, he pulls one of your thighs up slightly. He holds it up effortlessly, kissing from behind your knee inwards and upwards towards your core. His lips stop right before they get to the place you crave them the most.

Sanji does the same with your other thigh, lifting it up and kissing the inside until he’s painfully close to your sensitive spots.

After teasing your thighs with kisses, Sanji finally touches you where you’ve been waiting for. He brings his fingers to your already sticky core. When his flesh meets yours, you gasp. He spreads you apart just barely, giving himself full access to your clit.

He wets his lips and places a soft, delicate kiss right on top of your sensitive bud of nerves. It’s a slow kiss, one that’s so gentle that it leaves you wanting more. When he goes in for a second kiss he uses a bit of tongue this time, just barely swirling the tip of his tongue in a circle. It sends a zap of pleasure through your body—your toes curl and you inhale sharply.

Sanji spends a few minutes doing this. He kisses your clit, alternating between using tongue and no tongue, and when your thighs spread wider and you begin to shake just the tiniest amount, he places a long lick from below your folds all the way upwards, ending with your clit. He dips his tongue in slightly, tasting you and relishing your scent, noises, and movements.

Your hands wander into his hair and he holds back a smile. He needs to focus on making you feel good. He knows he’s doing that right now, but he wants to make you feel even better. He’d love to hear you begging for more.

“S-sanji,” you murmur, your tone bathed in lust and oozing with need. You don’t say anything other than his name, but he knows what you mean.

His tongue and lips move lower—he presses his tongue into you slowly and it feels otherworldly. He brings it out and back in again, going as deep as he can. One of his hands rests on your thigh, pushing it down so he can have better access.

He relishes the weight of your fingers in his hair and your shallow, rapid breaths. This is heaven. He wishes he could freeze this moment and live in it forever.

As more arousal seeps out of you, Sanji pushes his ring finger into you slowly. He hooks it, delicately pressing you in all the right spots. While his finger explores, he keeps placing kisses on your clit. After a few moments, when you’ve adjusted to his finger, he presses another one into you.

Sanji’s cock is weeping against the covers as he eats you out and fingers you. His hips press into the sheets, humping against the fabric slightly. He can’t hold himself back.

His eyes snap upwards and meet yours. You’re staring down at him, gazing at where his pretty lips meet your flesh. When he looks up at you, he sees how glossy and half-lidded your eyes are. His heart patters and threatens to stop. He takes a mental screenshot.

Sanji’s fingers search for a certain spot inside of you—a spongy, gooey one. When he thinks he’s found it, he presses it slightly. Your thighs shake, your back arches off the sheets, and your toes curl again.

“Mmmppphhhh, Sanji, fuck,” you moan and he hums in response.

The slurping noises that he’s making are paired with muted squelching noises from where his tongue works on your heat and his fingers caress you inside. You’re almost at your limit.

He pulls his lips away and his fingers stop moving. “Do you want to cum, princess? Or do you want to wait?”

He’s so polite even when he’s feral. It’s heart melting.

Your brain is short circuiting. You do want to cum. You feel too good to ignore that crazy desire. But you also know that waiting and edging yourself a little bit would result in a better orgasm overall. But who’s to say that you can’t cum multiple times?

Sanji can see you check out mentally while you have this inner conversation with himself. A couple seconds pass. It’s hard to think straight while his fingers are inside of you, while his lips are poised so closely…

While you attempt to think it over, Sanji presses a kiss on your clit to get your attention. You whimper and respond, “I can’t make up my mind.” Your face looks tortured and it’s making his heart do flips.

“Just let me make you feel good,” he says, voice warm and comforting. You nod, closing your eyes, and he reaches under you to pull you even closer to his face.

Sanji draws his fingers out of you slowly and then presses his lips back to your entrance, probing his tongue against your hot arousal. Your hips buck inadvertently, and the movement presses his tongue deeper into you. Lost in pleasure already, you pull on his hair so hard that it hurts him (in the best way).

Sanji’s technique is mind blowing. You lose track of where his tongue and lips and fingers end and where your skin begins. All you know is that the space between your legs feels good, and hot, and sloppy, and buzzing, and throbbing, and Sanji’s there.

He can tell you’re close after a little while, can feel you writhing against his eager tongue as depraved sounds trickle out of you.

After fucking you with his tongue and playing with your clit, Sanji slides a finger into you to caress and pet your g-spot as he lavishes your clit with the rest of his attention. It’s mind-numbingly good and brings you to orgasm in seconds.

“S-s-sanji, I—fuck, fuck,” you whine at him and moan his name through your orgasm. The greedy slurping sounds that ring in the room are filthy and loud. While you cum you pull him (by his hair) as close as he can get to your core. Sanji licks you clean, savoring every last drop of the pleasure he coaxed out of you.

You’re in a daze, riding out the ripples of ecstasy from your orgasm as he moves upwards, climbing over you, to pull you into a tender kiss.

He’s prepared to leave it there—he doesn’t want to push anything further. He made you cum and that’s his dream come true. But even though you just came, you feel a burning, carnal desire for more. More of Sanji’s skin on yours, more of his hips moving, more of his soft hair in your hands, more everything.

“Sanji,” you mutter and his ears perk up. “Wanna do more.” It’s both a statement and a question.

“Are you sure, gorgeous?” He looks worried for a second. He doesn’t want to push you too far. But when he sees how strongly you nod your head yes, how blown out your pupils and lidded your eyes are in lust, he lets go of all apprehension.

“How about you sit up, pretty?” He asks, and you do as he says. Sanji sits up too, and he maneuvers you so you’re straddling him, chests pressed together. Your arms are thrown over his shoulders, you wrap your legs around him, and your lips come to meet his neck—he smells manly, musky, and faintly of cologne. His heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your chest.

Your head is still floating from your orgasm moments ago, but you have enough sense to lift up slightly, positioning yourself over his erection.

“Please, darling,” he whispers, feeling your hot breath on his neck.

While you place kisses on his neck, you sink down onto his length, slowly and cautiously. It’s a delicious feeling of being spread open—your body conforms to his girth and accommodates his (many) inches. The stretch feels amazing somehow, not painful like you were worried about.

When he’s fully inside of you the wiry ring of hair at the base of his shaft meets with your skin and he lets out a quiet groan.

“F-fuuhhhckkk.”

You sit like this for a second—his arms come to wrap around your waist and your walls throb around him. He’s trying to be patient, trying to fully appreciate this moment and etch each sensation in his mind. But his body is going into overdrive. His patience wears thin and disappears.

Sanji presses his hips upwards slightly, eliciting a gasp from you that makes his heart flutter. He does it again and the leaking tip of his shaft brushes that spongey spot inside of you just right.

“Ah, Sanji, fuck that feels good,” you whimper, speaking into the crook of his neck.

He does it again, harder this time. Each thrust of his hips conjures what feel like fireworks of pleasure. While your eyes are squeezed shut and your mouth hangs open in absent concentration, each press of his hips makes pretty colors erupt behind your eyes. Every burst of pleasure is red, white, purple, dazzlingly distracting.

His hands creep from your waist to your ass, then lower, to cup your thighs underneath and you’re reminded that this is a very real moment. He begins to slowly pull you up his length and press you back down, manipulating your movements on his shaft in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head and your moans increase in desperation.

“Fuck, you’re—you’re perfect,” Sanji forces the words out between ragged breaths and grunts. “Perfect for me.”

Sanji is getting dangerously close to orgasm. He doesn’t know what to do—should he go slower now? Edge himself? Would you prefer he pulled out and took care of his own business?

As Sanji’s mind races for a second, you mutter something into his neck that makes him feel like his heart is going to stop.

“Inside.”

He pauses.

“What?”

“I said—ah—I said inside.”

Sanji gets the message. And while you’ve been explicit, he has to check. He’s just a gentleman through and through.

“Are you absolutely sure, beautiful?”

You nod again and lick a soft stripe up his neck. Sanji stifles a groan. His voice is hoarse, and his groans are punctuated by raspy breaths that go straight to your ear (and right between your legs).

When he starts to move again, Sanji finds a measured pace that shifts up a notch every few thrusts. The speed grows and he’s using all strength and concentration to make you feel as good as possible.

Your moans are so guttural that they almost sound like sobs. Each one goads on Sanji’s pace—and all the while, he’s actively conscious of the fact that he’s having sex with you, the person he loves, the person he’s loved for many months, the person he’s fantasized about being close with in every way.

If you could focus enough to get a good look at him you’d see that his cheeks are ruddy and his hair is plastered around the temples with sweat. He looks like a mess, and damn, it suits him.

In your daze, you’re approaching orgasm. You want him to cum, too, of course. You have an idea of something that might push him over the edge.

Your lips trail from his neck upwards, finding his earlobe. When you suck on it softly, Sanji pauses almost imperceptibly. He’s holding on for dear life. He’s close to orgasm, resisting it as much as he can so he can relish this moment for as long as physically possible.

But when you bite down on his earlobe, just enough to cause pain, Sanji crumbles. His thrusts turn haphazard and frantic. He loses himself in pleasure. Each gravelly moan that tumbles out of his mouth is followed by a whimper.

He cums when you bite down again. And while he cums, you whisper his name into his ear in the filthiest tone you can manage. It’s a tone that’s far more erotic than any you employed with him on the past. It’s a sincere one, one from the heart (and elsewhere), totally anchored in the reciprocal and yearning desire of the present moment.

Sanji comes apart and splits at the seams. As his arms encircle and pull you tighter, he rocks up one last time then, per your request, he orgasms inside of you. He moans your name through his orgasm, much like you did for him, and you know that he’s done this many times before. Your name is familiar and comfortable in his mouth.

The difference now is that (among other things) his words are met with a pair of ears other than his own. His moans are caused by your real warmth, flesh, and pleasure, too. It’s more intense than he could have imagined. He’s seeing stars. He buries his face in the crook of your neck while he orgasms, shuddering breaths while he embraces you so tight that it’s almost painful.

After many moments of labored, recovering breaths and soft nuzzles into each other’s skin, Sanji gingerly pulls out of you. He lifts you and sets you on your back on the bed. You’re coming back to reality slowly but surely. He props himself next to you and brings a hand to pet your hair.

“That was spectacular. You’re perfect, my love.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” you roll your eyes jokingly.

“Mmmm. Agree to disagree, gorgeous. C’mere.” Sanji kisses you softly once, cupping your face with both hands. When he pulls away, he seems to stiffen a bit. He offers a smile—did that look a little reserved, or are you overthinking things?—puts on his boxers, and goes to the bathroom to get you a towel.

The thought that just flitted through Sanji’s mind making him stiffen up isn’t a kind one. Frequently these sorts of thoughts weasel their way into his mind. This one just reminded him to not be 'too much'. Don’t be too overbearing. Don’t scare her away. Don’t suffocate her with your affection. What if she doesn’t want it? What if it’s too much for her?

Sanji reflects as he walks to grab you a towel. He’s been holding back his love for you for months. Ever since you first talked on the phone, he knew that he loved you. It has been many long months since then. And through all these long months, he’s tried to keep the visceral strength of his emotions at bay.

Now that Sanji knows you in real life, now that he’s started seeing you, now that the feelings are (supposedly) mutual, the love inside of him has only grown. But it hasn’t grown proportionately to what he allows to escape. In other words, as much as his love for you grows, he tries to reign it in for fear of being too much for you.

Sanji has been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until you’re comfortable enough with him for him to be fully himself. Because of his fear of scaring you away, he’s been trying to practice restraint. He’s been trying to present a version of himself that doesn’t seem too eager, too lovey-dovey and too obsessed. But every time he sees you, he feels like he’s going to burst at the seams.

As he walks through his apartment to grab you a towel, thoughts of self-doubt and caution assail his mind.

Could someone like you really love someone like him, a lonely, desperate loser who only works and smokes? It doesn't make any sense.

Will you get sick of him if he lets loose the strong feelings inside? If you get sick of him, he doesn't know how he'd cope with the heartbreak.

If he’s open with you, if he pets your hair like he wants to, holds your hand, stares longingly into your eyes and pulls you closer—if he does all of that and more, would it be too much for you? Will too much put you off, chase you away, or scare you?

Concern is written on his face plain as day, as much as he tries to hide it. You’ve noticed it a couple of times. On a few of the dates you’ve been on you've seen it peek through. And you saw it just now, when he stiffened up a bit.

You ponder for a moment on how to ease the tension you feel from him. How best can you offer this man some solace, in a sincere way that doesn’t have a trace of the artificial sugar through which you used to have to filter your words?

A couple seconds pass and you can hear Sanji padding softly back into his bedroom with a plush, white towel.

You take a second to admire his frame as he approaches the bed. He’s slender and toned. His hair is ruffled up and his cheeks are still rosy from the effort moments ago.

Your eyes sweep from his feet to his legs and thighs—they’re thick and hairy. Upwards more and you admire his pretty happy trail that snakes up his abdomen and thins out before it reaches his belly button.

Your eyes wander farther and you see his pecs—trimmed and defined—the same goes for his biceps, shoulders…

Sanji can tell you’re giving him a good look and he flushes crimson. The blush is enough to avert the negative thoughts mulling in his head.

As your eyes flick up to meet his, he smiles, but you can still make out some restraint—this faint tension from Sanji is a tension you can only surmise comes from his insecurity. You know him too well.

“Here you go, beautiful,” he says, rounding the bed to your side. He gets ready to kiss you again and help you get a bit tidier.

“Sanji,” your tone is different when you speak. It’s soft and firm at the same time. He pauses, heart stopping for a second.

Are you about to tell him you don’t want him? His mind races to the worst-case scenario.

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget that I’m head over heels for you, okay?” You reach out a hand to him. “You don’t have to hold anything back with me.”

He exhales and sits down on the bed next to you, sliding his fingers through yours.

“Fuck. Am I being that obvious?” He furrows his brow and lets out a nervous chuckle.

“Mmmm, only a little bit. Are you doing okay?”

He brings a hand to your cheek again. “I’m doing wonderfully. I’m just… I’m trying not to drown you in affection. I like you so much and I feel so strongly about you that I get a little worried about scaring you away.”

“Sanji.” You frown. It hurts to hear him say something like that. Maybe you haven’t been vocal enough with him about how you feel. “You’re not going to drown me in affection. I told you I’m head over heels for you. I mean it. I’m here for good and I love you.”

“You promise?” He squeezes your hand, and a smile takes over his lips.

“I promise. You're not going to scare me away. So no more holding back, okay?”

Sanji nods, relieved, and leans in for another kiss. He goes in with the intention of giving you a good one. But it turns into multiple.

His kisses feel different this time. Maybe they feel more honest. Softer. Sweeter. Something has changed.

When he pulls away from you, he keeps his face close. He’s so pretty up close like this—his eyes are stunning. His irises are a complicated color that you can’t quite place, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is pushed back. His smile is charming and makes your stomach do flips.

“Now that I’m not holding back anymore,” he begins, “do you know how precious you are to me? How much I cherish you?”

“A lot?” You venture a guess, and your grin makes Sanji’s heart trip.

“A lot is an understatement. I can’t put it into words. I just want to shower you in affection, cook for you all day, and treat you like you deserve. I think about you a, uh, probably a concerning amount. I’m enamored.”

You thread you fingers through his hair again, pushing it back to expose his forehead some more, admiring those pretty cheekbones, and those swirly eyebrows.

“Well, I feel the same, Sanji. I’m glad you finally worked up the nerve to ask me out. You say that I’m perfect, but I think that’s you. Do you know how much I cherish you, Sanji?” You bring your entwined hands to your lips, kissing Sanji’s softly. "A lot. So don't ever hold back with me."

“Hearing that makes me happier than I can put into words, gorgeous.”

After exchanging more kisses and sickeningly sweet words, you put Sanji’s comfy clothes back on. You move to the living room again and he fixes you anything you please. You show him that show you love a lot, and he watches intently, laser-focused because he believes your taste in media (and other things) reflects some part of your character. As he watches, he wonders, what does she like best about this? What speaks to her about this?

His ardent admiration for you seeps out of him in a steady stream now. You soothed his heart and applied a salve of words and kisses. He’s happy to his core, with every fiber of his being, a pure sort of joy that he hasn’t felt in many, many years. He savors you as much as he possibly can and never stops counting his lucky stars, per say.

Maybe his lovesickness and insecurity will sneak up again on him. Most likely. He knows that next time that crushing wave comes for him—the wave of self-doubt and disgust—you’ll reassure him wholeheartedly. He won’t scare you away, he can’t, and he will never be too much for you.

< previous part | masterlist >

a/n: yay for more writing to laufey! i hope you liked this :) i feel very intense things about this man! :0 also this really is a labor of love it took me so long omfg.

#happy birthday sanji!#sanji smut #op sanji smut #op smut #op x reader #one piece x reader #one piece reader insert #sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x you

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shy-writer-999 · 30 days ago

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sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji

this man is taking over my brain. i'm thinking about him a concerning amount. i feel like i am INSIDE HIS BRAIN when i write about him. i'm going crazy. help me oomf I NEED HIM BAD.

sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji!!!! sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji sanji *spongebob voice* I NEEEEED HIM

#rocking back and forth in a corner #when i watch op & look at him I'm like O_e i feel intimately connected to him in a way that is probably reflective of my cognitive decline.#lonely chef pt 2 tonight or tomorrow

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shy-writer-999 · 1 month ago

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Z!!!!! DROP PART 4 OF THE ZORO FIC AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!

on a real note tho that fic is so so good ty for it babes mwah

it's coming i promise!!! sorry it's taking me so long omg i'm in the trenches rn recovering from illness but it's basically done, i just need to do the graphics for it and a last round of editing :3 i hope you like it when i post it!! ^0^ 🩷🩷🩷

#z answers

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shy-writer-999 · 1 month ago

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self-reblog in preparation for the second part coming out in the next few days ~~ 💜💜💜

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

#sorry to be so MIA i am getting over the flu and am so miserable #sanji smut #sanji x reader

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