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ambitiouspotions · 29 days ago

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SYMPATHY COOKIES | CARMEN BERZATTO | ONESHOT

summary — you give carmen sympathy cookies because his dead brother owes you money

word count — 3.5k

warnings — istg this is awkward fluff butttttt talks of mikey’s death & addiction, reader has a dead mom, and cringe

author’s note — sorry after watching the bear my typing hands got going

it had been over a month. you were avoiding this comically awkward conversation with the new owner of the beef like it was the plague. it hadn’t even been six months since the beloved owner of the beef died, yet you were going to discuss the unpaid debt that was lingering over your head. the entire time you crossed the street you wanted to retreat and slip a letter under their door when no one was there, but you had to take the professional and empathetic route. you toted the chocolate chip cookies wrapped terribly in foil from as sew it seams, the local tailoring business your mother passed down to you, to the beef. you knew they weren’t open for business which was to your advantage as you knocked on the door.

you rocked on your heels for a moment, thinking that instead of knocking again you would rather turn around and quickly go back to your territory. though as that thought ran through your head, the click of the lock was heard, and you could hear richie’s laughter through the glass.

“hey! y/n’s back!” he announced, patting you a bit too roughly on your shoulder upon entering. he always spoke with a bellow in his tone. you blamed him for the reason the restaurant was always so incredibly loud during their bustling hours.

you gave a sheepish smile, not having spoken to him since before mikey’s death. it was refreshing to see his face nonetheless; it was comforting to know that some parts of the restaurant had stayed the same after the devastation of death and mentions of addiction washed over the place.

“hey, richie,” you said calmly, refraining from using as many decibels as he did. “is the new owner in today?”

he scoffed bringing you in close to his side as he guided you through the restaurant. “you act like you haven’t ever been here before, lighten up.”

you gave a considerate nod, though your mind was playing different scenarios about how the conversion would go.

“the new owner is mikey’s younger brother.”

“i’m glad you guys didn't have to sell. i know this place means a lot to you, richie.” you were sincere in your words.

you looked around; it was different from the times you had come inside to talk to mikey. although the family restaurant had generational grime and scum stuck to some places, you couldn’t deny that it had somewhat of a new shine.

richie weaved you through the slurry of cooks, most of whom you had met before, though they were so focused on preparation they barely looked up from their stations. everything seemed more uniform, now a seemingly maintained order from many disasters that you had been guided through before.

this new owner might actually have a chance at turning the old restaurant around with the way things were looking.

“cousin!” that voice again. was richie ever just alerting one person when he spoke? he banged on the outside of the office door; you were still holding the wrapped cookies out, just ready to give them away to their recipient.

the door opened and carmen pointed to his cell phone which was pressed against his ear while glaring at richie, though his entire face softened as he saw you. being an ass to richie was one thing, but upon seeing you, he couldn't keep up with his pissed-off demeanor.

he now had no comprehension skills with the person on the other line. he mumbled something about calling them back later.

“cousin, this is y/n, she’s the seamstress across the street,” richie said when carmen put his phone down. he extended his tattooed hand and then took it back, noticing they were full of the mystery wrapped in foil.

“carmy berzatto,” he introduced himself, flashing a quick and friendly smile though his piercing blue eyes were still wandering over you. his phone was moving away from his ear in slow motion, acting like any of his movements would spook you.

he seemed to stare too long, and you seemed to be the same amount of starstruck because it caused richie to startle you when he patted your back again.

“don’t be a total jagoff to her; she’s nice.” richie said, clearing his throat, wondering what was in the air between the both of you. his brows furrowing at the awkward stances and body language.

“yeah, cousin, thank you,” carmen remarked sarcastically, holding his hands up in defense. “i know how to act, thank you.”

“these are for mikey,” you had to start again when his eyes widened. “these are for you but like i’m really sorry to hear about mikey,” you said all of this a little too quickly, with a little too much rambling. you practiced this conversation in your head too many times and now you were screwing it up. you jutted the cookies in front of you further to offer them to him.

oh yes, let me just remind you that your brother is dead and that he can’t eat these goddamn cookies.

richie gave a sharp inhale and only nodded his head. “okay, you two have fun with that.” he clapped his hands together and pointed at both of them as he took his leave.

carmen tilted his head slightly, taking the package from you, and opened it to reveal the cookies. he had no problems tasting one in front of you. “sympathy cookies?” he laughed and shook the other half of the cookie in his hand. “it’s actually damn good.”

you didn't realize the compliment you had received from him. you didn't know he was some high-class chef who once studied in copenhagen. you only knew him as mikey’s brother.

“thanks, but really more like cookies that are supposed to not make me seem like a bitch when i tell you that your brother owes me money,” you said, trying not to make eye contact, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

carmen was holding back a nervous chuckle. what else was there to do in this situation? mikey’s unpaid debt kept being passed down to him anytime someone new wanted to speak with him. he couldn't contain himself when you finished speaking, a smile riddling his face. another monthly payment would be in his future. he wiped the corners of his mouth as he finished the cookie and stepped into his office waiting for you to take a seat in the cluttered space.

you could barely understand how he managed to work in the small office. there was stuff everywhere, like mikey never left it. it was a drastic change from the clean kitchen and the front of house. he set the cookies down while grabbing a notepad.

mikey was unorganized and chaotic whether he was always like that or only became like that because of his addiction, most people would never know the answer to that question. were the spontaneous and irrational decisions truly because he was a bad businessman or because unprescribed pills influenced him to become a functioning addict with overwhelming amounts of charisma? and although he had shitty business practices…he was a good guy; no one could deny it.

“uh, so how much did mikey owe you?” carmen asked writing your name at the top of the paper. he seemed to have had this conversation with a lot of people before.

“three thousand, but he already paid a third.”

the entire storefront window had been busted the night mikey decided it would be a good idea to have a barbecue get-together in front of the beef with a baseball tournament attached. as mikey stepped up to the spray-painted x on the ground he forgot, or was too drunk to remember, that he couldn’t swing like was in the world series bringing the cubs to victory. he was in a confined parking lot, and that ball slammed like a mother fucker and busted your window. it decided to hit the weakest spot and shatter that bitch. well, that’s how he told you the story anyway. that late night call was confusing to follow, but you showed up to the restaurant in your snoopy pajama pants and worked out a deal that he would pay you monthly to reimburse you for the window so the insurance on your respective businesses wouldn’t rise.

somehow, even through your upset, you found yourself comforted by mikey’s story and many apologies. two businesses across from each other, and you had no issues with him. after your mom died, he occasionally brought you leftover food. he was nice, a little eccentric and loud, but nice. that same night, he and his drunken buddies managed to put a tarp over the window and gifted you with a number to a glass repair specialist. mikey stayed a while after, just telling you how he appreciated you for not being angry and gave you some considerate words about your mother. “she was a good person to talk to when nothing seemed to go right.” those words stuck to your heart when he said them.

carmen gave a soft hum at the amount, pinning the note with the amount to a semi-cleared spot where it wasn’t hidden by any other scrap pieces of paper with his terrible handwriting . “he seems to owe a lot of people a lot of money.”

“he started paying some of it, but—” you stopped yourself and wondered how many times you could possibly mention that mikey was dead. you pressed the knuckle of your index finger to your lips and bit the inside of your cheek.

“—he died.” carmen finished the sentence for you and gave a stifled snort.

“i’m really sorry, my mom is dead, and like you know she left me that sewing shop, and then your brother like totally fucked my window and i had to come out of pocket to fix it, and then like i over drafted my bank account because some asshole decided it would be funny to steal one of my mannequins when they were repairing the window and–” you took a deep breath holding your temples. carmen just stared at you while you started to ramble again, a deep belly laugh surfacing.

he tapped his pen against his desk. “oh, yeah, that’s so fucked…like really fucked.” he was massaging the center of his forehead as he tried to think. “and your mom, i–”

you cut him off, waving your hands with a stutter, trying to find the correct words to speak. “i think we can both agree that it really sucks that they’re gone. i was trying to avoid talking about the whole ‘death and dying thing,’ but apparently, the more i think about not talking about it, the more it comes up.”

you and carmen stared at each other for a moment as he shuffled loose papers around on his desk.

“i’m going to get you your money, but i don’t know how much i can give you every month and, um,” carmen exhaled, looking into your eyes. “i promise i’m good for my word.”

you stared at him blankly unknowing of what to do. the verbal agreement between you and mikey had been easy, yet concerning, now you were making a similar agreement with his younger brother. you didn’t know mikey well, and you didn’t know his brother at all. he seemed genuine in his attempt to reimburse you, but you were still cautious about entering another verbal contract especially after the payments on the old one were sporadic and inconsistent. so inconsistent, that you had to go to the restaurant to hash it out with mikey. it was never loud or rude, but you’d leave with whatever cash he had in his wallet and then feel guilty for asking about the payments in the first place. money always seemed to be an awkward conversation.

“i can see it on your face that you aren’t convinced,” he observed, sitting back in his chair. “i’m not like mikey, and the fact that i’m not more like him is shitty because everyone liked him, but i hope you can like me enough to believe me.”

you clicked your tongue, trying to devise and formulate the correct words. “it’s really not like that,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “i just want this behind me, i guess.” you knew it sounded ridiculous. the window had been fixed, and you weren’t repaid, but it just seemed like an unclosed chapter. one where your mother was newly deceased and sending you signals to be more patient with people and to have a little leeway with those who needed it. you couldn’t deny that you were living by the mysterious feelings your damaged heart was signaling to your mind.

your hands fiddled with the chain of your necklace, looking at him with a sense of relief. the conversation was over, the hard part at least.

“no, i get it,” carmen said almost immediately, like he had some understanding of your internal dilemma.

“just pay me back when you can,” you compromised, a single nod following your words. “but please don’t make me keep asking after i leave.”

carmen’s cheeks lifted, a crooked smile appearing on his face as he tapped the note above him. “i promise, you’re right here until we’re even.” he emphasized. his eyes lingering over the note and then back to you.

he walked you out. you trailed behind him like it was unknown territory when in actuality the only thing unknown was him. when he cracked the door for you to leave he was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. he let you exit first, following behind to light his smoke.

within the following few weeks, carmen had made his trek to your side of the street. two clear containers of food from the restaurant were held in his right hand. wedged under one container was an envelope. he set them on the counter, your head peeking out from behind the curtain as you heard the motion sensor go off. he had come after lunch before the restaurant had to reopen for dinner.

his forehead had a sheen of sweat across it, a dish towel was still hanging off his apron, and his curly hair had seen the effects of fast-paced work from their lunch hours.

“oh, hey, i was just gonna drop these and go,” his thumb pointed behind him as he tried to arrange the containers in a neater setting.

“yeah, totally, thanks,” you mumbled, looking at the envelope he was sliding closer. he stared at the envelope and exhaled. he tapped the bludging center where the bills were mostly confined.

“look, more is coming, but don’t think you’ll have to remind me because you won’t. i really just, fuck sorry, i just mean that i’m going to keep paying you.”

“carmy, you’re fine,” you assured him, beginning to inspect the containers. crispy thick-cut fries. one was broken in half; the center was pure white and fluffy and the exterior was golden. in the second container a mixture of beef, with dark brown drippings, and a vibrant array of bell peppers and onions.

“and the food, that’s just leftovers from lunch.” carmen examined them again. “marcus didn’t have any more bread, but you can put the beef on the fries,” carmen patted his pockets over his navy apron until he felt plastic cutlery, it was still in its transparent plastic sheath.

“thank you,” you took the cutlery from his hands, his fingertips brushing over yours.

carmen stalled for a moment then took his hand back. “i gotta go work on dinner prep,” his hand brushed back his curls and he patted the counter. “but, it’s no problem, like no big deal at all or whatever, just thought it would be better than wasting food,” he explained, he cringed slightly at his wording and then even more when he noticed he did it outwardly. though, you didn't comment. you pretended to be focused on opening the container of fries and beef.

as he exited your shop he could hear the rustling of the plastic cutlery coming open.

each payment after that was similar, though he managed to stay for a few moments longer each time he entered. the food only became exceedingly more tasty, though your favorite meals were always the ones where he stuck around to see you have a bite. it was like a sense of pride washed over him when you praised him for his excellent cooking.

he told you of his future ambitions with the beef, where he previously worked, talked of the invisible cat and living on a boat, hell, he even told you about his fucked up family and terrible anxiety. you didn't understand why it was so easy to talk to him, but that made conversation with him even more desirable. he might not have been as confident or as self-assured as mikey, but remembering that he said he wasn't like mikey was far from the truth. he was likable, but it was easier to be unlikeable, and carmy berzatto in the fuckery of his mind marketed himself as the awkward shy brother who didn't think he could be likeable. maybe that's why you took such a liking to him each time your conversations became longer.

it was the middle of the month, and you were waiting for him. hand sewing some loose buttons to a dress shirt at the counter, expecting that any second the head chef of the beef would come walking into the shop with a new container and final installment of money for the storefront window. he never came to chat, and you were left sewing buttons with no chef to talk to.

your foot was kicking the bottom of the counter gently as you sewed wondering where he was each time you made another loop through the buttonhole. the entire time the hours between lunch and dinner ticked down, you were confused as to why you were so disappointed in his no-show. that funny feeling you got when he'd introduce the leftovers to you and the feeling of being flustered when he devised a never-ending ramble to cover the fact the complimented you. your mind wasn't even set on the final payment he owed you, only on him.

maybe you sensed that since this was his final payment you'd lose the connection you had enjoyed so much. the quick quips, witty remarks, mindless cursing—you didn't want any of it to end.

you decided to walk over after your shop closed promptly at six o’clock, well maybe five fifty-eight today, only because you were itching to talk to him again.

you were in the back of the line of very hungry customers, even as you waited outside you could hear richie’s voice directing orders and sending bagged food in every direction. it didn't take much convincing for richie to stop what he was doing and tell carmen that you were there to see him.

now carmen had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth the moment that you were in the back of the restaurant with him next to old crates and the dumpster.

“i'm sorry, today was fucked. like so fucked, and your money i swear it’s on my desk,” he was frantic, holding his hands up and waving them as he spoke. “i got so caught up in whatever the fuck today was.”

you let him go on, though you couldn't stop a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth when he spoke. he paused his minor freakout, a puzzled look on his face. “this isn't about the money is it?” his voice lowered as he took another drag of his cigarette to calm him.

“i wanted to ask you to go out with me, like not just hanging out in my dead mom’s shop… more than just bringing me money your brother owed me more than just eating leftovers,” you stammered, although you were trying to contain your smile. “like actually doing something.”

carmen avoided eye contact for a moment, flicking the ash from his cigarette. he scratched the back of his neck, his hand holding the back of his neck, the veins in his muscular arm showing.

“you came over here to ask me out?” he was stunned but not offended. he didn't think getting sydney to watch his station would end with him getting a proposal for a date. “like deadass?” carmen was beaming whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“so?” you proposed again.

“yeah,” carmen had a quick nod, finishing his cigarette. as he stamped it out he seemed more relaxed. you had given him a false sense of confidence with your proposal. he felt “yeah, totally, yeah,” he hummed for a moment, until he looked at you again.

“monday, okay, y/n?” carmen was now acting like it had been his idea all along, but you didn't mind. he seemed interested, if not more interested than you.

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archive-of-alexandria · 1 year ago

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Mind Your Manners (Sanji X Reader)

A/N: ITS KINKTOBER! I have it in my head that head-over-heels, perverted Sanji would absolutely give the Reader snacks or food that are just a little bit too messy as an excuse to watch them clean up after themself and I just had to write it out. Kinda feels yandere? Smutty Food Play, because I haven't seen enough kinky Sanji action on here. xx

Sanji knows better than to play with his food. However, the way you're sitting at the dining table - pretty legs tucked up underneath you and breasts pressed together as you lean on your elbows - makes him think that he may have to make an exception.

Sanji's rule about manners doesn't extend to you, however.

No.

Sanji goes out of his way to ensure that you'll make a mess in his kitchen.

Back during the summer months, the Going Merry had made a pitstop at an island known for their enormous strawberries. Sanji had been eager to try his hand at pastries for a change - tarts, pies, the works - and the gargantuan summertime fruits seemed the perfect challenge.

A challenge the cook didn't anticipate, however, was finding you elbow-deep in the barrel of harvested berries that same evening, caught literally red-handed from the saccharine juices that dripped from your fingertips to the floor with a heavy tap tap tap.

The sight was enough to make his heart nearly stop.

Your eyes had been wide and your flushed cheeks were even wider, stuffed with sweet fruit as juice covered your face and hands...and every bit of you was dripping. Sanji had been unsure of where to look and his eyes darted between your slick fingers, your shy expression, and your perfectly tinted, glossy lips. He had never seen a more heavenly sight.

In his mind, nothing could ever compare...until your tongue ran along the back of your hand in a feeble attempt to clean yourself.

In the darkness of his room, Sanji thought about that tease of a tongue for weeks afterward.

Ever since then, he has taken extra care to make sure that you're given the messiest meals he can make. They're not gross, of course - Sanji is a chef first and a lover second. No, they're not gross. They are delectable. Every hum of enjoyment, every slurp, every squish...Sanji would lie awake in bed and dream of the different foods he wished to cover you in, if only just to watch you lick it up.

You had offered to help him make cinnamon buns one morning - though not without taking a generous helping of frosting on your finger and sucking it clean. "Labor tax", you joked with a wink. The image of your tongue licking the sinful-looking sweetness from your finger, mingled with your contented sigh, was seared into Sanji's brain from that moment forward.

Sanji became obsessed with watching you eat.

Food has always been an extension of Sanji's love for his crew and an expression of devotion. The act of cooking is artistic, and the act of eating is intimate. Hell, the kitchen itself is a lesson in foreplay: the preparation, the getting hands dirty, the building heat, the waiting game...all leading to a very satisfying end.

If only Sanji's cooking prowess had an excuse to leave the kitchen and move into the bedroom.

Sanji has yet to make his cake and eat it too in the ways of romance, though it would seem that you have recently taken a keen interest in his particular set of skills. The cook has noticed an increasing frequency of your kitchen visits, observing the way your eyes seem to latch to his hands and arms as he works. You've grown bolder, assisting him in his preparations and letting your elbows brush up against one another.

Sanji relishes the days you ask for his help and he nestles you between his body and the table, guiding your hands in his much larger ones.

The cook has grown bolder too, sometimes pressing too tightly against your back to allow his front to press up against your firm bottom as he huskily mumbles praises in your ear. He swears, sometimes, he can feel you lean into him.

The kitchen is the way to Sanji's heart, and he hopes that it may be the way into your bed.

And here you were, seated at his table awaiting the meal he had promised to cook for you once the Going Merry restocked at port.

As Sanji wipes down his cooking station, he lets his eyes drink you in without shame. Your breasts are practically falling from your tattered blouse, soft pillows highlighted by the dim candlelight of the galley. You're playing with your fingers, unaware of Sanji's gaze. He smirks.

"Sanji," You sigh, flushing pink as you look up to meet his gaze already set upon you,

"Is it almost ready?"

He chuckles, crossing his arms.

"My sweet girl is hungry, hm?" He muses, tossing his dishrag over his shoulder,

"Just a few more minutes, love."

"Wha-? But-!"

"You can't rush perfection now, can you?"

"Sanji," You whine, wiggling in your seat. His eyes once again meet your chest.

"If I had known it was going to take this long I would have taken up Zoro's offer to go to the pub."

Sanji stiffens.

The chef stands to his full height, a cigarette appearing between his tight-pressed lips as he turns from you to check on the pot simmering on the stove.

You, however, hold your ground.

It's silent.

"I didn't know you and mosshead had plans."

Sanji's voice is low. Much too low, and empty. It unsettles you.

"San-"

"-It's ready."

In a manner much too abrupt for the usually smitten Sanji, a steaming bowl is placed before you with an alarming thud. The spoon rattles in reaction to his aggressive delivery.

The enticing smell of the ramen can't mask the uneasy way Sanji stands perfectly still in front of you, face shrouded in shadow except for the blazing butt of his cigarette.

You're unsure of where to look, splitting your attention between the meal before you and the man hovering above the table. Sanji makes the decision for you.

"You were so hungry just a moment ago," he quips,

"So eat up."

You swallow, heat pooling in your cheeks and between your legs. This was nothing but the "Zoro effect" on Sanji, as you and Nami call it. Gingerly, you take hold of the spoon. Peering into the bowl, the meal looks heavenly - though you're soon aware of the way your hair keeps falling into your eyes, threatening to become part of the soup.

Your hair had grown long during the months at sea, and you had unwillingly lent Usopp your last bauble for slingshot practice. Your frustration doesn't go unnoticed.

“Here, my darling,” Sanji hummed, circling the table until he was behind you, “Let me help.”

At this moment, Sanji feels dangerous.

Your body erupts with heat as the cook looms behind you, your eyes glued to the steaming bowl of soup displayed before you. The galley feels all too warm, and the meal before you begins to feel more like a test - a challenge - rather than a token of whatever unspoken feelings float between you and Sanji.

Without another word, Sanji’s cold fingers glide along your feverish neck, scooping up your hair in their wake. He gives his wrist a well-practiced twist, eliciting a gasp from your lips at the feeling of your hair pulled taught in his grasp. Sanji feels his ego swell, giving your hair a sharp tug. Your head is thrown back as he lowers himself to your ear.

"Go on," His scruff grazes you, and your skin is suddenly on fire.

"Eat."

Heat floods through Sanji as he watches the way your neck moves as you swallow, nodding at his command. He eases up on his grip and observes the timid way you scoop the broth into your mouth.

He catches the way your eyelids flutter closed at the taste of his meal. You liked it. You always liked his food.

Tonight, simply liking wasn't enough.

"Eating so silently? Don't you know it's rude to the chef?"

Sanji's eyes darken as your fingers twitch on the tabletop. So, he muses to himself, you think you would get away that easily?

"Don't you like it?"

"S-Sanji-"

"Don't use your words, pet. Just enjoy."

From above, he watches as the plush peaks of your breasts begin to heave quicker. You allow yourself to fully dive into the meal, this time taking noodles and broth quickly between your lips. For a moment, you seem to forget that Sanji is there. You hum, in something akin to ecstasy - Sanji had made this meal just for you, just the way you liked it.

The obscenely wet squelches of your lips slurping up his creation elicit a deep groan from the chef, fingers tightening their grip on your hair. He can't help but chuckle at the idea of Zoro sitting alone in some corner booth and nursing a drink, all while you're here sucking up and savoring Sanji's affection.

You lift your head, lips puffy from the spice and heat of the meal. Sanji presses himself into your back, as his free thumb comes around and wipes your bottom lip. Your gazes meet, and Sanji brings his thumb to his mouth - tasting remnants of your meal.

A low chuckle escapes his lips.

"What, my love? Finished already?"

You understand his insinuation, whipping your head back to your meal and bringing the ladle back to your mouth.

Eat it all up, love. Made just for you.

In a moment of weakness, Sanji gently pushes your head down.

You gag on the spoon.

Sanji moans.

His hips buck forward, desperate for friction, meeting the soft dip of your arched back. His throbbing cock digs into your back, your buttocks...Unable to compose himself, Sanji begins to rut himself against you – and you don’t protest.

Sanji knows how fowl this display looks, and yet he can’t help himself. He has wanted you - really wanted you - for so long...the idea that Zoro could possibly take you away from him was enough to drive him over the edge.

When Sanji hears your voice rumble from your chest - "nnnugh-! Sanji...!" - he swears by the heavens that he'll do anything to make you his.

His hand moves from your hair and wraps around your throat, slick with the broth that dribbles from your lips. He wishes to lick every part of your sticky, salty skin, gently squeezing your throat as you gasp out his name.

Your head lolls onto his shoulder, hand gripping the table as it shakes under the weight of Sanji's wild bucking.

Sanji is everywhere, mumbling streams of thought between hot kisses along your forehead:

"I fucking love you, you know that? Would Zoro treat you so well?"

"That pretty mouth, always teasing me - you think that's fair?"

"Just wanna fill you up with all of me, darling...Want those gorgeous lips around my cock..."

For all his talk, he fumbles and lurches forward. His hand unceremoniously lands in the bowl, soaking him up to the cuff in warm broth. You're both breathing heavily, the high beginning to wind down. However, you see your moment to gain leverage.

You grab hold of his wrist before he can think, turning your face ever so slightly to meet his.

With a twinkle in your eye, you guide his hand to your lips. Sanji's mind is a fluffy haze, unable to anticipate your next move.

"We don't waste food, right?" You purr.

You take Sanji's fingers into your velvety mouth and he practically sees stars. He has been dreaming of this exact pleasure for months, straining to keep from collapsing on top of you as your tongue swirls between his fingers.

As your cheeks hollow out around his digits, your hooded gaze keeps his in a near mocking way.

So, you had known his game all along.

Sanji's chest heaves against your back, his hot breath fanning across your face with a stutter. His inexperience shows in this moment, numb and capable of doing nothing but watching the expert way your mouth moves around his fingers.

A faint pop of your cheeks accompanies the release, a ghostly string of spit connecting his fingers to your lips. The faint moonlight catches hold of his soaked digits. Sanji inhales sharply.

His hand, frozen in your hold, is easily guided down...

down...

"I've already had my meal," you murmur.

A shiver.

His eager fingers meet your soaking, pulsing warmth.

"It's time you eat yours."

#sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #one piece sanji #opla sanji #YES CHEF #Sanji is something so personal #absolute brainrot #sanji imagine #yandere sanji #this is GROSS ahaha #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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