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professionalacesimp927 · 3 days ago

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─── 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐘

# with black-leg sanji.

sanji had always been willing to concede to your every desire — and who was he to cower if that involved a strap-on?

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day twenty-two. smut (mdni!). pegging. strap-on. fingering (sanji!receivig). afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2k.

black-leg sanji spent his entire lifespan begging a higher duty for love to be bestowed upon him. and when he at last, had it — had you — he all but hoped to somewhat get used to being loved. he adored you, willing to grovel at your feet and obey to your every desire, whether or not it was attainable. if you were to request for moonstone, sanji would sky-walk until he reached it; if you were to request for a fish found in the north blue, he’d swim from the new world if only to cook you the said desired dish. it was natural, for love to him was all-consuming, similar to the flames that enveloped his legs. sanji wasn’t, however, used to said behavior being reciprocated. he could see the eagerness mirrored in your eyes, the explicit love shown through them, and that terrified him.

getting comfortable with requesting, rather than giving, had taken him a bit of time, yet he grew used to it, for you were all but excited to concede to his desires — and on god, he had at least half a hundred. you agreed on being fucked with nothing but his apron; tried every single position he suggested; allowed him to smear you with whipped cream and clean you with his tongue. sex and the vulnerability that came with it started to excite him, no longer a source of terror, rather an opportunity to turn his wildest, longest fantasies into reality — until he found that you were not sharing your own whatsoever.

your excitement was as palpable as your eagerness to please him. your knowledge on certain sexual aspects, too, was far too telling. sanji was sure you had desires of your own — that he was desperate to realize — yet, months-in passed and you remained settled; conformed. he grew a bit anxious, fearing that you were not quite as comfortable with him. it was a considerable issue that he was keen on solving.

sanji prepared your most favored snack, and made sure to get you alone in the afternoon, curled up with a book in the leisure room. he placed the metal tray on the table, hugging your shoulders with a lovesick glance as you complimented his cooking skills, smiling ever-so-slightly at the nitid sight of his adoration. he started out with innocent, borderline silly questions — the status of your day so far; the topic of your book; the quality of your sleep — until his lips grew latched to your neck, spreading his tongue and leaving a hot trail of kisses that had you melting. when he had you clouded with lust, back pressed against the couch as his figure hovered over yours, he whispered into your flesh, repeating the same inquiry you made him a dozen times before.

“what are we trying out today?” your muscles grew rigid for the briefest moment, quickly masked yet with not enough speed for him not to have noticed.

“what do you have in mind?” you questioned, fingers treading through his hair and hips rolling against his own in an attempt to diverge the subject.

sanji’s expression softened, aiming to offer certain reassurance. “i was hoping you would pick, my love.”

you cleared your throat, avoiding his glance for the briefest instance. he softly touched your chin, guiding your face to meet his own. he caressed your face with his thumb, quietly conveying his emotions. he hated the idea of cornering you in such a way; of forcing you to move past your comfort zone. yet, at the same time, sanji was in dire need of some answers — and willing to use certain tactics to receive them.

“i doubt you’d be into it,” you softly whispered, and he clicked his tongue in certain shock. the limits he’d be willing to cross for the sake of your pleasure were, in fairness, embarrassing. he was positive you could make his cock hard even if your idea involved cross-dressing as queen — which said enough of his situation.

“mon chéri,” he mumbled, brushing his lips against yours. “there’s hardly anything i wouldn’t do for you.”

“well,” you started out, voice so low he could barely hear it. “i’d like to fuck you.”

“yes?”

“in the ass.”

his world stopped for a second or two — mind struggling to wrap itself around the request. yet, treacherous thoughts swirled through, tempting him soon enough. sanji’s fantasies had always been focused on having you bent down; bare; vulnerable. cunt throbbing, warm and wet around his cock. he never once pictured himself being the one in the receiving end — and, oh, how stupid he had been. sanji shuddered, thinking of whips and blindfolds; of high heels on his crotch and collar wrapped around his neck. your eyes were tethered to his face, accessing his reaction, and once you noticed he was considering it, you moved in a way that had him crumbling.

“please, sanji,” you pleaded, biting his earlobe. “i will take such good care of you.”

and he caved. the conversation thereafter, of course, hadn’t been as exciting. boundaries had to be settled, as well as the means to leave him comfortable. your pleasure, too, was important. sanji was unwilling to abandon that belief, and was set on a strap-on that could, too, tease your clit. since sanji had never done such a thing, he had no lube stored whatsoever, meaning the act itself had to be delayed for a painful amount of weeks. when the sunny, at last, reached an island with a store that sold the necessary equipment, neither could find the specific strap-on he demanded.

you bought it regardless, much too eager to wait, stating that franky could solve the vibration issue within the interval of a breath, sanji giving in at the undeniable truth that followed thereafter to convince him — the cyborg, for sure, was into that as well, therefore he wouldn’t mind altering it. at last, with financial aid from nami, you rented a shared room for the night, and sanji had requested a particular instance of privacy to take quite a long shower.

regardless, sanji was bare and on all-fours. his knees and elbows sunk into the soft mattress as he struggled to maintain a proper balance, whimpering as you trailed kisses down his spine, your hand wrapped around his cock, thumb teasing the swollen tip. he was leaking; awfully close to cumming, as though a mere virgin. sanji had his back arched, aiming to make for a dazzling view; refusing to be positioned as though a limp sack of potatoes. he wished to present a decent sight, realizing much too late that he had been attempting to mimic you. his admiration at your usual endurance, however, disappeared through the fog of pleasure that overcame him when you sucked on the dimples above his rear.

two of your fingers teased his entrance, a sweet bite on the flesh of his ass following-in-suit. he shuddered, tensing up ever-so-slightly in anticipation. “relax, love. i got you.”

the lube’s lid opened, the unfamiliar sound of it being poured on your fingers. sanji gasped when your index and middle slid inside him, a surprised — yet delighted — hum making itself heard once you realized that he was far more prepared due to the previously taken shower. he whined, rutting into your palm; drooling onto the pillow trapped in between his lips. a scissoring pattern stretched his hole, inserting them knuckles deep. sanji shout came out muffled, his eyes rolling down when your tongue teased his perineum.

“wait!” he pleaded, his arms trembling as you ignored him altogether.

instead, your palm increased its pace on his cock, teasing the shaft with his pre-cum. the sounds — mingled with those of your fingers thrusting into his hole — were lewd, and sanji had never experienced such stimulation before. he came unannounced on your awaiting hand, struggling to maintain his composure as his load smeared your flesh. he rolled his hips, chasing his own high as you cooed at him, not once daring to remove your fingers — instead, adding a third one.

“that’s it,” you soothed, hand milking him dry. “let go for me, baby, c’mon.”

sanji sobbed, crumbling altogether, legs no longer able to sustain his own weight. he fell on your hand, hips raising in the slightest as he allowed you to retreat your palm. a choir of apologies, mingled with gradual moans, escaped past his swollen, chewed lips.

“shhh,” you mumbled, brushing his waist with featherlike fingers, guiding his back to be pressed against the mattress.

you had once stated that the clit-teasing strap-on was unnecessary, for the merest sight of him — whimpering and struggling under you — should be more than enough to bring you pleasure. he hadn’t believed it then, a mistake he could now understand. your pupils were blown wide, mouth parted and nipples hardening under the tight fabric of your corset. sanji’s breath caught in his throat when your cum-coated hand slid into your faux dick, coating the strap with his own essence before you reached for the lube bottle.

he grew hard yet again when you licked your palm, grunting at the taste of his cum on your tongue. sanji observed through half-lidded eyes as you poured lube onto your hand, mingling it with the cum spread on the strap.

“mon trésor,” he whined, toes curling as he struggled to keep his hands to himself. “please.”

your glance softened, knees dug into the mattress as your hands spread him open. sanji conceded to your mute requests, raising his hips so that you could place a pillow underneath; wrapping his legs around your waist. a sudden buzzing filled the room, a moan tearing through your throat as the inner inch of the strap vibrated against your clit. the tip lingered on his hole for an instance, before you slid inside, stuffing him to the hilt.

sanji whimpered, allowing your hand to wrap itself around his wrist for further balance. you found a decent rhythm and he cried out right thereafter, crimson flushing his cheeks as you brushed against his prostate. gibberish spilled in his native language; back arching in desperation. blood slipped from his face to his chest, his hand slapping his nose in embarrassment at the realization of what had happened. the sight of it had affected you more than it should, and your thrusts grew harsher; faster.

sanji caught himself thanking the choice of renting a room, for his moans spilled louder than the both of you were used to. he wiped the blood from his nose, covering his mouth to contain his sounds, and you made a grunt of disappointment.

“now, now,” you pouted, retreating your hips for the merest instance, all but to shove the strap inside to the hilt yet again. “i want to hear you, my love. will you let me hear you?”

sanji nodded, quietly placing his wrist at the mercy of your hand yet again. yet another harsh thrust had him mewling, your chest heaving as the vibration increased on your swollen clit.

“use your words, loverboy,” you teased, rolling your hips in a languid manner.

“y-yes, my seastar,” sanji folded, gasping as he struggled to contain the strength of the grip of his legs around your figure; caging you. your palm trailed down to his neglected cock, pumping it in pace with your constricted thrusts, and he moaned in sheer desperation.

“is it g-good,” he sobbed, surprisingly cock-drunk, words a mumble. “for you too, my sweet?”

“of course,” you answered, gasping when the tip of the strap reached a particularly deep spot within him. “always feel gold with you.”

tears pooled on the corners of his eyes, glee filling him with your words. you speed up your tempo, fucking into him with a lewd and reckless abandon, the grip and slide of the strap ensuing an approaching orgasm to the brim. your grip grew harsher on his cock, and he was sent over the edge. his back arched, moaning your name, walls clenching around him as he whined, cum sent straight into his stomach. once you released his wrists, sweat-coated skin and soakened cleavage, sanji gripped your hips and shoved you deeper, eyes pleading; earsight tethered to the buzzing of the strap.

he was flushed; bangs glued to his forehead. wild breathing; cum-stained abdomen. his legs trembled around you, muscles straining as his eyes tethered to your face. “cum, mon ange. please, please, can you cum?”

you sighed in delight, ignoring the leftover mess on his stomach to collapse into his chest, brushing your nose against his neck; licking the salty sweat lingering on the flesh.

“don’t think it will be enough,” you mumbled, raising your head to look at him through your eyelashes. “could you help me cum, sanji?”

he was sore; limp. white glued to his abdomen, his legs had no strength left whatsoever. yet, his hands moved on his own, teasing the tight waistband of the strap. sanji had always been one to cum fast — and to harden yet again with twice the speed. so, when he grinned for the briefest second, throwing your back against the mattress and raising your legs to slip the strap off, you knew you were on for the long ride.

— 🐈‍⬛ : i need to fuck this man pregnant.

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professionalacesimp927 · 6 days ago

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sanji x stripper🌚 (sfw pls)

PRIVATE DANCES

Pairings: Sanji x Stripper/Midnight Ballerina! Reader.

Themes: ModernAU! Mature themes, Angst, Substance usage, Messy Romance, Obsession, Abandonment, Second-chance lovers.

Warnings: Explicit Language/Setting. MINORS DNI

The club always smelled of smoke, perfume, and spilled liquor — a place where men came to forget, and women like you were paid to be remembered. You’d been dancing long enough to know the routine: fake smiles, swaying hips, laughter that never reached your eyes.

And then he appeared.

Sanji. Blond hair tied back neatly, sharp suits that smelled faintly of cologne and tobacco, eyes so blue they looked out of place in the haze of neon. He wasn’t like the others.

The first night, he tipped too much. The second, he tipped the same. By the third night, he had booked you for a private room. You braced for the usual routine — hands that wandered, mouths that begged.

But Sanji only sat back on the velvet couch, cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes tracing your movements like he was watching a sunrise.

“You dance” he murmured, smoke curling from his lips, “like you’re punishing the world and rewarding me at the same time.”

You raised a brow, rolling your hips against his lap. “And which do you think you deserve, baby?”

His smirk was faint. Sad, almost. “Both.”

That was how it began.

The club lights always washed over you in pinks and blues—your world painted in neon, velvet, and dollar bills fluttering like confetti. You had regulars who adored you, men who came and went, drunken promises you learned not to listen to. But Sanji wasn’t like the others.

He became a fixture. A guaranteed face in the crowd at least twice a week. Sometimes he’d pay for private dances just to sit with you, to talk. He’d ask about your favorite foods, your favorite colors, what songs made you dance when no one was watching. You never gave customers much of yourself—it blurred the line too easily. But with Sanji… you slipped. You gave him pieces.

“What’s your favorite color, ma belle?”

“Do you sing in the shower?”

“Who cooks for you after long shifts like this? You deserve some real food”

You laughed, deflecting, but you found yourself giving answers anyway. Pink. Yes, badly. No one.

You’d never intended to let a client see you. But he seeped through the cracks.

he’d pay just to sit with you. Sometimes he’d bring food, homemade — rich stews, delicate pastries, things no man had ever thought to feed you after watching you starve yourself for tips. He’d feed you with his hands, grin when you moaned at the taste, whisper filth about how he wanted to hear those sounds for him alone.

It was dangerous.

And then one night, he was gone.

No call. No note. No more bookings.

Weeks bled into months, and the emptiness was sharp. You kept dancing, letting strangers toss cash at you, but the taste of his cooking haunted your tongue, the echo of his accent haunted your ears.

You hated yourself for missing him. Hated that you scanned the crowd each night, praying for a glimpse of that blond hair.

It was stupid—an employee and her client, you told yourself. Just another fantasy to him.

The bitterness festered, but the longing never left.

It was a Friday when you saw him again.

You’d just stepped on stage, lights washing your skin in pink, when you caught sight of him at the bar. Sanji. In a navy suit, cigarette burning low, eyes locked on you like not a second had passed.

Your stomach twisted — anger and desire colliding until it hurt to breathe.

You danced harder, sharper, pretending you didn’t see him. But when the bouncer touched your arm after your set “VIP. He asked for you.” — your pulse betrayed you.

You told yourself it was just money. Just a job. But your hands shook when you opened the door.

He sat waiting, tie loosened, whiskey in hand. When you entered, his cigarette slipped from his lips.

“Chérie…” His voice was low, ragged. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

You climbed into his lap, mask slipping into place, hips swaying. “Funny. You remembered me after vanishing for months? got the money?”

He slid crisp bills across the table. But his hands — god, his hands trembled like he was afraid to touch you.

“Months” you spat, grinding down harder. “You vanish on me, then come back like nothing? Do you know what that did to me, Sanji?”

His jaw flexed, eyes burning. “I tried… I tried to date, to cook for other women. But it was useless. Every time, it was you. Your laugh, your eyes, your voice in my head. I couldn’t forget you.”

Your chest ached. You hated the part of you that melted. “So what am I? Plan B when no one else worked out? A pretty little fantasy you couldn’t shake?”

He grabbed your waist, desperate, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Never plan B. Never cheap. You own me princess, do you understand? From the first night. I was a coward — I left because you made me want too much, more than I thought I deserved.”

Your throat tightened. “You are! and you left me wondering if I was crazy. If I meant anything.”

His hand cupped your face, trembling. “You meant everything. I should have stayed. I will never forgive myself for leaving you like that.”

You wanted to push him away. You wanted to give in. Both burned inside you.

“Then fucking show me” you whispered, voice breaking. “Show me I wasn’t just a stupid girl to you.”

The leash snapped.

His mouth crushed to yours, feverish, teeth clashing. His hands roamed your body like a starving man — gripping your thighs, clutching your ass, sliding up the curve of your waist. You kissed back with fury, nails raking down his chest, ripping buttons free.

You hissed, grinding harder. “You don’t get to disappear and then worship me now.”

You wanted to shove him away--slap him. You wanted to cling to him. Both urges tore you apart, your chest aching with the weight of months of silence.

Sanji surged forward, kissing you like a man starved, like he’d been holding his breath for months and you were the only air left in the world. His hands trembled where they cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as though he was afraid you’d vanish if he held too tightly.

You gave in and kissed him back, not out of forgiveness but out of fury, grief, longing. Teeth clashed, lips bruised, tears stung the corners of your eyes until you weren’t sure if it was you or him crying.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice and heart cracked open

“Every night without you was hell. I tried to pretend I could move on, but no one—no one—was you. I’d sit across from other women, pour wine, cook for them, and still—” his voice broke into a ragged laugh

“—still I’d see your smile, hear your voice. I was haunted, chérie. Haunted because I threw away the only thing I ever truly wanted.”

The silence that soon passed between you wasn’t empty. It was heavy — thick with all the things you’d said, all the things that had been building for months. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, tears cooling against your cheeks as you sat there in Sanji’s lap, his arms still wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t playing a part. Not the dancer. Not the fantasy. Just you.

And that terrified you more than anything.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, his lips swollen from the mess of a kiss you’d shared. He looked wrecked. Not the smooth, confident man who used to lounge in your private rooms like he owned the world. Just… a man who had made a mistake so big he didn’t know if he could crawl back from it.

“You don’t understand” you said softly, voice still shaky. “When you left, I kept asking myself what I did wrong. If I wasn’t enough. Do you know how humiliating it is to sit here, night after night, pretending none of this matters, while it felt like I meant nothing to you?”

Sanji’s face crumpled. His hands slid down to grip yours, squeezing them as if he could anchor you both.

“You meant everything” he said, voice hoarse. “I left because I was a fool. Because I thought someone like me didn’t deserve someone like you. I thought—” He stopped, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I thought if I walked away, I’d protect you from me. Instead, I hurt you. And I will regret that until I’m in the ground.”

Your lip trembled. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hold onto your anger. Both warred inside you, leaving you exhausted

“Words are easy” you whispered. “Anyone can say them.”

“I know” he murmured, inching closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “That’s why I don’t want to just say them. Let me prove it. Let me cook for you. Let me drive you home when you’re tired. Let me be the one you lean on, not the one who leaves you wondering.”

You looked away, swallowing hard. “And what if you leave again? What if I start to believe you, and you vanish like last time? I can’t go through that twice.”

Sanji leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours, his voice breaking.

“Then I don’t deserve to fucking breathe. If I walk away again, I’ll cut out my own heart, because it won’t be worth a damn thing without you. But I swear, on everything I am, I’m not going anywhere this time. Not unless you tell me to.”

Your chest ached with how badly you wanted to believe him. How badly you wanted the warmth of his promises to be real.

“I don’t know if I can trust you Sanji” you admitted, voice barely a whisper.

“Then let me earn it” he said. His hand moved to your cheek, cupping it with aching tenderness. “Every day, however long it takes. I’ll show up, I’ll be there, I’ll prove that I’m not running. Not from you. Never again.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, trailing down your cheeks. And this time, when Sanji leaned in to kiss you, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic. It was soft. Careful. A promise pressed to your lips.

You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. But for the first time in months, you let yourself hope.

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