Latest Posts by bubblyluffy - Page 2

I need a fanfic that feels like this edit

Hiiiii so I was mayhaps wondering if I could get a Sanji x reader, (fem mayhaps) and when Sanji flirts reader flirts back just as much and they fluster poor Sanji :3

FLIRTING COMPETITION - Sanji x Fem!Reader

Hiiiii!! Omg I loved this request, I tried my best to write a cute little blurb. I hope it’s satisfactory! This is actually the first request I’ve ever gotten and I’m not gonna lie I giggled like an idiot hehe.

CW: SFW, Blood mention (nose bleed), anime Sanji antics, flirty remarks but nothing past pg

~1.3k

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A new woman on board the Sunny is cause for celebration for no less than five of the Straw Hats. Nami and Robin were elated that there's finally someone else to connect with, to break up the monotony of the otherwise male-dominated crew. Not that they minded, but eventually you can only take so much locker room smell and fart jokes. Chopper was also excited, having another person to dote on him (not that some of the men aboard didn’t also do it in their own ways.) Luffy was excited, but of course it had nothing to do with you being a woman and everything to do with having another member of the crew who he invariably adored. Another crewmate, another nakama.

Nobody is more excited than Sanji, though.

At first, it's a little weird. You notice how Sanji dotes on and tends to the women in the crew. Extra treats, googly eyes, nose bleeds. He'd roll out the red carpet if he had one, release confetti if there were any aboard. The little comments didn't really get to you, and it seemed that Nami and Robin are already used to them. So, the flirtatious remarks from Sanji weren't really given any weight, and certainly not any attention. At least, not at first.

It started small. Well, from you at least - for Sanji’s part, the flirting was as obnoxious as ever. You’d offer him a warm smile here, a chaste laugh there. Anything to show your gratitude for the extra attention, though the flirting was certainly becoming an issue. You couldn’t quite decide what was bothering you about it so much. Maybe it was the fact that it was relentless and constant. There wasn't a single meal that went by without it, and it'd be an off day if Sanji didn't openly ogle and flirt. Or that it didn’t actually bother you at all - rather, it bothered you that it was indiscriminate, not just meant for you. It was shared among all three of you women aboard. Yes, maybe that was the issue. The comments have been wearing you down, and something deep inside was feeling something that maybe wasn’t very smart to be feeling, especially when dealing with an insatiable casanova like Sanji. Though, could he really be called that? You’re certain the boy reeked of virginity.

So, Sanji is a flirt. That much is obvious. And there were plenty of times where it left you flustered or flushed or even unsure of what to say. Well, two can play at that game.

As the sun shines over the table where you’re sat on the deck, with the smell of lunch wafting heavily in the air, you’re suddenly consumed with the idea of getting him back today.

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“Here you go, gorgeous! A special pâté served on seaweed with garlic, all plated with care for a beautiful lady such as yourself.”

You pick up your fork, finding the attention to detail he gives just a little funny. It's cute, anyway. You scoop a piece of the pâté from the seaweed, just to taste - the savory flavor is obvious, with some kind of roasted quality that forces a hum from your throat. You grin up at Sanji, your eyes flickering over his face with great interest.

“My compliments to the chef.” You respond, your tone a touch playful.

Sanji beams, and you swear you hear him giggle? For a man so confident in his craft, he can be a real dork when receiving compliments from women. This is going to be fun.

“Aw, I'm so glad you like it! There's plenty more where that came from for someone as beautiful and sweet as you! Oh - did you do something with your hair? The sunlight is catching it just right today, and-”

He's babbling, and definitely going overboard on the doting.

“Oh, brother…” Nami mumbles from her seat next to you, and you can hear Zoro scoffing from the railing nearby where he’s supposed to be taking a nap.

Everyone is just a little too aware of Sanji's actions, and even Robin suppresses a small chuckle. You shrug it off, though, giving Sanji a warm smile.

“We're very lucky to have you aboard as chef, huh? It's always dinner and a show.” You laugh, leaning your chin on your palm as you observe him. “With a great view, too. You ever think about getting into performing?”

Sanji stiffens, a hand moving to the back of his neck as the tips of his ears turn red. You can tell by his expression that he’s clearly caught off-guard, and probably just thinking you’re being extra friendly. It’s still clear the effects your comments are having on him.

“Well, of course not. I'm just a cook.” He laughs awkwardly, his tone still overly excited as he avoids your eyes. “Why d'ya ask, princess?”

You stifle a giggle at the way he seems to get a little less confident.

“Oh, nothing. I'd just pay to see someone as handsome as you every night.” You reply simply, your smile widening into a grin.

“Seriously?” Nami mumbles from across the table, but you ignore it. Her annoyance at the scene isn't your problem.

Sanji doesn't grin, though. He freezes worse than before. You can see his curly brow twitching, and his mouth opens to speak. Nothing comes out, though, so it promptly shuts. The blush on his ears has slowly spread across his cheeks, and it brings out the color of his eyes in a way you haven’t noticed before.

You can't stifle the giggle this time. It rolls out, and Sanji clears his throat in an attempt to recover his demeanor. Even the giggle seems to have made his heart leap.

“W-Well, thank you, I'll-”

“And your hair looks better than mine today. Honestly, I'd love to run my fingers through it. You don't mind, do you?”

You reach a hand out to Sanji's sleeve, tugging on it gently to pull him closer. He doesn't move. Instead, he pulls his arm away, bringing it towards his face, which he turns the other direction. He’s covering the lower part of his face with his sleeve. What the hell? There were a lot of reactions you were expecting from Sanji, but that was not one of them.

”What’s wrong, Prince Chef? Can’t take what you dish out?” You tease.

”E-Excuse me!”

You watch Sanji stalk off, and you notice when he brings down his sleeve from his face that the once pristine-white fold over his coat is now red with what appears to be blood stains. Ah, so that’s what it was. You giggle to yourself, picking up your fork again and scooping some of the pâté. Damn, it really is good.

”Wow. I’ve never seen Sanji freeze up like that.” Nami says, and you can’t help but laugh a little louder.

“Just giving him a taste of his own medicine. Or, a taste of his own pâté.” You reply with a proud grin, leaning back in your seat. You take a bite, and the sound of Robin’s soft chuckle from across the table grabs your attention.

”You’d better be careful,” Robin chimes in, a soft smile on her lips. “You’re going to break his heart if you keep flirting with him like that.”

”Yeah, let her. Serves the idiot cook right for chasing everything in a skirt.” Zoro adds, not bothering to open his eye.

“Oh, come on. He can handle a little flirting. He’ll be alright.” You giggle, taking a bite from your fork.

Though the taste reminds you of Sanji, and how cute his blush was when you complimented his cooking. It was even cuter when you complimented his appearance. Just the thought of getting to see that look again stirs something in your chest that’s hard to pinpoint, but it grows as you fork another bite. Maybe, just maybe, the condition of Sanji’s heart in relation to you is something you’ll need to keep in mind.

y'all ever read a fanfic and make a fanfic of it in your own head? please tell me I'm not the only one.

subscribing to a fic isn’t enough I need the author to blast a bat signal into the night sky whenever they update

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EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UPPPPP

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writers im begging for a luffy lakers smut cause he was so hot i just cant take it anymore

after 7 months on wano I finally reach egghead im sobbing, this is a new era

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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 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.

Cravings

Summary: Sanji has gone much too long without his favorite meal and he fears that it’s driving him insane. Once he finds himself fully alone with you, he takes full advantage of the moment.

Tags: Sanji x afab!reader, nsfw, established relationship, oral (female receiving), fingering, face riding, overstimulation, squirting

Word Count: 3.4k

There’s a hollow pit in Sanji’s stomach this morning and it sets him on edge. He woke up late, a dream of you keeping him asleep longer, one that was cut off too early to be satisfactory anyway. When he got up from bed, the cold air bit harder than usual, settling into his bones and it seemed nothing could warm him. His clothes did not hug his body the way they should have. The image of you sleeping in his bed, hair mussed and sheets rumpled, didn’t leave him warm and fond, but instead running hot and with a fierce ache. The taste that he desires most hasn’t been on his tongue in much too long and he’s afraid it may kill him.

He arrives to the kitchen late. His process is not as smooth as usual, he starts and stops again and again. His foot caught on the stairs on the way up, tripping in a way he never does. He had to pause at the top to take a moment, to relax the building tension in his body. As he searches for ingredients, he has to dig around for much longer. He scans the fridge again and again, his eyes not finding the sauce he wants. He moves bottles and containers around and still cannot find it. He slams the door shut, thinking to try again later. When he does, he finds it immediately. He lights his third cigarette of the morning by then. Everything is too loud, too much. The pots and pans clang and bash as he uses them. A spoon clatters to the counter as it slips from his fingers, another to the floor. He grits his teeth.

Brook was always silent when he came in. There was a routine here by now, a pot of tea waiting on the table for when he wandered in. He waits until Sanji has been in the kitchen for some time before he enters, so he must have noticed Sanji’s late start. This time, Sanji can feel his eyes—or whatever damn thing the skeleton saw with—boring into him. His neck prickles with Brook’s all too knowing gaze and so Sanji waits.

It must have been after his first cup that Brook decides to venture a question. “Has something bothered you at all this morning, Sanji?”

Sanji twitches at his voice even though he had been anticipating it, and grunts. “Nothings bothering me.”

He wonders if he sounds too gruff. Does he grunt like that when he feels fine? He’s sure he does, but does it sound exactly like the way it did just now? Was his answer rude? He asks himself these things even though he can’t do anything about it. He can’t admit to what’s bothering him anyway, isn’t sure what he can do about it either.

The thing is, the past few weeks have been perfect. They ran into some marines, yes, but they’d won and no one had been injured. The last island didn’t bring any issues. The stock has been well kept, Luffy’s grubby finger successfully and consistently kept at bay. They could relax. But that didn’t mean they weren’t busy, or that their ship life meant they had all too much alone time.

It meant that Sanji couldn’t lavish you in the way he wanted. When you could be intimate, it had to be quick. Any time spent with you is time spent in heaven, so he cannot really complain, he still enjoys it immensely. However, it does also mean that you want him as close to you as possible. That you want him inside you as fast as you can. And your love for his mouth on yours means you don’t want to break away to breathe for even a moment. He loves this, he loves this, but it leaves him without having his favorite meal between your legs, and that’s what has got him so irate this morning. To go so long without the taste of your pussy on his tongue might be the thing that drives him insane. He’s considered stealing a pair of your panties to stuff his mouth with while he cooks. It wouldn’t be enough, but it’d be something to tamper the need.

His thoughts turn vile, leachurous, nasty. Thoughts he is always too afraid to say aloud to you. He wonders if you know how good you taste. He thinks of you alone in your shared room, your fingers dipping into your wet cunt and collecting the slick there. Bringing them to your mouth and sucking on your fingers. Fingering and collecting and tasting again and again. He grips the counter and pictures himself showing you how delicious it is. His fingers dipping in and your tongue swirling around his digits, watching your cheeks redden as he describes to you how it feels to drag his tongue through your folds, to shove it in your hole—

The door to the kitchen slams open, followed by confident footsteps, a stride so sure of itself. Zoro. All brashness, he comes in, heading straight for a bottle of sake. Not even a good morning, not even a oi, shit cook. Just coming in to raid his supplies, ruining the perfect fantasy he had going. Sanji starts in on him immediately, legs flying.

The fight doesn’t last long. Sanji’s too focused on getting him out, and Zoro’s too baffled on what the fuck he possibly could’ve done this time to really put much effort into staying.

It isn’t too long until you catch wind of Sanji’s foul mood. Zoro goes storming by, grumbling about some idiot shit cook. As you watch him pass, Brook comes up on your other side. He’s silent as he finds his place next to you, watchful. It’s clear to you he has something on his mind, and you think it may have to do with Zoro’s attitude. You look up at Brook, inviting him to speak.

“Do you know what’s bothering Sanji?” he asks.

You raise your eyebrows and glance in the direction Zoro has just gone, but he shakes his head. “It started before that.”

You frown. “Oh, well, no. I’ll go see what I can find out.”

Brook nods and pats your head as you walk past, perhaps as a way of saying good luck, or maybe thanking you.

When you walk in, Sanji knows it’s you by your soft footsteps. He can pick you out by any sound you make. He knows you by your scent and by the smallest flash of you across his sight. He could be deprived of all his senses and yet he could still pick you out, still know it’s you.

He pauses before he turns, taking in his progress. It’s close enough to done, close enough to breakfast. All he really would have to do is keep most of it warm. His fingers twitch as he thinks of this, as he does the math in his head. I can, I can.

Some mornings, the crew comes in still wearing their pajamas. It depends on the day and the mood of the person as to whether they’ll come to breakfast dressed and ready for the day. For you, the morning has been a lazy one, and you walk in wearing one of his t-shirts with a pair of shorts hidden beneath. Your hair is still a little messy from your pillow. The sight has his cock throbbing.

Before you can fully open your mouth, fully form your question, he’s across the room in a handful of strides. His mouth is on yours immediately, heated and desperate, and he starts dragging you back to the pantry.

“You must forgive me,” he murmurs. “Forgive me for my crassness, forgive me…”

“Sanji?” you ask him, confused and concerned.

Brook and Zoro will be warning everyone off by now. They’ll know you’ve come in to do some sort of damage control, and won’t come in themselves until you give them the all clear. You both have time.

You’re in the pantry, door almost slammed shut so he can push you against it. Sanji drops to his knees and the impact of bone on wood makes your stomach churn.

“Sanji—”

“You must understand,” he cuts you off. “You must understand just how much I need this. I’m sorry but I… I need it.” The last part comes out high pitched as he gets your bottoms off, removed at an impressive speed.

He doesn’t waste anymore time. He latches onto you as he hitches your leg over his shoulder. The moan he lets out is sinful, the shiver that wracks his body almost terrifying. He’s like a dog, the way he immediately starts lapping into you, the way his hips buck as he humps air. Sanji knew he had an affliction, one revolving around you, and could only be solved by you. He knew he was a desperate man, but he did not know just how bad it was.

You give up on trying to get anything more out of him. For one, it’s clear he’s not going to answer you. Two, it’s difficult for you to form words, to form a single coherent thought. He knows you so well that he already has you moaning, arching off the door, and sliding your fingers through his hair.

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what he has been wanting. But some greedy part of himself, one that he tries to keep tucked away, tears its way through, and he feels that it’s still not enough. He adds his fingers, reaching two in to hit that spongy spot that has you keening, because he needs you coming in his mouth now. He needs you tugging on his hair and grinding down onto his tongue right this second.

You give him just that. The way he pumps his fingers so mercilessly into you, the way he sucks on your clit and flicks his tongue, the way he’s so uncharacteristically aggressive with you, has your hips bucking on his face. When he wants you, he’ll ask so sweetly, sliding his hands all over to convince you. He’ll ease you into it or simply beg, face buried in your shoulder. You have to take the final step and say yes. But right now he was just taking, and it made your head swim. He throws you into your orgasm and your legs shake with the force of it.

It’s wet and it’s messy and it has him shivering with delight. And all he wants is more.

He maneuvers you onto the floor so that he can shove his face into you harder. He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, he simply keeps licking his way into you. He’s eating so much sloppier, making out with his delicious treat.

There’s an ache in his teeth that he’s unfamiliar with, an urgency in his jaw. It feels similar to when he feels the urge to snap, to dig into someone. His mood swings are constant, a thing everyone is used to, but it’s not a feeling he ever feels towards you. His mouth, as never before, just wants to bite.

You can feel his teeth grazing, wanting to sink into flesh, but never doing so. The sensation makes you shiver. You’ve prompted marking each other before, something he’s glad to let you do, but he can’t bring himself to do it in return. He’s slowly loosening to the idea of hickeys, as they don’t hurt as they’re given. The bruising still bothers him. But biting, he’d always been firmly against biting.

He, as always, never wants to harm, never you, and now he wonders why he tortures himself so. To put his teeth so close but never sink them in. He thinks it may be the yearning, that he always has to have something to ache for, but knows he’ll never receive. Something about what he does and does not deserve. Something about deserving suffering, perhaps. Or maybe he does have a part of himself that likes to toy, to tease.

You’re so sensitive from your first that it doesn’t take him all too long to get you to your second. Your back arches off the floor, the zaps of pleasure running through your spine and all the way down to your toes. The throbbing of your cunt spurs him on and still he does not let up, does not give you a moment to recover. You pull on his hair and wriggle your hips, trying to get him to at least slow down.

“Sanji,” you whine. “‘S too much, too good, I can’t. Please?”

Just taking the short moment to pull back and answer you makes him want to cry. He can’t handle the short distance between him and your pussy. You feel his breath tickle you as he speaks. “Oh, but my sweetheart, please. Don’t you know how good you taste? It just drives me wild. And you’re doing so good for me, squeezing my head and clenching,” his voice hiccups and stutters on the word, “around my fingers… yeah. Yeah, my baby, you can give me more, can’t you? I know you can…”

He dives back in after trailing off, your pussy pulling him back into a trance. The teary look in his eye and desperation to his voice makes it impossible to tell him no. You let out a whimper but say, “Okay...”

He coaxes another out of you, all tongue and fingers and spit. You buck and spasm so hard, legs kicking out, that he has to put in more effort to hold you down, making sure you don’t hurt yourself. And yet he is just not satiated. He never truly is, really, but usually he’d be… calmed by now. Some out of place thing inside of him would be put back. His mind a little clearer. A sense of purpose, a job well done, a need fulfilled. But he feels as jittery and needy as ever.

“Just… just a little more, my love,” he tells you, and starts to move you again.

You can do little else but allow him to do as he pleases, and soon your pussy is hovering over his face.

“Your full weight, baby,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down your thighs, rubbing your hips. “Don’t think, don’t worry about a thing, just sit and feel good.”

You mewl out his name again as he pulls you down. Your thighs give out, unable to hold you, and it causes him to moan in delight. You’re always too worried, too self conscious, to ever fully press down on him. To have you too weak, too fucked out, to hold yourself up was delightful.

Ravenous. Depraved. Deprived. His mouth aches, his tongue and jaw tired, but it doesn’t matter. He feels you start to rock your hips and he groans, but suddenly you yelp and stop. The added movement was too much, overstimulating, and you couldn’t keep it up. Sanji wanted it, though, needed it, and began to grind your hips for you. You cried out, babbling about too good, too much, all over again, with his name in the mix, and you try to crawl away from him.

Good god, what was happening? You’ve never had to crawl from Sanji before. He would overstimulate you at times, so eager and needy for more, more, more that he’d keep going, begging you to let him. But if it was just too much, he’d relent. Kissing and apologizing and thanking you.

He wasn’t listening now, though, and he didn’t let you move. He’s got an iron grip on you, the hardest his hands have held you. The moment he feels you try to move away, his heart twists in panic. He feels like something precious is being taken from him. You're his, your pussy is his, and he couldn’t handle it being taken before he’s done, taken from him ever.

He feels pissed each time he has to stop to breathe, too. He can’t believe his body thinks he still needs air. Why the fuck would he want air right now? His real form of substance is already sitting on his face. It’s a waste of goddamn time to breathe. He was a man built for servitude, pleasure. Breathing currently interrupted that, so why would his body request it?

Above him, you’re barely holding on. You’re on your forearms, panting and moaning and trembling. You can’t form any more words, the babbling having ended a bit ago. All you can do is whisper his name, your throat barely able to say it, and simply keen. You snake a hand down, so shaky the whole way through, and tangle your fingers in his hair. Maybe if you give him this last one, he’ll let you go. You wonder if you’d really want him to. It makes your stomach flip and your pussy pulse to think of him forcing more orgasms out of you.

He’s just as noisy, as he always is, as he has been the whole time. Making slurping noises so lewd it makes your skin burn. A few more guided movements of your hips and your coming again, but this time you’re squirting, gushing all over his face.

This, this, is paradise. Sanji’s cock, neglected and aching and leaking, shoots hot ropes in his pants; a wet and hot mixture soaking through the fabric. His hips buck from just how strong his own orgasm is, his back arching as much as it can. You’re creaming all over his face, from his ministrations, from his love. And oh, how you sing for him. He couldn’t think of a better way to fix his mood, a better thing to cum to.

You collapse, falling to the side and laying there, taking deep, stuttering breaths. Sanji doesn’t move, he keeps his head tucked between your legs, and simply twists to lay on his side as well. He doesn’t continue to eat you out, however, finally relenting and letting you both calm down and find yourselves.

He does take the time to stare at your pussy, though, enjoying the sight. All puffy and swollen and wet; you just look so pretty. He wonders if you’d let him sleep like this at night, so close to a most precious part of you. He likes breathing in the scent of you, watching the way you flutter and clench from him just looking. Your thighs keeping him so warm and cosy. Yeah, he could easily fall asleep like that. He gives you feather light kisses up and down your slit, trying not to push you any more, but you’re so sensitive that you twitch and jolt anyway.

When he’s had his fill—which is to say he hasn’t, he just misses your face terribly—he comes crawling out to hold you. He finds himself equally concerned and bashful. He can’t believe how… demanding he’d been.

“How do you feel, my love?” he asks, sheepish. He pulls you close, squeezing and rubbing at your body, switching between legs and hips and arms.

You hum, and softly answer, “Tired… but good.” You know that what he’s asking for is if he took it too far, did anything wrong. “You always make me feel good.”

“I’m… I’m sorry I—”

“So, so, sooooo good,” you cut him off. For him to crave you so madly that he just has to corner you and pin you down so that he could fuck you with his tongue? How could you not be flattered?

You lift your head to look at him, and his face is dripping. Your slick is smeared all over, his upper lip a mixture of your cum and blood from his nose. His face is flushed from both pleasure and his shyness. He chews his bottom lip, meek from your attention on the mess he’s made.

You giggle. “We need to clean up.”

Sanji grins a little at this. “I don’t know, I quite enjoy my face being covered like this. I might just stay like this all day.”

You stick your tongue out and scrunch your nose. “Gross.”

He smiles wider. “No, my love, this is what bliss looks like.”

“Dork,” you snort.

You both stay like that a little while longer, enjoying each other’s warmth and presence. Breakfast could wait just a moment longer.

ONE PIECE 🏀 LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Happy bday, my beloved ❤️

Uzumaki Naruto 🍥 Uchiha Sasuke

Genin Ninjas

Have I not posted this one here yet... my piece (ha) for a local onepiecezine from last year

🛼 its 💥 funky 💥 one piece 🌶

Personally? I refuse to get over the fact that Monkey D. Luffy, one of the most fearless, reckless, tough, impulsive, fight-happy, determined, rough, hopeful characters I have ever seen in fiction, does not have a fight reflex when he is legitimately afraid.

He has a freeze reflex.

You know how few protagonists have a freeze reflex?

You know how many One Piece characters have a fight reflex? It's probably most of them (Ace, Zoro, and Kid are pretty notable examples). And after that, flight is probably next (Usopp, Nami, etc).

But Luffy has a freeze reflex. Consistently. Sure, he's learned to push through it, to snap out of it, but when he's really truly scared? It's like he's seven and helpless all over again, and he can't move. Just for a second.

I found this on Twitter?????? put this in the louvre

Yo viendo tiktoks de luffy en wano

looking at edits of my s/o, man wth i gotta say to get a piece of that!.. wait i know what i gotta say

im shifting

im shifting

im shifting

It's so hard to find Luffy fanfics

"You were in my dreams last night" yeah our souls have been clawing through our chests to get to each other since we met but I'm glad you noticed

Me when luffy

i promise i’m not insane about him

I’M IN!

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

Summary: Zoro hasn't been able to stop having dreams about you, his best friend and crewmate. When he goes a few days without one, he thinks he's in the clear. Surely, realizing that he's in love with you is enough to make the dreams stop entirely, right? Right?

Part 3 of 4. ~3.6k words. (read part 1 here!) CW: Equal parts smut and plot. Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Sex! Love-making! Mentions of death, danger, and blood. NSFW content - minors stay away!

Part 3: Scattered polaroids.

Zoro had three whole nights of solace after he realized he was in love with you—three nights of no dreams, three nights of long and restful sleep.

After the third night, he was under the impression that the dreams had ceased entirely. The realization that he loved you was the cure for his sickness, he told himself. Now, he could pine after you from afar during the day and sleep peacefully, minding his business at night.

He did just that. For those three days, during his waking hours, he tried to calculate how to get closer to you. He put together nonsensical equations in his mind over how, why, and for how long he had been in love—he could, and would, keep doing this all day until he returned to his bed, savoring each smile from you.

Evidently, the conversation he overheard between you and Nami was the catalyst for the chain reaction of psychological warfare he had withstood for over a week—the end result was a euphoric crescendo of emotions, his realization that he was capable of romantic love and that his heart had been screaming for attention for months.

But what was there to do about it?

More importantly, did you feel the same?

Zoro needed to find out. He wanted to get to the bottom of everything—the conversation, who you had been talking about, why you were having a hard time being lonely around them, and how you felt about him.

While the swordsman did the mental math of what that discussion may look like between the two of you, he felt sick. He had fought dangerous foes of every kind and been on the verge of death many times before, but nothing ever gave him nerves like this.

If you had feelings for someone, would you tell them? He wondered about you, the sorts of decisions you made, how you would act and feel. If he got to the bottom of this situation and discovered that you had feelings for someone other than him, would he be able to cope with the jealousy?

Jealousy.

The emotion started to seethe when he thought about someone other than himself being with you. It boiled inside when he watched Sanji fawn over you, touch the small of your back, and whisper compliments in your ear. Every bashful smile and flutter of your eyelashes in Sanji’s direction twisted some dial inside of Zoro. Too many twists would prove troublesome. Explosive, even.

He knew that that this emotion, envy, had been there for ages before he recognized how he felt about you. It didn’t feel good, and he knew it was unhealthy. Various images and memories flashed through his mind as he recalled instances in which he felt this same burning envy frequently coupled with a fierce desire to protect you.

Zoro tried to comfort himself with the knowledge of what sort of person you were—if you had a problem with Sanji, or with any other person, you would have said something, no? He was certain that you wouldn’t hesitate to stand your ground.

But that thought was less of a comfort than he initially thought it would be, because you hadn’t ever reprimanded the blonde for his advances (that Zoro knew of), but you did shoo him away sometimes. Your smile felt restrained and reserved whenever it was sent in Sanji’s direction. It looked different than the smiles you gave Zoro.

Well, there was no point in getting himself worked up over the dynamic in question. Nothing would change, probably, unless he did something about it.

It had been a while since you and Zoro last spent time together, one on one. And he thought you had been a bit quieter than usual, recently, so… might as well catch up. Maybe spending some time with you would soothe his heart—it felt like it was aching any time you weren’t around, and when you were around it felt like it was on fire. He didn’t know how to cope other than find ways and excuses to spend time with you.

His solution was… lunch. Practical, at the very least, if not the most effective.

On the morning after his third night of restful sleep, Zoro asked you if you’d like to have lunch with him under one of the trees on the deck of the Sunny. This was nothing too out of the ordinary. He grabbed food, some drinks and some napkins and brought them out to you.

When Zoro handed you your plate, you smiled up at him from where you sat and he felt like he would pass out. He had absolutely no clue how to handle this recently unlocked feeling—the feeling of love—and he was trying to act as normal as possible. He was, all things considered, succeeding. 

He didn’t have much trouble acting ‘normal,’ per say. He was simply hyperaware of how beautiful you were, how fast his heartbeat was, and how blisteringly intense your eye contact was. He had noticed inklings of this before, but he was reminded, strongly. Every moment that your eyes met his, his heart fluttered. He was trying not to blush. It felt very out of character.

“How have you been recently?” Zoro tried to start the conversation casually.

“I’m fine,” you responded with a smile, like usual. “The same as ever. What about you?”

Zoro wondered if that was worth pressing you on, since you seemed a bit sad, or distant, or something along those lines. He decided it was worth it. Ignoring your question to him, he followed up.

“You sure you’re fine? You’ve been a bit quiet recently.”

You tried to brush it off. You had been quieter recently, and for good reason. You thought he didn’t know the reason, but he did. At least, he knew the bare bones of it. Something along the lines of feeling lonely.

“Ah, yeah. I guess I have been a bit down recently.” You responded, trying to hold your smile and pretend like your heart wasn’t crying inside. He studied your face closely, and you could tell.

“Why’s that?”

You had a brief internal battle over whether or not you would be candid with him, but you didn’t have it in you that day and the scenery wasn’t anywhere near private enough. You lied. “No reason, really. I’m not quite sure why.”

“If you ever want to talk about it, let me know.” Zoro smiled sweeter than you had ever seen and then dropped the subject. His smile was uncharacteristically sweet. Heart-stoppingly sweet. Painfully sweet. It was like a dagger.

You told him thanks and the conversation moved on. As a whole, lunch was enjoyable. Afterwards, you both felt significantly more at ease. To spend time together always brought your respective spirits up. It was a great dynamic—no wonder Zoro was in love with you.

Zoro told himself that he should just keep checking on you and go even more out of his way to spend time with you. He’d double down. Maybe it was lunch today, and then tomorrow it could be dinner. And after that, he’d ask you to watch the sunset with him in the crow’s nest. Or would he whisk you away and confess his feelings in his cabin? He was scrambled in the head, confused by that classic paradox of choice, where there are so many options that you’re incapable of choosing one. Was it even the right call to tell you how he felt? Would it screw everything up?

“Oh, Zoro?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks down the hallway after lunch. “Want to have some drinks tomorrow night? It’s been a minute since we caught up. You stood me up last time, remember?”

You were joking, but it was true. Last time Zoro asked you to have some drinks with him after a hard training session he completely forgot and fell asleep. You both laughed about it afterwards, and you used it to poke fun at him sometimes.

He agreed. "Yeah, drinks tomorrow night. I promise."

That was one problem solved.

DREAM 10: Un-solved

That night Zoro dreamed about you. It broke up that momentary peace he had of three nights with no dreams—it seems the internal turmoil of the day was enough to evoke a vivid and striking dream, unlike any others he had before.

Zoro found himself in a dimly lit bedroom lying on a big bed. The sheets and blankets were smooth and plushy. He could hear someone breathing next to him and he knew that you were there.

Turning his head, he saw that you were lying on your side facing away from him, completely nude, hair sitting perfectly on a silk pillowcase. The sheets were pulled down, so he could see your whole silhouette. In the dream, Zoro could feel himself compelled by something, reaching out a hand to pull you closer to him so your bodies were flush.

He smelled your hair, felt how soft your skin was, and ran a rough hand up and down the side of your body, trying to memorize every inch. He ran a palm over your hips and down your thighs, felt your back, shoulders, and waist; he was drinking up every second that his hands wandered over your skin, like your body was an oasis and he was dying of thirst.

You let out an indistinct noise. He couldn’t hear it well enough. It sounded like a sigh. As his hands moved, you stirred, turning your shoulder into his, giving him more access.

The faint sound trickled out of your mouth again, this time audible. Your voice sounded sleepy, sweet and faint. “Zoro.” He could feel his heart trip when his name fell from your lips.

Your hand groped back to grip his thigh and you whispered his name again. “Zoro. More.”

He snuck his hand from your hip to your front, starting to knead and cup your breasts. His fingers elicited another hushed entreaty from your lips. “Zoro. More.”

Suddenly aware of his hard-on pressing on you, his hand lingered on your chest and he began to kiss you. He started with you shoulder blade, marking a trail of kisses up to your neck, taking in deep breaths of your hair and skin. His kisses were soft and loving, coaxing more pleasant sighs from you.

He wanted to taste every inch of you, to draw out those sounds and muffled noises that he was starting to become acquainted with (at least, in his dreams).

Zoro lavished your skin with affection and care for a few moments, and you said his name again. Every time you said his name, it felt like every nerve in his body buzzed.

“Zoro. I need you.”

The dream fogged up and transformed. He was leaning over you from between your legs, missionary style. You were looking up at him, eyes pleading, hair ruffled just right.

Zoro’s erection was positioned right at your entrance, precum beading and pooling around his red, angry tip. The scene was vivid—his mind replicated every facet of what this would look and feel like in real life, down to each atom of detail. It was absurd.

He gawked at you, eyes jumping between your needy face and pouting lips and your glistening core. One of his hands was stroking his shaft leisurely, and the other gripped your waist.

“Please, Zoro.”

As your begging reached his ears, he slowly pressed into you, letting out a hiss of air through his teeth when he bottomed out because it felt so good. You gasped and the sound felt heavenly in his ears.

“Fuuuccckk, Zoro.”

He leaned in to kiss you, bringing a hand to cup your cheek. Your lips were still locked when he started slowly rocking his hips into yours, dragging his cock in and out of you slowly.

You felt amazing, so warm and wet around him, squeezing him perfectly. He sped up, finding the perfect pace. As his hips rolled into yours, you began to moan his name, mewling it into his mouth as he explored yours with his tongue.

Zoro reached a hand and pushed one of your thighs down, allowing for the deepest angle possible. He wanted to hit your g-spot just right; he wanted to make you feel good, wanted to see your eyes roll back in your head and hear his name as many times as possible.

The dreamscape transformed again, just slightly. He was in the same position, but your faces were centimeters away now. You were holding his cheeks in your hands, making eye contact as he thrusted into you, deep and slow.

“Zoro,” you panted. “Feels good, Zoro. You feel so fucking good.”

He could feel your legs wrap around him, could feel you grinding down on his cock, trying to fuck yourself with it deeper.

A moment later, you were holding hands, fingers entwined. You moaned his name and only his name. He could feel himself about to let go. Your eyes were entrancing.

“Zoro,” you keened, arching your back up and squeezing his hands tightly. “Tell me you love me, Zoro.”

His heart stopped again and picked up at a rapid pace; his hips did the same, moving haphazardly, stuttering and shaking. He was seconds away from cumming in you, pleasure building into one massive cliff that he was about to free fall from.

“I—love—you,” he thrusted between each labored breath and grunt. The words tumbled out of his mouth and on the last one he orgasmed. He reeled with ecstasy, convulsing in pleasure as his cum painted the inside of you a hot, milky white.

Zoro collapsed on your chest panting. One of your hands traced circles on his back and the other petted his head, which rested in the crook of your neck. You cooed “good job baby” in his ear and kissed his shoulder.

He woke up, and even though he wasn’t shaking or sweating this time, he felt extremely unwell. It took him a moment to realize that he came all over the inside of his underwear while he was asleep. While his return to consciousness was gentler this time in comparison to his other dreams, he was still disturbed. It was a scarily realistic and wildly intimate dream.

He tried to get his thoughts in order. There was no point in feeling any shame here, he told himself, because you didn’t dream about that on purpose. But really, what the fuck was going on? A wet dream? How long had it been since he had one of these?

The frustration he felt upon waking was agonizing. Three whole days and nights of a clear head. He thought that since he realized he loved you, the dreams had stopped—the realization of his feelings had been the cure to his lovesickness, after all.

Evidently, he was wrong. One intense dream snapped Zoro back into the insanity he had lived in for a week. He felt like he was going to go crazy.

Wasn’t the realization that he loved you enough to make the dreams stop? If that wasn’t enough, then what would be?

Did he have to do something about it?

Fuck.

He really had to do something about it. Perhaps he’d do something about it when he had drinks with you.

But those promised drinks never came.

The next day, the Strawhat crew ran into a hostile pirate group. The skirmish lasted a handful of hours. Lucky for the crew, there were no truly formidable opponents, but it still ended up being a pain in the ass. The crew got separated, and Zoro got lost and left behind—an experience he was well familiar with.

Finally making his way back to where the ship was docked, after hours of wandering around aimlessly on the island and defeating some random mid-tier power user, Zoro returned to the ship. He was met with a startling sight.

The Sunny was ransacked. On first impression, the crew was nowhere to be found. Your absence was starting to agitate him more than usual when he realized the ship was most likely empty. His latent realization of his love was certainly contributing to that.

As the swordsman explored the ship and went room to room, his distress mounted.

There were blood splatters on the walls of some of the hallways—a pattern that looked like someone, gravely injured, was dragging themselves around the ship. In addition, it looked like every inch of the ship had been turned inside out. The kitchen was a mess, pots and pans everywhere, and even the chairs and table were flipped over at odd angles.

In a rising panic, he dragged himself to your room. He was sure it wasn’t you who was injured and struggling, but… what if it was? Might as well check.

As he suspected, your cabin was plundered and empty, too. His heartbeat was through the roof, his vision started to go red in agitation.

Where were you?

In your room, the pirates rifled to their hearts’ content, searching for money, treasure, whatever they could get their greedy hands on.

Your mattress had been ripped off the bed. The drawers on your desk were pulled out and emptied, the sparse contents littered around the floor. Your closet was ravaged, too. Clothes were in piles and tatters on the floor. Your lamp was knocked over, and the bulb was shattered.

Geez, what the fuck were they doing in here? Zoro wondered. He took in the view for a brief second, noting that you weren’t here, and that he needed to move on. If the crew was in a tight spot right now he ought to go help them out instead of dawdling around on the ship in a frenzy searching for you.

Maybe you were with Luffy or the shit cook—maybe you had your snail, maybe he could call you and check if you were okay.

He had only felt this level of panic a couple times in his life so far. A thought cut through his worry—what if I lose her? What if I lose her before I’ve said anything?

He felt like he was sinking. His vision started to tunnel, his hand jumped to rest on one of his swords, getting ready to cut someone down at a moment’s notice. As he turned to leave your room, a lightning bolt of clarity struck him. Scattered across the floor carelessly was a messy tornado of polaroid photos.

Your camera was crushed to bits in a corner, but the photos, which you’d been taking for ages at this point, had been torn from their little box in your closet and thrown everywhere.

Most of the photos, he realized, were of him. His heart panged. He had never seen this many photos of himself in one spot. His memories with the crew slipped through his fingers every day as they happened, but when recorded and hoarded like this he noticed how happy he looked in the photos. Was it because you were taking them?

When did that light start coming into his eyes?

His stomach flipped. You weren’t here. Your room was destroyed. You were in danger.

In a panic, Zoro pocketed a handful of them and darted out of the room. He hurriedly checked the rest of the ship—completely empty, ransacked and pillaged. Luckily, the pirates didn’t find Nami’s stash. But aside from that, almost no corner of the ship was left untouched.

His heart started to feel like it was seizing—if he didn’t find you fast, he was going to snap.

Would the photos you took of him be the only relic of your shared moments of happiness?

He ran onto the deck, out of breath and sweating, and looked at the shore. Time froze.

A wave of relief crashed over Zoro as he took in the sight—the crew was now strewn around the beach. Some were laying on their backs in exhaustion from the battle, others were huddled up, talking, and still, some were injured, getting briefly triaged by Chopper. Nothing looked too serious. His eyes darted around, searching for you.

You were standing next to Luffy, holding your side and wincing. A pool of blood saturated your shirt, radiating outwards from where you pressed your palm to stop the flow of blood.

You were alive. Injured, yes, but alive. He released the tension in his body and a preliminary feeling of relief coursed through him.

It seems like Zoro had forgotten that life on the seas wasn’t just sunshine, lunches on deck, pining, and exploration. Death and danger were key elements of the whole experience.

Not only had he been lacking on his training, but he was lacking on being an attentive and good friend to you, let alone a crew mate that could protect you. In the lapse and haze he had been in for the past couple weeks, he had let his guard down somehow.

Ever hard on himself, Zoro had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment. He needed to sort shit out with you, fast. He didn’t want to have any regrets. He couldn’t lose someone that he loved again.

Taking deep breaths and internally cursing himself out, Zoro made his way down the gangplank and onto the beach. He decided that when the ship was cleaned up, and everyone was bandaged and fed, he would confess.

This love was festering in him. It had festered for far too long before forcing him to acknowledge it. He couldn’t cope anymore. The next chance he got, he would tell you how he felt, no matter what.

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a/n: happy valentine's day, everyone! thanks for your patience waiting for this one :) the next part won't take as long ❤️❤️