SUGAR Nâ SPICE
Pairings: SugarDaddy!Sanji x Black!Fem!Reader
Themes: MODERN AU, Romance, NSFW 18+, Sugar Daddy/Baby dynamic, Spoiled Bimbo-coded Reader, Emotional tension, porn with plot
Warnings: NSFW, Pre-Established dynamic, teasing, possessiveness, Oral (F! receiving), penetrative sex, spoiling, use of pet names. [Minors DNI]
You donât just meet the manâyou become his obsession from the moment he laid his eyes on you. From champagne-soaked nights to silk sheets and whispered promises in French, he doesnât just want you. He needs you. Every curve, every secret, every damn detail you think no one noticesâhe sees it all, worships it all, owns it all and makes sure of it.
The first time you see him, itâs over champagne.
Not the cheap kind, eitherâthe kind that sparkles like liquid gold, poured into tall flutes by a waiter whose bowtie is tighter than your dress. Youâre at a hotel rooftop bar, legs crossed, baby-pink bandage dress hugging your body like it was stitched directly onto your skin. Your lace front is bone-straight, silky, falling all the way down your back, and your nailsâalmond-shaped, cotton-candy pink with tiny rhinestonesâtap against the stem of your glass as you scroll your phone.
Youâre not here looking for anyone. Youâre here because you like being somewhere beautiful, somewhere you fit in. But you feel his eyes on you before you see him.
Heâs across the room, leaning casually against the bar, dark gray three-piece suit hugging his tall, lean frame. Blond hair perfect despite the evening breeze, tie just loose enough to look deliberate. Heâs talking to someoneâor at least pretending to. Every so often, his gaze flicks back to you like he canât help himself.
When the man heâs speaking to leaves, he crosses the room with the slow confidence of someone whoâs never had to chaseâbut would run a marathon for the right woman.
âBonsoir, mademoiselleâ he says when he stops at your table, voice low and honey-smooth. âI hope youâll forgive the intrusion. I couldnât help but notice you look like you were poured into that dress by the angels themselves.â
Your lips curve, amused. âThat line work for you often?â
He smiles like you just handed him a challenge. âWouldnât know. Iâve never met anyone worth saying it to before.â
You let him buy you another glass of champagne, and then another. By the time the night ends, youâve learned his name is Sanjiâjust Sanjiâthat he speaks French fluently, that he owns not one but three restaurants, and that he has a thing for women who look expensive. Someone like you.
Two weeks later, heâs sliding a Cartier box across the table at brunch like itâs nothing.
It wasnât his first time doing something like this, the money pulled more girls in his roster then it kept calmness between him and other billionaires, but he was a businessman of course. Knowing his way around the life, but something about you made him want to give it all up.
It was the night he saw you cry.
Not a messy breakdownâSanji didnât think you were even capable of being messy. No, it was subtle, quiet, the kind of thing most people wouldnât have noticed. But Sanji did.
Youâd just walked out of a high-end boutique, shopping bag in hand, pink cardigan draped over your shoulders. You were flawlessânew hairstyle he noticed, long honey-brown knotless braids swinging against your back, diamond studs catching the city lights. But he caught the way you swiped at your cheek when you thought no one was looking.
Heâd been sitting at the cafĂ© across the street, nursing an espresso after a long day at the restaurant. Heâd seen you earlier, sweeping into the boutique with the kind of walk that made people step out of your way, and heâd thought, there she is again. Youâd been haunting him ever since that rooftop bar and the light brunch that followedâpink dresses in his dreams, the sound of your laugh in the middle of service, the ghost of your perfume clinging to his mind.
This time, though, you werenât laughing.
He crossed the street without even thinking. âMa chĂ©rieâ he said softly when he reached you, tilting his head to catch your eyes. âSomethingâs wrong.â
You tried to shake your head, but he could see itâthat flicker of exhaustion beneath the perfect lashes. âItâs nothing. Just⊠one of those days.â Another failed talking stage, none of them could handle you so you took your anger out on your bank account.
Sanji didnât like âone of those days.â He liked you radiant, adored, impossible to touch without getting burned. The idea of you hurtingâeven a littleâlodged itself in his chest like a knife.
âCome with meâ he said, no room for argument.
Mentally tired without a ride home, you followed.
He took you to his restaurant after hours, the place quiet except for the soft hum of the kitchen lights. Sat you at the chefâs table and made you a plate from scratchâseared scallops, saffron risotto, roasted asparagus, champagne in a crystal flute. He didnât ask questions. He just tended to youâpulling out your chair, draping a silk napkin over your lap, brushing his fingers against yours when he set down the fork.
Somewhere between the second glass of champagne and the dessert, you smiled again. Not the practiced one for strangers, but the real one, the one that lit up your whole face.
That was the moment.
He decided right then that heâd never let you go without that smile again. That heâd handle the âone of those daysâ before they could touch you. That no one else would ever get to see you breakâbecause theyâd never be close enough.
And when he walked you to your car, slipping a tiny pink velvet box into your hand with a quiet, âFor next time you need a reminder youâre the most beautiful thing in this cityâ he knew it wasnât just about spoiling you anymore.
It was about keeping you. And only You.
Fast forward eight months into this, and youâre not just his spoiled girlâyouâre his only girl. Heâs relentless in the way he takes care of you: he books your hair appointments himself, sends flowers to the salon, tips the stylists so heavily they rush to make sure your installs are laid to perfection. One week itâs a 40-inch bust-down, the next itâs knotless braids down to your hips, each one dipped in hot water and perfectly even. He notices every detailâthe change in curl pattern, the way the color pops against your skin, the new nail charms you had added âjust because.â
And he never lets you pay for any of it.
âYou donât get to spend your money around me, Princessâ he tells you one evening, voice firm but soft as he zips you into a pink satin slip dress. His hands linger at your waist, eyes drinking you in from behind. âYour only job is to be beautiful. Iâll handle the rest.â
Which is why youâre now in his penthouse, lights low, jazz playing somewhere in the background, the city spread out below you in glittering gold and silver. Dinner was a private three-course meal he cooked himselfâlobster tail, truffle risotto, molten chocolate cakeâand now his hands are on you, sliding the straps of your dress down your arms.
âSanjiâŠâ you murmur, but it comes out more like a sigh.
âShh, mon trĂ©sorâ he says against your neck, lips brushing your skin as he presses you back toward the bed. âYouâve been running around all week, making the world jealous. Let me remind you who you belong to.â
You melt into the kiss he gives youâslow at first, then hungrier, tasting of champagne and dark chocolate from earlier. His hands roam like heâs mapping you all over again, fingers tracing the swell of your hips, the curve of your ass, the soft expanse of your thighs. When he pulls back, he looks wrecked already, eyes half-lidded, breathing heavy.
âYouâre artâ he says, and itâs not a complimentâitâs a fact, carved into the way heâs staring at you. âPerfect, from your curls to your pedicure. And all mine.â
By the time youâre fully naked, his suit jacket is gone, his tie loose, shirt half-unbuttoned cause he got too distracted by your tits, his left hand coming in to give them attention as his right completely discarded the tie. He doesnât just undressâhe peels the fabric away like unwrapping something too precious to rush. His mouth finds your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, every kiss slow and lingering, leaving you whining for more.
And when he gets between your thighs, he doesnât stop. He never gets tired of his favorite scene of trying to get you loose.
âMmâ open for me beautifulâ his voice is deeper, more demanding yet gentle.
A groan of enlightenment when you spread your legs for him, exposing the wetness of your pussy for him entirely. ââŠFuckâ
He immediately wastes no time, spoiling you was already his favorite hobby in every aspect.
The first stroke of his tongue has you gasping, hands flying to his hair. He groans into you, the sound vibrating through your core making you moan, one hand gripping your thigh tight enough to leave marks. He eats like a man starving, like youâre the only thing in the world worth tastingâmessy, deep, relentless. Every time you try to close your legs, he holds them apart with an almost desperate growl.
âLet me have it, babyâ he murmurs, slick on his lips. âGive me everything.â His thumb rubbing gently on your clit until you came as if it were a routine.
You do. Again and again, until your voice is raw and your legs tremble. He comes up looking ruinedâhair mussed, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide. He canât take it anymore, fuck it. His designer pants are soon wrinkled up somewhere in the corner, heâs extra desperate now judging by the way his tip was already leaking.
When he finally pushes into you, itâs slow and deep, like heâs savoring the stretch, the heat, the way you cling to him. Every thrust is deliberate, With every stroke comes a praise. His forehead pressed to yours, one hand holding your jaw so you canât look anywhere but at him.
âYou feel that?â he says, breath hot against your mouth. âThatâs me. Thatâs all yours. All this? âFor you babyâ
It builds until you canât think, only feelâuntil youâre clawing at his back and crying out his name, until heâs whispering in French against your ear, words you donât even understand but feel in your bones.
ââŠ-jiiiâ
âI know chĂ©rie, just a little longerâ
His dick hit the back of your cervix with every stroke back to back, slowly fucking you dumb just how you liked it. You felt your core finally tighten up when he decided to hook one arm under your hip to lift you slighter.
The sounds of your sweet moans rang throughout his penthouse like therapeutic music, the sounds of slapping skin every time his balls met your ass, the squelching noise with every thrust from the way you creamed around him.
When itâs over, he doesnât pull away. He kisses you slow, strokes your hair, murmurs how proud he is of you for taking him so well. Then he disappears for a moment, returning with a warm towel, a tall glass of cucumber water, andâbecause heâs Sanjiâa little jewelry box.
Inside is a rose-gold anklet, tiny diamonds winking in the light.
âFor my princessâ he says, fastening it around your ankle before pressing a kiss there. âSo everyone knows youâre taken.â
You laugh, soft and breathless, but the way heâs looking at youâlike you hung the moonâmakes you ache all over again.
âThey been knew thatâ
And when you fall asleep in his arms, satin sheets against your skin, city lights spilling across the room, you realize Sanji doesnât just spoil you.
He worships you.
A/n: This lovely piece was requested by <33 I sadly lost the request drop you made but i hope you love it!








