SUGAR N’ 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 don’t just meet the man—you 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 doesn’t just want you. He needs you. Every curve, every secret, every damn detail you think no one notices—he sees it all, worships it all, owns it all and makes sure of it.
The first time you see him, it’s over champagne.
Not the cheap kind, either—the kind that sparkles like liquid gold, poured into tall flutes by a waiter whose bowtie is tighter than your dress. You’re 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 nails—almond-shaped, cotton-candy pink with tiny rhinestones—tap against the stem of your glass as you scroll your phone.
You’re not here looking for anyone. You’re here because you like being somewhere beautiful, somewhere you fit in. But you feel his eyes on you before you see him.
He’s 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. He’s talking to someone—or at least pretending to. Every so often, his gaze flicks back to you like he can’t help himself.
When the man he’s speaking to leaves, he crosses the room with the slow confidence of someone who’s never had to chase—but would run a marathon for the right woman.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle” he says when he stops at your table, voice low and honey-smooth. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I couldn’t help but notice you look like you were poured into that dress by the angels themselves.”
Your lips curve, amused. “That line work for you often?”
He smiles like you just handed him a challenge. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never met anyone worth saying it to before.”
You let him buy you another glass of champagne, and then another. By the time the night ends, you’ve learned his name is Sanji—just Sanji—that 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, he’s sliding a Cartier box across the table at brunch like it’s nothing.
It wasn’t 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 breakdown—Sanji didn’t think you were even capable of being messy. No, it was subtle, quiet, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Sanji did.
You’d just walked out of a high-end boutique, shopping bag in hand, pink cardigan draped over your shoulders. You were flawless—new 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.
He’d been sitting at the café across the street, nursing an espresso after a long day at the restaurant. He’d seen you earlier, sweeping into the boutique with the kind of walk that made people step out of your way, and he’d thought, there she is again. You’d been haunting him ever since that rooftop bar and the light brunch that followed—pink 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 weren’t laughing.
He crossed the street without even thinking. “Ma chérie” he said softly when he reached you, tilting his head to catch your eyes. “Something’s wrong.”
You tried to shake your head, but he could see it—that flicker of exhaustion beneath the perfect lashes. “It’s nothing. Just… one of those days.” Another failed talking stage, none of them could handle you so you took your anger out on your bank account.
Sanji didn’t like “one of those days.” He liked you radiant, adored, impossible to touch without getting burned. The idea of you hurting—even a little—lodged itself in his chest like a knife.
“Come with me” 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 chef’s table and made you a plate from scratch—seared scallops, saffron risotto, roasted asparagus, champagne in a crystal flute. He didn’t ask questions. He just tended to you—pulling 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 he’d never let you go without that smile again. That he’d handle the “one of those days” before they could touch you. That no one else would ever get to see you break—because they’d never be close enough.
And when he walked you to your car, slipping a tiny pink velvet box into your hand with a quiet, “For next time you need a reminder you’re the most beautiful thing in this city” he knew it wasn’t just about spoiling you anymore.
It was about keeping you. And only You.
Fast forward eight months into this, and you’re not just his spoiled girl—you’re his only girl. He’s 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 it’s a 40-inch bust-down, the next it’s knotless braids down to your hips, each one dipped in hot water and perfectly even. He notices every detail—the change in curl pattern, the way the color pops against your skin, the new nail charms you had added “just because.”
And he never lets you pay for any of it.
“You don’t get to spend your money around me, Princess” 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. “Your only job is to be beautiful. I’ll handle the rest.”
Which is why you’re 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 himself—lobster tail, truffle risotto, molten chocolate cake—and now his hands are on you, sliding the straps of your dress down your arms.
“Sanji…” you murmur, but it comes out more like a sigh.
“Shh, mon trésor” he says against your neck, lips brushing your skin as he presses you back toward the bed. “You’ve been running around all week, making the world jealous. Let me remind you who you belong to.”
You melt into the kiss he gives you—slow at first, then hungrier, tasting of champagne and dark chocolate from earlier. His hands roam like he’s 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.
“You’re art” he says, and it’s not a compliment—it’s a fact, carved into the way he’s staring at you. “Perfect, from your curls to your pedicure. And all mine.”
By the time you’re 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 doesn’t just undress—he 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 doesn’t stop. He never gets tired of his favorite scene of trying to get you loose.
“Mm’ open for me beautiful” 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. “…Fuck”
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 you’re the only thing in the world worth tasting—messy, deep, relentless. Every time you try to close your legs, he holds them apart with an almost desperate growl.
“Let me have it, baby” he murmurs, slick on his lips. “Give me everything.” 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 ruined—hair mussed, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide. He can’t take it anymore, fuck it. His designer pants are soon wrinkled up somewhere in the corner, he’s extra desperate now judging by the way his tip was already leaking.
When he finally pushes into you, it’s slow and deep, like he’s 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 can’t look anywhere but at him.
“You feel that?” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “That’s me. That’s all yours. All this? ‘For you baby”
It builds until you can’t think, only feel—until you’re clawing at his back and crying out his name, until he’s whispering in French against your ear, words you don’t even understand but feel in your bones.
“…-jiii”
“I know chérie, just a little longer”
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 it’s over, he doesn’t 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, and—because he’s Sanji—a little jewelry box.
Inside is a rose-gold anklet, tiny diamonds winking in the light.
“For my princess” he says, fastening it around your ankle before pressing a kiss there. “So everyone knows you’re taken.”
You laugh, soft and breathless, but the way he’s looking at you—like you hung the moon—makes you ache all over again.
“They been knew that”
And when you fall asleep in his arms, satin sheets against your skin, city lights spilling across the room, you realize Sanji doesn’t 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!
