(One Piece) Icing
Title: Icing
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Robin/Nami/Sanji
Rating: R
Words: 858
Notes: Voyeurism. For 50_smutlets, prompt "kitchen".
Summary: He couldn't have asked for a better present.
So, he’s died and gone to heaven. That’s the only explanation. It’s just too much, almost cruel in its beauty, and Sanji’s staring, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, and in his fantasies he may have always been suave and debonair, but he thinks he can’t be blamed for his astonishment and slack expression at being confronted by the real thing.
Nami’s giggling, cheeks flushed with alcohol and lust, and there’s icing smeared all over her exposed chest, and Sanji’s going to wake up any moment, he just knows he is. Her head is tilted back, neck exposed, and Robin’s tongue is leisurely and scandalous as it travels over Nami’s skin, licking at the lines of sticky vanilla.
He’s been trying, and failing, so hard ever since he first met them. Nothing seemed to entice them; not words of praise, not flowers, not the most elaborate of desserts, not even that ill-advised attempt at poetry.
In the end, all it had taken was Christmas cookies.
That’s an oversimplification, but Sanji’s brain had promptly fallen into a deep coma the moment Nami’s top had come off and all of the blood in his body rushed elsewhere, so it’s probably as articulate as his thoughts are liable to get for the foreseeable future. There’d been alcohol, he remembers that much, and a hell of a lot of festive cheer, and he’d never before considered the effect the holidays could apparently have on a woman.
And there’d been Robin, and that gleam in her eyes, and her clever words, and Sanji knows that he has her to thank for the sight before him. He has no idea how to repay her, unfortunately, but he can guess it’s going to take blood, sweat, tears and one hell of a soufflé.
There’s something about the way they move together that makes Sanji suspect that it isn’t their first time, which leads to many interesting questions, such as how long has it been going on, how often does it go on, in how many different positions does it go on, all of which is making the problem between his legs more and more painful by the second.
He’d been alone in the kitchen, decorating the Christmas tree shaped cookies, recreating Usopp’s artful decoration of the ship’s tree on each one. Christmas was all about the attention to detail, after all, and there was no other day of the year that rested so heavily on a chef’s shoulders. Everything had to be perfect, and the whole crew had been under strict orders to stay out of his way, although he always welcomed the company of his lovely female nakama.
There’d been something about the flush on Nami’s face and her secret smile that had made him take pause when she’d strolled into the room, but he’d been so distracted by her usual beauty that he hadn’t really dwelled on it. When Robin had joined them, sitting beside Nami at the kitchen table, he’d thought himself lucky to be able to wallow in the presence of both of them at once without the air being sullied by the other male members of the crew, so he hadn’t really paid much mind to the looks they’d exchanged.
His breath had caught in his throat when Robin had leaned over his shoulder to examine his work, and he’d been too speechless at feeling her chest pressed against his back to comment as she’d reached forward and plucked the pastry bag from his lightly trembling hands.
There’s something to be said for Robin’s previously unexplored artistic streak, raw talent shining through in the intricate and swirling shapes weaving across Nami’s stomach and breasts, and Sanji thanks whatever deity that might hear him that he’s spent so many years training his legs into the ultimate weapons they now are, because that strength is the only thing stopping him from sinking to the floor in rapture.
Robin’s hands smooth up under Nami’s skirt, and Sanji’s panting and sweating and possibly whining under his breath as she tugs Nami’s panties down her legs. Nami murmurs something Sanji can’t hear over the frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears, and Robin smiles in a way that makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. As one, their eyes slide towards him, identical smirks, and he groans before he catch himself, but they only grin wider.
Nami’s hand reaches for him, fingers curling in beckoning, and the tip of the pastry bag runs along her outstretched arm, Robin drawing a long line of temptation. A map, a guide, an invitation, and Sanji doesn’t hesitate. He knows distantly that he probably resembles a newborn calf as he wobbles towards them, but walking is suddenly incredibly difficult, what with the way the material of his boxers rasps over his trapped arousal, but they don’t appear to mind. Robin’s leg is between Nami’s thighs, her lips pressed against Nami’s cheek, and their eyes scorch at him, brand his skin, and it’s quite possible he’ll never be able to look at a cookie or a Christmas tree again with getting hard, but, in that moment, he couldn’t care less.
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Robin/Nami/Sanji
Rating: R
Words: 858
Notes: Voyeurism. For 50_smutlets, prompt "kitchen".
Summary: He couldn't have asked for a better present.
So, he’s died and gone to heaven. That’s the only explanation. It’s just too much, almost cruel in its beauty, and Sanji’s staring, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, and in his fantasies he may have always been suave and debonair, but he thinks he can’t be blamed for his astonishment and slack expression at being confronted by the real thing.
Nami’s giggling, cheeks flushed with alcohol and lust, and there’s icing smeared all over her exposed chest, and Sanji’s going to wake up any moment, he just knows he is. Her head is tilted back, neck exposed, and Robin’s tongue is leisurely and scandalous as it travels over Nami’s skin, licking at the lines of sticky vanilla.
He’s been trying, and failing, so hard ever since he first met them. Nothing seemed to entice them; not words of praise, not flowers, not the most elaborate of desserts, not even that ill-advised attempt at poetry.
In the end, all it had taken was Christmas cookies.
That’s an oversimplification, but Sanji’s brain had promptly fallen into a deep coma the moment Nami’s top had come off and all of the blood in his body rushed elsewhere, so it’s probably as articulate as his thoughts are liable to get for the foreseeable future. There’d been alcohol, he remembers that much, and a hell of a lot of festive cheer, and he’d never before considered the effect the holidays could apparently have on a woman.
And there’d been Robin, and that gleam in her eyes, and her clever words, and Sanji knows that he has her to thank for the sight before him. He has no idea how to repay her, unfortunately, but he can guess it’s going to take blood, sweat, tears and one hell of a soufflé.
There’s something about the way they move together that makes Sanji suspect that it isn’t their first time, which leads to many interesting questions, such as how long has it been going on, how often does it go on, in how many different positions does it go on, all of which is making the problem between his legs more and more painful by the second.
He’d been alone in the kitchen, decorating the Christmas tree shaped cookies, recreating Usopp’s artful decoration of the ship’s tree on each one. Christmas was all about the attention to detail, after all, and there was no other day of the year that rested so heavily on a chef’s shoulders. Everything had to be perfect, and the whole crew had been under strict orders to stay out of his way, although he always welcomed the company of his lovely female nakama.
There’d been something about the flush on Nami’s face and her secret smile that had made him take pause when she’d strolled into the room, but he’d been so distracted by her usual beauty that he hadn’t really dwelled on it. When Robin had joined them, sitting beside Nami at the kitchen table, he’d thought himself lucky to be able to wallow in the presence of both of them at once without the air being sullied by the other male members of the crew, so he hadn’t really paid much mind to the looks they’d exchanged.
His breath had caught in his throat when Robin had leaned over his shoulder to examine his work, and he’d been too speechless at feeling her chest pressed against his back to comment as she’d reached forward and plucked the pastry bag from his lightly trembling hands.
There’s something to be said for Robin’s previously unexplored artistic streak, raw talent shining through in the intricate and swirling shapes weaving across Nami’s stomach and breasts, and Sanji thanks whatever deity that might hear him that he’s spent so many years training his legs into the ultimate weapons they now are, because that strength is the only thing stopping him from sinking to the floor in rapture.
Robin’s hands smooth up under Nami’s skirt, and Sanji’s panting and sweating and possibly whining under his breath as she tugs Nami’s panties down her legs. Nami murmurs something Sanji can’t hear over the frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears, and Robin smiles in a way that makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. As one, their eyes slide towards him, identical smirks, and he groans before he catch himself, but they only grin wider.
Nami’s hand reaches for him, fingers curling in beckoning, and the tip of the pastry bag runs along her outstretched arm, Robin drawing a long line of temptation. A map, a guide, an invitation, and Sanji doesn’t hesitate. He knows distantly that he probably resembles a newborn calf as he wobbles towards them, but walking is suddenly incredibly difficult, what with the way the material of his boxers rasps over his trapped arousal, but they don’t appear to mind. Robin’s leg is between Nami’s thighs, her lips pressed against Nami’s cheek, and their eyes scorch at him, brand his skin, and it’s quite possible he’ll never be able to look at a cookie or a Christmas tree again with getting hard, but, in that moment, he couldn’t care less.