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paperultra · 8 months

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service with a smile!

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader Word Count: 1,726 words Warnings: Swearing, violence, verbally/physically abusive customer, reader has a brief panic attack

eccedentesiast (noun): someone who fakes a smile

It’s six-thirty in the evening at the Baratie. The customers are ravenous, the kitchen is in the weeds, and you’re wearing a snake-like trail into the floor of the restaurant delivering drinks and dishes when the sound of snapping fingers pricks your ears.

“Waiter!”

Twisting your neck around, you spot the man at table four waving you over.

You quickly make your way to him with a bright smile. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

The man gestures to the plate in front of him, disgust clear on his face. “I said I wanted my steak medium-well.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” you reply. Leaning over slightly to check, your eyebrows knit together as you stare at the slice of meat pushed to the edge of the plate. “… It seems to be medium-well, though?”

“No,” he snaps. Light glints sharply off the many rings on his fingers as he pointedly prods at the center of the slice with his knife. “It still has some pink in it, see? I can’t eat this.”

“Well, sir,” you mentally roll your eyes up to the ceiling, though your gaze remains attentive and apologetic, “Here in our restaurant, medium-well steak will still have a little bit of pink. We could bring it back to the kitchen and have it cooked until it’s well done, if you’d like. It’d take no more than five minutes.”

“I don’t like well done steak. It’s too dry.”

Oh, god.

“I see. Well, we could still bring it back to the kitchen and see what the cooks can do.”

The man clicks his tongue. “Fucking hell.” Sneering, he drops his steak knife and pushes the plate towards you. “Fine. Go. I’m not paying if you guys fuck it up again.”

“We’ll do our best.” Fuck you.

Nodding deferentially, you scoop up the plate and head off to the kitchen, smiling all the while.

“Carne!” you announce after you kick open the door, setting the steak on the pass and leaning over to catch the attention of the rotisseur. “Customer at table four says your steak is shit.”

“What?!”

“He wants it medium-well with no pink at all.” Carne swears and stomps over to fetch the steak. A slight movement in the corner catches your eye, and you look over at Sanji, who’s already looking at you as he pulls his suit jacket on. “Hey, chef.” A genuine grin stretches your face. “The old man kick you off the line again?”

“He slated my mixed paella,” Sanji replies, no small amount of irritation in his voice. It melts away quickly as he smirks and sends a wink your way. “But I’ll be seeing more of you out there, so maybe I should count my blessings.”

“There’s certainly one at table four right now.” Balancing three plates for table seven on one arm, you grab the fourth with your free hand.

Sanji hurries to hold the door open for you, frowning through the thank-you that flies from your mouth. “What else did they say?” he asks seriously. “Do they need to be kicked out?”

Despite the rush, your heart finds the time to skip a beat.

“Nah, not yet,” you assure. “Now hurry up!”

“[Y/n] –”

“Bye!”

As you pass him, your head held high, you hear Sanji sigh and chuckle in resignation.

You deliver the plates and check back with guests who have already gotten their food before returning to the kitchen. Table four’s well done medium-well steak with no pink is on the pass already when you go in, freshly garnished and by all appearances even more gorgeous than before.

Raising your eyebrows, you whistle. “Thanks, Carne! Love you!” you shout over the din of cooks before grabbing the plate.

“Kiss my ass!”

You laugh. One of the other waiters wishes you luck and pats your back as you exit.

You waste only a brief moment just outside the kitchen to take a deep breath and scan the restaurant. Sanji is at the far end, refilling waters and likely charming the eyelashes off a table of giggling young women. You’d kill to be on either side right now.

Closing your eyes, you recite the Baratie’s fourth employee guideline and then smile, stepping out into the dining area and walking over to table four.

The customer is God.

“Here you go, sir,” you say, placing the plate before him. “I’m sor –”

“This looks like shit.” The man hardly glances at the steak Carne had so painstakingly reprepared, choosing instead to glare at you. “I waited five whole minutes for this?”

The customer. Is. God.

Your teeth hurt. “Our rotisseur put in his best work to fix the mistake.”

“Well, he should be fired on the spot.”

“If you would just try it –”

The man suddenly slams his fist on the table and stands up, his face red, grabbing the attention of the surrounding guests as he throws the plate onto the ground.

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WAITER!”

His hairy, meaty hand seizes the collar of your uniform.

Your perfect smile slips off your face.

“Get your hand off of me.”

The man doesn’t listen. He raises his other fist and swings it at your mouth instead.

You pull him down and knee him in the face before he even realizes that you’ve dodged.

Crunch. Warm blood splatters over your carefully ironed slacks.

“Augh!”

The man’s hands fly up to his nose. You shove him face-down to the ground and press your knee into his back, yanking his head up by his hair.

“I asked you to taste your fucking steak,” you breathe, tightening your grip. “I didn’t ask you to FUCKING TOUCH ME. OKAY?”

His groan bubbles quietly through bloodied teeth.

Your ears ring. You’re cold and your head is numb and your heart is racing, and you’re breathing, but it feels like you’re not getting enough air. You don’t move a muscle.

Above you, muffled and buried underwater, someone calls out your name.

A hand rubs your back gently. Your name is murmured again, and you finally blink, slowly twisting around to look up at Sanji.

“I think he got the message, sweetheart. Come on. The old man’ll take care of the rest.”

He places his hand over yours, coaxing you to let go of the man’s hair. It hurts, but you do it, and Sanji helps you stand afterwards.

“Come on,” he whispers. “We’ll wash dishes together until you feel better.”

“You’re supposed to be waiting tables,” you mumble. Your mouth is dry.

“You know I hate doing that anyway.”

He tucks you underneath his arm. You push your face into the front of his suit and smell the traces of his last smoke break as he guides you to the kitchen.

Washing dishes is a ritual you’ve had since you were a kid. While Sanji’s punishments had been anything that prevented him from cooking or flirting, yours were limited to washing dishes. You loathed the chore, and Zeff took note and made sure to stick you at the sinks whenever you got into trouble. You’d curse and splash and generally be a pain in the ass to the rest of the kitchen, but you scrubbed the dishes pretty damn well, and within an hour or two your anger would fizzle out and you’d be back to your usual self.

Over time, the chore became something that grounded you whenever you weren’t feeling too hot. It kept your hands busy, and sometimes Sanji would join you to chat and complain until Zeff decided that the two of you were just a little too happy in his kitchen and kicked one or both of you out.

“Washing or drying?” Sanji asks. He had tossed his jacket somewhere while you were thinking and is now holding out an apron for you to take.

“Washing.” You slip the apron on and roll up your sleeves.

Nobody bothers you or Sanji as you start working. You use a generous amount of soap, let the water heat up until it almost scalds your skin, and scrub each plate and bowl and utensil and glass until they’re better than new. Then you hand it off to Sanji, who carefully dries each item and puts them aside.

Eventually, you find your voice again.

“Sorry you had to come over and get me. I thought I could handle it.”

“No, I should’ve been there before it got too bad. I’m sorry.” Sanji meets your eyes, and his gaze softens into something sad. “What happened?”

Your shrug is so small you almost don’t feel it. “I was fine when he was yelling at me. But when he grabbed me by the collar, I just – I dunno. It surprised me real bad.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. Just wrinkled my shirt.” You bend your knee, feeling the stiffness of dried blood on your slacks, and pout. “And stained my pants.”

“He didn’t even land a hit, at the very least,” Sanji says. A corner of his mouth tilts up. “I’ve got to say, I’m quite impressed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really? I impressed Black Leg Sanji by kneeing a customer in the face?”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen you fight a customer. You usually calm them right down.”

“Well, this one was a real shitbag. I’m surprised I haven’t had to do it sooner, to be honest.”

He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be something you should ever have to do,” he tells you. “Not while I’m here. If I ever see that bastard again, I swear I’ll kill him.”

“My hero,” you say with a smile, kicking up one foot.

Sanji winks at you and, with towel and dish in hand, leans over slightly to kiss the side of your head. It’s an innocent and playful thing he’s started doing as of late, and it certainly has no underlying meaning whatsoever, so you make a show of scrunching up your face like you always do. You swear that your face only feels hot because of the steam.

“Until my dying breath,” he says softly.

Oh. It’s not so funny anymore.

You flick bubbles at him and resume washing the dishes. Sanji grins and resumes drying, and if you scoot closer until you feel his arm brush yours with every movement, well – that’s nobody’s business but yours.

#aesthetic words prompt list #opla #one piece #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #sanji #opla sanji #one piece live action #opla fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #i've never worked at a restaurant rip #but to be fair the baratie lets the staff beat up terrible customers so accuracy doesn't have to be a priority here right ??#live chef reaction while sanji and reader wash dishes lol

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