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recreationalfanfics · 1 year

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Hello, I really love how you seem to have such a good read on RoR characters! Kinda shy asking this because I swore I read Record of Ragnarok for the action and backstories but it’s hard to contain my simping…. (๑꒪̇⌄꒪̇๑)

May I request some headcanons for Poseidon x a shy but kind human fem!MC? The idea I had in mind was that some thousands of years ago, Aphrodite, annoyed with Poseidon’s indifference to her charms, “cursed” him with a soulmate. This soulmate turned out to be MC who wasn’t even born yet back then. The plot will take place sometime before the actual human vs. gods battles start, so maybe during some preparation period where they’re setting up the stadium and all that? During this period, the human audience had already been “teleported” there (I don’t think they ever elaborated on how the humans all just end up watching the ragnarok) MC is one of these humans and coincidentally happened upon Poseidon during her stay. Of course, the soulmate stuff won’t magically make Poseidon have a complete change on humankind, but I was hoping he’d gradually soften up to her even if he won’t admit it.

As for what kind of soulmate AU, maybe the type where the first words your soulmate says to you is inscribed somewhere on your body? I think it’ll be fun to have her say something to him, he realizes but doesn’t say anything back so she just doesn’t know until much later.

Hopefully this isn’t too detailed or convoluted (๑•́‧̫•̀๑) And thank you so much in advance if you decide to write this! And if it’s not too much to ask, please don’t kill off Poseidon, but I also don’t want Sasaki to die either… maybe Poseidon will choose to forfeit (after fighting at first) because his soulmate is amongst the humans that will be eliminated if gods win? •ू(ᵒ̴̶̷᷄ωᵒ̴̶̷᷅*•ू) )੭ु⁾⁾

THIS REQUEST IS SO CUTE OMG!? I'M MORE THAN HAPPY TO WRITE THIS FOR YOU BUT ALSO, UR SO VALID FOR WANTING NIETHER OF THEM TO DIE, IDK WHY BUT THIS ANIME MAKES ME ATTATCHED TO BOTH THE GODS AND THE HUMANS-

Either way, I hope I did well, this was my first time writing for Poseidon!

- Consider how vain these two can be sometimes, it's only natural that they would butt heads often but when Poseidon dared to claim that Aphrodite truth wasn't as fair as she claimed herself- no, that she KNEW herself to be- she just couldn't allow this injustice to stand.

- He cherished absolutely nothing, he appreciated absolutely nothing. So she took it upon herself to change that. After all, it was HER who was the Goddess of Love. So she decided to pull a little trick

- Now, lets flashforward (to modern? ancient? Idk, man, heaven time??) and Poseidon has been summoned to his match. A match he felt was pointless but, whatever, who was he to deny his brother?

- Gracing the God's hall and going to his room to prepare and shield himself from sharing the same air as humans; imagine his surprise when he sees you.

- You're pathetic. Skittish, looking around like a confused mutt, and looking as disgusting as the rest of your kind. He knows your human alone and he's offended that you had the AUDACTIY to walk INTO THE AREA WHERE THE GOD'S RESIDE, AND EVEN STAND IN FRONT OF HIS DOOR.

- In reality, you weren't trying to piss anyone off. You had gotten separated from the rest of the humans and accidentally found yourself in a part of the arena you weren't familiar with.

- You were so relieved when you looked and saw another person in the hallway with you! Maybe you could ask them for directions. Poseidon did not know why you were approaching him so casually but he did NOT like it, like, AT ALL.

- Since your soulmates, maybe the reason why you don't feel his threatening aura like other gods and humans do is because some part of you just can't find it in you to fear him. He takes this as a sign of disrespect.

- You do feel anxious, however, he was such an attractive man but he absolutely did not look pleased to see you and you assumed he was just having a bad day.

- "H-Hello, I don't mean to trouble you!" You call out, your voice quiet and filled with uncertainty.

- He narrows his eyes at you, absolutely enraged by the idea of you approaching him so casually. You filthy little worm, he should destroy right-

- But then he takes a look at his wrist, he doesn't know why he does, a subconscious decision perhaps. But he side eyes you...odd, he makes sure to check his wrist. Oh well, he may as well grant you a few seconds of life.

- Then he checks his wrist and sees that the very first words you said to him...were on it. He looks from his wrist to you, who has no idea what's going on and honestly just wanted to find a way out of this big hallway.

- "U-Um, sir? I-I'm sorry, but do you know the way out?"

- He merely narrows his eyes at you before summoning his trident into his hands and thats when you realize; you're standing before a God. He says nothing to you and you instantly want to apologize but before you could, he just points in his trident into the direction he came from.

- You look at him, scared and confused, and he continues to stare at you with cold eyes. When he doesn't say or do anything for a few minutes you finally realized he was pointing the direction out.

- You apologize for the trouble and run like hell, his gaze following you.

- He observes you closely after that, believing this may be some kind of mistake. Thats why he didn't say anything to you, because a part of him was nervous. But he was mostly angry.

- It showed by when he barged into Aphrodite's room to DEMAND her what trickery she had stuped too and to undo it, she just smiles slyly and asks him: "What trickery?~"

- After some frustrating interrogation that goes NOWHERE...he finds himself staring at you quiet often, the mortals all cowering in fear when they feel his divine prescence. Not you, though, you never seem to notice him until you follow their stares and see his cold eyes, staring you down like you were gum under his new shoes.

- It's a very odd exchange, overall. Everyday, he'd show up at the most random of times and causing a stir among everyone else but yourself. Sometimes it'd even be multiple visits a day. Either way it confused you because the matches hadn't even started and already, you had somehow invoked a God's wrath.

- At least, that's what you thought at first until you noticed that he never did anything to really threaten your safety. Yes, watching you was a bit odd, but you find that you aren't really all that nervous about it anymore. Especially since with every visit, you believe that his gaze softens when they're set upon you.

- He kept his distance at first but then, once you started to take notice of him, you'd offer him to sit next to you as you sat in the beautiful fields that surrounded the arena or would be reading in one of the vast nearby libraries. Originally he would just walk away and as time went on he slowly began to warm up to you.

- Like a cat. tbh.

- He couldn't help it, at least, it FELT like he couldn't help it. He didn't know if it was your bond as soulmates, the unyielding kindness that he originally saw as foolish and niave, or overall just your quiet nature until you saw your friends.

- Either way, the more he began to see you, the more he could look past your flaws (which was being a human) and start to appreciate the things about you the made you beautiful.

- Don't get me wrong, he was definetly in denial for the longest time so he would kinda start off with small things. Like it goes from: "Oh, at least they bowed their head to my statue, thats a redeemable quality, at least." to "She is the epitome of perfection♡"

- You wouldn't really ever know that Poseidon's feelings towards you have grown, he hides it very well behind that stoic face that he wears and he hasn't even really spoken to you, yet. He doesn't know why but he feels like...the time isn't right. Despite his growing feelings, he truly isn't ready to accept a human as his soulmate yet.

- You just assumed he didn't talk much so you never pushed him too. Yeah, it mightve been a bit awkward at first but you appreciated his prescence, it brought you a new sense of comfort and peace that you never felt, not even when you were alive.

- When you made flower crowns in the gardens, you'd ask if you could decorate his trident for him and he gave you a deadpan stare before nodding his head in approval. He'd silently gesture you to follow him and show you a private pool whenever a say seemed a bit too hot for you and watch as you played in it, a soft smile growing on his face.

- He would even feel a bit of anger when he was with his fellow gods, listening to them generalize their hatred towards humanity. Usually Poseidon would join them but he couldn't bring himself too. After all, humanity was pesky and troublesome but some of them weren't that bad.

- They could be sweet, they could be unfailingly kindhearted and empathetic...They could be you. So he'd just glare distastefully but never say anything, but he didn't need to as everyone slowly stopped talking after sensing they somehow upset him.

- He spent a lot of his time with you during the days that led up to his match, you were unsure of who to root for; since it's true that humanity would be wiped out if the God's continued to win but at the same time, you didn't want to see Poseidon get hurt.

- He picked you out from the crowd immediately and made eye contact with you, not even acknowledging his opponent as he stepped into the ring.

- Did he still look down on humanity? Yes. But...he supposed there were some good aspects to it. Good aspects like you.

- As the mythical creatures and gods from his side cheered him on, shouting insults towards the humans, and telling him to destroy them like the ants they were: his eyes were locked on your (e/c) eyes before he finally made a decision. Internally, he had just lost a battle within himself in that moment...but he wasn't upset about it.

- So he interrupts Heimdall's introduction speeches as he addresses the whole crowd, "I FORFIET THIS MATCH!"

- Shock and bafflement was all that could be heard from both sides of the arena. They couldn't have possibly heard him right, though, after all: He was Poseidon, the beautiful God of the Sea, there was no way he would just-

- Then he looked at you and your heart leapt at hearing his voice for the first time. His eyes became gentle as they stared into yours, "I will fight for humanity. For some of you are worthy yet."

- You didn't respond for a bit, not noticing how the words "I will fight for humanity" appeared on your wrist, but he did. And he knew that even if Aphrodite had "cursed" him, that it truly didn't bother him. You were made for him. His perfect mortal♡

- This was only proven when you broke out of your shocked trance faster than anyone and cheered his name happily, your shyness lost as you joyfully cheered his name, causing him to visibly smile in front of everyone.

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paperultra · 4 months

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le festin.

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3,842 words Warnings: Swearing, alcohol use, toxic family [A/N: yes this is partially inspired by ratatouille. inspiration comes from many places and i am not one to question it. happy new year <3]

cingulomania (noun): a strong desire to hold a person in your arms nemesism (noun): frustration, anger or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living

Thunk.

“Murfus.”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Get me more darts.”

Murfus wrings his hands, glancing between you and the wall a few feet away. “I … I’m afraid I can’t get you more darts,” he replies tentatively, “on account of us being out at sea, Miss.”

“Then fetch the ones I’ve already thrown,” you snap, pointing at said darts. “Idiot.”

“Of course. So sorry, Miss.”

He scampers over to the wall and hurriedly pulls each dart out of it, rushing back to you with sweat on his brow. You snatch them out of his white-gloved palms.

Pinching the blue dart between your fingers, you hold it up to your eye and aim. With a sharp snap of your wrist, the dart flies forward and into the paper tacked onto the wood panel.

Murfus winces.

Crumpled, smudged, and pitted with pin-sized holes, one would have a hard time reading the article on the wall. But you know what it says. You’ve memorized its structure, can land a dart onto each line mentioning that damned restaurant by name. And you do.

“Murfus.”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Read the menu to me again.”

“Of course, Miss.” You hear the crinkle of paper and the sound of him clearing his throat. “The appetizers are as follows …”

You only half-listen as the man continues, the other half occupied by the wall in front of you and the starting paragraph steadily being destroyed by your hand. Your tongue draws across your teeth.

“In all our years as food critics, scouring the East Blue for any semblance of palatable cuisine in a region brimming with endless possibilities, no other restaurant has come as close to unlocking the flavor of the seas as the Baratie.”

—

You had, by all accounts, a privileged upbringing.

The Nouveau Blue Guide is not royalty, nobility, or military – but it is an empire in its own right, a name that’s afforded you many opportunities and comforts since you were young: a fine education, luxurious business trips, a roof over your head and plenty of food to eat. Your family’s reputation as food critics, built by your great-grandfather and painstakingly maintained up to this very day, is unmatched in the East Blue.

Such is your birthright. A birthright that, despite your toil and travels and countless, countless hours spent writing reviews, your parents say you do not deserve.

“You call this an article?” Your mother brandishes the draft you’d submitted in hopes of some constructive criticism, her voice climbing high. “It’s a mess!”

“I haven’t polished it up yet –”

“There’s nothing worth polishing. Frankly, it’s embarrassing that a child of mine has written something like this.” She passes the article over to your father. “Darling, throw this away. I’m already stressed as it is.”

Your father takes it. Gives it a cursory once-over. Your tentative anticipation dissolves in the pit of your stomach when he sighs, shaking his head at you. “You’re not cut out for this career, dear,” he tells you, folding your article in half and then quarters and dropping it into the bin by your mother’s desk. “Claudie is already taking over the Guide. Your time is better spent improving your etiquette.”

You breathe in. Keep your hands relaxed, square your shoulders. Nod obediently with clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

You know that your family means well. They want you to live a successful life, find a successful spouse, and raise successful children. They don’t want you to waste your time because your time is valuable.

Well, today, you’re going to prove that you are not wasting anything.

“We’re ready to disembark, Miss.”

“Good.”

Standing up, you put on your gloves and hat, picking your notebook and pen up from the table before walking with Murfus down to the dock.

He accompanies you to the entrance of the Baratie, then falls back so you may walk in alone. The maître d’hôtel welcomes you and promptly gets you seated at a booth on the ground floor, not too close to the stairs to distract you from the ambience of the restaurant and not too close to the kitchen to hear the ruckus of the cooks.

In the brief space of time before your waiter arrives, you take everything in. Dim, cozy lighting. High ceiling. Few windows. Sitting in the Baratie is like sitting in the belly of a whale. Perhaps you can make a point about it being a bit too enclosed, but given that its main customers are seafarers looking for reprieve from the elements, you don’t think many would find that damning.

You make a few half-hearted but detailed notes.

“Hello, madam.” A voice from above interrupts your writing.

You look up, irritated.

The waiter before you is a handsome man, blond-haired and broad-shouldered. He flashes you a charming smile upon meeting your eyes as he sets a plate of bread rolls down, standing close enough that you can smell cigarette smoke mixed with spices and just the barest remnants of cologne.

You recognize him immediately.

“My name is Sanji, and I have the immense pleasure of being your waiter this evening. Shall we start with drinks?”

Stifling your confusion with a sneer, you place your pen down.

“Is the Baratie so short-staffed that they have their sous chef waiting tables?”

Sanji’s smile freezes for just a moment. He seems to recover quickly, though, shaking his head and chuckling at your query.

“I’m flattered you recognize me!” he replies. “No, I occasionally wait tables when the owner requests it, that’s all.”

You do not buy it.

“Then, Sanji, I will have a glass of Ithürzburger Stein to start,” you say.

He nods. “Excellent choice. I will get that for you straight away.”

His eyes dart shamelessly to your open notebook before settling back on your face. To your utter surprise and dismay, he winks at you before heading off.

Your cheeks warm without warning.

Nobody, let alone a waiter (even if he really is the sous chef), has ever winked at you before. They had the good sense not to. It’s incredibly crude, and surely, you’re more offended than anything else – handsome or not, such behavior deserves a scathing call-out –

But … what if you’re overthinking things? What if it isn’t a big deal because it doesn’t affect the quality of the food? Your parents always take context into consideration – the Baratie is beloved for its rough-and-tumble personality under the guise of upscale dining, so perhaps this is part of the experience. He may not have even winked at you at all.

“Tch.”

You release the tablecloth from your grip, grabbing a bread roll instead and sinking your teeth into it. It’s light, sweet, and perfect. You chew quickly and swallow hard.

The sous chef comes back soon after, your requested bottle of wine in one hand and a polished glass in the other.

“Your Ithürzburger Stein, madam,” he says, opening the bottle and pouring you a glass with practiced ease.

He watches intently as you pick the glass up and bring it to your lips. The aroma reaches your nose, and it takes an immense effort not to wrinkle it as you take a sip. You’ve never particularly liked alcohol. This one is sour and dry.

“It’s alright,” you say, wishing you could rinse the taste out with juice. “I’m ready to order my appetizers and entrées.”

“Of course.”

You rattle off a few items, having memorized the menu after listening to Murfus read it so many times. For the appetizers, wakame salad with sesame-ginger dressing, Sea King croquettes, and grilled plums with goat cheese. For the entrees, Sambasian crab-stuffed salmon with roasted potatoes and chickpea stew. They’re nothing particularly unique or outstanding, but you feel that they are worth evaluating.

Sanji takes your order and leaves you with another dazzling smile, and you make the excuse of drinking more of the wine to avoid it. Maybe you will be a better writer drunk than sober.

Probably not.

Alone once again, you occupy yourself by exploring different ways to describe the wine, the bread, and the atmosphere. When you tire of that, you eavesdrop on the booth next to yours. It seems to be occupied by a group of marines, each attempting to one-up the others in the world’s shortest dick-measuring contest. You tire of that much more quickly.

When your appetizers arrive, you’re examining the arrangement of the silverware and the quality of their polish.

“Is the table set to your liking?” Sanji asks while lining up the plates. He takes more time doing so than is necessary, in your opinion.

“How it’s set doesn’t matter as much as whether it’s clean and accessible,” you reply, eyeing the croquettes with interest. “Tell me, where do you get your Sea King meat?”

“The Gourmet Hunter Guild supplies us with most of the rarer meats we serve here. The Sea King meat in your croquettes was just delivered this morning, so I’d say you’re quite lucky, madam.”

“What species is it?”

“Baron of the Tides.”

“Barons of the Tides tend to have a strong taste and tough flesh. Not many people are fond of it.”

Sanji’s eye glints as he rests a hand on the table, leaning in. “You know your food,” he says. “I expected no less from the Nouveau Blue Guide, and yet I’m still impressed.”

“It must not take much to impress you, then.”

“It takes a lot, actually.” He winks at you, and this time, you’re sure of it – and it’s strange because you don’t feel leered at, not at all, and your cheeks warm yet again. “Regarding the meat, no matter what it is, a good chef can make anything into a delicious meal. You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Of course, madam. You’re the expert, after all.”

You are glad when he finally leaves, if only because you have no idea what to make of him. It’s difficult to tell if he’s being patronizing, and you can usually tell.

You sweep your gaze over your appetizers and take a deep breath.

Starting with the wakame salad, you inspect its presentation – a round pile of rich green seaweed in a smooth black bowl – and take a small portion to chew on.

The seaweed strikes a perfect balance between tender and firm, and the seasoning is perfect.

Fine. Whatever.

Next, the grilled plums with goat cheese. You take one bite; the creamy earthiness of the cheese complements the tender sweetness of the plums, and the caramelization is obnoxiously fantastic. You eat an entire half to make sure.

It looks like your last hope for this round is the Sea King croquettes.

Plucking one up with your fingers, you cut your teeth through the crispy, golden breading. The meaty interior strikes your tongue and your intake of breath is sudden, your free hand curling into a tight fist underneath the table.

It tastes good.

All three of them are really good.

This is horrible.

When Sanji drops off your entrées, you hardly realize that he’s there, too engrossed in the scent and the sight and the taste of the food.

“I hope the appetizers were to your liking?”

Sanji somehow gets the hint when you stab your fork into the Sambasian crab-stuffed salmon. He clears his throat and leaves you to your own devices.

You eat, and with each bite, your frustration mounts.

The Sambasian crab-stuffed salmon is flaky and succulent, the potatoes roasted to crisp skin and creamy flesh. The chickpea stew sits hot in your mouth and fills your nose with a parade of fragrant spices. It tastes amazing soaked into the bread rolls. Nothing is undercooked, or overcooked, or sloppily presented. Everything is just right. Just perfect.

You spend what feels like hours in the mouth of the booth, tasting, writing, crossing out, agonizing. The sounds of the Baratie die out until all you can hear is the scratching of pen against paper and your own breathing and pulse.

No, no, no, no.

It’s … it’s impossible. Any complaint you have is simply an expression of your own personal preferences, and your personal preferences don’t mean shit.

Your writing utensil is nearly buckling under the pressure by the time Sanji comes around for the nth time, and you’re just about ready to skewer him with it along with whoever else has the luck to wander too close.

“Are you interested in dessert, madam?”

“Of course I am,” you grit out.

All you’re met with is that damned smile of his. “Wonderful. Here’s our dessert menu.” He holds it out and you snatch it from him. “Someone with such a sweet face deserves something just as sweet.”

You snap the menu shut.

“Surprise me.”

Sanji blinks while you glare up at him, handing the menu back.

“… Pardon, madam?”

“I want the famed sous chef of the Baratie to prepare a dessert for me,” you say evenly. “I don’t care what it is or how long it takes. Surprise me.”

“I … of course.” He straightens up, the most serious you’ve ever seen him this entire evening. “Whatever you want.”

—

You wait.

The sous chef returns, not even an hour later, with a white ceramic bowl in hand and none other than the owner of the Baratie stomping after him.

“Your dessert, madam,” Sanji says, though a bit hurriedly. “Rice pudding with mango –”

He’s interrupted by Zeff, who grabs him by the back of his collar much like one would do to an errant cat. You raise your eyebrows, watching Sanji’s expression immediately wrinkle into one of annoyance.

“Little eggplant, you stop and listen when I’m talking to you.”

“Are you serious, old man? I’m in the middle of –”

“I told you that you’re off the line. No customer can change that, no matter who they are.” Zeff casts you a wayward glance and frowns before dragging Sanji back towards the kitchen. “We’re gonna have a little chat, you and me.”

Despite his bitter protesting, Sanji leaves your table with Zeff, and you’re left with your final course and the curious eyes of several diners.

“What are you looking at?” you bark at them, and they quickly go back to their meals.

You look down at your dessert. There’s a sprinkling of cinnamon on the surface, and it’s crowned with bright, paper-thin slices of mango, but rice pudding is so … simple. You’re almost insulted. But you are also surprised, and that is what you asked for.

Scooping up a bit of the pudding, you place it into your mouth, closing your eyes.

Two seconds later, you slam your spoon onto the table and stand up.

You can feel the sturdiness of the kitchen’s doors when you fling them open, your gaze immediately falling upon a mop of blond hair in the corner.

Heading straight towards him, you seize the front of Sanji’s well-pressed shirt and drag his face close to yours.

“What did you put in it?!”

Your shriek explodes through the noise of the kitchen staff. Sanji stares at you with wide eyes and oddly reddening cheeks.

“In the pudding?” he asks, bewildered. “Not much, really. Glutinous rice, coconut milk, salt –”

“Goddammit.” You shove him away and dig your nails into the back of your neck, chest and throat tightening. You can feel your breaths beginning to quicken and your eyes starting to sting. “Shit. Shit.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa”—Sanji puts a hand on your shoulder and it burns—“sweetheart, what’s wrong –”

“Where does that back door lead to?”

“Er, a dock? We take smoke breaks –”

“Excuse me.”

Shaking him off and pushing past him, you head straight to the door, open it, and close it behind you.

And then you scream.

Gods, you’re fucking ruined. You’re a fucking failure. Your parents were right, Claudie was right, you can’t do this and you could never do this and now you’re at the back of the East Blue’s only five-fucking-star restaurant having an emotional breakdown over eating food.

You scream until your voice breaks, until you’re left kneeling and gasping for breath on the filthy, wet dock.

You cough. Cinnamon lingers in the back of your throat, and you start crying.

Behind you, the door creaks open.

"[Y/n]?"

“Please don’t let my family hear about this,” you burst out without even turning to look at Sanji. “I’ll pay whatever amount you want.”

“Nobody’s going to be saying anything.” You feel him approaching, and then he drops down to sit next to you. “However, I’m very concerned about you. What’s got you so upset?”

“Why do you care?”

“A lovely lady such as yourself shouldn’t have to suffer alone.”

“Oh, please.” You hug your knees to your chest. But Sanji doesn’t leave, and after a few minutes, the words fall unbidden from your mouth, having nowhere else to go. “… I wasn’t assigned to come here.”

“Hm?”

“My family”—you swallow the lump in your throat—“they don’t know I’m here. I came here to write a review on the Baratie and get a … get a star taken away.”

Gods. That sounds so fucking stupid now. What is wrong with you?

“You did?” Sanji sounds baffled. “How come?”

A wet laugh crawls out between your teeth. “You’re the only restaurant my parents have ever given five stars to, you know that, right? So I figured – I-I figured if I could find out something wrong with the Baratie, they’d realize how good I can be at this job. I’m good at finding flaws. I’m good at details. This should’ve been … I should’ve found something.” You glare down at your lap. “But I couldn’t. Not even in the stupid dessert you made.”

“Oh.” A moment of silence occurs in which you can practically hear him gather his thoughts. “… I suppose I can take that as a compliment,” he says slowly, crossing his legs. “But is that really how you see food? Something to find fault in?”

“It’s something to evaluate. I’m a critic. It’s what I’ve always wanted to be.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

You frown, sniffling. Your brow furrows.

You want to tell him that it’s a stupid question. Why would you need to enjoy food? It’s work. You feel accomplished after finding the right words for a dish’s unique flavor, feel determined when you comb through the items on a menu. You feel delighted when you find something wrong with it.

But you …

“No,” you realize. “I … don’t.”

“I see. Well, I’m not one to tell you how to think,” Sanji says, “but as a cook, I believe that food’s one of the pleasures and privileges of being alive. As a critic, why deny yourself of its full potential?”

“I … I don’t know,” you whisper.

And the thought occurs to you, like a bottle that had been floating out at sea for years finally washing ashore, that you hate what your life has become.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t help it. You let out a loud sob, your head hanging down and bumping against Sanji’s arm. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap you in a tight hug.

It’s the first hug you’ve had in a very, very long time.

“I’m so sick of this,” you croak, face hot with shame and humiliation. “I’ll never be good enough for them. Ever.”

“They don’t deserve you.”

“But they’re my family.”

He rests his chin on your head. “A family who hurts you this much isn’t much of a family at all,” he murmurs.

His words are like a hot knife to the throat. What follows is cold, awful, bitter relief.

You force your eyes shut. Your arms tighten desperately around him, and you curl up, a pathetic excuse of a person in a crumpled heap on a dirty dock.

So this is you, you think. A purposeless silver spoon, miserable and starved for affection, clinging to a complete stranger outside the best restaurant in the East Blue.

It feels better to lay everything bare, actually.

“I can’t go back,” you tell him hoarsely.

“We won’t let anything get out.”

“The staff won’t, but you can’t do anything about the customers.” Reluctantly, you pull away, taking a deep breath and wiping your eyes. Clarity comes with it, hard and heavy. “But you know what? I don’t care anymore. I quit.”

“Quit?”

“Yeah.”

Reaching up, you close your hand around the small family crest resting just below your collarbone. You hesitate for just a moment, then tug sharply, and the thin chain around your neck snaps. Beads of gold glint in the sunlight as you look at it.

Yeah. Fuck it.

Winding your arm up, you fling the necklace as far as you can into the dark sea. It barely makes a splash as it hits the surface and disappears from sight.

“Good throw,” Sanji compliments.

“Thank you.”

He grins at you crookedly, and you finally return it, the last of your tears squeezing out from the motion and dripping down your cheeks.

Gentle fingers touch your chin. You let Sanji turn your face towards him, and the corner of his mouth tilts up as he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the rest of the wetness from your cheeks and nose.

“There,” he says once he’s finished. “Now I can see your pretty face better.”

(You wonder how the world ever produced someone so kind.)

“I’m sorry, Sanji,” you say, “for being such an ass to you earlier.”

“Please don’t worry about it. It was my pleasure to serve you.”

“No, really. I grabbed you. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I feel awful about it.”

“I really didn’t –”

“Please,” you plead.

Sanji bites his lip, holding your gaze for a moment, then sighs. “All right. If it’ll make you feel better, I accept your apology,” he acquiesces. His expression softens. “And if you really have nowhere to go,” he offers more quietly, “the Baratie will gladly welcome you.”

Your lungs feel a bit emptier than usual.

“Thank you,” you somehow manage to say. “I’ll consider your offer.”

Your sudden formality seems to amuse him. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, consider it? Anything I can do to sweeten the deal?”

His voice dips at the end, a sort of low and raspy thing, and you learn that it is much, much worse than being winked at.

You swallow and turn your head away. “T-Tell me the rest of the ingredients for your rice pudding,” you mutter.

“Join the Baratie and I’ll show you how to make it.”

“What? You’re turning it around on me.”

Sanji merely laughs in response, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Despite your embarrassment, you eventually find yourself chuckling along, and the sounds bloom together, so different yet so complementary. It’s nice, laughing with someone. You enjoy it.

Perhaps this is what food is supposed to bring, you think, this same, small, strange moment of peace and satisfaction.

You hope so.

#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 #fem!reader #pleas. don't ask who inspired this reader character (it was ego and chef skinner i'm sorry)#and carmen from sanji's loguetown filler episode #i was reading the english lyrics for le festin and got emotional ok #poor murfus he's been on the ship waiting and now he gotta bring back a letter saying reader's leaving the guide

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