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b1asho · 4 months ago

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Sundyne fullbody

2nd to last, the big nasty bug lizards!! (Aka sundyne, if you dont want to get kicked across the room)

Here's the evil exposition dump:

Sundyne are under the Cerest label umbrella with Dorest and Rox, but are genetically distinct enough that they aren’t really the same thing.

It’s a commonly held theory among other species that they’re some kind of artificially created Cerest offshoot that went wrong and overtook their creators, but that’s crazy talk and bringing that up around a trad Sundyne is a great way to get snapped at.

They share some things with their Drecu cousins and I would suggest reading their stuff to get the general vibe, but the gist is that Sundyne also have serviceable but poor temperature regulation, their eyes aren’t spherical and are housed in bony cones in their heads, they can see colors that we can’t, they lay eggs and have a similar life stage development cycle,they have extremely sensitive antennas, and they have a mix of endo and exoskeleton/shell.

Their differences are a lot more distinct (obviously) Sundyne are obligate carnivores, for one, and have a lot harder time processing plant matter than Drecu. Their lower mandibles and beak are very sharp and are used to both tear into and hold prey.

When their mouth is closed, these two are pressed together tightly by internal muscles. Along with their little bit of lip and their other mouthparts that fold closely along their face, it gives the impression of their jaw being more like ours (especially when I stylize it and remove all detail >: ) ).

Those internal grabbies are about as strong as a human thumb, and are used to make speaking noises by vibrating them together along with the apparatus in their throat. Those also help to hold/maneuver food without opening the mouth too much (which they see as a threat)

Another difference in their mouth is their tongue, which is housed in a hole along their lower jaw, and its length retracts down their throat.

They use it to strip meat from bone and lick yummy goop out of shell and bone holes.

Their huge eyes function much better at night, and they usually keep them lidded to avoid sensory overload or looking like theyre upset (again, their eyes aren't full spheres in there, and instead are more like weird cylinders that taper as they go back in the skull.)

Like Dorest, all 6 of their fingers on their main hands are separated, though now they are all much larger and longer (at least on this top pair of arms).

Only the claws on their larger top arms are retractable, operating by sliding in and out of a pocket of endoskeleton in their end knuckle.

The smaller bottom arms have a thumb claw like Rox, and none of the shorter and duller on the other fingers are retractable.

Also like Rox, they have a special claw on their foot for kicking stuff, though theirs is much more pronounced and mobile (their other toes are relatively short and also have retractable claws.)

Male Sundyne also have a third pair of 'limbs' that are actually gonopods that fold on their back that they use to carry eggs, another indicator that their genus as a whole may have once had 8 limbs that have since fused or retracted.

Speaking of male, sundyne are not hermaphroditic, with *adults* being distinctly male or female. It's impossible to tell until the first molt after pupation, though.

Sundyne dimorphism is based on this sex difference and it decides their service role in their familial/ societal clans (rather than with Drecu, whose role in the colony decides their sexual role)

Their family units tend to be single dominant reproductive male and female pair, their children, and nonreproductive members.

Traditionally, that dominant pair is decided by whichever is the strongest female and whichever male catches her attention, but modernly and in higher classes there is a lot more linking of clans and inter/extra political and legislative to consider.

The dominant male and female are monogamously bonded, but often switch their single partners a lot for politics etc (though long-held bonds are seen as better) nonreproductive members can have multiple partners and do, but the privilege of eggs is only for that special pair bond.

The closest thing from earth i can say is they're structured a bit like a lion pride or meerkats, though females are the ones who defend the territory while males hunt and rear children once the eggs have been laid/hatched (which is where Rox and Dorest got their child raising roles from)

In any clan, females outnumber males because at a certain age most males are meant to leave and go join another clan. Because of this, the nonreproductive females often assist with resource gathering/some ither male roles (though they're given their own pronoun for this since males are their own special thing)

Males are smaller in height and sleeker, and have more markings on their face/ body (while they look very flashy to us, it helps break up their shape to their colorblind prey).

They also retain one more set of limbs than females: gonopods like Drecu on their back that also help hold their females eggs in place (once the female is ready to lay them, they give them to the male with an ovipositor) .

Females are much larger and more muscular, with fewer markings but often more impressuve crowns of horns. They also don’t have the same external genitalia structure.

The horn things on a female will drop and regrow more based on hormone signals from their social status and/or their environment. On a male, they will not (but they do keep growing constantly)

I keep saying "things" on their head because they're structured sort of like horns but not quite.

Theyre more or less hollow/spongy bone on the inside with a thin sheath covering , more or less permanent, and sort of vascularized and growing for the whole year. BUT they can branch, don’t have a single living core, and they can drop and regrow if damaged enough by the root (kind of just a spongy thing growing out of a bone shoot idk).

Horn damage on a male is seen as extremely unattractive and disgraceful (the long continually grown unbranched ones are the beauty standard since it exemplifies how precious they are)

Females use them a lot more for combat, territoriality, and social status (whereas males use them for defense and social status) so they get cracked more often. If this happens, theyll regrow with some deformation around the sheath. If they get access to a better food source, they’ll also drop and then regrow better and stronger (but smooth and with no tines). For the few reproductive females, they will shed and regrow bigger/stronger horn things with more branches yearly the longer they’re the dominant female as a status symbol. Any horn branches are looked at very favorably on females, but the crooked/unnatural spurs and bumps caused by damage is looked at as a low status symbol since the only reason they’d still have it is if they aren’t dominant enough to get the signals to drop and regrow them the right way.

As for their life cycle, its a lot like Drecu. Egg, little gloopy grub thing, bigger goopy grub thing, prepupa, chrysalis, juvenile adult stage.

However, during pupation adults can’t ‘choose’ the final form of their offspring like Dorest and Rox can. Males are considerably more favored because they leave their home clan to build ties and status in other clans, ultimately expanding the influence of the family and more freely rising in the ranks (they leave, marry in with a female of equal or greater status, and can move up by taking out other males there. a female doesn’t typically leave their birth clan, and could never become the dominant female of their own clan because incest and patricide taboo, and the only way they’d be able to in another clan is if they enter as a nonreproductive and maybe get lucky enough that the dominant female falls out of favor so you can yake her place)

If they had the chance most clans would cull many of the females in their clutches, but since they can’t tell the difference until the age where their kids are legally considered people, it’s harder to do that.

Succession rites for females follow a matriline from the dominant female, but they have their own internal pecking order established through literal and social pecking. If you’re a better fighter or just smarter/more useful, you’ll have a higher status. But if you were born in that clan, you'll never be the dominant female unless the male gets taken out of the equation too, making an opening for a new leader.

Males get their initial status from their pair with a female upon entry to a new clan, but they can actually move up to the dominant position by killing or otherwise removing the previous male. After this, they can choose a new female.

Their biological roles of hunter/nurturer for male and protector/fighter for female translates to their modern sociopolitical roles pretty literally. Males hold power as lawmakers, media makers, educators, and leaders due to their more 'intellectual' domestic role and ability to bridge clans in alliances.

. Though they are physically superior, females become the males protection once they are paired. They hold power within a clan and often in the military or as lower government officials, but outside of the clan their reach is pretty much carrying out and enforcing the orders of their male.

Their dynamic is like a sword and its wielder, or a speaker and their voice, though it is also referenced in their own culture as a male/female pair being “the sun and its moon.” They also take great pride in this binary, seeing it as something that sets them apart/ male and female completing each other to form the perfect whole.

Straying from this is a one way ticket to being either kicked out of the clan, jailed, or killed depending on where you are and who you’re dealing with.

They will enforce it onto any other species they meet (which is part of why Dorest and Rox are rigidly separated by a gender role along with their biological role in the colony, even though they are both sexes)

Sundyne clans are at the tippy top of Cerest society’s order (wirh Seru being the tippy top of the Sundyne exclusive caste, represented by a circle). They oversee their Drecu colonies and use their resources and manpower to expand their territory. This hierarchy is deeply entrenched, with any Drecu within a trad Sundyne structure believing that the Seru are immaculate and powerful beings.

Another conspiracy theory is that back in the early days of Sundyne development they probably preyed on Drecu and infiltrated their colonies through pheromone manipulation, overtaking that territory for their clan. The pheromone thing allows them to influence the general emotions of Cerest around them and give loose instructions, and to stop the instinctive swarm swarm swarm kill kill kill responses Drecu get when they see them (To Drecu, Sundyne look like creepy elongated nightmare versions of themselves, and though this response has largely been bred out most Dorest and Rox still feel an uncanny effect from looking at them. ) again, that's crazy talk though and never happened.

One more to go, and its the funny parasite worm ones

#Cerest #Drecu #Sundyne #pleas ask me questions please oelsease please #this was fun to make but sometimes i feel i dont connect the dots when writing it all out so if you actuakky read all this and notice #any discrepancies or stuff tou dont get please ask meeee #love these guys. horrid neon raptor people AND theyre every kind of phobic and ist there i #alien species #original species #drawing #spec evo #worldbuilding #speculative biology #xenobiology #very excited to share my sundyne character too i hate her she sucks so much

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paperultra · 1 year ago

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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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