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robert-smirke-official · 2 months ago

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MAG Avatar Fuckability Tier List

It’s here. You’re welcome. Avatars are ranked most fuckable (S Tier) to least fuckable (F Tier). They are also ranked within their respective tiers. In true Robert Smirke style, I will not be accepting criticism. Fight me.

S Tier

Have special traits that actively contribute to the sexual experience.

Daisy Tonner (Hunt) - excellent strength and stamina. Essentially has a werewolf form, and we all know how hot Tumblr gets for werewolves. Deserves the #1 spot.

Jared Hopworth (Flesh) - will mold his body into whatever shape you want. May also mold your body into whatever shape you want. Can help with your dysphoria, might steal your bones.

Annabelle Cane (Web) - if you’re into bondage. Webs that are never too tight or too loose, and that can move on their own.

Tom Han (Flesh) - an avatar of the Flesh absolutely knows his way around a body. Also an incredible cook. He will make you dinner first, just don’t ask what’s in it.

Jude Perry (Desolation) - perfect temperature control, and hard into sadism. She will ruin your life, but the sex will be fantastic.

Breekon & Hope (Stranger) - two for the price of one, but they are so in sync that you’ll never feel the awkwardness of a threesome. Also, they’re blue collar workers. Very hot.

Michael Crewe (Vast) - imagine sex in freefall, like an eagle. I’ve never tried it but it sounds thrilling. Nobody but the two of you in a vast, empty sky.

A Tier

S Tier with drawbacks, or excellent options without being exceptional.

The Distortion (Spiral) - everyone wants to talk about "mind-breaking sex" but nobody wants to deal with the consequences. You’re gonna have a hell of a migraine.

The Coffin (Buried) - some people like to be crushed under the weight of their partner. Very clingy.

Emma Harvey (Web) - excited to experiment in the bedroom. May bring other Avatars over. Does not understand the concept of safe words.

Simon Fairchild (Vast) - old but still spry and flexible. No drawbacks, but doesn’t make S Tier because the Magnusverse has more to offer.

Martin Blackwood (Lonely) - a good listener. Will take your needs to heart. The human version of a cheetah’s emotional support golden retriever. Not exceptional, but dependable.

Manuela Dominguez (Dark) - sex with the lights off. Intelligent and bold, likes to take charge. Not extremely distinguishing.

B Tier

Mostly good options with some less-than-ideal traits.

Alfred Grifter (Slaughter) - an old man who's still got it, and a musician to boot. Don't let him choose a playlist to "set the mood." The mood is murder.

Elias Bouchard (Eye) - besides being subjectively hot he really doesn’t have anything going for him. Short temper. You do not want this man's pipe.

Julia Montauk (Hunt) - intense, but maybe you’re into that sort of thing. Will break up with you just to get you back. Daddy issues.

Jonathan Sims (Eye) - knows what you want in bed, and is good at getting you to open up. A little too anxious to be a really good lover.

Oliver Banks (End) - attractive, sure, but distant, like trying to fuck a statue. Doesn’t help that he can see when you are going to die.

Hezekiah Wakely (Buried) - expert at putting you to bed afterwards, but the sex itself? There are better options.

C Tier

Mostly bad options with redeeming qualities.

Gertrude Robinson (Eye) - constantly checking you out for weaknesses. Will not make eye contact.

Trevor Herbert (Hunt) - canonically grimy, though some people are into that. Body of a 70 year old marathon runner.

Dexter Banks (Web) - your classic film boyfriend who'd rather watch Das Boot than actually get busy. At least he's not transphobic.

Benoit Macon (Corruption) - are you open to threesomes with his beetle wife? How do you feel about becoming a rotten log full of termites?

Samson Stiller (Eye) - plenty of circuits for you to short out. Refuses to log out of Omegle.

Nathaniel Thorp (End) - likes games, but won't let you win. Too bony for good cuddling.

Gabriel (Spiral) - you’ll feel like putty in his hands. You’ll also develop a phobia of doors and fingerprints.

D Tier

Will give you a bad experience, or just boring.

Jonah Magnus (Eye) - prefers to watch. Dusty.

Agnes Montague (Desolation) - doesn’t want to hurt you, but literally cannot touch you without giving you third-degree burns.

Angela (Flesh) - very possible you would wake up the next morning without genitals.

The Piper (Slaughter) - hard to find a private spot in the middle of a war zone. Unfuckable due to bagpipes.

Not!Them (Stranger) - disconcerting, especially since the person you think you’re having sex with is actually dead. Emotionally distant.

Maxwell Rayner (Dark) - feels like he is going to crumble to dust. Insists on doing it with the lights off. Doesn’t know any interesting positions (he is from the 1700s).

F+ Tier

Just for Jane Prentiss (Corruption) because some of you are into that shit.

F Tier

Active health risks.

Nikola Orsinov (Stranger) - maybe some of you want to fuck a mannequin, but this one is actively homicidal. May also steal your skin.

Mary Keay (End) - gross as fuck, will kill you horribly, and the sex isn’t even very good.

Sarah Baldwin (Stranger) - by all accounts, taxidermied animals are nasty to cuddle with.

Monster Pig (Flesh) - no! What? No!

Raymond Fielding (Web) - has no friends. Will fill you with spiders. Also a devout Catholic. One of those has to be a deal-breaker.

Peter Lukas (Lonely) - does not want to be there. Likely has never been more intimate than being on first-name basis in the workplace.

John Amherst (Corruption) - girl the rot

#tma tier list #the magnus archives #tma #robert smirke #the buried #the corruption #the dark #the desolation #the end #the eye #the flesh #the hunt #the lonely #the slaughter #the spiral #the stranger #the vast #the web

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clubsoft · 3 months ago

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⠀ ⠀ LOVE NOTES , entry no . 1 ⠀ ⠀ JAVIER PEÑA / BLACK CAT ! GF ! READER

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warnings · 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N / unprotected p in v ( be safe n use protection , esp if he's broke ) / choking / male ego ( it's javi ) / there might b typos mb headcanon count · nine / 1 . 6 k words notes · welcome 2 my cute lil headcanon series i made so i wouldn't have to write my other actual fics !! pls enjoy :3

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00. When Javi realizes that she’s severely unimpressed by his advances — if one can count stolen glances across the office floor and a self-assured smirk flirting — it’s a gunshot to his ego. He’s Javier Peña, lead investigator; smart, handsome, brave, with decently lined pockets. Any woman under his gaze would trip over their own feet for a chance to warm his bed. Who the hell is she to ignore him? She slips out early from the work party, Javi downs his whiskey sour in one gulp, and follows. No one offered to walk you to your car? He calls behind her, right corner of his lips curled up, perfect, straight teeth flashing. She peers over her shoulder, a ghost of a smile raising her cheekbones, rolls her eyes, and continues on her way — she’s aware of his watchful eye, sauntering to her car at an eased pace, giving him ample time to memorize the sway of her hips, a pendulum of his demise. Javi doesn’t return to the party until she’s no longer in the parking lot, and goes home alone.

01. In the weeks that follow, he’s lucky if she entertains small talk with him. If he asks about work, he’s generously given a sentence. The weekly reports are his favorite, she’s obligated to speak to him for longer than her usual limit of nine seconds, forced to hold eye contact as he smiles at her, refusing to veil his amusement. I’m sorry, he all but croons her name, I didn’t get the last bit, could you repeat that for me? Her answer comes as her infamous eye-roll, and she sets the file on his desk, mimics his simper sarcastically. I have faith in your reading abilities, Agent Peña. Whatever lead he thinks he has disappears around the corner alongside her. It’s no longer just about seducing her into his sheets.

02. Her indifference leaves him no choice but to change his approach. Thus begins the flood of gifts. If status, intelligence, and looks didn’t win her over, gifts surely will. Javi achieves his first victory: flowers and a box of chocolates — a prelude to Valentine’s Day for his special girl. She shares the sweets but places the flowers in a vase on her desk. After six bouquets, eight box lunches, and three consecutive weeks of having her coffee delivered exactly five minutes before she clocks in — the drink cools enough to reach the perfect temperature by the time she arrives — he finally secures a date. Just dinner, nothing more. He makes it a good one, striking the right balance between fancy and casual, loud and quiet; a cozy, clean restaurant serving comforting food, well-crafted drinks, and an exceptional dessert menu. She lets him drive her home and leans over the center console to kiss his cheek before heading inside. Javi’s cheeks burn as pink as the lip gloss print she leaves behind.

03. The first time he kisses her mouth to mouth, it’s an accident, a lapse in his self control. They’re seated side by side during his lunch, she’s reading a file as she nibbles absently on a baby carrot — he’s talking to himself. Grunting, he plucks the file from her hand and tosses it out of reach. She glares, lowers the half bitten carrot from her mouth, furrowed brows, annoyed and pouty. Javi smiles, cradles her chin with one large hand, canting towards her to plant his lips against hers, lingering. Her lips mold to his, and he sighs out in relief.

04. Tenderness is of the utmost necessity when making love — that’s what he’s doing. Javier Peña, ladies’ man, ultimate manwhore, making love. As a man with a plethora of partners, a familiar face in the whorehouses of Columbia, his gentleness is practiced, a reward for receiving his bites, an unspoken apology for his bruising grip, but ever since the first bouquet landed on her desk, he’d entered a period of celibacy, excluding the mental image of her and the touch of his right hand. Now, after their seventh date, fucked out and flowery, she gazes at him through her fluffy lashes, tugs at his gold chain, and the sentiment around the softness shifts, becomes permanent, reserved for her and only her. You’re mine, right? He murmurs into her hair. Please say you’re mine… She withdraws, strokes his cheek, and nods. All yours, Javi.

05. They say one doesn’t understand another until they’ve lived with them. Javi stays over enough nights to believe he’s an exclusion — wrong. The two argue about everything: furniture, kitchenware, decor, and Javi, who’s more than used to being told no, by his bosses, his coworkers, hell, even his family, can’t take it when it comes from the world’s most kissable mouth. The white rug will brighten the interior but get dirty quickly, the black rug will do the opposite, so the tan is clearly the proper choice, but his heart is stuck on the white, and when he carries it over, she rejects it without a second glance. He frowns all the way home, through laying out the tan rug, mentally acknowledging that she was right. If it was him in her shoes, he’d rub it in her nose, but his girlfriend doesn’t need to speak to assure herself, nor does she need the one up. Allowing him to simmer, she takes the silent treatment like a champ, offering to sleep in the living room when he tucks himself in before she’s completed her nightly skincare. No! He shoots up, stumbles to the doorway, weaving his strong arms around her waist to drop her onto the mattress. No. You sleep here, we sleep together. He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling, and he admits defeat by nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck.

06. Javi thrives on being a pillar, reliable, sturdy, always there in time of need. His girlfriend, confident and self-sufficient, very rarely struggles to handle things alone. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t feel emasculated at times, pushed out of the picture by her independence. She can be a perfectionist, refusing to split tasks in fear of them going wrong — sometimes doing double the work. It isn’t that he dislikes her capabilities, either, he simply ventures to make her life easier, give her the princess treatment she deserves. Conversations about the topic aren’t fruitful: Javi, I just don’t want to add to your list of things to do… I can do these things myself. Still, he can’t help his protective instincts, and when an especially stressful situation arises, he intercepts it, takes care of it before the news reaches her. Three days go past, a slip of the tongue giving him away. Her reaction is just as he expects; concerned, angry, a sense of betrayal. She doesn’t talk to him until she’s processed his solution, his calm demeanor holding her together, tiny hands encased in his larger ones. If we’re going to be a team, I need you to trust that I can make things easier for you, I can take on your stress, sweetness. Drawing her into his embrace, he holds her tight; he hears a sob, feels her arms wrap tight around his torso. I know you can do anything and everything… but sometimes, let me… He trails off, lets the three most important words in his mind die on his tongue. She speaks them for him, burrowing herself impossibly further into his ribcage. I love you, Javi.

07. Not everything that induces anger needs to be discussed, as much as communication is key. Sometimes, the battle of tongues can happen amongst the rustle of clothes falling to the floor, the lewd squelch of Javi’s fingers pushing deep into her precious little cunt. Not so talkative now, are we? He growls against her jugular, his second hand unwrapping from her waist to clasp her throat instead, holding her steady against his desk as his palm pounds her clit with each roll of his wrist. I tell you not to fuckin’ talk to that moron, you don’t listen. With his grip stealing the air from her lungs, his digits curling to brush that heavenly spot inside her, a real answer is, no pun intended, out of the question. Javi — Javi, I’m — He receives a jagged moan, hisses as her nails scratch at his forearm. Reading the desperation writhing through her body, he pulls out his fingers, shoves them against her tongue to muffle her whining, undoing his belt buckle while watching her suck them clean. This is what you wanted, right, baby? Doin’ shit t’piss me off, knowin’ I’ll work this lil’ pussy ‘til you can’t fuckin’ think. In his annoyance, his drawl drips from every word. Moments later, he’s doing as promised, heavy hand clamped over her mouth when the phone rings. Javi stills, and what should be a second to catch her breath is made impossible by him nestling his cock as deep as it’ll go, lifting the phone to his ear with a painstakingly slow roll of his hips, making her eyes spin back into her head. I’ll call you back, handlin’ somethin’ right now.

08. He drags her home early on days like those, kisses endlessly at the marks on her skin, the ones of his own doing. It’s how he grounds himself; washing her hair in the shower, even picking out those matching pajama sets to lounge in. He orders her favorite takeout on delivery, pulls the fluffiest blanket they own over their layered bodies, his fingers hiking up her shirt to trace patterns on her back. Jealousy suits him, he’s territorial, and he’ll never truly grasp that he can’t keep her all to himself — others will get to see her laugh, perceive her undeniable beauty, hear her witty remarks, admire her competence, but this? This closeness, this safety, this love, it all belongs to him, only him. That, he’ll always know.

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taglist · @days1 / @hopelessromantic727 / @zelena89 / @ithinkimokeei / @choania / @qtmoonies / @illyrianbrat / @lovetoloveyoubaby / @dontlookatme121 / @gothcsz if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my fics , pls click this link && fill out the form !! u will be added immediately && get a notif for my next fic !!

if u enjoyed this fic , pls like && reblog , any && all interaction is appreciated :3

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dpspcehntr · 2 months ago

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Inspiration: Zayne

Sylus || Xavier || Rafayel

Zayne x Reader

A slow exploratory night with Zayne.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: fingering, oral (f receiving), P in V, temperature play (if you squint)

A/N: Hello all! Welcome to part one of this series! I was going through my drafts and I found an old idea I never actually did anything with and so I expanded it! I'm often listening to music when I write so this was honestly inevitable. This was such an easy pick for Zayne, this song honestly picked its self for him. I recommend listening to the song as you read if possible. This is set very early in their relationship. If you squint you could say this is one of their first times together but it doesn’t have to be. I hope you all enjoy and reblogs are always appreciated!

Zayne places a hand on your thigh as you turn to look at him. His eyes sparkle with a desire you’ve never seen before. His skin is icy to the touch as his fingers linger on your heated skin. He’s discussing something about his job that you definitely should be paying attention to but the desire to get closer overwhelms your senses. His hand has risen higher on your thigh absentmindedly as he continues on. Usually he isn’t very chatty but tonight he seems to be avoiding something. He gives you another once over and he stumbles on his words. So it’s you he’s avoiding, is he avoiding how much he desires you? You scoot closer to him and settle in close. You want nothing more than to climb in his lap and let him ravish you but you hold back. His hand on your thigh only gets colder as you watch him get more and more flustered. You place your hand over his and gingerly move it just a bit closer to your inner thigh while giving him your full attention. A blush creeps onto his cheeks and he clears his throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of your desire for me.”

The words leave your lips before you can think. He blushes a deeper pink before turning his head away from you. It hadn’t been that long since you reconnected and discovered a spark between you both.

“I’ll have you know it is not fear. I just didn’t account for how intense the feeling would be. I won’t lie it is overwhelming but I’m an adult and I have self control.”

He tries to move his hand from your thigh but you grip his wrist. You place his hand on your hip and hold it there while you climb in his lap. You lean into him, your lips inches away from his skin.

“Don’t I get a say in how this goes? If I may be blunt, I want you. Right here and right now.”

His grip on your hip tightens as you let go of his wrist and drape your arms over his shoulders. You run a finger along the back of his neck as you watch his composure continues to falter.

“May I?”

You whisper along his neck before he gives you a nod. You plant your lips on his pulse point and trail up to his jaw. He hisses under your touch as you continue up to his lips. You hesitate for a moment before he closes the gap between you both. The kiss is electric, leaving you breathless and desperate. You slide your fingers in his hair pushing him deeper into you. All restrain leaves you as you moan into the kiss. The taste of him was addictive as you deepened the kiss, begging to mold further into him. He begrudgingly breaks the kiss for air and looks at you. This time you felt he was finally seeing you in your entirety, giving himself over to his more base desires. His eyes linger on your lips, chest, thighs and finally your eyes. Being seen so wholly was exhilarating. You felt drunk on his attention, landing once again on your lips. He pulls you in for another kiss while laying you down on the couch. He slot comfortably between your legs as he kisses down your neck. One hand is planted on your hip as the other holds him up.

“Touch me, please. Zayne touch me.”

He pauses for a moment before sliding his hand from your hip underneath your skirt.

“Here?”

He whispers on your lips as he lightly presses into you. You arch into his touch crying out underneath him. He presses his fingers deeper into your clothed core. He captures your lips in his once more before sliding a finger underneath your underwear. He moans into your mouth at the feeling of your wetness, suddenly overcome with his own desire. Two fingers enter you with ease. He presses into your sweet spot and curls his fingers. His name spills out your lips as he thrusts his digits in and out of you. Each movement of his fingers leaves you begging and writhing underneath him.

“You’re so warm.”

He whispers on your lips before pulling his fingers out of you. You whine in protest as he shifts himself above you. He leans down in between your legs, lips inches away from where you need him. You look down at him, his pupils are blown wide as he watches you, waiting for the go ahead. You squeeze out a yes before throwing your head back on the arm rest. He hooks his fingers underneath the band of your underwear and carefully pulls them down. You bite back a moan as he hums approvingly at the sight of you. Here on display for him, it was better than anything he could’ve imagined. He presses his lips to the throbbing nub and takes it into a delicate kiss. Tears well up in the corner of your eyes, your lust for him only growing more and more overwhelming as he explore you. He takes a tentative lick inside you. Your hands slink into his hair to hold him there. His tongue so delicious on your aching core. He takes his time, savoring the taste on you on his tongue. You can’t wait any longer, you need to feel him inside of you right at this moment. You grip him by the hair and lift him away from you.

“I need you. I need you right now.”

He sits back up before leaning over you once again. You reach for the belt on his pants but he swats your hands away. He pulls you into another searing kiss while he situates himself out of his pants. There’s no time to undress, you’re both much too caught up in the moment for that. You hike up your skirt pass your hips and wait for him.

“Let me know if you need me to stop.”

He takes himself in his hand and lines himself up with you and thrusts inside. His other holds your hip to keep you still. He lets out a loud groan as he bottoms out, his eyes screwed shut in concentration. Even after all this he still was holding back. You were much too gone in the feeling of him to give it much thought. Being this close to him was enough. He pulls out completely and looks down at you again, though he looks composed you see the desperation in his eyes. He needs this release just as much as you do. He thrusts back into you staying there for a moment before setting a slow pace. You reach out to him and bring his lips to yours as he increases his pace. You whisper praises onto his lips as your high quickly approaches. He pulls away from your lips to settle his head in your shoulder. His thrusts became more erratic as his release draws closer.

“Where do you want it?”

He groans in your ear, teetering on the edge he wasn’t toning to last much longer.

“Inside me, please.”

You press more of yourself onto him as the tension in your body snaps as you wail out. Your release spreads through your body, making you shake and cling onto him with what strength you have left. His release is buried deep inside you as his hips stutter to a stop. He lets out another groan as you clench down on him, milking his release. You stay like this for a moment, letting you both come back down from this moment. He pulls out of you slowly and looks over you. He pulls you back in for another kiss before getting up to clean you both up.

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streamsofmoon · 1 month ago

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suggestive | sylus × f!reader

a/n: whether reader is the mc is entirely up to you.

"hey, sylus," you start off, rather nonchalant. in fact, too nonchalant that it immediately puts him on alert. "remember that gift my friends bought me for my bachlorette party?"

sylus, on the other end of the phone, casts his mind back to the abundance of presents you bestowed onto you. the fuzzy red handcuffs pop up, followed by the riding crop that appeared to be a gag gift. but the look you gave it made sylus think otherwise and has, since, been a wonderful addition in your bedroom.

a few other guesses come to mind before he ultimately remembers the one gift in particular.

"yes?" he replies, curious to what you have in mind. because you always have something in mind.

"well," you continue cheekily. "the mold came out really well. it's actually quite life-like."

an amused huff leaves sylus, his concentration on the interrogation in front of him gone. the guy who's currently gagged and bound makes tiny, helpless noises that sound like pleas. but sylus doesn't really care, especially when you're on the phone.

"oh? so all my work wasn't done in vain," sylus teases, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he hears you giggle. "gonna send me a picture, kitten?"

"wouldn't that be like sending you a dick pic?" you reply, the sheets rustling as you shift on tjr bed. "but with your own dick?"

"your mind is incredible, sweetheart."

"thanks, i try."

sylus sighs with exasperated fondness. "so is that all you wanted to tell me or...?"

"i miss you," you say, your pout evident in your tone. "and i wish you'd come home soon."

let no one ever know how you melt his heart on a daily basis. let them never know how you hold him in your hands, easy to control and bend at your mercy. you're his own true weakness, his kyptonite, and it's like you are highly aware of that fact.

because then you say," and since you're not here, this mold is gonna help me get through these hard times."

sylus goes still, his gaze staring hard at the concrete floor under his feet. he focuses on a small patch of dried blood as his mind is quick to conjure images.

wonderfully enticing images.

"sweetie," sylus says slowly, as if in warning. "didn't we agree that you wouldn't touch yourself until i got home."

you hum. "yeeeeeah," you agree. "but then i remembered you aren't here to stop me so,"

he can see the impish grin in your face, highlighting the mischief across your gorgeous features. the disobedience hits a nerve, but it's pleasureable. it's a feeling that comes with the realisation that he will be destroying you once he gets home.

in the best of ways.

"you make that pretty cunt cum and you'll regret it," sylus threatens, his voice a slight sing-song as you give a laugh.

then you're gasping, a tiny whimper escaping you and sylus' blood goes red hot.

there's a slight slick noise in the background and you're moaning softly, just for him to hear.

"i'm counting on it." you say, a challenge before you're hanging up the call.

sylus stares down at his phone once you're gone, his temperature rising and his pants a bit tighter.

then he's looking at the man in the chair, eyeing him for a moment before looking at luke and kieran.

"kill him."

the man screams against his gag, struggling against his restraints as luke and kieran surround him.

the man's not important enough to hold his attention.

not when he's got you, troublesome and willing, at home.

#lads sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #the moon scripts 🌙

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slylycurioustreasure · 13 days ago

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Frost and Fire — Teaser

Summary: Sunghoon is a feared, brilliant, and icy lawyer with a reputation for defending the powerful without flinching. In the glass towers and dark corridors of a secret-ridden metropolis, he embodies the law—cold, sharp, unwavering.

You, an investigative journalist with a sharp eye, come to scratch where it hurts. By investigating a scandal involving one of his clients, you attack a wall of silence... and this wall has a name: Park Sunghoon.

Your first meeting is a confrontation. Sharp looks, words measured like blades. He despises you for your insubordination. You hate him for his compromise. But behind appearances lie other truths—more murky, more human.

Justice isn't a straight line, nor is love a safe territory. And sometimes, it's your enemies who understand you best.

In this city where every word can kill a career, every silence can save a life—you'll have to choose: the truth, or him.

Pairing : Lawyer!Park Sunghoon × Journalist!Reader

Genre: Romantic thriller, enemies to lovers, urban, dark, intense, adult romance.

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, unequal power relations (professional and emotional), deep moral conflicts, constant tension between truth and compromise, stifling institutional pressure, internalized guilt, latent burnout, implicit media harassment, emotional cynicism, misuse of the law to defend the indefensible, legal and moral gray areas, control addiction, loss of identity through work, unverbalized self-destructive behaviors, conflictual or even violent communication, conflictual sexual attraction, sexuality tinged with frustration or anger, physical closeness under high emotional tension, emotional isolation, refusal of intimacy compensated by desire, chronic emotional deprivation, anxiety attacks hidden by sarcasm, intense ideological confrontation, cold verbal violence, conflicts between journalistic ethics and emotional attachment, perceived betrayals, love born in hate, disillusionment, stifling urban atmosphere, toxic professional climate, barely veiled threats, mutual obsession… more at come.

word : ??

Publication date : ??

High Court — 3:47 p.m.

Under the harsh fluorescent light, the parquet floor gleams like a wax-polished battlefield, overly sanitized, odorless, and sterile. But this icy cleanliness is only a decoy. For here, beneath these pearly marble slabs, it's not bodies that are being murdered: it's hopes, principles, convictions. The courtroom smells of neither sweat nor blood. It smells of indifference, the kind that justice leaves behind when it bows to power.

It's cold. A cold that has nothing to do with the ambient temperature. A moral cold. A cold that even the magistrates' black robes can't warm, a cold that closes your heart and freezes your tongue. The room is full—crowded to the point of indecency. Judges, lawyers, journalists, citizens, all present, all motionless, all hanging on a truth that will never come to pass. And yet, not a word is spoken. Not a single cry. Just this blanket of silence, heavy as a coffin placed on the shoulders of those who already know. Who have understood, even before the axe falls.

In the center, he is there.

Park Sunghoon.

Standing. Silent. Impeccable.

The kind of man that journalists call “brilliant,” that judges describe as a “strategist,” and that the victims, for their part, nickname in hushed tones: the gravedigger in a tie.

He doesn't move. Not a blink of an eye. Not a quiver of his jaw. His charcoal suit, made of Italian fabric cut with military discipline, hugs his torso as if molded from his coldness. The black tie traces a clean, vertical, precise line. He is the very image of control. No, better yet: he is its embodiment. Not a detail sticks out. Not a crease. Not a speck of dust. Just this magnetic, sharp, hypnotic presence. A shark in an aquarium of judges.

His eyes. Steely. Not hard. Not cold. Worse than that. Unfathomable. As if, behind those pupils, there was no longer a man. Just one idea: to win .

And he won.

His client—the CEO of a conglomerate the press coyly calls "controversial"—is free. Acquitted. Cleared. Purified by the flaws of a system that, nonetheless, knew his name, his crimes, his silences. Moral harassment, embezzlement, accounting manipulation, use of power for coercive purposes: all erased. Reclassified. Rendered unclear, ambiguous, debatable.

Then the sentence falls, like a final nail in the coffin of truth:

"The court finds that the evidence is insufficient to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The accused is acquitted."

Not a word follows. But a breath, yes. A shudder. A contained tremor, like a seismic wave that has not yet found its fault. The benches quiver with repressed indignation. The room reels inwardly, not daring to waver.

And you.

You are here.

At the back of the room.

Teeth clenched so tightly you think you can hear your own jaw cracking. Fingernails dug into the threadbare leather of your notebook, etching the surface with etched rage.

You're not part of the show. You're not a spectator. You're a witness. You're a survivor. You're the memory no one wants to hear. A crime reporter on the brink, but still standing. A woman the system hasn't yet brought to heel, even though it tries to do so, day after day.

"This guy... this monster... he just got washed with holy water by a man in a suit." You don't say it to be heard. You say it so you don't implode.

Because what you feel right now isn't just anger. It's darker, deeper, more intimate. It's a misguided form of love for a justice system you once loved. A justice system you expected too much from. One you believed in. Until men like Park Sunghoon tore it to shreds.

And yet, you look at it. You can't help but look at it. Because despite everything, despite the horror of what it represents, it fascinates you.

The way he folds his files with an almost surgical method. This icy calm, this controlled slowness. He is chaos turned into symmetry. And he obsesses you—like a fire one wants to flee but can’t stop watching, hypnotized.

Then he goes out.

Without a word.

You follow him.

Not because you decided to. Because your body pushes you to. Because you need to understand what a man like him feels. If he feels. If he sleeps. If he dreams. If he loves.

The hallway greets you like a cold trench. Your heels click against the floor, each step resounding like a slap to your integrity. You're breathing heavily. Too heavily. And each breath is a desperate attempt not to explode.

You catch up with him. You almost overtake him. You place yourself between him and the exit.

"Mr. Park. Do you have a minute?" Your voice isn't trembling. But it's hoarse. Dry. As if raw from the truths you can no longer swallow.

He stops. Looks at you. Slowly. Like assessing a case without urgency, but without pity.

"I don't give heated interviews." Her voice. It doesn't hurt. It caresses to chill. A cold blade that cuts without warning.

You smile. A smirk, almost. Bitter. Worn.

“This isn't an interview. Just one question. Simple. Just one. No need to make a big deal out of it.”

Then you dive. You sink into the void you refuse to ignore.

"Do you sleep well at night, Mr. Park?" You say it without blinking. But you're shaking inside. Not with fear. With rage. With dizziness. You want him to acknowledge. You want him to feel what it's like to have your heart trampled by a system too polite to leave any blood trails.

He stares at you for a long time. Then, a smile—icy, slow, venomous—crosses his lips.

"Perfectly." The word is poison. And as if it weren't enough, he adds, in a cold whisper:

"You, on the other hand... you seem tense. Bad day?"

You want to slap him. You want to scream. But you do better: you stay straight. Solid. Flawless.

"Bad verdict."

Two words. Sharp. Blades.

He laughs. A short sound. Sharp. Surgically dry. It's not a true laugh. Even less a sincere answer. It's a scalpel. A cold incision in the tension. A way of saying, "You don't touch me." A slap without a hand, without skin, but whose bite still slaps you on the cheek.

"No," he said, his tone perfectly calm, almost professorial. "It was a good trial. Nuanced. In accordance with the law."

Then he tilts his head slightly, as if closing a file. A simple gesture. An almost elegant tic. And he adds, without raising his voice:

"You are confusing morality with proof, madam."

Each word falls with the rigor of a Court of Cassation ruling. Precise. Deaf. Unassailable.

He doesn't provoke you. He doesn't even try to contradict you. He just observes. With the technical detachment of seasoned litigators, of those who have learned to strip away emotions and retain only the raw, cold, and layered law.

As if the problem wasn't him.

It was you.

As if your indignation were merely a symptom of an outdated illusion, that of idealists who still believe that justice is a torch—and not a tool of influence—in the hands of those who master its flaws.

And he walks away.

Not fast. Not abruptly.

He's not running away from anything—especially not you.

No. He simply turns on his heel, with a perfectly calculated, almost solemn slowness. With that quiet sovereignty that suffocates you. As if he's just erased you from the landscape. As if your existence, your words, your anger, have just been archived. Discarded.

You stand there. Frozen. Your body seems motionless, but inside you, everything trembles. Your stomach contracts into a mass of acid fire. Your breath is suspended mid-stroke, locked in your chest like a silent plea. And this ribcage becomes an inner courtroom, where your guts, your memory, your anger, your grief, your hope…

…deliberate behind closed doors.

Your eyes can't help but follow him.

You look at him.

You have to watch it.

Because he obsesses you. Because he revolts you. Because he intrigues you—unfairly. And because, deep down, you don't understand how a man can be so beautiful in contempt, so sovereign in cruelty.

And then, as if torn from yourself, your voice bursts forth. It cleaves the space between you like an over-strung arrow. "And you, you confuse cynicism with intelligence!"

You don't shout. That would be too easy. Too expected.

You denounce.

You qualify.

You name it.

And in this world, that of the courts, to name is to resist.

But he doesn't turn around.

And this silence... this silence isn't an absence. It isn't forgetting. It isn't even indifference anymore. It's a verdict. The cruelest. Because in this absence of response, in this perfect impassivity, it imposes the most brutal truth on you: You don't count.

He doesn't even need to answer you.

You are neither an adversary nor an obstacle. You are one witness among others. A parasitic voice. An administrative nuisance. A conscience that disturbs, therefore is swept away. And that is there, exactly there, that everything changes. And that is when you understand.

Sunghoon isn't simply cold. He isn't simply calculating. He's elsewhere. Already moving toward another courtroom. Already in another suit. Another defense. Another veneer of respectability to protect. Already constructing the next demonstration, dressing another monster with arguments, texts, tailor-made case law.

You imagine it. You see it.

Again and again. Starting over.

Another monster to wash.

Another verdict to clear.

Another corpse – media, moral or judicial – to be buried under kilos of procedures and technical words emptied of their meaning.

And you... You stay there. Motionless. And yet everything inside you screams.

Taglist : @immelissaaa @yourislandgirl

#sunghoon x reader #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen #dark romance #park sunghoon enhypen #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #sunghoon x y/n #park sunghoon #teaser #park sunghoon imagines #Au Lawyer #kpop smut #sunghoon imagines #enha imagines #sunghoon

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projectcrimson · 6 months ago

Text

TRAITS THAT SHOULD BE IN WHB

—» I NEED MORE OF THE CHARACTERS TO BE BLACK SO I CAN SIMP ON MORE HOT OTOME BLACK PEOPLE. JUST ONE IS FINE, IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THE KINGS, LIKE SIMEON FROM OBEY ME 😭😭😭

—» Minhyeok has dimples when he smiles. His eyes are obsidian and has a dark purple hue, that can be mistaken as black, in his irises. He pays attention to whatever you have to say in the room or in a conversation with someone else, the person involved would be disgusted at the way Minhyeok looks at you lol.

—» If you have any trouble with your academics or needed something during said conversation, he would give it to you the next day or help with what you have to do for school, cook you a meal, and prepare your bath. His love language are acts of service and quality time, he doesn't mind in engaging any physical contact to make you happy since it counts as quality time in his eyes. —» MC's canines are similar to and sharp as a snake while your eyes are shaped like an owl. You nibble Minhyeok when you're hungry, mostly on the hand or neck.

—» Beelzebub likes to play with your hand, comparing it to his, intertwining yours with his, massaging the fingers, tracing the lines on your palm, and kissing your knuckles with the (if you have any) callouses/scars. —» Belphegor has eye bags despite sleeping all the time.

—» Satan has wavy hair, if it was brushed properly through his chaotic locks.

—» Satan twirls a lock of his hair when he's bored.

—» Leviathan's irises cover his eyes and turn into black when you fluster him (As reference: My In-Laws Are Obsessed With Me, S2 Ep 96). Speaking of which, on bed, you will see the blush spread from his nape, cheeks, chest, shoulders, knees, di— Everywhere, except his feet. He avoids you the next day out of embarrassment.

—» Lucifer gets clingy in the morning, only to you. When he gets flustered, especially from praises/complements, he would cling onto you with a straight face and rub his head against your neck for more complements.

—» Lucifer's body temperature is cold as an iceberg.

—» Lucifer's eyes are sharp, similar to a dragon and his irises narrow into slits if in danger or see someone as a threat. His eyes looked much softer when he was an angel. (piercings and muscles doesn't have to be every one of the Kings body traits!!)

—» Lucifer is unaware of most innuendos and flirting (since he isn't interested), so unless you want to fuck him, you have to say it straightforwardly and blatantly.

—» Sitri rest his head on your chest to hear your heartbeat. He likes to be the smaller spoon than the big spoon.

—» NOT AN HC, THIS IS CANON Belphegor makes a sound akin to a purr when he cuddles with you, he's unaware of this fact. Except Beleth >:)

—» Asmodeus has cauliflower ears and the tip of his ears are a bit pointy and his tongue is naturally long.

—» Asmodeus pupils turn into hearts when engaging in any sexual activity or in love with someone— which is rare, even if he has intercourse with other humans.

—» Foras face has freckles on his nose bridge like Felix from Stray Kids.

—» Bael has freckles too, on his hands, shoulders, chest, and knees.

—» Gamingin's eyes are shaped like a puppy, his mouth is molded into a cupid's bow.

—» Sitri is in second place for having a fat ass and fatter thighs. (HIS PANTS ARE SUFFOCATING THAT CAKE)

—» Y'all know very well that Sitri is in the spectrum of a yandere. He keeps whatever you give him, even if it is a rock, and stores it in his room. He doesn't allow anyone to come into his office other than you and Satan.

—» He shows off the marks you set on his skin, digs his nails into your hips, has your heartbeat as his ringtone, made sure his scent clings onto your skin for two months or longer, and proud of himself in having self control for his lust of you, otherwise, he would've pounced on you every given time.

—» Beleth has curly hair but he irons and apply hair gel because he thinks it's a hassle.

—» Amon likes to play with your hair, he tugs it to see your cute expressions, twirls it, styles it, smells it, and grips it whenever you go down to suck or kiss him.

—» Adrelpheus is blind, therefore, he has to court you through words and actions. I'd like to think that he does poetry, out of boredom, at the side so he has that poetic rizz that'd make you swoon. He can also make origami.

—» Beleth likes slow, languished make out sessions and press pecks across your face before kissing your lips. If you think he's into anything crazy, he does that to his one night stands, but towards you; you're special. You don't deserve to be used quickly and tossed aside once finished, no, no, no... He loooooves to have rough but slow sex with you so he can worship your body as it should be. This is a fact, not a head cannon.

—» Beel wanted to eat you the second he saw you, because you were Solomon and if he ate you, you wouldn't leave him again.

—» Beel is a picky eater, particularly towards vegetables.

A/N: If y'all enjoyed, leave a heart, follow, and reblog. Thank you!

#what in hell is bad #whb leviathan #whb mc #whb lucifer #whb #whb seraphim #whb mammon #whb satan #whb beelzebub #whb belphegor #whb asmodeus #whb astaroth #whb minhyeok #whb andrealphus #whb beleth

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sitepathos · 8 months ago

Note

hey, I wanted to ask a couple of obvious or non-obvious things about the so-called "mold" because the very idea of it the first time I read it seemed very strange to me and I read it constantly interrupting myself to think whether it was really good or bad, BUT, the further it went, the more I started to like it terribly and as a result I had questions about this... thing.

Abilities and knowledge are good, but what about the other side of all this? Are there any side effects, so to speak? And what about weaknesses, both obvious and perhaps not obvious? Can this somehow greatly affect ordinary life? And if there are weaknesses and they can be used well in general, then could the BatFamily use them to their advantage?

(Sorry if it’s not coherent, I’m writing in a rush of questions and feelings...)

I’ve thought about doing a detailed report on how the Megamycete affects you, so thank you for asking this!

Powers

Mycokinesis: with the Megamycete in your body, you can call upon its mold from within and create weapons like tendrils and armor composed of hardened mold. You can also control the roots that are all around Gotham and use them however you see fit.

Quorum Sensing: the roots of the Megamycete have spread all throughout Gotham for over four-hundred years, serving as its eyes and ears. You can tap into the roots and see anywhere you wish just by thinking of it, even if you’re far from the city. This is also seen when you turned into a murder of crows; while you were composed of multiple birds, they shared a single consciousness and you were able to see from all their perspectives all at once.

Record Access: the Megamycete has absorbed countless corpses over the centuries, both man and beast, and assimilating their memories, knowledge, and even DNA into its archives. Thanks to this, you can call upon this living repository and use it as if it were your own. Because of this, you technically have the knowledge and qualifications for many kinds of occupations and diplomas that would take years to obtain.

Shapeshifting: thanks to the Megamycete bonding with you at the genetic level and its vase records, you can call change into any form you desire, be it a bird, a beast, or a long-dead human (and you have even assume their voice if you desire). You can also make modifications to your real body, such as making a pair of functioning wings without assuming a bird form.

Regeneration: thanks to the Megamycete’s mold, you can heal from even the most serious wounds, such as gunshot wounds. You can lose a limb and you can just stick it back on your body and you’ll be as good as new (or just grow another one if the old limb can’t be recovered).

Superhuman Stamina: as stated in Chapter 6, the Megamycete gives you incredible stamina, reducing your need for food or rest (though you can still feel mentally fatigued as stated in Chapter 4). You still consume food and sleep because you actually enjoy these, but they don’t sustain you like they did before. The Megamycete’s all you need.

Superhuman Strength: the Megamycete makes you far stronger than you ever were before and gives you more strength than any normal human could ever have. Don’t misunderstand, you’re not Superman, but you could throw Bane around like a rag doll.

Benefits

In conclusion, the Megamycete makes you far faster, stronger, and smarter than any normal human.

Weaknesses

Unsurprisingly, the Megamycete’s mold has a vulnerability to fire. If we go by video game logic, it makes sense that a “plant-type” monster like the Megamycete could easily be hurt by.

Following the same video game logic, the Megamycete’s also vulnerable to the cold. Mold (normal, non-sentient mold) can still be found in cold environments, but it becomes dormant in freezing temperatures. While the Megamycete is more powerful than regular mold, it went into a kind of hibernation when it still resided in Gotham as it gets very cold in winter.

And while this is a bit of a spoiler, the Megamycete can be vulnerable to forms of toxins/poisons. While it can metabolize any hazardous substances and survive, if a specially designed toxin is designed to target its strain of mold, it could pose a very serious risk to the Megamycete. But, it would require special equipment, extensive knowledge in mycology and toxicology, and lots of money. Know anyone that fits that description?

#asks #from gold to mold

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fanaticsnail · 1 year ago

Text

Your Flirty Chef

(Image Source)

Masterlist Here.

Word Count: 4,267

Synopsis: Sanji has been working hard lately, your flirty chef no longer as present as you’d like him to be. You both have some unspoken flirtation between you, hopefully something to shatter by molding him beneath the touch of your hands.

Themes: Sanji x reader, mutual pining, idiots in love, flirtation, cooking, kissing, touching, massage, moaning, Sanji is a whimpering mess, suggestive themes, Baratie.

Notes: This was a gift created for the lovely @vespidphoenix who adores my 'Bar Shift' series. We're back home at Baratie! I hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @sordidmusings @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry

The light danced from the open bay windows across the circular polished floorboards, the wax allowing for a wonderful grip beneath your black, closed toe work-shoes. The handles of the porcelain tray began to heat beneath your palms and fingertips, the foamed milk and cream jiggling with each careful footstep you placed on the ground.

You noticed first the depiction of the business of the kitchen staff through the circular windows attached to the doors, the smoke and flames rising to char the dish within the pans. You caught the eyeroll of your favorite blonde coworker as he shook his head, refusing to take direction from your boss and head chef of Baratie.

“Alright boys, coffee time. Take a break!” you called after making your way through the swinging double doors to the kitchen. Immediately, pre-service was paused as a pile of hardened ex-pirates enthusiastically made their way to the pass.

Echoes of praise rang from the kitchen upon your utterances, all occurring simultaneously as grabbing hands eagerly pried the dishes within your tray as you placed it down.

“Truly a lifesaver, Doll,” Carne praised, claiming his piccolo-latte from the tray and raising it to his lips in one quick swig.

“Oh, my sweetheart. Thank you, Love,” Patty shot you a winning smile, raising his extra strong flat-white from the tray and scuttling back over to his patisserie station.

“Something there for me, Honey?” Zeff asked, the click and scrape of his pegleg and boot heel knocking against the floor prompted you to gather his long-black coffee and hand it off to him personally with a small bow.

“Of course, Chef,” you smiled at him, handing it over and turning back to the tray to witness the depletion of the amassment of coffees you’d prepared; only two now remaining. Sanji was in the middle of temperature controlling whisked egg whites and scorching sugar, unable to halt his whipping to claim his regular hit of caffeine from you.

“Just leave it on the table, Dove. I’ll be over in a second, okay?” Sanji’s brows were furrowed in concentration, the stainless steel bowl held firmly in his left hand and cradled against his chest. Soft peaks of white, fluffy meringue began to form within the bowl, his right hand continuing to beat in absolute concentration in a rotational way.

“You want to take it outside when you're done, Ji? Have smoko?” you asked him, removing the two mugs and placing it on the tray. Sanji scoffed back a small chuckle, flicking his hair away from his eyes as he continued whisking.

“Please, and thank you. I’ll be out in about a minute thirty? Just gotta start on the macaroons, then I’m on my quarter,” He broke his concentration on the bowl below him, flicking his cool-gray eyes over to you and watching as you began wiping down the tray, and claiming the emptied cups within to return to the bar.

As you left the kitchen, Sanji continued to watch your departure through his peripherals while meeting optimum temperature for the egg whites. He paddled the mixture with a silicone spatula into a plastic piping bag and rotated the end to hold the pressure in place, leaving it neatly to the side of his workstation to complete forming the macaroons after his break.

“On your quarter, Little Eggplant?” Zeff asked, brow raising as he took a sip from his strong coffee. Eyeing his apprentice suspiciously, he looked him over as Sanji removed his apron and neckerchief to relax on his break.

“Oui, chef,” he smirked, hanging his apron on his designated hook and halting once more at the door, “that alright with you, old man?”

“Fine by me, boy. Just-,” Zeff had an almost sly twinkle in his eye, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, “-Just be kind to our bartender, alright?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m always kind,” Sanji retorted, taken aback with his lip curling into a small snarl. A small echo of teetered laughter and snickers reverberated within the walls of the kitchen amongst the clanging of pots and pans.

“You know what I mean, lad,” Zeff grunted, placing his empty coffee cup on the sink beside Carne who had begun washing the crockery, “Off you pop. When you get back, we’re doing Before Service. Start gettin’ it ready, lads! Family Meal in a quarter.”

“Oui Chef!” Echoed in the kitchen, each chef springing to their station to begin getting the elements of their dishes together to present to each other before the rush of the dining service.

Sanji huffed a small sigh, exiting the kitchen and walking over to the fishmouth of the bar where you were waiting for him. Sanji had a small circle of thoughts swirling within his mind, echoing and reverberating the words Zeff had commanded of him. ‘Be kind’? What does ‘be kind’ even mean? Was he not kind? Had he not been kind to you in your interactions prior?

There was never a doubt in Sanji’s mind that he adored you. His affections were showcased in how he regularly sought you out on advice when conflicting with your boss and his mentor, Zeff. You were the one he came to when he had a rush of inspiration in the kitchen, spoon feeding you samples of his amazing cuisine for your constructive criticism or your unwithheld praise.

Just a simple hum and a nod of your head in response to his food had his heart swelling, but when you closed your eyes and a moan was siphoned from your breath had his pupils darkening, and thoughts of lustful interactions with you plagued him. He would lie awake at night thinking about how your lips wrapped around the spoon he presented you, your eyelashes fluttering shut and a small gasp fled from your lips as you reopened them in glee.

And that is when it hit him. As he watched the sun dance on your skin, your fingertips casually dancing along the ropes beneath the hard surface of the bar; he realized what Zeff meant by his suggestion.

Sanji was in love with you.

He was so desperately in love with you, he would do anything to see you smile, to hear your laugh, or to collect one of those hummed moans you’d save only for him when sampling his dishes. He was mad for you, so much so that he charged right through the feeling itself and bypassed all of the warning signs screaming at him to not fall in love with his coworker.

He halted his steps, the spell shattering within him as he came to terms with the feeling swelling within his chest. Sanji was a perpetual flirt, and you would reciprocate his advances in a way that had you both giggling and teetering like idiots. Your natural rapport with one another, the way you bounced off each other on the pass when you worked floor shift, or when you’d fetch him coffees and trial new designs within the foam just for him. The way he would present a meal he had created for Family Meal for everyone, but alter yours in a way that showed how much he truly adored you with its careful assembly.

Sanji was in love with you.

Looking over your shoulder, your body remaining presented to the water and the docks, you noticed Sanji staggering in the shadows of the fishmouth bar with his footsteps halting. You furrowed your brows, turning completely around and arching your back against the railing of the external bar surrounding the perimeter of the side-bar.

“That you, Ji? Here for your quarter and a smoke?” you asked him, a warm smile pulling at your mouth to welcome him into the area. You thought you heard Sanji cough, a choked sound within the shadows indicating his presence. Your furrow began to descend into a frown while cocking your head to the side, “Coffee’s getting cold, Sweetheart. Come over here and keep me company.”

You were unsure how more obvious you could be regarding your affections for the blonde suis-chef of Baratie. You were a flirt by nature, a job you were hired and paid to complete to build a successful interaction with your clientele. But Sanji. Sanji you got to flirt with for free.

Flirting with Sanji was a competitive sport, and one you championed as the captain of the team and the cheer squad.

It started with a game of chicken; food related innuendos and outrageously crass flirtations offered to fluster one another for entertainment, while completing a particularly grueling shift. It had you both laughing and in high spirits regardless of how little the guests respected you or physically fought with one another during the shift. You adored spending time together, building rapport and learning from one another through your flirtatious nature.

Your favorite pastime was watching Sanji work. The way he rolled his sleeves up slowly to pin by his elbows, the way his forearms stretched and flexed as he julienned vegetables, the concentrated expression of his eyes as he tweezed a piece of gold leaf atop a caramel fudge, with a careful scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on the rim.

And then it hit you. The arrow of the winged cupid struck your heart with the pierce of iron as he offered you the first spoonful of a dish he had prepared, and meticulously cared for, specifically for you. Apprehensively wrapping your lips around the spoon and flicking your tongue over the curved edge, you couldn’t help but to moan at both the flavor presented to you, and the expression of complete devotion and the eagerness to please you written all over his face.

You were in love with Sanji.

You couldn’t help the way you felt for him, always aiming to task him with something simple: “Ji, be a sweetheart and hand me that steel jug, please?” to something a little more complex: “Sanji, would you cook that dish for me for Family Meal? The one with the brie and the rillette de canard? I adore that one.” He was a puppy, following your direction and orders with glee, and you were absolutely smitten with him.

Sanji danced his body into the light of the bar, sheepishly not meeting your gaze as he fished out his tobacco pouch from within his trouser pocket. He opened the bag, noticing a small quake in his fingers at the knowledge that now plagued him. What was he meant to do now? Act like he didn’t worship the ground you walked on?

“Sweetheart, why don’t you give that to me and you take a sip of your coffee? I’ll roll you one,” you asked him, reaching your hand over and claiming his right wrist beneath your hand, “You must be tired after all that hand-whisking. You just sit back and enjoy your quarter. I’m on my halfa, and you deserve more time off your feet before we get absolutely railed by the service shift.”

At the term ‘absolutely railed’, Sanji’s mind was racing beyond its capacity. He couldn’t find an appropriate word in his mind to relay onto you in return, simply nodding in confirmation as he handed over his tobacco pouch before standing beside you and watching the ocean dance against the hull of the floating restaurant.

As the sun hit his golden hair, dancing along the glow of his tired and overworked features, you couldn’t help but look at him in awe. The way his eyes closed with his smile as he took the first look at the design you had created for him with the foam, before pressing it to his lips and sipping at it.

You were in love with Sanji.

Setting to work on rolling the cigarette with the wafer thin paper and setting the filter within the side, you placed some of the brown, dried leaves into the fold and rolled it. From the corner of your eye, you watched Sanji’s eyes float down to your lips as you darted your tongue out to dampen the paper. You could’ve sworn you heard a catch in his breath, and a small strangled groan halted within his throat; but surely you were mistaken.

You presented him with the cigarette, placing the filter end within his lips for him and wordlessly asking if you could ignite the tip with your lighter. Sanji’s eyes watched you carefully, nodding his head to give you confirmation to flick your flint and ignite the flame for him. Your eyes softened, cradling the flame as you elevated it to his lips and doused the end with its light to burn through the paper tip at the end.

“You work too hard, Ji,” you commented, a flick of the corner of your lip in a small smirk captivated his gaze further, “It’s made you silent. C’mon now,” you placed the lighter back within your pant pocket, “Where’s that flirty chef I love so much?” Sanji smiled, inhaling the nicotine-riddled smoke as he extended his lungs to capacity.

“I dunno, Dove,” He began on his exhale, eyes closed and head lulling as he savored the feeling, “Your flirty chef might need some convincing to come out and play. I have been pushing myself a bit more today, and I’m beginning to feel it in my bones.” You half-smiled at him, watching as he removed the cigarette and threw back the remainder of his coffee in his mouth and swigging it with one fell gulp.

“Oh, you poor dear,” you pouted, raising your hand up and pressing it gently on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, “What can I do to bring him back?” Sanji groaned at the feeling of contact on his aching muscles, unsure of what came over him to elicit such a wanton sound. Your eyes widened, watching as his face began to contort as he hung his head low, relishing in the contact.

“Let me take some of the weight off?” you suggested, bringing up your other hand to cup his shoulders, maneuvering your body behind him and firmly rotating your thumbs against the meat of his shoulders, “Maybe then my flirty chef will come out to play.” More of those beautiful groans escaped his lips as he succumbed to the ministrations of your fingers, molding and bending his hardened flesh within your hands.

Sanji’s sweet cries of bliss were addictive, more addictive to you than any meal he had presented to you in the months you had worked closely together. The way he cried out in bliss as you found a particularly tender point in the center of his shoulder blade had you gasp out breathily in response. He was a slave to your touch, leaning in as a stray cat would to an affectionate caress.

His cigarette fell from his lips to litter the ground by his shoes, the light extinguishing upon impact and rolling beneath the deck chairs surrounding you. He curved and arched his back into your touch, moaning and crying out as quietly as he could muster, with his mouth agape and a small amount of saliva collecting at the corners of his rapidly drying lips. Sanji’s body was responding a little too well to the simple touch of your hands on his shoulders and back.

“Y-You’re so good-... mmff-... at this. W-Where did you-... oh-h merde-... where did you learn it?” He asked, lulling his head back and inadvertently rested the back of his head against your shoulder while holding onto the railing firmly in his grasp. You giggled, moving your hands beneath his shoulders and coaxing him from the railing to one of the lounging chairs, secluded in the shade of the sails of the wide umbrellas. Although this area was a public space, the lounges were private enough to shield Sanji as he rapidly fell apart in your arms from prying eyes.

“I just know how hard the muscles work to produce the food you do, Ji,” you shrugged, sitting down on the lounge chair and ushering him to sit between your legs with his back to you. Initially, Sanji desired to sit up, his back convexing in a perfect arch to experience more of your touch. But his body had other plans beneath your skilled hands.

He immediately found a more relaxed version of his former position: his head lulling back into your right shoulder as his eyes fluttered shut, your hands now finding rest against his biceps and rotating them beneath your firm grip to work out the kinks.

Sanji had no idea what had come over him. The sounds falling from his lips were desperate, his body pleading and crying for more of your touch as he fell apart from the simple strokes of your hands now trailing up to his chest. You couldn’t get enough, your hands responding faster than your mind could tell it not to in order to find places on his body to have the sweeter sounds of your name rolling off his tongue between gasps and groans.

“Y-You’re-... fuck Dove-... Th-This is really good,” his breathy gasp complimented you, ending with the small pull of a whine within his throat. You tried your hardest to stop the rising heat from flooding to your cheeks at his voice, opting to giggle to relieve some of the tension surfacing.

“You’ve got maybe three minutes before you have to go back, Sanji,” you said, patting him politely on the chest to indicate you were done assaulting him with your affectionate caress. At the small pat, he groaned, chasing the weight of your palm atop his chest by arching his back and pleading with you to continue.

“Just a bit more?” he whined, opening his eyes and lulling his head further into your shoulder to gaze up at you with wide eyes, “Your flirty chef will come back if you do it just a little bit longer, I’m certain.” He smiled with his lips in a tight line, eyes twinkling in hope up at you. You scrunched your nose up at him, your own eyes reflecting his playful twinkle back at him.

“Maybe after the rush?” You suggested with a shrug of your shoulders and another curt tap of his chest. He groaned, slouching down and melting into your torso with the drag of his head. You laughed at him as he continued slinking lower and finally settled his head against your thigh, feet brushing against the ground over the side of the lengthy deck chair you were sharing.

“But that’s so far away,” he groaned, a raspy growl rumbling against his tone. He clapped his hand over his eyes, squeezing his palm and fingertips in the pinch of his eyes before having it fall away from his face and down to his side with a small gasp.

“Makes the waiting all the sweeter,” you cooed down at him. At this, he immediately rose to a sitting position, turning within your lap and gazing at you. His irises were blown, the small tint of pink dusting his cheeks and his lips were slightly parted. There were a thousand unspoken words dancing behind his eyes. The mystery surrounding such a look had you hooked and leaning in to see if a closer proximity would grant you further insight.

At the small lean of your body from the back of the deck chair, Sanji reached his palm up and cupped your cheek, his fingers lacing in your hair, as he guided your lips to be claimed beneath his. A small squeak exited your lips in shock at the gentleness of his touch, eyes wide and watching him as his brows furrowed. A small hum of his lips against yours informed you that he was as shocked about this as you were, but not shocked enough to end the kiss just yet.

He pried your lips apart with his own, tilting his head to nudge you with his chin. You hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him against yourself and reciprocated with enthusiasm; your tongue darting out to meet his own. He chuckled against your lips once he felt you relax into it, flicking his tongue against yours with a groan of appreciation. You nudged him away from you, breaking the meeting of his lips on yours and unhooked your arm from his neck.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you commented, raising your arms up and fixing his ruffled hair. His eyes widened, brows peaking at the center as his lips parted. Focusing on redressing him and straightening up his uniform had your gaze pulled from his, unable to read the absolute heartbreak written all over his face.

Nodding in appreciation at the straightening of his chefs jacket, you finally drew your smiling eyes up to meet his; immediately having your grin fall from your face once meeting with the sorrowful expression painted atop his features.

“Ji, are you okay? What’s wrong?” you asked, cupping his cheek and darting your gaze between his two gray orbs.

“We shouldn’t be doing this?” he whispered quietly, tilting his head down and gazing up at you through his eyelashes. Your eyes widened, smiling lips now falling open with a small shake of your head.

Scrunching your nose, you leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss against his lips which ended with as much haste as it began. You giggled as you felt him chase his lips forward to halt your retraction, but ultimately got away from his approach.

“I meant, you’ve only got about a minute left of your quarter,” you restated, confirming your words while elevating your hand to his chin. You brushed your thumb over his lower lip, dancing over his kiss-swollen lip with your digit. “We shouldn’t be doing this while we have so little time available for us to do so.”

“O-Oh,” Sanji stuttered, the blush once again rising to dance over the apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears and button of his nose. You had never seen such a pretty color gracing his features, your heart swooning at the chef as he attempted to stifle his rising blush.

“Has my flirty chef come back yet?” You asked him with a sly smile, retracting your hand from his face only to be caught within his own.

“Your flirty chef,” he whispered, eyes holding firm to your own as he elevated your knuckles below his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against your skin, “Is going to be flirting with you for the rest of this shift,” he pressed another kiss against the back of your hand, slightly further up than the last, “And hopefully all through Before Service, Family Meal, and Knock Offs,” he uttered between a flurry of pecks and grazes of his lips further up your arm.

Now it was your turn for the hues of warmth to swell beneath your cheeks, ears and nose at his words; becoming flustered further by the animal poised behind his eyes, threatening to ravish you with the intensity depicted beneath. He chuckled as he began showering your cheek with a further flutter of his lips grazing your skin. He halted just before meeting your lips with his, choosing to tease you with a small brush of his own.

“I’m going to cook you something,” he whispered, his breath dancing against your lips, “And you’re going to make those pretty sounds you do so well, hm?” He nodded, pouting his lips and widening his eyes with that innocent yet mischievous twinkle you have come to enjoy him wearing. You couldn’t help but nod in response, mesmerized by the enchantment held within his eyes.

“And then,” he ushered you against the beck of the chair, pressing his torso against yours and continuing to hold his lips an eyelash’s width away from your own, “I’m going show you how flirty your flirty chef can really be.” As you attempted to chase his lips to plant another kiss against his own, he quickly stood to his feet at the call of his name.

“Sanji!” Patty called, “Your macarons are portioned and ready for the oven. Take care of ‘em, would you?” Your breath caught in your throat, Sanji’s blush dissipating at the interruption and his face paling.

“Alright, I’ll be there Patty! Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he shouted in return, frustration written over his expression.

“C’mon kid, we all know the only knickers you’re keen on seeing are the bartender’s!” He shouted in return, turning and stomping down the hallway towards the kitchen, “Get to it, Chef Zeff’s waiting.” Your eyes widened at the thought, your smirk withholding a small scream of bashful laughter from parting from your lips as your face drew a further flaming heat to it.

Sanji waited a brief moment, inhaling a deep breath through his nose before removing his finger from your lips, tracing it down your chin and tilting your face to meet his eyes. His gaze was doing its best to disguise the horror of having the secret he thought he’d been withholding from surfacing.

“I-I’m sorry,” he quickly stuttered, turning and immediately walking back to the kitchen with haste, the steam almost tangibly falling pouring from his ears as he stampeded away. You were too shocked to laugh, but a small giggle fell regardless.

You could not wait until the rush of service was completed to get to experience the flirtatious fluster of the blond chef after shift hours. Perhaps to even continue what began against the deck chairs in a more quiet and intimate setting.

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