#tag: Character Study

[excelsiorfics]

That Which We Are

Date: April 1, 2018 Author: GrayJay Rating: Not Rated Word Count/Status: 3,482, complete Dynamic: N/A Characters: Scott Summers, Christopher Summers, Charles Xavier, Jean Grey, Logan (X-Men), Ororo Munroe, Emma Frost, Hank McCoy, Moira MacTaggert, Nathaniel Essex, Alex Summers Tags: Medical Trauma, Needles, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Closeted Character, Trans Male Character, Canon Compliant, Character Study

Summary:

The day he loses his glasses and brings down half the orphanage is the day he becomes Scott for good.

(Or: The universe where Scott isn't born Scott.)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

License to Kitty.

[qcomicsy]

I think a thing that people get wrong about Jason's anger is that it's not explosive.

It's cold. Jason isn't the type of person who storms off at every little thing or goes throwing tantrums and setting things on fire blindfully.

He's the type of person who's very practical. He keeps to himself, always. You rarely see issues where Jason's anger is reactive at the moment where the trigger happens to him. If you see his character up close, most of the time when he's triggered his reaction is calm. Even cold.

He gets triggered -> He keeps to himself → He makes a plan → And then he reacts.

Jason's anger being something explosive and out of character and out of place is actually how other people (characters) see it, because they have no idea on how it's playing out on Jason's head.

And that's a thing you can see operating since he was a child.

Where the only exceptions about this effect is either when someone he believes needs his help is involved.

See Nightwing Annual (2021)

But In Batman #411 when Jason learns the fact that Two-Face was responsible for his father's death and Bruce was keeping that from him as a secret his first reaction isn't to blow up on him.

Was to seethe.

Bruce goes up home after dealing with a Two-Face case (in my field we call that poetic irony) and asks Alfred where Jason is, Alfred's answer is that he's been sleeping all day (which is a conclusion that Alfred drew probably after going to check on Jason and seeing him in fact on his bed all day).

But when you see the next panel, even though he is on the bed, He's fully awake and both his expression and his body language shows that he's in fact angry.

This is the first time he appears again in the comics after learning that Two Face killed his dad.

Jason doesn't go towards Bruce immediately to demand an explanation or ask why he did this, or even to throw the truth on his face.

(Which could be debatable that that's something the Dick would usually do, but I'm not that literate on Dick's comics)

His reaction wasn't immediate.

His reaction was to go to his bed and stay quiet. Jason stayed calm and collected the whole trip until meeting Two Face again.

But the moment Jason as Robin has the opportunity to get his hands on Two-Face he does this

From Bruce, and maybe Alfred's perspective it could be interpreted as out of place or him storming off.

But it isn't. Jason was able to keep his cool (even though he shut off), until he was face a face to Two Face.

Does that mean he planned that to happen?

That's debatable, in any moment of this issue it is shown that Jason was actually planning to get to Two Face and do this. I my personal opinion, other and much more plausible explanation is: That he was in fact trying to keep to himself but couldn't hold back the moment that he saw his dad's murder.

You can see the same thing happening as Jason learns that Batman got another Robin in Red Hood: Lost Days.

Talia asks "You all right?" and Jason's first answer is "Sure Why Wouldn't I Be Alright?"

When he's alone he finally has the moment to break down.

(Actually both Red Hood: The lost days and Batman: Under the Red Hood are great case studies on how that usually play out on Jason's head.)

Jason is way more in control of his emotions than people ever give him credit for. The thing is that Jason holds it back until he either blows off or is capable to throw it back in someone's face.

[bixels]

I'm not explaining why re-imagining characters as POC is not the same as white-washing, here of all places should fucking understand.

[velvet-ii]

some arcane portrait studies :3 this show is ruining my life

[riality-check]

Viktor thinks his leg should go without saying. Everyone else seems to disagree.

He is a cripple, not deaf or blind. He is perfectly capable of hearing the whispers over the thud of his cane as he passes by, not so focused on walking that he cannot see the way their gazes track him as he shuffles down the Academy’s halls.

There are too many stairs in the Academy, he is finding. Every time he encounters another set, he grits his teeth, hefts his bag a little higher on his left shoulder, and climbs, despite the growing ache in his right hip and the inordinate weight of the tomes he carries.

There is only the work, he reminds himself.

The number of people does not shrink as he climbs up to the fourth floor. They eye him in a way he cannot easily describe. It is not… hate, that is in their eyes. It is not quite suspicion, though Viktor is sure it would be were it not for the too-loose, too-stiff, too-fine Academy uniform he is wearing. It was a courtesy of Professor Heimerdinger, who had sent it along with the books and a map of the Academy, annotated with Viktor’s class schedule.

Heimerdinger has worse handwriting than the “doctors” Viktor is well acquainted with in the Undercity. Hence the early-morning visit to his office, where he is the entertainment for the other early Academy students. The ones who are more assured of their belonging here, if he can judge by their jewelry and their shoes.

(He wears no jewelry, has never owned any, and he stapled the outsole of his right shoe back together this morning.)

The other students, congregated around classroom doorways in their impenetrable social groups, stare at him in the same way he used to look at strays back home. They were a good source of amusement, given the absence of human company that plagued his childhood. He liked those animals. He fed them when he could, pet them when he couldn’t, and learned early how to tell when one would bite.

He realizes, as he spots the plaque outside of Heimderdinger’s office, that these students stare at him like that. They smirk with bemusement or avoid his gaze altogether. They hide their remarks poorly behind their hands.

They regard Viktor as a stray. Something to pity. Something to be cautious of. Something to be nice to, if he can prove himself by rolling over enough times.

Viktor supposes he is a stray, with how Heimerdinger plucked him off the streets of the Undercity and gave him a new “home.” What, does he now need a bell around his neck? Perform tricks?

He breathes and takes a moment to unclench his right hand from around his cane before it cramps too much to be useful. He resolves to do what he has done all his life: ignore the way they make him a spectacle, though they are worse up here, like they have never seen a cripple before.

Maybe topsiders have not. Viktor cannot recall seeing anyone like him so far.

He knocks on the office door before his brain can take him too far down that path. Unproductive.

Heimerdinger answers promptly. It is odd for Viktor, at his height, to have a superior he must look down at. He supposes it is something else he must get used to.

“Viktor,” the professor says, surprised, though he does let him in. “It’s early. Very early, my boy. Classes don’t begin for another half an hour.”

Viktor stands in front of the massive, dark wood desk and waits for Heimerdinger to sit back in his chair before he says, “Your map is illegible, and there are too many stairs.”

Undercity habits beget speaking quickly and directly; in an environment in which nothing is wasted, words are no exception. Topsiders, however, can afford waste.

“Professor,” Viktor tacks on in a too-late attempt to adhere to topside standards of respectability.

Heimerdinger, thankfully, chuckles. “Terribly sorry. You’d think that after enough decades of scribbling on blackboards, I could use a pen well enough.”

Well, no. After seeing this map, Viktor began to fear for this man’s students, himself included. Professor Heimerdinger teaches his introductory engineering course.

He draws up a new map, humming as he works. With nothing else to occupy himself, Viktor leans his cane against the desk, placing both hands on top of the furniture to take some weight off his hip, and surveys the office.

A bookshelf, matching the dark wood of the desk, stands along the far wall. Its shelves are bowed under the weight of the tomes it contains. Most of the spines are in languages he can read, some are not, and his fingers twitch toward them all the same. He stands on a plush, patterned rug - that explains the instability of his cane, and of his leg, he should rest a little more weight on this immovable desk - that would be better used as a blanket down below. Trinkets and baubles clutter the desk, the biggest of which is a globe. It spins of its own accord, illuminated by… something.

Viktor wants to take it apart. See how it works.

He takes his weight off the desk to kill that temptation and barely muffles a hiss at the flare of pain that shoots up his right leg from ankle to hip. He stretches his right hand surreptitiously behind his back, preparing to grab his cane once again.

This office looks exactly as he had expected it to from his one previous meeting with Professor Heimerdinger. It is practical… by topside standards; it is as large as his kitchen and bedroom back home put together, and any one of the items on the desk could pay three months’ rent, though that is… “low-balling” it, as he has heard some people say.

“Here you are,” Heimerdinger says, handing him the new, blessedly legible map.

Viktor takes it and scans it quickly. His first course is on this floor, thank goodness, but the rest…

“Professor, these are,” he pauses, trying to think of how to phrase his concern. He cannot seem ungrateful, not when Heimerdinger has already helped him and when he has him later for class, and he cannot be annoying, not when he was already ignored when he brought up the stairs the first time. 

But his leg screams at him, and to prevent the pain from giving him a sympathetic headache, as sometimes happens, he grabs his cane. To hell with the hand cramps.

“Is there any way to have all my classes on the first floor?” he finally says.

Heimerdinger glances at his cane, and his furry eyebrows raise. This is not the first time he has seen it, but Viktor thinks it is the first time the professor remembered it was there, or that it meant something besides… well, he does not know. A fashion statement, maybe?

Perhaps topsiders haven’t seen a cripple before. They would see plenty if they ever went down.

“We can’t move classes this late, I’m afraid,” Heimerdinger says sympathetically.

Viktor hears the unspoken “but if you had asked earlier” and bites his tongue against excuses.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I will manage.” And Viktor will, because Undercity habits mean that opportunities are not wasted either. A little pain is worth it. It will be no more difficult than anything he has already done.

Heimerdinger hops down from behind his desk and totters toward the door. As he passes Viktor, he pauses and makes an aborted movement to reach out to him before correcting course.

At least he stopped himself, but that was probably only for practical reasons. Unless Heimerdinger wished to replace his cane altogether - and what a shoddy replacement his bouncing steps would be for solid wood - there is nothing he can do.

And Viktor can walk on his own just fine. It is why he has the cane in the first place.

He grips the map a little tighter, hefts his bag onto his shoulder, and turns toward the door.

He makes it one step (on his injured leg, cane in his right hand) before Heimerdinger asks, “Viktor, which one of your legs is the bad one?”

He grits his teeth. There is no moral attribution to his body. It is neither good nor bad. It just has parts that work and parts that do not. He has one leg that works and one that does not. If he could chastise it into functioning by calling it “bad,” it would have been fixed when he was a child. But that is not how it works, and it is wasted energy.

“My right leg, Professor,” he says because he always wishes that any and all conversations about his leg be redirected to important matters as soon as possible.

Heimerdinger hums. “You’re using your cane incorrectly. You should hold it in your left hand, not your right.”

He mimes the motion, and Viktor tries not to feel… insulted? Ashamed? Coddled? Belittled? He cannot quite put a finger on it.

But there is no time for him to articulate it. Heimerdinger checks his pocket watch, squeaks, and runs faster than Viktor estimated his legs could carry him, leaving him alone in the threshold of the hallway.

He tries Heimerdinger’s suggestion, out of curiosity. The class is on this floor, and he has more than enough time to get there.

When he was a boy, no one taught him how to use a cane. He did what felt natural and what let him move the fastest. It was awkward, sure, but anything that caused him less pain was deemed a success.

It is awkward now, with the cane in his left hand. Slower as he walks down the hallway, because it is new. But it is more stable, he finds. A little less painful, as the pain stays localized to his ankle and knee, rather than his hip.

He could get used to it rather quickly, once he stops feeling so stupid about not knowing.

As he gets to his first class - it is in a room bigger than most big Undercity shops - the thump of his cane and his slow pace prompt more students and even his professor to stare at him. Viktor takes the closest open seat and is briefly, ludicrously, tempted to bark at them.

If they are going to treat him like a stray animal, should he not act like one?

No. He should not. Nothing is wasted, least of all this opportunity. He ducks his head down and opens a book on subjects he knows, matters he gets right, instead of wrong, like how to use his own cane, apparently.

Viktor thought he knew the comprehensive list of all his nonworking parts: the leg, of course, but also the childhood rickets, his lungs, his spine, the calcium deficiency that left his teeth stained slightly more yellow than topsiders’, whatever made him bendier than the average person, and not always in a good way.

Evidently, topside is intent on adding more to that list. Like the cane.

It does not matter. When he is the only one in the lecture hall who can answer the professor’s question - a leading one that she said they will know by the end of the semester - as a largely self-taught trencher, he relaxes. He even smiles.

There is only the work.

Read a continuation here. And another one here. And even more here. And another.

[scribblenator]

got your heart in a psyche-lock

[kawareo]

Bhaalist Unholy Communion

This post has been living in my brain rent free and then it hit me in just the right headspace to turn into a vent thing and made me write poetry for the first time since eight grade anyway enjoy my ramblings under cut

because isn't it fucked up that Durge has no bodily autonomy? That he's nothing (using he/him because im looking at my Durge specifically) without Bhaal because not even his own body is his own but still a part of Bhaal?

And sure it is an honor to be Bhaal's Chosen, but is it really if you never got the chance to choose yourself? Strike, my Durge, was born a Bhaalspawn and grew up in the cult since he was eight. It's all he's ever known, he's worshiped for being a demi-god, he's powerful and on top, and in the end, literally everything he has is only because his Father lets him have it.

The Communion especially shows that, with Strike being still worshiped, but it hurts him, the Bhaalists rip his body apart, use it, consume it, and he needs to think of it as a blessing because how lucky is he, to be the soul that was loaned piece of a god to guard? He'd think of his own body like that.

And it hurts Bhaalists, too! It works both ways! His blood is poisonous and his flesh aches in their throats, but it's a blessing! God of Murder loves his son and his love hurts, and if you love him back, you must let yourself be hurt and know how lucky you are to be allowed to be hurt by Bhaal or his mortal flesh itself!

I'm just very into the whole 'no bodily autonomy' thing that we have going on with Durge, like his father not only can take control of his body via the Urge, but he has Sceleritas to guide him away from anything that could be not by Bhaal's books, Orin and Saverok to be a (although messed up as hell) family to him so he'll never look for another, and to some degree, Bhaal can control Durge's mind...

No wonder he'd run to Gortash in the end. The first one who sees more than a Bhaalspawn when he looks at Strike, more than Bhaal's scion, he sees a person and ngl it's totally Bhaal's fault that Strike ended up like that

[tellsfromninjago]

It's a wonderful night for eyebrows.

I admit I'm not the best at EYEBROWS. I messed up Kai's a lot in that one comic. Mainly because I didn't check my references. I pray the spelling is alright. 🙏

Updated with wrinkles and lines. Could possibly add more.

[zebracorn-chan]

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🌸support human made art🌸

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[excelsiorfics]

The Golden Door

Date: 14th Feburary 2024 Author: AceArchangel Rating: Teen Word Count/Status: 9,116, ongoing Dynamic: David Alleyne/Tommy Shepherd, Victor Borkowski/Tommy Shepherd, David Alleyne/Ashida Noriko, Julian Keller/Tommy Shepherd Characters: Tommy Shepherd, David Alleyne, Victor Borkowski, Ashida Noriko, Julian Keller, Emma Frost, Jean-Paul Beaubier, Mark Sheppard Tags: Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Childhood Trauma, Tommy goes to Xavier's, Character Study, Internalized Homophobia

Summary: Tommy lowkey expected to rot in that facility. When a woman comes to take him to a new school, he is the last to complain. Joining a squad, surviving genocide, navigating romances, and fighting the government and terrorists, high school with superpowers is as chaotic as ever.

What if Tommy attended Xavier's rather than joined the Young Avengers AU and Incredibly Slow Thinkfast slowburn. Like they will not kiss for at least 30k. More of a character study than a ship fic.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

You keep telling yourself that Namari.

[spghtrbry]

okay im too lazy to make separate posts so i’ll just throw all my gene content into one post

also um. @ihateornithologists said that gene kinda looks like a pug. and i couldn’t agree more so i drew this

yeah.

[arolegos]

innate instinct to draw him when i have a blank canvas

[ganondoodle]

About Shargon: What kind of compound are their horns made of? Is it the same as his teeth or skeleton? What’s the reason behind their glow? I think it’s really cool so I thought I’d ask

Thank you for the ask!

so, alot of demon anatomy revolves around their demonic heart and its blood (which is concentrated energy/magic- the color of which is determined by their elemental type, Shargon is type lightning, which is generally a mid blue going into greenish, but there are always slight color variations even between the same types) their bones too are made of crystalized demonic blood, its coated in a black layer of depleted blood (so the substance without energy) that acts as a sort of armor and makes the bones more durable and able to withstand even alot of bending (when a demon shape shifts their bones have to decrystalize to some extent to shift into different forms and sizes, its really uncomfortable or even painful depending on how well trained they are or in stressful situations since that process is something that needs to be done right or they end up really messy and vunerable) bones are also hollow and filled with demonic blood, it also aids their flexibility and the shapeshifting process and makes sure that if one is broken its quickly healed again since the bone doesnt have to decrystalize first

teeth and claws are not hollow and lack the black layer bc it eases using magic/energy through them and makes them harder to break, unlike the bones they are as hard as possible instead of flexible; the liquid blood isnt necessary since a broken tooth or claw usually gets discarded entirely and regrown from the ground up

horns are a mix of both, they dont have a black layer but are hollow (at least partly through) and filled with an even more concentrated version of demonic blood, very similar to heartblood (only found in the heart, the most concentrated version with a similar consistency; like a thick floaty liquid) and connected to it (you could see or feel a pulse in Shargons horns) but it lacks the genetic information actual heartblood carries- horns act mainly as a sensing aid ... like antenna in a way, or how whales melons work, it aids in sensing energy nearby, navigation, limited long range communication or if an energy wave that was sent out has hit something like a living demon .. or a dead one if theres still some remaining energy left (works best between demons of the same elemental type, but isnt limited to them and also depends on how skilled or mighty a demon is- for example, Eadrya, type water but extraordinarily powerful, could sent out even a really weak energy wave and they would be able to sense if it hits Shargon while Shargon himself might just feel there was some energy, but not from who or what type) and can pick up frequencies of distress calls that have lost the hearable part

the downside to that is if a horn was to break it might actually be the most painful thing to happen to a demon, even worse so if it draws blood, its like stabbing the most sensitive nerve that goes through their head and spine and heart, depending on the severity of the injury it might be paralyzing or drive a demon temporarily mad- worse than a stabwound into the heart itself

not all demons have horns, they are a very diverse kind of creatures that are each built better for different things (Eadrya doesnt have horns, the extreme amount of energy at their disposal pretty much closes any gap horns could have made in aiding senses- an advantage being less vunerability, a downside though is easy disturbance of anything relating to those senses by other energy types or frequencies .... and a general downside to Eadryas .. overproduction of magic even, is being basically the most detectable demon in the world due to them constantly emitting energy at very high levels if they are in good health)

(since Shargon (he/they) is the main example here, hes a demon that is built for speed and flexibility, for quick strikes out of the shadows, his bones are thin and bendable, his teeth are long, sharp and angled in various ways so if he bites he can lock it down hard without escape, even if the force of his bite isnt the strongest in itself- he can turn his head fully around multiple times (like an owl but worse) and his throat is largely made of pure muscle (the most muscle on him is his throat and to the big primary arms) perfect to bite and pull and twist until whatever he bit into gives out, getting him off of something is rather impossible without doing massive damage to it in the process (unless he lets go willingly of course)

-since i compared him to Eadrya (they/them) already- they are quick but only in water, their sheer size, thick skin, bones and well, body is really hard to damage, their teeth are small and all in the same shape in two rows on both sides, their maw is really wide and their bite force is pretty strong- if they bite it is with the intent to bite clean through, if that doesnt work they would need to let go and go for it again here older art but just to give you a general idea for Eadrya (demon form):

Thor (any pronouns) is another one that is really different- they are massive and armored with thick, hard plates, they are slow and have little mobility but are nigh impossible to take down unless you know exactly how; they dont have alot of teeth, rather small and probably not very sharp either and due to her two big tusks going forward its rather hard to actually get to anything to bite into, if she were though it would be somewhat akin to alligators (i think) that just smash their massive bones together to break whatever is in between with little to no actual 'biting' going on

(rather outdated art that i still, somehow, like- her humaoid form:

and an even MORE outdated ancient doodle of her demon form:

the only somewhat accurate part is the general shape and head, though the mouth isnt accurate anymore either ... barely anything is but something is better than nothing and the roughly lobster inspired design idea is still currently the idea)

OC lore ramble over :3

[twoflowers]

Sentimentality - Sanji x Reader

Read on AO3

Description: The newest addition to the Straw Hat crew grapples with their easy affection, and especially with the attention from their doting cook.

Tags: SFW, character study, slight slash, scientist reader, no use of Y/N, female reader. First impressions, nakamaship.

Word count: 1397

Special thanks to @mere-mortifer for the encouragement to post my Sanji fics. I love your Sanji very much.

This one isn't very slash-y and honestly feels a bit incomplete to me, but I'm obsessed with this man in a psychological way and need to post at least something, even if it captures only an ounce of my insanity about him and the crew.

Also: thinking about making this into more of a series (as the reader is kind of based on an OC of mine...!). Please, please, Sanji fans: give me any and every prompt you can imagine.

__

Sentimentality

Every morning you settle into the golden-glowing comfort of the breakfast table: the press of arms against arms, the jostling of bodies to the time of the waves, the hard wooden bench softened despite it all. 

The captain is not at all what you expected. He’s a kid, and a downright grabby one at that. You have to slap his rubbery hands away from your plate at every meal, and if you don’t catch him, Nami always does.

You sit next to Chopper, whose tiny, furry body is so very warm. He likes to plan the day over breakfast, still thrilled to have another scientist on board. You watch him nibble at pancakes with his blocky teeth (it really is hard not to coo over him, but he has his dignity to uphold, so you restrain yourself!) and sip his milk and grin, white mustache and all. Robin leans over with a napkin to clean Chopper’s mouth, and he fusses, but concedes. Some of his drawings hang on the fridge, secured by magnets. You think of siblings with a pang in your chest every time you see them.

Roronoa Zoro is inexplicably softer than you imagined. There’s something about the curve of his cheeks, the careless sprawling stance, the way his nose whistles lightly while he sleeps. He barks laughter at Luffy, leans on his swords like they’re children, even smells better than Nami likes to say.

Robin terrified you at first, but you quickly became a sucker for her mellow gaze and old book smell. Besides, educated women are always of interest to you. Nami and Robin are incredible, always encouraging: proof that somehow, someway, a woman who has been chased out of her old life and hunted by the darkest parts of herself can uncurl and be seen. 

The first few sleepless nights aboard the Going Merry, you stared at the ceiling, heart pounding at the vulnerability of sharing a room. You are a scientist. You’ve long denounced the need for sentimentality, though Luffy manages to wring a few spare drops out of you every day. How could you have accounted for the love that permeates every board of this ship? How have you gone your entire life wondering if belonging like this could exist, only to find it among a notorious pirate crew- a crew who, really, is more bumbling than you could have imagined? How can Luffy stroll into any place- town, restaurant, heart- and break down every wall without a second thought?

And the cook… 

You have to look away from him sometimes. The first time he made a meal for you, he sank to a kneel to present it, like he was a servant and you were a queen who could take his head at any moment, and have it willingly. You took the plate with shaking hands and nodded a thank you. When he stood back up, there was a bit of dust on the knee of his fine-pressed pants. You kept your eyes on it as he fluttered around, crooning to the women and brusquely serving the men. What were you supposed to make of that?

Sanji squeezes your heart like it’s an old rag. The way he remembers your favored flavor profiles makes your toes curl. You’re not even sure you’ve managed to smile at him yet, even a month after joining the crew, because he throws you so off-balance you’re left feeling like you’ve been thrust into a hurricane without any solid structure to grip onto.

His… whatever it is- admiration, loyalty, devotion, all of the above and more- has only gotten stronger in the past month. He floats into the lab as if on a cloud to tell you he made you a snack and left it outside, mindful of the potential for contamination. He tells you how lovely your eyes look that day, and every day- that you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and that he lives to serve you.

“A snack for you is outside, miss,” he says today, like he’s itching to bow. “I prepared carrot cake and spiced milk for you, with turmeric, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Let me know if anything is not to your liking.”

You side-eye him from your bench, pipette paused in midair. Miss, miss, miss. Every time he says it you’re left breathless. As usual, you nod and mutter a thank you, still focusing on your work, lest you do something stupid like offering him your hand to kiss or backing him into a wall to taste his neck.

He usually leaves right away, but you don’t hear the door close today. When you look back at Sanji, he’s beaming, eyes practically heart-shaped. 

“May I make anything else for you?”

“No. That will suffice.” Something in your chest is shouting at you for being so formal with him. 

“I like carrot cake,” you add.

Sanji’s smile turns tremulous and melty. A hand moves to cover his heart. “I will keep that in mind. And I don’t wish to disturb you- your work is very important- but it will be best eaten soon, while it’s still warm.”

You surprise yourself by setting down your pipette and moving to the sink to wash your hands. Sanji is still lingering at the door as you scrub between your fingers and under your nails, similar to the way he washes his after handling raw meat. You take extra time drying off, the feeling of him behind you prickling at your neck. 

In the hallway, the cake and milk are placed carefully on a table. The mug is to the top right of the plate, handle tilted at the perfect angle for you to grab. A dainty dessert fork leans against the plate, next to two sprigs of mint forming a heart.

“I almost don’t want to eat it,” you say. “It looks perfect.”

“I can make you as many as you’d like, all with love. Please. It’s my pleasure.”

You lift the fork, and Sanji leans forward with the eagerness of a child witnessing a magic trick. When you take a bite of the cake, his visible eye widens.

“It’s delicious. Thank you, Sanji.”

Sanji lets out a shaky breath. “Of course, miss. I can make you anything your heart desires, provided I have the ingredients. And if I don’t, I will make sure to procure them as soon as we make landfall. And if you want them before that, I'll swim to shore.” 

Why does the man have such puppy-dog eyes? You know with certainty that he would do anything you asked of him, or else die trying, and you’ve hardly spoken to him. There’s a string of tension in his body when he’s around you, loosened slightly now that you’ve complimented his food. Is he just that eager to please?

You have met many men happy to go through the motions of wooing you for one reason alone, but something about Sanji tells you that he would be at your beck and call for the rest of your life, even if you never said “thank you” again.

You nod, moving to try the spiced milk, which is, of course, perfect. 

“I noticed that you like cinnamon, so I tweaked the recipe to add more.” He sounds hopeful. “You don’t find the turmeric overpowering?”

“No, no,” you shake your head, lowering the drink. “It’s good. You’re very… perceptive.”

“Of course! I pay special attention to my lovely ladies.”

You’re included in this group, somehow. Why does that make you want to push and prod at him, despite the measured indifference you’ve culminated?

“Sanji,” you say, and he snaps to attention.

“Yes?”

“Could I have some marmalade with this?”

This is the first time you’ve requested anything from him. A broad smile spreads across his face. 

“Right away.” He falls into a bow before walking down the hallway. When he’s out of view, you hear him begin to run, legs pounding the wooden floor strong enough to rattle the pictures frames on the walls. 

You pluck a sprig of mint from the cake, grinding it between your teeth. It’s refreshing, new, with a bit of a kick. You smile to yourself, imagining Sanji in the kitchen, carefully scooping marmalade into a dainty dish, heart thrumming with the thrill of receiving an order from his newest object of affection.