#tag list cleanup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cryoculus · 26 days ago

Text

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

�� word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service.

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?”

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right.

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with.

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you.

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room.

And you did. For about twenty minutes.

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that.

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus.

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break.

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift.

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?”

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #phainon x reader #phainon #phainon hsr #full length fic #cryoculus

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wispitty · 24 days ago

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shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.2}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 2: Red Shawl

The moon hung high by the time the laughter began to fade, the Red Hair Pirates trickling out in pairs and small groups, still talking over each other and making vague promises not to cause too much trouble in town. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. Beckman gave Makino a two-fingered wave on his way out, and Shanks lingered near the counter, the last to leave—as always.

He’d already clasped Makino’s hand in a warm goodbye, exchanging a few final words only old friends understood. But even after stepping back, he didn’t move to follow his crew.

Not yet.

He turned toward the bar instead, the space now much quieter save for your quiet cleanup. You looked up as he approached, already expecting it.

“How much do I owe?” he asked casually, as if it had just now occurred to him.

You smiled gently. “Already covered.”

Shanks blinked. “…What?”

You laughed under your breath, not quite meeting his eyes. “It came out of mine.”

He stared for a second, confused. “Yours?”

“As a thank you,” you said softly, gathering a few glasses and stacking them neatly.

“For earlier. And… for a warm welcome back.”

That tug in his chest returned—low and steady.

Of course it did.

Because here you were, smiling again like it was nothing. Like kindness was just something you gave without thinking twice. And it floored him more than any battlefield ever had.

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You trying to start a tab war with me?”

You tilted your head. “Would I win?”

Shanks grinned. “You’re already ahead.”

And for the first time all night… he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave just yet.

So when the moment presented itself—when the last of his crew had wandered off into the moonlit streets and the bar had slipped into that soft, breath-between-heartbeats quiet—he leaned a little closer across the bar.

“As a thank you,” he said, voice low and warm, “let me walk you home.”

You blinked, surprised. “O-Oh! That’s very kind, but, um—I don’t live that far. I’d hate to trouble you…”

Your voice trailed off under his steady gaze, and you could already feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Behind you, like a perfectly timed ambush, Makino chimed in without missing a beat.

“Shanks, I’d appreciate it if you could walk her home. She’s still new here, and her sense of direction isn’t the best.”

Your eyes went wide. “M-Miss Makino!”

But she just smiled slyly, stacking a few plates without even turning around. It was clear she wasn’t about to save you from this one.

Shanks glanced between the two of you with that easy grin of his, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was amused or just genuinely pleased.

“Well,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket, “can’t say no to that, can I?”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to stall—but the words dissolved before they could form. You didn’t have a real excuse. Not one you could lean on that didn’t sound... silly.

So you nodded. Slowly. “Alright then.”

Shanks gave a small, satisfied hum as he turned toward the door, waiting for you to follow.

Outside, the sea breeze kissed the night air, cool and quiet, carrying the scent of brine and summer grass.

He let you lead for a bit, staying just a step behind with his one hand tucked into his coat pocket. But when you hesitated at a fork in the road, brow furrowed in faint confusion, he chuckled softly.

“…Left,” he murmured. “You were about to walk straight into the mayor’s garden.”

You flushed. “I-I knew that.”

“Of course,” he said, grinning. “I just thought I’d spare the roses.”

You laughed despite yourself, and beside you, Shanks couldn’t help but glance over—really look at you.

And wonder, quietly, what exactly he’d just gotten himself into.

Eventually, the two of you continued down the gently winding path, your footsteps soft against the cobblestone, the night air wrapping around you like a worn blanket.

The village was quiet at this hour—just the distant sound of waves lapping the shore and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead. Every now and then, a porch light flickered in the distance, or a windchime sang low and lonesome from someone’s balcony.

You kept your eyes forward, clutching your hands together in front of you, as if trying to will the flush off your face. Shanks, meanwhile, walked with the practiced calm of a man who had no trouble filling silence. And yet… he didn’t.

He didn’t fill it with banter. Didn’t tease or push.

He just stayed there. With you. Quietly.

That, somehow, was even more disarming.

Eventually, you spoke—just to break the tension in your chest.

“Sorry if this is a little… boring. I’m sure you’ve seen far more exciting places.”

Shanks tilted his head, considering the stars above. “I’ve seen a lot of places,” he said. “Some loud. Some bright. Some with names I couldn’t even pronounce.”

He looked over at you again, one brow raised.

“But not all of them make you feel like you can breathe a little easier, just being there.”

You blinked. “Is that what this place is for you?”

A beat passed.

His gaze lingered on you—soft, unreadable.

“Could be,” he said simply.

That made your heart skip.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, a little smaller than before, but real.

The two of you turned the last corner, and your small home came into view, a warm porch light still flickering beside the door.

“Well…” you said, stopping at the gate. “Here I am.”

Shanks stopped beside you, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.

You were close. Not quite touching. But the space between you felt thin—fragile, like a thread could snap at any second if either of you leaned just a little closer.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft. “For walking me home.”

Shanks nodded. “Thank you. For the drink. And the company.”

You glanced up at him, your lips parting like you might say something else—but nothing came.

He looked at you a heartbeat longer, then stepped back with that same small smile, nodding once more before turning.

“U-Um, wait!”

Shanks stopped mid-step, his boot heel scuffing softly against the stone path.

He turned back to face you, one brow raised in quiet surprise—but not impatience. If anything, there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to speak again… but had been hoping you might.

You stood there by your gate, fingers curling into the hem of your sleeve, your heart beating louder than it had all day.

You didn’t even know exactly what you meant to say—only that you didn’t want him to leave just yet.

Not like that.

“I…” you started, voice catching slightly before you steadied it. “I’m glad you stayed tonight.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that same unreadable, lopsided smile. “Is that so?”

You nodded. “I… I’ve felt a little out of place here since I arrived. Everyone’s nice, but… tonight, um… I didn’t feel so out of place.”

The wind stirred, brushing between you like a whispered nudge.

Shanks said nothing for a moment.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward again. Just a few paces—enough to close the gap until the porch light cast both of your shadows together on the path.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t even lean in.

But the way he looked at you made your breath catch.

“…Then I’m glad I stayed too,” he said quietly. “And if it helps... I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Thank you.” You huff a small laugh, eyes finding the ground. “When you say it like that? Makes it easier to believe.”

Suddenly, a chilly breeze blows by as if to interrupt the moment before it could unravel anything else from you.

A realization dawns on you as Shanks lazily turns his gaze to the coast.

“Wow, uh, it’s gotten a bit chilly, hasn’t it? Um, one second, I’ll be right back!”

He watched you disappear into the house in a flurry of soft steps and trailing words, the door clicking shut behind you. For a moment, Shanks just stood there beneath your porch light, brow slightly furrowed, the faintest breath of amusement ghosting over his lips.

You’re too kind for your own good.

When the door creaked open again and you came rushing back out with a folded shawl clutched in your hands, your expression was so earnest—so worried for him of all people—that it genuinely disarmed him.

“Here,” you said, coming up to him without hesitation. “Take this. I’d hate for you to catch something foul.”

Before he could even respond, your hands had already gently wrapped the shawl around his shoulders, adjusting it over the collar of his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. The fabric smelled faintly of vanilla.

Worn, soft. Warm.

Shanks looked down at you as you fussed with the ends, your eyes focused on your task, completely unaware of the fact that no one touched him like this. No one had in a long time.

Not like this.

Not this gently.

Not in decades.

“…You do realize,” he said after a beat, “I’ve survived storms at sea with nothing but a bottle of rum and a half-torn coat.”

You looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “Then I guess this’ll be a nice change.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

And didn’t take it off.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice a little rougher this time. “For worrying.”

His eyes held yours then—no teasing, no jokes. Just something quieter. Something real.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he added.

“Don’t worry about returning it. I have plenty.”

A beat.

“I, um, like making them… I think I actually might have too many to count. So, really, keep it.”

Shanks blinked.

Then—he laughed.

Not the loud, rowdy kind his crew was used to echoing across the deck, but something smaller. Warmer. The kind that caught in his chest before it ever reached his throat.

“You like making them, huh?” he repeated, watching you with that lopsided grin growing slow and fond. “Now that’s dangerous.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Dangerous?”

He stepped back just enough to tug the edge of the shawl lightly in his hand, as if showing it off.

“Because now I know this one’s mine. Suits me too well to give it back. Even matches my hair.”

You flushed at that, your eyes briefly flicking down to the knit resting over his shoulders—dark red thread with tiny flecks of color.

It did match his hair.

You hadn’t thought about it much while rushing to grab one, but now that he said it…

You tried to cover the warmth in your cheeks with a laugh. “Well… I suppose it’s yours, then.”

Shanks offered a small nod of mock solemnity. “I’ll treasure it like a medal.”

The breeze carried through again, softer this time. Like even the wind knew it didn’t want to interrupt what had settled between the two of you.

A moment that didn’t need anything extraordinary to mean something.

Just a look.

And a borrowed red shawl.

And the kind of quiet goodbye that made him promise, in his own way, that he wasn’t going far.

“…Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

He turned at last, this time with no hesitation. But as he walked down the path, you could see it—his hand lifting, fingers grazing the edge of the fabric you’d wrapped around him like he could still feel where your hands had been.

And just before he disappeared around the corner, he looked back—just once.

And smiled.

#shanks x reader #shanks #red haired shanks #akagami no shanks #one piece #one piece shanks #shanks x you #shanks x y/n #one piece fic #one piece fanfiction #shanks fic #shanks: a new hire

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bellaxgiornata · 4 months ago

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You Are My Sunshine [5]

Pairing: Jax Teller x Fem!Reader Word count: 5.4k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Teller Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; sunshine!Reader/grumpy!Jax (somewhat), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, canon divergent, canon typical violence (more tags to possibly come)

a/n: Lots of Jax and Reader interacting in this update, which is quite lengthy in itself. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

tag list: @mariamadison6-blog @moongirlgodness @kmc1989 @thedreadandthefugitivemind @fallout-girl219 @nfm-12

Closing down the shop tonight felt far more like a chore than usual. Today had been a long, busy day at Honest Coffee since you’d decided to run a special event this afternoon–half off drinks for a few hours during the time when most people in Charming usually finished work for the day. You’d called it Happy Hour, and it had led to a rush of revolving customers all late afternoon until almost closing time.

Now you were exhausted closing things up by yourself. Miguel, the barista who you had on the schedule to close with you tonight, had an exam early in the morning tomorrow. Knowing how incredibly nervous he’d been about the upcoming test with how he’d been talking about it his entire shift after school, you’d rushed him out the door for some last minute studying instead of letting him deal with the cleanup. You figured you could handle the aftermath of the day by yourself. But as you swept the floors and wiped down the counters and tables tonight, even you were aware that you’d worked with far less enthusiasm than normal.

Attempting to finish cleaning in a rush, all you wanted was to get done for the evening so you could settle down on your couch at home with some leftover pasta and one of your shows. But before that could even happen, you still had to walk all the way home first. Because on the nice evenings that you closed your shop, you usually walked home since you didn’t live too far from downtown Charming. Though, admittedly tonight you weren’t exactly looking forward to the added exercise that was just another delay before you could sit down and finally relax.

It wasn’t until twenty minutes after you’d closed the shop that you were finally turning off the lights before making your way to the door. With your purse slung over your shoulder, you pushed the door open and stepped out into the warm evening air. The sun was beginning to sink closer to the horizon, the sky a wash of pretty pinks and oranges. Taking a moment as you stepped onto the sidewalk, you unzipped your purse as you turned back towards the door, digging through your bag’s contents. You searched for the shop keys before pulling them out, but you’d barely just gotten the key into the lock of the door when a voice nearby startled you so bad you nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Head whipping to the side, you were surprised to see Jax sitting at one of the outdoor tables in front of your coffee shop. There was a lit cigarette in his hand, a trail of smoke drifting upwards from it as his blue eyes fixed on you. You noticed the way his mouth curved faintly upwards at how you’d frightened at the sound of his voice before his expression quickly shifted back into something serious.

Clearing your throat, your attention returned to locking the door in front of you. You twisted the key as your racing heart steadily began to slow back to its normal rhythm after that scare, questions already starting to arise in your mind about why he was sitting out here. It was obvious he’d been there for a bit waiting on you, but you weren’t entirely sure about the reason as to why he’d been sitting here waiting for you.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Figured you saw me sitting here and were just ignoring me.”

“I didn’t notice you, actually,” you answered distractedly as you focused on locking up. “Was in a hurry to close the shop for the night. Been a long day.”

Pulling the key from the door, you slipped it back into your purse before turning around and focusing on Jax where he sat at the table. The cigarette was in his mouth now as he took a drag, your eyes briefly focusing on the way his lips pursed around it. He took a deep inhale before removing the cigarette from between his lips, turning his head and blowing the cloud of smoke away from you. As Jax sat further back in the metal chair, he stretched his legs out in front of himself on the sidewalk as if he was making himself comfortable, though he looked the furthest thing from it as he sat there.

“I was wrong,” he said after a moment.

His eyes remained fixed on the cigarette between his fingers as he knocked some of the ash from the tip. Eyebrows raising marginally at his comment, you wondered if an actual apology was coming next or if that was going to be the extent of it. Honestly, you weren’t sure if you’d even expected him to actually say anything about the way he’d treated you the other night, so the fact that he’d shown up here of his own volition was a bit of a surprise in itself.

“Those things I said the other night,” Jax continued after another brief silence, his eyes still intentionally avoiding you as he spoke, “they were shitty. I admit that. I don’t really know you and you’d done nothing to deserve me speaking to you like that. I just…”

He trailed off, his eyes still on the cigarette pinched between his fingers before he pulled it back to his lips for another deep drag. You watched him as the golden glow of the setting sun behind him swathed him in a soft warm light. It was an odd contrast to that distant, pained look lingering in his eyes as he kept avoiding the sight of you.

“You just what?” you prompted gently.

As if the sound of your voice had broken through whatever thoughts were running through his mind, he withdrew the cigarette from between his lips before expelling the smoke. His head turned towards you, his eyes finally meeting yours again. For some reason you felt a little transfixed by them this time with how intently he was holding your gaze captive.

“I was pissed off that night about a lot of shit, none of it having to do with you,” he continued. “And I saw you in your shop looking all happy, like nothing could ever be wrong in the world, and it just, I don’t know–” he shook his head, an agitated expression crossing his features before it vanished, “–it pissed me off more. And for some reason I just wanted to knock the smile off your face. Wanted you to stop being so goddamned cheerful for once.”

Nodding slowly at his explanation, you crossed your arms over your chest as you eyed him. “And did that make you feel any better?” you asked, genuinely curious. “Upsetting me? Trying to bring me down to whatever you were feeling?”

Jax sighed deeply, almost visibly deflating in the chair as he drew the cigarette up to his lips for a final drag. Afterwards, he tossed it to the ground and stamped it out with his shoe. A steady stream of smoke blew out from between his lips as he stared at the butt on the pavement, a crease between his brows.

“No,” he finally admitted. “No it didn’t. If anything I felt like a massive piece of shit afterwards.”

He looked over at where you still stood just in front of your shop’s front door, noticing the way your arms were still crossed over your chest. His bottom lip rolled back between his teeth in silent contemplation as he just looked at you, his eyes studying your face carefully.

“I’m sorry for that, too,” he finally said. “You didn’t deserve me coming into your place and being a bastard. I know that, alright? But I warned you that I’m not a good man. I’m not nice. Certainly not the kinda guy you should be sending free coffees to, especially after I just insulted you.”

“You’re apologizing though, aren’t you?” you pointed out, uncrossing your arms before taking a hesitant step closer to the table he was seated at. “You felt guilty for what you’d said. You just admitted that being hurtful hadn’t brought you joy.”

Jax’s eyes narrowed back at you. It was obvious that now he was really studying you. Taking a few more cautious steps forwards, as if you were approaching a wild animal that might pounce instead of a man who looked worn down, you crossed the distance towards the table. Slowly, you reached a hand out and grabbed the back of the other metal chair before pulling it out, all the while aware of how he was watching your every move carefully.

“What’re you trying to get at?” he finally asked.

Lowering yourself into the chair, you focused solely on him and the way he was examining you. There was something guarded in his expression as he waited for your response, like he was trying to hide part of himself from you.

“I’m getting at the fact that if you really were that awful of a person, you wouldn’t have felt bad for saying those things to me,” you answered, getting comfortable in the chair. “There’d have been no guilt, no regret, and certainly no apology.”

Jax scoffed, rolling his eyes a little. “Apologizing doesn’t suddenly make me a good man somehow, sunshine,” he replied. “It doesn’t just erase shit.”

There was a brief moment before you responded, noticing how he'd taken to calling you that nickname again so easily. Except without the malicious intonation that he’d used last time. It almost sounded affectionate.

“Well, taking your anger out on someone doesn’t make you a bad man, either,” you countered. “It’s not nice and it’s certainly not acceptable, but show me a person who hasn’t done that a handful of times in their life.”

A small, almost surprised laugh fell out of Jax in response. When he looked across the table at you, there was a look of disbelief etched on his face now. He shook his head, a slight crease between his brows as his blue eyes raked over you for a minute.

“I’m not saying what I did the other night alone makes me a bad man, sunshine,” he told you. “I’ve done far worse things than just saying mean shit to someone. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answered. “But considering you’re able to apologize for something like insulting me–to feel bad about it–means you’re not quite the bad guy you make yourself out to be.”

“What?” he asked, his brows furrowing even tighter together at that. “What the hell are you even getting at with that line of thinking?”

A soft huff fell out of you as you relaxed back in the chair, a small smile finally making its way onto your face. He clearly needed it pointed straight out for him because apparently the view he had of himself was just that bleak. He wasn’t getting the point.

“You’re capable of guilt,” you explained. “Remorse. Which are good things that help guide a person to live with at least some semblance of morals. And besides that, you’re taking responsibility for your actions by coming here to apologize to me. If you were truly a horrendous individual, you’d have lashed out and felt nothing about it and never apologized.”

“So what?” he asked, confusion still written all over the way he was looking at you. “That makes me suddenly a good guy in your book? Is that what you’re saying?”

Biting your lip to fight back the growing smile on your face, you shook your head slowly back at him. What was it with everyone assuming a person was one thing or another all the time? That people were just so black and white?

“No,” you began slowly, “I’m saying that makes you human.”

Somehow, he only grew further confused at that. His head tilted slowly to the side as he eyed you skeptically for a long moment, a growing silence dragging out between the two of you. Then gradually, he leaned forward in his chair and rested both of his arms on top of the metal table, his hands clasped together as if you had his full attention. The sun behind him was sinking even lower now, the sky growing a dark orange and purple.

“What’s that mean, sunshine?” he asked curiously.

“It means,” you began, leaning forward in your chair, mirroring his posture as you rested your arms on the table across from him, “that you’re human. Capable of doing both good and bad equally. In my book, you can’t lump someone into one category. It’s not like a–” you paused, gesturing a hand in front of yourself as you tried to find the words you were looking for, “–a tally system or something. Good deeds don’t cancel out bad ones, and bad ones don’t just automatically make you a bad person. People are far too damn complex for that. There’s too many nuances and things to understand and consider.”

Jax’s brows pulled together on his forehead once more as you spoke, a deep crease forming between them as his eyes narrowed at you. It was as if he was hanging off of every word you were saying, sincerely interested in your point of view as he took in your explanation.

“I've never met anyone before who thought like that,” he admitted after a moment. “It’s always been black or white. Good or bad. Straightforward. And I'm always seen as the bad guy.” He paused, giving you a long, hard look before he spoke seriously. “Which I am.”

You breathed out an amused scoff, shaking your head. “I don’t think anything in life is necessarily that straightforward, Jax, let alone the idea of whether someone is morally good or bad.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered that. After a moment, he gestured his chin at you. “Fine, so how do you gauge who’s good or not then? How can you tell for yourself, sunshine?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you answered simply, “By getting to the heart of a person.”

One corner of his lips curved upwards into a small grin instantly, a light flickering behind his eyes at your answer. Almost as if he was amused despite the slight bit of intrigue at the idea.

“Sunshine, there’s no way in hell you can get to the heart of every person you meet,” he pointed out. “Let alone even a handful of people.”

With another smile spreading across your face, you playfully pointed a finger at him from across the little table. “Exactly,” you replied. “That’s my point. We never truly know people, therefore it’s not fair to lump them into a category and make assumptions. Because you have no idea why people do what they do, or how they feel about the actions they take, whether they're being eaten alive by the things they've done or not. And I think the guilt a person carries says more about them than most people think.”

Something hard to decipher flickered behind his blue eyes as he listened to you, one of his hands running over the blonde hairs of his scruff. Another pregnant pause filled the air between you both, the street lights coming to life as the sun sunk down almost out of view now.

“You really aren't putting on a front as a friendly barista, are you?” he questioned back.

A soft laugh passed between your lips at the mistake he kept making before you once more corrected him. “I’m the coffee shop owner, Jax. I’m not a barista. I just like slinging coffee sometimes, too.” A genuine warm and friendly smile spread across your mouth next as you realized that he finally wasn't questioning you quite so much now. “And no, I'm not. This really is who I am.”

Jax continued quietly observing you, his eyes scrutinizing you closely. “So you view…everyone like they're just good then?” he asked skeptically. “That's how it works for you?”

Shrugging a shoulder lightly at the question, you didn't know how to necessarily answer that. “I mean, there are things that I personally have a difficult time reconciling with. Things that make it difficult for me to see the good sometimes. I’m only human myself,” you answered carefully. “But–”

Jax immediately perked up at that, his head cocking curiously to the side as one of his blonde brows arched back at you. “So absolute no's do exist with you?” he asked, cutting you off. “Enlighten me on that, darlin’.”

You hesitated for a moment at how he’d interpreted your explanation before carefully trying to answer him. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if I'd call it that exactly. That's sort of where the gray area comes into play, right?” you told him. “Because there are things that feel completely unforgivable, but how can you know someone isn't capable of change? That someone can't feel remorse and be reformed?” At the look on his face, you quickly added on, “I'm not saying I’m naive enough to think that's true of everyone, I'm just saying, you never know with a person. Which is where the weight of someone's guilt factors in and why I say the only way you can know is to know someone’s heart.”

Jax’s fingers slowly ran across his mouth as he studied you across the table from him, clearly considering what you’d just told him. You could see a question beginning to form in his eyes, like it was sitting there right on the tip of his tongue, and you were just waiting for him to finally say what he was thinking.

“Okay, so let's say hypothetically that my club was more like a gang and less of a club,” Jax began slowly. His blue eyes intensely studied you from across the small table, as if your response to this question was going to tell him something he deemed important. “Would I hypothetically fall on your absolute no's? Assuming I did things you'd expect a gang to do–things of the unforgivable nature–am I one of those people you'd have a hard time ‘reconciling’ with?”

That had taken you entirely off guard. Wordlessly you sat there across from him, seriously pondering the question he’d posed you. It wasn't exactly an easy one to answer because you knew as well as anyone in Charming that the motorcycle club was in fact a criminal organization and not actually a group of motorcycle enthusiasts, even if you didn't know the full extent of what all they did. But at the same time, you'd lived in Charming long enough to also know that Jax’s father had been the one to start the whole thing and that Jax had grown up entrenched in that life since birth. He'd known that life to be normal.

And yet here he was, showing up at your coffee shop to apologize for being mean and callous a few nights ago. Showing that he reflected on his actions, thought about how they affected others. Probably also had some things eating away at him internally judging by that dark glimmer often hiding in his eyes.

So how did you judge someone for circumstances beyond their control? Jax couldn't help that he was born into the family that he was just as much as he couldn't be blamed for the way he was raised. And sure, you could argue that he was a man capable of making his own choices now, but considering how he was shaped and how his own moral compass was forged, it wasn’t realistic for someone to just know any different than what they always had. He was a product of his upbringing, but that also didn't mean he wasn't capable of change–if that's what he wanted. But you also had no idea what he wanted because you barely knew him.

So could you so easily conclude that he was someone you’d find unforgivable? Someone incapable of reformation and beyond redemption? No, not really. You hadn't seen enough of what was in his heart to make you think he was truly some evil villain.

Eventually, you slowly shook your head at the question. Jax's eyes widened marginally at that, as if he was surprised that was your response.

“No, because I don't really know enough about you as a person to make that call,” you answered. “You've done illegal things–hypothetically–but I've seen your club do charity work, too. Help the community. I think you all care about this town more than it realizes. In my mind, there's just not enough for me to form an opinion on what’s in your heart, so to speak.”

Jax quietly sat there, his arms still resting on the table as one hand continued running over his mouth in thought, the tips of his fingers passing absently back and forth along his bottom lip. Your attention dropped to his rings, curiously wondering if there was any meaning behind them. He'd always had them on whenever you'd seen him and there were quite a few of them.

“So you're saying,” Jax began slowly, his voice drawing your attention back to his eyes, “that you'd need to see more?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you nodded at the question. “Yeah, I'd say that's a fair assumption.”

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing marginally at you before he continued. “Do you want to see more?”

Yet again Jax had thrown out another question you hadn’t exactly expected. Surprise briefly flickered over your features as that question sat between the two of you. Was he…offering to let you get just a bit closer to him?

“What do you mean?” you asked cautiously.

He huffed out a laugh at you, that darkness in his eyes lightening a little as the smallest smile crossed his lips. “I'm asking if you genuinely don't mind me coming to your shop, sunshine. Especially after I was a massive prick to you. Do you actually not mind seeing more of me?”

“As long as you refrain from using me as a verbal punching bag,” you began, a smile once more forming on your face as you began to understand his question, “then no, I don't mind seeing you here. I told you the first time you stopped in Honest Coffee that you were welcome here just as much as anyone else and I meant it.”

The small smile on his lips grew into a wider grin, a warmth reaching his eyes that you hadn't seen there before. For a moment, you found yourself unable to do anything else besides sit there admiring the sight of him smiling back at you. He looked completely different than all those other times you’d seen him when he was tense and scowling across the street. The deep creases and frown lines had completely smoothed out on his face, and there was a light in his eyes that made them look somehow even more blue. He looked handsome in a way that had your heart beating just a bit faster when he looked like that.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he replied, pushing the metal chair back and rising to his feet. “But I won't keep you any longer darlin’. I just wanted to apologize for being an asshole the other night. I really am sorry.”

Pushing your own chair back, you rose to your feet as well. The day's exhaustion once more hit you, the aches in your body returning. The prospect of walking home in the warm summer night now that it was even later seemed daunting after the day you’d had, but you didn’t have a choice.

“I appreciate the apology, Jax,” you told him, sending him a tired smile. “You're forgiven, by the way. Especially after taking the time to understand me better instead of continuing to blindly judge me.”

He laughed lightly, taking a couple of steps backwards towards the street, his eyes still on you. “Could say the same about you. You're definitely unique, sunshine,” he told you with a grin. “Don't think many like you exist.”

Hands wrapping around the straps of your purse, you took a few steps backwards down the sidewalk yourself. “Probably not,” you agreed. “You have a good night though, Jax.”

Turning around, you focused your attention on the sidewalk as you started to make your way down it in the direction of your street. It was about a fifteen minute walk, but after being on your feet so much today, you winced at how uncomfortable each step already felt. But you hadn't gone more than a handful of steps before Jax was calling out behind you.

“You're not walking home, are you?”

Looking over your shoulder at him behind you, you stopped in place on the sidewalk. He was already walking back over towards you, something like concern written on his features.

“I usually do when it's nice out,” you replied, turning around to face him.

Jax finished crossing the remaining distance between you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. That look of concern remained when he came to a stop a few feet away.

“It's late, sweetheart,” he pointed out. “And dark. You probably shouldn’t be walking home by yourself. It’s not necessarily safe and all.”

Waving him off with a dismissive hand, you shook your head. “It's fine. I don't live far and it's not like I haven't walked through Charming alone at night before.”

“You’re too damn trusting of everyone for me to feel comfortable with that,” he teased. He paused for a second before he gestured his head behind him at the clubhouse across the street. “Let me give you a ride home. I'll feel better knowing nothing happened to you because I kept you so late.”

Eyes shifting to where he'd gestured, you spotted the ever present line of bikes in the lot. Something unexplainable fluttered in your stomach, but whatever it was wasn't exactly an unpleasant sensation.

“You…want to drive me home on your bike?” you questioned carefully, attention returning to him.

“If that's not a problem, yeah,” he told you. “Strictly just to make sure you get home safe, sunshine. No ulterior motives despite the things I'm sure you've heard about me, I promise.”

Chewing your bottom lip in thought, you mulled his offer over. You really didn't want to walk all the way home tonight after the day you’d had, and it wasn't like he couldn't find out where you lived if he wanted to in order to do something shady. Considering the power the Sons wielded in Charming, you knew he could easily find your address if he wanted to–though you didn’t remotely get a feeling of being unsafe around him. So was there really any harm if he gave you a ride? It wasn't that far of a drive anyway.

“Okay,” you accepted after a brief deliberation. “I suppose I wouldn't mind not walking tonight, it's been a long day.”

A little grin slipped onto his lips before he gestured his head back towards the clubhouse. “Then c'mon, sunshine. Let me take you home.”

As you began to cross the street, Jax fell in step beside you. His hands were still in his pockets, that small grin on his lips as he walked. But you were focused on the clubhouse, faint music and laughter coming from inside. Were they already partying again? It was still fairly early, though you supposed that probably meant nothing to them.

“My bike is over here,” he told you.

Letting him walk ahead of you, you followed after him through the lot. As he walked, your eyes drifted to the reaper patch on the back of his kutte, never having really examined it this closely before. You'd been curiously inspecting the scythe it was holding when a voice across the lot drew both yours and Jax’s attention.

“I was looking for you, Jax!”

Turning towards the voice, you spotted a petite blonde in short shorts and a cropped top making her way over towards him. She only noticed you long enough to send a sharp, piercing glare in your direction before her attention returned to Jax as she threw him sad, puppy dog eyes. Your brow arched curiously at her quick dismissal of you and the way she was interacting with him.

In front of you, Jax tensed at the sight of her before a deep, tired sigh fell out of him. “What is it, Ima?” he asked.

She continued closing the distance between them, her focus solely on Jax. Something about her seemed to give you pause, but you quietly stayed back and just watched the interaction. You had no idea who she was to him.

“I was hoping for a ride home,” she told him, stopping to talk to him at a fairly intimate distance. “I was having trouble with my car and I brought it in a bit ago, but no one had time to work on it today. And now I need a way to get home.”

You watched as she batted her eyelashes at him, flashing him a bit of a pout. Jax almost appeared annoyed in response as his shoulders tensed further, which was interesting considering how much of a show she was putting on and how familiar she seemed with him.

“Ima, the shop closed over an hour ago,” Jax pointed out. “You could have gotten a ride from any one of the guys in that time. You didn’t need to wait for me.”

“Well,” she continued, her tone dropping into something suggestive as she stepped towards him, raising a hand and resting it against his chest, “I was hoping we could…spend a bit of time together afterwards. You know, as a thank you for helping me out?”

At this point, you weren't sure if you should have just turned around or not. This was beginning to feel too personal, making you uncomfortable to be standing here listening to their conversation. But before you could even turn back around, Jax’s hand reached up and encircled her wrist before removing it from himself.

“Find another ride home tonight, Ima,” he replied firmly. “It ain't gonna be me.”

Jax focused back on you, raising his hand and waving you over with a faint smile. Ima finally returned her attention to you, a bitter glare on her face when she realized why she was being turned down.

“C'mon, sunshine,” Jax said. “Let's get you home before it gets any damn later.”

You saw Ima beside him silently mouth the nickname ‘sunshine’ with a look of sheer contempt on her face. Not really sure what to do in this situation, you just followed after Jax when he waved you over again. When you neared Jax’s bike and he handed you the second helmet, you heard Ima let out something like a frustrated huff before she stalked off towards the clubhouse.

“Ignore her,” Jax told you as he put his own helmet on. “She's always bitching and whining about something.”

Pulling the helmet he had given you on, you eyed him curiously. “Girlfriend of yours?” you asked.

He laughed at that, a loud, hearty noise that drew a smile on your face. Not because of what he’d said, but because, like you’d noticed when he'd smiled at you a bit ago, he looked really good when that darkness behind his eyes dissipated.

“Hell no, darlin’,” he told you, still chuckling at the thought. “I don't do relationships, and if I did, that crazy ass broad would not be the one I'd pick.”

“Probably not the nicest way to talk about someone,” you gently pointed out. “But alright. Not a girlfriend then.”

He shook his head at you, still smiling as his gaze lingered on you for a long moment. Then he turned back towards his bike, swinging his leg over it before looking back at you.

“Hop on, sunshine,” he ordered, one hand patting the space behind him.

Making your way over to the back of the bike, you ignored how awkward it was going to be holding onto him–a man you hardly knew–before you climbed onto the seat behind him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you also chose to ignore the strange flutter of something in your stomach as you pressed yourself to his back.

Jax turned the bike on once you'd settled behind him, the noise even louder than when you always heard them from inside your shop. Glancing over his shoulder at you, Jax sent you a cheeky grin that had your heart stuttering unexpectedly.

“Hang on tight, sunshine,” he teased. “Wanna make sure I get you home nice and safe.”

#jax teller x reader #jax teller x you #jax teller #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller fic #soa fanfiction #soa #sons of anarchy

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ssa-dado · 4 months ago

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The Ship of Theseus (prelude)

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort (?), pining - I really do suck at tagging Summary: Never fuck your boss. Never fuck your best friend. And definitely never fuck Aaron Hotchner. But you did anyways. And now you’re left with the post-coital edition of Mr. Practical and all the messy aftermath that came with it. And a makeout too. Apparently the big scary man fell asleep right into your arms. Warnings: It's mentioned that they fucked. Whoops. IDK. In doubt - +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. No actual smut, but it's STEAMYYYYY... way too suggestive. Also, some cuss words here and there. Hotch being a softie. Word Count: 4.1k Dado's Corner: It’s a Chekhov’s gun of Ethics but without the actual gun… unless, of course, we’re talking about Aaron’s GUNSHOTS - oh, wait, there it is! The gun! Aaron’s thick, throbbing GUNSHOTS - oh shit, that’s so cool

masterlist

If there was ever an Olympic event for post-coital efficiency, your dearest friend – and funnily enough – your boss Aaron Hotchner would be taking home the gold.

Truly, what a sight to behold.

One moment, he was wrecking you within an inch of your sanity, and the next - barely a minute later - him and his ridiculously long legs were back in your bedroom, carrying a towel in one hand, a damp washcloth in the other, like the world’s most disciplined housekeeper.

So proper, so effortlessly composed, even now.

Because of course Aaron Hotchner - former prosecutor, Unit Chief, insufferable neat freak - would handle post-coital cleanup like it was just another task on meticulously organized, color-coded to-do list.

Sex: Completed (highly successful, performance rating: exemplary)

Orgasm(s): Confirmed (3, official review pending, though “best orgasm of my life” was strongly implied)

Post-coital hydration: Pending (but water bottle is within retrieval distance)

Aftercare protocol: Initiated (warm washcloth acquired, towel deployment imminent)

Debriefing & emotional processing: Ongoing (mission parameters unclear, subject remains evasive yet sarcastic)

Sheets: Ruined (replacement required, but can be postponed in favor of further activity)

Boss/subordinate ethical violation acknowledgment: Not yet addressed, deliberately ignored

Cuddling: Proposal under review (high-risk scenario)

Exit strategy: TBD (complications may include the inability to leave this bed for the foreseeable future)

And, obviously, you could not let him get away with that.

"Look at you, being all domesticated," you teased, propping yourself up slightly as he walked over.

"Someone has to take care of you," he shot back smoothly, dropping the towel onto the bed and kneeling beside you like this was normal.

Like you weren’t both still bare, still caught in the strange, floating space that existed after.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

The teasing - the constant, insufferable push and pull - was easy. That was your rhythm. That was safe. But this was something else entirely.

Something that left you both a little flustered, a little unsteady.

Even you - you, who could talk your way out of anything, who thrived on throwing him off - found yourself at a loss, your mouth opening, reaching for something to say, for anything that would keep this from feeling like more than what it was.

But then he touched you.

Pressed the warm cloth to your skin with so much care, with so much intent, and whatever sarcastic remark had been forming on your tongue just evaporated.

It wasn’t fair how tender he could be, how his hands - capable of so much control, so much discipline - could be this gentle, this careful. On you.

"You don’t have to do that," you murmured, breathless and barely audible.

"I know," he said simply, his gaze flicking up just long enough to see you before returning to his task. "But I want to."

So you let him. Let him take care of you.

Let yourself watch him, tracing the way his thick brows furrowed with concentration because he wanted to get it just right, the way his jaw tensed and relaxed as he worked, annoyingly meticulous, like this was just as important as everything that had come before it.

Gentle. Steady. Intimate. Intentional.

In a way that made your chest ache.

In a way that made you terrified of what it meant - now that the lust had passed, now that you were both just... here, bare, with nothing but each other.

And especially when he started pressing slow, lazy kisses along your knee, your already-marked thigh, your hip - like he needed to, like he couldn’t help himself, like he wanted to remind you that he had been there, that you were safe with him, even now.

Every second was more devastating than the last.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a beat, then another, then another, until he could hear how fast your heart was pounding.

"There," he murmured, lips still brushing against your skin. "All set."

You shook your head, forcing a smile, forcing yourself back to safer ground. "So thorough, Hotchner. Truly, I’m impressed."

His mouth quirked, but apparently, he wasn’t done being insufferably tender, kissing your cheek up next. Wasn’t he just adorable?!

"I aim to please," it was so utterly him it made your stomach flip, but not even more Aaron Hotchner than when, suddenly, he was back to bossing you around in your own home.

"Now, we change the bedsheets, take a shower, and then I’ll see you back here so we-"

And then he stopped. Oh no. Cat got your tongue, bossman?

"We what?" you prompted, raising an eyebrow, watching with unholy satisfaction as the tips of his ears turned red.

He cleared his throat, hesitated in a way that was so unlike him it almost hurt to witness."We… could cuddle. If you want. Or talk. Or whatever you want to do, really. No pressure. I can leave, all you have to do is tell me."

The longer he spoke, the redder he got, his words tripping over themselves, and honestly, it was taking everything in you not to burst out laughing right in front of him.

"You’re adorable, you know that?" you said instead, leaning in to press a kiss to his flushed cheek, hopefully to calm him down – or at least that was your excuse. "Big, scary Aaron Hotchner, suggesting cuddling in the same breath as ‘no pressure.’"

You mocked him, because humbling him was your second nature, and judging by the glare he was giving you, you were winning yet another round. Still, you didn’t want him to just leave. That much was obvious.

He exhaled slowly, gaze steady. "So… what do you want?"

You pretended to think about it, dragging it out just to see that little furrow in his brow deepen.

"Well, I suppose I could settle for cuddling… " you mused, letting your fingers ghost along his shoulders, "but only if you’re the little spoon."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Little spoon?"

Oh, wasn’t it just glorious. 2-0

"My house, my rules," you said smugly. "If you don’t like it, next time we’ll do it at your place, and you can do whatever you want."

And the second the words left your mouth, you definitely wanted to die.

Next time.

As if this was a thing. As if you had even talked about what it was, what this meant. As if you had acknowledged that what you’d just done was completely, wildly, against every rule in the protocol - and common sense as well.

Especially because he was your boss.

"I’m joking, of course," you backtracked quickly, though you felt the heat creeping up your neck.

"Of course," he echoed, but there was something in his expression, something behind his eyes that said he wasn’t entirely convinced, probably because he caught you with your hands in the cookie jar. "This was…"

Great. The talk.

"An accident," you supplied.

"Against protocol," he continued.

No shit, Sherlock.

"Because you’re my boss-"

"We work together," he chimed in, but his voice was softer now, trailing.

"Could cost us our careers," you pointed out, waiting for him to acknowledge it, to confirm the obvious.

"When there’s a pattern of offending behavior," he murmured, almost to himself, slipping into technicalities - because of course he would.

But then - he smirked. Just the slightest tilt of his lips, still – he smirked.

Oh.

And that could only mean one thing.

"A pattern," you echoed, watching him carefully.

And just like that, because he was only a man - logical, brilliant, but still just a man - he reached the same inevitable conclusion you had, just a breath later.

His fingers found yours, intertwining, and it was stupid how calming that simple gesture was.

Or maybe it wasn’t the touch itself but the truth laced between your hands.

Or maybe both.

Or maybe it was just this - how the whole conversation had shifted without either of you stopping it.

It didn’t mean you wouldn’t push and pull anymore. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t still play cat and mouse. You would. Just differently now. With your lips on the other’s skin instead of just grazing the air.

"We’re very good at patterns," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, pressing a kiss there.

"At recognizing patterns," you corrected, your breath hitching as you tilted your head, catching the corner of his mouth with yours.

"What is a pattern, after all?" His lips moved along your cheek, his hands sliding up your spine, settling against your back.

"A repetition," you answered, barely above a whisper, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear.

"A repetition," he echoed, voice rasping, pressing one to the curve of your jaw.

"Exactly that." You murmured as your fingers traced patterns over his bare shoulders.

"Depending on a series of factors," he continued, shifting slightly, pressing another kiss to your collarbone.

"Such as…?" You exhaled against the bruise you left on his throat.

"Subjects involved," he murmured.

"Location," you supplied.

"A very important factor," he agreed, flashing his intoxicating dimples, nudging his nose against yours.

"Fundamental in analysis," you teased, smiling against his lips.

"If the location changes," he murmured, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, "the recognition of the pattern could be…"

You barely heard him, too focused on the way his breath ghosted over your skin, but still - hearing him talk like that, with his voice all low and thoughtful and dangerous, made you shiver.

"Devious," you countered, barely referring to legal theory anymore.

No, he was devious - the way his mouth was just barely touching yours, his hands skimming your sides like he wanted to devour you but was forcing himself to behave.

You've had enough. You tilted your head, catching his lips in a kiss, cutting off whatever legal analysis he thought he was about to give.

"Faulted," he corrected, the words slipping straight into your mouth, delivered onto your tongue by his, deepening the kiss without hesitation.

"You can never be sure…" your voice faltered, swallowed by the way he pulled you flush against his bare body, his fingers digging into the skin of your lower back.

"…if it’s the same pattern," he finished for you, just before his teeth caught your bottom lip, just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Or a copycat," you murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, feeling completely dizzy, straight-up autopilot - you barely even knew what you’d just said.

Judging by the way he chuckled, though, it was probably nonsense.

No, definitely ridiculous, because now he was repeating it back to you, still grinning, "…A copycat? You’re crazy."

Still, he never looked away.

Right… you definitely weren’t exactly talking about unsubs now.

"So one single act can still be admissible?" you asked, fingers idly tracing over his cheek.

"It was just a little lapse in judgment," he chuckled, but you could already feel the gears turning in that brilliant lawyer’s mind, already bending the rules in real time, looking for the inevitable loophole in the very system you both swore by.

"...At your place," he added, like that alone made all the difference. "And that’s just one location."

You smirked. "Not your apartment."

"To be precise," he murmured, his mouth brushing over yours, "it was just your bed… which means that technically-"

"Technically", you could still fuck each other everywhere else.

"Oh, I love the way your brain works…" you hummed, punctuating your words with another kiss, this time against the sharp line of his jaw. "So… not the shower."

And just like that, it became a game.

A list. A reckless, bucket list.

"The desk," he murmured, and fuck, you had to squeeze your thighs together at that one, trying so hard not to let your brain go there - not to picture which specific desk you wanted him to bend you over, not to imagine the feel of his hands gripping your hips, his voice low in your ear, telling you to keep quiet.

Definitely not the one in his office. No. That would be unethical.

"The kitchen counter," you whispered, voice already a little breathless.

"The floor," he added, lips dragging just beneath your ear, voice husky, teasing, unfair.

"Of all the rooms in this apartment…" you trailed off, tilting his chin just slightly so you could press a slow kiss right between his brows, smoothing away the tiny crease there.

"The couch," he murmured. Low blow.

You bit your lip, because that wasn’t fair, because now all you could think about was straddling his lap, sinking down onto him, rolling your hips while his hands dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place, watching you come undone.

You had never wanted to ride a man so badly in your life.

"Against the front door," you suggested next

“The armchair” he added, and okay - so he really wanted you to ride him. Noted.

"The stairs," you countered, throwing something ridiculous just to regain some control.

"We don’t have stairs," he said, lips curving against your skin.

"Fine," you huffed. "The car."

"Backseat or front?" he asked, way too inclined to indulge in your proposal.

"Front if I’m driving," you mused.

He groaned at that, and you took the opportunity to press your advantage, brushing your lips over his throat, smirking against his skin as you felt something become quite… hard.

"My bed," he rasped suddenly, and damn, you knew you were done for the second those words left his mouth.

Because that - that was dangerous. The thought of being wrapped in sheets that smelled like him, tangled up in his warmth, surrounded by the scent of sex and sweat and that insufferable, frustratingly attractive man…

You would not survive it.

"The elevator," you rasped before you could stop yourself.

And that was when he froze - for half a second, you thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. And then-

"Jesus Christ."

"I don’t think that one’s possible, Hotchner.."

Still, his mouth parted, his pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, and for a second, you genuinely thought he was about to die right then and there. Would’ve been tragic, really - death by horny legal loopholes debate.

Explain that to Erin Strauss...

But then he groaned, deep and wrecked, dropping his face into your neck like he needed a moment to recover. Maybe he wasn’t going to die just yet.

"The elevator?" he muttered against your skin, muffled, bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation.

"The elevator," you confirmed, absolutely shameless.

"Jesus."

"I’d prefer it be just the two of us, if that’s not a problem for you," you deadpanned.

He let out a deep, suffering sigh against your neck, like he was physically restraining himself from debating elevator logistics.

"I don’t even know what to do with you," he muttered.

"I have some ideas."

He exhaled, then lifted his head just enough to look you dead in the eye. "We are never having sex in an elevator."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"That sounds like a lawsuit," he corrected, still so visibly distressed that you could not stop laughing.

"Thought you used to be a good lawyer, Hotchner," you teased, your fingers dragging lazily along his spine. "Wouldn't you know your way around a legal loophole?"

"Oh, I do," he sighed. "I also know how to avoid federal charges."

"You’re truly a prude."

"You're truly reckless," he shot back, eyes closed, mentally revisiting every questionable decision he’d made in the last hour… or maybe the last two…

Honestly, who was even keeping track at this point?

You smirked, shifting until you were draped half over his chest, resting your chin on your folded arms as you gazed at him. "Oh, c'mon, Hotchner, live a little."

His eyes opened just enough to give you a look.

You huffed. "Okay, okay, fine. No elevators. If you really wanna be lame about it."

"Thank you," he said flatly.

A pause. Then, you couldn’t help it. "The jet."

His entire body went rigid. You swore you felt his soul attempt to leave his body.

"The jet?" he repeated, voice hoarse.

You nodded sagely. "The jet."

"Oh my God."

You grinned, slow and so wicked. "Can you imagine it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Small, enclosed space-" you started.

"Oh my God."

"-turbulence, you pinning me against the-"

"No." He cut you off.

You cackled, absolutely delighted by his suffering.

"The team is on that jet," he tried to argue.

"Not always," you countered, “sometimes Strauss is there too.”

His entire face drained of color. For a solid three seconds, he just stared at you, mouth slightly parted, horror creeping into his very being.

"Get out."

You wheezed, collapsing against his chest, “Of my bedroom?! You can’t really dismiss me here unfortunately for you.”

"I don’t ever want to hear the words sex and Strauss in the same sentence again," he grumbled.

"I believe you just said them yourself, Hotchner"

A slow blink. A deep sigh. He was so close to reconsidering every single choice that had led him to this moment.

And yet-

Instead of answering, he just exhaled, letting his weight sink into you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder like admitting defeat.

Because you both knew exactly what this was.

A game.

A flimsy, shameless, beautiful excuse to keep doing this - to keep falling into each other, to keep breaking rules and bending logic, to keep pretending it wasn’t something more.

But neither of you said that.

Neither of you needed to.

Instead, you simply thrived in the ineffable, in the space where words didn’t need to be spoken. In the way his body melted on top of yours, drawn to you despite himself, despite the attitude, despite everything.

Because with you, he could just be.

Simply, truly, exist in his truth.

Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. Not the unshakable leader, not the man who carried the weight of everyone else’s burdens on his back, never allowing himself to falter.

Just Aaron.

The six-foot-two little spoon who swore he wouldn’t be, yet here he was, folded into you like he’d never belonged anywhere else, all because you’d jokingly set it as a condition for him to breathe this close to you.

At least, that’s what you told him.

But in reality a part of you wanted this.

A part of you wanted the man who always stayed close – from the victims, to the UnSubs, and everyone he cared about, always making sure he was the one who bore the weight so no one else had to - to have someone stay close for him.

To let him know what it felt like to be held.

Because the thought had been lingering at the edges of your mind for far too long now - unwelcome, unavoidable -

If he was there to protect everyone, who was there to protect him?

Not that you were volunteering. Not like that.

Actually if you said it out loud, he’d probably just laugh at you, and use that damned dry humor of his and tell you “How can you protect me if you can barely shoot?”

And you’d laugh, you’d tease him right back - and nothing would change.

But you knew the truth - you’d been his anchor for the past decade.

And so your fingers traced idle patterns along his back, thoughtlessly, feeling the tension unwind from his muscles, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You’re warm," he murmured after a while, rasping at the edges, making your heart ache in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

"You’re a bit heavy," you murmured, lips quirking slightly.

"Mhm." But he didn’t move, didn’t even try.

You smiled to yourself, dragging your fingers gently through his short hair, feeling the strands slip between them, coarse and slightly mussed.

"You don’t have to do that," he said softly against your skin.

"I know," you whispered, your hand still smoothing over his back, still holding him close, like you weren’t fooling either of you. "But I want to."

A pause. A deep breath.

Then-

"Thank you," he sighed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your shoulder, too tired to move, too tired to do anything but exist against you.

Just holding each other.

Just existing in the same space, in the same breath, with no expectations, no pressure, no future to consider beyond the feel of his heartbeat against yours.

"You know, there’s a philosophical dilemma called the Ship of Theseus-" you started, your voice a gentle hum in the quiet, earning a small huff from him in response.

"It questions whether an object remains fundamentally the same if all of its components are replaced over time. If every original part is gone, is it still the same thing? Because technically, it’s not… if identity is tied to its physical components and not something more abstract, like function or form."

You felt the slow, subtle curve of his lips against your shoulder.

"Which brings us to," you added, lips curving now too, " is this even the same bed if we just change the sheets? On some criteria, following this logic… it isn’t."

A beat.

No reply.

Just the steady, even sound of his breathing.

And - oh.

Oh.

He’d fallen asleep on you. Mid-philosophy. Unbelievable.

Great. So apparently, you were the boring one now. Perfect.

But before you could dwell too much on your bruised ego, he stirred, mumbling something barely coherent against your skin.

"Mmmh… we change the sheets… shower… come back here and-"

“’And’ what?” You sighed, your fingers still lazily running through his hair. “Aaron, you sound like a low-battery version of yourself.” You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.

"M'practical," he slurred, as if that was a valid argument.

"You’re half-asleep."

"Still practical," he muttered.

"If you move, I’ll take care of the sheets. You go shower," you offered, voice quiet, fond.

He barely responded, just a low, unintelligible grumble against your collarbone before-

"Mm-mm… we don’t… shower together?”

You sighed. Of course that was where his sleepy brain went.

"Will we just shower?" you asked, knowing full well he wouldn’t have the energy for anything else.

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper-

"What if we don’t?" he muttered, already half-asleep. "S’not against the rules…"

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Aaron-"

"The ship… applies to your shower too…" his words trailed off lazily, completely nonsense, but you could hear the hint of a smile in them. "If you replace the soap… ‘s a different shower…"

Well, at least even in his on-the-brink-of-unconsciousness state, he was committed to following through with your logic...

"I’m saying this for your own good, Hotchner, because you really don’t have the energy for another round."

"I do," he grumbled, shifting, his arms tightening around you like you had to believe him.

"Sure," you murmured, kissing his forehead. "I’ll believe that when you make it to the bathroom without falling asleep in the doorway."

He made a low, unintelligible noise, like he wanted to argue, but his body had already betrayed him, too heavy, too settled against you.

"Go," you whispered, nudging him gently.

A deep sigh. Then-

"Fine."

He peeled himself off you with the effort of a man being dragged out of bed by force, his body moving like it was actively resisting him.

You bit back another laugh as he stumbled toward the bathroom, catching himself on the doorframe for just a second before disappearing inside.

And, of course-

When you finished your own shower and stepped quietly back into the bedroom, he was already collapsed against the bed, completely dead to the world.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you eased yourself into bed, trying your best to be quiet, he shifted -

One sleepy, instinctive movement.

And suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you without thinking, his body curling into yours, his head tucking against the crook of your neck, snuggling.

Clingy.

"Annoying little spoon," you muttered.

You felt a muffled hum against your skin. "Next time… we switch."

You sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, letting your fingers drift through his hair one more time. "Go to sleep, Aaron."

He sighed against your skin, warm and content, the weight of him only settling deeper into you.

"Mmm. ‘M already sleepin’…" he murmured, words barely holding together.

A beat.

Then, even softer-

"You should too… two hours ‘til work."

Oh, he just could not help himself - spent a full minute reminding you, over and over, that you just fucked your boss.

Damn it, Aaron. At least he could try to pretend...

"Actually, it’s one and a half." you bit back.

A pause.

Then-

"Shit."

Shit indeed.

Phi's Corner: BOTTOM HOTCH RIGHTS!!!!!!!! Also don't worry filthy goyals, you will be fed with some actual smut tomorrow. And probably some context too... maybe?!?! hope you enjoyed this anyways...

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #symposiumff #aaron hotchner smut

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cloudzoro · 8 months ago

Text

Aftercare | One Piece ♡

part of my 2k followers alphabet event: here

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

characters: franky, ace, jinbe

cw: smut, fluff, fem!reader

one piece masterlist

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Franky

Franky is an aftercare king. He is always extremely prepared for any mess and incredibly perceptive of emotions.

Franky's stamina is unparalleled; he has you beyond exhausted and sensitive to the touch by the time he pulls out of you. You shake beneath him, whimpering as his cock slips out of it.

“I got you,” he says, his voice clear and strong. He keeps everything he needs in the bedside drawer so that he doesn't have to get up and leave you in the moment. “I'll clean you up, baby. Don't worry about a thing,” he says as he reaches for the wipes. He wraps his arms around you, making sure to wipe you down thoroughly.

Franky can't keep his mouth shut for longer than five minutes, so he talks to you as he cleans you up; he tells you how beautiful you are and makes it clear how much you're loved. Franky is a romantic at heart. He's a real sap about most things, and after sex is no different. He'll cradle you and tell you he loves you, refusing to leave you until you drift off safe in his arms. When you're out like a light, he'll set off running a candle-lit bath for when you wake up from your post-sex power nap.

✩♬ ₊˚.☁️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Ace

Like Franky, Ace is also a sappy boy. Though he's much less likely to worry about the cleanup. For him, aftercare is all about the cuddles and praise.

“How're you feeling?” Ace asks, rolling onto his back and pulling you to lie on his chest. You hum and nod, feeling satisfied but tired and not very talkative. Ace chuckles. “That's good. I'm glad I made you feel good.”

He presses soft kisses all over your face, neck and shoulders. He offers to massage them for you too. He just wants to be touching you at all times. He settles for holding you and rubbing his hands up and down your back. He listens out for any whimpers or curses of pain that may indicate he's hurt you, when he finds none, he's comfortable enough to attempt a nap with you. In his opinion, a nap is the best recovery for ANYTHING

He's unbothered by the mess of cum and sweat, he'll get you in the shower after a nap if you feel like you need it though. The warmth of his body lulls you to sleep along with him.

✩♬ ₊˚.☁️⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Jinbe

Jinbe takes a more simple approach to aftercare. He simply checks in with you and gets you in the bath or shower.

Jinbe is a big man, he's fully aware of this, so when he pulls out he's quick to rub at your thighs. He eases any muscle aches you may have with his skilled hands. Every sigh of content is encouragement to keep going. He enjoys giving you a massage, though if he's not careful it will lead to round two.

Once you're all relaxed, he runs a bath for you without even being asked. When the waters how you like it, he carries you like a princess and lowers you gently into the water. He sits by the side of your tub, talking to you and washing your hair/body for you. He's ready to do anything you ask of him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

thank you for reading! my tag list is always open, as are my ask box and dms ♡

tag list: @bloodfixnd @sexysapphicshopowner @beachaddict48 @lem-hhn @quanxifangirl @walmartmihawk

#one piece smut #one piece x reader #fem!reader #franky x reader smut #franky x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #ace smut #portgas d ace smut #jinbe x reader #jinbe smut #op x reader #op smut

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arcanewhoosh · 7 months ago

Note

Could you right a story where jinx’s S/O is scared of bombs or loud things in general and one of jinx bombs went off scaring S/O and jinx comforts them.

So I forgot that the inbox was a thing and found this two years after you asked for it. Sorry lmao.

I think I completely failed this cause I chose season 1 Jinx and hooboy Season 2 Jinx would've been a better choice.

Also this went over 2k words I realize I may be a yapper.

The Monsters We Allow

2k words (Jesus this wasn't supposed to be this long)

Proofread? Y/N

TW: Descriptions of injuries

You're no stranger to the hazards of working for the Eye of Zaun. Even the more hardened residents of the Undercity oftentimes couldn't stomach some of the work the job entailed, more so the people involved in those jobs.

So now here you were, helping build an explosive device of some sort. Fishbones Jinx had called it. You guess that you should add assistant weapons maker to the long list of jobs you've held working for Silco over the years. It wasn't always like this, though.

You started out as cleanup crew, showing up after fights. You didn't want to at first, but if you crossed Silco, you'd most definitely cross his daughter, Jinx. If you crossed his daughter, then it was almost a certainty that you would end up in pieces and puddles on the walls and floors. You'd rather be the one cleaning than be the one being cleaned up. So you put your head down and went along with it.

It was messy work, but it turns out even with all the fucked up things tolerated in the Undercity, rotting body parts weren't one of them. It wasn't pretty, and your first few days you had to include your vomit in the list of things you had to clean up. Eventually, though, you got over it, got better. Well enough that Silco would only trust you to do cleanups of whichever unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of Jinx's chompers. You could figure out which weapon was used to do what, what the direction of the splatter on the wall or floor meant. You could look at a scene once and replay how the entire fight went.

The job wasn't pretty, not at all, but it put money in your pockets, good money. It put food on your table and clothes on your back. Most importantly, it gave you security. A blanket of protection that ensured people would think twice to cross you. Silco only kept a select few on constant contract. Sure, you didn't run around beating the shit out of people during collections, or blowing them up. You didn't have a robot arm or guns-choice of weapon was bucket and shovel-- but hey, you were deeper in his inner circle than most people.

Eventually, he started bringing you along to meetings. After those meetings, he'd ask you, What's the quickest, and cleanest way we can get rid of this person?

It was jarring at first, being asked how to kill someone. But whatever reservations you had about becoming a murder consultant was heavily outweighed by your fear of being the one consulted about. So you'd answer diligently, if a little hesitantly. The first time you answered, he had looked pleasantly surprised. As if getting recommendations on assassination was pleasant. You remembered thinking.

It didn't take long for people of the Undercity to associate your presence in these tag-alongs with the sudden death of whoever you and Silco were visiting. Whispers about how you wouldn't even talk during the meetings, how you'd sit and simply look around. If you were addressed by the person you were meeting with, Silco would politely redirect their attention back to him. Sometimes, sometimes, that person wouldn't die. Silco once credited it to you, that people suddenly became more pliable once he brought you along. Another blanket of security. People started treating you differently, more respect, fear maybe. It was a little funny, how typically aggressive brutes would become the politest people towards someone who had just barely reached the age of eighteen.

One day, Silco had asked you to his office. You thought it would just be regular stop before another meeting, standard procedure by then, really. But that day he had another guest in his office. The blue braids were already a dead giveaway, but you still politely introduced yourself. She laughed, and identified you as The one who ruins my fun because she had to follow your instructions when Silco needed her to get rid of people.

You knew back then that she was dangerous. Quite frankly, she scared the shit out of you. You didn't have a problem with seeing dead bodies and parts, sure. But she was younger than you, and already had no qualms about taking lives. She was the one leaving behind entrails that you had to clean up. And apparently, she was now to be occasionally under your watch. Silco thought you'd be a good fit for a companion. Around the same age, he had said.

You kept a respectful distance from her, but she unfortunately grew fond of you and decided to keep you around more often than not. Silco didn't see anything wrong with it, if anything it made the both of you more notorious. His Loose Cannon and his Harbinger of Death. A deadly combination in theory, but in practice, it was mostly you having to accompany Jinx for her less dangerous - there were still casualties - pranks, and bailing her out of sticky situations.

And now here you were, two years later, making a launcher with her- making was a generous word, more handing her stuff - and getting ready to probably blow more people up.

You feel your stomach begin to unsettle again. You were used to seeing dead bodies, parts of bodies, what was left of bodies. But never in the stretch of time that you had worked for Silco, had you ever had to see dying. You always showed up after. It had only been two days since the explosion at the bridge, but somehow Jinx was walking around as if nothing had even happened to her. As if she didn't blow herself up the last time you had seen her. If you were making an educated guess based off of her eyes, you'd say she was hurt and got pumped full of shimmer; or maybe she was just living off of pure mania at this point.

You've cared for her, but now you also care about her. It seems that no matter how much respectful distance you put between yourself and her, propinquity eventually came into play, and affection followed. And the only sense you had was to go along with it.

It took you a while to get used to being around her. She was temperamental, to say the least. But you eventually learned not to ask any questions about her family, not to bring up the dolls she kept at her place, and avoid asking any questions at all about her past. If she wanted to, she'd tell you. The only time she wasn't unpredictable was when she was tinkering away at her little station, blasting her music.

She was calm, placated, almost normal. If you had never met her before and had seen her then, you would have thought she was beautiful. Not that she isn't, it's just that her reputation tended to precede all her other perceivable qualities. More than all of this, she was vulnerable. Her back turned to you, not a care in the world if you wandered around touching things. You realize now that it was in those moments probably that your affection for the girl grew. All of a sudden, getting her out of unideal predicaments included treating her wounds; then nursing her back to health if she was sick; staying over when she had nightmares. And yet you were still cautious, careful not to trip on some invisible wire that would trigger her temper.

"Whoops-"

A bang, a clattering of tools, and you're back at the bridge. Back at looking at screaming people, crawling on the ground because their legs had been blown clean off, some with limbs partially attached, some falling off, someone trying to feel where half of their face had gone. All moving, breathing, alive.

"Easy there, jelly legs." You look up to meet Jinx's eyes. Once a soft powder blue, now striking orbs of red violet. She's holding onto you. At some point you had lost your balance and was now kneeling on the floor, one hand on the side of Jinx's desk for support. "You sick or somethin'?" She asks.

"Sorry," You breathe out. "I think… I think I'm still reeling from what happened at the bridge."

She lets out a laugh. Loud, boisterous, manic.

"The bridge? The little ol' light show? You didn't like it?" Her smile falls, and she cocks her head to the side. Fuck.

Now you're on thin ice. "No, no. It was nice." You quickly say, shaking your head. "It's just, I'm not- I'm not used to seeing the before part, you know?"

She guffaws. "Wait, wait, wait." She stands, walking over to her desk littered with metal scraps and remnants of her previous projects, picking up one of the butterfly robots she had made. "You're telling me-" She plucks off a wing, the remaining one flapping aimlessly. "You" Points it at you. "Who's in charge of cleaning up exploded bodies, and telling Silco - who tells me - how to kill someone without a mess," Plucks off the other wing and throws the body away. "Gets queasy over a few blue bellies kicking the bucket?"

You take a breath to steady yourself. "I don't know. I never- I never thought about that part. I've never had to see it." You unconsciously start clenching and unclenching you hand not holding onto the desk. A nervous habit, one that you tried to shake off. A habit that Jinx had taken note of the first few months of her dragging you along with her escapades.

"I'm sorry." You say after a few beats of silence.

In one quick flash - too quick, inhumanly quick - Jinx is kneeling again in front of you, cupping your face in her hands. "Hey now, it's alright." Her tone is soft, caring, tragically comforting to you. "We all got our little quirks. I sure do."

She frees up one of her hands to brush your hair back. "Come to think of it, I think that was the first time you had to see something like that, huh?"

It always astounds you how quickly she can disarm the guard you put up for her. You know she's dangerous, you know you should be cautious. But a few sweet words from her and you're putty in her hands, completely at her mercy. You wonder if it's normal to love and fear someone at the same time.

"We'll be okay." She presses her forehead against yours. "I've got you, like you've got me." You nod.

"You can handle helping me with one more thing, right?" There it is. "We just need to do this one teeny thing, and then we can chill out."

You put in active effort to keep your breathing steady. Your stomach still in knots. "What thing?"

She grins. "A dinner party. You're my co-host." She pulls you up with her as she stands, leading you over to where she was working, where Fishbones was seemingly complete. "Wanna see something cool?"

You nod, and she fishes out the HexTech gemstone she had stolen during Progress Day. She opens up a slot near the handle and inserts the gemstone, Fishbones immediately lighting up, a blue hue illuminating her dark room. You contemplate asking her about her new weapon, weighing out the pros and cons. But the fact that her hand was still holding yours, her thumb idly grazing your knuckles was enough to encourage you.

"What are you gonna do with this?"

She runs her free hand above the clear panel where the gemstone is. "We're gonna go make a point."

The rational part of your brain is telling you to stay behind, that whatever this was, being in the vicinity of a HexTech-powered weapon was not a good idea. But this was Jinx, and she had already decided that you were coming with her. Incurring her wrath now, also in the vicinity of the HexTech-powered weapon, was not a good idea either.

So you do what you do best, and go along with it.

#arcane #arcane jinx #arcane netflix #arcane x reader #jinx x reader

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finalgirlmorgue · 3 months ago

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The Rookie. . . ૮₍˶•▿•˶₎ა

⭐﹒LEON KENNEDY X older! fem! READER ⭐﹒

⭐﹒- 1000+ words

⭐﹒fluff and smut

⭐﹒not proof read

⭐﹒comment to be added to my tag list!

⭐﹒req open

💫 - Leon and his superior are stuck in the RPD elevator...

Raccoon City Police department was made up of several divisions with distinct positions. Avoiding unequal power dynamics between employees wasn't easy. The Juvenile Crime Division was at the very bottom of the pyramid. Rookies worked alongside higher ups and Tutor officers for a period of time that serviced as a training. That's where you find yourself, in a police car with a wide eyed Leon Kennedy, an eager younger man who was your Protege for the Fall. He was staring down at his nose, a ball of nerves. His face was covered in sweat and his hair flopped over his forehead and into his eyes.

A 4 hour standoff that ended in several arrests, that was good, but it didn't help his inexperience anxiety. You had a rookie on your hands, a kid, whose sole purpose was to prove himself as a good cop. He was 4 or 5 years younger then you, but taller, he hadn't been hardened yet. he hadn't seen the world of police and justice yet or everything that came with it. That was the way these things went and he would learn soon enough.

You had met a year ago. You had gotten him through his first few weeks with the job, though not by much, he was clumsy and clueless. But you took care of him and eventually, he started to warm up to you. In the beginning, you were both awkward around each other, but you felt like there were times when he looked up to you even if he couldn't say it in words. Soon that phase passed, slowly. He called you Miss Or officer during the work day, a strict policy he had crafted himself to be completely professional with his mentor. And you would do the same for him whenever the need arose, which was all the time. Your relationship grew stronger by the day and now that your mentee had graduated from probationary period and was officially assigned his first real mission, things felt right. He was still under you as an officer and mentee, but that only meant more opportunities, more challenges and new ways for him to show his worth. He was already showing you his strengths, and it wasn't too hard for him to catch up to his peers.

He sat in the car, breathing heavily through his mouth. lips wet from saliva, cheeks reddened from the night air, hair plastered to the side of his head from the humidity. It was a perfect early morning. 4 AM. On call for a drug deal gone wrong. 12 suspects, 2 dead bodies, four of them in custody, one escaped and running and several awaiting questioning.

The golden boy was slumped, he had squeezed the trigger of his gun so many times his fingers had begun to cramp and numb. His hands trembled violently as he stared out at the crime scene. The blood was everywhere, splattered across the sidewalk, near the car of suspect #2. A pool of thick, rusty red lay at the edge of the concrete curb. It oozed along the blacktop until it stopped where the asphalt met the gravel. A dark stain. The blood had dried to a solid brownish grey.

"You gonna tap out for the night after this?" You asked.

Leon turned to you with a confused look on his face. "Uh…no. I've gotta get this done," he said. "What about you..?"

"I'll hangout until 5 or 6. I wanna be around for witnesses when they get here."

That seemed to satisfy him. Leon turned back to the street with a grim expression on his face. He leaned forward slightly, looking past the body, at the street. "when's the cleanup team gonna come around?.." Leon asked.

"soon. They blocked off the area. They're gonna put up roadblocks. We'll have some traffic cops come by later And then we'll clean it up. Just sit tight. it'll all be sorted by tonight" You paused, glancing over at the younger man, who seemed focused on his thighs, trying not to get caught up in the adrenaline rush. His hand twitched slightly. It was obvious he could use an ice pack, maybe an aspirin, or even just his own company to calm down. He smoothed out the creases in his pants. He was probably going through the motions, just getting through case by case. He was smart, strong, and had a good sense of what was right. Every cop had a phase where they lost their innocence. When they saw something, and couldn't go back. Leon looked at you for some semblance of comfort, but you just smiled gently. He gave you a smile back.

You weren't sure exactly how long you two sat in silence before a pair of police officers approached the squad car, dismissing you.

As Raccoon city sped and blurred by into streaks of muddy watercolor outside of the window, Leon leaned back further in the passenger seat, closing his eyes, exhausted by the events of the day. His head lolled back, he let out a soft groan. His muscles relaxed as exhaustion set in. You drove in silence for awhile longer, enjoying the smooth ride. The sound of his breathing filled the interior of the vehicle. You watched the city go by, in all of its dirty, corrupt glory. The skyline of downtown stretched out in front of you, tall buildings and small businesses. It was still early in the morning, but it seemed like nighttime had fallen. A heavy fog hung over the streets, giving everything a glassy haze. You rolled down your window. It was muggy in the car, humid, almost hot. Leon's skin flushed pink as he sat up straighter in the seat.

He rubbed his tired eyes and yawned. "Miss Or…uh, Miss Officer…" Leon stammered out. "Can we stop by the RPD?..please? To grab my stuff? And maybe take a shower..it's kinda sweaty in here."

You nodded. "Sure." You pulled into the parking lot behind the precinct and got out, taking your time walking toward the building. It wasn't far from the crime scene, just down the block. "I'll go with you. I'm kind of tired too. My back is starting to ache." Leon was quick to follow. As he walked beside you, he glanced down at your profile. His eyes lingered on the soft lines of your jaw and the shape of your nose, the shape of your chin. His gaze wandered back to the center of your face, which remained stoic. His eyes trailed downward, resting on the neckline of your uniform shirt, which exposed your collarbone. His gaze lingered on it again and he blushed. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and walked faster to catch up with you.

As you entered the main lobby, greeted by the empty Police desk in the front and an attendant behind a locked door in the back, this late night call had messed everyone up by dragging the whole force into longer hours. "We can head to the locker rooms upstairs first, lets take the elevator." You said.

He pointed his nose to the stairs that led to the second floor of the station, and so on.

Well, the elevator would be faster. Leon followed behind you as you headed forward. The elevator doors opened. The two of you stepped inside. The tiled floors inside were cracking, the paint fading and washing away with each set of feet that trod over them.

The elevator shuddered and swayed with each step and every shake of the machinery. A lightbulb in the ceiling flickered. The walls began to hum and creak, metal straining beneath the weight of its load.

Leon closed his eyes briefly as the doors slid open. He took slow steps to exit. Except.. they doors had only cracked slightly..

he doors opened just enough to taunt you – a magazine's width of space, nothing more. Just enough to see the empty hallway beyond, but not enough to escape. There was no one else in the hallways. The only sound came from Leon's footsteps. The sounds of nervous shuffling and pacing. "Well- we're stuck." Leon sighed in defeat as he stood next to you, arms crossed as a defensive mechanism. He was scared.. he always seemed to be in your presence. This was the first time he'd actually been alone with you in such a small space. The elevator was about the size of two desks pushed together. Even being on opposite ends you two were still only a few feet away. He felt uncomfortable with this proximity. He was stuck, in a tiny, dim room with you in close quarters. His face was bright red, his eyes wide in confusion, and his brows raised high. "So, what do you want me to do?" Leon mumbled quietly.

His eyes trailed downwards to your hands. The gloves you wore, the curve of your knuckles against the leather, the shape of your thumb pressing firmly into your palm with a barely contained frustration.

"Radio?" You kept your voice steady, professional.

"What about yours?" Leon's voice had an edge now, that anxious desperation creeping back in. "You must have—"

Leon patted his empty belt, color draining from his face. "I… left it in the car." The confession came out barely above a whisper.

"Perfect." The word hung in the stale air between you. "So no radio, no way to contact patrol." You ran through options in your head. The building would be nearly empty at this hour –.

"If I had mine," you cut him off, "would I be asking about yours?" The elevator shuddered again, leaving you two stumbling.

The buttons beside the door were worn smooth from decades of use, their numbers barely visible. But what caught your attention was what wasn't there – no emergency button, no call box, not even a telephone line. Just rows of numbered buttons that might as well have been decorative for all the good they were doing right now.

You pushed a number on the first row, hoping something would happen. Nothing happened, just the sound of stale air blowing in the shaft. No lights flickered on or flashed. Nothing. It was quiet. Completely silent. Just like a tomb. You reached for the next number, and found it the same. You continued pushing. You pressed three, four, five.. six buttons, all without result. You were trapped. Trapped in a small space with a rookie cop.

Leon tried to pry the doors open with his hands, putting all of the force into his forearms, but it wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he tried. He growled and threw himself against the doors, trying his best to push them apart with brute strength. "Come on!" he shouted, his breath shortening, "Just open the dang thing already!" He stopped for a moment, looking back toward you. Your eyes were staring straight ahead, unresponsive. His mouth dropped open, and his shoulders slumped.

It took several moments of deep breaths for him to regain composure. You both took a moment to compose yourself, sitting down against the wall across from the elevator door, waiting for help to arrive. You didn't know what to say, or what to do, just in shock.

When Leon eventually spoke, his tone was calm and quiet. "It's okay, don't worry, we'll figure something out." You looked over toward him as he spoke. "Don't worry. We've been through worse."

You looked at him, eyebrows drawn together as you stared at him. You bit at the inside of your cheek as you fought the urge to yell. "Quiet." I breathed. "I don't want to hear any more from you."

Leon didn't understand why you snapped at him and he felt bad for raising his voice earlier. "I'm sorry." He muttered, his head hanging low, ashamed.

You pointed your finger at his chest, backing him into the corner, back pressing against the wood paneling. You gripped his shirt with your hands, shaking violently from anger, and fear. You could feel a cold sweat build up from under your hairline and slide down your forehead. "Shut up." You spat, squeezing tighter. Your heart rate shot up to a million beats a minute. "This is your fault. Your inexperienced, clumsy, you showed up to the office DRUNK, on your first day, and somehow caused this!-" You shoved at his chest with all the force you could muster and pushed him farther into the corner of the tiny space. Your chest heaved. "Now, if you don't shut up, I'll-" You let your words fade, but your face told the rest of it.

"I'm sorry Miss… Officer." He whimpered. You let your hold loosen, releasing his shirt slowly, as though letting it breathe. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears and anger. You glared at him, your nostrils flared. Leon lowered his head as you stared him down..

"Unzip your pants." You commanded, not even flinching when he started to cry in earnest. His hands fumbled with the buttons and his knees shook. You took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm your racing heart, and you felt something inside of you unravel. You knew, both of you wanted this. His actions spoke louder than any words he could say and so did your desires for revenge. This was his fault, you two were alone and in a tiny space, no one else was around to hear you .

You stepped back and allowed him his time. You closed your eyes and tried to think you heard him panting. He was nervous, that much you could tell, but there was also something underneath that. Want, maybe? You opened your eyes again, just as he pushed the hem over his thigh. His face shaping into relief as he saw the outline of your hips and lower abdomen as you removed your uniform, before the jeans fell to pool at his ankles. His hands still trembled, but his breathing became steady. A soft smile crept onto your lips. You walked back towards Leon and wrapped a hand around his throat. "As your superior I expect you to listen. Do you understand me?" He nodded frantically, gulping. You pressed harder onto his Adam's apple, causing him to nod even more violently until his eyes rolled into the back of his head. You lifted your hand from his throat, allowing him to swallow air again as you backed away. "Good boy, Leon." You cooed, patting him on the shoulder. He collapsed onto the floor on his knees.

"Please.." He grasped your thighs and looked up through hooded eyes, his hands gripping your legs tightly.

"Take them off..." You whispered. The look in his eyes told you that you had won the battle already. He got to work, he knew exactly what he needed to do in order to get what he wanted without breaking eye contact. He reached out a finger, trailing it along your waist, hooking it under the hemline of your pants, teasingly running it across the front. Your stomach clenched as his finger dragged downwards, pulling them over your hips, exposing yourself to him. He grinned and brought his lips close to your underwear, kissing the front of it softly.

His hands moved upward, his fingers brushing under your belly button. You shivered under his touch and pulled at his collar, desperate for an ounce of heat. You tugged at his hair, forcing his face closer. His nose grazed your stomach as he continued his journey upwards, nuzzling your navel, and then dropping down to remove your underwear, bringing it down to your knees. He knelt between your legs, his mouth now working against your skin, hot and moist. You moaned and gripped his shoulders tightly. He looked up briefly to see your reaction and smiled triumphantly, before returning to his task.

You gasped when his tongue traced over your wet folds and you gasped, digging nails into his scalp. You were trembling, barely able to stand straight, barely able to move, barely able to breathe as he kissed you so sweetly down in between your legs. When you thought you couldn't bear it anymore you grabbed his face and pulled him up kissing him desperately, biting at his lips. It only took a moment for him to respond and soon you found yourselvss on the floor, sprawled out on the ground, tangled together, your panties tossed aside and Leon straddling you. He spread your legs, knees pressing to his shoulders.

"um.. are you... ready?.." Leon asked, his forehead against yours. Your heart pounded in response, your chest rising rapidly. "Sorry- I.. was gonna keep going.. I wanted to make you finish-" You stopped his apology by pushing him back and straddling his waist.

"Shut up." You ordered, grabbing his cheeks in either hand and pressing their foreheads together. His eyes shut tightly as you gently stroked his face. "Just.. relax for a minute.." He sighed, relaxing beneath you and opening his eyes as you two kissed, softly at first. After a few minutes, your kisses grew rougher. The two of you returned to your original position, with your lips hovering above his. "Now.." you said breathlessly. He nodded, pressing a kiss to your cheek. With your permission, he slid in, his length stretching you perfectly. His movements slow and methodical, but also sloppy. He was just as inexperienced in sex as he was in police work. You bit your lip hard to stop from laughing at how cute he was being, as he thrust into you. As if sensing your thoughts, Leon began to thrust faster, his hands gripping your hips tightly, slipping slightly with each movement.

"oh god-" He whimpered shakily , his pace increasing, sweat beginning to build on his brow as you held him tight. "am I... doing it right?" His voice sounded raspy and he was flushed pink. You laughed.

"Yes!" you breathed, smiling at him. "Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop -" His hand rested over your lips.

"No, just... be quiet." You gritted out.

"I want you to feel good, okay?" His face contorted. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and stayed still for a while, panting and sweating as he continued to thrust in and out of you. You groaned, wrapping your arms around him, holding on tighter. You felt yourself reaching climax and you knew he was too, although he wasn't quite as vocal about his feelings. You moaned and squeezed his waist with your legs, arching your back, as Leon continued to thrust. His breath coming in short gasps as he grunted and tensed up every once and a while. And finally -

With a gasp, Leon released himself inside you and you shuddered. You leaned forward and kissed his temple, resting your chin on top of his messy hair, as he slowly regained his composure. Once you were both settled back down onto the floor, you relaxed, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

Leon turned to look at you. "Officer-"

"Don't ever call me that again." You snapped at him. Leon blinked.

"...Right." He turned back and lay next to you, his eyes drifting shut before opening again.

"I'll get you dressed."

#resident evil #resident evil 2 #re2 #re4 #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon smut #resident evil smut #re2 leon #leon kennedy fic #leon x reader #leon x reader smut

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lunaatthezoo · 3 months ago

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New Chapter | The Light Between Sin & Salvation

Chapter 27: Slipping

Summary: The crew continues working towards Beron's demise. Az has visitors. Rhys has a surprise.

CW: On-page torture and murder; mentions of trafficking, drug abuse/addiction, child neglect; depictions of depression

Tag list (comment if you'd like to be added): @lesolehabitantdelalune @julesvanslutta @elrielobsessed @totallyfadedpeach-blog @elriel-month

Preview below the cut:

Thank fuck Rhys had a cleanup crew. Az did not enjoy digging graves or starting fires. He and Cass cleaned themselves up, Cass making the necessary calls, and then they strode out of the empty warehouse where they had the man captured.

A familiar numbness settled over Az as they slid into Cass’s car and drove away. He needed the kills, but he didn’t enjoy them. He didn’t like that he was a monster just as much as Beron was. He might stand for something better, but he was no better at the core. He had just as much blood on his hands.

“Alright, man?” Cass asked him as they drove along a lightless state road.

Az just grunted noncommittally, looking out the window at the passing trees. It was the end of winter and snow was melting, turning into a slushy brown mess on the sides of the road when the car’s headlights highlighted them.

The wedding was occurring in one week. One fucking week and Elain would be walking down the aisle towards Eris fucking Vanserra. If Az wasn’t spiraling before, he fucking was now. He had gone to the meetings. He had texted Mor and Cass so they would know he was alive. He had done the interrogating. But he was still barely there. Just a blur on the surface of the earth.

“You need anything?” Cass asked from beside him. Az bit back a sigh. He knew his brother was just trying to show him he cared. To help. But the only thing he needed was stuck in a mansion full of monsters a hundred miles away.

“No,” he answered finally, not looking away from the window.

“Alright,” Cass answered. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as if he wanted to say more. Az just sat in stony silence. If Cass wanted to talk, he would talk. Nothing had ever stopped him before.

“Do you think we're going to pull this off?” He finally asked with forced nonchalance.

Az finally slid his eyes to his brother. “That's the only fucking option.”

Continue on Ao3

#elriel #elain archeron #elriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #elriel fic #acotar #azriel x elain #sin and salvation #mafia elriel #pro elain #mafia romance #au elriel #au acotar #mafia acotar #fanfic update #new chapter

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cod-thoughts · 7 months ago

Text

Kiss your husband goodnight

Word count: 5.7

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik, Ghost&Price, team as family

Tags: established relationship, marriage proposal, fluff

Price has had the week from hell—missions gone sideways, paperwork piling up, and no sleep to speak of. The team is at their wits' end trying to get him to rest, so they call in the one person they know he’ll listen to: Nikolai. What starts as an attempt to drag a sleep-deprived, stubborn Price to bed turns into something much bigger when Price, half-asleep and unfiltered, says something that changes everything. Nikolai isn’t about to let the moment slip by, and when the morning comes, they’ll both face the future with newfound certainty. Featuring: A very tired Captain Price, Nikolai at his most patient, Ghost quietly emotional but terrible at saying so and Soap and Gaz being concerned. Read under the cut or on AO3

John Price had survived countless harrowing missions, led his team through fire and hell, and stared death in the eye more times than he cared to count. But this week—this endless, relentless week—had stripped him down to his barest threads. It wasn’t just exhaustion; it was the weight of everything he carried, compounded by the frustrating, unforgiving grind of bureaucratic cleanup.

Two overlapping missions had run him ragged. The first—a covert extraction in hostile territory—had gone sideways the moment they hit the ground. Faulty intel left his team pinned down for hours, forced to fight tooth and nail for their lives. By the time they reached the extraction point, battered and bloody, Price had been awake for over thirty hours. There’d been no time to recover before the second mission, a high-profile joint op that demanded precision coordination. They’d pulled it off, but the delays, unexpected terrain challenges, and sheer physical toll had pushed them all to their limits.

Price took the brunt of it, as he always did. His team relied on him to lead, to make the hard calls, to bear the responsibility when things went wrong. And when they finally returned to base, bruised and weary, the mountain of paperwork that awaited him was almost enough to break his spirit.

He’d been at it for days, skipping meals, ignoring the ache in his back, and pretending he didn’t notice the concerned looks from Soap and Gaz. Even Ghost, usually reserved, had hovered more than usual, his sharp gaze following Price’s every move.

Now, Price sat hunched over his desk, the dim overhead light casting long shadows across the room. Reports and casualty lists were scattered in uneven piles, half of them smudged with his hurried writing. A cold cup of coffee sat forgotten to his left, the bitter scent mingling with the faint tang of gun oil still lingering on his skin. His pen scratched against the paper, but the words blurred, refusing to cooperate. His hand trembled faintly as he tried to steady it.

A knock at the door barely registered. It came again, louder this time.

“Captain?” Soap’s voice cut through the haze.

Price grunted, not looking up. “Busy.”

The door creaked open, and Soap stepped inside, his expression carefully neutral. “You’ve been at it all day, sir. Just thought—”

“I said I’m busy,” Price snapped, his voice sharper than intended. He didn’t have the energy to soften it.

Soap hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “Ghost’s got somethin’ to say about that.”

Price sighed heavily as Ghost stepped into the room, his presence commanding without effort. The mask did little to hide the frustration in his eyes.

“John.” His voice was low, measured. “You need to stop.”

“Not now,” Price muttered, turning back to his papers. His pen froze mid-sentence, and he had to blink to remember where he’d left off.

“You look like you’re about to drop,” Ghost said bluntly. He crossed his arms, his posture rigid with concern. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

“There’s too much to do,” Price argued, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “Can’t afford to stop now.”

“You can’t afford not to,” Ghost countered. “You’re no good to anyone if you collapse.”

Price slumped back in his chair, his fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. For a moment, the weight of the week caught up with him, pressing against his chest like a vice. He hated this—hated being seen like this, hated the worry in their eyes.

“Look,” Soap said carefully, stepping closer. “We get it, alright? You’ve got a lot on your plate. But you’re not alone in this, sir. Let us help.”

Price shook his head, his exhaustion cutting through any attempt at politeness. “Just leave it. I’ve got this handled.”

Soap and Ghost exchanged a glance, their silent communication speaking volumes. Without another word, they stepped out into the hallway.

---

The plan was hatched quickly.

Soap leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched Ghost pace. “He can’t keep going like this. He’s gonna work himself into the ground.”

“I don’t think we’ve got a choice,” Gaz added, his tone edged with frustration. “He’s not listening to a damn thing we say.”

Ghost stopped, his gaze lingering on Price’s closed door. His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. “We call Nikolai.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he on an op right now? You think he’ll drop everything to come all the way here?”

“You think he wouldn’t?” Ghost countered, his tone sharper than usual. “He’d move heaven and earth for Price.”

Gaz nodded slowly. “Fair point. You think it’ll work?”

“It has to,” Ghost said simply.

The three of them exchanged a glance, the weight of the decision settling over them. They all knew how Price would react when he found out—stubborn as ever, gruff and probably annoyed at the interference. But they also knew this wasn’t about what Price wanted. It was about what he needed.

“Right,” Soap said, pushing off the wall. “Who’s making the call?”

“I will,” Ghost said without hesitation. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts.

Gaz stepped forward, leaning against the table as Ghost raised the phone to his ear. “Think Price’ll forgive us for going behind his back?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ghost said, his tone clipped. “Better to have him pissed off and alive.”

The phone rang twice before Nikolai answered, his voice warm and steady. “Simon? What is this about? I did not expect to hear from you yet.”

Ghost’s posture eased slightly at the familiar tone, but his words came out firm and measured. “It’s Price. He’s in a bad way.”

The warmth in Nikolai’s voice vanished, replaced by sharp concern. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

“Not physically,” Ghost reassured. “But he’s run himself into the ground. He hasn’t slept in days, hasn’t eaten properly. Keeps saying he’s fine, but he’s not. He’s working himself to death.”

A sharp intake of breath came through the line, followed by a moment of silence. When Nikolai spoke again, his voice was lower, edged with determination. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since we got back from the last mission,” Ghost said. “The bastard hasn’t stopped since we hit the tarmac. Paperwork, reports, mission briefs, meetings, you name it. We’ve tried reasoning with him, ordering him to rest, even taking things off his plate. Nothing’s worked.”

Soap leaned closer, his voice cutting in from the background. “We thought maybe you could talk some sense into him. He’ll listen to you.”

Another pause, then Nikolai’s voice softened. “You did the right thing calling me. I will be there tonight”

“You sure?” Ghost asked, his tone unreadable. “We’re asking a lot.”

“Of course,” Nikolai replied without hesitation. “It is John, there is no question.”

Gaz let out a quiet sigh of relief, stepping away to give Ghost space. Soap, however, lingered, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“You think you can get him to rest?” Soap asked, his tone equal parts hopeful and doubtful.

Nikolai chuckled softly, though there was a hint of tension beneath it. “I have my methods. And John knows better than to argue too much.”

Soap grinned faintly. “You say that, but it’s bad this time Nik.”

“I have my ways.”

Ghost shifted, his fingers tapping idly against his leg. “Nik, it’s bad, I’ve never seen him like this. He’s not just tired; he’s wearing himself down to nothing. We’re really worried about him.”

“I understand,” Nikolai said, his voice steady. “I will handle it, Simon. Just keep him where he is until I arrive.”

Ghost nodded, even though Nikolai couldn’t see him. “Don’t think he’s gonna move but we will. Thanks, Nik.”

“No need to thank me yet,” Nikolai said lightly. “Save that for when he has rested.”

The call ended with a faint click, and Ghost slipped the phone back into his pocket. For a moment, he stood silently, his gaze fixed on Price’s closed door.

Soap clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, here’s hoping Nik can work his magic.”

Gaz smiled faintly, though there was still a shadow of worry in his expression. “He’s our last resort.”

Ghost didn’t respond, but the set of his jaw and the sharp focus in his eyes said enough. If anyone could pull Price back from the brink, it was Nikolai.

---

Nikolai’s arrival was a quiet affair. He found Ghost waiting for him in the corridor, the tension in his posture betraying the worry he didn’t voice.

“Where is he?” Nikolai asked.

“Office,” Ghost replied. “Hasn’t moved all night.”

Nikolai nodded, his expression unreadable as he pushed open the door.

Price didn’t even look up. He was slumped over the desk, his head resting in one hand, his eyes barely open.

“John,” Nikolai said softly.

Price blinked, slow and dazed. “Nik?”

“Yes, my love,” Nikolai said, moving closer. “It is me.”

Price’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Saving you from yourself,” Nikolai said gently. He crouched beside him, resting a hand on Price’s knee. “Come to bed, Mishka.”

Price’s response was a low grumble, something half-hearted about needing to finish. But his body betrayed him, leaning instinctively into Nikolai’s touch.

“You are done,” Nikolai said firmly. “Come.”

Soap leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold. Gaz stood beside him, half-hidden in the shadows, while Ghost loomed nearby, his posture stiff and tense. None of them had dared follow Nikolai into the office, but they didn’t need to. The door was ajar, and the low, muffled tones of the conversation carried easily through the quiet corridor.

When the door finally opened, Nikolai emerged, one arm steadying a very dazed John Price. The captain leaned heavily against him, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. His usual commanding presence had dissolved into something unsettlingly fragile, and Ghost’s eyes narrowed beneath his mask.

Soap tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Would you look at that. Never thought I’d see the Captain so... domesticated.”

“Shut it,” Ghost muttered, his voice lower than usual.

Soap blinked, his grin faltering slightly at the sharpness of Ghost’s tone, but he didn’t comment. Gaz glanced up, frowning slightly, but his attention quickly returned to Price.

As they drew closer, Price mumbled something under his breath, his voice too low to catch. Nikolai murmured a reply in return, his tone gentle but firm, and Price let out a huff that was almost a laugh.

“‘Spose you think you’re real clever,” Price mumbled, his words slurred and softened by exhaustion. He stumbled slightly, and Nikolai caught him with ease, his arm tightening around Price’s waist.

“Always,” Nikolai said simply, his smile faint but fond. “Keep moving, Mishka.”

Soap raised an eyebrow at the nickname, his grin returning. “Mishka, eh? Wonder what that means.”

Gaz elbowed him lightly. “Probably something you’re not meant to know.”

They were close enough now to hear Price more clearly, though his words were still slow and unfiltered. He blinked up at Nikolai, his head tilting slightly as though seeing him for the first time. “You’re a handsome bastard, y’know that?”

Soap nearly choked on his laughter. Gaz clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a snort, while Ghost stood rigid, his gaze fixed on Price.

Nikolai didn’t so much as flinch. “Of course I know. Keep walking, John.”

Price stumbled again, and this time he let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “Don’t deserve you,” he muttered, his head lolling against Nikolai’s shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

“You deserve more than you know,” Nikolai replied, his voice soft enough that only Price could hear.

Ghost’s hands tightened at his sides. He’d never seen Price like this—so unguarded, so utterly drained. The sight left an uncomfortable weight in his chest, one that wouldn’t lift even as Soap and Gaz exchanged amused glances.

“Never seen him like this,” Gaz murmured, his voice quiet. It was meant for Soap, but Ghost heard it clearly.

“Neither have I,” Ghost replied, his voice low, almost hesitant. He didn’t look at Gaz or Soap, his focus entirely on Price.

As they reached the door to Price’s quarters, Nikolai paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes met Ghost’s for a moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his gaze—an unspoken understanding, maybe even a reassurance. He nodded once, barely perceptible, before turning his attention back to Price.

“You are alright,” Nikolai murmured, his voice meant for Price but loud enough for Ghost to catch. “Let me get you to bed.”

Price blinked slowly, his brow furrowing slightly as though sensing the tension in the room. His head lolled to the side, his tired gaze meeting Ghost’s. “Oi, Simon,” he muttered, his words sluggish but recognisable. “Don’t look so bloody grim. I’m fine. Nik’s got me.”

The words, though barely coherent, seemed to hit their mark. Ghost’s shoulders relaxed by a fraction, though the unease in his eyes didn’t fade completely.

“Get some rest, John,” Ghost said finally, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

Price gave a small nod, his eyelids already drooping, and Nikolai guided him into the room without another word. The door clicked shut, leaving the team in the hallway.

Soap let out a low whistle, breaking the silence. “Well, that was bloody adorable.”

Gaz grinned faintly, though his gaze lingered on the door. “You reckon he’ll remember any of that tomorrow?”

“Not a chance,” Soap said with a laugh. Then he glanced at Ghost, his smile faltering slightly. “You alright?”

Ghost nodded stiffly, his eyes still on the door. “Yeah. He’ll be alright now.”

Soap gave him a curious look but didn’t press, instead clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s hope Nik works his magic.”

As Soap and Gaz moved down the hallway, Ghost lingered for a moment longer, his thoughts still on the man he’d just seen. It wasn’t just the exhaustion or the uncharacteristic softness in Price’s voice that unsettled him—it was the fragility of it all, the reminder that even John Price wasn’t invincible.

With a quiet sigh, Ghost turned and followed the others, the weight in his chest easing slightly but not entirely gone.

Nikolai guided Price into the room, his arm still looped securely around the other man’s waist. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in a pocket of quiet, away from the amused murmurs and prying eyes of the team. Price mumbled something incoherent, his head lolling against Nikolai’s shoulder as they shuffled toward the bed.

“You are hopeless,” Nikolai murmured softly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I do not know how you have made it this far on your own.”

Price let out a low chuckle, his weight sagging further into Nikolai’s side. “Don’t need to do it on my own. Got you, haven’t I?”

The words were slurred, softened by exhaustion, but they carried a warmth that hit Nikolai square in the chest. He tightened his hold on Price, his steps steady as he manoeuvred them closer to the bed.

“Sit,” Nikolai instructed as they reached the edge. He eased Price down carefully, his hands firm but gentle as he guided him. “Let me get you comfortable.”

Price blinked at him, his expression bleary but faintly amused. “Comfortable, eh? That an excuse to get my clothes off, Nik?”

Nikolai huffed a quiet laugh, crouching to untie Price’s boots. “You are insufferable when you get like this.”

“Like what?” Price asked, his head tilting slightly as he tried to focus on Nikolai’s hands.

“Overtired and full of nonsense,” Nikolai replied, pulling one boot free with a practiced tug. “You are lucky I love you.”

Price hummed softly, a sound of sleepy satisfaction. “Love you too,” he muttered, his voice so quiet Nikolai almost missed it.

Nikolai paused for just a moment, not used to hearing it said in such a carefree way, his fingers tightening briefly on the laces of the second boot. Then he resumed his task, slipping the boot off and setting it aside before straightening. “Up,” he said gently, reaching for Price’s belt.

Price blinked slowly, his hands fumbling weakly to help. “What’re you doin’?”

“Getting you out of these uncomfortable clothes,” Nikolai replied, his tone patient but firm. “You can barely keep your eyes open. Let me take care of you.”

Price let his hands drop, his resistance melting away under Nikolai’s steady touch. As Nikolai worked the buckle loose, Price leaned forward slightly, his forehead brushing against Nikolai’s shoulder. “You really are too good to me,” he mumbled.

“You have mentioned this, yes,” Nikolai said with a soft smile, slipping the belt free and moving to unbutton Price’s shirt. He worked quickly but carefully, his fingers deft as they pushed the fabric off Price’s shoulders. “Arms up.”

Price obeyed without protest, his movements sluggish but cooperative. As the shirt fell away, Nikolai couldn’t help but notice the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his body seemed weighed down by more than just exhaustion.

“Lie back,” Nikolai murmured, his hands steady as he guided Price down onto the mattress. He adjusted the pillow beneath his head, smoothing the blanket over him with a practiced ease. “There. Better?”

Price let out a contented sigh, his eyes already drifting shut. “Much.”

For a moment, Nikolai thought he might finally succumb to sleep. But then Price’s eyes cracked open again, his gaze hazy but focused on Nikolai’s face. A lopsided smile tugged at his lips. “You know,” he said, his voice soft and slurred, “you’re the best husband ever.”

The words hung in the air, unassuming yet powerful, slipping from Price’s lips as though they’d always been true. Nikolai froze, his breath catching in his chest. He stared down at Price, his heart thundering as the weight of the statement settled over him.

Husband.

Price’s eyes fluttered closed again, his breathing evening out as he sank further into the bed. He didn’t seem to realise what he’d said—or maybe he did, in some half-conscious, sleep-addled way. Either way, the words hit Nikolai like a hammer, cracking something open inside him.

For a long moment, Nikolai didn’t move. His hand rested lightly on the blanket, his gaze fixed on Price’s face as a rush of emotions flooded through him. Love, joy, and something deeper—something unshakable and certain.

Finally, he reached out, brushing a hand through Price’s hair in a gentle, grounding gesture. “Sleep, Mishka,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady. “I will be here.”

Price didn’t respond. His breathing had already deepened, the last vestiges of consciousness slipping away. Nikolai stayed beside him, his thoughts spinning with the possibilities that lay ahead. For the first time in years, the future felt close enough to touch.

---

Once Price had finally drifted off, his breathing deep and steady, Nikolai remained seated at the edge of the bed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket over Price’s chest. The sight of John—so utterly unguarded, his face softened in sleep—made something ache in Nikolai’s chest. He brushed his fingers gently over Price’s knuckles where they peeked out from under the blanket, a soft, grounding touch.

The quiet brought with it a wave of thoughts Nikolai hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on before now. He couldn’t leave—not yet. It didn’t feel right to walk away, not when John had finally surrendered, finally let someone take care of him. Nikolai leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his hand still resting lightly on Price’s shoulder. The warmth beneath his fingers was steady, soothing, anchoring him even as his mind began to race.

Husband.

The word had tumbled out of John’s lips without hesitation, soft and slurred but unmistakably sincere. Nikolai closed his eyes, letting the sound of it echo in his mind.

Husband.

He hadn’t expected it—not here, not now, not like this. Price had never been one for grand declarations, especially when it came to emotions. Their relationship had always been built on quiet certainties, gestures that spoke louder than words: a hand on his back during a tense briefing, a rare smile shared over a late-night cup of tea, the way Price’s shoulders eased when Nikolai was near.

But this? This was something different. Something new. And yet, it wasn’t, not really. Nikolai had thought of Price as his partner in every sense of the word for years. The idea of marriage had crossed his mind more than once—first as a fleeting notion, later as a quiet hope that settled into his heart. He’d bought the ring on a whim, drawn to its understated elegance. It wasn’t flashy or overly ornate, but it felt right, much like their relationship: steady, solid, and unshakeably certain.

The ring had sat in his drawer ever since, waiting for a moment that never seemed to come. Nikolai had told himself he was waiting for the right time, but now he wondered if he’d just been waiting for reassurance—for some sign that John wanted the same thing.

And now, John had given it to him. Husband. The word felt like a promise, even if Price hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Nikolai leaned back slightly, studying the man who had unknowingly turned his world upside down with a single sleepy murmur. Price looked so different like this—peaceful, vulnerable, the lines of exhaustion on his face softened by sleep. It wasn’t a sight Nikolai often got to see, and he felt a quiet pang of guilt for letting things get this far. Price was so used to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, so used to putting everyone else first, that he rarely let himself rest.

That ends now, Nikolai thought. He would make sure of it. For all the strength Price showed to the world, he deserved someone who would stand beside him, who would remind him that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

The decision settled in Nikolai’s chest, warm and certain. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the small velvet box that had been tucked away for so long, that he couldn’t bare to be parted from even after all these years. He turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the lid. The ring was still there, gleaming faintly in the dim light. It felt like it had been waiting for this moment, just as much as he had.

Tomorrow, Nikolai thought. No more waiting.

---

Price stirred slowly, dragged from the depths of sleep by the faint sound of birds outside the window and the warm press of a hand resting gently on his arm. His body ached with the dull, lingering heaviness that came from days of pushing too hard, his muscles protesting even the smallest movement. It took a moment for his surroundings to register—the familiar weight of his duvet, the clean scent of his bedlinen mingling faintly with something more distinctive: Nikolai’s cologne.

Nikolai's cologne?

His eyes opened sluggishly, the light filtering through the curtains making him squint. His head turned toward the figure sitting beside him, and for a moment, confusion flickered across his face. Nikolai was there, perched on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes watchful.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Price croaked, his voice rough with sleep and the strain of too many late nights.

Nikolai’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “Good morning to you too, Mishka.”

Price groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Morning,” he muttered, though the word came out more like a grumble. His brow furrowed as his mind tried to catch up. “What time is it?”

“Almost midday,” Nikolai replied, his tone steady but warm.

“Midday?” Price blinked, his mind slowly piecing together the words. “Bloody hell…”

“You needed it,” Nikolai said simply, his hand still resting lightly on Price’s arm. “I was not about to let you keep going like you were.”

Price let out a huff of laughter, though it lacked his usual sharpness. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

Nikolai’s expression softened, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You really do not remember, do you?”

Price frowned, his hand falling to his side as he tried to think. “Not a damn thing.”

For a moment, Nikolai was quiet, his fingers brushing absently over the blanket covering Price. Then he let out a soft breath, his tone careful but unwavering. “Simon called me. He were worried about you, they all were—and rightly so. You have not been taking care of yourself.”

Price’s frown deepened, his gaze dropping to the blanket as fragments of memory surfaced—muffled voices, Nikolai’s steady presence, the feel of being led down the hallway. “They shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, though his words lacked conviction. “I had it under control.”

“Did you?” Nikolai asked gently, tilting his head. The question wasn’t sharp or accusatory, but it cut through Price’s weak protest all the same.

Price sighed, his shoulders slumping as the fight left him. “Guess not,” he admitted quietly.

“Guess not,” Nikolai echoed with a faint smile. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from Price’s forehead. The gesture was tender, grounding, and Price leaned into it instinctively.

“So you dragged me to bed?” Price asked after a moment, his voice rougher now, tinged with self-consciousness as he sat up on bed, the blanket pooling at his waist.

“I did,” Nikolai said, his smile widening slightly upon seeing a sleep-ruffled Price. “And you did not make it easy.”

Price huffed, though the sound was more embarrassed than annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nikolai hesitated for only a moment before his hand drifted toward his pocket. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he were weighing every motion. “It means,” he said softly, “you said something last night. Something I cannot stop thinking about.”

Price’s brow furrowed again, his confusion clear as Nikolai withdrew the small velvet box. The air seemed to still as Nikolai opened it, revealing the ring inside. The sunlight streaming through the window caught the faint gleam of the metal, and Price’s breath hitched.

“Nik…” he began, but the words faltered on his lips.

“You called me your husband,” Nikolai said, his voice steady despite the emotion that thickened the air between them. “You were half-asleep, but you said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Price stared at him, his eyes flicking between the ring and Nikolai’s face. He looked as though he were trying to piece together a puzzle, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper.

“You called me your husband,” Nikolai repeated, his voice quieter now. “And I cannot pretend it meant nothing to hear it.”

For a moment, Price didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he raised a hand to his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I… I said that?”

“You did,” Nikolai said, his lips curving into a faint smile. “And I would like to make it true.”

The words hung in the air, soft but unyielding. Nikolai held the ring out between them, his gaze steady. “John Price,” he said, his voice filled with quiet certainty, “will you marry me?”

Price froze. His breath caught in his chest, and for a long moment, he simply stared, his mind racing. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them, spilling over as he let out a shaky breath.

“Nik,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I…”

Nikolai reached for him, his hand brushing against Price’s arm in a grounding gesture. “If this is not what you want—”

“Yes,” Price interrupted, his voice breaking. He lowered his hand, his tears falling freely now, but his smile was radiant. “Yes, Nik. Of course, yes.”

Relief washed over Nikolai in a wave, his shoulders sagging as he let out a quiet laugh. He slid the ring onto Price’s finger with practiced care, his hands steady despite the overwhelming rush of emotion. Price stared at the ring for a long moment, his lips pressing together as fresh tears welled in his eyes.

“You’re sure about this?” Price asked finally, his voice raw. “You really want to marry an old bastard like me?”

Nikolai let out a soft laugh, leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of Price’s head. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Price let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, pulling Nikolai into a tight embrace. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, the world outside fading into nothing as they held each other. For the first time in days, Price felt something ease—a weight lifting from his chest, replaced by something warm and unshakable.

They stayed like that for a while, the quiet settling over them like a warm blanket. Price’s breathing slowed, steady and calm, his fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the blanket as though grounding himself. Nikolai stayed close, his arms wrapped securely around Price, letting the moment stretch. There was no need for words—not now. The tension that had haunted Price for days seemed to have melted away, leaving only the quiet certainty of the present.

A knock at the door broke the stillness, soft but insistent.

“Captain?” Soap’s voice carried through, its usual lightness subdued but still familiar. “We’ve got some food for you. Can we come in?”

Price shifted slightly, his hands dropping to his lap as he sat up. His head tilted toward the door, and he wiped at his face with one hand, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Give us a minute,” he called, his voice hoarse but steady.

Nikolai leaned back, studying him for a moment before brushing a hand lightly over his arm. “Are you ready?”

Price nodded, his eyes still shining faintly with emotion but his expression calm. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Nikolai stood first, offering Price a steadying hand as he got to his feet. Price accepted it without hesitation, his fingers tightening briefly around Nikolai’s before letting go. Together, they turned toward the door, and Nikolai gave a small nod.

“Come in,” he said, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who knew exactly what waited on the other side.

The door opened cautiously, Soap stepping in first with Gaz close behind. Both of them carried trays, the smell of hot food wafting into the room, but their eyes were immediately drawn to Price. He stood by the bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes still slightly red-rimmed. Nikolai stood close beside him, his arm resting lightly at Price’s back in a gesture so natural it barely registered.

“What’s happened?” Ghost’s voice came from behind the others, softer than usual but edged with concern as he stepped into view. His gaze flicked over Price, his posture tensing as he took in the faint tear tracks still visible on his captain’s face.

Soap froze, his tray wobbling slightly as he glanced at Nikolai. “We’re not interruptin’, are we?”

“Not at all,” Nikolai replied smoothly, his hand giving a subtle, reassuring press to Price’s back.

Price lifted his hand then, the small silver ring catching the light. The gesture was simple but carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said yet.

Nikolai smiled softly, his voice steady as he added, “I finally proposed.”

The room went silent, the words hanging in the air like a sudden drop of weight. Soap’s tray dipped precariously before he caught himself, his mouth falling open slightly.

“Proposed?” Gaz repeated, his voice rising with a mix of surprise and joy. His grin spread slowly, lighting up his face. “Bloody hell, about time!”

Soap recovered quickly, setting the tray down on the nearest surface with a loud clatter. “Aye, no kidding!” he crowed, clapping his hands together. “Congratulations, Cap. And you, Nik! This is brilliant!”

Ghost didn’t say anything right away. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate as he reached out, his hand settling heavily on Price’s shoulder. His grip was firm, steady, and when Price met his gaze, something unspoken passed between them.

“Congratulations, John,” Ghost said finally, his voice softer than usual. “You deserve this.”

Price smiled, his hand reaching up to clasp Ghost’s shoulder briefly before pulling him into a hug. It was solid, grounding, a rare gesture that carried all the weight of their shared history. Ghost stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, his hand clapping against Price’s back.

“Proud of you,” Ghost murmured, his voice low but warm. “But if he hurts you I’ll gut him like a fish, yeah?”

“Thank you, Simon,” Price replied with a laugh, but full of emotion as he pulled back.

Soap let out a cheer, breaking the moment as he strode over to Nikolai. Without hesitation, he threw an arm around Nikolai in a one-sided hug, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “You’ve got my blessing, mate—not that you needed it.”

Gaz was next, his hug more measured but no less genuine. “Couldn’t be happier for you two,” he said with a smile. “Seriously.”

Even Ghost’s expression softened as he glanced at Nikolai. Though he didn’t hug him, he gave a faint nod of approval, the weight of it clear.

The room filled with laughter and congratulations as the initial shock wore off. Soap clapped Nikolai on the back one more time before turning his attention to the food, while Gaz hovered close, still grinning. Price stood steady in the centre of it all, Nikolai at his side, their connection unspoken but unbreakable.

“You lot brought food, didn’t you?” Price asked after a moment, his tone teasing but warm.

Soap gestured toward the trays. “Aye, that we did. Figured you’d be starvin’ after sleepin’ the day away.”

“Not quite the whole day,” Price muttered, though his lips quirked into a small smile.

As the team settled in, their laughter and easy banter filling the space, Price glanced toward Nikolai. The smile they shared was quiet, private, but it spoke volumes.

For the first time in a long time, Price allowed himself to believe in the promise of the future—and the certainty that Nikolai would be by his side through it all.

116 notes · View notes

the-raven-lady · 10 months ago

Text

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 1]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Fear Inoculum - TOOL [YouTube] [Spotify] “Enumerate all that I'm to do / Calculating steps away from you / My own mitosis / Growing through delusion from mania / Exhale, expel / Recast my tale / Weave my allegorical elegy.”

Warnings: Violence, explicit and detailed blood and gore, disgusting and disturbing imagery, terror and dread, fear of death, all of the warnings you should expect hearing the words ‘Night Lord’ bestie this is the “I love murder” legion.

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: The long awaited Night Lord claiming + womb tattoo series. This part is primarily exposition and setting the scene. Also new dividers? Raven Lady's getting fancy.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender

The slosh of brown water on the floor splashes away from your washcloth, and you overextend your shoulder trying to catch it before it runs too far. Hissing at the sudden spasm, you sit back on your heels, rolling it out to soothe the ache. You’ve been on your hands and knees for what feels like far too long now, and your joints are starting to protest. It seems the other serf helping you isn’t faring much better. A glance in her direction reveals her sitting like a child, knees bent and feet flat on the floor, using the full weight of her body to scrub between the seams of the floor panels. You shake your head and return to pushing around the rusty water, struggling to remove the grime from the floor.

The act was pointless. Everyone knew that it wouldn’t be another week before the armory would be so rancid with dried bodily fluids that a cleanup crew would have to scrub it down again, but you knew better than to make a comment on it.

The racket of raucous laughter nearby shoots ice through your veins. You and the other serf instinctually freeze at the sound, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to check on her before abandoning your post, scrambling off of the wet floor in a flash to hide behind a large crate. The cold metal at your back would shield you from view, you know, but the hammering in your chest and shuddering of your breath would be beacons for a bored astartes. Silently, you will yourself to calm down at any cost, holding your breath for so long your lungs begin to burn from the effort.

Their heavy footfalls eventually fade into the distance, off to another area of the ship. Still, you remain in place for another few minutes until you’re as certain as you’ll ever be that they’re gone. You dare not risk yourself getting caught by a group of Night Lords, if experience has taught you anything.

You’ve become jaded to the rags of tanned hide displayed proudly on their armor and the grotesque corpse art that lines the walls of Nightfall. The smell doesn’t even get to you anymore, having been surrounded by abundant death and decay for so long. Everything reeks of it. Even if you did take the time to think on the dreadful feelings that stir when you see them, your body wouldn’t be able to afford losing any more meals with how sparingly you’ve been fed.

What has never left you are the screams. The gush of blood pouring from a weeping laceration. The crack of breaking bones. Desperate cries from the poor targets of the Night Lord’s insatiable appetite for ‘entertainment’, sobs and begs for their lives— No, no, no, please! I’ll do anything, please, just let me go–!— eventually turning into pleas to be put out of their misery, shown mercy, as their captors only laugh and croon. No mercy flowed through them; they were never quick with their kills. It was all a sadistic game to feed off of the tears and terror for as long as they could. The Night Lords wouldn’t stop their fun until their playthings had been bled dry– literally or figuratively.

You peek out from around the crate, surveying the dim armory. Empty.

The serf you had been working with was missing as well, likely sequestered off somewhere for safety. The utter silence of the room causes your gut to tremble with anxiety. It was a dangerous game to be alone: lone serfs were prime prey, and you by no means wanted to make yourself an easy target.

With no small amount of horror, you realize it’s outside of your power to do anything about it. Your lungs deflate, and you give yourself a false reassurance before returning to your station on the floor, taking up the soiled wash rag and wringing it out into the water bucket. Pieces of slimy rehydrated skin pass over your fingers. You return to your efforts with the intent to finish as quickly as possible. The desire to flee to your cot is all-encompassing, driving you to redouble your efforts and get the job done just passably enough that you won’t be killed for it.

A thought stops you, though. Where had your companion gone? It’s not that you particularly cared for her safety (you didn’t know her and caring is a luxury you could not afford), but to be gone without a trace was peculiar. You don’t remember hearing her footsteps, but you had also been preoccupied with yourself at the time.

You look around the empty room for anything out of place. Nothing appears to have moved since you last checked. Her brush and bucket are still on the floor, right where she had left them. You had seen her put them down there, right?

…Hadn’t you?

You dismiss the thought. She was probably still hiding somewhere, and for that, you couldn’t fault her. There was no loyalty amongst serfs of the Eighth, just an understanding that it was safer together than apart. Wanting to determine how much longer you would be here, you observe the areas the other serf had already worked.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The surfaces of the floors, storage units, and walls were visibly much cleaner than the rest, but she had done a horrible job wiping things down as she went. The steady dripping of a poorly dried surface unpleasantly fills your ears, slowly becoming the only thing you can focus on. You frown. It was amazing how you could begin to miss the ever-present dull thrum of the ship’s electrical systems when it was covered by something even slightly more annoying.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You shake your head and get back to working around the floor grate at the center of the room. Its placement makes it convenient to push the disgusting wash water into. As expected, the seams around the drain are compacted with hair and dried flesh, and you have to soak the mass to begin to scrape it free. The spongy texture is a nightmare to work with, but it wouldn’t be such a chore if you had some help.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Annoyed, you decide you’ve had enough of it. Water sloshes in the bucket when you wrench your washcloth to go wipe down whatever it is she had left unfinished, rising up to your feet. With some luck, you’d figure out where she had run off to. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if she had abandoned you altogether, leaving you to finish the task and fend for yourself.

A cursory glance over the bench, lockers, and racks reveals nothing out of the ordinary. They were passably clean and– perplexingly– completely dry. You ran a hand along them to be certain and, surely enough, it came away much the same. Odd. You were certain that you would find something. Continuing your search leaves more questions than answers.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Checking around a wall of storage cabinets, you carefully inspect each of the gaps for signs of water or some other liquid that could be leaking. You find nothing.

At the end of the lockers, a shadow dances in the dim candlelight. Fear grips you for just a moment as you focus in on it, but it is much too small to be an astartes. At the realization, the chill in your blood is replaced with a simmer of frustration, and you stomp down the hall towards the figure.

Your eyes lock with the other serf’s. “Are you just hiding to–?”

You stop. It appears she had been too preoccupied with hanging from a bracket on the wall to come to your aid. The side of her neck is torn open with loose strips of muscle and connective tissue fanning over her shoulder. A glistening metal finial of Nostraman design pokes ornately through her spine and sternum, partially coagulated blood pooling at the tip.

Drip.

“About time,” a voice spits.

You’re suddenly dragged by the back of your robes, hoisted up into the air by an unseen force. The scream that leaves you tears at your vocal cords, but it’s choked off by the fabric of your neckline biting into your throat. Thrashing your head from side to side, you catch sight of a colorless face cackling, bloodied lips curled into a grin. You desperately kick your legs in an attempt to free yourself.

“Feisty little pet, aren’t we?” he asks. The Night Lord turns you around easily as you struggle, splitting red as he talks. “Good. Your friend was far more boring.”

You rake at the fabric around your neck, trying to alleviate the pressure preventing oxygen from getting to your head. The action only makes him laugh harder. “Oh, how precious. Poor little serf can’t breathe?” He tilts his head as he taunts you, and a cruel glint crosses his eye.

“How about I help with that?”

A half turn and your back slams against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your gasp of pain ignites a malicious glee within your captor, a row of bloodied yellow teeth peeking from behind his lips. At least like this, pinned to the wall, you have the ability to catch your breath, ragged and shallow. Each rough huff eases the ache in your diaphragm.

A hand roughly snaps your head forward, forcing you to focus on the face at your front. He suffocates you with his presence, leaning in far too close. “You know,” he starts, “I had been just about ready to walk in there and drag you out myself.” Despite the melodic quality of his voice, you only feel discomfort at the astartes’s words as he uningenuously laments. “I could only stare at my masterpiece for so long.”

Briefly, your eyes linger on the silhouetted corpse of the other chapter serf. You hadn’t even heard her scream. Hadn’t heard the attack. Hadn’t heard the bones crack when she was unceremoniously mounted on the wall. You had managed to miss every detail.

…Or your captor had been skilled enough to mask them. You shiver.

He follows your gaze, scoffing when it lands on the body. “Your buddy is as pretty as she is stupid, trying to run all the way back to the hole you serfs call home.” The image of the other serf running down the hallway and getting caught as you did passes through your mind, and you grimace at the thought of whatever game she may have suffered through to end up where she is. The sing-song cadence of his voice draws your attention back to the Night Lord in front of you, “You humans fall so easily to your emotions. Not the brightest of you lot I’ve had, but certainly the best bait.”

Bait. The word is sour in the air.

“So unwilling to have fun–”

She had just been bait.

“–but you’re eager to play, aren’t you?”

You were the game.

Your blood runs cold, eyes widening as you process everything you had missed or ignored up until now. Black blurs the edges of your vision. “Oh, don’t be like that,” the Night Lord shakes his head, but you know better than to believe it. This is exactly what he wanted. “We can be great friends—”

Self-preservation takes a hold of you. Your adrenalized brain screams to overcome, persist. In an act of desperation, your hands shoot out before you, and you manage to jab your fingers into his dark eyes and claw. The astartes snarls, ducking away and dragging you with him off of the wall as he stumbles back. With a shake of his head, he regains his senses. He growls.

“You stupid bitch!”

The Night Lord tosses you like a ragdoll, uncaring of how your head impacts the nearby bench before hitting the floor. The world spins around you. “I’ll gut you like a pig for that, you impudent rat!” he roars, ceramite boots stomping closer. His eyes are wild, red around his enlarged pupils from where you’ve managed to burst blood vessels. Uncoordinated, you scramble backwards on the floor, staring up at the approaching astartes in terror.

This is it. This is where you die: surrounded by filth, hyperventilating on the floor as a pissed off Night Lord tortures you within an inch of your life until you perish from the stress. All for one measly act of courage. Your back hits a wall as he rounds the bench, and you find yourself unable to watch any longer as fate unfolds before you. You curl up in a ball, turning away and protecting your head with your arms, then wait for the inevitable killing strike.

And wait.

…And wait.

But the blow never comes– no white-hot stab of pain, no sting of a kick to the ribs, no blunt ache of broken bones– just a sickeningly sodden crunch of flesh and bone. A wet spray paints your back. Your tattered robes easily soak up the warm liquid, causing you to flinch from the sudden moisture. Even through the rush of confusion and fear, it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The scent is unmistakable.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you struggle to catch up with your surroundings. By all means, you should be dead: the newest addition to a Night Lord’s skin cloak, or at the very least in excruciating pain. But you aren’t.

Tentatively, trembling, you withdraw your head from the cage of your arms, turning just enough to peer behind you. You gasp at the grisly sight.

Crimson rivulets of blood drip down over massive navy blue gauntlets. A single enucleated eye dangles from the gore between its digits. The terminator, more mountain than man, holds the unmoving body of your persecutor up by what remains of his cranium and neck. It is little more than ribbons of meat now.

Bile rises in your throat. You struggle to force it back down.

Bolted armor caked in blood– both dried and fresh, sunken deep into the recesses of the ceramite plating– gives off an aura of wrought iron and decay. The metallic tang permeates the air around him, hanging heavy in the poorly ventilated armory. His scarred skin looks sickly pale. Greasy. Dehydrated. Aside from deep black eyes that watch you as a predator observes prey, the most prominent feature on his face is a wicked scar: a tear in his upper lip that exposes maxilla and sharp teeth alike. The shock of black hair on his head still has the impression of his helmet on it.

Without so much as a sound, he had come up from behind and grabbed the smaller Night Lord by the face, yanking them back into the crux of his chestplate and pauldron with enough force to shatter the hardened skull of an astartes.

The massive marine throws the limp corpse of his former brother aside. The impact of metal on metal causes your ears to ring as a thousand pounds of lifeless ceramite strikes the wall, immediately followed by a disgusting wet slop of pulverized brain matter spilling onto the floor. If you had been on the Nightfall for any less time, you would have screamed. The shock almost prevents you from registering that you’re being spoken to.

“Get up.”

The terminator’s voice is that of rolling thunder and coarse gravel, resonating deep within your chest and leaving your heart fluttering with trepidation. His words had been spoken no louder than conversational, and yet they had you shooting up to your feet as if they had been shouted. Your wobbly legs nearly give out beneath you from how quickly you rise from the floor, croaking a shaky, “Yes, my lord.”

He removes his helmet from where it is magnetized to his belt with a click, placing it down on the bench you had been cowering behind. The tusks on it are as long as your forearm and nearly as thick. A faint decal of a skull is painted around the red lenses, chipped and fading but almost cartoonishly cute in contrast to the rags of flesh and weathered bones decorating the rest of his armor.

The new Night Lord doesn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing as you do. He pushes the helmet in your direction, and you clamber to catch it before it hits the ground, not wanting to incur his wrath by dropping it so soon after he had just saved your life. The metal is heavy in your arms, tusks dangerously close to puncturing your throat.

“Clean it,” he barks.

You grab your wash rag from the floor and shake it out. You do not have to be told twice.

[Part 2]

#there will be smut eventually #i did not and will not pull any punches on this one you have been WARNED #using my questionable life experience to make a good dark fic #enjoy you filthy sinners #night lord #night lords #night lord x reader #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 30k #horus heresy #warhammer 40k x reader #wh 40k #oc: elias rushorik #raven lady writings

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