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spikedfearn · 28 days ago

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All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

#i love walter because he never stopped being gentle even when the world demanded he be cruel #writing is just me projecting my need to cradle a fictional man like a wounded bird #his trauma is layered like a lasagna and I'm eating every bite #jungleland #jungleland 2019 #lion kaminski #walter kaminski #lion kaminski x reader #lion kaminski x you #jack o'connell

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bitterreid · 20 days ago

Text

🌷 Bad dream, baby - S.R. 🌷

summary: After Spencer gets wounded in the field, you do your absolute best to take care of your boyfriend in pain. He is having a particularly tough time with it, frustrations running high, and he thinks he knows how to solve it, but you're not so sure.

or: idiots in love that learn to communicate :) and have sexy times :)

Category: smut but also hurt/comfort and it's extremely fluffy and he's angsty. I did it, I collected them all.

Contains: porn with plot, vague descriptions of canon typical violence and injuries, fem!reader, smut!!! so minors DNI!, dry humping, a lot of fluff, hurt/comfort, unprotected p in v (pretend she's on birth control idk), implied (?) cockwarming, intimacy, very many feelings, established relationship, whiny Spence but no s/d dynamics, I am so down bad for this man help me

Trigger warning??? I'm not really sure whether this is relevant but better be safe than sorry! At the start there is a case of a sort of dubious consent? It gets communicated about, resolved and turns out really sweet (and nothing malicious goes on at all), but always take care of yourself and skip this one if that sounds like something that's not for you <3

word count: 5.9k

a/n: Look I'll say it first. I have a Thing™️ for wounded men. It's okay. You can say it too <3 This is our support group now.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"I'll be right back, baby" you said, as you took the dirty plates to the kitchen.

A sigh escaped your lips as soon as the door closed behind you. Not because you were tired of Spencer, never, but your heart just felt so heavy having to see him like this.

It had been a little over a week now since Spencer had been seriously injured in the field. His injuries had been worse than any other member had ever been harmed, and after having to spend a few nights in the hospital, you finally had him to yourself again. The last few days had been some of the worst of your whole life. Getting the call about the shooting had felt like being shot yourself, and racing to the hospital in a perpetual state of panic and despair had felt like it lasted forever. Seeing Spencer unconscious on a hospital bed, being dragged away to surgery, it had almost been too much to handle. It all seemed so far away now, and getting to sit by his side as he opened his eyes again, that was a flood of relief that would never again be parallelled. "Hi…" he had said, large eyes lidded, a faint smile on his lips, and you had just burst into tears on the spot.

You shook your head to get away from the thoughts, feeling the warm water hit your skin as you started to wash the dishes. It hadn't been easy, having Spencer home and pretty much immoble for another while. Of course you had immediately jumped at the opportunity to take him home and care for him yourself, you loved him so much and nothing could change that, but that didn't mean it wasn't hard on you, or on Spencer.

You could see that he was really struggling. He was always so independent, from a young age already and now even more so, so naturally being unable to even stand on his own was like torture to him. You did your very very best to accommodate him, helping him where necessary and letting him take the wheel where he could, but it was a tough balance. He was extremely proud and though he was more than grateful and appreciative of your help, his frustrations were beginning to run high.

Not that you didn't understand, of course. Despite the frequent and sincere thank you's you were given every day, it must all have been so frustrating to him… Spencer was not good at being taken care of in general, you had noticed. He was a giver through and through, selfless, kind, generous, and he had never been in a position where he received just so much. It was eating him alive that he couldn't give you anything in return.

Of course you didn't want or need anything for your care, you loved him and would do anything to make him comfortable in his time of need, but you could see the (entirely misplaced) guilt on his face when you made him his meals, helped him into his clothes, or fetched him another book.

You strolled back into your bedroom, Spencer still in the exact position you had left him in. Not that he had much choice. He put his book down slowly and smiled at you warmly. You returned the smile, but seeing him like this made your heart hurt every single time, no denying it. His right leg was propped up on some pillows. The bullet had penetrated his knee, and at first the doctors weren't sure he would ever be able to use it again, but after emergency surgery, luck had finally been on Spencer's side. During the fall, he managed to sustain an injury to his ribs which had needed stitches, and he had hit his head on something, which had left a glaring gash right though his eyebrow.

"Hi, baby" he said, looking extra soft in his pyjama pants and shirt, "ready for the movie?"

"Sure am," you smiled warmly at him and got on top of the blankets. You had deemed every single night movie night while Spencer was bed-bound, you know, silver linings and such. Spencer lazily put his arm around your waist as you cuddled up next to him - carefully - and pressed play on the old Italian black-and-white drama. (Spencer's pick, naturally.) You had had to beg him for subtitles, because no matter how much you loved his whispered translations in your ear, you just could not keep up that way. Not that you understood all that much of it this way either, but Spencer seemed to enjoy it, and anything for him.

"Hey, baby, you want some hot chocolate?" you were halfway through the movie at this point, not that you understood anything close to half of it, but anyway.

Spencer smiled sheepishly, which you had learned to take as a yes from him. "Yeah?" you smiled at him, kissing his shoulder briefly before getting up.

"Only if it's not a bother!" he was quick to say, holding your wrist gently in his palm, his eyes pretty and impossibly round.

"For you?" you kissed his nose, "Never."

He smiled in the bashful way that you knew all too well. You tried to sprinkle in little sentiments like that last one, in hopes that he would finally start to believe them, but for now you knew that some twisted sort of guilt over being taken care of was eating at him.

When you returned with the mugs, you placed his on his bed-side table, as it was still too hot to drink immediately. You got back into bed, right away finding your place next to Spencer again. The movie progressed slowly, but you were content just cuddling with Spencer all night, or this careful version of cuddling, at least, trying to avoid any bruised or battered parts of him.

"Did you know that actually-" (you already knew you would not know whatever was to follow), "the director of this movie wanted to shoot it by the sea, but the guy who plays Phillipe just absolutely refused to?" Spencer giggled to himself, "They had to shoot by a big lake instead."

"How do you even find all these fun facts at this point?" the warmth you felt for him was evident in your tone.

"Don't know," he smiled down at you tucked beside him, "just catch them here and there, I guess"

"Oh yeah," you drawl, "me too, I'm always just hearing about old Italian movie stars and their affinity for lakes."

This drew a chuckle out of Spencer, his eyes sparkling like they always used to do. "They actually did end up winning multiple prizes for this film back in the day, so people could hypothetically still be talking about it to this day, you know, it made a lasting impression on the way they still today portray loneliness in relations to large bodies of water and how people-"

Spencer suddenly hissed out in pain, after which you heard a dull thud on the floor beside him. He had tried to grab the mug off the table, but the wound on his ribs must have caused him to drop it, you deduced and, oh, you knew this was so not what he needed after the already difficult day- week- month he'd had. You charged up for maximum damage control.

"Spencer-" you tried.

"Shit. I- Auch," he groaned in pain again, clutching his side.

"Spencer, no, baby stop trying to twist your torso, it's alright, I-" He wasn't listening, he was looking over the edge of the bed with clenched teeth, staring at the slowly spreading stain on your white bedside rugs.

"I- I'm so sorry, I'm- I'm just-" you could see the emotions taking over, it was all just too much in this moment. You had known this would eventually happen, he had been so brave, so well-behaved, just like you knew Spencer to be, but the frustrations had to come to the surface one way or another, you knew that very well.

"I, just, FUCK" he near shouted. It was strange hearing Spencer cuss in this setting, normally so calm and collected.

"It's alright, Spence, really, I know it was an accident," You slowly got out of bed to take out some paper towels to try and manage the bleeding stain. "I can just throw these in the wash and tomorrow all will be alright." You tried to smile at him, but he wouldn't meet your eyes, still transfixed on the rug.

"No." he said, just as you crouched down. "No, let me do this, it's my mess." there was a red blush creeping up his neck from below his collar and his eyes were fiery. He tried to lift his leg off the mountain of pillows, to no avail, as he immediately had to cease his efforts due to another spell of pain washing over him.

He groaned - in frustration or pain, or both - and your heart broke in two. "Spencer," you said softly, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. He tried to get back up again and failed, clenching his teeth as he held onto his side. You reached your hand out to him, wanting to stroke his hair, but he ducked away harshly. Your hand faltered in the air, not used to reactions like this, and so it took you a second to remember to take your hand back into your lap.

He looked back at you, his scrunched-up brows smoothing out again when he saw you sitting there. "No- God, I'm sorry, I don't- I didn't- mean to-" he was breathing irregularly now, almost hyperventilating, wringing his hands in strained motions. There was so much pent up emotion in his body, fear from the shooting, pain from its wounds, anger over their consequences and guilt for the care they required, it was all coming to a head now. "I'm just so fucking, it's all so incredibly-" he was trying to push it back in, keep it all to himself again, but you knew the both of you couldn't continue like this. And he knew it too. It was as if he was trying to cram too many emotions all into one envelope to seal it off again, but finding it impossible. The fiery waves still spilled out of his eyes, the desperation layering onto itself until he was nearly shaking.

"Just, let it all out Spence, you don't have to hold it in, you can just yell for a while if it would make you feel better." you tried to soothe him best you could, you didn't know what would calm him now, and you didn't really dare to guess, but his eyes looked so pleadingly in your direction, looking for answers you didn't have.

"No, No," he shook his head, wincing again afterwards "I-" he groaned, now out of pure and visible frustration, and suddenly he took your hands, placing them on his chest "Will you just, touch me, please?" His amber eyes, impossibly big and begging, bored into yours.

"T- touch you?" you weren't sure you understood him right.

"Please-" his voice broke, desperate, desolate.

"O-okay, sure, Spence, anything," You didn't quite know what to do exactly, your hands stayed still on his chest, your mind racing with what to do.

Clearly displeased with your inactivity, Spencer whined and his hands reached out, he took a light hold of your waist and tried to pull you closer, which was not as simple in your current position. You finally understood, he wanted you close, so you snaked one hand behind his neck to tangle in the curls at the bottom of his skull, and let the other one lightly graze the skin of his collarbones, making his muscles relax ever so slightly. His eyes still stared disparagingly back at you, as he kept clumsily pawing at you to get closer.

You leaned in slightly and gave him a quick, experimental peck on his lips. Hungry like a tiger, however, he kissed you back, hands immediately tangling in your hair, lips immediately seeking more contact. He kissed you like a man starved, like it had been ages since he had you close at all. You kissed him back, taken aback a little, but the familiar deep lull of his kisses didn't go unnoticed as you let your guard slip just a little, giving into his touch.

Still not exactly sure where this was going, or what on earth he was trying to communicate, you let him manoeuvre (more like manhandle) you fully onto his side of the bed. You knew he was being careful - it was Spencer, after all - but in his desperation and need, he failed to account for his current situation, bumping into his painful leg or his bruises. He winced into the kiss, but still refused to break it, kissing and softly licking into your mouth as he went.

"Spencer-" you tried, as you momentarily leaned away, but the amber of his eyes had molten, pools of craving peering back at you. He leaned forward with you, closing the gap again and once more capturing your lips with his. His gentle but guiding hands on your waist had directed your legs open on either side of him, essentially hovering you over him in a straddling position. You didn't dare to bring your hips down in fear of hurting his leg, so you just awkwardly loomed over him.

Getting his lips off of yours proved to be harder than you'd anticipated, with Spencer kissing you like you were the air he desperately needed, yet holding you so firmly to his lips that there was hardly any chance to breathe. It didn't help that his kisses were absolutely intoxicating. The need and passion he poured into each gentle peck and deep lick made you want to sink into him more and more.

When you finally came back to yourself and managed to get some distance between your faces, he whined softly at the loss of contact, his lips red and slightly shiny in the dim light.

"Spencer," your tone was somewhere balancing on a thin line between affectionate and scolding. He was blushing, of passion, of something more akin to shame, you didn't know for sure. He was pleading, he was pawing at your hips again before you could utter the next word. "I'm not sure we should- you're still-" he winced at your careful words.

He gently pushed your hips towards his, softly, lovingly, like he had done a hundred times before, but this was different. "Please," his voice soft and almost breaking, "baby?" And with that plea, your hips slowly connected. How were you to refuse? Softly, you sat your weight down on him, terrified to hurt him, only thinking about his knee, his bruises, but Spencer only hummed when your core connected with his obvious hard-on.

"Are you alr-" his large hands were on the side of your face once more, drawing you in for another kiss. It was intoxicating, his lips moving against your own just the way you liked it, slow, but drawn out long and passionate, with Spencer's little sounds mixing in here and there to pull you under completely. You had missed this so much, this closeness, this heat, his lips and touches. But you could not get carried away, he was being rash, he needed to communicate. This could not be something that hurt him down the line.

You kissed him back softly, trying to take the heat out of the exchange, but he kept pouring it back in, deepening and deepening. You slid your hands into his hair, which he took as an affirmation to grind your hips into his. He let out a flustered sound at the contact, like a craving finally being met. But you had other plans. You pulled his hair softly, just the way he liked, but you pulled his face away from you. His eyes shone with betrayal, being unable to reach your lips now.

He couldn't look at you. This was not his usual way of initiating anything. He was always so communicative, so in search of consent and praise wherever he went. This sudden desperation worried you, like it was all just a cover, a trick.

Despite his lanky frame and current state, he was strong, he leaned forward (your mind immediately going to the purple splotches on his ribs) and buried his face in your neck, so as to not look at you. There he began planting small kisses, carefully, sweetly, like you knew him. But his hands also continued to grind your hips into his, seeking friction.

"Spencer- are- are you sure?" You gently offered, still combing through his hair, feeling his hot, now slightly quickened breath on your neck.

He only whined in response, only grinding you down more desperately on his lap.

"Spence, baby," you shushed, trying to convey that it was okay, that there was no need for this urgency, that you were not going anywhere. His breathing in the crook of your neck was frantic now. "Spencer," you tried again, as you softly ground down your hips on your own volition. Immediately his grip loosened, a small moan being drawn from his lips. You softly continued the movement, as it seemed to physically melt his pent up state back to the man you knew. The heat low in your belly started to burn at the edges from the friction his clear arousal warranted, but you ignored it in favour of checking in on Spencer.

You carefully cradled his head and brought it so you could look him in his eyes, but he kept them closed. As long as you continued the movement, his face stayed relaxed and borderline content, though you could still sense his frantic state in the occasional scrunch of his nose or the semblance of a frown pulling his eyebrows tight. You made the movements come to a halt, carefully inspecting Spencer's face, awaiting his reaction. His breath stuttered, probably from the sudden lack of friction, and his eyes slowly opened.

His big brown irises were overflowing with a desperation you thought only existed in Victorian novels. You could almost see the inner emotions of it all working, a glimpse of sadness, toppled over into guilt, pushed under by the sheer need for closeness, and then the fear of it. You carefully caressed his cheek with your thumb, "baby…", he immediately leaned into the contact. "I'm right here, okay?" Big brown doe eyes just peering back at you,

"I'm right here, but, you have to talk to me, Spence. I don't know what's going on in your head," your own voice sounded surprisingly small and sad to your ears, and Spencer winced at the words.

"I-" he opened his mouth and closed it again. You could see he was at a loss for words, that he probably also didn't know what was going on or where this was all coming from. "I'm, I'm so sorry" he spoke, his eyes wide and sincere, like he was just looking down on the situation for the first time. He let go of your hips at once, looking at his own hands with a degree of bewilderment, his eyes somewhat glassy as they floated back up to you.

"No- no, you don't have to apologise," you felt guilty at once, "there's nothing to be sorry about." A small smile formed on your lips, caressing the sides of his face once more. "Hey," you tilted his face to yours, eyes flickering over the gash in his eyebrow, down to the yellowing bruise high on his cheekbone, "It's alright."

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed at the gentle contact. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more, turning his face slightly to kiss your wrist softly as it passed by his lips. "I just, I just think I missed you… you know," a blush took over his cheeks, colour muddling with the bruises, "this… this way", his sentence trailed off towards the end.

"Oh," you felt your own cheeks burn at his gentle confession, "Oh, I- I didn't know," you were at a loss for words yourself now. You had been so caught up in caring for him that any physical intimacy honestly had just slipped your mind.

"No! No, no, no, you couldn't have known, I, I should have said something, but I didn't know how, you're so sweet, for taking care of me, I didn't want to ask for even more" he closed his eyes, furrowing his brows, mentally beating himself up, no doubt.

"Oh Spence," you leaned in slightly and softly pecked his lips, "I'm sorry, I just didn't think of it, honestly, I was so focussed on taking care of you, your knee and your bruises, I just got caught up in it all I think… I was just so worried-"

"Yeah, no!" he sounded slightly panicked. "I- oh God, I'm such an asshole," he pressed the palms of his hands against his eye sockets, "you're here taking care of me - excellently! Oh, so excellently, couldn't ask for anyone better, nicer, I mean- God, you're here caring for me and I'm just here complaining about not- not-" a deep blush found its way back onto his cheeks and he looked away, deflating just a little.

"Look," his eyes bored into yours again and this time they were soft around the edges, a little pleading, "I don't want you to think that you did anything wrong. At all. I just, it's all been so much, you know…"

"Of course, I know, baby," you stroked a stray lock of hair out of his face and he softly took a hold of your hand, rubbing small circles on the back of it.

"And you just, this just-" you quietly marvelled at how, still, after all this time, Spencer was just as bashful as the day you met, "brings me comfort?" his eyes were glued to your entangled hands. "I just really want you close, … this close." he sheepishly motioned to where your bodies connected.

The puzzle pieces fit. He just needed extra comfort, especially at a time like this. You smiled at him, hoping to calm the vibrations of nervous energy coming off of him. "Well, we can do that," you whispered, trying to make your voice soft and velvet to the touch. Spencer seemed to soften at the edges.

"Yeah?" his eyes impossibly wide and full of adoration.

"Of course, Spence," you kissed his lips softly, combing through his hair once more and staying closeby. "It's just, I'm scared of hurting you."

He peered up at you, hands finding your waist once more, "Don't be. I'm not made of glass."

You appreciated the false bravado, but you also knew the way he winced in pain every time he had to do as little as get dressed. You could hardly stand the little sounds of pain, the way his pretty eyes screwed shut. "Spencer,"

The pleading look was back. He kissed you softly, intimately, his lips finding yours like they were made to fit there, "we'll be careful," he promised against your lips.

"Very careful?" you asked as you lost yourself little by little in the kisses.

"Very careful." he confirmed, his voice low and breathy. God, you had missed seeing him like this, feeling him like this. The way he held your face while he kissed you, borderline possessive but mostly so insanely sweet. His tongue traced your puffy bottom lip, asking for entrance you gladly gave.

Your arms snaked around him for real this time, pulling him closer by his hair. He moaned into the kiss, a gentle vibration you hadn't known you missed so much until you tasted it again. He was hungry, hands tracing your body, but he was still so Spencer. So warm and lovely, large fingers caressing your sides and back like you were something to worship.

You revelled in his adoration, letting yourself melt against the familiar warmth of his body, the distant smell of his sweet cologne and shampoo. You couldn't help but moan softly when Spencer squeezed the soft flesh around your hips, only now realising how much you had missed his gentle touch.

You carefully brought your hands down from his hair and started undoing the top button of his pyjama shirt. Spencer smiled into the kiss, content with your cooperation no doubt. You never could deny the pretty boy in front of you anything after all.

The shirt falling away revealed a canvas of pale skin dotted with bruises in various shapes and colours. Peeling the fabric off his shoulders carefully, you finally broke the heated kiss and ventured to look down to his chest. Spencer eyed you carefully, not quite bashfully, but with an uncertainty in his eyes. You vowed to make it disappear at once.

Small kisses starting from his jawline found their way through the minefield of bruises, paying attention not to hurt him in the process. First his collarbones, then downwards to his chest and abdomen, you left no untouched space unkissed. Spencer revelled in your attention, your care, your love.

"Hey," he said softly. You looked up at him in the dim light, your hair falling in your eyes. He took your face into his hands and kissed you tenderly. His fingers found the hem of your t-shirt, gently lifting the edge until you raised your arms to let him pull it over your head. Wearing no bra, you were now topless sitting in his lap. Oh how you had missed seeing the warm brown of Spencer's eyes flash up into something sharper. He let his eyes roam over your body in a way closer to reverie than hunger, though you knew it possessed both. If he hadn't had an eidetic memory, you would almost believe he had actually forgotten what you looked like, the way he drank in the sight like it was his last meal.

You couldn't help but smile at him, a coy little gesture that Spencer returned as soon as his eyes made it back onto your face. "Missed you," you whispered softly.

"You have no idea," he replied.

Then his large hands slid up to your chest, one gently brushing your hair away over your shoulder, the other cupping one of your breasts in his palm. He massaged the soft skin gently while leaning forward to pepper your neck with kisses. You sighed into him contently, eyes closing upon the tender contact. His finger grazed over your nipple, making goosebumps spread over your arms like the fire did in your belly. A soft sound escaped you, not quite a whine, but not far from either. You felt Spencer smile against your skin, the kisses turning to little nips as he neared your collarbones.

Your eyes shot open as you heard Spencer wince. "Spence?"

He shied away at the concern in your voice. "It's nothing," he assured. "Just, um, overdid it." He had leaned too far into you, the bruises on his ribs not quite allowing him to. "I'm fine, you're just, well," he raked his fingers through his hair and let his soft smile return, "well look at you, how could I not."

You tried not to worry, to let yourself melt back into the moment. "Well, let me help you, then," you purred, coming up off your knees so your chest was on his eye level.

"Perfect…" Spencer mused, more to himself than anyone else, before he recommenced his sweet attack on your skin. Flicking his thumb over one nipple, he took the other one in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. Your head almost fell back, but you wanted to enjoy the sight before you. Remembering exactly what you liked, Spencer's skilled hands and mouth worked over the soft skin of your breasts until you were a whining puddle in his arms, just how he liked you.

And now it wasn't Spencer that was eager, no, you had felt yourself grow wetter for him with every passing second, and the want and need of the last few days washed over you in waves of anticipation. Your hands instinctively went to the hem of his pyjama bottoms when he came up for air, and you ran your finger along the waistband teasingly.

Spencer looked up at you dazedly, big puppy eyes glazed over with lust, a sweet smirk playing on his lips. You carefully slid off of him, helping him out of his pants and boxer briefs, careful not to hurt him. Your heart ached a little when you heard him hiss in pain and steady himself, but you reminded yourself that you both wanted this. Once his pants were off, you shimmied your own plaid pyjama shorts and panties down your legs, now sitting completely naked on the bed next to Spencer.

"C'mere," Spencer reached out his hands for you to take, affection muffling his otherwise perfect diction.

His broad hands positioned you back into his lap where you belonged. The kiss that followed was hungry. Hungrier than you had ever felt Spencer before. His hands were everywhere on your body, grabbing your hips, smoothing down your back, on your tits, you felt him everywhere, except where you needed him most.

You whined into his mouth, "Spence, please."

His eyes glinted with something akin to mischief, and his teasing words of "Aw, is my baby so eager?" would almost be convincing, if he wasn't hard and desperate himself right underneath you. So you moved your hips slightly, your folds dragging over his erection. That shut him up real quick.

"Cat got your tongue?" You purred, drinking in the feeling of his skin on yours once more.

Spencer's long, dark lashes fanned out on his cheeks as he breathed heavily from the friction. The sight was from a movie, the prettiest boy you had ever seen, bruised up, but revelling in feeling your body. You wanted him, needed him.

You slowly lifted your hips, careful not to put too much of your weight on him, and let Spencer position himself at your opening. The anticipation in the air was sweet, almost stifling, you could already taste the sweet release.

Spencer dragged his tip though your folds, spreading the wetness that had accumulated up to your clit, circling it a few times before going back to your entrance.

"So wet for me, baby."

"I'll be gentle, yeah?" you checked with him.

"Yeah, hm, sure," his eyes flickered up from where you two almost connected to your face, "god, i need you, please."

Who were you to deny? You sank down slowly, just the tip at first, and the stretch was already delicious enough to warrant the soft, whining sound leaving your lips. Spencer looked dizzy with it, patiently waiting on you while he steadied your hips. You sank further down on him. God, you had missed feeling him inside you.

When you had taken all of him, you tried to check in on whether this position was comfortable for him, but instead you were pulled into another desperate kiss. His tongue was in your mouth in seconds, making you lightheaded with the eagerness Spencer poured into you. He moved his hips up, thrusting into you once, and it felt amazing, but he winced into the kiss.

"Babe, Spence," you halted the kiss, "let me do the work now, please," you gently pushed him back against the pillows, "let me take care of you, yeah?"

He looked up at you straddling him, hair messy and cheeks red. "Yeah, yeah, sorry," he replied bashfully, his voice hoarse and deep with want.

You rolled your hips into his, soft but deep. His pretty lips, red from being kissed stupid, parted and he made a delicious sound that went right to your core. You continued to roll your hips, trying to get leverage to ride him, but not wanting to put pressure on his bruises.

"Here," Spencer positioned one of your hands on his chest and one on his shoulder. "And no, it doesn't hurt there," he replied to the silent question in your eyes. You believed him.

With the new leverage points, you could ride his dick properly. The sensation was dizzying, feeling him so deep inside you. The drag of your clit against his skin with every bounce was delicious, making you moan into Spencer's neck.

Spencer's hands were moving your hips along with you, squeezing and petting along with his own shallow breaths. He started attacking your neck with kisses again, open-mouthed and sloppy this time, leaving marks for you to discover in the morning, no doubt.

The drag of him against your insides was maddening. The position gave you all the control and with just a bit of Spencer's help, you found the spot that made you go crazy every time his tip grazed it.

"That's it, that's it, oh god, keep going," the desperation is Spencer's voice set your core on fire. The way he said your name over and over sounded like a prayer, like a man starved. He moaned unabashedly when you sunk down on his entire length, looking at you like you personally cured all of his pain.

"Spence, you feel so good," you practically whimpered, and Spencer nearly came right there and then. He held you closer, nearly all of you touching, like he couldn't get enough of you.

The way you moved together was perfect, a practised ease that came with knowing each other so well that you knew exactly what the other loved most.

"Fuck, baby, oh, I'm- I'm not gonna last much longer," Spencer said though laboured breaths as he snaked his arm between your bodies.

You were already close, but when you felt Spencer's skilled fingers on your clit, you knew you were done for.

"Come with me?" Spencer spoke into your ear, planting more soft kisses on your jaw.

Once again, who were you to deny him anything? With a loud moan from you and a stutter of Spencer's hips, you both came together, your release washing over you in white hot waves of pleasure, with Spencer buried deep inside of you. You rode out both your highs, seeing Spencer's eyes gloss over in real time once the satisfaction settled.

He smiled his wide, dopey smile at you, the picture of contentment, an entirely different version of himself than the one before. You returned the smile, carefully draping yourself over his chest, completely spent.

"Hey," Spencer whispered into the quiet air, "I can't do it for you, now, but you'll have to go clean up, sweetheart."

"Mmm," you bury your face in his neck, "I will, I will." You could hear the overflowing fondness in his laugh that followed.

"Hey," he said again, smaller this time, "thanks for taking care of me."

You languidly sat up, staring into his big, earnest eyes. Your fingers pushed his hair out of his eyes, revealing the cut above it. You leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Was that an innuendo, Doctor Reid?"

He burst out into an unexpected laugh, his eyes twinkling again, "maybe, maybe."

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

I am but a humble fanfic writer and i beg for your feedback guys :))))))) xxxxxxxx

#criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid x reader smut #criminal minds fanfic #Spencer reid x you #smut #wounded men #it's a problem #I have such a thing for them it's unhealthy oops #bitterwrites

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dailydoseoffanfics · 3 months ago

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hiii ihaiiiii hiiihihiiiiiii your number one fan has a question 👁👁👁 could reader possibly interact with characters via theeee uhhhh the mouse arrow thingy (i forgot how its called)

its like yk how u see smth cute in a game and you just kinda pet them with that thing ^^^^^^ would characters feel that??

HIIIIIII :33333333

I think I know what you're talking about !!!!

So, personally, I don't think they will feel your cursor (bummer ik 💔) HOWEVER, THERE'S ALWAYS WISHFUL THINKING......

The thing is, the survivors won't see your cursor, but you do. The survivors are gonna wonder who is poking them, and they'll just. Agree. That it's just you being...you. (All of them secretly love it though...Like..please give them more headpats WHO SAID THAT.)

heheheuuuueheh....I can already see Noob, Elliot, Two Time, 007n7 and Chance being the most bashful about it... Noob will get all shy and hold their arm for a bit, but they're looking forward to more of your touches (touch-starved moment), Elliot's face is burning (metaphorically) and his face is like a tomato, as he bites the inside of his cheek and lets out a little giggle at you giving him a headpat with your cursor, Two Time having a loopey grin as their tail wags a...bit too fast. 007n7's another one of the touch-starved people, he likes interacting with you, as he has a small smile on his face when you boop him. Chance will scratch their neck as he tries to shield his blushing face from your view.

Shedletsky thinks this is just you being playful with him, and he's loving it. He lets out a laugh everytime you give him headpats or a boop. You're quite cheeky, aren't cha?

Man, you really do know how to amuse Builderman. He's gonna have a little smirk on his face.

Guest 1337 just finds you....endearing. He feels his worries and stress wash away just by feeling your touch.

#⭐️ self aware forsaken au #forsaken x reader #noob x reader #elliot x reader #two time x reader #chance x reader #shedletsky x reader #builderman x reader #guest 1337 x reader #007n7 x reader #heavenly-wounded

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2kiran · 10 months ago

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something about logan howlett patching your shoulder up, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as they stitch your wound close. he’s looming over you, eyes fixated entirely on your form. in a haze of pain, your hand reaches out to curl around his hip and roughly squeeze with a low groan, unintentionally tugging him closer to your seated position.

“you okay, bub?”

“yeah...”

there’s something about it that makes his cock throb; how your reflex is grabbing onto him, how your voice is hoarse, and fucking hell, the smell and sight of you bleeding like that... he’s never letting anyone else fix you up. and oh, he wants you to squeeze something else.

#✦ babytalk.#— azrael.worksᵎᵎ #tw wound mention #tw blood mention #james logan howlett #logan howlett x male reader #logan howlett x reader #james howlett x male reader #james howlett x reader #wolverine x male reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett smut #james howlett smut #wolverine smut

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sorawritesstuff · 8 months ago

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lemonlover1110 · 3 months ago

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𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬

Story Masterlist

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Genre: Angst, Romance, Smut

Story Warnings: Royalty AU, Forced Marriage, Immortality

He meets her when she’s twenty-three. He watches her die at twenty-five. It’s a vicious cycle. Satoru has watched you die twenty times, and he’s determined to change your fate this time around. He doesn’t care if you hate him. Luckily, he has enough love for the two of you.

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

[Chapter 1] Twenty-Four Years

[Chapter 2]

#[Open Wounds]#jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo jjk #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo smut

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tojisun · 1 year ago

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god. big burly man like simon pulling you close to slow dance in your kitchen. and it’s cramped and the summer heat is unforgiving but he is so gentle, so beautiful, as he sways the two of you. you don’t even understand how this came to be—what pushed him to cradle you softly—but your heart twinges and your eyes water, and there is something incredibly sweet in dancing to the silence.

later, he will tell you this—i jus’ wanted to do it. it looked like the right thing to do with you.

(or, simon doesnt know how to say goodbye so he leaves with you this one last memory.)

#or. simon doesnt know how to communicate well and he will leave you with a love stronger than ever #and you will have to learn how to mend the wound by yourself #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #sun rambles

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sugurusladyknightt · 4 months ago

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➺ husband!sukuna x reader (1/2)

"you're mad at me."

you huff through your nose, your reflection in the mirror is an angry one and rightfully so. eyes closed you take a moment to collect yourself, to loosen your clenched jaw, and just breathe.

"'you're mad at me', says the idiot man" you say, eyes intent on not leaving your reflection in the mirror, " 'of course i'm mad at you' replies the idiot man's spouse." matter of factly, mock sympathy clear in your voice, before it turns cold. "for last night i discovered my idiot man husband who was terribly hurt by i'm not even sure what, standing in the bathroom trying to tend to his wound with tools that are inadequate to tend to those sorts of wounds.'"

the comb in your hands now being held like it is something between an accusing finger and a weapon ready to attack. still your eyes do not leave their reflection in the mirror before you.

sukuna thinks not having you speak to him, not having you look at him since last night, is lethal weapon enough.

"and when idiot spouse sees this, she feels a surge of very very many emotions of worry and sadness and anger and confusion and concern and yet, idiot man plays her the fool. no explanation,- "

"baby, please"

you sound exasperated, frantic; and him desperate.

"nothing, nothing at all to ease her worries. like she is someone he simply owes nothing too. like she isn't the one he's married to. it is possible that idiot man thinks his wife will simply forget. and then what does idiot man do you ask? well idiot man does just as his name suggests and acts as if he has no idea what is going on, he acts like an idiot, and continues to state plainly, pathetically, uselessly, 'you're mad at me.'"

you turn to look at him and you look pained. and god does he feel that way too. it's hidden well by your hardened exterior, furrowed brows, cold voice, and angry expression, but sukuna has come far past the point of being fooled by the expression you wear on your face — your eyes tell. they always do.

he moves from where he stands to take to your side, his place, sat next to you. his movements stiff, not as smooth as usual but still his natural effortlessness somehow manages to shine through. his knees touching yours almost shyly, and his hands curled in his lap, clasped together tightly. he wants to hold yours. you can tell, though make no movement to realize that desire. that need. neither of you move. but you wait for him.

it's quite strange to see sukuna of all people like this; it doesn't happen very often. crimson eyes down cast and his lips seemingly unable to decide whether they want to part and speak to you or to press themselves into a thin line and say nothing at all.

moments and moments pass and he gives you nothing. you feel your chest as it fills with air and slowly deflates, deeep breathe.

you stand from your place and move to your bed, you need some sleep right now. you miss it with your back turned to him as you walk. his form falls further, longing for you so dearly when your so close.

his ego and pride aside; those things have no room in his mind, not when he is with you. he didn't need to be those things with you, he did not have to be endlessly strong. he did not have to be so guarded and he doesn't want to be. he doesn't want you to be that way around him either.

shit, he hadn't meant for this.

last night, sukuna had come home with a nasty gash through his his side. it was late and you were asleep, and he was tired. so tired. the last thing he needed was to have to wait in a hospital for hours to receive care when he could do it here, at home, by himself, close to you.

so there he is, lights on in the bathroom as he's standing there trying to stitch himself up with the little sewing kit you kept in the medicine cabinet and a pair of kitchen scissors. it was a bloody affair, jaw clenched through the pain. his head was thrown back, sharp exhales, and eyes shut so tight. bloodied toilet paper everywhere. and that's right when you just so happen to walk in.

(perfect timing as always.)

sukuna thinking it's between kinda funny, incredibly scary, and so impressive how you always manage to find him in the most unfortunate and compromising of situations.

he must've been louder than he'd thought. your sleepy form goes rigid as your eyes adjust to the light and you register the sight before you.

your husband, standing with his back against one of the walls of the small room, bloodied hands are positioned close to the wound in his side, one holding the needle and thread, dripping in his blood. the silver band he wears so proudly on his left hand is too.

your eyes frantically darting everywhere, finally landing on his wide crimson eyes staring right back at you. they match the color of the blood soaking his hands and smeared on his face and nearly everything else in the bathroom.

if the circumstances were different, if it wasn't for you he gaping hole in his side, you'd think it's quite a picturesque view. but right now, he looks like a man who was just caught doing a horrible job of trying to sew himself together at midnight by his wife, who by the way, also just had her sleep disturbed by him.

your eyes go from wide with shock and confusion to being filled with worry and concern to focused and determined. the transformation so quick, it'd be easy for anyone else to miss.

you take his hand in yours and lead him to sit on the lid of the toilet almost as quick. pulling the hand covering the gash away from it so you can examine it without disruption .

it's a few too many inches long for your liking, right down the side of his tattooed torso. well sure, he's been hurt before, purple and blue bruises on his face, bloody cracked knuckles, some scratches every so often. you know who you married, you've had to sew and patch him up before but really it was nothing major, nothing in comparison to this.

"don't move, i'll only be a moment."

you've left to grab the first aid box you have, it isn't ideal, but better than what he's been doing. it's all you have to work with for now, and so you'll just have to do with it.

once back, you settle between his thighs and start opening and removing the stitches he's sewn in so that you can clean it up, disinfect it, before sewing it up properly, and wrapping him up.

your work is diligent and quite. eyes hardly ever leaving their current subject of interest. he's quiet too, crimson eyes don't leave you. in the past, when you've found yourself in these situations, he'd be teasing or making those quick-witted remarks of his, but not tonight. he can't bring himself to.

you do your best, willing your hands not to tremble as you work; there's so much blood. you can see his hands clenched atop his thighs, knuckles going white. his muscles flinching at the burn and sting of the disinfectant and the cold of the needle repeatedly piercing his aching skin.

you know he's tired, you are too. but sleep is so far form your mind right now. you place a hand on his thighs and squeeze gently, hoping your grip is steadying to him. something to keep him grounded. something to convey the words you don't have the strength to announce at the moment but still, you want him to hear them.

once you're done, you let out a slow, shaky breathe. one of relief. quickly moving to the sink to wash your hands and dry your hands before wrapping him up in clean gauze. the first few layers bloody quick, but you continue until it is enough, looking up at him in question to ensure it isn't too tight before you secure it in place.

your hands gently drag up and down his sides before they settle of his tights to push yourself up, only then do you meet his eyes properly. he feels like it's his first time seeing you all over again. its not enough, eyes darting away far too quick. its far too fleeting a moment for him to properly telepathically convey his thoughts to you through the eye contact. girl wtf are you talking abt??

you pack up the first aid kid setting it on the counter, leaving to grab him a clean shirt from the closet setting it on the counter as well, and your off to bed. not another word to him, not another glance. you don't even know that you want to know what happen. he feels like a child how'd just been scolded. his body far too large for him in this moment.

sukuna slips the shirt over his head, and moves carefully when he's fitting the rest of it over his body. it was pretty bad, he can't even pretend that this isn't all that big of a deal. he knew, your actions were only coming from a place of concern for his wellbeing and that made this all that much worse. he feels likes he's been drinking hot sand instead of water.

he looks at himself in the mirror, bloodied sink under him. sighh. there's not much else he can do.

he peaks his head out the bathroom first, then the rest of him emerges from behind his fortified shield. he's met with the sight of you, well.. kinda. he's met with the sight of a lump under the blankets he knows is you.

your back facing his side of the bed, and he's sitting on the edge of it. there's an air of awkwardness, as he settles under the covers, his eyes trained on your back. sukuna wants so badly to shuffle close to you and lay his head on your pillow, to hold your hand in his and tangle your legs together under the covers, but he doesn't. he can bring himself to.

so he just stares at you longingly, he stares at you like you're hundreds of kilometres away. and all he can hope for is that tomorrow, when he wakes up with you, it'll be better.

that he'll be better.

better for you.

divider by @saradika-graphics

#deep sighhh #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #jjk sukuna #jjk au #sukuna au #sukuna imagine #husband sukuna #modern sukuna #i honestly have no idea how to treat such a wound #jjk angst #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #&. knightt writes ''─ .⟢

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emmcfrxst · 1 year ago

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jason todd swears like a sailor whenever you ride him. the visual of your body on top of his, the feeling of your hands on his chest and your cunt fluttering around him, the sweet sounds of your moans and mewls— everything about getting ridden makes jason’s dick hard and turns his brain to mush

#won’t stop swearing. moans loud. keeps calling you pet names and praising you. waxes poetry about how pretty you look riding his cock.#the thought of it alone makes him feral. has made him hard on patrol more than once (he becomes even more brutal towards the criminals when #he’s in this mindset. he’s fighting off the adrenaline that the thought of you naked above him is making him feel)#he has come home early more than once with blood on his clothes and his dick hard in his pants telling you he needs you #he still needs clear vocally expressed consent before he does so much as breathe you in because as wound up as he may be he can’t stay hard #and aroused if you don’t want him back. your consent is crucial to him and he makes sure to ask for it multiple times even during sex #because nothing matters more to him than knowing you’re as into whatever you’re doing as he is #and the vocal admission of you wanting him (physically but also mentally and emotionally and psychologically) is a big part of his drive #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #dc imagine

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ebodebo · 27 days ago

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The Conditioning: A Salt to the Wound Prequel

➛ companion piece to Salt to the Wound

PAIRING⁀➷ simon riley x fem!reader

WORD COUNT⁀➷ 12k

CONTAINS⁀➷ 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough & unprotected sex, p in v, complicated grief, complicated family dynamics, an attempt to repress memories, mentions of military & war trauma, cutting skin for blood, graphic depictions of death, foreshadowing, mentions of gun violence, little to no effort doing johnny's accent, mentions of abuse, heavy angst, mention of prescription drugs, mentions of death, questionable ethics & morals, religious speak, fluff, intertwined plot points from original fic (more on that below,) purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & no use of y/n.

AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ before reading, i would like to note that this is a direct prequel to salt to the wound. i highly encourage you to read that before this. anywho, i’m back with an expansion of the salt to the wound universe! i’ve decided to expand upon the original story, but not in the way i initially intended. i thought it would be interesting to explore more of simon’s perspective on his marriage and the deal he made in the original fic, thus this prequel was born. although, this fic does pov switch, it does so less occasionally. regardless, i sincerely hope this installment is satisfactory. if salt to the wound left you sad or unsatisfied with reader's ending, i hope this brings you some satisfaction. i don’t want to spoil anything, so i won't say anything more. i hope you enjoy. read at your own discretion.

The lines between Hell and Earth are blurry…

The air carried a bone-chilling cold that seemed to penetrate Simon's very being.

It felt as though the night carried a treacherous vengeance that was cowardly whispered in the form of icy wind.

Despite the cold, Simon hovers near the front entrance of the Thai place he had been dragged to on a blind date set up by Johnny, a fresh cigarette between his fingers, the smoke offering him a little warmth.

He should have known better than to take up Johnny's offer.

It was naive of him to think that an older brute like himself could find someone who would take him, baggage and all.

How could anyone possibly love a man so rough around the edges, broken and battered by life?

He's got scars that run deep, both inside and out, and they're the kind that won't heal easily.

Might not heal ever.

Still, he's convinced that someone will come along and fix him, make him whole again.

Always had his head too high in the God-damn clouds to see the storm brewing where he ought to be on the surface.

Out of the cold night, a voice broke through. "Think I could bum a cigarette off you?" Simon's eyes snapped up to see you standing before him, a warm smile on your face, a sudden spark of connection in the icy air.

He narrows his eyes skeptically. "You smoke?"

"Not really," you shake your head. "Just had a shitty night."

He doesn't ask you to explain; he really doesn't care. He flicks a cigarette from his pack and hands it to you.

"Can you light me?" you ask sheepishly, putting the cigarette between your lips and hovering closer to him.

His lip quips as he flicks his lighter, hovering just below your cigarette. The flame quickly lights the end, sending smoke down your lungs.

You suck down the smoke gracefully, closing your eyes softly trying to seize your nerves.

Simon watches you for a moment. "Shouldn't be doin' that," he mumbles. "It's bad for you."

Your eyes snap open, a smile growing on your face. "You're one to talk," you say, blowing the smoke out between your lips. "I saw you smoke three through the glass," you cock a brow, eyes darting to look down at the ground next to his boot to see smashed cigarette buds.

He tilts his head back, smoke blowing through his nostrils. "You been watchin' me?" His voice is rough, but you can tell there's humor in his words.

"Maybe," you shrug, tilting your head forward slightly to look at him through your lashes, a cheeky grin on your lips. "Saw you with a woman in there," you casually say, taking another puff. "You didn't look so happy."

"Saw you with a man," he counters, eyes shamelessly darting between your eyes and lips. "You didn't look too chipper either."

Your shoulders sag at the thought. "Yeah… my boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend," you correct quickly. "He dumped me." Your voice carries a mix of sadness and a palpable sense of relief.

Simon cringes. "Oof. Heartless bastard."

You chew on your lip, your curiosity piqued. "And you?"

He lifts a brow, taking another drag. "What about me?" he prompts curiously.

You roll your eyes playfully. Men. "Did you have a nice date?"

He puffs out the smoke, nodding along lightly. "That was my little sister."

Your face morphs into horror. You even drop your cigarette on the ground from how fast you cover your mouth with your hands. "Oh! Oh my God… " you start, genuine horror in your tone. "I'm so sorry… I, I just assumed—" you stutter, face stiff.

Your shoulders relax as he lets out a gruff laugh. "Relax. Just takin' the piss," he chuckles. “Nah. Didn't know the girl. Was a blind date my mate set up for me," he explains through a dry laugh. "She was too uppity for me."

"She was cute," you try to find some good. "But, yeah, I overheard her talking about her daddy's multiple vacation houses in the Hamptons, before proceeding to complain about the price of the champagne," you agree with a chuckle.

He leans just an inch closer, now interested in the conversation. "Did you hear her go on about her father’s private broker firm?" He brings his cigarette to his lips.

You giggle, leaning closer. "Yeah. Looks like daddy's raking in the big bucks, huh?" You nod, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

Simon pulls back, flicking his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it purposefully. "Broker firm sounds like a euphemism for where daddy parks his questionable investments."

You make a faux cringe face. "Yikes. I can see the raging jealousy oozing out of you," you gesture to him, with a sardonic infliction that's hard to miss.

He smiles. "Oh, yeah. Just riddled with jealousy," he goes along with it, his smile growing as you share a laugh, the warmth of your camaraderie evident in the air.

The following words that flow off Simon's tongue come without warning. "Would you wanna grab a beer at the bar down the road?" His eyes flick to yours, looking back to his as your laughter dies down.

His nervousness is palpable, evident in the way his Adam's apple bobs as he maintains eye contact. "Are you asking me on a date?" you inquire, sensing his unease.

"I'll pay," he says, skirting around the question.

You let out a dry laugh. "Well, I didn't think I was going to… " You trail off, only now realizing that you didn't even know his name.

"Simon," he fills in without hesitation. "Call me Simon."

"Okay… Simon." His name rolls off your tongue in a purr that has him at a loss for words. "I'll get a beer with you, although I'm shocked you would settle for someone as dull as me after being dazzled by Hampton royalty," you jest, smiling at him.

He smiles back, harder. "Mhm. Always been more interested in the common folk," he jokes, as you spin on your heels, laughing, walking next to him towards the shitty dive bar on fifth.

In that moment, Simon sees his future.

A future that he had never dared to dream of until that very moment.

It all flashes through his brain in a light blur.

He sees simple mornings, when the light casts a warm glow on your skin, almost bringing him to tears. He can almost feel the softness of your skin and the warmth of the morning sun.

He can see you in a long wedding dress with a sheer veil, not daring to fully conceal your beauty before he sees his babies on your hip as you bounce them lovingly.

So many years full of pure love, until you both find yourselves on rocking chairs on your porch, connected to your grand white house, wrapped in a white picket fence that he will have spent years building up from the mud with his bare hands.

By then, half your grand babies will be learning to walk, while the other half will be busy decorating your driveway with chalk drawings, begging him to take them for a drive to see their uncle Johnny.

His visions of his fantastical family looked like the picture a soldier keeps tucked away in the pocket of his military uniform to protect it from spilled blood.

Serves as a reminder, motivating him to keep fighting through the war. Even in the direst moments, with a gun pointed to his head, his humility laid bare, he will keep fighting for his family, for they are where his heart lies, still untouched by vengeance, pure as the heavens above.

His future, as he envisions it, is a canvas of bright potential.

Yet, he remains oblivious to the looming shadow of a devil's bargain that will one day bind you two, leaving your soul eternally tainted and trapped.

For now, he can continue his fruitless efforts, ponder you with heart-filled eyes, and dream carelessly innocent dreams.

But the devil does not bargain with such innocence, for a darker fate awaits him.

A few months later, Simon is parked in the creaky chair of his home office, filing some paperwork. He is shivering; no amount of heat can warm his skin.

His raging fever, which had ruined his sleep, had carried over from the night before, leaving him feeling his skin flush and dry, barely able to sit upright in the wooden chair.

But that's the thing about Simon, he doesn't know when to quit.

He is stubborn, strong-willed to a disturbing degree.

He hadn't yet found his limit; the breaking point that would make him just stop.

Must have gotten that from his mother because his father sure knew when to quit while he was ahead.

Simon leans over his desk to scribble on some files, each movement seemingly being harder than the last. He grunts just as he finishes a sentence, lightly tossing the pen to wipe his tired, sunken eyes.

His head flicks up at the sound of his doorbell ringing. With a sigh, he slowly stands and moves over to the door, opening it to see you with a bright smile and a warm pie in your embrace.

"Made you pie," you say, lifting the pie to ensure he sees it. "Hopefully, you like cherry," you smile meekly, watching his eyes drift to the pie.

He lifts his head to look at you, trying to keep his voice steady. "Love cherry," he mumbles, though some emotion has seeped through his tough front.

He can't believe you went and made him a pie.

You had been on a handful of unofficial dates in the past few months, but nothing official came about.

You were just friends, at least he assumed you were friends.

But here you were, the sweetest girl he's ever met, with a fresh pie you say is meant for him. He couldn't have possibly imagined you would go and do something that would make him think you care about him.

"Are you alright? You look tired," you ask, narrowing your eyes in concern. You observe his deep eye bags, and your worry is palpable.

His eyes flick up to see your concerned ones. "Think I caught a cold," he murmurs. "Thanks for the pie, sweetheart." He takes the pie from your hands.

You pass the pie along, and the warmth of the pan spreads across Simon's skin, making him close his eyes softly. "Are you taking care of yourself?" you ask, a slight frown on your lips as you see the tip of his nose tinged red.

He doesn't answer, just looks down at the pie.

You had made a beautiful lattice, and only a little cherry filling broke through the sweet dough.

"Simon," you urge, your determination to make him open up evident in your voice. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

He looks back at you. "I'm alright."

You frown again; he hasn't been. "Can I come in?" you ask, your patience reassuring.

"Wouldn't wanna get you sick. Too pretty to be bedridden," he tries to joke, but his chest rumbles with a rough cough.

Your skin warms at the compliment. "I take my vitamins," you assure. "Don't worry about me, okay?" You place your hands on your hips, so he knows you're serious. "Now, am I going to have to shove you to get inside, or are you going to let me in willingly?" You arch your brow, your lips pursed.

His lip quips; he is too tired to fight you, so he simply steps aside, allowing you to step through the door with ease.

He doesn't feel the surge of nervousness he probably should, as you step into his house and observe every fine detail, down to the scratches on his light wooden floors.

"You have a cat?" you ask, turning to him with a smile.

He shakes his head. "Nah. The other owner did," he explains, moving to grab your purse, which is hiked on your shoulder, and gently laying it across his kitchen island.

"Are you taking any medication? Drinking enough water?" You start questioning as soon as Simon's shoulder relaxes.

"You some kind of nurse?" he asks in a humorous tone, a playful glint in his eyes, but you don't laugh.

"I'll take that as a no," you roll your eyes, hands moving around his kitchen blindly to find his cups.

"I can get you some water," he moves over to you, unable to let you do anything alone. You swat his hand away, narrowing your eyes at him.

"It's not for me," you explain, grabbing a large glass and putting it under the tap to fill it to the brim with cold water. "Drink up, boy boy," you shove the water into his chest, and only a little sloshes over onto the floor.

"I'll clean that," you smile sheepishly, already moving to grab a rag off the counter. He sets the water on the counter, his hand gripping your shoulder, beckoning you to stand.

"What are you doin'?" he asks with equal parts humor and confusion.

Your lips morph into a confused smile. "What do you mean?" you ask, genuinely puzzled by his question.

He gently grasps the wet rag from your hand. "I mean you bringin' me pie, askin' about medicine, makin' me drink water," he lifts a brow. "What's all that about?"

You tilt your head to the side. "I'm taking care of you, Simon," you say with a reassuring smile, your eyes reflecting your genuine concern.

His lips flat line, mind swirling. "Takin' care of me?"

"You're sick," you say, taking the rag from his hand. "Shouldn't be doing anything," you move to set the rag in the sink; you'll wash it later. "You need rest," you tilt your head forward, a glint in your eyes.

Simon is left utterly speechless, his mind struggling to comprehend what he is hearing.

Here comes you, this sweet girl who forces her way into his house bearing a pie and a gleaming smile, wanting to take care of him.

Nurse him back to health.

"Go sit," you tell him before he can ask if you're serious, ushering him to his couch. "What do you want to watch?"

His eyes stay glued to yours, his mouth slightly open.

"Since you won't say, you'll have to watch what I want to," you flick through the channels until a trashy British reality television show dawns on the screen. The room is filled with the sound of some too-on-the-nose pop song that just so happens to sing the exact same scenario as what was occurring.

His eyes flick to the screen, a small smile growing on his lips.

"Lay back," you urge, pushing him back to lie against the back of the couch. "Where do you keep your medicine?"

He looks at you, utterly perplexed. "The, the bathroom. First drawer to the right," he murmurs, with a stutter, his confusion evident.

You roam over to the bathroom, the only place you've ever seen in his house. You had to pee on the way to the cinema and made him stop at his house so you could.

You didn't snoop through his things like you would usually do to the guys you've dated because you suspected he could smell any ounce of disorder like a hound.

His eyes stay locked on the television as he hears you fish for the medication in his drawers. He taps his foot against the floor, feeling uneasy at the thought of lying still and doing nothing.

His fear of being deemed useless is a constant companion, driving him to move even when he can't.

It's the soldier in him who's seen and done things that most can't even imagine.

He keeps moving, his mind never stopping, to avoid fully comprehending what he has had to do.

Blood forever spilled in the name of protection.

Or so he says.

He hears your feet pattering on the wood back to him; you had stripped your shoes off at some point. "I got you some ibuprofen for the aches, some Afrin for decongestion, and some cough drops, I think, for… well, you know," you dispense the pills into your palm, handing them over for him to take. "You need water? Let me get you some water." Your care is a balm to his weary soul.

"I'm fine. Had to swallow some pain pills in the desert one time. Couldn't even use my own spit cause my mouth was all dry," he reaccounts, taking the pills dry.

"You're drinking the water," you say, as you grab the cup and put it on the coffee table in front of him. Then, you hand him the cough drops. "I've never seen cough tablets before," you say, looking down at the table.

He lets out a dry laugh, grabbing the tablets from your hand to drop them in his mouth. "They’re some Scottish thing. A friend gave them to me," he mumbles, leaning deeper into the couch, feeling relaxed.

"Mhm," you hum, watching his eyes close gently. "Get some rest," you sweetly say as his eyes completely shut and he drifts off, a soft snore coming from him as he sleeps comfortably.

When he wakes up some hours later, he feels less hot and achy than he had all night and day. When he moves to yawn, he almost chokes on the thermometer in his mouth. He pulls it out gently with a soft sigh and a confused mutter.

He moves to stand, and a cold compress falls from his head to the floor with a soft thud. The thin linen blanket that covers his legs bunches up and slips off him.

He can hear the soft hum of water hitting the porcelain tub in the bathroom. He quickly stands, reaching for the gun that is normally strapped to his person, but feels nothing.

The padding of feet comes closer, and before he can react, his shoulders sag as he sees you smiling at him with lavender foaming bath soap in hand. "You're awake," you observe. "Good. I drew you a bath. It'll help soothe your muscles," you walk over to him, gesturing for him to follow you to the bathroom.

"I'm not gettin' in the bath." A part of him believes you're joking, so he laughs.

You aren’t.

"So, you're just going to waste the water?" You cock a brow and plant your hands on your hips.

He tilts his head back with a deep sigh. "You use it."

"I drew it for you, Simon. Don't be rude," you narrow your eyes at him, and he feels a little scared.

With a deep sigh, he moves his feet towards the bathroom. "You better not tell anyone about this," he instructs with a rough voice as he ducks into the bathroom.

"Scouts honor," you promise with a cheeky smirk.

He begins lifting his shirt over his head, and your mouth drops open at the sight. He glances at you. "Your jaw will lock if you keep it like that," he jokes with a smirk, tossing his shirt to the side.

You shake your head, slightly embarrassed. "Shut up, you old man," your face warms and when you look at him, he just gives you a rough chuckle.

Once you turn out of the bathroom, he strips with an irritated noise, dipping himself into the warm bathtub, the bubbles creating a soft embrace.

You come in and are pleasantly surprised he actually got in the tub. You sit on the toilet lid, feeling the humid air. "Can I wash you?" you ask, as you grab a stray loofah from the cabinet just above the toilet.

He nods, and you soak the netted material in the sudsy water and begin gently washing his chest, repeatedly collecting the water and squeezing over his aching bones.

"Can't believe I'm lettin' you give me a bath," he mumbles after a moment of silence, though he feels a sense of peace he hasn't felt in years.

You laugh before he sees your teeth chatter and your body shake.

He grabs your hand, halting your actions. "You cold, sweetheart?"

You shrug. "Just a little."

There's a glint in his eyes, and before you know it, he's gripping your waist, hauling you over the porcelain side of the bathtub, and submerging you into the warm water.

"Simon!" you yell, laughter falling off your tongue as the water spills over the side and onto the bathroom floor as you straddle him. Your laughter seizes when he kisses you, deeply and passionately.

He doesn't know what has come over him.

He just needed to act on impulse.

He just had to kiss you.

His lips move against yours with an ease he doesn't feel scared of. Your hands drape over his shoulders, and your lips move in sync.

He finds himself pulling back slightly. "Stay the night and the rest of the week," he mumbles, desperately trying to find the right words.

You smile at him, brushing his hair back off his forehead. "Are you trying to ask me to be your girlfriend?"

He grips you tight, pupils widening. "What do you say?"

You press a kiss to his cheek. "I say yes."

His lips press back to yours fervently, and you can't help but put a break out in a toothy smile.

Spontaneity can kill.

Acting on impulse shows no willpower.

Simon must really be his father's son.

Always so quick to act without thinking.

Guess some habits are hard to break, aren't they?

And what a shame he found someone to indulge his recklessness.

Pity, really.

Was starting to actually like her.

"You sure about this?" Simon asks, holding your hand, his beer long forgotten. You both sit, squished into the booth at a small diner downtown.

"Come on. Don't tell me you're nervous?" you tease, feeling his tension. He sighs through his nose, his eyes wandering to the salt and pepper containers neatly lined on the table.

"Soap… Johnny… he's… a bit outspoken," he mutters, hand twitching in yours.

A frown etches into your face before your hand releases its own and brushes against his cheek, making him turn to look at you. "Simon, I love you," you smile. "It only makes sense for me to meet the people you love," you say as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

Simon could feel his stomach dip at your words.

You love him.

A pure and innocent, no strings attached kind of love.

He doesn't get to ask why before seeing Johnny strolling in. The confidence that oozes off him as he approaches the booth you and he are sitting at makes him roll his eyes.

"Aye, Simon, my boy," Johnny greets Simon warmly, a hint of familiarity in his tone that Simon can't help but bristle at.

Simon swallows any bad taste Johnny had put on his tongue when he came in.

He was family after all.

"Who do we have here?" Johnny slides into the booth seat across from Simon and you. You smile a welcoming smile before you stick your hand out for Johnny to shake, giving him your name.

Simon raises a warning brow when Johnny almost bursts out laughing at your chivalry. Johnny smothers his laugh, taking your hand in his, giving it a slight shake, and playing a sly smile on his lips.

Once you pull away, Johnny makes himself comfortable in the booth seat, leaning forward slightly. "So," Johnny starts, already grinning. "How'd this happen?" He gestures between Simon and you.

Simon throws his arm around your shoulders. "The Thai place," Simon gruffs.

Johnny's keen eyes widen. "She's the girl, then?" he prompts, but before he can be corrected, he leans forward towards Simon. "I told ye' that goin' on the blind date was a good idea, ye old prude. Ye got yer'self a pretty bird out of it," he laughs excitedly.

Simon rolls his eyes, and you can't help but smile. "She's not the girl I went on the date with," Simon gruffly corrects. Johnny's expression changes, like a kid who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Johnny shifts over to the table to whisper to you. "There was no date. Just jokes," he tries to save, sending Simon a wink as if he had saved him from revealing some big secret, and you laugh.

"I was also on a date," you explain, eyes glancing at Simon. "We met outside the place," you laugh as Johnny releases a breath of relief at the admission.

"Phew, thas' a relief," Johnny pretends to wipe his forehead from faux perspiration. "Thought the big guy was gonna wring me out."

"That option isn't completely off the table," Simon roughly says, though it carries some humor.

Johnny's laughter abruptly gives way to a serious expression, catching Simon off guard and causing your amusement to fade. "He's not payin' ye to be here, right?" he questions, his tone now skeptical.

You let out a fake gasp, hand hovering over your heart. "How'd you know?"

Johnny's eyes widen and flick between you and Simon. "Ye… paid her to come?" His words hold more admiration than criticism.

"She's fibbin', Soap," Simon chuckles, his hand playfully pinching your side. You can't help but yelp a little. "Not payin' her."

Johnny's skepticism is met with a playful eye roll from you. "I came here willingly. No money involved," you confirm, swaying your beer.

"Don't trust ye, birdie," Johnny muses, a mischievous glint in his eye. He then turns to Simon with a sly smile. "Have ye two podged?"

"Speak English, Mactavish," Simon says, sipping his beer.

"Sex," Johnny says with ease. "Ye two done that yet?"

His bluntness leaves you wide-eyed, and Simon's grip on his beer tightens. "Johnny," he warns.

Johnny rolls his eyes with an innocent shrug, eyes landing on you. "Come on, birdie. Yer folks have had that talk with ye, yeah?" He prods, paying no heed to Simon staring daggers at him.

"We're taking it slow," you say, swallowing the shock of the question. You opt to just answer and try to ease the palpable tension coming off Simon.

"Takin' it slow? Where's the fun in that, Lt.?" Johnny's teasing tone raises the tension, causing Simon to let out an audible sigh and his hand to come to his tired eyes, the air thick with discomfort.

"We're adults, Johnny. Not horny teenagers. We don't just crave a quick fuck," you murmur over the rim of your beer, causing Johnny's eyes to snap in surprise, even making Simon lip quip from Johnny's shock.

Johnny narrows his eyes, trying to find a crack in your facade. "Fair point. But what if it's piss?" He leans back in the booth, oozing a confidence you can't place.

Simon goes to speak, probably to tell Johnny to shut the hell up, but you go before him, hand gripping Simon's tighter.

"Oh, trust me, it won't be," you say with a confidence that Johnny marvels at.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile. "I like yer bird, Simon. She can hold her own," he nods towards you, giving you a stamp of approval that wasn't needed.

You don't get to say anything before you see your phone buzzing on the wooden table. You grab it quickly to smother the sound and flip it over to see your sister calling you. "Do you mind?" you ask, eyes shifting between them.

"Go ahead, sweetheart." Simon picks his arm up so you can slip out of the booth easily. You give him a smile and start walking towards the front door, heading outside.

"Simon," Johnny begins when you're long gone, getting Simon's attention. "Take care of yer' bird," Johnny says, eyeing Simon. "She's a special one," he breathes out, his eyes wandering to you pacing outside, the warm sun setting, hitting you at just the right angle to highlight your skin.

Simon notices the glint in Johnny's eyes when he looks at you.

He doesn't ask; he doesn't want to know.

"I will, Johnny," Simon mutters, grabbing his beer.

A part of Simon might have once thought he would always hold you close, but the reality is Johnny can preach to Simon like a priest holding a sermon, to hold onto you, keep you close.

But some things are bound to slip through his fingers.

No matter how hard he tries.

Especially when the weight of his own darkness becomes too much to bear.

Simon can hear your laughter transcending through his house, clouding his eardrums, sending a shiver up his spine.

He stepped into the living room, his grin widening as he watched you make yourself at home on his couch, a soft blanket enveloping you and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn resting on your lap.

"What a prick," you shout, tossing some popcorn into your mouth. You're engrossed in the same trashy British reality show, a guilty pleasure you've come to enjoy.

"Some harsh words, sweetheart," Simon jests, moving to sit next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the couch, his hand sneaking into your popcorn bowl.

"He called his girlfriend mediocre," you explain, eyes glancing at Simon to gauge his reaction.

He quips a brow, eye looking at the television. "Hell, he is a prick."

"Told you so," you laugh, tossing more popcorn in your mouth and snuggling into Simon's side.

He finds himself smiling, but not because of the two women now arguing over something egregious on the television screen before him, but because he can see you smiling beneath him.

He isn't smiling because he can hear his neighbor next door yelling at her cat to get off the fridge but because you've moved yourself closer to him, pulling the blanket to cover his legs, even though it is far too small.

And he certainly isn't smiling because Johnny just sent him a picture of his dog with a slice of cheese on his head, but because he finally believes you when you say you love him.

It's the most strange feeling in the world.

To have someone who truly loves you without transaction or expectation.

He is free to be whomever he wants to be, not who you expect.

You don't expect anything from him.

Well, maybe he should throw the trash out; it's too heavy and smelly.

But, regardless, you see him.

And you still love him.

"Marry me," his fingers move to massage your scalp.

You laugh in his lap. "Just had to share my wee little blanket for you to want to spend the rest of your life with me. Your standards are tremendously low, Simon," you mumble, eyes softly closing.

"I'm serious," he says, his fingers still moving.

Your eyes open softly, eyes shifting around the room to make sure you heard him correctly.

"You want to marry me?" you mutter with disbelief and curiosity.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Don't sound so surprised, sweetheart," his tone carries humor.

You turn to look at him, a soft look in your eyes. "You want to marry me?"

He tilts his head back. "Am I not supposed to want to?"

You shake your head, chewing on your lip. "No. I just… why?"

His eyes widened a little at the question, contemplating for a second. "You're easy," he says.

Now your eyes widen in offense, mouth hanging open. "That's a dick thing to say."

He quickly grabs your shoulder, shaking his head fast. "No. Fuck, no. I meant that life with you is easy. Never had anyone who made anything easier for me but you… you do that for me," he says earnestly, with pure love.

You can already feel your eyes brimming with tears as you grab his hand to squeeze. "I'm glad I do that for you, Simon," you murmur, massaging his hand with your fingers. "You… you do that for me too." The confession almost makes Simon drop to his knees and sob at your feet.

"I… I make things easier? For you?" He asks skeptically, eyes tinging red from impending tears.

You sniffle, feeling the warm tears move down your cheeks. "Loving you is easy, Simon. You make it so damn easy. I would love to marry you," you lean your forehead against his for comfort.

His hands shake as he pulls you against him, embracing you with a deep, passionate love.

After a moment, you pull back, wiping a stray tear off your cheek. "Simon. You're still active," you say, tilting your head. "You'll leave me."

He exhales, his skin glistening. "It won't be for long, bug."

"Can't you just… leave," you try to reason with pleading eyes.

He shakes his head, brushing his fingers against your hand. "I can't, sweetheart. Those guys… I need them just as much as they need me," his voice is clogged with emotion.

"I need you," you say desperately so he'll understand.

He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek. "Just one more mission, sweetheart. It'll be in and out."

You looked at him for a moment; he wasn't going to budge. "I don't want to be a widow, Simon. You come back to me," you warn, squeezing his hand.

"I'll come back. There's nowhere else I'd want to be," he smiles.

You lick a salty tear from your lip. "Promise me, Simon."

He pauses for a moment before he murmurs, "I promise."

Foolish kids.

Man doesn't simply go to war without leaving a part of himself out on the field.

The question is, what's left when he returns?

Simon had kept his promise to you.

He did come home some weeks later, but not entirely, not truly.

Once Price had shown up at the house, with Simon right behind him, in a wheelchair, you knew a part of Simon's soul had turned to ash that reeked of gunpowder and blood.

He moved past you and Price without a word into the house. Price explained that Simon had made a split decision to return to the warehouse they had just escaped from because he knew they had information on you.

They had yelled and shouted for him to come back to the chopper and escape while they had the means to do so, and they could deal with the fallout when they were safely out of active fire.

He didn't listen.

Guns blazing, he sprinted back in, trekked up numerous flights of stairs, and blasted through doors until he found the group of men who knew of his sweet wife back home.

He shot them dead where they stood.

Shot at their bodies, round after round, before he tossed a hand grenade to deal with the equipment and files they had.

He trekked back out, sore but satisfied.

He didn't even see the pipe bomb being thrown in his direction; he was too focused on the chopper that still hovered near the ground, waiting for him.

Everything happened so fast after that.

Hauling him into the chopper, not sure if they should call you and tell you he was KIA or if there was a chance he could live. Carrying him to the hospital, where the doctors performed CPR before they shocked him awake.

They all felt a rush of relief when he opened his eyes.

The doctor said he had nerve damage that caused temporary paralysis in his legs that would subject him to a wheelchair, and, eventually, he could make a full physical recovery.

You couldn't even believe him when he told you, your mouth agape as your eyes shifted towards Simon, who wheeled his way into the living room to gaze out the window.

"Just… call if you need anything, okay?" Price says, calm and reassuring.

You give a nod as you walk him to the door, brain spinning from the information.

Sure, Simon had gone in on the pretense of something potentially happening to you, but he could have died in that very spot.

That was all you could think about.

"Why would you do that?" you mumble as you make your way into the living room.

Simon doesn't answer; he just keeps looking out the window.

You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, tears brimming your waterline. "You could have died, Simon. You do realize that. Don't you?" Your concern was evident in your trembling voice.

"You want to chastise me some more, or am I free to roam?" His voice is rougher than you remember, and you feel your stomach drop.

"I… I'm not even going to answer that," anger slips off your tongue. "Do you not care that you could have died? I… I could have lost you," you choke out, flailing your arms around.

Yet, he still doesn't turn to face you.

"Will you at least look at me, Goddamn it!" you almost shout, voice strained.

He huffs a deep breath before he slowly turns around to face you.

His beard had grown in, lightly gray and messy.

His hair is slightly longer, and his eyes are darker than you remember.

You almost had to ask yourself who the man was before you; he was surely not the man you had married not too long ago.

"You look different," you mumble absentmindedly.

"Tends to happen," he mutters, fingers gripping his wheels.

You release a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. "I wish you didn't do it, Simon," is all you can muster.

He closes his eyes gently, shaking his head before he starts to spin his wheel. He eases himself towards your shared room, leaving you alone in the living room, nervousness and defeat now bubbling in your stomach.

You had both managed to avoid each other for hours.

You stayed in the living room, even going to the bathroom and taking a bath, while he kept himself locked away in the bedroom, or so you thought.

Once you start cooking dinner, you look out of the window to see heavy rain hitting the ground. Among the coverage of heavy rainfall, you see Simon.

His wheelchair was deep in mud, and he just sat there, the rain soaking through his clothes, the chill seeping into his bones.

You gaped at the sight, tossing your kitchen rag onto the kitchen island. Quickly grabbing a raincoat off the hook, you moved out the door and onto the porch.

The rain smacks against the porch's wood, and you can see Simon leaning his head back against the back of his chair. "What the hell are you doing out here?" you shout loud enough so he can hear you over the rain.

He doesn't look back at you, just nods his head along.

"Simon. Look at me!" you yell, your voice filled with frustration and concern.

He spun his chair around slowly, his eyes blinking fervently from the rain splashing on his face.

"Are you insane? You need to get inside. You'll catch a cold," you say, your voice tinged with worry. You raise your hand to block the heavy rain droplets from hitting your eyes.

He eased his fingers on his wheels to inch closer, but before he reached the yard's edge, his wheels wouldn't budge, wedged in the thick mud. He looked at you at the doorway, his eyes pleading for help.

As you clutched your jacket, a wave of confusion washed over you, your pride standing firm in the face of uncertainty.

He noticed how your shoulders tensed, and he couldn't bear the distance between you two. His heart ached with the weight of unspoken words.

He wouldn't let some damn mud stop him.

Determined, he climbs out of the chair, the large water puddle splashing as he lands in it. His hands grip the ground, mud slipping and caking between his fingers as he crawls through it.

Your eyes widen. "Simon… don't, don't do that, baby," your voice is slightly shaky. “You, you're going to get all muddy," you say, feeling useless to the wave of emotion that washes over you.

Despite the sound of his labored breath and the squelch of mud under his hands, you remained resolute, your feet firmly planted on the old wooden porch.

He crawled halfway through the grit of the Earth's surface and then stopped, looking at you with a mixture of exhaustion and longing.

Something inside you finally snapped when you saw him, mud on his face, soaked clothes, and pleading eyes. You took a step forward, then another, until your foot sunk into the mud, and the rain pellets hit you with force, no longer blocked by the house.

You find yourself kneeling beside him in the mud when you reach him. Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as the rain pours.

"I did it for you," Simon finally murmurs, emotion clogging his voice. “I had to keep you safe, bug." He looks up at you, eyes red, water pouring down his lips. “Couldn’t live with myself if they… hurt you,” he mutters, voice going soft.

"Simon… " The words caught in your throat as you gazed at him through your wet lashes, your emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Got my legs all fucked up, and everyone's actin' like I'm some kind of fuckin’ hero," he says with slight irritation.

"You are a hero, Simon," you say without a second thought, eyes searching his.

"No," he lightly shakes his head. "I'm yours," his fingers softly brush against your bottom lip. "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

Tears started pouring down your cheeks, and you leaned your forehead against Simon's.

He was now holding you up so you didn't collapse.

His voice lulled against your skin, offering you comfort.

Though his own mind swarmed with visions of what he had done, all the blood on his hands that were now wrapped around your innocent face.

The man faced enemy fire with courage, tied his own soul to blood in the name of protection, and yet no matter what tough front he put on, inside, he would always be a weak man.

Some months had passed since Simon had come home to you, battered and bruised.

You had adjusted to being his caretaker, which you really didn’t mind.

He, on the other hand, did.

His worst fear was being rendered useless, a fear that now tormented him in the depths of the night, seeped into his soul and rattled his skin.

He was grateful for your help, but he felt like a burden.

You had repeatedly reassured him that he could never be burdensome, but he struggled to accept that truth.

“Do you need another blanket?” you ask as you walk into the bedroom with three blankets in hand. The moon casts a glow over the room from behind the window.

Simon shakes his thoughts away as he sits up in the bed at your entrance. “Eh, sleep hot. You know that,” he lets out a gruff laugh, tugging his shirt off and tossing it in the laundry bin in the corner of the room.

“Good aim, soldier,” you tease, setting the blanket near him anyways and flicking off the light before throwing yourself onto the bed beside him.

As soon as you hit the mattress, his hands wrap around your waist, and he tugs you close to him so you rest on his chest. “Love you, bug,” he says softly, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you, Simon,” you whispered, feeling the warmth and comfort he provided.

You could feel the lull of sleep lick your brain, and you closed your eyes gently, quickly drifting off to sleep with the fan's hum and the faint glow of the lamp of the street lights outside to keep you company.

In the depths of the night, you dream.

Carelessly innocent to start, but somewhere between the walking fridge and laughing animals segment, you're laying in a bed similar to one you are now, but slightly different, more rugged, less domesticated.

You lay bare, in nothing but your wedding wing dawning your finger.

You begin touching yourself, your finger moving smoothly down your body, savoring the touch that sends a warm sensation to your lower stomach.

Before you know it, a man is kneeling before you, his tongue lapping at your clit, eliciting an outpour of moans that fall off your tongue.

When he looks up, there's a glint in his eyes.

You realize he is not your Simon, your devoted husband and nurturer.

It's Johnny.

"Simon's a lucky bastard," he mutters into your thigh. "Gets ye' all to himself," he presses a deep kiss into your inner thighs, making you arch your back off the mattress. "Gets this pretty pussy to himself every night, eh?" He brings his mouth back to your cunt, sucking and licking you until you shudder on his face, your arousal coating his tongue.

You spring awake, panting and sweaty.

Turning to your side, you see Simon peacefully sleeping despite your rapid movements.

You pull the blanket back to see your arousal seep through your panties and drip onto the cover sheet of the bed.

You let out a quiet curse, grabbing your phone before slipping off the bed to go towards your drawers, making a mental effort not to wash the sheets tomorrow.

You grab a fresh pair of panties, feeling the fresh feeling of shame as you trudge into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly.

You quickly change your panties, turning on the facet to gather some water to splash onto your face, mind riddled with guilt.

That dream was no wild fantasy, a simple wet dream.

It was the truth.

That one regretful night, all of two weeks ago, a drunk you had succumbed to Johnny's drunk antics and pursuits while out by yourself, unbeknownst to Simon.

Johnny had fucked you in the same very outfit that Simon had relished in before you had stepped out of the house.

Simon's favorite lipstick of yours had now covered his best friend's lips and chin.

You grind your teeth at the reminder, the weight of guilt pressing down on you, your mind a whirlwind of regret and ache.

You're pacing around the bathroom, the walls echoing your inner turmoil, unsure of what to do.

You know you should tell Simon, and you will, but only when he gets a little better.

You decide you can't deal with this mind warfare, so you open your phone, swiping to open your text thread to Johnny.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard anxiously before you type out a short sentence to which he responds almost immediately.

Me: We need to talk.

Me: Can we meet at that bar with the weird name tomorrow?

Johnny: Bang Bang Bar?

Johnny: Everything okay?

Me: Can you just meet me there tomorrow at six?

Johnny: I'll be there.

You release a shallow breath, the thought of seeing Johnny again sending a shiver down your spine.

But you know you need to talk to him.

You leave your phone in the bathroom and head back to the bed, slipping beside Simon without disturbing him.

The amount of guilt you feel sleeping in the same bed where you just had a wet dream about his best friend, which wasn't even just a wet dream but a reminder of the night you had shared, is crippling.

You reach to grab a bottle of prescribed pills from your nightstand, popping two and letting them hit your system.

Once again, you find yourself drifting off to sleep, though this time, instead of a peaceful send-off, you can still feel the nerves on your skin even with the pills.

But for now, you could let sleep claim you, shushing away the feeling of inevitable doom yet to come.

The bar was crowded when you showed up, which was good.

They won't be focused on you talking to Johnny; they'll be more focused on the woman who has just stripped her top off and the booze floating around the room.

You step through the throng of people, stretching your neck to look for Johnny.

Seeing his signature mohawk and prominent figure perched up in a booth doesn't take long. The waitress next to him flicks her manicured nail across his strong bicep, and he gives her his signature boyish grin.

You roll your eyes, moving towards him. He sits up straight as you approach, his eyes locking with yours immediately.

"Aye, Birdie. Take a seat," he greets, leaning back, gesturing for you to sit as the waitress moves away quickly.

"I'll stand," you stand firm, pursing your lips.

He leans forward, the same boyish smirk on his lips. "Come on. Don't make me look like an asshole," he jokes, sipping his beer.

You shake your head, heart pounding. "I won't be long, Johnny."

He nods his head before he gestures for you to speak your peace.

You inhale a deep breath, tugging your purse tight. "Johnny…" you begin, your voice already tight. “What we did…" you continue, shaking your head in disbelief. “It can't happen again. It was a mistake.” You look at him with guilty eyes. “I love Simon."

He nods as you speak, tongue in his cheek. "Know you love Simon. He loves you."

"That's why I can't see you again. Ever," your tone is firm as you shuffle on your heels.

He narrows his eyes in contemplation, sipping his beer, but doesn't say anything.

"You're not going to say anything?" you ask, confusion in your tone.

He shrugs. "Think you already made up your mind, no?"

Your lips flatline; he was right.

You already said your peace, so what were you still doing there?

"Yes. I did," you nod.

"Then that's it," he takes another sip of the beer like he doesn’t care.

You're not entirely sure what you expected.

Maybe, selfishly, you wanted Johnny to put up a small fight.

Make it feel like what you did was even a little worth it.

But this is good.

This is right.

"Good. I'll… I'll see you around," you utter quickly before you spin on your heels as you push back through the hoard of people and head back through the door, the rush of wind hitting you and rushing to fill your lungs as you inhale deeply.

You feel slightly disappointed but overall satisfied with your meeting with Johnny.

It was the right thing to do.

The only thing you could think to do to ease your conscience before telling Simon.

Made you breathe easier.

Soothed your brain that was going into overdrive.

You're so consumed in your thoughts as you walk down the paved sidewalk that you don't even hear the voice calling your name behind you until you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You yelp at the touch, turning around to see a disheveled Johnny before you.

Your eyes widen. "Johnny?"

"I couldn't… couldn't just let ye walk away," his words are jumbled, half labored from running over as if he can't fully believe what he's doing.

"What do you mean?" Your eyes search his light eyes, full of confusion.

"I don't know. I just…" he trails off, hands wiping over his face. He eyes you for a moment, takes a step toward you, grabs your face between his hands, and kisses you deep enough to swap spit.

You can't help the way your body slumps into him as his tongue moves in your mouth.

His lips move against your familiarity and a fiery passion you can't explain or deny.

You don't know if you want to cry from guilt or moan from pleasure.

Johnny pulls away before you can decide.

You wipe the saliva from your lips when he pulls away. "Johnny…"

"I know. I know," he agrees. "Just had to one last time… but I'll go. See ye around, Birdie."

You stand there, shoulders sagged, when he walks away with a bland goodbye.

It's for the best, but why did he have to kiss you?

It made it so much damn harder to let go.

You ponder the interaction as you take the five-minute walk home.

The feeling of shame washes over you when you step inside the house. The lights are dim and warm, and the air smells of coconut and mahogany.

You can hear the creak of the wood as you slowly take off your coat to hang it on the hook. Once you look up, you see Simon rolling in to greet you.

“Sweetheart,” he smiles, beckoning you down for a kiss.

You want to die, but you think that would send Simon into an early grave faster than finding out you had slept with his best friend.

You bend down and kiss his lips.

His eyes close as he kisses you back with a more profound passion, his tongue sliding across your lips, which makes you audibly whimper.

He pulls his head back, head tilting back in thought. “You’ve been with Johnny,” he says more as a statement than a question.

Your eyes widen, your stomach churning at his words. You struggle to find the right words. “I… how did you know?” you manage to stutter.

“I know what he tastes like,” he says with a straight face, no ill will.

You tilt your head to the side in contemplation. “You… and Johnny have…” you trail off, hoping he can fill in the blanks.

“Did you fuck Johnny, bug?” he asks, once again with a straight face.

There it is.

The question of the hour.

You shake your head in shame, eyes still on his because he at least deserves that. “Simon… there’s no excuse at all, but I… we were both drunk,” you mumble out.

“He told me,” he gruffs out stoically.

Your eyes twitch. “What?”

“Called me right after,” he shrugs with ease.

“You… you knew?” you prompt. “This whole time?”

He nods. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Your mouth hangs open slightly.

The unexpected turn of the conversation leaves you in a state of disbelief.

“He’s temptin’, huh?” Simon raises an amused brow.

“He’s… well, he’s… kind of. I don’t know what to say,” you voice slowly.

Johnny told Simon.

He told your husband that he slept with his wife, and he was still alive to tell the tale.

That’s why Johnny didn’t seem nervous at the bar because he had already told the one person who mattered the most in the situation.

"Bet you had Johnny in near tears, huh?" You hear Simon roughly ask with an amused smile.

"Simon…" You can't help but feel a spark of heat on your skin as he speaks.

He tilts his head back, licking his lips before beckoning you closer. You step close enough so he can grab you by the waist. He bends his face so his lips press into your lower stomach through your shirt before he moves his lips lower to plant a kiss on your cunt through your jeans.

You let out a breathy moan, fingers threading through his hair.

"Felt too good squeezin’ around him, yeah. Bet he was prayin' in this pussy," he mutters into you, teeth skimming the fabric just enough to nick through it.

This is strange; you must have known that much.

But, God, you couldn't help the way your cunt ached with untamed greed.

His canine skimmed across the sensitive skin. "Go on, baby. Tell me. Was Johnny prayin' in you?" His voice felt rough on your skin. "In what's mine?"

"Fuck… Simon," you manage to choke out as he presses another deep kiss to your cunt.

"Sit in my lap," he urges, low and husky.

You oblige, hands coming to rest on his shoulders to position yourself to straddle his lap delicately. Once you sunk on his lap, you looked down at him, pressing a deep kiss to his lips that he reciprocated with equal passion.

"Too fuckin' perfect for Johnny, baby," he murmurs against your lips, fingers slipping to tug down your jeans. You chew on your lip as you sit up a little so he can tug them down to reveal your panties, complete with a growing spot of arousal in the cotton.

“You see that?” he tuts, pressing his finger against the wet spot, making your twitch against his fingers. “Johnny could never get you this wet. He didn’t get my wife this wet, did he, sweetheart?” he grits, pressing, dragging his finger lightly against your slit, nearing your puffy clit.

“He didn’t,” you moan out as you shamelessly rock against his fingers, desperate for more contact. “I… I need you, baby,” you whine, gripping his shoulder tight.

“I’m gonna fill you, babe. Keep you squirmin’ on my cock till you can’t walk,” he presses a sloppy kiss to your neck, sucking on the flesh with urgency. “Get me ready for you, baby,” he mumbles against your flesh, teeth running against your collarbone.

Your eager hands move to unzip his jeans, slipping them down to reach for his erect cock, the tip already flush and leaking pre-come. You stroke him once before he’s gripping your waist and, without warning, pushing you down onto him.

You both hiss at the contact. Simon grits his teeth as he rocks you against his cock, coaxing your sweet release bit by bit. He leans closer, soft lips gliding against your ear. “She fuckin’ missed me, sweetheart. Takin’ me so well. So deep,” he murmurs, brushing his tongue against your helix.

You let out a loud moan, eyes shutting closed with intense pleasure. “You always take…” you pant between moans. “...such good care of me, Simon,” you finish, fingernails digging into his shoulders through his thin cotton shirt.

He kisses your lips. “Always gonna take care of my girl,” he bites your bottom lip slightly as his cock pounds into you. You practically scream as he hits just the right places, not even noticing his fingers slipping past your lips and moving down your throat.

You choke a little before you fully welcome them down further, his eyes peering at your mouth as you coat his fingers with your saliva. He pulls them out after a moment, humming with satisfaction at the gleam of them before using his freshly wet fingers to ease against your clit, offering you even more pleasure.

“Feels so good,” you whine, rocking yourself against not only his cock, but his fingers too, the stimulation all-consuming.

“Come on, baby,” he urges, moving his fingers with urgency as he feels his orgasms start to wash over him. “Come all over my cock and fingers,” his eyes drift to watch his fingers moving in you, your fresh arousal coating them.

Your orgasm crashes over you right as he gets a third finger in, and he follows close behind. You heave in his lap, body shaking with gratification.

You feel yourself slump against him, cheek resting on his shoulder, but only for a moment, before he picks up his fingers covered in your arousal and nudges them against your pouting lips. You open your mouth widely, and he glides them across your tongue and slightly down your throat.

You wrap your hand around his wrist as you turn to face him, lips closing around his fingers, sucking them clean, even taking them out with a loud pop that has Simon giving you a lopsided grin.

He bends forward, tongue darting to collect the extra arousal on your lips before he gives you a deep kiss.

Your heart is still pounding at the turn of events, but not just Simon accepting, no welcoming the fact you had slept with Johnny, but the sex that ensued after.

You have had sex numerous times, but this time it felt more carnivorous, possessive.

And you loved every fucking second of it.

Made you realize it was Simon.

He was the one, the love of your life.

Poor girl, so naive.

So disgustingly pure.

Couldn’t have foreseen the darkness that lurked; the abyss that waited patiently to swallow her whole.

The months pass, one by one until a new year brings more rainfall and a vengeance that has single-handedly obliterated Simon’s entire world, his marriage, leaving him a shell of a man even a month later.

Johnny had died.

His best friend, no brother.

Taken from him with no forewarning, a sudden and brutal twist of fate that left Simon reeling in disdain.

Price told him it was painless, but Simon knew.

He knew as soon as you passed the phone to him, your hand shaking and face devoid of any emotion, Price whispered his words over the phone in the same voice he would use to belie brutal truths.

That Goddamn Johnny had got himself into something.

Simon didn’t know what exactly; maybe it was better that way.

He wouldn’t have to picture Johnny flailing around, bleeding himself dry before he didn’t so much as twitch anymore, his body and soul gone before his very eyes.

And yet, even with no inkling as to what occurred, he still did imagine the worst.

He was a soldier, after all, having seen the worst deaths imaginable and even facilitated many of them himself.

Perhaps it was naive, given his profession, but he never imagined Johnny being the one on the other side of the gun, the shot piercing through his skin, an ally, not an enemy.

The thoughts replayed in his mind every day since the news of his death had come his way.

Nothing could pacify the sheer ache he felt deep in his bones.

Not even the Bourbon he tossed back that is now burning a path down his throat.

Nothing could numb him, so he’ll at least try to get a slight buzz to ease his sorrows.

He’s perched over the wooden table of the bar, hunched over on the stool, as he signals the bartender to pour him another.

You were at the house doing something or another; he didn’t bother to ask before he left.

He really didn’t care.

Something he’s gotten exceptionally good at.

He’s been distant, sure, but even worse than that, he’s been colder.

He doesn’t even know himself anymore.

“You got a wife at home?” He hears the gruff voice of an older man as he moves to sit on the stool right next to him, even though the bar is nearly empty. So many spots are vacant, yet he chooses to sit directly next to him.

Simon doesn’t answer; he just takes a brisk sip of the whiskey.

The man gives him a chuckle, signaling the bartender, before he lazily points towards Simon. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The bartender nods, fixing him a whiskey and setting it in front of the man. He takes a sip, a calm smile on his face. “This Kentucky? Got good taste, my boy,” he praises Simon as he takes another light sip.

Once again, Simon doesn’t answer, turning his attention to the football match on the television in front of him: Manchester United vs West Ham.

"Can feel the sadness wafting off you," the man mutters to Simon, his voice carrying a hint of humor.

Simon glances at him. "You some kind of shrink or somethin'?" he gruffs, clearly irritated.

The man laughs, a deep belly laugh. "I'm no one," he says before he leans closer next to Simon. "I can give you what you want," he promises, tilting his head at Simon's narrowing eyes. "Bring back your friend, but… it'll come with a price," he assures, smiling at Simon's wide eyes full of anger.

Simon sets his whiskey down with a soft thud. "The fuck did you say to me?"

The man chuckles. "I know you hate semantics. Just like me. Thought I wouldn't beat around the bush." He sits up on the stool. "Your friend… Johnny. I've seen him. He's a good boy, and he misses you dearly, Simon."

"Who the fuck are you?" Simon erupts, drawing the bartender's attention.

The man smiles at the bartender, trying to ease his concern. "Someone who wants to help you," he simply says. "But it'll come with a price."

"Price?" Simon asks without much thought.

"The devil doesn't bargain for free, my boy," the man gruffly utters.

Simon has no reason to believe this man.

He could very well be a homeless man trying to take advantage of him, but he's desperate.

He misses Johnny.

"How much?" He fidgets for his wallet before the man extends his hand, halting his actions.

"You think the devil cares about your money?" He shakes his head with a deep laugh. "No, no. He wants something more… practical."

"Like what?" Simon tips his head back, eyes wide, giving the man a good look into his soul.

He was desperate, a hopeless soul.

The man takes a sip of his whiskey. "An essence or soul, if you will, must be promised… sealed in blood," he voices so low Simon almost doesn't hear him. "Doesn't have to be yours…" he supplies, sensing Simon's unease. "But it has to be someone you're close to. Say… a spouse."

Simon ponders for a moment, the weight of the decision heavy on his mind. A vision of you crosses his mind. “My… my wife?”

“Mhm,” the man tilts his head in thought. “That would work mighty fine.”

The man, with an air of mystery, pulls out a paper and a small Bible, complete with large, gold Cardo font and a cross hovering above the text from his large coat pocket and holds it down low for Simon to see.

“This has all you need. Do what you wish, but you must not wait too long,” he hands both the paper and Bible to Simon, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. “For the Gods are hungry.”

He can hear the sound of the TV when he trudges in from the bar, his heavy boots revealing his presence.

The paper and small Bible burned a hole through his jacket pocket.

He reaches for a glass, carefully fills it with some tap water, takes a sip, and swishes around his mouth, not bothering to greet you, curled up on the couch. He can sense your anxiety, glancing at your foot, tapping steadily against the vinyl flooring.

He runs the water to clean the metal sink of his salvia before he takes a proper sip, clearing out the taste of Bourbon and betrayal coating his tongue.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He closes his eyes gently before he turns to you, shaking his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm, I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

But that doesn't stop you. "Come on. Would be nice to see you."

He can feel the irritation bubbling. "Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

In the back of his mind, he can't believe what he's doing.

That doesn't stop the words from flowing out of his mouth.

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood."

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

His heart sinks when he looks up to see a frown etched into your beautiful skin.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly. He sees your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

He doesn't say anything else as he just moves to his office, shutting the door with a thud.

He knows he's a coward.

Hell, he's more than that.

He's a man caught in the web of his own fears, constantly evading his problems instead of confronting them.

A master at doing nothing, a virtuoso of avoidance.

And to think he was now walking without his chair, the very thing he claimed made him feel useless, but he doesn’t realize that uselessness doesn't just dissipate.

It lies dormant.

Waiting and willing for the next opportunity to crawl back under the skin and whisper in one’s ear.

His heart raced as he frantically wandered around his office, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

He chewed on the inside of his cheeks, the heavy thud of his boots the only sound accompanying the blood rushing and thumping in his ears.

With a quiet curse and the churn of his stomach, he reached deep into his jacket pockets, grasping onto the loose paper and Bible the man had given him.

The instructions etched into the paper ominously read clear.

“Beg for what you seek.”

He shuts his eyes softly, hand holding the paper shaking.

Tears stream down his cheek, dropping into his full beard.

He shakes his head, defeated. “I… I want him back,” his words are cracked. “Please… I need him,” he licks his lips, tasting the salty tears of defeat on his tongue.

Sniffling, he reaches for the knife he wears tucked into a holster on his jeans, pulling out his knife and hovering the blade just above his thumb. With a deep groan and slice of his flesh, fresh blood gathers on his fingertip as he squeezes the skin.

He presses his thumb, covered in his fresh blood, into the crinkled paper, turning the white a deep red.

Ironic really.

Because this time, instead of sealing his own fate, tying his own soul with his blood in the name of protection, he was damning your soul, in his blood, in the name of selfishness, so the darkness can hereby claim you, and he can find solace in this wretched bargain.

The sky was a deep, foreboding grey, with clouds that seemed to swirl and twist in every direction. A torrential downpour drenched the streets, with rain coming down in rigid sheets that threatened to wash away everything in its path.

And even though the storm is fiery, thunder growling and primal occurring outside.

It didn't stop the storm from brewing inside Simon's home.

His mind was a tempest, churning and devouring itself at the news of your passing.

It was a heavy burden, a weight that crushed his soul. The hospice nurse's words, 'died of natural causes related to your heart disease,' were like a verdict, but he knew the truth.

It was his doing.

He had stolen your life, snatched up your bright potential, and set it ablaze for a self-serving wish that would swap your current life for Johnny's past one.

He had sold you out.

And so he was reaping what he sowed.

The house had been torn apart.

No longer the picture of warmth and comfort, it looked like a tornado, or in this case, a madman had run through, obliterating all that was. The furniture was overturned, the walls were marred with angry gashes, and the once serene atmosphere was now a chaotic mess.

Glass shards from the vases lay on the now scratched and wrecked vinyl flooring, while picture frames hang crooked and cracked from his fists that are bleeding and bruised.

As his rampage ensues, he hears a loud knock on his door. His eyes flick to the door, eyes red and full of unpacified rage; his boots make loud thuds as he wanders over.

His sagged shoulders tighten for a moment.

Despite the palpable anger over your passing, he finds himself considering the deal, and his spirits unexpectedly rise at the thought of seeing a familiar face.

The only face he has left to see.

His hand reaches for the door handle, pulling it open promptly, only for his eyes to widen at the sight.

It wasn’t Johnny at the door, reaching out to him.

It was his own uncaring father, caked in a thick coat of mud and reeking of brimstone.

Simon’s heart raced, and his hand trembled as he struggled to process the sight.

"I told ya you'd be seeing me again, son," his father's mud-caked face twisted in a grin. "Aren't you gonna greet your dear ole' dad?" he asks, holding his arms out.

Simon's voice trembled with shock. "I... I don't understand. How are you..."

"How am I here?" His father finishes with a crude laugh, dropping his arms to his sides. "I fulfilled your wish as spoken, boy."

Simon's eyes widened in sheer terror, his brain struggling to comprehend what was happening. "No. I... I wished for Johnny back," he tried to rationalize. "Not you."

"You wished for him, boy," he informs, watching Simon's face drop even further with the revelation. "If Johnny was who you desired, you should have been more specific. The devil does not guess," he purses his lips. "Been watching you a long time, boy," his father gruffs, shaking his head. "Longer than you think."

Simon's eyes snap to him, his mouth open in disbelief. "You've been… watching me?"

"Didn't even realize it was your own father at the bar. Shame on you, son," his father shakes his head in disappointment.

"You… you were the one who… who gave me the paper and… Bible?" Simon asks though he's scared to know the answer.

"Crawled out of the pits of Hell just to be there and here… and now… you'll never be rid of me."

The darkness that lurks beneath this world is truly insidious. Humans will never know the true terrors awaiting them, possibly having crawled up from the fiery pits of Hell to coexist with them on Earth.

I’ve seen it firsthand.

And so I urge you to heed my warnings.

Be careful who you pray to, dear readers, for the Gods are not always benevolent.

At least… I know I am not.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ please let me know all your thoughts in the comments, or if you have more specific questions, my ask box is always open. thanks so much for reading! also, shout out to my queenie @lavenderdaisychain for helping me get through the serious burn out i got writing this & reading over some parts i was hesitant about! love you!

287 notes · View notes

lov3notts · 5 months ago

Text

rewritten

theodore nott x reader

summary: part 3, can Theo fix things between you two? after so much heartbreak can you give him a second chance?

a/n:im sorry this took so long, I got hit with writers block and discouragement, hope you guys like it!!

Navigation; masterlist; request rules; part 1; part 2

Mattheo had seen Theo at his lowest before. After brutal duels, after fights with his father, after sleepless nights filled with too much firewhisky and not enough self-preservation. But this? This was different.

This wasn’t anger. Wasn’t recklessness.

This was nothingness.

Theo was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had the answers to all of his problems. His dorm was a disaster—papers scattered, books left open, untouched meals sitting cold on his desk. The only movement in the room came from the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Mattheo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed."Mate."

No response.

"You look like shit."

Still nothing.

Mattheo sighed, running a hand through his hair before stepping further into the room. "Alright, fine. You wanna sit here and wallow, go ahead. But you do know this isn’t sustainable, right?"

Theo didn’t even blink.

"Skipping class, not eating, shutting everyone out—what’s the end goal here?"

Silence.

Mattheo clenched his jaw, patience wearing thin. He walked over and grabbed a book off Theo’s desk before chucking it at him. It hit his shoulder, but Theo barely reacted.

That pissed Mattheo off.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" he snapped. "What, you’re just gonna waste away in here? That’s your big plan?"

Finally, Theo shifted. Slowly, he looked up, his face pale and hollow. His voice, when he spoke, was rough. "What do you want me to do, Mattheo?"

"Oh, I don’t know—anything but this?" Mattheo gestured around the room. "You’ve made some stupid decisions before, but this? This is pathetic, even for you."

Theo let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Pathetic. Yeah. That sounds about right."

Mattheo exhaled sharply, dragging a chair closer and sitting across from him. "Listen, I get it. You fucked up. Big time. But wasting away in here isn’t gonna change that. You want her back? Fight for her. You want to move on? Then do it. But don’t just sit here acting like your life is over because she walked away."

Theo’s eyes darkened. "It is over."

Mattheo froze.

It wasn’t the words that shook him—it was the way Theo meant them.

"You don’t get it," Theo muttered, voice raw. "She wasn’t just some girl, Mattheo. She was everything. And I ruined it. I ruined her." His fingers dug into his knees, knuckles white. "So tell me, what exactly am I supposed to do now?"

For the first time, Mattheo didn’t have a quick response. Because fuck—he didn’t know.

He had never seen Theo like this before.

But he did know one thing.

"You need to talk to her," he said finally.

Theo scoffed, shaking his head. "She won’t listen."

Mattheo leaned forward. "Not if you keep sulking like a bloody ghost. But if you really love her? Then you have to at least try."

Theo swallowed hard, his walls cracking just a bit.

Mattheo sighed, standing up. "Look, I can’t force you to get your shit together. But I can ask for help." He glanced toward the door. "If you won’t go to her, maybe she’ll come to you."

Theo’s head snapped up. "Mattheo—"

"Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle," Mattheo said with a smirk, but there was no humor behind it. "Just sit tight, yeah?"

And with that, he walked out, leaving Theo alone with his demons.

The days after your fight with Theodore Nott were oddly quiet. Not because the world had stopped moving, but because a part of you had. No matter how much you tried to push forward, his words still echoed in your head.

“it was just a bet!”

Now, you were sitting in the Great Hall, trying to focus on your breakfast when a presence loomed over you.

"Can we talk?"

You glanced up and met Mattheo Riddle’s gaze. His usual smirk was absent, his dark eyes serious. That alone sent a chill down your spine. Mattheo never looked serious.

You hesitated. "Depends. What about?"

He exhaled sharply and took a seat across from you without invitation. "It’s Theo."

Your stomach twisted, but you masked it with indifference. "Not my problem."

Mattheo scoffed. "Yeah, well, that’s the thing. He’s not exactly making himself anyone’s problem anymore. He’s barely eating, hasn’t been to class in days, and I haven’t seen him leave his room since—" He stopped himself, but you knew what he was about to say.

Since you left him on his knees in the library.

You forced yourself to take a bite of toast, despite suddenly losing your appetite. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"

"You don’t have to do anything. But maybe… just talk to him?"

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "You do remember that he completely shattered my trust, right? That I was just some game to him?"

Mattheo ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I know, okay? I know he screwed up. And if you never want to see him again, I get it. But…" His voice lowered. "I don’t think he’s okay. I don’t think he will be if someone doesn’t pull him out of whatever the hell he’s drowning in."

That made your chest tighten. No matter how much Theo had hurt you, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t care. But did you care enough to reopen old wounds? To look at the person who betrayed you and risk getting hurt all over again?

Mattheo must have seen your hesitation because he leaned forward, his voice softer now. "I wouldn’t be here begging if I thought he could fix this himself. But he can’t. And like it or not, you’re the only one who can get through to him."

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.

But deep down, you already knew what you were going to do.

You stood in front of his dormitory door, your hand hovering over the doorknob, the air thick with uncertainty. You’d come here, but now that you were standing here, the doubt crept back in. Was this the right choice? Could you really face him? Could you even talk to him without everything you felt rushing back—without everything he did rushing back?

You knocked softly, but there was no response. The quiet only made the pressure in your chest grow. Hesitant, you slowly turned the knob, and to your surprise, the door creaked open.

The room was dim, only a few rays of light slipping through the curtains. And there, in the middle of the room, was Theodore Nott. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression. His body was curled into itself, as if he were trying to shrink away from the world.

A pang of guilt surged through you. You wanted to turn away, to run, but you couldn’t.

Your feet moved before you could stop them, one step at a time, until you were standing beside his bed. You swallowed hard, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside you. "Theo?"

His head snapped toward the sound of your voice, his eyes wide with shock. His expression froze as he stared at you—like he was afraid, as if seeing you might be some cruel trick. His eyes, so full of confusion and fear, shimmered with unshed tears.

"Y/N?… You came?" His voice was barely a whisper, like he didn’t believe you were really there.

A wave of emotion washed over you, but you pushed it down, trying to keep your voice steady. "Mattheo said you weren’t doing well.”

Theo didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, as if your words hadn’t even fully registered yet. His eyes searched your face, every line of his body tense, too afraid to even move, like any sudden movement would make you disappear. You could see how broken he looked, how much he wanted to believe this wasn’t just some dream.

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, as if trying to find the right words, or maybe wondering if words even mattered anymore.

You glanced past him into the room. It was a mess—books scattered, clothes thrown carelessly, a tray of untouched food on the desk. It smelled like stale air and something heartbreakingly lonely.

You hesitated before speaking. "This isn’t you, Theo."

"I don’t know who I am without you," he admitted, voice raw.

You turned to him sharply, something inside you cracking at the sheer honesty in his voice. "Theo…"

"No, let me say this."He exhaled shakily, running a trembling hand through his hair. "I know I don’t deserve to ask for anything from you. I don’t deserve to stand here and beg, but—" He cut himself off, pressing his lips together like he was trying to hold himself together.

And then, quietly, "I don’t know how to exist without you."

Your breath hitched. "You were the one who broke us, Theo. You made that choice."

"I know." His voice cracked. "And I hate myself for it. Every second of every day, I regret it. The bet, the lies, all of it—it was the biggest mistake of my life."

You swallowed, arms tightening around yourself. "Then why did you do it?"

"Because I was a coward." He let out a bitter laugh. "Because I had you—this brilliant, beautiful, impossible thing—and I was terrified that you were too good to be real. That I would love you and you would leave, so I ruined it before you could."

His confession left you breathless.

You had spent so long believing you were never enough for him. That you had been nothing but a game. But hearing this—hearing that he had been just as scared as you had—made your chest ache.

"I never wanted to hurt you," Theo whispered. "But I did. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need you to know that I loved you. That I still do."

You blinked, eyes burning. "Theo…"

"I would move mountains just to be with you again," he continued, voice shaking. "Even if it takes years. Even if you never look at me the same way again. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that you were never just a bet to me."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, unbidden, and Theo’s breath stuttered like the sight of your pain was physically hurting him.

He reached out instinctively but stopped himself, his hands hovering inches from yours. "Tell me there’s still a chance." His voice was barely a whisper. "Even if it’s not today. Even if it’s not soon. Just tell me I haven’t lost you forever."

You stood there, heart hammering, torn between the pain of the past and the boy in front of you—broken, vulnerable, real.

This was the moment.

The moment where you could walk away, close the door, leave him to his regret.

Or you could stay.

You took a breath.

And then, finally, you spoke.

The first few days after you left his dorm were the hardest.

Theo had promised you he’d fix himself, that he’d become better—not for you, but for himself first. But promises were just words, and words had never been enough. Not when he had already shattered your trust once.

So, for the first time in weeks, he forced himself out of bed.

It wasn’t easy. The weight of his mistakes clung to him like a sickness, making even the smallest things feel impossible. Eating felt pointless. Attending class felt meaningless. But he did it anyway. One step at a time.

At breakfast, Mattheo raised an eyebrow when Theo sat down at their usual table, his plate only half-full.

"Didn’t think I’d see you out of that damn room anytime soon," Mattheo muttered, nudging his shoulder.

Theo didn’t respond right away, just picked at his food before finally saying, "I need to fix things."

Mattheo huffed out a short laugh, though there was no malice behind it. "Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?"

Theo didn’t have an answer yet. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t keep being this version of himself. The one who wallowed in his grief, who drowned in guilt without trying to swim to the surface.

So, he changed.

He stopped avoiding the world. Stopped shutting people out.

He went to class, even when his mind screamed at him to go back to bed. He studied harder than he ever had before, pouring himself into books instead of his own self-loathing. When his friends spoke to him, he actually listened instead of shutting them out.

He even picked up his journal again, spilling his thoughts onto paper in a desperate attempt to make sense of the chaos inside his head. He wrote letters—ones meant for you, ones that would never be sent. Some were apologies, some were confessions, but all of them were real.

But it wasn’t about getting you back.

It was about becoming someone who deserved you.

Someone you could trust again.

Weeks passed before he saw you again.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate. It was just life forcing their paths to cross like it always did.

You were sitting by the Black Lake, your nose buried in a book, completely lost in the words. He should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept his distance. But his feet betrayed him, halting a few steps away from you.

You must’ve felt his presence because you looked up, your eyes meeting his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Theo braced himself for the worst—coldness, anger, maybe even indifference. But instead, you studied him, like if you were trying to figure out if the person standing before you was the same one who had broken your heart.

"You look… different," you said softly.

Theo swallowed. "I had to be."

your gaze didn’t waver. "Why?"

"Because the person I was before didn’t deserve you."

Something flickered in your expression, but you didn’t look away. You just nodded, your grip tightening around the book on your lap.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But something.

Weeks turned into months. Theo didn’t push, didn’t force his way back into your life. He just showed up.

Not in the obvious ways. He didn’t beg or plead. Didn’t bombard you with apologies. Instead, he proved himself in the quiet moments.

He helped first-years struggling with their potions when no one was watching. He started paying attention in class, excelling in subjects he used to neglect. He let people rely on him, let himself become someone trustworthy—not just to you, but to everyone around him.

And then, when the time was right, he left something for you.

A book.

Your favorite one, sitting on the library table where you used to study together. But inside, tucked between the pages, were letters.

Dozens of them. Some dated weeks ago, some written only days before.

You hesitated before picking it up, flipping through the pages. And then you saw the first note.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry One

Date: The Night You Left

I haven’t stopped thinking about the look in your eyes. The way you froze. The way your breath caught like I had knocked the air out of you.

I keep telling myself that if I had just shut up, if I had just walked away instead of letting my anger win, you’d still be here. But I didn’t. I let the worst version of myself take control, and now I have to live with the fact that the last thing you heard from me was a lie.

Because that’s what it was. A lie.

You were never a bet.

Not for a single second.

You were the first thing in my life that ever felt real. The first person who looked at me like I was worth something. The first person I ever truly, fully loved. And I threw that away. I let my pride, my temper, my own self-destruction take over, and I broke the one thing I never wanted to lose.

I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can. But if I have to spend the rest of my life proving to you that what we had—what we have—is real, then I will.

Even if it’s too late.

—Theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry 2

Date: One Week Without You

I see you everywhere.

In the empty chair across from me in the library. In the spaces between my fingers where yours used to fit. In the quiet moments where your voice used to live.

And I wonder—do you miss me at all? Do you hear my name in whispers? Do you reach for me in your sleep? Or am I just a scar you’re waiting to fade?

If you told me to wait for you, I would. I would wait for days, for months, for years—as long as it took for you to believe that I never meant those words. That you were never a game to me. That you were the only thing that ever made sense in my life.

But you haven’t told me anything.

So I wait anyway.

Because I can’t imagine a world where I ever stop hoping for you.

—Theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry 3

Date: Two Weeks Without You

I should’ve told you how beautiful you looked in the mornings, when your hair was a mess and your voice was still laced with sleep.

I should’ve told you how your laugh could pull me out of my worst days, how it became the sound I searched for in crowded rooms.

I should’ve told you that loving you scared me. That it made me feel like I had something to lose for the first time in my life.

I should’ve told you that the night we had our first kiss, I went back to my dorm, sat on my bed, and smiled—just sat there, grinning like an idiot, because I knew, in that moment, that I was done for. That you had ruined me for anyone else.

I should’ve told you that I loved you more than I loved myself.

Maybe if I had, you’d still be here.

-theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry 4

Date: three Weeks Without You

You probably don’t know that I still sit in the library, right where you left me. Not every night. Just the ones where I can’t breathe.

You probably don’t know that I reread our old notes, the ones we used to pass back and forth in class. I keep them in my bag like they’re sacred, like they’re proof that once, you laughed with me. That once, I wasn’t just a mistake to you.

You probably don’t know that every time I hear your name, my hands shake.

That I’ve started keeping a list of all the things I should’ve done differently.

That I miss you in a way that feels like it might kill me.

But the worst part?

You probably don’t care anymore.

And I deserve that.

—Theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry 5

Date: The Day You Knocked on My Door

I thought I was dreaming.

I heard the knock, but I didn’t move. I figured it was Mattheo, coming to drag me out of this room again, to remind me that I’m still supposed to be alive, even when I feel like I’m not.

But then I heard your voice.

And suddenly, I was alive.

I was shocked to see you. Not because I didn’t want to see you—I ached to see you—but because I was afraid. Afraid that I had imagined it. Afraid that you were here just to tell me, to my face, that you were done for good.

But you weren’t.

You were there.

Standing in my doorway, looking at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore. Maybe you don’t. Maybe I really am just a shell of the person you once loved.

You didn’t say anything at first. And I didn’t either. I was too busy memorizing the way your hands twitched at your sides, the way your lips parted slightly like you wanted to speak but didn’t know where to start.

And then, finally—"Mattheo said I should talk to you."

Your voice was quieter than I remembered. Or maybe I had just forgotten what it was like to hear it so close.

I wanted to tell you everything. I wanted to fall to my knees again and beg, to tell you that I haven’t slept, that I haven’t breathed right since you walked away, that I would do anything to rewrite the past.

But instead, I just nodded.

Because I knew this wasn’t my moment to fall apart. This was your moment to decide if I was worth saving.

So I stood there.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Daring to believe that maybe—just maybe—you hadn’t given up on me yet.

—Theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Entry 6

Date: One Month Without You

I don’t just want your forgiveness.

I want your trust. Your laughter. Your sleepy morning voice. The way you roll your eyes at me but secretly smile when you think I’m not looking. The way you say my name like it’s something safe.

I want you.

And I know I have no right to ask for that.

But if there is even the smallest chance—if there is even the tiniest sliver of hope that you still look at me and see something worth saving—then I will not waste it.

I will prove it to you. With every breath, with every action, with every single moment I have left in this life.

Because I love you.

And I will spend a lifetime making it right.

—Theo

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

At first, your hands tremble. The pages feel heavier than they should, like they’re carrying all the weight of the past, of everything left unsaid, of him.

You tell yourself you’ll just read one. Just a glimpse. Just to know if he even cares.

But then one turns into two. Then three. Then all of them.

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Because this isn’t just guilt. This isn’t just some empty apology, some desperate attempt to win you back with words. This is raw. This is pain. This is love.

This is a boy breaking himself open, spilling every ugly, unspoken truth onto paper because he doesn’t know how else to reach you.

And God, you feel it.

You feel it in the way his handwriting shakes in some letters but steadies in others, like he’s fighting himself, like he’s trying to hold on and let go at the same time.

You feel it in the confessions he never said out loud—the ones about how he saw you in everything, how he would’ve moved mountains to take it all back, how he doesn’t just want you to forgive him, he wants you to trust him.

And when you read the last letter—the one about how he would spend a lifetime making it right—you realize something.

He never stopped fighting for you.

Not once.

Not even when he thought he had already lost.

And then, with your chest so tight it almost hurts, you look up.

He’s already watching you.

Theo looks like he’s barely breathing, like the moment is too fragile, like if he moves too fast, you might disappear. There’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen in a long time—something that almost makes your throat close up.

Hope.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting. Letting you decide what happens next.

And for the first time in a long time, you realize…

He means it.

Every word. Every promise.

The silence between you stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The letters are still clutched in your hands, his words lingering in your chest, pressing against the pieces of your heart that you swore were too broken to be put back together.

Theo swallows hard. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. "Say something," he finally murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. "Do you really mean it?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "Every word."

"And you’re not just saying all of this because you miss me? Because you feel guilty?" Your voice is careful, guarded—because this has to be real. If you give him your heart again, there’s no surviving if he shatters it a second time.

Theo steps closer. Not too close, but enough that you can see the raw desperation in his eyes. "I’m saying this because losing you was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Because I was an idiot, and I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself for that." He pauses, his breath shaky. "But more than anything, I’m saying it because I love you. I never stopped. And I never will.*"

Your heart clenches painfully. "Theo…"

"You don’t have to say it back," he cuts in quickly. "You don’t have to promise me anything. Just—" He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. "Just tell me there’s a chance. Tell me I haven’t lost you forever."

You look at him then, really look at him. He’s not the same person he was that night in the library. He’s not the boy who let pride and recklessness ruin the best thing in his life. He’s different. He’s trying.

And that’s when you know.

You step forward, closing the distance between you. His breath catches as your hand brushes against his—light, hesitant, but enough to make his whole body go still.

"I’m still angry," you admit softly. "I’m still hurt."

Theo nods, his jaw tightening. "I know."

"But…" You take a breath, steadying yourself. "I believe you."

His eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting those words. "You—"

"I believe that you mean it," you clarify. "And if you’re really going to prove it—if you’re really going to fight for this—"

You pause, feeling the weight of this moment. Then, finally, you say the words that make his breath shudder.

"Then I’m willing to try."

For a second, Theo doesn’t move. He just stares at you, like he’s afraid he imagined it. But then—

"You won’t regret it," he swears, his voice cracking slightly. "I swear on everything, I won’t waste this chance."

And when he finally, finally takes your hand—holding it like it’s the most precious thing in the world— you let him.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

tag list: @simp-for-fantasy @nottinmyheart

#i hope you guys like it #theodore nott #theo nott #slytherin boys #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott fluff #theo nott series #theodore nott fic #theodore nott fanfiction #theo nott angst #theodore nott angst #theodore nott fluff #reopened wounds #theodore nott x you #theo not x you #theo nott fic

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marvelwitchergilmore · 4 months ago

Text

Flatbeds and Ice Cream

Summary: Tyler Owens x fe!Reader -> You have known Tyler for ten years and although your first meeting might not have been the most conventional, neither is the way you finally get together.

Disclaimer: Mostly lovable fluff, hint of angst (if any), mention of bull rider!Tyler, reader is a doctor, subtext of Tyler being an EMT, mention of cuts and bleeding. Reader patched Tyler up, Tyler patches Reader up. Soft kisses. Happy Valentines Day, people! Hope you enjoy this one ❤ Not Proof Read.

It was no secret that Tyler had been pining after you for years. Well, saying that. It was kind of a secret. From you, at least.

But everyone else saw it.

They saw it in the way he looked at you, in the way he spoke to you and how he was around you. He’d never taken anybody star gazing in the meadow he found when he was on his very first tour of Tornado Alley. He’d never sat up and waited for someone to get back from their date, even though he had no need to. And he’d never sat and listened to someone’s instructions when it came to being careful and having someone take care of him.

For as long as you’d known Tyler, he’d always been reckless. Careful, but reckless nonetheless.

The first time you’d met him had been when he’d thrown himself in front of a bull to save your brother.

They were on the circuit together. Whilst Tyler rode them, your brother looked after them. And they were good friends – your brother always talked about Tyler; how skilled he was, how charming he was with the girls and how smart he was, too, despite his head getting stomped on one too many times by a bull.

Your first conversation with Tyler had been in the hospital. Your brother refused to leave his side. You couldn’t blame him. He’d saved his life. But that didn’t stop you from yelling at Tyler when you finally got introduced. Once you’d given your thanks and your brother had left the room for a moment, you yelled at him.

“Go on. I can tell you’re dying to yell at me.”

You didn’t know whether to ask him how he knew or to just start yelling. “Believe me, I am more than grateful for you saving my brother but you are a complete idiot! What the hell were you thinking? Jumping in front of a bull like that?! You know you could have died, too?! You almost did! And what would have happened then? One casualty? Two? You know, that shared idiot of ours tells me a lot about you.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. He tells me you’re skilled at what you do.”

Tyler smiled, feeling pride in his chest. “Thanks-”

“He also says you’re smart. Too smart for just being a bull rider.”

“It’s a noble profession-”

“And it almost got you killed today. Not because you were riding, but because it decided it didn��t want to play anymore and started to fight back. More than just bucking a rider off. You’ve got a brain, Tyler. I suggest you use it before it’s too late.”

Tyler’s reaction stalled for a moment as you hiked your bag a little further up your shoulder before making your way towards the door.

“Hey, hold on.” You paused by the door and looked back at Tyler. “Where do you think you get off with saying something like that to me?”

You sighed. “Tyler, as far as I’m aware, you and my brother are best friends.”

He nodded silently, waiting for an explanation.

“That gives me full right to cuss him out and tell him the exact same thing if it was him in the hospital bed. And since you’re his best friend, it gives me full right to do the same with you.”

That same year, Tyler applied to college.

Four years of education and years of chasing later, Tyler had his own rodeo team and every once in a while, you joined him. For the first few, your brother had joined him until he met a girl from Seattle in the middle of Tornado Alley. After that, he hung up his chasing hat and settled down with a comfortable job in her hometown.

But you stayed on.

“Don’t get hurt,” you called out over the radio as Dexter pulled into the side of the road and parked.

“I promise.” Tyler’s voice rang back.

And then they were off again. Like with every chase and every storm the Wrangler’s came across. Off roading, going seventy miles an hour across fields, in between wind turbines or wooden fences and wheat. By the time Tyler came back with the truck it was covered from top to bottom in dirt and wet grass.

As he stepped out of his truck, you took a long look at him. If anyone didn’t know how either of you were with each other, they could have mistaken it for you checking him out. Which you were. But for more reasons than that he just looked like a greek god in a cowboy rodeo heaven.

You were checking to see if he was okay.

“You’re bleeding.”

Tyler laughed, “What?”

Pressing a light finger to the cut on the side of his head, he winced and you showed him. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“How did you do it?”

Tyler thought about it for a moment as you both fell into the similar movements of you guiding him away from his truck to sit down on the floor of the van as you grabbed your medical kit. Meanwhile, the others started tidying the equipment up before they’d sit down with you and Tyler in the parking lot.

“There was a gust and the truck door closed. It hit me but I didn’t think it hit that hard.”

He did. He felt it. But he didn’t know it was bleeding.

Standing in between his legs, his fingers deftly fidgeting with the fabric of your trousers, your concentration remained on him and getting the cut cleaned and sealed. You moved his chin with your fingers and his head followed your movements.

“This might sting.”

It did.

He didn’t hide it very well.

“Sorry,” you apologised, blowing a little light air onto it to stop the momentary burning sensation.

Meanwhile, across the lot, Boone was watching both of you.

“Do you think they’ll ever do anything about it?”

Lily turned and looked in his direction. Tyler’s eyes were fixed on you as you took careful consideration with helping fix his cuts.

“Don’t talk about it. I’ve been trying to get them together for years.”

“Man, Tyler is sooo in love with her.”

Lily looked over even though she didn’t need to, to know it was true. Tyler looked at you in a way Lily had never seen a man look at a woman before. There was more than just trust and respect there. There was also something more than just ‘love’. The word ‘love’ seemed too simple for the bond that you and Tyler had.

Maybe ‘soulmates’ or ‘twin flames’ were better descriptions.

She’d seen it between you both since day one of meeting you. She met Tyler maybe a year earlier and they were fast friends but something she picked up on, even before she came to know Tyler as her family, was that Tyler had someone.

He had a connection with someone in his life, unlike any other.

Of course, it wasn’t until she met you that she realised who that was with. The sole reason why no other romantic relationship – no matter how perfect the girl Lily seemed to find – did not work.

She was never you.

And it didn’t take long for confirmation from Tyler considering he couldn’t hide his feelings from his face whenever he looked at you. But he was convinced that you never felt the same because you were like that with everyone.

And he was right. To an extent.

When Lily got pelted with hail that hard it cut her skin, you patched her up. You made her swear to be careful and you patched her up. But you never looked at her like how you looked at Tyler. When Boone did a back-flip and landed wrong, you cussed him for being an idiot and helped patch him up. You never stood in between his legs or looked at him like how you looked at Tyler.

It was all in the subtle differences with how you treated everyone else compared to Tyler.

With Tyler, there was almost something more intimate about the whole thing. Because even when you stood in between Javi’s legs when his sunglasses scared his nose, there was nothing seemingly romantic about the ordeal.

But you and Tyler…

That was something magical.

“Do you think there’s anything we can do to, you know, push it along? They’re killin’ me.”

Lily laughed and Boone helped her up onto the back of the truck. “I’ve got a few ideas but so far they’ve not exactly gone to plan.”

“I say just leave them to it.” Dani said as she rounded the back of the truck. “Best to leave it to fate. When it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.”

“I agree. If we push them together too soon, it could backfire.”

“They’ve known each other over a decade.” Kate said, leaning onto the flatbed. “How much longer can it be?”

“We could always parent trap them?” Javi offered.

But Lily shook her head. “I tried that but they just figured out a way to get out together.”

Kate looked at her. “So, when I saw them climbing out of the motel storage closet two months ago…that was because of you?”

“Guilty.”

They all looked back to the oblivious couple.

“Maybe it’s just timing.”

Boone sighed. “If they don’t get together soon, we’ve gotta do something about it.”

As they watched the couple, they realised Boone was right.

“Well, what’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

“You should be okay, now.”

Tyler smiled and went to touch his wound. “Thanks, Doc.”

You slapped his hand away and it instantly dropped. “Don’t touch it. And, you’re welcome.”

Tyler watched you for a moment or two. Something seemed off.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

You looked at him as you packed the rest of the supplies away, but it was only brief. To anyone else, making eye contact when saying a statement like that might actually mean you were ‘fine’. But Tyler didn’t believe it for a second.

He’d known you too long. He knew all of your tells.

“No, you’re not.”

For a moment, your guard dropped and your gaze shot to him. How the hell did he know? You already knew how. It was Tyler. He could read you like a book. When he actually read the secret book on you, you’d never know. All you knew was that you shouldn’t have been shocked that out of everyone, he was the one to notice.

Better yet, he was the one to not ask his question again, but rather tell you the truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself.

“What is it?”

You remained silent, packed up the rest of your things and stepped up and behind him into the van. And he followed suit.

“Y/n, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Ty. I promise.”

Tyler clicked his tongue as he leaned against the small kitchen side. “There you go, breaking rule number two.”

“Rule number two?”

“Never lie.” Tyler told you.

“Since when do we have rules?”

“Uh, since you gave me a set of them ten years ago. This goes both ways, Sweetheart. If I have to live by them, so do you.”

“Well,” you had to think on your feet. “You broke rule number one. Don’t get hurt. Seems we’re even.”

You went to move past him, to run away from the conversation but slightly sticking his arm out, he stopped you. And, feeling his eyes on you, you looked at him.

“Talk to me,” Tyler’s voice was quiet. Soft. Like he was trying not to startle you. “Please.”

If you looked at him any longer, you’d cave. Those green eyes of his always had some kind of magical power over you. So you shook your head and forced yourself to look away.

“It’s nothing.” Then you stepped back a little. “I better go and check on the others.”

Tyler let you go, but he knew the conversation wasn’t over. Something was up and you were hurting. And he needed to find out why.

Tyler’s eyes rarely left you over the next day and a half. You kept your eye on his wound, but when you cleaned it, that’s the only place you looked. You didn’t sneak a look at him like you usually did when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. You barely said two words to him.

He’d asked Dani and Dexter if they knew anything about what had happened to you, but even they didn’t know. They knew you’d been quiet for the last couple of days, but other than that you seemed okay.

It was as the sun started its descent in the sky that you got a knock on your motel door. Everyone had either gone for a nap or a shower, so you didn’t fully know who to expect. But once you opened your door, it was no surprise.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Tyler smiled. “Are you busy?”

You shook your head. “Not really. Why?”

“I’m gonna go for a drive, want to come with me?”

You were silent for a moment, trying to decide between saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’. On one hand, you’d love to join him. On the other, you knew within the first ten minutes of the drive, Tyler would know everything about what you weren’t telling him just by your silence.

Tyler could see the contemplation washing over your face. “Let me rephrase? I’m going for a drive, and I want you to come with me.”

Looking into his eyes, you felt your internal battle melt away.

“We need to talk.”

Internally, you sighed. You couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Let me grab my jacket.”

“I’ll be by the truck.”

Two minutes later, you walked down the metal steps as you zipped up your jacket in the slow breeze that passed through the peaceful silence of the motel. Tyler stood by the passenger door, waiting to open it for you and close it behind you.

Then he rounded the front before he pulled himself into the driver’s seat and peeled out of the lot and headed down the backroads.

Usually, the radio would be playing on some kind of country station and the silence wouldn’t even be noticed between yourself and Tyler. But he wanted to talk. You both needed to talk.

“Where are we headed?”

“Thought we could get some ice cream.”

You smiled. Ever since Boone had mentioned it in the morning, you’d had a craving for it.

After a few more minutes of silence, you plucked up the courage to ask. “So what did you want to talk about?”

Tyler looked at you, back at the road and back to you with a sigh. “Please remember we’re going for ice cream.”

“Okay.”

“And that I’m driving.”

You were getting a little worried.

“Okay?”

“I called your brother.” You just stared at Tyler, waiting for him to continue. “He told me what happened.”

You searched Tyler’s face for any hint of a lie. He’d said that once before, just to get you to admit it outloud to him. He hadn’t called your brother and he hadn’t known what had happened.

But this time he did.

“Tyler…”

“Something was up with you and I knew you weren’t going to tell me. I wasn’t gonna take any chances.”

You sat back in your seat. “You could have just asked me.”

“Would you have told me?”

You were quiet. “Eventually.”

“Y/n,” Tyler sighed. “You spend so much time taking care of everyone else.”

“It’s my job.”

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. You spend so much time making sure everyone else is okay, making sure we’re not hurt or dying or slipping off the edge of the world. You deserve not to get hurt, too.”

“It’s a little late for that.” Your voice seemed like something it never was.

Small.

You didn’t know whether to look out of the window or at your hands. But Tyler brought your gaze back to him anyway by taking hold of your hand from where he sat.

“I know I can’t change what happened, but I’m here if you wanna talk. Or scream. Or cry. Or bitch about it.” That part made you smile and he gave you a light smile in return. “For as long as you need.”

For the first time in a few weeks, you felt normal again for a moment. “Thanks.”

Looking at Tyler, his hand still firmly in yours, you watched as he looked from you, back to the road.

Even when you were younger, you could have watched him forever trying to commit him to memory. Each line and curve of his face, the length of his lashes, the colour of his hair…all of it. You’d looked at the man for just over a decade. Maybe it was some innate fear of losing him, or maybe it was the fact that the first time you met him was when he charged in front of a bull and got flipped into the air like a rag-doll.

But you wanted to make sure he was there.

One thing that you were certain of was that, no matter what, you’d never forget his eyes. The way they bore into your soul unlike anything else. Tyler knew what you were thinking and feeling with one single gaze on your face.

Nobody else could do that.

Nobody.

Just him.

Just Tyler.

Pulling into a semi empty parking lot, Tyler switched off the engine and looked over at you. Then you both made your way inside. Grabbing a basket, you and Tyler stocked up on different flavours of ice cream for both yourself and the others before heading towards the check out.

Finally, once you’d come outside, there were barely any cars in the entire lot but the way the sun was setting, sending a golden hue over everything it touched, made it seem a lot more peaceful than just empty.

“Wanna stay here for a while?”

“Here? Here here?”

Tyler smiled as he lifted the back of his flat bed down and hopped up into it. You tried to deny yourself of the fact that you checked him out as he did so.

“Yes, here. Or have you got somewhere better to be?”

You could hear the smile in his voice.

“What about the ice cream?”

Tyler gave a casual shrug before he lifted it up. “I’ve got a cooler. They’ll keep for a while.”

You looked around you. There was no hurry in getting back. Everyone would probably still be napping.

“Okay then.”

As Tyler dropped the bag into the cooler, he walked over to you and gave you a hand up before you held onto his arm for stability.

“You okay?”

“All good.”

As you sat down, Tyler went back to the cooler and pulled out your chosen flavour of the day, as well as his before handing you a clean spoon from the small side pocket of the cooler.

Then he joined you.

With the sun warm on your bodies, the pair of you sat on the edge of Tyler’s flatbed, your legs swinging free.

“So, what did our shared idiot have to say? Is he and the girls okay?”

Tyler nodded. “Melenie’s on a girls weekend away for her friend’s bachelorette party, so he’s trying to keep the girls busy before they call their mom. He also said that Caroline has now decided she wants to become a vet instead of a princess equestrian horse ballet dancer.”

You smiled with a small laugh.

“And Zoey has taken to teaching her dad how to cook a meal that does not include pasta or cheese.”

You looked at Tyler. “Is that why I got a text asking what a bechamel is?”

Tyler nodded with a small laugh. “She found a recipe for Lasagna to help him dip his toe in the water. She’s just like you, you know.”

“What? Bossy? Stubborn? Too smart for her own good?”

“Clever.”

You looked at Tyler again.

Then he shrugged. “Bossy, too. But clever.”

You smiled, taking the compliment, even if you did roll your eyes at his agreement of you being called ‘bossy’.

A small chuckle escaped you. “She has been running rings around those two for years. I’m expecting Caroline will be doing the same soon enough.”

“Soon enough? She already does! You know, last time I went to see them she had your brother learning how to sow pink sequins onto tu-tu fabric.”

“But he doesn’t know how to use a needle. I’m pretty sure I banned him from using one when he was sixteen and tried to sow his socks back together. It ended up looking like he had webbed feet.”

Tyler laughed. “Well, he’s gotten better at least. I had to give him a helping hand, but by the end of the night she was doing pirouettes around the garden until she got dizzy.”

You smiled. You saw your brother, sister-in-law and nieces as often as you could. You had a facetime call with them at least once a week. Your niece Zoey had even taken to writing your letters since she was practicing to earn her pen license in school.

The conversation flowed from there. From your nieces, to Tyler’s family, to the Wranglers, to work, to the prediction of a few more EF-1s and 2s in the area in the coming days and then back to ice cream.

Until Dani called and asked you and Tyler to pick some food up on your way back from wherever you both were.

“Come on, we better go.”

As you took Tyler’s tub back to the cooler along with your own, he hopped down to the ground and waited for you. And from there, after the initial awkward moment, Tyler reached to your hips before slowly lowering you down until your feet hit the concrete directly in front of him.

For a moment, the world seemed to disappear around you.

Feeling Tyler’s fingers against the waistband of your shorts holding you steady, you felt yourself lean forward. With your eyes trailing up from his chest where your hands had fallen from his shoulders, all the way up to where his eyes moved from the lower half of your face to meet your gaze, a question popped into your mind. Well, a few questions.

Did he feel the same?

Was he…did he want to kiss you, too?

Before you could get your answers, however, Tyler’s phone rang out loud. And the moment seemed to roll away as you and Tyler realised what was happening and stepped away from each other.

“It’s…it’s Dexter.”

You nodded and stepped away. “I’ll wait in the truck.”

As Tyler watched you walk away, looking back at him every once in a while, he cursed himself for leaving his phone on loud.

Looking down at the contact, he swiped to answer and scuffed his boots on the concrete as he cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Ty. Uh, I’m picking up a reading.”

Sitting in the truck, you looked at your reflection. The heat you could feel on your cheeks was clearly writing across your face. You could only pray Tyler thought it was from the sun and not from the twister of butterflies inside of you.

From the rearview mirror, you watched him scurry around, grabbing a pen and a scrap piece of paper to scribble something down. Then he hung up and rushed towards the driver’s seat.

“Is everything okay?”

“Get your seatbelt on.” Tyler told you as he pulled his own on and started the truck up.

“Ty, what’s going on-”

“Dexter’s picked up some cells. We’re twenty minutes away. Fifteen if we hurry.”

The noise of his engine seemed to get louder until it joined in with the sound of the incoming sirens.

You could both see it in the distance, gathering more track as it got closer. First it ripped through a baseball park for the kids, then the field and park beside it before heading towards the markets in the town.

“The shelters are all full!”

You looked around you, as did Tyler. “The bar! They’ll have a cellar!”

The wind continued to pick up around you both, everyone’s voice becoming silent in comparison to the chaos around you all.

Then you saw one of the tents take flight.

“Tyler!”

He couldn’t hear you.

“Tyler!”

He heard you as you forced yourself closer, but before he could react, you pulled him down just before the tent swooped lower and took your both out. Rolling along the ground, the tent cover ripped away and went sailing through the air and down the street along with the metal stand.

“Are you okay?”

Tyler was above you, checking you over. But you just nodded and your attention turned towards the end of the street.

“We need to get inside.”

With Tyler’s help, you stood up and pulled yourself into the bar before he closed the door and directed you towards the cellar. As the door to the cellar closed behind you, a sharp pain came to the side of your head.

“Come on, down here. We’ll be safe here.”

Tyler slotted you between the wall and himself, his arms wrapping around you securely. Every now and again, people let out small screams. More so when the tornado ripped through the town and battered against the cellar door.

You gripped onto Tyler’s arm and clothes a little tighter, burying your head into his chest. Then you felt his arm reach from your back to your head, holding you against him, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

Slowly, the wind disappeared and the battering of the door came to a stop. The only noises that could be heard in the cellar were people’s gasps and heavy breathing as they looked around as the swinging headlamp above them.

“Do you think it’s over?”

“Maybe.”

Tyler looked up and helped you up from where you stood. The stinging on your head seemed to get worse as you stood up and the blurry image of Tyler reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean square of fabric.

You hissed.

“Sorry. Just keep pressure. You’re bleeding.”

For a moment you tried to look at it then realised you couldn’t.

“I’ve got a med kit in my truck. Hopefully it’s still there.”

Eventually, you all got back outside. Boone, Dani and Kate appeared from across the street, a sea of people behind them.

“Can you hold down the fort?” Tyler asked Lily. “I want to make sure Y/n’s okay.”

“Yeah, ‘course. We’ve got her med kit with us if you don’t have yours.”

Tyler nodded and thanked her before moving back to the sidewalk, his hand coming to your shoulder. “Come on, let's go and patch you up.”

Finding Tyler’s truck, he slotted the back of the flatbed down and lifted you onto the back.

“I’m gonna grab my kit. It’s on the backseat.”

You just nodded, keeping the eye closest to the cut shut. Tyler disappeared for a moment but once he was back in front of you, he was a little less blurry.

“Okay, let me take a look at this.”

“Are you okay?”

Tyler laughed a little as he examined your wound. “You’re the one bleeding here, Sweetheart. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Tyler chuckled. “Well,” he examined the wound further before reaching for the cotton swabs and cleaning solution. “It’s either me or another paramedic-”

“You.”

Tyler smiled. “Glad to know I’m a fan favourite.”

Then with a small warning, he started to clean the cut on your head. You hissed, lifting your hand to his other arm.

“Sorry, I’ll be finished soon. I promise.” Tyler said as his thumb gently rubbed your cheek as it rested in his hand.

“It’s okay. I trust you.”

Tyler smiled a little. “Am I still a fan favourite?”

The stinging settled and you moved back towards him and the cotton swab. “More than a favourite, but I might be biassed.”

You seemed to have shocked yourself but Tyler didn’t seem to react. Too much, at least. Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

With little tape pieces, Tyler pinched your cut together before laying them across it.

“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

Tyler smiled, “I’m keeping my eye on you, but you should live.”

“Ah,” you smiled. “The three little words every woman wants to hear.”

For a moment, it looked like Tyler was going to say something but then he turned back to his med bag. “We should probably head back. See if anyone needs our help.”

“You’re right.”

And you both did exactly that.

The night sky had fully settled across the town by the time you and Tyler started helping out. And by the time you all got back to the motel, the moon was at its peak. Everyone headed for bed the moment you all got back.

Except for you.

Twenty minutes later, you stepped out of the shower for the second time that day, your hair wrapped in a towel as you got dressed into a spare set of clean clothes.

Then there was a familiar knock on your door as you flipped your head over and pulled the towel from around your hair.

“It’s open, Ty!”

“How did you know it was me?”

You gave him a tired smile. “I know your knock. Is everything okay?”

“I wanted to check on you.” He lifted his med bag from beside him. You nodded and he shut the door behind him before he walked across the carpet floor and sat beside you on your bed.

With his fingers gently holding your head, he examined your wound. “How are you feeling?”

“The dizziness is gone and I can see you clearly again, so that’s something.”

Tyler smiled.

“I am a doctor, Tyler. I do know what I’m doing.”

“I know.” Tyler nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to check up on you. You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

You smiled and gave him a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Well, it seems clean.”

“I did just have a shower.”

Tyler chuckled, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. “Right. Well, you look okay. I mean, you always look okay. Beautiful, actually. But-”

“Ty.”

“What I mean is- it’s just that- your wound looks okay.” Tyler finally looked at you calmly again, his hand coming to your wound to let his thumb brush the wet strands of your hair away from it.

“You always look beautiful.”

You felt yourself lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment until you heard his voice. Then your eyes met his.

But no phone rang this time.

No knock came to the door.

Neither of you were trying to avoid the other.

As his hand slipped through the strands of your hair, your hand reached out for his arm and you moved closer. Finally, his lips met yours in a tender kiss. It was soft then…searching. His hand that you’d reach for pulled you closer until he held you flush against him, your own hands reaching for his side as well as his jaw.

With the kiss floating to an end, you felt Tyler’s nose nuzzle against yours, your eyes still closed as his forehead came to touch yours.

Then you finally opened your eyes when you felt Tyler pull away for a moment. He was looking at you, that ridiculously endearing smile on his face as he looked at you and once again brushed the hair from your face.

Then you felt yourself giggle.

“What?” He asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing…just…I never thought this would happen.”

“Are you glad it did?” Tyler felt his heart trying to prepare itself for the worst.

But you smiled. “I am…are you?”

Tyler felt a wave of relief wash over him. “If you only knew how long I’d been thinking about it…”

“Is that a yes?”

Tyler nodded. “That’s a yes.”

“So…if I asked you to kiss me again, would you say yes?”

“Yes.” Tyler leaned closer. “I’d say ‘yes’.”

Kissing you once again, your fate was tied with Tyler. A day where Tyler didn’t kiss you good morning, good night or just for no reason at all would never come into being.

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too-deviant · 1 year ago

Text

The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader

Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.

Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit

Word Count: 7.6k

Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense

part two

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷

The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.

For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.

So when he left, nobody knew what to do.

It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.

But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.

But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.

Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.

You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.

You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.

Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.

You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.

Except that’s not what happened. At all.

It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.

Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”

He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”

“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.

Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”

You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”

“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”

He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”

That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”

“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”

“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“

“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”

Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”

“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.

“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”

“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”

“Not exactly, my child.”

You raised a brow.

“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”

“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”

He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”

You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.

No biggie.

i. WEEK ONE

Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.

“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.

Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.

Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.

He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.

Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.

But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.

He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.

“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.

And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.

You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.

“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.

“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it…just in case something—“

“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”

So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.

Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.

“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.

“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”

You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.

“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“

“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.

You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.

“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“

“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.

You were quick to leave.

It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.

“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.

You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.

“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”

The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.

“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”

“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”

“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”

So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.

But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.

It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.

And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.

You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.

Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.

“Hi.”

You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.

“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”

He’d never said hi before.

He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.

Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.

“Bye.”

You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”

ii. WEEK TWO

It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.

Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.

Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.

Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”

You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.

Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.

Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.

He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.

“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.

He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”

You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —

“Why?”

Nevermind!

You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”

Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!

“Odd weather we’ve been having.”

What?

His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”

Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”

You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.

“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”

“I don’t wanna risk it.”

“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.

It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.

So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —

“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”

“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”

“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”

“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”

“Then who trains at ten?”

“Nobody.”

Bingo.

Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,

(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.

Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).

but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.

That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”

He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”

“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”

He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”

You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”

Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”

“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”

It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.

Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.

“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”

“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”

“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”

Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”

Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”

“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”

You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”

“We thought it’d catch on.”

You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”

A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”

He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”

He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.

He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.

Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.

So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.

Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.

You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.

Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.

You flinched, “Luke.”

“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.

“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“

“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”

You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”

“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”

You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.

“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”

“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“

“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

iii. WEEK THREE

You hadn’t seen him in five days.

Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.

All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.

That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.

But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.

You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.

The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?

No. That’s not what you were scared of.

Would they make him better?

Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?

You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”

“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”

You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.

The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.

You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.

The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”

You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.

It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.

“What —“ You were at a loss.

“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”

“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”

“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.

“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”

“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”

“You said —“

“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”

And he told you everything.

iv. THE AFTER

Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.

Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.

That’s what made it so perfect.

You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.

Until he learned your name.

And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.

He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.

He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.

For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.

The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?

No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.

But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.

But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.

So maybe it was worth it after all.

He stepped off the porch.

#the title is a play on words #cos it wasn’t just the physical wounds #get it?#i’ll shut up #luke castellan #percy jackson and the olympians #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #percy jackson

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