#salt in wounds

[henkan-writes]

Chapter 2?? I guess??

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 15: salt in wounds / phobia / revenge

Still days behind but here’s day 15 for @augustofwhump. Would help if i stuck to my plan outlines but youtube fed me Saving Hope clip and this was born.

Also thanks to @theotherworld97 for listening to me ramble about this.

Spoiler for season 3 finale Saving Hope.

Saving Elijah - as a working title, after having his memory wiped instead of going to France, Elijah ends up becoming a surgeon in Toronto.

That was going great until something forced him to remember everything, leaving him missing his years without the weight of centuries crushing him.

—--

He had been happy, he had been good, a dick but good; saving people, helping, making things better.

He was human.

He had almost had a family, there was a little boy he should have gotten to raise, a woman he loved.

It was everything he wanted.

Dying had been quick, sudden, boom! and he was gone, far quicker than father’s blade in his heart or that damn thorn.

Waking up is worse.

His body regrowing because few things could kill him, but there was no escaping the damage that had been done.

He couldn’t scream or move, no air in his lungs or working vocal cords and his muscles were shredded.

Shrapnel was a bitch.

So he was awake as he slowly remembered why he wasn’t dead.

What he was.

Who he was.

Remembering is salt in the wounds.

And giving his complete body is a wound, raw and charred, that was saying something.

Because Joel Goran had died years ago, a stupid accident ending a life that should have brought hope to people, a bar fight ending in a knife to the heart.

Like his first time.

He didn’t appreciate the irony.

And Amalia, the brilliant loyal friend she was, who had been keeping something from him, a witch because magic and the supernatural were a thing apparently.

It had to be through luck that she just happened to find a vampire who looked like him, her lost friend and decided to use them, to give her friend another chance.

Why not? A Dr was better than a bloodsucker, helping people instead feeding and killing them, an improvement.

She hadn’t expected her victim to volunteer.

But what else was the amnesiac vampire going to do, after months of not knowing who he was, struggling with hunger and an ache in his chest he didn’t understand. If he couldn’t remember who he was, he’d take being someone else, someone better, who clearly had someone to miss him.

Elijah remembered now.

Everything.

He wasn’t truly Joel Goran, just given all his memories and skills, or maybe he was, for her to be able to interfere with him, an Original Vampire tainted by a piece of the Hollow. She was an exceptional witch, who's to say she hadn't brought her dead friend's soul back and placed it in the basically empty body, because that's what he had been. 

No memories, no desires, just a name that had meant nothing.

Now he was both Joel and Elijah and Elijah Mikaelson.

He would prefer the nothing back now than Elijah Mikealson. Nothing instead of the craving to check on his sibling knowing he couldn’t, instead of the hatred in Marcel’s eyes and the fear in Hayley’s.

He wanted just to be Joel again, with Alex’s love, his friendships in the hospital and a future.

All Elijah had was the loneliness and the crushing weight of his past.

Joel who felt worry for every life placed in his hands, who was haunted by the death that happened to him.

Elijah who felt nothing, nothing but self loathing and guilt, who killed as easily as breathing.

---

He’s not sure how long he had been trapped silent in his body as he healed-regrew but it was poor timing that it was after he heard the door open that he felt his muscles start to twitch.

He had enough thought to pray the person would leave before it spread, they hadn’t.

He couldn’t have stopped the noise but he managed to stifle it to a choking wheeze instead of the full scream.

He’s not sure how long he had been trapped silent in his body as he healed-regrew but it was poor timing that it was after he heard the door open that he felt his muscles start to twitch.

He had enough thought to pray the person would leave before it spread, they hadn’t

He couldn’t have stopped the noise but he managed to stifle it to a choking wheeze instead of the full scream.

There was a muffled swear as the person jumped and realised where the sound had come from, he focused on the sound of them coming closer to try to ignore the feeling of his muscles twitching as they woke up.

The cover- body bag because of course he was in a body bag, he pitted whoever was the one to gather him up, was unzipped and he found blue eyes staring down at him in shock.

What the hell! He should be with Alex and the baby. He thought in anger before he reminded himself that out of everyone Charlie Harris was perhaps the best person to find him.

Joel-Elijah used his twitching muscles to sit up getting a glimpse of his still healing skin, he shivered despite himself and hand caught his shoulders gently before he slumped back.

He had been blow up before- no Elijah had blow himself up to get at Finn, he had managed before, walking to find Cami and Hope, in the cold night ignoring the stinging pain of the too sensitive-all new skin.

He could manage now.

“How??” Charlie asked, looking shocked but not as shocked as most people would be, but then there had been something off about him since he woke from the coma some of the rumours had said.

He looked up at the older man- no he was a thousand years old, unable to even think of how to explain, wincing as he felt the skin of his cheeks heal, nerves suddenly awake to the cold of the room.

Charlie’s hands tightened on his shoulder digging into regrowing nerves that he couldn’t stop the groan of pain, causing Charlie to let go and Joel-Elijah fell from the table to hit the floor, body bag following to present what little dignity he had.

He wheezed a muffled whine as everything in his body struggled to adjust, various areas of his body fighting for the attention. He had been human for years, this level of pain and awareness wasn’t natural and the centuries as a vampire were reacting too slow.

He didn’t want to become used to it again, he wanted to remain human. 

“Shit! Joel?” Charlie swore, crouching down in front of him.

“Give me a minute.” he managed to gasp, before Charlie could touch him again, sounding much like the corpse he still pretty much was.

He stayed there for a moment ignoring the others’ eyes on him as he thought.

He was hungry, he needed blood considering how much he had healed.

He needed to know how he had been human.

How he hadn't needed blood for the last few years, how he had managed to walk under the sun without a daylight ring.

He had his one in a box back at his place, the only thing he had kept from the nothing Amalia had met and remade-

He needed Amalia, she could fix this, return him to just Joel, wipe away his rather more public death this time, he’d again start elsewhere.

Safer for Alex and the baby to be away from him. It would have to be Charlie’s anyway since he couldn’t have- 

He was human, somehow, no hunger for blood, no weakness to sunlight, slow healing, scarring. It could be, he could have had a child after a thousand years, thankfully Dahlia was gone but that would mean they would be in danger, if his blood was ever discovered.

He really needed Amalia.

“Phone.” he demanded, not sounding as gruesome, but the effect was likely ruined as he was still laying on the floor.

“Are you going to explain how this is happening?” Charlie asked, still sounding far too calm.

“After I make a phone call, ” he said, “and blood.” he added. For a brief moment he thought about explaining and compelling it away afterwards but if the child was his then Charlie would need to know everything to protect them better.

“Blood?” Charlie cocked an eyebrow at him, annoyingly unflappable, Joel wanted to be annoyed but the sight was helpfully calming, Charlie, like Alex, Maggie and Zach was Joel’s not anything to do with Elijah.

‘You're a thousand year old vampire, you shouldn’t need a human to calm you down.’ half his mind snapped at him

‘I don’t want to be.’ he snapped back

“Bag of it and my phone- from my locker.” he explained, ignoring how pitable he likely looked, staring up at Charlie from his position laying on the fall. 

—

By the time Charlie returned most of his skin had healed leaving him feeling raw and over sensitive, but he had managed to sit himself up leaving him curled on the floor with the body bag wrapped around him as he set the remains of the bomb that had been embedded in him to the side.

He returned with the asked for blood and phone as well as a set of blue scrubs.

Elijah-Joel had never been more happy at the sight of them, nine thousand dollar suits could burn for all he cared.

He had lived without the need for that armour, he preferred his jeans, shirts and scrubs.

[chloesimaginationthings]

The bitterness kills Michael Afton in FNAF..

[polaritydisturbed]

Killing—or regenerating—the gayest Doctor we've ever had (both visually and vibes-wise) the day before Pride Month honestly feels like a hate crime.

[willosword]

ABSOLUTELY GAGGED.

[between-myself-and-me]

boygenius - Salt in the wound / Pukkelpop, Belgium / August 18, 2023 / source : mattyhealysmellss tiktok

[ebodebo]

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!

[jacksnotmyname]

“I’ll save you the pain of watching your demon b die”

Lute thinks it is a mercy to die rather than see the one you care for most die.

Vaggie let Lute live.

Lute saw Adam die.

[formulanni]

Daniel Ricciardo as Judgement:

The Judgement tarot card symbolizes the arrival of absolution and the culmination of a significant undertaking, often related to past and life lessons.

Judgement indicates the cusp of rebirth.

In order to achieve that, you must look back upon your deeds and come to an honest evaluation of yourself. This leads to the awakening that signals a new way of life.

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

I have a wicked good idea for a story, but I'm not sure I can execute it. Basically, Lillian is stuck in a time loop and has to watch Lena die every day before time resets and starts all over again. She tries everything in her power to stop, but the universe just finds different ways to kill Lena every time Lillian changes the parameters of the day.

In addition to finding the right tone to write from Lillian's pov, or even when to set this damn thing, I'm also trying to determine what Lillian does that releases the loop.

Killing Lex to save Lena seems a bit too cliche.

[carefulzombie]

and then they killed him

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 18: came back wrong / unavoidable / muzzle

Day 18 for @augustofwhump.

Saving Elijah - still a working title, after having his memory wiped instead of going to France, Elijah ends up becoming a surgeon in Toronto.

Charlie went to the mortuary for closure, he got something else.

—----

Charlie had come down here for closure, after Zach had returned to the hospital in shock and with a tale he shouldn’t have been surprised by, because of course that that reckless fool would manage to get himself killed. 

At first he had waited expecting Joel to come by and say something; a goodbye, a threat to look after Alex and Luke but nothing.

Nothing but watching Alex’s heartbreak on what should be one of the happiest days of her life and the tiny perfect baby who had no idea what he had lost.

Charlie hadn’t really thought it would happen, that it would just be him. Some part of his mind he had thought they would just keep going on the way it had been, him and Joel both there for Alex, no matter who she chose in the end, and the baby.

Luke.

Joel was meant to be showering the baby in gifts and showing off how much more prepared he was.

Raising a child took work, accidents happened all the time they all knew that, more parents couldn’t hurt, and yet there Joel went proving it by getting blown up before he ever got to meet his-their son.

The mortuary is just as empty of a shouting Joel, he hadn’t thought Joel would just move on without a final word, it didn’t seem like him. 

Yet here he was alone with a bodybag.

He had tried not to look at it too much, he was familiar with death, it came with medicine even before his coma but this was different, Joel was too loud and annoyingly there, to be left in pieces in a bag.

Maybe if he had looked more he would have noticed something different instead of having a near heart attack as the bag jolted suddenly letting out a gasping scream.

After a moment of hesitation he had moved and unzipped the bag to meet wide pain filled dark eyes, but awake, a somehow alive Joel Goran.

“How??” he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking as Joel sat up, wincing as he could see muscles move though the absence of skin, and then realising Joel could be just as much in the dark as him. 

He had thought for a brief moment this was Joel’s ghost but he had reached out and met bare skin- not skin, most of his body still showed signs of the explosion-  but the shoulders under him were warm and alive somehow, his tightening grip then pulled a noise of pain making him let go.

And watched as Joel toppled off the table, still tangled in the body bag.

“Shit! Joel?”

He would like to say he has grown to be accepting since his coma but this may have been toeing his line, apparently moving past ghosts and onto zombies, but he followed Joel down to crouch in front of him.

Within brain-eating reach, a little voice warned him but he ignored it, because somehow Joel wasn’t dead, Alex didn’t need to be in tears upstairs and their son had a chance of having Joel in his life.

Three parents are better than two, he hadn’t been this fixated on this idea before Joel had died but now he was.

“Give me a minute.” the not-dead groaned, pushing the chance of being a zombie down and Charlie had watched as the man or whatever just breathed as his skin and more slowly regrew.

Because he had been blown up, it just seemed whatever he was didn’t die that way. 

“Phone.” Joel demanded after some time apparently having grown more himself even while still missing much of his skin and hair.

“Are you going to explain how this is happening?” he asked as he realised Joel wasn’t freaking out as much as he should, meaning he knew at least something.

“After I make a phone call, ” Joel replied, adding more before he could argue, “and blood.”

“Blood?” he asked as he stood up, not a zombie then but vampire? Oh he hoped not he wasn’t getting into whether any of the fictional vampires were real, he was fine with just ghosts and the afterlife.

“Bag of it and my phone- from my locker.” Joel explained looking up at him.

Joel had never looked small but curled in the body bag looking up at Charlie, lost, in pain, he looked so young.

He had died, been blown up recklessly saving someone else, trying to do good and almost lost out of the best things in his life, Charlie had left before he let himself think too much more of that.

Joel wouldn’t appreciate the pity.

It took him about twenty minutes; going to get the phone, refusing to think about it when he collected a bag of blood and picking up a pair of scrubs on his way back. The sooner Joel was out of the bodybag the sooner Charlie could stop thinking about how he died.

Then he was hoping Joel had a way of dealing with the fact everyone knew he had been blown up, this was far more complicated than waking up from a coma, this was regenerating from brunt and bloody pieces.

When he returned Joel looked almost normal, right down to his hair, if not for the wide eyes shock which had quickly narrowed as he caught sight of the blood bag, he tossed it to him without another thought and watched as his face changed.

Blood red eyes, dark veins spreading from them and a parted mouth that revealed fangs before he sunk them into the blood bag.

Vampire, Charlie thought as he blinked down, as Joel drained the blood bag within moments, Joel Goran was a vampire, because they were real now.

Joel looked up at him as dark veins faded and dark brown replaced the inhuman red eyes that had been there for a moment, he pulled the empty bag away giving it a glance of distaste as he put down and held his hand up for the phone.

Right this was his new life now, at least he wasn’t alone and Joel seemed to have some idea what was going on.

“So you're a vampire?” he asked, withholding the phone and dropping the scrubs on him. “Get dressed first then you can have the phone.”

“I’d rather not.” Joel told him, making him blink as he noticed a complete shift in his accent.

“Why not?” 

“My skin’s still sensitive and i’m feeling things like a human.”Joel confessed,

“Like a human,” he raised an eyebrow, “How long haven’t you been?”

“That’s the complicated part and the reason I want the phone.” he punctuated the sentence with his hand returning for the phone, normal accent back. “I need to make a call to see if she can fix this.”

“One answer and you get the phone, this isn’t new to you?” he gestured to Joel.

“Still not simple, but no this isn’t new to me,” Joel sighed, taking his hand back to straighten the creases in the body bag covering his waist, barely a trace of New Zealand in words, “A thousand ago my mother cast a spell and my father stabbed me in the heart. Then four years ago after having my memory wiped, for my family’s safety from me, I was found by a grieving witch who somehow made me human and Joel Goran, but today I blew up and woke up remembering everything.”

Charlie stared, looking between the phone in his hand and Joel- or not Joel, and placed the fact Witches were a thing to worry about now somewhere to think about later, after bringing Alex in on this.

“So you're not Joel?” he said, refusing to touch anything else.

“I am,” the vampire snapped, as Charlie watched him twitch, “that's why I want the phone, fix this, go back to what i was.”

“And the thousand years of memories before the last four?” he asked out of pure curiosity.

“Better off gone,” Joel snapped, “I was helping people as Joel.”

“And it got you blown up.” he countered, unsure why he was arguing besides the fact Joel looked far more himself half glaring at him than lost and confused.

“At least I didn’t blow myself up this time.” Joel said bitterly.

“You’ve blown yourself up before?” he repeated incredulously.

“I was trying to kill my older brother, he was trying to kill our niece.” Joel explained “Is it any wonder I'd prefer those memories gone?”

Charlie just looked at him there wasn’t anything to say to that, besides it sounded like something from a gothic novel so maybe vampire fit, even if it didn’t with the Joel he knew.

“And the person you are from them?” he questioned after a pause, only to be met with a wide smile.

“Trust me, I prefer the womanising bastard over the ruthless monster that destroyed everyone around him.” Joel shrugged.

He passed the phone and watched, he could almost see the flicker between centuries old vampire, all stiff sharp movements and Joel, loose limbed and nervous as he looked through the phone for whoever he needed.

Charlie decided then that it wasn’t a hard choice, in the end Joel was Joel, a few changes could be expected after being blown up.

Whether it was centuries of memories or just coming back wrong and trauma, he’d take what he could get.

[shanastoryteller]

Thirteen Magpies

Dean’s pissed and trying to act like he isn’t. Sam’s head is throbbing and aching, there’s still blood crusted in the corner of his eyes, and he doesn’t have the energy to try and fix this right now.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Dean. He’s thought of telling him ever since his brother pulled him from the fire, since he opened his eyes and realized he was living in his nightmare. But he can’t, the risk versus the reward is too great.

There’s no point, anyway. Jessica’s dead. Whatever freaky dreams he had, whatever he should have done to prevent it – none of it matters.

Letting his brother know that he’s a freak, that he might be something like the things they hunt, won’t get him anything. Dean thinks he’s mad now? If he knew Sam’s secret, mad wouldn’t begin to even cover it.

So he lets Dean make jokes he doesn’t mean, ignores the twitch in his jaw, and falls asleep fully clothed, boots still on right there on the covers. He really is that exhausted, but mostly it’s to gauge how angry his brother really is.

If he wakes up with his boots still on, no blanket thrown over him, he’ll know to tread lightly for the next few days.

~

“We got a live one.”

Dean flicks his eyes up from the map to Risa is leaning against the doorway. When she doesn’t say anything further, he raises an eyebrow. She knows better than to waste his time.

She shrugs. “He’s pretty freaked, it’s weird. He doesn’t seem to have any idea what’s going on, but he’s not infected from what we can tell.”

Well, she usually knows better than to waste his time.

“Probably better to gank him just in case,” he says, already focusing back on the map. There’s nothing around here but the infected, the military, and them. Soon there won’t even be that.

She hesitates. “He’s pretty young. And scared.”

So what? Aren’t they all? Hell, he’s thirty five. He’s still young, although he hasn’t felt it in years.

There’s a crash, and then Chuck is pushing Risa aside, eyes wide and panicked. Tension coils in Dean’s gut, even before Chuck says, “You need to see this.”

Fuck, fine. Whatever.

He’s so tired. Of this, of them, of everything. His only solace is that he won’t have to deal with it much longer.

He tucks a gun in the back of his waistband, giving them both a dark look as he stalks past. Does he really have to do everything around here? With his luck they’ve brought a crote right into camp who’s about to feral and start bleeding on people any second and they’re going to have to deal with a damn outbreak right in the middle of the base –

What the hell.

His chest is tight. He should be doing something, shooting him, giving orders, something, but just then all the air leaves his lungs.  

“Dean!” Sam shouts, relief breaking out over his face.

This isn’t the Sam of a couple years ago, or even five years ago when he saw him last – really saw him, saw Sam. This is how Sam looked when he picked him up at Stanford, broad and tall but still gangly and young, the strength of his muscles long instead of bulging. There’s a sweetness to his face that hunting had carved away within the first year, or maybe that was visions or the demon or whatever else Dean failed to protect him from. Sam breaks away from the hands gripping his elbows to the shock of James, who probably thought he’d had a good grip on the kid, and hurries towards him, which is when he sees that Sam is in dirty socks and a pair of slides that look to be a couple sizes too small. What the hell? Dean should stop him. It’s not really Sam. It can’t be.

“Thank god, I woke up alone and I thought, uh, never mind. What the hell is going on…” He trails off as he gets closer, squinting. He looks Dean up and down then reaches out and pokes him in the corner of his eye by his temple.  

Several people gasp. He can’t make himself look away, even as all the ways this is impossible, all the tricks it could be, run through his mind. It looks real. Is this a trick from Lucifer? But the base is warded against angels and demons and anything in between. No one but a human could walk in here. A witch? If there are any witches left, they’re hiding somewhere nowhere can find them. What would they gain by looking like his little brother at twenty two?

“You’re old,” Sam says, half delight and half incredulity. It makes him think of when he fell into that swamp when they were kids and Sam laughed himself sick after he helped him out. “Dude, did you piss off a witch or something? Were you trying to sleep with her? You really have to learn when to love them and when to leave them.” His gaze rises a little higher. “Got any grey hairs?”

He sounds like Sam.

“Okay, buddy, that’s enough,” James says, stepping forward gun first.

Sam reacts automatically, no longer hunched next to Dean, but straightening to his full height of nearly six and half feet and as he steps in front of him. He knocks Dean an extra inch behind him even though he doesn’t have a weapon or shoes or any clue what’s going on.

Something inside of him that he thought was long dead breaks and resets.

Yeah, that’s Sammy.

People always got it wrong. If this were someone’s idea of a trick, they would have had Sam looking to him for protection and asking for his help. Dean was notorious for being over protective, after all, always taking the hit, always making himself a target. That’s what people remembered.

Sam tolerated it at best.

He let Dean take the lead when he was comfortable. When he felt safe. He didn’t argue about Dean going in first or playing bait only because it wasn’t worth the effort, only because it meant that Sam was at his back and could cover him if something went wrong. He put up with Dean’s control freak tendencies until he didn’t, until he got stressed or pissed or scared, and then all bets were off and good fucking luck to anyone that got in his way.

But the Sam in front of him looks like shit, he clearly doesn’t know what’s going on, and he apparently woke up in apocalypse alone and somehow managed to get here. He’s probably a great combination of stressed, pissed, and scared right now and Dean may looks older, but he’s still him, the only familiar thing in this unfamiliar world.

Of course Sam sees a gun pointed in their direction and steps in front of him. Of course he doesn’t bother playing small like usually does, using ever scrap of intimidation he has even though he’s weaponless.

His brother at the end of his rope wouldn’t do anything else.

He’s not going to be an idiot about this, he’s still going to check, but every instinct he has is telling him that this is Sam.

How the fuck is it Sam?

He's drowning, he's suffocating, he wants to get his hands on Sam, wants to shake him, wants to bruise him just so he knows he's real.

He's practiced at not getting what he wants.

“Down,” he says to James, his voice coming out even and steady despite everything. He points the gun to the ground almost before Dean’s finished speaking. “Everyone, as you were. Sam, with me.”

“Who died and put you in charge?” Sam bitches, still glaring at James. He sticks close, looking around the camp curiously, eyes catching on all the symbols that he doesn’t recognize.

You did, he thinks, and almost laughs, except for the way it’s not funny at all. They head to his cabin and he pointedly ignores all the looks they’re getting. Little hard to bring a giant back without anyone noticing. He points the table. “Sit.”

“Do I look like a dog to you?” Sam asks, crossing his arms and not sitting. “Dean, what the hell is going on! What is this place? Where is everyone? What’s wrong with the people out there? Why are you old?”

“Just,” he lets out a harsh breath. For fuck’s sake. “Can you not argue with me and do what you’re told for one minute?”

Sam glares at him, but must see something in Dean’s face that sways him because he huffs and nods. Then he ruins it by literally setting his watch and saying, “One minute.”

He still doesn’t sit down.

Christ. He’d forgotten how much of a little shit Sam used to be. He should probably restrain him for this, just in case, probably shouldn’t have brought him back alone, it’s just.

He thinks it might actually be Sam. A Sam, anyway. He goes through salt, holy water, iron, and silver. It takes longer than a minute, but Sam seems intrigued enough to go with it. Some of these tests are brand new to him. In the end, all it gets him is an irritated eye roll. “If you’re really Sam,” he says, “tell me something only the real Sam would know.”

“If?” he repeats, rolling back around from intrigued to irritated. It’s the same little brother annoyed face that Dean knows so well, lips pursed and eyebrows pushed together.

He’s missed Sam so much.

“If it’s occurring to you that you should have been concerned about me being me, don’t worry about it,” he says tiredly. “You can test me too.”

Sam’s nose scrunches. “Don’t be stupid. You’re you. Just old and sort of bitchy.”

His lip almost twitches at that.

Sam looks around again, chewing on his bottom lip. “Dean, what year is it?”

He thinks a lot of things in his life would have been easier if he’d had a dumber brother. “What year is it for you?”

Sam glares. For a moment Dean thinks he’s going to refuse to answer until Dean tells him what’s going on, but he says, “2005. We just finished dealing with Bloody Mary.”

Fuck. That’s barely a month after Jessica.

It could still be a trap. He doesn’t believe it, hasn’t believed it from the moment he saw him. “Tell me something only Sam would know.”

He throws up his hands. “How would I know that? I’m clearly in the future, somehow, or crazy, and either way I don’t know what you or other people don’t know. Ask me something only I would know. You’d know better than me.”

Dean thinks that makes sense. Maybe. But he’s drawing a blank, trying to go back ten years in his memories to remember what secrets they’d shared then, and if any of them are still a secret now, and nothing’s coming to mind.

Sam softens, holding his hands open. “Come on, Dean, it’s me. I know that you’re you. Can’t you tell that I’m me?”

Yes. But Sam had always been better at that than he was. He'd known within three seconds that the skinwalker hadn’t been him, even though they’d only been back on the road together a few months at this point. Sam had never been able to explain to him how he’d clocked it so quickly, only that it had been obvious.

No one else knows him that well. Never have, never will.

It’s obvious to him that this is Sam. But it’s stupid to rely on his gut. It’s betrayed him before.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand over his face. This Sam hasn’t even faced a skinwalker yet. “Okay, fine, Jesus.”

Sam grins, smug in his victory in a way that makes Dean want to go over there and give him a noogie like they’re kids again. He wants to pretend for one second that not everything is misery and shit.

Christ, Sam basically is a kid right now. He’s only twenty two. Dean’s hit just then with the enormity of what Sam doesn’t know. They haven’t even met Missouri yet. He doesn’t know about Azazel, about the other psychic kids, about his powers, about what the demon did to him. He doesn’t know about angels, doesn’t know about Lucifer, or all the terrible fucked up things waiting for him.

“How did you get here?” he asks quietly, can feel the panic clawing at his throat. It’s too much. Sam is here. He was never supposed to see Sam again. His brother is long gone.

His brother is right in front of him.

Even if it’s not a trick, it is a trap. The day before he’s set to finally retrieve the Colt and kill Lucifer for good, a kid version of his brother appears? He doesn’t know the angle just yet, but he knows that there is one.

It was supposed to be over. He was going to finally be free.

But he can’t leave Sam in this piece of shit world alone. Not again.

“Beats me,” Sam shrugs. “I went to bed next to you and woke up in a different motel and met some rabid people and ran and ended up here and then I saw you. Nothing was weird or different before, or at least nothing I noticed. Will you tell me when I am now?”

“2015,” he says finally, watching Sam’s face, bracing for a freak out but also unsurprised when it doesn’t happen.

When the chips are down, Sam’s never been anything but steel.

“Huh,” he says finally, eyes downcast. He nods, more to himself than to Dean, than lifts his head to look him in the eye. “Where’s Dad?”

Will the thought of his father ever stop hurting? Probably not. Especially not now. He’s looking the baby brother he was supposed to save in the eye and he failed. He failed to save him and now he has to go and kill him.

If there were any mercy left on earth, Dean would have died the moment Sam said yes in Detroit.

He shakes his head.

Sam’s face crumples briefly before he rallies, swallowing down the grief that’s all too clear to Dean. “Yeah, probably should have figured that out as soon as I saw you barking orders. Okay. Where am I? Future me?”

Dean tries to control his face, to keep it impassive and empty, but by the way Sam jerks back like he’s been hit, he knows that he failed. He’s good at this normally. Really good, in fact. Maybe he still is, he’s just forgotten how well Sam used to be able to read him.

“Oh, man,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

He jerks his eyes to Sam’s, searching his expression. Does he know? Has the same thing that brought him here also told him something of what they were throwing him into?

“How did I – no, don’t tell me,” he decides. “Are you okay? I didn’t even like the idea of you hunting alone, never mind this.”

Sam thinks he’s dead.

It’s almost a relief.

“Fine,” he says.

Sam gives him a look. “Yeah, your whole family’s dead and the world's gone to shit, you’re clearly doing great. I don’t know why I even asked.”

Dean smiles. It’s been a long time. The muscles feel unused.

He still wants to touch him. But he can't. Once he starts, he doesn't think he'll be able to stop.

Sam stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised. “Are you crazy?”

“Probably, yeah,” he says, feeling the urge to laugh in his chest, another forgotten sensation. He’d forgotten how much Sam used to backtalk. The demon, Dad’s death, his deal, what Sam had gone through when he’d been gone, fucking Ruby. It had all worked to stomp out his brother’s attitude, to grind down Sam in a way that John Winchester had tried and fail to achieve for nineteen years.

In some ways it feels like he lost Sam long before he released Lilith. He’d feel guilty about it, but Sam probably feels the same way about him.

Felt the same way. Sam’s not feeling much of anything right now, with Lucifer walking around in his skin.

[daddiesdrarryy]

Draco: I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted. I got a manor. I got a closet full of expensive robes. I got my parents who love me and my ginormous inheritance!

Pansy: Haven’t got Potter yet

Draco: I’m trying, Pansy!

[feketeribizli]

nooo kendall dont go back to your toxic situationship... its only gonna get worse

[scalpho]

you'd think fabian would catch a break after bill's death but the second bill clocks out of giving fabian intense ominous speeches (sometimes borderline threats) embedded between "my darling boy"s and "i love you"s, hallariel comes out of 16 years of perpetual drunkenness into sobriety to clock IN to doing the exact same thing. first time we see her sober she threatens to duel fabian to the death. AND gilear is his stepdad. just L after L on the parental front for fabian aramais