blood red // sal fisher x reader

we never dated

How come we never even dated
But I still find myself thinking of you daily?
Why do you always leave me aching
When you were never mine for the taking?

He adored you, Sal. Growing up with the prospect that love simply had not been made for him, he had been certain there was nothing you could ever do to make him want to walk away. And even if you did, he had convinced himself he'd stay. If not for you — if for whatever reason you had stopped deserving his devotion —, then for himself, because the thought of having to say goodbye took his mind to dark places, ones he had not visited since whispering the word to his mother. He had lost her, could he survive losing you?

Yes, he would have to. After all, you gave him no choice, did you? He, on the other hand, gave you plenty. You'd had chances, so many of them, but what did you decide to do every single time? Throw them away, of course. Because you had taken Sal for granted without realizing it, thinking he would always be there, patiently waiting for you to change your mind about James. The thought was always comforting to you, made you feel like you had all the time in the world to figure your shit out. And really, was it all your fault? He had convinced you he'd always stay, after all. If you dragged the situation for far longer than you should have, that's because he made you think it was okay to do that.

But there was no amount of blaming Sal that could ease your own guilt, no matter how many times you told yourself he was just as involved as you, just as aware of the circumstances as you, even if at first he wasn't. And even as Larry wiped the tears from your face and promised you everything would be alright eventually, all you could do was shake your head, cry harder and tell him no. Because you had finally done it this time, you had finally pushed Sal away to the point of no return.

His fingers trailed your waist slowly, softly. He hummed, happy and satisfied, watching you with a small smile on his lips and sweat dripping down his disheveled hair. Your appearance matched his-- hell, you were nothing short of completely fucked out, the bliss on your face and the heavy eyelids spoke wonders about the way you actually felt at the moment. Until you remembered there was more to it.

There had to be, right? Sex with Sal just wasn't sex anymore, it had never been. But before, before you could at least pretend he was fine with just fucking, with the no strings attached arrangement you yourself could only follow through for the first few times. It eventually became too much. He wanted more, he demanded more, he deserved more. And you wanted to give him more. Sometimes. Not always. And that was the problem.

Sal's gentle ministrations on your body faltered, face falling when he took notice of the sudden change in your expression, "I know the way you're looking at me right now. I don't like it."

He frowned when you didn't say anything, taking a step backwards to separate from you altogether. "Y/N?"

The soft look on his face made everything so much worse. He looked exactly like he did when he took his prosthetic off in front of you for the first time—like a scared little boy who feared rejection more than anything else, that same silent plead for you to stay in his glossy eyes. Although his mouth wasn't moving, you knew exactly the words he was swallowing back.

Tell me I'm wrong.

"Y/N," He tried again, the frown on his troubled face deepening, "say something, please."

"I'm sorry." Was all you could whisper, refusing to look at him any longer. Your eyes met the floor and you bit your lip, shaking your head as if that would make it all go away. "I know I say this a lot, but I really am."

"You're right, you do say this a lot," Sal sighed, "What are you sorry for this time? Is it something you've done or something you're about to do?"