❤︎ Pairing: Lucas Reyes x female reader
❤︎ WC: 2977
❤︎ Tags: angsty?, smut, verbal fight, he is stubborn and stupid, substance abuse, hurt/comfort, kinda toxic, make-up sex.
❤︎ Whatever you have with Lucas Reyes is a difficult, dangerous thing. You know that: the disappearances, the ghosts in his eyes, the blood on his knuckles. You think you can handle it, until a two-day silence breaks you.
❤︎ Dividers by: @anitalerina
The door finally opens. It's well past midnight. Lucas steps inside, moving with his usual predator's grace, but he's covered in the grime of the city, fresh bruises and something else—the distant, cold look in his eyes that means he's been deep in his own personal hell.
He doesn't offer an explanation. He just heads for the kitchen, for the bottle of whiskey he keeps on your counter.
You jolt upright in bed at the sound. Ironically, you're sleeping in one of his t-shirts and a pair of your panties.
Drowsiness still clings to you, but you feel anger crawling up your spine as you see him standing there, perfectly calm.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," you snap. "You disappear for two whole days and just barge in here like nothing happened?"
He freezes, the whiskey bottle poised over a glass. His back is to you, and you see the muscles in his shoulders tense into solid rock. He doesn't turn around. His voice is dangerously quiet, a low warning rumble.
He pours the whiskey, the glug of the liquid unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He finally turns, leaning against the counter, and takes a long, slow swallow. His eyes are shadowed, guarded. He's building his walls right in front of you.
"I'm here now. That's what matters."
"No, it's not. I'm not a fuckin' rock." You cross your arms, feeling your eyes grow wet. "You won't even let me go to the 7-Eleven at night without you. Don't you think I feel the same way about you?"
The mention of your worry, the tears in your eyes—it's a weapon he has no defense against. He sets the glass down with a sharp thud, the sound cracking through the apartment.
"Worrying about me is a waste of your time," he bites out, his voice harsh, but his eyes are flashing with a pained frustration. "You don't get it. You don't need to feel the same. This... this is why I don't do this."
He gestures vaguely between the two of you, his meaning clear: This. Talking. Feelings.
"I'm not some fucking civilian you need to check in with. The less you know, the safer you are."
"I don't need to feel the same? What is that supposed to mean, Lucas? I didn't even ask you to label this shit."
You gesture sharply between the two of you, exasperation washing over as a treacherous tear escapes.
"I don't even want to know where you were going. '<Hey, I'll be gone for a while>'—that's it? Literally nothing else"
The tear does him in. He sees it track down your cheek and something in his face just... shatters. The anger evaporates, replaced by a raw, gutted look. He pushes off the counter, his own frustration boiling over because he can't give you the simple, normal thing you're asking for, and he hates himself for it.
"It means this isn't a goddamn partnership!" he snaps, his voice rising, rough with emotion. "It means my life is a fucking mess you shouldn't have to clean up! It means you deserve better than waiting for a man who might not come back!"
He runs a hand through his bleached hair, tugging at it, his chest heaving. He's not yelling at you; he's yelling at the impossible situation.
"Labels? What label do you want? 'Guy who's gonna get you killed'? Is that what you want to call me?"
Your voice is barely a whisper. Tears run freely down your cheeks, the hurt searing through you as he dismisses your feelings.
The fight drains out of him all at once, leaving him hollow. The sight of you—so small, drowning in his t-shirt, your face wet with tears because of him—is a physical blow. He can't bear it.
He turns away from you, his broad back rigid. His hands grip the edge of the counter until his knuckles are white. A long, shaky breath rattles out of him.
He doesn't say another word. He just walks out. The door doesn't slam. It clicks shut behind him with a terrible, final softness.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
Two hours later. The lock clicks again, clumsily this time. The door swings open and he stands there, silhouetted in the frame. The smell of weed and whiskey rolls off him in a wave. He's deep in it, the kind of high that makes his movements slow and deliberate, his eyelids heavy.
His glassy eyes find you on the couch, curled up and exhausted from crying. A slow, lopsided smile that doesn't reach his eyes twists his lips.
"There you are," he slurs, his voice thick and low. He sways slightly, pointing a clumsy finger at you. "My girl."
He stumbles further into the room. He collapses into the worn armchair, the one that faces you. He lets his head fall back for a moment, then his gaze, dark and intent despite the drugs, locks onto you.
He pats his thigh. The sound is too loud in the quiet room. "C'mere."
You push yourself up a little, your puffy eyes fixed on him. You can smell him from here—the booze and God knows what else. Now, on top of everything else, you're left to deal with this version of him.
"For Christ's sake, Lucas."
You sit up straight, your body heavy with a weariness that has sunk into your eyes and your soul.
He lets out a low, rough sound at your exhaustion, a mix of a sigh and a groan. Your resistance, even this weary, is a splinter in his hazy mind.
"Don't," he slurs, the word thick. "Don't be like that."
He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, the movement unsteady. His eyes, glassy but intense, plead with you.
"Just... come here. Please."
It's the 'please' that does it. Raspy, raw, and so utterly foreign on his tongue. It's not a command anymore; it's a surrender. He's admitting he can't do this—any of it—without you.
You get up, dragging your feet as you move toward him.
You plant yourself in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. His pupils are blown wide, black pools swallowing the color of his irises. You grab his face, tilting it up to yours.
"God, what did you take?"
He leans into your touch, his stubbled cheek rough against your palm. A slow, hazy smile touches his lips at your concern, missing the anger behind it.
"Just... stuff. To make it quiet," he mumbles, his words slurring together. His hands come up to your hips, his grip firm and grounding. "The noise in my head... it's gone now. Just you."
He tries to pull you closer, his strength still formidable even through the haze. "My girl. You're so pretty. Even when you're mad at me."
His logic is a drugged, circular thing. He took substances to silence the guilt and pain from the fight, and now the only thing left in the quiet is his need for you. He's trying to use your body to anchor himself to this newfound, chemical peace.
You let him pull you closer, stabilizing yourself with your hands on his shoulders. His scent envelops you, and a familiar warmth blooms in your belly.
A lie. You know it's useless to fight him in this state. You're trying to convince him just as much as you're trying to convince yourself. The truth is, you're just so tired, and God, you missed him.
A low, knowing rumble vibrates in his chest. He can feel the lie in the tension of your body, the way your hands don't actually push him away. He nuzzles his face against your stomach, the cotton of his own t-shirt soft against his cheek.
He breathes a laugh, the air hot and damp through the fabric. His hands slide from your hips down to the backs of your thighs, urging you closer, until you're straddling his lap.
He leans back in the chair to look up at you, his eyes dark with want and intoxication. His hands rub slow, firm circles on your lower back, a deliberate, soothing pressure. He's not rushing; in his hazy state, he has all the time in the world to wear down your resistance.
"Just wanna feel you," he slurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Just... be close. 'S all."
You lean into him, hugging him tightly and hiding your face in the hollow of his throat.
"I just want to know that you'll come back to me."
The second your face presses into his neck, your arms wrapping around him, his whole body seems to sigh. The last of the fight, the drugs, the world—it all melts away under the weight of your hug.
His arms lock around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your locks. He holds you there, so tight it almost hurts, his own face buried in your hair.
He doesn't promise. He can't. Promises are lies in his world.
Instead, he breathes you in, a long, shuddering inhale. And in a voice so raw, so quiet it's almost lost against your skin, he gives you the only truth he has:
It's not a pretty sentiment. It's a confession of absoluteneed. You aren't just a choice; you're his only place to comeback.
You kiss his throat and jaw, pressing your weight and your hips firmly against him.
"I'm still mad at you," you whisper against his skin. "So mad."
A sharp, ragged gasp escapes him as your hips press down. His hands fly to your waist, holding you there, anchoring you to the evidence of his own desperate want.
"I know," he grunts, his voice strained. His head falls back against the chair, giving you better access to his throat. "Be mad. Just... stay here."
His logic is pure, primal need. The anger is a fire, and he's willing to let it burn him if it means he can feel your heat. His hands slide down to your hips, guiding you into a slow, grinding rhythm against him, using the friction as a painful, perfect penalty.
Your kisses grow wet as you bask in his warmth. The silence of the last two days comes crashing down on you, making you feel utterly needy.
You nuzzle your face into his neck, brushing the sensitive spot beneath his ear with your nose. Your hips give a pleading rock against him.
"Missed you so much," you whisper, the words muffled against his skin. "Promise me you'll stay all day with me."
His breath hitches, a ragged, broken sound as your hips plead against him. The word "promise" hangs in the air, a landmine he can't step on. But his hand doesn't hesitate, slipping between your bodies with a desperate, clumsy urgency.
He finds you through the fabric of your panties, his touch shockingly hot and sure despite the drugs. A low groan rumbles deep in his chest.
"Goddamn," he rasps, his voice wrecked. His fingers press against the damp center of you, a rough, circling pressure that makes you jolt. "Look what you do to me... what I do to you."
He doesn't promise. He can't. But his other arm bands around your back, crushing you to his chest as his touch becomes more insistent, his hips arching up to meet your rocking. It's his answer. It's the only one he has. He's here, now, and he's going to wipe the memory of the last two days away with the raw, overwhelming truth of his hands on you.
You tremble against him, whimpering with abandon as your head lolls on his shoulder. You still your movements, hips involuntary jerking as you chase the feeling coursing through you.
That's all the surrender he needs. The second you stop moving and just feel, he takes over completely.
"Let go," he commands, his voice a guttural rasp in your ear. His arm locks around your waist, holding you still while his hips drive up against you with a relentless, punishing rhythm. His other hand stays between you, his touch a focused, frantic pressure.
He's chasing it for you. He's using the friction, the building heat, the sheer physical overload to burn away the anger, the silence, the fear. Every jerk of your hips, every broken whimper is a confession he drinks in, a proof that he can still make you forget everything but him.
"That's it," he grunts, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "Just like that. Come on, baby. For me."
It's not a request. It's an absolution he's demanding for both of you.
A broken cry escapes you as you let go, dampening his shorts and his hand with your release. You jerk away when the sensation becomes too much, your breath ragged in the quiet room.
A low, possessive growl rumbles through his chest as he feels you come apart on his hand. It's a sound of pure, savage satisfaction. He holds you through the shudders, his grip iron-tight, refusing to let you pull away until the very last tremor has subsided.
When you finally jerk back, breathless and oversensitive, he brings his wet fingers to his own mouth, his dark, hazy eyes locked on yours. He doesn't break eye contact as he slowly, deliberately, cleans them.
"All mine," he slurs, the words thick with intoxication and a feral kind of triumph.
Then, with a grunt, he stands, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing. He carries you the few stumbling steps to the couch and lays you down on it, following you down, his body caging you in. He's still painfully hard, pressing against your thigh.
"Now," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a drowsy, wrecked command. "My turn. Gonna feel you..."
You part your thighs as much as you can to accommodate his frame, a blush heating your cheeks under the weight of his gaze.
He doesn't look away. His gaze is heavy-lidded, dark with want and something softer, something awed, as he guides himself into you with a single, slow, devastating thrust that steals the air from both your lungs.
A ragged groan is torn from him, a sound of pure, unvarnished relief. He stills, buried deep inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.
"Christ," he breathes, his voice shaking. "My girl."
And then he begins to move, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that feels less like fucking and more like a vow being sealed in the warm, quiet dark of the room. The fight is over. The only thing left is the truth of your bodies, and the silent, desperate promise in his touch to never let you go.
You let your arms wrap around his waist, your hands caressing the skin of his back until they find your ankles locked at his hips. You grab them, holding on.
He sinks deeper, the movement pulling a groan from him. He's already getting close.
His hand grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze to lock with his—his eyes blurred with pleasure. His grip is firm, almost desperate, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, swimming with intoxication and a raw emotion that has nowhere else to go.
"Look at me," he rasps, his voice wrecked, each word a struggle. "Look... at me."
His hips drive into you, losing their rhythm, becoming frantic, final. He's falling apart, and he's making you watch. He needs you to see it—to see the exact moment he shatters because of you.
A broken, guttural sound rips from his throat. His entire body seizes, his grip on your jaw tightening for a second before his eyes squeeze shut. He collapses onto you, a dead weight, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against your skin.
He doesn't move. He just lies there, spent and heavy, his weight a final, silent apology and a claim, all at once.
The pressure of his whole self on you is grounding. He shifts his weight off just enough to let you breathe, but doesn't pull away. He looks at you with glassy eyes when he raises his head, his mind still far away while his body is so close.
Your hand goes to his stubble, your thumb gently caressing the skin under the black eye forming there.
He gets up before you can say anything. He removes his own t-shirt to clean between your legs, his movements rough and clumsy, but the sliver of aftercare in his fucked-up state is deeply appreciated.
You fall asleep as soon as he pulls you both to bed, his warmth plastered against your back.
He doesn't sleep. Not right away. The effects of the chemical cocktail is fading, leaving a hollowed-out clarity in their wake. In the deep quiet, with you soft and trusting in his arms, the memory of your tear-streaked face hits him.
His arm tightens around you, pulling you back flush against his chest. He presses a single, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, a silent vow breathed into your hair.
He won't say it. He can't promise it. But in the dark, he makes the promise to himself. He'll do better. For you.
You wake up alone. The disappointment is a cold stone in your gut, a familiar ache. Of course he's gone.
You grab your phone from the nightstand, a hollow habit. The screen lights up, and there's a text.
UNKNOWN: BACK IN 20. GOT FOOD AND THE FUCKIN PILL.
The stone in your gut dissolves, replaced by a slow, warm bloom of affection for this complicated, infuriating, utterly reliable man.
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