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Norton Campbell + Edgar Valden reacting to your scars

Tw: sh, slight mention of suicide.

🧲 Norton Campbell

It had been a rough time lately.

Both you and Norton had been weighed down, swallowed by your own worries. Norton buried himself in paperwork and long shifts, exhausting himself just to quiet whatever poisoned his mind. You, on the other hand, were more… direct. Not in a way he’d approve of — in a way you knew he’d call useless — which is why you’d been trying so hard to hide it from him.

You sat near the little fireplace, a book open in your lap, though the words swam together under your eyes. The door slammed behind him, and you set the book on the coffee table.

“Hey, Nort, how was work today?”

He only grunted, tossing his jacket on the floor as he crossed the room toward you.

“I was thinking we could—”

He pulled you into his arms, hand sliding up and down your back, eyes closing.

“Shut it. I need you, now.”

It was his way of asking for comfort — his unpolished way of saying ‘let’s just stay in bed like nothing else matters, for once’.

Of course you couldn’t deny such request.

You laid next to each other in bed and stayed like that for a while, his head pressed against your chest, his fingers idly tracing your lower abdomen.

“We should get changed into pajamas, Nort,” you murmured. “Otherwise the bed will get dirty with your work clothes.”

He grunted, but eventually agreed. As you undressed, ready to pull on your nightclothes, Norton caught sight of something in the mirror. His sharp eyes missed nothing — not in the mines, and not here. He might not have received the careful training of a doctor, a surgeon, but didn’t have any less of a talent for details.

In an instant, he turned and caught your arm.

“What are you— Hey!” His movement was so quick you barely had time to react, understand what was happening.

He turned your wrist in his hands, revealing the uneven, raw lines carved into your skin.

His eyes flicked up to yours, down to the scars, and back up again.

“What happened?” The question came low, after a long silence.

He’d always thought of self-inflicted wounds as something belonging to the rich — idle aristocrats wasting away in bathtubs with too much time to think. But now, seeing you, the thought twisted his stomach.

He sat you back on the bed. “Don’t move.”

Without another word, he began tending to the marks. Miners often got hurt; he knew the basics of patching wounds. His hands worked with surprising ease — and even more surprising gentleness.

“I’m sorry, Norton,” you whispered. “I just… sometimes it’s too much. I didn’t want to give you another burden, but when I’m alone I—”

He kissed your forehead as he wrapped the gauze.

“I don’t want you afraid of me. I won’t judge you. There’s a lot I still don’t understand, but I love you first. You’re not a burden. Don’t even think such thing”.

Your chest tightened at his words as he laid you down, curling around you like a shield.

“Your pain feels like mine,” he murmured. “Whenever you hurt, it’s like I’m hurting too. So please — ‘bother’ me. Yell, scream, punch me if you have to. Just don’t do this to yourself. Please.”

🎨 Edgar Valden

With Edgar, it happened during one of your usual painting sessions.

You were posing for one of his nude body studies when he saw it — the soft stretch of skin just under your abdomen, marred by dark, raw lines that shouldn’t have been there.

He didn’t comment. He simply kept painting, tracing every curve of you with the quiet reverence of a lover.

Later, you were curled in his lap, your head resting on his chest. His chin was on your hair, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on your thighs. Slowly, his touch traveled upward.

“Can I?” he murmured.

You nodded, not realizing what he truly meant — or that he’d noticed at all.

You’d never really been able to explain why you did it. Maybe it was like Edgar in his worst moments — emotions too big to manage. But for you, the scars made the feelings real, tangible. Whenever words failed you, you made another line, sometimes two or three, each one a silent plea that someone — he — would notice.

But when he lifted the hem of your shorts and the marks were exposed, your throat closed, your heartbeat pounded, and your stomach turned cold. You wished he’d notice, so why did you feel scared?

You could only stare as he remained silent, reaching for something on the desk.

A pencil.

He began tracing over the marks with delicate precision, sketching lines and filling shapes, connecting the scars into an intricate pattern. You stayed still against his chest as his other hand rested warmly at the back of your head.

When he finished, he angled your body so you could see — an abstract, vivid design adorning your skin.

“Wait here,” he said, getting up. He returned with the painting from earlier, the one he’d refused to show you all day.

The same geometric pattern was there, perfectly mirrored on the canvas.

“You planned this,” you accused softly. “You saw them earlier.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Do you think those make you less beautiful?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Some people might for sure look at me with pity, disgust even…”

“You’re beautiful, whoever thinks otherwise must see a specialist for the matter. Now, do you think the scars make the painting any less beautiful?” he said, as if ignoring your answer.

“Edgar, you’re just a skilled artist.”

“True,” he smirked, “but there’s no masterpiece without a muse.”

He took your hand, his gaze locking with yours.

“You’re my muse. My lover. The essence of my art. Beauty goes beyond these… insignificant details. And you are art, my dear. This”—he pointed to the pattern he’d traced over the scars—“is just a reminder, for whenever you forget.”

Your lips met his before you could say anything else.

This is just kinda self indulgent okay