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jazzthatonewriterchick · 5 months

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Daddy’s Home (Dom!Gojo x Sub!Black!Fem!Reader 18+ One Shot)

“Daddy’s home, baby. Now take your fucking clothes off.”

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Black!Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It’s been 3 years. You believe your fiancé is dead. You’ve been attempting to move forward in your life without him there beside you. You try to grieve properly in order to move on….until he comes home. And he’s more than ready to make up lost time.

Warnings: MANGA SPOILERS; Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Grief; Mentions of Depression, Death & Suicide; Alcohol/Drug Use; Feral!Gojo; Rough Sex; Ripping Clothes; Dirty Talk; Cunnilingus; Forced Deepthroating; Face-Fucking; Multiple Positions; Gojo Giving You Deep Dick; Breeding Kink; Unprotected PIV Sex; Creampie; Cum Eating; Ownership; Gojo Makes You a Mommy; Aftercare; Degradation; Petnames: Baby; Little Girl; Mama; Sweetheart

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

*IMPORTANT NOTE: In the manga, Gojo is only sealed for 19 days, but in the time of the rest of the manga being written and illustrated, it was 3 years. So the timeline of his being sealed and freed will be 3 years.

Writer’s Note: I’m coping. AND celebrating my man's birthday!! The happiest birthday (and week and month) to my favorite boi! 💙💙💙 -Jazz

********

You’ve never felt such pain before.

It isn't pain that can simply be fixed with a band-aid or a kiss, like a scrape or a cut. It is a deep, cavernous, emotional pain that you have never experienced before...not before losing your fiance. The man you adored and cherished. Your best friend. Your soulmate. Your sunshine peeking through the dark, gray clouds.

But since losing him, all your days are washed with gray. You can't stand any sunny days now, knowing that he loved them and would want to do something–anything–to seize them. "C'mon, baby, let's go get some ice cream!" he'd cheerfully shout. Or "let's go biking" or "wanna take a walk in the park with me?"

Now, all you do is lay in bed and watch the days go by, the pain you feel too much. You've never experienced something so profound and intense. It causes you to cry every single morning into the night until the pink of dawn comes again.

It's been like this for three years now since you lost him forever. It still feels weird to say that: forever. You thought you'd have forever with him, but it was ripped away from you all that time ago during the Shibuya incident. It was a bloody war, from what you've heard; a massacre. So many innocent people perished.

The lives that were spared were among the other Sorcerers and his students, including Nobara who managed to survive Mahito's attack . You visited her all that time she spent in the hospital after the attack as the doctors worked to save her eye. In the end, she lost it, but gained a false one just last year that looks exactly like her real one.

Nanami also survived. It was a close call, apparently. Yuji had found him and attacked Mahito before Nanami could face his violent death. Half of his face and body are completely scalped, but he doesn't try to cover them. They are his battle scars; a reminder of what he is fighting for. He still resides in Japan though you've all been telling him to retire and go to Malaysia. "Not until he's back," he'd fiercely say. "I'm not resting until he's out of that damn box."

He checks on you as do Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara, to ensure you're okay. Shoko spent the night with you a few times until you firmly told her to stop. "I'm not gonna slit my wrists or anything," you scoffed. Shoko pursed her lips at you as she smoked her cigarette on your balcony. "No, but you might drink yourself to death first," she mumbled.

And yes, you have been drinking. You've also been smoking. Weed and alcohol are all that cure the pain, at least for a little while. You don't have to see his dazzling smile or snow-white hair behind your eyelids when you fall asleep high as a kite. It's unhealthy and you know that, but what else can you do?

You have nothing to live for anymore. Your fiance is gone. You try to tell the others this, who have worked tirelessly all this time to find a way to bail him out. 'It's been three years!' you think. 'If they haven't found a way yet, they never will. He is never getting out of that box or the Prison Realm.' And that is the sad, horrible truth.

You curl yourself into a ball now, wrapped in one of his crisp button-up shirts, naked underneath. It is twelve in the afternoon. You haven't eaten or gotten dressed, only showered and brushed your teeth (after Shoko sent you a text to do so). Tears stain your eyes which still sting from your sob session the night before. "Satoru," you whimper into the pillows. "Come back to me, please."

You know this isn't possible, but you wish to God or whoever makes miracles happen that it was. How can you live in a world, in a realm, where your love isn't here? You were going to get married, in spring of 2024. He had promised you after a wonderful night of dinner, champagne, and dancing on a private yacht he ordered just for you two.

When he got down on those long legs, one knee propped up, and presented you with that box, you could feel yourself melt. "After all of this is over," he promised, "after I make this world safer for you, let's do it, baby. I wanna spend the rest of my life with you." He gave you that big, gigawatt, hopeful smile as you felt tears pour down your cheeks, ruining your makeup. "You up for seein' this face forever?" he joked.

That night, you answered him. Over and over again, making love until morning. Until you were both spent and ached so good from twisting your bodies in a hundred different positions. Until your thighs were soaked with his cum and all you could see, hear, and smell was him.

You were more than prepared to spend the rest of your life like that with him...and now, that's all gone. A fresh wave of grief overcomes you and you grip the pillow, stuffing your face into it. Once again, you say the same words you've been saying for three years like a prayer: "Satoru, come back to me. Please."

BANG!

The sound is so loud and abrupt that it scares you. You sit up immediately, your heart lurching into your throat. You look around the room only to find it empty, but then hear the familiar sound of the front door closing from downstairs. Someone is here. But who?

"H-Hello?" you call. "Shoko, is that you?"

No answer. It is completely silent all except for the birds chirping outside your window which only adds to the ominous feeling of the situation at hand. You never gave Shoko a spare key to your home and you're the only one who can get in and out. So who the fuck is in your house?

You then hear the familiar sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, one by one, as if the stranger is taking his sweet time doing so. You instantly reach for your phone to dial 911 and retreat to the bathroom across the room, but stop when a shadow crosses the bedroom wall, and then a figure appears in the threshold of the bedroom you used to share with your fiance.

You stare at the figure hard as if it's difficult for you to decipher it, but it's impossible not to know who it is. You can tell from how tall he is as he stands there, towering over you in the doorway. You can tell from his lean body sinewy with muscles under his black clothes. You can tell from his pale skin, snow-white hair you used to love to run your fingers through, and iced, blue eyes that stare right through you.

That same lovely, adorable, sexy, dazzling grin crosses his pillowy-soft, pink lips as he stares at you from across the room. “Honey, I’m home," Gojo chirps as if he just walked in from a hard day at work.

You stare him down, afraid to move or speak in fear of ruining this or exposing it for what it is: a trick. A mirage. A hallucination caused by too much alcohol or weed (unlikely, but still). Is this a dream? Are you dead? Did you go ahead and drink yourself to death like Shoko foresaw?

He walks toward you, slowly as if to not frighten you further. You stay on the bed, afraid to move. You're trembling. He finally stops just at arm's length from you, that same smile and warm gaze still on his face. “T-Tarou?” you whisper, finding your voice.

“In the flesh," he replies in that easy, sexy drawl that you've always loved. So careless. So laidback. His expression grows concerned, his brows drawn together. “How ya doin’, baby?” he asks. Your heart flips at the sound of that pet name. You haven't heard it in so, so long.

You scamper towards him, wanting to get closer to him, but then stop, afraid to. He doesn't react to either, still standing there and waiting for you to process this. “No,” you whisper. “This isn’t real. I’m just high as fuck right now.” You put your hands in your hair, gripping the dark coils/braids/locs/curls/twists harshly.

You know that this isn't possible. You haven't touched any weed since yesterday morning, wanting to give yourself a break. Gojo whistles as he nods at the bong sitting on your bedside table. “Well, judging from that, probably so. You got any left? I could use it after the 3 years I’ve had.”

You don't answer. You barely even breathe, afraid to do so in fear of putting a tear in the fabric of this moment and ripping it apart. You still can't tell if this is really happening. Is it a trick of your cursed grief making you see shit? Could it be that a Curse is here and has somehow taken over Gojo's body, and now, they're here to kill you? You would rather take that than this uncertainty.

Gojo suddenly raises his hand toward you as if to touch you, but doesn't. “Touch me," he encourages. Though hesitant, you lift a tentative hand and stroke your fingers over his veiny arm. All you feel is solid, soft, warm skin. Gojo's smile gets bigger. “See? I’m real. It’s really me, baby.”

And suddenly, the fog over your mind has been cleared and you can see clearly. All is for certain, including that the man standing here is your man. Your 'Tarou. “It’s really you,” you whimper. “Oh, my God….oh, my God!” You can't stop the tears or the blubbering as relief and utter joy wash over you.

Gojo opens your arms for you and he barely budges as you shoot into them, not even making him stagger. You bury your head in his chest, breathing in his scent and moving your hands over his back muscles. “I’ve missed you,” you sob. “I’ve missed you so, so much, Satoru! It’s been awful!”

He holds you tight to him, solid and absolutely real. “Shhh, I’m sorry, Y/N,” he coos. “I would’ve come back sooner, but I had to take care of some things.”

You pull away to look up at him through your blurred vision. He doesn't appear hurt or bruised. In fact, he looks the exact same he did before he was sealed in that box. “What do you–“

“And I’ll tell you everything after I get some pussy.”

You pause, processing his abrupt words. “What?” you scoff. “But what about all that's happened? How'd you even escape the Prison Realm? Have you eaten or drank? What about–"

Gojo, impatient, presses a long finger to your lips. “Forget about all of that right now, Y/N. Worry about the fact that you haven’t seen me in three years and you’re dying for me to put you in the mattress again.”

Then that familiar, dark, lustful look crosses his eyes like an eclipse, taking over him. “I think you’re understanding me clearly," he says, his voice dipping an octave lower than usual. “Daddy’s home, baby. Now take your fuckin’ clothes off.”

You stare at him hard, wondering if he is serious. You haven’t seen him in three years. You have so many more questions to ask him. Like what did he do while sealed? Did he see Yuji, Megumi and Nobara before he came? Were they the ones that got him out? Is he okay?

But from the way he is staring you down like he wants to take a piece of you, you can tell that all of those questions will have to just wait to be answered. Plus, the last one is already answered for you: no, he isn’t okay. He is fucking feening for you. He needs you. You can tell from the way his hands grip you closer and from the feeling of his semi hard-on pressing into your thigh from inside his pants.

You can’t imagine what three years without sex was like and you don’t want to. So you’re more than happy to give him whatever he is looking for right now. “O-Okay, Gojo,” you softly stutter. Your hands move to his top to unbutton it, first starting at the bottom. But your hands fumble and shake as if this is the first time you’re doing this for him.

“Takin’ too long,” Gojo growls, impatient. Tearing your hands away from his shirt, he immediately rips the $1,000 top off of you, revealing your laced bra and panties underneath. You squeak as he does so, alarmed. “Gojo, your shirt!” you gasp, especially when the buttons fly all over the place.

“Forget the fuckin’ shirt,” he says, his voice all but a rasp. "I’ll get a new one. It’s not fair how sexy you look in my clothes, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to your chest, breathing you in for a moment. “God, I’ve missed your smell,” he sighs. “I’ve missed how you feel. I’ve missed you so, so much.” He pulls away then, looking down at your hand. “And you’re still wearing the ring,” he points out.

You look down at your hand where the sterling silver engagement ring sits, its diamonds sparkling at you. “Of course,” you whisper. “I never took it off. I’m engaged to you.” You want to tell him that you always dreamed he’d come back, that you wanted him to see you with it when he did.

“So there’s been no one else?” he suddenly asks, his eyes sizing you up. “You haven’t been with any other man besides me?” Immediately, you shake your head. “No, Daddy,” you whisper, immediately falling back into the soft, obedient, submissive state that you always slide into with him as if it’s natural to you. And it is. He makes you feel so safe and loved and kept. It’s impossible not to do so all for him. “There’s been no one,” you say. “No one can ever make me feel the way you do.”

A crooked smirk crosses Gojo’s lips that has you quivering in between your thighs. “So one has played with this body but me?” he asks. “No one has played with that pussy but me?” Again, you shake your head, your breath becoming short and labored. His eyes seem to dark even more, becoming an ocean blue. “That’s what I wanna hear,” he whispers. Then his lips are finally, finally, on yours, his tongue dancing and swirling with yours, creating a wet, sloppy, feverish kiss that takes your breath away.

You moan wantonly into his mouth, wrapping your arms around him. Oh, how you’ve missed this. How you’ve only prayed to feel these lips again. At some point during the dizzying kissing session, Gojo pulls his clothes off, breaking apart from you to strip himself of his shirt, pants, and shoes, leaving himself in his designer briefs that look way tighter than usual.

Actually, now that you’re noticing it, his entire body looks buffer than usual. Gojo has always had muscles but was leaner three years ago. Now, his muscles are more defined, pushing up against his shirt when he has it on.

He smirks at your wandering eyes. “Something you like, mama?” he purrs. He takes your hand, running it over his hard abs and chiseled abs where his pink nipples are hard for you, ready to be sucked. “Something…different?”

“It’s just…you’re so…” You shudder in delight as he slides your hand down his stomach that you could bake cookies on. “Big,” you decide, running your free hand up his forearm. “You don’t have much to do in the Prison Realm except work out and masturbate,” he chuckles. “I wanted to be bigger and stronger for you when I was finally free. And I wanna let you know something, baby.” He leans in then, pressing his lips against your ear. “It’s all yours,” he whispers. “This body…this cock…everything. All of it is yours.”

You shudder again as his dirty words swirl in your mind. He pulls away, smirking at you. “Lemme show you what I mean.” Then, instantly, he is snapping off your bra and flinging it away before his lips and hands are latching to your nipples. He sucks and licks at your hard, brown nipples like a hungered man, his hands groping the sensitive globes and pinching your nipples with his long, piano fingers. “Look at these beautiful fuckin’ titties,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’ve missed my girls so much.”

Your head falls back and your mouth opens, captured by the pleasure he is giving you. “S-Satoru,” you whimper. Every graze of his teeth and lick of his skillful tongue has your pussy gushing. You haven’t been this wet in three years! Actually, you haven’t even been horny in three years. No one has ever been able to arouse you the way Gojo can.

You find yourself rolling your hips against his knee as your hands grasp his broad shoulders for balance and leverage. Gojo hums as you grind your wet, panty-covered pussy against his knee, smirking up at you playfully. “Grindin’ that pussy on my leg, hm?” he tuts. “Even after three years, you’re still a little slut. I wouldn’t have it any other way though.”

He gives one of your titties one last suck before he shoves himself away from you. You stare up at him, confused, while he only gives you a stern look. “Get on the bed and open your legs. I need that pussy in my face.”

You are helpless to refuse him, especially when your pussy is begging and sobbing for the same thing. You quickly hurry onto the bed and sit back onto your elbows as you open your legs for him. Gojo is between them immediately, his hands ripping off your panties as if they are no more than strings. As soon as he gets a look at your puffy, wet pussy leaking for him, he groans and his cock visibly twitches in his pants. “Shit,” he hisses. “I’ve missed her too.”

And then he’s giving in like he would the cleanest, purest, bluest waters, his hands under your ass to give him a better angle and a better way to plunge his tongue deeper inside you. He laps and sucks at your pussy and sensitive clit, his tongue flicking and swirling around your hole like he needs it. Craves it.

You grab at his hair, pushing his head deeper into you as you wail and moan to the heavens above. “O-Oh, my God!” you cry out to the ceiling. “‘Tatoru, yes, more! Please give me more! Don’t stop!”

Your voice bounces off of the bedroom walls, unbound and unashamed. You haven’t had this kind of pleasure––so intense and explosive––in so long. His wet mouth and soft lips feel so good. His nose brushing against your clit as his tongue swirls inside your pussy is beyond. You feel incredible…too incredible. Gojo works his mouth fast, pulling you quickly towards an orgasm that gathers in your core and threatens to tumble down over you.

“Wait, Daddy!” you protest. “Slow down! ‘M gonna cum too fast!”

Gojo’s blue eyes peer up at you through long, white lashes as he continues to lap at your cunt. “Do it,” he demands. “‘Cause I’m finna make you cum as many times as I want to. I’ll make you cream your pretty brains out till dawn, baby. I’m making up for lost time.”

He ducks back down, going faster, and even adding his long index and middle fingers inside of the wet, tight depths of your pussy. Your walls clench around him instantly as he expertly finds your G-spot and begins gliding his fingers up against it, encouraging you to cum with every stroke of his fingers and tongue. “Do it,” he orders. “Cum for me. Cum around my fingers and my tongue, gorgeous. I’ve got you. I promise.”

And you know he does. He grips one of your hips with one hand as he finger fucks you with the other, humming “mm-hmm” and other encouraging words that are smothered by your pussy as he drags you closer to your orgasm. When it finally breaks, it crashes onto you like a wave, causing your back to arch off of the bed like you’re experiencing an exorcism. “Fuck!” you sob as you feel your body shake and shudder through your earth-shattering orgasm.

Moans of Gojo’s government and curses to the stars leave your lips as Gojo carries you through your mind-blowing, body-shaking, earth-quaking orgasm…and even after, when your body aches and your heart is pounding, he continues to eat your pussy.

He continues to lap and suck at your lips, cleaning up the cum that dribbles out your hole and down your asscrack. He licks there too, moaning breathlessly and wantonly as he does. Finally, when he is good and satisfied, he pulls away from you and sits back onto his hands, breathing heavily with his chin and lips shiny with your juices and his saliva.

A weak moan leaves your lips as your pussy twitches in delight and exhaustion at being stimulated. You feel so, so good. So free. You finally feel as if the sun has finally shown itself behind the gray clouds that have darkened your life for three years. You look at your man adoringly, wanting him to know how much you love him and how good he has made you feel. “Gojo,” you sigh. “That was amazing. I–“

“Open your mouth,” he demands. You button your lip, your words failing you immediately. You stare at him blankly, your post-orgasm brain not quite processing his words. Gojo sits up on his knees on the mattress, grabbing his cock in his pants. “You fuckin’ heard me,” he growls. “Open that slutty mouth, now. Don’t make me tell you again, little girl.” He pins you down with an intimidating look that is only intensified by his sapphire eyes.

Once again, you can’t deny him. While still recovering from your orgasm, you open your mouth wide for him, your plump lips covering your teeth and your tongue out. Just the way he likes it. Gojo walks towards you on his knees and stays beside you as he unbuttons his pants. In one swift motion, he takes down his pants and his briefs, causing his cock to pop out. The long, thick, veiny appendage, bubbling with pre-cum from its pink head, lightly slaps you in the face, causing you to gasp.

Gojo grabs your neck rather roughly, pulling you towards his cock without properly preparing you or waiting for you to prepare yourself. You stare down at his large dick, alarmed at how hard he is. The veins in his shaft throb as does his head that is quickly turning from a soft pink to an angry red. “Gojo, hold up–“

But your words are interrupted by his cock sliding between your lips. A hiss of relief leaves Gojo’s lips as he grips your neck, beginning to rut his hips deep into your mouth. “Sorry, mama,” he groans, “but I can’t be nice to that throat today. I’m just too pent-up. You understand, right?”

You can’t even answer. His cock is too thick; too big; it stretches your mouth out too wide, making your jaw hurt. But all you have to do is breathe through your nose and take it, which Gojo tells you to do so, as he begins to fuck your throat like it’s your pussy. Like it’s his own personal fleshlight.

“Fuckin’ fuck yes!” Gojo loudly grunts, his voice completely primal and animalistic as he roughly fucks your throat. Though he has fucked your throat before, this time, it feels much, much different. He grips your hair and makes your scalp sting with how much he pulls it. He plunges your throat so fast and so hard in your sloppy throat that saliva drips down your chin and down your tits. He turns your face into his fuck toy, doing with it as he pleases.

But though primal and animalistic, he is still completely involved with your pleasure. When you suddenly feel his fingers quickly rubbing your clit after licking his palm, your body lurches and your thighs twitch while you whine and protest feebly around his cock. “Theeeere we go,” he chuckles. “That’s what I want. Feel good with me, mama. This is where your weak, right? Right here?”

He applies more pressure, rubbing your rosebud in time with his thrusts into your throat, his balls swinging against your chin. All you can feel, taste, and smell is him. Your senses are completely overtaken by him. “T-Tawou!” You moan around his cock. “Two mwuch! ‘M sensitive!” Your words are a muffled, jumbled mess around his thick dick, causing more spit to fall from your mouth as you try to speak.

You go to close your legs, but Gojo’s hand yanking on your hair stops you short. “Uh-uh, sweetie,” he teasingly says. “Don't pull away. You owe me this.” He pushes your head farther down his cock, bottoming out in your mouth, causing him to moan so loud that it echoes in the bedroom. “You owe me this for stayin’ so damn sexy after so long. How is that even possible?” He questions you repeatedly as he fucks your throat harder and faster, grunting as he does so. "How's that possible, huh? Huh? Tell me, baby.”

You are turned into a total and complete hole the more he fucks your mouth and flicks your clit, bringing you to yet another orgasm that has your thighs shaking. Finally, he releases your hair and lets you pull away, causing his cock to pop out of your mouth. “Gonna cum!” you whine, spit and cum all over your mouth. “I’m cummin’ again, Satoru!”

Gojo stares at your pussy like a kid in a candy store as you cum once again, gushing all around his long fingers and all over the bedsheets. “Gooood girl!” he praises you. “Cum on these fingers, baby. Gimme what I want, but don't get too distracted, mmkay?” He takes his cock and slides himself back home into your mouth even as you moan and your body writhes on the bed.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, transfixed by the way your body moves and your pussy clenches. “That’s what I want. This is what I need.”

He rubs at your clit until he can feel your exhausted body jerking from the aftershocks. He finally pulls away from you then, cock and all, though he is still hard and throbbing. “I need to fuck you now,” he growls, desperation in his eyes. “And I can’t stop until I cum inside you, baby…without a rubber. Is that okay with you?”

You blink at him, your sight slightly blurred from the two orgasms and your throat raw from it being fucked into oblivion. He must know that you will say yes. He must know that you’ll say yes to anyone he wants or needs. But yet, he still asks because safe sex has always been a priority with him in your relationship. He has always used condoms and has always made a point to not do anything involving PIV sex if he happened to run out.

But now, here he is, telling you that he needs to fuck you raw and cum inside you, possibly breeding you. And you find yourself burning for the same thing like a wildfire has lit inside you. You lean back against the pillows and open your cum-soaked thighs for him, showing him your glistening, puffy, sensitive pussy. “Yes,” you reply. “Fuck me, Daddy. Cum inside me. Breed me.”

Gojo stares at your pussy, spread open for him like it’s spun gold. Suddenly, the loving, silly, goofy man you’ve grown to love is gone, replaced with one who is starved, rough, demanding, and merciless. It thrills and frightens you.

“Oh, you’re gonna fuckin’ get it, girl,” he growls before he grabs you, tosses you onto your back, and gets on top of you. “I’m gonna fuck you till you’re spent,” he promises as he throws your legs over his shoulders and prepares to slide deep inside of you until his balls touch your ass.

When he says this, he means it. Baby, Gojo has you in every position known to man.

He starts first by fucking you in missionary, giving you deep, deep dick that nearly touches your soul and makes you see stars. One of his big, veiny hands wraps around your throat, squeezing gently on your windpipe, while the other pins your thigh open as his cock plunges in and out of your wet, sobbing cunt. He pounds you into the mattress, his big body pressing against yours and his hips nailing your pelvis.

Then he has you on top in 69, his hands groping and smacking your jiggly ass while he, once again, stuffs his face in your cunt. You suck his dick in time with his tongue laps, gagging and slobbering all over his cock much to his delight. It is sloppy and dirty and messy…and you love every minute of it.

You love how his pubic hairs tickle your chin the deeper you slide him down your throat. You love how your eyes sting with tears as he tickles the back of your throat. You love the way his tongue slides from your pussy hole to your asshole, lapping at each one as if they’re the best things he’s ever tasted.

He fucks on your back, hanging off the bed. He fucks you on your stomach, your ass tooted up while his feet are firmly planted on the bed, hammering his dick deep inside of you. He sucks you on your side, his hands cupping your jiggling breasts while his lips caress your neck and shoulder. And he makes you cum every. Single. Time.

By the time he has you on your knees with his cock buried deep in your pussy once again and your arms pulled behind your back, your body is aching for rest and your pussy is a mushy, gushy mess around his cock.

But still you persist, moaning and screaming at the top of your lungs the harder he fucks you. Your voice, along with his own, the creaking bedsprings, and the sound of skin slapping against skin, fills the air around you. “Yes, yes, Daddy, yes, fuck me!” you babble, your words a jumbled mess.

Gojo cackles from behind you, loving how slutty and broken you are on his cock. “You feelin’ good, baby?” he asks. “This dick makin’ you feel good? Don’t have to use those damn toys or those fingers anymore, no. You’ve got me now and I’ll take good, good care of this pussy.”

He slams his hips harder against your ass, making it bounce and jiggle. The harder he goes, the more intense your orgasm gets and you find yourself about to have your sixth orgasm of the day…or night. Is it nighttime now? You can't tell. You’ve been at this for hours, fucking and cumming all over the bed. You don't even know what day it is anymore.

All you can think about is Gojo’s dick and cumming on it. “Shit, I’m gonna cum again!” you sob.

Gojo’s hand circles around your throat, choking you. “Cum on this dick,” he demands. “Do it! Fuckin’ do it for me, baby!”

And you do. Like a puppet on a string being controlled by the white-haired, big-dicked man behind you, you writhe in the air and cum all over his cock. A weak, long moan leaves your lips as you come undone, all self-control leaving you. Gojo pulls out of you with a hiss, talking about how “fuckin’ tight” you are. When you’re released, your arms fall to your sides as you crumble onto the mattress, falling face-first into the pillow. Your body is hot and sweaty, your pussy is twitching, your ass is stinging from his assault on it. You are completely spent.

Gojo leans down to kiss your forehead, smiling at your exhaustion. “Aww, is my baby tired now?” he coos. You weakly moan in response, too tired to speak. “Too bad because I still need to cum inside you. You did ask me to breed you and I’ve gotta make this count.”

Before you can even protest, he is grabbing your weak body and forcing you onto your knees, hiking your ass up for him. He sinks into your overly sensitive, used pussy once more, drawing a moan out of both of you. You let him do as he pleases, too exhausted to fight or argue.

He takes hold of your hips and ruts into you like his life depends on it, nailing that spot again and again that makes you see the entire universe behind your eyelids. It feels so damn good. He fucks you at a breakneck pace, going faster with each second that passes. “O-Oh, s-shit!” you scream into the mattress. “F-Fuck, Daddy, f-f-u-uck!”

Gojo’s fucking is egged on by your moans, his pelvis slamming into your ass and taking your very breath away. “Take this cock,” he groans. “Take all of this dick, baby. It’s yours. All of it is fuckin’ yours. It always was and always will be.” He hikes up his leg and fucks you on one knee, causing him to grow louder and his moans to become more desperate and needy.

“God, I missed this!” he whines. “I’ve been fucking burning for you, baby. Needed you so, so much!” You picture him in the Prison Realm, his hand wrapped around his cock as he is surrounded by darkness and loneliness. As tears spring into your eyes, you lift yourself up onto weak arms to look back at him. “Then show me,” you whisper. “Show me how much you’ve missed me. Cum inside me, ‘Tarou, baby.”

You begin to toss your ass back into him, meeting his every thrust. Gojo takes what you give him and serves it right back, moving in tandem with you. “You want me to cum?” he asks. You nod, moaning and whimpering as you feel his cock begin to swell inside you. “You want me to feel that pussy up?” he grunts. “Want me to make you a mommy? Want me to give you a kid? My kid?”

He begins to pound your pussy into the mattress again, picking up speed. You can feel your last orgasm rising, ready to rip through you. “Say it to me, mama,” he demands. “Tell me you want my baby. Lemme hear it.”

“Yes!” you cry out. “Yes, Satoru, I want your child! I wanna mother your baby!” That must please Gojo because he begins rolling his hips harshly against your ass, rutting into you like he’s trying to fit a home run. His handsome face is red and glittering in sweat, his snow-white hair plastered to his wet forehead.

“Can’t wait to see you full with me,” he groans. “Can’t wait till this tummy is round with my baby and those tits are full of milk. You’re gonna look so, so pretty carryin’ my baby, sweetheart. You’re gonna be the best mommy ever.”

And he’ll be the best daddy ever. That is all you can think as you feel your own orgasm rising at the same time as him, like the sun and the moon rising in unison in the sky. Forever bonded. Forever together.

“Gonna cum,” Gojo warns. “Gonna cum deep inside you. You’d better cum with me too. Cum all over my cock, baby. Cum with me while I fill this little pussy up.”

You nod and wail into the pillow, gripping it for dear life as another blinding orgasm rips through your body. Gojo fucks into your wet, cum-soaked pussy until he feels his own nut coming and he desperately fucks you to chase his high. “Cumming!” he babbles. “‘M cummin’, I’m cummin’, I’m cummin’!”

And when he fills you up, it’s explosive. It’s deep. It’s intense. It fills every part of you, filling you with warmth and the feeling of being absolutely filled to the brim. You weakly moan as you feel his cum fill your tummy, no doubt reaching your womb. He stills for a moment, plugging his cum inside you, before slowly and sloppily rocking his hips into you to fuck his cum deep into your pussy.

When he is finally sure that you’re good and bred, he puts his hands on his narrow hips and whistles tiredly. “Shit,” he sighs. “I really needed that.” You moan in agreement. He then pulls out of you slowly, causing you to whimper quietly as your aching pussy is no longer filled.

He stares at it between your thighs, humming appetizingly. “Mmm, now that’s a sight: a pretty, fucked pussy drippin’ with my cum. Don’t mind if I do.”

Then his mouth is between your thighs again, lapping gently at his and your cum mingled together all over your pussy and inner thighs. You arch your back for him, moaning softly at his soft, careful tongue strokes.

When he finishes, you turn to him, finding his semi-hard cock dripping with your mingled fluids. “You still got some left here, Daddy,” you coo before moving to lap up the cum you left behind on his cock. He allows it, his hand in your hair while he sighs about how good you are.

Once you are cleaned up and all is said and done, the two of you finally lay side by side in your bed, together again at last. You curl into his chest, leaning your head against his heart and wrapping your arms around him. He welcomes it, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead “Welcome home, baby,” you whisper as you look up at him. “Now you gonna tell me how you got out?”

He looks down at you, almost as if he forgot he was supposed to answer a bunch of your very important questions. “Oh, Itadori did that,” he explains like he’s telling you the weather. “He’s a smart kid, y’know. Say, you up for some sushi? I’m cravin’ some fish right now.”

All you can do is laugh and kiss your man before getting the takeout menu that you keep in the nightstand next to the bed. All the important questions can wait.

For now, all you want and need is him.

THE END.

#smutty smut #my works #black fanfic writer #my fic shit #black coded reader #black writers #satoru gojo x black!reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo smut #feral gojo #happy birthday gojo #jujutsu kaisen smut

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loserlvrss · 2 months

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꒰ 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 ꒱ 이민호

summary : it's coming up on your boyfriends' death anniversary, and something's finally telling you to let go

genre : angst, minho x afab!reader tws : angst, death, grief, depression, various substance abuse, mentioned suicide, various suicidal thoughts, very slight reference to religion author notes : maybe i cried idk word count : 3.4k

skin to skin. it’s what most humans crave. the contact and warmth of someone; romantically, familiar, platonically. all humans are the same. we are designed to crave a comfort since birth, to form connections beyond intellect. we look for anyone and everyone who could fill that desire… and when abandoned, nothing will ever feel like enough.

“you’d never leave me, right?” you said, tracing small circles on the tan skin of your boyfriend, whomst you love with your entire heart. he was everything to you, and you him, “you’ll stay with me forever, right?”

you bounced lightly as he chuckled, “of course,” you felt his hand grip your bare side harder, “forever.”

“promise me.” you held up a pinky, and his eye cracked open at the shade behind his lids.

he stroked your side gently as he brought his other hand up, locking his smallest finger with yours, “i promise, y/n.”

the bitter reality hit as your eyes opened. you couldn't figure out the time, and honestly you didn't want to check. the void of color in your room — life — was enough to always put a dampen on your spirit, and ultimately, day. you turned over, and for it being a relatively good dream, you were drenched in sweat. you reached across the bed, the sheets wrinkled where you hadn't been sleeping. but, you were alone, and it sunk whatever was left of your heart.

you grumbled, borderline whined as you turned over. you don't know why there was an actual pain shooting throughout your body. you don't know why the impending desire to just lay there until the end of time consumed you. you don't know why your eyes teared up, creating a watercolor painting against the dimmed colors of your room.

you don't know why you were always questioning what was real and fake nowadays. you could've been caught up in a nightmare — you figured you could wake up any moment and not feel this jaded in your everyday life — but it never subsided.

you didn't want people to tell you that everything would all be okay. you didn't want people to tell you that depression passes. you didn't need anyone to know that what you felt right now was less than human. you didn't need the memories to remind you of what can't be washed away; of what you can't get back. you didn't want to lose those moments in time though, like you had lost the real thing, because it was all you had left, but knowing that you couldn't make any more felt like ripping stitches.

it was acid on a never healing wound knowing that peace was something you only felt when asleep. and the only way you got to sleep nowadays was with the aid of various drugs.

it was an unhealthy habit. a struggle you knew shouldn't feel as good as it did. but a vice is still a vice whether it has that name or not.

your hand reached to the side table, finding your phone and ultimately leaving it face down. you continued to search until your hand found a rattling bottle — an orange pill bottle — that peers would say you practically lived off of. and you did. only ever feeling remotely like yourself when a couple were thrown to the back of your throat to dissolve into your bloodstream.

you truthfully didn't know the dose you were supposed to be taking, everything dulled down by your seemingly never ending high — you never being sober because it was too hard to — and you definitely didn't know why your psychologist kept prescribing them. maybe she had no idea that you were on the edge of a cliff, just desperate for an excuse to topple off it, but you found it hard to believe that she was that bad at her job.

you felt like you were just a lifeless vessel being controlled by the fumes clouding your brain. yet, if you wanted to stop, you would, right? it wasn't an addiction if it was willing, was it?

maybe. but truthfully your secondhand high was too strong for you to care. so, you lit up another carelessly thrown about blunt, inhaling the smoke until you were completely numb. until you couldn't feel your fingertips. until you couldn't form a coherent thought.

until you couldn't remember why you wanted to die, too.

you trudged the scene your bedroom was in: clothes, packages, bottles and other miscellaneous things littering the hardwood. despite being alive, you felt like you were drowning. a physical sting in your chest. a deep sigh that never escaped your lips. you were walking on broken glass with every step, but the pain would never be comparable to the turmoil you already find yourself in.

if this wasn't hell, you didn't want to know what was.

you never turned on any lights, the windows being covered by curtains 24/7. you could see through the flimsy fabric that the sun was barely still up, or maybe it was just gracing the sky with its' presence. you didn't know, and if you didn't have to make a living in a capitalist society, you wouldn't care either.

you would be contempt living (more like going about) your day inside the confines of your home. sure, you hated being alone, especially with your thoughts, but you were never truly alone; haunted by the ghosts that paint your walls in a dark shade of red; and you were never sober enough to think anymore.

never letting yourself feel the gravity of grief, quoted from your therapist, is not allowing you to receive closure, to heal from the loss of someone you gave your entire heart too.

however, closure, in your fucked up mind, meant forgetting. and as much as it pained you, chained you down in the depths, you couldn't let go of the memories. even if you ended up dead because of them. at least, you thought there was a chance you'd be able to meet again that way.

you weren't in denial, like your all-knowing doctor seems to think. no, you knew what happened. you remember it clearly despite trying your hardest to cloud it out. you couldn't be going through the stages of grief if they never changed — they couldn't even be considered stages if they've turned into your despised lifestyle.

you loved, but hated the never changing facial expression. you loved, but hated the liquid that made you so slurred. you loved, but hated the fact that someone you couldn't have left you with the door wide open. you loved, but hated knowing that maybe you weren't good enough to make him want to stay. you loved, but hated that you are still so in love with him when he's, where? if he could see you in this state, would he be able to say that he once loved you too? if he could see you crying every night, dressed in the clothes of his that you have yet to wash, would he still think that out was the only way in?

he was your everything, even after everything had ended.

so, why weren't you his last thought? why didn't he even have the decency to write you a letter in embodiment of his dying wish? why couldn't he just give you the answers you used to so desperately yearn for? even in death, he had to be the selfish one. wasn't leaving enough? you didn't know.

but, it's been 12 months.

those answers never came, and now you didn't expect them to magically appear. not after you tore apart your entire apartment, inch by inch, crevice by crevice, coming up empty like it was a cruel fucking joke. like you were a rat trapped in a cage, on the hunt for cheese that was behind an unreachable wall.

you used to wonder if you had done something differently, complained less, listened more, would he not just be the rain that splotched your skin.

it's as if the sky was mocking you. as if it's asking if you really had the audacity to be upset with something you couldn't control.

but you were only half alive, barely half a mind to think of anything rational when your stability was ripped from under you like it was just a flimsy rug to being with.

you were free falling, and you never learned how to fly.

“y/n,” your eyes tried focusing as best they could, but the flashing lights were making your head spin more than it should, “we have to check inventory before opening. the boss said someone’s been stealing — and we’re not accusing you because we know what you take.”

the woman in front of you, your coworker of a couple years brought her hand to rest against your forehead. “are you okay? you seems worse than normal.”

“u-uh, yeah.” she eyed you in disbelief, “i’m good.”

you weren’t, but you still followed her behind the bar to crouch down and count the bottles. you’d probably use most of them anyways, as tonight was always the busiest of the week.

truth is, you weren’t even sure what number you were on when you fell onto your butt, catching your coworkers attention. the booming music making your chest bounce with the bass, and the in-time lights spinning and flashing and changing was throwing you off.

even if you were crossed, you’ve never had a problem getting your work done. you could even fight back the nausea, the discomfort and dizziness that it caused your body — but today, today was different.

you weren’t in-tune with anything. not being able to beat the funk. even when you tried to stand back up, you put your hand on a bunch of napkins, slipping and falling right back to the ground. it was frustrating, borderline humiliating. even as she tried to help you up out of the good in her heart.

you felt tears brimming, “y/n. it’s okay, let’s just get up. i can take inventory. you seem like you need to rest for a little bit before opening.”

stupid, useless, unbelievable.

why couldn’t today just go the way it was supposed to? you kept wondering if this was a cruel joke. today of all days had to be the worst on top of everything it stood for. it had to be someone’s doing. and whoever’s been controlling your life must’ve been one sick individual.

you, at least, hoped they were happy in your misery.

you huffed, forcing yourself onto your knees, hands splayed over them. you looked at the bones of your knuckles, wondering how hard one had to hit to get knocked out — you were always better unconscious than conscious.

then, your eyes set on a clear bottle. it was filled to the brim with a blue liquid that you didn’t even bother to read before pulling it off the shelf. you opened it and took a long swig. when you finally put it down, your coworker had a horrified look on her face.

you gave the bottle up easily when she reached for it, “y/n… what’s the matter with you today? you need help. seriously, i’m so sick of you fucking everything up!” she grabbed at your hands, trying to get you to stand up, but you were too heavy for her to even begin to move; a dead weight, if you will. “oh my god, get up! all you do is get high and throw a pity party! how long is this going to be? how do you even live like this?”

it was a question you heard often. how do you even live like this? but they didn’t know living would be such a painstakingly long journey. sure, maybe they were only asking because they cared, because they were genuinely curious, but you had no answer.

and you feared you never would.

was living truly worse than dying? all signs would point to yes. maybe he had the right idea after all…

you heard whispering above you, “it’s his death anniversary today, j-just — let’s just send her home. we can deal with it tonight, right? customers aren’t going to want to see her drinking their drinks. help me get her up. she’s miserable.”

you felt like you had lost all control — seemingly having none to begin with — you got up on your own, something within possessing you, and stumbled to the door.

maybe your coworker was right. maybe you do fuck everything up. maybe you were miserable. maybe that’s why you’re here and he’s not. maybe that’s why you can’t seem to grasp the sand that keeps slipping through your fingers. maybe you were better off with the same fate as the one you loved so dearly. maybe the depression would finally consume you, like your therapist said it would if you didn’t intervene, like you’ve been praying day and night for.

you wanted to die, but you always thought it would’ve been in his arms.

now, you were cold. a wondering spirit searching for the only thing that could set them free; and what you feared is knowing that that thing wasn’t something that you’d ever find.

you swear you could feel a hand on you. a grip on your shoulder that kept pulling you back. but maybe that was your diagnosis of trauma-induced hallucinations. because truthfully, your derealization and depersonalization had gotten so bad your doctor thought about prescribing you anti-psychotics.

however, you’d have to un-ghost your psychiatrist for that to ever happen.

your breathing was labored, the earth spinning too quickly for your liking. you tried to blink away the blurriness, but the sky was also too bright, despite the rain, making you squint.

it seemed everything was retaliating all at once. it’s said karma catches up with bad people, and were you finally falling victim to it?

no, you were just falling.

falling so hard that you can’t even remember what happened next. did you pass out after hitting your head on the concrete? did you die? you could only hope for so much.

your eyes opened, but the world seemed different, colorful once again; a dusty orange hue to the air. you looked around confused as to how you ended up back in your room.

did someone find you? so you hadn’t hit your head hard enough to die; maybe next time, you thought.

you looked to your feet as they left wet footprints behind on a clean floor. all of your boyfriend’s clothes were folded nicely on the bed, as if someone had just washed them. it no longer smelled of mildew and various rotting substances. you couldn’t even find the couple grams that were on your nightstand this morning. but there was also another smell wafting through the air; a smell of tea and cherry blossoms.

much like that night 12 months ago.

the night everything in your world had come crashing down upon you. the night you lost every part of yourself to the grim reaper. the night you lost the game you thought you were winning. the night you lost the only love of your life.

the night minho, your boyfriend of six years, committed suicide.

he left you to relive every waking moment without him like life was a cruel fucking joke on you. left you with the pitiful looks friend and family would give you. left you with funeral preparations and arrangements. left you with heaps of chrysanthemums. left you to weep as the cherry blossoms fell from the trees and snow from the sky.

he left you in every season, and you never knew why.

you never knew why the radio static sounded like him. never knew why the smoke would bounce off his silhouette. never knew why you prayed to someone who clearly wasn’t real — who clearly didn’t care to hear your pleas — but, god did it bother you once you’d figured out you wasted all that time. you never knew the why of a lot of questions, and it left you feeling nothing but empty; numb; jaded; hallow; anything that spelled out that you were just a walking corpse with very low cognitive recognition.

you found it hard to believe he loved you as much as he did. but if face-to-face, you’d forget that thought ever crossed your mind, because at the end of the day you were beyond devoted to him. he was your soulmate, and you’d find him in any lifetime, you were sure of it.

so, why couldn’t you let go? why couldn’t you do yourself the favor and move on? whether that be in this or the next life. why couldn’t you follow his lead and find him once again.

maybe you would finally awake from this torturous nightmare —

“minho?” you all but shouted out against the gentle breeze of an opened window, “minho? are you there? is that you?”

you heard the pattern of steps on wood, soon met with the face you’d not grown to forget. he looked confused, concerned at your obvious state of disbelief, “are you okay, baby?”

you felt his hands on you, watching as they slowly followed the length of your arms, finally pulling you into his chest.

you wanted to ask how, but you know that you only ever see him when you’re high. but you didn’t feel high right now; and you obviously knew what it would feel like if you were, after abusing anything you could get your hands on for a year.

you wanted to come up with any excuse, but the very real scent of his cologne (that had faded from his hoodies after a couple months) filled your nostrils. you felt comforted, which hasn’t been something you felt for what seemed like decades. minho was the only one who brought you solace, but he had left you. so how was he — no, how were you here right now?

god, you must’ve finally hit your wall. you must’ve finally found the breaking point and flew past it. you had finally gone insane, that was the only real explanation you could come up with.

your therapist said it would happen if you didn’t quit, but why would you ever listen to her? hell, maybe you should’ve. but, if this was insane maybe you didn’t really mind being enclosed in his arms.

but it felt wrong. how could you spend months of your precious life grieving the fact that he was dead, if he’s hugging you right now? how could you spend all your time getting high enough to not feel sad if he was right here in front of you?

his flesh felt real, but so did the ache in your heart.

“h-how?” he hummed, not entirely hearing what you said. you pushed him back, but the grip on your forearms remained, “how are you he-here? how are you alive? y-you killed yourself, minho.”

he seemed confused, a slight smile still adorning his features though, like he couldn’t believe the prank you were playing on him. but to you, he looked so real, just as you couldn’t erase from your memory — a snapshot in time that you captured oh-so-long ago.

“you’re dead, i-i was there. i buried you!” the room seemed to lose all color — like it’d been splashed with arctic water, a shiver running up your spine — which once had an orange hue, was now a dark shade of blue, like the depths of the ocean.

his face lost the smile, ice lacing his fingertips almost like he had been deep in the dirt rotting away. “i found you minho. i-i tried to save you but it didn’t work! i tried, i swear i did, b-but,” tears brimmed your eyes, quickly making their way in valleys down your cheeks. your voice was weak, but you hadn’t used it much in the last year anyways, “you were dead, minho! the emt’s pronounced you dead at the scene. y-you’re not real. y-you left me. i watched them put you in the ground. i cried for hours, minho! i stayed with you for days. i prayed to a fucking god i don’t believe in to make you come back to me! i only ever saw you inside my head, when i wished upon every star it was real! minho, you’re gone.”

his words were a push to the knife that only ever danced upon your skin, never plunging and never drawing blood, “then, why won’t you let me go?”

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

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babygirl-riley · 4 months

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Haunted Alternative Ending

You wake up in the hospital looking over to see the only person you’d hope to see.

A/N: Alright @i-love-ghost hope this is something your mind will enjoy. This is gonna be heavy of talks of suicide, if this triggers anyone don’t have to read. And if you need help call the number above. ❤️ Know there are people who love you.

“And it’s the light that’s in the air. When your chest to chest with a lover.”

Warnings: Talks of suicide, attempt suicide, depression, sad!simon, mentions of overdose, swearing, mentions of dementia

simon x reader guide

simon x reader fluff/angst

Pt.1 Pt.2

You felt the reach of death, almost felt like a weight off your chest. The mental and physical pain gone, you were relieved. However there was nothing but darkness. Nothing that was told of being a light or after life bullshit. You heard voices, voices that would talk about pulse change or what medicine goes where.

It didn’t hit you what they were talking about until you felt something shoving down your throat. You gagged as you felt stuff coming out of you. You were dazed as you looked around to see strangers in white shirts. Concern on their faces, red and blue lights illuminated the darkness around you. “There ya go honey, stay with us. Ya alright.” The woman said soothing you as your eyes shut once more.

The next thing you knew the heart monitor woke you up as you heard the rhythmic beating. Your body felt heavy as you tried to move your arms. Fingers. You opened your eyes to shut them from the bright lights blinding you. You moaned quietly trying to feel or see anything. You moved your fingers, feeling them fumble.

Panic serged through you, where were you? No are you paralyzed are you dead? What is happening. You tried to ask for help but came out in mumbles. You heard your heart racing through your veins to your ears. You opened your eyes again widened and frightened. The lights were harsh burning them as you shut them. A groan leaving your lips.

“Y/n,” Your heart felt like stopped. That voice. That angelic voice. You opened your eyes once more and the lights that were once bright was being covered by a large figure. The mask that cover their face. You moaned softly as your eyesight cleared to see Simon. Then it hit you, you couldn’t swallow. You teared up as you grabbed his hand that was near you. He held your hand as his head snapped up, pressing a button next to you. “Stay calm sweethear’. The nurses are coming in ‘ight,”

You heard shuffling of rushing feet as everything hit you. You were connected to machines. You started to gag as the nurses push Simon away, making you panic more. It seemed like you blacked out as you could breathe normal and the nurses calmed you down.

You looked around groggily and coughed as it felt like your throat was dry. “Don’t talk hun,” The doctor said softly. “You’ve been asleep for a bit. We will get some water. Just rest.”

When the nurses and the doctor left as they talked outside the room. You looked over at Simon who stood in the corner of the room. Your lips trembled as he just stared, both of you didn’t know how to feel. You wondered A how you got here and B why he was here. Before he could say or step in the nurses were back, asking Simon to leave so they could get you checked.

It was hours before your could talk let alone do anything else. All the drugs you took made your body feel stiff. You were lucky enough to still have movement however, it was slower than normal. Doctor said to your parents that it was cause of you being asleep to the pills. Your parents stayed for a while before they said goodbye, needing to go home but be back first thing in the morning.

You were happy due to your mom crying nonstop and the guilt replaying through your veins. You looked outside to watch snow start falling. Not only your attempted but you did it near a holiday. You didn’t realize how much you were loved and it made you feel sick to think that you would leave them in that state. You thought that it was going to be peaceful once more until you heard the familiar heavy footsteps.

You looked over at the door. Simon. You inhaled deeply. “Don’t.” Your voice was hoarse but getting better as time came by.

“‘M not,” He said quietly. “May I?”

You nodded as he walked all the way in, coming towards you. He grabbed the chair to set it next to you. Both of you didn’t say anything, he was looking at his hands as you looked at the wall. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to, I just-I just thought that no one loved me anymore.” Your voice hitched as tears welled up. “I’m so sorry I…”

Simon grabbed your hand making you look at him, his eyes having tears spilling, and looked like he had spilt some before. “No, don’t say that. Don’t say sorry. I should’ve realized you…” He stopped talking inhaling deeply. “I’m fuckin’ sorry. I-fuck I should have never kicked you out. I should have-I should have…”

You cried as you grabbed his hand and shook your head. “I never should have hit you. I crossed the line.”

Simon looked away as you heard a soft sob for a moment before he inhaled. “I deserv’ it, never should have called ya a whore. Or saying you were distant. You never did anythin’ wrong,” He mumbled shaking his head, you looked at his hands, the bruises, the dried blood around his fingers probably the habit of picking them when he got nervous. He looked at you taking his hand away and placed his finger on your cheek. “I thought ya were gone. And it kills me that it took you to almost…” He paused.

The guilt stung again making you sob. Simon stood up and leaned on you, placing his lips ontop of your head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to. I knew if I got drunk enough it wouldn’t matter and-I didn’t want to die but-I was so alone. And now I just couldn’t imagine what you and my parents would be in if it worked. I’m so-I’m so fucking sorry.”

Simon kissed your head again, he held you as you sobbed and sobbed. “I will never leave ya I promise baby. I fuckin’ promise.”

You held on to the back of his neck. You closed your eyes as you hear him whisper that he will never do this again. He will love you until the day he dies. Simon will never let you go and you know of that. You always knew that he would. It was something that both of you had to work on. God you never understood until later in life of why you were alive.

Years go by that Simon was right never has he left your side. Made sure how you were doing. As you did the same as the relationship grew stronger and stronger. He did marry you and gave you children that you both love so dear. Simon loved you every step of the way, no matter what was going on.

Simon and you sat on your front porch watching your daughter playing with your grandkids. Never you would have thought that you would be here. Here with Simon. Here with your daughters. All because of chance. Chances that you wanted to live, that you were just broken and trying to piece yourself together. Chances that your boyfriend who later turned to a husband and now a father. Chances Simon did stay with you as you stayed with him.

You will always be grateful that you are alive. Even through the darkest pain and time you were able to see this. To see your life play how you always dreamed it to be.

“Lovie?” Simon said, his wrinkles more prominent. His gray hair turning into white. You smiled at him reaching for his hand.

“Yes darling.” You responded as he grabbed yours.

“Where are we?” You tried not to frown as you looked around.

“Home baby remember?” You smiled again as you hope that he would nod in agreement.

“Who are ‘em?” He asked watching his grandchild and daughter play.

“Your daughter and grandbaby my dear.” You said looking at them watching your daughter catching on as her son played around her.

You smiled at her and nodded before turning to Simon, who nodded in confusion and looked at you. “I see.” He mumbled looking at them once more.

You grabbed gripped his hand tighter, smiling lovingly at him. You will never leave him like he never left you. Even through the hardest times, he was there and now it was your turn.

Oh how grateful you are to have another chance.

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cannibalizedyke · 2 years

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Fucked Up

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 466

Warnings: Language, mentions of mental illness (including suicidal thoughts) and bullying

Summary: Eddie Munson gets you in a way no one ever has.

A/N: This fic is gonna be heavy, so I totally get if it's not for you - stay safe kids, do what's gonna keep you healthy. I just really needed to get some stuff out, and this felt like a good way to do it.

General Taglist: @gg-is-a-loser @yesshewrites1

Moots: @iheardarumorthings @thewritingbabe @scandalous-chaos @ddejavvu @winterwisteria @abibliophobiaa @roxetteblack @plumes-de-nuit @sapphireplums

Eddie stumbled upon you during fifth period, when he took it upon himself to skip, and go smoke weed under the bleachers in the football field.

Or at least, that was his plan before he found you.

You were curled up in a ball, knees pressed to your chest as tears streamed down your face. Your breathing was ragged, panicked, and you were clearly not having a good time.

"Hey," he said, kneeling gently beside you. "You all right?"

You looked up, a pretty face more miserable than he'd ever seen in his life. "Do you really wanna know?" Your voice was pitiful, broken, and though he didn't know you, Eddie found himself desperately wanting to pull you into a hug.

"Of course." Eddie thumbed away your tears. "A pretty girl crying under the bleachers? Tell me what's wrong, and I'll kill it."

You laughed, but it was pained, and you harshly leaned against the metal of the bleachers. Your head clanged and Eddie winced, but you didn't seem to care. You exhaled. "Life's shit."

"Tell me about it." Eddie leaned back beside you.

"I can't go a day without people calling me names, or playing mind tricks on me, or giving me literal death threats," you told him. "I go home, and I just want to die, I literally want to die, and nobody understands. The people who do like me get scared away because I'm so fucked up, because my mind is an apocalypse and they don't wanna get caught in the fire." Tears streamed down again. "I'm sorry, this is the kinda thing people don't wanna hear. They want me to be happy, bubbly (Y/N), and I am, but I can't be all the time. I'm fucked up, Munson. I'm so, so fucked up."

Eddie let out a shaky breath. "Can I tell you something, (Y/N)?"

You nodded, wiping away tears.

"I'm fucked up too. Everything's hard for me, no matter how smart I am, and I've had to repeat senior year because of it. I'm depressed as hell and I try to drown it in drugs, because nothing else seems to help. But you know what?" He tilted your chin up so you were looking at him. "We can help each other now. I get you, (Y/N). I understand everything you're telling me and I want to help you. Cry with me, okay? I've never had anyone to cry with before."

You broke down, collapsing against him. He stroked your hair and felt himself crying too.

"Thank you," you sobbed. "Thank you."

"Anytime." He kissed your head. "Now, do you wanna get out of here? We can get some food, I know a good place."

You smiled, wiping away your tears. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson

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serickswrites · 2 months

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I Care

Warnings: captivity, physical violence, restraints, drugging, creepy/intimate whumper, yandere, suicide, faked suicide, fake blood, presumed dead

Whumpee came to slowly. Their head was pounding and their mouth was dry as cotton. What happened? Where am I? Whumper! The thought had Whumpee starting awake.

"My love, you are awake," Whumper whispered into their ear, lips gently brushing the shell of their ear. "I am so glad."

"Wha," Whumpee had to clear their throat to get the words out, "what didjou do?" Where did you take me? Where is Caretaker? What have you done?

"What needed to be done," Whumper said coolly. "Really, I thought you would be happy, we're together, just like I promised we'd be. I always keep my promises."

What needed to be done? Oh God. Caretaker! "Caretaker?" Whumpee said as they realized they were restrained in a bed. Memories of the moments leading up to Whumper taking them flooded Whumpee. They had opened the door, expecting Caretaker, but found Whumper. They opened their mouth to scream, but Whumper came at them, punching their mouth, boxing their ears, and then grabbing them and......a sharp prick and then nothing.

"Oh they're alive, Whumpee. Don't worry. I wouldn't kill them. Though that would have made my life much easier," they said in afterthought.

Whumpee sighed. Caretaker's alive. They'll find me. They always find me. "They'll.....hunt....you." Their mouth was still dry, the words stuck like glue to their tongue.

Whumper giggled. "They're not going to come looking for you. I made sure they wouldn't."

Whumpee's heart pounded in their chest. They tried to free their hands, but the silken ropes bound them so tightly. "What didjou do?"

"I faked your death. At your own hand of course. That way Caretaker will never suspect me. And you and I can have all our time together. Just like I've always dreamed."

Faked my death? Suicide? I would never! Images of Caretaker's grief filled them, the pain so palpable. They think I'm dead. They think I'm dead. I'm not dead. They think I hurt myself. I would never. I could never hurt them that way. "Why?" Was all Whumpee managed to croak.

"I'm doing this because I care about you, Whumpee. More than anyone else." They cupped Whumpee's cheek and stared into Whumpee's eyes, a maniacal gleam filling their own eyes. "I care so much about you, Whumpee, that I will do anything to take care of you. Even if it means making sure no one will know you. No one will come for you. It's only you and me."

Whumpee spat in Whumper's face. It was the only thing they could do, they were bound to the bed so tightly. "Fuck you," they hissed.

Whumper winced as they wiped the spit off their face. They reached into their pocket and pulled out another needle. "I think you just need some time to think about how great our time will be with no one to interfere."

Whumpee tried to roll away. Tried to free their hands. Tried to do anything to avoid the prick of the needle. But it was in vein. As Whumper stabbed their neck with the needle and depressed the plunger, flooding their body with a potent sedative, Whumpee realized that until Whumper trusted them, until Whumper believed they wouldn't try to escape, they would remain tied to the bed.

I will get out of here. I will get back to you, Caretaker. Whumpee made their silent vow as they began to slip into the deep sea of unconsciousness. I will get back to you. Caretaker. I love you. Please, don't give up on me.

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rosemelon82 · 4 months

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Light on Series: Sisyphus whump list (cn)

I took over this list from @love-me-a-lotta-whump so go check out their awesome whump lists if you're looking for some good whumpy series to watch! ;)

Synopsis:

After his daughter Duo Duo dies, Zhang Hai Feng quits his job as a police officer. However, he cannot continue his peaceful life for long because a serial murder case reveals new evidence about the accident that led to Duo Duo's death. Zhang Hai Feng pursues the serial murderer and dies with him. When he wakes up, he is back to the day before he dies and decides to make use of the wormhole to save Duo Duo. Eventually, he starts to unravel the deeply hidden secrets of the people around him and the web of conspiracy that was planted 20 years ago. (paraphrased from KissAsian)

Genre: Crime, Mystery, Sci-fi

Whumpees:

Zhao Bin Bin played by Lu Han

Zhang Hai Feng played by Wang Qian Yuan

Other whumpees listed in orange

TW: SUICIDE, MURDER, DEATH

MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW

01:

Zhao Bin Bin:

09:18 - 11:20 - in an interrogation room, interrogated, defiant

16:49 - 19:41 - in an interrogation room, stressed, crying, (flashback: panicked), manhandled, choked, coughing

21:20 - 22:37 - poisoned, chest pain, seizing, foaming at the mouth, rolled into the hospital, handcuffed to a stretcher, unconscious, still handcuffed to the stretcher, unconscious, dazed, weak

29:35 - 30:00 - headbutted (is that a word?), falls backwards, sort of falls of a building, dies

Zhang Hai Feng:

11:20 - 20:48 - depressed, drinking, angry, chokes someone, manhandled, taken away

28:00 - 30:00 - out of breath, dealing with a hostage situation that also includes a bomb, bluffing, shot at, shot in the chest, bomb explodes, dies

02:

Zhao Bin Bin:

07:40 - 08:33 - chased

Fu Jialiang:

13:40 - end of episode - drugged, kidnapped, tied up and duct tape on his mouth, panicked, yelling, has a bomb strapped to him, taken away in an ambulance

03:

Zhao Bin Bin:

16:45 - 20:19 - hit in the head, bleeding, still bloody, trying to find ths person he kidnapped

34:20 - end of episode - shot in the arm, taken away by the police, stumbling, manhandled by police, bloody hand, laid on a stretcher and put into ambulance, treated in the ambulance, in an explosion, dies

Zhang Hai Feng:

end of episode - dies in explosion

04:

Zhang Hai Feng:

beginning of episode - wakes up hazy

(not related to whump but holy fuck this episode was crazy im- what the fuck?????)

05:

Zhao Bin Bin:

throughout episode - interrogated multiple times, accused

end of episode - interrogated in an interrogation room

06:

Lei Qiang:

18:07 - 20:14 - on the run, almost hit by a car, jumps off a roof, hurts leg, interrogated

07 & 08:

none

09:

Zhao Bin Bin:

beginning of episode - shown beaten, glasses askew, bloody nose

Zhang Hai Feng:

end of episode - loss of loved ones, grieving

10:

none

11:

Liu Yuqi:

19:47 - 22:54 - stabbed, pushes the knife further in, death

12:

TW: SUICIDE

Zhao Bin Bin:

end of episode - commits suicide?

Review of drama:

Quite interesting. I personally really like the inception style of the drama. It's a very mindfuck style drama and I like that. It's also interesting to see how the "timelines" or memory lines or whatever they are called differ when he makes different choices but still somehow relate to the main timeline. I recommend watching this drama if you prefer to be confused while watching but at the same time very intrigued by each episode. I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for another whump list soon! (sorry to @love-me-a-lotta-whump for taking so long to do this)

#sisyphus #lu han #zhao bin bin #chinese drama whump #chinese actor #chinese #mindfuck #whump list #whump

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k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 · 5 months

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𝔄𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔦𝔫 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰 - 𝔐𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔵

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aduckwithears · 7 months

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Let's Talk Laudanum - a GO meta

Hey all - I'm gonna preface this one with a tw/cw for opioids, death, suicide, and substance abuse ok? It shouldn't be too heavy (just canon typical), but I don't want anyone surprised.

Ok! I've been watching some of the Good Omens s2 behind the scenes specials, and in the "Grave Danger" clip it mentions that Laudanum is "...a very intense kind of alcohol, or like ethanol, that would kill somebody…" which is not actually true. In the show itself we see the bottle:

Which confirms that laudanum is a combo of Opium (45 and 1/2 grains per ounce) and Alcohol (40%).

It also says Poison and CMOT Dibbler... The poison angle (is it poison? well yes... if you take enough) has been covered in another post by @queerfables who talked about the make up of laudanum as well. CMOT Dibbler is a great nod to Sir Terry of course :)

What do I want to add? That yes, laudanum is in fact an opioid, and was actually an incredibly popular and over-used drug in the 18th and 19th centuries, both in real life and maybe more importantly in novels of the time. Proceed under the cut!

In my non-duck life I work in a field with some familiarity with opioids, so I also want to add that while yes, opioids can make you loopy, they are ultimately a soporific (meaning a sleep aid, a downer, a relaxant), a pain reducer, cough suppressant, and a respiratory depressant. That last bit is why they can be deadly in the case of an overdose.

So let's get back to laudanum. Yes, it was used post-surgically, but quite often would also be prescribed to (predominantly) women with various aches or pains that their doctors couldn't (or wouldn't bother) investigating. Subsequently women would become addicted to the opioid, needing more and more to achieve the desired effect, leading to eventual death or any of the other mental, emotional, or socioeconomic ills of addition.

Given the above and the era's fascination with the "sexiness" of wasting diseases such as consumption (hmmm, cough plus pain, perfect for treatment with laudanum!) laudanum was also a little bit of a romantic drug. It was also popular in novels of the era such as those in the Gothic Romance genre. (A quick peek at Wikipedia turns up lots of examples... though I'm sure a literature expert of the era would have lots more to add.)

All of which to say! The Resurrectionists as a minisode is channeling some pure Gothic Romance (think Mary Shelley's Frankenstein - pub 1818, etc) so laudanum is the PERFECT poison for Elspeth to pick. It dulls pain and at sufficient doses suppresses the respiratory system to the point of death. Without the modern miracle of Narcan or naloxone, death is all but assured. Of course, then, enter Crowley.

You know what laudanum doesn't do? Give you an Alice in Wonderland experience and make you specifically shouty about people not killing themselves. Now, this could be how opioids affect demons (it's possible), or the more entertaining option is that Crowley has no clue what laudanum is or isn't supposed to do, saw the poison and alcohol label, and decided to have a bit of fun while doing some deniable (the laudanum made me do it! honest!) good. It's also handy that he doesn't need to do mundane human things like breathing. So he gets to sing about Scotland, save the human, and get hugged by Aziraphale - pretty good day... until he gets Lightning Sanded to Hell.

I'll just add here that the laudanum plot line works well if we are taking the minisodes at face value... OR if we are reading them as Aziraphale's version of events of the past, especially with the literary aspect.

Bonus: If you've made it this far, maybe you'll come along with me on a little cross-fandom jaunt.

I'm also a massive fan of the Aubrey/Maturin series - Patrick O'Brian's books set in the early 1800s and starring Captain Jack Aubrey and Doctor Stephen Maturin. If you've read the series or even watched the Master and Commander movie you may know... those two characters have their own odd couple thing going on and quite a collection on AO3 :) . Anyhow. In the books Stephen is hooked on laudanum for a good while, mostly to dull the pain of a love that cannot be acted on. That's actually what got me started thinking about this post since there are certainly some parallels there.

Thanks for sticking with me on this ramble!

#good omens meta #the resurrectionists #laudanum #tw opioids #tw substance abuse #tw death #1827 #good omens s2 #good omens 2 #the resurrectionists minisode #a duck talks #gos2 #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #tw suicide

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maximoff-forevermore · 5 months

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Memories

Summary: You and your fiancé, Frankie "Catfish" Morales, get into a car accident.

Warnings: No use of Y/N, mentions of SA, child abuse, child SA, mentions of abusive relationship (not between Frankie and reader), mentions of drug use, allusions to murder (self-defence), mentions of military, mentions of divorce, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, mentions of anxiety, drugs, no happy ending, barely edited, I think that's all? If I've missed something, let me know

A/N: I kind of stole this idea from a friend of mine, @/ramblers-let's-get-ramblin. She said she sort of dumped all of her trauma into a google doc and made it a fic, and I did the same thing. This is kind of a mopefest, and I've never written anything and posted it before, so I hope you enjoy, as much as you can, anyway.

Word Count: 2.5k

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

You remember sitting in front of a fireplace.

Winter had come in the lashing of wind on the windows, glass shaking and a roof made of heartbreak and filth barely withstanding the cold it had withstood many times before.

You had held your sister close, your blood, your only love, to your chest, whispering in her ear as she cried over her first breakup.

When her sobs had eased, and the spot of your skin her shoulder dug into had grown numb, you whispered, “You will find the right one.”

You whispered those words a lot.

Whispered them into your pillow, into the mirror, into your own hand to muffle your cries as the second, then third and fourth stepfather took what he wanted from you.

You needed to remember those words.

If you were being completely honest, the first time you let a man put a ring on your finger, you knew he had not been the right one.

You knew because you did not know him.

All you knew was that he had a house without the echo of your mother’s vicious screams and a bed for you to sleep in that would not be tainted with the hands of men who never asked.

At least marrying him was something akin to permission.

At least a wedding ring would stave anyone else off.

And so, you married him.

The man you did not know, the man who believed to love you but truly wanted to possess you, you married him.

With time, you came to love him.

Professionals would have called it something like Stockholm Syndrome, but for you, then, it had been love.

You never left the house—simply were not allowed to.

You studied online, but only in the dark, hiding your laptop screen from the man you loved.

You justified it, merely saying he would support you when the time came.

He worked, he slept, he ate, he fucked, though not always you, and it hurt when it wasn’t you, but in the darker part of your mind, you knew it was best.

You forgot what it was like to leave the house, to live under a sun and to live with love and laughter and friends.

Your sister stayed in touch, but she was the only one.

Eventually, through a sequence of unspeakable events, of bruises all over your body and blood on a nightgown that barely fit, you would sit in a courtroom for months, and, finally, listen to the judge call it “self-defence”.

The judge said a lot of things, as did the lawyers.

You didn’t listen to any of them.

There was this harrowing silence within you, it drew in the things of everyone around you, melting them, turning them into puddles of distance, where their faces blurred and their words, sometimes accusations and sometimes comforts, fell on ears that weren’t yours because surely if they were yours you would be able to use them?

You had thought, during those months, that perhaps no pain or silence would ever live up to that.

You had been wrong.

Now, you lie in a hospital bed, a few years later.

Years spent healing, loving, learning, studying, and now, finally, dying.

Your sister had said it with such relief.

“You won’t die. You’re going to be fine.”

No. Lie.

You were dying. That’s what this feeling was.

It had to be death.

You had not answered, staring ahead, waiting for one person to step into your line of vision.

Frankie. Your Frankie.

It was a coma.

Your Frankie locked in a coma.

How he would hate to ever be such a thing.

You knew it, because you knew him.

Loved him, as he knew and loved you.

You had healed together, learned together, loved together, grown together.

You had met when he and a horrid, filthy drug pierced his system, and he needed it to.

You had “cut right through his bullshit”, as he always said when he told the story, refusing to go out with him.

He always said he changed because you didn’t ask him to.

You had not given him conditions, you had not asked him to grow or be someone new, you had looked at him, seen him for what he was, and denied him.

You had needed him to be someone he wasn’t, so you had said no, instead of asking him to be different.

And thus, he had changed.

Changed because he had needed you, exactly as you were, and would not stop until you could be his as much as he was already yours.

He joked in the years after the first kiss, joked that his heart had buried itself behind your ear the first time his fingers had brushed yours as he handed you a drink.

For Halloween, you had asked to go as Morticia and Gomez Addams.

“It fits us,” you said, grinning broadly, wooden spoon in your hand as you stirred his favourite.

You always made his favourite, he always whispered that anything you made was his favourite, so maybe you were cheating.

But still, it was his favourite.

That was all that mattered.

Frankie shook his head. “No.”

You were dumbfounded. He never said no to you.

The first few months you’d scolded him for it, telling him he needed to tell you when he wasn’t okay, when he needed to say no.

He promised he would, but he never said no.

This might have been the first time, so you nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

He shrugged, moving around the kitchen island, coming up behind you, his arms like puzzle pieces fitting around your waist.

Perfect.

The two of you were perfect together.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “I just think we should save Morticia and Gomez for when we get married.”

You leaned back into his words, smiling a smile you thought your lips would never be capable of. “When we get married?”

“When,” he promised into your scalp, smile matching yours.

The ring wasn’t on your finger now.

Someone else was keeping it, you weren’t sure who, but it wouldn’t fit on your left hand, aching and swollen and bandaged.

The doctors would not say anything to you at first, then they said he was in a coma.

When they finally told you his condition, you had screamed.

Screamed so loud you knew the sleep of some of the other patients had been disturbed.

You had sobbed and wailed and one of the nurses had tried to calm you, explaining that the vicious pain all throughout your torso was from your injuries, but you deserved it.

Deserved the cuts and scrapes and stabs and stitches because you were here and he was not and there was nothing that could right that wrong but the pain of your body was a step.

Eventually, they called your sister, and your other sister who was not yours by blood but yours all the same and they had held you.

Flowers sat at your bedside table, flowers for the wounds, oh, but the wounds meant nothing.

Nothing next to the pain inside.

The injuries, you supposed, were a happy coincidence.

Because they kept you bedridden, and the only thing that had kept you from suicide was the fact that you simply had not the muscles nor movement to do so.

The nurse had come in later, when the tears had stopped but not dried, when the screaming had stopped coming from your mouth but still echoed in your mind, and told you to sleep.

You didn’t.

Your eyelids were so heavy, your body so stiff, your head aching.

You didn’t close your eyes, lest you miss it.

People talked about hallucinations, about losing a loved one and seeing them afterwards.

So you kept your eyes open.

Waiting. Looking. Watching.

You needed to see him.

You needed it.

Craved it.

But he wasn’t there.

And that wasn’t fair.

You had been through so much, so many hands, so many locked doors, so many tears, surely you were insane?

Surely you saw things that weren’t there?

He wasn’t here.

So you had to see him.

You didn’t, though.

You didn’t see anyone.

Your sisters came again the following morning, with soft smiles and softer words and the softest hands.

They said your mother wanted to visit.

Your chest was too tight to say anything, but your sister who shared your soul and not your blood touched your hand—not gripped it, for fear of broken bones and split skin—and promised she would never let that happen.

Frankie’s brothers, his military brothers, came to visit you, too.

You cried when you saw them, they cried with you.

Santiago had sat next to you as everyone else began to filter out.

He’d opened his mouth, and you knew what he’d been about to say.

“Don’t,” you whispered, tears burning their way up your throat. “I don’t care. I just—I can’t, please. Not—not right now.”

He had nodded, tears in his own eyes, holding you to his shoulder carefully as sobs so violent they ripped stitches wracked your broken body.

Santiago had gone with Frankie that day, many days ago, now, to change his will and leave everything to you.

Frankie and Santiago had both thought it a secret, but Frankie’s beautiful, little girl had come running to you, and you had known for months.

You didn’t want to hear about the will. Not now.

Not ever.

You talked about it often, the money Frankie had come into when his absent, Scrooge McDuck–type of father had died, and, for some unknown reason, left it all to Frankie.

It was a running joke; the rich, older man you’d swindled, the money you’d ultimately have because of the ring he was always planning to put on your finger.

Truthfully, the money had always meant shit to you.

Growing up poor as dirt, money had been a luxury, and you would never take it for granted.

But around Frankie?

Money meant nothing.

There was no richness to compare to the richness of the laughter he gave you when you cracked a foul joke, no amount of swimming in pools of gold to compare to swimming in pools of water with his arms around you and your legs around him.

Money was four letters short of happiness, because you needed nine letters to spell Francisco.

When Santiago left, Frankie’s ex trundled in, having stayed good friends with Frankie after the divorce and hitting it off with you.

There had been something special about it, exchanging stories and tears and memories with her, while Frankie’s daughter napped with her head painfully digging into the ruin the car had left of your thigh.

Then the nurse had ushered them out, and you’d asked if your sister could come back.

The nurse couldn’t say no, not to you, not with a ruined body and a worse heart, so your sister had come back briefly.

You had asked her to bring your laptop.

“You can barely type,” she had said.

You shook your head. “I need to. Please. Please let me put this somewhere.”

Your words slurred, either from the drugs coming through the IV in your hand or the cuts on your face.

Your sister had nodded, kissing your forehead, avoiding your damage, and the nurse handed you the laptop about an hour later.

She was right.

You could barely type.

Still, you had to write something.

Something broken. Something unfinished. Something sad. Something lonely.

Something like you.

Writing was never your thing, it was just something you did.

In your room, in between school and homework and nights you didn’t speak of, you wrote.

You wrote a lot in the time you spent locked in a house with a ring on your finger and not a soul who knew you but a sister you couldn’t see.

You’d lost it, getting out, turning to studies that consumed your time, turning to Frankie.

You found it again now, with hands that can barely type, a body in pain but barely noticeable.

You know you don’t really feel it.

Not yet.

The realising will come later.

You doubt you’ll survive.

You won’t have to leave the hospital, not for a good long while, and that’s the biggest relief you could possibly get.

You don’t have to eat. You don’t have to think.

You can just lie here, pain eating away at every muscle you own, half-curled into yourself as your tears refuse to let your pillow dry, thinking about Frankie.

Every memory you have, every smile he gave you, every moment, you lie there and stare at nothing while you think about him.

You may never think about anything else ever again.

You don’t know if you have the strength.

Everyone around you is waiting for you to snap. For the ball to drop and for you to start screaming and throwing blame.

You can’t.

Anger takes energy, anger requires for there to be something within you.

There’s nothing left.

You’re a hollow shell of a creature, the only thing you’re capable of doing is remembering.

You messaged a few friends online. You’re grateful for all of them. There’s this understanding between you, that you’re going to act like a normal person with a normal life, and they’re going to let you. They don’t avoid it, but they don’t mention it, not unless you do.

That means more than they think. For them to let you pretend, for them to pretend with you.

Sometimes they help bring you back to reality, telling you it’s going to suck and nothing will feel right.

That helps.

You don’t know what else could possibly help you, but you think you might have a suspicion.

So you get someone to bring you a pillow, put it on your lap and place your laptop on top, like a makeshift desk.

You start typing.

Stories, memories, Frankie.

You’ve heard of people who avoid the names of their spouses but you can’t. Won’t.

You can’t stop saying it, writing it.

He needs to be alive, he has to be, or else whatever remains of you will fade into nothing.

He has to be alive somewhere.

So you write.

Tomorrow, you don’t think you’ll have the energy to do such a thing.

You find you don’t have much energy, not anymore.

For now, you write.

It’s all you can do.

Someday, what’s left of your resolve will drip away into the hollowness of where Frankie should be.

Then you’ll wither away into a shadow, into a broken doll forgotten under the bed.

Either that shadow will regrow into a person, or it won’t.

You have no idea which it might be, and you’re scared.

You wrap yourself in memories and tears so you might continue to feel, but wrapping yourself is so tiring.

You’re so tired.

You’ve been hospitalised for four days, awake for two, maybe three.

You have no idea how you’re supposed to live past midnight tonight.

Maybe you won’t.

Maybe your injuries and your hurt and your hollowness will carry you away in the night, never to be seen again.

Maybe all that’s left of you will be the words on paper that you give to Frankie.

Maybe that’s all you want.

To be with Frankie.

Whether in his arms, or two words on a page, or in the ground, you just want to be with him.

Maybe you’ll live.

Maybe you won’t.

The doctors had come into your room three times.

The first, they refused to tell you anything.

The second, they said he was in a coma.

The third time—

True happiness was nine letters long, while death only four.

But four had been enough.

Tags: @planet-marz1 @catchallfangirl @pamasaur @janaispunk

#frankie ‘catfish’ morales #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie ‘catfish’ morales x f!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales fanfiction #angst #very angsty pookie #my writing

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miss-celestial-being · 6 months

Text

Drift Away

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

request | masterlist

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: eddie munson x fem/gn!reader

𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: a stranger dms you about the love of your life

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: mentions of suicide, heavy mentions of death, mentions of cutting, depressed!eddie, reader thinks its their fault

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 919 (basically a blurb)

𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠: please please please read the warnings. based on this instagram reel.

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

Laughter rings throughout the house. Love fills your heart as you watch your little girls play with their dolls--likely plotting the end of the world together. You take a sip from your mug as your phone lights up.

Instagram Notification

You hold up your phone in front of your face to unlock it, frowning at the direct message request.

hello are you y/n y/l/n that lives in the town hawkins?

You quickly send back a message.

Hello Could I ask why?

They reply within seconds.

do you know someone called eddie munson?

The name nearly makes your breath hitch.

Yes. He was an old friend of mine. I'm talking ages ago.

Not technically a lie, you think to yourself.

i found a mixtape made by him and i would like to share it with you

You look up at the girls and smile sadly, imagining what could've been as you type out your response.

That would be great!Eddie was my High School lover. I haven't heard that name in years!

i will send the mixtape now

The three dots pop up again, then fall, and then, after another several minutes, they send an audio message. You look again at those girls, who look so much like Eddie you'd think he was their father. You look down at the dimmed screen in your hand and only now realize how long you were staring dazedly at your daughters. You tap the screen before it goes completely dark and stand up, walk to the comfort of your bedroom, and close the door.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself, putting in your earbuds before you press play. You listen to the calming melody, so far from what you remember Eddie's music to sound like that you almost think the person who messaged you was pulling your leg. However, as the lyrics start, and you hear that gravelly voice of the man you never stopped loving, you feel a sense of gratitude to the stranger for letting you hear this after all these years.

"I think of you all the time, now that you're gone." He sings, and a lump begins to form in your throat, your vision suddenly going blurry. You think back to all the memories you made with the love of your life, think of the happy and the sad, the bitter and the sweet, and everything in between. With Eddie, there was no bad. not even during arguments.

"I've been doin' all kinds of drugs to get you out of my mind." a silent tear falls and you cover your mouth to hide in your sobs. You remember this. You remember all the pain he was going through, all while playing it off so you wouldn't see just how much he was hurting. You remember the final fight you had, the one that ended it all. You remember the way he cut you off from his life after you got mad at him for keeping it all bottled up. You know you shouldn't have, that you should've been more understanding, you know it then too, but you were fed up. You were done seeing him hurt, not only from the pains life put him through but from his own pocket knife and the substances he put in his body.

“'Cause I noticed you don't like me no more and it breaks my heart." You want to go back in time; to tell him he's wrong, that you love him with all your heart and just want to see him get better. But you know that you can't, that it's too late, that you'll never be able to hold him again.

"So I'll just drift away and disappear for a while." At that you finally fall to the floor, your body shaking in time with your cries of pain and grief. You can hear the door open and three sets of feet walking into the room. You can feel the large arms that hold you every night wrap around your wilting frame, the smaller ones cuddling into your sides. But none of this does anything to mend the shattered, trapped heart; none of this brings Eddie back.

An hour passes before you notice the mixtape stopped playing that beautiful, sad voice; before you notice the last message the stranger sent.

do you know how i could contact him? i thought i would share it with him as well

Your fingers tremble, tears filling your eyes again.

I'm sorry but Eddie passed away over a decade ago now. He struggled with his mental health severely.

You close your eyes the moment you press send, letting your phone slip from your hands as you let your tears flow. Eddie's smile flashes through your mind; his laugh plays in your ears; you can almost feel the long, messy curls that draped over his face; you can nearly smell the cologne that he only bothered to put on when you came over; you can taste the salty kisses you shared after you caught him in the bathroom with his knife.

You hate yourself every day for letting him shut you out. You want to scream at the world for taking him from you. You're mad at yourself for not being happy with your current life; for not loving your husband completely; for letting your heart belong to the ghost of your past that still haunts you inside. But most of all, you hate that this was all your fault.

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astroyongie · 19 days

Text

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Paranoid

Note: Sorry for taking so long to update this one. The angsty series continues with this one

Pairings: Mark x Reader

Warnings: HEAVY ANGST!!! mentions of suicide, mentions of depression and anxiety, drugs and medications, mentions of death.

Music: https://open.spotify.com/intl-pt/track/5hhxHo29bE78Y18gbhamlF?si=af661e1c52ca494e

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You entered inside your Massarati, locking the doors as you allowed your body to hit the comfort of the red leather. Your brain hammered inside your skull, the instant pulse making you regret every decision you had taken earlier that night. Pushing your thoughts aside, you sniffed your feelings away, starting the car.

The roaring purr came to life, as you drove the vehicle back into the street, leaving behind you the luxury hotel where the MAMA awards after party is being held. You just couldn’t spare another moment in their company, not when everyone was happy and laughing and you just wanted to scream on the top of your lungs. Entrainment industry was a pit of snakes, you name it, idols, actors, sponsors, managers all seeking for money and fame to the expenses of people's pain and blood.

As you sat behind the wheel, your grip on reality seemed to wane with every passing mile. The rhythmic hum of the engine blended with the erratic beats of your heart, echoing the chaotic dance of thoughts you fought to forget. You prayed that no police stopped you as your dilated pupils betrayed your altered state.

The world outside blurred, while your mind teetered on the edge of euphoria and unease. You felt your body shiver, the aftermath of your reckless behaviors coming for you. Without thinking twice, you stopped on the side of the road. If you kept speeding in such a state you would end up hurting someone. Taking a deep breath as you tried to collect yourself, you hissed from muscular spasm.

“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath, hands gripping the wheel tighter.

You looked at yourself through the rearview mirror. Your make-up was smuggled across your face, your eye shadow fading as your mascara tainted beneath your eyes. Seeing your reflection, made your stomach twist in disgust. You were Y/n, an idol of one of the most successful girl groups of your generation. You were loved and talented, earning jealousy from others. Yet you couldn't bear the sight of yourself. Despite all compliments you often received from others, you found it hard to believe them.

Little did they know that you were fighting for your life, each passing second.

MAMA had been held tonight and without surprise, your group won best feminine group of the year. People expected you to be happy and screaming in joy, but you sucked at pretending. How would you exaggerate such an emotion when it was something that you were already aware of, as these shows were all planned out and rigged. What wasn’t planned out however, was the speech made by NCT 127 in honor of Mark Lee.

To you, it had felt like millions of needles piercing your heart, as you had to stand there and hear about it without being able to show any hint of emotion. Betraying sadness would have made you look like a hypocrite in the eyes of the public. To them, you had no connection to Mark, mourning in public would be giving people reasons to gossip.

At the after party, you were hit with a wave of questions related to your relationship with Mark, having to hear the most pathetic excuses from rich sponsors. It had ripped your heart, and again due to your idol image, you had to pretend that you weren't hurt. You had ended up sniffing a whole line, in hope it would quiet your thoughts, numb the unstoppable pain and growing anxiety at the pit of your stomach.

If Mark saw you today, he would have been disappointed and the thought of it, made you want to sink deeper in anything that would stop such guilty thoughts.

“Fucking pricks” you cursed out again, your hands hitting without much strength, the wheel of your car.

You reached for your purse, grabbing your pills prescribed for your generalized anxiety. Without counting, you pour some into your hand, proceeding in swallowing the drug, hands shaking. You groaned at the feeling, praying to all entities that no sasaeng or paparazzi was around. A scandal was the last thing you needed at the moment.

Being an idol has been the worst mistake of your life.

No. Not answering that phone call had been the worst fucking decision of your life.

You still remembered it clear as water. It was a friday night, the rain poured outside. You and Mark had just got into a stupid argument because of another girl idol that was hitting on him. That night you had lost control of your anger, violently pushing Mark away and cursing him out with the worst insults without hearing his version. Slamming the door of his apartment, you had left back to your own place. You knew Mark had been having some rough weeks with promotions. He had barely slept in days, had not eaten much and you had thought of preparing him a date night would help with his own anxiety and inner turmoils.

Instead, you had left him there after something egoistic that communication would have solved. You remember driving down to your place. Your phone had rang. His name appeared on the screen as you had ignored it. Mark had proceeded to call you two more times that you equally ignored, unable to digest your anger at that moment.

The memory made the air in your lungs knock you out. You felt your airways getting restrained as if something was blocking it. Seeking for air, you started hyperventilating, sobs coming out of your mouth. Hot, big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks as you cried. It was always the same goddamn thing.

Mark had died tragically that same night, 3 months ago. The next thing you learnt was that your boyfriend had been taken to the emergency room but didn't make it out alive. His lungs filled in dioxyde carbone smoke from what his parents had explained to you. An accident, the doctors said, gas that had leaked. How, didn't matter to you. All you could think about was how he had called you that night, for help. But your own anger and frustration blinding your reason, declining his call–

You had killed him, you were convinced. If only you hadn’t been so caught up in childish feelings, Mark would have been by your side.

“Do it”

The voice on your head echoed like a prayer, which made you stop breathing for a short seconds out of surprise. You looked at the bottle of your pills still there in your hands. Perhaps you had to pay for what you had done. Your hand tightened around the plastic bottle, tears streaming down your face.

You missed him so much.

You were tired of life. Nothing made sense to you. Perhaps, this was the best solution.

You took a few more pills, swallowing the lorazepam dry. You groaned at the feeling on your throat, coughing before the bottle fell from your hands, spilling the content next to your feet and pedals. You cried heavily. You didn't remember crying like this at his funeral, the emotions numbed by the denial of the situation. Your hand went to your chest, gripping at the fabric of your dress as you tried to rip away this feeling consuming you.

It took a few minutes. Between the alcohol consumed tonight, the cocaine and the unknown number of lorazepam, you started to feel your body getting heavy. Your crying eventually ceased and your breathing became constant. You close your eyes, dreaming of his touch, of his presence. You didn't know if you deserved such confort, but your mind was too messed up, too high to rationalize.

“Y/n”

The rough voice jolted you awake, its resonance seeming to penetrate your very consciousness. With effort, you willed your eyes to open, greeted by the sight of Mark seated beside you. Despite the haze of grogginess, a smile tugged at your lips as you acknowledged him.

“Mark” you murmured, unable to tell if the whole scenario was an illusion your brain had mastered “Am I dead yet?”

“No” Mark said. He was worried, the timber of his voice reminding you, you were amidst danger. Although you couldn't clearly see his face, you swore to yourself he was real. Sitting next to you on the passenger seat, he wore the same clothing from the day of his death. His face was a strange gray color but his eyes still held the warmness of his bubbly personality.

“My head” you whined to yourself, unable to move your body, lethargy taking over you. He wasn’t real, you knew it deep down. This was the drug's side effects, there was no other explanation for this. Your head felt light, yet, the need for sleep was taking over your body as you felt your eyes closing.

“Stay awake Y/n” Mark said in a hurried voice, stopping you from fluttering your lids close. You groaned, trying to rub your eyes but your hand was too heavy to move. Everything seems to be going slower than normal, as if the world was holding its breath.

“I am sleepy” you said but tried to move nonetheless, trying to reach for Mark’s touch. It was stupid really, you thought. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many words but your lips were not in sync with your mind. You needed to apologize, ask for his forgiveness. You moaned in pain, the dizziness making you nauseous.

“Y/n” he called again and you forced yourself to look at him. Your mouth was like papersand, you were thirsty. “breathe deeply, through your nose” he indicated and you tried to follow his indications. Your body felt on fire, as the effects of the dangerous cocktail coursed through your veins.

“It hurts”

“I know”

Waves of dizziness and disorientation crashed over you, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination. Nausea clawed at your stomach, threatening to erupt with each passing moment. Your heart raced erratically, its frenetic beats echoing the chaos within. Every breath felt labored, as if the air around you had turned thick and suffocating.

“Why did you leave me?” you asked and the pain in your chest became more prominent. You were torn between throwing up and punching a hole in your chest to breathe properly. “Why did you left me”

You must have lost your mind. Deep down you knew this wasn't Mark, this was just a fruit of your imagination, one that your guilty paranoid self needed to see. So many nights asking for a chance of asking forgiveness and yet amidst your crisis all you could master was blaming him for these feelings.

“I am sorry,” Mark murmured, the words echoing against your eardrums. It hurted you, it felt like you were bleeding from the inside out. “Y/n, you need to wake up. You need to call someone”

No, you thought. by doing that you would have to go back to the reality which meant leaving Mark behind. Even if this wasn't real, it was the closest thing you had to seeing him.

“But I miss you” you said, the tears clouding your eyes. His bloodied face smiled down at you.

“I know. But you can't be with me for now”

“Why?” The words left your mouth with a desperate sob. In the midst of this torment, a profound sense of dread settled over you, a haunting reminder that you would never be able to feel his touch, his laugh ever again.

“There's too much you need to do for me, Y/n.” In your mind it made sense. you and mark had made so many plans together, from trips to getting a dog, from getting an apartment together to going to that stupid Beyonce show. “Can you do that? Can you live for me?” The urgency in his voice couldn't be ignored even when you moved your head from side to side, crying.

You were getting paranoid there was no explanation. How could he expect you to live, to experience everything you had promised to do by his side, by yourself? you understood, to honor his memory it was important, to honor his love for you, you couldn't allow yourself to go through such a dark path. Your heart ached so much. Was love worth all this pain?

“Live for me”

You wanted to open your mouth but you couldn't. You had yet to apologize, but your anxiety was ruling over every parcel of your cells. Closing your eyes for a second, to recollect yourself you breathed. It felt like you were inhaling sharp needles, your lungs writhing in devious pain. Mark’s words repeated itself in your brain. Forcing yourself to open your eyes, before looking at the passenger seat. Mark wasn't there anymore.

Instead, your phone layed there, abandoned next to your purse. You screamed in pain, forcing yourself to move your body, your muscles feeling like they were ripping inside of you. As you reached for it, with trembling hands, you pushed yourself back to your initial position, swallowing the bile that had recoiled around your mouth. Then you pressed the emergency room, putting the phone on speaker.

“911, what’s your emergency” the masculine voice behind the phone asked and you sighed through your sobs.

“Please help me. I can’t die. I have to live. Please”

You didn't want to live. But you had agreed to one thing. The only way to be forgiven for your sin, was to live for Mark. To that, you would willingly give your life for.

#mark lee #nct 127 mark #nct mark #mark x reader #nct 127 #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 headcanns #nct 127 headcanons #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 reactions #mark headcanons #mark lee imagines #mark lee scenarios #mark lee x reader

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kaminokatieemoved · 1 year

Note

Hi Hi! How are you?

I read the Sal fic you wrote and I loved your writing. :)

So, here I am to ask for some angst with Sal x F!Reader, where she is Larry's younger sister (two years younger than him), and after his death, she starts drinking and smoking, because she's never done these things before, so when Sal realizes what's been going on, he tries to comfort her. Oh, and while she's drunk at the moment, she ends up confessing that she likes Sal.

Help || Sal Fisher

Synopsis - The gang is worried about you after the death of your brother Larry. Your best friend Ash asks Sal to go to your apartment and help you. When he arrives, he finds you drunk and a confession ensues.

Warnings - SFW. Swearing. Alcohol Consumption. Smoking (Cigarettes). Mentions Of Drug Use. Depression. Mentions Of Suicide. Slight Angst. Low Self-Esteem.

Fancy Buying Me A Coffee?

The call came that night from Sal. You answered, already panicked since your brother didn't show up for dinner with Henry and your mother. "Hello?" You asked as soon as you picked up your phone.

"Y/N," came Sal's voice from the other end. He sounded like he'd been crying.

"Sal? Is everything okay?" You asked, heart dropping into your stomach at the sounds of sniffling coming from the other line.

"Larry's dead," was all he said. You were silent for a minute as you tried to compute what he had just blurted out. "Y/N?"

"What do you mean 'Larry's dead'?" You asked, panic evident in your voice.

"Come to the basement," Sal said before putting the phone down.

You rushed as fast as you could, bidding Henry and Lisa a quick goodbye before making your way down to the basement to meet Sal. When you arrived at the basement, Sal was nowhere to be found. So, you made your way outside to the treehouse you all frequently visited only to see him pacing up and down outside below the ladders. "Sal!" You called out, running over to him.

"Y/N," his voice came from behind his prosthetic. It broke as he said your name indicating that he had been, and still was, crying.

"Sal," you whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Larry's dead," he sniffled, pointing to the treehouse. "He's dead Y/N! He killed himself!"

You didn't want to believe Sal. You wanted to believe that this was all just a sick, cruel joke that your brother had thought of but deep down in your heart you knew it wasn't. Sal continued pacing up and down outside the treehouse, your arm slipping off his shoulder as you stood staring up at the entrance in shock. Tears formed in your eyes, your brother couldn't be dead. You were on the phone to him not even an hour ago saying you were excited to spend some quality family time together. "Is he... Up there?" You asked, voice shaky.

Sal shook his head. "No, but look at these texts I got. I rushed over as soon as he sent them," Sal passed his phone to you and you scrolled through the texts Larry had sent to him. The tears fell from your eyes and your stomach turned.

Your brother really was dead.

After that day, your life had become more than miserable. You found solace in the bottom of bottles of alcohol and smoked in futile attempts to forget the pain you were feeling. You had isolated yourself from all of your friends, keeping yourself locked in your small apartment hardly ever seeing the light of day. Your best friend, Ash, had become really worried for you. After Larry's death, you had stopped taking care of yourself only brushing your teeth once every other day and showering when you needed to leave the apartment to get groceries once a month. "This is getting out of hand Y/N," Ash had said to you upon one of her daily check-ins with you.

"Did you even care about my brother?" You snapped, taking a swig from an almost empty bottle of whisky situated on your bedside table.

"Of course I did," Ash said sadly. "I loved your brother like he was my own brother but, he wouldn't want us to mourn like this."

"It doesn't matter what he would want, does it? He's dead."

Ash had left your apartment feeling so defeated. She knew you cared for Sal, loved him even, and would value his opinion more than anything she could ever say. So in an attempt to help you, Ash shot Sal a text asking him to go over to your apartment to speak to you. If anybody could help you, it would be him. As soon as Sal received the text from Ash he was quick to put on his prosthetic and his shoes and leave his home to head to yours. Sal had been worried sick about you over the last few months after all he cared for you more than he had ever cared for anybody. To see you hurting, to see you drinking and smoking, killed him inside.

When Sal reached your apartment, he knocked on the door and waited for you to answer. He stood patiently waiting and heard a few bumps followed by an "ow" before the door flung open, revealing you with a fresh bottle of whisky in your hands. "Sal," you slurred, opening your arms and throwing them around him, enveloping the man into a bone shattering hug.

"Are you drunk?" He asked, pulling away from the hug and staring down at you from his prosthetic.

"It depends," you giggled. "Are you drunk?"

"No. You know I don't drink Y/N," Sal said. He motioned his head to your apartment and sighed. "May I come in."

"Of course," you giggled again, stepping aside clumsily and allowing Sal to walk into your apartment.

You plopped down onto the sofa and took another drink of whisky before lighting up a cigarette. "You really shouldn't be smoking that in here," Sal said sternly as he watched you.

"Whyyyy?" You asked.

"Because this is an apartment complex," Sal explained. "You can't go lighting up cigarettes and blunts whenever you feel like it."

"You're boring," you said sillily, a pout on your lips. You looked at Sal as you took a drag from your cigarette. Despite his prosthetic you could feel the disappointment on his face. It shook you to your core. "Ash asked you to come didn't she?" You said after a few moments of silence. Sal nodded. "You wouldn't be here if she didn't. You don't care about me."

Sal's mouth hung open, his chin poking out the bottom of his prosthetic. He was shocked by what you had said. Sure, he wasn't the best at showing people but that didn't mean he didn't care. "I care about you Y/N," was all he could say in retaliation.

"No you don't," you sighed. "The only person who truly cared about me is dead."

"That's not true Y/N and you know it," Sal said. "This is just the alcohol talking."

"No it's not. This is how I really feel Sal," your eyes began to well up as you spoke and Sal felt his own eyes tear up. "Now that my brother's dead, why would you want to hang around with me? I'm useless!"

Sal placed a hand on your thigh and squeezed lightly. "You're not useless Y/N. You might be two years younger than me, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be around you."

"Then why haven't you been here?" You sniffled, wiping the tears away from your cheeks.

"You've been pushing everybody away Y/N. It's not healthy. We want to be there for you."

You stubbed your cigarette out in the ashtray that resided on your coffee table and took another sip of alcohol. The liquid burned your throat as it sipped down but, the burn felt good when you were feeling numb inside. You looked at Sal who sat on the sofa next to you and due to the drunken haziness of your vision, there were two of him. If it wasn't for his hand on your thigh, you wouldn't have known which one to look at as you spoke. "I-I'm sorry Sally," you hiccuped. "I never meant to push you away. Let alone you of all people." Sal tilted his head to the side and listened as you spoke to him. "I'm struggling. So much. Ever since Larry died, my life has felt empty. He was one of my best friends. I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would have to live my life without him by my side."

"I know," Sal muttered. He moved his hand from your thigh to cup your cheek, wiping away the tears that were now flooding down your face with his thumb. "I know what you're going through right now. After my mum passed away, I felt exactly the same."

You heart clenched. Sal had been through so much in his short time on earth and it pained you. You looked up at him, staring deep into his eyes. Maybe it was the alcohol giving you confidence, or maybe you were just crazy, but you never meant to blurt it out. "I love you Sally." Sal's eyes widened at your confession, but was quick to regain his composure. You loved him? As a friend or as something more? Thoughts were swirling around his mind but you continued to talk. "As soon as I laid eyes on you, I fell for you. And hard too. Larry used to tease me about it all the time," you let out a soft chuckle as you remembered fondly the time Larry had found out you had feelings for Sal. He had teased you so hard that your face went bright red and you locked yourself in your room for hours out of embarrassment.

"You do?" Sal asked, still in shock.

"Obviously," you slurred, taking another sip of whisky. Your face had heated up when you had realised you had just poured out your heart to someone you considered to be one of your best friends.

Sal placed his other hand on your other cheek so he was now cupping them both in either hand. He looked deep into your eyes and spoke slowly, "I love you too."

"You do?" You asked. Your heart was racing, beating so hard in your chest you swore Sal could hear the thumping of it against your ribcage through the silence.

"I always have," Sal admitted. "I never in a million years would have thought you'd look at me in the same way I look at you Y/N."

"Why wouldn't I?" You asked.

You were swaying from side-to-side, completely off your face drunk at this point. Sal wondered if you were telling the truth, and most importantly, if you'd remember any of this tomorrow when you woke up. Sal took a shaky breath. "Look at me. I wear a prosthetic. You haven't even seen my face, how could you love a monster like me?"

"You're not a monster Sal," you whispered. "You're the most kindest, most caring, most loving person I have ever met in my entire life."

"That means a lot coming from you," Sal smiled softly. "Now what do you say to going to sleep?"

"I don't know," you said. "I want to continue drinking."

"Please Y/N, please stop," Sal begged. "It's no good for you."

You thought for a moment before finally speaking. "I'll stop drinking if you promise me something?"

"Anything," Sal said breathlessly.

"Stay with me tonight?" You suggested, tearing up once more. "I don't want to be alone."

"I'll stay with you for as long as you need me," Sal smiled at you. You nodded and stood up, grabbing Sal's hand and leading him to your bedroom. You lay down over the sheets and within seconds you were snoring. Sal smiled to himself, watching as you slept peacefully. He really did love you and care for you more than anybody else on earth. He just hoped you remembered what you said in the morning, and that you could take things to the next level with your newfound relationship.

Requested by @httpjiikook <3 Sorry for making you wait so long, I hope that you like it and it was worth the wait.

Requests are OPEN but please specify if you'd like SFW or NSFW when requesting. I am currently struggling with my mental health and as a result have low motivation to write so please be patient if you do request anything!

Fancy buying me a coffee HERE.

#Sally Face #Sally Face x Reader #Sal Fisher #Sal Fisher x Reader #Sal Fisher Imagine #Sal Fisher Imagines #Sally Face Imagine #Sally Face Imagines #Sal Fisher One Shot #Sal Fisher One Shots #Sally Face One Shot #Sally Face One Shots #Larry Johnson #Larry Johnson x Reader

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