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#tw mental health
kingkonoha · 4 months
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𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈
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♡ — FIND PART ONE HERE . . .
♡ — SUMMARY: After what happened to you & your son, Satoru couldn’t stop drinking . . .
♡ — CONTENT: fem! reader, canonverse, violence & blood, reader celebrates Christmas, mentions of food, Gojo not eating, heavy drinking, & wanting to die. Mention of Gojo’s son & the reader struggling with their disabilities.
♡ — WC: 5.4K
♡ — A/N: thank you @sircatchungus for the idea!
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There was so much blood.
It stained the walls of your home. It covered the little markings on the archway of your kitchen where you and Satoru marked the growth of your little boy.
No amount of scrubbing could ever get rid of it.
It soaked into the hardwood floors, the floors that had formerly only known the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet running along it as your little boy would run across it, arms out as he eagerly ran to his father whenever he stepped through the doors after a long mission.
The curses attacked at night, fifteen days before Christmas.
Your baby boy waddled towards the Christmas tree with a blue ornament in his hand, carefully placing it on one of the lower green branches — as high as he could reach.
Despite the holiday classics gently playing in the background, and the sweet smile across your son’s face — he was missing a tooth or two, but even so — you couldn’t manage to crack a grin. Not even a fake one.
Satoru promised that he would return home on Christmas Eve. But, for you, it wasn’t good enough.
He knew that your little family often put more effort into the days following up to Christmas almost even more so than Christmas Day itself.
On that important day, you opened presents. But, on the days leading up to it, you put up the Christmas decorations. Watched cringy Hallmark movies and drank hot chocolate. Went ice skating. Baked cookies. Visited your family. Wrapped gifts for his students.
And he would miss all of it.
“Mommy?” Your baby boy looked up at you with eyes brighter than the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree. “When dad come home?”
You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t want him to cry when you told him that his dad couldn’t watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with him this year.
He was used to Satoru disappearing at random times for unknown periods, but Satoru never missed the important stuff. Birthdays. Events. Holidays.
He never missed it until now.
“Hey,” you leaned down, placing your hands on your knees as you looked at your son. “Wanna get ready for bed? Let’s go pick out a book!”
“Okay!” He squealed, making his way for the stairs as you followed closely behind.
But, on your way to the stairs, you noticed something lying on the floor in your foyer.
“Sweetheart, what did mommy say about leaving your toys on the floor?”
Approaching the item, you started to pick it up, and it unraveled.
It wasn’t a toy at all.
It was a finger. A cursed object.
“Mommy?” Your baby boy called out, standing on the stairs. “Let’s read, Mommy.”
The curses emerged from the darkness of your dining room, drawn in by the cursed object.
The sight of the horrifically disfigured monsters brought your son to tears. He ran for you instantly, screaming for you. It only made the curses move faster. They went straight for your loud, crying son first.
There was so much blood.
“I never thought you’d fall in love in general,” Kento Nanami sipped on his glass of water as he chatted with Satoru. “But to fall in love with someone who isn’t a sorcerer is risky.”
“How so?” Satoru shrugged, leaning back on Kento’s living room couch as he sighed in utter relaxation.
“Does she know about curses? About how powerful you really are?”
“Of course she does,” Satoru smiled at the other sorcerer. “I’m gonna marry her, ya know. She knows everything.”
“You could also get in trouble for that,” Kento rolled his eyes at his friend’s idiotic behavior.
“No, I won’t. She’s just like you.” Satoru smirked a bit, thinking about how strong his future wife really was. “She can see curses, and she can kill them too, but she decided not to become a sorcerer. She hates the system, and wants me to leave it as well, just like you did before you came back.”
“I see,” Kento sat down on the couch next to the white-haired man. “So she’s one of us, kind of.”
“Yeah,” Satoru smiled fondly. “My girl doesn’t mess around.”
There was so much blood.
Nearby neighbors heard screaming and called the police.
Sirens blared through the neighborhood as a police car and ambulance arrived at your home. When they stepped into your house, blood coated the bottom of their heavy black shoes. They were certain that you and your son were dead.
No one could survive having lost that much blood.
Not a normal human, at least.
But you and your son weren’t exactly ordinary, and despite being unconscious, your chests were rising and falling. Faintly, as it certainly wasn’t a fate that would last, but it was enough for the emergency services to rush you and your baby boy to the hospital.
The skilled surgeons spent hours operating on your bodies — fixing what they could.
To ordinary investigators, it seemed as if a woman and her son were attacked by an intruder, and survived.
But, to the sorcerer society who picked up the presence of cursed energy in your home, they knew what really happened.
That you fought two first-grade curses and one second-grade curse.
It was a brutal fight, but you killed them.
Even so, when you awakened from your coma, doctors and the sorcerer society elders staring down at you as you lay helplessly in your hospital bed, you were forever changed.
No one told Satoru Gojo the truth.
Only the surgeons, first responders, and the elders knew the real fate of Satoru’s family, and the elders didn’t allow the surgeons and first responders to contact the father and husband of the two victims.
Instead, they told him that his family was dead. That it was Sukuna’s fault. They took advantage of the situation and fed him a pack of lies, all so they could convince humanity’s strongest sorcerer to allow them to execute Yuji Itadori.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he spiraled.
He went on a killing spree. He moved to a new town and nearly drank himself to death every single day.
And, little did he know, his little family had moved to the same town as well.
SEVEN YEARS LATER…
Your ten-year-old son walked down the streets of his small, cozy town. The brown and crisp fall leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he made his way down the sidewalk, and headed to your coffee shop after school.
His thumb was tucked underneath the strap of his backpack.
As he walked, staring at the ground so the setting sun didn’t shine in his eyes, he couldn’t help but frown.
School was rough today.
His class went on a field trip, and he had to witness his classmates bring their fathers along with them to the planetarium.
It broke his heart. He barely remembered his father.
He could faintly remember a man — a tall man who used to pick him up and play with him, but he couldn’t remember his face.
And, after the day you and he got attacked — although he couldn’t truly recall the event — you both never returned to your old home, where all of your pictures were.
All of your memories.
All he knew was that he wanted a dad. And he wanted to remember the man who once filled the role and figure out what happened to him.
What was he like? What did he look like? Did he have the same head of hair? Your son felt like he might have, but he wasn’t sure.
What did he do for a living? How old was he? Did he ever love his son? What happened to him?
God, his heart ached. He wanted answers, and he couldn’t get them. Not from you. Not from anyone.
He couldn’t help but wonder if his dad would have even liked him.
Perhaps, it was better if he didn’t have one, as he couldn’t play sports like most dads wanted their sons to do.
The great incident had left him with a bad leg, and he walked with a limp that often exhausted him.
He was even tired now, despite the incredibly short distance between the school and local shops.
He should have used his forearm crutch today. The field trip took more energy out of him than he expected.
And, the fact that he refused to let you leave the coffee shop, pick him up from school, and return to the coffee shop certainly didn’t help.
A tear rolled down his cheek. Even if he did have a father around, what father would want him around?
He already felt like a burden, although you never treated him as such. He just couldn’t help it.
He didn’t bother wiping away his tears, even as they clouded his vision of the leaves coating the sidewalk.
As he walked past the local bar, a tall man gently bumped into him.
“Excuse me,” your son mumbled politely.
The man reeked of alcohol.
“Sorry,” the man slurred out, walking around the boy as he made his way down the street.
Your son never looked up.
And Satoru never looked down.
When your son arrived at your cozy coffee shop, greeting the familiar regulars as he made his way to the counter, you smiled at the sight of your sweet boy.
He sat down at one of the barstools, slinging his backpack onto the counter as he pulled out his math notebook.
“Hi mom,” he greeted.
“Hi sweetheart,” you made him a cup of water and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “My homework’s on decimals. Joshua tried to eat a bug during lunch today during the field trip. It was awesome.”
“Nasty,” you playfully wrinkled your nose, which made your boy grin. “Did you have fun? I’m sorry I couldn’t go.”
“Yeah,” taking a much-needed sip of water, your son pulled out his wooden pencil and started working on his math problems. “And it’s okay.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll do something really special for your birthday.”
The boy simply nodded.
Folding your arms across your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder if your lack of attendance was better.
Not only could you not afford to close the coffee shop during business hours — your only other employees were busy with college classes — but you didn’t want to scare any of your son’s classmates.
After all, the great incident took a toll on you as well.
You lost your left eye and had a deep scar running vertically down your face. Most kids thought that it was cool, claiming that you resembled a pirate with your black eye patch. But you didn’t want to risk the chance of anyone finding it scary.
You had your fair share of other scars as well, and one missing finger.
But, none of your physical injuries could compare to your mental ones, as you also suffered from amnesia.
When you awakened from your coma all those years ago, you couldn’t remember what had happened.
Or anyone.
Or anything.
A couple of old people forced you away from the home you couldn’t remember and the loved ones you couldn’t cherish, and into a new life in a new town.
The horrific head injury you suffered while trying to protect your baby boy wiped away your past until you were nothing but a blank slate. But, after a year of being around him and constantly seeing his face, you started to remember your son.
Years later, he was all that you could remember.
Everything else was fuzzy. You remembered people, but you couldn’t remember their faces. You remembered love, but not who you shared it with.
You remembered how to do things — such as make delicious coffee, of course — but not who taught you.
But, even so, you thought that it was odd for a group of old people to rip your old life away from you.
They said it was for your safety, so the person who attacked you and your son wouldn’t find you again, but, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone out there who missed you.
Who loved you.
Who you might have forgotten.
And, technically, you knew the answer to that question. After all, your son had to have a father, but who was he? Where did he go? What did he look like?
Perhaps, you’d never know.
The very next day, on his way to the coffee shop after school, your son bumped into the drunk man again.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Sorry,” the man slurred.
Several moments later, as your son passed the entrance of the local bar, the bartender opened the door, and shouted, “hey!”
The drunk man never turned around, as he didn’t hear the bartender shouting for him. Your son stopped walking, looking up at the bartender.
“Poor guy forgot his wallet,” the bartender frowned, clenching the leather pouch in his right hand. “Guess I’ll hold on to it. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Your son flickered his eyes between the bartender and the drunken man making his way down the sidewalk.
The bartender couldn’t leave the bar unattended, even for a second, but your son figured that the man might have needed his wallet before tomorrow.
“I can give it to him, sir,” your son smiled kindly, holding out his hand.
“Thanks,” the bartender handed the wallet to the boy but stood at the bar entrance as long as he could to make sure the kid actually returned the wallet to the stranger.
An unofficial challenge between the drunken man and the limping boy was underway; a challenge to see whether or not your son could catch up to him.
But, as the man staggered around, headed nowhere in particular but in the general direction of his home, your son caught up.
He reached up and tapped the tall man’s arm.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “You dropped your wallet, sir.”
“Hm?” Satoru stopped walking, his hands in his pocket as he looked down. He made eye contact with the young boy who held his wallet up at him.
— ONE YEAR AGO —
Three gentle knocks were heard throughout Satoru’s home. It was a Sunday, and the bar was closed. Even so, the depressed man had enough alcohol at home to make it through the day, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. It just wasn’t enough.
When someone knocked on his door, he knew immediately that it was Kento Nanami. No one else visited him. No one else knew where he was.
Satoru opened the front door, leaning against it as he glared at the man with bloodshot eyes.
“Hey, Satoru,” Kento greeted softly. “Happy birthday.”
Satoru stepped away from the door. The other man walked inside.
Kento stepped into Satoru’s living room, which was unpleasantly cold, and he turned around to face his old classmate, who took a swig of his beer, loosely gripping the bottle.
“I won’t stay long,” Kento said. “I just wanted to bring you a gift.”
“What?” Satoru blinked at him.
Silently, Kento handed him a bag.
As Satoru hesitantly grabbed the gift, Kento grabbed the beer bottle.
Satoru slowly pulled out a heavy-framed photograph. A tear slipped down his cheek as his heart snapped into pieces.
“When someone passes away or goes missing, there are people who create photos and art to show what the person might currently look like using age progression.” Kento pushed up on his glasses. “I contacted one of them. Your wife looks the same, pretty much, but . . . that’s your boy. He would have been around nine years old, and that’s what he would have looked like.”
Hot tears fell from Satoru’s eyes and splattered onto the glass.
It was really you and your son — what you would have looked like if you were still alive.
His beautiful, dead family.
“Thank you,” Satoru mumbled. His hands were starting to tremble.
Kento wrapped his arms around the other man, hugging him tightly. He had to use all of his strength to not cry as well. “You’re welcome.”
“Sir?” Your son tilted his head a bit in utter confusion, as the drunken man hadn’t yet taken his wallet back. “Do you need some help? Getting home and stuff?”
Suddenly, Satoru kneeled.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Maybe he simply had too much to drink.
Maybe he was imagining things.
Because what Satoru thought — what he wanted to think — was that he was staring into his child’s eyes. That he was looking right at his baby boy, who he missed so much.
But that wasn’t possible. He was told that his family was murdered. He saw the blood.
“Thank . . . you,” Satoru slowly took the wallet back. “You . . .”
Satoru closed his eyes, and opened them again, fluttering his eyelashes as he tried to shake off what he thought was yet another vision.
Therapists told him that it was a response to grief — seeing his deceased wife and son when they weren’t there. And the alcohol running through his veins didn’t help either, as it distorted his vision a bit.
But . . . maybe, just maybe . . .
“You have’a name?” Satoru slurred out, his drunken words laced with hope.
“Noa,” your son smiled softly. “What’s yours?”
Satoru’s heart ached as his spirit was crushed once again.
His boy’s name was Ren.
The hallucinations must’ve started to return once more. Slowly, Gojo rose to his feet, putting his wallet in his back pocket.
Without another word, the man slowly started to walk off, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so.
“Mister? I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk home by yourself, you could get hit by a car or something.”
Satoru didn’t respond.
“Let me help,” the preteen limped over, grabbed Satoru’s arm, and slung it around his shoulder as best as he could. Truth be told, he didn’t help much despite his best efforts, but at the very least, he would be able to rest knowing that the stranger was safely at home.
By now, Satoru was convinced that maybe he was with a real person, perhaps an actual kid, and he was simply imagining that the young boy had his hair, nose, and eyes.
Together, Satoru and Noa walked up the steps belonging to the drunk man’s homey brownstone, and after stumbling around with the keys, Satoru managed to get the front door open, and Noa helped the man collapse on his couch.
Suddenly, his phone started ringing. Noa had five missed text messages from you.
“Mom’s gonna kill me,” Noa thought.
After all, he wasn’t responding to your messages, he was inside a drunk stranger’s home due to his overly kind heart, and he wasn’t at the coffee shop like he was supposed to be at this hour.
Not to mention; the great incident had resulted in you becoming even more protective over your boy, if that was possible.
“Hello?” Noa answered nervously.
“Noa? Are you alright? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m okay, mom,” your son said. “I was helping out a . . . friend, I’m sorry.”
“Get to the coffee shop. Now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
After hanging up, Noa faced the slumped-over stranger.
“I’m gonna go now, my mom’s waiting for me,” Noa announced awkwardly. “Do you have somebody around to watch you?”
“You look like a . . . like my son.”
“Okay,” the young boy shifted his feet on the hardwood floor. He truly didn’t know how to respond to the poor man. He must’ve been spouting drunken nonsense. “Well, have a good night, sir. Be safe.”
Noa turned around, coming face to face with a beautiful brown, brick fireplace. But what caught his attention was the photos hanging above it.
There weren’t many — only about four framed photos.
The first one he saw was a picture of a baby. It startled Noa, as the kid did look just like him. It wasn’t surprising, as Noa resembled the drunken stranger, but he had seen other people with white hair before.
“Maybe he’s my cousin’s neighbor’s dog’s mother-in-law’s brother’s uncle,” Noa childishly thought, giggling aloud at his own joke.
Then, he looked at the next picture.
It had that same kid — but it also had you. His mother.
The next picture was just of you and the stranger.
Then, finally, he looked at the last photo. It was an age-progressed picture.
It was you. It was him. But, at the same time, it wasn’t. He didn’t quite understand it — any of it — but it was creepy. And the child didn’t know what to do.
Noa turned to face the stranger, but he was fast asleep on the couch.
The young boy pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the photos, and left as quickly as he could.
Satoru awoke the next morning with a pounding headache.
What snapped him out of his sleep was the sound of his front door opening and closing. He didn’t bother raising his head to see who it was, as he already knew the answer.
“If you’re just going to leave your front door unlocked,” Kento called out from the foyer, stepping into Satoru’s home and shutting the door behind him. “Then I shouldn’t have gone through the trouble of having a key made.”
“What are you doing here?” Satoru croaked. “It’s only . . . it’s only — uh, Saturday.”
“No,” Kento stepped into the living room and glared down at the man. “It’s Sunday.”
Satoru frowned. If it was Sunday, then the bar was closed.
Not only that, but he went to the bar on Friday. He must have spent Saturday on the couch, doing absolutely nothing except making an occasional trip to the bathroom.
And Kento could tell. He looked horrible.
No human being was made to endure such self-inflicted mistreatment, no matter how powerful.
Kento had a key to the man’s home for emergencies, but eventually, he started to visit him every Sunday to help him out in any way that he could.
“Come on,” Kento sighed, “get up. You need to get out of the house and go somewhere that isn’t the bar.”
“No,” Gojo mumbled weakly.
“Gojo,” kneeling, Kento tried to look at his friend’s face, but Satoru’s eyes wouldn’t meet his. “Gojo, listen to me. You’re going to die if you keep going down this path. Maybe not soon, but eventually. When was the last time you had food and water?”
Satoru shrugged.
Kento raised to his feet. Walking away, he headed to the kitchen — which was incredibly nice for a man who didn’t cook — and opened the refrigerator.
It was empty. Of course.
“Alright,” Kento said to himself, walking back into the living room. “I’m dragging him to the grocery store.”
It was incredibly difficult, but Kento helped his friend get cleaned up and dressed and managed to get him outside. Satoru hated every minute of it. He felt nauseous. All he wanted to do was sleep and drink, or drink and sleep.
As the two men walked into the grocery store, Kento grabbed a cart and instantly started grabbing a variety of ingredients to put together at least a week’s worth of nutritious meals for Satoru.
He’d cook it and store it away in Satoru’s fridge and freezer, and all the man would have to do was heat it in the microwave.
After making his way through the produce section, Kento headed towards the cases of water, and Satoru sluggishly walked down random aisles to find a jar of pasta sauce that the other man asked him to go get.
He had to do some things on his own.
“I’m thinking we should go with asparagus instead of broccoli,” you scanned your eyes over the fresh, green vegetables, before smiling down at Noa.
“Asparagus is fine, but can you put cheese on it? Pleaseee?”
“You know what, as long as you’re eating them, I don’t care what I have to put on them,” grabbing the asparagus, you tossed them into your cart as your son clenched his fists in celebration.
You ruffled his head of white hair with your four-fingered hand.
“Stop it, mom. We’re in public,” he frowned playfully.
“Fine, fine,” you started to push your cart forward and reached over to grab a pack of tomatoes. “Go pick out your cereal. Gonna switch it up this week, or get Lucky Charms again?”
“Lucky Charms, always,” your son grinned as he started to limp away. Today, he had to wear his forearm clutch.
Helping that stranger a few days ago took a lot of energy out of him.
He didn’t speak of what happened a few days ago, either.
After all, who would he tell?
You wouldn’t have the answers — or, rather, you wouldn’t remember the answers.
He had planned on returning to the drunk man’s home to ask him the questions running rampantly through his mind.
But Noa wasn’t stupid.
He knew exactly what the pictures meant.
But he didn’t want to give himself any hope, just in case he was wrong somehow, and the drunk man wasn’t his father.
A forty-pack case of water bottles was what you needed, as you and your boy chugged water constantly. But, a careless worker had shoved the cases incredibly far away, and you couldn’t reach it and pull it onto the lower shelf of your cart. You’d have to lift it, and you simply weren’t strong enough.
The nicely dressed blonde-haired man standing further along down the aisle was.
He was rather tall and buff, standing by his cart as he scrolled on his phone, simply waiting for you — the lady in front of him, whose face he couldn't see — to move so he could grab his own case of water, grab his miserably sober friend, and take him back home.
“Excuse me,” you called out softly. “Can you help me? I can’t get this case of water.”
“Sure,” he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and he walked forward, reached down, and pulled the case of water on your cart.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
As the man was about to say “you’re welcome,” he finally looked at you.
His skin paled instantly as if he was staring at a ghost.
And he was certain that he was.
He stood there — staring at you, his throat drying to a crisp.
“I don’t know why the employees always shove the water back there,” you attempted to make small chatter, glancing away from the stranger, as you assumed he was staring at you oddly due to your eye patch, and the scar running along your face right beneath it.
“I . . .” the man couldn’t find the right words to say.
Suddenly, your son made his way down the aisle, putting his box of cereal in the cart.
“Mom, did you know they make Lucky Charms with just the marshmallows now?”
The man’s eyes flickered down to your son, and his eyes widened.
“This isn’t . . . possible,” he mumbled.
Both you and your son were still alive, and yet, you didn’t seem as shocked to see him as he was to see you.
Didn’t you remember him? He was your husband’s best man at your wedding. He babysat your little boy quite often. He cried when he heard that you and your son were killed.
And yet, you only gave him a stranger-friendly smile.
“I-”
“Y/N?”
Kento was interrupted by Satoru, who had suddenly walked down the aisle.
He dropped the jar of pasta sauce on the ground.
It shattered.
“Renny?” A tear slipped down his cheek.
He wasn’t hallucinating — he was sober enough right now to know that.
Your eyes darted back and forth between the two unfamiliar men. After all, you knew well that you suffered from amnesia, your doctors had told you, and considering the man with the white hair called you and your son by your old names — the elders made you change them — you figured that they must have been old friends of yours.
But the white-haired man bore a resemblance to your son as well.
“Hi,” you smiled awkwardly, flickering your eyes between the two men. “You two must know me. I, um, I suffer from amnesia, so I don’t really . . .”
“Remember us,” Kento finished your sentence for you.
He thought that he was going to pass out.
“Well,” he gulped, pressing a hand against his head, closing his eyes as he spoke. This was insane. “I’m . . . I’m Kento Nanami. I was an old friend of yours. And this is Satoru Gojo, he is . . . he was . . .”
Kento glanced back at Satoru. The poor man hadn’t moved an inch. He only stared at you with the saddest eyes, an occasional tear slipping from them.
“I was waiting to die,” Satoru spoke — his words struggling to come out as he did so. “I was waiting to die so I could see you two again, and you don’t . . . remember me.”
The tears were falling even faster now. It was a blessing and a curse at the same time, one that he couldn’t bear. He wanted to laugh and sob. He wanted to hold you, but he was afraid to move. His hands started to shake, but the rest of his body was still frozen.
For years, he dreamt of reuniting with you and your boy again, perhaps in the afterlife. Or, sometimes he’d dream about you coming back to life like a silly child. But a fate as cruel as you being alive, but suffering with amnesia was like a direct punishment from a god and a devil at the same time.
Gojo wanted to fucking die.
He wanted his life to end right now, even glancing up at the ceiling of the grocery store, hoping one of the gods above would grant him his silent wish.
“You don’t remember me,” Gojo repeated. None of it seemed real. “You’re alive, but you don’t remember me.”
By now, other nosey shoppers were strolling by, listening to the conversation, but pretending that they were simply searching the shelves for drinks.
Your eyes darted in Kento’s direction, and he knew that face.
It was the same face you gave him when he and Satoru returned home two days late from a mission. It was the face you gave him when you came home one day and discovered that he accidentally let your baby boy stay up past his bedtime.
That face meant that you wanted answers.
“I don’t know any better way to say this,” Kento frowned. “That’s your husband. And the father of your child.”
Noa — or, rather, Ren — limped forward.
“I knew it,” he whispered happily, approaching the crying man as a tear slipped down his own cheek as well. “I was right.”
Ren looked up at his father with the happiest grin of relief.
And, god, your son grew. He was only three when Satoru had last seen him, and now, he was staring down at his beautiful boy, who was turning eleven soon.
Your son hugged Satoru with the arm that wasn’t holding on to his singular forearm clutch.
“Finally,” your boy said, holding on to his dad as tightly as he could.
He couldn’t remember him, but he didn’t care. He was simply happy to have a father.
Satoru didn’t hesitate to hug his son back.
“God, Renny . . .” the man cried, as his heart ached terribly. “It’s really you, it’s my baby boy.”
Running a hand through his son’s white hair, Satoru pulled away from the hug, only so he could look his boy in the eyes, and see him.
“You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?” A sad chuckle fell from Satoru’s lips.
He only looked away from his son when he felt another pair of arms wrap around him.
It was you — you were hugging him.
Satoru closed his eyes in relief, his tears soaking the front of his shirt, and dripping onto the heads of his family.
You hugged him lovingly, although you couldn’t remember loving him.
Your husband — the father of your child — was nothing more than a stranger to you, but he needed this hug. You could tell how badly he missed you. How badly he wanted to hold you.
As Satoru held onto his wife and son, none of you truly understood what had happened seven years ago.
But Satoru was determined to find out.
And, in the meantime, you’d try your hardest to recover your sweet memories of him, just as you once recovered the memories of your son.
Perhaps, you’d start by making new memories as well.
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♡ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤? 𝐈’𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!
🏷: @sad-darksoul @sircatchungus @gojossocks @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @star-toruu @yobabymama @s7armin @minmin-minnie @jexx233 @asiaa2prettyy @roninishere @dreamsarenicer @starzcoffeelvr @delghoul @buttercupmuffins @dijaicar @tuliptoot @sweet-yzabelle @creative1writings @lympha @malikazz243 @bforbiblio @galagarts @enesitamor @luffysfav @chilichopsticks @misscellaneousisme @1plwushie @blackjou @gfmima @dazedflvr @safiest58ravenclaw @dyna-mights
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Once I learn how to stop being me it’s over for y’all
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4threset · 20 days
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"The Water Rabbit"
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borderlinebaby420 · 8 months
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interact if you have ever been abandoned, judged, or disliked due to your mental illness. trying to see something
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redcrowncafe · 3 months
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risustravelogue · 2 months
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Gifts of A Kind
Summary:
His love for you is the gift he's offering.
Featuring:
Zhongli, Alhaitham, Wriothesley
Tags:
Emotional hurt/comfort, love confessions, self-indulgent, reader has mental health issues and huge insecurity about her worthiness of being loved. Fem!Reader (referred to as a woman) who is having her birthday!
Note:
Me: Happy birthday to me! 🥳 Also me: *writes an emotional hurt/comfort piece with my favorites to cry* Haha. Also, I'm resting from the 1-week EBG grind, so have this for now. As always, enjoy~
🔗 AO3 | masterlist 🔗
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It’s another busy day at Bubu Pharmacy.
Sorting the medicinal ingredients in one of the back rooms, you were humming to yourself when a familiar baritone voice came from behind you.
“Happy birthday.”
You turn around to find your crush, the handsome consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, walking towards you with a huge bouquet of silk flowers, dotted with the biggest glaze lilies you’ve ever seen in your life.
“Zhongli! You remembered!” you squeal.
When the man you fancy remembers your birthday, you say thanks to Celestia above. Especially when he’s actually Liyue’s beloved archon.
—This is fine. He can never be mine, but I can have my small joys, can’t I?
“I have a gift for you,” he says with a playful lilt to his voice as he hands over the bouquet to you.
“You mean this pretty thing?”
He smiles. “No. It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”
You obey. Your heart thumps with anticipation. Maybe you’re finally getting that cute hairclip you’ve been eyeing for a while? Or maybe…
Your thoughts dissolve into thin air when you feel a soft warmth pressing against your lips and the scent of his cologne entering your sense of smell. Your eyes flutter open to find your vision filled with him.
But it’s not joy you feel inside your chest—it’s dread.
You struggle in protest, only for him to snake his left arm around you and press his lips harder against yours. He takes the bouquet away from your hands and sets it on the table behind you while nipping at your lower lip, as if asking for permission. You put your hands on his chest and push him away, breathless.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask.
Zhongli blinks, surprised.
“I thought you wanted it. Was I wrong?”
You shake your head and offer him a frown. “Why?”
“Is that not obvious? I love you.”
—What?
“What did you just say?”
He smiles as he repeats, “I love you.”
“... Heh,” you chuckle, and it turns into a full-blown laughter. “You’re lying. You wouldn’t.”
He only stares into your eyes with those golden pupils of his, his soft expression still like the mountains. You shake your head, dispersing the thoughts that maybe, just maybe—
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No one would, especially not you.”
You feel his left hand clench at the small of your back as his expression hardens. “Why not?” he asks.
A bitter smile grows on your lips. “You know why. I’m—you know. I’ll only be a burden for you. For anyone.”
“I can bear it, and you know that.”
“But I’m—I’m defective and you know it!” you shout, pushing him away to no avail. His eyes widen, his heart taken aback at how much you must have hurt. You feel your chest clench as you mutter, “I am not the right person for you.”
Zhongli sighs and caresses your cheek, so gently as if you are the most fragile piece of porcelain he has ever held.
“Listen. No one is perfect. Not even me. And you… you awaken something I have never felt in the thousands of years of my life. And I want—”
His lips quirk to form a painful smile.
“I want to keep you by my side, for as long as I am allowed.”
You chuckle bitterly as you slap his hand away.
“Stop it. I don’t want this. I don’t—you’re mistaken. You don’t love me. You can’t.”
Tears roll down your cheek as your fingers clench on the fabric of his suit.
“Please… you can’t.”
A heavy silence hangs between you. His fingers find their way under your chin, tilting your face up towards him.
“Look at me,” he whispers. You shut your eyes in defiance, and you can feel tears dripping down your chin.
“You are the kindest woman I know, and have a strength beyond what even most gods can comprehend. And please believe me when I say I have never met anyone like you in my life,” he says, his voice gentle like you’ve never heard before. You open your eyes to find his gaze looking softly into yours.
“I love you. I will be yours if you want me to.”
He smiles, and you can feel your heart melt.
“Let me be your strength, your rock, your home. Will my word as the God of Contracts do?”
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Expressive is one of the last attributes one would assign to the Scribe of the Akademiya, who also happens to be your longtime crush.
So you were surprised to find a saccharine sweet love letter in a pink envelope containing the words “I,” “love,” and “you”—in that order, next to each other—in his distinctly neat handwriting arriving at your doorstep on your birthday.
It’s not funny anymore, you think, deciding to confront him for playing with your feelings. You stroll to his office and bang at the door harshly, your face hot with anger.
“Come in,” the room’s owner says. You barge in, slamming the letter he sent you onto his desk.
“Out of all of your jokes, I rate this shit minus a hundred out of ten,” you say, voice shaking.
The silver-haired man tilts his head, seemingly confused. “What joke are you talking about?”
“This,” you smack the tip of your index finger onto the pink envelope, the force nearly ripping the paper in two. “This fucking letter, Alhaitham.”
“Oh, that,” he says with a smile. “I assure you, it’s not a joke.”
“Stop playing around!” you shout. “You said you love me, you liar.”
“Careful, I did say that, but my patience still has an end,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. He sighs. “Why would you say I’m lying?”
You scoff. “Because there’s no way, right? You’re perfect, men and women alike want your hand in romance, and you said you love me?”
You laugh derisively as you try to ignore the sharp pain penetrating your chest.
“You can’t love me. You can’t. I’m just a pathetic woman fumbling through life, unlike you. You’re fit as a fiddle while I have to take medication every single night, else my sanity would crumble like dust. I’m a burden to everyone I’ve ever cared about. So please, just stop.”
You feel your lips tremble as you grit your teeth in pain. Alhaitham frowns.
“Yes, I know about all that. I still love you, though.”
“Shut up, Haitham.” You lower your head and turn away, stifling back a sob. “I don’t deserve you. Nobody wants me, and that should include you.”
He slams his fists against his desk as he stands up, making you jump in surprise at his loss of composure. He saunters over around the desk and stops in front of you, his much taller figure looming over your head. His hands find their way to squeeze your shoulders.
“Who hurt you?” he demands, his palms trembling in quiet rage. “I swear I’ll hunt them down and make them suffer for making you think so lowly about yourself.”
“No one,” you lie. The pain in your chest pulses. “I’m just stating the truth.”
“It’s not the truth,” he says, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. “One as strong as you shouldn’t have such a low opinion of themselves.”
He lowers his head to meet you in a slow kiss. A tear rolls down your cheek as you relish the feel of his soft lips against yours.
“There,” he mumbles after pulling back. “Now do you believe me?”
“I don’t want to,” you finally admit, tears now streaming down your face. “I can’t.”
“Then—give me the chance to prove my love for you. Please,” he says while pulling you close. You shut your eyes, taking in his presence like a thirsty deer greedily drinking from the water’s surface. The words he whispers next have a certain promise woven into them.
“I am going to make you the happiest person in the universe.”
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The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide looks a bit different than usual today. You are certain of that.
Whenever he catches sight of you, he’ll either hum tunes to himself, smile like an idiot, or walk towards you with a skip in his step that others barely miss.
Too bad you’re only his personal mechanic. Pointing his strange behavior out is way above your pay grade.
… Which is what you’ve been saying to yourself, but your feelings, your amour for him screams and rebels inside your chest, threatening to spill into the flirty sentence of “Wow, someone sure is happy to see me.” You bite on the insides of your cheeks to hold it back. After all, he knows that you’re literally sick in the head, and he wouldn’t want someone like you by his side.
He would never, ever fall in love with you.
But, if that is true… what is that beautiful bouquet of Rainbow Roses doing in his hands, then?
“Happy birthday, wonderful woman,” he greets, a grin plastered across his face. “Please accept this duke’s gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” you ask, folding your hand over your chest where your heart is—the organ working super hard to pump more blood to your already-pink cheeks.
“Yes. Gratitude for all the work you’ve done,” he says in a sing-song voice.
You sigh, trying to rein in the butterflies in your stomach. “Wriothesley, I’m not an idiot. I know what Rainbow Roses mean.”
His smile turns melancholic.
“So what do you say?”
You harden your expression, trying to keep your tone as flat as possible.
“I’m sorry… I can’t.”
An uncomfortable silence goes on for a few seconds.
“Sure you can. Why not? I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“No, I can’t. Now please stop this nonsense, Boss.”
He takes a step closer, and you take a step back.
“Go away,” you say, turning away from him while stifling back a sob. “I can’t have you.”
He puts a hand on your shoulder. “You can. I want you to have me.”
You shake your head and shrug him off, tears starting to roll down your cheeks as the pain in your chest grows stronger.
“I can’t! I won’t burden you with… with me, of all things!”
“Stop saying that!”
Before you can react, he turns you around and pulls you into him, wrapping you with his strong arms like he’s protecting you from the cold, cruel world.
“Please stop saying that. You’re not a burden. You are never a burden.”
You try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. His shushes drown your grunts of struggle.
“Let me go. Please, I can’t want this—I can’t want you,” you finally plead, but he only pulls you closer, trapping your hands between your chest and his. You limp, pathetic sobs filling the air as you finally surrender.
“You want to know a secret?” he asks. He does not wait for your answer.
“I think you’re perfect. The way you pursue growth, the way you love. You are the most precious thing I have in my life,” he says, his voice half a whisper. “I am eternally thankful for you. Thank you for coming into my life. I’m at my best when I’m with you, and I don’t only mean because you can fix my gauntlets.”
His embrace tightens around you. You can feel his growing stubble rub against your temple.
“And if I don’t at least try being with you, I’m sure I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
He sighs as he presses his lips to the crown of your head, the warmth sending goosebumps across your skin.
“I want to be your home. I want… no, I need you by my side,” he continues.
Your grip on his vest tightens as you feel him bury his face into your hair.
“I love you. I love you so much, my heart hurts every moment I remember that you’re not mine,” he whispers. He pulls back, only to press his lips against yours in a slow, gentle kiss the next moment.
“Please… be mine. I will never let you down. That’s my vow to you, and I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”
He looks into your eyes, his gaze as gentle as a beautiful snowflake. You tiptoe a bit to meet him in another kiss. He chuckles as he returns the favor with passion.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
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© @risustravelogue 2024 • FEEDING THIS WORK TO GENERATIVE AIs IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. • do not repost. • reblogs are precious. • feel free to send an ask to suggest, chat, etc. 💖
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mysharona1987 · 5 months
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From Britney’s book.
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kaciidubs · 6 months
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Open Heart
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❣ Summary: When you don't know what to say or do, when life starts living you, you can always rely on Chris to bring you back. ❣  ❣ Word Count: 3.2k ❣ Warnings: Mental breakdown, existential crisis, implied panic attack, angst, fluff, comfort, crying, Supportive BF! Chris, Reader is a mess mentally and emotionally, discussions of family, careers, life, and the future, self doubt, self deprecation, mentioned disassociation ❣  ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣  ❣ Additional Tags: Chan is referred to as Chris, Channie, Baby, Christopher, and Christopher Bahng [wowie], Reader is referred to as Princess, Baby, Love, Sweet Girl, this is the one that's personal so I'm sorry if you can relate but also you're not alone ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist
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“Yeah, dad, I know... Mhm... No, I haven’t heard back from them yet, but it’s only been a week since I applied so... Yeah, I know…”
You paced the living room of your apartment, holding your phone to your ear as you did your best to tame the headache brewing in your head. 
“I know you do, it’s just - there’s so many things I can do with my degree, I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do... I know... Yeah... Okay... Talk to you later... Love you too, bye.” 
Ending the call, you tossed your phone onto the couch with a heavy sigh - the weight of the world piling on top of stress already weighing on your shoulders. 
Everything sucked - almost as if the world was out to get you for simply existing; years of doing what was right, doing what you were supposed to, only for you to still feel like you weren’t doing enough. 
People pleasing. 
A wave of guilt made your stomach turn, tears stinging behind your eyes as you stood in the silence, yet it still felt so loud. 
You knew your dad meant well, your parents meant well, your family meant well, but every question, every poorly veiled nudge of ‘What’s your next big move going to be? You’ve been stagnant for so long.’ ate at your psyche at every turn. You felt like you did everything; you graduated high school in the high percentage of your class, you went to college, you graduated as a first generation student after five excruciatingly long years - yet through all that they still wanted more from you. 
A pleasure to have known. You have so much potential.
If you had a dime for the amount of times you’ve heard those words, you would’ve been a millionaire by now. 
A shaky breath rattled in your chest as you sighed, your hands rising to cup your rapidly heating face. “Fuck... F-Fuck.”
Your vision blurred, salty tears stinging your eyes before burning fiery trails down your cheeks with no signs of stopping. 
When was it going to be enough? When were you going to be enough? 
Your breath hitched, choking on a sob that your body refused to let go - not now, not right now. You were still young, you had so much potential - so why did it feel like you were being rushed? Why did it feel like everyone saw some invisible clock above you, counting down the days until you’d become useless? 
Wasted potential - those words always used to scare you, the famous buzzwords of any educator wanting to instill proper work ethic in their students; the future of the workforce. 
Wasted potential - that’s what you were beginning to feel at your 9-5; a quaint little job you kept throughout your final semester, something that got the bills paid and kept a little more in your savings. 
Wasted potential - that’s what you felt when your days began blending together, when you realized disassociation was your coping mechanism until your mouse hovered over ‘clock out’. 
You wanted to do so much, so much, but there was never enough time in the day - they were never ideas that would earn you a proper living wage, a career path your family wouldn’t agree with. 
Your body shook as a sob finally tore through your silent cries, your head throbbing as air tried to force its way into your lungs - crying never used to hurt like this.
Your world spun, it felt like time froze while speeding up, but all you could do was cry - stand in your living room and cry like a reprimanded child because you weren’t doing what you were supposed to. 
“Princess?” 
Your eyes snapped open behind your fingers, quickly registering a bigger, warmer pair wrapping around your wrists. 
“Baby, can you hear me?” 
Guilt. 
Chris was home early, and instead of relaxing like he deserved, he now had to tend to you - crying over the same thing you cried over four months ago. 
He felt you tense, he could see the spiral of overthinking, and his grip tightened, “Hey, hey, it’s just me - it’s just me, princess.” 
You sniffled, biting back another sob as you shook your head, “’M s-sorry-” 
“Shh, don’t apologize - you don’t have to apologize, not to me, not for this.” 
Understanding - he was always so good at that, making sure you knew you weren’t the problem of anything; he always joked he got better at it from you. 
Another wave of tears surged through you, nearly making you double over at the rush of fresh emotions popping off in your brain, your jaw tensing as you tried to stifle the illegible babbling falling from your lips. 
“I- It’s- I can’t- And- It’s just so-” 
Chris pulled you into his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other cradled the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing circles just behind your ear. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay - I’m here, you’re okay.” 
He blinked away his own tears, the sounds of your cries breaking his heart when he entered the apartment, and now the feeling of your body shaking against his like a fall leaf utterly tearing him apart inside. 
You weren’t sure how long you both stood there, him whispering words of comfort in your ear while you stained his black hoodie with your tears, but you slowly came out of your breakdown with uneven breaths - your hands holding onto his hoodie as if he was your lifeline. 
He was your lifeline.
“Can we go to the bedroom, princess? Can we manage that?” He cooed softly, a soft smile settling on his lips as he felt you nod. “Okay, we’ll go slow, yeah?” 
True to his word, he slowly led you into the bedroom with shuffling steps, noting how you clung to him like a baby koala, as if you separated from him at any point you’d float away into space. 
Sitting on the bed first, he scooted toward the middle of the mattress and you quickly followed suit; crawling toward him before laying your head on his chest, tangling your legs with his while he pulled you into his side. 
It was quiet, save for the occasional hiccuped breath and sniffle, the sound of his heartbeat slowing the thudding in your own head, the rise and fall of his chest reminding you how to breathe again.
“Love?” 
You hummed softly, your free hand nonchalantly playing with the drawstring of his hoodie. 
“Wanna talk about what happened?” 
Dropping your hand to lay flat on his chest, you took a deep breath to fight back another round of tears threatening to come out. “I... My dad called to check in, see how we were doing and all... He wanted to know if I found a different job yet, one that uses my degree, and I told him I hadn’t.” Swallowing thickly, you squeezed your eyes shut as you continued, “He’s worried that I’m not using my full potential, that I’m not getting paid what I should - and I don’t blame him, really, I went to college for a reason and everything, but it just feels like I'm being rushed into making another decision I’m not ready for." 
“Another decision like picking your major?” Chris chimed in - he’d remembered you telling him about your realization of wanting to switch majors in your junior year, but ultimately choosing not to since you were close to graduating at the time. 
You nodded, “I know he means well, I love my dad, I love my family, but it just feels like they don’t understand that I'm just...tired. I’m so, so tired that the idea of getting a new job - when I’ve only been at this one for just over a year - makes me feel like I can’t breathe. Fuck, the fact that I’ve been at this job for a year makes my skin crawl because this isn't what I want.”
Picking mindlessly at a few cotton pills collected on the fabric of his hoodie, a heavy sigh escaped you, “I feel like all I’ve been doing my whole life is performing for other people, catering to other people, to the point that I don’t even know who I am. I’ve always been told all these great things about myself, but-” A hot tear rolled across the bridge of your nose, “I don’t believe them, at all. Everyone sees all this potential in me and it drives me crazy because I don’t see potential in myself.”
Your name rolled off of his tongue softly, with so much care and gentleness that it made your heart hurt more because he’d been part of the crowd singing your praises and you practically confessed that you didn’t believe him. 
“Princess, my sweet, sweet girl…” 
“C-Chris, I’m-” 
“Please,” he cut you off with a gentle squeeze, “you already know what I’m gonna say if the next words out of that pretty mouth of yours are ‘I’m sorry’.”
Sighing softly, you accepted that fate as his right hand slid down your arm to take your hand in his, another gentle squeeze to remind you that he’s right here. 
“I just... I don’t know what I’m going to do.” 
“Well,” Chris hummed softly, taking in the way your smaller fingers threaded between his own, “what is it you want to do?” 
It was almost as if you stopped breathing, guilt and shame swirling around in your head at his question - the golden question everyone had, but never got the full answer to. 
“...open heart?” 
This time it was Chris’s turn to falter, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of your tear stained face. “Open heart, princess, always.” 
Open heart, something you’d both established years ago in your relationship as a way of asking for full attention - reestablishing that you both were in a safe space with zero judgment, remaining heart to heart with one another. 
“I-” You paused, fighting against the will of your mind wanting to keep yourself protected, from being seen. “I... I don't want to do anything…”
Before he even had the chance to breathe, you jumped into the defensive, “A-And I know that’s stupid- I’m in such a position so early on in my life and there’s so much I can do, but, baby, I’m at a point right now that I can’t see myself working a 9-5 for the next month, let alone another 40-or so years of my life!” Panic quickly began to set in as your thoughts ran a mile a minute, your brain begging you to stop but your heart pleading for you to get rid of this weight. “I can’t be a girl boss, I don’t want to be independent, I-I just wanna be taken care of and loved and supported - I wanna take care of all the things at home and be the one helping you reset after those stressful days. I wanna learn about myself and my hobbies and discover what kind of person I really am underneath all of these learned traits. And I’m sorry, I know, it’s pathetic, it’s shameful, it’s selfish to want to put all of this onto you-” 
The sound of your name falling firm from his lips stopped you in your tracks, your blood running cold as you laid as still as you could be against him. 
“Open heart means we can’t speak for each other, remember that rule?” His tone was softer, light and teasing, quelling the tinge of fear spoiling every word you spoke as you nodded. “Okay, good - now, can I say something, or would you like to continue?” 
“Please say something, Channie.” 
“Alright, first and foremost, don’t ever, ever call anything you want ‘stupid’ - your desires are what make you you, and that includes wanting that 24-inch green matcha squishmallow.” 
He felt your body shake - short laugh, a huff of air, a sign that he was breaking through.
“Second, I don’t think you wanting to be provided for is pathetic or shameful or selfish - it takes a strong person to admit that, and at the end of the day I think that’s what everyone wants in their own special form; somewhere they feel safe, cared for, loved. And, you’re not putting it all on me,” he felt you tense, but his hand held firm to yours, “because I want to be that for you. I want to provide for you, take care of you, handle all the things that are too big and scary for you to figure out on your own. I want to give you the freedom to explore and be yourself, pursue what you want and don’t want to do - and if that makes you ‘selfish’ then, princess, I’m the most selfish person of them all.”
“You-” your voice cracked, throat raw and sore, “You don’t mean that, baby, please-”
“C’mere.” He huffed, pulling you up with him as he sat up before tapping your thigh, signaling for you to sit on his lap - and once you were situated, he cupped your face in his hands, “I would never lie to you, you hear me? Since the day we met I knew I wanted to do everything in my power to care for you, even when we were just friends and you would join the kids in teasing me about how old I was even though you weren’t too far off yourself.” 
Your pouted lips morphed into a sad smile and he had to stop himself from cooing over how cute you looked, even with puffy eyes and an even puffier face.
“Plus, I’ve been taking care of seven other people for the better half of five years, what makes you think I don’t want to do the same for the love of my life?”
Teary eyes searched his for any sign of dishonesty, but all you found was overflowing truth and love, a fresh breath of acceptance cooling your lungs like drinking ice water after eating a mint.
“Open heart?” You murmured softly, taking his hands in your own before pulling them off of your, embarrassingly sore, face.
He nodded, ducking his head to press a fleeting kiss to your knuckles.
“I was always a little jealous of you, you know that?”
“Me?!” 
The shocked squeak in his voice made a giggle, a genuine giggle, bubble up inside of you and you nodded in earnest. 
“Yeah, you. I always felt like I was so far behind everyone around me when it came to having their passions in order, having their lives in order, and when I met you all I could think about was how sure of yourself you were - how you were able to follow through and actually do what you love for a living not only because people around you supported you, but because you believed in yourself.” Dropping your gaze to your entwined hands, you traced your thumbs along his knuckles, “You always knew what you wanted and you worked toward it - I always wished I could be like that, I still do.”
“Baby, you know you can’t-”
“-compare my life to yours, yeah, yeah, I know.”
He didn’t miss the lilt of playfulness highlighting your words, a smile finding its way to his face as he shot you a lighthearted glare, “No mocking! But, really, you shouldn’t - we come from completely different backgrounds, and if anything I’m more jealous of you than you are of me; there’s so many things you’ve done that I haven’t had the chance to experience.”
You let out an incredulous scoff, tilting your head inquisitively, “Like what? Work a draining part time job in the food industry?”
“Yes!” Though he was laughing, you could still hear the serious notes in his voice, “You got to work retail, you went on family vacations whenever you wanted, you fucking graduated college before I did!”
“Okay, first of all, all of my horror stories should deter you from ever wanting to become a retail employee in your near future!” Dropping his hand, you poked him in the chest with a faux glare, “Second, I guess you’ve got me there - between how often I’ve seen my family compared to you, I do win that spot… But that last one you definitely have over me, Mr. Double Major!”
“Oh shut up - you’re a graduate, I’m still in classes; you didn’t have to go from having practice at 8 but an exam due at 8:30, while still needing two demo tracks ready for the first listen at 10!”
The two of you dissolved into a mess of giggles and smiles, whatever tension remained melting away with each melodic sound that escaped you.
“Princess?”
You hummed, a soft smile settling on your lips, “Yeah, Channie?”
“Open heart,” Chris started warmly, deep brown eyes sparkling with a love only you could know, “I want you to know that I meant every word I said - I do want to take care of you, physically, mentally, financially, whatever way you’ll let me. And - not to sound cocky or anything, but I definitely make enough to support the both of us with no issue. Aside from that, I want to build a life with you - so if that life includes you being the hottest stay at home wife then it’s the best life I could’ve ever asked for because you’re in it.”
A wave of heat rushed over you as butterflies erupted in your stomach, “Stay at home wife, hm?” 
Of course, you paid attention to everything else he said, but you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything on it without bursting into tears again.
“Would you prefer stay at home mom? I mean, you’ve already got seven kids calling you it anyways - and I can’t lie, it does have a nice ring to it.” He grinned, releasing your other hand to wind his arms around your waist, scooting your body closer to his.
Rolling your eyes at his less than subtle tease, you snaked your arms around his shoulders, nails playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, “Let’s just start with stay at home girlfriend and see where we go from there, yeah?”
“So you’ll quit tomorrow?”
“Christopher!” You stood no chance in holding back the burst of laughter that escaped you, narrowly avoiding knocking your head against his as you shook with unabashed giggles, “Tomorrow? You sound like you’ve been waiting for this confession to come!”
“Baby, I was one more angry rant of your supervisor ‘springing last minute work onto you’ away from quitting for you.”
Reeling yourself back in, you leaned forward to capture his lips in a soft kiss, your world finally feeling like the pieces were slowly falling into place - or, at the very least, revealing themselves to you. “I love you, Christopher Bahng, wholly and truthfully, there’s no words in the entire galaxy to express how much you mean to me.”
He held you tight, pressing his forehead against yours with a soft sigh, “I love you more, more than you ever know, more than all the stars in this universe and the next. Whatever you decide, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you - just say the word.”
“Does that include ordering takeout for dinner tonight so we can keep cuddling?”
“Find a menu while I change?”
“Order it while I wash my face?”
“Deal.”
Everything sucked, sure, and there was still much left to figure out - but with Chris by your side, you realized that things could get better with an open mind and an open heart.
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ef-1 · 14 days
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Hi! I noticed in your tags on a post (the one where Daniel is aiming the full force of his big brown cow eyes at Simon) that you mentioned a time where Daniel helped a reporter through a panic attack. I’m v intrigued about the full story. Do you happen to have a link or recall the details? Thanks!
Daniel was an ambassador for the inner ninja, a mental wellness and suicide prevention charity since 2016. The founder, Stef, was with Daniel on stage and she got overwhelmed and Daniel talked her down from it :((
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(thanks to meg💚)
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cheatsykoopa98 · 2 months
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I gotta be thankful for having my very own "ragatha" irl, idk what I'd do without my gf. it sucks feeling like you're the sources of everyone's problems, but having a little bit of color shine through makes me feel a little better
commissions, donations, you know the deal, please help if you can
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kingkonoha · 3 months
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♡ — Levi goes to therapy to cope with your death . . . || mentions of: depressive behavior, poor eating & sleeping habits
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“You are so incredibly strong for coming here, Levi. Showing up today was the very first step. I’m proud of you.”
Levi Ackerman didn’t respond, only because he had nothing to say.
That was the excuse he repeated to Onyankopon, who had been chirping in his ear over and over again about the benefits of therapy.
In the middle of yard work underneath the hot sun, he’d put down his shovel, wipe off his sweaty forehead with the towel draped across his shoulder, and tell Levi that mental health was important.
While making dinner, chopping up vegetables alongside Gabi and Falco — they all enjoyed having meals together at least once a week — he’d drop the potatoes into a pot of boiling water, look over at Levi, and tell him that he knew an amazing therapist who would love to speak with him.
And, eventually, Levi caved. Not because he thought it would benefit him, but so his dear friend would finally shut up.
“What are you expecting to get out of therapy, Levi?” The older blonde-haired woman asked, leaning back in her big brown chair. “What brings you in today?”
“My friend wanted me to give it a try.” Levi looked down at his lap, staring at the place where two of his fingers were supposed to be. “I couldn’t exactly outrun him, so . . .”
“I understand,” she nodded slowly. “Why does your friend believe that you need therapy?”
Levi’s jaw twitched involuntarily. His eyes were glassy with tears — tears that once never fell down his face as easily as they do now. Levi’s eyes darted from his lap to a random spot on the beige wall. His uninjured leg started to shake a bit.
“Uh . . .” Running his hand over his mouth, he said with a slight tremble in his voice, “I lost someone.”
“Go on,” the therapist nodded encouragingly.
A lump started to form in Levi’s throat, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t swallow it down.
He couldn’t speak.
All he could do was sit in his wheelchair and become a victim of the onslaught of horrific memories that flashed in his mind.
When he blinked, a tear rolled down his pale cheek.
“She is my- she was my . . . damn it.”
Levi ran his hand over his face once again. This time, when he did it, the woman noticed his wedding ring.
“Take your time, Levi,” she said.
“She was my wife,” Levi paused. “And she’s dead now. That’s all.”
“Can you tell me more about that?”
“It was the rumbling.”
“I see. How did you discover her death? Did you witness it?”
All at once, it felt as if Levi’s heart stopped beating, and snapped into pieces. His breathing — he could hardly control it.
“Stop,” the words fell from between his lips before he even knew that he had spoken. “Too much.”
“I apologize.” The therapist nodded. “Let’s start with something easier. How are your eating and sleeping habits?”
That topic wasn’t easy at all.
He found himself moving bits of food around with his silverware more often than not, unable to bring the utensil to his mouth most days. And, he could hardly sleep before he lost you. Now? He never even bothered to close his eyes.
The dark bags underneath them were a telltale sign — a silent answer to the therapist’s question.
“This was a bad idea,” Levi glared at the woman. “You can’t help me.”
“Yes, I-”
“Can you bring her back?” Clenching his jaw, he spoke with a tone heavy with dread and sadness.
“No, I can’t.”
“Then you can’t help me,” Levi said.
“Levi,” the therapist took a deep breath before she said, “I can only help you if you’ll let me. Healing takes time, and it won’t work instantly. It seems as if we’re taking things too fast for your liking, and I understand. So, how about we start with something else? Tell me something about her. Anything you’d like to share.”
Levi played with the sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt, pinching the soft material between his fingers.
“She liked sleeping,” Levi paused. “I hardly sleep at all. Always thought it was kinda funny.”
“Did she help you sleep?” The therapist asked.
“Yeah.”
“How did she help you fall asleep?”
When the therapist asked that question, Levi felt his cheeks start to warm up, the formerly pale skin becoming a subtle pink.
Being vulnerable in such a way was like having an exposed nerve, but, even so, he had to push through.
Any form of help — any relief anyone could give him from his own misery — was well worth it.
“She’d run her fingers through my hair,” Levi said. “And she’d always make sure that I could feel her next to me. An arm, a leg, her breath — anything.”
“Well,” the therapist smiled softly, “I hope you know that she’s still with you, Levi.”
Levi didn’t respond. He couldn’t; the lump in his throat had returned, if it had ever truly gone away.
But he knew.
He wouldn’t go as far as to say he believed in ghosts or anything of the sort, but the warm presence that he felt within his soul was enough.
It was enough for him to keep on living, as he knew you would be upset if he joined you in the afterlife too soon.
It would take a lifetime of therapy to work through the trauma — the sight of your ODM gear malfunctioning as you fell to your death, and Levi wasn’t fast enough to grab you — but he’d do whatever it took to heal.
And, with that, he’d continue to live because it’s what you would have wanted, and because he knew one thing for certain: you would be waiting for him.
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I must ruin myself because I do not deserve to be happy.
I must be destroyed before someone destroys me
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beefcliff · 1 year
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a little comic about having weirdbrain & working on autopilot
this isn't an excuse. i mean, i guess it is. i just want you all to know that i really want to make more comics for you all, i really want to make more art and post it, but i'm sincerely struggling to function. i'm trying to fix that. love, beefcliff
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One of Those Days
poly!mikaelsons x reader | request
summary: between the constant fighting and city clamor, you're overstimulated from the minute you wake up. you try to isolate until you feel better, but sometimes, that only makes things worse. luckily, your loving vampire partners are always there for you.
tags: sensory issues, mental health, overstimulation, arguing, mild emotional hurt / comfort
word count: ~2.6k
a/n: requested by @asexualaromosafezone - i am SO SORRY this took me literal months to complete. a couple days ago, i suddenly remembered i never filled it and finished it asap. i hope you like it, and again, so many apologies!
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Sometimes, you wake up, and can immediately tell it’ll be a hard day. The sun has barely risen, yet there’s already a million noises coming through your window. Chatters of people having their morning walks, car horns from those too impatient to let them cross, the distant clang of a dropped pot, and-
“REBEKAHHH!”
-Klaus, yelling for his sister. At seven in the morning. 
“What the bloody hell are you shouting for?! I’m right here!”
You sigh, glad that mystery solved quickly.
There’s probably a few more minutes until your alarm rings, so instead of getting up a little earlier, you opt to enjoy your last minutes of peace. Though you soon realize that’s impossible, given your circumstances. On top of the city sounds, there’s a bird right outside your window, and when you try to turn away from it, the tag on your blanket itches the inside of your thigh. 
“Ugh!” You toss the blanket off. 
Your alarm sounds not a second later. 
With a slap to your phone and then another to your forehead, you decide to just get ready for the day. Luckily, not much is planned. Marcel still has control over the city, and with you being human, your Mikaelson hosts don’t want you outside at all. 
See, you live with the family of original vampires. You used to be a Mystic Falls’ resident, but then after developing a close connection with the siblings, decided to move to New Orleans with them and get a fresh start. You were tired of the small town life, and while the big city can be overwhelming at times, you’ll never get sick of the culture it has to offer. Besides, living with the most powerful family makes you happier than you ever believed you could be. 
As much as you love them, though, they can be a pain. Like when Klaus can’t find his sister, but forgets a whisper would summon her just as effectively. Instead, he has to wake up the whole quarter, and inconvenience you with a headache. When you reach the dining room that day, you slump your head on the table. 
“Everything alright, darling?” Kol’s voice floats over your head, making you aware of his presence. 
“Tired.”
“Is your bed comfortable enough? Do you need more blankets?”
You haven’t been in the city long, and his consideration warms your heart. 
“Oh, I’m okay. I’m very comfy. Just haven’t gotten used to the city yet.”
“Ah, I understand.”
His attention drifts to his sister. You busy yourself with a plate of food and ignore how tired you feel. When Elijah sits beside you, you offer a smile, but don’t say anything. The man, polite as ever, does the same. Though while two of the siblings are quiet, the other two aren’t. Klaus and Rebekah are still on the same topic from earlier. They bounce off each other quickly, childish banter turning into an argument.
You try to eat in peace and ignore them, but it’s difficult. And it doesn’t help that you’ve been feeling down lately, anyway. It’s rather unexplainable, the way you feel. Some days you’d rather stay in bed all day than face the world. Your whole body could be begging for you to get up and get things done, but you just can’t. No matter how hard you fight your own mind, sometimes there’s no winning the raging war. 
To make matters worse, you’re always hypersensitive when you find yourself in these low moods. Every little thing is overstimulating and there’s no pause button. This morning, you didn’t even get a chance to wake up before the sounds started. (Thanks, Klaus.) You roll your eyes in your head, annoyed. 
“Hey.” A poke to your shoulder startles you, making you jump. “You okay?” 
“Ooh, you caught me off guard.”
“Sorry,” Kol smiles, “you in deep thought, or rolling your eyes at Klaus’ statement?”
“Uh…” You bite your lip. You were rolling your eyes about Klaus, but missed whatever statement it was that he just made. “What did he say?”
“That he was on his way to have a little chat with Marcel. That will go swimmingly.”
“Oh.” You snort and decide to joke. “Both.”
Kol grins at you, but then, thankfully, leaves you alone again. 
After breakfast, you retreat back into your room, not in the mood to face the day. If Klaus is really going to start shit with Marcel, it’ll be an intense day. You’ve never met the current king of the French Quarter, but Elijah’s told stories. Marcel and the family used to be close, but then, like all their other relationships, ties ended drastically. 
“But not with you, of course,” he had promised. “You’re our girl.”
You were skeptical for a moment. Who wouldn’t be, knowing the Mikaelsons? But then Klaus approached you from behind with a kiss to your hair and confirmed his brother’s words,
“As long as we have your loyalty, you’ll always have ours.”
You could see the truth in his statement. Everyone who ended up on their bad side had betrayed them in some way. So, as long as you didn’t repeat others’ mistakes; as long as you kept your trust in the family, you would be considered family. And ever since the day you first grew close, you have been their family. 
You’re close with all of the siblings. Elijah, first, when you couldn’t take your eyes off him at Damon’s dinner party. Then Rebekah, and then Kol, when he undaggered. Even Finn, before his untimely death - thanks to Matt, your good friend now worst enemy. Klaus took the longest to trust you, and you can’t blame him for having trust issues, but once he realized how much his siblings adored you, he was quick to accept your place with them. 
Now, the five of you live together, nine hundred miles from your hometown. It’s certainly a change, but every day with them is an adventure.
Like today, you suddenly think, overhearing Elijah’s footsteps in the hallway. Today has definitely been one of those days. 
“Y/N?” He stops outside your door.
“Mhm?”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Elijah opens the door, but doesn’t fully enter your room. He looks you up and down before smiling. “I just thought you seemed sad earlier and wanted to check on you. Is everything okay?”
“Oh!” You put on a brave face to mask the tiredness you feel internally. “Yeah, I’m just out of sorts today. It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure? Because if someone’s bothering you, that’s something we can take care of.”
“No, no, I promise. It’s all just me. Just having a day.”
“You’re positive?” He asks for confirmation again.
“Have I ever lied to you, ‘Lijah?”
He looks down at his shoes, embarrassed. “No, you haven’t. I apologize for doubting you.”
“It’s okay,” you step closer to him, resting against the door frame. “No need to apologize. But I swear, I just… woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something. New Orleans is a loud city. I’m still adjusting.”
“Okay. Well, call if you need anything. Even the smallest thing.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and be careful in the off-chance that Marcel storms in here. There’s a fight brewing in the quarter.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Better yet, stay inside for the day. So you’re not in harm’s way at all.”
“Okay, ‘Lijah.”
He smiles at you, then kisses your hand. “Now, I need to neutralize my brother. But I needed to make sure our girl was okay first.”
“She’s okay. Go deal with him.”
Elijah straightens his collar before speeding off to no doubt defend his brother in a fight. You love Klaus, but man, does he get angry. And then from anger, comes pure rage, then absolute chaos. Once situations escalate that far, the whole block better hide if they want to keep their hearts in their chest. 
You sigh, thinking of the carnage that may come. You’re not sure you can deal with his anger issues today, especially not coupled with those of Marcel. Of all the days they have to fight, it’s the one that you might snap, too, if he raises his voice one more time. 
Suddenly, your bed looks like the perfect oasis away from the mess behind your door. A good pillow over the ears might prevent an impending meltdown. You crawl into it at once and let your body melt into the mattress. 
You hadn’t lied to Elijah, though you hadn’t given him the full truth, either. Yes, you are, in general, okay. Not necessarily today, but at that moment, you were. Also yes, you’re not feeling great today, partly because of all the city noise. And, finally, yes, most of it is just you and your body not in the mood to be awake. Though Klaus is contributing, just a little bit, to your mental distress today. Elijah would understand, of course, but then he’d have a talk with his brother about it, and you really didn’t want to burden either of them in that way, so you put on a smile and didn’t mention it. You’d bet Elijah knows the full truth, and knows why you won’t admit it, but he respects you if you don’t want to talk about it. That’s one of the reasons you love him so much. 
You get a couple hours of rest until your slumber is interrupted by a new knock on your door. It’s not soft, like Elijah’s, so it must be one of the younger two. 
“Oh no,” you mutter, wondering what it must be now.
“Y/N?” Rebekah’s voice comes from the other side. “Are you awake?”
“I am now.” 
She opens the door as you reply. “Oh what the bloody hell are you still doing in bed?”
“Sleeping.”
“Obviously! Come watch a movie with Kol and I! We’d love your company.”
“An actual movie, or the public display of violence happening outside in the quarter?”
“We haven’t decided yet!” She grabs your hand. “Come on!”
You yawn. “I’m gonna pass today, I’m not up for it.”
“Awh, Y/N! It won’t be as fun without you!”
“I have a headache, Bex,” you fib. 
“Do you want some blood for that?”
“Does that even work like that?”
She shrugs, “not sure.”
You cuddle into your pillow. “Another time, okay?”
The girl smiles, then leans forward to kiss your head. “Okay. If you change your mind, come find us.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Dinner’s at seven. Will you be there?”
“Yeah,” you promise, “I should be better by then.”
You are not, in fact, better by then. If anything, your foul mood progressed into an actual headache within thirty minutes of Rebekah leaving. Shouts throughout the city managed to penetrate the thin glass of your windows, and you could hear almost everything as Klaus heckled the current king. For hours, it went on, until the sun went down and they assumedly put it off for another day. By seven o’clock, you were able to sneak in another nap, but you still felt way overstimulated from the day’s events. 
Not to mention the fact that you spent all day in bed. Sometimes, you’re overstimulated by too much going on, but today you partly did it to yourself by hiding away all day. The guilt of avoiding everyone weighs on your chest. Rebekah had invited you to a movie; Elijah went out of his way to check up on you, and you had more or less dismissed them both. A bitter taste sits in your mouth when you think about it. Water doesn’t wash it out.
Hopefully dinner will. 
For the first ten minutes, the night passes peacefully. Most of the conversation is focused between the meal and the movie the two had watched. The events of the day, seemingly, are left in the past.
But then, of course, Kol has to make a comment on something he overheard that he thought was funny. And that set Klaus off into a spewing of anger. He’s pissed at Marcel, but now, also, at Kol for bringing it up. Elijah puts his face in his hands, and Rebekah sends both a huge eye roll. 
What was a moment of much-appreciated silence is now a yelling match. After five minutes, you reach your breaking point. 
“Why do you feel the need to comment on that, Kol? It was so insignificant, but you’ve felt the need to bring it up, and now I’m reminded of how much Marcel has done to piss me off!”
“I didn’t mean to make you upset, bloody hell! I thought it was funny!”
“It wasn’t funny to me when he was spitting in my face! I-”
“Oh my god! Are you ever not arguing?!” You suddenly shout. 
The table goes silent and all eyes are on you. A needle could be dropped and it would be heard across the quarter. 
“I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, embarrassed.
“Love,” Elijah puts a hand on your shoulder, “are you alright?”
At his touch, you flinch. He retracts his hand quickly, but doesn’t move his body away from its proximity to yours. 
Klaus, although upset at the interruption, notices this and calms a little. “Everything okay, Y/N?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“That little outburst didn’t sound like nothing.”
“I’m just stressed.”
“Darling, what’s got you all upset? Tell us and we’ll sort it out now.”
“It’s no one, Kol, I’m just not feeling well.”
“Still have a headache, sweetheart?” Rebekah asks. 
“You have a headache?” Klaus butts in. 
The assortment of questions makes you drop your head. It nearly hits the table, but Elijah grabs your frame before you can fall. Tears form in your eyes, visibly. 
“I’m just really overstimulated today. I woke up weird and this city is loud, and then there was all the fighting all day long, and then I hid in my room all day, but then I felt bad about hiding, and now I’m making you all worried because I can’t get my shit under control!”
“And that’s your fault, how?” Elijah asks, “you cannot blame yourself for the way you feel.”
“But I need to handle my emotions better. I’m sorry.”
“No apologies necessary, love,” Klaus adds, “I certainly haven’t helped, fighting with children all day.”
“Niklaus,” Elijah warns, but Klaus doesn’t argue with him this time. 
“I should’ve stayed with you when you said you had a headache.”
“Don’t blame yourself either, Bex. It’s not your fault.”
“But we could’ve cuddled,” she frowns.
“It’s okay. I got a nap, and it helped a little. I just need to get used to my life being different now. None of you are at fault.”
“Nor are you,” the eldest reminds, “it’s been quite a day for us all.”
Kol clears his throat, “say, after dinner, if you feel up to it, we could all watch a movie and cuddle around you? I think some comfort is much needed.”
“Sure,” you agree, “but I might fall asleep during it.”
“That’s quite alright,” he smiles. He then stands up to hug you, but when his arms wrap around your neck, you freeze.
“Not yet, please. I’m still a bit stressed.”
He gives you a wink. “Of course, darling. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Klaus flicks his napkin across the table. He’s folded it into the shape of a heart. “We love you. You know that, right?”
You take the heart, kiss it, and put it in your pocket. “I do. I love you all, too. Thanks for understanding.”
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strawberries-666 · 4 months
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mysharona1987 · 1 year
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Regardless of what you think about Ben’s point about Kanye (and I have some serious issues with it), the fact he won’t condemn the GOP’s treatment of the clearly equally unstable and unhinged Herschel Walker says a lot about his principles. Or lack of them.
Oh, right. There’s a senate seat at stake. And that’s all that matters.
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