daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader

13. first

"my heart beats faster, and faster, and faster.."

—

warnings: this chapter is literal filth. like i sat here and wrote this and didn't even think twice about it but now i am looking back on it and i now comprehend the fact that i literally disappeared for a month and came up with this piece of... erotica. anyways you may or may not suck sal's dick and also fuck him enjoy

In a joint effort, both Sal and yourself carefully put the things from the drugstore back into the plastic bag. You inform him multiple times that his help is not necessary, but he insists anyway. You're afraid he's going to burst his stitches, he asserts that he won't—nonetheless, you keep an eye on him.

He doesn't, just as he said.

When you're finished, you look to him, and then at his hands. "Does it hurt?"

"You've already asked me that," he exhales through his nose.

Bashfully, you glance away. "Yeah, I know," you clutch the plastic bag to your chest. "If they need to be taken out, just let me know."

"These aren't coming out until they're done. I'd rather die from sepsis than go to a hospital."

You don't know Sal all that well, but you've come to understand his physical and verbal cues decently enough—but this time, you honestly can't tell whether or not he's kidding. And you can see his face.

"If it gets infected, we're going to a hospital."

"It won't come to that. My dad can't find out—I don't want him to stress," Sal replies, eyes like pacific waters flitting over your face. His stubbornness could be very frustrating at times—but now it was just heart-rending. You were becoming very aware of how little he cared about himself.

You must've spaced out, because when Sal grabs your attention again, he's picked up his prosthetic and holding it in his hand. "Hey," he starts tentatively, "I didn't mean to freak you out when I said that. I'm sorry."

"No, no," you shake your head, looking to the floor before tilting your head upward to meet his eyes. You want to ask him about what had happened earlier, how he feels—but you don't. You can't. You'd allow him to lick his wounds and find his bearings before questioning him about it.

"I don't really... remember it," he murmurs.

He was like that. Weirdly intuitive and almost telepathic. He never spoke on it, but you could always sense his eyes on you when you were thinking about him.

Obviously he wasn't physic, that was unrealistic—but it sure seemed like it.

"What," you start, licking your dry lips. You'd bitten them so much, and you were certain the skin was broken and traces of blood were beginning to seep out. "W-with Brooks?"

"Yeah." His brows furrow. His skin is scarred, but the upper part of his face is relatively sparse of that. His eyebrows were a dark, sort of midnight blue, just like his eyelashes. "It's... I don't know. You know whenever you... experience something... stressful, and you can't fully remember it?"

"I know," you reply, a lump forming in your throat.

"It kind of sucks," he breathes. "Because you deserve to know what happened, and what he said—but I barely remember."

You press your lips together.

"I don't know," he mumbles. "Maybe it has something to do with-"

Before he can finish his sentence, he's interrupted by insistent banging on the door. You huff, because you're always interrupted before he can finish his sentences, and turn to Sal.