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captainjamster · 6 months ago

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Falling Apart (And Coming Back Together)

Pairing(s): John Price x Reader Warnings: explicit, graphic depiction and description of self-inflicted harm and the aftermath of patching it up Wordcount: 1.7k Summary: John helps put you back together again. AO3 Link: Right here <3

AN: Please reread the warnings and take them seriously. This explicitly depicts the act of self-inflicted harm. If you are vulnerable to topics of mental ill health, self-harm, or gore, this is not for you.

Full fic is under the cut <3

It's funny, you decide. Survival.

The human desire for survival is one of the deepest instincts. It perseveres from life to death, in consciousness and unconsciousness, something that keeps your heart pumping and brain sparking. Yet the things that someone finds themselves doing in an attempt to survive can be so fucking counterproductive to that desire for survival.

The blade digs into your skin, leaving a line of parted flesh that slowly fills red, creeping into the wound and blooming against the paled, tensed dermis. Each mark is like an exhale of relief; a calculated movement, drawing out the misery that claws underneath your shell, dripping to the floor in fat blobs to mingle with the teardrops already pooled there.

The first cut is always the last straw of your control. It's as easy as a flick of your wrist - the metal always glides through cleanly, so fast that your body almost takes a moment to react. One is never enough.

You lose track of time, pushing through the way the metal bites into your flesh, tearing it open and spilling out your pain. It's only the cramping of your hand that pulls you out of the angry motions, trembling so fiercely that the lines become jagged, forcing you to pause and observe your morbid masterpiece. Your eyes climb the ladder of lines, over the angry skin singing in pain, each split leaving it redder and redder.

The bathroom feels so small and all too big at once. The blade glints against the light as it wobbles in your fingers, and you fight against the vice your ribcage has around your lungs, inhaling a little more each time until the fuzziness crawling into your periphery retreats and silence finally breaks through the heartbeat in your ears.

Despite the space lacking on your thigh, you pick a spot to drag over experimentally, feeling the addition sink into the innumerable chorus of hurt that smothers everything else. It starts off slowly again, between waves of cathartic release and dips of anguish that wrack your body, until the marks overlap each other in a sick game of connect the edges, obscuring where one starts and the other stops. The blade is slick, sliding between your fingers as you struggle for a grip, cursing at your useless hands and the way they tremble. Crimson blotches the roll as you grab it, fumbling for paper towel to wipe the damn thing clean, when you finally notice the approaching footsteps much too late.

"Sweetheart?"

Your hand drops against your thigh, instinctively curling around the thin tool as the other shoves the roll back into place. John doesn't try the door handle, but you can hear him standing outside.

"Sorry, yeah?" You croak, trying to swallow the tightness creeping up your throat. There's never a point in hiding things from John, but the way he pauses before he responds tells you that he knows exactly what's happening.

"Don't be sorry, s'okay. Just didn't see you when I got home."

It falls quiet, each breath catching in your chest. A part of you wishes he would ignore it and leave, but you hear him inhale before he speaks.

"Can you come out for me, love?"

"No."

As usual, a bitter thought snaps, John takes your rejection in his stride.

"Okay, that's okay too."

There are words, explanations and apologies, straining on the tip of your tongue, caged behind your teeth as they drag through the flesh of your lip, leaving your mouth stained with the same iron filling the air. John breaks the silence with a gentle clear of his throat, and the door groans as he pulls his weight away from it. "I’m gonna get your stuff, alright? I’ll be right back."

Once he retreats far enough, you scrabble into action.

You can hear the kettle humming as it boils through the wall, listening for John as he walks through the steps of your crisis recovery plan. Adrenaline shakes your fingers as they press the towel to your skin, watching it soak up the red that dilutes the white paper. Heat radiates through the thin material, leaving the sticky clots that try to scab to smudge and stain, clinging with a stubbornness to your already sensitive skin.

There’s more blood than you expected, and an ache is spreading into the muscles. You stubbornly wait a few more minutes, wrapping up another wad of towel around your hand, but when they still sluggishly bloom with maroon, you resign to grabbing your phone from the cistern lid.

>> first aid kit

John's at the door almost as soon as you send the text. "I'm going to come in. Okay?"

The door cracks open, each slow inch that it swings ajar offering a possibility of changing your mind. When it fully opens, he doesn't make a face at the way your figure curls in on itself, just brings the kit over. The sound of his knees popping echoes through the bathroom as he drops a towel down and kneels down in front of you, tugging open the zipper and instantly reaching for the antiseptic wipes. It’s practised, methodical – the tearing of the wipe, his gentle touch, the way he takes care not to agitate the puckered skin further.

“I’m sorry.”

You can see the struggle not to furrow his brows. Instead, he gives you a sad smile, gently scooping your hand up to intertwine his fingers with yours as he presses the disinfectant against the cuts, monitoring your expression for any discomfort. "You don't need to apologise, sweetheart."

You swallow, catching the reflexive apology and forcing out other words. “I just feel bad every time.”

The shake of his head is slow as he dabs as a fresh droplet that seeps from your skin, soaking up into the last unsoiled spot of the wipe. "It doesn't matter. I’d rather you alive than dead. If this is what it means to have you alive, then I want all of it."

Any remaining argument falters at the conviction in his words, slinking back into the depths of your misery, barred off by the loving kiss John presses to your knuckles when you wince.

“Couldn’t ride out the wave. Waited 15 minutes, then 15 more, then 15 more.”

He gives an apologetic hum, disentangling his fingers to grab another wipe and rip it open. “I’m sorry, baby. You did everything right. Sometimes it happens anyway.”

There’s a bitterness in the way you huff a laugh, and John looks up at you, lips thin with worry. His concern has you embarrassed, gaze drifting down to your lap. “It shouldn’t. I should be better. Stronger. Like you.”

His hand pauses against your thigh between swipes, and for a second worry that you’ve angered him grips at your chest, before he blows it away with a long exhale. “Way I look at it, y’are stronger, love. You’ve been doin’ this for years, before I was even here to help. Y’ve been so strong that you got yourself through every single time – not me, not your therapist, not your friends. You.” The back of his palm brushes against your cheeks, smudging the droplets that’ve begun to trickle down your cheek. “I couldn’t be any stronger than that. But I want to lend you some of my strength, anyway.”

Your fingers find his again, curling together as you listen to the gentle brush of fabric against skin amongst your sniffles. The softness of his touches are soothing, a repetitive sensation that pacifies the burn of antiseptic, working with the waves of exhaustion crashing down to bring a heaviness to your puffy eyelids that you’re struggling to fight off.

“I think this one might need a bit more than a clean, love. Gonna get the steri-strips, okay?”

His voice brings you out of the sleepy stupor, nodding foolishly as you process his words. You miss the warmth of his hand against yours as he pulls a plastic sheet out with a fond chuckle, tearing a section off and peeling the protective layer away. “Gonna have to help me with this one, baby. S’that okay?”

Clearing your throat, you sit up straighter, giving him a thumbs up. He gives you one back, a small smile spread across his lips. “Alright. Hold the skin together for me, yeah? Just like that, you got it, good pet. You’re doin’ so well.”

The steri-strips are placed meticulously across the jagged edges, in little white bridges that strain to connect both sides. John rubs delicately over the last one, leaning down to press a careful kiss against the shuttered skin, before pulling away. “There we go, baby. Before we put away the kit, try standin’ up?”

He offers a roughened hand, poised as you push off the toilet, the other suspended at your waist in case your legs give out. Your thigh burns with the tension of standing up, foot hovering against the floor as you tentatively put pressure on it. Though the edges flex and crease, none of the cuts tear open, clinging to the hardening, superficial layer already closing them up.

John lets out a pleased noise, dropping your hand to zip closed the kit and grab the handle, before straightening up with a groan. “Alright, my lovely. Sofa and a cuppa?”

You can’t help the small, grateful smile that tugs at your lips as you nod, offering a hand that John doesn’t hesitate to encase with his own. He ushers you down the hall, mindful of your pace, into the soft, cushioned seats with a soft blanket draped over your lap. Passing you the remote, he presses a quick kiss to your forehead, before excusing himself.

Chatter fills the room as you settle on a random show, the gentle aroma of tea spilling from the kitchen as John returns with two cups, holding one out to you. He brushes off your thanks as the cushions dip under his weight, holding his arm out, and you don’t hesitate to dive into his side. Warmth radiates from his arm as it wraps around you protectively, nestled against your hip, and he pushes another kiss to your head before resting his own against it.

“I love you.” He hums, barely audible over the laugh track of whatever shitty show plays through the speakers, and something that’s felt broken inside of you all day finally clicks into place. “I’m so proud of you for getting through another day.”

Once again, you fight the tears prickling at your eyes. But for the first time today, it isn’t accompanied by the pain in your chest, just a small inkling of warmth that blossoms in your ribcage that sings as John squeezes you affectionately.

“I love you too.”

Dividers by cafekitsune

#tw: self harm #tw: sh #cw: self harm #cw: sh #price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #jams writings

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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Hi!! How would König react to his Engel having sh scars? I know this is a sensitive request, feel free to ignore it 🫶

Aw I don't mind but thank you for being sensitive 💞 😘

Please skip dear readers if this is triggering for you 🩷

König will notice your scars soon, if not immediately. He knows every old bruise and cut and scar on his skin and the stories behind them, his body is a whole map of old wounds, war, and torment. Therefore he pays close attention to other people's scars.

He won't bring them up too soon out of discretion, but they make him sad, upset, and angry. He knows they are self-inflicted, and the hurt it sends in his heart is maddening because he wants to hurt the ones who have made you hurt. But what to do when you have hurt yourself…?

He eventually asks about them to root out the one guilty for your pain. It must be someone else's fault that you have resorted to cutting yourself.

"Engel, are these… have you hurt yourself?" He asks the question one day when you two are cuddling. He deliberately brings his fingers to your scars and brushes a touch over them to make it known that he sees you… All of you.

"It was... years ago," you answer with a mixture of unease, shame and sadness in your gut. It's never easy to talk about them, and besides, people usually settle for simply staring at them. They rarely if ever mention them or ask about them.

It's not the same with König, because there's no need for facades. He never shies sway from challenging topics. He can talk about gutting people with a trench knife and licking you until you make the cutest sounds – and talk about them almost in the same sentence – so why would discussing self inflicted harm be a taboo subject for him?

"Did someone make you sad?" He demands to know, and you spend the next thirty minutes assuring König that you were simply feeling horrible and desperate and there's no one to blame for it (even if there were, you would be reluctant to tell him because you know it would only make him bounce off the bed and start a manhunt).

It feels both good and bad to open up about your past, the heavy depression you went through. It's an oddly charming therapy session that ends in your therapist pulling you tight against him. You have a feeling that this man who, distortedly enough, loves the exact tools you used to cut yourself with actually understands you better than any therapist ever could.

What breaks your heart, however, is when König hugs you and sighs: "I wish I had been there when you needed me." His attempts to fix the past, present and future is heartrending, but this was a fight he couldn't win – it was yours, and you had to go through it alone.

"Angel... I know how it feels to hate yourself. You must come to me if you're feeling angry or sad. Ja?" His words are blunt and straight to the point. König never sugar-coat things, but that's what you love about him. He sees the beauty in mundane, ordinary things, he sees meaning even in despair. He says how it is, and you know he's a connoisseur in that area – self-hate, that is. You fully believe him when he says he's not a stranger to pain. In that realm, you share a bond.

Then he begs you to promise him to never hurt yourself again. If you're feeling sad, you must come to him so that he can help you. He will always remind you of your worth if you'd happen to forget it.

There's no need for tears, not when he's here. You feel an odd, peaceful calm in your soul, laying there in his arms after revealing the deepest pits of your hell to him. He's not afraid of your darkness at all. He even kisses those scars, and that's when your lashes begins to flutter along with your heart. He whispers loving things on your skin, kisses your wounds with love, the same wounds people have simply stared with pity, confusion, and ridicule.

#cw: sh #tw: sh #answered #könig fluff

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