#how to help someone struggling with sh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alexiroflife · 1 year ago

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how jjk men would react if they found out you sh…

Warning(s): cw//self harm, graphic depictions, mentions of depression, anxiety, sensitive content, angst/comfort

-> if you or anyone you know is struggling with self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression, etc., know that you aren’t alone. as someone who used to struggle with these things myself, i understand how difficult it can be, but know that you are strong and you are loved. and thank you for the ask, this is a very important topic and i appreciate the vulnerability of the request. sending all the possible love in the world to all of you.

gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna

satoru gojo: satoru has an incredible sense of sight, thanks to his gift of the six eyes, as well as very keen observation skills. he picks up on little habits you harbor very quickly during the beginning of your relationship. you always choose to wear long-sleeved clothing, even when it’s warm, and you tug at your sleeves as though you are desperately trying to conceal a certain part of yourself from the outside world, from him. he doesn’t understand why at first. the thought crosses his mind that you just aren’t comfortable in sleeveless clothing, but you’ve shown him pictures of yourself from a decade ago when you’d wear variations of different tank tops, short sleeves, and more. he doesn’t understand what changed somewhere along the line. perhaps your sense of style has shifted? maybe you don't like your arms? (he can't understand how because he finds them to be the most gorgeous arms he's ever seen).

but no, something is nagging at him in the back of his head, churning the contents of his gut as though there is something he needs to know, to see that you were hiding, and when the moment unveiled itself, he instantly saw.

you’re in your kitchen while satoru watches you from the other side of the island, leaning over and gazing at your movements with a soft smile. his blue eyes scattered across your body, admiring you while simultaneously searching for any clue, any answer to his hovering questions.

“where’d i put the containers,” you murmur to yourself in the midst of making lunch for the week, moving about your space rather slowly.

satoru offers his own help, pointing a slender finger over to the space above your head. “did you check that cabinet?” he asks.

you turn over your shoulder and quirk your brow. “oh, do you live here now? suddenly know where everything is?” you ask playfully, a small smile rising to your lips as satoru chuckles.

“not yet,” he winks. “but i sure am working on it, though. you know i have to make myself familiar with the space in case we share it someday.”

“is that so?”

“or, of that doesn't work out you could always live with me. i’d love to have you.”

“we’ve been together for three weeks, satoru.”

“yeah, but what does that matter when it comes to loveeee,” he pouts and you giggle, shaking your head as you turn back to reach for the cabinet. you stand on your tiptoes and reach out, sleeve of your sweet draping down to your elbow.

satoru is quick to his feet to help you, though you’re more than capable, when he catches the sight of what looks like a scar streaking over the inside of your wrist. his face falls and his brows angle, marching over to you quickly with a look of urgency on his face.

you don’t register how fast he is moving until you feel him behind you. you turn and look up, caught off guard by the way his eyes had hardened and his pupils shrank. your hand stalls on the cabinet handle, the scars on your arm completely slipping your mind momentarily.

“satoru? you okay?”

he doesn’t answer, grasping your wrist in his hand gently and pulling it down from above you. your eyes flicker up to the movement, and when you realize what is happening, your heart sinks. your eyes go wide and you try to tug your arm away, but satoru’s grip tightens slightly, extending your arm by your wrist to display the inside of your forearm before him.

he thinks his vision is blurring over, his heart ringing in his ears, his breaths quickening as his eyes detail over the row of rigid scars lining from your inner elbow up to your wrist. his world collapses around him, lips stretching into a disbelieving grimace as his wild eyes survey the damage. some of those scars look newer than others, scabbing over with specs of purple, while the others are far older.

you panic, trying to tug away again, but satoru’s grip on you is too secure. a lump forms in your throat as you search for things to say, anything to say that could take your boyfriend’s attention away, that could excuse the sight before him as something else. “s-satoru, wait-” you stammer, your voice weaker than you had intended it to be.

satoru looks like he can’t hear you, nose flaring as he stares, and stares, and stares, and suddenly, your vulnerability is bare naked before him, on display for him to judge, to belittle, to curl his brows at and determine as pathetic and weak. you can feel yourself about to cry already, shaken by this sudden attention.

“satoru,” you whisper, arm trembling within his grasp.

“what is this?” he breathes out so quietly, his voice betraying himself and hardly reaching over a brush through the wind. when you do not answer, those pained eyes are on you, tormented by the sight he has just witnessed. “(y/n), what is this?”

you feel small, avoiding his eyes and looking all over the floor. “i- it’s nothing,” you murmur.

“nothing?” he repeats, as though he has been burned by your response. the white haired man quickly seeks out your other wrist, reaching down to your other side as you try to turn away, but he, of course, manages to seize it and extend it like your other arm and roll up that sleeve. the same row of scars litter your beautiful skin.

satoru’s a mess, frightened, confused, devastated. this is what you had been hiding from him all this time? “this isn’t fucking nothing, (y/n), they’re all over you! what did you do?”

you still can’t respond, you can’t muster up an excuse, you can’t do anything. satoru’s concern is far too overbearing, his gaze too intense, and his hold on you too secure. it feels like he has you laid out on a slab before him, stripped of your clothes as he examines your body with contempt.

he’s disgusted. he’s ashamed, you think.

amid his grief, he catches the terrified look in your eye, your lips tugged downward as if to prevent yourself from crying. you look so scared.

how could he have not seen this sooner, that you’re hurting? that you’re hurting yourself?

“baby, what did you do?” he repeats, softer this time as he leans down to look at you, your body trembling in his hold. his thumbs graze your inflamed skin, hesitant to touch you for fear that you may break.

“please don’t,” you breathe out in a huff, voice wobbling as you scrunch your eyes closed. “please, don’t look. just forget you saw it, please.”

“forget i-?” satoru has to stop himself from lashing out poorly, from allowing his emotions to overcome him in what he understands is clearly your moment of need. “how could you ask me to do something like that? (y/n), your arms, baby!”

“satoru, please-” you shake your head. you want to shrink away, to hide, to vanish into thin air. “i don’t wanna talk about it. please.”

“(y/n),” he exhales, closing his eyes to gather himself. “(y/n),” he repeats softly, hands releasing your wrists slowly and sliding up your arms to delicately hold your shoulders. “we can’t not talk about this. you have to tell me what’s been going on. you have to, baby, you have to understand how scared I am right now. help me understand. let me help you, let me take on whatever burden you’re carrying, please, I’ll do anything as long as it means you’re not hurting yourself.”

his hands move to your neck, cupping over the skin as he ducks his head down to look at you more clearly.

“i can’t stand the thought that you’ve been- and i haven’t-” satoru was stumbling now, throat straining as the urge to cry rose. “why didn’t you come to me? i’m right here for you, (y/n), i always have been. why didn’t you tell me?”

“...it’s embarrassing,” you manage to say, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking. you can feel your boyfriend’s eyes peering into you even with your own eyes closed. “didn’t want you to see… I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

satoru’s heart is breaking for you, hurt that you could even think of yourself as a burden to him. “have i- have i done or said anything to you to make you feel that way?” he asks genuinely, and you cringe, turning your head to the side to open your eyes.

“no, of course not.”

“then why would you think that, baby?”

you shrug helplessly, tears welling into your eyes. satoru sees you, all of you, his heart thrumming to capture the pain you feel and to lift it from your chest, to help you breathe even just a little bit. he releases a weighted sigh, one of sadness, of love, of heartache for you, and he’s pulling you into him as your arms dangle limply at your sides.

you scrunch your eyes and immediately break down into him, sobbing into his shirt as his warm hands wash over your frame and cradle your head to him, the muscles in his face tight with anguish. he holds onto you like he’s horrified that you will fade away within his arms.

“i’m just so tired, toru,” you cry into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt. “i’m sorry.”

satoru doesn’t respond, afraid that if he speaks, he’ll end up crying too. you’re his girl, his beautiful, loving girl, and the fact that you have done such harm to yourself is incomprehensible to him. if you love him so, how can you hate yourself enough to have done this?

“how long?” is all he can ask you, breath heaving into your hair and ear. you hesitate, for he already seems so wounded by his discovery. “tell me.”

“...two years…”

he’s crushed. how did he not see sooner? how could he have been so blind after having bragged about being able to see everything so clearly? how could he have left you like this?

he holds you tighter, digging his head into the crook of your neck and hunching over, your eyes now seeing over the curve of his broad shoulder.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he apologizes to you in turn, fingers curling into your hair as he holds your scalp. “i'm sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

you’re confused as to why he’s apologizing to you since the entire thing is your fault. satoru has a tendency to take on your emotions, piling them onto his own weight of carrying the title of the strongest. you never understood why he did so naturally and willingly, and why even now as you stood limply in his arms, he’s crying for the things you did to yourself.

he pulls away with shiny red eyes, gazing down into your shiny red eyes and tear stained cheeks. you’re so beautiful, he thinks. he hates that such beauty has been suffering in so much silence.

“(y/n), I love you more than anything in this goddamn world. please don’t- don’t keep doing this to yourself. if you’re hurting, come to me. hurt me if you have to lash out, but don’t hurt yourself beautiful.”

“i would never even think of hurting you, satoru.”

“then don’t think of doing it to yourself,” he says firmly, and you press your lips together.

“…i-i don’t know how to… to stop,” you mumble, and he’s taking your hands in his and kissing them gently.

“i’ll help you. we can get you help, baby, I promise. just promise me, please,” he begs you, holding your hands close to his heart. “you come to me when you feel like doing that, okay? you come to me. and I’ll do whatever I can. let me help you. let me be there for you. i won’t let you push me out, (y/n).”

you're crying again, tears streaking over your face as satoru’s love captures you within his words, within his warmth as he forces you to understand that you are not alone, and never will be.

satoru kisses your hands again. his lips reach your cheek, and his hand comes to tuck your head into his shoulder again, holding you and telling you that you have him to go to when your world grows dark.

geto suguru: if suguru could sum you up into one word, he would say that you're his universe.

everything in his life he does for the sake of you and his girls, for the sake of keeping you safe and making you happy. your happiness and your comfortability are the only things that suguru prioritizes above all else, making them his very goal to serve each and every day.

suguru's not the most stable, you know that and he knows that himself. he has his off days, where he falls quiet and the world around him numbs itself and the noise becomes a muffle in his ears until you step into view, giving him a smile and wrapping his big frame up in your small arms, your voice whispering to him and breaking through the fog. you're his sanctuary. you're his safe place, and he loves you so much. he owes his entire life to you, therefore ensuring that you feel just as loved as you make him feel is very important to him.

so when he catches sight of the scars on your stomach one day by accident, when you lift up mimiko to sit on your shoulder as nanako jumps up for you to pick her up to, and her shoe kicks up your shirt from your waist momentarily, suguru freezes.

are you hurt? did someone do this to you? did you do this to yourself?

countless thoughts are racing through suguru's mind as he stares at you in a daze, watching you laugh so joyfully along with the girls as though no trouble plagues you.

but there is. you've just been hiding it. hiding it far too well.

his mind is elsewhere for the rest of the day, unsure of if he had been imagining things or not. he knows you so well, or at least he thinks he does. how have you been hiding those marks littering your lower abdomen? how had he missed them?

he thinks back to the moments you two were intimate and recalls that you never wanted to remove the tanktop you wore or let him kiss further than your ribs. he recalls the days you all went to the beach and you kept a white shirt over your swimsuit or elected to wear a onepiece. he recalls how quickly you change when he's with you, your back turned to him as you rush to throw something on over your upper body.

the signs... they're all there. you've been hiding yourself from him, but why? what have you been doing? have you truly been harming yourself, or is that thought a trick of suguru's worst fears?

he tries to keep himself calm around you and the girls for the remainder of the day until they are put to sleep and the two of you are alone again.

you sit on the edge of your shared bed, rubbing lotion over your arms with your back facing suguru again. he watches you carefully, back resting against the headboards and hazel eyes trained on your figure as though you aren't real.

he waits for the proper moment, waiting for you to crawl up and curl under his side, his arm subconsciously wrapping over your waist as your head lays on his chest. he stares at the ceiling for a moment, thinking as weighty silence overcomes you, then he's cautiously speaking.

"(y/n)?"

the soft call of your name brings your head up to peer at him curiously, blinking innocently. he turns down to look at your face and his heart clenches. while he knows that he knows what he saw, he doesn't want to believe it. he doesn't want to think that you, such a selfless and caring person for him, would hurt yourself.

you hum up at him, wondering what he has called you for. you see the pensive look in his face, the subtle knit in his brow as he stares at you, gears in his head turning. "yeah sugu?" you say gently.

he doesn't want to ask, but he has to. he doesn't want the confirmation, but he needs to know.

"i want to ask you a question..." he says, and you grow slightly befuddled.

"...okay?" you start. "is it serious?"

"yeah, it is," he admits, and you suddenly grow nervous, immediately catching an idea of what this could be about. you don't like the look on his face, the way he appears so serious.

"...alright," you mumble, suddenly meek.

the black haired man stares for a few more moments, just looking at you, taking in your the features he feel so deeply in love with, the features that bring him comfort and peace. "i saw something earlier, when you were holding mimiko," he begins softly, thumb caressing your back to ease you into the conversation.

you feel your heart jolt anxiously, trying to keep a straight face so as to not give your nerves away, but knowing suguru, he could likely already tell that you're getting antsy.

you lift your head to look at him, hand resting over his chest, and his eyes follow you smoothly. his eyes are focused, lips in a firm line.

"your shirt lifted, and i saw your stomach. i saw some marks. a lot of them, actually," he says, and you still completely, like a deer caught in headlights. his hand presses gently into your back, trying to keep you present with him as his concerns grow worse when he sees you stiffen against him. he frowns, denial still taking hold of him. "(y/n), please tell me those aren't what i think they are," he sighs heavily.

you feel caught.

you knew that suguru would find out at some point or another, but that didn't make this moment any less horrifying for you. it's so quiet in your room, so isolating, no background noise of the girls giggling or the distant buzz of the tv to help weaken the intensity of this point in time. you feel like a spotlight is shining overhead, an audience awaiting eagerly for you to reveal your secrets to the crowd.

suguru sits up slightly, his calmness gradually shifting into terrified incredulity. your eyes are on his face but your gaze is elsewhere, far off. you look uncomfortable, stuck, and no explanation hits suguru's ears.

"(y/n)," he says your name again, looking desperately down at you. "tell me i'm wrong."

you wish you could, you really do, but you can't lie to suguru. he knows you too well, he loves you too much, and to lie to him would be like denying his understanding of who you are.

you feel your skin flush with shame and anxiety, heartbeat likely loud enough for your boyfriend to hear.

you worry. you worry about your boyfriend's judgment, for his reaction. is he going to be angry with you?

"hey," he snaps you out of your daze with the drag of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes as he stares at you helplessly. you look at him and frown, ashamed that you are the reason he looks so pained. "what's going on?"

the question comes out so delicately, it makes your heart break. a whisp of understanding blends into his tone with empathy, yet a crushing sense of sadness and guilt that overpowers the aforementioned emotions. you struggle to look him in his kind eyes, dreading his consolation that you feel you don't deserve.

"talk to me, (y/n)."

you chew angrily on the inside of your lip, looking down at your finger as you pick at his shirt. he watches your brows furl, an array of different feelings capturing your features. "i was gonna tell you about it..." you murmur, and suguru is floored.

"what?" he breathes out as though he has no more air. you wince, lowering your head. "you-" he pauses, mind jumping from one place to another. "you did that to yourself?"

"i'm sorry, i-" you can feel your throat growing tight. "i've been trying to-"

"to stop?" he tries to finish for you, grasping for any kind of explanation. he's devastated, not only because you've been harming yourself, but because you've been so busy looking after him and the girls that he hasn't noticed. you're the one who always comforts him, but while you've been doing that, you've been aching on the inside and trying to hide it.

you nod meekly when he concludes for you. "i just- i thought the feelings would go away, so i didn't say anything, but they're just getting worse and i don't know what to do anymore and i only feel better after i..."

"(y/n)," he stops you gently, his heart shattering upon listening to you ramble, spilling out the things you have been holding onto for what he assumes to have been so long. "you've been dealing with this all this time?"

"...it's on and off," you confess. "some days are better than others, but..."

suguru finds your words familiar, for he often finds himself in the exact same mindset; feeling functional and confident some days, and others, not so much, but you're the reason why he's able to handle his bad days, yet he hasn't been the same for you for as long as the two of you have been together.

he feels almost sick. he loves you to death. you're his everything, but you've been in pain, and he hasn't seen it.

the way he's looking at you now makes you feel guilty, remorseful, embarrassed. you know you should have told him, but you could never find the strength to. you had always been too scared. and the longer you self-harm, the less you are willing to admit to yourself and to your boyfriend that you have a problem.

you're shocked, though, when suguru's hands tighten over you and his face grows bitter, not with you but with himself. "how could i have been so stupid?" he grumbles, distraught. "and so selfish? all this time, you-"

"no, suguru, please, it's not your fault," you try to tell him.

"i should have seen, baby, i should have noticed something sooner. and all this time, instead you've been looking after me when i should have been looking after you."

"don't say that, suguru," you shift, looking sadly into his eyes. "it's my fault. i'm the one who did this, i'm the one who's to blame. i'm the stupid and selfish one, not you."

suguru's frown deepens, sad eyes looking over your face. you blame and belittle yourself just as easily as suguru does, and he can't stand it. he can't stand to see you like this, to be so aware of hurt before him. he wants, no, he needs to take all that pain away from you. he needs to exorcize it, rid your body of it, cast it away so that you can be happy from now until the rest of time. he needs you to be okay.

"i swear on my life, (y/n)," he begins firmly, eyes boring straight into yours, holding your cheek. "i will do everything in my power to get you through this. whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes, i will be here for you. you're not alone, you understand? you don't need to pretend for me. the girls love you- god i love you so fucking much, and i can't stomach to think of the times you've suffered in silence for my sake. i'm no good if you're no good, baby. i need to know these things, i need to be able to help you."

your nose twitches and your jaw clenches as you look into him, breathing growing unstable. suguru has always been so generous and so loving. he has a way with his words and how safe they make you feel even during your worst moments.

"but what if i can't do it, sugu?" you whisper, his thumb catching the tear that leaks from the corner of your eye. "what if i'm not strong enough to get better?"

"you are strong enough," he affirms confidently. "more than strong enough. and when you feel weak, lean on me. but you have to promise me something."

you nod slowly, mutely, keeping his gaze as he stares at you lovingly, wistfully.

"promise me you won't do it," his words come out as a quick, hasty breath. his brows curl further upward, his desperation plain on his pretty face. "promise me you'll let me know as soon as you want to, but don't hurt yourself again, (y/n). don't do it. i'm begging you. you don't deserve that pain."

though you are unsure if you can even make that promise to yourself, you force yourself to try. for suguru's sake. "okay," you mumble, and he sighs, kissing you softly and pulling you to his chest to whisper sweet nothings as his hands soothe over your stomach and your back.

nanami kento: you twist your fingers around each other as you sit in the living room while kento cooks in the kitchen. you're nervous, more nervous than you have been about anything in your entire life, but you know that you need to rip off this bandaid to approach your boyfriend about such a serious matter.

recently, you find yourself returning to the old habit that you believed to have been relinquished. you thought that you had gotten better, that the urge to self harm had completely gone away after having spent so much time in therapy trying to heal, but recently, you've been feeling down again, useless, angry with yourself. you didn't want to tell nanami at first because you didn't think that your current mood would go beyond feeling depressed, but now that you've started scratching away at your thighs and your arms again, you know that you need to let him know what's going on. you know that you can't go on like this anymore.

but you have no idea what to say.

nanami has been nothing but doting toward you, bringing you flowers every morning, making your meals, ensuring that you remember to schedule doctor's appointments or to keep yourself warm when it's cold out- the man's life revolves around your comfortability, and while you know he would be far more offended if you keep this to yourself, you're horrified to see his reaction when you tell him that you relapsed.

nanami is well aware of your past difficulties with your mental health, and he always tells you that if you are ever in a dark space again, he needs to know. even so, he hasn't been with you when you're like this. the two of you got together after the multiple therapy visits that helped you to shift mindsets, so now that you feel this way again, and while in a relationship with nanami no less, you feel petrified.

you don't even notice when he rounds the kitchen counter to make his way over to the dining table, setting down two plates of food. he looks over and catches the way you stare ahead blankly, lost in thought. you've been doing a lot of that lately and he wonders if something is wrong.

nevertheless, he knows that if something is bothering you, you'll tell him. "sweetheart, dinner's ready," he calls out, and you snap your head over to him, his voice bringing you out of your daze.

you stand wordlessly, movements somewhat robotic, as you slowly make your way over to the table. "thanks, ken," you say softly, lacking your usual energy, and at this point, your partner knows for certain that something is off.

he watches you carefully as you sit down, pushing in your seat for you and pecking your forehead before sitting down next to you. "tell me how your day was," he starts, brushing off his hands and reaching one out to rest one on your knee as he always did at the table. he's prying, you can tell, trying to learn if something that happened throughout the day affected your mood.

your heart is hammering loudly, your eyes stuck to the plate and unable to look up at him. "it was okay," you respond.

"just okay?" he questions and you nod slowly. "did something happen?"

you flicker your eyes up to his brown ones suddenly, caught off guard by the question. he sees the questioning in your eyes and replies accordingly.

"you seem to be a little off, this evening, that's all."

you hum, unsure of how to respond to his observation. you look away again, contemplating. just say it, you think. just tell him, just get it over with.

as you struggle against yourself, nanami only grows more concerned. you don't confirm or deny his comment, and the way you turn away has him wondering if he's done something to hurt you.

"did i do something wrong, darling?" he asks.

you furrow your brows and quickly shut down the idea. "no, no. not at all, ken. it's nothing you did."

"then... there is something troubling you?"

you stall a bit more now that you're on the spot, cursing the fact that kento is always so quick to pick up on the smallest changes in your demeanor.

"(y/n)?" he calls you when you don't answer.

"i have to tell you something," you say abruptly. you see nanami's brows raise ever so slightly, soft brown eyes looking over your face in an attempt to read the situation before you tell him anything. "it's... a lot. so i need you to just... bear with me. and please don't be mad."

nanami's brow twitches slightly as he looks at you, head tilting. he grabs the bottom of his chair and shuffles it closer to you, leaning over slightly and running his hand over where it resides on your knee.

"i could never be mad at you," he tells you earnestly, as though it's the most honest thing he's said in the world. "what's the matter, my love?"

god, he's so sweet to you it makes you physically ill that you have to break this news to him.

"...do you remember when we talked about... um..." your voice fades off, nanami's concentrated gaze only making you more nervous for what his reaction will be.

"take your time," he encourages you, and you only feel worse.

you return to chewing on the inside of your lip anxiously, picking at your shirt under the table. the blonde man beside you is ever so patient, allowing you to gather your thoughts before you verbalize them.

"...um...it's.... about what we talked about a while ago..."

"...and that would be regarding?"

"my... past."

nanami furrows his brows, still not quite understanding. "i apologize, honey, what about your past?"

just rip the bandaid. just rip the bandaid.

"my past with self-harming," you rush out, and the weighty silence that follows is enough to make you want to sink into the floor and let it swallow you whole.

you can feel his eyes burning into you, processing what you just told him, and all you can hear is the pound of your heart in your ears as his hand stills upon your knee.

nanami, on the other hand, is completely shocked by your revelation. while he understands that your relapsing has always been a very realistic possibility, he never wanted to entertain the idea that it could very much so happen- at least, not while he's around.

a sense of fear grips him. are you going to tell him that you relapsed? have you already hurt yourself? has he failed to be there when it happened??

"did you-" he doesn't know what he wants to ask, or how. he hates that he is already jumping to conclusions, but the way you are structuring this conversation with him only leads him to believe the worst. "what happened?"

your head hangs low and your fingers taut on your shirt, lips tightening as they press together. you can hear the disbelief in his voice already, and it breaks you.

"i relapsed."

the brown-eyed man clenches his jaw, falling completely silent once more to not react in a way that may worsen your state. you feel his hand tighten into a fist over top of your leg as he lowers his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers and inhaling sharply. you feel like a child who is awaiting punishment as you look at his hunched state, a million questions of what he will do next running through your mind.

you hate to do this to him. nanami already has so much on his plate, you know this is the last thing he needs to be stressing over. you wish you could be okay for him. it's not his fault that your mind takes you to these places, and you don't want him to bear responsibility as though it is his doing. even so, you already know that he will because that's the type of man kento is. that's the type of boyfriend kento is.

you wait a few more moments in unbearable muteness. after what feels like forever, kento lifts his head again and rests his chin on his fist, elbow propped on his knee. he's looking to the side, deep in anguished thought. he no longer looks surprised, but rather guilty and frustrated. "when?" is the first thing he asks.

"yesterday," you answer dejectedly, and he almost jerks, his body twitching in reaction. "...are you mad?"

nanami looks at you and his hardened expression immediately softens into something melancholy. "no- no, of course not, (y/n), no," he shakes his head as if the notion is unfathomable, releasing his fist to cup your knee again more securely. "i will never be angry with you for what you're going through. never. no, i'm not mad."

you nod quickly, a meek sense of relief and sorrow taking over you, a weight heaving from your chest upon letting it out. "okay," you whimper.

"come here, my darling," he coaxes you softly, opening and grabbing your hand from under the table delicately to lead you to stand over him. his hand guides over the small of you're back once you're up, leading you to sit on his lap with your back pressed against the table and your legs dangling over one side of his chair.

he holds your forearms gently, looking up at you with sad, understanding eyes. "are you comfortable showing me?" he murmurs so intimately, easing you into his warm consolation.

you don't nod or answer him verbally. instead, you wordlessly roll up the sleeve of your sweater to reveal angry red scratch lines running up your inner forearm. nanami's lips curl in pain as though he can feel the sting of your scars, holding your arm gently for him to look over it.

the sight kills him, though he tries to keep his cool. this isn't about him, it's about you, but goodness, the image of the scars on your beautiful skin makes him hurt like no other pain he's experienced.

"is this all of it?" he asks you, and you shake your head.

"there's some on my thighs," you mutter, looking down.

he nods. "alright," he sighs. "alright."

"...i know you have so much on your plate already... i just-"

"don't. don't even," he stops you, eyes still roaming over your irritated skin. nanami usually commends himself for remaining collected in times of crisis, but he's desperately fighting a part of him that wants to yell out and cry for the sake of you.

he imagines you struggling with this on your own, long before he came into your life, and the thought makes him cringe to picture just how far this must have gotten. these scratches he is surveying now already look bad enough. were the other ones worse?

"(y/n), you know this isn't okay," he looks up at your face and sees how you are avoiding his eyes. you look so small compared to how you usually carry yourself, and it kills him. "to harm yourself like this... you can't treat yourself this way, darling, you know you can't."

"i know," you mumble. "i just had a moment, and now i'm scared that- that i'll go back to how things were."

"as long as i'm with you, you won't. i promise you that," nanami swears. "it was just this one time since you last?"

you nod. "yeah..."

"okay," he nods once more, convincing himself that this is something he can help stop before it gets any more out of hand. "why'd you do it this time, my love? what were you thinking that led you here? is there something i can do differently? is it work? is it a combination of things?"

"i wish it were that easy to explain, kento," you frown, glancing up at him helplessly. "but it's just... it's just a feeling i can't put into words. i can't pinpoint the source. i just... one minute i felt like i couldn't breathe, and the next i was..."

"okay," he repeats, letting you know that you no longer need to say anything more. you don't have to revisit it. he understands. he will take care of it. he'll help you. "okay, darling. how about this. i call off of work tomorrow and we can sit and talk about seeing a new therapist. then we can go out and do whatever you want. just for fun. does that sound okay with you?"

your nose flares and your lips tug to the side as you nod, truly not comprehending how you managed to find a man so patient with you. "yeah, that's good," you say softly, and nanami is at least relieved that you are willing to take further steps into a better direction.

"good," he whispers, rolling the sleeve of your sweater back down so that you no longer feel exposed or feel like you have to think any more about the things you did to yourself when you felt alone. "it's alright, my love. we'll get through it. you'll get past this just like you did last time," he encourages you, moving to caress your shoulder lovingly as you hold his gaze. "it's okay," he tells you again, and you nod weakly, leaning over to plop your head against his shoulder.

nanami holds you to him and exhales, food completely forgotten. his only priority now is to be there for you in the ways he could not before the two of you met.

"thank you for telling me."

choso kamo: choso worships the ground you walk on because he can not fathom a world without, nor the fact that you happened to stumble into his life on a whim. to imagine you hurt is the very worst thing that the man can think of, and the notion that you would hurt yourself is beyond his comprehension.

you aren't actively trying to hide any of your scars when he finds them. the scars are old, faded reminders of the pain that you used to endure and how you attempted to cope with it. while you are now six months free of self harming, the scars remain very present.

choso happens to catch sight of your scars when you are getting changed. he's sitting at the edge of your bed, face flushed, as he watches you blissfully change out of your pajamas and into clothes that you feel are best suited for a walk to the ice cream shop that choso has proposed. it's a bright sunday afternoon, and the brunette is eager to take advantage of the weather with the woman he holds close to his heart as well as his baby brother, who the two of you intend to meet at the store.

you're now dressed in nothing but a large white shirt and underwear, your legs bare as you strut around the space freely. choso's jade eyes follow you as you walk, completely obsessed with the way you move. he could watch you do the most mundane things for hours, which he truthfully tends to do anyway.

your back is to him before you round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom momentarily before coming back into the living room. choso's eyes still don't leave you, tracing over your face down your figure and finally to the front of your bare legs.

he falters, and his brows draw together when he catches dark marks littering over your inner thighs, only revealing themselves with the movement of your limbs as you walk.

the pale-skinned man grows confused and slightly concerned. he's never seen those marks on you before, and simultaneously, never on anyone else he knows either. he finds them to be a strange form of battle scars, especially due to the placement, the small size, and the sheer number of them. some of them take different shapes too, blurring together or over each other, while some stand out alone. they almost look like burns, but it's hard for choso to really tell.

you proceed about your business, searching through your drawer to pull out a skirt, when choso speaks up.

"love? what are those?" he asks curiously, perplexed.

you turn over your shoulder, shutting your drawer closed with your foot. "hm? what's what, cho?" you ask him, unsure of what he's referring.

choso, still slightly flustered by the vision of your half exposed body, nods his head into the direction of your lower legs. "those," he says again, and you look down, still lost.

you lift your foot momentarily, checking to see if something is stuck under or on top of it. you then survey the rest of your body, searching for something out of the ordinary. "uhhh," you trail off. "i'm not sure what you mean, baby. you're talking about my legs?"

you are far too desensitized to and familiar with the image of your scars to process that choso has never seen them before. the brunette, however, is unsatisfied, wanting an answer that you have yet to provide.

he leans forward, lifting his hand and pointing his finger directly to a patch of dark spots peeking out from your inner thighs. you follow his gaze, eyes landing on the culprits, and your shoulders drop in realization. "oh," you say shortly, choso retracting his hand.

he looks at you innocently, awaiting a response while you try to figure out how to explain this sight to him.

you don't want to worry him, but knowing choso, if you lead with the fact that these scars are there because you inflicted them onto yourself, he would have a heart attack, failing to find reason to your words.

even so, you know choso only wants to understand you as much as you desire to understand him. he wants to see the ugly parts as well as the beautiful parts of you that he is so drawn to, and if you hide it from him, that would only create a rift in your budding relationship that you aren't entirely too keen on creating.

you want him to know you, all of you, and these scars are as much of a part of you as the bones in your body and the blood pumping through your skin.

they're a sign of what you've been through, what you've overcome, and who you are now. they're important, and choso should know why they are there.

"that's a good question," you sigh, putting your skirt on the bed as you move to sit next to him at the edge of it. choso immediately turns to you, glancing over the marks shamelessly now that he has a better view of them.

"did someone do that to you?" is the first thought that crosses his mind, red drifting into his vision at the mere idea that someone has hurt you in such an intimate way.

"...no," you shake your head, lifting one leg up onto the bed, brushing his own, as the other dangles. "i put them there. a while ago," you explain honestly.

choso scrunches his brows tighter, eyes flickering up to your face then back down to try to identify what exactly the marks are. "what are they?" he repeats.

you exhale, puckering your lips as you prepare yourself for this difficult conversation. "they're burns, cho. from a match," you tell him.

now, the half-curse is incredibly confused. burn marks? on your lovely skin? in a place where only you could reach? put there by yourself?

you burned yourself?

"i don't understand," he frowns, shifting to face you better. "why would you..."

"i used to be in a really bad place, baby," you purse your lips, watching as his face contorts with consternation as he comes to understand that you purposefully harmed yourself.

"what do you mean? bad enough to do this to yourself?" he sounds mortified, his voice growing ragged the moment his tone picks up volume.

his pupils, moments ago blown pools of affection, are now shrunken dots of shock.

"don't look at me like that," you beg him, placing your hand over his own. his eyes snap to the sudden contact, then back to you with concern. "sometimes, when certain people are suffering from depression, or anxiety, or just overall bad thoughts and they feel like they have to... break out, or maybe punish themselves in a sense... they resort to hurting themselves."

choso gulps, lump forming in his throat as he listens to you with shaking eyes. "and that's what you did? you felt like you needed to punish yourself?"

"it's hard to explain to someone on the outside. i know it sounds... crazy, but it was the only way i knew how to cope with everything that i was dealing with."

"why didn't you come to me instead?" he immediately asks and you give him a sad, knowing look.

"because, we didn't know each other then, cho?"

"i don't care," he shakes his head, eyes keeping yours. "you should have found me."

the idea brings a hint of a smile to your lips, choso's sweetness warming your heart. "i didn't know who you were, baby, that would have been like begging a stranger for help."

"so?" he scoffs. "i loved you the moment i met you. it wouldn't have made any difference to me.

you sigh again, bringing your other hand to rest over top of your boyfriend's as you smile softly at him in an attempt to get him to calm down.

the panic is still written all over his face as he takes in your smile, the vision somehow only making him sadder. you're so gorgeous, inside and out, and that smile is only scratching the surface of your unending beauty.

to know now that your radiance was once outweighed by the torment in your mind encouraging you to harm yourself... well, it makes choso want to ball his eyes out. it makes him want to confront the physical manifestation of your past traumas and pummel it into the ground, bashing its head in for all the hurt that it has caused you.

"i ended up just fine, cho," you reassure him.

"why didn't you say anything before? were you trying to keep it from me?"

"no, baby, i just didn't think to tell you. i kinda forgot about them," you say, and that comment alone makes choso soften his features slightly.

"you forgot..." he recites your words. "does that mean you're better now?"

you hum in affirmation, smiling warmly. "it's been a while since i've hurt myself or done anything like that. i got through it. i'm okay now, these scars are just a permanent reminder of the past."

his frame sags slightly with relief, brows lifting as he looks over you with a blank expression. "i think i understand," he mumbles, looking back down at the marks. "i'm sorry you ever had to go through any of that."

"it's not your fault. you weren't there."

"i wish i had been. so i could have helped more. i know you said you're better, but maybe if i had been there i could've stopped you from hurting yourself at all."

"i wouldn't put that responsibility onto yourself, cho. it was my responsibility."

"still," his brows arch slightly. "i would have stuck with you every second of every day to make sure that you never had a second alone to do any of it. i wouldn't have let you, and i won't let you now." a thought seems to pop into his head when he finishes his last sentence. "you wouldn't go back to trying to hurt yourself, (y/n), would you?

you exhale. "i mean, i'd like to think i wouldn't, but sometimes these things aren't linear," you admit. "i just know that for now, i'm okay."

"the second you're not, though, you'd tell me?"

"yes. i would."

"you promise?"

"i promise, baby."

"okay," he sighs. "because i don't think i'd be able to function knowing you're upset."

the brown haired man leans over, carefully holding your thigh as he looks over your marks again, no longer flustered by your bare skin but entirely focused on the severity of your burns. you look down at him, hands slipping from his own as he surveys you closely like he's a doctor.

"they don't hurt anymore, do they?"

"nope. just scarred."

choso looks at you for a bit longer in silence before looking back up at you from his hunched state. "can i kiss them?"

you laugh softly, hand falling into his hair at you gaze at him with your heart aglow. "you want to kiss them?"

he nods. "so they can feel loved."

you coo, thumb smoothing over his temple as his eyes swell with adoration right before you. "of course you can."

toji fushiguro: toji is absolutely no stranger to scars. he's a human man with no cursed energy, having had his fair share of close calls on risky jobs that have left him with slashes over his calves, small pierces in his flesh, and cracked callouses. then, of course, there's the scar on his mouth bestowed upon him by his oh-so-loving family, which will be stuck with for the rest of his life.

scars follow toji like moths follow a flame, and he's numb to it. he believes that they are a part of life, both physically and mentally, especially with the kind of life that he leads. whether the wound is a large one or a small one he can barely see, he accepts scars as a part of who he is-

who he is.

while toji likes to parade around with a hardened exterior decorated with faded, scabbing wounds, that is something he deems fit for him and him only. he doesn't care what other people do with their lives as long as they leave him the hell out of it, but for the love of all the money that he has acquired over the years slaughtering sorcerers, he will be damned if he finds a single, tiny little scratch on your body.

scars are for toji, not for you, his darling little girlfriend and the day he finds out someone has hurt you enough to leave behind a mark is the day he's putting several bullets into the culprit's head.

toji's worst fear, though he hardly discusses it, is losing you and watching you get hurt. god, he practically lives to protect you, and to feel as though he has failed to do so would wound him detrimentally. he's a tough guy, but you make him so soft, and admittedly he wouldn't want to be soft for anyone but you. you're his rock, his little hot head, and he loves you more than life itself.

if you're hurt, he will lose it.

therefore, when he finds out that you're self-harming? oh, he's on the verge of losing his fucking mind.

he does a double-take when you step out of his room and into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your body, his eyes widening and his brows arching immediately.

now, toji knows your body inside and out. he's explored every inch, he knows every crook, every crevice, every mark, every texture, and he has never once in the six months you have been together seen the red lines over your inner wrist.

he watches you with twisted lips as you grab an orange from the counter before walking back into his direction. you're almost back into the room when toji calls you.

"uh uh," he stops you, and you pause, turning over your shoulder and purposefully moving your left wrist to press into your towel.

"what?"

"come here," he orders and you give him a strange look.

"why?"

"i wanna see somethin'. come here."

you're quick to snap back easily with your own sarcastic retort, clearly in a foul mood over something. "if you want to fuck, can you wait until i'm fully dried off and after i finish this?' you hold up the orange in your other hand, a perturbed look on your face.

"i don't want to fuck, (y/n), i want you to come here."

toji's voice comes out sternly, and on the verge of anger. you survey his posture, his arms leaning over his legs as he cranes to look at you with a suspicious, firm expression. you can tell that he's serious, and a sudden sense of fear overtakes you that you mask with annoyance.

you don't say a word when you slowly walk up to him, crossing your arms over your chest to conceal your wrist, the hand holding the orange tucked under your elbow.

"what is it?"

toji holds out his palm. "give it."

"...my orange?"

"put it in my hand."

you huff, carefully maneuvering your arm around to keep your inner wrist pointed toward your body as you bring forward the orange and plop it aggressively into his hand. toji watches your other arm the entire time, taking clear note of how you refuse to let your wrist show, and you know you're fucked.

the green-eyed man tosses the orange to the side of the couch and holds out his large palm again, eying you intensely. you look down at him with a frustrated frown, shrugging. "i don't have anymore oranges."

"don't be cute, doll."

"what? do you want my hand?"

"you know i want your hand."

you roll your eyes, raising the hand you had held your orange with when he stops you. "not that one. the other one."

your heart pangs, shaking your entire body as he looks to you expectantly. how the fuck had he managed to notice the scar on your wrist so quickly?

the moment you hesitate, he knows that what he saw earlier is something to be concerned about. you normally never hide yourself from toji, and the way you go about hiding your arm now is defensive enough to raise several brows. he knows you're not dumb, too. he knows that you know exactly what he wants to see.

"(y/n)." he cocks a brow, the severity of his demeanor only making you more uneasy.

he can't see. he can't see what you've just done. he'll hate you. he'll look at you like you're crazy.

"what if i don't want to give you my hand?"

"then i'll just grab it for you, and i don't think either of us wants to go there."

you release a trembling, aggravated breath. you can't get away with anything when toji's around, and while you ponder having chosen to get an orange later, you know deep down somewhere you wanted toji to see. you wanted him to help you, which is why you walked out of that bathroom half an hour after having put those scars on your arm.

"hand, now."

you turn your eyes away with a grunt, slapping your wrist into his hand facing downward. toji is quick to whip it upside once he has a grip on you, and his eyes seem to freeze over the sight of three fresh slices on your upper forearm up close.

his jaw clenches, then unclenches, then clenches and unclenches again as his lips twitch and his eyes adjust to the vision. you're hurt. not only are you hurt, but it looks as though you've recently been hurt. you've hurt yourself.

toji has a hard time figuring out what to do. he's not good with things like this, but he knows that seeing you with scars on your arm is quite literally about to set him off. he always imagined having to defend you from others who seek to hurt you, but never having to defend you from yourself.

he can't fathom it. he's struggling, the muscles in his eyes are twitching, and he can't handle it. he can feel his heart begin to race, unsure if he is angry or scared or mortified or devastated.

there are three lines in your arm. bright red. staring right back up at him.

and you put them there?

no way, you put them there.

but you did. clearly you did, or else you wouldn't be looking so guilty right now.

but when did you? how did you? why did you?

he doesn't know what to think. he doesn't know what to say. he swore he'd always protect you, but how does he even begin to try to protect you from yourself?

"are you out of your mind?"

the question leaves him rather calmly, a low inquiry that you are unsure is meant to be directed as an insult or a genuine ask.

you can't look at him. you don't even know what to think yourself. it had all happened so fast while you were in the bathroom, before you got into the shower.

one minute, you were staring angrily in the mirror, cursing your reflection as your wicked thoughts sprouted grubby arms and guided you toward the pair of brow scissors that you kept in your makeup cabinet on the left side of toji's bathroom.

you wanted to feel in control of the disdain you felt lurking within your soul. you wanted to feel something for fear that you would never be able to feel again, and before you knew it, you were dragging the exposed blade over your skin.

"d'you wanna explain why i'm looking at these cuts on your arm, (y/n)?"

and you know, you know that it's a bad sign when toji uses your name instead of the plethora of pet names he normally elects to call you: doll, princess, mama, girl, pretty baby- anything but your actual government name, and when you hear it roll from his tongue under these circumstances, you can only imagine what's going through his head.

you shift on your bare feet, looking down at your toes. "dunno," is all you say, and toji scoffs in disbelief.

"you don't know?" he emphasizes. "that's all you have to say?"

"if you wanna embarrass me, go ahead, toji. seriously, i'm tired."

"what the fuck makes you think i wanna embarrass you? i wanna know why the fuck my girlfriend walked out of the bathroom with cuts on her arm!"

you rip your arm away immediately when he yells, storming back off into his room and slamming the door behind you.

toji jumps up, suddenly frazzled. he doesn't want you alone in there. he doesn't want you out of his sight.

the navy haired man moves quickly to his door and grabs the handle, only to find it locked. he jiggles it harshly and bangs on the door. beginning to panic. "open the door, (y/n)," he shouts, meeting no reply.

little does he know, your back is pressed against the other side as tears crash over your cheeks. you don't know how you expected toji to react, but the look on his face just now and his tone of voice was enough to send you running off.

you feel ashamed, weak. you shouldn't have gone out there at all. you should have waited until you were dressed, discarding the whole idea of letting toji see what you did so that you could suffer in silence without his help, because what help could he truly provide anyway?

toji's a tough man, but he's soft for you. he would stand in front of a moving train for you. he would sacrifice his life for you, so when you don't answer, he imagines the worst.

"open the door," he says again, weaker, tugging desperately at the handle though he knows it won't budge. he knows he could break the door down, and he's prepared to until he hears you sniff amdist his pounding. he immediately stops, face dropping.

fuck.

this is bad.

he knew it was before, but for some reason, it's only now registering how bad this is.

you're in pain. you hurt yourself because you're in pain and you need him, but he doesn't know how to help you. he's never dealt with anything like this before.

his hand slides from the door and to his side, forehead knocking against the door though his other hand remains tight on the handle. he just needs to see you.

"princess," he mutters defeatedly. "don't make me kick this door in."

silence.

"please," he softens even more. "please, (y/n), let me in."

the house falls quiet once more and you give in. you feel so lost, and the only person who can at least comfort you, in his own way, is toji.

you slowly turn to unlock the door and step back as toji opens it swiftly, staring down at you with wide eyes and at least relieved to see that you haven’t done any further harm to your body.

he does, however, see your tears.

his face tightens as he bends down to scoop you up in an instant, your legs and arms tightening around him as you snivel into his shoulder, his large palms sliding over your body. he feels your small body tremble against him as he walks the two of you over to the edge of his bed, sitting down as you cling to him like a koala.

"i dunno what happened," you whimper into him. "i dunno why i did it. i dunno. i dunno."

you say it over and over, your voice as broken as toji feels listening to you.

he wishes he knew what to do. he wishes he was better equipped to handle this, but never in his worst nightmares did he dream that he would find you here, his fiery girl, the love of his life.

he's been so busy trying to protect you from the outside world that he hasn't even thought about the things that could harm you from within.

he stays silent as you babble to him through tears, holding you just like he knew how. he doesn't want to picture those scars on you. he doesn't want to picture what led you to put them there. he just wants to hold you, to at least let you know that he's here and he's not going anywhere. he may not know how to help, but he knows how to love you and he hopes that's enough.

"i'm not letting you out of my sight, y'hear?" he says gruffly into your ear and you nod meekly. "i'm not letting this happen ever again. not as long as i'm alive."

he mentally swears to rid your house and his of any and every sharp object he can find and to throw it all in a safe as you sink into him.

toji knows how to protect and toji knows how to fight. though he's more acclimated with fighting others, if he has to fight to protect yourself from your innermost demons, then hell, he will find a way to do just that.

sukuna ryomen: lord help you and lord help anyone within a fifty-mile radius when the king of curses discovers that you've been harming yourself.

sukuna is not at all very good with his words or his expressions of affirmations. he is a being of action, and he believes that he has proven his love for you enough by simply allowing you to be in his presence longer than anyone else ever has or ever will.

at first, when he sees a scar or two on your leg, he thinks its just an accident or a result of you being clumsy. then, three more pop up, then five, then far more than he's even willing to count, and he decides that this scar pattern is somehow intentional.

he knows no one else has marked them onto you because he is prepared to kill anyone who comes too close, especially if they have ill intentions. if you were in danger at someone else's hand, he would be the first to know and the person meaning you harm would be dead before they could even think about touching you.

therefore, when he sees that the only person normally within your company is him, uraume, and yourself, the process of elimination leads him to you.

he goes about confronting you rather harshly, as well, for he knows no other way to be.

you're out in the garden of his large residence one day, soaking up the sun, when you hear familiar, loud stomps heading your way from behind.

you turn around and squint to peer up at sukuna, who is standing over you with a menacing glare in his crimson eyes. you don't necessarily find this out of the ordinary, so you greet him as usual.

"hi, kuna," you say sweetly. "you good?"

he is not good. not at all, so he gets straight to the point. "come inside, woman."

you quirk a brow. "why? i just got out here?"

"do not question me."

"can it wait, like, fifteen minutes?"

"do you wish to live in the next fifteen minutes?"

you sigh, entirely too used to sukuna's facade of cruelty around you. you know by now that the king of curses would never dare to hurt you.

"i do intend, to live, yes," you smirk.

"then you will come inside as i have demanded."

"no, sukuna. i want to stay out here for a bit. i've been inside all day."

the pink haired man fumes, teeth grinding together in agitation. he doesn't want to delay this conversation any further than it has already been delayed, but of course, you choose to be difficult.

"very well, we will do this out here," he growls and you smile.

"good."

you don't prepare yourself for when sukuna grabs the back of your chair and whips out around to face him with the unpleasant screech of the legs against the cobblestone. you wince, then retract your face when sukuna lowers his to stare at you from mere centimeters away, one of his arms grasping to push up the lose leg of your shorts up to reveal the set of scars littering your skin.

your eyes go wide, his movements too quick for you to process all at once.

"are these your doing?" he hisses and you gulp.

"s-sukuna-"

"i did not ask for you to say my name. i asked if these scars are your doing."

his eyes are piercing, striking directly into yours. "what are you talking about?" you whisper shakily.

"are we going to pretend like you're an idiot now?" he snarls. he's so mean, but he feels it's for good reason. your body has been tainted, and for some reason, you have been doing the tainting. he needs to know why.

you shake your head weakly. "no..."

"then answer me properly. i will not repeat myself a third time."

you bite down on your lower lip, heart ringing in your ears. you didn't even know sukuna paid attention to you enough to catch wind of something like this.

"yes... i did this," you finally tell him, and sukuna is livid.

"and why would you be doing something so foolish? scars are not something you are meant to give yourself, human."

"please don't be a dick, sukuna, not right now."

"i am asking a perfectly reasonable question and i expect you to answer it," he glowers. "now."

"you wouldn't understand if i told you," you frown and he clicks his tongue.

"stop assuming things of me before i lock you inside of my room where you can not escape or even fathom doing something like this to yourself again under my supervision."

you curl your brows, frowning up at your boyfriend. "if i tell you, you'll call me foolish."

"because this is foolish," he grunts. "but i will not if my doing so will get you to fucking explain yourself."

you shake your head, looking down and contemplating before deciding to just get it over with so that he can stop putting you on the spot. "sometimes i just feel shitty," is all you elect to say.

but sukuna is hardly satisfied with this response. "so you choose to inflict pain upon yourself instead of calling upon me?"

"i told you, you wouldn't understand," you say. "it's not something i can easily explain to you either."

sukuna narrows his eyes. "fine."

he lowers himself to grab you legs and throw you over his shoulder. you squeal, grabbing onto his back as he begins to walk you back into his home and toward his room. "sukuna!" you kick your legs around. "put me down!"

"no. you're coming with me, and you're going to sit and talk me through every single thought that has crossed your little mind to make you think that injuring yourself in such a way is tolerable within the walls of my residence. then after that, you'll come with me everywhere i go from this point on."

"what?!" you exclaim from where you hang upside down. "I don't wanna go everywhere you go," you wine.

"too bad. you should have thought of that before you decided to harm yourself."

sukuna is horrible with words, and far more horrible with expressing his concerns, but despite your temporary discomfort with how he goes about approaching the situation, you can still see in the pinch of his brow and the stiffness of his posture, combined with his refusal to let you go without a proper explanation, that he cares very deeply for your wellbeing.

6K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 11 days ago

Note

Okay hear me out: we have a Leclerc reader who is a teenage (15 or 16) and she's always struggled with mental health with the pressure of school and being charles's little sister so she thinks she has to be up to his level and he finds out? like he see's the I am sober app on her phone or see's the s-h scars on her wrists??

i got you— cl16

charles leclerc x !younger sister reader

written blurbs

being charles leclerc’s little sister was never easy. not because he made it hard — he never did. charles loved you like the sun loved the sea—endlessly, naturally, without question. but the world… the world had its expectations. and they pressed down on you like gravity. at sixteen, you were already tired. of school, of whispers, of always being almost enough. the grief for your father sat heavy in your chest, a quiet echo no one talked about anymore. and while charles raced across continents, worshipped by millions, you were quietly falling apart. this is the story of how he came home. how you broke. and how, piece by piece, he helped you find your way back. not to perfection. not to the old you. but to something softer. something true. to the version of yourself that still wanted to live.

(a/n) : hi my love. i hope you are doing okay. if anyone out there is struggling, just know that you are not alone. i am here and as long as i am here — each and everyone of you will have someone who loves and cares for you. reach out if you need, my messages are always open:)

obvious warnings of sh (not explicit), grief and depression.

—

You knew the moment you stepped into school this morning that it was going to be a hard day. You could feel it in the way your limbs dragged, like gravity had grown stronger overnight just to pull you under. The halls felt too loud, every laugh a little too sharp, every glance a little too lingering. You kept your head down.

It’s always the same, isn’t it? You walk through the corridors like a ghost, existing more in other people’s whispers than in your own skin.

“Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Bet she thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“You’d think she’d be prettier. Or smarter.”

They don’t even try to be quiet anymore. You’re used to the weight of expectation — not just theirs, but your own. The constant, impossible pressure to be enough. To live up to a name that feels too big for you. You’re sixteen and already tired of trying to be someone you’re not sure you ever could be.

You get a math test back in second period. 72%. The number circles your mind like a shark. You can barely focus on the rest of the class because all you can hear is the dull throb of failure. You should have done better. You should always do better. Because if you don’t, then who are you, really?

Not him. Not Charles. He wins Grand Prix. He speaks five languages. He makes people cry with national anthems and overtakes. You just… exist. Quietly. An echo of someone more important.

By the time you make it home, the house is too silent. It’s always silent lately. Maman is keeping her salon open late. Arthur’s busy. Charles is—well, he’s somewhere on the other side of the world, racing. Smiling for cameras. Waving to crowds. And you want to be happy for him, you really do, but sometimes you wish he’d see you.

Just once. See how much you’re slipping.

You drop your backpack at the door and collapse onto the couch for a moment before dragging yourself to your room. You sit at your desk and pull out your journal. It’s the one Charles gave you when you turned fifteen, with soft leather and your initials stamped into the cover. He said you had too many thoughts to keep inside. Said writing might help. You try. You write a sentence. Then cross it out. Then another. Rip out the page.

You can’t get it right. The words won’t come the way you feel them, and even your sadness feels like a failure.

The walls start to press in, then.

A thick kind of loneliness settles over you — the kind that feels like it could swallow you whole and no one would even notice. You press your hands into your lap, try to breathe. Try to be strong.

But you don’t feel strong. You feel like glass. You get up quietly, like you’re underwater. Like you already know where this is going. The drawer slides open with a soft hiss. You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then the noise in your mind wins out.

You just want it to stop — the pressure, the noise, the constant sense that no matter what you do, it’s not enough. You’re not enough. You’re the girl behind the driver, the afterthought, the kid sister who smiles in photos and disappears afterward.

It’s not about pain. It’s about silence. About needing something real to remind yourself that you’re still here. That you’re not completely invisible.

Afterward, you sit curled on the bathroom floor, your sleeves pulled back down, your journal beside you like a witness you never wanted.

You want to tell someone. You want someone to see you. But you don’t know how to ask. So instead, you cry quietly into the crook of your arm, trying not to make a sound. As if even now, you’re trying not to be a burden. And outside your window, the sun sets softly over Monaco, like it doesn’t even know you’re breaking.

—

You must have fallen asleep at some point, head resting against the wall, the journal open but blank on your lap. But when the door clicks open downstairs, your heart stutters. Maman.

You wipe your face quickly, instinctively, as if you haven’t been crying for the past hour in silence. As if she won’t know the moment she sees you. You’ve always been soft in her hands — too transparent to hide anything for long.

You hear her heels on the floorboards, her purse dropping onto the kitchen counter, keys jangling against the door. Then quiet. You hold your breath. But then, soft footsteps on the stairs. Not rushed. Not loud. Just… steady. Measured. Like she knows.

Your door opens without a knock. And she stands there — tired eyes, hair pinned back messily. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes flick over you quickly. The red around your eyes. The tremble in your shoulders. The way you’re still trying to pretend you’re fine.

“Ma chérie,” she says, voice a whisper.

You look away. Your throat burns. It would be easier if she was angry. If she demanded answers or told you you were being dramatic. But she doesn’t. She just kneels beside your bed and reaches out.

You let her take your hand.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, but your voice breaks, and the tears come again — hot and slow, running down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting for this moment to fall.

“I know,” she says gently, brushing hair back from your face. “You don’t have to explain right now.”

She guides you up with a soft tug, and you follow her without thinking. The hallway is dark, the house quiet. You pass Charles’ empty room — the door still open from the last time he stayed — and then you’re in her bedroom.

She helps you into bed like she did when you were little, like you were six years old with a fever and needed her there just to breathe right. She doesn’t ask about the journal. She doesn’t ask why your sleeves are so long. She just lies down beside you, pulling you close with one arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

Her heartbeat becomes your rhythm. Steady. Unmoving.

“You don’t have to be anything more than who you are,” she whispers against your hair. “And you are enough, ma petite. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

You don’t answer, but your hand curls into the fabric of her blouse, clutching it like a lifeline.There’s a silence between you, but it’s not heavy this time. Not full of guilt or shame. Just quiet. Gentle. And after a while, your breathing slows. Your muscles ease. The tears stop.

You fall asleep to the sound of her humming a lullaby you haven’t heard in years — something she used to sing to Charles when he couldn’t sleep before races. Tonight, it’s for you. And for the first time in days, you don’t feel so alone.

—

The light filters in through the pale curtains, casting a soft glow over your mother’s bedroom. For a moment, you’re not sure where you are. You blink up at the ceiling, unfamiliar and familiar all at once — the scent of lavender, the quiet hum of traffic outside, the weight of warmth beside you.

Then you feel it. Fingers in your hair. Gentle, looping around strands and brushing them back.

You turn your head slowly and find Arthur lying on top of the covers next to you, sideways, his cheek resting on a pillow, his hand still tangled in your hair.

He offers a crooked little smile. His eyes are tired too, but kind. Always kind.

“Maman had some errands,” he murmurs. “She asked me to stay with you. So I did.”

You swallow, throat dry, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Your body feels heavy, like it’s been fighting all night in your dreams.

Arthur lets his fingers fall away, folding his hands beneath his chin.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks gently.

You nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Fine.”

His brows lift just slightly, the way they always do when he knows you’re not being honest.

“Really?”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. He’s always been quiet, always the observer — the one who notices even when you think no one’s looking. Maybe it’s a Leclerc thing, you think. The ability to see too much.

“You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not,” he says softly. “Not to me.”

Your chest tightens. You look up at the ceiling again, the morning light suddenly feeling too bright.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You hear the slight shift of the mattress as he turns onto his back, lying beside you the way he did when you were younger and afraid of thunderstorms. He doesn’t push.

Instead, he says quietly, “I used to lie too, you know. When I was your age. When Papa died.”

You blink hard.

“I told everyone I was okay because Charles was already holding too much. And Maman cried every night. I thought if I just smiled through it, maybe it would go away.”

Your breath catches.

“It doesn’t,” he continues. “But it gets lighter when you let someone carry it with you.”

You turn your head to face him again. His eyes are on the ceiling now, fingers resting between you, not quite touching but close enough that all you’d have to do is reach.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, before you can take it back. It slips out like a secret that’s been clawing at your throat for days.

Arthur finally looks at you again. “I know.”

He doesn’t ask what you’re scared of. He doesn’t need to. He just shifts closer and tugs the blanket higher over both of you. Then he links your pinkies together under the covers, like a silent promise.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he murmurs.

And for the first time that morning, you let yourself breathe.

—

You hear the front door open before you even leave your room. The unmistakable thump of Charles’ suitcase being dragged inside, the jingle of keys, and then his voice — soft, lighter than usual.

“Bonjour?” he calls out into the quiet house.

Your heart lurches.

You haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. Three weeks of pretending you were okay through texts and rushed phone calls, of sending him little thumbs-up emojis when he asked how school was going. Of telling him you were “tired” and “just busy.” Of lying — not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know how to let him see the truth.

Now he’s here. And suddenly, you don’t know where to put your hands.

You step out into the hallway slowly, pulling the sleeves of your jumper down further even though the air in the apartment is warm. Too warm. Your palms feel damp.

Charles rounds the corner just as you reach the top of the stairs, a soft smile already on his face. He opens his arms immediately.

“Ma petite.”

You let him hug you, burying your face into his shoulder. He smells like travel — cologne and airport air — but under it is something familiar. Something safe.

He holds you for longer than usual.

“I missed you,” he says into your hair, voice low.

You nod against him. You don’t trust your voice not to crack.

When he finally pulls back, he holds you at arm’s length. His eyes scan your face — the quiet exhaustion around your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders. You’re still smiling. You think it looks convincing enough. It usually is.

But his gaze flickers down to your sleeves.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, he gives you a soft nudge toward the kitchen. “Come on. I brought croissants. The good kind. Not the sad airport ones.”

You follow him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

The kitchen smells like orange peel and sunlight, like Maman had been burning a candle again. Arthur’s gone — probably out running errands or giving you space. Charles sets the bag of pastries on the counter and opens the fridge.

“Want juice?” he asks casually.

You nod.

He pours two glasses, then hands you one and leans against the counter across from you. For a moment, you both just eat in silence. The kind of silence that feels full — not awkward, not rushed. But you know Charles. You know when he’s watching.

When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He nods. But his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different in them now. Something cautious. Careful. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“I saw Maman this morning,” he says. “She looked worried.”

You take another bite of croissant to avoid responding. Your hands tremble slightly as you set it down.

“She didn’t say much,” he continues. “Just asked me to spend time with you today. Said you could use your big brother.”

He’s fishing — but gently. Not accusing. Not pushing.

You offer a small smile. “I always need my big brother.”

Charles smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment before speaking again, voice low.

“You know I’ll always be here, right?” he says. “Even if I’m not always… here.”

Your chest tightens. The words are too kind. Too understanding.

“I know,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker once more to your sleeves, but he still doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out, gently resting a hand over yours on the table.

“I’m not going anywhere today,” he says. “Just you and me.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold it all in forever.

—

third person pov

Charles closes the door to his apartment with a quiet click, exhaling slowly as he drops his keys in the bowl near the entryway. The weight of the day settles into his shoulders — not from the flight, or the media duties, or the late night debriefs from earlier in the week, but from something heavier. Something more complicated.

Something he doesn’t yet know how to name.

“Mon cœur?” Alexandra’s voice calls from the living room, light and expectant.

He finds her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, glasses perched on her nose and a book open in her lap. Her face softens when she sees him. She sets the book down immediately.

“You’re back early,” she says, rising to her feet. “Everything okay?”

Charles nods, but the gesture lacks conviction. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I saw her,” he says quietly.

Alexandra’s hands move to his chest instinctively. She doesn’t need to ask who he means. “How is she?”

Charles exhales again — slower this time. “I don’t know.”

He pulls away slightly, just enough to look her in the eye. His voice drops, heavy with something tight and aching.

“She’s not herself. Quiet. Closed off. Wearing long sleeves even though it’s twenty-six degrees.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She smiled, but it didn’t feel real. You know when someone’s smiling just so you won’t ask questions?”

Alexandra nods, the crease between her brows deepening.

“I offered her croissants,” he continues, trying to chuckle but failing. “She barely ate half of one. She kept looking at the table like she didn’t want to be there.”

Alexandra leans against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been distant with me too,” she admits quietly. “I thought maybe it was just me. I texted her a few days ago to come shopping — you know, our usual little girls’ day — and she turned me down.”

Charles looks up sharply. “She never turns you down.”

“I know.” Alexandra swallows, her voice suddenly softer. “She said she wasn’t feeling well. That she had schoolwork. But it didn’t sound like her. She didn’t even use emojis.”

Charles lets out a low breath, sinking onto the couch beside her. “I hate this.”

“She loves you, Charles,” Alexandra says gently. “She’s just hurting. And whatever it is… she doesn’t know how to bring it to you yet.”

He nods slowly, staring ahead at nothing. “I keep thinking—what if I missed something earlier? What if she’s been like this for months and I’ve been too busy giving interviews and chasing podiums to notice?”

“You’re doing your best,” Alexandra says firmly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve always loved her more than anything. That’s never been the problem.”

Charles finally looks at her, eyes a little glassy now. “She’s my little sister. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“And you still can,” Alexandra whispers. “You still will. But you can’t fix something she hasn’t shown you yet. You just need to keep showing up.”

Charles swallows hard and nods, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep trying until she lets me in.”

And Alexandra leans her head on his shoulder, heart breaking a little — for him, for YN, for the weight she’s carrying in silence.

They sit there quietly, wrapped in the kind of love that doesn’t fix things right away — but waits patiently outside the door, hoping it will be opened.

—

back to 2nd

It’s just past noon when your name is called over the classroom speaker. Heads turn. You keep yours down as you pack your bag, already bracing for the whispers and stares. Your stomach twists — no one said you were being picked up early. No one tells you why. You step out into the sun and blink against the brightness. And then you see her.

Leaning against the school’s front gate, sunglasses perched in her hair, arms crossed casually — Alexandra. Smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi, love,” she says, voice soft, like she already knows to be gentle with you. “Hope I’m not pulling you out of anything too thrilling.”

You blink in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I called Maman this morning. Got permission to borrow you for the afternoon. Thought we could use a little break.”

Her eyes scan you quickly. Noticing the sleeves. The weight in your shoulders.

“Nails?” she offers. “And pastries after?”

You almost say no. The idea of trying to hold a conversation, of pretending you’re okay for hours — it feels like too much. But then there’s something in her face. Something quiet and kind. She’s not asking for smiles. She’s just… here.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

The nail salon she takes you to is tucked into a quiet side street. It smells like citrus and lavender and something clean. The chairs are soft and the lights are warm and low, not too harsh.

Alexandra picks a pale lavender shade for herself. You scan the shelves and choose a soft, muted blue. Something calm.

“Good choice,” she says. “It reminds me of that cardigan you wore in Milan. You remember? The one Charles hated because it had tiny clouds on the buttons?”

You almost smile. Almost.

You sit side by side in silence while the technicians begin. She talks a little — about one of her heels snapping mid paddock walk, about a stray cat that keeps showing up on her terrace, about how Charles nearly fell asleep standing up at a media day.

She doesn’t ask anything heavy. Just lets the air fill with soft things. You don’t say much, but you don’t pull away either. Your shoulders loosen, barely, and you rest your hands in the warm water when she motions for you to relax.

It’s not peace, but it’s close.

Afterward, she drives you to a little patisserie near the harbor. You’ve been here before, but today it feels different — quieter, like the world has been turned down a few notches just for you.

You choose a raspberry tart. Alexandra gets two madeleines and a tiny espresso. You sit by the window, watching people pass with their sunglasses and shopping bags and lives that seem light.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just breaks off a piece of her pastry and nudges the plate toward you, even though you have your own.

Then, finally, her voice comes — soft, like it doesn’t want to spook whatever part of you is barely holding it together.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?”

You stare at the spoon in your hand. You want to lie — it’s easier. You’ve done it a hundred times already. But the way she says it — sweetheart — makes your chest ache.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She hums, stirring her espresso with one of those tiny spoons you’ve always liked. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. She just lets the silence be soft.

“I miss you,” she says, after a moment. “The real you. Haven’t seen her in a little while.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting a little, but you blink it away.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

“I know,” she replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you believe her. Even if you don’t say everything — even if the hurt is still sitting heavy in your chest — for a little while, sitting across from her with raspberry on your tongue and sunlight on your hands, you feel like maybe you’re still reachable. Like maybe someone is holding a light for you. Just until you can find your way back.

—

The air is too heavy in your bedroom. Too still.

Even with the window cracked and your favorite playlist humming quietly in the background, the walls feel like they’re pressing in, like they know all your secrets and they’re tired of holding them.

So you slip on your sneakers, grab a hoodie, and step outside without telling anyone.

Monaco at night is quieter than people expect — empty streets lit by golden lamps, a kind of soft glamour lingering in the rain-washed pavement. You walk without thinking. Past shuttered cafés and quiet fountains, past the old bookstore where Charles used to buy your Christmas gifts. Your sleeves are pulled over your hands, head down. The hood shadows your face.

It starts to rain slowly. First just mist, then light droplets that cling to your eyelashes and dampen your sweater. You don’t turn back.

Some part of you thinks: Maybe this is what I deserve.

Another part whispers: No. You’re just tired.

The sky is dark, the kind of navy that swallows stars. A car turns the corner down the street — quiet, expensive, too familiar.

You barely glance up until the headlights flicker, and then a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“YN?”

You freeze.

The car pulls over fast. The window rolls down. It’s Charles.

He’s in a hoodie, hair messy like he’s been running his hand through it, worry written all over his face. His eyes are wide when they meet yours.

“What are you doing?” he says — not harsh, not angry. Just… scared.

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to. The rain picks up, drizzling down the back of your neck, cold against your skin. You feel your breath hitch, your throat tighten.

Charles is already out of the car.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scold.

He just moves to you, quick but careful, and holds his hand out. Palm up. Open.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.”

You stand there for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves, chest full of something tangled and aching. But then — you take his hand.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders instantly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

The passenger door swings open and you slide inside, shivering.

Back behind the wheel, Charles glances at you. The rain is tapping on the windshield, steady and slow.

“I couldn’t find you earlier,” he says quietly. “Maman said you went for a walk. But it was dark. I just… I had this feeling.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I wasn’t running away,” you whisper. “I just needed to breathe.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time. The sound of the engine hums beneath the storm, the city lights painting golden streaks across the wet roads.

Then, just before he pulls back onto the street, Charles speaks again — barely louder than the rain.

“You can always come to me, you know.”

You don’t respond. But you reach over, just slightly, and your pinky brushes against his on the center console. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word — but he lets it stay there. And somehow, even in silence, you feel like you’re not so alone anymore.

—

By the time Charles pulls into the underground garage, the rain has slowed to a mist. It still clings to your sleeves, your hair, the corners of your thoughts. You don’t say much as he walks beside you, but he keeps a hand lightly on your back — not to push, not to control. Just to remind you…I’m here.

You expected him to take you home. But instead, he swipes his key card and leads you into his building.

“I thought… maybe a change of scenery would help,” he says, voice hesitant. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.”

You blink at him, unsure of what to say, but you nod. You’re too tired to protest. Too tired to fight the softness he’s offering you. When the elevator doors open, the smell of cinnamon and chamomile greets you first.

Then Alexandra — standing just inside the apartment, barefoot in one of Charles’ hoodies, her hair tied loosely back. The moment she sees you, something in her face melts with quiet relief.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says gently, stepping forward.

You shift awkwardly, rain still dripping off your sleeves, chilled to the bone — but she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around you, warm and steady.

“I made you some tea,” she murmurs against your damp shoulder. “And I laid out some clothes for you. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I put options.”

Her kindness wraps around you like the blanket you didn’t know you needed.

You nod into her. “Thank you.”

Charles disappears into the kitchen, giving the two of you space as Alexandra guides you down the hallway, her hand gentle at the small of your back.

“I put everything in the guest room,” she says, her voice light but careful. “You can shower, or just change if you want. No pressure.”

The room smells like lavender and clean cotton. On the bed lies an oversized sweater, a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a folded towel. Your favorite tea sits on the nightstand, still steaming.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Take your time,” Alexandra says. “We’re just out here. No questions, okay?”

You nod again. And this time, you mean it. When you re-emerge twenty minutes later, dry and warm and tucked into her clothes, you find them both on the couch. Alexandra looks up first and smiles. She pats the space between her and Charles. You sit. Not quite leaning into him. Not quite pulling away.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You give the smallest shrug.

“Different.”

He smiles faintly. “Different is a start.”

Alexandra tucks her legs beneath her, watching you both with eyes full of something quiet and protective.

“We can just sit,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. Not unless you want to.”

And so you sit. The tea is warm. The lights are low. Charles stays close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, and Alexandra’s hand rests near yours on the blanket — not touching, just there. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you don’t have to carry everything alone. Just for tonight, it’s okay to rest.

—

The next night, Charles wakes you gently just after dinner, voice quiet and warm.

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

You don’t ask where. You just nod, pull on a hoodie and sneakers, and follow him out into the Monaco evening. The rain has passed, leaving the streets damp and glimmering beneath the streetlights. The air smells like salt and stone.

You drive for a while in silence. He plays soft music — nothing distracting, just background to the hum of the tires and the thoughts neither of you say out loud. When he turns off onto an old road near the cliffs, you know where you’re going before he even parks.

You haven’t been here in years.

The overlook isn’t anything special to anyone else — just a narrow gravel path with a wooden bench, half-overgrown with ivy. But to you and Charles, it’s sacred. The place Papa used to take you both on Sunday mornings. Where he’d sit with a thermos of coffee and hum old songs, pointing out boats and clouds and the kinds of things that don’t matter to most people but meant everything to him.

And to you.

Charles kills the engine. He doesn’t move to get out right away.

“I come here sometimes,” he says, still staring out the windshield. “When I feel like I’m losing him.”

You look at him — really look at him — and something in your chest cracks.

“I feel like he’s already gone,” you whisper. “More and more every year. Like I forget what he sounded like. Or how his hands felt.”

Charles doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for your hand.

You sit on the bench together, wind cool on your face. The sea stretches endlessly below, dark and alive. Monaco twinkles behind you, but it feels far away here. Safe. Still.

“I’m not okay,” you say suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet.

He turns toward you, brows drawing together — not in confusion, but readiness. He’s been waiting for this. Letting you come to it yourself. You take a shaky breath.

“I miss him so much, Charles. I still can’t believe he’s gone. I think about him all the time and no one talks about it anymore, and I’m still stuck there. I feel like I’ve been frozen since he died.”

Tears start to fall, quiet at first.

“And then there’s you,” you go on, a sob catching in your throat. “You’re so good. Everyone loves you. Everyone expects you to win, and you do. You’re everything they want, and I’m just—”

You stop. Gasp a breath. The words press harder now, rising to your lips like they’ve waited long enough.

“I hurt myself,” you say suddenly. “I didn’t even mean for it to happen at first. I just… I needed something. Something I could control.”

Charles stills. His entire body goes quiet beside you, like the wind itself has paused to listen. But his hand doesn’t let go of yours. He just tightens his grip.

“I thought maybe if I could feel something else, I could stop feeling everything,” you whisper. “It’s not… it’s not a cry for attention. I don’t even want anyone to see. That’s why I hide it. I hate that I even did it.”

Your voice breaks. “But I did. I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Charles doesn’t speak for a moment. You think maybe he’s frozen. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. But then— He pulls you into his arms. And you break.

You scream into his chest. Loud, guttural, the kind of sound that doesn’t care who hears. It’s not graceful or controlled. It’s rage and grief and heartbreak. You feel your whole body shake, your fists gripping his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. He holds you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers over and over again. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels endless. Like years of pain pouring out of you, all at once. Your throat is raw, your lungs burn, your hands ache from clenching. And still — Charles holds you.

When you finally go quiet, chest hiccupping with shallow breaths, he leans back just enough to brush your hair out of your eyes. His own are shining with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall.

“You are not a failure,” he says firmly. “And you are not ruining anything. Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely.

“You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re sixteen, YN. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You look at him through blurry eyes. “But everyone expects me to be.”

“Well,” he says, voice soft and sure, “they’re wrong.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “You’re the bravest person I know. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not the grief. Not the pain. Not the scars.”

You shake your head, tears falling again, softer now. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to let us help.”

And in that moment — on a quiet cliffside, above the sleeping sea and under a wide-open sky — you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe him.

—

It still feels strange, sometimes — walking into that softly lit room, sitting on the couch with the box of tissues always slightly too close, and knowing you’re supposed to talk about the hardest parts of yourself. But lately… it’s been getting easier. You don’t cry every time. You don’t flinch when you speak your truth. You don’t hide your hands anymore.

The weight’s still there, but it doesn’t crush you the way it used to. It sits beside you now. Familiar, but manageable. And that — that’s progress.

Today, you arrive a little early. You know Charles will call in any minute. Even with it being a race weekend, even with his schedule bursting at the seams, he hasn’t missed a single session since you asked him to come.

The first time you whispered, “Will you be there?” he said yes so fast it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

And he’s kept that promise every single time. Your therapist smiles at you gently as she sets her notepad down, just as the screen of her tablet lights up.

Your heart softens at the sight of it.

When his face appears, he’s wearing his race suit, zipped down just a little, his hair damp like he’s just come from a meeting or a track walk. His background is chaotic — PR people walking behind him, someone calling his name — but his eyes are only on you.

“Salut, ma fille,” he says, that gentle voice that always feels like home. “You okay?”

You nod, tucking your legs up on the couch. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiles — a real one. The kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.

Your therapist asks how the past week has been, and you talk. Not because you feel like you have to, but because you want to. Because little by little, you’re starting to understand yourself. Starting to forgive yourself. Starting to heal.

You talk about sleeping better. About journaling again. About the day Alexandra took you shopping and you didn’t feel like a burden. About how you caught yourself smiling in the mirror and didn’t immediately look away.

Charles doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his image flickering a little on the screen but his focus never shifting.

When the session ends, your therapist thanks you both and signs off, but Charles stays on for a moment longer.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “I’m so proud of you, YN.”

You swallow hard, blinking back tears — the good kind, the kind that come from being seen.

“I’m starting to feel better,” you whisper. “Not all the way. But… I don’t hate being here anymore. I don’t hate being me so much.”

Charles presses a hand to his heart on the screen.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “Not just being around you. You. The real you.”

And you smile — small, a little shaky, but real. “She’s coming back.”

He nods, eyes a little glassy now. “Tell her I said welcome home.”

You laugh under your breath, and for the first time in months, you believe the worst may truly be behind you.

—

You haven’t been to a race weekend since before everything broke. Back when you were still pretending well enough for it to fool people. Before the long sleeves. Before the silence. Before the weight in your chest made the world feel like it was closing in.

But now—now it’s different. It’s not perfect. You’re not cured, or whatever people like to think when the crying stops. But your feet feel steadier. Your breath comes easier. Your thoughts are quieter.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you want to show up for someone else. You want to show up for him.

So when Alexandra asks gently, “Would you want to come with me to Austria this weekend?” you don’t hesitate.

You say yes. Not because you owe him anything. But because you remember the way he held you at the cliff. The way he sat through every therapy session — even if he was halfway across the world, squeezed into a media pen with earbuds tucked beneath his race suit. The way he never once made you feel like you were too much.

He was there. Always. And now, you want to be too.

The paddock is loud, alive with color and movement. Engines rumble in the distance. Journalists, engineers, VIPs — all buzzing around like clockwork. You grip Alexandra’s hand a little tighter as you walk through the gates, your badge swinging gently from your lanyard.

No one really notices you — you’ve made sure of that. Hat low, hoodie up, sleeves pushed up now without fear. You didn’t want the cameras, the noise. Just him. Just Charles. He doesn’t know you’re here.

You’re tucked behind one of the hospitality walls when he walks by — completely in race mode, jaw set, focused. Alexandra nudges you gently.

“Go,” she whispers. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

Your heart pounds. You take a few steps forward, just past the edge of the McLaren garage, and call out —

“Charles?”

He turns immediately. And freezes. His face goes still in a way that almost breaks you. His eyes widen, disbelieving. He doesn’t move for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined you. Then he’s running. Straight to you.

He pulls you into a hug so tight you almost lose your breath, your face buried into his chest, his hands trembling slightly where they hold the back of your head.

“You’re here,” he says, voice already thick with emotion. “You’re really here.”

You nod, tears already burning behind your eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. And to say… thank you. For everything.”

He pulls back, but only just — enough to look you in the face, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers.

“Yes, you did,” you breathe. “You stayed. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You sat through every session, even when you were in a different country. You never made me feel like I was a burden. You made me believe I could come back.”

His eyes shimmer. He’s not trying to hide it.

“I meant it,” he says. “Every word. I’d do it all again.”

You manage a shaky smile. “I’m doing better. I promise.”

He hugs you again, even tighter. “You’re not just doing better. You’re incredible.”

You laugh against him. “You’re going to mess up your suit before quali.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately. “Let it wrinkle. Let them fine me. This—” He pulls back to look at you again. “This is everything.”

Alexandra snaps a quiet photo behind you — the two of you wrapped up in each other, tears on your cheeks, Charles’ smile cracked wide with love and pride. Later, after qualifying, he’ll post it. And the world will love it. But this moment — this one right now — is just for you. For the sibling who never stopped loving you, even when you couldn’t love yourself. For the girl who almost didn’t make it — and now stands, whole and healing, at the edge of the grid.

—

727 notes · View notes

cozm1xxx · 19 days ago

Text

ᯓ⭒Fight like wolves, but flee like birds .ᐟ

“There’s Darry, Sodapop and Ponyboy — and then there’s their baby sister. She’s loved, sure, but do they truly ever show it? Or do they just say so and hope that it’s enough?”

Warnings ~ cursing, arguing, insinuation of sh and mental health struggles

･ ⟢ ⋮ a/n ~ This little fic is based around this fic by @jamesdeanbby !! I tried my best to make sure it isn’t the exact same, but the store scene is rlly similar 😓 🙏 also yes I am making this two parts…

w/c: 1,000+

──── ₊˚⊹ ♰ ⊹˚₊ ────

Life would never be easy for someone like you.

A teenage girl, living in a house constantly full of boys.

Before your parents died, it was fine; sure, you didn’t always get the newest clothes or cutest makeup, but it was enough. Because you had your mom.

Now you don’t.

And Darry is the one bringing you shopping. Darry is the one supervising what you buy. Darry, a twenty-year-old boy — no, man — is the one who watches you eye the frilly, cute dresses in the store and is the one who says no every time.

It feels as though he never even tries to understand you. He gets along with Soda and Pony just fine, because they’re boys, but you?

You’re a girl. And therefore, lesser than.

At least that’s how it feels.

Soda can go to as many rodeos as he wants, stay out as late as he wants. Pony gets praised for his smarts, he can smoke in the house whenever, he can stay at the lot and not get grounded.

You?

At the age of sixteen, you can’t stay out past 8:30. You can’t get cute skirts because they’re too expensive. You can’t go anywhere without telling Darry. You can’t get anything cute or girly. You can’t do anything.

You feel like a rat trapped in a cage. Like a bird with clipped wings.

It’s hell.

Darry never understands you. Never tried to understand you. Not before your parents died and certainly not after. He never knew what you did in your room, late at night — why your arms would suddenly be covered by sleeves despite the blistering summer heat. He never put in the effort.

───〃★

Beeps from cash registers, the pungent smell of cleaning products and terribly bright fluorescent lights overwhelm your senses. Darry’s footsteps echo beside you. Loud. Heavy. The total opposite of your own.

As you walk past the girl’s clothing section, your eyes catch on something. A skirt; pink with ruffles and lace. Your steps falter, and of course, Darry notices. His response is almost immediate.

“No.”

You look up at him, your expression shifting. That spark of excitement in your eyes burning out. He notices, but doesn’t show it.

“You know we can’t afford it, kid.” His voice is firm. Cold. That’s all it ever is around you. Not warm like it is with Soda, not calm like with Pony. He’s never treated you the way he does them.

“I know.” You reply, your own tone taking on an edge by default. But Darry, of course, can’t help getting mad.

“Would you quit that? You’re actin’ like a brat. You can’t always get what you want.”

He stares down at you, eyes stormy and voice like thunder; expecting you to argue, to make a scene like Pony would or scold him right back like Soda might.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

You just stand there, tears welling up but never falling.

He knows you’re not like Pony and Soda. You’re a girl. You’re different. Your brain is just wired differently, and he can’t seem to grasp onto the fact.

The rest of your time in the store is tense, like a taught string waiting to snap in half. Not a word is spoken from either of you; only subtle glances.

The drive home is worse.

───〃★

“You listen here young lady–!”

Darry’s voice roars throughout the small space of the living room. Moments earlier, you’d burst in, tears welling in your eyes, your expression full of frustration and betrayal.

“No! Why should I listen to you when you never listen to me?!” You yell back.

The others all stare on, the entire rest of the gang – Soda, Two-Bit, Pony, Steve – they all watch on as you and your brother argue like angry dogs.

Darry huffs, shaking his head disapprovingly. Like a dad would. Not a big brother. “Would you quit sayin’ that?! You’re actin’ like a damn child, y’know that?”

It’s like seeing someone argue with their reflection. Two people, both too stubborn to understand the other, but equally struggling. You, unheard and unseen, and Darry, placed in the position he is by chance, not choice.

“You never let me do anything! You treat me like a pest, not your sister!” You argue back.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Too frustrated to snap back and not say something he’ll regret.

But you continue on; cracks in your voice, but not a single stutter.

“You don’t treat me like you do Soda and Ponyboy! You treat them like brothers, while I’m nothing but vermin!” The tears finally start falling, hot and salty against your cheeks. “You let Soda do what he wants, you praise Pony for being a genius, but what do I get? Nothing! Not a word of kindness or affection! ‘Stop pouting,’ ‘Don’t give me that look,’ ‘Calm down’! That’s all I hear—”

All Darry can do is stare at you. The room is silent aside from your rambling, each pair of eyes looking anywhere but you and Darry from their scattered positions.

“— and nothing else! I bet you wished I was in an orphanage, huh? So you wouldn’t have to deal with me an’ all my ‘childish’ wants?!”

This is what makes him snap. The idea that you think he doesn’t love you; that he doesn’t care.

“Would you shut your goddamn mouth?! You act like I don’t care, when that’s all I do! It ain’t my fault we’re broke and can’t afford your stupid skirts and dinner!”

There he goes again. Placing the blame on you, as if you aren’t the one being neglected. Tears stream down your cheeks like waterfalls, your bottom lip quivering as you try your hardest not to let out a sob; brows furrowed in a scowl. A mirror image of Darry himself.

And then you say the three words he would never wish to hear – three words that send him spiraling.

“I hate you, Darry! I wish I was never born, goddamnit!”

He freezes. Everyone does. The tension in the room reaches its peak, your words causing everyone to stop and hold their breaths.

But before he can reply, before he can apologize or argue, you’re gone. Leaving nothing but a door swinging in your wake.

Darry stares at the open door, eyes wide with emotion; regret, anger, frustration, betrayal. This is his fault and he knows it. He never made an effort to understand you. To make you feel loved. To love you in general.

Moments later, Dally and Johnny step inside, quickly noticing the tension and quietness.

“The fuck happened here? Did the girl throw another fit?” Dally drawls, a sick grin on his face.

His words are like a knife to Darry’s heart. Everyone’s silence tells him all he needs to know.

“Oh.”

The realization appears on his face as quick as a lightswitch flipping on.

“Oh, shit, man. What did you do, Darry?” He immediately asks, stepping further into the quiet house.

“Not enough.” Is all he can reply.

──── ₊˚⊹ ♰ ⊹˚₊ ────

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rezwrites · 2 months ago

Note

May I request Serial Killer! Agatha x innocent victim! Reader? Agatha falls in love with reader, her next victim. Agatha plans to secretly leave that side of her and start a new life with Reader, but when they both go to spend time together at Agatha's cabin, Reader discovers Agatha's torture room

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW: SH, graphic depictions of violence/gore/blood, kidnapping/held hostage, mentions of hunting animals, non sexual/sexual sadism, masochism, somnophilia, fem!bodied reader, strapon, cunilingus, handcuff

a/n: please take caution and do not read if you are uncomfortable with any topics listed.

Schadenfreude noun

Malicious enjoyment derived from observing someone else’s misfortune.

This textbook definition is deeply ingrained into Agatha’s Harkness’s mind. A word she feels that perfectly summarizes her being.

Growing up Agatha was under constant scrutiny and ridicule. Never feeling worthy; How could she when her mother always criticized her for things she did. Even things she hadn’t done. Incessantly, complaining and comparing Agatha to other young women her age, constantly having the highest of expectations. Agatha could be the best in her classes and her mother wouldn’t spare a glance at her, just spat that she could do better.

Agatha was her own person. She could never understand why her mother couldn’t see that and accept her for it.

It was a bitter struggle for Agatha to make or keep friends. Her mother always said that they will find better. Unfortunately, that saying twisted and imbedded itself into Agatha’s psyche, they will always find better.

However, when people close to her experienced some form of tragedy, Agatha would stand there with a deadpanned facial expression unable to curb the elation she felt internally.

She doesn’t try to justify it. She doesn’t think she can.

As the years passed she no longer wished to sit by passively watching bad things happen. She evolved into craving, needing to inflict pain on others to satisfy the burning ache that had been brewing within.

When she’s standing over her victims all those emotions she was denied in childhood had amplified and exploded. Releasing all her frustrations and anger as she works away.

Agatha likes when they beg. Enjoys it, really. When her victims are on their knees pleading for their lives with fat tears falling down their faces. She just stares knowing that’s she’s already locked in their fate, no amount of pleading can or will change that. Then, the next moment the euphoric feeling she gets when she watches the light drain from her victims eyes. Her sadistic, twisted smile the last thing they see. Pride, self appreciation rising as she watched the blood baths she’s created, admiring her artwork.

She enjoys watching the news broadcasts about her victims cases. Tuning in like it’s a daily reality show. In a sense she feels a sort of recognition.

This will sate her bloodlust for a good few months until that itch desperately comes crawling back.

—

Walking into the bank one day to open a new account and make some deposits, Agatha had spotted you. Plastering a smile on her face Agatha approached you, asking for help; you were so eager as did your utmost to assist her. Her eyes narrowed at the slight smile displayed on your face. A disposition Agatha yearns to have, envies it in others. She thought you were so easy, that she could charm you into her clutches. She bet you would scream so prettily for her when her knife sinks deep into your abdomen.

However, when you laughed at one of her jokes, a genuine laugh, one warranting you to cover your mouth to stifle it; it’s like a switch had unexpectedly gone off. She suddenly couldn’t find it in herself to hurt you, despite the incessant urge to hurt something.

Agatha even surprised herself when she didn’t follow you home that night. Of course, she camped out until you got off of work. Closely watching you walk to your car, driving away, but she made her way home in silence. Monotonously crawling into bed Agatha thought about actually getting to know you in a genuine form; a far cry from her usual stalking methods.

Stepping into the bank again for another deposit, a smile on appeared on Agatha face when she saw you. Annoyance flared up seeing that you were with someone else, but she shoved it down waiting on a nearby bench until you were finished.

When you called for the next person Agatha jumped up hastily, a bit of a lilt in her step as she approached the counter. Handing you her paperwork, she observed as you worked away. Your deft fingertips dancing across the keyboard, the minute twitches in your facial muscles as you focus on the screen in front of you.

Reaching out for the receipt Agatha fingers gently brushed over your hand. Pulling her hand away Agatha bit the bullet.

“Would you want to go on a date with me?” She blurted out.

The way your face dropped in shock made Agatha think she was wrong about you. She could see you were thinking of what to say, your eyes mixed with something she can’t place. Pity? Maybe you thought she was a some kind of freak. Agatha’s hands shook at her sides, while her face remained composed. She could feel her stomach drop, along with sweat starting to bead on the back of her neck as she anticipated your rejection.

Your eyes widened realizing you are taking too long to respond, “I’m sorry. That question was just so sudden.” Pulling out a slip of paper you wrote your number down sliding it to her, “I’d love to.”

Now, it was Agatha’s turn to be shocked. She was so used to being rejected, pushed away, discarded. You’re actually giving a her a shot.

—

Like a godsend, you’re her angel. Agatha can’t get enough and much to her delight, neither can you.

Early on in the relationship you noticed that Agatha had to keep her hands busy. Whether that’d be holding on to you anyway she could or dabbling in her little hobbies. Eventually, you convinced her to try painting, easing her worries. Unbeknownst to you that painting helped channel Agatha’s urges.

It always puzzled you why she heavily used various shades of red, but she’s happy when she paints and that’s all you could ask for. She shows you her work as if she was a child showing off a sketch to their parents. Agatha has such a talent you can’t help but to praise her and get the canvases framed.

You also saw how possessive Agatha is towards you. When you two are out together she’s always next to you, holding your hand a little too tightly. When your friends would ask you to hang out Agatha would put on her best puppy eyes to get you to stay with her. If she reluctantly let you go, she’d litter your neck in deep, bruising hickies.

Agatha is hot with a different feeling when you beg. Instead of empowerment, Agatha feels desire, lust. When you so sweetly bat your lashes at her, grasping at her arms, pleading for her. For her.

“Aggie, I need you,” Effortlessly falls from your lips and she’s on you not a second later. Clumsy and frantically kissing you anywhere she could reach. You just chuckled guiding her lips to yours. Agatha ground her cloth cunt down on your thigh, moaning into your mouth, setting her core alight. Holding on to her hips, you helped her rock herself to orgasm above you.

Agatha tries to curb her sadistic tendencies around you, but when you came to her one day asking her to paddle you, she swore her panties were immediately soaked. That night with you perched on her lap, instructing her to use the back of her hairbrush, that first swing resulting your pleased whines, she felt liberated. Each hit she made was harder than the last, her clit tingling with each smack that resounded. Your own wetness shimmering on your inner thighs.

She does get you to scream for her, eventually. Though instead of her knife, it’s her strap sinking into your greedy pussy as you pull her towards you. Excitement licking up Agatha’s spine as she tightened the straps of the newly purchased harness. Slowly thrusting her hips trying to find your sweet spot. Her face pressed into the crook of your neck taking in your scent. Listening to you melodically chant her name as if it’s a prayer, an anchor to keep you on earth as she works you through intense orgasm after orgasm. In the haze of the afterglow you cling to her as if she’ll disappear in a moments notice.

She admires your form as you sleep next to her. Softly kissing your forehead, quietly thanking you for coming into her life. A small smile on your face as you slept, lightly tracing her fingertips over your red, bruising butt cheeks, a little warmth still radiating. Agatha proceeded to climb between your legs, slotting them over her shoulders. Her tongue glides over your cunt licking up your juices. Sucking on your bud, she quickly brought you to the edge of another orgasm, your body convulsing in your slumber.

The next night you had offered to cook dinner for her, since Agatha has a tendency to periodically skip meals. Unfortunately, due to Agatha’s workplace being understaffed she had to stay late. Agatha entered her home near midnight, slow movements with slumped shoulders like she was forcibly dragging herself. Stumbling into her bedroom Agatha eyed you sitting up in her bed, barely fighting your sleep. Shedding her shoes and jewelry Agatha crawled on top of you, resting her face in the crook of your neck. Her hands played at your sides, a slight frown tugging at your lips at her actions.

You’ve come to realize that this is one of her ways of coping with her stress. Many times she came home just to spend the whole night tucked into your side tracing patterns on your skin, unwavering. Sometimes she’ll open up about her problems, and you’ll listen, supporting her but most of the time she’s silent, in her head.

“Do you want to talk it?” You gently inquired.

Agatha remained silent, just pulling you closer to her body. Reaching your arms around her you started running circles on her lower back; you could feel her shoulders instantly relax.

Agatha tensed, pulling away from you. Sitting up she turned around, gazing at the look of confusion on your face. She finally broke the silence, “Let’s go away for a week.”

—

The weather was rapidly plunging as the arranged week approached. What better way to spend it by cuddling with Agatha by the fire in her cabin outside the city.

Agatha had picked you up after work, taking the day off to pack for you both. The car ride was filled with plans of what movie franchises to binge or what to cook for dinner. It wasn’t long before Agatha turned on a solitary dirt road. You awed at the quaint, rustic styled cabin nestled in the middle of the clearing.

The interior emitted a cozy, warmth that immediately enveloped you. Hand knitted blankets lied on the back of the russet couch, along with crocheted pillow covers. Setting down your travel bags you kicked off your shoes, falling on top of the queen-sized bed that sat in the middle of the bedroom. The plush white duvet covered the cool satin sheets hidden underneath.

“Shit.” You heard Agatha grunt loudly. Before you could get up to investigate you heard her footsteps growing louder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, Agatha entered the doorway of the room, a disappointed look on her face, “I forgot something things at the store. There’s a small market not too far away, I’ll go there.”

“I won’t be long.” She called as she walked away from the room. Scampering after her you caught her at the door as she was picking up her keys from the hook. Placing your hands on her shoulders you kissed her cheek, bidding her a see you soon.

Watching her car pull out of the gravel driveway, you decided to surprise her with the fire already started. Padding over to the kitchen you searched the cabinets. The cool tile beneath your feet as you walked around until you found a utility lighter in the island drawer. Striding over to the fireplace, you kneeled pulling open the mesh screen. A frowned tugged at your lips upon seeing no firewood.

Glancing on the sides of the fireplace you saw nothing but a short, neat stack of newspaper beside the pokers. Agatha had told you she came up here to chop some before the trip, now it’s just the matter of finding where she put it.

You stood up, thinking of where she could’ve stored the wood. Across from the kitchen you spotted a door that was slightly ajar. Opening the door you noted that it was unusually heavy, and thicker than the others.

Flicking the light switch you descended the staircase into the basement, the smell of rusted iron invading your sense. The stench made your eyes tear up at the smallest inhale. Pulling up the collar of your shirt you used it to cover your nose to prevent the odor from making you retch. Reaching the bottom of the stairs you glanced along the walls, shoulders dropping from no sign of any firewood.

A wooden table was pushed against the back wall. Dark spots were splattered across the table top, various knives and carving tools hung above it. A small rack along the right wall was filled to the brim with multiple seasonings, gloves, and an assortment of cleaning agents at the bottom; a deep freezer right next to it. Eyeing the black streaks that ran down the metal legs of the table, you stumbled backwards.

“Come upstairs.” You gasped jumping back, grasping at your chest in an attempt to soothe your pounding heart. Turning your head you spotted Agatha at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the doorknob tightly.

Slowly trodding up the steps and out the basement, Agatha closed the door behind you. “Agatha what is-”

“When I’m up here for a while, l’ll hunt the local wildlife. I didn’t have to time to do a thorough clean down there.” Agatha remained stiff, her voice coming off coarse. The muscles in her neck were twitching, her hands rigidly falling to her side, fingers flexing.

“I was just looking for the firewood. I thought maybe it would be down there. I didn’t mean to snoop,” you apologized.

Nodding, she acknowledged your statement pointing to the screened porch on the other side of the cabin.

Finally, retrieving the firewood you returned to the living room. In the kitchen Agatha was chopping vegetables, her jaw set as she focused. Setting up some logs on the grate you grabbed a newspaper, tearing off enough to make sufficient kindling.

Lighting the fire, you closed the screen. Walking back to the kitchen you cleared the island of the few grocery bags Agatha had left. The succulent aroma of the kitchen was much better than the basement.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” You rested your elbow on the island, cheek in your palm.

“Just sit down and look pretty for me,” Agatha threw a smile over her shoulder, motioning to the couch, “Dinner will be ready soon.”

—

The evening passed quietly. After dinner Agatha moved the coffee table out the way of the sofa, pulling the sofa closer to the fire. Picking a movie you lied back Agatha embracing you, holding you close.

As the movie progressed Agatha hands inched up underneath your shirt, coming up to cup your breast. Every now and then she giving you little pecks in the crook of your neck. Hearing Agatha’s breathing even out your gut twisted. Something felt off. Your mind went back to the basement, the black streaks running down the table. Shoving the feeling aside you tried to ignore them, only chalking it up to Agatha’s claim of hunting animals.

At some point you must have fell asleep. Waking up to the flat ceiling of the bedroom rather than the sloped one in the living room. Turning your head Agatha was sound asleep next to you. That pit in your stomach only got heavier as you laid there. Even if you were overthinking and everything was fine, that it was just blood from animals, you weren’t going back to sleep until you found out.

You took your time quietly climbing out of bed, to avoid waking Agatha. Guilt gnawed at you for invading her privacy, not trusting her, but curiosity got the better of you. Slipping down the hallway and across the living room you stood before the basement door once again.

Slinking down the stairs, the smells was not as pungent as before, luckily. Creeping closer to the blood stained table, sure enough there were scattered tufts of animal furs trapped between the splintered wood. Sighing, you started back towards the stairs, stopping in your tracks seeing a metal door on the far side of the room, below the staircase. That pit in your stomach returning again, sinking deeper, heavier as you inched closer to the door.

please just be a storage closet, you mentally chanted, repeatedly.

Opening the door, the sight that met you had your throat tightening in horror. There’s no way that Agatha, your Agatha, could have done this.

Dried, bloody sickles, scalpels, daggers and other weapons. Pictures of people that had gone missing in recent years before they were taken, matched with Polaroids of their decrepit, mangled bodies. Trophies like jewelry or licenses were hung next to the pictures.

A small pool of blood in the corner of the closet caused your stomach to knot. The back of your shirt was harshly yanked, the door closing in front of you with a loud slam. Your back slammed against the door, your eyes meet Agatha’s. A fire raging behind her azure orbs.

“Why the fuck are you down here, again!?” She roared, hitting the door next to your head.

Agatha had never raised her voice at you, it only elevated the situation more. Your heart was beating so fast it deafened your hearing.

Tears prickled your eyes as you pleaded, “Agatha. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

Her shoulders fell as backed away from you. Her eyes full of hurt, in disbelief that you would ever think that, “Baby, I- i would never.”

Sliding down to the floor you looked up at her. The terror evident in your eyes, your breathing heavy.

She tried approaching you like you were a wounded animal, but you only coward away. Towering over you her hands twitched at her side. Teary eyed Agatha swayed from one foot to the other before collapsing to her knees in front of you, face falling into her hands, ”I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out. I was trying to be good,” she gritted out like she was physically hurting, “I’m trying to be good. For you.”

Your eyes widened. Agatha looked like a mad woman, clawing at her shoulders tears flowing down her cheeks. In this moment you are afraid of her, not knowing what could set her off, if she saw you any more terrified it might make her tick. Taking a deep breath you did your best to compose yourself.

“Agatha, I can see you want to get better. I want to help you.” You swallowed reaching out to cup her face, her tears wetting your fingers as they slid down her face. Her features relaxed upon feeling your hands. Bringing her hands up to your wrists, she pressed herself into your chest. Shakily, you wrapped your arms around her, “Let’s go back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

You can not keep this to yourself. Knowing that the guilt by association and remorse will consume your entire being until you burst. The fact that you now know the very person that is culpable of all those crimes. That’s she’s ruined so many lives and families, still denying justice from them. You just needed to safely bide your time until you could get away.

Agatha pulled away from you, a hard look casted on her face. She stared at your eyes as if she was trying to pry into your thoughts.

“You can help me, you will. All I need is you by my side.” Agatha abruptly stood up, dragging you with her.

“Wh- ugh,” your world upside down as you were slung over Agatha shoulder. Her steps heavy and decisive as she climbed up the stairs and across the cabin. Landing on the mattress the whole room was spinning.

Before you could collect your bearings heard the clinking and registered you arm being raised above your head. Cool metal snuggly wrapped around your wrist you finger touching the brass of the bed frame. When your vision clarified Agatha was standing above you with her head tilted, observing you.

You lied there sobbing, chest heaving, fighting against the cold metal of the cuff. Agatha tucked herself into your side, hand splaying across your sternum. observing the tears streaming down your face.

“Other than this, I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me, right?” Agatha planted a languid kiss on your cheek, licking your salt tears from her lips, “It will all be okay.”

#agatha harkness #dark!agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha x reader #agatha x fem!reader #agatha x you #dark!agatha #tw: sh #rezwrites

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certifiedgirlkisser0906 · 8 days ago

Text

I feel like something I haven’t seen much discussion of in the KPop DH fandom is how passively suicidal Rumi is. I’ve seen the comparisons between her patterns and SH scars (especially in her methods of hiding them and the shame associated with them). In the beginning it’s clear she doesn’t value her life as a person but more so her role as a hunter and idol. She learned growing up that demons were terrible and should be killed. Celine literally raised her to suppress an entire half of herself which can have drastic effects on children. She over works herself to the point of losing her singing voice (yes we’re led to believe that her patterns are the reason her voice is getting weaker, but as someone who has exhausted their voice to the point of losing it temporarily I’m 90% sure this girl just overworked herself). When her and Jinu start talking more frequently and she remains passive in her attempts, but starts to value herself more as a person. After his betrayal is when she becomes actively suicidal, to the point of asking Celine to kill her (side note: if/when we get a sequel I pray we get to see the repercussions of this scene on their relationship). But I need to see it discussed more how unhealthy Rumi’s behavior was throughout the movie because she has so much depth as a character that people don’t talk about enough. She spends the majority of her time on screen hiding her feelings and intentions from the people she loves most because she doesn’t want to hurt them or destroy what they’ve worked for. While not every case is exactly like this, Rumi exhibits behaviors that are displayed and reported by people who struggle or have struggled with suicidal thoughts and intentions.

If you or a loved one are struggling with thoughts of suicide or self harm, know you are not alone. There are resources and people online to help you. Please reach out and stay another day. You are loved and valued.

#kpop demon hunters #rumi kpdh #rumi #kpdh #kpdh spoilers #kpop dh #huntrix

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gpcwsl · 2 months ago

Note

teen reader who has sh scars across her body and one day when they are changing someone from the team sees but brings it up to leah who overreacts about it.

Sorry I changed it a little, I guess.

Leah Williamson x Teen Reader

Someone

WC: 2048

Leah Williamson MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: Self-harm, Mental health struggles, Anxiety/panic, Emotional distress, Mentions of alcohol (party setting), Depression themes, Supportive response (no graphic detail)

The fluorescent lights of the changing room stung your tired eyes as you stepped inside, the heavy thud of your boots against the tile echoing slightly louder than usual. It was too early, and your head was still spinning from last night—not from anything illegal or dangerous, just the overwhelming blur of a party you probably shouldn’t have gone to.

You tried to act normal. You forced a smile at Caitlin, nodded at Lotte, and made your way to your locker. But you could already feel it.

The shift.

The silence.

Someone noticed.

“Wait—what’s that?” Beth’s voice cut through the low chatter. You didn’t look up fast enough to pretend you hadn’t heard.

“What’s on your arm?” Katie added, already walking over before you could tug your sleeve down.

You froze.

The locker room suddenly felt smaller.

Too many eyes.

Your arms were covered in faint, fresh scars—some shallow, some darker, some still healing. They peeked out just under your short sleeves, and there was no use hiding them anymore.

“Did you fall?” Victoria asked gently. “Like, at the party last night?

“Guys, maybe don’t crowd her,” Alessia said, but her voice was tinged with the same concern.

You could feel it building—panic, heat, shame. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t even know what to say.

“Y/N.”

That voice made everyone step back just slightly.

Leah Williamson had entered. Vice captain. The protector of all things Arsenal. And she was staring straight at you.

You tried to avoid her gaze, mumbling, “It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t wanna—”

“What happened?” she cut in, more forceful than anyone else. “Where did those come from?”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It was scared. Frustrated. Like she needed an answer right now or she’d fall apart herself.

Kim walked in right after, eyeing the tension. “Is everything alright?”

“Y/N’s got scars on her arms,” Katie said softly. “We’re just… asking.”

Kim stepped forward, her expression serious but not overbearing. “If something’s going on, you can tell us. No pressure. But you’re not alone, alright?”

You nodded, but didn’t speak. You didn’t know how.

Leah stepped closer, her eyes locked onto yours, barely blinking. “Did someone do this to you?” she asked, voice cracking slightly.

“No,” you said, finally. “It’s… it’s just been hard. That’s all. Last night didn’t help. I’m just tired.”

Leah exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, voice small.

“I know,” she replied, softer now. “But next time, talk to someone. Me. Kim. Anyone. We’re your teammates—but we’re also your family. And I won’t let you carry this by yourself.”

Kim nodded, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We’ve got you.”

And just like that, the changing room wasn’t cold anymore. You weren’t just a teenager surrounded by elite players—you were one of them. And they weren’t letting you fall.

Training didn’t start for another thirty minutes, but no one moved.

You sat on the bench near your locker, arms tucked close to your body—not because you were cold, but because being seen like this made you feel vulnerable. Too exposed. Too real.

But Leah sat next to you. Quiet, steady. Not crowding, just there.

She didn’t need to say anything yet. Her presence was loud enough.

Kim stood nearby, leaning against a locker with her arms crossed. Calm. Observing. Her eyes weren’t sharp—they were soft. Concerned, but not pushy. You could feel the care without a single word being said.

Around the room, the others slowly began moving again. The tension was still there, but it had softened. Shifted into something gentler. Compassionate.

Caitlin walked past and handed you a bottle of water without saying a word. Katie brushed your arm lightly and gave you the smallest nod, a silent I’m here if you need me.

Beth lingered a moment near the lockers before slipping into her training kit. You could tell she wanted to say something, but she knew not to press.

You kept your head down.

“I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you muttered.

Leah looked over. “You didn’t mean to,” she said carefully. “But you still did.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

That made Kim speak for the first time, her voice quiet but strong. “Well, that was never going to happen.”

Leah nodded. “You’re part of this team. We notice when our own isn’t okay.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you admitted, the words tumbling out. “It was just a bad night. It’s not like—”

“Hey,” Leah cut in gently, “you don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready. But don’t downplay it either.”

Kim knelt slightly to be level with you. “You’re young, yeah. But you’re here for a reason. And being tough on the pitch doesn’t mean you have to carry things alone off it.”

You nodded slowly, blinking back the emotion that suddenly felt like too much.

“I’m trying.”

“That’s all we ask,” Kim said. “Try—and let us be there for you when it gets hard.”

Leah gave your shoulder a soft squeeze. “And if anything ever happens again—anything—you come to us. Me. Kim. Anyone. We’ve got you. No matter what.”

You nodded again. “Okay. I will.”

“Good,” Kim said, standing upright again. “Now let’s get dressed. We’ve got twenty minutes before Rénne starts yelling.”

Leah stood too, offering you her hand to help you up. You took it.

And for the first time that morning, your body didn’t feel so heavy.

You still had things to work through. Maybe a long way to go. But now, you knew this team wasn’t just your squad—they were your family.

And they weren’t letting you walk through this alone.

Training had finished hours ago. The sun had already dipped behind the trees outside London Colney, casting a soft gold glow through the window of the recovery room. Most of the team had left—some heading home, some staying behind for extra gym work.

But Leah lingered.

And so had you.

You sat on one of the padded benches, legs swinging gently off the edge, arms loosely around your knees. You didn’t expect Leah to still be here. You thought she’d left with the others.

But she walked in with two mugs—tea, of course—and handed you one like it was second nature.

“You looked like you needed it,” she said softly.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, wrapping your hands around the mug even though it was still too hot.

She sat across from you, not too close. Giving you space. Not demanding anything.

You stared at your tea for a long time before you spoke. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

Leah didn’t push. Just waited.

“I don’t even know why I went to that party,” you said eventually. “Everyone was drinking, being loud. It was like I was there, but not really there, y’know?”

She nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

“And I just…” You swallowed hard. “I left early. Went home alone. Sat in my room and everything just felt… loud. Like my brain wouldn’t shut up.”

Leah’s eyes never left yours. You could tell she was really listening.

“So I did something stupid,” you said, looking down at your arms. “Not to hurt anyone. Not even to really hurt myself. Just… to feel something different.”

The silence stretched for a moment. Not uncomfortable—just real.

You looked up, expecting disappointment, maybe pity.

But Leah’s expression didn’t change.

“You’re not stupid,” she said gently. “You’re human. And hurting doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“And yet,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “a part of you still wore short sleeves.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to,” she said, “or maybe some part of you wanted us to notice. Maybe you didn’t want to hide anymore.”

You sat with that for a second. She wasn’t wrong.

“I just didn’t want it to be a big thing,” you whispered.

“It’s not a big thing,” she said. “It’s your thing. And that means it matters.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve, embarrassed. “You probably think I’m just a kid.”

She shook her head. “No. I think you’re strong as hell. Strong for showing up today. Strong for being honest with me now. And strong for still being here, even when it felt easier not to be.”

You stared at her for a second, overwhelmed by the weight of her kindness.

“Thanks, Leah.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “Just promise me something.”

“What?”

“If it ever feels too heavy again—really heavy—you call me. Day or night. Doesn’t matter. I’ll show up.”

You managed a small smile. “Even if I wake you at 3 a.m.?”

“I’ll be mad if you don’t.”

You laughed, and this time, it felt genuine.

The healing wasn’t instant. But in that quiet room with tea gone lukewarm, you felt something shift.

It was just after midnight.

The room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that makes everything in your head echo louder. Your duvet felt heavy on your legs, the air in your chest tighter with every breath. You stared at your ceiling, fists clenched in your sheets, trying to will the storm inside you to pass.

But it wasn’t passing.

It was getting worse.

You sat up, legs trembling, hands shaking, your thoughts loud and messy and fast. You didn’t know what triggered it. Maybe nothing had. Maybe it was just everything, all at once.

You looked at your phone on the nightstand.

Your reflection in the black screen scared you more than the thoughts.

And then, like muscle memory, you unlocked it.

No scrolling. No hesitating.

Just tapping on one name.

Leah.

You didn’t even think—you hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hello?”

Her voice was tired, but it cut through the noise instantly.

You couldn’t speak at first. You just breathed, uneven and shaky.

“Y/N?” she said again, more alert now. “You alright?”

“No,” you whispered. “No, I’m not.”

“Okay,” she said, instantly calm but serious. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”

You struggled to get the words out, but they came. “I—I don’t know. I just—I feel like I’m losing it again. And I don’t want to do anything stupid. I just—I don’t trust myself right now.”

There was silence on the other end for half a second.

“I’m coming,” she said quickly.

It took 6 minutes. Till a knock was a knock at your door, soft but firm.

When you opened it, Leah didn’t say anything—she just stepped in and pulled you straight into a hug. One hand on the back of your head, the other wrapping around your shoulders, grounding you like only she could.

You melted into her, the sob catching in your throat finally breaking free.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand answers.

She sat with you on the floor of your room, back against your bed, your head on her shoulder. She held your hand like it was keeping you tethered to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled at one point.

“No,” she said gently but firmly. “No sorrys. You did the exact right thing. You called me. You let someone help.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s okay. That’s why I’m here.”

You felt the weight start to shift. It didn’t go away completely—but now it wasn’t crushing you. Not with her there. Not with her holding you steady.

“I’m not letting you go through this alone,” she murmured. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. But by the time your breathing had calmed and the tears had stopped, the world didn’t feel quite as terrifying.

You were still here.

And Leah was still holding on.

#arsenal women teen reader #arsenal teen reader #teen reader #sh #warning #arsenal women x reader #leah williamson x y/n #leah williamson x reader #woso x reader #woso x y/n #woso x teen reader #reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso one shot

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fandom-lover-extra · 2 years ago

Text

DC X DP: Taking The Cake - Dead Tired

This had to take the cake.

Tim had noticed a couple of odd things about his boyfriend.

One: His boyfriend had an unusual cold temperature-- Tim had originally assumed it might just be because he had poor circulation in his blood stream. But as winter creeped in and his boyfriend still didn't get cold? Not only didn't get cold, but thrived in the temperature? Tim considered just maybe his boyfriend was a meta.

Danny had never mentioned being a meta. But Tim hadn't mentioned being Red Robin either. Not to mention, this was Gotham, so Tim understood why Danny may be a tad apprehensive as to mentioning his colder temperatures.

And if Tim kept the thermostat at a lower temperature from then on any time Danny came to visit? Well, that was his business and nobody else's.

Two: His boyfriend was abnormally quiet. Danny had managed to sneak up on Tim and a few of his family members before. He had managed to sneak up on Cass. And while, on some level Tim could understand his family's apprehension, he felt telling them to promptly 'f*ck off' had also been justified. Tim knew Danny, and Danny genuinely hadn't meant to sneak up on them.

He had seemed just as startled as them when they shot up in surprise. (And maybe he did ask Cass if Danny was genuinely surprised. His boyfriend was a little sh*t and would totally pull something like this to laugh at. It was his business and Cass's and as far as the two of them were concerned, Danny was perfectly fine.)

Three: Danny was oddly protective. He freaked out anytime there was a Rogue attack and he hadn't heard back from Tim. And while Tim was touched, he hadn't exactly appreciated the mini heart attack he received when he saw Danny out in the field looking for him in a panic.

(That was one of their first big fights. Tim didn't want Danny out in the line of fire, he could take care of himself. Even if Danny didn't know that. But Danny had been just as insistent that he needed to hear back from Tim to know that he was safe.)

They'd reach a compromise. Tim made sure to always respond to Danny's text messages asking if he was safe during a major rogue attack. (Never any phone calls. Danny would know he was lying then.) And he would put up with Danny coddling him the next time he saw him. While it was a bit frustrating, Tim was still touched by the worry.

Four: Danny had enhanced senses. At first, Tim didn't really notice. But eventually, he saw how Danny would flinch at particularly loud noises. Would avoid crowds like the plague. Would sometimes have to wear sunglasses because it was "too bright". Tim never said anything. Never called attention to any of these occurrences, just attempted to help his boyfriend through it.

Tim knew it was a possibility that Danny was just sensitive to those types of things. But considering Tim was sure that Danny was some type of meta, he was leaning more towards that theory.

Five: His boyfriend was unusually strong for someone that looks as much like a twig like him.

Once when Tim had been injured particularly badly during patrol, he had practically been put on bedrest. Not because he hadn't attempted to go out the next night, but because Danny had found out he was injured and came to take care of him while he was injured.

When Tim had attempted to sneak out that night, luckily he had yet to change into his Red Robin suit, Danny had basically manhandled him back into bed. With absolutely no effort, even with Tim struggling against him. Not that Tim had struggled much, with how frazzled his brain had been when he realized that Danny was stronger than he realized.

And if Tim invited Danny to the gym next time he worked out? Well, that didn't have any ulterior motives, no matter what Steph insisted upon.

And now for number six. This took the absolute cake. The last thing Tim had expected. And at this point? Tim wasn't so sure that Danny was actually even human. Which means he would have to completely scrap his theories on his boyfriend and start over from scratch.

Because right now, Tim and Danny were cuddled up on the couch in Danny's apartment. They were having a series marathon of the Star Trek series. It had started out perfectly fine. It had started out as normal.

A weighted blanket on top of the two, Danny cuddled up to Tim, with a bowl of popcorn in-between the two. Eventually, they shifted. The bowl of popcorn ending up on the floor with Danny on top of Tim on the couch.

Absentmindedly, Tim began running his fingers through his boyfriend's hair, not really paying attention to the background noise of the TV. He was just so warm and felt safe with the added weight of Danny on top of him. The movements of his finger's being just as much as a soothing motion to Tim as it was to Danny.

And at first, Tim hadn't noticed it. Not when he was slowly drifting off to sleep. But as the sound got louder, Tim couldn't help but notice. Danny was purring.

Tim blinked and he blinked again. Not once stopping in his ministrations as he blanked out. Danny continued purring away, leaning into Tim's touch, his eyes closed and a content smile on his face. Tim couldn't help but be reminded of an overly affectionate cat. Especially when he rubbed the space around Danny's scalp and ears, Tim was convinced the was purring louder than the sound coming from the TV at this point.

So maybe he wasn't human after all. Maybe Tim should have given more weight to Damian's alien theory.

But right now, Tim was tired, and he was sure he would remember in the morning.

In the end, Tim allowed Danny's presence to send him off into a warm and comfortable sleep.

(And if Tim proceeded to take apart his theory board and contemplate just how to ask his boyfriend about the fact that he wasn't human? Well, that was his business and nobody else's)

#batman #danny fenton #danny phantom #dc universe #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #dps fandom #dp x dc au #tim drake #dead tired #tim x danny #danny is secretly a cat #tim doesn't know how to bring it up to danny #and he really doesn't want his family to get involved until he's figured it out on his own

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jacksonsturniolo · 2 months ago

Text

tw — mental health, sh, suicide, and maybe some more but it’s heavy topics.

It’s May which also means it’s mental health awareness month.

This generation doesn’t focus too much on topics like this, they say it’s attention seeking, annoying, and draining for the people who have to hear about it. But it’s something so much bigger than it seems.

wether you have anxiety, depression, or are just at a good spot in your life. It’s still important to ask for help, to talk about it.

And if you see someone struggling and not asking for help because they’re too embarrassed, or too scared. Ask them even if they say they’re okay. No ones ever one hundred percent okay.

Just a simple “how are you.“ can affect someone much more than you think. It can make someone feel seen, or wanted.

Mental health for me is big because I’ve lost someone so sooo close to me a few months ago because no one noticed him losing himself, he felt like he had no other choice. And it’s my biggest regret not noticing.

I struggle every day to even cope with it, I do things to myself that aren’t okay and no one should go through or have to do. It’s not me seeking attention it’s me trying to cope with what I have.

And it’s like that for so much people. But you can get help.

Music.

going to therapy.

talking to someone who you trust.

Seeking connections to people no matter how drained you are

You can do it.

No matter how much you think no one wants you here, there will be someone out there who will mourn your smile, your laugh, your voice, everything about you because you’re gone.

It’s exhausting, I know it is but I swear it can get better we all just have to try and help each other because without talking to someone it can never get better.

988, a hotline I use every so often.

Trust me there is someone out there who wants to see you happy.

You can do this :).

You are enough.

You are loved.

You are wanted.

Please stay.

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gatitties · 6 months ago

Note

Hey hope you having a good day, I was requesting for one piece one shot. So can we do that child reader doesn't act like their age instead they act like a grownup and are VERY mature. Causing them to be like an entire grownup and having worries and feels the need to fix a promblems on their own like a groen up. If its alright can we do the (SH) , (WP), (HP) that try to help child reader feel more like a chuld so reader dosent overthink over things that are not for their age. Thank you. Love your books ♡

─Strawhats, Whitebeard Pirates & Heart Pirates x child!reader (Platonic)

─Summary: The crew takes you on a surprise trip with the intention that you enjoy and behave like someone appropriate to your age.

─Warnings: none

Everyone noticed your strange behavior from the beginning, at least, strange for a child of your age, when normally children were carefree, naive or whiny, you never stopped worrying about things that you definitely shouldn't worry about.

Expenses, proper nutrition, daily exercise to keep fit, you had a notebook where you had a rigorous table for each month, an organization that prevented the anxiety of not knowing what to do or how to act from bothering you, you didn't need 'unnecessary' or 'wasted' time in your life.

What completely confused Luffy was why didn't you want to play with him and Ussop? Normally children are a bunch of inexhaustible and elastic energy, but you prefer to do some problems to train your mind, which is fine in a way, but you didn't even like stuffing yourself with candy with Chopper, you were a child for god's sake! Your arms and legs were small, you still struggled with psychomotor and coordination problems in some situations, but you behaved like someone divorced and with debts piling up non-stop.

Of course, Robin and Sanji noticed that all that maturity disappeared from time to time, in your most vulnerable moments, when mental fatigue takes its toll on the deepest part of you, that's when you let out your true behavior, the one you should have at such a young age.

"Aren't we deviating from the established route?"

"Don't worry about it, we just took a detour, we need to buy somethings before the island we were originally going to."

Nami frowned at the exaggeration in your voice, always so exasperated at the slightest change, thinking it would cause some trouble, of course you were worried because you hadn't noticed that the supplies were running out, but luckily Zoro was able to keep you distracted enough for you to notice that they didn't really need to go shopping.

Your expression was completely indecipherable when Franky put you on his shoulder, pointing at the strange city that was on that island, something similar to the roller coasters and attractions of Sabaody, but on a smaller scale, that they came across this island was luck, Brook read about it in the newspaper and they all agreed that a break wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Are you sure we can take a break? The log pose will get deconfigured if we take too long."

Jinbe patted your head, pointing at one of the milder attractions, silently asking if they should go there or to other intensities.

"We have everything under control, where do you want to ride first?"

"I don't know, I've never been in an amusement park"

You rested your chin against Franky's head, a little embarrassed at not knowing what to do, the fish man smiled softly at you and decided to guide you all to the more childish area, everyone divided and joined together depending on each one's tastes, although at first you felt insecure, you began to enjoy and appreciate the time off, letting your mind go unconcerned about things that were beyond your reach, bringing out your most capricious and childish side, you allowed yourself to be a child during the day. The crew still had to fight your worries, but they were relieved to see that your childish mind was still there.

They're worried, very worried, Marco was the first to notice how you seemed to lose hair for every little problem that happened on the Moby Dick, was there a shortage of food? You were making a shopping list, did the cannons have a malfunction? You'll read books about them so that the defenses don't go down, was there a mess after a party? You got up early to leave everything spotless.

You didn't even bother to run around the deck with Ace, he adored you and used to drag you around to play little pranks on the crew, but you always left him hanging, excusing yourself by saying that they were absurd things and that there were problems to deal with. So everyone has a meeting to talk about why you act like a grumpy old person and not a carefree child, Izo really thinks he'll see wrinkles on your face when you reach adolescence.

"We have to keep the child from thinking about that kind of thing, the other day asked me if I had done the inventory of the medicines."

"My god… the other day the kiddo asked me if could start shooting."

"Mmmh, the child asked me if could start hand-to-hand defense training too."

"Kiddo was worried because the portions didn't have enough vitamins that an adult needs to ingest."

Whitebeard listened in silence, his face darkened as he continued to listen to the others' conversation, he needed to end this, you're not at the age to occupy your mind with that kind of worries, you should worry about getting enough sleep, having fun, getting into mischief, being a little fussy or whiny… it caused him deep pain to see you like that.

"The discussion is over, let's make the child behave like a child."

Everyone listened to their captain's strict orders, his absolute word spreading throughout all of his subordinates immediately, leaving you confused when you were prevented from doing anything the next day, unable to enter the kitchen, Marco's office, or the small armory, you had no time to get angry at the fact that they were delaying your work because Ace dragged you into mischief. It wasn't what you had planned to do today, but since you had no other options, you preferred to keep your mind occupied than to think about why your captain wouldn't let you do what you usually did.

With your thoughts much less occupied, the simplicity of spending a good time with the people who love you made you show a facet much more in line with your age, you laughed carefree at how Marco tripped over a bucket that Ace left lying around, you escaped from Thatch after throwing flour on his face, Izou caught you trying to steal his makeup… your mischievous attitude gave years of joy to the crew, your laughter sounded throughout the ship like a melody, something you usually didn't do.

"This is much better, I hope you can take things more calmly, you will have time to grow up."

Whitebeard directed his words towards you, although you were completely asleep on his lap, he smiled tenderly, caressing your head, he didn't want you to worry about adult things again, you don't need to grow up so fast, you have to give him time to cry when you are a full-grown adult, but you need to enjoy your childhood first.

Law appreciates you, he really does, he loves that you understand that everything has to be clean, disinfected, organized... it's okay that you want to have a healthy routine and he doesn't prohibit you from taking care of yourself, but my god, you have the behavior of an impulsive parent who has twenty children and doesn't have time to take care of them all.

Ikkaku takes care of the food, Bepo takes care of the navigation, Law is a doctor, Shachi and Penguin… well, they are there, but you don't need to occupy all those positions when you think something is going to cause problems. Law understands that you may be a little ─too much sometimes─ more mature than most children your age, he himself had to face childhood in a hard way, but you didn't have to go through that, everyone was there to take care of you, pamper you, you can have a totally normal childhood without worries, however you decide to make all the problems yours.

"You have to stop, I've already told you that you don't need to worry about those things, I'm the captain."

"But-"

It only took one look from your captain to stop you from ranting, he confronted you directly because he knew you would understand what he meant, but you got to the point of worrying about things that he didn't even care about, you need to relax or your heart would stop. No one has died from a little disorganization, some junk food or not washing their hands after eating with nothing but a napkin. But it was too hard to put all those thoughts aside, the crew made sure not to let you think about it too much, but with each passing day it seemed like you were blowing more and more smoke out of your ears like a locomotive at full speed, you could stop doing things but not overthinking them.

He had to pull you out of the Polar Tang, the idea was from the idiot duo, but it was what he needed right now, a stupid and fun idea, ─although Law didn't find it too funny─ he stopped at the first snowy island he found and let the chaos begin on its own.

"This is war, eat snow!"

It only took one of Penguin's snowballs to hit you to activate a switch in you, you don't know if it was out of frustration or because you were having a good time, but you started throwing snow left and right, Ikkaku, Bepo, Law, Jean Bart… they were all fired without discrimination, you didn't stop to think about how the snow got under your clothes or that you'll catch a cold after this, you enjoyed the moment without your mind plagued by unnecessary problems.

"That's our child! ack-"

The crew smiled upon hearing your malicious grin at having hit Shachi, who was celebrating that you had hit his friend, unleashing your most childish and hyperactive side, however he also suffered the consequences of your change of mentality, they still had a long way to go before you stopped behaving like a complete adult, but you let those more childish hues that you hid from yourself show.

#request #op #one piece #platonic one piece #one piece x reader #platonic reader #strawhats x platonic reader #child reader #heart pirates x platonic reader #whitebeard pirates x platonic reader #one piece x platonic reader #one piece x child reader #sfw #whitebeard pirates #whitebeard crew #heart pirates

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rainydetectiveglitter · 4 months ago

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I know I already made a post about part of fortune... but here's another

Looking at friends chart and my own I'm thinking like damn how do these people get away with some of this sh*t. Fortune to me isn’t just where you’re lucky but also where you use people, manipulate situations, and dodge accountability. It’s the house where things magically work out for you, but also where you take advantage without even realizing it. Where people may turn a blind eye. I did for many people and now i see, now i see lol. It’s where the universe hands you golden opportunities, and where you take without even realizing.

How do You Use Your Luck? Use it wisely.

Fortune in the 1st House (Aries) – Everything just works for you. You walk into a room, and somehow, people want to help you, follow you, or give you what you want. But here’s the problem: you start thinking it’s all you, like you deserve this magic. You take credit for your luck while looking down on people who have to actually struggle. And if someone calls you out? You’ll gaslight them into thinking they’re just jealous.

Fortune in the 2nd House (Taurus) – You attract wealth, security, and stability like it’s nothing. But do you share? Do you acknowledge the people who helped you get there? No. You hoard. You keep your fortune close, act like you earned every penny with pure hard work, and ignore the fact that some people don’t get these lucky breaks. And if you do give? It’s just enough to look generous not enough to actually lose anything.

Fortune in the 3rd House (Gemini) – Your words get you everything. People believe you, love you, and listen to you until you don’t want to deal with consequences. Then? You vanish. You talk your way out of accountability, make people doubt their own memories, and keep so many different narratives going that no one can pin you down. If someone actually catches you? You just find a new audience.

Fortune in the 4th House (Cancer) - You’re the one in the family who gets away with everything. Maybe you were spoiled, maybe you were protected, but either way you always land on your feet. When things go south, you retreat into nostalgia, playing the “but I had it rough too” card while conveniently ignoring how much you’ve benefited from family connections. And if family doesn’t save you? Someone else always does.

Fortune in the 5th House (Leo) – You shine, you charm, you win. Love, attention, creativity it all flows to you effortlessly. But here’s the ugly truth: you take people’s admiration for granted. You treat love like a stage where you are the star, and once the excitement fades? You’re on to the next admirer. You drain people of their energy, their love, and their adoration, and when they ask for something real? You’re suddenly too busy.

Fortune in the 6th House (Virgo) – You act like you grind for everything, but let’s be honest things fall into place for you way more than you admit. You get lucky breaks at work, people step in to help you, and your “hard work” always pays off faster than others’. But you downplay your fortune, making it seem like you’re suffering when really, the universe hands you shortcuts left and right.

Fortune in the 7th House (Libra) – You always find the right people to align with. Partners, friends, business allies they boost you, support you, and open doors for you. But when things go south? You play the victim while sliding right into another convenient relationship. You never really lose because someone is always there to catch you. And deep down, you know it.

Fortune in the 8th House (Scorpio) – Other people’s resources always seem to find their way to you inheritances, business investments, or even emotional energy. You take, you transform, and you come out stronger. But do you ever acknowledge the cost? No. You make it seem like you earned it all, even when half your success comes from absorbing what others built. And when someone wants something back? You act like they’re greedy.

Fortune in the 9th House (Sagittarius) – You move through life like doors are always open for you and they are. Travel, education, opportunities just appear in your path, but instead of acknowledging your privilege, you act like you’re just naturally wise and worldly. You preach about freedom while ignoring the fact that some people don’t have the same safety net. And when people point it out? You call them close-minded.

Fortune in the 10th House (Capricorn) – Your reputation is golden. You climb the ladder, gain respect, and somehow always land in positions of power. But let’s be real you know how to manipulate public perception. You know exactly what to say, who to align with, and when to disappear. You make sure people see your success, but never the shortcuts, favors, or quiet assists that got you there.

Fortune in the 11th House (Aquarius) – You collect people like pawns, always keeping a circle around you as a buffer. You never face confrontation alone there’s always a friend, a group, or an audience to shield you. The second someone corners you one-on-one? You run. You ghost. You change the subject. Your luck in friendships means you never truly lose, but it also means you never truly own up either.

Fortune in the 12th House (Pisces) - Life always gives you a way out. You slip through the cracks, avoid accountability, and somehow, people forgive you even when they shouldn’t. You play the misunderstood soul, the tragic figure, the one who just can’t help it. And people buy it over and over again. No matter what happens, you fade into the background just long enough for people to forget.

There are some people I need to thank, how about you?

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bluefootedbooby · 11 days ago

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This may seem weird but could you do a jinx x reader where jinx finds out the reader self harms either by seeing the scars or walking in on them?

yes! as someone who has struggled this is for sure something i can do!

CW: SH, implied suicide references.

Because of me?

it was quiet, the air was still in the bathroom where you sat on the floor huddled between the wall and toilet with your cheek against the toilet seat and arm bleeding. you felt nauseous, ears ringing and skin going cold as the air stung the wounds on your wrist. you pick the blade up again, another violent slash that might have been too much. no matter how much toilet paper you pressed to the wound it kept pooling up again. shit.

you knew jinx kept a very small first aid box in her workbench drawer, of course you had no idea if she was there and more than likely she would be. but this wouldn’t stop bleeding, it was getting worrying. what do you do? it’s like your girlfriend could sense trouble and you hear a knock on the door.

“toots? all good in there? ya taking a dump?”

trembling, that’s all you could manage. do you lie? both options are horrible. “yeah…” gosh that was the worst way to say it. worse though is that of course you didn’t lock the door so when the knob started to gently turn and those purple eyes lightly illuminated the entry way you blood froze watching those optimistic and cheerful eyes widen in horror and the blood.

“what- what are you doing in here…?”

she saw it quickly, the deep slash with shallower cuts nearby it. the air was sucked out of the room, jinx stared down at them before looking back into your eyes. “what.. why?” and you broke there, tears falling down your face in anguish at your actions.

then… worse.

“are you.. why did.. is it me? b-because of me?”

you shattered, standing up instantly and hugging her tight. “no! no! never, never you.” jinx didn’t know what to do, she was convinced she was the problem so you ended up holding her for an hour. humming and holding her until she saw the red that was staining her shirt and snapped back into it, grabbing your arm and pulling it close.

“no! don’t comfort me, this! this, trinket, why? why didn’t you do this? did i make you feel this way?”

“no! jinx, no! i-i promise. i just…” the words escaped. gone as if they didn’t exist, maybe they didn’t. no words could fix it. so words stopped as jinx began to tend to your arm.

jinx was crying the whole time, trying to keep herself together as pink glowing droplets fell onto your arm, some landing in your wounds and helping to heal them. others dripping down to her lap. she couldn’t even look at you, like she was angry. goodness did she wanna be but she couldn’t, not when she occasionally caught a look when you had your head turned and could see how broken you were at her knowing. she could tell it wasn’t her fault, she should be able to tell, mylo was pestering for the other reason though. tears, tears, tears until she finished off the wrapping. she bent down and kissed the soft cotton, pressing her forehead into your arm a moment and whispering something soft and small. then, she looked up at you, gaze teary and translucent. you could see all her pain, smell her fear, taste her love all within one gaze. she swallowed before speaking in a broken voice.

“i love you, okay? i-i-i… fuck i don’t know. how did i miss…” she paused to bite her lip and figure out what to say. “i wish you told me. i would’ve done anything to prevent you from doing this. anything.”

she was so sincere, vulnerable in a way you rarely ever see her. her face looked almost younger when she got like this, cheeks puffier and eyes like saucers as she pouted in agony.

“i love you, okay?” she repeated again. and again. and again.

the night was silent, you two didn’t speak. he’ll she rarely even asked why because if it were her she wouldn’t wanna answer now either. so instead she held you, help you so tight that if you even moved an inch she would tighten more like a constrictor. suffocating you with her adoration because she was scared if she let you go you’d do it again, or worse. way worse. maybe part of her did believe it was her fault. so when the lamp on the nightstand went dark she muttered to you.

“i’ll hurt whoever made you feel like this, okay? you’ll never see them again.” her fingers laced into your hair strands it felt almost a threat to herself.

“i love you, okay?” you whispered, kissing along her arm like she was the one who needed the most comfort. but you did want her to know it wasn’t her fault but you just didn’t have the energy to vocalize it.

neither of you slept.

———

sorry this is short 😅 and sorry i’ve not posted in a bit. but i do appreciate u guys :) and sorry this is a sad one to drop LOL it’s been growing dust in my inbox tho so i felt the need

#arcane #arcane x reader #jinx x reader #arcane fanfic #jinx x fem reader #jinxarcane #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #arcane season 2 #jinx

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thexsilentxwordsmith · 3 months ago

Text

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Criminal!Reader (alias Siren)

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: You've just gotten your hands on some important documents and that means payday. At least it will if you don't get caught. Too bad you're about to have a reunion and it might just be with someone that knows you well. What happens when you see that old face again, especially now that you find yourselves alone again? What lines will be crossed?

Word Count: 3.7 k

Warnings:

You’ve been found, you just don’t know it yet. Fuck. All those careful steps, all that planning, it wasn’t enough to save you this time and now you’re caught unaware. That’s the risk with the type of job you do, though you shouldn’t have stayed another night in your hideout. Of course there was nothing you could do; you were supposed to meet a potential buyer for something you had recently procured in the morning. Now, that chance is long gone.

There’s a strange sound that whizzes past your head and suddenly there’s a knife lodged in the sheetrock of the wall right behind you. You hesitate as you realize what it is and what it means, unsure of which way to head now that you are certain there is someone in the dark of the room with you and that single moment of delay is your downfall. Before you can recover and take off, heavy steps close in and a large hand wraps around your bicep to keep you in place while another joins its twin on the opposite side of your body.

You’re pushed back fast and harshly pinned to that same wall, several inches from the knife buried in it. The rough, unfinished texture tears at the leather of your jacket as you try to break free from whoever it is that has you, but no matter how hard you struggle you can’t get away. You can taste copper on your tongue now, a fresh cut on your lip from where you have bit it as you are jerked around, though the damage is hidden as your mask still holds in place across the bottom half of your face.

Blindly you try to reach for the weapon embedded somewhere to your side, a last ditch effort to help you escape, but the movement doesn’t go unnoticed and it is immediately punished. This isn’t good.

“No ya fuckin’ don’t,” a gruff, male, thickly accented voice spits into your face as your wrists are quickly gathered in only one of those hands before your arms are wrenched above your head and secured to the wall as he retrieves his knife back.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sound of the man’s voice and as you settle from the skirmish you immediately lock eyes with a tall soldier, his face completely covered under his headset by a black balaclava with a hard skull mask sewn onto it so that only his dark eyes are visible through the tiny opening.

“I suggest ya stop fuckin’ movin’,” your captor says plainly and with authority, but you aren’t going to listen.

You twist your body trying to throw him off one last time. “Or what?”

Sharp, cold metal presses into your neck right against the vein that could easily end it all and you stop dead in your tracks. “I said stop movin’. Now.”

“Easy, soldier,” you say to smooth things over while you struggle to catch your breath. “You get a little too heavy with your touch there and you could make a mistake you’ll regret.”

“Worry ‘bout yourself, Siren,” he shoots back, speaking your alias like a curse that he can’t wait to get the taste of off his tongue. “Now, let’s make this quick, shall we? Ya know why I’m fuckin’ here.”

You shake your head, feigning dumb; you need to know how much information he actually has before saying anything. “Do I? Why don’t you enlighten me.”

He pauses, but then continues. Why not? He has the upper hand anyway and this isn’t anything you don’t already know. “Word came through that ya got your hands on some very important documents. Documents that if given to the wrong people could cause some problems. So why don’t we make this quick? I’ll only ask ya once, Siren: where are they?”

You shake your head with a slight shrug of your shoulders. “No clue.”

His strong grip on your wrists tightens. “Ya expect me ta believe that? Cut the shit or this is gonna get a lot worse for ya.”

You gasp, faking that the pain is a lot worse than it is. “C’mon now, you’re hurting me,” you say, your acting convincing to anyone, but him.

“Oh come off it,” he is quick to call out your bullshit, “we both know you can handle yourself better than that. Tell me what I wanna know. How tha fuck did ya get your hands on those documents?”

You chuckle at your failure. Oh well, it was worth a shot. “Well…you see…I had quite the substantial incentive to come up with a plan, but that wasn’t necessary. With the right assets, anything is possible, especially where men are involved.” You puff up your chest so it pushes against his. “What do you think about my assets, hmm? It’s been a while, but you can’t have forgotten them already.”

Your eyes lock to his, those dark eyes that you are no stranger to looking into. This isn’t the first time you two have had a run-in with one another and, if by some miracle you can get away, this won’t be the last. Even within the depths of his mask, with the low light of the room, you can still see a shimmer of something flash through them as you make that first contact.

“Shut up,” he demands harshly, diverting his gaze.

“Really? Is this how it’s gonna be now?” you ask coyly. “I thought we were building a connection, you know, after all the encounters we’ve had, Simon.”

The blade is pushed harder against your neck so that you have to swallow that last word. “Don’t ya fuckin’ say my name like that out ‘ere,” he threatens pointedly. “Or are ya tha one forgettin’ now? Don’t make me fuckin’ tell ya again.”

He’s trying to be the tough soldier you know him to be to secure the information he needs to take back with him, keeping up the tough facade with an iron will so he doesn’t lose his head because he’s put himself in a dangerous position. If he doesn’t watch himself it could be all over. He recovers quickly from your first bit of connection and everything continues on according to plan until your hip bumps up against his and this time he falters just for a second.

That second is all it takes for you to catch it. A smile spreads across your mouth that Simon can’t see beneath the fabric covering it. Good, you think to yourself as your heart skips a beat. So, he hasn’t forgotten me. Maybe you’re not out of luck just yet… There’s still one thing that can help you get away, all you have to do is get him to break the rest of the distance that’s still between you.

You just need to stall a little longer; he can never last in your presence. And yet…why isn’t your heart slowing?

“It’s nothing personal, you know,” you say as if trying to get back to the task at hand, “just business. You understand. Highest bidder gets the prize.”

The ghost-masked man huffs. “Why do ya always ‘ave to get yourself into fuckin’ trouble?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, his subtle change in tone throwing you off for a moment before you regain composure and try to play it off as a condescending bit of flirting. “Come to try and clean up my mess for me? Trying to save little ‘ol me?”

“Who said ya need savin’?” he scoffs.

Now that you’ve made the point, it’s got you thinking. No one else has come to join this reunion of yours. Did he really come here all by himself? Oh curiosity has you in its grip now. If your suspicion is true, he’s done for.

You tilt your head to the side. “Then why are you here and not one of your other pals, hmm? Matter of fact, where’s your team? Don’t you usually come with a few more friends anyway?” You drop your voice. “…or did you come alone on purpose?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares, and that in itself feels like an answer.

“Oh, that’s not smart. Remember, we can’t be left alone. Every time we do something…happens.”

“Nothin’s gonna happen,” he returns, each word being punctuated as if he is trying to convince himself rather than you.

You make a calculated risk knowing that one wrong move puts your life in danger, but still you stand up taller on the balls of your feet to lean your face closer into his. “You sure about that? Cause you don’t sound so confident.”

You lock your pretty eyes onto his once more, your one saving grace still available at this moment, and he is struggling to contain a shuddered breath under your silent gaze because this time he can’t look away. Adrenaline is high and his body is betraying him now that he has lingered near you too long.

Fucking hell, he thought he could control himself just long enough to get through this, but the more time this takes, the less confident he feels. Why can’t he ever seem to break this spell you have over him? He thought he was stronger than this, that the time he had purposefully avoided anything to do with you and your antics, taking different assignments while he hardened his will would make him more capable at handling this, but now that he’s here with you again it’s like all that meant nothing.

Your faces are nearly together, so close you have to wonder if he can feel the heat from your breath as you speak. “How many times are we gonna keep doing this song and dance, Simon?” you ask in a whisper, eyes drawn to where his mouth is right in front of you. This time he doesn’t reprimand you for the use of his name, but you don’t even notice. “Cause you know how this is going to end, right? It’s the same every time. We’ll fight this for as long as possible, but why when we both want it?”

The masked lieutenant doesn’t answer, he can’t. It’s obvious that no matter how much time you are apart or at what odds you both find yourselves at now, he can’t quit you and you won’t let him go. Something draws you two together, some invisible thread that keeps you tethered. It’s toxic and eruptive and maybe there’s something more lying beneath the surface, but you both can’t deny that whatever this is, it’s electrifying and you can’t help the way it makes you come alive.

“Don’t you want me…it? Don’t you want it?” you ask, biting your tongue at your blunder; why would you say it like that? “You remember how good it feels, how hard I can make you cum. It’s been a while since we’ve fucked, don’t you miss it?”

This is just to get away, you keep repeating in your head as if it’s going to drown out the other thought lingering at the back of your mind now that your body is against his. Just so I can escape, you swallow down the words like they’ll somehow slow the rapid pounding of your heart as your body burns to feel his again. It’s nothing more than survival, you add, but this isn’t like the other times.

If this is only survival, why is every fiber of your being screaming for him to break this distance? Why can’t you think of anything else?

You hadn’t expected him, that has to be it. It took you by surprise to see him standing there before you after all this time. Your last encounter was intense and maybe a bit of that is resurfacing now. Something about it was different even from the beginning; your soldier wasn’t as rough and you almost lost yourself in the haze of it all. Afterward you both lingered for far longer than you should have, his touch still feeling like heaven against your curves even after you came back down from the high.

In those moments after, even though he was no longer your lover, just simply the soldier that stood between you and your paycheck, you didn’t pull away so easily. You had trained yourself to suppress all that, but in that moment you were floundering. All this time apart should have fixed it, right?

…right?

Every capillary across Simon’s heated skin is screaming for more stimulation: from the tips of his fingers desperately gripped into your wrists to the skin on his chest under his clothes tingling from the heat of your bodies being nearly pressed together. He knows he should end this now, radio for backup and let the others take over, yet the longer he stares he knows he’s caught like prey in your trap and though he’s fully aware, he can’t stop. You are like air and he is suffocating.

He’s fought this as long as he could, but finally the dam breaks along with his composure and all that desperation comes flooding out all at once.

“God dammit. Why do ya always ‘ave ta do this ta me?”

His face moves in quick and snares your mouth through the fabric covering both of your lips and you feel like you are primed to explode from the euphoria of all the tension breaking. The passion is so intense that you can taste it through the barrier and it takes your breath away. Pressure from the blade on your throat lessens as he immediately pushes one of his thick thighs up against your own till he’s parted through them and is pressed against your pussy through your clothes and immediately you start to grind on it.

He desperately needs to get his hands on those documents in your possession, but they are completely an afterthought as he needs something else more now, something he’s needed since the last time you two found yourselves brought together by circumstance. And if he’s honest with himself, this was the real reason he took this mission in the first place.

The knife is off your skin and slicing up the side of your thin mask, rendering it useless as it slips from your face and falls towards the ground. Simon releases your wrists from his tight grasp and draws you back into him by a strong hand around your throat. You rip his own mask up just enough to reveal his mouth so that you both can collide once again into a suffocating kiss so rough you know the metallic taste from the cut on your lip is dancing on his tongue now too.

Fuck, his mouth feels so familiar it hurts your heart to experience it again and before you can stop yourself you are sinking further into him, getting lost in the feel, the taste, the potency. By the way he kisses you back, as if he’s trying to devour you, you know that he is doing the same.

And fuck do you both need more.

Your hand finds its way through the layers to get inside his clothes, your delicate palm gliding over heated skin to get a feel of remembered flesh that you don’t realize till you touch it how much you’ve yearned to feel it again. Your fingertips travel over his muscles and through the hair covering them until they brush over the outline of an old scar, a mark you gave him now healed over, but as Simon shudders under your touch and moans into you, you realize that maybe it wasn’t just your knife that got under his skin that day all that time ago.

“Take off your fuckin’ pants,” he groans his demand against your mouth.

You nip at his bottom lip and he inhales sharply. “Take them off yourself,” you challenge.

Simon releases your throat and it’s at that moment you have your chance, you could very easily break free from him and run, but you don’t even try. You can’t. As those strong, rough hands harshly pry off your pants and his touch burns across your flesh you feel marked. Your skin is hot under the brush of his hand and instead of shoving him away you lean your hips into his greedy movements until he finally rips the clasp open and shoves the clothing down off your legs.

There isn’t time to remove anything else as your pulses race in sync, yours matching the throbbing growing between your thighs, his complimenting the stiff peak tenting the crotch of his pants that jabs into your leg. Quickly you search by touch alone to undo his belt, the clasp, & rip down the zipper just to push his clothing down enough to pull out his cock.

You need him inside you. Now.

No words need be said, not that any could with his mouth clasped tight to yours, Simon still knows what to do. Wrapping his strong hands around your waist he lifts you up and you encircle his hips with your legs, squeezing him between your thighs to keep you secure to him as he braces you against the wall.

Your back hits the surface with a harsh thud that makes you gasp and you throw your arms around his neck to hold on as the tip of his thick cock presses up against your pussy through your panties. Shit. In the rush you both forgot the last shred of fabric keeping you apart, but it only poses a minor setback as with a grunt Simon sharply hooks his fingers into the crotch and wrenches it to the side out of his way, aligns himself, and with a swift, hard thrust is inside you.

You cry out as your fingernails dig into his shoulders as he keeps going till he is sunk in down to the base of his shaft, that familiar stretch divine after so fucking long, but the sound gets caught in his mouth and he is forced to swallow it down. This is it, this was what had been missing from your life, the thing that left you feeling empty that you just couldn’t seem to fill no matter what you did. Not, not just the sex, it’s him. It is Simon.

Simon struggles to keep himself steady as the walls of your pussy flutter around him; it’s been far too long since he’s had you and all that pent up desire is ready to explode at any second if he isn’t careful. Taking a moment to calm, he is able to recover and once he starts thrusting there is no holding back and with each pass the slick grows until he’s struggling to find his rhythm with how wet and tight you are.

He pushes himself in as far as he can, as if he cannot get deep enough, like he cannot fill your cunt full enough. Each thrust harder than the last slams into you faster & faster until there is only a haze left in your mind, until you are consumed by him and every sensation assaulting your senses: his mouth on yours, his fingertips piercing your hips, the wall roughing up your back, his cock filling you. You know your desperate plan has backfired as you moan onto his lip and the slick from your cunt starts to cling to your thighs, yet you don’t care. You need to cum.

Your mouth is burning and swollen from the friction, yet you press in harder as you match his thrusts with your own the closer you get until you feel his hand slip down between your bodies to find your clit so that he can stroke it.

“Youre gonna fuckin’ cum for me,” he growls the words onto your lips as he presses the pad of his finger up against your clit. “C’mon sweetheart, need ta feel how your body still remembers me.”

Your release is gaining on you fast now, your body readying itself to shoot that electricity through your limbs. The pressure is overwhelming, hot and ready to blow, and with his thrusts working inside that is finally enough to make you spill. Your orgasm rockets through you with such force you nearly black out, causing you to clamp down on his cock as your entire body convulses.

The sensation from your core is enough to cause that deep ache in him to finally find its remedy and in a roar he lets go, filling you with every ounce of cum he has to give until he too is shuddering from the strength of his release.

Seconds, minutes, timeless? You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, connected and breathing as one being. All you can do is enjoy the sensation of him still pulsing inside you as you both come back down from the high. And yet now that the haze of lust has settled another thought is creeping in: you’re already wondering when he’s going to ask that question, the same one he asks you each time this happens.

Not the one that comes out, the one that is really asked in between the spaces in the words.

One last kiss amongst his heavy breathing and there it is, the question rests against your lips as his forehead rests against yours. “Are ya really gonna make me ask ya again?” he questions quietly with eyes still closed. “Cause we could use someone with your skillset. And I could keep…”

The words are plain, but there’s an almost imperceptible hint of hope in his gritty voice, something that anyone else would miss, but you aren’t just anyone. He lets the sentence die out like he always does because he can’t admit even to himself that his reasons are selfish. If you were near him, you’d be safer.

Usually your answer comes quickly, a simple no and things go back to how they always are…but this time you can’t quite seem to get it out. You pause, unsure if it’s your orgasm-fried brain or something else that’s making you falter, counting the beats of his heart through the pulsing of his cock still inside you as a way to keep the time.

He doesn’t say anything more, just waits, but as the seconds pass you still haven’t rejected his proposition like normal. He pulls back to look into your eyes, catching that glint of something curious shimmering in the depths. Finally, you take a breath, clear your throat, and as he watches you open your mouth to speak the air around your entwined bodies seems to shift.

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