#reader is a selfharmer

[psychopathseraphim]

sammy lawrence x selfharmer!reader

tw: extreme anger from sammy's end, self-inflicted harm, forceful revealing of scars

as sammy lawrence's assistant director, you really only have one job (because sammy tends to do everything on his own); to check on how the music plays alongside the film. during your first few days as an intern, you had some issues with syncing the music, but now that it's been a few months or so, this task has come naturally to you.

one day, however, tension within the studio was high, mainly because a short was destined to come out tomorrow (anytime tomorrow) and the music department was rushing to create songs for it. not to have a complex but you were extremely certain that it was only you and sammy that deserved a place in the credits, with how the other interns (including jack fain) failed to cooperate and contribute.

sammy was extremely on-edge that same evening, especially due to the sleep-deprivation catching up to him. desperately he wrote scores and edited notes to be performed and recorded by you both; you were somewhat afraid due to your knowledge about certain instruments being short and cut-off. you didn't want to press the man, especially not tonight.

however, after submitting a scene you synchronized the music to, sammy found out about a certain error- a song for an extremely crucial part was mixed up with another song. . . this angered sammy extremely, especially because he didn't necessarily have extra time on his hands to tweak it. feeling like his trust in you was misplaced, he called you over.

"(y/n), look at this. haven't we talked multiple times about this song being for this scene?!" his voice started to get louder as his anger continued to rise. "you have ONE thing to do, (y/n)! you're in the luckier end of the rope- try being in my shoes! if I were you, I wouldn't make a single mistake!"

somewhat scared, you grab onto the hem of your shirt and look down. nervously, you try to reason with him: "I-I'm sorry, there must have been an error in the syst-"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANY ERRORS IN THE SYSTEM! who else is behind the system if not you?! God, you interns are useless." he spat back, his voice booming and echoing throughout the whole studio, probably letting other late-staying employees know that you were being yelled at. before you knew it, your eyes were glassy and filled with tears, and crying in front of your boss would be embarrassing. turning around and gathering the work you made a mistake on, you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

self-harm was something you found comfort in, sad to say. you always kept a blade inside a mini-notepad you'd stuff inside your pocket; it yearned to be used when sammy was screaming at you. sitting inside of a bathroom stall, you sink to the ground, roll down your sleeves, and prepare your arms.

your arms were already littered with scars; old, new. . . it didn't matter because no one noticed. you weren't a little kid anymore, having your parents check your wrists to see if you were still doing the "bad thing". you were an adult and did whatever you want. . . so here you were, doing just that.

you idolized sammy, and being the cause of his frustration-

one cut.

how could you? as his assistant, you're supposed to help him-

two cuts.

not anger him. not make his stress worse-

three cuts.

by then, your wrists were dripping with blood that you made sure couldn't touch your sleeves. you wash your wrists, your blade, and exit the bathroom almost like nothing ever happened.

you were stressed, too, and you didn't need sammy to know about how you got rid of it. he'd find you weird and tell joey and the others about you. you could lose your job and get send to a hospital or a clinic. sammy could laugh at you; all up in your face, and send you off to find a better intern.

you didn't want to think of sammy like that, but you knew he acted exactly like that.

as you entered the music department office, you noticed that sammy didn't even lift his head to check on who entered. he's probably extremely annoyed of me, you come to think as you take your seat. for the next few moments, work goes on an usual, before sammy lifts his head to look at something in a shelf above you.

"(y/n)," he said, stern, but definitely calmer than the last time he spoke to you, "see that book up there? music theory is its name. get it for me now."

with no answer on your behalf, you stand up and reach for it. although you do grab it, your sleeve rides up and for a second, your raw, red-tinted scars are revealed to your boss, who has been staring at you this entire time.

trying to brush it off while praying to God he didn't see your scars, you hand him the book with your sleeve being held tightly by your fingers. some blood presses on your sleeve for a bit.

"here, sir," you said.

"... (y/n)- what was that?" he asked, his tone agitated once more which gave you a sense of fear once more.

"what was what, sir-"

"no, don't try to play it off like that, I'm being serious-" he grabs your wrists and forcefully pulls your sleeve back. with a gasp, you cover your scars on your wrist with your other hand. sammy, however, easily pulls it off to reveal scars and new cuts.

"(y/n)." he says angrily, "what the fuck is this?"

"I..." you're brought to tears once again with his tone of voice and the sense of fear you feel within you. please don't yell at me, or tell on me. I'm not weird, I promise, you think as if he could hear you. "I just... they're old..."

he inspects your new cuts and shakes his head with furrowed brows. "these are not old, (y/n). stop lying. tell me now- why would you do this?"

"the pressure, sir." you managed to say, praying to God sammy won't ridicule you or compare your stresses to his. "I didn't want to be the main cause of your frustrations. it's not as bad as it seems, I don't do that religiously... it's just a way to get rid of stress."

it's quiet for a bit, before sammy sighs, gets up off his chair, and walks off. he comes back shortly after holding a first aid kit, sits down, and grasps your wrist...gently, this time. he opens the first aid kit, grabs for a cotton ball coated with betadine, and places it on your cuts.

you wince first, expecting it to sting (as usual, whenever you'd cut yourself). sammy lets out a chuckle at this- "it's betadine, (y/n). it's not supposed to sting."

"oh. right." is all you utter out.

it's silence once more, and sammy breaks this once more- "(y/n), I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier- I really hope these cuts aren't as bad as you make it, though. I was irritated, that's all. I'm sorry." he continues on, "you're not useless- you're far from that. you're a good intern, and a better assistant."

these words make your heart flutter. perhaps there was more to idolizing sammy lawrence than you knew- than it was platonic. perhaps there was a bit of romance in it; something you'd never admit to him- ever.

the night ends with this, and you return home with treated cuts and a much better feeling within you.

the next day is the premiere of the newest bendy episode- that stupid dancing demon, the cause of all your stress. all of the staff members watch intensely; sammy watches for any musical errors, joey watches for any animation errors- that kind of thing.

fortunately, the episode ends without any errors spoken by the heads, and all of the staff members rejoice. two interns in the far back high-five, and joey returns to his office with a more relieved and happy expression on his face.

once everyone leaves for food and wine, sammy approaches you.

"(y/n), good job." he says with a rare smile on his mouth. "I knew you could do it. how are your cuts?"

"they're fine, sir." you respond. they were fine- alongside that, so were you.

[herofics]

A day worth waiting for

A/N: I really felt like writing some angst with Gojo. Also, I’m feeling kinda shitty, so I needed something to cope with it. I’m not suicidal specifically, but it keeps kinda flashing in my mind as a “you could do that though” if that makes sense. I started writing this like 3 months ago, but I didn’t finish it then, so I’m writing it now

Warnings: Self-harm, blood and suicide attempt-ish

You were just laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. You had no clue how long you’d been laying there. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, you had no idea.

You didn’t feel anything, you were just numb, maybe not even numb, every emotion just felt the same. It was like all the colors were gone.

You stretched your hand towards the ceiling. You were wearing a t-shirt, so you could clearly see the scars that covered your wrist. There were no fresh ones, hadn’t been in a while, but the urge was still there, the urge to rip your skin open and let your life bleed out of you.

And why wouldn’t you? There wasn’t anything here for you. Gojo would be fine without you, he was the strongest, after all. He would probably even be better off.

“It’s decided then” you muttered while getting up from the floor.

You tried writing a note, and even though the idea of ending your life made so much sense in your head, you couldn’t figure out a way to explain it on paper. The only words you managed to put down were “Forgive me, Satoru. I hope you don’t curse me too much”. A few tears fell on the paper, smudging the ink.

You went to draw yourself a warm bath, before rummaging through the drawers under the sink to find a razor blade. You threw off your sweatpants and climbed into the tub in your underwear and a big t-shirt.

You exhaled deeply, before looking up at the ceiling. Were you really going to do this? Were you ready to leave yet?

That’s when you heard the bathroom door open. You quickly submerged the razor blade and hid it under your thigh before Gojo saw it. You managed to cut yourself in the process. How did you not hear him come into the apartment?

“Whatcha doing in the tub with your clothes on?” he smirked from the doorway, not yet putting the situation together.

He was just standing there, looking like his normal dashing self. He took off his blindfold, like he always did when he came home to you.

“I fell in” you lied.

Gojo took a step closer, chuckling, about to say something, when he noticed the blood in the water. The smile died on his lips as he realized what was going on. He knelt down next to the tub and grabbed both your hands, checking your wrists.

He sighed in relief as he realized you hadn’t done anything yet. Then where was the blood coming from?

You saw the panicked look in his eyes as he still held your hands in his while looking for the source of the blood.

“I nicked myself-myself when trying to hide the razor blade” you hiccuped, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Oh doll” Gojo said softly, before pulling you up with him as he stood up.

He took your shirt off you and grabbed a big, fluffy towel, wrapping it around you.

“I need you to talk to me, and I think you need that too” Gojo said as he stood in front of you.

There was something different about the way he looked at you. Anger you would have recognized, but this wasn’t it. Fear? Was it really fear you saw in his eyes?

“Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay? You look kind of scared” you noted.

“First of all, I think I should be asking you that. Secondly, I think my fear is pretty justified when I find the person I love sitting in a bathtub filled with water, ready to open their wrists”

“Well that sounds a bit gruesome” you muttered.

“Am I wrong?” Gojo asked, tilting his head to the side.

There was a moment of silence between you, before you spoke a simple, quiet: “No”

You couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Once you said it out loud, admitted what you were going to do, it was like a dam broke. You just started sobbing uncontrollably.

“It’s okay doll, it’s okay” Gojo assured as he picked you up and carried you out of the bathroom.

You were still wrapped in the towel and holding onto Gojo’s jacket for dear life. You didn’t even remember what had originally gotten you so upset that you would resort to what you had attempted to do.

Gojo had been through this with you before. The last time this happened, it was with you trying to overdose on your medication. It was one of the few times in his life he had been absolutely terrified. Seeing you laying there unconscious, with an empty pill bottle next to you, had been one of the most horrific moments of his entire life.

Now it was happening all over again, but this time he had been on time. This time he had gotten to you before you’d done anything stupid, this time he’d managed it. After Suguru left, Gojo had sworn he wouldn’t lose anyone else like that. He wouldn’t let anyone else disappear into the shadows again.

Gojo sat down on the bed, still holding you in his arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-so sorry” you kept blubbering while burying your face to his chest.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay” Gojo said, grabbing your hand and attempting to ground you through his touch. “Just breathe”

After your breathing and crying calmed down, you looked up at him with tearful eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened” you muttered, trying to get up from his lap.

“Nu-uh, you’re not going anywhere till we talk” he pulled you back.

“What am I even supposed to say?”

“Just something, I don’t want you to be alone with this. You know I won’t leave you alone before I get a satisfactory explanation” he half joked.

Gojo just wanted to hear you say that you’d be okay. He just wanted to hear you say this was just a fluke, and it wouldn’t happen again. At the same time, he knew you couldn’t promise that. That you wouldn’t just magically start getting better, because you or he wanted you to.

“I don’t know what happened. It just seemed like the right choice, but the second I saw you, I was like “What the fuck am I doing?” and it didn’t feel like it made any sense anymore”

You kept staring at your hands while leaning the side of your head against his chest. What you said was true. Seeing him had made you change your mind in the end. You could have tried to reach for the razor again, even though it would have been futile with him in the same room. He would have stopped you, no doubt about that, and besides you didn’t want him to see you do that to yourself. The act itself was way different from just seeing the aftermath.

“Well I’m glad I have that effect on you, but that doesn’t really give me much insight to your mental state right now”

“I guess it doesn’t, but I don’t really know what else to tell you” you sighed.

You just sat there in silence, Gojo embracing you and you leaning against his chest. You didn’t know what to tell him. Even if you managed to formulate something that would make sense to you, it would probably just sound crazy to him. It was so hard to put any of it into words, let alone in a way someone else would understand.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, but I just want you to know that no matter what you think, I’m not better off without you, and neither is anyone else you know” Gojo said suddenly.

“Thank you” you said after a while more of silence, looking up at him.

“What for?” he asked as he met your gaze.

“I guess I just appreciate the reminder at times like these”

“I’ll remind you for the rest of our lives, if you’ll let me” he smiled softly.

You placed a hand on the side of Gojo’s face and caressed his cheek with your thumb.

“I’d like that”

Maybe one day you’d love life as much as you loved him, maybe that day was worth waiting for.

[prttykittes]

i have sooo many ideas for fluff (surprise because all i think about is smut.) but i feel like dropping them all when that one bsd sh fic is done bc i dont wanna pressure you 😵‍💫

🦋 anon

Tumblr deleted that post, but your request was female reader dealing with sh and Anorexia with Dazai and chuuya! Sorry, I did post it but it got deleted •́⁠ ⁠ ⁠‿⁠ ⁠,⁠•̀ so I rewrite it!

ෆ Dazai, Chuuya X Female!Reader [you/your/girlfriend]

— Synopsis:: Your boyfriend is hanging out and he notices that your acting different, he wants you to know that he is here for you!

CW. SH(selfh#rm), Anorexia, body issues, hugs, fluff/SFW, comforting, reader wears long sleeves shirt(Dazai) and dress(chuuya), reader has hair in Dazai's

A/N :: Boys comforting you, I hope your doing okay so far, 🦋 anon and anyone else!! Make sure to take care of your sh scars if you have any, don't want it to get infected:3 — written by a minor

[MASTERLIST] — (⁠ノ⁠^⁠_⁠^⁠)⁠ノ works in link!

DAZAI— he was watching you form the bed, your hands roaming around your body, feeling your stomach, hips. He continues to smile while you turn and turn, looking at yourself. "You doing something, beautiful?" He smirks, you smile and roll your eyes. You stop and let out a deep sigh, you fix your long sleeve shirt and turn towards the door. "I am going to brush my teeth, I don't think I did it..." You say, walking out. His smile gets down to a line, that was a lie. You did brush your teeth, he lies down and thinks. Should he go check up on you? He gets curious, I mean if he goes and checks. He would be a good boyfriend for worrying. He gets up and begins to walk towards the bathroom door, the door is closed and he puts his hand on the doorknob. He hears the sink and it's quite loud, he gently opens the door. He looks at the mirror, your not at the mirror but at the bathtub. He sees you slightly bend over, he angles himself so he can see what you were doing. He sees your arm moving, he sees a droplet of red. His eye narrows and he doesn't say anything, he closes the door and goes back in the room, you wash the blood away and bandage yourself up. Walking back and seeing Dazai play with his fingers on the bed, he lifts up his head and smiles at you, you smile back and lay down next to him. "I love you" he says, your eyebrow raises and you let out a chuckle. "Hm? I love you too, Dazai!" You smile and he embraces you, his arms wrapping around you. He plays with your hair while he sniffs it, you were confused. He didn't do this that often, he rubs your back. He kisses your forehead, he gently grabs your wrists, it stings a bit. He brings it up to his lips and kisses it, he mutters, "I love you so much" he continues to leave kisses over your arms and he rubs your stomach. You wonder if he found out, before you could speak up about it. "I am always here for you, sweetheart" he says, kissing your lips. He gives you a hug, wrapping himself around you forever until you both wake up.

CHUUYA— He watches you, turning around to show him the outfit. It was a long sleeve dress just what you wanted, it matches you. You were smiling, he pats your side and kisses your cheek. "You look beautiful" he mutters and rubs your hips. You smile and turn away from the mirror, you were facing him. You didn't like this outfit that much, the sleeves weren't that long and you had to keep pulling it down. He likes it but you weren't sure but the outfit. "Is there other ones?" You ask, he makes a hmm sound and he smiles. "I will go check" he says, he leaves the changing room and goes find some dresses with long sleeves. Your still in room and look at yourself, your hands were shaking slightly, the more you looked at yourself in the mirror, the more weird you look. You close your eyes, your heart was beating fast but then he opens the door. "I found two, love" he says, you smiles and turn to face him. He is holding up two dresses, he smiles and places them down. "Want me to help you?" He asks, you shake your head. You don't want him to look at your bandaged wrists and worry about it. "Nah, it's fine" you says he smiles and leaves the room. You pick up one of the dresses and look it, feeling the fabric and then you prepare to take off your dress. You were taking about too long and Chuuya opens the door, you didn't notice or heard it. Busy trying to taking off your dress then putting on the other dress. He closes the door, which is when you realize. You bite your lower lip, your stomach curls as you begin to overthink. Your hands shakily put on the dress. Making sure that the sleeves cover it. "You can come in now!" You yell out and the door opens, he smiles and softly spins your around. Did he see you or not? You wondered and he kisses your cheek, he hugs you. He rocks you gently, his orange hair in your face. You giggle and push him away gently, he pats your shoulder. "Don't be shy and tell me anything, if you want" he says, with a smiles on his face, you smile back at him. "Sure....just tell me as well" you say and he nods his head, you both do a pi my promise. "We should just get all three of them" he says. "Wha—?"

[banjjakz]

➡ Fall asleep.

When you blink back into consciousness, a gentle warmth welcomes you to the land of the living. At some point in your slumber, you pitched sideways to huddle your achingly cold bones in a fetal position. Now, you find yourself struggling to activate your joints after succumbing to a slumber so deep it’s seemed to have left you with rigor mortis.

As you sit up, an unfamiliar layer of fuzzy fabric slides from your shoulders. A blanket! Ah, that explains the extra warmth. But you don’t remember bringing a blanket with you… and you’ve never seen this particular blanket in your entire life. Sure, it’s cozy and high-quality, but the pattern of wide-open eyes littered across the black cloth is off-putting – although, not entirely unpleasant.

Oh shoot, did someone put this on you? Have you been discovered?

“Hello.”

Spooked, you whip your head to the side, where you had not even registered the presence of another living being. “Ahh!!!”

“I did not mean to frighten you. I apologize.”

Are you – are you dreaming?

You must be dreaming. They term isn’t “yumejoshi” for no reason. There is no way Choso squats in front of you, less than a meter away, so close that you can smell his earthy, metallic fragrance. He hasn’t even changed out of his stage costume: his customary white robes are still soaked through with sweat from the earlier performance, gracing the pale fabric a tantalizing semi-translucence. His purple gi is nowhere to be found, which exposes the unholy caverns of his collarbones, the inviting jut of his skeletal sternum. The signature pigtails are also undone, leaving his stringy black hair to metastasize down the sides of his gaunt face, across the barren valley of his jagged shoulder blades. And yet, that solid bar of black remains perfectly applied across the center of his face.

“…Nn?”

“Are you alright?”

Choso stays where he is, head cocked in concern. Quickly, you realize you have two options.

You can tell the truth and admit that you’d been waiting outside just to see him walk a few paces before getting into a nondescript vehicle. Totally normal fan behavior that will definitely go over well.

Or, you can lie.

“I-I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you demure, casting your eyes down in false bashfulness. You would feel bad about this if you were a better person.  “And the memories from ShinShow’s performances always sustain me…I just thought, if I could enjoy the positive energy for a little while longer…I would be sustained. I’m sorry…”

“Why do you apologize?”

One of Choso’s most appealing charming points is his overly formal, somewhat antiquated manner of speaking. He sounds like a historical figure who has been yanked from the past, inserted haphazardly into contemporary pop culture. Very fitting for his lore. But you’d also been under the assumption that this was merely a stage act – is he that committed to his image? Or is it innate?

The thought of Choso simply being Like That is too endearing to bear. You hide your face behind your palms, concealing the tremulous smile that possesses your lips.

“It’s embarrassing… and I’ve troubled Choso-nii…”

The last thing you expect are cold, impossibly cold, hands to wrap around your wrists, kindly (but firmly) uncovering your face. Choso has drawn closer to you, so close that when he breathes, it brushes the bridge of your nose.

His face is impassive, as usual – but upon closer inspection, you notice a strange, wavering quality in his eyes, a slight tremor in his lips. There might actually be color on the tips of his ears. Usually, he appears as though he is so pale there is no blood coursing through his veins that could produce a blush.

Evidently, this is not the case.

“Choso-nii is not troubled,” he states plainly, leaving no room for argument. “The night is no place for a little one to be sleeping unguarded.”

Oh, you could faint here and now. It’s an active choice on your part to remain conscious. “Mn…”

“You will come with me now.”

And so you do.

This is how you find yourself in the back of an unmarked, utilitarian white van. To anyone else the vehicle would appear as little more than a maintenance truck. But you know better.

Inside the living-quarters is a mish-mash of discarded clothing items in varying degrees of cleanliness; discarded guitar picks; empty takeout containers; and a random jumble of electronic chargers. Inexplicably, there is also an abundance of first-aid supplies, with over half of it apparently already used. As he sits you down on one of the distressed leather seats, Choso uses the medical kit to tend to a few scrapes on your legs and arms earned from your impromptu nap on the concrete.

“It’s really not that bad…You don’t have to—”

“Enough.”

Embarrassed, you shut your mouth. How do you even cope with this situation? Here you are, in the back of your oshi’s travel van, as he sits on his knees in front of you, hands impatiently pushing your clothes away to reveal your bare skin. His touch leeches the body heat out of you like a parasite. You want to be sucked dry.

“This will sting.” That’s all the warning you get before hydrogen peroxide is unceremoniously dumped on your fresh scrapes.

Unbidden, you let out a strangled whine, hands flying to the closest part of him you can reach – which happens to be his head. You clutch at his hair to absolve you of your suffering. “Choso-nii! It hurts!”

Ker-thlunk. Glug… glug… glug…

Fuck! Your spasming must have knocked over the hydrogen peroxide…. the upended bottle spills its guts across the floor, drenching the air in an oppressively medicinal stink.

Oddly, no irritancy mars Choso’s features. If anything, he looks more flustered than you feel, which doesn’t make much sense to you.

“I’m so sorry! I c-can clean it up, I promise---”

“Leave it.” He speaks without meeting your eyes. “You are injured.”

Barely, you want to retort. But acknowledging the fact that your so-called “injuries” are very minor surface scrapes would shatter the illusory bubble of realized fantasy into which you have miraculously stumbled.

Before you can reply, Choso continues: “The human mouth is the fastest-healing part of the body. Saliva heals.”

“Okay,” you say, because there is nothing else you could possibly respond with. He can’t mean—surely, he doesn’t—

But there he goes, leaning in close to the supple flesh of your bared leg, breath ghosting along the very surface, raising the hairs that quiver in eager anticipation. “I said I would help you feel better. Please allow me this. It is my duty.”

And then he begins to suck on your wounds.

“Oh-kay,” you squeal, entirely convinced that you have begun to astral project. The scrape on the inside of your knee is laved over by his tongue, which is, strangely, just as chilled as the rest of him. When his eyes flick up at your exclamation, you realize that you have yet to release his hair.

Nor do you want to.

“B-be gentle, please…” You’re laying it on thick. You know it. How could you resist? He’s eating it up – literally – mouthing repeatedly over the sensitive area as though he is spiritually compelled to do so. And just because you’re a little too observant, a little too greedy for your own good, you decide to push your luck: “Will Choso-nii make me feel better everywhere?”

With a wet pop, he unleashes your leg from his wet, red mouth. “Where does it hurt,” he asks, pupils blown wide, nothing more than a twin pair of black holes.

“Mn…all over…I’m sore, from sleeping on the ground…”

Choso rises from his knees to crowd you into the back of the seat. Of course, you willingly melt back, pliant in the wake of his potent desire.

“Do you need Choso-nii to make it better?”

“Please,” you whimper, peering up at him through your dewy, tear-damp lashes.

Holy shit, you can’t believe this actually worked. Two hours ago, you were just one of hundreds of faceless, sweaty fans, screaming their hearts out to some of the most hauntingly morbid lyrics.

And now, you are caged in the unforgiving embrace of your oshi, completely at his mercy, littered in hickeys and lovebites and bruises as he has his way with you. Your sharp cries of pain do the opposite of dissuade him; with each groan and plea for him to slow down, take a pause, ow, ow, it hurts Choso-nii--, he grows all the more impassioned, all the more frantic.

He only pulls away from you when there is not a single inch of exposed skin left for him to mark. The sound of your comingled pants fill the van, fogging the windows with physical evidence of your salacious tryst.

Neither of you speak for a moment, content to simply gaze into each other’s eyes. His hair is frazzled every which way, due in no small part to your rough handling. Is it normal to be turned on by such a trainwreck of a human? Should you really be wet between the thighs at being mauled?

“Do—” his voice cracks in a way you have never heard before, not on any livestream, not in any video, not on any stage. “Do you feel better, now?”

Maybe it’s fate…maybe, somewhere out there, far, far away, there is a benevolent being who wants nothing but the best for you. Maybe they concentrated their divine powers into finding you, in this moment, and directing your gaze to the loose pocketknife innocently resting on the grimy floor next to his clunky black platforms. In this moment, as you pick up the blade, unsheathing it without breaking eye contact with the ghoulish specter hovering above you, an inexplicable wave of love and appreciation washes over you, bathing your half-dressed body in the warm waters of some distant, far-off shore.

It's almost too easy to slice a surface wound – a cat-scratch, really – into the plush swell of your upper thigh.

“What about here, Choso-nii?” You ask, enraptured by the peculiar twitching of his facial muscles. “Can you kiss it better right here?”

Once again, you are right on the money.

Choso dives to chase the rivulet of blood running down your leg like a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert. Devotionally, he tongues at the gory slit, sucking more blood from your self-inflicted wound, moaning as if he is the one being pleasured right now. In a strange way, you think he might be.

Your initial quick-thinking unleashes an outlandish chain reaction which finds you, inevitably, entirely unclothed with a not-insignificant amount of reddening slashes across your naked form. When it’s all said and done, Choso will tend to each and every cut, diligently disinfecting and dressing the disrupted flesh, allowing you to weakly tug at his hair (now pulled back from his face into two twin pigtails) when it burns.

Upon the final swipe of antibacterial ointment, you are halfway in dreamland, barely cognizant enough to recognize that you should probably be getting the hell out of here, at this point. However, shunning reason and common sense is the exact behavior that’s gotten you this far – so you decide to stick to what you know.

“Choso-nii,” you murmur groggily into the leather seat. “Blanket?”

“What blanket?”

His confusion is confusing you. “The one you gave me… ‘s cold…”

“…I did not give you a blanket.” For the first time since he’d picked you up behind the venue, Choso’s voice sounds grounded in reality. Released from the shackles of lust and taboo desire, he speaks with lucid candor. “Was that blanket not yours?”

“Nope,” you hum, blissfully dazed. “Where ‘s ‘t?”

Sleep descends upon your worn, battered form before you hear his answer.

Oh well. As long as Choso-nii is nearby, you have nothing to worry about.

[ROUTE CLEAR.]

next suggested route: okkotsu yuuta

> main menu > prologue > guide

> report an issue

[pbpsbff]

shoutout to this person

[aestheticallycatholic]

TW: self harm mention

if Art’s partner was actively struggling with self harm, I feel like he would be confused about why this type of bloodshed makes him feel different than it usually does

I don’t think he would necessarily understand it as feeling sad, but I think it’d put an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he wouldn’t ignore

once he linked the uncomfortable feeling to your self harming in his head, I don’t think he’d confront you, but you’d definitely find your blades mysteriously missing more often

I also think he’d be more inclined to be affectionate towards you when he thinks you’re too sad or acting unlike yourself, not letting you be alone unless absolutely necessary

[rowiewritesstuff]

Yandere tfp smokescreen; nb tradesman reader? (And/or, separately) yandere soundwave x recovering s*lf h*rm addict?

Your yandere writing is one of a kind!

Yandere Soundwave X S*lfh*rm Reader

MASSIVE TW: S*lfh*rm and Su*c*d* Mentions. Probably the most fucked up of all the ones I’ve written so far. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED! THX BABES

If you need help here's a hotline finder: https://findahelpline.com/

You're not alone <3

You had been with Soundwave for a long while. He had taken you as a ‘pet’ because he’d found you interesting. He’s steadily grown to care about you over the time he’d held you captive.

You had often tried to escape the Nemesis. You had tried to leave the Nemesis when it was docked one time. He had caught you pretty quickly because of the security cameras throughout the Nemesis.

The next attempt, you jumped onto a flying Vehicon. The Vehicon obviously returned you right to the terrifying TIC, in fear of consequences. 

The next time, you made friends with a Vehicon. At first, you were just using them- but soon you actually began to care for ST3V3. You even called her Steve. Soundwave knew about your friendship, and allowed it. He was glad he didn’t have to chase you around anymore- it was getting tiresome for the old bot. 

Steve began to pity you, and offered you an escape. You weren’t sure- you had no clue what Soundwave would do to her if he found out. 

She insisted, and when the patrol was at its thinnest she decided to try and help you escape. With you stuffed in her subspace, she started towards the exit. Sadly for you, Soundwave already knew. He waited right at the exit Steve was meant to take.

“U-uh, Soundwave sir! What can I help you with?”

Before she could get another word out, the silent mech grabbed onto her with his tentacles. He slammed her into the ground and began to rip open her subspace. Steve was screaming in agony as he ripped her chest open and pulled you out. Other Vehicons saw, but did nothing- they couldn’t. 

Soundwave held you in one tentacle. Using clipped together voices lines from Steve to mock you, he said “This is what- happens when you- try to es-ca-pe.”

Without a second to waste, he drove his sharp talons into Steve’s spark. You screamed at the gory sight. “STEVE! NO! GOD NO, WHY?!” His blank visor stared at you. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! I HATE YOU!” 

Soundwave then electrocuted you, sending you into darkness. When you woke up, you were in your ‘room’. It was really just a giant glass box with necessities. Soundwave had taken out all the sources of entertainment. When you looked outside of your cage, you fell to your knees. 

Sitting on a table in front of you was Steve’s head. You could tell it was theirs because it had the small scratching on the paint spelling out “Steve”. 

That’s when you realized you were never getting off of this ship. Days passed by, and Soundwave checked on you every few hours. Whenever he would poke or prod at you, you’d turn away. You were slowly losing the fire he saw in you at first- that’s good. He was tired of you trying to escape all of the time. 

One night, you had nightmares of Steve’s death. She was blaming you- and she was right. You shouldn’t have tried to get away. You killed her. 

You could hear her voice echoing in your head as you made your way to your bathroom, where your razor was.

When Soundwave found you, he panicked. He quickly rushed you to Knockout who treated you to the best of his knowledge. 

Soundwave then realized he took it way too far. He should have never killed them in front of you. You are human! You’re fragile- he should have remembered that. When you were stable enough to be moved, he made sure your enclosure was free of anything you could use to hurt yourself- anything heavy but light enough to hold, forks, even spoons. 

Your room was more locked down than a mental health hospital. 

When you came to, you cried. You didn’t want this. You wanted off this ship. You yelled and screamed at Soundwave- and he let you. He read on the internet that humans had to get their emotions out. When you stopped, he picked you up and cradled you. You didn’t have any energy to fight him as he rocked you back and forth. You didn’t want to- you wanted this comfort.

Soundwave forced Knockout to learn about human mental health so he could give you regular appointments. Knockout carefully began manipulating you so that you’d start realizing all that Soundwave had ‘done’ for you. Mostly because he didn’t want to spend time babysitting Soundwave’s human- but he’d never say that to Soundwave’s face.

Slowly, you got happier. You were starting to fall in love with Soundwave- and he was glad for it. Soundwave never left you alone- which meant that you always went to him for comfort. He began giving you anything you wanted now that you weren’t fighting him.

Megatron and Soundwave had some high-grade one day while you were sleeping under Knockout’s supervision. 

Soundwave used voice clips to explain the situation.

“Ah, like a true Decepticon. Maybe I should grab a human pet sometime as well. There was one I’ve had my eye on for a while.” 

Soundwave held his hand out to reveal a small key. It was to his enclosure for you. He always thought that another friend for you would be nice- now he had an actual reason to grab one. 

[tittysuckersworld]

tw!! nsfw and self harm scars! please keep that in mind before clicking the continue read thing. seriously take care of yourselves please

okay for the dazai simps out there, enjoy ;) [also this is a wip so might end up with more finnished peice some day]

[voidcat]

ok ok so here it is. i know you said it might be too long for an ask but i didn’t know where else to send it. sorry, i’m a little dumb when it comes to these things. anyways this is not a request for you to write anything btw but i got my hair cut and it gives me sooo good gender euphoria so i just had this thought and like i needed to share it with you.

tw: very little self harm, relapsing mentions

dazai realized something was different with you. something has changed. or maybe it was always like that but he started to realize it just now.

first, you started to steal borrow his clothes more often. surely you just liked to wear his clothes and who was he to deny you when you looked so good in his clothes, also showing everyone that you were in a relationship with him.

then you cut your hair even shorter. it looked good on you. it was a really cool style and it fit your face perfectly. also in his eyes everything would look good on you. he didn’t think too much about why you cut it all of a sudden. he thought you got tired of that length. or you just got bored of that old style. at least that’s what you told him. he didn’t pry too much. even when he knew that you didn’t tell him the whole truth.

then you started to spend more time on “men’s” section when you two went to shopping. he asked you once. you simply told him, “it’s just that they’re more comfortable. and the designs are much much better. like look at this.” you showed him the ugliest christmas sweatshirt anyone can see, from the “women’s” section. with the ugliest shade of the colors and unnecessary amount of glittery shapes and lots of reindeers. “like why is there so many reindeers?! or why would you use this shade of green?! they make me hate my favorite color for fucks sake. and this is only one of the million examples.” he only chuckled at your furious rambling and nodded his head in agreement. and it’s not like you never shopped from “women’s” section anyways. tho he never cared about which section you wore from. it didn’t matter to him as long as you were comfortable.

there was also one time where he caught you joking about “how handsome you looked” while you were checking yourself in the mirror. your hair freshly trimmed to it’s regular length. his ‘oversized’ (it’s not actually oversized. he’s just so unnecessarily long smh) sweater and your baggy sweatpants on you. he came up behind you, wrapping his slender arms around you and putting his head into the crook of your shoulder. he told you, “yes, yes you look really ‘handsome’, my pretty girl.” he didn’t miss your smile falling for a split second and the fakeness of your chuckle when you ‘agreed’ with him. how could he? when you two were almost the same person. but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason why. he didn’t ask you.

then one day, you tried to hide your chest. like you were kinda… disgusted by it? i mean he liked boobs (who doesn’t) and especially if it’s your boobs… oh boy… and he thought that they looked completely great. so why did you try to hide it? were you insecure about them? did you think they don’t look good? and even then why would you try to completely get rid of them instead of something different? he asked you one day. very carefully of course. he knew it might be a sensitive topic. you thought of answering him truthfully. telling him everything. but you got scared. scared that he may look at you in a different way. you knew that he wasn’t a transphobe. because he’s not an idiot. but you couldn’t shake the thought of him not liking you anymore. not looking at you the same way. so you just told him it’s because you got tired of creeps on the streets gawking at your chest. a lie. not completely. but a lie. he knew. but he didn’t say anything. he knew that you knew that he knew you’re lying. (wth was this sentence) he didn’t say anything. just told you to tell him if someone was making you uncomfortable next time.

but one day. oh, what a day it was… your dysphoria got so bad. it was already a shitty day. you couldn’t take it. you wanted to disappear. you even went back to relapsing. he found out. oh, of course he did. he took care of your scars, comforted you. in both of your’s ‘unique’ way. it wasn’t how a person would’ve comfort another one who relapsed. it was just two mentally ill idiots finding comfort in each other’s warmth. after some time you talked to him. because if you didn’t tell him then, you knew you would never be able to again. you told him about how you didn’t feel like a woman even tho you were born ‘as one’. how you didn’t know if you were actually a trans man or if you were genderfluid. or hell, maybe something completely else! you told him everything. everything you could. he listened. he didn’t say anything. but he made sure you knew he listened. then he thought to himself. how couldn’t he connect the dots? especially when he payed close attention to everything you do, you feel. especially when he witnessed chuuya going through similar things when he was still in the pm. (yes chuuya is trans in my hc s) you guys then talked about it more. and he told you that you’re you and he loves you no matter what and bla bla bla, all those things.

after all these he started to be more careful with his choose of words. he talked to you about what you were comfortable and what you weren’t and he acted according to that while still not making you feel different or bad…

and that’s it from my brain bc i can’t write good, normal fucking endings🙂 this was so long omg. thank you if you actually did read until here. it’s very self-indulgent (?), yes. but i couldn’t take this thought out of my head. and i normally hc dazai as genderfluid. but for the sake of this drabble (can i call this a drabble??) he’s a cis man 😔

-🍪 anon

Thank uuuu for sharing this with me dear!

Sorry I am returning so late w so much happening in the past few days that I forgot to finish reading this

This bit: it was just two mentally ill idiots finding comfort in each other’s warmth basically my fave thing w dazai to write and think about eheheheh also yeahhh the euphoria getting a short hair gives is>>>>>>. I felt this fic

Again, ty for sharing this w me since this is a self indulgent piece, I liked it lots:))) (also hell yea trans chuu<3)

[herofics]

Hello :>

Sorry if this request is kind of dark, but could you write a bestfriend Izuku in which his bestie (female) if depressed and he finds her bleeding out in the tub, because she relaped in sh.

Thanks :)

A/N: I did this so they’re adults and Deku comes to check on his friend after not seeing them/hearing from them for a while. I didn’t do the tub part like you asked, but eh

Warnings: Blood and self-harm by cutting

Midoriya had been incredibly busy for the past week, but now that things had calmed down at least somewhat, he noticed something. It wasn’t exactly odd that he hadn’t heard from you, but it was still worrying, especially now that you hadn’t answered him all day. You always answered his messages, even if you didn’t initiate the conversation yourself. Midoriya decided to stop by your place when he was on his way home from work to check on you.

It’s not like this hadn’t happened before. You’d cut yourself quite badly before, but this time you had apparently hit a bigger vein. You didn’t really mean to, but you just sort of kept going, it was like you were in a trance. You didn’t even register the pain when you did it, or at least not all of it. You just looked at the blood pouring out of your arm and kept going anyway. 

“Well this is a damn mess” you muttered as you looked at the floor after a while.

You’d been sitting on the edge of the tub and there was a small pool of blood forming between your feet as the blood dripped from your wrist at a steady pace. You just stared at the small pool of blood as it spread slowly towards your feet. Suddenly, you could hear your doorbell ringing, but you didn’t care. If you just ignored whoever it was they would go away, right?

Midoriya was ringing your doorbell, he knew you were home since the lights were on in your apartment. He texted you, asking if you were okay, but you didn’t answer. He didn’t want to intrude, but you had given him a spare key and he was getting increasingly worried. He stood behind your door for probably ten minutes, ringing the doorbell intermittently, hoping you would just come to the door. You didn’t, so he used the spare key and came in, calling your name.

You heard the door open, and you just sighed. It had to be Izuku, since he had the other key to your place.

“Here” you answered as he called out to you.

“Thank god, I thought you were-” Izuku was cut off as you came into view.

“Hi” you said, raising your bloody hand in a small wave.

You had stopped bleeding, but it was still quite a gory sight.

Midoriya wasn’t exactly surprised, but this was still quite a shock. The two of you had been here before, but this was the most blood there had ever been. He didn’t panic, he just calmly took off his jacket and threw it on the hallway floor.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he knelt down in front of you, avoiding the pool of blood.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just need to do something about this” you said with an eerily calm voice, raising your arm.

“We need to clean it up. Where do you keep your bandages and disinfectant and stuff?” Midoriya asked.

“They’re all in the medicine cabinet” you motioned with your nonbloody hand.

You just sat there, feeling a little light-headed, as Izuku took some supplies out of the cabinet. You gave him your arm and let him clean it up. The disinfectant stung, but you didn’t make a sound, you just let him clean off the blood with cotton pads as you got increasingly more lightheaded. When he was done cleaning your arm, Izuku closed the wound with butterfly sutures and wrapped a bandage around your wrist.

“I feel bad that you’re so good at this. You’ve been patching me up for one reason or another ever since we were kids” you finally said.

“It’s okay, I’d rather patch you up than visit you in the hospital or worse…” he trailed off.

“Yeah, I know. I just hate that you’re always having to take care of me. I’m such a mess”

“You’re my best friend, and yeah you might be a mess sometimes, but it doesn’t matter, you’re still important to me” Midoriya assured, squeezing your hand.

“Thanks” you sniffled and squeezed him back.

Izuku didn’t need to know how crappy you felt right at that moment. You felt like if you tried to get up, you would probably faint, so you just sat there. Izuku was still kneeling in front of you, as you two shared a quiet moment.

You’d been dealing with this for years, and Izuku had been there for most of it. All the late night phone calls, crying to him about whatever was upsetting you at the time, all the times he had patched you up or taken you to the ER. Sure, it was difficult on him too sometimes, but you had it worse in terms of mental health issues. He hated this, he hated that you did this to yourself. It was an ugly thing to do to one’s self, the marks you left on yourself would never go away. They would always be there to remind you of the darkest moments in your life. He just hoped that one day, you could be happy, that one day they would really be just a distant reminder.

[saturnfairycat]

Mágoa

Archive #29 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: can you believe I wrote this one on instagram? lmao being a writer is weird. enjoy!

Mágoa

------------------------------------

Our love was like home to me. It felt like a physical place for my mentality to lie.

On days where the world seemed colder, I seek warmth near the fireplace— cuddling up with blankets and hot cocoa. On days where it was spring, I would be dancing on the deck over seeing our garden— you always believed dancing is best in silence, the only sound was careless whispering to each other. Such sweet nothings filled our house with warmth and my heart with comfort.

Of course, it was never easy— the belongings in our home were the memories and bonds we have made and shared together. If it wasn't for me, the house would be bare to the bone— only left with the original wallpaper that you put up after breaking down my walls.

I know you tried, and you would visit the house as much as you could— but we both knew deep down it wasn't enough. Soon, it wasn't only the world that seemed colder; my breath is shaky as I puffed out frost from my lungs. The fireplace was no longer used, even when I tried multiple times with the damn lighter you gave me. Our garden started to wilt, and home felt more like a distant memory.

But the belongings were still here— and so I kept them near me at all times. Hugging them to my chest like it provided me with the warmth and care I needed, ignoring the distinct coolness that came off it every passing day.

'When will you return home?' was the question I used to always ponder. 'Am I bad at maintaining our home?' I scrunched up my face in frustration. It started raining a lot during that time, it was salty— and made the skin of my cheeks feel dry afterwards.

One day, it stopped raining. Warmth came back— tenfold— but the fireplace wasn't the source. The draping wallpaper had caught on fire, I guess I have sparked the lighter a little too close to the dangling pieces of wallpaper above the fireplace.

How did I not notice the fire? I don't know. I think I have always seen a spark, but mistook it for hope instead.

The fire consumed everything in the house, even climbing out onto the wilted garden.

I managed to get out… But barely. I was harmed, yes. But people came to my rescue— I was safe. I was hurt. I felt sick, our home was getting destroyed and I could only helplessly stand back and watch it burn.

The only two choices I had left were to either stand there and watch it burn, becoming homeless without shelter— or walk away, and build my own house. I reluctantly pulled away at my spot outside the burning house, turning my back and glancing behind me a couple of times.

And then that's where I saw you.

You stood at the entrance of the house. Your foot edging past the door and threatening to enter the burning building. You looked back at me, beckoning me to follow you.

I felt a million emotions. You probably didn't understand what I was feeling— the fear of false hope, the desperation for that second chance, the dread of seeing your face again. I thought back to our memories, and how a lot of them were destroyed by the fire— you didn't remember them at all.

You were giving me mixed emotions, you didn't look certain to be where you are, but you didn't move.

Was this the second chance I was so desperate for?

Do I follow you in?

You seem to be completely different and just the same as I once knew you all at the same time. You must have lost your way, your visible scars prove so. Maybe… I could help. I could help somehow, what can I salvage? Is that why you're wanting to enter the house? Are you wanting to retrieve the remaining belongings?

I rushed towards you, following you in. If I just save the things we both loved in that house, maybe we can restart as something new— maybe just a small vegetable garden, or an ash tree.

The smoke blinded me, I have lost you in the smoke. But I knew what to do, I didn't lose my way. I reached and grasped at what I could, wincing at the heat. When I neared a window, I saw your left hand holding one of our more newer possessions— while your right hand held our oldest possession. I was confused, you were outside— don't you want the others?

I guess you got cold feet, too scared of the flames to salvage the rest. You left, after I hesitantly stared back at you— your eyes begging me to follow you once more.

I was burning up, I was lost. What have I done? I have caused more pain for myself. I gave you a second chance and ran into a burning building to save the things I loved. But you didn't save me.

I escaped the collapsing house, leaving the belongings behind in the fire.

Without a single glance. I walked away from the burning house I once called our home.

[justiceiswater]

perhaps i needed to shed tears today. who ever knows when those days come for us. today was my day

Cutting Deep

Fandom: Haikyu!! (Post highschool) Pairing: Azumane Asahi x gn!reader Content: hurt/comfort, depression, selfharm, negative mental state, sadness, tears. BE WARNED! A/N: Yeah, couldn’t sleep so decided to write down some thing. Sorry for the bleak subject.

You had been doing well. Coping with graduation, finding a home together with Asahi, a job for yourself, getting him comfortably started on the career path he really dreamed of. All of it.

There had been no time to rest, no time to take care of yourself. Every time, you’d been close to crumbling, one or two days had helped you get juuust a bit further. Hold on just a bit longer.

Asahi knew of your past and the darkness that still laid in wait. He helped you remember to take your meds. He would do everything to ensure your happiness…hence the life, you were building together.

You saw his joy when he came home from work; his satisfaction of having restored yet another room in the little, old house together with you - globs of paint in his hair, a handprint drying on the ass of your jeans.

This meant the world to him…so how could you ever let yourself spoil it?

Keep reading

[akizenyx]

Our obsession With Astronomy - First day of classes (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1388384422-our-obsession-with-astronomy-first-day-of-classes?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=Akizenyx3311&wp_originator=%2BDFeZRXloJkJ8jXfSrTo2Tot%2FoulH%2FZDEsuqWn2c2B%2BUBwdeeSm04K%2FxfYkkQYGsnIE5Frlw2erXlI0WRB1%2BsvUgrc7OuYocip4cTutw5UVXEXfBoCtyAh%2FmAr6E1yD4 A story about the marauders and the reader. Eventually, Sirius Black and Y/n Morningstar fall into an endless but complicated romance. At the same time, Voldemort is plotting something and seeing as Voldemort And Y/n's father, Lucifer, are enemies, shit will go down. Lucifer is also not a very good father to Y/n and her two siblings, her older brother Aeolus and little sister Areena. Read now to watch as Y/n deals with family drama, is there for Sirius during his, and slowly fall in love with each other as they help one another go through their terrible times.

[baldval]

heyy! You dont have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable it is a little darker…

can i request overlords finding out that reader selfharms? Like they knew she was unstable but they didnt think that much

thank you!!!

BEING COMFORTED BY HAZBIN!₊˚⊹♡

characters: alastor, vox, velvette, valentino, lucifer, adam

warnings: sad reader, slightly ooc adam (that man is so hard to write omg)

a/n: ik i said i'm comfortable w darker asks, i just don't really feel ok w writing about such heavy/negative topics (especially sh), but don't worry anon, should've added that mb. anyways, i give you hazbin characters comforting reader in return 🫶🫶

ALASTOR:

ᯓ he’s not exactly a ‘sit down and talk about feelings’ type of person

ᯓ but he can tell when something’s wrong

ᯓ and he wants nothing more but to make you feel like you’re on top of the world

ᯓ he sees your pouty face when you get home

ᯓ “hey, darling, come look,” he says

ᯓ he’d been at work when you’d left

ᯓ so he’s had some time to figure out what to do for you without making it seem like he’s prying

ᯓ he’ll ask you about what’s bothering you once you’ve relaxed

ᯓ he plops down on the couch, dragging you with him

ᯓ your favorite movie is paused on the tv, waiting to be played

ᯓ “i found an extended version. with bloopers and deleted scenes and everything,” he murmurs

ᯓ the entire movie, his hand is rubbing up and down your back

ᯓ his fingers sometimes creep up your neck, playing gently with your hair

ᯓ the entire thing is extremely soothing

ᯓ you know he knows something’s wrong

ᯓ and you also know he’s going to do everything in his power to fix it

ᯓ and you’re so grateful he just loves you

VOX:

ᯓ he doesn’t need you to say anything, ever

ᯓ he just knows what you need

ᯓ when he comes home and finds you in bed early, he knows you’ve had a difficult day

ᯓ he doesn’t know what happened, but he won’t ask until you’re feeling better

ᯓ he changes out of his work clothes and just gets into bed with you

ᯓ when you don’t say anything either, he pulls you into a cuddle, one hand pressing your head to his chest and the other cupping your hip

ᯓ “hi, vox.”

ᯓ he peppers your face in kisses

ᯓ “feeling off?” he asks

ᯓ you nod

ᯓ his fingers go to stroke your jaw

ᯓ “you can talk to me, you know. i want to make it better,” he tells you

ᯓ so you tell him everything

ᯓ whatever the issue was, the next day, he’s found some way to solve it

ᯓ just for you

ᯓ anything for you

VELVETTE:

ᯓ the minute you come home from work, exhaustion and misery rolling off of you in waves, she demands to know what’s wrong

ᯓ “is someone bothering you? is it your boss again? because i can get him fired.”

ᯓ you tell her everything

ᯓ she promises to help you with whatever it is that’s causing you trouble

ᯓ she’d tip the earth off it’s axis if you asked

ᯓ “come here, i want a kiss,” she tells you

ᯓ you very happily oblige

ᯓ she spends the entire night just spoiling (and worshiping) you

ᯓ the sheets of your bed are tangled between both your legs

ᯓ you’ve never felt more loved

ᯓ she murmurs about how your aniversary is coming up

ᯓ and tells you to get your nails done and dress pretty

ᯓ you don’t really know how you got here

ᯓ but you’re not upset

ᯓ you smile up at the ceiling, delightedly dazed

ᯓ you don’t even remember why you were upset

VALENTINO:

ᯓ he feels what you feel

ᯓ and at this point he can never leave you alone

ᯓ he NEEDS to be with you 24/7

ᯓ so naturally it’s like he’s dying when you come home looking upset

ᯓ “hey, no kiss hello?” he whines

ᯓ that manages to get you to laugh

ᯓ he smiles at your smiling

ᯓ you go over to kiss him and he catches your wrist before you walk off

ᯓ “no, c’mere,” he insists

ᯓ he tugs you into his lap and winds his arms around your waist

ᯓ he sets his chin on your shoulder

ᯓ “why’re you upset?”

ᯓ “oh, it’s nothing, val.”

ᯓ “bullshit.”

ᯓ you spill

ᯓ he rubs circles into your hip bone

ᯓ “i’d be upset, too,” he admits

ᯓ he kisses all up your neck

ᯓ “but we don’t have to think about that at all now. can we just spend some time together? i promise, though, if you’re still having problems i’ll gladly fuck up as many lives as you need.”

ᯓ you laugh, making him laugh

ᯓ you spend the rest of the night just sitting there talking to him

LUCIFER:

ᯓ the two of you are watching your current show, as you do every night, and he notices you’re zoning out

ᯓ he pauses it and looks down at you

ᯓ he dots a couple kisses over your brow

ᯓ “everything okay?”

ᯓ “rough day…”

ᯓ “why didn’t you tell me?”

ᯓ his expression is one of concern now, yet still absolutely laden with affection

ᯓ “i’m sorry, i’m not trying to keeping things from you or anything. i just don’t want to bother you.”

ᯓ “i want you to bother me. say everything that comes into your brain, i want to hear it.”

ᯓ he pulls you closer, palm smoothing over the back of your neck as he sets your head against his chest

ᯓ you tell him about your day, and how you were getting so frustrated

ᯓ frustrated everything was going wrong today, frustrated that the entire week was going wrong

ᯓ he listens intently, stroking your hair the entire time

ᯓ he gives soft “mhms” and “of courses” at your words

ᯓ he peppers warm kisses all over your face

ᯓ he does his best to give you a solution

ᯓ even if what he suggested doesn’t work, he’s sending you flowers to your house for the next week

ADAM:

ᯓ he’s a little confused, but he’s got the spirit

ᯓ he’s a little nervous to ask what’s wrong

ᯓ he’s afraid he won’t know what to do to make you feel better

ᯓ “hey, uh, everything okay?”

ᯓ you shrug

ᯓ “wanna talk about it?”

ᯓ you tell him everything

ᯓ he nods the entire time, his eyes never leaving your face

ᯓ he’s trying to memorize everything you’re saying

ᯓ he doesn’t really have any great solutions

ᯓ and he kind of hates himself for it

ᯓ he wants to help you, even if he doesn't make it obvious

ᯓ “hey, how about we go out tonight? take your mind off things.”

ᯓ you spend the night at dinner then wandering through a night market

ᯓ you both talk nonstop

ᯓ he gets you a bunch of trinkets

ᯓ just things that remind him of you

ᯓ and a bracelet, too

ᯓ he spends a bit of time fiddling with the clasp, eventually hooking it together and letting it sit on your wrist

ᯓ you don’t take the bracelet off

ᯓ ever

ᯓ at home, he’s worried you’re still upset

ᯓ but you’re not

ᯓ you fall asleep curled up against him, your worries now nonexistent

[teacupcollector]

This is my first Vikings Fanfiction. It is dark but I think I just got back into the Vikings mood. Here are my prompt lists!: Fluff Prompt List Angst Prompt List Smut Prompt List I am pretty busy now, but I will try to get to some of these requests haha.

Well-Being V. Belief (Bjorn Ironside x Reader)

Warning: Abuse of many forms and Self-Harm

A/N: Everyone is over the age of 18

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

A/N: I don’t know if I will make this a series, I made this for comfort of myself so I apologize if this upsets anyone.

 I am not in this situation anymore 

If you or anyone you know is experiencing something like this remember it is not weak to ask for help Abuse Hotline:  800-799-7233 Suicide Hotline: 988 Summary:  Reaching out for help is not a bad thing and Bjorn is trying to help you understand that, but when rumors seep into the dark corners of his mind he says things he regrets, and now he only hopes it is not to late.

Another victory has fallen over Kattegat as both warriors and shield maidens alike depart from their boats. Many people rejoice at the reunion of their loved ones. Some who are not as fortunate cry out at their loss of lovers, friends, mothers, and fathers. You were hoping you were the “unfortunate” one, but you are disappointed when you see your father walking down the dock and toward you. Your eyes cast down as a feeling of dread enters your body. The next thing you know you feel two firm hands on your sides and you let out a shriek. You turn your head to the left to see a laughing blond.

Keep reading

[karlachismylife]

Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.