#tell me where it hurts

[helloliriels]

Tell Me Where It Hurts

by helloliriels

Inspired by THIS FREAKING BEAUTIFUL IMAGE by @a-victorian-girl

John wasn’t sure what he had expected …

After the wedding; after hearing Sherlock had left early and wasn’t answering his phone …

. He was worried.

.

They’d gone on their honeymoon, he and Mary.

Sherlock had posted about it … dripping with sarcasm and butterflies and … 

. John had felt miserable the entire 10 days.

Mary wasn’t speaking to him.

Hadn't for two days.

.

John made his way towards Baker Street knowing only that he needed to see Sherlock. To bring some sanity back into his life.

You keep me right.

.

John had not prepared himself for what Sherlock's best man speech had contained ...

He hadn't even allowed himself to think about it again.

But he couldn't seem to stop it.

.

As he approached Baker Street, he realized he was probably going to be facing temper-tantrum Sherlock. Bored Sherlock. Why-the-hell-did-you-get-married-when-I-need-an-assistant-Sherlock.

He was either going to have to;

.  berate Sherlock for not answering his phone; 

.  face some horrible version of Sherlock high off his tits without anyone there to mind him;

. or at the very least, have it out with him about the ridiculously embarrassing posts …??? I mean … who calls it a ‘sex holiday’ …?!

Whatever it was. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

.

John was amped up and nervous and feeling like he might throw up, but he was going to do this!

.

Did he need Sherlock?

Like air.

Did he feel like a magnet being pulled towards its home … ? Even though Mary and their residence was forty-five minutes in the opposite direction … ?

Absolutely and without reservation.

.

He ran his hands through his hair. Cursing himself for being an idiot.

Oscillating again … on the pavement … 

. Bouncing between frustration and need to know.

Before he entered.

.

He took the stairs slowly. Willing himself to calm and come up with some reasonable way to start the conversation. 

He wanted to sit down and really talk things out with Sherlock. See where they stood. Why … they stood where they were … and how they could move forward, but-

There were voices upstairs?

. Lestrade?

A case?

. No.

A client perhaps?

Mycroft?

. No.

Voices were too energetic.

. Sherlock was laughing.

Wait.

.

John halted on the steps.

.         Heart racing.

Who had … ?

Made Sherlock laugh … ?

.

He blinked and went offline temporarily. A panic setting in that he could not quite explain. 

Not rationally. 

Not excusably.

Get ahold of yourself!

. You are a married man!

.

John swallowed his (unreasonably) bruised pride … 

And took the last few steps up the stairs.

.

The door was locked.

.

He heard another chuckle inside and something like-

. John had his keys out of his pocket 

. before he knew what he was doing 

. and the door flung open.

“Sherlo-” John's voice choked in his throat.

.

He stepped back.

. Stunned.

.

Sherlock stood by the mantle with another man, running his fingers through his hair.

He had the slightest hint of stubble growing on his face, and a soft look in his eyes … 

And he looked gorgeous.

.

And all John could think was … 

. His hand is in your hair?

.

John wanted to die.

“I-uh… I-I’m so-so-sorry, I didn’t mean to just-” he pointed at the door and nearly dropped his keys as if burnt.

Sherlock caught sight of John at last and dropped something himself. Fumbling to the floor to try and catch it, but ultimately crawling around a bit until the item was retrieved.

Those eyes.

Staring back up at John in … Anger? Regret? Agony?  For a brief second …

Before the altogether too-handsome detective collected himself again and rose … smoothing his suit back into order, and ruffling those raven curls back into a mop of touchable silk on his head … 

… made John’s heart skip a beat.

.

“There, I have it …” Sherlock chirped happily, handing the ring back to whomever this other man was … “no harm done.” He smiled. 

The other man stepped closer again. Placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s jaw. The familiarity sickening to John's stomach.

.

.   A ring.

.

That was what Sherlock was holding.

Golden.

Glinting.

Shiny.

.

And smiling. 

So fake.

.

John wanted to scream.

.

Instead … 

John turned and ran from the building.

@gregorovitchworld @escaroles @chinike @rhasima @johnlocky (I'm finally working on this one again!) @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @topsyturvy-turtely @ anyone who wants to experience pain with me (with a happy ending ofc)

[djevilninja]

Garbage - Tell Me Where It Hurts

[indecisivegloom]

[chloesimaginationthings]

The tragedy of being William Afton’s daughter in FNAF..

[justinempire]

Tell Me Where It Hurts

[thebrainrotsreal]

Drew this real quick because I fucking love these two so much ???? Especially Bee. I wish they interacted more so badly. PLEASE.

Also learning how to draw these guys.. slowly.

[bunnieswithknives]

(nature au) you said that while dale dislikes dev using a cane in the house he doesn’t really care too much, but what if dev used a cane in public? i can’t imagine dale would be okay with that at all. he’d be pissed, like confiscate the cane kind of pissed

Originally the gag here was just going to be Dev clinging onto his dads arm for dear life while he shivers like a chihuahua but he is just. So small.. I couldnt get it to look reasonable

Bonus:

[inkskinned]

she says he won't let her get a dog, which is fine, because they're in an apartment, and that's the kind of thing people say about their partners. he won't let me get a dog. and you're at a dinner party and you tilt your head a little to the side just like that dog he won't let her get, because is this the thing that's going to upset you? you don't know every corner of their relationship, she could be joking, they could have had so many healthy conversations about the dog, right, and maybe she's not letting herself get the dog because of money and time and whatever. but, like, she did say let

and she wants to move away from his hometown and he wants to stay and then he tells you with a wink and a conspiratorial stage whisper don't worry i'll convince her and she laughs about it - so clearly this is something they laugh about. but you do just stand there and stare at him like what the fuck, man. you can't say what you want to say which is why do you get the final say on everything because they're both obviously aware of the other person's stance on this and have obviously had private conversations about it and what are you going to do about it except make a scene and then he'll be mad at you and call you one of those bitches behind your back and she'll cut you off, which is a loss that doesn't feel worth it just because he makes you a little skeeved out every 3rd comment

and they both agree he just isn't the type to get flowers which is fine because everyone shows love differently, and are you really gonna judge someone based on their sense of individual relationship responsibility? maybe he's constantly cleaning her car and writing her poems and making her furniture or something. maybe she doesn't even like flowers and this is perfect, actually. and no you couldn't date him, obviously, ew; but like, she tells you she's happy. you almost send her a tiktok that says don't be 25 and the cool girl that doesn't need anything, you'll hate not getting flowers at 30, but that's like, starting drama & you shouldn't start drama needlessly.

and you're a little older than her but not so much older you can pull the whole trust me on this one babe thing and besides that wouldn't have worked anyway (when does it ever) and besides you have trauma so you and your therapist both agree that you're always looking for a problem even when there isn't one. and you tell yourself that just because you see them for 15 minutes every month does not mean you can identify every single red flag based on a single shitty half-joking(?) comment

and besides, what are you going to do? she says i actually wanted another stand mixer but thankfully he stops me when i'm about to spend too much money and you're standing there like are you okay? is this normal? is this just something people say? and again - what are you going to do?

to your therapist you try to language it - it's not, like, any of my business. but sometimes, doesn't it feel like - you should do something. there's got to be something, right? you've tried dropping little hints but they sail right through and you've tried having a single serious conversation and she got upset because why does it matter to you, yes it's different but we're happy, it doesn't need to make sense to you and you're like. really unwilling to push a boundary about it anymore; because the truth is that you know logically it shouldn't matter to you, as long as both parties are happy.

and besides, you've been wrong before. it's just... like, every time you see them both, something else happens, some kind of shiver down your spine like do you even hear each other when you talk. it's their strange, bickering orbit. just the way he's on his phone through dinner or watching sports instead of helping in the kitchen or, fuck, another one of these little throwaway comments he makes about we'll see about that, babe. she laughs when he calls her passions stupid shit and meanwhile she gets him tickets to see the knicks and he tells you well at least she's smart about something and still! it's none of your business.

you say get the dog anyway and she laughs. like, this is is you being funny. and not you saying - no really. get the dog. get the dog and get out of here. pack up and start running.

[bertoyana]

charles and erik with each other: oh dear, oh dear. gorgeous 🥺👐 charles and erik with the villain of the week/the x-men: K1LL YOURSELF 🔥🔥🔥

X-Men: First Class (2011) | X-Men Apocalypse (2016)

[nat-20s]

Love how there's MULTIPLE paths in Slay The Princess where The Princess looks at The Hero and is like. If you don't let me crawl into your ribcage and fuse our beings into one I'm killing us both. And how many options are like "letting my beautiful princess do whatever tf she wants to me". They're the most freak4freak couple of all time

[whys-nosense]

pre final battle break

[rawbin-hsr]

OMGGG Your latest smut fic is so amazing!!! The smut is absolutely delicious! but....the angst is breaking my heart so...could you please write a continuation or part two where the reader confronts Aventurine's dark internal thoughts and comforts them? A fic where they actually get him to believe that they love him for real, where they tell him that he's not a monster and that he wasn't ruining them.

You've got it ! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves. (Part 2)

Read part 1 here !

CW: dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), lots of mentions of death, passively suicidal Aventurine, violent imagery (through metaphors, nobody is actually physically harmed), intrusive thoughts, Aventurine thinks kind of vicious things about you (refers to you as "stupid", "brainless", "naive" etc), cursing.

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

Small note: Spoiler alert sorry, but you will not completely fix Aventurine in this fic. Making any real progress would take YEARS. The trauma he's gone through and his beliefs about his own humanity are EXTREMELY deep-seated, just one conversation would not be enough to make him truly believe he was loved. Super sorry since I'm sure that's not what you wanted (you specifically requested they "truly get him to believe that they love him for real", but this does still end on a hopeful note so I hope you won't be too disappointed (•ᴗ•,, ) )

Sometimes Aventurine gains enough clarity to remember where he stands. More importantly, he gains enough clarity to remember where you should stand. That is to say, as far away from him as possible. Unfortunately, you are never keen on doing that. 

In these moments of clarity, he distances himself. If you won’t do it, he has to. He needs to. He needs to even when he can feel the little pieces of him that you’ve managed to haphazardly glue together splinter into tiny shards again, even when it feels like every step away is a step walked on shattered glass. He can hardly be called a ‘person’ anyways, what does his suffering matter? He has already lost so many good things, why not add another loss to the tally?

He reads your texts, but he doesn’t respond. He hangs up on you the moment you call. By doing this, he makes sure you know he is alive. Both because he knows it would devastate you if you thought he died, but even more so to make sure you know he is intentionally ignoring you. He hopes at least some part of you hates him. He thinks part of him hates you.

But he can never stay away for long. Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. Thoughts of you always cloud his mind too much to do what is right. He reminds himself he will destroy you. He comes back anyways. He is too selfish not to. 

And you welcome him with open arms every time. Sure, sometimes you yell. Sometimes you berate him. Sometimes you cry. But he never does something beyond the bounds of what you’ll forgive, even though he tries to. You’re patient to a fault. Though he feels bad, he never takes it fully seriously, because you always hold him with so much sweetness, even when your words are filled with righteous anger and justified hurt. You always end it by reminding him that you love him. Something clenches in his chest; something that is not his heart, because he has none. He claims he is sorry, but you both know he will do this again. He always does. You know he will hurt you over and over, even if you don’t know the extent. You know he will test you, that he will ignore you, that he will cling to you and that he will taunt you. You don’t know he will drag his claws through you and tear you to ribbons; you don’t know he will sink his teeth into your neck and drink all your blood; you don’t know he will lure you to sea and drown you. You are never aware of the true danger you are in. 

Maybe that’s why you one day feel comfortable enough to corner the creature that has taken on the appearance of a lover. You sit down next to him in bed one evening after one of his many attempts to push you away, your expression grim. You look straight ahead, right into his dead eyes, unaware that a monster is towering over you. 

“We can’t go on like this,” you say. For one moment, the crushing relief and devastation threatens to consume him, and he’s not sure which of the feelings is stronger. For one moment he can’t breathe. 

He hacks our a laugh, his skin straining. Something is shifting beneath his flesh, something ugly and dangerous. He needs to leave and he needs to do it quickly. 

“You’re right, we can’t,” he agrees, his voice a lot more steady than he feels. He feels the urge to grab you and shake you until you pass out. He feels the urge to suck out your life force until your body is an empty husk. He feels the urge to slam your head into the bathroom sink in the next room over. He feels the urge to shoot himself in the head, because he does not want to do any of that. 

“I love you,” you say, unexpectedly. Or maybe it’s not unexpected. You always say such stupid, brainless things. (You say it with sweetness. The only sweetness he can offer in return is the sweetness of bacteria digesting rotting meat. Is the flesh his, or will it be yours?) He laughs again. 

“I thought we were breaking up,” he says. Smirking, as if it’s funny. (It isn’t.)

“No, we’re really not,” you say firmly. He snorts. 

“Maybe we should.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you come closer. 

Get away, he thinks. Run, you fucking idiot. 

You don’t have many flaws, but the ones you do have are insurmountably big. You are too forgiving, you are too kind, you are too selfless, you are too naive. You will kill yourself doing this one day. You will let him kill you.

Your arms wrap around him. He can’t help but relax. The thing lurking under his human disguise grows more restless. 

“I don’t hate you,” you say, unexpectedly. And this one really is unexpected, because what made you say that? Your arms squeeze around him tighter. “I thought I was being obvious enough about that, but you’re so bad at understanding it.”

The feeling he has is the same as the feeling he gets when he realises a deal is going awry. You are the highest risk stakes he has ever made a bet on: will he ruin you, or will you ruin him? What you could do to him is so much more serious than death. He knows that he is holding a losing hand. He doesn’t even know what he stands to win.

You kiss his neck. He shudders. 

“Why are you so scared of me?” you ask. 

Scared? He is not scared. What an outright laughable concept. Neither of you are scared, but if one of you was, it should be you, but you aren’t, for some reason.

“What gives you that idea?” he chuckles, but his voice is not as steady this time, and he can feel his smile slipping. (What is wrong with him? He doesn’t want to think about it. The answer is always ‘everything’.)

“Your hand is shaking.”

It is, but that is not because he is afraid. Fear is a human response, borne from the desire to live. It is instinctual. It means kicking and screaming, it means clawing your way out of hell for the chance to see another day, it means fighting for the life you don’t want to end. He cannot die, you see. Death cannot occur twice. Just because his body reacts, that does not necessarily mean he can truly fear any longer.

(Then again, maybe his reaction does not come from the thought of his death.)

“I’m not scared,” he says, and his voice sounds a lot weaker than he had expected. You pull him closer, cradling his head against the crook of your neck. His blood is pulsing too quickly.

“It would be okay if you were,” you murmur. “I know you don’t know how to be loved. That’s okay. I’ll teach you. You just have to let me.”

Squash. Slice. Tear.

Maybe you are the monster. He can feel your claws prying his chest open; he can feel your teeth dig into his flesh; he can feel something that is not air fill his lungs. The biggest difference between you and him is that he devours, while you give. You painfully shove something back into the cavity meant to contain his soul, you pump blood back into his system, and you fill whatever gaps are left in him with something that is first cold but quickly warms. 

(He realises, belatedly, that something is pumping inside his chest again. But it can’t be a heart, can it? He lost that so long ago.)

“I’ll kill you,” he manages through gritted teeth, claws digging into your shirt. It is not a threat. It is not a warning. It is just the truth.

“You think too much,” you admonish him. Your tone is as gentle as your words are cutting. “I wish you would trust me more. You’re so determined to ruin your own life, and I don’t like it.”

“That’s just how I am. Deal with it or leave.”

“I’ll deal with it, then.”

Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. He will destroy you. But you accept it. 

He has tried time and time again to push you away, but he is weak. So incorrigibly weak, and though your flaws are insurmountable, his are all-consuming. He is a monster in all the ways that matter. But you stubbornly will not leave despite that. 

(Maybe that makes him a little more willing to try to change his nature. Just a little. Just for you. If you will not leave anyways, maybe he could try to make his presence a little less torturous.)

“Just… please stop ignoring me,” you sigh, nuzzling into his hair. Tenderly, tenderly, tenderly, so tenderly it makes his skin crawl. Your claws are softly piercing into him and he is helpless, unable (unwilling) to fight back. “I can deal with everything else. I just hate it when you do that. I can’t keep going weeks without speaking to you. I know you have some kind of… weird ideas that I’d be better off without you, but that’s not true. I love you, and I love being around you. I can’t help you when you cut me off at every corner.”

Cut, slice, slash.

Something in him breaks. Something he knows cannot be salvaged. Something he knows you would not want to salvage. Something he is not sure if he wants to salvage either, now that it is broken anyways.

He breathes a shaky breath, his fingers — his fingers, not claws, not this time — digging into your back. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and he does not feel the urge to bite down. Though his eyes feel wet, it would not be enough water to drown you. 

He knows your line of logic is wrong. He knows the fact remains unchanged: he is a monster of a man. He will ruin you. But maybe your presence sparks enough electricity to keep his heart pumping, just for a little while, and maybe he can wait until things actually start going downhill before he lets you go. Maybe he can remember how to be a human for a bit, maybe he can pretend he is. 

“I just… don’t want to do something I can’t take back,” he whispers. “Not with you. You’re the… the only good thing I have left. I don’t know what I’d do if I…”

“That’s sweet, but I’m not as weak as you think I am,” you reply. “I’ve held out this long, haven’t I? Put more faith in me.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

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

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3 Also reblogs are EXTREMELY appreciated the final push I needed to finish this was from a very kind individual who reposted and analysed my writing I've been riding that high ever since they did that ily bro

[butyouaremymess]

And I know in my heart hurt people hurt people

[seiwas]

boyfriend iwaizumi hajime fixing your posture every time he sees you hunched over and slouching—the way he holds your shoulders and straightens it by rolling it back, thumbs pressing into your shoulder blades.

he gently pushes your lower back whenever he notices you curling into yourself, runs his fingers up your spine too.

and he does it all quietly, your only warning the feel of his hands on you.

it’s almost like he has a radar for it, some posture-sense that tingles every time your back is anything but straight.

when you complain about back pain, he snorts, mumbling a ‘wonder why’ before coming over to knead out the knots anyway.

he buys you an ergonomic chair to hopefully help out, even leaves x-rays and scans of bad backs lying around to give some subliminal message of what could happen if you don’t fix it now.

and when he takes you from behind, pushing down on your lower back to give him that arch he likes, he’s teasing, telling you that you only seem to listen when he has you like this.

he’s really starting to think, should he start fucking you with your back straight?

[fantastic-nonsense]

"Maybe I needed it once. But I trained here, with The Flying Graysons, before I trained with you, Bruce. You know what the key is to a good trapeze act? Letting go...trusting that there's someone on the other side to catch you. You taught me a lot. But I learned from them to leap into the light. We're not the same, don't you see, Bruce? I had you." -Detective Comics #1074

hang on a minute y'all, I need to go scream into the abyss

[cent-scratchnsniff]

Please don't hurt yourself