The Mask (Nash Grier)
Request for @wtfstanlon: “Hi. Idk if you do this, but I want to request a Nash Grier imagine where he finds my self-harm scars on my wrist please.”
A/N: Before I begin, I want to say that there is going to be some triggering material in this imagine and if you are easily triggered I suggest maybe you not read it. It’s completely up to you. In addition, if you ever need to talk to someone, my inbox is open. I will also post my email and you can email me if you think that would be best. Please, don’t do this to yourselves my loves. I’ve been there and I know it sucks but it’s not worth it. I promise.
~
Y/N sniffles, sitting on the cold tile of her bathroom floor. All she can do is cry. Her hand is shaking, the razor blade firmly clutched between her left forefinger and thumb. The blade that has been her best friend since she was 12 years old. Pulling up her sleeve, she creates a slice on the inside of her right wrist.
“One for being fat. Two for being a slut. Three for being stupid. Four for being ugly. Five for not being good enough.” Her tears fall as she creates five lines of blood on her right wrist, before repeating the same with her left. The tears falling from her face land on the cuts, the salt of her tears creating a soothing sting. The physical pain makes everything else go away. Even if just for a moment. As she wipes her tears, Y/N checks the time. Only five minutes until Nash comes over to watch movies. Lowering her sleeves, she lets out a few sighs before splashing cold water across her face. “I need to act normal. For him.” There’s the sound of keys unlocking Y/N’s apartment door. He’s early.
“Honey, I’m home!” Nash yells, laughing.
“I’ll be right there!” She yells, plastering a fake smile on her face. She has to mask how she really feels. So as not to let anyone down. Going down the stairs, Y/N smiles at Nash, who’s face drops.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I did a face mask earlier and when I went to wash it off, the mask mud and some soap got in my eyes.” Not a complete lie. She really did get mud and soap in her eyes. She just didn’t cry recently because of it.
“Only you, Y/N.” Nash laughed. “I brought stuff to make cookies. Come on!” Nash grabbed Y/N’s wrist, not noticing the wince on her face at the pressure of his fingers on her cuts. Once in the kitchen, Nash put a paper hat on, that said ‘Sexy Chef’ in blue pen.
“You’re so cheesy!” She giggled, hiding the pain behind her mask. No more than ten minutes later. the cookies were abandoned. There was a full on war in the kitchen. After having egg splattered across the top of her head, Y/N waved a white towel. “I surrender! Let’s actually bake.” She giggled. Without even thinking about it, Y/N took off her sweatshirt, the kitchen war having made her forget her cuts.
“Y/N.” Nash quietly said, his voice somber.
“What?” She asked, before she saw the tears on his face. He strode up to her, and grabbed her wrists. “Shit.”
“How long.” He asked, voice shaky and choked.
“Since I was twelve. I can’t get myself to stop. No matter what.” Tears were freely rolling down both of their faces. Nash gently kissed each and every scar, both old and new that were on Y/N’s wrists, leaving a few tears behind.
“Every time you get the urge to do this, call me babygirl. Doing this hurts me just as much if not more than it hurts you. I want to help you stop.”
“Okay.” Y/N gave a watery smile, before Nash enveloped her in his arms, both of them silently crying.
