I'm sure by now that you all noticed the disappearance of the accounts and stories by the author kikyo851 -main account/ lavendersky known as starflame -alt account/ misamisa851 -kikyo alt.
All her accounts including their alt got deactivated by Quotev, where she mainly writes and has all her works, she have 30 days before her account gets permanently deleted.
Besides Quotev she can still be found on Wattpad (xKaguraYatox) and AO3 (Kikyo851)
https://www.wattpad.com/user/xKaguraYatox
https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikyo851/works
As for now she is still able to access her account, but she can't download any of her writing. For now she has to copy and paste every chapter of every story by hand, or all of her work risk being deleted forever with all her accounts. She can't log out or she'll risk not being able to log in back in and access anything.
Please if you can, and have an account on Quotev try to report by saying that you believe the account has been wrongfully deleted and requesting it be restored. It's by the most importance that you remain polite but firm in doing so, to avoid aggravating the issue further and make them not want to help.
If it helps anyone struggling with like anxiety over the message, just remember that it's mostly bots and not real people reading it. So just getting straight to the point and requesting the accounts be properly looked at and restored is plenty. It's best to avoid spamming, making only one or two reports. Don't copy and paste reports, the bots might see it as spam and delete it.
Try to spread the message as much as you can, please raise awareness about it on different platforms like Tumblr, Reddit, Wattpad, etc. Promote her Wattpad and AO3 accounts as much as you can, there are tons of readers from Quotev that don't even know where to find her other accounts.
She is beyond destroyed she needs all the support she can have, go give her lots of hugs and spread the word!!!
in which; school can be tiring... but endless, sleepless nights? even more exhausting.
content; domestic fluff, wrote this in the platonic sense, yuu! reader, grammatical mistakes, mention of alcohol (kalim's part) , scenarios/imagines , implied female reader ! kinda proof-read
author's note; later post then usual because i took too long to finish this, sorry if this seems rushed between the middle and end.
no AI copy and paste, please respect the author's hard work and consider liking or reblogging if you enjoyed it!
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
★ RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS
endless books, papers, homework and lectures lead you to all nighters and a diet of energy drinks. you knew it was unhealthy, hearing it over and over from riddle himself. he doesn't stop you, he just wishes you choose your health over studies for once.
don't get him wrong, he's been in your shoes once. thinking all he needed to do was study and everything will be fine. as much as his mind agreed, his body didn't. and neither is yours. he doesn't want you to go down that road.
which leads him to the present, heels clicking down the hall of nrc to his lunch break. looking at his watch on his wrist he turns a corner, mumbling to himself about his schedule and duties... until a figure catches his eye.
blueish grey eyes squint in front of him as he looks closer to make out the figure.
"yuu?" he mumbles once he realises. your sitting against the piller, sunlight casting your curled up shadow with your head in your knees.
at first, he panics. speed walking in the direction with the headmage or any other adult at campus on speed-dial. with a tight chest he kneeled down at your side and whispered your name once more.
as he was about to shake you, due to stress and nerves, youe back lifts up before slowly falling back down. soft snores left your lips as riddle let out a sigh of relief.
"sevens, yuu, sleeping in the middle of the hallways is a clear violation of the―"
that's when he notices something, your not just napping. your dead asleep. your breathing is too slow and heavy, a faint tension on your face―like sleep has calmed you too quickly.
his eyebrows falter, his face soft as he stares at you for a bit longer.
"when was the last time you've gotten a proper night's rest?"
silence. of course there is, you out cold. he wasn't expecting a response, he was speaking his mind out loud.
"honestly," he sighs softly, lacking its usual bite. "you should have at least chosen a more appropriate spot then here. the ground is dirty and the wall is tremendously uncomfortable..."
riddle simply sighs, like he expected this.
he doesn't shout, he doesn't get angry. he simply, lets you sleep. rising to his feet, riddle drapes his school uniform jacket over your hunched shoulder. the fabric is warm, his scent faintly clinging to it. far more comfortable then the cold breeze.
he suddenly sits beside you, dusting off any dirt he's nervous about collecting and gently takes your chin with a gloved hand, "you'll strain your neck like this," he scolds, letting your head rest against his shoulder much to the blush on his face.
the halls are empty, lunch just staring and here riddle is caring for a student not even from his dorm. that's the houswaeden leader in him, caring for students not from this world.
his hand lingers too long on your cheek before he pulls away fully, sitting down for a few moments to let you continue to get rest.
perhaps his lunch plans will have too wait.
"reckless, pushing yourself to the point of exhaustion. such actions must be dealt with accordingly..."
he looks down at your soft, peaceful expression on your face. lips parted to breath slowly, lashes long and relaxed. eyebrows low and body limp under his coat.
"you may rest.. but only for a while," he'll adjust the jacket if needed, "after that, we will discuss your schedule habits and routines." he finishes with a hint of concern, but determination.
★ LEONA KINGSCHOLAR
the lunch hour was lively as ever―students at their tables with food, laughing with friends and the clutter of utensils clicking together. the usual chaos during lunch hours after a long class.
and somehow...you're still asleep during it all. you found a secluded table for one person at the end of the cafeteria, it's cramped but you didn't mind. you actually found it comfortable, laying your head against your arms with your papers scattered across the table and your empty lunch trey forgotten.
leona kept glancing at you during his meal, ruggie mindlessly stealing bits of his food when he wasn't looking to get his attention. but when he didn't even react when he snatched the piece of meat straight off his fork, ruggie scrunched his nose.
ruggie wasn't fully sure why leona cares so much about you peacefully sleeping until he notices a duo of boys messing with you. tugging the pencil out of your hand, poking your face and pulling your hair gently as they giggle.
who messes with someone while asleep? that's just pathetic.
seeing this, leona stood up without hesitation, legs taking him to the direction when he barks at the two other students to scram. the housewarden watches the two scurry away, dropping your pencil and hair and running back to wherever they crawled in from.
then he looks back at you― neutral face, hands in pocketa, but his mind was telling him to do something. emerald eyes stare down at you with a glare, taking the full scene up close. the noise, the constant poking to awake you, and your fast asleep.
body limp and breathing slowly, like you've been lacking sleep for years. he notices the papers, he knows the exact class your studying for and he clicks his tongue.
but he doesn't leave. instead, he approached you―slow and unbothered―as he took a seat to the empty spot close by to watch you.
you look... exhausted. completely worn out by the amount of work and stress. dead to the world. leona pushes the papers to one messy pile, just far enough for him to lift your head and rest it against his bicep.
for anyone walking by they would ask why leona is doing this, but it's an easy question actually.
so easy, he gets ticked off when he can't answer.
something in him just snaps and he lets his body so the rest.
he doesn't leave until you wake yourself up or if lunch ends and he has to wake you to drag your butt to somewhere more comfortable.
what? you were already asleep, what's missing a bit of class more? if you fall back asleep on him, he just falls asleep with you.
★ AZUL ASHENGROTTO FT JADE & FLOYD
he took one good look at you, and sighed disappointed. you would think he is far too busy to notice, and he is, but it's hard not to notice a human being laying flat across the booth in his own restaurant.
you're fast asleep, in the quiet atmosphere of the mostro lounge. at first, azul didn't believe floyd when the twins waltzed in his office saying a familiar shrimpy was dead asleep on the booth.
"...the prefect?"
"indeed," jade nods, standing beside his brother whose arms are lazily resting behind his head. "they seem to have taken the term, "make yourself at home" a bit too seriously. it is a cute sight, actually~ would you like to have a look"
"whatever gets you two off my tentacle..." adjusting his glasses, azul stood to his feet, black shoes clicked against the floor of the lounge as he followed the tweels.
which leads him to the present, adjusting his glasses with a spectacle look. his eyes scan your sleeping figure with jade and floyd behind the couch.
floyd has a sharp, teasy grin on his lips while jade smiles softly yet chilling down at you, like the easy prey for a meal. "hehe~ see, azul. she's knocked out~" floyd awes, poking your cheek as you squirm in your sleep.
"i see," the boss sighs when he gets a good look at you. curled up in the booth, head resting against your arm like a pillow with your other hanging over the edge. your school bag sits nearby, empty and clean―a empty plate and cup displayed on the table like he's been there for hours.
just how long have you been studying? and when did you fall asleep?
all the questions running through azuls mind as he priced together the puzzle. you weren't just asleep, you were crashed. exhausted, dead to the world around you. living a happy life in dream-land.
"what shall we do with her?" jade suddenly asks, his voice hushed as floyd stops bothering you and instead just watches you sleep.
azul thought, adjusted his hat and cleared his throat. "leave her, for how. get ready one of our guest rooms, she'll be sleeping over tonight."
floyd giggles happily at azul's words, "sleepover with the little shrimp? i call dibs tucking her in~"
"no one is taking any "dibs" on anything!" the mage sighs softly, careful not to awaken you. he removes his jacket, jade and floyd raises a brow when he drapes the fabric over you. his smell clings to it like glue―ink and sea salt―taking an extra moment to make sure it won't fall off.
"well," jade smiles widely yet calmly at the sight, "you seem to have a soft spot for the prefect?" it was a joke, but azul didn't laugh.
"hardly," azul lingers his fingers over your shoulders before pulling away, "just making sure she's comfortable. the couch isn't the best place for a good night's rest. clean up her area, and get the room ready, i'll watch over her."
if it wasn't for jade to pull his twin brother away, azul would have risked awaking you with floyd's whines. gently, he shifts your books and papers to one organised pile at the edge of the table, leaning over to place your loose papers and pencils back in your backpack.
once you've settled, he sits beside you, hands resting at his lap while he watches you. there's a pause before he mummered, "pushing yourself beyond limits is poor judgment," he sighs, "even i recognize the importance of rest."
you adjust in your sleep, eyes still shut and your features calm as you move to rest your read higher. azul pauses, before malonh the decision to take you to the guest room. gently, he took you in his arms―despite being a tad bit on the slender side, holding you close to his chest wasn't a hassle.
his heels click down the hall like it's a business matter, upon reaching the room jade and floyd are already watching their boss carry you to the clean beds, sheets soft and blankets warm, placing you under and pulling away.
"next time," he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, "come to me, i'll handle things from there."
even though you can't hear him, he still whispers. maybe somewhere in your dream, his voice can find its way in.
he takes his jacket back, resting it upon his shoulders he stands to his feet.
"rest well, yuu."
★ KALIM AL-ASIM
this party isn't one of kalims big ones―no overwhelming crowds, no loud music or blinding lights as usual―just a few students from his dorm, a few from others, and jamil. it's still lively, students singing and dancing to any music, snacking on food and sipping on drinks.
music drifts, laughter bubbles, and the warm light from lanterns makes everything feel comfortable and calm.
maybe too comfortable, but is there ever a thing called being "too comfortable"? apparently yes, because you're in the corner of the lounge, sitting on a single bean bag chair with your books and papers on your lap. head resting against the wall as you were fast asleep, pillows half-hidden behind you, your drink loose in your hand on the floor, your body slumped in a way that makes it look like you passed out.
you didn't mean to fall asleep, you just did. touw body betraying you with all those restless nights and late-nignt study sessions.
kalim spots you fast, you were caught in the corner of his eye mid-conversation with another. for a moment, he just stares, adjusting to the sunlight beaming across the floors, like he needs a moment on what he's staring at.
then he suddenly gasps, fearing for the worst he ditches the conversation he was in and rushed to your side, weaving through people surprisingly quickly with a shimmer of worry in his eyes. he's darting at the drink and your unconscious body, crouching to your level he hesitantly holds your arms.
"hey―yuu! can you hear me, are you okay?? yuu?"
he gives you a small shake.
nothing. not even a groan.
you're out cold.
kalim freezes, pupils wide and chest heavy. was there too much kick in the drink? jamil added just the right amount, maybe you grabbed the extra strong drink by accident?
with all these thoughts running through his mind, he suddenly sees all the papers and pens pool around you, like you've made your own oasis of school work.
blinking once, twice, kalim realizes your just asleep. your breath soft and grounding. "oh...oh, my sevens, your just sleeping."
a huge wave of relief hits him, exhaling loudly he clamps his chest happily. kalim lets out a soft laugh, shoulders relaxing after this moment of panic.
"you must have been really tired, huh?" he chuckled, eyeing all the paper around you. that's when he remembers the party―the loud noises, people laughing and singing―now that he actually listens, it's too loud.
too loud, you might wake up. he doesn't want that to happen, so the housewarden suddenly claps his hands to gain the attention of the party, asking politely to keep the noise down for the rest of the evening.
students stare confused, but jamil repeats kalim's request.
"much better," kalim whispers, carefully taking the cup out of your hand and placing it far from you, not to knock it over in your sleep. then, he adjusts the pillows around you, letting your head rest against one he helps you adjust your figure.
"ah, there we go! much more comfortable!"
he finds a soft, small blanket in the middle of the pillows, draping it across your body like a second skin, making sure it covers you just enough.
"you work too hard, yuu..." kalim suddenly whispers when he takes a pause to look at you. hair messy, drool over your lip and breathing slow. he sits cross-legged across from you, just enough to rest his chin on his hand.
"night, yuu!!" he giggles to himself, knowing you probably can't hear him. but the sudden twitch on your lips states otherwise.
if someone gets too loud, he glares at whoever is making the noise and shushes them. he gets jamil to prep you tea and food for when you wake up, also requesting a second blanket.
when the party ends, jamil finds you and kalim both asleep at each other's sides with the tea and food on a tray in his hands. the vice-housewarden simply sighs and lets you both sleep for a little longer before waking you up.
★ VIL SCHOENHEIT FT. ROOK HUNT
pomefiore's lounge is pristine. every surface is polished, every wall is detailed, and the environment no one can ever call a flaw―especially during the evening. curtains a bold purple, lights dim and the atmosphere soft and quiet.
you're fast asleep on one of the long couches after, you assumed, all the students called it a night.
until rook hunt found you, unbeknownst to you, obviously. he pauses mid-step, eyes lingering over your figure like you're a painting as he takes in the scene.
your laying on your side, not elegantly―just there. fast asleep, surrounded by scattered notes and papers, a book half-opened and your pen loose between your fingers. arm hanging over the edge of the cushion, the hunter simply smiles.
your head rests against the cushions like a comfortable pillow, legs curled just enough to take up the whole couch like you simply ran out of energy.
rook crouches slightly, his hat tilting with him as he hums lightly. "oh non, trickster...to be claimed by sleep so completely, even in such an unbecoming position."
he thinks for a moment, "you must have fought it long and hard to find yourself in this predicament, oui?"
there's only one person in the whole dorm who can figure out what to do, so rook leaves you for a few moments and returns with none othwr then,
"so she's, asleep?"
"oui! i presumed you, roi du poison, has an idea what to do with our dear, exhausted trickster?" the hunter smiles as he walks side by side with the housewarden down the halls and back to the lounge.
don't mock her, rook.
"honestly, rook, if this is one of your dramatics again―"
suddenly, his eyes land on you. a pair of velvet and emerald eyes stare down at you like a wild animal and decide to call the pomefiore lounge its bed for the evening.
your position was adjusted slightly, your head now fully off the edge and your arm dangles mid-air. vil immediately kisses his teeth, "how on earth does one find this position comfortable? rook, move her legs back onto the cushions."
"oui!"
vil and rook each take your limbs and position you back onto the couch, the housewarden gently takes your neck and shoulders to rest on one side and brushes your hair behind your neck.
"unacceptable! not only is she not a member of pomefiore, she insists on sleeping on the couch like she owns the dorm?"
"roi du poison, has it occurred you she may just be too tired? look at her hair," rook states in a hushed time, combing his gloved fingers through your greasy hair.
"stress affects the skin and hair, too much of it can damage your body." as rook examines you, vil notices your body twitch but does not wake up. he sighs, heels clicking against the floors to clean the papers.
"if that is the case," he resumes, "pushing herself until she collapses like this is highly inefficient. true beauty requires proper rest, but right now she's an ugly mess."
"then we shall let her sleep until she awakens!" rook beams, already fluffing up a blanket to drape over you. before vil even could ask where he got the blanket, it was already comfortably on top of you.
once you've settled, vil sighs and stares at you while rook makes his exit. his fingers curl under your chin to get a good look at you, "don't neglect yourself like this, darling...it's not good for you or your body."
he ends up staying with you for a little longer before returning to his room, leaving a hand lingering against your skin as he straightens.
"we will be discussing your sleeping habits next thing tomorrow...for now," vil tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, "sleep well, prefect~ rook will be here when you awake."
★ IDIA SHROUD
ignihyde lounge was dimly lit by the blue screens that illuminated the room and the small flicker of computers. it was quiet, almost too quiet. the faint humming from a certain housewarden filled the silence.
it wasn't like idia wanted to step outside of the comfort of his room.. during these hours―the clocks read three am on the dot and idia was in desperate need of a midnight snack. he was mumbling under his breath about what he should order until he felt the presence of another.
his eyes squint on the couch in the middle of the lounge, seeing the hair of a familiar person. he steps closer, carefully, already alarmed and ready to activate the intruder alarms if necessary.
how could anyone just waltz into the ignihyde dorm undetected. does idia have to tweak with the security again? ugh, he wishes he doesn't and his eyes are playing tricks on him.
idia finally reaches the couch, blue hair peaks over to spot―
"yuu?" he whispered loudly, covering lips immediately after with his hands and ducks behind the couch again.
"what is the prefect doing at ignihyde? did ortho let them in without tel-wait a a minute―why are they still here?! it's past midnight!!? pause...was she?"
he blinks, peaking out once more to look at you again. fast asleep, on the couch, papers and pens scattered across the table and floor. idia looks around at the empty lounge, then back at you.
your breathing is steady, arms dangling off the couch and your legs curled comfortably to your chest. he blinks, hair flickering, "is that... comfortable?"
another pause.
"well...this is awkward." but as awkward as he is, something inside idia shifts the longer he looks at you.
your not just asleep, your crashed. like a video game on its last level done. he can tell just by the way your positioned and snoring. your grip on your pen loose and papers mixed together like you fought back even the thought of sleep.
"damn... you must've been grinding hard to manage a sleep like this..."
wait a minute, UGH AM I BEING A WEIRDO? STARING AT THE PREFECT WHILE SHE'S ASLEEP?? awh, man i hate this!
idia fumbles with his fingers, the thought of a midnight far from his mind as he thought about what to do. his hands hover and pull back just to hover over you again.
"ugh, what do norms do in a situation like this? just take me now!...but i can't leave her like this..."
oh, poor idia. he carefully leans over to pull you back to rest properly against the couch as you snort and he panics, letting you go limp against the cushions again but at least your laying on your back.
"ok...step one, done." he mumbles to himself as he circles around the couch to fully face you. he takes the papers and pens acarrer across the table and places them back in your back, silently apologizing over and over for touching your stuff.
now he stares at the blanket close by, sighing heavily he grabs it and gently drapes it over you, like you're a delicate piece of technology worth trillions of thaumarks.
"you...really trust this place enough to crash here?...huh, werido."
idia, please, let the girl sleep.
he steps back on his heels and hugs himself, unsure what to do now. does he still order take out? he feels obligated to get your something when you wake up, maybe a easy breakfast?
he simply sighs, pulling out his tablet before taking on the final look at you. curled up in his dorm blanket, body relaxed and posture now straight.
"...you owe me, big-time." and walks off, shutting off all the bright lights with a single click of his tablet.
don't be alarmed when you see ortho in your face the next morning with breakfast, happily saying idia ordered or for you. he will deny it to his core.
★ MALLEUS DRACONIA
rain taps lightly against the stone ceiling of the garden arbor your sitting against, head leaning against the railing and your book forgotten on your lap. backpack leaning against your side like a small blanket, the sound of the rain soothing you to slumber.
the sun was still out, but it was softly spitting―it's an odd sight seeing someone fast asleep in this weather. however, a certain dragon heir was the only one to witness such a scene.
"... child of man?" his deep voice rumbles over the pitter patter of the rain, arms folded with a hand hovering over his cheek as he stares at you. eyes wide and lips dropped to a small pout, like he's more curious than concerned.
you don't answer, he's just greeted with a soft snore and he simply laughs. he notices your backpack and paper, untouched and prepped on your lap.
"so, this is where you've hidden yourself?" he mused, stepping closer to your sleeping figure. there's no rush in his movements, he is calm and gentle.
you haven't stirred when he reaches you, not even a mumble. that's when he realizes the scenario. you aren't simply "taking a nap" you're exhausted from head to toe. he can sense it, just by staring at you.
"you must have overworked yourself again, dear child..." his voice hushed instinctively, looking back at the empty courtyard and back at you, "to fall asleep in such positions."
a hand hovers over your cheek, fingers tickling your skin as he trails down and takes your papers from your lap and sets them aside, allowing himself to sit beside you.
and as if on command, he notices your body leaning back, about to fall backwards to the ground. he catches you with a sharp gasp, your figure falling back to his lap. your head against his thighs, arms curled under your chin as your still asleep.
how on earth―
malleus chuckles after a few moments, fingers combing through the hair to calm himself. "what a curious human you are,"
he pauses, smiling softly still strong lovingly down at you
"very well," he whispers, "i shall stay with you until you waken..."
no one bothers.
no one dares too.
only lilia, who came searching for the heir of briar valley when sebek nor silver could find him and cooed at the sight. they both now, stayed with you until you woke up from what you can call the best sleep of your life.
𝓘magine an alicorn hybrid! Yuu who conceals their identity of being an alicorn up until they got sick
I have a headcanon that every fantasy creature is extinct in twisted wonderland except for dragons because humans used to hunt them. Dragons are the only creatures who get 'revived' by being half-fae but the other creatures aren't so lucky because they are either too weak physically, or too weak magically. So Alicorns, Unicorns, Phoenix's, etc only exist in bone structures in museums or in books.
But where are you from, all the fantasy creatures left in a secluded island and evolved to be more humanoid due to the slow inclusion of humans. I would imagine that some hybrids would go out into the human world and conceal their identity of being a hybrid by some kind of magic or potion and the only way they are exposed is when they are sick terribly, or they let their guard down which is very rare. So when you got transported to twisted wonderland you would cover up your horn, wings, etc with a very potent magic that the magic-mirror wouldn't detect— and it worked! Of course it does because Alicorns are more magically powerful than dragons after all, however they are very weak physically, so you would often take vitamins and perfect your diet to make up for it, although you don't get sick, it is not impossible. But that doesn't mean you didn't get surprised when you got a high fever— because of course you do, the universe hates you after all.
So not only do you have to take care of Grim, you have to make it not obvious that you're sick and not an Alicorn. Ah yes, this won't go wrong right?
Oh my sweet summer child you're so very wrong.
As an alicorn— a very powerful hybrid that could go head to head with dragons and win, (magically not physically) subtlety is none of your concern. Back home, when you get sick, your guardians took care of you and un-did every magic induced spell you did while you were sick like: inverting the colors of everything around you as you sneeze, the ground cracking when a particularly hard headache passes you, blowing away everything around you when you cough, and other potentially world ending things. They would fix it. So now that you were ripped from that luxury, you would try to minimize the damage, or try to un-do it, but no matter what, it comes back to bite your ass. So now Grim is running out of your dorm to get you some help— also because his colors have been inverted and he just wants to reverse this as much as possible.
He first went to Crewel because he's more reliable and he may or may not fix the mess that is your dorm. Fortunately, after seeing a very distressed and off-colored Grim in his classroom wailing about your world ending sickness, he rushed to you. When he saw the state that you and the Ramshackle had been, he sighed and brewed some potions that could fix you back into your non-feverish self. Now there was a problem, anything that comes close to you in a five mile radius would either get blasted off, or suffer a dis-coloration that might be irreversible. Fortunately, you've calmed down after a few thirty minutes, unfortunately, the potion doesn't work because you are a very magically powerful being so you needed a stronger potion that could kill ten elephants within an hour. Unfortunately, because of school funds, he doesn't have the ingredients for it. So what did he do? He called Crowley.
Meanwhile Grim was sent to Heartslabyul because Crewel knew how close Ace and Duece was to both of you; he hoped that those two would take care of Grim while you were suffering a fever. However, because of his chatterbox mouth, your friends knew, and by extension the housewarden got involved, then the vice-housewarden then Cater— okay so all of your Heartslabyul friends went to check up on you, where's the harm in that?
Everything. Not only did they see a very ethereal-looking Yuu complete with a horn, wings, and a very red nose. They were flung to the other side of the room because you made the mistake of sneezing. Now they know you are an Alicorn. Great. But they were no snitches so they just ignored it (with occasional jabs here and there) and brewed some tea for you and put a damp warm cloth over your head. Crewel busted in with Crowley and escorted them out for their safety. (Crewel was surprised that no one got dis-colored while being in proximity with you)
Was the headmage shocked to see your true form? Oh dear, shocked didn't cover it. He was baffled, surprised, terrified and amused all at the same time. Now if it wasn't for Crewel's sharp glare, he would've exploited you for money, given your alicorn status. Thankfully, he promised that he would find a potent potion that could fix you quickly to end this mess, un-thankfully, he was Crowley so this would either take 2 days or 5 weeks depending on his urgency to fix this. What did you say to that? Well... You sneezed on him and re-colored him hot pink. So you could imagine how urgent he is now.
After that whole ordeal, Crewel went on his merry way to try to help you because you have wormed in his heart, so now it's his responsibility to take care of you like you're his own child.
Not only Crewel, but the other staff members as well.
Trein would come not long after, after hearing your condition through un-confirmed rumors. He brought an emotional support scarf and medicine that would mitigate the effects of your fever— but not cure you unfortunately. He sat with you for a few hours trying to be the best adoptive father for you as he listened to you ramble about things that distracted you from this migraine that threatened to crack the floor. Unfortunately, the floor stood no chance and you almost fell through if not for your reflexes— Trein sighed and glared at the ground like it cost him rent then informed you that he would brew tea to help the migraine subside. You managed to fix the floor before he came back. He departed from you not long after because of paper work, but you got to hug his familiar so it's not so upsetting. You are eternally thankful that he has a soft spot for you.
Vargas would barge in with a very boastful attitude while carrying vitamins that he somehow knew you took. He was very encouraging and helped brighten your mood up, unfortunately he was only there for one hour because he still got some students to teach. But he left your vitamins and some fruits on your bedside table so you couldn't be mad at him.
Sam was next and he brought you some more potent potions than what Crewel made and miraculously forced your fever to subside. You literally cried when you took the potion because it silenced your migraine, he chuckled at your state and patted your head. He was there for a few minutes ensuring you took care of yourself, that your temperature was stable and lifting your mood up, before he went out, not without worrying for you a bit and forcing you to eat soup. It was very intense and weirdly positive? Nonetheless he went out complaining about how he lost his favorite customer.
Crowley finally found the potion that could diminish your fever and barged in your door bragging about how generous he was taking the time out of his day finding a potion that could cure you. You literally had to snatch it from his hands because he couldn't stop talking, and your migraine was splitting your brain. So after you took your potion he dipped out and threatened to dock your pay. You sighed at that but finally. You were done suffering.
But now you have a new problem. Explaining to your friends that you were indeed in fact an Alicorn.
Sigh. Problems keep piling up for you didn't it?
𝗔/𝗻: now I would've written the Diasomnialings taking care of Yuu but yuu's four adopted fathers (plus a dead-beat one) was screaming in my ears for attention so I lowk grind them in a meat grinder and serve it to you guys medium rare
Hi there! I loved your Alicorn Yuu drabble and now I can’t stop imagining my own Yuus as Alicorns!
⋆. 𐙚 ˚𝓘''ve been thinking about alicorn! Yuu too! I just love the idea that an extinct mythical creature got transported in twisted wonderland that is basically more powerful than Malleus. So I made more yuu's that are similar kekekeke 😌
Alicorn! Yuu who doesn't really grasp how powerful they are since they have been surrounded by really powerful beings back home (i.e: pheonix's, unicorns, and fairies) so they aren't really that impressed by Malleus's abilities since they have seen much more impressive feats performed by dragons back home. Imagine the students surprise when you could solo Malleus in a battle lol.
Fairy! Yuu who's shorter than average, I'll even say that you're shorter than Riddle. However, if anyone comments about that they will get flown across the school. Floyd got flown across the room because of his incessant teasing, he liked it and kept doing it until you got used to it and just resulted in a simple flick of the forehead now. There's no use in wasting your magic on a stubborn eel.
Unicorn! Yuu who can't control their magic as well as other magical creatures (unicorns are very well known for that fact) so their magic slips in little ways, even in their normal human form— that doesn't have your horn, ears, and tail. However you need to have observation skills, if you notice the little things though, like: the way your hair floats a little when you get excited, the way little objects are off a surface just a little bit when you're happy, and the way sharp objects turn slightly to the person you're mad at, just so slight that people don't notice until a knife is pointed at them even though they were certain that knife was facing the exact opposite way. Then you'll get foreshadowing that you're not quite human yourself.
Pegasus! Yuu who can't for the life of them contain their wings. It's just as expressive as a toddler in a sugar high— it doesn't matter if you're nonchalant, your wings will give your true emotions off. Sometimes people don't go near you because of how many times they've eaten dirt after getting smacked by your wings. It doesn't help that your wings are as large as a fucking pole and as hard as a boulder, so you just tuck it behind you when you're sitting in class, however it blocks whoever is sitting behind you. So y'know what the professors did? They moved you on the back of their class with your friends, doesn't matter if you're short, you will get moved.
Dragon! Yuu who have a tail and wings instead of horns, and they don't have scales like Malleus, but it's more apparent in their tail. While in their human form they have scales littered all over their body, they can't really show those parts of their body because... Well they're trying to pass off as a normal human. So I'd imagine only Malleus knows after you saw his horns, you showed him your scales (not your true form yet, that's only resserved for your loved one to see) and you two bond over being the only dragons in NRC. I would imagine that you two are similar in terms of magical prowess, however you're slightly more powerful because of being exposed to other dragons.
Yeti! Yuu who's very tall, taller than all the boys in school and is stronger than what people perceive them as. I would imagine that you would be more like a giant in your true form with white hair and tuffs of fur. Although you aren't as magically powerful as the NRC students, you are very strong. Actually, you could probably solo all of them in a fight or in an arm wrestle— Ace probably found out and challenged them, he lost, he got thrown on the floor, never again.
Hydra! Reader who has excellent healing abilities that a simple overblot scar couldn't even penetrate their skin. Although you can be passed as a normal human, your two heads in your true form can be a bother, so in your normal form they merged with you and you developed a split personality disorder because of that... Woo?— don't worry though, they won't show until it's in a specific circumstance. Regarding your healing abilities though... Yeah it is very potent and can even revive other beings if they consume your blood, a lot of blood consumed equals immortality, a small amount equals healing any small injuries.
as a student from another world, your friends are dying to know about your life from your homeworld, especially what school was like for you. after sharing a few unique stories from your old school, like the tales of a certain confessional account, you thought nothing of it. that is, until you get a new follower notification from your magicam account one evening, just like an account from your old school. rumors are running, gossip is spreading, all under an anonymous confessions account. oh, what can of tuna worms did you unleash on the student body of night raven college…
who started the account? and seriously? couldn’t they come up with a more original username? who took the original? who knows, maybe some of these submissions lead to deeper confessions with some of your classmates…
pairing -> multiple! twst x fem!reader
genre -> smau, written portions (and a lot of it), route based storylines, interactive, mystery, humor, to be added!
warnings -> though tagged as fem!reader, i write predominantly in 2nd person in reference to the reader, reader is ‘yuu/prefect’, to be added!
status: ongoing; taglist is open!
click here to see the original promotional post
profiles
…
i. prologue - welcome to the villains’ world
i. piece of my world
ii. enter 'SCARABIA STUDENT B HATERS ‼️'
iii. i a week in summary — the prince and king of pop
iii.ii a week in summary — the virus has spread.
iii.iii a week in summary — and then there were two
a little raven told me... iii. a week in summary — ii. the virus has spread
series synopsis: as a student from another world, your friends are dying to know about your life from your homeworld, especially what school was like for you. after sharing a few unique stories from your old school, like the tales of a certain confessional account, you thought nothing of it. that is, until you get a new follower notification from your magicam account one evening, just like an account from your old school. rumors are running, gossip is spreading, all under an anonymous confessions account. oh, what can of tuna worms did you unleash on the student body of night raven college…
who started the account? who knows, maybe some of these submissions lead to deeper confessions with some of your classmates…
a little raven told me… masterlist
multi! twisted wonderland x reader smau
wordcount -> ~ 500 (it's 25 text pictures though!!)
april 6th, the monday after nrc.confessionz dropped.
not too shabby of a day, you can’t complain. classes were alright, you had a pop quiz for professor trein, but you felt pretty confident about it! ace, deuce, and grim? not so much. overall, not bad.
grim went to sleep as soon as you guys got to your dorm, always claiming he needs to ‘recharge his brain after such a hard day!’ you don’t blame him, you too indulge in after class naps more often than not, but you weren’t super tired today. you settled on your bed, ready to rot away on your phone for a little before being productive before gasping in horror, rudely waking grim in the process.
magicam. i repeat, magicam. nrc.confessions posted. and it wasn’t about your friend group this time. oh, no, no, no. life isn’t that kind, i fear.
of course. oh, but of course.
it spread. i repeat, the virus has spread.
IT WAS THE LEECH TWINS OF ALL PEOPLE.
you couldn’t tell what was worse: the walk over to octavinelle where floyd dragged carried you from ramshackle to the mirror chamber to now the monstro lounge (where you could feel a lot of side eyes from passersby), the horrible attempt at an interrogation with azul and his damn portable spotlight, or your friends trying to reason with the tweels.
eventually, you couldn’t tell what it was, either azul not finding conclusive evidence or your friends badgering enough to the point you were ‘released’. more realistically, floyd got bored and walked way, meaning a decent drop in manpower: first years 1, octavinelle trio 0.
after your friends dropped you off at your dorm and grim appeared from wherever he ran off to in your time of peril (and giving him a 'tuna-timeout), you pulled out your phone and started annoyingly typing:
april 7th, the tuesday after nrc.confessionz dropped.
you finally got your phone back from the thief grim after he ran off with it after class, thanks to epel tagging along with you and jack giving you guys an idea of where the direeast ran off to. grim said, and i quote, “i needed my screentime, henchhuman!” okay, ipad kid, whatever you say.
lunch was good for the most part, most of your friend group was sitting together, some had gone off to say hello to other classmates, some were grabbing seconds, the usual. but honestly, you couldn’t help but feel a significant amount of eyes on you, or well, maybe on your table. and you all definitely had an idea why.
okay…so what if the majority of the school thinks you (or one of your friends) is behind this magicam account? you know it isn’t you— your friends? not so much — but still! you can hold out some hope.
plus…you can’t lie it’s been a good couple laughs for the most part. it’s all going to die down after today, you’re sure of it! you can see it now: ‘here lies nrc.confessionz, tbh, not missed, lived like for less than a week,’ on the gravestone.
it's dying down after today, right?
right?
you aren't that lucky
previous: iii. a week in summary ii. the prince and king of pop <- masterlist -> next: iii. a week in summary iii. and then there were two
note: surprise! super late post (for me at least, it's like 5 am and I couldn't sleep T-T) BUT HEY NEW CHAPTER A WIN IS A WIN !! i hope you guys like the floyd pictures they took me out when i was making them 💀 aaa i'll take the time to say thank you for all the love you guys are giving to the series <3 all of your comments and rumor send ins make me giggle and i'm so happy you guys are into this as much as i am! routes will be coming soon, i just want to wrap up this prologue to get us at a good break point (hint, poll coming in soon)
BIG BIG thank you to @duchess-rowan-lover for the base of the tweel's rumors, to @theleftovere for the first half of kalim's rumor, and to my stink stink (@shikiyomizu) helping me come up with the second half kalim's rumor!
check out the promo post to see how you can be involved in the story!
a little raven might've let it slip that some diasomnia/ignihyde rumors might be next if anyone has heard anything...
taglist (open; i just need to start reblogging to tag now!): @kimura-uzuri @saaaasas @koku11 @weepingfrenchfries @whotdefak @strayy-kidz @baizhumywife @galaxy-batsy-world @sincerelyruu @feliciefifi @gloomuraaii @earlgreyteebag @raidumpster @twistedmoonspirit @k3lbug @kiwis-kikis @hirayahhh @aoilovereha @0512odeco @simping4malleus @nullifiedadviser @trip13-aaa @yvres @pinkiipeachiikeen @silverargentu @vanillaadots @mxvoid26 @popteenotaku @fandomotakutraveler @azzberry @reversearrowhead @qaxdea @lady-father @lostsomewhereinthegarden @ragdol-666 @latisthegenderwannabealone @roses-and-reeses @adollssecretdiary @caffeinatedtale @monsieurgucchi @c3lery @keikeis-stuff @hazyue @hollowflameninja @doumein @ddurandals
series synopsis: as a student from another world, your friends are dying to know about your life from your homeworld, especially what school was like for you. after sharing a few unique stories from your old school, like the tales of a certain confessional account, you thought nothing of it. that is, until you get a new follower notification from your magicam account one evening, just like an account from your old school. rumors are running, gossip is spreading, all under an anonymous confessions account. oh, what can of tuna worms did you unleash on the student body of night raven college…
who started the account? who knows, maybe some of these submissions lead to deeper confessions with some of your classmates…
a little raven told me... masterlist
multi! twisted wonderland x reader smau
wordcount -> 2.3k
lunchtime at night raven college, you've come to realize, can be quite a chaotic mess (which can be said to pretty much all aspects of this school, in hindsight). i mean, you think you’ve reached this conclusion a long time ago, considering how long it has been since the magic mirror brought you to twisted wonderland…but, no.
this really is your life now.
it’s always something here at night raven. it could be riddle chasing down the maniacially laughing eel twin, the former’s face truly living up to the ‘rosy-red tyrant’ moniker given to him your first few days here as he chased the slightly taller of the two eel twins, floyd seemingly having the time of his life. it could also be the occasional sass thrown across, most notably whenever vil and leona are involved. while rare that they're both found in the same area during lunch, considering leona is usually napping lunchtime away in the school’s greenhouse, the quippy remarks are always a guarantee. honestly, the list can go on and on…
yeah, you love it here. genuinely. sure there've been a lot of…incidents (name: overblots), but you’ve also made really amazing friendships (as much as everyone involved denies it — night raven college really is filled with prideful students). one group of those friendships are your fellow first years.
ace, deuce, jack, epel, ortho, and sebek…and of course, grim, but you and him are essentially a no-brainer. the ‘first-year squad’, as cater had dutifully named you guys afternoon as him and trey passed by your group in the library once.
‘oh? hey, look there, trey! it’s our adeuce combi! and all the rest of the first-years. oh em gee, it’s the first-year squad! yeah, let’s get a pic for magicam, you all look totes adorbs!’ and of course, he took multiple pictures much to everyone's dismay, posting it with the appropriate hashtags and tagging everyone.
guess the nickname stuck around, as most of your guys’ seniors called your group as such. speaking of…
“prefect,” ace whined, laying his head on the lunchroom table, “please, tell me tonight is still on. riddle’s gonna make us study all night if we stay at heartslabyul…”
a loud snort came from another one of the guys at your table, his arms crossed over his chest, chin held slightly up high, “hah! perhaps it’s for the best tonight gets canceled, knowing you, ace, you need that supervision,” sebek huffed, smugly smirking as ace’s head popped up, “hah? you wanna run that by me again, sebek?”
“ace, cut it out,” deuce said, turning to his friend. “at this rate, she’s going to cancel tonight if you keep acting out like this. and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a little studying in…” the heartslabyul first-year with the spade eye makeup said, which just resulted in a snarky comeback from ace, which led to more bickering.
saved by the hypothetical bell at least— the remainder of your friends made their way to the table, having gotten stuck in their respective classes. sometimes you all would sit with different groups at lunch, but the majority of the time you all have taken to sitting together.
grim in usual grim fashion was trying to swipe everyone’s food as ‘payment’ for being late, even if he was also late. jack resulted in lecturing grim, ortho and epel were trying to catch up to whatever chaotic mess they came back to. yep, same old same old…
“say, prefect. is the sleepover at ramshackle tonight still awn?” epel asked, straightening up and glancing around to make sure his housewarden (and vice-housewarden at that) didn’t hear his slip in accent. ortho perked up, the little flame over his heart flicking just a bit, “ouu! i can bring this new multi-player game my brother and i were trying out last night!”
you nodded at your two friends, but it seems like everyone else was distracted. you cleared your throat, fist covering your mouth, “hey, guys. remember, sleepover at ramshackle today if your housewardens said yes.”
“and you have to bring a ten-can-of-tuna-entry-fee!” grim said triumphantly, standing up with one paw in the air. you quickly put your hand in front of him, pulling him down the table, “no, you do not,” you deadpanned.
“you two, cut it out! save it for spelldrive or something!” jack said, turning to the still bickering heartslabyul duo before scratching his head, “actually, that wouldn’t work. you two are in the same dorm…save it for beans day or something, just hope you get put on separate teams…” he trailed off.
“i never really understood some of the events at night raven…” you added, “i mean, from what you guys have told me, beans day sounds a little similar to something the seniors did at my school.” the guys all turned to face you:
“really? that’s pretty cool! what was that like?” ortho asked.
“well, it was this thing called senior assassin. it wasn’t school sponsored, but the seniors would all be assigned random targets either in duos or a free-for-all, depending what rules the seniors chose that year. basically, they had to ‘take out’ their targets with a water gun. there were some places of immunity like school, anywhere else they had to wear like arm floaties or goggles. it would get pretty intense,” you explained, “oh! and there was a betting pool involved from a registration fee, it could get up to three-hundred to four-hundred depending on the senior class size.”
if possible, you could definitely see thaumark signs over ace’s pupils, “heyy, we should totally do that—” he said before sebek cut him off, “no way, human! she just said it was a senior activity. either way, the great malleus would dominate in such a trivial matter if it was conducted in this school!” he boasted.
“prefect, are there any other things they did at your school?” deuce asked as epel nodded his head in agreement, “yeah! please tell us, we’d love to hear more about your world’s customs!”
you scratched your temple, “i mean, there wasn’t really much…i feel like everything is boring compared to the things done here.”
after some insistent nagging encouragement, you told them about a few things you could name off the top of your head: homecoming (the game and the dance), prom, certain club events, anything you could think of, even if much wasn’t coming to mind.
“oh! i completely forgot, this actually happened a little before i was transported here. we had an anonymous confessions account.”
most of the guys tilted their heads, “an anonymous what…?” ace asked, raising his brow.
you clapped your hand, “okay, so, basically, someone made an account on our social media, think of it like magicam. people would send in anything. think confessions, rumors, complaints, dating attempts, shit-talking, you name it, someone probably sent it in. the account would post these, most of the time people chose to stay anonymous but some people would put their names, or frame others.”
“did nobody find out who it was behind the account?” ortho asked, suddenly a lot more invested with the whole mystery.
shaking your head, you responded, “nope. not that i’m aware of, at least. it was the most recent thing happening before the black carriage ran me over on my way home one night.”
“i’ll say…that must’a gotten around real quick,” epel said while deuce nodded his head
“what a bunch of cowards,” jack said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest, “if they had a problem with each other, no better way then to say it straight to the face, why hide behind—”
“I COMPLETELY AGREE, JACK!” sebek shouted, startling not only your table, but alerting most of the lunch area, “WHAT COWARDLY BEHAVIOR, ONLY FOOLS WOULD HIDE BEHIND AN ANONYMOUS ACCOUNT TO SPEW RUMOR AND NONSENSE OF OTHERS.”
…right…
“talk about passionate…” deuce said, his eyes darting around the lunch area. honestly, you could feel a lot of familiar eyes staring right at you guys…“by the seven, sebek, you’re loud as hell.” ace sighed, shaking his head.
“I AM NOT!”
“buddy…” grim shook his head, and some of you laughed it off. lunch wrapped up quick after that and you all planned to see each other later at ramshackle.
sleepovers at ramshackle were…chaotic to say the least. imagine: you’re putting eight of night raven college’s notorious troublemakers unfortunately-involved-in-conflict students in a room for a night, with no ‘true’ housewarden supervision as you’re acting head (and let’s be honest, you enjoy most of it). you can imagine.
except its not that bad. swear on grims tuna!
at least tonight, it’s been pretty chill. grim is obviously swiping all of the snacks the others had brought, ortho true to his word brought a video game for everyone to enjoy along with some board games. there genuinely was an intention to do some studying, but ace said, and quote, ‘we are not doing grandma activities at grandma hour!’
card games was a huge thing for you guys, even the early sleepers jack and sebek would stay wide away for your guys’ tournaments. sometimes it was spoons, other times it was bullshit, occasionally it was a big spit tournament, and recently, uno got banned from the ramshackle household for the foreseeable future as a certain someone broke furniture last time and you were not having it.
tonight, it was a match of spoons. strangely enough, deuce was knocked out of the competition first round, much to his dismay and much to grim’s contentment, as it was usually the little feline that got knocked out first round due to not being able to reach fast enough (even when given the ‘you can sit closer to the spoons’ advantage).
sebek proudly held up a bent metal spoon as he took ace out of the second to last round, leaving him and ortho as the final two. you can add this to the growing pile of ‘spoons that have been bent due to the first-year squad™’ “alright, that’s enough. it’s BYOS—bring your own spoons— next time!” you sighed, quietly mourning your metal spoon.
grim snickered, “hey, deuce, since you lost the first round, you need to bring the replacement spoon. off you go, my little lackey!”
as ace begrudgingly shuffled the deck, everyone looked over at deuce who had…fallen asleep? he was slumped over the coffee table, his phone laid next to him, quietly snoring. “it is not sleeptime! even jack and sebek are still awake.”
epel shrugged, looking at everyone, “he’s prolly just tired. get a picture though.” ortho was quick to snap a few pics at nice angles. he went over to ace, and they shared a look, the look.
“hey, maybe we should move him—” jack said, starting to push up from the floor to move his sleep-ridden friend, but ortho hovered over, silently cackling behind his hand as he blocked jack’s route.
ace straighted up, clearing his throat, “wow guys! i suuuuree am happy we studied for that extra hard exam we have tomorrow for history of magic! i would hate to be sleeping…this exam is worth half our final grade!” ace said, enunciating certain words as he held his phone, the camera pointed towards his friend.
seemingly, some words got through to your dear friend, as deuce shot his head up, hair already in dismay as he frantically looked around the room, “no way! i can’t afford to fail, then i really won’t be an honors student!” he panicked, grabbing the nearest book, frantically skimming through it.
“hey, loosey-deucy~” ace called out, “look over here!”
before deuce could even react, a flash of light blinded him, his eyes wide as he had yet to register what was going on.
“pfft—” grim laughed, covering his mouth with his paw. “deuce, you idiot!”
you sighed, shaking your head. one of your hands reached your temple, rubbing small circles at your friends. you looked around, at least hoping someone was taking this a little more seriously, but you couldn’t help but start laughing alongside everyone. hell, if sebek and jack were stifling laughs, that just told you it was funny.
“awe man, i’m gonna bust a gut!” ace hollered, holding his phone away as he rapidly started tapping his screen, trying to keep it away from his now angered friend. deuce angrily gritted, getting up to go after ace, but ortho came and held him back.
seven phone notifications went off at the same time in the living room as ace happily tossed his phone to the side. his bubble of happiness soon popped as deuce finally got past ortho and was shaking ace by his collar. of course, ortho recorded that. you looked down at the notification you got on your phone, it was from magicam:
ace_trappola_ tagged you in a story.
before you could open the notification, epel elbowed your arm, tears in his eyes from his laughter as he showed you the post:
(please click, it’s a video)
eventually, everyone settled down — kinda. at least there were no more casualties in the form of spoons (for now). as per usual, sebek and jack called it earlier than the rest of you, sebek sitting up every few minutes to lowly, “SHH. CEASE YOUR CHATTER!” which got him a pillowfull from jack the last time around.
everyone finally settled for bed, everyone was accounted for, except for one sneaky heartslabyul first-year that probably went to the bathroom. the living room was dark, except for the moonlight filtering in through the window. nights like these really made being transported to twisted wonderland worth it…
except there was a small led light that turned on, you flipped to the side to see epel on his phone, “you okay, epel…?”
“oh! yeah, everything’s good. i’m just makin’ sure vil doesn’t know how late i‘m stayn’ up. he’ll really have my head,” epel said quietly, locking his screen, giving you a quiet goodnight.
right before you drifted off to sleep, you felt your phone vibrate. you grabbed it from underneath your pillow and dismissed the spam email. however, you noticed you had missed a notification from magicam, when did that come in…?
nrc.confessionz started following you.
previous: promo post <- masterlist -> next: ii. enter ‘SCARABIA STUDENT B HATERS ‼️’
taglist (open!): @yyuangss @shikiyomizu
note: i’m ngl ive had that smau post of deuce done for a week and i giggle everytime i watch it again i hope you guys find it funny :( first twst writing WOOO im so hype.
check out the promo post to see how you can be involved in the story!
Hello!! I absolutely adore your 141 platonic fics, I litterlay giggle and kick my feet when you post new storys about it. Especially since they're always gender neutral! Litteraly always check to see if youve posted a new fic, but anways!
I'm a really big sucker for found family mental health fics, especially when I'm experiencing rough times. If your comfortable with it, I was wondering if you could make the 141 catch Reader self harming or maybe just seeing the self harm on their arms accidentally and comforting them. Always love a comforting found family fic on cold nights.
If it's easier, I really love really any of your hurt/comfort type 141 fics with all my soul and eat them up anytime you post them. Especially since there isnt much gn!reader and TF 141 platonic hurt/comfort fics. So if you aren't busy than that's another option I would love to see!!
If your uncomfortable with it then that's fine and you can just ignore this post! Make sure to take care if youself aswell author. You're absolutely amazing! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
self-slaughter — python333
— — — —
synopsis reader is a medic and is caught harming themselves by the 141 in the medbay!
relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader
characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.
word count 6.6k
warnings self-harm [specifically using a scalpel], self-harm scars, dark thoughts [nothing too bad, but thoughts of pulling off your skin and harming yourself], painful wound cleaning [with iodopovidone], 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].
note hello anon!! i too am a big sucker for found family mental health fics, and completely understand this request, and i will happily write it for you!! a lot of this is based on my own experiences with this, so i hope that's okay and that you enjoy the fic!! as well as this request, i'll use this fic as an excuse to write a few prompts on my bad things happen bingo card, which will be displayed at the end of the fic! the prompt used will be: painful wound cleaning! expect wayyyy more angst after this LMAO. also, if this feels like glorification or anything else inappropriate for a fic like this, then please let me know! since it's mainly based on my own experiences, i assume it wouldn't feel *too* much like that, but still!
It gets kind of old after so long of doing it.
Almost like it’s a chore—as if stealing glances at your medical equipment, tools meant to save the lives of others, and wishing that it were being used to draw blood from your body was just an inconvenience. You complain about it in your head like you used to about school, like it was nothing more than some homework that was due a minute before midnight.
Right now, you’re alone in the medical bay. It wasn’t often that you were, typically two bumbling idiots would stumble in every few minutes talking about how they got injured while sparring, but for the past thirty minutes it’s been silent. While you appreciated the break from the constant explanations of why the soldiers you were to tend to had gotten injured, with the silence came very unwanted thoughts.
And with nobody to focus on came your unwilling lingering stare at the sharp scalpel on the small metal equipment cart that was just a few feet away from where you sat. It didn’t help that you felt oddly guilty today, either.
Well, the guilt wasn’t odd. You knew where it came from. It just felt odd, considering the cause for it happened a week ago.
The cause had been on a critical mission last week, where you were responsible for carrying medical supplies and ensuring the team’s well-being and general health. The medical equipment wasn’t particularly expensive or hard to get, but it was still incredibly important.
However, on that same mission, right towards the end of it, you’d been caught in the midst of an intense gunfight. Distracted by the heavy enemy fire, you dropped the small bag you’d been using to carry the medical supplies, and hadn’t noticed you did until it was too late. By the time you and the others were out and heading back to base, you had just realized you left behind the medical equipment.
All week, your fellow task force members had reassured you that it was okay and that it wasn’t that big of a deal, considering nobody got hurt. Still, even a week later, you’re hung up on it. Had someone gotten injured, what could you have done? You didn’t have any supplies to help them, so what would you have done then? Just the thought of that possibility makes you shudder.
The scalpel looks so tempting.
It’s not like you hadn’t used it before—you have the scars to prove you had, ranging from small lines that could be mistaken for cat scratches to tiger-stripe length cuts that make your thighs look as though they’d been mauled by a large animal. As elegantly as you describe them in your head, the visuals of them aren’t nearly as pretty. With the help of that scalpel, a few sharp needles, and some medical scissors, you’d successfully made it look as though a bear had tried to attack you and tear your legs off.
Ironic, isn’t it? A medic harming themselves?
Your job is to literally save the lives of others, and here you are, staring at the closest thing you have to a knife in the medbay. It’s become as easy as blinking for you—which is scary, honestly, the way you’ve developed a tolerance for cutting yourself and stapling your skin back together if you’ve cut too long or deep.
It’s no longer enough to just scrape something sharp across your skin and watch blood bubble up from the broken seams of your flesh, no, now you have to cut even deeper to actually feel anything. You have to feel the scalpel being buried to the hilt in your flesh, and you have to see the way blood spurts out of the self-inflicted wound after you pull out the tool.
You continue to stare at the scalpel, sure that you look like you’re in some sort of trance right now.
It looks so tempting. You can remember the last time you used it—three days ago, the longest you’d gone without it in a while. Similar to cigarette-addicts, you often tell yourself that you’re able to stop whenever you’d like—that you’re able to quit at any time. It’s a lie, and you know it, but you still like to pretend that it’s true.
You’re still staring at the scalpel.
Its sharpened edge reflects the overhead light, creating a bright glow that strains your eyes when you stare at it for too long. The metal of the handle is worn down from use, even though it’d only been in the medbay for maybe a few months—something nobody had questioned yet, thankfully. The clean blade, replaced just yesterday, had no traces of filth or grime on it, making it even more tempting.
You blink. You hadn’t noticed the burning of your eyes until you forced them away from the small knife.
You move your gaze to your lap, where you fiddle with your fingers, gently tugging at a hangnail that’s been lingering on your thumb for the past few minutes. As you pull on it, you feel the sting that it brings, though that sting now feels dull compared to the other things you’ve done to yourself.
It almost feels like a small pinch compared to the ways you’ve mutilated your thighs on certain nights that didn’t allow you the energy to do anything else, or the ways you’ve carved apologies in the forms of lines into your arms to try and gain forgiveness for your thoughts and temptations.
You pull the hangnail off completely and watch the miniscule droplets of blood bleed through your flesh and meet your skin and nail. Before you only had the energy to do your job and harm yourself, you would’ve hissed at the sting pulling off the small bit of skin caused you and grabbed a bandaid immediately, but now, all you can think about is how it isn’t enough.
About how much better you’d feel if you pulled all your skin off. If you could feel every inch of your skin stretched to its limits and torn off of your body, because God knows you deserve it.
The thought makes you wince. That is… disgusting. Why am I thinking about that? You shake your head in hopes that it would shake away the dark thought, but instead the action makes it rattle inside your brain and break off into tiny bits in pieces, small unwanted thoughts of wounding your flesh rolling around your mind.
Similarly to Sisyphus and his boulder, you try to push those thoughts out of your mind, your hands starting to curl into tight fists, but you just can’t. Every time you push a thought back, it comes rolling back to the forefront of your mind, the momentum it gets from being pushed back so far only to get rocketed forwards making it even more unbearable to think about.
The fists your hands have formed become tighter.
Each thought that gets pushed back only jumps forwards once again, ricocheting around your brain, the effort of trying to ignore them making your ears ring.
Before you realize it, your gaze snaps back to the scalpel.
You don’t even notice the blood that begins to spill from your palms from how deeply your nails cut into your skin.
Every thought tries to be louder than the other, creating an unholy cacophony of sound; a terrifying harmony that only grew louder every second that passed. You stare at the scalpel. It continues to reflect the bright gleam of the overhead light, and it continues to make your eyes strain the more you look at it, but you can’t find it in yourself to be all that bothered about the eyestrain.
You unclench your fists and stand up, walking the short distance over to the metal medical cart where the scalpel lays, and you grab the handle of it with shaky hands. You look over at the door for a moment, and stay there for another few seconds.
Once you see that nobody’s coming in, you rush yourself to one of the beds, sliding open the curtains in front of it and sliding them back so that they’ll obscure anyone else’s view of you using the scalpel on yourself.
You sit on the bed and although the scalpel almost slips out of your hand because of the blood from your palms, you manage to keep held in your tight fist, holding it like you would a pencil; tucked under the base of your thumb, and going through the gap between your index and middle finger.
With your hands still trembling and your breath uneven, as well as a bustling mind that only grew louder as the scalpel in your hand grew closer to the skin of your forearm, you made the first incision. Almost immediately, your mind quieted, and your headache dimmed.
Quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of a clear head, you lift the scalpel from your skin, not waiting to watch the blood bubble up from your open wound like you usually would, instead opting to make another incision right next to it.
Being a medic, there was nothing you could really do to stop yourself from thinking about how deep each incision was, and how deep you were cutting into your flesh—so while you cut yourself, a train of thought begun.
Half an inch deep, You push the scalpel deeper, Now a full inch. Should take a month or two to fully heal. Wouldn’t scar.
The thought of it not scarring should make you happy, or at least, neutral, but instead the thought makes you frown. Some odd hunger that comes from the indefinite pit in your stomach craves evidence for the malice you’ve shown towards your own skin, something that would prove your self-hatred.
So, you go another half inch deeper. Scarring would be possible, but not as high of a chance as if you went another half inch. With that thought, you go the last half inch. There we go.
You slide the scalpel blade through your flesh, the blade cutting through it like it would a firm fruit like a pear. It’s easier to cut through skin when the skin is pulled taut, You think, If only I had an extra hand.
You pull out the blade and repeat. You feel less guilty already.
All that worry about fucking up during your last assignment washes away, like the wave of guilt that overcame you earlier receded and pulled back that worry with it, lowering the tide of shame and self-reproach within you. In fact, the tide lowers so much that it almost completely disappears from your mind—like it never existed in the first place.
Reminds me of a tsunami, You repeat your actions with the scalpel, When the tides get low, so low that the ocean floor shows and you could walk where you’d originally have to swim, it’s because a tsunami is building up.
You look down at your work. Your forearm is a bloody mess, crimson red dripping down to your fingers and threatening to drop onto the stark white sheets of the bed you’re sitting on. You sigh tiredly and get up from the bed, putting the end of the scalpel’s handle into your mouth—ignoring the voice in the back of your head that reprimands you for not thinking about bacteria or contamination—and biting down to hold it whilst you slide the curtains in front of the bed to the side, walking out of the small resting area.
You grab the scalpel and set it onto the metal medical cart by your desk, grabbing the gauze on that same cart, opening the small box it’s kept in with your non-bloody hand. It’s a struggle, but you manage it open, and you shake the roll of gauze out onto the cart.
In the middle of you attempting to pull the end of the gauze off of the roll so that you could begin to wrap it around the red lines decorating your forearm, you hear loud footsteps walking near the medbay. You freeze in place, the gauze roll in one hand, your eyes burning holes through the door with how intensely you stare at it.
There’s a knock. Then another.
The door handle twists.
You stare at the door, and everything feels like it’s in slow motion for a second.
The door opens.
“Hey, dae ye hae any—” Soap walks in, the sergeant taking one look at you before cutting himself off with a confused and immediately worried, “Holy shit, whit happened tae yer arm? Are ye alright?”
He rushes over to you and takes your bleeding forearm into his hand. You almost immediately rip it away from his grip.
“Nothing! Everything’s fine! Just an accident,” You lie, holding the blood-covered forearm close to your chest, “I was just about to clean it up.”
“Dae ye need help wrappin’ it, an cleanin’ it up, or anything?” Soap asks, eyebrows furrowed and his expression beyond worried.
“Nope,” You insist, “It’s fine. All good here.”
“... Ye sure?”
“Uh huh,” You nod your head, “All good. Don’t worry about it.”
“‘kay then,” Soap tilts his head and crosses his arms, “Whit happened?”
“Just a little accident with some of the equipment,” You nod down to the bloody scalpel on the medical cart, “That’s all.”
It must be obvious you’re lying, because Soap sighs and says, “I think we baith ken that that’s a lie.”
You stay silent for a few moments, before Soap speaks up again, “Ye ken if ye dinnae tell me, I’ll jist jump tae conclusions, richt?”
You take a deep breath before mumbling something under your breath. When Soap’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, you repeat louder, “I used the scalpel. On myself.”
“Ye whit?”
“I used the scalpel on myself,” You look away, and rush out, “and I’m really sorry, I just couldn’t help it, it’s not like— like a normal thing or anything, it’s just this once, I swear, and— and—”
“[c/n], calm down,” Soap quickly uncrosses his arms and sets both hands onto your shoulders, furrowed eyebrows now taking a more concerned shape, “It’s okay.”
You take a deep breath and look at him, looking at his nose instead of his eyes because you don’t think you could handle eye contact right now, “I’m really sorry.”
“Why would ye dae that tae yerself?” Soap asks, voice soft and almost pitying, which makes you want to curl up and die.
You shrug, not wanting to answer verbally.
“Dae ye— dae the others ken?” Soap questions.
“No.”
“I’m—” Soap looks conflicted for a moment, “I hae an assignment… I’ll get Gaz tae help ye, aye? An’ I’ll check in wi’ ye as soon as possible?”
You hesitate, but end up nodding in agreement, thankful that Soap offered to get Gaz rather than one of the others. The others seemed so oddly scary right now that you don’t even want to think about how they’d react to this whole situation. It’s all gone by so fast—one moment you were sitting on a hospital bed, the next you’re found out by Soap of all people—you’ve barely had time to think about the others.
“Okay. Okay, okay,” Soap repeats the word under his breath like a mantra, thinking to himself for a second before sighing and looking down at you again, “Jesus, fuck, okay. I’ll go get him, ye stay here, aye?”
You nod again, this time your vision begins to get more blurred.
“Ye’re gonnae be okay, okay?” Soap tries to reassure you. You nod once again, sniffling a little bit, making Soap’s gaze soften.
He takes his hands off of your shoulders and gives you one last sad look before turning around and rushing out of the medbay, his thundering footsteps growing quieter as he gets closer to Gaz’s location—most likely his sleeping quarters.
You wait a moment and when you hear no footsteps, your gaze goes back to the blade. It’s not like it’ll hurt to do a few more. I’ll stop when the others arrive.
You grab the handle of the blade, and as quickly as you can, akin to an addict scrambling for substance, you slice through the skin of your non-mutilated hand. You make several quick and deep gashes before dropping the scalpel onto the medical cart again, breathing heavy, the cuts this time actually hurting. It felt like fire was running rampant through your nerves, all stemming from the self-induced wounds, and you winced at the new pain. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, but still.
When you hear footsteps again, you can tell they aren’t Soap’s.
The door clicks open and in walks Gaz, already looking very worried—presumably from what Soap told him about your… situation—with another person in tow. Right behind him, Price walks in, expression neutral so far.
Gaz looks over at you, his eyes widening as he sees the bloody gashes in your forearms. Without a second thought, he rushes over to you, his hand reaching for your forearm. Before you can stop him, he grabs your bloody forearm and pulls it up a bit so that he can look at it closer. You flinch, and Price quickly walks over to you two before Gaz can even utter a single word.
“Let’s not, okay?” Price’s version of ‘knock it off’, “I’m here, I’ll take care of their… thing. You hand me what I tell you to. Understood?”
“Yup— Yes, sir. Captain,” Gaz corrects himself quickly, making a slip-up that in any other situation would’ve made you at least chuckle, but all you can do now is stare at the pair as you hold your bloody arms to your chest.
Price looks back over to you and nods over to one of the many empty curtain-surrounded beds and says, “Go sit over there and wait for a few seconds.”
You nod, not knowing what else to do or say, and immediately walk over there. It’s the room furthermost to the right, the one that’s also the closest to the door and the one you’d coincidentally gone into to cut yourself.
You slide the curtains to the side and sit down on the white bed, and just a few seconds later, just as Price said, he walked in as well. He sat next to you, Gaz in tow, the latter carrying a jar of cotton pads and balls as well as a bottle of Betadine.
Betadine—or iodopovidone, whichever name you preferred—was a sort of antiseptic that was generally used for cleaning cuts and wounds. Maybe not ones as deep as yours, but it would still work just as well.
Despite it not being alcohol-based, or really having any alcohol in it, it still hurts the same as rubbing alcohol would, which you were… definitely not looking forward to.
“Sergeant,” Price takes the jar and bottle of Betadine from Gaz, “Go and grab the skin stapler for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Gaz nods, walking out of the room once again. Price sets the jar and bottle of Betadine onto the bed beside himself after he leaves.
With you and Price now in the room alone, he turns to you and holds out his hand with his palm faced up for your arm silently. You carefully put your forearm onto his hand, watching as he gently pulls it closer to him, looking a bit closer at it before sighing through his nose and using his free hand to open the jar of cotton pads.
“How did this happen?” He asks, breaking the silence.
“Soap didn’t fill you in?”
“No.”
You think about what to tell him for a moment. What’s too straightforward? What’s too vague? How do I not overstep? How do I not sound like I just want attention?
Eventually, you settle on, “I was— … I saw the uh… scalpel, and I just… decided to use it a little bit. On myself.” Definitely not the best you can do, but what else could you say? ‘Oh, I cut myself with a scalpel because I felt guilty and if I didn’t I probably would’ve had a panic attack or a mental breakdown’?
“…” Price pauses for a moment, eyes twitching for a split second before he continues his movements to grab a cotton pad and questions you, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You know what I’m asking, [c/n].”
He’s asking why you did it. There’s not one simple answer you could give him—sure, you could tell him that you felt guilty and it was a bad habit that you’ve told yourself you could stop but never tried to, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.
You can’t fully express or dictate why you do it, you just do. It’s like when you cut slits into bread before baking it. Without those slits, the bread would crack and split at the seams on its own, but with them, the splitting and expanding of the dough is controlled.
Except, with you, it’s like you’re cutting yourself before the tension building inside of you makes you burst at the seams. Taking a blade to your skin has given you a sense of control—maybe that’s why it’s so addicting, You think, it’s the only way I’ve been able to control my feelings.
But you can’t just say all of that. Well, you could, but did you want to? Fuck no.
Instead, you opt for shrugging, which doesn’t satisfy Price one bit.
“I could see you thinking about it,” He sighs, “I know you at least have some sort of real answer.”
Well, fuck. “It’s a long answer.”
“I never said it couldn’t be.”
He doesn’t move to grab the Betadine at all, instead waiting for you to talk.
You purse your lips and think for another moment before finally talking again, “I was feeling really guilty and tense, and I guess it just got too much, so I just kind of… had to. Like I felt like I was gonna fuckin’… I dunno, have a nervous breakdown or something. And honestly, it’s a really stupid reason, because the thing that I’m feeling guilty about happened like a week ago, but still—I’ve been feeling really guilty about it. It—It’s not like I can’t stop, if I tried I could, I swe—swear, and I just— it’s been really easy to just— you know? I— honestly, it’s not that big of a deal—”
“Hey, hey—” Price brings a hand to your shoulder and softens his voice, “It’s okay. I understand.”
“I ju—st… I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, quickly bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, “You’re okay. You don’t have to say sorry.”
“But I—”
“Shh.” You hadn’t even noticed how frantic your breathing had gotten during your small word vomit. And to just make things worse, there’d been tears gathering at your water line, well on their way to spilling over and creating tear tracks down your cheeks.
You can’t help but let go of all the tension in your shoulders the moment Price starts gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. The moment he does that, it’s practically game over for you.
Those tears spill out from the corners of your eyes and you can already feel your next breath get caught in your throat, leaving you to just let Price gently guide your head to lean forwards against his chest, letting out small hiccups and trying desperately to hold back the sobs you want to let out.
It all happened so fast, you don’t even know how you got here. One moment you were doing a good job of somewhat keeping your guard up, the next your resolve was crumbled completely by the gentle and oddly caring touch of Price’s hand.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, then someone walks in while you’re burying your head further into Price’s chest—Ghost. You can tell it’s him by the way he walks. He has long strides, he never drags his feet, and the moment he slides the curtains to the side to see you, his footsteps stop. They start up again a moment later, and he sits by your side, opposite of where Price is sitting—to your right instead of your left.
Gaz must’ve let him in while he was looking for the stapler, You think, sniffling against Price’s chest. Normally, you would’ve felt some sort of shame by now, but given the current situation, you didn’t find much room to give a shit.
You feel Price’s head move up slightly, and judging by the way he occasionally nods and sometimes moves his hands a bit, you can only assume that he’s having some sort of nonverbal conversation with Ghost right now. This conversation goes on for about a few minutes longer before you’ve managed to control your breathing a bit more.
Price can tell, and he asks just for confirmation, “Is it alright if I clean your cuts now?”
You nod and sniffle once before taking your head off of Price’s chest, looking down at your lap, simply holding out one of your blood-crusted arms to him. You can see Ghost stiffen up behind you almost immediately at the sight of it.
Price grabs a cotton pad from the jar he was handed earlier, as well as the bottle of iodopovidone, and soaks the cotton pad with said iodopovidone. Once it’s soaked with the antiseptic solution, he hesitates before pressing it to your bloody arms.
Almost immediately, you inhale a sharp breath and feel tears stinging your eyes again.
“It’s okay,” Price tries to calm you down, seeing the tears forming in your eyes again, “You’re okay.”
You sniffle and shift on the bed, trying to blink away tears that threaten to spill over your water line. Ghost, sitting by your side, puts a gloved hand over your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder. His eyes twitch as you bite the inside of your cheek to muffle another sob while Price presses another Betadine-infused cotton pad to your self-induced wounds, and although you can barely see him, out of the corner of your eye, you still catch the glint of new tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he watches you.
Gaz slips back through the curtains in front of the bed, this time with Soap in tow, and hands a skin stapler to Price. Seeing the skin stapler, something you used fairly often—often enough that the others knew how it worked and how to use it—automatically made your stomach turn.
“Told ye I’d come back for ye,” Soap murmurs, kneeling down to get about eye-level with you. You huff out the smallest laugh at his words and he gives you a small smile that makes you want to go lock yourself in a room with a scalpel and repeat what you’d done earlier all over again, his empathetic expression paining you more than taking a blade to your arm.
As a matter of fact, the expressions that you wish were pity coming from everyone around you hurts more than anything you could’ve ever done to yourself. Their concern was so unexpected—not that you don’t think they care, but you never thought they cared this much. You didn’t think that, if caught in the act, you would receive empathetic looks and solemn smiles, rather thinking that you would receive reprimanding. That you’d be punished for punishing yourself.
Price thanks Gaz silently with the curt nod of his head before turning back to you with a solemn expression that in all honesty makes you more guilty and disappointed with yourself than before. He holds the skin stapler like he would a hot glue gun, looking down at the open wounds in front of him, and holds your forearm closer to him so he can see the edges of the cuts better.
"Keep your arm like that," He murmurs, to which you respond with a nod and stiffening your arm so that it stays in the air where Price positioned it. He uses his now free hand to gently pull the edges of the cut you'd made closer together, aligning them the best he can before pressing the metal staple dispenser to the cut and pushing down on the trigger, stapling the two edges together with a click.
He holds it down for an extra second before releasing and pulling the stapler away from your skin, and although the process only took around three seconds, you'd never get used to the feeling of getting your skin stapled. You make a small, pained noise that has Soap wincing as well--as though he can feel it too--and Price looking more solemn than earlier.
“Finished with this one,” Price mutters as you swallow down another sob, holding his calloused-but-soft hand out for you to put your other forearm in. You do just that, nearly breaking into a fit of new sobs at the small ‘thank you’ Price utters.
You watch Price soak another cotton pad with iodopovidone with his free hand and suck in a deep breath as he presses it to your forearm, the originally white cotton pad almost immediately going red. Tears spill over your waterline and roll down your cheeks as he continues to clean and disinfect your wounds, and before you can move your free hand to wipe them away, Ghost does so for you, his rough gloved hand swiping below your eyes quickly.
You mumble a small 'thank you' that's barely even audible, sniffling as you can’t help but lean forward the tiniest bit into Ghost’s hand as it lingers on your cheek. He pauses, keeping it there for a second, before bringing that same hand up to the crown of your head and pushing gently on it to urge you to lean your head back. You do so, the back of your head quickly making contact with his Adam’s apple and the top of your head becoming tucked underneath his chin.
His hand goes back down to your shoulder and continues its ministrations of rubbing small circles into said shoulder, bringing you intermittent moments of comfort throughout the painful wound cleaning you had to endure.
Soap keeps a comforting hand on your knee as he’s kneeled down in front of you, his thumb occasionally copying Ghost’s, but otherwise remaining still on your knee, careful not to force you through too many different sensations at once.
Gaz watches you from by the curtain, seeming not to do and looking completely lost. He stands there for another moment, watching the others, seeing what they’re doing for a second, before giving Ghost a ‘one moment’ signal by holding up his index finger and stepping out of the curtain-surrounded area.
Right after he does, another painful sting shoots up your nerves from your forearm, and you make the mistake of looking down at it.
Wounds that only fifteen minutes ago had brought you to a calmer state of mind and were nothing more than incisions made by the scalpel you’d used to cut other people for entirely different reasons now almost hurt to look at. Once you could’ve compared them to marks left by wild animals, and you could’ve described them as though they were trophies, but now, as you stare down at them being cleaned by your own captain, they look nothing like the sort.
They don’t look like any of the pretty descriptions you’d given them. They don’t look like cat scratches you’d gotten in an accident, or like something you would get out of a fight with a bear—they don’t make you look strong and brave like you thought they did.
They look like tally marks. Sanguineous, gruesome tally marks, made by you, like you’d been counting down the days—or seconds, minutes, hours—until you’d had enough. Until you’d had enough of just carving your skin with medical equipment, and needed something more. Craved something more.
Price must notice you staring down at the wounds, because he pauses in his movements to clean them for a moment, the sudden stopping of the stinging sensation the iodopovidone-soaked cotton making you shiver. You look up at him, and see him already looking down at you, concerned.
“You’re thinking about something,” He points out softly, “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
You hesitate and look back down at your arm that Price had stopped cleaning, before mumbling, “Just thinking about how these are gonna scar.” It’s not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth either.
Price tilts his head to the side a bit, questioningly, “Do you know how they’re gonna scar?”
“Well, when you work in the medical field for a bit, it gets easier to tell.”
You can tell he wants to ask how they’re gonna scar, so you decide to just say, “They’re all about one-and-a-half to two inches deep, so they’ll heal fully and then scar in a few months. Once they do, they’ll be visible, but not too prominent. The scarring tissue will stick above the skin a little bit, and it’ll make it look a little bit puffy.”
“Alright,” Price hums, tone neutral, “So they’ll be… visible.”
He sounds disgusted, A voice in the forefront of your mind insists, while one from the back of your mind tries to tell you, You have no way of knowing that, just see where the conversation goes. He has no reason to be disgusted with you.
“Yeah.”
“Okay then,” Price sets the cotton pad down and grabs the skin stapler he’d been using earlier, “And it’ll take a few months to heal, you said?”
“Several months, yeah.” Price considers this for a moment, pausing in his movements to hold the stapler to your skin.
“Do you think you’ll need any help re-wrapping the bandages while they heal?” He inquires, resuming his movements after asking the question.
“…” You think for a moment, Will you?, and after a few seconds, hesitantly, you reply, “… Yeah.”
“M’kay,” Price hums softly, neutrally. “And would you want me to be the one who does it?”
You think for another few minutes. Preferably, you’d be doing them yourself, but you didn’t trust yourself enough for that—so getting one of them to do it for you is your next best option. You wouldn’t mind if it was Price doing it, but at the same time, you wouldn’t mind if Ghost, Gaz, or Soap did it either.
“It doesn’t matter,” You settle on, before tacking on, “As long as it’s one of you four.”
“Us ‘four’ being… ?”
“You, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz.”
“Got it,” Price nods. You see Soap smile softly out of the corner of your eye before he quickly stops, trying to purse his lips into a line. He’s probably thinking that he shouldn’t be happy about that, You think, almost amused. You feel Ghost’s thumb stutter on your shoulder as well, before it starts back up normally.
Your words affect them more than you thought they would.
Breaking your train of thought, Price staples your skin with a muted click, making you wince.
It’s silent for a few more moments before Gaz finally comes back, now out of breath and carrying a bar of chocolate. He hands you the chocolate bar and says, panting, “I almost had to spar someone for that. Why do you have to like the chocolate one of the other fuckin’ Lieutenants do?”
You take the chocolate bar with your free hand gingerly and blink at it for a few moments before setting it down next to you.
“Nobody told you to get it,” You shrug, before tacking on, “Thank you, though.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, totally, hey so uh—” He looks at Soap and jabs his thumb towards where the door would be behind the curtains, “We’re both needed somewhere else. Again. They said they forgot something… again.”
“Worst fucking timing ever,” Soap grumbles, before clearing his throat and standing up, looking down at you, “Right, I’ll check in on ye later, and help ye wi’ anything ye need me tae, aye? I’ll come wi’ mair chocolate than Gaz did, ‘cause I’m better than him.”
“Got it,” You smile up at him, making him grin back and pat you on the shoulder Ghost’s hand isn’t occupying, before heading out with Gaz.
Then, you’re left with Ghost and Price.
“I should get going too,” Ghost mutters, slowly taking his hand off of your shoulder and gently pushing your head back off of his chest, almost regrettably.
“M’kay,” You watch as he gets up and hesitates, looking like he’s about to give you a hug, before he decides to instead give you a simple head nod and head out the same way the two other operators did.
And then, it was just you and Price.
It’s silent for a bit, until Price speaks up.
“You think a lot,” Price comments, finishing up the last staple.
“Does that surprise you?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
You pause for a moment before sighing through your nose, “It’s nothing. Just the same stuff I was thinking about before.”
“Wanna give me some more detail than that?”
“Not really, no,” You admit, letting your hand fall into your lap as Price lets go of it, “But I have a feeling you’re gonna want me to tell you.”
“I do.”
“It’s just something stupid, like earlier—”
“That wasn’t stupid, [c/n], that was you hurting.”
“I— I know. It’s just that this is actually stupid.”
“Well, tell me what it is, and I’ll be the judge of that.”
You think about how to phrase it in simple terms for a moment, before finally speaking, “I used to think that the scars sort of… symbolized how I was able to control myself and my emotions, and that made me feel…” You can’t think of any synonyms to make the simple words you want to say sound less childish, so you’re forced to say, “… brave. And strong. I just— I thought it showed that I was good at controlling my emotions and stuff, for some reason. But now I’m questioning all of that.”
“You’re very brave,” Price reassures you, and God, it sounds like he’s reassuring a child, “And you’re so strong. But this… this isn’t how you show that. This—cutting yourself—doesn’t make you either of those things. It doesn’t show that you’re either of those things. It shows that you need help.”
“But you just said that I was strong.”
“I did.”
“… Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”
“How would I be contradicting myself?” Price asks.
“You said that me— me… harming myself shows that I need help.”
“It does,” Price hums, and at your confused expression, he continues, “You needing help doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. Needing help and being strong aren’t connected like that.”
You open your mouth to argue but you close it, not knowing what to say. Price sees this and smiles knowingly, simply grabbing your hand to squeeze it once before getting up.
“I’ll check in on you later, okay? I need to get some stuff done, but as soon as I can, I’ll be back to keep you company. Or I’ll send someone else over—whichever you prefer.”
“M’kay,” You mumble, squeezing Price’s hand back before letting go. “You can do whatever. I don’t mind either one.”
“Sounds good.” Price pauses for a moment before leaning down and giving you a quick hug, and then beginning to slip past the curtains blocking any outsider's view of the bed you were sat on.
Before he can leave, you quickly say, "Thank you. For the wound-cleaning-thing."
He pauses at the curtain for a second, before smiling and replying, "You're welcome."
Hello!! I absolutely adore your 141 platonic fics, I litterlay giggle and kick my feet when you post new storys about it. Especially since they're always gender neutral! Litteraly always check to see if youve posted a new fic, but anways!
I'm a really big sucker for found family mental health fics, especially when I'm experiencing rough times. If your comfortable with it, I was wondering if you could make the 141 catch Reader self harming or maybe just seeing the self harm on their arms accidentally and comforting them. Always love a comforting found family fic on cold nights.
If it's easier, I really love really any of your hurt/comfort type 141 fics with all my soul and eat them up anytime you post them. Especially since there isnt much gn!reader and TF 141 platonic hurt/comfort fics. So if you aren't busy than that's another option I would love to see!!
If your uncomfortable with it then that's fine and you can just ignore this post! Make sure to take care if youself aswell author. You're absolutely amazing! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
self-slaughter — python333
— — — —
synopsis reader is a medic and is caught harming themselves by the 141 in the medbay!
relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader
characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.
word count 6.6k
warnings self-harm [specifically using a scalpel], self-harm scars, dark thoughts [nothing too bad, but thoughts of pulling off your skin and harming yourself], painful wound cleaning [with iodopovidone], 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].
note hello anon!! i too am a big sucker for found family mental health fics, and completely understand this request, and i will happily write it for you!! a lot of this is based on my own experiences with this, so i hope that's okay and that you enjoy the fic!! as well as this request, i'll use this fic as an excuse to write a few prompts on my bad things happen bingo card, which will be displayed at the end of the fic! the prompt used will be: painful wound cleaning! expect wayyyy more angst after this LMAO. also, if this feels like glorification or anything else inappropriate for a fic like this, then please let me know! since it's mainly based on my own experiences, i assume it wouldn't feel *too* much like that, but still!
It gets kind of old after so long of doing it.
Almost like it’s a chore—as if stealing glances at your medical equipment, tools meant to save the lives of others, and wishing that it were being used to draw blood from your body was just an inconvenience. You complain about it in your head like you used to about school, like it was nothing more than some homework that was due a minute before midnight.
Right now, you’re alone in the medical bay. It wasn’t often that you were, typically two bumbling idiots would stumble in every few minutes talking about how they got injured while sparring, but for the past thirty minutes it’s been silent. While you appreciated the break from the constant explanations of why the soldiers you were to tend to had gotten injured, with the silence came very unwanted thoughts.
And with nobody to focus on came your unwilling lingering stare at the sharp scalpel on the small metal equipment cart that was just a few feet away from where you sat. It didn’t help that you felt oddly guilty today, either.
Well, the guilt wasn’t odd. You knew where it came from. It just felt odd, considering the cause for it happened a week ago.
The cause had been on a critical mission last week, where you were responsible for carrying medical supplies and ensuring the team’s well-being and general health. The medical equipment wasn’t particularly expensive or hard to get, but it was still incredibly important.
However, on that same mission, right towards the end of it, you’d been caught in the midst of an intense gunfight. Distracted by the heavy enemy fire, you dropped the small bag you’d been using to carry the medical supplies, and hadn’t noticed you did until it was too late. By the time you and the others were out and heading back to base, you had just realized you left behind the medical equipment.
All week, your fellow task force members had reassured you that it was okay and that it wasn’t that big of a deal, considering nobody got hurt. Still, even a week later, you’re hung up on it. Had someone gotten injured, what could you have done? You didn’t have any supplies to help them, so what would you have done then? Just the thought of that possibility makes you shudder.
The scalpel looks so tempting.
It’s not like you hadn’t used it before—you have the scars to prove you had, ranging from small lines that could be mistaken for cat scratches to tiger-stripe length cuts that make your thighs look as though they’d been mauled by a large animal. As elegantly as you describe them in your head, the visuals of them aren’t nearly as pretty. With the help of that scalpel, a few sharp needles, and some medical scissors, you’d successfully made it look as though a bear had tried to attack you and tear your legs off.
Ironic, isn’t it? A medic harming themselves?
Your job is to literally save the lives of others, and here you are, staring at the closest thing you have to a knife in the medbay. It’s become as easy as blinking for you—which is scary, honestly, the way you’ve developed a tolerance for cutting yourself and stapling your skin back together if you’ve cut too long or deep.
It’s no longer enough to just scrape something sharp across your skin and watch blood bubble up from the broken seams of your flesh, no, now you have to cut even deeper to actually feel anything. You have to feel the scalpel being buried to the hilt in your flesh, and you have to see the way blood spurts out of the self-inflicted wound after you pull out the tool.
You continue to stare at the scalpel, sure that you look like you’re in some sort of trance right now.
It looks so tempting. You can remember the last time you used it—three days ago, the longest you’d gone without it in a while. Similar to cigarette-addicts, you often tell yourself that you’re able to stop whenever you’d like—that you’re able to quit at any time. It’s a lie, and you know it, but you still like to pretend that it’s true.
You’re still staring at the scalpel.
Its sharpened edge reflects the overhead light, creating a bright glow that strains your eyes when you stare at it for too long. The metal of the handle is worn down from use, even though it’d only been in the medbay for maybe a few months—something nobody had questioned yet, thankfully. The clean blade, replaced just yesterday, had no traces of filth or grime on it, making it even more tempting.
You blink. You hadn’t noticed the burning of your eyes until you forced them away from the small knife.
You move your gaze to your lap, where you fiddle with your fingers, gently tugging at a hangnail that’s been lingering on your thumb for the past few minutes. As you pull on it, you feel the sting that it brings, though that sting now feels dull compared to the other things you’ve done to yourself.
It almost feels like a small pinch compared to the ways you’ve mutilated your thighs on certain nights that didn’t allow you the energy to do anything else, or the ways you’ve carved apologies in the forms of lines into your arms to try and gain forgiveness for your thoughts and temptations.
You pull the hangnail off completely and watch the miniscule droplets of blood bleed through your flesh and meet your skin and nail. Before you only had the energy to do your job and harm yourself, you would’ve hissed at the sting pulling off the small bit of skin caused you and grabbed a bandaid immediately, but now, all you can think about is how it isn’t enough.
About how much better you’d feel if you pulled all your skin off. If you could feel every inch of your skin stretched to its limits and torn off of your body, because God knows you deserve it.
The thought makes you wince. That is… disgusting. Why am I thinking about that? You shake your head in hopes that it would shake away the dark thought, but instead the action makes it rattle inside your brain and break off into tiny bits in pieces, small unwanted thoughts of wounding your flesh rolling around your mind.
Similarly to Sisyphus and his boulder, you try to push those thoughts out of your mind, your hands starting to curl into tight fists, but you just can’t. Every time you push a thought back, it comes rolling back to the forefront of your mind, the momentum it gets from being pushed back so far only to get rocketed forwards making it even more unbearable to think about.
The fists your hands have formed become tighter.
Each thought that gets pushed back only jumps forwards once again, ricocheting around your brain, the effort of trying to ignore them making your ears ring.
Before you realize it, your gaze snaps back to the scalpel.
You don’t even notice the blood that begins to spill from your palms from how deeply your nails cut into your skin.
Every thought tries to be louder than the other, creating an unholy cacophony of sound; a terrifying harmony that only grew louder every second that passed. You stare at the scalpel. It continues to reflect the bright gleam of the overhead light, and it continues to make your eyes strain the more you look at it, but you can’t find it in yourself to be all that bothered about the eyestrain.
You unclench your fists and stand up, walking the short distance over to the metal medical cart where the scalpel lays, and you grab the handle of it with shaky hands. You look over at the door for a moment, and stay there for another few seconds.
Once you see that nobody’s coming in, you rush yourself to one of the beds, sliding open the curtains in front of it and sliding them back so that they’ll obscure anyone else’s view of you using the scalpel on yourself.
You sit on the bed and although the scalpel almost slips out of your hand because of the blood from your palms, you manage to keep held in your tight fist, holding it like you would a pencil; tucked under the base of your thumb, and going through the gap between your index and middle finger.
With your hands still trembling and your breath uneven, as well as a bustling mind that only grew louder as the scalpel in your hand grew closer to the skin of your forearm, you made the first incision. Almost immediately, your mind quieted, and your headache dimmed.
Quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of a clear head, you lift the scalpel from your skin, not waiting to watch the blood bubble up from your open wound like you usually would, instead opting to make another incision right next to it.
Being a medic, there was nothing you could really do to stop yourself from thinking about how deep each incision was, and how deep you were cutting into your flesh—so while you cut yourself, a train of thought begun.
Half an inch deep, You push the scalpel deeper, Now a full inch. Should take a month or two to fully heal. Wouldn’t scar.
The thought of it not scarring should make you happy, or at least, neutral, but instead the thought makes you frown. Some odd hunger that comes from the indefinite pit in your stomach craves evidence for the malice you’ve shown towards your own skin, something that would prove your self-hatred.
So, you go another half inch deeper. Scarring would be possible, but not as high of a chance as if you went another half inch. With that thought, you go the last half inch. There we go.
You slide the scalpel blade through your flesh, the blade cutting through it like it would a firm fruit like a pear. It’s easier to cut through skin when the skin is pulled taut, You think, If only I had an extra hand.
You pull out the blade and repeat. You feel less guilty already.
All that worry about fucking up during your last assignment washes away, like the wave of guilt that overcame you earlier receded and pulled back that worry with it, lowering the tide of shame and self-reproach within you. In fact, the tide lowers so much that it almost completely disappears from your mind—like it never existed in the first place.
Reminds me of a tsunami, You repeat your actions with the scalpel, When the tides get low, so low that the ocean floor shows and you could walk where you’d originally have to swim, it’s because a tsunami is building up.
You look down at your work. Your forearm is a bloody mess, crimson red dripping down to your fingers and threatening to drop onto the stark white sheets of the bed you’re sitting on. You sigh tiredly and get up from the bed, putting the end of the scalpel’s handle into your mouth—ignoring the voice in the back of your head that reprimands you for not thinking about bacteria or contamination—and biting down to hold it whilst you slide the curtains in front of the bed to the side, walking out of the small resting area.
You grab the scalpel and set it onto the metal medical cart by your desk, grabbing the gauze on that same cart, opening the small box it’s kept in with your non-bloody hand. It’s a struggle, but you manage it open, and you shake the roll of gauze out onto the cart.
In the middle of you attempting to pull the end of the gauze off of the roll so that you could begin to wrap it around the red lines decorating your forearm, you hear loud footsteps walking near the medbay. You freeze in place, the gauze roll in one hand, your eyes burning holes through the door with how intensely you stare at it.
There’s a knock. Then another.
The door handle twists.
You stare at the door, and everything feels like it’s in slow motion for a second.
The door opens.
“Hey, dae ye hae any—” Soap walks in, the sergeant taking one look at you before cutting himself off with a confused and immediately worried, “Holy shit, whit happened tae yer arm? Are ye alright?”
He rushes over to you and takes your bleeding forearm into his hand. You almost immediately rip it away from his grip.
“Nothing! Everything’s fine! Just an accident,” You lie, holding the blood-covered forearm close to your chest, “I was just about to clean it up.”
“Dae ye need help wrappin’ it, an cleanin’ it up, or anything?” Soap asks, eyebrows furrowed and his expression beyond worried.
“Nope,” You insist, “It’s fine. All good here.”
“... Ye sure?”
“Uh huh,” You nod your head, “All good. Don’t worry about it.”
“‘kay then,” Soap tilts his head and crosses his arms, “Whit happened?”
“Just a little accident with some of the equipment,” You nod down to the bloody scalpel on the medical cart, “That’s all.”
It must be obvious you’re lying, because Soap sighs and says, “I think we baith ken that that’s a lie.”
You stay silent for a few moments, before Soap speaks up again, “Ye ken if ye dinnae tell me, I’ll jist jump tae conclusions, richt?”
You take a deep breath before mumbling something under your breath. When Soap’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, you repeat louder, “I used the scalpel. On myself.”
“Ye whit?”
“I used the scalpel on myself,” You look away, and rush out, “and I’m really sorry, I just couldn’t help it, it’s not like— like a normal thing or anything, it’s just this once, I swear, and— and—”
“[c/n], calm down,” Soap quickly uncrosses his arms and sets both hands onto your shoulders, furrowed eyebrows now taking a more concerned shape, “It’s okay.”
You take a deep breath and look at him, looking at his nose instead of his eyes because you don’t think you could handle eye contact right now, “I’m really sorry.”
“Why would ye dae that tae yerself?” Soap asks, voice soft and almost pitying, which makes you want to curl up and die.
You shrug, not wanting to answer verbally.
“Dae ye— dae the others ken?” Soap questions.
“No.”
“I’m—” Soap looks conflicted for a moment, “I hae an assignment… I’ll get Gaz tae help ye, aye? An’ I’ll check in wi’ ye as soon as possible?”
You hesitate, but end up nodding in agreement, thankful that Soap offered to get Gaz rather than one of the others. The others seemed so oddly scary right now that you don’t even want to think about how they’d react to this whole situation. It’s all gone by so fast—one moment you were sitting on a hospital bed, the next you’re found out by Soap of all people—you’ve barely had time to think about the others.
“Okay. Okay, okay,” Soap repeats the word under his breath like a mantra, thinking to himself for a second before sighing and looking down at you again, “Jesus, fuck, okay. I’ll go get him, ye stay here, aye?”
You nod again, this time your vision begins to get more blurred.
“Ye’re gonnae be okay, okay?” Soap tries to reassure you. You nod once again, sniffling a little bit, making Soap’s gaze soften.
He takes his hands off of your shoulders and gives you one last sad look before turning around and rushing out of the medbay, his thundering footsteps growing quieter as he gets closer to Gaz’s location—most likely his sleeping quarters.
You wait a moment and when you hear no footsteps, your gaze goes back to the blade. It’s not like it’ll hurt to do a few more. I’ll stop when the others arrive.
You grab the handle of the blade, and as quickly as you can, akin to an addict scrambling for substance, you slice through the skin of your non-mutilated hand. You make several quick and deep gashes before dropping the scalpel onto the medical cart again, breathing heavy, the cuts this time actually hurting. It felt like fire was running rampant through your nerves, all stemming from the self-induced wounds, and you winced at the new pain. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, but still.
When you hear footsteps again, you can tell they aren’t Soap’s.
The door clicks open and in walks Gaz, already looking very worried—presumably from what Soap told him about your… situation—with another person in tow. Right behind him, Price walks in, expression neutral so far.
Gaz looks over at you, his eyes widening as he sees the bloody gashes in your forearms. Without a second thought, he rushes over to you, his hand reaching for your forearm. Before you can stop him, he grabs your bloody forearm and pulls it up a bit so that he can look at it closer. You flinch, and Price quickly walks over to you two before Gaz can even utter a single word.
“Let’s not, okay?” Price’s version of ‘knock it off’, “I’m here, I’ll take care of their… thing. You hand me what I tell you to. Understood?”
“Yup— Yes, sir. Captain,” Gaz corrects himself quickly, making a slip-up that in any other situation would’ve made you at least chuckle, but all you can do now is stare at the pair as you hold your bloody arms to your chest.
Price looks back over to you and nods over to one of the many empty curtain-surrounded beds and says, “Go sit over there and wait for a few seconds.”
You nod, not knowing what else to do or say, and immediately walk over there. It’s the room furthermost to the right, the one that’s also the closest to the door and the one you’d coincidentally gone into to cut yourself.
You slide the curtains to the side and sit down on the white bed, and just a few seconds later, just as Price said, he walked in as well. He sat next to you, Gaz in tow, the latter carrying a jar of cotton pads and balls as well as a bottle of Betadine.
Betadine—or iodopovidone, whichever name you preferred—was a sort of antiseptic that was generally used for cleaning cuts and wounds. Maybe not ones as deep as yours, but it would still work just as well.
Despite it not being alcohol-based, or really having any alcohol in it, it still hurts the same as rubbing alcohol would, which you were… definitely not looking forward to.
“Sergeant,” Price takes the jar and bottle of Betadine from Gaz, “Go and grab the skin stapler for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Gaz nods, walking out of the room once again. Price sets the jar and bottle of Betadine onto the bed beside himself after he leaves.
With you and Price now in the room alone, he turns to you and holds out his hand with his palm faced up for your arm silently. You carefully put your forearm onto his hand, watching as he gently pulls it closer to him, looking a bit closer at it before sighing through his nose and using his free hand to open the jar of cotton pads.
“How did this happen?” He asks, breaking the silence.
“Soap didn’t fill you in?”
“No.”
You think about what to tell him for a moment. What’s too straightforward? What’s too vague? How do I not overstep? How do I not sound like I just want attention?
Eventually, you settle on, “I was— … I saw the uh… scalpel, and I just… decided to use it a little bit. On myself.” Definitely not the best you can do, but what else could you say? ‘Oh, I cut myself with a scalpel because I felt guilty and if I didn’t I probably would’ve had a panic attack or a mental breakdown’?
“…” Price pauses for a moment, eyes twitching for a split second before he continues his movements to grab a cotton pad and questions you, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You know what I’m asking, [c/n].”
He’s asking why you did it. There’s not one simple answer you could give him—sure, you could tell him that you felt guilty and it was a bad habit that you’ve told yourself you could stop but never tried to, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.
You can’t fully express or dictate why you do it, you just do. It’s like when you cut slits into bread before baking it. Without those slits, the bread would crack and split at the seams on its own, but with them, the splitting and expanding of the dough is controlled.
Except, with you, it’s like you’re cutting yourself before the tension building inside of you makes you burst at the seams. Taking a blade to your skin has given you a sense of control—maybe that’s why it’s so addicting, You think, it’s the only way I’ve been able to control my feelings.
But you can’t just say all of that. Well, you could, but did you want to? Fuck no.
Instead, you opt for shrugging, which doesn’t satisfy Price one bit.
“I could see you thinking about it,” He sighs, “I know you at least have some sort of real answer.”
Well, fuck. “It’s a long answer.”
“I never said it couldn’t be.”
He doesn’t move to grab the Betadine at all, instead waiting for you to talk.
You purse your lips and think for another moment before finally talking again, “I was feeling really guilty and tense, and I guess it just got too much, so I just kind of… had to. Like I felt like I was gonna fuckin’… I dunno, have a nervous breakdown or something. And honestly, it’s a really stupid reason, because the thing that I’m feeling guilty about happened like a week ago, but still—I’ve been feeling really guilty about it. It—It’s not like I can’t stop, if I tried I could, I swe—swear, and I just— it’s been really easy to just— you know? I— honestly, it’s not that big of a deal—”
“Hey, hey—” Price brings a hand to your shoulder and softens his voice, “It’s okay. I understand.”
“I ju—st… I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, quickly bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, “You’re okay. You don’t have to say sorry.”
“But I—”
“Shh.” You hadn’t even noticed how frantic your breathing had gotten during your small word vomit. And to just make things worse, there’d been tears gathering at your water line, well on their way to spilling over and creating tear tracks down your cheeks.
You can’t help but let go of all the tension in your shoulders the moment Price starts gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. The moment he does that, it’s practically game over for you.
Those tears spill out from the corners of your eyes and you can already feel your next breath get caught in your throat, leaving you to just let Price gently guide your head to lean forwards against his chest, letting out small hiccups and trying desperately to hold back the sobs you want to let out.
It all happened so fast, you don’t even know how you got here. One moment you were doing a good job of somewhat keeping your guard up, the next your resolve was crumbled completely by the gentle and oddly caring touch of Price’s hand.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, then someone walks in while you’re burying your head further into Price’s chest—Ghost. You can tell it’s him by the way he walks. He has long strides, he never drags his feet, and the moment he slides the curtains to the side to see you, his footsteps stop. They start up again a moment later, and he sits by your side, opposite of where Price is sitting—to your right instead of your left.
Gaz must’ve let him in while he was looking for the stapler, You think, sniffling against Price’s chest. Normally, you would’ve felt some sort of shame by now, but given the current situation, you didn’t find much room to give a shit.
You feel Price’s head move up slightly, and judging by the way he occasionally nods and sometimes moves his hands a bit, you can only assume that he’s having some sort of nonverbal conversation with Ghost right now. This conversation goes on for about a few minutes longer before you’ve managed to control your breathing a bit more.
Price can tell, and he asks just for confirmation, “Is it alright if I clean your cuts now?”
You nod and sniffle once before taking your head off of Price’s chest, looking down at your lap, simply holding out one of your blood-crusted arms to him. You can see Ghost stiffen up behind you almost immediately at the sight of it.
Price grabs a cotton pad from the jar he was handed earlier, as well as the bottle of iodopovidone, and soaks the cotton pad with said iodopovidone. Once it’s soaked with the antiseptic solution, he hesitates before pressing it to your bloody arms.
Almost immediately, you inhale a sharp breath and feel tears stinging your eyes again.
“It’s okay,” Price tries to calm you down, seeing the tears forming in your eyes again, “You’re okay.”
You sniffle and shift on the bed, trying to blink away tears that threaten to spill over your water line. Ghost, sitting by your side, puts a gloved hand over your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder. His eyes twitch as you bite the inside of your cheek to muffle another sob while Price presses another Betadine-infused cotton pad to your self-induced wounds, and although you can barely see him, out of the corner of your eye, you still catch the glint of new tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he watches you.
Gaz slips back through the curtains in front of the bed, this time with Soap in tow, and hands a skin stapler to Price. Seeing the skin stapler, something you used fairly often—often enough that the others knew how it worked and how to use it—automatically made your stomach turn.
“Told ye I’d come back for ye,” Soap murmurs, kneeling down to get about eye-level with you. You huff out the smallest laugh at his words and he gives you a small smile that makes you want to go lock yourself in a room with a scalpel and repeat what you’d done earlier all over again, his empathetic expression paining you more than taking a blade to your arm.
As a matter of fact, the expressions that you wish were pity coming from everyone around you hurts more than anything you could’ve ever done to yourself. Their concern was so unexpected—not that you don’t think they care, but you never thought they cared this much. You didn’t think that, if caught in the act, you would receive empathetic looks and solemn smiles, rather thinking that you would receive reprimanding. That you’d be punished for punishing yourself.
Price thanks Gaz silently with the curt nod of his head before turning back to you with a solemn expression that in all honesty makes you more guilty and disappointed with yourself than before. He holds the skin stapler like he would a hot glue gun, looking down at the open wounds in front of him, and holds your forearm closer to him so he can see the edges of the cuts better.
"Keep your arm like that," He murmurs, to which you respond with a nod and stiffening your arm so that it stays in the air where Price positioned it. He uses his now free hand to gently pull the edges of the cut you'd made closer together, aligning them the best he can before pressing the metal staple dispenser to the cut and pushing down on the trigger, stapling the two edges together with a click.
He holds it down for an extra second before releasing and pulling the stapler away from your skin, and although the process only took around three seconds, you'd never get used to the feeling of getting your skin stapled. You make a small, pained noise that has Soap wincing as well--as though he can feel it too--and Price looking more solemn than earlier.
“Finished with this one,” Price mutters as you swallow down another sob, holding his calloused-but-soft hand out for you to put your other forearm in. You do just that, nearly breaking into a fit of new sobs at the small ‘thank you’ Price utters.
You watch Price soak another cotton pad with iodopovidone with his free hand and suck in a deep breath as he presses it to your forearm, the originally white cotton pad almost immediately going red. Tears spill over your waterline and roll down your cheeks as he continues to clean and disinfect your wounds, and before you can move your free hand to wipe them away, Ghost does so for you, his rough gloved hand swiping below your eyes quickly.
You mumble a small 'thank you' that's barely even audible, sniffling as you can’t help but lean forward the tiniest bit into Ghost’s hand as it lingers on your cheek. He pauses, keeping it there for a second, before bringing that same hand up to the crown of your head and pushing gently on it to urge you to lean your head back. You do so, the back of your head quickly making contact with his Adam’s apple and the top of your head becoming tucked underneath his chin.
His hand goes back down to your shoulder and continues its ministrations of rubbing small circles into said shoulder, bringing you intermittent moments of comfort throughout the painful wound cleaning you had to endure.
Soap keeps a comforting hand on your knee as he’s kneeled down in front of you, his thumb occasionally copying Ghost’s, but otherwise remaining still on your knee, careful not to force you through too many different sensations at once.
Gaz watches you from by the curtain, seeming not to do and looking completely lost. He stands there for another moment, watching the others, seeing what they’re doing for a second, before giving Ghost a ‘one moment’ signal by holding up his index finger and stepping out of the curtain-surrounded area.
Right after he does, another painful sting shoots up your nerves from your forearm, and you make the mistake of looking down at it.
Wounds that only fifteen minutes ago had brought you to a calmer state of mind and were nothing more than incisions made by the scalpel you’d used to cut other people for entirely different reasons now almost hurt to look at. Once you could’ve compared them to marks left by wild animals, and you could’ve described them as though they were trophies, but now, as you stare down at them being cleaned by your own captain, they look nothing like the sort.
They don’t look like any of the pretty descriptions you’d given them. They don’t look like cat scratches you’d gotten in an accident, or like something you would get out of a fight with a bear—they don’t make you look strong and brave like you thought they did.
They look like tally marks. Sanguineous, gruesome tally marks, made by you, like you’d been counting down the days—or seconds, minutes, hours—until you’d had enough. Until you’d had enough of just carving your skin with medical equipment, and needed something more. Craved something more.
Price must notice you staring down at the wounds, because he pauses in his movements to clean them for a moment, the sudden stopping of the stinging sensation the iodopovidone-soaked cotton making you shiver. You look up at him, and see him already looking down at you, concerned.
“You’re thinking about something,” He points out softly, “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
You hesitate and look back down at your arm that Price had stopped cleaning, before mumbling, “Just thinking about how these are gonna scar.” It’s not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth either.
Price tilts his head to the side a bit, questioningly, “Do you know how they’re gonna scar?”
“Well, when you work in the medical field for a bit, it gets easier to tell.”
You can tell he wants to ask how they’re gonna scar, so you decide to just say, “They’re all about one-and-a-half to two inches deep, so they’ll heal fully and then scar in a few months. Once they do, they’ll be visible, but not too prominent. The scarring tissue will stick above the skin a little bit, and it’ll make it look a little bit puffy.”
“Alright,” Price hums, tone neutral, “So they’ll be… visible.”
He sounds disgusted, A voice in the forefront of your mind insists, while one from the back of your mind tries to tell you, You have no way of knowing that, just see where the conversation goes. He has no reason to be disgusted with you.
“Yeah.”
“Okay then,” Price sets the cotton pad down and grabs the skin stapler he’d been using earlier, “And it’ll take a few months to heal, you said?”
“Several months, yeah.” Price considers this for a moment, pausing in his movements to hold the stapler to your skin.
“Do you think you’ll need any help re-wrapping the bandages while they heal?” He inquires, resuming his movements after asking the question.
“…” You think for a moment, Will you?, and after a few seconds, hesitantly, you reply, “… Yeah.”
“M’kay,” Price hums softly, neutrally. “And would you want me to be the one who does it?”
You think for another few minutes. Preferably, you’d be doing them yourself, but you didn’t trust yourself enough for that—so getting one of them to do it for you is your next best option. You wouldn’t mind if it was Price doing it, but at the same time, you wouldn’t mind if Ghost, Gaz, or Soap did it either.
“It doesn’t matter,” You settle on, before tacking on, “As long as it’s one of you four.”
“Us ‘four’ being… ?”
“You, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz.”
“Got it,” Price nods. You see Soap smile softly out of the corner of your eye before he quickly stops, trying to purse his lips into a line. He’s probably thinking that he shouldn’t be happy about that, You think, almost amused. You feel Ghost’s thumb stutter on your shoulder as well, before it starts back up normally.
Your words affect them more than you thought they would.
Breaking your train of thought, Price staples your skin with a muted click, making you wince.
It’s silent for a few more moments before Gaz finally comes back, now out of breath and carrying a bar of chocolate. He hands you the chocolate bar and says, panting, “I almost had to spar someone for that. Why do you have to like the chocolate one of the other fuckin’ Lieutenants do?”
You take the chocolate bar with your free hand gingerly and blink at it for a few moments before setting it down next to you.
“Nobody told you to get it,” You shrug, before tacking on, “Thank you, though.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, totally, hey so uh—” He looks at Soap and jabs his thumb towards where the door would be behind the curtains, “We’re both needed somewhere else. Again. They said they forgot something… again.”
“Worst fucking timing ever,” Soap grumbles, before clearing his throat and standing up, looking down at you, “Right, I’ll check in on ye later, and help ye wi’ anything ye need me tae, aye? I’ll come wi’ mair chocolate than Gaz did, ‘cause I’m better than him.”
“Got it,” You smile up at him, making him grin back and pat you on the shoulder Ghost’s hand isn’t occupying, before heading out with Gaz.
Then, you’re left with Ghost and Price.
“I should get going too,” Ghost mutters, slowly taking his hand off of your shoulder and gently pushing your head back off of his chest, almost regrettably.
“M’kay,” You watch as he gets up and hesitates, looking like he’s about to give you a hug, before he decides to instead give you a simple head nod and head out the same way the two other operators did.
And then, it was just you and Price.
It’s silent for a bit, until Price speaks up.
“You think a lot,” Price comments, finishing up the last staple.
“Does that surprise you?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
You pause for a moment before sighing through your nose, “It’s nothing. Just the same stuff I was thinking about before.”
“Wanna give me some more detail than that?”
“Not really, no,” You admit, letting your hand fall into your lap as Price lets go of it, “But I have a feeling you’re gonna want me to tell you.”
“I do.”
“It’s just something stupid, like earlier—”
“That wasn’t stupid, [c/n], that was you hurting.”
“I— I know. It’s just that this is actually stupid.”
“Well, tell me what it is, and I’ll be the judge of that.”
You think about how to phrase it in simple terms for a moment, before finally speaking, “I used to think that the scars sort of… symbolized how I was able to control myself and my emotions, and that made me feel…” You can’t think of any synonyms to make the simple words you want to say sound less childish, so you’re forced to say, “… brave. And strong. I just— I thought it showed that I was good at controlling my emotions and stuff, for some reason. But now I’m questioning all of that.”
“You’re very brave,” Price reassures you, and God, it sounds like he’s reassuring a child, “And you’re so strong. But this… this isn’t how you show that. This—cutting yourself—doesn’t make you either of those things. It doesn’t show that you’re either of those things. It shows that you need help.”
“But you just said that I was strong.”
“I did.”
“… Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”
“How would I be contradicting myself?” Price asks.
“You said that me— me… harming myself shows that I need help.”
“It does,” Price hums, and at your confused expression, he continues, “You needing help doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. Needing help and being strong aren’t connected like that.”
You open your mouth to argue but you close it, not knowing what to say. Price sees this and smiles knowingly, simply grabbing your hand to squeeze it once before getting up.
“I’ll check in on you later, okay? I need to get some stuff done, but as soon as I can, I’ll be back to keep you company. Or I’ll send someone else over—whichever you prefer.”
“M’kay,” You mumble, squeezing Price’s hand back before letting go. “You can do whatever. I don’t mind either one.”
“Sounds good.” Price pauses for a moment before leaning down and giving you a quick hug, and then beginning to slip past the curtains blocking any outsider's view of the bed you were sat on.
Before he can leave, you quickly say, "Thank you. For the wound-cleaning-thing."
He pauses at the curtain for a second, before smiling and replying, "You're welcome."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚𝓝obody seems to talk about the dead! Yuu theory as much as I want you guys too. So I'm gonna talk about it here because I love Yuu and hate you guys /jk (angst)
One quote that stuck throughout twisted wonderland for me is when the magic mirror looked at Yuu and said “This soul belongs nowhere. None” because yes, Yuu doesn't belong anywhere. They will never have a home because they're dead, they're lying dead somewhere and they don't know because they belong to twst now.
A little self indulgent here, but my Yuu used to have a really bad mental health and would occasionally engage in sh and got pushed to the brink of self unaliving themselves. Before their suicide they wrote a letter to each of their loved ones because even in death, they remain selfless.
I imagine that Yuu wouldn't remember their depressive episodes and their suicide in twst. I imagine that they would remember all the happy moments of their life, but never the bad ones because they repressed it so much that a big chunk of their memories have been kicked out of their head. I imagine, that they would still want to go back home because of the happy memories, but not because they want to live.
That's why Yuu is very selfless, because they never got to be selfish for themselves, they would always put others in a pedestal because that's what they are used to. Because they never got to live for themselves.
Then, when Crowley finally found their homeland, their home, their safe place. Everyone of their friends went to the mirror chamber to say goodbye: Grim went to the mirror chamber even though he didn't want to because he'll be alone again, but he still went because saying goodbye hurts less than never saying the words he wants to say to you. Your friends went even though they cried that night they received the news of you going back, but they still went because seeing you happy hurts less when they finally let go of you.
But instead of the mirror showing you the way back home. Letters spilled out the mirror and dropped to the floor.
Crowley thought this was peculiar but was annoyed and upset, so he went on and on complaining while you stared at the letters with that familiar sense of dread that you couldn't pin point, your friends that surrounded you held their breath and went eerily quiet. Crowley then went outside to find a fix to this as you picked up the letters from the floor.
You went through all of the letters— you didn't read it yet, you just counted all of it and opened them from their packaging.
This might be important enough to be sent to you through the mirror, so you read it out loud thinking that this will be something of value than being blasted from the past.
Big mistake.
The first letter you read was addressed to your pet, you went eerily quiet after that to the point that Grim shook you gently and asked you to continue.
It ended without a signature, without a name. But one thing was for certain. This was a suicide letter. Now, there wasn't any big indication that pointed to this, there wasn't an ominous "I will die soon..." Type of wordings, but you picked up clues that might seem nothing to other people, but meant everything to you.
Everyone around you was weirdly quiet now, but they listened. That was all that you needed.
You continued despite your gut feeling telling you to stop, despite your heart beating too loudly for you to relax, despite the stomach drops you would get when something indicated that the person who wrote this was very much suicidal— it felt too... Personal.
As you continued— the people around you who could pick up the context clues, started to get uneasy with how this was going. They don't know why, but they have a feeling that these letters all connected to you somehow.
Then the last letter was now in your clutch, your hands were shaking and your eyes started to get hazy. You opened it with shaky hands and read it aloud.
The news was dropped suddenly on your lap as you stared at the name at the end of the letter. The people in the mirror chamber held their breath when you ended the letter with dead eyes, your words caught in your throat. Grim shook you again gently as he stared at you with worry. He softly called out your name with a slight question at the end of it.
The letter ended with your name in it.
Your hands quivered as you layed the letter down with the other letters.
You were dead. You were dead and you couldn't go back.
"Goodbye. Sincerely, (name)"
𝗔/𝗻: I just want to tell y'all that I have a draft oneshot of this that will get published if I get it done and this is just scratching the surface of how angsty this is— I JUST HATE HOW YUU ISN'T FLESHED OUT IN THE GAME OKAY??? YUU DESERVES MORE LOVE AND CARE AND I LOVE THEM PLEASE MY BABY JUST WANTS TO GO BACK HOME AND TAKE CARE OF THEIR CAT 😭😭😭
