#self destructive behavior

[mkkaferty]

I keep fucking up and then I'm surprised that things are fucked up

[alexyo00]

i am completely drained. I have zero energy to do anything. It's all just too much. I'm done. I am so done with all of this.

[knowledgeableknitter]

What He Meant

A Hurt/Comfort One-Shot.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (female)

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary: You only heard three sentences. Three out-of-context phrases rewrote everything you thought was true. So you changed, until the person he once loved was a ghost wearing new clothes and a practiced smile. But when the truth finally cracked open, it wasn't about what he wanted, it was about what you thought you had to become just to be enough.

Trigger Warnings: Body image issues; internalized shame; overexercising past the point of physical exhaustion; burning oneself accidentally; intimacy implied to be for the wrong reasons (not sure if that makes sense); overall self destructive behavior in an attempt to change oneself to be what you believe your partner wants; panic spiral/emotional breakdown.

Author’s Note: I wanted it to hurt... But I may have done a better job than I originally intended. Sorry if you cry... Or want to strangle Bucky... or me…

Masterlist

You were walking back from the training deck when it happened. Your hoodie clung to your skin at the collar, still damp with sweat. The soles of your shoes made no sound on the polished tile, but every breath you took felt too loud in the sterile hush of the corridor. 

It was late, past 10:30. The overhead fluorescents had gone from crisp white to that buzzing gray-blue they always took on after hours, like even the lighting was exhausted. The building had the hush of a sleeping animal, twitching in its dreams but no longer stirring.

As you rounded the corner near the common room, voices stopped you.

You weren’t planning to listen. The low, weighted tone slowed you down, not the content. It felt like someone had finally said something that had been rattling in their chest too long. You weren’t close enough to make out the words yet, just enough to register Bucky’s voice first, followed by Sam’s. You weren’t suspicious or nervous. Not yet.

You just paused, quiet and casual, adjusting the towel over your shoulder like that was the reason you stopped.

Inside the room, they hadn’t noticed the cracked door. Just a sliver left ajar, wide enough to let light bleed out across the floor in a stripe of warm amber.

Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands clasped loosely between his knees. Sam was across from him, one ankle resting on his other knee, bottle in hand, watching him with that unnervingly still patience he only ever used when someone was unraveling.

“I love her,” Bucky said, voice quiet but unshaking. “That’s not the issue.”

Sam cocked his head. “Then what is?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky muttered, eyes on the floor. “It’s not what I pictured. I thought if I ever made it here, if I ever made it out, I’d be whole. Clean. Not just functional, but healed.”

“You think you're not good enough for her.”

“I know I’m not,” Bucky said, with conviction. “It’s like... I’m settling.”

Sam blinked, incredulous. “Settling?”

Bucky shook his head immediately. “Not for her, Christ, never for her. I mean for myself. For the idea that I’m never going to be perfect. That I’ll never be who I was supposed to become. I’ve stopped believing I’ll be whole. So I’m choosing this, choosing her, knowing I’m broken. And maybe you just… can’t have everything.”

Sam leaned back, bottle balanced loosely in his fingers. “Maybe everything’s a myth. But she’s not. She’s the realest thing I’ve seen you hold onto in years.”

Bucky smiled, but it was tired. “She’s the only real thing.”

You never heard that part. You came into range at the wrong time.

You stepped within earshot just as the middle part of the conversation drifted through the open doorway. You only heard three sentences, out of context. They were just pieces, stripped down to their implication.

I love her.

It’s like I’m settling.

Can’t have everything.

Your body stopped, but not from hesitation. It was more like your limbs forgot how to function. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. Your blood felt thick and uncooperative, like every organ inside you had suddenly started calculating exit strategies.

It made sense. Too much sense. The kind of sense that rewrites everything in a single instant and makes you feel stupid for not seeing it sooner. The look in his eyes last week when you'd asked about taking some time off together. The slight pause before he'd said “of course.” The way he’d smiled and kissed your shoulder but didn’t reach for your hand.

And underneath it all, the deeper truth you’d never said out loud, not even to yourself. That if he ever imagined a future, it probably didn’t look like you. Not someone who had to adjust how they stood in every mirror. Not someone who knew her angles better than her own reflection.

You’d always told yourself it didn’t matter. That he saw you, not the parts you’d learned to camouflage.

But maybe what he saw was comfort and familiarity, not desire.

You moved again, slowly, mechanically, like you didn’t trust your own body not to give something away. Just two steps, and you were out of the doorway’s reach, into the darker corridor where the floor tiles didn’t shine so warmly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t stop. You just kept walking, each footfall too soft to echo.

You didn’t need to hear more.

You’d heard what mattered. Heard exactly enough.

It’s like I’m settling.

Can’t have everything.

You understood what it meant, even if you couldn’t bear to say it out loud yet.

He loved you, but not fully. Not the way you wanted to be loved. Not the way you needed. You were what was available. What was safe. Maybe even what was convenient. But not what he pictured. Not the life he dreamed of rebuilding.

He’d chosen you with a caveat. And that caveat was going to rot you from the inside.

The tears would come later, in private, in silence, with your back against the bathroom sink and your hands trembling over a few bits of makeup you never used, as you realized you should have.

For now, you just walked, calm and controlled.

But in your chest, something cracked open.

You weren’t going to let him settle. You couldn’t be the version of yourself that someone loved by default. If he needed something different, if he needed more, then that’s what you’d become.

You’d find a way to make yourself into the person he pictured. The one he wouldn’t have to settle for, because she’d be exactly what he wanted.

Even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

*****

You started with the gym.

Not because it was logical, not even because it was visible. But because you needed to hurt. You needed something to reshape you. And pain was the only honest currency you trusted anymore. So you set your alarm an hour earlier. Then it was two. You stopped training with the others and started lifting alone in the auxiliary bay, where the lights hummed faintly and the mirrors didn’t lie.

The mirrors were the worst. They didn’t distort or soften; they just reflected what was there, angles you’d learned to work around, curves you tried to redistribute with posture, with layering, with silence. But here, sweating, red-faced, half-wrung out, you had no angles. Just reality.

You pushed yourself until your hands trembled and your shoulders screamed. You ran the track three times more than your previous best distance. You bruised your hip in a takedown and didn’t ice it. You tore a callus open on your palm and taped it up without a word.

Bucky found you later that night, coming back from your shower. Your hair was still wet. Your body ached in ways you didn’t know how to talk about, deep muscle heat, a low throb in your lower back, the shameful rush of pride you felt every time the soreness reminded you that you were trying.

“You’ve been glowing lately, doll,” he said, brushing past you with a grin and a towel slung over his shoulder. “Damn.”

You smiled, because it was muscle memory, but it stung. That word: glowing. You weren’t glowing. You were quietly frantic. But he said it like it was a compliment, and it felt you were finally turning into someone who could catch his attention without trying.

He said it like maybe he was noticing a change he didn’t even realize he’d been waiting for.

So you set your alarm fifteen minutes earlier the next day.

The second change came in the mirror.

You didn’t mean to do it at first. You just opened the bottom drawer, the one you almost never touched, and found the untouched crop top you’d bought six months ago, back before you and Bucky were even together yet, just orbiting each other too often in the same rooms. You’d bought it on a whim, tried it on once, and stuffed it away after a single glance convinced you it wasn’t meant for you. It was too short, too tight, and far too honest.

But now… now you pulled it out and laid it flat on the bed. You stared at it like it was a language you were trying to learn before you tried it on in silence.

It clung. Not just snug, it held on. It traced every curve you’d spent years learning how to distract from. It ended too high, cut off just below the ribs, leaving a slice of your stomach visible. It didn’t hide anything, instead it framed it.

You stood in front of the mirror and didn’t move for almost a full minute. Your arms hung awkwardly at your sides, unsure whether to cover, pose, or smooth. You turned a little, looked again. The fabric didn’t shift. It wasn’t going to change.

You almost took it off and reached for the hoodie hanging on the back of the chair.

But you didn’t.

You looked at yourself, long and slow, like studying a new blueprint. No trace of self love, or even kindness. Only calculation.

You can learn to be this. You can get used to her. You can make her real.

Bucky noticed that afternoon.

“New top?” he asked as you reached past him to grab a folder from the meeting room table. “Looks real good on you.”

You felt the compliment in the warmth of his voice. It felt like a nail through soft wood: precise and inevitable.

You nodded, but didn’t thank him. The smile he gave you felt real, like approval. It felt like proof that your efforts were working.

So the next day, you lined your eyes. Just a little. The day after that, a change in shampoo. Then it was lip balm with a sheen. Then you added a rouge. Then mascara.

Each morning, you thought a version of yourself got closer to the version he had in his head when he said I love her, and hopefully farther from the one he meant when he said he was settling.

The kitchen came last.

You’d never cared much about food or its presentation before. You cooked what made sense: clean, fast, fuel. But now… you began following recipes on your phone with the diligence of a spy intercepting classified code. You learned about plating. You learned how to make salmon skin crisp without drying out the center. You started garnishing with parsley and microgreens you didn't even like.

You worked quietly, alone in the communal kitchen at night when most of the others had already turned in. You plated each dish like if you could make something beautiful and worthy with your hands, then maybe you could become something worthy, too.

It wasn’t just about flavor. It was about restraint and elegance and learning how to make things look like they belonged in someone else's world. Someone who was sleeker and simpler.

The third night, you made seared salmon with lemon thyme, charred asparagus, and couscous. He walked in just as you were arranging the final slice.

“Whoa,” Bucky said, pausing near the door. “This is amazing—when did you learn how to cook like this?”

You shrugged, eyes on the plate. You didn’t trust yourself to answer.

He took a bite. Closed his eyes. Smiled like a man coming in from the cold.

“Seriously, doll… this is incredible.”

He smiled down at the plate like it had answered a question he didn’t realize he’d asked.

“You’re full of surprises lately.”

You turned away before he could see your face.

You washed the dishes in silence that night, alone. The heat of the water scalded your fingers, but you let it burn. You watched the suds drain away in a slow spiral and couldn’t help but wonder, if this was the version of you he was starting to love… what did that mean for the one he used to hold?

Each compliment became an unwritten contract, binding yourself like rope around you. Each “you look great,” each “this is amazing,” was another page in a growing ledger of proof: the changes were working, the performance was being received, maybe you were inching closer to the version of yourself he could really want.

It’s working, you told yourself. This is how it starts. This is how you earn it. You keep going until there’s no more doubt in his voice. No more hesitation in his eyes. Just want. Just certainty.

And sure, it hurt. It hurt in the quiet way that doesn’t bruise but still leaves a mark, knowing none of this had ever been asked of you. He hadn’t told you to dress differently. He hadn’t told you to cook anything. He hadn’t told you to change.

But he had said thank you. He had smiled. He had kissed you a little longer. And sometimes, acceptance is its own kind of permission.

He didn’t know what it cost you to hear those compliments. He didn’t see the sleepless mornings, the calculations behind every outfit, the war that happened behind your eyes before you answered with a smile.

But as long as there was still something left to strip away, something more you could offer, something else you could become, you would keep offering.

You would keep becoming.

*****

The exhaustion crept in slowly. At first, it even felt noble. The ache in your shoulders was proof of effort. The dark half-moons beneath your eyes looked like sacrifice. You told yourself that pain meant progress and discipline meant devotion. If it hurt, it had to be working.

But the days began to blend together. Wake. Move. Work. Train. Smile. Repeat. Each one dissolved into the next until the week blurred at the edges. Your muscles stayed sore. Your skin dulled. Your thoughts got thinner, stretched like a thread pulled too tight and too long.

The mirror didn’t lie. You weren’t glowing. You weren’t sharpening. You were wearing down like something left out in the weather.

It happened during sparring, nothing dramatic: a pivot, a block, and your balance gave out. One second, you were solid, the next, the floor tilted under you. Your knees dropped like someone had cut your strings.

Bucky caught you before you hit the mat. One arm around your waist, quick, instinctive. He didn’t even hesitate.

“You okay?”

His voice was close. So was his breath. You didn’t look at him. You were counting seconds in your head, trying to smooth out the panic in your chest before it could show up on your face.

Your vision flashed white, then steadied.

“Just need water,” you said. “I’m fine.”

You stepped back, wary of any weakness he might see. For a second, you weren’t polished or in control, and he was right there.

You grabbed your bottle. Drank like that was the problem. Dropped into a stretch like you were just being thorough, like this was part of the plan.

No one else noticed.

But Bucky? He’d touched the part of you that couldn’t fake it.

And that made your skin burn.

You hadn’t slipped because you were weak. You’d slipped because your body was done. And you couldn’t afford to let him to see that.

The burn came later. A rush of steam from a pan you leaned over too fast. Oil jumped. It kissed your wrist just above the bone, quick, sharp, and punishing. You didn’t cry out. Just a hiss between your teeth, barely audible.

You kept stirring with your other hand. Dinner wasn’t done.

You’d already plated his portion, braised shortrib, Parmesan risotto, and sautéed spinach. You couldn’t let your own look rushed or feel like an afterthought. 

You rinsed the burn under cold water with the same precision you used to trim garnish. Pat, bandage, sleeve down, neat and invisible.

You carried the plates to the couch, because that’s how he liked dinner. Quiet. Relaxed. Bare feet, muted TV in the background, no separation between meals and closeness. You didn’t love it. But it wasn’t about you.

Later, as you passed him his tray, you adjusted your grip and flinched, barely a movement but it caught his eye.

“You’re hurt.”

You didn’t look up.

“Just a little steam,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”

He frowned, but you were already smiling again, handing him the tray, picking up the remote, and tucking your feet under yourself like you didn’t feel a thing.

The burn pulsed beneath the fabric.

You let it.

One morning, he asked if you were sleeping okay.

You smiled and told him yes.

You kissed him more often now, touched him first. You reached for him at night even when your body ached, even when your head was still full of unfinished to-do lists. You told yourself it was for closeness, that it meant things were good between you. You thought maybe he’d want you more if you didn’t make him ask.

And when he pulled you closer afterward, gentle and half-asleep, you waited for the part where he’d say something that told you he wanted this version of you. The version who tried harder and reached first.

But he just kissed your shoulder and drifted off.

And you lay there, face frozen in a smile, wondering if maybe that was enough.

*****

The light above the mirror was too bright, too white. It made everything worse. It showed everything.

You stood in front of it with your sleeves rolled up, the left one peeled higher than the other. The bandage was gone. The burn sat angry and raw on your wrist, puffed slightly, red at the edges, the skin shiny where the blister had flattened. It looked like an injury that hadn’t healed. 

You didn’t try to hide it anymore, so it sat there, uncovered: a truth you didn’t bother to fix.

Steam from the sink curled up into the edges of the mirror, softening the reflection into something dreamy, but not kind. You weren’t sure when you turned the tap on or how long it had been running. The bottle of concealer on the counter lay uncapped, half-tilted, a smear of product on the porcelain that you kept meaning to clean but hadn’t. You’d dabbed it under both eyes—too much, too fast. It didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t working. The dark circles showed through.

You tried again. Dabbed. Blotted. Smudged. It didn’t disappear, it just blurred, like a mistake you couldn’t delete: too pale, too wrong, too late. 

Your breath hitched. You set the bottle down harder than you meant to. Then you started pacing.

You rubbed your arms like you were cold, but the bathroom was warm. Still, you couldn’t stop moving. You walked a short loop, from sink to door to towel rack and back again, over and over, the rhythm frantic and uneven. And the words spilled out with it, fragments snapping from your mouth in between breaths.

“I can fix it. I can be enough. He didn’t want this. Not like this. I just have to push harder. I can change more. I can—”

Your voice cracked mid-sentence. You pressed a fist against your mouth. Swallowed. Kept going.

“I just have to get better. Just a little better. It’s not that far. I can be everything. I can be her. I just—”

Your reflection caught your eye in motion. You flinched. Looked away.

You didn’t notice the sound of the door opening behind you, but your muttering broke off anyway, like your body sensed him before your mind did. His voice came low, from the other side of the cracked door, but not angry, more incredulous. 

“What the hell are you saying?”

You froze for a moment before whirling toward the door.

Bucky stood half inside the frame, his brow furrowed, mouth soft with confusion. He took one slow step in.

You turned away, wiped at your face too fast, smudging something near your temple. You weren’t crying. Not really. But your lashes were wet, and your chest still hitched every third breath like your body hadn’t gotten the message that the breakdown was over.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, voice thin and airy. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I just—just give me a second, okay?” You were reaching for the concealer again, but he was already stepping closer.

You felt him before you heard him move, just the shift in air behind you as he slowly and carefully crossed the threshold, like he was approaching something feral and cornered.

“I said give me a second,” you murmured again, but your voice had already deflated. It didn’t sound like a boundary, it sounded like a wish.

His reflection settled behind yours in the mirror. His face, creased at the brow, mouth parted slightly in something halfway between concern and disbelief, floated above your shoulder, too close for comfort, too far to touch.

“You’re not okay,” he said, voice filled with quiet certainty. “Whatever this is… you’re not okay.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Your fingers twisted the cap back on the concealer like if you just tidied up what was visible, the rest might follow.

But he was still standing there watching you.

“I don’t need you to worry about this,” you said finally, eyes fixed on the sink. “It’s just… a bad day. That’s all.”

“You were talking to yourself.”

You shook your head. “I was venting.”

“About not being enough?”

Your throat closed. Your hands flattened against the counter like you were bracing for impact. He stepped closer.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” you whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

His tone shifted, low and a little sharp now. “Fault? What fault? What the hell are you trying to take on?”

You turned then, too fast, too hot. “I’m just trying, okay?” The words came out louder than you intended, but you didn’t pull them back. “I’ve been trying. Every day. Every minute.”

He stopped moving. Not because he was afraid; but because he recognized that something was cracking wide open.

You didn’t wait for his response. It came spilling out like a confession you’d been holding too long in your mouth.

“You like the changes I’ve made. You said so yourself. You like how the clothes fit now. You like the cooking. You said I was glowing. You noticed. You finally noticed. And I’m making the effort. I’m putting in the work. I’m trying to be the version of me that’s easier to love.”

The words hung in the air, and the last one, love, stung harder than anything else. It hit your ribs and stayed there.

“You thought I needed you to change?” he asked, breath knocked out of him.

You looked down.

“You don’t have to settle for me,” you said, quieter now. “I can be what you really want. I just need a little more time. A little more practice. That’s all. I can be everything you want. I know I can.”

He looked stricken. He stepped forward slowly, his hands rising halfway before hesitating in the space between you. You were frozen. 

“Why would you ever think I settled for you?”

You were watching his hands, how they trembled, just slightly, as if touching you without permission might finish shattering you.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” you said. “But I didn’t imagine it. I heard what you said that night. You said you were settling. That you couldn’t have everything. And I know what that means.”

“No,” Bucky said, low, immediate, like a reflex. “No. You don’t know what that means.”

Then he was stepping closer, and this time, he didn’t wait. His hands came to your face, gentle, grounding, and firm enough to still you.

“Look at me.”

You tried not to, but his thumb was already tracing your cheekbone.

“You think I meant you?” he said. “You really think I meant you when I said that?”

You didn’t answer. The floor felt unstable again. Like memory was shifting under your feet. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you for wanting better. I’ll be better for you.” 

“Sweetheart, I was talking about me,” he said. “About what I thought I was allowed to have. I didn’t think I got to want real things. Not after everything. Not after what I’ve done.”

He shook his head, breath catching. “I thought I had to settle. Settle for guilt, for nightmares, for being halfway okay. But the only thing that ever felt like more, the only thing that made me think I could want anything again, was you.”

Your breath hitched. A tear slipped out before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.

“You were what I wanted. You still are,” he said, softer now. “Not a different version. Not a possibility. Not some upgrade. Just… you. The real you.”

You closed your eyes. Not to escape, but because the kindness and truth wad too much.

“You’ve been hurting yourself trying to meet a need I never had,” he said. “And I didn’t see it. I should have. I should have asked.”

And that was the moment your facade truly shattered.

Your knees bent, just slightly, and your hands landed on his chest like you’d run out of options. You didn’t grasp or hold him. Your hands just settled there, like the last parts of you that still believed you had to carry everything yourself.

Bucky’s arms came around you immediately for support. His hand slid up the curve of your spine and rested at the base of your neck like a promise: you don’t have to hold yourself together right now.

Your forehead found his chest and your breath slowed, shaky, but steady.

He didn’t hush you. Didn’t tell you to calm down or breathe deeper. He just stayed there, solid and warm, while you broke. 

*****

The kitchen light was soft as you stood in the doorway barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, hair still damp from the shower you didn’t remember taking. The apartment was still. Bucky had the stove on low, a pan turning gently under one hand, and something about the smell, eggs and butter and freshly cracked pepper, made you feel like you were walking into someone else’s morning. One that hadn’t split open at the seams.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just gave a small, quiet nod, like this was always where you’d end up, and he'd been waiting.

He motioned toward the table with his chin. You sat.

Two plates were already set. Real plates. No couch trays. No TV. Just two forks, two glasses of water, and the kind of care that wasn’t loud.

He set the pan aside and sat across from you.

For a while, neither of you touched the food. He just studied you, gently, not probing. Not waiting for explanation. Just making sure you were here and present in the moment with him. 

Then finally, he reached across the table for your wrist. The left one with the burn.

The bandage was gone again.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just turned it gently in his hand, thumb brushing the edge of the pain. His brow furrowed, not because it looked bad. Because it had gotten so far without him knowing. And that wasn’t okay with him.

“Still hurts?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once.

He stood silently, crossed to the hall cabinet, and came back with a small first-aid tin. He took your hand again, this time in both of his, and began cleaning the burn. It wasn’t dramatic, just antiseptic, clean gauze, and a soft wrap. 

But his touch was gentle, like he needed you to feel the difference between this and everything that had come before.

He didn’t rush to speak again. He watched you lift your fork and take the smallest bite, your movements slow and deliberate, like you were trying to taste something for the first time.

Then he said, quietly, almost like it surprised him to remember, “You asked me to take a weekend with you. A while back.”

You looked up.

“I didn’t really hear you,” he said. “Not the way I should have. I thought it was just about time off. But it wasn’t, was it.”

You shook your head slowly.

He nodded, more to himself than to you. “You weren’t asking for rest. You were asking for closeness.”

There was no apology in his voice, only a heavy recognition of his own error, heavier than an actual apology.

“I think I said yes,” he added, “but I didn’t mean it. Not fully. Not like I should have.”

Your eyes burned, but not from shame this time. Just… release. From not being crazy. From knowing someone else had finally caught up to where you’d been standing.

“I did want to,” you said.

And he gave you a small tired smile, full of quiet remorse.

“I know,” he replied. His thumb brushed the side of your hand, once, then again. “We’ll go.”

You blinked.

“Not to fix anything,” he added. “Just to dance in the kitchen. Sleep in. Eat badly. Be somewhere we don’t owe the world anything but each other.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead you let yourself believe it might be that simple.

He didn’t push for anything further. He didn’t start listing dates or booking flights. He just mirrored your pace and let the morning unfold slowly, the way healing often does.

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd

[cyb3rch1ckonl1n3]

Does anybody feel like they want to get SELF DESTRUCTIVE?? Like does anybody wanna not eat for days, rot in bed, cut off all their ties, and just be really harmful to themselves or is it just me? I don’t know the urge is STRONG

[gentlewordsdaily]

If you have been caught in self-destructive habits, I want you to hear this gently: you are not broken, you were coping the only way you knew how. Most harmful patterns don’t start because someone wants to hurt themselves; they start because something hurt first. They start as survival. They start as a way to numb overwhelming feelings, to feel in control for a moment, to quiet thoughts that wouldn’t slow down. Of course your brain reached for whatever gave relief. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

But there comes a point where you notice that what once protected you is now hurting you. Maybe you feel tired of the cycle. Tired of the guilt afterward. Tired of promising yourself “this is the last time.” That exhaustion isn’t failure, it’s awareness. And awareness is the beginning of change, even if you haven’t fully stepped out of the habit yet.

Recovery from self-destructive patterns is rarely dramatic. It’s not one perfect decision that fixes everything. It’s small, quiet moments where you pause instead of react. It’s choosing something slightly safer, slightly kinder, even if it feels unfamiliar. It’s slipping up and deciding that the slip doesn’t define you. Progress is messy and uneven, and that doesn’t make it less real.

You deserve coping mechanisms that don’t leave you ashamed. You deserve ways of handling pain that don’t add more pain afterward. Be gentle with the part of you that learned these habits for a reason. Don’t attack it, teach it. Replace instead of just remove. Add softness where there used to be harm. Change is possible, even if it’s slow. Even if it’s shaky. Even if you are still figuring it out.

You are not too far gone. You are not your worst moments. The fact that you want better for yourself already means there is a stronger, kinder version of you growing. And that version deserves a chance. 🤍

[kdkovacheva]

Proof Of Life

MDNI!!!

MInd the trigger warnings! If something isn't properly tagged let me know and i'll happily add the tag. Enjoy!

Dante doesn't want love. He only wants a proof he still exists. You know that by now. And still, you find yourself in his arms every time he calls.

Dante x Reader, you can think of any Dante as you read that

TW/CW: angst, emotinal hurt/no comfort, smut, cyclical behaviour, unrequited atraction/love, implied sexual trauma (for Dante), dubious consent, self-destrictive behaviour, using sex as self-harm, emotinal dependency, dissociative sex, reader gets hurt, unhealthy coping machanisms, no romance and absolutely not proofread

"Kiss me..." you whisper, breathless, desperate plea that falls on deaf ears. Hope smothered, the yearning, that terrible hunger for affection always gnawing on your bones once again fed just enough not to starve to ash but never sated.

The answer you get is grunt; large hand splayed between your shoulder blades to press you face first into the softness of pillows that swallow moans and cries and sobs alike to turn them into cacophony of pleasure and desperation.

Did he even hear you?

You suppose not.

Every time Dante takes you it's not about you. Which hurts in a way neither your mind nor your heart are able to process. He isn't a selfish lover, no. On the contrary the basic needs are always satisfied, the beast fully satiated laying on his back, belly swollen.

It's your mind, the rhythm of your heart that never gets enough.

Long fingers tangle in your hair and broken yelp escapes your lips as he yanks your head back and pulls; pulls harder than expected, than necessary, as your hands scramble for purchase and you find none. Instead one arm wraps around your middle, holds you steady- your back flush against his chest, your legs stretched open so far around his, faint pain starts tingling in your thighs. Warm hand finds your jaw and squeezes, his face slotting neatly at your neck. Dante's breathing is ragged as he trust into you, the new angle sending lightnings of pleasure along your spine, brain-melting, life-altering. Your back twists in an uncomfortable arch but discomfort is not even a second thought inside your fussy brain.

"Please." You beg through the sobs and moans ripping your throat to shreds. "Please, please, pleasepleaseplease..."

What are you begging for? For more? You know he'll give you more, until you are drooling on the sheets, until your muscles are liquid and your bones jelly.

What are you begging for?

His arm tightens around your waist, his fingers digging into soft tissue. You'll be bruised tomorrow. It doesn't matter as he brushes the hair away from your face, still blunt teeth scraping the skin on your neck. Always teeth. Dante is not rough in the sense of wanting to hurt you for his own pleasure, but he isn't gentle; playing pretend at passion he hasn't felt, only seen the shape off; your arm shoots up to tangle your fingers in his hair, mirror of his own gesture, to pull him closer.

"Please..." A broken sound, ugly sound. Its simple existence makes you want to bite your tongue off, scrape the skin of your skull. Reduced to a beggar in the hands of a man than will never give you more than lust.

And yet sometimes you aren't sure if he gives you even that. The first few times he had you underneath him you could feel something was off but you weren't able to pinpoint what. Not that you can now, months into this strange arrangement you two have. Even as he is buried to the hilt in you something is missing. The devastating want you feel is absent from him. Dante barely speaks, the strength in the way he handles you-rehearsed, the praise he grunts rarely-learned.

In your chest the ache blooms with the same speed the pressure builds behind your navel. The same play to be played again and again, you know your lines by now, screaming and crying because it's too much. Too much pleasure, too much want, too much need. His trust are never frantic, each one fast and hard delivered like a blow to your composure. You will come, more than once, wrapped around his cock, around his fingers, if he chooses to be merciful on his tongue. His face always safely tucked away so you don't ever catch a glimpse of his eyes.

You did once.

Those weren't the eyes of a man lost in pleasure. Empty, so empty, bottomless blue-not the cloudless sky but the all consuming vortex of the ocean except there isn't anything else to consume; hollow.

He nips at your shoulder, keeps you close. So close, his body is live coals burning your skin down, the very pits of your soul blistered.

"Touch yourself for me." Hollow voice like hollow eyes.

And yet you obey, hand slithering down, down. You don't need it and neither does Dante. He doesn't look, it's not a show for him but you obey. Even if his pace is so hard you can't get your fingers to stay on your sensitive organ you obey.

It's good. It's so good, your eyes rolls in the back of your head, liquid euphoria splashing in your veins instead of blood. A hand you barely register through the haze of bliss grips your chest and stars explode behind your shut eyelids.

All you are is his. His and no one else's, not even your own.

The only person that has ever made you feel like that is Dante. It's amazing. It's wonderful, it is...

...it is disgusting. Isn't it?

The high of orgasm drains out slowly but the pleasure doesn't ebb somehow, still there building in your gut. Mixing with guilt and pain and loathing.

Dante slips out of you, strong hands guide you to lay on your side as he lifts your leg to prop on his shoulder. You turn your head away before he can push you away because by now you know- don't look at him. Don't. He won't let you. You don't want to.

It's a lie. You want to. To look, take him in, pull him closer, kiss him, have him. Be more of a body he uses to... What? You don't even know anymore. Sometimes you feel like nothing else than a proof of life, a defibrillator he uses to shock himself back into rhythm you can't follow. Can't understand no matter how much you think about it.

Dante doesn't want you. You know that with every fiber in your body.

Steady fingers find your entrance, carefully circle the rim before dipping once, twice; your traitorous body lifts in an aching arch of the mattress instinctively asking for more. You love it. You hate it. You hate yourself for loving it.

You find one of the discarded pillows and wrap your arms around it in a hug mocking the closeness you should feel from him.

Why are you here? Why do you keep coming back for more of this torture, equal for both of you? You will never have what you want with him, he will never give it.

Dante would never want you.

You know it like you know to breath through the all consuming pleasure when his cock pushes back into you. You can hear it in every grunt, pant, in his heavy breathing. He doesn't want you. He doesn't want it. The sex is a performance you willingly act in even when you don't know why.

Why are you here?

Why does he keep looking for you, calling you here, doing all this if he doesn't even enjoy it?

The pace he sets is brutal. You feel it in your bones rattling, in your teeth, in the shivering of your body. The plush of the pillow kills down every moan and sob, your muscles lock. And you risk a look, a sideways glance.

Dante is beautiful. You know it. Work of art that has no walls around it, too full of live, of passion, of kindness to be kept locked away.

There is strands of white hair falling on his eyes now and he doesn't look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere across the dark room; the neon light flickering through the window looks like blood on his pale skin. There is no life here now. He knows the steps and like a puppet goes through them, perfectly, cleanly. Completely detached of the dance itself.

You shouldn't have looked.

The illusion of mutual rapture is gone now. The pleasure behind your navel turns to bile and your moans quiet into whimpers, raspy intakes of air through your mouth.

His fingers tighten around your inner thigh so much you jolt up the bed, a pitiful cry making it out. Dante doesn't stop but his hand falls to the mattress, pins and needles in your leg.

" 'M sorry, baby." But he doesn't sound sorry. He doesn't sound anything. Just empty.

He lets your leg fall from his shoulder, grabs your hips to adjust you. The pillow you squeeze is a lifeline now and you refuse to let it go. And when he takes it from you to slot his body in its place you almost break apart right then and there. Because you can't stop your body from embracing him, a little mercy in the seemingly endless torture.

Why do you love it so much even as you hate it?

You guess you've always been a little masochistic.

Dante is warm. So warm. You tuck your face against his chest and a large hand cups the back of your head. A caricature of making love yet for a fraction of a second it feels real and your heart misses a beat in desperate hope.

Hope that dies down as fast as it came when instead of doing anything to show you he's with you still he just pushed you closer.

The friction of the trusts burns now, every trace of arousal dying down, drying. It hurts. He is somewhere too far away to notice. Not the pleasure turning into pain, not the way your nails dig in his back. He just continues. Play the sonata to it's last note. A concerto with no other audience that the musicians whose fingers bleed from the strings.

"Please..." You beg again and his breath hitches deep into his lungs. The only reason you even hear it is how close you are. He picks his pace in response, faster, harder, chasing something that is long gone. Out of sight, never out of mind.

You wish you could feel like a piece of meat. Something to be chewed up and spit out. It would be so much easier if you could feel like you are the used one. You can't. Because it feels like he uses himself. A beautiful, pristine toy to give you all your body never felt before even if it smothers the light out if his eyes. It's you, you are the consumer even if he is the one who offers his body on platter forged of gold and regrets.

"Dante..." Your voice doesn't sound like your own, heavy, distant. The muscles in his forearm flex near your head. So close, so far away. Between your legs the burning grows.

He breaths deep. Steadying breaths, you've learned by now the sound of them, why he takes them. When he looks at you the crease in between his brows could've fooled you a while ago. Performative concern because he feels nothing. Not right now.

You taste the bile on your tongue.

A thumb brushes your cheek bone, pretend tentativeness. You choke the sickness down.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

You shouldn't have said anything, you realise then. Should've stayed an oblivious consumer that doesn't care about the pigs slaughtered for their meal. Do you have it in you? For one last act before you run to scrub away the sins off your skin. Greed and Gluttony and Lust.

"Can we stop?" You whisper because if you speak your voice will betray you and you act like a fool still in the dark, caressing gently the smooth skin on his shoulders, neck, the curve of his jaw.

The crease is real now, deeper. The concern inverted inward, wondering if you've seen something. Yet he masks it well.

"You good?"

You let the curtain you've peak behind still hang, stupidly, selfishly.

"Just too much. Not all of us can go forever."

Dante hums. His forehead relaxes and he lets go of you in such a gentle way it almost hurts more than if he was manhandling you still. Slips out but doesn't move away, wrapping his fingers around the impressive length of his cock and pumps. You feel like you might vomit but the show must wrap.

It doesn't take him long. The release he didn't even want comes out in tick ropes, hot against your skin, pearlescent drops sliding off the peaks of your curves to soak ruined sheets. It isn't grand, it isn't blissful. Just come, a function his body has and it's both beautiful and devastating to watch.

Dante bends and presses a kiss, light brush of lips against your forehead the second your body gives up on holding it anymore. Rehearsed sex, rehearsed affection, neither bringing either of you any gratification of an act that shouldn't have happened in the first place. The dam breaks behind your eyes and you squeeze them shut to stop the tears from spilling.

The shower you take later, hot and long, hides them. They sting. But inside you something is as hollow as him.

Your clothes stick to your skin. The charm is back in his posture, in the easy grin, in the way he opens the door for you. The kiss he gives you, the one you begged for in his bed tastes of almonds and feels like nothing. Poison hidden in sweetness. How long until it kills you and he moves to the next person, the next tool that reminds him he is real?

"I'm glad I saw you." Dante says, leaning on the door frame, shirtless, the cool night air biting your cheeks. Your eyes still sting from the crying that he doesn't know about. Or he does and simply doesn't want to acknowledge. To acknowledge it would mean that his path of self-destruction has taken others down with him. "Call you later, hm?"

You nod weakly. Then you make a show of an yawn, pretend you're tired even as you feel like kicked dog whose crime was looking for scraps.

He smiles, all charm and sweetness and pinches your chin between two fingers before giving you one more kiss, one more scrap of affection you know you'll stash inside your heart with every other lie you tell yourself as to why you should come back. Again and again and again.

"Good, baby. See you."

You swear this is the last time. Last time you are an instrument in his self-designed torture; last time you let him make you feel like beggar and a thief, both. And yet when he calls next time you pick up on the first ring. 

[whumpsandwhimpers]

Whumpee choosing to he bitter, to be angry and mean and cold and difficult with everyone around them. Punishing them for trying to get close, pushing everyone away before someone else can be hurt by them and before someone can hurt them again.

Pushing everyone away over and over, snarling and biting and maybe even cruel. Warning everyone that they aren't safe to be around. They're just an animal about to lash out. They're already warning them. What they see is what they'll get. They're broken and angry and hurt. A ball and chain. And if they get too close, they'll drag them down too.

And it works. It works so well. Everyone who ever tries to get close to Whumpee end up leaving. And Whumpee knows they deserve it, because no one should have to carry the weight of another person who doesn't want to change.

(But that doesn't stop Whumpee from secretly... hoping that someday, someone will decide to stay anyway, and somehow love Whumpee no matter how much Whumpee hurts them).

[cholerascum]

this one isnt a fun one.

im very evidently an addict. intoxicants and cigarettes are something i very much struggle with.

the events depicted in this comic is the 4th time i can recall where i overdid it and made it someone elses problem. made it so someone else had to babysit me and listen to my crybaby bullshit and watch me cause myself to fall apart. im very seriously not proud of this behavior.

i spent all day dolling myself up, cleaning my self up, with the intent to specifically have a fun day with a friend. i put on my makeup, only for my lipstick to smear everywhere cause i immediately had three cans of vodka as quickly as possible, thusly causing my outer appearance to more accurately depict my state of mind.

i wanna get better. i wanna be a better person and stop making me essentially self destructing someone elses problem. i dont even realize i do it until the damage is done.

i dont know why the people ive done this to forgive me for it, but ill forever appreciate their understanding and compassion.