🐦⬛ self harming as a way to test sylus in your relationship. 🩹
tw: self harm, disordered eating, abandonment issues, toxic reader? don't do this please
gn!reader, dark but ends with hurt/comfort.
(comfort under the cut if you want to skip the hurt part)
wc: 837
Instead of accepting his offers for help, you crawl away into a dark corner of your home to curl up and slice yourself open anyway. You keep the wounds hidden under long sleeves, concealing your pain to see if he'll notice. What he'll do if he notices. To keep an eye on his expression as he finds out you relapsed again.
You starve yourself, purposely neglecting your gnawing hunger because someone like you doesn't deserve food. Because feeling yourself deteriorate brings a sense of sick satisfaction. You would wonder if Sylus prefers you skinnier, but you wouldn't want to defame him in that way, not even in your head.
You take to isolating yourself again, curling up in bed with the curtains drawn, watching his texts light up your phone, taking too long to respond because you can't muster up the energy to think of anything to say. Your eyes grow puffy from the tears you shed as you do your best to respond like a normal person would. Like someone worthy of being with Sylus would.
You show him all the ugliest parts of your soul to try and push him away, to watch him closely and see if he flinches. Surely he deserves ample warning about what being with you will be like. That you've long been split into fragile little shards, no longer able to offer him a whole person to grasp onto with confidence.
And if he's going to leave anyway, what's wrong with accelerating the process a little? It'll save you pain in the long run. Offer a cleaner break with less attachment.
But he doesn't speak a word of complaint. He cradles the shards that are left of you, uncaring of the scratches and cuts he collects on his palms in the process. He studies their jagged edges, slowly discerning how they all fit together with unending patience and care. Delicately piecing you together, one fragment at a time.
Of course, he notices when you relapse. You've never been good at hiding things, not across any of the lifetimes he's known you. He can see it from a mile away; your vacant, pained expression shines like a beacon, especially when he's already looking for signs of your mental health taking a turn for the worse.
He doesn't push, doesn't pry. He doesn't shame you or express disappointment. He just asks to see the wounds so he can know they're patched up to his satisfaction. He assures you that he's always there to help you when you feel the urge again, that he would be honored if you chose his shoulder to cry on when something bad happens that nearly pushes you over the edge of relapse again.
He notices when you begin losing weight. The way your face starts to look more drawn, your arm wrapped around your abdomen when you think he isn't looking. He asks his chef to make your favorites in order to entice you into sharing a meal with him.
He always makes sure to send you home with plenty of leftovers and premade meals in Tupperware, knowing that taking away the stress of choosing what to cook and cooking it would make eating much easier for you. And when you come back to see him again with fuller cheeks and easier smiles, he knows his instincts were correct.
He makes sure to be by your side in whatever way he can when you're isolated and curled up in bed. His preferred method is to stop by for a visit, sneak beneath your covers, and pull you into his embrace, where he knows you're safest. If you reject his proposition to join you in person, he offers a call instead. Neither of you needs to speak, gaining the warm comfort of each other's company without the need for travel.
And if you happen to decline this option as well, he sends Mephisto over to cheer you up. You can't bear to leave the poor bird out in the cold when he pecks at your window; he probably needs a break from his duties anyway. It's easy to relax and put your troubles aside with his soft feathers beneath your fingers, watching him doze off on your comforter beside you.
Sylus knows how to care for cats, after all. He knows how to coax a panicked one out from under the furniture into his arms, to get it purring for him and eating the tins of food he brought for it. He doesn't mind a few scratches along the way, just taking them as a sign that the cat needs a little more time to trust him.
You're just the most valuable cat he's ever had the privilege of nursing back to health. Once he's successfully gathered you up into his arms, he proves that he has no intentions of letting you go, not ever again. He'll spare no effort in making sure your coat gleams, your belly stays full, and your chest is rumbling with happy purrs.
tw sh & sui ideation fic!!!
damian wayne x reader (unestablished wtv you want) NOT promoting I just want more sh comfort ficz <3
"I think I might die."
Damian's phone almost slipped out of his hands. You had called at 3 AM, just as he was slipping into bed after his 'night shift' as Robin.
He knew you harmed yourself.
It didn't take a genius to figure it out.
You were never upset. Often, he knew, the people who were never upset were the ones suffering the most. You flinched when someone got close, avoiding certain body parts if you did hug on a rare occasion. But he'd never ask. It was up to you to open up to him. He had no right to grab your arm and 'investigate' the issue. He had no right to pry.
Maybe he should've pried more.
"Hold on- dont you dare, you- don't you dare." His voice was shaking. His hands were shaking. Perhaps because his whole body was shaking. He crashed his bedside lamp to the ground as he stumbled up from his bedsheets. "I'm coming. Just- stay there. Don't do anything. Please."
...
You didn't reply.
He ran down the stairs, jumping over a few, holding his phone in a death grip. The call stayed on.
"Master Damian?- What-?" Damian ran straight past Alfred, explaining to the best to his ability. Which was- a panicked murmur of your name.
He donned his suit in a rush, probably loosing one or two belts or gears or whatever. He didn't care. He couldn't care. He heard Tim's panicked calls from where he was wasting away at the BatComputer. He paid him no mind.
Damian merely grabbed his motorcycle, and was off in the dark.
He busted the window in. Crawled in, stil trembling all over.
The apartment stayed untouched, as if stilled in the silence.
Robin tore through the rooms, and finally reached the bedroom.
You were seated at a chair, head in your hands. Middle of the room. Beneath the fan. A looped rope hung from it. Your skin was a canvas to bloody cuts all over.
He ripped his mask off, and stepped closer with a trembling stature.
"... It's okay."
You broke down in quiet sobs.
He slowly approached you, like he would to a wild spooked out animal. And finally, knelt down to wipe the cold sweat off of your face.
"It's okay, it's okay." He shushed, as your sobs grew louder, hysterical. "It'll stop hurting. I'll make it stop hurting. Don't do it. Please-"
A kiss to the top of your head. "Don't waste your life away like that. You deserve more."
Over the span of the next hour or so, he spent bandaging you up, a calm and stable presence to the chaos swirling within you. He threw the rope away, hands trembling at the thought of it possibly happening.
He ushered you to sleep, but not before making calls to his very concerned family. Alfred offered breakfast, but he declined. He slept with you that night. Clung to you like a koala.
He might have been very calm while taking care of you, but you heard his small sniffles as you fell asleep. What if he had been too slow? What if he had dismissed it as a mere breakdown? What if he had slept a bit too early? What if you had never called?
He hugged you closer, careful of the bandaged wounds, and stroked your hair.
Safe to say, he was never gonna let you go.
CW! self harm is a sensitive topic to many so please think before reading! this is kinda self indulgent as i got the idea from fighting my own urges while watching the movie. fluff and angst ofc. this isnt proof read sooo bare with me
jinu
does NOT take this lightly
he feels genuine panic when he sees the old and new scars that flooded your arm
he doesn’t confront you about it quick. he takes time to really think about how to help you.
he also thinks about his marks, and how he didn’t know you had some marks that represented your shame too
he HEAVILY blames himself for not realizing and not being there
he would confront you about it very gently and let you do the talking
he would take you out after and get your mind off of it.
the soft lighting of the aquarium cast a dreamy glow on everything around you, but jinu swore nothing looked as breathtaking as you did beneath it. the two of you walked slowly, hand in hand, pausing every so often to marvel at the sea creatures behind the glass. your laughter echoed gently through the halls, and he found himself smiling more than usual just because you were.
when you reached the dolphin exhibit, your excitement became impossible to contain. you rushed forward, pressing your hand gently against the glass as one swam past.
“look!” you said, eyes wide. “did you see that? it looked right at me!”
your voice was full of wonder, like a child seeing magic for the first time. jinu didn’t respond right away. he was too busy watching you. the way your eyes sparkled. the way you leaned in like you belonged there, a part of something so gentle and beautiful.
he took a step closer, heart warm and full, thinking that if moments like this could be bottled, he’d carry them with him forever.
you turned back to the tank with a soft smile, lifting your arms to push the hair away from your eyes. just a simple gesture.
but then he saw them.
his breath caught.
faint lines at first. then deeper ones. red. fresh.
his heart stumbled.
he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t even considered it. you were light and laughter, the kind of person who made others feel like life was a little easier just by being near. but there, written across your skin, was a pain he hadn’t seen until now.
a quiet storm started to build in his chest.
why?
why hadn’t you told him? how long had this been happening? what were you going through behind that bright smile he loved so much?
his gaze stayed on your arm for just a moment longer, before he forced his eyes back to the dolphins, pretending he hadn’t seen a thing.
but his mind was racing.
he wanted to say something. to ask. to hold you and promise you’d never feel that alone again.
but the words…
they didn’t come.
not yet.
that night, after the aquarium, jinu couldn’t sleep.
you had smiled so much that day. laughed so effortlessly. leaned into him like you always did when you were happy. it was all so familiar. so easy to believe that you were okay.
but those scars.
they haunted him.
he kept seeing them in flashes. red against your skin. fresh. not accidental. not something that could be brushed off or forgotten.
and he hated himself for not noticing.
how long had you been hurting like that? how long had you been covering it up while he stood right beside you, completely blind to it?
he stared at the ceiling, his hands gripping the edge of his blanket. he thought about all the times you’d said you were tired, or just needed to be alone for a bit. how you brushed off his questions with a soft smile.
he should’ve known.
and then his mind wandered, almost unwillingly, to his own marks. different in shape, in origin, but not so different in meaning. mistakes, regrets, anger he couldn’t always control.
shame.
he carried his in places he thought no one could see. and maybe… maybe you had been doing the same.
it made him feel sick.
not because of you, but because he hadn’t seen it sooner.
because someone as gentle as you had been carrying that weight alone.
he spent the next few days quieter than usual, but never distant. he held your hand more, let his touches linger, kissed your temple when you looked distracted. he didn’t ask. not yet. he wanted to do this right.
he wanted to make sure you felt safe.
when he finally brought it up, it was late. the sun was low in the sky, casting soft orange light across the room.
you were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, eyes half on your phone and half on the muted tv. jinu sat beside you, close but not pressing in.
“hey,” he said gently. his voice was so soft you almost missed it.
you looked over at him, smiling slightly. “hm?”
he hesitated, fingers twitching against his thigh. then he exhaled slowly, carefully.
“can i ask you something?”
your eyes searched his, and whatever you saw there made your smile falter. you nodded.
his gaze lowered to his hands. “i saw them,” he said, barely above a whisper. “at the aquarium.”
your breath caught. you stiffened.
“i didn’t know,” he went on. “i didn’t know you were hurting like that.”
you didn’t speak. he didn’t ask you to.
“i’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “i should’ve seen it. i should’ve… done something. i feel like i failed you.”
you shook your head, but he kept going, slow and quiet. “i’ve got my own marks. different, yeah. but i know what it’s like to hate them. to hide them. i just wish i’d known you were hiding yours too.”
you looked down, your lips pressed together. your throat tightened.
he reached for your hand. not pulling, just offering. and when you took it, he squeezed gently.
“you don’t have to tell me everything,” he said. “not now. maybe not ever. but if you want to, i’m here. and i’m not going anywhere.”
you nodded, and when you finally found your voice, it cracked.
“thank you.”
he smiled softly. “wanna go out for a bit? just… something light. nothing heavy.”
you blinked, surprised. “right now?”
“yeah,” he said, already getting up and pulling you with him. “ice cream. movie. something stupid and fun. let’s get your mind off things for a while.”
you smiled, small but real.
“okay,” you said. “i’d like that.”
and so you went.
not to run from it.
but to breathe.
and with jinu holding your hand so gently, you started to believe that maybe you could.
abby
he IMMEDIATELY brings it up
he sort of gets mad when he sees them. not necessarily at you but at how you didn’t come to him
after he expresses his anger (not much other than raising his voice slightly) he just holds you
he wouldn’t force you to stop doing it quick because he can tell it won’t be easy
he offers many alternatives
makes jokes after a while to try and get you to smile more
you were no stranger to abby showing up unannounced. he did it all the time. whenever he was bored, or needed company, or just felt like being near you. he never needed a reason.
today, the rain fell steadily outside, soft and rhythmic against the windows. to him, it felt like the perfect kind of weather to spend a quiet afternoon with you. a movie, maybe a warm drink, some light teasing, and your laugh filling the room. he didn’t even think twice before making his way over to your place.
the spare key was still in its usual hiding spot, tucked beneath the flower pot by your door. he smiled to himself as he picked it up, letting himself in like he’d done a dozen times before.
“y/n?” he called out, kicking off his shoes. “you home?”
the house was quiet. he half-expected to hear water running or music playing from your phone, but there was nothing. just the soft hum of the rain outside.
he walked through the hallway, checking the bathroom. empty.
then he found you, curled up in your bed, wrapped loosely in blankets, your chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
his entire body softened at the sight.
you looked so peaceful, like the world outside didn’t exist. like there was nowhere else you needed to be but here, resting. the corners of his mouth lifted as he stepped into the room quietly, making his way around the bed and gently lowering himself beside you.
he didn’t wake you. he didn’t need to. being near you like this was enough.
his eyes traced the slope of your cheek, the way your lashes rested against your skin, the soft parting of your lips as you breathed. he loved you like this. unguarded and quiet, like he was seeing something no one else ever did.
but then, his gaze drifted.
your arm had shifted, the sleeve of your sweater pushed up slightly from the way you’d turned in your sleep. and that’s when he saw it.
lines.
faint and fading, some older than others, but unmistakably there.
he froze.
his breath caught in his throat.
his first instinct was to tell himself it wasn’t what it looked like. that maybe it was something else. anything else.
but he knew. deep down, he knew exactly what those marks were.
and the weight of that realization hit him like a punch to the chest.
you, the person who lit up his world without even trying, had been carrying this kind of pain. in silence.
he stared, mind racing, heart sinking.
how had he not noticed? how long had you been hurting like this? how many times had you smiled at him with those marks hidden beneath your sleeves?
the rain outside kept falling, but inside, his world had gone still.
he reached out slowly, hesitated, then gently pulled your blanket higher over your arm. not to erase what he saw, but to protect you. even if just a little.
he lay there beside you, silent. his fingers grazed yours, just barely touching, like a quiet promise he’d never let you carry this alone again.
he lay there in silence, staring at the lines carved into your skin like they were screaming at him.
and maybe they were.
something inside him snapped. not in anger at you, never at you. but at the weight of everything you must’ve been carrying. at the thought that you had been hurting so deeply and had never come to him. him, of all people. the one who practically lived at your place, the one who showed up without warning just to be near you.
how could you not tell him?
his voice came out before he could stop it.
“y/n.”
it wasn’t loud, but there was a sharp edge to it. enough to wake you.
you stirred, eyes fluttering open, blinking up at him in confusion. “abby…?”
he sat up slightly, still staring. his jaw clenched.
“what the hell is this?” he asked, motioning toward your arm.
you followed his gaze, saw the blanket slightly slipping again, and your heart immediately dropped. your stomach twisted.
you sat up quickly, pulling your sleeve down, but the damage was done.
“i—”
“why didn’t you tell me?” his voice cracked, louder than usual. not a shout, but enough to make you flinch. “you’ve been dealing with this alone, and i’ve been here this whole time. and you didn’t say a damn thing.”
you looked away. shame creeping up your throat, thick and choking.
“abby, i didn’t want to worry you—”
“too late,” he cut in, voice raw. “i am worried.”
his anger melted just as quickly as it had come, replaced by something even heavier.
he reached for you, pulling you into his chest before you could say another word. his arms wrapped tight around you, like he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers if he let go.
his voice was softer now. rough. strained.
“you don’t ever have to deal with this alone again, you hear me?”
you nodded against his chest, trying to keep your tears in.
he held you for a long time. long enough for the rain to fade into the background, for the silence between you to stretch into something safe.
“i’m not gonna pretend it’s easy to stop,” he said eventually, fingers brushing your back. “and i’m not gonna force you to just… drop it overnight.”
you stayed quiet, soaking in every word.
“but i’m here. and we’ll figure this out. together.”
he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes searching yours.
“i’ve got a million stupid distractions if you ever feel it creeping in. like those weird stress toys i swore i’d never use. or drawing on your arm with pen. like, cool designs, not lame ones. unless you want lame ones. i can do those too.”
a small laugh escaped you, watery but real.
he grinned. “see? already working. i’m a genius.”
you rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.
he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear.
“we’re gonna get through this. you’re not alone anymore. not as long as i’ve got a key to that flower pot.”
you let out another soft laugh, and this time, it didn’t feel forced.
“thanks, abby.”
“always.”
he kissed your forehead, then pulled you close again, like he couldn’t get enough of just having you there, alive and breathing in his arms.
outside, the rain kept falling.
but inside, something had shifted.
something lighter. something safer.
and for the first time in a long time, you believed it might be okay.
romance
he definitely gets emotional
like he doesn’t cry as soon as he sees them but he feels a little teary eyed when he sees them all over your arm
he wouldn’t know what to do so he would ask stupid questions (like if he could draw on them so they don’t remind you of bad stuff)
he would leave little notes around your house saying “i love you” or “im proud of you” so you can remember and fight the urges
offers you to hit him instead because he would rather feel the pain and not you (he doesn’t understand sh but he tries his best)
it started off as one of those quiet nights, the kind where you didn’t really have plans, but Romance still showed up anyway.
he always did.
he brought snacks he knew you liked, a couple of his hoodies he “accidentally” left behind last time, and that soft energy he carried everywhere, like he could calm storms just by walking into a room.
“movie night,” he said as he dropped a bag on the table and kicked off his shoes. “don’t fight me on this.”
you didn’t. you were too tired to. but not the kind of tired that sleep fixed.
he didn’t say anything when you gave him a quiet smile instead of your usual sarcastic remark. just gave you a knowing look, one brow raised, and nudged your arm gently.
“rough day?”
you nodded.
“okay,” he said softly. “we’ll just watch something dumb and eat everything we shouldn’t. no pressure, no feelings, just vibes.”
you appreciated that about him. how he never pried too hard when you clearly didn’t have the strength to explain.
the night passed easily. at least, until you reached for something.
you were both sitting on the floor in front of the couch, legs stretched out, a movie playing quietly in the background. you reached for your cup across the table, and your oversized t-shirt sleeve slipped back.
just for a second.
but it was enough.
romance was mid-laugh, about to tease you for forgetting where you set your drink (again), when he saw it.
the marks.
faint at first, but the closer he looked, the more his heart sank. the newer ones, the deeper ones, all scattered along your arm like a language he didn’t understand but suddenly needed to learn.
his smile faded instantly.
“wait—”
you froze.
he reached out before you could pull your arm back, gently taking your wrist in his hand.
“what’s this?”
his voice was soft, but there was something else behind it. confusion, pain, panic he was barely keeping down.
you opened your mouth, then closed it again.
“don’t say it’s nothing,” he said quickly. “please don’t.”
you looked away. shame filled your chest like cement.
“i didn’t want you to see…”
“but i did,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “and i can’t unsee it.”
he let go of your wrist and sat back, blinking quickly. his eyes were red already.
“i don’t get it,” he said, frustrated. not with you, but with the fact that you were hurting and he’d been right here and hadn’t known. “was it me? did i miss something? did i…God, how did i not notice?”
you shook your head, panicked. “no, Romance, it’s not—”
“i just…” he dragged a hand down his face. “was i not enough? you could’ve told me. you should’ve told me.”
his voice cracked on that last part.
you felt the tears burn before they even hit your cheeks.
“i didn’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered. “i didn’t want you to see me like this.”
he let out a choked sound.
“you could never disappoint me.”
his eyes filled with tears then, no stopping them this time. he reached out and pulled you to him so fast it nearly knocked the wind out of you.
his arms wrapped tight around you, like he could physically hold you together.
“i don’t know what to do,” he admitted into your shoulder. “but i’ll try anything. i’ll learn. i’ll help. i’ll do every stupid thing that comes to mind just to keep you okay.”
you nodded against him, breath hitching.
“can i… draw on them?” he asked suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i know that sounds dumb. i just…I don’t want you to see them and think about hurting. what if i made them into flowers or shooting stars or, like, my dumb face?”
you laughed a little through your tears.
“or maybe…” he looked around, mind spinning. “sticky notes! i’m putting them everywhere. like boom, ‘i love you’ in the fridge. ‘you’re amazing’ in the bathroom cabinet. ‘don’t hurt my favorite person’ under your pillow.”
your smile faltered again.
“you really don’t have to—”
“yes, i do,” he said firmly. “i do. i don’t care if i don’t get it perfectly. i’d rather try everything and get it wrong than pretend like this doesn’t exist.”
his voice softened again.
“and listen… if it ever gets too much again, and you feel like hurting yourself… hit me instead.”
your eyes widened. “romance—”
“i mean it,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “i don’t want you to hurt me, but if it’s between me and you… i pick me. every time.”
you shook your head, overwhelmed. “you don’t understand…”
“i don’t,” he admitted. “but i want to. and that has to count for something.”
you reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly.
“it counts,” you whispered.
he brought your joined hands up to his lips and kissed your knuckles.
“good,” he said. “now scoot over. i’m still stealing the blanket. you’re not allowed to be depressed and hog the covers.”
you gave him a teary smile. “you’re such an idiot.”
“your favorite idiot,” he grinned.
and that night, before you fell asleep on the couch with your head on his shoulder, he slipped a note into the back pocket of your hoodie:
“you made it through today. i’m proud of you. i love you. — <3
you found it the next morning. and it stayed folded there for a long, long time.
mystery
SILENT BUT DEADLY
he doesn’t say much but he makes you cry instantly with his actions and small words
he would kiss them like every scar gets a kiss
he’s very touchy so his comfort is a lot of touching
i can imagine him just kissing not only your scars but alll over your face AHH
starts checking up on you a lot more
you didn’t mean for him to find out.
not today. not like this.
you were sitting on your bed, trying to stay present. just breathe, that’s what your therapist had said, but your sweater had slipped off your shoulder, and your sleeve had been pushed up just a little too far. you didn’t even notice. not until you heard footsteps.
you looked up, startled.
Mystery stood in the doorway.
he didn’t say anything. not at first.
his eyes found your arm, and everything in the room changed.
you tried to cover it, quickly pulling the fabric back down, but it was too late.
his eyes didn’t move. he just… stared. not in judgment. not in confusion. but in this heavy, gut-deep silence that made your throat close up.
“it’s not—” you started, voice trembling. “i didn’t mean—i’ve been okay lately, i just…”
he walked toward you slowly, sitting beside you like you were something breakable.
his hand reached out, fingers brushing your wrist before gently turning it over, exposing the lines again.
some old. some not.
“you didn’t tell me,” he murmured, finally.
his voice was soft, but full of that quiet ache you knew he never let most people see.
you looked down, ashamed. “i didn’t want you to look at me different.”
he didn’t say anything for a moment. his thumb brushed over the skin, slow, almost reverent.
“i look at you like you hung the stars,” he said simply. “nothing changes that.”
your breath caught.
he looked up at you after slightly moving his hair to look at you clearly, which he only really did with you, and his eyes…God, they hurt to look at. he looked like he was the one bleeding.
“you could’ve come to me,” he added. “you still can.”
you felt the tears prick your eyes, fast and hot.
“i didn’t want you to hate me,” you whispered.
his brows pulled together. “never. not even for a second.”
then he leaned in, so slowly, and pressed a kiss to your wrist.
you gasped softly, the weight of it too much to handle.
but he didn’t stop.
one kiss. then another. and another. trailing up every scar, like each one deserved love just for existing.
you broke. tears spilled down your cheeks and he caught them with his hands, cupping your face like it was precious.
“i don’t care how long it takes,” he whispered. “i’m staying.”
then he kissed your cheeks. your temple. the corners of your mouth.
your forehead.
your eyelids.
slow, sure, full of a love he didn’t have the words for.
and when he pulled you into his chest, he didn’t let go for a long time.
just held you, warm and safe and real, his hands never leaving your skin.
the next morning, you found a note on your mirror in his messy handwriting:
“you’re still here. that’s enough.”
and another tucked into your sock drawer:
“i love you more than the silence between us.”
and maybe that’s when you realized, mystery didn’t need many words to break your heart wide open. just the right ones.
baby
FULL 180
went from teasing, playfully fighting, to genuine concern
tries his best but just like romance, he doesn’t really know how to deal with the situation
he would rub them a lot like he would caress them and try his best to make you feel better
asks many questions so he knows what to do to make you stop
he also gets a little emotional when he finds out but doesn’t show it AT ALL until he’s alone
“you’re cheating,” you laughed, trying to pull your arm out of baby’s grip.
“am not,” he grinned, tugging you closer. “you just suck at thumb wrestling.”
“you literally used your whole hand!”
“i’m a strategist,” he said smugly, pinning you down with ease. “it’s not my fault you don’t train for these things.”
you rolled your eyes, trying not to smile as he leaned back on your bed, victorious, hands laced behind his head like he’d just conquered a battlefield.
“admit defeat, coward,” he added, barely holding back a laugh.
you smacked a pillow into his face. he let it hit him and dramatically collapsed, groaning like he’d been mortally wounded.
“i’m dying,” he muttered. “you’ll regret this when i’m gone.”
you laughed again, until he sat up suddenly and reached for you, pulling you back into his side with no warning.
“don’t think you’re getting away that easy.”
you struggled against him, still grinning, trying to wriggle out from his hold. and then, your sleeve shifted. just for a second.
and baby stilled.
it was subtle. a flicker in his eyes. a quiet shift in his expression.
you didn’t even realize what had happened until he gently caught your wrist.
you froze.
he pulled your sleeve back slowly, eyes scanning your arm. no words. no teasing.
you panicked, trying to pull away. “it’s not—don’t—”
“who did this?”
his voice was low. not angry. not joking. just quiet. serious.
“i… it wasn’t someone else,” you whispered. “it was me.”
Baby didn’t move for a moment. his thumb ran over the marks. some healed, some not.
you expected a joke. a stupid, poorly timed deflection. something typical.
but instead, he just stared. brow furrowed. lips slightly parted. like he didn’t know what the hell to do with the ache crawling up his throat.
then, softly,
“does it help?”
your eyes widened. “what?”
“when you do it,” he said, barely above a whisper. “does it… help? even for a second?”
you swallowed hard, eyes burning. “sometimes. but then it just makes me feel worse after.”
he nodded slowly, not looking away.
then he gently, gently brought your arm up to his lips and kissed one of the scars.
“i’m not mad,” he said. “not even a little. i just… i didn’t know.”
you felt yourself shaking.
he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
his fingers moved over your arm again, soft, steady. like he was trying to rewrite what the world had carved into you.
“what do i do?” he asked quietly. “tell me what to do, baby. i don’t want this to keep happening.”
you couldn’t answer right away.
so he kept going.
“do you want distractions? do you want me to sit with you? should i hide the sharp stuff? should we make, like, a stupid emergency box with snacks and dumb cartoons and notes from me that say ‘you’re hot, don’t bleed’ or something?”
you choked on a laugh, wiping your face. “that’s the worst note idea i’ve ever heard.”
“okay, fine, it’ll say ‘you’re the hottest mess i’ve ever loved, please don’t hurt my favorite person.’”
you laughed again, even through the tears.
he smiled, relieved at the sound.
“you can call me anytime, y’know,” he said. “if it gets bad. i won’t say anything dumb.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you always say dumb things.”
“okay, fair,” he admitted. “but i’ll try.”
he pulled you tighter into him, resting his chin on your shoulder, still rubbing slow circles into your arm.
“you matter too much to me,” he murmured, and for once, he didn’t say it like a joke.
you stayed like that for a long time. wrapped in his arms, his touch grounding you in the moment.
he didn’t cry in front of you. didn’t let it show.
but that night, when he got home, he sat on the floor of his room with his head in his hands and just let it happen.
because he finally saw how much pain you’d been hiding.
Yayyyyy! I've been waiting for ur requests to open hehe. I had a random angsty idea at like 3 AM. SO. How about how drv3 boys would react to kokichi just shoving up readers sleeve and showing their s/h bc he thought it was weird that they ALWAYS insisted on wearing long sleeves no matter how hot it was. Idk I just randomly came up with this at one point and wanted to see it written. Take ur time writing! It's alright if u take awhile. :)
Anyways, BYE *fades out of existence*
>> #Author's note ::
"stop i actually love you AJDORNGJFHD THIS IS SUCH A GOOD IDEA! I WANTED TO WRITE FOR KOKICHI SO BAD AND ANGST?? AAA! btw this is kinda short since it's all boys but YOU GET ITT"
>> genre: sfw headcanons!
>> ship: Danganronpa: killing harmony boys x gn! reader!
>> CONTENT WARNING: SH WARNING OKAY?? PLS DO NOT READ IF TRIGGERED!! I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH MY KIDS ILYSM KISS KISS I APPRECIATE YOU!! ALSO I DIDN'T FOCUS MUCH ON READER'S REACTION BECAUSE I WANT TO WRITE THIS AS RESPECTFUL AS POSSIBLE
NDRV3 BOYS X SELF-HARMED! READER
#GENERAL REACTIONS & HEADCANONS
SHUICHI SAIHARA
────── 🔎 ──────
he already predicted this was gonna happen, he had seen the mischief in Kokichi's eyes when you walked in, and he regrets that he didn't move to stop the supreme leader before all of this happened.
He had calculated your struggles, because nobody is stupid enough to question why a person has a long sleeved shirt in such hot weather. He never questioned or acted differently. He just respected you.
But to see the scars, some old and fading, literally clashing with red, angry ones? It hurts too much, and somehow, feel so familiar.
This is one of the times where he will actually look at Kokichi with a serious look and tell him that he took things too far, and that he had done more than enough.
He knows one of your deepest secrets and insecurities had been exposed to the public, and for a matter of laughter.He knows Kokichi didn't mean it, but actions has consequences
KOKICHI OMA
────── 🎲 ──────
He was laughing as he pulled the sleeves, but as soon as he saw the fresh wounds, exposed right to his and EVERYONE'S sight? His smile froze, so his whole expression.
He doesn't even react as you push him away, he deserves that. Kokichi is evil yeah, but the action he had just done surprised even him.
He's an evil supreme leader, not a monster. Hs expression was blank and empty as he just stared at you. He didn't mean for that to happen. He thought there were silly doodles he could make fun of.
Now you see him as a complete demon. A monster. And suddenly he doesn't laugh or giggle at these nicknames anymore, because there was no reason for him to do this.
He only meant to be annoying. He is sorry, but guess it's too late for that. With an empty giggle, he just rushed off. He messed up.
KAITO MOMOTA
────── 🚀 ──────
at first he was frozen in the spot just like anybody else, but he'd immediately get back to his senses, yelling at Kokichi and pushing the shorter guy away from you.
Maybe Kaito doesn't get why you wear long sleeved shirts while everyone is sweating, but he knows it's none of his business! And the fact Kokichi exposed something too forbidden for anyone else to see like this? It's a misunderstanding to say he's fuming.
Maybe he'd punch Kokichi for this act, maybe he'd get held back, but he will definitely throw shit at a very uncharacteristically quiet Kokichi.
After everything he'd make sure to tell you that nobody here judges you, and that he's willing to help you overcome any struggles! But Shuichi might need to actually MAKE him give you some space. But he truly means well.
Just if he was faster enough.
RANTARO AMAMI
────── ❔ ──────
Rantaro knew, he always does know what's hidden and why, and when Kokichi actually dared to show the scars, angry and red, his expression darkened.
He felt protective of you, because how can he not?
he'd tell Kokichi to not touch you, and that he went too far and would help cover you from everyone's gaze. Maybe even help you get away from everyone's gaze
He'd tell everyone to give you some time, but also to check constantly on you to make sure you're okay, if you need food or water, he'd tell Kirumi to try and make you your favorite food.
KOREKIYO SHINGUJI
────── ⚰️ ──────
He'd be silent throughout the whole thing, but he can sympathize, because he knows how it feels for your deepest secrets to be shown for the public, to be stripped bare.
He'd quietly mumble about how humanity could be cruel to the weak, fragile ones. He wouldn't glance at your scars too much, just your expression and body language.
He'd shame the action Kokichi did (or Kokichi himself) but stay behind for now.
It's not his space to help or comfort you, he isn't the greatest at it. He may approach you with a bow of his head and an apology on Kokichi's behalf but that's that. He doesn't want to overstep.
K1-B0
────── 🤖 ──────
He wouldn't completely understand the gravity of the situation yet, but he knows from your and everyone's reactions that Kokichi's action was grave and disrespectful.
He would (a little loudly) tell Kokichi to step back and give you some distance, that what he did was horrible and he should take consequences for it
He would like to check on you and offer advice on how to professionally treat your 'injuries', but if you require space he will give it
He's oblivious, but he means well. He will do research about the cuts on your hands, and once he finds out why they're there and how to deal with it, he would feel even more sympathy for you and help you.
GONTA GOKUHARA
────── 🐞 ──────
He would be so confused the whole time, because.. Why are your wrists injured?? Did someone hurt you? Or was it an accident?
He would like to check on you, but when everyone tells him to give you space, he will gladly do it!
But he feels sad and upset, and would ask everyone why and who hurt you. It makes this so much harder and painful for everyone.
Once he knows you're the one who caused them, he'd feel so upset he would cry for you, and vows to help you push the pain away!
He'd collect a few cute bugs to show you later! Suddenly there's a few fireflies flying around your dark room <3
RYOMA HOSHI
────── 🎾 ──────
Feels your pain to a deep level. He was watching from the sidelines quietly with a dark glare
He pulled the lollipop out and sighed deeply. He can definitely relate to your own, maybe even suffered the same issue.
He would approach your door and tell you that you're strong for just staying alive, would leave a little snack and leave shortly after.
He knows you're strong, and would actually speak up for you.
Hi! I know it's been months since I posted, and for that I am very sorry. I have a few fics written, and a bunch in the works, and I'm hoping to get back to posting regularly!! Things have been wild the past few months, and writing unfortunately took a backseat. i've really missed it, and i'm glad that i seem to be getting back to it!! hopefully i'll be able to keep this momentum.
I hope this fic can bring some comfort ♡ I tend to write about things that I experience and can relate to. It's harder to find fics like this, so I try to create them for those of us who find comfort in them.
If you struggle with self-harm, know that you are not alone ♡
!trigger warnings! :
This fic is drivers reacting to a reader with self-harm scars. So, obviously, if that is a triggering topic for you, please protect your mental well-being ♡
The George fic contains cruel online comments. The Carlos fic references an ex who made the reader feel bad about sh scars.
Additional warning: the Alex fic turns into smut (sorry not sorry).
the drivers included in this fic are: Oscar Piastri, George Russell, Carlos Sainz, Alex Albon
(I know it's kind of a random lineup, this is just the order I finished them in haha. part two will have the other drivers I include in these "drivers react" fics)
Btw, the organization mentioned in the George fic is just a random one i found that’s based in the UK, so I don’t actually know much about them. If they are super shady, lmk and I’ll change it!!
♡ Oscar Piastri:
The first time he saw them was a complete accident. You two had only been dating for a few months, and you'd been careful to keep your scars hidden. They weren't something you needed him to see, not yet, at least. You kept telling yourself that you'd be honest with him about it eventually, but deep down you didn't want to. You knew that you didn't “owe him” any explanation, but you still felt that he deserved one. You just didn't want to. It was too risky, you thought. What if that's the final straw? What if that's what convinces him to leave? It was thoughts like those that plagued your mind, a constant barrier between you and total honesty. That’s why it was so awful when he found out, why it felt like your world was shattering completely.
You were in the kitchen of Oscar’s apartment, the warm afternoon sunlight streaming in lazily through the massive windows. You had started to reach up into one of his top cabinets for a glass, but he had pushed them too far back and you couldn’t get to them. You looked back to Oscar, who was sitting at the kitchen island and staring at his phone, for some help.
“You need to put the damn glasses in a place where I can reach them, they’re too far back,” you told him as he got up.
“But this gives me a reason to do this,” he replied, simultaneously getting the glass and dropping a kiss on the top of your head. He spun you around, pressing you gently against the counter. He brushed a finger over your wrist and you instinctively looked down, wanting to check that your sleeve was still covering the marks on your arm. But, to your great dismay, your wrist was bare. Your sleeve must have ridden up when you reached for the glass, and Oscar had distracted you to the point of not noticing. His gaze followed your own, and you saw the exact moment when he noticed the scars.
You quickly pushed him away, nausea roiling in your stomach. You feel tears immediately prick your eyes, that familiar lump at the back of your throat.
“Love,” he starts, his eyes wide.
“No, Oscar, just- just-“ Your voice cracks before you can finish your sentence. A sentence you didn’t know how to end anyway.
“Please don’t push me away, love. Please, talk to me.” The sincerity in his voice is clear, making it hard to ignore him.
Two parts of your mind are warring. One part wants to tell him, to be honest. The other doesn’t want to burden him.
“Please,” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly.
And it’s that, the little voice crack, that gets you. The tears you were trying to hold back break through, and your limbs begin to shake.
Oscar crosses the room quickly, catching you before you fall to the ground. He holds you carefully in his arms, as if you’re something precious. And sitting there on the floor, tucked into him, you feel a sense of comfort that leads to strength.
The tears don’t stop, but they slow down, enough for you to start to speak.
“Oscar, I- I used to really struggle with self harm. That’s what the scars are from.” You pause, expecting him to say something, to interrupt. But he doesn’t. He stays silent, keeping his arms around you, waiting for you to go on. “I’ve spent a lot of time working on alternatives to cutting,” you continue, taking a deep breath. “But sometimes I slip up and-” your voice breaks, the full force of your honesty hitting you. What if this makes him leave? What if this is the end of the relationship? What if he can’t handle this, if it’s too much? If you’re too much? But instead of shaming you, of getting mad, he asks something you hadn’t anticipated.
“What can I do?” His voice breaks through the noise of your ragged breaths, a steady presence through the chaos. When you don’t answer, he continues. “How can I help, love? Should I talk to your therapist?”
“Oscar, I-”
“If you don’t know right now, that’s okay. I just want to help you.”
His words make your breath hitch. Despite how loving and caring he always is, your brain had still convinced you that he would react differently, that this would be his final straw with you. You can’t hide your surprise at his interest in helping. “You do?” you reply, voice small.
Now it’s Oscar’s turn to be surprised. “Of course I do, sweetheart. I love you. This is what you do for the people you love. Why would you think I wouldn’t want to help you?”
“I just- I don’t want to burden you. You’re already dealing with so much, I don’t want to put this on your plate as well. You shouldn’t have to take care of me, I should be able to take care of myself.”
“Oh, love, it’s not a burden. And as if I could ever be too busy for you,” his reply is quick, as if he didn’t even have to think before reassuring you, as if it was something so obvious to him that he couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t as clear to you. “As for taking care of you, that’s something I do gladly. I take care of you because I love you.”
“But I can’t ever give you that same level of care back,” you reply.
“That’s because everyone is different. You take care of me every day, it just shows up in different ways than how I take care of you. That doesn’t make it any less important.” When you don’t reply, he continues. “Who’s the one who comforts me after a poor quali or race result? You are. You’re the one who helps me navigate team politics, you help me keep track of all the people I have to meet, you come to every race that you possibly can. You support me in more ways than I can count.”
“Of course I do that,” you reply. “That’s what you do for someone you love.”
“Exactly, sweetheart, these are the things you do when you love someone. It’s the same reason I support you, the reason I want to help you. This is simply what you do when you care about someone.”
You don’t have a response to that, at a loss for a rebuttal. He proved his own point using your words, and he actually made sense. That was the hardest part, everything he said made logical sense. It’s made it so much harder to disagree.
“Why don’t we chill for the rest of the afternoon, how does that sound?” He asks, gently helping you up off the floor. “And then tomorrow I’ll call your therapist, so I can learn how best to help you.”
“Osc, you really don’t have to do that.”
“Nope, no disagreeing. We just talked about this, love.”
You sigh, defeated, as he pulls you into a hug. But you let yourself relax into it, let yourself trust that you aren’t a burden. And as he takes your hand and leads you to the couch, you let yourself trust that he really does care, and that he truly does all of this because he loves you. And you know, deep down, that he must, because you’d do all of this for him too.
♡ George Russell:
George knew about your past, about your struggles with self harm. He’d never made you feel weak or small or ashamed, but that didn’t mean those feelings never came up on their own. They were the kinds of feelings that made you nervous to post on Instagram, made you nervous to be seen in the paddock. The shame would wrap itself around you, despite how much you tried to push it away, feelings of weakness sinking into your bones. You knew the scars were proof of how far you’d come, but your brain didn’t always want to see it that way.
And it was on one of those days, the days that feel harder, where the self-criticism is sharper, that you saw the post.
It was from some gossip account, an account you should definitely have blocked, and showed a picture of you from the British GP, a photo you had posted on your own Instagram account. Except it wasn’t just the photo as you had posted it, they had zoomed in on your arm, enough to see the scars more clearly. The caption, “Scars? Wow, so classy..” was needlessly cruel. And so were most of the comments.
user_name: the fact that this is the girl he’s with is wild
user_0063: hi so why is this our business?
user_name_88: god that’s trashy
user_loser: i already didn’t like george, so this makes it even worse
user_02: so she hurts herself?? she’s unstable and dating an f1 driver…. feels like a terrible idea
⤷ user_005: @ user_02: why do you care?
⤷ user_02 @ user_005: i’m just worried about george.. can’t be good to be dating someone crazy enough to hurt themselves. imagine what she’s capable of….
You had to stop after that one, after whatever it was that they were insinuating. They thought you were crazy, did they think you would hurt George? Or someone else on the track?
You knew it was just gossip, but it still stung. All the thoughts that plagued your mind, the things you tried to tell yourself were irrational, were all said explicitly in the comments, by strangers who had no understanding of your actual life experience. But they’d already made assumptions about the kind of person you are.
And as you sit there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling tears start to prick the back of your eyes, George walks into the room.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Just some comments, nothing serious,” you reply, hoping that you’ll convince both him and yourself.
“Well, you seem upset, so they are serious. Show me, love.”
His words make your heart melt. Of course George would want to see them, of course he would take your issues seriously, of course he wouldn’t dismiss your worries.
You open Instagram and find the post still open, the comments section glaring at you. You wordlessly pass your phone to him, letting him read the comments for himself.
It’s like you can tell which comment he’s reading with how expressive his face is.
His eyebrows shoot up, and you know he’s reading the “who knows what else she’s capable of” comment.
“This is horrible, darling,” he says after a long moment. “You know it’s not true, right?”
“I know,” you reply with a sigh. “Logically, at least, I know it’s not true. I know it’s just comments on a gossip page. But it still hurts, you know? It really hurts to see all the worst thoughts I have about myself written out by other people.”
“It’s disgusting that people think they can speak this way about anyone, let alone you. And trying to claim that they’re worried about me? As if they know anything about you! About us?!” His voice grows louder, more firm. He’s not yelling, he doesn’t raise his voice, but you can tell he’s angry. “It just makes me so mad,” he continues, “so bloody mad that they think they can get away with this. That they can treat you like this.” He starts pacing as he talks, as if he simply can’t sit still anymore.
“People online love to be cruel, George. You’ve experienced that firsthand.”
“Hating me is one thing, but dragging you into it crosses a major line.”
He pauses for a minute.
“You- they’re not right, darling. You’re not crazy.”
“I know, logically, I know,” you reply, the tears starting to prick your eyes yet again.
“But I want to tell you anyway. You’re incredibly strong and brave. You’re so resilient. Your scars don’t make you crazy, they show your bravery.”
This makes the tears start, his words easing your worries. But one still plagues your mind.
“You don’t.. you don’t think I’d hurt you, right?” your voice is quiet, small, as you ask, as if you don’t want to truly hear the answer, afraid of what it might be.
“Of course not, darling,” he says as he sits again, quickly pulling you into his arms. “I trust you, love. I know you would never hurt me, I know how much you love me. And I know how much I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and a few disgusting comments don’t change that. Our relationship is ours, not theirs.”
“George, I-” your voice cuts off, your emotions finally breaking completely free.
“Don’t worry about saying anything, sweetheart. Just rest, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
And he’s right, you are exhausted. And you hadn’t fully realized it until he suggested you rest. So you let yourself relax and snuggle closer in his arms, feeling yourself drift to sleep.
—
When you wake up, still in George’s arms, you see the dimming light of the early evening.
“George! Why wouldn’t you wake me up sooner! I slept the afternoon away!” you scold.
“You were clearly tired, darling. You needed the rest. And besides, I was busy.”
“Busy? With what?”
“See for yourself.” he says, passing his phone to you. It’s open to a draft of an Instagram post, full of text.
“Read it,” he says, “and let me know what you think. I want your opinion before I post anything. If it’s too personal, I’ll change it. I’ll change anything you want me to, darling.”
And so you start to read.
post:
“It’s come to my attention that people feel entitled to commenting on my girlfriend's body. In particular, some seem to have a fixation on the scars on her arms. Anyone who knows anything about her will know how open she is about her struggles with self-harm. She believes that it’s important for people to know that they aren’t alone, a sentiment I agree with. But to speculate on her condition, on our relationship, or shame her for her scars is absolutely vile. If you refuse to take the time to educate yourself, you have no right to comment at all. To insinuate that she is violent or dangerous is abhorrent. This behavior is completely unacceptable and needs to stop. I urge you to educate yourself on mental health issues and self harm. Instead of judging, learn. I also hope that you will join me, if able, in donating to the Mental Health Foundation, an organization that supports those struggling with their mental health.
I don’t want to see any more comments like this. If you have ever said anything like this about my girlfriend, I hope you know that you are not welcome in this community.
To everyone who is struggling, I hope you can get the help you deserve and know that it will get better. Your scars, your struggles, your pain, none of that defines you. Don’t let anyone convince you that it does.”
*end post*
“George, this is..” you cut yourself off, speechless. And George looks.. nervous, as if he’s unsure of what you’re going to say. “This is amazing. This is so, so amazing. I-I don’t even have words. This is so thoughtful.”
He lets out a deep breath, relieved that you like it. “So, I can post it?”
“Yes, George. I’d love it if you did.”
He takes his phone back and posts it, making sure to clarify that you approved the post in the caption, and then sets his phone down.
“Thank you, George,” you say. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, darling. It’s exactly what I wanted to do for you.”
And that makes the biggest smile break across your face.
“Now, what do you say we watch a movie? I’ll let you pick.”
“Yes, George,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “That sounds lovely.”
♡ Carlos Sainz:
You don’t know what exactly you’d been expecting. It wasn’t that you thought Carlos wouldn’t notice the fact that you were wearing long sleeves in the middle of June. It was more that you hoped he wouldn’t say anything about it. But, really, when has Carlos ever kept his opinion to himself? And that was why you shouldn’t have been surprised when he pointed it out. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t. Not really. It hadn’t been a realistic expectation for him to simply not mention it, but you had hoped for that anyway.
So when he asked, “Preciosa, why are you wearing long sleeves when it’s 35 degrees* outside? You will be too hot in that.” You felt your stomach drop, feeling a combination of shame and anxiety. You knew you’d be hot and miserable in it, but you’d wanted to be able to just go about your day with him. But now you’d have to explain your strange fashion choice, to justify your decision. And you didn’t want to have to do that.
*this is Celsius, which is 95 degrees Fahrenheit
You took a long pause before answering, trying to formulate the most reasonable response that wouldn’t invite follow-ups.
“I just like the shirt,” you say eventually, cringing at the excuse your mind came up with.
“But you have other shirts you like, no? Maybe one that is better suited for the weather?”
Of course that was his reply. And of course it made complete sense, far more sense than the crappy excuse you came up with.
“I just want to wear this one,” you insist.
He doesn’t even respond, giving you a look that perfectly asks “why?”
You know it’s futile trying to evade his questions, but you do anyway.
“Just don’t worry about it, let’s go!” You say, forcing enthusiasm into your voice as you turn towards the door.
“Not so fast, mi amor,” he replies, gently grabbing your arm to stop you. “There is a reason you don’t want to wear short sleeves, and I want you to tell me what it is.”
You pause, forcing yourself to turn away. If you look at him, into his eyes, you’ll want to tell him everything. And you can’t do that.
“Tsk, no, preciosa,” he chides, tilting your chin up towards his face. “Look at me. Stop hiding. Dime la verdad, por favor (Tell me the truth, por favor).”
And standing there, with his hand still gently wrapped around your arm, his eyes filled with so much love as he gazes at you, the words just spill out.
“I don’t want anyone to see my scars. They’re- my ex always told me how ugly they were, how ugly they made me. I don’t want you- anyone to see how ugly I am.”
You see his nostrils flare, anger swirl in his eyes, for just the briefest moment, before he composes himself again.
“Mi amor, you are many things, but ugly is nowhere near one of them. You are beyond beautiful, nothing changes that.”
“B-but the scars are ugly, they mar my skin. H-he was right when he said I should always have them covered. That it would ruin someone’s day to see them.” You can’t help your voice cracking, nor can you stop the tears from rolling down your cheeks.
“No,” Carlos’ voice is low, a warning. “He was not right. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about you could ever ruin someone’s day.”
“You don’t- you don’t get it.”
“Then show me, hermosa.”
As if he can sense your hesitation, he continues. “Let me prove to you that you are beautiful, that you have nothing to hide. Show me the thing he made you hate, and let me love it for you. Let me help you love it too.”
His words pierce your heart, lodging themselves in a place you know they’ll stay. They embolden you, just enough, to slowly take the shirt off, revealing a pattern of scars on your arms you wished to erase.
“Mi amor,” Carlos says on an exhale. “Eres tan fuerte (you are so strong). How could anyone look at you and not see your strength, your beauty?”
“I- I’ve been clean for a year and a half now,” you tell him.
The pride in his face is so obvious it makes your heart leap. “Preciosa, that is so incredible.”
“These scars, they just feel like such a horrible reminder of my weakness, like such a blight on my skin.”
“No, never say that. These scars are proof you survived, hermosa. They show your courage to keep going.”
And then he does something you did not expect, something your ex never would have done.
He takes your wrist and gently flips it over, finding a longer scar on your forearm. And kisses it.
The world seems to freeze for a moment, time stopping, as he continues this up the rest of your arm, treating the roughest part of you with the utmost care. The tears come back, but they’re no longer sad. These tears are from joy, an almost overwhelming amount of it.
“I told you I would love this part of you, just like I love all of you, mi amor,” he says, his voice soft and filled with love. “You deserve to be treated kindly and gently, you deserve love like this.”
And as he presses his lips to yours, the lips that just kissed the scars you were taught to despise, you find yourself believing his words.
♡ Alex Albon:
Alex had been so excited about the beach. He’d insisted that you go. And you wanted to be excited, truly, but it felt hard. You were excited, but the dark part of your brain wasn’t. The part of your brain that fixated on your every imperfection, on any perceived sign of weakness. And the problem with bathing suits, this part of your brain pointed out, is that you can’t really hide your scars. Much to your chagrin.
Alex knew about your scars, and he never judged you for them. But you weren’t sure how he’d feel about them being so exposed. And you were nervous about possible photos being taken, or people recognizing you guys and saying something. You hated feeling like this, small and self-conscious, but it felt hard-wired into your brain.
But you put on your bathing suit and quickly threw on a coverup over it, and headed out to find Alex.
—
His smile was huge as you guys got to the beach, and his joy was contagious. You smiled in spite of your fears. His eyes are trained on the water, but he doesn’t run for it. He waits for you to set your stuff down and grabs the sunscreen.
“Take off your coverup, baby,” he says, his tone playful. “You need to put on sunscreen.”
“I can do that myself, Alex,” you say with a sigh, hoping that he’ll just go.
“But I want to do it,” he insists, shooting you a goofy smile.
You take a deep breath, trying to come up with a response.
“Woah, babe,” he starts. “I’m sorry, I was just being flirty. Was that too weird?”
“No,” you say with a little laugh. Of course Alex would think it was something he did, instead of something wrong with you. “No it’s just- I’m just- I’m worried about my scars.”
“Oh,” he replies. “Well, that’s why you need to put sunscreen on. That skin will be extra sensitive, so you have to be extra careful. One more reason I’m happy to help.”
“That’s- that’s not what I mean, Alex.”
“Then what do you mean?” his genuine confusion is obvious.
“I mean, they’re so exposed when I wear a bathing suit.” His confused expression remains. “And, you know, what if people see? Or what if they’re visible in photos? Or..” You trail off as he looks at you, his gaze distracting.
“I’m sorry, love, I still don’t really understand.”
“You aren’t.. you aren’t embarrassed? Or- or disgusted?”
“What?” The look of pure shock on his face is so genuine it pierces your heart. “Why would I be embarrassed? Or disgusted? How could I be embarrassed or disgusted? By you? I don’t-”
“Not by me, Alex,” you interrupt. “But my scars.”
“But those are a part of you,” he replies. “Why would I be embarrassed by a part of you?”
“They’re- I don’t know,” you admit. “They’re ugly, I guess.”
“Trust me, baby, nothing about you is ugly. Not even close. You and ugliness aren’t even in the same universe.”
His words make you giggle.
“And if they’re visible in pictures, so what? They’re a part of you, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Anyone who has anything negative to say about that can fuck right off.”
“Alex!”
“No, I’m serious. You’re so beautiful, every single part of you. And if someone doesn’t agree, that’s an opinion that they can keep to themself.”
“Thank you, Alex.”
“Don’t thank me for telling the honest truth. Now, take off that coverup, beautiful.”
The rate at which your emotions can change should be studied, because now you’re blushing, when just a few moments ago, you felt on the verge of tears.
You slowly take off the coverup, hearing Alex loudly exhale as you tuck it into your bag.
“Fuck, baby,” he says with a sigh. “You’re so beautiful it makes my head hurt. How anyone could look at you and not get distracted is beyond me.”
“Alex,” you start.
“No, don’t do any of that ‘you’re just saying that’ nonsense. I’m serious. You’re beautiful. Every single part of you is so beautiful that I can’t imagine anyone feeling differently. I can’t imagine someone looking at you and thinking that your scars somehow negate your beauty. Besides,” he continues, “you look too good in that bikini for anyone to even notice your arms.”
His words alone are enough to make you flush. But it’s his face, the hunger in his eyes, that pushes it over the top.
You can see exactly what he wants, just by that look in his eyes. You can tell what he’s after.
Which is why it’s no surprise when he grabs your hand and pulls you behind the little hut that houses an ice cream shop. Luckily, it’s still early enough that the shop is closed.
“Alex!” you whisper-yell, not wanting to draw attention. “Someone could see!”
“There’s barely anyone here right now anyway, it’s too early. And besides,” he continues, a smirk on his face. “Isn’t the thrill of potentially being caught half the fun?”
You concede, begrudgingly, that the thrill is half the fun, but a sliver of nervousness still remains. Nervousness that quickly disappears as Alex presses you against the wall, kissing you passionately. You bring your hands up to fist his hair, causing him to groan.
He pulls away, lips swollen, pupils dilated, “Please,” he whispers. “I need this. I need you. Please.”
“Yes,” you reply, no hesitation. “Please, Alex, I need this too.”
His movements are quick, that of a man starved, as he slides your bottoms down.
And then he’s sliding a finger inside you, his practiced hands finding the spot to make you moan.
“Fuck, baby,” he says, his voice cracking. “All this for me?”
“Y-yes,” you reply, your voice breathy.
Your moans grow louder as he adds another finger and circles your clit with his thumb.
“God, I love that sound. Come on, beautiful, let go for me.”
And you do, his words pushing you over the edge. It’s unexpected, you never come that fast, but something about the way Alex is holding you up against the wall, the threat of anyone seeing you, has gotten to your head.
He pulls his fingers out, licking them clean. “You taste so good. So fucking good,” he says with a moan.
“Alex, I need-”
“I know, baby,” he says, cutting you off. “I know what you need, let me take care of you.” He quickly pulls off his swim trucks, letting his cock, already dripping with precum, spring free. “Do you see what you do to me, Y/N? Do you see how fucking beautiful you are?”
“P-please, Alex. Please, I need you.”
“Jesus- Oh fuck,” he whimpers as he pushes into you. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good.”
His breathing is ragged and fast, whimpers and moans spilling out of his mouth as he thrusts desperately into you. He moves his hand back down to circle your clit again, making you want to scream.
“Is that good, baby?”
“So good, Alex,” you reply, breathless. “It’s so, so good. You’re so good”
His pace quickens, encouraged by the praise. His thrusts become more frantic, before he manages a strangled “Shit, I’m gonna-”
“Fuck, me too. Please, keep going. Right there.”
With one last thrust, you both go over the edge together. He grounds into you as he comes, and you feel yourself clench around him. You look down as he pulls out, watching his cum drip out of you.
“Christ,” he says, using a finger to push it back in. “I could get used to this view.”
You look up at him, a hint of surprise in your eyes. “You could?”
“Yeah, I like seeing you full of me.”
You can’t help the little whimper that escapes your mouth. He’s not usually this possessive, but you like it.
“God, baby, you’re insatiable.”
“You love it.”
“Of course I do.” He pauses. “But I think this time I’ll make you wait. We really should enjoy the beach.”
“Alex!”
“Come on,” he says, pulling your bottoms back on before putting on his own. “Let’s go for a swim.”
“This is cruel!” you argue, pouting.
“But it’ll feel so much better after I make you wait, I promise. Plus, I’ll be so proud of you.”
That statement causes you to be equal parts annoyed and excited. You know he won’t relent, so you decide to give up. For now. You take his hand as he leads you to the ocean, knowing that you’ll make sure he keeps his promise later today.
i hope you enjoyed these! like i said, i hope to be back to posting regularly. i genuinely love writing and i've missed sharing the fics i create. thank you for reading ♡
Your f/o still loves you even after you relapse <:o)
Sometimes we all have our days. Your f/o still loves you. They aren't mad at you for it, they just want you to be okay. They care about you and they'll do their best to help you through your tough times and help you get better
Ok so I love the Pitt and I struggle (not really I’m very good at it in all actuality) with sh so imagine getting some thigh cuts really badly infected but you refuse to actually take care of it so it gets to the point you might need an amputation of they can’t fix it and Dr jack abbot talks about him also being an amputee to cheer you up and makes you feel special in the er that night to help you feel better basically treating you like his child. Okay that’s it.
This probably isn’t accurate at all but whatever also it totally isn’t based off an issue I had luckily I finally decided to go to the er before it got to the point of needing an amputation just 3 surgeries on it :3
Hey! If you’re taking requests do you think you could write something of Spencer or Aaron comforting reader after they self harm (walk in on it may, whatever you’re comfortable with) love your work, it brings me so much comfort 💗 KEEP IT UP 😽
Oh my gosh this request is from FOREVER ago! But I am such a grandma I just learned where the inbox is located on Tumblr-
I am so sorry my lovely and I hope you enjoy this ‘better late than never’ fic!
angel kisses 🤍
⚠️this fic contains TRIGGERING CONTENT. It mentions self harm, self harm scars, and recent cutting. I obviously handled it as delicately as possible but please take care of yourself! If this could be triggering, I have lots of other fics you can try!⚠️
Spencer Reid x reader
“Hey baby.” Spencer says, wrapping you in a tight hug. The kind of hug that plucks the worries out of your mind and causes you to melt into him. That’s what these hugs are supposed to do, at least. However, the stinging pain on your arms kept the hug from being as comforting as usual. Spencer pulled back and you saw the crease between his brow.
“Are you okay?” he asks, eyes looking over you, assessing.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be!” You say in the most cheery voice you can muster. The blessing and a curse of having a genius profiler as a boyfriend- they can always read you, even when you wish they couldn’t. You soldier on as though I haven’t been caught in a lie. “What sounds good for dinner?” you ask, as you turn on your heel to head towards the kitchen, “I can make tortellini bake, um and I have the ingredients for buffalo chicken!” you say, as chopper as possible while you search your cabinets.
“Tortellini sounds great.” Spencer says, watching you in that assessing way of his. He plops himself on your barstool, resting his elbows on the island. Conversation ebbs and flows as you pull out your ingredients and for a moment, you believe you’re safe.
- - - - - -
“Hey Spence, can you turn the thermostat down?” You ask, face pink from the heat. You always got warm when cooking, especially when you had to stand over multiple hot pans.
“Of course, love” Spencer replies, unfurling his long limbs from the stool and walking into the hallway with the thermostat. You know the temperature will eventually be more comfortable but for immediate remediation you slip off the large sweater that had been cloaking you. As soon as you pull it off, you realize your error and feel your body seize up. You quickly try to scramble back into your sweater but, it’s too late. You’ve been caught.
“Love?” Spencer says, and for a moment you think you can play it off, act like it’s nothing. You turn and see his face, the concern etched there, and know that lying would be futile. You drop your sweater to the floor and shame wells within you and begins pouring out in the form of tears. You try to hold it in, try to keep it together and act like it’s nothing but once you feel the first, hot tear roll your face and onto your neck, the dam breaks.
“Oh, baby.” Spencer says, rushing to you and catching you just as a vicious sob wracks your body, causing you to lose balance. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He gently coaxes you as he ushers you to sit in his lap on the floor. You cry ugly tears and only manage a strangled “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Every few ragged breathes.
“No, none of that. You don’t apologize for this. I’m sorry that you felt like this was your only way out. 17% of people self harm. Don’t make yourself a monster in your head my love.” Spencer talks in a low, smooth tone, as he runs slow circles on my back, trying to be mindful of not bumping any cuts on my arms.
Eventually the sobs subside and it’s reduced to just watery eyes and sniffling. Spencer slowly pulls you out of his shoulder and looks you in the eyes. “I’m going to keep you accountable now. After seeing it I am
taking it upon myself to help you as best as I can. Is it, just these, or are there more?” Spencer says as his fingers graze down my arms, avoiding any newer cuts and slowly taking in the mosaic of old and new scars.
“There- there are a few more” You choke out, your voice breaking in shame.
“Can I see?” Spencer asks in a voice barely above a whisper.
You don’t speak, instead you wordlessly lead him to the living room and gesture for him to sit on the couch. You take a breath to steady yourself before you tug down your shorts. This isn’t the first time someone has seen you naked, but this vulnerability feels like being laid bare, with every nerve exposed. You stand, in a bra and underwear, not knowing what to say. You watch Spencer’s eyes rake over you, assessing, learning.
That’s when he shocks me. He doesn’t turn away in horror or look at me with pity. Instead, he gets off the couch and down onto his knees before me. Before you can ask what he is doing or interject he places a kiss, feather light, a barely there kiss, to the top of your thigh on one of your oldest scars. You are shocked by the gesture and even more so when he wraps his hands around the back of my thighs, holding me still, before placing another kiss on another scar.
You feel more tears well up in my eyes as he continues his ministrations. Gently, reverently kissing every scar on your thighs before slowly moving up, inspecting any inch of skin. When he is satisfied, he tugs a wrist to his mouth and begins again. We stay like that. Not a scar went untouched by his lips and when he places his final kiss he lays his head against my stomach and whispers, “Beautiful.”
Tears are freely rolling down my face but these aren’t tears of fear or anger. These are tears of joy. He sees me, truly sees me. He isn’t revolted by the sight of me, even though it isn’t the pretty mask I show off. This is me, fractured and broken but he saw the fissures and called it art. He sees me.
You fall to your knees and hug him, clutching him as tight as ever. Words exceed you, you have nothing to say to express the love that is pouring out of you in droves so you settle for actions. You hold him as close as you can and sit in reverent silence. You don’t think you could ever leave this place, this peace. That is until you hear the loud wail of the smoke alarm and gasp “Spencer, the dinner!” You yell as you run into the kitchen, realizing tonight, may need to be a take out night.
But instead of crying, you quickly throw out the charred food and find yourself…laughing. It would be okay, and before you can even say a word to Spencer you hear him on the phone in the other room, phoning in an order for takeout. You grin wildly to yourself despite the circumstances. You see the discarded sweatshirt on the floor and you leave it there. You won’t cover up anymore, especially not if it means receiving angel kisses.
