Hello!! Can I request a reader who hits themselves whenever they do something wrong? For example if they make a simple mistake they’d bonk themselves in the head with their hand, or pinch themselves if they got something wrong? With Boothill, Jiaoqiu, Aventurine, and Mydei? (If this is uncomfortable for you, you can just delete this!!!)
“You Don’t Deserve to Bleed for Mistakes”
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Healing, Soft Moments, Subtle Angst, Trauma Response, Comfort After Panic, Slow Burn, Introspective, Found Family Themes, Internalized Guilt, Gentle Romance, Protective, Supportive, Mental Health Exploration.
Warnings: Mild Self-Harm, Trauma Responses, Low Self-Esteem, Negative Self-Talk, Emotional Distress, Mentions of Past Violence, Implied PTSD Themes, Guilt, Vulnerability.
Jiaoqiu first noticed it when you fumbled a tea cup.
A simple slip—ceramic against wood, a soft clink—and your reaction was instant: a sharp, scolding smack to your forehead. It wasn’t exaggerated or dramatic, but it struck him all the same. It wasn’t the sound, nor the movement—it was the habit. Mechanical. Rehearsed. Too familiar.
He paused mid-pour, his irises briefly peeking through heavy lashes before closing again.
“You bruise more easily than you think,” he said softly, refilling your cup with an herbal blend meant for clarity and calm.
You offered him an awkward smile. “It was just—I'm always clumsy with your things. I didn’t mean to mess it up.”
He stirred the tea with a long-handled spoon, the feather fan resting quietly beside him. “If I scolded my patients each time they spilled something, I’d have no one left to care for.”
His words were gentle. Too gentle. You felt the weight beneath them.
Later that night, while tending to soldiers in the makeshift infirmary, you misspoke a dosage reading. You realized it immediately—but before anyone else could react, your fingers pinched the side of your arm sharply, a punishment as fast as it was automatic.
“Don’t.”
Jiaoqiu’s voice cut through the air—quiet, but firm. You turned, startled.
He was standing at the threshold of the tent, the light of his cauldron reflecting off his pale hair. The soldiers turned away, sensing something personal in the air.
He approached, silent footsteps muffled by the dry grass beneath. “What are you trying to correct, little ember? Your actions? Or yourself?”
You stammered, “I just... I always get things wrong. I have to—”
“No, you don’t,” he said, and for once his eyes opened fully. You saw them clearly—the burning gold laced with pain, the damage, the compassion. “You punish yourself the way I once punished myself... for surviving while others didn’t.”
Your breath caught.
“I know how guilt festers. It whispers that pain is a price we must pay for failure. But that belief...” He gently took your hand, tracing the red mark you’d left. “...it eats away at you. It doesn’t make you better. It only makes you bleed inside.”
In the warmth of his presence, you felt the weight begin to lift.
That night, he taught you to redirect those moments—to press your fingers to your wrist gently instead, to inhale a specific medicinal aroma he prepared just for you. He didn't scold the habit, but slowly rewrote it—with care, ritual, and presence.
In time, you no longer raised a hand to yourself in frustration.
You reached for his instead.
Boothill noticed the first time you flinched at your own mistake.
You’d dropped a canister of ammunition while helping him load his gear. You muttered something angry under your breath and slapped the side of your own head with the heel of your palm, hard enough that he heard the thump over the noise of engines.
He tilted his hat back and looked at you, long and hard.
You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I deserved that one, huh?”
He didn’t answer.
Two days later, you grazed a panel wrong while hotwiring a transport. Pinch. Your hand jerked to your bicep. Boothill caught it mid-motion.
“Do that again and I’ll make you wear padded gloves.” His voice was flat, low, dangerous.
You blinked, confused. “What—?”
He leaned in close, shark-teeth flashing in a sneer that wasn’t aimed at you, but at the ghosts behind your self-harm. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do that’s worth hurtin’ yourself over. That’s my job—hurtin’ folks that deserve it.”
You tried to pull away, muttering, “You don’t get it. I have to. It keeps me sharp. Makes sure I don't mess up again.”
He grabbed your wrist again—not hard, but solid.
“I was raised where folks got beaten to stay in line,” he said, voice gravel. “Don’t mean it made us better. Just mean it made us quiet.”
You looked up at him, surprised. The Boothill everyone feared—silent killer, reckless bounty, face on a thousand wanted posters—wasn’t shouting.
He was steady.
“You’re part of my posse now,” he added, voice softer. “Ain’t gonna let no one beat on you... not even you.”
That night, he gave you one of his bullet bracelets—a charm for steadiness, he claimed. “Squeeze this when you’re mad at yourself,” he said. “Hurts less. Looks cooler.”
You started wearing it every day.
And in the months to come, when you nearly hit yourself again, you’d feel the cold metal between your fingers, and remember his words:
"That ain’t discipline. That’s old hurt tryin’ to wear a new mask."
Aventurine was the kind of man who watched people more than he let on.
He noticed every twitch, every breath shift, every adjustment of body language like a dealer tracking cards at a high-stakes table.
So when you apologized too quickly after knocking over a stack of data chips—bowing slightly, murmuring “stupid”—and flicking your temple with your nails, he didn’t say anything. Not at first.
But he clocked it.
And the next time, when you missed a calculation during an investment meeting and pinched your forearm under the table hard enough to leave a mark—he slid his chair beside yours.
“You keep doing that,” he said, smiling, voice a whisper of velvet poison. “Self-punishment. Quick. Dirty. Not even dramatic enough to be effective.”
You tried to laugh. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh no, no no no,” he whispered, eyes glinting underneath his hat. “Everything is something. Especially habits that come out under pressure.”
You turned your head away, embarrassed. “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
Aventurine’s smile softened in a way that was almost imperceptible. “Darling, disappointment is part of the game. Everyone loses hands. The question is whether you walk away... or double down.”
You frowned. “What does that have to do with hitting myself?”
“Because you’re folding before the next card is even dealt,” he said, tapping your forehead lightly—not as punishment, but to make a point. “And that, sweetheart, is how the house always wins.”
He offered you a gold-trimmed chip from his pocket.
“When you feel the urge to hit yourself again—flip this instead. Call it a challenge to fate.”
You took it. The weight of it felt good in your hand.
Over time, you’d still slip—old habits were like poorly shuffled decks. But Aventurine never mocked you. Never lectured. He simply raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Feeling lucky?”
And somehow, you did.
Mydei was not a man of many words, but he felt deeply—and he saw clearly.
He’d witnessed countless warriors fall—not from blade or fire, but from themselves. Guilt could rot a person faster than poison. So the first time he saw you hit yourself for a minor error—when you misread coordinates during a critical deployment—his reaction was swift.
Your hand had barely touched your temple before his own caught your wrist.
He said nothing.
Just looked at you—those golden eyes like twin torches, steady and unflinching.
“I made a mistake,” you mumbled, heart pounding. “I should’ve double-checked.”
“Yes,” he replied, tone even. “But you are not a punishment.”
You blinked. “What?”
His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either. “The world has enough swords. You do not need to be one against yourself.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“I’ve seen men break bones to absolve guilt,” he continued. “Fathers crush their hands for children they could not save. And I have watched them die just the same.”
You looked at him, eyes stinging. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
He released your wrist.
“Live.”
His voice was low. Strong. Like the sea crashing beneath the cliffs of Kremnos. “Live—and carry the weight with discipline, not destruction. Learn from the wound. Do not become it.”
He took the red ribbon from his belt and tied it around your palm. “This is a warrior’s promise. Not to be without mistakes... but to rise despite them.”
You never hit yourself again.
But sometimes, you’d press your fingers to that ribbon, still looped around your hand long after the threads had frayed—because he had seen you, and he believed:
“She’s so sweet she’s always going out of her way to help others” quick someone give that girl all the love and safe space she deserves before being “sweet” (pathological people pleasing as a trauma response) destroys her and leaves behind a bitter empty shell of a person
What secret is his girlfriend hiding from him? She won't go home, but she won't tell him why, and Rafe just can't figure it out.
Major trigger warning for themes of child and sexual abuse, and the aftermath of these events. My DMs are open if you need someone to talk to.
Masterlist 🎀 Part One
I’ve not uploaded anything in so long and I don’t know where I even managed to find the inspiration to write this part but here it is :) I hope that you’re all doing great. I’m not sure when I’ll upload again. Maybe soon maybe not. Love y’all and stay safe. Here if you need to talk. Don’t forget to comment and like if you enjoy. Interaction means the world to small writers! <3
The morning after confessing to Rafe, you'd awoken beside him with a foggy head, feeling dazed and confused and like you'd been shoved out of an all consuming dream. Rafe had one hand on your shoulder and as soon as your vision focused, you could see the tense worry knotted across his face, poorly masked with a gentle tone.
"Mornin', baby. Breakfast is gonna be ready in ten minutes. You wanna shower or not bother?"
You furrowed your brows and yawned, craning your neck upwards as your mouth widened. When you opened your eyes again, you noticed how the thin bar of light peaking through the top of the blinds was pale compared to the golden tones you were used to waking up to, and that the house was completely silent.
"What time is it?" You mumbled.
"Six thirty." He answered and your eyes almost got big with annoyed shock, but then he added "We've got to get to the station.. they need a statement from you" and suddenly your body felt heavier than a slab of concrete, no muscle power available to even move your eyelids so dramatically.
It all came back to you, searing through the morning-after fog of leftover Valium like a lit cigarette to a spillage of petrol. The shameful memory of finally telling Rafe the truth; how you had shaken and sobbed into his arms, how you knew that he would want immediate action and the dread that that had filled you with.
Here was that action. Unavoidable and terrifying.
"Right now?" You asked barely above a whisper, swallowing a dry lump in your throat.
He hesitated before answering as if it pained him to do so, then tried again to make his tone sound more casual - an attempt to ease some of the pressure from you. It was fruitless however, the seriousness of the situation was thick and rancid in the air.
"They can't keep him in jail much longer just based on my dads word."
"W-What?" You gasped, the weight suddenly lifted from your eyes.
"I'm sorry baby, I was gonna kill him if he wasn't kept from me. I had to get him put away immediately."
You nodded and said nothing in return. There was nothing that you could say. Your mind felt so full that there was no longer enough space for each of the ideas forming, and they had instead resorted into blending into one blaring tone; a cry in the pitch of your little sisters voice. With another deep breath, you forced yourself from the bed and walked to the en-suite bathroom.
Rafe followed you, his eyes an unavoidable beam of concern. Underneath them were dark circles and even a hint of redness spreading from his cheeks to his nose. You'd never seen him cry before and you hoped to god that he hadn't been. The thought of that made you feel all the more guilty. The unfamiliar redness was just from a cold or something. He couldn't cry over you, especially not over this.
He turned the gleaming silver shower knob and watched you get undressed, holding his hand under the water as if he needed to check the temperature for a child.
"Do you want me to stay in here?" He asked softly and you quickly shook your head no.
Then, with some hesitation, he left.
The bathroom felt empty, even with yourself in it. The warm water was not hitting the flesh of anyone - just sinking through the air of a ghost. Time didn't exist, only the gradual fogging of steam against clear panes and eventual knock on the door before it was dutifully swung open.
Breakfast was also silent. The mass of negative thoughts felt as if they'd physically manifested into something - sitting like a heavy rubber brick between your brain and the rest of your body. No action that you took was done by choice - but by muscle memory. When Rafe spoke to you it sounded like nonsense; a mix of sounds being made indecipherable by an invisible force field.
Only when you were strapped into the passenger seat of Rafe's rover with the knowingness of the police station getting closer and closer did you re enter back into the physical plane, and that was only to uncontrollably shake. Rafe put his hand on your knee and tried to get you to speak; frightened by this new vulnerability in his previously happy-go-lucky girlfriend. You had always told him everything - or at least he thought you had. Now you seemed almost unrecognisable; silent and caved in with an unshakable expression of solemn doom. Like a calf raised for veal.
"I know that this is.. a lot, but it's gonna be okay. My dad knows all of the detectives, he'll make sure you're with one who's nice. They're not going to interrogate you or anything like that, they just need you to tell them the stuff that happened.. so that we can keep him behind bars... Okay?" Rafe continued to softly speak, conjuring up whatever words of comfort he could find and praying that they would be the right ones.
"You shouldn't feel any type of way about yourself because of this. It's not your fault and it doesn't change how I see you. You can talk to me about it too. You can tell me anything."
"I can't." You finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't use up all my words now. I can't-"
You cut yourself off as your lips began to tremble. You pulled a deep breath into your lungs and squeezed your eyes shut until the forming tears dissipated. Rafe could feel the slight increase of your shaking nerves under his fingers, so he moved his hand to encompass yours with a soft squeeze and a cautious side glance.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay. You don't have to speak right now. Just- just try to tell the detective everything you can... I know you can do it. You're brave."
The lid on the jar he'd squeezed his rage into was starting to come loose, slowly unscrewing itself with a rubbery squeak. He managed to keep the lid on as he finally lead you through the station, but it became more and more of a struggle with each step. There was an overwhelming look of pity on the sheriff's face, one that reasserted to Rafe that he should've saved you sooner - that he'd failed as a man. His father wasn't in a particularly pleasant mood either, no doubt sleep deprived and probably thinking the same thing of his son, and then to top it all off, Rafe was denied access into the interview room with you.
He knew that he legally could've been in there - you were an adult victim after all entitled to emotional support from whoever you wanted - but you'd obviously told them no. You didn't want him to hear the details, or to see you cry - he knew that too. And although he logically understood why you didn't want those things, part of him still felt betrayed for some reason. He thought that he'd known practically everything about you - but obviously he'd been wrong. Was part of him angry at you for that? Maybe a tiny bit.
"Rafe- son. Let's go take a breather. Just for a few minutes." Ward's stern voice halted Rafe's repetitive pacing outside of the interview room.
He turned to face his dad and followed his command, although he did halt for a second as he thought about you bearing your deepest wound to a soulless tape recorder from the confines of an uncomfortable plastic chair. What if you changed your mind and decided that you needed him in there? He hoped that the conversation with his father would be quick.
As they exited the station and walked across the car park, Ward unexpectedly handed Rafe a cigarette, which he took with no hesitation despite internally questioning how his dad even knew that he smoked. That didn't matter. Not at this point. He lifted it to his lips and allowed Ward to light it before taking a sharp inhale, his fingers stiff around the filter in the struggle not to crush it.
Ward broke the silence with a blunt tone.
"Rafe, I can see that you're itching to do something stupid. You can't do that, not with this-"
"Like what?" Rafe cut him off with a dry scoff, his eyes wide as a plume of smoke rolled from his nose. "The scumbag's in jail, isn't he? I can't fucking touch him... What are you expecting from me? I told you last night so that I wouldn't do anything-"
"Yes you did and you are so good for that, but son, listen to me-" Ward put his hand on Rafe's shoulder and looked intensely into his eyes. "You really need to stay calm for this - and I mean for all of this, okay? No matter how this goes - you cannot go after him. No intimidation or threats or violence-"
"What do you mean?" Rafe's hand fell from his lips, the shake of his voice hardly contained between his gritted teeth. "He's gonna be in prison. They're not gonna let him out. Right?"
Ward sighed. He looked around the car park before looking back into his son's eyes.
"Things like these can be hard to prove, hard to convict. But I need you to make that promise to me, son - that if you come across an opportunity to hurt him, you won't. For Y/N's sake."
Rafe's eyes widened even further and he had started to lightly hop from one foot to the other. He shook Ward's hand from his shoulder without even meaning to whilst his jaw squared into an iron lock around a sharp puff of smoke. He took a few drags before he hissed out a response.
"How the fuck would that be for her sake? I should bash his fucking brains in-"
Ward cut him off, matching Rafe's aggressive hiss in the way that always made him back down.
"Because of exactly this. The last thing she needs to deal with on top of everything else is you acting like a goddamn psychopath. You're gonna have to put on a brave face, swallow your pride and be a real man about it. Look after her, stop being so selfish and be what she needs."
Seeing that Rafe was now frozen, he sighed again and softened his tone, leaning in closer to his son and patting him on the shoulder.
"I know you can do it."
Rafe swallowed and struggled to nod, only able to mutter out a weak "Yeah."
"And if this does end up going to trial, you won't help the case by doing any of the things I know you're wanting to do. Could fuck it up entirely." Ward continued "I'm gonna go home, tell Rose about everything, catch up on some sleep. I'll see you in a couple of hours."
Rafe nodded weakly again, his eyes now fixed on the tarmac at his father's feet. He was using the entire effort of his internal monologue to stamp on the lid of his rage and desperately keep the jar shut. He'd not considered how prolonged this ordeal could be until hearing Ward's sobering words, and now he regretted rushing into the study for his help some hours beforehand.
"Are you gonna be okay, son?" Ward patted his shoulder again and Rafe drew his eyes to meet his with a forced look of neutrality.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
Ward gave him a half smile - one to indicate that he didn't truly believe the statement but that Rafe had better stick to it.
"Good."
Then the older man promptly climbed into his car and drove out of the parking lot, leaving Rafe to stew on the empty spot until he was able to draw himself from his violent imaginings. It was difficult to snap himself from the spiral, but he eventually thought of your reaction to the acts he wanted to commit and managed to drag himself back into the station. However, by the time you reappeared in the waiting room it had been over two hours, and he would be lying if he'd said that he hadn't spent that entire time borderline drowning in that violent stew.
He rushed to you and held you, letting you bury your wet face in the warmth of his chest as his hug encompassed you fully. Sobs rocked your body like a fish out of water, the devastation unyielding even against the safety of Rafe's gentle touch. He attempted to shush you only for a moment before locking eyes with the detective - an older woman with kind features but a solemn expression of bad news spread across them. She offered him a weak, pitiful smile before speaking, telling Rafe just how brave you'd been and how proud she was before giving him the legal rundown.
"Based off what Y/N's told me we have enough reason to enact a search warrant effective immediately. Depending on what we find when we go into the property, we should be able to keep Mr L/N in custody until a bond hearing is set."
And then she continued on with more details for another five minutes, ending it with a memorised list of victim resources and recommended counsellors. Rafe struggled to log all of the information, bruised knuckles shoving the most important pieces through thick smog onto his mental bookshelf. He didn't bother noting the numbers for any of the state run resources, turning his nose up at the thought of an overworked psychiatrist running group therapy sessions from the community centre, or a sexual assault hotline with an average wait time of thirty minutes.
That kind of shit was for Pogues.
You would have your pick from the best therapists in the state.
His princess. You would get whatever you needed and more - he would make sure of it.
The drive back to Tannyhill was painful for a multitude of reasons; the main one being the fact that Rafe couldn't cradle you against his chest as you continued to cry - all he could do was squeeze your hand whilst the other remained gripped on the wheel. He said anything that he could to try to calm you down and distract you, but your eyes remained wet and your lungs restricted.
"It's- so- disgusting! I'm- so- disgusting!" You'd choked out repeatedly once you'd gotten inside; curled up under a fluffy blanket with Rafe's arms around you.
"No you're not, baby. Don't say that. You're alright. It's all gonna be alright. Shhhh." He'd gently hushed you, feeling useless against the force of your agony.
There was no universe in which he would've imagined that this was the truth that you'd been hiding, and seeing you so distraught from it was almost like looking at a stranger. It was even more unnerving than the breakdown you'd had before his recent holiday - a terrifying amount of vulnerability that he needed to care for. His feelings of uselessness only got worse with each hour it took to calm you, and the eventual decision to give you another Valium. It was only after that little blue pill had dissolved into your system that you were finally able to speak without taking desperate gasps. Your red face had dried streams of salty tears across it and your body had stopped shaking, but your voice still trembled. Rafe's arms were wrapped around you, his large hands rubbing soothing patterns into yours whilst his chin rested just atop your head, often bending down to press a quiet kiss to your crown.
"I just- I'd never spoke about it to anyone before, and so when I was out of that house it almost didn't feel real. Like it had never happened." You started to explain, sounding hoarse but more relaxed than you had all day. "And there were so many things that I'd forgotten- somehow, I'd made myself forget. And as soon as I started speaking to the detective it all came back... All of the really bad stuff... everything."
Really bad? What could that mean? Rafe tried his hardest not to imagine it. Everything that you'd said was so hard for him to understand or picture - except for that. He knew just how evil and perverted men could be, and it made him feel truly sick. However, vulnerability and fear were things that the Cameron son had very rarely felt, so he found no experience in his memory to compare yours to - no way to grasp an easier understanding of your side. He just couldn't imagine it. He took a deep inhale through his nostrils and closed his eyes, needing to take a second to stop his rage from bubbling up again.
"I'm never going to be clean, I'm so dirty from all of it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Are you sure you don't think I'm disgusting now?" You sniffled, prompting him to hold you even tighter in a silent bid to stop your self scrutiny.
"Stop saying that about yourself - I've already told you you're not any of those things. How many times do I need to tell you?" He whispered.
"I'm sorry."
"And stop apologising! Please, baby. It's not your fault." He begged.
"But what if he did it to my sister? What if I was too late? It's all my fault, Rafe."
And although there was a cruel part of Rafe that could've agreed with you; wondering why you'd hidden the truth for so long - especially from him, he was instant in his defence of you.
"No it's not. Don't ever say that. It's not your fault. He's a twisted piece of shit who should've never been allowed around either of you. He's not even worth the filth on my shoe. He's-" Rafe had to cut himself off again and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment.
This was the hardest he'd ever tried to keep his temper contained, and it was giving him a headache. He quickly resumed though in a softer tone, needing to speak whilst you were still temporarily receptive.
"And don't you think she would've told you if something had happened? You've always said she tells you everything - and she's certainly got no trouble sticking up for herself."
"But what if-"
"No what ifs, baby. Please." Rafe cut you off with finality. "I promise everything is gonna be alright. We've just got to look after you at the moment. Okay?"
You wanted to protest but stopped yourself. He looked desperate - like he didn't know what he might do with himself if you continued to argue. You had no idea what you could do with yourself to make your own mental allegations stop, so you decided to focus instead on not further upsetting Rafe. His fierce protectiveness was in line with his usual character, but not the fragility of which it balanced on. Part of you worried that he was going to hurt someone else since he couldn’t get to your step-dad, another part of you felt slightly relieved by the safety that his wrath caused you.
"None of this is your fault. You got that?" He continued and you silently nodded, pressing your lips together and attempting to believe him.
Rafe shifted your position in his arms so that he could look you in the eyes, where his suppressed mania was all the more evident.
"I wanna hear you say it." He asserted softly.
The words stayed stuck in your throat for a moment and you struggled to peel your lips back apart. Then they came out so quietly that they practically weren’t words at all, just small exhales of air laced with minuscule sounds.
"It's not my fault.”
“Say it properly.” Rafe ordered softly again, the blue in his eyes starting to feel like heat from a blisteringly hot flame.
“It’s not my fault.” You whispered.
This time you were able to actually pronounce each individual sound with the clarity to understand each word - and unexpectedly, it did make you feel slightly less grotesque.
“It’s not my fault.” You repeated again, and although your self assertion was weak, it was better than the loud self deprecation you’d been wallowing in.
Rafe placed a long kiss to your forehead, using his thumb to softly wipe at your cheekbone as he did.
"Well done, princess. Well done." He whispered, and then squeezed you tightly again, seeming as if he needed the close contact nearly as much as you.
I really hope y’all enjoyed this part. There is a part three that I’ve partially written, when the full part will be uploaded I’m not sure. My creativity seems to come and go these days. Nonetheless, don’t forget to like, comment, reblog and follow if you enjoy the writing! My requests are still open and I promise that I do read them and occasionally write them. I’m working through a few verrryy slowly. Love y’all! Stay safe <3
