A/N I hate that I almost talked myself out of posting this.
Your hands shake as you hold your phone. Tears falling onto the glass distorting some of the words. Tears fat enough that they threaten to activate the touch screen.
Still your thumb hovers over the delete button.
Burning hot emotion rip up your throat as you ask yourself if you should.
Heart drumming in your chest as adrenaline begins to burn in your feet and cramp your hovering hand.
You were just going to delete your writing blog.
So why did it feel as if you were standing atop the largest building in the city as the call of the void screams your name?
You knew exactly why it felt similar to tempting death.
One step closer to chopping off a part of yourself.
Why were you suddenly so unhappy with your work? It had only been a little over six months and yet you finally let that *thing* command you once more.
Let you obsessively check notifications over and over once you've posted something and instead of being grateful for what you've got, for the views and some comments that you get you allow it to dictate to you your worth.
Your fucking value and how it is no longer enough. How your writing is deteriorating into nothing but complete dog shit as it laughs over your shoulder with each sentence your write.
Reminding you what you cannot achieve. What it will not allow you to achieve as it breathes ever mistake in grammar, spelling and sentence structure it can until you've rewritten the same fucking sentence six times before you throw your phone in anger.
So you find yourself now for the seventh time this month. Staring at your handle.
At the delete button that's nestled so neatly on the screen spelling out what it wants you to do.
Rid the world of all aspects of yourself until you become what it says you are.
You lift your thumb, finally telling yourself to let it go. To let your short time of happiness, your small hobby die as it should.
But was it ever really good enough to even be called a hobby? Let alone anything more.
"What the fuck are you doing?" A growl from behind you before you phone is slapped from your hands.
"I thought you said it made you happy." Somehow his low even growl is worse than his yelling. The big living room begins to smell of sweet burning sugar as you slowly turn to face him. Fat droplets leaking over red rimmed eyes.
He bites the inside of his lip until he tastes copper. Hating fucking LOATHING that you're crying.
That there is no physical evil for him to defeat and all that he can do is be a shoulder to cry on.
He was never good with comforting people, it's why he can sometimes struggle as a hero.
"It just..." You let out a shaky sigh, the type that makes his heart feel as if it is in a vice, painfully squeezing and twisting as a reminder that you may always carry this sadness within you, "It just doesn't any more."
A reminder that he is powerless to something he cannot even *see*.
"And why doesn't it?" The ash blonde tries so unbelievably hard to keep the snap from his voice, scarlet eyes roving over your shrinking form as his dull nails bite into the palm of his hands.
Just last week you were reading comments on your work that placed you in tears. Of how people related to your work, how they understood your melancholy.
How they understood that it was bone deep.
It opened doors and made friends and yet here you were.
Here you fucking sat with this thing looming over your precious fucking soul that was crushing under the weight of your own guilt.
Guilt for feeling sad for nothing at all.
He remembers you saying you wished to steal everyone's sadness and as you let tears free fall from rouged cheeks he wonders if your wish had come true.
If you stole a bit of sadness from others, to make them happy. To carry the burden on your two broad impossibly strong shoulders and all for nothing but hope.
Hope that someone will never feel as low as you do.
He stares at you impossibly long waiting for your answer. That you finally so meekly say.
"Nothing has been lately." His heart shatters from the weight of your words.
"Nothing" which would include him, his stomach twists even as he tells himself not to take it personally.
That he cannot take it personally because that fucking THING steals your senses, numbs you to everything but the paradox that lies in your chest.
That eats your emotions whole until you're a hollowed out shell of lost passion that was once misguided. But now cannot even be found at all. He closes his crimson eyes as numb tears fall down your cheeks.
He counts to keep himself from exploding. With each number he takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this is not entirely you.
He needs to remember to have patience.
To not over react to something you cannot control or understand yourself.
He needs to be loving. The soft tender kind that is most difficult for him as it leaves him feeling open, raw and presented to the world in such a fashion he would rather die.
But he would fucking die for you.
Especially if that's what it took to keep your smiling, to keep you enjoying the things that he knows you love to do.
To forever silence that simple fuck that slithers in your head and makes home in your precious chest eating away at your heart of gold.
His eyes open slowly, rounding the couch reaching for your phone. He picks you up and plops you on his lap before blanketing the two of you.
He instructs you to keep your hands planted firmly on your thighs as he clears his throat.
He tucks you further in before he takes his hands out. Holding your phone so you can see it. The delete button stares back at you as the voice in your head rages inside.
He opens your phone going to a different site where some of your abandoned work lies.
Work from almost four years ago.
"I want you to read aloud to me every comment written on everything you've published, Kitten." His voice comes out deadly in your ear as he settles into a roll you've asked him for, despite it coming naturally to him.
"There are not buts in this. When you're done reading all of these to me and you can still tell me you want to delete your blog, that you can confidently say that your writing ain't shit then and only then will I allow you to be so self destructive. Do you understand Kitten?"
His body contradicts his tone as he kisses the crown of your head, free hand gripped tightly over your own to encourage you.
To remind you that you may feel as if you're drowning in a raging sea but you are damn sure not alone.
You give a final shaking sigh as the ash blonde's heart twists once more before you answer with forced confidence.
"Yes, Sama I understand."
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
