#self harm is a trigger warning

[siddmunson55]

Scared.

TW: Self Harm. Guys seriously, please tread carefully if this is something you cannot read.

Dear Eddie,

I'm a coward. I'm afraid of talking to you, of breaking the silence and opening up a wound.

But that's what I've been doing, isn't it? Opening wounds on my own flesh. I've been tearing at the skin on my legs to see that pretty crimson color.

And yet I'm scared to talk to you. I'm scared that you're going to see I have no idea what I'm doing, that I don't know how to handle this thing between us. And now, because of my actions, I'm scared that you're going to see my new wounds.

I don't know if I should let us be so we can move on and come back when we're older and wiser, like we talked about. Or should I invade your space and ask you questions and tell you that I love you?

I don't know what to do. And I'm scared, and I'm lonely, and I'm hurting myself because I'm feeling so much that the only way I can register what I'm feeling is by going through pain.

I wish you would take the step first, so I know what you want from me. I want to know how I can fix all the bullshit mistakes I've made.

I love you. Please don't hate me.

- Steve.

[tofixtheshadows]

I've been thinking a lot lately about how Kabru deprives himself.

Kabru as a character is intertwined with the idea that sometimes we have to sacrifice the needs of the few for the good of the many. He ultimately subverts this first by sabotaging the Canaries and then by letting Laios go, but in practice he's already been living a life of self-sacrifice.

Saving people, and learning the secrets of the dungeons to seal them, are what's important. Not his own comforts. Not his own desires. He forces them down until he doesn't know they're there, until one of them has to come spilling out during the confession in chapter 76.

Specifically, I think it's very significant, in a story about food and all that it entails, that Kabru is rarely shown eating. He's the deuteragonist of Dungeon Meshi, the cooking manga, but while meals are the anchoring points of Laios's journey, given loving focus, for Kabru, they're ... not.

I'm sure he eats during dungeon expeditions, in the routine way that adventurers must when they sit down to camp. But on the surface, you get the idea that Kabru spends most of his time doing his self-assigned dungeon-related tasks: meeting with people, studying them, putting together that evidence board, researching the dungeon, god knows what else. Feeding himself is secondary.

He's introduced during a meal, eating at a restaurant, just to set up the contrast between his party and Laios's. And it's the last normal meal we see him eating until the communal ending feast (if you consider Falin's dragon parts normal).

First, we get this:

Kabru's response here is such a non-answer, it strongly implies to me that he wasn't thinking about it until Rin brought it up. That he might not even be feeling the hunger signals that he logically knew he should.

They sit down to eat, but Kabru is never drawn reaching for food or eating it like the rest of his party. He only drinks.

It's possible this means nothing, that we can just assume he's putting food in his mouth off-panel, but again, this entire manga is about food. Cooking it, eating it, appreciating it, taking pleasure in it, grounding yourself in the necessary routine of it and affirming your right to live by consuming it. It's given such a huge focus.

We don't see him eat again until the harpy egg.

What a significant question for the protagonist to ask his foil in this story about eating! Aren't you hungry? Aren't you, Kabru?

He was revived only minutes ago after a violent encounter. And then he chokes down food that causes him further harm by triggering him, all because he's so determined to stay in Laios's good graces.

In his flashback, we see Milsiril trying to spoon-feed young Kabru cake that we know he doesn't like. He doesn't want to eat: he wants to be training.

Then with Mithrun, we see him eating the least-monstery monster food he can get his hands on, for the sake of survival- walking mushroom, barometz, an egg. The barometz is his first chance to make something like an a real meal, and he actually seems excited about it because he wants to replicate a lamb dish his mother used to make him!

...but he doesn't get to enjoy it like he wanted to.

Then, when all the Canaries are eating field rations ... Kabru still isn't shown eating. He's only shown giving food to Mithrun.

And of course the next time he eats is the bavarois, which for his sake is at least plant based ... but he still has to use a coping mechanism to get through it.

I don't think Kabru does this all on purpose. I think Kui does this all on purpose. Kabru's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder should be understood as informing his character just as much as Laios's autism informs his. It's another way that Kabru and Laios act as foils: where Laios takes pleasure in meals and approaches food with the excitement of discovery, Kabru's experiences with eating are tainted by his trauma. Laios indulges; Kabru denies himself. Laios is shown enjoying food, Kabru is shown struggling with it.

And I can very easily imagine a reason why Kabru might have a subconscious aversion towards eating.

Meals are the privilege of the living.

[kyri45]

Will Wukong have a huge panic™ because he thinks MK will never see him the same ever again?

Someone asked for hand holding so I gotta give you the most fluffiest elements in the most angstier of contexts.

Shadowpeach Bio Parent AU (PREV / FIRST /

Personal comments under the cut (mentions of past self harm)

Around 3 years ago I had some anxiety issues, one of the main things that I thought it wasn't self harm for so long was the fact that when something that involved other people went wrong because of a choice of mine (even just minor inconveniences) the pain of guilt was so strong that to turn it down I had to physically sting my skin with my nails. (I play guitar, so I always have a hand with longer nails to play arpeggio). Never it went to the point that it would bleed, but bc of that I thought It was no problem. Thanks to my therapist I know that just because it wasn't the "typical" self harm doesn't mean it wasn't a serious issue.

All of this to say that I might be projecting a little. And honestly I can't even imagine how terrible Wukong might feel everytime the guilt comes back to him...

[hardcoregayanalsegx]

"Why would you do that to yourself" I'm trying my best to soothe the pain, trying to cradle it so that maybe just maybe it will stop crying out

[lostinwonderland-13]

"Sometimes I cut myself to see how much it bleeds. Its like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me"

Eminem really hit the nail on the head

[hugenthusiast]

[claypigeonpottery]

been awhile since I built anything, what with kiln time and packing orders. figured I should make something of my own as a warm up before diving into my next commissions

been thinking about this little ferret dude for awhile. his scratches won’t be red, but maybe blue

[jazzstarrlight]

My Immortal - Chapter.1 Page.5

Death by death, clone by clone, a piece of his mind wanders off on it's own. Heart to heart, hand in hand, only a friend can bring piece to this man. ...and maybe a hug or two.

9 13, 19 15 18 18 25, 21 26 9.

(poor Dobi.) [No humans were killed in the making of this fire. Only injured and very few were hospitalized.]

Am I doing the right thing by continuing this story? Well, can't stop now. Gotta keep it up. So enjoy some good angst!

[waywardsou2]

Drunk!Logan x Drunk!MaleReader Part 2

You guys were hounding me like crazy for the next part so here. I whipped this one up for you. Get it whilst it's hot and fresh! @oktcunez @raetastic07 @a-short-ass-disappointment (if you would like to be tagged for future one shots let me know)

Summary: Logan didn't get you. And you didn't get Logan, you were mad at the world and you had taken it out in Logan. So now you decided to take it out on yourself.

Word count: 1.9k

Tags: swearing, self-harm, suicidal ideation, worthlessness, self esteem issues, survivors' guilt, trauma, blood, graphic violence, can be read as platonic or potentially romantic

(If you haven't caught up on part 1 you can read that here)

You storm out of the bar cursing and muttering to yourself. You vent your frustrations to the night air. Why did he hold back? It’s not like it would have hurt you for long. You've taken bullets to the lungs, claws couldn’t be anything different. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, your body wouldn't let the injury stay there for too long. The punctures would have been filled again within minutes.

Minutes ago he was ready to throw you around like a rag doll but as soon as you give him an opening he hesitates.

Coward, can’t even punch the guy who was cussing him out and pushing him around, did he really think you were that fragile?

You mutter to yourself a little louder. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much that he was so uncaring when it came to you. You were the newest member to the team and he always over looked you, he could be rough with the other team members but at least he acknowledged them. He always seemed to just pass over you. What was his deal?

It didn’t matter, you were mad at yourself for even caring. What good was it seeking approval from someone like that

Wait, no. You didn’t want approval. That would be stupid, you didn't need approval. You never did. And this guy was no different. He was nothing to you.

Except he was, because if he wasn’t you wouldn’t be having this battle with yourself.

You skulk down the adjacent ally to the bar and start to vent your frustrations louder. You wished your body would allow you to feel pain, prolonged pain. You wish it didn’t heal. You wish you had scars to show for your losses, for the battles claimed with victory and the battles ending in defeat. But no, your body was as pristine as a newborn baby and like a psychopath you wished your skin would scar and scab and peel and break and bleed. It did. But never for long enough.

Sure the mental pain was bad, excruciating even. But you had nothing to show for it, no real loss. No real pain. Nothing that signified that you were even struggling the way you were. The only sign anyone knew something was wrong was the fact that you went to drink every night. But that was normal for a few of the team members so it was nothing to ask about. And no one asked so you didn’t tell anyone.

Although you find it hard to believe that you would tell anyone even if they did ask. But it wasn’t your place to complain, there are bigger problems in the world and people with worse situations than you. Some trauma was nothing compared to that.

But deep down you knew it wasn’t just “some trauma” it was the reason you were here in the first place. Your mutation manifested during a school shooting, you stepped in front of a group of middle schoolers and took the bullets. But instead of being thanked for saving those kids you got incarcerated and experimented on until you broke out. Having to live off grid until Charles found you.

That’s what you get for trying to be a hero when you weren’t. Because you weren’t, it was a simple fact. You weren’t heroic, you weren't special, you couldn't perform feats of strength, and you definitely couldn’t protect people.

You punched the wall of the bar, the skin on your knuckles splitting from the force. Good.

But like usual the skin flaked off, dying as it was replaced with fresh clean skin. The only trace of your injury was the tiny trickle of blood sliding down your finger.

You punched the wall, again and again and again.

Meanwhile Logan was still sitting on the floor where you shoved him off, he watched after you as you stalked away and walked out of view. He was holding out his hand like it was burning, trying to keep the heat away from himself.

What the hell had you been thinking, you had made him mad, sure. But he wasn’t going to actually fight you. He just wanted to scare you off so you would stop. Things didn’t go well when people pushed his buttons. It wasn’t a threat, it was the truth. He couldn’t always control his rage and you prodding him was dangerous. He needed you to stop but what you had done, or attempted to do, left him speechless.

He knew of your regenerative powers and reinforced skin but there was no way he was going to willingly attack a team mate. He had been watching you ever since you joined the team. Keeping an eye on you but making sure to keep his distance. You were fierce and strong. Capable but reckless. Due to your regenerative mutation you threw yourself in the path of others. Like a human shield. I

f it weren’t for your mutation, he might have said you were suicidal. That was before tonight. Now he might have said and believed it was true.

He’d been purposefully keeping his distance from you, he didn’t want to scare you off or intimidate you. He was told that he could be very confronting at first so he wanted to give you time to adjust. He guesses this is what he gets for following Scott’s advice. It seems keeping his distance had the opposite of the intended affect.

But tonight, had just thrown a spanner in the works. He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the fact that you always seemed rearing for a fight but what you had just tried to do had thrown off his entire image of you. Not necessarily in a bad way, but a way that made him want to close the distance. He was concerned for you, and he could tell you were carrying something heavy. Like everyone in the X-Men they all had a ball and chain with them. A past life that had brought them here to Charles’ school.

But yours was still unknown to him, and he assumed to everyone else except Charles.

Picking himself up from the floor he drops some of money on the bar next to yours and follows you outside. He sniffs at the air, following your scent and the alcohol intermingled in with it. As he follows your scent something else joins it, something sweet.

He turns a corner to find you in the back alley, beating up the brick wall of the bar, your knuckles bleeding and then healing over. You don’t hesitate between each punch, your hands not even completely healed before you strike the wall again. Over and over and over. Blood covered your hands making them a deep crimson in the shadowy back alley. The same deep colour was dripping from the walls, making the brickwork look like it was crying. The cracks in the bricks filled with your blood. Were those cracks there before or after you began your barrage?

The scene laid out before him was haunting. In a mere split second Logan had gone from an annoyed but concerned walk to a horrified sprint. He slams into you and pulls you away from the wall. Spinning the two of you around and pushing your back into the patch of blood on the wall. From this close the smell of the blood overwhelmed him, but he struggled through it. He grabbed your hands and pinned them to the wall beside your head. He didn’t want to risk you trying to get away or hurting yourself again.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed into your face

You glowered back, he could see now that you had tears falling from your eyes. You weren’t yelling or sobbing or making any noise. He could hardly hear your breathing you were that quiet. You hadn’t even made a grunt as you split open your own skin.

You didn’t speak now, you didn’t want to say anything. You didn’t have to explain this to him. It wasn’t his business, and he didn’t really care. He wasn’t asking because he cared. He was asking because he thought you were insane.

He looked down at you with his brow furrowed. He couldn’t figure you out, there was something missing in the now twisted image he had of you. The why. Why you were here, not just here tonight but here with the X men at all. Why?

“Why?” he asked, his voice still rough but softer than it was gruff. Unlike his first question  

“Why what?” you asked, you were being stupid on purpose. Pretending like this whole situation was completely normal. That you hadn’t just been injuring yourself on purpose and were now trapped between your teammate and a wall.

“Don’t do that, just answer the question”

You didn’t want to, you didn’t want to be here anymore, it was a mistake coming here to drink and picking on Logan. You just wanted to disappear but he pressed you harder.

Repeating the same question

“Why?”

“What was the point?”

“What was wrong with you”

He was begging you to answer him, his voice was overwhelming, yelling at you for an answer until you snapped. His voice reverberated around your head until your skull cracked from the strain of it.

You fight against him as you yell but he holds on, he doesn’t even flinch as you scream “Because I can’t fucking die! Because I will never have a scar left behind to show what I’ve done! To show what I’ve been through! Because if I don’t come home with blood on my hand’s no one will know that I ever did anything worth anything! Because if I can’t bleed then everyone who has ever died won’t be able to rest knowing that the person who failed to save them doesn’t even have a scar to show for his failure!”

And it was out. Your words were out of your mind and into the world. The sound carried away on the wind, the world and now Logan knowing the secret you had kept hidden. Like a locked box at the bottom of the lake. That had been pulled from the depths and sprung open from years of rusting in the water.

Logan didn’t let go of you, in fact he held on tighter. The truth making him scared for you.

No, not for you.

Of you.

Because a person who still went on trying to do everything for others despite all the pain they held inside was someone stronger than any foe he ever faced. Any enemy he was ever going to face.

You looked away, staring down at Logan’s chest. Unable to look him in the face despite the rage you felt against him. It was all bundled up inside of you like a raging fire burning down its containment. And you were starting to burn him, you didn’t want to, but you knew you already had. Scorched him like everyone else in your life. No matter how hard you tried to douse your own flame people kept adding fuel to it.

But that rage wasn't fading and you had to direct it somewhere. You pulled your arms forward and ripped them away from his grasp. Some of the blood on your knuckles smeared onto his hand as you pulled away. You put your hands on his chest and shoved as hard as you could. Causing him to stumble back from you. Releasing you from his arm cage.

"Get the fuck away from me" you hiss at him.

You turn to leave down the alley and you bump into his with your shoulder for good measure.

You make your way to your car and speed out of the parking lot and down the road. Once again leaving Logan in your dust.

Oh my god I couldn't help myself but I'm leaving you guys hanging for a part 3. If you want to see where this goes (maybe I'll even turn it into a mini series) then let me know!

And as usual I take requests so if you want to see anything in particular then send me an ask!

Edit: if you happen to be coming back to re read this, yes. I did change the ending because I had no fucking clue how to connect the next part so something needed to shift. Sorry to disappoint but it moved to fast for me to be able to probably continue the story.

[kennysinthewoods]

my stats, recovery 😭

18, afab, they/he/she

cw ~ 44.4kg, 7 stone, 98lbs

gw ~ 50kg, 8 stone, 112lbs

5'2 n a half

[fantomeeee]

cw: implied self harm

[defective-trash]

i dont typically share anything personal and just reblog on tumblr but i wanted to share this vent art with someone so here ig

[not-wholly-unheroic]

Some headcanons surrounding Disney Hook’s mental health…or lack thereof…

He has night terrors almost every night. He puts off going to bed for as long as he can to avoid it even when he’s exhausted and often wakes up screaming several hours before sunrise. A good night of uninterrupted sleep might be four hours if he’s extremely lucky.

Because he knows he often wakes up screaming and emotionally fragile and because he knows that it will likely wake up others in the vicinity, he is extremely self-conscious about sleeping near others, especially those he doesn’t know well. While he can’t totally avoid it on the ship, when he has the option of sleeping farther away from everyone else (like when they are camping out on the island), he intentionally sets up a space as far away from all the others as possible.

He doesn’t like sleeping in total darkness and always keeps a lamp burning. He was afraid of the dark as a child and now, having experienced the suffocating blackness of the inside of the crocodile, he absolutely cannot stand total darkness.

The ticking phobia gets worse over time. At first, it’s only the one specific clock that the crocodile has that bothers him, but as the traumatic experiences pile up and then the octopus comes along, it gets increasingly more and more difficult for him to be around anything that even remotely resembles the sound—all clocks, metronomes, even just a rhythmic clapping or tapping noise. Within seconds, he can feel his chest tighten, his legs go limp, and he starts struggling to breathe…which reminds him of the lack of air inside the crocodile or underwater…which makes it even more difficult to breathe. Eventually, it gets to the point where he just freezes up entirely and can’t move until the sound goes away.

He wasn’t afraid of his own blood until after losing the hand. There was just…so MUCH of it… Now, even a small cut makes him a little woozy. With larger injuries, he has to sit down as soon as he notices it to keep from passing out.

Post-redemption arc, the thought of his past violence sometimes makes him physically ill.

He wears the same coat and other general ensemble all the time because it offers the comfort of familiarity. He used to wear other colors and switch things up but it actually makes him anxious now to do anything different because he’s had so many good clothes ruined by the crocodile and he doesn’t want to find a new favorite just to have it destroyed. So he just has a bunch of identical items in his wardrobe.

The coat itself is a comfort item. When it’s on, he feels more confident. When he takes it off, he’s often feeling more vulnerable. Smee has picked up on this and figured out it’s a good indicator of gauging his emotional state.

Smoking is his way of dealing with anxiety. It forces him to slow his breathing down and the nicotine helps calm him down. Cigars and tea are his go-to coping mechanisms when he’s coming out of a stressful experience.

He’s prone to some serious depressive episodes. During the worst of them, Smee has to make sure he doesn’t have any weapons around to harm himself…including the claw. He has been known to cut himself (despite his discomfort surrounding his own blood) when he doesn’t have any other weapons and is having an especially difficult time.

He has an extremely deep-seated fear of rejection and abandonment. It’s why it takes him so long to let anyone—even Smee—really get close to him…because once he lets himself care about someone, he’s terrified of losing them. The thought of being alone and forgotten is even more terrifying than the thought of the crocodile.

Touch is grounding for him when he’s having a panic attack. Even just a hand on his arm helps but often he instinctively wants to cling to whoever happens to be closest when he’s struggling. He will straight-up drag Smee into a tight hug. Fortunately, Mr. Smee doesn’t mind and just hangs on for as long as he needs it.

[bookshelf-dust]

Hii love!! I absolutely LOVE your works and was wondering if you could write a fic where Billy finds the readers s/h scars and asks about it? The reader kinda opens about why they did and Billy is super confused about why you would purposely hurt yourself, but he swears to himself he’d never let you do that again?? If not, that’s perfectly fine, i know this topic is pretty sensitive to people🤍🤍

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 2,513

warnings: SH trigger warning!! please heed that. mentions of self harm (specifically cutting), scars described, areas on skin. all scars are healed and reader has recovered. please do not read this if this will make you uncomfortable. this is meant to be comforting and let you know that things do get better. it is about acceptance and change.

a/n: anon!! thank you for this idea. i just want to put it out there that i’m not taking requests for the foreseeable future, and haven’t been for quite awhile, but i got sent this and i felt really compelled to write it because it’s something that’s important to me. i felt like i could do it justice, at least a little bit, and i really hope that it will provide you with some comfort. this is something close to my heart, and my goal here is that it will reach someone the right way and encourage them to keep going. i love you all so much!! please go easy on me as i’ve never written anything like this before. also did a bit of a different format! anyway, mwah! 🥰

————

Billy knows you’re shy. Of course he does. 

But he wants you to feel as comfortable with him as he does with you. He’s never felt as relaxed and safe as he does when he’s around you. Hell, he’s never allowed himself to let his guard down in this way. 

Inviting you to sleep over was his olive branch, hoping you’d have a space where you could be fully you. He has the house to himself, and he knows that will help ease your anxiety. All Billy wants is to give you all that you’ve given him. And maybe more.

Billy had just stripped, pulling on sweats and an old t-shirt, not caring whether you saw him in his underwear. He’s yours anyway. Sure, you haven’t gone very far in your relationship, but he still wants you to see how comfortable you’ve made him. He’s never done this casual intimacy thing before. 

“I’ll be just a second, okay?” You give him a gentle smile, feet softly padding against the worn hardwoods, sleeve brushing the door frame as you walk by. 

Billy watches you walk out of his room with your pajamas tucked under your elbow. “Okay, baby.” 

He busies himself while you’re gone, straightening the bed, finding the tv remote. (He’d never be allowed to roll it into his room if he weren’t home alone.) He figures you’re taking your makeup off too, maybe doing something with your hair, and heads to the kitchen to make some popcorn for you both to share. 

In the bathroom, you take a deep breath as you pull on your nightgown. You don’t pride yourself in having nice or fancy things to sleep in, but you felt like bringing this with you because it’s one of the few things you own that makes you feel pretty. Something about a freshly washed face and the soft fabric make you all…content. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror. The gown is not tight by any means, and actually a color that brings out your eyes. It has little bows on the sleeves and a tiny strip of lace at the hem. You don’t tend to dress for anyone but yourself, but you do think Billy will like this. Some part of you craves that feeling. 

He’s never even seen your legs before, much less your collarbones. And not because you’re trying to be modest, but because it’s been cold and any other opportunity hasn’t presented itself. Showing someone so much of yourself is harder than you anticipated. And you anticipated quite a bit of work. 

You inhale and exhale deeply, shaking out your arms. You can’t help but be nervous. You’ve never slept over with a boy before. But it’s Billy. Your Billy. What is there to be worried about?

Billy returns to his bedroom shortly after you’ve sat down and queued up the movie for you both to watch. You take the popcorn he offers you, the socks that are much too big, and snuggle into the worn pillows propped up against his headboard. 

You’re sitting too far away for Billy’s liking, munching on your snack and trying to focus on the beginning of Nightmare on Elm Street as if you haven’t seen it over ten times. His eyes can’t stop dragging over your bare legs. This is the first time he’s seen them, and he wants you and all that skin closer.

“Baby,” he drawls.

You can feel his big blue eyes on you, but for once you really are paying attention. “Yeah?” you hum, licking butter from the tip of your thumb.

You don’t even look over at him, and Billy lets out a huff of a laugh. The noise prompts you to spare a glance in his direction, but he’s already got an arm wrapped around your thigh, yanking you across the sheets until you’re pressed against his side. 

He tries not to convey how excited he is that he can feel the warmth of your skin on his, how soft your inner thigh feels. He frees you though, laughing at the “Oomph” you let out before settling yourself more comfortably. 

You swing your leg over both of Billy’s, handing him your popcorn remains and resting your head on his shoulder. He happily sticks his hand in your little bowl, eating what you’d left behind. 

As the movie progresses and Billy finishes all the popcorn, you shift further and further into him. It makes Billy so happy to see you act so comfortable around him. This is everything he was hoping for. He sets your empty bowls on his side table and wipes his hands clean with the wet rag he’d brought with him.

You’re engrossed in the movie, laughing every now and then at something you shouldn’t find funny, or clutching at Billy’s fingers when you get stressed out during a tense moment.

God, he’s so happy to be with you. If he could make this night last forever, he would. Billy kisses the top of your head and wraps an arm around your back, his hand coming to rest on the top of your thigh. You don’t think much of the gesture, only feeling a shiver run down your spine at the contact. At his warm hand on your skin.

Your skin.

Your nightgown has ridden up a bit, and suddenly you register exactly where Billy’s hand is. You take a deep breath, hoping he won’t rub your thigh and feel what you’ve avoided showing him for so long. 

You try not to worry, try to keep your focus on the movie, but you can’t. Your bubble has popped. You want to adjust your nightgown, but you’re afraid to draw more attention to the area, afraid to offend him and make him think you don’t want his touch. 

Billy’s thumb starts to stroke back and forth on your skin. You can feel the exact moment he registers that it doesn’t feel the way it should. The way your arms do, the way the soft backs of your hands do when he takes them in his. 

You feel him sit up slightly, crane his head to look at you. At your thigh.

Upon touching your leg, Billy had expected smooth skin. But he met ridges. Bumps. Lines of raised skin. He knew that wasn’t normal, and it sent a surge of curiosity or maybe even concern through him. 

What he sees confuses him. What happened to your leg? 

“Baby? What’s that?”

He’s sitting up fully now, prompting you to do the same before you fall against the bed. 

The longer he looks at it, the more confused he gets. There are scars on your leg. They’re not big, but there are a lot of them. So many that it’s scaring him. Some thin, some thicker. Different shades of scar tissue and scratched skin that never returned to its original state. 

They aren’t fresh, no, not at all. They are all healed. But he’s so confused because he’s gotten lots of cuts and bruises throughout his life, and they’ve never looked like yours do. They don’t look like a normal injury does. These look…deliberate. And he doesn’t understand.

You turn around and sit on your knees. I guess it’s now or never, you think. If you don’t tell yourself that, you’ll probably throw up. And if you hadn’t moved so far past this, you’d feel even worse. 

“They’re scars,” you say, rubbing your elbow. 

Billy flicks your knee, mainly because he doesn’t know how to react, his other hand rubbing down his face. “No shit.”

Your heart is pounding despite the fact that this is something you have long overcome and are not ashamed of. Even still, there is a part of you that hopes he won’t be disgusted with you. It’s the same part that hasn’t let the relationship go as far as you’d like it to. 

“I put them there.”

Billy blinks. Even if some part of him knew that’s where this was headed, he still can’t wrap his head around that. “What?” 

His eyes dart to your leg again, wondering if the scars are more extensive than what he can see. He’s scared of how badly you’ve hurt yourself. If he’s not careful, his eyes will glaze over. 

“A few years ago. You know how I’ve mentioned my depression and anxiety? And how I have medicine? How it was hard for me to go on dates with you at first or how sometimes I get standoffish?” 

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Well, you’ve been really good at reassuring me and understanding my panic attacks and stuff, and I’ve gotten a lot better at managing these things. But before all of that, before how I am now, I had no one. I was all alone, and I couldn’t deal with my feelings. So I took it out on myself. I started cutting myself as a way to cope.” You hate to admit all of this, but he deserves to know.

You start fidgeting with your fingertips and break eye contact with him. Billy’s lips have formed a stern pout, his brows knitting together in a way that shows he’s trying to understand you. To him, he really is just trying to comprehend this. But to you, that’s the look of shame you’ve been awaiting. You don’t want to be looked at that way.

You sit on your hands and stare at a string that’s come loose from your worn-in comforter. 

“Anyway, I didn’t have anyone to help me. I couldn’t talk about how sad and lonely and angry I was, and I certainly wasn’t ready for a doctor. I kept it all in, figuring it was safer that way. But that got to me, and I chose to take it out on myself. There.” You touch your thigh. “Here and here.” Your fingers brush your stomach and hip. “Here too.” Your forearm. I know it’s horrible, but that’s what I chose to do. And I wouldn’t ever want someone else to choose that.” 

“I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the hurt to stop. I needed an outlet for all of those suffocating feelings, and that was what I did. Hurting myself helped me feel better because at least I was expressing something. And I was able to punish myself for being so unlike everyone else. So quiet, so hard to love, so different.”

Your heart is pounding but you steal a quick glance at Billy. He can’t fight the emotion from showing on his face anymore. He feels his eyelashes getting thick with tears that are threatening to spill at any moment. 

“I know this is probably hard to understand. I know you might be disgusted with me. But I guess it’s better that you know, right? I should’ve been more open about it with you sooner to avoid it being so…complicated.”

You stop, not really knowing what else there is to say. You’re hoping that this will encourage him to say something. Anything. You’d be happy to answer a question at this point.

Billy brings the hem of his shirt up to wipe his eyes. You wince, feeling awful for making him emotional over this. 

He takes a moment to try and wrap his head around what he’s just heard. He’s had a habit of self-medicating with alcohol, with cigarettes, hell, even ego lifting shit he shouldn’t at the gym. But everyone copes differently, right? You wouldn’t do what he does. He wouldn’t do what his dad does.

He just can’t bear the thought of thinking that someone would physically do that to themselves. That you, his perfect girl, would be feeling so low that you’d make yourself bleed just in search of relief from the pain. He can’t understand it, but at the same time, he sees that it comes in different forms. 

Billy reaches out for your hands, waiting for you to take them. The pressure behind your eyes immediately softens at the gesture.

“Don’t apologize to me, okay? I’m just trying to process.” He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your warm skin.

“Okay.”

He kisses each of your knuckles in turn, maintaining eye contact all the while. He straightens, not letting go of your fingers. “I don’t like to think about you being in any sort of pain. Imagining you doing that to yourself…fuckin’ breaks my heart.” 

You tilt your head, scanning his face. He’s hurting for you, and you want to take it away. “It’s okay, Billy. I’m so much better now.”

“But I wish that I’d known you when you were hurting so damn bad. Y-you were alone, and I’m angry that no one was there to pull you out. I would’ve helped you.”

You squeeze his hands. “Billy, baby. I wouldn’t have let you help me.”

“Why?” he asks, his voice cracking. 

“Because I didn’t want to get better. I was comfortable in an endless cycle of hurt, and I had to be the one to finally change something.”

Billy leans forward until his forehead is resting against your chest. “I’m so sorry that you had to deal with that, and I know you sure as hell don’t want my pity, but I just can’t have you ever be in pain.”

You weave your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. “I know, Billy. I’m okay, I promise? I’ve worked really hard to be okay.”

He straightens, cupping your face. “God, I know you have. I’m never gonna let you hurt like that again, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Billy. That’s not a place I ever want to return to.”

He leans in and kisses you with so much passion, using his lips to say more than he could ever form into words, that it leaves you feeling dazed. Loved.

“I’m so proud of you,” Billy says. 

You smile at him, and if he weren’t already sitting, he’d need to because of how weak you make him. 

“Thank you for respecting me and not treating me differently. You have no idea how much that means.”

Billy’s hands slide down to rest on your collar bones. “Why on earth would I treat you differently? Have people before? If anything it shows me how much of a fucking star you are, because you got through that all on your own. You got through it and now I have the pleasure of being yours.” 

You feel like someone’s poured warm water down your back. “People are usually awful about it, yeah. But that doesn’t matter. I’m grateful that you’re so accepting. And I want to be more open with you.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about that, baby. I’m working on my patience, so I’m happy to wait and learn every inch of you. Inside and out.” He winks at you, hoping to coax out a smile. It works.

“I’m so glad I got to this point,” you admit to him. You never say that out loud. 

“Fuck, so am I.” He kisses your forehead. “My best girl.”

[aalaaskaaa]

Being mentally ill jn your 20s is not the same as being mentally ill as a teenager. It’s just embarrassing. Everyone got better and I’m still stuck in my mind. Nothing improved, nothing changed.

Why can’t I move on and just be better?

~M 10.10.2022 22:33

[asexualenjolras]

"Child of an Addict, and Self-Harmer".

Learning the meaning of his name has made every single one of the scenes where Cash is giving himself stick and poke tattoos mean something a little different.

Because he is seen giving himself those tattoos when he is going through something that's upset him.

Like, for example, in season two when he and Darren have broken up and he's turning his heart tattoo into a broken heart before his nan walks in.

Is this his coping mechanism? Was this intentional?

Excuse me while I go and cry.