Hetalia Scenarios/Stories/Oneshots

2p! England x Depressed! Suicidal! Self Harm! Reader

2p! England x Depressed! Suicidal! Self Harm! Bullied Reader!

(A/N: I fixed some things about this...god it's cringy.)

      He was worried. You weren't at school, and you were famous for coming to school no matter what ailed you, even when you had appendicitis.  Yep, you were dedicated. Which is why he was worried. It only added to his concern when you didn't answer any of his 552 texts. 552! Not to mention the calls crammed in between classes. He knew you lived alone after your parents died, but he didn't think someone could hurt you; especially since he questioned your innocence in your parents' double murder. So, while reapplying the slight makeup he wore to cover his (what you believed to be) oh-so-cute freckles that he loathed, he resolved to go by your house after school and see what was wrong. He was suspicious- after all, he wasn't oblivious. He saw how you occasionally skip meals, he knew you were depressed and insecure, and he knew you were bullied; he simply didn't know who did it, to know who to kill. He wasn't worried about someone hurting you; he was worried about what you would do to yourself. 

     After what felt to him like an eternity, school was over. He dodged everyone in the parking lot,jumping into his car, tossing his bag in the passenger seat, and starting the car simultaneously. Oliver quickly sped down the bumpy road, his knuckles a shocking white against the steering wheel. He shook his head, clearing it of dark thoughts while he glanced in the back. During lunch break, he drove home, grabbing a (non-lethal) chocolate cupcake with pink and blue frosting, and bought a bouquet of flowers. He sighed, brushing his blonde hair away from his stunning blue eyes. He hated how you would do this to yourself; you didn't deserve it, in his eyes. In his eyes...you were perfect. No, you were imperfect, which made you perfect for him. He loved you, to the point where he wanted to slaughter anyone who lauded a finger on you. He didn't just love you-he was obsessed. You could even call him a bit of a yandere. He just hoped he'd get there in time, before you did something irreversible...

                                                                       YOUR POV

You snuggled under your blankets, shaking from the cold of your home, loss of blood, and lack of food. You didn't necessarily like the cold, but the hot was too much to bear...it also burned the cuts. They were still bleeding, the jagged red lines that marred your (s/c) flesh, beginning at your wrists and trailing upward to your shoulders. You didn't care; let them bleed, no one will see, and even if they did they'd simply encourage you to continue. Paper was scattered across your room like leaves, discarded copies of a...letter. The last letter you'd ever write, as a matter of fact. In it, you confessed to your parents' murders, your self harm, and...your love. In that letter, of which the final copy was resting ominously on your dresser, you told Oliver exactly how you felt, using words that could never come close to the love you felt for him. You sighed, not even crying as you stood, wobbling slightly due to lack of nutrition, walking to the bathroom to end your oh-so-short life.

*Knock knock*

You groaned, wrapping a housecoat around your waist as you decided to at least get the mail. You opened the door, an your eyes widened. "O-Oliver?"

"Hello poppet, may I come in?" You nod, even though it wasn't really a question. He sets a large bag on the cheap table, and grabs something from it- a bouquet of all your favorite flowers. He clears his throat awkwardly and blushed, his rosy cheeks shining through his makeup. You softly  held the beautiful gift in your pale, trembling hands.

"T-thank you...they're b-beautiful..." You say softly, looking down. He smiled, hiding his concern about your appearance. That smile quickly faded as he noticed something on your sleeves-blood.

"(Y-Y/N)?" He asked. "C-could I see your room?" Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand tightly, and tugged you upstairs, where he threw you on your messy bed. He shivered at the temperature of the room, trying desperately to remain calm. Your eyes were wide-his entire demeanor had changed-it was the first time you had seen him struggle to hold a smile.

"Love?" He whispered, stepping closer.

"Y-Yes, Ollie?" You shakily respond. You were worried about him. He leaned in close to you, his slender thumb and forefinger tilting your head up. With your face ruby red and mouth slightly agape, he gently leaned in, lips nearly meeting yours when-your arms felt cold. You gasped as his grip became vice like, holding you so couldn't escape him, or even cover the still bloody scars. He was hovering over you, and you would've blushed at the position you two were in if you weren't terrified of losing him. You were awakened from your thoughts when you felt something wet on your face-tears. Oliver, the man you loved, was crying, and you were pretty sure it was your fault. You struggled to move your arms to hug him, but he was far stronger than he seemed. He silently arose, picking you up gently and carrying you to the bathroom, where he grabbed the First Aid Kit, sat you down on the toilet, and began to clean your arms. You looked away, knowing he hated you, he thought you were a freak, and...he'd leave. You decided that as soon as he left, you would die. Once he was done, he surprised you by carrying you down the stairs to the couch, cradling you in his lap, his head resting on yours. He planted a kiss on your forehead.

"Poppet, please tell me who makes you feel this way. I...I love you, and I can't bear to watch you in pain." You were surprised, but you listed off the many names of your bullies."

"S-so you aren't leaving?" You shakily asked. He held you closer as he pressed a kiss to your lips, running his hands through your (h/c) hair, and you wasted no time responding, moving your chapped lips in sync with his soft ones. He pulled back reluctantly. "Never," he murmured against your lips, kissing you again, and breathlessly said,

"Not in a million years."