Varian x Reader Oneshots

The Pain of the Past

WARNINGS: implication of self harm, repetitive mention of self harm, possible panic attack, swearing, you are the person doing the harming.

I would like to begin by saying that I am fortunate in not having felt the need to self harm, so everything I am writing is based off of others experiences. I have, however, been in a situation when someone close to me has self harmed. I'm sorry if this is triggering for you, but I have put a warning. If I missed anything please message me, because I can always edit it. Also, if you don't like the content, you can just skip the chapter on, its that simple. Now, I don't say that in a mean way mind you, I think people just forget how easy it is to walk away, especially on the internet.

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The harsh, stone floor scraped against your heels as you brought them closer to you, your knees pressed against your chest in a desperate attempt to feel secure; safe. The air around you enclosed you, and you mentally clawed at your throat to stop yourself suffocating. Your head spun with your thoughts, with the pain, and your gripped your temples with your fingertips, feeling your nails stark and agonising against your cold skin.

You opened your mouth in a scream and squeezed your eyes shut, rasping and pleading for any sound to come out. Blood poured from your wrists down your arm and onto the whiteness of your dress, staining it. Tears mixed with the red smeared across your face into a concoction of misery, and pain. You could feel where your skin had been ripped open, jagged and spontaneous, and you gasped against the echoes of your thoughts. The echoes of their voices.

He doesn't care for you. No-one does. You're nothing but a filthy farmers daughter, only useful for decoration. Hell you can't even be that, just look at you. You're worthless.

Fuck. Fuck. Your head spun and your eyes blurred as you reminisced on their comments. They were right, of course. They were right. Who would want you, the product of your mother's drunken endeavours; a disgrace to your village. Who would want you. Who would want you. Who would want-

"(Y/N)?" A small voice said from the door, but you hardly acknowledged it. You brought your knees into your nose and felt the fabric warm with your blood, and tears.

"Oh my.. oh my god," The person said again, and you looked up, tears streaming from your eyes as you watched the tears start to pour from his.

He doesn't care for you. You're worthless.

You felt yourself slip away.

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You stirred and wriggled slightly, unable to move. You breathed in shakily against the comforting warmth of the blankets, and blinked away the woollen arms that grasped at your eyelids, entwining themselves with your eyelashes, which were stiff with the memory of your tears. Your went rigid with the memory, and relaxed your eyes into a disimpassioned expression, letting all emotion drain from you. Your wrists ached, but the pain was more like a distant memory than a recent occurrence. You brought your arms out from the blankets and turned them over. They were freshly bandaged, the red only just beginning to bleed through the material. You raised one of your hands to your head and touched it slightly with your fingertips, pulling away to reveal no sign that there was ever blood on your face. You frowned at that slightly.

The door opened.

"You're awake," someone said both in surprise and relief. You squinted your eyes and looked around you. The room was grey, stone most likely, and you could feel the coolness of the air around you. It must be bloody freezing. Your blankets ruffled as someone brushed past them, sitting next to you. You continued to look around the room, and when that was done, you looked down at your wrists in sorrow; not quite sure what to do.

"Hey, (Y/N), are you okay?" They asked, before hitting themselves in the head.

"Of course she's not all right, you idiot," they rambled to themselves. You sniffed as you listened to them, paying more attention. You look up at them out of the folds of your fabric.

"Varian," you say, with no particular avail, since your voice had decided to disappear. A series of incoherent noises came from the back of your throat, but it was enough to get his attention.

"Hey," he said in a small voice. You looked up at him, your vision clearing.

His face cheeks were stained with tears and his eyes were puffy, and bagged. His hair was a scraggly mess and his goggles sat lopsided on his head. His shirt was untucked and lengthy, reaching to his knees. His eyes were starkly blue, and they swum with the ghosts of tears.

"Hey," you replied, your voice hoarse.

"Are yo-"

"I don't know," you answered, your voice catching in your throat. You quickly looked back down. He placed his arm on yours, careful not to touch your bandages.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked softly, his voice strong, yet shaking as he pronounced his words carefully.

You looked down further, and he squeezed your arm slightly.

"There were these... these people... they were saying things... they weren't nice, Var, they weren't nice," you said, lowering your head completely into your arms. He shifted closer to you and put his arm around your shoulders. He placed his lips on your head and spoke into your hair.

"What kind of things?" He asked quietly. It was almost rhetorical, like he wasn't expecting a response from you.

You shook your head and buried your head into his shoulder, your nose nuzzling the crook of his neck.

He tightened his arm around you.

"It's okay," he confirmed.

"It's going to be okay."
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And you could almost believe him.