band one-shots

darling you'll be okay || tony perry

hi this is a very triggering vent fic that i wrote during one of my many mental breakdowns bc I love pierce the veil and i love emo boys with guitars who are covered in tattoos

ship: tony perry x reader

tw for self-harm 😔

~

Blood on the floor.

Blood in the sink.

Blood on my hands.

It's crimson red and fuck, it wasn't supposed to go this far. I just wanted a few drops. Enough so I could breathe.

But it's flowing out and I'm still choking on my own words, suffocating. The cuts don't help.

They never do.

And it's a fucked coping mechanism, because if it isn't helping, why do I do it? If it makes me feel worse and scars my body beyond repair, why do I swipe the metal across my skin? Why do I feel the endorphins flooding my brain with each drop of bright liquid beading along the cut?

I don't know. It's a question that haunts me as I clean up my mess, as I lay in bed with my wrists itching, as I stand in the shower with my thighs burning.

I toss the razor onto the counter, forcing a faux sense of calmness into my body. I just have to hide the evidence from Tony. That's all I have to do right now. I try to focus, but the floor wavers and I lose sight of what I'm doing.

My balance doesn't return immediately, and I stare at the sink, with drops of blood littering the basin. It's such a contrast, the stark white and the crimson, and slowly I take in a breath.

A footstep sounds in the hallway and I flinch. But I locked the door right? I could have sworn I did.

But apparently I neglected to, as it swings open to reveal Tony.

"Babe...? Are y-" His voice cuts off, as he takes in the horrific scene displayed. It's like a murderer was here, but not really. The only killer is me. And the victim is myself.

"Oh my God, Y/N, what the fuck?" He trembles and comes closer to me, but I don't want to be touched, and I push him away.

"Baby." Tony takes my arms, careful to avoid touching the cuts. "What happened?" He's so confused, he's so pissed off, he's so sad, but most of all, he's hurt that he didn't know before.

I still can't breathe and my response is nothing but a choked sob.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," He repeats. He lets go of my arms, but takes one hand as he reaches into the cabinet above the sink.

Bandages. Something I never use.

Tony presses gauze against my wrists, the white cotton blooming to a crimson color. My arms still shake but I keep them held out, like a bloody peace offering.

"I'm sorry." My voice is broken.

"It's okay." He brushes my skin with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide, and it burns, almost as bad as the cuts did. But I grit my teeth and bear it.

Blood still seeps from the wounds. Fuck, I went too deep. I glance up at Tony's face instead. His features are stiff and focused. I've never seen him like this before. His mouth is set in a thin line, eyebrows creased with worry.

He wraps my wrists in bandages and slowly sets them down by my sides. He exhales a soft sigh, and gently envelopes me in a hug. 

I fall against him, burying my face in the dip between his shoulder and head. His shirt is instantaneously smeared with tears but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"Why?"

I suck in a breath against the soaked fabric, reaching for an answer I don't have. "I needed it."

"What exactly did you need? The pain?" His voice is so calm. Why isn't he running from me? Why is he comforting me?

"I don't know!"

My voice sharpens and his face, oh God, his face. He looks so concerned and sad, and it's my fucking fault, but I don't know how to fix it.

Tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes and they drip down onto my hair. "I can't walk in on you like this again." He says, clutching me.

"Then don't walk in." It's a stupid response, and he's going to be pissed, but I need to feel something, otherwise I'll struggle to breathe and the room will start spinning and I fucking need it, okay?

He doesn't respond and slowly pulls away. His eyes are dark and they stare into my own. "You're going to end up dead. I can't see that. I can't walk in on your fucking dead body. I can't do that shit. Please."

I don't want to imagine Tony crying at my grave, so I push the thought away but it lingers still. Panicked breaths rise from my lungs and I'm crying again, fuck. "I don't want to die. I just want it to stop."

"It won't stop completely." He picks up my wrist and tentatively traces his fingertip along the bandage. "But it can fade."

"It's not fading!" I yell, pulling my arm back. His hand hangs in the air limply and he tries to hold me again but I don't let him.

"It will if you let it." He steps toward me and before I can retreat he's clutching me tightly. "It's okay."

I'm still sobbing, and I press against him, smearing a new layer of tears on him. "What if I don't want to let it?"

Because the truth is, that's the last fucking thing I want. If I let it fade then I can't cut, and thinking about not cutting kind of makes me want to slit my wrists open, and fuck, there I go again. But I don't know how to survive without the scars.

"I'll help you." Tony eyes cut away from me and land on the bloody scene still displayed on the bathroom counter. "But you have to swear to me that next time....next time you feel like this, you tell me first. Before you...." He trails off, not needing to finish his sentence.

"I swear." The words shake as they leave my lips and I'm terrified I won't keep this promise. But it's Tony, so I have to try.

He kisses my forehead. "It's okay. I love you. Darling, you'll be okay."

~

sometimes i read my own writing and i think

"damn this bitch really does need the suicide hotline"

🤠but i've learned that it's better for me to write about this shit then do it so here y'all go