Do you still write for seduce me? If so, do you think you could write how the boys would help MC when struggling with self harm?
Hello sweetheart, I hope you're doing well.
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I love you, take care.
Warning: delicate subject, read with discretion.
It starts with stillness.
he notices the changes like someone notices the shift in weather. Subtle, gradual, impossible to ignore once you're looking.
The way you avoids certain touches, the way your voice flattens when talking about yourself. The way you smile but your eyes stay distant.
He doesnât confront you right away. He knows pushing would make you shrink further.
Instead, he watches. Waits. Learns the shape of your sadness like itâs a language he needs to understand.
And then one day, a quiet evening, a safe place, he calls your name gently.
And he asks, not with fear, not with pity, but with something else.
a steadiness.
âiâve noticed youâre carrying something. You donât have to tell me what it is. But... i want you to know... youâre not alone in thisâ
He doesnât reach for you, not yet. He lets you decide if you want to be held.
But when you do â if you do â he gathers you with such care it felt even much softer than the cool summers air.
He listens, not to respond, but to hear.
And afterwards, he begins to learn.
He researches. He reads. He builds routines around your safety, gently, without control.
Offers warm drinks, soft lights, calm mornings.
He becomes your quiet anchor.
And never once does he make you feel like a burden. Because to James... loving someone includes the pain they carry.
And he would never let you face it alone.
Erik notices it in waves.
Little things that donât add up.
A wince when he wraps his arms around you from behind. A laugh that sounds too tight. Jokes that edge into self-deprecation and then trail off.
At first, he brushes it off , tells himself heâs imagining things. But it sticks.
And then... one night, maybe after a slip, maybe after a look you give him thatâs just too hollow... it hits him. Fully.
And he stays so, so still.
Like a thread inside him snapped.
He doesnât say anything at first. He just... steps back, breathes through it, hurts.
Then, slowly, he kneels down in front of you. Holds your hands. Doesnât ask for explanations, Doesnât look for scars.
âi wish you could see yourself the way i see you. youâre... so much more than the pain. and iâm not going anywhere.â His voice breaking a little.
He makes jokes, yes... badly. But itâs just to keep your head above this nightmare.
And when that doesnât work, heâs just there. Raw, real.
He doesnât try to fix you. He knows pain doesnât work like that. But he will, with everything in him, fight the voice in your head that tells you...youâre unworthy.
Heâll leave little notes on the mirror.
Make playlists that say things he doesnât know how to put into words.
Learn your triggers. respect your space. Hold your hand through therapy.
And every time you doubt your worth, heâll kiss your knuckles and say: âyou donât have to be okay. you just have to be here. iâll take care of the rest.â
And he means it. With every inch of his bruised, loyal heart.
Sam notices like someone who doesnât want to notice.
Because the idea of someone he loves being in pain, especially a pain theyâre hiding from him, terrifies him more than he knows how to admit.
At first he thinks heâs overreacting. Maybe youâre just tired. Maybe itâs stress. Maybe that flinch was a coincidence.
The way you avoid mirrors. The way your arms stay covered, even when itâs warm. The way your laughter sounds like itâs trying too hard.
He pretends he doesnât see it. He doesnât want to push.
But then one day â maybe after an argument, or maybe just... a quiet moment that feels wrong â he blurts it out.
âAre you okay? like... actually?â
His voice isnât sharp. Itâs rough. Scared even.
Heâs not angry, heâs worried. Deeply, overwhelmingly worried.
And, if you tell him the truth, if you even hint at whatâs going on...he goes quiet.
And then, slowly, he reaches out. Not with dramatics. Not with grand speeches... just a hand. Warm. Steady.
âI donât want you hurtinâ like this. Not alone. Not ever.â
He wonât always know what to say. Heâll mess up sometimes. He might speak too bluntly.
But his heart is so big, eneough for the two of you. And once he knows whatâs going on, he becomes this quiet wall of protection.
He checks in:âyou drink water today? eat somethinâ?â ...but not like a checklist, like he cares.
Heâll sit beside you while you talk, or while you cry, or while you donât say a single word.
He doesnât leave. Doesnât flinch. Just stays.
And when you start to feel like a burden, heâll cut you off gently
âyou ainât a problem. Youâre my person...and Iâm stayinâ
He means it. With every fiber of his stubborn, loyal heart.
Matthew sees the signs, not because heâs watching for them, but because he recognizes the shape of pain.
He sees the way you avoid mirrors, the way you flinch when someone says âyouâre doing okay, right?â
He doesnât ask right away. But it sits in his chest like a storm cloud.
And one day, maybe when he hears you cry in another room. Maybe when you say âiâm just tiredâ for the third time that week. He gently cups your face, eyes wide and watery and so full of love it hurts.
âYou donât have to hide from me,â he whispers.
âIâm not gonna run. Even if youâre hurting. Especially if youâre hurting.â
And if you break down, he holds you like you're something sacred.
No questions. No pressure. Just warmth.
He lets you cry into his hoodie. Talk or not, he rubs your back until you breathe evenly again.
Heâll start doing little things: making hot chocolate, tucking a plushie beside your pillow, asking you to cook with him. Anything.
He sends you memes and voice notes and songs that sound like healing.
And he reminds you, again, and again, and again, that you are loved.
âI donât care if youâre sad. I mean â i do, but â youâre allowed to be. I just... want you here. okay? with me.â
And the thing is...with Matthew, it never feels like pity. It feels like being seen. And being loved anyway. Fully.
Without conditions. Without shame.
He feels it before he sees it.
The shift in your energy. The tremble in your aura. The sadness youâre trying to swallow.
He doesnât read your mind, he never would without permission, but he feels your pain like a ghost clinging to the edges of your presence.
He notices the quiet apologies, the way you shrink when someoneâs voice gets too loud, the way you smile like theyâre trying to convince yourself.
He gives you space at first â not out of fear, but out of respect.
And when he senses that the time is right... he approaches gently. He doesnât ask why.
âI can feel you hurting. And you donât have to explain anything. Just... let me hold it with you...please.â
And when you break, when the mask finally cracks, he opens his arms without hesitation.
And he listens. truly listens.
He doesnât interrupt, doesnât try to fix it.
He just holds you and breathes with you.
âyouâre allowed to feel like this. Youâre allowed to struggle. And you are still so loved, so worthy.â
His care is almost sacred.
Heâll speak affirmations gently, if you want to hear them. Heâll leave little notes of love and reminders in places only youâll find.
He helps you make safety plans. Builds rituals of comfort. Learns your fears so he can hold you softly.
And if you ever pull away, ashamed or afraid, heâll just whisper.
âYou are not your pain. You are not your scars. You are a soul I adore...every version of you.â
And heâll stay. In every way that matters.
Through the dark. Through the quiet. Until your light begins to return â at your pace, not his.
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