summary; your boyfriend, andrew, finds out about your skin-picking disorder, and is desperate to help. warnings; blood, skin picking, scars, reader wasnt well-treated in the past (not by pope. ppl before him) a/n; based on this request ! i myself do not have dermatillomania, but dove deep into research and i hope this atleast somewhat accurately displays it, feel free to correct me! <3 also sorry if this is a little short T-T

Andrew had seen them. The small scars littering your arms, some on your legs, occasionally on your face, turning the apples of your cheeks an angry red. Every now and then there'd be new wounds, the blood barely dried. Whenever he asked, you'd simply shrug it off, claiming you just happen to be clumsy.

He knew it was more than that, though. He isn't stupid. However, he also knows that pushing you on it is only going to do more harm. He needs to go at this gently. For the past few days, his Google searches have all consisted of you.

girlfriend has scars all over cause of small scars can clumsiness cause multiple scars how to tell if my girlfriend is being secretive explanation for multiple small scars over legs and arms explanation for scars and small cuts reddit

And he just kept coming up empty. Until he ran into a small thread on Reddit, where a few people were discussing how to hide their skin-picking scars. That made his attention pick up. So, he went on a deep dive, googling about every skin-picking disorder thing he could find. And it all started making sense.

He felt like a jerk. How hadn't he noticed before? Why had he let you just brush it off? He won't let that happen again.

Staying up all night, Andrew scrolled dozens of websites, blogs, subreddits, just to find out how people deal with it. What helps them not pick at their skin, what to do when it happens, etc.

The next day, Andrew was at your door as early as possible, a bag in hand. You let him in, offering him a coffee, before you two sat down together in the living room. The bag rested at Andrew's feet, and you shot a confused look at it.

"Whatcha got there, Andy?" You asked softly, hands fiddling with the sleeves of your sweater, picking at a thread. Andrew's eyes drifted to the movement, and he nodded.

Lifting the bag into his lap, he looked at you. "I did some...research." His head nodded along to his words. "The scars on your arms...legs. I know it's not just clumsiness."

Your spine went rigid at that, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Andrew had also read, that this condition and it's effects can cause the person with the disorder to feel embarrassed, anxious, ashamed and even guilty.

"It's...okay." He nodded, setting the bag down on the couch between you. "I read about it. Like a lot of people have it. And I...y'know...got some stuff that could help." He gestured to the bag, lips pulling back a little, causing little smiles to appear on the sides of his mouth.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, as he started pulling things out. Everything was there. Soft brushes, that created the sensation of scratching without breaking skin. Thinking putty, which you can squeeze, pull, tweeze to your hearts content. A whole roll of bubble wrap to pop and pick at. He even got wound care items. Soothing balms, antiseptic spray, band-aids...

"Andrew..." Your voice quieted, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. You'd gotten so used to hiding your disorder, afraid of peoples reactions. In the past, people had judged you, even looked at you in disgust. But your Andrew...he went out and got things to help you.

Andrew's expression fell. He thought he was doing the right thing. Did he get it wrong? Maybe you didn't even have the disorder? God, he's really fucked it up this time.

"Shit. I'm sorry." He started shoving the things back in the bag, "I shouldn't have assumed. I just...I thought that was it."

You shook your head, hand landing on his arm to stop him. "N- no, Andy, this is great. I just..." A small sniffle followed, as tears rolled down your cheeks, "No one has ever gone this far just to help me. To make my daily life a little less heavy. And I just- it really means a lot, Andy."

His tense shoulders relaxed, once he heard you weren't upset at him. But then, he tensed up again. No one, in your life, had gone through the smallest bit of effort to help you cope? Makes him sick. If he knew any earlier, he would've been taking care of you all this time. Hell, he'd let you pick his skin if that helped. Anything to keep you from bleeding.

"You know I'll take care of you." He murmured, emptying the bag between you two, before folding it away. There were a few other sensory toys, some kinetic sand and even slime, just to see if picking that is any nicer.

Your heart warmed. When you first met Andrew, you were convinced he was emotionally constipated. He still has a hard time expressing his feelings via words, but his actions speak for themselves.

"What's this for?" You questioned, picking up the small tube of glue, head tilting in confusion.

He pursed his lips, looking to the side for a moment, before focusing back on you again. "I read that...some people like spreading a little of it on the back of their palm or their arm, and pick off the glue."

That was the moment your heart truly melted into a puddle.

"Oh, Andy..." You sniffled, setting the items aside to pull him into a hug. His arms were quick to wrap around your back, his head pressing into your shoulder, burying into you. "Thank you, so much. I- words- I can't even- sorry." You laughed through the small stream of tears, "You're just so amazing."

A proud smile crossed Andrew's lips, now that he knew he succeeded. "...'S okay. I got you." His hand brushed up and down your back, nose breathing in your perfume.

Zero thoughts just the fact that these are the hands of Jack Abbot/Pope Cody.

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ sleepyhead frank

the apartment is quiet except for the steady sound of rain tapping against the windows. it’s one of those rare mornings where everything feels slow enough to breathe, but frank is still dead asleep, stretched across the bed with one arm thrown over your side.

you’ve barely seen him all week. too many nights spent waiting up for the sound of his boots outside the door, too many mornings where his side of the bed had already gone cold before you woke up. now he’s finally here, and somehow he’s sleeping through the whole day.

you brush your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck.

nothing.

“frank,” you mumble, nudging his shoulder. “c’mon.”

all you get is a low, annoyed grunt as he buries his face deeper into the pillow. you smile to yourself. “you’re ignoring me.”

“m’not,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. “you’re just… talkin’ too much.”

“I missed you.”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead he blindly reaches for you, finds your wrist, and tugs until you lose your balance and land against his chest with a laugh. one heavy arm wraps around your waist immediately, holding you there like you’re not going anywhere.

“frank,” you complain, even though you’re smiling. “I was trying to wake you up.”

“bad idea.”

“it’s noon.”

“don’t care.”

his eyes stay stubbornly shut, brows pinched together in that little frown he somehow wears even while sleeping. you poke his cheek.

“you’re grumpy.”

"shut up.”

the words would sound harsh from anyone else, but they’re followed by the softest kiss pressed against the top of your head without him ever opening his eyes. you melt against him.

after another quiet minute, you whisper, “I really missed you.”

this time he sighs, the kind that seems to leave every ounce of tension behind.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “missed you too.”

his hand lazily rubs circles against your back before settling there, warm and steady. within minutes his breathing evens out again, already drifting back to sleep. you stay exactly where you are, tangled up in his arms, deciding the day can wait too. for once, you have him home, and that’s enough.

Revolving Rabbot