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theminecraftbee · 6 months

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"Well hello there Secret Keeper!" Scar says, chipper. "It's a bea-ut-i-ful day today here on the Secret Life server, and I'm here for my daily hearts for winning! I have to say, it is gorgeous today. Really a lot easier to keep the rain away without other players, what with sleeping through the night not being a problem at all! Did you know, by the way, that sleeping and rain are connected? I didn't until recently, but by golly, they sure are! Can you imagine? The world is full of so many strange things."

The Secret Keeper, being a big dumb stone statue, doesn't reply. Scar's beginning to think it's just rude. It sure replies whenever he hits the button, which is the first step in his morning routine these days. He's gotten better at dodging damage, really, even with the nearly infinite hearts! He's just not so good at dodging skeletons and creepers and such that he shouldn't top off every day.

He hits the button. He feels his health return to him. He gets a new task: Win Secret Life.

He snorts, a little bitter, to himself as he reads it and folds it into his pocket. "You know, I don't know if I'm lucky or unlucky that you're such a moron that you don't know what winning means. Your machine is broken."

No response, again, because the Secret Keeper is, as established, a big old dumb rock. Well, whatever. Besides, if he lingers on resentment and upset for too long, it might catch up with him! He's certainly let it catch up with him before. Why, a few days after he'd won, when he really had it sink in that he was for-real alone on a server covered in lightning burn marks and blood, he had a bit of a breakdown! There was sobbing, screaming, yelling at the world, the whole works! And when no one responded then, well--

"Did I just call you a moron? I'm sorry, I didn't mean that!" Scar says. "You know how I get sometimes. The world is beautiful and warm, but sometimes it gets a little hard to breathe around here! Now, where were we... oh, right! The trading post terraforming project! Now, we hit a bit of a snag the other day, what with the wandering traders I'd caught all sort of--dying--and all that, but luckily, more of them might show up any moment, and they really are vital to making the place feel alive and breathing. So today we're taking a break from that to build up some trees!"

He waves his arms like someone is listening. He'd like to imagine someone is. Grian told him he won--just because all the ghosts are quiet now doesn't mean they aren't there! And if that was a moment of temporary insanity, well, he probably--he needs to think it's not, is the thing! He absolutely needs to think it's not.

He hums and gathers more logs. His makeshift tree farms are pretty nice, if he does say so himself. He pauses as he hears distant howling and sighs. "I guess we will also be spending today cleaning up the wolf population! I swear, I have no idea what those people were thinking making a wolf spawner. A man takes a nap for a day and then the entire server is overrun with stupid white animals! And you know, I do hate having to cull the things, but, well, you know me. I've learned how to kill pretty well, I think, and really, dogs are easier to kill than people."

He grabs a sword from his chest and sharpens it. He keeps it perfectly clean so that there isn't too much blood on it. Good thing, too; most of the blood would probably be his. He's a bit clumsy, after all. He cuts his fingers on it all the time. No matter how well he bandages up his hands, he just keeps making them bleed, drip, drip, dripping blood on every path he walks down. No matter how hard he works to clean up his massive building projects, the little splatters of blood follow him, so he's sticking to dark colors where he can.

The flowers will probably show the blood, he thinks. The flowers and trees he's building. Hopefully, the blood doesn't stand out too much. It feels wrong, in a world where there are no bodies.

He stands up. He heads in the direction of today's pack of unwanted pests. He sighs. "You know, I know your question is, well gosh, Scar! All the previous winners died. When are you going to finish it off and kill yourself? And wow, that's a pretty dark question. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking, really." He laughs. It's not funny. Who cares.

Instead, he shakes his head.

"And, well, you have to understand. I'm not done building yet! I can make my base so much nicer looking! And besides, you're still handing me hearts. If I get hurt, I can just come back and get more from you! If you want to die, you have to kill me yourself. You fucking cowards!"

No response.

He sighs. "Well, that's enough of that for today. Sorry, I'm feeling kind of morose. It's all this sunshine! Can't be good for a man. Did you know populated servers rain more often than unpopulated ones? It's true! It's because people don't sleep enough. But here I am, getting all the sleep I need. Now, time to go kill some dogs and build some trees! I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon, can you?"

His hands hurt. He ignores it. He ignores a lot of hurt, these days. It's not like it's hard.

#secret life smp #goodtimeswithscar #a bee fic #implied/referenced suicide #implied/referenced self harm #SO UH. HOW ABOUT THAT SCAR NOT DYING IN THE END NONSENSE HUH.#trying to write this all very much in scar's voice was fun. dark premise. goofy guy. result: this.#also i DO love occasionally giving a character who otherwise wouldn't exactly ONE precision swear-word. very fun.

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wangxianficrecs · 5 months

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💙 The Men They Became by pinky_b

💙 The Men They Became

by pinky_b

G, 3k, Wangxian & Nielan

Summary: When he looks at A-Yuan, he sees everything he wishes his nephews could have been: happy. Or: Lan Qiren looks back on how he raised his nephews. Kind of a character study. Kay's comments: This story is the epitome of "Lan Qiren tries". Sometimes, just doing what you do is best, is not enough. He thinks things are going well for a while after he had to take in his nephews, but the house of cards collapses at some point, both boys having to deal with severe mental health issues that have been untreated for too long. Still, he tries his best at least until Wei Wuxian enters the mix. Then, he almost loses his nephews for good... This story is just very lovely in its own heartbreaking way and everyone who grew up having complicated relationships with their parents will probably recognize some part of it in this story. Still, there's hope in this too and a happy ending after some much needed communication! I also really like how this mirrored canon. Excerpt: When he looks at A-Yuan, he sees everything he wishes his nephews could have been: happy. As he watches his grand-nephew talk with his friends and smile, laugh, he feels this weight settle in his chest, reminding him of everything he failed to do. He tries to not be too hard on himself, but he knows he failed both his nephews in so many ways it physically hurts him. He tried. He truly honestly tried to do right by them in everything he did. He sees the unrestrained grin that seems to live on Lan Yuan’s face and the crowd of friends around him, and in those things, he sees everything his boys never had. He wants to be able to give himself some grace. He was never an affectionate man, and children were never anything he saw for his future, but he thought he was doing his best with what life gave him. He wants to be able to say that he did them well. Both his nephews are smart, capable, respectable men, but he thinks they became all those things in spite of how they were raised. Sometimes he feels like the boys had to overcome growing up in his home to become the men they are now. They say hindsight is always 20/20 and he can see now that there was too much on Xichen’s young shoulders.

pov lan qiren, modern setting, modern no powers, implied/referenced child abuse, child neglect, implief/referenced self-harm, grief/mourning, parent-child relationship, mental healh issues, panic attacks, musician lan wangji, lan xichen/nie mingjue, nielan, journalist wei wuxian, complicated relationships, coming out, character study

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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actual-changeling · 7 months

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happily digging my own grave

Aziraphale inches closer, and his mere presence soothes the raw patches of skin he has been scratching open over and over again with bitten-down nails, hidden by black sleeves, accidental rather than intentional; he does not care much about what Aziraphale does and doesn't see in that regard. He lost the right to care when Crowley lost him.

#alex yells at the void #good omens #ineffable divorce #implied/referenced self harm

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 months

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April - Eönwë x Arafinwë

Here's the last one I got sent in, for the moment, and it's another one my darling reader MoonLord has sent in :D

This turned a little darker and sadder than I wanted, so please heed the tags!

Lots of love!

Pairing: Eönwë x Arafinwë (Russingon, Fëanor & Fingolfin & Finarfin)

Prompts: Friendship, Dimension Travel, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Shapeshifting

Words: 2050

Warnings: sadness, self-mutilation, canonical death, despair, loss, bad news

“You came,” Arafinwë sobbed, his whole body slumping forward as if he was tempted to throw himself against the broad chest of his mighty friend. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Eönwë steeled himself to keep from flinching back from the bleak despair radiating in violent waves from the frail frame of the esteemed Elven king; he never knew how to deal with the unbridled, often outright shamelessly emotional outbursts of the Children, and he was afraid of distressing his friend even further by reacting inappropriately.

“How can I be of service?” the herald thus asked cautiously, extending a gentling hand which Arafinwë instantly clutched like a lifeline.

“My brothers,” he whispered, tears staining his fair face. “My heart aches fiercely, and I’m filled with dread that some dark fate has befallen them.”

This time, Eönwë did take a step back—it was forbidden to quest in thought or feeling for those who’d callously deserted the Blessed Realm, and he felt the stern gaze of his Master on the back of his neck even now.

All the non-committal words of illusionary comfort he was expected to dispense, though, died on his tongue in the face of the unembellished misery contorting his friend’s handsome face.

“I know not,” Eönwë finally said. “They’ve chosen their own destiny by removing themselves from the goodwill and protection of the Valar.”

“But you could find out,” Arafinwë wailed and surged forward to dig his fingers into Eönwë’s tunic in a gesture so shockingly disrespectful and undeniably desperate that the benevolent Maia didn’t even have the heart to chide him for his presumptuous trespass. “You are not a prisoner of these lands.”

“Neither are you,” Eönwë reminded him kindly. “Neither were they.”

At that gentle remonstrance, Arafinwë’s face fell like a heap of ashes blown astray by Manwë’s mighty winds.

“I’ve tried to leave once before,” the King of what remained of the Ñoldor breathed mournfully. “I couldn’t do it—and I dare not provoke the wrath of those who’ve welcomed me back so graciously now. I ask this as a friend—could you not travel hither and assuage the fear devouring my very soul?”

It was a terrible idea, Eönwë knew, and he should have declined. By rights and custom, he should have relegated this matter to Nienna or Estë for they would have found the right words to pacify Arafinwë.

Instead, he felt his head dip in a silent, grave nod.

Arafinwë reminded him of a failing fledgling, left behind in a deserted nest by his foolhardier siblings, and Eönwë’s heart bled for the stark loneliness that enveloped the pitiful wretch like an acrid stench; the herald, after all, was a being made to follow and obey, and—in this—his heart commanded him to break the rules to bring peace to one who’d so bravely contained all notions of strife and war within his brittle soul to spare those around him.

Surely, those who lived in and on faith all their life deserved to be granted knowledge from time to time as a reward for their blind, unwavering, oft perilous belief.

“I cannot, I shall not intervene,” Eönwë reminded the sorrowful supplicant. “As a reward for your enduring love and diligence, I will grant you this boon, though—I’ll find out what happened to your brothers and tell you posthaste.”

He did not share the price and suffering he’d take upon himself to do so—these were no concerns for a mere incarnate, and his desire was not to place the burden of guilt onto Arafinwë’s frail shoulders.

“Thank you,” the Elf cried, sinking to his knees and making to kiss the hem of Eönwë’s garment.

“Desist,” Eönwë expostulated and joined the other on the cool, damp ground, cupping his pale cheek tenderly and brushing a rough thumb across the wet skin. “You have been a good, loyal friend to me, and I love you well, son of Finwë. I shall accept your amicable gratitude, but you shan’t abase yourself before me.”

Watery eyes were slowly lifted pleadingly, and Eönwë at once bent forward to press his lips soothingly to that pallid, sorrowful brow.

“Be careful,” Arafinwë said with such genuine fervour that the other couldn’t help but yearn to subdue the tremor in those full lips by moving his own down a shapely cheek to the source of so innocent and foolish an exclamation.

“Worry not about me, dear,” Eönwë cooed. “Go home and make peace with your wife. I shall seek you out as soon as I’m back!”

“Milord!” Arafinwë mumbled into that sweet, comforting kiss before bowing sharply. “I shall await you impatiently!”

As he watched his heartened friend slowly walk back to his splendid abode, Eönwë turned his radiant face to the dark ocean and took a shivering breath—he was undaunted by the cruel steps he’d have to undertake to fulfil his promise, yet he dreaded his master’s just wrath if his base betrayal would come to light.

There was no hiding the truth from Manwë’s far-seeing eyes, so his diligent, hopelessly optimistic herald had to make haste before the mighty Vala could intervene to prevent him from leaving.

Drawing his sword—glistening like the embodiment of solace and vengeance alike—he did what had to be done unflinchingly.

Upon setting foot on the defiled soil, churning with frantic anger and hurt, Eönwë froze.

He’d known Fëanáro’s essence since the time it had slowly poisoned and snuffed out his mother’s soul, and he was reeling with fatigue and shock as he realised that he could not sense it anywhere.

“No,” he whispered. “No, he should be here.”

Slowly and cautiously, he lifted his face into the fetid breeze.

He could sense Fëanáro’s sons, sullen, agonising, diminished, but the one he’d come for was not among them.

Shrugging uncomfortably, he set out in search of Nelyafinwë who, he hoped, would be able to tell him of the fate about which he sought knowledge and reassurance.

After a long, wearying walk, Eönwë finally reached the stark, grey walls surrounding that dour fortress over which ruled the firstborn son of the famed Spirit of Fire—conjuring up dignified equanimity from the depths of his nascent despair, he did neither flinch nor protest when he heard a soldier announce that there was a beggar at the door.

Instead, he schooled his face into a pleasant smile in joyous expectation of having gotten closer to his goal.

He was left waiting in cold, draughty rooms for a shocking amount of time before a shadow so dark it made his very soul shiver fell upon him.

“Herald,” Nelyafinwë rasped in surprise. “You’re bleeding.”

“How did you recognise me?” Eönwë gasped, his mind awhirl with thoughts and observations that made his stomach drop.

The once gloriously beautiful Elven prince had grown gaunt and hollow-eyed, and his snarl was more reminiscent of a bleeding wound than of the radiant smile Eönwë remembered so well.

“I’ve lived through too many unspeakable horrors to be deceived by so weak a glamour,” the Lord of the stronghold chuckled mirthlessly. “You did not have to mutilate yourself—your light gives you away.”

Eönwë flinched—if he’d still had his wings, they would have quivered in alarm, but, in his present form, he merely winced violently.

“Your uncle sends me,” he then explained. “I’ve come from the Blessed Realm, risking much as you can imagine, to supply news about Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë to my dear friend. What can you tell me?”

Shaking his head regretfully, Nelyafinwë gave a crooked shrug that revealed the heavily bandaged stump of his hand which gave Eönwë another painful jolt—Thorondor had declined to speak about what he’d seen on his daring, sanctioned rescue mission, and it was his tight-lipped refusal to impart any wisdom pertaining to the state of things that had eventually pushed poor Arafinwë into making such foolhardy demands and heart-wrenching pleas.

“You can tell Arafinwë that he shan’t worry about my father ever again; Fëanáro won’t come to wrench his precious crown off his golden head. He’s dead and, as per Námo’s dark declaration, will never be seen again.”

“Why, that cannot be true!” Eönwë exclaimed, feeling oddly betrayed by the cold words that buffetted him like a volley of sharp blades, inexorably piercing him to the core of his being.

Surely, if that was so, Manwë would have known and so would Vairë and Námo—undoubtedly, they would not have withheld so grievous a fact from Arafinwë.

“There’s nought here to learn, herald,” Nelyafinwë muttered. “We’re dispersed like bad seeds, unable to take root, doomed to never thrive. I suppose you’ll see High King Ñolofinwë next—extend my greetings to His Highness.”

He hesitated for a near-imperceptible moment before adding, “And express my warmest regards to Prince Findekáno. Tell him that I’m still devoted to my labour of mending the rift between us.”

An incongruous, frightening sense of urgency had slipped into his hoarse, monotone voice now.

“May you find better tidings at their camp,” Nelyafinwë said, not unkindly, and swept out of the room without turning back.

Eönwë cursed himself for having discarded his wings in an act of agonising folly for his progress through the war-torn lands was slow and arduous.

When he finally reached his destination, his heart was heavy and his soul so tense that he feared that it might break under the slightest additional strain or blow.

“Hail…” he exclaimed when he saw Prince Findekáno walk towards him, but the courteous words of greeting died on his tongue as he registered the tears running down those shockingly concave cheeks he’d remembered as round and perpetually set in motion by quick smiles and witty remarks.

“Eönwë,” Findekáno sighed, visibly trying to pull himself together. “Have you come to intercede in my father’s favour?”

Remembering his vow, Eönwë shook his head slowly. “Where is Ñolofinwë? His brother much desires to have news from him, and I’ve taken it upon me to procure them.”

“Ah, the losses, the madness,” the prince sighed in profound hopelessness. “My father, the High King, has ridden out on his own to challenge Morgoth to a fight.”

At that, Eönwë frowned. Level-headed and wise, the Ñolofinwë he’d watched grow from a steadfast, jolly elfling toddling behind his unbearably haughty half-brother would never have undertaken so stupidly temerarious and futile an enterprise as to goad a Vala into single combat.

He could not have imagined hearing anything more absurd and unlikely than Fëanáro bursting into flame and abandoning his sons to carry out his otiose plans—nevertheless, now he learned that Indis’s firstborn was moribund as well.

“Maybe we can stop him,” Eönwë cried, his voice echoing through the deserted courtyard like the screeching of a huge bird of prey caught in a vicious trap. “We must prevent such a senseless sacrifice!”

“It’s too late,” Findekáno declared in the shivering voice of one trying to contain more anguish and pain than his mind could even comprehend. “I’m sorry that you shan’t convey better news to my uncle. Have you heard about Fëanáro?”

All Eönwë could do was to nod. For some reason, which was absolutely mystifying to him, he couldn’t stop moving his head to and fro as if the rhythmical motion could dislodge the cutting splinters of terrible knowledge burrowing into his mind mercilessly.

“It’s not safe here,” Findekáno whispered urgently. “You must away before anyone can see you and get the wrong idea. There shall be enough disappointment and mourning without having a spy instead of a warrior in our midst. Go back and send my loving greetings to Arafinwë.”

Sputtering, Eönwë relayed Nelyafinwë’s message—prompting the first genuine reaction of joy in the soon-to-be High King of the Ñoldor—and went on his way once more.

As he threw himself into Ulmo’s arms, ready to accept whatever punishment the Valar saw fit for his devastating excursion, Eönwë couldn’t help thinking that he’d not only have to tell his dear friend that his brothers were dead, but that he’d also be the bearer of widowhood and maternal loss, quailing before the immense grief of excellent women he’d hitherto respected and liked.

He had left a hero, a bringer of hope, and he’d return as a dull, throbbing beacon of endless mourning.

-> Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one!

Thank you so much for being on this ride with me!

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bluejaysandblackbats · 4 months

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Lily of the Valley

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: Jason Todd dies and comes back to life. As the League takes him in, he navigates his morality and family values over the years.

Chapters: 4/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Talia al Ghul, Ra's al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Barbara Gordon, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Sheila Haywood

Relationships: Jason Todd/Original Character(s)

Additional Tags: Immortal Jason Todd, League of Assassins Jason Todd, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Protective Talia al Ghul, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Jason Todd Needs a Hug, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Adopted Children, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Claustrophobia, Child Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Resurrected Jason Todd

Chapter Four: Peace Lily

"This one, Gēgē," Damian whispered as he took a book off the shelf. Jason lay back and let Damian sit on his lap as he read the title.

"Can you turn the page for me, Damian?" Jason requested gently. Damian made a soft noise and obeyed. Jason couldn't use his hands when spending time with Damian, but he found ways around it. Damian had a fondness for Jason that not even Talia could explain. They spent most of their days together. The boys sometimes took a nap together in mid-afternoons when Talia was busy.

Halfway through the book, Damian stopped turning the pages at Jason's request. "Damian?" Jason whispered. Damian turned and looked up at him.

"Sleepy?" Damian asked. Jason nodded. "I can tell." Jason chuckled as Damian stood up and helped him to bed. Jason held back his laugh as Damian tucked him in. Talia smiled and crossed her arms as she watched the two boys from the doorway.

"You too, baby bird," Talia whispered. Damian obeyed and lay down in his bed. Talia tucked him in, and he quickly drifted off to sleep. She kissed his forehead and whispered something that neither boy could hear. Jason, however, lay awake, watching her. "Are you too tired to talk for a moment?"

"No, I'm not too tired," Jason whispered. She crouched by his bedside and pushed his bangs out of his face.

"Your bandages are coming off soon... And soon after, your training begins," Talia informed him, "Do you have any idea what that means for you?"

Jason shook his head, and Talia continued to speak. "Jason, I'll oversee your studies. Everything from history to hand-to-hand combat," she explained, "And then my father will take over your training once you're ready to spar with others."

He smiled. "Like homeschool?" Jason asked.

"It would be more intensive than homeschooling, but it would be something like that. I'm telling you now because there might be things that happen during your training that might not make sense... It might even frighten you at times-."

"But you'll be there, won't you?" Jason interrupted as he sat up.

The innocence written all over Jason's face moved her to tears. She had to fulfill her father's wishes. Talia promised to train Jason and examine the extent of his immortality before she'd even met him. She had no idea how sweet and gentle Jason was, nor how few years he'd been alive. Talia nodded as she turned her face away from Jason. "I'll do my best," Jason whispered to get her to smile. "Talia."

She embraced him and smoothed his hair down. "And I will do mine," Talia whispered. She squeezed his shoulder as she let go. "Get some rest." Jason nodded and lay down. She pulled the blankets over him and kissed his temple as she always did with Damian.

She left them alone to meet with Ra's and plead with him for Jason's soul. It was a fight she didn't see herself winning, but she had to try. "Baba, about Jason... I don't think he's suited-."

"I'm in no mood to hear your reservations on this matter... I allowed you to doctor him in a traditional sense as you asked, but I will not permit you to waste any more of my time. He will start training as soon as his hands have healed," Ra's snapped. Talia took a deep breath.

"You've already killed him once. Isn't his blood enough? Could we compare-."

"Should I exsanguinate the boy and bathe in his blood? Or should you have me drink his blood like some crazed beast?" Ra's asked sarcastically. Talia hung her head and looked out the window. "What changed?"

"He's only a child. A fragile child. Jason could be easily broken under the pressure of what you require," Talia whispered, "I don't think he understands his own gift."

"He will understand soon enough," Ra's replied, "But I'll take his state of mind into consideration..." Talia nodded and excused herself.

"I heard your footsteps, little one," Talia whispered. Jason came out from the shadows. She turned to face him, and he walked toward her with his head hung low.

"I didn't mean-. Well, I did mean to snoop... I'm sorry," Jason whispered. Talia opened her arms and embraced him.

"It's alright... Jason did you hear anything that you-. Do you have questions about anything you heard in there?" Talia asked. Jason nodded. "You can ask me."

Jason kicked at the air and mouthed what he had to say breathlessly before speaking aloud. "What did you mean by my gift?" Jason asked. "Do I have powers? Was that what you meant?"

Talia nodded. "Jason, would you like to sit with me in the garden?" she questioned. Jason nodded, and she led him by his arm to a small garden and helped him into his shoes. "Can you explain what happened to you in the past month?"

Jason smiled up at the warm sun. He hadn't been outdoors in weeks. Jason remembered what she asked after coming to his senses. Jason explained that he got sick from the cold twice and that the hospitals made a mistake.

"That's not at all what happened. Jason, you've died twice since December," Talia whispered, "But for one reason or another-."

Jason let out a laugh. "No," he shook his head. "I-. No." He tried to take a breath but couldn't get enough air. "That's not true..."

"Jason, you died-."

"Am I dead now?" Jason questioned. Talia shook her head. "Where am I? Am I being punished?"

"No, you're not dead, and you're not being punished... This island is your new home. It's where you'll grow up. I'll get you a room and playroom if that's what you like. Do boys your age play with toys?" Talia asked as she attempted to calm him down. Jason let out a breath and smiled. The smile was for Talia. Jason liked Talia, trusted her, and Jason wanted her to like him.

"I prefer books," Jason chuckled. Talia nodded and wiped tears from Jason's cheeks.

"A library then, little one," Talia whispered. She wrapped her arms around him, and he closed his eyes. Talia frowned and held onto Jason. All she wanted to do was protect him, but that wasn't in her power. Not anymore. Jason was no longer hers to care for and love. Jason belonged to Ra's now.

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l3o-lion · 7 months

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TW: self harm

Alt version of this :]

This slight change from the other version is fanart for a fic by @hamletisabitch that I've reread a couple times now.

You can read the fic here! Major trigger warning for self harm.

#og leo post #my art #leo vents #sorta #implied/referenced self harm #self harm cw #self harm tw #injury #blood #only a tiny bit #i could've gone way further with the blood considering the sverety of the wound but I didn't #didn't feel like making it too gory/bloody

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peachy-doodles · 2 years

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thinks abt. how many piercings i draw him with at any given time and how he’d prolly not get sent to hisui with them since he takes them out at work (safety first!) so theyd close up and scar and also. uhmmmm other mystery scars :’]

bonus funnie for you:

#pokemon #pokemon legends arceus #warden ingo #warden calaba #subway boss ingo #subway boss emmet #pla #pla calaba #pla ingo #calaba my good friend calaba..... idk if she could identify wounds but she works as a healer so it might come within the territory yknow #i have very deep and obvious ear piercing scars so <3 tee hee #tw referenced self harm #self harm mention #referenced self harm #just incase #implied self harm

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merfairymakes · 10 months

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A scene from Welcome Back, by beloved partner @lizluvscupcakes 's fic/AU!!!!! Please go give it a read if you can!!!!

#implied/referenced suicide attempts #blood #self harm #welcome back au #welcome home au #welcome home #wally darling

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ollieofthebeholder · 7 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 66: October 2002

Gerard follows the woman in the sensible shoes down the corridor, silently willing her to hurry up already. Logically he knows any danger—any immediate danger, anyway—is past, but he needs to see for himself before he can be sure.

The woman’s talking. He’s only partly listening. She probably doesn’t actually know the full truth anyway. Nobody’s giving him details about anything, not really. The woman’s saying a lot about care and caution and something vague about a regular therapist, and he wants to laugh at her because the last thing that would help in any plausible scenario is a therapist. Someone who doesn’t know the situation isn’t going to be able to help them recover from it.

And it’s not like telling someone would make things better.

They round a corner and he spots a familiar figure standing outside a door, arms crossed and jittering with suppressed emotion. Gerard rushes past the nurse and walks over as fast as he can without outright running. “Melanie. How is he?”

It’s a mark of how worried he is that he says her full first name. Melanie’s face is pinched with anger and worry and a bit of accusation. “I don’t know. They won’t let me in without a guardian.”

“It’s all right, she’s our sister,” Gerard tells the nurse with the disapproving frown. “I’m here to take both of them home…is he ready to go?”

Just like that, the frown vanishes, and the nurse nods and holds up a finger before disappearing into the room behind him.

Swiftly, in a low voice, Gerard asks, “What happened?”

“Not here.” Melanie’s expression, in contrast to the nurse’s, does not relax. “When did you get back?”

“Like two hours ago.” Gerard and his mum have been on one of their continental jaunts, so he really has no idea what’s happened.

Before either of them can elaborate, the door opens, disgorging Martin. It’s obvious he’s just gone on a growth spurt in the last couple of months—his trousers clear his ankles by a good inch and his jawline’s gone square as at least some of the puppy fat burns off—but he’s huddling in on himself. He looks…humiliated is the best way Gerard can put it. A combination of guilt and embarrassment and general upset.

And Gerard’s stomach lurches.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft so that it doesn’t shake or crack. “Ready to go?”

“Hi, Gerry,” Martin mumbles. His eyes flick up briefly to Gerard’s face, then drop to the floor again, and his hands tuck a little tighter under his arms.

“Remember,” the nurse says, coming out from behind Martin and wagging her finger at him sternly. “Keep those covered until they heal. Dr. Browning will want to see you next week to have those out, or you can go to your regular doctor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Martin’s voice is no more than a thread, and Gerard’s worry ratchets up another few notches.

Concealing it as best he can, he places a hand on the center of Martin’s back—they’re the same height now, Martin’s going to be tall when all’s said and done—and wraps the other around Melanie’s shoulders. “Come on, then. How about an ice cream?”

They aren’t children anymore, not really—Martin turned fourteen just before Gerard left town, Melanie will be fourteen in a week—but ice cream is as good a peace offering as any. Martin shakes his head wordlessly, though, leaving Gerard casting about for something else to do. Taking him home, he instinctively feels, is right out.

Most places in London are too crowded, too historically or paranormally significant, or too full of books for them to go right now. Martin feels fragile, in a way Gerard isn’t accustomed to, and they’ll have to take care with him. In the end, they wind up in one of the few spots they can count on being unobserved and uninterrupted, a small, secluded public garden in the ruins of an ancient church. What Melanie sometimes refers to, rather dramatically, as “the Green” has reclaimed enough of it that any blood or ghosts soaked into the church’s stones are well-hidden, and it’s almost never visited, at least not during the week in the autumn. They should be able to talk.

Martin still won’t look anyone in the eye as they settle on a wide stone ledge. Melanie crosses her legs underneath herself and leans on them, trying to stare up at Martin’s face, while Gerard settles on Martin’s other side. For a long moment, there is silence, save the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.

Finally, Martin speaks in a small, miserable voice. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Melanie says, with an emphatic immediacy that feels like she’s been waiting for him to apologize so she can impress this fact on him—and, knowing both of them, she has been.

“Martin, what happened?” Gerard asks, as gently as he can. “All Aunt Lily said was that you’d gone to the A&E.” Actually, she said a lot of rather dismissive things, and that Martin would just have to wait until his stepfather gets home from work if he can’t be bothered to check himself out, but he isn’t going to say that. From the brief look Melanie gives him, he doesn’t have to.

Martin hunches his shoulders forward like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. “It’s…I found a book. It’s one Leitner never had—it didn’t have his label on it or anything—and I probably wouldn’t have even picked it up normally because it’s one of the ones we read in English earlier this term and it seemed innocent enough when we did. I wasn’t even really searching for them then. But it, it felt powerful, so I-I Looked at it, and it was so bright, I’d never seen anything that bright. The man at the shop told me I could just…have it when I asked him how much.”

“Which should’ve been our first clue,” Melanie interjects. “Nobody just gives these away.”

It doesn’t matter—or maybe it does—but Gerard asks anyway. “Which one was it?”

“The Spiral. It…I brought it home to give it to Mum so she could give it to Aunt Mary, but it wasn’t in my pocket when I got there. She went on at me for being careless and told me to go find where I’d dropped it.” Martin swallows. “It was dark by the time I got home and—it was in the bottom of my bag all along, I thought. I found it and put it on my nightstand to give it to Mum in the morning, but…”

“It wasn’t there,” Gerard guesses. “And of course you thought it was your fault.”

“I—you know I forget things all the time—”

“Which just made you easy prey for it. It’s not your fault, Martin.” Gerard touches Martin’s chin lightly. “But if you just kept losing it, how did you get hurt?”

Tears spring to Martin’s eyes, and he looks away again. “I kept…it got to where the only way I could find it was to Look, because I’d see it glowing and I’d find it. A-and then, after a couple of days, it…a man turned up. He kept insisting it was his book, that I’d stolen it—and of course I didn’t have a receipt from the shop because the man gave it to me, so I couldn’t prove I hadn’t, or that I hadn’t done it on purpose, but every time I tried to bring it to Mum for Aunt Mary it wasn’t where I’d left it and I’d start—panicking that maybe the man had taken it. Except nobody else ever saw him, so—”

“So Aunt Lily said you were making him up.” Gerard’s stomach flips. “Whether she believed it or not.”

“Yeah,” Martin says softly. “It just—I-I knew, I knew it was the Spiral and that I, I couldn’t trust my senses, but it still was just—it got too much, a-and…finally I read some of the book.”

“Martin!”

“I know! I know, I just—I thought if I gave into it, maybe a little, that it would, I don’t know, bind it to me and I’d stop losing it. And anyway I was kind of curious as to how it was different from the one we read in school. But it just made the man angry when he turned up, he, he said it wasn’t for me, that it wasn’t meant to be Seen, and what would my mother say if she knew? But it, it had sort of stuck, so I brought it to Mum, and she went on at me about how I should have brought it to her days ago and what use was I…” Martin presses his lips together hard for a moment. “That was last night. Then this morning, I went out to bring in the bins and the man was there and…he was just looking at me with so much pity. Said I was stupid to have handed the book off to another unfortunate soul, that I should’ve destroyed it before anyone else could have read it, and that it was just going to draw the Twisting Deceit’s attention, that I was leading it right to Melanie and Mum and you and oh, Martin, what have you done?”

“He knew your name?” Gerard was horrified. These things never knew names, not unless…

“And yours, and Neenie’s, and everyone else’s. It—he said it was my fault, that I’d made myself so bright anyone could see and…that whatever happened would be because of me. I had Mum calling me useless on one side and the man calling me dangerous and stupid on the other and…i-it just got to be too much.” Martin raises his head and manages to look Gerard in the eye, although he’s still on the verge of falling apart. “The Spiral didn’t do this, Gerry. I did.”

Numbness spreads throughout Gerard’s body. “Let me see.”

Slowly, Martin uncurls his arms and stretches them out in front of himself. Like his trouser legs, the sleeves of the grey hooded sweatshirt ride up on his arms, exposing the edges of stark white bandages. Gerard takes Martin’s hands as gently as he can—they’re trembling faintly—and pushes back the sleeves further, one at a time. Fully exposed, it’s easy to see the white gauze wrapped around both forearms…and it’s not hard to guess what happened.

“Oh, Martin,” he says softly, tears welling up in his own eyes. He lets go of his brother’s hands and hugs him tightly. Martin hugs him back, almost hesitantly, and now it’s easy to tell he’s shaking all over. “Martin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it never—this wouldn’t have happened if I’d been here, I—”

“You’re not listening, Gerry. I did this to myself.”

“Because it got in your head! That’s what it does, Martin, and you know that. It—it lies to you. It makes you think you can’t trust what you see, what you know. It made you think you were worthless, that you—”

“That I was bringing attention to you and Melanie,” Martin interrupts, shoving back from Gerard, and he’s still crying but he’s obviously angry, too. “That the Spiral wasn’t the only one that could see me. That every time I Look hard enough to See the evidence of one of the Fears on an object, o-or a person, I burn brighter. That I’m a beacon, a big, juicy, flashing target, and if someone wants what I have, or wants to stop me from doing what I’m doing, they’ll go after someone I love just to get at me. Was that a lie?”

Gerard inhales sharply. Melanie and Martin are both looking at him for the answer to that question. The difference is that—for once—Melanie’s eyes are the ones pleading, while Martin’s, behind the tears, are like chips of ice. Melanie wants him to reassure her. Martin’s realized the truth.

“No,” he admits, his voice low. “It wasn’t.”

“What?” Melanie practically shouts, jerking upright. “You—wait, you knew?”

“I knew it was risky, I just didn’t think it would happen this…fast.” Gerard wants to bury his face in his hands, to beg for his brother’s forgiveness, but he forces himself not to. That’s manipulative, and it isn’t fair. “All right, it’s probably not…that bad. Yet. You’d be fighting them off all the time if it was. He—the man, whoever he was—he was probably exaggerating. You know it does that, too, it takes tiny bits of the truth and twists and exaggerates them so it can pretend it didn’t lie. But…yeah. This…this thing you can do, the Seeing thing, that’s, it’s from the Ceaseless Watcher. The more you do it, the deeper you’re going to fall into it. And the more in servitude to one power or another you get, the more attention you’re going to draw from the others. I mean, you’re no Archivist, thank goodness, but—things are going to be drawn to you. And you know the Fears don’t have the best interests of humanity at heart.”

Martin’s shoulders slump. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. That’s why I…” He tugs his shirtsleeves down again. “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to try that again.”

That is, in fact, the worry on the tip of Gerard’s tongue. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“But you did think I was going to keep trying.” It’s not a question and Gerard doesn’t deny it. “It was…it was a stupid thing to do. It was an impulse and I just…I got scared. I thought if I was dead, it would keep you two safe.” Martin raises his head and looks from Gerard to Melanie and back. “It won’t, though. In the first place, I don’t know if…I-I mean, I’m not important enough not to die or anything, but it wouldn’t be easy if I tried, I guess. More important, though…it’s not like you two would stop if I wasn’t here.”

Melanie shakes her head emphatically. “If you die, I am dedicating my entire life to taking those things out of the world.”

“Yeah, same,” Gerard says. “And same if anything happens to you, Neens. And…” He swallows hard. “For what it’s worth, which is probably nothing, I am sorry, Martin. I should’ve told you as soon as I realized what you could do and what it meant, I just…I dunno. I guess I realized you wouldn’t stop even if you knew it was dangerous—to you, anyway—and I thought it would be kinder on you if you…didn’t know what was happening.” He pauses. “And now that I’ve said it out loud, that sounds really stupid.”

Martin laughs, a little unwillingly. “Maybe a little.”

“Never again,” Gerard promises. “I swear. Anything else you two get involved in, you’re going to know exactly what that entails. And…maybe we’ll look into setting wards or something. Some kind of protective ritual. There’s got to be something helpful in those books of Mum’s. Anything I can do to protect you two.” He reaches out to hug them both, a little tentatively, but thank whatever gods are listening they both reach back.

“Promise you’ll protect yourself too,” Martin mumbles.

“I promise,” Gerard says. His mind flashes back to the book he picked up in that backstreet market in Lisbon, the one his mother dismissed as nothing. “I think I might have an idea.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #gerard keay #melanie king #martin blackwood #hospitals #medical treatment #implied/referenced emotional abuse #unreality #self-harm #implied/mentioned attempted suicide #threats

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lifblogs · 2 years

Text

The Devil in You

Whumptober 2022 @whumptober-archive NO. 7 THE WAY YOU SHAKE AND SHIVER Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack

Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Mature Pairing: Implied Non-Con Samifer Word Count: 1344 Summary: During Sam's mental health stay after the events in the beginning of Three Birds, One Stone, another patient triggers a panic attack in him. READ ON AO3

Sam had dumped his lunch into the trash (he’d waited till lunch was over and a nurse or occupational therapist wasn’t around so they would think he was eating), and was just bringing the empty tray back to the nurse’s station when one of the older men also in this unit with him grabbed his arm. Sam turned, expecting an attack, pulling himself out of his surprisingly strong grip, and held the dark red tray in front of him like it might be a shield.

Before he could say anything, the man, now wide-eyed, was pointing a finger at him.

Sure, maybe Sam could ignore him, go on with his day, try once more to find a way out of here, but for some reason, the way his dark eyes held him kept him captivated.

“You’ve got the Devil in you, boy.”

Sam opened his mouth and tried to say something, but nothing came out. He swallowed, and licked his suddenly-dry lips.

He thought maybe his heart had skipped a beat or two.

“Wh-what?”

“You’ve got the Devil in you,” he repeated.

Sam wanted to snap at him, maybe as an attempt to hold back the fear that lived in him constantly, the fear that was always ready to spring.

I did, but not anymore!

Yet he had his mark on him, his hand branded into his skin while he’d slept during his horrid stay on the lower floors of the hospital in one of the medical wards. It was a reminder that Lucifer knew exactly where he was, knew that he was alive, and that he could come for him at any time.

“Leave me alone,” Sam got out, wondering if this man was truly mentally ill or if somehow he knew who and what he was, knew he had been touched and violated.

Sam tried turning away, but the man grabbed his tray.

“Hey!” Sam exclaimed.

“You’ve got the Devil in you! He’s got the Devil in him!” he started screaming, accusing.

In moments, the man was trying to attack him, still screaming. Even with the extensive scarring on his back, and the stiff joints in his hands, Sam held him at bay. Even as he felt a tremble building up in the base of his spine.

Nurses came, trying to diffuse the situation. A security guard had to grab the other patient. Freed from the grip of his awful accuser, Sam backed away, nearly collapsing against the nurse’s station, finding that his knees were all wobbly, like they’d turned to Jell-O.

The man continued to yell, truly angered and terrified.

Hands shaking violently, fingers suddenly weak, the tray fell from his grip.

He tasted blood on his tongue, felt pressure that quickly turned into pain deep in his body.

Lucifer was pressed against him in Castiel’s body, buried deep in him. He was growling in his ear that he was his to do with as he pleased, that Sam was made for him.

Dean was screaming.

The tremble released itself up his spine, scraping along each and every muscle. It beat against the rhythm of his panicked heart.

Sam couldn’t feel his hands, his chest hurt so badly he thought he was going to die.

The brand on his chest burned, down through the layers of his skin, through muscle, through nerves and bone, down to his scarred soul with wounds that were still raw and bloody.

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” Sam breathed.

There was a nurse in front of him, he thought, but all sounds of her voice were muffled, like he was hearing it through water.

Sam looked around wildly, needing a place to hide, to lock himself away from the world till he was clean, to lock himself away from Lucifer.

He was here.

Wasn’t he?

He felt his touch, heard his voice.

Dean was by his side now, had rushed over from where he’d been sitting and stabbing a notebook angrily with a pen. His rectangular-framed glasses had slid down his nose a bit.

Dean tried to hold Sam’s trembling arm, but Sam pulled out of his grip.

Fuck, he was going to be sick.

Sam lost all feeling in his body, thought maybe he wasn’t real.

He’s got the Devil in him! He’s got the Devil in him! Evil! Evil! He does!

How could he be real when he couldn’t breathe?

He thought maybe he heard someone gasping and panting, like their lungs were begging for air, but that couldn’t be him, right?

He thought maybe someone was calling his name.

Sam blacked out.

~~~

Sam came to with a splitting headache, and a burning at his chest. He tried to cry out, putting a hand to his head. His motions were sluggish. But he felt calm, almost. Something pulled at his chest. Tape?

Feeling groggy, like the world around him didn’t make much sense, Sam pulled his T-shirt to look down at his chest. There was a fresh bandage on it, held there with tape. Already it was a dark pink with blood.

What happened?

Sam began to realize that he had been conscious when he’d blacked out.

Had he done this to himself?

It made sense. Before, while aware of himself and his surroundings he had tried to claw or cut the brand off of him. He’d actually once used a project he’d done during an art therapy session. They’d painted on clear plastic, coloring in the divots and dips that made a picture of a rising sun. While alone he’d broken it in half to make a sharp edge. When that had been taken away, he’d discovered with careful work that the plastic comb each patient was given could be used to cut his skin.

There was some blood under his fingernails this time though.

Had he been clawing at himself? What had he been given? His right bicep was a little sore, like he’d gotten an injection.

There was a knock on the door and then a nurse came in.

“Hey, Sam, how are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” was all he could think to say.”

“I’ll get you some pain meds. Ibuprofen okay for you?”

Sam nodded, and then rested back against the bed. God, he was sleepy. Which should’ve made him panic because now he wouldn’t be able to fight if Lucifer came.

Really, how could he fight the Devil on a regular day though?

It was as if his reactions were being repressed, like everything inside his body was being pressed down and kept at bay. It felt kind of nice, actually, which he wasn’t sure was something he’d ever tell Dean.

The nurse came back with a paper cup, and a smaller plastic cup, one with water, one with a large, white pill.

Sam sat up and took the medicine.

“Sorry about your headache. Haldol can do that sometimes,” the nurse said.

“Haldol…. Was—was that what I was given?”

The nurse nodded. “We had to, unfortunately. You were hurting yourself.”

Sam apologized, but wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Do you want to talk to your therapist you have for the night shift? From what we can tell, you had a panic attack.”

“I think I blacked out.”

“Yeah, that can happen sometimes.”

Sam thought about it, but decided—even in his more agreeable state—that no, he wouldn’t want to talk to anyone. Only Dean would know, only Dean would understand.

“Can I talk to my brother?”

The nurse seemed to resist making some sort of facial expression (probably a negative one, then), but he said that Sam would be allowed out of this room if he promised he wouldn’t hurt himself, or anyone else.

Sam promised, and said that he was all right.

One of the many, many lies he told in here.

Walking carefully, headache still pounding right above his eyes, he went to find the only person who would understand his pain, the one who had been through it all with him, and suffered by his side.

And hopefully, Lucifer wasn’t on his way.

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the-great-lightwood-bane · 2 years

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starshine and moonlight

Chapter 2 of 4 (Chapter 1 | 3 | 4)

Malec | Rated general | tw implied self-harm

Day 28: Anger Born of Worry | Punching the Wall | Headache

Summary: When Clary shows up, Alec immediately knows she’s trouble. The problem is that nobody else seems to.

A/N: wrote this with a headache and while slightly woozy from catching the flu going around my school. sorry if it doesn’t make much sense ~~~

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

When Clary shows up, Alec immediately knows she’s trouble.

The problem is that nobody else seems to. Jace is enamoured with her, of course — she’s unusual, she’s interesting, Jace clearly thinks she’s pretty, and she shares Jace’s act-first-think-later approach to, well, everything. Izzy’s delighted to have another girl her age around who’s willing to dress up with her and go to clubs. Both of them easily look past every red flag, every problem she causes, every manipulative tear she sheds.

Alec’s life has always centred around his siblings. He sometimes feels like he’s orbiting them, some sort of satellite, only existing because of them — and now they’re drawn to Clary like she’s a magnet, like she’s a black hole. She’s pulling them in and Alec is helpless to stop the devastation she leaves in her wake.

The Clave is, of course, breathing down Alec’s neck about the numerous unsanctioned missions that they’ve been going on: the Silent City, the raid on the Hotel Dumort, the rave where they met Magnus Bane, the trip to Magnus’ loft where Alec’s shortcomings prevented Clary from getting her memories back, Clary’s trip to her old apartment, the rescue mission to get her back from the werewolves — there’s plenty of material there for the Clave to discipline Alec for, and he truly can’t blame them for it. He’s made all the wrong decisions, chosen all the wrong things, failed to stop his siblings from running off and doing whatever they wanted.

He can’t blame Clary for it, either. She’s young, she’s hurt, she’s desperate to find her mother; prioritising family above all else is something Alec is very familiar with, and he’s not mad at her for doing that. He’s a bit mad that she’s refusing to learn anything more about their world, that she’s insistent in her belief that her way is the right way, but it’s not really her fault that she thinks like that; Alec can lay the responsibility squarely at her mother’s door. These disasters are because of her arrival, but she as a person isn’t at fault.

No more can he blame his siblings. He’s angry at them, yes, but the anger is born of the worry that needles through his veins — worry because he’s absolutely terrified of what the Clave could do to them. He’s protected them from the consequences of their actions for as long as he can remember; he’s done his best to let them grow up happily, without feeling the weight of expectations that sits on Alec’s shoulders like a stone. They don’t understand why he makes the choices he’s made, why he protests their decisions, because he’s tried so hard to protect them from that knowledge — but all his attempts to protect them aren’t enough.

Izzy and Jace complain that he follows the rules too much, that he needs to let loose. The Clave retaliates viciously whenever he does as his siblings ask, which is often; he takes punishment for their transgressions as is his due. He couldn’t be enough for both of them at once, couldn’t meet the Clave’s demands and those of his siblings.

He chooses his siblings over the Clave whenever he can, whenever he isn’t risking derunement to do so, but they still don’t listen to him, don’t take his opinions into account. They still see him as the stick-in-the-mud who doesn’t want them to have fun. They don’t realise that all he’s ever wanted is to give them a chance to have fun, a chance he’s never had.

It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that he can’t persuade them to be cautious, to cooperate with the Clave and avoid worse consequences. The important thing is that he isn’t enough to protect them — and protecting them has always been his job. He’s failed.

He’s spinning around them in circles, trying to deflect every harm that comes their way, but he can do nothing to help them as they’re pulled in turn into Clary’s orbit, where they’ll meet the same fate as her, whatever that may be.

Alec’s siblings are going to break against the walls the Clave places in their way, and it’s all Alec’s fault.

The Clave’s sent an envoy to investigate the Institute, to find somebody to blame for the chaos that’s engulfed New York. Alec’s been kicked out of his office and his position as Acting Head thanks to his parents’ presence, which leaves him with still less ability to solve problems than he had before. Not that he’d ever been particularly good at solving problems.

He goes up to his room after Lydia arrives, sits on his bed and tries to breathe through the anxiety clouding his mind. His head is aching as it always seems to be, these days, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He stands up, pacing around the room in circles. That’s all he can do, go in circles, trying and failing and trying and always always failing. Perhaps it’s more a spiral than a circle, going down down down, falling away, falling apart, falling to pieces.

The Institute is made for violence, all cold stone and steel and reinforced glass. He used to try to break things when he was angry. Eventually he realised that the first thing to break was always himself. He kept trying to break things, letting his blood wash away everything else. It’s probably not healthy, but it works, and that’s really about all he can ask for.

So when he turns and slams his fist into the wall, no dent forms, no mark on the cold surface. He feels the bones in his hand break under the Shadowhunter strength — he still has a rune activated, he realises belatedly. His hand is bleeding, a drip-drip-drip of red on the floor. The bones and joints are mangled. He’ll need a bone-setting rune as well as an iratze to heal it. Stupid, punching the wall like that; the two new runes will only push him closer to rune exhaustion, and he’s already swaying dizzily on the precipice.

He wants to sink into the pain, but the longer he waits, the greater the chances that Jace will realise that something’s wrong through the bond. Probably Jace won’t notice anything, too caught up in whatever he’s doing now, but there’s always a chance, and Alec will spare him any pain he can.

The runes burn against his skin, and all the pain of his broken hand returns as it knits itself back together. Alec closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Then he leaves his room, to go to whatever he can, to try again even when he knows he’ll fail.

He’s not enough, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to be.

#whumptober2022 #no.28 #anger born of worry #punching the wall #headache #fic #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #implied/referenced self-harm #malec #magnus x alec #alec lightwood bane #magnus lightwood bane #alec lightwood #magnus bane #alec x magnus #my fic

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