#It's not my blood

[aceofwhump]

Whumptober 2024 - No.6 "IT'S NOT MY BLOOD"

Hawaii Five-0 2x16 A woman is murdered during the governor's fund raising dinner, and Five-0 gets in trouble with the governor when the team goes too far trying to catch the killer. Steve gets hit by a car while chasing a suspect and ends up in the hospital

@whumptober

[oxideblack]

[crimsonwolf715]

Coming Home

(Part 2 of Adventures of the Batfamily)

Jason watches Batman and Robin take out one of his competitors on security cameras. Batman, who is undoubtedly still his older brother instead of his father, is doing a wonderful job of taking out Jason’s competitors while he’s recovering/vacationing. He grabs the chilled bottle of beer and drinks it while continuing to watch. Once the battle’s over and his brothers come out victorious, he turns the feed off. 

He grabs his cigarettes and heads out onto the roof to smoke. Not the best place, the wind’s more aggressive up there, but he likes the view. He only gets through one cigarette before he gets a call. He looks at it and it’s one of the heads of his port operations. 

“We’re being attacked, boss!” someone that the phone definitely doesn’t belong to shouts when he answers. “The warehouse down by the harbor is being attacked by Batman and his sidekicks!” 

Jason puts the cigarette out and heads down to grab his gear. He drives towards the warehouse once he’s gotten all his gear. After almost getting in two wrecks due to his reckless motorcycle driving, he makes it to the warehouse. It’s quiet and nobody’s there. 

“Where’s the attack?” Jason asks. “If someone is yanking my chain, I swear…” 

The sound of the doors opening stops him. He pulls his pistols out and points them at the door. When someone comes into view, it’s his people. 

“Where’s the attack?” Jason asks. 

“Attack?” one of them asks. “Nobody’s attacked us. We’ve been doing exactly what you instructed us to do, keep things on the down low. We haven’t had a run in with anyone since you left to recover.” 

“So somebody’s pulling the strings. What strings though? What’s the gain?” Jason mutters. 

“Everything alright, sir? Should we fear an attack and move out?” 

“No, I’m going to head out and figure out what’s going on.” 

“Okay, sir.” 

Jason walks back out to his motorcycle and drives to his other warehouse by the docks. 

Not as close to the docks, but maybe they just couldn’t remember the address. Not like Gotham goons are known for being smart. 

He barely gets there and finds the place empty before Batman, Red Robin, and Robin come busting in. Jason signals for assistance, then avoids his siblings by hiding and running around the warehouse. Every time he comes across Damian, Damian gets closer to catching him. On the other hand, Dick does catch him by complete accident. Jason was avoiding Tim when he ran into Dick. 

The two start fighting and he hears his people coming in one of the doors. Dick punches Jason in the abdomen, sending him into the wall behind him. Jason’s reinforcements show up and start attacking Dick. Jason uses the distraction to make his getaway. He hops on his motorcycle and  drives towards his apartment. 

Batman heads down to the Batcave when he gets a notification that someone’s trying to contact him. He sits down at the computer and answers. 

“Hi, Batman.” That voice belongs to Catwoman. 

“Did you find something Selina?” Bruce asks. 

“Always in such a rush,” Selina replies. 

“Yes, I did. I figured out where the Red Hood lives. He lives in one of my old apartment buildings. The landlord was very willing to talk to me about Hood. He’s a model tenant outside of watching movies with gunshots late at night, which people seem to complain about. He was almost never there until two weeks ago. He’s barely seen the man leave since then. He is currently not home though, if you wanna wait on him. Why did you need me to find all this out? Couldn’t figure it out yourself?” 

“Would’ve taken too long. What’s the address?” 

Selina rattles it off, so Bruce writes it down. 

“You think maybe we could…?” 

“Thanks, Selina.” He cuts the line and heads back upstairs. 

He runs into Alfred on the way out. 

“Where are you off to, sir?” 

“To talk to Gordon. We’re hosting a gala for the police force and donors. We need to iron some stuff out.” 

“That doesn’t sound worth leaving when you said you wouldn’t.” 

“I only said that I wouldn’t go out to fight crime. I’ve left the house a handful of times. I’ll be back in a while.” 

“Alright, sir.” 

Bruce gets a car and then drives towards the address Selina gave him. 

Jason stumbles into his apartment and he can hear something making a whistling sound from the kitchen. Jason walks in there and he’s struck by the sight of seeing his father there, boiling water like this is a casual “come to see your child situation”. 

“What the…?” 

Jason doesn’t get the chance to finish the question since Bruce turns and asks, “Are you injured? You’re bleeding.” 

Jason looks down and notices that there is blood on his costume. “Oh, that’s why I’m in pain.” 

Jason’s vision blurs and he falls forward. He feels someone catch him before he blacks out. He wakes up with a needle in his arm and a fuzzy feeling in his head. He opens his eyes and he sees Bruce sitting in his armchair, watching something to Jason’s left. Jason glances in the direction and it’s a bag of blood. Jason glances down at his arm. 

He’s giving me blood. Is this the blood I keep in my stash? 

“Oh good. You’re awake,” Bruce says. 

“What?” Jason asks, the word slurring slightly. 

“I said that I’m glad that you’re awake. I was worried that what I was doing wouldn’t be sufficient.” 

“Why…? Why are you helping me?” 

“Jason, you’re my son. I want to help you.” 

“Bullshit,” Jason spits. “Get out before I rip this out and kick your ass out of my apartment.” 

Bruce gets up. “Just keep the blood going and take meds in three hours. And know that you’ll always have a place at home.” 

Bruce gives Jason one last look, one that Jason interpreted as remorseful, then leaves. 

The three get to the Batcave and Dick pulls the cowl off. 

“Ugh, I hate wearing a cowl. I don’t know how Wally does it all the time. I’m glad the police tipped us off that Red Hood was out tonight.” 

“Are you bleeding, Grayson?” Damian asks, walking closer, his eyes on Dick’s abdomen. 

Dick looks down and notices blood on his torso, but he’s not in pain. 

“It’s not my blood, Dami.” 

“Does that mean you hit Hood?” Tim asks. 

“I guess. I don’t think I hit him with anything sharp, but he’s the only one that got close enough to get this much blood on me.” 

“Quickly and carefully take the suit off. I’ll run the blood through the system to see if we can find a match,” Tim says. 

“Good idea, Tim,” Dick says. “I’m gonna go change and give this to you. Bruce is gonna be pissed.” 

When Dick comes back, Alfred’s standing by Tim and Damian, who are stationed at the computer. Dick offers Tim the suit, which Tim takes. 

“How’s Dad?” Dick asks. 

“He left a little while ago,” Alfred answers. 

“Where did he go?” Damian asks, sounding suspicious. 

“He said that he was going to speak to the Commissioner about the upcoming Police Gala. I wasn’t too worried considering he knows better than to do something dangerous without his gear, which you had Master Grayson.” 

Dick nods, though he doesn’t look convinced that Bruce wouldn’t go out and do something dangerous without his gear. 

“Roughly how long should this take, Drake?” Damian asks. 

“Thirty minutes.” 

“Then I’m going to get a quick shower and change.” 

“Okie dokie.” 

Tim puts the sample into the computer as Damian heads towards the changing area. The computer beeps five minutes later, surprising Dick and Tim. 

“That was really fast,” Tim says. “Let me…” 

He clicks two things and the results come up. 

Jason Peter Todd  

Dick and Tim stare at the computer in silent shock while Alfred excuses himself. 

Damian silently walks up. “Is this the result?” 

Tim wordlessly nods. 

“So that means that Todd isn’t dead.” 

“What do we tell Dad?” Dick says. 

“That maybe he wasn’t wrong and he did see him in the warehouse that night,” Tim answers. “I did some searching earlier this week and found footage of someone driving to the place before we got there, but either he knew where the cameras were and avoided showing his face or he was just really lucky.” 

“Father definitely went after Todd.” 

“What makes you say that, Dami?” 

“Father has thus far kept his word on not leaving the house unless it was essential and while we all know that Alfred probably tried to stop him from leaving earlier, the lie was to put him at ease. There’s no way that Father broke that for a police gala that anyone could plan. Also, have you ever met that man? He’s obsessed with his orphans whether they’re supposed to be dead, or not.” 

Tim types for a minute and then a picture pops up. It’s Barbara. 

“Hey, Babs,” Dick says. 

“Hey. What’s up? I thought you guys were done for the night.” 

“Is Bruce with your dad right now?” Tim asks. 

“No, my dad’s here with me. Say hi, Dad.” 

“No,” they hear Gordon’s voice say off screen. “I talked to them plenty earlier.” 

“Well he’s being anti-social, but he’s been here with me since getting back from the crime scene.” 

“He went after Jason,” Tim and Dick say at the same time. 

“What?” Barbara asks. 

“I will explain everything later, but we have to go find Bruce now,” Dick promises. “I’ll talk to you later, Babs.” 

“Bye.” 

Tim ends the call and gets up. “We should change and go back out.” 

“Why are you going back out?” Bruce asks from the elevator. 

“Oh thank God,” Dick says. “You didn’t go after Jason, did you?” 

He goes over to Bruce, who sighs. “Why would you ask that? I thought you didn’t believe me.” 

“We got into a fight with the Red Hood earlier and his blood got on the suit. We searched it and it said that it’s Jason. The computer doesn’t lie, and it explains how he’s able to know our moves.” 

“Well, I’m not with Jason. I’m here with you three. You should come up, I brought dinner with me.” 

Damian and Tim exchange a look of disbelief while Dick nods like he believes Bruce. They go upstairs and Alfred’s sitting at the table already. 

“You alright, Alfred?” Dick asks. 

“I will be, thank you.” 

Dick nods, then passes out food. He barely eats anything, then goes up to his room and spends the night thinking about Jason. 

The day goes by with Jason just nursing his injury. He gets up and gets ready at eight pm. He gave the police another tip about one of his competitors, but decides that he wants to watch his family deal with them in person. 

Jason arrives at the scene in his Red Hood attire, armed and ready in case anybody spots him. He watches his family deal with the thugs, a weight settling in his chest. It makes it hard to breathe. Once they’re done dealing with the thugs, Dick ruffles Damian and Tim’s hair. 

Dickie wouldn’t mind. He’d probably cry, but he wouldn’t try to kill me. I’ve never directly interacted with Damian Wayne. Just a couple of encounters with Batman and Robin where I was fighting Batman, but he seems like the type that might try to kill me. Tim, on the other hand, would be a problem. I’ve had countless run-ins with Red Robin where I’ve point-blank tried to kill him. He wouldn’t feel safe anywhere near me. 

Am I actually considering this? 

Jason realizes that Dick, Tim, and Damian are all heading back in the direction of the Batcave. The police show up and Batman talks with them briefly before heading to a roof right above to watch the police do their jobs. 

Probably so no loose ends get left. 

Jason makes the decision at this moment. He jumps onto the roof that Bruce is on, clearly waiting for the police to finish up before leaving. 

“Batman.” 

Bruce turns to see that Jason’s heading towards him. Bruce clearly braces for some kind of attack but Jason just puts his head on Bruce’s chest, craving the affection he’s been deprived of for years. 

Even if Bruce just lets me stay here like this, that’ll be enough.  

Bruce pulls Jason into a hug, so he drops the helmet and gun in his hands. As he hugs Bruce back, tears start pouring down his face. They just stand there for a while, hugging while Jason cries. 

“I’m glad you came,” Bruce says softly. 

Jason half nods. He can hear Dick’s voice over Bruce’s comm. 

“Hey, Dad. Everything alright? Your tracker still places you at the crime scene.” 

Bruce switches his comm on. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I’ll be home in a bit. How are your brothers?” 

“They’re both safe and at home. These last two days have been a disaster. We really have to come up with something to do about this problem.” 

“It’ll be fine. We’ll all talk when I get there.” 

“Okay. I’m gonna get everyone upstairs and ready for dinner. Over and out.” 

Bruce switches his comm off again. 

“Are you gonna come home?” Bruce asks. 

Jason doesn’t even think about it, he just nods. He doesn’t want to leave Bruce’s embrace, and the warmth that it brings being back in the arms of his father who really does love him. Bruce orders the food and picks it up with one arm wrapped around Jason’s shoulder. 

After getting changed in the Batcave and Jason staring at all the things that stayed the same and the few things that have changed, Bruce takes Jason upstairs. 

“Let me talk to them before you come in,” Bruce says. 

Jason nods, then leans against the wall. “What? Were you just not gonna tell them about me?” 

“They already know. Your blood got all over my suit. I just have to explain you being in the house. I planned on explaining, I just didn’t know exactly how to go about it.” 

Jason nods again. “Take your time, I’m still in pain from that stab wound. So I’m not going anywhere. And before you ask, no, I haven’t busted my stitches.” 

Bruce’s turn to nod. He walks into the living room and Jason settles down in the study, grunting at the pain. 

I’m alone, so who’s gonna know I’m being a little bitchy about the injury? 

“Master Jason?” 

Jason looks up and sees Alfred. 

“Hey,” Jason mutters, plastering a smile on his face for Alfred. 

“You all have never been very good at lying to me.” 

Jason’s frown returns. “Yeah, something like that.” 

“Are you staying?” 

“That’s the hope.” 

“Let me look at the injury then.” 

Jason obediently pulls his shirt up enough that Alfred can see where Bruce stitched him up. 

“I need to rebandage it, but that’s something I can do when it’s more convenient.” 

“I’ll get the first aid kit. I assume that Master Wayne is talking to the others.” 

“He’s supposed to be.” 

“Alright, I’ll be right back then.” 

Alfred leaves and Jason closes his eyes. The whole place smells and feels familiar. Something that’s always put Jason at ease. He feels himself starting to doze so he sits up. Alfred walks back in and starts wordlessly taking care of Jason. Jason stays still and doesn’t complain. 

“You’re much better about being cooperative than you were as a child.” 

“Thanks,” Jason says. 

Dick sits on the couch in complete silence. He’s been like that since figuring out that Jason’s alive. Unless he’s out in that uniform, he’s been completely quiet. Damian walks over and sits down on the opposite side of the couch from Dick. 

“Do you need someone to talk to?” Damian obviously sounds uncomfortable, but he’s been putting more and more effort into his relationships recently. 

Dick shakes his head. Damian moves closer, tentatively leaning against Dick. Dick runs his hand through Damian’s hair silently. 

Jason’s alive? He’s been alive this whole time and we’ve fought. Countless times we’ve gone up against each other and I was none the wiser. I knew that it was someone who knew our moves, but I’d always assumed that it was someone who could adapt from watching us. I never thought that it was my little brother. 

Dick’s pulled from his thoughts by Tim walking in saying his name. He looks up and Tim’s holding a bowl. He offers it to Dick, who takes it. There are small cookies inside, the kind that Barbara taught Tim how to make. Dick smiles. 

“Come here.” 

Tim sits down on the opposite side of Dick. He wraps his arms around Tim and Damian. 

“Thank you two, for trying to make me feel better. I really do appreciate it. This is just…” He trails off, not really sure how to explain to his brothers exactly how he’s feeling. 

“We get it,” Tim says. “This is something that we could have never seen coming.” 

“We’ll figure out what to do,” Damian promises. 

Bruce walks into the room and smiles. Dick gives Bruce a half-assed smile in an attempt to not prolong this conversation. 

“I have something to talk to you three about,” Bruce says. 

“Is it in regards to dinner?” Damian asks. 

“No,” Bruce answers. 

“Then it can wait,” Tim replies. “We’re in the middle of something here.” 

Bruce blinks, clearly not expecting the conversation to go like this. 

“What’s up, B?” Dick asks. “Any news on our problem?” 

“Yes, that’s actually what I wanted to talk about.” 

All three of them perk up. Dick and Tim are clearly surprised that’s the topic and Damian just seems interested in what Bruce has to say. 

“He’s in the other room.” 

“In the other room like down in the Batcave because you captured him or in the other room like you let him in the house?” Tim asks. 

“He came here on his own accord. I wanted to talk to you guys about it.” 

“Nothing to talk about,” Dick says. “You brought him in so you’re clearly wanting to keep him here. Why don’t you bring him in?” 

Bruce looks a little hesitant, but he walks out. 

“Are you okay?” Tim asks Dick. 

“Not really, but I will be.” 

Bruce leads Jason into the room and everyone seems wary other than Damian. Damian is never intimidated or wary of anyone. Jason gives them an awkward smile he barely manages. Dick gets up and walks over. He seems to be looking Jason over, which makes him uncomfortable. The look in Dick’s eyes is one he’s never given Jason before. Dick punches Jason in the jaw and Jason lands on his ass, not at all prepared to be hit in the face. 

“Dick,” Bruce says. 

“He definitely deserved that, but I’m surprised it was Grayson,” Damian says. 

Tim nods. 

“I mourned you. I go to your grave monthly, you asshole,” Dick says. “I had to deal with the fact that I lost another brother and you were alive the whole damn time? I… I need a breather.” 

Dick walks out and Jason gets up. Damian gets up and goes after Dick. 

“Are you gonna try to kill me again?” Tim asks. 

Jason shakes his head. 

“Okay, then welcome back. I’m gonna figure out if Alfred needs help with dinner.” 

Tim walks out, leaving Bruce and Jason alone. 

“They’ll adjust,” Bruce says. 

“Should I be here while they do?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m not really hungry. Can I go to my room or something?” Jason asks. 

“Yeah, your room is still the same. Feel free.” 

Jason heads upstairs and other than the fact that it’s probably regularly cleaned, his room looks the same. He sits down on the bed, feeling the urge to pull all the stuff off the walls. 

This feels like a hall of memories. That’s what it was. I was gone. 

Jason sighs. He ends up passing out after a while of looking at his old stuff.

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #6

Day 6 - Devil May Cry - "It's not my blood"

*

Vergil disliked staying at the boy’s home. Kyrie’s cheerful yet firm disposition, the children running around, and Nero’s skills being put to housework instead of fighting all made him uncomfortable.

But Kyrie had brought the children with her on a brief trip out of Fortuna. They’d only be gone two days, perhaps three if Vergil got lucky. It meant Nero was still around, but he felt slightly less miserable when that was the case.

Now, he lounged on Nero’s couch, flipping through a book of poetry Nero had tossed at him none too gently the night before, claiming he’d found it at a used book sale and picked it up on a whim. Vergil had, begrudgingly, marked a few pages so far as he discovered new works he enjoyed. No need for Nero to know that.

As if his thoughts had summoned the bastard, the front door opened. Vergil did not bother looking up from the book at the sound of Nero’s footsteps coming into the house.

“Any word on Kyrie’s return?” he asked, hoping to flee the house before it was filled with children once more. 

Normally, Nero loved to talk about Kyrie. So, at his silence to the question, Vergil finally looked up.

Nero was staring blankly at the blood coating his hands, stained on his shirt and pants as well. Some had even begun to dry in his hair and on his skin. 

“Nero,” Vergil said sharply, setting the book aside. He got up and shook Nero’s shoulder roughly when Nero still didn’t respond. “Nero, what happened? Where are you injured?”

Nero kept staring down at his hands. Quietly, numbly, he replied, “It’s not my blood.”

It should’ve eased Vergil’s tension, but it had the opposite effect. He kept his hand firmly gripping Nero’s shoulder, suddenly having the crazy idea that it was the only thing anchoring the boy in reality.

“Whose blood is it?” he asked, keeping his voice level. 

Nero’s bloodied hands began to tremble badly. “She was playing in the forest. Not very far in, but far enough. Her parents begged me to help find her. I…I was too late.” He clenched his hands into fists, agony in his eyes. “A demon tore her up. She was six years old. I was holding her when she died. I was too fucking late!”

He jerked out of Vergil’s grasp and began to angrily beat his fists into the couch behind them, like destruction would bring the child back. “Too fucking late! Goddammit!”

Vergil watched him. He looked at the child’s blood clinging to Nero. He pictured a small Nero, walking these very streets, playing in that very forest, as helpless as Vergil had been as a child. 

Innocent. Too innocent to see it coming. 

Helpless. Defenseless. Dead.

Nero had grown up in a town with demons lurking at its edges, slipping past its defenses to claim victims from time to town. And he’d had no one to protect him. That he’d survived his childhood meant he was just one of the lucky ones of Fortuna. 

Had he been caught by a demon, had he cried out for help, none would have come. No mother or father to his rescue. 

Vergil shook these thoughts from his head violently. Nero had survived, and regardless, Vergil hadn’t known of his existence until recently. He couldn’t be blamed for that, surely. 

But he knew now. Nero was suffering before his very eyes, and he did not know what to do to stop the pain.

Nero had stopped swearing and was instead just crying out in anger and grief as he beat his fists into the couch over and over again, leaving bloody smears on the fabric that only seemed to fuel his desperate rage.

Vergil caught his wrist as he went to deliver another strike. When Nero tried to yank free, Vergil held tightly.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s spar outside.”

Nero was breathing heavily. He looked down at where Vergil held his wrist, then up into Vergil’s eyes. Vergil had no idea what Nero saw there, but he nodded and obediently followed Vergil outside.

They began to spar, Vergil allowing Nero to go all out on him, unsure how else to allow Nero to release all the feelings burning him up from inside. The blood was still on him, but his failure to wash it off seemed more a punishment than an oversight. 

He was hurting so badly. And even though Vergil was finally here, all he could do was block Nero’s blows and keep him occupied with a way to let his anger out, feeling useless and angry himself about it.

The world was such a cruel place. Vergil only wished Nero had been spared the truth.

[bucknerdycore]

Where the Smoke Clears

Ratings: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationship: Eddie/Buck

“Come on, Buck. Stay with me.” Eddie’s hands moved quickly, working to lift the beam just enough to free Buck. His muscles strained, mixing with ash as he called out to the others. “I need help! Buck’s down!” Whumptober Day 6: "It's not my blood"

Link

[hywenhei]

i'm away on a trip for this weekend so my whumptober posts may be a little bit delayed but trust i will be finishing whumptober!!!

NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED: Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

A Hero Whumpee whose injuries from captivity/previous battles have healed wrong because they refuse to give themselves time to heal properly. Enter Whumper, a villain who immediately realises what's wrong with Whumpee, and begins to exploit their weaknesses on the battlefield.

"You've got to be kidding me." "Look, I know this is the fourth time this week I've bled through my clothes, but at least this time it wasn't my blood!" "That doesn't make it any better!"

Broken bones that heal wrong and stay that way. A wrist that clicks funny whenever you move it a certain way. An ankle that naturally bends in an uncomfortable position. Knuckles that can't be cracked properly anymore because it hurts too much.

Once superpowered Whumpee finally ends a long battle with a villain, all they want to do is go home, strip off their bloodstained clothes, take a shower and go to bed. The stinging feeling in their side couldn't possibly mean anything, right?

i'm super duper tired but still on the grind ᕙ⁠(⁠⇀⁠‸⁠↼⁠‶⁠)⁠ᕗ see you tmr for day 7!!

[1u11ablues]

6/Not Like This (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Prompt: Not realising they're injured, Unhealthy coping mechanism, 'It's not my blood."

The blood thrumming in your ears provided a soundtrack of your escape. Someone had smuggled alien weaponry into the underground community you frequent to indulge in not so savoury habits—away from your superhero status teammates above.

And, yes, a little too much alcohol might have lowered your tolerance towards being blatantly scammed around the gambling ring; maybe you might've flipped the table in a fit of anger; but neon bullets fired at you were not how you expected for them to deal with it.

Unfortunately, a certain offer had been the only thing ringing in your head as you try to escape the rain of bullets, and you find yourself knocking at Bucky's apartment at 2 in the morning with the intention to hunker down there for the night. You're not leading those trigger-happy folks to your place, that's for sure.

But Bucky had spent a good part of his life dealing with the kind of people after you, so at least it wasn't the worst of choices that you'd made that night.

"Jesus, Vice," he cursed as he opened the door with his shirt freshly donned, "what in the hell are you doing out here this late?"

Before you could answer, your feet shuffled through the borders of the entrance, almost tumbling down if not for the metal arm supporting you up. "Are you hurt?" You remembered running into some stalls during your escape, but nothing much after that. Your hands pat down your shirt. A wet patch to your left- Was there a food stall back there?- throbbed as if you were stabbed. And the pads of your fingers stained dark red in the dim lighting of Bucky's apartment. "I don't know," you shrug, "whatever that is, it's not mine." "Vice-" "Don't call me that-" The doorway tilted. Your legs gave out from beneath you. And Bucky's quick thinking saved your mug from making personal contact with the floor beneath you. "When I said you could come here anytime-" You scoffed. A pained cough followed soon after. Turns out you hadn't done such a good job avoiding the neon bullets like you thought you had. The extent of your injury wasn't disclosed to you, but as soon as the high of the escape subsided, everything hurt like a motherfucker. The bullet ate through flesh and replaced it with some kind of charred substance—and you've spent the better part of your mornings being tested on by Bruce and an over-enthusiastic Tony. "I did not mean 'lead your trouble to my door for me to take care of,' idiot."

[margindoodles2407]

Take Me Instead (Tumblr Version)

But you, my brother-in-arms, I'd rather I lose my limbs than let you come to harm -The Decemberists, "The Soldiering Life"

If Commander Fox is a broken man- well, he's more than happy to be one if it means his brothers don't have to.

(Whumptober 2024, Day 6: Not Realizing They're Injured)

There was a moment, at the start of the war, when a young and naive and utterly terrified Marshal Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard stood shaking against the wall of some bellowing Senator’s office and watched helpless as his dearest friend and brother, Thorn, stumbled and tripped and fell backwards onto the floor with two black eyes and blood spilling from his nose and mouth, because said Senator had decided that a ten-twenty-year-old youth was the perfect target onto which to direct the destructive force of his abject rage. That same young and naive and utterly terrified Fox had then watched as his co-commander received, as a reward for laying helpless and sprawled on the floor for two seconds too long, a hard kick to the ribs and a barked order to scrub the red stains out of the otherwise-pristine blue carpet.

If it’s not mine, I don’t want it in my office. And that’s not my blood.

That moment was all it took for Fox to swear that from then on, if anyone was to take the fall- the abuse, the screaming, the bruises and the scars and the night terrors they all caused- it would be him.

Never his brothers. Never again.

He’d gotten good at it. He could roll with the punches. He could handle screaming, cursing, threats, and that certain brand of  comment that made his skin crawl. He’d shouldered more physical violence than he cared to remember, because he could stand there and take it, if he had something to fix his eyes on. He rarely flinched, hardly made a sound, and if he kept his helmet on, no one could even see the occasional tear that slipped unbidden down his cheek.

He was even better at hiding the aftermath- from his brothers, from the senators, from anyone who so much as gave him a sideways glance. What was supposed to be a medicine cabinet in his office was really used to hold tubes of cheap drugstore concealer and even cheaper drugstore dye to mask his bruises and the silver winding its way through his hair. There wasn’t a curl out of place, not the slightest shadow of stubble on his jaw, and since hardly anyone ever bothered to look him in the eye, there was no way to notice their dull exhausted glassy glaze. He trained his spine to stand erect and his hands to never shake, he spoke in a steady, measured, patient tone and never raised his voice, and when all else failed he could just set his face and let everything wash over him in a grey blur until whoever it was this time had spewed all the vitriol they could manage to get out in one sitting.

And, of course, there were ways to… deal… with the especially bad days. Ways that usually involved the cabinet behind his desk and bottles of a dark burning liquid that tasted for all the galaxy like concentrated paint thinner. 

(So many bottles of that dark burning liquid.)

In fact, Fox was so good at what he did that sometimes he didn’t even realize that he was injured. It was something he’d learned to pride himself on, his ability to keep going even as his body screamed and ached and throbbed, even as his head spun and he lost the feeling in his hands and his knees threatened to buckle underneath him- 

(-even as the world pitched under him and the floor flew towards his face and everything went briefly black and soft and silent-)

-because as long as Fox could keep going, as long as Fox could take the batterings and the blows and the backhands that sent him reeling, his brothers wouldn’t have to.

And that was good enough for him.

[starthornisscratching]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Red (Pokemon), Ookido Green | Blue Oak Additional Tags: Ficlet, Whump, introspective, Toxic Originalshipping, Fist Fights, Prompt: "It's not my blood.", Prompt: Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whumptober 2024, Aged-Up Character(s), Blue Oak (m) Series: Part 6 of Starthorn's Whumptober 2024 Summary:

It's not his blood on his fist, but it is his actions that got it there.

Or, Red grapples with the fact that he has to deal with blood lust now.

[blackseafoam]

Healed Wrong

Part 1 of 4

next

WC: 2349

Warnings: Character death, near-drowning, self-harm (kinda)

Summary: Clone Troopers Flinch, Sway and Ash are freshly deployed on the swamp planet of Dokmur to guard a republic base. Things are uneventful, but danger lurks in the nearby flooded forest.

Heeere's my clone OC, Flinch's (CT-8424) backstory! Probably what he was retelling to ulvi in this comic. Takes place toward the very end of the war, weeks before order 66 and the fall of the Jedi.

Whumptober 2024. Day 06 l not realizing they're injured l unhealthy coping mechanisms l healed wrong l "it's not my blood"

The battlefield was a swamp, and forces on both sides struggled to maneuver. The battles were hell, the boots were constantly filled with water, and the insects bit through every gap in the armor.

Flinch, Ash, and Sway were as shiny as shiny could get, assigned as warm bodies protecting the perimeter of a base hardly anyone was using.

“I think the Sergeant has lost his mind.” Sway huffed as he scanned the tree lines

“What makes you say that?” Ash stood at his right. 

“He’s got us running around all over the place, checking the weak points in the wall. Shouldn’t we just be patrolling around the whole perimeter in a circle? We’d end up wasting way less time that way.” 

Ash Shrugged. “Maybe we should ask him why?”

“Hell no, questioning a superior officer? Are you serious?”

Ash shrugged again. “Maybe if you frame it like a suggestion? Or curiosity?” 

“Not with Sergeant Kip, he’d have us court martialed for tying our shoes wrong.” 

“Our boots don’t have laces…” Ash‘s comment trailed off as another figure started running toward them from the sentry threshold in the force field which surrounded the base. 

“Late again?” Ash chided, Flinch didn’t need to see his face to know there was a cocky smirk beneath that helmet.

Flinch slowed to a jog as he closed the distance. “I left my bucket in the refresher right before someone went in and took FOREVER to finish up!” He complained with a huff.

Sway and Ash laughed

“You’re a mess.” Sway punched at Flinch in the arm. 

“OW! Dammit Sway it’s still healing!” Flinch reflexively grabbed his right bicep where his fresh fist print tattoo was marinating under a bacta patch. 

“What’s the point of getting a tattoo no one will see?” Ash tilted his head, the middle of his flame tattoo that led from behind his ear to his collarbone just barely visible. 

“At least mine isn’t a boat.”  Flinch's defensive glare was so potent it shot through his visor.

“What’s wrong with a boat?” Sway scoffed.

“Why do you even like them? They’re useless.”

“They’re efficient… and poetic.”

The patrol went on as usual, boring. The three took turns, rotating one person at the post and two roving, none of them ever out of sight of each other. 

Flinch and Sway walked their route, their conversation dwindling as they grew hungrier through their long shift. They slowed at the treeline. 

“Our relief must be overdue.” Sway complained.

Flinch glanced at the sky. “Nah, we’ve still got an hour and a half.”

“How do you know that?”

“The moons, see? That larger one hasn’t crossed the path of the smaller one yet, they follow the same path every day.”

“How is it you have the concentration to know where the celestial bodies are at all times, but no focus when it comes to keeping your kit together?”

Flinch shrugged, looking into the woods. The stagnant water rippling between the mangrove trees that stood like sentinels in the swamp. “What is that?”

Sway followed his gaze. The still water had begun to ripple. “Probably a fish or something, let’s stay focused Flinch.” He lightly cuffed Flinch’s left, untattooed arm. The pair kept walking the treeline. The pair cast a cautious glance toward Ash, a hundred yards away now, dutifully watching his patrolling brothers with his rifle at the ready. 

Flinch and Sway were at the edge of their assigned area, about to turn back the way they came. Flinch looked up into the tree that marked their border, its base was submerged in the water here at the edge of the swamp.The branches were tall and spindly with myriads of tiny leaves all reaching toward the sky. Vines and bromeliadae hung from the trunk and branches like draped sinew. He spun on his heel and turned toward the base.  

Before the two knew what was happening, arms appeared from behind a tree and snatched both of them. They gasped in sync as the forceful tugs of two assassin droids wrapped around their waists set them off balance and plunging into the thick black water. 

Flinch panicked as he felt the full weight of the droid now on top of him, he could barely see through the opaque surface of the water. Even though the seal of his helmet kept the water out, he already felt the lack of oxygen through the filter in front of his mouth.

“FLINCH! SWAY!” The helmet comm rang out, Ash had seen the attack but was still far away, and he was met with no response. Flinch found himself hoping Ash would stay away. Brave as he was, he was no match for a force like this. 

 The droid’s dead-eyed stare floated right over the surface, watching him struggle. His vision began to go black at the edges. NO. He steeled himself. This is not how I go out. He saw a third droid appear from above his head, upside-down in his vision. It held some kind of strange weapon, a blaster with a noise suppressing muzzle. The droid pointed it at Flinch’s head. 

With his last ounce of strength and at the end of his consciousness, Flinch ripped out one final burst of energy. Twisting suddenly, and violently. The soft mud helped him roll out from underneath the droid. Miraculously, he kept a grip on his blaster through the maneuver. His head spun as he hopped to his feet, his reaction time was not slowed as he put a laser bolt through the droid that had been straddling him. Followed quickly by dropping the second assassin droid on top of Sway.

He leveled his blaster at the third droid, with the modified pistol, and clipped his metal leg as the machine sprung up into the treetops with impressive ease. Flinch lost sight of it.

“I’ve got backup, we’re on our way!” Ash commed in as Flinch rushed to Sway.

“Copy.” Flinch coughed, ripping his helmet off as he caught his breath and grabbed Sway by the neck hole in his chest opening. Dragging his brother to the edge of the water, Flinch rolled Sway onto his side and removed his helmet as quickly as he could.

Sway was terrifyingly still for five agonizing seconds, Flinch’s chest seized with horror, then his brother let out a cough that sounded like it should’ve sent a lung flying across the mud where he lay. He gasped for air, and Flinch leaned forward and wrapped an arm over his side. “You’re okay, you stupid sailor.” He huffed, also out of breath. 

Sway would’ve said something snarky back, but was busy coughing out, gasping in. His whole body shuddered under Flinch’s hold. Flinch sat back up, and looked up at the treetops where the droid had disappeared to. The vines swayed, but now that his helmet was off he felt no wind.

Ash was still sprinting toward them, three other troopers at his flank, probably the next sentries on shift. Flinch struggled to bring his oxygen depleted mind back to focus, he looked back up to the trees. Something felt wrong. 

As much as he didn’t want to breathe the stale air of his helmet again, after almost taking his last breath inside it, he slammed the bucket back on. “Bogeys, tree bogeys.” He whispered into the comm, turning his gaze at the approaching figures again. 

Ash gave one single quick nod, and slowed to a jog, his reinforcements following suit. They were still a good distance away. Please, stay there, out of range. Flinch prayed. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do, boys.” Ash spoke steadily into the comm. His voice was calm and strong, a commander’s voice. He sounded different, not at all like the  young rookie he was. “The droids are using Flinch and Sway as bait, we can’t let them know that we know that. Let’s put on a good show, follow my lead.”

Ash turned off the comm and removed his helmet, his jog now slowing to a march as he neared earshot. “You boys okay? What happened?” 

Sway was attempting to get up now, still coughing and not able to speak. Flinch helped him up and supported his weight as he leaned wearily on his brother. “We’re okay, assassin droids jumped us from behind that tree, there was a third one but… I think it got away.” Flinch gestured toward the mangroves behind him, and slowly began walking himself and his brother toward their reinforcements. Ash held out a hand and made a small motion for them to slow down, casting the quickest glance possible toward the trees, his open palm became a fist, the signal to halt. Flinch obeyed the sign. 

Ash and the three other troopers closed the distance, he reached out and grabbed Flinch’s hand with both of his. “I’m glad you’re okay, brother.” His hands turned Flinch’s hand palm down, he had deposited a round object into his palm. Flinch couldn’t help but smirk. Ash stepped back. “Let’s head back, we’re going to need to activate some protocols.” Flinch caught the signal, flicking the button on the object in his hand. He noticed the other troopers subtly doing the same thing. Ash had always been the tactician. “And from there we’ll have to send our reports straight up to the TOP!” He screamed the last word and all five of them flung their droid poppers into the treetops with all their might. “GO GO GO GO GO!” Ash cried out while grabbing at Sway, who was still coughing but able to keep up with Ash and Flinch pulling at him as they followed the other three patrol troopers who were sprinting back toward the perimeter. The telltale burst of energy sounded as the poppers found their marks, the trio could hear several droid bodies hit the mud below. Then the shots rang out, and they tore across the field with their lives. 

All six troopers made it back to the sentry tower, gasping. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sway collapsed against Flinch. Flinch held his brother up, shocked relief written across his face, a smile hinting through his open mouth as he also caught his breath. The two fell to their knees on the metal floor, their white armor absolutely filthy with black mud.

“I got you brother, let’s get you both cleaned up.” Ash reached down to lift up Sway, who was, in fact, swaying on his knees and beginning to lean forward. Sway accepted the help and got to his feet, a hand on Ash’s shoulder for support. Flinch pushed himself up off his knees and followed, leaving black footprints behind himself. As they exited the tower, several officers rushed up to them asking questions about the incident. Flinch looked up at the moons, studying their position again. Hardly any time. Hardly any time had gone by. That whole ordeal had been mere minutes, he had lived a lifetime and all the emotions in between in those few minutes. 

“No, I don’t think any of us are hurt.” Ash reassured one of the officers as they walked.

“There’s blood on the ground.” The non-clone officer pointed out.

At the comment everyone looked at the ground behind Flinch, who walked right behind Sway. Someone’s bootprint was leaving red tracks in the mossy ground. 

“I don’t think that’s mine...” Flinch’s face tightened, and he looked up at Sway and Ash. Sway was pale. Flinch looked down at his feet, blood cascaded out of the gap between his shin guard and his boot, the black mud that had been therewas replaced by bright red. 

Flinch has a hard time recalling the minutes that followed. Quite unlike the slowed-down time of his adrenaline-induced altercation with the droids, he only remembers the next part in flashes. 

Sway went down, Flinch would not leave his side, Sway’s pale face, and the shaking. Shock. They had learned all about shock as cadets. They made it back, they were supposed to be safe. They had won, that was supposed to be the end of it.

No one had noticed the second assassin droid had a vibroknife, somehow it had found the gap in the armor on Sway’s thigh.

Sway’s last moments were spent frightened, looking up at Flinch. Flinch grabbed the side of his face below the ear, thumb leaving prints of blood over the glyphic boat tattoo on his jaw. He wished he had the mind to say something, anything, any words to comfort Sway as the light left his eyes. The medics didn’t make it in time. Too much time in the rancid water, too much time running while bleeding out, not enough time to get help. Not enough time to say goodbye.

-

Flinch lay in his bunk that night staring at the bottom of the mattress above him. Ash had commandeered the bunk beside his, the previous owner not making any fuss about trading for this night. 

“They said they want to check you for fluid in your lungs again tomorrow morning.” Ash reported, sitting on the very edge of the thin mattress, leaning his elbows on his knees. He looked at Flinch, but tears stung his eyes, he looked down at the floor instead. 

“Water didn’t even get in my mouth.” Flinch said, deadpan.

Ash shrugged. “I told them that, they didn’t care. They just wanted me to tell you. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He gave a weak attempt at a light-hearted tone.

Flinch closed his eyes and sighed, turning over in the bed away from Ash. He felt Ash’s weight sit next to him, setting hand on his shoulder. Ash said nothing, just breathed for a while. “I’ll be right here.” He patted Flinch as he stood and moved to his borrowed bunk just a few feet away. 

Flinch’s left hand found the neck of his black underarmor, he pulled at it, then his hand went inside the shirt to his right bicep. His fresh tattoo. It had begun to itch like mad ever since a few hours ago. As he scratched at it the sensation brought quick relief, he didn’t slow down as it turned into a burning bright pain. He didn’t remember stopping, he didn’t remember falling asleep either. 

[bubbl3zdaseaotter37]

Whumptober 2024

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

A/N: Doing something (a little) different this time! Kix is one of my all-time favorite clones, partly because of his relationship with Jessie, Hardcase, Fives, and the other 501st. Hoping I did him and Jessie justice!

By the time Jessie made it back to camp, his feet dragged, and his arms felt as heavy as lead.  His armor, usually pure white and well-maintained, was coated from helmet to boots in a thick layer of mud, that must have added at least five kilos to its overall weight.  If he didn’t know him better than anyone in the galaxy, even Kix wouldn’t have been able to recognize the blue Republic cog in the center of his helmet, it was so well-hidden underneath the dirt and grime of battle.

Kix…

An extra jolt of energy filled Jessie’s body as he remembered spotting Kix halfway across the battlefield, with an injured trooper slung haphazardly across his shoulders.  That had been hours ago now, shortly before General Skywalker had ordered them to fall back, and he had seen no sign of him since. Perhaps it was a good thing, perhaps it just meant that Kix had made it back to base earlier and was too busy caring for the wounded to be seen anywhere but the medical tent. 

But anxiety gnawed at Jessie’s stomach as others went about setting up triage in the camp.  He took a seat on one of the nearby crates, where he could view all of the happenings, the comings and goings, between each of the tents.  Medics and logistics wove between stragglers returning from the battlefield.  Clones clustered together in exhausted groups, .  It was all too familiar a process, and when a medic stopped by him briefly to ask if he were injured, all he could do was shake his head.  The frazzled clone made a quick note on his datapad, before he started to leave.

“Wait,” Jessie called after him, and the trooper froze, turned to Jessie, mildly agitated.  “You haven’t seen Kix in the med tent, have you? CT-6116?”

“I know Kix,” the trooper said tersely. He paused, then shook his head. “Sorry. I haven’t.”

Jessie’s stomach sank even lower, probably somewhere down in his boots.  Absently, he thanked the unfamiliar trooper, who rushed off to continue his job.  He couldn’t blame him. There were plenty of other clones waiting uselessly for their brothers to return.  Jessie just hoped he wasn’t waiting for nothing.

The hours seemed to drag by slower than any others Jessie had ever experienced.  At some point, Hardcase had passed by, looking much less exuberant than usual.  It wasn’t until he sat down next to Jessie that he even realized it was him, his armor was so caked in mud.

“That was some battle, huh brother?” He asked as he removed his helmet and set it down casually in his lap.

“Kix hasn’t come back yet.”

“Huh? Not—” Hardcase looked about, as if Kix would suddenly walk out from behind one of the tents, and everything would be alright. “You haven’t heard from him at all?”

Jessie shook his head. “Our long-range comms are being jammed, remember?  That’s why the retreat order took so long to reach us on the front line.  It’s all because of that blasted Seperatist communications tower this whole mess is about.”

“Ah…” A silence fell between them as Jessie stared at the muddy ground, and Hardcase bounced a knee up and down.  Eventually, it seemed Hardcase couldn’t stand the quiet. “Well… if I see him, I’ll let you know,” he said, before scooping up his helmet, rotary blaster, and disappearing into the bustle of the camp.

It wasn’t for another hour or so, when the trickle of returning clones had thinned significantly and he was considering approaching one of them about his brother, that he saw a familiar flash of red amongst the muddied whites and blues.  Immediately, he wheeled about, and relief hit him like a tidal wave as he recognized the patterns, barely visible, but there all the same.

“Kix!”  He rushed over to his brother, whose helmet was already hanging limply from his right hand.  His face was weary, smeared with blood and dirt.  When Jessie looked again, it looked like there was more blood than anything else.  So much blood…  Whose blood, though?  “Are you alright? Were you—?”

“I’m alright, Jessie,” Kix said dully; his sounded voice even more exhausted than he looked. Jessie opened his mouth to argue, to insist that he take a break, see another medic, at least eat something before he inevitably went back to work, but his brother sighed, gaze dropping to his boots. “It’s not mine,” he muttered, before abruptly replacing his helmet and trudging off in the direction of the medical tent.

Jessie stood there, shocked, and debated whether to follow him or not.  But he had tried reasoning with a weary, determined Kix before, and knew that he would be wasting his time.  When it came to triage, even Captain Rex had trouble getting Kix to back down.  So, with a final, reluctant glance at the medical ward, Jessie left his brother to his work.

It wasn’t for several more days, and the campaign’s conclusion, that Jessie had a chance to speak to Kix.  Even after they had returned to the fleet and entered the ever-brief reprieve between assignments, Jessie hardly saw his brother.  Kix left the barracks early, returned late, if at all.  It got to the point where none of their squad saw him for days, unless they tracked him down in the medical bay.  As he so often did after major losses, Kix had thrown himself into his work.

Almost six rotations after the battle, Jessie returned to his barracks to find Kix, sitting on the floor, a dark bottle resting limply in one hand, his forehead in the other.  Neither clone said a word for a long, drawn-out moment.  Jessie stared at Kix.  Kix stared at an empty space, somewhere between his work boots and the bunk on the opposite side of the room.

“Kix…”

“Jessie.”

Jessie started.  It was the first time he had heard Kix speak since that day on the field, and he was taken aback by how hoarse his voice was.  When Kix didn’t say anything else, but took another swig from the opaque bottle, Jessie said slowly, “where did you get that? You know it’s contraband…”

It wasn’t an accusation, and Kix seemed to know this too.  He chuckled bitterly, raised the bottle in a mock toast.  “Belonged to a brother.  He doesn’t need it anymore.”

 Again, a heavy silence fell over the two of them.  Jessie used the silence to better look at his brother.  There were bags under his eyes that attested to the minimal hours of sleep he had been getting for days, and he had a clumsy nick on his freshly shaven jawline.  Kix usually prided himself on his steady hands.  Then, Jessie’s gaze drifted down to his neck, where he spotted a corner of white sticking out from under his blacks. 

Jessie’s eyebrows drew together.  He recognized a fresh bacta patch when he saw one.

“Kix, what’s that?” He asked.

“A bottle of cheap spotchka, Jess,” Kix replied flatly, swirling the liquid around. “I know you’ve seen one before—”

Jessie shook his head, gestured at the side of his own neck. “No, I know that.  The patch. When did that happen?”

Silence.  Then, Kix set down the bottle with a sigh.  Jessie took it as an invitation.  Without a word, he sat down next to his brother and waited patiently for Kix to begin.  It wasn’t that Kix was bad discussing his emotions – he was an experienced trooper, one who knew that bottling it up forever would only result in poorer performance in the long run, if not something worse – he just carried so much weight on his shoulders, he sometimes needed a remind that he didn’t need to carry it alone.

“I’d just found another trooper – his name was Roger – when the general ordered the retreat,” Kix finally began, keeping his voice carefully regulated as he stared distantly at the bottle in front of him. 

“It was serious, but I knew I could save him if I just had a little more time.  Everyone else had started to fall back, except me.  Roger told me to leave him, let his brothers know where he kept his secret stash of booze.”  He gestured to the bottle, let out a bitter laugh.  “I couldn’t do it, Jess.  I needed to give him a chance.  I couldn’t just leave him…”

For a long moment, Kix seemed to space out.  Undoubtedly, he still hadn’t slept at all since he returned from the medbay – knowing Kix, he didn’t intend to until that entire bottle had been drained.

“So, you stayed with him?” Jessie prompted eventually.

“Of course. I tried my best to save him.  But I think even he could tell… he grabbed my scalpel, nicked me good before... yeah.”  Kix picked up the bottle again, stared distantly at the dark glass as he rubbed the side of his neck with the other.  “That did the trick.  Our position was already being overrun, and inside I knew… so I ran.”

After taking another swig, Kix offered the bottle to Jessie, who took it and set it carefully on his other side.  He could only imagine the conflict that had gone on inside his brother’s mind when he had been forced to retreat.  And more than that, Jessie knew Kix would see it as abandoning a brother, no matter what he said.  Still, he could try.

Gently, Jessie asked, “and his brothers…?”

Kix pressed his lips together in a thin line.  “Dead.”

That bottle was beginning to make a bit more sense, now.

“Kix, I…”

“Don’t say it’s not my fault.”

The sheer force in Kix’s voice made Jessie start.  He seemed on the verge of an outburst, or a breakdown, or somewhere in between.  Kix was raw from overexertion and bottled emotions.  Jessie was treading on dangerous ground.  But he knew he had to help his brother somehow, even if he was just someone to listen.  Slowly, carefully, he said, “I wasn’t going to.”

This time, Kix stared at him, gaze met suspicious gaze as the medic tried to figure out Jessie’s angle.  But he remained silent, awaiting whatever point Jessie wanted to make.

“I… I know saying it’s not going to change that you couldn’t save him,” Jessie said slowly.  “You did the best you could.  That’s what matters.”

“My best wasn’t enough, Jessie.”

“And it won’t always be.  That’s the sad truth, but how can we learn from the past if we never let it go?  Roger knew he was going to die.  He was willing to make that sacrifice if it meant you got to keep on fighting.  Like the Captain always says, ‘live to fight another day,’ remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Kix said bitterly, before his shoulders sagged, and all the hostility drained from his body.  When he spoke again, his voice wavered, and he looked ten years older than he was. “I remember.  I just… I promised I would tell his brothers.  He was so sure they made it.”

“But you told me.  We’re his brothers, too.”  Jessie grabbed the bottle again and lifted it up in a solemn cheer.  “To Roger and his squad.��

Momentarily, Kix stared silently at Jessie’s odd display, before he let out a sigh. 

“To Roger…”

Jessie took a swift gulp, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down his throat.  Well, now he could see why Roger had been so proud of his stash.  Then, he passed it to Kix. 

Not a word was spoken between the two, not even when one noticed a shimmer of wetness on the other’s cheeks, or a brief, undignified sniffle.  They didn’t say anything when one scooted closer to the other, so their shoulders were pressed comfortingly against each other’s, and fell heavily to sleep shortly after.  None of the rest of the squad commented on how Kix had returned, besides a mixture of questioning, worried looks.  But an understanding passed between them all the same.

It’s not your fault.  We do our best, but still, we fail.  That’s how it is now, and how it always will be.  But that’s not the end.  Because we must move on.  When bones break, they grow back stronger. 

So keep going.  Be kind to yourself.

Live to fight another day.

---

A/N: It seems that love a good, traumatized character who only knows how to give and never take, because why would they take if others need so much more than they do and no it’s definitely not because I relate to that as an empath and a people pleaser, definitely not.

[gearbox-doll]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Hunter X Hunter Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kurapika & Leorio Paladiknight, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight Characters: Leorio Paladiknight, Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter) Additional Tags: Whump, Whumptober 2024, Blood and Injury, Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Medical Inaccuracies, probably, I'm not Leorio I didn't go to medical school, First Aid, Pining, Mutual Pining, Medical Student Leorio Paladiknight, Mentioned Killua Zoldyck, mentioned Gon Freecs - Freeform, Mentioned Alluka Zoldyck, why does gon not have a mentioned tag?, Mentioned Genei Ryodan | Phantom Troupe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, no beta we die like kite Series: Part 5 of Crow's Whumptober 2024 Summary:

I place my head between my knees And think, "Do you ever have nights like these?" So separated from my sense of self And the shit you keep up on you bookshelf - Pigeon Pit, Nights Like These

 Kurapika ends up on Leorio's doorstep, injured and exhausted though he doesn't quite feel it. Leorio just counts himself lucky that he knows how to help.

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

Whumptober - 6

one of these years i will actually post things on time. not this year though

No. 6: NOT REALIZING THEY'RE INJURED Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong |  "It's not my blood."

“Hey, Whumpee. Slow down for a minute, yeah? Is that… Are you bleeding?”

Whumpee glanced at the bandages on their arm, where red was starting to spread. “That’s not my blood, Caretaker.”

“... Whumpee, love—”

“No! You don’t understand, it’s not my blood! I’m supposed to be getting better, it’s not- it can’t be…”

[cynicalone94]

Not Realizing They're Injured

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY’RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | “It’s not my blood.”

Read on AO3 here.

In the aftermath of his bounty, Jay struggles to cope with the fact that an innocent person caught a bullet that was meant for him. But will his attempts to cope only lead to more pain?

Set after 2X3 Weigh Station

[riahlynn101]

Whumptober 2024: Day Six - "It's Not My Blood."

Trigger warnings: Implied/referenced kidnapping, implied (canonical) child death, blood, and past child abuse. 

Word count: 328

Fandom: FNAF Security Breach/Ruin (Post-canon)

--

Gregory chokes on a sob. He shivers, hugging himself. The end of the hallway seems light years away. Too far for his trembling legs to take him. He can see Vanessa from here. A sudden urge to run to her overtakes him. 

One step.

Two steps. 

Gregory stumbles over a pile of ash and debris. He falls hard. In no way is it the worst injury he’s ever had, but with his racing thoughts and impending sense of doom, it feels much, much worse. 

He sniffles, wiping the tears from his eyes. He needs to stand up. He needs to get back to Freddy and Vanessa. That thing, The Mimic, is still out there. Hiding and waiting to pull him back deep, deep underground. He can’t go back there. 

Not after he had to fight tooth and nail to escape. 

Not after Vanessa was freed.

And especially not after what that thing did to his one and only friend. 

But Gregory is nothing if not a fighter, so with all the strength of a newborn calf, he gets back on his shaky legs and forces himself, step by step, all the way to where his family is standing. 

Vanessa grabs him by the shoulders. Her eyes widen in concern, looking him over. “Gregory! What happened!? Did it get you?”

Next to her, Freddy looks equally as distressed.

“Did you fall more than once?” Freddy asks. He sets one of his paws on top of Gregory’s head. 

Gregory’s mouth feels dry, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

She wasn’t supposed to come here. 

And now….

“It’s not my….my blood.” 

The look in Vanessa’s eyes instantly changes to a morbid understanding. They’ve been here before. And neither of them liked the ending. 

Fortunately for them, they’re free now, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Even if it feels like they don’t deserve it. 

Images of Cassie’s bloodied body are burned in Gregory’s brain. 

Vanessa pulls him into a hug, uncaring if her clothes are stained with blood. She’s warm, and reminds Gregory of the vague memories he still holds of his mom.

She says nothing, because there’s nothing she can say.

Gregory cries on her shoulder, fingers grasping at the back of her shirt. 

Silently, he apologizes to his one and only friend left in the world. 

Cassie. I’m so sorry, Cassie. 

[ohanahoku-ao3]

Whumptober Day 6

Enjoy this one! I think it's my favorite so far!

Teen & Up - Gen - Haven

Surprise Trauma

     Another day, another trouble, this time with potentially deadly spikes. Several people throughout Haven had already been skewered, and Duke was hoping that he would not be added to that list as he followed Audrey around, trying to help.

     They were closing in on the perp, waiting outside the troubled person's home for Nathan to get there with backup, the man's fiancé, who'd been the first accidental victim. 

     Duke clocked Nathan as he arrived in the Bronco and leaned around the corner of the house to inform Audrey of his arrival. As he turned back, he saw something red staining Nathan's jacket. “Nathan.” He said, startled and concerned as he took a step towards him.

     “It's not my blood,” Nathan assured him, as evenly toned and nonchalant as ever, even when covered in viscera. “Last victim got hit bad.”

     “Geez.” Duke sighed, relieved but disgruntled from the wasted worry. “You couldn't have changed?”

     “Didn't have time,” Nathan answered, sending him a slightly amused smile as though he found Duke's worry more amusing than anything else.

     “It's go time, boys.” Audrey rounded the corner, pausing briefly as her gaze snagged on the bloody stain.

     “It's not mine.” Nathan said at the same time Duke said, “It's not his.”

     “Alright then,” Audrey said, a slow smile forming on her face as she glanced between them. “Let's go.” She turned back to the fiancé, pulling her along as the two men followed behind her.

>><<

     A short time later, with the crisis averted and the perp heading to the station with Audrey for a non-official “official” statement, Duke accepted a ride from Nathan to get home. They were headed for the Bronco when the detective’s knees just buckled beneath him and sent him to the ground.

     “Whoa, Nathan!” Duke half-caught him, keeping him from falling over the rest of the way. “What's wrong?”

     Nathan shook his head, looking confused. “I don't know. Can't seem to balance.” He muttered, blinking rapidly and huffing in annoyance. “Vision's gettin’ blurry.”

     An awful feeling settled like a rock in Duke’s gut, and he quickly yanked Nathan's shirt up, hissing at the open wounds on his stomach.

     “Damn it,” Nathan mumbled, staring down at his own mangled flesh.

     “Yeah, that's definitely your blood, buddy,” Duke said, lowering his shirt and helping him to his feet. “Come on, let's get you to the car.”

     Nathan stumbled along, barely able to lift his feet, as the blood loss affected his already limited sense of balance. He was out mere seconds after reaching the Bronco, and Duke lifted the keys from his pocket to start the car. Duke raced towards the hospital, praying to whatever deity that could possibly have a modicum of interest in their godforsaken town that Nathan would be okay.

767i

     Days later, below deck on the Cape Rouge, Duke paced the floor irritably. “It's like he doesn't care!” He exclaimed, ranting to Audrey. “And don't give me that excuse about how he couldn't feel it! The guy's shirt was practically dyed red with blood, and he doesn't think to check? Just to make sure?”

     “It was a hectic day, Duke. And you know how Nathan gets caught up in his work.” Audrey tried to soothe him down.

     Duke scoffed. “That's not the point! I know you both get caught up on the job. But you have to take care of yourselves, and Nathan…” Duke inhaled slowly, trying to calm down. “Nathan ignoring something so obvious is a sign of something very bad, Audrey. You weren't there to see him when he was-”

     “When I was what?”

     Duke turned to find Nathan in the doorway, his tone carefully calm, but that stubborn, obstinate look in his eyes that claimed him ready for a fight.

     And a fight he would get, if that's what it took to beat some sense into him. “When you were letting people take potshots at you for money,” Duke responded, ignoring the sharp inhale from Audrey as he continued. “When you were pushed so far over the edge emotionally that you couldn't stand it. When you were so beat up from letting their fists dull the only pain you can feel that you were spitting blood into the dirt when I found you!” He raged, chest heaving with the unleashed fear he'd been holding onto since that day, the fear that Nathan would push too far, that in one fell swoop, Duke would lose two of the best people he knew and have no way of stopping it.

     Duke didn't even realize he was crying until Audrey's voice spoke his name softly behind him. Soft hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs gently wiping away tears as his head was guided in her direction.

     “Hey, it's okay. Duke, we're okay.” She soothed, pushing herself up on her toes to wrap her arms around him. Duke hugged her back, letting out a shaky breath. 

     A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and Nathan's voice was softer than usual when he spoke but laced with mild amusement. “Didn't think you cared so much.”

     Duke huffed against Audrey's shoulder where he'd buried his face. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

     That got an easy chuckle from both of them, and Nathan met Duke's eyes as Audrey pulled back from the hug. “I really didn't feel it, didn't think about it with everything goin’ on. Wasn't trying to… to hurt myself again. I'll be more careful next time.”

     “Well, good,” Duke said after a pause before turning to look at Audrey.

     She held her hands up in defense. “I didn't do anything reckless.” She stated before breaking at the disbelieving looks they gave her. She'd been moderately reckless at the very least. “Fine, fine. I'll be more careful, too.”

     “Thank you. And as the most sensible of us all, I'll hold you both to it.” Duke told them, ignoring their indignant protests with a smile as he retreated to the kitchenette. He could use a drink, and from the sound of Audrey rounding back on Nathan about his unhealthy coping mechanisms, Duke was certain they would both be needing one soon themselves.