#blood-matted hair Tumblr posts

  • callaeidae3
    01.12.2021 - 4 days ago

    Twelve days of Whumpmas (NZ version)

    Day 1 - A Partridge in a Pear Tree (A pukeko in a ponga tree): Tied to a Tree | Given as a Gift | Putting up the Tree

    Pukeko (swamp hen) up in the ponga tree (tree fern) be like, "Whatcha doin' down there, whumpee? You like this tree so much you're giving it a backwards hug???"

    I realised ponga have some extra whump possibility because of how rough and fibrous (and scratchy) the tree trunk is!!

    Continued in Day 2

    @amonthofwhump

    #amow twelve days of whumpmas #tied to a tree #captured#blood#injury#restrained#oc#kyle kindall#my art#whump art#whump humour #using my oc Kyle Kindall as designated whumpee for this one #Arkala is close enough to New Zealand that it likely has naturalised native NZ ponga and Australasian swamp hen (pukeko) anyways #bleeding #blood matted hair
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  • deiliamedlini
    14.11.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    Whumptober 2021- The Darkness I Know

    That’s Where The Blood’s Supposed To Be

    bleeding through the bandages | pressure | blood-matted hair

    Fic Summary: After the world as she knew it was destroyed by the corruption of Malice, Zelda allies herself with her saviors from captivity: a disgruntled former governor, an alert paramedic, a cocky pilot, an excessively overt optimist, and a blind strategist. While the corrupted, malice-filled Yiga Clan looks for revenge on them, Zelda has to learn how important it is to find family in others... and how much more dangerous the stakes become if she fails to protect them.

    Previous /Chapter Index/ Next

    ~~~

    “Let me go!” Zelda shouted, pulling her arm from Revali before promptly falling to her knees.

    Revali bent beside her, taking her arm forcefully. “We go back now, we’ll get him killed. Do you want Link dead? Because without us, he has a chance, but with us, he’s dead. So tell me: what’s your command?”

    Zelda scowled, but she let him pull her to her feet, taking a longing look down the hill in the rain, vaguely where Link still was.

    Goddess, please… let him be alright.

    There was no time to linger, not physically, or in her thoughts. She jogged beside Revali, earning a confused look from him.

    “Have you been faking for days?”

    “What?”

    “We’ve been carrying you everywhere because you’ve been barely able to stand. Now you’re running?”

    She stumbled, but shook it off. “I’m feeling… stronger.”

    “We’ll talk about it later. Can you run faster?”

    “I think.”

    “Good.”

    They lost track of time and location, only running forward, away from the ever present feeling that Zelda kept saying was still on their tails. They ducked into a tunnel, but still, they were followed. They waded across a small river, thoroughly chilling them more than the rain had, but still, they were followed.

    Zelda ran out of breath long before Revali did. He half dragged her when she couldn’t run, and had her hop on his back when she was near passing out.

    It was only when the rain had turned to a drizzle that he collapsed, panting and sore. “Goddess above!”

    “They’re further. We should have a minute.”

    Revali rolled onto his back and let out a sigh between his panting breaths. “I’m never exercising again. This counts for the rest of my life.”

    “I’m so sorry,” Zelda said, gripping her arm in pain, only to feel warm liquid seeping through the bandage. She closed her eyes in defeat. It was never going to stop, was it? Still, she pressed down on it in an attempt to stop the blood.

    “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t ask for this to happen to you.”  He closed his eyes. “How long do we have?”

    “I can feel it getting more noticeable.”

    Revali sat up, adjusting the bow and quiver that was over his shoulder. “What’s it feel like?”

    “Burning pain.”

    “Great.”

    “Yeah.”

    They sat in silence, blinking the rain from their eyes. Zelda’s eyes closed without her permission, and she drifted off, chilled and blissfully unaware of how she could even manage to sleep.

    Revali turned to her and sighed.

    “Damnit.”

    ~~~~

    The oranges of the rising sun blinded Revali anytime he looked East, the horizon visible enough that the sun became an easy enemy. The rain had let off for a bit, but the ominous clouds kept rolling in.

    He set Zelda down in the grass behind the wall of a fallen home, the yard overgrown and the fences collapsing, but looking strong. And, with a sore arm, shaking and weak from carrying Zelda, he pulled out an arrow and nocked it before he knelt down and scanned the treeline.

    There was no way he could keep running. Not anymore. He had to make a stand.

    “Revali, they’re going to be here soon,” Zelda muttered, rolling her head along the stone fence.

    “Sure, wake up now when we’ve stopped moving,” he mused, though there was no real annoyance in his voice. He was far too preoccupied to be anything but focused.

    “Do you have any other weapons I can use?”

    “I didn’t have time to pack.”

    Zelda perched beside him, leaning against the stone, but keeping her eyes in the distance. “Let me know if I can help.”

    “Yeah, don’t die or this was all for nothing.”

    ~~~~

    “On your left!”

    Revali ducked as the sickle of a Yiga sliced at him with a merciless swing. Zelda ran to him, throwing herself haphazardly at the Yiga. She’d grabbed a discarded weapon, and held it out was they crashed down. She clutched her arm, but got to her feet and pushed her hair back, returning to Revali’s side as more Yiga closed in.

    She’d never felt stronger.

    Something had come over her the moment the Yiga arrived, a surge of power and energy, and a hyperawareness of everything around. Sure, she could feel the pain still, but it was easy to ignore when she needed to, and now, she needed to.

    “Get out of the way!” Revali shouted. Zelda stepped aside just in time to watch one of Revali’s arrows fly past her face, landing squarely in a Yiga’s chest.

    Zelda backed into another Yiga, feeling them take hold of her hands, while another helped force her down to the grass. A third moved to straddle her with a knife in his hand, raised perilously close to her chest.

    Revali crashed into the Yiga, sending them both tumbling off Zelda. She used the moment of surprise to pull her good arm free, and was left to scrap with two armed Yiga without a weapon.

    There were several hard punches, and Zelda dared a glance at Revali. He and the Yiga were exchanging devastating blows, merciless in manner. Revali gave little care to his hand, as their situation grew more dire with every passing second.

    Zelda felt her wrists pinned down again, and she writhed, shaking their hold on her until she got another hand free. There were too many Yiga to make any progress. When she freed herself from one, another took their place.

    The sounds of slammed skin grew, and then grunts went silent as sounds of boots joined in the assault.

    She was yanked up to her knees, and her hands were held behind her as another bound them and her feet with the same rope, preventing her from standing. Helplessly, she watched three Yiga drag Revali over, and throw his battered, still body to the ground beside her.

    There was no way to get to him, but she didn’t have the chance.

    “He’s alive, for now,” a horribly familiar voice said.

    Zelda closed her eyes, only to open them to see Astor in front of her face. His smile was cruel and crooked, and his hand came down hard against her cheek before he bent in front of her. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble.”

    Zelda bit the inside of her cheek, but after the days she’d spent writhing in the pain of Malice, something as simple as a slap barely made her flinch, so she simply kept her steady gaze on him.

    “I am impressed that you’ve managed to figure so much out so quickly. When the Yiga go through these changes, they often need a guide. And time. You’re a fast learner, it seems.”

    Dorian stepped out for Zelda to see, and she rolled her eyes. “Again?”

    “I’m to be your guide. You’ll understand it all when you have a hold on the Malice. We draw from each other, and from the source.”

    “What?”

    Astor bent in front of her and tilted her chin towards him, smiling wickedly at the rise he got from her. “Have you been feeling a great pain, Zelda? Weakness? You’re becoming one of us, and we need each other.” He pulled the bloodied bandages off her arm, watching fresh blood start to seep out. But he placed his hand over it and closed his eyes.

    Zelda felt bitterly cold, her eyes fluttering with the sensation as it spread all along her body. She glanced at Dorian who nodded at her, assuring her it was fine. And when Astor moved his hand away, Zelda felt drained, tired, and…

    Healed.

    “What?” she gasped, shuddering uncontrollably.

    “You’re still so young. What we’ve given you is a blessing, yet you fear it. Embrace it, and you’ll see just what a gift it all is. We can teach you more. Dorian told me you were a scholar. Is that not what you want? To learn?”

    Something about his words had Zelda listening intently, drawn in like a sweet nectar that she couldn’t resist. “I do… but I just…”

    “But?” Astor said, grabbing her chin again, more forcefully. She didn’t fight him, almost too compliant under his touch. “There is no but. Listen to me. I can help you…” he grabbed her arm, and she let out a scream straight from her toes as the wound reappeared, just as brutally as it had been before, “… or I can leave you to die.”

    This time, Zelda shook her head, holding her breath to stop tears of pain from spilling forcefully down her cheeks.

    “Well?” Astor asked, running his sharp fingernail along the side of her neck, almost as sharp as a blade, leaving a fine trail of blood to drip slowly towards her shoulder.

    Zelda mumbled something unintelligible, but her head kept shaking, the last vestiges of her helpless response.

    “That’s fair, Zelda. I respect your choice. Independence makes a rogue Yiga, but we bring them back eventually. You’ll be with family. But this lot,” he said, gesturing to Revali, “has to go.”

    “Wait, no!” Zelda tried, toppling over without the use of her legs or arms to move.

    “Take care of it,” he said to Dorian. “I’ll report back.”

    “Yes, my lord,” Dorian said with a bow. Astor and about half the remaining Yiga disappeared, and Dorian hovered over both Revali and Zelda as he pulled out a long windcleaver. “Zelda, you could have been safe. Now look what you’ve done.”

    Zelda’s mouth hung open, and she stared at Revali. His eyes were cracked, weak, but a cocky sneer managed to make its way to his lips.

    There were no thoughts in Zelda’s mind. She acted entirely on impulse, some deeply rooted primal instinct within her. There was anger and rage and fear and hate. All of it bubbled up where she could easily access it.

    Suddenly the pressure on her wrists released, and she could move her arms again. She didn’t know how, or why, but she scrambled to Revali, and pushed them both, feeling the windcleaver suddenly slow, though not entirely in time.

    She felt the blade slice her skin, though it wasn’t the fatal stab wound he’d gone in for at first. There was a harsh gust that knocked the air right out of her, and she toppled over, crushing Revali.

    To her dismay, as she clutched at her newest wound, Dorian smiled.

    “You always were so smart, Zelda. You’re so much stronger with us already. Don’t waste it.”

    “I must not be as smart as you think, because I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

    “Where are your ropes?”

    Zelda let go of her wound so she could look around, seeing frayed, burnt rope lying in the grass. Burnt… with purple Malice.

    She looked at her hands, bloodied though they were, she couldn’t see the Malice, but she’d done that. She’d burned through a rope to free herself. And why was she not passing out? Blood loss, stress, and days of motionlessness surely wouldn’t allow her to act like this.

    “You’re getting it,” Dorian cooed, placing the tip of the blade under her chin, like Astor had done with his hand.

    “It’s you. All of you.”

    “The Yiga Clan is stronger together. Malice is in our blood, and we can sense it and thrive on it from others who have it. You’ll learn to manage the pain. It will become no more than a forgotten discomfort. We’ll help you. We’ll—”

    Dorian jerked his head up and raised the windcleaver just in time for it to meet a familiar scimitar.

    Urbosa’s red hair whipped around as she flipped it out of her face. “Revali, you look like shit!”

    Revali let out a wheezing groan, and Zelda hovered over him, checking his pulse and his eyes for the extent of the damage.

    He was breathing. That was something.

    Urbosa kicked Dorian back, staying close to the injured Zelda and Revali.

    “Where are the others?” Zelda asked, looking around, praying to the Goddess that she’d see Link, that he’d made it without getting caught.

    “Coming. I’m just fast, Little Bird. Good thing, too.”

    Two of the Yiga charged at Urbosa, and she kept them at bay, never able to gain the upper hand, but safely keeping her edge at the same time.

    When Mipha arrived, she kept guard over them, letting Urbosa venture out a bit more. Dorian stayed with her, stronger than he appeared.

    Daruk and Link stayed together, thinning out the outer line of Yiga until there were only a few left. Link broke off with Daruk’s blessing, and followed the sound of Mipha’s voice.

    “Mipha! Where is she?”

    “Link!” Zelda shouted, forgetting for a moment that this wasn’t the time to be shouting. But she couldn’t help herself, and vaulted towards him.

    “Zelda!”

    He felt her pull him into her arms, and letting a long breath he didn’t realize he’d held, he ran a hand through her stiff, blood-matted hair. With a shudder, he tightened his hold on her and couldn’t let go.

    “Are you okay?”

    Zelda hesitated. Was she? “Are you?” she asked instead, playing it safe.

    “I am. And Revali?”

    “He’s here. Not great shape.”

    “What happened?”

    Zelda flinched as something flew past their heads, and she pulled Link down a bit. “We can talk later.” She watched Urbosa and Daruk both circle Dorian, sandwiching him between them until he slammed his fist into the ground and disappeared with a thick puff of smoke.

    Thought they all stayed alert, Zelda could tell that it was done. That feeling inside her was subsiding without any of them around, and she finally started to crash from her high.

    Mipha was on her, checking her wound. “What happened?”

    “More blood. What else,” Zelda mused, despite wincing.

    “What did they do with you two that whole time?”

    Zelda put her hand on Revali and closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. We just have to get him on his feet again.”

    “And you? You could barely walk before,” Mipha said, her attention split between her two patients.

    Zelda thought about everything that they’d said to her, everything thye’d done. She was stronger around them, around Malice. And without them, she was weak. There were healing techniques she could learn, or she could be hunted forever because others can sense when she’s near. It wasn’t going to be fun to explain, but that could wait. “I think I’ll start feeling worse in a few hours. A theory. We’ll test it and see if I’m right. But Goddess, I hope I’m wrong.”

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  • jo-castle
    03.11.2021 - 1 mont ago

    That’s Where The Bloods Supposed To Be

    cw: blood, covered in blood, dead bodies, battles

    Whumptober2021 no.21

    Kevia curled against the still body beside them, pressing their face into the ground and trying to hold as still as they possibly could. Battles and war weren’t their thing. The princess never went to battle, so Kevia had never had the chance to observe true fighting.

    The little scuffles they’d seen in the yard, the training of the guards, it was nothing compared to what raged around them. It was a heavy sound, occasionally pierced by the sounds of the dying. The body Kevia was next to had gone still long ago, their arm draped over Kevias back, blood seeping out of their body and onto the Kevia.

    The silence was worse than the noise, they thought.

    Someone was dead, but Kevia didn’t know if that was the captain or the enemy.

    “Kevia?”

    They didn’t move, even as a familiar voice called their name. The caught their breath in their throat and kept their eyes closed. They didn’t dare move. They were safe here, wishing they could fade into the ground and away from this hellish place.

    “I found them!”

    The body next to Kevia was rolled away, and they found themself whimpering as hands patted their body.

    “They’re alive!”

    “Kevia?”

    Kevia whimpered, curling in on themself as another set of hands joined the first, pulling them up into a lap.

    “Kevia can you hear me?”

    “They don’t look injured.”

    “They’re covered in blood, how can you tell?”

    “I don’t think it’s their blood.”

    Kevia flinched as a cloth wiped over their face, wiping away the blood and grime of battle. Reluctantly, they opened their eyes. The captain smiled down at them as they moved and pulled them a little closer. Korell knelt in front of them, patting them gently and continuing to wipe blood off their body.

    “There you are,” the captain muttered. “Still alive then?”

    “They aren’t injured,” Korell said. “Not physically, anyway.”

    “Well little one, we gotta get moving.” The captain ran their ringers through Kevias hair, tugging against the blood that was already drying there. Somehow that’s what got to them. The smell caught up in their nose and the sound of the captain sliding blood into their hair made them want to throw up. It must have shown on their face because Korell grabbed their arms and hauled them to their feet.

    “I’ll see that they get there,” Korell said, wrapping an arm around Kevias shoulders. “See you in a moment, captain.” They led Kevia away, and both of them stared ahead, avoiding looking at the bodies that had fallen. Kevia didn’t want to know how many of the crew died in a fight that hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes. All they wanted was a bath and to hide in their bed for the rest of their life.

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #blood-matted hair#oc#fic#dead bodies#jcwritings#Crisp Sails#Kevia#Captain Rishea#Korell Jessani #not measuring fics by their word count #only by the fact they got done
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  • homerforsure
    31.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober No. 21

    bleeding thru the bandages / pressure / blood-matted hair

    Whumptober No. 31

    disaster zone / trauma / prisoner

    Tour Guide Buck AU

    (This one is a little messy, I’m afraid. I used it to play with the vibes I might use for Eddie in this fic and also I let the night get away from me so I’m a smidge sleepy)

    *

    It’s chaos in the wake of the wave. So many voices are begging at once, screaming, trapped, dying, that they start to blend together, a symphony of suffering. The streets that Eddie is finally starting to recognize are suddenly familiar in a different way. He can feel his gait change as he moves through the city. No longer just single-mindedly charging towards a lone emergency, Eddie has his head on a swivel, constantly scanning for victims. For danger. Like slipping on an old coat, he’s Staff Sergeant Eddie Diaz again. 

    Because it’s exactly who he needs to be, Eddie doesn’t fight it. The ABCs he learned in paramedic training give way to the MARCH of the army as the 118 responds to trauma after trauma: crushes, lacerations, compound fractures, traumatic head injuries, and more than one impalement. There are an uncountable number of drownings, all of them over and final by the time they arrive on scene, and the hopeless bodies they leave behind in pursuit of ones they can save are going to haunt Eddie for years. 

    Despair is paralytic so he puts it aside for now, refuses to allow the anger that would make him reckless and unfocused to kindle in his chest and falls back hard on his training. Tourniquets and pressure dressings, bags of fluids and piles of shock blankets. None of them know when any of these people are going to see a real hospital or a real doctor so Eddie’s job is to give them the best chance of living long enough to get there. 

    “Good save, Eddie,” Bobby says, clapping him on the back as Hen and Chim work to stabilize the teenager that Eddie saw buried under what used to be the brick façade of a bookstore, only his fingertips visible and moving under the rubble. His praise is fainter when Eddie climbs a half-uprooted tree to untangle a woman trapped in the upper branches and then performs a needle thoracostomy to decompress a pneumothorax. By the time he’s performed an emergency tracheotomy on a man with severe facial trauma who can't receive oxygen any other way, his captain’s mouth is pressed in a thin line. 

    Eddie thinks he knows what Bobby’s seeing. He knows the way he gets in a warzone, the way he has to get to survive it. There’s a ruthlessness to field medicine the same way there’s a ruthlessness to a surgeon’s scalpel. It’s not just leaving your feelings about a case at the hospital doors, it’s never letting them in at all. Terrified last breaths and bloody faces and mangled limbs are the purview of nightmares. Eddie can’t process them, can’t see them, right now or he’ll never be able to do his job. And Bobby sees Eddie not seeing them.   

    “Get some air,” he says finally, after Eddie responds to a case of secondary drowning at the field hospital. The kid is young, younger than Christopher, and there’s a moment when Eddie thinks it’s too late and all of his careful detachment slips and Bobby sees.

    “Cap-”

    Bobby fixes him with that gaze that’s less captain and more dad and says, “Eddie, this shift isn’t going to end at seven. We’re going to be on search and rescue for days and it’s not gonna get easier. Call home. Rest for an hour, okay?”

    It’s a direct order which means that Eddie says, “Yes, sir,” instead of “I’m fine.” 

    He goes outside, but it’s too late to call home. He shoots a text to Carla, asking if she can get Christopher to school in the morning and back home again after and hopes he can keep enough charge on his phone to follow up when she replies in the morning. 

    After that, Eddie should lie down. Rest is essential and he’s learned how to grab it at any time and in nearly any condition. But he can’t stop scanning. He’s watching other first responders rushing around, treating the victims that just don’t stop pouring into the field hospital, grabbing each and every one and directing them to the type of help they need most. There’s something soothing about it. Like LA’s a giant ant hill that got washed out by the wave, but here its people are, out and rebuilding right away. That’s the part that was missing during his service. The thought that there might be an end to it. 

    He sees something. 

    Eddie doesn’t quite know what it is. He’s scanning and then something trips his senses so he scans backward. Forward. No one is moving in panic. The scene is chaotic, but in a predictable way. Nothing really stands out as-

    A flash of orange. 

    If he hadn’t spent so much time looking for that flash in a crowd at some of the busiest tourist attractions in LA, there’s a chance it could have escaped Eddie’s notice. But his heart lurches and he knows he’s not imagining it. 

    Eddie loses sight of it in the crowd as he leaves his position next to the tent and he raises himself up on his toes to see over them. He starts panicking, thinking he lost him and then the crowd parts and Eddie almost loses his breath. 

    “Buck.”

    His voice is too soft and Buck doesn’t hear him. He looks a little lost in the crowd. Worn and disheveled and, fuck, he looks beat to hell. That ridiculous orange tour shirt is ripped and filthy, wrinkled beyond belief. 

    “Buck!” Eddie calls again and Buck just gets his head up before Eddie makes it to him, his blue eyes bewildered and cloudy.

    “Eddie?” he asks. 

    There’s a child on his back. A girl in a purple t-shirt, less than ten and just as exhausted and bruised as Buck is. She’s clinging to Buck’s neck, her legs around his waist, and Buck is somehow holding both of them upright. But not for long. He takes a staggering step forward, saying Eddie’s name again and Eddie grabs for Buck and for his radio at the same time.

    “Hey, I need some help out here.” 

    “I think she twisted her ankle,” Buck says. “It doesn’t look broken but I-I-I don’t really know how to tell.”

    “Okay,” Eddie answers, cataloging the deep gashes on Buck’s face, the red soaked rag around his arm, and the painful stiffness to his walk. When he gets close enough to take the girl in his arms, he can see that what he thought was just water dampening Buck’s hair is actually blood, half dried in places, but still oozing a little from the part in his hair. 

    “It’s okay, kiddo,” Eddie says to the girl who protests as she’s shifted from one perch to another. “You’re safe now. We’re going to take care of you.”

    Buck seems to fade as the weight is lifted from his back, like that purpose was the only thing keeping him upright and he says, “Violet. Her name is Violet.”

    Hen emerges from the tent at Eddie’s call. She finds him quickly, taking in Violet, listless in Eddie’s arms and noting Buck staring at both of them from a few feet away. “What do we have?” she asks. 

    “This is Violet,” Eddie answers, passing the child over again. “Can you take her inside?”

    “Where are her parents?” Hen asks.

    At that, Eddie looks over at Buck who shakes his head. “Missing,” Eddie replies. “Check out her ankle, okay? Buck thinks she might have sprained it.”

    “Buck?” Hen says, looking up at him with a different expression on her face. “Is he-?”

    “I’ve got him,” Eddie answers. “I’ll be right behind you.”

    Violet whimpers in Hen’s arms and that’s the end of the conversation. She hurries away with the little girl and Eddie watches them go until he sees Buck start to crumple in his periphery.

    “Whoa, easy, I got you,” Eddie catches him just in time and Buck sags against him, boneless and shaking. Gripping tight, Eddie bears him up and says, “Don’t worry, Buck, I got you. Can you walk with me a little bit? I gotta get you inside, okay.”

    It takes a phenomenal effort, but Buck puts weight on his feet again. He’s still leaning heavily against Eddie, but he lets himself be led slowly inside toward one of the few empty cots left. As Eddie helps him to sit, Buck groans pitifully and tries to lay down. Eddie doesn’t let him. 

    “Hey, hey, hey, stay with me, Buck, okay? I need to check you out before you can sleep. Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me what hurts?”

    Buck looks up at him and his expression is distant.

    Concussion, Eddie thinks. Exhaustion. Blood loss. It could be anything. His skin is cool under Eddie’s hands and everything is so wrong. Buck shouldn’t be here like this. He’s meant to be happy and carefree, shining in the sun and not limp and broken.

    “Where’s Violet?” Buck asks, frantic without warning. “She was just here. She-”

    “She’s okay. My friend’s got her right over there and she’s going to take good care of her.” He points out where Hen has Violet on a cot across the way, lying down as Hen listens to her chest. Buck sees and relaxes a little and Eddie keeps talking, “Where did Violet come from, Buck? What happened to you out there?”

    When Buck lifts his gaze to Eddie’s again, it’s all Eddie can do not to reach out and stroke his fingers gently over his matted hair. He settles for gently turning his head to take a look at those gashes on his cheek and confirm that they don’t reach all the way to Buck’s eyes. As he does, Buck answers, “We were on the pier.”

    “The pier?” The pier is destroyed. There is no pier. There aren’t any survivors from the pier except for the few they managed to pluck from the ferris wheel. 

    But Buck nods, “Santa Monica tour. The water left all at once and I told everyone to run. Her dad, Max, he handed her to me and said he couldn’t run. He said I had to get her out. Eddie, the water. It came so fast. I lost them. I lost all of them.” 

    “Not Violet,” Eddie answers. “You got Violet out.” 

    Buck looks toward the girl again to reassure himself and then back at Eddie. He frowns, “What are you doing here?”

    Somehow, Eddie actually laughs, “I’m here to take care of you.”

    “Okay,” Buck answers. “Good.”

    Someone gets him a med kit and Eddie gets fluids into Buck’s arm right away. Buck blanches at the needle, but he lets Eddie do it, just like he lets Eddie clean his wounds and check his pupillary response. Buck’s a quiet and compliant patient and every little flinch he gives, sends a matching prick of pain through Eddie’s chest. The head wound is especially nasty. It opens back up again as Eddie tries to clean it and the fresh blood trickling down Buck’s cheek makes him finally moan a little. 

    “I know. I’m so sorry,” Eddie says, encouraging Buck to fall against him, running his hands over his back and whispering soothing nonsense into his ears. “We’re almost done. I’ve got you. You did so good today. You’re so good, Buck.”

    He can’t imagine it. Buck crossing the city, escaping the landing site of the tsunami, and carrying a little girl on his back the whole way. Eddie knew that Buck was someone special and finding out that, actually, he’s a real-life hero isn’t that surprising. But there’s a price to be paid for heroism. Buck’s seen all of the carnage that Eddie’s seen today and then some; it’s no wonder he’s exhausted. All Eddie wants to do is gather him up and take him home. To shelter Buck from any more horrors. 

    Against his chest, Buck is trembling. His fingers are wound in Eddie’s shirt and his head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck. There are other things to do, other patients to treat, but Eddie doesn’t let go until Buck’s grip on him starts to loosen. 

    “Where’s Violet?” he whispers again.

    Eddie turns to look and he doesn’t see Hen anymore. He doesn’t see Chimney either or Bobby. But Violet is asleep on her cot, a rough blanket tucked under her chin. “She’s okay. She’s sleeping.”  

    Nodding, Buck pushes himself back a little to look at Eddie’s face and Eddie can’t help it, he reaches up and brushes a thumb over Buck’s brow. “You should sleep too.” he says.

    “You have to get back to work?” Buck murmurs, his eyes drifting closed.

    He does. His shift won’t be over for another four hours and, like Bobby said, they’re days away from this being over. But with Buck drained and hurt in his arms, Eddie doesn’t think he can drag himself away.’

    “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. And when Buck’s entire body shudders in relief at the words, Eddie knows he’ll do anything to make them true. He scoops Buck close again and kisses the unmaimed side of his head. “I’m staying right here with you.” 

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  • sydneywritespursuedbyabear
    31.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober Day 21

    “Justin, I’m gonna need more bandages,” Kai calls out. “Gauze, cotton, an extra t-shirt! Anything we’ve got!” He shifts his attention to Demetra, whose shoulder wound fills Kai’s first gauze with blood, what has not been soaked up spilling down onto her dark hair, which stands out against the blue (well, now red) rug. “I am going to put pressure on the wound, which will slow the bleeding, but it’ll probably hurt.”

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #bleeding through the bandages #pressure #blood matted hair #oc#fic#rainbowsweatersquad#blood tw
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  • lamborghiniboyo
    31.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    @whumptober2021

    Day 21: Pressure/Blood-Matted Hair Fandom: Psych Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Shawn Spencer Warnings: Blood, Mild Gore

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #pressure/blood matted hair #psych#blood#mild gore #lilly's writing 2021 #lilly's writing#shawn spencer#juliet o'hara
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  • veryrealimagination
    31.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Last major fic

    Day No: 21, 22, 26, 30, 31

    Prompt: blood-matted hair, obsession, trap door, major character death, prisoner

    Fandom/OC: Mystery Case Files

    Medium: Fic

    Trigger Warnings: assault on a different character,

    SFW

    Additional Tags: I like Ben from Broken Hour. I hope they bring him back at some point, Rewind doesn’t count

    When I get a case, it’s normally from Her Majesty herself. Master Detectives are given the worst cases that happen in England, mostly. There have been few times when the Head Detective, a Master that ‘retired’ from active investigations, passed on cases to us. One had been to the American South, with a missing husband that wasn’t so missing. I had reported about Madame Fate’s carnival and taken the initiative to head back to Ravenhearst myself.

    This was none of those.

    “MD! I hope I got your number and not some random person’s. It’s Ben, Benjamin Wright from the not-haunted boardinghouse. Listen, I need your help. I got a tip about this old house on the coast, it was supposed to be super haunted. Multiple Class Three and Four Apparitions. When I got here, the place was a disaster. A fire must have ripped through. I saw two apparitions. They-”

    What was the point of voicemail? Of course, it didn’t plan for an adult that had to explain everything going on. When I started the second voicemail, something struck me as wrong with his tone. The previous one was excited and scared. Now, it was just scared.

    “I found a door, that led into a basement. I was warned by two spirits that it was a trap. And it was. She says her name’s Charlotte Dalimar. She’s got me, MD! And she wants you back to Ravenhearst. She said she’ll let me go if you come alone.”

    Charlotte Sommerset, although she took on her grandfather’s name when he ensnared them. She thought with the man gone and the Master Detective that cursed him both gone, the hex that held descendants to the insanity would be undone. Apparently, it had not.

    Oh, how I hated the name Dalimar.

    I placed the call into the Academy for backup. Dalimars now held a level all of their own, with more people that understand their methods. However, I couldn’t wait for them to arrive alongside myself. There was a hostage involved.

    The Ravenhearst estate was still in shambles, but I knew from previous times that the ruins were never true. The last time, I hadn’t explored them as well. It wasn’t necessary. Alister had been going to the sunken island behind the property.

    Trust me, I didn’t believe in it either. And I went through it.

    The house’s main floor was weak and buckling in certain areas. But there was one place I did see that was still strong. Reinforced, it seemed like an American cellar door. I started searching for a handle, or the indent of where one should have been.

    Instead, it split, and dropped out from under me.

    I woke up with a massive pain off the side of my head. I thought I felt blood coming down the side of my head, so I tried to check. Instead, I felt the wrap of shackles around my wrists. That wasn’t enough to fully wake me up. It wasn’t the first time in ages, unfortunately. What did wake me was the muffled screams and crying I heard.

    The lights weren’t bright enough to set off the headache gearing up, so I could see Ben right in front of me. In the same position, but something about the setup was horribly familiar. Blood had dried on his head, but it wasn’t on the apparatus that circled his head. Oh God, the resurrections. She was forcibly reminded about how she found the women and the girls. Shackled in with a mask feeding them magick laced in their air to bring them back to life. Charlotte repurposed it.

    She was going to use us to bring back her family.

    I wasn’t sure about how that was going to go. It took 12 people to bring the four of them back the first time. Did she think that a life for a life would work? I now became uncomfortably aware that the same mask was around my head. I don’t know what I was breathing in, but it was starting to hurt. “Finally, you’re awake,” someone yelled.

    Charlotte Dalimar did not look well. Clearly, she hadn’t been taking good care of herself. The death of her twin had depressed her for years. Until there was a news story about Dire Grove, with my face caused her to search out my stories. My work. Her dress was tattered and stained, her hair laid on her head soaked in oils and sweat. My disgust must have shown through, because she laughed at me. “You don’t get to judge me, you don’t look any better right now.”

    I decided to ignore her and looked around. There was a slab behind Ben, with bones lying on the surface. It must have been either her father or her brother. Alister was now at the bottom of the sea. She didn’t know how well she liked her brother. It was likely Charles. If there was one behind her, it likely held her sister. The stuff in the mask was getting worse. Now that she was awake, Charlotte could proceed.

    She wasn’t planning on any monologues, which I was fine by. Those things get annoying anyway. I felt electricity pulse through me, and what little air I held was forced out when I screamed in pain. Eventually, it stopped. I felt weak, like when Galloway had stabbed me to gain access to Ankou. The feather she gave. I’m still alive, but did it-

    “Charlotte?” a weak voice called out.

    I paused, absolutely astonished that Gwendolyn was alive, even as I hung onto life. Ankou’s gift brought her back, but kept me alive. Oh no. “Gwen,” she gasped, completely relieved. “Gwenie, I did it. I’ve got the Master Detective at my will. I used her to bring you back.”

    Somehow, for being just brought back from the dead, she had enough strength to hold onto her sister. Gwendolyn looked at me, and I just stared back. I had no energy to do anything. Ben, however, had enough to scream when the girls chose to give their attention to him. “Who is this?”

    “Benjamin Wright, a ghost hunter. Mummy and Emma tried to warn him, but I captured their souls before they could do anything else,” Charlotte said.

    Gwendolyn looked over to her sister. “I didn’t know you followed Grandfather’s training.”

    She bowed her head, bashful. “I needed a goal to learn it.”

    Her sister got a glance at the body behind him. “Father?”

    “Victor, to where he’ll be younger than us again.” Gwendolyn nodded, liking her plan. “But, I think I might put the Detective through the process again. She’s still alive. And I did say I would let him go if she showed up.”

    Gwendolyn smirked, “Then we let him go.” There had been a large knife on a table, that I saw had blood on it already. I don’t know what Charlotte may have been doing before I came. But, Ben was terrified as she picked it up. He screamed as the knife entered his stomach, twice, before she left it in on the third. Whatever energy I had was lost to tears forming in my eyes. I knew she wasn’t going to let Ben go, but I thought I could get him out.

    I then figured out what had to be done.

    There was a flat piece of metal in my pocket. I used it to undo one of the screws keeping the chains in place. Once I had the first done, I did the second one before ripping off the mask. Gwendolyn and Charlotte had moved away before I did this, or it wouldn’t have worked. Ben’s injuries must have activated adrenaline, as I moved faster than ever to get out of the contraption and make my way over to the younger man. Checking, he still had a pulse. Thank God, or I should say, Ankou.

    The feather is keeping me alive, and helped to bring back Gwendolyn. If it’s no longer on me, will it break the chain?

    I found the feather. First, I took the knife out of Ben’s stomach. I wouldn’t have a lot of time to do what I needed to do. As soon as I tucked it in his trouser band, hiding it from others that will find him, I felt the old wound open up.

    I also saw Ankou.

    She must have felt the death, and the pull of someone using her feather to bring back a life. With her, I made my way over to the girls. Gwendolyn had collapsed when the feather was removed from me. Charlotte was desperately trying to wake her up.

    I would normally never take a life in such a way, but the Dalimar line needed to be stopped. Someone at the Academy had an idea, based off of a Lovecraft story. They would do what I would love to see through. But I was the first block that stopped them, I would be one of the last to keep them down. Permanently. I stabbed Charlotte in the back, trying to reach her heart so it wouldn’t last as long.

    The last thing I saw was Ankou taking both of the girls in her hand before reaching out for me. Finally.

    -

    Ben was awake when he saw people streaming in. “Benjamin Wright?” one of the detectives, a woman with silver hair, inquired. He nodded, still hazy from the pain in his chest. He was stabbed, and MD gave him something before walking away. He doesn’t know what it was, but he didn’t think he was bleeding as much. “Blake, help me get him out.” The two of them supported him when he collapsed after everything was taken off of him.

    He was kinda grateful that they led him out. He wasn’t steady as they got him through a staircase and up to the ground again. Rain had obviously started again and he was drenched before getting to an ambulance with a waiting medic.

    Someone wrapped him in a blanket while they checked his chest. No knife wounds, which made no sense because he remembered getting stabbed by a sister that the sister brought back to life. MD wasn’t dead, but they thought she would be. He was so confused.

    Then, he felt something tickling at his side.

    ‘A feather?’

    Blake and Chloe, the two that escorted him out, were off to the side searching MD’s car. That was always a sweet car. Then, she was in front of him, with another lady, that had no eyes and detached arms. “MD?” he whispered.

    “Her name’s Ankou. Keep the feather on you at all times, or you’ll die from the stab wounds,” she explained. “If you want to give it up, get yourself to hospital to be stitched and age normally again, I will come back to claim it. Be good, Benjamin, and maybe start checking your little hunts a bit better.”

    “Benjamin?” Blake asked, seeing him stare off into the distance.

    “Yeah?”

    “Who were you talking with?”

    “No one, I…” This was going to sound really stupid, considering what MD just told him. “How do I become a Detective?”

    #whumptober #no.21 #no.22 #no.26 #no.30 #no.31 #blood matted hair #obsession#trap door #major character death #prisoner #mystery case files #fic #i like ben from broken hour #i wanna see him in another game #whumptober2021
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  • oliviagordonwrites
    30.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober Day 21

    She had returned for more hair, and cut it too close to his scalp. Head wounds bleed a lot. It dripped down his shoulders and soaked sticky into his shirt. She didn’t use her magic to close it, so it just kept bleeding.

    And maybe that was the key to it all. He couldn’t kill her slowly, she would simply heal the wound with her magic. He would have to do it all at once, or find another way to destroy her.

    She had warned him, next time she would come for his skin. He had to be ready before that.

    He was so useless. He had always been so useless. Everyone had magic, what did it matter that he could see it? Caro could at least get by just telling rich new parents what their babies could do. And he was always willing to do anything to keep them together. But when it was Aren’s turn to take care of Caro, all he could do was tear them apart. All he could do was create a nightmare for them all to share. Their family didn’t need him anymore. Not now that there was another person who could hold all of Caro’s love.

    He cut off the thoughts, but it took the last of his mental strength.He still didn’t know how he was going to deal with his master.

    The remainder of his hair was thick and gummy with blood. It stained his clothes. It covered his fingers in crusty blobs. The little boat was so pristine. He couldn’t return like this.

    “So I won’t go back,” he said. Hearing the words out loud shattered something, but the pieces felt firm. Resolute. “I can’t go back,” he said again. “Not like this.”

    He had to be better for his family. To deserve them. To take care of them. He couldn’t mope around in a puddle of his own blood.

    All at once he had an inkling of a plan. He had to grit his teeth. Caro would have to wait just a little longer. His nephew would have to grow without him for a bit.

    But it might just work.

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #blood-matted hair#fic#oc#blood#gore #I mean not quite gore but still gore I guess #Okay the marathon is hopefully beginning now #I MIGHT know how this turns out...... #We'll see if I can make the prompts work #Might not be spectacular but I want to finish <3
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  • corpsebrigadier
    29.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober Day 21: That's Where the Blood's Supposed to Be

    bleeding through the bandages | pressure | blood-matted hair

    “Tools” (FFT, Mustadio | also archived here.)

    "Tell us where the stone is, and everything is at an end. You get all these back in hand, where you'll no doubt put them to far less clumsy work than I will."

    The man gestured broadly at the tools laid out on the table: a file, a claw hammer, a chisel, crimps and shears... Mustadio noticed they'd neglected to put out his pivot broaches--nor the small calipers either. They were no doubt insufficiently menacing.

    "Couldn't we just keep on with fists and pistol butts?" he mumbled, slumping against the chair to which he'd been tied. "You don't need to make a wreck of *them* too, poor things."

    The lone candle that lit the room wavered dramatically a moment, and Mustadio felt nauseous. His hair, unbound and matted with blood, tickled against his shoulders as he shook his head and closed his eyes a moment.

    "Your father's taken, Cameron's already knocked you out once, and your concern is for the tools." The company man clicked his tongue. "That's some uniquely Gougish bravado."

    Mustadio tried to smile, and he was not surprised when Cameron cuffed him before he could make a retort. The bullet that had grazed him in the course of their introduction had gotten them off to a very poor start.

    "Ajora's sake, man--try to keep him conscious."

    Mustadio sank deeper into the chair, trying to push himself into something almost like a swoon.

    "They've got the old man, Fulke; we can just ship him back and let Rudvich sort them out."

    "Rudvich enjoys paying people to sort things out for him."

    "Are you going to get paid more for wasting an afternoon taking him apart? If you're going to be this theatrical with the brat, don't begrudge me a few knocks. I can tell this one won't be talking."

    "Well he won't be talking now, you thickwit."

    Mustadio's breath was measured; he did not let himself move with the spinning of his head. As the men's voices receded from his hearing, he nearly slipped away from himself and into the dark that surrounded him.

    Still, he remained tethered to it: the cold steel of a needle file hidden between his wrists. By the slowest degrees, he was still moving it, shifting it against the edges of the rope that bound him. For all he yet feared he might be dreaming, it was some pleasure to dream a tool still worked in his favor.

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  • tcurniquet
    28.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    No. 21 - THAT’S WHERE THE BLOOD’S SUPPOSED TO BE

    bleeding through the bandages | pressure | blood-matted hair

    “You’re bleeding…”

    “Let me comb it for you.”

    “You need to fucking take this seriously.”

    “Put pressure on it — as hard as you can.”

    “Would you like me to redress it for you?”

    @whumptober2021 @whumptober-archive

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #that’s where the blood’s supposed to be #bleeding through the bandages #pressure#blood-matted hair#oc#generic#dialogue#cursing#whump dialogue#whumpblr
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  • ravenelliot
    27.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    THEY MADE ME DO IT

    Whumptober 2021 Days 21 and 22 No. 21 - THAT’S WHERE THE BLOOD’S SUPPOSED TO BE bleeding through the bandages | blood-matted hair No. 22 - THEY MADE ME DO IT demon | obsession

    Fandom: Dragon Age II POV Character: male!blood mage!Hawke Whumpee: Hawke

    Warnings: self harm, death, blood and violence

    Hawke struggles with the reality in his use of blood magic.

    Read on AO3

    The blood felt like it was covering every inch of his body. Hawke could feel the sticky-damp liquid in his hair, sticking the strands together and to his face. He couldn't smell the Kirkwall musk anymore; just iron to match the bitter-sweet taste in his mouth. His hand was still bleeding through the crude wrappings he'd made and he wasn't sure if the wound was self-inflicted or caused by one of the many bodies around him.

    The dead were just thugs preying on some poor girl in an alleyway. He warned them-- but then the rage took over and the wrath guided his hands until each of them was a bloodied mess on the ground and the traumatised girl was running for her life.

    "For the greater good," he'd said when he started. Being an apostate seeking refuge from the Blight, trying to protect his family from templars and darkspawn and who knows what else... he saw no other options. It kept them safe, kept him out of trouble... it was just a tool. That's all Blood Magic is, he told himself, just a tool that foolish people use to the wrong ends. He was using it to the right ends, he told himself.

    But as the years carried on, and more trouble approached his little pocket of Thedas, the more it became a compulsion. An easy fix. Occasionally he would hear demons whispering; feel his skin itch with the need for the cursed power. How could he dare to challenge Merril when he was right there with her, being drawn into a power out of desperation only to find it slowly corrupting them from the inside out? He'd be surprised if he wasn't an Abomination by the end of all of this.

    It wasn't like he saved his family with it, he realised as he sat against the wall, wiping a splatter of blood from his eye. Mother was murdered. Carver died of blight and Bethany didn't even make it to Kirkwall. He'd failed on every front and become the very thing he'd fought so hard to prove mages were not. He was in half a mind to turn himself in, if not for his friends and the way this city seemed to insist on relying upon him. There was still work to do in this city and apparently he was the only person to do anything about it.

    So, as he had done for years now, he picked himself up, stepped over and away from the corpses, and reminded himself: A means to an end. Just a tool.

    #whumptober2021 #no. 21 #that's where the blood's supposed to be #bleeding through the bandages #blood matted hair #no. 22 #they made me do it #demon#obsession#fandom#fic#self harm#blood magic #dragon age 2 #hawke#male hawke #blood mage hawke #ao3 fanfic#fanfic
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  • prettyboyreyes
    26.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Day Twenty One: Blood Matted Hair

    911: Chimney Han

    Blood

    The first thing Chimney registers when he wakes up is how bad his head hurts. It takes him a couple moments after that to orient himself. He’s in some kind of building. The building is on fire. He’s in his turnout gear, but his helmet is sitting a few feet away, covered in scratches. His oxygen mask is still on.

    “Firefighter Han, please come in.”

    He scrambles for his radio. “Han 118 responding. I don’t- How long since last contact?”

    “At least eight minutes,” Bobby’s voice informs him. “Can you evacuate?”

    Chimney looks around. He can’t see anything through the flames except fallen support beams. “That’s a negative. I don’t know where I am, either, and I think I lost consciousness.”

    His radio remains silent for a moment while Bobby likely gives his plan of action to the others to get Chimney out of here. He takes the time to do a self assessment, finding that the ground where his head had been resting is now wet with dark blood. He brings a gloved hand to his head to find his hair slicked down with more of the same. Head injuries are bleeders, he reminds himself, but he did get knocked out, which is absolutely cause for concern. 

    “Okay, Chim, Diaz and Wilson are headed in to look for you based on where you last reported in. Tell us about your surroundings and injuries.”

    “Head injury with loss of consciousness,” he says first. “I don’t think I’m hurt elsewhere, but I’m pretty high on adrenaline right now. I’ve still got my oxygen. There’s lots of support beams around here, but they’re in bad shape. You may need a hose to get to me.”

    “Copy that, Buckley and Panikkar are going with them with a hose to knock that fire back. Stay with us, Chimney, we’re getting you out of there.”

    He means to respond verbally, but he just nods and lays back against the ground, where his blood has cooled to lukewarm. He watches the flames dance across the ceiling above him and thinks about Maddie and Jee-Yun. He can’t wait to see them again. He loves them so much, and when he gets home from this awful day, he just wants to cuddle up with them on the couch while a B-List movie plays. 

    “Come in, Firefighter Han. Stay with us.”

    “I’m here, Cap,” he slurs. “I’m tired.”

    “I know you are,” Hen says, her voice soothing even through the radio. “You have to stay awake, though, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

    Faintly, not through the radio, he hears Eddie. “Chimney? Chimney, call out!”

    “I’m here!” He yells back, even though it takes most of his remaining energy. “In here!”

    Moments later, he sees Buck and Ravi come through the wall of flames, glorious water extinguishing everything within reach. Eddie and Hen are right behind them. Before he knows it, they’re next to him, securing a collar around his neck and a backboard beneath him. 

    “We’ve got you.”

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #blood matted hair #911 on fox #fic#chimney han#emwrite#emwt21
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  • janetm74fics
    26.10.2021 - 1 mont ago
    #whumptober2021 #No. 21 #bleeding through the bandages #blood-matted hair#thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #fic#avalanche#head injury #mentions of blood #alan tracy#scott tracy#janetm74fics
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  • humandisasterskywalker
    25.10.2021 - 1 mont ago
    #whumptober2021 #day.21 #blood matted hair #star wars#fic #obi wan and anakin #obi-wan kenobi#anakin skywalker #look i write
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  • jaysworlds
    25.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober 2021 Day Twenty-One

    Alexei’s so tired of this. So tired in general, would love to just settle down and get some sleep. Some days he barely has the energy to keep going.

    They’ve just about made it out of yet another fight. They seem to go from fight to fight, these days. Bandits or monsters or angry townspeople, and it all seems to blur together.

    Alexei always has to fight. Him and Lux are the only ones who are any good at it, really. She enjoys it, he thinks, and he just needs to keep the rest of them safe. He’ll blame himself if something happens to them because he wasn’t fast enough.

    But they’re all alive. For now. Alexei’s soaked with blood, both his and the bandits he’d been fighting, and he’s moved away from their camp to sit by the river. The rest of them tend to leave him alone after their little battles, and he thinks they’re scared of him.

    It hurts, a little, but he doesn’t blame them.

    The blood has begun to dry, and it’s stubborn, hard to wash off his skin. It’s going to stain, at least for a while, but he does his best.

    He hears as Freddie comes to sit beside him, recognises his footsteps without having to look up, but he doesn’t look away from the task of washing the blood from his arms.

    “Are you hurt?” Freddie asks.

    Alexei just shakes his head. He’s not exactly not hurt, but it’s nothing too bad. A few shallow cuts, but nothing worse.

    Freddie sighs, reaches out to touch Alexei’s arm. His fingers hover over skin for a moment, until Alexei nods, silent permission. They skim across his arm, across old scars and fading cuts, and eventually alight on a fresh cut in Alexei’s shoulder, from a knife he hadn’t dodged quite fast enough.

    He doesn’t say anything, but Alexei can imagine what he’s thinking.

    Freddie escaped most of the bloodshed. The only blood on his hands is from where he’s touched Alexei.

    He starts to say something and then stops, eyes roaming up to Alexei’s hair, matted with blood. He needs to take care of it, but it’s going to be a big job, and he doesn’t have the energy right now.

    For a while they sit there in silence. Alexei does the best he can to wash the blood from his skin, even if it’s ultimately futile. It’s already stained, and his hands will only get bloodied again the next time they fight. All he can do is ensure it won’t stain anything else.

    “Alexei,” Freddie says, finally, and brings a hand up to touch the bloodstained curls around the back of Alexei’s neck. “Will you let me wash your hair?”

    Alexei exhales slowly, and nods. It’s a relief, really, not to have to do it himself. He’s so tired.

    “Thank you,” Freddie says, as though Alexei had given him something, and pulls himself to his feet. “I’ll be back.”

    Alexei just nods, staring at his own distorted reflection in the water, and listens to Freddie’s footsteps heading back towards the camp.

    A lot of things are easier, when it’s not just him. He just isn’t any good at asking for help when he needs it.

    Freddie is back a moment later, sitting beside him again, and Alexei glances up at him.

    “Hi,” Freddie says, soft and sweet.

    Alexei offers him the ghost of what may have once been a smile. “Hi.”

    Freddie gives him a real smile and turns away, dipping the bowl into the river. Alexei knows the water in the river isn’t exactly clean, but he doesn’t care. River water is better than blood.

    “Close your eyes,” Freddie tells him, and he does, bowing his head.

    Freddie tips the bowl over his head, sluicing water over his hair. It’s cold, but not so bad Alexei can’t stand it. Likes it, even.

    “Can I…” Freddie asks, and Alexei doesn’t need to look at him to know his hands are hovering just a little way away from Alexei’s hair.

    “Yes,” he says, and sighs quietly as Freddie works his fingers into his hair.

    He hums as he works, occasionally pulling away to tip water over Alexei’s hair again. He doesn’t open his eyes to see, but the stench of blood has slowly faded into the background. He can smell river water, and Freddie’s familiar woodsmoke. It’s nice.

    Freddie’s always so gentle with him. Freddie’s so good, even after everything.

    He’s aware of every point of Freddie’s fingers on his skin, but it’s not unpleasant. He feels almost safe. As safe as he ever feels.

    “I’m done,” Freddie says, some time later, and finally puts the bowl to the side. Alexei draws what’s left of the water out of his hair, and finds that it’s running clear.

    “Thank you,” he says, and turns to look at Freddie.

    Freddie smiles, reaching out to take his hand, and Alexei links their fingers together.

    Soon they will have to go back to the others, but not yet. For now Alexei shifts closer, rests his head on Freddie’s shoulder, and they sit in silence. Together.

    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #blood-matted hair#oc#fic#blood #(so much blood) #also terrible metaphors #anyway i love them your honour #they are in love and they kiss mwah mwah #also for anyone reading the tags please know #yknow when a cat who doesnt like people very much curls up on your lap #and youre like IVE BEEN CHOSEN but you cant move or speak in case you disturb it #thats freddie whenever alexei leans against him or anything #hes so full of love #gay boy i love him #oc:alexei#oc:freddie#otp:frelexei#wip:8gp#writing#my writing#writeblr
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  • sushimango
    25.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober 2021 - Day 21

    That's where the bloods supposed to be

    bleeding through the bandages / blood-matted hair

    Of course it's Dimitri. Who else could it be,covered in wounds and blood.

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  • dimigexwrites
    25.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober, Day 21 - Saiyo / Kazuko

    Prompt: That's where the blood is supposed to be (bleeding through bandages, pressure, blood matted hair) Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Saiyo / Kazuko (Healing Hands OC) Rating: T (language) Words: 1229 Notes: For @cinlat who gave me this pairing and now I'm obsessed with them

    ---------

    It was either too early or too late for this shit, Kazuko couldn’t decide which. He rubbed his eyes to remove the sleep grit, but they wouldn’t focus. Belatedly, he remembered that he wore glasses and blindly fished for them on the nightstand. He felt hungover without the pleasure of drinking first. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep to be woken up by the urgent sound of his pager dancing on the nightstand.

    The code didn’t tell Kazuko much beyond the fact that he was needed at the hospital. It wasn’t an emergency in the sense that everyone was being called in, though. Someone had requested him specifically and was making enough of a scene to get their way. Kazuko threw on some dress clothes since it was close enough to the start of his shift that there would be no point to come home after.

    Fifteen minutes after he’d gotten the call, Kazuko made it to the hospital. The lights were lower at this time of night, but the same buzz of energy remained. He walked toward the nurse’s station to check in, but didn’t need to ask where he was needed. Growled threats echoed down the hallway, drawing Kazuko toward them. When he rounded the doorway, he found the attending doctor and two nurses arguing with a young woman.

    “What’s going on in here,” Kazuko asked, keeping his voice calm in the chaos of angry voices.

    An all too familiar face snapped up at the sound, and Saiyo grinned. “See? How hard was that?”

    “Do you know this woman,” The on-call doctor asked, furrowing his brow as his gaze shifted between Saiyo and Kazuko with obvious confusion. At Kazuko’s sharp nod, he frowned. “Did you also know she’s a shinobi?”

    “I was aware, yes.” Kazuko answered, eyeing Saiyo over the man’s shoulder.

    Okabe-sensei proffered the medical file that he’d been reading. Kazuko took it and skimmed over the mostly empty page. The man tsked under his breath. “You understand that standard procedure is to refer them to the Anbu medic. We were going to page—”

    “And, I told them no,” Saiyo growled, swatting at the nurse who was attempting to clean the blood off her face. “I don’t want to see her.”

    “You don’t get to just pick and choose your medical care,” the remaining nurse snipped, still struggling to get a read on Saiyo’s vitals.

    For a moment, Kazuko thought that Saiyo was going to stick her tongue out at the woman. He sighed. “No harm done.” The nurse made a disapproving sound under her breath, but Kazuko ignored it. “I can take things from here.”

    Saiyo flashed a triumphant grin at the medical team surrounding her as Kazuko tossed his bag onto a chair and dug out his stethoscope. For a minute, he thought that Okabe would argue with him. It was still night shift, the man could tell Kazuko to leave if he wanted. With a final shake of his head, the man tucked a pen into the chest pocket of his lab coat. “Fine, she’s your problem now.”

    Kazuko nodded and waited until the rest of the staff filled out to turn his gaze on Saiyo. Now that it was clear that Sakura wasn’t going to be called, the girl laid back on the bed with a sigh. Kazuko crossed the room to wash his hands, glancing over one shoulder. “He’s right, you know?”

    “Blah, blah,” Saiyo mimicked, folding an arm over her eyes. “Can you get over here and give me something? My head is fucking killing me.”

    Kazuko dried his hands and took in the state of the girl on the bed. Saiyo’s face was drawn and pale, blood streaking down the left side. Her hands rested on her stomach. Frowning, Kazuko lifted her shirt. The wound that he’d bandaged less then three days ago had a streak of crimson running across the gauze. He frowned. “You reopened your wound.”

    “Yeah, sorry about that.” Saiyo closed her eyes, then pulled away when Kazuko’s fingers walked across her scalp. “Ouch, that hurt.”

    “Lacerations tend to do that, especially somewhere sensitive like the scalp.” There were several shallow gasses hidden in the green tresses, but the blood had dried and reopened multiple times, making it difficult to tell where the wounds were. “We’re going to have to shave this.”

    Saiyo peeked open one eye. “Do it and I’ll kill you.”

    “If you’d stop picking bar fights for no good reason, I wouldn’t have to.” Kazuko chided and lifted a cloth to clean the worst of the blood away from the skin. He shook his head as he worked. “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

    Laughter slid through Saiyo’s lips, but she didn’t meet Kazuko’s gaze “You don’t know that. Some people are worth the hurt they cause.”

    “Well, I may not know him, but he’s not worth getting yourself killed over.” Kazuko pulled the sodden bandage away from Saiyo’s midsection and frowned at the torn stitches. “And, that’s where this is going to lead.”

    Saiyo offered a lazy smile, face relaxing as the numbing agent that Kazuko had injected took effect. “There are people worth dying for out there.”

    Kazuko laid the hypodermic aside and studied the woman’s expression, wondering what the statement said about her mental state. He had no way of knowing if the words came from a twisted sense of humor or someplace darker. Kazuko dipped his head. “Sometimes you’re better off finding the person to live for.”

    Silence answered the statement. When Kazuko looked up to check Saiyo’s vitals, he found the woman’s golden eyes studying him. Her lip curved into a smirk. “Is that your way of asking me out? Because, if so, it needs some work.”

    Warmth rushed into Kazuko’s cheeks, half embarrassment and half discomfort. “No, that wasn’t what I meant.”

    Saiyo chuckled as Kazuko finished tidying her stitches for the second time. As he started to rebandage the area, cool fingers brushed against the back of his hand. Kazuko jumped and dropped the gauze. Saiyo laughed. “So, what you’re saying is that I have to be the one doing the asking out?”

    Kazuko frowned, trying to determine if the woman was making fun of him or not. Her lopsided smile suggested otherwise, but the words left him reeling. It hadn’t been that long since his last relationship failed, and that wasn’t counting the disaster with Sakura. He didn’t need more complications in his life.

    “Come on, doc,” Saiyo prodded. “I can see the way you look at me.”

    A hand caught Kazuko’s tie and dragged him forward. Before he could think of a convincing argument, Saiyo’s lips were on his. Colors flashed in his vision, and the stale taste of old tequila coated on his tongue. Kazuko's lower lip ached from the tug of her teeth when he pulled back. Saiyo grinned. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy that.”

    Kazuko shook his head and tightened his hand into a fist to stop the tremble that rushed through it. “I think that was unprofessional. This is my place of work, not some bar to hook up in.”

    Saiyo cocked her head to the side, her grin morphing into a smirk. “That wasn’t a no, though.”

    Laughter rumbled through Kazuko’s chest as he snipped off the end of Saiyo’s stitches. He inclined his head. “It wasn’t a no.”

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  • ladyigraineofhistory
    24.10.2021 - 1 mont ago
    #whumptober2021 #no.21 #blood-matted hair#MacGyver #Murdoc watching Mac #blood and bruises #being chained up #Mac chained to a wall #implied torture #Murdoc being evil #sad Mac
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  • chiefdirector
    24.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    THAT'S WHERE THE BLOODS SUPPOSED TO BE | Alastor Moody | Harry Potter | Whumptober 2021

    day 21: pressure + blood-matted hair

    Alastor pushed the rag into his wife's side, trying to stop as much blood flow from pouring from her abdomen as possible as he waited for Tonks to return with the potion he needed to help (Y/N)'s healing process, to speed it up enough so that she might survive the night.

    She had been injured on a mission for The Order of the Phoenix as she had misstepped and alerted the nearby death eater to her location. (Y/N) had never been the type to be overly cautious, much to Alastor's dismay. He was not the type to let people in, but he let (Y/N) into his life, into his heart and he couldn't bear the thought of losing her.

    Alastor never wanted to have someone have such a hold on him. To let someone have the power to destroy him with their loss but he had given that to privilege to (Y/N) but now he might lose her and he couldn't bear the thought of being alone.

    They had met when the first war was still young, having been sat together at the first meeting of The Order of the Phoenix and from there, their relationship grew from colleges to something more. They had married when the war was at its peak, and when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was at his strongest, finding a small piece of happiness in the pain, grief and suffering that surrounded them. This happiness is what gave them the strength to win the first war and the motivation to continue to fight in the second.

    Alastor pressed the rag tighter to (Y/N)'s chest, watching as her chest softly rose and fell, moving her blood-matted hair along with it. He knew that her recovery would be rough, but he also knew that she needed to fight to stay with him. He knew that his (Y/N) was a fighter, but this would be an uphill battle to survive and Alastor could only hope that she had the strength to come back to him.

    Masterlist | Buy me a coffee? REQUESTS ARE OPEN

    #whumptober 2021 #no.21 #blood-matted hair#pressure#fic#harry potter#wound#alastor moody #alastor moody imagine #alastor moody x reader #mad eye moody #mad-eye moody #mad-eye moody x reader #mad eye moody x reader #mad-eye moody imagine #mad eye moody imagine #chiefdirector#angst #harry potter imagine
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  • youngster-monster
    24.10.2021 - 1 mont ago

    Whumptober Day 21 & 24 - risk being cut open (just to taste something sweet)

    [ bleeding through the bandages | pressure | blood-matted hair | flashback | revenge ]

    1. Jaren

    Grocery shopping for the household is a two-people affair, and as the most responsible out of them all Thyme is always on supermarket duty. Her partner changes depending on who’s available, and they each have their faults: Drifter doesn’t know what edible food looks like, or his definition of edible is much vaguer than anybody else’s, Occam couldn’t be dragged out of the apartment by a wild horse and Shrike is a child, meaning their assistance in terms of carrying groceries is limited at best, although they are the best company out of all of them. 

    Shin may be a little bit awkward, but he never complains and he’s happy enough to trail after her and carry all the bags: he’s become her favorite pick by default. Being unlikely to sneak five pounds of candy corn in the cart gets you a lot of privilege around there.

    (It’s a little depressing that Drifter and Shrike are equally likely to succumb to such a whim.)

    It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own idiosyncrasies, though. It just means they’re less blatant.

    “Okay, cabbage is next on our list— what does Occam want with a cabbage—”

    When no reply is forthcoming, Thyme glances away from the shopping list and finds that Shin is no longer tailing her. She’s lost him at the other end of the aisle, in front of the first aid display. Blinking, Thyme joins him, cart squeaking on the floor as she backtracks.

    He’s holding a small box of band-aids featuring the cast of some cartoon show she doesn’t recognize. The way he stares at the colorful characters, you’d think he’s trying to bore a hole right through the cardboard.

    “Jaren would buy those for me, back… y’know. Before.”

    It’s always Jaren, rather than my dad. A kind of distance that always makes a tight knot of something incomprehensible writhe in Thyme’s stomach. 

    “Are you… alright?”

    With vacant eyes and a thoughtful twist on his lips, Shin shrugs her concern off. “I always got scrapes and stuff as a kid while playing, and I was the biggest crybaby, but he always had those stupid cartoon band-aids— I used to hate them. I thought they made me look like a baby. But they did make me better.”

    It’s the most she’s heard Shin share about his distant, mysterious past in the three years they’ve lived together, two of those with a kid. Everything she knows about him she has learned through either Drifter’s strategic information sharing or Occam’s mean-spirited digs that never have any kind of context attached to them. 

    There’s nothing surprising about this reveal, though. Shin is the kind of man who runs around at night beating criminals up like some kind of twisted Batman LARPing: it makes sense that he was a scrappy kid. Although the thought of him tearing up at every bump and bruise is both hilarious and tragic in its own way. She wonders if he built up his pain tolerance getting beaten up by bigger, meaner people all his life, or if he just got better at keeping the tears in.

    For a moment it seems like this is as much as he’s going to say. Thyme waits silently for Shin to get to his actual point.

    “Shrike probably never had anybody give him cartoon band-aids for his scrapes,” Shin says eventually, still staring at the box as if he can’t bear looking at anything else.

    And, suddenly, Thyme gets it.

    “Better grab a few boxes,” she notes, off-handed in the way one must not look straight at a cat if one wishes for it to get close enough to pet. “God knows the kind of mess they’ll get themself into on the playground.”

    Shin grabs half the display. To be safe.

    2. Drifter

    Drifter watches the man — mid-twenties, greasy-haired with eyebags that look like bruises, limping in a way that screams danger like a cornered animal baring its teeth — duck into the bathroom of the bar and thinks, fuck, that guys is not going in there to do cocaine. He just doesn’t have the profile of a cocaine aficionado.

    Because this is the kind of bar where people who duck into the bathroom on their own are as likely to come out high as they are to come out holding a gun, especially people who look like this man does, Drifter gets up from his spot at the counter — the guy he came here to meet isn’t coming anyway — and follows after the stranger.

    The men’s bathroom is only slightly brighter than the main room thanks to its much smaller size, and the single blue neon set above the cracked mirror still struggles to dispel the dimness. Makes it harder to do drugs there. Makes it harder to do anything there, if Drifter is honest with himself, but he doesn’t choose his bars for their respectability.

    He’s not sure he could find his way around his own underwear in that lighting, but the guy bent over the sink is impossible to miss. His stringy hair falls in his face, covering some of the lines of stress already etched in his face. He looks young; he’d look even younger without the stubble on his cheeks, which has Drifter amend his earlier impression to twenty-something, possibly a particularly mature teenager. The bouncer definitely isn’t scrupulous enough to check for the IDs of people who look like they belong here, and the guy definitely fits the bill.

    He also looks like he’s about to hurl.

    “Had too much to drink?”

    The guy’s grip tights on the edge of the sink and he looks at Drifter like he’s considering punching him in the face for the simple crime of opening his mouth. It’s a look he’s very familiar with. 

    “What do you want?”

    Holding his hands up in a placating manner, Drifter stops a few feet away. “Hey now, brother, I’m just askin’. Expressing concern for my fellow man and all that.”

    “Well, don’t.” 

    The guy turns back to the open faucet and cups his hand under the flow of water, splashing some on his face. Most goes down his shirt instead and he looks like the effort of letting go of the sink for this manoeuvre took everything he had left out of him. He sways on his feet slightly.

    Acting on instinct — the instinct of someone who cannot keep his nose out of other people’s business — the Drifter breaches the distance between them and grabs the man’s shoulder to stabilize him. He gets a mean look for his trouble then, when he doesn’t let go immediately, a pathetic attempt at making him, if that’s the intent behind the limp flop of a hand against his forearm.

    “I’m fine.”

    The fabric under his fingers feels damp and warm in a way fabric has no reason to be.

    “Like hell you are,” Drifter says, although that is none of his business. He pushes a little harder against the shoulder, keeping pressure on what is starting to feel a lot like a nasty stab wound, and is only a little surprised when the guy’s knees buckle under him. He catches himself on the sink, but only just.

    “Let me go,” he snarls, like a wild dog somehow able to form coherent speech.

    And then, before Drifter can give some kind of answer, the man knees him in the stomach and promptly slips on the tiles and passes out.

    As far as first meetings go, it’s not Drifter’s worst. 

    3. Occam

    Occam’s door handle turns, slow and quiet, in the manner of someone trying to sneak somewhere they know they shouldn’t be.

    A mere handful of years ago, Occam would have immediately reached for the taser they keep on their bedside table. Their modus operandi when it comes to home intrusion has always been “electrocute now ask questions never”. Unfortunately, Shrike learned to unlock doors very early into their stay with the roommates and it simply does not do to turn fifty thousand volts on one’s adopted child.

    Instead, they roll over in bed, turn off their phone, and watch silently as the door cracks open to reveal a slumped silhouette.

    “Occam,” whispers the raspy voice of the Renegade, the Man With The Golden Gun, the most fearful vigilante this side of the Rockies. He sounds like a kid coming to their parents’ room after a nightmare. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

    “It’s three a.m, Malphur.” But that’s only an observation, not a judgment of the quality of his demand, and out of pity for Shin’s elongated stay on the couch Occam adds, “Get in.”

    It’s not the first time Shin crashes in their bed since giving his up to Shrike, although he usually prefers Drifter’s. Occam is not good at sharing with people they’re not actively sleeping with — not that this is a difficult category to qualify for. 

    Shin closes the door behind him, staggers over to the bed and crawls on top of the covers fully clothed. He smells like alcohol, like he took a swim in a brewery. Occam grumbles as Shin curls up next to them, but their bed is hardly cleaner and it’s too late to do anything about it, anyway. They’ll just get him to do the laundry in the morning. In the meantime he makes for a convenient heat pack in the cold room.

    They shift, trying to get comfortable around that invasion of their space, and throw an arm over his shoulders. Their hand settles in his hair out of habit.

    It feels… sticky.

    “Ew.”

    “Sorry. Just got home, didn’t feel like a shower.”

    “What is this?”

    Shin pats a clumsy hand over theirs. “Mh, blood I think. I kinda got punched into a pool table.”

    This gives Occam pause.

    “Shin,” they say slowly, “Do you... have a head wound?”

    He grunts, burrowing his face into the pillow. Apparently Shin is intent on going to sleep now, head trauma be damned.

    Occam considers doing the same, but—

    (They kind of like Shin, when it comes down to it)

    — they don’t fancy waking up next to a corpse in the morning. Sighing, they reach over Shin to grab their phone and turn it back on. 

    Google: how to take care of someone with a concussion— 

    4. Sam

    Sam is used to picking up strays. Dogs, cats, the occasional raccoon and neighbor’s kid — he can’t resist a good pair of puppy eyes.

    Full-grown man? That’s a new one.

    The guy’s barely responsive. He’s walking, kinda — Sam is carrying more than half his weight, but the fact that he can put a foot in front of the other is its own miracle. He looks like he went a round against a combine harvester, beaten half to hell as he is. 

    Sam gives him a glance as he’s holding the guy up with one hand and trying to unlock his door with the other. It’s hard to make up his face in the porchlight, especially with all the blood, but the dude looks young. Not young enough to go around picking up fights he can’t win, though, and he doesn’t smell drunk enough for it either. 

    The other man makes a faint sound as Sam jostles him past the door frame and into the house proper. Sam hits the light on his way in, considers the couch (pristine despite everything) and then drags the guy all the way to the bathroom to dump him in the tub. No reason getting his couch bloody for a complete stranger and possible criminal after all.

    And it puts him closer to the first aid kit anyway.

    “Wha’s… Where?”

    “Oh, good, you’re conscious.” Sam rolls up his sleeves and glances at the man feebly trying to sit up in the bathtub. He dusts off his old Drill Sergeant voice. “Don’t move.”

    The man stops instantly, more on instinct than anything. Good. It means it’s working. Taking out some cotton and antiseptic, he kneels next to the tub.

    “My name’s Sam. You’re in my bathroom.”

    “What’re you doing?”

    The confusion seeps out of the man’s voice, leaving only an exhausted kind of wariness as his eyes drift half-shut. Definitely a criminal, then, Sam thinks. No one else would be so chill about being half conscious in a stranger’s bathtub. “Cleaning your wounds. What’s your name?”

    A beat. Then, “... Shin.”

    “Okay, Shin. Stay still.”

    He dabs the cuts across Shin’s forehead with the cotton ball. To his merit, the other man bears it with some grace, hissing through his gritted teeth but not flinching away from the alcohol. Still, Sam tries to be careful, wiping away the worst of the blood so he can assess the damage. He holds the other man’s chin between two fingers and gently tilts his face sideway to check his other profile. Shin’s eyes fly open — well, eye, singular. The other one is starting to swell too much to open.

    “Well, good news is you should keep some of your good looks,” he says wryly. “But you are gonna need stitches.”

    “That’s fine,” Shin replies faintly.

    Sam gives him a concerned look. The other man stares back with a dazed air, blinking owlishly. Sam grabs the pocket light from the kit and shines it in his eyes matter-of-factly. 

    This time, Shin flinches back. “What’s that for?”

    “Checking for a concussion. Among other things. Any trouble breathing? Chest pain?”

    Shin groans, weakly lifting a hand to prod at his chest. “No more than usual,” he says, still squinting though now it seems to be more due to pain than the light, “But I don’t have any broken ribs. I’d know.”

    Turning to grab his sewing kit, Sam muses, “Get a lot of these, huh?”

    “Yeah.”

    By the time he turns back around Shin has managed to sit up somewhat straight. He says nothing — the guy can hold on to whatever dignity he has left if it makes him feel better — and hands him an ibuprofen and a glass of water. It won’t do much, but it’s better than the alternative

    “Oh no, I don’t—” A pointed look shuts him up. “I’m warning you, I get weird on painkillers.” Sam doubts a mere ibuprofen is going to make the man loopy, but he let it slide. Despite his protest Shin swallows the pill obediently and lets Sam lean into his space and set to sewing the cut on his face shut.

    The guy doesn’t react to that, either. He just sits there quietly, even though the painkiller hasn’t taken effect yet. Sam wonders at that pain tolerance for a moment. He knew guys in the army who’d start bitching for much less. 

    “So. What’s a guy like you doing passing out in alleyways?” He asks, more as an excuse to keep the guy talking than anything else. He hasn’t checked him properly for a concussion yet and he’d rather not have to deal with an unconscious criminal in his bathtub.

    “A ‘guy like me’?”

    A shrug. “A random guy. You don’t look like you’re in a gang.”

    “I don’t?”

    “You don’t carry a gun and you’re not dead. I’m not a pro, but I feel like if this is some kind of… gang conflict or whatever, they wouldn’t have let you off that easily.”

    Shin reaches behind his back with one hand. There’s a click, loud in the silent bathroom, the unmistakable sound of cocking a gun. Sam tenses up, feeling as if a gallon of freezing water was dumped over his head.

    “Okay, scratch that, you do have a gun.” His body thrums with a surge of adrenaline but he wills his hands to remain steady as he continues to very carefully sew the guy back up. “You’re gonna use it?”

    A wry chuckle escapes the man. There’s a thump, his arm falling back against the wall of the tub, and when Sam risks a glance down his hand is limp in his lap, with the gun held loosely between his fingers.

    “God, no. What kind of patient would that make me?”

    “A very rude one,” Sam agrees, voice tight with nervous energy.

    The silence stretches for a moment before Shin says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

    Sam ties the thread, cuts it, and says, “It’s fine.” 

    He rises to his feet and stares down at his handiwork. Clearly the injuries go lower than the face, but he’d have to bend over the edge of the tub to get to them and he’s left that kind of back-breaking work behind years ago. 

    “Think you can sit on the edge here?” He asks. He keeps his voice level, not overly commanding in case the guy takes offense to it. He hasn’t kept a gun inside his house since leaving the army. If Shin decides to get antagonistic, there’s nothing he can do about it. 

    And people who go around at night getting themselves beaten to a pulp in alleyways are not known to not be antagonistic.

    Shin grunts. “Sure thing, doc.” 

    He grabs the edge of the tub and heaves himself up, stumbling forward before he manages to maneuver himself into a sitting position, his feet planted wide on the tiled floor to keep his balance. His hands, hanging between his legs, are bloody and bruised, the knuckles beaten raw. There’s blood speckled over the leather of his boots. And he’s still holding the gun. His grip is loose but comfortable — confident. That’s a man who knows how to use the weapon he’s carrying.

    That’s anything but reassuring. Sam will take an idiot over a decent shooter any day.

    “Not a doctor,” he says absently. If the guy gets violent he can always stab him with a scalpel. That always works. “Can you take off your shirt, please?”

    Shin, having opened his mouth to reply, stammers for a moment. “W-What?”

    “Your shirt. You’re clearly bleeding through it, so. Off.”

    “Oh.” 

    His blush is visible even through the drying blood on his skin, turning his ears red. Cute. He lifts his hands with a wince, looks down in surprise when he finds his fingers already occupied with a gun, frowns, and — with movements that speak of great pain hidden by spite and dignity alone — finally puts it away. Sam exhales, relieved. 

    He watches the other man struggle with his shirt for a moment, stuck with it over his head, before stepping in and helping him out of it. Shin, when he’s finally freed from the fabric, looks halfway between embarrassed and too weary to care about it.

    At least he’s not as bad off as Sam had assumed. He’s got a few shallow cuts over his chest, and bruises for days, but nothing that will require more stitches. A few packs of ice, maybe.

    “What kind of job has you bringing strangers home like that?” Shin asks, voice too dry to be anything but an attempt to distract himself from the pain. 

    “At my age, I don’t have that many options available,” he quips, grabbing more antiseptic.

    “I don’t believe that. You’re hot.”

    “Well. Thank you.” Shin’s blush darkens, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “But I’ll have you know I’m a school nurse.”

    “Really? Where?”

    That feels like dangerous information to give to an armed criminal, but once again, he’s armed, so Sam reluctantly says, “Last City Junior High.”

    “Shut up. My kid goes there.”

    That gives him pause. He bites down on his instinctual reply — you have a kid? — and scrounges up for an appropriate response to that.

    “You’re not setting much of a good example for your kid,” he says lightly.

    “Oh, they’re not really mine. They’re kind of my roommates’? They found the kid so now we get to keep them, I guess.” Sam hums, wiping the last of the blood off the guy’s torso. Well, he’s more blue than not, but at least he’s somewhat clean. “Like, literally. Found them in a dumpster I think. Drifter must be blackmailing someone to keep CPS off our ass, because there’s no way that’s the proper adoption process.”

    For the second time in less than an hour Sam finds himself fighting to keep his face level and his hands steady. The other man, oblivious to this, prattles off.

    “And anyway their mom’s a lesbian and I’m very much not a woman, so it would be a little hard for me to— I should have led up with that. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, you know, I mean. Girl, am I right? And boys. Man, everybody is hot.” At Sam’s prolonged silence he seems to realize what’s coming out of his mouth. He makes an uncomfortable noise at the back of his throat. “Is it too late to tell you I react badly to painkillers?”

    “You did mention that, yeah.” Sam pats him on the chest lightly, trying to avoid the worst of the bruising. “I’m going to… grab you a few ice packs.”

    He escapes to the kitchen before Shin can make him question his life even more.

    A criminal in his bathtub, he can deal with. A potential kidnapping criminal with an illegal child… That’s a little more difficult. He eyes the landline from the square of light cast off by the fridge, and ultimately decides against it.

    No problem has ever been resolved by calling the cops on it and he’s sure it won’t start now.

    Sam comes back to the bathroom holding every ice pack he owns and finds Shin standing in the middle of the room. A little unsteady, but still more than he’d expect from anyone who was nearly unconscious not an hour ago.

    “Where are you going?”

    Shin picks up his shirt and puts it back on gingerly, as if every single movement hurts. It’s probably the case.

    “I already intruded enough,” he says. He glances at Sam through his lashes. “Thanks, for the— you know. The medical stuff.”

    “You shouldn’t walk around town in that state,” Sam says. He’d rather not offer his couch to a criminal with a gun and a potential child locked in his basement, but he will if he has to. He also doesn’t want all his efforts going to waste because the guy went and got himself shanked in another dark alley. And anyway if he keeps the guy in place he might be able to pull some more info out of him about that child of his.

    “I can handle myself,” he says, as if he’s not currently covered in his own blood.“Unless you want me to stay?” 

    The look he gives Sam says he’d very much like to stay — and probably not on the couch. But it’s offset by his tone of voice, kind of dryly defeatist, like he knows Sam won’t say yes.

    And indeed, he doesn’t.

    “I like my men looking a little less dead,” and on the other side of the law, he doesn’t add.

    “That’s what they all say.”

    Sam lets out a chuckle, amused despite himself, and offers Shin one of the ice packs. “Take this at least. You’re gonna feel it in the morning if you don’t get the swelling down.”

    Shin salutes him with the ice pack before leaving. Sam is left with a bathroom that looks a little like a crime scene, the man’s hoarse voice hanging in the air between them.

    Thanks again. See you around.

    God, he hopes not.

    Weeks later, he’s almost forgotten the event. Then he waits with Shrike for one of their guardians to come pick them up after they got detention for fighting another student—

    (They’re always late, the teen says with a laugh, even though they’re so many of them. I think they draw straws on whose turn it is this time.)

    But when the usual beat-up truck comes to a screeching stop into the parking lot, it’s not a woman who comes out of it.

    It’s a very familiar man, looking beat up within an inch of his life just like he did the first time, although in an entirely different way.

    “You,” Sam bites out.

    Shin freezes, one leg out of the car, and offers him a shaky smile. “Hi?”

    5. Thyme

    “Hey, has anyone seen Shin?”

    Thyme looks up from her tea to Occam, standing over the toaster with a thoughtful look on their face. She backtracks through the morning, but— no, she doesn’t remember seeing Shin cleaning the bathroom this morning, which is usually where he can be found on Sunday mornings since they established the ‘no blood where the kid can see it’ rule. She glances at Drifter, who shrugs. No Shin in the apartment today.

    “Okay. I’m eating the last pop tart then.”

    “Your funeral,” Drifter replies cheerily.

    The microwave dings, announcing that the plate of lasagna Drifter has decided to warm for breakfast is done. Simultaneously, their doorbell rings, and Thyme would nearly have missed it if not for the way her two roommates immediately reach for weapons they do not have on them. That’s the ‘no gun where the kid can reach’ rule.

    She downs her cup of tea and moves towards the door. There’s a bat propped up against the wall, and in case this isn’t one of their neighbors coming to tell them their missing roommate is currently covered in blood and sleeping it off in a dumpster, she takes it.

    What she sees in the peephole nearly makes her lose her grip on it.

    She opens the door to her coworker, also known as Shrike’s school nurse, also known as Samuel Fletcher, holding up a battered Shin and wearing a look of weary amusement.

    “Good morning, Thyme,” he greets politely before she can utter a word. “I’m sorry for intruding upon your morning like that, but I believe this one is yours?” And he shrugs a little in emphasis as he says that, to gesture at Shin. 

    The man grumbles faintly and cracks open an eye before waving weakly. “Hi Thyme.”

    “Hi Shin.” That explains why she hasn’t found a bloody sewing kit in the sink for a while now: he must have been getting his stitches from someone else. “Sorry for the bother, Mr Fletcher. I hope he hasn’t been—”

    The nurse waves her concerns away. “Don’t worry about that. And please, call me Sam.”

    “Well, Sam, would you like some coffee?”

    “No thank you, I’ve got to go. Cicada has morning practice.” He transfers Shin to her more delicately than she would have in his position. “Have a good day, Thyme.”

    She mumbles some pleasantries back and watches him leave, Shin a deadweight in her arms. His presence felt like a fever dream: once he turns the corner of the corridor she’s not sure he ever was there at all. She had never seen him outside of the diner’s kitchen before, she realizes. Somehow this part feels weirder than the actual act of carrying Shin home. God knows that happens on a weekly basis. 

    Speaking of which, Thyme shakes herself and drags her half-unconscious roommate to the couch. 

    As soon as she dumps him on the beaten up cushions, Shin struggles to a sitting position — she lets him, if only because she can’t be bothered to put up a fight at 8 am — and says,

    “Occam, is that one of my pop tarts?”

    Her other roommates, wandering into the living room, bites pointedly into his Wildlicious Wild Berry™ and glares down at Shin. “I don’t know, Shin, is that the fucking schoolnurse?”

    Shin bares red teeth at them. Eager to get away from their usual arguing, Thyme takes a step back and heads for the kitchen—

    Stopping dead in her tracks when she spots droplets of red on the floor. Her eyes follow the thin trail to the front door, then dart back down as she assesses herself. Her sleep shirt is slightly damp on the side she held Shin, and when she touches the dark fabric her fingers come away ever so slightly red.

    “Shin,” she says, cutting through his and Occam’s squabbling, “You’re bleeding over my couch.”

    “Impossible, Sam stitched me up.”

    She gestures mutely to the drops of blood on the floor.

    “Oh. Oh, shit, I must have reopened something. Sorry, Thyme.”

    Glancing at the closed door of Shrike’s room, Thyme purses her lips. She’s in no way a nursemaid, but she’s not about to call Sam back on a sunday morning for pro-bono work on her stupidest roommate. 

    “Let me get the first aid kit.”

    Drifter, leaning on the kitchen doorway, takes a bite of his lasagna. “I’ll grab the mop.”

    +1 Shrike

    Jaren Ward did not have a carrying permit, but he did own a gun. It was a heirloom revolver handed down to him by his own grandfather, and despite being a staunch pacifist he would put a great deal of time and care into the weapon’s upkeep. The gun was never meant to be used. There wasn’t even any ammunition inside the house. It was, at best, a beautifully polished paperweight.  

    Shin remembers watching his father go through the process of dismantling, cleaning and putting the revolver back together dozens of times. He used to be fascinated by it: the smooth, well-practiced movements, the multitude of pieces, the smell of gun oil, the gleam of the barrel. A child’s love for glittering, forbidden things. He remembers most of all asking if one day his father would teach him how to shoot it, and Jaren had replied Perhaps, if you want me to, but not with this gun, and answered Shin’s demand for clarification with an infuriatingly ellusive you won’t understand until you’re older.

    He never got to give Shin that explanation: by the time he was twelve, Jaren was dead, and he carried all his secrets to the grave.

    Still Shin held on to that revolver. It’s the only thing he took from his childhood home, hiding it in pieces in the lining of his jacket through countless foster homes, both a grim memento and security blanket. And he thought about it, often while staring at the ceiling of yet another borrowed room in a stranger’s house.

    Would his father still be alive if he had carried a gun that day? Most likely not. But what could be the point of a weapon you cannot wield, of taking care of something so pointless as a gun with no bullets?

    It took until the first time he put the revolver back together for him to get an idea of what Jaren had meant all these years ago. He held it in his hand, whole for the first time in half a decade, and thought, this is not a gun you are meant to be careless with.

    Perhaps it was due to how… mythical the gun had become in his mind over the years, a mystery to unravel, one last connection to the family he has lost. But when Shin baptized it the Last Word, he also vowed to never use it unless he did not have any other choice — and he never did. Of the eight bullets he bought that very first time, none have ever been shot. Whether or not that was what his father had meant he will never know, but he hopes to be following the spirit of the law, if not the letter.

    Today, though, he stares at the unconscious form of his ward — his kid — and thinks—

    There is another choice. Another path. And he will not take it.

    Dropping the empty gun he borrowed off one of the guards during their advance through the facility, Shin leaves Thyme and Drifter to tear the restraints off Shrike and unholsters the Last Word. Its weight is not a comfort, but it does settle something in him, and when he turns to the scientist cowering in a corner his mind is calm and quiet. Focused. Ready to put an end to this once and for all.

    “Shin,” Drifter says, a note of warning in his carefully-neutral voice.

    A glance above his shoulders shows him that Shrike’s unconscious form is slumped over Thyme’s back, her aluminum bat forgotten as she holds on to them as if they might disappear into thin air. Shin jerks his head towards the door.

    “Go.”

    “Occam won’t wait around forever.”

    “I’ll be right behind. I just need to do some cleanup.” He turns his attention back to the scientist. “Better not stick around. Wouldn’t want ‘em to wake up now.”

    A pause, and then twin footsteps head for the door.

    There’s blood sticking to his face, and a pulse of pain around his thigh where a bullet grazed him and took a chunk of flesh with it. Shin focuses on those feelings, breathing slowly. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm starts to ring. 

    “Are there any others?”

    The scientist starts, as if they had been hoping Shin had forgotten their existence.

    “O- Others?”

    “People who know about Shrike.”

    “Sh- oh, Subject 2-8?” Shin’s fingers shift around the Last Word. He can hear the scientist swallow, throat clicking. “N- no, it’s just… It’s just this facility.”

    Shin points the Last Word at the scientist. It’s in mint condition. The hammer rings loud in the silence when he cocks it.

    “Good.”

    (After this, Shin will set fire to the place. Make sure nothing about his kid gets out ever again. It’s a promise, to make up for the one he is about to break.

    For now, though, he looks at the two roads open to him, and does not choose the most merciful.)

    #whumptober 2021 #no. 21 #no. 24 #bleeding through the bandages #pressure#blood-matted hair#flashback#revenge#destiny 2#writing#long post#shin malphur#the drifter#my ocs#occam#sam fletcher#guardian ocs#thyme#shrike #it takes a village #is this even remotely comprehensible without the context of months of discussion with baron? #probably not #that one's for you only buddy kfjhdfhg
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