#Broken Arm

[zurich-snows]

Vanessa Beecroft BROKEN ARM Wilding Cran Gallery (2024)

[fanfictilltheend]

Pedro claims he injured his arm by falling.

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Greyscale sketch of s1 or just before s1 era Eliot Spencer in a hospital bed with one arm in a sling and held against his chest, a bandage visible on it and the other one. He’s sitting up slightly in the bed, glaring at someone in the foreground, and his hair is all floofy and dishevelled. End ID] -

Whumptober Day 21: Broken arm

Eliot is grumpy

[just-here-for-the-whump]

Thrashin' (1986)

[jackcast2021]

Nicely casted

[willoillo]

Commission for OhNoBees!! Their wyvern Ash had a bit of an accident with a table :3 I'm actually really proud of this one; it took me a bit to wrap my head around how these wings were supposed to work, but I think it ended up working well n_n

My Website | Commissions | Patreon

Posted using PostyBirb

[cheatsykoopa98]

"Can I draw on your cast?"

decided to draw a little bit of Zooble and Gangle being normal humans for once. As depressed as Gangle is she wants to take care of Zooble because of how much they care about her

I just realized I swapped Zooble's legs plz ignore that

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

@whumpgifathon - day 18 ↳ broken bones

Mortel 2x02

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Can I request recovery 🛌 or lonely/touch starved 🥺 for Cloe? I know you said they were one of your OCs that you didn’t really feel creative about so if you don’t have any inspiration, don’t worry!

Prompts from Nonhuman Whump Emoji Prompts

Aww thank you!! Mostly I don't have a solid plotline in mind for Cloe, he's more just a concept I thought up but didn't do much with. But I'd like to write more of him so I'm going to try!

About Cloe: he's a winged character. In his world there are a few different species of winged folk whose evolution diverged to suit different environments. Cloe's species are short, slender, lightweight, they're quick and nimble but fragile. They have small feathery wings that are only good for low gliding over short distances. They live in grassy and sparsely forested areas, are generally mild-mannered, peaceful, and are vegetarian.

There's another species that evolved to live up in the mountains. These ones are tall and strong with huge wings, they can soar really high and far. They're predatory and aggressive as a species and don't think much of Cloe's species, sometimes going so far as to capture them to keep as pets or slaves or just to torment. Many of their captives die from poor treatment.

Oops this got long

Content Warnings: winged whumpee, captivity, mentions of pet whump, enslavement, torture, and death, broken bones, bruises, blood, stabbed, painful restraints, passing out, starvation, exhaustion, rescue, female caretaker, reluctant caretaker, 'it' as a pronoun

----

"I'm getting a new one tomorrow. This one is no fun anymore."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Omeron snorts. "Dunno. Don't care. You want it?"

Galea makes a face at the suggestion. "Me?"

"Why not? They're easy to care for. Don't eat a lot, don't take up a lot of space."

"I just don't see the point."

It's true, she never has. The smaller winged folk are too weak for hard labor, too timid to make good companions, and can't even fly properly. Galea has no use for one, and lacks the sadistic streak to want one just to push around.

"How about this. You take it for a day. See if you like it. If you don't, I'll toss it."

He means, quite literally, to throw it from the mountain, the fate of many a discarded pet.

"Fine," she concedes, just to get Omeron to leave her to eat lunch in peace. "I'll pick it up later. Now shut up."

-

That afternoon Omeron is out hunting. True to her word, Galea goes on her own to his home for her secondhand small-wing. He told her it would be out back, and sure enough there it is.

Unsurprisingly, the creature is in awful condition. It is pinned to the back wall of the hut by daggers through its little wings, which are mangled and bloodstained. It is malnourished, sunburned, coated in dark bruises, a broken arm hanging limp at its side.

Broken is the wrong word. Crushed is more like it.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she grumbles.

The creature startles awake at the sound of her voice. It whines softly and cradles its arm but doesn't attempt to move beyond that. By now it must be used to this.

Big, sorrowful gray eyes stare back at Galea, only at eye level with the much taller winged woman because it is pinned up on the wall. Galea stares back, taking in its weak breaths and red-rimmed eyes. Only then does she realize she has never seen one of these up close.

Curious, she reaches a hand out. The small-wing flinches and squeezes its eyes shut, expecting a blow or tight grip. But Galea just wants to feel its silky hair. She pets it a few times and the creature gradually relaxes. It even nuzzles at her hand.

Omeron definitely doesn't pet it, she thinks. That isn't his style. The hand-shaped bruises around the creature's wrists and neck...that's more what she expects. The qualities that make him a formidable hunter and warrior don't exactly make him a doting pet owner.

"Can you speak?" she asks.

It flinches again at her firm tone and averts its gaze.

"Yes," it whispers.

"Do you have a name?"

It hesitates.

"...Cloe," it replies softly.

"Looks like you're mine now, Cloe," Galea says. She is still reluctant about all of this but she never says anything she does not mean, and she said she would take in this battered little thing for a day, so she will.

Galea removes the knives from its wings, neither cruel nor gentle, just quick and efficient. Cloe gives a feeble cry and faints into her waiting arms.

It - he - is even lighter than she imagined; she cradles his broken body effortlessly. She can feel every little quiver and hitched breath he makes, troubled even in unconsciousness. His skin is hot - whether from sunburn or swelling, bruises or fever, or all of the above, she can't tell.

Poor thing...

-

Galea takes care of her things. Her home is well kept, her wings well groomed, her weapons sharpened.

Now Cloe is hers too, if only for a short time.

She lies him on a large cushion in the corner. Against the dark fabric he seems even paler, scrawnier, more pitiful. Feathers fall from his damaged wings, the surest sign of poor health for their kind.

Uncharacteristically, Galea didn't plan this far ahead. She sort of hoped Omeron might change his mind and decide to keep his pet a little longer. But now the small-wing is here and she has to decide what to do with him.

He is in no shape to work and she has the feeling that was never why Omeron kept him in the first place. Still out cold, he isn't much good as a companion, either. And she has no desire to harm him.

Instead Galea finds herself examining the wounded creature more thoroughly.

Beyond the most obvious injuries there are many other, subtler signs of his mistreatment. His hands and feet, once soft from a life spent on grass and dirt, are scraped, calloused and blistered from the stone and wood surfaces of mountain living. Bones in his right ankle, left hip, and sternum feel at least fractured if not worse. His breaths are thin and labored, suggesting internal damage. On his back there is a barely healed scar that she recognizes as caused by a spear. That must be how Omeron caught him.

And then there are his wings.

Cloe's brittle wings are broken in more places than she can count. They are punctured clear through in several places, leaving the white feathers stained red. When she runs her fingers through them they shed easily.

Galea pulls her hand away with a shudder and shakes off the feathers. She tucks her own large, powerful wings closer to her back, fearfully imagining them as ruined as Cloe's. It would be a fate worse than death.

-

Galea continues the rest of her evening like normal - dinner in the hall, her evening patrol, sparring as the sun sets, a bath in the spring and grooming her wings. By the time she returns home she has nearly forgotten about her new 'pet'.

Cloe's eyes are closed, but when Galea shuts and locks the front door he jolts awake. Immediately he groans and cradles his shattered arm again.

He watches Galea approach with bleary eyes, labored breaths, little quivers. He knows as well as she does that he is completely at her mercy.

The pitiful sight should repulse her, a warrior who wouldn't dream of looking so helpless, who would die fighting rather than submit to the whim of a captor.

But instead it presses on something inside her like a thumb on a bruise. It comes with the overwhelming urge to soothe the frightened little thing rather than punish or mock him. Unsettled by the feeling, she clenches and unclenches her fists a few times and breathes slowly, grounding herself.

Mere minutes later she is sitting cross-legged beside the cushion with her medical kit, smoothing a numbing salve over his broken arm. Cloe bites down on his lip to keep quiet despite what must be excruciating pain as she maneuvers the limb around. She efficiently splints and bandages it.

Galea silently treats every break, bruise, and cut to the best of her ability. Even at her gentlest, Galea's grasp is firm; she isn't used to handling something so fragile. Cloe winces and whimpers but never complains. Gradually the medicine dulls his sharpest pains and tension eases from his body. Soon he can barely keep his eyes open.

"Don't sleep yet," she instructs him.

Cloe nods, visibly forcing himself to stay awake. Galea pours a cup of juice. Then she cups Cloe's head with one hand and easily sits him up. She holds the cups to his lips and waits until he drinks the whole thing.

"More?" she asks.

"I can have more?" Cloe whispers.

Galea answers by pouring another cup. She indulges herself by indulging him - allowing him to drink to his heart's content. When he's finished his head lolls to one side and he gazes up at her with reverence.

"Thank you."

"Don't," Galea insists.

And she means it. For now there is a sense of ownership. She agreed to have Cloe for a day and leaving him in that state was unacceptable. Tomorrow, who knows.

Cloe is asleep the moment Galea settles him back onto the cushion. She covers him with her cloak and prepares for bed.

As she falls asleep she can't help but picture Cloe thrown from the mountain, disappearing into the fog below as he falls to his certain death. The image follows her into her dreams and makes a home at the back of her mind.

[how-much-for-a-whump]

WHUMPTOBER day 10:

Prompt: "Stranded"

Horizon Line (2020)

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 23

Here comes another one of my favorites

Content: hostage, beating 3rd party, guns, self sacrifice, injury whump, taken prisoner

"Stop!" Chase heard someone scream hoarsely. He froze.

Level upon level of exposed concrete--8 levels visible, all with matching red brick interiors--rose in front of Chase in the snow-dusted morning downtown. Downtown Seattle had been hit with a lot of bombs. EMP's, car bombs, then bombs dropped from planes. It was a weird way of doing war.

Guys with guns stood on the first and third levels. Shiver worked differently than the other gangs. They had one massive compound, divvied up, as the rumor went, into sections for types of work. And their sentries. They somehow supported what must be a thousand, to be able to cover the perimeter the way they did.

Nobody fucked with Shiver.

Except whoever was screaming. Chase crept closer. He'd stripped down to a white sweatshirt and shorts, despite the cold weather, to blend in against the hill of gray rubble he was picking his way around, hand and foot. He was very meticulous. That was why he was so good at this.

The voice screamed in pain. She really let loose.

"Stop--" Someone yelled with a grunt. "--Struggling."

Chase straightened and peeked around a bit of broken wall to see what the ruckus was.

"What about white flag don't you understand? I'm here to negotiate a trade! Ugh!" 

The last bit was mixed with grunts of pain. Her pain noises sounded almost like harsh laughing. Chase didn't wanna know what it was about, but he was still creeping closer. The one who was yelling last was on the ground, and she was being beaten by the stock of a rifle. Shiver sentries were surrounding her, one half-under her with a grip on her arms, another crouching over her feet--all he could see was the Shiver woman's back. They were about 20 feet away.

"Oh yeah, watchu gonna bargain about? The guy beating her stopped with the butt of the gun held threateningly over her head.

"Water." She said.

Chase recognized the voice now. Bloody Connor; that's what the Offshoots had called her.

"I've got some with me." She said. 

The sentries hesitated. Chase turned his head to go.

"You!" Someone said.

Chase ducked so the wall covered him from view.

"One more step and I'll kill the girl!" 

Chase closed his eyes momentarily, listening.

A gunshot sounded. Then an angry scream of pain from Connor.

"That was a warning." The voice grated loudly. "Come on out or your friend dies!"

Chase stood up so his head became visible. He stepped out so they could see him.

"I'm not--" His voice was so dry and quiet after days of not speaking. He cleared his throat. "I'm not her friend!" He yelled to them.

He glanced at Bloody Connor, who was grimacing as one Shiver held a pistol to her temple. Blood ran drips down the right side of her eyebrow, around her squinted eye, and off her earlobe. Chase could see that as he approached a little. 

"Come over here slowly. And drop your weapons." The tall one said.

Chase thought quick.

He could run away and let that girl get shot--the Shivers were known to do that to wanderers anyway. If he did, he'd likely get shot too, running away at this range. Or, he could go up there and get shot or Workforce'd. It'd be better to take the chance and run right now.

So why was he walking forward?

He was going numbly, ears still echoing the unexpected shot.

And then he was tackled from behind.

Chase swung the splinted arm out of the way just before they both landed on it. The guy was strong and heavy. He sat up on Chase's butt with a hand on his back, grabbed Chase's right hand and went for his left, then froze as he felt the hard wood and duct tape under the sweatshirt.

"What is that!" He demanded. 

Chase, out of breath, grunted,

"It's a splint!"

"Take it off!" The guy said.

He jerked at something he was wearing, then showed Chase a handgun--visible out of the corner of his eye. Then he got off him, still holding the gun on him.

"My arm's broken!" Chase said, rolling onto his right forearm to get up. He panted, lowering his eyes at the Shiver.

"Take off the sweatshirt." The guy gestured at him. "Show me."

As Chase got up, a few more sentries came up, cautiously looking out for other intruders, glaring at Chase. They came out with pistols in hand. 

Still panting and eyeing the skinny guy that had tackled him, Chase unzipped the hoodie clumsily. He shook it loose and shrugged it off the right side, then peeled off the left sleeve to show the makeshift splint. 

"Alright. Come on." One of the other sentries said. "We'll take them inside."

"Really?" The skinny guy said. 

"Didn't you hear the girl?" The sentry answered. "They have water."

[when I get it out of my notebook I will absolutely share Chase's knife scar story, and why there is a bloodstain on Merc's dresser.]

Tag list: @joyjoygorl @cepheusgalaxy

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Kindle book: Masterpost: Next:

[littlemagicalstardust]

Throwback/Fun Fact from Orange Cassidy: In an old interview, Orange explains when he had broken his arm and had two metal plates put in, one of them got infected and he kept it and it's back at his house. He still has the other metal plate in his arm on the other side. On the Left photo he's showing where the infected plate was On the Middle photo he shows where he has a metal plate in that arm On the Right photo he shows how big the metal plate size is/was

[rizzoto-whump]

@chaos-company Angstpril 2024 day 7 - Bad Dreams

@whumpers-monthly - Lullaby

James woke up, drenched in sweat and feeling a sharp sting of pain in his left arm.

"Ah, crap! Another bad dream," he muttered to himself. The pain was worsening, so he reached for another medicine to help ease it. The memories remained vivid in his mind: the brutal beating, the sound of his arm breaking, and the sensation of lying helpless on the bathroom floor, teetering on the brink of death.

Without his medication, he couldn't sleep at night, lest the nightmares return to torment him.

As the pain subsided, James took a deep breath and found some relief. He rested his head back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. In his mind's eye, he pictured his mama, a kind old woman in her 60s, gently stroking his hair and singing his favorite lullaby.

Though she was nowhere to be found, James found solace in imagining her presence.

"Sleep, my baby~"

Taglist: @yoinky-sploinky

[just-here-for-the-whump]

Monk 4x7 Mr. Monk Goes to a Wedding

[jackcast2021]

Pink lady

[louisupdates]

AOTV 2023