#NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

[jasmines-library]

Unnoticed

WHUMPTOBER DAY 6: prompt: Not realising their injured

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Word count: 1K

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER 2024

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The whole thing had happened in a blur. One minute you were relaxing at home, enjoying your night off from patrol, and the next you were suited up, hurrying through the city. The emergency alarm came suddenly, blaring loudly through the manor. The second you heard it you were up on you feet, wasting no time before you flicked on your coms. Tim and Damian had infiltrated the Penguin’s drug den to find that they were extremely outnumbered and needed immediate back up. So, your plans for the evening were out of the window as you and Dick suited up and dashed through the city to meet the rest of your team.

You could hear the sound of gunfire from blocks away. It made you press harder. Made you slam the soles of your boots against the concrete harder to propel you towards them faster. As you neared, you could also make out the clang of Damian’s katana as he sliced his way through the Penguin’s goons, and the thwack of Tim’s bo-staff as he did the same. With a crackle, Dick’s escrima sticks flickered with blue energy as you also readied your weapon. The two of you attacked head on. Dick used the wall to gain advantage over the goon closest to him, then using his stick he took him down quickly. You slid along the ground, taking your target out from below. 

The fighting seemed to escalate after you and Nightwing had joined. It was that, or you were just in the centre of it now. It was hard to make sense of anything with the fast moving pace of the fight. There was gunfire, followed by yelling and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. You kept seeing flashes of red out of the corner of your eye, likely Jason who darted from roof to roof as the Red Hood, firing an onslaught of bullets down on the enemy lines. But other than that it was sort of a blur. You were completely honed in on the action, every ounce of your focus desiccated to the weapon in your hand. Once it was finally over, and the last of the goons had hit the ground, you took a moment to catch your breath. You were feeling unusually tired compared to how you usually were after a fight, but you figured it was because you were thrown into it so suddenly. After collecting yourself for a moment, you wandered over to the boys who had all gathered into the centre of the chaos after overseeing the arrest of the Penguin. 

As you wandered over, Jason frowned a little, giving you this oddly concerned look from under his mask. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” You frowned. “...why?”

“You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?!” Jason spouted rapidfire questions. 

“It’s not mine. I’m fi��..” you started, but your voice trailed off as you glanced down. “......oh…”

You instantly paled. A knife protruded from your side, buried almost all the way up to the chin. You hadn’t even felt it happen– .

The second you realised it was like your black and white world had become colourised. The agony hit you quickly and you let out a breathy gasp, stumbling on your feet. Quick on his feet, Damian gripped your arm to steady you. 

“Woah. woah. Careful.”

You stared at the offending weapon, eyes wide and fixated on the cruel silver.

“Hey. Hey.” Dick’s hands came to your shoulders. “Eyes up here. Don’t look at it. Look at me. You’re okay.” He said, trying desperately to stop you from fixating on it, and to try and reassure you when he knew in reality you were far from fine. The wound was clearly deep and you were losing a lot of blood, they could see it seeping into your suit. And to make it worse, the knife was still stuck in there. 

“Lets get you sitting down, alright.” Damian said gently, helping to ease you to the ground. He grimaced at the pained noise you made. “Easy… you’re okay….” he said. He knew that having you on the ground would be safest, just in case you passed out. 

As soon as you were on the ground, Dick’s hands were moving to try and stem the wound. Your vision doubled. 

“Hey. Stay with me.” Dick said as he thought quickly of a plan. They needed to get you medical attention asap, but they couldn’t just leave the knife in. Usually that would be the best thing to do, but you were losing too much blood far too quickly and the cave was too far away. They needed to pack the wound before they moved you. “Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen.” Dick started. “Tim, you need to signal to the cave. Let them know what's happening so we can get her help ASAP. Damian, you and I are going to keep her still. Jay you need to pull out the knife so I can pack it. As soon as I've done that you need to bandage it, okay?”

Jason swallowed thickly, but moved into position, his hands hovered anxiously over the blade. 

“I’m sorry kiddo…but we have to get this out.” He wrapped one hand around the blade. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.” He said before yanking out the knife. 

You screamed, body flailing as you fought against the pain and the two vigilante’s trying to keep you still. Once it was out, Dick began to pack your wound. You cried out causing him to grimace. 

“I know. I know. We’re sorry. Almost done” he said as he used gauze to try and stop the blood flow. It was stained crimson alarmingly fast. Then his hands were flying away, replaced quickly by Jason's as he wrapped the bandage tightly around your torso, trying to secure it. As soon as it was done he stepped back, taking your hand and giving it a tight squeeze. Your eyes drooped as you struggled to stay awake. Dick noticed this and tapped the side of your face gently. 

“Hey, come on. Eyes open for just a little longer….”

You tried. But everything began to grow quiet as you faded in and out…..

“Tim…….” fading in and out….. “Status!?”

Whoever was talking sounded worried. You couldn’t make out who it was. 

A squeeze of your hand. Fading in and out…..

The squeal of tires……

Someone was touching you. Talking to you……and then silence.

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TAGS:

@hearts4robs @kingshitonly @alicedawitchbish @hell-o-kittys @azure-drag0ness @harleycao @thewhispersofthewaves @batfamsstuff @xxrougefangxx @rosecentury @noisymutantherelol @killxz @rhiodes @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @canthavetoomuchchaos

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<- DAY FIVE ⛤ DAY SEVEN ->

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumptober No.6

Not realising they’re injured

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

This one is kind of inspired by the prompts but not about any one of them? It’s in the rules, ✨it’s allowed✨

*~*~*~*~*

Hero didn’t stop until they were far enough away from Villain until they slowed and allowed themselves to catch their breath. They pressed their back flush against the brick wall, gasping out a hiss of pain as they grabbed the shaft of the arrow sticking out of their stomach, just above their hip.

Villain’s arrow was lodged inside and with every step Hero took it rubbed against their hip bone and sent jolts of pain ricocheting up their spine, every movement serving to further aggravate it. Hero released the shaft with a grunt, and went for the arrow in their shoulder first.

They bit their tongue to stop themselves from screaming as they snapped the fletchlings off the ends. Hero couldn’t help the whimper in the back of their throat at how painful even that slight movement was, but they couldn’t stop now.

Hero braced themselves and stepped away from the wall, huffing out a few laboured breaths before they pushed the arrow through their body. Hero stomped their foot, their neck muscles tense as they glared at the sky, letting out huffing breaths of pain and whining in the back of their throat until the arrow fell to the ground on the other side.

The wound started pooling blood but Hero tried their best to ignore it, staunching the bleeding with the wad of cloth bandages they kept on them at all times. It would have to do.

Hero side stepped to the corner of the alley, peaking out around the corner, expecting Villain to appear at the end of the Warehouses with their bow poised and ready, already aiming at Hero’s head, but… it was quiet. Silent.

Eerily so.

Hero glanced down at the leftover bandages, considering if they should even try to do anything with their hip but… no. They should wrap it tight and then continue out, looking for cover. They weren’t going to be able to fight Villain again like this, they were too crafty, too cunning and unpredictable, and unlike Hero, they could fight from the shadows and still devastate Hero with their arrows.

Hero wrapped the bandage around their hip, crossing and pulling it tight but not too tight, and tucking the end into a strip before they straightened again, scanning the warehouses across from them. If they could get between the next two warehouse, they would be home clean if they could make it to the street. Hero could lose themselves in the narrow streets instead of running through the wide open space, that only really gave Villain any advantage in the fight.

Hero waited, listened, and when they were satisfied they heard nothing, Hero stepped out of the alley. They had to be quick. They walked with strong steps, careful not to put too much pressure on their injured leg, even if every step no matter how light sent new volts of agony spiking through their body.

Halfway across.

Hero was doing good.

Then the warehouses turned, and Hero frowned and the ground rushed up to meet them. Hero shot their hands out and cried out when they took their weight on their bad shoulder, barely suppressing a scream.

What?! What happened? Did their leg go from under them? Hero pushed themselves up but the world spun again and they felt like they were going to get sick. The strength left them as they tried to push themselves up again but fell face down, and this time they did scream when the arrow lodged in their hip was pushed further inside them.

All energy had been zapped from them, the world dizzying, turning over itself and in and out of focus as Hero tried to blink. Had they lost too much blood? What was—

Loud, echoing footsteps sounded through the warehouse strip, deafening the closer they got to Hero. Hero saw them, Villain’s legs, their bow handing by their side.

“Hero, Hero, Hero,” Villain tsked, the words running together and echoing off Hero’s skull. Villain stopped beside Hero and crouched, slapping Hero’s cheek. Hero whined in reply. “Still with me, hmm?”

They could feel Villain’s eyes roam over them, but they couldn’t tell what they were thinking, what they were observing. Hero tried to speak but their tongue felt fat and heavy in their mouth so all they could do was whine.

A sharp slap to the shoulder and Hero cried out into the darkness, but they couldn’t move, they couldn’t struggle away. Thinking became too much of an effort and they had no idea what was happening to them. They flexed their fingers but only their pinky twitched in front of their face.

“Paralysis poison,” Villain supplied, as if reading Hero’s mind. Hero’s body suddenly ran cold with terror. Villain chuckled darkly. “Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t put it inside you, and it’s not permanent, no.”

Villain grabbed Hero’s shoulder and turned them onto their back none-too-gently. Hero could only glare up at them as best they could. Hoping they were threatening, bur probably not.

“See, Hero,” Villain said, walking their fingers down Hero’s neck to their shoulder and pressing in until Hero cried out. “I know all about your little habits, your frankly, unhealthy habits, because we’ve been fighting for so long. I know you take two sugar in tea with a dash of milk and you like the croissants on fifth for breakfast.”

If Hero could, they know their body would be trembling, but their body may as well have been stone with how still it was. Villain continued walking their fingers down from Hero’s shoulder to their hip. Hero let out a low whine of protest that sounded pathetic even to their ears.

Villain’s amused eyes met Hero’s terrified ones. They wanted to shake their head and beg Villain not to touch that wound. To their surprise, Villain didn’t touch the arrow, just prodded at the wound around it until Hero sang with screams of pain.

“And I know that you would rather disappear into the night, and live to fight another day when you’re bested, so I adapted. You probably didn’t notice in your pain, but I coated the shafts of the arrows with a paralysis poison that turns your muscles off for about an hour or two, long enough for me to hunt you and let the poison take effect.”

They dug their fingers into the wound until Hero was practically growling their screams were so guttural.

“Now, one arrow, sure, maybe you touch it, maybe you don’t, but two?” Villain whistled. “Two points of contact to deal with while running? I know you would rather have one weakness, so I coated them both and waited until you exposed yourself. And hey presto, here you are, and here I am.”

Villain leaned in closer to Hero’s face, smiling down at them with a cruelty creasing their eyes. “And this time, sweet Hero. There will be no running away. I’m taking you home with me.”

Villain laughed at Hero’s blank expression except for their wide, terrified eyes. “No? Okay, tell you what. If you object in the next five seconds, you can walk free. Is that fair? Ready? Five.”

Hero whined in the back of their throat, trying to make any other noise they could that would signal a protest because they couldn’t go home with Villain!

“Four.”

Nobody… Hero… what if they had more of the paralysis poison and just left Hero like this to do with as they pleased?

“Three.”

Hero tried to pant out sudden, sharp cries. Villain grinned wickedly down at them, running their gloved fingers over Hero’s cheek.

“So eager for me, Hero. Don’t worry, I’m eager two.”

Hero screamed and all that came out of their mouth was a whimper.

“One. No protest? Okay then. If you insist.” Villain slung their bow across their back, fastening it to the quiver before they scooped Hero up, one hand across their upper back resting on Hero’s injured shoulder to the shrieks of Hero, and the other under their knees. “Oh, I can’t wait until I get you home, Hero. You don’t know how many things I want to do to you.”

Hero screamed at their body to struggle, to wiggle free, to do anything, but the only part of themselves that Hero could move were their eyes that were fixed staring up at Villain as Villain carried them away. They glanced down at Hero, smiling with a terrifying glee.

“You really shouldn’t have been so predictable, Hero, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to catch you. And now that I have you…” Villain trailed off, stopping in front of a car. They clicked a button and the boot of the car raised. Fear shot through Hero as sudden as being dunked in an ice bath when Villain put Hero into the boot. Villain reached a hand down to stroke Hero’s cheek. “I am never letting you go.”

[oxideblack]

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #6

Trope of the day: not realising they're injured

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Caretaker closes the door behind them, glad they're safe for the moment. They look at Whumpee who catches their breath, leaning against the wall. A small laugh escapes them, adrenaline still pumping through their body.

"How the hell did we get out of there?", they ask and look at Caretaker, sweat on their forehead. Their face is pale, but maybe it's just the cold light they're bathed in.

"We aren't out yet, kid. But we should take the breather and plan ahead," Caretaker mutters and looks around the room. Whumpee grunts a little and tries to open the windows, hoping they can escape through them.

"Fuck. They're locked," Whumpee spits and breathes out shakily. Something is wrong. Caretaker furrows their brows and takes a step closer, finally catching a glimpse of Whumpee's dark shirt.

It's wet.

Glistening. With something that isn't sweat.

Reaching out, they touch Whumpee's abdomen, hand coming back smeared with blood. Whumpee looks down at Caretaker's hand, they look each other in the eyes. "Oh," Whumpee says, their knees buckling under their weight a second later.

Caretaker catches them, helping them lie down on the floor. Neither thought they were hit once the shootout began. Neither realises until now.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Whumptober Day 6

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

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 800

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: cave-in, aftermath, worry, panic attack, blood, concussion, passing out

A/N: Get dual-whumped, my pretties, with the double-edged sword of emotional whump and physical whump combined >:3

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Killian paced back and forth at the camp, fiddling with the borrowed pistol as if trying to interrogate it for information. Perhaps he was. Information that Jas was alive. That she was okay. That she had survived the cave-in with barely a scratch, found another way out, and was just now on her way back.

The alternative was too much to consider even for a moment. Killian flicked the safety on and off, on and off.

On and off.

Jas wasn't the only one caught on the other side of the collapsing rubble. Killian couldn't remember the man's name, which should've bothered him more than it did. The way the others at the camp talked, there was enough worry for him. Not enough for Jas.

Should he even be worrying about Jas? She'd come out of worse situations practically unscathed. She had an almost supernatural knack for getting herself out of certain death, defying the odds, laughing, and cracking jokes in the face of danger. Killian clicked through the pistol's chambers. He'd unloaded it, paranoid he would accidentally fire it from messing with it too much. Given how everyone occasionally glanced his way, they still expected him to set it off without warning.

If Jas was injured, she would've found a way to get to him. To get a message across that she was alive, but needed help. No news was good news? He hoped so.

Killian wasn't sure what he would do if Jas was dead.

Although the thought crossed his mind briefly, it was enough for his hands to start shaking, his breathing and heartbeat to quicken. He sank to the ground, clutching at his chest, all the terror he'd been so desperately ignoring now flooding through him like a raging storm.

Throughout the vast majority of his memory, Killian had been around a number of people, for different periods of time. He had been with Jas the longest, having been an accidental companion since shortly after his arrest in Saint's Shoal on Somnia. They'd escaped from jail together, seen each other through the dreamshaper mess, and even traveled across several worlds through the power of a Jumper's Pendant.

To go on without her... to go on alone again....

Dying alongside her almost seemed the better option.

Shouts drew his attention, one of the scouts on watch sprinting into camp, yelling about survivors. Killian sprang to his feet and staggered, the sudden motion making his head spin and his vision tunnel. He grunted, pressing a hand to his temple as the dizzy spell passed.

Could it be? Could she have---?

He holstered his pistol and ran with the rest to the edge of camp, just as the survivors came into view from around the rocky outcrop. "Jas!" He yelled, running to her. He would have embraced her if she wasn't bearing most of the weight of the other survivor, barely conscious and bleeding heavily from a wound on the side of his head.

Jas gave him a tired grin. She was covered in blood, dust, and debris, her clothes were torn, and her hair a faded grayish red. "Hey, did'ya miss me?"

Killian could only nod as the scout took charge of the other survivor, taking his weight off Jas and leading him to the medical tent. "I..." he stammered, "I thought you were...."

"Dead?" Jas teased as she began to follow the scout. "I know I'm covered in blood and rock, but it's not my blood, and I've gone through worse."

Killian frowned, looking her up and down as he trailed after her. "Are you sure about that?" he asked softly, noting a gash on her forehead and the numerous small cuts on her arms and hands.

"I told you," Jas repeated, turning to face him, "I'm fine. Besides, he's worse off, and they should tend to his injuries before they get to..." she paused uncertainly, eyes briefly unfocusing.

"Jas?"

She shook her head, but instead of fixing whatever had come over her, the motion seemed to make it worse. She staggered, and before Killian realized what was happening, her legs buckled underneath her and she collapsed to the ground.

Killian cried out, immediately at her side. "Medic!" he shouted, shaking her shoulder desperately, "medic!"

"Out of the way!" The medic forced her way through the small crowd around them. "Help me get her to the tent!" she ordered, and Killian obeyed without question, cradling Jas in his arms as he ran to the tent.

Please, please be okay. We've gone through too much together for you to die from a bunch of rocks.

[licht1900]

whumptober | ᴅᴀʏ ₆

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⁀➷ prompt/title: ❝not realising they're injured❞ ⁀➷ fandom: one piece ⁀➷ pairing: blackleg sanji/roronoa zoro ⁀➷ rating: teen and up audiences ⁀➷ genre: mild hurt/comfort, light angst; injury, blood ⁀➷ word count: 1,036 ⁀➷ chapters: 1/2

❝ ⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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[wisheduponastar]

*･༓˚✧ ❝(𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭) 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐞❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « Whumptober Day 5 & 6 »

Wordcount : 3.2k / Read on Ao3

Sunburn | healing salve | heatstroke | “if my pain will stretch that far” (Day 5)  &   Not realising their injured | unhealthy coping mechanisms | healed wrong | “don’t worry, it’s not my blood” (Day 6)

Summary : In which Faramir was set on fire for slightly longer. This changes nothing for the world, and almost everything for him. The pain that now wracks his body where his scars as, how little he can walk before everything hurts. But Faramir stays with how the world is.

Unchanging. Even when he should help himself.

TWs : Chronic pain, nerve damage, internalised ableism

It has been long enough that the news of the Steward being burnt has spread around all of Minas Tirith. A fact that Faramir still doesn’t know how to address. He does not like it when people only look at him with pity in their eyes, when whispers begin to follow him. Of how horrible it is - of whom could possibly do that to their cities Steward? People seem much more willing to talk openly about you if they feel they are being sympathetic.

But some part of Faramir is glad that people know about it. That when they see the burn scars, they react with horror and only a little shock. People can be prepared when they see him, for what is about to happen. Although they seem to be more confident about looking at his burn scars; as though because people are aware of his condition he is inviting people to look. That even though they’ve probably been told what his burns look like they still view them as unprecedented. But not shocking anymore, at the very least.

It hasn’t been long enough for Faramir to share all the details.

He will never say what actually happened on the night he got his burns. That has stayed between very few people, and will remain like that for the rest of his days. He also does not share the details of what his burns are like, still. Not even to the people he has otherwise trusted.

Faramir would never look down on someone for needing something to help them, and he hopes that that kindness would be extended to him. The logical subconscious of himself says that people would accept whatever he tells them. But the larger, emotional part of him says that he will be shunned for it. That he is weak. That he will bring shame. He is not as worthy as- Sometimes the voices take a tone that is not only him, and he tries to ignore it. But he still listens to it.

The people closest to him know about the start of the damage he sustained from the fire. How the touch and feeling of objects he used to have now seems far away from him, at least on his right side. His left side can still mainly touch - although a veil still lies on the finer part of his senses - but his right side only has memories of it. But his right side has not forgotten pain. Not by any means has it forgotten pain. There is remarkable accuracy in how much it feels like the original burning, when he puts too much pressure on it.

And of course, this pain does not just extend to his arm. It is all of his body that has burnt, and fortunately his right side has garnered the most consequences. But his right side refers to his leg as well. A leg that now hurts, when he tries to put pressure on it. That does not feel correctly - struggles to distinguish from his own touch and the pressing of a wall, or blunt dagger - and also he cannot truly stand on. Faramir had never appreciated how hard it was to simply balance, until one of his legs cannot feel properly. Until he spends time standing in front of a full length mirror - simply standing - to get his posture presentable enough to stand next to the king.

Faramir cannot even manage to stand right. After only ten minutes his leg begins to hurt, after twenty it feels like he is on fire again. The flames do not gnaw at all of him but the parts that are being damaged are excruciating. In front of the mirror Faramir practises covering up the grimaces he makes and shutting down the whimpers. In total, Faramir feels he is able to stand and walk for maybe five hours of his day. If he pushes himself. Which, when Gondor is on the line, of course he does.

The design of Minas Tirith does not help either - although the city will forever have his heart. A lot of the floor already feels like he is walking on marbles, or as though a part of him is bobbing on a river, and stairs do not help with that. Try as he might, he also struggles to gauge how high he needs to lift his leg. If he miscalculates badly enough then the pain of his shin colliding with the step will correct him. If not, the small lurch before he is able to steady himself lets him know. Faramir has tried to adapt by walking closer to the wall - so that he can steady himself if he needs to. The only helping hand he will accept is his own.

A hand that steadies himself for as long as he isn’t suspicious, before he keeps walking. Faramir is glad to have spent so much of his life treading the same steps, knowing every path he can take to get to every location. Before the injury he’d be able to give you an estimate of how long it would take to walk, although it would inevitably vary. Now he can tell you practically to the minute. Not only is everything planned, to make sure he can walk through his day without needing to collapse, but there is almost no variation in his walking speed. The benefit that isn’t truly a benefit, but is one of the only positives that Faramir can find (that he is desperately searching for).

Like always Faramir’s day is planned - meticulously, and to an unusual amount. Or unusual for other people. The small scrap of parchment he now always has - and always tries to hide - is securely in his pocket. The inked words on it detail his plans for the day, where he is going and how long it will take to walk here. What route he should take - sometimes a few options. When it will be quicker to take stairs, but he will have to take stairs. Today is a harder day for him. There is walking for around four and a half hours. A fact that worries him enough to have breakfast brought to him. So he does not have to spare the steps.

Hidden in the deepest alcoves of his room is Faramir’s cane. If it can be called that. It is a branch he has carved to be the correct height for him. He always gets the nagging feeling that something about it is wrong, and he’s certain something is, but he doesn’t use it enough to try. On days like this the cane begs him to use it. He will still have half an hour to walk once the day is over. He is not so weak as to need it.

Looking down at the list, Faramir can feel his relief as he looks down at the meeting. It is a smaller one, with the king and members of the Stonemasons guild. He can feel his legs burning, but they have been doing this for long enough that he is used to it. He will survive, surely. He can at least focus on simple conversation for less than an hour. Like always, Faramir is the only one in the room. There’s always been an enjoyable aspect of getting to meetings earlier, of pouring over notes and getting everything right, but now Faramir does it so people will not see him struggle. Will not see the relief that, if he fails to hide it, appears on his face when he sits down. And, of course, less people will watch him walk. It always gets worse as he is about to sit down - as though his right leg recognises he is about to be able to give up. Not that the pain goes away, leaving it always unsatisfying. He’s been at the table just enough for him to read over his notes three times, and for his leg to exchange the burning to a throbbing, when the doors are opened again to let his king in.

Faramir never knew how grateful he would be that his king did not enforce fully formal bows. But now, as he simply dips his head as a form of respect, he silently thanks the king. For such a small decision. But one that has helped so much. Aragorn smiles at his steward, entirely unsurprised, and goes to sit at his place at the table. There’s a moment of silence before Aragorn speaks again, “Is there any news of today I should be aware of?”

Thinking for a second, Faramir glances at his notes. “Nothing from what I have attended, although some news may still come. Any news from you?”

“Today has been a good day.” A slightly more serious look enters Aragorn’s eyes, “It would almost seem as though the steward is busier than the king.”

“Perhaps Gondor only had more mundane tasks.” The dance of words they do, Aragorn worrying about him while Faramir reassures there is no burden, is not a new one. Both parties know almost all the steps, exactly how it should play out, and what lines the other will say. Today Aragorn seems in a slightly better mood, and some part of Faramir thinks perhaps he will win. And then the door opens, and the Stonemasons enter the room. This time Faramir does rise - thankful his hands are already on the table to steady himself, and that there are few of them. Enough for his bow to be short, and for him to slip back into his seat. Around forty minutes left, something in the back of his mind whispers.

“The weather is fair today, my lords.” There is truly no better conversation starter, and it is a predictable one. And then the stonemason continues, “There is good sunlight, perhaps we could have this discussion outside? The gardens are lovely, after your restoration. And our proposed building is easily viewable.”

So there is a reason for them to move. To go outside. One that would make his king’s job easier, and one that Faramir should accept if he is a good steward. He keeps silent, instead looking to Aragorn. The king seems mainly convinced, his grey eyes staring to where they would be walking, and Faramir swallows before taking it upon himself to speak. “If our king finds it an appropriate meeting place, I see no reason why not. The Astor gardens are beautiful at this time of year.”

With consent from his steward Aragorn is quick to accept the proposal, and so it is agreed that they shall all go to the gardens. Together. Gardens that will be… he’s never gone to the gardens from the king’s chambers - it’s an impractical use of his time. Maybe ten minutes, he estimates. Less if they use the stairs. Which of course the group does - it is the practical option. Faramir goes to the back of the group, next to the wall, and is thankful that the masons keep talking even when they are travelling. It distracts from his fumble down the steps, almost imperceptible but now certainly unnoticeable. It means that when Faramir makes his suggestions they are short, not long pieces of prose to fill the time - and therefore his voice does not get more clipped as more pain seeps in. The group makes it with half an hour to spare, and then he sees the stonemason go up to the wall to gaze out at it. Because if you are going to look over a wall, of course you should be standing up. Why on earth would you not? Why would you assume one of the men beside you cannot even go to a meeting without sitting down?

All of these thoughts flash in Faramir’s mind - although he takes care not to show them on his face, or voice them out loud. He talks and listens and gives advice as if this was any other meeting, ignoring the fact his right leg feels more and more as though it is standing on rocks. Or perhaps slowly heating coals. Thankfully, the meeting goes quickly. Their demands are more reasonable than either prepared for, and as such Aragorn is quick to agree. A murmur goes around that a second meeting should be arranged, to finalise and smooth out details that the stonemasons currently lack, but mercifully they do not plan dates at this time. He watches the representatives leave, a tiny part of weight off his chest. And his mind helpfully supplies him with five minutes. He has made it to them going.

He cannot make it further than that.

At some point Faramir has lent on the wall - pretending to gaze into the city of Minas Tirith and imagine what stonework could be crafted there. Now it will be a struggle to even push himself off it. Looking around, his gaze falls to the nearby bench and he goes to it, surprised he doesn’t trip over his feet. The marbles the floor usually feels like it is made out of now feel like hot coals, and Faramir can feel the pain shooting up through most of his body. But it is better now than with the pressure on it. A sigh, from this partial form of relief, just escapes his lips before he realises that his king is still next to him.

Or at least close by, turning when he hears Faramir. Is it a turn because of pain, or simply of convenience? Eyes falling to his steward, Aragorn asks, “May I join you?”

“Of course, my king.” Faramir can never quite shake off the conventions of royalty, especially so soon after a meeting, although he knows the annoyance it causes. “Ah, my apologies.”

“You never fail to apologise.” Sitting down beside him, Aragorn takes in more of the scenery. “And yet you never fail to give me formal address.”

“Old habits?” Faramir suggests, a small smile on his face. Not that he has ever addressed a king before now. And even Lord Denethor he would mostly address as father.

Aragorn gives a non-committal hum, “You seemed preoccupied, towards the last stretch of our meeting.”

Faramir knows that much, although he hoped it wouldn’t be picked up on. “Then I must apologise again. I hope I did not say anything too damaging.”

“You were sound in your service, Faramir; that much, it seems, is a fact (although I know not why you insist on this level of perfection). I simply want to make sure that you are well.”

“Simply tired, my lord.” It’s technically the truth, and as such Faramir can bear to say it to his king.

“Only tiredness?” 

“You were the one to comment on the length of my duties.” He makes his tone lighter, and is rewarded by Aragorn’s face looking slightly less serious.

“The steward finally admitting to the excess of his workload. Some may think this day would not have come.”

Faramir wants to interpret this as simply jest, a way to lighten the mood - as he knows Aragorn does. But there is something deeper in his king’s statement, something more probing and questioning. Something Faramir does not acknowledge, merely given a shamed laugh slightly too late.

A silence settles in, itself becoming awkward and turning the summer air around them into more of a chill. Faramir is uncomfortably aware of his king, and how close he is to certain truths; the right side of the steward is still acting up, making its displeasure known. He conceals his pain well enough, nothing showing on his face - instead manifesting in a slightly tighter grip of the bench. Aragorn seems to be searching for something in his steward’s eyes, and Faramir feels he can guess what it is. 

“Something is troubling you beyond a lack of sleep.” The statement is said gently but strongly, with no room for Faramir to argue against.

Still, he opens his mouth to protest. “I assure you-” “Faramir.” The interruption is just as gentle, and this time Aragorn seeks his steward’s eyes. “I should not have turned a blind eye to everything that has happened, should not have assumed the fire left you with only the visible scars it has.

I seek to remedy that, to atone for myself letting you struggle alone, and I implore you to let me.”

There is no judgement in Aragorn’s tone, only the promise of protection - the allure of safety. Something so soft and wanted after everything Faramir has been too that his heart aches for it. When he speaks his voice is shaky, but he will not allow himself to cry. “I do not wish to burden you, my king. The service you have done for our city is remarkable and your duty is first to…”

Surprisingly Aragorn does not interrupt, and lets Faramir begin to baselessly ramble about what Aragorn has so greatly done; the benefits his king has already provided and that he does not need more. But he wants more. He so desperately wants more. And, as Aragorn still does not interrupt, Faramir finds himself being able to say less and less. To deny himself less and less. In that moment Faramir realises that what he wants is to say ‘yes’. But he cannot, and instead lets himself weep.

There is no judgement as the king gathers him closer, his breathing calm - steady and comforting against Faramir’s rapid heartbeat. The hold is protective in a way that Faramir little experiences, and he dimly notices the king does not hold his right side. The only pain from them is what is already there, and as he sobs he focuses on it less.

Minutes go by, and eventually Faramir begins to straighten. To realise what he has done in the presence of his king.

“I will not have you be ashamed to weep, Faramir.” The words seem to gaze into Faramir’s mind. “Nor will I have you be ashamed of needing help, help that will always be offered freely. Now, what is it you need?”

“I-” Faramir allows himself to think, to slow down and try to realise. To see if he wants to answer the question as a whole, an overarching theory of his life, or what would help right now. “In current times or overall?”

“Whatever you are comfortable with.”

“I think… I shall need a cane.” The admission, once he has said it, seems so small. And the weight that has been removed from him is so much larger, even more buoyed when Aragorn simply nods. “As of right now, I am not sure. I must get from my chambers to here somehow.”

“Can you walk?” Aragorn’s question is concerned, but non-judgemental. A fact he is grateful for.

Until now, Faramir would have replied that he needs to - and that would be as far as it went. Now he takes longer to consider, to feel the burning pains. But he still does need to move. “May you… may you help me?”

Standing, the king offers his arm to his steward - careful his guidance is not painful, and that the two of them will make it. Together.

A/N : My mind seems to be enjoying focusing on chronic pain!Faramir, and hopefully it's nice to read? If we get to three maybe I'll make a collection. I'll be honest and say this turned out less gay than I thought it was going too, but I'm fine with that. On that topic - how do people feel about ships? I'm considering including some Aragorn/Faramir but I'm on the fence...

« Day 4 »

[perpetuallylatetothefandomparty]

Summary: There are intruders in the Castle, but Keith's fine to deal with them on his own. Right?

I did write this one late at night, but I swear it's meant to come across as a little unhinged haha

[mrmustachious]

Wear Your Helmet

Safety is the best accessory. Don’t forget your helmet!

Day 6: Not Realising They're Injured

“Don’t crash it.” Mikel stared at him pointedly as he handed over his helmet. “My dad will kill me.”

“Relax, will you? I’m not gonna crash it.” Gordon fit the helmet over his head and secured the strap. He then zipped up the jacket that he had also borrowed from his friend.

Mikel rolled the BMX over to him, and Gordon swung a leg over the seat. He adjusted his grip on the handles and got the pedals into a comfortable position, ready to kick off.

“Have fun!” Jayden sent Gordon a wave as he held up his phone to take some more footage. He had just had his turn on the bike, and had come back gushing about how fast he went and how much fun he’d had going over the ramps.

Gordon sent a thumbs up to the camera as he knew his face couldn’t be seen behind the visor, and then he pushed off from the ground and began to pedal.

Read on AO3

[arianaofimladris]

Whumptober 2024

Fandom: Batman (Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy)

Prompts filled: No. 6 Not realising they're injured No. 8 Sleep deprivation No. 13 Team as a family No. 15 Childhood trauma No. 16 Wound cleaning No. 30 Hospital bed

Summary: Alfred gets shot, Batman is wounded and Bruce Wayne gets some help from a friend.

"Have you seen yourself in a mirror? Don't go after them like this.” He grabbed him by the shoulder and Bruce almost screamed. What in the name…?

White, hot pain flared the left side of his back and for a moment Bruce saw nothing. Now that he thought of it, he doubted he had a single spot of untouched skin from his collarbone, down his back and left shoulder blade - an unlucky result of an unlucky motor chase Batman had had in the morning, which at some point had him dragged behind a vehicle he had been trying to get on. 

“Hey, I mean it.” Jim didn’t take his hand off his shoulder and Bruce was hard pressed to stay still as not to aggravate whatever was wrong there. “Go home, get some sleep, or dammit, go back there and sit with him if you need to. Just don't do anything stupid." 

"I don't do stupid," Bruce hissed when he was more confident he wouldn’t just yelp.

"Usually," Jim agreed. Whatever showed on Bruce's face, it made the commissioner soften. "You know, I promised Mr Pennyworth to keep an eye on you if something like this ever happened."

The whole story is under the cut below, or on AO3

"You still here?"

Bruce startled at the familiar voice directly over his head. He didn't realise he had nodded off, but as he looked up, he barely managed to prevent a gasp escaping his lips. His neck had gone stiff and the moment he shifted, his back reminded him why sudden movements were a poor idea - a testimony to a really rough night Batman had had, followed by a shitty day Bruce Wayne was having.

He wasn't even supposed to be here anymore, in the soulless waiting room. Alfred was out of surgery and safe in the hands of Gotham's best doctors. They had told Bruce they were going to keep the butler sedated till the next morning, but they assured him they had removed the bullet and that Alfred was expected to make a full recovery. There was little for Bruce to do at the hospital and he had meant to leave, just needed to sit for a moment... And apparently take an unplanned nap.

The waiting room was empty now, save for Bruce himself and for Jim Gordon standing over him. He was surprised to see the commissioner still at the hospital, but perhaps the investigation took this long, or perhaps he had been waiting to be able to talk to the witnesses of the robbery. While Alfred was still out of it, most of the people caught in the shooting had come relatively unscratched.

"I was about to leave." Bruce ran his hand down his face in a vain attempt to push the sleepiness away, then rose carefully. "Alfred's safe and I need to..." he made a vague gesture, knowing Jim would understand. The day was slowly ending. It was time for Batman to deal with some unfinished business from the previous night. If he was lucky, he would do that quickly and then perhaps catch a few hours of sleep before the next morning.

The commissioner must have picked all of that. "Have you seen yourself in a mirror? Don't go after them like this.” He grabbed him by the shoulder and Bruce almost screamed. What in the name…?

White, hot pain flared the left side of his back and for a moment Bruce saw nothing. Now that he thought of it, he doubted he had a single spot of untouched skin from his collarbone, down his back and left shoulder blade - an unlucky result of an unlucky motor chase Batman had had in the morning, which at some point had him dragged behind a vehicle he had been trying to get on. 

“Hey, I mean it.” Jim didn’t take his hand off his shoulder and Bruce was hard pressed to stay still as not to aggravate whatever was wrong there. “Go home, get some sleep, or dammit, go back there and sit with him if you need to. Just don't do anything stupid." 

"I don't do stupid," Bruce hissed when he was more confident he wouldn’t just yelp.

"Usually," Jim agreed. Whatever showed on Bruce's face, it made the commissioner soften. "You know, I promised Mr Pennyworth to keep an eye on you if something like this ever happened."

"I don't need minding." With one swift movement, Bruce escaped the hand abusing his back, but the comment let a bit of warmth in for the first time this long day. Of course Alfred would have thought of making sure Bruce was safe and not alone when the butler himself would be unable to see to that. With Jim knowing the truth now, it was possible.

"No, but you look like you could use a friendly face and a lift."

"I have a car here."

"You might want to verify that," Gordon snorted. "Next time you don't want your car towed, don't leave it parked at the entrance." There was more amusement than reproach in Jim's voice, though Bruce was aware he would not have been this easily excused under any other circumstances. "I can give you a lift to the police parking, if you promise to go home later."

"Thanks." Bruce simply nodded and followed his older friend. Perhaps he should indeed go to the penthouse first and at least take a shower. Now that he started moving again, he could feel that his t-shirt – his black Batman t-shirt he hadn’t had time to take off – was glued to his back. Perhaps he should also grasp something decent to eat, something that wasn’t a snack from a vending machine or yet another horrible coffee.

Once they reached Jim’s car, Bruce sank on the passenger seat and leaned forwards, dreading to put any pressure on his back. He had been pushing the pain and discomfort aside for most of the day, his mind too occupied with Alfred having been shot and undergoing a surgery, but now that he knew the butler was not in danger, the past thirty hours were finally catching up on him.

"Alright." Jim shut the doors and turned the engine on. Bruce glanced to the left and saw that the commissioner looking at him with visible concern, now that they were alone. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Bruce shrugged and winced. "Didn't have time to check, but I don't think it's anything serious. Just... Long day," he tried his usual easy smile, but the way Jim just glared at him told him it didn't really work. "Really, it's fine. Just drop me off and I will go home." He would be alright. Had anything been broken, he would have known by now. There was something definitely wrong with his left shoulder, likely a torn muscle or rotator from when he was dragged before he managed to pull himself on the motor. This, he could live with. Taping the abused muscles was probably going to be a challenge without Alfred’s help, but that was something Bruce preferred to deal once he was back in the penthouse.

"And see to whatever's on your back on your own? I don't think so." Jim commented when Bruce couldn't completely hide a pained hiss as he carefully leaned back to fasten the seatbelt. “We’ll go my place first and get you sorted.”

“Alright.”

They couldn’t risk talking freely in a police car, so the ride was filled first with awkward silence, then with Jim making vague comments about his day’s work – something a police commissioner could share with the local billionaire that was becoming his friend. Bruce didn’t really mind. They could probably talk about the details later, preferably with a strong coffee at hand.

The flat was empty. As Jim explained when they went in, his wife and daughter were visiting Barbara’s parents and Jimmy was still with his friend a few blocks away. Bruce took off his jacket and dark blue jumper in the cramped hallway, but when he tried to tug at his t-shirt, he couldn’t help but hiss.

"It's stuck," Bruce muttered at Jim's inquiring glance. He hated the idea of ripping open whatever abrasions he had there. "I should probably wet it first." He probed the fabric and winced. Something was definitely bleeding or oozing.

"The bathroom's down the hall, to the left," Jim offered and before Bruce could really object, he was given a dark grey towel. "I will try to find you something to wear. I'm afraid most of my clothes won't fit you, but I should have a loose t-shirt somewhere."

This wasn't like most of the situations when he had to interact with the Commissioner, either as Batman or as Bruce Wayne in public. They were usually business partners one way or the other, and rarely just friends.

"Jim." Bruce paused with a towel hanging awkwardly in his hands. Alfred was the only person who cared for him like that. "You don't need to do this."

"Yes, I do." Came the obvious reply. "Feel free to take a shower and let me know when you need help. I bet you want some coffee, God knows I do."

On rate occasions, usually when Bruce was dead on his feet, Alfred could make him feel like a boy. Somehow Gordon managed the same. Tired as he was, Bruce decided there was little point in arguing against what was a sound suggestion. He went to the bathroom like he was told, trying not to feel like he was invading someone's privacy.

Even under a steady stream of water, taking off his t-shirt proved to be an unpleasant process of tearing half dried abrasions open again. It didn't help that he couldn’t lift his left elbow above the shoulder level and that the black shirt he normally wore under Batman suit was a fitting one. Gritting his teeth, Bruce pulled the shirt over his head. He kept the showering short, aware that had he allowed himself to sit down there, he would have likely fallen asleep and probably caused alarm.

Once he got out and dried himself, grateful that the towel was dark, one look in the mirror made him abandon any hopes for taping his abused muscles. His shoulder blade and his back below was an angry mess of widespread oozing abrasions and bruises that were already turning dark purple, leaving hardly any space for tapes. Jim was right. There was no way he could dress it on his own.

"You alright there?" As if called, Jim tapped from the other side.

"Yeah." Bruce opened the door.

Gordon came in with a wooden kitchen stool and motioned his guest to sit. Bruce obeyed, glad that he wasn’t forced to do any twisting acrobatics in order to reach the wounds. He stayed still as Jim cleaned his back, trying not to hiss and flinch at the pressure.

“Almost done,” Gordon promised and Bruce didn’t miss the parental tone in his voice. “Can you hold the gauze? I’m out of plaster.”

“Sure.”

"Daddy? Is Batman here?"

Bruce froze at the question asked in a childish voice, his right hand pressing awkwardly the gauze over his left shoulder. He turned and saw Gordon's son standing in the hall, in a dark green hoodie still on and with a backpack on one shoulder.

Jim recovered first. "No, Jimmy. It's just Mr Wayne." 

"Oh." The boy looked perplexed for a moment, as if seeing Batman in his bathroom would have been less surprising. “Good evening.”

“Hello.” Bruce relaxed and decided some explanation was in order. "I… Well, I had a motor accident this morning, but then I was told my... Someone very close to me was taken to hospital, so I didn't get this cleaned. Your dad was kind to help me out,” he said, glad that he didn't exactly have to lie to the boy.

"Falling from a bike sucks," the boy nodded in understanding, then glanced at what he could still see of Bruce's back and winced. "Did you wear a helmet?" The stern look he gave him made Bruce chuckle.

"Yes, I did.”

“Ah, blast it,” Gordon shut the cupboard under the sink. “Jimmy, do you know where mum put band aids? I need more.”

“I have some!” The boy dropped his backpack and retrieved a Halloween themed package from a side pocket.

"Thanks, but these are too small. I need a roll."

"Not for this one," Jimmy pointed at a wound over Bruce’s elbow and handed him the biggest band aid with a toothy pumpkin and a grinning bat.

In the end Gordon secured the last gauze with a mix of regular and Halloween band aids, since the roll was nowhere to be found. Bruce struggled to put on a loose t-shirt Jim offered him and glanced in the mirror. He ended up having not one, but two bat band aids visible, one on his elbow and the other a little above it, because Jimmy claimed they were the best and the whole situation was too absurd for Bruce to argue.

“Dad, can we make supper now? I’m hungry.” Jimmy slipped back to the bathroom to wash his hands.

“Sure.”

“I have a restaurant nearby,” Bruce joined in. Now that the boy mentioned food, his own stomach reminded him he hadn’t had a normal meal since last evening. “If I order, they should deliver in about 25 minutes. They make the best pasta.”

Jimmy stared at him again. “So you can be like, erm, a normal guy,” the boy deadpanned and Bruce couldn’t help but laugh both at the comment and at Gordon’s exasperated expression.

“Sometimes, but that’s a secret.”

***

Much to his embarrassment, Bruce had fallen asleep on Gordon's sofa after they had eaten and he got some painkillers. Jimmy had been determined to show him something and Bruce complied. He had meant to call a taxi and go home, but somehow ended up dropping dead to the living world. He woke up around seven when Jimmy was already preparing for school and Jim renewed his offer to drop Bruce to the police parking. 

Bruce didn't argue. A night's sleep improved his comprehension, but sleeping on a coach did nothing good to his injuries. He had gone overnight from stiff and sore to barely able to move and his left shoulder was basically out of any use, as he learned the hard way when he put on his jumper and jacket.

Once he paid the fine and got his car back, Bruce went to the penthouse to at least attempt to make himself presentable, then packed a bag for Alfred and headed to the hospital. He was told the butler had woken up in the early morning, that he had been lucid and aware of his current condition and that he was now simply resting. Since no one forbade him to sit in Alfred's room, Bruce moved a plastic chair to the wall where he could sit and lean a bit on his good side.

Bruce rarely saw it, or rarely allowed himself to acknowledge it, but lying like this in a hospital bed, with monitoring machines still attached to him, Alfred looked fragile and old. In a way, this was a fear Bruce had yet to face and now that he was, he found himself struggling. Only now did he realise how much he had needed a friendly face and a hilarious at times distraction the previous evening. He would have to thank Jim again later.

Re-watching his parents die in a dream was a regular recurrence, but it was something that had already happened, a childhood wound that kept reminding of itself, but one that was like an old familiar ache. There was nothing Bruce could do about it except trying to improve the situation in Gotham, something he was still trying as Batman. However, the possibility of Alfred ever sharing the fate of Bruce's parents was another matter entirely. It could happen, considering the place they lived in. It almost did happen and for all his trying, Bruce – Batman – had not been able to prevent the attack. Alfred just happened to be in a wrong place at a wrong time, he was a random victim to yet another group of criminals trying to get some easy money from robbery.

Bruce drew a longer breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He thought he had his fears controlled, and yet, this time he seemed as lost as he had been in his worst years. He focused on the steady beeping of the machines. Alfred was right there, on his way to recovery. He wasn't-

"I don't usually see you awake at this hour, sir."

The comment came out soft and raspy, but as Bruce looked up, he saw the butler watching him fully awake.

"Morning, Alfred." He found himself grinning and breathing become a little easier. "Barely awake," he muttered with exasperation, unconsciously slipping right into their usual pattern. 

"I recon."

"Wait, take it easy, please." Bruce moved to adjust Alfred's bed to a more sitting position since the butler was trying to sit up. "How do you feel?"

The butler paused for a moment. "Alright, considering." He didn’t try to move again. "But I think I missed something, master Wayne." There was some mirth in Alfred's voice and a hint of smile, but his eyes were clearly scanning Bruce for what he could not see under the clothing.

Bruce glanced down and realised Alfred was looking at the band aids with bats he still had on his arm. The hospital room was warm and he had taken off his jumper.

"Ah." he chuckled. "That. A little motor accident last morning. Don't worry, Jim Gordon helped me sort it out." He didn't intend to mention how poorly he was feeling at the moment. He was only functioning, if barely, thanks to the strongest painkillers he found at the penthouse, ones that still allowed him to drive a car afterwards. But Alfred had been shot, so Bruce wasn’t going to let him worry right now. “His son helped.”

"Very accurate. I think you should buy more of these while there’s still season, sir,” Alfred suggested lightly, but he didn’t look entirely convinced by Bruce’s dismissal. "I'm afraid you will have to manage the house and the rest without me for a bit. I doubt they will just let me go home today.” 

“Not in a week at least, I asked,” Bruce replied. He didn’t want Alfred out of full hospital care until they were sure it was safe for him to leave.

“Then you will have to deal with the window cleaning service, master Wayne.” Alfred looked mildly terrified, as if the idea was offensive. “They’re scheduled for Friday, you’ll find the details in my planer.”

“I’ll tell Ann to reschedule that. I'm sure we can survive without window cleaning for the next month,” Bruce shrugged him off. That wasn’t something he wished to deal with now.

Alfred didn’t seem at all amused. “I’m sure we can’t, sir”.

“Alright, alright.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a nurse. She was about to help Alfred with hygiene, so Bruce was asked to leave. Since the butler was likely to go back to sleep soon anyway, Bruce decided to check on the Wayne Enterprises and come back during meal time, in case Alfred needed some assistance. He was also going to see his physiotherapist and sell her the same motor accident excuse to have her help him with redressing his wounds for the next few days.

Perhaps he was even going to deal with that window cleaning service.

[discordzero]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: DCU, Batman - All Media Types

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Jason Todd & Everyone, Orignial Male Character(s) & Everyone

Characters: Jason Todd, Original Character(s) - Character, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown, Tim Drake (DCU), Cassandra Cain, Mentioned Damian Wayne - Character, mentioned Duke Thomas - Character

Additional Tags: Jason Todd has DID, Author has DID, Self-Harm, Untreated Wound, the tags make this feel darker than it is, this fic has an oddly light tone

Series: Part 2 of Jason Todd but he has DID

Summary:

Peter was not usually in charge of the body. He still did his best.

[6kate1bishop6]

As much as she wished to give as good as she got, Allison knew this match was too important to risk getting carded. When the whistle blew and she gained possession of the ball, she didn’t fight back when the other dealer shoved her to the floor.

It reminded her of her childhood in the worst way possible. Hits that kept coming and a passive smile plastered over her face. Allison found herself counting down the minutes until the end of the match.

The only saving grace was watching her strikers play.

---

the foxes play the bearcats, a team determined to eliminate a player through any means necessary

whumptober day 6: not realising they're injured | unhealthy coping mechanisms | healed wrong | "it's not my blood"

[what-if-i-just-did]

Guilt & Revenge: Not Realising They're Injured

Whumptober, Day 6: Not Realising They're Injured

Guilt & Revenge Masterlist

Yay more caretaking!! Noah-Elise my BAByy. As always, hope ya'll enjoy, please lmk to be added to the taglist!

TWs: previous captivity/torture that caused medical issues, blood, hyperventilation, crying, dissasociation and mentions of scars, knives and yelling

Amber was making dinner. It was a nice routine they’d settled in, by now.

He’d been home for.. a few months. After about a month, when he’d started to feel a little more human, Noah-Elise had dropped a bit of a bombshell. She was engaged, and lived with her fianceé… who was currently at her parents’ to give them some space, and was it okay if she came back?

Somewhere, he’d felt a flicker of pride and happiness for his best friend, getting engaged. It was almost completely drowned out by the sadness of having missed so much of everyone’s lives, and terror at the idea of a person he didn’t know coming to live with them. Just being around people, even if it was Noah-Elise, terrified him.

He held the boiler under the tap to fill it with water, then turned it on. Ravonna was… okay, actually. She was kind, and respectful, and calm. It was a little unsettling in a way. She still terrified him. She seemed to be aware of that though, and often stayed out all day to give him space, which he appreciated.

So that was their little routine. Noah-Elise would go to her part-time jobs, Ravonna would go out for jogs or dance classes or swimming competitions, and Amber would just do chores around the apartment, or sit unbothered on his own. It was peaceful for him, and he didn’t have to be terrified of the next torture session. He wasn’t even in pain anymore, all of his wounds had healed. The scars wouldn’t go away any time soon, but he mostly wore long sleeves and stuff, so only the one on his cheek was visible most of the time, or some of the ones around his neck depending on the shirt. He glanced at the clock and frowned. 

Noah-Elise would be home any minute, dinner wouldn’t be ready yet. He should’ve started earlier. He sighed, grabbing a cutting board. 

Using the knives for cooking had scared him a bit at first, because they were very large and very sharp, but they looked nothing like the knives on the boat so… 

He still had some issue being on dry land, even after months. He hadn’t told anyone he was kept on a boat though, so he hadn’t brought it up. The feeling of the floor rocking didn’t make him nauseous anymore like it had in the beginning, but it was deeply disturbing to him.

And inconvenient.

He was content with his new little life, even if he was still terrified a lot, and got nightmares, and… well, it didn’t matter. He was getting better, he was happy here. 

Amber heard a key in the door, and turned to greet Noah-Elise. The greeting died in his throat when he saw her expression. She looked stressed, kind of shocked. Very alarmed.

Which, in turn, was alarming to him. He shuffled nervously.

“Amber! What happened!”, she yelled, making him flinch. 

“What- what’s wrong?”, he stammered, lowering his head- and then he caught a glimpse of red that made his vision swim.

Noah-Elise marched over, dropping her backpack on the floor. She reached for him, and he flinched away, but she grabbed his hand. Vaguely, he could feel her turn his hand around, hear her talk to him, see the blood all over his hand and clothes. He couldn’t think, his mind was racing, he was frozen, he was breathing too fast. Finally, his mind caught onto one thing- the blood that was not only on his clothes, but also the counters and the floor and the FOOD and the, and, and.. 

“I’m s- sorry, I’m sorry, I-I-I-” It was incredibly difficult, trying to apologize through his elevated breaths and the tears streaming over his face and the stubborn fog in his mind… he wasn’t sure if the words were really reaching his mouth.

“Hey, look at me, Amber..” Oh, he could hear Noah-Elise again. Instantly, he shut his mouth, and looked up at her. “Can you breathe with me?”

He shook his head, but tried anyway, and it.. kind of worked.

“Do you know what happened?”

He shook his head.

“You cut your thumb, Am. Pretty deep. I put bandages on it, see?”

He looked over. Oh. He wouldn’t’ve thought enough time passed for her to do that but.. apparently he’d been more dissociated than he thought. Fuck. 

“You’re- you’re not mad?” He needed the confirmation. She wasn’t acting mad but..

“I promise I’m not mad, Am. You have nothing to be sorry for. How about you go lie down, and I’ll tidy up and make us dinner, huh?”

He wanted to protest and apologize and say he should tidy up after himself.

Numbly, he nodded, and went to lie down in his bed. A little later, Noah-Elise came over, talking gently. 

“How you doing, bestie?”

“Little overwhelmed but… better. Thank you.” He smiled, breathing deeply and calmly.

“Okay, that’s good. Ravonna got home, I don’t think you noticed. She’s making dinner, it’ll be done soon. I cleaned up the blood, will you be okay to go back to the kitchen?”

Amber shook his head before he even thought about it. 

“Okay, no worries, you can eat in here. We’ll give you some space.” She shot him a reassuring smile before getting up to leave.

“Wait!”, came out of his mouth before he thought about it.

“What?”

“I’m just… thank you. I love you.” 

He was so so grateful to her. He was lucky to be her friend, always had been.

She smiled at him, soft and proud. “I’m just glad to have you back. I missed you, Am.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. He’d missed her too.

[kalira]

Through a Battle, Sidelong

Written for @whumptober, Day 6

Prompts: Not Realising They're Injured “It's not my blood.”

T; 2k Tugger/Misto, Bombalurina

Another clowder challenges for the Junkyard and they will defend their home, as they always do - as any cat would - but battles are messy things, snarls and shadows, blood and bone. . .

[spiltcandycoatedpunkblood]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Adventures of Tintin (2011) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine/Tintin, Archibald Haddock & Tintin, Milou | Snowy & Tintin, Nestor & Tintin (Tintin) Characters: Tintin (Tintin), Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine, Milou | Snowy, Archibald Haddock, Nestor (Tintin) Additional Tags: Major Character Injury, Bruises, Scratching, Scars, Insecurity, Vulnerability, Bars and Pubs, Exhaustion, Negotiations, Attraction, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Self-Reflection, Psychological Trauma, Stress Relief, Coping, Touch-Starved, Touching, Past Violence, Self-Denial, Head Injury, Headaches & Migraines, Chance Meetings, Erections, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Photographs, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Eye Contact, Embarrassment, Staring, Fantasizing, Objectification, References to Canon, Intimacy, Affection, Older Man/Younger Man, Age Difference, Anxiety, Sex for Favors, Explicit Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Anger, Lust, Desire, Newspapers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Secret Relationship, Enemy Lovers, Feelings Realization, Voice Kink, Hands, Whump, Whumptober 2024, no.6, not realising they're injured, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Prequel, Green Eyes Series: Part 6 of Tintin Whumptober 2024, Part 1 of “You were just looking for trouble in that bar, weren’t you?”

[ramsaybaggins]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard | Edward Teach Additional Tags: Whumptober 2024, Stede Bonnet Whump, Whump, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Stede Bonnet Loves Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Blackbeard | Edward Teach Loves Stede Bonnet Series: Part 6 of Whumptober 2024 Summary:

"Ed!" he grinned. "Looks like it's going pretty well, eh?" He must have spotted Ed's expression as his smile faltered. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Ed said incredulously - almost yelled. "Stede, you've been fucking stabbed!"

Whumptober 2024 day 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED