#first aid medical whump

[victimeyez]

For the drabbles thing, has there ever been a moment when Caius has worried that Tommy is dead, either because he or one of their clients took things too far? Im curious to know what his reaction would be, and if he would care at all about losing him.

AHHH thank you so much for the ask! This was fun to write. Nearly losing Tommy made Caius realize for the first time just how much he cared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stay

Part of Professional//Victim

See tags for content warnings

____________________________________________________________

Things had been going good.Over a year in, and Tommy was a hit. They had enough requests for him to book out the next year, at least. 

So Caius did what he promised himself he would never do: he got sloppy. 

He managed to get Tommy in the car, sprawling him across the back.

“Give me your arm, come on.”

Tommy was breathing shallowly, and his face was ghostly pale in the dim light of the streetlamp nearby. 

Caius frantically checked his pockets for his phone, finding it tucked in the last one he checked. He unlocked it with shaking hands and got into his speed dial with a few quick presses, sandwiching it between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with his first aid kit. The one time he leaves it in the car, goddamnit. 

Sam answered just before it went to voicemail, his voice drowsy. 

“Caius? What time is it?”

“Two AM, rise and shine.” He tried to keep the panic from his voice. He found Tommy’s wrist and turned out his arm. His blood looked black in the light, spewing shockingly fast from the gash parting his ivory skin.

“Sam, Tommy’s hurt bad, they definitely got an artery. I’m working on a tourniquet – what do I do?”

“Fuck,” Sam responded, his voice slightly clearer. 

“-Where is the bleed? How big? How deep?”

“Arm, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Caius rushed, pulling the roll of gauze out and struggling to find where it started for a second before he started to wrap it around Tommy’s arm.

“Give me something to work with here, what’s going on?”

Tommy moaned in pain when Caius bound it tightly, startling slightly out of his stupor. 

“Tommy? Stay with me buddy, stay with me. Sam, you’re going to have to meet me.”

“Jeez, okay, where are you right now?”

The bandage was darkening fast while he prepared the tourniquet. Which step was first again? He couldn’t remember anything, his head was reeling in a blind panic. 

He paused long enough to send his location to Sam before pinching the phone back against his shoulder.

“I’m here, pick the best halfway point and send it back to me right now, go NOW.”

He could hear rustling on the phone, hopefully the sound of Sam heading his way. 

“Give me thirty seconds and I’ll send it and head out. But hey, if you lose this one, don’t beat yourself up about it, it happens. I knew a guy who-”

“NO,” Caius snarled, and he realized he was scared. There were a few beats of silence, and his phone pinged. He tied off the tourniquet and dropped his phone into his hand, rounding the car to rip the driver’s door open and jump inside.

ASSHOLE DOCTOR (SAM) HAS PINGED YOU A LOCATION.

It couldn’t load fast enough. He was pulling out of the driveway before he knew where he was heading. 

“It’s forty minutes out,” Sam told him gently, his voice distant as the call transferred to his own car’s system. At least he was on the way. 

“Be there in twenty.”

Caius hung up the phone, his wheels skidding in the street as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Tommy, baby, talk to me, you’ve gotta stay awake.”

From the back seat, Tommy groaned weakly.

Caius flipped the heaters on, only slowing briefly at a red light before peeling out. He was already sweating, but Tommy had felt so cold. 

“Keep talking, I gotta know you’re okay. What’s your favorite movie?”

Tommy took a shuddering breath.

“I don’t feel so good…”

His voice was so small, Caiuscould barely hear him over the blast of the heaters.

“What uh, what do you want for dinner? Once I get you fixed up. Anything you want.”

Tommy coughed raspily, dry heaving before he fell still again.

“TOMMY.”

“Coney. From home.”

“Home?”

Tommy took a shuddering breath. 

“Motor city, baby,” Tommy mumbled sleepily. Caius laughed, too loud, too jarring. 

“Tell me, tell me about Detroit.”

There was no response. Caius turned music on, whatever was playing, and turned it up loud. 

“YOU GOTTA STAY AWAKE,” he shouted over the music, and saw Tommy stir uncomfortably.

His phone told him they’d be going straight down the highway for the next 24 miles. He worked the gas pedal slowly to the ground, grateful for the clear roads. 

He skidded to a halt in the empty parking lot of Wheeler’s Dealers Emporium. His heart was beating out of his chest like he had run the whole way. He threw open Tommy’s door and pulled his legs, drawing him closer to get a look at him. 

“Stay with me. Tommy? Come on, little longer.”

Tommy made no response. 

He could hear a car pulling into the lot behind him, fast. 

He held his face, shining his cell phone light at his eyes. Tugging one lid open, his eyes were rolled back. In the light, his lips were so blue.

Caius kissed him. 

He didn’t know why, he hadn’t kissed him before. CPR didn’t work for blood loss, did it? He looked down and saw where that inky blackness had seeped into the jacket he’d wrapped around him. 

He grabbed his arm right over the cut and squeezed. 

The pain brought Tommy back to life, gasping for breath. Caius kissed him like warming his lips would save him, but honestly, he was just so relieved he wasn’t gone. 

Tommy went limp in his arms. 

Then Sam was there too, putting a hand on his shoulder. Caius moved out of the way, and Sam snagged the scissors from the first aid, cutting away the clothing obscuring the wound. 

“Tommy buddy, talk to me, you hanging in there?”

Caius sat in the back seat, holding Tommy up in his lap.  “Please, Tommy. Stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slighlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @paperprinxe

Thank you all so much for reading, I cannot tell you what it means to me.

[macgyvermedical]

Wound Care For Adults

So the wife was on backpacking reddit and found that a lot of people can't tell the difference between wounds you need some vaseline and a bandaid for, wounds that need a little home TLC, wounds you need to go to an urgent care for, and wounds you actually need to go to the emergency department for, so we're gonna talk about that here.

Wounds that need some vaseline and a bandaid:

A blister that popped

A non-gaping cut

A skinned knee (small amount of fresh, shallow road rash with nothing embedded)

Keep in mind that you should NOT use rubbing alcohol, iodine, mercurochrome, or hydrogen peroxide on any of these. It will just hurt and potentially kill healthy cells in the wound. Neosporin or other antibiotic ointment is okay if you happen to have it, but the antibiotics themselves don't last long and are generally not worth the extra money.

Wash the wound with plain tap water, pat it dry with a clean cloth or piece of gauze, dab on a little petroleum jelly (Vaseline) and slap a bandage on that beby.

Wounds that need some TLC at home:

A small, shallow burn with nothing stuck to it

A slightly infected open blister or non-gaping cut

Slightly infected road rash or shallow road rash with something embedded in it

Cut gaping less than 1/4 inch (1/2 cm)

Small, shallow burn: Right after you get the burn, run it under cool tap water for 5-10 minutes, even if you think it's already cool. This will help clean the wound and stop the burn from getting any deeper. Do not ice. Do not put oil or butter or vaseline on the wound. Use an over the counter burn gel and a bandaid to hold it in place.

Slightly infected small wound/road rash: You'll know it's slightly infected if there's redness and swelling around the edges (up to 2cm), if there is drainage, and if it smells bad. It will also probably hurt more than you think it should. For this you'll want to do hot compresses about 4 times a day for 20 minutes per time until the infection goes away. To do this, get a pot and get water hot enough that it is uncomfortable to touch. Then put a wash cloth in that water, pull it out, wring it out, and hold it against the wound. It should be uncomfortably hot and just a little painful. When it cools down, dip it back in the pot, wring it out, and do it again. At the end of 20 minutes the whole area around the wound should be pink.

Road rash with something embedded: If there's a tiny stone or pieces of visible dirt on this section of road rash, you'll need to clean it with a moderately forceful stream of water. You can do this with an irrigation syringe you can get from the pharmacy, or you can make your own using a plastic zipper bag. Fill a bag with water, then cut a teeny tiny hole in one of the corners. Squeeze the bag to make a stream of water, then direct that stream at the wound. This will take potentially a lot of water. Keep at it until there is nothing visible in the wound, then treat with vaseline and a bandaid.

A cut gaping less than 1/4 inch: If this is on your face, genitals, or hands and you care about scarring, go to an emergency department. If this is on another part of your body and you're okay with a scar, keep reading. Stop bleeding with pressure. Clean the wound by running clean tap water through it and pat the edges dry. Make some butterfly bandages out of strong tape- I recommend silk medical tape, but in a pinch you could use duct tape or similar.

Starting on one end, tape down one side of a butterfly bandage, pull it across the cut, and tape it to the other side. Move a 1/4 inch down the cut, and tape another one down, then another, until you have taped the length of the cut. Put some kind of breathable bandage on top of this.

Wounds that need to go to an urgent care:

Cut gaping more than 1/4 inch but that you can still stop bleeding with pressure.

Open blister, cut, burn, or road rash that is draining thick, yellow-or-white drainage and is not getting better with hot compresses, but you don't have a fever

Stop any bleeding, clean by running water over the injury, and go to an urgent care or your family doctor if you happen to be able to get in for a same-day appointment.

Wounds that need to go to an emergency department:

Any cut that gapes on the face, palm of the hand, or genitals

Infection with streaks or with which you have a fever/chills, or for which the red area grows by more than a cm in an hour

Burn larger than the palm of your hand or that is more than skin deep

Any wound that was spurting blood or that needed a tourniquet to stop bleeding

Go to the emergency department as soon as possible, they'll take care of it.

[vfib785]

LUCAS 3, v3.1 chest compression system

[whumptious]

I just found my old EMT textbook and figured some people here would be delighted to have such a resource for giving their characters advanced first aid. (Or for understanding the USAmerican emergency health care system). It takes a few chapters to get to the really useful stuff, but I'll just post it all since there are a few good tidbits in the intro section.

So here's chapter 1: preparing to be an emt. A very general overview of requirements and responsibilities.

[silvercap]

Whump writing/first aid pet peeve: if your character is bleeding and has been bandaged, but is STILL bleeding through them and has not had a chance to get to a hospital---don't take the original bandages OFF. Doing this will tear open any potential scabbing and could make them bleed worse. Also, you're exposing them to more opportunity for infection, and just basically setting back any possible healing progress you could've had.

This is fine if your character maybe doesn't know what they're doing and wants to put clean ones on for whatever reason (they better be prepared for a gout of blood! and also it'll hurt, and you'll have Consequences) but if your character would realistically know how to handle wounds, first aid situations are not the time to replace bandages. Just stack them---it will work out better for everyone!

[purple-parker]

Day 30: “First Aid”

@whumpgifathon

[X] [X] [X] ... [X] [X] [X] ... [X] [X] [X]

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 6

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt: Alt/bonus prompt "Medical Complications"

Day 6 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters:

- POV/Caretaker: Gawain - The Green Knight

- Polly (Cursed, Netflix)

- Pym (Cursed, Netflix)

- Kaze (Cursed, Netflix)

- Whumpee: Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 624

TWs; Field surgery, pain, pinned down, broken ribs, blood, shards of bone, graphic descriptions, gore.

Lancelot tremoured beneath Gawain's hands as Polly, their healer, lowered a blade into his side.

What had begun as a; "I just pulled a stitch, thats all" quite quickly devolved when it had become apparent this was something far far worse. At Polly's discovery of a rogue shard of broken rib bone that had been cutting Lancelot up inside with every breath, it became outright field surgery.

Gawain glanced down at the terrible bruising that painted across Lancelot's ribs, grimacing at the way Polly pulled his skin apart, slicing through flesh to expose the troublesome shard. Both Pym, a young healer-in-training and Kaze, his second-in-command aided him in keeping Lancelot pinned as the healer worked, though neither seemed entirely pleased about it.

Lancelot hissed through gritted teeth, eyes flaring wide, body shaking with the effort to keep himself still. As Polly worked, sweat beaded up across Lancelot's skin, slick under Gawain's fingertips, and he jerked and spasmed in their hold with small involuntary movements that resisted his valiant attempts to stay still. Lancelot groaned in pain, burying his face into his arms, gasping a shuddering breath.

"That's it, nice and still..." Polly soothed, then dug the knife deeper. Lancelot cried out now, buckling under their hold, and Gawain had to fight to keep him steady. He knew Kaze and Pym similarly struggled where they pinned him.

Lancelot whimpered, desperately choking down a louder scream. One hand clawed into the ground above the blanket he lay on carving furrows into the dirt.

"Pym, your hands are smaller," Polly spoke up now, furiously focused expression on her face, "In a moment I'm going to need you to grab it."

"Me? Grab it? Th-the bone?"

Polly withdrew the knife with an affirmative nod. Lancelot gasped in relief and fell limp, eyes rolling back into his head.

"I think he fainted." Gawain commented, watching the torment that carved deep lines into Lancelot's angular face slowly fade, though the crease between his brow did not and his eyes darted beneath darkened lids.

"Probably for the best," Polly said, wiping her hands on a rag, "Pym, you should be able to get it now."

"Here goes..." Pym whimpered, pulling a face as she dug around with her fingertips into the wound. Lancelot groaned as he woke, grey eyes flying open wide, flailing his arms instinctively and Gawain was forced to kneel on his arm lest he swing and punch him by accident again. Gawain cringed at the tormented scream that Lancelot could do nothing to supress, even as Lancelot hid his face in his other arm again, nails digging so hard into his own shoulder beside where Gawain held him that Gawain was sure he'd bleed.

"I think... I've got it, --" Pym gave a mighty yank, studiously ignoring Lancelots agonised cries, "--There!"

Lancelot slackened again in their grasp, panting, powerful shudders wracking his entire body as he stared near sightlessly across the dirt with pain-glazed eyes. Pym's triumphant face suddenly switched to one of horror, apparently remembering what it was she held; a jagged, pinkish shard of bone almost the length of Gawain's finger and no wider than a blade, which Polly promptly took from her before Pym had a chance to drop it, wrapping it into a rag.

"We need to clean this and stitch him back up. Shouldn't need all of you to hold him now."

Kaze stepped away with a nod, seemingly relieved to no longer have to pin him with a thoroughly unimpressed expression curling her lip to bare a fang. Gawain for his part felt violently ill yet he firmly remained as he was. He didn't miss the thankful look Lancelot shot him.

"Still with us, Monk?"

Lancelot nodded weakly.

"Nearly done, I promise."

I'm enjoying these prompts, they're really helping me flesh out some of the plot ideas for my upcoming Lancewain fic.

I was really struggling to cut the wordcount down on this one! This scene ended up being several thousand words on the initial draft a few days ago, but rest assured it will be expanded upon and included in the main fic in all it's whump-filled glory!

FINALLY we have Pym showing up! She's genuinely one of my fave Cursed characters to write for and I LOVE HER. You can see her and all the other characters in these snippets in the Character masterlist linked above.

Onto the next, thank you for reading!

[whumpgifathon]

Hello! And welcome to my brand new whump gifmaking challenge! I'm your host @aceofwhump and I'm excited to bring a whump challenge specifically created with gifmakers and visual artists in mind.

The challenge begins August 1, 2024!

Rules:

All gifs posted must be made by you. Do not just post gifs using the gif keyboard and claim them as yours and do not repost other people’s gifs. No AI-generated content please.

Various mediums are welcome! So long as the visual art aspect is the focus you can make whatever you want. Yes this is primarily a gifmaking challenge so everything is geared towards that but any visual art is welcome. If you draw, make moodboards, edits, videos, etc you’re welcome to participate!

You can use the prompts however you like. There is no wrong way to use a prompt. Feel free to interpret them however you wish. If you think it counts as whump? It's whump! Make it! Angst, comfort, emotional whump, small things, big things, it all counts so no need to over think it.

Tag all potential triggers (things like emeto, gore, nsfw, blood, eye whump, rape/noncon, etc.) When in doubt, tag it.

Tags to use when posting so I can find your ppst: #whumpedit, #whumpgifathon, #whump gifs

Please try to include the show/movie title, character names, and episode number (if applicable) somewhere either in your tags or in the post caption. This way anyone interested in watching it can find it easily.

An example of a way you can caption your gifsets:

@whumpgifathon | Day #: "prompt description" Show/Movie title, episode number, character name

And here's the prompt list!!! I hope you guys like it and find it inspiring but not overly challenging!

Remember that this is a relaxed event!!! I just want to offer my fellow visual artists some inspiring prompts and an opportunity to have some fun. So sit back, relax, and have fun!

Text version below:

Whump Gifathon - August 2024 Prompt List

Day 1: Space Oxygen Deprivation | Time Loop | Experiment

Day 2: Feeling Sick Fever | Infection | Delirium

Day 3: Environmental Earthquake | Storm | Hypothermia

Day 4: Captivity Chains | Caged | Rescue

Day 5: Water Shipwrecked | Drowning | Waterboarding

Day 6: Skills Try out a new technique you haven’t tried before using your favorite whump trope as inspiration!

Day 7: Emotional Crying | Panic Attack| Fear

Day 8: Hospital Ambulance | Intubation | Waking Up Disoriented

Day 9: Battlefield Explosion | Gunfire | Field Medicine

Day 10: Temporary Effects Blinded | Amnesia | Poisoned

Day 11: Recovery Sling | Pain | Seeking Support

Day 12: We All Go A Little Mad Sometimes Straight Jacket | Forced Injection | Hallucinations

Day 13: Aesthetic Highlight your favorite whump aesthetic

Day 14: Sleeping Nightmares | Exhaustion | Passing Out

Day 15: Trapped Impaled | Buried Alive | Locked Inside

Day 16: Western Cauterized | Bitten | Hanged

Day 17: Comfort Hugging | Blankets | Gentle Touch

Day 18: Broken Broken Bones | Emotional Breakdown | Broken Spirit

Day 19: Relationships What is your favorite type of whumpee/caretaker relationship? Platonic? Romantic? Familial? Show me!

Day 20: Blood Bloody Hands | Bleeding Out | Covered in Blood

Day 21: Fantastical Nonhuman | Resurrection | Magical Healing

Day 22: A Knock to the Head Headache | Knocked Out | Bloody face

Day 23: Travel Gone Wrong Car Accident | Plane Crash | Train Delrailment

Day 24: Magic Magical Exhaustion | Cursed | Possession

Day 25: Period Drama Pick a time period of your choice and highlight the whump!

Day 26: Everything Hurts and I’m Dying Grief | Resuscitation | Presumed Dead

Day 27: Superheroes Overused Powers | Powers with a Side Effect | Villain

Day 28: Torture Beaten| Flogging | Choked

Day 29: Restrained Zipties| Rope Leash | Medical Restraints

Day 30: First Aid Ice Pack | Stitches | Bandages

Day 31: Colors Highlight a specific color in your art

Alternate Prompts:

"Stay With Me" Begging Heat Exhaustion Bedside Vigil Self Surgery Taser Scar Reveal Collapsing Protective Electrocution

[hold-him-down]

Belleview Chapter Two (Part B): Felix

Notes: mostly low-level med whump

Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A)

TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Med Exam, References to Noncon, Noncon touch, Dubcon Medical Care, References to Human Experimentation

✥ ✥ ✥

They expected him to die soon. Lincoln knows this, without prejudice, as well as he knows anything else about this place. Even if the handler had not introduced Felix with the caveat that they had recently ceased all medical intervention, Lincoln could put the pieces together by looking for twenty seconds at the handlers’ notes from the last few days.

According to the available records, during Felix’s first several months at Belleview, he went no longer than three days between ‘projects,' often with multiple projects stacked on top of each other. Lincoln has not yet researched every experimental tool or drug or procedure that Felix was a part of, partly because some of them were classified and the DOH had yet to access the details, and partly because, in the cases where Lincoln was able to identify the critical components of the trials, his stomach had bottomed out early and he had wound up six hours deep in case files trying to sort out exactly how this had happened.

After Felix's first nine months, they had slowed down with him. There was a three week break wherein Felix was not assigned to any long-term trial before he was pulled again, for what would have been the final time. It was a medical test for a hallucinogenic training drug that lasted nearly two months before abruptly terminating two weeks prior, when, to Lincoln’s best guess, the site had received guidance to stop any majorly illegal activities.

Felix appeared to have been neglected since then. According to the handlers’ notes, he had accessed only two meals a day, a few glasses of water, and, if someone took pity on him, was afforded some assistance in showering and using the toilet. If he didn’t, or couldn’t, eat what was given to him, he would go without eating. “That was part of the gag,” the handler said. “We couldn’t… well, we couldn't actively aid in their... uh, it was technically not allowed. But there came a time when we were asked to let them ride out the end. If they didn't eat, they didn't eat.”

There will come a time, Lincoln thinks now, that Felix will be asked to testify to what happened at this site. There will come a time where some semblance of justice will be served, at least to those who partook in the darkest corners of the system. He will see to it that Felix is afforded that chance.

He takes a breath and enters the small cell, which will need to be repurposed into a bedroom over the next day or so. Felix lays on the floor on his side, curled up as tightly as his frail body will allow. He doesn’t open his eyes at their approach.

“We call him Felix because he’s always smiling,” the handler said. He doesn’t smile now. Even in sleep, he looks scared. He’s covered in bruises, with dried blood smeared across his legs and torso. Lincoln had not caught that earlier, but it couldn’t be new. He’s pale. He swallows, and his body tenses for a moment before he settles back into sleep.

“He’s not actually happy, though,” the handler continued. “He flirts with everyone he sees, just trying to find someone to take him home, we think. He’ll do anything you ask him to, as long as he can understand it. The last couple weeks he’s been up and down, though.”

He’s shaking, and it’s not the light tremble of a scared boy who’s seen too much, but a deep, uncontrollable movement that possibly points to deeper issues.

Lincoln thinks through the side effects of the drug trials. The head of that project, Dr. Michael Gletzer, Ph.D, was a leading researcher in the country, highly sought after by pharmaceutical companies and the former Dean of Medicine at the University of Florida. He is available to speak at length regarding his research. He is not currently under arrest, and, to Lincoln’s understanding, has been cooperative with questioning. He will have to speak to the doctor, and he dreads it.

Lincoln watches Felix sleep for a moment, and the reality of what these men have gone through crashes over him. It’s a crushing weight, and he lets himself feel it for only a moment before he shuts it down and takes a breath, then makes a cautious approach.

“Grab him a blanket?” Lincoln asks quietly. From behind him, Philip moves to the cabinet and begins rummaging through its drawers. Lincoln kneels down next to Felix, his hand hovering over his body. He hesitates to make contact.

“Felix,” Lincoln says. He’s gentle when he finally allows his fingers to graze Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s eyes flutter open, although they are slow to seek out Lincoln. His features are uniformly lined with exhaustion, and Lincoln, for a moment, regrets waking him.  “Hi,” Lincoln whispers.

Felix blinks slowly and tries to sit, but even in that movement, it is clear that his body is failing. He struggles to get his hands under himself, and when offered support, he accepts it without any clear indication that he is aware he’s been touched at all. Still, he looks down at himself and takes an almost unnoticeable inventory of his condition. Philip approaches and drapes a blanket over his lap, and Felix offers a tiny smile in return.

“My name is Lincoln Prescott,” Lincoln says. “Do you remember me? From earlier?”

Felix watches his mouth, his expression tight.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Lincoln continues. “I’m a doctor, I’ve been assigned to Belleview by the Department of Health.” There is little evidence that Felix hears him at all, but he continues the well-rehearsed speech. “As of 9:00 this morning, the contracted worker system is no longer active in the United States,” he continues.

“I don’t think he’s following,” Philip says from next to him. Lincoln nods.

He’s right, of course. “We are working on finding all of the residents of Belleview stable homes to stay in while the infrastructure is built for you to live independently,” he says anyway. “In the meantime, we’re going to stay here as a group and get you all some help, alright?”

Felix nods. 

“Can you tell me your name?”

There is no response, although Felix’s eyes search Lincoln’s, studying him intently.

Lincoln asks Felix how he feels, if he’s hungry, when he ate, how old he is. Felix doesn’t respond. The question hovers just out of reach, whether Felix can and doesn’t speak, or whether he cannot at all. According to the handler, he hasn’t spoken since returning from the most recent drug trial. Prior to that, though, there were no notable concerns with his speech, hearing, or comprehension. Best case scenario, it’s a trauma response and can be worked through down the line. Worst case is that there is irreversible damage to either his brain (most likely), or individual elements of communication (highly unlikely). Both are worth exploring.

Layered upon this, there are the issues of his physical responses. He startles easily but does not pull away. He blinks slowly. His hands are slow to find the blanket and hold onto it. His eyes are red, his skin has a kind of translucent hue. He expected Felix to require more substantial diagnostic testing than they’re able to offer, and it is clear to him that a trip to the hospital for scans is unavoidable.

As Philip sets up the admission forms on the tablet, Lincoln pulls a pair of blue latex gloves on. Felix almost instantly responds, which is ultimately a good sign, as hard as it is to address in the moment. The tremors that run through his body have taken a sort of panicked edge.

“It’s alright,” Lincoln says. “I’m just gonna look at you, okay? We’re here to help.”

Felix is cooperative as Lincoln takes one of his hands. He squeezes it once then turns it over, examining the bruising and scarring from months of drug use. He runs his thumb across one of the most prominent, likely the site of a long-term IV port.

“Let’s get this off you,” Lincoln says. He is cautious as he presses his fingers under the front of the collar, his touch light as he seeks the release mechanism. When he finds it, and the collar clicks free and falls into his hands, he is both relieved that it was simple enough, and horrified by what he sees. Dark bruises form where the clip sat, with deeper gashes toward the back of his neck where the plasticky-metal dug in during, what had to be, violent altercations. Lincoln runs his fingers along the lines there, but Felix does not react.

He takes his vitals, he does as thorough an exam as he can. There’s a very tender spot on the side of his head, and with the other potential signs of concussion, it shouldn’t be ruled out. Felix is especially jumpy when Lincoln runs his hand down his spine and over his ribs. Some are broken. Felix holds his left arm more gingerly, so Lincoln is careful as he looks checks it. Still, as Lincoln turns it over, Felix cries out, his whole body tense for only a second before he forcibly relaxes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln whispers. Somewhere along the line, tears have formed in Felix’s eyes, and they now threaten to spill. Lincoln isn’t sure exactly how much willpower it takes him to keep them in, only that he does. As soon as his arm is released, Felix cradles it to his chest. 

“Can I look at your back?” Lincoln asks, gentle but assertive in repositioning him.

He’s extremely underweight, with too many vertebrae and too much rib instantly visible. A thick scar runs across one side of his abdomen and circles around his side. There are other scars, less visible ones that almost would be missed by the naked eye, but they’re there. 

Felix doesn’t make a sound when Lincoln examines lower. He watches the wall with a sort of sad detachment as Lincoln runs his fingers gingerly over some swelling in his lower back, then guides him onto his side.

“Almost done,” Lincoln says. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” 

There is no answer, which Lincoln does not mistake for permission, but accepts at face value. He monitors Felix’s breathing, the cadence of the tremors that roll through him, his posture. Philip kneels in front of him, holding his hand and watching his face for signs of extreme duress. It’s the best they can do.

Here, the damage is obvious. Lincoln notes both bruising and tearing, with a slew of fluids, presumably belonging to both Felix and the handlers, dried onto his skin. Lincoln’s stomach turns over as he cleans him up, muttering whatever words of encouragement he can come up with.

The further into this they go, the more Lincoln questions the plan. The likelihood that even in a full service hospital, he would be equipped to manage this, is slim. He pulls off the gloves and helps Felix to sit, then drapes the blanket around his shoulders. 

“You okay?” Lincoln asks. Felix looks very, very far from okay, but the worst is over.

Felix brings his hand up to rest on Lincoln’s arm and squeezes it. It isn’t exactly confirmation of understanding, nor is it a show of okayness. Lincoln would be doing him a disservice by writing the action off as either. But it’s something close to it, he thinks. Lincoln smiles and covers his hand with his own and squeezes it again.

“We’ll get you better, okay?” he says. “Philip’s going to help you get cleaned up, get some food and water in you, set you up with an IV and some medicine to make you feel better.” There’s no recognition in his eyes, but Lincoln continues. “While you get showered, we’ll get you a bed and a TV, or some books, or anything you need.”

Extricating himself from Felix’s grip is a little harder than it was getting into it, but once he’s free, he stands, and Felix’s eyes track his movements. 

“N… n…” Felix reaches after him as he steps toward the door, and Lincoln pauses, turning. There is true panic, for the first time, in his expression. He wants to show you he can still be of use, the handler said. He wants you to pull him.

“Felix,” Lincoln whispers. “I’ll be back for you, alright? I promise you, I will come back." He takes a step toward the door, and the tears that threatened to spill earlier come back in full force. “I need to go check on your friend,” Lincoln says, although there is almost no chance at this point that Felix understands. He kneels down and tries to smile, but he thinks it probably doesn't land. “Philip will stay with you and get you cleaned up.”

He mutters instructions to Philip, and seconds later, he is in the hallway, his forehead pressed into the wall while he takes that whole interaction and locks it into a very, very tight box in the back of his mind. 

He is in good hands. He will be okay. He is not alone, and he is not going to be left to die, and Lincoln will spend the next four weeks making sure that he knows it.

✥ ✥ ✥

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@handsinmotion @whumps-and-bumps

[macgyvermedical]

Announcing Medley: A Medical Primer Course for Fiction Writers

Do you write whump or stories with a medical focus? Do you struggle with accuracy or feel like you could use a course that covers the basics of medicine so you can wade through your research with a more knowledgeable eye?

Introducing Medley, a live, online course that helps writers understand the basics of medicine, nursing, first aid, and more!

Starting January 2024, this 8-week course covers the most important topics for writers and answers your questions.

Topics:

WEEK 1: Hospitals and the People Who Work There

WEEK 2: The Physical Exam

WEEK 3: First Aid, Codes and Emergencies

WEEK 4: Recovery and Aftermath

WEEK 5: Remote and Improvised Medicine

WEEK 6: Historical Medicine

WEEK 7: Mental Healthcare

WEEK 8: Medical and Nursing Education

The instructor (me!) has 7 years of nursing experience and has taught medical and nursing students for 5 of them. He is also a wilderness first aid instructor and has run a tumblog specializing in answering medical questions for fiction writers for 9 years.

Fee is $32 total for all 8 sessions. If you are interested, please email consultingwhumper@gmail.com for more information and to get signed up!

[thevalkyriesshadow]

🦴 for Azriel

🦴 I think it’s broken...for Azriel

Oh anon, I put Az through the ringer in this

TW: for depictions of broken bones and small medical procedures

I'm practicing my whump so send me any tips or tricks so I can give you all the best gwynriel whump of your life 😈

Also this may or may not have turned into a two parter soo.....

💖 Enjoy! 💖

The cold, blustering winds batted the strands of hair that fell from Gwyn’s braid. The sounds and smells of battle assaulted her senses. The fae Courts fought the fae from Rask. 

The war they'd been preparing for was in full force. 

Every court was working day and night to rally their warriors. After the Raskan’s first attack on the Dawn Court where they destroyed the Palace on the eastern coast, forcing thousands of fae to evacuate and running either inland or into Day Court. 

A High Fae meeting was called immediately and a plan was hatched.

Each court was to have a unified force ready to defend the coast at a moment’s notice. The Valkyries and Illyrians were ordered to split up and send out six separate battalions that would aid the other courts in their war efforts. Day sent a legion of Pegasus scattered along the coast. Autumn Court infantry, known for their brutal hand to hand fire fighting, were sent in droves. Winter Court sent two giants and bear riders to each court’s front. Summer Court provided each coastal front a fleet of ships. Wild beasts hid and waited to pounce out in every woods along the eastern seaboard. 

The Illyrians and Valkyries had been training together for two years before the order, a short time for the span of their lives, but they moved together with the practice of a hundred years. They had to. Or else everything they loved, their homes, would be gone. The Illyrian’s quarrel with the Night Court was snuffed out with the joint efforts of the Valkyries that led to Azriel’s newfound leadership amongst them. They trained long and hard, combining their fighting techniques in unique ways. Making them a formidable front. The assault from the Eastern lands was brutal, quick, and unforgiving. Their ships loomed on the horizon. Never sailing in further or making a move. Just waiting. 

All along the coast this was reported. The day they moved, was the day everything kicked off. 

That was yesterday morning. They’d fought all day and into the night. Now, on the dawn of the second day, things seemed to finally be coming to an end. The fae of the courts appearing victorious. Gwyn wiped the sweat and dirt, and blood from her face and glanced around. Nesta and Emerie were back to back, facing a small group of eastern fae, easily handling them.

Gargoyles soared above. Their massive bodies, formed with rock from the eastern mountains, dwarfed the Illyrian warriors who fought them. Cassian was cutting through the stone beasts effortlessly, his sword and magic blazing left and right.

And Azriel….

Where was he? 

Gwyn didn't see the brilliant blue streaks flying through the air, didn't see the wisping tendrils of shadows thwarting enemies. 

Her heart raced. Her stomach turned.

There.

There he was. Popping in and out of the shadows of the low clouds that hung in the dark gray skies. A winter storm was rolling in, looming like a massive beast over the ornate, white stoned castle between the Winter and Autumn Courts where they fought - The very center of the battle.

With battle dissipating around them, Gwyn took a moment to breathe and watch Azriel, her mate, soar through the sky and fight every single foe effortlessly. Azriel may not realize they’re mates yet, but every fiber of her being knew it. She could feel his triumph through the bond as he knocked another gargoyle to the ground.

Gwyn looked away for one moment when she felt it, searing pain running through the bond and filling Gwyn with dread.

She spun back around searching the skies. Her heart leapt in her throat, her stomach dropping as she watched a gargoyle - who had Azriel in its stony hands - throw the Shadowsinger through the air. He slammed against the castle wall near them, pain shot through the bond again.

Then Azriel fell.

Gwyn waited for one heartbeat, but the Shadowsinger didn’t return.

She turned swiftly and ran over the ridge behind the battlegrounds where the Valkyrie’s pegasi were kept. Her mare stepped out from the equestrian group, as if sensing its rider was close. Her long, dark gray mane swayed in the breeze, her charcoal wings flapped behind her. The muscles rippled under the powerful body as the white and gray speckled mare ran towards Gwyn.

Fear. Pain. Helplessness.

She was feeling all of Azriel’s anguish, his emotions. It pulled at her like a tether, urging her to run faster to push harder. 

“Fly Mistie, Vilya!” 

Gwyn guided Mistie to the castle, towards the steep precipice Azriel fell into. The pegasus swooped down gracefully and with stunning speed, following Gwyn’s touch on the reigns with immaculate precision.

She pushed through the bond, feeling for any sign of him. 

A pulse.

A small twinge on the bond. She followed it, pulling Mistie down further to the snow covered logs and earth below. To the dark shadow that lay crumbled amongst the fallen branches from trees above. 

Gwyn’s heart pounded against her chest, in her ears. He wasn’t moving, his siphons a soft glow. She dismounted before Mistie had even fully touched the ground, and began to climb over the logs and branches to Azriel. To her mate.

“Azriel…AZRIEL!” Her panic began to rise, to crest as the Shadowsinger made no movement. She’d know. She’d know if he was dead. She’d feel it.

Another faint pulse through the bond. “I’m here, Azriel - I’m here!” She tried to control the fear that rippled through her - her fear, and Azriel’s…

She jumped over a large tree trunk, landing gracefully on her feet and stilled. 

Azriel lay face down, his wings and limbs all at odd angles. Gwyn stumbled forward onto her knees, next to Azriel, placing delicate hands on him.

“Azriel,” She breathed. Azriel sobbed, relief washing over her through the bond, an all encompassing feeling that wrapped around her and she felt her fear begin to eddy away. 

“I’ve got you, shadowsinger - I’ve got you.” Tears slid down Gwyn’s cheeks as she assessed the situation. If she could roll him out from between the two small tree trunks he landed on, she could get him flat on his back -

Gwyn reached for Azriel’s right arm and hip, but as she applied pressure to pull, he screamed, his hands clenched into fists.

“Sorry -” her voice wavered as the pain washed over her as well.

“I think it’s broken…” Azriel gritted out.

“What is?”

He breathed heavily and grunted as he tried moving his right wing, “Everything…everything on my right side.” He winced.

She looked closer at his extremities. His elbow was bent at an odd angle and although she couldn't see any broken bones, his leathers were torn along his upper thigh, a deep cut underneath. Then there was his wing. It was crushed, crumbled against him. The beautiful curve and slope of it mangled. His other wing hung limply over the trunks and logs. 

“Okay - I’m going to need to splint your wing before pulling you off the logs. It’s going to hurt for a moment, but then I’ll be able to heal you after we set and tend to your injuries.”

Azriel took a few deep breaths, his brows furrowing. His amber eyes were swimming with anguish until he looked up at Gwyn and nodded. Only assuredness gleaming back at her. 

“Do it,” he ground out.

Gwyn didn’t hesitate. She tore her cape off and ripped a few thin strips, using them to hold his broken wing steady. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the branches beneath him and groaned through his clenched jaw as she moved his wing, setting it into a stable position and wrapping it firmly. 

This time, when she went to turn him over, she placed a flat palm on his chest, the other his middle, Gwyn heaved Azriel off the debris that littered the ravine floor. He let out an agonizing cry that echoed all around them. With Azriel tightly in her arms, his back to her chest, she walked slowly backwards, pulling the shadowsinger with her. His sobs and groans of pain shot straight through her, chilling her veins and seizing her heart. 

She pressed the side of her face to his, “I’ve got you. Just a few more steps.” His scarred hands clutched at hers, wrapping around her wrists. Steadying himself. 

They were both panting as Gwyn set him down. She rushed over to Mistie and tugged her healer’s kit from the saddle, her bedroll, and waterskin.

She placed the bedroll beneath Azriel’s head and tore more cloth from her cape for his arm. She silently thanked the gods for all the available wood to use. Finding two sturdy sticks Gwyn gingerly handled his elbow, placing the sticks on either side of his swollen and crooked arm. 

Azriel watched her with intensity, marking every move she made. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, wincing as she slid the fabric of her cloak beneath his arm. 

“Yes. Well, comparatively - I got hit a few times, but I’m okay,” she replied, tying off the makeshift sling around his shoulder. She shuffled back to tend to his leg. The wound wasn’t gushing blood, thank the gods. It had just missed the major arteries, and her healing may negate the need for stitches.

Grabbing the fabric, she ripped open the leg of his pants and gasped. Realizing now that the deep gash was in fact due to his upper femur breaking. Gwyn could just make out the white of jagged bone protruding from beneath layers of muscle and skin.

“That bad?” he asked.

“Well, you were right. Everything is broken and you’ll need stitches.” She grabbed the healer’s kit, pulled out the gauze, and pressed it against the wound. Azriel cried out, his back arching at the pain. 

He let out a breathy chuckle, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were enjoying my pain, Berdara.”

She smiled, grateful he still had his humor, “Only now that I know you’re alive,” she teased. She uncorked her waterskin and poured the water over his wound, washing out the dirt and debris that gathered in the sinews of muscle that showed. Azriel hissed in. His fists clenching at his sides. 

Working quickly, she pushed his legs together and wrapped the remaining fabric of her cloak around his legs, binding them.

“How are you going to get us out?” Azriel asked as Gwyn kneeled next to him, placing a hand on his chest, the other just under his ribcage.

“We’ll figure that out after I heal you. I’m pretty spent so It won’t be much, but it’ll at least help you feel a little better.”

Azriel lifted his good hand then, placing it on top of the one she had laying on his abdomen. Her gaze drifted up to his and he smiled, “Thank you, Gwyn - for a moment,” his words wavered and cut short. He cleared his throat and held her hand tighter, “For a moment I thought nobody saw me fall and I’d be - I’d still be sprawled on a stack of sticks bleeding out, alone…” Tears swam in his eyes.

Gwyn reached up, cupping his face in her hand. He sighed into the touch, his tears pooling under her fingers. She leaned forward, resting her forehead to his, “I’ll always come for you, Azriel.”

She went to pull away, but his hand came up to hold the back of her head, pulling her back down to him. She met him with no resistance, their lips crashing into each other’s. 

It was soft and sweet, that first touch of their lips. Until it wasn’t and it was all consuming and greedy, passionate, like it was their first and last kiss ever. His fingers curled in her hair, her hand, now free, slid up his torso and came to rest on his chest as their kiss deepened. 

The bond pulsed and expanded, growing bright between them, tugging relentlessly at their souls.

Gwyn pulled back, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart. Their breaths mingled together in the cold air and she could’ve sworn she heard music between them.

Azriel’s cheeks were flushed, tears and adoration welling fresh in his eyes as he gasped out, “Mate.”

To be continue…

Surprise! The mate thing just kind of happened and then I decided this needed to be a two-parter…👉👈 hope that’s okay anon 👉👈 …the next part will be full of caretaker!Gwyn! 😉  ​tehe

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: March 29/24

Happy Friday Everyone, and Happy Easter Long Weekend! Here are some great fics to get you through the weekend!! And please be sure to give the boosted fic some extra love! Enjoy!

SIGNAL BOOSTING

Pocketful of sunshine by good_vibes_mostly (G, 2,618 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Kissing, Developing Relationship, One Shot, POV Sherlock, Five and One, Hand Holding, Sherlock and Kids) – 5+1 times John used Sherlock's pockets.

RECENT MFLs

A Minor Exorcism by sgam76 (G, 2,319+ w., 1/? Ch. || Post-S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Implied / Referenced Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, PTSD Sherlock) – They're a real family, these days. Rosie's growing, and Sherlock and John are settling into the people they want to be, a little at a time. But an unexpected, violent incident uncovers some remaining unresolved issues that threaten their peace. Part 15 of Scheherezade 'vers Series

The Rescuing by BakerTumblings (M, 5,296+ w., 2/12 Ch. || WiP || Canon Compliant Until S3, Medical Realism, Military Background, Peril, Medical Trauma, Rescue Missions, Trauma Recovery, BAMF Mycroft, BAMF John, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Whump) – Captain Watson to the rescue! Series compliant until beginning of Season 3 - then all bets are off. Sherlock, off in Serbia, has been captured and severely injured. Mycroft recruits John to aid with freeing him and then overseeing his recovery. The story begins in London but will explode in Serbia, slide into a European hospital and then tiptoe through a safe-house before returning to Baker Street.

Nightjet by khorazir (M, 22,051 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TRF Hiatus, Grief/Mourning, Pining, Friends to Lovers, Past Drug Use, Night Train, Germany, Bed Sharing, First Kiss / Time, Angst, Reunion) – Officially deceased for eighteen months and still looking for the last remainders of Moriarty’s criminal empire, an exhausted Sherlock boards a night train in Germany to bring him to his next hunting ground. Due to a mishap with the sleeper cars, he is forced to share a compartment with a stranger – who turns out to be not quite as strange as Sherlock thought. The universe isn’t lazy, after all ...

RECENTLY BOOKMARKED LOKIUS FICS

The Green Means I Love You by VeggieHarumaki (T, 3,576 w. 1 Ch. || LOKI SERIES || Soul Mates AU || Colourblindness, Pining, Caring Mobius, First Kiss, Pining Mobius, POV Mobius, Forehead Touching, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. It's the first color Mobius sees. His world fills with new colors, sensory levels overwhelmed as his gaze scatters across the courtroom. Browns, yellows, colors he'd only heard of before he finally sees with his own eyes. But the green. The cold, emerald green. L1130 stares back at Mobius, eyes full of suspicion, and Mobius can't help but let his breath hitch. Oh no. Mobius' heart sinks as fast as it had risen. This variant, L1130, Loki, is his soulmate. But Mobius had read Loki's files one too many times to forget. Mobius is not Loki's. 

[frotesque]

On the Darkest Nights

Hobie Brown x Reader

As promised I come bearing Hobie!Whump with extremely light angst but honestly still mostly fluff because of who I am as a person.

I think the reader is pretty gender neutral but they are definitely black so do with that info what you will!

SFW, descriptions of blood but not really graphic injury descriptions

You had always been a pretty heavy sleeper, but recently that fact had changed. The sound of Hobie returning from his patrols could rouse you from even your deepest sleep, no matter how much he tried to be quiet. It hadn’t even taken very long for the habit to develop; you had met Hobie, starting seeing him a few months later, and the first time he’d shown up in your room with a stab wound was another month or two after that.

So it really didn’t take much to wake you, but Hobie was never so loud as he was that night. At the first thump against your window, you’d snapped into near full wakefulness. You could see Hobie’s silhouette through the glass and watched as he attempted to open it from the outside. His hand slipped, suit squeaking in a strange way. You noticed the dark wet streak his hand left behind a moment later.

“Hobie!” You got out of bed in a rush, crossing the room to your window and opening it for him.

“‘S fine,” Hobie’s voice was strained as he heaved himself up and over the windowsill. He went to stand to his full height, only barely lifting himself before his knees buckled. You were expecting as much, your arms already wrapped around his shoulders. You eased both of your bodies to the floor, helping him lean his back against the short wall under the window.

“You are not fine,” you retorted, reaching up to pull his mask off for him so he could breathe properly. His skin was clammy and strangely ashen, the normally rich tone off in an alarming way. His face was scrunched in pain, teeth clenching. You wiped his forehead with your palm, pushing his hair back and holding it there for him. “What happened? Where are you hurt?”

He swallowed, taking a couple of laborious breaths before answering. “Shot.” He tilted his chin down towards his hands, which were pressed hard to his side, just above his left hip.

“Fuck,” you snapped, already standing and running to your bathroom. You grabbed several towels from your linen closet and rushed back to your room, dropping all but one into a pile nearby. “Okay, baby. Time to let go.” You crouched next to him, towel hovering near the wound. As soon as he moved his hands, you were pressing it to his side hard, wincing when he whimpered in pain. “I know, I know,” you whispered, leaning in to press your lips to his sweaty cheek. “Can you hold it here, baby? Put pressure on it?”

Hobie nodded, hands returning to their previous position and holding the towel to the wound. You pulled away, noting that the towel was quickly soaking through. This was fucking bad.

Back when Hobie had first started coming to you after rough nights of being Spider-Man, you’d taken it upon yourself to start learning basic first-aid to take care of him. You’d started joining him at protests, working as a “Medic”. You’d learned a lot from the professionals who worked in the first aid tents; some doctors, some paramedics or EMTs, and some just long-time activists. While that had generally been enough to help Hobie with his injuries, a bullet wound was another matter altogether.

Hobie’s soft voice calling your name snapped you out of your momentary panic.

“What? What’s wrong?” You asked.

“‘S all the way through.” He managed.

You cursed, grabbing another towel. “You gotta sit up, Hobie. Let me get this around you.” You moved in close to him again, tapping your shoulder. “Lay your head right here, baby. I’ll be as fast as I can.” He blinked his eyes open from where they’d been squeezed shut, groaning when he saw the distance between yourself and where he was slumped against the wall. “It’ll be quick, okay?”

He took another breath or two before grabbing at your shoulder with one bloody hand and tugging himself upright until his face was shoved between your other shoulder and neck. He muffled his agonized noise there as you quickly wrapped the towel around his waist and tied it as tight as you could. You grabbed the back of his neck and his arm, easing him away from you and back against the wall (which looked like something out of a horror movie or a crime scene).

He was crying silently, as were you. “I know, Bee, I’m so sorry,” you cooed at him, feeling awful. You used another towel to wipe the sweat from his face again before pulling off your bonnet and removing the scrunchie keeping your hair pineappled underneath. You pulled his wicks out of his face, tying them up quickly and kissing his forehead before standing. “I’m gonna get the first aid kit, I’ll be right back, okay?”

He made a soft noise, one you’d never heard from him before and that you never wanted to hear again. It made your vision blur with tears again. You blinked to clear it and leaned down to press another kiss to Hobie’s forehead.

“Right back, Bee. We gotta get you fixed up.” You tore yourself away from his side, leaving the doors to your room and the bathroom open. You dug the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink, paying no mind to anything that got knocked down around it. You paused in the bathroom just long enough to grab another hair tie for your own afro, unbothered about the blood you knew was still on your hands as you pulled it up again.

Your heart almost stopped when you returned to the bedroom and saw Hobie’s head tilted back against the windowsill, eyes closed. His breathing was ragged and wet sounding, though based on the location of the wound you figured that was probably from the crying rather than anything with his lungs; which was a massive relief. You wiped your cheeks hastily as you dropped back to your knees next to him again.

“Okay, Hobie,�� you said softly, unable to resist cupping his face and swiping your thumb along his cheekbone, “think you’ve clotted?” Spider-healing was a miracle, and one that worked pretty quickly. Hobie probably would’ve managed to heal whether you helped or not, but it would’ve been much more unpleasant for sure.

He cleared his throat, swallowing again. “Think so,” he mumbled, not moving from his current position.

You nodded, mostly to yourself, and opened the first aid kit to pull out some antiseptic wipes, compress dressings, and adhesive tape. You were a little less in over your head at this point. “I’m gonna get these towels off so they don’t dry and stick, okay?”

Hobie hummed his affirmation, which felt like the best you were gonna get at this point. You untied the towel around his waist as gently as you could, noting when he sucked in a breath from pain but ultimately glad he was no longer so bad off that he was vocalizing. You allowed the first towel to drop, frowning when the second remained stuck to his side. You pulled at it lightly, thankful when it came off the wound with little resistance. It was quite damp with blood, which was a little concerning, but you knew that once he was properly bandaged Hobie would replenish it quick.

“Want me to cut the suit or can we take it off?” It would need repair either way. And a really thorough wash.

“Off,” he said, lifting his head and beginning to shrug out of his vest. You eased it the rest of the way off, tossing it to the side.

Lots of practice made it easy for you to find his suit’s zip in the back without making him lean forward much. Hobie plucked at his fingertips, loosening the gloves up for you. You pulled the zipper down, then tugged at the suit’s sleeves to remove it from his torso. He simply watched as you carefully pulled the suit down just past the wound, wincing a little when some of the dried blood pulled at his skin.

As much as you wanted to give him a break, you knew that even if he wasn’t bleeding quite so badly, blood loss was still a real and present danger. “It’s gonna sting, Bee.” You warned, pulling an antiseptic wipe from its pouch.

“Can’t get much worse, yeah?” His voice was little more than a croak. Upsetting as his words were, you couldn’t help your relief at the longer sentence.

He watched silently as you got to it, cleaning the wound with as gentle a touch as you could manage. Once the wound and a decent amount of skin around it was clean, you applied the dressing, taping it down quickly and efficiently.

“We’ve gotta do the back again, baby,” you said, prepping the next wipe. “C’mon, just lay on me.” He leaned forward on his own power this time, tucking his face in your neck again. His arms wound around your waist in a weak approximation of a hug. It wasn’t really the easiest position for you to work in, but he clearly needed the comfort.

You worked as quickly as you could. Once you’d finished, you relented in your urge to return Hobie’s hug, brushing a gentle hand over his bare shoulders. You’d started crying again at some point, and you were thankful he couldn't see as you discreetly wiped at your face.

“There we go, you’re all done.” You turned your head to press a few kisses to Hobie’s cheek. “We’re gonna get you in bed now. Can you stand up with me?”

“Yeah,” Hobie mumbled. You adjusted your grip so your arms were under his armpits. He gingerly adjusted his legs so he could rise onto his toes, and you stood alongside him, only needing to help a little.

You both shuffled the short distance to your bed. When you reached the edge, you helped ease Hobie down before crouching in front of him and working at the laces on his boots. You loosened them while he lay back, his eyes drifting shut again.

It didn't take too much longer for you to get his boots and the rest of his suit off, leaving him in only his briefs and web-shooters. He was already half-asleep if the steady rise and fall of his chest was any indication. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight, stepping away from him just long enough to run to the kitchen for a glass of water and return.

“Hobie, honey,” you said, voice soft.

He stirred immediately. “Wha’?”

You chuckled at the barely coherent question. “Just a little longer, sweetheart. I’ll trade you those webs for some water.”

“Fuck yeah, water,” he said with a groan, easily removing his web shooters and holding them up to you. You passed him the glass as you took them, setting them carefully on your desk. By the time you turned back around, he’d drained the glass and was setting it on your bedside table. “‘M sorry ‘m so gross in your bed.” Even as he said it, Hobie was shifting and making himself comfortable under the sheets.

You glanced around at your room; covered in blood and medical supplies and shrugged. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Hobie.” You answered honestly. All of that felt very much like a problem for tomorrow.

It felt a little stupid to go retrieve your bonnet from the floor and Hobie’s from your bedside drawer, but you did so anyway, grasping at normalcy on such a fucking shit show of a night. You put on your own before gently lifting Hobie’s head to put his on as well. He hummed at the familiar sensation, smile twitching at his lips.

You wasted little more time joining him, careful with your limbs so as to not jostle his injury. He tended to sleep on his back, so you climbed over his prone form to the side of the bed opposite his hurt side. You sighed as your head hit the pillow, blinking slowly at his peaceful expression. “Hey, Hobie. I love you.”

You weren’t expecting a response, figuring he’d already fallen asleep after such a harrowing night. When his soft response drifted over from his side of the bed, you knew that no matter how many nights like these you had, you’d be there by his side for it.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

[3-2-whump]

HIT!

<prev next>

For those of you who celebrate it, happy Fourth. For conscientious objectors like me, happy free day! I can't believe I'm posting this chapter on (American) Independence Day, but honestly, there's nothing more American than random acts of gun violence.

NOTE: This is where shit gets real (more real, that is), and where the author may make some decisions that might not vibe with the readers. To those readers, all I will say is fanfiction is a thing, canon divergence is a thing, and I will honestly be more intrigued than mad if you end up scrapping this part and writing your own version! (Just lmk, like tag me or dm me so I can see?) But, um, yeah, onto the chapter!

TW/CW: guns, gunshot wounds, blood, emergency first aid, sort of medical whump, emotional angst

“Hell of a day, wasn’t it!” Thomas exclaimed as he pulled out of the gate.

Khaled only offered a noncommittal hum from the passenger seat.

“Least it’s over now,” the older man huffed. He picked up the speed as they entered one of the main roads, far away from the residential side of the city. He punched a few buttons on his dash, tossing the phone to his passenger. “Make sure my phone is connected.”

“It is,” Khaled answered. The sound of late nineties punk rock soon blared through the speakers and competed with the faint clicking sound of the blinker as they rolled to a stop at a red light. 

“So, you ready to go to the gym tonight and do our usual routines before we settle in?”

“Sorry, but I kind of just want to go home tonight, Master,” Khaled murmured. He’d been in a bit of an emotional slump all day, and the last thing he wanted to do that evening was to end the day with a run on the treadmill.

“What, are you sick or something?” Khaled didn’t respond. Inexplicably, Thomas changed his tone. “Fine, I’ll drop you off at home, then I’ll go by myself,” he sighed.

The light eventually turned green. The car rushed forward and gained speed as it merged onto the highway. Khaled zoned out, leaning his head against the window as he watched the other cars zip by. A motorcycle weaved in and out of traffic lanes. He felt a pang of nostalgia in his heart, though he wasn’t sure why. A brief murmur from the driver’s seat about how they needed to stop for gas barely scratched the surface of his consciousness. He was still hung up on that motorcycle.

They pulled into a gas station just outside the downtown area. Khaled felt the car parking and heard the door opening as his master stepped out to fuel up the car. He’d been dissociating a lot more since The Incident, taking refuge in his own mind and hiding from the world. His master had been keeping his distance since then, too. In those few times where he didn’t visit a whorehouse since The Incident, he would take his time with Khaled and fuck him much slower and more carefully than what either of them were used to. Whether it be out of guilt or genuine penitence remained to be seen, but this time, he knew better than to ask. This was just the new normal, now.

The unmistakable sound of a shot ripped through his inner thoughts. A heavy thump onto the ground soon followed. Khaled’s head whipped around; his master was not outside the car. He unbuckled the seatbelt and opened the car door with a shaky hand as he let himself out. “Sir?” He slowly made his way around the car, heart pounding in his ears and dread coiling in his stomach as he looked down between the car and the gas pump.

Khaled would never forget that sight as long as he lived. There lay his master, face up on the ground, with a telltale bullet hole in his chest that steadily seeped blood around the entry wound. Khaled’s tall foreboding owner, the man who once seemed impossibly invincible, now lay wounded (dying?) in front of a gas station pump.

“K-Khaled?” a voice weakly called from below.

The young man stood frozen, staring down at the man below him.

“Get my phone…call the ambulance…” Thomas huffed through ragged breaths.

He thought he could hear other voices –a crowd forming. Though, honestly, he could barely hear anything above the pounding of his heart and the mess of thoughts and feelings within his head.

“Khaled!”

It’s finally happening, he thought with delight in his mind before immediately switching to guilt and horror that he was cheering over someone’s demise. He’s finally –but wait, if he dies, then …I’ll be free, he realized.

“Can you hear me, boy?”

A bystander rushed over, kneeling next to the mob boss to check on him, but he stubbornly waved them away, pushing himself up from where he fell, wincing as he left behind a puddle of blood on the ground.

I’ll be… free, Khaled realized. Freedom hadn’t felt this attainable for him since he was a child on his third or fourth escape attempt, with every running footfall charged with hope that maybe this time it would work.

Hope. He’d forgotten how good it felt. I’ll be free …

…but, then what?

“Get my phone –now!” Thomas slipped, losing balance on the arm he had propped himself up on to fall back into his pool of blood. He swatted away the helping hand of the stranger who had come to check on him.

He’s given me everything, Khaled remembered. The roof over my head, the clothes on my back, the food in my belly. And if he dies, would all of that just be…taken away…? The weight of that realization combined with the increasing attention they were getting from an ever-growing crowd to exert a pressure on Khaled like he’d never felt before.

“Khaled! For Christ’s sakes,” Thomas yelled, gasping in pain. “Phone! Now!”

His body moved before the rest of his thoughts could catch up, opening the car door and retrieving the boss’ cellphone. He gripped it with a shaking hand and a sweaty palm as he crouched down next to his master and handed him the phone. The man took it between bloodied fingers and punched in his passcode with great difficulty as he huffed in annoyance and pain. There was no need for him to be calling 911 on himself, because at least three other people in the crowd had their phones out and up to their ears, presumably doing the same thing.

Before Khaled could ask what to do next, the good Samaritan next to them said, “Sit him up, and check his back for an exit wound!” Thomas groaned as they hauled him up into a sitting position.  “If it came out the other end, that’s good. If it didn’t then-” A hole about the size of a table grape gaped through the back of the expensive suit jacket, dripping with blood and raw flesh from within.

A wave of nausea hit Khaled as he propped his master up against the gas pump. “It-It’s out, ma’am,” he confirmed.

“Great, okay, yeah. Now, get his handkerchief out of his pocket, and use it to stem the bleeding,” the bystander instructed. “Don’t be afraid to stick it in there.”

The boss' face writhed in discomfort as Khaled dabbed around the bullet wound. Tortured groans escaped clenched teeth as Khaled packed the blood-wicking cloth into the wound, but the stranger patted his back and cradled his master’s head against her chest as she whispered reassurances into his ear. “Just like that, you’re doing great, kid!” The peal of sirens was coming closer, which meant help was on the way soon. Khaled meanwhile, sat back on his heels, nervously chewing his lip as he tried to make sense of why he was helping his abuser. When the EMTs finally loaded the man into the back of the ambulance to take them to the hospital, he was no closer to finding an answer.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[accidentalcookies]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

self-done stitches / alcohol as sanitizer / "It's just a scratch, I've had worse."

tw: blood, but i think that kind of goes without saying, haha

caretaker: celestinus

whumpee: shaoyuan

no oc intro post yet because i am a chronic procrastinator, but someday i'll link it 😅 for some context, both celestinus and shaoyuan are part of a mafia/criminal underworld-type thing run by aristides, with celestinus as aristides' personal bodyguard and just general medic, and sy as aristides' assassin. this is relatively early on in their relationship, after celestinus has warmed to sy, but before it has been made clear to sy that the others actually care about him as a person. there's also a brief mention of some sort of technological enhancement that sy has, which i hope to elaborate on in future fics, but for now, you can essentially think of it as just your bog standard sci-fi enhanced human-type thing (strength, speed, healing factor, etc.)

enjoy!

---

The elevator doors slid open—and, catching sight of what was inside, Celestinus groaned.

“No,” he said. “No, you have got to be kidding me.”

Shaoyuan raised an eyebrow at him. “‘Hi, Shaoyuan,’” he deadpanned. “‘It’s nice to see you, Shaoyuan.’ I’ve been led to believe that that’s typical for greetings.”

Celestinus leveled him with an unamused stare. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

And just in case Shaoyuan didn’t get the gist, he pointedly swept his gaze down to his side, to where he had one hand pressed to a suspiciously dark patch on his clothing.

“No idea, actually,” he replied blandly. “Can I get through?”

The absolute gall of this man.

He reached in to take Shaoyuan’s arm—not the one that could have been holding in his internal organs, for all Celestinus knew.

But instead, his hand closed around air as Shaoyuan neatly sidestepped around him.

“Thanks,” he said, and turned to leave. “See you later.”

“Nope. We’re not playing this game.”

He dropped his bag and followed. In just a few words, Shaoyuan had already eaten up half the hallway with his lanky stride, and didn’t slow his pace as Celestinus caught up either, forcing him to do a sort of awkward half-jog just to stay at his side.

Shaoyuan didn’t turn. “What game?”

“The one where you swear up and down that you’re fine, and then I have to peel your sorry ass off the floor when you eat it.”

That had been a harrowing experience, loathe as Celestinus was to remember it. Aristides had only noticed because Shaoyuan, ever the most diligent member of this organization, had missed reporting in to him after his mission. When he’d gone searching, he found him flat on his face, bleeding out from a set of gunshot wounds—ones that normally would not have been a major problem, had his internal hardware not been compromised.

But it had been, and there was literally no one else left alive on the planet who knew how to un-compromise it, and so Celestinus had spent a long, stressful night playing “pin the tail on the donkey”—if you substituted the donkey with Shaoyuan and the tail with life.

“That was extenuating circumstances,” said the donkey, surprising absolutely no one with his wildly understated description. “There was an EMP involved.”

“That wasn’t extenuating circumstances, practically everyone tries to hit you with one nowadays,” Celestinus countered. “And the consequences were very much real and very much inconvenient and I’ll be damned if I have to deal with it again. What happened?”

“...It’s just a scratch,” he replied. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Weren’t you about to do something for Aristides?” he asked. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Celestinus had been about to run an errand, true, but that was before something else took priority. Namely, corralling their resident idiot into letting him throw a first aid kit at him.

Preferably at his head. Patients were much more convenient to work with when they were unconscious.

“Really, beanpole?” he sighed.

Looked like he had no other choice. It was time for the big guns: appealing to Shaoyuan’s unwillingness to inconvenience others.

He looked back over his shoulder. “You dripped blood on the floor.”

“I know I didn’t,” Shaoyuan said.

Despite that, he still slowed to turn back, and in that moment of distraction, Celestinus’ hand shot out to yank Shaoyuan’s away from his side.

Things proceeded to devolve. Shaoyuan ducked to one side, then again as Celestinus lunged for him, then a third time as he lunged for him again, at which point Celestinus gave up, decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and jabbed him in the solar plexus.

As Shaoyuan wheezed and folded over, Celestinus pulled his hand away—and then  had to fight through the various layers of fancy clothing both he and Aristides preferred to find the bloodied skin below, yanking them into disarray.

Ever the joker, Shaoyuan croaked out, “Dinner first.”

“Ha hah, you’re so funny,” Celestinus deadpanned, staring down at a large gash that would most definitely need stitches. “This is not ‘just a scratch.'”

“It hasn’t breached the abdominal cavity,” he pointed out. “That’s a scratch.”

Celestinus sighed and let it go, knowing that trying to argue injury definitions with a man who thought breaching the abdominal cavity was a good indicator for when things were starting to become bad was a lost cause. “You’re coming with me.”

“Your errand–”

“Can wait. Keeping you from bleeding on the carpets is the priority.”

Shaoyuan looked pointedly at the ground. “I’m noticing a severe lack of carpets.”

“Oh, because bleeding on marble isn’t just as bad?” he asked sarcastically. “I’m helping whether or not you agree. All arguing’s gonna do is waste my time.”

He made direct eye contact with Shaoyuan and held it stubbornly, until finally the man relented and looked away.

“Fine,” he said.

Internally, Celestinus breathed a long sigh of relief. “Then come on,” he said.

---

tagging: @whumperless-whump-event

[dragonscale-unofficial]

Reunion (Scene from my wip)

Infection, Medical Whump, Fever, Mage Whumpee and Caretaker,

The sound of incessant knocking roused Whumpee from her uneasy sleep. Good grief, who could it be? She hadn’t forgotten to pay her rent, had she? Whumpee dragged herself to the door, every part of her body aching. In a moment of clarity, she remembered that she hadn’t been able to unlock the door earlier. Exhausted, she fumbled with her key again.

“Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it.” Whumpee repeated through gritted teeth, barely able to see through the tears in her eyes. Resting her forehead against the door as she shivered, the cold finally catching up to her, she heard a scratching sound. Tired and confused, she listened to it until she felt the door pushing against her face. With a burst of energy, she scrambles to her feet (when had she fallen on the floor? She couldn’t say), leaning on the door for support. She cried out in pain as the motion strained her back. With little choice, she opened the door and blinked. It couldn’t be true, but her friend was still there.

“Hey Whumpee. May I come in?” Caretaker asked, hardly waiting for Whumpee's shocked, stiff nod before striding in.

“How -Why- are you here?” Whumpee fumbled, staring at Caretaker.

“Not now, Whumpee. You look awful, no offence. You need to sit down- Where’s your furniture?” Caretaker asked sharply.

“I didn’t get around to buying it yet.” Whumpee admitted sheepishly. Caretaker sighed.

“Whumpee, it’s been three months. Please tell me you at least have a bed.”

“It came with the apartment.” “...Of course it did. Well, come on then, get to bed. Give me your key, I’ll lock the door. Sorry if the lock’s scratched up, I was in a hurry.”

Whumpee handed her the key and went to comply. “Not that key, Whumpee, that’s the key to your Oquara apartment. Why do you even still have that? Give me the other one.”

Oh. Whumpee fumbled with her pockets until Caretaker told her to drop it and just go to bed, shutting the door. Whumpee stumbled to her room and collapsed onto her bed again, instantly regretting it when pain seared through every part of her body life freezing needles. She could hear Caretaker rifling through her cupboards and fridge and sighing. She feared that her friend would be doing a lot of that in the future.

Caretaker stepped into Whumpee’s room, only now realising that her friend’s back was bleeding through her thick hoodie. Her sheets were covered in blood, Caretaker realized with a sinking stomach. How long had Whumpee stayed like this, without even cleaning her wounds? She could smell pus and rot throughout the room and tried not to gag. Whumpee was groaning in pain, laying face down on the bed. Fuck. She needed to do something, but so many things needed doing. Whumpee needed to eat, she needed to sleep, her wounds needed to be tended to, this room needed to be set on fire with everything in it. The smell of rot could only be coming from the bed, she needed to get Whumpee away from it. That was the most urgent thing. Whumpee’s wounds were infected, Caretaker didn’t need to see them to know that. A rattling cough shook Whumpee’s entire body, wracking her with pain and causing her to yell out in agony, only to bring herself more pain.

Panicked, Caretaker ran to the bathroom, finding a towel on the radiator, and found some clean clothes in Whumpee’s bag, though they couldn’t compare to the veritable mountain of dirty clothes in the corner of the room. Whumpee’s first aid kit lay scattered on the bathroom floor. Was it safe to use? It didn’t really matter since most of it had been used up already. She cleaned the thread and needle, which seemed to had been unused anyway, in the sink, and picked up the one bandage roll that hadn’t spent who knew how long on the uncleaned floor. She added a pair of scissors and a nearly full bottle of iodine to the pile of safe to use supplies, noting the empty bottle under the sink. No painkillers in sight, but she found two large sheets of plasters, the kind that you cut however much you needed off of. Good enough, hopefully.

Okay. She needed to calm down. Step one, get Whumpee off that rancid bed. She took a deep breath before entering the bedroom and picked Whumpee up, trying to be careful with her injuries. Reflexively, Whumpee elbowed her in the face, hard enough that Caretaker heard her nose shatter with a sickening crunch, warm blood splattering onto her face. She blinked rapidly as some of it somehow found its way to her eyes.

“It’s okay! Whumpee, calm down. I need to get you out of here.” Her nose hurt like a bitch. Whumpee continued to struggle, so Caretaker stopped time to pick the taller woman up, but she badly miscalculated the amount of force needed, largely due to the weight Whumpee had lost since she’d last seen her, so she tipped forward. On reflex, she fell to her knees and leaned back, feeling a tugging pain in her leg joints but avoiding hitting Whumpee with anything. She staggered to her feet and carried her to the bathroom, gently placing her in the bath. Carefully, Caretaker tried to peel the hoodie off of Whumpee’s back, only to discover to her horror that it and the shirt had matted to Whumpee’s open wound. It too had started to rot, the pungent, sickly sweet smell leaving no doubt. Caretaker’s eyes teared up as she tried to cut the fabric loose with her weapon, Daybreak. She could hear the sound of her blood dripping into the tub, the only sound beside her haggard breathing in this timeless silence. The lights were dim, the enchantment on them fading.

She restarted time as she carefully cut any fabric not matted to the wound away, trying to ignore Whumpee’s cries of pain, which over time turned to tortured sobbing. “Please stop. I’m sorry for leaving.” Whumpee begged desperately in between sobs.

“I’m not doing this because you left. I’m doing this because I don’t want you to die, so let me work in peace.” Blood poured into Caretaker’s mouth, and with nowhere to spit it out, she swallowed it, forcing herself not to throw up as the metallic taste compounded on the smells of pus and rot.

Removing the rest of Whumpee’s clothes proved far easier, which left Caretaker to properly examine Whumpee’s injuries. Her back aside, she seemed to have an open wound on her head, which meant that her hair was matted with dried blood. Bruises covered the rest of her body, and she clearly had a fever, not to mention the amount of blood she’d lost.

Throwing the clothes aside, Caretaker turned on the shower. She waited for the water to warm up, knowing how Whumpee despised the cold. She would have given Whumpee some encouragement, but one mouthful of blood was enough for one day.  Speaking of drinking, when was the last time Whumpee had drunk anything? Exhaling irritably and wishing that she’d thought of it before, she clambered out of the tub, her clothes, wet with blood and water, clinging to her uncomfortably as she made her way to the kitchen. She found a clean looking glass, which she rinsed for good measure before filling it with water and taking it back to Whumpee.

She handed the glass to Whumpee, though better of it upon seeing her shivering like a leaf. Instead, she held the glass to her friend’s lips. “Come on, Whumpee. You need to drink something. Please.”

“Will you stop hurting me if I do?” Whumpee asked hesitantly. On one hand, if Caretaker said no, Whumpee might remember that she had magic and make a break for it. On the other, if Caretaker said yes and proceeded to continue tending to Whumpee’s wounds, she would lose what trust she had in Caretaker until she recovered enough to understand that Caretaker was healing her.

“I’ll try to be gentler, yes, but I need you to understand that I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you, believe it or not.” Caretaker compromised. Whumpee’s eyes closed as she drank, small, shallow sips, but she was drinking.

The skin around Whumpee’s back wound was red, glossy, and inflamed, not to mention hot to the touch. Whumpee flinched as Caretaker touched it. “Sorry.” Caretaker had given up on preventing the blood from her broken nose from pouring into her mouth, resolving to get used to the constant taste of blood. The wound itself was a mixture of dark brown congealed blood, yellow-white pus oozing from the cracks where the wound had scabbed over and been torn open again, and the green and grey fabrics of her shirt and hoodie.

Caretaker climbed back into the bath and turned the shower on again, gently soaking the gaping wound in hopes of at least easing the fabric out. Carefully, she rubbed the blood away, gently shushing Whumpee whenever she cried out. Over the course of twenty minutes, she managed to remove the fabric and most of the blood, leaving her with a considerably cleaner, though still thoroughly infected wound. Caretaker let it be for now, turning to her friend’s head injury. Slowly, she washed the blood out of Whumpee’s hair, relieved to discover that not only wasn’t the wound infected, and it was also much smaller than expected. Still, Caretaker decided that it should be stitched up. She grabbed the needle and thread and softly warned Whumpee that this might hurt a bit. Whumpee braced herself and Caretaker started stitching her up, listening to her own blood pattering down into the tub, mixing with the water. As she worked, she started to hum a Beliori lullaby that her mother had sung to her as a child, telling of storms in the middle of the night, shielding those that slept withing its eye.

Whumpee barely felt the stitches Caretaker gave her, focusing on the gentle lullaby she was certain she’d heard before, images of a guardian floating above storm-tossed seas, striking at monsters with lightning if they came close floating through her mind as she listened to Caretaker’s deep, raspy but somewhat slurred voice. Almost unconsciously, she started to doze off. “Hey! Stay awake. I still need to figure out what to do about your back.”

“Sorry.” Whumpee watched the bloody water drain out of the bath as Caretaker resumed her humming, eventually starting to sing under her breath.

Suddenly, the entire building shook and it felt like the temperature had dropped by twenty degrees. “Probably an Earthquake. I’ll go check once I’m done fixing this.” Caretaker mused, unbothered. After dabbing her wound with iodine, she stuck something to Whumpee’s back and wrapped it in bandages as the temperature continued to drop. Finally, Whumpee pointed it out, a little shakily. “It is a little cooler, isn’t it? Well, I think I’ve done as much as I can for your back, so just put these clothes on, alright?” Caretaker brushed it off coolly, handing her a pile of clothes, which Whumpee put on, with some difficulty. Caretaker folded a clean towel in the corner of the bathroom, near the radiator and helped Whumpee settle onto it. She must have noticed Whumpee's confusion, because she explained: “Your bed’s a mess, I’m worried that your infection will get worse. I’ll do something about that once I’ve checked on the earthquake.”

Caretaker left the bathroom, her face falling as she stepped out. It had been so hard to keep her composure in front of Whumpee. Once the building started shaking, Caretaker had stopped time and gone to check, only to find that the living area’s entire wall was frozen over in its entirety. At this point, the temperature in the apartment was below freezing. Armed with Daybreak, she shattered the frozen window before slashing at the ice, setting it on fire. Soon, it had melted enough for her to slip through. She slashed the ice a few more times on her way down from the second floor, but as she looked around, she realised with mounting horror that that house wasn’t the only one. The entirety of the Night Hunters’ mercenary housing was frozen solid, who knew how many mercenaries still stuck inside. Worse, the culprit was still in the area, a gigantic blue and white dragon circling the air. Caretaker froze, waiting for it to pass. Why was it here? How had it gotten past Belior’s defences? Were there any other survivors?

This is from my WIP. I changed the characters' names for the time being. Until I introduce them, I'll probably keep doing that.