#first aid whump

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Draw (Bath pt 3)

Masterlist

Conclusion to Bath and Mend, time to wrap up the first aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, whumpee forces caretaker to trigger them, whumpee propositions caretaker (nothing happens), dubious caretaker. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August calls after him but it’s unintelligible amongst his sobs. Even with the door shut between them, Wyatt can hear him growing ever more hysterical. His skin crawls. 

He bolts to the other end of the hall, hands unsteady as he pulls out the blessed cigarette case and matchbook. The smell of sulfur sets his nerves buzzing with the promise of respite only a breath away. He has to delay by one more to steady his hands in order to align the flame with the end of his cigarette. 

If only the first drag could last forever. 

A distant pain flares in his fingertips but he’s too occupied savouring the longest inhale he’s taken all morning. 

He needed this hours ago. 

Unfortunately, his inevitable exhale brings him back down to earth. 

August is still crying in his bedroom. As is his right, with Wyatt losing all patience and leaving him there bleeding. Failing him once again and this time the lad will certainly remember Wyatt's dereliction. 

He sighs, smoke from his exhale hanging in the air with no breeze to clear it. Midge hates when they smoke in the house away from an open window. He’ll have to make his excuses to her too. 

It wasn’t like this with the others. Not even Hugh, who required leagues of patience. He takes another pull, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the banister spanning the length of the hall. Never before has he been so absent from the others, so quick to temper, so impulsively invested. He fans the cloud of his next exhale, trying to dispel it. 

Something about August pushes him to extremes. Theo made clear what he attributes it to and Wyatt isn’t too proud to admit the truth in his theory. But that awareness does nothing to lessen his attachment, his determination to see this one through. 

He takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette at the half.

August only cries harder when Wyatt slowly pushes the door open. At the very least, he’s clinging to the crumpled sheet in his lap again. “Please—” he hiccups. “Please don’t—please don’t—”

He’s about to tell the younger boy he has no intention of hurting him, and apologize for doing so before, when he deciphers what August is repeating. 

It nearly brings him to his knees. 

“Oh, August, lamb.” The endearment makes August cry out as though it were a strike. Wyatt approaches the dissolving boy slowly. This certainly reframes all of his previous groveling. Most of his placating served to keep Wyatt engaged. By any means necessary. He would rather be hurt to any degree than abandoned. Or perhaps ‘discarded’ is a better term from what he’s let slip about his time with Keats.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”

No part of the insight is satisfying. 

“August, August.” He lowers himself onto the bed, staying an arm’s reach away. “August, look at me.”

He tries but he’s beside himself. His eyes can’t seem to rest as he watches Wyatt’s every move, his hands, his lips, his brow, his gaze for only a moment before they flick somewhere else. August’s hands shake in the air, hovering uncertainly. He wants to hold himself, he wants to be held, he checks the sheet again. 

“All will right, lad. Come here—”

August bites his lips together and shakes his head adamantly, leaning away from Wyatt’s outstretched hands. Before Wyatt can kick himself for damaging the one comfort the boy could find, August thrusts the unrolled length of bandage into his hand. 

“It’s all right, there’s no need for haste.” Wyatt sets the bundle down. “Once you’re—”

He picks it up again, pressing it into Wyatt’s hands. “Please.” He’s no longer sobbing but his entire body hitches with each ragged breath, tears still running down his cheeks whenever he blinks. 

On one hand, it’s unlikely he can get more upset than he already is but on the other, Wyatt would rather save him what suffering he can. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Take a—”

August wails in frustration, swiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Please,” he repeats, voice raw. 

It would be easier to take him at his word if he wasn’t fighting shy of eye contact. “You don’t have anything to prove. What I said earlier—”

“Just fucking get it over with.” 

Wyatt raises his eyebrows but August still won’t look into his face. He wonders if he’s missing a rare glimpse of the fire in his eyes. 

“Please,” August amends. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense as he works to still himself and quiet his breathing. 

The lesser of the two evils is most certainly to let August grow irate by refusing to do this now. But Wyatt would rather not deny this single outspoken request. Even if it will go over like a lead balloon. 

August lies back with a huff before Wyatt has the chance to concede verbally. Likely because he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. 

Wyatt starts by cutting the bloody end of the bandage off and gingerly removing it from the wound. August doesn’t flinch once, though his knuckles are white where he grips fistfuls of the sheet between his legs. 

Nothing left but to begin. 

“You’ll have to—” 

August bends the leg in question so his thigh is off the mattress, placing his foot flat on the mattress. 

“Right and—”

He spreads his legs to give Wyatt room to work. 

“It’ll be over—”

“Don’t,” August whispers. “Please.” 

He nods, though he’s certain August is still taking pains to avoid looking at him. He threads the first pass meticulously, taking great care not to make contact with his skin. 

Still, August starts trembling. He tries to make haste but winds up grazing the inside of August’s thigh with his knuckle. August whimpers and claps both hands over his mouth. 

“If you need—”

“Don’t stop,” he blurts, immediately covering his mouth again but not swiftly enough to hide that he’s crying now. 

Wyatt makes it round once more before August's legs fall together, the lifted one shaking as he works to keep it bent. “August...” 

“Please, just help me,” he sobs, fists coming down to grab either side of the quilt beneath him. “I want—I want it finished—”

“No.” He can’t. He won’t keep pushing him. Or himself for that matter. “There’s no reason—”

“Wyatt, please,” August wines. 

As gently as he can, he prises the younger boy’s legs apart, taking his injured leg onto his lap to keep it elevated. He tries to be as fast as he can but every brush of skin results in more force needed to hold August in place. Every touch makes progress feel further.

What the fuck is wrong with him that he’s doing this to such a broken boy at the irrational instruction of the very same? He loathes himself—and August—for putting him in this position. 

Finally, it’s over. It takes three tries to tie the knot. 

“All right,” he says, relief washing over him as he releases August. “It’s done.” 

He doesn’t move, hands limp at his sides, eyes fixed unseeing on the ceiling above. 

“August, come now.” He’s loathe to touch him again, his stillness even more concerning than his hysteria. “We’ll get you dressed and you can warm by the fire.” 

If it’s space he wants, Wyatt will gladly step out to finish his cigarette. Perhaps if he keeps the door open, it won’t feel like such a separation. He moves to stand but August sits up, slim fingers catching his wrist. 

“Wait, sir, please. You haven’t finished…”

Wyatt swallows. “Yes, I have. Your leg is bandaged now.” He tries to pull away but August only moves closer.

“Please, I want it.” 

“August. No.” He takes his hand in both of his and August’s grip goes slack. “Look at me. Look where you are.” 

He stares right through him, a haunted smile that is anything but alluring pulling at his lips. “Please,” he repeats, letting his legs fall open. 

“No.” 

Wyatt drops his hand and stands but August catches his shirt. “Please,” he pleads, a hint of the earlier panic returning to his voice. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t get Master Keats.” 

Wyatt feels sick. “August, that’s not what’s happening. You’re safe here, he can’t hurt you anymore.” He pulls his own dressing gown off the footboard. Has to bat August’s hands away to drape it over his shoulders and doesn’t bother threading them through the sleeves before he cinches the tie around his waist. 

“I—I—” August looks down at himself and back at Wyatt, brow furrowing. His eyes are more distant than Wyatt’s ever seen them. Wyatt pulls him to his feet but when he starts leading him away from the bed, August digs his heels in. “Wait, but I—” 

He picks him up, carrying him across the room instead. 

“No! Please! Master Keats will—he’ll—” 

Wyatt is selfishly grateful that August’s sobs prevent him from voicing the end of the sentence. He sets the younger boy in the armchair but even without his arms, August manages to hold him. Wyatt kneels which couldn’t be more apt. If he’s to bring him back without simply holding him for as long as it takes, he’ll be begging. 

“Please, August…” 

He curls against the wing of the chair, hiding his face against the fabric as he cries. 

Not without hesitation, Wyatt reaches out to brush the tears off his cheek. August whimpers, chasing the touch until Wyatt finds himself cradling his face between his hands. 

“Come now, show me you’re still brave in there. One bath can’t have doused that fire.” August sniffles, chin trembling. At least his eyes are clearer, even if they’re full of doubt. Wyatt squeezes his shoulders. “There’s fight in you yet. I know it, sweet lamb.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, conflict playing out on his face. He’s trying so hard to reach that version of himself, to square his shoulders, to step away from his past. But he had to be small for so long, even without the ties that bound him, their force isn’t so easily forgotten. 

Wyatt feels his own tension rising the longer he observes. “I’ll make you a deal,” he tries. Bribery is bread and butter around these parts after all. “Have you ever had hot chocolate?” 

August’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere around Wyatt’s shoulder. 

“Melted chocolate and milk, served warm…”

Now he has the feral little thing interested. His dark amber eyes flick up to read Wyatt’s face, to see if he is spinning tales or telling the truth. He’s certain the younger boy wouldn’t be able to discern the difference either way. He could fool almost anyone with a bluff, very few walking the earth know his true tell. In this case, though, it isn’t a lie. 

“Does one…drink it or eat it with a spoon?” August whispers, as though afraid of scaring away the offer. 

“You’ll have to get dressed and find out for yourself.” Now he has his full attention. “I’m sorry for losing my patience. I do hope you’ll forgive me in time.” 

August narrows his eyes. 

“The deal stands,” he reaffirms. “If you’re interested. Though you ought to get dressed either way. ” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it,” he admits in a small voice. He pulls an arm out to swipe his hand under his nose. “Why did you even come back when I was being so difficult?” 

“Why’d you let me back in here when I was being so difficult myself?” 

August furrows his brow. “Sir…”

“All right. For starters, this is my room and I won’t give it up so easily.” He points to the corner beyond the foot of the bed. “Only one with two windows.” 

“That’s not—”

“I know, lamb,” he chides gently, reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. August leans into the touch until Wyatt indulges his cheek with a caress. “But you’re not going to like the true answer.” 

He pulls away, fear colouring his expression. 

Wyatt leaves his hand between them, trying to show that this doesn’t change anything from one moment to the next. “I don’t know why I want to help you, only that I do and I will so long as you’ll let me.” 

August shakes his head. “Sir—” 

“I warned you, lamb.” He uses the term of endearment again, hoping it will win him some favour and it does, August leans back within reach though not back into his hand. Wyatt stands to retrieve the parcel he’d carried home this morning, dropping it on the boy’s lap “Lively now, I can see you shivering.” 

August unwraps it delicately like the paper and twine are gifts in themselves. He fingers the underclothes inside. The right size and wool, the warmest they had. He looks up at Wyatt and back at the garments as if to make sure they haven’t disappeared. 

“Thank you for giving me another chance.” He’s heartbreakingly earnest, though Wyatt couldn’t guess if he means in this moment or every chance that proceeded it.  

“Honestly, I could thank you for the same.” Wyatt ruffles his hair, marvelling in the downy softness of those curls now that they’re clean. The gesture brings the colour back to August’s cheeks. “I’ll give you some privacy to get those on. Midge will bring up some hot chocolate for you and something to eat if you can.” 

August looks down, hands falling limp in his lap. “You’re leaving.” 

It’s not a question and he won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, is only punishing himself by prompting a verbal sentencing. Wyatt unrolls his sleeves, leaving the cuffs unbuttoned. He replaces his waistcoat and pulls on his jacket. All the while, August doesn’t raise his eyes, a cumbersome silence dividing them further. 

“You did well today,” he says from the door. “I’m proud of you.” 

No dice. August doesn’t move a muscle. He looks so fragile, from his bony knees to the ribs one shouldn’t see, climbing his chest to his delicate collarbone, the column of his throat. He doesn’t cry, just lets the armchair swallow him as if he could disappear before he’s abandoned. 

Sometimes no one wins. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive me. In time.” 

The frigid evening air bites at his lungs, every inhale rendering their capacity smaller. His eyes sting from the sharp, relentless wind. He couldn’t light a cigarette if he tried so he buries his hands in his pockets and quickens his step but the further he gets from the house, the more Wyatt feels like he’s lost. 

Masterlist

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat @meetmeinhellcroutons

[sunshineandrosesnoraincamemyway]

I wish there was a website where you could input a character's description (height, weight, sex, medical conditions, etc.) And a situation (car crash, falls, stabbing, etc.) And it would calculate for you from most to least likely the injuries that character would receive, potential complications, and how long it would take recover. This would make writing injuries SO MICH EASIER if I wasn't guessing at everything

[comfortingcatharsis]

A character using their own clothing to tend to a companion- using their coat as a blanket to spread over them; tearing strips from a garment to clean or bind their wounds or bathe a fevered brow; turning a scarf or handkerchief into a sling; slipping a pair of gloves warmed by their own heat onto the companion's hands; using their shirt as padding and the sleeves to bind a splint for the companion's broken limb; crafting a makeshift litter from a cloak or coat and branches; pressing any fabric they can get their hands on to an open wound to stem the bleeding- using the material closest to hand for the good of their companion.

[featherlovesrobots]

Sickfictropes you always bring so much to a prompt!! I love everything about this response

Consider:

It's the end of a big battle, and everyone is safe. The team is exhausted but relieved. Those with enough energy are already celebrating that everyone survived and no one god hurt too badly. Even Stoic Leader is smiling --- until their eyes widen as they feel a sword cut clean through them from behind, and the near-silent battlefield echoes with their pained gasp.

As it turns out, there was one more enemy left. They flee after they deal that last strike, and the team is too shocked to chase them. Faces falling, hands lifted up to cover their mouths in horror, steps taken back. Then Leader crashes to their knees, propping themself up on their palms. Heart cries out, bounding towards them and screaming for Medic. Then, chipper and optimistic as they are, they put their trembling hands on Leader's shoulders and babble reassurances at them. Main Medic shows up next, sprinting to Leader despite their own half-patched injuries. "Hey, hey, hey. Captain. Look at me, okay? Eyes on me."

It's a race for the team to drag themselves back to base to get Leader help --- and it doesn't help that they're still tired and battered from the fight. Tank can't fully carry them with a broken arm, so Archer, despite having been poisoned themself, helps to support them. Everyone is suffering, but they all come together for Leader.

When they finally reach base, they call out for the other Medics, the ones who always stay behind in case of situations like these. Leader is the main focus --- they're bleeding badly, and they might have some nasty damage to their internal organs, so there'll have to be a surgery. But the others get a bit of attention too; broken bones set, antidotes administered, bandages applied --- despite their frequent protest. Main Medic is deemed too injured to work, and they're too tired to fight on it. They just smile tiredly at the other surgeons and say, "okay. You've got it. But call me if anything happens, yeah?"

When Leader comes to, everyone is waiting for them. Instead of just "captain" or "ma'am," they're called by their own name.

ooh i'm imagining a scene where Leader is finally sleeping peacefully after they patch them up and the team just sits by the fire, treating one another's injuries.

Medic needs stitches, but that has to wait because Archer's poison is a much more pressing problem.

Second in Command treats themselves under Medic's supervision because Medic literally doesn't have even a single moment to spare. after Archer is taken care of, Medic all but collapses from their own injuries and someone who isn't trained has to give them stitches.

i love the aspect of everyone coming together to help Leader, then STAYING together to fix one another. they sleep in shifts, the order based on the severity of their injuries. even if Leader will be upset that none of them put themselves first, they got the job done. this is such a good prompt!!

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Mend (Bath pt 2)

Masterlist

Immediately following this, time for a little wound care first-aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper dynamics. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

Wyatt lends August as much time as he can. The younger boy’s arms locked around his neck, forehead resting at the base of his throat. His back aches from holding them both above the steaming water earlier, sweat prickling along his spine. The fabric of his shirt adheres to his skin under August’s damp skin, wet hair tickling his jaw, too hot-breath trapped just beneath Wyatt’s collarbone. He lets himself stifle until he can scarcely breathe. 

“I’ll need you to release me if you want something dry for when you get out,” he finally grates. 

“Oh—” August straightens immediately, dropping his hands and startling when they hit water. “I’m sorry. Of course, sir. I forget myself, I’m sorry, sir.” 

“None of that.” He clears his throat. Forces air into his lungs against the feeling of confinement to better soften his voice. “You’ve done well, lad.”

August looks away, uncertain in the face of an admonishment and a compliment. He slowly draws his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around himself with a shiver. 

The afternoon has worn thin by now, the fire mere embers in the hearth. Without a pause to turn on a lamp or light a candle, the room fell into an early twilight. Meanwhile, the light from the window tells of a brilliant sunset starting beyond but the angle is all wrong to benefit from any of the glow. 

Wyatt bundles August in the bath linens Midge set out and ushers him to sit on the bed while he adds coal to the fire. He lights the lamp on the bedside table, favouring a warm flame over the electric. August tries to hide his flinch when Wyatt strikes the match, flicking his eyes away as though he hadn’t been watching closely the whole time. He’s desperate for a smoke—and a drink for that matter—but decides better of it, not wanting to push August more than he already has to. 

“Shall we see to your hip?”

August shrinks against the wall. “Nnn-no, no, no more.” Tears spring to his eyes and he pulls all the linens trying to bundle himself tigther. “I can’t—I can’t take anymore. Sir, I beg mercy of you, please—”

Evidently, August’s nerves are just as spent as Wyatt’s patience. The faster they get this over with, the better. 

“Easy…” He takes his hands out of his pockets, holding them out in a gesture of goodwill.

It takes a moment but awareness finally breaks through August’s fear. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t—I won’t—” Not enough awareness evidently, since he’s apologising for shying away even though he feared pain. It’s been beaten into him that such a misstep will cost him even more dearly. He visibly flinches as he pushes himself back to the edge of the mattress, closer to Wyatt. “It’s—I’ll—Please, please, forgive me—”

When Wyatt continues to give him space to settle, he panics. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats urgently. His hands untangle themselves from the linens, lifting as if to reach for Wyatt but he stops himself, folding his shaking fingers on his lap instead. “Please, sir. I’m sorry for being so much trouble. I’m thoughtless and difficult and I dishonor your generosity—”

“August, enough.” Wyatt finally interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I understand you are afraid. I understand you do not yet fully trust me. You have equal rights to both and need not excuse yourself further. I promise you, I do not take either as an affront to my person. There is no need to continue debasing yourself with this litany of apologies.”

It may well have been a slap. August looks down, nodding once. He won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze as he stands to shuck off the linen sheets. His fingers hesitate at the waistband of the still-damp drawers and he curls them into fists when they begin to shake. He makes a sound in his throat, a half-whimper that’s probably a swallowed apology.

The boy looks wretched. Trapped wrestling with his own will, having just been stripped of his only defense or safety by Wyatt’s ill-timed directness. 

Wyatt takes a measured breath, releasing his clenched jaw to make his voice softer. “It’s all right, steady yourself. Just one thing at a time, lad.” He reaches past the younger boy to pull one of the linens off the bed but August recoils so much at the proximity he nearly falls into the gas lamp before Wyatt catches him around the waist. 

Instead of panicking even more at the contact, August buries his face in Wyatt’s chest, fists gripping his braces to pull himself closer. 

“It’s all right, you’re all right.” Wyatt’s never known someone so terrified of assault to be so equally desperate for physical comfort. He would have expected a strong aversion to the latter, a fact he need not dally on, especially now. He grits his teeth and indulges August a few more moments of shushing and rubbing his back until goose pimples begin to rise on the younger boy’s skin despite how much he clings to Wyatt’s warmth. “Come along. We’ll finish quickly and get you settled by the fire.”

“Yes, sir.” August whispers. He pulls back, red in the face and still averting his gaze as he releases his grip on Wyatt’s braces. He lets Wyatt reach past him for one of the linen sheets which he folds for August. He turns his back, even taking a few steps away to ease August’s fears, waiting until he clears his throat, apparently unable to find his voice to tell Wyatt he’s ready.

It’s a task in itself to remove the old bandage. Thankfully, Doc left a pair of shears as there’s no way in hell August could stand Wyatt using a knife. Nevertheless, he whimpers when the cold metal brushes his upper thigh and holds his breath until Wyatt’s through. 

The wound still looks as raw and painful as when it was cauterized but his leg around it is less red. 

“You’ll have to lie back,” he instructs as gently as he can. 

“I—of course. It’s—I—” August still won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, an aversion that does him no favours as Wyatt watches his grow distant. The lad bites back at least a dozen more apologies as he tries to arrange himself, attempting to keep his shoulders and head propped with one arm behind himself, gripping the sheet between his legs with the other. But he doesn’t have the strength, besides the angle being all wrong. 

Wyatt forgets to stifle his sigh and August flinches. “On your side, lad.” 

August corrects his position as instructed, breath growing ragged as Wyatt prepares the supplies they’ll need. He should talk August through this, say anything to distract him, but he only finds himself growing angry. Angry at the cruelty that broke the trembling boy before him so that he awaits even basic care with fear. Angrier still at the man who caused all of that pain. 

August flinches when Wyatt dabs the wound to dry it, bending his knees as if to curl up before he catches himself. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I swear it.” 

The pledge only makes Wyatt’s temper flare. Sworn rival and enemy aside, he’ll kill Keats the next time he lays eyes on him. 

When Wyatt touches him with the iodine-soaked cotton, August’s hand flies out to grip his wrist. His eyes widen and he releases his fingers from Wyatt’s wrist one by one, taking pains not to make another sudden movement.

“Sir, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt says, beating him to the punch. August blinks, hand still hanging in the air between them. “I should have given you notice. I know it hurts.” 

“No, I’m—” August finally meets his gaze and Wyatt wishes he hadn’t. Can August see he’s wrestling with ill-timed anger instead of comforting him? “It’s nothing.” 

He’s the one who should do better. “Here.” He holds out his free hand. August hesitates. “Take it, if it helps.” 

August does, gripping his hand tightly, probably as tight as he can, though it’s nothing close to strong. He works adamantly to keep himself quiet through the rest of the treatment. Wyatt can only imagine how badly it must hurt from the way he bites his lips together, tears escaping even as he pinches his eyes shut. 

“There, that’s it,” Wyatt says, discarding the cotton and putting the stopper back in the iodine.

August blinks quickly, dispelling more tears. Wyatt pulls him up slowly in case it’s from the fresh movement.

“It should hurt less the next time,” Wyatt says, if only to assuage his own concern. 

August looks down at his wound for the first time since they started. “It doesn’t—” He meets Wyatt’s eyes, a strangled sound escaping his lips. 

It’s all Wyatt can do to scramble for the wash basin and get it in the boy’s arms before he gets sick. 

“I’m sorry—” he starts gasping even as his stomach still tries, now in vain, to empty itself further. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Hush, lad. Hush.” He runs his fingers through the still-damp curls at the nape of his neck, waiting for him to find his breath again. 

August accepts a damp cloth to clean his face. Takes a sip of the water he’s offered. “I’ll clean it myself. Please, sir.” 

Wyatt tsks. “You’ll do no such thing. You’re staying in bed once your leg is redressed.” He tries to remove some of the impatience from his tone. “Midge will bring you some broth and then you can sleep or read, whatever you like, but you’re staying in bed.” 

“Yessir.” August turns away, hiding his face and the colour rising there. 

He deserves patience and kindness, especially since he’s already stuck with Wyatt for a nurse. As pathetic as it is, Wyatt knows he’d have more of both if he could have a cigarette. But they only have one task left and he August’s nerves are wrung out as it is. They’ll both just have to survive a few more minutes. 

“Think you can stand again?” He pulls August back to his feet. “You can hold my shoulder.” He kneels and August grips a fistful of his shirt instead, fingers finding their way inside his open collar. 

Just another minute. 

He undwinds the beginning of the clean bandage, carefully aligning it with the wound before letting it rest there. Unwinds some more length to wrap it behind—

August jumps out of reach, jerking Wyatt aside with him. He’s forced to crane his neck to avoid being choked. “August.” 

He releases him immediately. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” His voice trembles. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean—Sir, truly—” 

Wyatt holds up a hand. “It’s fine, I’m fine. Let’s try again.” When August doesn’t immediately step back in front of him, Wyatt pulls him into place, making August gasp. 

“Sir, I—”

“Please, August. Just one more minute.” 

He takes his silence as assent. 

Wyatt begins again, aligning the bandage over his wound before continuing to wrap it between—

He prevents him from stepping aside with a hand on his good hip. 

“August. Take a breath.” 

August only whimpers above him, free hand fluttering as though he can’t decide between gripping Wyatt’s shoulder or pushing him away. 

“I’m trying to be as quick as I can. Just hold still and—” Again, August can’t stand his hand passing between his legs. He tries to twist out of Wyatt’s hold but with nowhere else to go, pitches over Wyatt’s shoulder. 

Wyatt lunges to prevent him from hitting his head on the soaking tub. August cries out, fighting against hands on him even trying to break his fall. When they hit the ground, Wyatt’s beneath him, face pressed between August’s bare chest and the thick carpet. His skin starts to teem. 

August tries to move but his arms are pinned between them. “I’m sorry—”

Wyatt shoves him off, getting to his feet and dragging August up by the tops of his arms in one swift motion. The boy yelps in surprised pain but Wyatt’s certain he’s not holding him tight enough to leave any mark. 

“Sir, please—” He whispers, fear thinning his voice as Wyatt heaves him onto the bed and lets him drop to a heap there. 

“Fuck,” Wyatt huffs, raking his hair out of his eyes and straightening his shirt. “Now you’re bleeding.” 

August’s eyes flick down but not long enough to truly appreciate the red blooming on the bandage, holding it in place despite the fall. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Wyatt, not now. 

“It’s either me and you—” He jabs a finger at himself and then August who flinches at the gesture, terror plain in his face. “—or it’s the rest of the house holding you down again.” 

August shakes his head quickly, eyes filling. “Please, sir. I beg your pardon. I—”

He groans and turns away. His outburst has landed them back at baseless groveling, right where they started. He tries to pull in a deep breath but can still feel August’s weight, meager as it was, pinning him. He has to get out of this room. Just recenter himself and they can try anew. 

August sees the departure in his eyes as soon as he turns and rushes to right things. “Sir, please. Forgive me—” 

“August—”

“It was stupid of me, thoughtless and stupid.” Wyatt takes a step back but it only serves to carry August further from logic. “I swear I’ll do better. Please, sir. I don’t deserve it but please give me another chance.” 

“Enough—”

“Please,” August cries, voice breaking. He abandons the sheet and rises to his knees, holding out his arms to reveal their scarred undersides. “Punish me then, make me do it right. Sir, please—” 

Wyatt shakes his head and lets the overwhelming tide of defeat carry him from the room. 

Next...

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat

[torturing-characters-101]

Is the whole "sucking poison out of a wound"-thing entirely fictional or is there some truth behind it?

This was a real recommendation in the mid-1900s, but it has been found to not work very well and probably do more harm than good.

It does not seem like sucking the venom out of a wound is particularly helpful. Or at least, not helpful enough to negate the risks associated with making a wound (most references that talk about sucking venom out of the wound also want you to cut across the wound) and then exposing the caregiver to blood against mucous membranes, which could transmit blood borne infections.

This cutting and then sucking venom extraction method seems to have been popular in the 1970s, but by the late 1980s it had gone out of favor. Today we use compression wraps to slow the spread of the venom instead.

[macgyvermedical]

Okay, this is not about writing. I want to learn basic first aid and how to assemble a first aid kit. I plan to search for some courses too, but I’d like a clear idea before diving in. I’d love to hear your advice on it. Always grateful for your blog— it’s such a valuable resource.

Hi!

First aid kits contain things that would be handy to have for an illness or injury you didn't forsee happening.

Store-bought first aid kits have gotten a little better than they were when I bought my first one in 2015, but they're still a complete crapshoot. Most of them contain the least adhesive bandages known to man, a pair of plastic tweezers, a single packet of gauze, two each of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, and if you're extra lucky, some plastic medical tape.

Which is great for: papercuts in fingers that don't sweat ever, cleaning tiny scrapes that don't need bandages, the perfect size of partially embedded splinters, and one (1) single headache. Maybe.

My advice: make your own.

The following are 2 options for lists of supplies:

The Basic Kit:

3-4 pairs of nitrile gloves that will fit over your sweaty, hand-sanitizer-covered hands (mediums if your hands are really tiny, otherwise larges)

1-2 disposable masks for if you get sick unexpectedly

Your favorite adhesive bandages (at least 20, in different sizes including extra large)

A breathing barrier for CPR

A zipper plastic bag

A small container of hand sanitizer

A small container of petroleum jelly

A small tube of hydrocortisone cream

Metal tweezers (and a few alcohol wipes to clean them)

Like 4 of whatever hard candy you hate the most (or 4-8 glucose tablets)

One of those fold-up pill containers containing at least 10 each of: acetaminophen, ibuprofen, 81mg aspirin, diphenhydramine, your favorite non-drowsy antihistamine, and loperamide (Label these. You're not gonna remember which is which. Promise.)

A few each of all the medications you take, just in case you forget them (especially emergency medications)

The Adventure Kit:

Everything in the Basic Kit, plus:

Like as many packets as you can fit of 4x4 sterile gauze

A way to clean water (purification tablets take up the least space)

More of your own medications

More zipper bags

Silk medical tape

Scissors

A bandanna or other medium-large square of fabric

3-4 of your least favorite high-calorie food bars

A waterproof sheet ("space blankets" are small and great at being waterproof, if nothing else (Though I do have a personal vendetta against space blankets. Ask me why sometime))

An elastic bandage

A fold-up splint if you're gonna be in an area that doesn't have sticks laying all over the ground

As for how to use this stuff- get a few friends together and get in touch with me. We can set something up via zoom.

[just-here-for-the-whump]

@whumpgifathon | Day 30: First Aid

Ice Pack

NCIS 18x1 Sturgeon Season

[librathefangirl]

@whumpgifathon | Day 16: Bitten Sea Patrol | S04E07 | Robert "RO" Dixon

[whumpbug]

ITS FINALLY HERE!! THE EVENT!! YIPEE!! so this fic was written when i first made simon and archie so i decided this is them in their early days, when they weren't as close and just getting to know eachother. the boys!!!!

whumperless whump event day 1: emergency first aid! @whumperless-whump-event

alcohol as sanitizer / "it's just a scratch, i've had worse."

caretaker: Simon

whumpee: Archie

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Simon sighed contentedly as he finally sank into his well-worn sofa. Work was hectic. His commute was hectic.  Even the weather was hectic, considering the bus delays from the rain. After a long day, he was more than happy to let everything else fall away as he fused with the sofa for the foreseeable future.

He let his eyes slip closed.

..And then he heard the thud at his window.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me..” He murmured as he peeled his body out of its comfy spot.

He made his way to the back window of his apartment— the one right at the fire escape. He already had a idea of who was at his window at this ungodly hour, but he was still silently praying it was just a stray cat or something easy to deal with.

He had no such luck. He pushed up the window and scanned the area, but a weak cough drew his eyes to the floor of the platform.

Archie, the vigilante that had been chronically stopping by, flashed him a sheepish grin before it morphed into a wince.

“Surpriiise..” He squeaked.

Simon stared at him with an unamused expression, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

So much for his relaxing night in.

“What brings you to my window sill this time?” Simon deadpanned, crouching through the window and kneeling beside Archie.

“Oh you know, the usual,” He started, grunting as he shifted slightly. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time, I promise..”

“I’ll bet.” Simon reached out a hand towards Archie. “Alright. Let’s get you up.”

A panicked expression flashed over Archie's face as he gulped quietly.

“How about we uh.. we take care of things here tonight..? Y’know.. just.. to speed things up..”

Simon tilted his head, cocking up an eyebrow.

"On the fire escape?"

"Mhm.."

“You do know I don’t have night vision, right? How am I supposed to treat your injuries if I can’t see them.”

“Oh I’m sure you can figure it out! We can always use a flashlight or.. or..” Archie said, face suddenly blanching.

In the dim streetlight, Simon finally noticed it. The dark stains on the metal platform and railings of the fire escape. The way Archie had yet to move a muscle since Simon came to the window. Even the thud that he had heard initially, which was uncharacteristic for Archie, who usually took to knocking politely when he could.

“Archie. Lift your shirt.” Simon's grave gaze poured down to Archie, who swallowed reflexively.

“I.. It’s really just a scratch, I’ve had worse—“

“Lift your shirt.”

Archie finally obliged with grumbles of “At least take me out to dinner first..” escaping his lips.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he peeled away the sticky fabric from his wound.

“Shit..” Simon whispered. The wound was.. atypical. Even in the low light, Simon could see the skin around it was angry and red and inflamed. It was on its way to infection for sure.

“It looks worse than it is..” Archie placated, but he was fooling no one. Especially not Simon, who’d been down this road with him a few times before.

“Sure, and that’s why you look like out about to keel over and die,” Simon said sarcastically. “Don’t move. I’m gonna go get the first-aid kit.”

“Wasn’t planning on.. going anywhere..” Archie panted. Despite trying to seem fine, Archie couldn’t deny that the wound hurt. It was taking more of a toll on him than he’d like to admit. So much so that he hadn’t even realized he dozed off until he heard Simon's soft footsteps on the metal platform.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, okay?” Simon hummed, lightly shaking Archie's shoulder.

Archie only groaned, blinking at Simon.

“Here, I have a job for you. Can you hold the flashlight? Just point it at the wound,” Simon explained, pressing a small flashlight into his hand.

Simon could see now that Archie was a lot worse off than he was letting on. His face was sheet-white, and beads of sweat dripped down his brow. He had to act fast, and to do that, he needed to keep him awake, just enough to get him inside and patched up.

With the slightly shaky light held by Archie, Simon got a better view of what he was working with. He grimaced.

“Alright, I'll need to disinfect it before I start sutures,” Simon explained. “It’s going to hurt. All we have right now is alcohol.”

Archie whined just a bit. He'd used alcohol to clean smaller wounds, and even that was unbearable. He couldn’t imagine what this would feel like.

The next thing he knew, Simon was shoving rolled up gauze between Archie's teeth for him to bite down on. Archie was silently grateful.

Simon unscrewed the top of the bottle and sucked in a breath.

“I’m sorry..”

As soon as Simon splashed the liquid on the wound, Archie threw his head back with a silent scream as his teeth dug into the gauze. Tears pricked in his eyes and he writhed against the red-hot stinging. A pitiful whimper escaped him, before he could stop it, and he didn’t miss the way Simon's expression softened.

The sutures were done relatively quickly, which left Archie, utterly spent, lying limp against the railing of the fire escape. He wasn't sure he could move if he tried. 

“Cmon. Let’s get you inside..” Simon coaxed, standing up and bending at the waist to pick up Archie in a bridal carry. Usually, Archie would be vehemently against such an act, but the blood loss must have been getting to him because he found himself burying his face in the crook of Simon's neck, letting the warm arms lull him into a soft sleep.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 15: Childhood Trauma

I'm excited to share another collab for today's @whumptober prompt! This time I wrote a Fugo and Abba centric fic with @carryingstarlightinherwake Thanks so much for collabing with me <3

Prompt: Childhood trauma, painful hug, moment of clarity, 'I did good, right?' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character(s): Fugo & Abbacchio

[macgyvermedical]

suggestion for post topic: list of improvised first aid/medical supplies & uses from things commonly found in a kitchen

The following is, as usual, not medical advice:

What I like to call "Severe" Hot Chocolate: Do you have asthma? COPD? Don't have your inhaler with you? Severe Hot Chocolate might help! In a sauce pan over low heat, combine 1Tb sugar and 3Tb unsweetened cocoa powder with a little water. Once its combined into a sludge, add a cup of milk or milk substitute of choice and stir to combine and heat. Then drink. It will be bitter, but not too bad if you like dark chocolate.

An Entire Head of Lettuce: Need to poop? Wanna do it tomorrow morning? Eat an entire head of iceburg lettuce in one go (with or without dressing).

Lite Salt: Need electrolyte replacement or a cheap sports drink? Dissolve 1/2tsp Lite Salt (half sodium chloride and half potassium chloride) in 2 cups of lemonade or other flavored drink. Sugar actually helps with the absorption of the electrolytes, but if you need a no sugar drink you can do that too.

Plastic Wrap: Stabbed in the chest? Unfortunate. Get a piece of plastic wrap to put over the wound and tape it down snugly. The sucking chest wound will still be there but it will buy time to get to a hospital.

Ice/ziploc bags: While ice doesn't help things heal, it sure makes them feel better. Put some ice in a bag and wrap that bag in a towel and put that on your musculoskeletal injury for pain relief.

Instant Pot: Need to sterilize something made of metal? Don't want to use a chemical? Put it on a shelf in your pressure cooker and add some water to the bottom. 10 mins on high pressure should do it.

Rice (in a sock): Fill a sock with dry white rice. Microwave it for a minute or so. Use it for cramps or back pain.

Fresh Coffee Grounds: This isn't so much a medical thing (though it is frequently used in hospitals) as it is a good-to-know. Coffee grounds absorb biological odors. Just put a little bowl of them in a room with a poop or BO-type smell and it will absorb it.

[3-2-whump]

Songs to Whump To: Wolf by First Aid Kit

Not related to my writing in any way, but it gives me good whumping vibes ❤️ 🐺

(EDIT: Shit well I guess we’re posting this early 🙃 my finger hit the bad button, and now song Friday is song Wednesday)

[vfib785]

LUCAS 3, v3.1 chest compression system