#whumperless whump event day 1: self-done stitches

[gauze-valley]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

Prompt: Emergency first aid, self done stitches

Finished my first post for @whumperless-whump-event's first prompt a liiittle late but I did it! This snippet is a precursor to. The only other thing I've written on this blog, which you can find here and here (in order!)

If u like the whole "caretaker has to care for themselves and suck it up so they can be there for people" trope, this might be for you!!

my stuff for this event probably won't be too polished, sorry about that! I'm just here to actually get myself to write :')

CW: Graphic description of self-suturing a wound, needles, graphic description of pain, laceration

[~1 and a half pages, 3rd person POV, OC/non-fandom]

If nothing else, at least the wound is only leaking. The stasis spell has held up surprisingly well, but the mirage-like waves in the magic aura around the wound tell Ira that he's made the right call in deciding it needs to be properly dealt with now, if the pain hadn't said as much already.

But he's exhausted. His limbs ache and there's a weight pulling on his body. He hasn't been off of his feet since early in the morning. A small reckless part of him says to recast the spell and lay down for a bit- what's the harm? He'll be closing this thing himself, and surely he could do it better with a little rest.

That'd be stupid, though. The overuse of healing magic is a risk for most already, let alone someone like Ira, whose mixed essentia halfway wants to reject every bit of holy magic that enters his body. He'll already be feeling the effects of this tomorrow, he's sure, and a second cast could put him entirely out of commission.

It's with a slow reluctance that he goes about cleaning the wound, sterilizing the area and wiping away the topmost layer of blood so he can actually see the edges More begins to seep out in response, but it's slow- the spell is still holding, and it's far more long than it is deep, so it seems safe to close. Unfortunately, the pain suppression is beginning to wear off, but that's all the more reason to get this over with.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, he tries to steel himself, conjure the motivation. He's done things like this before, in fact, he's done much worse procedures on himself than stitching a simple laceration, but his head is pounding and he just wants today to be over. Not that tomorrow will be any better. He's still needed- he won't be resting unless this gets much, much worse, and he intends not to let that happen.

Pushing the needle through the skin is easy. His hands are steady despite how worn and heavy they feel. They always are. Gritting his teeth through the pain, trying not to let the feeling of thread dragging through the punctures disrupt his focus, is much harder. Every sharp tug makes his skin crawl with disgust.

Ira resists the urge to rush it, because he's smarter than that and it's difficult enough to keep it neat considering the awkwardness of having to look down or look in the mirror for guidance, but fucking hell, every time this process is prolonged by having to clear away the blood again, he wants to scream.

Finally, he ties off the sutures, giving a relieved sigh that he immediately regrets as a dull pain shoots through his entire side. He carefully cleans the remaining blood once again and properly dresses the wound before throwing on a loose T-shirt. Now all he needs to do is clean up here before Six and Joy get back.

A ringing from the other room interrupts his thoughts. His phone. Muttering curses to himself, he walks over to snatch it off the bed and answers.

"Yes?"

"Chaplain Stepford, um, I'm sorry to bother you, but Chaplain Hart is busy and so is everyone else and-" Ira pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, it's Clea. Can the acolytes not go an hour without his supervision?

"Is it urgent?" He interrupts, his tone short and exasperated.

"Not… exactly right now, but it could be. I think Lane's making a bad call about something and he won't listen to me."

"About what exactly? Spit it out." God, he knows he should be receptive to his students coming to him for help, but just once it'd be so nice if literally anyone else could deal with it.

"He wants to completely seal a wound, because he thinks-"

That's all he needs to hear. Lane should know better, but of course he doesn't. Of course he'd not only overestimate his own skill but completely disregard all warnings about only using drastic magic when it's completely necessary. "No. No, absolutely not. Tell him that if he does that without my approval, I'm releasing him from my mentorship."

"I already tried telling him that that'd probably happen. He said I'm just upset because we have different ideas. Can you come talk to him?"

"I'll be there in less than ten. Make it very clear to him that his ass is expelled from the program if I get there and that wound is mended shut. He's far from skilled enough to attempt that, I don't care how much he's read about it. If he insists on being a moron before I can get there, find another chaplain immediately."

"Okay, thank you-" Ira hangs up before Clea can finish. Really, he should probably thank her for bringing this to his attention, but all he can think about right now is how much worse the pain is getting, and how long it'll be before he can collapse into bed, and the utterly overwhelming thought of being on his feet all day again tomorrow, but this time with a fresh wound.

Forcing himself to struggle back into his robes feels like a monumental task. He doesn't even bother to take off his casual clothes first, he just wants to get this over with quickly and without bending his side, as much as he can avoid it.

He pops a couple of over-the-counter painkillers before he leaves, hoping that'll be enough for now.

[waywardwizzard]

Simon leaned back against the wall, his arm stretched out in front of him.

Breathing harshly, he looked down at the stitches lining his arm and cursed quietly.

Blood sluggishly oozed out of the hastily closed wound. Some of the stitches had torn, the thread peeking out from the bloody mess the knife had left behind.

Flexing his other hand, the doctor slowly picked up the needle again, the thin metal glinting in the low lighting.

Blowing out a breath, he started stitching, biting on his lip to keep from screaming.

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

Author's note -

Guess who's back. Again. (I'm sorry).

I'm probably not going to finish this challenge but I really want to try and keep up my creative streak.

Wish me luck!

@whumperless-whump-event

[viva-la-whump]

Whumptober/Whumperless Whump Event (WWE) - #1

I know it's the last day of the month...BUT I FINALLY GOT ALL OF MY FICS WRITTEN!!!

And not JUST for Whumptober! I also decided to combine the prompts from the Whumperless Whump Event, too (which I realize was back in July but there's no rules for when they're do, so mwahahahaha!!!)!

I did a lot of combining so there will only be 18 individual fics (I will be combining multi-chapter fics into a single post to make things easier on myself, so be prepared for some LONG posts!), and I will be tagging them with the Whumptober tags first (when applicable), followed by the WWE tags (when applicable).

Fic below the cut!

P.S. There were too many tags so I had to reblog this with the remaining tags HERE

Chapter 1 

The only warning they had was the horses whinnying as they pulled at where they were tethered to a nearby tree.

Hunter and Echo jumped up from where they’d been eating their dinner around the campfire. Fast as lightning, their guns were out in their hands and they gazed into the dark forest, blinking as they tried to adjust their eyes to the dim lighting.

With a cry, Echo was knocked to the ground as something heavy slammed into him. Something heavy with fangs and claws. He was just fast enough to bring his prosthetic arm up before the wolf’s jaw clamped around his neck. The wolf pulled at the fake arm and easily broke the straps as it ripped the contraption from Echo’s shoulder.

Just as it swung its head around to discard it and go back for the kill again, a shot rang out and the wolf whined in pain as a bullet struck its flank. Without a moment’s hesitation, the wolf abandoned Echo and lunged at Hunter with blinding speed. So fast, in fact, that Hunter wasn’t able to get another shot off before the wolf’s claws raked down his thigh.

Hunter screamed in pain as he collapsed to the ground. Luckily for him, the wolf’s injury hampered it enough that it stumbled as it landed and took long enough to recover for Echo to grab the gun he’d dropped, shooting it in the head, killing it instantly.

There was silence in the clearing for a moment as the sound of the gunshot faded and Echo caught his breath. But the silence didn’t last long.

Hunter groaned in pain, his breathing coming fast and hard through clenched teeth as he tried to stop the bleeding with his hands. But it was a losing battle. Blood dribbled freely between his fingers and soaked his pant leg. Thinking fast, Echo grabbed a blanket from his bedroll and rushed over to Hunter, pressing the blanket against the three long gashes on the side of his leg. Hunter bit back a curse but grabbed the blanket to keep it in place as Echo rushed to get the medical kit from his saddle bag.

We need to close those wounds as fast as possible or else you’ll bleed to death,” Echo said as he grabbed the kit and found the needle and thread.

Hunter hissed out a breath as he shifted to a sitting position. Echo helped him sit back against the three he’d landed by.

“They’re not too deep,” he argued. “Just a few scratches. I’ve had worse. Just bandage me up and I’ll be fine.”

Echo gave him an unamused look. “Is that why you’ve turned half my blanket red already?”

Hunter didn’t respond. He simply rested his hand back against the tree and tried to catch his breath.

“There’s just one problem,” Echo said. “I can’t sew you up with just one hand.” Hunter sighed, not liking where this was headed. “I can help,” Echo continued, “but you’re going to have to stitch yourself up.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Hunter groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Get me my flask of whiskey.”

“To sanitize the wound?”

“And to help dull the pain. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

---

It took them nearly an hour for Hunter to stitch up his wounds. A very long and painful hour that left him so drained he slept until noon the next day. Having decided to postpone the bounty hunting mission they were on until Hunter had healed up enough, both he and Echo agreed that their next course of action was to go to the nearest town and get Hunter’s leg properly treated.

It had been tricky to get Hunter on his horse without agitating his freshly-closed wounds, but eventually they’d managed it, though not without lots of wincing and cursing. The nearest town was fifteen miles away and if they were lucky, they’d be able to reach it before sunset.

Chapter 2

It was a hard and slow slog, but finally the town was in view.

“How are you holding up?” Echo asked.

Hunter sat on his horse beside him, hunched slightly over his saddle and hand gripping his thigh above his bandages.

“I’ll live,” he grunted. “Let’s just- WHOA!”

Without warning, Hunter’s horse lunged forward and raced down the road at breakneck speed.

In the couple of seconds it took for Echo’s mind to catch up with what was happening, he heard the distinct buzz of a rattlesnake. Kicking his spurs into the sides of his horse, he set off after Hunter, who was having a hard time reigning in his horse. It took a couple of minutes, but Echo was finally able to get up alongside Hunter and grab the reins of his horse to slow it down.

“You alright?” Echo asked.

But all Hunter could do was gasp in pain as his balance wavered on his horse and he went crashing to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Hunter!” Echo jumped off his horse and knelt next to the injured man. “Hunter? Hunter!” But he was barely conscious. Echo looked down at his leg and blanched. “Oh that’s not good.”

The bandage that had once been clean was now almost entirely red. His stitches must have opened up during his wild ride and he was in no condition to stitch himself back up. With the town so close now, his best chance was to bandage Hunter as well as he could and get him to the doc as fast as possible.

After wrapping two blankets around Hunter’s leg and sitting him in front of himself on his own horse, Echo raced to town, figuring that right now, speed was more important than abundant care

---

Hunter felt like he was floating beneath the surface of a lake, a stone tied to his leg threatening to drag him down to the bottom. There was a distant light above him that he wanted to get to, but he still felt so weak. But that stone was getting heavier and so he fought harder to reach the surface. A voice called down to him faintly and Hunter grabbed onto that like a lifeline to pull him up, up, up…

---

“Hunter, can you hear me?”

Slowly, Hunter cracked open his eyes to a dimly lit room and Echo’s worried face hovering above him. He tried to speak but only ended up coughing. Echo brought a cup of water to his lips and he slowly drank.

“What…what happened?” Hunter asked, voice raspy.

“A rattler spooked your horse and it bolted. You ended up opening your stitches. I patched you up and got you to the doc in town as fast as I could.”

Hunter looked at the dark window. “How long?”

“A little over a day. You were in pretty rough shape.”

“Will I live?

Echo smirked. “Yeah, you’ll live. The doc stitched you up real good. He’s asleep now, and you should be, too. Just rest, Hunter. I’ll keep an eye on you through the night.”

Comforted by that thought, Hunter’s eyes drifted closed.

[imsorryithurts]

Whumperless Whump Day 1

@whumperless-whump-event

Hello, friends! This is my first entry for the Whumperless Whump Event. I don't have much experience with formatting text on tumblr, so I hope it'll be legible. I am also not an experienced writer, I just wrote down what comes to my mind! If anything is too out of place feel free to tell me (nicely!).

This is set up in my "generic space adventure" setting, if you want a primer on the characters, you can read it here: [link]

Thanks to Seth for setting this up, and without further ado, here's my story.

-x-

Emergency First Aid:

Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / “It's just a scratch, I've had worse.

Content warnings: Falling from heights, bruises, lacerations, and stitches.

-x-

“I’m fine, I promise.” Matt took a deep breath, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “It's just a scratch. I’ve been worse.”

It wasn't exactly a lie. He was fine. He has had worse.

He had to admit, though, calling it a scratch was quite the understatement.

“I swear to fucking god, Matt,” Rex’s voice rang distantly through the comm. “If we get there and your leg is missing, I'm ripping out the other one myself!”

“We’ve got your coordinates already,” Roye’s voice came through the speaker much clearer, without much background noise. Matt had to laugh at the possibility that Rex wrestled the comm out of Roye's hand just to threaten him. “We're trying to figure out how to get to you, just don't move, right?”

Matt could tell by his tone that he was serious. Roye was using his “captain voice”. He would be here in seconds, if he could.

“Matt, do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he picked up his comm with his uninjured arm. “Yeah, I hear you.” He hoped to god this sluggishness wasn't from blood loss.

“Call back if anything happens. We're coming.” There was the noise of a finished call.

Matt sighed and slumped back against the sandy rock formation he was sitting against. The same kind of rock that crumbled under his feet at the mount above, sending him rolling god knows how many meters away. He only didn't curse it because it was providing some much needed support at the moment, and he didn't want to risk losing it because he offended it.

He gathered up some motivation to take stock of his situation again. He took his cracked mask off. The team always made fun of him for wearing the O2 mask even in breathable planets, but it very likely saved him from a broken nose and a couple of mouthfuls of dirt. He set it aside along with his comm, breathing in the fresh, even if slightly too humid air.

He was sore all over, but that's to be expected. His left knee hurt particularly badly, along with his foot that was caught in a root on the way down. Nothing was at a weird angle and he could move his toes inside his boot, so probably nothing was broken. He couldn't tell what was going on with the foot, it hurt way too much to bend his knee in order to remove the boot, and even if he could reach it, the swelling had already settled in, making it hard to remove it on his own. So he settled for leaving the leg outstretched for now, to be given attention once he was back in the ship.

The “scratch”, on the other hand, needed attention now immediately.

Somewhere along the way his right forearm had snagged on something, that something ripping a gash almost from his wrist to his elbow. He had spent the last couple of minutes pushing against it with his jacket to stop the bleeding while trying to relate his situation to the rest of the team. Now that nobody was listening, he allowed himself to groan loudly as he peeled the fabric away from the wound.

Like he said, he’s had worse. Still, it was not pretty. He was lucky enough that the edges weren't too ragged, but it was still long and deep. It had stopped pouring out blood and now it oozed lazily, red filling the entirety of it like a lake.

Matt pressed his jacket against it again, pushing against the sides, trying to mop up some of the blood.

Not pretty might not be a good enough description. Squeezing some of the blood out of it exposed the angry edges around a pit of bright red muscle, lumps of nauseatingly yellow fat tissue clumped around it. 

He poured half of the water from his canteen over it. Blood loss or infection was going to kill him before dehydration anyways. He fished the first aid kit from his backpack, working as fast as he could, if he hesitated, the pain would take over his brain and he’d be scared to do anything so as to not aggravate it.

He held his breath and poured as much antiseptic as he could over his arm. Even if he had been trying to be quiet, he wouldn't have been able to hold back the scream he let out as the liquid touched his exposed flesh, white hot searing pain burning all the way to his bones.

He sat back with his arm outstretched to wait the worst of the pain away and catch his breath. Once he could take a full steady breath in, he retrieved the little suture kit.

It was a good thing he was the one to take that fall. Matt wasn't sure any of his colleagues would manage to properly clean and stitch a wound. Even with guidance over the comm, some of them could have the dexterity to do the stitches, but not the ability to keep calm until more help arrived.

It wasn't until Matt had the needle, thread and hemostat ready he realized that, actually, he had no idea how he would do this either.

His dominant hand was useless to work on this two handed job. He could probably use it to hold something, but there was no way to use it on its own arm.

He better not have a fucking concussion on top of all this.

He steadied his arm between his knees, trying to squeeze it in a way to push the edges of the wound as close together as possible. He was determined to make it up as he went along.

He couldn't get the hemostat to work on his left hand, so he threw it aside and held the needle with his fingers.

He expected the sting of the needle to feel like nothing compared to the agony of the gash, but it aggravated it in a way he had to consider just leaving it alone and take his chances against dying right there. He shakily pushed the needle through the other side of flesh after a couple of deep breaths.

He stared at the thread crossing his open skin. The obvious part was over, now he had to focus to remember all the steps. It was like doing his first stitches on a sponge all that time ago.

Right. Cross the thread. This was the twisty part, right? He missed having the hemostat.

Come on, learning to do something one handed was good, rewiring the brain, keeping it in shape.

He made two loops, moving the thread with his thumb and index, holding it with his pinkie. He pushed the needle through the loops, pulling it with his teeth and holding the loose side of thread, the edges of skin meeting where the stitch tractioned it. Matt let himself whimper at the feeling, both the surface of the skin and muscles protesting at the movement.

He repeated the loops to the other side, cursing when they slipped away from his fingers, but completing the knots of the stitch. 

He snipped the ends of thread, completing the suture. He sighed in relief and admired his work. But then he had to laugh. 

That was one stitch down. There remained… What, about 20?

His comm beeped to life beside him. Isabella's voice came from it. “Hey, Matt, how are you holding up?”

“Fine.” He sighed, forcing his voice not to shake. “My foot is still messed up, so I’m-I’m just sitting here.”

“We're going to leave you bored for a while. We found a path around the bushes, should take a little less than two hours to reach you,” She said, apologetic, but hopeful. “Roye says he’d keep you company if we weren't worried about about battery.”

“Ha, thanks.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, looking at how much he still had to suture, the wound slowly seeping blood into his pants. “I’ll just enjoy a nap, maybe.”

“Sleep well, Matt. We’ll wake you when we get there,” she signed off sweetly.

Matt laid back against the rock, looking at his injured arm. He sighed and forced himself upright. He wiped the blood around it as best as he could. The gash wasn't going to close itself.

He struggled with the next two stitches, but then he blanked out, and when he realized, half of it was already closed up.

It was not a good sign, but he was relieved it was almost done before he noticed.

His hands shook as he completed the next ones, and the needle slipped out of his fingers more than once, but he got there.

He pierced the skin one last time, looped the thread twice, pulled the needle through. Looped twice to the other side, pulled it through. Helping with his teeth. His vision was blurry and his mouth tasted like copper. But he did it.

He snipped the last of the thread, finally. 

He slumped back against the rock, realizing he had been holding his breath. He had to pour some more antiseptic over it, but he couldn't get his non injured arm to move. Needed to drink some water, maybe, but his limbs fell heavily at his sides.

Well, fuck. At least people were already coming. 

His vision started to grey out, and he allowed the fog to take over.

-

He woke up being half carried already.

“I FUCKING TOLD YOU HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING,” Rex shouted beside him. “WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY, I’LL RIP YOUR OTHER ARM APART, YOU IDIOT!”

Matt chuckled. He would have thought the same if the roles were reversed.

He felt his consciousness drifting again. He took advantage of the light hearted moment and the safety of the arms heaving him up, and let it go. He was fine now.

[soulless-angel25]

Whumperless Whump Event: Day 1 Prompt- Emergency First Aid: Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / “It's just a scratch, I've had worse.” @seth-whumps

Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: River Song, Rory Williams

AO3 Link!

Rory is by River's side in an instant, eyes focused on the hole in her arm. His hands twitch, reaching for equipment and supplies he doesn't have on hand right now. And so carefully he takes her uninjured arm, "We're going back to the TARDIS right now to fix that up."

And River rolls her eyes, scoffing. "Oh don't be ridiculous Dad. It's a scratch, not the worst I've ever had. Doesn't even hurt!"

She's lying, he can see it in her eyes. She's regulating her breathing so that whatever slight movements she makes don't hurt as much. The way her body is moving to protect the injured spot. The slight haze in her eyes.

When did his daughter become so good of a liar, Rory wonders. Why did she have to be so used to pain? He isn't sure what words he should say so he allows his brain to auto-pilot for the moment, at least until they're in the TARDIS Medbay.

"You shouldn't have to be used to the pain. I was supposed to protect you from it. I was your dad and I couldn't protect you or Amy. So please, River- Melody. My Melody please let me take care of you."

He can hear her breath stutter for a moment, maybe it was cruel of him to say that but he can't care. Not when his daughter is hurt and says that this hole in her arm isn't the worse pain she's ever suffered. Not when she says that it doesn't hurt. He can't let her- he needs her to know she is loved.

[beautyconsumer]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

Two Stubborn Idiots sitting in a Bathtub-

Emergency First Aid: Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / “It's just a scratch, I've had worse.”

@whumperless-whump-event A little late but first one is done! Also cross posted on AO3

Relationship: Jason Todd/Grant Wilson

Fandom: Batman, Batfam, Deathstroke (comics)

Content and TW: self-suturing a wound, needles, non-graphic violence, alcohol used as sanitizer, description of pain, implied sexual content, injury, medical inaccuracies, hurt/comfort, comic book logic, Lazarus pit side effects (only healing ones)

“It's just a scratch, I've had worse,” Grant says, “You're the one who's bleeding out,” he points out, eyeing the oozing wound from Jason’s side.

Jason huffs, presses harder on his side with his hand, the scent of metallic blood pungent on Grant's nose, it doesn't bring him the thrill of victory over someone else as it usually does. The absence of the feeling doesn't sit right with him, not enough to do something about it. Not then.

“Just bring me something to clean the wound,” Jason says, voice strangled among heavy pants. It sounds dangerously close to other occasions Grant has heard him making the same vulnerable, pitiful sounds. He ignores the automatic heat creeping up his spine to retrieve what's asked. Wrong time.

The safe house is pretty neglected, there's little equipment let alone medical supplies. Jason and he had been using the space and shitty bed in it for everything but sleeping.

Grant kicks himself a little for not worrying more about keeping the place stacked with vital things someone without a regenerative metagene would need. His tendency to look only after himself nagged him rarely.

Yet Jason had him experiencing emotions too intense and too fast for him to process.

When he looks at the medicine cabinet he realizes they don't have any disinfectant.

But they did have a half bottle of vodka they had drunk the day before.

Grant purses his lips but goes to the kitchen for the bottle.

Jason’s gaze looks hazy when Grant comes back to the bathroom. Jason prefers to bleed out in the bathtub despite the fact the place has been stained with blood beyond repair.

Grant hurries to him and palms his cheek lightly, Jason’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes are fluttering weakly. Grant curses before opening the bottle and pouring the content rapidly into his wound.

Jason startles into awareness, he yelps and trashes in the porcelain pool, Grant places his palm firmly on his chest to keep him from moving too much, else he worsens his injury and wastes the liquid he had halfway poured on him. Grant hushes him, in an attempt to calm him or ground him.

Jason’s pupils are shrinked into pinpricks. Bright teal rings staring back at him. Jason stills when he registers Grant, relaxes into the hold and limits himself into a hiss.

Grant hikes up his shirt to look closely at the wound, Jason is too weak to protest.

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Grant says.

Jason snorts, “Look who’s talking.”

Grant feels dark tendrils of annoyance reach at him mercilessly. Jason is the one who's the most vulnerable of the two. If Grant is vulnerable at all as Jason keeps implying.

There’s always a bigger fish, Grant knows that, a lesson sank deep into his very core; he just doesn't see what that has to do with who needs more medical attention than the other, Jason does, most of the time, despite Lazarus Pit liquid roaming in his blood; Bat arrogance and skill can do so much, but it’s like that never drills into his thick skull. Grant might have a deep slash from a sword on his chest, but his body had worked on swiftly joining his flesh closed the moment the blade had been separated from his skin.

Jason stubbornly meets his scowl, he is one stubborn bastard but so is Grant.

“You’re getting stitches first,” Grant says.

His first mistake was the way he said it. He is gonna face Jason’s defiance at his tone, but he can't help it, he hates when Jason gets like that, such a martyr when it was very much not needed.

‘Let me just fucking help you.’ Grant thinks.

“You first,” Jason says.

It's stupid, almost childish if it weren't for the fact that Grant knew he was dead serious. An option is holding Jason down while stitching his wound closed against his wishes, and while Grant had the deep need to have Jason just fucking listen to him for once and do as Grant asked, because he was doing this for his own damn good —he also knew his obstinacy didn't come from a bad place— the action would only worsen Jason’s wound.

Because despite the situation Jason would still fucking struggle.

“Fine,” Grant snaps, taking to leave toward the medical kit.

Grant hated stitches, it hurt, they ended up looking ugly, he hated to touch the result or even look at it.

“Let me do it,” Jason says, voice slurred, which only aggravated Grant more. He’s losing blood too quickly.

“Shut the fuck up, could you even hold the needle?”

Jason frowns but doesn't say or do much else, Grant doesn't think he exactly can.

Grant gets to work quickly, in his eyes this was useless and stupid and yet—

He takes the needle and inserts the thread quickly.

Then for the first time of the night Grant looks at his own wound; he was partially right, it had closed significantly, far from the deep slash he had felt white hot piercing in his flesh. From it still emerged thin rivulets of scarlet blood, dampening his suit from his torso to the front of his legs.

The annoyance flared to righteous anger, he could just look away and let the thing close itself while he took care of Jason but nooo, Jason had to be an asshole.

The first bite into his skin didn’t do much to calm his choler, but he did hiss at the incision, if he had ignored the wound he wouldn't feel it this intensely, Grant couldn't help but bitterly think. He kept going, quickly stitching the wound together firmly with rough pulls at the needle, irritation fueling his vicious rhythm.

His metagene didn't mitigate the pain any less.

Grant bites his lip to push through the pain, tastes the tiniest drop of blood and stops immediately, he didn’t like having uneven puffy lips.

Grant is panting slightly when he’s done and cuts the strand off.

He quickly looks at Jason then, the scowl on Grant’s expression vanishes when he looks at him. His skin too pale, his head lolled to the side, the rest of his body slack.

Grant feels shocked into motion, he gathers Jason in his arms to hold him close, he feels as lax as a doll, a terrible and bright contrast to the normal Jason who’s firm and strong and restless.

Grant hears his heart beat, focuses his hearing into it, his favorite sound in the world is diminished into a soft, weak thump. Grant massages Jason's chest without giving it much thought. His mind punishing with repeated thoughts on what he should have done to make this anything but this awful outcome. But that doesn't fucking matter, he needs that wound closed, he needs to stop overthinking this.

He deatatches himself from Jason to gather the supplies again, his hands are shaking unlike the time he did the stitches on himself; he finds out with trepidation.

He pulls the skin closed with far more precision and care than he did himself, each time he sinks the curved needle into Jason's swollen flesh he tries to keep himself together, telling himself that it is for his own good.

When the wound is finally closed, thin flashes of bright green thrum underneath the skin, Grant feels he can breathe normally.

He shudders out the deep intake of air full of tension he was holding.

Grant sets his forehead against Jason’s, he is thankfully not burning with fever as he feared.

Grant lets himself go lax against him then.

When Jason wakes up next Grant is gonna give him an earful for scaring him like this.

[comfortlesshurt]

Smiling 'cause you're used to it (a house that's always haunted)

TWs: Mentions of alcohol use/abuse by a background character, not directly shown. Injury. Referenced child abuse not directly shown. Referenced self-harm and eating disorder that do not actually occur. Emeto/vomiting.

Some of these tags are for future chapters, so you won't see them come up in chapter 1. There's a spoiler dropdown with more explanation of TWs in the start note if you follow the link.

Summary:

The unexpected pain catches Keith off-guard, and rather than landing safely on the other side, he tumbles down the hill, instinctively bringing his arms up to guard his head. On the plus side, he’s made it down the hill in record time with no head injury, and he can no longer hear the footfalls trailing after him. …but he’s paid for that win with the gouges he can now confirm are thoroughly marring his right hand and the sting along most of his left forearm. After he pauses for a shaky breath and brings himself to look at it, he sees how fast it’s leaking blood, staining the dirt beneath him. It’s most definitely not a “slap a band-aid on it and move on” kind of wound.

Pseuds: occasionalvoltronfiction & sickficlurker

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Main character: Keith

Side character: Shiro (Chapters 2 through 4)

Relationship: Keith & Shiro (Chapters 2 through 4)

Timeline: Pre-series, shortly after Keith starts at the garrison

Challenges: (@whumperless-whump-event) Whumperless Whump 2024 Day 1: self-done stitches and alcohol as sanitizer (chapter 1), Day 10: forced to work while ill (chapter 2, slightly modified because this is school not work, but it's in the SPIRIT), and Day 16: half-conscious (chapter 3) & bingo board shared by @builder051: self-surgery (chapter 1).

[oncemorewithwhump]

Summary: Reid gets hurt on a case and tries to stitch himself up. Good thing Morgan won't let him.

Rating: T

For the @whumperless-whump-event

Day 1: Emergency First Aid

self-done stitches / "it's just a scratch, i've had worse"

[soapy-soartp]

Trying my hand at Whumperless Whump Event of July by @whumperless-whump-event

(Pls be nice this is my first writing event)

Day: 1- EMERGENCY FIRST AID

Prompt: Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / "It's just a scratch, I've had worse." -> different meeting Hualian AU, by a twist of fate HC stumbles upon his recently injured and very disheveled god, he invites his god to his house, naturally Xie Lian accepts

Fandom: Heaven Official's Blessing, TGCF

Characters: Hua Cheng / Xie Lian

His highness collapsed. 

Hua Cheng has finally found him again and he collapses. The ghost rushes forward to stop him from further injuring himself. He hooks his beloved's arms above his own and slowly lowers them both to the ground, his highness’ back to his chest.

Never has Hua Cheng felt as worthless and unworthy as he does at this very moment. 

His highness is here! In his arms! How dare he lay a hand on him without asking. How dare he put his unworthy hands on his highness. He has no right to, he’s worthless. After all, why did it take him so long to find him? He should apologize-

His spiraling thoughts were cut off by a barely heard wince and the person in his arms shifting ever so slightly.

“Your hi- erm Daozhang? Are… are you alright?” He asks, concern clearly coloring his tone and face as he peers down at his god.

Stupid question of course not- if he was alright why would he collapse!

“Ahaha… I’m alright! It's just a scratch, I've had worse!” Was the response and his beloved turned a concerning shade of red.

“A scratch?- You’re hurt?! Your- Daozhang!! Please allow this humble one to help!” He pleads, beginning to panic in his own right looking over the man in his arms.

That's when he notices the other’s very disheveled and filthy appearance.

“Daozhang-“ The ghost starts, obviously distressed, but he was cut off by the man in his lap trying to get up on his own.

His god must have suffered and lived in squalor for who knows how long! The thought has the ghost’s heart heavy with grief and guilt.

“I'm fine! I'm fine! I patched myself up!” The man in tattered robes says as he shakily tries to stand, but he falls again with a low hiss.

The ghost swoops in to steady the other and he says earnestly, “If this Daozhang wouldn’t mind, it would still make this one feel better if you allowed him to check your injuries… I fear you may have reopened a wound or something got infected, so if you could?”

“Ah… No no! I couldn’t possibly trouble you, um?” The other insists, but it’s obvious he could definitely use the help.

“This Daozhang can call this humble one San Lang and it is no trouble at all!”

“San Lang…” After a moment of deliberation the fallen god nods and whispers an embarrassed, “Thank you”

He helps his highness settle on a relatively clean and flat rock and he motions for him to show his injury. The fallen god nods and pulls up his dirty and distressed robes to reveal a nasty looking cut on the inside of his calf. True to his word he did try to patch it up but…

The ghost king can’t help the grimace that appears on his face, he hates seeing his beloved, his god be hurt. He would’ve liked to be more subtle in his approach but there's no time for that when his god is suffering so.

“… That looks bad, this honorable Daozhang did a fair attempt at patching it up but I’m still concerned about infection and whether it’ll reopen again…” The ghost king explains then his hands twitches, “May this one touch…?”

His god nods, face still a light pink, and expression sheepish, “Ah, yes well I did use some wine to sanitize it before I started stitching? And please no need to be so formal, San Lang.”

“…Wine-“ A flicker of despair flits over the ghost's face before he smooths out his expression and looks up at his god, “Gege…? Would you allow this one to take you to his residence? It’d be much better for you to recover there.”

He can’t help but invite his god to come with him, after all with him in ghost city it would be much easier to ensure his well-being and happiness. And his beloved looks very much worse for wear, his white robes tattered and dirty, his cheeks and eyes a bit sunken, skin pale and obviously he’s had quite the experience while Hua Cheng wasn’t with him.

“I couldn’t possibly-“ His god begins but in a moment of bravery he earnestly interjects, nearly pleading with the other to let him whisk him away to a better life.

“Gege please… This one swears it would be more troublesome for me if I were to just let you go without providing proper aid!”

The god stares at this strange youth (who is suspiciously finely dressed for being so deep in this forest). He stares down at those earnest eyes that seem oh so familiar, and makes his decision.

“Alright San Lang, take me away?”

[a-beetle-writes-whump]

Whumperless Whump Event, day 1

@ whumperless-whump-event

Emergency First Aid: Self-done stitches / Alcohol as sanitizer / "It's just a scratch, I've had worse." Fandom: FNaF (movie) Character: Vanessa Shelly CWs: Self-done stitches… obviously, blood, pain… this one’s pretty tame ngl

Stitching her skin back together couldn’t be that different from sewing together a hole in her sleeve, right?

Vanessa wished.

First of all, she doesn’t remember much about her mother, period. She was always just a voice in the back of her head and a fuzzy memory. That made trying to recall how to sew in the first place very hard. Second of all, Vanessa had never paid too much attention to what her mother was saying or doing, she would just sit and watch the way the cloth came together again after being torn apart. It was like magic to her little toddler brain. Third of all, she couldn’t see under her skin. On a blanket, she could flip the fabric over and over, as many times as she wanted, no matter how tedious it got. She couldn’t exactly flip her skin inside out. Not comfortably, at least.

And lastly, stitching her skin back together hurt like a bitch. She’s pretty sure sewing a blanket was never meant to hurt this bad.

Every pierce of her skin with the needle sent a soaring pain up through her arm directly to her brain. Her neck ached with the awkward angle she had to force it to see the wound in the first place. It was on her bicep, almost on the back of her arm, but not quite. Enough that she could still see all of it, but enough to force her into such a position.

Vanessa sucked in a breath, telling herself that this next stitch wouldn’t hurt so much. Wrong. It sent the same shock of pain up to her skull, contributing to her building migraine. She didn’t have any pain relievers on her. She wished she did. She’d take Tylenol at this point, for heaven’s sake! Anything to lessen the ache in her brain and searing-hot pain from her arm. It was becoming unbearable.

But the blood wouldn’t stop flowing. Sure, it wasn’t in a vital spot, but she would be out here with no contact for at least another three days, and she’d like to not have a gaping wound in her left bicep. It didn’t bode well for her productivity. She was on a mission, literally.

So, Vanessa sucked in yet another breath, steeled herself, and moved the thread through the hole she’d made. If the pain wasn’t bad enough, the feeling of thread pulling through her skin was utterly revolting. The pain was at least good for something; it took precedence over the jarring feeling. She was grateful for that much.

Vanessa’s cheeks were tear-stained by the time she finished. One-too-many times did she stab the wound directly with the needle. She was pretty sure the needle was beyond sanitarily safe by the time she made her fourth stitch. She’d never been good at textiles, after all. Wrapping the thread around her finger after creating a sizable knot, Vanessa tugged and, thankfully, the thread snapped, putting an end to her torment. Her skin around the wound was all red and puffy, irritated by the constant intrusion of the needle. She’d really need a proper nurse to take care of this when she got back. She’d be lucky if her arm didn’t get chopped off due to infection.

For now, Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief.

(This is a repost from my old account.)

[vicvinegarandhughhoney]

Surprise, I'm doing another whump event lmao

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1: Emergency First Aid- Self-done stitches

During a quiet night at the ER, Neela discovers Coop stitching up a wound on his arm. She can't help herself from intervening.

@whumperless-whump-event

[teine-mallaichte]

whumperless whump event day 1

Prompt: Self done stiches / alcohol as sanitizer / "it's just a scratch, i've had worse."

I'm picking on Fenris today for @whumperless-whump-event Fandom: Dragon age 2 Character: Fenris CW: medical procedures I guess - ie suturing a wound Words: 995 (was about twice the length before I realised I'd gone into WAY TOO MUCH DETAIL with the sutures and am not actually writing a how to guide 🤣 )

The moonlight spilled through the broken windows of the abandoned mansion, casting eerie shadows on the dusty floor. Fenris winced as he limped into the room, his fingers brushing against the deep gash on his side. The makeshift bandage he had wrapped around it during the mission was soaked through with blood. He gritted his teeth, thankful that the mage had not been with them, and that Hawke had been too distracted to notice. The last thing he needed was attention being drawn to such a show of weakness. Fenris knew all too well that one's worth was solely determined by utility, it was a lesson he had learnt over and over in his life. And being injured in what was in reality a simply fight, that was an unacceptable display of weakness.

“It’s just a scratch,” he muttered, his voice strained, “I’ve had worse.”

Collecting supplies—a half-full bottle of alcohol, a rag that had once been fine linen, a fresh roll of bandage, and a small suturing kit—he had no intention of seeking help. Dealing with such injuries alone was familiar territory for him.

Settling himself on a rickety chair, the wooden legs creaking under his weight, he placed the supplies on the dusty table before him, before removing his armour and unwrapping the hastily done wrapping. His breath hissed through his teeth as he exposed the wound to the cool night air. Blood trickled from the gash, mixing with the dirt and grime from the day's skirmish. With a scowl, he uncorked the bottle of alcohol, its sharp scent immediately filling the room.

Pouring a generous amount onto the rag. He braced himself, before pressing the alcohol-soaked linen against the gash, unable to stifle the sharp intake. The alcohol burned like fire, searing through the layers of dirt and grime that had accumulated around the wound, his muscles tensed; every fibre of his being urging him to pull away from the agonizing sting. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to clean the wound thoroughly.

When the initial burning subsided, he exhaled a shaky breath, his skin clammy and slick with sweat. He discarded the rag and reached for the suturing kit, his fingers shaking slightly. The pain pulsed through him, a constant reminder of the task at hand. He glanced around, half-expecting Hawke or one of the others to burst in. But the room remained empty, he was on his own.

His trembling fingers unwrapped the suturing kit, revealing sterile thread and a curved needle. The needle glinted in the dim light, along with the other tools within the kit. Fenris gritted his teeth, determination etched into his features. He’d survived worse—slavery, betrayal, and battles that left scars both visible and hidden.

This wound was just another obstacle to overcome.

After dipping the needle into the alcohol, sterilizing it further, he held it hovering above the wound, poised for entry. Taking a steadying breath, he pierced the skin, the needle gliding through the dermis. Pain flared, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to waver. The second puncture mirrored the first, and he pulled the thread through, creating the first stitch, adjusting the tension, ensuring the edges aligned perfectly before pulling it through.

Each tug sent a jolt of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and continued. Fenris worked methodically, blocking out everything but the wound, slowly closing the gap, securing the edges of torn flesh. His breaths came in shallow gasps, sweat dampening his brow as he completed each stitch with meticulous care. The needle moved in and out, the thread weaving through his skin, pulling the wound closed. Fenris focused on the rhythm, the steady, deliberate movements that brought him closer to finishing the task.

His breath caught in his throat as he secured the final knot, the thread biting into his skin. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mingling with the blood and dirt the seemed to cover his entire body.

Leaning back, to take a moment to assess his handiwork. The wound was now a jagged line of stitches, the flesh pulled taut and secure. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but it would hold. He reached for the remnants of the linen rag, pouring on more alcohol and wiping the areas around the wound, forcing himself to suppress the wince. The sharp sting was a small price to pay for cleanliness and a reduced risk of infection.

Satisfied with his work, he discarded the rag and allowed himself a brief moment of rest. He leaned back in the rickety chair, letting his eyes close for a few precious seconds. His mind drifted back to the fight, the blinding flash of steel and the acrid scent of blood and sweat. It had been a simple mission, one they should have completed without any issues. But Fenris had been careless, and now he was paying the price.

He glanced at the moonlight streaming through the window, its silver glow illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air. Grabbing the roll of bandages he begun the final step of securing the wound. Fenris wrapped the fresh bandages tightly around the wound, ensuring the stitches were protected.

"It's just a scratch," he muttered again.

Closing his eyes briefly, Fenris pushed himself to stand, the pain was a dull throb now, tolerable but insistent. He gathered the used supplies—the blood-stained rag, the empty alcohol bottle, the discarded suturing kit—and packed them away ready for next time.

Part 2