#911 what's your emergency?

[zenon-karr]

Eddie after finding out Buck is queer but isn’t into him

as requested by @blue-cheeseinmyoffwhites

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

The Accident (Part One)

Whumptober 2022: #11. “911. What’s your emergency?” Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Top Gun Gang, f!reader, reader x either Rooster, Bob, or Hangman (you have to read to find out who....) Word Count: 1339 TW: Car Accident, Descriptions of Injuries, Angst Notes: Thank you to @topguncortez for looking this over for me! 🥰 Part One, Part Two, Part Three(coming soon)

Another day, another shift, another 8-hours of traumatic stories and pleas for help. When you had decided to become a 911 operator, it hadn’t occurred to you how traumatizing it could be. Some days you had to stay on the line while you listened to horrendous acts being performed on the people begging you for help. On other days, there were countless sobs as people relayed that their loved ones were gone. And while you view yourself as a strong person, it all wears on you after a while. A person can only take so much before they crack.

That is why you cannot wait for the week-long vacation you have planned starting tomorrow. Just seven days of nothing but relaxing, sleeping late, and spending time with your fiancé. This will be the first time both of you have time off at the same time and you can’t be more excited. Maybe the two of you can actually make some progress on your wedding planning. 

But that starts tomorrow. Tonight, you idiotically agreed to pick up a second shift after you were supposed to get off, but there is no need to rush home. Maverick had come to town for one night and you know that means the entire squad will be at the bar with him until very late. So the extra money is better than sitting at the house by yourself all night. You probably could go meet them, but you also don’t want to disturb their catching-up time, so you stay at work.

It is a relatively quiet night, which is strange considering it is a Friday but you aren’t complaining. Mostly just a few drunk and disorderlies, an overdose, and an elderly woman who thought her husband was having a heart attack. Then, around one a.m., you have another call directed to your headset.

“911, what’s your emergency?” There is a long pause on the other end of the phone. You can hear ragged breathing, but the person makes no indication of what is wrong. “Hello? Are you alright?”

The silence stretches on longer and you look down at your computer screen to make sure there wasn’t a problem with the connection but then the person finally speaks. “You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.”

“Bradley?” Your head shoots up as you recognize the sound of one of your fiancé’s closest friends. His tone is somber and tinged with something almost like regret. “Are you okay?”

There is another pause before he says, “I need you to transfer the call to someone else.”

Your blood runs cold as your heart freezes in your chest. There is only one reason he would ask you to do that. Pressing your headphone tighter against your ear, you choke out, “How bad is it? How badly is he hurt?”

Bradley sighs. “Listen, we don’t have time for this. We need help, so I need you to transfer me.”

Turning back to the computer, you say, “Where are you?” Bradley reluctantly gives you his location and you quickly type it into the computer. “And what do you need? Fire, medical, police?”

Yet another pause. You are just about to scream at him when he murmurs, “All of them.”

Taking a deep breath, you enter the information into the form on your screen and send it off. Hopefully, emergency teams would get to their location soon. 

Turning your attention back to the call, you say, “Okay. They have your information. Now, what happened? Is he okay?”

Bradley’s military training had helped keep him focused long enough to get help, but now that he has, the severity of the situation seems to have caught up to him and he begins to ramble, his voice haunted and on the verge of tears. “We were on our way home and arguing about something stupid, I can’t even remember what now. Me, Bob, and Hangman. We never saw the truck coming. It ran the red light and just plowed into our driver’s side. It should have been me. I should have been driving. It was my car.” 

You feel the breath catch in your throat. You had forgotten Bradley had traded in his Bronco for a newer model car once he found out he and his wife were expecting. The Bronco might have been able to take that sort of collision, but the car….

“Bradley… are they okay? B-bob and J-Jake. Are they okay?” While you desperately want to know how your fiancé was, you have gotten very close to all of his squad members and are very concerned about the well-being of all three of them. Bradley might be physically okay, but you have seen enough of these types of situations to tell he is heading for a total mental or emotional breakdown if he continues on like this. So, you fall back into your own training. 

“Listen to me. Take a deep breath, in and out. It’s going to be okay. Help is on the way.” Bradley follows your instructions and you hear some of the tremor leaving his breathing. “Good. Now, are you okay? Did you hit your head or are you bleeding from anywhere?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. I, um, I was in the passenger seat. My neck hurts but I think it’s just whiplash. But Bob and Hangman… They’re both unconscious and it's bad. They’re both still breathing but….” he trails off. 

Taking a few deep breaths of your own, you say, “Bradley, I know this may be difficult, but I need you to do something for me. While you stay on this line, I need you to grab one of their phones and video call me on my personal phone. I need to see how bad it is. Please.”

There is a pause. Then, “Okay.”

You can hear footsteps as he presumably approaches the car. After a moment, he says, “I have his phone. I’m assuming you are ‘Sweetheart’?”

For a minute, you can only nod. But then realizing he can’t see that response, you force out a short, “Yes.”

A moment later, your phone lights up, displaying the picture you took of your fiancé in his dress blues the day he proposed. He was so handsome. But there is no telling what you will see in a few seconds when Bradley shows you him in his current state. 

Sliding the button to answer the call, you can just make out Bradley in the dim lighting at the side of the road. His hair is a mess and he is sweating profusely, but he seems relatively okay, just shaken. 

He gives you a sad smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply weakly. “Where are they?”

He hesitates. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

“I have to.”

“Okay.” he nods. “One second.” The camera jostles around as he turns the screen toward the remains of the car and you gasp in horror. 

Though you also catch a glimpse of a body in the back, the one you care most about is slumped in the front seat. Bradley was right. He seems to be unconscious, which is actually a blessing because otherwise he would be in agony. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, either broken or at the very least dislocated. His breathing is ragged and shallow, each inhale seeming extremely painful and difficult. There is a good chance he broke some ribs which may, in turn, have punctured a lung. And internal bleeding is also a huge concern. 

But the part that makes you almost burst into tears is his face. The airbag had gone off and driven the frames of his glasses into the bridge of his nose while also shattering the glass. His nose is swollen and crooked with two streams of blood trailing from his nostrils. Huge gashes and trails of blood are scattered around his cheeks and eyes as shards of glass jut out of his face. He is almost unrecognizable yet you know it is the man you love.

“Bobby….”

Part Two out now and Part Three coming soon!

Taglist: @nik2blog, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @shirley2996, @luckyladycreator2, @valoraxxx-blog, @m3laniehearts, @autumnleaves1991-blog,  @rule107, @vintageleather, @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak, @slutforadambanks, @americaarse, @reneki, @ynbutbetter , @sugarcoated-lame, @imagineadream, @sadpetalsstuff, @salty-thembo, @rachelizabethgraham, @duckandrobin, @queenbbarnes, @grincheveryday, @uselesslyromantic, @choochoo284, @littlebadariell, @blue-aconite, @thescarletknight2014, @jamesbuckyburns, @a-sweet-little-fangirl

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

The Accident (Part One)

Whumptober 2022: #11. “911. What’s your emergency?” Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Top Gun Gang, f!reader, reader x either Rooster, Bob, or Hangman (you have to read to find out who....) Word Count: 1339 TW: Car Accident, Descriptions of Injuries, Angst Notes: Thank you to @topguncortez for looking this over for me! 🥰

Part One, Part Two, Part Three (coming soon)

Another day, another shift, another 8-hours of traumatic stories and pleas for help. When you had decided to become a 911 operator, it hadn’t occurred to you how traumatizing it could be. Some days you had to stay on the line while you listened to horrendous acts being performed on the people begging you for help. On other days, there were countless sobs as people relayed that their loved ones were gone. And while you view yourself as a strong person, it all wears on you after a while. A person can only take so much before they crack.

That is why you cannot wait for the week-long vacation you have planned starting tomorrow. Just seven days of nothing but relaxing, sleeping late, and spending time with your fiancé. This will be the first time both of you have time off at the same time and you can’t be more excited. Maybe the two of you can actually make some progress on your wedding planning. 

But that starts tomorrow. Tonight, you idiotically agreed to pick up a second shift after you were supposed to get off, but there is no need to rush home. Maverick had come to town for one night and you know that means the entire squad will be at the bar with him until very late. So the extra money is better than sitting at the house by yourself all night. You probably could go meet them, but you also don’t want to disturb their catching-up time, so you stay at work.

It is a relatively quiet night, which is strange considering it is a Friday but you aren’t complaining. Mostly just a few drunk and disorderlies, an overdose, and an elderly woman who thought her husband was having a heart attack. Then, around one a.m., you have another call directed to your headset.

“911, what’s your emergency?” There is a long pause on the other end of the phone. You can hear ragged breathing, but the person makes no indication of what is wrong. “Hello? Are you alright?”

The silence stretches on longer and you look down at your computer screen to make sure there wasn’t a problem with the connection but then the person finally speaks. “You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.”

“Bradley?” Your head shoots up as you recognize the sound of one of your fiancé’s closest friends. His tone is somber and tinged with something almost like regret. “Are you okay?”

There is another pause before he says, “I need you to transfer the call to someone else.”

Your blood runs cold as your heart freezes in your chest. There is only one reason he would ask you to do that. Pressing your headphone tighter against your ear, you choke out, “How bad is it? How badly is he hurt?”

Bradley sighs. “Listen, we don’t have time for this. We need help, so I need you to transfer me.”

Turning back to the computer, you say, “Where are you?” Bradley reluctantly gives you his location and you quickly type it into the computer. “And what do you need? Fire, medical, police?”

Yet another pause. You are just about to scream at him when he murmurs, “All of them.”

Taking a deep breath, you enter the information into the form on your screen and send it off. Hopefully, emergency teams would get to their location soon. 

Turning your attention back to the call, you say, “Okay. They have your information. Now, what happened? Is he okay?”

Bradley’s military training had helped keep him focused long enough to get help, but now that he has, the severity of the situation seems to have caught up to him and he begins to ramble, his voice haunted and on the verge of tears. “We were on our way home and arguing about something stupid, I can’t even remember what now. Me, Bob, and Hangman. We never saw the truck coming. It ran the red light and just plowed into our driver’s side. It should have been me. I should have been driving. It was my car.” 

You feel the breath catch in your throat. You had forgotten Bradley had traded in his Bronco for a newer model car once he found out he and his wife were expecting. The Bronco might have been able to take that sort of collision, but the car….

“Bradley… are they okay? B-bob and J-Jake. Are they okay?” While you desperately want to know how your fiancé was, you have gotten very close to all of his squad members and are very concerned about the well-being of all three of them. Bradley might be physically okay, but you have seen enough of these types of situations to tell he is heading for a total mental or emotional breakdown if he continues on like this. So, you fall back into your own training. 

“Listen to me. Take a deep breath, in and out. It’s going to be okay. Help is on the way.” Bradley follows your instructions and you hear some of the tremor leaving his breathing. “Good. Now, are you okay? Did you hit your head or are you bleeding from anywhere?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. I, um, I was in the passenger seat. My neck hurts but I think it’s just whiplash. But Bob and Hangman… They’re both unconscious and it's bad. They’re both still breathing but….” he trails off. 

Taking a few deep breaths of your own, you say, “Bradley, I know this may be difficult, but I need you to do something for me. While you stay on this line, I need you to grab one of their phones and video call me on my personal phone. I need to see how bad it is. Please.”

There is a pause. Then, “Okay.”

You can hear footsteps as he presumably approaches the car. After a moment, he says, “I have his phone. I’m assuming you are ‘Sweetheart’?”

For a minute, you can only nod. But then realizing he can’t see that response, you force out a short, “Yes.”

A moment later, your phone lights up, displaying the picture you took of your fiancé in his dress blues the day he proposed. He was so handsome. But there is no telling what you will see in a few seconds when Bradley shows you him in his current state. 

Sliding the button to answer the call, you can just make out Bradley in the dim lighting at the side of the road. His hair is a mess and he is sweating profusely, but he seems relatively okay, just shaken. 

He gives you a sad smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply weakly. “Where are they?”

He hesitates. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

“I have to.”

“Okay.” he nods. “One second.” The camera jostles around as he turns the screen toward the remains of the car and you gasp in horror. 

Though you also catch a glimpse of a body in the back, the one you care most about is slumped in the front seat. Bradley was right. He seems to be unconscious, which is actually a blessing because otherwise he would be in agony. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, either broken or at the very least dislocated. His breathing is ragged and shallow, each inhale seeming extremely painful and difficult. There is a good chance he broke some ribs which may, in turn, have punctured a lung. And internal bleeding is also a huge concern. 

But the part that makes you almost burst into tears is his face. The airbag had gone off and driven the frames of his glasses into the bridge of his nose while also shattering the glass. His nose is swollen and crooked with two streams of blood trailing from his nostrils. Huge gashes and trails of blood are scattered around his cheeks and eyes as shards of glass jut out of his face. He is almost unrecognizable yet you know it is the man you love.

“Bobby….”

Part Two out now and Part Three coming soon! Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @mayhem24-7forever, @11thstreetvigilante, @merlehs, @green-socks, @sunshineflowerchild789, @shanimallina87, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @hederasgarden, @callsign-phoenix, @wildbornsiren, @lt-natrace, @the-untamed-soul, @inglourious-imagines, @airhogger, @piscesvancouverite, @straightforwardly, @bonnieelizabethparker, @srry-itshockeyszn, @flyinlove, @fandomhopped, @sweetheartlizzie07, @yjwnoot, @wanderdreamer, @callsign-fox, @imjess-themess, @joalsglasses, @curlyolly

[eves-da-best]

And the crowd goes WILD🐝

Eve Best Nation, I adore you. There is nothing more soul-filling to me than this, a group of individuals from every part of the globe collectively losing its mind over every sighting of the elusive Eve Best. 😅😍💖💖 Good luck to us all being productive at work or school or wherever we find ourselves today, struggling to think about anything other than THAT LOOK😍🥵

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whumptober #11: "911, What's Your Emergency?"

Option: Makeshift Splint

A limped into the facility, determined to get from point A to B with seeing as a few people as possible. The mission had gone tits-up before it even began, resulting In A getting tossed by an explosion and breaking their arm. They had no choice but to set it in the moment, and strap a piece of rebar either side of it.

To put it simply: A was hurting, exhausted and in dire need of a shower.

Through the blood that had dripped from their forehead wound, A saw B steadily pacing towards them.

"I'll debrief later." A muttered, hoping B would go away so he could go to medical.

"What the hell is that?" B points at A's arm in horror.

"A splint."

"Jesus- A how bad was the break?!"

"Bad enough, but the mission was successful."

"You look like shit." B tutted, not daring to aid the limping A to medical, lest they get snapped at. "I'd rather you prioritise your health than the mission."

"I'm not getting a medical evac for a broken arm." A said.

"What about the other injuries you're not telling me about?"

A stayed silent.

[geminihurt]

Whumptober 2022 | Day 11

"911, what's your emergency?" | Makeshift splint

"Go easy, take your time"

Hawaii 5-0 1x20 | Steve McGarrett - Alex O'Loughlin

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 5 ~ Everything hurts and I'm dying

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Genre: Fantasy whump

Written per Whumptober 2022 prompts

CW: captivity, untreated wounds, blood, mention of “paying” for an item with sexual favors, passing out? (I don’t even know about some of these lol) 

WC: 1725 1778

AN: This is a shorter chapter. Because, well, it's time for a breather, right?

I mean, if you consider fresh out of the torture chamber a breather, that is 😅

Resh

It was all Resh could do to keep from screaming as he was half-dragged back to his cell. Whatever toxin had been on those plants left his muscles quivering and his skin so sensitive that even the touch of his shirt was unbearable. Every time he moved his legs, it sent jolts of pain through him, not that he had the strength to be doing much of that. He was so weak he could hardly hold his head up.

In the end, it took two guards to get him back. They dumped him inside, and he collapsed on the packed dirt floor right in front of the bars, unable to stand on his own. Resh had no idea how he would be able to work tomorrow, but he knew he wouldn't have much of a choice. Besides, he needed Mieste to look at his arm. He still couldn't feel the fingers on his right hand.

It had been loads of fun learning how to function with only his left hand. He hoped it wasn’t going to be a permanent change.  

"Y'all are a buncha sick fucks," a familiar, though weak, voice said.

"Shut the fuck up, kid," a gruff voice replied. One of the guards.

The first voice belonged to Carr. Resh raised his head, trying to see where they would put him.

In a rare stroke of luck, Carr was placed in the cell directly across from him. Resh looked him over, not liking what he saw. Carr’s right hand had a slight tremor when he reached up to grip the bars. His vine-covered left hand was held up to his chest, probably protecting those broken fingers. Then there was Carr’s right leg. Blood soaked his pants where he had been stabbed, and more dripped into the dirt under his foot.

The guards turned to leave, talking quietly among themselves.

"Hey," Resh croaked, propping himself up on his left forearm. "Are you getting Mieste?"

One of them spun, a sneer on his face. "Scum like you and that piece of trash don't deserve a house call from the herbalist.” The guard snickered, moving away again. “You'll have to wait until clinic tomorrow."

Shit, that was not the response he wanted to hear. "At least give him some bandages! Hey!" he shouted, or at least tried to with what was left of his ruined voice, but the guards completely ignored him.

Fuck. Carr was just staring, like he couldn't understand what was happening. Perhaps he couldn't; kid looked like he'd lost a decent amount of blood. Resh couldn't stifle his moan as he pushed himself up. Sitting wasn’t much easier than standing, but he leaned against the bars, which was good enough to serve his purpose.

He tried not to cry as he stripped his shirt off, which went about as well as expected. When he inspected his chest, he expected to see charred skin based on the agonizing burning sensation the scrape of fabric against flesh had awoken. But his skin wasn't even reddened. Aside from his bleeding wrist and whatever his throat looked like, there wasn't a mark on him to prove he'd spent the last however many hours enduring the torturous touch of that plant.

It was a little unfair. There should be proof. A visible reason for him to feel the way he did. Instead, it looked like he was crying over nothing.

Resh surreptitiously wiped his eyes, but all he ended up doing was smearing the dirt and blood coating his hand on his face. Fucking pits. Fucking Marcus. Fuck it all. He clenched his jaw and balled his shirt up, eyeing the distance between his cell and Carr's.

"Whatcha doin?" Carr asked, sliding down the bars to sit on the ground. He pressed his hand to the hole in his thigh with a pained grimace.

"I can't wear this shirt right now, and you need a bandage," Resh said, not meeting Carr's eyes.

The distance between their cells was a bit far. Resh doubted he could make the throw with something as light as his shirt in his weakened state. Mother help him.

"Why?" Carr asked, his brow wrinkling.

"What do you mean, why? You're fucking bleeding everywhere." Resh looked up, noting how pale Carr's face looked. He was so small; Resh wondered how much blood Carr could really afford to lose.

Carr shook his head, uneven chunks of blond hair flopping across his forehead, the reddish tones absent in the dimly lit hall of cells. "Why would you gimme your shirt? What do you want for it?"

There was a wariness to the question, and the shadows darkening those hazel eyes had Resh forgetting all about his embarrassment.

"Carr, no! I just… I just don't want you to bleed out. It'll be a while until you can see Mieste during his clinic tomorrow." 

Resh couldn’t hear anyone in the adjacent cells, which meant the other prisoners were probably still working. Or maybe even eating, depending on how late it was. Ugh, eating. They wouldn’t be getting any food for the rest of the day, that was for sure. Prisoners in this place only got to eat if they worked. 

Silence. Resh used it to gather the strength to launch the damned shirt.

Carr worried his lower lip. "I... you don't… I don't want your help." He turned away from the bars, presenting Resh with his back.

Resh watched the boy’s shoulders quiver. Marked the uneven, too-fast cadence of the rise and fall of his chest. With Carr's back turned, and no one else in the cells or hall, it was the perfect opportunity to do what needed to be done to get his shirt over in the other cell. Resh just hated that Carr was thinking the things Resh knew he was thinking.

The purple pool of his magic beckoned to him, full of energy and writhing with a desire to be free. Resh formed a channel and concentrated on the dingy, wadded-up ball of gray fabric.

Purple light illuminated the space before him when the shirt rose into the air. Resh directed his magic to float the material across the hall, letting it plop to the ground beside Carr with enough force that the kid might actually think he’d thrown it. Then, Resh closed his eyes, waiting out the fading glow as he cut the channel and his magic dissipated.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he could use his magic to steal a key to his cell. Or if he was strong enough to use his power to hold back a few guards long enough to escape. But that would expose him as a mage, which could make an already bad situation worse if he was caught. And he was slow as fuck with his busted limbs, so unless he waited a few more months, he really had no chance anyway. Resh cursed himself for not experimenting more with his magic when he'd had the chance.

Holding his hand in front of his eyes, he cautiously opened them. No purple glow reflected back at him, so he was safe again. He looked across the hall, where his shirt lay untouched next to Carr's stiff body.

"Carr, please use my shirt," Resh said, exhaustion hammering him as he pressed his face to the bars. What little he'd done with his magic typically wouldn't take much energy, but he'd started out with next to nothing and now had less than nothing. Everything hurt–he just wanted to curl up in a ball and pretend he didn't exist. 

"Don't need it."

But first, Resh needed to convince Carr he didn't want to trade his shirt for sexual favors. The very thought made him feel sick.

"Yes, you do," Resh said gently, eyeing the dark clumps of dirt beneath Carr's outstretched leg. 

He had never heard Carr's voice sound so small; the kid had been all bluster and bravado and reckless defiance from the first moment he’d arrived. It made him uncomfortable that this was what knocked his attitude down a peg. It felt wrong. 

"I promise I don't expect anything from you in return."

A sniff. Then, Carr reached out with his vine-covered hand. But he didn't pick the shirt up, just rested his hand on it and leaned his head back against the bars.

Damnit. Resh wished he could see Carr's face. Wished he could tell if the sniffling meant Carr was crying or if he was just hurting. Resh stayed silent, letting Carr work things out in his mind. Hopefully, he would figure this out before Resh passed out from sheer agonized exhaustion. At this point, it was difficult to even blink his damned eyes; they didn't want to stay open.

"Nobody does nothin for free," Carr finally said, fingers curling into the fabric at his side. "'Sides, you got hurt cuz of me. Why do you even care, if not for that? I got nothin else t’ pay with."

"Carr—" Resh began.

"Not that I'm willin t’ pay, you hear? So don't come lookin for a good time just cuz you're too stupid t’ keep your shirt on." Carr's voice was harsh, but his hand visibly shook when he finally picked up the shirt and shook the dirt loose.

Thank fuck. Resh didn't even care about the words, just the actions. He forced his eyes to stay open until Carr began to tie the shirt around his leg, then carefully laid down in front of the bars. Resh couldn't have moved to his cot if his life depended on it. Just the act of lying down had tears flowing down his cheeks. Fresh waves of pain rippled throughout his body when his back hit the floor, and he sucked in air, trying to breathe through it. Gods, he couldn't understand why it still hurt so much.

"Resh? Are you okay?"

Was Carr worried? Resh turned his head and tried to open his eyes again. All he could see was a blurry pale oval across the hall. Carr's face. "Mm fine," Resh mumbled. "Just… tired."

"I'm sorry I got you hurt," Carr said, sniffing again.

"Not… your fault," Resh said, eyes drifting closed. The oblivion of unconsciousness was dragging him under, his pain-filled, depleted body unable to keep functioning. 

No wait, he needed to… needed to say something else. "Not gonna hurt you, Carr. Swear."

More sniffling.

Resh tried again. "Hear me?" His words sounded slurred; maybe Carr wasn't understanding.

Then, "Yeah, I hear you. Go t’ sleep, Resh."

Good, that was good...

Resh wished Carr believed him as well—

But Carr… probably needed

proof.

His thoughts drifted away.

Next

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

[sheepaleepz-but-art]

ah yes, self-done first aid, aka stapling urself back together with a fucking stapling gun

this was totally inspired by that one scene from arcane, although a bit less intense haha. tryna get a feel for the abandoned warehouse jack holes himself up in

whumptober day 11 >:) this is definitely my favorite one so far

[carrion-carry-on]

Whumptober No. 11

“911, what’s your emergency?” - Sloppy bandages

Okay, drag me to the church, it’s the Bad Batch once again. This takes place shortly after that scene in Episode 01:08. I personally think this is the point where the chip had to be taken out. Probably cooked/subsequently fried that thing so it had to get removed.

AO3 Link

“You’re lucky this hadn’t been any deeper, or you may have had to go to the med ward,” one voice had said.

“Wait, I don’t get it. What do you mean, ‘deeper?’“ another had asked.

They sounded the dame. Somewhat the same. But they were slightly different. He would forever remember those differences. They would always plague him.

In his dream, his nightmare, his memory, the voices gain faces.

Tech. Knowledgeable, no-nonsense, someone he appreciated. “I am referring to the layers of the integumentary system.”

Wrecker. Steadfast, loyal, someone he tolerated. “Inter-what?”

A new voice, a new face. Maybe not so new. “Integument, Wreck.” Hunter. Competent, focused, someone he admired.

His own. “I’m fine.”

He is not currently fine. He is currently struggling to stay awake, drifting in and out of consciousness while wrapping a bandage and bacta around his own face.

Second degree, at least. Deep partial thickness, most likely. Epidermis and dermis have been significantly damaged. Thankfully, he doesn’t feel too much of it. Maybe that’s not a good thing. Crosshair doesn’t have to see it to know. The wound is likely weeping by now, blisters forming. He imagines it’s not a very pretty sight. Tech would have had it handled by now.

The growl deep in his throat becomes an angry, teeth-baring snarl. He doesn’t need them. Traitors. No, that’s not right - brothers? They are his brothers, why had they- why would he-?

He wanted the war to end. He’d been so tired, and his brothers were always in danger. The damned Republic and their idiotic war. Making them all, owning them, with the sole purpose of dying in their squabbles. But this is not what he’d imagined the end to be like. He had thought his brothers would see it, too, that this end brought stability. That’s all he wanted, for the longest time. For them to see, for the war to end, and for them to be right beside him when it finally did.

Then something had happened, something he could never have seen, even with his brilliantly enhanced sight. Hunter had... he had betrayed them, hadn’t he? He’d saved that jedi. Traitor. But, maybe there’d been a reason?

Why had they left him?

Because he had betrayed them.

No, that’s not right.

Back and forth his mind argued with itself. They were traitors, but they were brothers, too. Emotion welled up in his chest, coiling tightly to constrict his breathing. What is going on? Why has this happened? He’s in pain now, but not from his head.

He can feel tears trying to choke their way out of him. He can feel the pain in his chest as faded memories resurface. He can feel everything that has been dulled for subjective years, trapped down inside his own mind. He can feel again. And yet something whispers that feeling like this is wrong.

By the time they find him, and take him away, he is reduced to a near comatose state. His hands are wrapped up in the bandages he’d been trying to wind around his head. Stuck there. He is stuck here and his brothers are not there to offer a way out.

[faofinn]

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

@whumptober

@whumptober-archive

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Set in the aftermath of Sheila's Injury, because the boys don't have enough to worry about.

“No, Finn, your angle is wrong.” Fao said, looking at his brother. “You’re coming in too high, that’s why you’re missing the vein. Lower your hand down a bit.” 

"If you'd stop wriggling around, I'd be able to get it." He grumbled, frustrated at himself. 

“You’re overthinking it.” Fao told him. “Close your eyes, deep breath, then try again.”

"I know how to do it!" He snapped, before apologising quickly. "Sorry, I just don't understand how I can't get this one."

“My veins are shit. You nearly had it that time, try again.”

"I got it before."

“Go on, I believe in you.”

"Yeah, I don't."

“So grumpy.” Fao teased. “Try again, go on.”

"I'm trying."

“Do you want to try another?”

"I want to give up on this. It was a stupid idea anyway."

“I didn’t think you were a quitter.”

"Yeah, well. It would have been better if I had."

“Let me talk you through it.”

"I don't want to do it."

Fao sighed, reaching across to undo the tourniquet around his bicep. “Fine, we’ll take a break.”

"There’s no point to any of this. Harrison can come back down, I'm going out."

“Hey, come on. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

"I don't want tea!" He snapped, storming off.

“Finn, come on!” Fao called, hopping down off of the bench. 

"No!"

“Just come and sit down! You don’t have to leave, we don’t have to do this daft shit anymore. I only offered in case you want to practice. We can just sit, put the tv on.”

"It's just stupid, Fao. It's pointless. I can't do anything."

“Don’t be daft, you can do loads.”

"Yeah? And what did I do with mum? Nothing. I just got in the way."

“You did loads with Mum. I couldn’t have done what I did without you.” 

"You had Harrison."

“And I needed you, too.”

"Could have done fine without me."

“I’d have been in the shit without you.”

Finn didn't answer for a moment, chewing on his lip. "You'd have been fine."

“No.”

"You would. I need a drink and some meds. My head is killing me."

“Do you want me to get you some?”

"No."

Fao sighed. “Alright. Go take some space.”

Finn softened as Fao gave in. "I won't be long."

“Take your time, I’ll be down here. Do you want to keep practising after, or should I clear it away?”

He hesitated. "Just leave it. I'll sort it later."

“I’ll chuck the spent stuff, then. Leave the rest out.” Fao said.

"Fine." He shrugged, heading inside. He knew he ought to practice, knew it was good to keep doing things to stay busy, but the constant failure on top of everything else had started to overwhelm him. With everything going on, he just needed a break. Ideally, a few weeks abroad would be nice, no issues or seizures, just peace and quiet. 

It was nice to imagine for a moment, but, as was often the case with the Daniels, it didn't last. Fred had been out on a lead, the first promising in a while. He’d quickly realised his mistake, too many people to fight off himself, and too crowded a place to fire a gun and get away with it. 

They'd gotten him with a knife to his back, his arm twisted to prevent him getting away. He was stripped of his gun, pushed down an alley and set upon. 

Despite his best efforts, he ended up bloodied and bruised, a split lip and a black eye forming. He pushed himself to the wall, taking a few minutes to just breathe and take stock. 

His head hurt, of course it did, as did his fists and ribs. What he wasn't expecting, though, was his ankle completely giving out as he tried to stand. He swore loudly as he clattered to the ground, bracing himself on already bruised wrists. Well, fuck.

He glanced around, trying to find something, anything to help. Some scrap metal that was roughly straight stuck out at him, and he shuffled over awkwardly. He could probably just about get away with it, he figured, if he managed to get something to wrap the makeshift splint around his leg. 

In the end, he used his belt, wrapped as tightly around his leg as he could manage. For once, he was glad he'd brought the automatic, as there was no way he'd be able to drive manual. Realistically, he knew he shouldn't even drive that, but he had to get home. He spent a few quick minutes sloppily wrapping some bandages around his bloody knuckles, more concerned about the state of his interior than the injuries themselves. 

By the time he'd made it home, his head was spinning. He'd thrown up somewhere on the way home, quickly swerving to the side and the door thrown open. He didn't bother to call ahead, figuring at least one of them would be in the basement. He hoped it would just be a sprain, but the amount of pain kept him realistic. 

Whilst Finn was gone, Fao cleared away some of their spent supplies, rubbing his arm where Finn had tried to get at his vein. He didn’t mind, though, they needed the practice. 

He went and checked on Sheila, making sure she had everything she needed. She did, thankfully, and he topped up her painkillers. She asked after Finn, worried about him, but Fao brushed it off. They’d be fine, Finn just needed time. 

He was sat catching up on some work when he heard tyres on the gravel outside, and frowned. Was Fred finally back? He hoped so. He knew he was working hard to find out who’s been responsible for hurting Sheila, but he’d been gone so long now that it felt like he was never home. Fao felt almost as though he had to be the boss in his absence, and he hated it. Especially with having to look after Sheila at the same time. 

Fred could barely see straight, dizzy with pain. He struggled down the hallway, staggering on his ankle. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his leg, making him whimper now he was out of the public eye. 

Finn caught sight of Fred as he left the basement, frowning at his dad. He didn't need this, he really wasn't sure how much more he could take. 

"Dad?"

"Just give me a hand, will you? Save your lecture."

Finn moved quickly to his side, wrapping an arm around him. "What happened?"

"Got ambushed." He groaned, swaying in Finn’s grasp. 

"Come on, just to the basement. You can make it."

Fred muttered something, but it was lost as he collapsed, a dead weight in Finn’s arms. 

"Fao!" He couldn't carry Fred by himself, and he didn't want to cause any more damage to his dad. "Fao!"

Fao’s heart sank when he heard Finn shout. Was Finn having an aura, about to seize. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was, he’d had so many seizure triggers stacked on top of each other. With a sigh, he set his pen down and sprinted up the stairs. 

“Finn?!” He called, reaching the landing. 

"Dad’s fucked himself. I need your help."

“Fucking hell, I thought you were about to have a seizure.” Fao breathed, finding Finn with Fred in his arms. “Here, let me.”

"Would probably have been better if I had."

“At least I was expecting that. Jesus Christ, what has he done?” 

"I don't know, but he's fucking heavy." Finn grumbled. "Said he got ambushed and then went."

“Sheila said the other day he was going to do something stupid.” Fao complained. “I’ll help, let’s get him downstairs.” He said, helping Finn to carry him.

"Of course she did, she's always right." Finn frowned. "We're gonna need Ollie."

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, and I’ll call him in after.” They headed carefully downstairs, Fao glancing around quickly.

"Is it Finn?" Sheila called, her view blocked by the curtains. 

"Uh, not quite!" Finn called back, pulling a face at Fao. "We're okay!"

“Just one of the men!” Fao said. Wasn’t technically a lie.

"You can tell her, I'm not." Finn hissed, getting his dad on the bed. 

“Let’s just see where we’re at.” He muttered. 

"I'll cannulate, can you check his ankle?"

"No." Fred pushed Finn's hand away. "No needles."

“You’ll be in a world of pain without it.” Fao warned him, fumbling to unwrap his makeshift splint. 

"No." He shook his head, already queasy as Finn prepared his hand. 

"You're fine, dad. Just relax. Happy thoughts."

Fao shrugged. He’d soon forget about the cannula once he started checking over the ankle, and he was somewhat less than gentle as he removed the splint. “Sorry, sorry.”

"You fucker." Fred hissed, trying to scoot up the bed to get away. 

"Sharp scratch, dad." 

While the ankle had distracted him, he still felt the needle. He turned his head away to retch, but made the mistake of checking over on Finn. The sight was too much, and his eyes rolled, going limp in the bed.

"Eh, that's one way to do it."

“Whatever gets the job done. I thought the ankle might be enough to do it.” 

"Hit him with both, I guess. Least we can get pain relief in now. What's it looking like?"

“Pretty shit, honestly.” Fao admitted. 

"Are we gonna call Ollie?"

Fred groaned. "Fucking hell."

"It's alright. I'm gonna give you some antisickness and pain relief, yeah?"

“I’m gonna get some imaging first, then I can send it across when I call him. Makes it easier.”

"Fair enough. How much pain are you in, dad?"

"Not too much."

“Don’t lie, it’s honestly not worth it.” Fao told him, reaching for the kit he needed. 

"It hurts a bit."

"Yeah, I'm not listening to you." Finn muttered. "Keep breathing, you're gonna be spacey."

“Sorry, this is gonna hurt.” Fao warned, shifting Fred’s ankle to get it ready for X-ray. 

Fred shouted in pain, mainly unintelligible. He fought clumsily against Finn, who just carefully redirected his hands.

"At least he won't remember this bit."

“What did you give?” Fao asked, wincing as he shouted. 

"Fent and midaz."

“Oh, he won’t remember shit.” Fao agreed. “Probably for the best. I’m ready to get this x-ray, step back for two seconds?”

Finn followed his instructions. "Yeah, I saw the state of the ankle."

"Boys?" Sheila called again, louder and frustration bleeding into her tone. "Will one of you tell me what my fucking husband has done this time?"

Fao winced. “Uh, give us five.” He called back, quickly getting the imaging he needed. 

"Fao, you can tell me what's going on!"

“I’ve sort of got my hands full right now, Sheila. We’re looking after him.”

"I'll get out of bed." 

"I'm not dealing with her." Finn whispered to Fao. "I'm already terrified of her."

“She’s your fucking mum.” Fao shot back, his voice low. “He just got a bit battered, we’re sorting it!” 

"And she'd eat me alive!"

"What's he done?"

“We don’t know yet, let us work and we’ll tell you when we know!”

"Useless." She muttered. "He's absolutely useless."

“Fucking tell me about it.” Fao said under his breath, reaching for his glasses to check the X-ray on the screen in front of him.

Finn hummed from beside him. "Oh, that's a break."

“Yeah, just trying to see if there’s anything else there too…” He murmured.

"It seems pretty simple."

“Just don’t want to miss anything else.” He said, and eventually nodded. “Fine. Looks like just that, I can’t see anything else, no other fractures. I’ll call Ollie and send that image over.”

He grabbed his phone, messaging Ollie the images before he called him, giving Finn time to work on the rest. Fred’s pulse in his foot was good, he wasn’t too worried about getting Ollie down there immediately. They had some time to sort everything out. 

Ollie agreed to come down, based on the conversation he’d had with Fao and the images he’d got. He wasn’t quite sure if it would need surgical intervention, but at the very least it needed manipulation. He slipped back into the room, pocketing his phone. 

“Ollie’s on his way.” Fao said. “Where are we with everything else, where do you want me?” He asked, trying to take in as much as he could. There was a lot going on.

"I think he's mainly alright. His ribs seem a mess, but there's nothing out of the ordinary lung wise. He's got a few little lacs here and there, but I think it's just his ankle."

“Any head injury?”

"I don't actually think so. His nose is busted, but he seems to have got out of it pretty lightly."

“God, he is lucky. Maybe a bit of a concussion, if they’ve busted his nose like that.”

"Hopefully just a little one."

“Hopefully. Let me give you a hand, I’ll sort out these lacs, any you think need stitching?”

He hummed. "Maybe this one, but he could probably get away with just looking after it…no, who are we kidding? Just stitch it, it'll be easier."

“Might as well just sort it, so we’re not dealing with an infection and a mess in a few days time.” 

"Exactly." Finn muttered. "What was Ollie thinking? Surgical?"

“Manip at the very least. Re X-ray after and possibly ORIF but difficult to say just off one X-ray.”

"Ugh. Dibs on not telling mum." 

“I heard that!” Sheila called. 

Fao groaned. “Hate you.”

"It's alright, mum, Fao’s gonna come over and fill you in!"

“You can do those stitches, then.” Fao shot back. “I hope he comes to a bit and realises it involves multiple needles.” He smirked, and headed over to Sheila’s bay, a little sheepish, and sat on the edge of the bed. 

"Why do you think I dosed him?" Finn called. "So much easier this way."

Fao rolled his eyes, and then turned his attention to Sheila. “He’s alright. He’s gotten off lightly.”

"Has he?"

“All things considered, yeah. I mean, look at you.” Fao pointed out. “A few cuts and scrapes, a pretty decent black eye too. I reckon he’s broken some ribs, and he’s taken a fair few punches. The worst is the ankle, which is broken, but Ollie’s coming in to look at it. We’ll do a manipulation and then it’s up to him how to proceed.”

"This happened because of me."

“This happened because he’s an idiot and he went on a mission alone without backup.”

"Because I got hurt."

“You got hurt because some cunt attacked you. That doesn’t mean Fred can just go and do whatever he wants like an idiot.”

"That's just Fred, though."

“That’s not your fault though.”

"I should have been there."

“Don’t be daft.”

"I'm not." She said simply. "If I'd not got hurt, he wouldn't have either."

“And if I’d not got hurt all those years ago, I wouldn’t be here with you. Sometimes bad shit happens. We can’t change it.”

"Is he going to be okay though?"

“He’ll be alright, he’s got the pair of us looking after him. And Ollie, too.”

"So he'll be out of action for a while."

“Yeah. Absolutely he will.”

She allowed herself a small smile. "Well that's a slight positive.'

“We’ll keep him shut up in here with you.” Fao said with a crooked smile. “Do you need anything?”

"No, thanks. I'm okay."

“We’ll be around if you need us, but you might have to shout.” Fao said.

"Okay. Let me know what Ollie says?"

“Course. You can see the imaging later if you want, too.” Fao told her, and gave her a quick hug before he left. 

"Thank you."

[kalira]

Stitches

(A Naruto minific featuring KakaSaku and Ino)

Rated: T (this minific); 310 words

[mothervvoid]

When Hinata was thirteen, she fell and nearly broke her ankle while training to re-take the chunnin exams.

When Hinata was sixteen, she and Kiba were separated from Shino during what they thought was a routine tracking mission.

Part Five of my Whumptober 2022 Prompt Fills.

[0nelittlebirdtoldme]

Harkula Whumptober Day 11 🩹💢

Just a Train Ride Away

“911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?” Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Content: M, Injury, Mild Blood, Dicussion of Possible Death/Suicide

Exerpt below cut

“You are giving me options now?”, Jonathan rasps weakly. Dracula’s dark eyes shoot up to him, for a moment, looking back at him. His fingers still, above the wound, to which he is tending. They are beautiful, a deep colour of chocolate brown, with a hint of red in them. He looks so much younger now than when Jonathan first met him. “I have always given you options, Jonathan. It doesn’t have to end this way.”

[ladym-17]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Zero Chill (TV 2021) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kayla MacBentley & Mac MacBentley Characters: Mac MacBentley, Kayla MacBentley Additional Tags: Whumptober 2022, Broken Bones, Camping, Siblings, Thunder and Lightning, Cave-In Series: Part 2 of Whumptober 2022 Summary:

Mac convinces Kayla to let them go camping for their eighteenth birthday. Surely nothing can go wrong, right? Wrong. Mother Nature has other thoughts.

Content Warnings: blood, broken bones, minimal swearing, lightning strikes.

[johnny1note]

Is anything more infuriating than when people describe a woman as "trapping" a man with a baby

[il-predestinato]

🎥: Charles Leclerc for f1lasvegas TikTok

+bonus:

+edit: (he doth protest)