#Distress Call

[dangerpronebuddie]

For @badthingshappenbingo

Baby, I'm Never Gonna Leave You 12k

Eddie changed lanes, prepared to head back to the station, when Buck's phone started ringing. "Oh, it's probably Maddie," Buck said, taking his phone from his pocket. "I already told her I'd have to-" he frowned at the screen- "oh?” "What's the matter?" Eddie asked. "Um... You remember that bracelet I bought Taylor?" Buck asked. Unfortunately, Eddie did. That Christmas was memorable... for all the wrong reasons. (Including, but not limited to, the presence of one red headed demon.) "Yeah. Why?" "It's been set off," he said, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Distress Call

Read on ao3

#911 #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #fanfic #911 abc #my writing #bad things happen bingo #distress call #taylor kelly #whump #eddie diaz whump #evan buckley whump #9-1-1 #fanfiction #badthingshappenbingo #bthb #2 fics in 2 days... #oh well

[whump-about-it]

Red Alert/ Distress Call/ Panic Attack

@whumpril day 1 (few days late)

CW: panic attacks, brief mention of blood, implied suicidal ideation, concern about self harm, dissociation, PTSD 

Caretaker knew something was wrong as soon as they saw Whumpee’s name pop up on their phone. Whumpee never called. They hated talking on the phone. Even when something actually warranted a call Whumpee was more likely to send a text. Which more often than not Caretaker wouldn’t see for hours. 

“Whumpee?” They said a little too loudly when they picked up the phone, causing a few of their co-workers to look up at them annoyed. On the other end of the phone Whumpee didn’t respond. All Caretaker could hear was heavy, ragged breathing, like Whumpee was running from something. 

“Whumpee?” Caretaker repeated “Whumpee are you there? Is everything okay?” 

“Caretaker.” Whumpee finally spoke. They sounded out of breathe and their voice lacked its usual force “Caretaker. I - I” They paused for several breathes as Caretaker held their phone in a white knuckle grip, trying not to speak over Whumpee. Trying to let them get the words out on their own.

“Red” Whumpee finally said with a gasp. 

Caretaker was up and moving before Whumpee had finished the word. Rushing through their office and towards the exit. 

“I’m on my way. Where are you?” 

Whumpee wasn’t good at talking about their feelings. Even before Whumper it was something they didn’t like doing, and preferred to keep an emotionless mask at all times. Since Whumper though, holding that mask had gotten harder and somehow more important to them. When they couldn’t hold the mask anymore though, and it cracked, Whumpee struggled to explain what was going on. Their emotions came out in violent outbursts and debilitating panic attacks that they couldn’t control or explain. Overtime Whumpee and Caretaker had managed to come up with a code that Whumpee could use to explain to Caretaker what was going on inside their head. 

Green meant everything was okay, and Caretaker was misinterpreting the situation. Yellow meant Whumpee was on edge, but still in control. Orange was for panic attacks. And red? Red meant Caretaker needed to drop everything and get to Whumpee quick. 

“Whumpee? Where are you?” Caretaker repeated when Whumpee didn’t respond to them the first time. 

“I’m sorry” Whumpee gasped, their voice was sounding more and more distanced, like they were falling into a trance. Caretaker began to panic a little, imagining Whumpee lost someplace and totally dissociating. Doing something stupid or dangerous, and Caretaker not being able to get to them in time. 

“Just tell me where you are Whumpee” They insisted in a forced calm voice. 

“Home.” Whumpee said and Caretaker breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Okay. I’m on my way. I’m already in the car. Just stay on the phone with me okay?” 

“I broke the mirror.” 

“Alright. We’ll deal with that. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m sorry” 

“I don’t care about the mirror Whumpee. Did you hurt yourself?” There was a long pause. before Whumpee responded. 

“I don’t know.” They breathed “There’s blood” 

Caretaker’s heartrate leapt. 

“I’m five minutes away. Just hang on and stay on the phone with me.” 

Whumpee didn’t respond. Caretaker kept trying to talk to them but they feared Whumpee wasn’t hearing them anymore. 

Caretaker finally pulled into the driveway and jumped out of their car, running into the house. Thankfully they found Whumpee exactly where they thought they would be. 

They were sitting on the floor of the downstairs bathroom with their knees up to their chest and starring ahead of them without seeing. Their back was against the vanity and they were surrounded by shards of glass from the shattered mirror above them. In one hand, they were still holding their phone up to their ear even though Caretaker had hung up when they had come through the door. In the other they were holding one of the shards of broken mirror with such an iron grip their hand was shaking. Caretaker could see blood pooling between their fingers and there was a trail dripping down their wrist. 

“Whumpee!” Caretaker ran into the bathroom and fell to their knees in front of Whumpee ignoring the bits of glass pushing into their knees through their pants. They grabbed both of Whumpee’s wrists and shook them until they dropped both the phone and the glass shard. With their hands now empty Caretaker examined Whumpee’s arms and wrists for injuries. Their fingers and knuckles were cut on their dominant hand from having punched the mirror, and there were deep cuts on their palm from where they had been gripping the shard of glass. But otherwise they were uninjured, and none of the injuries they had seemed to be intentional.

Caretaker breathed a shaky sigh of relief and looked up at Whumpee’s face. They were white as a sheet and Caretaker could see tear stains running down their cheeks. But they were surprised to find that Whumpee was looking back at them with at least some level of awareness that Caretaker was there. 

“Caretaker?” 

Caretaker reached forward and put their hands of Whumpee’s cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears. 

“Yeah Whumpee I’m here now. How are you doing?” 

“Red” Whumpee replied after a moment, and their eyes filled with tears again. Their face twisting to try to keep from crying. 

“I can’t even look at myself” They sobbed. “Why did Whumper do that to me? What did I do to deserve it?” 

“Oh, Honey” Caretaker knew Whumpee would scold them for the pet name later, but now they didn’t seem to notice. Caretaker pulled them into a hug and let Whumpee cry into their shoulder shaking and gripping at the back of their shirt with their non-bloody hand, as they stroked their hair and tried to hold back their own tears.

“You didn’t do anything to deserve this. Whumper is a monster, and they were going to hurt someone no matter what. But I’m so, so, sorry it was you. Never believe though that it was your fault. Please never believe that.” 

They stayed there on the floor of the bathroom for a long time. Whumpee crying into Caretaker’s shoulder and Caretaker doing what they could to comfort them. It had been such a long road for both of them since Whumpee had been rescued from Whumper, and they had a long way to go before Whumpee would even start to be okay again. But Caretaker was proud of Whumpee for today. For calling. For asking for help before they were too far gone. They were glad the code system had worked. 

They would tell Whumpee all this later. But now wasn’t the time. Now Whumpee just needed a shoulder to cry on. 

#whump #whump drabble #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #caretaker x whumpee #whumpee x caretaker #panic attack #distress call #red alert #ptsd #calling for help #recovering whumpee

[njordr]

“ red alert | distress call | panic attack ” @whumpril

kickin off the first day of whumpril with my favourite angst king :]

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #red alert #distress call #panic attack #my art #whump #obi wan #obi wan Kenobi #Star Wars

[uuuhshiny]

Russell Crowe in the Beautiful Mind

Panic attack

#by uuuhshiny #Russell Crowe #beautiful mind #whumpril2023 #whumpedit #whumprilday1 #Distress Call #Panic Attack #uuuhshiny's gifs #power #RC gifs

[drabbles-mc]

Idle Hands

Pope Heyward x Cleo

For Day 1 of @whumpril 2023: distress call

Warnings: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, vague mentions of events in s3

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: My first Pope/Cleo fic! I just love them so much. Easing myself back into the whump state of mind with this one. Hope you enjoy!

OBX Taglist: @garbinge @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

There was a point, after the first couple of days on the island, that the reality of it all started to sink in. Everyone was making do, and they were all doing a good job of that. In the backs of everyone’s minds, though, was the fact that there was no knowing when they were going to be found. If they were going to be found. Some of them were coping with the state of things better than others.

“You okay?” Cleo asked Pope as she sat down next to him just outside the cave.

Pope nodded, not turning to look at her. He knew that if he looked at her instead of at the sun that was starting to sink down over the horizon, he wouldn’t be able to lie to her.

“I’m good,” he finally said after a few seconds of silent nodding.

Cleo laughed quietly, turning her head so that she was facing him. Just because he wouldn’t look at her, it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t look at him. She lightly bumped her shoulder against his, finally getting him to glance over at her.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Pope,” she told him earnestly. Once she let that statement hang in the air for a moment, a smile broke out across her face. “Besides, you’re no good at it anyway.”

That got Pope to crack a small smile for a moment. It was gone fast though as the serious, worried look reappeared on his face. He shook his head, dropping his face into his hands for a moment as he tried to figure out what to say, how to express his thoughts without sounding ridiculous.

“It’s been a week,” he said slowly, trying to choose his words carefully, “and we haven’t seen anyone, anything pass by. No boats, no planes, nothing.”

“Yea, and?” she said, despite having a good idea of where his train of thought was going.

“That’s a long time to go without seeing anyone.”

She shrugged, dragging her fingertips through the sand. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he repeated back to her, shock and offense in his voice. “Cleo, how many times in your life have you gone a whole week without seeing people?” He paused and shook his head, but before Cleo could even get the start of her response out, he continued. “Oh, and how many times has that happened to you while you were stranded on some random island with no way to contact anyone and no one except some of the worst people in the world knew what happened to you?”

Cleo was trying to bite back a smile. It wasn’t that she found his anger or fear funny, but there was something so theatrical sometimes about the way he expressed himself. She’d noticed that about all of the pogues in different moments—it was hard not to smile about it.

“I can’t say that it’s ever happened to me before.”

He threw his hands in exasperation. “Exactly.”

“So, tell me, Pope, what’s all this worrying doin’ for you?”

“How are you not worried?” he countered.

“I am!” she said with a laugh. “I am. But staying up, pullin’ my hair out about it, isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Am I supposed to just pretend that I’m not freaking out over the possibility of us never getting off this island?”

She shook her head. “No. But also,” she bumped his shoulder again, “there’s no point in drownin’ yourself in those thoughts all the time. Take a break from it. Or do something productive with it.”

“I did,” he replied immediately.

“Did what?” She was using her knife to draw in the sand now.

“I did something productive with it.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Of course you did.” She looked over at him. “What’d you do, then, Gray Pipe?”

He gestured back towards the cave. “I got all our flares stored safely somewhere dry, somewhere that JJ won’t find them.” They both chuckled at that. “And, on the upper side of the island, I got a bunch of wood all set up for a smoke signal if we see a boat or a plane going by.”

She nodded, clearly impressed. “When’d you sneak off to do all that?”

“I didn’t sneak.”

“Right, right.” Tucking her knife away, she leaned back so she was resting on the palms of her hands.

“So now what am I supposed to do?”

Cleo shrugged. “Wait. Try to enjoy the island paradise while you got it.” She saw the look on his face and she could tell that he wasn’t buying it. “Don’t worry, Pope, you’ll be able to make your distress call soon enough. Just make it count, yea? Don’t wanna burn through all the wood on the island.”

He chuckled quietly at that. “I won’t.” There was a long stretch of silence between them before he finally said, “I wonder what my parents are doing.”

There it was. Cleo’s eyes dropped to the sand beneath their feet for a moment before she looked back out at the ocean. The sun was almost gone now, colors of the sky starting to give way to darkness. She couldn’t remember the last time she wondered about her family, or anyone really. It seemed like at this point, most of the pogues were more or less in the same both with her on that. No one really had families that they could go back to, or wanted to go back to. Except Pope. He was lucky for that.

“Probably wondering about what you’re doing,” she told him honestly.

“I need to see them again, Cleo. I need to get home to them.”

There was a small ache in her chest as she listened to him, heard the desperation and pain in his voice. Most days she was thankful that she didn’t have anyone to miss like that, no one with that kind of hold on her. In that moment, though, even if she would never tell anyone, she wished that she had someone out there wondering about her.

She cleared her throat, making sure no extra emotion crept in. Reaching over, she rested her hand on top of his as she said, “You will—you’re gonna make it home.”

He looked down for a second where their hands rested together, but neither of them moved or commented on it. “Thank you,” he finally told her.

“’Course.” She flashed him a smile, trying to lighten the heavy mood that was settling over the both of them. “Can’t have the brains around here flying off the deep end, can I?”

Pope laughed, shaking his head as the sad look in his eyes slowly started to face. “Can’t have that.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #distress call #obx #outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #obx fanfiction #pope heyward #cleo #cleo obx #pope heyward x cleo #cleo x pope #cleo x pope heyward #cleope #cleopope #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

[em-writes-stuff]

distress call

@whumpril

113 words :)

caretaker and whumpee

no warnings

---

“Caretaker?” Whumpee whispers into the phone, voice shaky and broken, “I need you to come pick me up, please.” 

Caretaker sighs and shakes her head, “I’m not doing this again.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t keep doing this. You need to figure it out alone.” 

Whumpee stifles a sob, “Please, this’ll be the last time, I promise. Please,” they pause, “I need you.” 

Caretaker takes a deep breath and runs a hand through her hair, “I’m sorry.” 

She hangs up the phone and sets it face down on the table. Breathing out shakily, she slides down the wall onto the floor and holds her head in her hands, ignoring her phone vibrating on the table.

#whump #whump writing #whump fic #whumpee #caretaker #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #distress call

[depressed-werewolf]

Whumpril Day 1: Distress Call

tw: implied kidnapping, possessive whumper, failed escape attempt, drugging

Whumpee stood at the payphone and dialed the number. They took another wary glance behind them. They didn’t have much time before Whumper caught up with them and there was only one person they felt like they could call.

They took a deep breath. “Caretaker?”

They heard frantic noises on the other end of the line, as if Caretaker had knocked something over.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, is that it you?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m near Fourth Street. I can’t… I can’t stay in one place for long, they’ll find me.”

Caretaker’s voice was frantic on the other end of the  phone. “What? Who is ‘they’? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Whumper, just… please come get me. I’m scared.”

Simply saying their name made Whumpee shiver. They glanced behind them again, they were alone… for now.

Caretaker sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

Whumpee could only pray they got there in time. “Please hurry,” they said in a small voice.

“I will.”

There was a click and the other hung up. Whumpee leaned against the alley wall and closed their eyes. They hoped Whumper wouldn’t find them. They’d barely even managed to get away, Whumpee didn’t know what Whumper would do if they found them, but they knew it wouldn’t be good.

“You know they won’t get here in time.”

Whumpee jumped. They knew that voice too well, far too well. When they opened their eyes they saw Whumper standing beside them, leaning casually against the alley wall. 

Whumpee scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over their own feet in their panic. “Just leave me alone, please,” they begged.

“Now why would I do that?”

Whumper quickly closed the distance between them, tilting Whumpee upwards and forcing them to look them in the eyes.

Whumpee flinched back violently. “Don’t touch me!”

They stroked the other’s cheek fondly, ignoring Whumpee’s obvious panic. “Oh, whumpee, when will you learn? You’re never getting away from me.”

“Get off me, get off me!”

They shoved Whumper and continued scrambling backwards, but their back hit the wall. 

Whumper shook their head and continued prowling towards them, pinning them against the wall. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place, Whumpee. But don’t worry, I’ll bring you home.”

They noticed the rag in Whumper’s hand too late. They struggled when Whumper pressed the rag against their mouth and noise, but they ultimately had nowhere to go.

“Please, please no,” they whispered.

But by then the chemicals were already making their vision go blurry. Whumper said something but they couldn’t make out the words, their mind was foggy. The last thing they remembered before passing out was falling into Whumper’s arms.

#whumpril #whump event #whumpril2023 #whumpril day 1 #distress call #whump #whump snippet #whump writing #possessive whumper #failed escape #writing #writing snippet #writeblr #tw drugging #tw implied kidnapping #mediocre snippets #a mediocre writing blog #depressed werewolf

[whumpbump]

Red alert/ distress call / panic attack

I am ALWAYS happy to take requests!!!!!

Cw: mentions of a pandemic, stages of grief, panic attack, burns, fire, near-death situations, real sad my dudes

CODE RED flashed across the screen as the klaxon sounded on the ship. Running like chickens with their heads cut off, everyone on the crew evacuated, realizing it was that or die a horrible fireball death in space. Well, everyone except Whumpee.

Whumpee was determined to try and save the ship, alone if they had to. The ship carried vital medicine that was needed for a newer colony that wasn’t used to the dust from the planet’s surface, causing a serious pneumonia. One of the affected was Whumpee’s mother, so it was personal.

Running back and forth between the engine room and the cockpit to check the status of the ship between repair attempts, Whumpee was running on fumes and overstimulated from the sound of the alarm, the flashing lights, and the smoke from the engine room clogging their lungs.

It was hard to breathe. Whumpee couldn’t breathe. In the cockpit after a particularly difficult repair attempt that led to Whumpee getting burned quite badly, the realization that their attempts were futile set in.

Ok, ok, you’re ok, deeeep breaths now, like we practiced in the mirror. You’re g-

Deep breaths turned shallow in a matter of seconds as Whumpee slid to the floor. Their legs were jelly. Sweat poured down their face and back. They were going to die on this ship. Alone. And their mother would die. Alone. Weeping like an injured child, they clung to the control panel for dear life. In a stroke of amazing luck, they accidentally caught their sleeve on the radio channel adjuster.

Crackling to life, it croaked out “-you ok? Is your ship evacuated? We see your ship has caught on fire. We will give you a minute to respond before we continue on our journey.”

“H-help. P-please. I am alone in the cockpit and this ship is carrying medicine,” Whumpee sobbed.

“We are sending a rescue team immediately. Hold tight.”

Within minutes, the smoke filled ship was lit up with beams from flashlights and loud voices. These loud voices would come to find Whumpee curled in a ball with tear streaks down their sooty face.

Team Leader approached slowly and crouched down. Reaching an arm out, they asked “are you Whumpee, from the distress call?”

Whumpee nodded vigorously, relieved that help was here. “Please, you have to get the medicine. It’s in the cargo bay. People, people are depending on it.”

Team Leader shifted uncomfortably. “Listen kid, the cargo bay was completely engulfed by the time we got on here. We’ve got maybe three minutes before we’re all dead. I’m sorry. We’re leaving.”

This was too much. The panic attack set in for a second time as Whumpee was confronted with the concrete truth that many, including Mother, would die a painful death in isolation from their families as the lunar dust invoked pneumonia was extremely contagious with a low survival rate.

As their breathing shallowed once more, there wasn’t enough clean air to breath in. Team Leader rushed forward to catch Whumpee as they collapsed under the control panel. Scooping them up in their arms, they verbally signaled to evacuate the ship with extreme haste.

Ow. OW. Why am I in pain? Whumpee cracked their eyes to see Medic gently tending to the burn on Whumpee’s forearm. Trying to sit up, Team Member 1 was there to push them back down by the shoulders as Team Member 2 held their ankles. “No no no, you’re ok, we rescued you. Remember? Your ship was on fire? You burned your arm real bad.”

Gasping in horror, Whumpee remembered the ship. The medicine. And what would happen when they arrive home without the lifesaving medication.

Wrenching themselves free from all three people, Whumpee ran down the hallways of the ship looking for a window. Bursting into the cockpit, everyone turned in surprise as Team Members 1 and 2 followed shortly after along with Medic, wielding a needle.

Whumpee struggled against the hands that held them. Team Leader walked over and turned Whumpee’s face to look at theirs so they would be distracted from the syringe.

“Hey. Hey. Listen. We tried. I sent some people to the cargo bay to see what was on your ship before finding you and we almost lost two good people. I know it’s hard right now to wrap your head around it, but you did your best. That’s what matters.”

The needle was in and out before Team Leader was finished. As the sedative progressed, Whumpee cried weakly. “M- *gasp* my, my, my mother wih- will die. Without. Without that medicine.” As their eyes drifted shut, Team Leader shushed them. They knew of the fate that Whumpee’s mother held. It would be painful and lonesome. And Whumpee would likely never forgive themselves. And what was more tragic, is that Team Leader knew all about the pneumonia before it happened because it was not, in fact, related to the lunar dust, thought it certainly didn’t help. It was spread by Team Leader’s rivaling colony and Team Leader was sent to spread it in care packages for the new colony as a sign of good faith. Their colony would not survive without the precious resources that were going to be split between them.

And more, the established colony had offered to help with the illness by having “medicine” gifted as well. The placebo was put on Whumpee’s ship and as the crew got settled, the rivaling colony did some tinkering, causing the explosion.

“Team Leader, what do we do now? We can’t go back without risking us catching the pneumonia as well.”

“We’re going to take them with us. They’ll serve with us on this ship. I feel like we owe it to them.” The team nodded gravely as they knew this secret would not leave this room.

Whumpee came to in the med bay. They were placed next to a window so they could see out at the burning ship to avoid further escape attempts.

They wept. They wept for their colony. They wept for their dying mother. And they wept because they knew they had failed. Upon learning that they would not be returning to their colony, they wept one final time before taking a vow of silence out of respect for the lost.

#whumpee #whumpril #whumpblr #whump blog #whump ideas #whump #cw panic attack #cw pandemic #red alert #whumpril 2023 #whumpril2023 #distress call #panic attack

[halfawitchwinter]

okay. life update. this is too serious, so i'm sorry.

bit of a trigger warning for everyone.

rest of the post under here

i'm temporarily evicted.

i had a breakdown in front of my dad which turned into a bad fist fight

i am NOT doing well. i don't know if i can go on like this.

i'm here with Raine (my blahaj) right now.

i'm working things out right now.

i don't know if i'll be ok

#distress call #cw vent #life update #vent post #not working out rn #im not okay

[jinxquickfoot]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Distress Call

Find the fic on Ao3

“Kate, for the last time, we are not building a boomerang arrow.”

“How do you fail to see the genius of this idea? Half of what we do is find our trick arrows, or build new trick arrows, because we lost our trick arrows. If we had boomerang arrows—”

“We would spend even more time than we do in the ER.”

“But I drew up designs!”

Clint reluctantly peers at the haphazard scribbles on what looks like a front page torn out of a book, but is saved from making a comment when his phone rings. “Duty calls.”

“No, you are not tabling this discussion again, how many times do I have to tell you that—” Kate breaks off as she sees the name on Clint’s caller ID. “No way. The Incredible Hulk is not calling you right now.”

“He prefers Bruce.”

“So you do talk to other Avengers.”

“Sometimes.”

“Then explain, Barton, why you haven’t introduced me to—” Her expression turns indignant when Clint holds up a finger as he answers the phone. “Come on, just let me say hi, I swear I’ll—”

“Clint, I need your help.”

Kate halts mid-sentence when she sees the expression change on Clint’s face, already moving to get her bow as she mouths, “Mission?”

“Mission?” Clint repeats into the phone. He doesn’t exactly have access to a quinjet anymore, but he can probably call in some favors to at least a private jet to California and—

“No, nothing like that.”

Clint gestures for Kate to put the bow down before retreating up into the loft bedroom. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Jen.”

“Your cousin?”

“She…” Bruce’s voice cracks. “She was in a car accident. It’s bad, Clint. Really, really bad.”

Clint exhales as he perches on the edge of Kate’s bed, still mapping out roots to LA. “I could be there in a few hours.”

“That’s…” Bruce clears his throat, and Clint can practically see him removing his glasses to wipe a hand over his face. “Thank you. But that’s not what I need.”

“You just want to talk? I can do that.”

“Talk, yes. But also… I need to ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“Jen, she… she’s going to die, Clint.”

Clint feels his chest clench, recalling turning his back on his family for the briefest of seconds, only to find piles of dust where they had once stood. “Bruce, I’m so sorry.”

“I can stop it.”

It isn’t hard to guess what Bruce means. “Ah.”

“Yeah, ah. I could do a blood transfusion. It would kill anyone else, but as Jen and I are related, it should work. With side effects.”

Clint flops back on the bed, the magnitude of that hitting him. “Yeah, that’s a crappy choice.”

“Jen’s unconscious so I can’t ask her. She doesn’t even get a say. And I know if I were in her position… look, I know the Other Guy has done a lot of good for the world, and I’ve done the work to come to terms with him, but I still know what I’d choose.”

Clint lets his eyes fall closed. He wasn’t there that fateful day when Bruce had admitted that he had gotten so low that he’d tried to end everything with a bullet, but it was in his SHIELD file. A lot of details were in Bruce’s SHIELD file that Clint had wished he hadn’t read, not before actually getting to know the man.

“Jen’s not you,” Clint reminds him. “And this isn’t 2011. People with abilities are accepted now. People get Hulk-themed birthday cakes. She’s not going to be hunted down like you were, Bruce.”

“Maybe not right now. But there are always going to be people like Ross who want that kind of power in their pocket.”

“Then we’ll protect her. And teach her to protect herself. She’s a lawyer in Los Angeles, that already makes her as tough as any Avenger.”

“A lawyer, exactly. She has a life. I’m contemplating ruining all of that. Nothing is going to ever be the same for her if I make her like me.”

“She’s not going to have a life at all if you don’t,” Clint points out.

He hears a heavy breath over the phone line. “I wouldn't want it.”

Clint bites his lip, recalling that dreaded SHIELD file. “Yes, but… Jen’s not like you, right?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, her family—her parents. They’re not like your dad, right?”

A nasty pause before Bruce answers. “No. Morris and Elaine are good people. Tried to get custody of me at one point. There’s a reason my dad kept me away from them.”

“Right. And you know that she’s not going to be hunted for having powers, like you were. She might not even have an… Other Woman.” Clint’s aware he’s treading on dangerous territory now. He’s never actually discussed that file with Bruce face-to-face. “You know the SHIELD specialists marked you down as having Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bruce replies, the words bitter. “It’s not entirely incorrect.”

“Right. So Jen had a normal childhood, and she can explore her Hulk-side safely without another Ross tracking her, and she’ll have you there to guide her through it. She won’t have to figure it all out on her own like you did.”

“That’s… all true. I could take her out to the house Tony and I built in Mexico. No one should bother us out there.” A few short, sharp breaths. “Okay. I, um, I have to give the blood now, or it’s going to be too late.”

“I’ll keep my phone close,” Clint offers. “You can call me back after it’s done.”

“Thanks, Clint,” Bruce says softly. “You’re a good friend.”

“Any time. Good luck. And enjoy the beach house. Tony would be glad to know you’re putting it to use.”

“He would,” Bruce agrees, and there’s no mistaking the sadness in his voice. The sting of their lost team members had grown easier to bear over time, but it would never truly fade. “When Jen’s ready, I should introduce you two. Think you’d get along.”

“As long as I can bring Kate, so she can stop bugging me about meeting Avengers.” Clint smiles, thinking of his partner one floor below him. “She’s excited to meet one Hulk. It’s going to make her day when she learns that she gets to meet two."

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #whump writing #distress call #clint barton #bruce banner #marvel #mcu #hawkeye #she-hulk

[dangerpronebuddie]

Inspiration Saturday!!

Tagged by the lovely @monsterrae1 thank you!! 💙💜

Still trying to get Distress Call finished! I have formed a plan for the ending, where everything is tied in a not so neat bow 😁, but I still cannot figure out Buck's pov. I'll get there... eventually. Have a snippet of what I do have for his part:

His knees were scraped and badly bruised, and a boot print across his back had pure fury rising in Buck's throat.

And Taylor wanted to leave him.

He knew they didn't get along. Eddie made his dislike abundantly clear, even when she turned up during his probie year. But he saved her life. Put his own at risk to keep her out of harm's way.

Eddie was willing to die to make sure they were safe, and Taylor was ready to leave him behind.

They were only there because Buck wanted to help her. He promised he would. And Eddie wouldn't let him go alone.

What did it get them?

Another betrayal that would sting forever, and every kind of scar imaginable. All because Buck never knew when to let go.

I don't know if I like it. Oh well.

Absolutely no pressure tagging: @13shadesofanni @lover-of-mine and anyone else who wants to share!! 🥰🩷💜

#911 #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #fanfic #my writing #distress call #inspiration saturday

[whumpacabra]

Day 1 - Distress Call

Angst, surgery mention, animal death, descriptions of decay [graphic]

[Follows Stray Dog]

They lied. To themself, mostly, when thinking about the way the phone rattled on its charger. They would later pretend that they felt their blood still and heart drop, that they knew this was coming. They pretended that they didn’t smile seeing one of Liza’s aliases on the caller ID, that they weren’t thinking of how they wanted to tell her that they had finally finished the puzzle she had gotten them for the solstice.

Because if they were happy, if they felt safe and secure and untouchable, then they were weak. Vulnerable.

“Liza! What’s - ?”

“Hospital. Now.” Her voice was hoarse from crying. It wasn’t until she spoke that RJ realized their mistake. That they were relaxed, and that they had forgotten the first and most important lesson Ghost had taught them.

‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ They remembered how he didn’t look up from his newspaper, too-sweet coffee in hand. ‘This is temporary.’

He didn’t need to add that their life temporary was too. Even if the temporary lasted months, then years under a roof with good food and gentle hands and soft voices. Everything came to an end. Even him.

RJ forgot about the deer half butchered on the back porch and the whetstone they had come to grab when they heard the phone ring. They would return days later to find the bloated corpse, untouched by fox or wolf or feral dog. Only ravens dared to pick at empty eye sockets where maggots writhed.

They stretched the phone cord as they were torn between bolting for the door and listening to Liza’s strained words.

“He’s still in surgery. He - you should be here.”

“I’m on my way.” They could feel their voice constrict, words strangled to a rumble in their throat as they dropped the phone, letting it dangle from its coiled, cream colored cord.

The car keys were cold, their arms were still spattered with warm deer blood and their boots damp with snow and mud. Sitting alone in their truck, they paused. The morning was bright and quiet, sparrows whistling between the trees and tall grass. Not-quite-spring sunshine beat down on the muddy dirt road that led through the countryside to their house.

Their home.

They had a message on their back up cellphone. A 6 second voicemail. It was protocol when he was in an area with patchy service, a check to make sure he could still reach them.

They hadn’t noticed until they got back from hunting that there was a message - they kept their phone silenced, even when not hunting. They hadn’t thought to check it. Not that it would have made a difference, with Liza’s call coming not half an hour later.

It wouldn’t make a difference now if RJ was at the hospital 6 seconds later than they already were.

If he was going to die without them there, it was his own damn fault. Theirs for not knowing, for not being ready, for not being there -

The first second was silence, the second a bubbling, unsteady sound of pain.

“Emanuel Hummel. You’ll find him.” Three and four seconds, a shaking inhale. “You always do.” Five, six and silence. End of message.

They forced their breathing to even as they turned the key in the ignition and tore down the muddy road, birds scattering from the trees in their wake.

[Directly before Waiting Room]

(Part of my Freelancers: Boy Meets World series)

Happy Whumpril! I’m going to be using my Freelancer series for this month - these pieces won’t be in chronological order to in-universe events. A chronological masterpost of the series can be found at the link above.

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #distress call #emotional whump #animal death #graphic descriptions of decay #not a particularly whumpy one but a piece I’ve had in mind since the beginning that I’ve never had an excuse to write :]

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Distress Call

TW: Domestic violence, victim blaming for the same, implied self-injury, family death and abandonment, abusive employment relationship.

*****

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 05-25-2026 at 20:23 MST:

“Hi Dad. I know you won’t get this, but. Sometimes I’m glad this voicemail is still up. Pretty dumb, huh? Anyways. Things are going really well here. The Director’s already promoting me to Lead Technician! He might even be having me write part of his next paper for a journal. Man, I’d love to see the look on my teachers’ faces now. Fuck those guys, right? The experiments can be pretty intense, but I’m managing. It’s all gonna make things better for everyone in the end, right? Anyways. Talk to you — well. I’ll call again soon. I. I miss you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between ALICIA JACOBSON and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 09-21-2026 between 17:15 and 17:35 MST:

“Hi! You on your way?”

“sorry can’t make it running behind with work”

“You said that the last time too”

“Look I was hoping to talk to you about this today so I’ll just say it here”

“Maybe it’s none of my business but I read that paper you wrote and”

“Did you really test that on PEOPLE???”

“you’re right it really isn’t your business”

“I’m worried about you”

“well don’t be”

“You’re not like this”

“i’m not like i was in school you mean”

“good”

“i was headed nowhere before the director picked me”

“That’s not true”

“anyway i’ve got a meeting with him now gotta go”

“give me a call when you’re not going to lecture me”

“Look if you ever need help getting out, just let me know, okay???”

“I’ll always be here for you if you need me”

“Love you”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 01-14-2027 at 19:55 MST:

“Hey, um, Dad… [Yawn.] It’s been a while. But I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference, right? Ha… It’s been kind of rough. Not — nothing I can’t handle, I mean. Just, one of those things downstairs went and bit me the other day. Can you believe that? It just fucking bit me. Don’t worry, I taught it a lesson. The bite still hurts like hell, though. Eh, I’ll deal. I’m going to present at this big genetics conference next week about the paper I just finished. My name was even on it! Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, if I do well, I’m hoping the Director will cut me some slack over the whole… I won’t get into it. But then, if you could really hear this, maybe you’d have some advice. Anyway. Bye for now.”

—

from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 10-28-2027 at 14:33 MST:

“hey sorry for falling off the face of the earth”

“can we tlak”

“* talk (haven’t slept in 4 days now haha)”

“look i can’t talk about it here but its kind of important”

—

Call from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 10-28-2027 at 23:46 MST:

I’m sorry, the voicemail box for the person you’re calling is currently full. Please try again later.

“…Fuck.”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT on 11-14-2027 at 20:01 MST:

“Hey Mom? So… It’s been a while. I know... I know it didn’t go great last time. But could you maybe give me a call? I. I need to talk about something. After the stuff you told me about last time, I just hoped you might know what to do. If I’m blowing this out of proportion, or… I just need to talk, okay?! I know you’re mad at Dad, but he’s dead, and it’s not my fucking fault if he did the kind of things you said. I was a kid. So maybe cut me some slack and give me a chance. Please. Or don’t, I guess. Love you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between MELISSA BENNETT and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 11-14-2027 between 20:05 and 20:11 MST:

“Don’t call me again.”

“are you kidding”

“you couldn’t even work up the guts to “ —

Your message could not be sent.

“seriously?”

Your message could not be sent.

“you said all this stuff about dad, abuse this cheating that, acting like you’re better or whatever. guess what though you’re not”

Your message could not be sent.

“good people don’t give up on their kids”

Your message could not be sent.

“you know what, maybe dad did hit you. can’t blame him”

Your message could not be sent.

“fucking bitch”

Your message could not be sent.

—

Messages from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 11-14-2027 at 20:15-20:17 MST:

“so it’s like that then”

“‘oh I’ll always be there barclay if you need out of there just call me barclay barclay please let me help~’”

“guess that was all bullshit”

“so bye”

—

Message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 12-25-2027 at 21:21-21:23 MST:

“hey dad I tried calling a while back but your vm box is full (my fault haha)”

This number is out of service.

“guess this is really it huh”

This number is out of service.

“love you”

This number is out of service.

—

Draft message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT, last modified on 12-31-2027 at 21:55 MST:

“you’re probably not going to get this but I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it I just get stressed out and it makes me say some stupid shit and okay wow when I say it like that I wouldn’t talk to me either so nevermind”

—

“Clay?”

Barclay didn’t move from his position of being slumped forward in his seat as he clutched the phone in his shaking hand. The Director’s voice was kind, concerned even, but Barclay didn’t want his mentor seeing him like this, and he didn’t trust his voice not to break if he said anything.

He startled when a stray tear drop hit the screen with an audible plop.

“Clay, what’s wrong? Here, let me see,” Richardson insisted, pulling the phone from his hand.

Barclay didn’t resist.

“Oh, Clay…” the Director said as he scrolled through his texts, his voice filled with concern. Or disappointment. “I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this.”

Barclay ducked his head and shoved his hands under his armpits, hoping the Director wouldn’t ask to see his wrists. “It’s fine, sir. Really,” he muttered.

The Director stopped scrolling at a certain point, and for a second he scowled down at his protegé.

Barclay closed in on himself further, bracing for the worst.

The Director’s expression softened. “I can’t let you keep doing this,” he said in a firm but gentle tone, pocketing the phone. “You deserve better that to have such unreliable people in your life.”

“But…!” Barclay protested, jerking his head up to look at the Director with wide eyes.

The Director cocked an eyebrow in warning, though his kind smile remained unchanged.

“O-of course. Thank you, sir,” Barclay quickly corrected himself, looking back down with a tense smile.

He should be happy. The Director, at least, was still there for him, no matter how many times he’d screwed up. So the rest of it… it was all worth it, right?

—

Messages from ALICIA JACOBSON to BARCLAY FLETCHER on 06-17-2028 at 16:42 MST:

“OMG I’m so sorry. Are you OK???”

“I just saw this”

“A lot of stuff happened. I had to get a new phone. I’ll tell you all about it”

“Whenever you want to talk”

“My offer still stands by the way”

“Barclay???”

“I don’t know if you’re getting these, but please be OK. Love you lots”

This number is out of service.

*****

Director David Richardson and Alicia Jacobson are @skinofafish’s characters. Barclay Fletcher, Jason Fletcher, and Melissa Bennett are my characters.

#bad things happen bingo #creepy whumper #distress call #Barclay Fletcher #Director David Richardson #whump writing #The Enclave #tw domestic violence #tw victim blaming #tw self injury #tw abusive work environment

[bluegarners]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Distress Call (Dick Grayson)

The radio is playing one of those new pop-songs that Dick can’t keep up with. It’s a fun, quick paced song, full of electronic instruments and auto-tuned voices that sound ridiculously young, and the lyrics are lamenting about a breakup, or maybe some sort of lost love. It’s standard, typical outlet store music that he’s sure minimum wage workers rage at whenever they hear it, but Dick doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t have a preference when it comes to music, though most of the songs on his playlist tend to be rock, so he taps his fingers along the steering wheel to its beat, humming the chorus and following the rhythm. 

The backroads behind highways are always dark, an inky depth to its long pathways that makes driving them at night almost peaceful. Dick likes to think of it as space travel, a quiet trip through the cosmos, passing through black-holes and asteroid belts. He has the LEDs on for his headlights, these backroads hardly ever trafficked through, and the scenery consists solely of himself, the car, a seemingly endless road, and acres and acres of woodland mixed with the busy noises of thousands of cars on the distant highway. 

Taking backroads always added another thirty minutes or so to his commute from Bludhaven to Gotham, but Dick appreciated the scenic route. It was a nice change of pace compared to the loud and bustling cities he traveled between, and the stillness of the forest would always pleasantly haunt him. He’s been a city boy his entire life, and even when traveling with Haly did the ringmaster only ever lead them to populated cities and towns for good turnouts to their shows. So, even though the city is a comforting familiarity, the muffled world of forgotten streets and old oaks is an eerie, well loved feeling that Dick enjoys whenever he can.

The song changes to a commercial break, an old woman with the voice of an aged smoker speaking into the mic, and Dick’s eyes stay lazily trained on the road ahead of him. He looks in his rear-view mirror, glancing behind the turn he just took, and slowly pushes against the accelerator. He’s careful about his speeds on backroads, a much less maintained area than the highways, but because the chances of running into anyone else is pretty low, Dick lets his lead-foot guide him. He’s reaching around sixty-five mph when the radio begins to whine, a screechy static overwhelming the woman’s voice as she announces the next song.

Muttering to himself about bad reception, Dick fiddles with a knob on his dash, flicking over to the next radio station. He only gets a few snappy catches of some kind of horn before that, too, turns into whirring static, oscillating frequencies mutilating the sound. Frustrated, Dick scrolls through each station, waiting to hear some kind of recognizable rhythm, eyes flickering back and forth between the station numbers and the blank road before him, straight and unchanging. Finally, something catches his ear, a melodic voice weeping about some past memory, and Dick brightens, turning his attention to his dash as he narrows in on the exact frequency. It takes barely a second, mindlessly tuning into the station and catching the tail ends of an old, crooning ballad, but when Dick looks up, two small beacons of light are staring right at him, flashing in his irises.

He doesn’t have time to even yell, both hands white knuckling the steering wheel as he swerves, tires howling against broken asphalt and headlights cutting through seething darkness. His knees lock, right foot tight against the break, and he feels the exact moment centripetal force wins over as his seatbelt tears into his shoulder and his weight is thrown forwards, whiplash snapping his forehead into the steering wheel in milliseconds.

The world becomes a mess of white light and gray leather after that, rolling, rolling, rolling, and somewhere amidst the chaos, Dick sees a wash of brilliant color kaleidoscope in his vision. Finally, the world jerks to a stop, his head lolling forwards, and Dick is faintly aware of the mess of red, blinking light and flaring pain. He still can’t see straight and there’s a loud ringing in his ears, like he finally knows what a dog whistle sounds like, and, weirdly, the kaleidoscope begins to fade in the corners of his vision. He blinks and the colors only fade further, melding together in a slush of hazy, static gray.

Stay awake, half of his mind screams at him. Stay awake!

But between one blink and the next, the world winks out and Dick slumps soundlessly into the noise.

x x x

Bruce is stacking dishes when he feels his phone faintly buzz. He ignores it, paying attention to the task at hand, and accepts the glass dish handed to him, drying it with a slightly damp towel. Damian is to his left, also drying, and somewhere in the dining room, Alfred is putting away the placemats and various untouched silverware. The evening is still in their gentle routine, somehow even smaller than it usually is.

Dick had not made it in time for dinner. 

It had put his youngest son into a foul mood, the boy especially quiet and dutifully putting away the last of the dishes into their appropriate cabinets. Bruce hadn’t said anything, knowing those kinds of platitudes only served to further sour the young boy’s mood, but, secretly, Bruce had also been disappointed in his eldest’s no show. It was unlike Dick to be late, at least without warning, and Bruce noticed Alfred’s muted demeanor at having to store away the uneaten portions of food. 

Dick was supposed to come sometime in the late evening, traveling towards Gotham after getting off of work, but after waiting an additional hour for him to show, Alfred had sighed and set aside some food on another plate, encouraging the others to eat. “I’m sure Master Dick won’t mind,” Alfred had said, even as his mouth dipped. “Go on, the food will get cold.”

That had been almost two hours ago, the meal having taken an hour to get through if only for the unspoken agreement to stall for the young man. Now, the process of cleaning was also almost done, Bruce shelving the last drinking glass and Damian setting their drying cloths onto a rack. Outside, night had fully settled, pitch and obsidian. 

“Has he called you?” Damian asks, face disinterested but hands twitching at his sides. 

Bruce shakes his head, pulling out his phone. There’s a new notification for a voicemail. Confusion pokes at his brow though when he sees its sender. “I must have missed it,” he mutters, thumbing the screen as he clicks on the message. “He left a voicemail.”

Holding the phone to his ear, Bruce leans back against the counter, Damian’s eyes fixed on his face.  There’s nothing for a moment, just a strange, almost static cling in the frequency, before Dick begins to speak.

“Hey, Bruce.” His voice is raspy, like he’s speaking with sandpaper in his throat. “There’s no reception out here. Can you believe that?” Hysteria slides into the end of his question, desperate laughter tumbling out. Immediately, Bruce is straightening, eyes finding his youngest son’s in a message that says, Something’s wrong. 

“I’ll get the car,” Damian says, rushing out of the kitchen. The urgency is unsaid, but the weight in the room is suddenly tangible between Bruce’s fingers like hot, sticky molasses. He feels his head pulse in time with the molten air, sweat dripping into the crease in his collar.

“I tried calling 911,” Dick continues, and Bruce’s heart falters in his chest, “but it didn’t go through. Tried calling you, too, but it’s not working out too great. At least you’ve got your voicemail set up.” There’s another dry laugh as Bruce fumbles around the kitchen, yanking together all the medical supplies from under the sink. Alfred walks in then, surprise flickering onto his face at the sight, and Bruce mouths, Dick’s hurt. 

“I crashed my car.” Bruce wills his arms not to shake as he hands some of the supplies over to Alfred, the older man taking a moment to firmly squeeze his shoulder before swiftly exiting. “There was a deer in the road and I wasn’t– doesn’t matter much right now. I… The car flipped. I can’t get out of my seat and I’m pretty sure I broke my left arm. I hit my head on the steering wheel, too.”

Damian runs back into the kitchen, brows pinched and jaw clenched tightly. He waits for something, anything, but Bruce is firmly blocking every other noise except for the one directly in his ear.

“I passed out for a while. I think it’s been a little over an hour. Maybe more. I’m-I’m hurt, B.” Dick breathes in deeply, air snagging in his throat as his voice catches. “Can you come get me?”

The message ends there, an abrupt silence that makes Bruce want to hurl his phone across the room. He needs to keep his head though, so instead he shoves the device back into his pocket, marching after Damian as the boy turns on his heel and leads them out to the garage, where he has already started their largest, most inconspicuous vehicle. It’s their choice of transportation when the situation isn’t Batman related, fully stocked with communicators, spare medical supplies, various necessities, and, most importantly, access to the Cave. 

“I’ve found him, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice takes on a slightly tinny quality through the car’s speakers, a map with markers flashing onto the dashboard screen. “Follow the directions I’ve laid out for you. You’ll reach him in less than ten minutes.”

Less than ten minutes, Bruce repeats in his head, tires screeching as they tear out from the driveway and out of Wayne property. He was that close?

Damian must be thinking the same thing, scowl deepening as he checks and re-checks over the supplies they have. Bandages, QuickClot, water, adrenaline, sutures, sewing kit, alcohol, tape, tourniquets, hydrogen peroxide. Bandaids, eyepatches, defibulators, safety pins, cold packs, hand warmers. Splints, braces, cotton balls, baster, saline solution, towelettes. Check, re-check, double check. Bruce’s fingers are going numb.

“Master Dick will be on your left,” Alfred interrupts, collectively cool and away from the potency. “Begin to slow, you’re approaching his marker quickly. I’ve prepared a gurney and an IV for when–”

“There!” Damian suddenly shouts, shoving forwards in his seat as he points desperately at the dull shine of a grand marquis in the headlights. “He’s there!”

They can’t get out fast enough, both Waynes launching themselves out of the car and to the overturned vehicle. 

“Dick?” Bruce calls, sliding to his knees to peer into the driver’s seat. “Dick?”

The windows are cracked, spiderweb fractures covering the entirety of the left side of the vehicle, and Bruce curses. He can’t see his son through the breakage, and by the lack of response, his eldest is most likely unconscious. Damian is breathing hard next to him and when he sees that there’s no way to get to his brother, he runs back to their car, returning with a glass breaker in hand.

Bruce takes it, throwing over his shoulder, “Stabilizers next.”

Damian is gone again and Bruce hastily shoves on some gloves, the intensity in which he does so enough to make his world shrink to a pinprick. The white LEDs from the car they came in, combined with the flashing red hazards from Dick’s car, is nearly enough to overwhelm him, the sound of his own breathing irritating to listen to. Picking the breaker back up, Bruce strikes at the bottom corner of the window, careful to not be too forceful lest the glass shatter inwards and break on his son’s face. A hole opens up, tiny shards sprinkling the cool grass, and Bruce shoves a few gloved fingers into the opening, pulling the glass outwards onto the ground. He’s careful not to spread it, mindful of his own vulnerable knees, and Damian returns with the stabilizers, heading to the front of the car and pushing the wedges beneath the windshield and hood.

“Is he awake yet?” the boy asks, hovering. 

Bruce doesn’t answer, continuing to widen the hole, when a soft groan emerges from the car. 

“Richard?” Damian lowers himself next to Bruce, peeking into the dark car. “Richard, can you hear me?”

There’s another groan in response, a little louder this time.

“Where are you injured?” Damian continues to question, unable to do anything else as Bruce pulls away the last of the glass. “Are you bleeding?”

“Flashlight,” Bruce mumbles, holding out a hand expectedly as one is placed in his palm. “He said his left arm is broken. Probably a concussion too, which means-”

“On it.” And Damian is gone again, rushing back to the car.

“B?”

“I’m here.” Shuffling as close as he dares, Bruce shines the flashlight to the floor, avoiding his eldest’s eyes. “I’m here, Dick. You’re okay.”

“M’ head hurts,” Dick slurs, face bright red and gaze unfocused. 

“We’re going to get you out soon.” A neck brace is suddenly beside him, Damian clutching other supplies in his hands. “But you need to be still. Do not move.”

“Can’t,” Dick chuckles, cringing as his eyes slide shut again. “I’m hurt, B.”

“I know, I know, chum. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to unlock your car and open up this door. Damian–”

“Dami’s here?”

“Yes, he’s here, and when I open this door, I’m going to put this brace around your neck. After that, I’m going to hold you, okay? I’m going to hold you and Damian is going to undo your seatbelt so we can get you out, okay? Do you understand, Dick? You need to be as still as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Dick croaks out, a grimace smothered on his face as tears squeeze past his clenched eyelids. “I got it.”

Hurrying but still so, so cautious, Bruce feels around for the side door lock, fumbling with the buttons. A stray piece of glass scrapes against the underside of his forearm, but the sting is hardly felt as he hears the latches unlock. Holding his breath, Bruce extracts his arm, praying for the door to not be stuck, and releases it when the handle moves without issue. 

“I’m going to open the door now,” he says, bracing a hand against the metal. “Say something if it hurts you.”

Dick hums in response, eyes still firmly shut, and Bruce slowly edges open the door, meeting only slight resistance as the frame scrapes against the dirt. Picking up the flashlight, Damian shines it around the inside of the vehicle, illuminating the deployed airbags, toppled water bottles, and other personal items strewn about the cabin. There’s no dripping blood though, nor obvious splattered fluids. The chaos is contained to material destruction and Damian relaxes fractionally. Finally having pried the door open wide enough, Bruce reaches for the brace. 

“Dick?” A hum. “I’m going to put the neck brace on you now. You need to be still. I know you’re in pain, we’re going to help you with that soon, but do not move. It’s going to be okay.”

Dick just hums again and Bruce grimaces, knowing his son is drifting back to the edge of unconsciousness. 

“Damian.” The boy is immediately at his side. “Crawl in here- watch the glass- and hold his chin steady.”

Slowly, Bruce slides the plastic chin piece beneath Dick’s jaw, the movement awkward with so many people in such a cramped place. Dick has fully passed out again, the bloodrush to his head likely having been too much to keep him aware for long, and Bruce is silently grateful for it. As Damian adjusts his grip to hold the underside of the brace, Bruce reaches around and delicately connects the other side of the brace to wrap around the back of Dick’s neck. He hears the small clicks as Damian adjusts the chin strap to sit tighter beneath his older brother’s jaw and breathes out.

“Done?” he asks, hand lingering over the straps.

“Yeah.”

Grunting, Bruce moves to the side as Damian crawls back out, grabbing the seat belt cutter and opening the latches on the prepared backboard. Double checking, Damian looks over to Bruce for confirmation. Satisfied, Bruce braces himself against Dick’s shoulders, securing his sides and supporting as much as his body with his own as possible. “Go.”

Quickly, Damian reaches around his father’s broad back, pulling first at the cross belt. “Cutting,” he announces, sawing through the polyester with ease. 

Bruce tenses, pressing only lightly against his eldest so he doesn’t fall forward. “Clear.”

Moving forwards again, Damian reaches for the lap belt, re-checking his father’s position. “Cutting,” he says again, the woven nylon tearing apart at his hand.

Dick’s weight fully rests against Bruce’s chest, and slowly, with Damian’s help, they maneuver him as cautiously as possible out of the wrecked car, placing him gently onto the backboard and strapping him in. Relieved that the worst of the ordeal is over, Bruce rests on the balls of his feet for a moment, taking in the flushed and slightly bloodied face of his son. 

There’s a cut just below his hairline, a goose egg swelling to an awful proportion, sickly purple blotting the area and disappearing into thick, dark hair. Looking at his son’s left arm, Bruce determines it to be just dislocated rather than broken. Not wanting to mess with it until they have better access to medical equipment, Bruce places the arm in a sling, allowing Damian to tape an ice pack over the worst of the swelling. Further than that, Dick’s injuries mainly seem to consist of various bruises and a few minor lacerations. Later, they’ll have to scan for internal bleeding or other closed injuries they missed, but for now, Dick doesn’t seem to be in any critical state. The seatbelt and airbags did their job and Bruce has never been more thankful for his persistence in car safety. 

Sighing, Bruce looks up and meets Damian’s significantly less pinched face. The long night had come to an end. 

“Let’s go home."

#tw: injury #tw: car crash #dick grayson #damian wayne #bruce wayne #sorry to those of you who are actually medically trained- i did my research but i am not a nurse or doctor ksdjfksdj #bthb card #distress call

[hekaetes]

Title: when it all comes tumbling down Summary: Tony has a panic attack the first time he puts on the suit after Siberia. Content: anxiety, panic attacks, flashbacks. Word Count: 947 Prompt: panic attack A/N: for @whumpril Day 1

They're back, and things should be better than ever.

Or, at least, over.

Steve and the rest of the Avengers have their official pardon, and Barnes has his exoneration. Thor is still in Asgard, something that Tony is selfishly grateful for. He still remembers the feel of the god's hands around his neck, fingers tightening around his throat. The last thing he needs is to worry about that happening again.

He had been hiding enough flinches, as it is.

Vision wanders through the compound more like a ghost than a person. He avoids Wanda, avoids the patched-up hole in the floor.

Avoids Rhodey.

Tony's tried to talk to him, tried to get him to move on. But Tony blames himself, too, so maybe it's a pointless endeavor. 

read on archive of our own.

#whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #whumpril #distress call #panic attack #tony stark #mcu #fanfic #mcu fanfiction #mine #myfanfic

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: 1. LIAR - scel & sin

@whumpril - D1. Distress Call

I had left the Gruyère to explore, the break on planet finally allowing me to stretch my wings after spending so long cooped up in the ship, when a cry in the Force alerted me. I winced as I recognised its source, but the urgency of the call pushed me to investigate. I dove, guided by the presence’s pained pulses.

Soon enough, a smoking vessel appeared in my view. It had collapsed on itself, the engines likely dead before it even touched the ground. If I had to guess, someone on board had tried to play hero and doomed the whole ship for their cause.

A few loops around the wreck later, a pale bit of flesh crowned by a small broken horn attracted my attention. Here he was. I smiled in satisfaction at having finally found the object of my quest.

I landed near the injured Theelin, trying to analyze the situation.

Scélérat was trapped beneath a heavy piece of metal— likely part of the ship frame before it collapsed. The stench of blood was overwhelming. At first, I wondered why he didn’t use the Force to free himself, but I understood soon enough. Blood slithered from his head, a purple bump visible under his hairs: the concussion must have broken his focus. From the deep dragging mark on the ground around him, he had tried to push the metal away nevertheless, and gotten more injured for it.

"Look who got caught."

Scélérat’s head spun towards me, his pupils unnaturally dilated. A whimper escaped him as his body shifted.

“Sorry. I just came to help,” I winced. This had perhaps not been my best entrance.

The theelin shook his head.

“No… help.”

I scoffed. “It doesn’t seem like your Force presence agrees with you.” On the contrary, the distressed waves shaking the Force hadn’t stopped since I received the call.

Scélérat turned away and tried to push the metal beam again, in vain. The heavy object soon fell down, and another short cry escaped his mouth. Worries clenched my guts as his presence swent slightly dimmer. I needed to get him out of here soon, or he may die.

"Scélérat,” I hissed. The theelin continued his efforts. I jumped down from my perch, coming closer. “Listen to me,” I tried. “I just want to help."

"Liar," he wheezed.

The animosity of the tone made me flinch back. I clenched my fists, wings gathering around my shoulders. What did I expect? He hates me. And he is right to. Scélérat coughed, choking on dust and blood, and my worry came back upfront. A bitter smile turned up my lips.

"Yes. We both are quite the liars, aren’t we?"

Because for all Scélérat preached justice and honesty, he was just as much of a liar as I. He just hid it better.

I clenched my eyes shut and focused on the Force, heart twisting with how terrified of me Scélérat felt. He should have known I wouldn’t attack him when vulnerable— but perhaps he was right not to trust. The metal wavered, earning a pained groan from the Theelin trapped under, but it refused to lift. I scowled, focusing harder.

Soon, a darker presence joined mine. I gritted my teeth as our presence clashed, unbalanced. Scélérat was pushing right, while I was pushing left. This wasn’t helping. Then our actions phased, and suddenly the bar was smoothly lifting. I threw it away.

Scélérat’s body appeared, unobstructed, and I finally realized what had made him so weak. A sharp pipe pierced his torso, leaking blood everytime he moved. It looked painful but not life threatening if treated in time. Without the heavy metallic shell pinning him in place, I had no doubt the theelin would survive.

Scélérat looked up at me as he struggled upward, daring for any pity to appear in my eyes. I held his stare.

"Here is a truth and a lie," I said. "I hate you. I care about you." I smirked, knowing the sentence itself was a lie; one that would go undetected. A slight breeze ruffled my feathers and I spread my wings, turning towards the sky. The deed the Force had called me here for was done.

"Wait—" Scel squawked.

But I was already gone.

#angstpril2023 #starwars #fanfiction #day1 #liar #whumpril2023 #whumprilday1 #red alert #distress call #the amazing adventures of excentrics jedi #taaoej #yes i'm doing both challenges at once xd #sinvulkt fics