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one-piece-aus · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 11

Kaku x Reader

"Here let me see that," Kaku offered, reaching to take your hand so he could look at your arm better.

"I can do it myself," you scoffed and moved your arm away from him.

Kaku frowned but didn't say anything. He watched your turned your back to him and rewrapped your bandages. You were just as reckless as Jabra and stubborn as Kalifa, always insisting you were anything but delicate. Why had he fallen for you?

Kaku thought back to when the two of you went on your first undercover mission as teens.

"Kaku! Check this out, it's a yellow hooooorse!" you exclaimed and point at the animal that caught your attention.

Kaku chuckled at your enthusiasm and the way you pronounced horse. "No, [Y/n], that's a giraffe."

"I- I knew that!" You puffed your cheeks and turn away from him. It didn't stop Kaku from laughing. You didn't let it keep you down because you moved on to the next strange thing you saw. "Look, it's a green aaaaaaaple!"

That's when Kaku learned the best way to blend in was to let your enthusiasm and fascination for the world take over, he learned it from you. He became better undercover and went on more missions as your partner, sometimes acting as a couple, however-

"They're going to get infected if you leave them sloppy like that," Kaku stated, gently taking your arm. Slowly, he unravelled the messy bandages before he started wrapping them around your arm, careful to make sure you didn't lose circulation. "Does it hurt?"

"No..." you mumble glancing in the other direction.

"There, as good as new," Kaku smiled and patted your arm, singling he had finished.

"It's not new," you told him, unamused as you stood up and began walking out the door.

"It's just an expression," Kaku replied, not knowing if you heard him or not.

It wasn't acting on his part anymore, that's just how he acted with you when you gave him the chance. Usually, you only allowed him while undercover, that's why he took those kinds of missions when he got the chance. However, the last one you didn't join him, and it just so happened to take five years. Five years it took until he could see you again.

"Kaku, Spandam wants us to report back to his office," Kalifa informed him, standing by the doorway. "Franky is making commotion again."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." Though he'd rather not, all he wanted was to talk to [Y/n].

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

"Wake up square giraffe!" Jabra slapped Kaku, finally waking him up.

"Urghh, do you have to be obnoxious all the time-" Kaku tried to insult but stopped as he began to cough out blood. As if all at once, his insides screamed in agony. That swordsman did a number on him.

"Say it for later, we're getting out of here before the marines find us. Blueno's just getting the last of us," Jabra informed Kaku.

Kaku tried to sit up but even the smallest attempt made his body cry. Pain blocked the nerves from responding properly so he decided to stay lying down. He did his best to see who was with them. There's Kumadori, Fukuro, Kalifa...

"Where's [Y/n]?" Kaku asked Jabra, a little worry slipping out.

"Blueno's still looking for her I guess," Jabra shrugged as he kept an eye out. Kaku saw him narrow his eyes and then smirk. "Speak of the devil," he chuckled. The footsteps drew closer and Jabra frowned. "Ooh, what the fuck happened to your arm?"

Kaku's worry became visible. He tried his hardest to lift himself up so he could see you. Tuning out all the screaming his body did to stay still, Kaku hoisted himself on a crumbled wall. Instantly his eyes focused on you, or rather what was missing from you.

"It's nothing, the loud mask guy just got his exploding bullet in my wound and blew it off," you tried brushing it off but anyone could see you were struggling to suppress the pain as you walked. "It's not important, where-"

"[Y/n]..." Kaku sucked in a breath, gathering all the strength he had. "Let me see your arm."

Both you and Jabra looked at Kaku like he grew a second head.

"Are you fucking serious?" Jabra question. "You can barely get up, who the fuck are-" he stopped when he saw the dark aura behind you as you approached Kaku.

With the hand you had left, you slapped Kaku across the face. He looked back with hurt eyes but they dissipated to fear when you grabbed his turtleneck's collar. Your fierce eyes bore into him.

"Stop caring whether I get hurt or injured!" You yelled in his face. You sounded angry, you were angry- no... you were- "I'm not some delicate flower who can't take care of herself! I can kick ass just fine! You need to start looking out for yourself! You- You almost got yourself a ticket to death's door!"

Kaku's eyes were wide with surprise. Your entire face had painted itself with irritation but your eyes... Your eyes were watering, spilling concern and worry that you've never shown before.

"Stop worrying about me when you need to worry about yourself." With that said, you let go of his collar and walked over to Kumadori and Fukuro.

Kaku could only stare as a new kind of pain took over his attention. Heartache, his heart ached to see you in such a state, not just physically but emotionally. However, it only made it worse knowing you were experiencing the same feeling.

#whumptober2022 #no. 11 #no 11 #911 what's your emergency #sloppy bandages #one piece #whump fanfiction #whump writing #angst pain #one piece x reader #one piece scenario #one piece kaku #kaku one piece #kaku x reader #kaku #cp9 #one piece x y/n #one piece x you

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aceofwhump · 2 years

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No. 11 WHAT'S YOUR EMERGENCY?: Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

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whump-collector · 2 years

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Diego Klattenhoff as Donald Ressler in The Blacklist 8x19

For whumptober2022 No. 11 Sloppy Bandages

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #sloppy bandages #the blacklist #gif #shot #blood #diego klattenhoff #donald ressler #whumpedit #mine #the blacklist 8x19 #whumperflies

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wolfeyedwitch · 2 years

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as a follow up to the bthb …. stitches :))) since they are already talking about the rather questionable medical treatment Bailey received

Pariah Prisoner, Part 5

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Sorry for everyone whose ask came before this one. I promise I will answer them all; it just won't necessarily be in any kind of sensical order.

CW for: major character injury, injury reveal, blood, medical treatment, implied past torture, stitches, minor shock/dissociation (Zera is not having a good time). Let me know if I missed any tags, or if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Masterlist

---

Zera honestly couldn’t tell you how the group had made it back to their base. They’d had a head start, given that none of the villains were willing to follow them through their rather extreme means of egress, but still.

Their memories from their landing all the way to the medbay were an adrenaline-soaked mess. Random details stuck out perfectly (Poppet—Bailey?—pulling the knife from their side; the feel of blood soaking through the hasty, sloppy bandages; the ache in their legs from running and the cold prickle of fear along their spine), while anything coherent remained out of their grasp. They only tuned back into their life when Bailey(?) was taken from their arms.

Zera grasped them tighter for a second, unwilling to let anyone hurt their rescuer. They would- would—

“Zera, stand down,” Elijah said gently. “We’re back in Hero HQ. We’re in the medbay. Maeve needs Poppet laying down so she can examine them.”

Zera nodded unsteadily, feeling like a poorly carved wooden doll: all splinters and stiff joints. With Elijah’s help, they got Poppet-Bailey settled on one of the beds.

“Is-” Zera started, looking around. “Are you okay? How’s Luke? Where’s Luke? Did-”

“Breathe,” Elijah said, tone somehow even more gentle. He led them to a chair that they more or less collapsed into. “Luke’s fine, nothing more than scratches that a band-aid can handle. He didn’t want to be here.”

Zera made a face at that.

“I’m fine too,” Elijah continued, a small smile on his face. “Again, just minor things. The only one who got physically hurt was Poppet.”

Zera blinked. Then blinked again. If their brain would start working again, that would be great. “Physically hurt?”

Elijah’s smile turned sad. “I mean you, Zera. You were a million miles away just now; you had me worried.”

Zera looked away from him, over to where Maeve examined Poppet-Bailey with glowing hands and a practiced eye.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor snapped Zera’s attention back to Elijah. He’d brought one close enough that he could sit while continuing to talk with them.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I know you, Zera. You’ve got something running through your head. Is it about Poppet?”

“Bailey,” Zera said.

“What?”

Zera shook their head, trying to kick-start their brain’s higher functions. “They said their name is Bailey,” Zera continued.

“They told you their name?” Elijah asked, sounding as incredulous as Zera felt. In their line of work, names and identities were either well known, like with heroes or villains that didn’t care to keep a secret civilian identity, or a carefully guarded secret. None of Slipknot’s associates fell into the former category— Poppet included.

Zera nodded woodenly. Their tone was thick when they continued. “And it isn’t just that they told me. It’s how they said it. It was like… God, it was like it was a relief to say it out loud.”

Both heroes turned to look at the unconscious villain then.

“I think they were telling the truth,” Zera said. “I don’t know what happened to them, but I don’t think they were there by choice. Not really.”

“Not an informed choice, anyway,” Elijah said thoughtfully.

Zera thought of how Bailey had talked about themself, the loathing in their voice when they called themself Slipknot’s toy.

“They got hurt because of us,” they said, voice low and hoarse. “They were rescuing us. And their own teammates stabbed them for it.”

Warmth spread over their knee. They looked down to see Elijah’s hand covering it.

“We can’t change what’s happened, Zera,” he said. It was a phrase he’d told them on many occasions.

“We can only move forward and learn from it,” Zera said, completing the phrase.

“Over here, you two,” Maeve called tiredly.

Zera and Elijah joined her at Bailey’s bedside.

“I fixed the internal damage,” she said, pointing to a still-open wound in Bailey’s side. “The knife nicked some blood vessels and punctured their lung. I healed the pneumothorax and the internal bleeding, but that’s all I can do for now.” She sounded apologetic, as though it were her fault she was still recovering from using her powers to patch the group up after their last disaster.

“Will they pull through?” Elijah asked.

Maeve nodded. “They should. I’m going to start an IV to help replace the blood they lost, and stitch up the last of that wound. That’s not why I called you over, though.”

She gently rolled Bailey onto their uninjured side, exposing their bare back.

Zera’s breath caught at the sight.

Bailey’s back was a patchwork of cuts and bruises layered over a lattice of scar tissue. If Zera didn’t know better, they’d say it looked like…

“Fuck,” they said quietly. “They said. They said the guests ‘got a little rough’, at Slipknot’s last party.”

It looked like Bailey had been whipped.

“These are at least two days old,” Maeve said. “They had time to scab over, then re-open. They were cleaned and bandaged, but nothing more than that for treatment. Some of these could have used butterfly closures at minimum, and preferably stitches. I would say that Poppet treated these themself.”

Elijah and Zera shared a look, his grim, theirs horrified. If they’d needed more proof that Bailey wasn’t an entirely willing participant in Slipknot’s schemes? Well. Here it was.

“I’m too tired to figure out what you’re not saying at the moment,” Maeve said. “Right now, I need steady hands— and someone who’s not coming off an adrenaline high, don’t even think about it Zera— to help me document all this.”

Elijah sighed and nodded, probably thinking about all the paperwork this was going to cause. “Right. I’ll send Iris.”

“I’m staying,” Zera said.

Both senior heroes stared at them. They did their best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“I won’t get in the way!” they said, probably losing the battle not to sound defensive. “And I won’t offer to do anything, not that you’d even accept. I just… I wanna make sure they’re okay.”

They sounded more pathetic than they’d really like to admit at that admission. That was probably what made the senior heroes let them stay.

Zera did as promised. They didn’t try to help with the procedures or the documentation. They did go ahead and fetch the materials Maeve would need— saline solution, gauze, bandages, suture kit— but then they were a good little hero and sat down, out of the way.

Iris and Maeve managed to photograph what must have been every cut and bruise on Bailey’s body before Maeve started on the stitches. She took out hemostats and a curved needle, maneuvering them with precision in her gloved hands. Zera couldn’t remember the medical name for the stitch at the moment, but they knew the sewing name for it: whip stitch.

Whip stitch. For some reason, it was almost unbearably funny. Whip stitch, for someone who’d been- been—

And then it wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest. The laughter they’d been holding back transmuted into sobs.

Just what kind of hell had their nemesis been put through?

---

Taglist:

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ofhouseadama · 2 years

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where oleander grows whumptober no.11 - sloppy bandages, self-done first aid, makeshift splint

Julian knows, once the formal evacuation of Federation citizens is called, that if Garak leaves Cardassia Prime along with the government in exile, it will be on the last shuttle out. He knows, logically, that Garak will wait until the last possible moment to leave the surface. He also knows, with absolute clarity and certainty, that despite being promised political asylum and a place in Ghemor's cabinet there is still a 62% probability that Garak will choose to stand and die on Cardassian soil rather than enter exile for a second time.

He knows.

There's a part of him that wishes he bullied his way onto one of the evacuation ships so that he could have dragged Garak to safety, stuck a hypo in his neck and taken away that choice to die in his homeland. He could have done it. Arguably, he should have done it.

Even if Garak had woken up and stolen a shuttle and flown himself right back to Cardassia. Even if Garak had woken up and lived never to return to Cardassia again, and never forgiven him for it. Would that be love? Or is that just Richard Bashir's idea of love? Either way, as the last of the ships start to arrive at the station, Julian knows he will soon know with piercing specificity the nature of the regret he will carry for the rest of his life.

---

He almost didn't get on the ship. At first, because he was loathe to do anything but give the last measure of devotion to Cardassia -- he'd been denied the right so many times before. But once Alon Ghemor convinced him to meet the rest of the government at the rendezvous point for extraction, he very nearly remained behind by the dint of needing someone to return fire against the Directorate's guns in order to get everyone aboard. And -- despite catching phaser fire in his shoulder -- he was still the best shot they had among them.

A few seconds either way, and Garak would be another dead body under the boot of a Directorate soldier. Or perhaps given the honor of being strung up in the Imperial Plaza. A cautionary tale, a warning to heed. Son of Tain, come to die.

The opioid given to him by a young Starfleet medic as they entered warp has begun to wear off. He's lost a lot of blood, he knows, his head fuzzy and unclear and spinning desperately. The young Starfleet medic had other patients who needed her more, and so he'd bandaged the hole in his pectoral himself, tearing the seams in his tunic with his teeth to create a makeshift sling. Shifting his weight between his feet, he can tell the bandage has bled through.

Unbidden, a single thought crosses his mind: Julian will fix it.

But Julian's not here. Julian hasn't been on Deep Space 9 for almost a year, off on some adventure in the Gamma Quadrant, serving on a remote science outpost at the request of the Jem'Hadar. This station has a different CMO now, is run by another doctor.

Garak doesn't want another doctor. He wants Julian. And if he can't have Julian, he wants to limp over to whatever cot or dismal quarters they point him to, curl up into a ball, and bleed out. If he cannot have Julian, then he does not know how to survive this. How to make this bearable. How to make the loss of Cardassia again something he can live through, something he can almost tolerate. How can that be expected of him, without the lunches and the books and the arguments?

Hour later, he feels the ship rock and whine as the docking clamps lock on. And, minutes later, as Starfleet medical personnel arrive through the airlock to begin triage, believes that he must be hallucinating.

For there is Julian, hair an unkempt mess, eyes wild -- looking right at him from across the cabin. Striding past all the other passengers, he comes to Garak's side immediately, dropping down into a squat.

"I didn't think you'd come -- I didn't think you'd leave," Julian says, at the exact same moment that Garak manages to ask, eyes bleary with exhaustion: "How?"

And then Julian is petting his hair, or checking for head lacerations, Garak doesn't care. Can't find himself to care, even as the whine of the tricorder next to his ear triggers a new wave of tinnitus to ring through his skull.

"How?" he asks again. Or maybe why.

"Of course I came," Julian mutters. Then, shaking his head, gives Garak a long, hard stare. "Didn't you think that the moment I -- the moment I heard what was happening, didn't you think I would come?"

Garak coughs, throat dry. "I didn't -- I never answered your last letter."

Something in Julian's face softens, and Garak knows that once more, as was once promised to him, he is forgiven. He will always be forgiven.

"I never needed you to. I know. I know you, Elim."

Licking his lips, Julian cups his cheek, gently pressing the tip of a hypospray to the side of his throat. How close he came to it being a gun to his head, instead of Julian's warm and tender palm. A click and a hiss and the medication is released into his bloodstream. As he slips comfortably from consciousness, he hears Julian's voice again, as if from a distance: "I don't need to hear it. I don't ever need to hear it. I know."

#garashir #whumptober2022 #no.11 #sloppy bandages #self done first aid #makeshift splint #fic #elim garak #julian bashir #otp: there's hope for you yet #emily watches ds9

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whumpypepsigal · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 | No. 11: “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY”

sloppy bandages | self-done first aid | makeshift splint

Locke & Key s03e05: “Are you okay? Oh, your arm!”

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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Bad Choices

Nestor Oceteva x F!Reader

Whumptober 2022: No.11 "911, What’s Your Emergency?”- Sloppy Bandages & Self-Done First Aid

Warnings: angst, language, blood/injury, Young Nestor Feelings

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Okay so @narcolini dropped this picture in the chat the other day and dragged me right back into my Young Nestor thoughts and feelings. I’m not upset about it at all. I’ve missed him.

Mayans Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @queenbeered @kelpies-shed @sesamepancakes @yourwonkywriter @chibsytelford @gemini0410 @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @plentyoffandoms @amorestevens @garbinge @themoonandthewicked @bucky-iss-bae @bport76 @rosieposie0624 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @mijop @choochoo284 @blessedboo @holl2712 @lakamaa12 @masterlistforimagines @shadow-of-wonder @withmyteeth @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @punkgoddess-98 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @fanfic-n-tabulous @i-love-scott-mccall @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @thanossexual @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives @anditsmywholeheart @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

The sound of someone knocking on your door roused you from your deep sleep on the couch. You slowly opened your eyes, the light from the television feeling much brighter than it had been when you fell asleep. You groaned quietly as you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. For a moment, you thought that maybe you misheard things. Maybe it was a few doors down, or maybe it was just your upstairs neighbors being obnoxious again.

You were about to flop back down and go back to sleep when the knocking started up again. It was definitely outside your door. You huffed as you swung your legs off and stood up. You dragged your hands down your face as you made your way to the door. You looked through the peephole, and you hated that you weren’t surprised by who you saw on the other side of the door.

Undoing the chain and flipping the deadbolt, you pulled the door open. Nestor stood on the other side, a lopsided grin on his face as he held his one arm tight against his side.

“Hey,” he said, not sure how he was supposed to introduce this entire situation to you.

“Hey.” You tried and failed to bite back a yawn. “You good?”

“Um. Not really.” He took his hand away from his arm and you saw where the blood had soaked through the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. Honestly, the fact that he was wearing something with full sleeves should’ve been your first clue that something was wrong.

“Fuck,” you tried to keep the curse quiet as you reached, pulling him in by his good arm, “Get in here.”

You shut the door and flipped the lights on in what seemed like one swift motion. Nestor squinted his eyes for a second, trying to adjust from the dim light of the hallway outside your apartment and the previously nonexistent light of your living room.

He was holding onto his arm again, and you weren’t sure if it was helping with the pain, the bleeding, or if he was just trying to continue hiding it from you because the look on your face when you saw the blood wasn’t reassuring.

“What the hell happened?” you asked as you turned the television off, giving Nestor your full attention.

Suddenly he felt like he was being put on the spot. And, in a way, he was. He was no stranger to people grilling him, but it was different with you. The anger in your voice was just a shroud for your worry, and that’s what put him on edge. Straight-up anger he could deal with. Not this.

“Um,” he picked at the stained sleeve of his shirt, “things got kinda messy earlier.”

“I can see that.” You shook your head. “How messy?”

“Can’t go to the hospital because they ask questions, kind of messy.”

“Jesus.” You were still shaking your head at him as you motioned to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll grab some stuff to try and fix you up.”

He nodded, on the brink of saying thank you when you turned and took off towards your bathroom. He sat down on the couch, awkwardly looking around your apartment. It was far from the first time he’d been over, but it had never been under these circumstances. You knew him, you knew Miguel too. While you didn’t have all the details of everything, you still knew. But you never pried, and he never really offered anything up. Plausible deniability or whatever other excuse he could come up with to keep you at arm’s length away from it all. But now he was sitting on your couch with blood leaking out of his arm and the very real danger at hand was about to become impossible to ignore.

A couple minutes later, you walked out with your first aid kit and a few washcloths in your hands. You set them on the coffee table before walking into the kitchen, turning the sink on, and letting the water run till it got hot while you grabbed a bowl to fill. Once it was full, you carefully walked back over and set it alongside the other items that you’d just put down.

Then you sat on the edge of the coffee table so that you were facing Nestor. Now that you were taking a moment to really look at him, you saw how tired he looked. He hid it well, but you’d known him for too long to be fooled. Letting out a sigh, you leaned forward so that your elbows were propped against your knees, only then realizing that your legs were slotted between his. You pushed that fact from your mind, choosing instead to focus on the whole entire reason that Nestor had showed up to your apartment in the middle of the night.

“Where else?” you asked as you pulled on a pair of gloves.

“What?”

You gestured vaguely to his whole body. “Where else did you get hurt? Shot, stabbed, bit, whatever happened here,” your laugh was half-hearted as it punctuated your sentence.

He chuckled. “I didn’t get bit. What do you think I do?”

“I don’t think I want to think about it too much,” you told him honestly.

He frowned for a moment but he couldn’t get mad at your honesty. He especially couldn’t get mad about it considering he was the one intruding on you like this. His hesitation spoke volumes. You leaned back, looking at him with raised eyebrows. When he didn’t move or say anything else, you nodded towards his chest. “Gonna have to lose the shirt, Nes.”

“What?”

“You lose your hearing today too?” you joked. “I can’t get to your arm while you’ve got this on.” You tugged at the sleeve on his good arm. “The one time you decide to wear something with sleeves.”

“I wore the sleeves,” he said as he carefully pulled the shirt off over his head, “so not everyone on the street would see me bleeding.”

“Just me?” you asked as you took the shirt from him, setting it on the table next to you while making sure the blood didn’t get on it.

“Just you.” The tiny smirk that was pulling at the end of his mouth made you want to slap him.

“Let me see what the damage is, then.”

You reached for his arm, and you noticed that the smug, amused look on his face faded quickly as your fingers wrapped gently around his arm. You frowned as you looked at the way he had haphazardly wrapped gauze around his arm. It was amazing to you that it was even still clinging to him at all.

“What the hell did you do?” you asked as you slowly and carefully began to unwind the gauze from around his bicep.

“What?”

You held the sad string of bandage in your hands. “I mean what the hell is this?” You laughed despite the situation. “You were in the Navy. They didn’t teach you how to wrap a bandage around a wound?”

“I wasn’t a medic, alright?”

You smiled and shook your head. “Thank god for that. All those officers would’ve been fucked.”

He shook his head at you, but you could see it on his face that he did find it all a little amusing. Neither of you said much as you cleaned up the blood on his arm. As you cleaned away the blood, you saw what the injury on his arm really was. You hadn’t been expecting a bullet wound, although maybe you should’ve known better. Your frown reappeared as you looked closer at it. You knew that he probably needed more help than you were able to give him, that his wound maybe needed the attention of things that weren’t handy in your little first aid kit. But you also knew that the chances of him going to the hospital were slim-to-none. Hospitals asked questions.

You looked at him, and judging by the expression on his face, he knew exactly what you were thinking. He gave a small shrug and shook his head at you. He knew that you were right—you usually were. But he wasn’t going to run the risk of getting seen by a professional. You almost wanted to ask why he didn’t go to Miguel with this. Certainly that family must have someone on call.

“What?” he asked, seeing the way your facial expression kept shifting as you worked through all of your thoughts.

“Nothing.” You didn’t want to get into everything that you were thinking and feeling. Apparently his day had been shitty enough. “Sucks that your ink is gonna be fucked up now.”

“Least I get to keep the arm,” he joked, matching your sarcastic tone.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, something reminiscent of a laugh. “At least, yea.”

Both of you fell quiet as you finished meticulously cleaning out the wound to the best of your ability. He cringed and winced as you moved his arm around, winced a little harder when you dragged the swab with medical alcohol over it. He didn’t pull away, but the tension in his body was impossible to miss. You felt a little bad for him, but you were also keenly aware of the fact that he was the one who decided that this was the next apparently logical step after finishing his Navy stint. You’d never asked too much about it, and you were trying to figure out if you were regretting that now.

“Now,” you grabbed your fresh roll of gauze, “take some fucking notes, alright?” You managed a smile and a small laugh. “That way whatever happened earlier,” you nodded towards the trash can where you’d tossed the old gauze, “won’t happen again.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” he said.

You pulled a face, but it eased into a bit of a smile. “It was pretty bad.” The only reason you were able to joke about it a bit was because it wasn’t as though he was bleeding out on your couch. It was messy, but it wasn’t fatal.

You tore your eyes away for a moment and were surprised to find him actually watching you very closely. His brows were drawn together, lips turned down into a slight but pensive frown. You found yourself smiling at the sight as you went back to finishing the wrap. It was secure, but it wasn’t going to cut off circulation, which was pretty much all you could guarantee him at this point since he wasn’t going to go and get real help.

You almost went to take your gloves off but you stopped yourself. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

He waved you off with his good arm. “I’m fine.”

You pursed your lips for a moment before choosing a different question. “Where else did they get you?”

He huffed out a quiet sigh as he reached for his shirt. He repeated himself. “I’m fine.”

You grabbed the shirt and held it out of reach, feeling like a bit like a schoolyard bully but with better intentions. “Answer the question.”

“I got a graze on my calf but it’s fine. Didn’t even need a bandage.”

You laughed. “I definitely don’t trust your opinion on that.”

“Why not?”

“I saw how well the arm situation went over.” You motioned towards his legs. “Lemme see.”

“I don’t—”

“You came to me, remember?”

He sighed, not able to deny that. He hated how easily he found himself caving when it came to you. It’d always been that way. He used to try and find excuses as to why it worked like that with the two of you, why he could be so cold and harsh with other people but he always seemed to fold when it came to you. He spent years trying to justify it. Somewhere along the way on his drive to your apartment that night, though, he realized that there was no use in trying to come up with reasons for any of it anymore. It’s just how it was with you.

So he gave in. Again. He pulled the leg of his pants up so that you could inspect and decide whether or not you were going to give his cleanup job your seal of approval. He was right that it wasn’t nearly as bad as the wound on his arm. It didn’t need to be wrapped the same way, but a couple band-aids wouldn’t hurt. You didn’t say anything to him about it as you reached for another cotton swab, dousing it with medical alcohol and quickly running it over the cut.

He pulled his leg back. “Fuck. Warn me next time.”

“It’s not that bad,” you said as you rolled your eyes at him. “You got shot today—medical alcohol is the least of your problems.”

He saw you tearing the paper wrapping off of a band-aid and he started shaking his head. “I don’t need a—”

“Keep arguing with me and I’ll put superhero ones on you instead.”

It got him to shut his mouth. He watched, shaking his head at you as you carefully placed the two bandages over his cut so that it was covered. Once you tossed the wrapper into the garbage can, that was when you took your gloves off and let out a sigh of relief.

“Now can I have my shirt?” Nestor asked.

You’d been so wrapped up in your concern that you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was sitting there shirtless in the middle of your living room. Heat rushed to your face and you hated that you got so distracted so quickly. You cleared your throat as you shook your head.

“It’s disgusting. No way you’re wearing this home.”

His face contorted in confusion. “You want me to just walk out of here shirtless?”

You laughed, shaking your head at him. “No. You’ve got stuff here. I’ll go grab you a shirt that isn’t soaked in your blood.”

“Not soaked,” he said as you made your way back towards your bedroom.

When you walked back out to the living room, Nestor’s new shirt in your hand, he was doing his best to straighten up the mess that had been caused because of him. The garbage can was back where it was supposed to be. You noticed that he’d put his bloody shirt in there as well and you weren’t going to pretend that that wasn’t a bit of a relief. He’d put everything back into the first aid kid and closed it, leaving it neatly in the center of the coffee table.

He looked a little out of place, standing shirtless in the middle of your living room like that. You chuckled to yourself, your amusement being just enough to drown out the other feelings bubbling up in your chest. Looking at the ink that covered his skin, some of his tattoos pristinely finished, others only partway to completion and leaving him looking like a bit of a sketchpad, it was hard to remember that he had been in the Navy not that long ago. His tattoos would’ve been hidden, of course, but still. You’d seen the photos of him in his uniform and you still couldn’t really believe it.

But it was also hard to picture him in his new role with the Galindo family too. It made a little sense, in a weird sort of way, but you still weren’t totally sold on it. You didn’t know all the details of what Nestor did for Miguel and his family, and it was undoubtedly better that way. But if he hadn’t even been doing it for very long and he was already turning up to your place in the middle of the night with bullet wounds, you didn’t necessarily see it getting better from here.

“That for me?” his voice snapped you from your train of thought.

“Oh,” you cleared your throat as you held it out to him, “um, yea. Here.”

His brows knit as he reached for it. “What?”

“What?” you parroted back to him.

“What’s the face for?”

It was difficult to miss the touch of sadness in the laugh that you let out. “I mean. You turned up at my door with a gunshot wound. Sorry if I’m not exactly thrilled about it all.”

He pulled the shirt on, raking his fingers back through his hair once it was on. “I’m fine, though. You fixed the bandages.”

“Nestor…” your voice trailed off, calling him out on his deflection without really having to say it.

He sighed, dropping the act for a moment as he stepped in closer to you. “I know.”

“Why are you doing this, anyway?” Your eyes drifted to his arm, the bottom of the gauze visible as it peaked out from underneath the short sleeves of the shirt you’d given him. “You could’ve re-upped.”

He shook his head. “I was sick of bouncing all over the place.”

You couldn’t pretend that you didn’t understand that. But still. “And…this,” your fingers trailed delicately down the outside of his injured arm, “was the only other option?”

He sighed, eyes locked onto your hand, unable to pry his gaze away from where your fingers were touching his skin. “What do you want me to say?”

You sighed, dropping your head back so that you were looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just. I worry.”

He chuckled. “You didn’t worry while I was enlisted?”

“It was a different worry.”

He nodded understandingly. “I know.”

“Is this gonna become our new thing?” you asked.

“Thought you’d like the excuse to see me.” That stupid little grin was back on his face like it never left.

You rolled your eyes. “Literally any other excuse would do. You don’t even need an excuse.”

“So I got shot for no reason?”

You shoved him on his good side. “Shut up.”

He chuckled as he pulled you into a hug. “It’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath, feeling you relax against him as you finally gave in and hugged him back. “You know I love you.”

“You better,” you mumbled against his shoulder. Neither of you said anything for a moment and then you pulled back so you could look him in the eye. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is this gonna be a regular thing? You showing up here all…you know…”

“I don’t plan on getting shot all the time, no.”

“Nes.”

“Sorry.” The apology sounded mostly genuine. Deflection just came too easily to him. “It’s a risk. Just like everything. If you don’t wanna be involved, I get it, but—”

“No,” you cut him off, “I mean. Yea, I’d rather you worked for someone who didn’t let you get shot up like this. But…but if you get hurt…I’ll always, you know, I’ll always take care of you.”

He smiled, pulling you back into him again. “Good. I hate hospitals.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder but he could still feel the vibration of it against him. “Yea, well, not like I can leave you to bandage yourself up apparently. So I’m kind of your only choice.”

He chuckled, resting the side of his head against yours. “Not a bad choice.”

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #sloppy bandages #self-done first aid #mayans mc #nestor oceteva #fic #nestor oceteva x reader #nestor oceteva x you #nestor oceteva imagine #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc imagine #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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callaeidae3 · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 Day 11: 911, What's your emergency?

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Kyle trying to deal to an injury himself, before anyone else finds out about it.

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #911 what's your emergency #sloppy bandages #self-done first aid #kindall k series #art #bandages #hiding an injury #kyle kindall #whump art #this might be a good scene idea for KK4 👀#traditional art #traditional drawing

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how-much-for-a-whump · 2 years

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WHUMPTOBER day 11: 911, what's your emergency?

"Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid"

Die Bergretter S12E03

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ghosts-and-blue-sweaters · 2 years

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@whumptober-archive

Reblogs are a writers best friend, y’all! They really do help out a ton!

This isn’t on A03 yet, but here’s my account if anyones interested!

~~~

Wilbur's hands are bloody.

They haven't bled in a few days, but removing the bandages had started it up again. Wilbur knows he should be worried, disgusted at least, but all he can feel is a curious sort of wonder as he watches the dark liquid stream down his fingers. It soaks into the pores of his hands, and when Wilbur rubs his thumb and index finger together, he can see his fingerprint screaming back at him, outlined by red. The blood also makes its way under his fingernails, which are chipped and broken. It makes him feel dirty, even though he'd showered last night.

It's an interesting sight. Not bad or good. Just interesting.

A sigh brings Wilbur's attention to Phil, who's kneeling in front of him, peeling the soiled bandages away and tossing them into a bin. The winged man has a confusing expression on his face—brow furrowed as if he's angry, lips pressed tightly together as if he's frustrated, eyes strained as if he's stressed. Wilbur makes a humming sound, lightly swinging his legs back and forth.

"What is it?"

Phil sighs again. "It's just... your hands, Wil."

Wilbur cocks his head. "What about them?"

"They're in pretty rough shape, mate. The bandages were sloppy, and none of the wounds had been cleaned; I'm surprised that nothing's infected." He glances up, making eye contact with Wilbur. "Yet."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to see what I'm doing in a dark room. A room with terrible lights, I might add. Only a few worked, and most of them flickered. A few exploded while I was sleeping. Scared the crap out of me."

A breathy chuckle looses from Wilbur's lips, but Phil doesn't laugh with him. If anything, he seems to grow more upset, reaching for a wet cloth and bringing it to Wilbur's hands with hard eyes.

Wilbur hisses as the cloth makes contact with his skin.

"That hurts, Phil," He grits out.

"I know."

"Like fire. Or gasoline."

"I know." Phil pauses. And then: "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. It's a good hurt."

"I know, but I..." Phil glances up again. "What do you mean, a good hurt?"

"I mean..." Wilbur purses his lips. Gazes at his hands, which are covered by the soaking wet cloth that's slowly turning red. Phil's hands are warm against it. "It's my hand. My real hand. And it's bleeding."

He smiles. "I'm alive, Phil. And my hand hurts. And if that's not a miracle, then I don't know what is. Me, alive, talking to you, who's also alive. What are the chances?"

Phil's breath hitches. He doesn't say anything more, so Wilbur doesn't either. Instead, be looks around the room, busying himself with studying it's contents.

It's cozy. Fairly small, but it doesn't feel cramped in the slightest. Vines drape down the walls, reminding Wilbur of the forests he used to walk in as a child. All the furniture is made of wood, sanded smooth and shining with the reflections of the lanterns scattered around. There's even a photo of Wilbur hung up by a window—if he remembers correctly, that'd been taken during a trip to the beach. Sally had been there; she'd shoved Wilbur into the waves not fifteen minutes in, cackling as Wilbur struggled and spluttered.

That had been a good day.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, letting the scent of of pine trees and tea fill his nose. It feels like a home. Not his home, necessarily, but a home. Phil's home.

"Hold still," Phil murmurs, and before Wilbur can react, his father is pulling the cloth away from his hands, allowing an intense burning sensation to take its place.

Wilbur sucks in a breath, trying not to yank his hands out of Phil's grasp. He does squirm, though.

Phil winces. "Sorry, mate. I have to make sure these cuts stay clean; wouldn't want them to get infected. Then the pain would be even worse."

"I know," Wilbur strains. "I know."

Phil presses his lips together, not saying another word as he begins wrapping new bandages around Wilbur's fingers. Wilbur sighs in relief as the pain fades, letting his body relax.

Phil tightens the last bandage, looking over his work with a critical eye that comes from years—thousands of years—of practice. "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Phil."

Wilbur waits for his father to let go of his hands, but Phil makes no such motion.

Wilbur waits.

And waits.

"Phil?" He whispers. "I kind of... need my hands back."

Phil blinks. "Oh. Yes, of course... of course you do."

And then, with a moments hesitation, Phil releases his hold on his son's hands, allowing him to pull away and inspect the bandages more closely. They're clean, and much more comfortable than the old ones. Wilbur finds himself smiling.

"That's a lot better than before."

Phil chuckles. "I'll say."

They grow quiet after that. There's something peculiar in the air, Wilbur thinks. As if Phil wants to say something but isn't sure if he should.

Wilbur chews on his lip. "Phil?"

"Yes?" Phil's voice is expectant, hopeful, a little scared. Wilbur swallows.

"Do you... is there something you want to tell me?"

Phil goes very still. Wilbur waits for a response, but gets none.

If he listens closely, he can hear the snowstorm outside, howling against the small house. Snow flies past the window, so quick that it looks like a blur of ice. Wilbur knows that he's safe, though; Phil's house is warm, and Phil's house is sturdy. Nothing will hurt him here.

"Wilbur," Phil croaks. Wilbur's eyes widen at the horrible scratchiness, and he finds himself leaning closer with concern. Phil swallows loudly. "I... I wanted... to..."

Phil looks up, sharp blue eyes meeting deep brown ones—land and sea, Techno had used to compare them to.

Phil opens his mouth, and Wilbur finds himself holding his breath. He waits, in tense anticipation, as Phil's expression shifts a hundred times in a second, and Wilbur knows he's about to say something significant, something important, something profound-

Phil sags, smiling sadly. In defeat. "It's getting late. You should get to bed."

Wilbur feels his heart fall inside of him, and he hopes his face hasn't done the same thing. "We should get to bed, you mean."

Phil nods. "Yes, of course. We."

He smiles up at Wilbur then; that small, bright smile that's as familiar as the rising sun, as unchangeable and steady as the mountains. The smile that's been there since Wilbur could remember, and has been there ever since, no matter what.

And suddenly, Wilbur's a child again, knowing that his father will keep him safe from the monsters, because he's Philza. Nothing can get past Philza. Nothing can scare Philza.

Wilbur almost says the words. Those three words he used to say every day, in hugs or through tears or as he laughed or just because.

The words die on his tongue before they can escape.

Phil's still looking at him, with an unreadable expression that Wilbur doesn't want to try and decipher just yet. He seems to be waiting. For what, Wilbur doesn't know.

So he does the easiest thing he can do.

He smiles.

And the storm continues raging outside.

~~~

Sand Duo my beloveds.

Originally, Phil was going to have a Big Emotional Moment, but then I realized that… that didn’t exactly fit in this story. So I left it out, and, at least to me, it created an incredibly anticlimactic ending.

…which fit this story really well.

This was a super fun story to write, and I’m pretty darn happy with how it turned out :D

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added)

@biathediamond @photogirl894 @ladysongmaster

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 11 (BAU x male!reader)

No. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Warnings: needles, stitches, gashes, blood, self done stitches, guns, mentions shooting, glass shard as weapon

Word count: 1581

Your injury wasn’t bad, really, it wasn’t. Just a scrape more than anything. A large scrape that was bleeding quite a bit that probably needed stitches. But a scrape nonetheless. You didn’t want to go to hospital for multiple reasons: one, that would be embarrassing as fuck; two, Morgan would never let you hear the end of it; three, honestly it would just be a whole hassle; and four, you could DIY first aid anyway.

You were the youngest BAU member at the ripe old age of 24 and you had already been injured a ridiculous amount of times. Which you hated, it made the team more protective over you - which is definitely something you could do without. Granted, they treated you like a member, but they just worried excessively.

So, when the unsub had swiped you with a shard of glass that dragged along your arm, breaking the skin, you kept quiet about it. You still had to catch his partner anyway. Luckily, no one had noticed the tear in your shirt sleeve or your tie missing, after the unsub had been apprehended, you were able to play it off that you were cold and Derek had given you his jacket. You had absolutely no clue how none of the team had seen the wound that was bleeding sluggishly through the makeshift tie bandage before you threw the jacket on.

The team split up, searching the perimeter for the other unsub. Hotch paired you with Morgan and the two of you were searching the basement of the building. “You okay, kid?” He asked, you nodded.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

You saw Morgan shrug out of the corner of your eye, “You’re just quiet, that’s all,” There’s a pause, “Normally you don’t shut up,”

You huffed a laugh, “Thanks,” You responded sarcastically.

“I just mean, you’re quiet and I’m worried,”

You patted his arm, ignoring the sharp pain that spread through your forearm, “Well, you don’t need to, I’m fine,”

Derek gave a small chuckle as he nodded, “Alright, but you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” You answered, rolling your eyes, “I’m just tired,”

Derek nodded, he could understand that. You had all been working pretty much non-stop for the last forty-eight hours. “Just picture the hotel bed,” He teased, you groaned at the tease, wanting nothing more than to be able to collapse on the hotel bed and sleep for twenty four hours.

After an hour of searching, Hotch’s voice sounds over the radio, telling you all to meet at the front of the building. “The partner’s long gone.” He said, “We’ll head back to the hotel, catch a few hours sleep and then head back to the station.”

“But-”

“No, (Y/N), none of us have slept, we need to sleep if we’re going to catch him.” You refrained from rolling your eyes as you nodded. You weren’t happy about it, but you’d go along with it.

You were sharing with Derek and Spencer, the hotel was extremely booked so you all had to share, Emily and JJ in one room and Rossi and Hotch in the other.

You quickly grabbed your bag (with your left hand), “Dibs bathroom first!” You chimed, rushing in before the others could argue otherwise. You lock the bathroom door, placing your go-bag in front of it, hoping that it would muffle any noises you make.

You grab the first aid kit from under the sink and the needle and thread in your go-bag, as well as a spare tie. You usually keep it in there to repair any holes or loose buttons that end up on your clothes, but this time it would have a slightly different purpose. You sterilise the needle the best you can with hot water, followed by a cleansing wipe and then you loop the thread through, placing it on a new wipe when you’ve done that. Now that you’ve prepped everything, your first task is cleaning the wound, you shove the tie into your mouth and wash your hands thoroughly before you place on a pair of gloves. You’re trembling both from anticipation and adrenaline. You’re stood in front of the sink, arm over it. You take the distilled water, splashing it against your skin, watching as it washes the blood away and cleans the wound. You quickly dry your hand with tissue before turning to the needle.

Gripping the needle tightly between your thumb and index finger, you use your middle and ring finger to push the wound together as close as you can before you start sewing. The pain caused your breath to hitch and your jaw to clench down on the tie. Fuck, it hurt. You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before continuing.

You’re halfway done when there’s a knock at the door, “(Y/N)? Are you okay?”

You quickly spit the tie out, taking a deep breath before replying, “Yeah, I’m fine, sorry, I’ll be out in just a minute,” You’re in too much pain to be able to tell if your voice masks your pain, you just hope it does. You rush the remaining stitches, hoping that it will stop the bleeding. You grab another wipe, ripping the packaging open and gently wipe over the wound a few times before moving on to the bandages. You place a gauze on it first before you tightly wrap the bandage over it, hoping it will last overnight.

Now you just had to clean up. You throw everything (needle included) into a small bag that you shove to the bottom of the duffle bag and get changed into long sleeved pyjamas in record time.

You plaster on a smile and open the door, “Sorry about that,” You grin, “Gotta keep up with my skincare routine,”

Spencer and Morgan chuckle but you can tell they don’t fully believe you. But they don’t say anything either. So, you simply slide into bed with your backs to both of the other agents and close your eyes, hoping to fall asleep soon.

As it turns out, sleeping whilst in pain is hard. And by the time the alarm goes off, you’ve gotten a maximum of two hours sleep. You feel a little like a zombie. But, you rise the same time as your coworkers, you get dressed last, needing the extra time to try and wake yourself up. You can tell they’re both concerned but you pretend not to notice.

It took you four hours, but after trying to talk the unsub’s partner down, it was finally over. You knew Morgan wasn’t happy with you. You had had a clear shot of the unsub early on and you had strict instructions to take the shot if you had it. But the hostage was so close to him and with your aim impaired by the long gash on your arm, you didn’t want to risk it. Eventually, the unsub shifted and Morgan had a clear shot and took it.

“This case is just going terribly,” You huffed to yourself. You were all just finishing up with the crime scene and then you would all be headed back home on the jet.

“What was that?” Morgan asked, walking up to you. “You had a shot, why didn’t you take it?”

His tone catches you off guard, “What?”

“Why didn’t you take the shot?”

“I didn’t want to risk missing it.” My aim’s a bit impaired now, sorry for the inconvenience. You shrug, turning away. You hissed when Morgan grabbed your arm, he immediately let go, looking down at his hand, his eyes widened when he saw blood.

“Hotch!”

“No, no, Hotch, don’t worry!” You yelled looking at Hotch, giving him a small smile, “Nothing’s wrong,”

Derek rolled his eyes, “Hotch,” He motioned to you with his head, holding his hand out, letting the blood catch the light, Hotch’s eyes widened as he begins to make his way over to you. You turned to Derek with a glare.

“What the fuck!?” You whispered harshly.

“(Y/N), what happened?”

You instinctively drew your arm close to your chest, “Nothing.”

“Where are you injured?” Hotch’s voice was stern, leaving no room for argument.

“No where,” You said.

“His arm,” You glared at Morgan.

“Let me see your arm, (Y/N),” Hotch said, holding his hand out. You looked up, meeting his eyes. Seeing the concern behind the mask you sighed, holding your right arm out.

Hotch gently clutched your wrist in his hand, “Can I take the bandage off?” You nod silently. Gently peeling away at the bandage, Hotch falters seeing the amount of blood the gauze had caught before he uncovered the injury.

The pair’s eyes widened at the sight of the wound, bleeding and roughly stitched up, still sluggishly seeping with blood. You watch as Hotch’s face turns hard as he looks at you sharply. “(Y/N), what happened?”

“Richards caught me with a shard of glass.” You answer, glaring at the wound on your arm, not wanting to see the disappointment on Hotch’s face.

“I’m disappointed in you, (Y/N),” Hotch said, “Not for getting hurt, that can’t be helped, I’m disappointed you didn’t tell us. We’re a team and that mean telling people when we’re injured.” You nod, biting your tongue, willing the tears away. You hadn’t slept, you were in pain, now was not the time for a lecture. Sensing this, Hotch sighed, “Come on, let’s just get you to the paramedics,”

You give a small sniff, “Okay,”

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lady-wallace · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 11: Sloppy Bandages (Spy x Family)

It’s time for a little fluff, especially after yesterday’s comic.

Dr. Anya is practicing her bandaging skills for today’s @whumptober prompt “sloppy bandages”

You can also check this out on Ao3 in my Whumptober Art & Drabble collection

~~~~~~~~

Ao3

Masterpost

~~~~~~~

You can also find me on: Instagram | Twitter | Or buy me a coffee on Ko-fi (I do commissions!)

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #whumptoberday11 #sloppy bandages #911 what's your emergency #spy x family #cute #anya forger #loid forger #spy x family fanart #fanart #loid and anya #spy x family comic

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shywhumpauthor · 2 years

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NO. 11 "911, WHAT'S YOUR EMERGENCY?"

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Prev. || Masterlist

Cw: creepy whumper, rough wound care, whipping, torture, broadcasted torture, noncon filming, noncon touching, partial nudity (just a shirt, none of it is sexual), threats, implications of upcoming torture, uhhh encouraged whumping

Kaden heard the whip drop to the ground, the leather falling with a small thud that drew a small flinch. Their breath came ragged, gasps and wheezes that didn’t seem to draw in any air. Their lungs burned, throat worn raw from the past screaming. Now they could only hang, half slumped in their restraints, eyes squeezed shut to prevent any more tears from slipping out.

They wouldn’t give Mathias that satisfaction again.

“Regretfully so, we have reached the end of today’s session,” Mathias sighed, an audible disappointment dripping from his tone as he moved to one of the tripods and adjusted the camera, zooming in on Kaden’s bloody back. “I hope to return sometime later this week with someone more expendable—I’ll repost the charts if any of you wish to request in advance.”

Almost instantly, Kaden heard the little ping which they had grown to dread, their muscles tensing. Half expecting Mathias to pick back up the whip. He stepped over, Daniel moving aside so he could read the screen himself.

“Yes, donations are appreciated, but I will not be continuing for today,” He chuckled, checking the balance at the top of the other screen. “We already went over the limit, I need to get it patched up before infection becomes a risk.”

Another chime, and Mathias sighed.

“I suppose you can say that,” He tapped away at the keyboard as he spoke, and one by one the live stream feeds went dark. Right before the last one went out, the view from the camera positioned towards Kaden’s back, Mathias let out a small laugh. “Yes, they’re mine. If you wish to see them again, feel free to contact me privately and we can work out the details.”

With that, Mathias hit one final button, and the entire screen went dark. He let out a sigh, tearing a hand through his hair as he pulled off the mask.

“Demanding bastards,” He muttered, though his tone was more joking than actual anger. Though, that seemed to change the moment his gaze turned towards Kaden. All hints of amusement dropped from his features, turning to an almost remorseful look.

“Daniel, first aid kit in the bottom right,” He mumbled before stepping over to Kaden, dropping to one knee in front of them and reaching up to cup their flushed cheek. Their skin was warm, clammy to the touch, and Kaden let out a small sound protest, their eyes flitting open as they tried to pull back from the cold touch.

“Hey, love,” Mathias said softly, his thumb tracing in a soft arc against their cheek, following the faint mark left behind from his ring. The cut had been shallow, and healed quickly. A few more days, and he was sure the scar would be unnoticeable. “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

His tone was so soft, so caring, Kaden couldn’t help but cling to the words, their chin resting heavy in his palm. Mathias smiled.

“Th.. ‘snnt.. “‘not t’hh hard”..” Kaden groaned, blinking hard as they tried—and failed—to hold back fresh tears. Though Kaden could barely make out their own words, Mathias seemed to have heard them. He just chuckled.

“Believe me, sweetheart, you got off easy,” He promised, glancing up as Daniel stepped over and passed him a roll of bandages. “One day I’ll show you.”

Kaden could only shudder, lurching forwards as Mathias carelessly bandaged their back. “Shh’w me?” They echoed, voice cracking as his fingers brushed against a stinging wound.

“Don’t worry about that now, darling,” Mathias shook his head, which was more than enough of an answer for them. “We’ll wait for the bleeding to slow, then I’ll take you to get cleaned up. Sound alright?”

Kaden gave a small nod, wincing as he fastened the end of the bandages in place. They served little purpose other than a compressor, putting light pressure against the wounds so they were no longer free bleeding.

When Mathias released them from the shackles, Kaden all but collapsed forwards, crumpling to the cold floor. They shuddered, a dull pain echoing from their shoulders as the tension in their muscles was finally released.

Mathias allowed them a moment to just lay there, their sweaty forehead pressed against the ground, before he bent down and took them by the arm.

“Come on, darling. You’ll have plenty opportunities to kneel later, but now isn’t the time.” He said as he eased Kaden up to their feet, chuckling as their face flushed a deep red.

“Wh- n’h I wasn’-” They stammered, the words falling from their tongue before they could even think.

Mathias just grinned and grabbed their forearm, his other hand moving to press against the small of their back. Kaden gasped, a sharp pain sparking along the fresh wounds. The could only clench their jaw, swallowing back a whimper as the man began to guide them forwards, out of the room and into the hall, deep into the labyrinth of the mansion.

“It’s okay, love. You’ll learn to not be embarrassed soon enough. First we’ll have to address the back talk, though, but baby steps.”

•••

Mathias guided Kaden down a familiar hall, his fingertips digging lightly against their back as he prompted them forwards. After earlier, Kaden didn’t dare speak, fearing that they’d only manage to make things worse for themself.

He let go of their arm, the hand against their back keeping them dutifully in place as he opened a door, and guided them inside.

Kaden had always thought their room was big, but now as the man prompted them to step in, it seemed to shrink down past the size of a broom closet. There wasn’t nearly enough space for the two of them, not in the room, not in the world.

Mathias chuckled, feeling them stiffen against him as he reclaimed his grip on their arm.

“Now, love,” He began slowly, turning them so they could meet his eye. “You’ll be okay by yourself for a bit?”

————————

Tag list: @whumpasaurus101 @suspicious-whumping-egg @t0rture-me

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themidnightguardian · 2 years

Text

Day 11: Sloppy Bandages--Tobirama (ft. Team 7)

Senju Tobirama & Team 7 | AU: Tobirama time-travels as the result of a sealing experiment and encounters genin Team 7 after the Wave Mission gone wrong | Content Warnings: discussions of injury and pain, brief mentions of blood, waking up from unconsciousness, self experimentation

Whumptober Masterlist

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The first thing Tobirama thought upon waking was that Touka really was going to kill him this time. Or maybe even Mito. He could already imagine their worried, disappointed faces.

It’s not good for you to be running these tests without backup, Touka had said.

And then Mito’s frowning, Experimental seals in particular are dangerous to do on your own.

But he’d brushed them off. He’d always done the testing on himself, had always done it alone. Back before Konoha, nobody had seemed to notice or mind so much. No one else in the Senju clan had cared much for jutsu creation unless it was to make use of the final product, and few people had wanted to be around Tobirama then anyway. It was easy to hide the injuries, the evidence of his misfires, the residual side-effects of imperfect healing jutsus.

He'd thought that by now he had enough experience to know what was a relatively safe experiment and what wasn’t.

Apparently not.

All he could remember was that he’d been trying to adjust the hiraishin’s range. He’d made a few adjustments to the seal and calculated that—in a worst case scenario—he either wouldn’t travel anywhere at all, or it would just take him to the nearest seal-mark.

Again, apparently not, given that the last thing he remembered was activating the seal and then everything going black. And now he was awake, looking up at the ceiling…of a cave? It was hard to tell. His eyesight had never been great, and now that he was trying to focus on something, he became aware of the pounding in his head, the ache of his entire body.

He also became aware of the muttering.

“He’s awake. I saw him move, ‘ttebayo.”

“Sakura, don’t. Stay back.”

“But I need to change his bandages—”

“He could hurt you. We can’t…with sensei like he is, we can’t afford to—”

“Shut up, teme. Sensei’s fine.”

“Besides, he’s the Nidaime.”

“He just looks like him. The Nidaime’s dead.”

“Not yet, he isn’t.”

There was a small shuffle, a heavy sigh, and then an Uchiha face appeared in Tobirama’s line of sight.

Izuna, he thought immediately, tensing, because the boy was the spitting image of his old enemy. But he was just that—a boy. A child. Maybe as young as ten. Certainly not much older than that, at least. Izuna hadn’t been a child in a long time; this wasn’t him.

Then who is it? Obviously an Uchiha, but Tobirama knew all the active duty Uchiha in the village, even the young ones.

“Sakura is going to look at your bandages,” the Uchiha boy said, and though his expression was bland, there was something wary and on-edge in the set of his mouth. “If you try to attack, I will slit your throat. I don’t give a damn if you were the Nidaime Hokage.”

Nidaime Hokage? His curiosity was piqued, but that was a question for another time. When the child was feeling less threatened. Instead, Tobirama nodded ever so slightly, a motion the Uchiha boy repeated, and then there was pink.

Pink hair. On a shinobi. Huh.

Sakura, presumably, and she was just as young as the boy, maybe even younger. It was hard to tell between the impractical hair and the wide green eyes. She was careful, though, and efficient, unwrapping the bandages patched around his torso. They came away red.

Fuck.

“What’s my current condition?” he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle. These were just children, and they were obviously trying to help, but he needed to know how critical it was.

The Uchiha boy scowled—maybe that was his default expression—but Sakura answered immediately, even though her voice shook, “You appeared in a flash of light just outside the cave about 16 hours ago. Lac-lacerations across your t-torso, but not too deep. Cracked ribs. I don’t-I don’t think there’s any internal bleeding, but I’m not sure. I’m not a tr-trained medic yet.”

Not unlike some of his earliest tests with the hiraishin, then. That probably meant that his adjusted seal wasn’t stabilized properly, which meant he was on the right track. It’s functional, at least, he thought. But if he’d been out 16 hours and surrounded by children he didn’t recognize though they wore the Konoha hitai-ate, too, that was certainly concerning.

“What treatment have you administered?” he asked.

“All wounds have been cleaned. It...it was a lot of blood, so I stitched up your abdominal wounds, covered with a poultice to prevent infection, and wrapped them.”

That was…surprisingly good for a child field-medic of little training. The stitching was probably rough, and he’d undoubtedly scar, but it could have been a lot worse.

“The poultice?”

A third child, blond with blue eyes and strange little whisker marks on his cheeks, scrambled up to his side, holding out a small jar. “Yarrow, chamomile, calendula, and tea-tree oil.”

“You made this?”

The three children glanced at each other, before Sakura tipped her head at the blond and said, “Naruto did.”

What smart, resourceful children. So few nin were able to provide adequate field medicine—it had been one of the Senju clan’s strengths, but only because of Hashirama’s mokuton and Tobirama’s experiments—so it was good to see these children well-prepared. They’d had a good teacher, obviously, which begged the question: where was their teacher now?

They were Konoha shinobi, but they were too young to be out on their own. They had to be a genin team, but if that was the case, then their sensei should have been with them.

“You did a good job. All of you,” he said, and watched as some of the tension eased from their shoulders. “Thank you for keeping me alive.”

He didn’t think that of all things would be the thing to set them off, but the Uchiha boy’s face crumpled, Naruto’s eyes squeezed shut as he ducked his head, and Sakura burst into tears.

(Tobirama wouldn’t get the whole story until later. After he’d seen their sensei laid out on a bedroll beside him, alive but barely, having been stabbed clean through the shoulder so viciously he’d nearly lost an arm. After he’d regained enough chakra to offer some healing, and after he’d had to subdue the injured Hatake man and reassure him a dozen times over that he wasn’t going to hurt the kids.

Then he’d hear about the Wave Mission. The kids’ first mission out of the village. The lying bridge-builder who’d all but led them to certain death. The missing nin—A-rank—who had come out of nowhere, too strong and too fast. The Hatake’s chakra reserves failing him. The kids trying their best but not able to keep their client alive. Escaping to live another day only because their enemy couldn’t be bothered to kill them.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Tobirama would think, angry. Konoha was supposed to make things safer. In the shinobi world, there were no guarantees, of course, but something like this should have never happened.

But that would come later.) Now, however, Tobirama did his best to comfort them. They had taken care of him, after all. He would take care of them in turn.

#whumptober2022 #no.11 #sloppy bandages #naruto #team 7 #senju tobirama #fic

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