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#injury reveal
whumpdaydreamerx · 2 months
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After Whumpee goes unconscious from initially getting injured. When they come to, with a grimace they try to writhe or get away in response to the immediate pain.
Caretaker having to put a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder or leg, quieting them. Making sure they stay still and remain calm so they don’t make it worse for themselves.
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whumpdoyoumean · 8 months
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Obsessed with the idea of a character taking first watch, keeping an eye on their sleeping partner (or lover/sibling/friend, whatever) after the two of them narrowly escape a conflict with their lives. Only to discover a few hours later that said partner can't be roused (the sick feeling as realization hits, when whumpee doesn't even stir at something that should have woken them up). It turns out they were injured in the skirmish and decided to keep it hidden. Now the uninjured person has to try and stabilize whumpee and get them to safety, with no idea of the extent of the injuries.
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hurtcomfortguaranteed · 9 months
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Just a panel of injury/scars reveals I enjoy, from The Count of Monte Cristo, Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, and Ladyhawke.
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cataffer · 1 year
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Wrist appreciation
Just thinking about wrists.
Being pinned to the wall or floor by the wrist
Wrists pulling at the ropes that bind them
Metal handcuffs digging into skin
Tied behind the back by the wrists
Whumpee rubbing at their sore wrists, having just been released
Rescuer draping limp whumpee's arm over their shoulder and gripping their wrist to hold them up
Restraints still attached to wrists after an escape, needing to be removed later
Accidentally exposed wrists offering a glimpse at the wounds further up
Wrists being grasped by a hand much bigger and stronger, fingers wrapped all the way around and squeeeezing
Gentler fingers resting on the paper-thin skin feeling for a pulse
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plasmodiumpyrexia · 1 year
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Thinking about small hints that whumpee isn’t “fine”:
- That small grimace when they move the wrong way and aggravate an injury they were trying to hide (also, that hiss of pain through clenched teeth)
- Cautious movements, a split second of hesitancy and/or changes in posture
- Faux-casually leaning on the wall because they’re too exhausted/weak/dizzy to stand properly
- Talkative whumpees getting quiet and quiet whumpees talking too much
- Nervous laughter, fidgeting and shakiness
- When they try to keep their voice steady but it still sounds off
- Rubbing their temples/forehead and closing their eyes (or better, squeezing them shut)
- Tiny beads of sweat
- Abruptly leaving the room (not subtle but I love it, especially when [B] follows to see what’s wrong)
- Making excuses not to do something they usually do (or alternatively, trying extra hard in order to prove they’re ok)
- Zoning out mid conversation
- An indescribable something seems... off about them today
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whump-queen · 2 years
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A sense of horror
One of my favorite tropes that I honestly think is pretty underrated is a loved one or an onlooker’s overwhelming sense of horror when they discover what has happened to a protagonist/MC.
Like.. a character stumbling in bleeding and broken—itheir loved one’s dread building and building as they unwrap the layers of mc’s clothing with shaking hands, only to find more and more and more blood— overwhelmed with panic and anguish when they discover just how deep the injuries go.
MC being brought home after a near-disastrous rescue mission, and the caretaker is finally able to get a good look at their injuries in proper lighting, and the horror hits them when they see deep, bloody gashes, whip marks crossing along their back, deep cuts and bruises in various stages of healing, a broken bone jutting out awkwardly at an angle it definitely shouldn’t be, and they’re just so overcome with revulsion and terror and heartache at what mc has had to endure. 
And that whole time, they had no idea. There was nothing they could do, but god they didn’t know it could get this bad. 
An onlooker, struck with a nauseating realization of how twisted some of their companions can be; the guilt of a bystander a weight that grows and grows, as they wrestle with dueling urges to help and to stay silent. (shoutout to @whumpsday for giving us another perfect example of this trope just yesterday)
Or even a villain/whumper, who agreed to participate in the cruelty, at some point down the line becoming too repulsed by the bloodthirst of their own comrades or fellow whumpers, suddenly unable to look anymore, wracked with guilt and disgust and thoughts of ‘god what have I done…’ 
A caretaker, rescuer, or even a new captor obtaining a whumpee who has been so conditioned by their past abuser that it makes their skin crawl. MC asking, begging to be punished at the slightest perceived mistake, or just bringing their new captor or guardian something to beat them with before falling to their knees. Anything that leaves them horrified, wondering ‘what the hell did they do to you’ yet also being too afraid to ask. The “are you my new master” trope may fall under this category and is also just immaculate. 
God I love this trope, whatever you call it. 
More whump inspo
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whumblr · 2 years
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any prompts/ideas on how scars can be revealed but with a defiant whumpee who is now with caretaker but isn’t wanting to share anything that was done to them but caretaker *has* to know so that they can help?? sorry if that’s too specific haha just looking for scar reveal ideas really :)
I'm always a fan of accidental reveals :3 Like
A shirt hitched up when they're taking a nap.
Caretaker walking in on them changing.
A careless motion hitching up a shirt or a sleeve and quickly pulling it down again.
But if Whumpee always refuses and pushes Caretaker away, but Caretaker has to know... Well, why do they have to know? Because if it's dire :3 then it can be done with some drama.
A wound that reopens and Whumpee desperately tries to cover the stain in their shirt.
Or a wound that reopens and Whumpee doesn't notice but Caretaker sure does.
Caretaker lightly taking their arm, wrist, waist, and Whumpee violently flinching away in pain.
Bones that haven't set right, wounds that haven't healed right and Whumpee tries to ignore it all, but one day it will catch up to them.
A lightheaded feeling that makes Whumpee sway and stumble, the 'I'm not feeling so good, no, back off, it'll be fine in a minute'.
Spoiler: it won't be fine in a minute.
That in various gradations, leading ultimately to "the collapse".
And Caretaker finally sees all the scars.
But those are more injury reveal tropes. For actual scar reveals:
Caretaker could take matters into their own hands and force Whumpee to come clean.
Or they're sick of all the 'it's fine really' so the next time Whumpee bites away pain or stumbles, they swoop in and pull up their shirt.
"When were you planning on telling me this?!"
"Will you sit still, I have to treat this before you pass out of blood loss or the wound infects and... oh."
Also fun: Return of the Whumper who sneers in glee at all that's transpired and Caretaker's cluelessness.
"You haven't told them? You really should. Tell them."
Forcing them to take off their shirt and reveal all the scars.
Tieing Whumpee up, cutting their shirt away and Caretaker gasps at the scars. Combined with the "Ohh, they didn't know? Well, now they do."
Whumpee collapsing and Caretaker doesn't know what to do so they take them to hospital and the doctor removes their shirt and.... yeah :)
A Whumpee thinking they're alone, it's super hot so they finally allow themself to take off their baggy hoody. And yeah, they weren't alone.
They're happy to finally wear their favourite shirt again, it gives them a sense of calm, of finally being home again. What they didn't know was that the neck of the shirt plunges just a bit too deep, or their sleeves are just a bit too short.
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whumpster-dumpster · 2 years
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Ahhhh, the dream
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Whump Prompt #1326
TW: SELF HARM
Anon asked:
Hi! Could you do a scenario of a stoic whumpee x caretaker where the caretaker sees their SH scars and whumpee is shocked that anyone would care, and tears up when the caretaker touches the scars gently (w permission from the whumpee)
Sure thing: “How long?” It was a question that flawed the whumpee. How long? How long were the scars? (Ranging from an 1-3 inches) How long ago did they last do it? (Three months) How long have they been doing it for? (Since they were X years old) How long have they been hiding it for? (Only up until recently, when the scars were harder to hide. Oh, and every summer since they started) How long do they take to heal? (Two weeks or more, depending on depth.) It was a loaded question that asked everything but nothing at all, but what completely threw the whumpee was the caretakers tentativeness. They were expecting to be met with anger and outrage, but instead they were met with comfort and concern. It was jarring, but welcome, especially when the caretaker pulled up the item of clothing to gauge severity as opposed to shaming them. The whumpee didn’t even realise how their hands shook until the caretaker clasped them in their hands, and looked them straight in the eye. “When was the last time?” “[X amount of time]” “That’s good, that’s very good, I’m proud of you.” Tears pricked at the whumpees eyes. “Do you feel like you need to do it again?” The whumpee shook their head. “will you show me where you keep your blades?” The whumpee hesitated, but nodded. “Thank you. I trust you, okay? And I’m proud of you. I’ll help you wherever I can, alright? We’ll do this together.”
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One of the best illness/injury reveals will always be finding your whumpee in the washroom, splashing cold water on their face… for the third time in as many hours.
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kazzledazzledazzle · 5 months
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whumpdaydreamerx · 7 months
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That moment when a Whumpee who’s usually a skilled fighter gets distracted in combat with an enemy. Whether it’s by another Whumpee or Caretaker, team.
The instant they go to throw a punch or attempt to stab a Whumper, and the Whumper side steps. Swiftly pulling out a blade and stabbing Whumpee under their outstretched arm. Or better yet, they grab Whumpee’s arm and twist it inward to stab them with their own weapon.
The gasp or hitched breath Whumpee lets out as they realize what happened. Their friends or teammates horror when they realize what happened.
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whump-card · 6 months
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Whumptember Day Twenty-Eight
“I never should have let it come this far”
Failed hero | Hospital stay | Begging for help
Chronologically: 6
~1990 words
Masterlist
CW: discussion of past noncon, injury reveal, negative self-talk
~~~
“I’m looking for Sir Driemal, is he here?”
Ren stuck out like a sore thumb in the lobby of the fine inn. He was covered in dust and dirt, his shoes were caked in mud, and his hair was matted. All the result of walking for days and sleeping in ditches or barns. The inn’s attendant unsubtly wrinkled her nose at him.
“No, no Sir Driemal here.”
“Well, well what about…” Ren floundered in desperation, “Sir Cassius? Lady Richard? Any knights at all, are any staying here?”
“No,” the attendant said flatly, “I think you’d best be on your way.”
“But they said they’d be here, It’s only Saturday, they’re supposed to be here…” Ren couldn’t help the tears that sprang to his eyes. “Are there any knights here?”
“Try the poorhouse,” the attendant snapped.
“Ren!”
Ren spun around to see Sir Driemal in the doorway to the dining hall. The knight wasted no time striding forward, and almost seemed like he might hug Ren, before he caught himself.
“Ren, I’m so glad you came. I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to leave her.”
“I almost didn’t,” the words flowed out of Ren so easily when he spoke to Driemal.
“Good job, man!” Sir Driemal clapped a hand onto Ren’s shoulder, sending a jolt of electric excitement through Ren’s body and bringing a smile to his face. The knight turned to the attendant, who looked like she wished she could melt into the floor.
“Prepare a room for Ren here, if you will?” Sir Driemal requested.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we’re full tonight,” she said, and this time it sounded like she was telling the truth.
“No matter!” Driemal squeezed Ren’s shoulder reassuringly, causing another buzz of delight, “He can stay in my room! Take his horse to the stables and have his luggage sent up to mine.”
“Oh, sir, I…” Ren’s smile melted; he wasn’t sure whether to be confused, embarrassed, or scared. “I don’t… I don’t have a horse. Or luggage.”
Sir Driemal blinked at him.
“You… You walked here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With nothing?”
“Well - yes, sir.”
Sir Driemal dropped his hand from Ren’s shoulder and looked him up and down, as if noticing his ragged state for the first time. His face darkened with concern.
“We… I had no idea, that you… I would have thought you had a horse, I… I’m so sorry, Ren, we should have left money for you.”
Ren shook his head, horrified at the idea.
“No, no! I made it, that's all that matters.”
Driemal managed a guilty smile.
“You did. You did.” He turned back to the attendant, who quickly pretended she hadn’t been listening. “Set up a hot bath in my room, please.”
She chirped an agreement and Sir Driemal led Ren by the arm into the dining hall, where he let Ren collapse into a chair before bringing him mountains of fine food. Ren ate like a half-starved animal, because he was - for days now he’d been eating garbage and charity. Now he threw back meat pies and cheeses and ale with gusto. Driemal watched him with that same guilty smile. Ren flushed when he caught the knight staring.
“I’m sorry, sir. You must think me very ill-mannered.”
“No, I…” Sir Driemal shook his head, “I only wonder when you last ate.”
Ren didn’t answer.
Once he’d had his fill, Sir Driemal showed Ren to his room. Inn employees were just leaving, and a massive wooden tub of steaming water awaited inside, along with washcloths and towels on a side table. Sir Driemal went to his trunk and rooted around in it.
“The only spare sleeping-clothes I have is my summer set, I hope that’s alright.” He offered a bundle of white linen to Ren.
“That’s alright, sir,” Ren accepted them, then looked around. There was only one bed in the room, a massive four-poster. “Where will I sleep?”
“Do you mind sharing the bed? I won’t have you sleeping on the floor,” Sir Driemal said casually, “Besides, look at the size of that thing! We won’t bother each other.”
Too overwhelmed to decline, Ren nodded.
“I’m going back downstairs to iron out our plans with the others,” Sir Driemal said, “Take your time. Don’t wait up for me, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
Ren was very suddenly alone. He set the clothes down on the side table, and brushed his fingers across the soft, clean fabric. Sir Driemal had no idea how kind he was.
Ren set to work, stripping down. Not wanting to immediately dirty the beautiful tub, he wetted a washcloth and scrubbed himself down twice before getting in to soak. The hot water was immensely soothing to his many bruises and aches. He could hardly believe that such a luxury was his to enjoy.
He stayed in the bath until it was tepid. Once he was clean and dry and able to comb his fingers through his damp hair without them catching, he picked up the sleeping-clothes and shook them out.
His heart sank.
They were indeed summer sleepwear. The top was sleeveless, and the bottoms would only reach his mid-thigh. They would leave countless bruises exposed, as well as his welt-covered shoulders. His hands clenched into fists around the fabric as his breath shook.
He’d just have to wake up before Sir Driemal did, and get dressed quickly. No problem.
He pulled on the clothes and went over to the bed. The far side was slightly mussed, so Ren approached the nearer and climbed under the covers. The bedding was incredibly soft, softer than Lady Twice’s, and smelled fresh and clean.
It also smelled a bit like Sir Driemal - saddlesoap and rosewater - which Ren didn’t mind. He tucked the blankets securely around his shoulders to hide his battered body. He intended to stay awake, to rehearse what he would say to Sir Driemal the next morning, to figure out how precisely to ask to be the knight’s manservant - but sleep seized him instantly.
~~~
When Sir Driemal awoke to delicate snores the next morning, he was confused for a brief moment; then he recalled the events of the previous night. Ren had made it. His journey had clearly been difficult - more difficult than it should have been - but he’d made it. Driemal thanked his lucky stars for the dozenth time, and rolled over to look at the man in question.
His breath caught in his throat.
The night before, Ren had been fully bundled under the covers and Driemal had thought nothing of it. Now, the blankets had slipped down, revealing Ren’s bare shoulder and the back of his neck where he lay on his side, facing away from Driemal. Angry dark red bruises, just starting to go green at the edges, spelled out the unmistakable pattern of belt marks on his shoulderblade. Sinister in a different way, brighter fingerprints were splayed across the back of Ren’s neck.
“Ren!” The name left Driemal’s lips before he could think, and as soon as it did he regretted it. He clearly hadn’t been supposed to see this, wasn’t supposed to know, and now Ren would feel forced to explain whatever had happened before he’d even had breakfast. He cursed himself internally as Ren drew in a breath and raised a hand to rub at his eyes for a moment before freezing with awareness; he could feel Driemal looking at him.
“Ren, I, I’m so sorry,” Driemal stammered, “I didn’t mean to see…”
Ren jerked the covers up over his shoulders and rolled to look at Driemal with bright, frightened eyes.
“It was Lady Twice, wasn’t it?” Again, in his barely-awake state, Driemal couldn’t stop himself from talking. “She beat you for us leaving - my god, Ren, this is all my fault!” he sat up in bed, “I should have done more to convince you to come with us. This never should have happened, I never should have let it come this far, Ren, I’m so sorry. I failed you.”
“Don’t say that,” Ren whispered.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Driemal said miserably, “You were hurt because of our actions. My actions. Is that why you came here with nothing, too? You fled?”
“That - I - I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Ren looked away, fervently mumbling, “I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t be sharing your bed, it’s disgusting, I… Look away.”
Driemal obediently shifted his back towards Ren.
“What are you talking about?”
He heard the blankets rustle and Ren’s bare feet pad across the floor.
“Sir… Where are my clothes?”
“Oh, um, I sent them to be laundered. I’m sorry, I was just -” Ren sobbed, and Driemal’s heart clenched. “Ren?”
“You can look,” Ren’s voice was muffled, “It doesn't matter anymore.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Driemal turned to look at Ren. He stood side-on to Driemal, his hands pressed to his face. The knight stifled a gasp when he registered Ren’s legs. His knees were scraped to hell, and red handprints marred his thighs. It was obvious evidence of a brutal and sustained assault.
“Ren, what…?”
“There were bandits on the road,” Ren rushed out his words, thick with tears, “And I thought they would let me keep my things if I serviced them, but they tricked me, and I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have slept in your bed after that, that was a horrible thing to do to you, sir, I just need my clothes back and then I can leave!”
Silence stretched out as Driemal processed this.
“Ren,” he said softly, and Ren’s shoulder’s tensed, “Ren, I don’t want you to leave.”
Ren shook his head, his hands still glued to his face.
“Ren,” Driemal started to get out of bed, “Please-”
Ren shrank away a step in reaction to Driemal’s movement. “Please don’t hit me!” he gasped into his palms.
Driemal stared, open-mouthed, his words trapped under his tongue. He was spared having to come up with an immediate response by a knock on the door.
“Laundry!” called a voice from beyond.
Driemal stood and moved slowly to the entry, his eyes trained on Ren. Ren stood completely frozen, still hiding his face. Driemal opened the door, blocking the employee’s view of Ren with his body, and received the bag of laundry with a quick thanks before quietly clicking the door closed. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed, and sorted out Ren’s things from his. Scooping them into a bundle, he approached the paralyzed manservant.
“Ren. Look at me, please?” he gently requested. Ren complied, lowering shaky hands and raising his gaze to meet Driemal’s. Ren’s face was red with suppressed tears, and his eyes were wide and his lips pursed with fear. Driemal took a breath.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, willing his rough voice to be soothing, “I’ll go get dressed in Sir Cassius’ room while you get dressed here. Then we’ll all go to breakfast, together. Then you and I will go to a tailor and order you a new wardrobe. We’ll all stay here, in Faville, until it is ready, which will give you some time to recover. Then we’ll ride on, together, to… wherever Lady Richard decides we’re needed. Oh yes, and I’ll be buying you a horse.”
Ren gazed up at him for a long moment, and Driemal was struck with the urge to touch him, to rest a hand on his chest or his cheek, to offer some small comfort. He shifted the clothes in his arms and one hand twitched upward, but it was stalled by Ren nodding.
“Yes, sir,” the manservant whispered, carefully taking the bundle of clothes from the knight and casting his eyes respectfully downwards, “Thank you, sir.”
Driemal wanted Ren to feel safe with him. He wanted Ren to feel comfortable. But, he suddenly realized, that would take a while. He nodded brusquely, busied his overeager hands with gathering his own clothes, and made his exit.
He could wait.
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wolfeyedwitch · 1 year
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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
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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?
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whumpdoyoumean · 6 months
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Whumptober #15
xxx i don’t need you to help me
Fjord looks up from his dinner in time to see Jester skipping toward Caleb, and he looks back down with a shake of his head. The wizard has been standoffish these last few days, more than usual even. Not that Fjord can blame him, really. The fight with the direwolves had been…intense, to say the least. His hand moves to his stomach as he remembers the gaping wounds that had been there, the indescribably horrific feeling of holding his hands over them in an attempt to keep his insides from spilling out. He remembers the sounds that had come from him, agonized and inhuman. He shudders and pushes his food around in his bowl with his fork, his appetite diminished. Caduceus had been able to heal him, but between the miserably cold days and trying to make up for time lost, they’ve been unable to have a decent rest and all of them are feeling it. 
“Caleeeeeb!” He hears Jester’s sing-songy voice. “Look what I made you!” When there isn’t an immediate answer, she adds, “It’s a flower crown, I--”
“I have no interest in your silly things!” Caleb snaps, suddenly and sharply. Fjord’s hand freezes, and he looks over at Beau. She just shrugs slightly, her expression as surprised as his own.
“Oh,” Jester says softly, the woven daisies held gingerly in both hands. She takes a step backward. “Sorry.”
Caleb’s face softens, eyes wrinkling at the corners and mouth turning down with regret, and he sighs heavily. His shoulders slump as he does, his whole body seeming to cave in and shrink. 
“No, Jester. I--I am sorry.” He tries to make eye contact, but his gaze keeps flicking down to the dirt. “That was…very nice of you. I’m just…I am very tired.”
“We’re all tired, Caleb,” Beau says, her voice sharp. 
He nods once, and maybe it’s the shadows cast by the fading light but he looks…exhausted. Haggard. Definitely worse off than any of the rest of them.
“Yes. Yes, of course, I didn’t mean…It is lovely, Jester.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but she’s never able to stay angry at Caleb for long and Fjord can see a corner of her mouth twitching. She lets Caleb stew for a moment longer before beaming at him. 
“That’s alright, Caleb! Here!” She gently drapes the flower crown on the man’s head. He can’t say no now, and she knows it. Fjord  rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but smile at her antics.
It quickly fades when Caleb’s knees buckle. Jester manages to catch his arms before he can collapse fully, letting out a startled sound.
“Caleb!” Nott’s voice joins Jester’s, the goblin scrambling to her feet. 
“I’m alright,” Caleb insists as Jester helps ease him down into a sitting position. The breathiness of his voice undercuts his words, however, and Fjord sets his bowl on the ground, ready to stand if he’s needed. Beau is already on her feet.
“I--I am okay!” His voice cracks, and he’s even more unconvincing than he was before. “I just need to sit down for a minute.”
“What is that?” Nott demands, and Fjord does stand then. 
Caleb tries to bat her hands away, but he’s no match for her speed and she snatches his coat, pulling it away from his torso and letting out a cry, voice rising in pitch and volume. 
“Is that blood?!”
“Beau.” Fjord looks over at her. “You better go get Caduceus.”
She nods once, wide-eyed, and takes off running toward the trees, while Fjord hurries to Jester and Nott and Caleb. The former two are clamoring, while the latter tries (and repeatedly fails) to reassure them.
“Please, Nott, I am fine. Jester, I’m fine!” 
“You’re not fine, Caleb!” Nott cries.
“That is a lot of blood,” Jester adds.
Caleb doesn’t look at either of them, stares at a distant point between them looking flustered. Now that he’s close, Fjord gets a real look at Caleb for the first time in days. He doesn’t look good--dark circles under his eyes that stand out even more against unusually pale skin, a sheen of sweat covering his face despite the chill in the air, despite the visible shivers running through him. 
It’s a wonder no one’s noticed before now.
“Hey.” Fjord puts a hand on Jester’s shoulder and one on Nott’s. “Why don’t you guys go check on the fire?” When he’s met with looks of reluctance and defiance, he adds, “He looks like he’ll be needing it.”
“Let’s go, Nott,” Jester coaxes. “We can get some firewood to help Caleb.”
Nott lets out a discontented hum, but allows herself to be led away by the tiefling. Fjord waits until they’re a few steps away before he kneels down in front of Caleb. The light is beginning to fade and Caleb’s shirt is dark, but there’s a large patch that’s even darker, and four thin gashes in the fabric on the left side of his chest. Now that the others are gone, the I’m fine act has vanished, pain evident on Caleb’s features as he lets out shaky breaths.
“I--I’m going to lay down now, I think,” he murmurs, leaning back and hitting the ground with a grunt, draping his left arm up and over his head.
“How bad?” Fjord asks as he starts the process of pushing up all of the layers of clothing to get a look at the wound.
“Not…Not sure. Haven’t, erm--” He clears his throat. “Haven’t had a chance to look.”
Fjord looks up at him with raised eyebrows. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be concerned. “We’ll have a chat about that later. Shit you wear a lot of clothes…”
“It is col--sheize!” He closes his eyes tight, grimacing in pain as Fjord pushes the innermost layer up and away from his ribs.
“Easy, there--ooh shit.”
There are four ragged, parallel gashes across his ribcage, starting halfway to his midline and extending up and around his side toward his armpit, almost to his back. The whole left side of his torso is covered with dried crimson, the wounds dark with it as they try to heal. One gash is cracked, a thin trickle of fresh blood oozing from it. And the area all around the wounds is visibly inflamed and bright red underneath all the dried blood. Caleb’s chest rises and falls in short, rapid breaths. 
“That bad?” He almost laughs as he says it. 
“It’s not good.” Guilt is beginning to gnaw at Fjord as he realizes that Caleb’s been walking around like this for days. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“It’s just some scratches. You were dy--” He stops. Breathes. “You needed all the healing they could give you, Fjord.”
Ah. Caleb didn’t want them to use any spells on him, so he’d kept his mouth shut. 
The guilt only grows. He examines the wounds, squinting at them in the dying light. 
“You still should’ve said something, Caleb. We can help you. There’s other things besides magic.”
He expects a response to that, at the very least an indignant sound, but to his surprise the wizard says nothing. 
“Caleb?” He looks up and his heart skips in his chest. Caleb’s eyes are closed, his face slack. “Hey, Caleb. Caleb!” 
“Is he alright?” Nott calls.
He reaches up and pats Caleb’s face (fuck, his skin is clammy), ignoring Nott’s shout for the time being as he tries to stir his friend into consciousness. 
“Caleb, c’mon buddy.” Frantic fingers move to his neck, finding the pulse there fast and fluttering. 
“Caleb!” Nott runs back, dumping a small arm load of wood on the ground before falling to her knees near Caleb’s side. Her eyes widen as she takes in the wounds, and she looks up at Fjord. “What happened?”
“He was hurt during the dire wolf attack.”
Nott makes a sound that’s somewhere between worried and frustrated. “Well, why didn’t he say anything?”
Fjord sighs. Because of me, he thinks. He doesn’t look at Nott, instead turning to Jester, who’s wandered over with her own load of firewood. “Have you got a piece of wire squirreled away somewhere?”
Jester nods quickly. 
“K, good. I need you to contact Caduceus. Tell him Caleb is wounded and we need him to get back here as quick as he can.”
“Okay.” She sets the wood she’s gathered down before digging into her bag to find the wire necessary for the sending spell. 
Nott is sitting on the ground now. She’s lifted Caleb’s head so it’s resting in her lap, and now she’s leaning over him, murmuring quiet reassurances. Fjord feels like he’s intruding somehow, so he moves away and picks up some of the discarded sticks and branches to stoke the fire. 
Beau and Caduceus emerge from the woods a few minutes later, and Caduceus quickly busies himself mixing things he’s gathered from the woods into some kind of paste. Beau sits next to Fjord, picking up a stick from the ground and tracing swirling shapes into the dirt. 
“How is he?” she asks after a moment, not looking up from her idle scratching.
“He’s in pretty bad shape. It happened during the fight with the dire wolves. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner…He didn’t say anything because of me, you know.”
Beau and the stick freeze, and she looks up at Fjord. “You’re not really trying to blame yourself for this, are you?”
Fjord doesn’t answer, and Beau glares at him. 
“Fjord,” she says, her voice serious. “You were literally dying. Plus Caleb is pretty good at keeping secrets. None of us saw it. It’s not your fault.”
Fjord takes a deep breath, letting it out as a long sigh. “Well it sure as hell feels like it.”
“Well it’s not. So just stop. Besides, Caduceus knows what he’s doing. Caleb is going to be fine.”
“Yeah,” Fjord says quietly. “Thanks, Beau.” 
“Fjord?” Caduceus says. “I’m going to need your help.”
Fjord stands quickly. “Whatever you need.”
“The mixture I’ve made will help him heal, but I’m afraid it isn’t particularly pleasant. I’ll need you to hold Mister Caleb still in case he wakes up.”
“Sure,” Fjord says, moving over to the unconscious wizard’s side. He kneels in the dirt next to him, putting a hand on his uninjured shoulder. Caduceus positions himself on Caleb’s other side.
“Nott, hold his left arm, please,” Caduceus says as he scoops some of the paste he’s made from a little wooden bowl. “Keep him steady.”
“I’ve got him,” Nott says firmly, gripping Caleb’s left wrist with both hands.
Caduceus nods at her, then smears some of the mixture onto the gashes on Caleb’s chest. Caleb makes a small sound in the back of his throat, his eyebrows twitching into a slight frown, but other than that he hardly stirs as Caduceus continues to scoop the paste onto the wounds. Fjord is starting to think perhaps the firebolg was just being overcautious when Caduceus starts to rub the paste into the open wounds. Caleb’s whole body jerks and he lets out a loud cry.
“It’s alright, Caleb!” Nott says, holding onto his arm with a frantic expression as Fjord puts more of his weight onto Caleb’s good shoulder. 
“Easy, there,” Fjord says. 
“I have to make sure the medicine gets deep into the wounds if he’s going to heal properly,” Caduceus says in that calm, steady voice of his. 
“We’ve got him,” Nott says. “Keep going.”
Caduceus does, and Caleb screams again, writhing, trying to twist away from Caduceus’s touch. Fjord looks up at Nott to make sure she’s got a good hold on him. She does, of course--she possesses an impressive amount of strength considering her size--but he can see on her face that it’s difficult for her, seeing Caleb in pain like this.
“You’re doing very well, Mister Caleb,” Caduceus says. “Nearly done.”
Caleb is trembling by the time Caduceus finishes, his breath coming in small, pained gasps. He doesn’t wake up. 
“He needs some good rest now, for the medicine and his body to do their work,” Caduceus says. He looks up at Fjord, and he seems to stare into him. “I think you could do with a good night’s sleep too, friend.”
Fjord shakes his head a little. “No. No, I should keep watch--”
“We’ve got it,” Beau says. 
“Yes, we can do it,” Jester agrees.
Fjord wants to argue, but he can tell by the others’ faces that it’s not an argument that they’ll let him win. 
“Fine,” he says finally. He’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep, but he lays out his bedroll anyway, settling next to Caleb. 
He watches the stars for a long time, listening to Caleb’s breathing and the crackling of the fire. 
He doesn’t even notice himself tire before he drifts off. 
xxx 
Caleb is already awake when Fjord wakes up in the morning, sitting next to the fire with a blanket wrapped around him. He still looks tired, but he’s improved significantly since the previous night, and is even smiling a little at something one of the others said. 
“How are you feeling?” Fjord asks, walking to join them. 
“I’m alright,” Caleb says. 
“Good,” Fjord says. “Because I’m about ready to kick your ass.”
Caleb frowns. “I’m not sure I’m feeling that alright,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands.
Fjord crosses his arms over his chest. “What the hell were you thinkin’, keeping that from us?” 
Caleb raises his eyes guiltily, his arms scrunching up toward his shoulders. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“Yeah, well, it fucking was,” Fjord says. It comes out sounding harsh, and he knows it, but he doesn’t hold back, the worry that’s been knotted in his gut coming out as frustration. “Never again, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Caleb says. 
Fjord is determined not to let Caleb off easy, so he just sets his jaw and nods curtly. “Good. We’re a team now, Caleb. You don’t have to just handle shit on your own.”
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
The genuineness in Caleb’s voice is enough to make Fjord soften, just a little, and he sighs. Damn it. 
“Yeah, well. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
xxx 
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cataffer · 1 year
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Has someone written up the 'missing' scene from The Defenders between Matt being unconscious at the end of S1 Ep6 and him waking up at the start of ep7 in the t-shirt.
The bit where he's taken from the abandoned building, had his shirt taken off, been assessed for injuries, re-dressed in an NYPD t-shirt and laid on the couch... all while unconscious?
I need it please.
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