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sideblogforweirdshit · 6 months

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Whump Reference Post for First, Second, and Third Degree Burns

Hi whump writers of Tumblr! Sorry it's been a hot minute; turns out grad school is hard. Anyways, I'm back with another reference post!

There is one image in this post, but there are no graphic images. It's a screenshot of text.

However, I do get a little bit graphic with my descriptions, as I'm trying to provide material that will help with writing, so read with care.

There are six categorizations of burns. They range from first degree (sunburn level) to sixth degree (exposed and/or charred bone).

In the interest of brevity (and also my limited knowledge), I'm going to only address the first, second, and third degree categories of burns. I have various information about each type of burn in each of their sections, and then I go more in depth on the pain associated with each type at the end of the post.

First Degree

Definition:

First degree burns are superficial, and affect only the outer layer of skin (epidermis).

Possible causes:

Mild sunburn, hot water.

Appearance:

First degree burns will be red, dry, and have no blisters.

Pain:

First degree burns are minimally painful in the moment, and negligibly painful afterwards. The skin becomes itchy as it heals, which may come any time from hours to a day or so after the initial burn.

Ideal treatment:

Run the burn under cold water, or apply cold compresses. (You’ll see some people writing about putting cold mud or dirt on these. That not decrease the pain. The tiny particles of dirt will rub all against the sensitive burned skin like sandpaper.)

Apply normal antibiotic ointment and bandage if desired, but honestly it’s not really necessary as long as the skin isn’t broken.

This can be treated at home.

Healing time:

Generally takes less than a week to heal.

Second Degree

Definition:

Second degree burns involve the epidermis and part of the dermis (the thicker layer of skin under the epidermis).

Possible causes:

Brief contact with boiling water, 1-2 seconds contact with hot metal (hot like a pan on a mid-heat stove, not hot like white-hot), some mid-level sunburn, etc. They're the most common type of burn.

Appearance:

Second degree burns will have shiny skin and the skin will be visibly discolored.

There may also be blisters that form within the first 24 hours. The blisters will be a very thin layer of skin that will fill up with fluid like a bubble. If you gently push on a part of this bubble, you can see the fluid move to the other side. Depending on the area of the body in which this burn occurs, the skin of this blister can be very delicate, and a lot of care needs to be taken in order to keep it unbroken (recommended for healing to protect against infection). If the blister breaks or comes off, the skin beneath will be red, wet, and slimy to the touch.

Pain:

These burns are very painful.

Immediately after the initial burn, it will be a strong and consistent pain. Ice can be applied or the burn can be submerged in cold water. If this is not done for long enough however, removal of the ice / cold water will bring back the pain in one or two minutes.

If the blister breaks, there is a significant increase in pain. Ideally, you shouldn't touch the exposed gooey skin because of the risk of contaminating it with the bacteria on your fingers. However, if you want to cause a lot of low-cost mid-to-high-level pain for a brief moment, your whumper can jam their finger right on that exposed wound. Salt and other granular substances are also extremely effective here; the nerves are primed for more pain. After a while however, this will have lesser and lesser of an effect, as the place becomes almost numb.

The blisterless open wound is a highway for bacteria. If you want to reduce infection risk, you need to clean it out thoroughly after the salt situation (which is also painful!) and then bandage it.

Keeping the burn bandaged will reduce the pain. Some doctors recommend temporarily covering a new burn with cling wrap until the burned person can get to a medical professional or treat the wound themselves. Oddly, regular cling-wrap does actually reduce the pain significantly.

Ideal treatment:

If the object that caused the burn wasn't clean, the burned area should be gently cleaned with soap and water.

One should then run the burned area under cold water for at least five and up to thirty minutes.

If the skin is broken, an antibiotic ointment and bandage should be applied. If the skin is unbroken, bandage anyways, but antibiotic ointment isn’t as necessary.

The burn should be kept covered for at least the first few days. If skin was broken, the area should be covered until new skin grows over.

This can be treated at home.

Healing time:

Depending on the size, depth, and complications, this can take anywhere from a week (for small burns) to several months to heal.

Third Degree

Definition:

Third degree burns go all the way through both the epidermis and the dermis and may go into the hypodermis (the subcutaneous layer of skin that has the fat).

Possible causes:

Prolonged contact with stovetop-level-hot metal, prolonged exposure to flames from a fire, prolonged contact with or submersion in boiling water, acidic or basic chemicals, dry ice.

Appearance:

The burned part itself may be white or black. This is because the skin level that contains the blood vessels (the dermis) has been burned through.

The outer edges of the burned area may only be second degree, depending on how the burn was administered, and blisters may form here.

After a day or two, the very outer edge of the burned area will form a surrounding line of red. This is granulated tissue, and is a sign of the body trying to heal itself.

The area within an inch or two of the burn may become slightly red, swollen, and hot to the touch. As long as this is slight, this is normal, and not infection. The area of the body is just traumatized and working overtime.

Scarring will definitely occur. If the burned area is large, skin grafts may minimize the scarring.

Pain:

These types of burns aren’t really painful. There is of course the initial piercing pain shock when the hot object comes into contact with the skin, but after the skin layers that contain the nerves have been burned through, the pain is negligible (if there at all). This burn looks terrifying, and like it should be absolutely agonizing, but it’s not even close to that. There may be some slight pain around the outsides of the burn, where the skin is minimally affected, but most of the area will be nearly numb.

Ideal Treatment:

The area should be cleaned thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly. The outside layer of dead skin should be scraped off when cleaning with soap and water. Leaving the dead skin there may impede healing, and as long as the wound is covered with something, risk of infection isn’t too significant.

Antibiotic ointment and a bandage and gauze should be applied to absorb everything that leaks out (if the skin is broken, pus will leak out).

If the burn encompasses more than a small area (or a narrow area) skin grafts are recommended.

This can technically be treated at home, as long as there’s no infection.

Healing time:

Smaller burns generally take at least three weeks to heal. Larger burns can take years.

More In Depth On The Pain

First degree burns tend to feel "just the wrong side of warm" when they first occur, and shortly afterwards tend to feel kind of prickly. A longer time afterwards, it will be overly sensitive and warm to the touch, and will be uncomfortable to put clothing over. As the burn heals, the sensitivity will turn into mild itchiness.

Second degree burns are a sharp pain. If it's a quick cause (boiling water that quickly falls off, hot metal quickly removed), it's likely that the brain won't initially register the heat, just the sharp sting. Within a minute or so, that sting will increase significantly. As said before: running the area under cold water, or covering it with ice will reduce the pain, but it'll come back quite quickly once you remove the cold source. If you can suffer through the initial 5-10 minutes of the increased stinging, it'll fade enough that you can think rationally again. Longer term: the blister itself is not necessarily painful, but if the skin covering it breaks, the stinging pain from before will resurface (at a lower level, but longer-lasting).

Third degree burns start out with the same sharp pain as second degree, but that pain fades as the nerves in the skin are burnt out and killed. Depending on the vector of heat, this can be extremely quick (very hot metal will cause the sharp second degree pain to fade within the minute) or much slower (slowly heating water in which someone's body part lies will have a much longer period of the sharp second degree pain, and will be much more agonizing than the metal). Once the nerves are burned through, there comes a kind of numbness. The nerves at the very edge of the burn are still alive and somewhat functioning, and there will likely be a bit of sharpness there, but the majority of the affected area will be free from any sensation. The worst part of this type of burn isn't the pain, but the intrinsic horror that it's such a significant deformity that there is no pain. The numbness will continue after the initial burn and into the healing stage, to the point where the affected person might not even remember they're injured until they feel the liquid from the burn trickle down over their skin. As the healing progresses, the itchiness will be absolutely maddening. The area must be covered by something because the affected person will likely unconsciously scratch at it to try to get some relief. Any scratching will set back the healing process a significant amount.

Taglist: @blood-and-regrets

#whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #whump reference post #burn whump #uhhh i can't think what else to tag this #let me know if you want a tag added? I'm still learning the whump tag system so I apologize if i missed something obvious #also i realize not everyone despises itchiness to the extent that I do #but the itchiness is BY FAR the worst part of a third-degree for me #let me know questions concerns etc etc #thank you!

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whump-kia · 11 months

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a comprehensive overview of burns and burn treatment: whump writer reference edition

extremely long post ahead! here's the lowdown:

Degrees of a burn (first through sixth)

First aid

Medical treatment

Complications and infection

A Whump Writer's Reference/Recap

End notes

(also huge shout out to @i-eat-worlds for helping me out! this is all inspired by a one-shot, and they hopped in to give me some ideas and things to research. thank you worlds!)

(disclaimer: I am not a doctor, nor have I been to medical school. this is done through research and from the eyes of a writer. if I have incorrectly listed something, correct me via an ask and I will change it. thanks for understanding!)

1. Burn degrees

There are six degrees of burns. The first three, lower level degrees, are the most common. Here's a quick overlook on all of your options:

First degree: A superficial burn affecting only the outer layer of skin. Symptoms include redness, itchiness, dryness, and a low-to-medium level of pain. Scarring is possible, but minimal.

Partial second degree: Extends past the outer layer of skin and partially into the second layer. Symptoms include darker red tones, blistering, swelling, white splotches, and higher levels of pain. Complications include infections.

Deep second degree: Extends deeper into the second layer of skin. Symptoms include severe pain, dark red, blistering and swelling. Scarring is much more common here.

Third degree: Burns surpassing the skin layers and entering the layer of fat below it. Symptoms include black, brown, yellow or white leathery skin, either intense pain or numbness if nerve endings were burned, loss of feeling and movement.

Fourth degree: Extending into muscle. Symptoms include complete lack of pain, burn site is charred and blackened or white and lifeless, possible exposure of bone. Complications include infection, loss of feeling, and can require amputation.

Fifth and sixth degrees: Past muscle and into or through bone. Symptoms include exposed or charred bone, similar to fourth degree in coloration. Complications result in permanent body damage, total loss of skin and nerve endings, and fatalities from just the burn.

2. First aid

Upon immediately receiving a mild burn covering a small portion of your body, such as your forearm or hand, run it under lukewarm or cool water* for twenty minutes. This will encourage the skin to cool and release trapped heat, reducing damage later.

Ice cold or freezing water will cause blood vessels to constrict. This lowers the blood supply to the burn, further damaging the tissues, and increasing swelling, pain, and chances of scarring.

*If there is no running water, immersing or using a wet towel are your next best options. Keep in mind that cloth contact on a burn is painful and despite the cooling effect will still be uncomfortable.

Upon receiving a severe burn (third degree and beyond), you'll want to cover the wound with a clean cloth and get to emergency help immediately.

If the skin is broken, do not use water. Any possible pathogens or bacteria can get inside the body and cause sepsis, which we'll go over in the next section.

Upon a victim receiving burns on over 20% of their body, you'll want to remove any jewelry, belts or tight items to release heat and promote breathing. Cover the burn in a clean dry cotton cloth if possible. Check for symptoms of shock, and administer CPR if necessary. Call services to bring care to you, or aid the victim in getting to emergency care immediately.

Although you want to remove metal and jewelry, you do not want to attempt the removal of cloth stuck to the skin. Doing so can cause open wounds and increase the chances of infection, detailed in the next section.

3. Medical treatments

Upon entering medical assistance, the victim will first be stabilized with oxygen/machine breathing and fluids. After the patient is stabilized, focus returns to the burn.

There are three main goals to medical treatment of a burn: reducing/minimizing oedema, or fluid buildup in tissue, reducing tissue damage, and preventing infection. Treatments include:

1. Fluid replacement: Replacing fluids to the body through an intravenous (IV) or intraosseus (IO) infusion. Fluid loss can be caused by dehydration, vomiting, diarrhea, bleeding, or fluid shifts*.

2. Hyperbaric treatment: exposing the body to 100% oxygen content. This can increase circulation, reduce oedema, and assist in the preservation of damaged tissue.

3. Uses of antibiotics or topical ointments: Aloe vera is a topical lotion used to cool minor burns like sunburns. Mafenide is the most commonly used antibiotic to protect against infection in severe burns, and bacitracine for minor burns.

To clean a burn wound, rinse it in water and wash it gently. Pat it dry, and cover it in an antibiotic ointment. Then, cover it with a clean, dry gauze, and wrap it with a bandage. Avoid sticking bandages that will pull against damaged skin, and avoid rubbing alcohol, iodine and hydrogen peroxide, which will slow the healing of the wound. Do not pop blisters, as it increases the chances of infection. Change the bandages daily.

4. Complications and infection

And my favorite part: everything that goes wrong even after the initial burn.

1. Shock: A condition occurring after injury when the body isn't getting enough blood flow. This is an extremely lethal complication.

There are four kinds of shock, but the most common is hypovolemic. Symptoms can include pale, clammy skin, rapid and shallow breaths, rapid pulse, anxiety, confusion, disorientation, weakness, nausea and vomiting.

To treat shock: if the victim's legs are unaffected, raise them above their heart, immobilize any fractures and administer first aid, loosen any tight clothing, and maintain the victim's body temperature. The warmer they are, the faster the blood flow.

2. Capillary leak syndrome: A condition common in burns, when anti-inflammatory chemicals are released, causing the capillary walls to shrink and allow fluids like plasma and water to leak out.

The body's blood pressure rapidly drops. White blood cells can escape, which assists in initial burn treatment, but now that it's outside the capillaries, any fluids lost can no longer circulate, leading to dehydration. This is the main cause of oedema, as stated above. Symptoms of CLS include malaise, lightheadedness, headache, and feeling faint or dizzy.

To treat CLS: Fluid replacement to ensure dehydration does not become too severe, and hyperbaric oxygen treatment can assist in increasing blood flow. Capillary permeability will lessen close to a day after the initial burn is recieved.

3. Hypothermia: A significant drop in body temperature, most commonly associated with prolonged exposure to the cold.

Yes, you read that right--you can get hypothermia from a burn. Victims of burns covering a large amount of body surface area (BSA) will have trouble retaining warmth, due to the heat of the burn attempting to escape. Symptoms include shivering, exhaustion, confusion, numbness in extremities, difficulty speaking or thinking and slow pulse.

To treat hypothermia: Treat the patient in a warm area, ensure any fluids in their IV or IO are warm, let them drink something warm, give them blankets, etc. etc.

4. Infection: when a wound is infected, bacteria or pathogens have entered and compromised the healing process. If left untreated, the infection can spread to the bloodstream and cause sepsis, an extremely dangerous condition resulting in organ failure or even death.

Infections are incredibly serious complications, especially when the burn covers more than 20% of the victim's BSA. Symptoms include fever, discoloration of the wound, pus or other leakage, increased heat around the wound, and possible foul smells emanating from it.

To treat infection: Additional antibiotics should be taken, possible added painkillers, daily cleaning may be increased to more than once a day. Occasionally products made from ionic silver may be used, which provide quicker clearing of infection.

5. Sepsis: Inflammation throughout the entire body, caused by infections leaking into the bloodstream. Critical and incredibly fatal if not treated properly.

Symptoms of sepsis may include but are not limited to: chills, dizziness, low blood pressure, fever, shivering, low temperature, confusion and altered consciousness, rapid and short breathing, delirium, rapid heart rate, organ dysfunction, skin discoloration and exhaustion.

To treat sepsis: Continue fluid replacements, possible mechanical ventilation, added use of antibiotics and steroids, added use of a catheter. Essentially, full hospitalization with constant medical attention until the body fights off remaining infections.

5. A Whump Writer's Reference/Recap

A short ending section of things to think about when writing a scene with a burn victim whumpee.

Before delving into the scene, decide which degree of burn your whumpee receives. First aid, treatment and symptoms will all depend on that.

When writing from the whumpee's point of view, use comparisons. Not everyone knows what it feels like to fall torso first into the bonfire at the house party, but everyone can imagine the flood of panic when you touch a hot stove--so use that metaphor and elevate it. The more description of the pain, the more involved you'll feel.

When writing from an outsider's point of view, don't be afraid to be gruesome. Be visceral. There are levels of discovery to a burn--initial receiving, panic and chaos, and seeing the entire wound--so really get those details in, make the reader see that burn in their mind's eye.

The pattern goes burn administered, first aid, medical treatment, and recovery/complications, so if you're like me and have trouble laying out scenes, use that as a backbone.

Touching a severe burn and removing your hand can take the skin with it! It's gross, but great for shock factor!

All those times I said "do not do this, do not do that"? Ignore 'em when you're writing. You can make the worst of the situation. Not everyone knows first aid, so if you want the pain, let your caretakers screw up, and badly. The consequences are listed too, so play around!

Some words to use when describing the pain of a burn:

Burn, fire, flame, inferno, blinding, flash, disintegrate, digging, agony, pull, tear, rip, burrow, cave, searing, roaring, boiling, sizzling, melting, ache, pins and needles, blurring, catch, white hot, coil, threading, frenzy, howling, writhing, thrashing, pulsing, torture, numbing, chafing, loss of feeling

And some words to describe someone who's been badly burned:

Pale, pallid, heaving, shaky, shivering, dizzy, swaying, hissing, panic, sweating, fluttering, weak, nauseous, thready pulse, limp, hoarse, shuddering, slumped, in and out of consciousness, exhausted, mumbling, murmuring, incoherent

6. End notes

things to look up for further study: burn pathophysiology, capillary permeability, and first aid treatment of burns. this is all just for first glance and ideas, if you get stuck in a scene like I did, so do further research if you want to!

thanks for reading, folks! i hope you enjoyed this very very long post. do you want to see more of these, or do you prefer the shorter prompts? if I make another reference list like this, what would you like to see?

have a cookie for making it to the end 🍪 and go drink some water. i hope you have a wonderful day!

(sources: Mayo Clinic, Cleveland Clinic, National Institutes of Health, and many others. this isn't an official research paper, it's a tumblr post, and I don't claim to have written the articles myself. these words are compiled for wide range of reference for writers specifically, and not for deliberate study. thank you for reading!)

#whump #whumpblr #whump prompt #whump reference #reference post #whump community #burn whump #burns #burning #medical post #medical whump #hurt/comfort

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justplainwhump · 10 months

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⛑ for Adrian

Gauze

This is not entirely "tender" first aid, but I hope it's coming close.

Blanca takes care of Adrian's wounds.

[Pet Safety]

Content: BBU, BBU recovery, some light medical whump (as in, wound cleaning), very vaguely mentioned torture.

Bea was a quick learner and utterly unimpressed by the sight of wounds. Adrian's stomach got queasy even imagining what the holes ripped into his neck and shoulder like l looked like. The calming rhythm of Bea's breath on his skin didn't waver though. "Shhh," she mumbled, when he flinched under her touch. "You'll be better soon. You're healing."

He wondered where she'd learned such softness. She'd never been treated with it herself.

"Still hurts," he replied through clenched teeth. His voice was still rough.

"Healing hurts." Bea took another swab, applied disinfectant, and went to the clean next wound.

Adrian winced when it touched raw skin.

"You're not very good with pain," she observed. "Your scars say you should be used to it."

"Being used to it-" Adrian sucked in a breath when the swab brushed over an infected spot. "-does... doesn't make it better."

"Hmm," Bea hummed. "They never taught you to stop whining and keep smiling?"

"No," Adrian grimaced. "Who taught you that? The handlers?"

"Everyone," she said nonchalantly. "So they could make it a challenge to make me cry anyway. You, however - Making you cry wouldn't be a challenge at all, Adrian Delgado."

"Oh?" He tried to smirk at her, as well as he could without turning his head and putting even more strain on his wounds. "Is that what you're doing?"

Bea clicked her tongue. "I'm trying to not make you cry. That is my challenge. You're making it hard." She prepared another wipe. "Almost half way done. Next one is the deepest."

Almost half. Three out of seven wounds in total, where the desperate Guard Dog's titanium enforced teeth had pierced through Adrian's protective clothes and dug into his skin. He'd been lucky, the doctors had assured him. Without armour, the Guard would've have ripped his throat out.

Disinfectant stung at the next place.

Bea worked calmly and efficiently.

"Titanium teeth," she stated. "Only for the best Fighters. Going right for the neck. Like the Fighters are made to attack."

"Fighter isn't a WRU designation." Adrian sucked in another breath, when Bea's hands moved to a wound on his shoulder.

"Chewtoy isn't one either, you said." She pressed the disinfectant-soaked swab onto the last wound. "Your company's rules aren't universal."

His face contorted into something between a pained grimace and a frown. "What... what do you know about Fighters?"

Bea dropped the used swab into a bag. "That's a strange question to ask. There's a lot to know, probably. But all I know is, they're dangerous, and they're sad." She looked up and gave a half shrug. "But all pets are sad, so that's normal."

"How... How do you know that?"

"You feel it. In-"

"Not that they're sad. I meant... how did you meet Fighters?"

"Jack's Guard Dogs, they all fight." She tilted her head. "That's why he gave me to them. When they won."

Adrian let his head sink back and closed his eyes. Of course they were. Of course he did. Jack was just the type for that. And Adrian's boss had just made him drop the investigation.

"The... the sixth one, too?"

"Mac." Blanca's brow furrowed, even though her voice softened. "Mac's at the arena. He's, um." She pulled at her shirt and twisted to expose a scar on the back of her neck, and shoulder. A half moon of circular scars, arranged in a way too familiar pattern. "He's got enforced teeth, too."

Adrian swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. "Why?," he asked.

"Jack told him to." She rubbed the scars. "It wasn't... it wasn't bad. He didn't bite down hard. Not like the one who hurt you. He... he didn't do it for love. Mac..." She shrugged. "He held back." Decidedly, she reached for a package of gauze. "You'd have cried anyway, Adrian Delgado." Her smile is teasing, soft, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I didn't."

Bea lifted her hands to apply the bandage, but Adrian put a hand on hers to stop her.

"Bea. I..." He bit his lip, calling up the image of Jack, his ranch, his cowboy boots, his sickening smile, the drop of his voice when he'd tried to bribe Adrian, the gleam of the signet ring that had taken Bea's eye. He'd wanted to take that man down, even before he'd met the person behind the Chewtoy. "I want to help Mac."

I want to destroy Jack, he thought.

She shook her hand free and unwrapped the gauze. "Why?"

"Because it's the right thing."

Because I want to take everything away from Jack and see him fucking lose.

"You don't even know Mac." Her fingers were oddly cool, when she pressed the bandage on his skin and started to wrap the gauze around his neck. "He's angry."

"So am I."

Her finger was under his chin, lifting his face to look at her. There was something hard in her gaze. "Mac is not nice, Adrian. He does not want to be helped."

"Do you want to help him, Bea?"

The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her eyes widened a bit, before she shook her head. "I'm a pet. I... He... He's Jack's and I... I can't." She shook her head again. "No, Sir."

"Why?"

Something like anger flared up in her eye. "A pet doesn't care about another pet. A pet cares for nothing but her owner. A pet is loyal only to her owner. A pet-" Her voice had become flat, mechanical almost.

"Okay," Adrian whispered and lifted his hand, changed to his other hand when the strain at his wound reminded him of his limitations. Gently, he rested his fingers to her cheek. "Okay, Bea, it's alright, I won't ask this again tonight."

She closed her eye at his touch and weakly nodded. "I just want to be good," she mumbled. Light caught in her lashes, broke on a single tear. "Please, Master Adrian. Allow me to be good."

"Okay." He brushed away the tear. "Okay."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Little show-off," he remarked softly. "It's not so hard to make you cry after all, is it."

She chuckled a little bit against his chest, and it just vaguely sounded like a sob. "I'm not done with your wounds yet." She pulled back and looked up at him. "Don't make me change my careful approach, Adrian Delgado."

He turned his head, baring his neck to her to finish with the bandage.

He'd promised her to not ask again tonight. That didn't mean he wouldn't dig into it, right after she went to sleep. He'd find the sixth Guard Dog. He'd get him out of this arena, all of them. And he'd watch fucking Jack Donnell go to court for what he'd done.

A grim smile crept up on his face.

By his side, Bea tugged at the gauze, a tiny bit too harshly, bandage pressing against raw skin, and he let out a strangled whine.

"Told you," she mumbled into his ear. "Too easy."

Luckily, he couldn't turn his head.

Otherwise, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to resist the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

---

Pet safety tag list: @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy @whumpzone @tragedyinblue e

#bbu #bbu recovery #adrian #Blanca #prompt fill #pet safety series #guard dog six

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staydandy · 2 years

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Whump List Library - South Korea 🇰🇷

As of June 4, 2023 this Library will no longer be updated. Please refer to the New Version here.

A list of whump lists I’ve made ^^ .. click the titles to go to the lists Obviously this is a WIP .. links will be added as I go .. but I guess till all the links are added, it’s kinda a preview ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ To Directory

100 Days My Prince (2018) - Full List

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Arthdal Chronicles (2019)

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Defendant (2017)

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Link: Eat, Love, Kill (2022)

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#whump #whump list #whump list library #south korea #can you see why I want to learn korean now?#asian whump #drama

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startrekandberryrolls · 2 years

Text

Heart In My Hands

(Una WHUMP - Strange New Worlds)

Everyone dies.

Most just don’t die twice.

For Una this must be- god- maybe the sixth time.

If she comes back from this one, she’s gonna break their tie. Pike has never wanted to lose so badly before.

Right now, he’s just stuck with her heart in his literal hands as Chapel yells instructions at him angrily. Man can that woman bawl.

She’s competent at least, though. That keeps him from feeling worse but- right now- there’s nothing that can make him feel better.

His ship has barely escaped that skirmish alive, his sickbay’s in such disrepair that the power’s stopped working and god- there’s gonna be more than a few funerals to plan by the time this is over.

Right now, though, he’s gotta keep his first officer’s heart beating. Gotta keep massaging and squeezing. He needs to keep up the rhythm and maintain the beat.

That’s the thing about being a captain, sometimes you just gotta do something. Not think about it too deeply.

“M’BENGA!” Screams Chapel and it makes Pike’s heart drop and- god no he can’t drop Una’s heart and what’s even thinking and-

“Captain, keep her heart going or I swear to god I’ll castrate you where you stand.” Warns the nurse and he falls back into place.

Pike’s has cursory medical training, enough to learn that when shit hits the fan you do what the nurses are telling you and you do it unquestioningly.

Even when your best friend’s chest is split open and her ribs are showing and her lungs-

Are moving. Her lungs are finally fucking moving and it’s DISGUSTING.

He’s retching into the garbage disposal the

moment Christine excuses him.

***

“Report.” He barks as he bursts into sickbay. He’s got the padd with the deaths already in hand and really, really wants to bring back the bastards who did this just to kill them one more time.

Twenty two lives. And he hopes to god it’s not about to be twenty three.

“She’s stable. Intubated but-“

“Brain damage?” He asks because Pike wouldn’t know what to do if that was true. If she lost the oxygen she needed so desperately because he couldn’t keep her damned heart beating properly.

“Too early to tell.” Frowns the Doctor, approaching his friend very carefully. “Christopher- are you-“

No. No he is not fucking okay.

***

In the end, Una wakes.

She’s awake and Pike finds that he’s fully prepared to resign his commission if she’s gonna need round the clock care after this. If she’s wheelchair bound or disabled or-

and that’s when it hits.

He’d always thought space was where he’d found the meaning of home. That Enterprise would always be that place.

But it won’t. Not without Una at his side and-

Is Una his home? Is she what defines that?

The thought is sobering. Terrifying.

***

Una is fine. And he breaks.

He holds her and just lets it all spill out pitifully like he’s the one who just had to be resuscitated and had a tube shoved down his lungs for twenty four hours straight.

“How many?” She manages, finally. Her voice is unpracticed and shaky and god she must be in pain but the first thought that comes to her mind is how many that they must have lost on that day.

“Thirty nine.”

That was the current tally, apparently. He knows it’ll hurt her but Una deserves more than a lie.

“Chris, that’s almost 10% of the crew.”

He knows that. It’s actually 9,7%, for the record. He’s had to do the maths for the admiralty already.

But all he’s managing to think is ‘thank god none of that number is you’.

#strange new worlds #star trek #una #number one #pike #fanfiction

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generic-whumperz · 4 months

Text

The Aid: Chapter 5, Part 2- MALICE

TW & CW: all hurt/no comfort; slave fic pet whump (so dehumanization, but nothing too severe); mentions of past and future non-con; strangulation/choking; near-death experience; death threat; gun and shock collar mention; explicit language (insults); alcoholism (Whumper) & drug dependency (Whumpee); sadistic, creepy, intimate, bully Whumper*; Caretaker turned Whumpee; emotional manipulation; recovering starved and beaten Whumpee (including mention of issues with being able to hold down food); post-coma & surgery recovery; mention of broken bones, stabbing, death and resuscitation; drugged Whumpee (partially voluntary, partially forced); Whumpee is an adult (mid-20s) but called “boy”; ANGST

*If you are sensitive to creepy asshole Whumper behavior, specifically name calling and taunting, I recommend sitting this one out.

Author’s note: Sorry for making this a two-parter because of the word count! This chapter has been over two months in the making (getting Covid, midterms, and finals really fucked up my flow), and I apologize for the long wait! I hope it’s worth it; I put a lot of love and care into this (as much love and care as you can put into a story dedicated to whumping a guy lol)! Warning: there’s a bit of exposition sprinkled in here (especially in part 1) that I hope piques your interest. Surprise-surprise, I’m a bitch that enjoys worldbuilding, so be prepared for some AU lore! But I hope this exploration helps introduce what’s happening here, as I think some explanations are due in our sixth part! Our boy is finally awake and alert enough to talk, so we finally glimpse his and Wyatt’s dynamic 1-on-1. It’s only going to get more batshit crazy and worse from here on out, enjoy!

Look out for the special blue text! (Explanation at the bottom with the Footnotes!)

Word Count: 4337

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

“He won’t see ya’r shoulder, won’t know about the bandages.” Sullivan mused, still trying to patch together a lie to sell his brother.

“Ya dislocated ya’r shoulder falling off the ladder cleanin’ windows- that famously hurts like a bitch, don’t it? It didn’t set right, and we all know ya’r a little pussy, so ya’re just actin’ like ya got stabbed.” Sullivan concluded, looking all too pleased with himself and not holding back a single ounce of exultation. He acted as if he just discovered a new cure for a disease that stumped the scientific community for years the way he gloated, but no, he just contrived what he believed to be a half-believable fib.

The Aid fought not to roll his eyes, but his fear of being further chastised kept him in line.

“Yes, sir.” The Aid gulped, swallowing the mild annoyance bubbling in his voice.

Sullivan chortled, attentively watching The Aid continue working on the oatmeal one small bite at a time. It was awkward, to say the least, but The Aid was sure they both hated this arrangement equally- but who were they to argue against the Doctor’s orders?

“Make sure he eats a meal with each dose; it’s critical for the drug trials.” Dr. Paul instructed. “In fact, it’s best if you watch him. You need to log how much he eats and know if he vomits anything back up, pills especially.”

“Sir?” The Aid’s eyes wandered up to his Master’s. He kept his head down in a practiced fashion, taking special care to ensure his posture read as meek and timid.

“What?” Sullivan was short, his voice echoing a growl- how dare the menial ask him a question.

The Aid swallowed. “Why is Master Lon coming over?”

Silence.

Sullivan’s eyes straitened, studying The Aid’s apprehensive face as if searching for an ulterior motive to the slave’s modest inquiry. They didn’t often have guests, and Wyatt famously didn’t have the best relationship with his older brother, Waylon Jr.

“Emma has some kinda family tree school project. Mom kept binders of old family stuff, so Lon wants to take some for her to use. Ya know how he is, only comes ‘round when he wants somethin’.” Wyatt sighed. “I dunno if he’s bringin’ her or not, but I don’t want her lingerin’ ‘round in here with you, so if she comes in here, ya tell her ya’re contagious an’ that she needs to stay out, got it?”

“Yes’sir.” The Aid said tersely before he took a nibble of the buttery toast, which got slightly easier to down with each bite. Not focusing on the food helped it go down; as much as he disliked making conversation with the dastardly jackass who tormented him, it was the only thing that helped preoccupy part of his mind.

He contemplated what Sullivan said and assumed it to be true- at least partially.

But he knew it couldn’t be the only reason. . . There was a faint yuck wafting in the wind.

Suddenly, a rogue thought popped into his head, ‘Money. I bet Wyatt asked Lon for money again. And he’s bringing his daughter along to ensure Wyatt won’t start a fight and get physical.’

A premonition.

It startled him initially since he hadn’t gotten one in a while. He forgot how strong and sure they came through, ringing through his mind clear as day and loud as a whistle. Unlike his empathy, these “knowings” weren’t as easy to switch off since they happened randomly. Of course, he couldn’t control them or how or where he got them, and they conveniently never happened when he needed them most, and they seemed to only surface for small, inconsequential events that rarely even affected him directly.

He resented them for that reason. Knowings? He didn’t know shit! The universe baited him with crumbles of information, simulacrums, or glimpses of the future with little to no context or indicator of what the hell any of it even meant. “Pretenses” was more fitting.

What's the point of having abilities, even despised ones, if they don’t even help you? (‘Can’t get a fair warning about when the next time this asshole is gonna try to stab me, or beat me, or, or- maybe best not to know when things like that are coming. . .’)

But his inability to harness any control around them was no one’s fault but his own.

Like most things in life, these abilities worked best if maintained with adequate exercise, usually in the form of meditative practices he didn’t keep up with. The lack of sufficient exercise left the ability-muscle part of his brain weak and underdeveloped. Ergo, he considered his abilities mostly worthless, aside from granting him the honorific title as a Mystic, which itself was little more than a scourge to all those unfortunate to be given the designation that bore as much polarization and vilification as the word “witch” in colonial-era North America.

The only merit “Mystic” held was in the industrialized slave trade, which sold supernatural practitioners at inflated prices to buyers seeking products with a distinguished novelty, a competitive edge over the average Tom, Dick, and Harry who lacked the niche, coveted endowments used by their Masters for party tricks and a plethora of personal gains alike. But most commoners, the everyday folk, didn’t pay mind to such matters, especially not after the extremist-led Regime raided D.C. after the untimely death of two-thirds of the population, leaving most of the country in post-apocalyptic ruin.

Sullivan cleared his throat and impatiently tapped his fingers on his knee, “Lonnie’s comin’ ‘round noon, so ya got plenty of time to get cleaned up. I pulled out mom’s ol’ shower chair an’ set it up for ya in ya’r tub this mornin’ while ya were still sleepin'.’ So now ya can sit an’ don’t gotta hobble ‘round on one leg- ya’re welcome for that. . .”

He cleared his throat again, eagerly waiting for a reciprocal “Thank you, Master,” for his kind gesture that wouldn't go unnoticed before continuing- “An’ I made sure to set out the bandages- ‘er, gauze- or whatever the hell the Doc left, on the sink for ya. I guess ya can give me a holler if ya need help. Suppose it wouldn’t be in either of our best interests for ya to wrap it wrong an’ get a nasty infection or somethin’ of the sort.”

An abrupt wave of grief hit The Aid, filling his chest with a qualm of heavy sadness and demanded him to stop eating. He put the slice of toast down, huffing a defeated sigh while straightening his spine, and met Sullivan with an exhausted stare.

Before he could even process his thoughts and emotions, audacious words tumbled out of his mouth, “Sir, what’s the point of all this? Where- where does this go? What are we doing?”

Sullivan pressed his lips together tightly, his brow unconsciously furrowing as they studied each other's unamused stares in a tense silence.

“Why are you pretending to give a shit about me?” The Aid asked after several seconds, his mousey voice barely above a whisper.

Time halted in place as the corners of Sullivan’s mouth slowly curved upwards in a wicked smirk, his face darkened by a creeping shadow of his signature vicious gall that spread with the ruthless tenacity of malignant cancer.

Uh-oh, this was bad.

Sullivan maintained his unblinking stare while running his tongue over his teeth like a starving man eyeing a plate of steak, “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy-”

The Aid held his breath as Sullivan’s thick, gooey words jolted him to his core and seeped into his skull, making his brain spasm and short-circuit. The shock summoned a cold shiver to rake down his spine with icy claws that spurted outwards into his extremities, giving him the sensation of a million microscopic bugs tunneling through clogged, frozen veins.

“-Cause whether I like it or not, an’ I assure ya I don't, ya’re mine. An’ we both know I got my own kinda uses for ya that otherwise wouldn’t be victimless crimes if done to a free person. Plus, you gone an’ meddled ya’self in a dead woman’s will an’ lumped ya’self in as an extension of personal property. Whatever I’ve done, or am yet to do to ya, is fair play; consider it proper punishment for swindlin’ a sick old lady an’ robbin’ her blind. So thanks to ya’r own doing, it’s just you, me, an’ momma’s house-”

“I didn’t have any part in that! But that’s beside the point, you- you killed me!” The Aid erupted in a stifled sob. “And you threatened to cut me open and sell my fucking kidneys! I remember- I remember that now! You don’t get to do that and then continue on like nothing happened, no, not again!”

Sullivan shook his head and retightened his grip around The Aid’s sprained ankle, not enough to make him squeal and thrash out in pain, but enough to hurt him just a little. The Aid ignored it best he could manage but still let out a small whimper.

“Ya’r such a goddamn crybaby an’ a selfish little prick!” Sullivan growled. “Ya know I got knocked out too? Woke up in a goddamn hospital bed an’ wasn’t no one there holdin’ my hand an’ soothin’ me like ya’r precious lil’ wanna-be doctor boyfriend ya were gettin’ sappy an’ cozy with- made me fucking sick watchin’ that. My head busted open, an’ I was leaking just as much blood as ya, all cause I was tryin’ ta save ya’r sorry ass! I got stitches and everythin’- had to use up the rest of my PTO all for my dickhead boss to end up sackin’ me yesterday anyway. But do ya see me pissin’ and moanin’ about it? No, that’s cause I’m a fucking man, and I handle my shit.”

He stopped only to shake his head and shoot an imperious glare at The Aid as if persecuting him for a crime punishable by death. “Ya’r lucky to have someone takin’ care of ya, feeding ya drugs like fuckin’ candy, an’ gettin’ waited on hand an’ foot like some little fuckin’ prince when you ain’t shit else ‘sides a thrallie*. Meanwhile, I’m the Master; where’s my special treatment? Do I got a lick of that?” Sullivan glowered at him, a jealous fury brewed in his cold, insidious eyes as his top lip twitched from agitation, partially exposing his yellow-stained teeth.

The lengthy, melodramatic pause indicated that this was not a rhetorical question- oh shit, he was expecting an actual answer.

The Aid stared at Sullivan with a half-troubled, half-dumbfounded look plastered on his face- the baseless accusations, the incorrect assumptions, the blatant bald-faced lies. How could this man say any of this out loud with any amount of conviction? One would assume the man worked in commission-based sales, with the amount of bullshit he was constantly trying to peddle.

The Aid, overcome with a surge of anger, had more than enough of being gaslit left and right in nearly every conversation with the pathological lying sonofabitch. He sat there in silence, brewing in his thoughts, when he felt the overwhelming urge to verbally hit the fucker where it hurt. He knew how to- of course he did- Sullivan’s emotional projection lit the path of every insecurity, big and small; all he had to do was follow the yellow brick road, but he also knew it was in his best interest not to poke the hungry bear.

‘. . . No. Absolutely not. Don’t go there. . . Do you have a death wish? -Don’t answer that!’

Resentment crept over him like early morning frost, rapidly engulfing his mind in a sheet of icy bitterness, unintentionally mirroring Sullivan’s venomous rancor. He was seething and damn near about to start foaming at the mouth like some rabies-infested beast.

The psychic link that bound them only minutes earlier rewove itself between them; this time, The Aid made no conscious effort to hide himself, to try to blend into the baleful shadow monsters prowling in his Master’s mind.

He felt every throb of fervent cruelty pulse through his veins and settle between the notches of his mind and burry itself in the crevices of his muscle and bone as Sullivan’s amplified feeling overtook him-

MALICE

Still, the more rational part of him fought to hold back because if he were to say what he wanted, he was sure it would be the last thing he’d ever speak on God’s green Earth before exchanging pleasantries with Charon as he ferried him across the river Styx.

But at least the afterlife would be free from Wyatt Sullivan, so. . . win-win?

‘No, not win-win! You don’t want to die here. . . Just don't- Do. Not. Fucking. Say. It.’

Too late.

His devotion to pettiness evidently knew no bounds, “You did have that, I was that for you- I treated you like a King. I did everything for you; I gave you all I had to give! But you couldn’t help but fuck it all up, just like how you fucked up your marriage and the relationship with your daughter!”

A blur came hurling at him at warp speed.

Thick, rough fingers grappled around both sides of his neck, immediately cutting off his airway. Left with no time to preemptively suck in a quick breath to carry him through the following moments of deprived air, he instantly gasped for precious oxygen.

“Ya’r a miserable, ungrateful little cunt!” A furious voice rang in his ears, paralyzing him with fear.

“-An’ a spoiled fucking brat; how dare you disrespect me!” Sullivan’s hot breath lingered in the shell of The Aid’s ear as his Master ferociously screamed inches away from the side of his face.

“Ya’ve been nothin’ but a sneaky, connivin’ lil’ shitbag since the day I met you; I’m the only one seein’ through ya’r lies and deceit!”

The strangled slave reflexively brought his knees up to his chest and kicked, bucking the breakfast tray and its contents off to the side. Oatmeal and orange juice hurled to the floor, splattering on impact, the echo of the clamor silenced by Sullivan’s booming inflection, “But I pitied you for the sorry sad-sack waste of space ya are an’ kept ya after mom died, but how did ya repay me for my kindness?”

The Aid’s face reddened to a cherry hue. Tears welled in his eyes.

“You. Ruined. My. Fucking. Life!”

He clawed desperately at Sullivan’s unrelenting death grip.

“Ya’r a worthless, pathetic little freak. Think I didn’t jus’ feel ya pokin’ around in my head, huh? You’ll pay for that! Got nothin’ of value, just cheap tricks an’ a vicious tongue.”

But the older man didn’t budge.

“Only thing you gotta offer me is the rush I get from hearin’ you screamin’ and cryin’ and beggin’ for a mercy that’ll never come when I bleed ya an’ fuck ya’r tight little asshole-” his voice dropped an octave, and a lascivious twinge replaced his wrathful edge- “Goddamn, do you feel good.”

Flashes of The Aid’s various assaults struck his mind with the frenzied succession of a continuous lighting storm, the psychical shrapnel slicing him at each pass. Each scrap of memory zapped his nervous system, launching him into a state of immeasurable panic as he flailed and prayed to whoever- or whatever- was listening for divine intervention.

The blood.

The pain.

The degradation.

The helplessness- ‘no more, please no more.’

Tears went from trickling to gushing down his face as he thrashed fruitlessly, desperately digging his nails into Sullivan’s bulging hand tendons.

“That’s ya’r purpose- being my designated cum-bucket, nothin’ more. But I can’t even stand to look at ya’r ugly-ass face. That’s why ya only get fucked from behind like a cheap dumpster-slut whore inna truck-stop bathroom.”

Out of primordial instinct- rather than a deliberate and obviously pointless effort- The Aid gulped for airless breaths, hoping to ease the suffocating sting radiating in the walls of his throat that only got worse with each passing second.

Fuck, he didn’t have much time left before he’d pass out.

His dizzying head and puffy face were enough of a warning signal he had grown to know all too well from Sullivan’s rounds of casual asphyxiation.

His white-knuckled, raking fingers started to loosen and lose their verve as his body went slack.

“Ya better make these recovery days count an’ soak ‘em up good, ‘cause after this fluffy staycation, ya’r in for a new level of hell.”

The Aid’s face changed from bright red to a pale blue as tiny, flickering stars bombarded his vision and intruded his peripheral.

Air- he needed fucking air.

Pronto.

“Ya’ll be beggin’ me to put my pistol in that bitchy, lopsie-lipped mouth of ya’rs an’ pull the trigger, cause the things I’m gonna do to ya are gonna have ya pleadin’ at my feet to end it all ‘cause ya ain’t got the balls to do it ya’self.”

His eyelids dropped over his dwindling, star-splattered vision. He felt himself pulled down to a lightless abyss. . .

‘It’s ove-

Air ripped through his lungs.

He lurched forward, coughing and panting and spitting up drool. The abrupt spasmodic inhales ballooned air into his chest cavity, courtesy of his Master’s released stranglehold.

He trembled and hugged himself, bawling in combination from the crushing, subjugating terror of a promised far-worse future and from the sharp, spasming pain that tore into his side. Just as soon as he regained his breath, it was ripped away as his broken rib- irritated by his ravenous inbreathing- throbbed with the maddening agony of a sledgehammer crashing down and exploding his insides.

His body seized, the pain knocked the wind out of him, and he once again fought to breathe, leaving him a sputtering, wailing mess. A limitless, compounding pain enveloped him- his throat stung, his chest hurt, and his body strangely thumped with a sparkling jolt of it-feels-like-my-nerves-are-on-fire tingle.

He could do nothing but mewl like the tiny, feeble baby he felt like and choke on his miserable wheezing.

He dejectedly tried to make amends with himself, ‘It wasn’t worth it. . . It’s never worth it- just shut up next time. You can’t win; you can’t survive him if you keep purposefully pissing him off to the point where he casually tries to kill you once a week. If we’re ever gonna get out of here, we need to be collected and unified. Strong and healed.’

A tough hand gripped a fist full of The Aid’s hair and yanked his head up.

“Don’t ya ever speak of my ex-wife or my daughter again, or next time, I won’t let go,” Sullivan hissed. The Aid got death threats as often as an overzealous retail cashier tried to sign up customers for the store’s credit card, yet the threats, coupled with a murder attempt, always left the longest-lasting impression.

“Yes sir, I’m-I’m sorry. . . It won’t. . . happen again,” The Aid quavered between coughs, keeping his gaze cast downwards in a show of defeat and compliance.

“Ya also earned ya’self at least a week in the zap-collar. I think it’s pretty well-deserved for the nasty things ya said to me, don’t cha agree?” Sullivan’s tone projected a derisive chime, sounding much too devilishly chipper considering the context of what he spoke.

The Aid’s throat bobbed as he struggled to gulp, considering Sullivan’s punishment as an honest appraisal for a jab he knew sunk its teeth into him and did as much internal damage as he received external damage. “Yes, Sir. . . I deserve. . . punishment.”

His critical subconscious scoffed at how easily he’d roll over and show his belly when faced against his vitriolic abuser, ‘Disgusting how pathetic and meek you are on the drop of a dime.’

The Aid’s skin, heated from shame, caused him to perspire. He didn’t know if it was from the crying or sweating of a combination of both, but he only now noticed the fogginess of his glasses and the smears across the lenses. He knew it would be pointless to try to clean them now- he was far from done with crying- but he wiped his tears underneath his glasses away with a curled index finger, appropriately covered by his sweatshirt sleeve to absorb the liquid.

As he pacified himself for a solid two minutes, his panting and wailing steadied, allowing him to take notice of the grading sound that was Sullivan chuckling to himself- characteristic of the true villain he was. Sullivan stayed like that, fingers locked in between chunks of his slave’s hair, as he boasted in his usual devious fashion, taking his victory lap in the form of grandmaster puppetry.

If The Aid had been without bedridden injury, Sullivan would customarily order the sorry little mutt to bow at his feet or bare his naked ass to him in preparation for belting. But since he had already reached his limit of what he could get away with without Dr. Paul’s notice, orally reciting lines would have to suffice.

But first, Sullivan messed with him a bit.

“Ya got a snappy lil’ mouth. Bout time I put that to use, don’t ya think?” Sullivan grossly snickered; his inflection emanated more creepy than playful, although he was shooting for the latter.

The Aid shivered, refusing to accept the explicit implications of what his Master seemingly passed off as a “joke” (or what he assumed was a joke, dear Universe, please let it be a joke) - Sullivan’s brother and niece were coming over soon for fuck’s sake! And speaking of fucks, Sullivan never used him for anything more than a quick thrust n’ bust- no matter how bloody and gorey he preferred it to be.

Sullivan knew damn well his Domestic servant lacked the professional training to give proper head (and he was more than sure the boy never even touched a dick- especially not a vagina- in his whole pitiful existence), and if he dared try to force him to, he’d wind up receiving the toothiest, most unsatisfying blow job in history. Plus, he didn’t trust him enough to not just straight-up bite him.

“Maybe it’s time to teach the mutt a new trick. Ya like bones, don’t ya, pup?” Sullivan grabbed The Aid’s chin with his other hand, hiking up his head to face him.

Chin quivering, The Aid’s bleary eyes flicked up to meet his Master, who looked all too amused. Sullivan smiled, taking a moment to appreciate The Aid’s face blotched with terror-stricken dread, noting how his jaw twitched from the snivel dancing across his features.

“Aw, look at those big puppy dog eyes!” Sullivan mimicked the unmistakable pitch of a honeyed, mocking laugh used when teasing a dog with a treat.

His fake jubilance turned stern, “But ya’ve been a naughty boy! What should ya’r punishment be, huh?”

A small whimper wobbled in The Aid’s throat as he chewed his bottom lip. ‘Yuck, yuck, yuck…’

“Ya made a mess in the house!”

Without warning, Sullivan wrapped his arms around The Aid and dragged him to the floor, wrangling him to get on his hands and knees, which was surprisingly more manageable to do than usual on account of The Aid cooperating out of fear of further hurting himself. He supported himself with only one wobbly arm, curling his broken wrist up to his chest, trying to ignore his trembling from pain and fear.

A sweet, citrusy aroma wafted up his nostrils as Sullivan grappled his hair again, forcing his head down over the splatter of oatmeal and orange juice mush on the floor. Now he genuinely mimicked a dog having his nose shoved in a pile of his own shit after a potty-time mishap.

“See what ya did? Bad boy!” Sullivan walloped him on the ass. He flinched and yelped while every ounce of embarrassment burned his skin.

The Aid pleaded, his enervated body shaking, “I’m sorry, Sir!” His weak, atrophied muscles were sapped of strength from malnutrition and disuse, and he didn’t know how long he could support himself on one shaky arm.

“But are ya really? You say that a lot, but I don’t think ya mean it-”

“I do- I do mean it! I’m sorry, really sorry. I know I’ve been bad. I promise- I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want, just please-” his voice cracked and squeaked, “please don’t hurt me.” He broke out in a shattered sob; tears splashed on his glasses until a thin, watery film covered them.

Sullivan scoffed, then pulled The Aid’s head up, causing the pool of tears to drop down and join the mix of spilled breakfast.

“Quit ya’r fucking crying. Now repeat after me- I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right. Say it.” Sullivan cooed venomously in his ear. He whined but complied, seeking to rectify the situation.

“I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right.” He could all but mumble; the words tasted like poison.

“What’s that? Can’t hear youuu.” Sullivan taunted, drawing out the “you” in a sing-songy echo.

“I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right.” Bland. But slightly louder. Hopefully good enough.

“Say it like ya mean it.” Sullivan directed. “More, hm- passion.”

If the rat bastard didn’t still have a grip on The Aid’s head, he would have turned and shot him a bitch-are-you-fucking-kidding-me glare.

The Aid collected himself, took a deep breath, and summoned his last ounce of fuck to give, “I live to serve my Master. And my Master is always right.” Better. But sounded a bit defeated, but also said with the certitude of a preacher.

“Again.” No directive of improvement.

‘Bingo. And that’s what we call pitch perfect.’

“I live to serve my Master. And my Master is always right.” Exact copy of the first.

“Again.”

Third time’s the charm? He repeated it once more, perfectly matching his previous inflection.

Silence.

“Now clean up this mess an’ go wash ya’self up.”

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

So, what’s with the random blue text?

‘This is a premonition.’

THIS IS AN EMPATHIC FEELING

Footnotes:

*Thrallie: derivative of “Thrall” (a slave, servant, or captive). It is a slang term used in this alternate-reality universe.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

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spiltcandycoatedpunkblood · 5 years

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Source: (x)

look, this is uncomfortably hitting so many bases of mine in terms of whump, but i’m just trying to understand the creators’ state of mind when making these ideas to torture and/or restrain the damn Doctor a reality, even if it is interesting the level of eroticism they clearly seem to involve

also:

1) only one serial??? what kind of record was the Third Doctor’s era aiming for

2) of course the damn scarf, OF COURSE, being 12″ long, it’s gonna be used for tying the Fourth Doctor up, as if this series wasn’t bizarrely erotic enough

3) concerning the Fifth Doctor’s reputation (that i’ve heard) for being a bit more naive and less imposing than two of his predecessors, i never doubted this one bit (especially considering i’ve heard him referred to as a puppy numerous times, which doesn’t help whatsoever)

4) okay, so that’s just over half of the stories the Sixth Doctor’s in, but how do you get tied up that many times in one serial as part of a bigger story (”The Trial of a Time Lord”) without someone thinking, “okay, i think that’s enough”?

i’m stuck between laughing at just how much there is (of course, they couldn’t list EVERY THING that happens to them, considering the things i remember from the newer series, and the more i’ve heard and seen regarding the classic ones), wanting to question the state of mind of the creators, feeling like i’m deliberately undermining just how turned on i am by this and actually taken aback at the extent this show goes to to restrain and/or torment them as much as possible

this is why it’s certainly going to be interesting when i eventually manage to watch more episodes; got a lot of, uh, great things to look forward to when i do

oh, and also, @scarfgal398, i believe this is relevant to our conversation - better showing, than telling, huh?

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years

Note

fic request because i am d e s p e r a t e : tarlos carlos whump with supportive gabriel reyes ??? if you’re down to write him that is. i love ur work n ur whump n i think u would write a p good gabe. 🥰

holly’s august extravaganza day 1: against all odds (we're still here)

i'm always down to write gabriel! thanks for the prompt trick, i hope you like it!

ao3 | 2k | car accidents, whump, major character injury, angst with a happy ending

“I told you we should have brought the car.”

Carlos scowls over at TK, shifting one of the many bags he’s carrying higher on his arm. It cuts painfully into his skin, his good mood from earlier long since soured. The knowledge that TK is, of course, right isn’t exactly helping matters.

“In my defence,” he starts, for probably the fifth or sixth time, “when we texted your dad to see if he wanted us to pick up anything from the store, I wasn’t expecting a full list.”

“We could have told him no.”

“TK, he’s your dad and we are literally crashing his home right now. I’m not gonna tell him no.”

TK opens his mouth, presumably to retort with a comment about how his dad loves Carlos and loves having them around. Both of which are things Carlos knows perfectly well, thanks, but he’s still not interested in testing it by refusing to get Owen’s kale chips or that specific brand of shampoo which took half an hour—and two stores—to track down.

Whatever TK was about to say is abandoned when one of his own bags slips out of his grasp and falls to the ground with a depressing thud. It bursts open—because why wouldn’t it—and spills their purchases across the sidewalk. The only solace is that nothing breaks, but that’s where the good news begins and ends; Carlos’s eyes track a can as it rolls down the street and into the gutter, landing in a puddle of dirty water. TK looks forlornly between the dropped bag and those still balanced on his arms, then heaves a long-suffering sigh and crouches awkwardly, easing the other bags down as carefully as he can manage.

“Call an Uber,” he grumbles. “We are not walking home like this.”

On that point, they’re in agreement. Carlos spares himself a moment of idle amusement at TK’s predicament before beginning the arduous task of extracting his phone from his pocket without dropping any of his own shopping.

He’ll hate himself for it later, but he’s so focused that the screech of tires coming around the corner barely registers as a blip on his radar. He doesn’t notice anything until TK suddenly barrels into him, throwing Carlos to the side just before something else, something heavy, crashes into them with a blinding flash of pain, and then—

Nothing.

Oh my god!

Someone call 911!

Are they even alive?

Just hold on, son, you’re going to be just fine.

Beeping.

Carlos frowns, slowly blinking his heavy eyelids open. It takes a minute to register his surroundings for what they are—a hospital room—and a further minute to notice the presence at his side. It’s his father, looking exhausted, turning his cowboy hat in his hands as he stares at the floor.

“Dad?” he croaks, wincing at the soreness in his throat. “What happened?”

His father’s head jerks up, his eyes going wide as he sees Carlos awake. “Mijo. It’s good to see you awake.”

“Dad, why am I here? What happened?”

He sighs, reaching out to pat Carlos’s arm. “There was an accident,” he explains. “A drunk driver lost control of his car and mounted the curb right where you boys were standing. He was speeding, so he hit you pretty hard. Your foot was crushed under a wheel, you have a fractured wrist, and you bumped your head when you fell so you probably have a concussion. The doctors say you should heal just fine, though, gracias a Dios.”

Carlos lifts his head to look down at his body, only just registering the casts on his arm and foot. There’s a dull ache radiating through his entire body and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, but he’s alive and he’ll heal. He should be happy about that, but the only thing occupying his mind is his dad’s silence on TK.

“What about TK?” he asks, part of him dreading the answer. “I remember him pushing me; is he okay?”

“He’s…” His dad hesitates, sending a cold slither of fear down Carlos’s spine. “Alive.”

Carlos stares, the beginnings of panic stealing his breath. “What does that mean?”

His father blows out a long breath. “It means you were right,” he says, meeting Carlos’s eyes. “He did push you, so he took the brunt of the hit. He suffered a serious open pelvic fracture and broken ribs, which punctured his lung. Last I heard, they managed to fix him up and they’re not expecting any further complications, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“He hasn’t woken up?”

“Not yet. He will, you’ll see.”

“I want to see him.”

And Carlos knows what the answer will be to that—a resounding no. He also knows that he won’t be able to argue; his father is incredibly stubborn, and when he digs his heels in, there’s no moving him. But he needs to at least try—he’s not going to stop worrying about TK until he sees him, and probably not for a long time after that.

His dad sighs and fixes him with a firm look. “Carlitos, you and I both know that’s out of the question,” he says. “You’ve only just woken up, you need to give yourself time to heal before exerting your body even more. Besides, he’s in good hands and Owen is with him, so we’ll know as soon as there’s any change.”

“Joder, Papá, I know all that,” Carlos cries, frustrated, barely able to refrain from throwing his head back on the pillow. “I just hate that he’s here, hurt, and I can’t even see him.”

“Lo sé,” His dad smiles gently, something that’s probably supposed to be comforting, but really only gets on Carlos’s nerves. “Escúchame, hijo. Descansa. Cúrate. Then you can focus on TK.”

It’s easier said than done and his father knows it, but Carlos has no choice. The conversation is effectively put to an end by his dad reaching over and pressing the call button next to the bed. A nurse comes in and quickly sets about checking his vitals and asking enough questions to make Carlos’s head spin. His probable concussion becomes definite, but otherwise he’s in good shape, all things considered.

He can’t help but wish he weren’t.

Two days later, Carlos is deemed fit to be discharged, providing he has someone to help him and providing he agrees to rest and not do anything even close to strenuous. TK is also awake now but, according to Owen, he’ll be kept in the hospital for at least another week. The break to his pelvis was bad, so he’ll need a wheelchair for a while even after discharge, and his refusal to take strong painkillers means his recovery is going to be long and painful.

Carlos is itching to see him. It’s been torture cooped up in his room without knowing how TK was doing—there’s only so much relief messages passed through their fathers can bring. It had only been his father’s stern and steady presence that had kept him in that bed when he felt like he was losing his mind with worry.

But now, finally, he’s being wheeled into TK’s room and helped onto the chair next to the bed. Owen stands off to the side, watching the two of them with a mixture of affection and sadness in his gaze, and his dad hovers behind him, but Carlos only has eyes for TK.

He looks incredibly tired, but he attempts a smile when he rolls his head to look at Carlos, extending his hand out across the distance between them.

“Hey, Ty,” Carlos says softly, taking TK’s hand in his good one. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better. Not sure if I’ve been worse. I think this might just beat getting shot to that title.”

“That’s not funny.”

TK just hums, his eyes drifting closed for a second. “Maybe not.”

“Why did you push me?”

TK’s eyes fly open at the question, confusion overtaking his expression as he stares at Carlos. He moves as if to sit upright before groaning in pain, his face screwing up. Carlos reaches out for him, but he’s beaten to it by his father, who places a reassuring hand on TK’s shoulder.

“Take it easy, son,” he says gently. “Don’t move too much.”

“I hate this,” TK mutters, his body relaxing bit by bit. His gaze is still clouded when he looks back over at Carlos, but he manages a soft smile all the same. “I pushed you because I didn’t want you to get hurt. The car would have hit me either way; I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to get you out of the way in time.”

Carlos blinks at him, dumbfounded. “You’re sorry?” he asks, disbelief colouring his tone. “Ty, you’re in the hospital, seriously injured, because you chose to save me instead of yourself. Why would you do that?”

“You know why.”

Carlos does; of course he does, but it’s not enough to assuage the guilt still bubbling in his stomach at the sight of TK in the bed.

TK sighs, squeezing his hand. “You would have done the same for me,” he points out. “We both know you would have, so don’t you dare ask me to apologise for my choices.”

“I know. I won’t.” Carlos closes his eyes, deflating a little. “I just hate seeing you hurt.”

“And I hate seeing you hurt, so maybe you can do us both a favour and go home. I’ll be fine.”

Carlos must need his hearing tested, because there’s no way TK just said that. There’s no way his boyfriend told him to leave right after calling him out for hypocrisy. Except apparently he did, because he’s trying to disentangle their hands, and Carlos is not having that.

He grips onto TK even tighter and glares at him. “TK, if you think I’m leaving you here—”

“Carlos,” TK interrupts quietly. “I get it. But, babe, you need to rest and heal, and you can’t do either of those things sitting here.”

“Watch me.”

“No.” TK shifts his gaze over Carlos’s shoulder, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “Mr Reyes, can you make sure he rests?”

His dad laughs, leaning over to pat TK’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m sure once his mother sees him, she won’t let him out of her sight for a week anyway.”

TK grins. “Good to know.” He yawns and resettles himself slightly in the bed, his eyes fluttering shut. “Carlos, if you’re still here when I next open my eyes, I’m not kissing you for a month.”

“You shouldn’t make threats you know you can’t follow through with.”

“Don’t make me make it two.”

Despite himself, Carlos laughs. He leans over and presses a lingering kiss to TK’s temple, then stands as well as he’s able, leaning on his dad for support. “Alright, I’m going. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

TK already sounds half-asleep when he mumbles, “Love you too,” back, and Carlos can’t even be embarrassed by how ridiculously smitten he must look, even though he’s in front of both their fathers.

He allows his dad to move him back to the wheelchair and says a quick goodbye to Owen, keeping his eyes on TK for as long as he can. Just as they reach the door, he catches TK’s eyes opening to slivers, obviously checking to see if Carlos is actually leaving. Carlos shakes his head at him, causing TK to flush at the knowledge he’s been caught. His eyes slam shut again, his tongue poking out childishly, and Carlos laughs, a lightness settling in his heart even as TK’s room disappears from view.

It’s going to be a long few months for the both of them, but they have family behind them to help them get through it.

And they have each other. Which, given everything, Carlos thinks is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.

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allaboardfixationstation · 2 years

Text

Too Many Eyes

Based off of the 'N for November' Whump, Angst and Comfort Prompt List’

Day #3 Neck Injury

“They really did a number on you this time, huh?”

Hotch let his eyes lazily drift to the side to peer over at Emily. She was sitting next to his bed sporting her own fair share of bumps and bruises.

The unsub, Jareth Olson, had run his truck into the drivers side of their SUV, pushing them off the road.

Thankfully the damage to both Emily and the vehicle was minimal. Both sported some cosmetic damage, hers in the form of a laceration across her forehead and a decent shiner across her cheek.

She would probably have a nasty bruise from where the seat belt had cut into her shoulder, holding her back as the car jerked.

Hotch looked her over and grunted in agreement. “Lottsa painkillers…”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Emily chuckled. “The doctors said you’re going to be fine by the way. Just a fracture on your sixth and seventh vertebrae.”

“My back?” He asked in confusion. His back felt fine. Everything felt fine right now. He wasn’t fully convinced that what Emily was saying was true.

She shook her head and gave him a small smile, raising just the corner of her lips. “Your neck. That’s why they’ve got you in that cervical collar.” She tapped the hard plastic collar that was currently demobilizing and supporting his neck. “You’re gonna be wearing that for twelve weeks. Maybe only ten if you listen to the doctor's orders and behave.”

Hotch pouted at the pointed look she was shooting his way. It made him look like a child being scolded for not listening to their parents.

“...Don’t know what they’re talking ‘bout…” He grumbled. “Got degrees out of bubble gum machines.”

“Oh, really? And you have more medical experience?”

This made the man pause and furrow his eyebrows. Instead of answering the question he just glanced at her for a moment in silence.

Emily could see the gears in his head trying to turn through the painkiller induced fog that was currently filling his head. The head that he currently couldn’t move. This seemed to frustrate him as he slowly wiggled his jaw from side to side. “Can’t move my neck…”

“That’s because of the collar. Your neck got hurt when the car crashed.”

Hotch groaned in frustration. His neck didn’t hurt. He had told her this earlier and she wasn’t listening.

Little did he know that he had not told her earlier and had only thought it to himself. “Dsn’t hurt.”

“Tell me that again when they wean your stubborn ass off of all of the hard drugs.”

Just as he went to muddle his way through an argument, telling her that he would know if his neck hurt or not, the door of his hospital room opened and revealed a few other members of the team.

Derek walked in and leaned against the wall to his left, looking Hotch over. “I bet you’re feeling pretty good right about now.”

Hotch gave him a small smirk in response. “Been tryin’ to tell Emil-” His mouth tripped up on the words for a second, making him pause. She had a weird name, a hard name. “Tryin’ to tell Em that.”

“No thank you, I would prefer to stick to the name I have now.” Rossi grinned and took the other empty chair in the room.

“Em, huh?” Derek laughed and shot a look behind him towards Rossi. “If only we were all special enough to get a nickname.”

There were so many voices coming from all different parts of the room. It was tiring for Hotch trying to sweep his eyes around the room to keep up with them.

“Too many eyes... M’ tired.” Hotch said in a way that was more of a slurred huff than a statement.

The other members of the room looked around at each other, trying to see if anybody had any clue of what Hotch was trying to get at.

Rossi didn’t have the energy to try to decipher the ramblings of a drugged man. This case had been a long and hard one, only finishing up a half hour ago. There was still paperwork to be done too on top of everything else.

“Go to sleep kid.”

Always the stubborn one, Hotch drifted his eyes over to look at the older man and frowned. “M’ not tired.”

Rossi chose to ignore the fact that he just told them all that he was. Instead, he placed a hand on the bed and smiled encouragingly. “Then just close your eyes for a second. You don’t have to sleep if you’re not feeling up to it.”

He had dealt with a downed Hotch enough times to know what was about to happen next. Hotch gave everyone in the room one last look before giving into the order and letting his eyes blink closed.

It only took a few seconds and some quiet background conversation from the rest of the group before their boss had drifted off to sleep.

“He’s going to be hell when he’s more coherent.” Emily stated. She also had dealt with a downed Hotch enough. He was going to fight the doctors orders to take it easy tooth and nail.

“That’s a problem for later.” Rossi told her, slouching in his chair and letting his body relax. “For now let's just all enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.”

#one shot #criminal minds #hotch whump #n for november whump #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #whump fanfiction

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whumpmatsus · 2 years

Note

1C for Totty? Baby brother doesn't get babied enough!!

Ultimate Whump Writing Meme! / ACCEPTING!

1. Acute infectious diseases

C: Tonsillitis

funny story, I actually had something half-started with this concept from a while ago, before I even made that whump meme... and I've been itching to finish it lately, so I slapped some paint on it to make it fit the request, wrote the rest of it up, and WHAM-BAM THANK YOU MA'AM this one was done fast!!

Totty really doesn't get babied enough, he needs to be babied more! he's the youngest, after all <3

also inspiring Oso and Kara's suggestion of taking a doll in with him... when I had my gallbladder out in high school, I brought my Gaara plushie with me lol. they let me take him in and have him with me on the bed and he was still right there when I woke up. so I dunno if any hospital would do that, but the one I went to let me take my lil plushie dude into the operating room with me! (to be fair, they probably removed him after I went under anesthesia and put him back once they were done operating, but XD)

Sometimes Totty leaves for work early in the morning, when the manager at Sutabaa schedules him for an opening shift.

That means he has to be at work by 6 A.M., forcing him to get up around 5 to ensure he grabs something to eat and cleans up and in general prepares for the day. His alarm typically wakes his brothers up a little, not all the way but enough that he finds himself quietly shushing them and telling them to go back to sleep, he’s just leaving for work and he’ll be back in the afternoon.

Today Osomatsu doesn’t remember Totty even doing that much, and today, the absence of his youngest brother next to him makes it difficult to fall back asleep. So he gets up at the ungodly hour of 7 A.M., bleary-eyed and unable to rest further, to go downstairs to the living room. At least that way he won’t disturb any of the others, and he can always nap later once he’s sufficiently tired again.

For now he busies himself with grabbing some cookies and a magazine and settling in at the table. He can entertain himself until the rest of his brothers get up, can’t he? It’s still a bit dark out, and Dad’s gone to work. Mom isn’t up yet, though… he doesn’t remember being awake all by himself in the house since he was a little kid.

… Even then, he wasn’t usually all by himself. There was almost always someone else with him. He almost wishes he woke up alongside Totty and his youngest brother didn’t have to go to work so they could enjoy the morning peace together.

Still, it’s quiet and that never lasts in this house, so he starts reading. This is a manga he’s already read before, so he knows what’s happening, and it’s predictable; that’s not a bad thing, though. It means he doesn’t need to put in a lot of brainpower to read it.

He’s nearly done with his plate of cookies and almost halfway through the manga when the front door suddenly opens.

Totty seems just as surprised to see his big brother as Osomatsu is to see his little brother. A quick glance toward the clock reveals that it’s only just after 7:30, so Totty shouldn’t be home yet.

That said… a look at Totty tells him a lot more than the time. The youngest looks like shit. His cheeks and nose are red, the kind of pinkish red that’s basically a signal to everyone else that someone isn’t doing so well. There are lines under his eyes, and there’s a paper face mask in his hand.

All in all, Osomatsu can kind of guess what’s going on, and he feels a little guilty for not noticing something was wrong. “Hey, Totty… I thought you worked till noon today?”

“Ugh…” Totty sniffles thickly, walking over to where Osomatsu is sitting. Once there, he just sort of slumps himself down on the floor. His voice is congested and hoarse, sounding like it hurts to speak. “They sent me home. I’m sick. Sacchi told me I should go to the doctor since this is like the sixth time I’ve had a sore throat in the last couple years… but…” His fist tightens around the mask as if it’s his only lifeline right now. “… I don’t wanna go alone. I hate the doctor.”

Osomatsu shuffles closer and carefully runs a hand through Totty’s hair. “Well, fuck, I could take you.”

Totty turns his eyes up a bit. Though they’ve got their usual sparkle, there’s a marked exhaustion shining in them as well. “R-really?”

“Yeah, really, you’re my baby brother! Of course I’ll take you. I don’t have anything exciting going on today, anyway.” His hand continues to make long, slow strokes through Totty’s locks. “You’re not feeling good, huh? Does your throat hurt?”

Totty laughs softly, but it lacks any real mirth. “Gee, how’d you know?” He closes his eyes, pressing his head in against his older brother’s hand. “Mmm… yeah, it’s pretty bad. If I try to talk any louder than this, I start coughing and it feels like a bee sting in my throat. And I think have a fever… I’m all achy… God, I just wanna go to bed…”

Osomatsu gives a few more pets to his baby brother’s head, then tries to pull him up into a more… vertical position. “Here, let’s get you bundled up and we’ll head over to the doctor’s office. Think you can handle a train ride?”

“Mhm… as long as you’re there.” For the most part, he lets Osomatsu move him around, feeling too tired to move himself. “Can I sleep on the way?”

“Yeah, sure! We’ll sit together and you can lean your head on my shoulder.” This time Osomatsu is determined not to miss anything. He wasn’t paying attention this morning, but that won’t happen again. He doesn’t want Totty having to be in pain speaking for himself, so he needs to make sure to note down everything that’s going on. He reaches over to touch his fingers against Totty’s neck, frowning. “Hey, this looks kinda swollen, Totty, does it―”

The instant reaction is a yelp, or as much of one as the youngest can manage. There are tears in poor Totty’s eyes immediately, and as much as he wants to move away, his current malaise prevents him from doing so. “O-ow, Osomatsu-nii-chan!!”

Osomatsu winces in sympathy. “Ah, shit, I’m sorry. Well, there’s my answer… that hurts, huh?”

“Y… yeah… k-kinda like you just poked a sunburn…”

“Yikes, fuck. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. C’mon, let’s get this taken care of.” He gently tugs Totty to his feet, and somehow manages to get him into his coat with a scarf wrapped around his neck. Loosely, just to make sure it doesn’t get bumped again. “Hey, this could be your new look.”

Totty lets out a raspy giggle. “I dunno… sick chic? I don’t think it’ll catch on. I’m sure I’m making it work, though.”

Osomatsu shakes his head. “Pretty sure you can make anything work, you priss. Let me grab my wallet and leave a note for the others, okay? Just in case they wake up while we’re gone, I don’t want anybody to worry.”

“Okay… I’ll just lean on the wall for a sec and try not to fall asleep.”

He grins before giving a kiss to Totty’s cheek and hurrying upstairs. It’s not a great idea to leave the house without some money, and he doesn’t want Mom or their brothers to panic if they wake up to find the youngest and the eldest nowhere to be seen.

He also doesn’t want to disturb them, though, so he tiptoes into their bedroom to get his wallet from the table, and scrawls a quick note before heading back downstairs.

Mom + little bros―

Totty got sent home because he’s sick. Another sore throat. I’m taking him to the doctor, so don’t worry if we’re not back when you guys get up. See you soon!

Love, Osomatsu

“Th-this isn’t fair, nii-chan! How come I have to do this? Why couldn’t they just give me a pill??”

“I dunno, but this is what they recommended, Totty… like you said yourself, this is, what, the sixth sore throat you’ve had in two years? And you admitted to the doctor that it hurts to swallow and you’re having trouble breathing this time.”

“Y-yeah, well… I thought she’d just say I should use my inhaler and take some painkillers… maybe give me a prescription for an antibiotic.”

“She might still have to do that; she put that swabby thing in your throat and said she’ll call with the results tomorrow.”

“And that thing sucked! It made me cough so hard my eyes watered…”

“Yeah, I remember, I was there. I almost thought you were gonna throw up. I hate to say it, little bro, but you’re in rough shape here.”

“I know… but… but surgery?!”

“Doesn’t your throat still hurt?” Osomatsu finally sighs as he helps Totty up the stairs now that they’re back home. “You should rest your voice so this shit doesn’t get worse. The doc said your throat was really red and irritated. Do you think bitching your little heart out is gonna make it feel any better?”

As usual, everyone is huddled up in the spare room, trying to get warm under the kotatsu, when the two of them open the door. “Hey, there you guys are!” Choromatsu pipes up from his spot, where he’s reading a book. “We got your note, but it’s almost one in the afternoon now… did you guys spend like five hours at the urgent care center??”

“Not exactly,” Osomatsu replies as he guides Totty over to the couch and carefully helps him settle in. “We spent like an hour at urgent care, then they sent us to the hospital to talk to a surgeon.”

“A SURGEON?!” Choromatsu’s book is immediately abandoned in favor of zooming over to grab at Osomatsu’s collar. “What do you mean, a surgeon?! How sick is he?!”

Karamatsu has drifted over toward the sofa and set a hand on Totty’s forehead as if to confirm that, yes, things are really that bad. “Well, our dear youngest has a fever, at any rate.”

“Ow! Get off me, Fappyski!” Osomatsu smacks the third eldest’s hands away and straightens his shirt out. “Fuck, he’s not dying or anything.”

“If only,” Totty moans, nuzzling into Karamatsu’s embrace. “I’ve got… um… a-ah, shit. Do you have the discharge paper, Osomatsu-nii-chan?”

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket.” He takes it out and unfolds it, handing it over to Choromatsu. He memorized most of it already anyway, having pored over it on the train ride home. “They’re still doing that test to determine if they need to put him on antibiotics, but long story short, seeing as this is over five times he’s had a sore throat in the last two years, he needs to have his tonsils out.”

Thankfully, Choromatsu’s initial panic flattens into anxiety as he takes the paper to read. “A-ah, okay… well… that’s not so bad… I-I mean, it’s a minor surgery.”

Totty starts to wail and presses himself into Karamatsu’s chest. Even doing that, his voice is barely a whisper. “Noooo, they’re gonna cut me open and take out part of my insides! Don’t let them do it, Karamatsu-nii-chan! Don’t let them!”

“I won��t, sweet little Totty! I won’t let them!” To his credit, Karamatsu commits to it, snuggling the baby of the family even closer like he can protect Totty from the surgery. It looks to be mostly for comedic effect to diffuse tension for everyone else… though nobody can be sure with Karamatsu.

“You have to do it, you dumbass,” Ichimatsu snorts, lying down with his legs still under the kotatsu. “That shit’s infected, so you need it cut out. If you don’t get it taken care of, you’re just gonna keep getting sore throats.”

Osomatsu settles down on the couch next to Karamatsu and Totty, patting the youngest on the head. “Not even just that. He told the doctor he was having trouble breathing and swallowing this time, and that when he does swallow, it hurts like a motherfucker. You’re not getting out of this, Totty.”

Totty briefly peeks out of his Kara-cocoon. “You’re all being mean. Peer pressure. I’m gonna tell Mom.”

Jyushimatsu laughs and launches himself over to the couch. He hits the bottom of it with his head, but it doesn’t appear to have shaken him much, because he’s sitting with his legs crossed and his back pin-straight in a second. “Whaddaya think Mom’s gonna do, Totty?? You’re her baby! If you tell her you don’t wanna get the surgery, she’ll probably grab a steak knife and do it herself!”

“… Oh, my God.” Totty whimpers. “Oh, my God, you’re right.” Tears well up in his eyes, and this time they’re genuine as he leans back in against Karamatsu. “B-but I don’t want surgery! I-I’m scared… they’re not gonna let anybody else into the room… they’re gonna stick some sleepy liquid into my hand and… and everything’s gonna get dark… and I won’t have you guys or Mom or Dad there…”

The three eldest share a concerned look between them, and Ichimatsu and Jyushimatsu do the same with each other. After a moment of Totty crying, Osomatsu scoots over to make room for Choromatsu to sit down.

“I-it’s okay, Totty. Um…” He slides his hand up past Karamatsu’s arm so he can rub his baby brother’s back. “Hey, hey, it’s… it’s okay that you’re scared, you know? You remember when I had to have surgery to take my appendix out? You remember how freaked out I was when you guys showed up, and how Osomatsu had to talk for me because I was crying so hard? That’s normal.”

Osomatsu somehow manages to put his arm around all three of them. “And he still did it anyway! He was really brave, ‘cause he knew it needed to be done. And you remember how it was before? Even when they take you to surgery, we get to hug you and kiss you and slobber all over you before you go in. I bet you could even take a stuffed animal or something in with you if that’d make you feel better.”

“I wish I could t-take one of you guys,” Totty mumbles. “Just shrink you down and bring you with me.”

Karamatsu hums. “When did they schedule the surgery? I could sew up a doll that looks like one of us!”

Choromatsu glances down at the paper again. “Ah, looks like two weeks. At least you have a lot of time to prepare, Totty! You can cry a lot and be super anxious in the next couple days, then you’ll have got it all out by the time you actually go to get it done.”

“There’s really no way around it, Totty.” Ichimatsu stretches his arms so he can flick Totty’s ankle. “You don’t wanna keep getting sick, right? A lot of throat infections can probably seriously fuck up your throat, and you’ve been getting a lot. Aren’t you tired of that?”

Jyushimatsu waves his arms in the air. “Plus, we’ll get to take you home afterwards, and you’ll get lots of ice pops and ice cream and we’ll get to baby you!!”

“Yeahhhh,” Osomatsu grins. “We know you like that even though you say you don’t. Now we’ll have the perfect excuse.”

“Exactly,” Choromatsu adds in, leaning to kiss Totty’s head. “You can do it, Totty. Even if we can’t be in the room with you while it happens, we’ll be right there in the hospital waiting for you. This really is the best thing for your health. Like Ichimatsu said, repeated sore throats like this could really hurt your voice.”

“Not to mention,” Karamatsu muses, “you could post about this on your blog. I can see it now… you’ll get so many comments… so much sympathy…”

“So many people wanting to nurse you back to health and kiss your stupid face!!” is Osomatsu’s contribution.

… Well. When they all put it like that, Totty supposes that there’s no getting out of this. After all, he’s sick (pun not intended) of constantly getting sore throats in the past couple years, and if this is the only way to make it stop, he can’t really act like a coward. He already got the surgery scheduled.

Plus if his brothers are all pushing at him like this, it’s almost definitely because they think it’s the right call. Even though it’s fucking surgery.

“You guys… promise you’ll be there when I wake up?” he rasps, leaning into Karamatsu’s shoulder. “That’s… that’s all I really care about.”

Of course, he didn’t really need to worry. As soon as he says that, he’s sort of engulfed in a hug of big brothers, with everyone surrounding him and stroking his hair and kissing his face.

Yeah. They’ll all be there.

#Osomatsu san #whump #Benimatsu #Totty #Osomatsu #Allmatsu #illness #tonsillitis #caretaking #WHAT GOOD BOYS THEY'RE SO SILLY #KARA SAYING HE WON'T LET THEM EVEN THO HE KNOWS IT NEEDS DONE IS KILLING ME #Totty being babied is fucking EVERYTHING ok

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whumpingwho · 11 months

Text

Tragedy befalls the Sixth Doctor and Evelyn.

Spoilers for Arrangements for War Part 4! vvv

Princess Krisztina and Marcus are both killed following a battle with the Killorans, prompting the Doctor to try and change the past to save their lives.

#colin and maggie's performances in this are so good #i would honestly love to just upload the entire final 10 minutes of this audio it makes me cry every time :(#doctor who #doctor who whump #classic who #classic who whump #sixth doctor #sixth doctor whump #colin baker #evelyn smythe #maggie stables #angst #whump #emotional whump #big finish #dweu

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rafael-silva · 3 years

Text

heal me (with you I’m whole): a tarlos fic

“You’ll be sporting one hell of a bruise, though.”

Carlos nods. “Yeah, not my first rodeo,” he says through gritted teeth as he attempts to sit up.

“Easy, easy,” Mitchell reaches out, her hands on Carlos’s shoulders as she helps him move.

The sound of sirens start to fill the air around them as the ambulance gets closer and closer. Mitchell looks in that direction, seeing the ambulance park in the alley entrance.

“Hey, Reyes. Isn’t your man a paramedic now?” She asks, her eyes not leaving the bus.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s not gonna be happy about this,” she replies, the bold 126 numbers stuck on the ambulance her biggest clue.

Or: Carlos is hit with a bullet while he and his partner chase a suspect, giving him a nasty and painful bruise. Cue TK working through his worry as he takes care of his injured boyfriend, in more ways than one.

for bad things happen bingo: tarlos + bruises

established tk strand/carlos reyes, major character injury, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, angst, whump, fluff, team as family, hurt carlos reyes, worried tk strand, angst with a happy ending, comfort, paramedic tk

5.4k | on ao3

*****

“Dispatch, this is 363-H-20, in pursuit of suspect on foot, heading west on Sixth.”

“Copy, 363-H-20,” a female voice replies.

Carlos doesn’t have a second to spare to give dispatch more information because said suspect has turned to face the officers and started firing his gun in the direction of Carlos and his partner.

“Take cover!” Carlos yells as he and Mitchell dive behind a dumpster, hearing the collision of metal with metal echo against and through the steel.

He takes hold of his radio and presses down on the side button. “Shots fired. I repeat, shots fired. Requesting back-up.”

Carlos hears dispatch’s acknowledgment and starts studying the layout to come up with a plan to catch this guy. He carefully starts moving to get a better view of where the suspect was last standing, and when no bullets come flying his way, Carlos dares to move swiftly but cautiously into the open. He spots the back of the man running towards a nearby alley.

“Mitchell, I’ll follow him, you go around and cut him off from the other end of the alley,” Carlos quickly pieces the plan together.

Mitchell gives him a firm nod and starts moving, gun drawn.

Carlos starts jogging in the direction the suspect was last seen heading in, his vision and focus narrowed to just that.

Mitchell is about to reach the alley when a shot rings and bounces off the brick walls. She gulps, racing towards the source of the sound.

She freezes when she enters the alley. It’s only for a second but it felt like hours. Her wide eyes catch movement ahead and she diverts her gaze to see the suspect racing back in the direction he came from.

“Officer down! Officer down!” She screams into her clutched radio. “Suspect last seen fleeing on foot heading east.” She relays the information before dropping to her knees next to Carlos’s unmoving body. “Reyes!”

With a quick scan, she finds Carlos’s service weapon discarded on the ground next to him and a hand grasping at his chest.

“Reyes!” She tries again, moving to touch her partner but pulls back when Carlos startles.

His face immediately scrunches up in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and tries to catch a breath. Which doesn’t really work for him judging by the groan he exhales.

He opens his eyes and looks up at her. “Go…after him.”

“Like hell I’m leaving you,” Mitchell replies. “Besides, he’s long gone. Maybe back-up will have better luck finding him.”

Carlos groans again, and she doesn’t know if it’s because of what she just said or if it’s the pain. Or both. Probably both, she decides.

“Requesting EMS to our location,” Mitchell calls into her radio. “363-H-20 last known position.” She releases the button. “Where are you hit?”

“Caught me straight in the chest,” Carlos pants.

After an inspection of his vest, Mitchell easily finds the tear where the bullet is lodged in the Kevlar. She pulls out the round, showing it to Carlos.

“You’ll be sporting one hell of a bruise, though.”

Carlos nods. “Yeah, not my first rodeo,” he says through gritted teeth as he attempts to sit up.

“Easy, easy,” Mitchell reaches out, her hands on Carlos’s shoulders as she helps him move.

The sound of sirens start to fill the air around them as the ambulance gets closer and closer. Mitchell looks in that direction, seeing the ambulance park in the alley entrance.

“Hey, Reyes. Isn’t your man a paramedic now?” She asks, her eyes not leaving the bus.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s not gonna be happy about this,” she replies, the bold 126 numbers stuck on the ambulance her biggest clue.

She moves out of Carlos’s line of sight and sees the moment his realization kicks in. And the groan he lets out then definitely has everything to do with the information and not his pain.

Carlos watches Tommy jump out of the back, shouldering the lifepak, and soon is followed by Nancy and TK, who’s holding the medkit.

The officer relaxes a little upon seeing his boyfriend, a sense of safety washing over him but that relaxing feeling is quickly replaced with dread at knowing how much TK is going to worry, and he already hates putting TK through that.

He sees TK and Nancy in a fast exchange, and TK laughs at something his partner said, making Nancy’s eyes light up at his laughter. Carlos wonders when he’ll get to see TK laugh that freely again. The team is still unaware of who is currently on the ground needing their help.

“What do we got?” Tommy asks once they’re near the officers and within ear shot.

“Mitchell?” TK frowns before anything else can be said, his eyes landing on her.

Confusion paints TK’s face for a few moments before all the pieces fall into place and with a pang in his chest, he realizes. He feels his face heating up and wills his eyes to start moving towards—

“I’m okay,” comes Carlos’s voice from behind Mitchell, speaking up before TK’s mind completely spirals towards the worst case scenario.

“Says the man who took a round to the chest,” Mitchell retorts, looking at the paramedics.

“What?” TK almost yells, his brain still catching up to everything happening around him.

“The vest stopped it,” Carlos raises his hands in defense.

“Still, not good,” Mitchell shrugs.

With a sigh, TK drops the medkit and kneels next to Carlos. He works on collecting his breath and relaxes just the slightest at seeing his boyfriend sitting up, alert and talking.

“You’ve just shortened my life by five years,” TK mumbles.

“Oh, I’ve shortened your life by five years,” Carlos snaps back, but his eyes are filled with affection as he looks at TK and tries to lighten the mood.

TK rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. “She’s right,” he says instead, his eyebrow raised as he tries to mask his worry.

But Carlos can see right through it. “I’m okay, Ty,” he whispers, his face soft but clearly trying to hide the pain.

“Let me be the judge of that,” TK replies and no amount of banter or gestures can conceal the concern radiating from the paramedic’s green irises.

Carlos nods, watching as TK opens the medkit and grabs the equipment he needs to start his examination. Meanwhile, Mitchell stands aside while Tommy and Nancy crouch in front of Carlos.

“Hey, guys,” Carlos gives them a small smile.

“Hey, Carlos,” Tommy smiles back. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

TK gently presses the head of the stethoscope to Carlos’s chest and moves it around as he listens. “Where exactly did the round hit you?”

“Right here,” Carlos points to the middle of his chest, a little above his bellybutton. “It hurts to breathe a little.”

“I’m hearing some wheezing, Cap,” TK speaks up.

Tommy nods, her mind gears turning. “Given the location you got hit and your breathing condition, I would say it’s a bruised lung. But the doctors at the hospital will confirm.”

Carlos drops his head at the mention of the hospital.

“It’s just to make sure it is what it is without any complications,” TK jumps in. “You know that, babe.”

Carlos nods.

“Help me get his vest off,” Tommy says to TK as Nancy preps to take Carlos’s vitals.

Carefully, TK and Tommy work together to peel the vest off Carlos without causing him any added pain. However, no matter how mindful they are, Carlos lets out a few pained breaths as slight jostling happens in the process.

“Sorry, sorry,” TK apologizes, his voice filled with sympathy.

TK knows what to expect as he watches Tommy lift Carlos’s shirt to unveil the injury. Yet TK can’t help the sharp breath he draws in when his eyes land on the nasty red bruise already blooming across his boyfriend’s chest.

That small, round piece of metal had left substantial damage in its wake, and TK finds himself praying that Carlos hasn’t also suffered bruised or fractured ribs from the impact. Or worse: internal bleeding.

“It’s okay, Ty. Not the worst I’ve had,” Carlos says, reading the worry and the reaction on TK’s face.

TK knows Carlos is trying to help make him feel better, to comfort him and decrease his worry, but that wasn’t particularly the comfort TK was searching for.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” TK sighs, his voice filled to the brim with emotion.

TK extends his arm and takes Carlos’s hand into his own.

TK squeezes. I’m right here.

Carlos squeezes back. I know.

“Everything is okay, but respiration is a little low,” Nancy reports after checking Carlos’s vitals.

Tommy nods. And then to Carlos: “I’m going to check your ribs, okay?”

Carlos nods, sucking in a deep breath as Tommy starts adding pressure around and over his ribs. His grip on TK’s hand tightens as Tommy continues her exam, hot pain flaring through his nerves at the contact.

His eyes water a little and he lets out a shaky breath as Tommy retreats her hands.

“Good news is nothing appears to be broken, but they’ll want to get x-rays done, too.”

TK lets out the breath he was holding at Tommy’s words while Carlos’s ears are still ringing from the wave of pain still coursing through his body.

His ears clear as Tommy asks another question. “Can you get up?”

“Yeah,” Carlos answers, his voice a little unsteadier than he’d like.

And then Mitchell is by his side as he drapes an arm over TK’s shoulder, Mitchell taking his other arm and guiding it over hers. Together, they share Carlos’s weight as they get him to his feet. Supporting him, they slowly walk over to the ambulance and lowering him on the gurney before he stretches on it.

Carlos closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh at the softness underneath him, heaven compared to the hard asphalt where he was lying slash sitting for a while.

He opens his eyes again when Mitchell speaks. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. And Reyes?” She looks at Carlos. “They caught him.”

He gives her a grateful smile.

After pushing the gurney into the ambulance once Tommy got in, TK wordlessly follows, Nancy shutting the doors and heading to the driver’s seat.

Tommy is attaching some wires and equipment to Carlos while TK grabs the oxygen mask and places it over his boyfriend’s face. “It’s gonna help.”

Carlos accepts it, because breathing really does hurt right now and he’ll take all the assistance he can get, but still, he’s about to say something before TK interrupts.

“You’re okay, I know,” TK gives him a small smile and leans in, brushing a kiss to the officer’s temple.

Carlos finds TK’s hand and gives it another squeeze.

“Just relax, babe.”

TK feels better after Tommy’s examinations and her prognosis, yet a part of him can’t stop the worry and concern that flood his own chest. He can’t get rid of it or push it to the side, not until he’s a thousand percent sure that Carlos is fine, scans, tests and all.

He knows how badly and quickly things can escalate with injuries like Carlos’s. Patients go from sitting up, talking and laughing to needing emergency surgery in a matter of minutes if something went unnoticed. And that thought alone scares TK to his core.

No. TK expels the thought, Carlos is okay, he’s gonna be fine. He trusts Tommy and her judgment, her experience. And they’ll make sure Carlos gets all the tests and scans he needs at the hospital to rule out any underlying injuries or problems. Or if there are any, to catch them early before they get worse or become life-threatening to Carlos.

TK is torn from his thoughts when his hand is squeezed again. He zones back in and looks at Carlos, who’s giving him his own concerned look with slightly creased eyebrows. He sensed where TK’s mind had gone.

TK gives Carlos a smile to reassure him, or attempts to, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Once they arrive at the hospital, the ambulance doors are pulled open the moment the bus comes to a halt. There’s a doctor and two nurses helping lower the gurney which Tommy pushes out of the ambulance while relaying information about Carlos, his injury and vitals. TK’s hold on Carlos’s hand remains firm as he quickly moves alongside the gurney.

However, they’re forced to pull apart when the nurse stops, stopping TK in his tracks with her.

“We’ll take him for some tests and scans, you can wait there,” she says, pointing to the waiting room.

“Can I stay with him? He’s my boyfriend,” TK replies, his eyes speaking volumes.

The nurse’s face softens at his words, and she nods after a moment. “Just until we take him up for the scans.”

He steals a quick look at Tommy, noticing Mitchell now standing nearby.

“Go,” she says immediately. “We’ll wait.”

“Thank you,” TK gives her a small smile and with a nod from his Captain, he jogs in the direction he saw the nurse walk in.

He finds Carlos easily, and his boyfriend is lying back in a hospital bed as another nurse wheels the gurney out. TK steps aside to let her pass and then directs his attention back to Carlos.

“Hey, babe.”

Carlos opens his eyes and they land on TK. “Hi, baby. I thought you had to go.” TK shakes his head, approaching Carlos. “Not right now. The nurse said I can stay until they take you to get the scans done. Tommy and Nancy are waiting and Mitchell is here, too.”

TK takes hold of one of Carlos’s hands while the other finds its way to Carlos’s hair, where TK runs his fingers through the officer’s curls, the gel he uses to keep said curls in place almost completely gone now.

Carlos is about to say something when TK cuts him off before he starts.

“Carlos Reyes, if you’re about to say you’re okay one more time…”

Carlos sighs. “I hate to see you worrying.”

“Well, I’m gonna worry. It comes hand in hand with loving someone,” TK says and leans in, planting a kiss to Carlos’s forehead.

Being close to Carlos and being able to touch him helps calm TK’s racing heart. Carlos’s warmth and scent an indication that he’s here, that he’s okay.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Carlos teases with a small chuckle.

Whatever was going to be TK’s response stops short on his lips when his radio crackles to life.

He squeezes his eyes shut, titling his head backwards, that feeling of calm he had moments ago is now replaced with dread.

“Maybe I can talk to Tommy—” TK is already planning before even opening his eyes again.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” Carlos’s collected voice guides TK back. “Go.”

TK hesitates. “I don’t wanna leave you, not yet, I’m sure Tommy—”

“Ty, baby,” Carlos continues, slightly shaking his head. “Go. I’m okay, really. They’ll probably send me home after the scans. Mitchell will drive me to the station and I’ll go straight home from there. It’s okay, I promise.” He knows his boyfriend all-too well, and hopes his words will lift the feeling of guilt he knows is currently setting in TK’s gut.

“Okay,” TK finally nods, but his eyes still carry concern. “But if anything changes or if the scans show anything—”

“I’ll call,” Carlos gives him a reassuring smile.

“I’ll see you at home, baby,” TK whispers before pressing his lips gently against Carlos’s.

Carlos’s smile widens into the kiss as he returns it. “I’ll see you at home, babe.”

With one last look at Carlos, TK reluctantly leaves, repeating he’s okay he’s okay over in his mind, a mantra to keep him calm. He meets Tommy and Nancy by the rig and jumps into the passenger seat without a word.

*****

Owen meets them in the bay when they return to the firehouse after the call. He’s frowning, eyebrows drawn together as he watches TK close the door.

“Carlos,” Owen states, the concern evident in his tone. “Is he okay?”

TK nods, running a hand through his hair. “Had to leave the hospital for a call before his scans but he texted a while ago. He’s waiting for the results, his partner is with him.”

Owen pats TK’s back as he walks past him and walks towards the stairs.

After a quick shower, TK heads into the common area. He tries sitting on the couch, but the bouncing of his leg starts to drive him a little up the walls, so he opts to stand instead. Which leads him to pace around the room, checking his watch for the time every thirty seconds as the black screen of his phone taunts him.

He starts fidgeting with his hands as he moves around, radiating nervous energy and he’s so caught up in his own thoughts of Carlos should have the results by now and what if something is wrong and I’m not there that he doesn't hear someone enter the space around him.

“He’s gonna be okay, man,” Paul’s voice seeps into TK’s ear through the fog engulfing him.

He turns to look at his teammate, and Paul’s face soft and carrying empathy.

Slowly, the rest of the team start filing in, dispersing into the room as they fall into easy conversations about anything and everything. And TK finds himself sitting down, too. They don’t make a big deal about it, but TK knows what they’re doing. He knows they’re here for him, physically and otherwise and to keep him company, knowing he can’t bear to be alone right now. Not with his leg bouncing again and his hand playing with a loose thread sticking out of a couch cushion. As much as he appreciates it, and he does, he ends up tuning out all their voices and movement around him, Carlos the only thing on his mind.

What brings him back is his phone pinging in his pocket.

He jumps to his feet in a heartbeat, fishing it out of his pocket. He sees its a text from Carlos and unlocks his phone with shaky hands.

The room falls silent as TK reads the message, holding his own breath as his mind catches up with his eyes.

Carlos: Everything is okay, babe. Scans are fine. No bruised or broken ribs and no internal bleeding. The bruised lung will heal on its own. Heading back to the station now.

TK rereads the text for good measure, to make sure his brain isn’t playing any cruel tricks on him. Once he’s satisfied that there are no tricks involved, he finally allows himself to relax and breathe.

“Oh, thank God,” he whispers, the first audible reaction to the text. He looks up at his family. “Carlos is okay. He’s gonna be home soon.”

The collective tension is suddenly lifted, along with the weight sitting on TK’s shoulders.

“That’s great,” Paul gives TK a wide smile.

“Hey, TK,” Owen calls for his son.

TK turns towards the doorway to see his father and Tommy standing side by side, both wearing small, soft smiles. Owen nudges his head in the direction of the bunk room and TK gets the hint. He follows them in there.

“You should go home, Strand,” Tommy starts. “You should be with Carlos and I know he’d want you there. We only have a couple of hours left for shift, we can hold down the fort here.”

TK nervously shifts his balance from one foot to the other. “Are you sure? Because it’s just a couple of hours, like you said.”

As much as TK wants nothing more than to be with Carlos right now, he also doesn’t want to skip out and leave his team shorthanded.

But Owen joins in the conversation, bringing any more of TK’s thoughts to a halt.

“Go home to your boyfriend, son,” Owen fondly claps TK on the back. “A bruised lung is painful, and like Tommy said, I’m sure Carlos would want you there. We got it covered here.”

And TK doesn’t need to be told again. With a quick thank you! and grateful looks given to his father and his Captian, TK is rushing to pack his stuff and order an Uber.

He was counting down the minutes and seconds until he went home to Carlos, and now instead, he’s making his way out of the firehouse with promises to pass on the crew’s well wishes to the officer as he gets into the awaiting car.

He’s using his key and pushing the condo door open less than thirty minutes later.

The living room is dark, save for a small side lamp that is left switched on near the couch, which casts a soft yellow glow.

Moving his attention up the stairs, TK notices that the hallway light is on.

“Carlos?”

A beat.

Then, “TK?”

Carlos’s tired and slightly strained voice has TK ascending the stairs two at a time and then steps into the bedroom.

The moment his eyes land on Carlos, he learns the reason behind his boyfriend’s fatigued tone.

Carlos is halfway through taking his shirt off, his movement paused as it sends waves of pain down his arm and rattles against his bruise.

TK drops his duffel bag at the foot of the bed and walks over.

“Hey, babe. Here, let me help,” TK says.

“Can’t really move my arm without it hurting,” Carlos sighs.

TK hums in understanding and helps ease the shirt off Carlos’s shoulders and down his arms in the least painful and uncomfortable way. He then throws it into the laundry basket to be dealt with later.

“I was gonna hop in the shower,” Carlos speaks after the waves of pain are over. “The hot water helps,” he adds, speaking from experience.

TK picks up on that, and he wants to know more about what exactly happened to Carlos before, but he holds back. He knows it’s not the time for it, and he can eventually revisit the subject when Carlos is feeling better and not sporting a gigantic bruise on his torso.

“I’ll join you,” TK decides.

“Then that shower will definitely help,” Carlos smiles, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. And then he realizes something, which makes his smile fall a little. “Hey, I thought your shift ends in a couple of hours.”

“It does,” TK confirms. “Cap and dad sent me home early. Told me I should be with you, and they got it handled. The whole crew send their well wishes and love, too.”

“I’m honestly just so glad and relieved you’re here that I can’t conjure up enough to feel guilty that your team is shorthanded right now,” Carlos expresses. “And also very tired.”

“There’s no reason to feel guilty,” TK assures Carlos. “I promise. They say they have it covered, then they have it covered. Besides, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here.”

Carlos gives him a small, but genuine smile. TK kisses him softly. It’s a kiss filled with love, reassurance and safety.

“Come on, that shower awaits.”

TK runs the water to reach the perfect temperature as he helps undress Carlos the rest of the way and gives him a hand into the tub. After quickly removing and discarding all of his own clothes, TK steps in behind the slightly larger man.

Carlos closes his eyes as the warm spray collides with his battered body, running down his skin.

TK eyes the large bruise and his breaks at how painful it must be, and he hates that Carlos is experiencing that pain. And his heart also starts racing at the mere thought that Carlos is hurt to begin with. But he reminds himself that Carlos is here, he’s okay, and he’s going to heal.

“Relax, I got you, babe,” TK whispers when he notices Carlos tightening his back muscles. He reaches out, running his hands gently up and down Carlos’s back.

“You always do,” Carlos whispers in return.

TK drops a kiss to Carlos’s shoulder and cards his fingers through his now-messy curls, the product Carlos used that morning long gone.

He retrieves the shampoo and pours a good amount in his palm, lathering it up and then moving to run his hands over Carlos’s hair, gently scratching against his scalp, massaging it as he went just as the officer likes and the action has Carlos leaning into the paramedic’s tender touch.

After rinsing out the shampoo, TK reaches around Carlos again and grabs the peach scented body wash. Once it’s foamy in his palms, he carefully glides his hands up and down Carlos’s body, mindful of his injury as he washes the day’s sweat, pain and hospital visit off of Carlos’s skin.

Carlos lets out a satisfied hum, letting himself get lost in TK’s delicate ministration. This is everything he wanted all day, everything he longed for. To feel TK’s touch, to be in TK’s space.

TK doesn’t apply pressure on or around the bruise, his touches light as he works the soap over the wound. Looking over the contusion, TK can spot the point of contact between the bullet and his boyfriend’s body. The small circle is darker than the rest of the bruise, and TK has to swallow against his suddenly dry throat at that realization. The vest had protected Carlos, stopping the bullet, but the energy had to go somewhere and so it spread over and through Carlos’s chest.

TK shakes it off, focusing on Carlos in the here and now.

Once they’re done and smelling fresh, TK turns off the water and steps out. He wraps a towel around his waist as Carlos climbs out, letting TK wrap a towel around his middle.

“Better?” TK asks.

Carlos nods, looking into TK’s green eyes through his wet lashes.

“And your chest?”

“Doesn’t throb as much.”

A the edges of TK’s lips pull up in a small smile. He frames Carlos’s face with his hands and closes the distance between them with a chaste kiss, which Carlos happily reciprocates.

Carlos’s own sorrow starts to brew in his gut at the memory of a fleeting thought he had earlier in the day: for a second, he thought he may never get to kiss TK again.

TK taking hold of his hand brings him back to this moment, standing in the warmth of their bathroom and Carlos is thankful for the distraction. He pushes the memory to the side and follows TK as he leads them back into the bedroom.

They slip on sweats and comfortable cotton t-shirts, TK momentarily going downstairs to get two bottles of water before retreating back to their bedroom. He finds Carlos pulling the duvet back and carefully climbing into bed, letting out a content sigh when he rests his injured body on the soft mattress.

Carlos grabs the prescribed non-opioid medication he got from the hospital pharmacy and pops the dosage into his palm, gratefully accepting the opened water bottle TK hands him.

Carlos’s phone pings as TK makes his way around the bed to his side, watching as Carlos unlocks his phone, a smile immediately decorating the officer’s face at what he sees.

“My mom is coming over tomorrow,” he tells TK after a moment. “She’s gonna make us food.”

TK chuckles as he gets comfortable. “Sounds very much like Andrea Reyes.”

“Yeah,” Carlos agrees.

“Tell her I say hi,” TK smiles as he watches Carlos type back.

After responding, Carlos plugs his phone into the charger and a small wince escapes his lips as the movement hurts his chest.

“Easy, babe,” TK reminds him from behind.

Carlos settles back, taking deep, even breaths as the wave of pain trickles away. He slowly moves down the bed, until his head is even with the pillow but instead of using it, he gravitates towards TK’s open arm and pillows his head on his boyfriend’s chest.

Usually it’s the other way around, with TK’s head on Carlos’s chest, save for a few times Carlos would have bad days and want to be held. And right now, all Carlos wants is for TK’s arms to be around him, and TK happily obliges. Plus, adding pressure to Carlos’s battered chest is not a good idea, making the only other option for them is staying apart, which both men are highly and most definitely against. They need to in each other’s embrace.

They settle with careful maneuvers until TK feels Carlos relax in his hold when he finds a comfortable position. His arm is thrown across TK’s waist, his head resting above TK’s steady heartbeat, which is Carlos’s lifeline.

TK’s hold on Carlos is firm and gentle, with enough pressure to reassure his boyfriend that he’s safe but not enough to cause him any hurt. He runs his hand up and down Carlos’s back, to help ground and anchor him.

“I was really scared for a moment today,” Carlos whispers. “When the bullet hit my chest, all I could feel was white, hot pain. I didn’t know if it had gone through the vest, sometimes they do, and for a second, I was scared I’d never see you again. That I’d never kiss you again. I was so scared that we were out of time,” Carlos’s voice builds with emotion.

TK’s touches don’t slow or stop, he keeps the movement going, also knowing Carlos needs it.

“And there’s still so much I want to do with you, so much for us to do together,” Carlos continues.

TK nods along with Carlos’s words. He, too, feels the same in his heart.

“You know I’ll always fight to come back to you. I’ll always fight for us,” Carlos states, his voice wavering a little.

“I know, babe,” TK replies, dropping a kiss to the top of Carlos’s head. A moment of silence passes between them. “I was scared, too. We had no idea who was down and then when I saw Mitchell and you were nowhere in sight, it was like a bucket of ice water was poured over me. And all I could think was the same thing, there’s still so much for us to do together that this can’t be the end,” he confesses. “And you know what?”

“Hm?” Carlos moves his head to look up at TK.

“We’ll make every second count,” TK says with a soft smile.

Carlos studies him for a couple of moments, his eyes roaming over TK’s face, taking in his micro expressions, the way his green eyes sparkle, the worry still etched into his forehead that’s slowly fading away.

“We will,” Carlos promises back.

“You know it’s okay,” TK speaks, slicing through the quiet that settles in the air once again.

“What is?”

“For people to help you,” TK clarifies. “You always take care of everyone else, you’re always there for everyone, for anything they need. It’s only fair you get the same treatment in return. And I know you can take care of yourself and all, but it’s never a burden asking for help, or accepting it,” he pretty much reads Carlos’s mind.

Carlos tightens his hold on TK.

“And I know you haven’t been fighting me on helping you and taking care of you since I came home because you hate seeing me worry. And helping you has been helping me, too. Knowing you’re okay. You don’t have to be strong all the time, babe. I admire your strength, but you can get help sometimes, too.”

Carlos lifts his head again and looks at TK, his brown irises swimming with unshed tears. He doesn’t need to speak, TK understands.

“Oh, ‘Los,” TK murmurs. “I promise I’ll always be here.”

Carlos nods and closes his eyes when TK brushes a kiss to his forehead, a tear rolling down his cheek which TK wipes away with his thumb.

“I love you, Ty,” Carlos voices. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, ‘Los. I love you, too, baby. Get some rest.”

TK extends his arm and clicks the light off, the moonlight shining through the blinds takes its turn to illuminate the room. Carlos closes his eyes, focusing on TK’s steady heartbeat. He’s lulled to sleep, basking in the warmth and love of TK.

Yeah, everything is going to be just fine, Carlos thinks as he drifts off.

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riversofmars · 3 years

Text

Some really straightforward Whump for Day 12!

Prompt: “It'll be fun, they said“ | torture | begging

Fandom: Doctor Who

Characters: Liv Chenka/Helen Sinclair + the Eleven

Rating: M

Summary: The Eleven is fed up of playing nice and pretending to be cooperating. When he is alone with Liv, he can't resist the temptation and the urges of his most violent selfs, and attacks her. (Set during Ravenous, not canon compliant)

It'll Be Fun, They Said

Liv Chenka just about managed to catch herself on all fours. Her ears were ringing, she was disoriented and she couldn’t focus. She raised a hand to her head, concerned about the splitting pain and as she pulled her hand back, she registered the blood on her fingers. The blow to the head had been a surprise but the voice that sounded behind her was not; not in this context anyway.

“I did warn you that if anyone gets to kill you, Miss Chenka, it’ll be me,“ the Eleven snarled.

A kick to Liv’s side winded her, knocked her over and onto her back. She yelped in pain and clutched her ribs. So she had been right. This whole time, she had been right about him. She should never have turned her back on him, not for a moment, not even here, in the TARDIS, and certainly not when they were by themselves. Apparently, he had gotten tired of the game, tired of pretending, tired of waiting. Perhaps the temptation had been too great, maybe the Six or the Three had taken over, but it didn’t really matter how or why; what mattered was that the Eleven was physically far superior to her and had her at a disadvantage.

“Not so tough now, are you?“ He smirked as he looked down at her.

“You’re gonna regret this…“ Liv ground her teeth, as she tried to get up but the Eleven knocked her back down with a slap across her face.

“I don’t think so, no, I won’t, I will enjoy it. All of us will enjoy it. Maybe not the Eight but we’ll make him watch…“ The Eleven giggled gleefully. “They said it would be fun and it is.“

“Bastard!“ Liv spat, tasting blood on her lips. She barely noticed the pain from her split lip, she was too concerned with the mad Time Lord that threw himself at her.

“My turn!“ He bellowed as his Sixth personality emerged. She tried to fight him off but he was far stronger. He held her down and closed a hand around her throat. “See, it’s so hard to decide how to actually kill you. It’s been such a long time coming,“ he snarled as Liv struggled against him.

“Liv? LIV!“ A panicked voice came from the door. Helen. Her and the Doctor must have returned early from their excursion.

“Ah Miss Sinclair, how good of you to join us. I like an audience,“ the Eleven looked around to find Helen standing in the doorway, pale as a sheet, and without the Doctor for backup.

“Eleven, stop this!“ She exclaimed, terrified.

“But why? When we were having so much fun, weren’t we, Liv?“ The Time Lord laughed, seemingly not worried in the least. He returned his attention to the woman struggling underneath him and the med-tech used the brief moment of distraction to punch him in the face.

“Oh no you don’t!“ He growled, pushing her back down with both his hands around her throat. “How does it feel to have been right this whole time? Is it as satisfying as you’d hoped?“ He smirked, despite his nose starting to bleed.

“Yeah, brilliant,“ Liv winced, clawing at his wrists, struggling for air.

“STOP!“ Helen shouted, she launched herself at him, trying to drag him off her. She succeeded for a moment. The Eleven let go of Liv to fight Helen off. He shoved her back and straightened up.

“I never trusted you!“ Liv exclaimed, her voice rough as she gasped for breath.

“And a fat lot of good it did you, didn’t it?“ The Eleven laughed as he pulled out a gun.

“Eleven!“ Helen held her hands out appeasingly, hoping to talk him down somehow. Liv, however, didn’t think there was a point in even trying.

“Helen, get away from here, get the Doctor, get…“ The med-tech pushed herself up to a sitting position, her eyes keenly focused on the weapon in the mad Time Lord’s hand. It was old. No energy weapon but good old fashioned bullets that he took his time examining.

“I’m not leaving you with him!“ Helen exclaimed, mortified that she would even consider that.

“Well, I’m afraid either way Liv won’t live much longer…“ The Eleven giggled. “Oh I’m such a joker!“ He flipped the magazine of the gun shut and pointed the gun at the med-tech.

“Yes, very funny…“ Liv growled as she struggled to stand. If she was going to die, she would damn well do it on her feet.

“Eleven, the Doctor will be here any minute, if you do this, you…“ Helen tried to reason but to no avail.

“Don’t worry Helen, I’ll get to you in a minute,“ the Eleven flashed her a dangerous smile. “But first, Miss Chenka, I’ve really had enough of you.“

“Go on then!“ Liv snapped defiantly.

“Stop it, please, leave her alone!“ Helen pleaded.

“Helen, please, get a grip. You’re so weak, it’s pathetic!“ The Eleven snarled. “Look at your little friend. At least she’s got some fight in her. She just doesn’t know when to stop. Irritating, bullheaded, defiant Liv Chenka. I almost admire you, I’m sure I told you before… Which is why breaking you is all the more satisfying.“

“You won’t break me. Do your worst. There is nothing you can do to me that I haven’t seen, that I haven’t lived through already,“ Liv snapped. “The Doctor is gonna stop you.“

“Maybe, but by that point you will have died an agonising death, I’ll see to that,“ he smirked, positively gleeful at the prospect.

“I’m not scared of dying,“ Liv pressed through gritted teeth. In fact, if she provoked him into shooting her now, that would probably be a much more preferable death to what else he could be doing to her.

“Of course you’re not but I have other means of torturing you at my disposal,“ the Eleven laughed and in a split second, he whirled around, lunged for Helen and pulled her into his arm, the gun pressed to her head.

“Let her go!“ Liv yelled, wild with panic.

“Soft spot, is it?“ The Eleven grinned as Helen struggled against his firm grip around her shoulders. “Did you know about this, Helen? How long has she been making puppy dog eyes at you?“

“Eleven…“ Liv tried her best to keep her voice steady but terror was painted all over her face.

“Jealous, Miss Chenka?“ The Eleven tightened his grip on Helen and used his other hand, with the gun, to brush back her hair. “So much you will never get to do once I kill you.“

“Stop it!“ Liv bellowed.

“Perhaps you want to think about what we got up to in Rykerzon, all that time, just Helen and I…“ The Eleven carried on, clearly enjoying himself to no end.

“Liv…“ Helen’s voice was weak, she looked at her with pleading eyes.

“Stop it, you said yourself, you’re more interested in killing me anyway,“ Liv focused on the Eleven, trying her best to mask her own fear and not let Helen’s get to her. She needed to find a way of defusing the situation. She had to get Helen out of harm’s way. “Helen was good to you, kind to you, she’s not a threat, she…“

“She's your Achilles heel,“ the Eleven pointed out. “I wonder why that is…“ His face contorted into a cruel smirk, as he looked from Helen, to Liv and back again. “Must be hard, all those years, those unrequited affections…“

“LET HER GO!“ Liv shouted, nearing the end of her tether.

“Ask nicely,“ the Time Lord grinned.

“Stop playing games!“

“Beg. Come on.“ His eyes flashed with glee. “I want to hear you beg. Maybe I’ll let Helen go so she can tell the Doctor exactly what happened. What I did to you for all those times you interfered and ridiculed me. Beg for her life and maybe the Doctor will get one of his companions back.“

“Liv, don’t…“ Helen’s voice was shaky. Liv ground her teeth, balling her hands to fists. What was she to do? She had to play for time, keep him talking until the Doctor could get here. She couldn’t let him hurt Helen.

“Please let her go,“ Liv forced herself to remain calm.

“Get on your knees,“ the Eleven grinned, sensing he was close to winning.

“You mad bastard,“ Liv gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Come now, Liv, your love’s life depends on it,“ the Eleven carried on in a sing-song voice.

“Liv it’s okay…“ Helen tried to reassure her but the med-tech knew that it wasn’t. It wouldn’t be okay. Not if the Doctor didn’t show up soon. Not if the Eleven followed through on his threat. And they all knew he was more than capable of doing so. The game was up. The Doctor would realise his betrayal whether he killed them or not, so he had no incentive to keep them alive. Other than Liv giving him what he wanted to stall for time.

“I’m going to count to three…“ the Time Lord hummed.

“Fine! Fine…“ Liv exclaimed, holding her hands out to appease him. She took a deep breath, forsaking pride and dignity, and slowly knelt down. “Please let Helen go,“ she said calmly, focusing on the language scholar so she wouldn’t have to witness the triumph on the Time Lord’s face. She took comfort from the warmth and affection that shone from her friend’s eyes for her.

“Everybody breaks eventually, you just need to find their breaking point and the right tool,“ the Eleven laughed.

“Now, let her go!“ Liv demanded, looking back at him.

“Alright then, off you go, Miss Sinclair.“ He shoved Helen away, towards the door. “Off to find the Doctor and tell him that in the end, Miss Chenka was begging, maybe not for her own life but I’ll take it.“ He turned his attention fully to Liv and the gun at her head.

“Run Helen, find the Doctor, it’s okay!“ Liv exclaimed, relieved. This was Helen’s chance. He couldn’t threaten both of them now, she would be able to get away.

“Is that all you got for inspiring last words? No “I love you“? Make it all the more heartbreaking?“ The Eleven laughed.

“Go!“ Liv focused on Helen who couldn’t bring herself to move, she just stared back at her, terrified and helpless. “It’s okay!“ The med-tech urged her to go.

“Goodbye Miss Chenka, can’t say it’s been a pleasure,“ the Eleven grinned in triumph, his hand tightening around the trigger of the gun.

“I love you,“ Liv mouthed to Helen and closed her eyes, willing for her to go, content in the fact that she would be the last person she ever saw.

“NO!“ The energy burst out of Helen like a tidal wave. The Sonomancer’s power that she had buried deep inside broke to the surface as panic gripped her when the shot rang out. Time slowed to a standstill. Every molecule, every atom hummed with the Sonomancer’s power and stilled. Helen rushed forward as everything around her stopped. She pulled Liv up, away, out of the way of the bullet that had stalled halfway to her head.

And then, everything happened incredibly quickly as time sped up again. The Eleven was thrown back against the wall with incredible force, the gun was knocked from his hand and scattered away.

“What’s going on here?“ Suddenly the Doctor was there too and Helen pulled Liv into her arms, holding her tightly as if both their lives depended on it.

“Did not see that coming…“ Liv winced at how tightly Helen was holding her. Her side was definitely bruised but the pain was well worth being held like this by the woman that also held her heart.

“Neither did I…“ Helen admitted, sobbing with tears of relief.

#Whumptober2021 #no.12 #It'll be fun they said #torture #begging #doctor who #big finish #liv chenka #helen sinclair #the eleven #liv x helen #fanfiction #whump #hurt/comfort #violence #tw violence #threat

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whumphoarder · 4 years

Text

Who Needs Disney When You Have Russell Crowe?

Summary: When Peter’s ear infection gets a little out of hand, Tony and Morgan have slightly different ideas of how to help.

Word count: 1,874

Genre: Sickfic, domestic fluff, Whump Lite™

A/N: Thanks to @xxx-cat-xxx for beta-reading and ideas <3

Link to read on Ao3

Peter wakes to the sound of quiet whimpering.

It takes a few seconds for his groggy brain to register where he is, but the warm glow of the bunny-shaped night light on the opposite wall illuminating the Arendelle toy castle and the pile of stuffed animals on the floor gives it away. He’s in Morgan’s room. Morgan, who insisted on getting a bunk bed for her sixth birthday so that she and Peter could have sleepovers whenever he came to visit.

Morgan, who is clearly in the midst of a nightmare.

“Mo...” Peter whispers hoarsely. There are a few more quiet, pained whimpers. “Mo,” he tries again, louder. His left ear is throbbing and it’s ridiculously stuffy in this room—he’s actually sweating. Kicking the tangled bed covers off of himself, he lifts a hand to tap the wooden bed frame over his head. She stirs. “Morgan, wake u-up.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Morgan sits up in her bunk. “Yeah?” she asks drowsily. She leans over the edge of bed to look at him, strands of her long hair falling in her face. “What is it?”

She doesn’t seem particularly upset, which Peter finds strange. “Did… did you have a b-bad dream?” he asks.

In the dim light of the room, he can just make out her curious expression. “I don’t think so.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and shimmies backwards down the ladder. “Did you?”

“Wh-What?” His ear is ringing, the pain feeling almost bone-deep. There’s another whimper, barely audible.

“You’re crying,” she says simply, perching herself on the edge of his bed. Her brow knits together. “Are you sad?”

Peter wipes the back of his hand roughly across his face and finds it’s wet with tears. It takes a second for his addled brain to realize that she’s right, and then an instant wave of self-consciousness washes over him as he looks into the eyes of the frowning six-year-old. “No, sorry, ‘m fine.” He pushes himself up on his elbows, hurriedly brushing the tears away.

Morgan’s eyes go wide. “You’re bleeding!” she gasps.

“Huh?” Peter follows her horrified gaze down to the pillow he’s been using. It’s covered in something dark and sticky. Alarmed, he lifts a shaky hand to his throbbing ear and feels more liquid trickling down. “Oh – um – wow, uh...”

“I’m getting Daddy!” Morgan declares, jumping up from the mattress and spinning on her heel. “Hang on!”

“Wait, no, don’t freak him—”

But she’s already out of the room.

“...out.” With a small groan, Peter carefully sits the rest of the way up and flips the lamp on. The pastel lilac pillowcase is stained with a mixture of blood and yellowish fluid. Grimacing, he grabs some tissues from the box on Morgan’s dresser and dabs them carefully at his dripping ear, hissing sharply at the stabbing pain it causes.

Within a minute, Morgan is back, dragging the hand of a disheveled but surprisingly alert-looking Tony in after her. “See? He’s crying and bleeding out of his ears!” she blurts.

“Just one ear,” Peter corrects, lowering the tissue down to look at the fresh blood and pus on it. “Gross...”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, well in that case I’ll just go back to bed—you’re perfectly fine.” He moves over to the bed, Morgan following close behind. “Anything you wanna share with the class? You take any good hits to the noggin’ recently? Blow something up?”

Peter shakes his head as much as he dares, which only increases the ringing sensation. “No, nothing like that,” he mutters. He wishes this was something cool and Spider-Man related, but he’s pretty sure it’s just his patented Parker Luck™. “Ear started hurting a couple days ago,” he admits. “Thought it would go away.”

Tony pulls out his phone and flips on the flashlight. “Can I see it?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, wincing. He bites his lower lip and does his best to keep as still as possible as Tony peers into his ear with the light.

“What does it look like?” Morgan asks curiously.

“Ugly as hell...” Tony mutters. He flicks the light off and turns to Peter. “Pretty sure you ruptured your eardrum, kiddo.”

“Ah.” The pain seems to ramp up with the confirmation. That checks out. Certainly feels like someone just bored a hole through his ear. He can feel the fluid dripping out down his cheek.

Tony must notice it too because he grimaces and pulls a couple more tissues out of the box to hand him. “You know, if you weren’t feeling well, you could have told us that when you got here,” he points out. “Instead of waiting until”—he glances at his lock screen—“3:37 in the morning.”

Peter manages a small smirk. “Gotta keep you on your toes. You know, now that you’re retired and all...”

Looking very unamused, Tony extends a hand and helps pull Peter up to standing. The movement only increases the throbbing in his ear and Peter squeezes his eyes shut tightly against a wave of dizziness.

“Alright?” Tony checks, still gripping his arm tightly.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes, the ringing growing louder. “Sorry. Just... really hurts.”

“He can have some of my medicine,” Morgan offers in a slightly hushed voice. “The one Mommy gives me when my ears hurt.”

Tony lets out a short laugh. “That’s nice of you, sweetie, but I don’t think grape-flavored Children’s Motrin is gonna cut it here.” He gestures up to the top bunk. “Why don’t you hop back up there and try to sleep some more while I go get Peter fixed up?”

Morgan sticks her lip out in a pout. “But I’m not tired now.”

Instant guilt comes over Peter at having woken her up, but Tony doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nope, you are, you just forgot,” he says knowingly. He lets go of Peter’s arm for a second to scoop the now quietly giggling six-year-old up and deposit her on the top bunk. “Count some sheep, kid,” he advises, flipping off the lamp and snagging Peter’s ruined pillow to toss in the laundry.

With Morgan situated, Tony guides Peter out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He leaves Peter to clean up in the bathroom before heading to the kitchen in search of some kind of painkiller that might work on an enhanced metabolism.

Eventually, Tony returns with a bottle of Tylenol-Codeine, a glass of water, and an apologetic look. “It’s the strongest stuff we’ve got here. Might take the edge off at least.”

Peter murmurs his thanks and takes the pills, mostly to humor him. They both know it’s a lost cause. He can burn through a dose of morphine in less than ten minutes; there’s no way over-the-counter meds are going to do anything.

“First thing in the morning, I’ll take you to see Bruce,” Tony promises. “We’ll get you on some antibiotics and something better for the pain.”

Peter just hums in response.

Tony sighs. “We can try a heating pad,” he suggests. “That helps Morgan sometimes.”

“Sure.” Peter shrugs, listless. He’ll do anything at this point to make his ear stop aching.

Tony locates the heating pad and gets Peter set up on the chaise section of the couch under a blanket with the heating pad resting on the pillow under his ear. It helps marginally, which is slightly more than Peter can say for the pills.

“Sorry, kiddo. If only you’d known me in the nineties,” Tony says with a sad chuckle. “Could’ve tried all kinds of stuff on you.”

Peter lets out a short, empty laugh. “Yeah, too bad. Sure May would’ve loved that…”

Tony settles down onto the other end of the couch and flips on the TV for distraction. After a bit of channel flipping, he picks a period war drama about a badass sea captain fighting during the Napoleonic Wars, starring Russell Crowe.

(It was that or “My Strange Addiction” on TLC, and neither of them felt like watching a woman eat a couch).

Peter doesn’t exactly sleep, but he closes his eyes and drifts in and out while the movie plays low in the background. He’s kind of queasy—probably a combination of the otherwise useless drugs and the low grade fever he’s pretty sure he’s got going—but it’s nothing too awful. At least the sounds of cannons firing and battles being waged on screen drown out the incessant ringing in his head.

He isn’t sure how much time passes before a new voice joins the mix in a stage-whisper:

“Are they gonna cut his arm off?”

Peter’s eyes snap open. He sees Tony dozing on the other end of the sofa, so he sits up a little straighter and turns around to look at the staircase behind him. Sure enough, Morgan is sitting on the fourth step from the bottom, just high enough to see over the couch to the TV.

“I thought you went back to bed,” Peter whispers.

Morgan shrugs. “Counting sheep is boring.” She stands up and tiptoes down the rest of the stairs and into the living room. “Are they gonna cut his arm off?” she repeats.

Peter looks back at the movie. The ship’s doctor is in the midst of a rather intense amputation scene on a young boy’s infected arm. “Yeah, looks like it,” he says through a wince. He should probably change the channel to something more child-friendly, but Tony’s got the remote balanced on his knee and he’s all the way on the other end of the sofa. Oh well.

Morgan nods at the screen, looking impressed. Then she looks back to Peter. “Does your ear still hurt a lot?”

“Nah, it’s not so bad,” Peter lies. “No need to cut it off or anything.” He scoots over on the cushion a bit. “You wanna sit here with me?”

“Yeah.” She nods and hops up onto the couch beside him, snuggling against his right side. “Did Daddy give you medicine?” she inquires.

“Yeah, he did,” Peter assures.

She nods approvingly. “And did he give you the heater thingy?”

Peter lifts the heating pad up slightly for her to see. “Yep.”

“Good.” She nods again. “And cuddles?”

“Eh…” His gaze drifting to his quietly snoring mentor, Peter smirks a bit. “I think I’m getting too old for those.”

“Everybody needs cuddles,” she says knowingly. Scooting a little closer to him, she wraps her arms around his waist. “See?”

A small smile creeps across Peter’s lips. “Yeah, I see.”

They sit there for a moment, Peter doing his best to focus on the steady pressure of the six-year-old’s gentle squeeze rather than the thumping in his head. It’s almost peaceful.

“Either that, or you need a stick,” Morgan pipes up, breaking the spell.

Peter’s brow furrows. “A stick?”

“To bite down on,” she explains, pointing at the TV. “Like the boy in the movie.”

Peter blinks, then shifts his gaze sideways to the little girl watching nineteenth-century field surgery technique with genuine interest.

“It’s so he doesn’t scream,” she informs.

Peter holds out his hand. “Just give me the remote, Mo.”

Link to all my fics

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like: Adventures at the Stark Lake House

#peter parker whump #sick peter parker #irondad fic #morgan stark #peter parker #tony stark #earache #ear infection #ruptured eardrum #fluff #domestic fluff #stark lake house #flump #my fic

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