#Sedatives whump

[whumporama]

Whumpee who is a very powerful person, (magical or just strong and dangerous), and needs to be held captive. To keep them down, their captors keep them drugged.

Whumpee, who would normally never give in or back down, who keeps fighting even if they're restrained, is now unable to even lift a finger to stop them. It breaks them. They can take anything, if they can fight. But this? They're constantly confused and feel like their mind is in a fog. Their body doesn't feel theirs anymore, they can't move and they can't think and they can't resist.

---

When they're rescued, they're in a pretty bad state, and taking care of their wounds will hurt.

But Whumpee refuses the sedative Caretaker offers. They just got this control back, and even though they know they can trust Caretaker, they don't want to go back to that.

So now they're trapped between two evils. It hurts like hell to get their wounds cleaned, and they've had so, so much pain and are so tired. But the relief comes with going back to that state, and they can't.

Does Caretaker respect their wish? Do they try to convince them? Do they force Whumpee to take it? Do they inject it, and Whumpee only realizes when it starts to kick in?

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: noncon drugging, disorientation, power loss

drugging.

I know it’s a classic, but I’m really not over sedatives. it makes whumpee all loopy and clingy, sitting on whumper’s lap and not able to take any of their weight as the world spins. they can’t think, can’t move. even their fear response is dulled.

whumpee knows, hypothetically, in a far off way, that something is probably very wrong. but it feels like their consciousness has been shredded to pieces and scattered into the air above where they’re siting slumped, and it’s making it hard to have any type of cohesive thought.

whumper running their hands through their hair, soft and pretty, and saying demeaning things about how broken whumpee is. whumpee won’t remember any of it in the morning.

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Sedate your whumpees. Do it whether they want to be sedated or not.

Perhaps they're trying to fight against the doctors who are attempting to help them because they don't understand what's going on, and all caretaker can do is stand back and tearily watch the needle slip in and whumpee's consciousness slowly slip away. Their limp arm is placed back down on the sheets beside them and the doctors now have no resistance to their treatment plan.

Or maybe whumpee is in so much pain/discomfort that they're begging to be sedated. All they want is to be unconscious so they don't have to be aware of all that they're suffering through. The feeling of going under is terrifying to them, but it's worth it. Caretaker sits beside the bed holding their hand, watching the glaze enter their eyes as they start to blink slowly, then drift off.

In either situation, the result is that the whumpee looks peaceful at last. Whether they're actually peaceful within is a whole other thing

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Redwood Psychatric Institute - Part 7

MASTERLIST - PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5 - PART 6

CWS: medical whump, medical gaslighting , sedative, injection, noncon drugging, forced psychiatric 'care', patient/medical malpractice

"Come on James. If you have your meds, Doctor Wilson has allowed you to have some time in the courtyard today." The blonde orderly encouraged cheerfully.

She smoothed a hand over her white scrubs, then placed the wax paper cup full of pills in front of James. She then placed a paper cup of water beside it.

James lifted his head and nodded weakly. He tipped the cup full of pills into his mouth, washing them down with the water and swallowing without a second thought.

He placed the empty cups back on the table.

"Good boy." The orderly smiled brightly, and ruffled a hand through his hair. "I'll come past your room later and take you out. Now let's run along to group therapy!"

She grabbed ahold of his wheelchair, and began to push him out of the room and down the hall, whistling a cheery tune as she went. She noticed, but didn't react, when James' head lolled about as they went.

---

That afternoon, the orderly returned to pick up her charge. Her golden locks were now swept back into a tight bun, instead of the clean ponytail she wore earlier. She wheeled him into the fenced off courtyard with the same large, white smile that had been plastered on her face in the morning.

"Courtyard tiiiime!" She all but sang, as she parked his wheelchair beneath a beautiful large oak tree. "Aren't you excited, James?"

He didn't respond. James' hospital gown clung to his thin, pale and sweaty frame. His hair was a knotted mess, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

The orderly combed a hand through his hair, trying to untangle it. "They really need to take better care of you, my darling. You're all untidy! I promise I'll have a word to the night staff when I hand over this afternoon, about proper hygiene."

She placed a hand under his chin, turning his face into the sunlight. He flinched, blinking slowly. She pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket of her scrubs and wiped away a stray trail of drool slipping from the corner of his half-open mouth.

"Oh you poor darling. It's not your fault the Doctor has you drugged up so much you can't move.. maybe I should have a little word with him about that, too, hey? You have been well behaved lately. You might be even get some visitors again soon!" She chirped.

James didn't respond. She petted his shoulder cheerfully, nodded to herself, and stood to take up her place behind his wheelchair again. Without another word, she wheeled him back inside the hospital.

---

The door to the Rec room slid open, and Mathew walked in.

He scanned the room, looking for a particular face in the crowd of patients. There were several round tables around the room, all piled high with untouched games - Jenga, Uno, dominoes. Three to four patients sat at each table. Each of the patients wore the same paper thin, blue hospital gown. They also had the same vacant stare in their bloodshot eyes, drool dipping down their chins or sweat trickling from their temples. Mathew felt a little shiver down his spine. He did not like this place. But he was here for a good reason. He didn't know where Row- No, James', parents were, if they were visiting him, if they were even alive.. but he was pretty sure that he was all James had left. He owed it to his friend to help him through the hardest time in his life. Doctor Wilson had said that Rowan had been struggling with mental illness throughout his life - and Mathew, his best friend, never noticed. He couldn't change that, but he could stand up to the task now.

His eyes landed on his friend. Sitting alone, in the corner, in a wheelchair sat James. Mathew walked over, keeping his deamenor calm and cheerful.

"Hey James, how are you?" He smiled, pulling up a chair next to his friend.

James' head was turned away from him and there was no indication that he had heard Mathew.

"Ok, uh well, I'm doing good. Life is um, uneventful. Except for when I accidentally poured coffee in my cereal yesterday. Heh, didn't taste as bad as I expected. It was stupid though, I was trying to watch a video on my phone and um and-"

Mathew stuttered as James' head slowly turned, and his friend saw his face. He looked just like the other patients - drugged up to the eyeballs. He was also as thin as a twig. Mathew's mouth stopped working as he saw his friend, a shell of the person he once knew.

"Uh, hey.. bud, how you feelin'? Can you hear me?"

James blinked slowly. He was looking right through Mathew, as though they were on different planes of existence. Mathew took a deep breath, and reminded himself of the reason he was visiting - and would continue to visit.

"The weather's nice today. Maybe they'll let me take you into the courtyard? Doctor Wilson said you've been going out there sometimes, and that it seems to cheer you up. It always feels nice to get some sunshine, doesn't it?"

One of the patients at the table beside them began mumbling something in a breathy voice. Mathew tried to ignore it and keep talking at his friend.

"Actually the other day I was in my graden trying to do just that, and I saw this beautiful flower. And I didn't know what it was called, so I Googled it, and get this, its called a -"

Mathew was once again interrupted as the patient at the next table let out a shrill scream, knocked all the games off the table, and began to slam her fists into the table, roaring hoarsely.

"Shit." Mathew gasped, jumping to his feet.

There were the sound of heaving footsteps racing through the hall, then the door to the rec room burst open and orderlies barged inside, headed straight for the unruly patient.

"Don't touch me!" She screamed as they grabbed her by the arms, wrenching her away from the table. "Help me!" She locked eyes with Mathew. "HELP! They're drugging us, please you have to help us please!" She sounded desperate.

Mathew stood frozen in shock, or fear.

The orderlies ignored her pleas, and fought against her as she tried to fight them off in the direction of the door.

"Miss, you are acting hysterical, we have been left with no choice but to sedate you! This is for your own good!" One orderly yelled over her screams.

They pinned her down on top of the next table. The patients seated around the table didn’t react as they were shoved out of the way by her flailing limbs, which one of the orderlies managed to pin in place without taking a fist to the face.

Another drew a hypodermic syringe from the pocket of his white scrubs. Mathew watched in shock as the orderly shoved the syringe straight through the muscle of her shoulder.

The patient screamed, one last time, before the sedative began to flow into her system, and she relaxed into the grip of the orderlies. Her eyes were already fluttering closed as they lifted her to her feet, and took her outside the room where a gurney happened to be waiting for them. Mathew stood and went to the doorway, where he watched as they lifted the patient onto the gurney, and began to strap her in with padded restraints. One of the orderlies saw Mathew watching, and gave him an apologetic shrug.

"Sorry for the scene man. That's why these patients here don't get many visits. They're all hysterical and convinced we're out to get them. This is just for their own good." The orderly turned back to his coworkers, and helped them wheel the now unconscious patient on the gurney deep into the bowels of the hospital.

---

PREVIOUS - NEXT

Taglist (just ask to be added!): @jazatronasmr @onthishamersterwheel @bumpthumpwhump @bloodsweatandpotato @whatiswhump @jancameforthewhump @dream-whump @ratking-whump @inkstainsonmyhands12 @halsteadshaw13 @sparrowsage @sowhumpful @caspersdelusion @everythingsscary @lumpywhump

[avvail-whumps]

The whumpee’s eyes blinked slowly, staring at the fuzziness that was building up in the edges of their vision. Even when they tried to shake it away, it only seemed to grow worse.

It made them all lightheaded and funny, barely even able to lift their hand up to look at it. When they moved it, it was like they were seeing a blurry trail of colours. Their lips curved into a weary smile, and a breathless laugh escaped their lips.

“Caretaker?” They whispered, brows wrinkling when they realised their tongue was heavy.

There was something moving beside them, and a familiar face breached their vision from where they were lay down – the caretaker was smiling, their voice only reaching their ears after they watched their lips move.

“I’m here,” they gently hummed, brushing some of the whumpee’s hair from their face. Their dazed eyes were fixated on them, before wrinkling in confusion.

Their numb fingers gently prodded the caretaker’s cheek. They could just make out dark red scratch marks, and their lips wobbled in an attempt to say something. The caretaker shushed them, gently taking their hand and holding it close.

“It’s okay,” they smiled. “It was an accident. I forgive you.”

Forgive them. The whumpee wearily realised it must have been their fault, but they didn’t remember doing it. They didn’t really remember anything. They let out a slurred mumble, and the caretaker sighed, kissing their temple.

“Sorry. You weren’t calming down,” they murmur, but the whumpee is so fuzzy that they can’t hear anything. It feels like their floating, and it feels good. It feels calm, and they like it.

The caretaker sets the sedative in the drawer, and tucks them into bed.

[starryybrained]

Waking Up In a Nightmare

Whumptober Day 10: Slurred words/Passing out from the pain

Masterlist

Content: Noncon body modification/surgery (aftermath), body horror, drugging, lab whump, nausea, excessive vomit, forced stripping, nonsexual nudity, delirium

Saul comes to, unseeing, the world dark and fuzzy, laying flat on his back. Everything is heavy and muddled, confusing. Something clinks in the background, coupled with a click-clack that he can’t parse the direction or source of.

He groans, and it sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth, distant.

Where?– … Huh?

He clutches something made of fabric beneath him, attempting to lift himself up, forcing his arms back and extending them slightly, shaking. His back barely lifts off of the surface of… whatever he’s on. His chest aches with the movement, fiery and stabbing.

He can hear someone say “Stable.” The voice sounds… vaguely feminine.

The world begins to come into focus, blurry and blindingly white, making his eyes water. Saul takes in a shuddering breath. His lungs scream with the very movement. The feeling of taking in air is like that of glass shards lodging themselves within his innards.

“Implanted… successfully.” The voice continues. It sounds drifty and faraway.

Saul’s thoughts turn in circles, still half-sludge. It’s like he’s asleep and awake all at once, yet able to see.

He blinks slowly. Again, he tries to lift himself up.

“Fffuck,” he slurs, coughing, dropping onto his back once more. He tries again, and manages to sit up, unsteady, his head heavy on his shoulders. Someone pushes him back and weakly, he tries to resist. “No… no, jus’ let me fuckin’ … ssta- and. … Ssit.” His voice is small, but filled with conviction. It shakes ever so slightly.

“No. Lay back.” The voice tells him, no-nonsense.

“I hhave to… ssitup. Lemme.” Saul coughs again. It sounds wet and gross. He heaves, the wetness catching in his throat. He clutches at it sluggishly. Finally, he clears it out, able to breathe, gasping. His eyes open wide as he does. He can see her now. Dr. Greyson. Her figure is still a little blurry, but he can still identify her, the smudge of blue in his vision unmistakable.

His chest still aches.

“Whhhat— what did yyou…” Saul starts to say, blindly touching his chest. He’s clothed in something other than the experiment uniform, he can feel it. The fabric is different. Beneath it, his skin gives, sticking to it. It has the hardness of some kind of slime. “Th’fuck?!” He suddenly sits up, leaning forward as if his head is too heavy for his body. As he sits, he realizes he’s wearing a hospital gown. The barest shred of decency he can be allowed here.

Then his stomach turns.

Coughing again, he hacks up something. It drips down his chin, thick and sticky. Saul covers his mouth with one hand, using the other to keep his unsteady balance in check.

He groans and mutters something unintelligible. It’s clear through the tone of his voice that it’s something vile. “… hhurts.”  Saul doubles over without warning, grasping at his chest. “Ahg- shitshitshit—” He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he breathes, the air seething through his teeth. It’s like something has him within its jaws, biting him clean in two. It’s viselike, crushing.

Painkillers. He needs more painkillers.

He opens his mouth to speak and gags. Nothing comes out, but nausea crawls up his throat, pressing on the back of it. He forces himself to breathe deeply. He just needs to keep it together.

He opens his mouth to speak, soundless, and the world blurs in front of him again. The need to vomit is overwhelming. Saul’s breath is ragged.

During all of this, Dr. Greyson does nothing. She types on her screens and tends to her work and with unwanted tears in his eyes Saul almost wants to cuss her out — but he forgets the words, forgets how to ask her to give him some morphine or whatever the hell it is, all he can do is sit there with his mouth clamped shut, holding back his vomit.

Eventually, he throws up, black vomit staining the front of the hospital gown and pouring down the side of the surface he lays on, spilling onto the ground with a splatter. He throws up again and again, until there’s nothing left and he’s spewing up his own bile, a bright, noxious green. The smell is pungent.

Saul’s eyes sting and he blinks over and over.

Oh god. He’s crying. He’s crying and he’s covered in his own vomit. It’s dripping down his chin and it’s all over the hospital gown, greasy and jet-black, and his front is coated with it. It’s an absolutely obscene amount of waste.

Saul heaves. His ribcage feels like it’s snapping in two and his throat burns and his heartbeats are thudding in his ears, throbbing to the point his own skull feels like a claustrophobic nightmare.

This is a nightmare.

Saul’s head swims, vision turning dark.

…

Suddenly he’s back, seeing everything in double vision, held up by cold, slick metal. Dr. Greyson touches him, her hands gloved, untying the gown. The feeling is overwhelming.

His breath comes out quick and uneven.

She drags the soiled gown away from his body in one swift movement, and then he’s exposed. Blood rushes to his ears.

He stares at his own body, first mortified, then disbelieving.

He must be delirious.

Saul doesn’t even have the will to scream. The ugly stitches across his chest bleed blue and inky black, and in the center lies a thick, sticky membrane stretched across the skin. It looks like a patchwork of his own flesh and blood, like he’s been torn apart and sewn back up like a ragdoll. And like this, he really is a doll.

The pain makes sense now. It all makes sense, in a detached, confusing kind of way.

He’s been ruined. That’s what’s happened. Nothing will ever be the same anymore.

Dr. Greyson returns with a clean gown. It flutters like a ghost as she carries it.

Saul looks away from her, curling on his side. The room appears to crumble around him, flaking away. He breathes harder. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Dr. Greyson’s face is missing. She comes closer, gloved hands reaching for his arms.

“Get th’fuck away—”

She doesn’t.

Her touch is icy cold, clashing with the roiling heat in his chest. Saul’s entire body is on fire. He tries to push her away but he can’t.

The world continues to crack apart, and he begins to crack too. Right in his chest, where the ache is the worst. She clothes him, and the fabric is so light and thin yet claustrophobic and exposing.

He’s crying again. Or his vision is blurry. He can’t tell. He can’t tell anymore. He doesn’t know. It’s too much, it’s all too much —

Saul curls in on himself, dizzy and breathing shallowly. He’s going to die, isn’t he? He’s going to die, he can feel his chest collapsing on itself—!

… Everything goes black.

[whump-bunny]

Whumper had Whumpee wearing a shock collar for the longest time... Until Whumpee got used to the pain and began to ignore it.

So Whumper made Whumpee wear a new collar. One that can monitor Whumpee's heart rate. And if that heart rate gets too fast? Say, for instance, if Whumpee is trying to run away? Or trying to hurt themself? The collar will inject a sedative directly into Whumpee's neck. Problem solved.

Maybe Whumper intentionally sets the threshold really low so Whumpee can hardly walk without setting the collar off.

Maybe Whumper takes great pleasure in trying to scare Whumpee just to see them panic.

Maybe the threat of sedation only makes Whumpee's heart rate get faster.

Maybe after Whumpee is rescued, they shove their feelings down and seem eerily calm all the time.

[whumpacabra]

Have your medical caretaker forget (or your medical whumper ‘forget’) to numb whumpee before a minor but painful operation.

They have to follow up with a sedative to help whumpee ‘calm down,’ blissfully unaware (or cruelty reveling) that they’re still in excruciating pain.

Whumpee is still in pain, but they’re too confused and exhausted by the sedative to communicate that to their caretakers.

[letitbehurt]

Thinking about Whumpee being held down in a hospital bed.

[whumpookies]

AMOW whumperland 2023 day 4 title: the Grinch prompt: Sedative.

[fourwingedwriter]

Sedatives

AN: I wrote a thing ig. Not 100% what this is but it's a thing

Other Nameless Stuff

CWs: arrow wound, struggling against restraints, sedatives/drugged, passing out

----

Medic pushed through the rest of the team, dropping to their knees beside Shooter. He processed the location of the arrow in her side, grimacing slightly before looking further up.

Medic took hold of her shoulders, forcing her frantic gaze, "Hey, I've got you. I'm gonna pull it out. It's going to hurt like hell."

She struggled against the others holding her down, "Quickly."

His bare hand met her skin, pressing down hard. She protested greatly, screaming like her life depended on it. Struggling against the hands which held her, back arching, Shooter was consumed by a wall of pain.

She couldn't help herself. Her body wasn't her own when in pain. Something consumed her, an animalistic, instinctual force she couldn't resist.

"Somebody sedate her already dammit!" Medic shouted, knowing full well she wouldn't calm until chemically forced to.

A cloth was clasped over her nose and mouth, pressed down with a frighteningly necessary force. Then, after far too many seconds, she stilled. Her breathing slowed, limbs becoming heavy.

The rest of the team let go, allowing Medic to do his work in peace. All except Swordsman, who removed the cloth from her face and gently brushed the hair from Shooter's eyes.

"I'm sorry, this is all my fault. You trusted me and I got you shot." She whispered, supporting Shooter's head, "I will do everything to make it up to you."

The weakened young woman reached up, clutching Swordsman's shirt, "Don't-" she coughed, blood trickling from her nose, "Don't apologize. It's m-" Shooter went completely limp, the sedatives and blood loss making the world spin.

Swordsman cradled her head, "It's okay. The sedatives are working. Let them."

-----

Taglist: @tildeathiwillwrite @mellowwhumps @whumperofworlds @crimsons-whump-pile @mysticalshadow351

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: heavy objectification, conditioning, torture, mention of limb death

art piece whumpee.

strung up and injured and hurt to look pretty and literally exist as an art piece in a gallery.

their arms are folded, intertwined with their legs so that their bony arm is twisted around their left leg, the other under the right, the right leg splayed out and upwards farther. their knuckles go red and their body suffers long term damage for being kept in a stress position like that for so long.

they lost feeling a long time ago. When they eat, they get spoonfed by one of the employees at the gallery. People gather around to watch and it becomes part of the art because the employee has to wear something that evokes whatever morbid image they think it’s displaying.

they get let out twice a day- before and after opening and closing- to use the bathroom, and otherwise they’re constantly strung up. their body is in a constant stress position, and both of their shoulders have been dislocated to achieve it for a long, long time. their vocal cords were also cut. whumper would have just cut their tongue, except they thought that had value to add to the piece, in whumpee licking their scabbed chapped lips, or getting their jaw pulled open. they decided to cut their vocal cords instead.

before they got strung up, they had to be turned into an art piece. Whumper scarred them to all hell, not trying to hurt them, but trying to evoke a certain image. their clothes aren’t normal clothes, obviously, they’re the type of thing you’d imagine on a statue. That type of revealing, robe-ish thing.

there’s a little plaque that sits on a stand next to them, with whumper’s name and credits to them, and the name of their website if any viewers want to buy one of their own to keep, and the title of the piece. not their given name, not the name their mother gave them- the title of the piece.

they’ve stopped being able to feel things a long time ago. They almost dislike when they’re let down, because it gives their body just enough time to recoordinate to normal gravity and walking before getting strung back up. they have to start the process of the initial blood rush, followed by the asleep feeling, followed by pain and then numbness. they haven’t been able to feel their feet or their fingers since training. if they do get rescued, they won’t be able to use either- their toes and fingers both look purple, almost black, from the blood- almost like bad hypothermia. it adds to the look. they think their fingers and toes might be dead.

whumper was looking for the type of look you see sometimes in old rennesiance oil paintings, but more tangible. whumpee’s body wasn’t the only thing they worked on- they looked through different types of bonds- ropes, chains, before finally landing on strings. whumpee is a proper art piece to whumper- they spent hours styling and changing whumpee’s clothes, if you could call it that. Whumper spent days sketching and thinking about ways to string up whumpee- which arm and leg should go where to achieve the most pain and blood flow block up, making their knuckles and every one of their bony joints red and swollen.

alternatively, art piece whumpee who’s heavily conditioned. they’re an art piece. that’s all they are. there’s nothing wrong with the way the viewers look at them or touch them or the mocking way they talk to them. they want to be a good art piece. that’s all they are.

human speech sounds garbled in their mind. somehow, whumper’s training managed to make whumpee unlearn language, all human language coming out strange and gibberish to them. they can’t communicate, can’t understand.

the strings are light and clear, and they give enough for whumpee to be able to move and change their position slightly, but they can’t get out. the strings are wrapped too tight around them, further affecting their circulation and biting into their flesh, leaving permeanant scars. the strings don’t give, despite how thin they are, they’re sturdy.

if whumpee does manage to get out of them, somehow, they’ll be decommissioned. A new living art piece will be up a couple months from now. they’ll hand in a heap on the floor, much too dizzy to get away from the security guards.

they’ve long stopped trying to fight it. They’re a touchable exhibit, and so people are allowed to pinch their cheeks and laugh when their eyes widen or touch them however they want as long as they don’t break their strings. People poke them in the sides and laugh when they flinch, looking over at them with terror.

they’re surrounded by objects- paintings and cloth and clay. Beautiful objects, human expression, but objects nonetheless. they’re left there after lights out, just like all the other art pieces, sitting in the dark for 15 hours surrounded by objects just like them until the next employee comes in to open at seven.

they’re the pride and joy of their exhibit.

[radiomuseum]

The heart monitor beeped with every heartbeat. Whumpee was certainly nervous, as the monitor was beeping fast. The doctor and the nurse were very kind and attempted to cool her nerves by cracking jokes. It did help a bit.

They told her everything would be alright.

Whumpee asked if they could just tell her when they were about to put the sedative in to put her asleep. The anesthesiologist injected the sedative into the IV line and said that she would start feeling sleepy soon. As whumpee lay there completely conscious still, she remarked "it's crazy that I feel completely awake and normal right now, but I will be asleep so soon"

The doctor said it should happen any second now

Then she began to feel it. Her face began to feel tingly and her mind began to feel fuzzy. Her body felt like it was sinking into the bed, and the room felt like it was spinning. Everything became blurry, The beeping of the heart monitor slowed down. The last thing she remembered saying was "oh ....I feel it.."

And it was lights out

[ftmpuppyslt]

need more medkink mutuals.. specifically sedatives and restraints ...... screaming crying throwing up. specifically ward-esque content but thats far and few. (yes ive BEEN to a ward im not one of those weirdos who fetishize them after never being to one)

if u find me via the tags down below PLEASE interact and share medkink stuff. thx.

this is not an invitation for making sexual advances on me but it IS an invitation to send medkink posts

[bandits-whump-collection]

"Hey there," A voice softly called to the trembling escaped monster, a tag still hanging off it, pierced into a thin membrane. "I don't want to hurt you, just calm down." The voice's owner shined their flashlight over the creature, watching it flinch back.

"How about a treat?" They offered instead, carefully setting the light down to stay illuminating the creature, using their free hands to peel open a little can of highly-scented food. The monster perked up at the scent, scared eyes widening with hunger and curiosity.

"C'mon, it's for you." They smiled, setting the tin down and picking up the light, stepping back and giving it room.

The monster hesitated, then carefully came near, sniffing at the tin, before starting to lick and bite at the food held within it. Something specialized for its diet, designed to be as enticing as possible in its blend of aromas.

It was so entranced, that it didn't hear the soft click and hiss of a blowgun, preparing to fire a dart laced with the perfect dosage of a tranquilizer.

[whumpsmith-participates]

AI-less Whumptober 2024

Day 19 - Losing a sense

Tags/CW: medwhump (technically?), hospital, uhhhhhhh pain., sedative/sedation

King of Hearts was easily one of the most popular heroes in the city. It helped that he usually hung out in Times Square, a popular tourist attraction, and loved by the locals as well. It also helped that his getup was recognisable; nothing too flashy, just a deep red jacket with a white, fur trim around the collar and hem, reminiscent of a king's mantle.

Another thing that people seemed to appreciate about King was his seeming lack of 'flashy' powers. He couldn't control fire or water, he didn't have enhanced strength or unnaturally fast healing. He couldn't shape shift, shift shape, bend or alter reality, or anything else otherworldly.

No, King of Hearts was known for using simple skills that anyone could learn with some hard work and dedication. The only difference being that he was born with them. A generational muscle memory, as he called it, allowing him to take on anyone in hand-to-hand combat with minimal to no training.

He was young, approachable, and despite the simplicity of his powers, he was among the elite of the city's heroes. An inspiration to many, representing an achievable dream.

A dream, which unfortunately, turned into a nightmare.

It had been an exhausting day. King never knew that waking up could be so tiring. He never knew that lying in bed could be so painful. The nurse had given him a button, one he could click to receive extra pain medication, but he refused to use it. It didn't just numb the pain, it numbed everything. And he couldn't have that right now. He had to know...

The last twenty-four hours had been intense. He'd been held captive alongside a handful of other supers, all of them having their powers suppressed — a technique that didn't tend to work on King. You couldn't exactly suppress knowledge or muscle memory after all.

So when things were at their most dire, King was the only one who could act. The only one who wanted to act. Even though it was beginning to seem he had paid the ultimate price for doing so.

In his efforts to save the others, King ended up crushed between giant parts of machinery, his lower spine shattered so badly they had to fix it with surgery, and they refused to tell him whether he would regain any feeling in his legs. They just kept saying it was too early to tell.

"How are you doing?"

King glared in the direction of the green-haired nurse. He was offering a smile, carrying a tray with food.

"How do you think?" King said.

"You're right, that's a silly question," the nurse said, "you're probably not very hungry with all those drugs, but I figured I'd bring you some dinner in case you wanna try to eat anyway."

"...leave me alone, Ryan." King said.

"O-of course," Ryan said, placing the tray on his bedside table before heading off.

King sighed as he looked away from the tray. At least Ryan was right about one thing; he wasn't hungry at all. He wouldn't be until he knew...

He looked at the useless mound underneath his blankets that was supposed to be his feet. He wanted to move them so badly, but no matter how much he willed himself to move his feet...the mound remained still.

He had to know.

He pulled the covers back, sitting up a bit despite the pain in his lower back. He could feel the stitches pull at his skin as he leaned forward, gritting his teeth as he began pushing one of his legs towards the edge of the bed.

Maybe, just maybe, if he just forced it, he could rely on his muscle memory and just stand.

He bit his cheek to stop himself from screaming out in pain as he shuffled and pushed and writhed until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Tears pricked in his eyes as he watched his legs dangle motionless, just inches above the floor. The tears blurred his vision, until he stubbornly wiped them away, taking a couple of deep breaths before sliding off the bed.

He could see his toes touch the white and grey-speckled floor, bracing himself for the usual cold shock of stepping onto an non-carpeted floor, which never came. His ankles, knees and hips all buckled at once, sending him to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The only surfaces within reach to catch himself with his hands were his bed, or the bedside table. But his left hand just grabbed onto the tray of food instead, pulling it to the floor with him and sending the food flying everywhere, while his right hand only managed to grasp the blanket, yanking that onto the floor as well.

There he was on the floor. King of fucking nothing.

He smashed his fist on the ground in frustration, as he couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. He tried to pick himself up, but the pain in his back felt like it had gotten a million times worse, and his hand slipped on some porridge.

To make matters worse, he could hear footsteps approaching his room, before the door swung open. Of course someone was alerted by the ruckus. King couldn't bring himself to lift his head to see who it was. He couldn't face anyone while he looked so pathetic.

"Och...Arthur..."

Great. It was Dr Slade. Supposedly one of the best, yet he couldn't even tell him how royally fucked he really was.

"I-I can't..." King quietly said, "I can't wait... P-please...I need to know..."

"I know, lad," Slade just said, "but it really is too early to tell. Though, trying to stand too early will certainly diminish your chances."

"Chances..." King repeated bitterly, "I can't rely on chances! I can't stay like this!"

He choked back a sob, pressing his forehead against the cold floor. He wanted to get up so badly, without help. But his body refused to listen. He couldn't even stop crying, forced to watch his tears splatter onto the floor until he squeezed his eyes shut.

"FIX ME!!!!"

His desperate cry seemed to echo through the room, leaving an eerie silence for a good moment before Slade gently spoke up again.

"...I'm going to give you something for the pain," he said, "we'll get you back into bed and I'll take a look at your sutures...I'm sorry that I can't do more for you right now, lad."

"Stop saying you're sorry," King hissed, "j-just leave me alone."

"I will," Slade said, "after we get you settled back into bed."

A hand gently touched his arm, but King smacked it away.

"Leave me alone NOW!" he cried, "Just fuck off! Go away!! LEAVE!!!"

He tried to turn around. He just wanted to curl up in a corner, but the pain got so bad it dizzied him, and his hands began slipping on something again. Something wet and warm...

"Arthur, don't make me use force," Slade said, "you're losing a lot of blood—"

"Just let me die then!" King sobbed, "I-if I can't walk, I can't help people. A-and if I can't help people...then who am I?"

Slade had no answer for that. Fortunately he didn't have to give any as backup finally arrived. A nurse with the sedative he ordered, and a second doctor to help him assess the wound before lifting the injured and sedated super back into bed.

King could only weakly whine in protest as he was tucked back in, the world around him spinning, the pain about as numb as the voices echoing around him. And with a last exhausted sob, he surrendered himself to the darkness as he passed out.

@ailesswhumptober

Masterlist

Main account

In which a hero loses his sense of self.