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#med whump?
generic-whumperz · 7 months
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The Aid: Chapter 4- One Step Closer
TW & CW: non-con nudity (nonsexual), dub-con/non-con touching (nonsexual), clothing dressing (nonsexual), mention of past non-con, pet/slave fic with general dehumanization that goes along with it (nothing severe), deliciously delirious drugged Whumee, Whumpee awakening from a coma, aftermath of torture and starvation, underweight and malnourished Whumpee, probably medical malpractice, med whumpy(?), Care-Whumper (this is the closest we are getting to a “Caretaker” for a LONG time, and Dr. Paul is no saint), asexual-spectrum Whumpee who doesn’t know he’s ace-spec yet and subsequently has negative self-talk and throws himself a pity-party because of it (this is part of the character journey, alright?), Caretaker turned Whumpee, general sad + angsty Whumpee energy, Wyatt Sullivan (Whumper) being a bully (expected), Whumpee being called "boy" when he's a grown ass man, bad jokes as a coping mechanism from Whumpee  
IDK if this needs to be a warning or not, but Whumpee is currently non-verbal from being drugged and having trauma (brain trauma from the coma mixed with general trauma-trauma), but there’s quite a bit of internal dialog, and we are in his POV!
Word count: 3645
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‘Maybe if I’m a good enough boy, I’ll get a treat after this,’ The Aid jokingly thought, desperate to find an ounce of humor to cling to. 
If he couldn’t laugh, he’d surely cry.
And he was tired of crying. 
With gloved hands, Dr. Paul carefully removed The Aid’s IV and feeding tubes, talking him through the process as he worked, intended to keep him as calm and present in the moment as possible. Wyatt Sullivan returned with a full glass of water—per Dr. Paul’s request—which the Doctor took from him before shooing him away, tasking him to warm The Aid a bowl of soup. 
“I saved the worst for last, but it’ll be quick, I promise,” Dr. Paul said in a chipper tone. He fondled and stuck a syringe into something at the foot of the bed for a minute before lifting the bottom of the comforter and sheet that covered The Aid.
“Full disclosure, you’re naked under here, but after I remove the catheter, I’ll make you decent so you don’t have to trot around bare-assed.”
The Aid felt his heart skip a beat and his body temperature quickly rise from utter humiliation. 
‘Great.’ A shiver of unease washed over him as the thought of another grown man dressing him filled him with inept self-consciousness. He felt foolish for feeling this way, as Dr. Paul had seen more parts of him than anyone else—all parts, in fact, many times. 
‘At least Dr. Paul offered; at least it isn’t Wyatt—not like that asshole ever would do anything remotely helpful.’
He glanced down to see Dr. Paul hoist up the covers to his right knee before he forced himself to look away, not trusting himself not to jerk away from perturbed anticipation. The Doctor stuck his arm under the blanket, placing his hand on The Aid’s inner mid-thigh, unclipping the catheter from the adhesive tubing holder, and gently peeling it off his leg. 
“This won’t hurt. I mean, even if it did, you wouldn’t feel it with the meds you’re on. Just take a deep breath and try to relax,” Dr. Paul directed, giving The Aid a moment to prepare. He sucked in a quick breath and held it in as he anxiously kneaded the blanket, fingernails digging into the soft filling of the comforter like small animals burrowing into freshly plowed Earth.  
The Doctor hoisted the bedding further and quickly peeked below as his arm completely disappeared between The Aid’s legs. 
‘I look like a mother about to give birth.’
Although he couldn’t feel much of what was happening and Dr. Paul worked diligently, his face turned bright pink from embarrassment. He fought his knee-jerk reaction of clamping his legs shut, knowing that would only prolong the process and demoralize him even further. He lightly felt the strange sensation of the tube pulled from his urethra, along with Dr. Paul’s index finger and thumb holding his sex steady as the catheter was fished out from inside him.
He wanted to fucking scream.
“You’re okay, almost there…Just a couple more seconds,” Dr. Paul hushed, observing The Aid’s legs shaking, stiffened body, and tightly-twisted red face. 
“All done!” The Doctor pulled the blanket back down over his feet while holding the catheter out in front of him, placing the tubing and foley bag that was secured to the foot of the bed in a small trash can.  
The Aid sharply exhaled the breath he held in between clenched teeth as a few tears escaped his eyes. He tried to force the memory of the experience out of his mind alongside his expulsion of breath before filling his lungs with a steadied, deep inhale. 
‘Deep breath in…deep breath out…Repeat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.’
He couldn’t help but feel violated and further stripped of agency. Who was he kidding, what agency did he have left at this point? 
He knew the Doctor was only doing his job, and it was a simple medical device removal procedure; that wasn’t what bothered him, although he couldn't shake the feeling of being molested. What really ate at him was the fact that he viewed himself as a pathetic loser because, through his own avoidant tendencies, he inadvertently put himself in a situation where the only people who touched him were doing it out of a sadistic urge or in a medical setting—usually to fix damage from said sadistic urge. 
He felt stupid for being triggered by something as simple as a formal routine, but his distraught feelings overpowered his rationality, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. He didn’t care if he was being overly emotional about it; he had to allow himself to grieve the life he lost on top of all the pain and torment he went through. If he still had an ego, he was sure it was just as broken and bruised as his body.
Fleeting parts of him wished he had succumbed to horny teenage sexcapades just so he could dig up a single good memory of an intimate connection that didn’t leave him a sobbing mess afterward. But looking back, even in his supposed “sexual peak” (that he never went through), he harbored no such desires—well, save the fragmented memories of a single budding spark with a male cheerleader that he quickly snuffed out and fled from in a last-ditch attempt to save them both from eventual embarrassment and hurt feelings. 
But that was a lifetime ago. 
He didn’t know why he had always avoided deeper romantic connections, but he found them off-putting and thought himself incapable of possessing any feelings beyond a familial or platonic bond. 
His disinterest in amorous relations didn’t use to bother him, but now it did. 
He would cry-laugh about the irony of his situation when left alone for long periods; he’d spent days reeling about it, stuck in a mental loop while secluded in the basement—an intimately incapable 24-year-old forced to be a punching bag and fuck puppet for a sick pervert who found pleasure from his immense suffering. 
He accepted that life wasn’t fair, but did it have to be so goddamn cruel? 
******
Dr. Paul’s latex gloves snapped as he peeled them off his fingers. He disposed of the gloves and applied a dab of sand sanitizer, working it vigorously into his palms- the pungent alcoholic stench burned The Aid’s nose and caused a stir of harrowing memories to resurface that came through in broken fragments. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the details and lock them back up in the recesses of his mind’s “Do Not Enter” section. 
‘How many things have this abominable fuckass Wyatt ruined and taken from me? Triggered by hand sanitizer? Embarrassing. Maybe it's best I stay here till I die.’
The Aid felt Dr. Paul’s hand tunnel between his lower back and the bed; the Doctor’s other hand securely grabbed his left forearm—the only side of his upper half that remained unmangled. 
“I know you’re high as a kite, and you’re out of it, but I’m going to sit you up, okay? We’ll take it nice and slow, up and at ‘em.” Dr. Paul pulled him up with expert caution to a sitting position, still holding him up as his damaged body adjusted to the movement and change of elevation. 
The Aid groaned, not from pain, but from the dizzying head rush that momentarily filled his vision with small, trailing stars that reminded him of tiny fireworks. Everything felt off and wrong. The world seemed surreal, as if an obnoxious bright tint was added to it, and he was looking through a high-contrast photo filter.
“Do you feel anything? Are you in any pain?”
The Aid perfunctorily shook his head, his eyes wandering around the room in a daze. 
Dr. Paul released the hand from his back, waiting a moment to ensure he could keep himself upright before grabbing the cup of water from the nightstand and holding it out in front of him. The water seemed to sparkle in the clear glass, and he reveled in the small, idyllic moment of his first drink from a cup—not a bowl—since his demotion from house pet to basement troll. 
He wrapped his fingers around the glass and carefully took it from Dr. Paul. He brought the rim to his mouth and took a sip.
‘This is the best goddamn water I’ve ever had.’ 
The liquid was cool and crisp; it didn’t taste dusty and metallic like the water he had grown accustomed to. He never realized how water could have such flavor to it. He took another magnificent sip. Realizing how thirsty he was, combined with the uncertainty of when he’d get fresh water again, he continued gulping it down, savoring every drop.
“Alright…Alright. Okay, that’s enough.” Dr. Paul took the cup from him—still halfway full. “Gotta take it easy, okay? Can’t go chugging water right now; you can have some more in a minute if you’re still thirsty.”
The Aid slumped in defeat, feeling like a small child being berated after being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 
Dr. Paul walked to the other side of the room to rummage through The Aid’s dresser, then disappeared into the small walk-in closet for a moment before returning to The Aid’s bedside with garments folded over his arm. He placed the clothes on the bed, leaving all but a pair of boxers in hand, and spun The Aid to the side so his legs were hanging off the mattress—still keeping his lower half covered under the blanket. 
Dr. Paul bent over, pulled the boxers over his ankles, worked them around the curve of his bent, scabbed knees, and shimmied them up around his bony hips, the elastic waistband snapping around his waist. 
‘This is what Madame Eleanor must have felt like…’ 
He reflected on his former Master’s last year of life when she needed the most assistance with things. He dressed and changed her multiple times a day without much thought, but never considered the mix of emotions of the person on the receiving end of help. Maybe she made peace with it; an elderly woman dying a slow death from cancer surely didn’t struggle with needing support as much as he did as a mid-20-something-year-old man who was supposed to be the pinnacle of health, right? 
Some strange part of him felt a pang of misplaced guilt for not being a better version of himself, although he knew it was out of his control—he didn’t shackle himself, starve himself, and maim himself for months; it was done to him.
Dr. Paul continued dressing The Aid, slipping a pair of socks on his feet as he informed him of his sprained, lightly wrapped left ankle, which he was to stay off of for the next couple of weeks. Dr. Paul assured him that he told Sullivan that he was on bed rest and that his Master wasn’t to lay anything but a helping hand on him. 
‘We’ll see how that goes. That creep can’t get his grubby ass hands off me.’ 
Next, Dr. Paul pulled on a pair of baggy sweats, tying the drawstring as tight as it would allow, then carefully fed his arms through a black zip-up hoodie, taking extra precaution with his right side. 
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dr. Paul asked over the low whir of the zipper gliding up to his chest. 
‘Consider me your living Ken doll. I can even beg on my knees like Barbie.’
The Doctor retrieved an arm sling from his grab-bag of medical equipment, looped it around The Aid’s left shoulder, and adjusted it to securely hold his right arm. Then, without warning, Dr. Paul abruptly pulled him up by his left hand to stand. His body was stiff as a board, his knees locked, and muscles pulled tight. He stumbled, wobbling with all his weight on his right foot—which wasn’t much, but just enough to throw him off balance.
A distraught whine escaped him as he hopelessly felt another head rush come on and desperately clutched onto Dr. Paul for support.
Panting, he slouched into the taller man’s chest, trying to work up the strength to hold himself up on his own. He felt like a newborn fawn taking its first steps on frail legs minutes after birth. 
The hardwood oak floor beneath his socked feet was nice and smooth—he hoped he wouldn’t slip on it. Falling on it would guarantee more damage dealt…although that would mean more bed rest, which meant more time away from Sullivan’s beatings.   
“Here we go!” Dr. Paul shoved a walking crutch under his left armpit (‘Where the hell did this come from?’) as he wrapped an arm around him to bear some of his weight, allowing him to acquaint himself with his temporary walking device. 
‘An aide for The Aid—a match forged by the heavens and prophesied in the stars, or a cruel joke? You decide.’ 
“Perfect height! Alright, we’ll just take a stroll to the other side of the room and head back, then I’ll get outta your hair, alright? You’ve been doing so good—”
“That’s what I like to hear! My boy’s a champ; he always bounces back.” 
The Aid and Dr. Paul's necks craned simultaneously to the left, watching Wyatt stroll into the room and gesture at a bowl of steamy soup in hand, then placing it—and a spoon—on the dresser.
‘Looks like he’s trying to win points with the Doctor by pretending to be civilized by ‘allowing’ me to eat with silverware; what an occasion. If only I was allowed a camera to document this momentous event.’
“Don’t stop on my account,” Sullivan simpered, sitting on the corner of the bed, twisting around to watch them. He eyed The Aid excitedly, half expecting him to fail and become a blubbering, broken heap on the floor in mere seconds. 
‘Stop fucking looking at me with that shit-eating grin.’ 
“Com’mon,” Dr. Paul coaxed, loosening his grip around The Aid and slowly stepping backward, encouraging him to follow. He took a small, hesitant step forward, supporting himself with the crutch. He felt the woosh of his clothes sway with his jolted, ungraceful step, indicating how much weight he lost during his time in isolation. 
“Beautiful,” the Doctor encouraged, guiding him to take another step.
“Speaking of hair, he got a wash and a beard trim last week, then a sponge bath a couple days ago. But I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm shower.” Dr. Paul glanced over at Sullivan. 
“Think you can manage to keep an eye on him? I'm not saying you need to bathe him; just monitor him and make sure he doesn’t run the water too hot. I recommend sitting him in a chair so he isn’t standing the whole time; he’ll be woozy for a while. One of the side effects of these meds is heat sensitivity and an increased risk of heat stroke, so just make sure you don’t lock him in the car on a hot day with the windows rolled up. I’ll go over meds with you while he’s eating.” 
“Ow-wa Doc! Was that a dog joke you just threw in there?” Sullivan whooped amusedly. 
“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” Dr. Paul chuckled. 
‘Call me Scooby because I can’t fucking Doo this anymore.’
“Sure you don’t want me to scrub his back too? Scratch him behind the ears? Towel dry him and put a pretty bow on him?” Sullivan teased. 
‘Don’t threaten me with a good time. If only you would treat me like the show dog I was born to become.’
“Only if you feel so inclined to. But maybe you can pretty him up and get him a haircut and a shave? I’m sure he’d like that. Your mother always kept him groomed, and he looked happier that way. Plus, it brings out his boyish charm, don’t ya think?” Dr. Paul playfully tousled The Aid’s shaggy, grown-out chocolate brown hair that hung past his ears and covered the nape of his neck. 
They reached the opposing wall and began their trek back to the bed, the Doctor still guiding him, walking backward like a parent teaching their infant how to walk. From this vantage point, The Aid could see the heap of medical devices stationed on the right side of his bed that mimicked a hospital room.  
“Hm, I dunno, I think I like the shaggy dog look on him,” Sullivan said tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well The Aid didn’t like looking unkempt. 
“Looks like a sad little stray puppy, doesn’t he? Well, minus the collar—oh wait—” Sullivan stood abruptly and pulled something from his back pocket. “Now we can complete the look!” He pinched the metal D-ring in between his fingers as The Aid’s dark green leather collar dramatically uncurled, springing out and forward. 
The Aid glared at Sullivan with daggers in his eyes, disgusted by the presence of the collar. Just because the physical assaults were off-limits momentarily, it didn’t mean that Sullivan would stop tormenting him in whatever other way he could. The man had the same energy as a brutish school bully who deliberately picked on smaller kids just because he was bigger than them.  
“Wyatt, play nice. Don’t tease him; put that thing away,” Dr. Paul chided, irritated by Sullivan’s blatant callousness. 
Sullivan challenged The Aid’s glare with a smug smile, placing the collar on the dresser, deliberately positioning it on the edge closest to him so he would see it clearly when lying in bed. This served as a warning, a constant reminder of The Aid’s place, how he was owned and thought of as nothing more than an exotic pet to be tamed and used.
Once they reached the bedside, Dr. Paul took the crutch from under The Aid’s armpit and eased him down on the bed, resting the crutch on the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water.
“Want to finish this?” 
‘Is water wet?’
The Aid eagerly seized the glass and greedily drank the rest like it was the last cup of water he would ever get to drink. 
“Your first urination after the catheter removal may sting a little, but it shouldn’t be more than a little. There may also be a small amount of blood in your urine, but again, it shouldn’t be more than a small amount. If you have any issues down there, tell Wya—Master Sullivan, okay?” Dr. Paul looked expectantly at Wyatt to confirm that he would be receptive to possible future conversations involving The Aid’s urinary health.  
“What am I supposed to do about it?” Sullivan asked dumbly. Dr. Paul eyed him confoundedly. 
“…You call me, and I come to check on him and make sure he doesn’t have a UTI. If he has any issues, call me, and I’ll check to ensure he isn’t developing more problems. He’s been okay so far despite everything, and I’d like to keep it that way. But, if you haven’t noticed, he’s rather fragile right now; a gust of wind could knock him over.”
“Could have just said that.” Sullivan threw his arms up in the air. Dr Paul sighed, taking the cup from The Aid and propping him up against the bed’s headboard. He brought forth a medium-sized metal tray, unfolded its tucked-in legs, and placed it over The Aid’s lap. This time, Sullivan was smart enough to take the hint of placing the bowl of soup on it. 
“You’re welcome.” Sullivan stood, waiting for a meek “Thank you, Master” from his slave.  
The Aid stared bleakly into the bowl of soup, unsure how much he’d be able to eat because, despite being starved, he didn’t feel ravenous—he didn’t feel hungry at all. Sullivan scoffed at The Aid’s silence—what he took as an act of defiance. 
He’d let it slide, just this once. 
He promptly joined Dr. Paul to discuss medication times and dosages. 
The older men’s voices faded to indistinctive background chatter in The Aid’s ears. He stared into the soup, fumbled the spoon, and stirred the contents around, trying to muster the strength to feed himself. Somehow, this felt like more of an impossible feat to overcome than hobbling around the room. 
He only managed a few spoonfuls of broth. He nibbled on a chopped carrot, but it felt foreign in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. 
He was suddenly hit with an unmistakable twinge of dread. His life felt bleak and meaningless; he had no hope for the future—the drugs seemed to only amplify his negative feelings. 
‘Hope I get some fast-acting anti-depressants, if there is such a thing…’
How many more times would he be beaten nearly to death, or to death, just to be nursed back to health for the process to repeat itself? He couldn’t do this again, not after the basement. He lost part of himself in that dungeon that he’d never get back, the remnants forever lost in the pitch shadows. He found his demons down there; they coalesced with a single mission of ripping him to shreds and flaying him open for his human monster to feed on. The demons and devil-man volleyed him back and forth until nothing was left but a shell of a young man who’d lost everything and abandoned his will to live. 
He knew no peace, no happiness; nothing but desperation and horror filled his mind and heart.
He stared helplessly into the bowl of soup as his mind dragged him down the hall of horrors, making him relive the torment. 
He couldn’t even enjoy his first hot meal in four months.
‘I survived death…But now what?’
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Tag list: @sacredwrath
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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whumpetywhumpwhump · 1 month
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Make your whumpees go into shock. Do it.
Symptoms of hypovolemic shock (e.g whumpee has lost a lot of blood):
Hyperventilation
Confusion/anxiety
Sweating
Passing out
Clammy skin
Weakness
Low temperature and blood pressure
Rapid pulse
Symptoms of distributive shock (e.g sepsis, severe allergic reactions, asthma attacks)
Rash
Rapid pulse
Hyperventilation
Warm arms and legs
Skin that starts off warm then turns clammy and cold
Fever
Chills
Stomach pain
Confusion
Cough
Shortness of breath
Nausea
Throwing up
Either way, whumpee is most likely headed to the ICU. ASAP.
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medwhumpmay · 7 days
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TW: MEDWHUMP/MEDICAL LANGUAGE
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Hi everyone! @whumpetywhumpwhump here- I noticed there doesn't seem to be an official Medwhump May running this year, so I'm running one myself :)
I appreciate it's pretty late in the game to be releasing prompts, but I was waiting to see whether the official page was going to post anything before deciding to start mine. Hopefully a few of you would like to get involved (even if it is short notice lol)
RULES!
No AI-generated content
Please tag this account if you post your challenge submissions on Tumblr and use the tag 'medwhump may' (as in the tags of this post)
For completionists, all 31 days must be completed (using either the daily prompt or an alt prompt)
When creating content for chronic illnesses and seizures, PLEASE USE THE RELEVANT WHUMP TAGS INSTEAD OF THE GENERAL TAGS. e.g 'seizure whump' rather than just 'seizures'. This avoids important tags being flooded with whump fics
Have fun!
I will update these rules if necessary! Happy whumping!
Please reblog this to get the word out :)
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whumpacabra · 17 days
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ah, the classic “character has been impaled and pinned to a wall or the floor”
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scrimblobimblowhump · 6 months
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tasty tasty little whump detail: someone gently adjusting an oxygen mask to hospitalised whumpee’s face, while cupping their face, caressing the straps, and stroking their hair. bonus points if whumpee is all sleepy and delirious and caretaker looks at them so so lovingly
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whump-queen · 9 months
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you know what I love?
a fucking maintenance beating.
whumpee didn’t do anything wrong, at least, not that they can remember. but tracing back in their memories is hard when they’re constantly getting kicked into the ground.
but this isn’t a punishment. they’ve been perfectly well behaved, as a matter of fact.
no, this beating isn’t corrective. it’s preventative.
whumper just does it to keep them in line.
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justbreakonme · 8 months
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When there’s nothing caretaker can do for the pain, physically or emotionally, so all they can do is hold whumpee while they sob, whispering whatever reassurances they think may help.
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distinctlywhumpthing · 9 months
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The Doctor Will See You Now...
In collaboration with @hold-him-down!
Send an emoji and a character name for a drabble! 
🩺 Take a deep breath 🩻 Foreign object where it shouldn’t be 🧠 Seizures 🥼 Administering first aid on themselves 👩‍⚕️ Sadistic doctor seeks to hurt ⛺ Field medicine  🧑‍⚕️ The good doctor in the bad place  👨‍⚕️ Untrained person providing medical intervention 💉 Put in a central line 🩹 Bleeding out 💊 Forced to swallow pills  🧤 Invasive/Uncomfortable exam 🤮 Medically-induced vomiting 🧃 Laced drink 🥄 Force-feeding 🤧 It’s just a cold (it’s not) 😵 Unexplained fainting 🤒 Fever-induced hallucination 😷 A necessary quarantine  🤢 Crying so hard they throw up 🤕 Trephination (release those evil spirits)  🛌 Assault while medically restrained  🏥 Abandoned hospital  🧊 Medically induced hypothermia 🩼 Chronic pain 🦽 Too weak to walk 🚑 Rushed to the hospital 🔪 Awake surgery 🩸 Losing a lot of blood 🤝 Someone holding their hand through the worst of it 🪢 Medical restraints 🫀 Heart palpitations 🫙 We’ll need to take a sample  ⏰ Nothing left to do but wait and see  ❤️‍🩹 Code blue 🪡 That’s gonna need stitches 🧽 Receiving a sponge bath 💐 Awkward/Painful visit 👕 Hospital gown 🧬 Genetically modified  🦠 Unidentified virus 🦴 I think it’s broken… 🧪 Experimental drug with side effects 🪣 Bucket next to the bed 🔫 Digging out a bullet 🫁 Intubation/Extubation 🦷 Bite down on this
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dresden-syndrome · 1 month
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Restraint frames for medical checks in class 4 detention units. Made for easier access to any needed body part while the subject stays properly restrained in one place. Frame designs depend on the facility; newer or remodeled ones usually have the standing frame type.
(Sorry for the art style change! I hope y'all will be understanding and let me draw in sketch format for a while!)
Art tag: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst @sunshiline-writes @project-xiii
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loonybun · 2 months
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mentally here
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specifically on the slab. it is my home.
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whumpypepsigal · 2 days
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Chicago Med s09e10: “Probably not a tension pneumothorax.” — “Hemo pneumo. You're bleeding into your chest.”
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whumpetywhumpwhump · 2 months
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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
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its-my-whump · 4 days
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Medwhump may - Day 1
Under anasthesia
@medwhumpmay
Tw: kinda emotional whump, angst, medical whump
Part 1 (all others here)
"Not a fan." She heard herself mumble. This tiny dimly lighted room was like purgatory and that she could actually see the busy routine of the OR in the periphery of her vision was all the more frightening. Just an open door seperated her from one of her biggest fears. Being helpless and vulnerable, all alone depending on someone else.
"It's all right. We're all here to take care of you. But you need to calm down, please."
The nurse was sweet talking, but it didn't help. Her heartbeat was a hectic jumble on the monitor. At least it wasn't like in the movies and there was no sound, displaying her angst even audible. Her breath was already doing that. It came in stiffled puffs. She was trying everything not to slip into a panic attack.
The tiny sheet was doing nothing to make her comfortable in anyway, laying under it in her birthday suit. She was actually thrembling, yet trying to hide it. Unsucessfully.
The nurse and the doctor were exchanging some kind of non verbal arrangement. She had skipped them talking to her. "What?" Her voice trembling as her hands and feet were.
"We gonna give you some I-don't-care-meds to help you calm down a bit, okay." The voice of the nurse was even more sympathic.
Honestly, she wasn't actually okay with any of this, but she wouldn't say no to some I-don't-care-stuff now, either. Her nod got lost in the thrembling of her body.
Gloved fingers gently pressed down her outstreched arm to keep it from moving, while the syringe was emptied into her IV port.
The nurse put her hand on her shoulder. It was warm and made her feel even more ashamed about her fright all of a sudden.
Even though, it felt like an hour had passed, she definitely still cared. In reality, it was probably not more than 7 minutes. Not much of what the nurse was talking about or asking, reached her attention.
Unfortunately, it didn't feel like the meds had anything to do with it, but only her fear.
Fear of being naked inside a dimly lighted windowless room, depending on the attention and helpfulness of others, while a tube was done her throat and someone was cutting her open. Depending, that someone would really open the oxygen tank and far enough. Depending, that someone would take a look, if her heart was still beating. Depending on someone to use clean material to cut into her skin. Depending, that the scalpel wouldn't seperate any vital parts or poke into some organs. Depending, that the surgeon was sober and well rested. Depending, that they didn't forget any instruments inside her body. Depending, that they would sew her up properly afterwards. Depending, that they would let her wake up again. She definitely still cared a lot.
Because, that was a whole lot of depending on other people, for a girl, that never could depend on anyone but herself.
Apparently nurse and doc were satisfied, with the results of the I-don't-care-stuff, she still wasn't. A quick glaze to the monitor said, her heartbeat had slowed, but was still above 100bpm. She was still thrembling, but she wouldn't mind to be put to sleep, just to get it over with as soon as possible, or even more, just to clock out as soon as possible.
The nurse had said something. Whatever. Another syringe was pushed into the IV. More undeceiferable words. She could hear them, understand, that it were actual words, but her brain was muffed, she still put it on her angst. Cause, she didn't feel any kind of not-caring, still.
"Count backwards from 100, please."
The hell? 100? How long, does that stuff need, till she was finally asleep.
"100." Oh, her tongue was heavy already.
"99." Oh brain's not working.
"98." But a row of numbers can practically count itself, right.
"97." If it will be like falling asleep? Do you know, when you get unconscious?
And she was out like a light.
Part 2 (here)
My masterlist
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whumpacabra · 6 months
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Have your character toss and turn all night because they forgot a dose of their pain medication, so they get up the next morning on the verge of tears because they’re so tired and in so much pain.
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scrimblobimblowhump · 5 months
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medical whump detail: when the oxygen mask is all fogged up, obscuring whumpee’s face <333
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whump-queen · 11 months
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whumper pretending to be mad just to see whumpee squirming and groveling and apologizing within a second because they don’t know what they did wrong but fuck they’re so so sorry and they’ll do anything to make it better—
“sir please—please let me make it up to you—I promise I’ll be better I swear—just please—”
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