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.
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
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.
Well, no! Though they can be similar in some ways.
Anesthesia
Good ol "knock out the character" drug. It induces unconsciousness, but will not reduce pain, and doesn't make our character sleepy weirdly enough, or unresponsive to being touched. If you stabbed an anesthetized character, they would still reflexively flinch back. They also won't be truly sleepy, though it will feel like it when they wake up, but that's ultimately just their body fighting off the agent.
Analgesic
This is what you REALLY want when a character's anesthetized. Analgesics are also known as painkillers, so we could stab a character under analgesics and they wouldn't feel anything more than pressure.
Sedation
This one's the sleepy one. It calms and soothes, and though it's possible to fall asleep with it, it's more likely to leave our favorite character pleasantly dazed, but still awake, aware, and feeling pain.
Paralytic
This one's the one that stops movement during surgery, since as mentioned before, our character could still move around, even when unconscious. This is NOT anesthesia, and even if a character is completely unable to move, they are still highly conscious and acutely aware of what pain they're in. Nothing's scarier than being unable to move and feeling a blade bite into you, especially when everyone's oblivious.
Just a brief resource for anyone looking to add some variety to their writing!
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—!
