WHOA!! Oh My God That Took A TURN JESUS-

WHOA!! oh my god that took a TURN JESUS-

Racing Time

(tw: death, mercy kill, suicide mention, torture, illness, bad caretaker)

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Time is cruel.

No. No, that sounds like it’s the beginning of a sorrowful love story. This story was nothing like that. No love letters or star-crossed drama. No soft cotton sheets dampened with delicate tears.

Caretaker’s story was just blood and pain. Gore and screams. Darkness and terror.

Yet, through it all, time was the worst part by far.

Caretaker and Whumpee had been with Whumper for a month already. Each day, they’d slip into the captives’ cell, latch Caretaker to the wall, then carve out fleshy chunks of Whumpee’s proverbial soul. So many times and in so many ways. Caretaker’s only injury was the bruising of their wrists and the ache that settled into their ears after Whumpee’s screams crashed like a bullet through their skull. 

They didn’t complain. What was there to complain about? And to who? Whumpee? Who was always trembling, sobbing, or comatose on the concrete floor after Whumper left?

Their pain didn’t matter. They just held Whumpee, dressing their wounds and cooing soft songs to fill the silence. To fill the time.

So much worse than the daily tortures was the wait between them. Not knowing what time it was. How long they’d been here. When Whumper would come again.

Whumpee couldn’t do this any more. Caretaker saw first hand time and time again how the cracks in their mind began to form. How their body shattered into illness - which granted them no reprieve or respite from the pain.

Whumper didn’t care. They would keep on going until Whumpee’s agonized body finally gave out. And already, they were so weak. So pathetic when they tried to crawl or thrash or fight.

They didn’t have it in them anymore to scream.

Caretaker nestled Whumpee in their arms - Whumpee’s back against their chest. Caretaker let their soft, flawless form wrap around Whumpee’s shivering and battered one.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right? That I only want the best for you?”

Whumpee twitched a nod against Caretaker’s shoulder, their cold nose pressed into their protector’s neck.

“..do you trust me?”

There was a slight hesitation, but Whumpee didn’t have the mind to think any more than necessary. Again, Caretaker received a nod.

Caretaker’s hand was shaking as it reached up, wrapping softly around Whumpee’s throat. Their thumb and middle finger found the tender veins sluggeshly thunking away on either side of the trachea. With great precision and as much gentleness as they could manage, Caretaker applied pressure, feeling the blood and precious nutrients dam up against their grip.

Whumpee twitched, but the pressure wasn’t painful, so they stayed. At least, that’s what Caretaker assumed was going through their mind.

“..I’m going to put you to sleep, okay? Then you can get away from the pain. Just let yourself black out and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Whumpee tensed slightly - likely the pressure starting to build up in their skull causing discomfort and not at all aiding in the concussion. But they didn’t move. They simply gripped Caretaker’s other arm a bit, letting this happen. Eyes closing against the sensation.

It didn’t take much time. Nor did Caretaker want it to. Time was cruel. Sadistic and unforgiving. Whumpee didn’t deserve to spend so very much of it having nothing to look forward to but pain and death. 

Caretaker’s grip didn’t let up when Whumpee blacked out. They kept the steady but gentle grip, kissing Whumpee’s hair and humming the first wordless melody that came to mind. They kept their fingers in place even when Whumpee's rattling lungs stopped scraping for air.

Whumpee wouldn’t choose to die. At least, they shouldn’t. No one should.

Caretaker would do it for them.

. (I'm sorry, I don't have energy for taglists today)

Detective whumpee so deep undercover that their team does not immediately notice when they’re abducted.

Maybe their cover was blown, or maybe the persona they’ve created to infiltrate the enemy group is, accidentally, the exact type of individual they were looking to kidnap and torture/exploit. Detective whumpee kept in a basement and tortured for fun/information while their team waits to hear from them. By the time their superiors start to wonder when they’ll be checking in next, Whumpee has festering wounds and broken bones and understands that the door creaking open at all hours does not signal rescue. Detective Whumpee who tries valiantly to remember faces and nicknames and significant details about their attackers, but becomes so delirious that, when one of their torturers tells them they blew the whole case in exchange for an hour without torture, they can’t remember if it’s true. Detective whumpee trafficked halfway across the country by the time their teammates approach the sergeant with their concerns at Whumpee’s radio silence. Detective whumpee whose blood stains the basement floor, but who is long gone by the time their team get there to save them. Detective whumpee, renowned for their skill in undercover jobs, now longing for someone who knows them. Detective whumpee left alone on the job for so long that they simply vanish. Detective whumpee who is not killed, but who was so skilled in undercover roles that they have now disappeared without a single trace.

The long awaited pt2 to the pneumonia/intubation Whump post (this one)...

Caretaker's glad Whumpee's so out of it from all the meds they're on. If they were more aware, they'd likely be terrified.

After all, the equipment that the doctors are pulling over on carts, laying out on the sheets, is enough to make Caretaker feel nauseous- they keep eyeing the metal device the doctor checks over, the one that muted whispers have denoted as the 'laryngoscope'.

They sit beside Whumpee's bed (they're allowed to for the time being, until Whumpee's actually asleep and the real procedure has to begin), holding the hand that hasn't been invaded by a cannula site. A nurse is positioned at Whumpee's other side already pumping them full of drugs that have Whumpee drifting, eyes open but barely there. Caretaker strokes their hair, giving them a wobbly smile as yet another dose of something or other is pushed into Whumpee's cannula.

"I'm right here, whumpee. I'm right here with you, sweetheart. Just try to relax."

The latter message is more for themselves than Whumpee, if they're honest. They're the one with a racing heartbeat- Whumpee's is slower now, as indicated by the dull beep-beep of the monitor they're hooked up to. Their breaths are slower too, so shallow that if they weren't already due to be intubated, Caretaker would be slamming on the emergency button.

"Propofol's going in now." One of the doctors says. Caretaker knows enough to understand that this means sleep, for Whumpee, is imminent.

Sure enough, within seconds of the syringe's plunger being pushed down, a glaze enters Whumpee's eyes, the lids becoming heavy. They open their mouth, tongue darting out to wet chapped lips for a moment as if they want to speak, but Caretaker, unshed tears in their eyes, shushes them gently.

"Hey, just sleep now, alright? Everyone's looking after you. Sweet dreams, Whumpee. Night night."

Whumpee's glassy gaze fixes on Caretaker's, narrowing and narrowing as their eyes drift closer to being closed until...

Out.

Caretaker leans forward, lower lip trembling slightly, and kisses Whumpee on the forehead, just as the doctor steps up behind them.

"Alright, we're gonna get started now. it's probably easier for you to wait outside and-"

"No." Caretaker interjects, tears nearly spilling over. "Sorry, no, I- I need to be here. I won't... I won't get in your way, I promise, I just- I need to be here for them."

And so they remain. They remain when the doctors place the mask over Whumpee's face, murmuring to each other about sats and correct timings. They remain when the principle anaesthesiologist brushes a fingertip below Whumpee's eyelashes, checking for movement and finding none. They remain when the same anesthesiologist stands behind Whumpee's head, removes the mask and tilts Whumpee's chin towards them, gently pulling open their mouth and sliding the laryngoscope in.

The blade slips into place too easily, Caretaker thinks. there's too little resistance. Whumpee should be gagging, thrashing about, screaming for help, but instead they lay unconscious and unmoving as it's driven deep into their throat, pushing their tongue out of the way to give the doctors a clear view of their vocal cords.

"Tube." the anesthesiologist says tersely. That long snaking tube, already lubricated, is placed atop a gloved palm.

Caretaker is tempted to look away as it's inserted, but their eyes are fixed. They watch as it's threaded past the laryngoscope, through the opening of the vocal cords that only the doctor can see. They watch as it slots fully into place and the anesthesiologist adjusts it, leaving it to rest against Whumpee's lower lip for only a moment before the cuff is inflated and the ventilator is hooked up to it instead.

And as the circuit is completed, Caretaker would think Whumpee dead- their eyes are closed, everything is so still, and whenever the tube needs a slight adjustment, they're floppy beneath the touch of the adjuster. Only when Caretaker looks closer do they see the continual, regular fogging of the tube with each assisted breath Whumpee takes- a sign that they're living, at least.

The anesthesiologist glances over at the screen, which to Caretaker looks merely like a smattering of numbers and wave forms.

"We've got N tidal CO2. Everything's connected. Secure the tube and continue to monitor."

With that, they step away, their primary task complete, and a nurse steps in instead- already equipped with an ET tube holder. Caretaker watches them gently press one of the sticky pads against Whumpee's cheek, then moving to the other cheek to apply the other pad. Between them, the tube is secured in place, and at last Whumpee is... Whumpee is...

Caretaker doesn't even realise they've moved to the bedside until they shakily lower themselves into the seat there, listening to the wooshing of the ventilator and the beeping of so many monitors.

Whumpee is... sick. really sick.

They've known it for a long time, of course, but seeing Whumpee intubated, sedated in an intensive care unit, their cheeks pale, sweat beading on their brow... it hammers reality home even further.

Home.

Whumpee isn't going to be going home for a long while yet.

day 13: drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

content: noncon drugging, sickfic

“I don’ feel so well…” Whumpee slurred, head lolling to the side. “I don’t— the world… is tilting…”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Caretaker tried gently. “It’s gonna be okay, yeah? It seems, um… It seems you’ve been drugged, but don’t freak out— it’s likely nothing horrible. You just have to sleep it off.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened. “D-Drugged?”

“It’s nothing lethal. I know. We checked for that in your system, and it’s nothing lethal. I swear.”

Whumpee tried to wriggle out of Caretaker’s hold, but in their state, that was no small feat. They could barely lift their head. “We need to get it out… We need… We need to get it out…”

“It’ll clear out of your system naturally, don’t worry about it—”

“No!” Whumpee was filled to the brim with artificially induced paranoia and they weren’t backing down. “No, I need it out, now. Make me throw up. Do something.” 

“Whumpee, no.” Caretaker pushed them back down onto the bed, more firm this time. “It’ll be gone by the morning. Just rest.”

Whumpee closed their eyes, but it only served to make the dizziness worse. “I can’t do this all night… Please…” 

Caretaker caressed their cheek gently, shushing them. “I know. I know it’s bad. But it’s all gonna be okay — I’m gonna be here all night, looking after you. It’s gonna be okay.”

Whumptober Day 3: Impaled

The bloody trail leading up to the whumpee who is curled up against a wall. The line of blood coming from the corner of their mouth, which grows with every painful cough. Their hands slick with blood, pulled in protectively towards their abdomen. The wound that they can barely comprehend through their haze of pain. The metal rod jutting out below their ribs, pushing open muscle and skin. The infections that come with open and unhealed injuries. If only they could stop shaking...