18+ The name is Doctor Sawyer, medfet and Medwhump/Labwhump enthusiast. Injections, surgery, and crying are frequent here. All "littles" are adults. Indulge if you dare.
As someone who is terrified of needles, I still find the concept of trying to fight against a group of people to get free as they try to hold you back, grabbing your arms, your waist, clothes, anything they can latch on to, but having one person approaching you from the front with a syringe and pulling your head back by your hair to expose your neck and then injecting you with a fast-acting sedative, then falling limp into the other people’s grasp as they hold you up and you start to lose consciousness really arousing.
Whumper straps down whumpees hands and feet, a knife at the throat convincing them to willingly lie down, thick buckled leather straps restraining them to a cold medical table.
Whumpee stares in horror as Whumper hovers above them with a cracked smile, they softly wipe the crook of whumpees arm with a sterile wipe before rolling over an IV and holding up a large needle. Making sure Whumpee has a good long look.
‘Please, you don’t have to do this’. Whumpee tried to pull at his restraints in an effort to escape whilst whimpers and small cries escape from his mouth. Whumper gently slides the needle into his vein, starts the IV and then listens to Whumpees rapidly beating heart with a sick smile and a flash of delight in his eyes. ‘Oh Whumpee you have no idea what I’m about to do… ‘
i need to get more comfortable with straightforwardly expressing sadistic desire but this is tricky when like society + some of the things i genuinely have desire to do being intensely unethical
i would do so well as a bona fide mediaeval torturer though. societal permission to not give a shit about risks and limits. not having to worry about how it affects their life afterwards. spending my days playing with the condemned like a kid with a magnifying glass and an ants nest. hashtag born in the wrong generation
A girl is kept prisoner in a mysterious facility, lifted from her cell every few days to be experimented on by a cruel scientist. Lately, this scientist has been obsessed with crafting a perfect regeneration serum. Today's experimental trial involving it requires a more direct dose.
WORD COUNT: 2,088.
CHARACTERS: Unnamed whumper & whumpee; both female.
SETTING: General modern/sci-fi setting; no specific story.
!! CONTENT WARNINGS !! Lab/medical whump, forced injections, non-consensual surgeries, medical torture, human experimentation, graphic gore (abdominal incision), descriptions of organs (liver), touching organs (ew!), probably medical inaccuracy, drugging, captivity (Whumpee is being held against her will in a lab), lady whump.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi Sawyer!!! :3 Sorry that this is a bit late!!! I'm very excited to present this gift to you, and I hope it's what you had in mind <333 I'm very proud of it, and I'm honestly considering turning these characters into OCs or something... I had a lot of fun working with them. Anyway, enjoy!!! This is my first (and probably final) time writing a general whumper & whumper instead of OCs. I hope it reads okay, because I got a bit confused at some parts AHCK.......
The first thing Whumpee becomes aware of was the cold. It seeps up from the steel table, through the thin gown, into her bones. The second thing is the light; a single, florescent orb suspended directly above her, searing into her tired eyes, and leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
The third, was her.
Whumper, as she’d once introduced herself with a mockery of courtesy, drifts at the edges of Whumpee's vision. She can barely see what she's doing. Her vision blurs from a cocktail of exhaustion and lingering sedatives, while leather restraints pin her down, criss-crossing over her body and clamping firmly around her neck, leaving her nearly paralyzed.
This isn't her first time on this table. Not by a long shot. For weeks—maybe even months—she has been Whumper's captive. Her 'experiment.' Her pet project.
It has taken, and continues to take, a terrible toll on her body. Countless unethical procedures have damaged her nerves and likely her organs, their severity escalating with each passing day. She does receive medical attention—she knows this because she often wakes in her cell, covered in bandages and stitches and hazy from painkillers—but she doesn't know how competent it is. However, judging by the constant pain and general feelings of malaise, there must be some terrible side effects to all of this she has yet to fully comprehend.
A part of her, deep down, desperately hopes that Whumper cares. Cares enough to keep her from rotting alive, and to keep her from dying a slow, solitary death in a cage, only to be discarded and replaced by another unfortunate captive. Dying alone might be a mercy, but her instincts rebel: she does not want to die.
Whumpee is ripped from her thoughts by the sound of footsteps—heels clicking against polished tile, growing closer to her right side. Soon, Whumper's silhouette looms over her. She's smiling, her lips glossy with red lipstick, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, a pristine white lab coat pulled over a simple, form-fitting black dress.
"Good morning, my dear subject." Her voice is a smooth, cultured alto; the most terrifying sound in Whumpee's world. "I trust you rested well?"
Whumpee’s breath hitched, a weak rattle in her chest. Rested? What a fucking joke. 'Rest' is the fleeting, drug-induced unconsciousness between sessions on this table; the heavy, hopeless stillness of her cell. To think any of that is relaxing, or could possibly prepare her for what is to come, is stupid.
Whumper’s gloved hand comes to rest on her chin, holding her face steady. "No response? That’s quite alright. Your vital signs tell me all I need to know." Whumper glances past her shoulder at an unseen monitor, and the action sparks a delayed realization in Whumpee: she is hooked up to something, isn't she? She finally becomes aware of the devices strapped to her body, and the IV lines that are shoved into her veins. It’s terrifying how normal all of this is starting to feel.
As Whumper steps beyond her view, the telltale screech of wheels gliding over tile announces the arrival of the surgical instrument cart, a sound that twists a knot of dread in Whumpee’s gut. She strains against the leather strap at her throat, catching a glint of steel in her periphery.
Her heart rate begins to pick up, her breath coming faster. Whumper's eyes flick to the monitor, and she lets out a small, amused huff. "Calm down," she says, her tone forever patronizing. "You've made it this far. You'll be alright."
"I- I won't be!" The words spill from Whumpee's mouth before she can stop them. She knows it's pointless to argue, but fear has overridden her sense. "What part of this is al—"
"Whumpee."
The sound of her name on Whumper's sharp tongue strikes her a bolt of lightening, sending a wave of pure, unadulterated terror crashing over her. A sudden, physical memory flashes through her mind: the sting of a hand across her face, the shock of pain radiating through her jaw. It shocks her into immediate silence. She clamps her mouth shut, her eyes wide and fixed on Whumper.
Whumper's frustrated expression quickly melts into a satisfied smile, and shame washes over Whumpee. "Good," she muses, regarding her like a well-trained dog.
"Anyways. We’ve made excellent progress with the regenerative serum," Whumper narrates calmly, as if delivering a university lecture. She picks up a sterile pad and, with efficient strokes, begins to sanitize a patch of Whumpee’s belly. The cold air and the humiliating intimacy of the act send a fresh wave of tremors through Whumpee’s body. "But the cellular integration is still… localized. Your body is trying to wall off the perfection I’m offering it." She dips out of view for a short moment before reappearing, holding a syringe filled with a viscous, iridescent fluid that seems to glimmer and swirl before Whumpee's very eyes. "Today, we introduce it directly to the hepatic portal system. The liver is a remarkable factory. We’ll let it distribute the gift itself."
The liver. Whumpee’s mind, fogged as it is, conjures images of the vital organ, nestled deep inside of her belly. This isn't the usual surface injection, followed by a series of small cuts. This is an invasion.
Her eyes dart from her sanitized stomach to Whumper's calm face and back again. A fresh, cold terror eclipses everything she's ever felt.
"No…" she pleads, shaking her head, a futile denial. "No, no nono- please don't—"
"Now, now," Whumper chides, a predator's grin slicing across her perfect face. "You're on all the necessary vitals. One IV is blood, another is Adeline, and you're also receiving a special cocktail of… let's call it a painkiller. It won't eliminate the pain, but it will assist in keeping you lucid for me."
"Wh-why can't you just give me anesthetic?" she argues, thrashing against the restraints. Panic rockets through her body, making her shake and hyperventilate. She can't do this. She doesn't want this. Please, god, get her out of here! "Please, why— I- I don't wanna do this! I don't—AH!"
Without warning, a thick needle stabs into the exposed flesh of her neck, plunging deep into a vein, injecting her with the regenerative serum Whumper has been testing on her for who knows how long. It moves like liquid lightning through her blood, a cascade of fire that claims her body as its own. Familiar agony follows: a deep, cellular combustion that burns her from the inside out.
She feels the serum propagate, a hostile takeover of her nerves and biology. Whumper's promise of dulled pain is a technical truth, but it's certainly no mercy; she remains terribly alert through it all, a trapped and horrified witness, as the agony contorts her body and wrings a shattered cry from her lungs.
It lasts for an eternity. She knows she's screaming, crying, begging, but she can barely hear herself over the roar in her ears and has no idea what she's saying. Slowly, the pain begins to subside as her body reluctantly adjusts to the invading bioserum, leaving her heart racing, limbs trembling, and muscles feeling deeply bruised.
The world swims back into view. Her eyes struggle to focus before finally locking onto the silhouette in front of her. It's Whumper, hovering over her prone form, a metal instrument in hand. A scalpel. Its tip is poised just above her stomach.
"N-no..." She shakes her head, barely able to move from the exhaustion the injection left behind. "S-stop... please, Whumper—"
Whumper’s expression doesn’t change. It hold that same placid, academic curiosity as it always does, a stark contrast to the pain she is methodically inflicting.
"The anesthetic," she finally answers her, "would dull the very data I need to collect. Your pain has a story to tell. And I," she smiles, "am an excellent listener."
The tip of the scalpel touches Whumpee's skin. It was a cold, precise point of pressure, growing more insistent as Whumper pushes it down—before it finally breaks the skin.
A sharp, searing line of agony blooms across Whumpee’s abdomen. She feels the resistance of her own skin parting under the blade’s edge. A choked, horrified gasp is all she can manage, her body seizing against the restraints. Her eyes, wide with terror, remain fixed on Whumper’s face, silently begging for a mercy that isn't coming.
Whumper deepens the incision. A ribbon of blood wells up and trickles down Whumpee’s flank, pooling against the table. The pain is immediate, sharp, almost electric; Whumpee can't stop herself from crying out this time.
"Shhh." Whumper’s voice is smooth, almost tender. Whumpee struggles to hear it through the pounding in her eyes, the sound of her own blood gushing out of her with each contraction of her heart. "Don’t waste your energy on crying. Just breathe through it."
Whumper works with methodical slowness, extending the gash, her movements precise and sure. Whumpee feels every millimeter of the blade's journey as it rips its way through her stomach. Her breath comes in short, broken sobs as the pain continues to worsen, and worsen—
"Excellent dermal resilience," Whumper murmurs, almost to herself, eyes fixed on her work. "Minimal capillary bleeding. The serum is already working."
Whumpee isn't listening. Her world has shrunk to the white hot line of fire on her stomach. She can feel the air of the room, cold and forgein, touching layers of herself that were never meant to be exposed.
Whumper sets the scalpel aside with a soft clink and picks up a pair of retractors. The cold metal jaws are inserted into the incision. Whumpee feels a pressure, then a brutal pull as Whumper cranks the handles apart. Whumpee swears she nearly felt herself dip out of consciousness before the adrenaline drip forcibly brought her back.
A raw, animal scream tears from Whumpee’s throat. Whatever drug she was given feels like it's making things worse, not better. She can feel the strain, the tearing of tiny fibers, the unbearable exposure. Like her body is being unzipped. The pain is so immense it is a physical presence, something she can feel constricting her from the inside.
Through a haze of tears and shock, she sees Whumper’s gloved hands reach into the opening. She feels the nauseating, internal pressure of fingers probing deep within her, searching, navigating the warm, hidden landscape of her own body.
"There you are," Whumper whispers, her voice reverent, almost worshipful. Her gloved fingers curl around the dense, living weight of Whumpee’s liver, slick and warm against her palm. It twitches beneath her touch, a feeble protest from a body that has nothing left to give.
Whumpee can’t even scream anymore. The sound has died somewhere in her chest, replaced by a faint, wet rasp. Every heartbeat feels like it might be her last. Her vision, blurred by tears and shock, swims desperately, trying to focus. She sees it then, clutched in Whumper’s hand. Another syringe. It's identical to the first, filled to the brim with that same iridescent fluid.
Her throat constricts. "No…" her voice is wet and raspy, "no more…"
"Hush, Whumpee. We've come much too far to quit," she says, her tone one of gentle, rational correction. As she speaks, she brings the syringe closer, the needle hovering over the open cavity. "It's now time for round two of the regenerative serum."
The cold tip of the needle pressed against the very organ Whumper still held. Whumpee flinched, a full-body spasm that sent fresh agony rippling from the open gash on her belly.
Before Whumpee has time to prepare, the needle pierces her exposed organ. A soft pop, then resistance gives way. The serum slides into her body; a sharp, alien burn that spreads outward through Whumpee’s abdomen.
Her back arches violently against the restraints, the monitors shrieking as her vitals spike out of range. Whumper’s grip tightens, holding the liver steady as it convulses beneath her hand, the tissue quivering, regenerating, tearing, reforming all at once.
Whumpee’s world fractures—light, heat, the sound of her own heart hammering somewhere far away. Every nerve is aflame. Every part of her screams and begs for this to stop.
The last thing Whumpee feels before the darkness swallows her is Whumper’s hand, still inside her, steady and sure, as if shaping something new from the ruin she’s made.
Her cell was grey, everything grey. The walls, floors, ceiling... everything.
Clare remembered how she used to use so many different colors when she ruined the federal bank's pretty windows; the graffiti wouldn't come off easily. She never got caught when she painted the buildings with curse words and anti-capitalist quips.
But she DID get caught, for something completely different, something she doesn't even know about... And now everything is grey.
At Daystar Labs, the most dangerous and curious entities were locked up, on 24/7 watch, and were subject to experiments deemed "necessary" by the doctors on staff. Even with Clare's high pain tolerance, the experiments were brutal. She's forced to wear a magic-nullifier around her wrist, and a shock collar around her neck, so that she's easy to handle.
"Fuck me..." she roared into the ceiling. She missed seeing real people... And real colors.
As if on cue, a person she's never seen before struts into her room. "I don't think so, but if you're a good girl, you can go back to the common room with your little 'girlfriend'"
"Jesus Christ! Fuck you too!"
Clare stood abruptly and intended on SMASHING this woman's head in; the new doctor was a foot shorter than her and couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds.
"Ahh, I don't think so, 334"
Before she got too close, the new doctor raised her hand and pushed the button on the black remote control.
Agony. Her vision turned red and she fell on the floor and blindly thrashed for what felt like hours.
"Damn, I guess I shouldn't have turned it up all the way. Either way, now you know what happens when you don't obey."
Clare pushed herself up onto her forearms, the lightening in her brain ebbing away. "What do you want then?" She spat at the new woman.
"First! Introductions. I'm Doctor Sawyer. I was called in specifically to work with you. You're Clare Foster, demi-guardian, magical being, a bitch to work with, I hear."
"Yeah, that sounds about right." Clare shakily got herself into a sitting position. "What are we WORKING on, specifically"?
"I'm here to make you more... compliant."
"Hah! Can't you see I don't have my magic and you can send ELECTRICITY through my body whenever your sadistic ass wants to?! How much more compliant do you fuckers want me?!"
"Language, 334."
"My god, FUCK you"
"Fine, give me your arm, 334." Doctor Sawyer held out her arm, waiting expectedly"
"I said, FUCK you"
Doctor Sawyer reached into the pocket of her black scrubs, and pulled out the remote again.
"Wait! Wait. Okay hold on. You... You don't have to do that again"
"You won't give me your arm, so you can pick between the shock collar and whatever is in my left pocket"
"Pocket! Um... pocket. The shock collar messes with my prosthetics... And I don't TRUST you."
"You asked for it, Clare" Doctor Sawyer pulled something small out of her pocket. Clare watched her *flick* it to life.
"NO! Anything but that!", she screamed like a banshee, "You... you can shock me again. You can have my arm for whatever you want to do!" Clare's one good eye produced a tear and she flung herself against the back wall. Doctor Sawyer sauntered closer with the matte black lighter.
"I read up on your profile, Clare. With as much recreational... herbs that you intake, I'm surprised you're afraid of fire". She held the lighter out and walked closer, the fire turning a nasty shade of cobalt blue.
Clare's palms were held up in defeat. "Okay you win! You did your homework. I'll do what you want."
"I always get what I want, 334. It would be best for you to remember that."
And in one swift motion, Doctor Sawyer activated the shock collar, sending Clare into a helpless heap on the floor.
"You won't forget what we've learned together today, Clare." Doctor Sawyer POUNCED on Clare's defenseless form, holding the flame above her.
And Clare screamed as the lighter came down on her neck, burning through several layers of flesh.
"STOP PLEASE! PLEASE! IT HURTS! I SAID I'LL DO ANYTHING!"
The doctor took a few steps back to watch Clare gather herself. The look of pure terror on her face made Doctor Sawyer smile.
"This is, this is a THIRD-DEGREE-BURN!" She was trembling and shaking like a kicked puppy. "It'll take forever to heal this! What do you WANT from me."
More tears. Doctor Sawyer smiled pleasantly back at Clare, number 334.
"I want your ABSOLUTE compliance." She said it in a dark, creepy way that made Clare's skin crawl. She could tell that this woman was powerful, and not to be crossed.
"No more fire. None. And you have my attention."
The doctor smirked "you're in no position to be negotiating. But I can promise there will be no more flames for you... today... If you behave."
"I will!", she resigned. "I- I will"
Give me your arm, 334.
Defeat washed over Clare's face. She obediently handed over her only human arm to the now-kneeling doctor. She watched as Doctor Sawyer pulled out a syringe, and a vial.
"Don't move. You'll find that I'm actually in a generous mood today. I could watch you suffer for HOURS".
"Am I allowed to ask what you're putting in my vein?" She was positively defeated, the angry burn on her neck glistened with new white blood cells that were desperately trying to heal the damage.
"You'll never be punished for asking questions, 334."
Doctor Sawyer filled the syringe with a cloudy white liquid and prodded a vein at the crook of Clare's elbow.
"This is something that will make everyone's life easier as we get you down to surgery. I've heard they've been trying for a while now, but everyone seems afraid of you; I've dealt with worse"
At that, Clare tried to pull away, but Doctor Sawyer was stronger than she looked, and the doctor held fast to her wrist.
"I'll forgive once, but if you pull away again, you will regret it a thousand times over"
Clare relaxed as much as she could at the threat, more tears trying to escape.
"That's a good girl." Doctor Sawyer squeezed her wrist and Clare felt... fuzzy? warm? The doctor gently brought the needle down.
"This won't be pleasant, scream if you need to. I'll be here"
Clare braced herself against the wall, losing energy quickly.
"Don't resist. Just relax. Going in now, Clare"
And Clare FELT the liquid, could feel it pulsing through her body, as if the fluid was ALIVE. She tried to control her breathing, tried to stifle the animalist cry that was tearing through her.
She didn't move her arm though; Doctor Sawyer finished emptying the contents into Clare's body. When she no longer felt the doctor's touch, she curled in on herself and started hyperventilating, her vision going double and her body dropping into the fetal position.
Doctor Sawyer rubbed Clare's back, smooth circles, waiting for the full effect of the medication. "It'll all be over soon, Clare. Whenever you can, let go. Just let the medicine take away everything."
The crying subsided after about a minute and Clare's eye rolled back into her head. The doctor kept her head in her lap, getting a closer look at the burn she inflicted.
A comm was pulled out of her doctor bag.
"She's ready for the procedure, team. I'm going to need someone to patch up a nasty burn. Necessary damage, you understand."
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