a patient walking into a prepped operating room and being made to lie down on the table.
Instead of being wheeled or gurneyed in, theyre made to walk into the theater of their own accord and volition. at least, that's what theyre told it is as they ignore the gloved hands guiding them that way, urging them forward insistently as the first wave of panick washes over them. they don't even have an IV started, no anti anxiety meds to ease them into a floating numbness on a bed with wheels. no, they have to power through each step forward down the hall towards the double bay doors. operating theater.
finally they arrive at the sterile, cold room, with everything lit up and shining under the vivid bright white lights. there's so much motion in the background, yet it's also calm and clinical. the bed- no- *table*- is lying stark center like a sacred metal slab to lay upon. surrounding it, trays of blades and exacting instruments, hemostats, needles, drugs waiting to be used- used on the patient- and that's when it hits them, oh. oh, the patient. that's me.
it was already nerve wracking to be escorted by their favorite nurses, all gowned up, just their eyes showing, warm smiles smothered under masks. yet somehow that paled in comparison to the ten or so people standing around in the theater, waiting expectantly for them to lie down on the table as if this was some routine thing. no nervousness, or hesitation from them- instead, they seemed expectant, as if there were no other course of events that could play out. this scenario always ends with the patient on that operating table. a few of the doctors and nurses have their backs turned, busying themselves drawing up opaque anesthesia medications or arranging tubing and wiring. others present watch the patient closely, not taking their intense, assessing eyes off them. it's time. up on the table.
Copyright: I do not own Doctor Strange (although he definitely owns me) or any other mentioned Marvel/MCU characters. I also do not condone any copying of this post.
You had almost gotten yourself killed on a mission. Stephen had gone through all the natural stages of being a lover at this point. Worried sick, then relief, and then absolute fury.
Stephen rarely got angry with you. Others got him riled up easily, but not you. In fact, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you were the one that calmed him down. But in that one percent left, when he got angry with you, if often led to sex. Torturous, pleasurable sex.
At least, that's what it usually was. But now, he had left you, for what felt like years, tied to the bed with a blindfold over your eyes.
You were completely naked, senses cut off except for the feel of smooth, almost warm metal around your wrists and ankles, and the soft feather sheets underneath you. You could also feel the cotton blindfold over your eyes, the strings just across your ears.
"Don't make a sound." He had said before leaving, "I'll be back in a few."
Few what? Minutes? Certainly not. You had counted up to five minutes several times by now. Hours? Possibly. Weeks? It was starting to feel like it.
No, it was probably hours. You hadn't gotten hungry yet.
But you were starting to feel frustrated. Was this seriously your punishment for getting shot on that mission? He was just going to tie you up and leave you there for a few hours? This was no where near fun.
After a year (Three hours and twenty-four minutes), you heard the door open. The person made no sound and you sincerely hoped it wasn't Wong or Bucky or Bruce or any of the other possible Avengers that might walk into the room.
But the person made not a noise, and you had no idea who they were. You could barely hear them breathing.
The tension was increasing in your spine until you felt a single finger start to trace lines from the base of your throat, down to your navel, and back up. You let out a shuddering breath. It had to be Stephen, right?
One finger became two full hands, running them over your body. You were starting to get turned on, and you realized now exactly what your punishment was.
Sensory Deprivation.
You couldn't see him, couldn't predict his next move. Well, actually, you could. You knew he wasn't going to be touching you anywhere you wanted until you begged. And you were very close to begging.
Your bottom lip trembled a little in want before suddenly, lithe fingers pinched your nipples, pulling them.
You let out your first sound, a yelp, arching your back. Finally, you heard that quiet chuckle and your questions were answered. It was indeed Stephen.
"S-Stephen."
"Mm, no, I don't think so." Stephen said. "You have been a bad little girl, haven't you? Almost killing yourself on that mission. I was worried sick. No, you don't get to call me by my name now. You're either going to call me Doctor or Master."
You whimpered as he slapped you clit. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, just sting, and it turned you on immensely, arousal pooling between your legs and he chuckled darkly.
Your body was tingling with nerves, goosebumps breaking out everywhere from the sudden touch. You could feel every spot he had touched and caressed, although stung by fire, especially your breasts, itching for his touch.
"Doctor please." You mumbled. "Please, I've waited so long."
"I've waited longer." He growled. "So you're just going to have to suffer."
Now you realized why Stephen had refused to have sex with you. You had figured he just didn't want to reopen the stitches or something. Now, you knew it was because he knew exactly how he wanted to punish you. And now you were needy and desperate. Exactly the way he wanted you.
Stephen pinched your clit between his fingers, making you squeal. He chuckled again. He was being so cruel and yet, you were loving it for some reason.
His finger rubbed your clit slowly and unevenly. You were panting, desperate for something more. Anything more.
"Doctor please. I need more. Please."
One finger spreading your folds. He blew cold breath on your core, making you shiver. He pulled away again before you felt weight settle on your chest. You could sense his knees on the sides of your face.
"Open up." He growled.
You opened obediently and felt his length go down your throat. You closed you eyes, although really it didn't matter.
Your tongue wrapped around him, sucking him off. You ran your tongue up and down his length, feeling the thickness and pulsing veins. You could taste salt and you sucked hard when you got closer to the tip, causing Stephen to hiss.
You went back down on his length the best you could, before dragging your teeth lightly over a sensitive spot. Stephen hissed again and he leaned forward on your chest. His fingers thumbed your nipples again and you sucked on him harder, desperate to please.
Then he moved his hands away and the only thing you felt was a burn in the back of your throat as he bucked his hips into you with a groan. You could almost picture him with his head thrown back, galaxy-coloured eyes closed.
You felt him twitching and you worked to the max to get him to release, which he did, and you swallowed. Once he pulled slowly from his lips, you waited for him to say something, swallowing over and over to get it out of your throat.
"S-Stephen?" You asked quietly. It was so quiet, you couldn't even hear him breathe. You hadn't heard him leave the room either through door or portal, but you couldn't remember if the window was open and the cape could've taken him out.
And then suddenly, there was a huge electrical shock that went straight to your clit. He had fucking snuck up on you, putting a vibrator to your clit.
As quickly as it came, it was pulled away. Your legs seemed to spasm uncontrollably for a few seconds, trying to understand what had just happened when you couldn't see it.
"You're not going on anymore missions." Stephen's voice was dark and you could just barely make out the fact that he was walking around the bed.
"Bu-"
"No." He growled. "Not after that Y/N. Do you understand? I'm not going through that again. You're going to suffer this punishment, and then I'm going to take all of my anger out on you. And then, you're never going on another mission, ever again, unless its a simple one. There will be no arguments and limited complaints."
You stayed silent, feeling frustrated. It wasn't that bad! Sure, you'd been close to death, but you'd recovered, hadn't you?
Another seemingly electric jolt made your entire body jerk on the bed, also effectively jerking you out of your thoughts.
"Stephen, I don't think that's fair. We should talk abou-"
"How would you like it, if I was the one in the hospital, and I decided I was still going to go on missions?" His voice was dangerously low and you heard a drawer being opened somewhere. "What if the next mission is your last one? You dodged death once, do you really need to test it again?"
"B-" When you opened your mouth, he took the advantage and you felt something large and rubber forced between your teeth, strapping it together behind your head.
He was playing dirty.
Stephen was quiet again, and then you felt something light and soft- a feather?- dithering lightly up your body. It tickled mostly, crawling up your thighs, dipping into your belly button, it traveled up your stomach, circling both breasts before lightly brushing over your pert nipples, it traced up into your neck and he even brought it up across your chin and circled your nose with it, making it itch. You scrunched your nose in protest- as you couldn't scratch it.
And then the feather was gone. And then it was back, traveling back down towards your belly button, across your thigh, and then dithered towards your folds, brushing your clit so lightly it was. . . well like a feather.
You frustration was mounting. You couldn't see anything, you could barely hear, even though cutting off your sight should've increased your hearing. You just wanted to be fucked. And then you realized it would mean you'd have to give in to his demands.
The feather was gone again and Stephen was silent. You knew he hadn't left, because of his even breathing. But there was no touching and it felt like your entire body was on fire. Every place that the feather had touched begged to either be touched again with a firmer touch or be itched.
"Stephen please!" You begged, writhing on the sheets to the best of your ability, the chains around your wrists and ankles holding you tight and fast.
He made a tsking sound in the back of his throat, but didn't acknowledge you anymore.
You paused, thinking over everything he had said and then you said, "Doctor, please, I need you!"
"Oh?" Stephen's voice was light and dark at the same time. "You need me, do you? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I need you too?"
Your neediness was starting to get to you. You writhed desperately on the beds. "Okay, fine! I won't go on anymore missions master."
You heard wood creak and you knew he'd been sitting down. His large hand cupped your face, startling you for a moment. "Promise?"
"Promise doctor. Please? Need you!"
You could always argue in your favor later when you weren't at a disadvantage. Of course. . . you had also just promised and Stephen hated broken promises. Maybe you should've thought it over more before you agreed so rashly. Damn your horniness!
There was a sudden electric pulse running through your body, legs shaking as he put the vibrator on you once more. This time, he held it there, his other hand playing with the flesh of your mounds. "That's it kitten." He whispered. "Fucking cum for me. I'm going to make you cum over and over again now and I'm going to show your tight, precious little cunt who owns her."
You couldn't even think of a witty response before you were shattering apart, walls clenching down on nothing but air as you came.
let's hear it for my absolute favorite trope: the whumper+caretaker combo. as in, the same person.
a doctor is the perfect example as someone who both hurts and helps simultaneously. there's an addicting mix of emotions on both sides, always building up trust only to shatter it over and over again.
breaking whumpee down meticulously, piece by piece, day by day. utterly destroying whumpee's sense of self. hurting them, drawing blood. whumpee fears them, flinches when they walk in, looks away. only when it really hurts do they start crying. it hits a certain point and they break. expecting pain and more pain for that.
only for.... for whumper to turn around and, painstakingly, lovingly, place them back together as if handling the finest glass. acting as their caretaker, gentle, kind, and reassuring. soothing them. not manipulative, or as bait, but sincere. truly comforting them. wanting them to recover, to heal, to be fixed and unbroken. and eventually they are whole again once more. Happy. until they realize why caretaker wanted them repaired, and strong. why?
hi, i'm patient bunny. whumpee, medfet enjoyer. general info and preferences below.
wait.... you're asking a LOT of questions. you're not... a doctor, are you? (squeaks) (runs away!)
this blog is to explore a {fantasy only} kink with themes of DARK medfet & sometimes SOFT medfet 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ The common denominator is my medfet preferences include mildly evil yet "well intended" care providers that are possessive and slightly condescending. often incorporates themes of dark coercion, forced care.
I seek themes of vulnerability, isolation, loss of bodily control. bunny acts as my alter ego whumpee. all intended parties are 18+, non negotiable. I do skew little at times, fair warning. I prefer doctor/patient honorifics. this blog helps me to transmute these often uncontrollable, vulnerable experiences into an enjoyable thing. I aim to create a safe space to enjoy intense, dark emotions and scenarios. Any writing posted is NOT real medical advice, thematics are often dramatized for exploration of ideas.
I would love to engage with others in the community, feel free to send me a message in or out of character.
✰✰✰✰✰ Scary favs that make me lightheaded:
CNC surgery with bright lights, multiple IVs, syringes and needles with difficult sticks, IO, intense drugplay or sedation, being strapped down, soft vivisection, slow anesthesia, drugging and sensation play, hypnoplay, inspection and ownership, being discussed as a subject, orgasm denial and conditioning, monitoring with cords, tubes, cable and scans, android/cybernetic modifications, mecha pilot upgrades and maintenance, overworked whump, extreme fatigue and exertion by whumpee, hiding injuries or body status only to be found out unwillingly, experimentation, baby talk, installation/remote control play
✰✰✰✰ Frequent favs: long term positive psych conditioning, fearplay, humiliation, loss of autonomy, mandatory examination, cardiac monitor, class demonstration victim, forced care tropes like showering, changing clothes and brushing hair, brushing teeth, health checkups, bleeding out, dilation play
✰✰✰ Less frequent, but perhaps more intense: Omorashi, uri cath, sizeplay or insertion, breathplay with hands, sedation intubation, permanent orgasm denial via drugging or hypno, menses or pregnancy body changes
I avoid: detrans, detailed mastectomy or bottom surgery scenes (in passing reference is fine), scat/diaper or daily incontinence, cancer, death, detailed cardiac arrest & heavy resus play.
(switching to she/her perspective for my preference but happy to rework they/them if requested!)
She hated this part, the waiting. she could hear muffled voices talking, some nearer to the room, but her hearing wasnt the strongest lately. She tried to take it all in. Admitted? She couldn't be that sick, this wasn't right. She looked down at the floor, and she was high up on the examination table. She could've just jumped up onto it, initially when she walked in, but was instructed to use the step to climb it as it over a foot higher than her waist. Now she wanted to jump down. But the Doctor had explicitly told her not to stand! she wanted to run away, grab her shoes, scattered, and her purse and get out of here. she hadn't even changed. yet. no, no no! she needed to leave right away. she looked, and saw the Nurse had pushed the step back in after helping her up. she hadn't noticed at the time. she tried to reach her foot down, to reach the floor, and that was when the- Doctor walked in, and she was halfway off the table, eye on her belongings.
"Patient!" the Doctor scolded, immediately moving to grab her by the thigh and calf, pushing her back onto the table in a quick maneuver. "What are you doing?" The nurse quickly shutting the door behind them. The patient was caught, being leveraged back onto the damned examination table, not even able to get her bag. "My purse," she said, gesturing. The Nurse looked exasperated for a moment, "You should listen to the Doctor," they said, insistently, moving to grab it for her. "There, now what did you need?" Asked expectantly.
But really, she had wanted to leave..now there was a rolling tray in front of the door, with supplies? When had that gotten there? And, two people now, the Doctor and the Nurse. Her shoes off. Her purse in her hand. She- rifled around it, eyes looking at the nonexistent path. She'd have to shove aside a stainless steel cart and go past them both. So she dug through until she found her chapstick, thankfully, and applied it nervously.
The Doctor, then, "Nurse is going to start an IV on you," then, signaling to have her present her left hand. She didn't move, wanting more to hide her hand behind her back, feeling sick. Instead ahe stayed still. Then, after a moment as though validated, the Doctor said, "See? Slow response time," to the Nurse who nodded, both of them eyeing her. The Nurse stepped closer, leaning down to be more eye level, and reaching over to brush hair out of her face. "Patient? You're not feeling well, are you?" They asked. She shook her head, suddenly feeling lightheaded, flushed and hot, her head pulsing. "Oh, I can tell, sweet girl," they said and reached down to take her hand then, but instead of interlacing their fingers instead they held her wrist suddenly, the left one. Huh? They had gloves on, already. And then the Doctor was pointing right at a spot on there, the two of them talking. She tried to pull her hand away, frightened by the sudden shift, but the Nurse held her here, and the Doctor wheeled the cart over closer, "Doing so good," the Nurse coo'ed, but nothing had even happened yet, but maybe it was the precursor to her seeing the IV equipment setup, glinting sharp on the tray, tubing and plastic and a needle. She felt so, so sick and lightheaded.
"Please don't," she said then, nervous. Once this was in her, it meant she had to stay- until they took it out, until whatever bag or drug had finished administering. Then she realized something more distressing. She was admitted already. So, it didn't really matter if the line finished early, as she would be here overnight, until the doctors released her. She'd be taken up to a room and be watched. She didn't want to go, and she didnt want this IV. "I want to go home," she said aloud, pleading.
"You've got to calm down," the Doctor said, eyeing her critically, the cold sweat suddenly on her, speaking directly to her. Her eyes were watering up. "I'm sorry," she said.
"I need access, she's about to faint," the Doctor insisted, then snapping gloves on themselves and stepping in front of the Nurse then. It happened fast. Taking her hand from the gentler Nurse, pulling it closer, her hand. "No," she whimpered, trying to no avail to pull away again. This time her was swabbed as the prep towelette had been pre ripped by the Nurse standing to the side. It felt cold, wet. Then the- no!- the needle, her hand held tightly, and she couldn't help but have her vision blur as it slid into her vein, painful, intrusive and sharp, she was trembling. "Flash," the Doctor said as if routine, confirming. She felt disgusted, sick. Her eyes were watering, her head pounding. Her vision felt darker.
"There you go," the Nurse said, kindly, she wanted to tear her hand away but it was still being held, and then something was being affixed, a bag of liquid into her, held high up. She didnt watch, but she could taste it. She heard something being set down on the tray. Another wrapping undone. Snapping noises, something affixed, clicking into place. Then, the Doctor was reaching for the tube coming out of her, inserting another syringe- no, not another- it was small. That meant they were strong usually. It was clear, maybe white, she couldn't tell as it bled through the tubes, it looked like everything else, and then her head was slammed. But it felt nice. It was like being hit by a train that was made of pillows perhaps. Thick, she couldn't move, everything dimmed, less sharp, less pain, less conversation and less worrying. It was to much. It was uncomfortably soft. She felt nauseated. "S-sick," she bit out, as if she couldn't speak either, it scared her. The Doctor eyed her then. She felt nervous. Of course she was sick. They wouldn't understand. She felt like she might puke. But the Doctor said, "Something to help nausea," and she was relieved for once, fingers twitching. As the Nurse scurried to go get the dose, in the other room, the Doctor leaned in. "I understand, Patient. Don't worry. I'll take care of you," they said, "No more hiding," then, leaning back, smiling almost smug at her, softly, until the Nurse came, then drawing up this final dose, injecting them again. "See? All better," the Doctor said, and the Nurse nodded, patting her softly. She had been calmed, chemically sedated, but the nausea faded and granted her a true reprieve that she hadn't realized she needed. It had been keeping her away. Now, she slipped into the dark.
the patient doesnt even know their own body. Its so out of sorts, changing from day to day. If they could pin it down, they'd have addressed it by now. they pay attention but its difficult when they're in pain, writhing and half delirious, fatigued, nauseated, or any combination thereof. keeping a calendar is humiliating, marking down movements and pain and symptoms, they'd rather ignore it. they dont even know their own body.
that's why when the doctor starts asking questions, it feels like they know their body better than they do. and it makes the patient nervous. theyre truthful, but pressed. "see, if youre taking the correct amount of vitamins, drinking that much water, eating that much food, then why are you so unwell? hm?" the patient doesnt have an answer for that. embarrassed, almost ashamed. why was their body failing? why couldn't they keep a tracker? why was there so much to keep track of? on a scale of one to ten? it was a dizzying amount of questions. they wanted to go home.
the doctor nodded along, accepting the responses but clearly reading their body. already knew, had made a conclusion and half the questions were routine. then they began examining them, taking the patient's hands, cold to the touch and a slight tremble. when the doctor pressed the stethoscope to their back, then under their shirt, holding it there, instructed. the shallow breathing, weak. then, coming around. follow the light. the way their eyes didnt move quite right while following the penlight, sluggish. open your mouth. dry, dehydrated. half syncopal, all marked down. "you'll be admitted, for close monitoring," the doctor said, as if it were a given, without explaining anything further. shutting the paper chart they'd notated. they said and stood, looming over them for a second, "wait here. dont try to stand, i'll be back with a nurse," they said sharply, looking them over once more before exiting the room.
