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.
I love Dream with wings so much. Please give him some floofy wings and a brain full of silly bird thoughts.
I just think Dream should take a bath and end up splashing in it like a bird in a fountain, fluttering until he feels all clean and then coming to his senses to realize the bathroom is practically flooded and he looks like a soggy chicken.
I need Dream that has no idea how to take care of his wings and very little inclination to, and Nightmare who is absolutely asconced by this and meticulously cares for his wings. (Possibly against his will! Forced care my beloved!!!!)
The young warrior didn’t know that the battle had ended, continuing to fight even those who tried to help him. He was half delirious from the pain and the blood loss, half delirious from wild instinct. The healer had to put a cloth soaked in a foul smelling substance to his mouth while his captain restrained him in a headlock just to knock him out and prevent him from further injuring others and himself, but even then he didn’t go down easy. But finally, the cloth took its effect, and the young warrior was gently lowered to the ground, unconscious.
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.
