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.......
EDIT (JAN 2026): I have updated this story quite a bit over the past few months! The original draft was a bit messy and littered with mistakes, so I went back in and cleaned up/rewrite some stuff. This story was intended for just one person, but I'm happy so many people have liked it so much! Enjoy <3
The first thing Whumpee becomes aware of is the cold. It seeps up from the steel table, through her thin gown, and into her bones. The second thing is the light; a single, florescent bulb suspended directly above her, searing into her tired eyes, and casting the rest of the room into shadow.
The third, is 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, unable to look at anything aside from what is directly above her.
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 against the thought: she does not want to die, and will do anything in her power to keep herself alive.
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. Rest? 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 adrenaline, and you're also receiving a special cocktail of… let's call it a painkiller. It won't eliminate the pain, per say, 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.
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.
After the A for asphyxiation, Roman had effortlessly weaved into B for broken voice.
Dani had crumbled to the floor when he finally removed the cane, clutching her throat, broken gasps wheezing and whistling past her lips.
Unfortunately, it left her right where he wanted her; slumped over on her knees, back exposed.
And while he already had his broken voice, he couldn’t resist following it up with a few broken screams ripped from a broken throat.
It felt like her windpipe had shattered and the shards had lodged on the inside of her throat, each breath stabbing them in further.
“Do you want to continue your ABC’s?” Roman’s voice snapped her back to the present, to the library, where he was sitting at the reading table, her sitting in her chair on the other side of the room. “We only have D for drowning and E for electrocution to go before we can dive into flagellation. I’d say we can tick off D and E at the same time, even…”
She would gladly undergo those things if she got her C for castration. But unfortunately, they’d crossed the C off with, of course, the caning that followed after he broke her voice. She’d already unleashed her own ABC’s with asshole, bastard, and creep for starters, but he’d just tutted and pointed out that her voice and throat needed healing and that insults weren’t helping. What she needed was silence. Enforced silence, if necessary. He even threatened a gag or a collar. So for the past few days, the only thing she could do was curl up in her reading chair and give him her deadliest glares.
Roman had remained unperturbed. Brought her fucking tea with honey, placing it next to her pile of books on the side table with a genuine smile as she was reading. She couldn’t thank him; wasn’t allowed to thank him if he wanted to draw out some words to have an excuse to collar her, not that she wanted to thank him. She glared at the tea – tea with honey was fucking disgusting and the smell made her even more angry – and she wondered if it would even help a crushed throat.
Infuriatingly, it did.
“I’m good.” Her voice was still hoarse but at least by now she was allowed to speak again.
“Good, ‘cause I was thinking more of E for experiment.”
She didn’t like the sound of that.
“See,” Roman continued, as if her silence was one that invited him to keep talking, “Pain can be influenced by a lot. The body has its ways to reduce or relieve pain, by hormones, adrenaline, endorphins, name it. Not to mention there are outside influences like the various painkillers and drugs. And it gets me wondering… if it can be reduced, then could it also be increased?”
He got up and gestured for her to follow him to his office. Reluctantly, she did. She uncomfortably looked on as he rummaged about in a drawer of his desk and he pulled out small case. He put it on his desk and opened it to reveal an injection needle and two vials with, judging by the unnatural blue colour, questionable content.
“What does that do?” she heard herself ask.
“Supposedly, it inhibits the release of adrenaline. That alone should up the magic for a bit but it should have the direct opposite effect of painkillers. Instead of blocking neurotransmission of pain, it stimulates the neuron and sends more signals to the brain.”
Oh, the wonders of unethical research.
“And, of course, you need a test subject…” she said, eyes on the blue liquid.
“Naturally.”
“You know, the man who started the pain index tested everything out on himself. I think should try these experiments on yourself as well. Otherwise your peers will just think you’re a pussy.”
“Well, there’s only one peer involved in this research and you already think I’m a pussy, so I don’t have much to lose.”
Pussy was a bit of an understatement in her humble opinion… And true, he didn’t have any of her respect left to lose.
“But my sense of pain is already increased due to stress…” she tried.
“We’ll just have to make a note of that in the footnotes.” Well, at least he acknowledged it… with a malicious grin that is. He closed the case with the syringe and carefully took it in his hands. “Now, come with me.”
She followed down to the basement, already knowing that the footnotes were a non-existent thing. This was purely to sate his own curiosity. And by god was she hoping that he bought – or made? – a dud. A harmless dud. She dawdled in the middle of the empty room, watching him.
“Let’s start… modestly.” His hand roamed over a row of knives and he picked a small – compared to the other things on display – hunting knife. “You wanna lie on there?” He gestured the knife towards the metal table.
She absolutely did not, thank you. No way she was going to make this experiment easier on him.
Roman shrugged. “I agree.” And he snapped forward.
He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, got her off-balance, and pushed hard. Her world tilted. Her shoulder blades crashed against the cold, concrete floor. And before she could even get a dazed “fuck…” past her lips, Roman was already on top of her, having both wrists pinned under his knees.
“Stay with me, Dani dear,” he snapped his fingers in front of her face, “I’m going to need your honest responses here.” He held out the hunting knife in both hands and unsheathed it dramatically.
The sight of the knife helped more than the annoying snapping in her face; she snarled and started to buck against him, trying to get her wrists free.
He merely tutted and leaned over her, resting the blade just above her wrist. “Don’t, you don’t want me to slip. Like I said, we’ll just start modestly.”
His eyes were intently focused on hers, taking in every twitch, every bit of fear written over her face.
She didn’t have that luxury. Nor did she want to see the hunger on his face. Her eyes were fixed on the knife, ready for the—
His first cut drew a sharp intake of breath. But more in surprise than because of the pain. Luckily, it was barely more than a scratch and barely squeezed out a drop of blood.
But his intentions were made clear when he moved the knife a few inches up. And the prick of the tip breaking through skin grew sharper as it started to carve its way through.
Roman let the blade roll along on its curve, the edge sinking in up to where the sharpened lighter grey part thickened into the rest of the blade. He rested a hand just under her elbow and leaned his weight on it when she started to struggle. The knife resurfaced with a red hue and he dragged the tip to the other end of her arm to complete a full line.
Dani grit her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut, keeping any pain bottled up, merely letting part of it escape in a frustrated grunt.
But the third time the knife broke skin, she flew up with a surprised yelp. The knife sank in deeper than before, and instead of feeling the sting of easily parted skin, this time she felt him force it through deeper layers. The quick slice was replaced by a slow dragging, drawing out the pain, until inch by inch, the build-up became too much.
She let out a cry. Let her head fall back against the concrete. Judging by the pain, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was close to or already carving directly into muscle. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to keep a ‘stop!’ – or worse, ‘please’ – well contained.
Roman shushed her and despite his concentration on his carving, a smile started forming on his face.
“Now then,” he said, admiring his three cuts. He pulled the knife away, put it down, and he reached for the case with the needle. “Round two is the real deal.”
Like unsheathing the knife, he made a show of it. Stabbing the needle in the small vial, pulling the plunger back slowly while keeping his eyes locked with hers, flicking the syringe and putting the vial neatly back in the case. Slow, calculated, because he could. Then his thumb rested on the plunger and Dani braced herself.
“No,” she growled and tried sit up. “No you are not—"
Immediately his hand shot around her throat, cutting off her air, pushing her back down. And with just his thumb on her chin, he forced her to face sideways, giving him full access to her exposed neck.
Dani whimpered when she felt the needle pierce skin, when she felt that goddamn blue potion enter her system.
Roman sat back, leaning to the side to put the syringe back, but again his eyes didn’t leave hers. And they both waited for something to happen.
Nothing happened. As far as she was concerned. It was probably just her imagination… that the little bones in her wrists grinded painfully under his knees, rolling and bumping into each other with each movement he made. She just... hadn’t noticed before, what with the knife carving her up, that’s all. And it was just stress, or the aftermath of her struggle just now, that made the bruises from last week’s caning flare up, her shoulder blades tensing against the hard, unyielding concrete. Her throat flaring back up was because of that first surprised cry after days of silence.
And the three cuts over her forearm stinging harder than before was just part of his stupid placebo plan. Maybe after the initial fight and cutting up, adrenaline had just ebbed dow—oh shit.
Supposedly, it inhibits the release of adrenaline.
“Is it working?” Roman asked in the sweetest voice, noticing how her face fell.
“No,” she growled, shifting uncomfortably.
He hummed a note of disbelief. “Now for the before and after…”
He slashed the knife over the small of her wrist, matching the small scratch on the other and didn’t even bother with her response, immediately resting the tip a few inches above it.
It pricked out more than a lone drop of blood; tears started burning in her eyes. Pain, fear of a more intense pain, and the complete lack of control taking its toll on her.
Besides. If this worked, and probably even if it didn’t work, this was going to be waiting for her with everything he did. Beating. Injection. More severe beating drawing out more pain. Knifeplay. Injection. See what it does. Five whiplashes. Inj—
A gasp combined with a cry of pain as he repeated his process, letting his blade roll along. It was like acid slowly crawled over her skin, biting its way across, burning deeper, nibbling at her nerve ends.
“Ohh, I think it’s working,” he crooned as she twisted her head away. He rested a thumb under the cut, lightly pulling it open.
“No! No, it’s— AahH!" And this time not just the tip but almost the whole freaking knife dug into her arm.
She trashed under him, screaming, crying, voice tearing up her throat again. But it didn’t stop him from dragging out that final line, mirroring the gash on her other arm. He pushed her back down, leaned his weight heavier onto her wrist as she pulled and twisted wildly to get free.
Maybe it was her panic, maybe it was the accumulation of everything, maybe it was that goddamn drug, but it hurt worse than before and she just couldn’t take it. She screamed with every bit of skin that was forced apart and when he was finally done, she fell down on her back, shallow panicked breaths mixing with soft sobs.
Roman hummed and wiped the blade on her shirt. “And here I was sure that it worked…” He considered her, wicked grin on his face. He nudged up a little, letting her wrists slip free. But she was too dazed to do anything and she remained down, trying to catch her breath, just watching how the blood tickled down her arms.
“But well,” he continued, picking up one of the vials and holding it up in front of his eyes. Not even a quarter of it had been used. “If you say it’s not working… maybe we need a bigger sample size.”
He rose and neatly packed everything back into its case. A whimper rose up when he picked up the knife but he shushed her gently and held out a hand for her.
“Let’s disinfect all this first, shall we.”
-
Continued here
Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi @whumpy-daydreams @whumpyourdamnpears @auroragehenna
Ok... Whumpee being injected with something has become a new favorite of mine. Omg. Just a whumpee getting randomly stabbed with a needle and injected with something that makes them sleep or paralyzes them... or literally anything.. this is new for me and I’m loving it
The quickening of Whumpee's breaths through their nose as Whumper brings out a syringe
Whumpee frantically stretches their arm towards the phone, but before they can call for help, Whumper steps down HARD on their arm/hand. Bonus points if Whumper breaks or fractures Whumpee's arm or hand in the process.
Oxygen masks. IVs. Tubes. Whumpee waking up to being in them and ripping out the tubes and IV, and yanking off the oxygen mask. Bonus points if the heart monitor beeps louder and faster - until Whumpee rips the electrodes off their chest, and the machine goes silent
Hero is kidnapped by Villain. Hero expects to be viciously tortured, but instead, Villain becomes Caretaker, gently treating Hero's wounds from all of their missions that had been left un-cared for.
Caretaker screaming and reaching for Whumpee who is also screaming, too frightened to be seperated from Caretaker, but doctors are swarming Caretaker and forcing them away. Bonus points if Caretaker is so agitated by the thought of leaving Whumpee even for a minute, that they have to be sedated.
CW: needles, noncon injections, dehumanisation, living weapon whump
"Any symptoms to report?"
"No, sir."
327 didn't flinch as the needle went into their arm. It was just routine - emotional regulators that kept them ready for combat. The numb calm was good for them.
"Your training report states you're struggling to follow orders, is that right?"
"I am unaware of what Whumper writes in their reports, sir."
"Do you agree with that observation?"
327 frowned. If it was in the report it didn't matter if they agreed. "I need to improve my response time to be effective in the field."
"Don't you trust your superiors' orders?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'm going to give you another injection now."
327 looked at the doctor, already loading a new vial into the syringe. "What for, sir?" The doctor looked up, one eyebrow raised, and sighed.
"You should remember-" another sharp scratch at their arm, "-that everything we do here is for your own good. You are given all the information you need to do your job. But... I'm feeling generous. It's designed to enhance your cognitive abilities, improve your reaction times."
327 nodded. They wanted to know if this new injection would become part of their weekly routine, if there were any signs they should look for to see if it was working. That was a problem - always wanting to know things.
"Do you have a question, 327?"
"No, sir." Lying was also forbidden, but they knew it was the right answer.
