Whump Prompt #1231
Anon asked:
May I have some torture prompts please?*
TW: Non-con body modifications/gore/body horror/organ harvesting etc
I got a bit carried away with these...
Your whumpee is left cut open - perhaps with their organs exposed. Their flesh could be pulled back and held open. This takes the feeling of exposure to a whole new level.
^ This also entices anxiety/panic. As they may be able to see organs grow back, therefore as they get closer to 'completion' they start to panic when they remember the pain of removal.
^ Also the torturer could use this for 'science' in order to better calculate which organ is better value for time/money.
The torturer could also take blood at the same time to limit the mess during surgeries. Your whumpee is constantly nauseous/lightheaded/weak because of this. (Dubious science, but you get the idea)
The first time they're allowed to heal, even for a short amount of time, they're overwhelmed with relief.
Are they rescued while they're still 'open'?
Do they scar regardless of the injury type? For example, if a leg is taken, are they left with a ring of scarring where the initial cut was?
At what point do they stop feeling it/are so in shock that they just.. don't register what's going on?
How does the harvesting affect their sense of balance/bodily functions? Do they have nausea, but have nothing to make something to bring up? When they're able to stand after their rescue, do they feel heavy/full?
^ Are they so used to feeling empty?
Do the torturers take their eyes so they're unable to see what's happening/where they are?
What if, a long time after their rescue/recovery, they stumble across someone who received a limb/organ they needed - maybe they're so grateful for it, but the whumpee has to silently suffer knowing that it's their body part.
^ How does the whumpee know it's theirs? Do tattoos/pre-existing scars regenerate also?
After the rescue, the first time they have a day without pain is bliss. They sob.
*(The character context Anon gave is under the cut)
My whumpee is from a humanoid subspecies that can regenerate almost ANY lost body part - limbs, fingers, eyes, tongue, most internal organs, you name it - unless they've been fully chopped to bits. The only thing they cannot regenerate is their equivalent of a brain, because obviously that controls the regeneration process (if they've been lobotomized, they can still regenerate but slower). The regeneration process usually lasts from 3 hours to a week, depending on what and how much has been lost, but the process is painful, uncomfortable and it's usually for the best that the individual is asleep through most of it.
That makes whumpee's subspecies very attractive to organ harvesting rings, because their organs are compatible with those of many other species. One day, our whumpee wakes up strapped to a table...
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18. Again
Disorientation, blood loss, field medicine, medical treatment, needle use [IV], fear for others safety, anticipated violence, nonconsensual drugging, brief suicidal ideation, referenced stitches, referenced gunshot wound, implied head injury, implied past noncon
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The Wolf wasn’t sure how he got on his back, or where his shirt went, but he didn’t like it. The air kissing his skin was cold - not the ice he was familiar with but enough to make his skin prick to gooseflesh. People were speaking, the voices garbled.
The familiar sting of an IV bit the inside of his elbow, heavy exhaustion reminding him of his injuries more than their pain. The right side of his face and head were bound in dry, fresh gauze, skin taught with stitches. His right arm burned, every twitch igniting the spot where the bullet had torn through his flesh.
The Wolf could smell antiseptic and the rubbery scent of examination gloves. The hard cold surface below him was probably a table in the medical wing. He wasn’t sure if he was crying, but he certainly wanted to.
Had they gotten caught? They probably got caught. Then where was Harrison? He hoped Harrison wasn’t here.
The gloved hands were quick, not lingering as they smeared antiseptic over scrapes or applied butterfly stitches to deeper cuts. How long would he be given to heal? Or would they put him in the Box to fester and rot? That wouldn’t make sense - they were tending to his wounds. They needed him alive.
He had a good guess for what.
(“A bitch like you’s only good for two things: fighting and fucking. And you’ve got no fighting days left.”)
The sound that gargled in his throat wasn’t enough to stop the hands from turning him over, the rough texture under his stomach cold. They started working at the burns on his shoulders, and the Wolf felt fire simmer in his gut.
He’d kill whoever touched him again. He’d rip them apart. No more. Not again. Never again.
His hearing implants whined, the distant tap tap tap of military standard boots rang in his skull. No. His handler wasn’t here. The Wolf killed him. Hadn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t - maybe his handler and the overseers were here at medical. Maybe they were waiting for the okay from the staff before they tore him apart again.
Would he be given time to rest and heal? He needed a day - at least a few hours of sleep - he knew in his gut he would simply die of exhaustion if they had him again. The words around him were clearing, still a slurry of unfamiliar voices in his blood starved brain.
Unfamiliar, save for one.
Harrison.
Oh god Harrison was here in medical and his handler was nearby and Harrison was going to die badly and the Wolf would have to watch and he was helpless to stop it -
Except he wasn’t helpless. Save for the IV wrapped around his arm, his hands and feet were free. Unbound. His handler always prided his Wolf on how well behaved he was for the staff. Didn’t even need a muzzle like other, poorly trained dogs.
The Wolf could take advantage of that.
He couldn’t help but flinch as a gloved hand prodded at the cut that wrapped from his spine to his hip, his poorly placed butterfly stitches pried away with intense focus. Now or never.
His elbow struck true, catching the staff member’s jaw as the Wolf reared up on his knees. The IV line in his arm ripped free, blood spattering across the blue tarp.
Tarp? It didn’t matter, the momentum was too strong and the fear in his blood at the sound of those rapidly approaching boots was too great. The Wolf turned, following through after his elbow with a hand around the medic’s throat. He couldn’t use his right hand; that arm was already bleeding and burning from the torn IV and strained stitches. His momentum carried the medic to his back, the Wolf’s knee pressing down on his stomach.
“Wolf, no!”
Harrison. Harrison’s voice.
The Wolf’s blurry vision swam as he looked up from the masked medic below him. Harrison’s worried face drifted in and out of focus, lips moving but sound buffered by the whine of his hearing implants.
He yelped as strong hands pried into his bruised shoulder, wrenching him off of the medic. His back hit the ground, a pair of military standard boots in his face. His handler. Oh god. He was dead. He hoped he was going to die. He hoped those boots would slam down on his windpipe and let him suffocate before those hands touched anything else -
“Wolf, hey, Wolfie, easy - they’re - they’re trying to help.” Harrison’s face drifted back into view, and the Wolf was dimly aware his face was cradled in those bony hands. He whimpered, pressing the uninjured left side of his face deeper into Harrison’s hold. His hands were warm. “Yeah - yeah there you go, it’s just me. You’re alright. We’re alright.”
His breathing was calming, but his vision was still swimming and sparked with stars. This wasn’t the sterile white medical lab. This was a dusty garage that smelled like motor oil and blood. The medic behind the mask was being helped up by a woman in a sweater - definitely against regulation for its vibrant pink and superfluous tassels.
He lifted his eyes beyond Harrison, looking up at the man above the military boots. He was young, half panicked eyes looking between the medic and Harrison. The Wolf wished he could hear what he was saying, lips moving faster than his sluggish brain could hope to read.
He was dimly aware of a keening whine in his throat as Harrison helped the medic move him back into the tarp, on his stomach where he couldn’t see -
The world went dark faster than he could contemplate that fear.
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
(An AU of my Freelancers series)
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