Got high, remembered I can just write whatever shameless angsty Whump scenarios I want, now I have this. Can you tell I have a blood kink?
Summary: 5 yandere soldiers rescue one very tortured medic darling from sadists.
CW: torture, kidnaping, gore, RAPE, blood, broken bones, murder, talking about dying.
(also note: there's a random switch from “she” to “you”, I will not be fixing that but this is a y/n type of fic so enjoy getting kidnapped. And Delta 9 is not an OC thing, I just needed a name to help keep things comprehensible. Yes, this was inspired by COD 141.)
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She was the team medic. No, not WAS, is, they remind themselves. She is the team medic, and she is NOT dead. She can’t be, they can’t let her be dead.
She’s their angel after all. A goddess sent to their squad, Delta 9, a few years ago and now the shining light they’ve clung to on the filthy battlefields ever since. Every bullet wound, every long night, every time guilt, guns, and gore tried to swallow them whole, she was there to save them. She is everything. They love her.
And when she needed saving, they were too late.
A week ago the small band of breakaway soldiers from the enemy side, the terrorists who the team had been sent to eliminate, got personal. Each Delta 9 member is now haunted by the clear memory of a scene worse than any the war had inflicted on them yet: their angel’s thrashing body as those bastards drug her away from her own med tent, and the look on her face as she made eye contact with them and realized they were too far away to help her.
They left her alone, they left her alone. They can’t believe they did something so stupid as to leave such an important thing as her alone on a battlefield. But they did, and for their mistake, she’s been in enemy hands for a week.
A week. A week kept by people more violent than the enemy they broke off from. A week not knowing what they were doing to her. A week imagining everything they could do to her. A week of the team being so consumed by anger and disgust at the idea of their darling, their angel, being hurt at all that they became breakaways themselves in their blind frenzy to find her. Get her back with them. Save her.
Five days after her abduction, the team was on four hours of sleep and 10,004 thoughts about her. The main one being is she even still alive. The one second to that being that they couldn’t think about it, she had to be alive. Six days after her abduction, the terrorists sent a video.
She wasn't dead, but what was being done to her broke Delta 9 down to their bones regardless.
Apparently, the terrorists didn’t like that the team had successfully killed one of their members a while ago, they wanted revenge. Revenge was a grainy cropped cam recording of a scene so dingy and dark it took the team an agonizing time to process the horror of it. It was her, well a part of her, the most unspeakable part it could have been, and one of them.
It wasn’t right to watch, it was a sin to watch something so pure having something so vile forced upon it, but the sheer gravity of the act had the team locked in a muscle clenching vice. Unable to turn away, unable to stop it. Stood around the screen, with fists balled so tightly they all shook, Delta 9 watched you get raped. Only your pelvis filled the frame, reduced to nothing more than the part of you getting speared by your torturer. Balls slamming into your bruised hips, hands gripping your ass, fingers going wherever they didn’t belong.
That, the striking blood caking your skin, and the unbearable sounds of your pain that will torment Delta 9 till the day they die, were all the video comprised of for over an hour. If your rapists had been even slightly less monstrous, then Delta 9 might’ve only been able to catatonically await a video of your execution after watching the violation from this one. Fortunately, horrifically, the terrorists were gloating demons, the last few minutes of the video switched from recording your abused cunt to recording the jeering smiles of the men doing this to you. To the team.
It was brief, but the small seconds of frames showing the layout of the room the video took place in as the camera turned to record the face of your rapist cumming inside you, was enough. Enough to turn the team members into molten rage set against the creatures hurting you, and enough for them to find the building you were being hurt in.
Seven days. Seven days later -not that they’ve given you any way of telling time- since a gloved hand reached into your tent and wrapped itself around your neck to drag you into this hell. An unending nightmare since you looked across the clearing your team, your partners, had set up camp in and saw their very faces -too far away- come back from recon only to realize they missed the enemy at the worst possible time. Now you’re trying to forget the looks they had; the furious, fearful, helpless ones that told you you were going to be taken and there was nothing they could do about it. Uncountable sessions of violence and violation later, your hands are tied behind your back with barbed wire and you're lying on a cold concrete floor, tacky with your blood, trying to remember your team's better faces. The nice, comforting ones you’d all give each other after you fished another bullet out of one of them, announcing it was going to be ok to a chorus of sighed relief. It’s going to be ok.
You’re going to die here, you’re the team medic, you know what a body can handle, and you’re going to die here. Your team will not be there to hold your hand like you had with them. They won’t be here to help you. Though, you dully think, that may be for the best. They also won’t be here to see the blood between your legs, the bite marks on your tits, the cum in your hair. Or maybe you’re just clinging onto any sense of comfort you can dream up. If they were here that meant you would die with people you care about, instead of with them. With monsters. So in reality you don't care what your teammates would see so long as you could have that mercy.
But mercy doesn't exist in the room they've kept you in.
Everything hurts. You’re terrified, tortured, assaulted, alone. You’d give anything to see your squad burst through the door with their guns and their hands that have never done the things to you that your captors have done. But seven days of sadistic torture can only last so long. You’re bleeding so much now, and you know the only people about to walk through that door will be those monsters coming to end this game.
You’re half conscious when they finally do. Amongst the injuries, blunt force trauma, knife slashes, broken ankles, a stab wound in your side, and the endless barrage of dicks and other things in all your holes, not even mentioning the starvation and psychological abuse, have rendered you nothing but a delirious lump of bloody flesh. When three of the terrorists run into the room all you want is for this to be the last time. You’re so ready to die you can’t understand why your psychotic captors are acting differently. Hurried to get their hands on you, rather than cruel and collected in their assaults. You don’t understand that the gun fire happening outside your room means someone found you, means that your captors need a hostage. To your beaten brain it all just sounds like fists against your skin. You don’t even get to see the very thing you wanted most from the whole world just hours ago. They rob that from you too, roughly picking you up from the puddle of your own blood to thrust a gun against your temple, making you finally pass out from pain just before you get to see your precious teammates burst into the room. Stopping dead in their tracks at the sight of you.
Rage. No language can encapsulate the emotions ignited by that gun against your head, but rage is close. The state of your body though? That’s entirely indescribable. Nothing linguistic even touches how destroyed the team feels upon seeing their goddess, their light that dances above the earth itself, so kind it should never be brought near the filth of humanity, half dead.
Split open flesh, watercolor bruises, teeth marks breaking the skin, the blood, your blood, old, new, dark, red, red, red. Too much. Clotted around the wounds, leaking from your veins, running down your naked chest, dripping from your toes onto the floor. Dried flakes on your arms getting on those bastard’s hands where they grip you so disgustingly to hold you up like the most blasphemous depiction of Jesus on the cross.
What. Have. They. Done to you?
Delta 9 consists of five hardened and tactical soldiers. Special ops sent to effectively handle situations and to not let war get to them. Yet no soldier in Delta 9 knows how they killed your captors, they just know they’re holding you again. After seven days, after God fucking knows what hell, after blind rage and a blood bath that they’re trying to keep your body from touching more of, they’re holding you again, and you’re so limp it’s making them puke.
It’s weird being on the other end of one of your medical cots. It’s weird not remembering how you wound up on a medcot in the first place. When you finally woke up -thank god you woke up- you were surprised to see Delta 9 all standing around you. They looked exhausted, beyond exhausted, they looked bone dead tired. Creases around their eyes like they'd been shouldering the stress of the world. Had there been a fight? You had to ask if you’d fallen asleep helping someone or something. You didn’t understand why your sleepless soldiers started crying, or why they were all there, or why, you suddenly realized, you were in so much pain.
They couldn’t believe it, everything you went through, everything those monsters did to you, and you woke up asking if you’d passed out helping someone. The emotions were just too much, they thought they’d lost you. Back in that room, when they started applying pressure to all your wounds and ran out of hands there were just so many, when they ran carrying your lifeless body to the humvee and drove like mad to get you to a hospital, when they dug the barbed wire out of your wrists, when your heart stopped. Just be alive, just be alive, just be alive.
And now you were, and soon you’ll remember everything that happened and you’ll go through hell all over again, but right now you’re just a bandaged angel asking if someone still needs help. And they don’t know how to tell you, yeah, you do.
You cry when you remember. No, you break. Even more than you did when it was happening, because now that you didn't die you have to live with the memories. It's a cry of pain worse than any your captors heard, and worse than anything a demon straight from hell could force Delta 9 into hearing. Holding you, keeping you together as best they can, they make a wordless pact, no one even needs to say it out loud. They understand. Their objective is to protect you now. Everyone is the enemy, everyone is a threat.
They will never let you be hurt again, they will never let you be alone now. And you’re so traumatized you couldn’t live without them anyways. You’re their angel, and they’re going to keep this disgusting fucking world away from you. It’s going to be ok.
It’s never going to be ok.
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just remembered Delta 9 is also a weed thing and given I wrote this as a result of edibles, that's fucken perfect and probably why that was the first name that came to mind. And yes this is just to feed my own fantasies, I deserve it.
