I am aiming for this to be a 37 odd chapter series that will go right across the prompts for Febuwhump.
The first 4 chapters are prelude to what will evolve into Leader and team medical testing and torture based series and will get very Whumpy!!
Under Controlled Conditions: The Cure
Prelude to Febuwhump: Chapter 1 -
Next
They had done it, they had finally done it.
The team huddled around the unfortunate person strapped down to the table, the harsh glow of the operating theatre lights illuminating the pale body that was splayed open wide. Blood glistened off the stainless steel retractors that held the man’s chest cavity wide open. The panted gasping and wide wheeling eyes, in the almost completely immobile body, the only indication that subject 7 was all too aware of what was happening to them.
Inside the gaping chest cavity, the bottom half of the right lung was slowly but steadily inflating again, the blue and purple bruising was vanishing before their eyes. The large incision Dr Hudson had inflicted not 10 minutes earlier, mimicking a serious and fatal stab wound in the field was sealing itself steady as the serum flooded subject 7’s body. It was working!
The field regeneration serum the team had been working on for years now, was finally producing results. Dr Hudson scribbled frantic notes, consulting with the teams second in command. The tense, lean young man by the name Calvin, the team’s lead medic. He conferred in excited tones with Dr Hudson. His blue eyes gleamed with delight.
Dr Hudson returned to subject 7 and narrating for Calvin, gave his final observations.
“Lung is fully healed and inflated following 6 inch incision. Total reconstruction time is 14 minutes. Subject 7 is breathing steadily albeit rapidly, likely from the pain. Vitals are slightly elevated, again likely from the pain intensity. Normally a patient would be unconscious for this procedure”.
He flicked a glance toward the subjects face, the man clenched his jaw and tried to steady his breathing. All the while his body betrayed him, slight tremors rocked through him, given away by the collar that helped restrain him to the table, as it rattled lightly, metal on metal. Dr Hudson grinned and looked back at his notes.
“We can go ahead and close this one up Calvin, or let one of the medical students have a practise if anyone wants a go”.
Dr Hudson returned to the figure lying on the table beneath them and released the retraction clamps holding his chest wide open. A small whimper escaped subject 7’s lips, the relief of the pressure easing across his torso. Another grin flashed across the doctors face and he shook his dark hair out from under his surgical hat.
He leaned over the still immobile figure and gave him a condescending pat to the cheek.
“We’ll have to keep you alive a little bit longer sorry. Now we have a recovered victim, we can complete all our ethics tests and present this data to the world. Your eventual sacrifice will save a lot of lives. Not that you’ll get any credit of course, the world can’t know this was trialed on humans”.
Dr Hudson produced another leering smile for subject 7, noted the tears starting to pool in his eyes, gathered his things and walked out the room. A man full of confidence and uncaring of those he sacrificed in the name of ‘Science and Healing’.
The whumpee has been modified by the whumper, somehow—physically, genetically, psychologically—and are now inexplicably bound to the them.
Maybe they live together, a scientist and their pet project. Maybe the whumpee, bandaged and broken from the most recent operation, hasn't recovered enough to try to escape.
It doesn't matter.
"You're not a prisoner here. You can leave anytime you like," the whumper says, snapping on their gloves, verging on bored. "But you won't."
Declan gets a bit more than he bargained for when he agreed to let Hasan drug him.
Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, captivity whump, drugging/induced paralysis, dubcon surgery, noncon touching, fear of noncon, needles.
(Want to skip the surgery? The segment is marked with purple asterisks ***)
Word count: 2856
~~~
The drug wormed its way first into Declan’s smallest joints.
His fingers slipped off the plunger, pulling air bubbles into the syringe. Fuck. His fine motor control was shot already. The liquid only reached the three milliliter tick, and Hasan surely weighed more than him at their height and build.
They had left with the phone to fetch whatever the hell they could need past the entire briefcase of medical supplies, leaving Declan with this perfect opportunity.
But his elbows were locking up already, and Hasan would have full reign over his body when they returned. If he was found with the needle… Declan forced his body to its knees, crawling off-kilter to the bookcase, rolling the needle onto the bottom shelf and shoving The Catcher in the Rye crookedly atop it.
Fatigue gripped his muscles and he couldn’t prop himself up any longer when Hasan arrived, footstool in one bare hand, a metal tray in the other. They dialed the lights up to their brightest setting and shook their head.
“Oh, sweet boy…” Tools rattled as the tray clacked against the stool. A scalpel, two pairs of forceps, and a curved needle. Their footsteps approached. “You can’t run now. You can’t do anything now,” Hasan cooed, pulling his head into their lap and combing fingers through sweaty hair.
“Don’t touch me,” he mumbled, even his lips refusing to cooperate with the signals they were sent. A weak jerk was easily subdued.
“You begged for this, remember? You wanted this, and I so generously permitted it.” A shudder rocked down him, but it didn’t do anything past his shoulders. His spine should have twisted in horror instead of laying pliant under invasive touches. “Just lay back and enjoy. You won’t be able to move again for a long while.”
Declan shook his head, hardly a loll anymore. He could only breathe, blink, and wait as his body was repositioned. His head lay limply to the side, jaw gone slack. “So you don’t choke.” Hasan pulled the wallet from his pocket and stuck the leather between his teeth. “Oh- wait.”
It came out again, damp, and Hasan fanned out a few bills from their pocket. Eight dollars. They stuffed them in and stuffed his mouth once more.
“There you are. If it gets too painful, you’ll have something to bite down on.”
I couldn’t move my jaw if I tried. He tested his voice with a soft groan. Of course. Propping my mouth open so I can still scream.
***
They folded his arms in straight against his sides and set his left leg down just as meticulously. As if he were laying on a real surgical table. Then the other was lifted and propped up on their stool, his heel as the anchor. A single twitch would have been enough to dislodge it, but Declan couldn’t even manage that much. A despairing noise slipped from his throat.
“There, there…” Hasan absentmindedly massaged his foot over the lesser wounds before sliding along the back of his calf to push his pant leg up. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you so relaxed. Apart from your livestreams, of course,” they snickered.
A new pair of medical gloves. Since when did they give a shit about being sterile? Declan could smell the harsh tang this time when they ripped open another alcohol wipe and cleaned the surgery site.
“Alright, Lee. Walk me through it again.” One hand held his foot in place, and a thin blade pressed against the laceration.
“I would make the incision just about two centimeters deep.” The scalpel pulled through so sluggishly Declan thought he might die. No matter how much he longed to writhe and distract himself, there was no distraction from blood pouring down in rivulets or freezing metal on hot flesh. “Good. Now locate and remove the foreign body. Don’t get distracted by his voice.”
"You know me too well, dearest."
He couldn’t even brace for it. Couldn’t look down the length of his body to watch Hasan’s movements. Couldn’t tense up. Couldn’t beg for mercy.
Declan’s vision flashed white when the forceps touched him and it only got worse from there. Prongs held the cut open while the forceps dug in. Sensations he’d never experienced, places that had never been touched, laced with sparks of unbearable agony and melded with clinical instructions. It only occurred to him then that the relentless ringing in his ears may have been his own screams.
Some time later, a small tink sounded along with the rearrangement of other instruments and his suffering contained itself in a throbbing bubble.
“Remember, about half a centimeter apart,” Lee’s voice advised: the only warning Declan received before Hasan began suturing the wound. He duly registered tear tracks running from the corners of his eyes, retraced when the needle broke skin. His mind flinched away with every twitch of thread, but his body held statue still. A fucking prison trapping him inside. Declan breathed an exasperated moan.
“Shhh…” Hasan’s gloved hand only stroked his heel before refocusing. Their snail’s pace was agonizing.
Fresh gauze wrapped their work, hiding it from sight, and they were alone again. Lee must have hung up… at some point. Hasan said the drug only weakened his muscles. Was the brain part of that system?
***
“See? All done, darling.” They knelt down at his side. “No harm, no foul.” Fingers still covered by latex reached between his lips, dragging his wallet out and discarding it. A metallic tang stuck on Declan’s tongue and he stared in disbelief at the blood-streaked gloves that had just been in his mouth, now rubbing absentmindedly over his bottom lip and the scab where their knife had pierced.
“Ah, I should take these off, shouldn’t I?” They peeled off the gloves and wiped their hands against Declan’s t-shirt. “I’m sure you’ll be covered in your own blood someday soon, anyway. No need to be hasty. But, well, since I have you like this…” They grabbed the bloody scalpel again and slid it under his shirt, slicing up through flimsy material, splitting the graphic across his chest, and drew it over to each sleeve.
When Hasan finally looked back to his face, tears were spilling from wide eyes and rolling down Declan’s cheeks.
“There’s no need for that.” They swiped the trails up to his temples. “I’m just looking. I haven’t seen much of you yet, and I’d like to know what I’m working with.” It was no comfort at all as the mutilated fabric was balled up and cast aside. Hasan splayed their fingers out over Declan’s chest. “Very nice… I knew I made a good choice with you.”
They pet the fine hairs that littered his chest and flowed down below his waistband. There was a squeeze of his fat, not critically, but observationally. Measuring. The lateral top surgery scars received a gentle hum and trace, as did his ribs and he couldn’t stop crying. They went as far as to spread his arms, squeeze his biceps, and hold his hands.
Hasan held their phone up again and he couldn’t do a goddamn thing. Couldn’t twist away, couldn’t hug himself, couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t hide. Declan squeezed his eyes shut. The shutter sound effect played.
“Look at me, Dec.” Please, no. “Look at me or the blood will come early.” Couldn’t even hide his eyes. “Yes, you look much better without those silly glasses. Such handsome eyes. Still not quite perfect but we’ve got plenty of time to work on that, don’t we? Mmhmm… These pictures will be fun to look back on together.”
Fingers trailed back down to his hips, then slid under his waistband.
“Uhhhh! Uh!”
“You’re going to have a rough time if you act this way every time I need you to strip,” Hasan sighed, pulling his sweatpants off and setting them with the rest of his clothes. “Learn this now, Dec.” Their hand was on his chin, forcing eye contact. “If I want something, you’ll know. You want to know how you’ll know?” Their gaze softened, a smile breaking through. “Because I’ll do it.”
They traced down his legs, pausing on a few scarred lines. Declan held his breath until they continued, humming at the thick hair down his calves. Then, without warning, they rolled him over to his stomach. He cried out, but his head was caught and lowered softly before it could bounce against the floor.
Fingers slid down his spine, massaged his shoulder blades, ran over his ass, pinched his thighs. The camera shuttered again. Hands back in his hair.
And finally he was on his back again.
“Just one more thing.”
Hasan retrieved the tourniquet and tied it tight above his elbow before standing and reaching deep into the bookshelf, returning with the poorly filled needle. God dammit.
“You don’t really think highly of me, do you?” They tapped the clumsy bubbles out, pushing the plunger down a mite until a stream of liquid squirted out. “Or maybe you just don’t think.”
Another alcohol wipe, then a gradual injection.
“Well, take some time. Think about your actions. Let the seconds tick by.” Hasan removed their wristwatch–an analog clock on a traditional leather band–and set it next to his head. The miniature second hand ticked audibly. “It’s seven o’ clock now. We’ll talk later, I’m sure.”
It was hard to sob when his shoulders refused to heave and his lips hardly parted. Tears streaked into Declan’s hair, drying cold on his scalp and sending shivers down his naked body. His boxers and bandages weren’t nearly enough to stave off the basement chill, and he desperately wished he’d crawled to the radiator when he still had the chance.
The sweatpants were still crumpled next to him, nearly brushing his fingertips. He missed the blanket Hasan had given him the first night. When had that been? The previous day was the second, so this was his third. Wednesday (laundry day), Thursday (when he woke up here), Friday. March 5th. He had to hold on to that. Lest he stay here longer than anticipated.
Longer than anticipated has already passed. He was supposed to be home by now, calling the police, fleeing the state. If he was still in Ohio at all.
But Columbus was central. Declan couldn’t have been in the car for more than two hours, could he? Hasan’s watch ticked in his ears. Seconds were longer when he paid attention. Minutes were arduous. In the space between each one he lost count of the previous in a sea of thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight seconds…
Declan raised a finger to hold the count but it didn’t move. Right.
Maybe it would have gone faster if he didn’t count. But the rising numbers at least gave a sense of progression until he had to start over from zero.
Hasan’s touch was insistent, sliding across his body despite their absence whenever Declan’s eyes shot open. He wished more than ever for the freedom of his own arms, to rub the skin raw of every nerve ending and forget that violation, forget the entire day’s traumas.
His jaw ached from hanging open, letting moisture seep from his tongue, but closing it hurt even worse when autonomy weaved its way back through him. His fingers bent weakly in a poor imitation of movement until his strength trickled in. Declan’s skin prickled up with the cold, the innocuous sensation suddenly invigorating after its prolonged absence.
Everything was. Every movement, every touch, it was all overstimulating, but his body still demanded he stretch his muscles and find something warm. His eyes grazed the watch in passing. 8:30pm. Stiff fingers pulled his pants back on at last. The shirt was a lost cause.
Declan struggled to drag the rug on his knees, not daring to place pressure on the stitches but determined to reclaim his comfort. His shoulders and spine cracked in fervent agreement. Finally, he lined it up in front of the radiator, cranked up the heat, and collapsed onto thick ropy fibers which he twisted between clumsy fingers.
He was content, if he dared associate such a word with this, to sink into the heat. It pained him to stay still after the strife he’d fought through, but Declan wouldn’t risk pushing too far and rendering himself useless. As if he wasn’t already, what with the worst of his injuries lying underfoot.
~~~
Declan was making a game of tapping his fingertips when the tantalizing scent of broth wafted into his nose. Goddd. What vent was that filtering through? He hadn’t spotted one previously, but a closer glance at the ceiling revealed the slanted slats of a duct cover behind a horizontal beam. I could fit through there, if I could reach. But for now it served only as a vehicle to remind him how goddamn hungry he was.
The thought made him cringe. He’d starved himself for nothing. Assuming Hasan might have the means to drug him wasn’t paranoia after all, but he’d gotten the methodology all wrong. Then again, Declan never imagined he might hold still enough to place the tourniquet, let alone hit the vein.
Footfalls down the stairs came only a few minutes later and, despite the instinctual freeze and terror, a sickening sense of enthusiasm welled up. It already felt like days since he’d received the shake. Declan sat up when Hasan entered the room.
“Feeling better?” They had a water bottle tucked under their arm and held a steaming bowl of soup in each hand. Declan’s eyes locked onto them.
“I can move again,” he mumbled. “That’s about it.”
“I’d say that’s about all you need, hm? What more could you wish for?” Declan opened his mouth. “Don’t answer that, you’ll make a fool of yourself.”
“It’s not foolish to want my life back.”
“You really don’t get it yet, do you?” They shook their head, sliding down to their knees and setting the bowls between them. When Declan reached for one, his hand was smacked away. “No. Answer my question.”
“I get what you’re trying to tell me, asshole. I just don’t believe that.”
“What do I need to do to convince you? What would help you believe it?”
“Nothing. Now give me the fucking bowl.” There was no consequence when he snatched it away this time, cringing as hot broth scorched down his throat. A bowed head dodged Hasan’s judgmental look to blow on the next spoonful and cautiously slurp it up.
Chilis hit his tongue first, melting away to salty, meaty bliss like no food ever had. Declan was convinced he could’ve picked out the notes like a sommelier. Now in this dish I taste a strong note of chicken, embraced by a body of loving water and oils and… whatever else soup is made of. And oh, now on the swallow those chilis roar back, chasing onions and herbs down…
“Nice, isn’t it? Family recipe from my aunt,” Hasan said, slipping out a pair of metal chopsticks and slurping up jagged noodles from the other bowl.
“Mmhm. It’s good.” Declan allowed himself to pause and breathe when it seemed he’d be allowed this luxury.
“You’re really that hungry, are you? It’s instant ramen, Dec,” Hasan laughed. “My aunt does, however, make a delightful miso soup.”
“Invite her over. Sure she’d love her nibling’s new hobby,” he mumbled into the spoon.
“The rest of my family is still living in England, dear. So unless you’re willing to pay her way…”
Declan shrank back at the pet name.
“I need chopsticks.” Hasan slid him a pair of wooden, disposable ones still in their paper sleeve, and he glared up as he snapped them apart. “Didn’t bring enough fancy ones?”
“These are for guests who can be trusted with them.” They clacked theirs together with an air of showmanship.
“And, what, you think I can’t shove these down your throat?” Declan fisted them in demonstration.
“Wonderful point, love.” And before he could react, Hasan leaned forward to pluck both chopsticks from his hand and toss them over their shoulder. The light clatter of flimsy wood rang in his ears. “Now stop fighting me and eat before I make you go without.”
And he hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to use them… Before he further humiliated himself by crawling to retrieve the utensils, Declan tried to catch a few noodles in a spoonful to varying degrees of success. When the broth dwindled, he cut his losses and raised the bowl to his lips.
“Isn’t it incredible what hunger will do to a man?” Hasan cocked their head, ramen noodles swaying in sync.
“I’m thirsty.” An arm across his mouth smeared dripping broth up his cheek.
“Well now…” They cracked the seal and took a swig, holding Declan’s gaze. “That’s not a very nice way to ask.”
“I’d like some water, dickwad.”
Hasan swung the bottle at him and water splashed over his face, dripping ice down his front, soaking into his pants. It barely scraped past the half full mark now.
“Please. Water,” he grit out.
“Ahhh, that’s more like it.”
Next
~~~
Tag list: @as-a-matter-of-whump @suspicious-whumping-egg @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees
If you're a Whumper putting a Whumpee through surgery, do not, I repeat DO NOT give them sedatives.
Let them feel every bit of pain until they pass out naturally. It saves you money and let's you save sedatives for more important reasons. You know, like kidnappings and cuddling them while dazed.
CWs: female whumpee (not sexual), female whumper, dehumanisation, vivisection, human experimentation/lab rat, mild gore, noncon surgery, syringes/needles, sedation, noncon drugging, IV bag, Central Venous Line
Valkyrie was taken to a new cell, after they took various more blood and other samples from her. In this new cell, the wall that faced the hallway was made of a see-through, bullet-proof material. She was told this by the guards, who grinned viciously as they locked the door behind them. She sank down to the floor, and pressed her palms against the glass-like wall. She could see her reflection, and it was not a pretty sight. Her face was pale and gaunt, and her eyes looked sunken, with deep dark circles beneath them. Her once golden hair was dull and greasy, and it hang in limp strands and braids around her face. Bloodstains, cuts and scratches marked her face. She looked like something out of a horror movie. But to her relief, there was a shower in this cell, and a clean white hospital gown. She was about to get to cleaning herself off, when she noticed movement in a cell across the hall.
Another subject, on their knees, with their face pressed against the wall. Their warm undertone face was pale from exhaustion and fear, and they had a shaved head, though a few dark curls were starting to grow back. Their mono-lid eyes were a beautiful dark brown that mesmerised Valkyrie. She waved at them across the hall, and they slowly turned their head, and waved back.
:readmore
“Hi.” She called out.
“Sh..” They murmured, holding a finger to their pale, chapped lips.
“Sorry. My name is Valkyrie. What’s yours?”
“0399.” The other subject replied in an American accent. "I like your accent. British right?"
“Yeah, I was born and raised in England and moved to America wh..." Valkyrie trailed off. "But that’s not a name. That’s a number.” She frowned.
“We are only numbers here. We belong to them now.”
“No, fuck that. I can’t stop them, but that doesn’t mean I have to like how they treat me.”
“What you want doesn’t matter anymore. What you like. How you feel. If you want your suffering to be mininal, you do as they say. Obey them. Or they’ll make you regret it.”
Valkyrie’s stomach twisted. “But we’re human beings.”
“That was no longer true the moment we stepped foot in this place.” Subject 0399 replied.
“I refuse to believe that. This is definitely illegal, and like, in the Constitution or Human Rights Declaration or something. There’s no way they can get away with this.”
“They already have gotten away with it.”
“Fuck this. I’m getting out. If you’ve got any shred of common sense left, you’ll come with me.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Then, the other subject fell silent.
Valkyrie turned her back, shaking her head. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the small shower cubicle, letting the hot water run over her skin. It stung her cuts, but she didn’t care. It felt like heaven to finally scrub off the layers of dirt. She carefully washed her body and hair, avoiding the device in her neck. She grabbed the tower from the shelf, and then dryed herself off, reluctantly slipping in to the hospital gown.
She was about to flop onto thd bed, when she suddenly heard 0399 speak again.
“You’ll learn soon enough. No one’s coming to help us.”
Valkyrie was subject to many more experiments as the days went on, and slowly every moment began to blur together. It was just a wash of pain and exhaustion and building frustration. They took increasingly large amounts of her blood through the Central Venous Line: the small implanted device in her neck. She was positive that the blood loss wasn’t helping with the exhaustion. She was beginning to waste away now from the lack of food, blood, and exercise. Each day, as she looked in the mirror, she began to recognise the face that stared back at her less and less. She tried to hold onto hope, memorising each hallway and what lay behind each door. Looking for a new chance to escape at every turn. If she could find that chance, then she might just be able to find a way out. But on the outside, she made it look as though she had given in. She reluctantly allowed them to proke and prod to their hearts’ content. She didn’t fight back any longer. But that determination to act compliant was challenged the next time they came to drag her from her cell.
The door in the glass wall slid open, allowing the two guards to enter the room, wheeling a gurney between them. They placed the gurney in the centre of the room, and the door slid shut. They gestured towards the gurney, and Valkyrie obediently lay on top of it. The magnetic restraints activated, and the remaining strap restraints held the rest of her body down. They wheeled her out of the room and down the hall. She lay still as they rolled her along, her gaze darting furtively from side to side to examine the layout of the building. She suspected they were taking her to another series of blood tests, but she realised she was wrong when they arrived in front of a door that read ‘Operating Theatre 10’.
She swallowed her protests. She could behave. She was wheeled into the bustling theatre, where Doctor Clarke and the other scientists were putting on gowns, gloves and masks. Valkyrie was lifted off the gurney and onto the illuminated operating table, where she was restrained once more. Doctor Clarke seemed particularly frantic. One scientist began attaching Valkyrie’s Central Venous Line to various tubes and bags of fluid. Doctor Clarke watched him like a hawk, harrying him all the while about being quick and precise.
“This has to go perfectly!” She snapped at him when he accidentally elbowed another scientist in his frenzy.
“Y- yes, Doctor Clarke.” He trembled as he spoke.
“We have lots to do today and the Director will be here any minute. Hurry!” Doctor Clarke snapped.
Director? Valkyrie wondered. The Director of the Facility?
A scientist rushed out of the room, then reappeared in a small adjoining room with a window in the wall of the operating theatre that Valkyrie hadn’t even noticed. She could see the scientist go to the door of the small room and hold it open so that a tall woman could enter. She strode in tall red stilettos to the viewing window, clad in a beautiful black and white striped jumpsuit. Her long black hair was pulled into a flawlessly smooth bun which accentuated her sharp cheekbones. Her stunning makeup was finished off with a bright red lip. She looked straight out of a Vogue magazine. Hardly the kind of person you would expect to see in a laboratory.
The scientist in the viewing room pressed a button on the table and spoke into the microphone which allowed them to be heard from the operating theatre. “Doctor Cheronobog would now like you to begin.”
“Alright. Proceed.” Doctor Clarke proclaimed.
The scientists rushed to dim the large lights so that the few sources of light were the surgery-grade lights and from the surgery equipment. Valkyrie watched in increasing anxiety as the scientists began laying out blue surgical drapes across her body. She lay flat, staring at the ceiling, attempting to see past her narrow field of vision that she could thank the restraint around her neck for.
Her heart thump, thump, THUMPed in her chest. Her stomach flipped over and over again.
“Begin the procedure.”
The scientists leaned in close, wearing their large magnififying glasses that made them look like predatory bugs ready to feast on their prey. They hungrily dove into their meal.
She saw the glint of the scalpel, and she panicked. Thrashing against her restraints, she let out a terrified, animalistic scream. “STOP!”
“SHUT IT UP!”
There was a sharp prick in her thigh. She looked up to see Doctor Clarke emptying a syringe into her muscle.
“No…” She gasped.
Her limbs fell slack as the syringe was withdrawn. Everything ached, like she’d just run a marathon. Her body slumped back into the restraints without her permission. There was no chance of escape. As she lay flat on the operating table, unable to move, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Valkyrie, at first, only saw the blood as the scalpel touched her skin, then was dragged across her bare flesh. That was when she felt the pain; as the beads of blood began to bubble to the surface. As the scientists pried open the flaps of flesh and pinned them open to reveal her organs. She wanted to scream. She was able to let out a low grunt of pain, but that was all she could express. Her brain was still processing. It was sensory overload, and not being able to move away made it all the more terrifying.
Excruciating pain. Pure terror. Hopelessness. Hot pain. Cold scalpel. Cold metal table. Tingling alcohol wipes. Sharp needle jabs. Tiny tubes. Her stomach flipped again. There was more blood. It drenched the surgical drapes. Medical tongs holding sponges and bandages dabbed at the blood to soak it up. A second line of fire spread across her body as they made another incision. Headache. Was that her screaming? Or someone else? Doctor Clarke’s mouth was moving under her mask. No sound. Sharp pinch. Blood boiling to the surface. Organs. Naseua. Why was the room fogging up? Oh. Oxygen mask. Flames. Cold flames. Smell of cleaning products. Laughing. Who was laughing? More blood. Then darkness.
When Valkyrie opened her eyes, all she felt was pain. She propped up with a pillow underneath her. She was pinned in place. She looked down at herself to see bandages soaked with blood, tubes in her arms and neck. She was back in the cell with the large glass wall. Likely not real glass - it would be too easy for her to escape, then. She tried to lift her head, and found herself still frozen in place. She wouldn’t be able to escape in this state, even if she wanted to.
Given the atrocities she had just undergone, she wanted to, all right. She was done obeying commands, done letting them torture her. It was time to fight back.
She would just have to wait for the opportunity to arise.
do you prefer limb torn off or limb surgically removed in a whump fic? personally i'm a big fan of torn off, or even cut off haphazardly, but not very surgically. but there's something to be said about leather straps and blinding operation room lights and pen markings of where the limb will be cut...
Well I have some good news bb.
TW noncon surgery, amputation
Also Sulfur spoilers.
I have a fic in mind where I take The Boy's left arm via crude surgery after he gets caught planning an escape before Jackson and Mason are kidnapped.
