perhaps you found me via torture tuesday. on tuesdays, send me a character + a prompt from the menu, and I’ll write some whump / torture for you.
I write very dark subject matter, so here’s a quick primer on my tags:
my trigger warning guide - I switched to a more formalized trigger warning system last year. All of my current posts are tagged this way, but as you go further back in my log, your experience may vary.
torture tuesday - All my whump / torture fics are tagged with this, even if they weren’t written for torture tuesday.
characters - I do mostly Marvel, but you can always try your luck with other fandoms. If you’re looking for a particular character try the tag “whump [character name]” For example: whump bucky barnes.
my squicks - I write a lot of stuff I wouldn’t be able to read, but there are a few subjects I never write about. Those are: young child abuse and genital mutilation. I don’t typically post smut or NSFW content on this blog. I also sometimes need to take breaks from writing torture, which is why I intermittently go dark.
barb yawps - Basically, my way of letting you opt out of hearing me talk. I also use this for updates on when I’ll be writing and head canons.
hey y’all, if you haven’t already guessed, I’m taking a hiatus from tumblr. I won’t be on at all for a few weeks at least.
I think I’ve gotten to all my kofi requests, but if I missed you, please let me know and I’ll do my best to fill it when I get back. thanks for hanging tight.
they asked for a crucified sam and they shall receive.
trigger warnings: blood, hand and feet gore, humiliation
Sam comes awake in increments. There’s a pounding sound to his left. A bang, bang, bang, that rattles up his entire arm.
Slowly, his body comes online. And with awareness: searing pain.
Sam’s eyes fly open. He’s spread wide--too wide--over a cross. HIs right hand is already nailed into place. His feet folded one over the other, nailed into place. When he jerks against the nail, he finds that he can move.
But it hurts.
“Stop that,” Sharon chastens. She hails the hammer down against the nail. Bright pain sears through Sam’s hand. The nail wedging between the thin bones of his hand.
“Why?” Sam grits out. “Worried I’ll hurt myself?”
Sharon smiles, but doesn’t respond. Instead she just hammers the last nail home. Then she steps back, admiring her work.
“You look good like this, Cap.”
Sam winces. Doesn’t like his agony put on display like this.
He thrashes against the nails in earnest now. He can’t move his feet much--the angle is wrong--but the nail in his right hand rips through.
He manages to get the flat head of the nail midway through his palm before the pain is too much. The world spins. He tastes copper. Passes out.
When he comes to, Sharon is pressing a cool cloth to his brow. Nursing him, even as she has afixed him to a cross.
With a self-satisfied smile, she says, “Told you not to struggle.”
celebrating a kindness on kofi this morning with some more smut. if y’all want to help me pay my bills, consider stopping by and I’ll write you something nice.
could you do a failed escape attempt for basement bucky?
Celebrating another kofi kindness. A reminder that you're welcome to send in a request if you donate. If not, I'll just party by filling whatever catches my eye.
trigger warnings: captivity
Bucky can't do this much longer. Most days, he lies listlessly in his cot. Waiting for Pierce to show up. He can feel his mind slipping away from him. And it's torture.
So he forms a plan.
When Pierce gets home, it's time. He takes the handle of whisky--it's the heaviest thing in the room--and waits behind the trapdoor's ladder.
Pierce's footsteps shake the ceiling and Bucky's heart catches by his throat. He tries to calm himself by counting. By taking deep breaths.
The trapdoor opens and Pierce descends.
Bucky waits until Pierce has one foot on the ground. Pierce turns, questioning where Bucky is. Bucky swings. Bludgeons Pierce right over the temple. He drops like a stone, but Bucky doesn't have time to enjoy it.
This next part is tricky.
He has six seconds to scale the ladder before the heavy door closes, locking them inside. Bucky skips the first two rungs. Four seconds left. Hauls his body up to the top of the ladder. The door is midway to slamming shut. Two seconds left.
Moments before it clicks closed, Bucky gets his palm flat against the trapdoor. His heart soars. He pushes up.
He's weak from spending so much time malnourished underground. The door is heavy. He pushes harder. Balances on the rung to leverage both hands against the door.
Something grasps him by the ankle. Pierce. Without his hands to brace him, Bucky is pulled directly off.
No.
He topples to the ground. The trapdoor slams shut. Bucky tucks his face into the concrete. Overwhelmed with loss.
Pierce grips him by the hair, stooping to face him. The bottle shattered when it collided with his head. He's bleeding from the temple and smells like alcohol.
celebrating an anonymous donor on my kofi with some more dogfight au.
Rumlow likes the way he feels when he’s flanked by the Winter Soldier.
Roaming through the divebars of Lowtown is a lot more fun with an attack dog ready to bite with a snap of Rumlow’s fingers.
For example, when a freebooter steals Rumlow’s drink from the bartender, all Rumlow has to do is point, and the Soldier is wrenching the freebooter’s wrist the wrong direction.
“Stand down, Soldier,” Rollins growls, grabbing the Soldier by the back of his harness. The Soldier whips around, ready to dislocate Rollins’ shoulder or kneecap him with the pistol in his thigh holster, but when he recognizes his handler, he obediently stands down.
“No fun,” Rumlow boos into his reclaimed drink.
“Just trying to avoid a blood grudge with a Madripoorian pirate.” Rollins is already done with their shit. Every day Rumlow gets closer to the Soldier. It’s getting a little...too close for Rollins’ comfort.
“We can take them. Right, Soldier?” Rumlow reaches up to punch the Soldier’s shoulder. It’s like punching sheetrock. Rumlow shakes out his fist.
“Get out of my sight,” Rollins commands, irritable.
The Soldier lurches to obey--a little hesitant by Rollins’ estimation, maybe the Soldier returns Rumlow’s feelings--but Rumlow stops him with a raised hand.
He locks eyes with Rollins as he commands him to, “Stay.” He grinds his teeth. “I like having him here.”
Rollins has a lot to say about that. But doesn’t.
They drink alone for a few hours under the watchful eye of the Winter Soldier. Rumlow getting steadily drunker and drunker as Rollins becomes more annoyed.
Each time anyone so much as gets close to Rumlow, the Soldier tenses. Hyper vigilant. He’d do anything for Rumlow.
When they finally close out, the bartender leans way over the bar.
She is looking at the Winter Soldier. He huffs through his muzzle, just once.
“Your guard dog there,” she says. “He up for making some money?”
Rollins is about to tell her off, but Rumlow intervenes. “Depends on the kind of money.”
The bartender smiles; she knows she has them. “Good money.”
please please please could you do more basement bucky
only because you begged so nicely.
trigger warnings: captivity
Even in the midst of a dead sleep, Bucky knows when Pierce is home from work. He jolts out of his cot and gets straight to it. Straight to preparing for Pierce.
Pierce will need to shower. Change into his house clothes. So Bucky has about thirty minutes to get everything ready.
First, he sets the needle on the turn table. Bucky begged for a radio. But Pierce was suspicious that he'd use it to communicate with the outside world. The compromise was a record player.
The music soothes Bucky. Gets him calm enough to be good.
Humming along to the tune, Bucky strips out of his clothes--a t-shirt and boxers, dank with sweat--and rubs soap into his skin so he smells fresher. He keeps the clothes he wears with Pierce in a clean pillow case, laid in the mostly empty chest of drawers at the foot of his cot. Even sealed away like this, the clothes have a mildewy scent.
Everything in this room reeks of despair.
Next, Bucky takes out Pierce's slippers. Lays those by the door. Then the handle of whiskey and glass to fix Pierce a drink.
He's allowed his own glass. Pierce likes Bucky a little drunk. Says he's sweeter. But Bucky only swills the whisky through his teeth. Enough to wet his mouth. To give Pierce the illusion that he's drinking.
When the slippers are laid out, the whisky ready, the turntable crooning. Bucky kneels near the door. It's easier this way.
Pierce doesn't make him wait long. The ceiling vibrates with his steps and then the trapdoor lifts.
Pierces first goes for his slippers and whisky. As he passes Bucky, he ruffles his hair. Absently. Like Bucky is just an obedient dog.
"Smells in here," Pierce notes.
Against his volition, Bucky's head jerks up. He grits his teeth. Of course it smells in here. Bucky never leaves. There's no shower in here. Sink baths are fine, but he can never get really clean.
From Pierce's amused expression, he was purposefully baiting Bucky. In the mood to hurt tonight. Bucky won't give him the satisfaction.
"How was your day?"
"Busy." Pierce settles on the end of the Bucky's cot. He promised to bring him a chair, but there's not much room left in here. "We had a call out, so I needed to compensate."
There's a wrinkle in Bucky's rug, next to his knee. He smooths it out. "Who called out?"
Pierce waits for Bucky to look up again. Eyes sharp on his, Pierce says, "Steve Rogers, again."
Bucky tenses. At every mention of Steve his heart leaps with hope. It's always battered back down. It's killing him. Slowly.
"He's doing better these days, though. Getting over you."
The song ends and the needle slides over static. Bucky stands to flip it over.
"Wait," Pierce commands and Bucky stops mid-step. "Come here."
Bucky hates the sound of the needle scaping over blank vinyl. But he does as he's told. Kneels at Pierce's feet because that's Pierce wants.
Pierce lays his hand in Bucky's hair, guiding his head to rest against his knee.
In a murmur so soft it could be gentle, Pierce reminds Bucky, "No one is looking for you."
Could you do Sam finding out about the bucky/rumlow caning thing after bucky goes again and comes back injured?
honestly anon, I finished that one last night and was like: whelp, I'm never touching that again. and then woke up this morning a little sad that no one took care of bucky.
anyway, let's make sam take care of bucky.
trigger warnings: self blaming, returning to an abuser, threatened (but not enacted) sexual coercion, 18+ please
"Bro," Sam says, resting a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Can we at least talk about it?"
Bucky's back is nearly healed--thank you, super serum--but Sam's elbow glances off a welt between his shoulder blades. It stings like a bitch. Bucky flinches away.
Sam misreads the gesture as Bucky pulling back. He sighs in frustration and worry. "Fine. But I know something's up and I'm worried about it."
After all Sam's done. After all his patience and sacrifice. The last thing he needs is to deal with Bucky's self-pitying bullshit. God, sometimes Bucky can't fucking stand himself.
He goes back to Rumlow, because that's what he deserves.
---
When they're done, Rumlow sits on his couch with a beer while Bucky re-dresses. Watches him.
"You know, I've been thinking..." Rumlow says into his can.
Bucky grunts in answer. He's still hazy with pain and endorphins. Somewhere between himself and the Winter Soldier.
"...what do I get out of this?" Rumlow gives him an indicative once over.
Bucky meets Rumlow's eye with a sharp glare. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying. Next time you come over here, I might not be in the mood to knock you around."
Bucky grits his jaw. "Fine."
"Fine," Rumlow replies glibly. Calling Bucky on his bluff.
Bucky puts on a brave face, but when he closes Rumlow's door behind himself, he crumples. He knows, right now, that he wouldn't sleep with Rumlow to get what he needs.
But he doesn't know how he'll feel the next time he gets an itch to hurt.
He's already degrading himself to do this. Who knows what depths he'll sink to if Rumlow pushes?
Bucky stumbles out of Rumlow's apartment complex, but can't make it to his motorcycle. He's paralyzed by profound self loathing. He leans against the exterior brick wall, gasping.
God, Bucky hates himself. He really fucking hates himself. Can't even do this right. Can't be a good man. Can't be a good Winter Soldier. Useless, self-pitying, stupid--
"Bucky?"
Bucky's head whips up. It's Sam's voice. Sam, standing before him with Redwing in hand. Looking concerned. Fuck.
Bucky rankles at being ambushed like this. "You followed me here," he accuses.
"I was worried." Sam's brow is hard and flat. He surveys Bucky.
"It's fine." Bucky tugs on his sleeve, concealing a ligature bruise encircling his wrist. "And none of your business."
Sam doesn't have anything to say to that. Instead, he looks up, directly to Rumlow's window on the third floor. The curtains are open.
"Jesus Christ, Sam, what? Did you get Redwing to--to--" Bucky trails off.
Judging by Sam's guilty expression, that's exactly what he did.
"Unbelievable." And it is unbelievable. Isn't he entitled to a little privacy? An option to release a little pressure?
Bucky shoves past Sam, charging to his motorcycle.
"Bucky, wait--"
But whatever Sam says afterwards, Bucky doesn't hear over the roar of his motorcycle.
---
But Bucky can't avoid Sam forever. They live together. And Bucky realizes just that when he gets home.
He waits for Sam in the living room. Ready to apologize. Or beg for understanding. Or to tell him to fuck off and never mention it again. He isn't sure which.
Sam, perhaps sensing that Bucky needed some time to cool, doesn’t return right away. After thirty minutes with no Sam, Bucky’s phone buzzes. He leaps on it. Half convinced that Sam will tell him that he needs to find a new place to stay because he can’t trust someone who would associate with HYDRA.
But no, it’s not Sam. Just Rumlow. The text reads: “would it make it easier if I made it an order?”
And Bucky hurls his phone so hard at the wall it breaks.
---
While waiting for Sam on the couch, Bucky falls asleep. Fitfully. Miserably. He wakes up to the sound of the key in the lock.
And then, there is Sam.
God, just the sight of him. Neutral. Nonjudgmental. A little concerned. And good. Sam is just so, completely good.
Bucky wants that good. Wants to break off a little piece of it for himself.
Bucky relents. He tells Sam everything.
---
Afterwards, Bucky feels wrung out and thin. Frail enough to need taking care of.
Sam doesn't need to be asked. He just knows.
Sam helps him out of his shirt. The fabric clings to the dried blood on Bucky's back. So Sam has to go very, very slowly.
Sam hisses at the lattice work of whip marks. And the bruises on his wrists from where Rumlow bound Bucky's wrists too tightly.
Bucky expects a lecture. Steve would lecture him. But instead, Sam just murmurs, "This looks like it hurts."
It does, and Bucky tells him as much. But Sam bandages the open wounds and lathers almond oil over the scar tissue. His hands are warm and tender.
I would love to see Bucky hurt on a mission )maybe one where they are kidnapped and he's tortured) and falling back into a soldier like mindset with refusal of care of self-blame. With Steve and/or Sam. Your writing is just so good!
This is...like not at all what you asked for. But it just sort of fell out of me. Sorry about that.
Rumlow opens the door. Without even really looking at Bucky he says, "You again."
Bucky can't meet his eye as he asks, "Can you do it?" And then, because Rumlow will make him say it anyway, he grits out, "Please?"
Rumlow shrugs. As if Bucky annoys him. Disgusts him. "Come in."
They cut straight to it. Bucky takes off his shirt and bends over Rumlow's coffee table. The glass one. He can see his knees through it. His hands laid over his thighs. They spasm involuntarily with each blow.
"What happened?"
"I failed a mission," Bucky grits out. His breath fogs the glass. He feels himself slipping into the Winter Soldier. So it feels good to add, "Sir."
Rumlow hesitates, cane held aloft. Then, the grin audible in his tone, he commands: "Status report?"
It's a relief to give himself over to Rumlow. To his commander. "No physical damage incurred, sir."
The cane whistles through the air. Lands with a snap. "Let's see if we can change that."
Rumlow has good aim. Excellent aim. Each lash of the cane lands directly between the notches of Bucky's vertebrae. Where the skin is pulled taut. It sends pain stinging down his whole spine.
That's why Bucky comes to Rumlow. He knows what Bucky needs.
"You fucked up," Rumlow says plainly. A statement of fact.
"Yes, sir."
"You endangered everyone on your mission." The next blow lands low on his back. Savagely low.
Bucky's exhales sharply. "Yes, sir."
"If you were still my asset..." Rumlow strikes him again, in the same place. Deepening the welt. "I'd decommission you."
Bucky's eyes water. "Yes, sir."
When Rumlow's arm is tired. When Bucky's back is wet with blood. When it's done, he stands gingerly.
"Cap know you're here?" Rumlow asks casually. It doesn't really matter to him. He knows Bucky will never give up his location.
"Which one?" Bucky hesitates before pulling his shirt over his shoulders. He wore the black one so that if he bleeds through, it won't show. The cotton stings when it clings to his new wounds.
"The one that cares about you."
Bucky winces. The reminder that Steve doesn't give a damn about him hurts worse than the rattan cane.
Hey! How about some dark!Steve and Bucky with training :) maybe in the Mafia AU cuz I just watched Godfather yesterday.
bless you, umo. I also miss the stucky mob au. as usual, your prompt completely hijacked my day and got way out of hand.
trigger warnings: abductions, bindings, broken fingers, corrupt cops, references to sexual assault (brief)
Bucky is nearly perfect. Loyal and calculating in a way that will serve Steve's purposes well.
But even nearly perfect isn't good enough. Steve needs excellence. And Bucky will give it to him.
He sends Bucky on an errand. Before he leaves, Steve pulls him close by the hip. He presses a kiss to his jaw and murmurs, "Be good."
"You don't like me because I'm good," Bucky snarks. Which Steve has to admit is true.
He waits a few minutes after the door has closed behind Bucky. Then he makes the call to Natasha. "Now is good."
"I get to kill him if he talks, right?"
Steve doesn't answer.
Natasha sighs. "Are you sure you want this question answered?"
Steve grinds his teeth. "Sounds like you're doubting me."
"Wouldn't dream of it, boss. See you soon."
But Natasha knows Steve better than he does. Waiting is intolerable. He paces his office several times before trying to settle behind his desk with a drink. By the time Natasha texts to let him know she's ready for him at the station, Steve is a wreck.
When he arrives at the interrogation room, the station is completely cleared out. Just as Natasha promised.
As requested, she's bound him to a chair and wrapped his head with a black-out bag. But when Steve checks the ropes binding Bucky's wrists behind him, he finds several broken fingers.
He shoots Natasha a look. He said no injuries unless he was present and she knows that. Natasha shrugs as if his disapproval bores her.
"He got feisty," she says by way of explanation.
Bucky's head whips in the direction of her voice. "Who are you talking to?"
"Don't worry about it," she says sharply. "Worry about yourself."
Natasha jerks her head towards the two-way mirror, signaling for Steve to leave. Steve hates obeying cop orders--even if that cop is dirty--but he does as he's told. His heart hammers in his chest. Steve trusts Natasha about as far as he can throw her.
Once Steve is safely secured on the other side of the mirror, Natasha rips the bag off Bucky's head.
Slowly, his eyes adjust to the harsh light. Then he absorbs the metal table, bolted to the floor. The two-way mirror. And then, finally, Natasha. In her blues.
"Fucking typical. You're a cop." Bucky's head drops back in disbelief. Steve loves him all the more for mouthing off, even here. "You gonna read me my rights, or--"
She slams her baton against the back of his chair. Not striking Bucky directly, but he'll certainly feel the vibrations of the impact. The fingers of his nonbroken hand form a tight fist. Steve knows how badly Bucky fears the police.
That's why he's doing this.
"You see that security camera up there?" She grips Bucky's face by the jaw, directing his head.
Steve's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't like someone touching what's his.
Especially when Natasha gives his head a savage little shake. "Does that look connected to you?"
Bucky's eyes skim the trail of disconnected wires. "I'm not really a tech guy."
Calm as anything, Natasha reaches behind Bucky and seizes one of his broken fingers. Bucky hisses through his teeth, twitching against the bonds.
"Point is: I'm not really interested in your rights." Natasha squeezes his finger. Bucky's eyes clamp shut. "Start giving me names, kid."
He shakes his head. "Not happening," he grits out. Steve could kiss him on his pretty mouth.
"You ever done time? Don't answer that, I looked you up. I know you did a few years in juvie." Natasha twists the broken finger. "I'm going to level with you, kid: Rikers isn't anything like Crossroads Juvenile."
Bucky has gone completely mute now. Possibly just trying to manage the pain as Natasha abuses his already crumpled fingers.
"Pretty boy like you wouldn't do so well in Rikers." Natasha flashes a smile at Steve through the mirror. He doesn't like that much. "Though, considering your tastes, maybe you'd do very well."
"Really?" Bucky has gone completely pale. "A 'drop the soap' joke?"
Natasha rolls her eyes. She releases his fingers and he gasps in relief.
"Look, putting you away would be a pain. It would be easy. But the paperwork alone...it'd be much easier just to put you on our bankroll. Make you an informant." She sits on the table in front of him. Playing friends. "It wouldn't be what Rogers is paying you, but--"
Bucky spits directly in her face. "Eat glass."
Natasha levels a look at Steve. He agrees; he's seen enough. He knocks on the glass twice. Natasha's signal to call it quits.
She turns Bucky's chair fully towards the mirror. Whether for Steve's benefit or so that Bucky can watch his own reflection, Steve isn't sure. Either way, he appreciates the view.
She clasps her hand over Bucky's mouth and nose. His eyes water, going pink at the whites. He fights her, but there's not much he can do bound to the chair like this. Within a few moments, he's out cold.
"Good work," Natasha says when Steve comes to collect Bucky. "I threw everything at him."
Ok, so hurt/no comfort makes me cry but how about *temporary* "care refused" combined with "aftermath"? Here's my random plot bunny: Bucky and Sam were trying to convince Hydra that they had fallen out and weren't working together so they could infiltrate, but Hydra isn't buying it. So Bucky gets tortured and Sam has to watch, but Sam can't comfort him or help him dress his wounds until after they get rescued by someone else. Then pls fluff pls head petting
Love everything about this. Absolute genius.
trigger warnings: broken bones, forced to watch
Sam lurches forward. Can't help it. He can't see another person--let alone a friend--writhe in agony and do nothing.
But just before Sam blows their cover, Bucky meets his eyes. He jerks his head. Not really shaking it, just a twitch in one direction. A silent cue to say, "No." To say, "Don't."
So Sam does nothing.
"You look disturbed," Rumlow notes. His smile is grisly. Genuine. "I thought you didn't give a damn about him."
Sam sneers at Bucky's flesh arm, torqued brutally out of its socket. Held up behind him by Rumlow. "I've never seen a bone outside its body."
It's a lie. And Rumlow knows it. His smile widens. God, the guy is hideous. "That surprises me. Thought you were Army tough."
"I was Air Force," Sam corrects.
"More like--" Bucky wheezes. How he's able to speak with his arm twisted out of place like that, Sam doesn't know. "--Chair Force."
It's an old joke. One Bucky's made a couple of times. And Sam recognizes it as Bucky's way of saying, I'm okay. Let's just get through it.
---
Afterwards, when a doctor has popped Bucky's arm back into his socket, Sam holds ice to the swollen joint. Bucky keeps shifting back and forth like it hurts him even now.
Sam clears his throat. Inhales.
"Don't say it," Bucky grits out. Pain medication doesn't last long in his system, so he's forced to just take it.
"What do you think I'm gonna say?"
"You're going to apologize. Or some crap. Save it." Bucky rolls his shoulder and hisses in pain.
Sam grips his wrist in an instant, forcing him to go still. "Cut that out. You're making it worse."
"Can't hurt much worse than it already does."
"You can re-dislocate it."
Bucky doesn't acknowledge that Sam's right. Instead he tugs his wrist out of Sam's grip. Sam thinks he's going to try rolling his shoulder again, but instead he slips his hand into Sam's. Interlocks their fingers and squeezes.
Back to the traditional menu format of torture tuesday! Send in a character and a prompt. I encourage you to choose from one of my ongoing AUs or a villain you’d like to see conduct the torture.
You’re also welcome to send in a prompt off the menu.
