The Khanh sisters hunt monsters. When they capture a polymorphed dragon, one of the rarest and most dangerous creatures out there, they decide to learn all they can about the elusive species.
tw: violence, guns, torture in the name of science
Sun and Glass
Status: Complete
Rena never expected to see Caleon again, a bully of a prince who terrorized her when they were children. But when she crosses paths with him while visiting another city, she hardly recognizes the broken man he's become.
tw: slavery, violence, beatings, brief references to noncon, brief references to whump of a minor
Never
Status: Complete
A different take on Captain Hook, how he lost his hand, and his history with Peter.
tw: torture, drugging, some graphic descriptions
Penumbra
Status: In-Progress
The Shadow King has fallen... Now what should be done with him?
cw: torture, hand whump, general brutality, broken bones
previous ///// masterlist ///// next
§•§•§
Two priests, each trained in truth and the magic of the mind, were but a few days' journey away, and Cerus remained as stubborn as ever.
The fallen king had been a prisoner for weeks now, denied all but that which kept him alive and under constant abuse at the hands of the guards. Beaten and tortured, then healed only to have the cycle start anew. And despite it all, he refused to yield even an inch.
Every time Nisha removed the bit, they were met with curses and threats and insults. It didn't matter if they were asking questions or offering sustenance. Cerus would not bow.
Though they knew the soon-to-arrive priests would take care of the kingdom's worries of blood magic, Nisha still felt as if they'd failed at their task. Granted, they knew it wasn't wholly their fault. Breaking a man took time, especially someone so steeped in pride and immorality as Cerus, but despite that, they wished they could've given the holy mages someone more…pliable to work with.
Perhaps they still could.
The Shadow King was lying on his back when Nisha entered the cell, chained limbs still spread wide to further restrict movement. His torso and thighs were littered with scourge marks from the previous night's session, half-healed by a mage to keep him from sinking too far into delirium. Weeks of meager food and near-immobilization had left his body visibly weakened, and one would be hard pressed to find even an inch of unbruised skin.
"Our time together is drawing to a close, you know," Nisha said, kneeling to remove the bit in Cerus's mouth. "In a matter of days, your fate will be decided. How does that make you feel?"
"I'll strike your men down the moment I step out of this cell. And I'll save you for last so you can watch them d—nghhh!"
Nisha dug a finger into one of the gashes over his ribcage, turning his threat into a strangled scream.
"And why haven't you struck down any of my men yet, hm? Biding your time?"
"If I weren't in chains you wouldn't dare be so bold," Cerus snapped.
Suddenly, Nisha had an idea. "Then perhaps I'll remove them and prove you wrong," they said.
"You are a fool."
"Perhaps." They stood, moving to the gauntlets that rendered Cerus's hands immobile, and began to unlatch them. The Shadow King flexed weak fingers as Nisha removed each metal glove, seemingly at a loss for words.
"You're mad," he said at last. "What are you hoping to achieve?"
"I only wish to see if you're capable of following through with your promises."
"Unchain me and see."
"Not yet."
Nisha made a point to take off the blindfold before moving to the wall of implements and selecting a heavy cudgel. They decided to leave the bit out. They wanted to see if Cerus was capable of begging after all.
The fallen king's face went ashen when he saw the weapon in Nisha's hands, and they relished the barely-concealed fear in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Cerus said. It sounded more like a threat than a question, but Nisha didn't care, encroaching slowly, silently on their target.
"What are you doing?" Cerus demanded again, louder, more desperate.
"If I'm going to remove your chains, I need to ensure you can't run away," Nisha said plainly, stopping at Cerus's feet, raising the cudgel over a pale, bruised shin, and bringing it down just above the ankle.
The crunch wasn't unlike a sound they'd heard in battle, the scream that followed much the same. The only difference was how both sounds cut through the quiet in the cell, undiluted.
Once Cerus's screams died out, Nisha moved to the other leg, waiting for the look of horror to cross the chained man's face, the realization that it was going to happen again, before bringing the cudgel down a second time.
The resulting scream was just as rewarding as the first had been, something gutteral, animalistic. More than Nisha had been able to drag out of him so far. As before, they waited for the screams to soften before moving on. This time, to Cerus's exposed right hand.
Enclosed as his hands had been, they were unmarred, looking out of place compared to the rest of his body. Nisha would remedy that.
Cerus's eyes were wild with pain and fear, body shaking and straining against the chains, as if he were capable of doing anything to save himself. Nisha tapped the hand gently, as if marking their target, then raised the cudgel high in the air—
"D-don't— stop, stop, or you'll regret this night—" Cerus gasped out. Still making threats. What a pity.
Nisha brought their weapon crashing down onto the hand, and then, when the first strike didn't quite satisfy, hit it again, drawing another inhuman shriek from Cerus. And as Nisha moved to stand next to their final target—
"No, please, please stop, please!" The words came out as sobs, barely intelligible, but they left Nisha grinning broadly. A victory at last.
They raised the cudgel—
"Please! Please!"
—and brought it down, twice in quick succession.
They drank in Cerus's ragged whimpers as they hung the cudgel back in its place, then moved to unlock the manacles that bound him.
His chest heaved as they moved from shackle to shackle, unclasping each in turn.
"What— why?" He barely got the words out.
"You're unchained," Nisha said. "Strike me down."
Cerus didn't respond, shaking arms folding in to cradle shattered hands to his chest, legs curling as he rolled onto his side with a great effort, eyes glazed over with pain.
"Strike me down," Nisha repeated, not taking his silence as an answer. They delivered a hard kick to Cerus's torso, then another. A scream tore itself from the man's throat as their foot connected with his wrist.
"Will you?" They continued their assault, heedless of Cerus's choked cries. "Will you?"
When at last they stopped, they were panting heavily, sweat trickling down the back of their neck. Nisha swallowed.
"I thought not." They ran a hand through their hair, tucking wayward strands back. "Count yourself lucky that the priests are expecting answers, or I would've cut out your tongue too."
They left without reattaching his chains; a small mercy.
EVERYBODY WITH OCS!!! I WOULD LIKE TO PROPOSE A TRADE :D
i give you: a list of fun crafts/diy/etc to do with your OCs
you give me (if you want, not pressuring): a reblog with a list of your own craft/diy ideas for OCs :D
my list:
missing posters
print out their face claims/drawings and put them in a locket
crochet or sew dolls
make their family tree
get tokens of them (i have a friendship necklace that's supposed to belong to my OCs)
this isn't a craft but like. pretend to be them :0
use one of those fake texts/social media posts websites to make their texts/social media posts
write a song about them (can be with words or just instrumental--i have mostly songs with lyrics, but i've also made a piano song for one of them!!)
write letters/diary/scrapbook entries from their perspective
where to get pictures: so you can go onto pinterest, search the general appearance, and then save any pictures or art that you think look like them :> or you can use any art of the OC that you or a friend have drawn/commissioned, or you can go onto picrew.me and make a picrew of them :))
Bucky is a particularly interesting character to analyze in light of the decisions made in Captain America:The Winter Soldier that changed him from the comics winter soldier.
These changes from comics canon contain some of the things about the character that were compelling, and also the things MCU had no idea what to do with in later installments
In the winter soldier comics, (which are themselves a violent re-invention of the character, he was raised on a military base and became Steve's sidekick after Steve had become Captain America, kind of a darker figure willing to do dirty work that Cap couldn't be seen doing
in the movie, he's Steve's closest childhood friend. They only end up paired up and fighting together because Steve goes on a desperate mission to save his life
in the winter soldier comics, he is something like 7 or 8 years younger than Steve and they still have a mentor/sidekick type of relationship
in the movie they are the same age and steve is no longer a "mentor" figure, that dynamic is eliminated
in the winter soldier comics Bucky loses all his prior memories after his apparent death, making him a blank slate to be groomed into a soviet super-assassin. There is no brainwashing.
in the movie they deliberately erase his memories by strapping him into this scary device that fries his brain with electricity. It's clearly torture: he is shown hyperventilating as the restraints close onto his limbs and then screaming in agony as the device activates.
in the winter soldier comics Bucky as the Winter Soldier is capable of independent thought and snark, and is shown questioning and mouthing off at his superiors
in the movie, Bucky is completely passive. He barely speaks at all; when he does, he is almost childlike, meek and quiet in his interactions with the Hydra characters, stubborn and confused in his fight with Steve. The main antagonist slaps him across the face for not answering a question and he doesn't retaliate at all even though he can obviously kill everyone in the room in the blink of an eye. In the same scene he also lets the scientists manhandle him and eagerly opens his mouth for the mouthguard even as his heart rate is spiking on the monitor and he's starting to hyperventilate because he KNOWS the pain is coming.
(side note: he is shirtless in this scene for no reason)
(second side note: the line "who the hell is Bucky?" is in the movie because it's iconic from the comics, but it's arguably super OOC for mcu!bucky)
The long hair and cyborg arm are straight from the comics, but the most striking change to his appearance is his mask: in the comics, he's wearing a domino mask over his eyes, but in the film, he has an opaque black mask covering his nose and mouth that takes away much of his ability to emote and looks strikingly like a muzzle. The comics mask evokes mysterious wiles; the film's mask evokes dehumanization.
basically the films gave him a much deeper and more intimate connection to Steve while putting the two of them on even footing as friends and partners, and changed him from a morally gray character who indifferently kills people and regrets and becomes angsty once his memories are restored, to a tortured and dehumanized human weapon who obeys despite not understanding anything that's going on because he knows nothing but pain and punishment.
The film's version is really much more interesting. Snarky antiheroes who kill indifferently are a dime a dozen; a character who is palpably, terrifyingly dominating and powerful yet completely powerless in the hands of those who control him, who is hollowed out of all personal identity and who has no agency or control over his own body as it is mutilated, reconstructed and wielded as a weapon, is something much more delicious and fascinating.
We watch this guy slaughter people effortlessly with an apex predator swagger that projects pure dominance and prowess, then we watch him meekly accept abuse and torture with soft, confused eyes.
Of course I'm insane about him. There's a lot to be insane about.
what gets me is like. Ed Brubaker knew what the fuck he was doing when reinventing The Bucky from tragically killed-off sidekick to reanimated cyborg death machine. Sebastian Stan knew what the fuck he was doing when portraying The Bucky. And I'm sure the other people involved with CA:TWS had SOME inkling, because this compelling portrayal doesn't assemble itself by accident.
The rest of the MCU portrayal of Bucky though after that? Clearly no idea what they fuck they had on their hands or what the fuck they were doing with it.
Flattening his character out into "morally gray depression man and he has Gun." And essentially making his story about shouldering responsibility for what he did as the Winter Soldier. A very flat, "guy did bad thing and now he's angsty and guilty about it and trying to redeem himself" (boring) instead of like. the gut wrenching horror of having your memories burned away and your name taken from you and your body reconstructed without your consent and used against your will.
The horror of being a weapon that was once a person and having your very selfhood irretrievably lost to you.
this is where the fanfictions pick it up, and I'm honestly pretty sad that fanfictions are still so widely viewed as Not Real Art, when they are closer to how humans told stories for the last hundred thousand years, and indeed to how storytelling works at its best and most alive and thriving.
We could be telling the most brilliant stories about The Bucky, if we all understood the essential principles (that stories are not Owned by anyone, but become Alive when they are told, in the hearts of the teller and the listener, and to listen to a story gives the gift of the power to tell it again)
And if we could all defeat our enemy, the Cringe (which is to say, that which cringes at sincerity)
God, the writers you put on this earth to write Buckyfic are trying to create something "Original" instead
(because originality receives respect by society as real, legitimate art, and is capable of becoming profitable)
I think, with hindsight, the main problem the post-TWS movies had with Bucky is the torture.
The broad consensus in modern western media seems to be that Torture Is Basically Fine. It works. Torture is an effective way of extracting accurate information. And because that alone isn't enough to make it seem legitimate, there's another failsafe: Torture works only on bad people. Villains crack under torture, and heroes don't.
This is how media creates a culture that finds torture justifiable. Especially media that is largely sponsored by the US military, of course, who in a post-Abu Ghraib, post-Guantanamo, post-CIA papers world has an interest in creating public indifference (or straight up support) for torture, but there's torture in animated movies for children, too. It's ubiquitous.
In real life, torture is horrific violence inflicted on our fellow human beings, that traumatizes both the victim and the torturer, creates heaps of false information, and has no discernible benefits. It doesn't work.
But in fiction, it must work, every time, because if it doesn't, then that collapses the entire structure, doesn't it?
In comes Bucky in TWS.
He's a character who is tortured into complete submission. Who is given electric shocks to the brain to erase his memory, but he still holds onto his own humanity. He is tortured into doing horrible things - the torture works - but it doesn't work completely. He breaks through it. He's beaten, abused, violated on screen, but - and this is important! - because he overcomes in the end, he's not the villain. His story evokes pity and sympathy, not suspicion.
With hindsight, it is clear to me that the mind wipe scene was meant to inspire disgust in the audience. Bucky's terror without fighting back, his defeated acceptance of the inevitable, the slow, lingering pan up his unclothed body. This is emasculating; at the time a lot of meta has been written about how Bucky is shot like a woman in a rape scene.
He submits. This is meant to be suspicious.
But it completely backfires, because what is shown and what follows is the story of a victim of unspeakable abuse finally breaking free from his abuser in a show of awe-inspiring mental strength.
(and also through the power of gay love but let's not get into that)
That's a problem. By complete accident, the film ends up saying Hey, torture is maybe sometimes bad? And that cannot be allowed. There is a more conventional torture scene in the film, where Steve and Sam throw a guy off a roof to get information out of him, but that almost doesn't matter. This is the one instance that makes the whole house of cards come crumbling down. If Bucky is a victim, then torture is both bad and does not work.
It is obvious to me that what followed TWS didn't know how to reconcile that. CA:CW felt extremely jarring because it treats Bucky with so much suspicion; it even retcons in the trigger word nonsense to justify that suspicion. Bucky has to earn trust. He has to redeem himself. From what? Not being able to withstand seven decades of torture?
Well, yes, the film says. Torture only works on bad guys. Bucky allowed the torture to work on him, and so, has proven himself to be untrustworthy. The abuse he suffered sullied him. He has to earn back his moral righteousness.
I want to stress that I do not think any of this is intentional. I don't think there was a meeting in the writer's room where they talked about how they accidentally made it seem like Torture Is Bad Maybe, and how they could reconcile that. If that had been the case, CW would have been a more honest movie. But looking back, it is clear in how the directors talked about the characters after CW came out, and in the baffling writing choices they made, that they were trying to breach this disconnect, without being aware that this is what they were doing.
For the fan spaces I hung around in at the time, where cis men were a minority, this was baffling. There's a reason post-TWS fic almost exclusively talked about Bucky's recovery, not his redemption. There simply was, in fandom's eyes, nothing to redeem him from. CW made clear that w completely misinterpreted TWS.
I'd love to go back in time to observe what the fallout from TWS and CW was in male-dominated fan spaces; how they talked about Bucky in 2015 and 2017.
Anyhow. With the benefit of hindsight, it is obvious to me that no one involved in the writing of CW and what came after took a moment to actually think about the themes and motives of the movies beyond the shallowest surface, and not just with regards to Bucky.
TWS ended up taking the tamest, most inconsistent anti-torture stance possible by complete accident and that could not be allowed. It had to be forcefully retconned. And that's why, in my opinion, post-TWS Bucky ended up being Like That.
Thank you thank you thank you for this. I don't know if you've read my Buckyfic but I've written a lot of meta about torture in relation to my fic and the political context re: torture at the time, to the point that Abu Ghraib is mentioned/discussed in the fic as the thing that broke Steve's desire to be Captain America
I've never thought of it in this light, though; this is actually a great explanation for why the trigger words were introduced in Civil War and why it feels like a retcon. Audiences didn't respond to Bucky as expected, and they had to change the method of his control/brainwashing to make audiences read him as a threat/antagonist for Civil War
You're also completely correct that the scene where the protagonists throw the Hydra dude off the roof is a torture scene. (I realized this after watching Jacob Geller's video analyzing the torture scenes in Call of Duty. Highly recommend if this topic interests you)
It is absolutely true that torture scenes in fiction often serve to show off the (usually male) character's "toughness" and mental resolve, which is a fantasy, one that comes out of this political context at the time of Guantanamo and the torture memos and the political agenda to make torture more acceptable/palatable to the public.
So in this context, the vault scene (where Bucky is struck across the face and doesn't retaliate, and passively submits to torture without complaint) evokes sympathy for Bucky but it's also supposed to show that Bucky isn't a "hero" in the same way the Heroes are heroes. Heroes don't "break" under torture; Bucky does.
Which means that accidentally, the scene was a little more honest about torture than movies are usually allowed to be.
This is what I meant when I said the Hydra Trash Party-goers knew what they were doing, btw. Real life torture is almost inseparable from sexual violence.
The popular portrayal of torture in movies is fully irreconcilable with that: when a Hero is tortured, it's an opportunity for him to reinforce his strength (and masculinity) by Not Breaking and hanging on to his dignity. The reality of what a torture victim would actually go through is so threatening to that fantasy version that it can't be acknowledged.
Wait okay. Dragging some things out of the sewer in my brain where I put them.
Which MCU movie was it where Thor was suffering from PTSD and the whole film was spent constantly belittling him and mocking his trauma and his body, to the point that another character threatens to slap him (or actually slaps him? I can't remember) to "snap him out of" a panic attack?
I think it was Endgame (gagging) and if I remember right, that movie had the same directors as CA:TWS, right? The Russo brothers?
Okay.
So this feels pretty revealing of what the directors think about a "hero" and what makes one, right? Thor lost his "hero" status because he was traumatized and because he gained weight, and it's framed as a personal failing of his character that he has to overcome/"get over."
This helps contextualize Bucky's portrayal: a character being "heroic" means being untouchable, and being affected by trauma is at least partially Your Fault.
I remember nothing of most of the character portrayals in later Avengers because I threw it in my brain sewer, but I do remember the climactic scene in endgame where Tony Stark sacrifices himself saying "i am Iron Man," and I thought it was stupid at the time (his last words are erecting a monument to his ego? and we're supposed to think this is cool and heroic?) but it's a message about what makes a "heroic" character: a hero is, above all, defiant.
So in light of this, it does seem likely that Bucky's torture scene is supposed to be unflattering to him.
I know the term "male gaze" has been used wildly inappropriately, but I feel like the real actual sense of the term might actually apply here? The viewer of the films is assumed to be a Dude, and not just a dude, but a dude that subscribes to a certain ideal of toxic masculinity.
Men that don't break down or get vulnerable (or who get over it fast when they do), who are defiant and untouchable to the very end, are supposed to be admirable. Bucky is completely broken and compliant and accepts his abuse, so even if the movie portrays him as sympathetic, he's still not heroic; he's not supposed to be a character that audiences admire and project onto.
However, the directors didn't consider as much who a female audience (broadly) would relate to or find admirable. They didn't consider as much how someone (male or female or other) who doesn't subscribe to toxic masculinity and the idea of heroic males as untouchable would perceive Bucky.
It's possible that the directors never really thought about Bucky being viewed from the perspective of a person who has experienced abuse. From the point of view of toxic masculinity, men are never victims and if they are, they aren't real men.
Which means that a lot of people (many of them women) watched The Vault Scene and instead of thinking
"oh, he's letting the bad guys control him, unlike what a Real Hero [read: a real man] would do, so he's sympathetic but still bad"
they thought
"Oh. Oh. I don't like what this is implying. Oh. Oh no."
Metaphorical replica of the trauma. Things like the antagonists being replaced with birds of prey. Or the setting being changed to something horrific when it was originally normal.
Totally random vivid plot that is inexplicably associated with traumatic emotions
Vivid nonsensical dreams (possible drug side effects)
Not really a nightmare but good dreams that are interrupted
For Whumper:
Exact replica of their past trauma (unlikely)
Past trauma with them on the other side
Revisiting harm they've caused but they're on the receiving end
Any dream that involves loss of control (it can be totally inexplicable)
For Caretaker:
Exact replica of Whumpee being taken away/hurt (unlikely)
Nonsensical dreams featuring possible scenarios of Whumpee being hurt
Whumpee being put through Caretaker's trauma
Dreams about failing people they love (whether it's Whumpee or otherwise)
Experiencing the trauma they think Whumpee's gone through
Re-experiencing the trauma they went through to rescue Whumpee (unlikely)
Metaphorically re-experiencing the trauma they went through to rescue Whumpee.
a true pervert understands that the reasons torture is ineffective as a means of extracting information are upsides not downsides. at some point you'll be willing to admit to anything for me, to say anything to me, to believe anything I tell you to. after a point, all verity and falsity fade away into background noise and you just become an instrument that tells me what I want to hear, tuned perfectly to the pain I deliver.
Riot broke into a palace. King - killed. Queen and the infant heir escape through the secret passage.
The only surviving royal guard closes the hidden door behind their backs, rushes to the opposite side of the corridor, listening to rebels' footsteps approaching. He stands before the insignificant door and pretends he just shut it, shouts "Run, Your Majesty! I'll try to hold them!"
Then he defends this door like he means it, untill his hand can't even grip the weapon. He's down, bleeding, exhausted, covered in wounds.
The rebels finaly open the door, and there's just a mop closet.
They beat the shit out of him, he spits blood and laughs. He won.
Their leader stops the beating, commands to get him urgent medical help. They need him alive for the interrogation. He knows where'd the royals go.
"i believe that there is a special type of person who is born ontologically, inherently, biologically evil and must ritualistically self-flagellate at all times, or otherwise be killed on the most brutal way possible. anyone who disagrees with me on this belief is one of these people" <- a more than concerning amount of you
Sometimes it’s hard to read fanfic when you’re studying herbalism.. when they have the character preparing a tincture to use that same DAY!!?
Baby those dried herbs need to sit in that jar with high proof alcohol for at LEAST a month!
That’s why before the use of calendars ppl use to prepare their tinctures either on the new moon or full moon. A a full moon cycle is usually 28 days or so. And they would give the moon names so it’s easier to remember when/what month said tincture was bottled.
This is also why herbal medicine is prepare in small batches. You have to take your time preparing your bottles. Making sure everything is clean so you don’t end up with mold. Diluting your grain alcohol. Heckkk knowing when to pick your herbs for max potency! Drying your herbs! That takes a lot of time too!
“Ah, shit. Damaged again?”
“Yeah. Boss isn't gonna be happy that it'll be out of comission.”
“It almost got killed out there today. That would've been annoying paperwork.”
“Heard it obeys every command.”
“Think it'll kiss my boot?”
“Just set the bone. Don't think the thing even feels anything.”
“Fucking ugly mug it got there. Looks like it was shredded by a lawnmower.”
“Right? Is it too much to ask for to have a mindless thing with a pretty face?”
“Stupid thing lost their gun in the fight. We should send it into the next one without one. Should teach it not to lose our shit.”
“What's his name?”
“Who? Oh, that's not a person. Listens to any name as long as you look at it. Watch. Hey, fuckass. Come here. See?”
“Look at it. Big fucking idiot. Can't even change its fucking clothes. It's like a deadly toddler.”
(Whumptober, Day 19: Living Weapon, Dehumanisation)
Synopsis: A taste of future Zach for @sootheandsavage—based off this art I did a few years ago. (Thank you for your kind comments <2)
Content: nonbinary whumper/male whumpee, villain whump/whumper turned whumpee, prison setting, aftermath of failed escape, sensory deprivation, isolation/solitary confinement, barbed wire restraints, suicidal ideation, past suicide baiting, collared
Tagging: @rabbit-flaying (oh wow I haven't used the general writing taglist in a long time)
—
Zach was screaming. At least he thought he was.
The headphones were the real deal. If the ground crumbled beneath him and the earth swallowed him whole, he was sure not even a single whisper would reach his ears. The world was silence—all-consuming, terrible silence.
Cassiel hadn’t even granted him the mercy of hearing his own sobs.
Despite it all, he screamed, tears soaking into the blindfold wrapped tightly around his eyes.
Screaming, screaming, screaming because it was better than giving himself up to darkness, to the nothingness. It was better than being alone, with only regrets to keep him company.
Not that there was much to regret in the first place. Something was wrong with him, wasn’t there? Zach never regretted the blood on his hands, and he certainly couldn’t bring himself to regret trying to escape. How long had it been? Five years? Six? Days and weeks and months slipped by him, and time had lost its meaning in this awful and stagnant prison, still water blooming with noxious disease.
Zach had honestly surprised himself, realizing that he still had the will to even try to break out of this hellhole. Maybe he should have given himself more credit.
Or maybe not.
After all, he ended up here.
Here, in the darkness, in the cold, barbed wire wrapped around his limbs, binding them together. With every twitch, the spikes scratched his skin, digging into his flesh, gasping for breath as he shook from the pain and the sheer struggle of keeping himself upright.
When he tried to let his head fall, the collar, chained to the pole he was propped up against, bit at his throat. No rest for the wicked, not even the slightest mercy.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have gotten caught. Or maybe he should have, maybe he deserved it, maybe there never was a world to go back to, and all his memories were only the delusions of a broken mind.
It wasn’t like he could prove otherwise, locked up in here. The only person he’d talked to in years was Cassiel, so maybe they were the world. And if they were, Zach didn’t want to be in it.
He never wanted to in the first place. And yet… at this point, it was spite. That was his gasoline, the only thing that kept him going.
Because the alternative was giving Cassiel exactly what they wanted. Giving her exactly what she wanted.
But some days…some days that didn’t seem so bad anymore.
It was maybe a few weeks ago. Zach couldn’t quite remember what had happened, the memories fading into the hazy sea of all the things he’d rather forget. But he still recalled what it led to, that even Cassiel was worried they’d gone too far. Enough to give him some relief.
The shape of the recollection was still clear. The bright orange bottle, translucent plastic filtering the cheap fluorescent light, filled to the brim with little white pills.
“These are quite strong,” Cassiel had told him. “Don’t take them all at once.” And they smirked, voice shaping into amusement.
They’d left the bottle with him. The entire thing—they didn’t need to. They already visited every day, just to hurt him. To try to make him regret.
They didn’t need to leave the bottle. But Zach knew why they did anyways.
So he forced himself to follow the instructions printed on the label, in a tiny font he needed to squint to read. One pill a day, no more and no less, until it was all gone, and he wasn’t.
The look of disappointment on Cassiel’s face made it worth it, he’d told himself.
Should he have cared? Maybe it would have been better to do what Cassiel wanted, what he wanted, to just die—
Head spinning, Zach pulled against his bindings, letting the barbed wire embed itself into his skin, tearing flesh apart. He bit down on his screams, teeth clamping onto his tongue, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. This was better. It was better. It was proof he was still alive. He couldn’t forget that, he could never forget that.
Perhaps at this point, it wasn’t even spite. Perhaps it was simple inertia. Still, he wouldn’t die. He refused to die. Stubborn beast.
He wouldn’t die, even though this version of existence truly felt like dying. The darkness, so thick he could drown in it. Wasn’t this what death felt like? He knew the feeling, like infection taking over, like bleeding out on the dirty floor, and it was this.
Was he dying? Blood trailed down his arms and legs in rivulets, and his collar brushed against bruises old and new. How could existing be so painful? Maybe it wasn’t existing at all.
Did he want this? How could he have ever wanted this? Zach lurched forward as his stomach churned, heaving and choking, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
It wasn’t the coffin. Hadn’t he begged for anything else? He couldn’t go back to the coffin, that cramped slice of hell, forced to stand for hours or days with the walls pressed against him, suffocating him, crushing him.
Wasn’t this the mercy he debased himself for?
Cassiel had laughed and laughed as they wound the barbed wire around him, as they obliged him.
This was better, it had to be better.
The collar chafed against his scarred neck, two notches too tight, and the silence was deafening.
His throat had given out for sure, scratchy and rough and probably bleeding, but he’d never heard it happen. For all he knew, he was still screaming.
This was better. Was it better?
Why did he ever try to escape? He knew, he knew, that he’d never get out. It wasn’t like Cassiel was the first to teach him that lesson.
But if there was one thing he knew, it was that he’d never learn.
—
AN: A snippet from the sequel story. Yes there's a sequel story and no I'm not finished with the first story yet. I prommy it'll be real one dayyyyy
“They’re going to question us, aren’t they?” The young man spoke in an undertone, glancing nervously at the guards outside the cell.
“Probably,” grunted the grizzled veteran.
“And they…they’re going to…” Despite his best efforts, his voice wavered, and the words stuck in his throat. “It’s going to suck.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t care what they do to me, I won’t tell them anything.”
“Yes, you will.”
His head came up stubbornly. “I think I can hold out for…”
“Listen, kid, this is one of those times where I need you to listen to me and do what I tell you, OK? Don’t try to hold out. The tougher you are, the harder they’ll work to break you. Save yourself some trouble; go ahead and scream if you need to.”
“But…”
“I expect I will, unless these guys are completely useless, and I don’t think they are. And whatever they ask you, talk. Tell them the truth, tell them something close to the truth, make shit up, all of that. Talk, and keep talking until they tell you to shut up. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t help but ask, because it seemed so out of character for his stoic mentor, “You…you really think you’ll end up screaming?”
“They’ll make sure you hear me,” he said grimly. “Although it won’t surprise me if they take you first. Just remember, our guys are out there, and I guarantee you they’re working on a plan to get to us. All we have to do is last until they get here.”
~~~
Inspired by this TAT suggestion from @beks-crooked-glasses
Xavier almost whumps himself more than Makena does in this one. Almost.
←Previous - Masterlist
Ingredients: feeding tube removal, emeto (not food), self-destructive actions (because he is dumb and spiteful not out of self-loathing), slight suggestive vibes, noncon partial stripping, nudity mention, dehumanization, chemical burns
For nearly two weeks, Xavier had to live with the goddamn tube in his nose. The only things he got to taste were water, saltwater, and fucking toothpaste. It was strange, cycling between hunger and fullness without eating anything. He missed the bland hospital food, which was saying a lot, and even just the act of eating itself. Having something screwed into the tube coming from his nose to meet his needs almost made him feel like a robot who needed to be plugged in to charge. Being a test subject already made him feel dehumanized enough. Didn't help that he could hardly talk for a little while, mouth too swollen and painful to form words.
At least he could still make use of his middle fingers.
Makena took great pleasure in strapping him down to his bed every single day and shoving a plastic bite guard in between his jaws so she could stick her fingers in his mouth as she pleased. It was to examine how his mouth and tongue were healing after the experiment, sure, but she liked to squeeze his tongue until it hurt and run her fingers along his teeth with a smug smile plastered on her face, so no way it wasn't at least a little bit malicious. He couldn't even close his eyes and pretend he was at the dentist, 'cause they sure as fuck never touched him like that.
And then his mouth healed, and he felt like he could probably eat again, but Makena didn't remove the tube. Was she just going to leave it in as long as possible to punish him for biting her?
Fuck if he was gonna let her.
Xavier stood in front of the mirror, facing his determined reflection as he peeled away the tape holding the feeding tube to his cheek. He was done with this shit. He was gonna get back to being human, or as much as he could be while he was still wearing a fucking collar. Whatever, not important right now. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the end of the tube firmly. He could do this.
Xavier steeled himself one last time, shifted his fingers, and began to pull.
The sensation was just as awful as he remembered, and his eyes watered after only a few seconds of shifting pressure inside his nostril. Still, he couldn't stop now. So he pulled, letting whines crawl up his throat alongside the plastic, fingers slipping slightly on the increasingly bloody tube, tickling in his throat causing him to gag, fuck, fuck, just get it out, he'd gone too far to stop now, he had to finish, keep pulling, pulling, pulli-there, there, it was out, throw the tube in the sink, knees hitting the tiles in front of the toilet, hands gripping the sides as he dry-heaved into the bowl, blood from his nose dripping into the water along with the fluid he hacked up. His throat burned, his mouth tasting of bile and blood once again, but he fucking did it.
When Makena opened the door later that morning, she stood there in silence for a few moments, staring down at the bloody plastic tube Xavier had deposited in front of the doorway. He didn't even look at her, just continuing to reread one of his books, bloodied toilet paper sticking out of his nostril.
"Well, I was going to take this out today, maybe with some painkillers for good behavior, but it seems like you're all healed up and full of energy again, huh?"
Xavier folded the corner of the page and put his book down, shooting her a glare. "I've been 'all healed up' for almost a fuckin' week, puta. I'm done with that thing."
She smiled and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "So, you're all ready for the next experiment, then?"
Xavier tensed. "I-" he coughed. "My throat hurts now."
"Luckily, that doesn't matter for this one. Go to the bathroom."
He considered refusing, but what was that gonna get him? Being dragged to the experiment room was inevitable, so resisting this part was pointless. After he was done, though, he struggled just as much as he always did as she shocked him and wrestled him into the cuffs and dragged him down the hall.
She brought him to the room with the table, shoving his stomach against the edge of it and forcing his face down against the padded surface. "Am I going to have to drug you in order to get you up here again?" she asked, leaning down to look him in the eye. Xavier really, seriously considered it, but he evidently took a bit too long for her. "What if I told you this experiment doesn't involve any needles? You could completely avoid them today."
That was enough to push him over the edge. "Fine." He stopped resisting her, and, once she unlocked the cuffs, he hopped up onto the edge of the table, sitting there with his arms crossed. She gave him an expectant look, but he just shrugged. "I'm up here. That was the deal."
"I'm starting to think you like being manhandled," Makena sighed, forcing him onto his back with a hand on his chest.
Unfortunately, Xavier couldn't outright deny that, but…"Nah, I just like making you work for it." And work for it she did, fighting him as he struggled against her until he was completely strapped down. He told himself that he'd gone down fighting, so it was better than last time, when he'd been drugged, but that didn't make the leather straps any less restrictive. It sucked that he couldn't even try to look around and see what Makena was preparing after she scanned his tag, the strap over his forehead forcing him to mostly stare at the ceiling. At least he probably wasn't going to throw up during this one, since that seemed to be the theme for experiments in the chair. Didn't really narrow the possibilities down much, there were still so many awful things poison could do, like-
Her hands at his waistband.
Xavier's breath caught in his throat.
"I-what the fuck-no no no you can't-"
"I can," Makena sighed, "but that's not what I'm doing." Her gloved fingers slid in between his sweatpants and his boxers. "Stop squirming or I'll end up pulling them both off." For once, Xavier obeyed, not wanting to risk being exposed like that while he was strapped to a fucking table. "Good boy," Makena said as she carefully pulled his sweatpants lower, leaving his boxers alone like she'd promised. He rolled his eyes at the comment, but didn't talk back, wanting to avoid her changing her mind.
"You know I've already seen you naked though, right?" Her tone was completely deadpan.
Xavier flinched. "Wha-when?"
"When they first brought you in. You think I wouldn't examine a subject before deciding to take them?" His pants were down to his ankles now, her hands undoing one of the straps.
"I-I fucking guess but why did you have-have to look at-"
She rolled her eyes but took advantage of his stunned state to free his left ankle and pull one of the legs of his sweatpants off. "You were already naked when they brought you to me. Since they'd put in the effort to save your life already, you were brought here and processed. If I didn't want you, someone else would have taken you, and it's best to get the whole picture when you're selecting test subjects." His ankle was secured once more without much trouble.
"I wish you didn't want me," Xavier huffed, kicking slightly as she pulled his sweatpants off of his other ankle, her hand gripping him tightly.
"Trust me, I wouldn't have taken you if I'd known you'd be like this." She slammed his ankle down and buckled the strap snugly over it. "But when I first met you, you were just a body on a table." Her fingers traced up his leg as she walked towards his head. "You'd been stripped of your uniform, your wounds stitched up," she slid a hand under his shirt, tapping at the gunshot scar on his stomach, "all the mud and blood scrubbed away," she grabbed his chin now, a thumb tracing the edge of his jaw, "given a shave," her hand slid into his hair next, "your hair all buzzed off, just enough left to grab," she cupped his cheek, and he couldn't turn his head to try and bite her, "drugged to keep you nice and docile until we decided what to do with you. When you were on display like that, you were far too tempting to ignore."
Xavier swallowed the lump in his throat. He'd always done his best not to think about what had happened to him between when he got shot and when he'd woken up in his cell. The thought of all those strangers touching him and washing him and cutting his fucking hair off without his knowledge or consent, all those unfamiliar eyes seeing his body, judging it like he was animal, altering him and deciding his fate while he was unconscious from blood loss and, apparently, drugs pumped into his system to keep him from waking up before they were ready…He felt sick every time he thought about it, and now he was afraid he might throw up while strapped to the table after all.
No, she was trying to get to him, and he couldn't let her. "S-sorry you didn't get the listless meat sack you fucking wanted. Not my goddamn problem."
She sighed, patting his cheek. "A girl can dream." With that, she turned and grabbed the rest of her supplies, leaving him to wonder what kind of poison didn't involve needles but somehow required his pants being off. Nothing came to mind, so he was caught off guard when she started to rub something cold and wet onto his thigh midway above his kneecap.
"What the fuck is that? Poison dart frog?!" He felt a bit of a tingle, it must already be working-
"Shaving cream." Oh. In his defense, he hadn't felt that on his legs in a long time, but when she started to drag the razor across his skin, it came back to him. Memories of his early teens, of Mamá making him do it because his legs looked "disgusting" even though they looked exactly the same as his brothers' legs, and they got to wear shorts without having to shave. He definitely didn't miss doing that shit, and especially not the weird rubbery feeling of his legs afterward. Didn't make any sense to him why Mira and other people liked that sensation.
"So why are you shaving a random spot on my thigh?"
"For the poison dart frog." He shot her a glare, but she just laughed. "Not actually, but something similar enough. A contact-based substance. So I'm just getting the hair out of the way."
"Great," he grumbled. "Why the fuck does it have to be there, though?"
"Large, mostly flat surface area, and it's not above any organs. That's about it." He supposed the answer was satisfactory enough, but it certainly didn't mean he was suddenly okay with her touching his bare fucking thighs. Unfortunately, like with most of this shit, what he was okay with and what happened to him rarely overlapped.
Makena wiped his leg off, nodding to herself before picking up a marker and drawing on him, pressing what he assumed was a ruler into his leg so she could draw a square or something on him. Once that was done, she picked up a small glass dish containing a clear liquid and a broad paintbrush. Cool, so she was just going to paint whatever poison shit on him, then.
When she began to drag the brush across his skin, he'd expected pain, given…well, everything, really, and he sure as fuck got it. It burned, searing pain like…like…
"Is that fucking acid?! That's not a poison what-"
"Isn't it? It's a substance that causes harm to the human body when it comes into contact with it." She kept painting as she talked, and though there wasn't that much liquid in the little dish, it hurt like hell, and he hoped it wasn't all going on him.
"I-but it's-fuck that hurts!" He tried to grip the padded surface of the table, but his fingers couldn't find purchase.
"Yes, I'd imagine it does." She swept the brush over his burning skin one final time before setting the now-empty dish down and pulling out her phone. Xavier tensed, at this point conditioned to expect a shock, and he saw the way his response made her smile. "Just taking some pictures, buddy."
Of course, this led Xavier to try and squirm in the straps as much as he could to mess up her shot, but he was tied down too tightly in too many places to accomplish anything. Makena got her pictures, ignoring his cries of pain as she took notes and prodded at his leg.
"How-fuck-how much longer?" he whined.
Makena looked at her watch. "Mmm…eight more seconds." She stared down at him, a smug smile plastered across her face. "Think you can handle it?"
As usual, he returned the look with a glare. "Of course I fucking can."
"Stop bitching, then." Xavier huffed but kept quiet for the rest of the time. He should be allowed to complain without it making him a little bitch. Besides, his literal fucking skin was being eaten by acid, which was way more painful than anything else Makena had done to him so far.
After the time was up, Makena, instead of, he didn't know, cleaning the fucking acid off of him, produced a goddamn scalpel.
"What the fuck are you gonna do with that?!"
Makena gave him the warmest, most absolutely sarcastic smile he'd ever seen from her. "Well, let's see, what are scalpels used for?"
"Vet-AGH!" She fucking dragged it across his burned skin, the pain of the acid basically doubling now that it was in contact with an open goddamn wound. Xavier screamed louder than he ever had, thrashing against the straps in an attempt to get away or stop this or something. Clearly, Makena wasn't fucking having it, and he earned himself a wad of gauze shoved in his mouth, a few strips of medical tape slapped across his lips before he managed to spit it out.
"God, I barely cut you. I'll clean it off after a few more seconds, but that's staying in until I'm done." Even though his eyes were full of tears, he glared at her. She had no idea how much this fucking hurt.
True to her word, though, it wasn't long before she began dabbing at the burn on his leg with pieces of gauze, removing any remaining acid, the tiny stripe of blood on the gauze making it obvious to him how minor that cut was despite how much pain it'd caused. Then came wet gauze, cooling the burn and providing some small relief. It still hurt, but he no longer felt like he was being actively stabbed with a hot railway spike, so he could manage.
Xavier finally let himself relax as she began taping a bandage to the wound. That had fucking sucked, but at least it was over.
At least, that's what he'd thought, up until she started shaving a spot on his other thigh.
His muffled yells caught her attention after a few seconds, her expression back to its usual level of annoyed. "What, did you think I was done?" She shook her head. "Remember, Xavier, there's acids," she poked at his burned thigh, "and there's bases." She casually slapped the inside of his other thigh, immediately causing him to go stiff, eyes wide. His reaction just made her laugh. "Oh, settle down, that's just where my hand happened to land." Yeah fucking right, she probably thought it was so goddamn funny to threaten him with that shit after so long of not doing anything remotely like that.
Makena kept her hands to the top of his thigh after that, but it was barely any consultation since she was apparently about to pour bleach or something on him. Plus, he couldn't even curse at her now, just stuck being quiet and unable to move, might as well not have been there at all. Fuck, did he even need to be awake for this? He bet if she didn't hate his guts so much, he would've been knocked out for this procedure, especially given that she didn't seem to enjoy the sound of his screams.
"Let me know which one hurts more."
Xavier didn't know how the fuck he was supposed to do that with the stupid gauze in his mouth, but once the brush swiped across his skin, his muffled cries let her know just how badly it hurt.
It was just as intense and fiery and burning as the acid had been, he really couldn't tell much of a difference, it was all pain and burns and he couldn't stop himself from crying, thrashing weakly as she took her notes and snapped her pictures, wailing around the gauze as she made another little cut and she might as well have stabbed his goddamn leg this was so stupid how come it hurt so fucking much it was two small patches of skin two little cuts but he really, honestly might prefer the snake venom to this all-encompassing fire.
After what felt like an eternity, the gauze came, dabbing at the burn more roughly than was necessary, at least in his opinion. Just like with his other leg, she dabbed it dry before using wet gauze to clean it and covering the area with a bandage. Once that was done, she finally ripped the tape off his face and pulled the wad of spit-soaked gauze from his mouth.
"Well, Xavier, which one was worse?" she asked, looking down at him, smug curiosity in her eyes.
"Having to be around you," he rasped, the gauze having left his mouth dry.
She sighed and wiped a tear off of his cheek. "I think it was the lye. It made you cry a lot harder."
Xavier jerked against the restraints, wishing he could punch her in her stupid fucking face. "Try it for yourself if you're so goddamn interested," he growled.
"You're the test subject, remember?" She patted his cheek. "Now, can we get you back to your cell without a fuss?"
"Chinga tu madre."
Makena sighed heavily. Without a word, she pressed a finger to the bandage on his left thigh, watching his face as winced, then snarled, than yelled, fresh tears falling from his eyes.
"Agh-fine fine fine you fucking sadistic asshole-" He just needed to get back to his cell and recover from this before trying again.
"Good boy." Makena's words were almost enough to make him break that resolution immediately, but he just clenched his fists and held still as she undid the restraints. Just get off this table. Just get back to his cell.
It hurt to walk, but he did it anyway. It was hard to let her lead him along, but he followed anyway. It went against his every instinct to go back into that room, to stand there as she shut the door, but obeyed anyway.
He'd lost another battle, and he was starting to worry about the war.
Per Makena's instructions, he sat on the floor of the shower, letting cold water rain down on the burns on his thighs. They looked so fucking stupid, perfectly square patches of shaved red skin, the edges of those tiny little cuts curled by the chemicals and fuck, what was happening to him? What was she doing what the hell was all this for? Torture? No, torture would be so much worse.
And yet here he was, unable to deal with it all the fucking same.
Xavier laid down on his back, his legs freezing under the spray, staring up at the ceiling. The last time he'd laid down on the floor in here was…crying after he'd looked in the mirror the first time? Curled up on his side, clutching his head, mourning his soft, red hair, cursing the earring and the collar around his neck, and now he was used to it all. Used to the pressure every time he swallowed, used to the weight of the tag on his ear, used to the feeling of his short hair pressed up against the pillow, used to the restraints and the shocks and the needles and those gloved hands-
Used to being N-17.
Was he going to live the rest of his life like this? Was he going to die here? More than anything, he didn't want to, but that wasn't going to be up to him, was it?
He supposed there was just something about laying on the floor here that made him cry.
Taglist (i want YOU to join my army 🫵👁👁): @befuddled-calico-whump @weibun-art @rainbowsandwhumperflies @catnykit @vampiresprite
i wanna do lab whump but its hard to actually fijd any ideas for specific tortures so.. any promots or ideas
(Whumpee, in the story, was a normal guy then got a alien parasite sorta. Become parta him so now they're trying ti experiment on him bc thry Wanna see what this thing can do now, since its basically merged w Whumpee and changed their biology)
Okay. First of all, you need to decide whether you're going science or torture. Or a mix of a both. If you're going science, you want repetition and analysis. If you're going torture, you want invasiveness. You definitely can do both.
Keep in mind: your scientists are looking for results. Any tests need to be repeated over and over again. That's where a lot of the torture comes from, and the results.
Spinal taps to take spinal fluid, one of the most painful things someone can do. Especially without anesthetic.
Brain scan. CT scan and MRI. They make big, horrible whirring noises, which can react horribly to a sentient parasite. If you've ever seen Venom, you know.
Deprivation (sensory, sleep, food, hydration, social isolation). Sleep deprivation is against the Geneva Convention by the way! Waking Whumpee up to shine a flashlight in their eyes, testing the results of certain foods, refusing water to see the reactions...
Chemical testing. Put 'em in different gasses! Does he really need oxygen? Is he poison resistant? Who knows! We will, once we pump him full of arsenic!
Blood draws!!! They can be painful if done wrong and leave bruises even if conducted perfectly. You can do this repeatedly until it starts to become routine, or you can take too much over too short a period of time and make everything much worse.
Muscle/marrow biopsy. Taking samples. Not fun. The second one has to be done through the hip with a giant needle. It's extremely painful. Remember, you can have this happen more than once.
You could make a mark on an expanse of skin to compare the changes over time. What does a one day old wound look like compared to a two day, or a week old, or a month old one?
Neurological tests. How many fingers am I holding up? Count to ten backwards. What is your name? What is your birthday? Inane questions that never stop coming, blurring the days.
Monitors are very movement restrictive. Lots of wires, they can be sticky and are hard to remove, they beep a lot. Sensory nightmare.
I hope this helps you get started!!
Source: the council. I have too many medical friends.
