sorry, does that hurt?

friendly local whumperfly dealer (aka befuddled-calico-whump. this is just how I organize ;-;)

[whumpflash]

Masterlist Masterlist (lol)

Ashes, Ashes

Status: Dormant

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?

tw: torture; mentions of war, death, and violence

Acacia Aneura

Status: In-Progress

A single mistake can ruin your life.

tw: slavery, alcohol/fantasy drugs, adult language, violence

[luna-azzurra]

Some Actually Useful Questions to Get to Know Your OC Part Two

↳ What lie do they tell themselves to sleep at night? Seriously. What’s the little piece of denial that keeps them functioning? Do they pretend they don’t care what people think? Tell themselves they’re over that one person? Convinced they’re not the villain of someone else’s story? We all lie to ourselves; your OC is no exception.

↳ What’s their emotional kryptonite? A specific thing that absolutely shatters them, like someone crying? Being ignored? Praise from a parent figure? The sound of an old song? The smell of something nostalgic? Find it and use it against them (lovingly, of course).

↳ When do they feel the most alive? Is it mid-battle, mid-baking, mid-breakup? Does adrenaline light them up, or do they find joy in the quiet, mundane things, like folding laundry while listening to sad girl music? This can reveal a LOT about what drives them.

↳ What would totally ruin their day? A bad haircut? Someone touching their stuff? Or is it something deeper, like being reminded of their failures, or seeing someone else succeed where they couldn’t?

↳ Who do they think they should be? And who are they really? This one’s juicy. Do they think they should be a hero, but keep acting like a villain?

↳ What’s the one thing they’d never admit out loud, even under duress? The shameful thought. The inappropriate desire. The thing they desperately want but don’t think they deserve. DONT FORGET: Characters are built on what they repress.

↳ What are they petty about? Don’t pretend your OC is above this, I mean everyone’s petty about something. Do they hold grudges over stolen pens? Get irrationally jealous of someone’s hair? Still mad about a game of Uno from 2007? Petty makes them fucking real.

↳ How do they act when they think no one’s watching? Do they let their mask slip? Dance around the kitchen? Talk to their cat in baby voice? Cry a little?

↳ What would make them snap? Where is the breaking point? What line has to be crossed for them to finally say “Enough”? Is it injustice? Betrayal? Feeling powerless? You’ll know you’ve found it when it scares you a little (Or a lot).

↳ If they had a theme song, what would it be? No, seriously. The vibe of a character’s soundtrack says a lot. Is it Angsty indie rock? Bubblegum pop masking deep pain? Make a playlist. Your OC will tell you who they are... <3

[justlikeotherchemists]

CWs: implied beating, restraints, hand whump.

Team Leader no longer fought the restraints tying them down to the chair. The beating drained them of any remaining energy, so the only thing they could focus on was breathing through the pain.

"Here's how it's gonna go," Whumper grabbed Team Leader's chin, admiring their already bruised face. "I will now call Teammate, and you will tell them to drop the case: say it's been solved, send them on vacation... whatever. Just make sure they stop."

Team Leader met Whumper's gaze and blinked once, exhausted and resigned. Whumper let go of their chin and pressed the button on the phone. The dial tone echoed in a nearly empty room.

"Hello?" Teammate's voice came through the speaker after a few moments.

"Hi, Teammate, just checking in on your project," Team Leader put in an enormous effort to sound calm and even vaguely cheerful.

"Oh, it's going well! With the evidence I found, we should be able to prove Whumper's guilt."

"Great," Team Leader threw a glance in Whumper's direction. "Do hurry up, though."

Whumper's face darkened. They quietly put the phone on the nearby table and grabbed Team Leader's pinky, slowly bending it as a threat.

"Yes, I will. Leave it to me!" Teammate replied eagerly.

Team Leader's face contorted as they tried and failed to stifle a yelp.

"Is everything alright?" Teammate asked with concern.

"Y-yesss," Team Leader hissed. "I'm just busy. Gotta go. Good luck with your investigation," they rattled off as soon as they managed to steady their voice, somewhat.

"Right, thanks. Talk to you later!" Teammate said.

They sounded relaxed, completely unaware of what was happening.

The moment the call was over, something snapped, and Team Leader screamed.

Tag list: @whumplicity

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #27: The Music of Suffering

CW: Past abusive relationship, blink and you miss it mention of alcoholism and drug abuse, historical racism / talks of actual events, a lot of heavy emotions and feelings.

Im really not sure what to warn about this so let me know if I've missed anything.

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Once again, everyone say thank to Ev for beta reading for me. Things are getting REALLY close to the end and the next chapter is going to be interesting. Hope your ready for a lot of angst for this one though :) enjoy Previous | Masterlist | Next

The sky was blue, a clear soft blue that shimmered under the oppressive heat of the sun. The hum of the cicadas only furthered the heavy feeling in the air. She hated the sound of cicadas; the insects hum was a sound that she could feel in her bones. Still, they were music and lately she’d been trying to get back into the habit of listening to the music of nature. 

Nature had its own way of making music. The way the wind whispers through the trees, birds singing, the cicadas. All of that, everything was music. She had forgotten how to listen in all of her years with Xavier. In the weeks they had been in Window Rock she was attempting to relearn. She used to be good at it.  sit outside with her father and they would name all the sounds together. Then they’d pull out their instruments and play along with the sound of nature. Learning to listen again was hard. All the sounds felt heavy with the weight of her memories. 

As time passed, Henrietta learned that if she focused on one sound at a time it was easier. It was always the cicadas that were the heaviest. The vibrations in her chest when she focused on them was the hardest part, it made it hard to breathe. It reminded her of her time with Xavier. The oppressive, hot, hatred that existed within him had seeped into her bones. The vibrations of his swirling moods had made those bones ache too. The sound of it all made her feel sick and she tuned it out. Instead she focused on the cooling breeze through the trees. It half smelled like rain and she wondered about the monsoons that were supposed to happen during this portion of the summer. The sky was still blue though and she doubted she’d be lucky enough for the celebrations tonight to be canceled due to rain. 

Henrietta decided to stop listening as she stood up from the porch chair. As she did, Isabella came out from inside. Isabella was a friend from Red Rock when she escaped the first time. She had bright blonde hair, nearly lemon colored with dark blue eyes. She was taller than Henrietta and stuck out like a sore thumb in this quiet little town. Isabella was probably the only white lady for miles. 

“Henrietta?” she asked, “You alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Henrietta lied, the cicadas still burning in her ears. “Just.. trying to listen.” 

“Right.” A pause. 

Henrietta felt awkward so she tried to make conversation, “You sleep okay, Isabella?”

“Just fine! I made lunch for us. Yazzie is supposed to be over soon to help us with the laundry and bring some new clothes.” 

Henrietta frowned, “She made us some? Thought you told her not to.” 

“I did.” 

Henrietta sighed and rubbed her hand on her dress. Yazzie was an older Navajo woman who was actually Solomon’s younger cousin. She was a short and sour-faced woman who had a lot to say about everything. Yazzie was one of the most interesting people she’d ever met. She was a seamstress and made half of the town's clothing. She had also been employed by some of the officers during the relocation to make and repair their clothes. When they made it back, she had refused to repair even a sock for them. 

Sometimes it was strange to hear about the way their people had suffered at the hands of the government. How strange it was how both of their people had suffered. There was no one who was more than the other, they were just people who suffered. Henrietta had found that the universal language was not suffering, but the result of it. The universal language was grief. The loss of people, the loss of culture, there was the feeling of grief over a life unlived. In some distant, far off world, perhaps there was a world where everyone could be together. Maybe there was a world where everyone could be together without the leagues of suffering it took to get there. It wasn’t in this world though, and these people had suffered. 

Solomon’s people were still rebuilding after something called The Long Walk. They had been removed from their home and walked to New Mexico territory on a reservation. They had fought heavily to come back here to their homeland. They had succeeded but the walks to and from the reservation had brought death and suffering. A good portion of Solomon’s family hadn’t survived it, including his mother. He knew that she was dead, but hearing it, seeing that she was truly and fully gone. It was different. 

Solomon had cried for days when they arrived and found out. 

Henrietta’s heart had broken for him. 

Yazzie had held him in her arms for hours and all Henrietta and Miguel could do was watch helplessly as Solomon grieved. It had been weeks now since the initial shock and things had calmed. Solomon had carried himself with a unique sense of melancholy since. 

Henrietta couldn’t blame him. 

Henrietta would have never been able to recover had she not been able to go home to see her father when he passed. Xavier had tried to stop her but that was the one thing she hadn’t backed down on. Even when she had returned from burying her father, and Xavier started his physical assaults on her, repented nothing. Henrietta wouldn’t change a thing about saying goodbye. She would have never forgiven herself. Her father had told her her heart had gone cold and she originally thought that his last words as a dying man had never made sense. However when she returned to Xavier, she had realized that he was right. His words had woken her up, opened her eyes and suddenly she was able to see Xavier for the monster that he was. 

“You’re thinking about him aren’t you?” asked Isabella. 

Henrietta blinked, then turned to Isabella. “I can’t help but feel like he’s still here. Right next to me.” 

Henrietta could feel his hate, his need for revenge. It was scattered in the wind, but with the breeze, it was as if it was full force in front of them. He was looking for her and she knew it. The first time she had escaped she had ignored that feeling and let herself get comfortable in her freedom. She would not make the same mistake. Three people had died due to her carelessness. Henrietta wouldn’t let that happen again. 

“We destroyed everything. I think if he was looking he’d probably not even have the supplies to do so,” said Isabella.

“You don’t know him,” Henrietta countered. “He’s charming, he’s powerful. If he doesn’t talk his way into gaining supplies he’ll just take it by force. That’s just who he is.” 

“Well the people here say they’ll protect you,” Isabella tried to reassure. 

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. People died last time,” Henrietta said, voice cracking. 

Isabella’s expression shifted at the memory and Henrietta couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about it. 

“You never told us where you were from. We didn’t know we had to protect you.”

“I shouldn’t have to be protected.” 

“That’s not your fault. Red Rock wasn’t your fault either.” 

“Right.” 

Isabella sighed, she wiped the sweat off her brow. “Can you come inside and drink some water? It’s too hot out to be out here like this.” 

Unable to think of anything to argue, Henrietta walked into the house. It was a small wooden thing with two bedrooms and a kitchen connected to a living space. They headed into the kitchen and Henrietta poured herself a glass of water from the clay pot. The pot itself was beautiful and she found herself tracing over the painted geometric shapes. Yazzie had gifted it to them on the third day they lived in the house. 

After Henrietta took a long drink of water, Isabella seemed satisfied and left her alone. There was pang of guilt for treating Isabella so harshly but Henrietta wasn’t in the mood today. Lately, her shifting moods had been happening more often. One day she’d feel almost good. She could almost forget what had happened, then the next day her energy would be sapped out of her by the smallest and most horrid of things. 

She took a moment to look outside the window, trying to ground herself. This place was beautiful. Window Rock was based underneath a giant arch of red sandstone that made a perfect circle. On the maps this place was called White Rock but the people here called it Window Rock or Tségháhoodzáni. It was really a perfect fit because it really did look like a window to the sky. Or maybe a window from the sky to them. 

There was a knock at the door and Henrietta went to answer it. Yazzie was there with a woven basket in one hand and a cloth sack against her back. She was short with her salt and pepper hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was a story of lines and wrinkles. 

“Good afternoon Yazzie,” Henrietta greeted tiredly. 

“Hello, Henrietta. I brought you clothes.” 

“You–” 

“Before you start that sentence, yes I did. You are going to accept them because I made them for you. It’s rude not to accept a gift. Now let me in.” 

Henrietta pursed her lips and bit back a retort. She took a step back to let Yazzie inside. 

Yazzie flashed her a sweet smile. “See? It’s not that hard is it?” 

“Careful Yazzie, I can still kick you out.” 

Yazzie laughed, Henrietta smiled and she shut the door behind them. Isabella came out from the hallway and grinned at them. 

“Yazzie!” she greeted and wrapped her up in a hug. “How are you?” 

“Oh! I’m well, sweetheart. Help me put these on the table.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Isabella said and began to help Yazzie set up the table. Soon enough there were two dresses laid out and the soap and laundry supplies were on one of the chairs. 

“I want you both to try these on. Then we’ll wash together.” 

Henrietta rolled her eyes but took the dress that was shorter and went to try it on in the room, leaving Isabella and Yazzie behind. She had an issue with people seeing her without something to cover up her scars. Slowly, she peeled off her current dress and slipped out of her undergarments to take a look. Scars lined up all along her body. A story that could never be erased. Her hand went to the X brand on her chest and her fingers traced the bubbled skin there. That was never going to go away. Never. She felt as if none of it was ever going away. She turned her head back to look at her back through the mirror. Her back was filled with scars as well. Her back was really what made her self-conscious. She could almost tolerate the brand but her back was a patch work of different colors and raised skin. Being dragged through Red Rock had done some real damage to her. 

Sometimes when Henrietta moved a certain way some of the skin on her back would pull or twinge and it would light up with a short burst of pain. Even if her back brushed against something accidentally it would cause her back to hurt. Sharp, pricking sensations. Nerve and tissue damage, Solomon had said. Pain that lasted forever. She was completely and wholly changed by Xavier. Physically, mentally, emotionally. All of what used to be her was a patchwork of mismatched sizes and colors. Henreitta had been told to try and move forward but she didn’t know how to do that yet. She was stuck. She couldn’t escape him or the things she’d done. The hardest part about that fact was the fact that she felt as if she failed her father. 

Don’t let him make you cold. 

Now her blood was ice. 

Henrietta missed her father. It didn’t matter how old someone was, losing a parent wasn’t ever easy. Solomon had told her stories about his mother and at the grand age of sixty-three he sobbed at his mother being gone. Everyone wants to be loved and no one is ever prepared when they lose the people they love. It’s not something you can prepare for. She still longed for her fathers voice, singing to her and her brothers. She wanted her mother to do her hair again. As far as she knew, her mother was still alive. 

But could Henrietta face her? Could she look her mother in the eye and tell her everything? 

There was a knock at the door and Henrietta grunted in response. 

“You alright in there? Do you need my help?” 

Henrietta thought for a moment and exhaled. “You can come in.” 

Yazzie quietly opened the door, stepped inside and then gently closed the door behind her. She looked over Henrietta with a soft expression. She didn’t blink at any of her scars. Effortlessly she took the dress off the bed and motioned for Henrietta to step toward her.

“Thank you,” Henrietta said, “It’s beautiful.” 

“No need to thank me.” Yazzie helped her put it on. “I enjoy making dresses. It's been too long since I’ve made dresses for outsiders I like.” 

“You like us?” Henrietta teased. 

“Only sometimes,” Yazzie laughed and winked at her. “Take a look in the mirror and tell me what you think?” 

Henrietta turned around and smiled at her reflection. The dress was a light brown color and had red trimming with long sleeves. There was also a white belt that went around her waist. The whole thing was beautifully crafted. The best part was that everything was covered. All of her scars and ugliness. 

“Did Solomon tell you?” 

“About?” 

“The scars. What happened before...” 

“Not directly. I saw the brand on your chest. Solomon only hinted at the story of what happened to your back.” 

Henrietta’s stomach felt like a pit and her throat felt tight. There was a weight in the room, one she could only minimally place. The new dress was beautiful. Yet she could only think about the way Xavier would probably hate this dress. He’d hate it because it covered every inch of her and it wasn’t something he’d perfectly tailored to his likings. He’d tell her to take it off. But Henrietta didn’t want to take this off. She wanted to stop thinking about him, but the concept of closure was less than fruitful.

Realizing she’d been quiet for too long Henrietta forced herself to speak. “I feel like something bad is going to happen.” 

“Go on.” 

“He’s going to come after me. I know he is. He’s probably looking right now.” 

Yazzie nodded sincerely. “Solomon says the same.” 

“You don’t seem worried,” Henrietta said through her teeth. She didn’t mean for it to sound so angry, so she softened her voice. “You should be more worried.” 

“I believe you and Solomon worry enough for the whole town.” 

“This isn’t a game. It’s not a joke, I don’t know why everyone is treating this like it doesn’t matter.” 

Yazzie stared at her for a moment and started “I never–” 

Henrietta interrupted her. “He killed three people last time I ran and that was when I didn’t burn down his life's work. We burned down his family ranch. He’ll kill everyone here to get back at me and he’ll never stop looking.” 

Yazzie waited for her to be finished, expression neutral. Henrietta suddenly felt embarrassed at her outburst and she put her face in her hands. Finally, she started to cry. Henrietta wasn’t a crier, she hated crying. It gave her a headache and it was exhausting. She rarely ever cried, so the fact that she was crying right now meant that she had let things get pent up for too long. She used to play music when she felt like this but now she could hardly look at a violin without wanting to vomit. Again, Henrietta was stuck. 

Hands were on her shoulders, gentle and grounding as she was guided to sit on the bed. Vaguely she wondered if patience and understanding were genetic. Solomon and Yazzie were similar in that way. All of the patience and understanding in the world, none of which she deserved. Yazzie waited for Henerietta to calm down. When she did, Henrietta took her hands and wiped them with a small handkerchief, then she slowly wiped at Henrietta's face with it. 

“It’s okay to be frustrated,” Yazzie said gently. “What you went through. No one should have to go through that. I know you’re right, I believe that he’s coming for you. For all of you.” 

“Then why–” Henrietta started to ask, desperation creeping into her voice. 

Yazzie shushed her, “You seem to still believe that you’re alone in this. That somehow it’s all on you. It’s not.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Henrietta seemed to be sorry a lot these days. Usually she was so sure of herself. It was a great defense against the types of things she had to endure. It was easy to not care, but lately it was like all of those feelings had been swirling inside and had nowhere to go.

“You don’t have to be sorry. The world hasn’t been kind to you Henrietta. No one has really proved otherwise either. One day, you’ll believe that you deserve some real kindness,” Yazzie gently held Henrietta’s hand and rubbed her thumb over her knuckles, “You’re just not there yet.” 

“I don’t think I ever will be.” 

“You will. You will.” 

Yazzie sounded so sure. The older woman truly believed that Henrietta would get to that point. Henrietta couldn’t picture it for herself, but she assumed that most people felt that way. You never imagine yourself living a good life until you’re already there. 

“Okay,” Henrietta relented. 

Yazzie gently patted her hand and smiled, “Would you like a moment to collect yourself?” 

Henrietta nodded and Yazzie stood up, leaving her alone for a moment. She wiped at her face with Yazzie’s handkerchief and took a few deep breaths. Slowly, she came back to herself, feeling better now that the tears had finally escaped her. Just to be sure, she took a few more breaths as she stood up and took her old dress and other laundry from the basket out to the kitchen. There was still laundry to do before the celebrations tonight. There was always still work to do. 

Yazzie and Isabella were mindlessly chatting as she came up to them in the kitchen. Isabella’s laundry had also made it to the kitchen. She caught the tail end of their conversation. 

“-rain?” 

“What about rain?” asked Henrietta as she happened to look outside the window. The clouds that had been far away were now looming closer than before. The breeze was taking the storm to them. 

“Oh, well it looks like it’ll rain. Yazzie says that if it does, it’s good luck.” 

“It's more than that really,” Yazzie commented. “Rain at this time of year usually means that there are new beginnings afoot. New beginnings and hope.” She looked at Henrietta and Henrietta managed a tight lipped smile. 

“I think it’ll probably skip over us entirely.” 

“Come on Hen, be a little optimistic?” Isabella sighed. 

Henrietta hummed and shook her head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Optimisim is for dogs under the table during dinner,” Yazzie said seriously. 

Yazzie and Isabella exchanged glances, then looked at Henrietta, then looked at each other again. It was only a second before laughter filled the kitchen. The heavy feeling in her chest lifted somewhat as she laughed. She didn’t even know what was so funny, all she knew was that this whole thing felt ridiculous. The warmth from the laughter filled her up and for a moment, things were okay. 

It was moments like this she was glad she was not alone in this. There were very few remedies for suffering, but laughter was certainly one of them. It didn’t feel so allconsuming anymore. The laughter died down and the weight on her chest lifted slightly. 

“You really think it’ll rain?” Henrietta asked. 

“Maybe, we have been praying for rain for a while now. Maybe the gods will answer today.” 

“I think that they will,” Isabella stated confidently. 

At least one of them was an optimist. Henrietta had never been one for that way of thinking. She was never known for her sunny disposition when it came to important situations. The only way to go about anything was cautious realism. Nothing can disappoint a person if they’ve already mapped out all of the ways things could go wrong. She wasn’t pessimistic either, she was equally open to all of the good ways things could go. Henrietta could admit that it was easier to think of ways something could go wrong than the ways it could go right. It took real creativity to imagine a good ending. Creativity was directly aligned with energy and she didn’t have the energy that was associated with coming up with a good ending. 

Maybe creativity did not align with energy at all but with the mental state of things. Henrietta’s mental state wasn’t in the best of places. She was still stuck in that house, in that ranch. She hadn’t yet left it, she was planning to, but something always dragged her back. It was him, his energy, curling around her. She didn’t know how to get rid of it. 

Henrietta just wanted it all to be over. 

She wanted to be free. 

Why didn’t she feel free? 

A hand on her shoulder brought her out of her thoughts and she turned to look at Yazzie. Her expression was the softest she’d ever seen and Henrietta wondered how long they had been standing here. “Why don’t you go to Solomon’s?” 

“Why?” Henrietta asked, defensive. 

Yazzie frowned, “You’re not here right now. You should let us do this.” 

“I am right here!” Henrietta shook off Yazzie’s hand and stepped away. She really hated when people told her what to do, or how she was feeling. How could they possibly know when she didn’t really know herself? 

“You’re here physically but your head and your heart are someplace else.” 

That stopped Henrietta in her tracks and she forced herself to take a deep breath. Yazzie was right, Henrietta wasn’t in it. Laundry wasn’t exactly in her list of things to think about. She hadn’t even realized that they had moved outside. 

“I–” she started and then sighed. “I... I tried to...” 

“You’re alright Henrietta. We’ll do the laundry. You go to Solomon’s; he said he has a gift for you.” 

Henrietta paused and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying something petulant about gifts. Instead she just nodded and looked at Isabella, who was watching the interaction in silence. She assumed that Isabella got the hint that Henrietta would snap at her if she got in her way too much. Guilt ate at her again and she tried to give Isabella a smile. 

“I’ll see you both tonight.” 

Isabella smiled in return, “See you tonight.” 

Yazzie gently patted Henrietta’s arm and took the rest of the laundry in her hands. “Go on now, leave us.” 

Henrietta didn’t want to be told twice by Yazzie and took the opportunity to leave out the back gate. 

The road to Solomon’s house wasn’t very long. It took less than ten minutes to get there, but every step felt heavy. The sun was an oppressive monster that made her skin want to melt. By the time she got there she was sweaty and feeling stupid. 

Before she raised her hand to knock on the door and it opened. Solomon had opened it before she even made contact. 

“Henrietta.” He didn’t look very surprised, instead he looked tired. He looked back over his shoulder and then back at her. Then he stepped aside to let her in. 

“Solomon, you okay?” Henrietta asked as she walked in. 

“Yes. It...” He paused as he closed the door behind him. “It’s been a long week.”

“What happened?” 

Solomon seemed reluctant to say, which usually meant that he was talking about Miguel. 

“Solomon?” Henrietta tried, as he led her to the kitchen. 

“It’s fine Henrietta. Are you alright?” he asked as he poured her some water from a vase similar to the one in her home.

Henrietta took the water and sipped at it, drumming her fingers against the cup.

“I’ve certainly had better days, the air feels heavy today.” She didn’t bother trying to explain what she meant, for Solomon already knew. That was just how they were. It was easier to talk with him than with anyone else. He was the only one here that would understand, anyway. She was sure that he, too, could feel Xavier’s burning hatred getting closer by the day. 

“It does,” Solomon agreed. “Everyone’s feeling it.” 

“You seem worried, in the way that you worry about Miguel. Henrietta tried to choose her next words carefully. “Is he alright?” 

The older man licked his lips and poured himself a cup of water too. He sighed after a while and shook his head. “He’s having a hard time… adjusting.” 

Henrietta couldn’t hold in her distaste any longer, “He stole from you again?” 

“Henrietta,” Solomon warned. 

“Solomon,” Henrietta countered. “You can’t keep letting him do this.” 

“I know, I know. I don’t want to hear it, Henrietta,” Solomon said tiredly. As much as she wanted to argue, she dropped it. She didn’t need to make the air heavier today with her dislike for Miguel. Really, she should be more gentle with him but she couldn’t force herself. Their reactions to their similar experience were too different. Miguel seemed intent on making life as hard as he could for everyone. He drank and stole Solomon’s drugs on occasion. She felt that there were better coping mechanisms than the ones he chose. Miguel seemed to disagree and Solomon seemed inclined on letting him do whatever he pleased. Clearly, his fight with Xavier had been the one and only time he’d grown a backbone. 

Henrietta knew she shouldn’t be so angry with him, that boy was like a son to Solomon. But she had tried to be gentle and Miguel had met her with nothing but anger. There was no use in trying too hard with the boy if she didn’t even like him all that much. Her gentleness only extended so far. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, filling in the silence. 

“You’re alright.” 

“Yazzie said you had something for me.” 

Solomon seemed to perk up a bit as he placed his water on the counter. “Yes, I’ll go get it. Stay right here.” 

As he walked away, the air seemed to clear. She was holding back with him and she was sure he knew it. There was something about this place, this town that felt strange. It felt as if she were wearing strange skin. Nothing made sense here and it wasn’t a cultural difference. She was used to being the only black person in a place. Besides, there was a shared suffering among these people and it made sense that they existed in a separate symphony together. No, it wasn’t that. There was something about this place that she was choking on. Maybe it wasn’t the place at all, but her own memories. Still, this town, for all its little beauties, was suffocating. It was beautiful and it was quiet. She loved it and she wanted to escape. 

Solomon came back into the room with… 

Her mouth fell open at the sight of the violin. Not just any violin but her violin, the one her father had made as a wedding gift. Henrietta stood up and nearly ran to Solomon. He held it out for her to take and she grabbed the neck of the violin and the bow with gentle hands. Her heart swelled as she took it back to the table to put down the bow and cradle the violin itself in both hands. 

“How did you get this? I thought it burned with everything else?” she asked, trying not to choke on her own emotions. 

“I gave it to Joseph before everything. It was sitting in the attic and I knew we’d leave it behind if I didn’t take it. I lied to Xavier about needing more supplies. I convinced him to let me go alone and I took it.” 

“Solomon...” Henrietta sniffled, not even realizing there were tears on her cheeks. She gently ran her hands over the wood. Her fingers found the engraving of her father’s initials on the back. She traced over them for a minute or so. “Thank you.” 

“I knew it was important to you. I didn’t want you to leave it behind if you didn’t want to.” 

“I don’t even know what to say,” she murmured as she looked up at him.

 His expression was soft. He made his way to take a seat at the kitchen table. Solomon was someone who knew exactly what she needed whenever she needed it. Suddenly, she knew the feeling that was choking her from the inside out. 

She was homesick. Henrietta wanted her family, her brothers and her mother. She wanted to visit her father’s grave. 

Home. She wanted to go home. 

Slowly she sat down across from Solomon and stared at him. Her fingers still tracing over the initials on the violin.'

“Solomon,” Henrietta started, her throat feeling tight. “Solomon, I want to go home.” 

His expression shifted into a sad smile. “You should go.” 

“What?” 

“You should go, Henrietta. Go home.” 

Henrietta felt tears coming to her eyes again and she put down the violin on the table. She wiped at the tears falling freely now.

“But... What about you?” she asked. 

“I’ll be fine. I will miss you but I will be fine,” Solomon assured, taking one of her hands in his. “You don’t belong here.” 

Henrietta forced a laugh. “Thanks a lot.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant. I mean you’re not happy here.” 

“I want to be,” she tried to argue. 

Solomon rubbed his thumb over her hand and his smile turned into a frown. 

“You would be happier at home,” Solomon said softly. 

“I don’t even know if they’re still there, Solomon.” 

That was always a chance wasn’t it? That her mother was dead? That everything she wanted to come home to was dead and gone. Solomon was stronger than her when it came to that. Solomon had to have known that his family was gone and he still tried to come home anyway. There was barely anything left for him here. But at least he was home. 

“I know. It’s scary and your heart may break. Your heart may never be the same. But there’s always the chance it could be different. Your story doesn’t have to end like mine. Do you think she’s still there? Still alive? Do you feel it in your heart?” 

Henrietta thought for a second and nodded. “I feel like she’s waiting for me.” 

“Then you have to go home. Go home before it's too late. Hug your mother while you can.” 

Sometimes, she forgot that Solomon too, at his old age, had a mother that he loved. Had a mother that he wanted to hug and now never could again. It was all different for him. 

“What about you?” she found herself asking again. 

Solomon kissed the back of her hand. “Don’t worry about me. I am where I belong. I am already home.” 

“I feel like I’m letting you down,” Henrietta admitted. 

“You aren’t.” 

“I feel like I am anyways.” 

Solomon sighed, “Then know, that I love you enough that it doesn’t matter.” 

Her heart ached and she moved forward and threw her arms around him, wrapping around his shoulders. His hands came up and held her around her waist. She buried her face into the top of his shoulder and stayed there for a while. Henrietta wasn’t ready to let go, she just wasn't. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he whispered. 

“What is it?” Anything for you.

Solomon pulled away from the hug and cradled her face with one of his hands. He was warm, his skin was leathery and worn. It was the hand of her best friend. 

“When you leave, when you’re ready. Don’t say goodbye?” 

“What?” she asked, voice rising a bit. “What do you mean?” 

Solomon hummed and once again, smiled at her kindly. “If you say goodbye, you won’t leave. You’ll stay and you can’t stay. So please, when you’re ready to leave, I want you to just go. Pack your things and leave.” 

“But I want to say goodbye,” she cried. 

“You are saying goodbye right now.” 

“But Solomon–” 

“Please, for the sake of this old man's heart, don’t say goodbye again. I don’t want our last conversation to be a goodbye. I want to remember you the way I know you. I want our last conversation to be about nothing.” 

Henrietta wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. What is a conversation about nothing? 

“I’m not sure...” 

“Please,” Solomon begged. “Please.” 

Anything for you. 

“Alright,” Henrietta relented. “Alright. I won’t say goodbye.” She grabbed the hand cradling her face and closed her eyes. “Any other demands?” 

Solomon laughed, warm and melodious. 

“Yes, actually.”

She opened her eyes and met his eyes, “What is it?” 

Solomon’s eyes were so kind. They had seemed to get warmer the longer they spent in this place. What was she going to do without him? She hadn’t been without him in her life for almost ten years. What was she going to do? 

“Play a song for me?” 

Maybe she could live without him. “Why?” 

“It’ll make you feel better,” Solomon encouraged. “Please?” 

Of course it was about her, why would Solomon ever ask for a song for himself? She stepped away from him and looked at the violin on the table. Slowly, she reached for it and took it into her hands. One hand grabbed the neck and positioned the violin in the crook of her collarbone. Her other hand grabbed the bow and she delicately held it in her hand. 

“What would you like me to play?” she asked, stomach turning. The memories played a song in her head that she performed with Xavier. Her hand started to shake. “Solomon I don’t think I can–” 

“Just play from your heart,” he answered finally. “Just start, the rest will come once you start.” 

Her hand was shaking and it made a bad note when she pressed the bow against the string. Henrietta thought for a moment about what she wanted to play. Something easy, something simple. Her mother used to play her a song on the piano when she was small, a lullaby. Henrietta’s hand began to move on their own accord, slowly but surely. The notes sounded off at first, but it got easier. The lullaby morphed into something sad, the notes getting longer and longer. 

Her heart burst open and she began to play in earnest. The rest of the world faded away, it was just Henrietta and the music. The violin was a part of her, the music was in her bones, in her blood. It vibrated like a cicada, it sang like a bird, it hummed like the wind in the trees. She was the music and the music was her. The music was everywhere. Outside and inside. It was all around, in every small noise and the length of every note. She was sad but she could feel the hope returning, she could feel herself accepting the world as it was. 

The song itself was the goodbye. 

When she opened her eyes, Solomon was crying. She continued to play, just for him. It was all for him. She was going to leave him behind again, but this time it wasn’t selfish. This time it wasn’t selfish, just sad. But sadness only lasts for so long, there will always be something brighter over the horizon, one just has to wait long enough to see it. The song was love, the song was friendship and it was an ending all wrapped in one. It was a sad, hopeful love that would transcend lifetimes. 

This was her friend and she loved him. This was her friend and she had to leave him. It was a sad song, but as long as she kept playing, it wasn’t over yet. The goodbye stayed still. So she kept playing until her arms ached. She kept playing until Solomon stopped crying. 

When she put down the violin, Solomon was smiling again. The goodbye was over. Now there would just be conversations about nothing until she was ready to leave. Henrietta could live with that. 

“I think... We should go to the celebration tonight,” Solomon stated. “I think so too.” 

“Together?” 

“Always.”

  *** 

A celebration when someone is sad is like hearing the party from another room. That was what it felt like as they danced and drank. It was what it felt like as they all held each other in embraces and drunkenly sang kind words to each other over the bonfire. It held lots of memories and those memories would last for centuries. Stories passed down from parent to child, for generations. That was the true celebration. The passing down of traditions and love for those who had not yet come. 

*** 

A celebration to one who was angry was like a chaotic memory of laughter at a person instead of with them. That was how Xavier felt watching them sing and dance. It felt like they were laughing at him. Waving their happiness and their togetherness in his face. A personal slight on his ego and his plans. He’d wait until they were all going home to attack. 

The air smelled like rain and he knew there was a storm coming. 

The storm was coming with him.

Please scream at me in the notes, I wanna know what you guys think.

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy@badgerwhump@whumpbees@whumplr-reader@cyberwhumper@demondamage@angst-after-dark@just-a-silly-little-whumper@tictac-murder-spaghetti@crash-bump-bring-the-whump@jumpywhumpywriter

[xx-k1tsun3-k1d-xx]

my fav pokemon fact is that 25% of marill are canonically trans masc

[xx-k1tsun3-k1d-xx]

the gender ratio for azurill is 75% female whilst for marill it’s only 50%.

also look how much happier he is post transition! go on king <3

[xx-k1tsun3-k1d-xx]

happy pride month to transgender marill pokemon <3

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unchained

for Angstpril, Day 5: (alt) Serious Injury

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. 

He'd be back in them soon enough.

§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

[eight-littlenightmares]

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 :))

that is all!!! reblog with yours if you want :D

[painwithoutplot]

put together an outfit they'd wear (either IRL or as a steal-their-look kind of thing)

put together the worst possible cosplay of them. I'm talking off-brand Halloween costume

make a playlist inspired by them

make an OC moodboard or collage

make a mock-up book cover or movie poster for them

write a faux wikipedia article [template] about them, maybe?

[whumpdaydreamerx]

Bill Interrogated | CIA 1x08

[t-800]

penetrate him or whatever

[headspace-hotel]

i have so many thoughts about The Bucky i feel like I need to be on a podcast talking about them like some kind of expert on a topic

[headspace-hotel]

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.

[headspace-hotel]

@deus3xmachinablog Peer review

[headspace-hotel]

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.

[headspace-hotel]

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)

[headspace-hotel]

The Hydra Trash Party-goers knew what they were doing, as well.

[bookshelfdreams]

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.

[headspace-hotel]

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.

[headspace-hotel]

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."

[weirdstrangeandawful]

Ideas for nightmares a character can have

For Whumpee:

Exact replica of the trauma (unlikely)

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.

[ace-trainer-alice]

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.

[deerslayer14]

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.

[dragongirlsweetie]

"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

[inusmasha]

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!

I didn’t mean to rant lol

[heywriters]

No, this explains literally everything to me, thank you.

[animusrox]

Captain America: Civil War (2016) dir. The Russo Brothers

[bloodiedbriars]

Conversations overheard by a Living Weapon 

“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)