Coyote. 28. He/They. Writer and artist. I write about queer characters, indigenous characters, and magic. --Be 18+-- Go follow my cowriter @crash-bump-bring-the-whump
marcello should be blindfolded and get super sensitive to sounds around him. get him flinchy and paranoid! and then beat him. normal beating. but traumatically scary because of the sensory deprivation
Sorry this took so long! You are a genius and this was very fun to write.
Continuation of this piece.
Still blindfolded, he looked where he imagined Bear was. He wasn't glaring, or pleading, just looking to where another person might be in this empty room. After a moment, the hand pulled away, delivering one gentle, almost teasing pat to his cheek before it was gone.
Contains: Sensory deprivation, beatings, dissociation
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He wasn't scared. He'd had worse than this before.
It had taken him a moment to realize he was awake, floating in and out of consciousness without the light of fluorescent bulbs to solidify it. The first thing that made him realize he wasn't dreaming was the feeling of his arms secured behind his back, twisted uncomfortably and aching.
He was on the floor again, blindfolded this time, and he could still catch glimpses of shadows moving around him by the light filtering in at the fabric against his nose. Somebody spoke, and it was quiet and far away. There was a heavy weight on his head and pressure over his ears; nothing quite registered for what it was until he tried to speak himself.
It came out as a tired whimper, muffled to him by what he now realized must be headphones.
That same voice, muted and calm, said something he couldn't make out. He didn't have the strength to talk back, and for a moment he drifted back into unconsciousness.
A hand on his face, gripping his jaw and pulling him back to reality. He didn't have the strength to fight back, to even bare his teeth in protest, he just let the unseen figure manhandle him.
When the hand pulled away, he couldn't help but flinch, anticipating the heavy impact of that armored fist against his jaw. But the pain never came, just the gentle touch of someone adjusting his blindfold so that he couldn't see the shadows anymore.
He was in complete darkness, complete silence, awaiting the feeling of electricity or a hand twisting in his hair. Every time the air seemed to shift, or a noise made its way past the headphones, he flinched. Every time he flinched, the room would still, and nothing would hurt him.
But he knew. He knew he was still being kept in that same cold room, with the same guard that drugged him, that same masked guard with that damn gummy bear tattoo.
There was the feeling of a hand—or a boot?—wedging itself under his back. He cooperated as much as he could as it pushed him onto his side. He still wasn't being hurt, and as much as that was relieving, it was equally infuriating.
"C-come on." He managed in his void of silence, tongue still heavy from whatever they'd put him to sleep with. "That still you, Bear? Still gonna hurt me?"
For a moment, there was nothing: no movement, no pain, no shift in the air. Then, all at once, adrenaline and fear as a hand landed gently on his cheek. It was gentle, the way a friend would touch him, but his body reacted as if he'd been punched again. He flinched away with a whimper, pulling himself away only to flinch again when he'd relax and realize the hand was still there. It took him a moment to calm down, for his brain to realize he wasn't being hurt. For a moment he almost leaned into the touch, though he couldn't begin to understand why.
Still blindfolded, he looked where he imagined Bear was. He wasn't glaring, or pleading, just looking to where another person might be in this empty room. After a moment, the hand pulled away, delivering one gentle, almost teasing pat to his cheek before it was gone.
For a while, the room was still. He hoped he was alone, but knew in the back of his mind Bear was still standing over him.
He pressed his face to the cold tile, if he could move the blindfold, knock the headphones off his head, he could at least see what was going on.
And there was the pain, the decisive blow of a steel toed boot to his stomach. It was nauseating; it stole the breath out of his lungs and left him reeling. He barely had time to process it before another strike met his ribs.
He tried to cry out, choking on his breath even as a hand finally tangled in his hair to pin him to the floor. He was on his back now, and fear settled like ice in his stomach as he felt Bear settle in to straddle his chest.
"Fuck—what…" His words were cut short again as an armored fist connected with his jaw. The cry that escaped was undignified, pathetic. Marcello would have cursed himself for it had he been in the right mind to notice, but before he could think to be embarrassed Bear hit him again.
Over and over, against the cold tile floor, Marcello took the brute force of Bear's fists. Unable to bring his hands up to block his face, he could only endure and hope the beating would stop.
It felt like it went on forever. One blow after the other adding to the ringing in his ears and the warm wetness on his face. Every now and them he managed a word, a meager, "please" or "stop." He didn't think it would work, but the pleas came out like instinct.
It went on until Marcello was far away, swimming in a distant sea of pain and fear. He didn't notice when the pressure on his chest lifted, or when the presence around him retreated from the room. He just laid on the floor, sobbing quietly into the linoleum.
attackdog puppyplay where I rip your enemies to bloody pieces and then lay my head in your lap to hear ‘attaboy’ and feel fingers in my sweaty, bloody hair
Sketch that might or might not get more fleshed out...
Was thinking of Wolfwood's devotion to Vash while drawing this :') le Sigh! Two Trimax panels in particular that just destroy me.
if you have a very strong/powerful character and you DON'T muzzle and chain them and beat it into them that they're only good as a blunt instrument of violence and use their completely natural reactions to this mistreatment as 'proof' that they're innately dangerous and the mistreatment is necessary + justified then what's even the point tbh
Contains: Torture, Needles, Drugging, Captivity, Restraints, Interrogation, Team Whump
Marcello meets a Lawton Pharmaceuticals guard for the first time!
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The feeling of cold concrete on his skin was the first thing to register in Marcello's mind. The second was the merciless throbbing of his skull. His arms were bound behind his back, twisted at uncomfortable angles and tied at the wrist. Where was he? What had he fucked up this time?
A hand at the back of his shirt brought him back to the present, hauling him up off the floor like he barely weighed anything at all. He tried to shout, tried to curse at his unseen assailant, but the collar off his shirt pulled tight around his neck forced it to come out as a weak, strangled cough.
He was tossed haphazardly into a sturdy wooden chair, the back of his head colliding with the wall and sending more blinding shockwaves of pain. He screwed his eyes shut, blood thrumming loud in his ears as he fought to regulate himself.
The first thing he registered as his vision cleared was his own face staring back at him; a mirrored mask, cold and unyeilding, loomed over him as the guard behind it fastened a leather strap across Marcello's chest.
"What… what is this?" Marcello's voice came out in a quiet rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where am I? What's happening?"
The guard held up a single gloved finger in front of his mask. Hush.
"Wha—no? No, get off of me." Marcello barked back. He twisted in his seat, trying to slip free of the strap across his chest. The guard took Marcello by the hair, roughly forcing his head back to collide with the wall again.
Again, that single gloved finger. Hush.
"Freak, fucking—asshole! Get the hell away from me!" He twisted in his seat again, driving one knee up into the guard's pelvis.
The guard staggered. Taking a moment to reel with one hand tightly gripping the arm of the chair. Marcello would have laughed, would have thought to taunt him, had he not been so focused on his escape attempt. He slipped down in his seat, trying to slide under and out of the leather restraint.
The guard grabbed him, both hands on his biceps, and forced him back into his seat.
"Fuck you." Marcello barked.
The guard fastened a second belt tight around Marcello's waist.
Marcello tried to drive his knee up again, but the guard grabbed his thigh and forced his leg down again. A third set of restraints were quickly fastened around his ankles despite his thrashing, and the guard stood up again.
He watched Marcello, either admiring his handiwork or deciding what his next move would be, before promptly limping to a table at the far end of the room.
He returned with a single sheet of paper and a small microphone. He wordlessly held both up in front of Marcello and waited.
"I, Marcello Reyes," He read slowly, "acknowledge that I give the following information of my own free will, and—Oh fuck this, I'm not reading that. Just torture me."
The guard dropped his head back, motioning with the microphone to a line of text halfway down the page.
Please list any relevant personal sources relating to the distribution of confidential Lawton Pharmaceutical information and/or intellectual property.
Marcello curled his lip into a sneer, brow furrowed as he scanned the page. Further down there was a line asking for Ryder's address. Below that, one asking for Kris's aliases. One for Snow's legal name. Another for Sam's deadname.
Marcello scanned the paper silently, then looked to the hand holding the microphone; peeking out from under the uniform's sleeve, on the inside of the guard's wrist, was a tattoo of a gummy bear.
"Nice tattoo." Marcello finally said, "Are you six?"
The guard pulled his arm away and tugged his sleeve down with the opposite hand. There was a moment where he watched Marcello, staring him down from behind that mirrored mask, but he turned away again. He stalked over to the table at the edge of the room.
Trading the rumpled paper for a small syringe, he turned his attention back to Marcello.
Ice flooded Marcello's veins. For a moment his fear showed on his face, eyes locked on the capped needle as the guard stepped closer. He looked back up to the mirrored mask, and seeing his expression promptly righted himself back to anger.
"What's that?" He asked, voice wavering despite himself.
The guard stepped closer. He didn't speak.
"They don't let you talk, do they? What the fuck is in there?"
Again, the guard stepped closer, one hand tangling into Marcello's hair. He wrenched his head back and flipped the needle's cap off with his thumb.
Marcello fought, pulling against the fingers fisted in his hair, his heart was racing, eyes wide and frantic.
"Big man, huh? Not even gonna hit me? Just gonna put me down like a dog? Right, Gummy Bear?"
The hand in his hair released, and before Marcello could savor the relief, that fist connected firmly with his jaw. His world spun, his vision swam, he barely noticed those fingers curling into his hair again.
The needle was a different story. It plunged into his neck and set his skin on fire; it was like he could feel the chemicals flooding his system. He tried to gasp, but couldn't force himself to breathe until he saw the guard step away with the needle.
"Fuck. Fuck, what was in there? What did you do?"
Almost instantly, his eyes felt heavy. His heart began to slow despite the fear in his chest. The room around him began to blur and twist. Even the fist in his hair and the pain in his jaw faded into background noise. If he spoke, he wasn't conscious of it.
The last thing he remembered was slumping forward, into the guard's chest.
There was chattering outside, someone yelled to him that they were calling 911.
There's a reason Marcello doesn't drive for his team anymore.
Contains: Rollover Crash, Death
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It wasn't like in the movies, where the world goes into slow motion.
It was over in a second, actually. Shattered glass covered the ceiling beneath Marcello, mingling with his personal effects and the limp bodies of his teammates.
Had he been the only one buckled in? Was he the only one alive? Ginger was laying amidst the glass with her back to him, her arm twisted unnaturally above her head. Jordan was laying across her, face down and unmoving.
Cari? God. Cari was still next to him, buckled in, pinned between the broken dashboard and his seat. His arm hung limp above his head, and Marcello was only barely aware of the way his fingers still twitched.
There were people beside the car, shoes in the grass outside the window. They were shouting, asking Marcello if he was okay.
"Fuck," He whispered to himself before calling back out to them: "Yes—fuck, No!"
There was chattering outside, someone yelled to him that they were calling 911.
No, fuck. Not the cops. He'd just lost them.
Marcello braced his arms against the ceiling to keep himself up. Someone asked a question from above.
"Is the engine running?"
He swallowed, nodding despite the fact no one was there to see him. "Yeah?" He answered.
"Turn off the engine."
Marcello had been too afraid to touch the keys, and as he reached forward he wondered what would happen if he turned them the wrong way. Which way did he normally turn the keys? Left? Towards the wheel? Which way was left?
He closed his eyes, imagining for a second that the car was upright, and turned the keys, dropping them as soon as they were free of the ignition.
He stayed like that, his arms braced on the roof until the sound of crunching glass and creaking metal caught his attention. He looked to his left to see his door being pulled open, dragging against the damp grass outside.
"Hey," The stranger kneeling into his car was a charming voice and a blur of indistinct shapes. Marcello watched a strong arm stretch across his lap to the seatbelt buckle on the other side. "I'm gonna get you out of here, alright?"
Had ems gotten there already? How long had he been upside down, he opened his mouth to speak, to ask if this guy was an emt, but all that came out was stuttering syllables.
"Are you- are you—" Marcello stuttered.
"Yep," The stranger answered reassuringly, "I'm gonna get you out. Ready? One, Two…"
On three, he clicked the seatbelt, and Marcello fell to his knees below his flipped seat. He looked, wide-eyed and silent, at the open door beside him, and crawled out as the stranger backed up to stand again.
He stood easily once he was free of the car. How was he standing? How was he not even hurt when his friends were in there dead? Were they dead? He looked over his shoulder at the wreckage: several people—civilians—were on their hands and knees, trying to get the van's doors open.
"Are you cold, sweetie?" His attention was pulled back to the person in front of him. The people in front of him. A whole group seemed to have gathered after the wreck. There was a woman standing closest to him, holding a blanket folded up in her arms. Marcello looked at her silently, shaking his head when she offered the blanket forward.
"I think you're having a panic attack, hon." She said, insisting on pushing the blanket forward again. Marcello took a step back, glass crunched under his feet. He was breathing harder. That was fine, he was fired up. That only felt natural.
"911 is on the way." A man said, Marcello hadn't noticed him standing there until he spoke up. "The whole thing, I saw the whole thing." He said.
As if on cue, the sound of sirens faded into Marcello's consciousness. He looked down the highway, cars were already backing up out of sight, and flashing lights were approaching carefully on the shoulder.
"Why don't you sit down?" The first woman asked, her voice gentle and sweet and absolutely grating on Marcello's nerves. He wanted to tell her to back up, wanted to tell them all to back up and leave him alone, but the words wouldn't come.
The police were getting closer. Those sirens were only getting louder. Marcello could barely think. He looked back to the wreckage, to the tree that'd stopped them after they flipped—the tree that probably killed Cari.
The forest beside the highway was dense, crowded trees didn't allow Marcello to see more than a short ways in. Without pausing, without thinking, he took off running. Someone tried to grab his arm, but managed only to make him stumble before he disappeared into the foliage.
People were shouting now, calling after him. He didn't stop. Not until the sound of sirens faded into silence.
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