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scumashling · 21 hours ago

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a/n; 😬

tw/cw: rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, feminization, humiliation, kidnapping, imprisonment, sexual violence, sex slavery

creepy whumper, intimate whumper

Into sheets damp with tears and saliva, Wren mumbles, worn, “what?”

Point laughs softly against his shoulder and his breath is too warm against Wren’s prickly, oversensitive skin. “I said,” he murmurs again, “I have a surprise for you, cowgirl.”

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it’s stuck where it is, hard to breathe around. He’s been crying for hours. “No,” he mumbles against the damp sheets. “Please.”

“It’s a nice surprise,” Point tells his skin, and Wren can’t help that he shudders with cold sweat. He’s thumbing slowly along the back of Wren’s bare thigh with one hand. “You’ll like it.”

Point surprises Wren a lot; Wren’s never liked it. “No,” he mumbles, thick with crying, hoarse the same. “Why?”

“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Point murmurs. “You’ve been a good girl.”

He hadn’t, is the thing. Worse than being imprisoned underground is being imprisoned above it. Sunlight will seep in sometimes through cracks in the boards over the windows and it makes Wren hysterical like nothing else ever has. Point is still inside him, just like Point had woken up inside him, because Point had slept, the last however many days, inside him; Wren’s being punished for biting him.

Bite is mild. Wren had taken a chunk out of him and he can’t say he doesn’t still feel pretty good about it. He can’t say it was worth it, either.

He already has his fingers twisted in the damp sheets and he’s so pale his knuckles are already white as he pulls at them a little tighter. The sheets are filthy, always wet in some places, dried and hardened in others. They hadn’t been cleaned or changed once since they got here and a lot of horrible things had been done to Wren in this bed. Burning them is probably the only way to salvage them, at this point.

Sometimes, Wren is despondent, and he always thinks that that’s it, and he’s finally checked out, he’s finally lost his mind. Most of the time, Wren is still scared.

It’s exhausting, being scared all the time. He gets mad about it, sometimes, in the rare chunks of time he gets by himself, when Point leaves and Wren gets to take a deep breath, he’s mad at himself about it. How does he possibly still have it in him to be scared?

But he is. All the time. And he’s always in pain. He’s so pale the skin of his hands is translucent. He’s always crying.

That’s a wonder, too. How does he still have it in him to cry? There aren't always tears, he’s usually too dehydrated, but he’s always crying in some capacity. He doesn’t remember ever crying this much when he was underground — but there was a reason for that. It was a big reason.

Stupidly, Wren still finds himself waiting for him. He knows better, he knows better, but he also knows that if Silas could get to him, he would, and that makes him stupid. There’s always a bit of him that’s waiting for Silas to kick the door down and get him the fuck out of here. Silas was big, he was massive, and the district was so far underground it was always a little dark. Wren knows Silas’ silhouette almost as well as he knows his face and he finds himself searching the shadows for it at night, lying awake in the dark, usually crying to himself. He’s always disappointed. He knows better, and he’s still disappointed.

He sniffles, soft and wet, against the sticky sheets. “Darren,” he tries softly.

Point kisses his shoulder, too wet. His grip is white knuckled, bruising, but his mouth is unbearably soft. It makes Wren’s skin crawl so hard he nearly shudders again with it. “You’ll like it, baby,” he tells him softly. Sucking gently on Wren’s shoulder, he starts to rock against him, pushing further inside him, digging his fingertips into his skin and Wren makes a miserable noise against the sheets, a noise that makes Point coo. “I promise,” he repeats, softer, slower.

Wren’s fingers flex in the awful sheets and he chokes out, “please.”

Point hums softly against his skin and it makes Wren’s fingers twitch. Too gently, too slowly, he mouths up Wren’s bare shoulder, the side of his throat, rocking into him slowly, holding his thighs apart so hard he’d split open the sensitive flesh with his fingernails. Wren’s always crying; he’s always bleeding, too.

Sometimes, strange things will happen, he’ll faint or hallucinate or something of the like. He’s lightheaded a lot. He can’t stand for very long at a time. He’s either shivering cold or burning with fever, never anything in between. When he bruises, which is often, he bruises too severely. He’s sure it’s the blood loss catching up with him.

“Relax,” Point murmurs against the side of his throat, against the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “Trust me.”

Wren pushes his face into the sheets, already sticky, and tries to muffle the sound as he sobs, but he can’t control the way his shoulders hitch with it. Point likes when he cries, likes to do everything he can to make him cry, and Wren would love to not give him the satisfaction. Sometimes, most of the time, he just can’t help it.

Point bites down on the side of his throat and Wren sobs again, shudders with it. He’s pulled closer to Point by the waist as he cries, grinding into him too slowly, too deeply. Too softly, he says, “you feel so good.”

Wren thinks, I want to watch you choke, but he doesn’t say that. He thinks a lot of things he never says. What he says is, “I’m sorry,” and, “Darren, please.”

Against his skin, Point laughs, softly and in good humour. “You’ve been so good for me, cowgirl,” he murmurs. “You feel so good for me. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“I don’t want it,” Wren pleads with the sheets.

“You will,” Point murmurs. He skirts his fingers slowly, tauntingly across Wren’s skin as he reaches between his thighs. As Wren jerks away, he pulls him closer, holds him tighter. Wren bruises. Bleeds. “You gotta have more faith in me, sugar,” he says, and Wren can feel too much of his teeth against the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “I’ve been taking good care of you.”

For a long time, Wren’s been acutely aware that there’s something really, deeply fucked up about Point, but it wasn’t until they got above ground that he’s realizing just how deep it runs. Sometimes it’s like nothing’s changed and they��re still underground; sometimes, he’ll get frenzied and kill the neighbours; sometimes, it’s like living in a dollhouse. When Wren’s allowed to wear clothes, he isn’t allowed to choose the clothes he wears. If he doesn’t braid his hair in the stupid pigtails Point likes, his hands are tied and Point will plait it for him with a boot to the back of his neck. How long does he have to keep living like this? Hasn’t he given enough?

“Let me take care of you,” Point croons softly.

Wren has to drop dead at some point. That’s what gets him through. At some point, his body has to give out — it has to. How much can one body take? For how long?

“Darren,” he begs.

Point grunts and Wren can feel the reverberations of it against his back, which makes him wretch. Point hushes him, nosing along his hairline, mouthing too gently over his crawling skin. Being raped is never less than miserable, but there’s something especially skin crawling about Point moving slowly, kissing him gently. There’s been times it’s actually made Wren vomit, but that usually doesn’t make Point blink.

“Relax, cowgirl,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna use you, and then we’re gonna get dressed, and I’m gonna take you outside, baby. We’re gonna get you some fresh air.”

There was a time, maybe not even all that long ago, that Wren was desperate to get outside again, to get fresh air. Since they got to this place, everything that’s happened to Wren outside of the house is even more horrible than things that happen to him within it. He doesn’t feel safe anywhere, but he feels safer in the house. It’s familiar, now, at least.

“Darren,” he begs again.

“Be a good girl,” Point tells his skin. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

Wren sobs softly against the mattress. One of his feet is tangled in the sheets, has been for the last day and a half. He hasn’t been allowed to leave the bed since the bite. He really doesn’t want to know what’s waiting for him once he finally does. Sometimes he has it in him to fight — sometimes he bites. Sometimes he’s a wounded deer.

He clings to the sheets and he cries, pathetic. When Point comes, he bites down hard on the back of Wren’s neck and Wren can feel the way that he groans all the way down his spine and into the small of his back. He chokes out a sob and he can feel it just the same.

“Good girl,” Point coos softly. He ghosts his fingers slowly up and down Wren’s stomach with one hand, gripping bruises into his bleeding hip with the other. “There’s a good girl.” When he pulls out, he does it with a lingering kiss to Wren’s hairline and a noise that makes his skin crawl, something low, something that Wren can feel too much of against his back. He swats him hard on the ass as he climbs out of bed and Wren doesn’t lift his head to watch him go.

Face pressed into the sheets, he sniffles miserably to himself and listens to Point’s footsteps creak across the hardwood of the floor. The door to the bathroom opens, closes. Water is turned on.

Wren waits until he hears it running before he pulls the sheets up, over his head, and covers his face with both hands as he cries. It’s fucked up, right, and he knows it is, because there was a time not even all that long ago that all Wren wanted in the world was to get out of the district, to see the sunlight, to breathe air not even entirely fresh, just not recycled or filtered. New air. Now, all Wren wants in the world is to go back.

He doesn’t want to die by himself and he doesn’t want to die in this house, not so close to freedom. The district was miserable and there was never any denying that, it was an inhumanly awful way to live, but here it isn’t any better. Here, it’s even more relentless. Here, Wren is by himself.

Point will leave sometimes, does things he doesn’t tell Wren about and that Wren doesn’t ask him about, but he doesn’t leave often and he doesn’t leave for long. His attention is constant and relentless. He’s always there, and he’s always touching. Often it hurts. Still, Wren is the loneliest he’s ever been. And fuck if he there’s even a waking second that he isn’t thinking about Silas.

Missing him is constant. Sure, there’s probably an element of being trauma bonded, but Silas had done something to Wren, had changed him intrinsically, and not only will Wren never be the same without him he’s not sure how he's supposed to keep doing this without him at all. It was always Silas — at least he gets to come back to Silas, at least Silas will come to his rescue. Worse than missing a limb is missing Silas. Wren could lose a lot of himself and he’d figure it out, he’d manage; he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without Silas. He’s not sure how long he can.

He thinks of Silas pretty constantly when Point is with him but it hurts worse when he’s alone. It hurts deeper when there’s no other hurt to distract him. It’s hard not to feel bad for himself.

He cries into his hands and he thinks about Silas, because he’s always thinking about Silas. Even if he didn’t save him, he wishes he was here. He wishes he was with him, just to keep him company, maybe to hold his hand. He’s so tired of being sad by himself.

He’s so busy wallowing he doesn’t hear Point come back. When he does, he rips the sheet away, flashing Wren his teeth as he tosses an armful of clothing at him. A handful of clothing, realistically. Wren can’t begin to guess where the clothes Point gives him came from or come from still; there are things that are obviously his favourites, things he makes Wren wear more often, but it seems like he has an endless amount of costumes at his disposal. And that’s what they are, really, they’re costumes, sometimes the kind literally made for children, sometimes the pornstar or stripper equivalent. They’re all small and humiliating.

It’s a handful of tulle and gingham he throws at him now, which is unsurprising. It’s Point’s favourite costume; he likes the dress so much that he’s actually cleaned it. It’s short, frilly, humiliating. There’s a little white apron stitched into the waist.

Point’s wearing denim and plaid because Point’s been wearing a lot of denim and plaid. Before now, Wren had never seen him in civilians clothes — he isn’t sure if Point’s always worn a lot of plaid, maybe, or if he’s in costume too, dressing up to match the little farm girl dresses he makes Wren wear. If he’s maybe playing farmer. If he’s just doing it to make fun of Wren, which is more likely.

“Get dressed,” he says, and clicks his tongue. He doesn’t look much like a farmer, if that’s what he’s going for. His beard’s been growing out since he’d kidnapped Wren, and the dark hair and the plaid make him look a bit like a lumberjack — like the axe wielding maniac from a slasher movie.

“I don’t want to,” Wren says, wet.

He raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t asking. Get dressed.”

“Darren,” he says softly.

Impatient, he snaps his fingers. “Let’s go, cowgirl.”

Sniffling softly, Wren rolls onto back, leaning hard on his hands as he pushes himself up. Point watches him. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is so imposing that Wren can’t even pretend he’s not there. He pulls on the dress, short and demeaning, barely long enough to actually be a dress. Blood and semen track down the inside of his thighs.

Almost before he’s pulled the layers of skirts all the way down, Point’s clicking his tongue again. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, Wren goes. He can’t walk very fast or very long anymore. He always has kind of a limp. It always makes him think of Silas, as most things often do.

Point leads him through the house with a hand curled around the back of his neck. He doesn’t usually let Wren get far without him, and if he leaves him on his own he ties him down first, some way or another. Wren makes it as far as the back door before he panics and grabs the doorframe. “Darren.”

Point squeezes the back of his neck, threatening, but he shows Wren his teeth again, something that Wren suspects is supposed to be a smile. “Let’s go.” He cradles Wren’s face with his other hand, thumbing something from the corner of his mouth, blood or old lipstick. “Don’t make me regret doing something nice for you, now.”

“Please,” Wren says softly, white knuckles against the doorframe.

Point’s only ever been able to pretend to be patient for so long. There’s always something simmering under the surface of his dead eyes, something impatient and self gratifying and cruel. He pushes Wren back against the doorframe so quickly Wren can’t do anything to stop it, he pushes him so hard the back of Wren’s head collides with the doorframe with a force that makes him nauseous.

He pins him there with a hand around his throat. Instinctively, Wren curls a hand around his wrist, and Point’s mouth stretches, a grotesque mockery of a grin. He ghosts his other hand slowly up the inside of Wren’s sticky leg, beneath his skirt, stroking slowly along the sensitive flesh between his thighs. When Wren jerks, another instinct, trying to flinch away, Point pins him harder against the doorframe. Pushes his fingers inside him. Doesn’t even let Wren look away.

He chokes out a sound around Point’s hand, something small and pathetic, something breathless.

Point grins a little wider. He’s leaned in too close and Wren can feel his breath against his face. It could be psychological, it’s probably psychological, but he would swear his breath always smells like gunmetal.

He’s big, too. Wren doesn’t ever forget, not really, but he doesn’t always remember quite how much. He’s prone a lot. Point always tells him he does all his best work on his back, and that’s how he spends a lot of his time. It kind of scales the difference between them down to Point’s crushing weight.

He isn’t big like Silas had been big, not inhumanly, but he’s a big guy all the same. He towers over Wren. He has to lean down to breathe gunmetal into his face.

Wren chokes out another sound, a plea that doesn’t make it, and pushes his other hand against Point’s wide chest. With a huff like laughter, Point leans even closer, pressing his face to the side of Wren’s head. He’s inescapable like this; he’s everywhere.

His fingers move inside Wren and when Wren tries to flinch away, he holds his thighs apart with his knee, he traps him against the doorway with his weight. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against his hair, and it makes Wren gag. It always does. “And you’re all mine.” His hand flexes around Wren’s throat. He’s everywhere. Every one of Wren’s senses is Point. “Always so wet for me,” he murmurs, and he murmurs it in this slow, kind of syrupy voice that makes Wren’s skin crawl. “Always make the prettiest noises. It made me want to do something nice for you.” His voice doesn’t change, but his fingers flex around Wren’s throat again, threatening, as he murmurs, “but you’re being awfully ungrateful already, cowgirl. It’s making me want to change my mind.”

There was a very short chunk of time, fresh out of high school, that Wren not only got to be a human being, but his own person. He’d been an artist for a bit, before he had to move back home, a real one. He had a girlfriend. Julie.

She was scary. A tattoo artist with a heavy European accent, she smoked imported cigarettes and she had a thing about true crime, sometimes to a degree that was a little worrying. Her background noise of choice was always the same true crime podcast, somebody with a hypnotic sort of voice talking about the worst things human beings have ever done to each other. It was morbid and sad, obviously, but almost in the way that really well done horror movies and morbid and sad — it isn’t real life. Those kinds of things don’t really happen to people.

Except when they do. He wonders what the true crime podcasters would say about him if they knew. He wonders if anybody will ever know what really happened to him. Realistically, probably not. Realistically, Wren’s probably gonna die in this farmhouse, god knows where, and Point will probably fuck his body before he disposes of it and then he’ll never talk about him again. Wren’s gonna die and nobody but Point will ever know what really happened to him.

I’m sorry, he tries to say, but Point is strangling him and all he manages is a weak, whimpering sort of noise.

“Are you going to be good?” Point murmurs against his hair.

As best he can, Wren nods.

“Grateful?” He asks softly.

Wren nods again.

Point’s hand leaves his throat so suddenly that the rush of air into his lungs makes Wren choke. He tips his head back against the doorframe, trying to steady his breathing and gasping with it. Trying to blink the blur from his vision, he isn’t watching Point but he recognizes the sound of his belt buckle. He’s started wearing big, noisey belt buckles. Part of his flannel costume. The sound makes the hair prickle at the back of Wren’s neck and he tries to lift his head, to lean away. Point is still everywhere.

“Not again,” Wren begs, hoarse.

Point leans back just far enough that Wren can see his face, still hovering in his personal space. He raises his eyebrows. Low and dangerous, he murmurs, “what did I just say?”

Wren hiccups softly. He doesn’t know when he started crying or if he ever really stopped in the first place. He tries to turn his face away but Point slides his fingers out of him to grab his jaw with his slick hand.

“I want you to keep your eyes on me,” he says.

Wren sniffles miserably.

Point shows him his teeth again, a mockery of a smile, as he lifts him up and off his feet, shoving the layers of his skirts up and around his waist. “Say please.”

Wren doesn’t mean to, but he sobs.

Lining himself up, he repeats, “say please.”

“Darren —“

“Don’t use my name,” he says, flat. He’s looking too closely at Wren and there’s still nothing human in his eyes at all. “Say please.”

Wren sniffles again, even more miserable. “Please,” he whispers.

Without looking away, he pushes inside him again, slow and almost taunting. When Wren’s eyes close, flinching in pain, Point grabs him by the face again, pressing his fingertips too hard into his jaw.

“Ow,” Wren breathes, and he doesn’t mean to but Point doesn’t like it either way, cracking his head sharply back against the doorframe.

“If I wanted you to hurt, girl,” he says, “you would. Be good.”

Wren blinks quickly, kind of dazed, bracing himself belatedly as Point punches a series of choked, breathless noises out of him. There isn’t anything slow or gentle about it this time; it hurts. It hurts in the frantic, sort of manic way it does sometimes, the way it hurts when Point really wants him to hurt, brutal and frenzied.

A cry is knocked out of somewhere high in his chest. He braces a hand against Point, trying to push him away without really meaning to and Point quickly gathers both his wrists in one hand. “Ungrateful,” he spits. “What did I say?”

Wren bites his tongue and cries out again, anyway, kind of strangled.

Through his teeth, Point says, “try harder. Say thank you.”

Wren makes another pained sound, something wet, something he doesn’t mean. “Thank you,” he tries, but it comes out as a sob and Point lifts his hands up and over his head, pins them to the doorframe, just high enough that the strain of it echoes pain through Wren’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he breathes, trying again. “Thank you.”

Point coos, squeezing him around the wrists. “There’s a good girl.” He ducks his head, mouthing along the bruises blooming along Wren’s jaw and Wren finally screws his eyes shut, chest hitching as he sobs. Point groans and too much of Wren rumbles with it. “There’s a good girl,” he murmurs again.

It’s fast and it’s brutal and it’s meant to hurt but that doesn’t mean it’s over quickly. When Point’s finally done with him, when Wren’s finally placed back on his feet, his legs give out. He can’t hold himself up, and he would’ve hit the ground if Point hadn’t caught him quickly around the waist, lifting Wren up and over his shoulder.

Hurting and dazed, Wren twists a hand into the back of Point’s flannel shirt for balance and tries to stop crying. Can’t.

He’s carried outside, across a stretch of the land behind the house, to a barn Wren had known was there but had never been allowed to get close enough to see. Holding him up, across his shoulder with one hand, Point unlocks the doors with more effort than Wren would have expected; he punches a series of numbers into a keypad, he swipes a keycard, he presses his thumbprint. He pushes the doors open, and he takes the time to close and secure them behind him before he places Wren on his feet.

Wren turns, heart in his throat. On the outside, it’s just a barn. On the inside, it’s a bunker. It looks so much like something from the district, armed and steel, that Wren reacts to it viscerally and takes a step back, right into Point’s chest.

He wraps an arm around Wren quickly, heaving him off his feet again, too easy.

“Darren,” Wren breathes, frantic. Concrete had been poured to cover the floor and Wren is carried across it, to a length of chain and a collar bolted into the centre of the barn. Wren does everything he can to scramble away but Point is so much bigger than he is. “Darren!”

“I have some work to do,” Point explains. He drops Wren to the concrete, unceremonious, and pins him there with a foot to his chest as he leans down and pulls the collar around his throat, pulling it just a little too tightly to be comfortable. “I need you to stay out of the way while I get it done.”

“No,” Wren breathes, and tries to sit up.

Point boots him onto his back so hard it knocks the wind out of him and without missing a beat says, “I made it look like home. I thought it would make you more comfortable.” Above Wren, his grin is a leer. “I thought you would like it.” Wren makes a weak noise, trying to take a breath in. Point says, “I did it for you. Do you like it?”

“Don’t leave me here,” Wren breathes. Almost worse than being with Point is waiting for him, so tense that sometimes he could cry with it, sometimes it could make him sick. Concrete and steel, the inside of the barn is already cold, uninsulated. So secure, it’s dark. Quiet.

Point clicks his tongue at him, unimpressed. “What do I keep telling you about being ungrateful?” He peels his foot slowly off Wren’s chest. There’s a dirty boot print left behind on his dress. “If you’re a good girl while I’m not here,” he says, “I’ll let you back in the house when I’m finished.”

“Darren —“

“If I find out you were a bad girl,” he says, “it will be very painful for you. Y’hear?”

“Darren —“

But he leaves. Wren is shivering, still crying, too dehydrated for tears but still hitching with it, and Point leaves, closing the armoured doors behind him. Not for the first time, he leaves Wren alone in the dark.

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