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sarahowritesostucky · 5 months ago

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📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23), mentions of abortion

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, the United States is overtaken by religious fanatics, and Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival. When he's discovered to be fertile, he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter III. Freedom to

Story Masterlist

Before:

First, the president and the ranking fifteen closest in command are assassinated. There’s an explosion that nobody can trace, and just like that, the whole cabinet goes.

Bucky’s halfway through his Wednesday physics lecture when the professor stops what she’s doing and grabs the remote. The tv gets turned on and the one hundred and twelve freshmen in the lecture hall watch it play out on the news with a sense of surrealism.

NYU winds up suspending all classes, and Bucky takes the train home to spend time with his parents. George and Winnie put him up in his old room, which they haven’t yet bothered to empty out. There’s still a poster of Nine Inch Nails on the back of the door from Bucky’s alternative phase. Becca, Trudy and Clair come home within the following week, and the house is just as cramped as it ever was.

That’s how he finds himself at home when the news breaks that Congress has been eliminated. Eliminated, that’s the word they use. Not an assassination. Now it’s a terrorist attack, and the martial law that’s been in place since two weeks ago has everyone in their homes by sundown. But there are already guardians patrolling the neighborhood streets as if they’re the ones in charge.

Bucky gets a text from his bank, notifying him that his accounts have been frozen and will be transferred to his Alpha spouse or next of kin. He's still what-the-fucking that with his sisters when his mom steps out of the room to go call his dad and urge him to come home early from work. All their phones start shrieking with emergency alerts, telling them to shelter in place, that people on the street could be shot.

In the next few hours, Bucky's father comes home, looking wan and disturbed. Bucky can't get him to give a straight answer on what he saw out there to make him so upset, but the occasional pops of gunfire and revving vehicles outside are a hint. Bucky keeps getting text messages from his bank, from the University. When he tries to log into his accounts, he's blocked, and repeat text messages are triggered to his phone.

Becca, Trudy, and Clair are beta: they don't get any text messages.

His mom and dad come back into the living room and join Bucky and his sisters in sitting on the couch and watching the tv. Within hours, the news programs stop broadcasting. The tv shows only static. Within days, the missing news programs are replaced with just one: a state news channel.

The new broadcasts are bare-boned, but they are very informative. The anchor who used to do the six o’clock news comes on for her slot. She sits poised behind the news desk, making no comment for a long minute. There’s sweat visibly beading on her brow, but it’s obvious that she’s trying hard to maintain her composure while sitting in front of the large banner they’ve set as a backdrop. It's a symbol Bucky recognizes from a Christian nationalist group that's been in the news these past few years. "That's ... that's the Sons of Jacob flag," he says.

"Sons of what?"

"Holy rollers," he breathes, dread welling in his stomach. "They have a chapter on campus."

“Good evening,” the news anchor says, when someone or something offscreen prompts her. Her hands clasp tightly atop the desk and she begins cheerfully reading off the news: "As of six p.m. eastern time today, security in the capital has been declared restored," she announces. "The worst of the fighting is suppressed, and recovery efforts are being prepared for deployment in all major cities north of the Knoxville-Raleigh line. In Washington D.C., the government is reported to be secured and solidly in place."

"Oh, thank goodness," Winnie says, but Bucky is frowning at the tv and shaking his head.

"I don't think they mean the US government, mom."

"What?"

"Insurgent forces have suffered devastating defeats, and have been pushed back beyond the North Carolina-Tennessee border. Reports of smaller insurgent camps located in the Pennsylvania mountains are unsubstantiated at this point, but government officials are warning civilians in the Allegany Mountain range to avoid travel. An extended shelter in place order is expected to remain in place for the region."

Bucky looks worriedly to his mother, because he’s not stupid. The newscaster lady looks almost exactly the same as she always had before, only now there's an odd enthusiasm radiating from her; a sort of glassy-eyed, desperate-to-be-believed look that doesn't sit well with Bucky. It doesn’t take him long to learn what that look is, or what it means.

It’s fear. And it means that he should be afraid too.

After:

“Ofsteven, good afternoon.”

Bucky looks up from his seat at the window. Today is the third day in a row that he’s sat there, time spent mostly staring out at the back yard. There’s a black guy who wears beta blue and tends to the flowers and bushes out there. Sam. Bucky's been wondering if he might go down and poke around the little greenhouse that's attached to the kitchen, or if he'd be chastised for getting in the way.

But now Commander Rogers is standing awkwardly in the doorway to his little room, and Bucky snaps to attention. It's odd, hearing himself referred to by this new name. Up until not too long ago, he was called Ofwarren. Then at the red center, it'd been back to James, and now it's back to the goddamn patronymic. “Commander,” he says respectfully. "Blessed day."

The Commander gives him a tight sort of smile. “Blessed day." He steps a little farther into the room. "You can call me Steve,” he offers. "If you want."

"What?" Bucky shifts uncomfortably, realizes that he's not joking. “But ... That’s not allowed."

“I run my household a little differently, you’ll find,” Steve says. “Commander is ..." he makes a face. "It's very formal. I’d prefer it if you called me Steve. Especially since we’ll, erm ... you know. Be getting to know one another better.”

In another life, Bucky would’ve blushed, but he’s been indoctrinated in some ways whether he’d like to admit it or not. He’s used to his role as an object by now. “Okay,” he agrees quietly. "Fine."

He doesn’t want to seem too eager to be breaking the rules, since this could just be Commander Rogers’ way of tricking him, of sussing him out. There are true Believers who get their kicks that way, and vessels like Bucky are already known for rule breaking, criminally sentenced to their roles as broodmares for the state. Steve might just be trying to lure him into a false sense of comfortability by feigning friendliness. Commander Putnam had been that way. The bottoms of Bucky’s feet have scars from his misplaced trust in years past, and he isn’t keen on earning more.

“You can call me Bucky if you want,” he reluctantly offers.

Steve nods, brightening a bit. “Okay. Bucky it is." His mouth quirks and he tilts his head. "I take it that's a nickname of some sort?"

"Yeah. My one sister started it, back when she couldn't pronounce my middle name." He shrugs. "It's what my family called me."

Steve smiles, encouraged. "Are any of them still around?”

“No.”

He's surprised yet again, when Steve makes it clear he's going to join him for lunch.

Bucky'd thought commanders like Steve were too busy to take meals outside their offices. Even now, nearly four years after the institution of biblical law, there's still a lot of work to do: insurgencies to hunt, population crises to handle, people to surveil, torture, maim. Kill. The restructuring of the country is still in its infancy, and just because the iron fist of fascism has closed firmly around their necks doesn't mean there's ever a shortage of work to be done.

Bucky doesn't yet know what Commander Rogers' specific role is, in this brave new nation of theirs, but so far, every Commander that he's encountered has held an instrumental position. He tries to remember that, when his first instinct is to trust Steve's surface-level kindness. Steve isn't like him. He caused this. He wanted this.

Steve leads them downstairs, down to the conservatory that connects the kitchen to the greenhouse. It's set up as an informal dining room, and Bucky’s taken aback when, after placing a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches onto the table for the Commander and Bucky, the Martha named Sharon puts out four other place settings. Shortly thereafter, Sharon and the redheaded servant—Natasha, Bucky learns, and the gardener and the driver (Sam and Clint) join the table as well.

They eat in relative silence, and Bucky spends the meal sneaking surreptitious glances around at everybody. They’re all eating together as if they're equals, when Bucky knows they very much are not. Gender roles have been staunchly enforced in the past four years, and it's become a rare sight indeed, to have alphas, betas, and omegas interacting together all at once.

Steve is sitting at the head of the table, and it comes as a shock when he says, “So how has everyone’s morning been?”

Bucky keeps his eyes on his sandwich, sure that he’s not expected to answer. Natasha is the first one who speaks, saying, “Pretty good. Got the vacuuming done."

"Upstairs, or downstairs?" Steve asks pointedly.

"Downstairs. Upstairs isn't ready yet."

"Dammit," Steve grunts.

"All the laundry's done.” Natasha glances reproachfully at Sam. “Unless somebody makes an awful mess of his clothes going forward. Blood isn't exactly easy to get out, you know.”

Sam chuckles. “I have a dirty job, sue me.” He looks pointedly at Steve. "I got the hedges done."

"Did that go smoothly?" Steve asks without looking up from his soup. Bucky frowns, wondering how trimming the hedges could go wrong.

"There were a few dead spots, but they came off without a hitch."

"Disposed of?" Steve asks.

"Yep. Threw 'em in the burn pit."

Steve nods in somber approval. "Good riddance."

Jeez, Bucky thinks, these people take lawn maintenance very seriously. He realizes after a beat that his mouth is gaping a little, and he snaps it shut. This is the first time in nearly four years that he’s observed alphas, betas and omegas speaking so freely with one another, acting like equals. It’s almost like before. The thought puts an ache in his chest, which he quickly squashes.

“How about you Bucky?”

His eyes shoot up to find Steve and everyone else at the table regarding him. He quickly swallows the bite of sandwich in his mouth to answer, “Um, I’ve been okay. Just ... been in my room.” The answer is so dull that it almost makes him feel embarrassed. Even now, when the highlights of other people’s days are as tedious as laundry and gardening, Bucky himself has nothing to offer in the way of conversation. He doesn’t dare complain, though. There are worse things than being bored.

“You must be getting bored up there in your room,” Steve observes.

“Um …”

“I have a modest library in my office. If you like, you can poke around and find something that interests you.”

Bucky's stomach sinks, and his fingers feel cold where they grip his sandwich. “Excuse me?” he asks. Surely, this is a trap. This is the Rogers’ household trying to see whether he’s a True Believer or not. They're testing him. Bucky feels sick at the prospect of getting in trouble, so he mumbles, “I don’t think so,” and looks back down at his plate. “That’s not allowed.”

There’s a long beat of awkward silence, and then Steve says, “Guys, can you give us a minute?”

Four chairs scrape against the stone floor of the conservatory and Natasha and the others file out through the kitchen, disappearing back into the house. Bucky feels dread well in his gut. Has he said the wrong thing?

“Bucky,” Steve says carefully. “Do you really think that it’s wrong for an omega to read?”

Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes boring into his head, so he looks up. Steve doesn’t look upset, he looks interested. Bucky licks his lips nervously. “Well. I dunno. I ... was an engineering major, in college,” he says. “I minored in English Lit.”

Steve nods sympathetically. “I take it you were quite an avid reader, then.”

“I guess.”

Steve continues to eat his lunch as if Bucky hasn’t said anything wrong, and it gives Bucky hope. Surely this can’t be, he thinks. Surely there aren’t people like this, aren’t households like this, anymore. “Did you really mean it?” he asks, heart lifting with new hope, about ready to bust free of the scar tissue that’s kept it tethered down for so long. "You'd let me read?"

“Yes,” Steve says. “You can come to my office tonight, after evening meal. You can pick out some books.”

Bucky’s heart soars. “Can I take some back to my room?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve snaps, sounding like a true Commander for the first time yet. He levels Bucky with a stern look. “My office is the only room in the house without windows. Do you understand? You may only read them in there.”

Bucky swallows heavily and ducks his head, cowed. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

Before:

Bucky’s naked toes scrape the ledge of the exam table. He’s only wearing the paper gown they gave him, and frankly the room’s too cold for that. The door to the exam room opens again, and Bucky’s eyes shoot up. He sits up straighter. “Doctor?”

The man doesn’t look at him. He walks over to the cabinets in the room and drops the folder he’s holding onto the countertop with a flourish and a sigh. Bucky screws up his face at having been ignored. “Um … what did the—”

“You’re pregnant,” the doctor says flatly, still not turning around. “Congratulations.”

Bucky’s heart sinks. Sure, he’d suspected. Hell, he’d pretty much known. Two positive at-home tests and a smiling pharmacist when he’d been desperate enough to buy a third had told him so. It’s why he’d come to the clinic. But still, shit. “Okay,” he says, swallowing heavily. “Okay. So, do I need to make another appointment to come back? Or can we just …”

The doctor’s shoulders tense up through the material of his lab coat. “Excuse me?” he says. He turns around and the expression on his face makes Bucky want to shrink away. “‘Can we just’? ‘Can we just’ what?”

“... I told you,” Bucky says, wary of the man's anger. “The pregnancy. I want to terminate.”

If he had any doubts about what was going through the physician’s mind, they’re quickly quashed by the way the man’s face now dissolves into disgust. “Well isn't that a pretty way of putting it,” he spits. “You want an abortion?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky juts his chin out in defiance. “You got a problem with that?”

The doctor scoffs. “Yes, I do. You know, hardly anyone can have a baby anymore. You manage to get pregnant, and you want to kill it?”

“It’s my choice.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Bucky stands up, heedless of the fact that he’s dressed in only the flimsy paper gown. “I don’t think you’re being very professional,” he says. Really, it’s not that this doctor’s opinion is that different from a lot of people’s these days, but Bucky still feels infuriated at the fact that he’s having to have this argument with a doctor, of all people. “Now, do I have to make an appointment to come back?” he grits. "Or can we take care of this today?"

The man’s features harden. “You’ll have to go somewhere else if you want to murder your own child. We don’t do that here.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. “This is a city-funded clinic.” He’d specifically come here instead of the private doctor that his parents’ insurance could easily cover. “You have to provide reproductive health care. It’s the law.”

“The law’s going to change real soon.” The doctor turns his back to Bucky and heads for the door.

Bucky watches in disbelief as he's utterly dismissed. “Excuse me?”

“Get the hell out of my clinic,” the man says as he flings the door open and steps out into the hallway. He spares Bucky one last contemptuous glance. “There’s a special place in Hell for people like you.”

Bucky gapes as the man goes, and the door slowly shuts behind him. Suddenly, the room feels even colder than it had before, and Bucky’s desperate to get his clothes back on. He stoops to grab his jeans and underwear from where he’d put them on a chair, and he shucks them on, followed by his shirt. He rakes his hands through his hair, feeling overwhelmed tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. He’s had enough shit to deal with lately, what with midterms, his boyfriend breaking up with him, and now this pregnancy scare (well, not a scare anymore, as it turns out). He really didn’t need to deal with such a shitty person on today of all days.

“Well fuck you too,” he mutters to the empty room, bitterness burning in his gut. He’s going to go straight to the next city clinic, and the next, and the next, until he finds someone to agree to help him. Because no way in fucking hell is he having a baby one semester into undergrad.

After:

Bucky trails his hands over the spines of the books that line Commander Rogers’ library. Steve is sitting at his desk, distracted by whatever he’s looking at on the screen of his computer.

There must be over a thousand books in the office. Steve has books on everything from philosophy to horticulture; from biographies and novels, to antique encyclopedias and foreign language art books. Bucky can’t help but be impressed. And jealous. "This is amazing," he murmurs.

Steve spares him a glance from over at his desk. He looks vaguely amused. “It’s just a library.”

Said like someone who's never had anything taken away from him, Bucky thinks peevishly. “Must be a thousand," he guesses.

"Close to twelve hundred, last time I counted."

"Are they all yours, or did they come with—” he cuts himself off before he can complete the question.

It’s not talked about openly, isn't considered polite, but everybody knows that the Commanders of the Faithful all live in grand houses that were taken and not bought. Taken from people deemed unworthy by the government. Gender traitors, freedom fighters, apostates. There are plenty of things that can get a person killed these days, their house stripped away along with everything else they own. There’s a strong chance that this house they’re standing in right now got snatched from someone else; a person with a life, hopes and dreams, furniture, family. A person with possessions and passions. With books.

Bucky tenses when he comes across an entire section stuffed full with different spiritual and holy books. There's one whole shelf dedicated to nothing but an assortment of bibles: King James, Catholic, Greek, and New Republic versions, all. Old and new, English and Latin. It seems to be a collection, and Bucky moves away down the line of books, uneasy at the evidence of Steve's religious fervor. "You're a collector?"

“Sort of. Took me over a decade to build all that up, though," Steve says. "I brought them all down when I moved. Couldn’t choose which ones to leave behind."

"Behind?"

"In New York.”

Bucky snaps to attention. “New York City?” he asks.

Steve looks over and sees his reaction—which must be telling, because a knowing smile splits his face. “What borough?” he asks.

“Brooklyn. Red Hook."

He scoffs and thumbs at his own chest. “Gowanus. Wow. I guess it’s a small world after all, huh? We probably grew up less than twenty minutes apart from each other."

Bucky bites his tongue to keep from saying any number of inappropriate, unfriendly things; about how their shared West Brooklyn origin is probably the only thing they have in common, how their situations are nothing alike, how Steve is obviously older than him, so they definitely were never “growing up” at the same time together, no matter where they lived. "Yeah,” he grunts. “Small world."

He keeps his focus on the books in front of his face. He's nervous just from perusing the titles; feels like he’s thirteen again, sneaking into his parents’ wine fridge, about to be caught and grounded at any second. Silly perhaps, but he can’t shake it. He doesn’t want to get into an unnecessary discussion on his appreciation for Commander Rogers’ library, or his own affinity for reading. Reading is forbidden for people like Bucky now. If caught, it could cost him a finger, or god forbid a whole hand. Since he’s only got the one left to work with, he’s got to be careful. The back of his brain keeps itching with the niggling reminder, over and over again: This could still be a trick.

In another life maybe he’dve be embarrassed of such paranoia, but he isn't now. He’s been conditioned to be this suspicious. At this point it’s simply survival instinct, to resist the twitch of his fingers as they linger over Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. It's sandwiched alphabetically right between Huxley and Orwell, with a little metal placard overhead that's engraved in tidy letters: Dystopian Fiction. Bucky starts to reach for the book.

“You a fan of the genre?”

His heart leaps and he jerks his hand back and looks over at Steve. “What? No. No I just …” Steve watches him keenly, with an inscrutable expression that does nothing to calm Bucky's nerves. He hastily shakes his head. “I’d seen the movie once, is all. Before.” He doesn’t have to expound on what “Before” means. They both know. Before the government collapsed. Before the regime took over. Before the world went to shit.

Well, he doesn’t yet know if Steve agrees with that last part. Regardless, Bucky knows he can’t place all of his trust on this man and his considerate treatment thus far. It isn’t worth what little bodily integrity he has left. He's got to be careful. “It was a depressing movie, anyway,” he mumbles, and moves on down the line of books to look for something else.

He winds up choosing a pulpy science fiction novel that he’s never heard of, by an author he’s never heard of, with subject matter completely removed from real life. It’s a cheap paperback, with a worn spine and outdated, sun-bleached cover art. Looks like something somebody dug out of a bin at a yard sale. It's probably not a very good read, but if Bucky’s going to be caught reading anything, it’ll be least painful if it’s something that has nothing to do with anything. Nothing … subversive.

Steve doesn’t seem to care one way or another, though his eyes do seem sympathetic, as if he knows that Bucky is holding himself back. “You can come at night,” he tells him. “After dinner. I’ll be in here most nights. Sometimes doing business with other people, but when it’s just you and I alone together, I'll lock the door. You can stay and read whatever you like.”

Bucky tenses up at that wording: “alone together.” Since Gilead began, there’s only ever been one alpha who went out of his way to be alone with Bucky, and it hadn’t been for charitable reasons. “But it's not … It’s not a trade, right?” he checks nervously. When he works up the nerve to look at Steve's face, he catches the tail end of a shocked look, which rapidly bleeds into a scowl of insulted indignation. Bucky panics and tries to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to come in here at all, if you don’t want to,” Steve snaps. “Go to your room instead, for all I care.” He goes back to his typing at the computer, visibly incensed. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

Bucky winces, mortified at having pissed off his new Commander so soon—and when the guy was only trying to be nice to him, too! There’s so little left in this miserable world for people like Bucky, and now he fears he might’ve ruined the one good thing that was being offered. “No,” he hurries to say. “I’ll stay. I-I'd like to. I mean ... if that’s still okay?”

Steve shrugs and doesn’t look over. “Do what you want.”

Feeling cowed, Bucky goes over to sit on the couch. He curls up in the corner nearest the room's fireplace and flips past the copyright and the title pages. He begins reading chapter one. It’s only as he’s re-reading the same paragraph for the third time that he realizes he’s not taking any of it in. He sighs and looks over at Steve. “I’m sorry," he says. "I wasn’t trying to insult you."

"It's fine."

Bucky bites his lip and looks back down. After another moment, he quietly adds, "Really, though. It's ... it means a lot, you letting me read in here." He peeks up again and finds Steve regarding him again, this time with a softened expression. Bucky tries to smile a little, and uses his name like a peace offering: "Thank you ... Steve."

Steve inhales deeply and nods, satisfied. “You’re welcome. Bucky.”

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talesofurbania · 2 years ago

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Prompt Continuation

This is a continuation of Prompt 387 by @nuttynutcycle (full credit to them for their amazing idea)

Original prompt:

The hero frowned at the sidekicks flinch. "Calm down, I'm not going to hurt you." They stroked their protégée's hair softly.

The sidekick knew all too well how that hand could twist and hit and hurt in ways no one would see. 'Not hurt you?' Maybe not now.

"The forums think we like each other." The hero said casually. "There's 'unbridled tension in every look.'"

They didn't know what to say to that. Fear and love were interchangeable when viewed through a mask.

The soft hand wrenched the sidekicks head until their gazes locked.

"What do you think? Is there romantic tension between us?" The hero's look made it clear that there was only one acceptable answer.

(Continuation starts here)

TW: abuse

The sidekick’s throat had long closed up with dread, but they jerked their head against the hero’s painful grip and hoped they would take that as a yes.

‘Good.’ The hero’s fingers loosened their hold. ‘In that case, what do you say to a little press conference at headquarters?’

The sidekick was thoroughly confused. Imagining themselves in front of a crowd of flashing lights and microphones made them feel queasy.

‘Press conference? Why?’

‘To tell everyone that you are mine, of course.’ The hero stepped back, smiling. As if they had just said they had gone and bought cereal for breakfast. The sidekick was far too sharp now to miss the undertones. Or the coldness behind the hero’s upturned lips.

They had to do it now. The few half-formed ideas they had mulled over flew out their head like papers blowing out an open window. A new thought coalesced. It was crazy. But the sidekick was desperate. Trying to look confident, they headed for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

The sidekick looked back and willed themselves not to recoil from the hero’s narrowed eyes.

‘Just going to pick up my laptop from my mum’s. I need it tomorrow for work…I was going to do it tonight, but what with the press conference and-and the whole relationship afterwards–’

‘Ah.’ The hero’s brow relaxed minutely.

‘Why don’t I come with you? Make sure you don’t get into any...trouble?’ .’

‘Oh that’s kind of you.’ The sidekick was trying to think above the white noise of panic.

‘But-But if you came, what with our (they swallowed) romantic tension, she’d be able to tell - she’s quite good at that actually (it wasn’t a lie). And then she’d gossip to all her friends and then all the surprise and…and delight of your announcement would go to waste.’

The hero paused. And then smirked.

‘Good to see you’re as eager as I am about this’, they remarked. ‘Fine. You’ve convinced me. But you will be back by six. Or I won’t be happy.’

The sidekick knew full well what that meant. They saw the hero’s fingers twitch. Taking a deep breath, they nodded and forced themselves to walk sedately from the room.

The villain’s sidekick was enjoying a good nap in their dorm room, reaping the rewards of a day off after an exciting night of bank-robbing with their mentor. They were startled awake by a loud banging on their door. Groaning, they yanked it open but every angry word on their tongue fizzled out as the hero’s sidekick stood gasping for breath and near tears in front of them.

‘Please’, they panted. ‘I need to talk with your boss. Now.’

#hero x villain #writeblr #prompt #nuttynutcycle #sidekick #hero x sidekick #whump #forced relationship #abuse #snippet #hero #villain #villain x hero #writing snippet #continuation #hero whumper #sidekick whumpee

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secretwhumplair · 2 years ago

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Whump prompt XVII

Fake relationship but it's a prisoner and a guard. The prisoner desperately needs some favours. The guard enjoys the "affection" and power play.

Until the guard starts falling for their own lies and starts thinking that maybe, they both mean it. They break out the prisoner to start a new life... what will the prisoner do, now that they are free and the guard whose whims they've had to entertain for so long is no longer protected by their surroundings?

Bonus (It Came To Me In A Dream): It's a fantasy death row, and the guards have some say over who gets to be this week's public entertainment on the gallows, making the whole thing a literal life-or-death matter for the prisoner...

#whump #whump prompt #forced relationship #whumper turned whumpee #potentially >:)#implied non con #though I cannot stress enough how much this is not (only) about sex #doesn't have to be at all

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colection-of-chaos · 18 days ago

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TW: Toxic relationship; Spousal Abuse; Marital rape; physical abuse; implied forced Pregnancy

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Bleeding Love

He had started hitting her before the wedding, but it hadn't been often maybe once every few Months and never more than a slap in the face when they had fought, and she had screamed at him not listening, nothing more negligible really.

It had become a lot more frequent after they had gotten bound to each other by law. Not only that, but he had also started to become a lot more controlling, and had put all housework on her. She had to learn how to best cover up bruises with make up, and that wasn't even the area that got most of the damage. She had stopped wearing sleeves that didn't reach to her wrist, not only because her husband wanted her to dress modest, but because she didn't want anyone to question him. Didn't want to get told he did something wrong because she was so sure she deserved, what she got. And because she loved him so much, she felt like she couldn't live without him, it wasn't like there was anyone else, that cared for her.

He was still kind if she didn't make a mistake and gave him what he asked for. If that meant she would have sex with him, when ever he wanted that was fine, if that meant she let him choke her and ignored that he didn't care if she got any pleasure from it or even participated beyond the occasional blowjob that that was fine, as long as he was happy.

If he hit her, he had reason, mostly because she had disturbed him after work or because she did something wrong with the cooking. It wasn't easy.

After two years though she started to ask herself if she should maybe leave if it wasn't work it, because she had started to lose the adoration, the love for him, only slowly.

But then she got pregnant and he stopped. He still screamed but he stopped hitting her, stopped hitting her physically. And he was so happy he started cooing to the child in her belly, telling it how much it was loved, that daddy was so happy that it was there.

It made her feel warm and tender again, like there was hope, like maybe they now could be a happy family. She, the child and him. That he would finally become as considerate as he had been when they had met, that he would become the tender person he had been than once again.

The peace didn't last though, soon after her son was born, he started hitting her again, the only positive thing she could say, was that he never hurt her child, never raised his had against him, he didn't even scream at him, like he did to his wife, was a lot more tender, maybe even a good father.

It was hard to hide the pain she endured from their son, though, hard to keep her husband from hitting her in front of him. Her child didn't have to see that, she didn't want him to see what a monster his father was, and how to wake his mother. She didn't want to see his father hitting his mother, like she had seen her parents, before she had been taken away from them. She didn't want him to fear for her. He was nothing, but a child.

Everything continued like that, she got pregnant again less than a year later, her husband hadn't cared that she hadn't wanted to, or that sex had hurt for a while after the birth, and once again the man she was married to stopped raising his hand against her.

That was when she got brave again, it was also when she noticed that she couldn't do this anymore, that she didn't love him any longer. Leaving wasn't an option though, where should she go. She was alone and would soon have two children. She could hardly take them with her.

It took her six months, until she made the maybe hardest decision in her entire life. She had started getting along with another parent at one of the local parks, she visited with her son when her husband was at work, and she was alone at home, because he had insisted, that she should no longer work after getting pregnant for the first time.

And that person became her way out. They had seen the bruise on her bruise on her wrist where her husband had grabbed her far too hard to drag her into the bedroom the day before, when her sleeve had risen a little while peeling an apple for her son.

They had asked, had shown interest, had offered help after a couple more times meeting and her casually opening up.

The parent had offered her a place to stay for a while, had said that there was a place at their flat, and that her husband wouldn't find her there. That she should get out first, that she could stay and build alive, be their roommate until she was stable enough to leave and have an own live again.

She had thought about it for a while but then one day she grabbed her son and left, standing in front of the door to the felt of the only person that she thought would ever help her, seven months pregnant and with a toddler in her arms. More fear in her heart than she had ever felt, but also for the first time in a long time there was hope.

Note

I hope you're doing ok...

Abuse is never something you deserve

I'm sorry that this got as dark as it did in a little over 900 words, but at least there is some hope.

Again, I would be overjoyed if you told me your thoughts of my text, and I'm open to constructive criticism

#flash fiction friday #original content #short story #tw abuse #toxic relationship #spousal abuse #marital rape #physical abuse #implied forced pregnancy #whump #family whump #my writing #english is not my native language #dyslexic #writing

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chaotic-orphan · 2 years ago

Text

June of Doom, Day Twelve:

“It’s no use” : explosion // fainting // trembling

CW: blood (mentioned and kinda explicit), threats, bombs (mentioned), explosion (mentioned), forced to surrender/submit, forced family Whump

*~*~*~*~*

Villain was in their element. Sweat on their brow, blood on their hands, staining their blade and their coat. They should have done this years ago. Every henchmen that stood between Supervillain and Villain died at Villain’s feet and Villain advanced on them all the same. Some surrendered. Some Villain spared.

When Villain got to Supervillain’s office door they opened it with a sticky, blood soaked hand. Supervillain smiled at Villain from across the desk, completely relaxed. Composed. As if Villain was here by their command.

“Villain, so glad to see you. Tell me, how is that Hero of yours?”

“Better than you’re about to be,” said Villain as they walked up to Supervillain’s desk. They reached over it and grabbed Supervillain by their stupid red tie and yanked them over their table.

Supervillain laughed to Villain’s surprise, but it didn’t matter. The fucking psychopath was about to die anyways. Maybe we all go a little mad when we see the end of our days looming before us.

“Maybe I’ll see Hero where I’m going, hmm?”

Villain’s eyes narrowed. They wrapped Supervillain’s tie around their fist and leaned in close to Supervillain’s face. Just as they opened their mouth to question Supervillain an explosion in the distance drew Villain’s eye and their grip loosened.

“Ah, right on time. Twenty-fourth and second street, right?” Something hollow grew in the pit of Villain’s stomach. That was Hero’s address… Villain looked down at Supervillain and their grip tightened dragging them further over their desk. “Ah-ah-ah, Villain. I’m the only one who can stop the next bomb from going off. I just wanted to make sure I had your attention.”

Villain’s eyes went from the explosion site to Supervillain, helpless and angry before they released Supervillain and took a step back. When Supervillain straightened, Villain pointed their long, jagged dagger at his throat and hissed: “talk.”

Supervillain straightened his tie, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Hero wasn’t at their apartment,” said Supervillain. Villain’s knees nearly buckled from the relief of Supervillain’s words, but they just stared blankly ahead at the bastard as they continued: “I have people monitoring them. I just wanted to show you who was still in charge here.”

“What’s to stop me from killing you now?” Villain demanded.

“You’d be dooming your precious Hero if you killed me. If my guys watching Hero don’t hear from me in the next five minutes, well… me and Hero will be together in the afterlife.”

Villain’s grip tightened on their dagger, mostly to hide the slight trembling they noticed in their fingers and hoped Supervillain didn’t see it.

“Call them then,” said Villain but Supervillain just smiled and shook their head. Villain advanced on Supervillain again, but Supervillain didn’t so much as flinch back when the tip of their blade hit Supervillain’s throat. “Call them!”

“No. I’ve made peace with my Gods, Villain. I’m ready to die. Are you ready to let Hero die? For your revenge?”

Villain couldn’t hide the tremble now as they looked Supervillain in the eye and stepped back with a frustrated fuck! Supervillain walked around their desk to stand in front of Villain and Villain just stood there.

They were so close. They were so close…

“I know it’s hard Villain. To swallow your pride for the people you love. I remember when you first came to me, scared, alone… I took you in as family. As if you were my flesh and blood,” Supervillain reached up to move the stray hairs from Villain’s face. Villain glared at them with unadulterated hatred, their chest rising and falling heavy, but they did nothing to stop them. “You were my greatest asset. My family. I saw you as my own, and I still do. What is this if not some healthy, youthful rebellion?”

“I killed your men.”

Supervillain smiled fondly. “I’ll get new men. Will you get a new Hero?”

Supervillain could feel Villain tense under their hand and their smile only grew. Supervillain put a hand on Villain’s shoulder, the other below their chin raising their head to look Supervillain in the eye.

“I know I won’t get a new child. No one could ever come close to you. I have missed you Villain. I want you home, with me. Where you belong. That is my condition for your precious Hero’s life.”

Supervillain stepped back, letting their hands fall from Villain as they raised a hand, palm out, expecting. Villain looked to the window again, to the explosion thought of Hero and how stupid they were to ever get involved with anyone… thinking they would be safe from Supervillain. It was no use protesting. No use fighting. Not when Hero’s life was on the line.

Villain loosened their grip on their blade, letting it swing between their fingers before lifting it and placing it in Supervillain’s waiting hand.

Supervillain smiled at Villain, proud, tightening their fist around it. “I’m so happy, Villain. You made the right decision. Hero will be spared.”

Supervillain walked past Villain to the hooks in their office and hung Villain’s blade back where it belonged. Villain watched mute as Supervillain let out a sigh of contentment and turned to face Villain with a big smile.

“What would you like for dinner?”

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galaxywhump · 1 year ago

Note

Prompt: Wren doing something that's blatantly stupid/suicidal (like going out into the jungle to pick fights with the wildlife) when he becomes apathetic about his own life, and Daniel's reaction to that?

[SV-240 masterlist]

Thank you for the prompt, anon! Sorry it's so late, it's been in the making for a while now and I finally got the motivation to finish it.

Warning: this is a rather heavy one; it's also not canon.

contents: slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate whumper, suicide attempt (nothing graphic), depression, restraints, comforted by whumper.

~~~

Wren leaves the house without Daniel’s knowledge.

He still has the tracker, of course, but when he left, Daniel was napping, so hopefully he won’t wake up for a few more hours. Wren just wants to go for a swim in the picturesque pond he remembers the path to. He’s unarmed, without so much as a kitchen knife, but he’s not scared. He’s not anything.

There is an emptiness inside of him that has had a grip on him for several weeks now. It’s the sort of hopelessness he’s been trying so hard to avoid, but instead of making him Daniel’s loving partner, it’s only making him… do this. Go for a walk in the jungle, looking straight ahead, not scanning his surroundings, barely flinching when he hears rustling and other sounds of the dense forest.

He’s had these thoughts a few times before, but now he’s decided to follow them. Not directly, even though he knows there are several options inside the house; instead, he lets fate decide, since it seems to control his life anyway. So he goes for a swim. If fate decides he should stay underwater, he won’t fight it, nor will he fight if it decides not to let him reach the pond at all.

He’s clothed, and yet feels so exposed, a puny human in a jungle full of animals he knows nothing about, having only met one, which tried to kill him. Maybe there are others like it. Maybe one is already stalking him.

Keep walking, not running, walking with calm emptiness. Get away from Daniel’s house, leave his life on the jungle’s mercy. He frowns when he feels a small pang of regret. He should turn back. He should live. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s far enough that the way back would be anything but safe, and he doesn’t want Daniel to question him once he returns. He takes a deep breath, clenches his fists, and keeps walking.

There are noises all around him.

There’s a noise somewhere behind him.

Soft steps, a low growl. He’s being stalked.

He closes his eyes.

And then there’s a familiar man-made sound, cracking bolts of plasma piercing the air; one followed by the sound of the animal fleeing, one hitting a tree just a few centimeters left of Wren, making him jolt in place.

“Hi there,” he hears Daniel’s voice, almost playful. He swallows and slowly turns around to face his captor, who’s standing still with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

“You missed,” Wren says, lifting his chin, though there is nothing more to his defiance, no spark in his eyes.

“If I wanted to shoot you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” There is no affection in Daniel’s voice, and Wren prefers it this way. “Have you forgotten about your tracker?”

“No.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows.

“What was even your plan?”

“I went for a walk,” Wren explains, looking him straight in the eye; his expression remains empty.

“Good one,” Daniel scoffs. “You know you’d be dead before the day’s over, don’t you?”

“I do.”

The silence that follows is unbearably heavy. Daniel gets it, and for a split second he looks genuinely surprised before going back to his usual unbothered expression.

“Come here. Let’s go home.”

Wren doesn’t break eye contact.

“And if I run?” he asks. “Will you miss again?”

“I’ll shoot, but I won’t kill you. I’ll target your leg, maybe both, and I’ll drag you back. Now come here.”

He does, his head lowered, brow furrowed, mind blank. The jungle around them is bustling with life, never completely quiet, yet the silence between them feels suffocating enough that it could spread over the entire forest, forcing it into stupor. Neither of them says a single word on the way home.

Home. Wren sighs. Home. Daniel’s house is his home now, there’s no denying that. He’s too tired to deny anything anyway, not to mention worry about what Daniel’s going to do to him after his stunt.

They’re still silent when they reach the house and the door closes behind them. Wren follows Daniel to the living room, sits down on the couch, and watches him retrieve two pairs of leather cuffs.

“You’ll have to be restrained more after this, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Wren puts his arms in front, wrists close together, and does the same with his ankles. The cuffs close, a familiar sensation, and he stares down at them, barely feeling anything.

“It’s for your own safety.” Daniel doesn’t crouch down, doesn’t sit next to Wren, still standing in front of him, towering over him.

“Yeah,” Wren repeats, his voice monotone; he only wants this pointless conversation to end, and Daniel can sense it, which doesn’t mean he cares.

“Look at me.”

When he does, Daniel frowns seeing the weary emptiness in his eyes.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, and his accusatory tone makes Wren flinch, like he’s being scolded. It’s the last thing he wants to experience today.

“Take a guess,” he mutters, lowering his gaze, as if even looking up requires too much energy.

Daniel sighs and his frown deepens. He knows the truth, as much as he doesn’t want to accept it.

“I won’t let you do that, Wren.”

“I know. Cause I have nowhere to run, right?” For the first time today, there is something in Wren’s voice, the tiniest of sparks. “I can’t fucking escape you and this-this fucking nightmare, I’m stuck here and you won’t even- you won’t even let me-” He gets choked up, and to his frustration he tears up. “Fuck, just fucking hold me already and spew your bullshit, I know you’re going to do it anyway.”

Without a word, Daniel sits down next to Wren, who leans against him and exhales slowly when Daniel embraces him.

“I’m not going to spew any bullshit. I just…” Daniel trails off for a moment and gives Wren a light squeeze. “I wasn’t expecting this, and it hurts.”

“Oh, it hurts you?” Wren laughs in disbelief. “Poor you, the guy you’re keeping captive and torturing is a depressed loser. Cry me a river.”

“It hurts me because I love you, Wren.”

“You said you weren’t going to spew bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit to me, and I hope that soon it won’t be bullshit to you, either.” Daniel sighs, a heavy sigh that makes Wren even angrier, which he knows is, at the very least, better than complete emptiness. Daniel doesn’t have the right to feel and react this way, not when he’s the cause of all of this. “And remember that you were depressed even before I bought you.” He feels Wren tense up at that. “You can’t pretend otherwise, it was right in your file. Depressed, isolated, drinking problem. You were lonely, and that made it possible for Berkeley to make you disappear without raising any eyebrows. Now you’re here, I’m here with you, I know about your problems, and I want to help. On my terms and at my pace, but I do.”

“You’re not helping,” Wren croaks, trying and failing to blink away tears, Daniel’s blunt words feeling like a dagger piercing his heart, over and over again. “I wasn’t- It was better than this, I wanted to get better, I just…”

He just couldn’t, and it was only getting worse, until he started spending entire hours - he was too busy to afford days - curled up in his bed, staring at the wall, questioning the point of it all, and he was alone, completely alone, and-

“On Earth, I wouldn’t have been there to stop you.”

Daniel’s words are like a punch to the face, strong enough that Wren would sway on his feet if he wasn’t sitting down. It’s true, he realizes in horror, and a painful sob reverberates through his body; he slumps in Daniel’s embrace, overwhelmed by the most terrifying what if he’s ever had to consider.

“Shh, sweetheart.” Daniel gently runs his hand up and down Wren’s arm and pulls him closer as he sobs, unable to stop, because Daniel is right, and he was so stupid, and in a twisted way he almost let Daniel win.

What could have been back on Earth doesn't matter anymore. Here, if he dies, Daniel wins. It’s a way to escape, but it comes at too great a cost, and now that he can think more or less clearly again, he can’t believe he even attempted that. So stupid, so stupid, and if it wasn’t for Daniel, the very same person he's fighting against, he wouldn’t be here right now.

He won’t thank Daniel, he can’t, but he leans into his touch ever so slightly, and he’s still crying, so overwhelmed by what he almost did and so relieved that he’s still here, still fighting.

“Cry it out, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

For the first time, though he would never admit it out loud, he’s grateful for that.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#slavery whump #forced relationship whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #suicide tw #suicide cw #creepy comfort #depression whump #restrained #sv-240 #wren rackham #daniel rooney #my writing #so much time passes between updates i forget all my tags #anyway thank you for the prompt anon i really loved it!#writing this was really cathartic and i hope you enjoy

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sarahowritesostucky · 3 months ago

Text

📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23), mentions of abortion, happy ending

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival where he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter IV. Exit Wounds

Before:

Gunfire pops through the air: loud, sharp, fired in three round bursts. An hour ago it was distant, but now the whizzing sounds of bullets have gotten alarmingly close. Bucky turns his head and listens, trying to gauge proximity by the deep thwack of the bullets hitting the trees.

He’s taken cover inside of an abandoned RV in the woods. He’s wedged the door shut with a chair and is sitting propped up against the wall, in pain, his rifle laid down beside him. Leaves and trash litter the plywood floor. Whoever lived there before is long gone now.

Bucky’s head snaps back to the wall as he begins to hear shouts in the near-distance. He curses under his breath, pulse ticking hard in his veins from all the adrenalin. It could be his men out there, or it could be approaching guardians. He’s got no way of knowing. He’d still be out there fighting with all the others, except for that he’s been shot in the leg. And, well …

His eyes dart to the back of the trailer where Jenny’s stumbled to and dumped herself on the bed. She’s moaning even louder than before and Bucky feels like a royal fuck for sitting there on his ass, thinking of nothing but his own pain.

He grits his teeth and uses the stock of his M4 like a crutch to push himself up from the floor. “Ah!” he yelps, because fuck, does that ever hurt. But he clamps his mouth shut and bites his tongue until he can taste blood. He can’t go screaming and drawing attention to their position. He’s on his feet, leg throbbing terribly. His pants leg is torn and blood soaked from where the bullet went in. There’s no telling what caliber he’s been shot with, but he’s pretty sure there’s no exit wound. That’s not good news, but he tries to put it from his mind as he hobbles to the back of the RV where Jenny is.

She grimaces at him when she sees him. “Sorry!” she hisses. “I know. I know I’m being loud.”

Bucky scoffs. “You’re having a fucking baby.”

“God!” she sobs. “Yeah. Yeah I really am, aren’t I?”

Bucky smiles grimly, heart going out to her. “Just try your best to stay quiet, okay?” He knows it’s a shitty thing to say to a woman in labor, but Jenny’s not stupid; she knows what’s going on outside just as well as he does. They’re both omega. Neither one of them wants to be taken.

Jenny groans as another contraction comes on. Outside, the bullets and the shouts are getting louder, closer. “Shit,” Bucky hisses. He reaches down and unholsters his sidearm, sliding it on the bed towards Jenny’s hand. “Safety’s on,” he warns. “Ten rounds.” She’s straining and grimacing with her eyes closed as she works through the contraction, but Bucky catches the small nod she gives him. “Okay,” he says. Good.”

He limps back out to the front of the RV and positions himself by the window over the kitchen sink. It’s a decent line of sight, if the fighting gets close enough, but he can’t do anything about the fact that he’s exposed from the position. Oh well, he thinks. He’ll just have to make sure he shoots the fastest. He’s had great luck so far.

The fighting draws nearer, and before he knows it Bucky’s taking out enemy fighters left and right. At least the guardians wear uniforms. It makes them easily distinguishable from the rebels, easier to pick off. Bucky gets maybe fifteen, twenty guardians on the ground before the trailer door busts open, the chair propped behind it splintering like a bunch of toothpicks. Three guardians burst in, and Bucky’s only able to shoot one of them before they wrestle his rifle away and punch him square in the face, knocking him out cold.

After:

The bathwater sloshes gently against the sides of the tub as Bucky shifts to grab the bar of soap from its ledge by the windowsill. He soaps up his shoulders and rubs the suds around absentmindedly. He’s been finding himself daydreaming a lot lately. Not that it’s unusual for him. Daydreaming is one of the only things he has left to fill his time, and he’s been remembering his days with the resistance, in particular.

He’d fought with them for almost a year. It’d felt like five. Bucky knows that his mom and sisters are out of the country now, and that thought is one of the few that bring him comfort. He knows they’re safe. He knows that. By some small miracle, he’d been able to receive a letter from them a few months after they’d crossed the border into Canada. In it, his mother had written that they’d received official refugee status and were being hospitably housed in an elderly man’s townhome in Toronto, and she’d urged Bucky to give up the fighting and come be safe with them.

He hadn’t, of course. He’d been so naïve back then, with such a hero complex. So of course he’d chosen to stay and fight. It’d gotten him fuck all. But even now, sitting in lukewarm bathwater in Commander Rogers’ house, Bucky can’t bring himself to regret having fought. It’d been the right thing to do. If he hadn’t been captured he’d still be fighting today. He knows it.

He glances down at his body, brings his left leg up out of the sudsy water to thumb at the skin of his thigh. The scar tissue is pale now, almost indistinguishable from the rest of his skin. He runs his fingers over the smooth and bumpy texture of where the bullet had gone (and where it’d been none-too-professionally dug back out), thinking about that last fight. It’d been a shame, he thinks. He could’ve killed a lot more of the bastards if he’d only had a spot up in the trees. But instead he’d been stuffed inside that old tin can of a trailer, only slightly less of a sitting duck than the woman giving birth in the back.

He lets his leg slip back under the water with a sigh.

He never did find out what happened to Jenny or her baby.

“—o’clock today! Attendance is mandatory for all vessels!”

Bucky’s in the supermarket when the announcement rings out, pumped through the speakers out on the street. He can’t hear it clearly from inside the store, so he waits for the cashier to ring up his apples and other produce items. He pays with the appropriate tokens and then goes outside to listen to the announcement.

It’s a particicution they’re announcing, and Bucky’s blood goes cold. Oh god. Not again.

“Ugh, I wanted to go home and take a nap,” Bucky’s assigned walking partner complains as he rejoins him on the sidewalk, his own netted shopping bag filled with fish and ham from the deli next door. “Why can’t they just do this on their own?” he bemoans. “What do they really need us for anyway?”

“It’s to keep us afraid,” Bucky mutters. He still isn’t too sure what Ofjohn’s persuasion is. The entire point of having walking partners is so that they’ll report on each other. Ratting out the misbehaviors and thoughtcrimes of others has become something of a national sport under Gilead, so Bucky can’t be too forward with what he says around Ofjohn. “It’s to remind us what happens to criminals.”

Ofjohn glances at Bucky’s left sleeve that he’s got pinned up. “Like we could forget.”

Bucky’s lips thin but he doesn’t say anything. It’s true. He is a walking reminder for all the other vessels, a glaring billboard that screams: “Fuck up badly enough, and you could wind up like this guy.”

“Better get a move on,” Ofjohn says. He gestures with his shopping basket. “Gotta get this stuff home before it spoils.”

“Right,” Bucky says distractedly. He follows along after the other man, still not sure what to think of his new walking partner.

That afternoon’s particicution is like all the others Bucky’s attended in the past. It takes place in what was once a high school football stadium. With so few children being born since the advent of the fertility crisis, most of the schools have long since been repurposed. Nobody ever said the faithful weren’t resourceful.

Guardians holding the same guns that Bucky used to fight with tell them where to sit, and they all take their places, kneeling in neat lines in front of the stage that’s been erected for the occasion. The stadium’s speakers are blaring Gilead’s national anthem overhead (Bucky’s never learned the words) as if they’re assembled for a celebration, rather than the somber occasion it really is.

A caretaker ascends the stage, a handful of other caretakers at her back. They all smile down at the kneeling vessels like they’re glad to see them there—and hey, Bucky thinks, maybe they actually are. It’s hard to figure out how the minds of the faithful work sometimes.

“Good afternoon!” The lead caretaker says, speaking into the microphone that’s been placed on the stage. “I’m so glad to see you all here. Blessed day!”

“Blessed day!” they all echo back to her. Even Bucky says it, the response rote at this point.

“Good, good.” The caretaker sobers. “Now, we all know why we’re here today. We are one nation, under God. Each and every one of us has a duty in this new, blessed society. Sometimes duty is joyous, but sometimes it is also hard. When we’re confronted with sinners among us, we must remember our duty.” She looks behind the stage and nods to someone unseen. A moment later, two guardians come into view with a handcuffed man between them. They haul the man up onto the stage, and Bucky tenses up at the sight of him.

“Ohmygod,” he breathes, speaking in that quiet, motionless way that all vessels eventually master. He can sense several pairs of eyes sliding his way.

“What?” someone breathes back.

Bucky swallows heavily. “I know him. We went to school together.” He’d been in Bucky’s grade from the time they were kids and all the way through high school: Bradley Barnett. An alpha. Kinda shy. Nice kid, as far as Bucky was ever able to tell. He’d always come directly after Bucky, in alphabetical roll calls.

He looks older now. And drained, as if he’s fought and fought hard, but now all the fight’s gone out of him. He’s got bruises from being beaten already, and his face is all blotchy and tear-stained from crying. But he isn’t crying now. Now, he just looks resigned. Bucky swallows, recognizing that look more than he’d like to admit. He can remember feeling that way, right after they’d pulled the bag off his head and dragged him out of the van and into the red center four years ago. Defeat. That’s the look.

“This man, right here,” the caretaker at the microphone is saying, pointing her finger at Bradley like he’s the scum of the earth. “This man has been convicted of the crime of kidnapping.”

All around, the other vessels start murmuring. There’s shifting and stirring in the neat rows that they’ve formed.

“Quiet please! That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid.”

Bucky’s eyes drift fearfully back up to the stage, to the guardians holding Bradley’s arms. Oh no, he thinks, dread welling up in his stomach. What are they going to say? What are they going to say he did?

“This man is a rapist.”

The murmuring intensifies.

“He raped a vessel.”

Louder, with a few people crying out, upset. Bucky is holding stock still and feeling sick to his stomach as Bradley hangs limply in the guardians’ hold.

“The vessel was pregnant!”

Louder.

“The baby died!”

Everyone erupts, all the other vessels yelling and crying out in rage. The only thing that keeps them where they sit, Bucky knows, is the multitude of guardians with rifles pointed their way. But they’re all shifting and stirring like caged, furious animals. The woman directly in front of Bucky is so distressed that she’s pulling viciously at her hair.

God, Bucky thinks, wanting to reach out and stop her. Everyone’s gone batty. His eyes shoot back up to the stage. Bradley is trembling now. Bucky wonders if he knows what’s about to happen to him, but decides that the answer is: probably not. He’d be peeing his pants by now, if he knew.

Well, he’ll be finding out soon enough.

“All right everyone. All of you, up up up, quick and orderly!” the caretaker chirps down at them. Bucky rises with the rest of the group and goes to join the large circle in the grass that they always form at events like this. The guardians drag Bradley down from the stage and into the center of the circle, then leave him there. Bucky doesn’t look at Bradley any more. There’s no point. Instead, he taps his fingers together in a staccato against his palm, running his old serial number through his mind on a loop – 32557038, 32557038 – hoping to be sunken deep in his head by the time they have to start this terrible thing they’re about to do.

“You know the rules of a particicution,” the caretaker at the microphone says. “Once I blow my whistle, you may begin. When I blow the whistle again, everyone stops.”

He keeps tapping, keeps cycling through the numbers: 32557038, 32557038, 325570—

The whistle blows, sharp and shrill, and everyone screams and rushes forward.

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk back from the particicution. The first thing that registers is the front door, which he stumbles through, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. He pushes it shut weakly behind himself, shutting the house back up into its usual dimness. The grandfather clock in the hall ticks rhythmically, back and forth. Bucky’s fingers twitch where they hang by his side.

He trails slowly down the hall, head buzzing. He’s got a faint intention of going up to his room, but it’s nascent, only half-formed. He’s just outside of Commander Rogers’ study when the door to the room opens and he steps out. He startles at the sight of Bucky, features quickly melting into a frown. “Bucky? What’s wron—” he breaks off, seeing Bucky’s distressed state, his rumpled clothes, his bloodied hand. “Bucky what happened?” He grabs Bucky’s shoulders and stares at him imploringly. “Bucky? Are you hurt?”

“… No,” Bucky breathes. “M’not.”

“Whose blood is this?” Steve asks, voice urgent. Bucky’s eyes flick up. The look of worry and confusion on Steve’s face is such an oddity. And for some reason, Bucky starts to giggle—only a little at first, and then a lot. Steve’s frown deepens. “What happened?”

Bucky giggles some more. When he’s finally able to stop, he just says, “Particicution,” and then starts giggling again. And it gets really bad as Steve’s face bleeds into understanding, and then pity. The giggles somehow morph into sobs, until Steve’s pulling him forward against his body and Bucky’s crying into his shoulder, the air leaving him in great, heaving gasps. “No, no no,” he hyperventilates. “I had to. We had to.”

“Come on,” Steve says quietly, and pulls Bucky into his office.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, after they’ve been sitting on the office’s opposing couches for some time. Steve’s got a fire roaring in the hearth between them. Its warmth replaces some of the body heat Bucky feels like he’s lost from the shock of the day. Steve’s also placed a blanket around his shoulders, and Bucky grips it tighter about himself as best he can with his one hand. There are still flecks of blood crusted under his fingernails.

“Nothing to say,” Bucky murmurs. “We ripped him apart.”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. It’s obvious he’s trying to think of what to say. “It’s not your fault.”

“I tried to kick him in the face,” Bucky says dully, only peripherally aware of how Steve freezes. “It’s what I always do. If you do it hard enough, you can knock ‘em out right away. Before …” He stops and sucks in a trembling breath, determined not to start crying again now that he’s finally gotten himself under control. “Before … the rest.”

Steve sighs. “You tried to spare him, Buck. That's good. You tried to do a good thing.”

“Didn’t work this time,” Bucky mutters. “He was screaming for a while.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but the tension in the air between them feels heavy and oppressive. Silently, he gets up and goes over to the room’s sideboard, uncaps the whiskey and pours from the crystal decanter into one of the matching glasses. He comes back over and sits next to Bucky on the couch. “Here,” he says gently. “If you want.”

Bucky looks at the glass Steve’s offering him and considers it. Any other time he’d probably be shocked and on-guard, wary that this could be another trick, a test. But not now. Now he’s exhausted and the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat sounds like an excellent idea. He releases the blanket from his hand and takes the proffered glass, downing a large sip with a grimace. “Ugh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Steve knows as well as he does that vessels aren’t allowed to drink alcohol. But Bucky can tell that, much like the reading, this is another little infraction that his Commander is going to allow him. Beside him, Steve sinks back into the couch cushions. “You going to be okay?”

Bucky scoffs quietly. “Gonna have to be, aren’t I?” When Steve doesn’t say anything back, he just shakes his head. “It’s weird. I used to fight in the resistance, you know?” He shrugs his left shoulder, indicating his missing arm. “S’why I lost this.”

“Bucky you don’t have to explain yourself to—”

“I killed a lot of people back then. Dozens and dozens. Shot people from hundreds of yards away, watched their skulls collapse through my scope.” He takes another big, rueful sip of the whiskey. “So you’d think I’d be used to this stuff by now.”

Steve makes a noise of protest. “It’s not the same, Bucky. What they make you all do at those things …” He shakes his head. “It’s traumatic. There’s no way it couldn’t be.”

“Hm.” Bucky nods. “They taught us some things in the resistance. Some simple techniques, for resisting torture.” He glances at Steve. “I tried using them today, to sink into my head.” He stares at the whiskey, swirls what’s left in the glass around a few times, admires the color, and then tilts it back and downs it in a long series of gulps.

“Jesus Bucky.”

He slams the glass down on the coffee table, exhaling harshly and licking his lips. “It didn’t fucking work.”

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salemoleander · 1 year ago

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I am growing increasingly tired of the way certain sections of the MCYT fandom treats QPRs and non-romantic relationships as if they're inherently within Creator Boundaries. This is both ignorant of what QPRs are, and willfully avoids considering boundaries as anything beyond a useful checklist to bludgeon other fans with.

QPRs can look like friendships, friends with benefits, kink relationships, life partners, and a million other things. They can appear identical to romantic relationships from the outside. They can include sex. It's frustrating seeing QPRs morphed into Schrodinger's Platonic Relationship in fandom, where people write what is functionally just traditional romantic ship fic but still get to yell at other people for Breaking Creator Boundaries.

It feels like the assumption is "Romance might upset creators, but as long as it's platonic it's fine." As if a QPR fic where characters spend the whole time cuddling, or even a fic where they're assigned as family and are written to have a non-existent sibling relationship, wouldn't also be deeply weird & off-putting to creators. (I know many people don't approach creating fan content with creators in mind, but for those who evidently do it seems deeply odd to pretend that romance is taboo but cuddling/whump/etc are inherently unobjectionable.)

A fic where someone gets Overcome By Instincts and kidnaps another character to (platonically!!1!1!) force them to cuddle is way weirder than just having them kiss. Which is fine! It's fine to be weird! The problem is assuming that an ABO fic w/ the serial numbers filed off is inherently More Pure and palatable to creators just because it uses an & instead of a /, and in incorrectly redefining an entire complex relationship category to 'sexless off-brand romance that won't get me cancelled on Twitter'.

#uhhhh not sure what to tag #fandom discourse #mcyt #this isn't so much swinging at a hornet's nest as pulling it into the car next to me and shutting the door #but gd I cannot take the total ignorance of QPRs and hypocritical 'But Boundariessss!' from people writing a neutered version of 50 shades #happy to add more tags for blocking purposes!#salem tag

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bitterrobin · 7 months ago

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you, batman/batfamily fan, can you be normal about parents and their flaws without making them exaggerated abusers?

can you absorb the fact that Jack and Janet Drake were not perfect parents, but they still loved Tim? and that Tim loved them enough that he tried to tear a razor sharp boomerang out of his father's corpse with his bare hands? that the Drakes were not millionaires who forced high society values onto their son for the sake of a public image? (that they weren't even rich for that long of a time?)

can you be normal about how the deep recesses of poverty affect a family unit while allowing a parent nuance? can you write Willis Todd without making him a classist caricature of an abuser? can you write Catherine Todd and Crystal Brown without portraying their drug addictions as fodder for their children's whump? (I added in Crystal bc she canonically suffered from drug addiction, but I haven't seen much of her in fics tbh)

can you accept that as much an abuser David Cain was, he still loved Cassandra enough that he utterly fell apart when she left him? That he was genuinely astonished/proud of her when she spoke to him for the first time even as she threatened him? he still sucks majorly, but you can't deny that he loved her. that's what makes their relationship so painful.

can you be normal about Talia al Ghul? can you write her without making her an ooc rapist or child abuser or cold dragon lady? can you acknowledge that every ounce of her characterization surrounding Damian is vastly different from her original pre-Morrison personality to the extent that og Talia would never even have a child in the League?

can you pick apart when a parents portrayal is out of character, that a writer made them hit or neglect their child because above all else they exist for drama and action? that you can find DC characters who actually had traumatic childhoods instead of grafting them onto a Bat-character? (> this last sentence is mostly about Tim btw)

Exploring a character's parents and how they affected them is always interesting, but I've seen fics that genuinely steer towards character assassination rather than an exploration of events written in the comics. They exaggerate a parent's portrayal not to write about a complicated parent-child dynamic but so they can have Bruce or Jason rushing in to comfort them (yes, this is about the Tim Drake shrimp fic). Idk, I think most of my ire just stems from the fact that content about Mia Dearden or Todd Rice or Grant Emerson aren't widespread, Mia specifically always gets explored in Bat-circles as someone that just adds to Jason's character rather than analyzing her on her own, in addition to the constant hell that Talia goes through in both canon and fanon.

#and why anytime something happens to Tim or Dick its always Jason that goes 'holy shit wtf' and gets angry on their behalf??#anti fanon #dc meta #batfamily negative #tim drake #jason todd #stephanie brown #damian wayne #cassandra cain #dc #fanon negative #waspdoesathought #disclaimer: this post is intended as a vent and a call to critically analyze why these portrayals are so common #ignore what im saying if u want but at the very least do your own research before making Tim getting abandoned at his own birth or whatever

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chaotic-orphan · 4 months ago

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Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (5)

Read part one here // Continued from here

Heed the TW (and mind yourselves please <3):

TW: emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, vomiting, forced vomiting, violence, elements of psychosis, psychosis episode-like symptoms, vulnerable whumpee, intimate whumper, older brother whumper, young sibling whumpee, gaslighting, manipulation, sick whump, sickness whump, illness whump, reuniting with whumper, PTSD, facing whumper who gave PTSD, bad family relationships,

~*~*~*~*~*~

Villain eyed Superhero wearily. Despite all their training, all their progress, Superhero had a height and weight advantage over Villain. His broad shoulders stood proud, supporting his stupid head, with his smirk that made Villain’s stomach crawl. They needed to get out of here, to get help.

They wouldn’t make it to the door in the condition they were in, so that was out of the question. His eyes flicked to the couch where he was asleep not a few minutes ago, which felt like a lifetime now. He couldn’t see his phone. He needed to call Hero, but maybe it was tangled in the blankets?

“I can see the cogs turning, Vil,” Superhero said with a happy sigh. “If you’re hoping that your precious Hero comes to save you in time, don’t. They’re too busy saving someone worth saving.”

“Shut up!” Villain growled, pushing at Superhero’s chest with their free hand. “Get off of me!”

Superhero chuckled, tsking and shaking his head at Villain’s outburst. Villain’s heart didn’t forget to beat after that, the guilt at his Brother’s disappointment didn’t still affect him. It didn’t.

“Where are your manners, Vil? Jeez, does Hero just let you run wild? That must be so annoying for them.”

“Hero loves me.”

Superhero leaned in, dark eyes glittering with malice. “Oh yeah? Then why aren’t they here looking after you?”

Villain’s face scrunched up. “Because you sent them away!”

“Or are they just so tired with you that they had to get out of the house for a while. It seems like the latter to me. God, I remember how annoying you were. Nobody, not even Hero has enough patience to handle you.”

“Hero loves me,” Villain said again, this time a little quieter.

“No. They don’t. They probably just feel sorry for you and how pathetic you are. Like a wounded baby bird whose wings are too weak to make it fly.”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore! You don’t have to interact with me on a daily basis! Please let me go. Please, Brother, please.”

Superhero pressed a finger to his lips. “Shush. No begging yet, Vil. It’s unbecoming.”

Without warning, Superhero yanked Villain off the wall and was about to throw him to the floor when the pair froze. Villain’s ringtone played mutely from the bedroom. Villain’s eyes widened.

Hero.

Superhero recovered quicker than Villain, a cruel grin on his face as he started dragging Villain towards the bedroom. He got a hand on the back of Villain’s neck and shoved him down so Villain had to walk awkwardly bent over. Superhero opened the door to the bedroom and saw the phone lighting up on the bed.

He threw Villain to the ground beside the bed, laughing as Villain stumbled before he hit the floor with a groan, grabbing Villain’s phone off the bed.

“Aww, Vil. It’s Hero. Probably calling you to tell you that they’re leaving you.”

“Shut up,” Villain hissed, rubbing their hip that took the brunt of the impact.

Superhero turned Villain’s phone to Villain so they could see the picture of Hero laughing, ice-cream in hand, a dollop of mint chocolate chip on the tip of their nose.

“Cute,” Superhero said with a scoff, then put his finger in his mouth and mimed vomiting. Superhero waited for Hero to hang up before scrolling through Villain’s phone. Superhero raised their brows, glancing at Villain over the phone. “You seriously don’t have a passcode or something?”

“Don’t need it.”

Superhero scoffed, turning his attention back to the phone. Villain moved to get to their feet when Superhero’s stare snapped to them. “Don’t move or I’ll kill Hero.”

That froze Villain in their movements, their heart hitching at Superhero’s easy threat. Superhero didn’t seem too bothered by it and soon his face split into a wide smile.

“Aww, look Vil. Hero text: Superhero,” Superhero paused, grinning down at Villain pointing to himself. “That’s me.” Then went back to reading. “Superhero said that he was short staffed, and sent me to West-point so I will be home later than usual. Sorry for leaving you again, there’s soup in the freezer if you feel up to it. I love you. xx.”

Villain tightened their hands into fists by their sides, clenching their jaw against every word that Superhero read. Hero was going to be home later than normal? West-point, that was at least an hour by metro from here and who knows when they’d get home… especially because—

Villain raised their gaze to Superhero who was grinning above them. “You weren’t short-staffed, were you?”

“Of course not,” Superhero said with a smirk. “I just had to get Hero away from you for a while. Hell, even Other Hero and Sidekick should’ve gone to central hospital but I asked for them to be transferred to West-point so we could have some long overdue family time.”

Superhero tapped on Villain’s phone a little longer and grinned after locking the screen, pocketing the phone in his back-pocket. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

Villain glared at him from the ground, a sudden overwhelming helplessness returning to him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Since he moved out of his family home. Now it came back with a viciousness that threatened to drown him and left him clawing against it just to keep his head above the water and his breathing even.

“Now,” Superhero said, inspecting Villain with his piercing gaze. “What to do with you.”

“Just leave,” Villain tried. “Please. I don’t— I’m not apart of your life anymore. You don’t— you don’t have to do this.”

“Vil, Vil, Vil,” Superhero sighed walking towards Villain. “Family doesn’t quit on each other. They never give up on you. I know I don’t have to try and fix you, the truth is I never did. I just wanted what was best for you.”

“Yeah right! You just wanted what was best for you! Can’t have your little brother embarrass you in public!”

Superhero, to Villain’s surprise, softened at that. Villain didn’t trust it for a second.

“You’re right,” Superhero said with a breath. “I was so worried about what kind of shame or embarrassment you would bring on me. I didn’t want people associating failure with us.”

Superhero crouched in front of Villain, tilting his head to the side. A strange smile on his lips, that Villain couldn’t quite discern. It looked whimsical and yet sad, wait— was that a genuine smile? No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s because I saw our potential, Villain,” Superhero said with a scoff. “Y’know, it’s stupid, but when I worked so hard to be Superhero, to become the best and bring prestige to our family name… well, I pushed you hard too because I always imagined that it would be something that we’d do together. Something we’d achieve together. The best brother Superhero duo in history.”

Villain’s heart cracked a little, a swarm of guilt spilling out like a leak in a dam, constricting his chest. Villain longed to reach out, to close the distance between them to apologise for not being able to live up to Superhero’s expectations.

To tell him that Villain tried. He really fucking tried, but Superhero was always stronger, faster, better than he was and he couldn’t be the same.

He didn’t though. He tightened his hands into fists and stared at Superhero who looked six feet deep in fond memories and regrets.

“I’m sorry, Vil.”

It felt as if time stopped. As if the Earth stopped turning, and the world stood frozen. The moment right before a car crash, or something inevitable happening; the cusp that hides between moments like a trapdoor spider, waiting until you lowered your guard before attacking and killing you.

Villain’s voice was a whisper: “what?”

Superhero swallowed, forcing himself to meet Villain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Villain.”

There was no joke or humour in Superhero’s face as he said that, again. Apologised? Again! But— but— Villain’s brain was fried from their flu because this must be another trick? Another hallucination. Superhero being sorry for something? Feeling remorse?

“I’m sorry about what happened on the outside, how people perceived us, what you said and did outside the house that I didn’t even think about how it all must’ve effected you. I’m sorry that I wasted all that time trying to correct your behaviour outside the house when really,” Superhero’s hand shot out like a viper to grab Villain by the throat, slamming him back against the wall. “Really I should’ve focused more on your manners and knowing your fucking place.”

Superhero stood, bringing Villain with him and threw him across the room. Villain tried to catch themselves before their face hit the wall by throwing their hands out, but they landed awkwardly on their wrist and the pain ricocheted down their arm. Villain hissed, retracting their arm but they didn’t have time to react before a hand was in their hair and bashing their skull against the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Villain went dumb from the impact, their brain struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the pain. They felt the pain spread like wildfire through their skull.

The hand in their hair tightened and Villain cried out as they were dragged across the bedroom, back towards the kitchen. They tried to gain purchase on the ground with their knees, but Superhero was moving too fast for them to keep up.

Superhero paused two feet from the doorway. Villain didn’t know why, they just slumped to the ground like a dog in shade during a heatwave. They just needed to catch their breath. Or pass out. Either was a good option.

Superhero didn’t seem to think so. He lifted his hand suddenly, dragging Villain’s head up to look Villain in the eye. Villain hissed, hands clawing at the strong grip on his hair. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

Villain groaned at the impact, moving his hands to try and dislodge Superhero’s hand from his throat. “God. You really are pathetic, aren’t you? Did I not teach you anything?”

Superhero stepped back, dropping all contact from Villain who struggled not to slump down the wall to the floor.

Superhero took two steps back, running a hand down his face, pinning Villain to the wall with a harsh glare. Villain’s entire body was trembling at them, struggling to keep themselves up in case they needed to bolt. But Superhero’s eyes caught every tremor, every flinch or wince.

“You’re still fucking ruining everything. It’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“You really don’t know, do you? You make people weak, Villain.” Villain froze at the emotion colouring Superhero’s voice. “You make people weak, because they feel like they need to look after you, or take care of you. For fuck’s sake, you can barely stand by your-fucking-self! You needed Hero to take days off of work to mind you while you were sick, like some fucking child! Do you know how embarrassing that is!”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore,” Villain spat, tears pinpricking their eyes.

Superhero scoffed. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Superhero studied Villain’s face, the wince after Superhero spoke. Then recognition flashed on his face, putting two and two together.

“You didn’t tell Hero that we’re related,” Superhero said, tilting his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips at Villain’s silence. “Oh that is… that is hilarious. The person you love the most? You’re keeping secrets from them?”

“We are not related,” Villain said, their voice coming out stronger than they felt in that moment. “You are nothing to me. I left you and Mom, and Dad. I left. I made a life for myself, a life where I’m loved by somebody. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“What, you think Hero actually loves you?”

Villain flinched at the words. “Oh you do, don’t you?” Superhero cooed, walking towards Villain again and grabbing their face in his hands. “Oh. You poor fucking idiot. You have no idea how much Hero hates you, do you?”

Villain’s eyes glistened with tears. Superhero slammed Villain’s head back into the wall.

“Do you?”

“Just leave… leave me alone,” Villain begged, tears finally spilling over his eyes. “Please.”

Villain’s hand reached up and curled his fingers around Superhero’s wrist, weakly tugging at it.

“I can make them love you again,” Superhero whispered. “I know how. I can make you worth something in their eyes, isn’t that what you want?”

Villain sniffled, nodding. Superhero cooed, brushing the sweaty hair back from Villain’s face. “I know. I know you’re scared, but big bro’s here now, hmmm? Come on.”

Superhero pulled Villain away from the wall gently, taking Villain’s wrist in his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we—” Villain asked, their voice hitching, wiping away their tears with the sleeve of their shirt. “Where’re we going?”

Villain’s mind only registered they were walking towards the bathroom when Superhero opened the door. Then they started pulling against Superhero’s hold.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” Villain cried, going limp and yanking backwards. Superhero dropped Villain, cursing at them for the sudden weight. Villain took the opportunity to roll onto their stomach, pushing themselves to their hands and knees and rushing forwards. They threw themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly, almost rolling on their ankles but they were standing. They bolted for the door to the bedroom, slamming their shoulder into the doorframe as they propelled themselves out and towards the front door.

A hand caught the back of their shirt and Villain cried out. They were yanked backwards, their head slamming off the doorframe to the bedroom. Villain fell like a sack of bricks and Superhero let them.

Villain blinked up bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the world swimming in a whirlwind of colour. Two Superhero’s appeared above Villain, shaking their heads, as if they were disappointed parents looking down on an unruly child.

“Look at what you did,” Superhero said, the words coming in and out of focus like pulses. He leaned down, crouched above Villain. Then a hand passed over his face and Villain’s head whipped to the side. They whimpered. “Ah. There you are,” Superhero said, only one of him now. “Still with me, Vil.”

Another slap and Villain whimpered, weakly pushing their hand against Superhero’s. Superhero easily batted it away, opting to instead pinch Villain’s cheeks between their thumb and forefinger and dig their fingers in until Villain’s mouth formed an O and they cried out.

“Listen runt, I didn’t want to hurt you! Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you. You’ve clearly let yourself go since the last time I saw you, and nobody, not even Saint Hero will love you if you’re fat and disgusting. You want to be worth Hero’s love, don’t you?”

Tears welled behind Villain’s eyes and they tried to turn their head away, not wanting to face Superhero and the truth in his words. Superhero didn’t even let Villain flinch in any direction before his grip tightened.

“Don’t you want to be someone worthy of love?” Superhero asked, his voice imperceptibly soft. Villain let out a pathetic yes, their voice muffled by Superhero’s hold on their face. Superhero’s features smoothed out and he nodded sympathetically. “I know. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m just trying to help you be worthy of Hero.”

Superhero helped Villain to sit up, openly crying now. Superhero nodded his head compassionately. “I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay. Big bro’s here now. He’s going to make everything better. Ssh. Don’t worry. Come on, runt.”

Superhero helped the wailing Villain to their feet, guiding them towards the bathroom again. Villain, resigned, followed along because they didn’t want to get hit again. They didn’t want to try and fight back and get beaten again. They didn’t want to be ugly for Hero, they wanted to be worthy of them. Hero was brilliant, perfect, why would they settle for anything less than that? God, Superhero was right.

Superhero gently pushes Villain to their knees, and tells them to: “open up.”

Villain felt the familiar fear creep back up their spine, making their hair stand on end. They shook their head, making to stand up but Superhero kept a hand on Villain’s shoulder, keeping them in place.

“Come on. You said you wanted to be worthy of Hero, right?”

Villain deflated. A part of them wanted to be perfect, to listen to Superhero and just give in, save themselves the pain. The other part was screaming at them, telling them they were worth more than this. That they hated this, and that Hero loved them no matter what. Strangely the voice telling them to fight sounded an awful lot like Hero’s.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all, remember?” Superhero coaxed, his fingers tracing Villain’s jaw and resting at their bottom lip. “Come on, Villain.”

Villain didn’t protest, but they didn’t fight Superhero either, so when his fingers pushed past Villain’s lips, Villain didn’t move. Only when they went far, hitting Villain’s gag reflex did Villain start fighting him.

They shot up from their knees on instinct, but Superhero’s hold kept them down, his other hand going to the back or Villain’s hair and pulling it, yanking their head back so he could shove his fingers down further.

Villain whined, shaking their head. They didn’t want this, they didn’t want this! Villain felt bile climbing his throat and he jerked forward, but Superhero didn’t move his fingers and they hit the back of Villain’s tongue. Villain felt the warmth climbing his throat, gripping the toilet seat and ready to vomit.

Superhero pulled his fingers out at the last second, and Villain heaved. It was only bile that came out, green-hued see through slime, because Villain hadn’t eaten in days.

Superhero clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmm. That won’t do. We’ll go again.”

Before Villain could protest, Superhero’s fingers were in his mouth again, unmerciful as they shot to the back of Villain’s throat. Villain grabbed Superhero’s wrist, pulling his fingers out. “Don’t fight me, Vil. We agreed.”

Superhero’s fingers hit Villain’s throat again, and they felt the muscles in their neck contracting as another wave of nausea hit them. Panicking and wanting Superhero to just let them go, Villain clamped their jaw around Superhero’s hand.

Superhero yelped, then roared and yanked their hand out of Villain’s jaw. “I’m—” Villain gasped, but Superhero cut them off with a punch to the face. Villain’s head veered down, hitting off the edge of the ceramic toilet bowl with a dull thump.

A hand in their hair and their head was wrenched back. Superhero’s fist flashed in the corner of their eye, and struck the same place in their jaw, keeping them straight.

“I thought we agreed that I—” punch. “Know” punch. “Better.” A sharp slap deafened Villain as Superhero released them again, their head snapping to the side. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me to, Vil. I hate to see you like this, but as your older brother I’ll do what I have to do, to make you a better person.”

A sharp kick to the stomach, once, twice, three times and Villain lurched forward, crying out and swallowing hard to keep the rush of liquid crawling like a tidal wave up their throat. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat. Leaning his face in closer to them.

“Come on, Vil,” Superhero said sweetly. “You want to look your best for Hero, don't you? You want to deserve them, right?”

“Pl—please,” Villain stammered, choking on Superhero’s tight grip. “Just lemme— go.”

“Stop fighting me, runt, I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Superhero pinched Villain’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, his nails digging into their cheeks, drawing blood, and forcing their mouth open. His fingers found the back of Villain’s throat, pressing down on Villain’s gag reflex.

Villain felt the muscles in his throat tighten, the bile burning acidic up their throat and they lunged forward, Superhero withdrew his hand from Villain’s mouth, but kept pinching their cheeks so Villain couldn’t swallow. Only when he was satisfied that Villain was about to hurl did he let go, grinning down as Villain spewed into the toilet.

A lot more than last time, their stomach ached as they vomited. A momentary pause and then another bout reared its head and tears streamed down their face, sobbing as they let the feeling run its course out of them.

Superhero patted Villain’s hair like a dog. “Good, see. You did so good.”

“What are you doing?”

Villain froze at the voice. Superhero’s hand stopped rubbing Villain’s hair, but he didn’t remove it from Villain’s head. Hero rushed in, going to Villain’s side and get grabbing their face in their hands, thumbing away the tears.

“Villain, shhh. Shhh, it’s okay.” Hero cooed. Villain sobbed against Hero’s hands, the gentle touches. They weren’t worthy of this kindness. They didn’t deserve Hero’s caring love. This was pity. They pitied Villain, that’s why they looked so caring in that moment. Not out of love. Why was Villain so weak to melt at the kindness, they should be worthy of them! Hero shouldn’t have to see Villain like this. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Hero glanced back at Superhero, eyes narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

“I knew you would be away for a while today, Hero. And I knew you would be worried sick about your ill partner so I thought I would come and look after them for you.”

Hero’s eyes found Villain’s, searching, scanning for any sign that Superhero was lying. Villain was skittish and heaving, not meeting Hero’s eyes. There was something wrong, was it just vomiting? Being sick? No, this was different. Villain was incoherent and violent last time, now they were just… subdued and lifeless and terrified.

“You stepped over the line, Superhero,” Hero said firmly, eyes burning down at their lover. “Please wait in the living room while I help them to bed.”

Superhero’s eyes met Villain’s over Hero’s shoulder, a sadistic smile on his lips. He brought a finger to his lips and pointed down at Hero. Then drew a line across his throat and mimicked Hero being killed.

“Of course, Hero,” Superhero said easily, while Villain’s trembles intensified. Hero waited until Superhero had walked out the door before looking back at Villain.

“Vil, oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.”

They’re just saying that because you’re weak, Villain thought.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask Superhero to come. I didn’t know they would do something as crazy as this!”

They’re tired of you. They don’t love you, if they did they would have never left. You’re exhausting, you wear people out.

“Come on, Vil. Talk to me.” Hero said, leaning forward and pressing their forehead against Villain’s. Villain could feel Hero’s warm breath fanning against their face. They weren’t even worthy of this. “Shhh. Vil, it’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not leaving.”

When Hero wrapped their arms around Villain, Villain couldn’t hold it together anymore and they broke down into sobs that wracked their entire body. Their fingers turned to claws in Hero’s shirt, bunching it and holding on and not wanting to let go.

They were weak, they were so weak that they made the people they loved weak for them. It bled through from Villain into them, and now they were breaking Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve any of this comfort and warmth and love.

Hero held them tightly and kissed their hair and cheek and anything their lips could reach, whispering reassurances and telling them that they loved them.

When Villain’s sobs had calmed down to mere whimpers and sniffles, Hero moved them, putting one hand under their legs and the other under their shoulders and lifted them like they were a baby. Villain curled into Hero’s embrace, a deep red blush filling their face with warmth.

Hero shouldn’t have to do this, to be the strong one. Villain was the strong one! God what happened to them?! Why couldn’t they just be perfect for Hero?

Hero put them into bed, lying beside them under the covers. They tilted Villain’s head down to lie on top of Hero’s chest, hearing their heartbeat. They were a tangle of limbs.

“What about,” Villain sniffed, “Superhero?”

Hero’s eyes darkened. “Let him wait. You’re my priority, Villain. You always will be. Never forget that.”

Villain sniffed, fresh tears streaming down their cheeks. “I love you Hero.” They said even though it broke their heart to say that. Weak! So weak!

“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” Hero whispered into Villain’s hair, kissing the top of their head.

*~*~*~*~*

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ashs-cardboard-box · 3 months ago

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"Stay."

~ L Lawliet/GN!Reader ~ Whump (Day 7) ~ Implied romantic/crush ~ 2k words Mentions of death/bodies, slightly altered from canon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

L didn’t get attached easily. In fact, it usually took him more time trying to get attracted to someone to start a “relationship” than the relationship ever lasted itself. Unfortunate but a fact. They were pointless anyway, especially during his investigations. From criminal to criminal, his work always came first. Maybe that was his biggest flaw. Somehow, some way, he got attached to you. Like a dog to a bone, like water to a dying man, like candy is to…him. He hated it. Ever since you were signed onto the Task Force in the early weeks to help with the Kira case, you plagued his every thought. You remembered just the way he liked his coffee. You rubbed the tension from his shoulders after the fourth consecutive night of both no sleep, and sitting in his crouched position. You brushed his, admittedly a bit greasy, hair out of his face when he was focused on his monitor. You weren’t the smartest of the Task Force, but neither was Matsuda and he was still around. Of course, everyone noticed how sweet you were being to him. How could they not? He only ever flirted with Misa when he was undercover at To-Oh University, not really the “ladies man” Light is. But you.. For some reason, unbeknownst to even him, you stuck around. Sure, he speculated. Maybe you were attracted to his smarts, or the possibility of money. Maybe you liked how quirky he was, deciding you wanted to “fix him”. Maybe you were just missing a few screws. It was one case he just couldn’t solve. The ONLY case he couldn’t solve. He never pushed himself away, but he never admitted he liked you, either. He was supposed to be focused on Kira. He was so damn close to solving his case, he could almost taste it. At least, as close as close could be, with a Shinigami watching over his shoulder constantly. She was a bit of a pest, but she proved to be useful to the case…somewhat. More so than those bells, at least. Ringing in intervals of three; a death knell. He wondered if Light finally figured out his name. If this is what years of work had all finally climaxed to. Him, seated at his computer, staring at the bright screen as he chews on taffy, feeling it get stuck to his teeth each time he pries his jaws apart. The words on the screens had to be burned into his retinas by now. He was sure that, when he closed his eyes, the text would be printed right there. He’d been avoiding you for the past few days. At least to him, “avoiding”, in this context, meant going out of his way to stop thinking about you. You were more of a pest than the Shinigami was. Though, you never stopped showing him affection. You even got his ears to turn red one time after you had to cross in between his chair and his desk to grab his empty coffee sweetener containers stacked high. That one action put your chest right in his face and he’d never felt more out of control since then. Even if his only reaction was a small hum at your apology for intruding, barely even blinking. 192 hours, 43 minutes, and 27– 28 seconds. That’s how long it took him to finally pass out from sleep deprivation. He’d never willingly go to sleep on his own, he had more important things to be doing. Yet part of him let himself rest, knowing he’d be up in two hours, maximum. But he soon realized that falling asleep was also a huge mistake, as always. When he woke up, the Task Force Headquarters was dark and still, and he was seated at his desk. A bright white screen across all of his monitors, with text reading “All Data Deleted”. Did Kira finally get to Watari? No one was around to check on the old man, which caused a single moment of panic to rise in his chest. He was L. He didn’t fret. Watari was probably fine and somehow hit the button accidentally.

Rising up out of his chair, his knees cracking out of protest for being curled up for so many hours, he shuffles right up the stairs to the first elevator, pushing the button to close the doors and Watari’s floor number. Despite usually enjoying a still environment for more work and less distractions, it’s eerie. There’s a pit in his stomach he’s unused to. He’s not used to being anxious. Pride? Sure. Maybe a little arrogant? Okay. But fear? Nervousness? Anxiety? Not likely. It’s been years since he’s felt that way. As far back as he can remember, it’s just been blank. He was logistical, not emotional. When the doors open, his hands slide into his pockets with ease, taking it upon himself to enter Watari’s surveillance room without announcing himself. But, even from in front of the elevator doors, he could see that Watari wasn’t there. Everything was in its perfect space, L knew just how much Watari liked to be tidy. With an annoyed sigh, he turns back around towards the elevator, figuring he might as well go start back up on getting his computers running again. At least, until he hears crashing behind him, followed by a body hitting the floor. Turning around quickly in both confusion, he stares down at..you? You weren’t supposed to be here. Face down on the floor, body entirely limp against the ground. The familiar rise and fall of your chest wasn’t there. There wasn’t any sign of blood at all. Gritting his teeth, L forces himself to approach you, crouching down right in front of you. His bony hand reaches out to press two fingers against your neck, feeling for a pulse. His blood almost freezes in his veins when he doesn’t find one. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to die so soon! He was used to seeing bodies and the horrors of humanity daily, but this felt different. Forcing himself to move, L rolls you over onto your back, your lifeless eyes staring back at him. You were supposed to outlive him and kill Kira! He didn’t know where all of this was coming from. For once, he wasn’t logistical. He was an utterly emotional wreck. Chest compressions in intervals of four, trying desperately to get your heart to start again. He can feel your ribs cracking from the desperate pressure he’s putting onto you. Leaning down, he pushes a thumb into your mouth to part your lips. Pinching your nose and breathing into your mouth firmly. How funny. That would’ve been your “first kiss”. He knew you loved sappy stuff like that. Even if he wasn’t trying to, he was always paying attention, especially when you spoke. You could talk about those overdone cop shows in Western media, that you seemed to find as an absolute “hoot”, for hours on end, and he would listen. Not because he cared, but because it was you. Moving back into position, one interlaced hand over the other, he resumes. 1-2-3-4– breathe..pause..continue. “Please..” He whispers, yet the words cut through the silence like a megaphone. L wasn’t sure what, or who, he was begging towards. Maybe for you to spring back to life and thank him. Maybe for a God of any kind to bring you back to him. Maybe for him to join you, knowing that after experiencing an affection like yours, going back to life without it would be miserable. Maybe for himself to stop doing compressions, to give up. He was uncertain, for the first time in his life. You weren’t breathing, he knew that. You were dead. He could feel your cold body beneath his hands, against his lips, but he wasn’t stopping. Why wasn’t he stopping? His muscles were beginning to ache with strain, he could feel his eyes pricking with tears and his nose began to run against his will. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. 1-2-3-4–breathe..pause..continue. He’d never had much of a reason. He never got attached to anyone except for Watari. No one was trustworthy enough to stay in his life, but you were. You wanted him. He hated that. He hated the weight in his chest as he stared down at your lifeless body. He was sure his soul was cracking with each straining pop of the ligaments between your ribcage.

1-2-3-4–breathe..pause..continue. He wondered if you would still like him, seeing him like this. A mess, sobbing over your corpse. He could feel the dam inside him shattering into pieces. His tears rolled down his cheeks and right onto your nice, uniform blazer. It was no different from the rest of the Task Force, but on you, it was special. You were special. “Stay..” His face was a mask of stoicism, despite the new torrent of emotion crashing inside him. It was frightening. Alone, in the dark, trying to bring you back to life again. He knew it was the Death Note that caused this. Deep down, he knew Kira was somehow at fault. 1-2-3-4–breathe..pause… He stopped. Removing his hands from your chest with a defeated, shaky exhale. One of his hands coming up, swiping down from your forehead, over your eyes, forcing your eyelids to close. At least, if you died, you could rest in peace. He’d have to have Mogi take care of your body or something. Since that day you spun him out of control, he hasn’t felt that way since, until now. He could just barely hear your voice echoing in his head, growing louder and louder and louder until you’re shouting at him, and he finally wakes up with a jolt, meeting your panicked expression. “The Shinigami is gone!” You inform. L was confused. Didn’t you just die? His face felt wet, he internally groaned. His eyes darted over to the large monitors, the light piercing against his weary eyes. He could hear the other Task Force members panicking behind him, even if it’s mostly Matsuda, with Soichiro and Aizawa trying to coax him to use his head and not his heart. He could’ve used that advice a bit ago, even if his plea for advice would never leave his lips. He was too prideful for that. “Say again?” He muses, swiping a hand over his cheek and absentmindedly checking it for tears, but his hand came back dry. Yet, he’s put off when you abruptly pause. A small breath escaping you as you clutch your chest in pain, doubling over momentarily, only to collapse to the floor in an instant. The Shinigami was gone, you said. It registers to him in that very second. It was happening again. Only this time, he wasn’t given enough time to process as his monitors flash white. “All Data Deletion”, it reads. Didn’t this just happen? “Watari?” He questions, the name leaving his mouth before he could catch it. His eyes fall down onto you, watching you lay there on the floor. “Y/N..?” He mumbles. Finally coming to his senses as soon as Aizawa kneels to check on you. “Quick! We need to find that Shini–” He pauses, his breath getting caught in his throat. His chest hurts, like he can’t expand it enough. A numbing pain shooting up and down his left arm, his ears beginning to ring. He could feel himself start to sweat, just barely, as the pain in his body begins to fade into nothing but a slight buzz of his nerves. Kira. The bells were growing louder, so many at once, it was hard to think. He wanted it to stop, he couldn’t concentrate like this. He barely registers himself falling out of his chair until the weight of gravity is pulling him down, landing on someone. Everything feels so foggy, his brain trying to push into overdrive to keep his body working, but it doesn’t work. All he can see is Light’s face, the smug grin, and he knew he won, even at the cost of your lives. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ y'all don't understand how long this took just because I was fighting with Tumblr 😭 Return to masterlist

#death note #death note x reader #l x reader #l lawliet x reader #ashs indecisivetober masterlist

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x-i-l-verify · 2 years ago

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#Knives' casual cruelty towards vash disguised under his love and also his disregard for anything human scares me so I wanted to draw that

"Dont worry, I'll cleanse you from this human filth."

#no but seriously i was wondering how long it would take for someone to bring this up #one thing that really struck me upon watching Stampede was just how straight-up abusive Knives and Vash's relationship really is #Knives treats Vash like a mentally-challenged child #like he's someone too stupid and too naive to make his own decisions #he's furious with Vash for leaving him and taking the humans' side as well which means Vash must pay #so he takes away everything and everyone that Vash loves in order to force him to go back #to the last remaining point of familiarity in his life aka his brother #when all the humans are gone all they'll have left is each other and then Vash will see the light because Knives will make him see #also he literally cut Vash's arm off if Stampede goes the way of the manga and anime so there's that as well #not something you do to someone if you have a loving and healthy relationship :/#the fact that he keeps slicing other people's arms off when Vash is around might imply he's just rubbing salt in the wound #trigun #whump

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galaxywhump · 11 months ago

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Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago.

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

#bad things happen bingo #recovery whump #slavery whump #forced relationship whump #childhood trauma tw #whump #wren rackham #nathaniel rackham #sv-240 #my writing #pls let me know if there's a better way to tag stuff about wren's trauma #well i finally wrote something #i dusted this off recently #and woah i have a bthb card #so close to filling it out actually #anyway. this chapter's a bit different #but i suppose that the entire recovery arc is going to be a bit different #i hope you like it #and that the taglist works

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