#something something obedient dog in the cycle of violence

[cowboysmp3]

going back and watching ofmd s1 now after most of s2 has aired provides SUCH context to why Izzy acted the way he did. S2 puts SO much more weight on Blackbeard's 'i havent tried dying i should try that next' statements that he makes in S1E04, and it gives a reality of how horrible Blackbeard can be. I think Blackbeards erratic behaviour and mild suicidal ideation can be dismissed when watching s1 for the first time, which makes Izzy's reaction feel disproportionate, but I think the reality is Izzy has been watching Blackbeard steadily decline and make decisions that actively go against the survival of himself and the crew. Stede and the revenge are part of an emerging pattern for him!!

s2 just really makes it so much easier to empathise with Izzy and the decisions he makes have more weight and sense behind him. His actions aren't really out of feeling antagonistic or jealous or w/e, he has been watching Blackbeard spiral out of control, and Izzy's own life spiraling with him! AOUGH it just makes Izzy less of a mindless antagonist and much more of a character who is desperate for some semblance of control and normalcy again !!!

[dsmpwritingdump]

marionettes on strings

Dots of primrose pink and alabaster white decorate a small porcelain face, eyes black and empty, yet to be filled with a life that everyone wishes upon it. It is young, and yet to be played with, to be controlled with contempt and love and frustration. It is yet to live, to be made alive by meddling hands and pulled strings. It has yet to feel the pain of being pulled apart, dissected by prying eyes and loud hands and screaming voices.

But it is still a puppet. Still young. It can still be shielded from the thing that will wreck them and then hold them with fragile hands. It can be shielded from the shattering of hearts, and the slow forgetfulness that will be forced upon it.

Shielded for how long?

Not long. Not long until the children begin to play, begin to wreck and hurt and care and squeeze. Not long until the children impose their views and turn the marionette into something otherworldly.

The marionette grows up. And at first, the children are… gentle. Soft, even. But as time ages, so does the marionette. And then the children don’t want to be gentle anymore. The children want violence and order and obedience. The children taunt, yell, whisper venom into its ears. It tries to talk, only to be put down like a filthy dog.

Oh, woe, it can speak. The children mock, yanking a red string. The marionette’s head jerks up and down, plush pink painted lips curved into a seemingly sad smile. The marionette wishes to shrink under their gaze, shrink until it is no more. Why must it suffocate so?

The marionette dances a never-ending dance, a smile plastered onto its face as it spins and spins. It dances its way through life, through the children’s thoughts and ideas. It leaves an imprint, something that is burnt onto the marionette. It dances and is played with until its feet hurt and its eyes droop low. But yet, the children do not stop.

They play and play, until they feel bored and they wish to play no longer. The marionette can finally rest in peace, save for a few hours (minutes? It can no longer tell). It closes its eyes, thoughts running rampant in its head. It screams. Screams in the pain that it’s had to face ever since God created it. Why, oh why?

And finally, it sleeps. Then it wakes. It wakes to another fruitful day of dancing and weaving and pretending that the world is not real. And its routine begins again, and again. Round and round the world goes, round and round the time runs.

Until one day. One day, when the children are being especially harsh. When the marionette feels too beaten and batten, and it feels tired and torn. It’s when the marionette has had enough. With graceful movements, and not-so-gentle hands, it pulls. Pulls and pulls until the strings cannot hold any longer.

Snap, snap, snap.

The marionette takes a breath. Another and another and another until the marionette feels so free. They are free. Finally.

… But what now? There’s… nothing? For them to do? They have all the time in the world! But the marionette cannot choose, for there is too much to do.

The question is what is the marionette going to do now? They are forever free and forever lost. They were made for the purpose of being controlled and influenced by others, but that purpose is now non-existent. So, what now? What can they do?

It has been forgotten that the marionette has a mind. They can think, they can begin to make their own choices, and can shed their broken self away where they cannot be found, and to be reborn. Reborn into something they want to be, and to make such an impact where others couldn’t.

Or maybe they want to live in the shadows; a quiet life, where others are not screaming and yelling and laughing into their ears. A life where they don’t have to see the way others destruct themselves because of those things. The ones that started it all. Oh, how the marionette wishes to destroy and to ruin those that ruined their life. But that would only start the cycle again.

But that is just another thought for another day. Now? Now they’re finally free. And they’re going to fly and to do the things they never got to do. They’re going to rebuild their own strings, so only the marionette can pull them. They’re going to make all the choices they could never make. And then maybe one day, just maybe, they’ll wreck and destroy the barriers that held them down.

 It’s time. You are the marionette, and it’s your turn to cut off your strings.

 Wake up.

[holylulusworld]

Obedient

Request: A/B/O dynamic, where omega! reader just agrees to everything her Alpha (Bucky) says, no matter how embarrassing or humiliating it is. Arranged marriage set up. Please.... Huge fan of your angsts. (He's embarrassing her on perpose, because he just doesn't like her at all. But omega! reader is just so docile and just won't talk back cuz she's raised like that. I think AU would be better, but I'll let you decide that. Happy ending. You are great. Thank you so much.)

Pairing: Alpha!Mobster!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Characters: Alpha!Steve x Omega!Peggy, Omega!Natasha Romanoff x Alpha!Clint Barton Bruce Banner, Brock Rumlow (oh look he’s not the bad guy this time), Sam Wilson 

Warnings: angst, humiliation, degrading, collars, obedient omega, starving, implied smut, snippets of smut, heat, pain, abusive relationship, arranged marriage, shitty parents, medical treatments, Bucky being a shitty partner and asshole, suicidal tendency (I think?), mentions of violence, mentions of biting

Words: 2,8 k

A/N: This one took me ages as it was out of my comfort zone to write Bucky as an abusive alpha. Honestly, I was tempted to let Steve rip him apart limp by limp, but I saw this one as a challenge. I left the ending open as I could not write it as a happy ending, not with the way he treated her. Sorry.

Please be aware of the trigger warnings and do not proceed if any warning offends you! This is a warning not an advertisement!

Steve feels uncomfortable, just like Peggy when you kneel next to your husband or rather master as he likes to be called by you.

While Peggy uncomfortably shifts in her seat, tries to not glance at you kneel next to Bucky in your underwear wearing a collar calling you slut, Steve glares at his friend.

“What the fuck, Bucky! I thought you wanted to introduce your wife and mate to us, not embarrass her,” Steve finally grits out. He may be a mobster, a hard man on the outside but Steve never liked alphas treating their mate like a piece of meat.

“I did, Stevie,” Bucky pats his thigh and you sit on his lap, not meeting Peggy nor Steve’s eyes.

You should protest, scream at the way your husband treats you but raised to an obedient omega who gets punished for misbehavior you hold back the tears and swallow the tiny amount of pride you had left.

“This is bullshit, James,” Peggy angrily tosses her napkin onto the table when Bucky pushes you off his lap. He even tosses food to your feet, smirking as he simply has to snap his fingers to make you eat the food.

“That is enough, Bucky,” Steve gets up to pull his wife’s chair, holding out his hand. “I know you like to be the dominant part like to show your power but treating your mate like a dog doesn’t make you a tough man,” Steve grits his teeth, looking at you with pitiful eyes, “it makes you look pathetic.”

“I didn’t want to marry her, Steve,” pointing toward you Bucky scrunches up his nose. “Look at that pathetic little omega eating food from the floor like a dog.”

“Steve, I want to go, now,” Peggy already walks toward the door, giving you a sympathetic look before she backhands Bucky.

“She may not fight back but I am telling you that she deserves better than being forced to bear you and your behavior,” inhaling sharply Steve watches Peggy slap his friend’s cheek again. “You are the lousiest alpha I ever met, James Buchanan Barnes, you make me sick.”

Steve nods in agreement, not meeting his friend’s eyes he sighs deeply. “I thought you are a better man, Bucky. I’ll need a few days or weeks without you. Call Sam or Clint of you need anything.”

The moment the door slams shut Bucky falls onto the chair. He does not recognize you didn’t eat the food or that you suppressed desperate whimpers.

“Great, you ruined the dinner too,” Bucky spats. “Get up, on the bed and present. I will fuck my frustration out before I hit the club to meet a real woman.”

It’s always rough, fast, and without any pleasure for you. “At least you are a good fuck,” pushing off you Bucky slaps your ass, smirking as you dare not to move. “On your place, leave my bed.”

You hurry to leave the bed to lie on the tiny mattress he placed in front of the large window. All you own is a blanket and a pillow, so you cover your bruised body with the blanket to hide your face in the pillow.

“Next time, you’ll look happy,” Nodding you try not to anger your alpha. Your father’s strong hand, the conditioning on turning you into a perfect obedient omega do not leave any room for arguments. “I’ll be back in a few hours; you will stay like this.”

“Great you come to movie night,” Bucky exclaims. He is in a good mood. The last deal with Rumlow was a success and now he wants to watch a classic movie with Clint and Natasha who look at each other, not daring to say a word.

“What? Does she disturb you?” Natasha eyes you warily. She can see the sadness behind the fake smile while you kneel next to Bucky, not daring to move a muscle as you try to hide your pain. “She can go.”

“Steve wasn’t joking,” Clint finally chokes out. “I thought that you had a fight or something and that he told us you forced your wife to kneel on the floor during dinner was a bad joke.”

“I want to go, now,” Natasha will not stay any longer in the room watching you suffer. “Let the poor girl sleep, James. She looks like she’s about to pass out any minute.”

“Did you ever treat the girl with kindness, Bucky?” Clint can’t believe the man who used to be his paragon treats his wife like that. “I have to agree with Steve, this is just not right. Arranged marriage or not, Y/N is a human being.”

“Asshole,” Natasha adds walking toward the door, not waiting for her mate. “I’ll find a way to help the poor girl. I’ll call her parents.”

“What the fuck do you mean with that’s her purpose?” Steve balls his hands into fists, glaring at your father. “He’s treating your daughter like a dog and you have the guts to tell me that’s what you want?”

“She got raised to become an obedient omega, Mr. Rogers,” your father explains, not intimidated by Steve’s demeanor. “James wanted an obedient omega, he got one. Everyone is happy.”

“Everyone but your daughter,” Natasha grits out while Peggy tries to talk to your mother. “Mrs. Y/L/N, please. We need to find a way to get Y/N out of the cycle of obedience. She looks sick, thin, and sad.”

“She will not answer you, omega scum,” your father dares to say and Steve’s hand twitches. “Now out of my house and stop acting as if it’s a crime to treat an omega as she deserves.”

Steve must hold Natasha back, grabbing her wrist carefully as she was about to slap your father’s face.

“Don’t, Nat. You know he has enough power to let all of us disappear. I just thought the great Y/F/N is a better man, someone to look up,” Steve shakes his head. “You’re all the same…”

“Any ideas?” Peggy sighs looking at Clint who tries to find anything in the papers your father signed to seal your fate. “Clint?”

“Nothing, Peg’s,” Clint sighs deeply. “The contract, the papers, and marriage are ironclad. There is nothing I could do.”

“This can’t be true, alpha,” Natasha looks over her mates’ shoulder, sighing as he points at the papers. “There is nothing we can do to help her?”

“We could just kidnap, Y/N,” silence fills the room as Steve quirks a brow at Sam who was silent the whole time. “Sam, anything from you?”

“I still got the keycard to his house,” Sam steps closer to the table now, looking at the papers. “We go in, get the girl, and are out without Bucky noticing us. Of course, someone needs to lure him and his men out,” Sam ends his plan and Steve nods, liking the idea.

“Alright, it’s settled then,” Steve clears his throat, pointing toward Rumlow who watched the scene, an amused smirk on his lips. “Will you help us or just grin like the cat that got the cream?”

“I hate to admit I like your plan, Wilson,” Brock smirks, eying Natasha’s ass shamelessly. “I like omegas, like when they are soft and obedient just like I love a feisty wildcat scratching my ass,” now he gets up to crack his neck. “But I do not like someone treating an omega like a dog. Let us fuck Barnes over.”

“We got a problem,” Rumlow whispers watching the guards open the gate to let Peggy in. “According to my information, Barnes is out of the house for at least three days. No reason for me to lure him out. What’s with the plan now?”

“They let Peggy in, Brock. Don’t pee your pants yet,” Sam muses pointing toward Peggy walking into Bucky’s house. “She’ll fake an emergency, the guards will check on her, while Steve, Clint, and Natasha will use the back entrance to get Y/N out.”

“Shit did Barnes make her kneel next to the table and dropped food on her,” Brock blinks as Sam reluctantly nods. “Such an asshole calling me a jerk. Who fucked with Barnes's brain, dude?”

“Can you not talk the whole time,” Steve groans via intercom. “I can hear you the whole time. Check on the guards and Peggy. Tell us when it’s time to,” Sam yells ‘now’ and Steve picks the lock to sneak into Bucky’s house.

“Y/N, hello,” Natasha can smell your distress before she can see your weak form. Lie on the makeshift nest on the ground you shake in pain. “Fuck, Steve she’s in heat. God, we need to get Barnes.”

“No,” it is a silent whimper leaving your lips when you shake your head until you feel dizzy. “He’ll not help me, refuses to knot me,” close to drifting into unconsciousness you give Natasha a weak smile. “Let me die, please. I don’t want to live like that, but I do not know anything else.”

Tears spill out of your eyes when you lose consciousness right when Clint sneaks into the bedroom. “We got to go, guys. Grab the girl and run!”

“Y/N said she rather dies than living like that, guys,” Natasha sniffles. “How fucked up is James Barnes to refuse to help his mate during her heat? That asshole didn’t even knot her as any alpha would.”

“We got no time to discuss Bucky is the asshole of the century. Let me get her and we bring her to a hospital,” Steve carefully covers your body with a blanket before he cradles you in his arms. “Lead the way Clint, Sam we are on our way, need back-up and the car. Y/N is in heat and it’s life-threatening.”

“I am on it, Brock already storms toward the,” Sam groans, “gate. Too late he’s taking Bucky’s men down, laughing like a mad man.”

“Got it,” Steve walks toward the door, followed by Natasha who tries to hold back the tears when her mate grasps for her hand. “We’ll help you, darling.”

“I sedated her, gave her something to ease the pain,” Bruce explains. “Her fever is still too high for my liking, but I got it under control. Did she eat lately?”

“We don’t know,” Peggy chokes out. “According to Brock’s information, Bucky was away for like three days.”

“I assume she hasn’t eaten for one or two weeks, at least not properly,” Natasha gasps while Steve prefers to ram his fist into the wall. “Her condition is still life-threatening, but I hope we can bring the fever down.”

“Can we see her?” Peggy pleas but Bruce shakes his head, sighing deeply. “We will wait then, right Steve?”

“We will wait and help her find a place to be after she recovered,” Steve declares. “Whatever we have to do to stop James' abuse.”

“Count me in, Rogers,” Brock smirks. “Whatever I can do to piss Barnes off floats my boat.”

“She’s my wife, let me pass!” Bucky yells through the hallway, gritting his teeth. He has Bruce pressed against the wall glaring at the man saving your life. “Where is she?”

“Intense care, Mr. Barnes. We still do not know if she is going to survive her heat. She starved too, this adds to her bad condition, followed by your treatment,” Bruce is, by all means, no coward, so he purses his lips, glaring at the mobster.

“Starving? No, she got food,” Bucky gasps. “Maybe she forgot to eat while I was away over the last three days?”

“I must tell you your wife,” spatting the word ‘wife’ Bruce clenches his fists hard enough to hurt, “starved for more than two weeks, maybe even longer. She must have barely eaten anything. If not for Mr. Rogers and his friends, she would be dead by now.”

Bucky drops his hands, nodding silently as he steps back to make space for Bruce to leave. “I must ask you to not be that loud at the hospital. If you at least could show some decency and leave the poor girl alone after almost letting her die, I would be grateful,” Bruce walks off to talk to Steve and Peggy about your condition.

“Doll,” Bucky whispers sneaking into your hospital room. His eyes widen at the sight of you. Barely breathing, IV at your arm you lie on the hospital bed, not opening your eyes. “Shit, omega.”

Feeling like someone stabbed his heart Bucky steps closer to your bed, carefully reaching out to stroke your hair.

His claiming mark, the one he left after your wedding is a reminder of the way he treated you. It’s messy, too deep and barely healed as he repeatedly bit you to remind you of your place.

“Doll, m’ sorry,” Bucky whines now, sitting on a chair next to your bed. “I hated you for messing my bond with Dolores up, Y/N. I wanted to claim her but that’s no excuse for hurting you.”

“What do you want here?” The door flings open when an enraged Steve Rogers enters your hospital room. “Didn’t you do enough? Do you want to end her right here to get your precious Dolores back?”

“Stevie, I didn’t mean to,” Bucky gasps when his best friend wraps his hand around his throat to slam him into the wall. “Steve…”

“No more Stevie, you monster. Do you know what she told Natasha,” Steve grits out as Bucky struggles against his hold. “Y/N preferred to die, Bucky. That girl over there chooses death over a life with you.”

“She…did?” Coughing Bucky falls to the ground when Steve lets go of him. He’s nervously running his fingers through his hair, pacing as he doesn’t know if he shall attack his friend again or just shove him out of your room.

“H…hello,” voice hoarse you blink your eyes open when your alpha hits the nearby wall. Steve just threw your mate across the room; not caring Peggy screams his name. “S…Steve?”

“We are here, darling. Do not worry,” Natasha whispers as you slowly sit up, looking at your alpha who crawls toward your bed.

Bucky gasps when you flinch away, not daring to meet his gaze. “m’ sorry for leaving the house. I swear I did not want to. I was not conscious when they brought me here. Please,” Steve blinks a few times when you start crying. “I’ll be good, daddy….”

“Why is she calling you daddy, Buck?” Ludicrous your mate shakes his head. “I don’t know, Steve. She never said much to me, to be honest.”

“Y/N,” Natasha tries again but you curl into a ball, whimpering silently. “Please, no more punishment,” your desperate sobs let Bucky get up to rush to your side.

“Doll, I am not your dad, it’s me, Bucky,” purring he tries to gently cup your cheek but you shake in fear. “Shhh, I’ll not hurt you, Y/N. You need to look at me and count to ten to calm.”

Weakly lifting your head you look at Bucky who counts for you. “1,” you take a breath, “2,” another breath and you feel lightheaded, “3 just like that,” Bucky praises while Steve runs out of the room to call for Bruce.

“She’s confused, disoriented and called Bucky ‘daddy’, Bruce. I think she’s…I dunno,” Steve watches Bucky sit on your bed to run one hand carefully over your hair.

“Just like that, doll. Look at me, no one is going to punish you, okay,” nodding you sniffle silently while Steve’s heart clenches in his chest.

“They’ll know you are not satisfied with me,” more tears run down your face when you hide it in the pillow.

“I am the one to blame, not you Y/N,” whispering the words Bucky grasp for another blanket to cover your still shaking body. “I’ll do anything to make you feel better, promised. Please, give me a chance.”

“Bucky, she’s confused, on strong meds to suppress the symptoms of her heat and starved,” Steve grabs his friends’ arm, tries to get him out of your room.

“If you want her to get better and start to act like an alpha, leave her alone for a few days. Let Peggy and Nat take care of her and if Y/N is willing to give you a chance, we will tell you so.”

Two weeks later…

“I think I am ready to talk to him,” whispering the words you look up at Steve and Peggy.

“What will you do now?” Peggy asks helping you into the chair to watch out of the window. “Y/N?”

“I don’t know yet, but I can’t let him do this to me again,” voice trembling you feel Peggy’s hand on your shoulder.

“Whatever you will decide to do, Steve and I will help you figure things out,” you nod, hearing the door open as Bucky silently walks into the room. He looks as if he did not sleep, eat, or shower for weeks.

“She’s ready to talk to you,” Steve says walking toward the door. “If she decides to go, we will take her with us.”

Nodding Bucky steps closer, looking at you before he kneels next to you, not saying a word he whines low in his throat. “I’ll do anything…”

Part 2

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[ceratonia-siliqua]

Sweeter Than Sugar (Ch 3)

Collab fic with @send-me-your-hcs

Summary: Tony is a man of refinement. Only the best, the highest quality specimens get added to his collection. Peter, a beautiful and very rare male omega, quickly becomes his favorite of all his pets. The perfect omega deserves an equally-perfect alpha. (Or: An a/b/o au where pet owner!Tony forcibly mates Peter and Bucky together for his own enjoyment.)

Warnings: Underage, noncon, a/b/o au, dark!Tony, confinement, forced pet play dynamics, forced mating/in heat cycles, minor violence, forced daddy kink, forced feminization, gang r/ape, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

ao3 link

.   .   .

Bucky knows something is going down the moment he enters his kennel, Tony can tell.

He hasn’t had to use the reinforced steel stockade in years, not since Bucky was still new to him. Bucky is anxious and wary as Tony secures him tightly on his knees, his neck and wrists bound, rendering him immobile. “Don’t worry, my love,” he reassures gently. “Your omega’s been a naughty little boy, but once his punishment is over, we can all move on. You know Daddy’s very forgiving. I’ll forgive Peter too, just as soon as he asks for it.”

Bucky’s beautiful steel-blue eyes fixate on the bruise marring Tony’s cheek. He gently runs his fingers through the alpha’s long, silky hair as he pops the mouth guard gag past Bucky’s lips, keeping his sharp canines safely tucked away from their guests and his frightening, bone-chilling growls as stifled as possible.

With Bucky properly restrained, Tony heads back upstairs and enters Peter’s cell for the first time since the incident this morning. Peter looks at him long enough to see he’s come alone, then turns back to his filthy blankets, snubbing him. Tony almost smirks to himself as he walks over, head held high, and stops in front of the large round bed.

“Do you want to see your alpha, baby?” he asks. The sound of his voice shouldn’t startle Peter, but somehow it does.

Peter doesn’t look at him. His face is pressed to one of his messy pillows, but he nods, dejectedly.

“Very well,” Tony says. He snaps his fingers and points to his feet, his universal sign of come here. “The sooner you get over here, the sooner you’ll get to see him.”

The boy reminds him of a sullen, sulky child as he drags his limp body to the edge of the bed and onto the floor. He keeps his head down, a dog who knows he’s displeased his master, and waits for Tony to grab him by his leash, deceivingly meek and obedient.

“Turn around, baby. Show me that pretty little hole before it gets ruined again.”

A scarlet blush covers Peter’s face, neck and chest as he obeys, turning and pressing his forehead to the floor, ass up and trembling. His ass has finally returned to a more natural state, baby pink instead of deep red, tight and modestly damp instead of gaping open and pouring come and slick. It’s a bit of an illusion, though - when Tony presses his thumb against the puckered skin, it gives immediately, stretching smooth and straight and opening up for him in that beautiful way only omega holes can. It’s like pressing a button to switch between an asshole and a cunt; untouched, it’s a hole no different from anyone else’s, but as soon as the slightest stimulation comes along, it blooms like a flower in the sun, opens up hungrily and greedily, transforming before his very eyes.

Entranced, Tony fingers the boy’s delectable little pussy as he slips another, albeit weaker heat inducer inside of him. Peter won’t need any detailed stretching or preparation - not this time around - so he plays with the little omega’s broken-in fuckhole purely for indulgence’s sake. By the time Peter’s rim is turning dark red, puffy and starting to leak, the pill has taken effect and the poor thing is whining uncontrollably into the marble floor.

Tony’s tempted to make him crawl all the way downstairs, sobbing and shaking and leaking like a broken faucet, but he’d never risk skinning his princess’s poor sensitive knees. He unhooks Peter’s chain from the wall, gathers his small, trembling body in his arms, and carries him all the way to Bucky’s cell like the compassionate, generous owner that he is.

It’s a chorus of joy and suffering the moment they step inside. A gorgeous melody of pleading cries, muffled shouts, moans, groans, whimpers, whines. Peter flails trying to get to his alpha - Bucky does his damned best to wrench the stockade from its base inlaid in the concrete slab, but it holds firm. Peter is absolutely adorable as he reaches for Bucky with both hands, crying out, “Alpha, alpha…!” Like if he calls urgently enough, Bucky will shatter his restraints and come to him.

His little pets are so fucking cute.

But now is not the time to indulge them. A lesson needs to be learned here, first and foremost. Emotionlessly, Tony chains Peter to the opposite wall, shortening the leash so the feisty little omega can’t quite reach his alpha at the other end of the long room. While the two scramble trying to get to each other, Tony rolls in one of his breeding benches, parks and secures it in the center of the room, and hoists Peter’s flailing body onto it.

Oh, the little omega puts up quite a struggle then. Tony presses Peter’s body over the arch in the bench, his stomach flat on the plush leather, arms folded behind his back, legs spread, ass up to expose his leaking pussy. Bucky gets the best view in the house - restrained on his knees with Peter’s gorgeous fuckhole staring him in the face. If Tony rolled the bench closer and removed the gag, Bucky would be at the perfect height to eat the little pup out.

The thought intrigues him. Maybe after, he thinks.

He tests each cuff on Peter’s neck, thighs, wrists and ankles to ensure he’s secured, then gives the bench a hard shove to make sure the wheels are locked, properly holding the contraption still so it won’t slide everywhere in the middle of the action.

With everything ready, he supposes this is the perfect time to lecture his ornery little omega, circling Peter’s bound body as he clasps his hands behind his back.

“Peter,” he says firmly, earning himself a fearful, hateful glare from those big brown eyes. “I know you’re smart enough to understand the concept of corrective discipline. I’m about to teach you a very important lesson - everything you have, everything you have been given, including your bond with your new mate and all of the pleasure it’s brought you - they are all gifts from me.”

He steps closer, stares down at that beautiful, angry little face.

“You may not like it, you can hate this place all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are mine, Peter, and the sooner you come to terms with that, the better off you’ll be.” He gestures to Bucky, kneeling behind the boy, head bowed in defeat. “I would like nothing more than to keep you and your mate happily tangled together all day long. But this morning, you chose to throw my kindness and generosity back in my face and behaved, simply put, like an animal. So, this is a moment I want you to remember the next time you’re feeling angry or hard-done by: I don’t have to give you any of these luxuries. I can - and will - replace them with much less favorable conditions if you misbehave. Hopefully, the harshness of this punishment will help this lesson stick in your tender little brain.”

He pets the boy’s head gently, then circles around him to address Bucky. “As for you, Bucky, my wonderful boy - perhaps take the opportunity to educate your omega the next time I’m kind enough to leave you two together. He chose to step out of line and brought this punishment down on both of you. If you don’t want it to happen again, I suggest you have a long and thorough chat with him about who’s in charge around here.” He strokes Bucky’s stubble-covered cheek. Bucky’s conflicted, despaired gaze is turned away from him, as good of a sign of submission as any.

Perfectly on time, Tony’s phone dings in his pocket then, alerting him that his honored guests have arrived.

He kisses Bucky’s forehead, pats Peter’s trembling flank, and heads for the lobby to greet their visitors.

—

He gets himself a nice chair for the show.

It’s not nearly as comfortable as his armchair upstairs, but it’s good enough. He reclines in the corner, feet propped up on Bucky’s table between the alpha’s food and water dishes, crossed at the ankle as he lounges comfortably. His guests are standing throughout the room, but each of them knows better than to stand in front of him, obstructing his view. Most stand against the glass wall, in front of Peter’s hysteric, sobbing face, as far away from Bucky’s enraged fury as they can get.

He’s chosen some of the best men he knows. Betas, like him, who lean more to the above-average side of the spectrum when it comes to things like height, weight and cock size. None of them can compare to the sheer massive size of an alpha, but that’s almost the point of this punishment.

Oh, how little Peter screams and fights when the first beta mounts him.

It must be so confusing. His little cunt, dripping with slick, begging to be filled, to be fucked and knotted - only to be given a too-small, too-thin, unsatisfactory beta cock. Some mated omegas have claimed that the semen of anyone apart from their alpha’s burns when it’s pumped inside them, which hasn’t been properly tested or proven, but Tony is tempted to believe it after watching Peter squeal and thrash when the first man creampies him.

And yet, oh, the poor little thing’s hips are moving so desperately. His heat has fully taken hold of him, now - compelling him to be bred, to seek out and attract his mate by any means necessary. With Bucky kneeling so close behind him, close enough to smell and hear, Peter’s body seems to be wonderfully confused. He rides each beta cock that’s humped inside of him like he needs their come to live, then jerks and sobs when he finally gets what his needy little body is after.

It’s a beautiful sight.

Bucky clearly doesn’t agree. Snarling like an aggressive dog, Tony doesn’t blame his guests for quailing away from the bound beast. Frothy spit drips from the alpha’s chin as he does his best to bare his teeth with the mouth guard gagging his lips open. The stockade makes loud, thundering bangs every time he tries to dislodge it from its base, desperate to tear the beta in front of him away from his omega and rip him in half like a Christmas cracker. He’s unsuccessful, of course - Tony built that stockade to withstand an alpha even larger than Thor - but it’s intimidating all the same.

After the third beta has had his turn, Peter goes limp on his bench. He whines pitifully as the fourth man mounts him, sliding inside easily, stirring the mess of come and slick inside of his fuckhole with his dick. Peter, as unwilling as he is, can’t stop himself from moaning and rolling his hips in tandem with the beta’s, trying to make the man’s cock fill him deeper, wider, fuller. Tony smiles at the desperate way Peter is bouncing his hips. It must be maddening, to be fucked over and over again by a series of eager cocks not biologically designed to satisfy you.

Slick and beta come glob onto the floor as Peter desperately rides the man standing behind him. Bucky howls through his gag like he’s being castrated, vicious and frantic to get to his mate and breed him properly. Tony grins at the desperate struggling his gorgeous alpha is still putting up. It makes him rise to his feet almost subconsciously, not sparing the breeding bench a glance as he walks around it and approaches the stockade.

Bucky knows better than to lunge for him. Still, his thrashing increases tenfold when he thinks his Daddy might be crouching behind him to undo his restraints. Tony loves how basic, how single-minded heats and ruts make his pets become, how they reduce them to their most primitive selves. Like this, Bucky can’t even fathom why Tony wouldn’t free him and allow him to defend and claim his mate. Without a doubt, all thoughts of lessons and punishments have been pushed far from the alpha’s mind. He’s a beast, like this. A pitiful, powerless beast.

He grunts and snarls when Tony cups his huge, distended balls. Rigid, swollen and heavy with fresh come, they hang dark and tight between Bucky’s legs, nearly touching the floor. Tony gently massages them, watching the alpha’s massive cock bob and leak precome from the stimulation. Poor thing. He truly doesn’t deserve to be tormented like this, but Tony can only hope he uses this pain as motivation in helping him train and tame Peter.

As five betas becomes six and then seven, Tony stays crouched behind Bucky, gently working his balls with the palms of his hands to provide some relief for his aching, anguished alpha. Peter’s pitiful cries fill the room, louder than the pleasured groans of the men filling him, louder even than Bucky’s muffled screams of rage.

That’s why Tony is able to hear it so clearly when his baby sobs, “I’m - I’m sorry, D...Daddy, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” Sobbing so hard, the words shatter like glass as they leave his damp lips. “Daddy I’m sorry, please forgive me, p-please, Daddy!” Tony stands, almost leaping to grab the beta still humping away wantonly at his princess’s backside and fling him off without a care.

“Baby,” he soothes instantly, stroking Peter’s trembling flank to try and settle his wailing sobs. “Oh, sweetheart, my little princess, hush now. You’re all right.” He leans in, kisses the omega’s quivering back, stroking his sweat-matted hair. “It’s all right now, sweet boy. Daddy forgives you.”

Impatiently, Tony snaps his fingers, dismissing the men without so much as looking at them. As the last one files out, the door automatically locking behind him, Tony undoes Peter’s cuffs but leaves him bent over the bench, hanging there limply, as he once more crouches beside Bucky. He removes the gag, opens Bucky’s restraints, and is quick to jerk back as Bucky surges upwards and descends on Peter with pure animal desperation.

And still, Tony’s wonderful boy is human enough to gather his tiny mate in his arms and carry him over to his bed, crowding him against the dull greys of his bedding as he slots himself between Peter’s spread legs and pumps his cock inside of him. Peter mewls gratefully, arms iron-tight around Bucky’s neck, his trembling legs trying to cling to Bucky’s wide waist, their chests pressed flush together as Bucky sinks his teeth into Peter’s mating bite, sinks his cock into Peter’s well-fucked cunt.

Smiling, Tony returns to the proper side of the glass, leaving the pair to their own devices - or as close as he’s willing to allow them to come to it. He watches for the better part of an hour as Bucky breeds, grooms, gentles and then breeds Peter once again, repeating the process over and over, making sure to pay special attention each time he licks up the mess leaking from his omega’s abused hole, as if the beast cannot rest until every drop of beta come has been cleaned from Peter’s body.

—

The utter lack of sleep his boys have had in the last 24 hours shows when they pass out towards their fifth round. They’d been up talking and fucking the whole night before, and neither had slept a second since their separation this morning. It was bound to happen.

Bucky has rolled onto his side, one of the only (formerly) clean blankets pulled over the two of them. Peter’s face is pressed into the barely-there space between the alpha’s bicep - of which he’s laying his head on - and one of those meaty pecs. They’re chest to chest, and by the way Peter shifts every now and again (and the leg clearly thrown across that broad waist), still firmly connected via knot. Bucky’s other arm is wrapped firmly around Peter’s waist, his nose tucked into the sticky, matted curls of his omega. Only the alpha’s feet peak out from under the blanket, Peter too small to reach that far down under a clearly alpha-sized blanket.

Given that the pair aren’t doing much, Tony decides to attend to a few things. His boys need a bath, badly, but that can wait. Instead, he goes upstairs to Peter’s kennel. Entering with a laundry hamper and gloves, he begins stripping Peter’s bed of all its baby blankets and fluffy pillows. Thankfully, Peter isn’t one to revenge pee. He’s had a few pets who had taken up the hobby. Still, it’s a sticky, come-drenched mess, and dried come isn’t his idea of a good moisturizer.

Usually, a team of professionals come through once a week and clean all the kennels, replacing the bedding, tending to the bathrooms, and grooming some of his other pets. His favorites…well, they tend to get a little more special attention from Daddy. He loves keeping his alphas’ hair long and some level of beard on them. It accentuates the masculinity of already hyper-masculine beings. Trimming and tending to the hairy alphas is a small indulgence of his. The only exception to the hair-loving rule is their balls.

Regularly, his boys receive a waxing. Steve actually had been calm enough for lasering and no longer needs them. Thor enjoys the attention enough to hold still through the tugs, and Tony always gets a nice show of Thor leaning down to clean his now-smooth pair nearly every time. Bucky is…rough at times. His balls are so large, the process takes just a bit longer and it can never be done soft. The waxer tends to always be concerned about too much loose skin if Bucky isn’t hard while getting the service. Tony had never seen Bucky’s skin ever be loose enough to worry much, but now with Peter, he’s beginning to understand it. With Peter’s body to hold all of his come for him, the alpha’s balls have started to show more wrinkles and gentle sagging. Tony’s surprised with himself for finding it appealing, after his love for those balls filled with come has bordered on obsession for a few years now.

Either way, those smooth balls on their hairy bodies is truly a lovely juxtaposition, and his omegas seem to enjoy sucking on them far more without bristly little hairs poking at their face and tongue.

With the bedding now packed away, he lugs it to the laundry shoot to be cleaned. Peter will need spares soon, but his baby is so often cold in the night, all the blankets meant to be extras have made their way onto the bed. His princess loves all things soft and plush, so to deny him any of those things when it’s just so fitting for such a delicate omega, it’s inconceivable, even for him.

The hardest clean-up job will be the pair themselves. As much as he loves seeing them both soiled and rolling in each other’s slick and come, Peter is beginning to look matted and ill-kept, unbefitting of a princess. Maybe Bucky can get away with the look, with his brutish build and gruff disposition, but he is officially mated to Peter and thus now has some upkeep to maintain.

He can’t but help smile to himself a little at the thought. He really does adore the pair. Bucky may have always been a bit of a bull in a china shop, but seeing this soft and irresistibly sweet side to a pet he already loved has pulled Bucky up to a level similar to Peter in his mind.

Wanting to be back with the pair, he wanders down to the basement, watches from behind the pane of glass as he usually does, but with the two sleeping and his hands itching to touch, he slips inside. JARVIS enabled, he goes over to Bucky, letting the tap of his shoes be softly audible so as not to startle the large creature resting on the bed. Bucky isn’t prone to attacking him, not for a long time, but he knows better than to sneak up on him. That is the unspoken agreement between them; so long as Bucky knows Tony is the one there, he won’t make a move to hurt him.

The sound has its desired effect. Bucky raises his head slowly to see who’s coming. Seeing Tony, he rests his head back against the large, spacious pillows that had been one of his birthday presents last year.

Hands wandering across Bucky’s back and up to his shoulder, he leans in close to speak softly to the alpha, not wanting to wake Peter.

“How are you feeling, love? Any pain?” Rubs a thumb along the still slightly red line across the back of Bucky’s neck from banging against his restraints.

“No, Daddy. Just…tired.” Bucky doesn’t make eye contact, but does tilt his head towards Tony, a movement meant to show submission whilst clearly paying attention.

Tony can’t resist kissing up the side of Bucky’s face, working one of those massive shoulders under his hand. “Daddy’s not mad at you, okay Buck? You’ve been such a good boy for me. Not mad at Peter either now; he just needs to settle in and you need to help him with that. Sound doable?”

Bucky nods, eyes darting towards the bite mark. Craning his neck up, Bucky carefully licks at the wound, a clear apology on behalf of his mate, despite the one he had accepted earlier from the boy himself. Tony leans into it. JARVIS would have done something if this was an aggressive move. Years have given the AI the ability to read Bucky’s intentions like a book. Plus, Bucky is transferring some of that sweetness onto Daddy, and he’s greedy for it now that he knows it exists.

He pulls away once the man finishes. He strokes Bucky’s hair, pushing it back and admiring the stunning man beneath his hands. Those steel-blue eyes never fail to drag him under, they were the first thing he fell in love with in his pet. They scream intelligence and speak to a being who feels deeply, even if it’s hidden behind layers of brutal ability and aggression.

Sliding a hand down Bucky’s arm, he touches Peter, letting Bucky see and feel where he’s going with the motion to prevent any sudden, protective moves. Thankfully, it works - Bucky only tightens his grip a little bit on Peter, but refrains from intervening, knowing that Peter is Daddy’s first, even if instinct scream out against it.

Peter’s skin is damn near buttery in just how supple it is under his fingers. He rounds the bed, putting himself where Bucky can see as he runs greedy hands over the boy. It wakes Peter up, but with the punishment still fresh in his mind, he merely curls into Bucky’s arms and gets his fill.

“Petey.” The omega flinches, even as Tony’s tone remains even and soft. “How are you feeling, princess?”

A soft sniffle nearly breaks his heart. Bucky shushes and pulls Peter tight, rocking his hips gently to provide some sort of comfort. Maybe a grounding sensation? He hasn’t had a mated pair like these two, a lot of things are assumptions for the time being.

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay. You’ve got Bucky here, and Daddy just wants to make sure you’re not hurting. We won’t do that ever again as long as you don’t go trying to make Daddy hurt again.” He rubs his back, the knobs of Peter’s spine reminding him that the boy hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

Bucky manages to shove his face next to Peter’s, licking up the tears leaking from his tiny mate’s swollen eyes. Being close up now, his pet looks terrible. The betas had been under strict rules not to hurt the defenseless boy, but the bruise on his cheek has Tony feeling terrible. It’s not a dark one, but still a clear sign that he’s raised a hand against the omega. Peter shouldn’t have lashed out, but it’s Tony’s job to be above lashing out in return. Apologizing is not an option. Peter had done wrong and been punished for it, but he still wishes he had reigned in the response. Peter’s punishment should have been more controlled, beginning and ending with the betas.

He runs a gentle, paternal hand through Peter’s curls, bringing in his other one to help gently break up the spunk and sweat-glued strands. Saliva is likely in there as well, but Peter will be getting a bath soon enough to straighten the mess out. It’s terrible to see his hair so flat and limp. It’s an endlessly endearing trait, and why he keeps Peter’s hair on the longer side when all of his female omegas have short bobs or complex plaits and braids to keep things neat.

“Baby.” Taking Peter’s hip in his hand and gently rolling the small amount of baby fat there, he leans down, just out of range of a bite, but still able to be heard in his hushed tone. “You need to tell Daddy where you’re hurting so he can fix it. Can you do that for me, Peter?”

The boy stays still for a few, fleeting heartbeats, before nodding. It takes him a few moments to compose himself enough to speak through his hiccups. “My - my insides. My hole - it burns. Th-they put something in it and it still hurts. E-even with Bucky inside m-me, D-daddy.”

Oh dear, maybe the beta come hurts more than he’d realized.

“Bucky, sweet boy, would you take Peter to the bathroom, please? I need to go grab something. Take a blanket with you, poor omega looks like he’s about to freeze.”

Bucky does as he’s told, gathering his tiny mate up into his arms and moving him to the bathroom. His cock now slips out and swings limply between his legs as he concerns himself with his aching sweetheart.

Going to the supply closet, he pulls out an enema kit. He keeps a wide assortment of tack, gear, medical and various other supplies in it. He has never regretted anything that made its way to the closet, and he’s glad he’d thought to keep such things on hand for times like this.

Moving back to Bucky’s kennel, he goes into the bathroom to find Bucky tongue deep in Peter’s hole, but the poor thing is still shaking and complaining of pain. Ignoring him for the time, Bucky lays himself lightly over Peter, who had been shakily holding onto the edge of the tub during his rimming session. It never fails to make his heart go just a little bit soft seeing Bucky like this. Who knew the beast really just needed a mate - a purpose, really - to bring out something so tender.

He shoos Bucky away, even as the alpha grumbles. Filling the enema with warm water, just a bit closer to the hotter side of things, he caps the bottle with its nozzle. Laying Peter in the tub and having him pull a leg up, he inserts the tip and squeezes the bottle. He has to be careful not to do too much, or the resulting cramps may be worse than the burning semen.

“Now just hold it for a moment, Peter. We’ll do it a few times to wash you out well, then you can have Bucky’s come later without any of the hurting, okay?”

“O-kay.” Curled up and twitching, but covered with a thick blanket from the bed, Peter holds still as the water does its thing.

Moving Peter to the toilet to release the water is easy when you have a 6’9” alpha willing to do some leg work. Peter is repeatedly moved from toilet to tub until the burning subsides and the tears have calmed down. Tony suspects that the tears may have been more from stress than anything now, on the other end of things, but Peter finally calms down enough for him to leave the topic alone.

“Alright, last thing, Peter. You need a bath.” And oh, how Tony would love to be the one to scrub that porcelain body and tame those curls, but that will have to wait for another day. He has work to do, and Peter likely will prefer his mate at the moment. “Bucky’s gonna get you cleaned up.”

He turns to the alpha, sitting quietly on the toilet and now trying to gather Peter into his lap. “I need you to clean him up and keep him clean. If you need to breed again, do it before the bath, but make sure you clean up his curls.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.” He leans down, cheek turned to Bucky, who gives him a gentle, slightly scratchy kiss.

He looks at Peter. “Are you going to be nice and give Daddy a kiss, princess?”

Peter looks away, nodding.

Tony leans forward, turning his injured cheek to Peter. The little omega gives it the softest of licks and a light kiss to the damage he’s done. Tony gives them both a kiss on the forehead as a reward.

As he leaves, he calls over his shoulder, “Bucky, let JARVIS know what you two would like to eat tonight, I’ll send whatever you want down.”

With that, he exits the basement and removes himself from the mates’ lives, for now.

[thetorturerwrites]

Puer Deus: Proof

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars

Summary:  Of Gods and slaves

A/N:  18+ only.  Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; smut

Word Count: 5.1k

Day Six

It was the sound of his voice that stirred you, nudging into your gray matter and beckoning you back from bleak emptiness.  Your brow creased, and you exhaled, uneven and apprehensive. You flexed aching fingers and toes, forcing the stiff joints to cooperate.

“Find them,” he ordered, his voice strong but low, “I don’t care how. Find them.”

Red-rimmed, puffy eyes broke open, and you squinted, the glare of the light cycle offensive and irritating. You grumbled at the very idea of bright light and struggled to sit up. As your brain kicked into gear, you took stock of your situation.

This was the same torture chamber, that was your blood staining the floor, and it was your filth in the sheets. Licking your chapped lower lip, you worked to put puzzle pieces together.  Your Knight guard had brought you to these chambers yesterday, Ren’s chambers.

You’d slept in Ren’s bed.

Had he? Your breath caught on the idea that he had stayed with you.  If he had stayed, what did it mean that he was still here? If he hadn’t, why had he let you sleep here?

Shaking off the unnecessary, relentless pondering of your brain, you rubbed at your eyes and hunched forward.  Every part of you ached as though you’d been ejected into space, compressed and redistributed in the wrong order.  You grimaced and shifted, slowly dragging your legs off the side of the bed, mentally preparing yourself to bear weight.

Drawing in a rough breath, you shifted your survey from surroundings to immediate.  The state of your body evenly matched the state of this room. You were caked in dried blood, painted with hand prints, droplets, and innumerable streaks and smudges.  Ren had cut open every one of your scars; he’d left nothing unclaimed.

Sometime in the night, though, your wounds had been tended, and you were now decorated in patches of surgical tape.

The memory of his hands, his scalpel, propelled you forward, scooted you to the edge of the bed.  If you kept moving, kept working to survive, maybe you’d be able to outrun the repeated, vibrant images of his relentless torment and your body’s exuberant rejoinder.  You couldn’t escape Ren; but perhaps, you could escape the memory of his effect upon you.

Pushing against the mattress, you bit firmly into your lip, thinking this endeavor was every bit as torturous as Ren’s blade.  Your legs burned and wobbled like it was your first time to stand. The soles of your feet throbbed, but you made little, shuffling steps. Tears tumbled down to wash tracks into the blood staining your cheeks, and you pinched your eyes tight together.

For a long moment, you just stood there, willing your body to be strong, begging your stupid eyes to dry.

The door slid shut, and you could hear him moving back into the room, but you were trying too hard not to fall to give him much attention.  It was taking all of your effort to stand and squeeze your fists together, too far away from the bed to sink back into its support but uncertain that your legs would hold you much longer. The idea of crumpling into a mess on the floor was less than appealing, but it was unavoidable, you decided.

You could feel him behind you, but you couldn’t look.  He was a looming dark planet, the center of your universe now, and you could feel how fast you were hurtling through the Galaxy. Heat danced along your skin, and you shook your head, trying to clear away the flashes of his eyes, twin comets burning a bright swath of destruction in their wake.

You’d been so willing to let him end your life, but he hadn’t, and you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

You'd given him your ultimate prayer, your whole body supplication, and he had decided it wasn't good enough. He hadn't granted you the absolution you'd sought.

Ren didn’t move; and as always, it unnerved you so much that you turned your head to look at him.  The pity you felt for yourself abated instantly. He was also still painted with your offering, ruddy constellations mingling with vast swatches and trails.  His dark tresses were clumped together, matted with congealed blood.  

The sight of it was jarring. 

Why would he spend the night in your blood? Why hadn’t he washed away your filth and gore? Was it a war prize, some malicious badge of honor to mark your breaking? Did that mean the war for your body was over?

You were filled with too many questions and only one answer. Your blood on his body looked magnificent. 

He was wild, feral, a savage, dogged creature they would tell stories about for millennia to come.  The great monster in the dark.

The varying shades of crimson and obsidian framed his face and his body as though he had been carved directly from the middle of a volcano, white hot in the center bleeding outwards to ruddy and then midnight black.

But it was his eyes that captivated you, as always.  His greedy gaze slid over you, roving around bruised curves and raised scratches.  He lingered on the bloody palm print on your breast, and it tightened for him obediently. His eyes raked down to your thighs, and you stopped breathing.

You were trapped by the promise of brutality and lust you saw there.

Ashamed of the way you'd reacted to him, the way you were still reacting to him, you shied away from his stare, dizzy and struggling to stay upright. Your insides were twisted, your equilibrium was thrown off as though you’d been pushed too far out of his gravitational field.  You were tumbling into anxious awareness, your brain firing off question after question.

What could you offer that hunger in return when what you'd already given hadn’t been enough?  What else were you expected to produce when the sum total of everything you were had been rejected, discarded?

Broken and battered, you were nothing short of empt--

"Beautiful," he cut off your thought.

It was soft, nearly under his breath. You snorted louder than you intended and shook your head, completely disbelieving. Beautiful? Riddled with bruises and scars? You looked down at yourself, tracked with dried blood and surgical tape.  Certainly not.

He was on you in a second, covering the distance in two long strides. His demanding hands took hold of your body, turning you and pulling you flush against him. His left hand slid around your throat, tightening and shifting your face to look up at him; his right hand dropped down to cup your backside, rubbing and squeezing the shapely mass.

"My bruises," he murmured, " my scars."

His voice was husky, ravenous, and he dropped his face down to nudge your jaw with his nose.  What could you say in response to that? They were his bruises and scars now. You'd never think of them in any other way.

You swallowed nervously, pressing against his chest where your hands were trapped, fingers splaying.  Your body, injured though it was, flooded with his nearness. Sweat dampened your brow, and a blush crept up your cheeks.  Your thighs quivered, and you pressed them together to staunch the familiar twinge. Wanting pooled low in your belly, and your lips parted on a stuttered breath.

Your clearing eyes focused on the expanse of skin under your fingers, and you realized that this was the first time you’d touched him.  He'd had his hands on you for days, but you’d never been granted the return opportunity. Stunned, you pressed the palms of your hands into his pecs, feeling his heartbeat.  The existence of his pulse awed you.

Your Child God truly was a man, but he was such a man as you had never seen.  He was marble, chiseled by the hand of war and kept sharp by a ceaselessly demanding master. There was no softness here, no gentleness, and there would never be mercy.

You grimaced, huffed out a breath, and let your gaze travel further to take in more of his alabaster skin and alluring, dark beauty marks.  How unnecessary to decorate an already magnificent work of art, you thought, but how utterly perfect they looked upon him.

But something was wrong.

Your eyebrows drew together, worry playing over your face.  Yesterday, he was pure and nearly flawless, his only injury being the wound traversing his face.  Yesterday, he had been wholly transcendent in his perfection.

Today, his body was marred, corrupted by lines and lesions that should not be there.  Beneath the russet stains, he was bearing the wounds of a different sort of battle, an impossible struggle.

Eyes blown wide with the memory of yesterday's accusation, you jerked backwards in his embrace, pushing his arms away so you could examine more of his body.  Your trembling fingers ran over arms, ribs, shoulders, lingering on all of the pink and red scratches that now danced with brown freckles.

No…

You recognized the pattern you saw on his flesh.  You’d been mapping that exact calligraphy for years.  You were too horrified to cry, to be ashamed or apologetic.  You reached up and swept anxious fingers at the hollow of his throat, tracing the too-familiar jagged lines.

And he let you.  Ren held you loosely, one hand splayed across your back while the other continued to stroke your ass and hip. He watched you, dark eyes trained to your face, keeping his silence as you discovered not just his body but the effect he wanted you to believe you'd had upon it.

You...

“No,” he tipped your chin up, “I told you yesterday.  You did this.”

You shook your head, pushed against him, and tried to step back, emphatically disagreeing with his crazy assertion.  Ducking down swiftly, Ren lifted you over his shoulder, affording you the view of his newly scratched-up back, and carted you into the bathroom.

You flinched from the automatic light, instinctively burying your face against his shoulder as the false blue flooded the room to hurt your eyes.  Ren outstretched his hand at the fixture, blew out half of the little halogen bulbs, and cast the bathroom in a less harsh glow. You breathed a heavy sigh of relief and pushed at his back, wiggling in his grip.

Ren set you on still hurting feet and turned you before a large, floor-to-ceiling mirror built against one of the walls.  You tried to step away, not wanting to see the results of his ravaging, but he pushed you back into place, turning your head and forcing you to face your reflection.

As before, you were shocked by the woman you saw there.  She was as feral as Ren, savage and shameless. There were dark circles under her eyes from overuse, and she was painted an astonishing array of colors that amplified every curve, accentuated every muscle.

That woman, you thought, was not surviving.  She was thriving.

You still didn’t know what it meant that she was you, and you were too exhausted for much more.

When Ren stepped behind you, you choked and gaped at him in the mirror.  He’d shucked his pants and pressed into your backside, wrapping a long arm around your middle, his forearm nestled beneath your breasts. He tipped your head to one side and cleared away your hair so that he could drop his face into that crook. 

Your brow knit at the familiarity of it, recalling the way he’d positioned you exactly like this in the shower. He’d tucked the length of his erection at the crest of your ass, and he’d kept you flush against the long column of his body.  Being fully inside his orbit produced an immediate, visceral reaction, and you shook inside his embrace.

You stared at the picture in the mirror.  His wide shoulders and strong arms caged you, hulking in the background. His dark halo was dipped down, his face buried into your neck.  The devil wrapped around you, come to claim his prize.

He drew in a deep, satisfied breath, and you couldn’t help but think you smelled like a barn.  Hardly a fit sacrifice for such a demanding, devoted demon. He smirked against your skin, and your eyes widened impossibly further. You were so wrapped up in concern, you hadn't noticed.

He’d done it.  He’d broken into the stronghold, and he could hear you.

Ignoring your shock, Ren stroked your stomach gently, slowly. His middle finger rubbed over your belly button, and it felt so incredibly good that you visibly shuddered. When he started speaking, you felt the vibration of it at your throat, understanding why he liked it so much. It was a subtle gesture, but it was powerfully seductive.

“There are as many ways to use the Force,” he said, “as there are species in the Galaxy.”

He raked thick fingers down your arm and encircled your wrist.  Turning the inside of your arm upwards, he tracked the bruise he’d left there with his thumb before turning his arm up to show you his matching bruise in the same spot, and you stopped breathing.

“It is everywhere” he continued, “even when you don’t know it.”

He curled your arm up against your chest, and you took the opportunity to hug yourself, eyes watering as he kept on.   Nuzzling into your hair, he pressed his lips at the very back of your neck while nimble fingers danced down the lengthy scar at your thigh, pinching at the surgical tape.

"And it is accessible to everyone, anyone if they can feel it." 

Pulling you closer by one large hand at your hip, he snuggled his growing erection between your buttocks on a satisfied hum.  His arm slithered up your torso, sliding against your sternum and between your breasts until long fingers wrapped around your neck to squeeze.  You couldn’t look away as he shifted so that his leg slid against yours, the discordant but matching line peeking through his dark leg hair.

"Like you." 

You were stunned into utter stillness; you couldn’t even breathe.  The things he was saying couldn’t possibly be true. You were nobody from nowhere. You’d been sold into slavery as a child, and you’d spent your life just trying to survive.  There was no Force sensitivity here.

“My grandfather was a slave,” he murmured against your temple, “and he was the most powerful Force-user in the Galaxy.”

I’m not your grandfather…

“Do you need more proof, puppet? There's plenty."

His hand dropped to palm at the tape stretching across your abdomen, squeezing the swell of your belly in his broad hand. He was goading you into turning around to see if he had a matching one, but you knew he did.  

Ren hadn’t ever lied.  If he said that you did this, you were going to have to believe that you did.  Unlike the day before, he’d been with you in this room the entire time, and you’d woken to a flushing lattice covering his body.

You shook your head to his question, hoping instead he would explain how you’d been able to accomplish this miraculous feat when you were just a weaponer from the desert.

How...

“You used to scream into the desert,” he offered, settling his chin on top of your head and talking to you in the mirror.

“The only time you would let your guard down was then, and you would unleash all of your rage, your pain.  You taught yourself to unburden all of that anger and hurt by pushing it out into the stars.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sound of his voice rather than his words because they were nauseating; this could not be real.  Everything he said was true, though; and worse, him knowing those things meant that he’d truly been in your head, diving into your thoughts, memories, history.  

"When that wall comes down," he murmured, fingers stroking the supple side of your breast, "you communicate the only way you can. They took your voice, but your body found a way. You found a way."

At some point during his instruction, you'd latched your fingers onto his thick arm and were holding it as though he would save you from this. The tears he had been building spilled over, clamoring down your trembling chin.

"You can make whomever might be around you feel what you're feeling."

The weight of what he was telling you settled; his words rang in your ears.  You thought about the last two days and how your wall had been fractured on the first day, resulting in the bruises on his arms.  And then, you replayed yesterday when it was all but obliterated and you had pushed out all of your outrage and suffering as you readied yourself to die.

Ren was telling you that you were Force-sensitive, and he was offering his body as proof to that fact. 

For a second, you wondered why he was telling you this, why he was being nice.  Wouldn’t it be better to keep someone who could literally wound you with their feelings in the dark about something like this? Ignorance made for better prisoners, you knew that for a fact.

Opening your eyes, you met his stare in the mirror. It surprised you that he was being so open, and you had so many questions.

Ren...

“Kylo,” he said simply, and you blinked, bewildered.

“My name is Kylo.  Ren was…,” he paused, seeming to search for a proper description, “...a different man.”

Curiosity having been forgotten with this kernel of information, you let your gaze wander your reflection. You studied each line of black tape, each scratch you assumed was closed with a cautery pen. You lingered over bloody fingerprints, long tracks running down your legs, the pool of crimson at the juncture of your thighs.

He held you like that for a long time, quiet and still, fingers barely grazing different bits of your skin, giving you time to assimilate the information. Often, your eyes would stray to him, this package of tightrope composure and bombast.

This man was a monster.  He delighted in torturing you, making you suffer and cry. You’d never seen a person so fully alive as he was covered in your blood and carving up your flesh. He lived up to every inch of his reputation.

And you had survived his wrath, the explosion of his violence.

Twice.

An appreciative hum vibrated against your back, and his face dipped down against your ear.  He stroked the soft skin where thigh met groin, keeping you tucked against him with an arm around your stomach. He rocked his hips into you, pushing his swollen dick between your buttocks. Your lips parted on an eager gasp, and you couldn’t help yourself from leaning your head back against him, pressing your ass into his thrusts.

“You did,” his tone was low, “And you will.”

The absolute certainty in his voice chilled you, and nervousness trickled in.  He still meant to keep you, the war for your body was not over, and this was not a tender moment.  

You thought back to the floor he’d pinned you to when he learned you’d stopped eating.  This reprieve, this cease-fire of suffering, was not a result of kindness. He was simply ensuring you wouldn’t be broken beyond repair so that the misery could continue tomorrow.

“Smart girl,” he whispered in your ear before standing upright and unwinding from around you.

A frown flitted across your face because him being able to hear your thoughts was disabling, intimidating, but you swallowed it down because you were simply too flabbergasted, too weak, and too starved to fortify yourself against it. Maybe you’d be able to work on it tomorrow; but tonight, you just needed to recover.

Ren ushered you through a hot shower, washing away the remnants of last night’s bloody agony.  The hot water and steam lulled you into a spacey relaxation, and you put up absolutely no resistance when his fingers stopped washing and began to play your body like an instrument. You told yourself it certainly wasn't because you craved his touch.

He let the lie slide.

He plucked and tugged at your nipples until they throbbed to attention. He dipped his fingers between your ass cheeks and rubbed at the tender opening until you arched and gasped, breathless.  He slid his fingers between your labia and rubbed soapy circles into your clit until you danced up onto your toes, and he pumped two deft fingers into your cunt just long enough to have you shuddering before lifting his hand to the water, washing away the bits of blood he’d fucked up into you yesterday.

And then he sat you on the shower floor, dissatisfied and scooted out of the way like furniture, while he bathed himself. You bristled for a moment, but it dissolved as you watched. You marveled at him, watching his impressive hands move quickly over thick arms and legs, coloring the water pink with every pass.

Ren towered over you, and he was nothing short of spectacular. Every inch of him was immense, battle-forged, and the scars that now decorated his body, your scars, only amplified the cords of muscle working beneath the skin. You found yourself wondering if he trained for all of those muscles or if he’d just killed enough people that they were natural now.

He tipped his head back into the water, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.  You let your gaze travel over him without reservation, and you followed each of his ribs and the dark line of fuzz that led down from his belly button to the thick patch at his pelvis. You were watching the way his cock was lengthening when you caught yourself, flushed at what you’d been doing, and looked away.

Your eyes caught on his thigh, though, and you blinked.  He’d gone to great lengths to prove to you that he was wearing all of your bruises, but the memory of those at your thighs had escaped you entirely.  Recalling the way his mouth had claimed your skin, you grazed at your thigh, poking your fingernail into the flourishing purple.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out and brushed your fingertips against the discoloration on his skin, thinking it was so out of place.

Ren had stopped washing, hands folded behind his neck, and was staring down at you. His abdomen was clenched tight, his skin was flushing a lovely shade of pink, and his nose was red from the hot water. Something you couldn’t name punched up through your lungs leaving you breathless.  

You weren’t sorry. How could you be sorry when you hadn’t known it was you?

But seeing something of you, this intimate mark of yours, on this man’s body stirred something primal and moved you to act. The rational part of you screamed that you should stop, but the part of you hungering for this beast propelled you onto your knees before him, wanting some part of the bruise to actually be yours.

Your eyes weren’t drawn to his cock, swollen with arousal and standing proud inches from your face. Instead, your stare fixed upon his thigh, fingers tracing it again lightly.

You looked up at him, the question unnecessary because he certainly already knew what was in your mind.  He nodded once, barely perceptible, giving you the permission you sought. Licking your lips, you readied and focused upon your target.

He hissed when your quivering lips connected with his leg, your nose rubbing into the softer, upper thigh hair. You trembled, thinking surely you had gone insane, but you licked at the soapy skin anyways, roaming the circumference of his bite mark with your tongue tip. You glanced up at him to find him watching you intently, his stare delicious and wanting.

Ren nudged your knees apart with his foot, spreading your thighs further so he could look down at the bites he’d left you with, evidence of his viciousness.  He was pleased with himself, with his handiwork, and it rumbled up through his chest.

When you followed his eyes, faltering in your task, he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck and pulled your mouth back to his thigh. In your periphery, you could see him wrap his big hand around his fat, neglected cock and stroke slowly. You burned at the idea that he was fucking himself millimetres away from your hot mouth and sucked at his bruise.

He hummed when your teeth nipped at the skin, and you reveled in the sound. It amazed you that you could make that happen.

With a lusty growl, his pace picked up, and you could hear his fist insistently working his cock, the slaps echoing off the tile. He anchored you to his thigh, fingers tight at your neck, and you purred against the skin. His breath was coming shorter now, and you lifted your eyes up to look at his face, salivating at the sight.

He was breathtaking, flushed with desire, dark hair shining onyx from the water, eyes heavy-lidded as he pleasured himself.  

Emboldened, you inched nearer, slid your arm beneath his leg, and lifted him onto your shoulder, mirroring the very way he’d held you the night before.  The same heat that flooded you beneath his lightsaber returned, and you wrapped your suddenly brave hands around his hips, tilting them towards your mouth.

Opening wide, you sunk your teeth into the meat of his thigh, drawing the falsely-bruised skin deep into your mouth.

“Fuck!”

He barked it out and tangled fingers in your hair, holding you exactly there while you sucked and bathed his skin with your tongue.  His tempo was hurried now, skipping, and you growled against him, knowing he liked to feel your chest, your mouth vibrate. 

Remembering all of the ways he’d tormented you, you opened your jaw wider to draw more of him in, bit down again, and turned your head from side to side, yanking and tearing at the, now appropriately, discolored flesh.

On a snarl, he yanked your head back from his thigh and slid his leg from your shoulder. You licked your puffy lips but didn’t dare look at him fisting his cock; you couldn't be certain you wouldn't beg for it. Rather you looked up at his face the way he’d forced you to look up at him that first day, suppliant and worshipful.

You were the hungry beast now, eyes wild and wanting, skin flushed and tight. He affected you in ways no person ever had, but he couldn't pretend you didn't affect him, too. It was a heady, heady thing.

“Open.”

His harsh grip tipped your head back, and you sunk your weight into your knees. You knew it was an inviting picture, your thighs spread wide, breasts pushed together between your arms, swollen lips parted and ready. You knew he loved seeing himself all over your body, and you wallowed in it, groveling for the way he looked at you.

Like property.

But you knew you were unlike any he'd had before or would in the future.

The sounds he made were sinful, incredible, and you yearned for them, desire dribbling hot onto the tiles beneath your cunt. His breath was choppy, and he was staring down at you so fiercely you thought you might burst into flames. 

Ren’s hulking shoulders hunched forward, his torso curving in as he neared orgasm, and you moaned at the sight, the raspy sound swallowed by the rush of the shower and the pained groans spilling from above. Lost to the carnality, you reached out to wrap your hand around his calf, needing the contact.

That was all it took, the last bit of what he needed.

You saw the moment his body loosened, the flash of it across his face, and his shoulders eased back, hips pushing forward.  For a second, he was trapped between anxious build-up and explosive relief, and he held his breath. His grip on his cock tightened, his strokes changing from fast and loose to slow and tight.

He erupted into a breathy groan as the first salty drops hit your tongue, and you squirmed on an impatient whimper, the taste of him overpowering your senses. He was salty, spicy, tart, and it flooded your tongue, sliding down into your throat.

Ren held his cock right above your face as he came, the inflamed, red-purple head barely resting on your lower lip. He squeezed and milked all of his release into your waiting mouth, chasing the last bits of release with low, gravelly moans.  

When he finally released his grip on his dick, readying to pull away, your pearly tongue shot up to curl against the very end, lips closing around the sensitive tip and kissing away that last drop before swallowing down his taste.

It was bold, stupid, reckless, and so fucking worth it.

His eyes darkened impossibly further, and he snatched your face between harsh fingers, bent forward, and kissed you before you could clear his cum fully away. His tongue pushed past your teeth and invaded the cavern of your mouth, sliding through the salty mix on a satisfied sigh.

You'd tasted him twice in as many minutes, and you were sure you'd never be the same. It was magnetic, delirious, obscene, and you were scorched in the wake of it.

Gathering you into his arms, Ren reached back to turn off the shower and herded you back into the bathroom proper.  In minutes, he had you dried and back in the bed, a tray of food at your side. You watched him pull on clothes, uncertain of why you felt the way you did, empty and confused, satisfied and pleased, defeated and victorious.

When he was fully dressed, he stepped back around to the side of the bed, wrapped his fingers around your throat, and squeezed until you looked up at him, as though you could look anywhere else when he was so near.

The gesture felt almost intimate now, his way of centering you always back to him. 

“Eat. Sleep. There’s a guard outside.  I trust you understand the consequences if you try to escape again."

You’re going to beat me no matter what; so, does it matter? 

Your eyebrow perched up high, daring him to argue or prove you wrong.  

Ren's luscious lips turned up at the corners, his amusement obvious, and he slid his indecently-long index finger into your mouth.  Pushing past your hard palette, he hooked that finger and caught the ridge separating the roof of your mouth from the soft of your throat, sending you into a sputter. He pulled you closer by this crude latch and looked into your watering eyes.

“Indeed, I am.”

[rosethesongbird]

Alone

Content warning: violence, abuse, mentions of amputation, blood, vomit (emeto), drug abuse, temporary character death... this is a rough one, guys. 

Day to day life (if you could call being imprisoned in a basement with no windows “life”) was not easy, for Serizawa. Crawling around on the floor on amputated stumps with no companionship or help most of the time. One meal a day, at best. Bouncing back and forth between being so drugged up he couldn’t think straight and withdrawals that made him vomit until his throat bled. And on top of it all, living in constant fear of further violence—sometimes because of something he did. Sometimes because of something someone else did. Sometimes random, unprompted. Like he was a human punching bag. Sleeping on the floor like a dog, often in a puddle of his own blood, sweat, and tears. It was, quite honestly, hell.

Getting sick down there?

That was worse. 

The first sign was the fact that he slept. Most people lose sleep when they aren’t well. However, when you’re plagued by horrifying, vivid, realistic nightmares six or seven times a night, you don’t sleep well, ever. And yet there he was, getting shaken awake by Minegishi. 

“Serizawa, wake up,” he frowned. “Are you alright? It’s lunchtime,” 

“Mh,” he blinked his eyes open, using his bandaged upper arms to rub the sleep from them. “Must’ve been tired,” 

“Apparently. Come on, sit up. I’ve got okayu for you today.” Minegishi reached out his hand, gently lifting him off the floor, cautious when touching constantly bruised ribs. “You feel warm.”

“My head hurts.” Serizawa desperately wanted to squeeze the pressure points at his temples, strong fingertips rubbing all over his scalp, alleviating the headache. Really, that was what he missed the most about not having arms. It really made him realize how seldom he was touched. 

“I’ll ask President Suzuki if I can get some medicine for you. Here, eat. We’ll both get in trouble if he notices I’m down here too long.” 

He opened his mouth obediently, going through a few spoonfuls before wincing and turning away. “No more. I feel sick.” 

Minegishi frowned again. “Are you sure?” 

“Mm-hmm,” he squeezed his eyes shut, laying back down onto the cold concrete floor, supporting his head on what was left of his arms as he curled up into a ball. “I feel faint.” 

“I-I’ll try my best, but—he’s in a really bad mood already,” Minegishi hung his head in shame. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back until tomorrow.” 

He took in a shaky breath. His headache was getting worse. “Not your fault, M’negishi,” he whispered, slurring. “Don’ worry.”

He heard Minegishi sniffling as he rose, wordlessly, and left the room, door clicking shut behind him. 

Probably nothing, he thought. Maybe a weird one-day bug or something. Mama always said it was good to sweat a fever out, anyway.

I’ve handled worse. 

He lay there, face down on the floor, for what felt like hours; the only indication of his life being the slow, shaky rise and fall of his back with every breath. Focus. In and out. In and out. Don’t throw up. Focus. His head was pounding stronger and stronger, and he felt beads of sweat dripping off his forehead. 

He deeply regretted the few bites of porridge as they finally came back up, burning and stinging his mouth and nose until there was nothing left in his stomach. The motion of gagging and retching ignited a burning pain in his stomach.

He slowly crawled away from the vomit, spitting in a desperate attempt to get rid of the disgusting taste. The burning pain did not subside, and he felt an intense need to rub his sore stomach—like Mama did, when I was little, Mama, I don’t feel good. A sensation of freezing cold came over him as he started to shiver, cowering in the opposite corner of the room, his back to the door. Several short cycles of sleep went by, interrupted by waves of nausea causing him to gag, his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead despite still feeling like he was in a freezer. Focus. Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. You’re okay. Mama, help. It’s okay. You’re okay. Focus. In, out. Throw up. Don’t throw up. Breathe. Mama. 

He flinched, yelping at the sudden touch on his shoulder. The burning pain had graduated to an excruciating stabbing pain, with a feeling like someone twisting a knife every time he moved, and he realized his breathing was shallow in an effort to minimize it. 

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” said Minegishi. “I got some medicine for you. Open up.” 

“Mmmmh. Can’t,” he whined. “Throw up.” 

“Just try. It’s all I can give you.” 

He cautiously opened his mouth, allowing Minegishi to place a few pills on his tongue, as they had so many times before. Usually, it was a blessing, but to his fever-addled mind it was a source of barely contained panic. He swallowed anyway, hoping it would cause the pain to stop. 

The back of Minegishi’s fingers brushed gently across Serizawa’s face. “You’re burning up. Where does it hurt?” 

“Stomach,” he whimpered, already feeling the medication trying to rise in his throat. 

“Let me see.” Minegishi went to pull up his shirt, revealing the multitude of bruises all over his body in various states of healing. It’s okay. You trust Minegishi. Minegishi won’t hurt you. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Right here?” 

Serizawa screamed, seeing stars at the light pressure. Minegishi jerked his hand away at the sudden movement as the ailing man vomited from the pain, sobbing as he fell to the ground, curling in on himself in an effort to quell the waves of pain still emanating from the sore spot. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Minegishi stammered. “I… let me see if the President will let me—“

“No, no, please, please don’t,” he coughed, wincing. “Please, I’ll be fine, please don’t tell him, please—“ 

“Serizawa, I barely touched you and you screamed. You need a hospital.” He got up from the floor, walking toward the door as Serizawa exploded into feverish pleas of no, no, Minegishi, please, he’ll hurt me, please don’t, please, no, no no no. He began to weep as the door shut behind Minegishi. 

Mama, please. Please save me. Help. I need help. It hurts, I’m dying. I’m going to die. I have to protect myself. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t trust Minegishi. Minegishi wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. I have to, I have to. I have to trust Minegishi. I can’t trust anyone else. I can’t. No one cares about me. I’m dying. I’m dying alone. 

“You’re sick, Serizawa?” Touichirou crouched to the ground where he was curled up. Please. Please help. 

“I-I don’t know, sir,” 

“Minegishi here says you are. What’s wrong?” 

“M-my stomach, sir, it hurts—“ he gasped as Touichirou pulled up roughly on his shirt. “P-p-please, please be g-gentle sir—“ 

Touchirou’s two fingers pressed—hard—into the sore spot. It did hurt, but not the way Serizawa had expected. 

What hurt was when he let go. Excruciating agony, pulsing, burning, squeezing, he was screaming, he was wailing, he was dying, help, Mama, help me. He lost all inhibition as he continued weeping in front of the President and a horrified Minegishi. 

“Huh. It’s been a while since I heard you scream like that, Serizawa. Too bad you aren’t sick more often.” He jabbed his fingers into the spot once more as Serizawa shrieked before his eyes rolled back, going completely still as he blacked out. 

—

“Mama,” he cried, breaking into a sprint.

“Katsuya!”

They met in the middle, embracing, sharing tears of joy between them, his mother’s fingers in his hair. 

“I missed you so much, Mama.” 

“I missed you too, my heart.” 

She pulled back, looking at him, confused.

“Wait…you aren’t my son.”

“Mama, I am, I’m Katsuya,” 

“No,” she said, stepping back. “You’re disgusting. My son’s not like you. He’s not a cripple. He’s not a coward.” 

“Mama, I’m not—“ 

He reached out to her as his arms crumbled into dust, starting at the fingertips. 

“Look at yourself,” she said, bitterly. “You can’t comb your hair. You can’t wash yourself. You can’t feed yourself. You can’t do anything. You can’t even embrace your own mother.” 

“Mama, no, please, it’s me—“ he fell, kneeling, to the ground, losing sensation in his legs as they too faded away in the wind like ash. 

“You’re not my son.” She turned and walked away as he began wailing. 

“Mama, no, please, please come back Mama, please—“ 

“Mm… m… mama… pl… m…” 

“Shh, shh.” Shimazaki gently stroked the side of his face with the cloth Minegishi had given him. 

“How is he?” Minegishi walked in, summoned by the small pained sounds Serizawa was making.

“Delirious. He’s not really asleep but… not really awake either.” 

He crouched down to eye level with the man, now mercifully lying in a bed. “Serizawa, can you hear me?” 

Half-lidded eyes flickered, blinking, struggling to open towards the voice. “Ma…ma?” 

“No, it’s me, Minegishi. Can you feel this?” He began to vigorously rub Serizawa’s shoulder. 

A near-imperceptible lowering of the eyebrows, a shuddering sigh. Eyes dull, blurred, still barely open.

“I think that’s a no,” said Shimazaki. 

Minegishi sighed. “Okay, let’s try this. Can you feel this, Serizawa?” He steeled himself, gingerly placing a hand on his stomach and pressing lightly. 

His eyes shot open, screaming until his throat was raw, sobbing, back arching off the bed, coughing, retching, pleading, stop, Minegishi, stop, it hurts, stop, please. 

“Damn.” 

“Can’t you give him anything else?” Shimazaki cautiously began stroking him with the cloth again.

“I’ve already given him more than the max dose. Any more could kill him.” 

The excruciating touch had brought a few moments of awareness to Serizawa. After Touichirou’s rough handling, he had allowed Minegishi to move him to the infirmary as his condition worsened. The inordinate amount of pain medication he was given was enough to make his face and the tips of his stumps numb, tingling, buzzing like static—yet it still hadn’t touched the agony that had spread throughout his whole stomach. 

“Is this really okay?” He flinched as the tips of Shimazaki’s fingers brushed his sore abdomen. “His fever’s worse, and look, it’s starting to swell here.” I can’t move it. It hurts to move. It feels weird. 

“What do you want me to do, Shimazaki?” Minegishi snapped. “I’m not a surgeon, and even if I was the President won’t let me do anything.” Surgeon? I don’t want to have surgery. I’m scared.

“So what, then? We’re just going to let him die?” 

“Don’ wanna die,” he whimpered. Scared, I’m scared. Scared scared scared scared don’t wanna die. Don’t let me die. Can’t. Can’t die. Please. Mama, please. Scared. Help me. He began to panic, his breathing growing faster and shallower. 

“Shh, it’s okay, we won’t. We won’t let you die. Go back to sleep.” Shimazaki looked toward Minegishi pointedly before returning his focus to Serizawa.

“Can’t,” he moaned. “Hurts.” He would have given anything to have his hands back, or at least to have someone touch him gently, comfortingly. Mama. The ends of the manicured fingernails scrubbing his scalp. The slow, gentle circles on his chest. Anyone. He began to cry again, the sensation of tears touching his numb, overheating face almost unbearable, yet wiping them away was impossible. 

“We have to at least get that fever down,” said Minegishi, suddenly. “Could you handle a bath, Serizawa?” 

“Don’ know,” he said, gasping. “Could try.” Anything. Anything. Please. 

“Okay,” Minegishi let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay. I’ll go start one. Just… hold on.” 

He lay there for a moment, whining like a hurt dog, when suddenly Shimazaki spoke up. 

“I’m sorry, Serizawa.” 

“S’okay,” he somehow managed to choke out. “Not…your fault.” 

“I just…” he sighed. “I just wish we could do more.” 

“Mh, s’enough.” 

“It’s not, though. One of us should have stepped in.” 

“Th’ President’s… scary,” he wheezed. “Don’ blame you.” 

“That’s an understatement,” said Shimazaki, chuckling humorlessly. 

“Shimazaki, I—“ he started to panic, thinking of the suffering he had endured at President Suzuki’s hand— “can’t breathe,” 

Shimazaki laid his hand on Serizawa’s chest, gently, feeling for the rise and fall. “You’re okay, you’re breathing fine. Just slow down. Try to stay calm.” 

“It hurts,” he moaned. 

“Where?” 

“Everywhere,” he began to sob.

Minegishi ran back into the room, out of breath. “Okay, okay. Come on, Serizawa.” He slipped his arms under the feverish man, pulling him up quickly. 

Serizawa gasped, keening, writhing in pain at the sudden motion. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just for a minute. You’ll be okay.” He picked him up with ease. 

The pressure on Serizawa’s stomach from being lifted up caused him to yelp, sobbing, pleading that hurts, Minegishi, please, it hurts— 

Shimazaki jumped up, interjecting “Hold on, Minegishi, slow down—slow down for just a minute—“ 

Serizawa began to slip from Minegishi’s grasp as the two began to argue.

“No, look, we have to hurry and get the fever down,” 

“But he’s really sick, Minegishi, you can’t just grab him like that.”

“What, do you have a better idea?” 

“Don’t you think he’s in enough pain as it is? Who do you think you’re helping?” 

“Well, I’d like to see you try to help every once in a while—“

Minegishi absentmindedly shifted Serizawa onto his hip, trying not to drop him. 

The pain pulled at every nerve ending, every synapse, building—cresting—crashing—he vomited, screaming, choking on stomach acid, pressing his overheating face into Minegishi’s neck, inhibitions lost, desperate for the human contact yet just as desperately wishing Minegishi would put him down, please, please, it hurts, help— 

He heard the two men calling out for him, echoing, muffled, he was choking, hyperventilating, can’t breathe, hurts, no, no, not again, no, no more—

He closed his eyes, disordered speech trailing off, passing out. 

—

It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s really sick. He’s overheating. The water’s not that cold but it’ll wake him up right away. I’m sure. I’m sure he’ll start complaining as soon as he touches it. 

Minegishi’s thoughts seemed to echo Shimazaki’s calm, measured words. Yes, no sense in worrying. Surely, surely Serizawa would wake up from the sensation of the bath. 

He did not. 

The two of them gently—gently, this time—lowered him into the water, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, old worn sweatshirt billowing in the lukewarm bath to reveal the swollen, bruised abdomen. They started to let go, reassuring themselves, see, there he is, he moved a little—as he sunk, limp, into the water, Shimazaki’s heightened senses coming through in the clutch to catch his head as it lolled to one side, mouth open, breathing through dry cracked lips (but just barely). 

They sat there in silence, air in the room growing thick, heavy with the echoing thought what if he doesn’t wake up?

“If he wakes up, I—we have to take him to the hospital,” said Minegishi. 

“More so if he doesn’t, don’t you think?” Shimazaki responded. 

“I’m just—I don’t know how the President will react, but I can’t… I can’t sit by and watch this. I draw the line here.” 

Shimazaki nodded. He dipped his hand into the water, lightly pouring handful after handful of water over Serizawa’s hair. 

Minegishi approached, cautiously, uncharacteristically nervous. The pain he had caused to the man in the bath—whether by action or inaction—ate at the pit of his stomach like a parasite. He took a deep breath, steadying his shaky hands, and reached out to search for a pulse on Serizawa’s neck. 

“Well?” said Shimazaki. 

“It’s fast, but it’s weak,” he said, feeling around. “And something’s infected. His lymph nodes are all swollen.” 

“Has he cooled down at all?”

Minegishi frowned. “Maybe a little, but not much,” 

He pulled his hands away, swiftly, as Serizawa’s eyelids twitched and a low whine came from the gently parted lips. 

“Ah, there he is. See, I told you. Serizawa, wake up,” 

Serizawa struggled again to open his eyes. 

Sensation. Floating. Floating in water? Cold water. Hot. So hot. Overheating. Dying. Not dying. Breathing. Breathing. Talking? Someone is. Water. Clean—wash—bath. Gentle. Not gentle. Hurts, hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts gone. Sick. I’m sick. Me? My name. Who is it? 

“Mh,” he slurred, eyes opening, vision blurred through long eyelashes that Mama said were beautiful, so beautiful. Light. Ceiling. People, like me. They’re like me. They’re not like me. They have hands, and feet. 

“Hey,” said Shimazaki. Tears fell, unhindered, from Minegishi’s eyes, overcome with relief, I didn’t kill him, he’s alive. He’s alive. 

“Hhh... Shi… m…” lips slowly regaining feeling as the pain medication began to wear off still wouldn’t cooperate. 

“Shh, it’s alright. Don’t talk.” 

“Mm,” he nodded. 

“We’re going to get you to a doctor, okay? So don’t worry. Right, Minegishi?” 

Minegishi sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Right,” he sighed. “Right. How’s your stomach?” 

He moaned, voice cracking. Bad, bad, bad. Hurts. Wrong. Something’s wrong. Help. 

“I’m sorry… about earlier. I—well, I panicked.” 

He shook his head, weak, as Shimazaki poured another handful of water over his hair. “Nnn. No. S’okay.” It hurt. Hurt. Hurt hurt hurt. Don’t blame you. Hurt me. Accident. 

“Here, Minegishi. Let’s get him dry.” Shimazaki slipped his hands underneath what was left of Serizawa’s arms, slowly pulling, sliding him out of the bath. 

He whined, weak, in pain despite the careful handling. Minegishi wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders, holding him against his chest as he began to shiver in the cool air. 

“I’ll go talk to the President. See what I can get him to agree to.” 

Minegishi nodded, pulling Serizawa closer protectively. 

A feeling of warmth washed over the sick man’s face as he leaned back, relaxed despite the pain. Despite the uncertainty to come he was safe, for now, in the embrace of a trusted friend. His lips twitched into a smile, and he closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth. 

He awoke what felt like just a moment later, blearily, groggily, gasping, every breath feeling like his ribs were grinding together, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, looking toward an unfamiliar ceiling, and light, sunlight, blessed warm sunlight just barely filtering in through a nearby window. 

“That’s right, just breathe. Just keep breathing, you’re doing great, sweetheart.” A woman standing by his head was patting his cheek with her hand. Someone placed an oxygen mask on his face. Who are you? Who? Where? 

A man standing above him was shining a light in his eyes. He tried to pull his head away but it wouldn’t move. 

“Oh, thank God. I’ll go tell the guys who brought him in,” said a different woman, fading out of focus as she walked away. 

The people still in the room worked wordlessly, like he wasn’t even there, except for the woman at his head, still gently patting his cheek, running her fingers through his hair, speaking soft words of encouragement as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. 

Not… the basement? Where? Suddenly, he noticed the absence of Minegishi and Shimazaki, and began to panic. 

“Shh, you’re okay, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” The woman at his head leaned over, stroking his cheek, cooing and whispering to him. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.” Hospital? President Suzuki. Why? How?

Will I get punished for this? 

“Come on, Serizawa-san, you’re alright, you’re okay,” said the woman. “Can we get him some more? He’s getting a little agitated,” she said, turning to look at the man who thankfully had stopped shining a light in his eyes. 

“Yeah, I think we can up it a little. Hold on.” 

Almost immediately, his eyelids began to droop. Fine, everything’s fine. 

“Try your best to stay with us, Serizawa-san. I know the drugs are probably making you drowsy, but try to stay awake for me, okay?” 

Okay. 

A familiar voice faded in, sobbing and hiccuping as the woman from before returned to the room. 

“Thank you, thank you—I just, well, he wasn’t breathing and I, I didn’t know w-what to do—“

“I totally understand. That must have been a really scary experience for you.” 

“Yeah. Serizawa really knows how to scare the shit out of us,” chuckled another familiar voice. 

“Hey, stay awake. Look, see, your friends are here,” the woman at his head rubbed her knuckles into the back of his neck, massaging a knot that he hadn’t been able to reach for months. 

Minegishi appeared at his bedside, eyes red, gripping a very used tissue in one hand like a security blanket; Shimazaki not far behind. He stood there for a moment, sniffling, before blurting out “I thought you were dead.” 

Shimazaki chuckled. “We both did. Thank God for my teleportation. Although I think it scared the nurses.” 

The woman at his head smiled. “We’ll get you fixed up soon, okay, Serizawa-san?” 

He nodded, somnolent. 

I’m not alone.

My friends. 

I have my friends. 

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Soft Names, Soft Touches

Chapter Eleven

 Previous Chapter

Pairing: Bucky x OC | Word Count: 4.2K+

Warnings: Angst. Violence. Russian that may or may not be correct.

Franki sank onto the seat of the swing in Central Park and sobbed softly against the chain. Everything she knew was a lie. Everything she felt was only a fabrication by Hydra. Her serum, her body, all of it had been one big genetic experiment to create matches for the Winter Soldier program.

She was a broodmare.

The only reason they had trained her this well was so if her partner ever got too aggressive, she could defend herself long enough for help to arrive. She wasn’t a field operative and the missions they had wanted to send her on, the ones she’d always refused, had been breeding missions. She was supposed to entice her soldier into fucking her until she was pregnant, and then she would be put in stasis, a chemically induced coma so she couldn’t abort the child until the offspring was born and they could begin the cycle anew.

It made her sick.

They’d played with her pheromones, done something to her to make her sexually attractive to the winter soldiers. That was why they put her in the room that day. Not to kill her, but so he could beat her down long enough to fuck her. Only she’d fought to the bitter end, and they’d been afraid he would actually kill her so they’d pulled her out.

Then she’d healed and made herself very interesting. What if they could unlock her genetic code? Create a bevy of females that healed like she did? Imagine the soldiers they could create. They could put their altered females back in with the men in days rather than weeks.

“Oh god… we were nothing more than animals…” she whimpered, leaning her head against the chain.

But it hadn’t worked the way they wanted it to. The men were all too feral, too dangerous, and eventually killed their partner. Whether on purpose or by accident the reports didn’t say. She’d been the last, and they had screwed with her the most. They’d played with her chemical makeup. Changed it, messed it up, and had turned her into a walking weapon. A weapon aimed… at Bucky.

She didn’t know how they’d done it, but, somehow, they’d made her into the perfect woman for the first Winter Soldier. Her scent was altered to be something he couldn’t resist, and when his skin came in contact with hers, it released a chemical reaction that bound them together. The closer they got, the tighter the bond. If she had slept with him before his leaving… it could have been so much worse.

It had been Hydra’s plan all along to dump her on Bucky’s doorstep. From there it was only a matter of time before nature took its course, and then Hydra would have done everything to get her back.

And Bucky would have come for her, do anything they said to save her because he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. She was a danger to him, and the farther away she was, the better. They hadn’t completed the bond yet, and if they stayed apart, it would, she hoped, fade. But for now, it fucking hurt.

“Hey? You okay? You need help?”

The voice was familiar, as was the flash of light over her face, and Franki looked up to find Officer Jack looking back.

“Franki Romanoff?” he murmured quietly, staring in horror at the woman. She looked absolutely devastated, and he took a step towards her. “Ma’am, are you alright? Do you need me to call the tower?”

“No!” she hollered, jerking upright. “Don’t call the tower. I am fine. I will go.” She got to her feet and nearly fell.

“Miss, if you’ll pardon my say so, you ain’t alright,” Jack murmured, moving to take her arm.

Jerking it away, Franki shook her head, tears streaming from her eyes. “Please… don’t… nothing good comes of people touching me.”

“Ma’am… Franki,” he said softly, watching her fold in on herself, “You got a place to stay tonight?” 

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled for him, but it was a weak one.

“Course you will. You’re coming home with me. My wife will be pleased as punch to have you.” He motioned for her to join him. “Come on, now.” He didn’t know what had happened between her and her team, or her and Sergeant Barnes, but he wasn’t about to leave a clearly upset woman alone in Central Park; didn’t matter who she was.

She looked at him standing there, all of thirty-five if he was a day, but he had that look that she’d come to think of as the dad look. Steve wore it sometimes, or Tony, when they were trying to be patient, but they expected obedience. “I do not wish to be trouble.”

Her accent grew thick and made him smile. “No trouble. Promise.” Slowly, she walked out of the park, and carefully stepped over the fence with him. She moved like she was broken, but he couldn’t tell if it was physical or emotional damage. “We have to go through the park and a bit down the other side. You going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine. Super… soldier….” She made to remind him but faltered when she remembered that wasn’t what she’d been made for.

“Hey, you want to talk about it? I’m a pretty fair listener,” he urged softly, heading home with what felt like a shadow in a red coat dogging him.

“No, thank you,” she murmured, head down, keeping pace.

“You change your mind…” he offered, but when she only looked away, he began to talk about anything and everything. Little antidotes of things he’d heard or seen in the park. Stories about people he’d met or arrested. Comments on things that had changed or stayed the same for years, until he came to the brick building that housed the apartment he shared with his wife and son. “It ain’t much, but its home.”

“It is quaint,” Franki murmured.

“Well, it’s no Stark Tower, that’s for sure,” Jack chuckled.

“I lived in an eight by ten cell for roughly thirteen years,” Franki mumbled, looking at the glowing windows, and wondering about the lives and the stories behind them. “This is nice.”

It wasn’t the information that caused his heart to plummet, no, it seemed all those who called themselves Avengers were destined for tragic backstories, but the way she said it. It was so off-the-cuff like it was normal in her world to have been kept like an animal for what must have been a good chunk of her life. “Come on,” he encouraged, holding open the door.

She stepped past him, taking in all points of entry, before following Jack up the stairs to his third-floor apartment.  She wasn’t really sure why she’d agreed to follow him home like a lost puppy, but, maybe it was for just that very reason. A lost puppy was precisely what she felt like.

Opening the locks on his door, Jack stepped inside to a softly glowing stove light. “Looks like Tam’s already gone to bed, but I can make us some tea if you want?” He offered quietly, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the hook behind the door. He looked at her expectantly, but she only huddled deeper into the red wool. “Franki, you don’t mind if I call you Franki, right?” She shook her head, and he smiled. “You’re safe here. Why not take your coat off and stay awhile?”

He held out his hand, and she clutched the collars of her coat tightly before slowly shrugging it free and handing it over. It went on top of his, and when he motioned her to take a seat on the pea green sofa, she did so without fuss.

While he was busy in the kitchen, Franki had a quick look around, again noting the entrances and exits, but her eyes were drawn to all the brick-a-brack that sat on every flat surface. There were china dogs and painted ladies, and cats, and birds. There were crystal candy dishes and glass animals. On the back of the sofa was a colourful lap quilt that looked old and well loved. Pictures hung on the walls, family gatherings and outings.

A wedding photo had her looking swiftly away. That hollow feeling that had bloomed in her chest when Bucky was gone, returned with a vengeance and made it hard to breathe.

In the kitchen, Jack kept his hands busy making tea but took the time to send a quick text to his partner to get in touch with Stark Tower and let them know Franki Romanoff was safe and in his home. If she looked like this, he could only imagine what the others looked like.

When the kettle boiled, he filled the cups and returned to find her staring at one of his wife’s weird statues with a funny look on her face. “Tam calls it collecting. I call it hoarding.” He chuckled softly, setting the cup down in front of Franki and sitting across from her.

“Are they always this…”

“Go ahead, you can say it. They’re hideous.” He chuckled again and sipped at his tea.

Picking up her cup, Franki quelled the quick twitch of her lips. “Do you always invite strangers home with you in the dead of night, Jack?”

“Only strangers I know,” he quipped back, head turning when he heard the squeak of floorboards. “Why don’t you come out and say hello, Jimmy.”

Franki’s eyes darted to the partially opened door where the fuzzy blond head poked through. The boy was no more than five and was absolutely precious in his soft grey jammies with the red stars all over them. It slammed through her that these were his Bucky Barnes pajamas, and she had to quickly swipe a tear away. “Hello, Jimmy,” she murmured, her voice raspy.

Shooting her a glance, Jack wondered if she had issues with kids, but the look on her face was the same one she’d worn for Barnes. Evidently, his son had captured another feminine heart, this one an Avenger. “Jimmy, this nice lady is Franki Romanoff. She works with Sergeant Barnes.”

His sweet, cherub face lit up when he looked at her and matched the charming voice. “You know Bucky Barnes!?”

His eyes were huge, and she nodded slowly. When Jack had turned his son to face her, she felt her heart clench in her chest for the little boy’s left sleeve hung empty. But his eyes were big and bright, so full of excitement that she couldn’t help but smile. How could someone so small be so adorable already? “I do, yes.”

“My daddy brought me a picture! I like Bucky! He’s my favourite Avenger.”

His enthusiasm made her smile, even though her heart shattered. “Me too,” she whispered. Was it any wonder Bucky was his favourite?

“Are you an Avenger, too?” he asked, eyes big and round.

“I am…” or, at least, she had been. “I’m the one they call Reaper,” she murmured and pulled her hood up over her head. The display came to life, and she found multiple messages from all the team, begging her to come back. They could figure this out, work it out together, and when the little red flashing notice read tracking she murmured, “Friday… I can’t yet. Please. I need time.” The notice turned off, and she sighed, “Thank you.” Pushing back her hood, she looked tiredly at Jack. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure!” he leapt up, his son in his arms, and found her the cordless one. “Here you go!” He took Jimmy and headed into the kitchen to give her a semblance of privacy.

Franki dialled a number she knew by heart and was unsurprised when it rang only once. “Sestra.”

“Sestranka! Where are you? Are you alright? I’m coming to get you.” Natasha was on her feet and turned for the door when the phone was wrenched from her hand.

“Franki? Tell me where you are!” Bucky demanded.

“Bucky…” a sob broke free.

It made his heart ache. “Moya zvezdochka, come home. We can work this out together.”

“Did you read it?” she whispered.

“Da.”

“Then you know why I can’t. I’m a danger to you. You can’t be with me.” A second sob broke from her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

“That’s not true! Come home, Francessca!”

“Nothing you feel for me is real. It’s all lies! I won’t be your weakness, Bucky. I won’t!” She hung up the phone and collapsed over her knees, sobbing into her arms. It felt like she'd just torn out her own soul.

It took her a few moments to notice the slight weight on her shoulder that was stroking down her arm, almost as if it was petting her. When she turned to look, little Jimmy patted her arm.

“It’s okay to be sad,” he said, tears dripping from his eyes. “I’m sad cause my Pop-Pop went to heaven. Sometimes Nonna cries when she thinks I’m napping. She calls tears liquid memories.” Pushing at her arms, he crawled up on her knee. “Are you and Bucky fighting? My momma and daddy do, sometimes, but then they say sorry and kiss each other, and everything is all better.”

His big hazel eyes looked up at her with such trust, such sincerity, she started to cry all over again and hugged the little boy tightly. Something about him soothed a part of the hollowness inside her; his innocence like nothing she’d ever known. “It’s not that simple,” she murmured into his crown of golden fuzz. “I’m bad for him. He won’t be safe with me around.”

“Sergeant Barnes can handle anything! He’s the Winter Soldier!” Jimmy stated, thinking it strange that she would worry for someone so strong.

Tucking her face down in his hair, she breathed in a scent that she would never forget. How was it possible for a trust to have a smell? Or hope? Or love? Yet, this boy in her arms smelled like all of the above. “You’re a good boy, Jimmy. Thank you.” He snuggled closer, and she lightly stroked his back.

They stayed that way for a while, his breathing slow and steady, and his presence in her arms a soothing one. Jack drank his tea in companionable silence, not asking though she knew he wanted to until a knock came at the door.

Looking sharply to Jack, Franki murmured, “You expecting anyone?” This was not the time of night one got random callers at the door.

“No.” He shook his head.

Getting up slowly, careful of the little boy who’d fallen back to sleep, she handed him to his father. “Go into the room with your wife. Lock the door and don’t come out until I tell you it is safe.”  She tucked the phone down with him. The knock came a second time, and she mouthed the words "who is it?"

“Who is it?” Jack called out.

“Jack? It’s Ronny. Let me in.”

“Ronny?” That was weird. “Just give me a sec to put Jimmy down. I’ll be right there.” He looked into the suddenly cold silver eyes of Franki and shivered as he confessed, “I told him to call the tower, tell them you were here and safe. That was it.”

“How long has he been your partner?”

“Couple of years.” But… when Shield had fallen after Hydra had been outed, they’d all learned the evil organization was good at blending in. “There’s a handgun on top of the fridge in a lockbox. Key is hanging there.” He nodded his head toward the wall. “Franki…”

“No, Jack. Keep your family safe. You redial that last number. That’s Natasha. Tell her code red, and she will find me with the snow cats.” She pushed him towards the door on the other side of the kitchen and reached for the lock box. A quick tug snapped the lock, and he stared at her, amazed before she gave a sharp jerk of her head. “Go!” she hissed, turning to pull knives out of the block beside the stove. The door shut behind him, and she heard the lock snick before something heavy landed in front of the door.

Flicking her hood up, she looked towards the hallway. There were five men out there. Five Hydra agents, she just knew it, and she stepped closer to Jack’s bedroom door. “Jack, make that call. Do it now.” She could just hear him talking as she turned out the stove light and skated into shadows, making her way to the door. Removing the chain as silently as she could, Franki grabbed the lock and whispered to Friday, “I need to sound like Jack.”

“Go ahead.” The AI said.

“Come on in, Ronny. Just keep it down. Franki fell asleep on the couch.” She turned the deadbolt and leapt up to sit nimbly on top of the curio cabinet behind the door. It banged inwards, the men swarming with weapons drawn, but she waited until the last one was through before slamming it shut and leaping into the darkness.

Two went down with knives through their necks, the third took one in the thigh that she wrenched out and swiped across his throat. He fell through Jack’s coffee table, taking out a host of Tam’s collectables.

The fourth managed to fire his weapon. The bullet slammed into her side causing heat to erupted along her skin. It fractured a rib, tore through her liver, and exited out the back according to Friday and Franki knew it was bad. The amount of blood that poured down her side was a terrible thing.

She shot him point blank in the chest. The last one was Ronny, and she sank back into the shadows to buy some time, pressing her hand against the front of her wound. “Hydra send you?”

“Like you don’t already know,” he scoffed, turning a circle to find her.

“They going to try and use me against Bucky?”

“Well, look at you go, sweetheart. Got it in one,” he sneered, swinging his gun towards a shadow he thought had moved.

“I refused to be Hydra’s pawn for thirteen years. I’m sure as hell not going to be their pawn now, and I will never let them use me against Bucky!” Stepping up behind him out of the dark, she grabbed his head and gave it a quick, concise twist to the right. The snap was most gratifying.

As his body fell, she dashed to the windows that overlooked the street. More men had arrived, most in tactical gear, all packing weapons. “Jack!” she called out. “You’re going to need to move your family. I’m sorry about the mess. I’ll make sure it’s handled. Your partner was a Hydra agent.”

A female voice called back, “I knew there was something wrong with him!”

“Tam, not now.” Jack sighed. Shoving the dresser from the door, he walked into the kitchen. “Well… damn…” he whistled. There were five dead people in his living room.

“You may not want your wife to see…” but the woman in the pink nightgown was already striding into the room, Jimmy’s face tucked firmly against her chest with her hand over his eyes. The little boy didn't even whimper, and she was impressed with how tough he was.

“Honey, I’m retired Army Ranger. You go, girl!”  Tam grinned.

A smile worked its way onto Franki’s face. “You three better get out of here. You got a neighbour you can go to?”

“Right in here, sweetie! I heard all that commotion. You three come with me.”

Came a voice from the hall and Franki turned to see a woman, who had to be seventy if she was a day, open the door and wave them over. “Good, go. I’ll get them to follow me. They’re not after you. Did you speak with Nat?” she asked, stepping into the hallway and grabbing for the wall when her vision dimmed.

“Jesus, Franki! You’re bleeding!” Jack reached for her, and she stepped away. “You need help!”

“Friday?” The suit sealed over. “I’ll be fine. Get going.”

He shook his head, but she shoved him in the door of his neighbour's apartment. “I will not be responsible for you ending up dead! Stay here and stay quiet!” She’d barely gotten the door shut when the ones at either end of the hall slammed open.

Diving back through the doorway, she jumped over the dead men and went straight through the glass window onto the fire escape, making as much racket as possible. More agents were climbing up, and she shot the front-runner through the eye causing him to fall back and domino the rest. Darting up the stairs, she muttered, “Friday, I need options!” Calculating flashed a few times before a route was mapped out that led to the zoo and the snow leopard pen. “Da!”

Climbing quickly, she made for the roof.

Bucky placed Natasha’s phone down with extreme care. It was that or throw the thing as hard as he could. “She won’t come back. Says it was all lies. Nothing we feel is real.”

“Horseshit!” Helen snapped from her place before the computer.

“Doctor?” Tony asked, intrigued.

“She clearly didn’t read these through or didn’t understand what she was reading. Her skin and your skin react to each other, release pretty potent pheromones, and are creating a chemical bond.”

“What?” Bucky gasped.

“She’s your chemically perfect match. It was what they were trying to create with the other pairs, but here’s the kicker. This program of Hydra's? It didn’t work. Not with any of the other subjects and they were abandoning it. She was slated to be terminated the same day you rescued her. Originally they had planned to mess with her systems and drop her on you, but when the reconditioning continued to fail, and then none of the other pairs worked, they gave up.”

Helen turned to look at them all staring at her with different levels of stunned confusion. “Don’t you get it? Hydra has no idea that Franki is Bucky’s match! They haven’t got any clue that she literally holds the keys to his sanity! Look at this!” She drew up medical scans of Bucky that Friday had been compiling. “Testosterone, elevated. Cortisol, elevated. His whole damn endocrine system is going into overdrive! If you don’t get her back here, he’s liable to go into a rage, become highly aggressive, and will continue to be so without thought or desire for anything else.”

“What are you saying, doc?” Steve finally asked, needing the clarification, but he was pretty sure he knew what she meant. She’d basically describe the last three weeks.

“I’m saying…” Helen sighed, passing a hand over her face. “It’s too late. Whatever Franki thought she was saving you both from by running… it’s too late. She’ll do more damage than good at this point. But she’s wrong when she says what you feel are lies. Tony told me you two got together around the same time I did my last batch of tests?” Bucky nodded, and she smiled. “Then what you feel is most certainly real. Did you have feelings for her before touching her?”

“Well, yeah…” Bucky murmured.

“And did you ever come in contact with her skin before then?”

“No.” Bucky knew it for certain. Francessca didn’t like to be touched, and he’d respected that until things between them had changed.

“How you feel about someone has little to do with pheromones. Sure they can make that person more attractive to you, but they can’t make you fall in love. Shit, if you were going to fall victim to some Hydra shenanigans, some chemical pairing they planned to make you compliant by taking away your woman, you would have succumbed to your hormonal urges within a week of meeting her. Hell, we are all susceptible to pheromones. You’re with her because you want to be, right?” Again the man who was the Winter Soldier nodded. “Then for god's sake go get her!” She jerked up another screen, showing the same readings for Franki. “Just like with you and all your aggression, she needs you to balance her too, but she goes the other way. For her…” Helen pulled up the video from the pool, the one Tony had sent her and showed it to Bucky. “It becomes extreme grief.”

Bucky's heart plummeted to his feet as he watched her cry her eyes out. “Steve…”

“We’ll find her, Buck,” Cap said. “Trace on that call?”

“Narrowed to a five-block area. She’s on the other side of the park,” Sam muttered.

“Her suit just came online again!” Tony called out, working fast to make certain he could pinpointing her location before she shut the tracking down again. “Got it!” He smacked his hand down on the console and had his latest Iron Man suit crawl up his arm.

Nat’s phone rang in her hand, and she quickly answered it. “Franki?”

“Natasha Romanoff? This is Officer Jack O’Shea, I met Franki and Sergeant Barnes in Central Park about four weeks ago. She’s been at my place tonight. I was told to call and tell you code red, you’ll find her with the snow cats.”

“Dammitl! How the hell did they find her before we did? Thank you, Officer. We're on our way.” She ended the call. “Everyone gear up! Hydra’s after Franki!”

“I thought you said they didn’t know!?” Bucky snarled at Dr. Cho.

“They don’t, but that doesn’t mean they won’t still try and use her against you. Your relationship isn’t exactly a secret!” Helen shouted back.

“Neither of you are helping matters!” Tony stepped between them. “Barnes! She needs us! Hurry up! I’m going on ahead.” Before anyone could say otherwise, he flew out the window that opened in the ceiling.

Next chapter

[mustdang-100]

Shifting Perspectives - Ch. 2

Everything is not fine. 

Summary: How many espers does it take to rescue one abducted conman?

Months after the events of the World Domination arc, Reigen disappears sometime between leaving the office and after-work plans. Serizawa finds himself the unwilling leader of a bunch of former Claw members and a couple of stubborn teenagers, determined to get Reigen back. 

Read on AO3 Ch.2 Tumblr Ch.1|Ch.2 - below|Ch.3

Reigen wasn’t answering his phone.  

It had been two hours since Reigen should reasonably have arrived. After two unanswered text messages and one call that rang to voicemail, eliminating the possibility that Reigen’s phone had died or some other more palatable explanation, Sakurai and Tsuchiya began muttering darkly about callous, ill-mannered people and the retribution such villains deserved. Koyama began waxing enthusiastically and entirely unsubtly about a friend of his from work that he wanted to set Serizawa up with. He also kept buying Serizawa beers, but seeing that he had barely touched his first one, ended up drinking most of them himself. 

By the end of hour three and following a second unanswered call, Serizawa began to feel uneasy. His dejection at Reigen blowing them off was fading alongside a growing apprehension creeping up from somewhere deep in his gut. He took a deep breath, then looked up and fixed his gaze on his friends.  

“I’m… I’m starting to think something might have happened to Reigen.”  

Tsuchiya looked at him with kind eyes. “Serizawa,” she began, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Some people are just like this; they flat-out don’t bother to let you know when they cancel on you. It’s a sign of an inconsiderate friend, and frankly, it’s good that he’s shown his colors this early, before you get too invested.” 

Serizawa hesitated. His ever-present self-doubt warred with some instinct that this was something more, that something was… off. He spoke his thoughts out loud, slowly, trying to tease out the source of his growing alarm.  

“This… really isn’t like him.” He paused, then continued, “He always answers calls, or if he does miss one he calls back really soon after, no matter what time of day. Or night. I think he’s a light sleeper.” 

Serizawa realized he’d just admitted that he called Reigen during the night often enough to notice a pattern, and immediately looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Only Minegishi seemed to have registered the slip, and he’d known already.  Serizawa considered his own words. It had been weeks since the last time he’d woken up in the middle of the night, shaking from nightmares filled with violence and murder and endless days swathed in desperate loneliness, and scrambling for a voice to center him. But the pattern still stood.  

Yes. That was it. Reigen knew and understood his vulnerabilities. If Reigen had a working phone, Serizawa was convinced he wouldn’t abandon him without notice. 

Minegishi sighed. “Katsuya, you know that you tend to overthink these things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just forgot to tell you that he’d changed his mind and wasn’t coming.” 

Tsuchiya frowned, contemplative. “Or… maybe he accidentally fell asleep?”  

“He… does nap in the office sometimes.” Serizawa felt a flutter of hope at that, an explanation he hadn’t considered that didn’t involve either the bad or the worse possibility. 

“Maybe I’ll stop back by the office. Just to check. Just, in case.” 

“Does that seem a little… excessive?” Sakurai raised an eyebrow. 

Serizawa was already standing, but forced himself to pause. He tapped his fingers nervously on the back of the chair. The worry still roiled, the insistence that something was wrong, wrong, wrong now heightened by a sharp edge of panic that really wasn’t justified by the situation. He realized with a jolt of shame that it resembled the same mix of emotions once produced by the idea of losing his old safety blanket, the umbrella that represented freedom and safety and yet had held him as trapped as he had ever been. Maybe more so, for the lies fed to him by both himself and others. 

Serizawa’s shoulders slumped, and he realized sadly that he couldn’t think about the situation rationally. His friends were right. Reigen must have gone home, or fallen asleep, or gone off to see other friends. He had said he had other plans; he probably decided last minute that those took priority.  

It’s the logical explanation, he told himself firmly, his heart seeming to shrink in on itself. Serizawa needed to forget it, and just find out what happened when he saw Reigen tomorrow. That was the normal, well-adjusted, self-sufficient adult thing to do. 

He gripped the back of the chair firmly and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and looked up. His friends were looking at him with varying levels of concern; he gave them what was probably a very wobbly smile.  

“You’re right. I always worry too much.” He pushed in his chair. “I’m gonna go ahead and head home though. Not feeling like particularly good company anymore.” 

“Text us tomorrow and let us know what happened?” Tsuchiya asked. “If he fell asleep or something else so embarrassing, he deserves to be mocked.” 

“And if he stood you up, he deserves a… lecture,” Koyama cracked his knuckles. Serizawa threw him an exasperated glance. “I mean, uh, if he stood us up. I remember, not a date, right, right.” 

“That’s not what I was…” 

“You know he’s just teasing,” Sakurai rolled his eyes. Koyama looked like was going to disagree, and Sakurai hurriedly cut him off. “But yes, let us know.”   

Minegishi said nothing, but he nodded, his eyes concerned.  

Serizawa shook his head, determinedly ignoring everything his heart was screaming as he headed for the train that would take him back toward his apartment. 

*** 

Serizawa lay flat on his back, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. There was a water stain in one corner that kind of looked like a dog, if you blurred your eyes a little. Or maybe a cat. On windy nights, like tonight, the moonlight filtering through moving tree branches outside his window made the figure appear to be moving. Endlessly running, running, running…  

It was possible he was projecting.  

He was locked back in an old cycle: he stared at the ceiling until he forced his eyes closed, trying to ignore the nausea produced by gut-churning anxiety. Far too slowly, darkness descended. 

He was alone, huddled in the dark. He’d been alone for a long, long time. That would never change. It was the only option left to him. 

A crack in the darkness opened, filled with light. From it, a red-haired man extended his hand to help him up, and out. The man smiled, telling him that he was worth something, that he had a purpose. 

The helping hand was a lie. His promises were empty. 

His smile turned cruel. His hand was extended not to help, but raised for a killing blow; he laughed at the idea that Serizawa had ever been anything but a tool for him to use and discard. 

Serizawa knew this memory. He did have a purpose, this time. He turned, expecting to see a boy with spiky red hair and defeat in his eyes and a man who had bravely, knowingly, sauntered into a situation far over his head. He was a protector; now Serizawa would protect him.  

There was no one there. The killing blow hit, setting fire to his entire body.  

Serizawa jolted awake, flying up from the bed, heart beating fast, sheets soaked in sweat.  

He paced until his heartbeat slowed to something approaching normal.  

He forced himself back to bed.  

The cycle began again. 

Months ago, when an idle office conversation had turned personal, he’d opened up about the reason for the bags under eyes, the fifth coffee of the day. With that admittance, he’d obtained a way to finally break the cycle.  

Reigen tapped his chin thoughtfully. 

“Your past is getting mixed up with your present; I think it might help to have someone to talk to, when you wake from these nightmares. To help you sort the truth from the lies. As your boss, it’s one of my duties to make sure you get a good night’s rest so you can be productive as possible. You have my cell phone number, right?”  

But what do you do when the person you call when you can’t sleep is the reason you can’t sleep in the first place? 

Every time he jerked back awake he checked his phone again, uselessly. He had the volume turned all the way up; he’d hear the ringtone if he got a message or call.  

When the first streaks of orange sunrise painted the sky outside his window, he decided that was finally a good enough excuse to head into work. If he was going to pace, he might as well do it there.  

*** 

Reigen wasn’t in the office when Serizawa arrived.  

Given that it was about three hours before the Saturday opening time at ten o’clock, that wasn’t exactly unexpected. But now that he was here, and Reigen was not, he’d run out of options to dispel his restless energy.   

Serizawa tidied already straight stacks of paperwork. He checked his phone. He paced. He washed both his and Reigen’s mug, then dried them thoroughly. He noticed that several small objects had begun floating randomly about the room, and forced his powers back into obedience, pulling it back, sorting the various objects softly back into their rightful places.  

He checked his phone again. He checked the office phone’s messages and worked up the courage to return a call from a potential client, lying that today they were completely booked and making an appointment for the following day. He could always call the client back and tell them that time had amazingly opened up for today, if Reigen showed up. 

When Reigen showed up. When. Ten o’clock came, and went. Eleven o’clock. Twelve. Reigen did not appear.  

The seed of apprehension Serizawa had been fighting to control blossomed into true fear, reaching out another tendril to coil around his heart with every passing minute. 

This was the concrete proof he needed, that this wasn’t just his broken emotions getting snarled confusingly up into worry for no reason. He’d been right. He’d been right, damn it, and he had hesitated. Panic was buzzing through his body; pens and paperclips began to once again rise into the air, out of his control. This time, he didn’t bother to corral them.  

He pulled out his phone and opened the group chat, typing three short, terse sentences.  

It’s three hours past opening time. Reigen still isn’t here. 

I need help. 

*** 

The office seemed fuller than it should, crowded with five adult espers on edge. Their combined anxious energy was a palpable tension in the air as they stood, wracking their brains. They were going in circles, and Serizawa’s agitation was about to drive him up the wall.   

“You said that you’re sure you don’t know where else he might have gone last night? And you don’t know his address?” Minegishi asked for the third time.  

“Of course I don’t, and I only know the general area! I told you this already!” Serizawa snapped, then covered face with hands, digging his palms into his eyes.  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”

Tsuchiya sighed, rubbing her neck. “I don't suppose you have one of those phone apps that tracks your friends’ phones, do you? Mukai and I have those for each other, for just in case.” 

Serizawa shook his head miserably. 

“But the kid does.” Sakurai spoke up suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. “Or at least, he used to. Remember? It’s how Reigen found all of us back at the Seventh Branch; he followed Kageyama’s phone.”  

“Perfect!” Tsuchiya suddenly stood straighter, invigorated by the beginning of a plan, any plan. “Text him and ask him to check Reigen’s location. He can send it to us, whether he’s at home or elsewhere, and we’ll go find him.” 

“Uh…” 

They all looked up at Koyama, who had gone a little pale. 

“I’m not sure that’s… uh, I think we might want to avoid…” 

“Spit it out Koyama,” Tsuchya propped her fists onto her hips. 

Koyama scowled. “It’s just that, you guys didn’t see Kageyama when he thought something happened to his family. It was… a little unnerving.”  

His intonation implied something closer to, ‘pants-shittingly terrifying.’ Sakurai’s eyes widened behind his glasses. 

“Koyama’s right – Kagayama was ferociously dead-set on his goal. When we picked him up off the street, when the President was beginning his attack, he left two scar-cadre level members beaten unconscious at his feet. I don’t know if I want to be the one telling him something might have happened to his mentor.” 

Koyama seemed a little abashed at his evident fear at a child, but they all knew Shigeo. No one laughed.  

Minegishi spoke up for the first time in a while.  

“There’s no need to worry Kageyama for no reason. He has a brother, right?”  

*** 

Teru was locked in a battle for his life.  

His opponent came at him head-on, electricity crackling as he launched an attack.  

Teru dodged it, then used the following pause to run in close to his foe. 

He smiled. Got you. 

The small, round, pink form of Teru’s onscreen character inhaled Pikachu, turned around, and spat him over the side of the floating virtual arena. Pikachu fell to his off-screen doom.   

“You asshole,” Shou screeched, throwing his controller down as the victory music played and the screen flashed with a jubilant Kirby and a giant ‘Number 1.’ “What the fuck kinda move was that? I couldn’t even fight back!”  

Teru threw him his brightest, cheekiest grin. “I win. Again.”  

“Guys,” Ritsu hissed from where he’d been sulking on the couch, messing with his phone. “My parents could be home at any minute, watch your fucking language.” 

Teru didn’t bother to point out the hypocrisy in Ritsu’s statement, instead glancing over at his older brother, sitting on the couch next to him. Shigeo stared pensively at the ending screen, a slight furrow between his eyebrows just visible below his bangs. Teru decided he was probably thinking through how exactly he had won that time. Shigeo was actually a fair Super Smash Bros player, as demonstrated by the hilarious fact that it was Ritsu who was frequently the first to be knocked out. But Shigeo wasn’t prepared to play the kind of tricks Teru was.  

All was fair in war and video games. 

Shou, apparently, didn’t agree; he practically had smoke coming out of his ears. 

“Let’s go again. I’ll beat you this time I swear to god-” 

“How about a snack first?” Ritsu cut in, glancing up. “Niisan? Would you mind making some popcorn or something?” 

Shigeo looked mildly confused that Ritsu wouldn't just go make it himself, but seemed perfectly amenable. He hopped off the couch and headed for the kitchen. 

Ritsu followed his progress out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Ritsu snatched Shigeo’s phone from the coffee table and began tapping buttons. Teru and Shou exchanged a bemused look, before Shou scooted over to the couch and peered at the phone screen in Ritsu’s hand.  

“Sooo. You gonna fill us in or what.” Ritsu frowned at the screen, ignoring the other two boys and muttering to himself. Teru could barely hear him over the hum from the microwave and the popping of kernels.  

“Doesn’t even have a password, figures. He should really be more cautious… ah, here we go.” Ritsu tapped an app, then looked up while it loaded. 

“I just got a text from Mr. Serizawa. Apparently Reigen didn’t show up at work today, and he’s worried. He remembered that Niisan has a tracker app for their phones.” 

“Why’d he ask you then?” 

Ritsu shrugged. “He didn’t want to upset Niisan. I don’t blame him, he would get overly upset. Reigen probably just wandered off chasing a fake spirit somewhere and his phone died, and he got lost without maps,” Ritsu said dismissively, then looked back down at the phone.  

He frowned. “Hmm, guess not – the app’s working, so his phone’s still on. And that’s definitely not the office. It’s… kinda in the middle of nowhere. Some business district.” 

Teru joined the two on the couch to peer over Ritsu’s shoulder, staring at the bright red dot denoting Reigen’s location. Shou was the first to speak up. 

“What the hell do ya think Reigen is doing there?” 

*** 

Serizawa stared silently down at the phone tucked in the corner between building and sidewalk, before leaning down, almost mechanically, to pick it up. It lay innocently in his large hand; such a small thing to be the harbinger of something so horrific.  

Something had happened to Reigen. Something had happened to Reigen. 

Now that the worst had been confirmed, it was like he was stuck, the same phrase running through his head over and over again. Panic and dread clashed within him, immobilizing him in place; he couldn’t think of what to do next.  

Something had happened something had happened and he’s gone- 

“Ummm… Serizawa?”  

He looked around, barely registering the sound of his name through the ringing in his ears. Sakurai was scrutinizing him a little warily, Koyama, Tsuchiya, and Minegishi examining the rest of the dingy alley behind him. 

“Not to make a bad situation worse, but...” Sakurai pointed hesitantly.  

A familiar small, square shape was sitting in a dirty puddle a few feet away.  

Serizawa’s fists clenched so hard when he recognized it as Reigen’s wallet that the phone in his hand creaked in protest. He dropped it into his pocket and clutched at his head, feeling like he’d just been kicked in the stomach.  

Someone had bothered to dig Reigen’s wallet out of his pocket, and tossed it away like it was nothing. Serizawa fished the wallet out of the puddle, hands shaking slightly, and opened it to reveal credit cards and a small number of bills.  

This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t even a mugging. This was something deliberate. Someone wanted Reigen without resources, without any way to contact anyone. Someone wanted Reigen vulnerable, and alone – but alive. They wouldn't go to this amount of trouble if their aim had been to kill him. 

As if he’d heard that thought, Koyama spoke up from behind him.  

“It could be worse, we didn’t find him lying here dead in the stree-” 

Two audible slaps, a hissed “shut up” and a yelp of protest cut off the statement.  

Serizawa barely heard them, focusing too hard now on the realization that Reigen had to have been taken, and all the facts pointed to him being alive – for what purpose, he did not know.  

He realized suddenly that his hands were shaking not with panic, but with rage. 

And suddenly, his vision was swathed in red. 

Reigen had been kidnapped. He’d been gone for more than twelve hours, enough time for any number of horrific things to be done to him. Serizawa felt his aura suddenly pulse out from him, the power swelling out in a tumultuous wave. The concrete beneath his feet sprouted cracks in a perfect two-meter radius, with him at the epicenter. 

“Katsuya?” A hand was on his arm. 

Serizawa turned, slowly. Through the red haze he saw Minegishi peering up into his face, worry tracing his features. The other three had stepped back, a little nearer to each other than they’d been before, and were peering at him uneasily. They were all powerful espers, but Serizawa had been among the elite of Claw; they hadn’t seen the level of destruction Serizawa was capable of. He’d been making a conscious effort to downplay his powers in recent months, basking in the relief that came from having them so much more under control than ever before. 

But now, he reveled in the power that rippled around him like something alive. The power he would use to get Reigen back. 

“Hey,” Koyama finally said, nervously, “It’s okay, we’ll… we’re going to think of something. We’ll find him, and we’ll rescue him.” 

“Yes. We will.” Serizawa raised his head, looking at the other four. The anger had cleared some of the fuzziness from his head; he could think again.   

 “We are going to get him back. And we are going to make whoever took him regret it.”

[azworkingdogs]

Stop Walking Your Aggressive Dog

It isn’t working!

It is making your aggressive dog worse!

You can do it and I will explain why it is so important.

I have said this before….

And, I will say it again…

Stop Walking Your Aggressive Dog!

Not permanently!

But for a little while, while you are teaching your dog some new obedience skills and teaching him coping skills. Walking him and allowing him to continue his aggressive ways is setting back your dog training.

I promise that it will change your dog’s behavior, for the better!

People are always horrified.

How on earth will their dog get exercise if they aren’t walking them?

Yes, dogs need exercise, but in all honesty, walking isn’t the best way to exercise your dog anyway.

Mental stimulation is actually more exhausting for your dog than even physical exercise can be!

Dr. Ian Dunbar, a world renowned dog behaviorist, guarantees it!

That means teaching your dog a new cue, or command, or trick, will make your dog more tired than a little stroll around the neighborhood, anyway!

And, training with your dog is better for his behavior!

Teaching New Behavior

I like a dog that pays attention to me, on command.

If I am walking, and I see a child or another dog coming our way, I want to tell my dog to go into heel position and look up at me.

This keeps my dog from being aggressive or reactive.

This also keeps him from pulling on his leash, at all, even if it is just in an excited manner.

Instead of paying attention to these distractions (which is what any normal dog would do), he looks away from the distraction and up at me for reward.

Now, it is important to note that the reward I have has to be greater than the distraction.

For instance, my dogs like their toys WAY more than they enjoy looking at kids or other dogs.

They KNOW that if they ignore distractions, I will play with them and for them that is the best thing ever.

I have taught my dogs how to act around distractions.

I am not walking them past these distractions and waiting for them to “react”.

Thankfully, for us both, I am a dog trainer, so I kept the bad behavior from ever happening.

But, not everyone is a dog trainer.

And, many people have dog aggressive or reactive dogs, or just dogs that pull on the leash.

The dogs have been doing it for so long that it is a self-rewarding habit.

Yes!  Aggression can be rewarding for the dog.

The adrenaline is addicting.

Have you ever gotten so mad at someone that you threatened physical violence, and had that person back down?  The feeling is kind of a rush.

Which is why it is so difficult to cure or deal with for dog owners.

Which is also why you need to stop walking your aggressive dog.

You need to break the cycle of addiction and adrenaline while you are introducing new training and coping techniques.

And, let’s face it, your dog isn’t going to be able to complete a new behavior or coping mechanism while he is in the throws of aggression.

By allowing him to continue to get aggressive, you are losing the battle and the war.

He can learn new behaviors and he can learn to control himself, but you are setting him up for failure if you continue to walk him and allow him to get aggressive while you are trying to teach these new behaviors.

Think of him as an addict.

As an addict he can work on new behaviors and rehabilitation, but he can’t do it while he is still getting the drug.

We want to completely AVOID his aggression from here on out by teaching him to do something else!

It’s Not So Bad

Missing a few weeks or walks isn’t so bad.

What’s worse is getting frustrated at your dog while you are actually fueling his addiction.

And, if you MUST walk him, at least do it early in the morning or super late at night when other dogs, or whatever his trigger is, are less likely to be out.

Or, drive to a secluded spot.

I have driven hours to train my dogs or to let them swim in the lake or pool.

I could certainly drive into the country to walk my dog.

Trust me, your dog and your dog training consistency is worth a little added exertion.

And, if you need other ideas, check this article out.

The Good News

The good news is that teaching eye contact and focus, and finding heel, and teaching your dog to play will all be mentally stimulating and exhausting!

And, it will be valuable dog training that you can use as you slowly begin to add distractions to your dog’s environment and get back to your walking regimen.

Want To Learn How To Eradicate Nearly ALL Your Dog’s Aggressive Behaviors?

Enroll in our twice a year LIVE 8 week MASTER-CLASS on Emotional Re-calibration Training (ERT) specifically for Over-reactive, Fearful and Aggressive dogs.

Click here to enroll in the MASTER-CLASS

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