#whumpcember day7

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 7)

Pairing: Pirate!Bucky x Lady!Reader

Prompt: Kidnapped

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: descriptions of kidnapping; mentions of death and murder

Divider by @silkholland

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

You put up a fight.

It doesn’t matter that you lost, you keep telling yourself.

You fought. With everything you had.

You made them work for it.

They hadn’t waltzed into your home unannounced and plucked you like a ripe fruit.

No. They had to chase you. Through your father's grand halls, past portraits of ancestors who surely would have been appalled by the racket.

You had turned over tables, ducked behind curtains, slipped from one room to the next, heart pounding in your throat just like your feet on the floors.

It made them rougher. It made them intimidating. It made them brutal.

But even when they finally cornered you, when their calloused hands aggressively grabbed at your arms and pulled you, you didn’t stop. You thrashed and screamed and kicked and bit and clawed - every inch of your body on high alert and protesting against their strong hold.

They were sweating by the time they bound you, snarling curses and grunts of frustration flying at your face with the spit out of their mouths. They called you names, ugly names, growled at you to stop resisting.

One of the three men even laughed - a low, cruel sound - but it was laced with fury.

You tell yourself it was worth it.

Every bruise, every ache in your body as they now drag you down the manor steps to the waiting ship, every ragged breath you manage to gulp in your struggle - it’s all worth it. Even as your father’s angered voice fades behind you, lost in the salt-stung wind and the distant crash of waves.

Because you didn’t make it easy for them.

You fought back.

And that is something you will forever be proud of.

Although that forever might end sooner than you had envisioned before this day.

Still, you tell yourself you won something - however small.

Maybe you won’t live to see the end of this. Maybe the days ahead hold horrors you couldn’t yet imagine.

But you didn’t go quietly.

The gangplank groans beneath the firm boots of your three kidnappers as they haul you aboard. The salty air stings the cuts on your wrists where the ropes bite into your skin but you refrain from wincing.

The ship rises and falls with the swell of the sea. It’s unfamiliar. So foreign in its feeling, it reminds you just how much you leave behind by stepping foot onto this ship.

The men shove you forward.

Around you, the crew is working. You have no idea why there are so many people needed on a ship but you feel the urge to shrink into yourself at the many stares you receive.

So many men. And none of them say anything. But they smirk and chuckle menacingly and you grow more uneasy with every step you take.

A prize. That’s what you are to them.

“Cap’n’s gonna love this,” one of the men holding you mutters, spitting onto the deck. He smells of sweat and dirt.

Again, you refrain from wincing.

“Aye,” grunts the one behind you, whose arm you had managed to claw so deep, the blood is already drying in ragged streaks. “Feisty little wench. Wonder how long she’ll keep her spirit when the Captain’s done with her.”

You hope there is no fear on your face. But your heart certainly picked up in pace. Your silence seems to irk the men further, and you feel the grip on your arms tighten, yanking you forward. “Come on, girl, move!”

The boards beneath your feet are damp and uneven, smelling of seawater and tar. The crew keeps eying you with varying degrees of interest - some openly leering, others grinning like your presence on the ship is the best to have happened to them all year. A shiver crawls up your spine. Your hands ball to fists.

They part as you are dragged toward the wheel, where a figure stands. His silhouette is tall and commanding against the blood-red sunset.

That must be the captain.

He isn’t barking orders or pacing like you might have expected. Instead, he stands still, one of his arms resting casually on the hilt of a blade strapped to his hip, his other hand tracing lazy circles against the ship’s wooden railing.

His left hand is basically red with scar tissue, though he doesn’t seem to mind it’s on full display.

He looks more put together than some of the others - the three men who captured you especially. The way he carries himself seems almost careless. So nonchalant. Confident, as though he owns not only the ship but the waves themselves. His dark hair is pulled back loosely, strands of it catching the wind.

James Barnes.

It’s not like you haven’t heard the name before.

Of course, you have.

The pirate who had crawled up from the depths after losing everything, carving his name into the bones of the sea. Ruthless. Calculating. Cold.

Your father never said much about the man, but that is part of what unnerves you. He isn’t afraid of anything - at least, not that he lets show. But any time someone dared to bring up Bucky Barnes or his crew, your father’s face would harden in a way that always made your stomach twist.

Now you are standing on the deck of Barnes’s ship, caught in the middle of a vendetta you hadn’t even known existed.

All you know, all you had heard from half-overheard conversations or rumors whispered among the servants in your manor is that Bucky Barnes lost his mother and sister in a raid many years back.

It was brutal you had heard. Indiscriminate. Pirates or mercenaries stormed his village under the cover of darkness and burned torches to the ground.

He was young then, barely a man, but he fought. With everything he had. But it wasn’t enough.

The details are hazy but you heard enough to imagine how awful that must have been.

His father had survived the raid. He was a sailor then. But he joined forces and took his son along, cutting a swath of vengeance across the water. They hunted the men responsible all over the globe. That’s when he became a pirate.

His father’s obsession with vengeance consumed him until it finally cost him his life. Again, you are lost on any details. It might have been a skirmish gone wrong or the grief dragging him under the water. You can’t tell.

All you can tell is that it left Bucky alone. And it made him the cold-blooded pirate he is nowadays.

But nothing could have prepared you for the reality of him.

His eyes are a storm. Wilder than any tornado you had heard stories of. His jawline is sharp, cheekbones high, a handsome face marred only by the thin scar running from his temple to his ear.

The men haul you forward and he watches you with a calmness that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He doesn’t speak right away, just lets his gaze sweep over you slowly, deliberately, intensely, like he is studying something he’s been waiting for a long, long time.

“Cap’n Barnes,” one man says. His lip is split, a crimson smear trailing down to his chin. You did that. “We got her.”

Rough hands shove you forward unceremoniously. You stumble but don’t fall, catching yourself just in time. You keep your expression as blank as it would go.

Bucky’s lips twitch at the corners, but it’s not quite a smile. He steps down from his spot near the wheel, boots hitting the deck with a weight that silences even the wind. He looks at the men then and there is something darkly amused in the way his brow arches.

“This is her?” His voice is smooth but carries an edge, the kind that could cut without raising.

Bucky’s harsh gaze flicks to the scratches on one man’s arms, then to the bruises blooming on another’s jaw, and to the trail of blood on the last man’s neck, still trailing lower, from the chapped lips you had punched open.

You allow yourself a short breath before his attention can switch back to you.

The men shift nervously under his scrutiny and the raised eyebrow. “She fights like a damn wildcat,” defends the one with the open bruises. The captain hadn’t even said anything yet. “Nearly gouged my eye out.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, the sound sharp and unexpected. “Shame it didn’t stick.”

The men grumble in discomfort, looking at each other.

The captain chuckles, though it’s low and humorless and rather terrifying. Your skin prickles.

“You mean to tell me the daughter of a landlubber put you lot on your asses?” he spits out.

You can’t help your reaction.

You are well aware that you are finding yourself in a rather dangerous position. But nobody talks your father down. Nobody gets to walk over his title in such a manner. Nobody gets to derogate your father. Not even a damn pirate captain. Running over your father’s name means running over yours as well.

So, yes, you jerk against the arms that hold you and you let your fury redden your face.

Though you should have known better.

Because Bucky’s attention is now solely focused on you, eyes like steel blazing against your skin.

He steps closer to you, his boots scuffing the wood, and you straighten instinctively, refusing to shrink under the pressure his gaze puts upon you. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw and the cold intrigue in his eyes.

His lips twitch again. This time it’s the shadow of a smirk. It unsettles you.

You shiver.

Bucky’s smirk deepens. He reaches out his scarred hand, tilting your chin upwards with two fingers. His touch isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either. More like he’s inspecting a piece of cargo. You try your very best to meet his gaze with eyes burning in defiance.

He looks eager - wickedly so - for something you’re not sure of but the fear you tried to shove to the deepest corners of your body comes creeping up your neck, overshadowing the pride you held for yourself just moments before.

You hate yourself for it. But your heart can’t help but thud violently.

“You’ve got your father’s looks about you,” he murmurs so quietly, you’re not sure anyone but you even heard it. It’s probably not even meant for your ears but he doesn’t seem like a person to care what people think. So why would he care if you heard him.

He sounds dangerous though. Too calm and still lethal. Your fear takes on another shape.

But as his hand moves to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, your head jerks away on its own and your lips form a slight snarl.

Bucky chuckles again. And to your surprise, it actually sounds amused. His hand falls from your face and he takes a step back from you with his wide smirk still plastered on his handsome face. He tilts his head at you slightly, studying you some more.

Pieces click into place. Actually, they’d been there all along, waiting in the corners of your mind, half-formed and heavy with a meaning that makes you shudder. But one you have to acknowledge now since you find yourself in its cause.

This isn’t a random kidnapping. This isn’t about piracy. You’re not just here because your father is able to pay a high ransom for your release.

This is something far older, far darker.

This is vengeance.

The vengeance Bucky Barnes had fought for his whole pirate life.

You don’t know any specifics. Perhaps Bucky doesn’t either. But a pirate doesn’t care for specifics after all.

Your father’s trading empire had always been shadowed by backroom deals, underhanded tactics, and alliances forged in blood. He’d always tried to hide the dark parts from you of course. He was good at hiding things - his anger, his dealings, his sins.

But you always felt like something was wrong with his world. And you were curious, foolishly so. You were a child, and children always want to touch the flame.

You never did well with the path he went down.

The first time you confronted him - clutching letters you weren’t meant to read in your trembling grip and demanding answers - he barely even looked at you as he ordered the guards to lock you in your room.

“This is not your business. And if you want to keep that little head of yours, you will learn to stay where you belong.”

You didn’t learn. You were young and stubborn and naive, so you kept pushing, kept digging into the corners he wanted you to leave untouched.

You spent weeks locked inside your room every time. He taught you lesson after lesson, each one harder than the last. Servants were forbidden to speak to you, the scraping of plates grating on you as they slid your meals through the door. No books. No letters. No glimpse outside. Just silence so suffocating, walls pressing against you from all sides, like they were on your father’s side, conspiring to keep you in.

Your father isn’t a cruel man - not in the way you’d imagine cruelty, all whips and chains and unrestrained fury. His cruelty is colder, quieter, built into the way he looks at you like you are a disappointment for daring to see too much. For daring to want too much.

He wants to protect you is what he told you. He told you it’s dangerous out there.

It is.

But it’s dangerous because of him. He hadn’t locked you away out of protection, he just tried to keep you from looking too closely at the cracks in the foundation of his empire.

And now, because of those cracks, because of his choices, you are here.

It isn’t hard to imagine that your father might have had some hand in whatever led to that fateful raid those years ago that cut down Bucky’s family.

And the pirate had lived his life thereafter chasing the ghost of his family’s ruin.

And that makes you his prize. His weapon. His proof that revenge could be tangible.

He basically lived the last years in pursuit of this moment.

The thought burns in your chest. Low and fierce. But you won’t break under the mistakes of your father’s legacy. Not for him. Not for Bucky. Not for anyone.

You press your lips together and meet Bucky’s gaze again and this time you see it. Sitting just behind his irises.

Hatred.

“Take her below,” he orders gravely. “And keep her in one piece. For now.”

[cptslibrary]

Whumpcember Day 7 - Fainting

Whumpcember Day 7 - Fainting Fandom - Peter Pan CW - Blood, Fainting, Violence, Hurt/Some Comfort

James' vision was going blurry. Peter had gashed his one good hand. “Blast you, Peter Pan! You’ll regret the day you were born!” He screamed at the boy. He was loud enough to shake the sails. 

Peter had a cruel smile on. He raised a hand to his ear. “I say, Captain, do you hear something?” 

Hook felt the blood drain from his face. He was already out of breath, the odd color of his blood flashing every time he closed his eyes. He swallowed thickly, almost unable to turn around. The crocodile chose this moment to leap into the air. The thick, heavy jaws snapped with such force the wind knocked the Captain’s hat off. 

At that moment, he desperately marched to his cabin. He could barely see. The muffled sounds in his ears didn’t give him any information about the whereabouts of the crew or the Lost boys. His heart was pounding painfully fast and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The door had hardly shut before he hit the floor, unconscious.

He awoke later in his bed. Smee was asleep in the chair next to him. Judging by the light from the windows it was late at night. He dared to look at his hand, which was freshly bandaged. A wave of rage consumed him for a minute, but he was too weak to rise. He silently boiled, then turned his eyes to his sleeping first mate.

Cheery Smee never seemed to give up. Hook briefly thought of Smee picking him up off the floor and moving him to the bed. He also knew Smee would not bring it up. He wondered how Smee managed to ignore how pathetic he was these days. He listened to Smee snore and stared at the ceiling, ready for another long night. After some time, he moved to his desk and began writing in his logs.

Smee snorted awake. He blearily looked at the bed before finding the Captain at his desk, writing away. James didn't look up.

"Ah, you're up. Good." Smee rose from the chair and made the bed. He moved to the table and picked up some fruits for the Captain. Fixing a plate for the man and not slyly popping some food into his mouth, he placed it at the Captain's side. James watched him wearily.

"I'll let you get on then. Good night Cap'n." Smee moved towards the door.

"Good night, Smee," James said back. He picked at the fruit.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

Whumpcember day 7

Kidnapping Alt prompt 3: Fire

CW: Fire (duh), disabled whumpee, left behind

Second part

When the hospital alarms had started blaring, whumpee hadn't panicked. It was probably a training session, those were mandatory after all. He had waited for a nurse to come with a wheelchair to be evacuated with the others.

It was only when the commotion outside had started to fade, footsteps and shouts disappearing into the distance, that he had started to be afraid.

But still, he waited. An exercise. Yes, it was surely an exercise. He would joke about it with the doctor when everyone would be back, joke about the terrible organisation of the hospital staff. Whumpee tried to look out the window, but he couldn't sit up enough to see anything but the sky. They were supposed to take a roll call outside, right? They would quickly notice his absence.

His eyes started to water, and he absentmindedly raised a hand to wipe his tears. Was he hallucinating or...

Smoke. He could smell smoke. It wasn't an exercise.

- H-HELP ! ANYONE ? I-I'M STILL IN THERE !

Whumpee started coughing, tears running down his face. They were going to come. They knew he couldn't walk, after all. He glanced at the door, but all he could see from the small window was the white walls of the corridor getting darker as it filled with smoke.

He couldn't just stay here. He had to do something, or he'd die intoxicated by the smoke. Whumpee grabbed the railing of the bed and pulled, falling on the floor with a loud thud. Despite the muscle strengthening sessions, his arms had started to atrophy after months spent bed bound, constantly preparing for another operation. He leaned his head against the wall, and slowly reached out for the edge of the window. He needed to make his presence known.

Glancing behind him, he could see that the bottom of the door had begun to darken. He turned pale, and tried desperately to pull himself up to the window. His arms shook, and he quickly understood how useless it was.

The corridor was probably already on fire. Sweat had started to drip down his face, and he breathed in short, smoke-filled huffs of air.

- Help... Help... No...

The edges of his vision were dangerously darkening. His fingers slipped off the edges of the window and he fell back to the floor, the rest of his body as limp as his useless legs. He made a last tentative to crawl towards the door, but his hands were damp in sweat, his arms burning from the effort.

The last thing he saw before his head hit the floor was the fire licking the ground near the door.

@whumpcember

[its-my-whump]

Whumpcember2023 DAY 7 - Fainting

@whumpcember

Tw: gore, puking, implied domestic abuse

It was hardly 10 minutes ago, that that bastard of a stepfather punched him in his stomach multiple times.

Honestly he couldn't even remember why anymore, not that this sick fuck needed a reason whatsoever.

Now, they were sitting at the damn dinning table with Mom.

Andrew couldn't recall how he made it to the dinning room. He could hardly understand, how he was able to sit on a chair with the searing pain in his guts. He'd most definitely would be crawling under the covers just now and pray for someone to pull out the knife, he believed sticking in his lower abdomen.

His intestens protested, as if the last punch wasn't 10minutes ago, but 10 seconds.

He wasn't hungry, hardly was since this psycho moved back in.

Mom was looking at him kind of apoligizing, while he poked in his food half-hearted. Her face wanted to tell him, that she was sorry, that he had a stomachache. As if that bitch didn't knew what was going on.

Instead of the pain fading, it got worse by the minute. Cold sweat had started to trail down the crook of Andrews neck.

A bitter taste in the back of his throat. The glass of water went dangerously shaking towards his lips. The taste was watered down a bit, but didn't fade. Instead there was a red smear on the rim of the glass, when he put it back.

His whole body cramped. The psycho was adressing him, Mom's shrill voice somewhere inbetween. Even if Andrew had the capacity of deceifering what the fuck they wanted from him, he didn't care.

He wanted to place his hands under the edge of the table, cover them by the tablecloth for them shaking so bad, but he couldn't let go of the fork in his left hand.

It felt like his intestens were on fire. A cough crept up his throat. The fork finally fell out of his left and his hand went up. His right had placed itself against the searing pain in his guts reflexively. A warm spray of red instandly covered his left palm. The pain got even worse. His right arms looped itself even tighter around his belly, while his shoulders sank down to give himself the most possible comfort against the rising agony inside his stomach.

Stars exploded inside his vision, even after he had pressed his eyes close. The sound of rafting waves developed inside his ears. Another gush of gore came out of his mouth. The movement of his whole accomplishing that task let another burning spike explode. It felt like his intestens were trying to crawl out of him. His shoulders had started trembling, while Andrew desperately tried to falt himself against his screaming stomach.

He felt the world tilt and his strength fading. A second later, his tensionless form slipped from the chair and his right shoulder bumped into the hard floor. Another sting of pain briefly worse than his belly. A grunt must have slipped from his bloody mouth. Both hands now on his belly, keeping it from crawling itself through his abdominal wall.

The sound of chairs being pushed back forcefully on the wooden floor and heavy footsteps approaching even overtuned the blood rushing in his ears.

Another violent cramp shock him. His face was pressed against the cool floorboards as the world around him slowly faded away and oblivian reached for him.

whumpcember masterlist

[ex0rin]

Whumpcember 2022 - Day 7

@whumpcember - Day 7 ✨Scars�� winterbones, stucky - 730 words Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Brock Rumlow scars (absolute shout out to @subverbaldreams AS ALWAYS because I will never stop thinking about those back scars), trauma

The door to the bathroom creaks open while he’s still half undressed - it’s his own fault, he has trouble with doors being closed completely, something about being locked away in dark cages and cryo chambers for pretty much all of his life. 

It might have been okay if he’d at least been turned around, facing the door instead of still in the process of pulling the shower curtain back across the bathtub; it’s not like Steve hasn’t seen… well, most of him - they’ve been cohabiting the same space since Steve had circled back from the past once he’d realized his mistake. 

His huge, unbelievable mistake.

That had been rough - the time alone before Steve’s big return and then the first several months afterwards as well; he’s not so good at feelings and talking and Steve’s not good at… listening to his horrifying and (understandably) very traumatic past if he’s honest. 

Which brings him to now. 

He hears the rough intake of breath before he even realizes that Steve’s behind him - he’s gotten rusty at hearing the other man or Steve’s gotten better at sneaking up on him; it’s followed by the soft, tentative brush of fingertips along the healed silver slashes that still mark his back and he goes tense, breath lodged in his lungs. 

This isn’t going to end well. 

“Baby,” Steve says, which is not a good start - that word makes his eyes flutter closed on instinct, it makes him think about dark, spiked hair and amber eyes, of blood and come and falling to his knees; it makes him want to open his mouth and say ready to comply.

He fights against the feel of the words at the back of his mouth and presses his lips together instead, biting the inside of his cheek until there’s the always familiar taste of copper along the side of his tongue.

“What,” Steve starts, hesitating for a moment - there’s a long enough pause that he can start trying to breathe again even if Steve’s too-careful fingers are gently tracing down the full extent of the scar, down down down his back along a long diagonal line that curves over his hip and then back up, following the trail to the center and back up over the branching, matching silver slash. 

It’s already too late for him to play it off, as far as he would be able to anyway; Steve’s not an idiot, he never has been - dense sometimes, too good for his own… good but not dumb enough to ignore the obvious, to not see the connection. 

He sees it every time he looks over the shoulder and into a mirror, he thinks about it without meaning to and wakes from dreams - from nightmares, he’s been told, that leave him confused and shaking and more often than not, hard between his thighs. 

“Oh,” Steve says, like it’s painful to even say anything at all - the fingers along his back lift away from his skin and he knows that Steve’s clenching his fingers into a fist; it’s the same thing that always happens when Steve remembers that Rumlow got to spend years and years and years with him. 

Which is unfair but hard to argue. 

He’s tried to remind Steve that it’s not like he had a choice in the matter. 

It’s hard with the Triskelion leak circulating around the internet still - all those grim and gritty details of exactly what Rumlow and the team did to him are just out there in the world for anyone to read and Steve’s always been his own worst enemy, needing to know everything even if it’ll make matters so much worse. 

He still finds it weird or interesting or… strangely endearing (although he’ll never tell anyone) that the scars on his back, the perfectly clear and obvious replica of Rumlow’s harness splayed over his skin never made it into the files - it feels personal and safe and his.

Which is why this is bad. 

He knows the question before it’s in the air between them:

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

And there’s nothing he can say that Steve won’t see through - especially with the way Steve’s warm hands are on his shoulders and Steve is turning him around so that they’re finally looking at each other.

There are already tears in Steve’s eyes and maybe he doesn’t need to say anything this time. 

Maybe Steve already knows why. 

[firealder2005]

Whumpcember 2022 Day. 7 SCARS

Featuring: Luke getting wounded & in-the-process-of-falling Rey! Also, adoptive relationships!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43429743/chapters/109178700

Enjoy!

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Parrying the slicing yellow blade, Luke attempted to disarm his wayward student of her weapon. He twisted his own green lightsaber, hoping to deprive her of one of her own sabers, but she was able to keep her grip on it and spin away.

Pausing for a moment, Luke reached out through the Force once more to brush against his student’s presence. Once a bright, sunny yellow humming with power, that warm aura was now slowly being corrupted - like threads of gray, black, and red were slowly creeping into the yellow, trying to squeeze that light away.

Luke would not allow that to happen.

Corruption wasn’t the end - he proved that by helping his own father see the light within himself yet.

And he will not give up on Rey.

“Just leave me alone!” she yelled, spinning one of her sabers in hand.

Luke could only shake his head. “I’m not leaving, Rey,” he replied. “I cannot, and will not, allow the darkside to control you - but you need to take that first step.”

Rey gripped her lightsabers, and Luke saw her knuckles go white. “I’m not going to be any trouble,” she muttered. “I’m not gonna take over the galaxy.” Her hands shook. “Just leave me here, okay?!”

Luke took a couple steps forward, deactivating his lightsaber, until he was a few paces away from his fallen student. “You know I won’t do that,” he murmured. “And I didn’t come after you because I feared for the galaxy - it was because I feared for you.” he closed his eyes, smiling wryly as his father’s vocoded-voice entered his mind. “You don’t know the power of the darkside, Rey,” he said, opening them to stare at her. She met his blue gaze, her brown eyes blank. “No one does,” Luke added. “We never will know the power of either side of the Force - but I do understand you.”

Rey’s lips pursed her lips and looked away. Luke continued; “I don’t know what caused you to start your fall, Rey, but I do know it’s not too late. It never will be.” he hooked his saber to his belt, completely disarming himself, and took another step forward, conscious of the cornered animal stance Rey had.

“Rey,” Luke now pleaded. “Come home. Please.”

Rey glanced at him, something in her shifting, and with a pang Luke felt her bright presence dim even more.

The darkside was winning, but Luke would not give up.

He’ll chase Rey across the galaxy to bring her home if he has to, abandoning his duties to the Jedi Order and the New Republic in the process and he’ll feel no guilt in doing so.

The safety of his students came first, and Rey was his student.

As her teacher, and as the man who raised her, it was his foremost duty to bring her home.

Slowly reaching a hand out, Luke rested it on her shoulder. “Please Rey,” he asked quietly once again. “You’re family.”

Rey’s whole body was shaking, and a tremor in the Force distracted Luke momentarily - before a searing pain slashed across his chest and he gasped, knees giving out, as he collapsed to the ground.

Crossing an arm across his chest, and hissing at the pain, he glanced up at Rey.

She had one of her sabers held shakily out at him, and she looked just as startled as he did - but she also looked horrified, a vacant look on her face like she was hearing something only she could hear.

Wincing a bit as he pulled himself into a sitting position, the corner of his mouth curved up. “No matter what the darkside may be telling you right now Rey,” he said quietly, dipping into the Force to sustain his dwindling life-force. “I forgive you. I love you. I always have, and always will.” Rey seemed to snap out of that vacancy, and her brown eyes welled up with tears as she choked out a sob and dropped her sabers, which deactivated as soon as they left her palms.

Luke could sense her presence again, and he smiled as the sunny yellow began to overtake the dark tendrils of fear she had been dwelling on for a month.

He could feel that light inside her growing stronger, and honestly? If this is the moment where he dies, Luke will die happy.

For his student, his daughter, had come back, and that was all he asked.

Rey dropped to his side, hesitantly reaching out to touch the wound her saber had left - the wound that was slowly draining away Luke’s life.

She inhaled shakily, and gently pressed her hand against the wound, and closed her eyes. Luke felt a slight warmth on his chest, and Rey’s brilliant aura seemed to glow.

With a start, Luke remembered Rey was on of his star students in Force Healing, even rivaling Grogu’s ability with it.

Letting out a small laugh, he pulled Rey into a hug as his wound sealed and the Force came flooding back into him, coiling through his presence like it had missed flowing in tandem with him.

Rey seemed to collapse into his arms, hugging him tightly around the neck as she let out her sobs. Luke hugged her just as tightly, gently running his fingers through her hair as he let their aura twine with each other, hoping it would provide comfort for her.

After a minute, five, or maybe even fifteen, Rey slowly pulled back, with watery brown eyes and a smile just as watery. Her gaze dropped down to his ripped robes, to where the wound had been, and Luke followed her guilty eyes.

A long, thin scar ran from his right shoulder to his left hip.

Reaching out with his gloved hand, Luke cupped Rey’s face and lifted it to meet his gaze.

“Remember Rey,” he said with a smile. “I will always forgive you.”

[alexversenaberrie]

[sanitatemsss]

Whumpcember 2022 Day 7

@whumpcember

Fandom: marvel, clint centric

Warnings: discussion of past child abuse

Prompt: Day 7 - scars