do you have a post describing what sv-240 characters look like? or any picrews or art of them?
Sure! I found an old post with picrews of four of the SV-240 characters here, but i'm gonna add more about the main trio under the cut
Wren:
art 1 art 2
Picrews are very hit or miss for Wren, some don't have the right hair for him, some don't have heterochromia, so picrew 1 has accurate heterochromia, picrew 2 has accurate hair.
He's 5'8, thin and athletic, used to do swimming, has since mostly switched to running. He loses some of his muscle while on SV-240, but builds it back up once Daniel lets him start exercising again. Enjoys casual clothes, mostly flannel, on SV-240 wears plain T-shirts and sweatpants or jeans.
Daniel:
He's 6' and athletic, has several scars, described here. Wears military-style clothes and heavy boots.
Berkeley:
6'1, used to be a sprinter. Signature outfit is blue hoodie, bleached jeans and red sneakers. Has a silver three-strand necklace he likes to wear.
As you wish! Of course I ended up with more than 100 words, so it's an almost-quadruple drabble.
Set in the Berkeley's Revenge AU.
contents: recapture, muzzle, restraints, trapped in a small space, referenced carved mark and amputation.
~~~
“I could use a break from having to see you, Rackham. Your face pisses me off.”
Wren glares up at Berkeley from inside the huge cardboard box he had been pushed into. As much as he hates to admit it, there’s nothing he can do, muzzled, forced into a curled up position with his wrists cuffed behind his back and his ankles restrained. Berkeley snorts and closes the box, and Wren grimaces as the sound of pulling duct tape fills his ears. He’s never been claustrophobic, but his stomach still sinks when Berkeley seals his new temporary prison with layers upon layers of tape. He’s trapped, and he has no idea how long he’s going to be left here, and he can barely move and the muzzle makes it harder to breathe and-
Calm down. He exhales and closes his eyes. Just stay calm until he opens the box.
He can’t give Berkeley the satisfaction of hearing him protest and struggle, and that thought helps him tune out all the other ones.
He hears Berkeley sit down on a chair with a satisfied sigh, and a moment later he flinches when the top of the box sinks with a creak, as if-
Ah. So he’s being a footstool again. At least this time it’s indirect, and he doesn’t have to feel Berkeley’s boots on his back. It’s the small things.
“At least you make a decent footstool,” Berkeley laughs, and Wren frowns. “Maybe I’ll just make the box into your new home? It’s cozy and I won’t have to look at you too often. Sounds like a plan.”
Wren’s heart skips a beat, but he forces himself to relax. It’s bearable. No matter what Berkeley does to him, he can survive it. He has survived so much already; being stuck in a stupid box is nothing.
It’s just that the box is yet another thing on top of the word carved into his chest, the loss of a finger, the forced haircut, the threats, the constant reminders that he’s going to be killed. He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be saved, he is - but as he’s lying there, in darkness, sick and tired of having to stay strong and only rely on himself, he bitterly wishes that his rescuers would hurry up and find him already.
Could you write an AU where Berkeley was never caught and he recaptured wren for revenge?
[SV-240 masterlist]
contents: recapture, defiant whumpee, tied to a table, death threats, torture, knives, carved mark, non-graphic fingore/amputation.
~~~
"Rise and shine, sweetheart."
Wren flinches, blinking slowly but not seeing much, still groggy after… whatever happened between him being out and about and waking up here, wherever here is.
A firm slap to the face sobers him up. He wishes it hadn’t.
He’s tied up again - or rather tied down, lying on his back on something, probably a table, his wrists and ankles held in place by coarse rope. He’s shirtless, vulnerable, and the air is cold against his skin. Pulling at the restraints achieves nothing, and he starts panicking, struggling to breathe, because this was supposed to be over, he was free, and now he’s been kidnapped again by-
“Daniel taught me how to tie a good knot, so don’t bother. I’m sure he’d send his regards if he could.”
Daniel. Sweetheart. Whoever this is knows, must have known his tormentor, and when Wren turns his head to face the source of the familiar voice, his breath catches in his throat, his eyes go wide and his blood runs cold.
Berkeley.
He looks different - his hair has been shoddily cut short and dyed brown, he’s wearing colored contacts to hide the blue of his irises, and his freckles are concealed, but Wren still recognizes him immediately. Just like the last time he saw him there’s fury in his eyes, but no more hysteria or fear; only something dark and resigned.
“My disguise is no good, is it?” he snorts. “Is it my voice? Or is my face just burned into your mind? Or is it because I’m the only other person who knows what Daniel used to call you?”
This can’t be happening.
“You know you won’t get away with this,” Wren says, trying to mask the trembling in his voice.
“Is that really the best you can do?” Berkeley rolls his eyes. “Fuck, you’re pathetic.”
“This isn’t like that.” Wren shakes his head, but his heart stutters for a moment when Berkeley swears, as if that, not the kidnapping, not the restraints, not the unnerving expression, was proof that something was wrong. “People know I’m not dead. They’ll find me and finally lock your cowardly ass up.”
“They haven’t found me yet, though, have they? So I’d say we have some time for ourselves.” Berkeley shrugs and approaches slowly, step by step - and once he’s right by the table again, in a blink of an eye he wraps his hands around Wren’s throat and presses down, making him gasp.
“I could kill you.” He tightens his grip, and Wren’s hands twitch as the restraints stop him from instinctively reaching up to grab his attacker. “That would be it, Daniel would be avenged, yada yada. But I don’t give a shit about Daniel.” The corners of his lips rise slightly, a half-hearted remnant of his usual smirk, as he takes in Wren’s panic, wide eyes, frantic gasps. “I told him buying you was insane, but he convinced me. Then I told him he was too lenient with you, letting you wander around like you were free just because he wanted to play house. Of course I was right, and now he’s dead, and I’d just call it karma if you hadn’t ruined my life too. Everyone I worked with has been locked up. I’m being hunted.” His voice wavers a little bit. “And it’s all thanks to you, Rackham.”
His grip gets even tighter, and Wren’s eyes glaze over with tears. He’s still struggling, but he doesn’t control it; it’s pure instinct trying to save him from something he can’t be saved from.
Berkeley lets go, takes a step back and watches as Wren starts coughing, turning his head to the side to avoid choking. He’s still panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when he glares at Berkeley and asks, in as defiant a tone as he can muster:
“So what do you want from me?”
Berkeley laughs - his laughter is different, not genuine like it used to be, not hysterical like during the call, but completely dry; the laughter of someone completely disillusioned, with nothing to lose.
“I want to make you suffer. I want to see you cry and beg, because that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? And Daniel’s not here to stop me from hurting his precious little sweetheart too much.” He lays his hands on the edge of the table, close to Wren’s side, and leans over him. “I don’t know how long I want to draw it out yet. I feel like no matter how much you’ll scream and cry and beg it will never be enough to make up for what you’ve done, but when I feel like the time is right… that’s when I’ll finally kill you.” He can’t help but smile at that, and a shiver of excitement runs up his spine.
No. Wren has to press his lips together to stay quiet, avoid protesting out loud, but his heartbeat is painful and deafening. If the air in the room was cold before, now it’s downright freezing. No, no, no, not again, I was safe, I survived, I can’t die now, I can’t die like this.
“Hey, don’t worry, Rackham,” Wren flinches, still staring at Berkeley in horror, when he pats his cheek, smiling. “Like I said, I won’t kill you until I’m through with you, and I haven’t even started. So, what should we do first…?” He runs his finger down Wren’s chest, making him shiver, and cocks his head to the side, thinking. “I guess I should warn you that Daniel is- was,” he lets out a dry chuckle, “better at this than I am, so there’s a chance I’ll kill you by accident, or something. I want to start with something safe, though, so we can have more fun later.”
Wren is more than familiar with the meaning of the look in Berkeley’s eyes, together with his smirk - the gleam of an idea he’s not going to like at all.
“There’s this word you don’t like, right?” Berkeley walks over to a counter lined with various tools he’d found in the hideout. “Daniel told me to stop using it after my first visit.”
He picks up a knife and lifts it up to let his helpless captive take a good look at it; he inspects it with narrowed eyes, humming to himself before deciding that it’s the right tool for the job. He takes a rag and some antiseptic as well and turns around, delighted to see terror in Wren’s eyes, obvious despite his attempts to hide it behind a glare.
“I think it’s fitting, though.” Berkeley returns to the table and sets the knife aside for the time being. “After what you’ve done.”
“You’ve always liked the sound of your own voice,” Wren says, eyeing the knife anxiously, knowing exactly what Berkeley’s talking about but not wanting to accept it.
“Maybe.” Berkeley smiles; it's easier to smile now, when he can escape from his bleak reality back into the thrill of being fully in control. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your voice, and by that I mean your screams. Feel free to do that as much as you like. No one’s gonna hear you here.”
The good news is that Wren is fairly sure he won't give Berkeley the satisfaction of hearing him scream; Daniel - whom Wren hasn't thought about this much in weeks, but he has more pressing matters to worry about right now - had cut him so many times that it had become part of the routine, such mundane torture. He’d be terrified if Berkeley plunged the knife into his abdomen with full intention of finishing what Daniel had started, but apparently the plan is to keep him alive.
For now.
The bad news, of course, is that he’s been kidnapped, brought somewhere no one can hear him scream, and he’s going to be tortured all over again.
I’m on Earth this time. Everyone knows I’m alive. They’re going to save me.
He closes his eyes.
Before it’s too late.
He flinches when Berkeley wipes down his chest with the rag, which he must have dipped in the antiseptic. When he notices his captive’s frown, he shrugs.
“Just to be safe. I can’t exactly take you to a hospital if something goes wrong, can I?”
"Why not? I'm sure everyone would be happy to see both of us," Wren says, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "You could still do a good deed and not be charged with murder on top of everything else."
“So you think this is going to be my first murder,” Berkeley snorts, and Wren’s eyes snap to him in shock.
“You-”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” He shrugs, amused. “It’s just funny you assumed that. Anyway, Rackham,” he says as he grabs the knife and grins, “let’s get started.”
It doesn’t matter how much Wren had gone through with Daniel. It doesn’t matter that this shouldn’t affect him. He starts shivering, and he decides to blame it on the cold. He doesn’t want to close his eyes and show his torturer how scared he is, so he goes back to staring at the ceiling; the downside of that is that he can see Berkeley lowering the knife in his peripheral vision.
The sensation of the knife cutting into him is familiar, but so much time has passed that it still comes as a shock. It’s just a short line, the knife is dragged downwards and then raised, all but confirming Wren’s suspicions.
I.
It’s just a word. A stupid word. Soon to be carved into him, sure, but he is going to be found soon, and surely the cuts will be healable then, they will be gone without trace and that will be it.
He still has to blink away tears when the knife returns. A line, a semicircle, then another, separate line.
D. I.
“So,” he says through gritted teeth, “now it’s your turn to leave your signature on me, huh?”
Berkeley rolls his eyes, but can’t hide a smile.
“Very funny, Rackham.”
“Thanks.”
O, cut out agonizingly slowly - and yet Wren doesn’t scream, barely even whimpers. It’s his tiny victory, not giving Berkeley the satisfaction he was hoping for. No matter what he does, it won’t be worse than what Daniel used to do.
“How about I make a pun? I’m disappointed you’re not delivering.” He grits his teeth when the knife pierces his skin once more to carve the final letter, and he has to stifle a groan. “Alright, I got it: Your lack of appreciation for my jokes cuts me deep?”
Berkeley snorts at that and shakes his head. “Alright. I do appreciate them, for the record, cause I know what you’re hiding behind your idiotic humor.”
Wren frowns, but it’s not like he can argue with that. As the last line is added, he has to blink away new tears.
T.
Idiot.
Berkeley takes a step back to take a critical look at his work - even bloody letters on Wren’s chest, where he’ll have no choice but to see them, impossible to ignore unlike the brand on his back.
“Smile for the camera, idiot!” He snaps a few pictures, making sure to capture Wren’s expression, so desperately blank, but tense with pain and emotion, until he’s happy with the result. “Perfect. I can add these to all the damn photos Daniel had sent me. Maybe I’ll show you someday, take a trip down memory lane, hm?”
“I’ll pass,” Wren spits, glaring at Berkeley as he leans against the side of the table.
“You should still see this one, though,” he says, holding up his communicator - found in the hideout too, modified to be impossible to track down - with one of the photos displayed.
Just like when his mouth was stitched shut for the second time, it’s seeing the effects of the torture in a picture that finally hits. It’s not a picture of a survivor - it’s a picture of a hopeless, powerless captive at his captor’s mercy.
It was supposed to be over. I was supposed to be free. I won, and it doesn’t mean shit.
“This is what your body will look like when they find it,” Berkeley says in the tone of casual small talk. “I mean, I’ll probably make a couple more modifications, but this” -he runs his finger around the carved letters, careful not to touch them- “is the first thing they’re going to see. A completely normal word for them. They’ll probably wonder why I’d choose something so mundane and… tame, but it doesn’t matter, does it? We know why, and that’s enough.”
Trying not to dwell on the promise of more modifications, Wren follows Berkeley with his eyes as he pushes himself upright and starts pacing to and fro: three steps, heel turn, three steps, lost in thought.
“You know, you disappointed me, Rackham,” he sighs.
“I’m so sorry,” Wren says, trying to sound unbothered, yet his heartbeat picks up the pace. It was supposed to be over. What else does he want?
“I wanted to hear you scream, remember? And you didn’t deliver at all.”
Wren swallows when Berkeley stops to pick up the knife and twirl it in his fingers.
“I should've expected that, honestly. It’s not your first time, and Daniel had cut you more times than you can count, hm?”
“It’s kinda what you signed up for when you sold me to a sadist.”
“Guess so,” Berkeley laughs, looking at Wren with narrowed eyes. “In that case I think I should try to come up with something Daniel never did to you, to really keep you on your toes.”
Then he smirks, and Wren knows he’s doomed.
His thoughts are racing when he follows Berkeley with his gaze as he circles the table, gently tapping the tip of the knife with his finger. Something he’s never experienced - or at least Berkeley thinks so, because he can’t know about everything Wren went through on SV-240. Even though the last thing he wants is to recall Daniel’s voice, Wren desperately tries to remember any torture methods Daniel had told him about, lamenting not having the means to try them out, but his mind draws a blank. He doesn’t have much time to try and predict what’s going to happen to him anyway; when Berkeley finally stops by Wren’s side, his movements are so fast that Wren barely has a chance to process what’s happening.
Berkeley takes his right hand.
Cut my hand?
Straightens out his fingers.
But it’s nothing new.
Grabs his pinky.
Wait-
Holds the knife right above the joint connecting the finger to the palm.
No, no, he can’t-
“You were complaining about the lack of puns.” Berkeley smiles down at Wren, who stares back at him with wide eyes. “So here’s one: keep your fingers crossed that the cut is clean.”
“No-”
It takes a second or two for Wren to get past the initial shock of having his pinky cut clean off, and when he does, the pain catches up to him, new and nauseating.
This time, much to his captor's delight, he does scream.
contents: recapture, defiant whumpee, tied to a chair, death threats, past fingore/amputation, traumatic haircut, shock collar.
~~~
Berkeley winces, picking up Wren’s severed finger through a tissue, which instantly turns crimson, soaked with blood.
“It could still be attached back,” he sing-songs, smiling at Wren before tossing the tissue into a bin. “Whoops, nevermind.”
Wren barely hears him, his wide unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing ragged, his forehead lined with cold sweat. His finger is gone, it’s been cut off, and its absence, once it finally registers, feels so weird and so wrong. He flinches and gasps when Berkeley grabs his left hand and starts playing with his fingers, smiling to himself.
“I guess when I feel like hearing you scream again, I can just take my pick.” He lets go, circles the table, and gets to cleaning and dressing the wound on Wren’s right hand, chuckling a bit at his instinctual attempt to wrench his hand free. “Try not to get an infection and die, but it should be fine. You'll live. You’re so tough, after all.” He glances at Wren’s face, listening to his frantic breathing. “Why so quiet, Rackham? No more jokes? Figures,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “We both know how pathetic you really are.”
“You cut off my fucking finger,” Wren rasps.
“And I can do it again if you don’t stop swearing.” The terror in Wren’s eyes when his head jerks towards Berkeley makes him smile. “Yep, I think that’s a good idea. Cutting off a finger every time you swear.”
“Y-you’re-”
“I’ll let that one slide, though.” He gives Wren a bloody pat on the cheek. “Cause you didn’t know, you poor thing. But from now on you better keep that in mind. Got it?”
Wren hates himself for his immediate feverish nod.
“Good. You have your moments of obedience, don't you? It's a shame Daniel never enforced it more, but now he's gone, you are mine, and I'll change things up a bit. No swearing is a good start." Berkeley cocks his head. “Yeah, feels good to say it. You’re mine, Rackham, and I can do whatever I want to you.”
His words chill Wren to the core more than Daniel’s similar musings ever did. He knew what Daniel wanted, and after a year or so surprises had become scarce. All he knows about Berkeley’s wants is terrifying.
Kill you. More modifications.
And who knows what else.
“Alright, let’s get you off this table for now.”
Wren follows Berkeley with his eyes as he crouches down next to a duffel bag on the floor and rummages through its contents, which Wren would rather not imagine, suspecting he won’t like whatever Berkeley’s about to take out now.
Sure enough, he retrieves a shock collar.
“What the-” He stops himself from finishing at the last possible moment, but fear still sets in and he shivers. It was obvious what he was going to say, and if Berkeley considers it enough to…
“Good, you’re learning.” Berkeley smiles, standing next to the table, right by Wren’s head. “You know what this is, right?” He dangles the collar, made of flexible metallic material with a tiny box attached on one side, in the air. “Daniel had one of these too. Tell me what this is, Rackham. Three.”
“A shock collar,” Wren rushes to answer, not wanting to find out what would happen if Berkeley had counted all the way down.
“Very good!” Berkeley coos and snickers. “So I take it you’ve had to wear it before?”
“Yeah.” It was once or twice, really, but Wren chooses not to specify. He’s already obediently answering Berkeley’s questions way too much for his liking.
“Not enough, in my opinion, but we’ll fix it.” Without further ado Berkeley treads the collar under Wren’s neck, making him jolt in place when the cold metal touches his skin, then brings it around and tightens it until it fits snugly. “Mhm, much better. You’re a natural. I’m going to untie you now, but you will stay nice and still, cause if you so much as make a move to attack me, I’ll click this little button-” he waves the small remote in the air “-and then cut off a finger or two, unless I come up with something more exciting.”
“Okay,” Wren says, contemplating the ceiling and trying not to cry. The collar doesn’t stay cold for long, but it’s still uncomfortable, and swallowing makes him shudder, and… it's going to stay now, for however long Berkeley wants.
At least Daniel-
Shut the fuck up.
He can’t completely silence the thoughts, though. At least Daniel never cut off his fingers. At least Daniel didn’t want to collar him for good; the few times he’d done that he almost looked disgusted and made sure to take it off as soon as it was no longer necessary - as if a shock collar was ever necessary for a human being.
He quite literally jolts back to reality when the collar activates, sending a bolt of electricity through his body. It ends as soon as it started, as if it never even happened, and once the initial shock wears off, he remembers Berkeley’s warning and his heartbeat picks up, his blood running cold.
“B-but I-” He looks at Berkeley, who’s watching him with a smirk, his finger resting on the button of the remote. “I didn’t even move!”
He can’t cut my finger off, he can’t, I didn’t do anything wrong, but he can do anything he wants, no, no, no-
“I know, idiot.” The insult sounds almost affectionate. “I wish you could see the look on your face right now, so terrified. But you’re right, you didn’t move. I just wanted to see if the collar works.”
The relief that overwhelms Wren makes it hard to breathe, as if the collar wasn’t making a good enough job of that.
Berkeley struggles with the sturdy knots of the restraints before finally untying them and motioning for Wren to sit up, nice and slow, no sudden movements. He grabs him by the arm and helps him get off the table, and his grip tightens when Wren sways on his feet a little.
Wren’s forced to take a few shaky steps, his legs barely cooperating with him after being immobilized for… however long it had taken him to wake up. With a push he finds himself sitting on a chair, which seems inconspicuous until Berkeley presses a button under it, causing armrests to slide out of the back. When his wrists are grabbed and slammed down on the armrests, it turns out that the chair is also outfitted with metal restraints, which snap closed, bringing Wren’s temporary freedom of movement to an end.
“I’d stay still anyway,” he sneers when Berkeley crouches down to tie his ankles to the legs of the chair, this time with regular rope.
“I know,” Berkeley says as he straightens up and smiles at Wren. “But I just like seeing you like this, and I’m sure you missed being tied up.”
“Not really.” Wren rolls his eyes, but he can’t ignore the sense of familiarity at being restrained like this. A feeling of resignation creeps up on him, but he tries to fight it, push it away, because he’s not resigned.
Right?
There’s an unpleasant scraping sound when Berkeley grabs the chair, turns it, and pushes it forward a bit, grimacing with effort.
“Maybe,” Wren says, looking up at him with a mocking smile, “you should’ve put the chair where you wanted it to be before, you know, strapping me to it.”
“Or it should’ve been a hover chair,” Berkeley snorts as he lets go and walks up to the closet in front of them. “But we’d already modified this one, so.” He shrugs, pressing one of the buttons on the side of the closet, causing its door to convert into a mirror, then walking away.
Wren wanted to keep his eyes on Berkeley at all times, but once he sees his reflection, he can’t look away, staring at it with wide eyes, his lips parted a bit, an attempt at another snark shut down in an instant.
The collar around his neck and the bloody carved word on his chest are jarring, mocking him, and his hand… He forces himself to look up from it when nausea creeps up on him. The worst part, though, is his face. His eyes are hollow, with tears glistening in their corners, and his expression is both familiar and new - familiar pained tension, new pure terror caused by the prospect of imminent death.
He never wanted to look like this again.
He closes his eyes only to flinch and open them when he hears a series of sharp sounds. In his reflection he locks eyes with Berkeley, who grins, standing behind him, wielding a pair of scissors.
“What…” Wren trails off, but realization dawns on him and his heart sinks.
“Come on, even you should be able to figure out what I want to do.” He snips the scissors again and can’t stop himself from laughing when Wren shivers. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m pissed that I had to cut my hair off thanks to you, so it’s only fair you get a haircut too.”
Wren tenses up, his heart beating fast, his mind a mess of protests he can’t say out loud.
It’s just hair.
But it’s not, and waiting for the first cut is unbearable.
“You cut your hair yourself on SV-240, didn’t you?” Berkeley runs his fingers through Wren’s hair to untangle any knots, not caring enough to try and avoid pulling. “And then you regretted it.”
“A little bit,” Wren says through gritted teeth, looking down only to wince when his gaze stops at his bandaged hand, he cut off my fucking finger, it’s gone. “It’s just hair.”
“Bullshit. Don’t lie to me.” Wren gasps when Berkeley closes his fist in his hair and wrenches his head back. “I can’t wait to see you cry, Rackham, cause you will cry.”
He swallows, which every single time only serves to remind him about the collar and his throat being squeezed tight, when Berkeley grabs the sides of his head and forces him to look straight ahead. The scissors are freezing against his cheek, but when they disappear, it’s anything but a relief.
“Did you cry?” he asks, trying not to shiver when Berkeley separates a strand of his hair and puts it between the blades of the scissors; before he can brace himself, they close, making him flinch.
It’s just hair. It’s just hair.
“A little bit,” Berkeley sneers, cutting off another lock - not completely short, much to Wren’s confusion. “But I had no choice. With some time it’ll just grow back, right? Of course, you don’t have that kind of time.”
As much as Wren wants to respond, he doesn’t. His impending death is something he’d rather not protest against, not wanting Berkeley to take it as a reason to kill him sooner. He stays silent, doing his best to hide his shivering and forced breathing as brown hairs keep falling to the floor, some clinging to his skin, tickling and annoying him, and he can’t even brush them off.
“I’m afraid it won’t be a flattering look on you.” Berkeley clicks his tongue, not pausing his work for a moment.
“How tragic. Are you telling me you’re not a professional hairdresser?” Wren raises one eyebrow even as he struggles to hold back tears. It’s not just hair, it’s a part of himself that Berkeley is taking away from him with a promise of taking so much more.
“No, but I mostly don’t give a shit whether you’re a pretty corpse or not.”
There it is again, and Wren is sure that the reminders will only get more and more frequent, harder to ignore. Even now he can’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario, someone finding his body, maybe barely recognizing him after Berkeley’s done with him-
Pull yourself together.
I won’t die here.
The scissors keep cutting.
I’m going to escape or be saved, he’s going to get locked up, I’ll… I’ll…
“Alright, let’s see.”
Berkeley grabs him by the hair and cuts a little bit more off.
Leaving just enough length to be able to get a good grip.
“Perfect.” Berkeley leans down to rest his chin on Wren’s shoulder and smiles. “We’re short-haired buddies now, how cool is that?”
He doesn’t get a verbal reply, but the tears glistening in Wren’s eyes are enough of an answer for him.
“Remember what this means,” he says quietly, laying his hands on Wren’s arms and giving them a light squeeze. “You may have gotten a taste of freedom, but now you’re back where you belong, as someone’s property, tied up and collared, and I can do whatever I want to your body, understand?”
A second’s pause makes it clear he’s expecting an answer, and Wren nods, averting his gaze.
“Ah-ah, look at yourself, Rackham.”
When he obeys, hating himself for it, Berkeley gently wraps his hand around his neck, teasing with his thumb just above the collar, smiling when Wren shudders.
“What do you see?”
When Daniel put him in front of a mirror, he did his best to snark. He was so different back then, scared, but determined, having only experienced being restrained, silenced, and beaten, which now seems like a laughably mild treatment. He’s still determined, he’s still hopeful, the last thing he wants to do is give up, but he recognizes that in his current situation, and with his current captor, following his spark will only lead to retaliation that he might not be able to handle.
And so he lets his despair talk instead, his voice barely audible, giving Berkeley the answer he probably wants more than all the others that come to mind, captive, idiot, pathetic crybaby.
Happy birthday, Castys and Berkeley! What better way to celebrate than to torment them in a collab between me and @brutal-nemesis?
contents: slavery whump, collared and leashed, restraints, mildly creepy/intimate and possessive whumper, violence, choking, verbal abuse, lots and lots of guilt.
~~~
Most of the time visiting Daniel was something Berkeley looked forward to. It was a chance to unwind, forget about routine, mess with Rackham, eat some great food and just hang out with his old friend. Those visits were always a bright point in his plans, no matter how tired he was.
This time was different.
At first it was the usual, a fond greeting, then he helped Daniel carry all the supply crates inside. He immediately had to open one of them and rummage through it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.
"What got you so down?" Daniel asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Just tired." Berkeley shrugged, avoiding looking at the two other men in the room, both quiet, kneeling on the floor. He finally found what he was looking for - he took out a nice box, the kind used for gifting jewelry, and a small paper bag. He handed both to Daniel, who was smiling. Berkeley forced himself to smile back.
"You can nap on the couch if you're tired," Daniel said, setting the bag aside for the time being and closing his fingers on the cover of the box, not opening it just yet.
"It's fine."
Daniel did a double take at him, but dropped the subject, instead focusing on the box. With a genuine grin of someone who had just received their dream gift he opened it and took out the contents - a red leather collar with a custom lock, one that prevented the person wearing it from taking it off on their own. The room had been silent before, but somehow now it got even quieter, and Berkeley couldn't stop himself from glancing to the side.
He could immediately tell that Castys hadn't known about Daniel's idea beforehand, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that the gift wasn't meant for Wren. Castys’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed together to form a thin line, all traces of the initial smile he’d given Berkeley gone. His hands shook slightly as he wrung them in his lap, breaths slow as he stared at the collar for a few more seconds before finally speaking.
“O-oh, hun, you really shouldn’t have.” He tried to keep his voice level as he slowly leaned back, glancing over his shoulder.
Daniel rolled his eyes, but seemed to be in too good a mood to punish Castys for addressing him this way.
"Well, even if I can't permanently brand you, you still need something that makes it clear that I own you now." He approached Castys as Berkeley and Wren watched his every move, a silent audience. He smiled and held the collar right in front of Castys's face, holding the small metal tag still between his fingers to give him a good look at the words engraved on it in a simple font.
Property of Daniel Rooney.
“Isn’t that…lovely. A-although, honestly, is it really necessary?” Castys asked as he slowly crawled backwards. “I mean, I’m here, and, like, I think we all know it, it’s just us, it’s pretty obvious that you, um, that I’m your-your,” he gulped, “precious little immortal boy. So I think I’ll pass, but thank you for your generous offer.” He gave Daniel a sheepish smile, some part of him clearly aware that this was happening no matter how he protested.
Daniel smiled to himself, then walked over to Wren and put his hand on his head, making him flinch. For a moment, nothing was certain - was he actually going to let his idea go? Was it just a prank on the two of them? Wren frowned and hunched his shoulders, as if to protect his neck if Daniel decided to put the collar on him.
"Before you joined us, it was just me and Wren, and it was even more obvious that he was mine. And yet he has his own reminder that I own him. Can't see why it should be different for you, vermin. But since I don't think you're going to just let me put this on you…"
His movements were too fast to even react to - he kicked Castys under the ribs, pushing until he fell onto his back, then stood over him, straddling his waist. Wren swallowed and averted his gaze. Berkeley jolted in place and opened his mouth to say something, anything, subconsciously taking a half-step forward, but then fell silent, knowing there was nothing he could say without making Daniel turn against him. Unlike Wren, he kept his gaze fixed on Castys, trying to convey a plea - don't make him angry, just go along with it - with just his eyes, or, hell, maybe even telepathy.
Castys gave Wren a concerned glance as he struggled uselessly against Daniel, his arms pinned to his sides by the man’s legs. He looked up at him for the briefest second before turning away and meeting Berkeley’s eyes. Something in them made Berkeley forget how old Castys actually was, and for a moment he just looked like a scared kid, which made this all that much harder to watch.
Castys winced as Daniel pulled the leather around under the back of his neck, fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t looking at Berkeley anymore, wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring ashamedly at the corner of the ceiling, gulping as Daniel threaded the end of the collar through the buckle and started to pull it tight. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was going to beg for Daniel to stop, but it turned into a gasp as the latch of the buckle slotted into the last hole in the leather, cinching the collar snugly around his neck. Smiling, Daniel ran a hand down the side of Castys’s face as the boy beneath him shuddered, his embarrassment all too obvious even from where Berkeley was standing. Daniel’s hand moved lower, settling around Castys’s throat, his thumb stroking the collar’s tag as he took a moment to savor the view.
“I knew being collared would suit you,” he said, voice low, but still feeling loud like a cannon shot in the absolute silence. “Red was a good choice, Berkeley. Such a universal color, isn’t it?”
Satisfied with his work, he straightened and stepped to the side, but Castys didn’t move from his spot, still lying on his back, staring up with empty eyes, his usually active hands just barely twitching. Daniel didn’t mind it in the slightest; with a light step he walked over to where he had left the paper bag, and picked it up, then reached inside and pulled out the second part of Berkeley’s gift.
Berkeley looked away, lips pressed tightly together, his face red from… he didn’t even know what. Embarrassment, maybe - but he had no right to be embarrassed.
Daniel was holding a leash, made of red leather as well, matching the collar. It wasn’t particularly long and couldn’t be extended, but that didn’t matter when it wasn’t supposed to give much freedom of movement.
Castys was sitting bolt upright now, his gaze fixed on the leash as he slowly shook his head. His fingers reached up to the collar, feeling for the lack of a ring that he knew was there, fiddling with the lock, the buckle, scrambling to pull it away from his neck as Daniel stalked closer. “You-you can’t be fucking serious with that thing, I’m not gonna let you-”
“I think we both know that this is going to happen regardless of whether you ‘let’ me or not,” Daniel said calmly, crouching down in front of Castys. For a moment there was silence, tension in the air so thick Berkeley forgot how to breathe, and then Daniel pounced. He grabbed Castys’s wrists in one hand, wrenching them up as he knocked the boy onto his back once more, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand while attaching the leash with the other. Once it was on, he pulled it taut, not moving from his position above Castys, who was staring back at him this time, fire in his eyes as his fists clenched above him.
“Still so feisty,” Daniel chuckled, cocking his head to the side, clearly considering something. “Not complaining, but I know you’re going to try and get your collar off as soon as I let go of you, and we just can’t let that happen, can we?” He lifted his head to look at Berkeley, and nodded. “Can you fetch me some handcuffs? There should be a pair on the shelf.”
Berkeley shuddered, but remained frozen in place, his eyes going wide. His gaze moved from Daniel’s face to Castys’s, and despair twisted his features. He couldn’t do it.
“Handcuffs, please,” Daniel repeated with emphasis, straightening once again and nudging Castys’s side with the tip of his boot, a gentle encouragement to get him to roll over onto his stomach. Unsurprisingly he didn’t get a reaction, so the nudge turned into a kick and a push that knocked the air out of Castys’s lungs, and with the help of a sharp yank of the leash Daniel managed to roll him over and immediately pinned him to the floor with a boot to his back. “Stop struggling,” he ordered as Castys squirmed beneath him, giving the leash another pull, but this time he didn’t let it go lax, instead keeping it tense, the collar digging into Castys’s throat, nearly choking him. Berkeley couldn’t breathe either, and it was clear he was in no state to grab the handcuffs and add to Castys’s already horrible situation.
“I’ll get them,” Wren choked out, scrambling to his feet. Daniel rolled his eyes, but nodded, and he ran up to the bookshelf and took the handcuffs that he was so familiar with, cold, thin, made of metal.
“Hold this for me,” Daniel said, holding out the leash after grabbing the restraints.
Wren swallowed, glancing at Castys, then at Berkeley, before accepting the leash with a heavy heart. He didn’t have a choice - and at least he could loosen the grip to allow Castys to breathe freely again while Daniel wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed them.
“There. Now we're all set." Daniel took the leash back from Wren and grinned. "Come on, vermin. Let's test it out."
That was all the warning Castys got before Daniel pulled hard, and since he couldn't prop himself up on his hands, there was no way for him to relieve the increased pressure of the collar on his neck, choking him. Castys gritted his teeth between gasps, frantically trying to get his legs under him to relieve the pressure. To Berkeley’s relief, he managed to get on his knees and stand up from there, coughing as air filled his lungs again. There was still plenty of defiance in his eyes, and he almost looked like he was going to say something, but he kept quiet, either because speaking was too difficult or out of fear of being muzzled.
Daniel smiled at him, pleased, and tugged again to force Castys to take a few steps towards him.
"Perfect," he said. "Collars and leashes aren't my MO, but it feels right to use them on a feral thing like you. I can see the appeal," he laughed, shooting a glance at Berkeley as if expecting him to join.
He didn't. He stood, still frozen in place, his fists clenched, and stared. It wasn't the first time he'd seen someone treated like this, and he'd even had to collar someone before, at the buyer's request, but this was Castys, his friend, being dragged around on a leash like a feral animal.
He forced himself to smile and nod at Daniel, even though it required inhuman effort. He'd already been acting suspicious, unwilling to help, and he couldn't allow himself to make it even clearer to Daniel that he didn't approve of how he was treating Castys.
Seeming to think Berkeley’s reaction was good enough, Daniel turned his attention back to Castys. “Mmm, I think I liked you down on the ground better, after all.” He started pulling the leash downwards, not letting up until Castys knelt, who rolled his eyes and looked decidedly at the wall as he did so. “Ah, ah,” Daniel said, tilting Castys’s chin up towards him, “eyes on me, vermin.” Castys looked back at him with annoyance, but it only made Daniel’s smile widen. “You’ve been rather obedient since I collared you, you know. It’s a nice change of pace.”
“Congratulations,” Castys huffed. “Want a certificate?”
His snark was promptly ignored.
“Even then, you could do better since it still seems you don’t know your place.” Daniel dropped the leash, stepping down on it before Castys could make a move to grab it and slowly dragging his foot back, forcing Castys to bow his head and lean forward. Before he got very far, though, Castys flopped over onto his side, grinning up at Daniel.
“On the ground. Got it.” He gave him a thumbs-up as best as he could from behind his back. Daniel, unamused, swiftly kicked Castys in the stomach, and Berkeley couldn’t help but flinch.
Without a word Daniel pulled Castys up to his feet again - only to give the leash a sharp yank forward and kick Castys's leg from under him at the same time, causing him to trip and fall… almost. The leash went taut, leaving Castys suspended in midair for a moment, choking him, before Daniel smirked and loosened his grip. Unable to catch himself with his arms restrained behind his back, Castys fell flat on his face, making Daniel snicker.
"Yep. On the ground."
Hearing Daniel’s amused laugh, seeing Castys fall like that, the beginnings of tears he blinked out of his eyes, the blood dripping out of his nose…it was all too much for Berkeley to watch. He looked away, his gaze landed on Wren, and he felt his powerlessness bubbling up inside of him, turning into anger, and this was the only way he could deal with it, the only thing he could control. Following the thought that sparked in his mind, he grabbed Wren by the arm and dragged him out of the living room.
Wren stumbled after him, too surprised to resist, which might have been a good thing considering who he was dealing with. Daniel didn't seem to pay attention to them at all, too preoccupied with Castys and the mess his blood had made, so before long Berkeley led Wren out on the porch.
And then he punched him square in the face.
Wren cried out, stumbling backwards, but Berkeley pressed one hand to his mouth, pushed him until his back hit the wall, and wrapped his free hand around his throat, glaring at him.
"It should be you," he hissed, tightening his grip; Wren's eyes went wide and he tried to free himself, but with the wall behind him and Berkeley standing so close to him he had nowhere to run. "You should be collared and dragged around and kicked, not him. You-"
He got choked up a bit, and he covered it up with fury, squeezing Wren's throat, making him squirm.
"He doesn't deserve this!" he continued. "He-he shouldn't be here at all, with Daniel, and maybe if you did… I don't know, something, he never would've found out about Castys-"
He could feel tears coming, which only made him angrier; he let go, but before Wren could catch his breath, Berkeley slapped him hard, causing him to gasp, and grabbed his hair to hold him in place.
"You better do everything you can to make Daniel focus on you instead of him. If you don't, I'll make your life hell."
Despite the shock and pain, Wren couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh of disbelief.
"You made my life hell months ago," he said, doing his best to keep his head up and his voice level even as he trembled. "And I don't deserve this either."
While Berkeley stared at him with an unreadable expression, Wren continued.
"Castys deserves better, but what did you expect?! You're a slaver, you ruin people's lives for a living, and now you're surprised because someone you actually care about got dragged into it?" He shook his head. "Cry me a fucking river, Berkeley."
He wasn't surprised when Berkeley attacked again, slammed him into the wall, kicked him in the stomach with his knee, knocking the wind out of him. What he was surprised by was seeing Berkeley's eyes well up with tears, something he never thought he'd see.
"How dare you- You're nothing- You're- You're worthless, Rackham," Berkeley choked out, and Wren couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction at having clearly struck a nerve, but it didn't last long when Berkeley continued. "Listen to me. You're an idiot, you're weak, you're completely useless, you-you're just a waste of space. You don't matter." Reciting every insecurity, every fear, everything he'd learned, while Wren stared at him, wide-eyed, suddenly on the verge of tears too. "I wasn't there, but I know how your funeral went. Wanna know? Nobody cared. There was cookie-cutter crap about you being a great ranger or whatever, but no one cared. And they definitely didn't care enough to be suspicious of your death."
"I know," Wren croaked, but it was completely different to have those grim thoughts and to hear a blunt confirmation, and of course he started crying, and Berkeley smiled at that.
"Crybaby," he said quietly, and finally let go. "We're going back inside. You can go cry in the bathroom or whatever your hobby is, and don't say a word about this to Daniel, got it?"
Wren did his best to glare as tears trickled down his face.
"He's too busy hurting Castys to care anyway," he hissed, earning himself another quick slap before being grabbed by the shoulders, forcibly turned towards the door, and pushed.
"Walk."
Fuming, Wren obeyed; once inside, he rushed to the bathroom, keeping his head bowed so that Daniel wouldn’t see his tear-streaked face, and locked the door. Berkeley took a deep breath. Blinded by guilt and anger he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing, what taking his emotions out on Wren entailed, but now the realization was catching up to him.
He had left Castys alone, at Daniel’s mercy.
After a while of being pulled around like Daniel’s new favorite toy, Castys found himself surprised when Daniel simply sat on the couch behind him after using the leash to force him to his knees. Was he finally tired of his little Yank Castys Around fest? Ah, nope, there was another jerk of the leash, this one forcing Castys’s head right up against Daniel’s knee. Daniel didn’t let the leash go slack, keeping Castys snuggled against him like a stupid pet. Fuck, whatever, he probably preferred this to being pulled around by the fucking neck. Probably.
When Daniel’s hand slid into his hair, Castys couldn’t help but flinch, feeling his face grow hot as Daniel chuckled. He fought the urge to make some comment about Daniel needing to get a pet cat. The last fucking thing he needed right now was to be muzzled on top of having to wear this stupid collar, so he’d keep his thoughts to himself for the time being. It had already been such a long day, so if Daniel was going to give him an opportunity to rest, he’d take it, even if it was…like this.
He flexed his fingers behind him, wishing he wasn’t still wearing these stupid handcuffs, but it’s not like they were the only thing preventing him from relaxing. Daniel’s hand in his hair was making his skin crawl, and it was all he could do not to shudder, which was especially hard given how close he was to the guy. It’d been a month or so since Daniel had cut his hair, but Castys still wasn’t really used to the feeling of it, especially now that Daniel was touching it, running his fingers through it, ruffling it, smoothing it down, like it was something just for him to play with, so of course he’d do what he liked with it, and that annoyed Castys enough that he had to strongly resist the urge to bite him. Not that it took much for Castys to want to bite Daniel, but still.
Castys wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than being hurt, honestly, because, yes, it didn’t hurt, but this still sucked majorly. Well, at least Berkeley and Wren weren’t here to see it anymore since they’d gone off somewhere, and that was making this a little easier. Maybe that was part of what made this collaring thing so awful this time around. He’d been collared and leashed before, and he’d dealt with it just fine, but something about this particular scenario was just…more humiliating somehow. He’d never had anyone see him this way before, let alone one of the best friends he’d ever had. Not that he didn’t like Wren, too, but their relationship was nothing like the one he and Berkeley had.
The way Berkeley had looked at him…Castys had gotten pretty good at telling how he really felt behind the mask he wore, and that aside he was doing a worse job than usual at hiding it. Honestly, seeing how much all this hurt Berkeley upset Castys more than everything Daniel was doing to him. He could take this, it wasn’t that bad, and even if it was in the moment, soon enough he’d be numb to it anyway. But Berkeley…fuck, he was so worried, and he probably blamed himself when it wasn’t really his fault. He knew how Berkeley got, how he’d spiral, his anxiety so high he could barely focus, and he wished he could hold his hands and help him calm down like he always did. Maybe he didn’t deserve to after how he’d lashed out at Berkeley when he first learned he was staying here, but…maybe he wanted to make it up to him, too, wanted to make up for doubting him. He hadn’t meant to but in the moment it’d reminded him so much of…of her, and he’d just panicked, and…
Daniel’s stupid fucking hand moved lower, lightly stroking the back of Castys’s neck, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, earning a satisfied hum from Daniel. God fuck off dude most people don’t like being touched there you’re not fucking special. Now he was stroking the collar itself, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin on either side. Castys was kind of glad he could make all the faces he wanted at that since Daniel couldn’t see, so that was something. The hand was curled around the front of his throat now, not pressing or choking, just resting, but the message was completely clear. Not that Castys gave a fuck, but oh the vermin boy in him was wanting to chomp so bad. Instead of acting upon his instinct, he slipped into a daydream about biting Daniel’s finger off, the thought alone calming his urge. This wasn’t a battle he particularly wanted to fight at the moment, not when he could hear the sounds of Berkeley and Wren coming back into the house, so he’d settle for being a good little pet vermin.
For now.
After taking a moment to pull himself together as much as he could, Berkeley entered the living room, where he was greeted by the sight of Daniel sitting on the couch, his hand casually wrapped around Castys's throat, while Castys himself was kneeling on the floor. Berkeley felt sick, and Daniel just smiled at him.
"Look how docile he can be," he said, giving the leash a light tug, making Castys wince.
Berkeley nodded, not saying a word, and all he could think about as he hesitantly sat down on the couch as well was the fact that Daniel didn't even ask about Wren.
He was right. Daniel was entirely focused on hurting Castys now, making his life hell, and Berkeley was all too aware that he was the one to blame.
With a heavy heart he forced himself to look at Castys, locking eyes with him. Castys should be angry, he should hate him, he should glare - but instead he gave Berkeley a reassuring smile, which made him feel like he was going to break down right there and then.
Still, he managed to mirror the smile as best he could. If Castys could stay strong through this nightmare, Berkeley could too.
For the Berkeley AU: Berkeley teasing Wren with the idea that Wren killed the only person who ever loved him/will ever love him/was capable of loving him
[SV-240 AU Masterlist]
contents: recapture, muzzle, insults, verbal abuse, referenced creepy/intimate whumper and forced relationship, victim blaming, self-loathing, death threats.
~~~
As if the restraints and the collar weren’t enough, it turns out that the duffel bag contains a muzzle as well. It doesn’t have a bit, but that doesn’t make it any more bearable, especially when Berkeley pulls the straps just a little too tight to ensure it never gets less uncomfortable.
Then, he takes advantage of Wren’s silence and talks, and talks, and talks, his words seeping like poison into Wren’s mind.
“Was Daniel really that bad, Rackham?” He’s busy cleaning the hideout, making it more homely, changing the sheets on just one of the bunks, confirming that Wren will be sleeping on the floor. “I mean, sure, he was kind of a weirdo, but who wouldn’t be after living on that planet for more than a decade.”
A weirdo. Wren frowns. Euphemism of the century.
“Speaking from experience, as far as sadistic buyers go, he wasn’t that bad," Berkeley continues, smoothing out the blanket on the bunk before sitting down with a satisfied sigh. “Especially when he decided to make you his sweetheart.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “And he was head over heels for you, happy like a highschooler with a crush. He had a weird way of showing it, but he must have really loved you. I’m sure he'd told you that a bajillion times.”
“I love you, Wren.”
“I love you too.”
The memories make Wren shudder, but he tries not to react otherwise and tune out Berkeley’s voice like he’d learned to tune out Daniel’s, to no avail. Daniel’s words were predictable. Berkeley’s are new, dangerous, and can at any point let him know what to expect before he’s killed.
“If you had given in, I think he would’ve stopped hurting you after a while. Then you’d be two happy lovebirds, or something.” He pauses for effect, then snorts. “Get it? Lovebirds? Because of your name? Fuck, my jokes suck now. And I blame you.”
This time it’s Wren’s turn to roll his eyes when Berkeley points his finger at him.
Still, unpleasant thoughts assault him, hit him like a powerful wave. If he had given in, he wouldn’t be here right now, waiting to be murdered, and before that - tortured. Daniel wanted to kill him too, but if it wasn’t for his escape, he would’ve had several more decades before his life was cut short.
And there were nice times, or as nice as they could be. Cooking together, working in the garden, lying down on the ground to look up at the sky visible among tree branches, swimming in the impossibly beautiful lake, playing board games - all, at least, until Daniel would take his hand, kiss him, whisper words of affection.
But there were other times. Times filled with pain and tears and useless begging, which he could never accept as part of his life.
“You know, Rackham, I’m just wondering… What if that was the best you deserved, and you blew it?”
Wren nearly jumps in place, shocked by the blunt question, his most disturbing thoughts verbalized as if Berkeley could read his mind. He shakes his head, but Berkeley isn’t even looking at him, lying on the bunk, staring up at the low ceiling of the hideout.
“You were a lonely mess before we caught you. That was the reason why I even agreed to sell you in the first place despite whose son you are. I wanted to refuse, but after watching you for a while I realized that no one would’ve missed you, that you could’ve just… disappeared and no one would have cared enough to question your death.”
The longer he talks, the worse Wren feels, curling up to hide the fact that he’s shaking like a leaf. He knows. He knows that he was depressed and lonely and pathetic, he knows he’d made himself an easy target, he knows, he knows, he knows, but he didn’t deserve to be kidnapped and sold, tortured and forced into a relationship he didn’t want, he deserved better, didn’t he?
“And Daniel didn’t mind all that. He liked your personality. If he hadn’t, he would’ve made sure there was nothing left of it.” Berkeley looks at him with a thoughtful frown. “He put up with you. Maybe he was the only one who could.”
Wren shakes his head again, doing his best to glare, but his mind betrays him, descending into self-loathing, agreeing with Berkeley’s words.
“No?” Berkeley scoffs. “You sure? Who else, then? Who else would even want to be around you? Who else could love you? I know you can’t talk, but it’s okay. We both know the answer.”
Nobody.
“Nobody,” Berkeley echoes his thoughts. “If we hadn’t caught you, you would’ve started drinking even more, making out with randos to get the illusion of someone liking you. If I hadn’t caught you, you would’ve realized you’d be alone for the rest of your life. You being a freakin’ hero now doesn’t change that.”
The muzzle makes it hard to breathe. Tears threaten to gather in his eyes, and his heart to crush his ribs.
“I hate your guts, but maybe you should be glad. It means I’ve spent enough time around you to feel some kind of way about you at all. To others you might as well be invisible.”
Stop it. Stop it, it’s not true. It's not.
“There was only one person capable of loving you, and he’s dead now.” Berkeley shakes his head, as if deeply disappointed.
He didn’t love me. It wasn’t love. I deserved better. I still do.
“Yes, Rackham, that’s good.” Berkeley smiles when tears overflow and trickle down Wren’s face, and his chest stutters with a choked sob. “Cry if you need to, but it won’t change a thing. You ruined everything.”
In his current state Wren can’t bring himself to disagree.
Wren jolts awake and gasps when a shock radiates through his body, sobering him up; then the momentary clarity starts to fade when his body grows heavy and fog fills his mind once the blinding light of electricity vanishes from it.
“No dozing off, Rackham,” he hears the voice he’s grown to dread, mocking, with an ever-present hint of laughter, an intruder in the house.
“For fff-” he starts, then bites his tongue - the fading clarity is still enough for him to remember that cursing is not a good idea. He huffs and fixes his gaze on the floor, seething with anger.
“Anyway,” Daniel says, and Wren is too tired to pay attention to his next words.
It feels like Daniel doesn’t even acknowledge Wren’s presence when Berkeley visits, allowing whatever torture he comes up with, maybe not daring to interrupt his fun. In Wren’s half-conscious state he finds the thought of Daniel being scared of Berkeley - hell, Daniel being scared of anyone - is hysterical, and he manages a half-smile.
The current torture is sleep deprivation. When he arrived, Berkeley announced with a grin that since his visits are so few and far between, it would be rude of Wren to sleep through one. He was therefore treated to a glass of water with the familiar drug that kept him awake through the night while his tormentors slept. The drug has worn off since, but tonight he has company, and they make sure he doesn’t fall asleep.
Pain runs through his body, paralyzing him, trapping a scream behind gritted teeth, until his thoughts devolve into a desperate chorus of make it stop make it stop please, and he slumps when his body is released from the hold of electricity. He opens his eyes; he had closed them. He’s been actively fighting to keep them open, and yet they closed, and he immediately paid the price.
Don’t fall asleep. Stay awake. Focus on… something.
But there is nothing to focus on. The bastards aren’t even doing anything interesting, they’re just talking, and their conversation becomes incomprehensible white noise with tidbits that Wren picks up only to immediately forget. He works his fingers into his hair tight enough to hurt, then rubs his temples, closing his eyes, then opening them when he feels himself slipping into consciousness again. He’s not quick enough, and the taser digs into his side once again.
“No. Dozing. Off,” Berkeley says sternly, and Wren groans, anger overcoming exhaustion and debilitating helplessness for a moment. “You should get a taser, Daniel. Could be useful for keeping your darling in line.”
“Eh,” Daniel shrugs. “They’re boring. Not enough blood, not enough bruises.”
“Tragic,” Wren snaps, but still shudders at how blunt Daniel’s words are. He squeezes his eyes shut when his snark earns him yet another shock.
And then it goes on - he fights his losing battle against sleep, Berkeley wakes him up with a shock, until he’s on the verge of crying from exhaustion, from how unfair this is, he just wants to sleep, why the hell isn’t Daniel doing anything? Why the hell is he just letting Berkeley continue this?
“For fuck’s sake, leave me alone!” He finally screams after one shock too many, and then he yelps when he receives a hefty slap to the face and Berkeley grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head back with a satisfied grin.
“That was uncalled for, Rackham,” he coos. “Now, I think a punishment’s in order.”
“Just leave me alone,” Wren repeats. Tears finally gather in his eyes, but he manages to hold them back. Punishment on top of everything else. He should be panicking, but he’s too exhausted even for that. “I’m sorry, alright?”
Berkeley cocks his head to the side with a smirk that could mean anything, but above all it’s one of delight at Wren’s desperate apology.
“He’s not even conscious enough for punishment,” Daniel says, and the leather of the couch creaks when he stands up. “That’s enough for tonight. I’ll get him to bed, then we can talk more. Uninterrupted.”
Wren sighs when Daniel stops in front of him and helps him get up, then scoops him up into a bridal carry without warning, making Berkeley snicker.
“Fine, fine. Apology accepted,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You poor thing, that must have been a shocking experience.”
Daniel and Wren groan in unison, and Berkeley shrugs with an innocent smile.
“I can walk,” Wren mutters, shifting in Daniel’s hold as he’s carried upstairs.
“Sure you can, sweetheart,” Daniel laughs, and Wren sighs again, resting his head on Daniel’s shoulder and closing his eyes.
He falls asleep before he can feel angry at himself for giving in to Daniel's sick affection.
