peter and some non-con touching? not too far, but just enough 😊 (anyone can be doing it EXCEPT tony please!!)
I think I understand what you’re asking for, though I derailed a bit. Thank you for this, anon. It sparked a really pleasant-to-write whump scene. Felt like the hey days of torture tuesday.
This is a part of the peter and winter soldier thing I’m doing.
This will include non-consensual touching, but not sex.
“No,” Peter moans as he’s brought up to standing. Even this, just being shifted, is painful enough to make his head swim. “No, no, no please. No more, no more.”
“It’s just me,” the Soldier mumbles, though it’s more to himself than to Peter. God knows each time he tumbled out of the chair, he couldn’t hear his own heartbeat, much less someone talking to him. Peter is dazed, disoriented. Eyes gone glassy from the thousands of volts they’ve just charged through his brain.
They don’t have time for this.
The Soldier manhandles Peter out of the chair. His lithe frame is easily supported in the hook of the Soldier’s metal arm, but he struggles. Kicks his legs. Thrashes his arms. Hard.
“Don’t!” He’s desperate with panic now, a wild thing. “Commander, no. No! Don’t touch me!”
His elbow sinks into the Soldier’s eye, sharp edge catching the crest of his zygomatic bone. It stings, a lot, and the Soldier spitefully drops Peter to the floor.
Memory ignites in the Soldier’s hippocampus. Memory of the last time he struggled getting out of the chair. How the techs had righted him to his feet and when he had stumbled, fallen, his handler kicked him in the stomach. How the sudden shift in gravity paired with the pain in his gut had rattled his already sensitive neurons. Left him vomiting bile onto the floor.
With the flash of memory comes the plummet of guilt. The Soldier shouldn’t have dropped Peter like that. It’s only his second time in the chair. He still has memory, personality. It must be much, much worse than anything the Soldier can recall.
“Hey, I’m not the Commander,” he says, crouching down next to Peter, who is curled into a fetal ball. Shaking and raw. He tries to touch his shoulder, but Peter flinches away, crying out with a keening cry like an animal.
The Soldier grits his teeth, irritation spiking again. The Commander is down the hall, and if he hears the kid carrying on like this, he will come in and give Peter something to really scream about.
“Look, kid.” He takes up Peter’s head, ready to jerk him into looking. But he halts himself when he sees that the kid is weeping now.
The Soldier sighs and gently rotates Peter’s cheek to the floor. Peter’s body settles some, sense easing back into him as it takes in the empty room.
“It’s me. Just me.” The Soldier wishes he could give Peter his name. Wishes that he could find it again. “We’re the only ones in here.”
Peter’s pupils dilate and shrink as he checks the corners of the room, quivering. The pale irises make the pupil fluctuation more apparent. Uncomfortable to witness.
Peter spots the chair, the metal bracket still crackling with electricity. He stops breathing.
Just the sight of the chair used to make the Soldier’s ears ring.
“You’re fine,” he says, resting his cool metal hand against Peter’s temple. He knows it must be burning. “We’re alone. You’re not going back in the chair. I’m just going to take you back to the cell.”
The look Peter gives him then is questioning, but trusting. The Soldier sighs. And then, suddenly, it occurs to him: what he hasn’t tried yet.
Peter halts, then nods, extending his arms out like a child asking to be picked up. The Soldier scoops him up in both arms, settling him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Peter sags against his spine. His hot breath warms the Soldier’s flesh shoulder.