(no subject)
Title: When we were young
Author: K_E_Wilson
Rating: NC-17 (see warnings)
Word Count: ~2000
Disclaimer: Alas, I can't even claim to own the idea for this one- Characters from the great mind of Mr. Roddenberry, copyright to the big-shots, and idea off a prompt.
Warnings: HILIGHT FOR INFO: "NONCON, Child molestation, multiple personalities, lots and lots and lots of bad things."
Summary: He doesn't feel normal, and that's pretty okay-- maybe.
J I M M Y
It started before he could really realize it was happening.
His mother was off-world; a usual circumstance that he had long grown accustomed to. But this time it was different. Frank didn't just drink one or two beers this time.
They had been fighting, Frank and his mom, the day before she left. Frank had slept that night on the old recliner in the living room, the holovid screen blaring some old twentieth-century movie with cars and explosions and some guy with a strange, heavy accent.
By the time Jim had gotten up out of bed, his mother was gone and Frank was already yelling at Sam for doing something wrong. He'd tried to skirt clear of the tall, broad man; Sam snapping angrily back at him in an effort to enrage him more (another thing Jim had grown used to seeing over the years Frank had been a part of their lives) but Frank had heard him, and suddenly the big, angry man had spun on his heel and was barreling down on Jim, voice raising into an angry crescendo as he demanded WHY weren't his chores done?! It was past nine!
Jim had run out of the house, barely taking the time to scoop up his ratty shoes as he slammed the door behind himself. It wasn't until he had the big trash bin in hand and started dragging it down the drive for the dispenser to pick up that he realized he still had no shirt on. Oh, well; he was used to the Iowa heat.
For most of the day, he stayed clear of Frank, managing to clean the bathrooms and sweep the porch in time to sneak back into his room and hide with the ratty old star charts Sam had given to him two years ago.
At Six, he couldn't really imagine the real scale of everything in space, but he knew that his father had been there- had not come back from it, and his young mind still held the hope that one day he'd be able to go up there and find his dad; bring the man back to his mom so she could stop looking at him like he reminded her of something sad and horrible. Even at this age, he'd heard the story- his father was a hero, a man who'd given himself to save more than three hundred people, a captain for only twelve minutes who was remembered every year, like clockwork on Jim's birthday. When he was very young, he'd used to think it was a bad thing to celebrate birthdays, but Sam had corrected that notion- it wasn't Jim they were remembering on Remembrance Day, but their father.
He slowly snuck down into the kitchen, to the replicator, for dinner when the sun had nearly set, flooding the entire house with dim, bloody light. It was only by some miracle he managed to avoid Frank as he toed his way up the stairs with his sandwich in hand, ready to settle down and look at more of his star charts. Then again, maybe it wasn't luck; the garbage had more beer bottles in it than usual, and the big bottle of Whiskey that had sat almost-full on the counter earlier was near-empty; it all pointed to Frank being more drunk than usual, and Sam had always warned him to stay away from Frank when he was like that. So he'd made his way quietly to his room, ignoring the gruff muttering emitting from the living room, just under the noise of the holovid.
It was well after eleven, and Jim had already dressed in the pajamas he'd gotten last Christmas from his brother; the ones with the space ships and nebula running in patterns on the dark, blue fabric, when the heavy footsteps on the stairs started him out of his sleep. His heart pounded for a moment at the utter darkness that the Iowa night, moon a tiny sliver in the sky. Soon, though, he calmed- it must be Frank, he reasoned, heading to bed finally. But the steps slowed to a stop outside his door, and Jim shifted the covers closer to himself, wondering why he would stop, before the door swung open and Frank came stumbling in.
He was shirtless, broad and bare shoulders blocking out the light from the hall, his big black boots unlaced with the laces flopping about like whips the aged, hole-y jeans stretched oddly, and Jim couldn't figure out why.
"Jim-mee..." Frank's voice was a low, raspy whisper that slurred out and dragged on the 'e' turning his name into a low groan. A few more steps had Frank half way to the bed, and Jim sat up, head tilted and eyes questioning.
"Uncle Frank?" His voice seemed so small, young in the silence of the room and Frank smiled at the little noise, swaying slightly as he advanced until his knees lightly bumped into the side of Jim's old mattress. "What's wrong?" Jim cursed the small lisp in his own voice, a product of the gap from his last lost tooth.
Frank, though, said nothing as he sat heavily on the end of the bed, eyes still on Jim as the bed squealed in protest at the extra weight. A sliver of something cold went down Jim's back and had him scooting away from Frank slightly, only stopping when his back hit the wall beside the window, shoulders pressing back as though if he tried hard enough he could merge through it. Frank's hand landed suddenly on his knee; a heavy, hot weight that bore down into his bones and made him tense as the man's fingers flexed painfully into his flesh.
"You like me, right, Jim-me?" There was that song-like take on his name again, but the cold thing that had slid down his back before was clenching uncomfortably in his chest now and he felt his heart hammering at his chest, eyes flitting about for a way to diffuse the situation- had he done something wrong?
But Frank was still waiting for an answer, and slowly, eyes not meeting Frank's in case the truth sank through to the man, Jim nodded once, firmly. The hand moved up, gripping at Jim's thigh for a moment before going to the little pearly button at the bottom of his top, fumbling with it for a moment. Shocked, Jim tried to pry the appendage away, eyes flying to Frank's face just in time to watch it contort from a heated concentration to a rage.
Suddenly, he found himself flung onto the bed, the back of his head connecting with the low railing painfully and a cry flew out of his mouth, only to be smothered at the end by the same hand that had rested on his knee, pressing down onto his lips, forcing them to grate against his teeth painfully.
Frank was on top of him, and his other hand was scrabbling at Jim's top, ripping it open and sending the little buttons flying everywhere- he could hear them thrumming quietly onto the ground and the bed. His arms were forced into painful angles as Frank ripped the top from his body, tugging it clear with a momentary ripping noise that Jim thought might have been one of the sleeves tearing. But he couldn't think about the top because now the heavy hands had released their hold on his mouth and he was being flipped over in a painful flash hands scrabbling about to find purchase, trying to find a way to pull himself away as suddenly air was hitting his thighs and Frank's hand had both of his, stretching him painfully as it's twin was fumbling at--
Jim let out a strangled scream as suddenly fingers invaded him. He didn't understand why Frank was doing this- didn't understand the searing pain of the invasion. The world had gone white, but the corners of his vision had gone dark an the combination of that and the pain made Jim want to throw up as his hands tried to twist away from Frank's. Suddenly, though, the fingers inside his butt were scissoring and stretching him and it hurt so goddamn much. But it didn't last long and suddenly the fingers were gone, allowing Jim's vision to clear enough to see Frank's hand shift on his wrists, and he had the fleeting hope that it was over before suddenly there was something else at that place and then, without warning, it thrust into him. He screamed out, feeling himself ripped apart as Frank's face came to hover near his head; fetid breath pouring down over him, bathing Jim in the scent of Whiskey and hell as the man grunted, his heavy body thrusting painfully. Frank's hand released Jim's after a moment, but just as Jim started to reach to find purchase and escape, both Frank's hands appeared around his bare waist and suddenly he was being pulled back, and the thing inside him went impossibly deeper, tearing him apart and making him scream again and again as he was tortured this way; hands flitting, trying to find something- anything- to stop the pain.
It seemed like forever, a never ending stream of pain and screaming that ended with Jim limp, unable to fight anymore with only feeble sobs escaping his body. Frank's movements became jerky, and in a quick one-two-three movement Jim's body was suddenly flooded with a strange and ugly liquid-heat as what Jim now knew was Frank's penis twitched inside of him.
When it was over, Frank pulled out of him, leaving him sprawled and broken with sobs on the bed. Jim stared, unseeing, as Frank tucked himself back into his pants, wiping his hand on Jim's back to take off the sticky liquid that was on his hand. "Clean yourself up, you little shit. You look like a whore."
The sound of Frank's voice had Jim's stomach roiling against him and his body clenched, suddenly surging away from the man to press into the wall by the window once more, knees drawn up protectively, arms holding his shoulders as though they were holding him together. His pajama pants and underwear hung off of one foot, trailing dirty and forgotten behind his movements and he stared at them in a daze as Frank left the room, listening to the man's heavy boot falls until he reached the room at the end of the hall, only minutes later filling the house with the sound of deep, drunken snores.
Two days later, Jim had come-to half way down the drive, the trash bin in one hand and the sun warm on his face. The horrors of that night were fresh in his mind, but he was right back where he'd been before it- except he had a shirt on, this time, and there were bruises on his wrists, barely peeking beneath the long sleeves of his shirt.
There, on the side of the road, he heaved whatever he'd eaten out until the only thing that would come was bile.
He never questioned where those two days went; never tried to figure out where the days-long lapses in his memory would come from after that. The only thing he knew was that there was a little voice in the back of his mind now that sung little lullabies to him at night in a child's voice.
Chapter 2