#gonna put a tape over my tear ducts and seal them shut

[sashi-ya]

Hello Sashi!!! I discovered you blog a while ago and I love your writing! <3 For your Spicy Week Event, could I request rape play and light bondage (gagging, ropes) with Law and a female reader with big breasts in canon AU pleasee ?? <3

Hi babe, of course! I hope you enjoy! Idk if you were able to read this from A03 but in any case here we are! Enjoy! ♥

⚠🔥NSFW ~ Trafalgar D. Water Law x F! Reader ~ Behave For Your Captain [pre con RP].

TW: Both parts have given their consent for r ape play. Yet, 🚫If you are not comfortable with this type of kinks and situations please DNI. Thanks ♥ 🚫. Light bondage. Gagging. Rough s ex. Fluffy ending.

Wc: 1.5K

I know it is a sensitive topic, so, If you feel bad or so reading it, please contact me, I’m not a professional in mental health but if you need to talk I’m here for you!

And always remember I BELIEVE IN YOU. IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT. WE ARE HERE FOR YOU ♥ ~

I was asked to put down this fic, unfortunately I can't make it private because TUMBLR won't allow it to. And I'm not gonna literally eliminate it because I have been asked in the worst ways possible, and IT IS A REQUEST. Plus there is enough warnings for you not to proceed reading them. So the most I can do is putting the content FULLY hidden under the cut.

It’s late at night, late and lonely. Being on guard tonight feels like torture, you have always hated this. When everybody is sleeping in the Polar Tang, but you have to remain awake, it bores you to no extent. There is no one to talk to, especially when being submerged. But, tonight things are about to take an unexpected turn...

You hear the sound of steps coming closer to the control room, but you are not sure. “Probably someone has woken up to go to the bathroom” you think and flip the page of a book you are not really reading.

And then again, you can feel a presence. Your skin gets bumpy, you look everywhere but see nobody. “Oh my…am I being my delirious self again?” you utter, but suddenly a hand covers your mouth, reaching you from behind.

“You are not being delirious… baby” a soft, low, manly voice whispers in your ear. You try to gasp for air, and as you look to the side you notice inked hands. The inked, soft hands of your captain. “Mmm…” you mumble, moving your head side to side so he could stop covering your mouth.

“Shh… don’t make me hurt you. You are gonna be all complacent to your captain, ok?” he whispers, already passing one of his hands through your big breasts. You keep moaning, loudly, trying to escape from his grip.

“What did I tell you? Shut the fuck up! You are gonna be mine tonight!” the surgeon says, turning around your chair. You are facing him, he looks like a hungry beast, ready to pounce over his prey. You can see tenting pants that show how aroused he is, he is panting, with even more dark circles than ever. The soft blue light that filters from the big porthole hits on his caramel skin, making the waves reflect on his grey eyes… He is hungry, he does not care about your consent. He is gonna get what he wants, and you can’t stop him.

“Room” “Shambles”.

The powers of his devil fruit allow him to have some ropes and duct tape in just an instant. “Captain? What is that for? Please don’t hurt me” you beg with tears in your eyes, trembling and unable to stand up. The tattooed man smirks devilishly, and comes closer hitting the ropes against the palm of his hand.

“L-Law??!” you shout. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up” he says, fire in his eyes. “But…!” you protest as he comes closer and closer. Law squeezes your cheeks, and makes you look directly into his eyes. “Why don’t you understand when I tell you to shut your fucking mouth? You wanted this” he says and cuts a piece of tape. Your lips are quickly and violently sealed by a grey sticky band. You widen your eyes; you won’t be able to shout, and no one is coming to rescue you from the claws of your feral captain…

“Come on, stand up” he commands and makes you stand from the chair by pulling your hair. You stumble upon your own feet but manage not to fall. Law smirks, and winks subtly at you. He pushes softly against the stairs.

Law snatches your wrists and gives a few loops with the ropes around them. Then, he uses the remaining rope to tie your stretched arms over your head to the side of the metallic stairs.

The cords get even tighter when Law decides to spread your legs with his knee. You are hanging, your breasts get squeezed by your forearms, tears run from your eyes through your cheeks.

“You are gonna be mine, you know that? I’ve been waiting for this for so long…” Law whispers, licking your ear. You move your head to the other side, trying to move away from his greedy tongue.  “No… no… behave for your captain babe” he says, and violently lowers the zipper of your boiler suit. He discovers you are not wearing anything under, not even a bra.

Your chest gets exposed to a relishing man that enjoys the way your uncovered breasts bounce as you plead for mercy. “Ugh, how big they are, you should wear this suit open from now on” he says and attacks your nipples.

Desperately looking as he begins to suck the hell out of them, tears falling from your eyes and wetting his cheeks when he looks up at you. You keep moaning, fighting against the dichotomy of wanting to enjoy the pleasure even if it comes against your desires. Law bites and pulls with his teeth, sharp feeling that sends you to heaven. He nuzzles on your boobs, enjoying the way your soft flesh gets all over his face.  “Babe, I love them”. You can’t help but squeeze your eyes, it feels so good…

His hands travel towards your sex, and even if his mouth doesn’t let go of your nipples, his fingers reach for your entrance. “So wet… After  all, you want this, don’t you? Little slut” he mumbles, fixing his icy irises on your desperate ones. And he is right, you want this… His index goes in and out, making your legs become weak enough to lose composure. You whine, the ropes around your wrists hurt as they are supporting all your body weight. You try to close your legs, but Law won’t let you. “Sh sh sh let them open, little bitch. Didn’t I tell you were going to be mine?”.

The way he masturbates you, making you drip, wetting the white boiler suit that remains rolled up on your ankles with your arousal. You moan, turning your eyes white, the back of your head hitting against the handrail of the stairs that takes you to the main deck. Legs trembling, air violently escaping your nose as you can’t open your mouth, moans. Climax hits you, harder than what you would like to admit.

“Good girl, you see? You are such a slut, you came after all your crying!” he says, softly slapping your cheek several times. Your agitated, messed up you, can’t stop looking at him wondering what’s next… and of course Law hasn’t finished with you yet.

He violently turns you around, your face hits the metallic balusters of the stair. He pins you whole body against them, you can feel his rock hard bulge against your ass. “You know what I wanna do with you now, right?” he whispers. You whine, shaking your head, trying to express how much you don’t want this -even though, you do. You really do-.

“Shh, babe…” he says, while you hear his jeans’ zipper go down. The tip of his dick grazes your entrance as he moves it back and forth from behind. “Want this, huh?” he laughs, a wicked expression of total domination over you. You try to close your legs, leaving his shaft trapped in between your inner thighs. “Ah my little slut wants my dick so bad she doesn’t want me to get away, don’t you?” he tells you, and both of his hands press your hips together so your legs could keep closed. You can feel his precum wetting the flesh of your adductors as he jerks himself with them. His tip grazes your clit and entrance whenever he moves against your ass.  You feel him panting, groaning. Law bites your shoulder, strongly, violently, leaving purple marks all over your skin.

But of course, your thighs are not enough, and Law needs more, so much more. And frankly, you too. You are burning in anticipation; your core wants him inside. Deep inside. He moves your hips backward, so your ass can get a little lifted. “I wanna hear you moan, but if you shout, I will hurt you, ok?” he says and brutally rips the tape off your mouth.

Your lips burn, but you don’t even care because you are now focused on your captain penetrating you rough, hard, vicious. He goes in and out, plunging deep into you. You swear your skin will get all bruised with the stairs against it. Law has no mercy; you haven’t seen your boyfriend so turned on before. After all the idea of a surprise rape play has been an awesome one…

“Baby, I’m…. I'm coming babe…” he pants. “Me… too…” you mumble.

Both of you come, first you and then him. Muzzled “I love yous” he says pressing his lips against your flesh. Law fills you up, so good and warm. He unties your wrists, grabbing you so you don’t fall. Your arms rest over his shoulders, both exhausted and drunk in desire. The surgeon kisses your wrists, all red and a little sore. “Does it hurt? I’m sorry I think I was too rough” he asks, feeling guilty. You look at him, with pure love and completely delighted by the awesome sex. “Don’t worry. I loved it…”.

“Let’s go to bed, I’ll tell Clione to take the guard from here” he says and with just a “Shambles” both of you get to your room to rest, hugging and happy to be able to fulfill any steamy fantasy you have ♥ ~

[rizlowwritessortof]

Meant To Be - Chapter 8

Dean and Jordan are each trying to escape their painful pasts. Their chance meeting and a dangerous encounter begins a relationship that may give them both a new start.

Pairing: Police Detective Dean Winchester/Jordan Taylor

Word Count: 3085

Warnings: None

Aesthetic by @editsbymichele on Instagram; Dividers by @firefly-graphics​ 

Jordan regained consciousness with a groan at the throbbing pain in her head. She tried to move, to hold her head in her hands, but they were securely bound behind her back – duct tape, it felt like, and she opened her eyes slowly, remembering what had happened and wondering where she was.

The masked man in front of her shoved at the shoulder of the larger man beside him. “Hey – bitch is awake.”

She squinted up at the man who had spoken, defiance in her eyes. “Fuck you.”

He took a step towards her, but his apparent boss grabbed his arm. “Knock it the fuck off. Take a walk.”

Douche-bag flunky stalked away in a huff, and the man in charge hunkered down in front of her. “Sorry things have to be like this, but it’ll be over soon. Just keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine.”

Jordan just glared back at him, then turned her head, letting her eyes scan the room. She was in some sort of garage, or storage building, she wasn’t sure. The windows were painted over, so no view to the outside. She winced as she moved, her jaw aching and her head pounding with every beat of her heart. Oh, God… Sam…

“What about the guy you beat half to death. Will he be fine?”

Her captor tilted his head. “They hauled him off to the hospital. I’m sure he’ll live.”

She stared back at him, venom in her gaze. “He’d better.”

He chuckled quietly. “Listen, all you need to worry about is that your boyfriend does what he’s told. Then everybody can go home, nobody else needs to get hurt.”

“Right. Except him.”

He shook his head. “As long as he does his job, he’s good.”

“I thought this was all about revenge for the shooting.”

“I want one thing, and one thing only, and a cop is the only one who can get it for me. Speaking of… it’s about time to make a call. Since you’re awake and so chatty. Because I’m sure he’s gonna want to talk to you.” He stood back up, pulling a phone from his pocket – it was hers. He placed the call and put it on speaker, waiting silently for an answer.

“Jordan?”

“Wrong. I am Jordan-adjacent, though.”

“She’d better be in perfect health, you dick, or...”

“She’s fine. Just shut up and listen. Remember a couple of months ago, the big drug bust, made all the papers?”

Dean was silent for a moment, and Jordan pictured him closing his eyes, dreading what was coming next. “Yeah.”

“Well, Detective – all that cocaine? That was mine. You’re gonna go to the evidence lock-up, take it all out, and bring it to me. Three duffle bags, no tricks.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Crazy or not, it’s mine – and I want it back. I don’t care how you do it – not my problem. You get me that coke, and your little spitfire here gets to live.”

“I’m not doing shit until I talk to Jordan. I need to know she’s okay.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” The masked man knelt down in front of her and held the phone closer to her.  “Go ahead, talk.”

“Dean?” Her voice quavered as she fought tears for the first time since her ordeal had begun.

“Jordan, are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Dean, is Sam...”

“Sam’s gonna be fine. Don’t worry.”

Her captor rose to his feet again. “Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ll call you in one hour with instructions.”

Jordan swallowed a sob, tears slowly trailing down her cheeks as he ended the call. “You’re insane. How is he supposed to steal drugs from the police lockup?”

“He’ll figure it out. He’d better.” He turned and reached to grab her by the arm, pulling her to her feet. “And now, since our little phone call is done – you can go into the storage closet so we can take off these fucking masks. Hope you appreciate how careful I’ve been to make sure you can survive this little transaction.”

She shot him a glance full of spite. “I’ll send you a fruit basket.”

He laughed. “You know, different circumstances, I think I could really like you.” He unlocked and opened the door to a large walk-in closet, windowless and dark except for vents high up near the ceiling that let scant light in from the room outside. He moved farther into the room, lowering her down next to the wall. A blonde sat across from her, arms held close against her body. “Brought you a roommate. Play nice.” He turned and left the room, locking the door with a loud click and walking away.

The girl looked up at Jordan, her expression stoic. “So you’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one I was supposed to grab the first time.”

Jordan leaned her head back against the wall. “You’re Megan? What are you doing in here? I thought you were working with these assholes.”

Megan looked away. “I was supposed to do their dirty work for them. Didn’t work out so well.”

“Sucks when you piss off the boss,” Jordan muttered resentfully, and the blonde’s head raised back up, her blue eyes angry.

“Look, I didn’t… I mean, I knew what I was doing, but I just – I wanted justice for my brother. They lied to me. I found out, after… I tracked down a couple of people that were there that night, people that are still hiding because they’re afraid of these fuckers. They told me what happened. That your cop boyfriend didn’t have any choice. And I was pissed, I called these asshats and told them I wanted to meet.”

“I take it they didn’t like what you had to say.”

“I told them I didn’t like being lied to and used, and that I was done. And they told me that was too bad, because they couldn’t let me go since I knew too much. And I tried to get away, but they broke my fucking arm and knocked me out, locked me up in here.”

Jordan was silent for a moment, the only sound the other girl’s agitated breathing as she fought to control herself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I assumed… Do you know who they are?”

Megan shook her head. “No. They wore masks when I met them, before that it was just phone contact.”

After a few seconds of silence, Jordan spoke softly. “They want Dean to steal cocaine from the evidence lockup and bring it to them. Supposedly, if they get what they want, they’ll let us go.”

Megan let out a derisive snort. “I’ll believe that when it happens. They’re already on the hook for murder, I doubt if they give a shit about a couple more.”

Resting her aching head against the wall, Jordan let out a sigh. “I know.”

Dean gripped his phone so hard that his hand shook, and Donna put a firm hand on his forearm. “Calm down. Losing it right now isn’t going to help anybody, Dean.”

He looked at the technician sitting behind the monitor, and she shook her head before dropping her eyes. “No trace. Damn it, Donna, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Cap’s office, now - brainstorm. We’ll figure it out.”

After a quick knock, the partners were invited to enter, and they both plopped down into the chairs in front of the Captain’s desk. “So what are we dealing with?”

Dean filled him in on the ransom call, and the Captain leaned back in his chair, looking Dean in the eye. “You know we can’t just give them the coke, Detective.”

“There’s got to be something we can do. He’s calling in one hour to give us the drop instructions,” Donna said, forcing herself to remain calm. “Can we put dye packs...”

“They said no tricks. They’ll check for that. We can’t risk it.” Dean bit back, and she took a breath before trying again.

“Okay, they demanded we bring the drugs in three duffle bags. We put a tracker in them.”

The Captain spoke up. “In all probability, they’ll expect that and switch to their own bags when we make the drop.”

Dean moved forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “Okay, so we put a tracker in the coke. Let forensics open one up, put it in the middle so it can’t be seen, and seal it back up exactly like it was before. Then we can track it to their destination.” The Captain narrowed his eyes, considering, and Dean continued. “Sir,  I swear on my life I won’t let them get away with those drugs. But you have to let us do this.”

The Captain thought for a few moments before sitting upright and blowing out a loud breath. He nodded, then said reluctantly, “Okay, I’ll sign the order. I’m holding you to your word.”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. “We won’t let you down, Cap.”

The older man’s words followed them out the door. “You damn well better not.”

Jordan looked up as the door rattled, then swung inward. Her captor knelt down in front of her, setting a bottle of water nearby. “Lean up, I’ll cut your hands loose. Can’t do anything in here, anyway.”

She did as she was told, relieved to be able to move her arms, and gratefully accepted the water. “Thanks,” she muttered grudgingly, and he moved over to set water down near her fellow prisoner. “She needs a doctor, you know.”

He rose to his feet and turned, moving back towards the door. “After I have my property, she can see all the doctors she wants.”

Megan looked down at the bottle, shaking her head as the door closed and locked again. “And how the hell does he think I’m gonna open this?”

Jordan stood up, stretching her aching shoulders, and walked over, kneeling down to open the bottle. Megan’s face looked flushed, her eyes glazed over a little, and Jordan laid a hand on her forehead. “You’re feverish. Maybe they’ll at least give us some aspirin.”

Megan huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t count on it.”

Jordan went to the door and pounded, shouting. “Hey! Anybody out there? Can we get some aspirin?”

A loud bang on the other side of the door startled her back a step. “Shut the fuck up in there! Be glad you got water.”

Megan gave her a half-smile. “Told you. But thanks for trying.”

“Assholes,” Jordan said under her breath, stripping off the button-down she was wearing over her tank top and kneeling back down in front of Megan.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, watching Jordan fold and re-fold the shirt until she was satisfied with the results.

“You have to be exhausted trying to hold your arm like that. I thought maybe a sling would help.” She carefully slipped the makeshift sling under Megan’s injured forearm, taking the sleeves behind her neck and tying them into a knot. The girl sighed with relief as she relaxed her shoulder, letting the shirt cradle her arm.

“Thank you.” Jordan smiled at her and headed back to her spot against the wall.

“You’re welcome.”

Dean ended his call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket, turning to Donna. “Sam’s out of surgery, everything’s good.”

His partner sighed with relief and smiled. “Thank God. One of the guys from forensics just finished up with the tracker. Everything’s ready to go.”

As if on cue, Dean’s phone rang, and he grabbed it from his pocket, nodding towards the tech who would be trying to trace the call. When the officer signaled, Dean answered. “Yeah.”

“I assume that you’ve got my coke ready to deliver?”

“Yeah. Just tell me where and when so we can get this over with.” The man rattled off an address, and Dean repeated it. “I want to talk to Jordan. Make sure she’s still okay.”

“No more time for socializing right now. She’s fine. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Like hell I will.”

“You don’t have a choice. Meet me at that address in 45 minutes, come alone, and I’ll give you her location so you can have a nice, long chat with your girl.” The call ended abruptly, and Dean swore, his teeth clenched together in frustrated anger.

Donna put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. We’re gonna nail these bastards.”

He took a breath, his expression taut and determined. “Fuckin’ right. And she’d better be okay, or I swear to God...”

“She’ll be okay. She’s smart, and she’s tough, and you’re gonna get her back.”

Dean pulled into the parking lot, eyes scanning the area. “You can still hear me?” he asked, and a tinny affirmative reply came through his earpiece. Donna and two other squad cars were parked a couple of blocks away, and the SWAT van was another block over and north, their tracking equipment set up to follow the cocaine after the drop.

A dark, nondescript SUV pulled into the lot and parked a couple of car lengths away. Dean exited the car, tugging his vest down and taking a couple of steps to the front of the car. His contact climbed out of his vehicle, mask in place, moving forward a few steps and then taking a wide-legged stance, his arms folded over his chest. “Okay, let’s get this party started.” Dean nodded, opening the trunk and grabbing the bags, walking forward until the man shouted for him to stop. “Drop the bags right there.”

“Where is she?” Dean responded, still holding them, challenge in his eyes.

“When we conclude our business, I’ll tell you. Now drop the bags.”

He did as he was told, muttering under his breath, “I’m gonna kill this fucker.”

Donna’s voice came back, “No, you’re not. Just take a breath, partner.”

At a motion from the man in charge, a couple of masked men exited the vehicle, empty duffle bags in hand. They knelt on the ground and began to transfer the cocaine to their own bags, and Dean walked back to close the trunk on his cruiser. “What’s the matter, don’t trust me?”

“Oh, come on, Detective. Like I don’t know they’d put some kind of tracker in those bags. I don’t blame you, don’t worry. I’m sure your commanding officer insisted.” His men finished loading the coke and retreated back to the SUV, tossing their prize into the back before getting back inside. The driver pulled a phone from his pocket, dialing and speaking a few quiet words before looking towards Dean and speaking.

“All right. Well done, Detective. You’ll find your little spitfire in a storage building two blocks north of here.” Dean moved quickly towards his door, but the man called out again. “Also, you have a choice – you can have your backup try to follow us – or you can get to that storage building and save those girls. Seems a fire got started in there somehow. Your choice. Better hurry, though.”

Dean was in his car, engine roaring to life, as he spoke to Donna. “Did you hear that? Meet me there, let SWAT track the coke!”

“You got it!” the answer came back, and Dean squealed the tires, heading north.  His foot to the floor, his eyes scanned frantically for smoke as he approached the two-block area, and he screeched to a halt in front of the building, smoke already pouring from a broken window on the side. His backup pulled in a few seconds later as he reached the door, placing a palm against it to test for heat.

“Bring the battering ram!” He shouted, knowing it was futile to try to kick in the steel-reinforced door, and two officers came at a run with the tool in hand. “Call fire!” he shouted over his shoulder as the third slam into the door sent it flying inward, the frame splintering. Donna and two other officers entered right behind him, skirting the fire and searching the building.

Dean headed straight for the closet, hearing Jordan pounding on the door and calling out. “Help! We’re in here!”

“Stand back from the door!” he shouted, waited a few seconds, and let the battering ram do its work. “Jordan!” He rushed into the room, letting his relief wash over him for a split second before taking her arm and shoving her towards an officer. “Get her out of here!”

“Dean! Megan needs help, she’s sick, and her arm is broken,” Jordan called out to him, then let the officer lead her out.

He nodded, heading Megan’s direction. “Okay, Megan, I’m just going to pick you up and carry you out. Can you get your good arm around my neck?” The girl nodded, and Dean bent to pick her up, as careful as he could be not to jostle her arm.

Fire and Rescue were just pulling in, and Dean carried Megan directly to the ambulance, waiting for the EMTs to ready the gurney before laying her down. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded, and he stepped back to allow the paramedics to do their job. He turned, eyes searching until he spotted Jordan being hugged by Donna, and in a few long strides, he was there, pulling her into his arms.

He held her tight, letting her sob softly into his chest until she quieted down. “Thank you,” she whispered as he pulled back, looking down into her eyes. He touched her face, barely brushing over her bruised jaw and gently touching the cut over her eyebrow, beautifully framing her black eye.

“Got quite a shiner, there,” he said, and she nodded, wincing.

“Yeah, they, uh – they slammed my head into the steering wheel.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. Sam...”

“Sam’s okay. He’s out of surgery, he’ll be fine, hospital called me.” Another ambulance pulled in, and he brushed his knuckles over her uninjured cheek. “I’m sorry, Jordan, but you need to go in and get checked out.” She looked into his eyes, watching the guilty struggle there, and put her hand over his.

“Dean – go. Catch those assholes. They’ll take care of me.”

After a moment’s pause, he finally nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you in the ambulance, then Donna and I will go help SWAT take out the trash.”

Chapter 9

[kc-anathema]

For your five ficlet prompts: Sub!Leo and Dom!Raph, with Dom! Raph showing sub!mikey and dom!don what a good sub looks like? (Pre-arranged scene for raph to show leo off perhaps?)

I actually tried writing this earlier, along with my other prompts, but this one just would not form up in my head. I finally got a good idea and it wrote itself in two days.

Of course Raphaelhad a throne. He’d taken already massive chunks of steel and ironfrom the junk yard and spent hours welding them all together to makea seat that he could lounge back in. With a backing curved for hisshell and rounded arms that he could put his legs up over, he lookedevery inch a master dom…frowning over a disobedient slave.

Not his own, ofcourse.

Donatello andMichelangelo were feeding each other’s giggles despite being boundhand and foot. Or because they were bound hand and foot. Either way,he’d put them at the far side of his room, against the wall, so as tomuffle their snickering.

They were obviouslyput together as a single package in shared bondage. Each held half ofMichelangelo’s nunchucks between their teeth, a wooden shaft intheir mouths and duct taped in place. They were on their knees, theirankles bound to Donatello’s staff beneath them. Raphael had also tiedtheir hands behind their shells, and then roped them to the staff aswell.

And still theywaited for him to do something ‘stereotypically masculine andtestosteroney’ or ‘full of smacks and thwacks’.

Not even givingthem the satisfaction of him looking at them, Raphael lay back in histhrone, one leg up.

Finally came theknock on the door.

Donatello andMichelangelo sat straight, at least as much as the rope would allow.Their breath caught as they stared at the door. They knew thatRaphael had a slave—finding out the reason for the strange bruiseson Leonardo’s throat had been the catalyst for Donatello asking forhelp.

Michelangelo, itseemed, could not stop laughing, even through gags. And Donatellodidn’t know how to stop him.

And when it wasjust Donatello and Michelangelo on the floor, they both devolved intosnorts and laughter. How could some rope and Raphael’s posturing besexy? How did kneeling on the cold floor become hot? What wouldLeonardo say when he saw them like this? They began to think this wasan elaborate prank.

Raphael waited along moment. He’d asked Leonardo for this demonstration. But a slavestill needed to be know that he was a slave.

“Enter.”

The door openedjust enough to allow Leonardo, kneeling at the floor, to come in andclose the door  behind himself. As if he were merely entering atraditional Japanese room, he gave no fancy bow, no elaborateprostration, nothing to indicate that he wasn’t anything more thantheir brother coming inside. He wasn’t even dressed differently, savethat he didn’t wear his swords.

But he didn’t move,and their younger brothers noticed the little differences that becameapparent.

Leonardo didn’ttalk. He didn’t move. He didn’t change his gaze, staring at the samespot on the floor. He breathed steadily, waiting. He was as much apart of the furniture as the throne or the hammock.

“Come here.”

Taking a deepbreath, Leonardo quietly stood, paced to just in front of Raphael’schair, and knelt again, hands on his lap. Now his gaze focused on thesteel ring welded to the side, just by Raphael’s hand. A long chainlay coiled on the floor, one end attached to the ring, the other end waitingto be used.

“Leave justyour mask.”

Withoutacknowledging anyone else in the room, Leonardo began to unfasten thebuckle at his shoulder. And suddenly, to both Michelangelo andDonatello, the floor was not cold, the plain leather was no longerthe same old belt, and Raphael’s posturing was now something thatdemanded compliance.

They had alldisrobed in front of each other before. They usually ran aroundwithout hardly anything on. Modesty in such cramped quarters had beendiscarded ages ago. And yet this felt different—he turned his head slightly, one handpulling leather loose from steel, allowing the belt to slip free. Hisother hand crossed to his side, undoing the second buckle, and whenhe brought his hands back to his lap, the leather pooled around himin one motion.

“The box.”

Now Leonardodutifully retrieved something barely larger than a shoebox, drawingit from beneath the throne, and he offered it up to Raphael. Not tohand it to him—Leonardo held it up, opening it to him, serving asthe holder as his brother scooped up the belt and put it inside.

Raphael beckonedhim closer. Still holding the box, Leonardo came up on his knees,then crept up along the throne, within Raphael’s easy reach.

Taking his sai,Raphael brought the point up to his brother’s face—

—bothMichelangelo and Donatello winced audibly—

—and Raphael gavea small smile of satisfaction as Leonardo went incredibly still asthe point slid between his skin and his blue mask, easing it up andoff of his face. Then the mask went into the box, the box was shutand locked, and Leonardo set the box back under the chair. Themeaning was clear—he would not receive his things again untilRaphael decided, leaving him visibly enslaved.

Raphael wasn’tfinished. He’d taken something from the box, and now he wavedLeonardo closer again, turning his hand and commanding Leonardo toturn and sit up on his knees.

The collar thatcame down past Leonardo’s face and over his throat was heavy, anold piece of circular iron from the junk yard that was then cut inhalf, hinged, sanded smooth, polished to a shine…and attached tothe chain, sealed with a heavy padlock.

Leonardo’s breathvisibly quickened as Raphael gathered the lock in his hand and pulledhim backward several inches, forcing him to bend back until he was ineasy reach for a kiss.

“Black cherrytea,” Raphael murmured, his low voice carrying through the room.“Must’ve been a quick cup.”

It wasn’t aquestion. Leonardo held silent.

“Burn yourselfdrinking too fast?”

“A little—”Leonardo’s answer was cut off with a deeper kiss that demanded hegive in, allowing Raphael’s tongue and yielding when he was turnedfor a better angle.

“Pity,”Raphael said as he drew back, kissing the corner of his mouth.“That’s just going to make this harder for you.”

Raphael turned himto see their brothers, staring enrapt with wide eyes.

“You’re goingto slip this on Mikey, and you’re bring him so close to the edge thathe begs.”

Without looking,Leonardo recognized what Raphael pushed into his hand. He noddedonce—yes, he understood—and then he was released, falling to allfours and rattling the chain. As he crawled toward Michelangelo, bothof them noticed the round ring in Leonardo’s mouth but neither ofthem knew what it was for until Leonardo bent, his head betweenMichelangelo’s thighs, easing the ring down onto his brother’shalf-exposed cock.

Leonardo nudged itmore securely in place with his tongue, and he continued to bob asMichelangelo swelled completely, filling Leonardo’s mouth. Above himcame the whimpers muffled by wood and tape, and Michelangelo fidgetedand squirmed as Leonardo’s mouth swallowed him like a sheath. SomehowLeonardo took him deep enough that his throat could constrict aroundthe head of his shaft, and then came the long drag along his tongueas Leonardo sat up.

Michelangeloshuddered, groaning with the loss of that slick heat, mumblingsomething pathetic behind the gag. He didn’t notice Donatello’s wideeyes or his intent stare, the way something was unlocking in his mindas he figured out yet another puzzle.

Leonardo smiled,satisfied with his work, and glanced sideways at Raphael.

“Let Donnygo,” Raphael said. “They can keep the ring. A going awaypresent.”

Undoing knots wasalways easy with Raphael—all of them were slipknots that cameundone with one good pull of the loose end. In only a moment,Donatello was freed, tearing the tape off of his mouth and spittingout the nunchuck.

“…th-thanks,”Donatello said, standing and looking down at Michelangelo, wrigglingin growing distress. “Anything else?”

“Here,”Raphael said, and he tossed a small jar through the air to him. “Withhow bad you’re gonna ream him, don’t take him dry.”

Donatello openedhis mouth, about to argue that their cloaca were more thancapable…then stopped himself and nodded. Fair point. He grabbed thelong end of his staff, tilting Michelangelo onto his shell, and hedragged his sibling out of the room, back to the lab, clearly toengage in further experiments.

Leonardo watchedthem go, hiding his laugh behind his hand, and then he felt the tugon his collar. With an indulgent smile, he kept the chain taut,allowing Raphael to draw him back to the throne. Then Raphael pulledhim up onto the chair, sitting astride his lap, the chain wrappedaround his hand.

“I swear,”Leonardo murmured, squirming as Raphael’s found his ass and squeezed.“This huge thing is ridiculous.”

“Don’t recallslaves getting an opinion,” Raphael said. “You ready to tryout my other huge thing?”

A good slaveshouldn’t have rolled his eyes at that, but there were no snickers,no outright laughter, and only swift obedience at the end of a chain.

Raphael supposed he shouldn’t complain.

[rrrawrf-writes]

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 

tw: torture, cutting, frickin rembrandt

i hate my brain redux

Winn woke up slowly, with all the narcotics the hospital staff had forced into him still trying to drag him back asleep. There was something wrong, though, and Winn’s power quickly spilled out around him, trying to figure out what it was.

He was in a hospital bed. That was right. Another empty hospital bed to his right. A counter with a sink and all sorts of medical paraphernelia across from the foot of his bed. Fine. Closed door leading to the rest of the hospital - his skin prickled a little, but that was all right, he’d get up in a minute and open it. Even the clink of handcuffs tethering his unbroken arm to the bed guardrails didn’t alarm him; Winn had spent more days than he’d like handcuffed to a hospital bed. He could easily get out of it. Still, that was odd. Holly and Javier hadn’t even insisted on him wearing a tracking anklet lately.

Window to his left. chairs against the window -

Someone sitting in a chair.

Winn slit his eyes open, staring first at the dark ceiling, and then he looked to the side. At the same time he realized his broken arm - even his feet - were all restrained, he realized that it was Rembrandt sitting there, watching him.

Winn tried to open his mouth to swear, and found it sealed shut with a strip of duct tape. Oh, f--- -

“They really did a number on you with those drugs,” Rembrandt said. He stood up with a sigh, stretching out his back. Winn’s mind and gaze focused instantly on the baton hanging from Rembrandt’s wrist. “I thought you were never going to wake up. Which, believe me, I wouldn’t complain if you were in a coma for the rest of your life. But then, we wouldn’t get to have anymore fun together, now, would we?”

Winn stared at Rembrandt, instinctively pulling at the restraints on his wrists. His broken arm was in a cast, now, and he stopped pulling at it when he felt a stab of pain even through the haze of narcotics. That haze was being thoroughly and swiftly stripped away as Rembrandt moved to stand next to the bed. He prodded his power out further; it spilled into the hospital, which was quiet, in this ward, for the night. There was a lot more activity in a different wing - probably the ER - but in these halls, he only found two sets of shoes walking along, vaguely-female shaped scrubs helping him pinpoint a pair of nurses. They were too far away to notice Winn’s nighttime visitor.

Holly was in the next room over, and probably even more drugged than Winn. And if Javier was anywhere near, Winn would never be able to tell.

Rembrandt leaned an elbow on top of the guardrails of the hospital bed, smiling down at Winn as if they were the best of friends. His dark brown eyes were as cold as ever. “Are you wondering about the gag? You really shouldn’t be. See, I know you far too well.”

He twirled the baton around his gloved fingers, but his eyes were on Winn’s face, watching the ex-con track every movement of the baton. “I’d like to know where you stashed Wildcard’s weapon, Winn, but let’s be real. You always lie, and torture is wholly unreliable. No matter what I asked, or how, you’ll just mislead me.”

You’re bloody well right about that, you bastard.

Rembrandt tapped the tip of the baton against his chin. “I will give you one chance. If you tell me where it is, and tell me the truth, I’ll leave you alone for the night. Nod if you’ll do that for me.”

For a moment, Winn struggled to breathe, then he narrowed his eyes, and gave one curt nod. Rembrandt quirked his eyebrows.

“All right, then,” he said, letting the baton drop to dangle from his wrist. “Let’s give it a shot.”

He hadn’t even pulled the duct tape off Winn’s face completely before his traitorous mouth was off and running. “You ------ bastard, you’re gonna get ------ arrested and I’ll see you in -”

Rembrandt sighed and plastered the tape over Winn’s mouth again. “I don’t know what I expected,” he said mournfully. “Apparently not even prison taught you any manners.”

Winn pulled at his arm again, the handcuffs biting into his skin. He had to get out, he was trapped, he was trapped with Rembrandt again. Holly was just there - Winn’s power usually had trouble finding her, but now his fear focused it into the only thought of salvation, and she was asleep!

“So.” Rembrandt trailed his fingers through Winn’s scruffy hair. Winn flinched back, craning his neck to get as far from the touch as he could. Holding up the baton, Rembrandt reminded Winn, “I told you, you’d see how much this one hurt.”

Winn tried to snarl back at him, but the only sound he could make was muffled and nonsensical. Rembrandt cocked his head. “Was that an apology?”

With his good hand, Winn flipped him off.

“Thought not.” Pressing the button on the handle, Rembrandt laid the baton across Winn’s stomach.

Pain shot through him. Winn’s muscles locked, his back arching and jaw clenched. It was gone as suddenly as it had come; before Winn could quite realize the baton had been lifted away, he stared blankly at the ceiling and tried to figure out what had just happened.

“And you’re already crying.” Rembrandt sighed, as if disappointed. “That was just a taste, Winn. See, this isn’t a one-for-one deal. You earned interest.”

He pulled up the hem of Winn’s shirt, while the ex-con squirmed and tugged helplessly at his restraints. “Did you know there’s a higher setting on this thing?” Rembrandt said, and showed the small dial on the side of the baton. “Fellguard always carries the best, you know.”

He pressed the baton against Winn’s ribs. Flinching, Winn tried to lean away, blinking tears out of his eyes. “Make sure you don’t bite your tongue off,” Rembrandt advised him, “I don’t want you to choke on your own blood.”

Then he turned it on.

Holly sat on the edge of her bed, squinting. Even with the curtains closed, the bright morning light was giving her a headache. Or maybe it was the fluorescent hospital lights. Was this what Javier felt like whenever he didn’t have his glasses? Gosh, that must suck.

She gingerly felt the back of her head, but they’d removed the bandages this morning. Even now, an orderly was busying himself around the room, shooting her friendly smiles that still had a tired edge of, ‘Please leave now, I need to get this cleaned up.’

She gave him a strained smile back, then finally stood up. Holly had changed in the bathroom, and was mostly over her wooziness, but it still caught her off-guard as she took a few steps. 

The nurses had found Winn handcuffed to his bed early that morning, sobbing in pain. Javier had been the one to take his statement, and he had passed it along to Holly. She knew that Javier wasn’t really impersonal, but she did know that he gave off the impression that she didn’t care. Now that Winn was likely all bandaged up again, Holly thought maybe he could use a warmer ear to listen to. He did like to complain.

She wobbled across the hall to his room, nodding at the police officer newly stationed just outside of it. The door was slightly ajar, and as Holly pushed in the rest of the way open, she saw Winn kneeling on the ground next to his bed, like he was praying.

Although, considering him, Holly figured he had probably just fallen out of it and was too tired to get back up.

Hospital pajamas lay on the floor next to Winn, and he was wearing jeans now, but he hadn’t put a shirt on. Holly hesitated longer than she should have, staring at the scars on his back. Was that why he was called Wings?

She cleared her throat, because even Winn didn’t realize she was there sometimes. He must have this time, though, because he didn’t jump, or even lift his head from where it was pillowed on his arm, on the side of the bed.

“All right, Holly?” he mumbled wearily.

“I - um, yeah,: she said awkwardly, and stepped forward. “Are you okay? Did you fall?”

“No.” Winn didn’t look up. His broken arm was tucked against his stomach, and he shifted it slightly, like he was trying to hide the row of clean white gauze plastered up the side of his ribs.

No bandaging hid the angry red burn on the side of Winn’s face, from his jaw to his temple, as if someone had pressed a hot rectangle of metal to his skin for just a moment. It was angry and red, but not even a second-degree burn. Holly closed her eyes.

“No, you’re not okay, or no, you didn’t fall?”

“Both.” Winn dragged a hand through his hair. He still didn’t get up. “I was - I was changing.”

“Why?” Holly stirred the shirt of his discarded pajamas with her shoe. “You haven’t been discharged yet, Javier said that they wanted to hold you for another night.”

“No!” Winn did look up at that, and Holly stared at his red, puffy eyes. He shivered and looked away, his hand digging into the sheets. “No, I - I gotta get home and - and see my dogs. And Volly. And - And the cats.”

Holly found the doctor’s rolling stool and took a seat on it. “There’s no hurry,” she said gently. “Didn’t you say you had that nice girl looking after them? Rhiannon, right? Are you two still dating?” And since when did Winn have cats?

“I’m going home, Holly,” Winn snapped at her. He shoved himself to his feet - too quick. Holly got to her feet, hand outstretched to catch him, but Winn wavered for only a moment. He caught himself on the edge of the bed.

A white bandage encircled his wrist. Holly blinked at it, then looked down at his feet, but the edges of his jeans hid whether or not his ankles had had the same treatment. “You should sit down, Lynn.”

“Winn.” He did, wearily dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Holly, take me home. Please.”

Holly stared at him. “You said ‘please.’”

He looked at her, then rolled his eyes. “Would you rather me yell at you?” he sneered. “I could --- do that.”

“No, that’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m - sorry, about what happened. With Rembrandt.”

Winn flinched. Rubbing the elbow of his broken arm, he looked away. “I need to go home.”

“Are you worried that he might come back?” Holly gestured towards the door. “We got you a police guard, L - Winn. You’ll be fine.”

Winn let out a nervous laugh. “You can’t trust the cops here, Holly,” he said bleakly. “They’re probably all in his pocket.”

“That’s not true -”

“Yeah,” Winn snapped, “it is. There was - There was a --- cop last night. He saw Rembrandt, while I was - while I was in the elevator shaft. And then he turned around and walked away!”

Holly frowned. “Mitchell said that the LEOs said they didn’t see anything.”

“Yeah, well, they --- lied, Holly,” Winn said. “People do that. I’m going back to Boston with you guys.”

She had been looking mostly at his face, or the rest of the room, to avoid staring at Winn’s naked chest, but now her eyes dropped, and she saw more bandages, a thick pad of gauze on the left side of his chest, and more plastered across his stomach. “You look really rough, Winn.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “I’m not infected, and I can get a doctor’s note for work.”

She sighed. “I’m really sorry, Winn. For - For everything. We should have come for you earlier, but -”

“It’s not your fault,” Winn muttered, scowling at his knees as if admitting that much pained him. He really was getting nicer, Holly thought in surprise. “You didn’t know.”

Holly hesitated, then said, “We did, remember? You pushed the panic button before Fellguard ever showed up.”

His head swung up. “What?”

“...Didn’t you?”

As one, they both looked at Winn’s broken arm, and then he hissed. “Bastard must’ve pushed it when he broke my bloody arm.”

“Oh, I guess so,” Holly said, and then jumped in surprise when Winn suddenly rounded on her and demanded, “Wait, then you knew?”

“Knew - Knew what?” Holly stammered, but she could see where this was going. To her horror, tears started to fill Winn’s eyes.

“You knew he pulled me in there!” Winn’s voice raised in volume, and broke on his next sentence. “You knew I was in trouble!”

“Winn -”

“Why didn’t you come get me?” Winn demanded. Holly opened her mouth, then shut it, biting her bottom lip. As he glared at her, she tried again.

“Winn - there wasn’t enough time.”

“Oh, *screw you,” Winn snarled. “You had --- backup waiting -”

“You just said all the cops were in Rembrandt’s pocket -”

“You could’ve sent them upstairs and helped me!” Winn shouted. At all the noise, a passing nurse anxiously peeked inside the door; she yelped and ducked away again when Winn grabbed a water bottle off the bedside table and threw it at the door, along with an expletive. “Why didn’t you come help? It was --- Rembrandt!”

Holly raised her hands. “We had to stop Fellguard,” she said helplessly, “that’s why we were there, Winn!”

“I was trapped in an elevator with Rembrandt!”

“We don’t even know who that is!” Holly said. She pulled a hand through her black hair. “I’m sorry, Winn, they were out to kill people. You never told us where you were, anyway.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then gave a low curse and turned away, rubbing at his eyes with his bandaged wrist. “Whatever,” he said, “no one ever --- looks out for me anyway.”

It was Holly’s turn to grow angry. “Really?” she demanded, and pointed at the back of her head. “I got a concussion from that creep! I nearly got Vader-choked to death by his creepy friends! I was shot, Winn! You weren’t smart enough to kepe yourself from being cornered!”

“Obviously you’re all better now!” Winn shot back. He grabbed his discarded shirt off the bed. “Screw* this. Screw* you. I’ll take the bloody bus back to Boston.”

“Winn, wait -” Holly got up, then had to stop with a gasp as she stretched the bullet wound in her side. “Wait, I’ll - I’ll take you home, all right? You just have to promise to rest - Winn!”

Winn opened the door to an empty flat. He stared blankly at the mess he had left behind. Paper and sketchbooks and Rhiannon’s notebooks were everywhere. She’d obviously been over while he was gone, probably studying while she came to feed and walk the animals: her textbooks were on the tiny kitchen table. The kitchenette - consisting of two counters in the corner of the basement studio apartment - was clean, but it was the only part of the room that was. Muddy pawprints tracked from the back door to the front. He rubbed a hand through his hair, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

Rhiannon had left a note on the fridge. Taped to the bottom of it was another folded piece of paper, but Winn read Rhiannon’s neat, precise handwriting first.

Winn-

Heard from Jackie you were in the hospital. What did you do this time? I took the dogs to my place for the night b/c Jessica wanted to have a playdate with her puppy. Wish me luck. We’ll be back home when you get here. Jackie said Wednesday.

Some man with pink hair has been hanging around your place. I confronted him yesterday (Monday) and he said he’s a friend of yours named Eli. Jackie said that was true. I told Eli you were looking for someone to adopt the kittens we found and he said he knew some people who wanted cats, so I let him take them. Sorry if that was wrong. He’s a really nice guy. He said he’d bring them back if you wanted. We’ve both been texting you but you haven’t answered back, so I’m guessing you broke another phone again.

❤ ❤ ❤  Rhi

Winn frowned, rubbing the burn on the side of his face. It didn’t hurt - at least, not as bad as everything else did. He opened up the next bit of paper, reading over a quick scribble that proclaimed itself to be from Eli himself:

hey vinnie 

was in town thought i’d come by and say hi. guess you’re busy. met your girlfriend. i love her. i told her that. also took the cats off your hands. love your dogs too. not so much the ferret - it bit me. me and rhiannon are going out for coffee tomorrow, hope you don’t mind. you’re invited too, i guess.

There was more, but Winn’s head was already pounding from trying to parse the man’s scrawl. Crumpling up the paper, he rubbed his eyes, then dragged his weary, aching body to the bathroom. He’d been forced to wear a button-down shirt, because his ribs and arm hurt too much to pull anything over his head.

He stared at himself in the mirror, and admitted to himself that he looked like hell. The omnipresent shadows under his eyes were deeper than ever, and his scruff had started to grow back. He’d have to shave more often, because that ------ burn Rembrandt had left behind on his face cut through the stubble on his jaw.

Winn screwed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, bracing himself against the bathroom sink.

Rembrandt lifted the baton away from the side of Winn’s face, smiling. “That one didn’t hurt as bad, did it?” he said conversationally, folding his arms across the guardrail. Winn sobbed into the duct tape over his mouth, tears pouring down his temples. They stung on the burned side of his face. “You must be getting used to it. Or maybe this thing is running out of battery.”

Let me go let me go let me go let me go let me

Rembrandt made a show of checking his watch - he even tilted his wrist so that Winn could look at it, but the watch face was too difficult to read through Winn’s blurred vision. “We still have some time. Don’t worry, Winn. I thought I could try something else.”

Please just let me go I’ll tell you let me go stop stop stop stop stop stop

Rembrandt disappeared from Winn’s view, but he tracked him - and the baton - towards the counter against the wall. Rembrandt set the baton down, and Winn couldn’t stop a sob of relief. The other man must have heard, because he laughed softly, and picked up something else. 

It was a scalpel.

“Your scars are inspiring, Winn,” Rembrandt said. “I’ve been thinking about them, ever since I saw them. Ripper does beautiful work. I thought I’d try my hand at scarification.”

Winn’s eyes widened. The memory of electric shock still raced along his nerves, and his ribs ached from the electrical burns that marched methodically up his sides, but all of that suddenly paled in comparison to another memory.

F---. No. No no no nonononononononononononono

“I’ll have to make a few practice tries, before we get started.” Rembrandt stared down at Winn as the ex-thief whimpered, trying to tell Rembrandt through the duct tape over his mouth that he was done, he’d do whatever Rembrandt wanted, he’d tell him where every single one of Wildcard’s stockpiles were, just please leave me alone don’t do this let me go -

Streetlight shining through the window glinted off the scalpel as Rembrandt twirled it expertly in his fingers. Then he brought it down and pressed the blade into Winn’s stomach.

He dragged the scalpel across Winn’s belly with painful, inexorable slowness. Winn bucked, screaming into his gag, pulling against his restraints. The handcuffs were slick with blood. Rembrandt pulled the scalpel away with a displeased noise.

“Stop moving,” he ordered, and brought the scalpel down again. Winn flinched again, and Rembrandt plastered his free hand flat on Winn’s chest.

“Mr. Yale,” Rembrandt said crisply. “These lines need to be straight. I won’t be able to work if you won’t stay still.”

He rested the bloody scalpel just under Winn’s left eye, and lowered his voice. “If I run out of room, Winn, I’ll have to start somewhere else.”

He cradled Winn’s jaw as the ex-con froze, heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. The scalpel trailed down his cheek, caressing his skin, and paused on his neck. “Are you going to be still?”

Winn closed his eyes and screamed at himself. Then, carefully, as carefully as he could, he nodded. The movement wasn’t slow enough, or maybe Rembrandt was just a dick, because the scalpel slid underneath his skin anyway. Winn flinched, turning his head to the side.

The scalpel moved back to his stomach. Winn closed his eyes, stopped breathing, every muscle in his body tensed, as Rembrandt drew another line across his stomach.

Winn dug his hand into his hair, sobbing as he leaned against the sink, and so, so glad Rhiannon had taken his pets away for the day. Rembrandt had moved on to his chest when he was satisfied with Winn’s - behavior.

Winn hadn’t gotten a good look at it, even after the nurse found him in an empty room, handcuffed to his bed, and after the doctors patched him up again. Shakily, Winn reached up to the first button on his shirt. He could still use the fingers on his broken arm, but very poorly; it took far too long to fumble the top few buttons loose.

He stared at the white square of bandaging taped to his chest. After a moment, Winn closed his eyes, reached up, and started to peel it away. He flinched as it pulled away from his torn skin. and even when he’d dropped the red gauze in the rubbish, Winn didn’t want to look.

He took in a breath that strained the burns along his ribs, then looked in the mirror.

The crosshairs of a rifle scope had been cut into his skin, just over his heart.

[weeksreference]

please no by scarletfish8eta

Story reposted under the cut

"How much time do I got before you kick down my door? No, nevermind, I don't wanna know." She pauses. Takes a short breath. "Give me 30 minutes. I'm coming outside in 30 minutes. Just give me that much." And she hangs up again, then yells and chucks the phone at the wall. Thomas gazes up at her, bewildered. She was really going to surrender? But she laughs. It's a cold angry dejected laugh, quiet and breathy, almost sounding like air escaping pressure. She can't stop herself. "They're not gonna give me that long," she tells him. "That's how it is. Fine." Lavender gets off of Thomas and takes the gun out of his mouth, setting it back in the duffel bag. Before he can say anything, she grabs that roll of duct tape again and his internal alarm system goes crazy. Thomas tries to scoot away, knowing this can't end well, but Lavender grabs his ankle and drags him back over to her. "N-no, Lavender, stop, it's over! They-" "I don't wanna hear it, sweetie. Save your breath," she orders, winding the duct tape around his ankles and then around his thighs. His kicking can't hurt her now. She moves up on top, hands planted on either side of him, and Thomas suddenly feels very vulnerable. They're surrounded by police, but not a single one can help him now. Lavender looks at him like a piece of meat. "Are you going to remember me, Thomas?" "I-I don't think I'd be able to for-forget," he peeps, looking everywhere for some way to get away. "Huh. Fair enough," she remarks, and takes out her knife. Thomas stares. "But just in case." She slashes down and Thomas yells, but not in pain. She simply ripped his shirt from his collar down to his sleeve, cutting the tape around him and revealing his shoulder. He shivers, exposed to a biting chill, and tries to sit up. Lavender stops him by holding the point of the knife to his collarbone, and he slowly settles back down. "What are you doing?" he whispers, just barely loud enough for Lavender to hear. She doesn't answer. "I w-won't forget, Lavender. I've got enough scars t-to-" "I know, I've hurt you enough." She looks him over. "You've got enough scars to remember me by. I know. I know." That doesn't make him feel any safer. She's still got her knife pointed at him. Lavender straightens up. She slips a finger through the ropes around his wrists and wiggles it. "It's not tight enough. You're awfully squirmy, you know. I need you to stay still." Her knife moves away from his collarbone down to his wrists, and swiftly cuts the rope and tape binding him. For a moment, his arms are free. Thomas takes the chance to throw a panicked swing at her, but his fist just barely grazes her already-bruised cheek. Lavender grabs his wrist and pins it to the floor, then with her other hand takes a fistful of his hair and holds him down, tsking at him. The boy gazes up at her with a terror-stricken expression and tries to get her to let go, but Lavender's got him stuck. "Bad idea. I already told you, now is the worst time to piss me off." Quick as an arrow, Lavender flips Thomas onto his stomach and wrenches his arms behind him, and he cries out. She seemingly pulls the rope from out of thin air, and wastes no time at all looping it around his wrists, tighter and tighter, leaving no room for even a feather. "AH! Lavender, pl- OW! Please, please let go!" "Not done," she mumbles distractedly, finishing the knot. She takes more rope and circles it around his arms, above his elbows, cinching them together and drawing out a yelp from the boy. He gasps in air, tears beading in the corners of his eyes as his face is pressed into the carpet. "Pl-please, it h-hurts! Please, please, please, p-" "Thomas. Enough." Lavender turns him over so he can't avoid her gaze. Actually, she turns him over so she can cram a rag into his mouth. She's still got some duct tape left so she finishes the rest of it by wrapping it over his lips, sealing in that rag. She stands up. Thomas's weak mewling sounds like nothing at all. He twitches against his bonds, but anything more hurts like hell. "Good," she remarks, nodding at his discomfort. She looks around as if to check if the cops can see her, then grabs Thomas by his arms and drags him into the room down the hall. He tries to kick and scream, but Lavender made sure he wouldn't be able to do any of that. He's so easy to manage it's almost funny. But it's definitely not funny for Thomas. It's not funny when she pulls him up so he's sitting on top of the dresser, his back towards her so he can't see that she's planning some last torment for him. He stifles a sob and tries to turn around, but the strain on his arms is too much. Lavender rests her hand against the wall and shuts her eyes, breathing in the stale air, turning her knife over in her other hand. "Plenty of scars. Plenty of scars already, you don't need any more. But this is different," she murmurs. She looks back at him. She grabs his arm. She raises her knife. The first cut is small, but it surprises the boy, whose yell is almost perfectly silenced by the gag. He hardly has time to recover before it's followed by another, then another, then another cut. Thomas's howls are mere squeaks, and his thrashing does no good. He shakes his head, tears streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. "You ever thought about getting a tattoo? You're eighteen, you don't need parent's permission." Thomas sobs and shuts his eyes. Lavender starts a new cut, one about three inches long and deeper than the others. He cries out again as she draws the knife slowly into his flesh, letting the cold blade linger in the wound. The blood keeps trickling out, soaking what's left of his shirt in scarlet. "Tattoos heal. This won't be any different." To Thomas, it feels like Lavender is taking her sweet time, dragging this out as long as she can. He can't scream anymore, his voice is too hoarse, and he desperately wants to pass out, but each gash she makes forces him to bolt upright and shudder in agony. "Almost done. Stop moving, you're gonna make me mess up again." And the last cut is long and curved, delicately carved into his flesh like a signature. She lowers her knife and wipes it on his shirt, then puts it back in its sheath. Thomas's eyes are shut tight and he faintly trembles. Lavender nudges him. "Come on. Look at me. You're FINE." He weakly shakes his head. "Whatever. Stay here, I'll get something to stop the bleeding." She goes out for a moment. Thomas tries to focus on something other than the pain, but that's all there is. That, and the sick feeling of blood leaking out and dripping down his arm, seeping into the rope and making it stick uncomfortably. Lavender comes back with clean white towels, more duct tape, some bottles of water, and a box of salt. If it was even possible to break down even more, that's what he did. "Calm down, we're taking this one step at a time." Lavender turns him around to get a better angle, then uncaps a bottle of water and pours it over the wound. The cool stream soothes him enough so that he stops quaking. He blinks the tears out of his eyes and glances at Lavender. She takes one of the towels and dabs at his cheek, then brushes the hair off of his sweat-slicked forehead. "Your pain tolerance level is kinda sad," she says, wiping some of the blood from his shoulder. He winces as the part with his tears on it comes into contact with the gashes in his arm. It'll be so much worse later on. She continues to pat the towel onto his skin softly, mopping up the mess she made like it's nothing more than a juice spill. It's somehow gotten everywhere, and honestly it's probably impossible to remove every trace. But it doesn't matter. Once it's relatively clean, she caps the water and tosses it and the towel aside. Thomas whimpers to get her attention. She leans around to look him in the face. He's got the biggest saddest eyes, pleading for her not to go to the next step. "The salt helps. I swear. It stings like a motherfucker, but it helps it heal faster and prevents infection. It's for your benefit, Thomas." He shakes his head. No, it's not, he wants to say. It's for her enjoyment. But nothing stops her. She opens the box and looks inside, then shakes it around. "You want me to mix it with water and do it that way, or you want me to just rub it right in?" The poor kid's about to cry again. Neither of those sound like good options. "Come on, it's one or the other. I don't have a lot of time. I'm gonna mix it with water." Lavender opens a bottle and puts the box of salt to the mouth, pouring it carefully. Thomas watches the white granules cascade down and clenches his jaw. She caps the bottle and swishes it around to help it dissolve. There's salt still sunken at the bottom, but without hesitation she opens it and splashes it on his shoulder, making him howl in pain as the solution mixes with blood and gushes down. It's not a sting, it's not fire, it's... something else entirely. He thinks he can hear his flesh smoldering, but no, he's just not thinking clearly. Lavender douses the wound again, and somehow it bites even more. What's that noise? It takes him a beat to realize it's him. He sounds like a wounded animal. That's not entirely inaccurate, but it's a horrible reminder of his current state. Helpless, except for Lavender. One last time, she lets the stream drop into the maze of incisions, and the salt terrorizes him at the same time it sterilizes. And then she's done. Lavender takes up a new towel and presses it to his arm. Thomas sobs softly, recoiling from the coarse fabric. "Hey, it's finished. You're okay," she says flatly. Lavender picks up a roll of duct tape and uses it to secure the towel. The rudimentary bandage shields Thomas from looking at it, which actually makes him feel a little less worse. She wraps it tight enough so the pressure stops the blood from oozing out, and wipes her hands on the last clean towel. "You want me to take this off now?" Lavender asks, touching the tape covering his cheek. Thomas nods, avoiding looking at her. She cuts it with her knife, peels it away and picks out the rag. The boy gasps softly, finally allowed to breathe unhindered. He glances once at his torturer, then raises his head and yells hoarsely. "HELP! SOMEONE, PL-" "Shut up!" Lavender forces her hand over his lips, cutting off his plea. "Goddammit, Thomas, they'll be coming in any second!" She glowers at him. "I was gonna let you drink some water-" And then from outside, there's movement from the police. Something big. That might be a battering ram. They must have decided that they could wait no more. Lavender yells in exasperation and snatches up another water bottle, uncaps it and forces it into Thomas's mouth. He starts to cough and gag and convulse as the water floods his throat. It spills over, wetting his cheeks and flowing down his neck, then soaks into the dressing on his wound. It looks like it started bleeding again with all his thrashing. Lavender ignores it and reaches for another bottle, hellbent on drowning him right here, right now. But they're here. They're inside. A SWAT team tramps through the narrow halls, quickly finding the room with the psycho and her victim. They shout orders and pull her off of him, shoving her head to the ground, and they turn the boy onto his side so he can dispel the water from his lungs. They're facing each other now, one held down with gloved fists, the other coughing up more of the fluid. Lavender's eyes are fixed on him in a mad glare. She's saying something, but he doesn't get it. One of the SWAT team members forces her hands behind her and fastens a pair of handcuffs around them. And finally they drag her away, swearing and fighting, not giving up anything. She's gone. That's it. Is it over? For real? The answer to his thoughts comes in the form of a knife, deftly severing the rope around his wrists. And then the rope around his elbows falls loose, then the tape around his thighs, and the tape around his ankles. He doesn't move. He doesn't trust reality. So another pair of gloved hands helps him up. The boy can't stand on his own, which prompts two of the SWAT people to gently pick him up and carry him out of the room. He can hear Lavender cussing out the police force somewhere up ahead. He looks back over his shoulder and sees red, splattered all over the dresser and on the floor. He's not usually put off by the sight of blood like Nico is, but he can't stop himself from keeling over and emptying his stomach of watery slosh. The people on either side of him set him down again. One dabs at his face with a cloth, the other murmurs soft tranquilizing words to him as he fades away, and Thomas passes out in their arms.