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rrrawrf-writes · 3 months ago

Text

nothing visible, nothing broken

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

---

They didn't fly out of Boston Logan International Airport; instead, Winn was shoved into the backseat of a car, Rembrandt still upsettingly close, and they drove a couple of hours. Winn had expected a private jet - still a miserable prospect - but instead they pulled into a small regional airport. As Jonas parked, Rembrandt hooked a medical face mask around Winn's ears, covering his nose and mouth to hide the tape gag, and tugged his sweater hood over his scruffy blond hair. They hadn't let him put on socks before leaving his flat, and Winn had to make sure he didn't trip over his untied shoes as Rembrandt dragged him out of the car. The knife wound in his leg had been bandaged over and Winn wore a different pair of jeans, loose enough to hide the bump of gauze, but his limp was still very visible, and very painful.

Commercial flying was one step above being locked in an elevator. Winn already felt sick to his stomach, but there was a flutter of hope. No one was even there to scold them for leaving the car at the curb, as Jonas climbed out of the driver's seat.

When Jackie Kaplan, his probation officer, had collected Winn from prison, they'd had to fly back from Nevada. TSA had been making everyone remove their face masks before going through security, so if Rembrandt really was going to make them fly commercial, then...

Rembrandt kept his hand on Winn's elbow, and murmured as they stepped through the automatic doors, "Don't make this difficult for me, Winn. We don't need you that badly."

Need me for what?

Winn obediently followed as Rembrandt tugged him towards the check-in desk, though he was passed into Jonas' custody as Rembrandt stepped up to the counter, flashing the employee there a warm smile. Their conversation was banal, but as Winn watched, Rembrandt took a little leather case from Jonas, then another from inside his suit jacket, and slid a pair of badges across the counter. The check-in agent blinked as she took them, tapped at her computer, verified what Winn knew had to be a pair of fake badges, and then glanced at him with a slight frown.

Rembrandt leaned on the counter, and the two lowered their voice; the arrival of an excited family behind them drowned out any words Winn might have been able to hear. No one asked for his ID; Rembrandt and Jonas both signed a form and passed it back to the agent, collected three boarding passes, and then they were off to security.

There wasn't much of a line at all. Winn fretted, glancing around even as his power spread and marked every possible exit. But Jonas was no longer the only one with a gun; Rembrandt had collected a pistol from the trunk earlier, hidden under his jacket. Winn kept twisting his hands in his pocket; he'd chafed his wrists against the zip ties the entire drive over, but couldn't make himself stop. He stared at the TSA agent checking their IDs and mentally willed the man to do his job.

Instead, as soon as Rembrandt produced his fake fucking badge, the employee nodded, closed his line for a moment, and took the three of them into a side room with another TSA agent. It was meant for private security screenings and pat-downs, so there wasn't a camera to watch as Rembrandt passed both agents heavy envelopes with money. Winn wanted to scream.

Like a walking piece of luggage, Winn was towed along, from security (where they didn't have to go through any of the fucking screening), down a hall, and to the gate area. The airport only had eight gates, and Rembrandt didn't even have to check his boarding pass to know where they were supposed to go. Every step of the way, either Jonas or Rembrandt had their hands on him. Before prison, Winn had never been very fond of being touched; after, he hated it. Rembrandt and Jonas clearly remembered, because there wasn't a single second that one of them didn't have their hands on him; Winn's skin crawled and itched and he just wanted to run.

He wanted to sit down, too, by the time they reached the gate. It hadn't been a long walk, but Winn's leg ached, and he kept his weight on the other foot, as Rembrandt decided - despite the overabundance of empty seats - that they might as well stand. "We'll be sitting for the rest of the day, anyway," he pointed out, checking his watch, and Winn wondered where the hell they were flying to. It was barely five in the morning.

He stood there, miserably, fidgeting and shifting his weight and trying to ignore Jonas' iron grip on his bicep. Rembrandt struck up a friendly conversation with another passenger waiting for the same flight. Winn stared dully at the old carpeted floor, and it was nearly another half-hour before he realized that there was a chance - a slight one.

Winn would grasp at any straw.

He stepped backward; Jonas still had one hand on his arm, but the bigger man was absorbed in his phone, and he just grunted in irritation when he felt Winn move. No one except Winn was paying any attention to a woman and her overexcited son, dragging his suitcase along with him at a run as he blabbered excitedly about going to visit his cousins, and his mother a few steps behind, trying to tell him to slow down.

Winn put himself right in the kid's way.

The plan worked a little better than Winn would have liked, because as the woman snapped, "Kurt, watch out," the boy whipped around cluelessly, and swung his bony little elbow right into Winn's bandaged leg.

His strangled noise caught everyone's attention, as he cringed and stumbled back into Jonas. Rembrandt turned away from his conversation, frowning, as the boy's mother immediately started calling apologies, scrambling to grab her son as he looked up at the man he'd run into.

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry," the woman said, tugging her kid sharply away. The boy protested; Winn sympathized. "I'm sorry, sir, are you all right? Did he hurt your leg?"

She, and everyone else in the gate area (who had nothing better to do than be nosy), could see how Winn limped. He might have been playing it up, but he made eye contact with the woman and said, "No, they're fucking kidnapping me."

Or, rather, he tried to. All that came out through the tape and the face mask was, "Nmm, mmffng yinminghn mmm."

Winn didn't need to be intelligible. He just needed someone to notice that something was wrong.

The woman and her son both stared at Winn, his reddened eyes and incoherent mumbling and how he kept trying to pull out of Jonas' grip - and then Rembrandt breezed in between them, blocking Winn more or less from view. "Oh, it's quite all right," he assured the confused woman, spreading his hands soothingly with a charming smile. "He's just fine."

"Oh - are you sure?" the woman asked hesitantly. Rembrandt didn't lose his facade for a moment.

"He just needs to go to the restroom," he said smoothly, which was a cue for Jonas to clamp both hands on Winn's shoulders and steer him in that direction. Winn tried, but he was half Jonas' size, and his leg hurt. He craned his neck, trying to keep the woman and her curious boy in sight, and he saw Rembrandt holding talking with that easy grin, and pulling out his badge.

Then Jonas hauled him into the single-person toilet, labeled with an accessibility wheelchair symbol.

"You're a fucking moron," Jonas hissed as he closed the door behind them. Now that they weren't in sight, Winn kicked Jonas in the shins, trying to shake his shoulders out of the bigger man's grip. Hissing, Jonas' hands loosened and Winn pulled free.

Before he could figure out how to get his hands free, or how to get past Jonas and out of the toilet, the door opened into Jonas' back. He glanced over his shoulder with a scowl, moving aside to let Rembrandt in. Making sure to lock the door behind him, Rembrandt glanced at Winn.

All his friendly charm dropped instantly. "What did you think you were going to accomplish, Yale?" Rembrandt asked flatly. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You're not getting out of this."

Winn had half a dozen witty retorts. He couldn't say a single one of them. His wrists were bleeding as he kept trying to pull them free.

Reaching under his jacket, Rembrandt pulled out a carton of cigarettes. "As far as any of the employees here are concerned, Yale," he said blandly, "you're a high-profile prisoner in the custody of two Federal Air Marshals. I told that nice young mother and her son that they shouldn't say anything, but you know how gossip spreads."

He flicked his lighter open, dark eyes meeting Winn's gaze. "No one is going to help you."

Winn ground his teeth until his jaw ached. Rembrandt deliberately lit his cigarette, tucked away the lighter, took a drag, and then said, "You know the drill, Jonas. Nothing visible, nothing broken."

"Yes, sir," Jonas said, and then stepped forward. Winn didn't have anywhere to go, and Jonas had always been faster than he looked; grabbing Winn's wrist, Jonas dragged his arms upwards, and then sank a fist into Winn's stomach.

Rembrandt leaned back against the restroom door, enjoying both his cigarette and his entertainment. Jonas was overzealous and a little sloppier than usual, but considering that it was Winn, Rembrandt supposed he could forgive him if a bruise or two showed on Winn's face later.

The beating was curtailed by a tinny loudspeaker announcing that boarding would begin in ten minutes. Jonas had to haul Winn up to his knees by the scruff of his neck, and peel the tape away so that Winn could vomit into the toilet bowl. Rembrandt tore off another strip to replace it as soon as Winn finished, and before the asshole could start running his mouth. Winn almost puked again as he swallowed down residual bile, blinking tears out of his eyes.

"They're going to allow us to preboard," Rembrandt said, as Jonas pulled Winn to his feet. The thief wavered unsteadily, leaning heavily on Jonas for support; a darkened spot on his jeans showed where the knife wound had opened up again from where Jonas had kicked the shit out of him on the bathroom floor. Rembrandt figured, though, with how disheveled Winn already looked, that no one would think it was blood soaking through bandages and denim.

Taking one last drag, Rembrandt exhaled, then reached forward and stubbed his cigarette out on the back of Winn's neck, ignoring the other man's flinching. "We have a layover," he told Winn quietly. "Air marshals have access to the tarmac. You pull that shit again, and we'll turn you into pink mist. Understand?"

At this point, Winn almost thought that being tossed into a jet turbine would be better than this. When he didn't respond, Rembrandt rolled his eyes, then chopped the side of his hand into Winn's throat.

He left Winn gagging and coughing in Jonas' grip as he turned, flicking the cigarette butt into the bathroom trash. "Let's go get settled."

Small airports had small planes. Winn, Rembrandt, and Jonas were allowed to board first; the single flight attendant gave them a tense smile and ignored Winn's existence completely. There were only fifty seats, in rows of two on either side of the aisle, and Rembrandt marched Winn all the way to the back, pushing him into the window seat. Winn could already feel his claustrophobia crowding in on him; his aching stomach and leg and throat and everything weren't helping. The only bright light, as he hunched up in his seat, was watching Jonas knock his head twice on the overhead bins as the too-large man tried to squeeze into the row ahead of them. Rembrandt, of course, sat right next to Winn, reaching over to buckle his seatbelt for him.

It took forever for the rest of the plane to board, even though there were only thirty or so people. Winn, when he dared to look up, could see too many curious and narrow looks thrown his and Rembrandt's way. He hunched forward, only now grateful for the hood of his sweater than hid him from the staring. Far too soon, and yet an eternity later, the plane finally jolted into backwards movement, as the ramp agents pushed it back away from the gate. Winn stared out the window, watching the concrete roll by slowly, and then faster, and faster, and finally fall away as the plane took off. He stared at as much of the ground he could see, until Rembrandt reached across him and pulled the window shade down.

"It's a three-hour flight," he told Winn pleasantly, ignoring the way the thief glared at him. "I'd like to get some sleep."

His hand dropped to Winn's leg, squeezing around the hidden bandage. Winn bit his tongue, blinking hard, and squirmed until the pressure lessened... but Rembrandt's hand remained.

Winn huddled forward, dropping his forehead against the back of the seat in front of him as Rembrandt idly flicked through the airline's magazine. Three hours, in a narrow tube, thousands of feet in the air, with Rembrandt acting like they were fucking married.

He closed his eyes and tried not to sob.

---

"All right," Eli said, pulling the phone away from his ear and hanging up. "They'll be here in ten."

He sighed, shifting to get more comfortable in the shotgun seat of a massive black truck. It was one of the few vehicles that gave him enough leg room to be comfortable, though impossibly, Kawai needed it more than him. At the moment, she was off somewhere else in the dark parking lot, keeping an eye on things in case their client decided to be a little squirrelly.

Sam stretched across the back seat of the cab, feet up on the cushions since Kawai wasn't there to yell at him about it. They'd only been there for fifteen minutes already, but Sam grumbled, "Finally."

It was a little sooner; eight minutes later, Kawai said over the earpiece, "Van's pulling in." Eli got out of the truck, walking around to lean against the hood as headlights swept over him. The driver was polite enough to turn them off once they spotted Eli; the company logo on Eli's jacket clued them in, and the van parked.

"Evening," Eli called, as a large man climbed out from the driver's side. He just nodded in response, moving around to the side to pull the door open. Eli figured that the shorter, leaner man must be the client. Maybe it was the dark blue suit that clued him in.

"Good evening, Mr. Flowers," the shorter man said, stepping over with an easy smile and an outstretched hand. Eli took it with a smile of his own. "I apologize if you've been waiting very long."

"Oh, not long at all, Mr. Talent," Eli said cheerfully. He glanced over Talent's shoulders; he knew it was a fake name, but of course, he'd given their client fake names, as well. "I assume you have our fourth with you?"

He hoped it wasn't the big man; he had a mean look about him, Eli thought. That was only confirmed when the man reached in and hauled out another person, wearing a ragged green hoodie and dirty jeans, with a marked lack of gentleness.

Talent pulled Eli's attention back. "Yes," he said, half-turning to follow Eli's gaze. "He's very good at what he does, but I hope you won't take offense. He can get a little mouthy."

Eli's grin was crooked. "Don't worry about it," he said, "I've already got the worst ones with me."

"Fuck off, Flowers," Kawai grumbled over their earpiece. Eli pretended not to hear.

Talent nodded as their new coworker slouched over, the big man holding onto his elbow like he thought he would bolt. Their new teammate didn't take his hands out of the pocket of his hoodie; his hood and a face mask and the darkness of the parking lot made it near-impossible for Eli to get a good look at whoever this was supposed to be.

"The first installment has already been sent," Talent said. Eli nodded; he didn't need to check. Just a couple minutes before Talent and his two had arrived, Mickey had confirmed the payment was received.

"Perfect," Eli said. This was easy, so far. "We appreciate you getting us the help. We'll check in every night."

Talent nodded. "I'm only a phone call away," he said. He clapped the hooded man on the shoulder; Eli noticed the flinch, but he didn't remark on it. "Good luck, Mr. Flowers."

"Thanks." Eli watched as Talent and his driver got back into the van; the man in the hoodie just sulked there, staring at the cracked asphalt, until the van pulled away again. The back door opened, and Sam hopped out of the truck.

"Let's get moving," Eli decided, spotting Kawai making her way over to them. If she'd noticed anything dodgy, she would have said, so he assumed that everything was on the level, and moved back around to the passenger side door. As he climbed in, he said over his shoulder, "I'm Flowers. That's West, and this's K. You having a good night?"

He didn't get an answer. Sam stood to the side of the door, and frowned as he watched their new teammate shuffle forward, lean against the seat, put a foot up on the running boards, and hitch himself into the back seat of the lifted truck using his elbow, rather than his hands.

"Friendly," Sam remarked, climbing in after him. Eli twisted in his seat to frown at the man. Kawai climbed into the driver's seat, running a hand through her thick mane of hair.

"So who're you?" she asked, as blunt as always. Still, there wasn't an answer, as the man just glowered straight ahead, slouching in the seat. Kawai was next to twist around in her seat, staring at him through the two front seats. "You got a problem?" she challenged.

"Hey, it's fine," Eli reassured her. "Don't mind her, uh, buddy. You - You can talk, right?"

He suddenly worried that they'd been given a deaf coworker, but after a moment, the man nodded. He looked tired and sullen, and not at all happy to be there. Eli furrowed his brow. "Everything all right?"

He shook his head, then shifted his hands in his pocket. Sam glanced down, and frowned as their new friend tugged his hands sideways out of the pocket, showing a pair of zip ties that had been tightened around his wrists.

Eli and Sam both exchanged confused looks, but Kawai caught on quicker. She narrowed her eyes, glanced at the man's jeans, then reached back between the seats and pulled the mask off his face. Eli blinked at the strip of tape over the man's mouth.

The first thing out of their new friend's mouth, as Kawai ripped the tape off with a sharp tug, was, "Ow, fuck!" The second was, in a bitter Welsh accent, "Can you get me to the corner store down the block? I've got to take a fucking piss."

#crossblogging #self reblogs #winn #rembrandt #eli #mi #sam #kawai

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rrrawrf-writes · 3 months ago

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masterpost? UNFINISHED

superpowerverse

thieves, villains, and heroes

winn: practice with polaris // lair // omega device | pt. 2 | end of omega // duke //

winn & kawai: carjacking (omega device) | pt. 2 | pt. 3

winn & rembrandt: duct tape (pt. 1) // gun safety // whatever you want // you can't kill me // one reason not to hurt you

rembrandt: good job, kid

mercury independent

eli & kawai: grace // enter siope | pt. 2 // cowboy kay

eli & sam: sam the knife // vs the dsa | pt. 2

eli, kawai, & sam: mi needs a healer | pt. 2

eli & winn: babysitting duty | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 // bomb

eli & diamonique: loose morals //

eli: library police // would you rather

kawai & sam: just heal yourself | pt. 2

kawai: starry night // puppy bribes //

sam: regrow a hand //

javed: home front // jacket // child soldier

misc: "american" // robutts // office party // crush // off the record // no heroes // hey mickey // poor woman // MMOs //

november red

rhiotnloula: bite | pt. 2 | addendum (eli)

misc: fear of snakes // memery

misc

mi vs. novred: eye contact | pt. 2 //

lariat: retirement

javier & eli: mistakes

javier: coyotl eztli // jurisdiction //

ythea

talzee & tarquin: fireworks and candy canes

tarquin: sandwiches

tarquin & keo: coercion // coercion end //

maluko'oi: mothers // skiff //

mal & keo: dangerous ones //

keo & sheisha: cathedral heist | pt. 2

keo & tarquin: judge and jury | pt. 2 //

medieval fantasy

banner & co: details of your incompetence // POW | pt. 2 // we march, we march | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | fodder for the earth (written by @kclenhartnovels) // sister //

mafvin: what is it good for? pt. 1

mafvin & dayehmon: bandit hole

okatai: twenty-four hours to run (prophecy) // riokhai

misc

arvio: watch the world end // awakening | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 6

au!banner & talzee

#there's so so much more but i gotta jet

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rrrawrf-writes · 3 months ago

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Winn woke up with a weight on his chest and a hand over his mouth.

Sleep paralysis wasn't a stranger; Winn had been plagued with night terrors for a decade. But no sleep demons his insomnia-riddled mind could conjure up made his blood run cold with terror the same way it did now.

"Good evening, Mr. Yale," said Michael Rembrandt, straddling Winn on the couch as he plastered a strip of tape across Winn's mouth.

Eyes wide, Winn made a muffled noise as he bucked instinctively. He'd fallen asleep on the couch on his back, still in his street clothes; his right arm was tucked between his body and the couch back, and now pinned down by Rembrandt's knee. He curled his free hand into a fist and swung upwards; Rembrandt caught his wrist all too easily. In the next second, the sharp metal edge of a knife pressed up against Winn's jugular.

"Shhh," Rembrandt soothed, as Winn struggled underneath him, trying to pull his hand free. "Calm down, Winn, calm down. You don't want me to slip."

The knife moved as he spoke, and Winn flinched as the paper-thin edge just barely broke the skin. He obediently stilled, green eyes wide as he felt himself try to hyperventilate through his nose. What was Rembrandt doing here? Winn hadn't seen him in years - he'd just gotten out, why was Rembrandt here, how did he know where Winn was now -

"That's better." Rembrandt's voice oozed like an oil slick. Winn remembered that tone too well; it haunted most of his nightmares. "I know how scared and confused you get when you have nightmares, Winn, so I thought I'd make sure you can't hurt yourself again."

His dark eyes gleamed, and Winn felt sick. This had to be a dream, right? It had to be, Rembrandt couldn't be here.

He was still talking. "Come on, now, look at me, Winn, focus," he soothed. "Take a deep breath -" His lips curved in a smile; Winn could only breathe through his nose "- orient yourself. Remember where you are."

Winn's heart beat too fast, but he was already trying to shove down the panic, focusing his power. Rembrandt, of course, on top of him - a small, but wickedly sharp knife against the left side of his neck, watch, a suit pristine even while he straddled Winn's torso on a sagging couch with one leg propped up by a piece of a cinderblock. Bag behind the couch; computer inside. Part of Winn already knew that Rembrandt wasn't alone, but now he pinpointed the other person, a large figure past Winn's field of vision. Heavy boots, coat, gun.

"Are you settled, now?" Rembrandt asked, his voice dropping to what would be a comforting murmur if he didn't have a knife against Winn's throat. "Do you know where you are? Good."

He let go of Winn's free hand, but Winn knew better than to try for the knife. Rembrandt had nothing else in his pockets, his power told him, and the only other person in his shabby basement flat had a gun pointed right at the top of Winn's head from less than a meter away.

Rembrandt eased the knife away from Winn's throat. "I want you awake for this," Rembrandt said, holding the knife out; Winn caught a glimpse of someone's hand and arm as they took the knife from Rembrandt, gun still held in the other, and then retook their spot where Winn couldn't see him. "I want you to know," Rembrandt continued, shifting his weight on Winn's chest, "that this isn't a dream."

He wrapped his hands around Winn's throat.

I'm going to die, Winn thought, as he struggled for breath. I'm going to die and he's going to finally kill me.

It didn't matter that one of Rembrandt's lackeys was just there, holding a gun that Winn's power said was aimed right at him. The second Rembrandt's hands wrapped around Winn's throat, instinct kicked in. He bucked and thrashed underneath Rembrandt, trying to squirm free. He twisted and shook his shoulders, but his right arm was still trapped between Rembrandt's knee and the couch cushions; he reached up with his left, trying desperately to pull the other man's hands away from his throat.

Fuck

Winn gasped for breath, but he couldn't pull in any air through the tape over his mouth; his nostrils flared as he tried to cough and wheeze.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck

He jerked his knees up, trying to hit Rembrandt in the back, knock him off-balance; all that did was rock Rembrandt forward, pressing more and more of his weight on Winn's throat.

I can't breathe.

Winn stopped trying to peel Rembrandt's fingers away; instead, he pushed at Rembrandt's shoulder. I can't breathe, he's going to kill me.

What did I do?

Rembrandt had put Winn in prison almost eight years ago. He'd won. Why was he here? Winn hadn't contacted anyone except Gary, and that was just to get his bike; Gary'd promised not to tell anyone, but of fucking course Winn couldn't trust him, he'd helped Rembrandt get Winn caught -

He couldn't tell if his vision was blurring from tears, lack of air, or both.

Rembrandt kept his grip tight as Winn thrashed. He tilted his head to one side when Winn finally lashed out, clawing at his face; he might have left a scratch behind, but Rembrandt hardly cared. He could see Winn flagging.

It was all too satisfying, looking down at Winn, frantic and teary-eyed. Hearing his muffled whimpers, feeling his struggling grow weaker and weaker between his legs. He could feel Winn's slowing pulse under his fingers, and Rembrandt kept a sharp eye on the squirming little bastard, keeping his grip iron-tight.

Part of him wanted to end this now. Even after years, the sheer loathing for this pathetic little rat burned even brighter now that Rembrandt had his hands on him again. Extinguishing the life in those sharp green eyes would give Rembrandt no greater pleasure.

But then, of course, it would be over all too soon.

Just as Winn fell limp underneath him, Rembrandt let go.

Watching him gasp - or try to gasp - and choke on the sudden influx of air was amusing. While Winn wheezed and coughed into his gag, Rembrandt shuffled backwards off of him. As soon as Winn reached up to tear the tape off, Rembrandt grabbed his arm.

"That will be staying on." Rembrandt hooked his fingers into the collar of Winn's ratty t-shirt and pulled him upright. Gathering both of his wrists in one hand, Rembrandt let Winn slump against his shoulder, still coughing and shuddering. He slung a companionable arm around the slim thief's shoulders.

Rembrandt glanced around. "This place is just as depressing as your prison cell, Yale," he remarked dryly. "Two months out of prison, and all you have is a single couch and a laundry basket?"

They were in a basement studio apartment; when the building had been originally built, it was clear that this was meant as a storage place and not somewhere suitable for living, but the complex's owners must have renovated it for rent some few decades ago, judging by the kitchenette's tile. A haphazard pile of laundry in the corner, half-in and half-out of a shoddy plastic basket, and old takeout bags on the counter, were the only signs that someone really was living there.

While Rembrandt was busy judging Winn's new and lackluster living conditions, Winn jabbed a fist into his ribs.

Rembrandt grunted, wincing in on himself, but as he did, he curled his arm tight, pulling Winn into a chokehold. He held out his other hand, snapping his fingers; as soon as Jonas put the knife back into his hand, Rembrandt plunged it through Winn's jeans and into his thigh.

Winn screamed into his gag, the sound further muffled as Rembrandt strangled him for another moment or two. Once it subsided to stifled sobbing, Rembrandt sighed and loosed his arm around Winn's neck.

"Why are you crying?" Rembrandt asked. "It's barely three inches long. I'm sure you made prison shivs longer than this." He dug the little knife in further as he spoke, feeling Winn cringe against him. "Sit on your hands."

Winn was still coughing, and Rembrandt wondered if he'd have to remove the tape just to make sure the idiot didn't choke on his own saliva. But at least Winn slid both his hands under his legs. Rembrandt could feel his shoulders shaking under his arm. He left the pocketknife sticking out of Winn's leg.

"You can put the gun away, now, Jonas," Rembrandt said casually. "Winn's going to behave now. Right?" he asked. When all he got in return was a narrow glare and ragged breathing, Rembrandt twisted the knife, until Winn was nodding furiously. Smiling thinly, he let go of the knife and patted Winn's tear-stained cheek. "That's a good boy."

Jonas finally stepped around into Winn's view. Winn glared almost as furiously at the big man as he did at Rembrandt, and Jonas looked very much like he wished he'd been the one to stab the thief. "I really thought you would have stolen yourself some better furniture, by now," Rembrandt remarked casually, as Jonas stomped over to the laundry basket, digging through it. Winn's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched. Rembrandt kept his arm across Winn's shoulders; this close, he could feel practically every breath, every cough, and when Winn shifted one arm, Rembrandt flicked the knife.

"Behave," he warned, in a whisper that ghosted over Winn's ear. Winn shivered. "I know you must be curious why we're here. Just know that seven years without seeing your face was the most peaceful my life has ever been."

He sighed, as Jonas pulled a faded green sweater out of the basket. "But it's a shame to leave such a useful tool locked behind bars. For fuck's sake, you still have that shitty old hoodie?"

He caught the sweater as Jonas tossed it to him. Winn mumbled something into his gag, but Rembrandt didn't really care. He curled his fingers around Winn's collar and got to his feet, pulling Winn with him. "Stand up."

Winn flinched, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg. Rembrandt glanced down, noting a lack of socks and the presence of a tracking bracelet around one ankle. Hanging onto his arm, Rembrandt arched his eyebrows.

"These are new," he noted, pulling Winn's arm straight to inspect the scars there. "Was it the prison dog that mauled you?"

He met Winn's glare with a smirk. "I'd love to see what they did to your back, but we don't have time. Put this on."

As soon as Winn pulled the hooded sweater over his head, sniffling, Rembrandt nodded to Jonas. "Left hand in your pocket," the gruff man ordered. Winn stared for a moment, but then his eyes darted to Jonas' gun. He still had that bloody knife in his leg -

As if he could read his mind, Rembrandt settled a hand on Winn's shoulder. "Do you really want to try your luck tonight?" he murmured. Winn bit his tongue, then stuck his hand into the patch pocket of his hoodie. Jonas had to tug Winn's left hand through, so that he could wrap a pair of zip ties painfully tight around Winn's wrists, linking them together. When he finished, he gave Winn's shoulder a rough nudge, forcing the thief to limp back a step with a wince. Once his hands were settled inside the pocket, it was impossible to tell they were bound.

"Sit back down," Rembrandt said, retrieving a bag from behind the couch. "Find him another pair of jeans, Jonas, we don't need anyone asking questions about the blood." Rembrandt took a seat on the couch; Jonas put his large hand on Winn's chest and shoved him down next to his boss.

"Lie down." Rembrandt reached down when Winn didn't move fast enough, hooked the tracking anklet, and dragged Winn's leg up and across his knees. The thief gave a muffled yelp and wince, wriggling around to get a little more comfortable. He thought, for just a second, about kicking Rembrandt in the face - but Jonas was already back, looming over him and just waiting for a chance to pull his gun.

Opening a laptop across Winn's shins, Rembrandt reached over and nudged the knife. "Don't fuck with me," he warned, "or I'll cut your hamstrings and we'll book a wheelchair for your flight."

My flight?

Winn stared up at the ceiling as Rembrandt typed quickly on his laptop. What the fuck was going on? His leg hurt and his lungs still burned from all the choking and stifled coughing, and Winn's skin crawled with the need to run, to get away.

If he moved, Jonas would blow his head off, and that was the best-case scenario. When he felt Rembrandt give the tracking anklet another tug, Winn lifted his head off the arm of the couch, his alarmed protest caught in the tape gag.

"Relax." Rembrandt smirked as the anklet clicked loose. "No one will know you've slipped your probationary leash. As far as your babysitter will be concerned, you'll be right where you need to be."

I have an appointment, Winn thought furiously at Rembrandt, though he doubted the man would care. Apparently finished hacking whatever system the stupid tracker belonged to, Rembrandt set both his laptop and the anklet back in his bag and off to the side. Then he reached over and tore the knife out of Winn's leg.

"Let's get him cleaned up," he told Jonas, ignoring Winn's strangled scream. "We have a flight to catch."

#reblogs #self reblogs #tossing it onto here in case anyone else is still watching this corpse of a tumblr n_n #winn #rembrandt

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rrrawrf-writes · 3 months ago

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Hello! Is there a masterlist for the Winn & Rembrandt story? Sorry I can’t find it!

hey, no worries!

unfortunately, there isn't really one :') i am extremely disorganized, and on top of that, there isn't really much of a coherent plotline for winn&remy. it's mostly just scenes and sometimes longer pieces that i divide up for edibility. they aren't necessarily always connected and there are, unfortunately, some unfinished arcs in here somewhere :x

you can check out the #winn and the #rembrandt tags on here for most of what I've written for them! but I know that tumblr's system is low-key garbage. when I get home from work, i'll try to see if i can make up a list for everyone interested, tho!

for the future, i'll be posting anything i've written over at @rrrawrf-rewrites. that'll include the next parts for the one I've just begun, too! I started that blog in an attempt to get things more organized but uh then I ghosted for two years, sooooo

anyway YOU don't need to be sorry, *I* need to be sorry lol. I am so so flattered that you want to read more about them, too 💜💜💜💜💜💜

#im not a very good writeblr but im gonna try to come back #i miss solo writing #asks #fuckass1000

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rrrawrf-writes · 1 year ago

Text

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *loading a pistol* moon’s stuck in a time loop. do you have extra ammo? this won’t be enough. nasa employee: enough for…what? astronaut: *finding extra clip of ammo, pocketing it, and getting back on the rocket-ship* don’t worry about it!

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *emerging from supply closet with a space harpoon, getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: what? nasa employee: how did you know what i was going to say? astronaut: *punching in key pad code for base evacuation signal, getting back on the rocket-ship* i told you…moon’s stuck in a time loop. *red warning lights begin flashing*

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *rifling thru bookshelf of operating instructions, selecting one that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: moon’s stuck in a time loop. hey, do you have anything to eat? i’m starving. *opens random drawer, finds nothing, closes it* nasa employee: a time loo- uh, we don’t have food in here…we can’t…eat in the control room, only the break-room. astronaut: *sighs* nasa employee:…my lunch is in like 10 minutes, though, and if my lunch is actually STILL THERE and not STOLEN, AGAIN, i can share it with yo- astronaut: nah, that’s ok…no time. *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* or…too much time. but thanks, anyway. OK, bye! *alarm begins blaring* nasa employee: you’re…welcome? wait, a TIME LOOP?!

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: yup. nasa employee: …? astronaut: *sitting down next to nasa employee* so…do you ever like…wonder what the meaning of life is? the secrets of the universe? nasa employee: aren’t you supposed to be ON the MOON?! *alarm begins blaring* nasa employee: hey, what the hell is that? astronaut: that’s the code red override klaxon. moon’s stuck in a time loop. oh, and there’s an explosion imminent. But don’t worry, we can deal with that tomorrow. So, you have any siblings? *pulls beer out of space suit, cracks tab* want a drink?

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: do you know frank in IT? nasa employee: what? astronaut: do you know frank, who works in IT? nasa employee: yeah, but why are you guys back so early? astronaut: moon’s stuck in a time loop. call frank, tell him there’s a virus in the security patch and the system’s compromised. then get the hell out of the base. nasa employee: wait what? what? where are you guys going? astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* back to the moon. it’s stuck in a time loop. call frank! nasa employee: *picks up phone* ugh, straight to voicemail. i wonder wha- *alarm begins blaring*

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: *grim silence* nasa employee: i said, you guys are back early…hey, what are you…? astronaut: *randomly opening drawers until they find a pair of scissors and some duct tape, getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop. *sticks head back out the door of the rocket-ship* by the way, if you go to the break-room in exactly 2 minutes and 45 seconds, you’ll catch the person who’s been stealing your lunches for the past two weeks. nasa employee: what?! WHO IS IT?! *alarm begins blaring* nasa employee: *running for the break-room* FUCK!!!!

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *sits down, sighs, pulls a beer out from their spacesuit* moon’s stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: …ok, and? hang on, how did you get a beer? you can’t have that in here. astronaut: what do you know about project floyd? nasa employee: I mean, the usual amount? i’m not really on the project anymore, why? *alarm begins blaring* astronaut: COME WITH ME TO THE ROCKET-SHIP, we don’t have ti-

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: yeah. moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop. see you tomorrow. maybe. nasa employee: WHAT?!

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *sighs, rubs hands over face, and loads pistol, before getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop. and, uh…you should call your mother like you’ve been meaning to. and tell her you’re not actually mad and that you will come to dinner tonight. you’re gonna be hungry. nasa employee: wait, what? WHAT?? how do you know my mom?! why am i gonna be - *alarm begins blaring*

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” starting to get back on the rocket-ship, but dropping everything with a horrendous clatter* FUCK! goddamn moon’s stuck in a time loop. *alarm begins blaring*

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: what? also, hey, where’d you get that duffel bag? astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” shoving them into the bag, and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back earl- astronaut: *grabs nasa employee and kisses them passionately* nasa employee: what? WHAT?! astronaut: *loading a single pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop, sweetheart. nasa employee: what?!? astronaut: a time loop!!! i love you!!! get out of the base!!! stay alive!!! nasa employee: *presses fingers to lips, confused but intrigued, as alarm begins blaring*

nasa employee:…. nasa employee:… nasa employee: ho hum what a regular day at the office *alarm begins blaring* nasa employee: what the hell is that?!

nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back earl- astronaut: *grabs nasa employee and kisses them passionately* nasa employee: what? what?! WHAT!?!? also, hey, where’d you get that duffel bag? astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” shoving them into the bag, then cupping nasa employee’s cheek with free hand* moon’s stuck in a time loop. nasa employee: the moon’s stuck in a what?! astronaut: a time loop, sweetheart, but we don’t have much time ourselves, so you have to listen to me RIGHT now nasa employee: *faintly* …“sweetheart”?! astronaut: in 2 minutes and a few seconds, you need to go into the break-room and find frank. nasa employee: wait, frank from IT? astronaut: yes. nasa employee: how do you know he’s gonna be in the break-room? i can’t just call him at his desk right now? astronaut: how do i know this?! because, one, time loop, ok? and…also…because…heismaybetheguywhohasbeenstealingyourlunchfortwoweeks nasa employee: that BASTARD i KNEW it astronaut: BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT’S IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW. hey! listen to me! go in there, catch him red-handed with your burrito, and tell him lunch is on you FOREVER if he goes RIGHT NOW and checks the last security patch - because there’s a virus and the whole system’s compromised. then you need to get the hell out of this base, ok? nasa employee: …ok. ok. and…and what about you? astronaut: *cocking pistol and getting back into rocket-ship with duffel bag* me? i’m gonna shoot for the moon.

EPILOGUE:

nasa employee: so, how many loops in total? astronaut: i mean, it was hard to keep track. somewhere around six months, if i had to guess. nasa employee: damn. astronaut: yeah. nasa employee: and in those six MONTHS, the best zinger you came up with was “shoot for the moon”? astronaut: hey, you know what, i had some other stuff on my mind! nasa employee: i mean, i guess. it sounded like you found time to flirt with me each time. astronaut: yeah, like i said. other stuff on my mind. *they look at each other, blush, and look away* astronaut: sooooooo. you’re sure your mom is cool with me coming over for dinner? nasa employee: can’t make the day any weirder. plus, i owe you for ratting out frank, right? astronaut: he did help us save the world; we can’t be too mad at him. nasa employee: you’ve had a little while to get over it, i might need some more time. and it wasn’t even your food! astronaut: ok, that’s fair. what if i buy you lunch to make up for it? nasa employee: hmm, when? astronaut: tomorrow? nasa employee: well, i’ll have left overs from my mom, and you might too if you play your cards right. day after tomorrow? astronaut: honestly, anytime is good for me.

*FADE TO BLACK*

#reblogs #writing #not mine

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