Work Text:
The air was humid. Thick and sticky and carrying the distinctive scent of mildew. It tasted downright stale, but it almost felt gelatinous, like trying to heave through wet velvet. Briefly, you wondered how anyone could live in these conditions long term, the smell alone had your head swimming with a dull ache that crept down your esophagus and planted a queasiness firmly in your stomach and lungs. The acrid air was truly the least of your worries; however, you just noticed it more when it was the only thing to do with your arms and legs taped firmly to a chair. Your gaze flicked to the captor himself: blonde, lanky, cold, and with a dangerously fragile psyche.
He was fast asleep under a hospital green sheet atop a thin mattress and cheaper bed frame, peacefully doused in the golden rays of the afternoon sun beaming through the massive window in front of you.
Your fingers clench, the duct tape around your wrists creaking in response as the glue tugs on the fine hairs of your forearms. It was the clearest your mind had felt in days with the various drugs your captor kept you pumped full of. You could have screamed, perhaps you should have screamed. You had been here long enough now to know that being taped to the chair meant you did something bad. What it was though, you hadn’t the slightest idea.
You couldn’t remember yesterday.
A dull pain blooms in your abdomen, and you shift your hips as your brows furrow in thought. You were stressed, yes, but this pain was different, it was familiar. Maybe you tried to escape? Too much of the tea and you could become erratic, vomiting, crying, and thrashing about. The churning and bubbling in your gut seemed to agree with you. Your organs felt sludgy, and your lips tingled with a dissipating numbness you associated with previous bad trips. With a heavy and resigned sigh, you lean your head back. The muscles in your neck ache and pinch in resistance to the movement. You felt beyond stiff, but the exhaustion was stronger than your will to fight it right now, the only thing to do was sleep until he woke up.
Lawrence’s body jerks awake, air rushing into his lungs in a large gasp. This feeling, the sudden and violent awakening that followed the twisting of his stomach as if he was falling, was welcomed to his often-numb body. It felt like breaching water, like emerging on the opposite side of the River again. It was a good feeling, the iciness of his limbs felt a little less frigid, the thick air with its cloying scent sticking to the bronchi in his lungs like a wet paper. It was the closest he could get to a good mood within moments of waking up.
He lays there for a moment and rolls over, facing the figure bound to the chair only a few feet from his bedside, their neck craned back at an uncomfortable angle. “Stupid…” He mutters to himself. They’d no doubt be complaining about wanting to move around and stretch when they woke up. He sits up, thoughts focusing and eyes homing in on the duct tape binding them to the chair. No movement. Moving was dangerous. They said they’d be good… that they wouldn’t move… so far that held true; just like their bonds.
He stands, and the thin sheet falls from his body to reveal the sickly pale planes of his torso underneath. Sock covered feet pad the vinyl flooring and crinkle on the blue pallet tarp under the chair as he moves to stand in front of them, his fingers twitching in a nervous tic. There’s an unmistakable scent wafting from them, one that left him confused. Anxious. Excited. He looks at the bindings again, checking for signs of tampering, for an iota of evidence that suggested they got out at some point and did something stupid enough to make themselves bleed while he slept.
Yeah, that’s what that smell was.
Blood.
Sharp and tangy, remarkably… fresh compared to its usual smell.
The bindings look untouched except for a few wrinkles at the edges, expected from someone who squirmed so much. His eyes scanned their body, flicking over exposed skin and looking for wounds. Spotting nothing, he drops to his knees with a thud, barely registering the harsh snap of pressure of his boney knees against the solid floor. He leans in and inhales once more to confirm his suspicions. They were unmistakably bleeding.
He looks up at them, the way their head is lolled back, their maw gaping open with lazy breaths and half-snores that were going to leave their mouth dry. His fingers flicker with another twitch, and he swallows a nervous lump when his gaze catches the peaceful upturn of their closed eyes. As he stands, his shoulders hunch and he moves away from them, averting his eyes from the normalcy of another human face.
Something that felt too good to look at. Eventually they’d open their eyes again and see him.
It made his skin crawl with an angry itch that bubbled and boiled beneath his dermis. His right hand rises, scratching away at the stubble of his chin as he shuffles to the bathroom. The nail of his index finger finds a bump on the edge of his jaw, and it picks. Once. Twice.
Pick, pick.
He’s standing in front of the tiny sink now, left hand rising while the right continues to pick at the acne. He’s quick with it, opening the shitty cupboard over the sink and popping open a reused prescription bottle previously containing sertraline. A blue gel capsule, a white pressed dot, and a yellow oblong oval tumble into his calloused palm along with a few non-descript white pills. He tilts his hand up, the near constant tremor of it causing the tiniest pill to slip through boney fingers and tumble down the drain in the sink. He watches it disappear as he dry-swallows, leaving the empty bottle in the sink to be refilled with whatever he could find later while his throat burns with the sandpaper scratch of the meds slowly working their way down. His mind is currently focused on one thing: what they could be bleeding from. His right hand rises again.
Pick, pick, pick.
He gave them a higher dose yesterday; hallucinations had them panicking and anxious.
Part of him reveled in that, seeing someone confident and normal finally feeling out of control and scared. The way you scratched at your legs like ants were biting you was the most interesting part, but the sobbing was too much. Too loud, too messy. A bit more and you passed out.
He's standing in front of the chair again; eyes glossed over as he replays the previous day’s events in his mind. He drops to the floor again, grasping one of your knees as he tugs it back and forth. “You’re bleeding.” He states, pale eyes drinking in the expanse of your thighs.
What awakens you is the pressure on your pubic bone, the slow, gradual inhale followed by an equally measured exhale of warm, moist air. Then it’s the brushing of a dexterous muscle to your labia, that’s when you jolt.
Your eyes shoot open, and you look down to see Lawrence’s blue eye staring back with an intensity that immediately sends a cold dread through your body.
No moving.
He doesn’t even have to say it for you to understand. The pinched skin between his eyes and the lowered brows sent a clear message that your sudden movement was deeply unwanted. His mouth is pressed to your mound and you are going to endure it, simple as that.
Still, your hips twitch as he inhales deeply again, a flittery feeling twists in your gut as his eyes flutter, his lips moving in a way that tells you he’s mouthing words you’ll never get the chance to guess at. His hands don’t trail up, no, they clamp down. Clammy palms pressing down on bound wrists, no moving, no squirming.
He pulls back with a heavy gasp and his lips marred with red. Your brows shoot up so fast that any semblance of drowsiness is gone.
“It’s so fresh…” His words are slow, whether from the lack of oxygen or him somehow actually being drunk off the menses itself. Still, the only reaction he allows is your thighs jerking as he dives back in, lips mouthing against labia with pitiful inexperience.
Your teeth worry a smooth, sore spot on your lower lip, holding in a grunt since noise would only make things worse. He pulls back again, the tip of his tongue having finally been brave enough to prod forth to the redder flesh underneath and being rewarded with more of that fresh, sticky, bright blood.
He groans and the pale skin over his eyes flutters shut. You can see the veins there; his skin is practically translucent. Your mouth opens, wanting to protest before he mashes his mouth back down.
His tongue presses out fully this time and you gasp, shoulders tensing and legs squirming again. His eyes shoot open, and he gives a loud, greedy suck of the blood before jerking back with offense.
“Stop it.” He snaps. His blunt nails dig into the flesh of your forearm, and you nod jerkily.
“Y-yeah, got it.” You mumble out, knowing better than to protest him at this point.
He huffs in frustration, rising to his feet and swiping his arm across his blood-stained face. “No, you don’t.” His voice is low, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention but frighteningly loud when you’re helpless in front of him.
He inhales, long and shaky, his shoulders shudder. You close your mouth, trying to swallow but are met with the dryness of your throat. You cough and your heartrate spikes in panic.
Lawrence’s gaze is back on you in an instant. “Shouldn’t have slept like that, knew this would happen…” He watches you with your coughing fit for a moment, his hands clenching into fists before he turns his back and moves to the fold out table in front of you.
“No!” You wheeze out, sudden dread sinking in your stomach like an iron weight. You sputter, trying to suppress another cough. He doesn’t like noise and noisy things got dealt with.
He doesn’t care about your wheezed protests though; he’s facing you again and you barely get to jerk your head back before he shoves a damp and dirty rag into your mouth. His fingers press in, punching your uvula and only making the coughing worse, he withdraws his hand and seals the cloth in with some duct tape slapped over your lips. You wheeze harder, panic setting in as the cloth obstructs your ability to breathe and you inhale some kind of particles from the fabric. You yank at your bonds, heart beating so fast you can hear the blood rushing in your ears like an angry, pulsating current.
Lawrence is focused now, and he continues to tear strips off from the roll of tape, binding your jerking limbs even tighter to the chair. His movements are so methodical it’s nearly ritualistic, one hand holds down firmly while the other binds you in place. Once he’s satisfied with how secure you are, he drops to his knees again, his right hand moving between your legs and tangling his fingers in the sticky, red blood once more.
You’re still jerking, making some kind of frantic whine as you wheeze and then promptly gag, your face is a mess of tears, flushed skin, and desperation but he’s too busy with the fresh red nectar clinging to his fingertips. He licks his fingers before his hands slam down on your thighs, a brutal and unyielding grip to keep your squirming, shaking, and annoying body in place.
His tongue touches the slick flesh at the apex of your thighs once more and he moans, savoring the flavor of the blood and discharge all together. His hips jerk forward, arousal straining at the slack fabric of his sweatpants. His mouth opens and he laps greedily at your twitching folds, not in a way that’s meant to derive pleasure at all but simply to satisfy whatever hunger has overtaken him.
You wheeze again, gagging—no, choking on the fabric in your mouth. You sucked it into your throat in panic, lodging it down your esophagus and agitating your gag reflex. What comes up is bile, what passes the tape on your mouth is nothing at all. Your world is a sudden cocktail of terror, pain, and confusion as Lawrence’s tongue continues to lick at your menses. The edges of your vision are blurred; there’s a pounding pressure in your head. Breathing felt impossible, moving at all was.
Lost in his world, in the flavor and freshness of the blood, Lawrence pulls back from your thighs a few minutes after you’ve gone silent. He pants and wipes his mouth again, savoring the mess and pushing a clot on his lips back in to be cradled with his tongue. You’re getting cold. Your chest isn’t moving, no breathing, no whimpering, no squirming, no noise.
It's then that his grip shifts from brutal to reverent, tension leaving his fingers as he trails his palms down your thighs. His lips twitch up at one corner, and he nods before leaning his cheek on your thigh. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He breathes, voice soft with adoration. Another shuddering exhale as his hand wipes over the expanse of your stomach and he pushes at the softness. Trailing down, the pressure stays constant, creating a path to your core again.
He sucks on the clot in his mouth like a candy, chest seizing with a withering exhale as his fingers wiggle back into your warmth. He pushes, feeling how the muscles are already beginning to tighten. He persists, his palm goes in, then his thumb, his wrist. The wet squelch of arousal and blood ebbs out around his arm as he spreads his fingers within, fanning his hand out and scraping his blunt nails against the slimy smooth muscles. “Is this why it’s so fresh?” He mumbles; eyes focused on the way you’re stretched around him. “In death, I see the center of life…” He curls his fingers into a fist and pushes deeper. “Get to feel it.” He smiles crookedly, laughing at his own muttered nonsense as he feels around and prods against the resistance with his knuckles. He’s up to his elbow now with his head resting on your right thigh.
He lingers for a few moments longer before withdrawing his hand and arm, looking over how his pale skin is streaked in blood. Still, he’s not satisfied with only this. Fishing in the pockets of his pants with his left hand, he pulls out his box cutter. The blade extends with a melody of satisfying clicks and he’s pressing it to the flesh of your body in an instant. His soiled right hand pushes the fabric of his sweatpants away, freeing his neglected, weeping member. Sticky and slick, he starts pumping away in quick strokes, tugging maybe a bit too hard with every upward motion.
The box cutter slices through the tender flesh of your thighs, wounds weeping rich rivers of blood that pool on the seat of the chair. He keeps cutting until it begins to flow over, dripping onto his cock and slicking his grip even more. “F-fuck…!” He curses, enthusiastic rhythm broken by his hand slipping from the excess of lubricant. He wheezes a soft laugh and digs the blade into the pulpy and bloody messes that are your thighs, his hips jerk forward as his balls tighten and he groans. His release spurts up, splattering the chair and your corpse with warm, white, gooey globs.
He pants softly as the high begins to dip and the silence creeps in. His left hand begins to shake with tremors; the box cutter slips through his weakened grip and clatters to the floor a moment later. He pushes back from the chair, the tarp, the blood, the shame, you.
His back hits the wall and he stares up at the ceiling, arms limp at his sides and one knee drawn in. The air reeks of sex and blood and something unmistakably rotten.
He swallows thickly and his right hand rises to feel for the scab on his cheek, his nail digs in as he stares at your body in the dark in front of him.
Pick, pick, pick.