Shock Value
By S.J. Kohl
Rude/Reno
R

Summary: Reno gets, well…kidnapped. Don't you feel bad for the idiot stupid enough to do something like that?
Warnings: foul language, attempted rape, violence.
A/N: Written for my good friend Otterling on DeviantArt, who was tired of all the Reno rape fics out there and wanted to see him kick some ass like he was born to do!

Reno groaned. The throbbing in his head must mean he was starting to wake up. He wondered what kind of surface he'd been sleeping on. Maybe if he threw his head back hard enough he could knock himself out? But no. A little—very little—shifting of his head from side to side confirmed he was lying on something soft. A bed maybe. It wasn't too unlikely that he'd fallen asleep in a bed, but…

He'd had a lot too drink.

And that was an understatement. He'd gotten fall-down, face-smashing, sheep-fucking plastered last night and he didn't know where the hell he'd fallen asleep. A bed didn't feel right though. Should have been some kind of piss-stained alley, he thought. He couldn't have made it home on his own, and he hadn't brought anyone with him, and he only went fucking when he was sober. Drunk…he didn't know what it was, but sex just didn't feel as good when he was drunk.

The headache, now, that was a perfect hangover headache. Textbook. Mouth made of cotton, tongue thick and swollen, the throbbing pulse of pain and that kind of living stuffed animal feeling that comes with a little too much tequila. Yeah, that was good. Add to that the exhaustion that dripped through every muscle and vein in his body and the fact that the silence in the room was too damn loud and there could be no doubt it was a hangover. That was why Reno refused to open his eyes. He didn't even want to think about what daylight would do to him.

But there was that nagging feeling that the hangover wasn't the only problem he had on his hands right now. His hands. Right. Now he knew that wasn't right. His hands were stretched out wide and tight and bound at the goddamn wrists to some kind of posts—iron headboard, maybe?—and he just didn't go in for that kind of shit. Well, maybe for Rufus, but that wasn't likely to fucking happen, now was it?

His legs weren't any better. They were stretched wide and pulled back toward his chest, strapped tight to…something—more posts, definitely, and that meant either this wasn't a bed or these posts had been added for the specific purpose of tying someone up so his legs wouldn't be in the way if you wanted to get a little friendly—at both the knee and the ankle. Reno snorted. Not even properly awake yet and he was already on the job. And he hadn't even been assigned a mission.

Assholes.

He was going to personally kick the ass of whatever fucker had tied him up like some little bitch waiting to get fucked. And he knew from the air flowing over his skin that he hadn't been covered up with so much as a thin cotton sheet. "Jackasses," he whispered. "It ain't right to steal a man's clothes while he's drunk."

He started pushing the hangover away, forcing the pain to bleed out into his veins and ease the stuffed feeling in his head. He usually liked to revel in the headaches for a while, remind himself why he shouldn't get drunk like that anymore, but it didn't seem very…responsible…right now. Besides, Rufus would flay his ass alive if he got hurt because he refused to stop wallowing in self-pity long enough to get himself out of here.

But it was Rufus's fault in the first place, wasn't it? He wouldn't have been out drinking at all if it hadn't been for that little blond bitch, but it wasn't nobody's business what he drank or why and he'd gut the next asshole who asked him a question. And how in hell was it his fault he'd been born with a cock and balls instead of a pussy? Personally, he'd always been real fucking grateful for that, but apparently Rufus didn't see things the same way. Reno was a Turk, he said. You can't mix business with pleasure. Bull shit. Rufus had taken charge of the Turks less than a year ago, and it wasn't like they hadn't known each other before then. Reno had known Rufus back when he'd still had snot dripping from his nose, and he was pretty sure that precluded "business". And besides, Reno knew—fucking knew—Rufus had fucked that little rookie Elena's bitchy blond ass when he hadn't felt like getting any elsewhere. More than once too, and he didn't just keep himself to one hole so Reno didn't really see where his having a cock was much of a problem. Elena was skinny anyway, and she didn't have any tits to speak of, so it was only that one fucking hole that made the difference. If Rufus wasn't interested, he should grow some balls and say so instead of bringing up all those bullshit excuses about business and work.

Reno shouldn't have gotten drunk like that though. It didn't change a damn thing—he was pretty sure his cock was still attached—and all it had gotten him was a splitting headache and a nice side trip to bondage paradise.

Growling a little, Reno opened his eyes. It didn't make much difference at first. The room was dark. Not black, though. Just dark, and it didn't take long for his eyes to start adjusting. Carefully, Reno lifted his head—stopping every millimeter or so to give the throbbing a chance to subside—and looked around. It was a small room, pretty much just this narrow bed with its posts and straps, a little bit of space around it, and a door, presumably locked, on the left, and a window to his right. He couldn't see through the curtains to tell if there were bars on the window or not, but his guess was no. Considering the way he'd been dressed when he went out last night—he thought he remembered something cheap and sleazy—and the fact that his hair still had the brown dye in it from the last mission he'd completed, Reno was reasonably certain his captors didn't know he was a Turk, so it wasn't likely this was a set up for an interrogation. Nah, if they'd known he was a Turk he would've been put in a room without windows.

But it was the straps that made him think the window didn't have any bars. His arms and legs were bound pretty securely, but the ties felt like silk, and there was really only one reason you would use silk ties. Reno rolled his eyes. He was merchandise. Not surprising. He was thin—he never had been able to get rid of that half-starved look—and prettier than he'd always liked to pretend. His hair was glossy and well-cared for, and he had that look, like an underage whore. Now there was nothing wrong with underage whores. Hell, Reno'd even picked one up himself a time or two. Everybody had to make a living, after all, and if anyone needed the money, they did. But he was going to have to have a little chat with whoever it was who'd put him in here if they thought this was how you were supposed to treat a whore.

Whores got paid, damn it. They did not get tied up and raped. Well, they obviously did, but that didn't mean they should. The point, though, was that the assholes probably weren't expecting much of a fight, certainly not anything that would require bars on the windows. Reno scowled and tugged at his arms. The knots were well-tied, but there was just enough give that he could twist his hand around and get his wrist pressed against that post if he needed to. Not yet, though. He was going to play this one out without backup unless he ran out of options. Besides, he didn't like that chip much right now. Sure, it was nifty in a pinch and pretty easy to activate, all things considered. But he'd lost his partner on that last mission about a week ago, and he hadn't met the new one yet. Now, Reno wasn't much on first impressions, but he wasn't about to meet his new partner while he was tied up with his ass hanging in the air.

Oh, he probably knew his partner already. He would have been told if he was being assigned a rookie, and he knew all the veteran Turks in the field. But this was new ground, a new kind of relationship, and he didn't want the bastard—or bitch—to go getting any kind of ideas. So that little chip under his skin could just rot there for all he gave a shit. He could do just fine on his own.

Reno tested the bonds again. The one around his right ankle felt a little weak. He could probably break it, and that was all the help he needed.

But he didn't want to do that yet.

The asshole who ran this little business with the pretty boys and the beds with posts and straps…yeah. He still needed to have that little chat before he made his way out of this shit hole.

Rude adjusted his sunglasses and looked down at his watch. It was after noon. His partner was late. An hour late, to be exact. And that gave him a pretty good idea of who his new partner was. He couldn't be certain, of course. It was possible he had the wrong person in mind and the partner he'd been assigned had just been held back by some kind of unforeseeable circumstances. And besides, he hadn't had the chance to work closely with the man himself yet, and it was possible that all the stories and rumors about Reno were falsified or, at the very least, exaggerated.

But Rude didn't believe that was the case. The rumors had been verified as fact in several situations, and Reno was the only Turk he knew of who would have the audacity to be late to his first meeting with a new partner, especially when they had to prep for mission that was due to start in two days.

According to his superiors, Reno was a damn good Turk who had a sense of when to follow orders to the thousandth degree and when to adapt them to fit an unexpected situation. He was also rather…fiery, they said. Rash. And he had an attitude. Rude could actually see the logic in partnering them, as much as the idea pained him. Rude had been censured in the past for following orders too closely; Reno had been accused of not following them at all. Reno was all mouth. Rude chose his words with care. The logic, then, would be that putting them together would create some kind of balance.

Of course, that only worked if Reno was where he was supposed to be. And he wasn't.

So where was he?

Rude glanced down the street to his left. According to his superiors, Reno was competent, if a bit wild. According to the people who'd worked with him personally…well. Reno was loud, obnoxious, rude, and lascivious. He was careless and slutty. He was also flagrantly gay and a binge drinker.

Rude smiled. Even if the rumors were only half true, he knew exactly where to start looking.

Reno almost glared, but he remembered just in time that he was supposed to look scared and pathetic. Right. Like these three assholes could put the fear of God into him. He felt pretty damn smug, though, seeing as he'd been right about the whole merchandise thing. And if they hadn't thought he was a whore when they picked him out of the trash, they sure as hell didn't have any qualms about turning him into one. Poor bastards. They needed to learn how to pick their targets better. Just because someone was skinny and dirty didn't make them a street rat, and since they obviously hadn't recognized the muscle beneath his skin for what it was, he was just going to have to give them a demonstration.

The one in the middle, the customer. He was dress-casual, but Reno could smell the stink of wealthy businessman on him from here. He probably had a wife and a couple of kids back home. Hell, he might even be one of the President's investors. He had that kind of seedy look to him. Mid-forties, naturally powerful build, but Reno knew muscles and bodies, and all that bulk didn't mean shit. The man didn't know how to use any of it to his advantage. But it probably made a pretty good intimidation tool against someone who didn't have the nerve to fight back. Yeah. Asshole. Born into a wealthy family, no doubt. Born to suck cock but always expected to—no, needing to, wanting to—hold up this certain image. Can't deny the need for something a little harder, a little tighter than his sweet little wife—the poor girl—but hating every fucking second of it because it feels so damn good. Too good. Yeah, this was a man who'd like it like this—one boy, tied up and scared shitless. A nobody who no one would miss and no one would listen to. Reno fucking hated him.

The other two were worse, one on either side of him. They'd picked him up knowing what they were sentencing him to, and they were here to make sure the man got what he paid for. In their minds, the only way Reno was getting out of this room was as a corpse. They wouldn't leave either. They'd stand here, one on either side of the bed, just to make sure there weren't any…complications.

Reno whimpered and open his mouth just a fraction, just enough for his lip to start quivering. "No," he whispered, his limbs cold and rigid. "Please…I want to go home. My parents…"

Rich Boy flashed a look at his two bodyguards, but the one on the right just laughed. "Don't listen to him. He ain't got anywhere to go."

"Please, I…you can let me go. I can be good, I…I promise!"

Rich Boy smiled now, and shook his head. "Sorry, pet. I'd prefer to keep you leashed."

"Please, I…" Reno licked his lips and flicked his eyes down to the man's crotch. "I can…"

It was the guard on the left that spoke this time, the one standing just beside Reno's fucking frozen foot. He really, really wanted to kick the bastard in the balls. "Shut up, you little slut," the asshole crooned. "Man didn't come here to listen to your gutter talk."

Reno whimpered again as Rich Boy's fingers slid to the clasp of his belt. "No…" He'd wondered for a brief while why they hadn't gagged him, but it was pretty obvious really. The whimpers, the begging…it was all part of the package. The customer wouldn't get the full show otherwise. "Please…sir…" He twisted and fucking writhed on the mattress, shivering and shaking and slamming his head back and down to push his body upwards. "Please," he gasped, his eyes wide as the tears started to flow, making little streaks down his cheeks and onto his neck. "I-I never…I haven't…"

"Look at that," Asshole on the Right snickered. "The little slut sure knows how to beg for it, doesn't he?"

Rich Boy just smiled and popped the button on his slacks.

Rude didn't like what he'd found out. Reno had been in Ithaca Dream the previous night. For hours, apparently. Rude had figured he'd been there, gotten pissed, maybe gotten laid, and then gone home. The club was better known for everything that went on in the back rooms than the front, after all. He didn't know where Reno lived, but he had known the location of the club, and from what he'd found there, he didn't think checking Reno's apartment would do any good. Reno'd left Ithaca Dream late at night, and he had been very drunk. He'd gone out the back door, and that was where Rude had found a contact.

Apparently Reno was well known at Ithaca Dream. Not by name, of course, but his attitude was memorable, so it didn't matter that he only stopped by once or twice a month. Pretty much anything—and anyone—inside was his for the asking. That didn't surprise Rude. What did surprise him was that Reno hadn't left alone the night before. From what he'd gathered, Reno often indulged himself inside the club, but he never took anyone home.

Last night though…last night he'd been seen stumbling off with his arm around another man's shoulder, their arm around his waist, holding him pretty close. And that was what bothered Rude. He hadn't seen it for himself, but several others had reported Reno to be a pretty nasty drunk. He was usually grabby and flirtatious, hanging on anyone who didn't kick him away and most who did, but when he was drunk…well. He was angry, violent. He didn't let anyone touch him.

And the description of the man he'd been seen with didn't, to Rude's knowledge, match that of anyone in the company. And that made Rude suspect that Reno wasn't hung-over and running late. Drugs. He'd probably been drugged.

But Reno hadn't activated the transmitter. The question was, had he not activated because he didn't need help or because he was beyond the ability to activate it?

Rude didn't know. Thanks to his contact, however, he did know where the man who'd been seen in Reno's company was rumored to be living.

The man was over him now, naked and stinking of sweat and money. Reno shivered and muffled a sob and resisted the urge to bite the fucker's ear off. He was at a tactical disadvantage. He was naked and weaponless, all four limbs tightly secured, and he was outnumbered three to one. Maybe he should have activated that chip after all.

But no. Three was a small fucking number. He'd dealt with worse. Still, he probably shouldn't have left it quite this late. He was cutting it close. But he'd wanted to wait for the right moment. And besides, all that shifting and twisting had a purpose. Maybe these idiots didn't realize it, but silk stretched. It was made by worms, for Shiva's sake—it wasn't meant for serious restraint, only pretty clothes and bedroom games! Reno moaned with not-quite-feigned urgency as the asshole lined himself up against him, and he twisted again, pulling so his right hand started to slip through the cords.

Mr. Right Hand was standing right up against the post, that hip sheath of his just out of easy reach.

But it was close enough. Just close enough. Reno grinned and shuddered. "No…please, don't…" And he squirmed, his hand slipping free without notice because Mr. Right Hand and Left Jerkoff were both too busy watching the show to see anything beneath the surface of his movements. Reno resisted the urge to gnash his teeth as Rich Boy held his hips in place and started to thrust. There. Here was the moment.

Reno squealed and jerked hard to the right—Rich Boy really didn't know how to use those muscles of his, did he?—slamming his head up under Rich Boy's chin and swiping that knife from the hip sheath, dragging it in a shallow slice up Right Hand's side and then spinning it and shifting his momentum so the blade arched down and plunged, hard, into Rich Boy's kidney. He dragged the blade upward through muscle and organs, twisted it and pulled it out so he could bring it up in a quick slice across the asshole's throat.

Rich Boy deserved worse, but there wasn't time for that.

Reno didn't mind the blood that sprayed and fell, coating his skin like some kind of costume, and, besides, the body made a pretty good shield as he jerked his right leg free of the weakened restraints. Bruises. Ripping through straps like that—even if they were made of cloth—was going to leave some serious bruises. But who the fuck cared about bruises? Bruises were nothing.

The gun, though…

Reno hadn't expected Mr. Lefty to shoot straight through the customer. After all, the man might not be dead yet.

"Fuck!" He screamed, and he threw the knife, popped Lefty straight in the eye before he had a chance to get off another shot, but the one might be enough on its own. Right through the abdomen, and Reno could feel the bullet lodged somewhere pretty damn important. His liver, he thought. He twisted to look at the other asshole, but all that dead weight that had made such a great shield was now acting as a pretty effective block to keep him from freeing his left leg, and his arm…

His hand though…Reno could still turn his left hand. Grimacing tightly, he twisted his left arm and shoved the inside of his wrist up hard against the post, mashing down in just the right place to set off the chip beneath the skin there even as he kicked out at Asshole's hand, sending the second gun spinning into the wall by the window. It went off as it hit the wall, a flash of light in the dim room. Bought him a few seconds, at least.

Shit.

No time, no time.

Asshole didn't need to go for the gun; he had another one strapped around his thigh. Reno hadn't seen it. How could he have fucking missed it?

Shit shit shit.

Asshole smiled and cocked the hammer back.

Rude felt the shot more than heard it. It resonated somewhere deep inside his chest and he felt the rage burning up inside him. Reno. Someone was messing with Reno. He knew it. And it didn't matter that he didn't really know Reno, hadn't really worked with him, wasn't friends with him. Reno was his partner. And nobody—nobody—messed with his partner.

Rude took off running and let the rage guide him. He didn't bother to pull the now-beeping transmitter from his pocket and take a look at the coordinates. He knew where he was going.

Not far, not far. There was a window. He was looking for a window—the right window.

Yes, there.

Down the alley, make a left.

Right.

Right again.

There it was. And Rude's little gift was already in his hand. He kicked in the glass and let it fly.

Reno popped his left arm loose—dislocated shoulder, fuck—and jerked the dead guy around to shield his right side, but he couldn't help but look up.

And he'd never seen anything quite as gorgeous as the sight of Mr. Right Hand's chest expanding silently outward, spraying blood and bone fucking everywhere, and Rude—dark, silent, fucking sexy Rude, with muscles he definitely knew how to work—climbing in through the window, pulling off his shades and tucking them into his pocket as he moved. And just like that, he forgot all about Rufus Shinra and Elena's fucking twat. "Hey, partner," he grinned. "What took you so long? You almost missed the party."

Rude grunted. "Decided to start without me?"

"Um…maybe a little," Reno laughed and swiped his fingers through the blood pooled on his skin. "I could use a little help with the cleanup though…if you don't mind."

A/N: I think this one needs a sequel. Anyone else want one? Let me know...