#stoic whumper

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Lights out

Crossed out - Continued from ch.7 - Prologue

-

Amazing how the word ‘no’ could cause so much pain.

Lucas writhed on the floor of Nero’s office, lying flat on his stomach. A dull pain radiated over his entire body, easily spreading along over the bruises. It was like he was buried in a ton of bricks; pinning his body to the floor, bruises left by every brick that fell down on him, a hue of red seeping into his vision—ah. No, that had a different cause.

He blinked the blood away. It tickled down his brow, against his upper lip. He rested his forehead against the floor, slowly shook it as if it could loosen the web of pain pulsing through. Tried to get his palms under him and push up, but as soon as his weight shifted onto his arms, he collapsed back into a heap.

His back had had to endure most hits, with him trying to protect his ribs, and he was sure he had a wealth of baton-shaped bruises crossing his skin.

Still, he suspected that Nero did hold back. With his strength, it would be nothing to punch his ribs through his lungs. Three at a time even, especially with that baton. Yet he seemed to avoid vulnerable spots, not meaning to disable. Well, not too much anyway. Merely to hurt. And hurt it did.

He did start to understand why the baton was a favourite; if you have to smash one inmate into the floor by ten, and beat another inmate into the infirmary at secret midnight meetings… well, guess you’ll go for the option that doesn’t leave your knuckles wrecked.

The sound of those combat boots getting closer was a full on trigger by now and it made him want to draw up in a foetal position. His body, however, didn’t even have the strength to curl up anymore.

“Now, Varga, pay attention, because this next rule is important. Are you listening?”

Lucas groaned. All his attention was currently redirected to making sure his limbs could still move, or taken up by the paralyzing pain. He peeked up at the man standing over him, a certain amount of relief washing over him as he noticed the baton was dangling against his hip, snapped back to his belt. Not fully reassuring, but at least it was a good sign that the worst was over. He scraped himself off the floor, pushing up to a sitting position. “Ye—Yes sir.”

“One of the main rules here is to be in your cell before lights out at ten o’clock. If you are not present during the night call, we will assume you are attempting to break out. And all consequences to that apply.”

Lucas glanced at the clock. It was fifteen to ten. “Then I’d better get going,” he tried.

Unexpectedly, Nero nodded. “You should.”

Glad to be dismissed, Lucas didn’t think twice. Mentally he was already checked out, back in his own cell, licking his wounds and taking the bits of rest he could. Fifteen minutes should, in his current state, be enough to teeter back to his cell. He struggled to his feet, helping his body along, hand on his knee using all his strength to push himself to straighten up and he made for the door.

“Not so fast.”

Fast was seriously overreaching here, with him barely getting one foot in front of the other and having to force himself forward every step. With his hand on the door handle, he slowly turned.

Nero held his gaze, then slowly glanced down, to the red drops showing where Lucas had just occupied part of the floor. Some were smeared out, matching the streaks on his arm from when he’d tried to scramble up.

“Clean that up.”

Lucas stared at him, back at the blood on the floor. He was suddenly very much aware of the drop sliding towards his upper lip and he quickly wiped it away. “You’re not—”

“I am dead serious. You made a mess, spilled blood all over my floor. Now clean it up.”

“There’s barely fifteen minu—”

“Then you’d better hurry.”

His head was pounding, his body wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the hard slab they called a bed here. Fuck’s sake he could barely stand, let alone—! He groaned out a sigh, resigned. “Fine. Where can I find the cleaning supplies?”

Nero turned away from him, rounded his desk, and sat back down in his chair before he answered, because he did have all the time in the world. “I’m sure one of the guards can help you with that.”

Fuck you very much.

Before he could earn another smack for being disagreeable, Lucas quickly exited the office. He let the door fall shut behind him and glanced around. Of course, there was no one in sight. He hobbled through the hallway, fast as he could biting through the pain, trying some of the doors. Everything was locked and an urging anxiety swirled around in his stomach. He already pictured himself outside his locked cell at one past ten, clawing at the bars, begging to be let in with Nero pulling him away by the collar of his shirt to administer… consequences.

He shook his head fiercely – nearly tilted himself off his axis – come on, focus!

Let’s see. Five minutes to find this stuff – 2 minutes left. Five minutes to swipe blood of the floor, and himself afterwards, which would probably take most of the time. And five minutes to crawl back to his cell. Not unreasonable. Except, totally unreasonable, when every step was a gamble with his body ready to collapse.

He stumbled around, very much aware how much time was ticking away until he finally found a guard who pointed him to an unlocked storage room.

A sigh of relief escaped him and he leaned in the doorway giving his body a small break, scanning what there was to use.

He really wanted to get a mop to use as a crutch, use it to scramble back and save a few seconds – and pain – pulling himself back up when he was done, but given his luck, there were only some cloths.

Knowing Nero, he wouldn’t like it if he left a wet stain on his floor and would send him right back to fetch something to dry it. He already was so short on time, so he took two cloths. With a quick detour to the bathroom, making sure to leave only some water drops in a trail behind him and not more blood – he swiped again at his nose – he knocked on Nero’s door. Had to be polite there, and not lose more time getting chewed out for barging in.

Aiming a sour glare at Nero – unanswered and luckily unnoticed as Nero didn’t even look up – he let the one cloth fall with a wet spletch. Followed along and fell to his knees, catching himself with a hiss, leaning on all fours for a moment to let the pain in his ribs fade, and cleaned up the drops of blood, his blood.

His nerves gave a jolt as he heard Nero get up, but the man merely stood and watched from a distance, leaning against his desk, arms crossed. When Lucas glanced up looking for approvement – with a quick glance at the clock first – Nero pointed without a word at a missed red smear under his knee.

“Permission to leave, sir?” Lucas almost panted, as if he’d completed heavy labor, sitting up high on his knees.

Nero nodded, not responding to the layer of sarcasm. “Dismissed. Don’t forget to bring that back.”

Suppressing a groan and a flinch, Lucas pushed himself back up. Every-thing hurt. Getting a baton across the ribs was one thing, but having to actively hurt yourself merely by having to keep moving was quite something else. He tossed both cloths back into the broom closet, blood and all, limped back to the cell area, and dragged himself up the stairs almost on all fours. He got some strange looks from the men already in their cells, but he ignored them, stumbling past as fast as he could.

He let out an exhale as he let himself fall against the bars of his cell door. The buzzer sounded before he could even catch his breath, and the bars shifted against his shoulder blades as the door closed.

Made it.

-

Continued here

Tag list: @gala1981 @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop @andithewhumper @tippytappytyping

@suspicious-whumping-egg @cherrychupachup @alexmundaythrufriday @defire

[theheartwhumpswhatitwhumps]

I love the dynamic of a talkative whumpee and a stoic whumper. Especially a comedic/lighthearted whumpee who uses humor as a coping mechanism

Because it’s the perfect storm for Whumpee to be cracking jokes, trying to make small talk with the villain or the sidekicks, hoping someone will have mercy because come on, they’re just a little guy. And the rising panic as they realize that no one is responding. In fact, few are even looking straight at them.

All the while Whumper walks slowly and deliberately to a torture tool Whumpee hadn’t noticed until now

Whumpee’s slow gulp before they pour all their charm, all their wit, all their thirst for approval into a grin so bright it could reflect off the face of a blade. But Whumper’s face remains immovable as ever, eyes slightly crinkled at the edges with what could be disgust or mild amusement.

“Woah wait,” Whumpee stammers, trying to push away. “Wait now, now hold on, let’s talk about this.”

Whumper’s head tilts a fraction to the side as if to say there’s been enough of that.

Words pour lightning fast from Whumpee’s mouth. Sloppy one-liners, pleading babble, Later, they can’t remember what exactly they said, only that the power they once found in words was ripped from them like a scream.

[whumpster-dumpster]

That moment when stoic, emotionless whumper begins to crack a sadistic smile while torturing the whumpee 'cause they're starting to have fun.

Oo boy, that's when the whumpee knows they're in even more trouble than before!

[spiralofwhump]

Name: Oskar Doyle Species: Human Age: 34 Role: Whumper Oskar is a hunter, mainly of vampires but he enjoys hunting a werewolf or fae every once in a while. The man isn’t much of a talker, but when he does it’s usually a command or something of that nature. He also expects you to follow that command when he gives it, you won’t like what happens if you do fail to follow it. But do expect a reward if you do everything as he says, he’s not a monster after all Oh, can I also say that he’s insanely buff? Yeah, hunting can do that to a person. Underneath all those clothes is a man who takes good care of himself and works out. Oskar could pick you up like you’re nothing but also crush your skull without hesitation, such a lovely man! When Oskar managed to capture Marius (whumpee), he decided to spare the vampire for now. He always hated pompous assholes like Marius so what’s better than to break them down and make them feel small, breaking them down piece by piece?

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Nighttime

Crossed out Masterpost

Heavy footsteps slowly made their way up the stairs, the clanking sounds echoing through the silent hall as they drew nearer on the steel grated walkway.

The owner of those boots didn’t care it was nearing midnight, nor did he seem in a hurry. He took slow deliberate steps, knowing he had an audience who were all listening with bated breath. He knew most would still be awake, at least those with a guilty conscience, waiting, waiting for the inevitable, and praying for the footsteps to pass by their cell.

Lucas too lay wide awake, facing the cell door, seeing the drawn out shadow draw nearer through the bars.

He racked his brain, trying to remember if anyone else had drawn Nero’s attention today, had done anything to deserve a nighttime visit. When he couldn’t think of any – the day like all others had passed in a hazy blur – he tried to remember if there was anyone locked away in solitary.

Two out of three options he came up blank and the third option became very real all of a sudden.

Would it be him? Would this be his first visit, finally finding out – unwillingly – what happened behind those closed doors, what caused the begging and the screaming, what was the prime cause for the impeccable record of this prison’s stats for good behaviour?

Something heavy started forming in his stomach, something that spread to all his limbs. He shifted on his bed, the flimsy mattress barely protecting his bruises from the harsh, cold metal underneath, and kept a close watch on the shadow that now drew nearer.

Had he done anything today? Besides being his usual nuisance? He hadn’t talked back (hadn’t had the chance, really), mouthed off, or tried to instigate a fight. All in all, a quiet day. So by that logic, he should be safe. Should. But he knew Nero didn’t need a reason. And that he could hold onto a grudge, coming back with punishment for something that happened days ago. He relished in the false comfort and striking when the victim thought he was safe.

Yet everyone awake was now thinking back on their sins, severely questioning their safety, and praying they would be spared that night.

The shadow was now right outside his cell and he was sure he just made eye contact with the beast. Either time slowed or the man had stopped. But then he blinked and the shadow had passed his door. Clanking footsteps following in its wake.

His shoulders relaxed. And Lucas found himself exhaling his dread.

A couple cells ahead the footsteps stopped. Sounds echoed through the hall, a lock springing open, the creak of the door; the soft prelude. Then soft begging and sobs, whispered pleads. A harsh command. Then quicker footsteps, stumbling along with Nero’s marching, another choked off sob, whispered “please, please, no, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry!” as they got closer.

"Quiet."

The begging stopped instantly.

The command wasn’t made out of concern to others, nor to not disturb their night’s peace or to remain undetected. Begging just was useless here.

Lucas saw the two dark figures go past, noticing how Nero used his favourite method of transportation: a vice grip on his victim’s neck and simply pushing them along.

A door slammed shut. Then there was silence.

Lucas pressed his pillow over his head, tried to calm his beating heart, to convince himself the storm had passed and he could go to sleep. Unfortunately, he knew the silence was a short lived one.

That it would soon be filled again. By muffled distant screams.

-

Continued here

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Whump prompt #56

A Whumper who calls his Whumpee into his office / room / whatever for punishment.

He leaves them beaten and broken, bleeding on the floor, unable to even get a full breath in without wincing in pain let alone move.

Not that he cares:

"Get the hell out of my office," he growls, and turns away from Whumpee who's left to themself to pick themself up and one way or another obey to crawl out of the room.

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Gloves off

Why yes, we like our Whumpers putting on gloves and gloved touches, maybe against a tear-stained cheek.

But what about the moment when those gloves are pulled off? 

Slowly. Meticulously, pulling the leather up finger by finger.

All done in silence while making direct eye contact with Whumpee, who by now knows they’re so screwed and might even be prevelling their pleadings.

Then, the gloves carelessly tossed aside? Used to slap your Whumpee with? Impersonal touches now replaced by warm fingers, even nails now digging into Whumpee’s chin.

Or do they signify the end of a merciless beatdown? Leather now stained with blood and a Whumpee curled up on the ground.

And then there’s--

Latex gloves. Pulled off with a satisfying snap. Pulled inside out, keeping the blood contained within. Gives some nice opportunities for an aftermath (and/or prelude).

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Turn the power off and back on

Backup - Part 1 - Part 2

-

Connor enjoyed a soft breather.

Not that it came without pain. Now that the bullet was removed from his ankle, the medics tried to stop the bleeding and stitched the wound shut. Of course, still without bloody anesthetics. He winced every time he felt the sharp needle pierce the sore skin. Had to grit his teeth as he felt the sutures softly yoink at the wound.

He glared at the little tray that contained the bullet and two (two!) shards they’d removed. Even though they were tiny as hell, boy had he felt the damage they caused as they got ripped from their snug hiding place. His leg was still swollen and every little touch magnified into hot shockwaves of pain. Even the smooth tiny sutures made him feel like rough rope was being pulled through his skin.

The only thing that actually made it all worse was Hayes standing over him at the head of the table, gloved hands on his shoulders as if Connor (one) wasn’t still strapped to a goddamn table and (two) still had the energy to struggle or (three) could actually walk away with a hole in his leg. Hayes passively looked on, watching his medics pat up the blood and watching – feeling – Connor twitch lightly with every move of the needle.

“There,” he said with a twisted smile, “now we can be certain you’re going to be okay.”

“You’re all kindness,” Connor grunted, trying to sit up and keep an eye on the hacks stitching him up, but the hands on his shoulders pushed him back against the cold table and forced him to look up to make eye contact.

“I need that drive back.”

“What, you don’t make backups?” Connor bit, though both his voice and fierceness had weakened. He glared directly up. “You should really get on that.”

Hayes gave his shoulders a little squeeze as he pushed off him and took a step back. “I’d rather you return your stolen goods.”

With a flick of his hand, he signaled for his medical staff to leave – not a good sign to Connor because what was worse that he didn’t want his already immoral staff to witness? – and handed a pair of black tools to one of the guards standing next to Connor.

“Defibrillators? Unfortunately for you, I’m not dead yet.”

“For once, I echo your sentiments,” Hayes murmured but then spoke more clearly: “These aren’t defibrillators. Or, well, not in that sense. They’re a little stronger. You might compare them to tasers.”

“Big tasers,” Connor almost gulped. The tools looked like black clothes irons, or just triangular shaped regular defibrillators, really. “I bet you could raise the dead with those.” He followed the thick cable to a machine where Hayes was now tweaking the settings, slowly spinning a dial further to the right as he kept eye contact with Connor.

“Maybe you should hold them against each other? Make sure that they work?”

Hayes didn’t deign him an answer. He switched the machine on and it gave an ominous low hum.

Then, before Connor could brace himself, he pointed a finger at the restrained figure and Connor’s world exploded in pain.

His body strained up against the straps, hips lifting up off the table, chest straining against the strap keeping him down and into the tools that fired electricity straight into his torso. He almost hovered lightly over the metal slab as his body went completely rigid.

His teeth grit almost painfully, jaw locked, and even though the intense pain surged in waves all over his body, under his skin, through his veins, through every receptacle he had, he couldn’t scream.

It suddenly stopped and he fell back against the table. His mouth flew open and he gasped hard now that he could breathe again. The tingling pain gradually left his body, as if it dribbled away like blood out of a wound.

Something hot and wet trickled over his lips and he quickly closed his mouth, his hand automatically reaching up to wipe it off, but of course it was still firmly strapped down.

"Why'm I bleeding?" he slurred.

"A strong electrical surge can cause the tiny arteries in the nasal cavity to burst," Hayes said matter-of-factly, without looking up.

"Nice," Connor nodded. He stuck out his tongue and licked at the blood coating his upper lip. He winced at the taste and spit it back out. "I mean gross."

“Unless you’re willing to cry tears of blood, I suggest you cooperate.”

The defibrillators hovered threateningly just above his chest. “Come on, man,” Connor gulped, “does that really happen?”

“Let’s find out.”

Another stunning surge of pain ran through him. Connor again went rigid but as soon as his body shot up again he started shaking like hell. He couldn’t fully scream yet but involuntary moans and grunts rocked along with every wave of electricity. They exploded in a ragged yelp as the machine turned off again and Connor gasped and panted loud exhales.

“Well,” he wheezed. “You’d have to make me cry first.”

Hayes firmly took up that gauntlet, tilting the dial and giving another order. He strode up from behind Connor, keeping a cold eye on his now wildly shaking and bucking body.

Connor did cry out as he fell to the table again, aftershocks still making his body twitch, and he felt the stitches in his leg tear. He tried to keep still, but could already feel the blood seeping down his leg and knew that the next shock would cause him to rip it up again.

He meant to shout his frustration, but was so out of breath he couldn’t get past a single “Fuck!” and had to concede the rest of his insults. Which was just as well because he was about to ask if maybe the doctors from hell could come back in and that would just cause more pain.

Just before Hayes could give another order, he was interrupted by the sudden sound of shredding electric guitars and his hand stilled.

Hayes blinked in confusion when he realised the music came from his own pocket.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Connor panted. “Could you get that for me?” He wiggled his hands under his restraints.

Hayes plunged a hand into the deep pocket of his long white coat and fished out Connor’s phone that he’d confiscated when they’d caught him. He frowned as he looked at the screen, where the single word ‘Chieftain’ lit up and the guitars kept demanding for him to pick up.

“Bet that’s my chief. He always gets worried, you know, bless him. He knows where I am and I’m late and not picking up would only make him more suspicious— I mean concerned.” Connor grinned, revealing his bloodied teeth. “So if you don’t want the squad over to come and collect their unruly child…” He saw Hayes’ hesitation but then the phone was pressed next to his head, with Hayes leaning over him in his face.

“One word,” he hissed and he pressed a scalpel to Connor’s throat. “One wrong word and it’s over.”

Connor nodded cautiously against the blade. He knew they had nothing to lose and didn’t feel like bleeding out here in some godforsaken lab.

He heard the soft bip of the phone.

“Sir?” he brusquely answered, biting away his pain in the single word.

“What the hell, Connor?!” The voice boomed out of the speaker, so loud everyone could hear and Connor winced as it was held so close to his ear. “You were supposed to be back here by now and relieve Lenny!”

“Oh crap. I’m sorry, sir. They’ve been so kind here to offer me a tour of the facility.” He winked up at Hayes. “So I’m going to be late.”

He heard a frustrated, groan-y sigh. “I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

And with that the call ended, leaving an awkward silence in the room.

“He hides his worry behind anger,” Connor reassured. “Now, where were we?”

“I can sympathize…” Hayes muttered darkly. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled the scalpel away from Connor’s throat, turned the phone fully off and placed both next to the tray with the bullet.

The taser-defibrillators were placed on his chest again and Connor let his head fall back.

“Any chance I can get to that meeting tomorrow morning?”

In reply, Hayes turned the dial of the machine further up.

-

Continued here

Tagging: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @equestrianwritingsstuff @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @myst-in-the-mirror

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Loose ends

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1 - Continued from Part 30

-

The phone in his pocket pinged that dreaded tune. The one he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t afford to ignore.

Zayne plunged a hand in his jacket pocket. His mood instantly darkened when he heard the notification. And he’d had such a good time at Jay’s this evening.

He'd hit one of those rare moments where he got Jay begging on his own accord. Jay's mood was usually one of reluctant acceptance so this didn’t happen often. Mostly he'd have to tell him to beg but then the tone was spoiled by anger. When Jay chose to beg, Zayne knew he'd hit the right snare, and it played a tone of beautiful despair.

Twas good to feel in control.

But the text notification brought him right back to earth. Reminded him of his place.

$ $ $ - 18:26 New job for you. Details at 8pm.

Shit. It was 7.30 already. He’d better hurry. The business district was on the other side of town.

-

Zayne pulled his motor helmet from his head and looked up at the tall, darkened building; only on a spare number of floors a couple of lights were still on and the ground floor’s reception office was brightly lit. Zayne walked in, past the guard who just nodded at him.

He was only allowed to visit at night. The only person he bumped into every now and then was either the janitor or the guard at the reception. People who wouldn’t ask questions. Who probably didn’t even feel the need to ask questions. And if they did, they’d be out the building in a heartbeat.

He knew the way. After the initial meetings, it had taken some time before his employer had been comfortable enough to meet him in his own building again. And before Zayne could use the actual entrance, instead of having to use some back door only used by the garbage collectors. Zayne didn’t know whether the man just didn’t care anymore, had found some excuse and labelled Zayne as an employee or contractor, or whether he was just fed up with having to meet at random places. Probably the latter.

Even if he had been named as an employee, Zayne doubted he'd be on the employee list. As what, exactly? Saboteur? Business opponent strategist? Competition suppressor?

Still, Zayne thought as he walked past the empty offices and dark cubicles, he was probably the number one employee who brought in most of the revenue. Just not in an entirely legitimate way.

Not that he wanted to. And not that he’d ever receive a thank you.

God, how he regretted the day he even got involved in this mess and met this man.

He came to a halt in front of the largest office in the building. Top floor.

He took a deep breathe to calm himself before he knocked. Once inside, he’d have to keep his cool. Stay calm, don’t let him provoke you.

A muffled ‘Yes’ sounded through the door and Zayne entered, stepping inside the luxurious office of Gordon Emery, CEO, owner of the building and the company, and Zayne’s employer for over two years now. Or well… employer? That wouldn’t be Zayne’s choice of words. Maybe ‘exploiter’ was a better term. Asshole extraordinaire even, if you’d ask him.

“You’re late, Zayne.”

Two whole minutes, maybe? Already off to a good irritated start. Stay calm.

Zayne took in the man sitting at the large desk in front of the window, framed by the city lights. He’d probably been stuck to that desk pretty much all day, but he didn’t look it. He sat rigid as a board. His short dark hair was slickly combed back, not a hair out of place. He wore an immaculate dark grey suit with his wine red tie not loosened an inch. And his gaze was as sharp as ever, untainted by fatigue.

Emery hadn’t even looked up when Zayne’d entered, but his cold grey eyes now roamed up, questioning the silence that Zayne left.

Zayne quickly picked up on it. “I’m sorry, sir. I was—“

“With that reporter. Again.”

Zayne froze. He knew better than to ask how he knew, but this wasn’t good.

“I…”

Emery waved a hand. An impatient flick of the wrist that made Zayne go silent immediately. “Don’t. You know I despise liars. Why is that man still alive?”

“Because he’s not a threat. He knows nothing. Not of back then, nor what’s happening now. And certainly knows nothing about you. Sir.”

“He’s a loose end. Everything about that incident two years ago is wrapped up now. Except for him. Take care of it.”

Zayne wet his lips. “With respect… sir. Killing him now will only raise more suspicion. It’s better to leave him be. Besides, he’s not the only—“ he quickly cut himself off.

“What? What was that? Not the only?”

Zayne dawdled, obviously uncomfortable about running his mouth. Fuck this, he should’ve just stuck to the ‘yes sir, no sir’ routine and kept his mouth shut. Now that Jay’s friend, Dennis, was starting to get involved, things started to teeter to the edge of danger again. Jay didn’t know squat. Didn’t even want to know, as far as Zayne knew. He’d tried to see how much Jay knew, but the guy had clammed up. Jay just wanted to block out any memory of the incident and Zayne doubted he was gonna go digging. But Dennis grew more and more suspicious and probably knew more than he’d let on. Probably picked up the trail that was left two years ago and had been the one who called the police, messing things up.

But if he said that… here…

Emery slammed a fist on the desk. “Speak, Zayne!”

Zayne’s eyes slowly slid up to look the man in the eye. A look that, for most people, would send a shiver down their spine. With his head tilted down, his dark eyes flashing in anger slowly glancing up to make direct eye contact. Only now it wasn’t used as intimidation – he knew better here – it only showed his reluctance to answer. This man was not impressed by his dark look.

“I… Jay is…” he strained his brain to come up with anything else. “Jay is not the only loose end. Garrett knows, too.” Well, just a little. Nothing important.

Emery sat back in his leather chair. “I thought your little band was unaware of who employed them. Did you lie to me, Zayne?”

“I had to tell at least one of them where the money came from, otherwise the rest wouldn’t follow.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” the cold voice replied.

Emery’s gaze, fixed on Zayne’s eyes, slid down just a notch to the yellowing bruise on his cheekbone. A small cut, hidden earlier by the dark skin, now broke through and was clearly visible. Zayne winced lightly, as if the sharp gaze actually put pressure on the wound. He cast his eyes down, to the ring on Emery’s right hand that had caught him in a backhanded fist the last time he took too long to answer a question. The man had a short fuse.

Zayne knew better than to falter here, even though he had to suppress a shudder. He glanced up again, feigning a confidence by making direct eye contact.

“No, sir, I did not lie. I told you at the time I would do what was necessary to gain trust. That meant I needed at least one confidant. But I didn’t mention your name.”

A long silence followed.

“I suppose you have a point. You don’t know where Garrett is, do you?”

Zayne shook his head.

“But you do know where the rest of your gang is.”

That unsettled Zayne. With the exception of him and Garrett, everyone had been arrested. They both knew that.

“Where are they, Zayne?” Emery pressed.

“In jail, sir,” Zayne almost whispered.

“And you needed at least one confidant?”

Shit.

“Just one. Just Garret.”

Emery didn’t speak for a few agonizing seconds, but Zayne knew better than to press him. Even though he did not like where this was going. It was easy to throw Garrett under the bus, him not being in the vicinity to contradict this. But the old crew was pure leverage and Zayne didn’t want to put them in any more danger than they already were. The few of them that were left, anyway.

“And your reporter?” Emery finally asked.

“Learned his lesson. Dropped everything to do with that case as soon as he was out of hospital.”

The man hummed. “Maybe I’ll check up on that.”

Zayne opened his mouth to protest, but before he could ask Emery continued.

“To order of business,” Emery changed the subject easily. Too easily for Zayne’s taste after these very subtle threats.

Emery slid a folded piece of paper over his desk and sat back, lacing his fingers together as he watched Zayne pick it up and read it.

“Wait…” Zayne looked up. He recognised the address. “Don’t you own this branch?” That was odd. He mostly struck at property of any competitor who was doing too well. Give them a little setback. Sometimes even random companies where Emery had shorted stocks and could then reap in the profit.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how insurance works. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you leave no traces of it being wilful fire-raising. Short circuit, cigarettes, think of something.”

Yeah, think of something, as if it were that easy. Not leaving any traces was quite hard and would take up quite some time to make sure nothing would raise any eyebrows. Not to mention it was dangerous as he had no one to help him. But Zayne made no protest and slid the paper in his pocket.

“When?” he merely asked.

“As soon as you can arrange for it.” Which pretty much meant ‘within now and three days’, as Zayne had found out shortly after his first task.

“Yes, sir,” he said and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Zayne?”

Zayne stopped and looked back, but the man didn’t speak until he fully faced him again.

“Are you still staying in that old house?”

So much for that secret. “I… yes, sir.”

“It’s being demolished in a few weeks. Find some other arrangements.”

Zayne felt his stomach drop. Other? Like, what? He had nowhere else to go. But adding to the number of favours he owed this man wouldn’t help either. Not when he was so close to getting out. He wouldn’t ask for a replacement. He’d find some solution.

“Of course.”

-

Continued here

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[whumpster-dumpster]

My fave type of whump is when the whumpee is some kind of test subject and the whumper is a detached scientist, do you have any suggestions/thoughts?

I do like that kind of whump sometimes, but I feel like I see it a little too often in various medias, and it’s easy to fall into a trap of “cutout scientist character”. 

The scientist can be detached but they should at least have a little semblance of personality instead of being flat and monotone all the time. If they test something on the whumpee and it goes “right” by their standards, at least let them be happy or smug or intrigued by it! Just a smidge! Not just “Test A, Test B, Test C, meh, just business.” If they’re willing to torture someone for it, they probably need to be invested in their work, not just 😐

[whumblr]

Y’know what I love?

When the whumpee, maybe in a fit of rage, tries to attack whumper. They storm at him, but just before they reach him, before they can punch his smug face in, one of whumper’s henchmen steps in and stops them. Steps in front of his boss, grabbing the whumpee by the throat or holding them back by their arms.

And Whumper doesn’t even blink during this sequence of events.