“Elodie, Alena, Xavier,” her father greets them all at supper, kissing her and her sister on their hair, claps her sister’s husband on the shoulder. “My love.” Her mother then, a quick peck on the lips. “Ça va?”
“Ça va, Papa.” She sits straight, gentle and demure in tone and expression. “Et toi?”
“Hm, ça va, ma petite puce.”
“Les affaires marchent bien?” Elodie tracks him with her head as he moves away from her and her sister, just like everyone else does.
You don’t take your eyes off Monsieur Lavoie when he enters a room.
Referencing@ocean-blue-whump ’s Nessa because she and Farkas are a bad couple!
CW: Pet whump, BBU, lady whump, organized crime, conditioned whumpee, derogatory language, gun violence, knife violence, bondage, death threats, mentions of past abuse and torture, mentions of drugs, Faraday and Farkas deserve their own warning, and death (not a major character)
~~~
Saber stood to the side of the room, closest to the door, her eyes locked dead ahead while Faraday and Farkas, his nephew, both were roaring at a man that had gone to blab to the police about some shady shit happening at one of the warehouses by the pier. Their screaming always terrified her, but she couldn’t let that show.
She was built to handle it all and trained how to be a good Abernathy dog, worthy of a special collar that separated her from the domestics and romantics, but… not like it mattered when it came to Farkas. She was scared of him the most, especially if Nessa, his girlfriend, was around too. They both knew just how to make her miserable, and she knew that she couldn’t let the pain be shown unless they wanted it obvious. They’d make sure of that at least.
“Really?! You thought the cops were going to put you in some witness protection shit, Winston? Are you fucking stupid?!” Farkas asked, slapping the man who was tied up, his hands tied up above him with chains. Saber used her peripherals to see that the man was stripped down to his boxers, his torso covered in splotches of black and blue, red accented wherever it managed to find the canvas that was their unmarred skin.
A laugh came from Faraday and he held a knife under Winston’s chin. “I have half a mind to send your ass to WRU, have them wipe you, and give you to your wife, so she can see what a disgrace you became. At what cost, hmmm? You thought you were going to one up me or something? How about I just get rid of your entire bloodline and have you bury them?” He inquired, digging the tip of the blade in, the poor man sobbing and looking up at his torturer.
Time to introduce some new characters! It’s Mallory’s 18th birthday and as a long standing family tradition it is time for his initiation, a test to determine if he’s cut out for the family business or not.
CW: character death, reluctant whumper, forced to hurt/kill someone, knife whump, referenced kidnapping and captivity., organized crime whump.
Most people probably looked forward to turning 18, but not Mallory. Because he knew it wouldn’t be like for other people his age; going on to study, traveling, getting a job. A normal job. A normal life. Sadly that wouldn’t be in the cards for him. As much as he loved his family, Mal knew they wouldn’t take kindly to him leaving. Now that he would be considered an adult, he would be expected to join the family business… And his 18th birthday marked the time to make it official; the time for his initiation. Mallory could barely sleep anything the night before, he spent hours staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as he agonized over what would come the next day. He remembered his older sister’s initiation a few years ago and shuddered at the thought. How she could go through it like it was no big deal was beyond him. The rest of his family dind seem to mind either, several of them seemed to outright enjoy it. Maybe it was something wrong with him for being so bothered by it, when by all accounts he shouldn’t he shouldn’t mind; he should be used to the thought of it by now.
Its another monotonous day at the civil office. Working in the state’s government means an endless set of cases to be reviewed, meetings about tedious legislation and a whole lot of pretending to give a shit about things.
He looks down at his table screen, the holographic projector was glitching again but he could make out most of it. A gang leader by the name of Marcus Leonovic was causing trouble in the southern zones. His case was up for whether they should let the man be to avoid other gangs taking over and becoming more powerful. Or the other option, to arrest him.
If he thought about things objectively, arresting the man would let the next powerful gang take over and become a much bigger problem. Best to let these things brew for a while, the idiots might even take each other out. But-
His phone starts to ring and he lets out a heavy sigh. Here comes the ‘but’.
“David? Hello?”
He groans, this was going to be trouble.
“Yes, Tomas. It’s me. What do you want?”
“You lot got that info on that Leonovic bastard weeks ago. Why didn’t you fuckers wipe him already.”
David sighs, “You know it’s not that simple Tomas.”
“Yeah, well he’s fucking up my business again. I told you to get him designated. Do you know how hard it is to sell when he’s got his bastards round every corner?”
“You know, Tomas, I don’t know how hard it is to sell illegal drugs. And frankly, I don’t want to know.”
“Stop being such a little bitch. Getting all high and mighty on me when Dad is the only reason you got a fancy-ass job at the government.”
“Tomas – ”
“And you remember what he said. If you don’t help me out, he’s gonna stop helping you out.”
“Look, I said it’s not that simple, I need – ”
“Me and Dad give you the money and the criminals to make you look good, and you help us when we need some favours, that’s the fucking deal. If you won’t then I’ll just have to go and give a tip about some bitch at those tall skyscrapers I’m looking at now is being bribed by gangs to influence government decisions.”
“Look, fine. I’ll sort it. Just stop fucking calling me, especially at work.”
Tomas snorts, “Whatever, I better hear the news about him off the streets soon, or else.”
The phone gives out a long beep and David hangs it up. He sighs before sending off the file with his recommendation that the man whose picture was projected on the top gets assigned a designation.
They were usually only for government threats, but he’s sure he can come up with some kind of explanation for his reasoning if questioned.
He sighs knowing he just made his little brother into a bigger pain in the neck than he already was. But what choice did he have? He can’t lose his job, or worse, get designated himself.
Everyone who knows about them knows that the worst thing to happen to you is get designated, and once you do, there’s no coming back.
He picks up his briefcase and heads out of the office. He decides to get down to the bar before he heads home.
He swipes his card to get access to the bar that only higher-level officials were allowed into. It was a fine establishment, classical decor with a chandelier lighting the rustic interior.
He orders an expensive martini and sips it by a window. No, he couldn’t lose perks like these. He’ll play along with Tomas’ game.
And once he’s done playing, maybe he could get Tomas designated. He chuckles to himself, now wouldn’t that be nice
CW: pet whump, BBU, lady whump, organized crime, heavily conditioned whumpee, derogatory language, mention of severed fingers, not super heavy on the whump but a look at the McIntyre family, consensual sex mention
***
“Does the pet really have to be here for this?” Siobhan asks, crossing her arms across her chest from her seat at the head of the table, her pursed lips painted mulberry purple.
Rhys smirks. “Of course she has to be here. My toy can be good.” He sits down in his chair and pats his lap. “Up.”
Pumpkin gives Rhys a longing look, climbing up into her Master’s lap and burying her face against his chest. He grins, running his hand along her back. His gorgeous toy. So obedient. So perfect.
Siobhan rolls her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you bought a Romantic. My Guard Dogs are much more useful.”
She’d spent two weeks watching the house. That was the disadvantage of poison. With a shooting, all you had to do was find out where the target was going to be and the right place to aim from, but making death look accidental was a much finer craft.
But now was the perfect opportunity. Rowena removed her oversized hoodie, revealing the tight clothing that would help prevent any skin cells or fibres contaminate the house. Getting in was easy enough, their security was poor, and from there all she had to do was get to the target’s office.
On a large desk, there was a glass and a large crystal decanter of whiskey which Rowena knew was only drunk by her target once everyone else was asleep. She pulled out a small bottle of cyanide.
She swirled some around the glass, coating the inside, and poured the rest of the bottle into the decanter, stirring it with a pencil she found on his desk. Finally, everything was wiped clean, leaving no trace of a stranger who left as she came: quietly through the back door.
Watching was her least favourite part. Making sure the target was actually dead and there was no one who could piece together the pieces. At least it was warm.
She shifted until she could see the man again, seizing on the floor. He was middle-aged; a banker with a wife and two kids. Rowena just hoped his daughters weren’t the ones to find him dead. Actually, worse would be if they walked in now and tried to call an ambulance. Then she’d have to kill them too.
It was a while after the convulsions had stopped that Rowena finally moved. Getting into the house when no one was there was one thing - having a sleeping family and a dead person in it was another.
This time she scaled the wall of the house, going in through the office window rather than the back door. It only took a second to check he was dead, and then she got to work tidying: emptying what was left in the decanter and refilling it with clean whiskey, wiping the glass, and wiping away any cyanide from his lips.
Happy there could be no evidence leading back to her she left as she came, the only sound being a motorbike as she drove home.
Jason lifted his head as the footsteps came into the small office he was working in with the others. He listened as everyone went quiet. Breathing out, he lifted his head. His group has been working on an area down town to clean it from the other gangs.
“This is him” a voice said and Jason felt his shoulders stiffening.
He lifted his head, putting the papers down. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at their Lieutenant.
The man grinned at him. “Get up, Luca” he said.
Frowning, Jason got to his feet, before noticing that Huuga Shin was standing just behind the man. He resisted the urge to cuss under his breath. This could not be good.
Was his cover blown already?
“Sir” he said, nodding to Huuga.
“I remember you” Huuga said before he turned to the Lieutenant and nodded “Bring him”
“You heard him” the Lieutenant said, “Get moving”
Jason could feel all the eyes of the group on him as he followed the two.
“What is this about?” he asked as they stepped out of the office.
The lieutenant back handed Jason through the face, before punching him in the gut.
Jason doubled over, gasping.
“Don’t ask question” the Lieutenant snapped.
“Fuck you” Jason snapped, eyes blazing.
The Lieutenant narrowed his eyes at Jason, before Jason could say anything else, pain exploded in the back of his head and the world went dark around him.
It was a slice of toast, to be more specific. It was golden-brown and buttered on one side, with a thin layer of raspberry jam over the top. The crusts were dark and crispy, the centre softer and slightly cooled. It was the most delicious thing he had ever laid eyes on, and it was being hovered an inch under his nose, almost touching his top lip. His neck was strained forward as far as it would go, painfully, and the smell of warm gluten and grains almost stung his nostrils, and when it was pulled back he could have sworn he would die.
It was the closest he had been to solid food in two weeks.
He was starving.
And he broke.
“Forty-eight Alison Terrace,” he said. The words could never be taken back. “Forty-eight Alison Terrace. Please—”
The bread returned, and he sobbed as he took his first bite. It tasted like ash, and for a horrible moment he thought he would throw up, but then his dry mouth registered the sweet tang of the jam and his body collapsed in relief. His head tilted back to let the tears run from the corners of his eyes and chewed until the rest of the flavour came to him, the salt of the butter and the whole-wheat support of the bread underneath.
The rest vanished in bites as large as he could take them, until the last corner was fed between his lips by the gloved hand of his captor.
It was followed by a sip of water from the glass that was always on the table by his side, though never within reach with his wrists tied to the arms of the chair. He could see it in glimpses in the corner of his eye, maddeningly close.
His cheeks dried slowly of tears as Bennett’s breathing settled.
“Where do the minders live?”
The next question caught him off guard. Ever since he woke up here, on this chair, in the almost-dark with only masked figures standing over him, there had only been one question. Where are the Mannington family?
Bennett didn’t even work in witness protection. He’d just been helping out. Just for an afternoon, because Kamran Heydari was sick.
Maybe that was why they picked him.
“Across the road,” he said, because the damage had already been done and the Mannington family were as good as dead. “Fifty-one.”
“Good.”
“Will – please, are you—?”
“See to it that Mr Kennedy gets his injuries tended to,” the voice cut him off, and Bennett flinched at the realisation. He flinched again at the feeling of hands, still gloved, touching the area where the knife had been hours ago. His reward.
The door to his cell clicked shut. The interrogator was gone, but not far. Outside, he heard her, and another voice.
Good work.
Thank you, sir.
She was calm, professional, as she always was. There was barely a trace of emotion in her voice.
You’re just the right kind of monster, as always.
I try my best.
The other voice, warm and approving with a hint of humour, was one Bennett could only guess at identifying. But if he was pressed to, he knew who it was likely to be. Only one player in this godforsaken city would have the guts to take a police officer captive from his own home.
I’m starting @amonthofwhump’sMafia Week a day early! Here is my first take on a prompt: kidnapping.
CW: Nanda is honestly kind of a creep guys, abduction, restraints, defiant whumpee, recorded torture, intimate whumper who actually isn’t the villain here for once, Nanda has lots of nsfw thoughts
-
For the moment, he can relax.
Job complete, and his flight’s in the morning. He’s good enough - and has a good enough reputation - to be paid upfront before the job’s done, because everyone knows the job willbe done.
Nanda settles back against the headboard of the hotel bed, rubbing at the back of his neck idly as he presses the CHANNEL button on the remote, aimlessly scanning through 70-some channels of banal pointlessness. Why he bothers is anyone’s guess - he knows he’ll end up ordering some sort of… whatever Pay-Per-View is here, paying too much for a vague artificial shade of what he has with his pet left back at home.
There’s a news show blaring panic, and he watches it. He recognizes the face of the dead ex-Prime Minister, and huffs a bit of laughter. Well, if he’d known who the man was,he’d have charged more.
CW/TW: multiple whumpers, knife, blood, killing, death, emeto. Wart data for Sasha and Kolya. For @amonthofwhump Mafia Madness.
The boy in front of him is terrified, and trying not to show it.
“It’s all right,” he says. “I’ll help you, Kolya.”
He wraps his hand around the other’s hand, his partner, his lover. Under his, Kolya’s hand trembles.
“It’s all right,” he says again, and together they guide the knife home, cutting deep into the other’s throat, opening the veins, hot blood spilling over their joined hands.
Sasha watches the life leave the man they’ve killed, the bright eyes dulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the first time he’s done this, and he knows he wants to do it again, soon.
But right now, Kolya’s dropped the knife and is vomiting his guts out.
“I never,” Koyla pants, “never want to do that again, Sasha.”
Soft thuds echoed around the room, the footsteps of a dangerous, dangerous man. He circled the desk in his dimly lit office, running a hand over the fabric on the head of his visitor as he walked past. The visitor slid a folder across the desk.
“The information you requested: it’s all here.”
“How hard was it to find?”
“Not hard at all, sir. I have his date of birth, height, weight, job, financial status … It’s all here.”
“Wonderful. You’ve been an excellent addition to my team.”
“I never said I was joining your team.”
“And yet,” the man leaned his hands against the desk, meeting the visitor’s eyes, “you have no problem ratting Vargas out to me.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Did I?” The man flipped open the folder, scanning the first page. “Perhaps you misconstrued my promise that his death would be painless, if all goes smoothly.”
The visitor stood up. “You can’t make him pay with his life.”
“Sit down, Patel. You’ll have your say.” The man flipped the page, every line making his wicked smile grow. “Wonderful,” he repeated.
“You can make him pay another way. It’s not his fault he was born into this.”
“Oh, he’ll pay,” the man promised, refusing to acknowledge the protests. “He will pay.”
Cyril recovers in anonymity for a week, relearning how to accept Esme’s presence even as their body relearns how to handle comfort. They spend long, lazy mornings in bed, twining first fingers with their fiancé, and then sometimes words, soft and slow and never quite winding around to where Cyril has been, what they have done, or what happened that day five years ago. Instead, they lean into Esme’s loose and ready words, pressing gently - gently is all it takes, with him - to hear what he has been up to since they’ve been gone.
His father’s business is flourishing. Esme is taking on more responsibility, being groomed to take over when Armani D'Angelo eventually - not soon, but inevitably - steps back from the forefront of operations. Cyril offers encouragement and interest, and Esme requires little prodding to continue to allow them to steer the conversation back to his life. Five years leave many tales untold, and Esme is - has always been - eager to share every moment with his love.
One pale evening as the dying light flares in a last attempt at silver-gold, Cyril tries for the first time to begin the monumental task of giving him their own five years. They haven’t spoken yet that day, trying to store up enough words to give Esme enough of a piece to feel like a beginning.
tw: murder, blood, knife violence, ritualized murder, mentions of religion/Catholicism, forced gender roles, implied forced marriage, implied/threatened violence against a family member
…
“You can do it, ma petite puce. I believe in you.”
Adrián pleads for his life from behind the cloth around his mouth, and Elodie cannot help but to track the tears as they make their way down his cheek.
He doesn’t want to die.
So he shouldn’t have told the Mouret family about their upcoming job.
Now, he willdie, it is just a question of if Elodie will do it or if someone else will have to.
Traitors don’t have names. Traitors don’t have faces. They lose that right the moment they squeal.
There was a sound of screaming from floors below him, chatter of deals going through in the offices around him. His business was running like clockwork as usual.
His work phone vibrates once and he checks it to see a single text.
It’s done.
He smiles before calling in his personal assistant.
“Isaiah!”
The younger man walks in, hair in short, rough curls and mouth curled in a smile that tried to look genuine.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send the cheque to Mattias. He’s disposed of that spy who was poking around last week faster than I thought.”
The man in front of him visibly winces before his face returns to a neutral expression.
“Of course, sir. Anything else.”
“Not right now, but I’m sure I can count on your attendance at his funeral. Such a shame one of our ‘workers’ has had such an unfortunate accident. You can go offer your condolences to the family.”
“Yes, sir.” Isaiah answers. His boss delights in the slight grit of his teeth.
“Well, off you go.” He shoos the other man off with a hand and Isaiah stalks away.
He watches him go, making sure the other was a good distance away, before picking up the office phone and dialling a number.
He listens to it ring. The spy was one problem taken care if but another was who was the leak that lead to an investigation in the first place.
The answer was obvious, he had only trusted Isaiah with the kind of information he tortured out of the spy.
He had felt rather disappointed. Other than the leaking of secrets, Isaiah was a good assistant to him. It’s a shame that he has to go.
He’d rather not kill the other man. He still had his uses after all. So that left one other option.
The rings end.
“Hello. This is the anonymous tip line for anti-government activities. Who would you like to report?”
The Professor answers with a saccharine tone.
“Hi, I’d like to report an Isaiah Rise. He’s an influential member of a criminal organisation. And as I’m sure you can tell by the name, has not been designated yet.”
Loyalty for the Kysil’s Shield is more than saying one is loyal and will do anything. It’s facing Hell and telling it to fuck off. This is no different for Ivan Kovačić.
CW: Assassination attempt, gun violence, death, knife digging into a bullet wound, organized crime
~~~
It had been a long night back at Kysil Tower, Ivan having to make sure that Mykhailo was wrapping up his meetings and ensuring that all of the shipments of weapons were going to the right underground black markets while the shipments of biomedical tech were being donated to hospitals in need. Needless to say, Ivan was growing exhausted, but he had one job that mattered to him the most: Protecting his best friend and Crime Lord, Mykhailo Kysil. He had finally ushered the workaholic into the black sedan that had been at the shop for days to ensure it was the safest it could be, having it installed with bulletproof windows, tires, and a concealed area that held both his rifle and pistol.
“What time is it, Ivan?” Mykhailo asked, leaning his head back on the beautiful and soft leather headrest, his eyes closed. Ivan saw him in the reflection of the rear-view mirror and chuckled under his breath.
“It’s 2 am, boss. You’ve been working non stop for a while. I think you should take it relatively easy the next day or so. You’ve been allocating a lot of time into the other business, and that could put crosshairs on your back,” Ivan warned, his eyes focused on the night lights of the city that still shone, although there was no sight of others besides a car here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He heard a laugh followed by a scoff, his boss waving his hand without a care in the world. “Someone has to keep working. I do more than just sit at my desk and stare at computers all day. I manage all branches of the company, I help make the decisions that not only make me money, but it helps pay those that work for me. It goes towards more important shit than just my pocket.”
For@amonthofwhump Mafia Madness! Prompt: Rite of Passage/Initiation
Introducing you to Irish mob boss Rhys McIntyre and his pet Pumpkin, and their very dysfunctional relationship. These characters were first created in RP with @whumptakesthecake, so thank you, Alex!
Tagging a few people who might be interested: @painful-pooch @whumptakesthecake - let me know if you want to be added/removed!
CW: pet whump, BBU, lady whump, organized crime, heavily conditioned whumpee, derogatory language, stripping (nonsexual), gun in mouth, tattooing
***
Rhys runs his hand over the pet’s lower back. “Take your shirt off, Pumpkin,” he says in a low, growly voice. “Just the shirt.”
Pumpkin trembles under his touch, but undoes the buttons on her white shirt and pulls it off, folding it neatly.
Rhys takes the shirt from her and throws it into the corner of the dimly lit room, leaving the pet in nothing but a bra and navy blue pants. “Tonight, my pet will officially be allowed to take her place under my control as a McIntyre toy. She’ll receive our family crest.” His sharp Irish accent echoes off the walls and bounces back to him and the pet.
Pumpkin keeps her back straight and her chin up. She’s earned this. She’s fought for this. Her place as a McIntyre toy wasn’t just given like all those other pets. She deserves this.
Join us for a week of organized crime whump from March 14-20, 2022. Bring your crime syndicates, families, gangs, and let’s have some whumpy fun!
Important Event Notes: the prompts are not assigned to a specific day. You can use any prompt or combination of prompts on any day during the week of March 14-20. You can choose one for each day in an order that best fits the story you want to tell, or combine two or more in any fashion that suits your creative spark.
As always, any form of creation is accepted, whether it be writing, art, moodboards, cosplays, and more. Show us what you’ve got, whump community!
CW: pet whump, BBU, lady whump, VERY EXPLICIT NSFWHUMP, NONCON, MINORS DNI, dehumanization, derogatory language, restraints, violence, aftermath of noncon, beating, Vasyklo is his own content warning, mentions of organized crime, VERY DEGRADING LANGUAGE, broken bones, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
Olsan Huntley died the way he lived - violently - in a deserted alley off of 45th and Holly. It was quick. One moment he’d stepped out of the car, enraged at the driver who’d wisely fled the scene and the next, with the deafening crack of a gun, his life was taken from him.
Our Mafia Madness week is drawing to a close, and we are so excited for everyone who participated! Here is a graphic for anyone to use in masterlists or simply post as a point of pride. Thank you all, and happy writing!
