BDSM

Interrogation

I asked u a simple question, give me the name of ur leader, u thinke u r tough, u think u can bear pain ?

Think again lady

Because I’m gonna Torture u in ways u could never imagined

U r mine and helpless I can do whatever I want with u, nobody is gonna save u, ur leader can’t help u or ease ur pain

What if I do this for hours, me and every one in this building.. can u Handel that? How long u can take it? for how long can u stand it inside ur cunt

Well, I’m gonna start with having some fun with that sensitive clit first, then we’ll see

- Please.. ah.. pehh.. plahhh.. plea..

What? I can’t hear u

Someone is going to talk or what

Tell me the name of ur leader…

- I will, I… plea.. sto..stop..ahh…

adrenaline-whump:

Tied to a chair, the whumpee refuses to answer the whumper’s question.  He endures the alternating punches and demands with only the occasional grunt of pain, even as blood streams down his face.  Finally, the frustrated whumper yanks his captive’s head back by the hair and holds a blade to his throat, nearly screaming his question…and the whumpee caves.  With eyes squeezed shut and hands white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, he gasps the name of the location he’d kept secret until now.  Triumphant, the whumper strides away, and the whumpee slumps forward…to conceal the slow smile that spreads over his cracked and bleeding lips.

King Hussein / Allenby Bridge border crossing

Located just north of the Dead Sea, this is the only border crossing between the West Bank and Jordan.  Israeli regulations prevent Palestinians residing in the West Bank from using Ben Gurion airport, Israel’s main hub, therefore requiring them to use this crossing in order to travel from Amman’s Queen Alia airport. 

This means that even on relatively quiet days the border is rammed full of West Bank residents in transit to see family, often long emigrated to places such as North America and Europe; or indeed members of the growing Palestinian diaspora themselves who brave the long-winded and chaotic process of crossing the River Jordan to visit home.

This process begins at the Jordanian terminal.  Reopened in 1994 shortly after the Wadi Araba peace treaty between Jordan and Israel, the current bridge was constructed with financial aid from Japan.

Travellers are given a small exit slip to fill in which is then stamped, leaving your passport with no evidence of having used the crossing - good news perhaps for those reluctant to bear evidence of a visit to the occupied territories on their travel documents.

In fact this custom, it is said, symbolises Jordan’s belief that the passenger is not leaving the country but is merely entering into its ‘West Bank’ territory (Jordan controlled the West Bank until 1967).

What follows is a 10-minute bus ride across no man’s land and over the bridge whose name changes according to who you are talking to.

The Jordanians call it King Hussein bridge after the third King of Jordan (father of reigning King Abdullah II).  Many Palestinians refer to it as the Bridge of Al-Karameh, a Jordanian border-town not far from the crossing which happened to serve as the political and military headquarters of the Fatah movement let by Yasser Arafat.  The town was also the site of the Battle of Al-Karameh in March 1968.  Within Israel the bridge assumes the name of the British general Edmund Allenby who in 1918, during the British Mandate for Palestine, built the first bridge over the remnants of a much older bridge dating back to the Ottoman occupation.

Just a few years ago, crossing the bridge you would be able to catch a glimpse of the mighty River Jordan out of the window. 

Beginning its journey high up in the Golan Heights, it drops quickly to Lake Hula in northern Israel, continuing down into the Sea of Galilee and finally pouring into the Dead Sea, some 422 meters below sea level.  Little wonder then that its name is derived from the semitic root ‘ye-re-da’, meaning ‘to descend’.

A far cry from its Biblical heyday, today it is reduced to a mere trickle, barely visible underneath vegetation.  Environmentalists blame its three host countries, Syria, Jordan and Israel which have been building dams and diverting water from its tributaries for domestic use since the 1960’s.  This naturally causes a massive water shortage in the lower stages of the river, in turn depriving the Dead Sea of its main water source.

Between 1970 and 2006 it is estimated that the level of the Dead Sea dropped some 22 metres, and continues to shrink by 1 metre each year; a phenomenon which some refer to as an ecological disaster.

Continuing along, the bus weaves closer towards the arrival terminal, passing Israeli border guards wearing bullet-proof vests and soldiers laden with heavy machine guns.  Israeli flags are visible from a long way off, proudly hoisted above the valley.  Seeing them I couldn’t escape the feeling that these flags serve, at least in part, to provoke.

After a short wait we were let off the bus and joined the thronging crowd already waiting to be let through.  Looking around, I saw mainly families, each with at least 3 large suitcases precariously balancing on luggage trolleys, doting luggage tags from as far-flung airports as Chicago, New York and Amsterdam.

Here we are at the lowest point on the Earth’s surface, and already at 8.30 am the heat is unbearable.  Tempers are on tenterhooks as trolleys are aggressively pushed into the back of other people’s legs.  Everyone wishes the queue would move faster.  Large industrial fans spraying water over us are probably the only thing preventing full-blown arguments from breaking out (as we had just witnessed between our bus driver and his colleague).

Finally, I put my luggage through for inspection and present myself at the first passport inspection.  I am asked all the usual questions, “what is the purpose of your visit?”,“where are you going in Israel?”, “Do you know anyone here?”, then I am allowed to pass.

After joining another long queue divided into ‘Palestinian Authority’, ‘East Jerusalem’ and ‘Foreign Passports’, I am ushered straight to a relatively empty line.  In front of me a Palestinian woman and her four teenage children are waiting.

Despite holding Dutch passports they are still subjected to an array of personal questions about where they were born, why and whom they are visiting and the like.  They are asked to present proof of a return flight from Amman to Amsterdam, which causes some confusion.  At one point the mother responds to a question with the Dutch ‘nee’ (‘no’), which makes the border guard somewhat irate and despite clearly understanding, says in her aggressive and awkward English, “‘Nee’?! What is ‘Nee’? I don’t understand ‘Nee’.  That is neither Hebrew, English or Arabic.”  The mother retains a calm, solemn and almost proud expression.  She is clearly well-versed in the etiquette of these border officials.

Now, my turn.  I give the same answers to questions repeated from earlier, except this time I am required to writing down names and numbers of people I know.

As has happened in the previous three times when I’ve crossed into Israel, the Syrian and Lebanese stamps in my passport trigger more questions.  I am asked to sit in the waiting area and fill out another A4 sheet detailing my plans and motives for my visit.  Then a friendly, smiling woman with freckles and long, ginger hair dressed in civilian clothing comes to ask me more questions.

The same questions are asked again.

I am often puzzled at why they want to know certain things about my life, and actually many things I am unable to give a decent answer to.  For instance, this lady wanted to know why my University in the UK sent me to the French Institute and not the American University in Cairo to study Arabic.

The conversation then took on a more friendly tone: she wanted me to tell her about the different dialects in Arabic and whether Egyptian was harder than other dialects.  I’d like to believe that her apparent interest in what I was saying wasn’t purely feigned to lull me into a false sense of security. 

Then, on my three-month gap-year stint in Syria: 

Her: “Did you ever get into any kind of trouble with the Mukhabaraat (secret service)?”

Me: “No.”

Her: “Did they ever do anything to you, or follow you?”

Me: “No, I don’t know.”

Her: “So you were never taken to a police station there and questioned?”

Me: “No…”

Her: “Have you ever participated in any demonstrations in Israel or the Middle East?”

Me: “No.”(Does she think I’m stupid?!)

Her: “Have you ever been interrogated in the Middle East?”

Me: “Only here!!”

Judging from the small slither of a smile she gave I think she had a sense of humour.  I was told to go and wait in another waiting area where my name would be called out.

As I waited I looked on at the Palestinian mother and her children I was behind earlier.  Every time a guard came to call someone they hastily got up from their seats, only to hear someone else’s name called, barely audible, heavily hebraicized.  As they sat down again, dejected, I wondered how long they would be kept here in this stuffy hall.

Thinking about the trouble they have to go through, passing through various airports and checkpoints, I began to feel guilty for berating the 1.5 hours it takes me to get to Heathrow.  Another 20 or so minutes passed and I was given my passport.

I was stamped and ready to go.

tickle-her-senseless:

Interrogation Tickles

I think a lot of tickle kinksters have a particular weakness for interrogation scenarios. So many animated shows used tickling as a non-violent way to force information out of a character, and these scenes can be very formative in the development of a fetish - they certainly were for me.

Before I became aware of my tickling kink, as I entered puberty, I realised that the sight of women’s stomachs excited me far more than other people. One day, I embarked upon a search engine odyssey that began with an online swimwear catalogue and ended with the first fetish video I’d ever seen. In it, a “spy” was chained upright while an “interrogator” fired questions at her, ruthlessly wiggling and spinning a Q-tip inside her belly button. The victim laughed, wailed and pleaded for mercy as she writhed in the restraints and denied all knowledge. I remember two very distinct thoughts:

“Videos like this are a thing?!”

“This.This is everything I never knew I wanted.”

I’ve seen that video a few times since then, and now I appreciate that the acting is fairly wooden. At the time, though, it blew my little mind and I started to look for all the content I could find.

Anyway, just to provoke a bit of discussion, I wanted to ask the lees and switches out there a question. If you’re into the idea of being interrogated by tickling, which scenario excites you more?

- one where you DO know the information the ler wants but can’t afford to give it up, and you’re trying desperately not to crack under the torture?

OR

- the “mistaken identity” situation in which you have no idea what’s being asked, and your only hope is to convince the ler of your innocence before you suffer beyond what would’ve been your breaking point?

Just curious! Something I’ve always wanted to try: have a (consenting!!) lee lock a computer file with a password that I don’t know, and then tie them up before trying to tickle the password out of them. Obviously if they lie, then it doesn’t work and they get punished for a while before getting another chance to answer correctly When lees I’ve played with irl have wanted to be pushed to their limits, I’ve always enjoyed forcing a submission and making them scream their safeword. This would just be a way of spicing up the situation. Possibly in costume ‍♂️‍♀️

Well this is something I’d never considered and now definitely need…

“Make it stop! Ple-please— I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just— sto-stop!”

Whumper removed the iron from Whumpee’s flesh. “Who’s the rat.”

“I-I told you— there isn’t one!”

“I said, who’s the rat. Do you want me to start again?” Whumper threatened, bringing the iron close to Whumpee’s arm again.

“No! No— it’s C… It’s Caretaker— They’re the one who’s giving us info-information.”

Whumper smirked, setting the iron back in the fire. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Next question. Where is Caretaker meeting with the heroes?”

When Whumpee hesitated, Whumper snatched the iron back out of the fire.

“No— please— Th-they’ve been meeting under the crossbridge!”

“When is the next meeting scheduled?”

“To-tonight— At sundown…”

“How many people are they meeting?”

“J-just one.”

“And their name?”

“…”

“Their name.”

“L-leader.”

“If I find out any of this information is incorrect, you’ll wish I’d gotten the iron back out.”

Whumpee shivered as Whumper stuck the iron back in the fire and left the room. Whumpee was left chained to the wall, shaking from pain, exhaustion, and fear.

Until the door opened.

Caretaker gasped in pain as their knees slammed into the floor.

“Spend your time wisely. This is the last you’ll be seeing any friends.” Whumper spat as they slammed the door closed again. The lock turned, and then there was silence.

And darkness.

A shaky breath cut through the silence and then the scrape of shoes against the floor as Caretaker stood.

“Whumpee..? Did I see you before the door closed..?”

“Y-yeah…” Whumpee shifted uncomfortably. “I… I’m…”

“It’s okay— don’t worry about it.”

There was a crash as Caretaker ran into something in the dark.

“B-but I ratted you out— th-this… it’s my fault… I-if I had been… if I had been stronger…”

“Don’t.” Caretaker reached the wall and started feeling their way towards Whumpee. “This isn’t your fault. I saw what they did to you— No one would’ve lasted very long.”

Whumpee gasped as Caretaker brushed against one of their burns.

“Sorry!” Caretaker pulled back immediately. “Listen, what all did you tell them..?”

“Le… Leader is in danger…” Whumpee whispered. “I-I told them they were meeting you tonight at the crossbrige…”

Caretaker took a measured breath. “… It’ll be fine. Leader is strong. And smart. Whumper won’t be able to hurt them.”

“This is all my fault… Caretaker, I’m so sorry…”

—

The pair sat in silence for a long time. Then, finally, the door opened again.

“Lucky you, Whumpee. You made the right choice. No lies.” Whumper entered the room and shot Caretaker with a taser before they could react. “Shouldn’t have thrown them in here unrestrained, but I was honestly kind of hoping they’d kill you for your betrayal. Anyway…” Whumper sighed. “Now I have to figure something else to do with you. I don’t need you anymore— I have Caretaker now. But I can’t let you go either.”

Whumper unchained Whumpee and dragged them out of the room. Whumpee was hardly able to resist.

At the end of a long hallway, Whumper threw open a door.

“Do what you want with them. They’re useless to me now.” And Whumper dropped Whumpee at the feet of their underlings.

redstainedsocks:

Devils in the Details

This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!

Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.

It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.

Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him. 

“Now the passcode.”

He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.

“The passcode.”

They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.

“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.

Keep reading

It’s Friday evening and the work is done. All the work. 

I thought I’d try something I haven’t yet, which is to open myself up for interrogation. I’m not sure quite how much of your interest in what I write is down to me, the person, but I’d hope there’s at least a smidgeon in there. And so, dear reader, what I’d like to do is open the floor, and let you fire a question off.

Here’s the deal: for the rest of tonight (and bear in mind I’m English, and it’s already 9pm here), I’ll answer anything that’s asked of me in public, providing it’s not requested otherwise. 

Who knows, it might go well, and I’ll do it again. That’s why it’s an experiment. There’s nearly three hundred of you now, so I’m hoping at least one of you has something that’s flitting across their pretty minds. 

Here’s to hoping.

C

P.S. And while I say I’ll answer anything in public, that doesn’t mean you’ll get a straight answer. I reserve the right to be inventive, distracting, and/or evasive, as I see fit. I’ve got to retain some control, after all.

Devils in the Details

This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!

Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.

It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.

Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him. 

“Now the passcode.”

He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.

“The passcode.”

They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.

“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.

It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure. 

“Very good. See how easy this can be?”

He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.

“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”

No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.

“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.

Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”

And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.

“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”

“Can I have some water?”

There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy–the door, and the man– off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.

“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”

His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?

“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn’t you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.

Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”

“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”

These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”

“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”

He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.

Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”

He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.

“No, the threat of more pain, that’syour motivation.”

“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”

“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger. 

“Won’t hold back!”

That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.

“I know,” Blake replies.

His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he’s going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.

The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.

“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.” 

That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.

That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.” 

comfy-whumpee:

A Month Of Whump Mafia Madness 1: Snitches and Stitches. CN: food / starvation mention.

@iaminamoodymoodtoday,@wildfaewhump,@ishouldblogmore,@lektric-whump,@that-one-thespian,@raigash

-

Bennett Kennedy broke over a piece of bread.

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.

He was in the care of Alfonse Dechart.

whumper-in-training:

ACP au - spies and stuff

Yes this exists, yes it will probably continue to exist. Sorryy.

He’s thrown back in the chair, water drips from wet strands of his black hair.

“Well, who was your informant?”

“Fuck you.” Zak seethes. “I’m not telling you shit.”

The team’s target, Kamal Vittal, sighs before making a gesture to his henchmen. Zak is pulled out of the chair again and his head is pushed into a tank filled with water.

Bubbles rise to the surface as he thrashes and fights to breathe. He’s kept down longer this time until it feels like his chest might explode.

Them he’s pulled out and he takes gasping breathes of air. Vittal forces him to his knees with a simple shove down.

“Who is it agent? You’re not really going to die for a traitor, are you?”

The image of Ash flashes in his mind, his stand-offish attitude that slowly made way for his inner charm and warmth. And slowly made its way into Zak’s heart.

He flushes at the thought, he’s not sappy like Isaac and Arthur. The two co-leaders were already starting to make comments about them being reminded of themselves. Like Layla said, he was running short of jokes that didn’t sound hypocritical as is.

The thoughts of his team make his eyes sting with tears. It’s been so long now. They were coming to get him soon. Right?

“Oh, is it all getting too much for you, boy?” Vittal sneers. “If you give me the name, I’ll let you go, how about that?”

Zak wipes his eyes angrily, “I’m not saying anything, how many times do I have to say it? Losing your hearing or something?”

Vittal growls before storming to the spy. He grabs Zak by his hair and drags him to the tank.

Zak struggles against the painful grip. Fear taking over him as he’s forced to face the water, his nose already getting wet.

“I’m not going to let you up this time. I will drown you if you do not give me the name right now.”

Zak watches his bloodied and beaten reflection, his skin starting to go pale from being kept in dark cells all day. A single tear drips, adding to the endlessly large trough.

“I said no. Kill me already. I’m not telling you anything.”

His head is plunged underwater, the world turns to a blue hue as he tries to hold his breath. His hands grip the edge of the tank and he tried to pull himself up, but the fist clenched in his hair stays, pushing him down into the water

He watches as bubbles of breath escape him and he knows that his time is limited. He tries to think of his team as his last thoughts. His lungs feel like they are going to burst.

His legs kick out in one last attempt to escape. Eventually, he can’t hold his breath anymore and large air bubbles burst at the surface of the water. The body underwater start to go limp, staying there even as the hand lets go, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

Suddenly, he’s pulled out in one quick motion. He feels his back land in another’s arms as he retches and coughs out water. Words fall out of the mouths of two blurry figures and he can’t make out either.

Zak can tell that some kind of fighting is happening around him, grunts and gunshots surround him. He starts to be able to understand the words someone is mumbling to him.

“It’s going to be okay, Zak. We’ve got you, I’m sorry we took so long.”

He looks up to find two people, Isaac and Ash, the latter with tears in his eyes.

“Zak! Are you okay?”

Zak pulls his lips into a shaky grin, “Never better.”

Isaac smiles back and the three are joined by Arthur and Layla who had managed to take down Vittal and his henchmen.

Arthur ruffles his hair and looks at him sadly.

“I’m sorry, Zak. We couldn’t find him. We didn’t stop looking, I swear.”

“I know, it’s okay, Arthur.”

The sniper of the team let out a huff of laughter. “You’re doing just fine, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, Layla. I wasn’t about to die or anything. You can all go back if you want.”

Ash huffs before picking Zak up in a bridal carry, much to the flustered protests of the other.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Zak sighs before leaning into him. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

They both share a look before laughing. Ash starts to walk out of the room, carrying Zak with him. Isaac and Arthur follow, leaning into each other as they talked. Layla sighs at the group’s romantic nonsense before walking out of the door behind them. She stops in the dark corridor as the others continue to make their way out of the base.

Her trained ears pick up a small sound. “Hey!” she calls out. The others stop. Arthur’s expression darkens.

“What is it? Did he have back-up?”

Layla just puts a finger to her lips and quiet whimpers could be heard.

She follows the noise, taking out her gun before entering another room.

There was a girl in the corner, a leather collar around her neck and a tag around her ankle.

Ash’s eyes widen.

“R-Rosie?!”

a-class-attempter:

“You know, I thought you’d be better at this whole ‘interrogation’ thing. So far the only information you’ve gotten out of me is what I think of your stupid ass.”

Summer Of Whump - June 3rd- Facade

~prompt list~

@summer-of-whump

CW: Interrogator / Whipping (brief) / Threats /

Whumper strode along the floor, their boots making a clunking sound with each step as they circled Whumpee.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

Whumpee’s eyes burned into the floor. They were nothing but the eagle’s prey. Nowhere to run, no one to save them.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

“You know,” The footsteps paused for a moment, making Whumpee’s heartbeat pick up. “I’m not falling for this pathetic excuse of a defiant facade.” Whumpee clenched their jaw, trying to stop their trembling. Breathe. In and out. 

“The others might believe it, but me? I have patience,” They bent down slightly, taking Whumpee’s jaw and whispering in their ear, breath hot along Whumpee’s skin, raising goosebumps, “And darling, I have the patience to break you to a weak pulp, begging me to forgive you.”

A whimper escaped Whumpee’s lips as they cringed away from Whumper.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone.

Whumper smirked, standing up straight and walking to the side of the room, out of Whumpee’s peripheral vision.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

Whumpee’s heartbeat picked up even more. They were in trouble. What were they gonna tell their team?!?!….did their team even care about them?

No. Don’t say that, of course they do. …Then why did their team leave them here?

Jesus, just talking to themself was enough torture, never mind Wh-

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

As each step got closer, Whumpee could feel themself shaking. A whip was brought down hard against their back. Whumpee cried out, bound hands fighting against the metal chair’s arms as much as they could. 

They bit their lip hard, refusing to make a sound. Just hold on a little bit longer, they’ll come to rescue me.

“Where is your team’s base?” Whumper’s voice was demanding. They wanted the answer, and they knew they were going to get it.

Whumpee just bit their lip, slowly raising their head, glaring at Whumper as tears brimmed at the edge of Whumpee’s eyes, threatening to fall. Whumper simply tilted their head, “Where?”

Whumpee just spat at them. They didn’t know what else to do. How in the world do they not just give it all up. They could just tell Whumper, they wouldn’t have to go through all this pain!

Whumpee watched, petrified, as Whumper’s face darkened. “Oh you’re going to fucking pay for that,” They growled.

And they did. 

Twenty lashes later Whumpee crumbled, they couldn’t take it anymore. They gave in. Whumper was right, it all was just a dumb defiant facade. Their team didn’t deserve them. They were better off with Whumper…