#moneymakers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coldresolve · 3 months

Text

Moneymakers, pt.xliii // the_attic_181120XX

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

Knuckles connect right under his eye, nearing the slope from his cheek to the bridge of his nose, and while the force behind it isn’t particularly damaging, it’s still enough to make his face snap sideways. The gasp he lets out stems mostly from surprise. In the moment where he takes a step backwards, gloved hand reaching to touch the site of impact, another punch lands on the side of his head, clipping his ear. That stings.

Renee sees red.

He pushes forward through flailing arms, slamming into the guy hard enough to knock them both over. Conrad lands partially on the mattress of his bed, and Renee follows closely behind, barely bracing himself before he shouts and brings his fist down, twice. A glimpse of red flying from the third one, low squawks of distress, barely noticeable under the ringing in Renee’s ears. But somehow, through the blows, Conrad manages to curl one leg up and plant a foot in his abdomen. He doesn’t have enough room to kick the wind out of him, but he accomplishes a solid push instead, one that throws Renee’s weight off, and he topples onto the bed, clawing at the covers as Conrad slips away, clearly headed for the door.

He doesn’t make it far. As soon as Renee has righted himself, he lurches forward, manages a slim grasp in the fabric of Conrad’s shirt. A hoarse cry is choked back when the collar draws tight over his throat, as is the one he tries to let out when he accidentally supports his weight on the bad leg in an attempt to keep his balance; his knee buckles completely, like the whole leg just gives out. The shirt slips from Renee’s fingers as Conrad sinks to the floor with a cry.

It’s almost eerie, how quickly Renee’s rage slides from frantic into something different. The sight of downed prey flips another switch. Your core is still burning, but your eyes latch on to him, much, much colder.

You get to your feet, close in his sorry excuse for a slipstream, boots treading over the drops of blood he leaves behind. You plant a foot on his lower back, and he crumples beneath you. He lets out this pathetic groan which only solidifies your desire to smear his guts on the wall. It’s just you and him, and nothing else. Nothing around you. Nothing in between.

You straddle his back, one gloved hand pushing his head to the floor, just keeping it steady. He can’t turn far enough to look you in the eye, but you can look into his clearly enough. There’s panic there, fear, but beneath it – what else? – disgust. He tries to hit your leg, weakly pushes at your knee, neck straining to raise his head. Wriggling, like a miserable little worm.

You’re sort of hoping something in his face breaks on the first punch. That’s the brand of effort you put into it, anyway; you want something to cave in. But once your fist has landed, and you hear that hoarse grunt of pain, feel his body twitch underneath you, you can’t bring yourself to pause and check. You just hit him again.

And again.

And again, until you lose track of anything else. Fucking cursed rhythm. The pain in your elbow rears its head, the bone that never really got a chance to heal. You can’t hear him anymore. You can’t hear yourself. You only hear the impact, the bludgeoning, aimless. The yawn of a void that aches to be filled, and what a goddamn bore it is. You’re predictable. This song is getting old, it’s nauseating, but you can’t stop.

And again.

And—

Davin’s voice is nearly inaudible. Intonation is hard to distinguish, as is volume. “Renee,” he says.

Conrad gasps beneath him, head still pressed down. Blurry splatters of vermilion on the floor. Renee stops, somehow. His fist hovers beside his shoulder, shaking. Teeth locked, panting through his nose. His vision is so clouded, he can barely see.

“Save it,” Davin tells him.

One of Conrad’s hands pushes against the floorboards in another attempt to get up. Blood bubbles from his nose, gets caught in the creases of a wince. Voice rattling, but there’s a trace of bitter laughter in it, too. “He’s, he’s using you.”

Renee doesn’t move. Doesn’t punch, but doesn’t let up, either. His thumb digs into Conrad’s cheek. His own breathing rings hollow in his chest, makes his whole body vibrate. It feels good to grind someone’s face into the floor. It feels fucking good.

But he’s calming down. He’s in control.

“Renee,” Davin repeats. Sounds impatient.

Renee lets out a hiss through his teeth, sneering as he grabs Conrad arm and twists it onto his back. Grunts of effort rise from Conrad’s chest, straining to pry himself loose. Thin little noodle arms, what the fuck does he expect? It’s not even a contest. Dumb motherfucker. Dumb fuck. Dumb fuck. Renee pins both wrists with one hand. He avoids looking at the guy’s face directly, even when a gasp sends pink spittle flying. The red in his periphery is enough to grasp the idea.

As Renee is patting down his pockets for the handcuffs, still breathless, he hears the chain rattle from a few feet to his right. Shuts his eyes, baring his teeth. If he has to take another smug look from the mop, he’s pretty sure he will actually, physically explode. He just holds a hand out in Davin’s direction, and waits, until the nonchalant footsteps have drawn near, and something bumps the palm of his hand.

Once the cuffs are on, he lets Conrad go entirely. Pushes himself to his feet, turning his back on them both as he digs his fingers into the joint of his elbow, searching for reprise from the pulsing waves of pain. He clicks open the button on his wrist to pull one glove off. When he touches his upper lip, his fingers, still shaking, come away red. He thought he could taste it; he spits on the floor. Wipes the bottom half of his face in his shirt. What the fuck am I doing? But he’s in control. He’s in control.

After a deep breath, Renee finally turns to Davin. Blank expression. Psycho. All the man does is hold the eye contact for a bit, and then wordlessly shift to look at Conrad on the floor. Renee steels himself, follows his gaze.

Lying on his side, half curled around himself. There’s a gash running parallel through the one eyebrow, another splitting the skin of his cheekbone. Blood from the nose too, and the mouth. Red marks of rapidly forming bruises, scattered all over that one side of his face. It’s already starting to swell. He's staring dead-eyed at something the floor directly in front of his face.

A molar. Looks like two at first, but no. It’s just cracked in half.

Renee inhales deep. Sets his jaw as he walks back to Conrad’s side, not that he really stands a chance of playing it off like nothing happened. He coughs to mitigate the uneven feeling of his own voice. “Get up.”

Shaky breathing interrupted briefly when Conrad swallows with some effort. That rattling sound again, like there’s something in his throat. “You s-, see it, don’t you? He’s using you.”

“Get up, Conrad.”

A grimace. “Go to hell.”

Renee feels his body tense up again, comes within a hair’s breadth of unleashing that energy in a hard kick. Instead he bows down to grab an upper arm. Conrad draws in a sharp inhale as Renee pulls him up. Strongly favoring the good leg, he staggers to keep his balance as Renee maneuvers him out the door, with Davin following closely behind.

It takes Renee a few too many moments of frustrated hauling along to realize Conrad isn’t just being difficult for the sake of it. He does try to keep up, but even the limping is off kilter, visibly dizzy. They’re halfway down the hall when he lets out a whine and sinks again, and Renee finds himself catching Conrad’s whole weight by the arm before he can fall on his face.

So be it. Renee picks him up. Hears the muffled croak as Conrad’s diaphragm is poised on one shoulder, the noises of discomfort for each step Renee takes. He’s skinny, but a hundred-and-some pounds still isn’t a light task to carry up a winding flight of stairs – by the time they reach the platform, Renee is winded once again, feels the sweat building under his clothes.

He drops Conrad rather unceremoniously in the open space in the middle of the room, and steps out of the spotlights’ rays to gather his bearings. Wipes his nose again – still bleeding, but it’s subsiding – as Davin takes up his usual seat behind the monitor, shaking the mouse to stir it from slumber. Their eyes meet. Renee is ready to snap back at another mention of the time, but it doesn’t come. Davin just turns to the computer. Types out a short command, then poises one elbow on the table, a closed fist covering his mouth.

Another deep breath, and more than one silent refrain of, It’s just a job. Get it over with. Renee turns. In passing, he hears the near-silent whisper from the body hunched on the floor.

“Don’t make me stand up.”

Gritting his teeth, Renee fishes both ends of the chain from the hook in the wall. It clinks from the exposed rafters above, sways with his movements as Renee returns to Conrad. He secures one end to the handcuffs by the heavy carabiner, fumbling briefly with the locking mechanism, getting more and more frustrated with how much his hands are shaking. Once it’s fastened, he pulls Conrad up by the arm again, eliciting a groan, and only lets go when Conrad’s trembling uncertainty has dimmed enough that he can at least keep himself vertical. And then Renee steps back, pulling the other end of the chain with alternating hands, until it draws taught, lifting Conrad’s bound hands up toward his shoulder blades. The wince, the way his torso curls forward, and his shoulders hunch to accommodate. He’s staring at the floor, teeth bared in a grimace. The streaks of blood on his face are drying rapidly under the heat of the lights, even if the wounds are still bleeding.

Renee can be cruel if he wants to. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Really, what’s another stream on his conscience? He can slip into the role of that giddy, vindictive host, and put on a show for the depraved. He can earn his fucking money, whatever that takes, and then fuck off to Vegas to see how long it’ll last. He pulls the balaclava out of his pocket, drags it over his head. These things are always mildly itchy, for some reason, and his stubble gets caught in the fabric when he moves his head.

It’s a reluctantly shared glance that settles it. A simple nod, and the press of a button. They’re live.

It takes him an extraordinary amount of time to speak. For the first minute of the stream, he slowly walks across the room to pick up a folding chair leaned against the wall. Its legs drag loudly across the floor as he hauls it back towards what he knows is center frame. “Ladies,” he mutters, and he lets that linger for a while. Flips open the chair, placing it no more than a foot from Conrad’s side. As he sits down, crossing one ankle over his knee, he lets out a sigh that gets caught in the fabric over his face. Scratches at his chin through the balaclava. “Gentlemen... Attic... Welcome. So on and so forth.

“It’s been a week, hasn’t it? But he’s not dead, so you can stop speculating. He’s even relatively intact still.” Renee hesitates. Nods his head towards Conrad’s face, but doesn’t take his eyes off the camera. “Don’t mind all that, we had a mutual disagreement.” He chuckles dryly, but it fades into another sigh, gaze wandering to the side. “Sure has been seven days on the calendar,” he mutters, trailing off for a moment, before he catches the eye of the lens again. “I wish I could show you all a gimp – sorry, glimpse of what’s been going on behind the scenes, but honesty, it’s been pretty uneventful. Just your average administrative bullshit. Paperwork, filing cabinets, office meetings… Boring shit. Lame, some might call it. Eh?”

He elbows Conrad lightly in the thigh, and although it elicits a hiss, Conrad doesn’t turn his head. Just keeps it bowed facing the opposite direction, hands curled into fists behind him.

“He agrees,” Renee concludes. Laughs again, and while it’s a far cry from genuine, he thinks it might at least be fake in a way that he can stomach. He makes a big show of stretching his arms out, only to fold his hands on the back of his head, leaning backwards. “Yeah, so, with all the usual coworker drama, I’ve been racking this galaxy brain of mine for ways we could have some fun for a change. Loosen up a little bit, y’know? Forget the stressors of our nine-to-fives in exchange for… something more lively. And the best way to do that, as far as I’m concerned—”

“I love my dad.”

Renee pauses. “Huh?”

Shoulders tense, eyes still fixed to the wall, blood dripping from his chin. Conrad blinks rapidly for a few seconds, swallowing. “I love my dad,” he says again, louder this time. Deep breath. “I love Howard.”

Renee nods a little, brows raised. “Heartwarming, C-boy.”

Swaying ever so slightly where he stands, Conrad continues. “I love Paisley, and Jude, and the, and the twins. I love Ma and Bill.”

Renee coughs. “I kinda had this whole bit planned out, you know.”

“I love, I love everybody.”

Renee snorts. “What, are you fuckin’ Jesus now? You know I’m included in that last one, right?”

Conrad lets out a terse breath though his nose. Still doesn’t look at him.

Renee casts a few raised-brow glances between Conrad and the camera. “Anythin’ else you’d like to share with the class?”

A minute shake of his head.

It’s that look Conrad has afterwards, resigned, something almost content in his posture, that finally makes it click for Renee. He freezes, feeling his shoulders sink. Suddenly struggles to process the implications of what just happened.

Was that goodbye?

For a few seconds, he forgets they’re live. Just sits there, hands still locked at the back of his head, staring into nothing. It takes a while before he’s able to gradually pull himself out of it. He clears his throat and gets to his feet, moves the chair off to the side. Wants to say something, to keep the show going, but he doesn’t know how.

Why today? Why did these big shows of defiance, this fucking declaration of martyrdom, have to come today, of all days, when Renee’s nerves are already in tatters, when the whole thing is already making him sick to his stomach?

He ends up by the table in the back, running his gloved fingers past the various objects. Eyes latch on to the syringe, waiting. The liquid encased in glass, measured out beforehand, is a clear brownish yellow. The needle is so slim, it’s barely even visible against the grain of the tabletop.

His voice sounds distant. Casual, but distant. “Hallucinogens are kind of funny,” he says. “There’s a plant called datura – it’s everywhere, it’s a weed, really. You smoke the leaves. Sometimes, it makes you trip for a few days. Other times, it triggers lifelong schizophrenia. Other times still, it just straight up kills you. Wild shit.”

He picks up the syringe, holds it carefully between two fingers as he circles back to Conrad’s side. Posture rounded as the guy pulls for comfort along the chain’s reach. His eyes are still fixed to the floor, but the muscles of his jaw are taught.

“This isn’t datura,” Renee says. “It’s not gonna drive you crazy, at least not permanently. I think,” he adds, laughing uncertainly. He can brush it off as a play on ignorance about the drug’s potency, but it’s a bait and switch. In reality, DMT isn’t all that - Renee just doesn’t know what to do.

How long is he supposed to wait for that feeling to reappear? The focus is lost, and in its place is this razor sharp amalgamation of everything and nothing at all. He can’t think.

They’ve gotta see through the act, whoever’s watching. Isn’t it fucking obvious?

Back at the fixture in the wall, he briefly pockets the syringe to haul the chain down further. The unmistakable whine from Conrad as his hands are forced upwards, arms stretching out behind him. Gasps of pain, an effort to writhe free that dissipates as he curls further forward to ease the strain on his shoulders. Soon enough, he has to stand on his toes, arms raised to the extent it looks unnatural, and Renee knows that if he keeps going, Conrad’s shoulders will both dislocate. He secures the chain then, and spends a few moments just circling, watching. Pretending.

Conrad is shaking again. The occasional jerk doesn’t seem intentional, it’s always followed by a small groan. The swelling of his face is starting to creep towards one eye, threatening to force it shut. Dried flakes of blood crack at every grimace, and the parts of his skin that aren’t dark red instead have a sheen, as beads of sweat spring from his forehead, his upper lip.

“Already out of breath, huh…?”

With all his energy spent keeping his weight off aching shoulders, it seems none can be spared for a flinch when Renee digs the syringe into Conrad’s shoulder.

Renee pushes the plunger in, slowly.

Halfway down, he hesitates. Eyes flickering.

Fuck it.

He pulls the needle out, quickly. As he trails backwards toward the camera, hands obscured from view, he drives the needle through the palm of his leather glove and bottoms out the plunger. Doesn’t feel it pinch, but he’s not sure he even would, it’s all muddled. He spins around again, grinning, and makes a show of brandishing the empty syringe to the camera before he tosses it away.

It's not penance, it doesn’t right his wrongs, and he’s not trying to dilute that fact; but maybe half and half is only fair.

Fair. Even as he picks the bat up, drags it along the floor, sees the distressed glances from the victim he circles. Fucking fair. Even as he raises it, and places the end in the middle of Conrad’s back, and pushes down.

A hoarse cry, but it’s wordless, so Renee increases the pressure. It finally draws out a “Stop – don’t.”

Renee snorts. He stops, only to come around and, drawing the bat in a wide arch behind him, he swings. The dull thud as it contacts Conrad’s abdomen, driving the wind out of him, doesn’t seem to hurt as much as the resulting full-body jerk. He trips in place, hands behind him open claws, body seizing, before he finally manages to heave in a breath. One proper cough, and a series of others that are suppressed to keep as still as possible.

The onset following an intramuscular injection is two minutes. Renee spots it in Conrad before he feels it in himself. As he circles, Conrad finally forgets the stoic act and strains to look him in the eye. Something there is dawning. A fear that feels more raw than it usually does, less inhibited. Dilated pupils which keep drifting, from Renee’s face to the bat, and eventually – to the wall behind Renee. His breath hitches in his throat, and he blinks hard, struggling to keep his gaze levelled in the same spot.

Renee brings the bat down again, overhand hit. He aims for the lower spine this time, and he doesn’t pull his weight. Conrad lets out a cry, and evidently fights the urge to not right his posture too much, as if he’s split between the pain in his back and the one in his shoulders. His voice creaks. “Please s-stop, please stop, it hurts, okay, please—”

Renee watches Conrad’s wide eyes drift again, and it’s strange. The guy keeps mumbling in that fragile, pleading way, and while it’s still presumably directed at Renee, his focus seems to be on the wall entirely.

“It hurts, okay, it hurts, it hurts—I didn’t—don’t hit me, don’t—”

He would’ve laughed. Perhaps in a past life, perhaps if he hadn’t felt it. He feels drunk, but not drunk. It’s the same lack of orientation, but missing the vital buzz. He raises the bat. He brings it down. He hears the cry of pain, the begging. Nothing.

“Stop, just stop, oh my god, please just stop—”

Whenever Renee moves, or breathes, or blinks, it feels detached, like he’s standing on one end of a tunnel, viewing reality through the pinhole at the other end. He brings the bat down, it draws out a scream, and this sequence is repeated ad nauseum, but nothing happens.

He brings the bat down, it does nothing, nobody’s there, he’s not even doing anything, he’s been dead for a while, his corpse is baking in the sun, the light is blinding, he can’t see, he doesn’t feel it, he can’t feel a thing, the sun isn’t even there, there is no sun, there is no tunnel, there is no corpse, there is no bat, but he brings it down, he doesn’t pull his weight, it’s what they want, he can be cruel, he brings it down –

It’s not until he hears the scream that Renee realizes the hollow thud of the bat against flesh was accompanied by another sound just then – a low pop of sorts, but wet-sounding, almost soggy. Gritting his teeth, he stumbles a few steps backwards, but the noise follows him, and Conrad is writhing. Something about his arm, gleaned from cries that all mesh together, the inarticulateness of his agony. The sound loops around the room like a vortex, deafeningly loud, amplified by itself like an endless feedback loop. Something about his arm.

The room is so hot. Nagging, pulsing.

Renee isn’t seeing things, but it feels like he might as well be. Feels like he’s frantically scrambling to scoop up all the fragments of something that shattered. Disorienting, nonsensical, churning. The bat slides from his palm, hitting the floor with a thunk before it rolls off to the side. He locks his hands over the nape of his neck, pacing, struggling to not fold forward, stomach lurching. He shakes his head in the hopes it’ll dislodge whatever fucking clot is causing it. He feels like a lump of butter sliding around a frying pan, slowly melting – of all the images he could’ve come up with, that’s the one that pops into his head. The ground underneath him is slippery, and whatever part of him hasn’t dissolved yet, under this kind of heat, it will.

In his periphery, Conrad’s bare feet shift. His bad leg is only supported by the toes, while the knee of the good leg bearing the brunt of his weight is visibly shaking from exertion. The strain of his body, the sweat collecting on his shirt, the blood coagulating on the floor. One shoulder is dislocated. One has to assume, given the strange way it dips in at the edge of his collarbone. Grotesque, gross-looking.

Renee lets his arms drop to his sides, shuts his eyes. Stands there for a few moments, panting, head bowed, just treading water. The fan of the server whirs dispassionately. The spotlights are hot on his back. A drop of sweat trickles down his right side, over the soft protrusion of the bottom of his ribcage. It feels like an ant snuck under all the black layers and is now crawling over his skin. Strange how the sensation stands out so much when others fight harder for dominance. The pain in his elbow, the nausea, the overwhelming bewildered sense of urgency. The ant, crawling.

Gasps for air, the creaking of exhausted pain, interspersed with the clicking of the chain at every attempt to reposition a trembling body in a way that might bring relief. Renee hears the pause, the effort to swallow, followed by a high groan, too drained to even sound afraid anymore. Groan after groan after groan.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck. Fuck.

Renee opens his eyes. He moves quickly; he has to.

His hands shake too badly to hit the camera’s button on the first go, so he sets his jaw and yanks out its power supply instead. He doesn’t spare a glance in Davin’s direction. Nor Conrad’s, as he resolutely crosses the floor. He has to pull the chain down a bit to free the link from the fixture in the wall, prompting a scream from Conrad, which turns into a yelp when the chain is freed, and Renee lets it go entirely. Conrad crumples to the floor like a ragdoll, with no chance of bracing himself for the landing. Doesn’t make a sound when he hits; maybe he blacked out.

Renee doesn’t stop to check the aftermath. He rips the balaclava off his head as he storms out of the room. Allows himself, finally, to heave for the air he’s been lacking. It’s all static in his head as he stumbles down the stairs, a tumultuous mess of half-finished thoughts, impulses, images flashing on repeat, blood and noise and flesh and screaming, hammering against the inside of his skull. His shoulder slams into the wall when the stairs pivot along their axis, and he staggers down the last flight, tripping at the bottom, landing on his hands and knees. Crawling forward, pausing when his lurching stomach finally wins, and he retches – dry. He lets out a grunt. Manages to push himself halfway to his feet again, but then he hits the wall, slides down, presses his back against the plaster, heaving. Stars dance across his vision, feels like a visualization of the pins and needles that wash through his whole body.

His hands shake so bad, it takes him five or six tries to finally get the button of the glove undone, and when he forcefully yanks the leather off, he hears a seam somewhere rip. Brownish liquid stains his hand, mixed with sweat, thick like honey, and just as sticky. His palm is otherwise spotless. No blood, no injection site.

The needle never breached his skin.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

#writing #moneymakers #conrad #renee

48 notes · View notes

coyotehusk · 1 year

Text

Renee & Conrad from Moneymakers // @coldresolve

#moneymakers #Renee #Conrad #there’s a lot of cool imagery in this song and I did none of it #I hope it’s okay that I’ve done so much fan art #I have a very short comic idea based on another song #but I’m like #maybe that’s too much #Spotify #coyote husk draws #headphones in

164 notes · View notes

kestros · 1 year

Photo

first mockup is done!! some things i want to change are the color of the spine linen (it’s way too different from the cover red ^^”) i want to remake the cutouts for the cover text (i grossly overestimated my sizes on the cricut), and to buy a lint roller because my cat is obsessed with rubbing her *white furs* all over my black linen... apologies for the gif quality, tumblr really hates gifs it seems. also, it’s not shown in any shots, but i did add those red endpapers! i’ll try to get a pic later. thank you for your support! @coldresolve

bonus roald :]

#moneymakers #mm #bookbinding

41 notes · View notes

suspicious-whumping-egg · 1 year

Text

Rock Bottom Part 3: A Moneymakers AU

This series is based on the Moneymakers series by @coldresolve. Part 1 can be found here.

When the car finally lurched to a halt for the last time, Renee felt like he was going to be sick. Not because of the steep mountain driving, hell, not even because he was being kidnapped and dragged off to the middle of nowhere.

Without the means of his various substances to keep him awake, he’d lulled off into an exhausted trance— and now that the sudden screech of the brakes had drawn him out of his stupor, he’d been thrust back into his broken body and forced to acknowledge all that came with it.

And the first thing his dreaded mortal form gave him was a sharp, frantic clawing in his stomach. Which, when he stopped to think for half a second, was likely attributable to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in… two days? Three? He just hadn’t had the energy to do anything, really, after his supply ran out. Couldn’t even be bothered to keep himself up and running. Hell, maybe it was good that he’d been snatched up by some creep. If anything could bring back his will to survive, it would be spite.

Now he had someone he could be determined to outlive.

And speak of the devil. Corbin flashed a sarcastic, annoyingly perfect smile at him as he opened the car door, as if the two were lovers rather than newfound enemies.

But before Renee could drag himself out of the car and push past his captor, Corbin held out a hand to stop him.

“Now Renee, I hope you understand, trust has to be earned.”

The house he’d pulled in front of probably wasn’t even his. And if it was, Corbin wasn’t from New York, Renee knew that much. Wasn’t from anywhere in the north, not with that southern charm that seeped from his words now that he was back on his home turf. Even without the accent, it was unmistakable.

Corbin chuckled at the withering glare he was given and pulled a thick pair of handcuffs from his leather satchel.

“Well, right now, you’re in the red. Not my fault. And maybe there’ll become a time we don’t need these, but for now, I’d rather not give you the option to get yourself in any more trouble.”

Renee’s hands clenched into fists on instinct.

He shouldn’t go down without a fight. Not again.

Yet there was nothing keeping Corbin from shooting him on the spot if he proved himself to be too much trouble to keep around. And he couldn’t take revenge on anyone if he was dead. Couldn’t leave a bullet in Davin’s head and take Conrad back for his own, couldn’t slash Corbin into pieces while he turned a mirror towards him, made him watch.

He scoffed, set his jaw, and held his wrists out begrudgingly.

Corbin tightened the cuffs in mere seconds.

“Good boy,” he snorted. “Wonder what’d happen if I told you to roll over.”

“I’d tell you to fuck off,” Renee muttered.

Corbin laughed.

“Maybe right now you would. But we’ll work on it. Soon enoguh, I’ll have you begging for orders.”

The words chilled Renee even more than being stripped of his knives, even more than the demeaning remark about his piercing. And from the way Corbin leaned over to wrap an arm around his waist, he’d failed to make his fear undetectable.

“Come on, you’ll look cuter covered in some blood,” he said with a grin, dismissive of Renee’s evident panic. “What’re you waiting for?”

He kept one hand on Renee’s waist the whole time they walked up to the house, the other firmly gripping between his handcuffs.

It was all Renee could do not to squirm at the touch— he only managed to force himself still because he refused to give Corbin the satisfaction of a reaction.

The mansion’s ornate French doors had five bolts on the outside, and he was thankfully released so Corbin could rummage for his keys. When the final lock had been turned, he swung the doors open, light filtering from the house into the morning’s darkness.

“After you.”

Renee wanted to strangle him.

Instead, he trudged throguh the doorway, trying not to stare at the luxury of the entryway. Corbin was richer than his parents, it seemed, by far. And that was no small feat.

Five different bolts were locked from the inside, with a near-identical set of keys, and then Corbin put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t get to stay upstairs, not until you’ve shown you can behave,” he said condescendingly.

“We’re going to the basement.”

He was dragged towards a narrow door and shoved down a dingy cement staircase. And his exhausted legs just couldn’t keep up— he tumbled down the stairs, facefirst, battered and bruised by the time he hit the floor. As he clambered to his feet, Corbin strode down the steps, an amused grin on his face.

God. What Renee would give to not have to deal with this all while sober. He hauled himself to his feet, eyes widening as he took in the room for the first time. It was similar to the attic setup— tripod, camera, laptop, restraints dangling from the ceiling, various torture implements hanging on a rack in the corner. That wasn’t what scared him.

The walls of the basement were lined with narrow, barred cell doors. And behind each door was a glimpse into Renee’s future.

One captive was covered in massive burn marks charred black around the edges, their face not even spared from the damage. Another’s hands were sickeningly warped and twisted, a mess of broken bones all held at unnatural angles by vice-tight bandages. The one closest to Renee was so emanciated that he could barely tell if they were alive, if not for the silent tears running down their cheeks— and maybe they wouldn’t be, if not for the tangled mass of tubes and needles protruding from their veins.

“Oh, that’s how I test everything I make in the lab,” Corbin said casually with a jerk towards the near cell, noticing how Renee stared. His grip stayed secure on his gun, even with his relaxed, friendly tone.

“Most of my customers want a bit of my methods to take with them, and I make them all myself. Paralytics, sensation amplifiers, the standard. But I also like to test the limits of the body. Jesse here has gone without sleep, food, movement, all that for… I think it’s been 8 weeks, by now. I’m trying to get them to 24.”

It had never dawned on Renee before that maybe he’d been taking it easy on Conrad. That there were creeps out there who were ten times sicker than him. He knew he couldn’t let Corbin see his fear, not if he wanted to avoid that fate, but his face still froze into a mask of terror.

He needed a line.

Corbin continued his spiel just as enthusiastically, even more so now that Renee’s apprehension was evident.

“But as you can tell, my audience has preferences. Different people for different things, for the most part. You know how it goes.”

He shoved his gun into Renee’s shoulder, forcing him towards the camera— and closer to the thick manacles dangling from above.

“And now it’s time to see what they want to do with you.”

#whump #moneymakers #red room whump #rock bottom: a moneymakers au

26 notes · View notes

julieyaramoon · 2 years

Text

Cash App free Money Daily! (2022) Free Cash App Money Generator Get 750$

Cash App gift card Codes Generator #GET NOW# 2022 Get Cash App Gift Card Generator (100% Working Active Codes)

12 notes · View notes

productsreviewq · 1 year

Text

2 notes · View notes

lowprotycoon · 1 year

Text

Scarface

#scarface #tony montana #mafia #mob #movie #alpacino #game #money #moneymakers #hustler

2 notes · View notes

ignivabd · 1 month

Text

GPT Profits Review : Mastering ChatGPT, Building & Selling Custom GPT Models for Lucrative Returns of 2K-5K Per Sale Plus Retaining Fee

Introduction: GPT Profits Review

Greetings and welcome to my in-depth GPT Profits Review post, the entire course that will transform your AI business strategy. Businesses that want to remain creative and competitive in today’s ever changing digital landscape are finding that integrating artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is becoming more and more crucial. GPT Profits is a revolutionary product in the field of AI-powered commercial endeavors, not simply another generic online course. This course provides students with the information and resources they need to fully utilize ChatGPT, OpenAI’s cutting-edge natural language processing model, thanks to its methodical approach and innovative tactics.

We’ll examine GPT Profits’ features, advantages, and real-world uses in detail in this study. This course provides a thorough road map for success in the rapidly growing AI sector, from comprehending the principles of AI entrepreneurship to putting cutting-edge selling strategies into practice.

Discover how GPT Profits can enable you to seize new possibilities, optimize your earning potential, and prosper in the rapidly evolving field of AI entrepreneurship by joining us as we dive into this fascinating area.

1 note · View note

thefreedomlifestyle · 4 months

Text

Low Cost Passive Income Opportunities !

💸 Unlock the World of Passive Income! 🌐 Download this FREE report now and discover the secrets to creating "set & forget" businesses that generate income day after day! 🚀 Don't miss out on these true passive income opportunities!

🌱 Learn how to effortlessly grow your passive income channels with minimal effort and skyrocket your earnings using evergreen business strategies! 💼💰

🔍 Discover the easiest, lowest-risk opportunities that you NEED to be a part of – these are the top-earning platforms of them all! Avoid gimmicks and focus on proven money-makers for sustainable success.

👉 Click below to access your FREE report on earning passive income without risk. 📈💡 Create "money-hubs" for true financial freedom, so you can spend more time doing what you love and less time in the office!

📚 All within this special FREE REPORT! 🌟

#PassiveIncome #FinancialFreedom #MoneyMakers #FreeReport #businessopportunity #workfromhome #online business #affiliatemarketing #entrepreneurship #make money online #super affiliate system

0 notes

randomthingsandpictures · 5 months

Text

9 Ways To Make Money While

Looking to earn some extra cash? Dive into the world of Pinterest and discover 9 educational methods to make money while expanding your language skills.

#MoneyMakingIdeas #MoneyMakers #MoneyTips #FinancialFreedom

0 notes

blaqsbi · 6 months

Text

Post: #moneymakers #fashion #designer #colour #style... https://www.blaqsbi.com/52jt

#moneymakers #fashion #designer #colour #style

0 notes

coldresolve · 3 months

Text

Moneymakers, pt.xlv // Speaking Your Language

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next (coming soon)

Freezing your balls off, Renee has to admit, is a weirdly sobering endeavor.

A second cigarette is held loosely between his index finger and thumb, ember flaring at every turn of the wind. He squats in the darkest corner of the patio with his arms poised on his knees, shivering whenever the subzero weather manages to slip through his clothes to cool the sweat that lingers on his skin. Hands still shaking slightly, but that might just be from cold; his face is starting to go numb, too, and whatever sparse movement he makes, like bringing the cigarette to his lips, or refreshing the screen, feels stiff. Requires effort.

Can we talk?

Received at 6:07 – but Renee didn’t read it until 7:51.

It started snowing sometime during the whole ordeal. Not enough to stick the landing, but every few breaths or so, Renee feels the prick in his throat of a snowflake he inhales. He can’t see the moon, can’t even see past the light emanating from the house; anything beyond the halfway point of the back yard is a void.

The screen dims slightly. He brushes his thumb against it, and it comes back to life. Another lungful of smoke, thick in his throat, makes the saliva in his mouth foam up. He swallows the bitterness. The phone is close enough to his face that he can focus on the individual pixels that make up the text. The cracks draw an almost imperceptible shadow across the screen, and he wonders if it’s a trick of the broken glass, or if the LEDs underneath have been damaged in some way. The tiny clock in the corner reads 8:54.

Fancy that, he’s already gotten older.

He shivers. The screen dims. He refreshes it. He takes another drag.

It feels like he’s been stuck in this cycle for hours, but whenever he tries to respond, something gets the better of him. What’s there to talk about? What part of it hasn’t already been said? The quiet reluctance in Lazarus’ demeanor, the air of guilt in that motel room. The moment of hesitation when Renee blurted it out – he's not blind. The sex is good, but it’s just not going to be them. Laz is too busy; Renee is too…

He takes another drag – but it burns in his mouth, awful out of nowhere - he’s smoking the fucking filter. Hacking loudly, he throws the butt away, and spends a good minute desperately spitting out the foul taste. When he has finally gathered his bearings and looks up again, the screen hasn’t just dimmed into standby, it has turned off completely.

Renee is a hair’s breadth from pressing the home button to unlock it again, but he stops himself. He’ll have to face it eventually, but maybe tonight is not the night. He feels depleted. Adding the aftermath of a more explicit rejection to the tally won’t do him any favors, and he’s not sure he has enough remaining control tonight to curb what he says.

Laz deserves better.

Grimacing, Renee rubs his forehead hard with a knuckle, settling further back against the wall. It just feels fucking awful. The cracks forming in the wall of shit he has managed to build up. What does he look like in the eyes of another? In the eyes of Lazarus? The unstable wreck of a man, barely grasping the tethers that keep him grounded, losing them over and over and over again. A man who somehow manages to fuck up every relationship he gets into, every job he works, every opportunity he is given.

And in the eyes of Conrad – the same, now enraged. Violent and cruel for no other reason than to gain… not control, but just the feeling of being in control. And failing miserably at even that.

He thinks about suicide again, and it’s different this time. Not some intrusive thought hammering through his skull, forcing his focus. Not something wreathed in spite or self-hatred, or glamorized through mental images of gore, the mess he’d leave behind, the trails of reactions to a violent death. This is calm. Clear. Sober.

He thinks about it as an option.

Quietly, along with the other routes he could go from here. Turning himself in and dealing with the repercussions of what he’s done. Leaving the house in the dead of night, fleeing this shithole state, fleeing the whole country. Or, well… he could just check out.

It wouldn’t have to be theatric. He could get drunk, down a bag and a half of pills, fall asleep. No drama, no shouting, no big parade. Scribbled on a post-it note on a desk nearby, perhaps, one last sentiment for the world: Yeah, nah, I’m good.

Strangely comforting, that whole idea. Grounding.

The breeze is picking up, the snow falls heavier. It melts on his skin, but the crystals on his sleeves glimmer in the low light. Somewhere far away, coming from the direction of the woods, the high-pitched wail of an animal, uncertain, seeking. A fox, maybe. The silence is otherwise his only companion.

Eventually, he lets out a halfhearted sigh. Presses the home button. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, the screen’s light stings his eyes, and he squints to read the time.

9:25.

His thighs ache from the uncomfortable position. Although he has cooled down enough to no longer shake, the iciness in his fingers has long since started to hurt. With a grunt – several, actually – he hauls his stiff body to its feet, pacing for a while to get the blood running. Rolls his shoulders and then his neck through several deep breaths, before he stretches his arms wide, and finally settles with a drawn-out sigh.

Maybe he has already made that decision, he thinks, if he’s being honest. Maybe that’s why he keeps drifting back to it, time after time. He’s always known he wouldn’t make it to thirty.

Metal clacks as he pulls the door handle, pushing the sliding glass door to the side, kicking off his shoes. The living room is dark, but beyond the nonexistent threshold to the kitchen area, the lamp above the dining table casts out its warm yellow glow. Renee swears he can taste bile in his throat at the sight of Davin sitting there, but he bites it down. Decides aggressively ignoring the fucker will do for tonight.

As he shuts the door again, shrugging off his jacket, the warmth of the house finally starts to seep in, searing through frozen skin. He throws the jacket over the armrest of the couch, rubbing life into his hands as he makes his way through the kitchen, gaze locked on the hallway –

And Davin casually gets to his feet, stepping out to block his way.

Stopping in his tracks, Renee’s hands drop to his sides. He takes a step to the left.

Snorting, Davin does the same.

Renee sharply turns on his heel. Lets out a terse laugh toward the ceiling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

“We’re not doing this.”

“We are, Renee.”

Renee turns back, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go to my room and get blasted, actually. High off my fucking—”

“Sit. Down.” Davin’s eyes are dark, and he doesn’t manage to keep the disdain out of his voice.

Renee snarls. “Or what, exactly?”

Davin’s jaw works, breaths coming slow and steady through his nose, eyes scanning his opponent. “I think we’ve left a lot between the lines,” he says low. “Things we might have to work out more explicitly.”

“Schedule a fucking appointment, then.”

“Conrad is right. I am using you.”

Renee pauses at that. His breathing is starting to pick up, the familiar heat in his chest. Hands flexing at his sides. Gnashing teeth.

“I’ve manipulated you,” Davin continues slowly. “Tried to get in your head. Steer you around. Pinned you to a sense of obligation.” He juts out his chin, raising a brow. “Do you want to know why?”

“In the name of good partnership, I assume,” Renee bites out dryly.

Davin smirks. Takes a deep breath, nodding his head slightly. “I put a price tag on entry,” he mutters. “Point zero two per view, eight and a half thousand viewers. Give and take, with the current exchange on ether, that’s four hundred thousand dollars.” With an earnest expression, he holds up a finger for emphasis. “In one night, Renee.”

The sneer fades from Renee’s face. He stares at Davin, shoulders sinking somewhat.

“We’re getting where we wanted to be,” Davin says, eyes intense. “I’m not gonna let you run this shit into the ground. Not now. Not after everything we’ve built here. I am trying to make this thing fucking worth it.”

Renee swallows thick, closing his mouth.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t see, perfectly clearly, the sheer scale of that number. Be lying if he said he could remember ever possessing even an eighth of that throughout his entire adult life. A decade in abject poverty. The memory of biting back shame, having to ask near-strangers if he could spend the night; and curling up behind dumpsters when he couldn’t.

400.000.

And yet…

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, eyes drifting to the knife clipped in Davin’s pocket – and the hand that has hovered next to it since this conversation started.

A knife, he realizes, that Davin doesn’t need to defend himself against Conrad.

The breath he ejects from his nose feels hollow. An involuntary chuckle bubbles up from his chest soon after, which in turn veers into free laughter. He turns, pacing a few steps through the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. Turns back around to face Davin, grinning wide. “If you wanted to call me stupid, you could’ve just led with that, you know?”

Davin frowns. “What?”

Renee throws out his hands. “I guess I gotta hand it to you. Owning up to being manipulative, as a manipulation tactic – that’s some fucking four dimensional chess shit.” He takes a step towards Davin. “What’s next, huh? If that doesn’t work, where do we go from here?”

Another step, and Davin shifts, almost imperceptibly. Shoulders set, eyes drifting to Renee’s chest – to keep his hips, hands and face all within the same periphery.

The gaze, Renee thinks, of someone who thinks they know what to look for. He chuckles, but it slides into a grimace of contempt. “I guess you could threaten to kill me.”

When he takes another step, Davin takes half a step backwards, blading his body – as if fights are neat enough to be swayed by the stance assumed before they even start. In Renee’s experience, the only thing that makes a real difference is size.

“C’mon, fucking reptoid,” he jeers. “Make it explicit. What are you gonna do?”

Another step. Two and a half, maybe three feet, is all that remains between them. Renee’s fists are clenched, core bubbling.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

Close enough.

Renee levels a hard shove to Davin’s chest, one that makes the man stumble backwards a few steps, off-center, with Renee following closely in his wake.

“Tell me. What the fuck are you g—”

It happens so fast, Renee barely has time to brace. Davin moves, but not to reel back for a punch, like Renee expected – instead he sharply whips his arm up, and his elbow hits Renee square in the face. His head snaps back, ears rumbling with the sound of cracking cartilage. He loses his balance instantly, sinking to his ass. Struggles to at least not keel all the way to his back, and blinking at a momentary blindness, he holds one arm in front of himself to block, but he can’t see if more blows are coming or not, or from where. The blood starts pouring quickly, a familiar touch down the front of his face, but the sensation is stronger than his usual nosebleeds. Really, pouring.

“Fucking idiot,” Davin sneers somewhere above him.

Renee instinctually follows the sound with his eyes, but his vision hasn’t returned yet. It’s like he’s passed out and conscious at the same time, black as night. He doesn’t know how to react to it. Just sits there, dazed.

Footsteps. The sound of something clicking.

A light that hits the wall, and in front of it, the vague silhouette of a chair. It’s still dark, but he can see the Davin now, a few feet to the right - or something green and generally leg-shaped, at least, circling just out of his reach.

Renee places both hands on the ground, and plants one foot, relatively firmly, beneath him. Gasps with the effort it takes just to focus on moving his body in the way he wants it to. He manages to push himself to his feet, straightening up uncertainly, staggering. The front of his shirt sticks to his chest in some places. He’s pretty sure the majority of what he swallows isn’t spit.

Blinking against dizziness, Renee struggles to keep Davin’s figure in focus long enough to read his intentions. The man moves around him steadily, taking his time. “You don’t keep fighting after a blow like that. You’re not gonna win.” A pause. “But you know that already.”

Renee grunts. “Fuck y—”

Davin lunges forward, and Renee seizes up, hands shielding his abdomen – only for Davin’s fist to hammer into his throat. Renee drops again, back scraping the corner of the dining table on the way down, and curls around himself, both hands clutching his neck. Dimly aware of the pain. Dimly aware that he can’t breathe, as if the internal mechanisms in his neck are paralyzed, and that his chest is convulsing as a result. He rolls on to his stomach, shakily pushes to his hands and knees, and it feels like an eternity passes before he is finally able to let out a cough. Ragged and coarse, and unbelievably agonizing. The simple act of drawing air into his lungs feels like he might as well have swallowed a mouthful of glass.

“Do you need me to say it in your language, Vaughan?”

Blood drips between his hands, a steady flow from his face, as his body spasms. Renee tries to croak out a response in between coughing, only to realize his vocal cords are paralyzed, too; he can’t even groan in pain. In his periphery, Davin steps closer. A grasp in the short remains of his hair pulls his head backwards, painfully straining his neck. Davin peers down, expression unreadable. The whole room spins around his looming figure, as if gravity itself keeps shifting.

Instinctually, Renee raises his right arm to shield his face – hesitates – continues its trajectory. He wraps a hand around Davin’s wrist. His whole body sways with the effort, and his grip feels clumsy, and Davin doesn’t budge. Movements camouflaged by the constant involuntary jerks of his body, blood from his broken nose sliding down towards his throat. Renee tries to speak again, but the air just croaks in his chest, formless.

Davin smirks. “Maybe you are stupid.”

Renee blinks hard, but manages to swallow – fuck, it hurts. Then a grin spreads across his face, flashing whatever blood stains his teeth. That smug little smile on Davin’s face melts into caution.

Davin’s knife clicks in Renee’s left hand.

They both move roughly simultaneously.

Renee’s grip on Davin’s wrist tightens to keep him from retreating, at the same moment he drives the blade up – but Davin doesn’t pull away. Instead he rams his leg forward, deflecting the knife against his shin, slamming Renee hard enough to knock him backwards onto the floor – Davin himself landing with his full weight knee-first on Renee’s chest.

The dizzying experience it is to have the air forcibly pressed out of his lungs. Renee hears the raspy half-cry that tears past his lips, too stunned to orient himself for a fraction of a second, which is all it takes for Davin to force his arm up, slamming the hand still clutching the knife hard into the floorboards. By some fucking miracle, despite a shooting pain in the bone of his wrist, Renee’s grip doesn’t waver. Breathless, he bucks his body against Davin’s weight, and finally gets the wherewithal to start throwing jabs with his other hand. And he’s in a bad position, but he thinks one of them makes a solid connection with Davin’s side –

Before Davin brings another elbow down on his face.

A sharp jolt of pain. Blindness, a static void. He can’t see what he’s struggling against, and when his left hand is slammed to the ground again, it opens, and the blade clatters against the floor. Heaving for breath as Davin’s weight momentarily leaves his chest, only to feel himself being hauled by the shoulder onto his stomach. He braces his hand against the floor to push himself up – but Davin’s knee resettles on his lower back, and his arm is yanked out from under him, pried up between his shoulder blades.

His right arm. The broken one.

Renee lets out a shout of frustration, writhing in vain to push the weight off his back. His voice is raw, but the words come out. “Get the fuck off me! Get the f—argh! Shit—”

It’s like Davin reads it in the way he’s struggling – he twists Renee’s arm just to the threshold where making wild movements no longer wins him a sliver of leverage, but instead causes enough pain to suck the air out of his lungs. Renee feels himself involuntarily curling in to Davin’s grasp, some desperate attempt to alleviate the strain on his broken bones, and in that moment, fingers grasp the his hair again, pulling his head back.

“I can tolerate a lot from you,” Davin growls in his ear. “But if you can’t show even a modicum of self-restraint here, I’m gonna drop the curtains on this whole fucking thing, you understand?”

“Argh, fuck, fuck—”

“I don’t care who I need to kill. Do you understand what I’m telling you right now?” Davin pushes his arm up further.

“Ffff—fucker, f—shit, stop—”

“Do you understand?” Followed by another notch, and the blinding tension in the joint seems to instantly triple.

Renee screams, back arching, free hand pushing at the floor. He spits it out, a hoarse cry scraping through his broken throat. “Yes! Fuck!”

It takes a second – emphasis – before Davin lets him go, all at once.

As soon as he is free, Renee kicks himself forward a few paces to get away, clutching his arm tight, panting. He rolls over on his back just in time to see Davin getting to his feet again.

“Jesus Christ,” Renee gasps.

Davin fixes his folded-up sleeve. He peers down at Renee’s cowering figure, almost in passing, before his eyes drift to his watch. It’s the eerily unbothered demeanor, the way he is barely even out of breath.

“Who are you?”

Bracing a hand on his knee, Davin leans down to pick the knife back up. Clicks it shut and clips it back in his pocket. He finally meets Renee’s gaze directly, but the moment of pause where he might have answered passes, instead, with the silent glance alone. One in which the power dynamic – Renee on the ground with Davin towering above him – isn’t lost between the lines.

He snorts.

And then he leaves the room.

Previous / Masterlist / Next (coming soon)

#writing #moneymakers #renee #davin

51 notes · View notes