A side blog to collect and post some original whumpy things. 18+ only. I tend towards female protagonists, BBU, and nsfw content.
[Intro / about me] || [Masterlist of my writing] || open for prompts, asks and requests
She/her || Europe || adult || Ao3: yet_another_sara
Leo's spin doctor searches for a way to twist the news in Ridley's favour.
Shout out to @hackles-up who lets me borrow her OCs!
Content / warnings: outside pov, mob whump, pretty immediate aftermath of noncon (no comfort), degradation (of a female character), implied noncon drugging, very frank discussion about murder, implied forced relationship. There's nothing explicit in this, but there are some pretty cold takes on the suffering of another.
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Jonah Kauffmann stirs some more sugar into his overpriced espresso, while he listens to his sister ruminate about her new job at some environment aid agency - the insane hours, the erratic boss, the burned out colleagues, shit pay, but the satisfaction of doing something genuinely good.
He hasn't interrupted her over the entirety of their dinner, and he still is not going to. If he did, she'd apologize and quickly make up by asking him about his own career, and while he has an excellent cover story, he doesn't like lying to family.
Some cosmic fate has decided that while Sarah does something inherently good for a living, Jonah does something inherently bad. It's nothing he's proud of; but he's aware of it. He is a bad guy, whose job it is to make other - usually, worse - bad guys look good. And he excels at that.
Working for Leo Luciano pays better than his previous PR job, his campaigns have much better funding, and usually the job is actually pretty chill.
His phone chimes, and he casts a quick glance at the preview. 'Gazette about to break a story on DH'.
Jonah shifts in his seat. Fuck. Maybe his job isn't always chill. DH. Danielle Hammond. She's been his main project over the past few weeks. Rich, blonde, sexy company heir gone missing after the dramatic reveal of her influential father being a kingpin of organised crime.
Stories like that - faces like hers - make numbers. Jonah's job is to make these stories stay just far enough from the truth.
The whole spin about her fleeing the country after collaborating with the police to betray her father has been Jonah's idea. The story should've faded out by now, hadn't her friends started some desperate campaign to find her.
Still, unless Frankie Mueller jumped ship, the Gazette shouldn't even be remotely in the position to break 'big news' about the case any longer.
This can't be good.
He downs his too sugary espresso.
"Are you still listening?", Sarah asks, and then, more worried. "Are you okay, Jo?"
"Not really. Work," he says and pushes his chair back. "Gotta deal with some urgent media bullshit. Sorry. I need to go."
"What? It's the weekend."
"Sorry," he repeats. "My boss can be a real bitch when I miss on something important."
Understatement of the century.
'What's the angle?', he types back, slipping into his jacket at the same time.
"Dinner is on me." He tosses some bills on the restaurant table.
"Jonah, this-"
'Romance.'
The fuck. Jonah knows more about Danielle's life, about her entire personality, than he does about his own siblings. It's almost a relief. The story has to be made-up gossip. Danielle Hammond doesn't do romance. Ever.
"Take care, Sarah! Catch up later!" He jogs out of the restaurant, about to text another source, hoping to confirm that there's no real danger, when another message pops up.
His boss. 'Ridley's place. NOW.'
Well, shit.
-
Leo and Ridley are standing in front of the huge TV, on opposite ends of the couch, both tense. While Jonah knows he should find their stances alone concerning, though, he's taken in by something else.
She is there.
It's startling to see her in person.
Somehow, he thought she'd be locked up in some basement cell. But no, in contrary, Danielle Hammond is dozing on the couch of one of the city's most exclusive penthouse apartments.
The marks of torture however are just the sort he's imagined. Whoever has had her last - Ridley, he presumes - left her like in the middle of the act. They haven't even bothered to pull down her dress; her lower body and the irrefutable evidence of what has been done to her shamelessly exposed.
Jonah's jaw clenches at the sight. "Could you maybe... cover that up?"
"Don't look at it, if you cannot stomach it, boy," Leo says sharply. "We have a bigger problem."
With a freshly poured drink in his hand, Ridley strolls over to the couch and sits down to tug Danielle's dress down.
He does not pull back his hand though. It's still there, under the fabric, between her legs, slowly stroking.
She whimpers softly, but doesn't wake.
"There are no problems," Ridley says, leaning back into the cushions. "We have an opportunity. Oh! Here we are!"
He reaches for the remote with his free hand and unmutes the TV. Recordings of him are running on the screen, favourable, jovial; at charity events, at conferences, as keynote speaker.
"...Ridley Lordin, head of the - recently renamed - Ridley Corporation, infrastructure magnate, business genius, aspiring politician - AND, the entire coast's most sought after bachelor..."
Was there a mixup? This isn't a story about DH. It's a story about RL. He frowns, turns around to ask, and freezes when he hears the next sentence.
"... might have found romance, our friends at the Gazette uncovered. And his rumored sweetheart is, dare I say, unexpected."
No. No. They can't have found about them. Not Ridley and Leo. That would topple everything. And it would be Jonah's death sentence. Not just death. There's much worse fates than death when you fail Leo Luciano.
"In an unforeseen turn of events of another story we've all been following for weeks, Ridley Lordin has been seen secretly dating missing millionaire heir Danielle Hammond."
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
"It's fine," Ridley says with a half shrug. "She's hot and interesting. I'm hot and interesting. That sort of gossip makes me favorably present in all sorts of key demographics that my campaign would pay tons of money for and might never reach anyway."
"Jonah," Leo says, voice pressed. "Can we kill this story?"
Jonah pinches the back of his nose, still wrapping his head around all this. "We… we could try to set up a story that contradicts it, but they seem to have a source. And they are right, this is an incredibly sexy story. It's not going to stay local, because interest in Ridley goes further than local. Regional, national maybe? Even if we kill the story, their names will be entwined." He casts a glance at the girl. Ridley has propped her up against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around her, almost an embrace. She has buried her face into his chest. It's a haunting sight.
Jonah sighs. "So yeah. We can kill the story, but we cannot kill her."
"Great. Fine, -"
Leo cuts Ridley off. "Amore. She needs to die."
"She can't." Fuck. Contradicting Leo is always a horrible decision. "If anyone were to find her, Ridley's name would be on top of the suspect list."
"What if I just roll with it then?"
Jonah's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. Leo frowns deeply.
The girl cuddles up into Ridley's side, as he casually talks over the silence.
"I've got her where I want her, really. She's all mine. And Barry - well, that's Governor Jackson for you - actually recommended I offer some more… domestic optics. A hot woman by my side is perfect. Especially since the boring old mayor has the absolute... dullest wife imaginable."
"First, thats not domestic vibes, that's erotic vibes. Still sells, but to another demographic. We'd need to redo her whole… public appearance to actually serve both. But then again, she's not just some random hot woman. Danielle is publicly known to be very... promiscuous. Half her fame is for some -admittedly very hot- sex tape with the Montgomery heir. The other half is for being the daughter of an imprisoned kingpin of organized crime."
"A sex tape?" Ridley's eyes gleam, as his hand roams Danielle's front, slips under the dress to fondle with her breast. "Juicy. She's never mentioned that."
"I can send you a copy. I've got it stored somewhere," Jonah says flatly. "But coming back to the point at hand. I don't think 'running with it' is a good idea."
Leo shrugs impatiently. "What if we took her far abroad, finish her off there, and make the bodyguard take the fall for it?"
"Leeeeeee! You said I could keep her!"
Fuck. Jonah isn't ready to be caught up in a relationship fight between the city's richest and the city's deadliest man. He shifts on his feet.
"Francis - that bodyguard - wouldn't go with a story that makes him responsible for…" He gestures at Danielle's violated body. "Well, all that. He'd talk, and he does know who he sold to. And if we kill him, the story gets pretty flimsy very soon. All that, while we still have Ridley's name tied into it. It's quite the risk."
"Careful, Kauffmann," Leo warns. "Remember who pays you."
"I could pay you better," Ridley chimes in. "Let us hear all options. Let's say we did roll with it. The sexual promiscuity stuff would face out, obviously. I mean. It's not like she'll get any chance to cheat on me. What about these… Daddy issues?"
Sweat pools in the back of Jonah's neck. He can feel Leo's icy glare on him.
"I… It's already an established narrative that she bailed on him, so… we can spin that." He licks his lips. The idea taking shape is pretty genius. For Ridley. It's another question, what his boss will think. Still. Leo cares about Ridley. And it's not like there's feasible alternatives. "Ridley… saved her. That's how we take control of the narrative. She came out to him about her doubts, about wanting to escape a world of crime. It was Ridley, who convinced her to cut the ties to her Dad. To actually bring him to justice. She hid with him, to be safe from her Dad's henchmen. It gives us everything. Ridley as a savior. Less doubts about her character. A plausible reason to reinvent her personality. And no reason to suspect Ridley having another - impossible to spin in your favor - affair."
A wide smile spreads on Ridley's face. Jonah can see how he easily charms the press. He just hopes he charms Leo just as easily. "Hear that, Lee Lee? It's perfect."
"Not quite yet," Jonah interrupts, before someone can point out the flaw in his plan. "Like. I can make a lot of that happen. We own Frankie Mueller, her trusted confidante, who will say everything we want him to as long as he doesn't incriminate himself. For some cleaner, more quotable testimonials, I have several people in mind who can be bought, or... well, convinced to confirm your sweeping love story. But. There's one obvious obstacle left." He tilts his head towards Danielle. "Your girlfriend has to play along."
Leo's forehead is creased in thought, but the murderous glint in his eyes is gone. He taps a finger to his chin, nodding to himself.
"Babe?" Ridley prompts.
"Alright." With a defeated sigh, Leo looks at his lover, then at the barely conscious woman on his lap. Danielle seems to shiver under Leo's gaze. "Fine. Leave that to me."
Mentioned Ridley Lordin belongs to @hackles-up, Lou is a tribute to @wildfaewhump.
No content warnings, except for suspected kidnapping and a very desperate friend. This is, however a very dark series overall, so proceed with caution.
[< prev] [masterlist] [next >]
Lou Bayani's fingers clutch the borrowed press badge as they try to calm their racing heartbeat. Kendra's minivan is closing in to the hotel ballroom the governor has chosen for the press conference, and for the millionth time over the course of the past few horrible weeks, Lou wishes their best friend could be here to help help them with this. Dany is quick and fun and fearless, has a huge amount of resources, and the ability to become scarily, icily focused under pressure.
If their roles were reversed, if Lou were the one missing and Dany the one out to find them, they're sure, this horrible mess would have been resolved already. Or if not, then at least, the group would have a somewhat decent plan to get close to finding out the truth about the whereabouts of their friend, not a stupid, vague approach that relies on borrowed press ids and unrefined acting skills.
Lou forces her hand to stop tugging at the beige blazer they've borrowed to look professional. Dany would wear it with confidence. Dany wouldn't jump at every person who as much as looked at them too long, like that weird guy on the phone on the table next to them in the cafeteria today. Dany wouldn't have gotten as paranoid as Lou had, feeling followed at every step.
No, she'd walk right into danger, put herself in harm's way, cool and prepared and reckless, like that one time when Kendra had been stalked by a colleague and after Dany's 'intervention' the guy had basically fled the country.
Dany would do anything for her friends.
And she would never, ever leave them behind.
Which is why this news story is bullshit. Must be bullshit.
"Almost there." Olivia's voice is flat. It has been her, who came up with the plan to get them accredited to the press conference. As a side job to her economics doctorate, Liv works for the local newspaper and covers local businesses and markets. It made sense that she got an invite; and somehow, magically, she's arranged to get one for Lou as well. "Do you think she really might be there? Can she really be okay?"
Liv doesn't ask the question they all don't dare say out loud. After all that time, can she really still be alive?
They've been over this so often.
If there's some doppelgänger, or a misunderstanding, or foul play? But why? Why should the city's wealthiest man try and cover up the kidnapping of Lou's best friend? For all they know, Dany has only met Ridley Lordin in passing, once, and she's found him obnoxious. That's it.
It's Frankie who has taken her. They have gathered enough evidence, they had a case, they even had the police question him. And now this. Whatever this is.
"If she's there," Lou says slowly. "It's not of her own volition. If she's there, we'll make sure to get her out."
It's what Dany would say. Except that Dany's voice wouldn't quiver as theirs does right now.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
Kendra and her partner will wait in the car and keep it ready, just in case. Lou and Olivia will attend the press conference.
Find out what's happening, where the rumors come from, what Ridley Lordin himself has to say about her. If he does talk about her.
There's some short reception after the official part, but they can't know how close they'll get.
If they'll need to approach Mr Lordin. Or Dany's. If the rumors are true. If she were there.
They'd need to subtly get Dany's attention, allow her to give them a sign or a hidden message. Blink twice, something like that. Dany is a master at subtlety. Her and Lou have lived together for two years and been best friends for much longer. They understand each other without words. Dany will relay what she needs, and Lou and the others will get it. And if it's to get her out right there, they will try. They've even found a safe house for the first night or two.
They'll-
They reach the hotel. Lou clenches their jaw, interrupting their thought. Well. They'll reassess.
The place is teeming with security. State police, uniformed guards from the hotel and local firms, and a bunch of too-sleek-looking civilians with transparent cables leading up from their collars. By the doors, on the roof, everywhere.
The Governor is, well, the Governor. Ridley Lordin is a controversial but mostly super rich almost-billionaire. They knew that. What they had forgotten was, that Dany Hammond is the one who - allegedly - betrayed the city's most influential crime lord. Her own dad.
She'd need to protected. She's a target.
"Shit," Kendra breathes. "Should we-"
"No." Lou shakes their head decidedly. "We need to at least see her."
They refuse to acknowledge the heavy silence and even heavier looks exchanged around them. Carefully, they smooth their blazer's fabric a last time, and push the car door open. "I need to see her."
They stride towards the entry. Some seconds later, Olivia's light footsteps follow.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over rows of reporters, camera crews and invited supporters. 'To the Future. Together.', the campaign banners announce. No sign of their friend yet. But lodged between low professional chatter and patriotic colors, there's a nervous energy in the room that makes Lou shudder. It's not just them, interested in Dany. Their stomach is queasy. Sitting down on one of the chairs towards the back only helps a little.
By the time the doors behind the small stage open, they've been through the whole array of breathing routines that Dany has taught them. It's been against stage fright, back then. It's against suffocating dread now.
The audience falls into an anticipating silence, as Governor Jackson and Ridley Lordin enter, shoulder to shoulder, jovial smiles plastered to their faces as they wave and point at the audience. Lou couldn't care less about them. Their eyes are glued to the doorframe behind the men.
They spot her a blink before the others do, before the room erupts into a thunderstorm of surprised breaths, gasps, and camera shutters.
Lou presses a hand to their mouth to stifle a wail. It's not a doppelgänger.
Whumper having to pat Whumpee down while searching them for weapons, contraband, etc and huffing a laugh under their breath when Whumpee tenses at Whumper’s hands coming too close to certain parts of their body
Maybe Whumper does plan to assault Whumpee and finds it funny that they’d flinch at this when so much more is to come
Maybe they have absolutely no plans to touch Whumpee again and just finds their discomfort amusing. Take your pick ❤️
In honor of the new Dany piece I posted today, this is a reminder:
Pretty much all of my pieces are designed to work as stand alones.
And yes, this includes the long series. The ones with every big chapter numbers. Dany's might even be the easiest. So if you ever think you would like to read but it looks like too much, this is an invitation to start with whichever piece flies by.
(Or ask me. I can ofc hit you with nice single chapters!)
high-profile whumper and whumpee being married and whumper frequently raping their whumpee, framing it like something they're entitled to, it's their right, isnt it, and whumpee can't do anything?
the framing of them being high-profile is so compelling...
the way that people get so parasocially attached to the relationships of public figures. the way that whumper plays their relationship up on social media, posting to their instagram and twitter, constantly gushing about their partner on red carpets and in interviews. the public fawns over how they're #couplegoals, make shipping comments, bemoaning that they wish they had a partner as amazing as whumper.
(some of them have not so nice things to say about whumpee, too. whumpee seems cold with whumper sometimes. pulling away from them. they're so much more reluctant to talk about their relationship - come on, whumper is just the best. who wouldn't want to talk about how lucky they are? whumpee just doesn't deserve them.)
they don't see everything else. they don't see that the same hands caressing whumpee's face and cupping their waist was pinning them down the night before, forcing its way between their legs. that mouth that smiles so gently had pressed to flushed, tear-streaked skin. that voice that sings their praises had told them firmly to shut the fuck up and let whumper take what they're owed.
there's another premier, another event, another gala. and whumper smiles and dazzles and whumpee tries their best to keep up appearances. they ache beneath their fancy clothes, but they can't let it show. they can't limp or flinch or smack whumper's hands away from them. and it still isn't enough. people are still going to click their tongues and shake their heads.
so ungrateful. so ungraceful. don't they know how lucky they are?
Mentioned Ridley Lordin belongs to @hackles-up, Lou is a tribute to @wildfaewhump.
No content warnings, except for suspected kidnapping and a very desperate friend. This is, however a very dark series overall, so proceed with caution.
[< prev] [masterlist] [next >]
Lou Bayani's fingers clutch the borrowed press badge as they try to calm their racing heartbeat. Kendra's minivan is closing in to the hotel ballroom the governor has chosen for the press conference, and for the millionth time over the course of the past few horrible weeks, Lou wishes their best friend could be here to help help them with this. Dany is quick and fun and fearless, has a huge amount of resources, and the ability to become scarily, icily focused under pressure.
If their roles were reversed, if Lou were the one missing and Dany the one out to find them, they're sure, this horrible mess would have been resolved already. Or if not, then at least, the group would have a somewhat decent plan to get close to finding out the truth about the whereabouts of their friend, not a stupid, vague approach that relies on borrowed press ids and unrefined acting skills.
Lou forces her hand to stop tugging at the beige blazer they've borrowed to look professional. Dany would wear it with confidence. Dany wouldn't jump at every person who as much as looked at them too long, like that weird guy on the phone on the table next to them in the cafeteria today. Dany wouldn't have gotten as paranoid as Lou had, feeling followed at every step.
No, she'd walk right into danger, put herself in harm's way, cool and prepared and reckless, like that one time when Kendra had been stalked by a colleague and after Dany's 'intervention' the guy had basically fled the country.
Dany would do anything for her friends.
And she would never, ever leave them behind.
Which is why this news story is bullshit. Must be bullshit.
"Almost there." Olivia's voice is flat. It has been her, who came up with the plan to get them accredited to the press conference. As a side job to her economics doctorate, Liv works for the local newspaper and covers local businesses and markets. It made sense that she got an invite; and somehow, magically, she's arranged to get one for Lou as well. "Do you think she really might be there? Can she really be okay?"
Liv doesn't ask the question they all don't dare say out loud. After all that time, can she really still be alive?
They've been over this so often.
If there's some doppelgänger, or a misunderstanding, or foul play? But why? Why should the city's wealthiest man try and cover up the kidnapping of Lou's best friend? For all they know, Dany has only met Ridley Lordin in passing, once, and she's found him obnoxious. That's it.
It's Frankie who has taken her. They have gathered enough evidence, they had a case, they even had the police question him. And now this. Whatever this is.
"If she's there," Lou says slowly. "It's not of her own volition. If she's there, we'll make sure to get her out."
It's what Dany would say. Except that Dany's voice wouldn't quiver as theirs does right now.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
Kendra and her partner will wait in the car and keep it ready, just in case. Lou and Olivia will attend the press conference.
Find out what's happening, where the rumors come from, what Ridley Lordin himself has to say about her. If he does talk about her.
There's some short reception after the official part, but they can't know how close they'll get.
If they'll need to approach Mr Lordin. Or Dany's. If the rumors are true. If she were there.
They'd need to subtly get Dany's attention, allow her to give them a sign or a hidden message. Blink twice, something like that. Dany is a master at subtlety. Her and Lou have lived together for two years and been best friends for much longer. They understand each other without words. Dany will relay what she needs, and Lou and the others will get it. And if it's to get her out right there, they will try. They've even found a safe house for the first night or two.
They'll-
They reach the hotel. Lou clenches their jaw, interrupting their thought. Well. They'll reassess.
The place is teeming with security. State police, uniformed guards from the hotel and local firms, and a bunch of too-sleek-looking civilians with transparent cables leading up from their collars. By the doors, on the roof, everywhere.
The Governor is, well, the Governor. Ridley Lordin is a controversial but mostly super rich almost-billionaire. They knew that. What they had forgotten was, that Dany Hammond is the one who - allegedly - betrayed the city's most influential crime lord. Her own dad.
She'd need to protected. She's a target.
"Shit," Kendra breathes. "Should we-"
"No." Lou shakes their head decidedly. "We need to at least see her."
They refuse to acknowledge the heavy silence and even heavier looks exchanged around them. Carefully, they smooth their blazer's fabric a last time, and push the car door open. "I need to see her."
They stride towards the entry. Some seconds later, Olivia's light footsteps follow.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over rows of reporters, camera crews and invited supporters. 'To the Future. Together.', the campaign banners announce. No sign of their friend yet. But lodged between low professional chatter and patriotic colors, there's a nervous energy in the room that makes Lou shudder. It's not just them, interested in Dany. Their stomach is queasy. Sitting down on one of the chairs towards the back only helps a little.
By the time the doors behind the small stage open, they've been through the whole array of breathing routines that Dany has taught them. It's been against stage fright, back then. It's against suffocating dread now.
The audience falls into an anticipating silence, as Governor Jackson and Ridley Lordin enter, shoulder to shoulder, jovial smiles plastered to their faces as they wave and point at the audience. Lou couldn't care less about them. Their eyes are glued to the doorframe behind the men.
They spot her a blink before the others do, before the room erupts into a thunderstorm of surprised breaths, gasps, and camera shutters.
Lou presses a hand to their mouth to stifle a wail. It's not a doppelgänger.
Man, I’m a sucker for any whump involving a belt. It’s one of my favourite object in a whump context.
Whumper bringing a belt down across whumpee’s back, hands, legs, feet, or what have you.
If they’re feeling particularly brutal, whumper hitting whumpee with the buckle as well.
A belt being wrapped around whumpee’s neck and pulled tight, choking them.
Alternatively, belt wrapped around whumpee’s neck and used like a leash.
Belts used to bind whumpee’s wrists and ankles.
Whumpee breaking down and starting to apologize or beg whenever someone takes off their belt (be it caretaker or whumper) because they think they’re going to be hit.
Overlapping bruises in the shape of a belt buckle.
Swollen red welts in a criss-cross pattern.
A belt being put in whumpee’s mouth as a gag.
Alternatively, a belt being put in whumpee’s mouth for them to bite down on as their wounds are treated.
Belts being used as tourniquets or to hold a splint in place.
Belts used to strap whumpee to a table, chair, etc.
A belt pulled ever tighter around any body part, bruising, bursting blood vessels, maybe even cracking bone at some point.
Whumpee who ends up hating the feel of leather and the sound of jangling metal.
This hatred extending as far as anything with a strap and buckle, such as a watch, bag, saddle, etc.
Mentioned Ridley Lordin belongs to @hackles-up, Lou is a tribute to @wildfaewhump.
No content warnings, except for suspected kidnapping and a very desperate friend. This is, however a very dark series overall, so proceed with caution.
[< prev] [masterlist] [next >]
Lou Bayani's fingers clutch the borrowed press badge as they try to calm their racing heartbeat. Kendra's minivan is closing in to the hotel ballroom the governor has chosen for the press conference, and for the millionth time over the course of the past few horrible weeks, Lou wishes their best friend could be here to help help them with this. Dany is quick and fun and fearless, has a huge amount of resources, and the ability to become scarily, icily focused under pressure.
If their roles were reversed, if Lou were the one missing and Dany the one out to find them, they're sure, this horrible mess would have been resolved already. Or if not, then at least, the group would have a somewhat decent plan to get close to finding out the truth about the whereabouts of their friend, not a stupid, vague approach that relies on borrowed press ids and unrefined acting skills.
Lou forces her hand to stop tugging at the beige blazer they've borrowed to look professional. Dany would wear it with confidence. Dany wouldn't jump at every person who as much as looked at them too long, like that weird guy on the phone on the table next to them in the cafeteria today. Dany wouldn't have gotten as paranoid as Lou had, feeling followed at every step.
No, she'd walk right into danger, put herself in harm's way, cool and prepared and reckless, like that one time when Kendra had been stalked by a colleague and after Dany's 'intervention' the guy had basically fled the country.
Dany would do anything for her friends.
And she would never, ever leave them behind.
Which is why this news story is bullshit. Must be bullshit.
"Almost there." Olivia's voice is flat. It has been her, who came up with the plan to get them accredited to the press conference. As a side job to her economics doctorate, Liv works for the local newspaper and covers local businesses and markets. It made sense that she got an invite; and somehow, magically, she's arranged to get one for Lou as well. "Do you think she really might be there? Can she really be okay?"
Liv doesn't ask the question they all don't dare say out loud. After all that time, can she really still be alive?
They've been over this so often.
If there's some doppelgänger, or a misunderstanding, or foul play? But why? Why should the city's wealthiest man try and cover up the kidnapping of Lou's best friend? For all they know, Dany has only met Ridley Lordin in passing, once, and she's found him obnoxious. That's it.
It's Frankie who has taken her. They have gathered enough evidence, they had a case, they even had the police question him. And now this. Whatever this is.
"If she's there," Lou says slowly. "It's not of her own volition. If she's there, we'll make sure to get her out."
It's what Dany would say. Except that Dany's voice wouldn't quiver as theirs does right now.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
Kendra and her partner will wait in the car and keep it ready, just in case. Lou and Olivia will attend the press conference.
Find out what's happening, where the rumors come from, what Ridley Lordin himself has to say about her. If he does talk about her.
There's some short reception after the official part, but they can't know how close they'll get.
If they'll need to approach Mr Lordin. Or Dany's. If the rumors are true. If she were there.
They'd need to subtly get Dany's attention, allow her to give them a sign or a hidden message. Blink twice, something like that. Dany is a master at subtlety. Her and Lou have lived together for two years and been best friends for much longer. They understand each other without words. Dany will relay what she needs, and Lou and the others will get it. And if it's to get her out right there, they will try. They've even found a safe house for the first night or two.
They'll-
They reach the hotel. Lou clenches their jaw, interrupting their thought. Well. They'll reassess.
The place is teeming with security. State police, uniformed guards from the hotel and local firms, and a bunch of too-sleek-looking civilians with transparent cables leading up from their collars. By the doors, on the roof, everywhere.
The Governor is, well, the Governor. Ridley Lordin is a controversial but mostly super rich almost-billionaire. They knew that. What they had forgotten was, that Dany Hammond is the one who - allegedly - betrayed the city's most influential crime lord. Her own dad.
She'd need to protected. She's a target.
"Shit," Kendra breathes. "Should we-"
"No." Lou shakes their head decidedly. "We need to at least see her."
They refuse to acknowledge the heavy silence and even heavier looks exchanged around them. Carefully, they smooth their blazer's fabric a last time, and push the car door open. "I need to see her."
They stride towards the entry. Some seconds later, Olivia's light footsteps follow.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over rows of reporters, camera crews and invited supporters. 'To the Future. Together.', the campaign banners announce. No sign of their friend yet. But lodged between low professional chatter and patriotic colors, there's a nervous energy in the room that makes Lou shudder. It's not just them, interested in Dany. Their stomach is queasy. Sitting down on one of the chairs towards the back only helps a little.
By the time the doors behind the small stage open, they've been through the whole array of breathing routines that Dany has taught them. It's been against stage fright, back then. It's against suffocating dread now.
The audience falls into an anticipating silence, as Governor Jackson and Ridley Lordin enter, shoulder to shoulder, jovial smiles plastered to their faces as they wave and point at the audience. Lou couldn't care less about them. Their eyes are glued to the doorframe behind the men.
They spot her a blink before the others do, before the room erupts into a thunderstorm of surprised breaths, gasps, and camera shutters.
Lou presses a hand to their mouth to stifle a wail. It's not a doppelgänger.
CWs: pet whump, BBU, beating, blood, breakdown, crying, grief, internalised discrimination, electric shock, mentions of torture, minor whumpee (17), institutional whump
“You remember the agreement. So run, pet. That’s an order. You know where to go, don’t stop running until you get there.”
Dax crawls through the basements, crossing under houses, counting the seconds, counting the foundations, one, two, three, four, squinting, shaking with the force of holding back the splitting headaches. It’s dark and cold and dusty and dirty and too much like punishments and their heart pounds in their chest, five, six, seven houses, time to climb up. They brace themself and push upwards, into the abandoned sports hut.
It has to be, it has to be, it has to be the abandoned sports hut. They climb, arms burning, pulling themself out.
Moulding noticeboard, crumbling darts board, overpowering scent of weed. This is the place. They stumble out of it and down the small path with no gate into the back alleys. The moon is blurry but it doesn’t matter, they remember the route, they’re good at remembering routes.
Left, right, down an alley, cross the street, down ano–
Silhouettes loom out of the darkness, against the dim streetlights. They skid to a halt. They recognise the stances, the shapes of elongated sticks at their sides.
Handlers.
They close ranks, close in, and Dax doesn’t stop to wonder how they found them, can’t, doesn’t have time. They spin round and kick, punch, sticky blood, tacky, not running so fresh. Someone grabs them from behind, attempting a headlock, and they smash their head back, hearing a groan, biting someone else’s arm as it comes close, kneeing another in the groin. No more hands, no more pain, they slip away, not quite dodging a wild swing from a shock baton but it’s okay, it’s okay, it was barely a shock and they limp off, gritting their teeth against the faint aftershocks, running the wrong way, they’ll go round in a square, they know the area, they can do this.
This is why Miss Penelope insisted on self-defence classes for everyone. They wonder if all the exits were covered, if anyone else– but no, no, can’t think about that now, have to keep running, run run run, run rabbit run and even their heart is like one.
Nonsensical brain. What does that even mean? This is why pets don’t think.
They turn another corner and they’re back on route, back on schedule, back alleys, broken glass and pebbles and spiky plants cutting, embedding, unyielding against their skin. They hadn’t even thought to put shoes on. A fox, sprawled on the path in front of them, takes fright at the sight of them, and Dax wishes they could flee so easily.
They slip into the narrowest alleyway they’ve yet been through, just a cutaway between misshapen back gardens really, and one house, two, three, four, they freeze and listen and look and there’s nowhere to hide, they’d hear anyone, there’s no pursuit. They feel around for the loose fence panel Penelope swore was here, she promised, she promised, if she’s been captured or killed for no reason whatsoever–
The fence panel swings and Dax catches it, crawls through, replaces it carefully. They rock back on their haunches and just sit for a second, breathing hard. They feel like hell, and they must look it, too.
That wasn’t the handlers’ blood, tacky against their shirts and arms. Too old, not fresh, not new wounds still bleeding like they would’ve been to get that. Whose was it? Whose was it?
Who have they lost? Who’s dead, captured, who’s gone? They’ve done the drills, listened to the talks, they know people don’t always survive raids, and certainly not intact.
They’re never going to see most of those people again, are they?
They let themself sob, once, twice, before pushing themself to their feet. They can't let themself fall apart, not now, not yet, not ever.
They stumble to the back door, not allowing themself to hesitate. They don't know what this house will be like. Miss Penelope trusts it, but she's a person, not a pet. Could be different. But it's better than handlers.
They did not go through all of that just to be recaptured.
The back door is closed, probably locked, the house dark. They crumble, then, collapsing to the patio, sobbing. Of course they don't know, there was no time to get the word out, no warning. They have nowhere to go.
And they're still clad in their bonnet, nightgown and shorts.
Oh god. Oh god, there's handler between their teeth. They gag, poking, prodding, tugging, freeing, the bite must've been stronger than they thought to get a chunk of flesh but they spit it out as far as it'll go. There's no-one to help them anymore, no-one to hold them or fetch them a glass of squash to rinse the taste out.
They break.
They shouldn't. They can't afford it. But they can't help it. Their home is gone, the first one they can remember, ripped apart, beaten and torn asunder, destroyed like everything WRU touches.
Esha was about to move out, they had their leaving celebration last night. Tonight? Is it past midnight yet? They're not sure, and even if they had a clock they couldn't read it. Graham was ready to go on his first trip out of the house, to the supermarket with Miss Penelope, he had it all planned out and everything. Mercy had just picked a name. Miss Penelope was so hopeful about getting a grant that would cover most of the next year's expenses.
They were going to run a safehouse. They were going to. But they don't know if they can anymore. Romantics don't run safehouses. They're not capable and it isn't safe and what if they assault the residents?
They don't know if anyone’s going to do any of those things ever again. They don't know if anyone's even still alive, if they're dead or worse. If WRU caught them, hurt them, turned them back into pets or chewtoys or bait or organ donors or experimentation or–
Mercy’s owner had hunted her with dogs, punished her with a barbed wire collar, carved his name into her stomach. What if he gets her back?
Dax hopes she's free. Prays she's free. But deep down they don't think they'll ever know. Miss Penelope taught them all different routes to different houses, for safety. It makes sense, but now they've lost everything but the clothes on their back and the blood splattered over them.
Miss Penelope said, she promised, that this was the safest place she knew for Romantics. But is it safe?
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter, they're here, they're free, it's not WRU, doesn't matter what it's like.
They stuff their sleeve into their mouth, muffling their hiccups and cries. Surely they'll run out of tears soon.
Their thoughts spread, scatter, dance, the same routine over and over, can't stop thinking, can't stop remembering, can't stop crying even when the tears run dry, heart so sore they wouldn't be surprised if they were dying.
Time passes.
Before they really notice, they're getting warmer, and the night wasn't cold to begin with. They can see the red veins and skin of their eyelids, the heat on their face, and they force their tear-encrusted eyes open.
When did they turn to face the sun?
West… west-facing house?
They wipe a shaking, bloody arm across their face. It's tacky and crusty, not theirs.
It must've come from one of the handlers. Is it theirs? Esha’s? Graham’s? Mercy’s? Miss Penelope’s?
They push themself to stand on trembling legs. The house might be waking soon. They don't want to miss it.
Sure enough, the inside kitchen door opens and a girl enters, graceful, delicate but certain gait of a Romantic (rescue? They pray for that) doing her job. Coffee, frying pan, brace herself over the sink.
She doesn't look injured, just tired. That's something. Even if this place isn't good to them at least it doesn't look torturous, like Mercy’s.
The girl raises her head and her haunted, red-rimmed eyes lock with Dax’s through the window.
Her eyes widen.
She hurries to the door, opening it. Dax steps back as it's pushed outward.
“Do you… do you need help?” Dax nods and the girl ushers them inside. “Ms Alix isn't awake yet but… you can come in anyway. I don't have a name yet. Do you?”
Okay. Okay, this sounds like a rescue. They can't be entirely sure yet but they don't think anywhere but a safehouse would let their pets take in runaways.
Dax nods again, matching the girl’s whisper. “Dax.”
“Hello. Sit. Drink.”
Dax sits on the floor automatically, like they haven't spent months learning to sit on furniture. They take the open bottle of water the girl hands them and gulp down half the bottle in one go. They know they shouldn't, they need to save some for when they're not allowed any more, but it's been so long since they drank anything.
She slides down onto the floor opposite Dax.
“Can I check you over? You’re covered in blood.”
They look up at the other rescue properly, tears welling all over again.
“It’s– it’s not my blood. And it's all I have left of them.”
My heart is aching as I write the next chapter of Dany's story. It's going to be an unusual one, sfw, outsider pov, almost no mean men screen time- but Dany loses so, so much in this chapter and it rips my heart out to do this to her, and to everyone else 😭
Ridley prepares Dany for her new public role. Leo does, too - in a very different manner.
This chapter is on the longer side (3k words) - but it's worth it 😈 - Two horrible whumpers with different methods, different tastes, and shared cruelty.
As always, Ridley and Leo are @hackles-up s OCs; I also added tributes to @wildfae-afterdark s wonderful characters.
The bed is soft, warm, familiar. Safe. I press my face into the pillow. Around me, everything is quiet. A horrible hangover hammers against my skull, but all other pain has dulled. There's a glass of water on the nightstand, an aspirin next to it. Or, well - I presume it to be an aspirin. Doesn't matter really. I take what I'm given.
When I push myself up on my good arm, I sense something else. A more superficial pain, stretching, itching, around my neck. The collar?
It isn't. There is no collar. Instead, my fingers run over a thin layer of gauze, some ointment underneath. Next to me, the bedroom door is standing open, an invitation to leave the room. What the fuck.
Piece by piece, my dizzy mind spots more oddities. A silk dressing gown is hanging on the wardrobe, seemingly my size. A soft nightdress covers my body.
What the hell happened yesterday? I vaguely remember food, a phone call, a pill. I remember Ridley pulling out, and the echo of an argument.
Something sticky has dried over the bruises on my thighs. I chuckle darkly. At least that part makes sense. Ridley sure won't go to bed without finishing at least once.
But he's been weirdly gentle.
Everything seems like it's smoothed over, tinted pink, ran through some softening instagram filter.
Only the unblinking red light of the camera proves that I'm still a prisoner.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, fight dizziness for some seconds, before I'm steady enough to take the aspirin.
"Princess," Ridley's cheery voice sings through the open door. "I know you're awake. Breakfast is ready."
Whatever the hell this is; I know better than to have him wait.
Wrapped in the dressing gown, one hand steadying me on the wall, I limp into the main room. Ridley is in the kitchen, handling the portafilter of his overpriced espresso machine. "Leo's PR guy says, we have a week to get to know each other better. So. How do you like your coffee?"
I stare at him. "What…" My voice cracks. "The fuck?" Speaking still hurts. My throat is raspy, rough from hours, days of screaming and choking. Nothing of this makes sense. I can't grasp whats real any longer.
"You and I, Princess. High society sweethearts, remember? You'll join me to my big press conference end of the week. Boost my public image. And be my arm candy for so many other events."
I blink.
"Can you confirm that you're in an intimate relationship with Danielle Hammond?" Ridley singsongs, the question recalling a vague memory in my head. "Well, the answer is yes, babygirl."
"You… this is insane." I can't stop shaking my head. "I'm… you're holding me captive. You, Leo, they… you fucking raped me."
"Oh, shush, Danielle. Stop the nitpicking. All that should just serve to remind you that none of this is your call. You're going to be my girlfriend, whether you like it or not. And we need to prep for it. So. Morning routines. Something cute and domestic to talk about when you're asked. My spoilt princess gets to sleep in, I make you coffee in the mornings. How? I won't be asking a third time."
I slip onto a chair, generously softened by a layer of cushions. "Black," I say flatly. "Strong. No sugar. I… I don't like sweet."
"See. There we go." Ridley places a steaming cup in front of me, then gestures at his own. "I'm a sweet tooth. Milk, two sugars." He taps at the marble countertop. "You better take notes. My guy will be quizzing you on that."
I wrap my hands around the cup and take a tentative sip. It's not bad. Good, actually.
Well. Fuck this.
Ridley's plaything never even got out of his bedroom. Ridley's fucking girlfriend got further than that already.
Leaving the apartment? Getting out of here? Back into society? Even as nothing but arm candy, even under constant surveillance, it's the closest to freedom I will get. My friends are out there, my father's network is out there, everything I need to break free of this fucking nightmare is out there.
I'm not going to miss out on that chance. I've always been good at lying.
"Okay," I say, fingers splayed on the table. "Coffee preferences, covered. Sexual preferences, covered. What else?"
He's actually chuckling at that, as he lazes into the chair across from me. "Sense of humor, covered. Ah, Princess, this is so much more fun than killing you, really."
He's not going to, I assure myself. Otherwise, he wouldn't put as much effort into this insane act.
Ridley loves this game. So I'll play.
"Huh." I grimace, swallow back the dread. "Can't argue with that."
Ridley hums in delight and drops a stack of paper on the table between us. "What else? PR guy gave me a list. Gotta start from the top. Now, he'll brief us on the story of our first meeting so it can be corroborated by other sources - we danced on many of the same parties, he'll find something. But. It's up to us to decide on our first date? First kiss?" He smirks. "Oh, babygirl, you were so needy. You sure wanted some of that cock the very first night, but I insisted we gave it time."
"I fucking hate you," I say plainly.
Still more fun than being murdered.
I inhale deeply. "First kiss on the first date. First sex on the third. You took me out on your yacht."
Ridley purses his lips, before he nods. "Mh. Sounds good. Sailing yacht. Down at Davenport marina. It's called Ridley, by the way." He leans in and gives me a lazy wink. "If you're a good girl, I'm going to take you down there, and you can show me exactly how that third date went down."
*
Days pass like that. I'm as cooperative as I can be. For hours, we act out a life together, spin stories, give each other bullet points about ourselves. Sometimes, he allows me to trade sexual favors for things I don't want to talk about. A cruel Truth or Dare.
The worst Dare is, when he makes me watch that fucking leaked sex tape of myself with that p.o.s. Peyton, over and over again, giving me detailed feedback on my 'performance' while getting off to it. I know he's itching to reenact it with me, but my battered body just barely tolerates the vanilla sex he demands every night.
What we do play out, in two of the more bearable moments, are our alleged first dates. A private Japanese chef live cooking an exclusive dinner, where I get to be dressed up in a stunning new dress and we share a bottle of wine. And the next, where it's him cooking for me, and we slow dance in his living room. He spins cute, almost true anecdotes, 'the one joke Danielle told while I was eating and made me laugh so hard I got wasabi burning up my nose', ' the time we jived and Danielle stumbled over the carpet during a spin and I had to catch her just before she hit the ground and we both held our breath because that touch was magical'; omitting the facts that the joke was utterly dark and self-deprecating, and that I fell because the tormented muscles in my lower body just couldn't hold me upright any longer.
We're never alone. Leo, not amused about Ridley letting me roam through the apartment on the first day, has guards posted around me, who watch my every step, and lock away all knife blocks, pills and scissors in the rooms I'm in. B would do the same. But he hasn't returned yet. I weirdly miss him.
When Ridley isn't home, his callous staff have orders to take my measurements, try an entirely new wardrobe with me, work on a diet that makes me look healthier; their orders even go as far as giving me a spray tan.
During every single of these moments, I plan my escape. Think of the innocuous lines I could say to subtly explain to my friends how to get me out. Distractions I could provoke to sneak out. Excuses to be alone with someone trustworthy. Makeshift weapons that can be made of dinner party accessories. Messages that could be slipped to my father. Discreetly revealed wounds that could trigger domestic violence investigations.
I will get out. I have to. For myself, and for the people still fighting for me.
I've given myself a promise.
*
The first time I get to leave the penthouse, the first chance I can potentially have, presents itself just hours earlier than expected, on the very morning of Ridley's big press conference. I've already done my hair, applied make up - 'modest and natural' -, gotten dressed in the clothes that have been laid out for me. New elegant pumps that I'd never have voluntarily worn - heels would mean too much danger to my ankles. I don't care now. I'll never be an athlete again, anyway.
What's missing is the dress that has been ordered for me. There's just been a pair of jeans, and a loose blouse laying next to them, that I've slipped into.
I can walk again, slowly, but without support. Ridley is reading through some of his notes for the press conference, barely looking up at me, when I enter the main room. "I've got the limo ready for you. That short knife guy of Leo's will take you to the tailor. Fucking idiot forgot to adjust the collar of your dress to hide these nasty bruises on your neck. I'll meet you at the presser."
The limo. I know the doors can be locked from inside. Would Paolo do it? The tailor's shop. Would he actually come into the dressing room with me? I try to brace myself, call up the little strength my body still has left, while Paolo holds the car door open for me.
Leo is sitting inside.
My resolve evaporates under his gaze. No. I can't. I can't be here. I can't be locked up with him. Frantically, I reach behind me for the door handle. There's another hand though, that pushes my wrist away. Paolo enters the passenger cabin behind me and decidedly manhandles me into the leather seat across from Leo. Hot pain cuts into the cold dread, turns my inhale into a yelp. The door-locks close with a sharp clack.
"Fear suits you, Hammond," Leo says. "Tell me. Are you ashamed? That my mere presence is enough to turn you into a sobbing, shivering little mouse? You sure must be an embarrassment for your father."
Paolo quietly knocks at the screen to the driver's compartment, and the car sets in motion.
Only speak when spoken to. Always reply to his questions.
"No," I whisper, not meeting his gaze. "I'm not ashamed."
"Interesting. Maybe, there is simply no more shame left in you, after having been desecrated so many times, in front of so many eyes." He clicks his tongue. "But there is something else left in you, am I right?"
I clench my teeth. My heart is racing.
"To be honest, I expected you would oppose my lover's unconventional… plan just as much as I did. That you would need to be coerced. But I have been told by my beloved that you are a very smooth actor. Even though you despise him. Even though every part of that act betrays your values. Even though it will mean affronting your father. So. Tell me, how long did you think it would take you in that role to turn the tables and slip away? Days? Weeks? Months?"
"I di-"
"I know when you lie."
"Days." I stare through the tinted window. At people, going about their normal daily business, pedestrians, drivers, traveling to work or school or uni. I should be one of them. "Take any risk. No time to heal. Use the momentum while it's there."
"Reasonable call." Leo tilts his head. "You are not going to make it."
The limousine takes a turn, leaving the busy streets, headed towards one of the city's industrial estates. We're not driving to the tailor. Of course we aren't.
I close my eyes, fight back tears.
Leo doesn't say anything else.
Don't speak unless spoken to. I'm glad I don't have to.
*
"We are here," says Leo eventually, when the driver pulls up on the gravel in front of a run-down industry building. The shabby signs at the wall indicate a pool cleaner, an importer of exotic fruits, a renting service for site trailers. I feel like we're not here for either.
Without another word, Paolo gets out and opens a roller shutter for the limo to pull into the building. Dirty windows tint the morning light a bleak, hopeless brown.
A tiny tilt of Leo's head is my cue to get out. My new shoes are too tight. Every step is a balancing act, every step hurts, and I lean into it to not feel anything else, as Paolo leads me down the narrow stairs. He's picked up a bucket somewhere, and a package with blue indistinguishable plastic scraps. Leo follows, then takes the lead to navigate us through a maze of corridors in the basement.
"My men call this my studio." Leo stops at one of the doors. Silently, Paolo hands both of us two of the blue plastic foils. Shoe covers. I'm dizzy. Leo slips them on, and, steadied by Paolo, I numbly follow his example. "Or," Leo continues. "They call it my playroom. But myself, I am not a friend of euphemisms."
He unlocks the door and pushes it open. "It is simply my torture room."
The room is roughly the size of Ridley's bedroom, bare of any furniture. Floor and lower half of the walls are clad with white tiles. Water drips from a faucet on the wall, carries blood and grime into into a drain. It can't wash away the sickening stench of blood, urine and decay. I press my hand against my mouth. A steel shelf next to the door holds a box of disposable gloves, disinfectant and a neat array of knives and torture instruments. My eyes stay glued to it, I force myself to, because it's still so much better than to see what's at the other end of the room.
"Hammond," Leo says softly. The tip of a knife presses under my chin, guides my face back. "Eyes wide open."
It's a person. Or it was.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Please," I exhale, breath flat to avoid the stench. "Please, no."
The knife digs deeper. "Look."
The body is chained to hooks in wall by the wrists, slumped as far as the chains let them. There's no part of their skin that isn't covered in caked blood, or burnt, or that's just- gone.
Leo pulls the knife away, lets collapse to my knees, retching.
Softly, Paolo nudges the bucket in front of me, wraps his hand into my hair to keep it out of my face, as I throw up into the bucket. My right side is throbbing with pain, my scarred back tearing.
The person has moved.
They are alive.
Leo steps in next to me, casually handing me a wet wipe. "I assume you understand?"
It's hard to breathe, even harder to speak. A sob clogs in my throat. "This... this is what you will do to me, if I don't play along."
"No. Oh, no, Hammond. This ship has sailed. As of now, you are far too valuable to waste you like this." He tosses a photo on the ground in front of me, next to the bucket, the shapes on it vaguely familiar through the veil of tears. "No. This is what I'll do to Lualhati Bayani, if you don't obey."
The photo is from my apartment, I realize with dawning horror. I had it pinned to my mirror. Me, hugging my best friend and flatmate. Another picture lands next to it. And another. More recent. Very recent. Lou with their cello on their way to a rehearsal. Lou at uni. Lou, doing yoga in our living room.
"You surely know, I work very throughly," Leo says, matter-of-factly. "Those unlucky enough to be brought down die a very slow and very agonizing death. Most start begging for it after the third or fourth day. This one here made it another two weeks after that. What do you think, how long will delicate little Lou last?"
"You... you can't do that."
"I can do anything I want, topina. People disappear all the time."
"No."
Leo crouches down next to me, showing me his phone. A video call. One of his men waves into the camera, before he tilts the phone to a neighboring table. Lou, Kendra and Liv, solemnly discussion something over lunch in the cafeteria.
Another world.
I've been ripped out of it. And now, through me, those same tendrils that pulled me into this horror are creeping up to them. I wrap my arms around the dirty bucket, just to hold on to something, anything.
"My man Rene is with them right now." Leo turns the phone so we can look at the screen together. He points at them. "Lou Bayani, Olivia Voss, Kendra Jackson. Honestly, any of them will be fun. But I think I will settle with little Mx Bayani. I like how vulnerable they look." He ends the call and tucks the phone away, before he goes on talking. "Or. I can pull Rene off this job. I will keep tabs on them, of course. But for now, I just might find someone else to play with down here. Would you prefer that?"
I look away, as I nod. No. No I don't want him to play with anyone down here. "Yes," I whisper hoarsely.
"You understand what you have to do?"
I nod again. "Lie," I mumble.
"You are very good at that, Hammond, are you not?" He pats my knee, before he stands up again. "I know that you can convince them. Everyone. The press, the police, the public - including and particularly your adorable friends - will believe that you are the luckiest girl in town. You love Ridley Lordin, and he loves you back."
I swallow back bile and tears. "Yes. Understood."
"Good girl," Leo says.
He reaches into his jacket for his gun, lifts it without even looking, and fires three quick rounds into the slumped figure at the other end of the room. The echo of the shots is deafening. I still think I heard the man's last breath be in relief.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know," he replies, and gently runs the hot muzzle of the gun over my cheek. "You should. But it does not matter. All that matters is that you publicly and convincingly declare your love for my boyfriend." He rolls his shoulders, before he tucks away the gun. "Get on your feet, Hammond. You have a dress to pick up."
Captive manhandled into position for noncon. Forcing pants down/shirt up violently
Whumpee going silent when they see what whumper is going to do to them/the whip/cane/branding iron/sex toys
Manhandling in general. Slammed into objects, twisted around, sat on, pinned to the floor by an elbow
Thrown into the wall and falling limp to the floor, trying to get up and failing, slumping over their trembling arms, leg half up under them
Whumper slowly walking toward weakened whumpee with a smile on their face
Whumper looking focused and slightly amused as they physically manipulate whumpee. Soft grunts of effort as they quickly pin whumpee down
Whumpee not bound in any way, writhing and struggling as multiple whumpers restrain and beat them
Losing a fight. Badly. And whumper doesn't stop there. They keep kicking, punching, dragging whumpee forward by the hair only to stomp them down again
A strong/powerful/living weapon whumpee that's been a pain in the ass for an evil leader, brought before said leader struggling and sweaty and thrown onto their chest and held there under the boots of their captors. Especially if they're defiant. Whumpee shouting threats, cut off by a harsh kick to the ribs.
one of the best parts of making up increasingly wild and specific aus with a friend is sending them posts like "this is sooo blorbo in torture chamber au number 15" and they reply back like "YESSS btw have i told you about my latest idea for how to torture them even more" and you get to enjoy a little snack and kick your feet with glee
