#cw prong collar

[highwaywhump]

BBU community days, day 3!

{Day 3} Writing prompt: Discipline

I really like how this turned out. 944 is the same guard dog as in this piece.

CW/TW for a lil whumpee being beaten up, mentions of blood and bones breaking, shock collar, prong collar, allusion to non-/dubcon, dehumanisation/animalisation.

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“No, please, please don’t let him, please, I’ll be good! I’ll be good, I promise, please -”

944 tuned the trainee’s pleading out. He was short and skinny, and limping on one leg. He wasn’t a threat. Which meant, this wasn’t training. 

This was punishment. He was the punishment. 

He let himself roll forwards and back on the balls of his feet. His skin buzzed with excitement. He was alert. Ready. 

“Shut the fuck up, 732. You made your bed.” The trainee’s handler kicked the trainee at the back of the knees, sending him down to the tiled floor without warning. He cried out as his already bruised knees made unbridled contact with the hard surface. 944 watched in disgust as he laid there, halfway resuming an erratic version of the respect position. His begging subsided to meaningless blubbering in between heavy sobs. 

Can’t even show respect right, 944 thought, not without contempt. He leaned forwards again without really thinking about it, causing his own handler to grip his leather collar tighter. 

“Heel,” he said, and 944 yielded immediately. He was good, unlike the pathetic trainee on the floor in front of him. They’d stacked three collars on him for the occasion. The shock collar was standard issue, the heavy shock clip digging into the skin on the nape of his neck. Over it, a wide leather collar with a handle at the back, so the handler could control him. The rough leather pressed harshly against his adam’s apple whenever he’d pull on it. The last was a vicious thing made of several links of steel, hooked into one another to form a chain. Each link had prongs protruding from the inside, digging into his skin. His handler had placed it as high as it could go, tightening it snuggly right below his jaw. It was to make his reactions snappy, he’d say. 944 didn’t question it. 

“What’d he do, anyway?” another handler asked, nodding towards the bundle of shivering skin and bone on the floor. 

“Fucker bit me.” The handler who’d kicked him down winced as he gently touched the front of his pants. 

The first one barked out a laugh. “Nobody told you to use a gag the first time? Jesus Christ.” 

“He’s used it for a month. First time without one today.” 

“Hah! Well, he’ll learn. Ya hear?” he said, enunciating the question loudly as he gave the trainee a light kick with the toe of his boot. “You get an inch, you take an inch. No miles!” 

944 observed as the rest of the handlers raised their batons. “No miles!” they yelled, and it seemed like an inside joke they were all part of. He shook it off. He didn’t need to understand. He needed a target and a command. He had the first. The second wasn’t far off. 

“It’s time you got some discipline, 732.” His handler bent down to grab onto the trainee’s blonde hair, wrenching his head up towards 944. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, making his blue irises stand out like icebergs in a sea of blood. He wailed as 944 met his gaze. 944 looked calm in return. A picture perfect guard dog; collected until he was asked to engage. 

944’s handler tugged on his collar, and he bowed his head down, still keeping the trainee in his line of sight. His handler’s low voice was round with dark amusement in 944’s ears when he spoke. 

“Teach him a lesson, ‘44.” 

The grip on his collar disappeared, and 944 stopped thinking. He started acting.

He registered the sounds coming from the trainee under him and how they changed from wails and cries to groans and moans, coming in time with the movements of his fists as he swung them, over and over. He made sure to spread the hits out evenly, finding all the spots that could hurt, because this wasn’t incapacation, it was punishment. He registered the loud, raw laughter and excited yelling from the handlers around him, and it spurred him on. He registered bright crimson, stark against the white tiles and the trainee’s white shirt. He registered the deep and brittle sound of something breaking, and he registered loving it.

He didn’t register his own pain, even though his knuckles were scraped up. He didn’t register his handler snapping a command at him, then yelling it. He didn’t register the hand back on his leather collar, or how it tried to yank him away. 

He did register it when the row of metal teeth nestled just below his jaw suddenly dug into the soft skin there. He sprung back, his hands dropping everything they were doing as he moved backwards with the collar, desperate to relieve the pressure as he coughed and sputtered. 

“Off, I said!” his handler yelled at him, yanking the metal collar again. 944 yowled in pain, looking up at his handler with wide, terrified eyes from his position on the floor. He knew what was coming. 

“You’re getting too comfortable, 44!” His handler dug into his pocket until he found what he was looking for. A small, black remote. 944 only managed to whimper the start of an apology before his shock collar went off, blasting white pain up and down his spine. 

His handler hit the button again and again, until the guard dog was trembling with the aftershocks of the punishment. He was on his side, breathing rapidly and shallowly, his tongue hanging loose and spilling out the side of his mouth. Like a dog. 

The handler went down on one knee next to him, his thumb still on the button, ready. “You listen to me!” he roared, only a few inches from 944’s face. He could feel the spit droplets landing on his cheek. “I decide how far you go! No miles! You! Listen! To! Me!”

Each of the last four words were punctuated by a shock. 944’s spine jerked in time with the words. His ears were ringing. On the tiled floor, 10 or 12 feet in front of him, he could see the contours of the other trainee. The other handlers were kneeling around him, looking like they didn’t know what to do. 732 was red, red everywhere, except for his piercing blue eyes. He was staring right at him. 944 could only stare back.

-

@bbu-on-the-side

[writtenbymoonflower]

Hi! Do you think you could write fem!reader with poly!marauders and their first time having sex? If I’m making you uncomfortable let me know and I’ll apologize. Sorry if I sound weird I’m autistic and don’t know how to phrase things sometimes. Thank you.

hi hunny! you didn't make me uncomfortable at all and you worded this great! thank you for requesting!! fem!reader x poly!marauders

cw: explicit smut, slight d/s dynamic, swearing, everything is consensual obviously

1.7k words

The fact that you were the only one breathing heavily was a crime. It was pathetic, really. You felt borderline depraved, considering the innocence of the situation. Your head was in Sirius’ lap, his fingers nothing short of magical against your scalp. You could feel the slight vibration of his voice every time he spoke. Remus’ hand was lazily rubbing your bare thigh, occasionally dipping his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and you were praying that he couldn’t feel the growing heat in dangerous proximity to his hands. James was looking unfairly gorgeous for someone winding down for the night. He was fresh from the shower, his clean scent wafting over to you on the bed as he styled his hair in the mirror. 

You were tightly wound from months of tension. While there had been no shortage of heat-stoking intimacy and dizzying kisses leaving you whiny and breathy, it had always stopped of anything that would actually satisfy the growing beast in your core. And while you hoped you were successfully hiding how much it affected you, part of you wished they would notice it. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. The boyish laughter in the background was not helping with your growing affliction. 

“Angel?” James chuckled, damp hair falling in front of his eyes. 

“Yeah?” You turned your head in Sirius’ lap. 

“We’ve been trying to get your attention, lovely.” James crawled on top of you, muscles shifting intricately under his white tank. You noticed how he was careful not to pile too much weight onto Sirius. He slid down, laying his head on your stomach and wrapped an arm around Remus, making the tall boy begrudgingly put his book down. 

“Oh, sorry. I was distracted.” You ran your hands through James’ hair. 

“Distracted?” Sirius drawled. He was trailing his fingers teasingly on your neck now. You repressed the urge to shiver. 

“Distracted.” You parroted back awkwardly. You couldn’t tell if the heat was from the amount of bodies crammed into the bed or the effect that they were having on you. James looked up at you with a playful grin. He reached a hand up to caress your cheek. His grin grew wider.

“Your face is warm, darling.” Mirth was dripping from his eyes. 

“Is it?” You swallowed hard. Sirius’ painted digits pressed into your jaw. He chuckled darkly at what he found.

“Her pulse is fucking hammering” His wicked fingers dipped under the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh,” Remus cooed, tone indicating that he didn’t feel that bad. “What’s the matter, dovey?” 

“Nothing.” You choked out, knowing that your body was completely betraying you. 

“I don’t know,” Sirius provoked. “I think it’s something. Don’t you, Prongs?” He moved to pet James’ head. 

“Oh, you’re definitely right.” James kissed your exposed collarbone. “C’mon, sweetheart. Talk to us.” 

You wanted to laugh. If they really wanted you to talk, couldn’t they make it a bit easier? You just groaned, hiding your face in Sirius’ thigh.

“No. None of that.” Remus gripped your chin to move your face, not letting you be shielded. “Use your words.” 

“You’re so mean.” You whined. 

“Aw, baby.” James cooed. “We’re just trying to help you. We can’t know what you want if you don’t tell us.” He slipped his hand under the hem of your shirt, gripping your waist lovingly. 

“You know what you’re doing.” You narrowed your eyes. You were trying to look intimidating but failing miserably. Remus turned your face towards his, capturing you in a kiss. You moaned against your will, arching your back up. All your muscles felt so tense, begging for release. Sirius kept stroking your hair. 

“Just tell us what’s wrong.” Sirius’ grin was all teeth when you looked up at him. 

“Gah.” You groaned in failure. “I don’t even know. I’m just so worked up and you’re not helping.” You pouted. 

“Aw, I’m sorry dove.” Remus clearly did not feel bad. “Want us to make it better?” 

You nodded rapidly, eyes wide. Remus cocked an eyebrow at you. “Yes, please. Make it better.” You all but begged. 

“Alright, baby dove.” Remus laughed. "We'll be nice." He kissed you again, moving over your cheeks and neck. James was kissing your chest, tugging the collar of your shirt down to expose more skin. You struggled to hold back wanton moans. 

“Can I lift this up, angel?” James tugged at your shirt, looking pointedly at your nipples peaking through your shirt. 

“Yes please.” 

He tugged you away from Sirius and Remus, though the boys didn’t complain. Sirius was tugging Remus up by his mousy hair to kiss him aggressively, while James lifted your shirt to your collarbone, exposing your chest to his ministrations. He grabbed at your breast with one hand, kissing over your nipple until you were dizzy. He then moved down, kissing lower and lower. 

“Christ, just get this shit off.” Sirius growled at you. He impatiently moved you to sit up, tugging your shirt off the rest of the way. “You too, Prongs.” 

His eyebrows flew up behind his glasses. “Someone’s demanding today.” He complied though, pulling his white undershirt off and flinging it somewhere across the room. Sirius just narrowed his eyes at James and tried to pull Remus back. 

“The two of you.” Remus shook his head disapprovingly but you could see the affection swirling in his irises. “Do I have to tell you what to do with your mouths?”

“I think I know exactly what to do with my mouth.” Sirius sassed, moving down to Remus' neck.

“I know what I want to do with my mouth.” James tugged at your shorts, looking up at you with huge pupils. You choked back a moan. 

“Is that okay with you, honey?” Remus asked you gently. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Just say the word and we stop, okay?”

“I would like that.” You said, barely more than a whisper. James gave you another boyish grin and went back to kissing down your torso. 

“On second thought, I don't think I know what to do.” Sirius tested. He crawled off of the mattress, standing at the foot of the bed. He batted his lashes at Remus, clearly testing the tall boys patience. He stalked over to where Sirius was standing, looking down at him.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” He kissed him roughly before getting on his knees in front of him. Your attention was pulled back to the boy between your legs when you felt thick fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts. 

“I’m gonna take these off, okay?” James waited for you to nod before he pulled them off. He crawled off the bed, pulling your ankles to tug you right to the end of the mattress. Your underwear was removed before he opened your legs wider. This situation was too much in the best way. James was kissing down to your waiting pussy, glasses being knocked up his nose and hair messy while you were being stared down by Sirius, who was close enough to massage your thigh while he was being sucked off, his moans ringing deliciously through your ears. 

James’ tongue met your clit, making you throw your head back in ecstasy. “Oh, shit.” You whined. He was gentle as he pleasured you, wiggling his tongue softly into your pussy, flicking up towards your swollen bead and then back down to your hole. Your thighs started to tense. You knew you were getting there embarrassingly fast, both from James’ expertise and the arousal that had been building in your body. You fought to close your legs around James' head, but he held fast, keeping you spread open for him.

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” Sirius groaned. “You should fucking see yourself, babydoll.” He knotted his fingers in Remus’ fluffy hair, rutting his hips to chase his high. “Godammit.” He grunted, cumming down Remus’ throat. You hid behind your hands to protect yourself from his voyeuristic gaze.

When Remus got up, James pulled his lips off of your clit with a lewd popping sound, making you cry out. You bucked your hips back up, chasing for more pleasure. 

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart.” James chuckled, rubbing your hip comfortingly. He slipped two fingers into your pussy, curling them up. Remus' attention was now on you as he leant over you, kissing your neck. 

“How does her pussy taste, Prongs?” Sirius drawled, petting your thigh with a blissful look in his eyes. 

“So fucking good.” James kept his fingers working a perfect motion. 

“Alright, give me a try.” Sirius pulled James up impatiently. James brought his fingers up to the shorter boy’s mouth, the same fingers that were just inside you. Without hesitation Sirius sucked them into his mouth, moaning around the digits. You whined at the spectacle in front of you. 

“Christ, lads. She’s halfway to death over here.” Remus chuckled, palming at your breast. 

“Alright.” Sirius rolled his eyes, getting on his knees in front of you. “Are you gonna let me have a turn, sweet girl?” He pinched your side affectionately. 

“Yes please.” You moaned. 

Sirius laughed at you, pressing his face into your cunt. You almost screamed in ecstasy. He wasted no time with teasing, licking into you with vigorous hunger as his gray eyes bore into you. Remus and James moved to hold your legs apart, spreading you open completely before Sirius. “Fuck, such a sweet little pussy.” He groaned, before returning to his work. 

“That’s a good boy.” Remus groaned, putting his hand on the back of Sirius’ head to push him further into your cunt. “Y’ making her feel so good.” Sirius moaned into your pussy, doubling down. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Your thighs shook hard, spasms flowing through your whole body. 

“That’s it, angel. Come for us.” James kissed your cheek. It didn’t take long to follow his directions, tumbling off the edge of pleasure. Your moans were shameless, slipping into incoherent whines when you got to be too sensitive. Sirius licked his fingers as he came up for air, face flushed and eyes starry. 

“Fuck, gorgeous. You’re killer.” He praised. Pleasurable embarrassment washed over you. You shut your legs, looking up at the three boys. 

“Are you okay, sweet girl?” Remus stroked your jaw, all feigned sternness void from his face. 

“I’m brain dead.” You giggled. 

“I think that’s a job well done then.” James grabbed your hand, bringing it to his mouth to adorn it with kisses. You looked between him and Remus, playful hesitancy written in your features. 

“What about you two?” You questioned. 

“You still got some steam in you?” James looked at you wide-eyed. You nodded. 

“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you.” Remus opened your legs again.  

[scr11bles]

don't boo me but i like the hybrid au's for cod, maybe even a little a/b/o in the midst (though that's not what this one is about)

so now i'm just thinking about a hybrid! reader who's all sorts of fucked and gets picked up by ghost for the 141

cw: kinda angsty with descriptions of abuse, dog(hybrid?) fighting, and scars

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It isn't like Ghost hates hybrids; he's worked with them on missions before and dismissed them as any other soldier, everyone was just doing their job after all. As long as the objective was complete, that's what mattered. Though when Price told him he was being sent to a location to 'pick out" a hybrid from a facility (Laswell thought it'd be good for their team, a new set of hands and efficiency to the group and all that), he couldn't help the disagreeing grumbles that escaped past his mouth as he begrudgingly went on his way to the helipad, cursing to himself the whole way and glaring at his boots.

After the nearly agonizing chopper ride, the wheels touch down on the tarmac of the facility, a worker immediately stumbling towards Ghost as he steps out of the chopper. He didn't catch the guy's name, didn't care either. He was here for some furball soldier that could help his team, that's all that matters. The worker guides the Lieutenant through the stone walls of the facility, the smell of mold and mildew making him wrinkle his nose beneath his mask.

In the distance of the long hallways, he can hear the yells and barks of hybrids, cringing internally as the worker turns a corner and leads him to a large room of kennels and cells. Each step Ghost takes causes a hybrid to look up, many starting to growl or hide within their cells while others lay against the cold cell floor, bodies barely moving with the only sign of life being a rising and falling chest.

He's seen a lot over his years as a soldier, and he's not so easily rattled, but this was a whole new experience of discomfort and pity for him. The conditions were bad, worse than any kind of kennel he remembers when he was young, and that was for full bred animals. Ghost eyes each hybrid slowly, taking in the diverse appearances of breeds and species of hybrid. Though each is a pathetic sort, the one true hybrid that caught Ghosts eye was one that was in the corner, the cell seemingly reinforced with different metal. In the middle of the cage there you sit, back facing the door and simply staring at the wall as multiple chains hand from your ankles and wrists, a prong collar tightly pressing against your throat. Ghost wonders why you were needed to be so heavily contained, your crooked tail wrapped around your leg as your torn and notched ears that press flat against your head making you seem like a harmless broken ittle thing.

"I wouldn't recommend that one, Lieutenant."

The worker speakers quickly, warily eyeing you behind the bars of your cell. Ghost's eyes stay on you, catching onto the small twitch of your ear. You know they're talking about you.

"Why, she broken?"

Ghost says roughly, keeping his dark unblinking stare on your battered form noticing the small twitch of your tail, probably annoyance, he clues, due to his words.

"Not exactly but.."

The worker pauses, causing Ghost to maneuver his unblinking gaze to him, making the worker freeze and fumble over his words.

"But-But she has a history of recklessness, a lack of respect for authority and horrible at responding to orders. Not something you need on a team like yours."

At the workers words you slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder, revealing the dullness in your eyes and prominent scars across your face. Scratches, bites, lacerations; Ghost can identify easily each one. The worker grimaces beneath your steely gaze and takes a step back from the cell, practically shaking in his boots. To say that Ghost was intrigued would be an understatement. He knows that look in your eyes; the coldness of someone who's killed and has started to become numb, with emotions raging within just waiting to be unleashed and ruin your very being. He's seen it before, he's seen it in him.

Goddamnit, he want to know more about you.

"How long's she been here?"

The lieutenant questions, maintaining eye contact with you and frowning beneath his mask when you look away, the tiny spark in your eye at his question not being lost to him before you turn your head away.

"Couple of months maybe? She was handed over to us after being used for cage fighting and served for a couple of PMC's- so I suppose she does have some experience in the field if you were really inclined.."

The Lieutenant couldn't help the small frown that is invisible beneath his mask, the words 'handed over' causing a foul taste to coat his tongue. He knew many hybrids were considered lesser than humans, and it never bothered him before, but when in relation to you it ground his gears just that little bit. Ghost clicks his tongue and sends the worker a small glare before returning his flat gaze back to you, narrowing his eyes and watching as you scratch at the stone floor, the movement revealing the numerous scars and burns along your arms. Sure, Ghost had known you (not even really known yet) for a couple of minutes, but he was sold. And when he speaks, he stares straight into the workers eyes and speaks in the flattest most straight forward tone possible, there was no mistaking it-

"I'll take her."

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hey guys!!

uhh tell me if you see this becoming a little story or just want a few parts to it, i love the feedback and it makes me happy seeing everyone like my little works of fleeting words

thank you so much!

-emile :3

[honeycollectswhump]

maybe put a shock collar on Ashtray?

Lightning in His Veins

[masterlist]

CW: shock collar, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation

His Mistress has a new collar for him. Ashtray should be excited at the prospect of being decorated, but something about it makes his stomach churn. It is big, black and ugly. Nothing like the delicate accessories his Mistress usually dresses him in, and that almost feels like a sin.

Maybe it's because the collar is a gift from one of her friends, watching excitedly. Not for Ashtray, of course, nothing is ever for him, nothing belongs to him, that’s how it's supposed to be. But sometimes they gift her things to dress him in, though nothing comes close to her knowledge of style and grace. This collar must be one of those gifts then, and who is Ashtray to question that. A Good Boy never questions his superiors, a Good Boy never questions anything. A Good Boy does what he is told.

So Ashtray does. He bares his neck prettily, taking note of how his torso moves, twisting on fresh burns, knowing that the glitter the servants applied must shine like tiny diamonds. And maybe, silently, he hopes that his Mistress’ friends must be so jealous of her beautiful, perfect possessions, decked in gold and jewels, just what dreams are made of. 

…At least he thinks that’s what dreams must be like. Objects don’t dream, naturally. 

As his Mistress closes the clasps of the collar, as her pristine red nails scratch over a burn scrab, he can’t help but focus on the feelings of prongs digging into his throat in an uncomfortably familiar way. Ashtray doesn’t dwell on it though. He has already learned, there is nothing to fear. The blank rooms are far gone and instead have been blessedly replaced by the shining smiles his Mistress graces him with, her cold hands like glistening ice bringing warm burns, and the golden glamour she has allowed him to be a part of. 

Satisfied, his Mistress steps back. She is saying something, talking with her guest, exchanging airy laughter and warbled pleasant tones, washing over Ashtray like pearly morning dew he can picture in his mind but has never seen before. He could get lost in her voice, riding on it like clouds carrying him through his purpose, and yet never being too distracted, always keeping an eye on the ground just low enough so he’ll never miss a clue he can’t understand, never missing the remote–

The remote being handed to his Mistress, equally as black as the collar, making him suddenly awake of the prongs against his throat and the pit forming in his stomach. 

Ashtray stays still though, perfectly poised, and suppresses the flinch before it had even fully realised. Maybe he hopes, desperately, if he is Good enough she’ll decide against it. Maybe it was all a test, maybe, maybe… Maybe he can see it coming just enough to give her the reaction she wants. 

Almost pleadingly in the silence of his own mind, Ashtray knows he isn’t trained for pain. He is supposed to be an Ashtray, an object with a specific use, it’s all he could ever hope to know. The thought of displeasing her with his reaction scares him more than any pain ever could. What if he reacts too much? What if he is not– Lightning burns down his veins, ripping out his throat, his skin and tissue and soul. Two punctures spread venom down his very being, and there is no escape no escape no escape no escape no escape

Suddenly, it’s gone and Ashtray finds himself curled up on the ground, his limbs still twitching. He can’t remember how but surely it wasn’t graceful and–

His mouth rips open in a breathless scream, a pathetic, garbled screech barely noticeable over the sound of mindless thrashing, limbs hitting the floor, head banging against polished stone. It’s fire and lightning and Punishment and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything, only knows Pain and Punishment and Please Stop.

Pause.

Breath.

Notice saliva dripping from the mouth. Not elegant. Not trained.

Hell. 

Like veins imploding, swallowing what is left of Ashtray, leaving no trace of his purpose. Like poison, destruction, ruin, Ødelæggelse.

Stop.

Gasp.

Look up at Mistress, hope for mercy, hope for anything.

Find glee. Find amused laughter. Please.

It never ends…

• • •

He is still here. Ashtray is still here. Twisted, on the ground, the venom still burning in every vessel, but here. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, dried and bloody at the same time. Somehow, it is all pain, every single cell in his body is pain and lightning and shocks still coursing through him.

Maybe she heard him think. Maybe she felt her Ashtray have stupid little thoughts about things he should be grateful for, like being adorned in a big, black, ugly painful it hurts burning agonising beautiful collar. 

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[mariademetal]

౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ inertia fushiguro megumi / gn!reader ©mariademetal 2024

cw ... codependency, description of a stab wound but no actual stabbing/violence, situationship (😭), megs is an asshole, reader is a little pathetic icl, description of anxiety?? idk what else, lmk if i should add anything note ... OOC MEGUMI. this characterization is sooooo bad don't even come for me i made him soooo much crueler than he actually is but i've been in such an angsty mood i can't bring myself to care this is suchhhh a weird little oneshot but i wanted to write for megumi and had so many ideas and they just all kinda merged into this frankenstein freakazoid fic.... kinda despise it but still had fun writing it :p hope u like itttt word count ... 2.4k

The first law of motion: an object in motion stays in motion. For as long as you've known him, Megumi has been running from one thing or another. He likes it, you think— he likes the feeling of his lungs burning, he likes the feeling of waking up sore, he likes the feeling of pressing down onto his bruises and more than anything he likes it when you do it.

Likewise, for as long as you've known him, he's never slowed down to let you catch up. You don't think he's given anyone an inch in his life, and you can't help but think that it's okay, it's fine, because it's him.

You don't like his friends. You're kept away from them at school, tucked away in the corner they keep for the students without innate techniques, out of sight and out of mind. They're rowdy, they yell, they tug, and most importantly, they take up the attention that Megumi once solely focused on you. You're sure as hell they don't like you, either— you're not a part of their world, not really, and you have no doubt that the way you cling to Megumi whenever you all go out together, determined to make yourself as small as possible, hide behind Megumi until he saves you, makes them just as uncomfortable around you as you are around them.

You don't like his friends, they sure as shit don't adore you, but every time Megumi comes around and you're resolute that this time you're going to stay behind, get some alone time with him, you still end up walking out with him, hand in his, tail between your legs.

He just gives you that look. He doesn't even need to say anything— his lips purse, the corner of his lips quirk down, his eyebrows furrow, and the disappointment in his eyes is so palpable you think you can feel it burrowing under your skin. That's all it takes for your resolution to be all but reduced to dust.

When you concede, murmur a "Fine, I'll go," and reach for your coat, the disappointment on his face has disappeared and the faintest hint of a smile has replaced it. He rubs your arm while he leads you to your door and, just comfortable enough behind closed doors to show you the affection he thinks you deserve as a reward for doing what he wants. His hand feels more like a prong collar tugging at your neck, ready to choke you if you dare to turn tail.

It falls to your own hand while the two of you walk, and where you'd prefer to take your time on the way to everyone else, to prepare yourself for another evening of judgmental glances and keeping to yourself, to get just a few more minutes alone with Megumi before you're forced to share him again, but he moves quickly. Your feet hurt before long, and when you stop to take a break, he just lets go of your hand and keeps going.

Naturally, when you eventually meet up with Itadori and Kugisaki and the rest, he acts like he never wanted to see them at all, but you forced your hand— like he's the dog and you're the one pulling his leash, forcing him to socialize with the people you can't stand.

No one seems to believe him, but no one dares accuse him of anything but being a "..softie, deep down."

God, you wish. You wish there was even a single soft spot on his body. He's dipped his entire being in the river Styx, forged a soul from steel far too dense for jujutsu-less you to penetrate, and has never failed to remind you of it (and your own failures by extension). You wish he would give you the opportunity to massage his shoulders until the knots in his muscles could loosen, you wish you could wash his hair for him so it would finally lay flat, you wish he wouldn't train so much so the blisters his knuckle pads could have the opportunity to fade away. You wish more than anything he would just surrender, let you take care of him, and he knows this, so he taxes extra care to keep you just far enough away to make damn sure you don't, and just close enough to keep you from leaving him.

You need him. This is something you both know. It's never been in question. You've needed him since you were both little, to protect you from the world and the creatures you could both see but only he could fight against. And he needed you too, for a good, few years. He was too mean, too quick to snap at the unfamiliar to make any other friends, and you would've sooner died than give him the impression that he is anything other than the most important person in your life.

Then, he stopped needing you. He settled, trained, made friends. Found his purpose. Yet, he keeps you around— drags you over from the other side of campus just to relish in the way you wrap yourself around his arm while he talks with his friends, the same way you did when he'd send his dogs to kill all the cursed spirits that dared to scare you when you were little. He relishes in protecting you from a situation he has inflicted onto you. But he doesn't need you.

So, one day, you ask him why he bothers keeping you around.

"What're you talking about?" He huffs. He's busy sharpening your only knife after trying and failing to peel an apple for the two of you to share— he's always busy, but you've caught him with an injury while all his peers are healthy, so at least you have a moment alone with him.

"You know what I'm talking about," You insist with a pout, and he just looks back at you with a deadpan. "You don't have to see me if you don't go out of your way to. Gojo keeps us apart for that exact reason. Why do you?"

He's silent, for a while. Just long enough that you think he's opted to ignore you. Only then does he speak. "I'm not ignoring you. I just don't really know what you're getting at."

"I don't want to have to explain how I feel to you like you're five."

"Then don't."

You think it would hurt less if he took the knife he's sharpening and stuck it into your heart. Your eyes burn, and you swallow your saliva, purse your lips and clench your fists to keep yourself from crying. You think about what you'd do if he had opted to stab you instead— you picture yourself with the handle sticking out of your shirt, blood spilling out all around it, staining your shirt and your hands red, your heart beating even faster and harder to replace it. You'd take it out, you think, and rinse it off, then hand it back to him so he can keep his hands busy like you know he likes to while you bleed out on your bed behind him.

It's only when you sniffle, still desperate to hold your tears back, that Megumi finally looks back at you and realizes this is his cue to comfort you in the only awkward way he knows how to. He closes his eyes for a second, puts the knife down, and sits down beside you, stiff as a board. You shift your weight the second he does, leaning on his shoulder, but he doesn't lean against yours. It's not an apology, you doubt it's even intended as one, but you're so eager to forgive him that you still interpret it as one, and thus an invitation to elaborate on what he'd shut down just a minute before.

"You don't need me anymore," you say, and it's only after the words are already spoken that you realize Megumi would've preferred it if you omitted the word anymore altogether. You know him to prefer not to admit he needs water. "You have friends and you know I hate them. They understand you better than I do. They can keep up with you."

"You don't hate them," He says, and you know he's not delusional— just cruel. You wonder if he's always been this cruel, if he inherited it from his father, or if it's the world who made him cruel. You don't think you're cruel— maybe cruelty is necessary for sorcerers. "It's not about any of that. I'd never toss you aside for them. I can barely stand them."

You laugh at that, and Megumi makes a sour face. "You can barely stand them but you still drag me to see them."

"I don't drag you. I can't make you do anything," He sneers.

You know that if this turns into a fight, he'll win, so you raise your white flag before it has the opportunity to and curl into yourself, away from him. Only then does he reach out to touch you.

"Maybe you should leave," You whisper, and he looks like you've scalded him.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, and opens it again. "I'll come back later."

"Don't bother," you say, and you regret it the second you do. It isn't like you to be this petty, it isn't like you to cry as much as you've been crying lately, and you find that every time you speak, you find your own voice just a little bit more grating than the last. You say don't bother but you really don't mean it. You fight down an urge to correct yourself, beg him to stay, not to leave to begin with. You'll drop it. The two of you can lie together, he can fidget with your hands, and when he wants to sleep you can run your fingers through his hair.

You don't because you want to believe that what you said is hurting him just as much as what he said earlier hurt you, even though you know, deep down, that no matter what you say to him, you can't even scratch that steel shell that protects him.

He says your name sternly, but quietly, and you're ready to cry again. "What are you doing? What is this really about?"

"I don't know."

So, he leaves. You can still smell the faintest trace of him in the air, and once he's far enough away that you can't hear his footsteps anymore, you grab the knife he was sharpening and finish the job.

You love him, you think, and he doesn't love you. Or maybe you don't. You don't know. But you're certainly not friends, and you don't think you ever have been. You don't think you've had a friend your whole life. He's not your friend, but if he told you to jump, you'd ask how high.

He's always moving from one place to another. He wakes up and goes to class, then eats lunch with Gojo, then spars with Itadori, then trains with the second years and Kugisaki, then sees Ieiri to make sure he hasn't overexerted himself, then eats dinner with the first and second years, then finally comes to collect you so you can go out with him and the others.

On the other hand, you wake up, eat your breakfast alone, meet with your teacher, and rot in your room, thinking about if and when Megumi will show up. Megumi, Megumi, Megumi. You doubt he thinks about you once before he asks if he can bring you along to whatever plans his friends have already made.

How does he do it? How does he move so consistently, so perpetually, while the best you can do is nip at his heels? The idea of it exhausts you.

He does come back, eventually. After you've fallen asleep. You hear a knock on the door that wakes you, and you know it's him, so you do your best to wake yourself up and make yourself as presentable as you can before opening the door for him. You smile, wholesome and unassuming, perfect for forgiving for any prior transgressions. Then, as he takes you in, you take him in— tousled hair, messy uniform— and realize he's shown you just how capable he really is of leaving you behind.

So, like a hurt dog, you snarl and you bite. "I thought I told you not to bother."

"Stop being like this."

That's what he's reduced you to. A dog. Pavlov'd you into doing things you'd never do otherwise, feeding you with his rare affection and unconditional protection, hit you with his disappointed glances and harsh words.

"What else should I be like?"

He huffs and reaches over you to open your door wide enough to walk through. You don't stop him— even if you wanted to, how could you? You're confused. He makes a display out of just how much he doesn't need you, but still goes out of his way to burrow his way inside of your room.

You watch him from the back as he sets his bag on the floor and takes off his jacket. You can't stand to look at the way his hair is splayed out, so you look at his back, instead. His shoulder blades poke out from under his shirt and make circles in a way you find mesmerizing. Then, he slips off his shoes and steps forward. You follow, dutiful even at your most hurt.

Then, he faces you.

"Why don't you like them?" he asks.

"What's there to like?" You know what answer he wants, and when he just looks at you, waiting for it, rather than taking your bait, you throw yourself onto your bed. "They're all sorcerers," you say sorcerers like the word puts a bad taste in your mouth.

"So am I."

"Exactly."

Your bed dips just by where your legs hang off. You know exactly what face he's wearing, so you don't bother looking. "You don't have to be jealous, you know."

"What's to be jealous about?" You ask sarcastically, and you can feel his glare boring into the side of your face.

"They're my friends, but you're my..."

He struggles to find a word to describe you, just like you struggle to find one to describe him. You know exactly what you are to him, though.

"You're my favorite."

You look up towards him. He looks away. "Really?"

"Really."

He coughs into his fist. You fluster and dig your face into your sheets.

"I still don't like your friends," you mutter.

He snorts at the sound of your muffled voice. "You don't have to."

"And I think you're the only one who likes me."

"That's your own fault."

"I don't mind.”

[being-a-human-isnt-very-fun]

CW-animal abuse ⚠️

The amount of therians/otherkins that spread around pictures of animals in abusive situations is shocking sometimes. Guys. Having wild animals as pets is abusive. Yes, that is including wolfdogs and similar animals (the breeding of wolfdogs in general is abusive and so is keeping them as pets). Yes that picture of a wolfdog sitting on a couch is cute but it is so so stupid and dangerous.

Provoking an animal and then taking a picture of it growling or biting at the camera or another animal is also abusive or at best bad pet ownership! Especially when paired with things like prong collars, shock collars, injuries/blood, tight/too small muzzles, and other things that “add to the aesthetic”.

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

The Winged Servant - 6

cws: nonhuman whumpee, shock collar mentions, multiple whumpers

masterlist

note: this chapter is kinda rough and very short. my apologies, writing it felt like wrestling and wrangling an annoying concept into words. and it won against me. it's because this one is supposed to be set up for some fun chapters that are coming up soon!! so stay tuned!!

I didn’t realize that Prince Ryan had never put the collar back on until I was being handed platters of food in the kitchen. Maybe it was just a small mercy, like the twelve minutes I’d had to myself before dinner—he gave me those, sometimes, if he didn’t have to go out of his way for them—but it seemed different tonight.

Everything was different tonight and no one would fucking tell me why.

It was unreasonable to demand knowledge of these types of things, of course, I reminded myself.. The royal family always had my best interests in mind. Always. Every weird thing that happened today did not change that.

Serving dinner, at least, was the same. Carry three platters of food out of the kitchen and into the dining room, place them on the table, don’t make too much noise, don’t interrupt any conversation going on already. It was easy, as long as I didn’t drop anything, until-

“Onyx.”

Prince Ryan didn't talk to me during dinner. I was supposed to work like a well-oiled machine, serving food without making my presence obvious. I wasn’t supposed to be talked to and I wasn’t supposed to bow and my existence wasn’t supposed to be acknowledged.

I bowed at Prince Ryan's feet as soon as he spoke, trying not to let my surprise show. “May I assist you with something, Your Highness?” Talking wasn't so hard. It was just repeating the script I had been trained to say. Even if I didn’t usually talk here, it was the same script.

“We're going somewhere tonight. You need a pair of shoes. You can borrow some of mine. I want you ready to leave by the time we're done eating. Don't worry about dishes or anything—we have more important things to be doing right now.”

 Repeating the script wasn't bad, except that Price Ryan had been abandoning the script all day and I didn't know where to go from there. “Yes, Your Highness,” I said, because what else was there to say?

“Any questions?”

I swallowed, trying to get used to the feeling of doing it without the collar. It’d had prongs with which to distribute the electricity, and my neck felt bare without them digging in. I could ask about it, but Prince Cardan had started glaring at me, and maybe it would be in everyone’s best interests to excuse myself from the table. “No, Your Highness. Thank you.”

He waved a hand at me, turning away, and I did my best to stay steady and graceful as I practically ran back to the kitchen. This was probably fine, right? It wasn’t going to be that big of a deal, right? I was just- just wearing shoes and leaving the house, like I was a human. And the prince had said it so nonchalantly.

“Onyx,” Jayden said firmly, squeezing one of my hands, and I blinked. From the look on his face, it was not the first time he’d said my name.

“My apologies, sir.”

“That’s alright. Let’s get some food in you before we leave, okay?”

“Okay,” I echoed. It had been awhile since I’d eaten, I realized. This morning, maybe. A meal would get my head back on straight, at the least.

“It’ll be alright,” Jayden told me as he set a plate in front of me, and I nodded. I would be alright. The royal family always had my best interests in mind. As long as I did what I was told, I would be alright, no matter how odd anything seemed to me.

~

taglist: @kaleidoscope-of-thoughts @toyybox @rainydaywhump

[narrators-journal]

A tiger's booty call

I just kinda jumped into this Ao3 ask. Didn't have a good opening, I'm rusty with bsd smut, so I threw set up to the wind and just went right for the porn lol. I hope this is at least a fun read, and sorry if I skimped on the glove kink and details, I did my best while keeping the feeling of harshness and feral desire.

Prompt post: Here

Kinktober masterlist: Here

CW: Biting, mentions of blood, tho mostly from Atsushi's coat, Beast Atsushi wears a prong collar, alley sex, implied dubcon, generally everything in the title with some monsterfucking energy on top.

Atsushi wasn’t gentle, he never was, which Akutagawa was used to. He’d long since adjusted to the weretiger’s habit of dragging him into alleys and dark corners on sight whenever they weren’t ‘on the clock’. Wanting nothing but to sate whatever dark lust he had for the agent. So, the scratch of his worn leather gloves on his skin, and the pain of Atsushi’s fangs in his shoulder were familiar, and to an extent the goth would never admit, hot.

Not that Akutagawa tried to figure that out. Like every other emotion, he left it alone and instead focused on the dark desire the harsh treatment stirred up. The feel of the leather on his pale skin, the thrill of being pushed into the grubby ground in the alleyway, only protected from the stains and mystery substances by the layer of his shredded clothing, the permanent stench of blood that clung to Atsushi’s dark, fur-lined coat, his hips bruised and his shoulder aching.

All of it stuff that shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was, but the goth couldn’t deny how each smack of Atsushi’s hips into his ass sent fresh waves of warm lust through his blood. If only he’d quit doing this shit in public… Akutagawa thought, panting and huffing while Atsushi let go of his shoulder to leave another bite mark on the other. Seemingly oblivious to how exposed the alley was, even under the cover of the night, and was instead focused on nothing but keeping the ebony-haired ADA agent trapped beneath him and marking his bare body with his fangs or hands. “So pretty…” The mafioso puffed out, his voice vibrating with the animalistic song of the tiger his inhumane collar kept at bay. “Pretty...pretty prey…” He continued, his mindless words making Akutagawa moan slightly while his neglected cock twitched and throbbed at any form of praise.

Of course, whatever pleasure Akutagawa got was a happy by-product, he was only muttering to himself. Lost in the throws of his own euphoria and ruthless pursuit of orgasm. Alternating between biting the goth and muttering and grunting out thoughtless half-praise as his gloved hands kept the man’s hips in place while he humped into the naked ADA agent. Only giving him a break from the quick, harsh thrusts and bolts of stomach-clenching pleasure when, finally, his movements stuttered to a halt with one final slam into the goth’s ass. The weretiger burying his cock into him to fill him with warm cum. In response, Akutagawa groaned, pulsing with his own orgasm until his muscles began to twitch and shake. Yet, he kept quiet and still, letting the mafioso regain his breath. “Shit…” was the only thing he said, pulling out of Aku, earning small hiss, and pushing himself to his feet.

While Akutagawa almost crumpled into a shakey, tired pile on what used to be his clothing, Atsushi said nothing as he fixed his mussed clothes and awkwardly left. Leaving Akutagawa to recollect himself and find some form of cover, and a way home. Like always.

[spookyboywhump]

A snippet was the most I could manage I wanted to write something longer but you know what this will do

CW: pet whump, prong collars, asphyxiation 

***

 “You know what your problem is?” Nicholas said casually, Zander trying to ignore the dread in the pit of his stomach as his collar was removed. 

 “Yes, it’s you.” He said bluntly. “If you dropped dead right now it would solve most of my issues. At least, it would be pretty funny.” 

 “Your problem is that you resist everything.” Nicholas said, clearly pretending he hadn’t heard him. “You resist orders, you refuse to accept your place, Cain hurt himself trying to get you to fucking move-”

 “How is it my problem that he can’t lift anything heavier than a bag of flour?! He fucking earned that back pain as far as I’m concerned.” He said bitterly. 

 “I think,” Nicholas said, still intent on ignoring him, “That you just need some extra motivation.” Zander felt cold metal close around his throat, he instantly recognized the feeling of metal prongs digging into his neck. Nicholas made sure to lock the collar so that even when he tried to pull it away from his neck, there was nothing he could do. 

 “You fucking bastard!” He hissed, trying to get away from Nicholas instead. He didn’t get far though, he hadn’t noticed the leash already clipped the the collar, Nicholas snatched it up and pulled hard, causing the prongs to dig further into his throat and cut off his ability to breathe. He was struggling to gasp for air, which got even worse as Nicholas wrapped the leash around his hand, shortening it and forcing Zander up on his knees, the man smirked as he leaned down closer to his face. 

 “Now, sweetheart, is that any way to speak to your master?”

[whumpy-daydreams]

Quite a Shock

Masterlist

Previous Next

CW: shock collar, manhandling, captivity

Just because she didn't have her magic didn't mean she couldn't fight.

It was over before it could begin. The blow to her jaw left her head scrambled and lost her precious seconds. The guards were quick to pin her down, strong hands on her biceps and wrists, legs pinning her feet.

She couldn't see Rudy but she knew he was there. Rowena gasped as her head was yanked up, his grip tight in her hair. The collar was cold against her skin, metal prongs digging into the side of her neck as it was tightened until it hurt.

"You really shouldn't have done that." Rudy's voice was low, eyes full of hate and malice. He yanked down, crashing her skull into the floor before standing back, remote in hand. "I'd let go of her if I were you."

The guards got up quickly, not giving her any time to lash out at them before they were out of arms reach. Rowena couldn't care less though - she was just desperate to get the thing off her neck.

It didn't hurt, but it did startle her. The shock was over in an instant and as soon as she was over the surprise she reached back up to try and get the collar off. Just as her fingers grazed it another shock jolted her.

"That's just the first level. Why don't we turn it up to five?"

"Why don't you fuck off-" she was cut off by a yelp as Rudy pressed the remote again. The pain was hot and cold at the same time, spasming down her spine. "Bastard."

"I think you should think twice about talking back right now." Another shock, but she managed to stay quiet. "That's better, but I reckon you can take a little more juice."

"Wait-" She screamed this time, her body going rigid. Panting hard Rowena hit the floor with her fist and swore. The fear had worn off now, replaced by anger and frustration. And she couldn't even do anything about it.

"You lot can go," Rudy said to the guards who promptly left, closing the door behind them. Rudy sat down, leaning against the wall as he surveyed Rowena, who was lying on the floor breathing heavily and glaring at him.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"I want you to realise that all your attempts at fighting back, all your escape attempts, all your sarcasm and suppressed screams are pointless." Another shock sent her back to twisting on the ground. "Because I can sit here and do this all day." A scream clawed its way out of her throat. "And at the end of it-" he paused as he shocked her again, "I will go home-" he turned the dial up, "and you will still be here, alone."

Rudy sat there for an hour, headphones on as he watched youtube and delivered shocks to Rowena. Every time she managed to get halfway to standing he pressed the remote until she lay still, crying silently and shaking from the electricity that lingered in her muscles.

Rowena lay on the floor for another hour after he left, trying to shake off the tremors. When they finally subsided she pushed herself up and fumbled with the collar until she could rip it off.

Standing on unstable legs she held it in her hands, considering all the things Rudy had said. Words intended to break her in ways pain couldn't.

She wacked the collar against the edge of the table. Again and again and again until the small box cracked and smashed apart, black plastic and wiring spraying across the room. She would not break. Not ever. And certainly not because of him.

Incident reports

[the-whvmp-dvmp]

AMOW Trope-a-thon Day 2

someone is not having a good time. sorry makoa! i quite like this one actually, it was fun X3

Word count: 1560

CW: Pet whump, electrocution, shock collar blood, vomit mentions (no real descriptions), creepy whumper, conditioning, dehumanization, brainwashing, petnames (literally!), big whumpee, big whumper, defiant whumpee

Prompt: Day 2 - Captivity ; Creepy whumper, conditioning, pet whump

Since arriving at the facility, Makoa had punched, kicked, scratched, kicked, and bitten just about every worker that had gone near him. He seethed in his cage, far too small for his large stature. He had no choice but to sit on his knees. The three workers assigned to him stared at him, unsure what to do.

"How are we supposed to train someone that easily beats the crap out of us when we even get too close?" The tallest of them spoke, holding a cup of coffee near his face. "He's not just fighting. He tries to beat us into a pulp everytime."

The smallest of them sighed, rubbing their side softly. "I know, I thought my kidney was gonna burst. At least he'll be a good guard dog."

"I think the challenge is kinda fun," the woman spoke up. The tall man scoffed as he put his cup down.

"Of course you do. You're the one that gets to hold the taser." The woman opened her mouth to retort, but the door swung open and they all straightened. His presence was so intimidating, they could tell who it was without looking.

Jack Huntington, built like a linebacker at 6'3 and 230 pounds. He wore an all black suit, real gold rings on his fingers. Makoa slammed against the cage, glaring at the man. It was not their first meeting.

"Fuck you! Let me out of this fucking cage, you disgusting excuse of !" He rammed against the cage again, targeting the side with the lock.

"Poor puppy. If you want it so badly." He pulled out the keys, bending to unlock Makoa's enclosure. Predictably, the man charged out and lunged at Jack, but the woman worker pressed the taser to his back. He spasmed and fell to the floor, twitching. "You'll learn your lesson. They always do."

Jack kneeled, signalling the small worker over. They complied, grabbing the back of Makoa's head and lifting it up. Makoa groaned against the strain it put in his neck. The boss clipped a collar around his neck, brushing the skin there as he pulled away. "Handsome puppy." Makoa genuinely retched, squirming on the ground. He needed to get the fuck away from this sicko. "This is just a training collar since you can't stop misbehaving. It looks like I'll have to personally oversee your training."

He stood up and the worker hauled Makoa up as well, obviously struggling. Makoa became dead weight in their arms, causing them to stumble and almost fall face first into the floor. Jack clicked his tongue and slipped a simple remote out of his pocket, pressing the single red button.

Makoa's nerves lit up all over as the prongs from the collar electrocuted him. It was worse than the taser. He screamed in torment, withering desperately, limbs flailing uncontrollably. It didn't stop until Jack lifted his thumb off the button and he could faintly hear the laughter coming from the other man through the blooding rushing in his ears. Makoa panted heavily, drool dripping onto the floor beneath him as he struggled to regain control of his limbs.

"Get the message now?" Makoa cleared his throat, gathering saliva in his throat until he spat it out with force at Jack's feet, narrowly avoiding his designer loafers. He watched as said loafer rose until it pressed against his head and shoved him into the tiles. Something in his forehead cracked and he yelped, gritting his teeth against the pain. Still worth it.

Makoa stood next to the scummy man, dwarfing him in comparison. Standing at 6'10, with his stoic face, he was almost as intimidating as the man to his right.

The walk to this room was uneventful, as he decided it'd be better if he didn't act out *too* much. He wondered if these people had any qualms about killing him or the others he knew they kidnapped. Didn't matter what terminology they liked to use, they were kidnapping people.

"Finally, the fun part." Makoa shivered, suddenly feeling chilly. Jack had seemed flippant before, but now he sounded cruel. Like he knew how much this would hurt and he liked it that way.

What could he mean by fun part? He already had been prodded roughly by the workers, spoken down to, beaten, even whipped once. And he'd only been here a few weeks. Makoa knew of the reason he was here, the workers weren't shy in telling him. He thought they liked the look in his eyes when they told him he would be turned into a dog for others to use how they see fit. He didn't understand how that was to be achieved, but this must be it.

"In the chair." The male and female lackeys from before each grabbed one of Makoa's arms, the woman pressing the taser against his back in warning. He followed begrudgingly, sneering at them. If he was shocked one more time, he was sure his heart would stop.

He was restrained against the chair, steel cuffs cold against his skin. Directly in front of him was a TV screen. Were they really going to tape his eyes open and make him watch brainwashing videos?

"Enjoy the show, dog." Makoa thrashed against his restraints at that. Jack chuckled in response, gesturing at the screen. "You'll be watching our training videos. You'll watch them until you give in." Jack pulled up a chair and sat diagonally to the man. He shook the remote in his hand. "If I see your eyes closed, you get punished. If you're good, you'll get a reward at the end." The screen turned on as the boss got settled, smoothing out his blazer.

Dear god, these people were genuinely insane. They actually wanted to turn him into a dog. He looked at the restraints, but there was absolutely no way he was getting out. Maybe the videos would be short.

Soon enough, Makoa concluded he needed to do whatever possible to get the fuck out of this place. It must've been *hours*. He sat in front of the screen and watched the videos over and over again. His throat was dry, his stomach growling. He wanted to cry.

Makoa shook his head back and forth repeatedly, listening to the stupid voice from the TV. How to properly behave as a pet, affirmations like "You live to serve your master", "Always obey", and "You are beneath the humans". Jack grinned and watched him for a bit before speaking up.

"Tapping out, puppy?" He held the remote in his left hand, thumb smoothing over the button. Makoa felt his heart rate pick up significantly. He took a shaky breath, scooting his body around the chair.

"Let me out," he demanded, or rather, tried to. His voice was weak and it cracked on the last word. He needed water.

"What are you?" Jack suddenly asked, keeping his cold, detached eyes on Makoa's.

"A human being with a life and friends, freak. My name is Makoa Iona and I—!"

Agony. The scream tore from his throat, leaving it raw as every muscle in his body tensed so tight he feared they would snap. Or, he *would* fear that if his mind wasn't so preoccupied with the horrible fucking *pain*.

"I said what are you?" Jack stood up as the affirmations replayed in the background.

Makoa spasmed, back arching as much as the restraints allowed. The female worker watched in concern, stepping forward slightly.

"S-sir, you're gonna kill him—"

"Shut up." He let go of the button regardless. He gripped Makoa's chin tightly, shaking his head for him. "Dumb dog. What are you?"

Makoa seethed in silence, glaring at him hard. Jack pulled his hand back before punching the other square in the jaw. Makoa harshly exhaled, mouth twisting in a grimace. He spit onto the ground, a glob of blood landing on the tile. More blood rushed into his mouth, as he realized a tooth had been knocked loose. It was hanging on by a thread.

"It'll only get worse from here. I have so many ideas, pet. You seem so tough to break, but you're just like the others. A few mean words and a couple days of pain, you'll be grovelling at my feet. You fucking mutt."

Makoa breathed heavily, eyes unfocused. Jack reached his hand out and a baton was placed into it. He thrusted it forward into Makoa's stomach, where he knew a huge dark bruise had formed. He folded in on himself and dry heaved, but of course there was no food to come up. His throat burned and the bile rising up wasn't helping.

"Just say it and I'll go easy on you during the training. Be my good dog."

The huge man looked small in the chair, a mixture of drool and blood spilling down his chin and tears collecting in his eyes. A pathetic sob escaped past his lips and he heaved once more, thrashing against the restricting steel once more before his body went limp.

"...I'm a dog. A dumb dog. A... a pet." His upper lip curled, but he said it. He wanted to die.

Jack's mouth unfurled in a horrible, smug smile. He rubbed his thumb across the pet's hair, right behind his ear.

"There we go. You'll be so easy to train."

[mothmxwhump]

CW/TW: Pet whumpees, conditioning, multiple whumpees, whipping, nonbinary whumpee, degradation, BBU

The three trainees sit huddled together on the ground, clinging together for warmth. Eachwears the same outfit: gray shorts, a white tee, and a steel collar with a blinking light and sharp prongs.

“Berry. Stand.”

Berry, a twenty-year-old with dark blue hair that’s begun to turn brown at the roots, slowly rises to their feet. One of the boys sitting next to them, a redhead with sharp features, snarls.

“Leave Felix alone, they didn’t do anything to you fuckers!”

Berry whips around to face the redhead, Mars, with wide eyes. “P-please, please don’t-- ah!”

Their trainer smacks Berry’s head from behind, making them stumble out of surprise.

The third, Pickle, winces and curls into Mars’s side.

“Mars. Remove your shirt and kneel,” the trainer snaps. When Mars begins to protest, she adds, “Or Berry and Pickle will take your punishment for you.”

Mars grits his teeth and kneels down, yanking off his shirt and tossing it aside.

“Now, tell me the rules you broke.”

“Seriously?”

“Every word that comes out of your mouth that isn’t a rule is another lash, mutt.”

“Um, I argued with you. I--We’re not supposed to talk back to our trainers or prospective owner.”

“Keep going. I don’t have all day.”

“I, um, cursed, I’m supposed to stop that, and, uh, I called F--” He winces. “I called Berry by their old name. We’re our numbers unless and until we have an owner who gives us names.”

“Good boy, Mars. Pickle, you and Berry are to report to your next group session, a guard outside will escort you. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The two say in unison. Pickle casts a worried glance to Mars before following Berry out the door.

…

“...Do you think he’s okay?” Berry murmurs, quiet enough that the trainer doesn’t shock them for speaking.

“I, um, I don’t know. He’s, um, a fighter for a reason, though. And we’ve all gotten through the whip before,” Pickle responds softly. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the veggies he’s cutting for a meal neither of them will eat.

“But--”

The oven timer goes off, and Pickle rushes over to turn it off before the trainer yells at him for the noise.

The smell of the freshly cooked chicken only serves to make Berry hungrier than normal, and for a moment they consider trying to sneak just a tiny bite of the carrots they’re cutting into coins. They shake the idea from their head and help Pickle garnish the chicken with them instead.

The trainer, a tall woman whose heels make loud clacks as she walks down the rows of small training kitchens, stops to examine their work.

“Hm. Both of you are for the same prospective, correct?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“The cutting on the carrots is sloppy and you need to remove rosemary from its stem before use. Other than that it would be fine.”

“I, um, understand, miss. It won’t happen again. Should we report back to our primary handler for correction?” Pickle tilts his head slightly.

The woman sighs. “No, your prospective has made an appointment to observe both of you, as well as the guard dog you’ve been training with.”

“I understand, miss.” Berry nods their head.

The trainer shoos them off. “Go to your cell and await further instructions from your handler.”

The trainees obey quietly, bare feet padding through the hall. Neither even considers the exits, although they know by now which of the unmarked doors lead out of the training area of the facility. Eventually, the two arrive at the door of their cell. A small card is hung on the door with their designations and numbers.

“Mars”, 109413: Protection Primary, platonic secondary

“Pickle”, 207610: Domestic

“Berry”, 190818: Platonic Primary, domestic secondary

Berry pushes the door open, padding into the plain white room. Mars is laying on the floor, red blood splattered all across the floor and his pale skin. Their primary handler, Handler Garten, stands above him, analyzing her work.

His back is all torn up, open gashes still spilling blood. Smaller splatters blend in with his freckles, dotted like stars across his shoulders and cheeks. He barely manages to push himself up to look at Pickle and Berry, who both dive to help him sit upright. Handler Garten glares at them.

“All three of you are filthy. You’ll need to be cleaned up before you meet your prospective.”

[liberatingflame]

got people in here that are just absolute morons, don't we?

[darlingwhump]

shock collar :)

My first @badthingshappenbingo prompt fill! This ended up being a lot longer than I intended it to lmao, but enjoy! Thanks for sending in a request~

CW: captivity, implied pet whump, electrocution, manipulation, self-loathing

Whumpee’s “good behavior” had granted them the privilege of going upstairs instead of rotting away in Whumper’s cold, musty basement. They had even been given free range of the house, and Whumper seemed ecstatic that their captive was finally warming up to their new life. 

Whumpee gratefully accepted this new privilege. They’ve been on their best behavior this week: not shying away when Whumper tries to cuddle up with them, accepting any punishments with gratitude, and even going out of their way to care for their captor’s needs. 

And, oh, life is so much easier when they’re not chained up in the basement. Now, the only thing acting as any kind of restraint is the shock collar around Whumpee’s neck. Whumper has used it countless times in the past as a sort of training tool, as negative reinforcement for whenever they try to talk back or disobey them. They’ve even got Whumpee trained to fear the sight of the remote, as it almost always brings pain and a lingering headache. 

But it’s alright, even that has been accounted for in Whumpee’s elaborate plan to finally get out of this hell. Amidst their constant state of paranoia, Whumpee still thinks this plan is almost perfect. It has to work.

Because if it doesn’t…well, Whumpee doesn’t want to think about that. 

Whumper didn’t seem to pick up on Whumpee’s scuttling each time they were left alone, and didn’t comment on how they’d been digging through drawers to locate keys and searching around for security systems or anything else that could aid them in an escape attempt. They didn’t appear to see through Whumpee’s risky attempt at manipulation, and even right now, they don’t stir as Whumpee slips the shock collar’s remote from a sleeping Whumper’s nightstand drawer. This way, if they do wake up, at least they won’t be able to turn the collar on. 

Hope flutters in Whumpee’s chest as they swiftly tiptoe down the hall, into the living room, and towards the front door. One hand holds the key to the front door (Whumper had made it a point to tell Whumpee that they had removed the inside lock in preparation for their new life upstairs). The other hand shakes violently and feels clammy as it grips the shock collar remote--but not too tightly. Whumpee’s heart hammers as they think about the possibility of accidentally triggering it…but they don’t want to put it in their pocket, because then they could shift and it would go off and everything would be painful. 

It’s alright, the shocks will be over soon. Whumpee is getting out.

They squeeze their eyes shut as they reach for the door handle, as if touching it would set off their collar. They knew it wouldn’t--shock collars didn’t work like that, and the remote was right here. And nothing happened, anyways! They’re fine.

Whumpee flings the door open and feels a breeze of crisp night air for the first time in…had it really been a few months now? It feels so nice, but Whumpee snaps themself back to the present. They have to go, now.

Whumpee doesn’t make it one step out onto the front porch before the prongs in their collar crackle to life.

They immediately lose their balance, crying out in pain as their body is wracked with shocks at the highest setting. But they had gotten the remote--how was the collar going off? They dropped it anyways, their fingers instead moving to claw at the painful sensation crawling up their neck and into their head. Get it off get it off get it off! 

But their twitching hands can’t seem to grasp the collar, and they can’t get it off even if they tried. Why didn’t they try to take it off first? Stupid echoes through their mind and they can’t focus on anything else through the pain. 

They don’t know how long they lay there writhing on the front porch. But at some point, they realize they need to go, they have to try, or else Whumper’s gonna get them and punish them and this is so painful they just want it to stop. Through everything, their adrenaline pushes Whumpee to their elbows and they attempt to crawl towards the front lawn.

They whimper as another wave of shocks rush through their body and hear a chuckle sounding from above them. No, they must be hallucinating, they have to under this much pain, right? Please let this be a hallucination.

Whumpee glances up to see Whumper looking down over their twitching form. Nononono, Whumpee tries to back away, but the shocks only seem to get worse and they cry out in pain. They shake their head, try to will themselves to ignore their convulsing muscles and run, but they can’t move, they can’t think. It’s too much.

“Oh, darling, look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Whumper tuts, and Whumpee learned months ago that they find Whumpee’s pain amusing. In that way, Whumpee has played right into their hand. “Let’s get you back to your room, yeah?”

“N-n-no…” Whumpee whimpers in the first form of defiance they’d shown in weeks, ever since they started cooking up this little plan of theirs. So much for freedom. “...don’ wanna go back.”

“Whumpee.” Their captor’s voice snaps, all prior amusement morphing into stern impatience. “Let’s go. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Whumpee lets out a sob. As if that’s what they’re really worried about right now. 

Whumpee should scream. They should be doing everything they can to wake up the neighbors as a last-ditch attempt to escape whatever punishment Whumper has in mind. Maybe the neighbors could help, call the police, send someone to investigate Whumpee and find them. But through the waves of pain and months of conditioning, Whumpee can’t make themselves carry out their plan. They just want their neck to stop searing. Why did they ever think this was a good idea?

“Whumpee, now. You’ve already lost upstairs privileges, do you want to lose more?”

Whumpee shakes their head, the movement made even jerkier due to the shocks continuing to wrack Whumpee’s body. “N-no more, please.”

“Then let’s go. You have five seconds to get up and walk back inside.”

Whumpee whimpers. The shocks are too much--they can’t get up!

“One…” Whumper sighs, “Two…”

What other privileges could they lose? They were already going back to the basement, back to no comfort or freedom to move around as they please. This collar was already bad enough… 

“Three…”

Despite everything, Whumpee wills themself to stand. They try to take a step forward, but Whumpee’s legs give out from under them as their muscles convulse and they stumble. But this time, Whumper catches them. They’re led back into the house, and then everything stops. The pain is gone, save for the lingering aftershocks and muscle spasms that Whumpee has gotten used to after months of being shocked into submission.

Whumper pockets the remote, seemingly having turned off the collar. There was an off button this whole time?! Whumpee had been so stupid. They thought they had planned everything, that it had to work. Whumpee even took the remote and they dropped it after the shocks started. So there’s no way that they could've accidentally held the button for that long, and there’s no way Whumper would have been able to activate it without the remote…right?

“Good pet,” Whumper coos and lets Whumpee lean on them. Their voice is filled with disappointment as they add, “I’m really glad I bought that invisible fence. I had hoped that it wouldn't be necessary…but clearly, you still need some more training.”

Whumpee’s breath hitches. Invisible fence? Like the ones that…that shock dogs if they try to run off of their owner’s property? Their face falls as they realize that as long as this collar is on, they won’t be able to leave this house. 

Whumper drags Whumpee towards the basement door and tears prick at the corners of their eyes. They failed. They’re never getting out of this place, are they?

[love-toxin]

loser's club initiation - eddie munson

volume two

plot: navigating high school is a delicate operation for most, especially so for those who don't fit the norm. and unfortunately, that's a fact you share with Eddie Munson--the kids call him freak, and you a bully, a loner, an ogre with no friends. but despite your reputation, that hasn't stopped Eddie from trying to initiate you into his club against your will, maybe for a deeper reason than you think.

cws: outcast/antisocial!angelface, gn!angelface, bullying, stature isn't described but angel is strong + has anger issues, angel comes from a broken home/abusive household, implied physical abuse, very mild roughousing, angel doesn't realize they have a crush, eventual enemies to friends to lovers.

a/n: this is a fic i cut into two parts since it got a little lengthy. vol II is in progress ♡

word count: 2.1k

You have never, ever, ever gotten along with Eddie Munson.

For starters, he's annoying as hell. He's the type to poke and prod the people that hate him until they're ready to snap, so he's always getting into trouble on top of having a pretty shit reputation already–but even worse is that one of those people that he's always picking at is you.

And you don't hate him. You haven't said half the things about him that other people have, haven't gotten in his face or punched him, because he's largely just a nuisance to you. But he definitely gets on your nerves, and with your temper, it doesn't help when people already tend to categorize you as a bully. A hotheaded loner with no friends, who tends to be pretty icy with people at first meeting–you don't know if that's a signal beam or what, but you've got the same routine every week. Eddie Munson coming at you and begging you to join Hellfire.

"I'm not joining your shitty babysitting club, Munson."

You speak into your locker, as you put away your books from your last period. You've got a few minutes before you head home, and like always, Eddie was waiting by the spot right next to it to ambush you the moment you got out of class.

"Y'know, I actually think you'd really like it. I'm a pretty good DM, if I say so myself," He puffs the collar of his jacket, and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans against the wall of lockers. You're pretty sure there should be an Eddie-shaped dent there by now from him standing there every single day. "And everybody's pretty cool. You can make some friends."

"I don't-"

"Don't need friends, gotcha, gotcha. I hear you. Buuuut, you should think about it–we really need a barbarian, after all." If he knows your answers so well, you wish he would just understand that they aren't going to change. You slam your locker door shut and stalk past him, but like always, he turns on his heels and catches up with you to keep chatting away into your ear. It's only when you stop that he stops with you, and he straightens up when you turn to him slowly and muster up the meanest glare you can manage. It's pretty easy when that's usually the way you get people to stay away on the daily.

"I'll say this once, Munson, and that's it. No. Besides, you have a paladin and your cleric has a greataxe. You don't need a barbarian, if your players don't suck already."

"Whoa, whoa whoa! Hold up,"

Eddie brushes past you and steps right into your way, hands raised to slow you like you're cattle. Big mistake.

"I have to get home. Out of my way, before I throw you." He's not even listening. You know you could break him like a twig, and he knows that if you really wanted to you would, but he's never been nearly as afraid of you as every other kid in this school. You have a history of violence, truancy, and just generally being antisocial and mean-looking–but Eddie has never once treated you that way. It's irritating to have to account for him when he's not part of the normal crowd, even if it's kind of relieving to be treated as if you're normal.

"You…You know about D&D? You've been listening to me?" It certainly is a two-pronged realization, three if you count the fact that you hadn't even noticed what you were saying until the words were already flying out of your mouth. But he's not wrong. You may be a bitch, but you're a good listener, and Eddie certainly likes to talk, especially in the one class you have together where your seats are the only ones beside each other. Everyone else makes sure to steer well clear of you two.

"I've played it before."

"You've played–okay, you're coming with me. Hellfire club. Right now." Eddie grabs your wrist and moves to lead you away, but he almost hits the ground when you stand unmoving and he's pulled off balance. It doesn't faze him though, you're sure almost nothing does–he keeps pulling, even though there's pretty much no indication that you're gonna move when you don't want to, and you shift one of your feet out in front of you to give you some stability to make it even more difficult for him.

"I'm not going, Munson. For god's sake, do you even listen?" He tugs on your hand this time, and you let him hold it outstretched because even with a little extra leverage, he still can't make you budge. It's getting a little embarrassing now, and people are starting to whisper and giggle in mockery at the sight of the satanic Hellfire club's leader trying to kidnap Hawkins High's resident ogre.

"Jesus H. Christ, you're strong!"

Eddie finally gives up, hunched over, hands on his knees as he pants for air. He's definitely not weak, but you're pretty good at pretending you aren't being fazed even though it actually took quite a bit of effort to keep from being dragged away.

"Yeah, so dickheads can't drag me away to their little club meetings."

He finally stands back up and looks you in the eyes, but he's not any less determined. If anything, the grin on his face proves that he's even more eager. And you soon realize why, because he takes a step back out of reach and holds something up in his hand, something that jingles faintly–your keyring, with both your car and house keys dangling just out of reach. It was a ruse–he must have swiped it from your pocket while he was maneuvering himself around you. And then he's tearing off down the hallway.

"Munson!" You're right on his heels, but he's faster. More used to running away from trouble, evidently, because your strength is equivalent to his speed. And none of the students still milling about in the corridors get in your way, all of them avoiding both of you as you barrel through with threats of wringing his stupid neck bellowing throughout. He has no idea how much stress he's just caused you, fear and tension burning you up as your mind races with what's going to happen to you if you come home without your car, if you have to tell them you "lost" your house key…it'll be some extra pain you just don't think you can handle right now. You're still recovering from the last time, both mentally and physically.

You finally manage to corner him near the science wing–he turns around after facing the dead end and clearly doesn't realize how close you really are, since you grab him by the collar of his jacket and shove him up against the lockers to your left in a matter of seconds. Blind rage blurs your vision, makes your hands shake as you grip him tight, but the hasty, laboured breathing of your victim and Eddie's big, brown eyes filled with true fear actually manage to cool it off enough for you to hear what he's saying.

"Hey! Hey, I'm sorry. Sorry!" Slowly, carefully, you loosen your grip until you've completely let go. It's just humiliating, embarrassing, and never more have you wanted to disappear into the floor even though Eddie is the only one here.

"C'mon, let's just go! You're gonna have fun, I promise! One meeting, and-"

"Shut the fuck up, Eddie! Just stop! I'm not joining your stupid club, and you need to leave me the fuck alone!" Your words are accentuated with a finger prodding his chest, before you use all five to shove him back into the lockers. Why the hell is Eddie so obsessed with you? Why can't he just leave you alone, why can't he just be like everyone else for goddamned once in his life?

"Why?"

"Because I don't want people to make fun of me, okay?!" You blurt out, tired and aching from the run, and strung-out, and stressed–tears threaten your eyes but you turn away before you let them fall, suck them back, take a deep breath so you don't cry in front of fucking Eddie Munson. But that means you don't have the energy or the strength to keep back everything else that just comes spilling out of you. "I have got enough shit to deal with by myself, Eddie! People already don't like me, I seriously don't need to fight even harder just to exist here!"

Those words hurt. You know they hurt, and while that's usually your intention, the look on Eddie's face just twists you up in knots and makes that guilty feeling settle in your stomach. He has a look of pain on his face, one you might have mistaken in the place of pity, but that's the last thing you want. Being felt sorry for, that…that's the worst way people can look at you. You would rather people just leave you alone than look at you as if you're some poor wretch on the side of the street, begging for sympathy.

"I'm…sorry, okay? I understand what you're trying to do, but…I really don't have the time to be doing things just for fun, anyways." You grab your keys from his hand, and pause for a moment that feels like forever, before you finally start to walk away. You want to think that it's luck that would make this the last time you and Eddie ever speak, but you know that's not-

"One Hellfire club meeting. Nobody sees you, I sneak you in, I sneak you out. You still don't want to join, then I'll never ask you again, and…I won't talk to you ever again. Deal?"

His voice stops you in your tracks, halts you right at the precipice. You have a choice now, you've been given a real one for once, and your first instinct is to keep walking. But your strongest instinct, well…you know what that voice is telling you.

"...Fine." You turn around slowly, hand grasping the strap of your bag so tightly it's shaking. His eyes dart down and back up again, and the words "You okay?" play on his lips, but they don't come out. You just stalk back towards him, your gaze set on his half-outstretched hand. You clap it with yours, shaking hard like you're conducting some kind of business deal. It's just business, you want to imagine.

But his eyes light up so beautifully, his smile cracking across his face in near-disbelief–he's so happy, deliriously happy, and it mesmerizes you in a way that has you standing there, staring. He smiles, obviously he smiles, but never…you've never seen him like this. Never so unabashed, so genuine, not a mocking smile or a fake one or even a kinda-fake one, but one that betrays every drop of joy contained within him like he's opened the blinds on a window to let the sunshine in. And it's so embarrassing to think those thoughts about Eddie Munson, to compare him to a ray of sunshine like some fucking Molly Ringwald movie, but it's all you can see in his face. It's all you can see at all.

"Awesome." Awesome. Fucking awesome. You just agreed to sneak around the school with Eddie Munson after hours, and you're gonna be late getting home tonight, and there's a chance, if you're caught, that you'll be branded as even more of a pariah than you already are. Your reputation of being an ogre in school will extend to the town, extend to your family–and who knows what they're gonna do when they find out you're best buddies with the village idiot?

But you can't back out now. Eddie's arm is thrown around your shoulders–briefly, because one glare is enough to lift that arm up and away with a clearly mock-intimidated grin–and now he's beckoning you down the hall, towards whatever avenue he has up his sleeve to get you into Hellfire club and back out again, reputation relatively unscathed. You agreed to his deal, and you're not gonna be a pussy and back out now.

Even though you're really, really gonna want to when you find out what he has in mind, and when the night unfolds in an entirely different way than you expected. And no matter how you choose to play your cards, blood will be spilled before the night is done.

[oddsconvert]

Request for a vllain whumpee + intimate whumper?

EEK 🤩 I HAVENT DONE VILLAIN/HERO STUFF YET BUT YAY I LOVE IT!!! (Villain Whumpee, hero whumper incoming 💥 I hope this is okay!)

CW: Shock collar, Creepy/Intimate Whumper, Non-con kissing, Hero Whumper, Villain Whumpee, Kidnapping, Captivity, Swearing (later edit: Ima add defiant Whumpee because I think villain is a lil bit)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

-

"This isn't fair, Hero! This isn't an equal fight!"

Villain desperately clawed at the power-dampener collar Hero had managed to latch tightly around their throat, metallic prongs stabbing deep into the nape of their neck. Rendering them completely useless yet extremely pliable to drag them kicking and screaming back to Hero's base.

It was so dehumanising. Embarassing. A brutal death was ensured for anyone who ever found out that Hero had managed to collar them so damn easy.

They felt like an animal; they felt like a dog and not the number one nemesis of the city - extraordinary power beyond belief that made people shudder in fear, ducking and running at the mere sound of their name.

Now they just felt weak. A sense of nothingness without their abilities. Just a normal, mundane human - completely vulnerable and powerless in stopping Hero. That thought paralysed their heart with terror.

"You lost the right to an equal fight the second you went down. That's how it works". Villain didn't think that Hero could get anymore smug, the constant taunts and the jokes across battlefields as they tried to kill each other, the jokes used to make Villain cringe and roll their eyes so far into the back of their skull they'd nearly get stuck there.

But as Hero strolled towards them with long, haunting strides and beginning to circle them like prey as they lay panting on the ground - lustful eyes gleaming down upon them with a Cheshire cat grin swiped across their face.

They could indeed get more smug.

Hero leant down to grab Villain's chin in a harsh grip, thumb and finger snapping their head up to get a better look at their catch.

God, Villain looked beautiful littered in bruises. Mouth-wateringly beautiful, making Hero want to take them right here, right now. Those warm tones of vibrant purples, reds and yellows really made those icy blue eyes just pop. Though they were filled with indescribable rage, a deep desire for blood and venegance right now. Why not rile them a bit more?

"You lost, my darling-", Hero spoke with a sultry whisper, running their thumb delicately along Villain's plump lips that seemed to slightly begin quivering.

"N-No..."

"It's all over now. Just me and you."

"No - No this isn't how it's supposed to go!", Villain bellowed, snatching their head away from Hero's disgusting 'affection', "You're supposed to take me to prison!".

Villain had seen how Hero had always stared at them during fights, they absolutely reeked of infatuation and desire. If this was all off the books, if Hero truly was keeping them...

No. They didn't want to think of what that meant for them. Villain had been running for so long to avoid imprisonment but if it was a cell or Hero? Lock them up and throw away the key.

"I am, aren't I?", hero laughs with a snort, "funny how things work out, isn't it?"

Wide eyes stare up with a mix of perplexity and hatred at Hero. Villain won't plead or beg for mercy or freedom, that's beneath them - no way are they dehumanising themself even more. Instead, their eyes start darting around the windowless, concrete room they've been slammed into - hunting for a sign of an escape, or something to weild as a weapon in lieu of their stolen powers.

"They'll thank me, you know?" Hero chimes in, stealing back Villains attention who's eagerly hooked on every word, "Hero goes and does it again! another villain wiped from the streets-"

Villain tries to scuttle backwards when they see Hero start to crouch down before them. But there's nowhere to go, their back painfully collides against the concrete wall in a matter of seconds and now they're cornered. Heros hands are on them in an instant, gliding across their cheek - tucking strands of sweaty hair away from their eyes and just wondering all over their body.

"-and shoved into my bed"

"Get. Your. Hands. Off me. Before I break your scraggly neck-", Villain spat the repulsed threat, gritting their teeth and withholding the urge to lunge forward and attack. Hero would out power them quicker than their brain would comprehend, this collar was the bane of their existence.

"I mean... You were always my favourite to fight-", Hero continued to ramble, ignoring the threat and the infuriated hyperventilations huffing from Villains chest. Instead, Hero's fingertips continue to wonder and then press into the sore, open wound along Villain's rib cage: drawing out an agonised hiss of pain and making them curl into themself, hands rushing to push Hero off and away but they snatch Villains wrists before they succeed.

"Shshshsh, settle down. I can fix you right up. If you hadn't dove right in front of my blast - that was foolish on your part, you can't be trusted to take care of yourself." Hero cooed, tightening their superhuman strength grip on Villains wrists making them cry out in pain.

"STOP, HERO! YOU'RE GOING TO BREAK MY WRIST!", Villain screeched, weakly tugging their arm away as they felt the pressure worsen and worsen, feeling bones threaten to fracture but Hero let's go at the last moment. Dark rings circle Villains skin, burning with warm pain and cradling them close to their chest protectively.

"-but it's okay, sweetheart ...I'll do it for you" they continued.

"Who the fuck are you calling 'sweetheart'?!"

Searing electricity suddenly courses down their spine, seeping into their veins and paralysing their entire body with unbridled pain. Convulsing and silently gasping into the floor, writhing around waiting for the shock collar to finally give. If they had their powers this would be nothing to them, maybe a little scratching sensation and an annoying tingle but nothing more.

This was torture. It seemed to go on forever, and they could feel consciousness drifting away from reach.

"Tskk tskk. Always trying to act so big and ignore authority. If only you'd just abide by the rules for once in your damn life -"

"You're .. FUCK -" an after shock rippled through Villain, their body twitching against the vile sensation, "you're playing dirty...!"

"And setting the city aflame isn't?"

"I specifically didn't target civillains! I went for the bastards in charge of this shit show city - I'd argue that was playing entirely fair-"

"You would argue that, wouldn't you? Because you're corrupted, you're a parasite and a stain on society -"

Villain tucks their head into their chest when they feel the unwanted tear drip down. They NEVER cry - and they hated to admit it but they were petrified.

"And my job is to fix that. And I take great-" Hero plants a light kiss onto Villain's collarbone, making them wince and turn away.

"-pleasure-"

Another kiss, further down now and onto their pectoral muscle.

"-in doing so."

Kiss. Onto Villain's sore, bleeding ribs.

Hero could swear they heard a a tiny whimper creep out from beneath them. And that delicious sound fills them with a giddy sense of excitement and achievement.

"It's wild that you used to terrorise the city... you -", Hero trails off...

"Not anymore. I'll make sure of that, gorgeous-"

Continued here!

-

Drabble taglist: @sparrowsage @whumpsday (lemme know if you wanna be added or taken off <3)