#verbal degrading

[stnexus]

MDNI (18+)

one thing i think is: jason would not be into verbal degradation. physical things yeah. but verbally? i just do not get those vibes from him. yes, i’ve said he can be an asshole when it comes to teasing — but he just doesn’t seem like one to name call. not saying a verbal degradation kink is bad, i just can’t imagine him saying certain things.

[theredofoctober]

Runt: an Omni-Man x Gender Neutral Reader Darkfic

TW: noncon, violence, blood, humiliation/verbal degredation

Synopsis: Reader's mother, the superhero Firebright, has gone into hiding. Omni-Man brutally interrogates Reader as to her whereabouts.

Reader is a Young Adult, Gender Neutral, appearance not specified

Read after the cut

✂️ ✂️ ✂️

"Where is your mother?"

There is something wrong with Omni-Man, frigidity in the barrens of his pale eyes. He stands at the door like an omen of shadows to come, his bulk filling its narrow confines immovably.

You gaze up at him, and the ice of his derision glares back.

“I asked you a question,” says Omni-Man. “Where is Firebright?”

His air of perpetual and mildly pompous congeniality has fallen away from him, perhaps had never truly been.

He's a stranger, now, come to your house with some hard purpose.

"My Mom?" you repeat, faintly. "She's out cleaning up after some crime, I think. I don't really know."

A lie, which you had promised you’d keep, come what may.

Your mother, a heroine of fire-wielding prowess, has informed you that she must go into hiding, from who or what threat she wouldn't say. You’d believed—without knowing its source—in that danger.

Now Omni-Man is at your door, and you think again of your mother's hands, how they had trembled. How thin she’d looked, and how afraid.

"I'm sorry, Nolan," you mumble. "I don't know when Mom’ll be back. She didn’t tell me."

"I don't believe that's true," says Omni-Man, and he steps forward, extending an arm to prevent you from closing the door against him. "I need you to tell me where she is immediately."

His face is handsome and severe, the jaw like a pane of white glass. The tension in it speaks of unshed violence and disdain, of loathing kept like a spider in an upturned jar, poised on release.

Fear draws you down in its dizzying pulse, and suddenly you're quite glad that your mother kept her location from you, that you can’t spit it out even under duress.

"I have no idea, really, I don’t," you say, and Omni-Man steers you back across the living room, his cloak whisking the backs of his thighs like a wind of blood. "Nolan, please. I swear I can't help you. What’s happening right now?"

You’re up against a wall, vulnerable and so very human. Unlike your parents, you’ve never developed powers of any kind to protect you or those you love, and Omni-Man knows it.

He’s been good friends with your mother since you were young, and has long comforted her with the suggestion that your abilities might one day arise. You’ve been no more a threat to this man than a moth to the devil, and yet you’d never once feared him, till now.

"Ellen must have given you some way to contact her," says Omni-Man, his mouth a joyless line beneath his moustache. "Call her immediately. Stop wasting my time with your blabber."

"I don't understand,” you say, avoiding the order. “Is something wrong?"

A gloved fist strikes the wall above your head, shaking down fragments of plaster upon you. Thinking how simply your skull might have bowed into a cave of bone beneath such pressure you cry out, a sound entirely too feeble to be called a scream.

Omni-Man looms over you, his eyes the blue of long dead flesh.

"Stop asking questions about things that have nothing to do with you. Either you hand Firebright over, or I show you what happens to those that get in my way."

There is, in a drawer in the house, a remote you could press, for the times in which your mother is otherwise unreachable. You could go to it, call her back from whatever bunker protects her from harm.

But as Omni-Man's stare bores through your anguished expression you understand, with a chilling clarity, that he means to kill your mother, and that only your stance against him preserves her life.

Gulping, you say, "Whatever you think my Mom did, she couldn't have done it. You know her, you're her friend, Nolan—"

Omni-Man’s fist grinds into the wall, his arm cutting through it to the shoulder.

"Don't use my name as though you mean anything to me, you pathetic, powerless runt. Look at the way you turned out: a snivelling weakling, not even a spark at your fingertips. No wonder your father left. You’re a disgrace to him and your mother. I'd be ashamed to have you as my child.”

Only shock halts the tears that burn behind your eyes, a wounded magma.

"Please don't say that to me,” you whisper. “I— I've always looked up to you. I love you, Nolan."

For a moment you think you see a flash of the old, kind feeling across Omni-Man’s chiselled features.

Almost at once it dies away.

"Too bad,” he says. “I don't love you, brat. Now tell me how to find your mother before I rip you into pieces."

Putting your hands on Omni-Man’s chest, you gaze up at him with beseeching eyes.

"Nolan, Nolan, tell me what happened. I’ll help you figure it out. Whatever it is, I know Mom had nothing to do with it."

Something of your gentle touch, your cringing innocence, provokes him.

"Alright,” snaps Omni-Man. “You had your chance."

In a spurt of nauseating speed he drags you upstairs by a sudden grip on your throat, your breath smacked from your lungs as you hit your bed and roll across it, head over heels, like a fallen acrobat.

Omni-Man looks about him, scoffing at your room’s dated, childish decor, the tattered stuffed animals still poised in glassy-eyed rows on your dresser.

"No wonder you don't have any powers,” he sneers. “You're stunted in every way."

His hand makes a lariat of your shirt collar, briefly throttling you until your feet kick out in twitching throes. Then he rends the cloth down the middle, repeating the act on your lower garments before you’ve enough air to protest.

You’re so stunned that you don’t think to cover yourself, only stare, jaws parted, hot from cheek to toe with shame, with horror.

A beating was the furthest you’d expected from the interrogation: the intent behind the night cliffs of eyes upon you seems, even now, quite impossible, an absurdity plucked from some sticky summer dream.

"No,” you say— you speak in a low, flat sort of murmur, as you’d address a beloved dog that turns and shows its teeth. “Omni-Man, please, please, you're like family. You can't do this to me.”

"Of course I can,” he snaps. “And I'm going to do it over and over until you tell me where Firebright is. Daily, if I have to. I'll break you down until you're no better than a drooling animal. Not that you're so far from that now."

A devastated moan spills from your tight throat as Omni-Man leans over you, his pale suit straining across his bulk. He pauses with his face close to yours, every vein in his eyes standing out like streaks of flame.

"Now, talk,” he says. “I don’t want to waste any more time here than I have to.”

Tears make glazed glass of your cheeks as you turn your face aside, unable to look at him any longer.

"This isn't like you, Nolan."

Omni-Man’s mouth is a razor’s wound across his white teeth when he answers.

"This is more me than you'll ever know."

He pins you to the bed with an abrupt and frightening strength, opening the groin of his suit with his other hand to jerk the flesh that rises through it.

"What about Debbie?" you blurt out, and Omni-Man stills, a red glove closed over the throbbing evidence of his anger.

"Don't talk about my wife!" he barks. “You’re not worthy.”

Your eyes return to his face, drawn to its savage rictus in wretched fascination. How long has Omni-Man—the husband, the father, the friend—been so twisted with this private hatred for you?

Interpreting the question from your fearful look, he answers, his hand still at work on his cock.

"I always knew you had an embarrassing crush on me. Following me around every event with puppy dog eyes, always asking if there was anything you could do for me. Degrading yourself at every turn. Laughable.

“And I ignored you. Debbie made jokes about you. Even then I knew you were just a fragile, weak-willed child, craving the adoration your father never gave you."

"Stop it,” you say, inching back across the bed on the heels of your palms. “Stop it!"

A hand traps your ankle, snatching you back under the colossus of your new enemy. His body is a cage of rigid musculature, even the smallest tendon able to kill.

"You brought this on yourself by defying me,” says Omni-Man. “Did you think I'd just walk away when you refused me information? Take pity on you?"

"Nolan—"

He cuts you off with a blow that near claims your sight in its ferocity.

"You whine like an infant. Why didn’t you ever grow up?”

You’re still attempting to process the pain across your eye socket as Omni-Man forces your legs apart around him, handling the joints with scornful disregard of their mortal delicacy.

“Where is Firebright?” asks Omni-Man again, and you can only shake your head, mumbling in a breathless stream of false denial.

“I don’t know, I don’t remember where she said she was going—”

Omni-Man’s lip curls in bald disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Well, let’s see how much you remember now.”

Your attacker opens you to him with rough, clothed fingers, tearing tight flesh ajar up to the knuckles, three of them deep. He draws them in and out of your hole like a blade across a whetstone, watching you flail and gibber beneath his merciless use with a stern and unflinching malice.

Then, as you scream Omni-Man’s name in abandoned repetition, he rallies his member to its furthest solidity and runs you through, all agony and annihilation, and you think as he does it that you may well die of his rage.

The floorboards moan with his rutting, its obscenity a crime of war. This is as much a degradation of Earth’s piteous race as a whole as of your person, your naked flesh symbolic of that which many alien societies covet to rule or else destroy.

That any human being has borne this and lived seems miraculous, yet you know it has been done and enjoyed for Debbie Grayson to stand by him. To love him.

You cry out, aware as you do so that you’ll only invite further pain.

“Really,” mocks Omni-Man. “I’m barely trying to hurt you. If I did, I'd rip you in half.”

In a jolt of violence he drags you up against a wall, the friction skimming a leaf of skin from your back as he stabs deeper in. Your breath comes in asthmatic chokes, punched from your chest by the very force of his fucking.

Some wet stream warms your thigh, of what matter you don’t care to know.

“Give me the name of your mother’s location or I keep on going,” says Omni-Man. “You’re already bleeding. Your feeble body surely can’t take much more.”

His cock is a farrier’s tool, cutting with its every wrenching motion. Its length and girth alone would make you weep, but it is his wielding of it that is a thing of horror to you.

You feel Omni-Man’s hands shut about your wrists, testing the fragility of the bone.

“Aren’t you even going to fight me?” he taunts. “Go on. Show me what you’ve got in you, if anything at all.”

Closing your eyes, you try with all the force of strength and concentration in you to summon the flame you’ve long envied in your mother, and have never once achieved.

There is nothing, nothing, still, only an icicle of sweat down your brow.

Omni-Man laughs shortly, pulling you further up across the wall in another volley of thrusts.

“Just as I thought,” he comments. “Wasted genes.”

As he lets go of your arms you throw one of them forward in a weak strike across your attacker’s cheek. A mite star of fire bolts from your palm, and you yelp in both fear and surprise at the sight of it, at the thought of retribution to come.

Omni-Man rubs his face, which remains, as expected, quite unmarked.

“Is that it?” he asks. “You’re barely warm.”

“I’m not a superhero,” you cry out, as he returns to his mean handling of your body. “I’m just a human, okay? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The blue eyes, once so lovely to you, roll in disgust.

“Of course there is. You could have been so much more. Take a look at yourself.”

Omni-Man flies you to your floor-length mirror, yanking your head back so that you might see yourself split apart on his atrocity.

How small you look, a flailing rag against the beast's taut muscle. His cock works in and out of you with the efficiency of some extra-terrestrial vehicle on a jaunt that will not end.

The sound of it is slick, explicit.

“You’re lucky that this is what I’m doing to you when I’m capable of so much worse," says Omni-Man, watching you arrogantly in your reflection.

“This is wrong,” you insist. “This isn’t you, Nolan.”

“I’m a Viltrumite,” snaps Omni-Man, and he flattens you to the bed again with a force that snaps the frame beneath it. “This is what my people are. You should be on your knees, thanking me for sparing your life.”

He turns you onto your belly, snarling as he stabs through your form from behind.

“This is the last time I’ll ask before I really injure you,” he says. “Where's Firebright?”

Only the lasting thought that you must save your mother from something more awful than this prevents you from delivering his answer.

Omni-Man grips you by the throat until your eyes stream and your pain barks from between your lips in a coughing spume of blood.

In frantic hope you turn one hand backwards, thinking to strap his hips in a band of fire.

“You think you can hurt me?” asks Omni-Man, squeezing your forearm until you sob and relent. “I don’t feel a thing. This is more humiliating than if you were entirely without powers. What use are you to your planet?”

“Nolan,” you croak. “I’m begging you to stop this.”

Somewhere in the catastrophe of sensation there is the start of pleasure, your body’s weary attempt to salve its bullied entrance. You lie quite stiff and still, praying that in doing so you won’t provoke that last ruination into being.

“You know how to end this,” says Omni-Man. “But perhaps this is what you prefer: to be shown your place by your superior. If I’d done this a year ago you would have presented yourself to me, ready and willing to be of use.”

To your despair his hand ventures to your tortured sex and makes full display of his knowledge. His strokes are coarse, efficient, in time to his cock’s quick barbarity. You smell cologne, and the fabric of his suit, and hair oil; your nose, your throat, is full of him.

Perhaps your soul will absorb his evil too, through osmosis.

Clenching your teeth across your tongue you steer back the piteous little whines his taunting abuse of your weakness brings.

“Part of you is still willing, I see,” Omni-Man comments. “Let’s see how long it can hold out against me.”

You cry, and hiss, and squeeze shut your fists until the stench of smoke greys the air between you. Still your orgasm is wrenched out on hand and cock like an eldritch birth, another plundered reward for his collection.

“Barely a minute,” jeers Omni-Man. “And all that mess. How humiliating.”

He ponders, hips grinding against yours with the approaching threat of his own end.

One of his fists arcs back your skull, forcing your tear-raw eyes to his again. What was handsome in him now seems only the frightful visage of a warlord, all pillage and pursuit of valour.

“I’m responsible for you finally developing your abilities,” says Omni-Man. “Why don’t you thank me for it?”

You stare up at him in terror and distress, your tongue swollen to near uselessness at the roof of your mouth. Omni-Man’s hand slams beneath your chin, pinching some nerve there until your vision blisters into an abomination of light.

Through blood-stringed teeth you answer.

“Thank you, Omni-Man.”

“You’re welcome, runt,” he leers, and with a gloved palm against your gut he flattens you to him, having you feel every pulse of his triumphant finish within you.

He holds you there for some time, your bare, bloody back staining the white of his suit and complimenting the red. You daren’t roll out from under him, remain, panting shallowly, adhered to your attacker by his spend.

His moustached lips scuff the back of your neck, more threatening than intimate.

“I’ll find Firebright,” he says, “whether you tell me where she is or not. But next time I drop by I expect you to be more talkative. Do you understand?”

---

Tagging @hewwokitti3 so you can find this 😇

Part 2 is now up

[pfhwrittes]

a follow up to this and this

more forcemasc/transmasc recruit under the cut.

soap x transmasc reader

tags/triggers: noncon, gender dysphoria, sex in a public space, mild verbal degradation, unprotected anal penetration (reader receiving), cum as lube, reader's genitals are referred to as "hole/s", nicknames/praise ("bonnie lad", "handsome boy"), anal creampie.

a/n: unedited and written in tumblr drafts to feel a rush.

"ah, ah, ah!"

soap mocks you in a breathy falsetto even as he grinds his cock deeper into your clenching hole. the force of his thrusts inch you further up the sweat soaked mat in the gym.

your eyes roll back into your head and you clench your jaw shut to stop the seemingly unending whimpers from edging their way out of your chest.

"no no, lemme hear ye bonnie lad." he groans as his large hand grasps at your chin roughly. soap's calloused fingers squeeze hard at the hinge of your jaw until the pain forces you to open your mouth.

more high pitched noises spill out of you and soap moans from deep in his belly.

you hate it. you hate him. revulsion wars with envy. it's not fair that he sounds so masculine when he's buried in you, rubbing your face in everything that you're not.

another filthy grind of his hips sends his cock deeper into you and causes you to clench instinctively around his fat cock. it hurts, of course, you weren't exactly prepared for soap pouncing on you as you finished your lonely work out in the gym and he didn't exactly care to stretch you out properly. he'd muttered that you were loose enough as he shoved two of his fingers into your tender hole, enjoying the feel of gaz's cum still deep inside your body.

"that's it handsome boy, you sound so sweet fer me." he pants breathlessly, clearly uncaring of the way you've gone rigid under his bulk.

soap's rhythm falters and he pulls away from your body so that he can fist his cock, resting the ruddy tip against your puffy hole as he cums.

you shudder as you feel him push the sticky mess back inside your body with his still hard cock but otherwise stay pliant, waiting for this ordeal to end so you can wash the feel of him off your body.

soap collapses onto his elbows, looming over you so that your vision is filled with his blissed out expression as he uses your body.

you hate yourself but your eyes remain dry.

[ownedslavegirl2]

I need men to tell me what I'm good for. I need men to show me my place. I need men to teach and explain me things.

Men know better❣️

[whump-queen]

whumper using victim blaming dialogue as a humiliation tactic—

“well I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so fucking easy.”

“if you weren’t so pretty when you begged and cried.”

“if you didn’t take abuse so well.”

“I just hit you and you whine like that— I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“you know you deserve this.”

“go on, tell me you deserve it.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

and who knows— eventually, whumpee might start to believe they’re right

.

[shoutout to @unorganisedalienrubbish for coming up with like half of these]

[flowersarefreetherapy]

Hot&Dumb: Stay, I Pray You

CW: sexually degrading language, negative self-talk, grief, romanticization of an abusive relationship, verbal abuse, death threats, negative view of aging, dehumanization, unhealthy relationships, begging, it as a pronoun, brief violence

Angelina and Andrew argue again, a nightly occurrence at this point. Their voices are muffled behind the thick study door, but Cameron knows what they are fighting about.

Him.

He curls in the corner of the living room, staring blankly at the large TV. Some children’s show. All bright colors and cheesy jokes. Emmaleigh isn’t even watching, her attention taken by a game on her iPad. She’s barely paid attention to him since her parents brought him home after a long day of meeting with lawyers. Something about his master’s will and where Cameron was supposed to be placed.

Nowhere. He had sat in the study as the North family lawyer read over the will three times, only to tell Angelina and Andrew that there is no mention of Cameron in the will.

Patrick just forgot. That’s all. I know he was planning to include me later.

Andrew storms out of the study. He glares at Cameron before sitting next to Emmaleigh. “Hey, lovely, it’s bedtime.”

“No! I’m not tired!”

“Emmaleigh-”

“She said she isn’t tired,” Angelina snaps. “Why don’t you listen to your daughter if you won’t listen to me?”

Cameron stays very still, hardly daring to breathe. The house is too warm and sweat drips down his back. They’re going to keep arguing until Emmaleigh is in bed, then past that. Neither of them will ask his opinion. It’s fine. He’s a forgotten whore who no longer has a purpose in life. He does not have opinions or thoughts or hopes. He’s nothing. Nobody. Not even human.

My body is not my own. My-my body belongs . . . my body belongs to my master. I don’t have a master. My body belongs to . . . my body belongs to . . . who do I belong to?

Lisa slips into the room, hardly making a sound as she scoops Emmaleigh up. Emmaleigh barely notices her, still engrossed in her game. Lisa’s gaze briefly meets Cameron’s and her lip curls in disgust she doesn’t bother to hide. She never has. She hates him just like all the other Pets he’s met. None of them like him, none of them want to be with him, none of them talk to him. Their stubbing hurts worse than anything else. After all he has gone through, he just wants someone who understands.

The tip of his nose burns and Cameron drops his gaze. Sharp nails dig under his chin, forcing his head up. Angelina’s nose scrunches and she rolls her eyes.

“Tears? Really?”

“S-sorry, mistress,” Cameron whispers. His knees start to ache. “Sorry, I-I’m sorry.”

“Pathetic. Honestly, I’m glad Father never included you in the will. No one wants to take care of a used whore.”

Andrew laughs. “An expensive used whore too. Did you see how much your father spent on it? I found the original WRU paperwork and your father spent nearly three million on this slut. Looks, custom training, mannerisms—it’s basically a made-to-order sex doll.”

Heat rushes hot up Cameron’s neck. Of course he knew he was special, the handlers made sure of that, but those numbers seem far too much, given how Andrew said them.

Not as if any of that matters now. He’s still dead and you’re still useless.

“My father still had the WRU paperwork?” Angelina asks. She steps away from Cameron and a chill runs down his spine. “All of it?”

Andrew nods. “I guess so. I found it yesterday when I was going through some of his things with the lawyer. Why?”

“You know how we were trying to figure out what to do with it . . .?”

Cameron’s heart stops. No. No, no, no, they couldn’t! They wouldn’t! Patrick bought him to be part of the family, to be included in everything, to be loved and cared for like a partner! They can’t get rid of him!

“Oh, that would be brilliant. I don’t know if they still do refunds, but we could get some money off of it and—”

“No!” Cameron slides to the floor, kneeling on the plush carpet that does nothing to soothe his burning joints. “No, no, please, you can’t, please! I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be so, so good! I can be better, please, just don’t send me away! Please, I can be good!”

They both stare at him, Angelina’s lip curled as she looks him up and down. Andrew rolls his eyes and pulls out his cell phone.

“I’ll call them, see if we can get an appointment for tomorrow.”

“Please!” Cameron crawls to Andrew, kneeling at his feet. “Please, no, please, I can be good! I’ll be so good, please, please, don’t send me back!”

He can’t breathe. His lungs twist around his heart and stomach, all of them plunging into the floor. His fingers are numb, curled into fists on his knees. Holding his position perfectly. The handlers said he had perfect—no, not them, he won’t go back. They’ll change their minds.

“Get away from me, pet,” Andrew snaps, shoving Cameron away. “Hello? Yes, my name is Andrew McCullin. I’m calling on behalf of my wife, Angelina North. Her father recently passed and—Yes, Patrick North. Oh? He was a donor? Yes, thank you, it was sudden. She’s doing alright, but yes, I am calling about his order. It wasn’t included in his will . . .”

Cameron turns his attention to Angelina, who sits on the couch, staring at her phone. He crawls over and kneels in front of her, tears burning down his cheeks.

“Go away,” she mutters. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Please,” he whispers. “I can watch Emmaleigh, I can learn how to cook, I can tend the gardens, I can do whatever you want from me, but please, please, don’t send me back!”

“Whatever I want from you?” Angelina puts down her phone, her dark eyes sparking. “I want you to die. I want you to stop existing. I want you to never be a part of my life again. Father made a mistake with you. He gave his best years to you instead of spending them with me and Emmaleigh!”

“I . . . I’m sorry.” What is there left to say? He can only apologize so much before the words lose all meaning, something his handlers taught him when they ignored his cries for hours. “I-I never meant to.”

Angelina scoffs. “Get out of my sight.”

Cameron hunches his shoulders, trying to make himself appear small. He widens his eyes, hoping the wrinkles around his eyes aren’t visible. He was going to get me surgery. So I didn’t look old. I-I’m going to look ugly now.

“Andrew.”

Strong fingers grip Cameron’s hair. He swallows back a cry, arching his back to try and ease some of the pain. Andrew pulls him away from Angelina and down the hallway, the carpet burning his knees as Cameron struggles to get his legs under him. Something in his knee pops and he whimpers as white-hot pain lances up his leg. Andrew doesn’t stop, throwing open the door to the basement and storming down the stairs. It smells like cleaning supplies and wine.

Andrew drags him past the pool table and home entertainment system—those are Patrick’s leather couches. Your favorite, remember?—and to a storage closet. Cameron shakes his head and tries to pull away.

“Please, please, no, no, please don’t leave me down here, please, I’ll behave, I promise, I can be good, I’ll be good, but please-”

His words cut off in a scream as his head slams against the closet door. Andrew twists his curls and Cameron chokes on a sob. He looks up at Andrew, blinking hard to clear his vision. Something drips down the side of his temple and he smells copper.

“Shut the hell up,” Andrew growls. “If you speak to me again, I’ll gut you and dump your worthless body in the dump like the trash you are. That cute little barcode guarantees that no one will come looking for your sorry ass.”

Cameron whimpers. He can’t hear anyone upstairs. The hair on the back of his neck raises at the thought. Fear rushes cold through his veins and he grips Andrew’s arms.

“Please,” he breathes. “Don’t-don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, I can’t be alone, please, please, I’ll behave, take me back upstairs and I’ll be perfect, please, I can’t be alone!”

Andrew opens the closet. “And why do you think I care? You’re a Pet, get used to being alone. No one cares about you.”

He throws Cameron in and slams the door shut. Cameron hits the far wall and crumples to the ground, his head knocking against a vacuum. He blinks hard, but the darkness in front of him remains. Solid, absolute, worse than the bright lights which haunt his nightmares.

Someone help me! Please!

Please help me.

I can’t be alone.

[ricihh]

One of the most requested fics 🔥🔥🔥

Rating: E

Fandom: Brawl Stars

Relationship: Lawrie/Male Reader

Main Tags: Oneshot, Smut, PWP, POV Second Person, Robot Sex, Eletricity Kink, Stun Guns, Gunplay, Punishment, Power Bottom, Degradation

Warnings: Minor Violence, Power Imbalance, Bad BDSM Etiquette

Summary: You used to be just a normal visitor to Starr Park, but fate made you meet Lawrie, the local robot policeman.

This got you into trouble around the park so that he would give you the attention you wanted. Little did you know that the day would come, and it would be much better than you thought.

[serickswrites]

You're Nothing

Warnings: degradation, humiliation, verbal abuse

"You're nothing," the King sneered at the knight who knelt at the base of the throne. "You are absolutely nothing. How dare you ask for reprieve. After everything I have done for you? You useless piece of shit!"

The knight kept their eyes on the ground, on the king's perfectly polished boot. They knew if they looked up before the king was done humiliating them at court it would get worse. They would bear the scars on their back for defying the king for the rest of their life. "I am sorry, my liege. You are right, I am nothing."

"I send you out to do one simple thing, just one thing. And you can't even do that! How hard is it to find a thief who is known all throughout the land." The King spat on the knight's head.

The knight cringed. Perhaps they had misjudged. Perhaps the king would strike them in front of court. Perhaps they had made a mistake. "My liege, Caretaker is difficult to catch."

"I don't want your excuses! You are useless! A waste of space. I never should have allowed you to swear fealty!"

The knight flinched. If the king cast them out, they would be fair game, their life forfeit. They couldn't let that happen. "Please, my liege. Give me one chance. Just one," the knight begged, still not risking lifting their head to look at the king.

The king huffed. "You have one last chance. One. Bring me Caretaker. Dead or alive, I don't care. Bring me Caretaker and I will spare your life."

"Thank you, my liege, your mercy knows no bounds. I will not fail you." The knight went to rise.

"Did I say you could rise, you spineless waste of air?"

The knight prostrated themself at the king's feet. "My apologies, my liege. I am not worthy of your mercy."

The king's boot lifted the knight's chin. "You are lucky there are eyes and ears here. But hear me now: fail me again and it will be you who pays the ultimate price. It will be you who takes Caretaker's place. Am I absolutely clear?"

The knight's neck was stretched as fair back as it could, the strain on their throat painful. But this was better than spending an hour in the dungeon or the king's private quarters. They would take this. Take the humiliation. Take it over everything. "Crystal, my liege." The knight swallowed painfully.

The king frowned. "Be gone from my presence before I change my mind." The king shoved the knight back with their foot.

The knight scrambled to stand. "I won't fail you, my liege." They bowed low and hurried from the throne room. They had to find Caretaker and soon before the king changed his mind.

[humiliatemepleasemistress]

I just want to be bullied and degraded until I’m forced to cum is that too much to ask for?

Feel free to message me if you want

[slowlyhardgoatee]

Shut the fuck up, faggot. 

I can tell you right now that I give negative fucks about what you think of anything. I 1000% do not care about anything out of your mouth that isn’t the phrase ‘Yes, Sir’. 

In fact, fuck it. I know a sure fire way to shut you right up. Get over here. Good thing my office chair doubles as a rim seat. Strip, you slut. Get under there, boy. There you go. Look at that. Right where you belong, cunt boy. Your natural habitat. 

Go on then, faggot. I want to feel every inch of your tongue exploring my arsehole. Fuck yeah, that’s the stuff. Since you talk so much shit, I figure I might as well make you eat your words, you know? So you just lie right there and give Sir’s arsehole a nice, long, enthusiastic tongue bath. Attaboy. Lick my fucking prostate for me. Good faggot. 

Notice that you can’t actually move your head while my weight is on the seat? I designed that deliberately so you had no option but to keep tonguing my arse for as long as I want. 

Now I’m gonna stick some porn on and have a long, slow edging session with your tongue rammed up my arse. When I’m close, I’ll stand up and I expect you to instantly beg me to cream right in your fucking mouth so you can swallow it all like a good slut. 

Sound good, boy? Hehe - your cock sure looks like it sounds good. You’re practically leaking already. What a shame - for you at least - that your year-long slave contract, which you begged to sign, by the way, just to remind you of that - forbids you from touching your own dick without my express permission. Well I’ll tell you now, faggot, I don’t plan on giving you permission for a long, long time. Now, you concentrate on eating my arse for me. Yeah, that’s it. Look at yourself, boy. You could have been going to college this year, but instead you’re lying on your back with your tongue shoved as far as it’ll go up a fat old man’s sweaty arse while he jacks off to porn like you’re not even there after you begged to be his slave for a full year. You pathetic little slut. Ain’t ya, faggot? Eh? Worthless, good for nothing whore. Anyway, you keep French kissing my arsehole, cunt. Time to throw on the nastiest sub boy porn I can find and have a good fucking wank. 

[nor3spect4u]

Reblog, if you can't cum without being humiliated and degraded

[sillysillykittygirl]

ccan someone degrade and humiliate me ;w; thank u ;w; im very bullyable please ;w; ill say whatever you want me to ;w;

[pfhwrittes]

john price finally lets his desperate boyfriend fuck his armpit. price doesn't lift a finger, and teases/degrades him the whole time. when he finishes, price makes him clean him up. what happens next is dealer's choice.

.... jesus christ this prompt broke my brain in the best of ways. c'mere anon, we're going to have a glorious clifftop wedding!

cw/tw: armpits, frottage/grinding, light verbal degradation, praise (“good boy”), nicknames ("pup" and "sweetheart"), sweat, reader's genitals are referred to as "cock", “clit” and "cunt", reader is wearing a binder, brief mention of throat fucking.

pairing: john price x transmasc reader

word count: 543

a/n: pre-established relationship between john and reader with bdsm elements. assume consent and boundaries have been established off screen (or not if you want a slightly dubcon bent, i’m not a cop). also, full disclosure, i received this prompt yesterday and wrote it up then. anyway, read the cw/tws and enjoy!

“that’s it sweetheart, take what you need, hm?” 

john’s voice rumbles through your desperate haze and you whine as you grind your cock against the damp hair of his underarm. it can’t be comfortable for him, laid on his back as he is with his arm extended, your knee inches from his face. but you don’t care.

you pant raggedly through your slack mouth, focusing on the way your cunt smears your sticky arousal against his arm and the way your clit throbs almost painfully against the prickle of his armpit hair. you’re so close that you’re almost brainless with your need to come. 

“please please please -” you whine, your voice cracking in your desperation. 

“what’s the matter, pup? thought you wanted this?” john chuckles meanly as he fists his own cock lazily out of view, according to the slick sounds behind you. “or do you want me to stop?”

anticipation and fear that john could take this away at any second, that he could say stop and you’d be left slick and desperate as he uses your mouth or your cunt to chase his own relief instead, pushes you over the edge as you grind your hips down a final time. 

you come with a grunt, all the air in your lungs wrung out of you as your thighs tremble. 

a brush of john’s beard against the hair on the side of your knee makes you flop gracelessly on the bed next to him. you huff noisily as you settle alongside him but he continues to recline, his arm extended so that you can see your slick wetting the hair of his underarm.

“ah, ah. where do you think you’re going, hm? gotta clean up your mess, sweetheart.” 

you blink stupidly at him, clean up your mess? huh? john pointedly looks at your mouth and then down at his arm. 

“lick it clean, pup.”

you wriggle towards him, your binder catching against the sheets, and tentatively lick his armpit. the sharp-sour taste of your own arousal mixes with the salt of his sweat. a broad palm comes up to cup the back of your head, pushing your nose further into the damp hollow. 

“clean me up properly.” the or else remains unspoken but it sends a flicker of arousal swirling through you, your cock already fattening up in anticipation. you resist the urge to hump clumsily on top of the duvet and focus your attention on cleaning up the mess you’ve made. 

“good boy. that’s it.” john moans as you lap at his underarm, chasing the remnants of your slick and his sweat greedily. slowly, john’s palm slides from the back of your head to grip at the nape of your neck, directing your head down and across his chest. 

you peek up at john through your lashes, your brow furrowing as he nudges you further down his body. 

“i said to clean me up properly, sweetheart.” 

a needy whine slips out as you realise exactly what he means. your mouth watering as you spy the thick ropes of john’s cum glittering wetly amongst the hair on his soft stomach and smeared onto his half-hard cock. 

maybe if you’re lucky after you’ve cleaned him up he’ll fuck your throat this time…

[melynnwater]

here's a short story I wrote that is, shockingly, made to process trauma of growing up with undiagnosed ADHD.

Remember that self love is a radical act. Hope you enjoy.

Yes yes, how tragically hilarious!

Moving on to the next exhibit, this is one of god's interactive art pieces, still ongoing!

This girl was made to exist in slow motion, always moving slower than the world around her.

Hm, yes?

...

Excellent question! Of course she doesn't know!! That's part of the brilliance of the art! She doesn't even know she's cursed, she just thinks she's not trying hard enough!

Observe how her emotions are on a delay. Her reactions are slow. She needs so much more rest than her peers. Her sleep schedule is chaotic and fluctuating. She can't be consistent with anything this world expects from her. It's not even her fault!! Ahahaha!

This exhibit tiptoes the line between art and experiment, to see how long a human can blame itself for something it can't know isn't its fault.

Silly girl!!

Oh look, look! Here she is running late for another appointment! She thinks she's just bad at time management!! How hilarious!

She carries the frustration of simply not being able to take a shower shorter than 15 minutes, you should've seen how many people thought she was just being lazy.

She's almost stopped taking showers entirely as a result. What a freak! A dirty, smelly freak of a woman.

Ha! Look at her now! She's still processing high school now, in her 20s? Could you imagine!

Oh, yes, she has found some level of acceptance and support. Her girlfriend is very patient with her. She can't help but feel that patience is only temporary, though. She might not even realize her beloved's patience ran out until a year later!

We're all waiting with bated breath to see if she can find the others from this same exhibit.

So sad you can't help but laugh.

Now take a look at this fine specimen over here...!

[yhw4ch]

despite being fully aware of and acknowledging how diametrically different they are, yhwach holds aizen in high regard