“What did you say to me?” the whumper asks in a dangerously calm tone.

“Fuck off,” the whumpee hisses, teeth bared.

“No, not that.” The whumper grabs their captive’s chin and tilts their head back. “Just a moment earlier. I believe you said something along the lines of ‘you’ll never fucking own me, you piece of shit.”

The whumpee doesn’t bother with a reply, simply continuing to glare at their captor.

“Now, I can tolerate your rather excessive use of profanity,” the whumper begins, squeezing their captive’s jaw with enough force to bruise, “but I won’t condone lies.”

The whumpee snorts. “It’s not a lie. You don’t own me.”

The whumper’s eyes narrow. They’re silent for a long moment, and then they shove their thumb into the whumpee’s mouth, prying their teeth apart.

“Open up,” they demand sharply, and although the whumpee resists, biting at their fingers, the whumper manages to create enough of an opening to shove something past their lips.

The chemical taste explodes across the whumpee’s tongue, and they grunt in disgust. It takes them a second to process, but their eyes widen when they realize what’s happened.

There’s a bar of soap in their mouth.

The whumpee curses, but their words are muffled by the rectangular object filling their mouth. Nose crinkling, they grimace, trying to push the bar out with their tongue. The whumper clucks in disapproval, shoving the soap in deeper, all the way until it can’t go back any further.

Satisfied, the whumper steps back to admire their work. “Good. Keep that in there. Starting now, you’re going to tell me the truth. If you lie, I’ll have to wash out your filthy mouth.”

The whumpee squirms, gagging on the overwhelmingly repugnant taste. Their teeth dig into the waxy soap, and their gums sting. Tears spring to their eyes from both the discomfort and humiliation.

With a content smile, the whumper runs a gentle hand through their hair. “You see?” They caress the whumpee’s cheek, wiping away stray tears. “I do own you.”

Superhero Interrogated

my hero academia oc whump commissioned by @everythingbaku

content warnings: torture, drugging, captivity, blood, very brief emeto mention

—

Waking is slow. Ren—bouncy, energetic, excitable Ren—is normally the first one up, rising with the sun while his husband grumbles about needing more sleep. Now, though, he feels sluggish and discombobulated, his eyelids impossibly heavy. Either he’s hungover from partying hard at a rager (unlikely, getting blackout drunk isn’t really his scene), or… something’s wrong with him.

Groaning, he cracks his eyes open. His vision is blurry, and the world is cast in black and white. Wincing, he turns his cheek away from the too-bright light, squinting at his surroundings. His tongue is dry, and he feels… off. It takes a moment for him to process the sensation, but when he does, his heart spikes.

He’s been drugged.

His awareness is quickly returning, and he realizes he’s not lying in his bed. No, he’s sitting in a chair, his wrists bound to the wooden arms, his ankles tied to the legs. His neck aches from his head being tipped back for however long he was out. When he lifts his head, the room spins and makes him woozy. He slams his eyes shut and takes several deep breaths until the feeling passes. When he no longer feels faint, he opens his eyes again to assess his situation.

Ren has been kidnapped. That much is obvious. He’s wearing his civilian clothes, so maybe whoever captured him doesn’t know he’s a hero. He’s a shapeshifter, so stealth is his trademark, but his inability to alter the color of his eyes (violet) and his hair (steel blue) sometimes makes him easy to detect. He’s been wearing colored contacts and a baseball cap to compensate, but… hopefully his cover hasn’t been blown.

He looks around the small concrete room, empty except for the chair he’s tied to and the led-lights shining overhead. He’s facing the door. It’s made out of heavy metal and doesn’t have a handle. The room he’s trapped in is more of a cell, really, and definitely not some amatuer goon’s basement.

“Shit,” Ren whispers to himself. He’s really gotten himself into trouble this time. 

He perks up at the sound of footsteps, much more alert now. Someone’s just outside the door—multiple people, if his hearing is right. There’s the sound of multiple bolts being unlatched, and then the door swings open.

Three large, burly men shuffle into the cell, all of them wearing masks, effectively concealing their identities. They’re decked out in protective gear, and Ren notes the weapons strapped to their belts. They must be professionals. Ren swallows. 

“Oh, good, you’re up,” one of them says, “Thought you might’ve overdosed. Hard to figure out how much to give you since you’re so tiny.”

Ren doesn’t validate the remark with a reply. Yeah, they’re not wrong. He’s not even five feet tall, and it sucks, but he can’t exactly help it, can he?

The cell is quiet for a minute or so. They seem to be waiting for him to speak, but he isn’t going to risk revealing anything incriminating. Finally, the goon who entered the room first, the tallest of them all, crosses his arms, taking a step toward him. 

“Nekozawa,” he says slowly, and Ren stiffens. So they do know who he is. He changed his surname to Bakugou after he got married, but he and Katsuki have kept their relationship under wraps to avoid public outcry. Nekozawa is his father’s name and the name everyone knows him by.

He blows a strand of long blue hair out of his eyes. So much for undercover.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he replies snippily, tugging on his wrists to test his restraints. No give. It doesn’t look like he’s gonna be escaping anytime soon.

“You know who we are.” The man moves closer, lifting one booted foot and planting it on the space between his legs—not on his crotch but on the seat of the chair. Close enough to be intimidating (and probably a shitty political statement), but Ren isn’t easily cowed.

Sure, he can be gentle, caring, and loving. He has a soft spot for sweets and pastel t-shirts. His husband sometimes likens him to a kitten, simultaneously teasing and flirting with him. All of these things are true, but he’s still a superhero. He’s a badass, and he’s going to make sure these guys know it.

“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs in disinterest. “I don’t think I’d want to know you, anyway. You guys apparently don’t know a thing about hospitality.”

The man’s lip curls in distaste. “You have infiltrated our organization and have been collecting intel for months. You know more than we can allow.”

“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your bosses, right? If they’re so concerned, why don’t they come talk to me themselves?” Ren suggests. He doubts he’ll get the chance to land his eyes on the higher-ups of the criminal organization he’s currently trying to take down, but he might as well give it a shot, right?

Before Ren can blink, the man’s fist collides with his face. His head is whipped to the side, and he sucks in a breath as his punched cheek throbs in pain.

“Our superiors don’t have time to deal with the likes of you,” the man hisses, kicking the chair back. Ren falls hard, knocking the base of his skull on the floor. Stars dance across his eyes, and he groans, his head pounding. Fuck.

He must lose track of time for a moment because the next time he can see properly, his chair has been picked back up and he’s facing the goons once more.

“What do you want?” Ren asks gruffly. He’s not going to give them anything, not in a million years, but it might do him some good to figure out their agenda. They’re all so… composed, despite their violence. They’re clearly used to dealing with prisoners. No tricking them into letting him go, then. 

“You’re going to tell us what you know,” the man who punched him demands, “and who you work for.”

Ren rolls his eyes, and the goon steps forward, fist clenched.

“I work for myself, thank you very much,” Ren quips, “Oh, and I’m not telling you shit.”

The hit comes, but he’s expecting it this time. Still, the blow to his already bruised cheek hurts twice as much as the first punch did. Stifling a noise of pain, he drops his chin to his chest. The coppery taste of blood quickly fills his mouth, and his tongue aches. He must’ve bit it.

A hand grabs a fistful of his long hair and yanks, forcing him to look up. The goon’s expression is unreadable, hidden behind his mask. “Will you cooperate or not?”

Ren grins, flashing his blood-stained teeth. “What do you think?”

The man lets go of his hair and steps away. Ren tips his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. He’s not as tough as he likes to pretend to be. Those closest to him know he’s a brave fighter who’s willing to die to protect his loved ones, and he has a public reputation as an advocate for civil rights. Still, he isn’t exactly eager to sacrifice himself or get hurt in any way. Living is pretty sweet—so is not being tortured, but it looks like it’s a little late for that now.

There’s an audible shuffle of heavy footsteps as the goons exit his cell, and the coor creaks as it swings shut. With a sigh of relief, Ren looks up—and he’s greeted by the sight of one lone man. Not everyone left the room, it seems. It’s the guy who didn’t speak earlier. He’s standing too close to Ren, his hands clasped behind his back.

Without a second of hesitation, Ren spits at him. The bloody projectile only makes it far enough to land on his shirt, unfortunately. Ren was aiming for his face. 

The man doesn’t flinch.

“Cute,” he drawls, not even glancing down to examine the stain. “But you don’t have to pretend anymore, Ren Nekozawa. It’s just you and me now.”

Ren arches an eyebrow. “What, are you supposed to be good cop or something?”

The man chuckles, a hint of smile curling his lips. “I’m not good cop.”

Unease washes over Ren like an uncomfortable sprinkle of rain, damp and chilling. He tries not to let it show. “Bad cop, then? You gonna hit me some more?”

The man looks up at the ceiling as if talking to himself. “My associate was simply the prelude. Most people break from just the threat of violence. We figured you’d be a little less forthcoming, so I tagged along. I guess you could say I’m the main course.”

Ren pulls on his bound arms reflexively, just a little, and laughs humorlessly. “You gonna tear off my fingernails?”

“Maybe,” the man muses, “but probably not. I doubt you’ll need that much coaxing. You’re not as defiant as you pretend to be.”

Insulted, Ren scowls. “You don’t know me.”

The man nods in concession and begins to circle him like a shark. Ren doesn’t follow his path of travel, simply continuing to glare straight ahead.

“It’s true we’ve never met, but I know people, and you’re easy to read.” He cards a hand through Ren’s hair and twirls a blue strand with his finger. “You’re compensating for your size and apparent vulnerability. It must be difficult, being such a weak hero.”

Ren twists his neck around, dislodging the man’s grip, and tries to bite at his fingers. His teeth clamp around empty air, but his attempt does get the man to back off. Much to his dismay, the guy doesn’t appear threatened in the slightest.

“You’re not even good at using your powers. You stick out like a sore thumb with your height, your hair, and those eyes,” he continues, standing directly in front of Ren now. He plucks a small, thin knife from his belt. “So vibrant. I could help you, y’know. Cut them out, and you’ll be much less identifiable.” He positions the point of the blade just above his pupil, so close that Ren doesn’t even dare to breathe.

“Then again, a boy with two missing eyes might be hard to miss.” With a flick of his wrist, the man cuts a shallow line right underneath his eye. Ren gasps, gritting his teeth. Blood streams down his cheek like a river of tears. 

“Fuck you,” he hisses, trying to maintain his bravado. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, and he’s gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. He wishes Katsuki was here to protect him. So much for being a badass superhero.

The man hums, wiping the blood off the blade using the collar of Ren’s shirt. 

“There are two ways this can go,” he begins, retracting the knife and replacing it with a much larger one. Ren eyes the jagged blade warily. “You can drop the tough-guy façade and answer every question I ask you—”

“Fat fucking chance!” Ren interjects, snarling. The man raises one unimpressed brow. His mask only covers his eyes, leaving the rest of his face on display. Ren briefly wonders if his lack of concern for his identity is supposed to be an intimidation tactic. 

“Or,” the man continues, splaying one palm over Ren’s collarbones and pressing him flat against the chair’s back. With his other hand gripping the knife, he slashes down the front of Ren’s shirt, cutting open the fabric and the skin of his chest. Ren yelps. “I can make you talk.”

Panting, Ren looks down at the gash. Blood oozes from the wound, dripping down his sternum to his stomach. His insides churn at the sight. 

“So, Nekozawa,” he says amicably, as if he isn’t threatening to torture him, “What will it be?”

Ren squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. The work he’s been doing for the past couple months is important. The criminal organization he’s been spying on is guilty of abhorrent crimes and needs to be brought to justice. He thinks of the victims, past, present, and future. He thinks of his fellow heroes, all of whom are undoubtedly braver than him. He thinks of Katsuki, the love of his life. Katsuki would never surrender.

Ren opens his eyes and shoots his interrogator a defiant grin. “I’m not talking. You can try and make me, but it won’t work.”

The man smiles, as if that’s the answer he wanted to hear. “We’ll see, Nekozawa. We’ll see.”

—

Four hours later, Ren cracks.

It’s the knife in his shoulder that finally does it. The man digs the blade past muscle, all the way to bone, and twists. Ren screams, tears flowing freely.

“Who do you work for, Ren?” the interrogator asks for the upteenth time, calm as ever.

“I, I told you, I work a—” Ren begins, but then the knife twists again, and he shrieks: “Ah, Deku! Deku!”

The blade stills. 

“I work, I don’t, I don’t report to anybody,” Ren continues, unbearably ashamed of himself for the name drop. He held out for hours only to break now. “We sometimes work together. He’s not my boss or anything.”

“Not good enough, Nekozawa,” the man sighs, ripping the knife out of his shoulder. Ren yells, his expression contorted in anguish. Yanking the blade out hurt almost as much as the initial stab.

Groaning, he slumps in his chair. His entire body is covered in cuts, some shallow and some deep. His pale skin is coated in sticky blood, and he emptied his stomach a while ago. Drenched in sweat, exhausted and dehydrated, Ren is pushed past his limits. He never thought he would surrender even the tiniest bit of information, but here he is, giving in like a coward. Fresh tears leak from his eyes.

The man sheaths his blade and takes Ren’s chin in hand. “Does Deku know of your current operation?”

Ren exhales shakily and lies: “No.”

Deku is an incredibly powerful superhero. He went to school with Ren’s husband, Katsuki, and they were rivals for some time. Deku is too well known for undercover work and is much more suited for direct attacks. He’s taken out several outposts after Ren gave him names and locations. They’re not working together directly, but they both know of the danger said criminal organization poses. 

The man’s nails dig into his cheeks. “I don’t believe you.” He digs the thumb of his free hand into a deep gash in his side, and Ren’s mouth falls open in a wordless scream, his eyes rolling back. “Who else is involved?”

Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth from his bit tongue. “M’not… telling.”

The interrogator releases his chin and wraps his broad hand around his throat, squeezing tightly. Ren’s eyes fly open, and he struggles to breathe.

“I’ve been very patient,” the man begins, “And I appreciate what you’ve told me so far, but, frankly, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. Maybe I need to be more persuasive.”

Ren shakes his head a fraction of an inch, gaping like a fish out of water. He isn’t sure how much he can endure. He needs a break before he says something stupid. Black spots dance across his vision, and his lungs burn. Time passes impossibly long, and wet, sputtering gasps escape his lips. Eventually, just when he thinks he’s gonna pass out, the man releases his neck. Ren coughs, gulping down air, his vision blinded by tears. He feels so weak and pathetic. What kind of hero allows themselves to be caught and tortured? He doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself after this. If there even is an after. He doesn’t see any chance of escape, and what if no one rescues him?

Ren clenches his fists and steadies his breathing. He can’t lose hope. Katsuki will come for him. If not Katsuki, someone else. He won’t be left here to die. He just needs to hold out and keep his mouth shut.

The man returns to his side with a syringe in hand. He cocks his head and looks down at him with a faux-sympathetic smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Here, I’ve got something that’ll help you take your mind off it—and hopefully loosen your tongue.”

“No, no,” Ren protests, squirming in his bonds. He tries to crane his neck away from the needle, but the man grabs his hair and holds him still. Ren whimpers as the drugs are injected into his system, falling limp almost instantly. Whatever the interrogator has given him works fast, and the room begins to swirl. 

“Better, right?”The man pats his cheek, patronizing. “Now, about the data you collected. Mind sharing some names with me?”

Nausea washes over him in waves, and he squints against the lights. The cell is suddenly way too bright, and he moans. A fog settles over him, and he has a hard time remaining focused on his goal.

“What… what?” he mumbles.

The interrogator hums, frowning. “Might’ve given you too much there. It’s hard to determine the correct dose. I’m not used to administering to persons of such short stature.”

Ren isn’t listening, his attention shifting. He’s in so much pain. He just wants to be home with his husband, safe in bed, wrapped in his arms. What he wouldn’t give to see Katsuki’s face right now. 

The room rocks, and the interrogator stumbles. At first, Ren thinks it’s the drugs screwing with his vision and playing tricks on him, but then it happens again.

“Explosions…?” the man whispers, brows furrowed in confusion. 

Ren barks a laugh. Explosions! He’d recognize the sound anywhere. Katsuki is here!

He smiles at the interrogator, eyes bright. “You’re so fucked.”

A Test of Endurance

a commission written for @northofnowhere4

content warnings: whipping, blood, captivity, creepy whumper

(Character B: “Bee” and Character C: “Cee”)

—

Bee can’t take his eyes off his friend. Cee is strapped down to a metal table, gagged and sporting a black eye. It’s Bee’s fault they’re here. Cee came to rescue him, but Whumper caught them, and now his friend is in mortal danger and it’s all his fault.

“I’m so glad you decided to join us.” Whumper claps their hands together, pleased, and smiles down cordially at Cee. “You know what they say.” They ruffle Cee’s tousled hair, and Cee snarls behind the tape sealed over their mouth. “Two is better than one.”

Whumper turns then, redirecting all of their attention to their original captive. “Don’t you think so, Bee?”

Bee stiffens, tearing his eyes away from Cee and meeting his tormentor’s gaze.

“Let them go,” Bee whispers, tears already gathering in the corners of his wide, frightened eyes. “Please, let them go.”

Whumper’s smile broadens, and they approach their captive. Bee is shirtless, wearing nothing but the bloody shorts he’s worn for the entire duration of his imprisonment thus far, and his hands are bound above his head with coarse rope. He tugs uselessly on the restraints, wishing he could run over to his friend and protect them from whatever horrible plans Whumper surely has in store.

“Oh,Bee,” Whumper says, almost pityingly. “As much as I adore your pleading, we’ve already been over this. Your friend is going to be staying here with us. They came all this way for you, and you want to turn them away?” Whumper shakes their head, “I know I taught you better than that.”

Whumper moves closer, leaving hardly any space between them, and Bee swallows hard, thoroughly intimidated by his captor’s proximity.

“I’m sorry,” Bee says quickly, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m sorry, just please don’t—”

“You’regoing to be sorry,” Whumper corrects, tone suddenly harsh, and Bee flinches. His torturer leans forward, their lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You’re going to be sorry you ever dared to wish for someone to take you from me.”

Bee shivers, every muscle tensed. He knows Whumper’s words are as much a promise as a threat.

“Here are the rules,” Whumper begins, signaling the start of what Bee assumes will be a horrible, twisted game. They grab his chin, forcing him to meet their eyes. “Listen carefully so you don’t fuck it up.”

Bee nods frantically, and Whumper, seemingly pleased, slips behind him and squeezes his cheeks, forcibly directing his gaze toward Cee.

“Now, see your little friend over there? Look above them.” They steer his gaze upward to a heavy stone slab suspended in the air, dangling from the ceiling. The rock is bundled in a net of rope, and Bee’s heart stops when he realizes it’s positioned directly above Cee’s legs.

All the breath leaves his body in a horrified exhale. “No.”

He can feel Whumper’s malicious grin. “I’ve rigged it up so you—” Whumper yanks Bee’s head back, their hand tangled in his hair, his neck strained. They guide his eyes to where the rope tied around his wrists connects to a pulley system, “—are the only thing keeping that thing in the air. If you fall to the floor, well…” Whumper lets go of Bee, and, with both hands now free, they smack their hands together in a gruesome representation of what will happen if the rock drops. “It’s a bit like pulling a pin from a grenade, if that helps you wrap your mind around it.”

Bee feels as if he’s going to be sick. He meets Cee’s eyes, and his friend stares back at him, their defiance apparent in the set of their jaw. They might not be afraid, but Bee… he knows a weight that heavy, falling from that high up, will destroy their legs.

Whumper snaps suddenly, looking as if they remembered something they’d almost forgotten. “Oh, and I’m going to whip you. Your back could use some more scars, and I’d like to show our guest what we get up to around here. You don’t mind, do you?”

Bee gapes at his captor wordlessly, stunned.

“I can’t do it,” Bee whimpers, already defeated. “Please don’t make me—it’ll kill them, I can’t—!”

“Of course you can,” Whumper reassures. “I believe in you.” They pinch his cheek a little too hard. “My resilient little Bee.”

“Ican’t!” Bee protests. Whumper steps away and heads toward their rack of instruments. “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them!”

Whumper uncoils the single tail whip and slaps it against the cement floor. Bee flinches at the sound and the promise of pain, his breath speeding up as his tormentor circles him like a shark would its prey. Bee catches Cee’s eyes, and his friend gives him a little nod as if to say “it’s alright.”

“I won’t hurt them, Bee,” Whumper says conversationally, standing somewhere behind him where he can’t see. “You will.”

And without further preamble, the whip cracks against the bare skin of his back. Bee bites back a shout, jerking forward and arching his back in an instinctual attempt to escape the bite. He hardly has a second to react before the next blow comes, and the next, and the next. The strikes follow each other in quick succession, relentless. It’s mere minutes before Bee is trembling, his legs quivering violently, his wobbly knees threatening to give. He jolts and struggles, trying to escape the reach of the whip, barely containing his anguished yells behind grit teeth.

“Tired already?” Whumper taunts, pausing for a second. Bee can feel their breath on the back of his neck, and he winces when their nails scrape the welts forming across his shoulder blades. “You must not care for your friend very much.”

Bee grimaces. They have to be strong. For Cee.

Whumper chuckles and steps back, starting up again. They bring the whip down hard, the sound echoing throughout the room, louder than Bee’s suppressed wails and Cee’s muffled curses. He squeezes his eyes shut, his toes curling.

“You’re such a disappointment, you weak little thing.” Pain blossoms across his back and shoulders, and tears slip down his flushed cheeks. Whumper sounds euphoric. “C’mon, darling, scream for me.”

Bee, fully aware of his audience, tries his best to keep his reactions contained, but as the longer it goes on, the more his control starts to slip. Breathing heavily through his nose, he bites through his bottom lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Snot-nosed and gasping, he weeps openly. His back is onfire.

“Beautiful,” Whumper purrs. The whip curls over his shoulder, and Bee yelps. “But I told you to scream, Bee.”

Whumper doubles their efforts, and soon Bee feels the skin of his back split open, hot blood spilling forth. He’s so dizzy with pain that he doesn’t even realize he’s shrieking.

“Stop, stop! Please, please, I-I can’t, it hurts, I can’t!”

Whumper doesn’t let up. Bee wavers on his feet, screaming and begging for mercy, and then—

His legs give out, his willpower depleted. Despite his best efforts, he can’t withstand the torture. He sinks to his knees, his arms nearly yanked from their sockets as he drops to the floor. After the initial force of crumbling to the ground, the line of rope falls with him, no longer taut. Through the haze of tears and agony, Bee remembers that he was supposed to stay upright… but why?

His eyes fly open. Cee.

A bloodcurdling scream cuts through the air.

curatorofdesiresv7:

Jemima Robinson

Olivia Dunne

lifeofpleasureseeking:

twye1965:

oliviersev:

Emily Feld