#asphixiation

Characters getting asphyxiated, characters getting sedated, characters falling victim to sleeping gas, characters getting chloroformed by well intentioned people, characters that protest because they don't want to go to sleep yet they have JOBS to do, characters that relax in someone's hold because they trust they'll be taken care of while unconscious, characters that thrash around because oh god everything hurts, characters that pass out from pain once they're finally safe. Characters that are villains getting drugged by hero doctors and taken care of is a personal favorite of mine that I don't see enough of.

yes u can :3

read on ao3

-

"You know, I really do think Kaminari is improving, not just with his studies but his mental state too. Bakugo tutoring him is not what I expected to work, but hey I'm not complaining-"

"Mic, I'm trying to focus on the kids."

Hizashi snorts, jabbing him in the side, "Good thing I'm talking about said kids, eh?"

Shouta rolls his eyes, still stubbornly focused on the group sessions he set up today.

Yet another not-so-secret evaluation for Shinsou, to see which class he'd be better suited in. Not that Shouta's biased, but if he were, he'd say the kid would do well in class A. The dynamic he's already formed with several students, not to mention it would give him yet another reason in his dissertation to expel Mineta.

"Shinsou and Monoma seem to be going pretty hard." Mic observes, shifting on his feet.

Shouta hums in agreement. That had been the point.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious to see if Monoma would draw a blank or not, but so far Shinsou has managed to evade his attacks; leading to a game of tag across the training grounds.

He winces when his student trips over one of Todoroki's discarded ice projectiles, taking a hard fall onto his right shoulder.

Shinsou cries out, holding a hand out to try and fend Monoma off while clutching his injury.

Shouta is tempted to intervene, but before he can Monoma slaps his hand down on Shinsou's leg.

He appears to ask Shinsou a question, which Shouta can't tell if he answers or not.

Monoma rolls his eyes and kicks the kid's limp leg before saying something else.

Shinsou's back goes rigid, legs jerking. He sits up, clutching his throat.

His frantic expression is fixed on Monoma, who is quickly turning pale.

"Oooh Bakugo's gonna wake up with a bruise tomorrow." Mic's voice cuts through Shouta's tunnel vision, bringing him back to reality.

He ignores the comment, striding quickly forward to the two boys.

Monoma's frantic rambling becomes clearer as he closes in.

"No, breathe, come on Shinsou I'm not trying to fuck with you." The blond holds his arms out, hovering over Shinsou. "Breathe normally, damnit!"

"What's going on." Shouta's gruff voice causes both boys to look at him, panicked expressions almost identical.

"Sensei, my quirk, the quirk is wrong. I told him to shut up and-" He gasps, eyes flickering between Shinsou and Shouta, "It's not- I can't undo it."

Shouta bends down next to Shinsou, letting the boy grip his hand. His face is turning bright red, the veins in his temple bulging. He activates his quirk, grunting when he still doesn't breathe.

"You copied his quirk, you can't undo it?" He re-states the facts, trying to get a grip on the situation.

Monoma shakes his head, "N-no I, fuck I think it mixed with another quirk I have copied, it shouldn't be able to, it hasn't ever done this before-"

"Monoma!" He barks sharply, "What other quirk do you have copied, tell me now."

"Some business course student, teal skin, she has an 'influence' quirk, I'm not sure how it works but-"

"It must've fused with his since they're so similar." Shouta rolls his shoulders, jerking his head to Shinsou, "Call me on your phone so I can talk to Monoma. Stay awake, kid."

Shouta pats the kid's arm, ripping his hand away with great difficulty.

He shoves his fear and stress down to the pit of his gut. He will process this when the kid can breathe again.

"MIC." He shouts, acquiring the man's attention immediately, "Quirk malfunction. Erasing target, check with Shinsou."

Hizashi stutters, blanching at the field language during a school day, but gives his affirmation and jogs the other way.

Shouta resumes his sprint to the main building, breaking at least four door handles on the way.

45 seconds into his trek he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He curses, fumbling for it in his pocket. Seeing Shinsou's name on his screen only eases his worry microscopically.

He answers.

"Monoma. How is he."

"I took over, the kid was flipping his shit." Mic's voice answers, "You know who to find?"

Shouta grunts in affirmation, rounding the corner to the business wing. "Almost there. Is he conscious?"

"Barely, Eraser. You need to be quick."

His eyes dart around the classrooms, keeping an eye out for the girl.

"Shit," he curses after the last classroom comes and goes with no sign of her.

"Shit shit shit shit," He whips his head around, steeling himself and throwing open the door to the women's restroom.

And there's teal.

He's sure it's not the greatest first impression to leave on a kid, not when he's known for expelling students, but he activates his quirk immediately.

She recoils as if he's about to attack, squealing and throwing her arms up in defense.

"Shouta!" The fuzzy voice calls from his hand, "He's okay! You did it?"

Shouta blinks, eyes burning from the wave of emotions and dry eye.

He sighs tiredly, exiting the bathroom as quickly as he entered.

"Problem children." He mutters into the receiver.

He numbs the pain inside his heart with the ache deep inside him when Billy roughly fucks him in the shower after practice. His half swallowed moans and the slap-slap-slap of Billy’s hips slamming into his asscheeks bounce off tiled walls. His hole is just stretched enough, stuffed with lube that squelches out of him on every push inside that he won’t tear, but he still whimpers at the force Billy uses to push him open. His mind is blissfully quiet.

There’s a routine to it. Steve tries not to pay attention to Billy’s posturing. Ignores the way his hair looks like spun gold in sunshine. Lets his eyes stray over Billy’s sweat glistening chest and roll right off of it, too aware that he can’t attract any attention.

That doesn’t mean Billy has stopped trying to rile him up. Except now he knows. They both know: Steve will come crawling to him when he wants him.

He’ll leave his empty, lonely house halfway to buzzed and come to a party Billy mock-invited him to, with a ‘come over if you’re not too good for the rest of us’ wrapped in bedroom eyes and a mean smirk.

Steve comes when Billy is high off of beating a guy at a drinking game and probably some shitty coke he snorted off a girl’s belly. He’s wild and unhinged and as the party roars on he spots Steve in the crowd and allows his face to light up in a gleeful, almost childish delight.

Somewhere in his chest, Steve’s heart beats fast. Billy’s attention on him is dizzying. He knows all the party houses in Hawkins. Knows which rooms you can sneak into for a good fuck. And it’s not that different from the girls he used to fuck when he drags Billy to one of those rooms. An office with a sofa that’s further in the back than any of the guest rooms. The snick of a door lock keeping out prying eyes and muffling the sound noise of music and voices.

 For an hour, he gets to feel- something. Steve gets to sit on Billy’s lap and licks the taste of cheap beer from his mouth as he’s fingered open. He gets to forget the tears he swallowed down the entire evening when his mom called to let him know his parents aren’t returning for another week.

There’s just the firm strength of Billy’s thighs underneath him and thick fingers spearing him open, followed by the now familiar weight of Billy’s cock. He’s so hard, he feels like just a hand wrapped around his dick would push him over the edge.

That night, he cries. Because Billy pushes his back into the cushions and pushes into him so hard he starts to sob from the sparks of pleasure it ignites in his belly. Because Billy’s hand wraps around his throat and squeezes the air from his lungs just long enough that when he lets Steve take in another breath, it’s like he inhales the sweetest nectar. Because Billy Hargrove, the selfish, rough asshole who lets Steve come to him for round after round of bruising, perfect sex, drapes across him like a blanket. And he soaks up those tears like he’s starved for them. Like there’s no shame in them.

Fixated

on Asphyxiation

my slow choking exhalation

And I broke then

split my rib cage

wide open

in

days..

my defense,

you look like him

and you were

Hellbent on getting in

and I savor the taste

of chaos and pain

and the perfect angles of your face

Strike

the matchstick

My back to the mattress

Covered in flames

my sadness

deadspoke

a ghost with your name

I have beautiful words locked inside my head

his hand wrapped on my throat instead

and I’m tracing the ink

On the side of his face

I’m waiting for this

to drown out the taste

the bliss and the pain

the high in my vein

a cold violet rain

i hate the withdrawal

i hate coming down

I hate it

when you’re not around

He knows me

owns me

Every inch of my body

beautifully broken profanity

dopamine drop animosity

Chaos and insanity

Screaming at you

Screaming at me

I want

and I want..

and I can’t fucking stop

wanting

you

to want

only

me

Lack of air (colored) 

you got it babe <33

Strangled Words

Seven Masterlist

Tags: choking, asphyxiation, servant/slave whump, physical abuse, fainting, restraints, alcohol, past sexual coercion mentioned.  Words: 2k

(This can be read as a stand-alone piece, but takes place during the University arc)

༻✦༺ 

“No— No wait— What’s wrong— I’m sorry!!”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Wes was back from the bars early tonight. Seven hadn’t expected it. Immediately when he heard the door slam, he knew something was very wrong.

Wes’ eyes were on him before he could hide, cornering him just past the main staircase.

Wes was taking his time spitting out whatever it was, leaning back against the bannister, arms crossed. The pose would read as casual to anyone who wasn’t Seven. 

“They told me everything tonight, you know,” Wes was rarely so deadpan—it put Seven even more on edge. “And you’re in trouble.”

Seven’s stomach dropped. Oh god, what had he done? He unconsciously stepped back, not sure where he was headed but satisfied with anywhere else at all, with the way Wes was looking at him right now. 

Wes stalked towards him, eyes burning. “I heard all about that little stunt you pulled last weekend.” 

“I don’t— I don’t know what you mean, sir—please I—“

Seven stumbled back, tripping on the edge of the coffee table and landing in a heap on the floor. 

“You’re gonna play dumb. Okay. You think I didn’t see proof? They showed me fucking pictures."

Pictures of what?? Seven was panicking more and more with every word that came out of Wes’ mouth.  Immediately, he tried to scramble back up. He did not want Wes to get him on the ground so easily. Seven had been there enough times to know he never lasted long after that. They weren’t exactly in the same weight-class. 

His mind was racing. He thought back to that last weekend. What little he could remember. God, which parties had happened last weekend? He remembered waking up in the upstairs ensuite bathtub wearing one pink fuzzy handcuff. He remembered a Sunday morning slice of room-temperature pepperoni pizza. He remembered cleaning Wes’ entire place by himself with a terrible skull-splitting hangover. He remembered leaning against the walls when the nausea got too bad. None of this seemed too out of the ordinary.

He rose on unsteady feet, the back of his knee seared from where it’d bashed into the table. He realized he was shaking. 

Wes stalked towards him with a dangerous expression, forcing Seven to shuffle back towards the paned glass wall. 

“You think you can just take whatever you want? Take what’s mine?” 

“No! No I didn’t— I- I wasn’t —“ 

Seven didn’t even know what he was being accused of. He hadn’t taken anything, he thought earnestly. He raked his mind through his memories, searching for what he might’ve taken, anything that might’ve angered him.

He just needed a moment. A moment to breathe. A moment to explain. 

“Please sir,” he pleaded, “Please you have to listen—“

Wes’ hand clapped him hard across the face. He let out a gasp of pain, the surprise in his voice rang high pitched and clear despite the fact that he should’ve expected it. Wes was clearly in no listening mood. 

“I don’t have to do shit you tell me to. Got that?” Wes reached for his belt. Seven flinched, hands raising protectively to his face.  

“On your fucking knees.”

Seven’s knees hit the floor before he processed the words. 

“Please, sir,—I-I can explain—” Why was he still talking? Seven was beyond desperate now, pleading that Wes would just wait a moment before doing whatever horrible thing he was about to do. 

Several horrible things flashed through Seven’s mind as he watched Wes tug the belt from its buckle and slide it out from his overpriced jeans. Would he whip him with it? He hoped it would be the leather side. It’d take so much longer to heal if Wes hit him with the buckle. He’d be useless for weeks. Or forced to work injured. More injured than usual. 

He was so focused on the belt that he forgot to fear Wes himself for a moment, and caught the hard sting of reality when Wes backhanded him on the other side of his face. 

Seven’s head snapped to the side. The force of it stole the breath from his lungs—a sharp exhale and a small, choked cry. 

“You should know where your fucking hands go.” 

The moment the room stopped slurring, Seven twisted his arms tightly behind his back. One hand gripping the other wrist, just to make sure. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, like a trapped, scared animal. 

Wes twisted the belt in his hands, shifting his weight and studying it, feeling it. 

Seven knelt, petrified. He had done what Wes had asked. He was being good. He just needed to explain. Whatever this was, he was sure it was a misunderstanding.

But he didn’t speak. He’d been hit enough times to know Wes didn’t want him to talk. 

Wes walked behind him. Seven knew better than to turn his head and try to look. But he heard—felt his footsteps. He always felt Wes’ footsteps. Like his ears were trained to perk up when Wes stalked down a hallway or paced a room. 

Or when they were approaching. Right now—his feet were approaching. 

Seven felt Wes’ hands around his wrists. He stared at the floor. He didn’t dare move his head. 

So that’s what the belt is for, some relieved part of him thought. The part that wanted this to be over. That wanted this to be easy. 

But it was never easy. It was never what he’d predicted either. 

He’d predicted the belt. What he felt was the cold bite of metal. Heard that chilling, unmistakable zipping sound as he felt the handcuffs cinch behind him.

Seven’s heart was pounding. Wes had made them tight. He knew better than to complain. Seven let his fingers tangle together, determined not to yank on the cuffs and cut off his own circulation. After all, he had no idea how long Wes was going to keep him like this. 

Seven kept still as Wes’ shoes came into view again. Clean. Expensive. Some brand Seven probably couldn’t even pronounce. 

He glanced up when he saw the belt again. Still twisting in Wes’ hands. 

“Oh you’re wondering what this is for, right?” Wes was snide, there was something darker to him, more hateful than his usual mocking tone and cheating grin. 

“Glad you asked. I’m finally going to get a confession out of you.”

“For—for what, sir?” Seven cursed the way his voice trembled. 

Faster than he could blink, Wes slapped him hard enough to make the last two feel like love taps. It was a perfect angle, right down from the cheekbone to the edge of his jaw. Bright white flashed across Seven’s vision and he cried out, its force toppling him over. With no arms to catch himself, he landed roughly on his shoulder. He cursed the marble floor. Apart from Wes himself, it had probably caused him the most bruises lately.

He blinked the flashing out of his eyes and shrank in on himself, panting, trying to recover from the past few hits before Wes inevitably made it worse. He felt them blooming atop one another—broken capillaries pulsating on his cheeks, bleeding together like melding colors of paint. If Wes could just stop hitting him in the same damn spots.

“For what,” Wes’ voice was bitter poison. “Are you fucking serious right now?”* He kicked Seven hard in the ribs before gripping his hair and yanking his head up. 

“The FUCK do you think??” Wes’ eyes were wide, his anger edged with something raw—frantic, almost. It wasn’t just his usual brand of assholery. There was something real beneath it this time, in his own Wes sort of way. Gone was the awful smirk, the smug amusement. He was actually pissed.

“This is why I have to take drastic measures with you, you know,” he spat. “Because you think you can just sneak around behind my back and play dumb and I won’t fucking notice anything?” 

Seven was silent— he was watching the belt in Wes’ hands. It was more than a prop now. Wes was stepping forward—belt unfurled. Seven tried to pull his head away, but without use of his arms, and stuck down on his knees, there was little he could do to stop Wes from grabbing him hard, from looping the belt around his throat and yanking it tight. 

“I’m gonna fucking skin you. You really are as stupid as you look.”

Seven didn’t move, didn’t breathe. His eyes locked onto Wes—wide, glassy, trembling—like a single blink might give him away. 

“Fine. Fuck you. I’ll spell it out.”

Wes leaned in, his voice slow and deliberate, like he was explaining basic math to a brick wall.

“Last weekend. The Spring Wreckers pregame. You. And. Brie.”

Seven’s eyes went wide. He remembered that night. Pieces of it. It wasn’t— it wasn’t his choice. Wes had to understand it wasn’t his choice.

“No—wait—sir please you don’t under—“ a tight cinch of the belt cut him off, leaving him choking on dead air, words lost, trapped in his throat. 

“You really thought you could get one up on me didn’t you,” Wes’ gaze burned into him, the stench of bourbon on his breath stung Seven’s eyes. 

“You thought you could be soo fucking sneaky. Take her to the back closet and have your little seven minutes in fucking heaven???”

Wes cinched it tighter. 

“No-noo!—” Seven’s voice was a sharp cry, but another tug shrank it to a hoarse, frantic whisper. “Please—p-please sir— It wasn’t—“ 

Seven choked on his own words as the leather dug in, tightening around his throat like a boa constrictor. 

“I—I didn’t—  – Please—“  Seven choked out with the last of his effort, before Wes yanked the belt even tighter and took Seven’s voice away completely—just like that. He was left mouthing uselessly, silent pleas dying in his throat.

Seven tried not to panic, but his vision was starting to darken at the corners—a hazy vignette gifted by his brain’s lack of oxygen. Seven tried to gasp, but his throat made nothing but pathetic choking sounds. 

Pressure. Pressure in his head. Air. He needed air. But most of all he needed blood. Without blood sending oxygen to his brain, he wouldn’t last much longer. He knew how this worked. That didn't make him panic any less, though. Didn't stop his thoughts from fizzling at the edges until they reduced completely to a single burning point, every fiber of it screaming for oxygen. 

Seven pleaded with his eyes—begged through the blur of tears for air, for release, for Wes to shut the fuck up and listen for once. It was an accident— they’d gotten him drunk—wasted—and Brie had yanked him in by the collar of his shirt that night—she’d dragged him into that closet. He hadn’t had any choice. 

He never did. Not when it came to Brie, or Wes, or anyone, it seemed. 

But of course Wes wasn’t having any of it. 

“Enough with the fucking excuses. You’re gonna confess to everything you did or I’m gonna choke you ‘til you pass out for real this time. And then I'm gonna do it again.” 

It was lost on Seven’s rapidly waning mind how he was meant to confess to anything while being choked half to death. 

That was the last thing he thought before he passed out. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Seven awoke to a sharp kick in the ribs. 

“Wake up.”

His eyes snapped open at the sudden pain. He gasped, trying to remember what had just happened. His head was pounding.

Wes tried again, and, dissatisfied when he got no response further than a faint groan, Seven felt that familiar yank, that tightening around his throat—he knew what to expect but he still hated it. 

That pain was still hammering away inside his skull. He begged in his mind that Wes wouldn’t make him get up. Not right now. Not yet. Please. 

But the yank came again, harder this time. He groaned until the belt tightened further and rendered him silent. Wes yanked him up by the neck, forcing Seven to follow until he was back in a kneeling position. 

Seven didn’t fight it. There was no point. It was obey or be choked out again. Obey and breathe.

His shoulders ached in their position, still locked back by the cuffs. One side burning from collapsing on the floor again. He felt numbness in his fingers. Deep rings would be forming around his wrists by now, he could feel it. 

How long had he been out? 

He decided he’d rather not think about it, and let his head fall forward, exhausted. 

Wrong move, apparently, because it granted him a tight fist in his hair and Wes yanking his head up to face him. 

“Now that you’ve had your beauty rest, let’s try this one more time. You’re gonna tell me everything. And then I’m going to teach you a lesson that will make you never want to touch her ever again.” 

༻✦༺ 

Next part is up!

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