I Know What I'm Writing Today 😈 - Blog Posts

Collar and the Crown

⎉: @whump-in-the-closet thanks for the prompt mwahahaha

TW: abuse, coercion, humiliation, non-consensual control, psychological torment, physical pain, power imbalances, dehumanisation, forced obedience, implied sexual threat, references to past physical torture and branding.

The dining room gleams with opulence. Gold leaf detailing. Velvet chairs. Candlelight dancing through fine crystal. It smells like roasted meat, sweet wine, money. Roses colouring rot.

Whumpee stands at the centre, drowning in the spectacle. Their black turtleneck clings to them like armour, the fabric stiff with sweat, stretched too tight across their ribs. Jeans rough against their skin. Plain. Deliberately so. Everything about them sticks out sorely in the midst of the splendour.

Their posture is rigid. Neutral. Perfect. They’ve practiced this. Rehearsed it in the mirror until their muscles ached.

They don’t look at anyone.

Whumper stands beside them, smiling like a man unveiling a masterpiece. His suit is immaculate—blood-red tie, black silk gloves. His hand rests lightly on Whumpee’s back. 

A leash beneath a lover’s touch.

He taps his glass with a fork. The sound is sharp, crystalline. The room hushes like a curtain falling.

“My friends,” Whumper says, eyes sweeping the table, “I promised something special tonight. And I never break a promise.”

He turns to Whumpee, smile widening.

“Come closer, pet.”

Whumpee obeys, jaw ticking once.

The movement is mechanical. Inside, their gut tightens.

“If you flinch,” Whumper mutters, low against their ear, “I’ll gut you here on the floor.”

They stiffen.

The room watches, entranced.

And Whumper begins.

He unbuttons the turtleneck slowly, reverently, as though undressing a bride. One button at a time. The fabric falls away from the collar—metal, thick, functional. It gleams in the light. It hums softly.

“Oh,” someone says, voice slurred and intoxicated. “He’s collared. How darling.”

The shirt slips lower.

A scar on the shoulder. Long. Surgical.

“This one,” Whumper begins, his voice rich, “was from a lesson about disobedience. They were quite… expressive.”

He traces it with his gloved fingers. Whumpee flinches.

Too late.

The collar bites. Just a flicker of pain down their spine. Enough to make them inhale sharply.

Whumper doesn’t pause.

More skin is revealed. More marks. Scars that twist and curve like a topography of pain. The brand, raw and angry, slashed across their chest—his title, forever.

“I’d love to get my hands on that,” someone murmurs at the table. “Such craftsmanship.”

Whumpee’s hands clench. But they keep quiet.

And then—eyes.

In the far corner of the room, someone stands. Out of place. Rigid. Pale.

Whumpee’s heart lurches.

They know that face.

An old nemesis. Once a rival who swore they’d destroy them—

And now—they just watch.

Frozen.

Whumpee’s stomach turns.

Whumper presses a glass into their hand. Wine, dark and viscous.

“Drink,” he says, low.

Whumpee doesn’t move.

“Now.”

The collar flashes again—bright red.

Agony sears down their spine. Their knees buckle. The wine sloshes in the glass.

Whumper steadies them.

“Don’t spill,” he rebukes. “You’ll ruin the carpet.”

Whumpee raises the glass. It shakes in their grip.

The wine touches their tongue like fire. It burns going down. Too strong. Too much. Their throat rebels. Their eyes sting.

But they drink.

A drop spills down their chin.

Whumper catches it with his thumb, wiping it away.

He turns them to face the guests.

“Raise your glasses,” he says. “To discipline. To devotion. To the beauty of supremacy.”

Glasses clink. The sound is obscene. Triumphant.

And Whumpee?

They stand there, collar humming, chest bare, body marked with every lesson learned too late.

Their face burns, flushed too deep, too loud, shame trying to scream its way out.

Someone laughs. “What else can they do on command?”

The person in the back—the one who knows—hasn’t moved.

Their expression is blank now, guarded.

But they don’t come forward. They don’t speak.

And that hurts more than anything.

Whumper leans close, lips brushing Whumpee’s temple.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he says. “They adore you.”

His hand slips down, settling just above the waistband of Whumpee’s jeans.

“Shall we give them more?”

Whumpee trembles. Their legs feel like glass. Their skin screams. Their mind is a hurricane.

But still—they stand.

Because the alternative is worse. Because there is no alternative.

The applause rises again, thunderous, gleeful.

And Whumpee, trembling and silent, is swallowed by it.