eevilalice: Finny from Black Butler looking happy, with hearts (Dogs Badou and Heine stalk if you want)
[personal profile] eevilalice posting in [community profile] kinkfest
Title: Dog Cage
Author: [personal profile] eevilalice
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dubcon, Humiliation, D/s, Violence, Autoeroticism/Self-cest (depending on how you view Kerberos/BlackDog!Heine), Mindfuck
Word Count: 2,113
Summary: There are consequences to keeping the mad dog inside you locked up.
A/N: I experienced a bit of a mindfuck myself writing this. I hope it's not confusing and is rough enough (as the prompt requested). Do let me know if I've missed any warnings.


“Keep the doors shut and locked,” eh, Heine? Isn’t that what you always say?


The mad dog straddles him, prods his ribs with one bony knee. Heine glares up at him, reminded of the psychopath’s recent re-emergence, the way he’d towered over him just like this, tugging on the strips of fabric covering his collar as he taunted him about Giovanni beating the crap out of him.


“Shut the fuck up,” Heine mutters. He’s naked, they’re both naked, he doesn’t know where: it’s all blackness except the two of them in a pool of light without a source.


The asshole snickers. Always so eloquent. But, then, what use is eloquence when you have fangs? He grins obscenely, teeth stained with what looks like blood, and dives for Heine’s neck.


On reflex, Heine’s body bows, but it only serves to bare more of his flesh to the beast’s jaws as they tear into him. He howls at the sharp pain, a different class of sensation than the bullets and other metal that rip through him in his daily life of crime and assorted bullshit. His arms jerk, but the fucker’s holding them down, all his weight working against Heine.


The black dog releases his throat and sits back, licking his lips with an insane glint in his eye. Tell me, miserable stray, what am I tasting? Blood of the master? Or blood of the servant?


His arms on Heine’s have slackened, trailing to his lean, sweat-slick chest instead, and Heine growls, reaching up to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, his own oozing blood and throbbing with pain as he squeezes tight.


But the mad hound only laughs, the sound of it more like a gurgle as Heine chokes him and chokes him until his hands and arms tire, and his body can’t bear the strain of the awkward position. He flops back, panting, swearing, neck all sticky.


I’ve always admired your determination, even when you were a naïve puppy in training, he says, looking down at Heine fondly and patting him on the head. Heine doesn’t react, choosing instead to rest and regain his strength, take the beast by surprise. You chose to fuse with me, then you stayed longer than anyone else. And after all that power I gave you, you chose—you choose—to keep me locked up like some mongrel. He leans down, and Heine sees flashes of a dog’s muzzle wrinkled in a snarl, sharp teeth wet with the animal’s saliva. Above, red eyes stare down, and Heine stares back, transfixed. He blinks and once again finds himself looking at his distorted, darkened mirror image, now nose-to-nose. But you know you can’t always.


Heine whips his head forward and bashes his skull against his captor’s to no effect but an amused chuckle and the re-pinning of his arms. Trying another tactic, he bucks his hips, using his legs for leverage. He hears a low growl and, with a sickening roil in his stomach, feels the obvious heat and hardness of an erection pressing against his lower abdomen. Heine renews his efforts at throwing him off, thrashing wildly, but the mad dog only groans, bright eyes gleaming lewdly, and rubs against him.


“You piece of shit!”


Now, now, my little pet, the beast chides, stilling atop him as Heine ceases his struggles. I’m doing you a favor. What with your fear of women, disinterest in men, and unwillingness to even take matters into your own hands, I’m the only way you’ve got to get off.


“Fuck your favors!” Heine spits, momentarily satisfied to see his spittle fly in the bastard’s smug face—until the sick fuck simply licks it from his lips. How can he get out of here? Is he unconscious? When will he wake up?


The mad dog cocks his head to the side. Oh. Am I wrong? Have you got plans for the mute angel I don’t know about? I suppose her mouth has other uses…


Heine doesn’t bother saying a word this time, screaming his rage loud and long until he’s exhausted once again, chest heaving and throat raw.


Finally, he catches his breath enough to hear a sigh. I’m tired too, you know. Tired of your resistance. Your lack of appreciation. I only want to help. I don’t want anything from you, except to play once in a while.


Heine snorts and glares weakly back, his entire body wrung out, the image of his dark self above mimicking sincerity twisted and funny in its own fucked up way.


The wicked mouth parts on another lecherous, lopsided grin, and Heine shudders at the sudden shift. I want to play with the cute swordswoman you touched once—she’s so violent and innocent at the same time, just like you used to be—but you always ruin the fun. He pouts, and Heine’s blood feels like it’s boiling in his veins, pumping furiously through his fist of a heart. He closes his eyes so tight it hurts.


He can’t let it have Naoto. He can’t let it have Nill.


“Fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “Take me. I don’t give a fuck.” Despite his surrender, he watches through narrowed, defiant eyes as the black dog smiles in triumph, his madness-skewed visage growing closer and closer as he bends down, sliding Heine’s arms up beside his head by the wrists, and presses their chests together. Heine feels the roll of hips, a reminder—as if he needed one—of the heavy erection meant for him.


You’re about to give a fuck, the beast breathes into his mouth before assaulting Heine with his own. Heine grunts, somehow still surprised by the suddenness, though not the violence. His mouth opens in automatic protest, and a hot, wet tongue slides in and takes over, stabbing rhythmically. Heine’s body flushes all over when he feels his cock twitch in response, and his lips vibrate with the dog’s answering chuckle.


With a smacking sound, the mad hound pulls away, smirking. Don’t be embarrassed, puppy. This is how normal people respond. This is what their bodies do. He pulls back a bit further, runs a hand from Heine’s wrist down his arm, across his chest, pausing to flick a nipple—noting Heine’s hitched breath—then over his trembling belly and back between his legs to grip and squeeze his half-hard prick. Heine gasps and bucks up into the touch, turning his face away in humiliation.


Of course, there ain’t much normal about you, is there? You don’t even scar. Not on the outside anyway. Heine’s eyes are shut, and he feels that wet tongue lave his nipple, the long-fingered hand stroke his member to full hardness. He bites his lip on a groan. Maybe you even like the bullets that tear into you, eh, doggie? Since you can’t fuck and all. Heat suffuses Heine’s face, and he digs his nails into the palms of his hands. He jumps when sharp teeth close and pull on his nipple. Gotta get your bone somehow. The words and accompanying laugh are muffled against Heine’s throat where the fiend laps at the dried blood, each stroke of the tongue sending jolts down his spine. Their spine. Well I got a bone for you.


Heine hisses as, in one swift move, his twisted companion releases his prick and slides down to rub his own along the crack of Heine’s ass. His loose wrist is once again seized, his mouth, too, in a kiss with as much teeth as tongue. Heine writhes—away or closer, he doesn’t know—his cock still hard, harder maybe, trapped against the taut body above him.


This is what he gets, he figures. This is what he deserves.


The kiss is broken, and Heine’s mouth feels raw, like he’s been chewing glass or spitting up bullets. The prick at his hole is insistent, jabbing bluntly at him, and he clenches involuntarily. The beast only grins, as always, and sits up, grabbing Heine’s legs on the way. He pushes them back almost to Heine’s shoulders, and Heine grimaces.


I know what you’re thinking, the stupid shit says like he’s psychic. Why aren’t we doing this doggy-style?


“Stop with the fucking jokes and just do it already,” Heine grumbles, every nerve in his body lit as if doused in gasoline, match struck and tossed.


Predictably, the son-of-a-bitch laughs, almost a giggle, before spitting in his hand and bringing it to Heine’s clenched opening. He feels a slimy digit roughly breach him and swallows a pathetic whimper.


Glad to see your spirit isn’t broken, brat. That would be no fun. The finger wiggles, then pistons in and out of him, loosening him up. Heine grips his free leg and stares up at the ceiling-less blackness, figuring he might get through this better if he’s not looking at the crazy rat bastard. The finger withdraws, and he hears him spit again.


I want to see your face, puppy, the mad dog explains unasked, his voice closer than before. It startles Heine, who can’t help but shift his gaze and instantly regrets it. The red, blood-hungry eyes are right there, and before Heine can look away—or try to—the beast’s spit-slick cock is pushing into him, swift and sharp, and Heine can’t bite back this cry. He sees the monster’s pleasure reflected in those mad eyes—the pleasure of penetrating him, of dominating him—and the black mirroring inherent in his warped visage overwhelms Heine.


Legs propped over the master’s arms, Heine submits to the relentless pounding, their bodies inching along the texture-less ground with the force. His insides burn, and once—by accident or for a random taunt—the beast brushes something inside him that sends a spike of pleasure up his spine, all the way to his collar. He moans before he can stop himself, and the fucker is quick with a bitch in heat quip.


Go on, touch yourself, comes the teasing voice, steady despite the furious motion of his body as it invades Heine’s over and over again.


But Heine’s hands lie limply on the ground, clutching at nothing. Between his legs, his cock is hard and angry-red, jouncing with the thrusts.


Touch it, do it. Make yourself come, gloomy puppy, he’s admonished. This is your master speaking. This voice is not teasing.


Heine takes himself in one sweaty hand and hisses at the contact. As unfamiliar with the practice as he is, he still knows it’ll take only a few strokes. He clenches his eyes shut, feels the hard, long length filling him, the one in his hands, and pulls—once, twice, three times, warm spurts of come shooting over his hand, belly, all the way to his chest. He whimpers, opening his eyes to see the mess and Kerberos above him, smiling like some perverted parent. Then the beast’s face changes, going slack, mouth dropping open and eyes all unfocused mania as he growls and gives one final, brutal thrust, coming in a series of hot spurts inside Heine.


Heine closes his eyes again, hopes it’s the last time he has to until he gets out of this fucking place or wakes up or whatever.


It’s not long before the beast is chuckling, his miraculously sweat-free, calm body still pressing against Heine’s so that he can feel the laughter all through the both of them.


It’s funny, really. Heine is ready to rip the fucker’s throat out so he doesn’t have to hear his everything-is-so-amusing voice anymore. You’re always so good at restraining me, even if it means giving me something I want.


Heine shifts uncomfortably beneath him, his backside sore, belly and chest sticky. He doesn’t know where this is going, but he’s not gonna bite, not even gonna open his eyes.


You never wanna let me out, never wanna let me have any fun. He gets back up astride Heine, who can feel him smiling down at him. But that just means you’re always trapped in here with me.


Heine’s eyes shoot open, and he glares, bile rising in his throat.


But what’s really funny is how every time we do this, you keep thinking it’s the first. The smile grows wider and wider until it opens into a dog’s maw, and Heine screams at the black, furred animal baring its fangs and digging into his chest with yellowed claws, tearing him up until he can see his own heart beating in his bloody chest, then tearing some more until there’s something shiny and segmented—


—and Heine wakes on his ratty couch with a yell, heart still in his chest, come drying on his abdomen, and a snickering in his ear.

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