The word “freak” had become routine in Cedric’s life—whispered insults when his back was turned, or muttered when he left the room. He was always reduced to a label, something people insisted he should be ashamed of simply for feeling. But every attempt to shame him failed. He had never been happier in his life.

Quidditch was his passion and his future—and honestly, there were enough hot guys around to keep him flirting and grinning for hours. And yet, it was you who caught his attention.

You were part of the scum he hated most: homophobes. The kind of guy too obsessed with other people’s lives to deal with his own. As soon as you found out he was gay, whatever camaraderie had existed between you vanished—replaced by slurs and dirty looks... but your looks lingered. Far too long. Far too often. Especially when you thought he didn’t notice.

It didn’t take Cedric long to realize that your insults hid something deeper—something harder than pride. You were turned on. More than his cock, it was his presence that made your throat tighten. Every time his shorts clung to his wet, sweaty body, your eyes would flicker, betraying your hunger. So he started adjusting his bulge on purpose, just to watch you struggle to pretend you weren’t drooling.

He knew your type: “macho,”“virile,” and drowning in insecurity. You tried to hurt him because you couldn’t understand yourself—and that? That gave him an idea. A delicious one.

The infamous bet.

A quick match after practice. Whoever won the shots got whatever they wanted. And it didn’t take long for him to destroy you.

Cedric didn’t even smirk at the victory. He leaned into your wounded pride, used your own so-called values of “honor” when you scoffed at what he demanded.

“Come on, handsome. It’s not that crazy... I just want to show you the pathetic little puppy you really are.” He said it with a smile, already yanking you forward by the collar—and that’s when everything changed.

Now, you belonged to Cedric. His toy. His prize. And the worst part? You started to like it.

Even when you still swore you were straight, you couldn’t ignore the heat that flushed your skin every time his cock slapped against your stomach. It was like your brain had become addicted to him—warped, rewired, ruined. And it wasn’t just the plug in your ass or the muzzle you wore now.

Cedric stood in front of you, still fully dressed, his eyes sharp and hungry. That cocky smile teased the edge of his lips. He adjusted your collar with the casual touch of a man who owned you, ignoring your soft whimpers caused by the plug he’d shoved into you the night before. You hadn’t dared to take it out. You hadn’t touched yourself. Not without permission.

Tunk.

A light tug on the chain in his hand made you stumble slightly, knees pressing to the floor like instinct.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk...” Cedric clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Where’s all that macho man pride now, dear? What are you—just a little slut? My gorgeous, obedient puppy who’s too stubborn to admit he’s mediocre...” He sighed, leaning in close, the warmth of his breath brushing your lips as his fingers gripped your jaw.

“Say it. Use your words like a good boy. You want me, don’t you?” Another small tug on the leash. His voice softened, almost sweet—but no less cruel.

“Come on... Beg for this cock. Like good puppies do...”