”Write will you not”? I have been living ever since in a constant state of intention to write - E. A. Poe
Stories
Long-form & finished
Force of Nature (novella)
Unfair (complete, but I still plan to write more)
Sold to 1D 2WayStreet (hiatus)
Slice of life & standalone pieces
Capture the moment (rare updates)
"I'm sorry" (drabble)
Careless Whisper (prompt fill)
Slowly (drabble)
Burial Rite (short story)
Patricia (gothic horror)
All things end (oneshot)
The Butcher (horror, on AO3)
Field Medicine (oneshot)
Burning (drabble)
Cliff edge (oneshot)
Tears (drabble)
Breathless (drabble)
Frozen (drabble)
Hunting (drabble)
The Driver (oneshot)
The Driver - part 2 (oneshot)
Tropes you'll find here:
captivity, vampires, pet whump & unhappy endings, death, nsfw
Tropes you won't find:
caretaking, recovery arcs
I'm not great with tagging stuff, but my writing is usually under #whump writing, stuff about my characters is under #my ocs, personal posts are under #elias things, asks are tagged #elias answers
Other people's things are under #others' writing, #others' ocs and #others' art
I have another blog for personal stuff (my art, fandoms and bugs, mainly) : @creepy-crawly-critters
And I have a Ko-Fi, where I have some art shared :)
Imagine: a whumpee who has to earn their proof of life photos and videos being sent.
That doesn't stop the photo-shoots—embarrassing as all hell, in humiliating poses, or with embarrassing accessories/props (toys? a paddle? wearing a collar/straps/lingerie?), maybe nude/with only a newspaper over their crotch, forced to record little voice clips where they say what whumper prompts them to say, or being beaten/showcasing their bruises, hickeys, scars, welts & what-have-you...
And then—after all that—they still have to earn Whumper sending it to anyone, and not just keeping it for their own viewing pleasure.
And the price is recorded as they pay it, and sent with everything, too.
best friend irl said they want to read the diorama maker story
and that i can add them to the taglist
greatest honor in the world
like their usual style is slowburn romance stuff, fantasy flavoured, while this piece is a short story, set in the real world and it's whump/horror
my 8 years (holy shit) of talking their ears off with my whumpy bullshit has finally paid off 🥹
they're also in full support of making Zach a teenager and lean into the horror of that too 🤩
im so glad for the 4 people who are on the taglist by the way, i have so much motivation to work on this and finish as fast as possible (it's like halfway done already)
anyway irl best friend is on the diorama maker taglist
my 8 years (holy shit) of talking their ear off about my whumpy bullshit has finally paid off
and that's huge, because they don't really care for horror or whump, or real world flavoured things, they're more of a fantasy slow-burn romance kind of person
they were also the one to suggest i lean into the horror of Zach being young, I still haven't specified an age, but he's a teenager, so that his and Conrad's relationship and him as a parental figure to Zach is more important
im super grateful for everyone who has expressed their interest so far, it's rare that im *this* motivated to finish a story, it's been like a week and I'm halfway done
I mentioned awhile ago about a little look through the ages. I just want this out, so it's really just some snippets that I may or may not flesh out further. But fun whump :)
Eldwin choked back a sob as the whip struck his bare skin, again, and again, and again. He flinched violently, his hands bound to the pole keeping him in place. His shirt was on the floor beside him, and he wasn't allowed his bindings. His handler never seemed to care, but Eldwin did. His face burned hot, and he tried to curl in to shield himself, to hide. The restraints would not give.
"I don't hear counting."
"Twen- twenty three?" Eldwin's voice was hoarse, and cracked as he spoke. Crap, he'd lost count.
Thwack. "One."
No! "No, I'm sorry, I- twenty two? Twenty- twenty one!" Wrong answer. He clenched his fists tightly, willing himself not to let out a noise and every time, he failed. "I'm sorry-"
"Being sorry doesn't help you." His handler was a strict man, Eldwin had learned. He would accept nothing less than perfection. "You need to push through the pain. Clear your mind. Now, thirty lashes. It's not that hard. Don't lose track again."
*
Eldwin sniffled, shrugging his shirt back on over his marred back. Every movement stung, and his wrists too were rubbed raw from the rope. What kind of life was this? Was it going to be like this forever? He couldn't do it forever. How could he survive?
*+*+*
Age: 18
"Shirt off. Hands to the wall."
Eldwin pulled his shirt over his head, a scowl etched upon his face. He unwrapped his bindings, letting the bandages drop to the floor. No cushioning allowed. Probably best not to risk them getting torn up anyway.
He placed his palms flat against the wall, his shoulders tight and scarred back taut.
There was no warning before the sharp swish cut through the air. "One," Eldwin counted, working on keeping his voice steady to avoid the sting. "Two."
Sixty this time. It was routine, by now, and he'd long since learnt to let the pain fade into the background to deal with later. It proved to be one of most important lessons he'd had.
Nels walked away after, leaving the whip for Eldwin to clean and put away. He winced every time he reached or bent over, tugging on wounds old and new. He slicked back his sweat-soaked hair, and got to work.
*+*
Age: 22
The whip cracked against shoulder blades, already torn apart. Clyde wasn't in the mood for self control today. He'd been wild, erratically, not caring where he was hitting or how hard, how fast. Eldwin's skin was stained with blood, drenched in it, and there was no way of knowing how many blows had landed. He didn't think Clyde knew, either.
Still, he asked. "How many?"
Eldwin grit his teeth, his breathing laboured. He had no fucking idea. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"No, I don't, because someone's a bit too excit-" He cut off, biting his tongue as another one landed, tearing more flesh from his shredded back. "I mean really, you ought to savour these things."
"Anyone would think you like this." There is a faint amusement buried beneath the warning tone. "Since you enjoy it so much, let's do a few more. If you count all of them, with no reaction - not a single flinch - I won't put you in the iron gag for talking back. How about it?"
Clyde didn't even give him a number to guess with. Eldwin glared at the wall, repositioned his hands. There was no avoiding it. He'd already lost a lot of blood. If Clyde didn't want him to pass out, he wouldn't do much more. But then, if he did that meant the worst of it would be healed. It might be smarter to try and push Clyde into going too far.
…If Eldwin had a little less pride, he might. But to collapse would be to admit weakness, a weakness he could not afford to have.
"One." Eldwin said, monotone as the whip ran through layers and layers of lashings crossed over each other, old and new. "Two."
His body was a canvas. One carefully decorated and torn down in a fit of rage, painted over and reborn with fresh inspiration. The paint poured from each wound, dragging all feeling along with it. Where an artist brushes careful strokes to share their lives with the world, here those lives were stripped away, layer by layer with a specific goal in mind, a purpose higher than Clyde's fleeting gratification, more than simple punishment.
"Eleven."
"Twelve."
His nerves grew numb while his own words sounded distant. Teetering on the edge of his mind, letting his muscles soak up every lesson. Every motion an instinct, each robotic syllable a symbol of growth, of a strength earned through blood-stained teeth and nails broken clawing out of the ground.
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-four."
Child of Sin, baptised in flame. Hero of Fate, lifted from light.
Cleanse yourself with the waters of spring, bathe yourself in their blood
"Twenty-five."
Ascend, faceless one, that they may fear your name
"Twenty six."
Torn apart. Crafted anew. Built up into something more, something more than man, beyond pain, beyond salvation.
“No.” Sita said it so quietly that, for half a second, the word barely seemed to disturb the room.
They didn’t shout. They didn’t step away. They didn’t throw anything, threaten him, or give Thane a single dramatic reaction he could later reshape into evidence that they’d been unreasonable. They simply stood near the far end of the long cream-colored sofa, shoulders squared beneath a dark shirt, hands hanging loose at their sides, and refused him.
Thane stared at them from the armchair across the room.
The sitting room looked absurdly elegant around them. Warm amber lamps cast soft pools of light across polished wood and expensive upholstery. A fire burned low behind the glass fireplace screen, throwing occasional copper flickers across the framed photographs lining the mantel.
Thane appeared in several of them: Thane at premieres, Thane smiling beside actors and directors, Thane accepting an award, Thane with one hand resting possessively against Sita’s lower back while Sita wore clothes he’d chosen and an expression WRU had taught them to manufacture. Everything in the room had been selected carefully. Everything looked owned.
Thane’s surprise lasted only a moment before amusement replaced it. A slow smile spread across his face.
“You’re saying no to me?”
Sita’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really.”
“Yes.”
Thane settled farther back into the armchair as though the conversation had suddenly become entertaining. He’d abandoned his jacket earlier, leaving him in a pale button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. One ankle rested over the opposite knee. A crystal glass sat on the side table within easy reach, untouched for the moment, and his phone lay beside it. He looked comfortable. It was annoying.
If Thane had shouted, at least the sound would’ve acknowledged that their refusal had reached him. If he’d become furious, it would’ve meant the word had done something. Instead, he smiled at them as if they were a difficult animal making a noise he found charming.
“That’s cute.”
Sita’s jaw tightened. “I said no.”
“I heard you.”
“Then stop.”
Thane’s smile faded by a fraction. “You still think that’s how this works?”
Something cold settled low in their stomach. Thane’s expression brightened slightly, pleased that he’d finally found the nerve beneath the surface. He leaned toward the side table and picked up his phone.
Sita watched him unlock it. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“No.” Thane began scrolling. “You need reminding.”
Sita knew what he was looking for before he found it. Thane kept records of everything because possession delighted him, and documentation made possession tangible. He had copies of WRU contracts, medical authorizations, transfer records, behavioral summaries, training recommendations, medication schedules, lists of restrictions, ownership confirmations, purchase receipts, and evaluations that described Sita’s temperament, physical capabilities, medical condition, languages, obedience scores, usefulness, and supposed suitability for the person who’d eventually bought them.
The language always sounded clean. That was what Sita hated most.
WRU never wrote kidnapped. It wrote acquired. It never wrote captive. It wrote pet. It never wrote coercion. It wrote correction. It never wrote that a person had been stripped of the right to make decisions about their own life. It simply created forms with no place for that person’s decision to appear.
“There,” Thane said, turning the phone toward them.
Sita didn’t look.
“Read it.”
“No.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “There’s that word again.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane held the phone slightly higher. “Come here.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “Sita.”
They stayed exactly where they were. The distance between them wasn’t large—a few steps, nothing Sita couldn’t cross quickly if they wanted to—but they didn’t.
Thane waited.
Sita waited longer.
Eventually, he sighed through his nose. “Fine.” His thumb moved across the screen. “I’ll read it to you.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane began halfway down the document in the calm, almost bored voice of someone reading clauses from an insurance agreement. He skipped the pieces that didn’t interest him. Transfer authorization. Owner designation. Custodial control. Medical consent authority. Behavioral management. Residential authority. Travel authorization. Financial responsibility.
The words drifted through the warm room and made something monstrous sound bureaucratic. There were no restraints in the document. No locked doors. No photographs of bruises. No needles. No record of the moment Sita had stopped remembering who they’d once been. No note explaining that the person described on the screen hadn’t volunteered for any of it. There were only numbered sections, reference codes, signatures, and crisp administrative language.
Thane looked up. “Does any of that sound familiar?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His thumb tapped the side of the phone. “So we’re getting somewhere.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“No.”
Sita’s voice stayed level.
Thane frowned as though they were being intentionally obtuse. “Do you want me to simplify it for you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to.”
He stood.
Sita’s body tightened automatically. The reaction was small enough that another person might’ve missed it, but Thane didn’t. He noticed everything about Sita when it could be interpreted as a response to him, and the tiny shift in their shoulders pleased him.
He crossed the room slowly. That was deliberate too. Thane always slowed down when Sita wanted distance. He turned proximity into something he could control one measured step at a time. His polished shoes made almost no sound against the thick rug. Sita watched him approach without retreating. They could’ve crossed the room before he reached them. They could’ve put the sofa between them. They could’ve left. But movement invited pursuit, and Thane loved turning pursuit into proof that Sita needed controlling.
So they stayed.
He stopped directly in front of them, close enough that Sita could smell his cologne and the glowing phone screen illuminated the underside of his jaw.
“There.” He held it between them. “Look.”
“No.”
Thane’s patience fractured slightly. “Look at the damn screen.”
Sita lowered their eyes.
The WRU logo sat near the top of the document. Black and gold. Clean. Professional. Respectable. Beneath it were identification numbers, authorization codes, dates, and classifications. Sita’s gaze found one number immediately.
363.
Something inside them tightened. They could read dozens of numbers on the page, but that one dragged their attention toward it like gravity.
Thane saw where they were looking. “There you are.”
Sita’s eyes hardened. “That’s a number.”
“It’s your designation.”
“It isn’t my name.”
Thane’s jaw tightened.
“Fine.” He scrolled. “Here.”
Another section appeared.
Registered owner-assigned name: Sita.
They stared at it. The name felt strange on the page. Too neat. Too official. A name Thane had chosen because he’d wanted something prettier than 363. Something he could call across a restaurant. Something photographers could print beneath pictures. Something that sounded like a person’s name without granting the person beneath it any actual personhood.
Thane tapped lower on the screen. “And there’s me.”
Sita’s gaze moved.
Owner of record: Thane Barlow.
His name sat there in clean black text. Not partner. Not guardian. Not emergency contact.
Owner.
The word looked obscene in the middle of such immaculate formatting.
Thane smiled. “You see?”
“Yes.”
“So explain the confusion.”
“There isn’t any.”
“You keep telling me no.”
“That isn’t confusion.”
He stared at them. Sita finally lifted their eyes from the screen.
“I understand what it says.”
“Good.”
“I’m still saying no.”
Thane gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You really don’t understand this.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Then why are we having this argument?”
“Because I don’t agree.”
Thane went quiet. For several seconds, he simply looked at them. Then his face softened into something patient and patronizing.
“Sita.”
They hated that tone.
“There’s nothing here for you to agree with.”
The sentence struck harder than Sita expected. Their fingers curled slightly at their sides. Thane lifted the phone between them again.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
“WRU did.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately. No hesitation. No discomfort. No apology. WRU had signed on Sita’s behalf, and that was enough for him.
Sita looked back at the document. The signatures appeared near the bottom: Thane Barlow, a WRU representative, another authorized official. Initials stood beside several clauses, followed by dates, transaction references, and approval codes. Sita searched the page carefully, then the next one. Their eyes returned to the signatures.
“There isn’t one.”
Thane frowned. “What?”
“A place for me.” Sita pointed toward the screen. “Your signature is there.”
His eyes followed their finger.
“WRU’s is there.”
He said nothing.
“There isn’t a line for mine.”
For the first time, something uncomfortable flickered across his expression. It wasn’t guilt. Sita knew him too well to mistake it for that. It was annoyance. They’d found a detail that made his preferred story uglier when spoken aloud.
“You weren’t the purchaser.”
Sita looked at him. “I was the thing being purchased.”
His mouth tightened immediately. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making it sound disgusting.”
Sita stared at him. “It is disgusting.”
Thane scoffed. “Everything with you has to become some moral argument.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I think buying people is wrong.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Sita didn’t move.
Thane lowered the phone. “You were trained for this.”
“I was forced.”
“You were trained.”
“Those aren’t different things.”
“They are.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “There it is again.”
Sita’s hands slowly closed into fists. Thane noticed immediately. His gaze dropped toward them.
“Don’t.”
Sita looked at him.
He didn’t move away. That was a strange, infuriating thing.
Thane knew exactly what Sita could do to him. He’d watched demonstrations before purchasing them. He’d seen Sita throw larger men over their shoulder. He’d watched them disarm trained security staff, break holds, control joints, and put people on the ground in seconds. He knew their reflexes were faster than his. Sita could break his wrist before he finished another sentence. They could sweep his legs and put him on the carpet. They could pin him. They could walk out.
Physically, there was almost nothing stopping them.
Thane still stood within reach because physical strength wasn’t the only kind of power in the room.
There were guards downstairs, security cameras around the house, drivers who answered to Thane, and staff whose employment depended on him. There were doctors authorized to discuss Sita’s care with him, lawyers who had copies of the ownership documents, and WRU personnel who would identify Sita as escaped property if they ran. There were police who could be shown a contract and hospitals that would find Thane’s name attached to Sita’s records. A system had been built around them so thoroughly that Thane didn’t need to be physically stronger.
He only needed to be recognized.
Sita could put him on the floor. The paperwork would still say owner. They could get through the front door. The records would still say property. They could tell someone they hadn’t consented. The signatures would still exist.
Thane watched the realization settle over them. His expression softened with satisfaction.
“There.”
Sita looked at him sharply. “There what?”
“You understand now.”
“I understood before.”
“No.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “Before, you were being stubborn.”
Sita’s jaw tightened.
Thane stepped closer. “You keep acting like this is some relationship where we vote on things.”
Sita said nothing.
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“This is ownership.”
The word dropped between them, heavy and ugly. Thane didn’t whisper it. He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he seemed pleased to finally strip away the softer language.
“You’re mine.”
Sita answered immediately. “No.”
His face went still. Then he smiled slowly.
“You keep saying that like repetition changes reality.”
“It doesn’t change reality.”
“Apparently you think it does.”
“It tells you what I want.”
Thane’s smile thinned. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It should be.”
“But it isn’t.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane tilted his head slightly. “According to WRU, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to the contract, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to every legal record attached to you, you’re mine.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Stop.”
“No.”
The word remained quiet.
Thane stepped closer until there was barely any space left between them. “You think I’m going to stand here and let something I paid for tell me what rights I have over it?”
Silence fell.
Sita’s face emptied.
Thane froze. He’d heard himself.
Something I paid for.
It.
For one brief second, embarrassment crossed his face. Then arrogance swallowed it.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“You called me something.”
“Sita.”
“And then you called me it.”
His eyes hardened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.”
Thane exhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened. “There’s that word again.”
He reached toward their face. Sita turned away. His hand followed.
“Sita.”
“No.”
His fingers closed around their jaw. Not violently. He didn’t need violence every time. His grip was merely firm enough to hold their face where he wanted it, fingers pressing beneath their chin while his thumb rested against their cheek.
Sita’s shoulders locked.
Thane tipped their face upward. “Look at me.”
They resisted. Their eyes remained fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
“Sita.”
Their gaze snapped toward him. Conditioning moved faster than conscious choice.
Thane’s smile appeared instantly. “There.”
Sita hated the satisfaction in his face.
“That’s what I mean.”
Their hands tightened at their sides.
“You can complain. You can glare. You can keep saying no until you’re hoarse.” His thumb stroked once across their cheek. “But underneath all of that, you know.”
Sita stared at him. “Know what?”
“Who you belong to.”
“No.”
His fingers tightened slightly. “You’re mine.”
“No.”
“I bought you.”
“No.”
“I signed for you.”
“No.”
“I’m legally responsible for you.”
“No.”
Thane’s voice became calmer as Sita’s refusals continued.
“I decide where you live.”
Sita’s breathing changed.
“I decide when you travel.”
Their shoulders stiffened.
“I authorize your medical care.”
Their stomach sank.
“I control who gets access to you.”
Sita’s fists tightened.
“I approve your schedule.”
His gaze stayed fixed on theirs.
“I sign your paperwork.”
He leaned slightly closer. “So keep saying no if it makes you feel better.”
Sita stared at him.
“But tell me something.” Thane released their jaw and allowed his hand to fall away. Sita didn’t move. “If your no has all this power you think it has, why can’t you leave?”
The room went silent.
Sita’s eyes flicked toward the door.
It wasn’t locked. That was almost worse.
They could reach it in seconds. They could open it. They could walk down the hallway, descend the stairs, cross the foyer, and continue toward the front doors. Then security would notice. Thane would make a call. Staff would intervene. Someone would tell Sita to calm down. Someone would insist Thane only wanted to help. Someone would contact WRU. Someone would retrieve the documents. Someone would ask Thane what had happened before asking Sita.
If Sita fought their way out anyway, every record surrounding them would transform escape into theft. Thane wouldn’t become the captor. Sita would become the dangerous pet who’d gotten loose.
They looked back at him.
Thane watched their silence with growing satisfaction. “You see?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
Sita’s voice stayed quiet. “I see the paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they gave you.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they took from me.”
Something in his face tightened. “That isn’t—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Thane stopped.
Sita’s hands slowly relaxed. “I know your name is on everything.”
Their voice remained steady.
“I know mine isn’t.”
He watched them.
“I know WRU says you can choose my doctors. I know they say you can choose where I live.”
Thane’s expression grew colder.
“I know you can authorize things for me without asking.”
“Sita.”
“I know.”
The word stopped him.
“I know nobody needs my signature. I know nobody asked what I wanted.”
Silence settled between them. Sita took a slow breath.
“I understand.”
Thane studied them. Then something satisfied returned to his expression.
“Good.”
Sita looked directly at him. “But I still said no.”
The satisfaction vanished.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Thane smiled again. This smile felt different. There was no attempt at affection in it now, no indulgence, no fondness. There was only certainty.
“Fine.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane walked back toward the side table and picked up his glass. “You can say no.”
They watched him.
He took a drink. “I never said you couldn’t.”
Sita’s expression changed.
Thane lowered the glass. “You just need to understand that saying it doesn’t require me to listen.”
Sita stared at him.
There it was. Simpler than the contract. Cleaner than WRU’s language. More honest than anything written on the screen.
Their refusal wasn’t prohibited.
It was irrelevant.
They could say no, and Thane could proceed anyway. They could object, and he could overrule them. They could refuse, and he could produce documentation stating that their refusal carried no legal authority.
Sita looked around the room again. The expensive sofa. The polished floors. The framed photographs. The warm lamps. The fire glowing behind glass. Nothing here looked like a cage.
That was the point.
The bars weren’t metal. They were signatures. They were classifications. They were authorization forms, ownership statutes, medical permissions, and records that transformed Thane’s control into administrative normalcy.
Thane set his glass down. “You’ll be happier when you stop fighting facts.”
Sita looked at him. “No.”
He laughed softly and walked toward the door. His hand settled on the handle.
“You’re mine.”
This time, Sita didn’t answer.
Thane glanced back. He seemed pleased by their silence. Then he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Sita remained where they were. For a long moment, they looked at the empty doorway while their pulse beat hard in their throat. They could follow him. They could open the door. They could leave this room whenever they wanted. They could refuse every command he gave for the rest of the night.
None of those things altered the structure surrounding them.
If they left the house, Thane could report them. If they needed medical care, his name appeared in their records. If they tried to sign a lease, arrange travel, authorize treatment, open an account, or make any formal decision about their own life, someone could ask where their owner was.
Sita looked down at their hands.
WRU had trained those hands to fight, restrain, disarm, track, and retrieve people who ran. They’d built Sita into something physically formidable and then surrounded that body with laws designed to make strength meaningless.
Sita slowly flexed their fingers.
They could break a lock. They couldn’t break a contract by touching it. They could overpower a guard. They couldn’t physically wrest their own legal personhood back from a filing system. They could put Thane on his knees, and his name would still be written above theirs.
Sita stared at the closed door.
Their answer hadn’t changed.
No.
The word still belonged to them. Its meaning hadn’t weakened. Its truth hadn’t disappeared. But truth and power were different things.
For the first time, Sita understood that difference completely.
Their refusal mattered to them. It described the boundary they wanted. It marked the place where their will ended and Thane’s began. Legally, however, the room didn’t recognize that boundary.
WRU had built the arrangement so thoroughly that Thane didn’t have to silence Sita. He didn’t need to forbid the word. He didn’t even need to convince them that they meant yes.
He only needed a world willing to treat no as irrelevant when it came from someone classified as property.
Sita whispered it once into the empty room.
“No.”
The word sounded small against the quiet.
Nothing changed. The door stayed closed. The house remained his. The paperwork remained valid. His signature remained where theirs should’ve been.
Sita finally understood the ugliest part of what WRU had done.
They hadn’t taken away their ability to say no.
They’d taken away everyone else’s obligation to care.
as a continuation, whumper ends up getting whumpee's meds, but gives it to them the wrong way (like giving them no food with it when it's supposed to be take with a meal) and then whumpee gets an hour of nausea and headache with a racing heart feeling like they're about to die until the medication is properly absorbed and starts working
NOOOOOOOOOOOO OH MY GOD, NOOOOO!!! That would be *scribbling notes furiously* noooo, that would be horrendous, how could you say something like that?? Or Whumpee takes them at night (to sleep) and Whumper starts giving them their meds in the morning, and Whumpee’s body just shuts down, but Whumper has methods of keeping them awake, mwuahahahah
The nausea is not fun, AND WHY DOES NOTHING MAKE IT GO AWAY?!?!! You just have to sit with that bitch😭 My brain always feels so foggy, like there’s expanding air inside my body it’s so strange
Like the pills are meant to help, and then you miss one, eency, weency insignificant time by accident, and your body DIES?!?!!! Your body just S T O P S like excuse me?! Also do you get that thick tongue?? Like, you can’t form words around it sometimes and your voice echoes in your head, it’s so weird, it’s so like— body horror esque and you’re stuck with it😌 for at least two days until your body recovers, because the second day you’re dying because you’re tired from missing the meds the day before, LIKE HELLO!!!!
I started my reply with claiming my experience isn't much of a body horror and then wrote it down and had to reconsider that statement
i don't get the thick tongue, or the brain zaps that are the trademark of my meds (effexor, anyone?), i'm not very sure about physical symptoms besides the nausea but
it feels like i died when i forgot to take my meds and my consciousness jumped to the nearest timeline where i'm alive, and i have to adjust to a new body, it takes more mechanical control and less actually experiencing the world, it feels like it takes time to really get in there and settle
it's not an echo i get, but i need to do everything consciously, because even simple tasks aren't automated yet, it comes with a lot of talking to myself in full sentences and statements and not vague ideas and pictures along some word fragments like i normally do
and then everything is normal and I forget about it until the next time it happens ✨
Despite this part not being that whumpy I still love it <3 Very fun to write I <3 character interactions
CW: aftermath of whump, noncon kissing, implied past noncon, self harm, pet whump
***
Wren sat on the edge of the gurney, one wrist handcuffed to a bar on it. The nurse had looked at him sympathetically when he was visibly confused, telling him it was standard for all pets. The infirmary area was large, and very busy, some people weren’t even being brought in for injuries from the fight but unrelated events all together. He remembered Cain assuring him a place like this was available, but he’d expected something on a much smaller scale than what it actually was. He felt like he was in the emergency room at an actual hospital, the beeping of machines, the sterile smell, and people rushing around in scrubs and white coats. It felt surreal to see something so familiar paired with something so horrific, doctors with stethoscopes and badges next to people collared and chained.
“He looks alright, you’re good to take him home tonight.” The doctor who had been treating him told Cain. He was an older man, dark brown hair and tired eyes. He and Cain seemed pretty familiar with each other, he thought he’d heard him call him Andrew at one point. “I have to ask though- where is Zander? I feel like I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Cain laughed. “The less you see of him, the better he’s doing!” Wren felt like he might’ve been telling a joke, but Andrew didn’t laugh. “He’s fine,” Cain assured him, “He hasn’t been fighting, he’s been helping train Wren. He’s upstairs with Vanessa now.”
“Alright, I’m glad he’s doing okay.” Andrew sighed. “And how are they getting along? I know it’s not always easy, keeping the two pets in the same space.” He looked genuinely concerned, Wren couldn’t help but wonder what his relationship to Zander was.
“Way better than expected, that’s for sure.” Cain laughed. “It’s cute, you should see them together.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.” He said, glancing at Wren apologetically. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Andrew, but he’d been nice while looking him over, making sure he wasn’t seriously injured or concussed after that fight. While he’d likely have some bruising and be sore the next day, he was otherwise fine.
Andrew unlocked the handcuff and helped Wren off the gurney, and Cain clipped the leash to his collar. The pair said goodbye and Cain led him away, passing by other gurneys with other injured “dogs” on them. As they walked, he noticed Nate, laid up holding an ice pack to his face. There was a man next to him, shouting at him, you’re fucking dead when we get home, Wren had to look away before he met Nate’s eye, terrified of what he may do if he noticed him. Despite only doing what he was made to, he still felt immense guilt over hurting him, and now getting him in trouble.
“You did fucking amazing, little red!” Cain told him on the elevator ride back up. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it since picking him up, and the praise did ease his nerves somewhat. It could only quell his guilt so much, but at the same time he was so relieved. There would be no punishment after this, only rest. He never knew he could be so excited to go back to Cain’s house.
When the elevator doors finally opened, Wren found himself searching for Zander right away. He was exhausted, he wanted to leave, and more than anything he’d like to see a familiar face after all that. Over the weeks, Zander had become like an anchor to him, sure he was rough around the edges and odd in his own ways, but Wren could tell, he didn’t want to hurt him, he was looking out for him even. It made him feel comfortable with him, and also inclined to stay by his side as much as possible. He felt anxious whenever they were separated. Cain was muttering to himself as he led Wren through the crowd, plenty of people were leaving but just as many were still milling about, or leading their “pets” deeper into the complex. Finally, Cain checked his phone, Vanessa must’ve texted him because he led Wren right to the bar they’d stopped in when they first arrived.
Wren spotted them before Cain did, though he wasn’t sure if he should’ve said anything, both because he didn’t want to upset Cain by speaking, and because Vanessa currently had Zander backed into a corner, further from the entrance. She was kissing him, her hands were on his chest, and given how Zander had described her before, the sight made him anxious, he glanced away as soon as he registered it was them who he was looking at. He wondered if it was more complicated than what he’d previously thought, but he also felt like it was none of his business. Cain finally noticed them though, he gave a sharp whistle to get their attention.
“Come on, I have to get the boys home.” Cain told her when she approached them, Zander following close behind her. She had his leash wrapped around her hand, making sure he couldn’t be more than two steps away from her. Wren was hardly paying attention to the rest of their conversation, instead glancing worriedly at Zander. He wouldn’t meet his eye, in fact he wasn’t looking at any of them, seeming to stare off somewhere in the distance, far away from where they were now. He was quiet, he didn’t pull against the leash, he didn’t snap at either Vanessa or Cain. It felt… off, to Wren, but he knew better than to say anything right now.
Vanessa asked to keep Zander for the night, but thankfully Cain declined, holding his hand out for his leash. After yanking him down to kiss his cheek, she sighed and handed it over to Cain. Zander didn’t even react to the kiss, just followed along with Cain and Wren. He tried to put it at the back of his mind for now, he couldn’t ask, and he had a feeling Zander wouldn’t have wanted to answer anyway. They were getting out of there, and that was what mattered.
The ride back was quiet, but not tense like it was last time. Wren kept nodding off in the backseat, exhaustion settling over his body heavily. He wanted nothing more than a shower and to curl up on the floor, in fact the floor had never sounded so comfortable and tempting more than it did right now. When they arrived back, Cain didn’t even drag him by the leash, he unclipped it once they were through the door and guided them back to the cell, telling them both to get some rest. It was probably the nicest Wren had seen Cain since he’d been here, even on the days where they didn’t do much he’d still often lash out- particularly at Zander. Were the circumstances not so terrible, he would’ve seemed like a normal person even.
Zander seemed to finally come back to himself once the door shut, letting out a sigh as if he’d been holding his breath. He looked at Wren, smiling tiredly at him. Zander always looked tired, but right now he looked downright exhausted, the kind of tired that no amount of sleep could fix.
“Good job, kid,” He told him, ruffling his hair, “That was pretty impressive for your first fight.”
“Th-thanks…” Wren laughed nervously, stepping around him to go into the bathroom. He left the door open, Zander following after him and leaning against the doorframe. “I… I think I just got lucky, really.” He said, checking his face in the mirror. There was already a red mark where he’d been hit in the face, he knew he’d have a nasty bruise the next day.
“Lucky?” Zander laughed. “Maybe a little, but there’s no way that was all luck. Don’t sell yourself short, you’re a good fighter. Trust me, I would know.”
“Well… I appreciate your help then.” He said, turning around to face him and leaning against the sink. Now that they were in better lighting, Wren could see the lipstick smudged on his face, the marks on his throat just above his collar, the way his black dress shirt was partially unbuttoned. He thought about the look in Zander’s eyes when they met up again, the tension in his body that only left once they were alone. Before he could stop himself, he’d blurted out, “Are you okay?” He knew he’d overstepped immediately, Zander’s expression darkened, he didn’t look angry per se, more like a cornered animal, bristling to warn an attacker to stay away.
“I’m fine.” He said shortly.
“R-right, sorry…” Wren looked away, his face red. He had to remind himself they weren’t really close, he couldn’t expect Zander to be comfortable with him asking about that. There was a tense silence between them for a moment, Wren couldn’t meet his eye, but Zander finally broke it.
“Let me ask you something.” He said, and Wren looked up at him. “Why are you here?”
“Huh…?” Wren’s brow furrowed. “I… well, Cain bought me so-“
“No- no I mean how did you end up here, like this? Why did you volunteer?” He asked. Wren felt like he was about to lose the breakfast Cain had so nicely prepared for them that morning. He’d always expected this question to come, had prepared for it, and yet it still caught him off guard. “You fight really well, where did you learn that?”
“I-I mean, most of it was from you-“
“No, from the first time we practiced I could tell, you know what you’re doing.” He said. “So what brought you here?”
“It’s really not that interesting.” Wren shrugged. “Same reasons everyone else volunteered.”
“Not everyone volunteers, you know.” Zander told him. “So why did you?” Wren kept his eyes down, picking at the skin around his fingers. “What was it, drugs? You owe someone a debt?”
“N-no, nothing like that.” Wren told him. “I… I met someone… he uh, he told me that if I volunteered, then… money would go back to my family…”
“Need it that bad, huh?” Zander asked, and he nodded.
“Yeah, um… my mom, she’s sick… and my brother wants to go to school but, we don’t… we’ve never had a lot of money, and I… I felt like this was the best way to help…” A part of him felt guilty for lying to Zander, but he still didn’t think he should tell him the truth about his assignment. “As for the fighting… I got in a lot of fights growing up, I… wasn’t a very good kid.” He laughed nervously. That part was true, he’d been in countless fights over the years, sometimes unwarranted, other times started by his smart ass attitude. Of course, he’d also had training prior to leaving for the assignment, but he kept that part to himself. “Like I said, it’s… really not that interesting.” He looked up to see that Zander’s expression had softened, some of the tension had left his body.
“It’s… sad.” He finally said. “I’m sorry, I… your family is real lucky to have you.”
“I just… hope it helps them.” He shrugged.
“I’m sure it will.” Zander assured him. “You’re a good kid, Wren.”
“Thank you…” He didn’t feel good, but he accepted it anyway.
After their conversation, Zander returned to the room, and Wren showered. As nice as it was, he didn’t spend too long in there, and once he’d dried off and put on a clean set of clothes, he curled up on the floor, under the blanket Zander had given him a few weeks back. In didn’t take long for him to fall into a deep, much needed sleep.
***
Zander waited until Wren fell asleep to go take a shower. Before he did so, he scooped Wren up off the floor, the boy so burnt out he didn’t even stir. He didn’t understand his insistence on sleeping on the floor, eventually Zander stopped asking him at all. He’d worked hard though, and even though he’d won, he’d still taken his own beating. Zander laid him down on the bed, pulling the blankets over him. He felt a pang of sadness looking at him, the poor kid was so desperate he was willing to do this? He didn’t have the heart to tell him that whoever told him his family would get money was almost certainly lying to him.
At the same time, Zander felt he was lying to Wren, at least, by omission. While he grabbed a change of clothes and went into the bathroom, he thought about what Cain had said, about branding him if he won his match. Zander had wrestled with it since Cain had said it, about whether or not he should tell Wren. Obviously he wanted him to be prepared, he didn’t want him going in blind, but at the same time, he’d already been dealing with so much, learning why he was there only solidified it for Zander. He’d tell him, but he would do so in the morning, tonight he wanted him to just rest. He deserved some semblance of peace after what he’d endured.
Zander turned on the shower, setting the water as hot as it would go, and began to undress. It was like a ritual to him, he made sure to do it as soon as he got away from her. Unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, he could see the marks more clearly- she always left marks. She would say it’s to remember her, as if he could ever forget her. He certainly wanted to, but that wasn’t possible, not after all the time they’d spent together, not when he saw the scar she gave him on his face every single day. Once he was undressed, he removed his collar, he only ever removed it to shower. Even then, it had to be within reach at all times. He stepped into the shower, initially flinching back from the hot water, but after a moment he adjusted. It hurt, but it wasn’t meant to make him feel good, it was meant to make him feel clean.
He could still feel her hands on his body, her lips against his throat. It made his skin crawl, he wasted no time in starting to wash up, what started as lathering soap onto his body quickly turned into his scrubbing furiously at himself, nails digging into his skin, leaving scratch marks behind. The hot water stung the scratches, but he never cared, he always did the same thing. It was far from the worst pain he’d experienced, far from the worst thing he’d done to himself even. For the past six years, without fail, it was the only thing that would ever bring him some relief, some sense of control over his body once again. He had so little control over anything, he would do whatever he could to take back some of it.
He stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, until he couldn’t take it any longer. The cold water always made his joints start to ache, combined with the cold room, he wasn’t looking forward to getting out. The first thing he did once he dried off was put his collar back on, which also brought a sense of relief to him. There was only ever so much she would do to him when he was collared.
He got dressed and stepped back into the cell, shivering as soon as he did so. He almost regretted giving Wren his other blanket, but when he looked over and saw the boy curled up on the bed, fast asleep and bundled up warmly, the thought went away. He’d been through a lot, both tonight, and in general it seemed. He deserved the warmth, the well earned rest. Zander dug out one of his hoodies from his drawer, the old red one Cain had given him for his birthday one year, and once he pulled it on he laid on the floor next to the bed. It had been a while since he’d slept on the floor, he once again thought Wren was stupid for refusing the bed, even if it wasn’t necessarily the nicest, it was still better than this. Despite the discomfort, and the cold, he soon found himself drifting off to sleep, knowing he’d have to ruin the poor kid’s day in the morning.
This is as close to the mark as I could come up with while keeping Maxim in character. (I could probably pull it off better w a character like Erik)
Maxim is traveling with Carlo and wants to blend in to avoid trouble
~
It was with a poorly repressed shudder that Carlo realized there was not another human on board the train.
Dimly lit and sparsely attended, the only passengers were the same thing as his master. They glanced at him in turn as he and Maxim boarded, basilisk eyes flashing in their hard faces at the scent of the blood beneath Carlo’s skin, at the presence of a mortal heartbeat.
Maxim sent a strange message into Carlo’s mind with their imperfect telepathy. Carlo was not skilled enough at it to hear words in these messages, but he thought he understood the outlines of this one. It was something like be careful, or maybe be good. He swallowed sharp discomfort and dropped his eyes away from the other vampires in the car.
The train pulled away from the station with a strained lurch. Carlo steadied himself by grabbing the only thing near him, which happened to be Maxim’s arm. But Maxim pulled away, made a sharp tsch sound at him with his tongue. Carlo flinched in surprise.
Like a misbehaving pet.
A vampire watched him as he followed his master, deeply chastised, to the seats opposite him. Carlo intuited he should wait for Maxim to sit down before he followed suit. He could still feel the stranger’s gaze but did not return it. Maxim leaned down to whisper to him, brow furrowed as if about to reprimand him more.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed near Carlo’s ear, barely loud enough for even him to hear even at that range. “I’m going to treat you the way these vampires expect a bloodbag to be treated. Follow my lead no matter what.”
Carlo closed his eyes and nodded that he understood. He guessed several of the vampires had turned their heads in interest to watch him receive his reprimand.
“Do not speak unless I tell you to,” Maxim continued. “Keep your eyes down. Don’t even look at me unless I tell you to.” He pulled back and took Carlo’s chin in his chilly iron grip, jerking his face upward to look into his.
Even though he was in on the charade, Carlo’s heart galloped in his chest at Maxim’s brusque and unusual behavior. He kept his eyes closed. He had not been told to look at his master.
“Good,” Maxim said, just loud now enough to be overheard if a vampire was inclined to overhear. He took a rough fistful of Carlo’s hair and shoved his head back down dismissively.
Carlo stared fixedly at his feet. A pair of vampires to his left struck up a continuation to an earlier conversation in a language he could not hope to name.
Maxim sent him another telepathic message. This one had not even the barest shape of words. Yet it felt distinctly like being stroked gently at the base of his neck. He let the vampire’s apologetic affection drape over him like a cloak, careful to keep his body still and his expression unchanged.
He could only hope he’d be left alone, and not make any more mistakes.
Note: This is an execution story that ends in fairly graphic death. There is a little bit of dead-naming in here to watch out for.
David paced his tiny cell in Hanson Women’s Penitentiary, counting down the minutes to his execution as best he could. It had to be nearly 6am, and no one had yet come to his cell to prepare him. He was beginning to hope that he’d miscounted, that his execution was tomorrow and he had another day to live.
He heard boots in the hallway and rushed to the door to look out the small, barred window. A woman glanced at him and then down at the paper in her hands.
“Prisoner 367?” she asked, and David nodded. “It says here you used the name ‘David’ when you were booked. Is that correct?”
David sighed inwardly and braced for the woman to call him “Kat”.
“Is that correct?” she asked again, lifting her eyebrows.
“Y-yes,” David answered, puzzled as to why she was stuck on that fact.
“Then that’s what I’ll be calling you. It seems you were, ah, mistakenly placed in the women’s prison. Since that cannot be corrected at this point, I will continue using that name for you.”
“Oh… thank you,” David said.
“I am your executioner,” the woman said bluntly.
“Oh.”
“I’m going to be coming into your cell now. Please cooperate with me, and we’ll get this over with quickly.”
“Yes, yes of course,” David said.
“Step back from the door, and face the opposite wall.”
David stepped away and turned, heart pounding, toward the wall. His executioner was beautiful, a brunette, bangs cut in a severe line over her eyebrows. Her bright blue eyes were lightly hooded, and her skin was ghostly pale. She had a purposeful walk and gesture that told David she knew exactly what she was doing and had, in fact, been the one to walk dozens to their deaths. He would be just one more.
As the cell door shut behind her, the executioner said, “You may turn around.”
David turned to her. Her face looked hooded in the dim, overhead light.
“Now I’m afraid I must ask you to remove your prison dress. The order was for a nude execution.”
“I know,” David said with a shiver. “The judge told me.”
David pulled the dress up over his head, revealing the scars that crossed his chest.
“You know, the warden is quite disappointed that you have had surgery,” the executioner said. “But I think your scars are rather lovely. They add a certain… ruggedness. Besides, there’s plenty for you to be ashamed of. You’ll need to remove the underwear as well,” she added, noticing David hadn’t taken them off.
David pulled down the women’s underwear he wore, almost glad to be rid of them. The executioner nodded approvingly as the underwear landed on the floor of the cell.
“Turn back to the wall for me, please,” she said.
David turned away, glad for the chance to hide the tears now stinging his eyes. He heard the cuffs open and felt their cold bite on his wrists.
“Tsk. Tsk,” the executioner said as she snapped them shut. “You’ve been quite bad, haven’t you? You know men that are… like you… are not supposed to pursue women, and yet, you did.”
“Like I said at my trial, I don’t feel I should be treated differently from any other man,” David said. He could feel the same spite he had for the judge rising in him. What had made him think the executioner, the ultimate tool of the State, would truly be sympathetic to him?
“Why do it, though?” the executioner asked as she turned David to face him. “You knew it could land you at the end of a rope.”
“I wanted love like anyone else,” David said.
“You wanted love enough that you were willing to die for it. Isn’t that sweet?” Her words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind either. She delivered them as one would deliver criticism to a child. “You could have gotten someone else killed along with you. You’re lucky that the judge bought the excuse that they thought you were a… how do I say this kindly? A natural man.”
Her words stung, and she knew it.
“Look,” she said by way of apology. “I understand it’s hard for you, but it’s hard for all of us. Do you think I enjoy taking people to the gallows every week?”
“I…,”David said, but he saw a hint of a smile on the executioner’s lips and realized that, no matter what she might say, she found at least some satisfaction in her job.
The executioner looked down at her watch. “We need to get going, David. You’re going to need to walk steadily, or I’ll have to call in the prison guards to walk you.”
David nodded. At this moment, despite standing naked in his cell, arms cuffed behind him, he felt a strange sort of acceptance.
The feeling of acceptance ended when he saw the sign by the door down the hall reading “Execution Room”. He stepped back, a small sound of fright bubbling up in his throat.
“David, David,” the executioner repeated. “David! Stay with me. Don’t let panic take over. Breathe. One… two…”
David breathed along with the executioner’s counting.
“Now I’m going to open this door,” the executioner said, “and you’re going to see the noose. Listen to me! It’s going to scare you, I know, but I need you to walk toward it. Ignore the witnesses. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” David said truthfully.
“There will be guards to help you if you can’t, but it’ll be easier if you can.”
“Easier for you.”
“David, the time for arguing is over. You’ve been sentenced to death, and you’re going to die whether you go calmly or not. I’m opening the door now.”
The executioner opened the door with a quick jerk, which David understood was to minimize the time he had to panic. He stepped inside in a rare moment of calm but immediately felt his legs starting to buckle under him as he saw the noose. It was dangling over a trapdoor in the floor, and beyond it sat a few witnesses. He looked down at the floor, ignoring them as the executioner had instructed. He could feel their eyes on his naked body, judging the incongruity of his flat, scarred chest and his hairy vulva.
“Forward, David,” the executioner said.
David walked forward, staring at his bare feet on the tiled floor. Before he knew it, he was at the edge of the trapdoor. He saw the simple X in the middle of it and the seam running across it which would be opening under him in a few minutes. The noose brushed against David’s downturned face, and he looked up. There it was, the simple rope dangling in front of him. It was made of rough hemp and had four turns in the knot. The noose itself hung at about chest height for David. As the executioner was a little shorter than him, she drew a stool over from a few feet away and stepped up onto it.
As she began to draw the loop over David’s head, he instinctively pulled his head away.
“Hold. Still,” she hissed, grabbing the side of his face and holding him still while she slipped the noose around his neck.
David clenched his eyes shut a moment and then opened them. He realized he was now looking straight at the witnesses. As the executioner tightened the noose around his neck, he counted them - 15 people here to watch him die. He recognized the two women he had “seduced” among them.
“Prisoner 367, Kat Novask,” read the warden.
“David,” said the executioner in his ear.
“Is scheduled for execution at precisely 6:00 am today,” the warden continued, “for two counts of criminal seduction. The naked prisoner shall be hanged by the neck until she is dead.”
“Until he is dead,” the executioner whispered as she positioned the knot at the back of David’s head.
“Executioner, are you prepared?” the warden asked.
“Yes,” the executioner answered.
The warden raised his hand, looking at the clock that ticked down David’s final two minutes.
“No…,” David muttered. “No, this isn’t fair.”
“David,” the executioner said quietly. “This is the end, okay? You don’t have anything else to worry about.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to suffer.”
“Yes, but it’s because you committed a crime. You deserve this.”
“I don’t.”
“David. You wouldn’t be standing here with a noose around your neck if you didn’t deserve it. Now just let it happen. It’ll be over sooner if you don’t fight.”
The executioner reached for the lever.
“But… bu-“
“Executioner, do your duty,” the warden said, and immediately the executioner yanked the lever.
David felt the trap open beneath him and his feet slipping down toward the center.
He fell about 18 inches before the noose slammed into his throat and closed it tight. He hung still for a moment, wondering if his neck might have broken after all. His eyes were level with those of the seated witnesses, and he could see the way they looked at him, almost hungrily. Then he began to kick. At first, it was in the desperation he felt to lessen the pain that suddenly exploded through his head and neck. He knew, logically, that there was nothing beneath him to find with his feet, but he couldn’t fully accept that all these people were just going to let him die like this. It seemed too cruel. Surely they must see him hanging here and take pity!
But no one moved to save him. He saw the executioner step over to him and take in the scene, a soft smile on her face, but she made no effort to help him.
His lungs burned, the air trapped in them feeling like a balloon in this chest. His tongue felt like it was being forced out of his mouth, and drool dropped from it onto the floor of the room below. He could no longer form cohesive thoughts. All he could think about was pain and a hint of shame.
The executioner watched David’s movements become stranger, puppet-like and knew he was reaching the end. The witnesses probably thought he was still fighting, but the executioner knew better from her years of putting people to death.
She looked down into David’s glassy, half-closed eyes and grinned. He looked sweet like this, really, and she understood in that moment how a woman could fall for him. His tongue poked through his lips, and his cheeks blushed as if he were bashful about being naked in front of her. As his movements ended entirely, the executioner reached out to trace the scars across his chest.
“You did well, David,” she said. “You can relax now.”
She waited for the nurses to come and take David’s body away. As they lowered his body onto the gurney, she thought, almost fondly, that it was lucky he would be cremated and scattered so he didn’t have to be buried under the wrong name.
“This is me involving myself. I thought to myself, if Knox is going to be in a relationship and insist on shoving it in my face, then the least I can do is provide some sage counsel!”
“You’re going to help me put on such a show. I think you’re both going to love it.”
"What do I stand to gain from this? You don’t understand. He’s changed me. Knox made me into this. He made me. I can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how good it feels to see him hurt. How it makes my eyes roll when he cries out, when he says ‘Stop’."
“You don’t want me to mark you? You don’t want people to know you’re mine? Do you think there’s some part of yourself that you can hide from me?"
“Knox. Good grief, you really know how to set me off don’t you? You just love to push my buttons.”
“I brought something to help you with your back posture. Want to know what it is? It’s a spike strip.”
“I ought to slit your fucking throat and watch you bleed into madness. Then beat you into torpor and wake you when I need a body to whore out. How. Dare. You.”
"You don’t have to think, Knox. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll tell you what you have to do, how you need to bend, and how you need to break.”
I write sins AND tragedies @yet-how-they-creep - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
