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03/08/2021 01:58 PM
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kirby walsh -MMM
* this character is one that I've written in the past, but I've tweaked her to be a part of the discord group I'm in. Kirby is Lennon's sister-in-law, and I'm really excited to write more about her because I've never done anything like this before ( this may suck, am soft lol ). enjoy I guess!
“Shut the f*** up,” her voice rings through the dimmly lit room, eyes rolling at the sound of the man’s whimpers. He’s been a regular for almost a year now, visiting Mona’s Ranch every Friday night to see his Mistress, to praise her like he’d praise God. A common mistake among these men, for she was nothing like a saint - would prefer to see them SUFFER than forgive them for their sins.
Her rules are simple and clear: the men that visit her at the ranch must only refer to her as Mistress ( something about them knowing her real name always skeeved her out ), must be willing to lock their sh*t up for a minimum of 60 days, maximum of however long she wants- no masturbation, no nothing. And they must be willing to let her do what she sees fit, in terms of her ‘service’ to them. Should a rule be broken, they’d get punished.
The man, who stood facing the wall with wrists and ankles shackled, ball gag in his mouth to keep him quiet, had broken rule #2 - he picked the lock off of his cage two months too soon and had some fun without her permission. Something she didn’t take lightly. Tried hiding it from her, too. Until he took his clothes off, d*ck hanging free, frown on his face. “Shame,” was the only thing she muttered before she started his punishment.
Kirby can hardly remember his name - John? James? Jack? Doesn’t really feel the need to, either. He means nothing to her, another client to add to the long list of names and faces she sees on a daily basis. Makes it easier for her to separate herself from feeling guilty for what she’s doing to them.
“You’re always complaining,” she says again, a loud CRACK filling the air around them as the leather whip connects to his pale skin. “Maybe next time, you’ll follow my rules.”
The beating lasts for another twenty minutes, pink flesh raised, broken and bloody. The brunette runs a hand along the open wounds, delicate fingers admiring her work. Only satisfied when he was left shaking with tear stained cheeks.
Kirby wasn’t always a sadist. Didn’t always find enjoyment out of making others hurt. Didn’t always think men were weak, either. Most people only saw her soft side, only know her from her small floral shop in Salacity. She kept a low profile, drowning herself in work. Barely had time for a night out.
Her brother’s death left her lost, broken, cold. Struggling with emotions that she’d never felt before. Her shop sat abandoned for months as she secluded herself in her small apartment, depression chipping away at any piece of brightness her soul at left. Her therapist suggested she find new hobbies to help her deal with her pain, to help her find happiness again.
She met Mona a month later, started her new career almost immediately.
And although she knew that it wasn’t exactly what her therapist had in mind, watching men cry as she carved her initials into their skin made her feel ALIVE.
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03/08/2021 01:41 PM
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y o u. | poem
your breath is hot on my skin,
hand gripped tight around my throat.
i can feel my pulse in the depths
of my thighs, and i beg you for
m o r e.
more of your hands,
more of your mouth,
more of y o u.
your name glides off my tongue
like a paper plane, soaring
through the air until it
echoes off your walls,
filling the empty spaces
between our desperate lips.
we've done this dance so
many times, and yet you always
find new ways to send me to
my own euphoric h e a v e n.
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03/08/2021 01:40 PM
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poker night | mmm
*this is a reply to a group storyline in the group I'm in, but wanted to share it for the sake of multi-muse monday.
His vision never lifts from the table, eye glued on the hideous shade of green before him. It’s been months since Sonny’s left his house, since he’s done anything good for himself, and if he hadn’t caught wind about the poker night, he probably would be doing the same thing he had always done: get high, eat a pizza, and pass out early.
He hates that he’s secluded himself from society, hates even more that he feels awkward around people now. He hasn’t had a real night out since Teddy died, and part of him almost felt guilty for being here. Guilty for having fun when he should be sitting in a jail cell. It was a back-and-forth game of ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn’t I’, something he did often when left with decisions on whether or not a night of fun was worth hearing the annoying voice in his head telling him he should go home. And as much as Sonny wanted to go home, he didn’t need many reasons to stay, either.
Sighing, a tattooed hand reaches for the glass of whiskey sitting before him, brim brought to his lips. He lets the amber colored liquid fill his mouth, burn his throat as it makes its way to his stomach. He finishes it off in one big sip, ignoring the few droplets that fall past his mouth onto his black button down, setting the glass back down.
Sonny knows that his discomfort with being around people is all in his head. That everyone else came here for the same reason he did: to win some money. And yet, he still feels nervous. Perhaps it was too soon for him to leave the house, too soon for him to try to keep living life like he had before the accident. And as much as he hated himself for what had happened, he knew that he couldn’t stay cooped up forever.
His gaze shifts to the cards on the table, a hand reaching forward to pull up on the top corners, exposing them just enough for him to know if he too would make a bet or not.
One thing Sonny had always been thankful for, was his father’s love for poker. Every Friday and Saturday, Dimitri King would gather a small group of his closest friends around their dining room table and have his own poker tournaments. There was nothing spectacular about them, a typical ‘guys night’ full of booze, cigars, and bad stories. Some losing money, some winning big.
Dimitri always made sure to include his son, show him the ins and outs of a good hand.
Showed him how to bluff and lie his way into the winner’s circle.
It had been years since he had seen his father play, and that left him feeling determined to win something, just to make him proud.
Sonny places the cards face down one more time, eyes finally shifting to catch a glance at his opponents faces, trying to get an idea of who to look out for. Who would be a real competition. He picks up the correct amount of chips to make his bet, following suit of the other patrons, placing them in the middle of the table.
“I bet too,” he says, sitting back in his seat.
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03/08/2021 01:39 PM
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delicacy.
there’s a delicacy in the way you touch me, like we’ve been starved and malnourished for so long that you’re afraid to break fragile bones. rough fingers move against battered skin, and i ache at the thought that i may have to live without your touch again.
i have never felt more at home than i do with your breath on my skin, lips on my neck, limbs tangled like vines. the delicacy lingers, a softness in your heart awakening with each day gone, and my once broken soul finds the deepest form of comfort in the empty spaces of your own.
i have only loved you for a short amount of time, but i know that in my heart, it’s always been you.
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03/08/2021 01:38 PM
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monster among men pt iii | drabble
* this is a rework of a previous drabble that I had already posted. Wanted to incorporate it with the last two i've done. Thanks for lookin!
Spring 2017
The gun feels heavy in my hands - as if it weighed a thousand pounds. The once cool metal now burned against my palm, and I almost threw the damn thing away, cursing myself in an exhaled breath. It was the first time I had ever held a gun - I had been no stranger to firearms, surrounded by them for most of my life. But I never felt the urge to hold one, never really cared for them much, either. Adreneline rushes through my veins, through my bones, and there's a part of me that feels guilty for it. Guilty that I enjoyed the way delicate fingers wrapped around the handle, guilty that I enjoyed how powerful it made me feel. Though my breathing is steady, I notice my hands shaking, and I can't tell if it's fear or if it's excitement... In a few hours, I would be free from all of my problems.
In a few hours, my father would be dead.
I've sat on the idea for months now, wondering if it would really pay off, if life would be better without Walter. Realistically, I knew it would be - I knew that I couldn't life like I had been. Couldn't live with the constant torture that I had been enduring for years now. But on the other hand, he was my father. My only flesh and blood. The only thing I had known consistantly. He was a f***ing succubus, but it pained me to think that soon, I'd be without a family. The thought caused a lump in my throat, and the more I swallowed, the more apparent it became. I knew that this was risky, but it had to be done. If I didn’t get out now, I’d be dead in another month or two, and I couldn’t wait that long - I wanted to live.
Making myself comfortable on my bed, I tucked the weapon under a pillow, leaving it within arms reach for when the opportunity presented itself. If I knew my father, he’d be walking in the house in no less than thirty minutes, go straight to the fridge, drink at LEAST half a bottle of whiskey in one sitting, and make his way to my room. It was a routine that I had fallen accustomed to. The silence allowed me to think over the plan thoroughly, but also allowed me to grieve the relationship we once had.
My father wasn’t always a monster; when I was a child, he was my best friend. Anywhere Walter went, so did I. Things only started to change when my mom got sick, and suddenly daddy’s little girl became daddy’s favorite punching bag ( my mom had become too weak to take his hits so his frustrations were taken out on me ). My once favorite person quickly became my mortal enemy, and eventually, when my mom died, things escalated, and I was left to clean up my own blood more than once. He didn’t care, either. He laughed at my pain, told me to ‘suck it up’ and act like a big girl. And most of the time, I did.
But now, as I reflect on the last twenty-three years of my life, reflect on the last six since my mother died, I no longer mourn for the man Walter once was. Deep down, I always knew he was a monster, it just took me too long to see it.
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The clock above my door read 6pm, and I knew it was almost time. Knew that I'd had to go through with this, no matter how much the voice in the back of my head tried convincing me otherwise. The plan was simple - I'd wait until he was vulnerable, sleeping in his bed down the hall, put the barrel to his temple, and pull the trigger.
But then I heard Walter’s footsteps, heard them grow louder as he inched his way to my room, and suddenly any plan I had was tossed out the window. A shaky hand wrapped around the handle of the gun, still concealed by the pillow on my bed.
“Lennon! Get your ass out here!” I could tell he was angry, he always was - but I stayed still, refusing to move. “Lennon!!” His voice grew louder, and suddenly Walter was standing in my room, his strides moving in closer to where I sat. “When I call you, you f***i-”
A loud ‘BANG’ surrounded the air between us, echoed off the walls, cut off his words. His gaze shifts from my face to the weapon, and suddenly I'm brought back down to earth, the realization of what I had done seeping into my pores. Thick crimson blood coats my face, trickles down my arms, and I cringe at it's warmth, as if it's wrapping me in a hug that's unwanted and unfamiliar. The hole in Walter's chest is small, and part of me wonders if it did any damage. If he'd come out of this alive. I sit frozen in fear as I watch him stumble forward, hand clutching the open wound, and for the first time in my life, I saw remorse in my father's face.
I couldn't feel guilty though - not for this. Not for protecting myself. I watch as he lay on the floor, blood slowly pooling around him, trickling out of his mouth. I can hear him choking on it, and it's then that I decide to get off the bed, gun still in hand. I don't say anything, don't feel the need to. Instead, I raise the gun, pointing it at his head and pulled the trigger, this time to make sure he wouldn’t survive.
Only then, did I scream.
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03/08/2021 01:37 PM
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monster among men pt 2 | drabble
*tw: this drabble depicts domestic violence between a father and his daughter, and mentions rape. Please be cautious if these can be harmful to you. A continuation of this piece.
Winter of 2015
I’ve been living with Walter for far too long now.
My body feels weak - skin bruised and broken, bones fragile.
It’s getting harder to deny the claims of abuse, and I so badly want to tell people what he’s doing to me, but I can’t find the courage to break free from the cage he’s put me in. I can tell that my friends have their suspicions - they know I wouldn’t fall down the stairs and break my arm on purpose. They know I’m not as clumsy as I’ve been making myself out to be. Know that there are too many new bruises for me to be running into the corners of desks all the time. And yet, they still say nothing, their eyes doing all the talking for them. Begging me to get help. Begging me to run away.
I can’t, though. My whole life is here in this home. Memories with my mother play on loop in my mind like an old VHS tape that’s been stuck on the same scene, rewinding itself over and over. I didn’t get many with her before she got sick, and I now cling onto whatever good feeling that’s left haunting these walls. Memories of the three of us on my sixteenth birthday when my father handed me the keys to my first brand new car. Memories of our old dog, Zoey, playing fetch in the backyard. Memories of me, when I felt alive.
Walter wasn’t always evil. Didn’t always make life a living hell. When my mom was around, he was good. Happy, even. He treated me like I envision any good father would treat his kids. But then mom died, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Didn’t know how to love me without using her as a crutch. Alcohol became his only savoir, and turned him into my biggest demon.
I had hoped that locking myself in my bedroom would offer some sort of escape from his tactics, that he’d leave me alone for just a little while. But it only made him angrier. His fist pounds at my door, and I jump, hair standing on edge. I didn’t want to answer, for I knew what was to come, but I did anyway. Hesitantly. He barely allowed me anytime at all before he was pushing the door open, the knob jabbing into my stomach as he did. I try to ignore the annoying pain, but the skin is already tender from a previous bruise that hadn’t yet healed, and I wince.
“What did I say about leaving this door open?” Walter says loudly, his hand twisting through my hair, grip tight against my scalp as he pulls me in closer to him. His other hand grips my face, forcing my attention to gaze forward, blue eyes meeting a mirrored pair. I always hated that I got them from him and not my mother’s beautiful brown ones. His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, my stomach churning every time it hits my nostrils. Instinctively, my hands reach up to protect myself, a habit I wish I never had to make. “When I’m home, you keep the f***ing thing opened. If I want access to you, then I will have it,” he exclaims, tossing me to the ground with force.
My body hits the floor with a large ‘thud’, and I already know what’s to come, and I don’t have it in me to fight anymore. “I-I’m sorry,” are the only words I mutter for the rest of the night.
This was a routine that Walter had coxed up, and I was too weak to fight him off. Too fragile to tell him no repeatedly while he hit me. While he raped me.
I wanted out of this hell so f***ing badly, but I was too afraid to ask for help. Too afraid of what he might do to me if he had found out. I was no longer the Lennon Grey people loved, instead, an empty shell of the person I had once been. My outgoing and bubbly personality ripped from me, my innocence gone. I wasn’t even sure of who I was anymore, either. And I hated it.
I hated myself.
I hated him.
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03/08/2021 01:36 PM
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monster among men | drabble.
tw: this drabble contains mentions of domestic violence between a father and his daughter. please read with caution if this can be harmful to you.
Summer of 2013
My palms rest against the gravel below where I lay, still damp from this morning's rain storm, chest heavy as air struggles to find its way back to my lungs. It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me, and for a moment, I thought I was on the brink of death. It wasn’t the first time I picked a fight over something that I shouldn’t have, nor was it the first time I had taken a hit from the hands of my father, either. But that didn’t make it better, didn’t make it easier.
It had only been moments since I told Walter that I thought he needed help, thought he should check himself into rehab, or something. Told him I was tired of living life like we had been, and that I needed him to get help. It set him off easily, rage boiling to the surface as he stared into my soul like I had just suggested he kill himself.
Though I wouldn’t have complained if he did.
I knew how he felt about rehab, how he felt about his ‘problem’. Knew that he told me to ‘shut the f*** up’ any time I mentioned it or suggested he talk to someone. But I also knew that I couldn’t walk on eggshells around him anymore, couldn’t pretend that I was okay with how he treated me.
To everyone else, Walter was a raging alcoholic. Couldn’t function without a bottle of whiskey glued to his hand.
But to himself, he was a god among other men, no flaw in sight.
He was delusional. Abusive. Rude.
Walter Grey deserved to rot in hell.
My mind shifts back to the gravel, the cold calming my nerves enough to bring myself down to reality. To remind me that this was real, and not a nightmare that I desperately wished it was. I was used to being beat by Walter, but never in public. Never like this.
My cheek feels hot, sore to the touch as I reach a shaky hand up to cup the wound, blood trickling down my fingers as I pull it back. People passed by as I laid on the ground, but no one bothered to help. Each ignored my silent begs, keeping their eyes forward and their mouths shut - something that I had failed to do for a majority of my life.
“Get up, Lennon. Or I swear to god, I will make the rest of your night a living hell,” Walter says, his voice booming above me. Alcohol was thick on his breath, his hand forming another fist. I knew he wasn’t kidding, knew that he would do anything in his power to make me wish I were dead. But I couldn’t move; I couldn’t tell if it was fear that had taken over me, or if I just simply… didn’t care anymore, but I closed my eyes and accepted my defeat. A kick to my stomach caused my lungs to scream, and I coughed, hands dropping to protect myself.
I didn’t understand why no one was helping me, why no one stepped between me and the man that was supposed to love me more than anything. It was as if everyone suddenly became okay with watching a man beat his daughter in plain sight. Like it was only despicable when done behind closed doors when no one else was around. Another kick to my stomach and I cough again, tears running down my face.
Walter leans down now, weight resting on the balls of his feet, and his fist grabs my shirt, pulling my upper half off the ground. “When I tell you to do something, you f***ing do it, you hear me?” He yells, breath hot on my skin. “So that means when I tell you to get in the f***ing car, or get up off the ground, you do it. On MY terms, not on yours.” His eyes gaze into mine as he shoves me back to the ground. “I'm not f***ing going to rehab, and you're not to talk to me like that again, understand?" He asks, grip on my shirt tightening around the neck. I nod slowly. "You’re pathetic,” he laughs, standing. “Get up!”
Hesitantly, I listen.
My body aches in ways I wasn’t sure they could before, and I can’t stop myself from crying. Truthfully, I was scared. Scared that he’d continue his abuse when we got home. Scared that he’d find a way to push me a little too far tonight. Scared that I knew nothing would change. I hated going home with him - hated that I had to live with my father because I couldn’t afford to go elsewhere.
He was no god. He was a monster among men, and I was his unwilling victim, desperately waiting for the reaper to come in and swallow my last breath.
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02/25/2021 04:43 PM
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new love.
You swore off love because every relationship in your past left you bruised and scarred, battered and broken. You told yourself that it wasn’t worth it to let your guard down, that everyone was the same and you’d end up right back at square one. You had your heart ripped out of your chest so many times that you forgot what it was like to feel anything other than dread - love was a distant and foreign concept to you now, and though a piece of you wanted to remember the happiness you once felt in the presence of another, you didn’t know how.
You told yourself that it was easier to be alone, easier to not let anyone in close enough to see the most vulnerable pieces of you. Your heart was too fragile to be let down again after all of your previous attempts, and it wasn’t worth the risk.
You swore up and down that you wouldn’t fall in love.
Until he came along.
You tried to deny your feelings for him. You tried to tell yourself that it’ll never happen, that he wouldn’t feel the same. But then he smiled, and the butterflies in your stomach came to life after years of extinction, and suddenly everything that was once dull and lifeless, bloomed with a radiance of color that you had never seen before.
Every cheesy love song reminds you of him and that smile, and your heart feels like it’s ready to burst out of your chest from the amount of love you feel for him. You can’t get his laugh out of your head, and his f***ing eyes… you could stare into them all day.
Your love is still new, but it’s real. You leave things unspoken, but words won't ever compare to the way you look at each other in the late hours of the night when no one else is around. You share kisses under the covers, and your limbs are wrapped up comfortably with one another, and for the first time in a long time, you feel okay.
You feel at home. ♥
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02/14/2021 11:56 PM
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love me too.
I whispered ‘I love you’ in the middle of the night when I thought you were sleeping. I tried to hold back, tried to not let those three words claw their way out of the depths of my throat, but I couldn’t take the annoying itch I felt whenever you were around. So when your eyes were closed and you left me with no evidence that you’d hear me, I coughed up a confession.
You stirred when I said it, and I thought ‘f***, now he knows’.
But what was so bad about you knowing? Was it a crime that I wanted to spend the rest of my life loving you?
You’d say it was a horrible decision on my part, and I’d tell you that you were stupid, and that I’d love you with my whole heart if I were able to.
We had our own lives to live. Our own demons to face. Our own battles to pick through. We knew that this could end up disastrous, and there was the chance that we’d end up crawling on our hands and knees towards a finish line that seemed to slip further and further away from us. We knew that time was tricky, that it didn’t always heal wounds like we’ve been told it does. We knew that healing wasn’t linear, and that some days we’d hate the idea of each other, but we hated the idea of being without each other even more.
And so I jumped in head first, knowing that this version of reality could slip through my fingers like sand at any moment, and chose to love you through all of our messes, all of our demons, all of our battles.
I don’t know if you heard me, and I don’t have the courage to tell you again, but in my heart, I know that you know.
And maybe one day, you can love me too.
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02/07/2021 10:26 PM
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my bloody valentine.
The serrated edge of the knife carves against pink flesh, the sting left behind building the warmth between my thighs.
Your initials etched into my skin with a heart let others know that I’m yours.
The scars left behind let them know it’s permanent.
Your tongue drags across the cuts, and you grin as you savor the sweet, crimson nectar my body leaves behind.
Tonight, we feast like kings and queens.
Tonight, you are my bloody valentine.
We take turns digging the blade against each other's skin, make love covered in each other's warmth.
And when the flesh heals, we do it again.
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