chrisisofaith | IC Contact

If that were all, you'd have told me what happened when I first asked.

[The time between messages. The number he'd allowed her to send. The fact that he apologized at all? No. Something is very wrong. Something happened and it was worse than he's suggesting. She's starting to feel sick knowing that.]

You have another four minutes until I arrive. Tell me the rest of it.

[He swallows and detaches himself from his words as he types. This isn't a favor. Not to him or to her, it won't serve her, but hiding it would imply a shame at having been overpowered at all. That, at least, he doesn't feel. They'd beaten him before anything else, Jon was right. They were cowards and Chris held to that.]

It won't serve you to know.

The fight was broken up by Rosita.
Two fo them came back after she left to make an example of what a submissive should be for. Claimed they were doing my dominant a favor.

They used my mouth, restrained and choked me, wrote things on my skin and took one of their sticks to me as one might a paddle. One of them put his fingers in me, but it wasn't to stretch so much as humiliate while he got himself off.

Are you happier knowing?

[That wasn't kind, that was sharp and revealed too much. He buries it back down.]

Sorry. Nevermind.
That's the rest.

[She stops a handful of yards back from the house, and it's all for the better. His message is far worse than she'd imagined. What they'd done to him. What they'd done under the guise of "helping" with their power. Her anger rises and she almost turns from the house immediately to go to the Zoo. Her chest rises and falls in rage-fueled pants and her knuckles turn white around the grip of a dagger.

She'll kill them. She'll kill all of them. Now. Right now. She'll step inside and tear them apart with knives and rocks and words they'll never see coming.

A deep breath saves her. Five in, four out.

It won't help right now. Fully armed as she is, she needs a plan. She needs to make sure the one in her care is well.]

Thank you for telling me. You owe me no apology for your words.

Are you taking visitors? I'll stand guard outside if not.

[Her turn can wait a bit longer.]

[ 'Thank you for telling me.' Simple as that and he feels something shift in him that feels vulnerable and aches. He buries that down again, but lets the affection from it linger. He resolves to say something with her when they meet. Which...]

I don't want you to linger in the cold, but Hawke's about to heal me. You could wait on the back porch and I can bring you a blanket and tea or you can come inside and sit on the couch. You just might see more than you'd like.

I'm asking what you want, Chris. I'll be fine.

[The cold will sharpen her mind and senses with enough time. It can only help at this point.]

I'll go to the back porch as you've asked. You don't need to do anything for me. Stay with him. He needs to be there for you.

He is

[And he can wait, once Chris explains his intiative. He excuses himself from the concerned look to fetch the knitted blanket from the couch and an additional mug for the tea, then heads out to the back porch to meet her.

His bearing is regal, chin held high and gaze hard, though not unkind when he sees her and holds out the mug. The over-sized shirt that absolutely isn't his does nothing to hide the lingering belt-bruise on his throat or the angry red, circular, burns left in the met of his forearm as he holds the mug out to her.]

You keeping warm is what I want.

[There's still a rougher quality to his voice, but it's firm.]

Edited 2023-02-16 18:34 (UTC)

[It helps that she's had time to settle into the cold so she doesn't jump at the state of him. She doesn't even try to hide the worry or concern in her face, though, letting her frown come through as she takes the tea from him.]

I'm plenty warm from getting here. [A beat.] But thank you.

[Keep him calm. Let him be of use without extending himself too much. He's still hurt, possibly in shock. From the way he carries himself, he's certainly not lingering on what's happened. She keeps her movements slow and deliberate anyway, allowing him time to react and move away if he's ready to spook.]

What else do you need right now?

[That's far more important than anything else.]

[He doesn't begrudge the concern, he knows he's a sorry state, improved only from a shower and a bath both...plus, he wouldn't be responding much better if their situations were reversed.

Which leaves only the question. What does he need?
Safety. Assurance.
Dignity. His people kept close.

He can have at least one of those.]

Come inside. Please. You don't have to look, but I'll feel better knowing you're inside, not for your warmth...but for my peace of mind.

[She asked, he answered. That's enough to get her inside.]

Of course. [She gestures for him to lead them back into the house, staying close and within his vision even as she stays half a step behind him.] I'm here as you need me.

[It won't help to look, to know the whole of it, but she will. She'll let it sear in her memory and use that as part of her decision of how those who did this to him suffer and die.

Another deep breath. Chris now, murder later. One thing at a time.]

[ Hawke's set up in the kitchen, a bath towel rolled out on the table with scavenged bowls, one half full of warm water and one of suds. He's rounded up whatever hand towels and clean rags he can find and set them alongside a roll of cotton gauze and two thick glass bottles small enough to fit in his palm and filled with a viscous silvery liquid. Lastly lays open a small leather book, beaten to hell but still somehow holding together and open to a page of notes scrawled in his own messy script.

He's kicking himself a bit mentally for his haste. He could have taken a moment to retrieve potions from the Sanctuary or salves he has piled away at home, a small stockpile as leftovers from various of his own escapades that have left him in a state. Or a needle and thread. Anything that shows he had any foresight at all. But he doesn't have any. He has bandages, towels, two sad mana potions that are only half as effective as lyrium, and his own meager healing ability. His notes are there, things to remember from Anders trying to teach him a half a dozen times at least, and he kicks himself again for not being able to read his own bloody handwriting.

When Chris returns with Amelia, Hawke immediately looks up, pushing his sleeves again to his elbows, or at least making the motion of it since they're already in place. His posture shifts, looking more natural and at ease. Far more confident than he feels but there's a determination there too that sits in him defiantly. He smiles to Amelia softly, a hard edge to it that mirrors hers that's gone in a flash when his gaze turns towards Chris, all confidence and care and he hopes none of the worry and roiling anger that had threatened to choke him when he'd arrived showing through. ]

I'll need you to sit up at first so I thought it best in here for the initial healing. The couch will be more comfortable after and I won't need you to get up again so you can just relax.

[He doesn't direct where she should go, just lets the blanket fall to the couch as he stiffly passes back to kitchen and lets Amelia decide where she wants to be. He does keep her vaguely in the periphery of his vision, even as he approaches Hawke with the same bearing he'd stepped outside with. Detach from it. It's just healing, it was clinical, not emotional.]

I might need help with the shirt.

[But he's still going to try, letting his left arm pull the majority of the shirt up over his head so his right side is left as undisturbed as possible. There's bandages around his torso to keep pressure on his ribs, but deep purple and black bruises peek out from under them, down his stomach, but mostly along his back and up to his shoulders from where he'd curled in on himself to protect his head. The burn marks on his arm appear to be the only ones of their kind, but there's something else on his skin below the edge of the bandages.

The feint remains of sharpie spells out words, half scrubbed away as best they could be with soap and water. 'Slut' 'Nothing' and half of '-re welcom-' remains messily on his lower back. He ignores them.]

Triage should be my rib and then my rear and legs and then throat and neck.

[In his opinion.]

[She follows, lingering by the couch where he lets the blanket fall, but the second Chris says he needs help, she's on the move again. Footsteps quiet, but noisy enough to be heard. Tea set down in front of him so Chris can see her hands before she reaches out to help. There's no hairpin to make noise right now, and that means she's more careful and obvious about everything she does. Everything done with a care and gentleness that matches her face without reaching her eyes.

She's livid. She's ready for targets. She can almost taste the fear in the air, imagine the light going out someone's eyes and the foam at the corner of their mouth. Body going cold, their blood on the floor and her hands and her face. The dark smile she'll have almost crosses her face, caught only by Chris' voice.

One thing at a time.]

You may need stitches. I've a kit with me for it. [Fully armed and armoured, it shouldn't surprise either of them. Blades all over, slingshot on her hip, pouches on her belt. Leather across her shoulders, forearms, and chest. But she's a leader, and these are her men, and so she's prepared for battle and the aftermath.]

I have a bottle of antiseptic, too, should you need it. [She looks up to Hawke, mind using the less familiar name to help her keep her distance until they're both certain Chris is well, then draws away a few steps to give him space while she finds what she mentioned.]

My hands are here if you need them.

[ It's probably for the best that Hawke isn't the one helping with the shirt because he might have caused frostbite for the rage that sears through him. Wounds were expected, even brutality such as this he was prepared to see and hold to avenge later, but the writing. If he wasn't needed here he would already be storming the Zoo, leaving nothing but frozen, mangled bodies in his wake.

He's only barely able to contain himself, struggling for a harsh moment where he's frozen still. His breath shows before him in condensation, an effect he remedies as quickly as he notices. Later. Later. It's not his violence that's needed now. He's not stopped from giving Amelia a significant glance from around Chris, though. As soon as we're done here. ]

You're right, rib first. I think it's broken.

[ He kneels by Chris' side to examine what he can, forcing his voice into even gentleness. It's somehow not difficult even around all the rage turning the cavity of his chest cold. It's simple to be gentle to Chris, Hawke's default state but more important in this moment. Chris deserves that care and softness after what had been done. ]

I'm going to have to remove the bandage and put my hand against the injury. It's going to hurt significantly more as I do, but it will subside quickly after.

[ He knows this one. Ribs are easy to break in battle and he's had more than his fair share fighting enemies who brandish bludgeons. He prefers blades, if he has to get hit. Sliced flesh is so much easier to heal than crushing wounds. ]

Amelia, do you have a clean strip of leather? He's going to need to bite down on something... Actually, hold on.

[ Hawke reaches behind himself to pull his knife, sheath and all, from the back of his belt where it had been sitting under the red flannel he's wearing. The feather knife is pulled from it and tucked into one boot and the well made leather sheath offered up. ]

Here, this should do. Grip Amelia's hand as well, if you need it. I can heal her too if you're too rough, don't worry.

[ A stupid joke to break the tension, and an action to give Amelia a way to help actively. This is going to be agony for a few moments. He's not a spirit healer, he can't soothe and knit flesh and bone at the same time, and even if he could he knows from experience that it only goes so far before things are together enough that a body stops screaming. ]

[Her help is welcome and Jacob's shirt gets set aside safely for later. Does he need stitches? He hasn't looked. He'd been deposited into Jacob's care and simply...let the older man do that for a while until his head had hit a pillow. He should probably inspect his own injuries, but after Hawke's done what he can.]

I'll follow your judgement, you've better eyes on the whole than I do.

[Which is its own curse. Just because he hadn't looked closely didn't mean he wasn't aware of every likely mark and strike. He'd healed enough injuries to know what violence looked like what.

He offers a small smile for Hawke's joke, but takes the sheath mechanically. This part he could do. Physical pain was easier to manage.]

Her hands'll be better used helping you. Amelia, lovely, it'll go faster if you undo the bandages.

[He tucks the sheath between his teeth and nods to them, bracing for the throb and ache and searing pain that would come from the release of pressure. At least he trusts that even if his nails dig into his own palms or his eyes close tight in response, Amelia isn't likely to flinch for it.]

[That look from Hawke tells her everything, and while Chris can't see her face, she nods to him. Fuck sleep. There's vengeance to be had.

She refocuses as she's given tasks, one hand out to the cleric before he can turn her away, then immediately moving to the edge of bandages as instructed. She waits for the mage's signal before making any movements, peeling away the strips of fabric when given leave to do so.]

I can do both. I have two hands, Chris.

[It's not chiding, merely a statement of fact. Her voice remains soft and calm as she speaks, her rage contained for now. And as soon as Hawke is working his magic, the bandages around Chris' torso removed enough that she doesn't require both hands for it? She's slipping her hand into her friend's to-- keep him from hurting himself further, it seems. The realization makes her frown, reminding her of his state at the bonfire after the Pit. Of course he would do this. Of course he would feel the need for this.

She doesn't call attention to it. It's not helpful right now. They can talk about it later, after he's healed and recovered at home. Maybe he never will be, and that conversation will never come, but it doesn't matter right now. Those are thoughts for later.]

You aren't hurting me, [she murmurs, close to Chris' ear.] Take what you need of me. I have everything to give right now.

[ Amelia murmurs softly to Chris and Hawke too takes comfort in it. He's not the only one who can step in and help Chris heal, lift him where he shouldn't have to lift himself. He can, there is no doubt in his mind of that, but they can bolster him instead and he's able to allow some of that at least. It's good.

Taking a breath and a moment of hesitation, Hawke meets Chris' eyes directly before placing his palm as gently as he can against the angry tender flesh at his side, making certain Chris is ready for the pain that he knows will blossom there like the worst sort of thistle or stinging nettle, hot and unrelenting. The green glow returns to his touch and Hawke murmurs quietly under his breath. Meaningless words of magic, rudimentary focusing syllables meant more for their rhythm to keep a caster focused than for anything else. He can't afford to mess this up, not when he can feel how Chris stiffens and clenches, know the amount of pain he's in just from that, let alone the rest of his wounds.

The mana is cool, flowing from Hawke's fingers and into Chris' body, fuseing bone and knitting flesh. It gets the job done, but with none of the finesse of a trained healer or the soft warmth of a spirit helping to return the body to how it should be. This is Hawke's sheer will weaving Chris back to right.

He meant what he said, though. He knows where the pieces go.

It's an interminable handful of seconds but the pain begins to ebb as Chris' body realizes it's got less to panic over, that things are largely back in place. Even the angry red and purple bruising is less, muted to the duller and more sickly tones that mean it's well on it's way to gone. Not there yet, but the span of moments has done weeks work.

The entire time, Hawke's gaze is level with the words on Chris' body, faded but still legible, and he resolves to carve one into the son of a bitch that did this.]

There. Can you breathe alright?

[ He looks up, worry still etched on his face in nigh permanent relief at this point and he reaches up to take the sheath, move it away, and cup one hand against his friend's cheek. ]

I'm sorry, I wish I knew a way to make it not hurt so much.

Edited (Coding) 2023-02-17 00:34 (UTC)

[Her words echo in him in a way he doesn't want but knows he needs. 'I have everything to give right now.' For a moment...he could close his eyes and imagine it's his family around him. His rogues quick hands, Amnos' steady presence, even if the anger thrummed in him like a heartbeat, Silver's gentle assurances and support. It's normal for tears to escape for pain, they'd probably politely ignore it if he let some slip free now...but his eyes sting and his breath shudders and he breathes through it until it passes. The family he misses isn't here, but he has this one.

Hawke's magic works more slowly than he'd prefer but it does work and the rib knits itself together. The bruising at the bone calms and the layers on his skin lessen. Enough that his next lungful is full, even if it aches.

He opens his eyes to meet Hawkes and nods once the sheath is from his mouth. He resolves to Mend it of its bite mark later.]

Yes...thank you. You're helping plenty...might actually be able to lay easier now.

[If he can deal with the bruises he knows mottles the skin of his ass and thighs, he'll be practically right as rain again.

Chris brings Amelia's hand up to his lips to kiss the back of it in thanks.]

I've...it's back at home, but I've a cream fit for taking the pain out of flesh that Cinder made for me. Worst case, I'll see someone bring it for me tomorrow. The rest is only bruising, at least.

[Deep bruising, but not broken bone. He looks back to Amelia with a small smile.]

Not that I think it'll matter to you, but I'm set to take my pants off.

[Just as fair warning before he moves to lower the loose pants he'd been leant. He almost wishes they'd just fucked him, that would have been less embarrassing, less shameful, than the dark, horizontal strike marks across his ass and thighs. He'd learned long ago from a city punishment Festival had given him, that he liked spanking, to a degree, yet he'd allowed it from no one even then, that now he wasn't sure he'd welcome it. Not when the memory of those strikes, unrelenting despite his cries, still linger in his mind.

They'd sought to shame him from his more 'assertive' nature, to 'break him in' for his dom as a favor. He hated that, on some small level, it feels like it might have worked. He held his head high...but the urge to mouth off, to bite, was gone.

[Chris is pushing through so much right now, and she can see it in the way he closes his eyes and tenses the muscles of his face. She doesn't need anything in return for simply being here, but she won't stop him at all. If this is what he needs, he gets it. That is how this works. That is how this always works for hers.

She doesn't speak at all as Chris offers his warning and then removes his pants. This, at least, is so familiar that she wouldn't blink or feel embarrassment in any situation. One of hers is injured and needs to disrobe. His wounds are to be tended and no attention paid to anything but that. That hasn't changed with her forceful relocation, not even after everything she and Aloïs have been through together since arriving in Duplicity.

Her injured hand stays outstretched, palm turned down to keep Hawke from focusing on it as she looks up at the mage.] Are you well? Do you need anything before we continue?

[She waits for his answer before turning to Chris, tilting her head to find the cleric's eyes.] What do you need next? Anything I can do will be done. Here with you or elsewhere in the house as necessary.

I'm fine.

[ He doesn't sound fine. He sounds dangerous, like the sharp crack of winter ice across a lake threatening to break and plunge all into frigid depths. Even he can hear it and he takes a deep breath, in through the nose for four beats, out through the mouth for five as Chris finishes disrobing. His breath is still cooler than the air around them but only by a small amount. Easy to miss. ]

I'm fine.

[ He sounds much more like himself this time, though it's an effort to keep it that way. So much so he doesn't even seem to notice Amelia's hand needs tending. ]

Are you comfortable laying on the couch on your stomach? It would make it easier but I can do this standing if you'd rather not.

[ He feels sick for having to ask and another crack forms in the ice. He doesn't know what exactly they did, doesn't want Chris to have to relive it in the telling, but the evidence is there besides. The broken rib and spread of bruising is tale enough but what makes this guard's life forfeit is the angry red skin before him, the small burns, the welt along his neck. The words (he'll kill them and they'll know why). The rigidity in his demeanor now. Disciplined, careful, as if one thing out of place and he'll fall apart like a house of cards.

He probably needs to.

Something else to heal, and that at least he has regrettably more practice in. ]

[Hawke isn't fine. Amelia is so deep into her role as Shadow Mistress, some part of him fears never seeing her again, but they're doing their best. He's doing his best. Maybe if he crumbled they'd fall with him...or maybe they'd just strengthen their resolve. He can't know and he's not willing to find out. He can keep himself together for now and so he will, even if some small part of himself feels like he can see the cracks too starkly. Cracks didn't have to mean breaking.

He nods to the question and reaches for the shot of whiskey he'd poured for them and no one had touched. He touches it now and tips the whole thing back before setting to removing his pants wholesale. He's wearing nothing else underneath, but that doesn't stop him from moving simply moving to the couch as directed to lay out face-down.

He turns his face to look at Amelia.]

Doesn't have to be now, but I left my leather jacket with my clasp and wings back at home. If I give you the key, will you be willing to bring it to me at some point? When I'm healed, the sky will offer a kind distraction. Otherwise, for tight now...drink your tea, lovely. Feels like we're all made of wires held too tight.

[Hawke-- Wolfe isn't fine. Even after his breath in she can hear it in his voice. She can't hold him like she did the other night, can't let him curl against her until it passes. They both have work to do.

Later, when Chris is off to sleep or at least resting, she'll see him taken care of, too. There won't be room for discussion.]

You worry too much for me. I'm well used to putting myself in the way to help my own. There's time for rest and all else after I've seen you properly cared for. [She gives Chris a knowing look, warm at its edges, before looking up at Hawke again. She doesn't mean for her expression to soften the way it does when she sees his face, and if she notices, it's impossible to tell.] My counterpart will have to do the heavy lifting for now. I'll carry the rest after.

[If she's not needed by the couch, she'll linger in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and sipping her tea to show she's listening and doing something for herself. Her posture remains tense, ready to free her hands and make herself useful at a second's notice. She'll use the silence to plan how to get Chris' things to him as she waits.]

Tell me what else needs doing, either of you. I know my way around far more than just knives.

[ Feels like we're all made of wires held too tight. It's apt and he's ashamed on some level that he can't calm down, can't adopt Amelia's useful businesslike demeanor. He can't quite do that, but he can put it away at least. He can heal what he can with magic, heal what he can with words and care, and handle the rest later, all without making Chris feel he has to manage him. He can do that, he thinks.

He wishes he hadn't completely missed the whiskey though, that would have been a small help.

Finally rising from kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, Hawke wipes at his face with one hand now that Chris is turned away for the moment. He knows he can't hide it from Amelia and doesn't quite try. It's nothing dire. Weariness from worry and too many emotions coursing through him for too long. He's not going to fall apart. He can't fall apart, not until this is done.

A glance spared for Amelia, Hawke steps in for just a moment to give her a brief brush of lips at the temple in silent thanks and acknowledgement that this is difficult for all involved. Most so for Chris but smaller pain is still pain enough. He can't help thinking he'd rather this have happened to him, but Maker knows he won't say that aloud to be shouted down by them both. A stupid thought, probably, but it doesn't stop him thinking it. ]

You being here is a boon on its own, Love.

[ Squeezing her shoulder gently, Hawke takes one of the viscous potion bottles and moves to the couch, folding his legs under him and downing the concoction with a grimace. Silvervine is no real replacement for lyrium and tastes even worse, but it's something. ]

Try and relax, this is going to take some time but I'll have you feeling better as soon as I can.

[ His tone is soft, intentionally so. He's making as much of an effort as he can muster to tamp down on his anger, to keep what's useful and set aside the rest until the time comes. What's useful is positivity and care and he'll give both as determinedly as he can.

Hands hover over Chris' thighs and backside, the green glow returning as he calls forth his magic to sooth and to heal. Bruises and welts are easier, soothing stinging flesh much simpler than knitting what he can't see, and where the magic had an undercurrent of frigidity before Hawke makes sure its warm as a balm now. He keeps an eye on what he can see of Chris' face, judging his reaction and adjusting the spell as he can to Chris' comfort. If he manages to catch his eye, Hawke's quick with a gentle, reassuring smile.

This feels better, being a help like this instead of distracted by his own anger and anguish. He'll maintain it as long as he can. ]

[He needs to do more. This isn’t enough. They needed him to make this easier for them all. He offers a small smile back to his friend when Chris catches his eye and racks his thoughts a moment for something for their shadow mistress.]

Amelia, I think my clothes are in the dryer. Could you find them for me? At least to have them available.

[Something for her to do. Especially as Hawke’s magic begins to take hold and the tension in Chris’ very pores begins to loosen. It’s not all of it, but there’s a notable difference as a long sigh of relief escapes him.. He was still sore, his throat ached inside and out, and the burns on his arm seared, but he felt less like he needed to handle himself like glass.

Slowly, he lets out a long breath as the bruises from the guards’ sticks fade to yellow as well.]

Thank you. That’s already leagues better and plenty from you, handsome. I’ll be alright.

Edited 2023-02-17 15:30 (UTC)

[She doesn't feel useless, exactly, but being called something soft when this is a time for her harder side is unnerving. This isn't a time for Wolfe to speak to her fondly; there are thing to do, a man of theirs to see to. Is it reflexive for him to say such things? With everyone? Only with her?

Now isn't the time for such worries, and she knows it. She closes her eyes when lips press to her temple, offering the mage a small smile in return, but no words. Best not to get in the way of a healer and their work.

Chris is grasping at anything to find her things to do as he lies on the couch. Clothes from the dryer? Hardly an actual task. She watches him closely for a long moment, frowning at the struggle in his face. His desire is understandable - she'd do the same if in his place - but it doesn't feel like... him. Not who she knows him to be. Perhaps it shouldn't right now, while he's beaten, broken, and bruised down to his soul.

A frown almost slips to her face, but she hides it behind a last sip of tea before nodding to the cleric and silently making her way about the house to find the dryer. It's not a difficult task, and soon after Chris' clothes are laid out on the couch above him before she retreats to the kitchen once more.]

If there's naught else, it's all right to say so. [Her smile is small, but warm.] Your well-being comes above all else, Chris. Focus on that over finding me tasks when the effort's best spent elsewhere.

Finally being able to force himself into being calmer has a centering effect on Hawke. He has a way forward, he has his people to take care of here, he knows what to do and what they need.

Chris struggles to find something for Amelia to do and Hawke judges that perhaps that shouldn't be his priority. It's clear to him that Chris just wants her here, a comforting protective presence, but not necessarily needing to be more useful than that when that's what's sorely needed all on its own. Hawke glances after her as she returns from her quest with the trophy of clothes and retreats back into the kitchen. By the time she's back, he's nearly through. He should probably not be pushing himself quite so hard to heal so quickly but it's not in him to leave Chris like this for longer than he has to.

Ducking his head to the side, Hawke leans in and speaks softly to Chris, not carrying his voice past the two of them at the couch. "I've got something for her to do, don't worry about it overmuch. Do you think you can roll over now?"

He waits for the answer, but once he's got it he leans back to address Amelia in turn. "Could you bring another potion, a rag, and the bowl of warm water? I think there's room enough on the coffee table."

The look he gives her out of Chris' sight says there's one more thing he'd like her to do and he gives a little motion towards the end of the couch where Chris' head is, imagining that she can slip onto the cushions behind him, a warmth at his back. It's what they both need, he's surmised, that softness of contact and solidness of presence. It's what he needs too, frankly, but he still has other work to do.

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cw: discussion of abuse, noncon and d/s dynamics, humiliation

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cw: graphic descriptions of death/murder

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cw: reference to noncon and d/s dynamics

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Switching to prose because I keep doing this on my phone and messing up coding