Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20190114001113/@comment-30014014-20190202062937

His hands...they shake. They keep beating in him, no matter the occasion. The courier punching bag, so to say. His mind had enough of this relentless treatment. Injured and humiliated enough as it is, his thoughts took a back seat to a sentiment briefly rekindled...

...hate.

They shake, and then they clench, aided by a whisper "Go ahead, this one requires force to understand".

Spikes. Pikes. Around Marcus. Around Prad. From his arms, already smoldering. Galvanized and bleeding lightning, promising further torture later on.

He didn't care.

They burst uncomfortably close to his neck. To his heart. Around his arm holding the young man in place, trembling in a malevolent yearning. "I. Am. Not. In. The. Mood. Nor. The. Will. To. Be. Ragged. Dolled. By. A. Gifted".