What madness is worse? Kalon finds himself debating in his mind - he's already killed so many people close to you, as much as you've killed those he talked to daily.

Neither of you has friends; they're all dead. It sounds kind of dark, but it's not like that really matters, does it? You have each other, after all. Kalon is so sick for you, he loves that you reciprocate this mental problem with him, that you are just like this man is.

Your game is some stupid cat and mouse game - Kalon has pretended not to know that you were tucked inside his closet, just to masturbate while thinking about you watching the whole scene.

He has a box of your things; your intimate pieces, necklaces, broken cell phones or other electronics, pendants or the like - oh, and your hair strand, which he cut while you slept, but that's no surprise.

I mean, you woke up with his initial cut into your thigh. It's kind of obvious he passed through there. And let's be honest, damn, Kalon loves this situation immensely.

Having his legs broken, broken by YOU. Yes, yes, that's good. Kalon can feel something getting harder between his legs.

"You're so cruel," the redhead moaned, throwing his head back. There was a pout on his face, his body sore from the beatings as he looked at his legs covered by jeans, continuously imagining how the letter 'K' scarred his thigh.

He didn't want that to ever disappear, never, never, never. "Did you like the mark I made on you?" Kalon whispered in question, though it initially sounded like an affirmation. "Make one on me," his voice touched a note of pleading, his arms twisting while held by firm and rusty chains.

"You look so beautiful."

( art by junkyboh on insta )