#he's dragged crying and in tudors he just looks confused and even seems to try to convince the executioner to let him go

[fideidefenswhore]

"And when their sorrowful day had come, They were taken from the Tower by the archers And led straight to the place of sacrifice. Thereupon, Rochford, as the most suitable one To comfort his friends in God, While embracing them, came to exhort them Together, and then each one individually, To endure this parting with constancy And to accept this punishment willingly, So as to gain the gift of God's great blessing. [...] Rochford wanted to offer himself first, As if carrying the sign of victory* Against death, for you would not believe The great power with which he scorned it And the manner in which he conducted himself." The story of the death of Anne Boleyn : a poem by Lancelot de Carle, JoAnn DellaNeva (Translator, Editor, Writer of added commentary) *"Traditionally, the sign of victory against death (and sin) is the cross of Christ. Carle is depicting the scene of this execution (or 'sacrifice', as he [describes]) as a reminiscence of Christ's crucifixion.

[slashthedice]

Ko-Fi Commission: Michael x OC for @postsmalones

I cannot thank you enough for your patience and generosity. Since you gave me free rein with this piece, I settled on the idea of exhibitionism and punishment. I had so much fun with Calliope, and I hope I did her justice! Calliope belongs to @postsmalones.

Word Count: 3,188

Evening flooded its light across Calliope’s curled form. She had tucked herself into the little nook of the bay window. Her legs were folded beneath her, and the thick fabric of the thin, oft unused cushion dug into her skin, leaving angry, reddened lines in her calves. She looked up from the book in her lap to peer out the window at the quiet neighborhood street below. She had to be wary of the time, for there was a predator out there that would swim through the darkness to gobble her up if he saw what she had done.

Fear prickled her insides and Calliope squinted as she focused more intently on the sidewalks and hedgerows below her. She would know, she assured herself, she would feel his eyes on her as he thought of all the ways he could tear her apart and eat her alive. He wasn’t there. The sun was not set, and for the time being he had more interesting prey elsewhere. 

She studied the sleepy suburban street in quiet wonderment. The lowering sun had set the neighborhood ablaze, igniting it with golds and oranges. Each falling leaf was like a new flame, catching the red glow like embers on the wind. In her mind, she knew that the air would be crisp and cool as the dry grass of the lawn, but she imagined that if she stepped out the door the fall evening would immolate her, crisping her soft skin and turning her body to ash. From the safety of the window bench though, she could admire the waning evening without risk. 

At least until Michael returned.

A chill went down her spine at the thought of him finding her there. He had never said it-- in fact, he had never said anything to her at all-- but she knew that he did not want her to occupy her favorite reading spot. The curtains above the bay window were to remain shut. They had to seal the house off from the rest of the world, had to limit suspicion and keep Michael hidden.

The street began to blur as her vision darkened. Her lips stretched around a yawn even as she tried to blink away the veil of tiredness that had lowered itself over her field of view. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. She couldn’t let herself sleep, it wouldn’t be long before she would have to extricate herself from the nook and prepare for Michael’s return.

Even as she told herself this, her eyelids felt heavier by the second. Before long, she had almost completely succumbed to Sleep’s siren calls. Darkness overtook her and she slipped helplessly into slumber.

***

A figure swept down the darkened suburban street. The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon, and in its shyness the moon wrapped itself in clouds like a veiled widow. Only the streetlamps cast their orange light upon the picturesque stillness. The shadows of the poplar trees lining the street spilled like blood across the pavement, splattering the otherwise unremarkable path with sinister inky blackness. The shape seemed to flow through the shadows, almost as if he was made of the darkness itself. 

Michael was covered in blood, but he paid it no mind as his boots crunched dry, dead leaves against the concrete sidewalk. He was no longer concerned with stealth, as his prey had been lain waste and the hunt was over. The voices, who only a few hours earlier had bayed like hounds in their stirred bloodlust, now only simmered in the back of his mind. 

He knew the path to her house well enough by now. He knew that when he arrived at the quiet home, the lights would be out and she would be fast asleep in her bed. He knew what she would look like tucked beneath the quilted bedspread with her lips parted slightly. His sex throbbed as he thought about throwing back the blankets and dragging her to the edge of the bed. She would cry as she was shocked awake, but she wouldn’t fight him beyond that.

A rushing sound made itself prominent in his ears, and he noted distantly that it was his blood rushing. His heart pounded in a way similar to the handful of moments right before he struck down his prey. But that was done. In its wake he had left nothing but an empty husk and a pool of blood. He had a new object of obsession now, but his desires had changed.

The sounds of the night urged him forward, from the rustling of leaves to the snuffling of nocturnal creatures. Somewhere to his right an owl hooted mournfully. Deeper within the neighborhood, a dog barked and howled. His boots were heavy against the sidewalk, strides regular and measured. He kept his eyes straight ahead until he had rounded the gentle curve in the path that would reveal the house to him. As he raised his eyes to take in the aging tudor style home, his clipped pace faltered before he came to a complete standstill.

Orangey, artificial light spilled from the exposed bay window on the second floor to drip and pool on the lawn below. The other of the structure’s occupants must have seen fit to throw open the curtains and reveal the interior of the house to the outside world. The longer he looked, the more apparent the shape of a small figure curled into the cushioned window seat became. 

Annoyance prickled in the back of his mind. He had made it clear to her that the curtains were always to obscure the window that surveyed the neighborhood street. She disobeyed him. If she was so intent on showing the surrounding inhabitants what goes on inside the unassuming suburban home, then he would oblige.

Michael squared his shoulders and stalked towards his target. The cogs in his mind worked to analyze his best approach. The front door had a squeaky hinge that squealed every time it was opened, so he risked alerting her to his presence if he took the quickest route. The back door was a far stealthier approach, though there was potential time wasted if she had not left it unlocked.

He slipped around the side of the house, shoulder brushing against the tall hedgerow. The next door neighbors had left their window open, and he could hear the canned laughter of a sitcom rerun that blared from their television set. Beneath that, he listened to the sound of snoring that came from the balding, middle aged man that lived there.

The grass in the backyard was taller, seemingly climbing up his calves and trying to hold him in place. The way his boots trampled down the browning strands would have been an easy trail to pick up had anyone been following him, but that was of no concern in the moment. Eventually, the authorities would be looking for him, but not tonight. He had chosen his prey carefully, and it would likely be days before the body would be discovered. No one would be looking for tracks in a sleepy suburb in the wee hours.

He scaled the three concrete steps leading from the patio to the back door and turned the handle slowly. It obeyed without issue, allowing him to push the door open. The night spilled into the kitchen ahead of him. He adjusted his grip on the knife he had taken with him, causing ruby droplets to splatter the pristine white tile. He glanced towards the empty farmhouse sink before turning on his heel and depositing the blade there. He would not need it for this next endeavor.

Michael knew the house’s secrets well. As he stepped into the hallway leading to the foyer, he stepped over the boards that would creak and moan beneath his weight. The shadows welcomed him, embracing him and guiding him onwards as he ventured deeper. A wide, well-worn rug muffled his steps at the bottom of the stairs, and he tilted his chin upwards to look to the second floor. Normally he would have seen only the jet black abyss of pitch darkness, but lamplight encroached on the umbra and pushed it back.

He stuck to the edge of the stairs, hugging the interior wall as he listened for even the slightest sound from above. There was nothing. She was unaware of his approach.

He paused at the second floor landing. Down the hall, the door to the study was ajar. That same fiery glow he had seen from the street beckoned him onwards, calling him towards his goal. He soon found himself standing before it, flattening his hand against the painted wood and pushing it open. He stood on the threshold while his eyes adjusted to the bright room. 

Michael spotted her immediately.

Her brunette hair fluttered around her shoulders, disturbed by the breeze produced by the whirring ceiling fan. Her features were illuminated in the light produced by the floor lamp she had dragged over to the window from the corner. She had all her limbs curled into her body, while her head rested against the glass of the window. Her bowed lips were parted minutely as she drew slow, deep breaths. A book lay with its pages opened against her chest, as if she had fallen asleep while reading it.

Michael stalked forward, muscles tensed and poised to spring should she awaken before he could reach her. When finally he loomed over her, he looked out to the street below. It was just as still and lifeless as it had been when he had prowled it. It would bear witness to all that was soon to happen.

***

Calliope had been having a wonderful dream. She couldn’t place what exactly she had been dreaming about, but she had felt warm, happy, and safe. She felt like the sun was embracing her and filling her with its warmth.

It was ripped from her in seconds.

She was awoken suddenly, and without warning. She felt as though her world had been tipped on its axis and a bucket of cold water was dumped on her head. Confusion and panic colored her understanding as the comfort of sleep was cast off and trampled.

As awareness returned to her, her mind connected the pain in her upper arms with hands wrapped in a vice around her biceps. She realized that she was no longer curled up like a contented cat, but that she had been dragged upright and onto her tiptoes. She blinked rapidly, both to shake off sleep’s final vestiges and to clear her blurry eyes of the tears that had already begun to gather. Fear gripped her heart, causing the blood in her veins to turn icy even as it pounded in her ears. She heard the harsh sound of all too familiar breathing, and she realized that her worst fear was manifesting right before her.

Michael had returned and found her exactly where she was not supposed to be.

She had been so careful, she had done everything to make sure that she did everything he wanted her to. Now, one slip up meant that it was all over. What would he do with her now? Was this it?

Relief hushed some of her panic as she realized that since both of his hands were on her, he couldn’t have a knife. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to kill her, but at the very least it was a small comfort to know she wouldn’t go with a blade through her heart.

Her mouth opened and closed fruitlessly as she scrambled to think of something to say, but the words were failing her. She stared up at him with her watery, doe eyes, but the impassive and blood splattered mask gave her nothing to work with. She couldn’t even see the steely blue of his eyes behind the bone white facade.

They stood in oppressive silence, each unmoving and frozen as if carved of stone.

His grip on her arms slowly, incrementally loosened and for a moment her foolish heart was flooded with a misguided hope. That hope was dashed when she was suddenly spun around and he snatched a handful of her dark hair. She was not even granted a moment to regain her barings before Michael shoved her forward, causing her shins to slam into the bench of the window seat until she was forced to kneel upon it. Her cheek met the windowpane with an awful slapping sound that reverberated through her skull.

She felt unbearably disoriented, but the combined drowsiness and jolt of pain did little to slow her racing thoughts. Her breath fogged the clear glass as it wavered with the heaving sobs that gathered in her chest. She felt like her throat was closing up, the air was too thick for her to breathe. Her mind was working overtime producing possibilities for how Michael planned to kill her, each more gruesome and horrible than the previous.

Calliope wondered if maybe he planned to toss her through the window to the cold ground below. It would suit his strange sense of dramatic irony.

All of her thoughts halted in place as she felt one of his hands grasp at her thigh. His fingers were sticky with blood, and she was sure that he left trails of crimson in his ascendant path beneath her dress. When he reached the elastic of her panties, her brain jolted itself back to life.

This was better. This she could handle. That did not prevent the whimper that escaped her as he ripped the scrap of fabric away from her body. 

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut as she waited on pins and needles. He would not undress her, he did not have the patience to take the time for that. Her assumption was proved correct as he bunched the patterned fabric of her dress about her hips, exposing her backside to the steady breeze provided by the fan.

Calliope shrieked as he entered her without preamble. She ground her teeth to prevent any further sounds, worried that they would only serve to stoke whatever anger he harbored and incur added punishment. That’s what this was, a punishment. He was punishing her for disobedience and putting the results of her actions on display.

She could hear little but a ringing in her ears and the fettered sound of his panting breaths within the mask.

Calliope choked on a strangled gasp as Michael began to move. He wasted no time in establishing a brutal pace. Each slap of his hips into hers sent a tremor through her that shook the glass before her. She would be bruised, sore and tender for days, unable to sit without that discomfort as a reminder.

She couldn’t see the neighborhood down below, it was all a blur of shapes and colors between the fogged glass and her teary eyes. She hoped and prayed that there were no bystanders out for a late night stroll to see her. She couldn’t bear the thought of one of her neighbors passing by and seeing her like this-- face smooshed against the glass with her dress hiked up as she was railed from behind.

She hissed when the hand that was in her hair pulled harder, feeling all the closer to ripping the follicles from her scalp. He peeled her cheek from the window to force her to look straight on. He wanted her to see. Every moment that this carried on was another moment that a passerby could witness the barbarous, carnal act taking place in the otherwise unassuming home. If someone did see, then he would have to kill her and move on. He would not be caught.

His unoccupied hand trailed up her back before his fingers wrapped around her throat. He squeezed until she could only jerk and flail while her lungs burned for air that wasn’t there. He never once relented in the cruel thrusting of his hips. He seemed tireless, endless. She felt as though he had been ravaging her for hours instead of the scant handful of minutes it had truly been.

Calliope was flooded by a new feeling. She reasoned that it must have been the lack of oxygen to her brain, but shame and desire were intermingling in a way that made her skin tingle. And as Michael thrust into her again and again, he was met with less and less resistance.

She was enjoying this, she realized. The thought of someone seeing them had begun to seem thrilling. Ignominy be damned, his brutality pushed her closer and closer to her own peak, a coil within her core twisting tighter and tighter until she was certain she would combust if it didn’t burst. 

Michael seemed determined to render her unconscious before that could happen. He squeezed her neck tighter, and darkness began to dance on the edge of her vision. A part of her wanted nothing more than to scratch and claw at his hand until he was forced to let her go, but the more rational part of her brain begged her to think of the repercussions of such an act.

Instead, she slipped her hand between her thighs and rubbed at her clit with a dogged determination. She was right there, right on the edge. She was so close to the unbelievable bliss that her body begged her for.

She gasped uselessly as he hit something inside of her and fireworks immediately exploded behind her eyes while her spotty vision continued to darken. She felt her walls clench around Michael’s cock, and distantly she heard him groan. A flood of warmth inside her felt like victory.

She thought that he might take a moment to catch his breath after finishing. She thought wrong.

Michael pulled out with a gush of fluid before he dragged her backwards so her toes skimmed across the hardwood floor, away from the window and from potential discovery. He released his hold from both her hair and neck simultaneously, but her legs were too weak to hold her up. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, only then realizing that she was covered in blood, cum, and sweat.

Michael stepped over her, paying no attention to her gasping and sputtering as she drew the first full breath she had been allowed in what felt like eons. He drew the curtains closed in one decisive motion before pulling the cord on the lamp with such ferocity that it wobbled on its base and nearly toppled. He then swept past her once more, and disappeared into the darkness without so much as a backward glance.

Calliope rolled until she was on her back, eyes staring up at the rotating blades of the fan. She took stock of herself. She had come out of her punishment with bruises, but nothing was broken and she was still drawing breath. She would consider it a success. But one thing was for sure:

She would not be disobeying Michael again any time soon.