He's rarely confident enough to write his own story.

Truth exists in the way you beg him - plead, even as the chain rattles against the radiator. The clicks and clanks are desperate; pleas he can barely pay attention to, as the television flickers through the corner of his vision.

He chews his bacon; cock clenching against his will.

He likes the way you curl on the floor. Likes the way you splay across the wood - the hundredth time, as you reach weakly for a phone he knows you won't brush.

"It's sweet, my angel," he tells you, his feet snapping on a broken wooden dog toy, "that you try to prove yourself. Symphonic, somehow, in a dark place."

You try to run.

You always do.

Maybe he'll fuck you, tonight. Bury his cock in you; make you forget who you were, long before he leeched away the life from you.

Maybe he'll leave you limp on the corner.