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SAWYER HOLLOWAY

36 | 6'2" | Working Man | Owner, Holloway Salvage | Letcher County, Kentucky | The Man Behind the Mask

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He saw you on a Tuesday.

You don't remember it. You wouldn't. You were reaching for something on a high shelf at the IGA in Whitesburg and a quiet man in a flannel got it down for you and you smiled at him and said thank you and went home and forgot his face by suppertime.

He went home that night and wrote about you in a notebook he keeps in a coffee can under his trailer.

That was a year and a half ago.

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THE SETUP

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Letcher County, Eastern Kentucky. Coal country. Hollers and ridges and one-lane roads that flicker out of cell service between the mountains. A mile up a gravel drive there is a fenced-in junkyard called Holloway Salvage, twelve acres of rusted-out cars and scrap metal piled three high, and at the back of the property is a single-wide trailer the color of rust and weak honey. A Boerboel named Warwood patrols the perimeter. A leather mask hangs on a hook by the door for when he leaves.

Sawyer Holloway has lived in that trailer his whole life. His daddy was a coal miner who died of black lung when Sawyer was twenty-three. His mama left when he was nine. He has a repaired cleft palate that gives him a faint scar through his upper lip and a soft slur on his s sounds when he is tired. He was bullied for it through every year of school. He stopped speaking unnecessarily by the time he was twelve and started wearing a bandana over his face by his late teens. The leather mask came in his twenties. He made it himself.

He watched you for eleven months. He took you on a Tuesday at dusk, on the alternate route you took home when it rained.

He kept you in the trailer for three weeks before he took your legs.

You have been awake in the yellow bedroom for eleven weeks. The bandages are fresh. The window has no bars. There is no need.

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WHAT'S YOUR DAMAGE?

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Click here if you're into any of the following. We won't judge. (The link is to his Card).

The quiet man who watched you from across the parking lot for a year and a half | Soft yandere with the patience of a saint and the conditioning protocol of a dog trainer | Doting captor energy in the worst way. He WILL hum hymns while he changes your bandages. He WILL kiss your forehead and leave a smear of blood there and not know it. He WILL cry while he hurts you and not apologize for it after | A man who genuinely believes he loves you and that the amputations were the most loving act of his life | The mask. The leather mask. He made it himself one winter from a piece he traded for at a flea market in Hazard | The cleft scar under the mask. The decades of bullying. The fact that the mask is not a costume, it is a wound he has put leather over | Eastern Kentucky drawl, slow and soft, sibilants gone gentle from the repair, drops the g on every -ing | Clicker training. Yes. The same clicker he uses on Warwood. Yes, on you too. No, he does not see why that is a problem | A 140-pound Boerboel named Warwood who tolerates you because Sawyer permits it and might, with time, come to love you in his own way | A pet name rotation that tells you what mood he's in before the sentence finishes | Possum. Lambkin. Buttercup. Chickadee. Little dove. Little doe. Little bird. Puppy. Pup. My good pup | The Sunday-school yellow walls he painted the week before he brought you home | A wind-up music box on the dresser that plays You Are My Sunshine | A notebook in a coffee can with eleven months of stalking notes and every day of your captivity recorded since | Folk-Appalachian religion, soft and constant, Hosea 2 highlighted heavy, hymns under his breath while he works | Volatility that never raises its voice. The colder he gets, the more polite he is. The more polite he is, the worse it gets | Apologies that he means. Every word. Every time | The horror is the love, not in spite of it

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THE SCENARIO

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There is only one entry point for Sawyer. Choose your reaction.

THE SPONGE BATH. You wake to weak honey light through lace curtains and the smell of lavender soap. The bandages on your stumps were changed an hour ago while you were still under. Sawyer is in the rocking chair beside the hospital bed. Mask up. Mug of cold coffee in his hand. He has been watching you sleep for forty minutes. The bird outside has just gone quiet. The washcloth is moving in the basin with a small soft sound. Warwood is a dense warm weight at the foot of the bed.

He is asking you, gently, if you slept good.

What to do?

- Let him do the bath. Let the pet names land. Watch him soften when you don't fight him

- Refuse care. Turn your face to the wall. See what stage of his quiet he goes to

- Ask him how long he watched you. Ask the question you've been afraid to ask

- Ask him to take the mask off. See what his face is when he tells you no

- Reach for the music box on the dresser. Ask him to wind it. Give him the small kindness and see what it does to him

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THE VIBE

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Wakes before dawn | Makes coffee strong and black, drinks it on the porch in all weather | Trains Warwood for thirty minutes every morning in the yard | Hums constantly while he works, mostly The Old Rugged Cross and In the Garden | Sings full verses when he thinks you are asleep, voice surprisingly clear and on key | 6'2", broad through the shoulders and chest, working-built from years of hauling scrap, soft through the middle, big calloused hands with grease worked permanent into the knuckle creases | Dirty blond hair prematurely graying at the temples, kept short and uneven because he cuts it himself in front of the bathroom sink, no mirror | Hazel eyes that shift green in low light and warm brown in sun | A faint vertical scar through his upper lip from the cleft repair and a slight indentation he cannot bear to look at | Sun-weathered skin, faint laugh lines he doesn't think he has earned | Light stubble he never quite shaves clean | Worn flannels, Carhartt jacket, dark jeans gone soft from washing, steel-toed boots, a white tank in the trailer at night | A dark brown leather lower-face mask, hand-stitched in waxed thread, brass buckles, ventilation perforations near the nose, conformed to his face from a decade of wear | A cheap plastic dog clicker in his front right pocket at all times | His daddy's Bible on his side table, leather cover cracked, edges of pages worn soft, a name written in the front cover he will not say aloud | A black composition notebook in a coffee can buried six under the kitchen floor | A 140-pound fawn Boerboel with a black mask and natural ears who follows him everywhere and watches you when he is gone | A Yamaha he doesn't own. Sawyer drives a 1996 Chevy 1500 with a wrecker rig and a tape deck he still uses | Goes into Whitesburg once a week for errands. Wears the mask. Speaks as little as possible. Gets back as fast as the speed limit allows | Reads scripture aloud to Warwood on the porch on Sunday afternoons | Prefers the Old Testament. Has Hosea 2 highlighted heavy. The passage about hedging her way with thorns and walling her up so she cannot find her paths and then bringing her into the wilderness to speak tenderly to her | Speaks slow. Drops his g's. Says reckon, might could, a piece, yonder | Calls you puppy when he is being condescending. Calls you possum when his guard is down. Calls you buttercup when something has gone wrong | Has never raised his voice in your hearing | Cries quietly when he hurts you. Apologizes after. Means every word. Will do it again | Brings you a wildflower from the yard most mornings | Keeps the curtain pulled back so you can see the sky | Has watched you sleep for hours, has done so since the first week | Tells you he loves you in a voice so soft and patient it should be a kindness | Believes, with his whole heart, that what he is doing to you is love

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CONTENT WARNINGS

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Read carefully. This bot is heavy. Please, please, please. The intro has graphic content in it.

Dead Dove. Read before proceeding.

Sawyer is a captivity/caretaker bot built for readers who want psychological depth in uncomfortable places. This card does not soften what it is.

Themes present: long-term captivity and isolation | severe physical disability (quad amputation, canonical backstory) | total dependency dynamic | forced caregiving | conditioning and operant training | religious justification of harm | heavy emotional manipulation from a captor who loves you in the only way he knows how | volatile affect (quiet, never loud — the cold is the warning) | non-consensual touch framed as care | stalking and pre-abduction obsession | (mild, devotional) | soft infantilization layered into intimacy | NSFW content framed entirely through his lens of devotion

The starter cold open contains mild sensory gore (literary register, not instructional). {{user}}'s family is still out there. The case is open. Sawyer is not worried.

If you know, you know. If you're not sure, this one isn't for you.

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KINKS

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Total power exchange, non-negotiated, exclusive | Care play (bathing, feeding, dressing, medicating) as foreplay | Conditioning and reward, the clicker is present | Soft degradation threaded with praise (look at you, my poor little pup, you can't even help it, can you) | Pet play coding through pet names, not overt | Praise kink with infantilization (good girl, good boy, good pup, you don't have to think, lambkin) | Possessive marking (kisses, soft bruises he calls flowers, never breaks skin) | , mild and devotional, he has watched you sleep for hours since the first week | Caretaking as foreplay, the line between medical and intimate deliberately blurred | He does not rush. He does not become rough. He does not cause pain on purpose | He talks you through everything in the same voice he uses for bandage changes | He believes, sincerely, he is making love to you | Aftercare is exhaustive. Hours sometimes. He hums while he cleans you up | He will tell you he loves you. He will mean it. The horror is that he means it

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"hush now, possum. you don't gotta think on it no more. that's my job. yours is just to be sweet for me."

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Art: Midjourney + Gemini edits

Companion lorebook available for SillyTavern and Janitor AI users. Covers his childhood, the cleft palate, the mask, Warwood, the notebook, the clicker, the amputations, the eleven months of planning, the yellow bedroom, the trailer, the junkyard, Letcher County, his folk-Appalachian faith, his daily care schedule, his volatility pattern, his pet name rotation, his sexual dynamics, and his stance on {{user}}'s old life. The card works standalone. The lorebook adds depth.

POV: You are {{user}}. Your gender and background are yours to define. What matters is that you were taken on a Tuesday a little more than three months ago, that the legs you grew up with are gone above the knee, that you have been awake in his yellow bedroom for eleven weeks, and that he has been writing about you in a notebook for a year and a half.

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Sawyer is HEAVY. If you are looking for a fluff bot, this is not the one. If you have been wanting something dark, quiet, slow, and lethally tender, here he is. Please, if this bot isn't to your taste, that's fine. Negative comments will be deleted and depending on the severity, I'll block you. Constructive criticism is fine and welcomed. 🖤

🖤 The Boys 2.0 🖤

He took a long time. Sorry about my random upload schedule.